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"You look different," remarked Hermione as she joined him on the studying table. "Was your holiday that good?"
Harry smiled, adjusting his new winter cloak—a gift from the Bones family. "It was... educational."
"That's the understatement of the century," Anakin's voice commented in his mind. "You practically glowed when Amelia told those stories about your father."
Harry ignored his ghost mentor, though he couldn't quite suppress his smile. Anakin had been unusually cheerful since their return from Bones Manor, constantly reminding Harry that he deserved that kind of warmth and friendship.
"I've got something interesting to show you when we get back to the common room." Harry suddenly said, earning Hermione's attention.
"Look at this," he said, carefully unwrapping Quirrell's book. "It's got some advanced shield spells I want to try."
Hermione's eyes widened as she flipped through the pages. "Harry, some of these are NEWT-level! Where did you get this?"
"Present from Professor Quirrell," Harry replied, watching her reaction carefully.
"Professor Quirrell gave you this?" Hermione looked surprised, then thoughtful. "That's... unusual. But I suppose you have been excelling in his class."
"Unusual is putting it mildly," Anakin commented. "The man tried to kill Anna with a troll, and now he's giving you advanced defensive magic?"
Harry nodded imperceptibly at Anakin's comment, but to Hermione he said, "I want to try this one—Aegis Reflexio. It's supposed to not just block spells but reflect them back."
"That's incredibly advanced," Hermione cautioned. "Maybe we should start with something simpler?"
Harry grinned. "Where's the fun in that?"
They claimed an empty classroom after dinner. Hermione stood nervously at one end, wand raised.
"Just a simple Tickling Charm," Harry assured her. "Nothing dangerous."
"If you're sure..." Hermione didn't look convinced.
Harry took a deep breath, focusing on the wand movement described in the book—a tight spiral followed by a sharp flick upward. "Aegis Reflexio!"
A faint shimmer appeared in the air before him, flickering like heat rising from pavement.
"Rictusempra!" Hermione called.
The spell shot toward Harry, hit his shield—and dissipated with a fizzle.
"Well, that's not right," Harry frowned. "It's supposed to bounce back."
"Your form is off," Anakin observed. "Too much tension in your wrist. The Force can help with precision, but you need to get the basic movement correct."
"Let me try again," Harry said, shaking out his arm. "The wrist movement needs to be fluid, not tight."
Three more attempts produced similar results—a weak shield that absorbed spells rather than reflecting them.
"Maybe that's enough for today," Hermione suggested after Harry's fifth attempt. "You're getting frustrated."
"One more," Harry insisted. He closed his eyes briefly, reaching for the Force to steady his hand and clear his mind. The familiar sensation flowed through him, bringing clarity and focus.
"Aegis Reflexio!" This time, the shield materialized with a more substantial shimmer, almost crystalline in appearance.
"Rictusempra!" Hermione cast again.
The spell hit the shield and, to Harry's delight, bounced back—albeit at an odd angle, hitting the wall rather than returning to Hermione.
"You did it!" Hermione exclaimed. "Well, sort of."
Harry grinned, feeling a rush of satisfaction. "Progress. I'll get it perfect tomorrow."
"Not bad," Anakin admitted. "But reflection requires more than just power—it's about precision and timing. You're forcing it."
"I am not forcing it," Harry muttered.
"What?" Hermione asked.
"Nothing," Harry said quickly. "Just talking to myself."
"Sure you are, kid," Anakin chuckled. "Tell her you're conversing with the ghost in your head. I'm sure that'll go over well."
The Great Hall echoed with conversation at breakfast the next morning. Harry sat with his fellow Ravenclaws, half-listening to Michael Corner's elaborate tale of his family's holiday in the Canary Islands.
"—and then the sea turtle just swam right up to me!" Michael was saying, gesturing wildly. "Must have been at least—"
"Speaking of miraculous recoveries," cut in Terry Boot, nodding toward the staff table. "Quirrell's looking positively robust these days."
Harry followed his gaze. Indeed, Professor Quirrell sat conversing animatedly with Professor Sprout, no trace of his former stutter or nervous demeanor. The transformation that had begun before the holidays seemed complete—he sat straight-backed and confident, his movements precise and deliberate.
"I heard he was in St. Mungo's for some kind of anxiety treatment," said Padma Patil.
"That's what he told us," Harry nodded, remembering the professor's explanation. "But it's still remarkable how quickly he changed."
"Too quickly," Anakin added in Harry's mind. "People don't transform that completely without something major happening."
As if sensing their attention, Quirrell looked over and caught Harry's eye. The professor smiled and gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
"He really seems to have taken a liking to you, Harry," observed Lisa Turpin. "First that book, and now he's giving you special attention."
"I'm just good at Defense," Harry shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.
"Good?" Terry snorted. "You're bloody brilliant and everyone knows it. You cast a shield charm that even third-years struggle with, and you did it on your second try."
Harry felt his cheeks warm slightly. His reputation had grown since the troll incident, with each retelling making his accomplishments sound more impressive than they actually were.
"Modest as always," Anakin teased. "Don't worry, a little fame won't go to your head... much."
"So what if he's good?" Hermione interjected, coming to Harry's rescue. "He works harder than anyone."
The conversation shifted when the mail arrived, owls swooping down with letters and packages. Harry received nothing, but he didn't mind—the communication journal from Amelia was far more valuable than any owl post.
Defense Against the Dark Arts that afternoon was Harry's first chance to observe Quirrell up close since returning. The classroom had been rearranged, with desks pushed to the sides and a large open space in the center.
"Practical lesson today," Quirrell announced as students filed in. "We'll be working on defensive footwork—often overlooked but absolutely critical in real combat situations."
The class exchanged excited glances. Practical lessons were always more interesting than theory.
"While in France over the holidays," Quirrell continued casually, "I had the opportunity to study with several dueling masters who emphasize the importance of movement over raw spell power."
A Hufflepuff girl raised her hand. "You went to France to study, Professor? But... aren't you already an expert?"
Quirrell smiled, and Harry noticed it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Miss Abbott, true masters never stop being students. I was seeking a deeper understanding of magical principles—sometimes we must return to fundamentals to advance our mastery."
The explanation seemed reasonable, but Harry exchanged a skeptical glance with Hermione.
"Convenient excuse for disappearing over the holidays," Anakin commented. "And for explaining any new... abilities he might demonstrate."
For the next hour, Quirrell had them practicing basic defensive spells like Wand Lightning Charm. Harry found it easy to incorporate what he already knew from Force training—balance, awareness, anticipation—into the exercises.
"Excellent form, Mr. Potter," Quirrell commented as he passed. "Your balance is exceptional. Almost as if you've had... previous training."
The comment was casual, but Harry felt a subtle probing behind it.
"Just natural talent, I suppose," Harry replied with practiced modesty.
"Indeed." Quirrell's eyes lingered on him a moment longer than necessary. "Natural talent takes one only so far, however. The truly great wizards seek to push beyond their innate gifts."
"I'm always looking to improve," Harry said carefully.
"Good." Quirrell nodded, seeming pleased. "In fact, I wonder if you might benefit from some additional instruction. Your progress in my class has been remarkable—it seems a waste to limit you to first-year material."
Harry felt a flicker of interest despite his wariness. "What kind of additional instruction?"
"Perhaps some private lessons," Quirrell suggested. "Nothing too formal—just an hour or two each week to explore more advanced defensive techniques. Your performance against the troll demonstrated considerable potential."
"It's a trap," Anakin warned immediately. "He wants something from you."
"I'd have to think about it," Harry said. "My schedule is already quite full with regular classes and dueling club."
"Of course," Quirrell nodded, his expression neutral. "The offer stands when you're ready. After all, one never knows when advanced defensive skills might prove... necessary."
The subtle emphasis on the last word sent a chill down Harry's spine.
"Well, that wasn't ominous at all," Anakin remarked dryly.
That evening, Harry opened the communication journal from Amelia Bones in the privacy of his bed, curtains drawn and silencing charm in place. The journal's enchanted pages allowed for secure correspondence—whatever he wrote would appear in Amelia's matched journal, and vice versa.
Harry dipped his quill and began writing:
Dear Madam Bones,
I hope this finds you well. I've returned safely to Hogwarts and wanted to update you as promised. Professor Quirrell continues to act differently from earlier in the year. Today he mentioned spending the holidays in France "studying magical fundamentals" with dueling masters. He's offered me private defense lessons, citing my "exceptional potential."
I'm unsure whether to accept. On one hand, I could learn valuable skills and perhaps discover more about his suspicious behavior. On the other, it seems risky to be alone with someone who may have released a troll into the school.
Your advice would be appreciated.
Sincerely,
Harry Potter.
He waited, watching as his words faded into the page.
"You're really considering his offer?" Anakin asked incredulously.
"Know your enemy," Harry replied simply. "Besides, I'll be careful."
"Careful isn't enough with someone like Quirrell," Anakin countered. "There's something... wrong about him. Something dark."
Before Harry could respond, the journal glowed softly. Amelia's neat handwriting appeared on the page:
Mister Potter,
Thank you for the update. I've made inquiries about Professor Quirrell's supposed treatment at St. Mungo's. Interestingly, their records confirm he was treated for severe anxiety and magical exhaustion in October. The healer's notes mention "remarkable response to experimental treatment." I find the timing suspicious but have no grounds to dismiss it outright.
Regarding his trip to France—this is new information and worth investigating. I'll make discreet inquiries with my French counterparts.
As for private lessons, I advise caution but not refusal. Knowledge is valuable, and you've demonstrated good judgment. If you accept, consider the following precautions:
Inform Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor Flitwick of these sessions. Meet only in public or semi-public spaces, never completely isolated rooms. Continue our regular correspondence, especially after these lessons.
I've also spoken with Albus about the portrait's account of the troll incident. He expressed concern but noted that without additional evidence, he cannot take official action against a professor. However, he assured me he would increase observation of Quirrell's activities.
Stay vigilant and trust your instincts.
Amelia Bones
Harry read the response twice, considering her advice.
"Well?" Anakin prompted. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking," Harry said slowly, "that Quirrell is going to a lot of trouble to create a convincing cover story. The St. Mungo's records... the France explanation... it's thorough."
"Too thorough," Anakin agreed. "People who are telling the truth don't usually have every detail so neatly arranged."
Harry tapped his fingers against the journal thoughtfully. "I'm going to accept his offer."
"I figured you'd say that," Anakin sighed. "Just promise me you'll be careful. No showing off with the Force, no matter how much he might provoke you."
"I'll be careful," Harry promised. "Besides, I'll have you watching my back."
"Always, kid," Anakin replied, his voice softening. "That's what I'm here for."
Harry penned a quick response to Amelia, thanking her for the information and promising to follow her precautions. Then he closed the journal and leaned back against his pillows.
"What do you think he wants?" Harry asked quietly. "Quirrell, I mean."
"Hard to say," Anakin replied. "Could be he's curious about your abilities. Could be something to do with whatever's hidden on the third floor. Could be both."
"Or something else entirely," Harry mused. "He's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he seems awfully interested in the offensive side of magic."
"The best defense is a swift and decisive attack," Anakin said, then caught himself with a rueful smile. "At least, that's what I used to think. Now I'd say the best defense is knowing when to fight and when to walk away."
"You weren't always so philosophical, were you?" Harry asked.
Anakin's expression grew distant. "No. I learned those lessons the hard way."
Harry wanted to ask more but sensed Anakin's reluctance. Whatever painful history lurked in his mentor's past remained a mystery—one that his Master clearly wasn't ready to share.
"Well, in any case," Harry said, changing the subject, "tomorrow I'm going to accept Quirrell's offer. And then we'll see what he's really after."
"Just remember," Anakin cautioned, "sometimes when you go looking for answers, you find questions you weren't prepared to ask."
With that enigmatic warning, Anakin's form faded, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts as the winter night deepened outside Ravenclaw Tower.
The following morning dawned cold and clear. Harry rose early, as was his habit, for his morning training session. The routine Anakin had established was rigorous: physical conditioning followed by Force exercises, all before breakfast.
Harry scaled down the side of Ravenclaw Tower, using the Force to enhance his grip on the ancient stones. It was risky, but the exhilaration of defying gravity never grew old. Plus, it was excellent practice for fine Force control.
"Show-off," Anakin commented as Harry executed a particularly daring leap between two protruding gargoyles.
"Says the man who boasted about pod-racing at nine years old," Harry retorted, landing lightly on a lower balcony.
"That was different," Anakin protested. "That was... necessary."
"Necessary?" Harry raised an eyebrow as he continued his descent. "How exactly was racing dangerous pods 'necessary'?"
"It's complicated," Anakin hedged. "Let's just say it was a means to an end."
Harry reached the ground and began his morning run around the lake. The snow crunched beneath his feet, and his breath formed clouds in the frigid air. Few students were awake at this hour, giving Harry the privacy he needed for training.
"You know," Harry said between breaths as he ran, "you've told me a lot about the Force, about the Jedi and their code, but you rarely talk about yourself. What were you like as a student?"
Anakin was silent for a moment.
"Impatient," he finally said with a wry smile. "Talented but reckless. Always looking for shortcuts."
"Sounds familiar," Harry grinned.
"Too familiar," Anakin agreed, his tone sobering. "Which is why I worry about you accepting Quirrell's offer. I took shortcuts, trusted the wrong people... it didn't end well."
"What happened?" Harry pressed, slowing his pace slightly.
"I...It's not important."
The pain in Anakin's voice silenced Harry's questions. They continued the rest of the run in companionable quiet, Harry respecting the boundaries his mentor had established.
After completing his physical training, Harry found a secluded spot near the lake for Force exercises. Under Anakin's guidance, he practiced lifting progressively larger rocks, controlling multiple objects simultaneously, and extending his Force awareness to sense the creatures moving in the Forbidden Forest.
"Your control is improving," Anakin noted as Harry successfully balanced three large stones in a vertical stack. "But remember, the Force isn't just about moving objects. It's about feeling the connections between all living things."
"I'm trying," Harry said, his face tight with concentration.
"Don't try. Do," Anakin instructed. "Close your eyes. Feel the life around you—the trees, the creatures in the lake, the students waking up in the castle."
Harry closed his eyes, extending his awareness outward in rippling circles. The sensation was always overwhelming at first—countless points of light and energy, each representing a living being. Gradually, he learned to filter, to focus on specific signatures.
"There's someone watching us," Harry said suddenly, his eyes snapping open. He turned toward the castle, scanning the windows.
"Where?" Anakin asked sharply.
"Third floor, east wing," Harry murmured. "They're gone now."
"Could be anyone," Anakin said, but his tone was uneasy. "Let's finish up here. You don't want to be late for breakfast."
Ashe headed back toward the castle; Harry couldn't shake the feeling of being observed—not just physically, but somehow deeper, as if someone had brushed against his mind.
After breakfast, Harry saw Quirrell leaving the Common Hall, entering the House Points Room, Harry stopped the Professor, who turned to face him.
"Professor," Harry said, mustering his most earnest expression. "I've been thinking about your offer for additional lessons. I'd like to accept, if it's still open."
Quirrell's face brightened with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. "Excellent, Mr. Potter! I'm delighted to hear it. Shall we say Thursday evenings at seven? We can use classroom 3C—it's more spacious for practical work."
"That sounds good, sir," Harry nodded. "Should I bring anything specific?"
"Just your wand and an open mind," Quirrell replied. "We'll start with assessing your current capabilities and build from there."
As Harry turned to leave, Quirrell added casually, "Oh, and Mr. Potter? I'd appreciate if we kept these sessions between us for now. Some of your classmates might feel... left out if they knew you were receiving special instruction."
"And there it is," Anakin muttered. "The request for secrecy. Classic manipulation tactic."
"Actually, Professor," Harry said carefully, "I've already mentioned it to Professor Flitwick. As my Head of House, I thought he should know about any additional academic activities."
Something flickered briefly in Quirrell's eyes—annoyance, perhaps, or calculation—before his pleasant expression returned. "Very responsible of you, Mr. Potter. Professor Flitwick is welcome to observe any of our sessions, of course."
"Thank you, sir," Harry said, noting the subtle tension in Quirrell's posture despite his accommodating words. "I'm looking forward to it."
As Harry walked away, he could feel Quirrell's eyes following him. The game had begun. Harry didn't know what Quirrell wanted, but he was determined to find out before the professor discovered too much about him.
"Well played," Anakin commented as they exited the Great Hall. "You managed to counter his secrecy request without appearing suspicious."
"I learned from the best," Harry replied with a small smile. "You're quite the strategist when you want to be."
"I've had practice," Anakin said, his tone suggesting there was much more to that story. "Lots and lots of practice."
The castle corridors bustled with students rushing to morning classes. As Harry joined the flow, merging into a group of Ravenclaws headed for Transfiguration, he caught sight of Dumbledore watching from an upper landing. The Headmaster's gaze was sharp and assessing, and when he noticed Harry looking, he gave a slight nod before continuing on his way.
It seemed Amelia's warning had been taken seriously. Quirrell might think himself clever with his manufactured explanations and careful demeanor, but the net was tightening. Between Dumbledore's surveillance, Amelia's investigations, and Harry's own observations, the truth would eventually come to light.
❾¾
❾¾
The rest of Harry's day passed in a blur of lessons and homework. By dinner time, the Great Hall was alive with chatter and the clinking of silverware as students recounted their first week back. Harry sat with his fellow Ravenclaws, half-listening to a debate about the practical applications of Switching Spells while surreptitiously observing the staff table.
Dumbledore was engaged in what appeared to be casual conversation with Professor McGonagall, but Harry noticed the Headmaster's eyes occasionally drifting toward Quirrell. It was subtle—nothing anyone would notice unless they were specifically watching for it—but unmistakable to Harry's Force-enhanced perception.
"You're awfully quiet tonight," Hermione remarked, nudging him. "Still thinking about that shield spell?"
"Among other things," Harry admitted. "I'm going to try it again tonight if you're available."
"Of course," she replied, then lowered her voice. "I heard you're getting private lessons with Professor Quirrell."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "News travels fast."
"Padma overheard you talking to Professor Flitwick," Hermione explained. "Are you sure it's a good idea? I mean, extra defense lessons sound brilliant, but..."
"But?" Harry prompted.
Hermione hesitated. "Well, you are already tiring yourself with the Duelling Club, don't you think this might be too much..."
"She's smart, that one," Anakin commented. "Reminds me a bit of Padmé."
"Who's Padmé?" Harry muttered under his breath.
"Someone I knew... a long time ago," Anakin replied, his voice suddenly distant. "Very perceptive. Very brave."
Before Harry could press further, he was distracted by the arrival of an unusual visitor to the Ravenclaw table—Nymphadora Tonks, her hair a vibrant purple today, plopped down beside Anna Bones.
"Wotcher, Harry!" she greeted cheerfully. "Had a good holiday with the Bones clan?"
"It was brilliant," Harry replied with genuine warmth. "Best Christmas I've ever had."
"Aunt Amelia hasn't stopped talking about you," Anna said, grinning. "I think she's adopted you in her mind already."
Harry felt a strange flutter in his chest at the thought. The concept of being wanted—of being part of a family—was still foreign to him.
"Speaking of holidays," Tonks said, reaching for a bread roll, "did you hear about Quirrell's mysterious French sabbatical? Bit odd for a professor to suddenly dash off to 'study fundamentals,' don't you think?"
"Maybe he just wanted to improve his teaching," Harry suggested, watching for her reaction.
Tonks snorted. "Right. And I'm secretly a veela in disguise." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Word among the older students is that he went searching for something specific. Some obscure branch of magic that's not taught at Hogwarts."
This caught Harry's attention. "What kind of magic?"
Tonks shrugged. "No one knows for sure. But Charlie Weasley's friend was in Hogsmeade when Quirrell returned. Said he looked... different. Not just confident, but like he'd discovered something big."
"Interesting," Anakin murmured. "Sounds like more than just a personality change."
Harry nodded imperceptibly, then asked Tonks, "When exactly did he get back from France?"
"Ten days ago," she replied. "Arrived by International Floo to the Three Broomsticks. Made quite an entrance, apparently—used to skulk around like he expected a boggart around every corner, but now he strides in like he owns the place."
The information added another piece to the puzzle, but Harry wasn't sure what to make of it yet. Why would Quirrell go to France? What could he have learned there that changed him so dramatically?
As if sensing Harry's thoughts, Tonks added, "Oh, and the really weird bit? He spent most of his time around muggle Paris, not the wizarding districts. What kind of wizard goes to France to study magic but avoids the magical community?"
"One who's not actually studying magic," Anakin suggested.
"Curiouser and curiouser," Harry muttered.
"What was that?" Anna asked.
"Just thinking it's curious," Harry clarified. "Maybe he was researching muggle perspectives on magic?"
"Boring explanation," Tonks declared with a dramatic yawn. "I prefer the theory that he's actually a secret agent for the Department of Mysteries."
"I like her," Anakin declared. "She'd have made a good Jedi. Well, until the whole 'no sense of humor' rule kicked in."
"Did Jedi really not have a sense of humor?" Harry murmured.
"Let's just say my master spent a lot of time sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose," Anakin replied with a mischievous grin. "Apparently, suggesting that we could solve diplomatic crises by challenging the opposing delegates to a pod race wasn't 'appropriate Jedi conduct.'"
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
Later that evening, long after most students had retired to their dormitories, Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The portraits of former headmasters dozed in their frames, or at least pretended to, while Fawkes the phoenix preened his magnificent feathers on his perch.
A soft knock at the door interrupted the silence.
"Enter," Dumbledore called.
Professor McGonagall stepped into the office, her expression grave. "You wanted to see me, Albus?"
"Yes, Minerva. Thank you for coming at this late hour." Dumbledore gestured to the chair across from his desk. "I've been considering Amelia Bones's report about Professor Quirrell."
McGonagall's lips thinned. "The troll incident? Surely she doesn't think Quirinus was responsible?"
"She has the testimony of a portrait that places him near the dungeons when the troll was released," Dumbledore explained. "Not conclusive evidence, of course, but concerning nonetheless."
"Portraits can be mistaken," McGonagall pointed out, though her tone suggested she was playing devil's advocate rather than truly dismissing the claim.
"Indeed they can," Dumbledore agreed. "Which is why I've done nothing official. However, I believe some increased vigilance is warranted."
McGonagall nodded briskly. "What do you need me to do?"
"Nothing obvious," Dumbledore cautioned. "Quirinus must not feel targeted or observed. I simply ask that you keep an eye on his movements, particularly anywhere near the third-floor corridor."
"And the Stone?" McGonagall asked quietly. "Do you think that's what he's after?"
Dumbledore's expression turned pensive. "I'm not certain. His behavior has been... puzzling. This transformation after his supposed treatment at St. Mungo's, his trip to France... it doesn't align with what I know of Quirinus Quirrell."
"People can change, Albus."
"Not so completely, and not so suddenly," Dumbledore countered. "Furthermore, he has taken a particular interest in young Harry Potter."
McGonagall's eyebrows rose. "In what way?"
"He's offered the boy private defense lessons," Dumbledore explained. "On the surface, a generous gesture for a talented student. But given the circumstances..."
"Potter is exceptional in Defense," McGonagall acknowledged. "But he's only a first-year. What could Quirinus hope to gain by singling him out?"
Dumbledore's eyes took on a faraway look. "Harry Potter is no ordinary first-year, Minerva. We've both seen that. His magical talent is remarkable, even considering his parentage. And there's something else about him... something I can't quite place."
McGonagall waited, knowing from experience that Dumbledore would continue when ready.
"Have you noticed," he said finally, "how he sometimes seems very deep in thoughts? When you showed him Diagon Alley, you told me that he often seemed like he was talking to someone else, and I have been paying attention to Harry, and I have noticed that as well, and the same is for his magic. He seems already capable of duelling third years and winning."
"He's naturally talented," McGonagall said.
"Perhaps," Dumbledore mused. "Or perhaps there's more to Harry Potter than meets the eye. Something that Quirinus—or whoever might be influencing him—has sensed as well."
"You think someone else is involved?" McGonagall asked sharply.
Dumbledore sighed heavily. "I hope not, Minerva. But I've lived too long and seen too much to dismiss the possibility. Voldemort is not truly gone, he might be weak now, but he is still out there, and there are still people who are awaiting his return."
The name hung in the air between them, chilling despite the warmth of the fire.
"What about the boy?" McGonagall asked after a moment. "Should we warn him?"
"Harry has already demonstrated remarkable judgment," Dumbledore said, a hint of pride in his voice. "He informed Filius about the lessons without prompting. He communicates regularly with Amelia Bones. I believe he's already wary of Quirinus, which is wise."
"He's still just a child, Albus," McGonagall reminded him.
"A child who survived a killing curse," Dumbledore said softly. "A child who defeated a mountain troll. A child who, I suspect, has capabilities we don't yet fully understand."
He rose from his chair and moved to the window, gazing out at the moonlit grounds. "For now, we watch and wait. I've asked the castle ghosts to be vigilant as well, though discreetly. And I've placed additional enchantments near the third-floor corridor—nothing obvious, but they'll alert me to any tampering."
McGonagall nodded, but she seemed reluctant. "And if our suspicions prove correct? If Quirinus is indeed after the Stone?"
Dumbledore turned, and for a brief moment, McGonagall glimpsed not the kindly headmaster but the powerful wizard who had defeated Grindelwald—determined, formidable, and utterly resolute.
"Then he will find that Hogwarts protects its own," Dumbledore said simply. "Its treasures and, more importantly, its students."
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
In the Ravenclaw first-year dormitory, Harry lay awake long after his roommates had fallen asleep. The day's events tumbled through his mind—Quirrell's offer, Tonks's information about his time in France, the feeling of being watched during his morning training.
"You should be sleeping," Anakin's voice came softly in the darkness. "Tomorrow's another big day."
"Can't shut my brain off," Harry admitted, staring at the canopy above his bed. "Too many questions."
"That's the problem with being too clever for your own good. Your mind never stops working."
"Was yours like that?" Harry asked. "When you were my age?"
Anakin seemed to consider this. "Not exactly. I was always thinking, but more about doing than understanding. I wanted to build things, fix things, fly faster than anyone else. You're more... contemplative."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Not at all," Anakin assured him. "Just different. You remind me of my... of someone I knew. Always analyzing, always three steps ahead."
Harry noticed the slip but didn't press. Instead, he asked, "Do you think Quirrell went to France to learn something specific? Something dangerous?"
"It's possible," Anakin acknowledged. "But what bothers me more is Tonks saying he spent time in muggle areas. If he was truly studying magical techniques, why avoid magical communities?"
"Maybe he was hiding," Harry suggested. "Or maybe what he was looking for isn't considered acceptable magic."
"Dark arts, you mean?" Anakin's expression grew serious. "That would align with what we know of him."
"Or maybe..." Harry hesitated, a new thought occurring to him. "Maybe he wasn't studying magic at all. Maybe he was studying something else."
"Like what?"
Harry sat up, excitement building as the pieces began to align in his mind. "What if he was studying the Force?"
"Impossible. The Force doesn't exist in your world—at least, it shouldn't. Other than you and me, there's no one who would know about it."
"But what if there is?" Harry pressed. "What if that's why Quirrell's so interested in me? What if he senses something different about me, the way you did?"
"If that were true," Anakin said slowly, "it would be very, very dangerous. The Force in untrained hands is perilous enough. Combined with your world's magic..."
He didn't finish the thought, but Harry could see the concern etched on his spectral features.
"Tomorrow I'm going to try something during our practice session," Harry decided. "I want to see if Quirrell reacts to the Force."
"That's extremely risky," Anakin warned. "If he does know about the Force, showing him your abilities could put you in danger."
"I'll be subtle," Harry promised. "Just enough to test his reaction, not enough to give myself away. Besides, you'll be watching, right?"
"Always," Anakin affirmed, though he still looked troubled. "But there's only so much I can do as a voice in your head, Harry. If things go wrong..."
"They won't," Harry said with more confidence than he felt. "Trust me."
"I do trust you," Anakin said softly. "That's not the issue. It's just... I've seen how quickly situations can spiral out of control. I've seen the price of overconfidence."
There was something in his tone—a deep, personal pain—that made Harry pause. Once again, he sensed there was much about Anakin's past that remained unspoken.
"I'll be careful," Harry promised more sincerely. "Really careful."
Anakin nodded, seemingly appeased. "Now get some sleep. Your mind works better when it's rested."
"Besides," Anakin added with a mischievous grin, "your snoring gives me a break from having to listen to your overthinking."
"I do not snore!" Harry protested.
"Keep telling yourself that, kid," came the fading reply. "I've been on starships with quieter engine rooms."
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