Harry Potter and the Darker Path

Chapter 12: The Boy with Two Minds

Harry stood frozen in the dimly lit chamber, the Sorcerer’s Stone clutched in his hand, its weight both physical and metaphorical. The limp body of Professor Quirrell lay at his feet, but Harry knew this battle was far from over. The air was thick with the lingering presence of something far more dangerous—the ghostly remnants of Voldemort himself. 

“You think you’ve won, Potter?” the dark, rasping voice hissed from the shadows. Voldemort’s disembodied presence seemed to coil around the room like smoke. “This is only the beginning.” 

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. He could feel Voldemort’s presence pressing against him, trying to find a way to get closer, to control him. The Sorcerer’s Stone in his hand seemed to hum with latent energy, its raw power almost intoxicating. For a brief moment, Harry considered the possibilities. With the Stone, he could be more than just a student—he could be powerful, influential, even immortal. 

“Give me the Stone, Potter,” Voldemort’s voice slithered into his mind. “We could share its power. Together, we could do great things. Think of the strength you would have. You wouldn’t be a mere boy anymore—you’d be a legend. A king.” 

Harry’s grip tightened on the Stone. Voldemort’s words echoed the thoughts he had buried deep within himself. The ambition. The hunger for more. He was a Slytherin now, after all, and he had learned that power wasn’t something to shy away from—it was something to seize. 

But Harry wasn’t foolish. He knew the cost of falling under Voldemort’s influence. He had seen what the Dark Lord had done to his parents, and he knew that aligning with Voldemort would mean becoming a puppet—another pawn in Voldemort’s twisted game. 

“No,” Harry whispered, his voice steady, though his mind churned with conflict. “I’m not like you.”  

The Ghost of Voldemort 

Suddenly, a cold, spectral wind whipped through the chamber as Voldemort’s presence drew closer. Harry felt a pressure behind his eyes, a searing pain in his scar, as though Voldemort was trying to worm his way into Harry’s mind. 

“You are like me, Potter,” Voldemort’s voice rasped. “You crave power. You long to be more than the world expects of you. That’s why the Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin. It saw the truth in you—the ambition, the thirst for greatness. I can give you that greatness.” 

Harry clenched his jaw, fighting the rising temptation. His mind flashed back to his time at Hogwarts—the way he had outsmarted his opponents, used his cunning to navigate challenges, and gained the respect of his Slytherin peers. It would be easy to give in, to let Voldemort show him the path to power. But there was something else—something deeper—that held him back.  

His mother. The sacrifice she had made. The protection she had given him. 

“No,” Harry said more firmly this time. “I might have ambition. I might want power. But not the way you do. Not like this.” 

The pain in his scar flared again, and Harry stumbled, clutching his forehead. Voldemort was pushing harder now, his presence swirling around Harry like a storm, trying to break through his defenses. 

“Foolish boy,” Voldemort hissed. “You can’t resist me. I am your future.” 

A Choice of Power