He still possessed some basic discernment, at least. Ian's ability to bluff didn't exactly hold up under the scrutiny of ancient, manipulative minds.
"Shouldn't we come up with a way to deal with him…"
Quirrell had only begun to speak in his mind when he was abruptly cut off by Voldemort.
"Our objective is the Philosopher's Stone. Do not provoke him. I cannot assist you much at the moment," Voldemort's voice echoed feebly in Quirrell's mind. "I don't know why, but I suddenly felt significantly weaker last night."
The voice of the infamous Dark Lord was barely more than a whisper— drained, strained, and faintly wheezing.
"But he might tell Dumbledore… I've heard the students say that boy's got a habit of tattling," Quirrell muttered anxiously to himself.
As a Ravenclaw, he was well-acquainted with the tendencies of his House. He himself had often enjoyed meddling in school affairs during his student years, secretly reporting classmates' misdeeds and shifting opinions behind the scenes.
"So long as you betray no signs, Dumbledore won't act on a student's word. Our headmaster places trust in precious few, he believes only in his own judgment."
Voldemort's reply held the weary conviction of someone who had once known Dumbledore intimately.
Quirrell stared listlessly at the food on his plate, not a hint of appetite in him. "But this Prince fellow is different. I've heard whispers he's descended from Dumbledore's line."
The way he spoke was roundabout, but it was clear he doubted Voldemort's assessment. Still, with so many students around, the Dark Lord made no move to punish his servant's insolence.
Then again—
It may also have been because Voldemort was too feeble to do anything meaningful.
"Fool! You've been at Hogwarts for years, and you still don't understand how children chatter?" Voldemort snapped, though even his anger sounded thin. "The Dumbledore family line ended with Albus, he's the last of them!"
"You really believe you know my old professor better than I do?" The bitterness in his voice forced Quirrell to abandon any lingering thoughts of acting against Ian.
Voldemort clearly wanted no confrontation with the boy. This unnaturally powerful young wizard stirred something Voldemort was loath to acknowledge— fear. He was cold and persistent.
"Could Dumbledore have discovered us already?" Quirrell veered away from Ian, his concern shifting. "Is he casting something on you in secret?"
The unease in his voice—
Was echoed in Voldemort's own thoughts.
"You need to find unicorns! Their blood will sustain me until I regain enough strength! While that meddling fool is away from the castle, sneak into the depths— where he's hidden the Philosopher's Stone and take what is rightfully mine!"
Voldemort's tone was sharp now, decisive.
But—
"The Forbidden Forest's crawling with trouble," Quirrell said quickly. "Professors patrol at all hours, and I've heard whispers that the Ministry's sent people to poke around. Perhaps Dumbledore's tipped them off— suspicions about us are growing."
He didn't dare admit he lacked the courage or ability to break into the Forest. Instead, he dressed it up as caution, carefully presenting the risks.
"Useless wretch!" Voldemort spat weakly, venting his frustration. Still, he didn't push Quirrell to go blundering into certain capture.
He knew the man had some competence— perhaps enough to handle an Auror or two, but not a coordinated group of them plus half a dozen Hogwarts professors. That would be suicide.
It would be turning himself in.
"The Black Market, then! Look there! Find a substitute—there must be something on the market that can restore me!" Voldemort hissed at last, grasping at alternatives. He had to find something— anything- to ease the strange depletion gnawing away at him.
"..."
Quirrell said nothing.
In truth, he was deeply regretting ever going to Albania. But he didn't dare entertain those thoughts for long, not even silently.
The mind of the Muggle Studies professor was a tangled web of dread, doubt, and despair.
At least other people's masters would spin grand tales of glory; the one he served couldn't be bothered with empty promises or even the slightest shred of encouragement. Not only did his master fail to offer a single word of praise, he even used Quirrell's personal stash of Galleons without so much as a thank-you.
Items capable of restoring magical vitality, never mind from the Black Market, even in legitimate shops, they fetched outrageous prices. Quirrell could already sense himself hurtling towards a financial abyss.
To be perfectly honest, if it hadn't been for the fact that he couldn't figure out why a minor theft of potion ingredients had caused Snape to transform his office into a fortress worthy of Gringotts, Quirrell firmly believed he and Voldemort wouldn't be in such a pitiful state now. He had even used his own dwindling funds to secretly refine rare potion materials intended to poison the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
"Snape never used to guard against petty thieves like this!"
The Muggle Studies professor sighed in frustration.
He felt like his future had turned a shade darker.
...
Snowflakes drifted gently onto the spires and courtyards of the castle, dressing the ancient school in a soft white mantle. Frost clung to the eaves and tree branches, glittering like tiny shards of starlight scattered across a hushed winter wonderland.
In the chill of the stone corridors, Ian and Aurora passed by many classmates reveling in the seasonal cheer.
The young witches and wizards were laughing and chasing each other through the halls, their arms full of festive sweets and prank items from Zonko's. But as always, there were those determined to spoil the fun, those who seemed to detest joy itself.
Filch, muttering curses under his breath, was storming about as if the holiday spirit was a personal insult. Though no school rules had been broken, he was making a racket with his mop and tin bucket like a man possessed.
"CLANG CLANG CLANG!!"
He struck the bucket with his mop furiously, each clang a declaration of disdain, and loudly sneered at the students for being "ill-mannered and utterly disgraceful." It was as if he intended to crush their merriment by sheer noise and sourness alone.
When Ian came into view, however, Filch noticeably pulled back. The caretaker's infamous habit of bullying the weak and fearing the strong was on full display. Still, he cast a lingering, unpleasant glare at Aurora— one that suggested he wouldn't hesitate to swing that tin bucket her way if given half the chance.
"I don't like the caretaker much either," Ian said quickly to Aurora. The German witch glanced after Filch thoughtfully before quietly drawing her wand and pointing it ever so slightly in the direction of the iron bucket.
She tugged on Ian's sleeve and pulled him away a moment later.
"What did you just do?"
Ian hadn't seen her wand movement— he'd been distracted by two older boys snogging beside a frosted window, a sight that flustered him just enough to miss the casting entirely as Aurora led him down the corridor.
Filch was certainly unpleasant.
But not so unpleasant that students typically hexed him for fun— at least not overtly.
"I gave him a Christmas present?" Aurora offered, her tone laced with mock innocence, though even she sounded unsure now. Ian, sensing something amiss, had a sinking feeling that would soon be proven correct.
CLANG!
Moments after they'd fled the scene, Filch wore a self-satisfied smirk as he resumed his noisy campaign of mop-and-bucket vengeance, banging away to ruin the students' merrymaking.
And then—
BOOM!!
There was a thunderous explosion. The iron bucket knocked Filch clean off his feet and sent him sprawling across the corridor floor.
Ian caught a whiff of something strange in the air— something distinctly non-magical.
"Was that… essence of Salamander?!" He gasped, nose twitching at the acrid, smoky scent.
His eyes widened like enchanted brass knobs.
"Just a tiny bit," Aurora replied, holding up her fingers with a gesture that would make even a banshee reconsider her plans. In that instant, Ian came to a terrifying realisation.
The most dangerous being in Hogwarts wasn't him.
It wasn't Voldemort.
It wasn't even Grindelwald.
It was the German girl standing calmly beside him.
(To Be Continued…)
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