Heavy footsteps thundered down the dungeon corridor like an approaching storm. The sound of boots clicking against stone, robes swishing with deadly purpose, and wands already drawn created a symphony of impending doom that would have made even the Furies pause for applause.
First came Professor McGonagall, and if looks could kill, the castle's mortality rate would have just spiked dramatically. Her tartan robes swirled around her like storm clouds preparing to unleash their fury, her hair pulled back in a bun so tight it could probably cut through dragon hide. Those emerald eyes—the same shade as Harry's, though infinitely more terrifying—blazed with the kind of wrath that made grown wizards whimper and first-years contemplate transferring to Durmstrang.
Behind her, Professor Flitwick scurried at a pace that would have impressed a caffeinated hummingbird, his wand already raised and muttering charms under his breath like he was preparing for either a rescue operation or the wizarding equivalent of D-Day.
Professor Sprout followed, her usually rosy cheeks flushed from exertion and worry, a trowel inexplicably clutched in her free hand like she intended to repot the troll herself if necessary. Because apparently, when you're the Herbology professor, every problem looks like it needs gardening.
And then there was Severus Snape.
If McGonagall was a storm, Snape was a black hole—consuming light, hope, and the will to live all in one graceful, terrifying package. He didn't walk so much as glide, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of some ancient, predatory bird. His expression was carved from obsidian and bad memories, dark eyes sharp enough to cut glass and twice as reflective. The man radiated the kind of barely-suppressed fury that made students question their life choices from three corridors away.
He'd been on his way to the third-floor corridor—the one where a certain Stone was hidden behind enough magical traps to make a death god weep—when a sharp-eyed prefect came running to tell him that Potter and his merry band of academic delinquents had "vanished" from the Great Hall mid-evacuation. With a troll on the loose.
Of course they had.
Just like his father, that arrogant, reckless—
The thought of Lily's son facing down a mountain troll sent a strange, bitter twist through his chest. Not concern, obviously. Never that. But if the boy got himself squashed flat by a ten-foot troll before Snape could at least verbally eviscerate him for existing... well. That wouldn't do at all.
The professors skidded to a stop outside the ruined bathroom door, which was hanging off its hinges at a forty-five degree angle like it had given up on life. Water still trickled into the hall from beneath it, creating a small flood that would have made Noah nervous.
McGonagall's sharp inhale could have frozen lava mid-flow.
"Oh, for the love of Merlin," she hissed, and then—louder, with the kind of Scottish authority that made mountains tremble—"POTTER!"
Inside, the children froze like they'd been hit with a collective Petrificus Totalus.
Hermione's quill actually stopped mid-scribble, a feat that hadn't occurred since the invention of writing.
Neville whimpered and tried to become one with the broken stall he was hiding behind.
Ron ducked back behind his own stall, probably praying to whatever deity watched over redheads and chess enthusiasts.
Daphne and Tracey, to their credit, only looked mildly annoyed, like they'd been interrupted halfway through a manicure by someone asking them to solve world hunger.
And Harry?
Harry just turned toward the door with that infuriating little smirk still firmly in place, emerald eyes sparkling like trouble itself had decided to take up residence in his skull. Aether floated lazily at his shoulder like the world's fluffiest, most magical halo, occasionally doing little loop-de-loops that suggested he was either showing off or having the time of his life.
"Ohhh, they're MAD mad," Jim's voice whispered in Harry's mind, practically vibrating with glee. "Look at McGonagall's face! Look at Snape! LOOK AT HIM! He's doing the scary bat thing! You know what this is, kid? This is comedy GOLD! Pure, unfiltered, premium entertainment! I haven't been this excited since that time I helped Sun Wukong mess with the Jade Emperor's birthday party!"
Snape was the last to step inside, his eyes sweeping the devastation in one long, withering glance that catalogued every shattered stall, cracked tile, and unconscious troll on the floor like a felled mountain. His gaze finally settled on Potter, standing in the middle of it all like chaos personified, and his lip curled in something between a sneer and the expression of someone who'd just discovered a particularly offensive smell.
"Potter," he drawled, his voice like cold oil on water, smooth and utterly deadly. "Of course. I suppose I should have guessed."
Harry's smirk didn't even waver. If anything, it grew wider.
"You're welcome," he said breezily, with the kind of audacity that would have gotten most students turned into a toad on the spot. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Oh, and nice entrance, by the way. Very dramatic. I give it an eight out of ten—would've been a nine, but Professor Flitwick's still breathing a little hard."
"OH MY GODS," Jim practically screamed in Harry's head. "DID YOU JUST—Kid, you beautiful, magnificent disaster! You just sassed SEVERUS SNAPE! I'm so proud I could cry! If I had tear ducts! Which I don't! But I'm emotionally weeping anyway!"
Snape stalked forward, black eyes narrowing to slits that would have made a basilisk jealous.
"Welcome?" he echoed, his tone like a knife sliding into silk. "You endanger yourself, your classmates, and half the castle's plumbing, and you think this is some kind of... joke?"
Harry tilted his head, spinning his wand between his fingers with the casual grace of someone who'd been doing it for decades instead of months.
"Well," he said, his voice carrying just the right amount of innocent confusion, "the alternative was letting the troll flatten a bunch of first-years. So... yeah. You're welcome. I mean, unless you had a better plan? Because I'm all ears. Well, mostly ears. Some of me is definitely nose."
"STOP IT!" Jim wheezed. "You're killing me! I'm a magical staff and you're making me die of laughter! The irony is EXQUISITE!"
Hermione finally snapped out of her horrified silence, clutching her notes like they were a shield against academic disaster. Her usually perfect composure was cracking like ice in spring, revealing the daughter of Athena beneath—brilliant, strategic, but also fiercely protective of her friends.
"Professor," she blurted, her voice carrying just a hint of that otherworldly wisdom that sometimes leaked through, "it—it wasn't just him! It was all of us—I mean—it was my idea to—"
"Oh no you don't," Harry interrupted, shooting her a quick wink that somehow managed to be both reassuring and slightly manic. "Don't ruin your perfect record on my account, Granger. This one's mine. I own it. I'm practically putting it on my resume."
"That's my boy!" Jim crowed. "Take credit for the chaos! Own the disaster! Make it your BRAND!"
Snape's sneer deepened, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable as they briefly dropped to the unconscious troll.
"Of course it is," he muttered, his voice dripping with contempt, though something complicated twisted in his chest. Because damn it all, the boy was standing there—tall, defiant, emerald eyes blazing—and he looked exactly like Lily when she was defending someone she cared about.
He hated that about her.
He loved that about her.
And here was her son, making the same bloody heroic choices that had gotten her killed.
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly trying to rein in her temper before it escaped and started hexing students on its own.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her tone now icy with restrained fury, "you are lucky no one was killed. You will be serving detention for weeks. You will ALL be serving detention for weeks!"
Ron groaned from behind his stall, sounding like someone had just told him Christmas was canceled.
Neville wilted visibly, probably already composing his own obituary.
Hermione looked like she'd already started planning her own funeral, complete with flowery eulogies about her academic achievements.
Daphne just crossed her arms and smirked at Harry, her expression saying she found this entire situation entertaining rather than concerning.
Tracey muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Worth it," in the tone of someone who'd just discovered the secret to eternal happiness.
And Harry?
Harry grinned wider, his smile bright enough to power the Great Hall's floating candles.
"Sure thing, Professor," he said, utterly unbothered by the threat of weeks of detention. "But you're still welcome anyway. I mean, look at it this way—at least you won't have to explain to parents why their kids got trampled by a troll. That's got to be worth something, right?"
"OH, KID!" Jim's voice roared in his head like a standing ovation. "YOU'RE GONNA DRIVE THIS WHOLE CASTLE CRAZY—AND I AM HERE FOR EVERY MAGNIFICENT MINUTE OF IT! This is better than cable! Better than Netflix! Better than whatever entertainment they'll invent in the future!"
Aether chose that moment to perform a particularly elegant barrel roll, as if applauding Harry's performance.
Flitwick cleared his throat delicately, his voice carrying the kind of diplomatic tone that suggested he'd had practice mediating between volatile personalities.
"Perhaps," he squeaked, "we should focus on the fact that the children are safe and the troll is... well, thoroughly defeated?"
"Thoroughly defeated?" Snape's voice could have curdled milk. "Professor Flitwick, they turned a bathroom into a war zone. There's a troll unconscious on the floor, half the plumbing is destroyed, and Potter is standing there grinning like he just won the Quidditch Cup."
"To be fair," Harry said helpfully, "the bathroom was kind of ugly to begin with. I think we improved it. Added some character. Really opened up the space."
"CHARACTER!" Jim shrieked with laughter. "You added CHARACTER to a bathroom by destroying it! Kid, you're a POET! A warrior poet of chaos and destruction!"
Professor Sprout, who had been quietly examining the troll with the kind of professional interest she usually reserved for particularly challenging plants, looked up with a puzzled expression.
"How exactly did you manage to render a full-grown mountain troll unconscious?" she asked, her voice carrying genuine curiosity. "They're notoriously difficult to subdue, even for experienced Aurors."
Harry's grin became positively feral.
"Oh, that's easy," he said, gesturing casually at the fallen beast. "I just asked it nicely to take a nap."
The silence that followed was so complete it could have been bottled and sold as a meditation aid.
"You're killing me," Jim wheezed. "Actually killing me. I'm going to die of laughter-induced magical feedback. What a way to go!"
McGonagall's eye twitched.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her voice carrying the kind of warning that suggested his next words would determine whether he lived to see tomorrow, "you will tell us exactly what happened here. And you will tell us the truth."
Harry looked around at his friends—at Hermione still clutching her notes, at Ron peeking out from behind his stall, at Neville trying to become invisible, at Daphne and Tracey watching like they were at the theater.
---
"Well," Harry began, adopting the tone of a bard about to recount an epic quest for the ages, complete with dramatic gestures that would have made Shakespeare weep with envy, "we heard screaming. You know, troll-sized screaming—very hard to miss. The kind of screaming that makes you think, 'Gee, I wonder if someone's being murdered by a ten-foot monster.' So naturally, we decided to... investigate. For the safety of the school, obviously."
"OH, THIS IS GOOD!" Jim's voice practically vibrated with excitement in Harry's mind. "Start with the heroic motivation! Classic misdirection! I taught Sun Wukong this exact technique when he was trying to explain why he ate all the immortal peaches!"
McGonagall's left eyebrow arched with the precision of a master archer, sharp enough to shave marble and twice as deadly. Her emerald eyes—so like Harry's own, yet infinitely more terrifying—fixed on him with the kind of stare that could make grown Death Eaters confess their deepest secrets.
Harry pressed on, completely unfazed by her silent interrogation. If anything, his grin widened.
"We followed the noise," he continued, beginning to pace like some kind of war general recounting the Battle of the Lavatory, "and sure enough, found our friendly neighborhood troll making himself at home in this bathroom. It was already... let's say, redecorating. With plumbing. And stalls. Very avant-garde approach to interior design, really."
"AVANT-GARDE!" Jim shrieked with laughter. "You just called troll destruction avant-garde! Kid, you're a POET! A beautiful, lying poet!"
Ron winced at the memory of the first sink being torn out of the wall like it was made of wet cardboard. His freckled face had gone a bit green around the edges, probably remembering the sound of porcelain meeting troll fist.
Hermione opened her mouth to correct something—probably to mention the part where Harry had casually overpowered a mountain troll with what appeared to be divine strength—thought better of it when Harry shot her a wink that somehow managed to be both reassuring and slightly manic, and clamped it shut again. The daughter of Athena in her was clearly calculating the wisdom of keeping certain details... flexible.
"So," Harry continued, his voice taking on the cadence of someone who'd clearly practiced this story at least three times in his head, "we split up. Classic military strategy, really. Ron and Neville—brave souls that they are—tried to keep its attention on them, while Hermione and I went for cover. Teamwork, you know. Very inspiring stuff."
"TEAMWORK!" Jim cackled. "You're not mentioning the part where you were planning to go completely feral and start throwing bathroom fixtures like they were pebbles! This is MASTERFUL editing!"
Neville, who had been trying to become one with the broken bathroom tiles, actually straightened up a bit at being called brave. His round face was still pale, but there was a flicker of something that might have been pride in his eyes.
"And then," Harry said, pausing for dramatic effect like he was performing at the Globe Theatre, "when the timing was right... I got close enough to stun it. One clean shot. Very textbook, really."
The silence that followed was so complete it could have been packaged and sold as a meditation aid.
Flitwick made an impressed little noise under his breath, his eyes bright with genuine admiration. "A Stunning Spell powerful enough to fell a mountain troll at your age? Remarkable, Mr. Potter. Quite remarkable indeed. Most adult wizards would struggle with such a feat."
"STUNNING SPELL!" Jim was practically rolling on the floor of Harry's mind. "Oh, that's RICH! Kid, you didn't stun it—you knocked it unconscious with a LIGHT ARROW to the eye! But sure, let's call it a Stunning Spell! Why not? Reality is overrated anyway!"
Harry just grinned like the cat that not only got the cream but also the cow, the field, and the deed to the farm. His emerald eyes—those impossible green eyes with their silver flecks—sparkled with the kind of mischief that made gods nervous.
"Well," he said modestly, "I did have excellent teachers. And motivation. Nothing motivates quite like a troll trying to turn your friends into pancakes."
McGonagall, however, was still watching him with narrowed emerald eyes that missed absolutely nothing. There was no mistaking the silent accusation in that look, the way her lips pressed into a thin line that suggested she was mentally preparing a very thorough interrogation.
We will talk later, Potter, her expression clearly said. You can feed Severus and the others this charming little bedtime story if you like, but don't you dare think it will work on me. I've been dealing with troublemakers since before you were born, and I know creative truth-telling when I hear it.
Harry only smiled wider, meeting her gaze with the kind of confidence that came from being the son of the god of lies himself.
Looking forward to it, Professor, his answering look seemed to say. But you'll have to catch me first.
"OH, SHE KNOWS!" Jim's voice was practically singing with glee. "SHE KNOWS EVERYTHING, AND IT'S GLORIOUS! LOOK AT HER! LOOK AT YOU! A DUEL OF SMIRKS! THIS IS ART! THIS IS POETRY! THIS IS BETTER THAN CABLE!"
Aether chose that moment to perform a particularly elegant figure-eight around Harry's head, his fluffy white form catching the light like spun silver. The little cloud seemed to sense the tension and was doing his best to lighten the mood with aerial acrobatics.
Professor Sprout nodded approvingly at Harry's explanation, though her eyes still flicked curiously between the unconscious troll and Harry, clearly wondering what kind of "asking nicely" could have dropped something that big and that violent. Her gardening instincts were probably telling her there was more to this story than met the eye.
"Very good thinking, Mr. Potter," she said warmly, though her tone carried a note of puzzlement. "Though I must say, mountain trolls are notoriously resistant to stunning spells. You must have quite a bit of natural talent."
"NATURAL TALENT!" Jim wheezed. "Kid, your 'natural talent' is being the MONKEY KING! But sure, let's call it genetics!"
Snape, of course, was unmoved by the collective praise. His lip curled in disdain, and when he spoke, his voice carried the kind of skepticism that could corrode steel.
"You expect us to believe," he drawled, each word dripping with contempt, "that you—you—with your... mediocre abilities at best, overpowered a mountain troll with nothing but a Stunner? A creature that requires multiple Aurors to subdue safely?"
Harry's grin widened just a fraction, and there was something almost feral in the expression. Something that reminded anyone paying attention that he was named after a hero, but descended from gods who were known for their... creative relationship with rules.
"Would you rather believe it was luck, sir?" he asked, his voice carrying just the right amount of innocent confusion mixed with something that might have been mockery. "Because I hear luck can be very powerful magic, too. Some might even call it divine intervention."
"DIVINE INTERVENTION!" Jim nearly screamed with laughter. "OH, YOU BEAUTIFUL DISASTER! TECHNICALLY TRUE! THE BEST KIND OF TRUE!"
The faint, choked snort that escaped Tracey's lips was quickly disguised as a cough, but not before Daphne shot her a look that was equal parts amusement and warning.
Snape's dark eyes narrowed to slits that would have made a basilisk jealous. "Luck," he repeated, his voice like poisoned honey. "How... convenient."
"Isn't it?" Harry replied cheerfully, completely unbothered by the waves of hostility rolling off the Potions Master. "I've always been rather lucky. Survived the Killing Curse as a baby, got into Hogwarts despite being raised in America, made some awesome friends... yes, I'd say luck is definitely my strong suit."
"STOP IT!" Jim gasped. "YOU'RE KILLING ME! I'M GOING TO DIE OF LAUGHTER-INDUCED MAGICAL FEEDBACK! WHAT A WAY TO GO!"
McGonagall exhaled through her nose like a very elegant, very Scottish dragon trying not to set everything on fire. Her tartan robes rustled with barely contained exasperation.
"Regardless," she said crisply, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade, "the fact remains that you and your... team acted recklessly and endangered yourselves and others by leaving the Great Hall during a crisis situation."
Neville looked like he wanted to melt into the floor and stay there until graduation. His round face had gone pale again, and he was fidgeting with his robes like they might provide some kind of protection against professorial wrath.
Ron mumbled something that sounded like "reckless, sure, but brave," but quieted when McGonagall's eyes snapped to him with laser-like precision.
"And yet," she continued, sweeping her gaze over all of them with the kind of thorough examination that missed nothing, "you also prevented what could have been a tragedy. You worked together under pressure, demonstrated quick thinking under extreme circumstances, and—most importantly—succeeded in neutralizing a genuine threat to the student body."
Ron's head whipped up at that, his blue eyes wide with surprise and hope.
Hermione blinked in confusion, her brilliant mind already calculating the implications of McGonagall's words. Her quill was twitching in her hand like it wanted to start taking notes on this unprecedented turn of events.
*"Is she...?"* Jim's voice was suddenly breathless with anticipation. *"Is she actually going to...?"*
"Five points," McGonagall announced, her voice carrying the weight of official pronouncement, "to each of you. For bravery in the face of danger."
A collective gasp rippled through the room like a small explosion of surprise.
"Ten, actually," she amended, her lips twitching into the barest hint of something that might have been a smirk. "Ten points each. For exceptional teamwork under extraordinary circumstances."
"POINTS!" Jim screamed with joy. "SHE'S GIVING YOU POINTS! FOR LYING! FOR CREATIVE TRUTH-TELLING! FOR BEING MAGNIFICENTLY DECEPTIVE! THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY EXISTENCE!"
Neville looked like he might faint from sheer relief and pride combined. His round face was flushed, and he was staring at McGonagall like she'd just told him he was the next Chosen One.
Hermione's quill was already scratching notes on a fresh parchment about the unusual but precedent-appropriate balance of punishment and reward, her brilliant mind cataloguing this moment for future reference.
Daphne only smirked in quiet satisfaction, her blonde hair catching the light as she exchanged a meaningful look with Tracey.
Tracey actually high-fived herself, her dark eyes sparkling with the kind of delight that suggested she found this entire situation better than Christmas morning.
Harry inclined his head with all the princely arrogance of someone who fully expected nothing less than recognition for his heroic deeds, regardless of how creatively he'd presented them.
Snape, however, hissed out a breath sharp enough to cut steel. His pale face had gone even paler, if that was possible, and his dark eyes were blazing with indignation.
"You're rewarding them for this?" he demanded, gesturing to the ruined bathroom with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested he'd been practicing in front of a mirror. "For destroying school property? For flagrantly disobeying direct orders? For—"
"I am," McGonagall interrupted flatly, her voice carrying the kind of authority that brooked no argument. "And they will still serve detention. Which, for your information, Severus, I intend to supervise myself."
"DETENTION AND POINTS!" Jim was practically singing. "THE CLASSIC COMBINATION! PUNISHMENT AND REWARD! BALANCED, AS ALL THINGS SHOULD BE!"
Harry caught McGonagall's gaze again—just for a second. A silent promise passed between them, understanding crackling in the air like electricity.
*We are not done here, Mr. Potter,* her look clearly said. *You and I are going to have a very... thorough discussion about what really happened in this bathroom. And you're going to tell me the truth. The whole truth. Eventually.*
He just smiled at her, that same infuriating, confident smile that had been driving authority figures crazy since he was old enough to walk.
*Looking forward to it, Professor,* his answering expression seemed to say. *But it'll have to be a very good discussion indeed.*
Aether performed another loop-de-loop, as if applauding the successful conclusion of Harry's performance.
---
As the professors began to herd them all back toward the common rooms, their voices mixing in a cacophony of instructions and warnings, Jim's voice was practically singing in Harry's head.
"KID. YOU. LEGEND. ABSOLUTE LEGEND! Detention and points! A classic! A masterpiece! You spun that story like a master bard, danced around the truth like a professional politician, and walked away with POINTS! I'm so proud I could cry! If I had tear ducts! Which I don't! But I'm emotionally weeping anyway!"
"That was some Grade-A creative truth-telling right there, kiddo. Your dad Loki would be so proud. And your mom Artemis would probably be impressed by your tactical thinking. Not to mention your teacher Sun Wukong—he would have loved that performance!"
Aether looped lazily around Harry's head as he fell into step between Ron and Hermione, Daphne and Tracey sauntering behind like they owned the castle.
Ron was grinning like he'd just won the Quidditch Cup, his freckled face bright with excitement and residual adrenaline.
"Blimey, Harry," he whispered, "ten points each! Wait until I tell my brothers about this!"
Hermione was still clutching her notes, but her brown eyes were thoughtful, studying Harry with the kind of intellectual curiosity that suggested she was filing away every detail for future analysis.
"That was very... diplomatically phrased," she said quietly, her voice carrying just a hint of the wisdom that sometimes leaked through from her divine parentage. "Very clever."
"DIPLOMATIC!" Jim cackled. "Kid, you just committed creative truth-telling on a professional level! You spun a story so good they gave you POINTS for it!"
Daphne fell into step beside them, her blonde hair swishing as she walked. "Well played, Potter," she said, her voice carrying a note of genuine admiration. "That was quite the performance."
Tracey nodded enthusiastically, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "I especially liked the part about 'asking nicely.' Very creative interpretation of events."
"ASKING NICELY!" Jim was practically hyperventilating with laughter. "You asked that troll nicely to take a NAP! With your FISTS! OH, THE IRONY IS EXQUISITE!"
As they walked through the corridors, past the flickering torches and moving portraits, Harry felt a strange sense of satisfaction settling over him. He'd faced down a mountain troll, protected his friends, and somehow managed to walk away with detention and house points.
Not bad for a Tuesday night.
"Ohhh, this castle isn't ready for you, kid," Jim's voice was warm with affection and anticipation. "And she isn't ready for the truths you're hiding either—but oh boy, when that comes out? When McGonagall finally gets the real story? I'm going to need popcorn. Mountains of popcorn."
The boy who lived—and who lied, and who carried the Ruyi Jingu Bang in his wrist sleeve, and who had the blood of gods running through his veins—grinned like the chaos was only just beginning.
And maybe it was.
After all, this was only November.
He had seven more years to go.
"Seven years, kid," Jim whispered, reading his thoughts. "Seven years of this. Seven years of creative truth-telling, divine mischief, and academic chaos. Oh, we're going to have SO much fun!"
Aether performed a particularly elegant spiral around Harry's head, as if sealing the promise.
The adventure was just beginning.
---
Somewhere far below the castle, past traps and trials and magic that might have once been impressive—if you were, say, eleven and prone to wetting yourself at the sight of Devil's Snare—Quirinus Quirrell stumbled into the final chamber like a man who'd just discovered his lottery ticket was actually a grocery receipt.
His turban was askew at an angle that suggested it had given up on looking dignified about three corridors ago. His robes clung to him with sweat that had nothing to do with the castle's heating system and everything to do with the creeping realization that his life was about to become significantly more unpleasant. His wand trembled faintly in his clammy hand like a nervous chihuahua.
And his mind—what little of it he still owned—was screaming in panic loud enough to wake the dead. Which, considering his current passenger, might actually be redundant.
Because the pedestal was empty.
Not recently disturbed empty, mind you. Not "someone just nicked it ten minutes ago and you might still catch them if you run really fast" empty. Not even "oops, someone knocked it over during a particularly enthusiastic game of Exploding Snap" empty.
No.
The kind of empty that had dust already resettled on the stone like it had been there for geological ages. The kind of empty that whispered mockingly: *It's been gone for weeks, you absolute incompetent excuse for a host. Welcome to the party, you're only fashionably late by about a month.*
Quirrell stopped dead in his tracks, blinking rapidly like he was trying to reset his vision. Maybe if he closed his eyes and opened them again, the Philosopher's Stone would magically appear. Maybe this was all just a very elaborate hallucination brought on by too much stress and not enough sleep.
"W-what—" he croaked, his stutter not entirely theatrical this time, genuine confusion mixing with dawning horror. "Where—w-w-where is it?!"
He sounded like someone who'd just discovered their house keys weren't where they'd left them, except instead of being locked out of his flat, he was about to be murdered by the most dangerous wizard who ever lived.
Inside his skull, cold, hissing laughter coiled like a serpent that had just heard the world's most pathetic joke—except this time, it wasn't amused.
It was livid.
Like, "I'm going to make your existence a living nightmare for the next century" livid.
"Gone," Voldemort's voice rasped through their shared mental space, more a mental lash than actual sound. His tone carried the kind of cold fury that made arctic winters feel like tropical vacations. "Gone. You witless, worthless, incompetent excuse for a human being—IT'S GONE."
The voice in his head had the crisp, articulate quality of someone who was very, very good at being terrifying while maintaining perfect diction. Like a Shakespearean actor who'd decided to specialize in psychological torture.
Quirrell fell to his knees on the stone floor with all the grace of a dropped marionette, staring dumbly at the pedestal as if it might, out of pity or sheer embarrassment, just conjure the Stone back into existence.
"I—I d-don't—how—?" he stammered, his voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy trying to ask someone to a dance. "This is impossible! The obstacles—the traps—Dumbledore's protections—"
He was gesturing wildly at the empty pedestal, as though he could somehow argue it back into containing the most valuable magical artifact in existence.
He flinched as the presence in his head pressed harder, a tide of hate and fury that nearly blacked out his vision. It felt like having an entire thunderstorm crammed into his skull, complete with lightning and the kind of rain that ruins your best shoes.
"You fool," Voldemort snarled, his mental voice carrying the kind of aristocratic disdain that suggested he'd been practicing being condescending for decades. "You pathetic, bumbling, utterly useless fool. All these months. I told you to watch Dumbledore. I told you to wait until the path was clear—"
"But it was!" Quirrell gasped, his voice rising to a pitch that would have impressed an opera singer. "It w-was clear! The d-dog—Fluffy was gone, the troll—k-killed in the bathroom—all the obstacles were down!"
He was practically hyperventilating now, his hands fluttering around his turban like nervous birds. "I followed your instructions perfectly! I waited for the right moment! I—"
"Gone before you even got here," Voldemort spat, and Quirrell actually gagged at the weight of his contempt. "Gone for weeks, you absolute disaster. You were watching the wrong pawns, Quirinus. The board has already moved, the game is over, and you weren't even playing the right sport."
The mental voice paused, and Quirrell could practically feel the Dark Lord's frustration radiating through their connection like heat from a forge.
"While you were skulking around the castle like some sort of discount Death Eater," Voldemort continued, his tone now carrying the kind of cold analysis that made Quirrell's skin crawl, "someone else was already ten steps ahead. Someone who knew exactly what they were looking for and exactly how to get it."
Quirrell clawed at his own forehead, as though he could somehow push the terrible presence back and hide from the inevitable punishment. His fingernails left red marks on his pale skin.
"How—how could he have known?" he whined, his voice taking on the quality of someone who'd just discovered their entire life was a lie. "How could—no one—no one was supposed to know about the Stone! It was meant to be secret!"
"But someone did," Voldemort hissed, and there was something almost impressed in his tone, like he was grudgingly admiring a particularly clever opponent. "And if Dumbledore doesn't have it—then someone else does. Someone who played this game better than both of us."
The thought of the Stone—his salvation, his new body, his ticket back to proper immortality instead of this humiliating parasite existence—slipping through his fingers sent another wave of cold fury through him. Quirrell collapsed fully to the floor, whimpering like a kicked puppy.
"This is a disaster," he moaned, his face pressed against the cold stone. "A complete disaster. What are we going to do? How are we going to explain this to—"
"We?" Voldemort's voice cut through his panic like a blade through silk. "We are going to do nothing, Quirinus. You are going to fix this. You are going to find out who has my Stone, and you are going to get it back."
Quirrell's whimpering intensified. "But how? I don't even know where to start! It could be anyone! It could be—"
Voldemort fell silent, brooding, and for a moment, Quirrell dared to hope he'd gone quiet out of something resembling pity. Maybe the Dark Lord was feeling generous. Maybe he'd decide this wasn't entirely Quirrell's fault.
Then, in a voice colder than the depths of space:
"Leave it. We will not find it here. The Stone is lost—for now. But whoever holds it... they will show themselves. They always do. Power like that cannot stay hidden forever."
Quirrell swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like a fishing lure. "W-what now, my Lord?"
The silence stretched on for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds, each moment filled with the kind of tension that made your teeth ache.
Then the faint, terrible pressure of the Dark Lord's presence eased—just slightly, like a python loosening its grip before striking again.
"Now, Quirinus," Voldemort said, his mental voice taking on the tone of someone explaining something very simple to someone very stupid, "you smile. You lie. You bide your time. You go back upstairs and you pretend to be the same stammering, incompetent fool you've always been."
"And then?" Quirrell asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
"Then you watch. You listen. You wait for whoever stole from me to make a mistake. And when they do..." The voice trailed off, but the promise of violence hung in the air like smoke.
Quirrell struggled to his feet, his legs shaking like overcooked spaghetti. "Yes, my Lord. Of course, my Lord. I'll—I'll find out who did this."
"You will," Voldemort agreed, his tone suggesting that failure was not an option—at least, not an option that came with continued existence. "Because if you don't, Quirinus, I will find someone who can. Someone who won't disappoint me quite so spectacularly."
With that cheerful threat hanging over his head, Quirrell began the long walk back through the obstacles, his mind racing with possibilities and his stomach churning with dread.
And in the echoing chamber, the empty pedestal stood under a shaft of moonlight, mocking them both in silence.
Somewhere else in the castle, above ground, emerald eyes sparkled with trouble and triumph alike, and a certain staff-shaped artifact hummed with satisfaction in its hiding place.
And below, in the dark, a whisper promised:
"Enjoy your little victory, thief. Enjoy it while it lasts. Because when I find you—and I will find you—you'll wish you'd never heard the name Philosopher's Stone."
The threat echoed through the empty chamber, bouncing off the walls like a curse looking for somewhere to land.
But somewhere above, a boy with messy black hair and a troublemaker's grin was already three steps ahead, and the game was far from over.
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