But Quirrell wasn’t alone. As he unwound his turban, a second face emerged from the back of his skull: pale, snake-like, with gleaming red eyes. Lord Voldemort.
Harry touched his scar. It still ached, but it no longer felt like a curse. It felt like a compass. Book 1 - Harry Potter and the Sorcerer--s Stone
That summer, when the Dursleys’ doorbell rang, Harry didn’t hide in his cupboard. He sat on the front step, waiting for Hagrid’s lantern to appear through the rain. For the first time, he knew: the real magic wasn’t in the Stone at all. It was in the friends who bled for you, the mirror that showed your heart, and the choice to keep walking forward—even when the darkness was still watching. But Quirrell wasn’t alone