The humid air of London was a stark contrast to the biting cold of the Alps, but for Quirinus Quirrell, the heat felt like a physical weight pressing against his skin. His patience had finally evaporated. He knew he couldn't afford another day of hesitation. The voice in the back of his mind—cold, high, and merciless—had stopped whispering and started demanding. It was time to act.
Quirrell had spent months preparing for this. Every variable had been calculated, every scenario rehearsed until his mind was a maze of contingency plans. To the outside world, he was still the stuttering, nervous wreck of a professor, a man who jumped at his own shadow. It was a perfect mask, one he wore with practiced ease as he stepped into the Leaky Cauldron on the morning of July 31st.
The pub was its usual dim, grimy self. Tom the barman was wiping down the counter with a rag that had seen better decades. Quirrell took his usual seat, ordering a stiff drink he had no intention of finishing.
"Buying more books today, Professor?" Tom asked, his voice friendly but uninterested.
"V-vampires," Quirrell stammered, pulling a face of mild distaste. "The l-latest research from Transylvania. One c-can never be too prepared for the c-classroom."
It was a simple lie, a breadcrumb trail. He wanted everyone to remember him as the man who spent his day browsing the shelves of Flourish and Blotts. If the robbery went south, he needed a timeline that placed him far away from the white marble pillars of Gringotts.
But the quiet rhythm of the morning was shattered when the door creaked open. A hush fell over the room, the kind of silence that usually preceded a funeral or a miracle. Quirrell turned his head, squinting through the gloom.
Rubeus Hagrid, looking like a walking mountain in his moleskin coat, had entered. And beside him stood a boy.
He was scrawny, his clothes several sizes too large, and he looked as though a strong gust of wind might blow him back out into Charing Cross Road. But it was the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead that stopped the breath in Quirrell's throat.
Harry Potter.
The Savior of the Wizarding World looked remarkably... ordinary. Frail, even. It was almost insulting to think that this boy, this child who looked like he'd been raised in a cupboard, was the reason the Dark Lord had been reduced to a shadow. Quirrell felt a surge of cold disdain. How could Dumbledore leave such a prize in the hands of Muggles? The boy looked like he hadn't had a proper meal in years.
Hagrid brought the boy over, and the introductions were made. Quirrell felt the boy's small, warm hand in his own as they shook. He kept his stuttering act perfect, a nervous man meeting a legend. Inside, however, he was already imagining how easy it would be. A child. A mere eleven-year-old who knew nothing of the power he supposedly possessed. During the school year, there would be plenty of opportunities. A stray curse, an "accident" in the corridors—the Savior wouldn't stand a chance against the Dark Arts.
Once the spectacle had moved on and the pub erupted into a chorus of "To Harry Potter!", Quirrell slipped away. He followed his established routine, visiting Flourish and Blotts to purchase a dry tome on vampire social structures. Then, he ducked into a side alley, entering a dingy shop called 'Horror Journey.'
The shopkeeper didn't look up when he entered. The man was staring blankly at a display of shrunken heads, his mind a hollow shell under the influence of Quirrell's Imperio curse. This was his staging ground.
Quirrell had been waiting for his former roommate from Hogwarts, a man named Miller who was now a minor official at the Ministry. Miller was a loud, boisterous man who frequently visited Gringotts to manage his family's modest inheritance. He was the perfect skin to wear.
When Miller finally arrived, Quirrell didn't waste words. A quick Stunning Spell, a few strands of hair, and a vial of Polyjuice Potion later, the "official" walked out of the shop and toward the bank.
Entering Gringotts under a false identity was a gamble, but the Polyjuice was flawless. He presented Miller's key, his face a mask of bored bureaucracy. The Goblins, for all their supposed sharp-wittedness, saw only what they expected to see.
"Vault seven-thirteen, please," Quirrell requested, his voice now a perfect imitation of Miller's deep baritone. "And I'll need to make a stop at my own vault first."
The journey into the depths of the bank was a blur of cold air and rattling metal. As the small cart hurtled through the tunnels, Quirrell felt a surge of adrenaline. He was doing it. He was robbing the un-robbable.
In the shadows of a lower tunnel, he struck. He placed the leading Goblin under the Imperius Curse, a delicate piece of magic that required total focus. He left the controlled Goblin waiting in a secondary cart at a junction, then proceeded with a second Goblin to the high-security vaults.
Everything was going perfectly. He withdrew a hefty bag of Galleons from Miller's vault to keep up appearances, and then they reached the final door. Vault 713.
Quirrell looked at the door with a hunger that bordered on physical pain. The Philosopher's Stone. The key to the Dark Lord's restoration and his own eternal reward. He couldn't understand why people feared this place. It seemed so... simple.
"Open it," Quirrell commanded the Goblin.
The creature stepped forward. There was no keyhole. The Goblin extended a long, spindly finger and began to stroke the door. Quirrell had been told that only a Gringotts Goblin could pass through these doors; anyone else would be sucked through the metal and trapped in a vacuum until the next inspection.
He watched with bated breath, expecting the metal to melt away. Instead, he saw something that made his blood turn to ice.
The Goblin's finger didn't melt the door. The door swallowed the Goblin. The creature's arm, then his shoulder, then his torso were pulled into the metal as if it were quicksand. The Goblin didn't scream; he didn't even blink. He was being integrated into the security system.
Quirrell realized with a jolt of terror that he'd been played. The Imperius Curse was strong, but Goblin magic was ancient and treacherous. The vault door wasn't just a barrier; it was a living trap. He had a brief window before the alarms would trip, before the "official" Miller was flagged as a thief.
"Damn you!" Quirrell hissed. He didn't have time for subtlety. He didn't have time for the Goblin's finger.
He raised his wand, his eyes flashing with a desperate, dark fury. "Fiendfyre!"
A jet of roaring, sentient flame erupted from his wand. The fire took the shape of a screaming phoenix, its heat so intense it began to liquefy the stone floor. The Goblin trapped in the door was incinerated instantly, his silent form reduced to ash within the metal. The door groaned, the heavy protective enchantments buckling under the weight of the cursed fire.
Quirrell watched as a hole began to glow in the center of the vault door. The moment it was large enough, he cast a frantic freezing charm to kill the flames. He couldn't let the fire reach the Stone. Fiendfyre destroyed everything it touched—souls, magic, and physical matter. If he burned the Stone, he was as good as dead.
He scrambled through the smoldering opening, his boots crunching on the charred remains of the door. He peered into the vault, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The vault was empty.
There were no piles of gold. No ancient artifacts. Just a dusting of soot and a cold, mocking silence.
The Philosopher's Stone was gone.
Quirrell felt the world tilt. His hands began to shake, and the coldness that had been creeping into his heart since he met the Dark Lord turned into a crushing weight. He was too late. Dumbledore had already moved it. Or perhaps the "Savior" he had met in the pub had been a distraction while the real work was done elsewhere.
"No... no, no, no," he whimpered. He could almost feel the phantom pain of the Dark Lord's displeasure. The punishments for failure were not physical; they were a rending of the mind, a slow, agonizing flaying of the spirit.
A distant, metallic clang echoed through the tunnels. The alarms. The Goblins were coming.
He had to move. He couldn't be caught here, not in this skin, not with the smell of Fiendfyre clinging to his robes. He scrambled back to the cart, the bag of stolen Galleons feeling like a lead weight in his hand. He had a backup plan—a poor, desperate thief he'd been tracking in Knockturn Alley. If he got caught, he'd dump the gold on the man, wipe his memory, and leave him to face the Goblins' wrath.
But as the cart began its frantic ascent, Quirrell's mind was elsewhere. He wasn't thinking about the Goblins or the Ministry. He was thinking about Hogwarts.
The Stone hadn't disappeared. It had merely changed locations. If it wasn't at Gringotts, there was only one other place in the world safe enough to hold it. And Quirrell was about to start his first term as a teacher there.
"He will forgive me," Quirrell whispered to the darkness of the tunnel, though he didn't believe a word of it. "When I bring him the Stone from under Dumbledore's nose... he will forgive me."
The cart broke into the upper levels, and the "official" Miller stepped out into the lobby, his face a mask of calm, professional annoyance, even as the bank around him erupted into chaos. He had work to do. And a savior to kill.