Quirrell was carried to the Headmaster's office.
Not walked.
Carried.
Snape used magic to float him all the way from the Black Lake, his wand never lowering for even a second. Quirrell hung in the air like a wet sack of flour, cloak dripping lake mud onto the floor.
Filch followed behind with a talisman in one hand and the expression of a man hoping someone would resist arrest.
Mrs. Norris looked equally hopeful.
Theodore walked last.
He was in no hurry.
The third node had lost a tooth. That was enough for tonight.
When they reached the stone gargoyle, it opened before Dumbledore even gave the password.
The Headmaster was already waiting.
Fawkes stood on his perch, feathers blazing brighter than usual. Professor McGonagall was there too, robe thrown over her nightdress, face stern enough to frighten portraits. Flitwick arrived moments later, half-buttoned coat, wand in hand.
Dumbledore's gaze passed over everyone.
Snape.
Filch.
Theodore.
Quirrell floating unconscious and muddy in the air.
The old wizard sighed softly.
"I see the evening has developed."
Snape's voice was ice.
"Look at him."
Quirrell dropped into the chair in front of the desk.
His head lolled forward.
The turban remained wrapped tightly around him.
Too tightly.
Dumbledore's eyes moved to it.
For years, he had trusted his instincts. They were not perfect, but they had saved lives. Tonight, those instincts screamed.
"Professor Quirrell," Dumbledore said gently.
Quirrell did not respond.
Snape stepped closer.
"He was at the lake. The formation tried to drag him in."
McGonagall's expression changed.
"The lake?"
"The third node," Theodore said. "It reacted to what he carries."
Dumbledore did not ask what.
His eyes had already become sharper.
Fawkes gave a low cry.
The phoenix's flame spread across the room. It was warm, pure, and bright. Under that light, Quirrell's shadow twisted.
Not naturally.
Not like a man's shadow.
Like something hiding inside another skin.
Flitwick's wand rose.
McGonagall's lips thinned.
Snape said nothing, but his face had gone almost white.
Dumbledore finally understood why Theodore had not killed Quirrell.
There was another soul in that body.
A damaged one.
A familiar one.
He looked at the turban.
"Tom."
The room froze.
Quirrell's body jerked.
A voice came from beneath the cloth.
Low.
Poisonous.
Filled with hatred.
"Dumbledore."
McGonagall took one sharp breath.
Flitwick's eyes widened.
Filch almost dropped his talisman.
Then he gripped it harder.
"I knew that turban was dirty."
No one laughed.
The turban shifted.
Quirrell's head lifted slowly, but the eyes that looked out were not fully his.
Dumbledore's expression was calm.
Too calm.
That made the room more frightening.
"So," he said softly, "you have been hiding in my school."
Voldemort's laugh was hoarse.
"Hiding? No. Recovering."
"In a child's school."
"In a castle full of ancient protections, forbidden knowledge, and fools who refuse to see what stands before them."
Snape flinched.
Only slightly.
But Theodore noticed.
So did Dumbledore.
Voldemort noticed too.
His voice became amused.
"Severus. Still alive. Still obedient to whoever stands tallest in the room?"
Snape's wand hand trembled once.
Then steadied.
"Do not speak to me."
Voldemort smiled through Quirrell's mouth.
"Still pretending, then."
Theodore tilted his head.
"Tom, you should save your strength. The thing under the lake already thinks you smell useful."
The smile vanished.
Voldemort hated many things.
Being called Tom.
Being mocked.
Being useful to someone else.
Tonight, Theodore had chosen all three.
Dumbledore looked at Theodore.
"What happened at the lake?"
"The third node tried to use Voldemort's damaged soul to pull on the prison below Hogwarts."
McGonagall stared. "The prison below Hogwarts?"
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly.
"Later, Minerva."
"No, Albus, that is not a 'later' sentence."
"It will have to be."
The Headmaster stepped closer to Quirrell.
Fawkes spread his wings.
Golden-red flame filled the office.
Voldemort snarled.
"You think a phoenix can burn me out?"
"No," Dumbledore said. "But it can make hiding uncomfortable."
Fawkes cried.
The sound struck Quirrell's body like sunlight through old rot.
Quirrell screamed.
Voldemort screamed with him.
For a moment, the turban bulged outward. A dark face pressed against the cloth from behind, distorted and furious.
Snape's breathing stopped.
Flitwick whispered, "Merlin…"
Filch raised the talisman on instinct.
Theodore did not move.
He watched the boundary between Quirrell and Voldemort carefully.
Fawkes's flame could expose the parasite, but forcing Voldemort out now was risky. If the remnant soul fled, the Ten Absolute Arrays might catch it. If the array caught it, Voldemort would become a key.
A very ugly key.
Dumbledore understood the same thing.
He did not push further.
The flame withdrew.
Quirrell collapsed against the chair, gasping.
The turban stopped moving.
Voldemort's voice became faint, but vicious.
"You cannot hold me forever."
Dumbledore's face was gentle.
"No. But I can make sure you do not move freely."
He waved his wand.
Silver light wrapped around Quirrell's chair.
Then a second layer.
Then a third.
Flitwick immediately joined him, adding charms so delicate they looked like threads of glass.
McGonagall conjured stone bands around the chair legs.
Filch, after a glance at Theodore, slapped a yellow talisman onto the back of the chair.
The talisman burned.
Then stuck.
Quirrell whimpered.
Voldemort fell silent.
Dumbledore looked at the talisman with interest.
Filch straightened proudly.
"Stops dirty things from slipping out."
McGonagall stared at him.
Filch added, "Mostly."
Theodore finally stepped forward.
He raised his hand.
A green leaf talisman floated from his sleeve and landed on Quirrell's chest.
Voldemort reacted at once.
Black smoke surged under Quirrell's skin.
Theodore pressed down with one finger.
Wutu Divine Light sealed.
Yimu Divine Light rooted.
The smoke was forced back.
"This is not for you," Theodore said. "It is for him."
Quirrell's eyes opened slightly.
For one brief moment, the fear in them belonged only to Quirrell.
Not Voldemort.
Not the Falling Soul node.
Just Quirrell.
He looked at Theodore with confusion, pain, and something close to shame.
Then Voldemort dragged him under again.
Theodore stepped back.
The seed remained.
Dumbledore watched quietly.
His eyes were unreadable.
Snape's were not.
He understood too much now. Not all of it, but enough.
Quirrell had not simply been weak.
He had been occupied.
Possessed.
Used.
Snape looked as if someone had opened an old wound and poured salt into it.
Voldemort's voice came again, fainter now.
"You are all very pleased with yourselves. But the array is awake. The tournament is near. The school is full of children, guests, noise, fear."
His laughter scraped through the room.
"Can you protect everyone?"
The question landed heavily.
McGonagall's face tightened.
Flitwick lowered his wand slightly.
Even Dumbledore did not answer at once.
Theodore did.
"No."
Everyone looked at him.
Theodore smiled.
"That is why we are going to make the array protect them for us."
Voldemort went quiet.
Dumbledore's eyes brightened.
Snape frowned.
"That sounds insane."
"It is efficient."
"That is not a denial."
Theodore ignored him and looked toward the window.
Across the grounds, the Quidditch pitch pulsed faintly under the moon.
The stolen fragments inside the Wuzhuang foundation answered.
Heaven's Extinction.
Falling Soul.
Golden Light.
Lake chain.
Four pieces.
Enough to build a false opening.
Enough to bait the pitch core.
Enough to turn the next attack into a trap.
Dumbledore understood only part of it, but that part was enough.
"What do you need?" he asked.
Theodore looked back.
"The tournament continues."
McGonagall immediately said, "Absolutely not."
Theodore continued as if she had not spoken.
"But the students cannot be ordinary spectators. They need positions, routes, protections, and emergency signals. The guests must sit where we want them. The teams must fly the paths we choose. The professors must guard the wrong places visibly and the right places secretly."
Flitwick's eyes widened.
"You want to stage the tournament as a formation."
"Yes."
Filch suddenly looked deeply moved.
"Finally, proper order."
McGonagall stared at him.
Dumbledore slowly smiled.
It was not the warm smile of the kindly Headmaster.
It was the smile of a man who had just decided to play chess with a dragon and use the castle as the board.
"Very well," he said.
Voldemort's voice hissed from Quirrell's throat.
"You think you can turn my battlefield against me?"
Theodore glanced at him.
"Tom, I already started."
Beneath Hogwarts, Willow Immortal's roots shifted.
The Wuzhuang foundation spread through the stolen fragments.
And under the Quidditch pitch, the wounded core beat faster, unaware that the school above it had stopped being prey.
It had become the cage.
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