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The castle had settled into its late-night silence, the kind of deep quiet that only came after midnight when even the ghosts had retreated to their favorite haunts. In his private quarters deep within the castle's less-traveled corridors, Professor Quirrell locked his door with trembling hands and cast a series of privacy charms that would have impressed even the most paranoid Auror.
Only then did he dare remove the purple turban.
The face that emerged on the back of his head was barely human—pale as death, with red eyes that glowed with malevolent intelligence and a lipless mouth that twisted into something approximating expression.
"Finally," the face hissed, its voice carrying none of Quirrell's nervous stammer. "Your constant performance grows tiresome, Quirrell. The stammering, the trembling—it's beneath me to be associated with such... theatrical weakness."
"It serves a purpose, Master," Quirrell replied, his own voice notably steadier without an audience. "The staff believes me incompetent. They watch me with pity rather than suspicion."
"Yes, yes," Voldemort's face twisted with impatience. "Your infiltration strategy has merit. Now report on the school's current situation. What progress have you made regarding the third-floor corridor?"
Quirrell moved to sit before a mirror—an arrangement that allowed both faces to see their reflection and maintain eye contact during conversations. The effect was deeply unsettling.
"The protections are formidable, Master. Dumbledore has assembled defenses from multiple professors—McGonagall's transfiguration work, Flitwick's charms, Sprout's botanical defenses, and others I haven't yet identified."
"And the object they protect?"
"I am certain it is the Philosopher's Stone, Master. Flamel's presence in Britain, Dumbledore's unusual security measures, the timing—all evidence points to the Stone being moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts for safekeeping."
Voldemort's red eyes gleamed with hunger. "The Stone. Immortality. A body of my own once more." His voice dropped to something approaching pleasure. "Yes, it must be the Stone. Nothing else would warrant such elaborate protection."
"However, Master, there are... complications beyond the physical defenses."
"Explain."
Quirrell shifted uncomfortably. "The Potter boy. His presence at Hogwarts creates additional scrutiny. Dumbledore watches him constantly, and by extension, anyone who shows unusual interest in the boy draws attention."
Voldemort's expression darkened with frustrated rage. "Potter. That miserable, unremarkable child who somehow—" He cut himself off, the lipless mouth twisting. "Tell me your assessment of the boy. What makes him so special that the entire magical world believes him capable of defeating the Dark Lord Voldemort?"
"Honestly, Master? He appears... ordinary. Below average in most subjects, undisciplined in his magical studies, more interested in friendship and childish games than developing his abilities."
"Below average," Voldemort repeated with cold satisfaction. "As I suspected. The 'Boy Who Lived' is nothing more than Dumbledore's propaganda—a symbol created to give hope to the sheep who opposed me."
"He does show some natural talent in Defense Against the Dark Arts and flying," Quirrell added carefully. "But nothing that suggests the capability to defeat the most powerful dark wizard in history."
Voldemort's face contorted with barely controlled fury. "And yet something happened that Halloween night. The memory is... absent. Incomplete. I remember entering the house in Godric's Hollow, killing the Mudblood, advancing toward the child..." His voice became a hiss of pure frustration. "And then nothing. A gap where memory should exist, followed by years of near-death existence, clinging to survival through the most desperate means."
"Perhaps the protection his mother's sacrifice created—"
"I am aware of the theory," Voldemort snapped. "Ancient magic, love's protection, sacrificial wards—all very poetic and utterly insufficient to explain my destruction. There is something more, something I cannot remember, and it gnaws at me like poison."
Quirrell wisely remained silent, allowing his master's rage to burn itself out.
After several moments, Voldemort spoke again, his voice controlled but cold. "The Potter boy is useful as misdirection. Let Dumbledore and his allies focus on protecting their precious symbol while we pursue our true objective. However, there is another student who warrants our attention."
"Master?"
"The Kael boy. Darius Kael. Tell me what you know of him."
Quirrell's expression grew thoughtful. "Second-year Ravenclaw. Published researcher, recipient of international awards, demonstrates magical ability far exceeding his age and experience. The staff speaks of him with the kind of awe typically reserved for prodigies who appear once in a generation."
"I have observed him in class," Voldemort said, his red eyes narrowing in the mirror's reflection. "His magical signature is... unusual. Powerful, certainly, but there's something else. A quality I cannot quite identify. It reminds me of..." He trailed off, clearly frustrated by his inability to articulate the observation.
"He is exceptionally talented, Master. Some faculty members compare him to—" Quirrell hesitated.
"To me," Voldemort finished coldly. "Yes, I have heard the whispers. 'Another Tom Riddle,' they say, though they try to reassure themselves that his moral character differs from mine." The lipless mouth curved into something resembling a smile. "How little they understand that morality is simply a choice, one that changes with circumstance and opportunity."
"Do you believe he could be turned, Master? Recruited to our cause?"
Voldemort considered this carefully. "His blood status is... unfortunate. Muggle-born, which typically indicates loyalty to Dumbledore's ideology. However, exceptional ability combined with ambition often transcends such limitations. I built my inner circle from those who valued power over prejudice—though I maintained blood purity rhetoric for the masses."
"He demonstrates remarkable self-control and strategic thinking," Quirrell observed. "In class, he reveals competence without displaying his full capabilities. He watches, analyzes, positions himself carefully within the school's social structure."
"Interesting. That suggests political awareness unusual for someone his age." Voldemort's expression grew calculating. "Tell me, what motivates him? What does he want?"
"Knowledge, primarily. He devours information across all magical disciplines. But there's something else—a sense of purpose that goes beyond simple academic achievement. He studies as though preparing for something specific."
"Preparing," Voldemort repeated thoughtfully. "For what, I wonder? The ambitious prepare for advancement, the fearful prepare for threats, the strategic prepare for opportunities. Which category describes young Mr. Kael?"
"I cannot determine, Master. He conceals his deeper motivations effectively."
"Then we must discover them. Approach him carefully, Quirrell. Test his loyalties without revealing our interest. A talent like his should not be wasted on Dumbledore's side—or left as a potential obstacle to our plans."
"And if he cannot be recruited?"
Voldemort's expression turned glacial. "Then he must be neutralized before he becomes a threat. Better to eliminate a potential enemy while he is young and still developing than to face him when his power reaches full maturity."
The conversation shifted back to tactical planning. Quirrell produced a hand-drawn map of the third-floor corridor and its immediate surroundings.
"The entrance is here," he indicated, pointing to the map. "Protected by a massive three-headed dog—Fluffy, according to Hagrid's drunken boasting in the Hog's Head. Beyond that, I've identified at least six additional protections, though I haven't penetrated deeply enough to catalog them all."
"A Cerberus," Voldemort mused. "Greek magical tradition. Hagrid's sentimental attachment to dangerous creatures is well documented. But how does one subdue such a beast? Three heads, relentless aggression... We need to know its weakness."
"Should I research ancient texts, Master? Greek magical traditions might—"
"No," Voldemort interrupted sharply. "That would take too long, and library records can be traced. We have a far simpler source of information—the fool who placed it there. But we must be clever about it."
"You want me to question Hagrid directly, Master?" Quirrell's voice carried doubt. "Surely he wouldn't simply reveal—"
"Not as yourself, you idiot. Not as Professor Quirrell asking suspicious questions about school defenses." Voldemort's tone dripped with contempt for Quirrell's lack of imagination. "You'll need to approach this... differently."
"What do you suggest, Master?"
"The oaf frequents the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade on his days off. A disreputable establishment where strangers are common and questions aren't asked. You will go there in disguise—hooded, cloaked, unrecognizable. Not as a professor seeking information, but as a traveler with something Hagrid wants."
"What could I possibly offer that would—"
"A dragon egg," Voldemort said smoothly. "Hagrid's obsession with dangerous creatures is matched only by his lifelong dream of raising a dragon. Highly illegal, of course, which is precisely why he's never obtained one through legitimate means. Offer it as a prize in a card game. Let him win—he'll be too drunk and excited to question his good fortune."
Quirrell's eyes widened with understanding. "And once he's drunk and boasting about his prize..."
"You steer the conversation to his other creatures. Express admiration for anyone who can handle such dangerous beasts. Ask him casually—perhaps even skeptically—whether he truly has the skill to manage the most dangerous creatures. His pride won't let him remain silent. He'll boast about everything, including the Cerberus."
"But Master, where would I obtain a dragon egg? They're extraordinarily rare and—"
"I have my sources, Quirrell. There are those in Knockturn Alley who deal in such commodities, no questions asked. The expense is irrelevant compared to what we stand to gain." Voldemort paused, his tone darkening. "But you must be subtle. Get him drunk enough to be loose-tongued but not so drunk he passes out before revealing what we need. Ask about the dog as if you're impressed by his expertise—how does one handle such a creature? How would someone calm it if needed? Let his ego do the work for you."
"And if someone recognizes me? If word gets back to Dumbledore—"
"It won't. The Hog's Head caters to those who value discretion. Keep your face hidden, your voice disguised. You're simply a traveler with an interest in magical creatures and an illegal dragon egg to gamble away. Nothing more."
Quirrell nodded slowly, the plan taking shape in his mind. "When should I make contact?"
"Soon. Before Halloween. We need this information well in advance of our attempt. And Quirrell—get me every detail. How to calm it, how to approach it, any weaknesses it might have. Leave nothing to chance."
"It shall be done, Master."
"See that it is. The first barrier must fall easily, quietly. We cannot afford to have Dumbledore alerted before we've even begun."
"The real challenge will be the subsequent protections, Master. Each professor contributed defenses reflecting their specialties. McGonagall's transfiguration work will be logical but complex. Flitwick's charms will require technical expertise. Snape—"
"Snape," Voldemort interrupted, his tone carrying complicated layers of emotion. "What is his contribution to the Stone's protection?"
"I haven't determined yet, Master. But given his expertise, likely a potion-based challenge requiring advanced knowledge."
"Severus," Voldemort said quietly, almost to himself. "Once my most valued servant, now Dumbledore's trusted professor. I wonder which loyalty truly holds his heart—or if he simply serves his own interests above all others."
"Master, do you believe he could be turned back to our cause?"
"Snape is... complicated. His defection after the Potter incident suggests strong motivation—possibly related to the Mudblood's death. Guilt, perhaps, or genuine affection for the woman." Voldemort's tone carried contempt for such emotions. "Regardless, he is Dumbledore's creature now. Approach him with caution but not trust."
Quirrell nodded, making notes on his map. "When should we attempt to breach the third-floor corridor?"
"Not yet. Timing is crucial. We need Dumbledore's attention divided, the staff distracted by other matters. Perhaps..." Voldemort's eyes gleamed with malicious intelligence. "Perhaps a significant threat that draws their focus elsewhere. Nothing that truly endangers the school, of course—we need Hogwarts intact for our purposes. But something that creates chaos and opportunity."
"What did you have in mind, Master?"
"The Halloween feast approaches. A traditional time for... unexpected events at Hogwarts. A mountain troll, perhaps, released in the dungeons. Dangerous enough to require all hands for containment, but ultimately containable before serious damage occurs."
"And while the staff responds to the threat—"
"We make our first reconnaissance of the third-floor corridor. Not a full breach—merely observation and intelligence gathering. We need to understand the protections before we can overcome them."
Quirrell's expression showed nervous anticipation. "A sound strategy, Master. Though introducing a troll carries risks—"
"Everything carries risks!" Voldemort snapped. "Failure to act carries the greatest risk of all. I will not remain in this humiliating half-existence one moment longer than necessary. The Stone will be mine, and through it, I shall reclaim my body and my power."
His voice dropped to a hiss. "And then, Quirrell, then we shall see who truly deserves to rule the magical world. Not the incompetent Ministry, not the sentimental Dumbledore, and certainly not a mediocre boy whose only achievement was surviving something he doesn't remember."
"Yes, Master. Of course, Master."
"Return to your pathetic performance of incompetence tomorrow. Continue monitoring both Potter and Kael—one as distraction, the other as potential asset or threat. And begin preparations for our Halloween diversion."
"It shall be done, Master."
As Quirrell carefully replaced the turban, concealing the face of Voldemort once more, his own features settled back into their mask of nervous anxiety. But his eyes held a gleam of anticipation that had nothing to do with teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Somewhere in the castle, Harry Potter slept in Gryffindor Tower, unaware that the entity he had somehow defeated viewed him with contemptuous dismissal. And in Ravenclaw Tower, Darius Kael studied late into the night, equally unaware that the Dark Lord himself had noticed his abilities and was even now deciding whether to recruit or destroy him.
The pieces were moving into position. Halloween approached. And in the shadows of Hogwarts, ancient evil plotted its return to power—one that would test everyone's carefully laid plans, including those of a transmigrated second-year who thought he knew what was coming.
The game had become far more complex than anyone realized.