In the principal's office on the eighth floor of Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall's eyes widened as she drew in a sharp breath.
She couldn't believe that within Hogwarts—the place she considered the safest in the world, where young witches and wizards came to learn—Dumbledore had actually let Voldemort in.
As a lifelong admirer of Dumbledore, she had always believed he wielded magic beyond even the Dark Lord's comprehension. The only reason he didn't use it, in her eyes, was because he was too noble.
So now, the idea that Voldemort had entered Hogwarts under Dumbledore's watch felt not only shocking but like a betrayal of that belief.
Professor Sprout gently patted McGonagall on the back to calm her. Professor Flitwick had finally toppled off his chair—but thankfully, he was short and quick enough not to be hurt. As for Professor Snape, he merely looked bored, acting as if none of this was new to him.
"So," said McGonagall at last, half-admiring, half-angry, "such a clever bit of alchemy to fool the Dark Lord and everyone else... but why didn't you use that same brilliance to stop him from getting in?"
Her voice rose with disbelief and hurt, the name Voldemort falling from her lips unchecked.
"I don't believe Professor Quirrell was killed!" Professor Flitwick burst out.
As the head of Ravenclaw House, Flitwick had kept a close eye on Quirrell. He'd noticed something had been off about the young professor for months.
"Yes," Dumbledore said quietly, his tone tinged with regret.
At that, McGonagall forgot her anger, staring at Dumbledore in disbelief. "Was it... was it Voldemort? Dumbledore—how could you let this happen?"
Her voice cracked with betrayal. For the first time, she looked at the headmaster with disappointment.
"Don't tell me Quirrell played a role in helping Voldemort get in," Flitwick added, clearly struggling to suppress his sadness.
"You see, Dumbledore?" Phineas Nigellus, the former Slytherin headmaster from his portrait, chimed in with a smirk. "That's why I hated being a teacher. Young people always assume they're absolutely right. Poor, sentimental fools. Did you ever consider that the headmaster might have had reasons for not sharing every detail of his plan? Did any of you actually suffer from his choices? No? Then stop pretending you're the only ones with brains in this room."
"That's enough, Phineas," Dumbledore said calmly.
"I have one last thing to say," Phineas insisted, clearly enjoying the drama. "Have you not noticed that your dear Professor Snape seems to know everything already?"
Then he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, smug and satisfied.
"I'm starting to understand why Phineas was so unpopular," McGonagall muttered.
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "But he does have a point. Professor Snape is rather well-informed."
Snape glared at Dumbledore with such intensity it looked like he was trying to hex him through sheer willpower. Flitwick and Sprout remained quiet, waiting for an explanation.
Dumbledore sighed and began, "This started last summer, when my old friend Nicolas Flamel told me someone was targeting him. He wasn't afraid—he's faced worse—and he'd already prepared to die peacefully with his wife. I retrieved the stone from his tomb early—thankfully—and brought it here. You all know this part."
"The part you didn't know," he continued, "is that the thief was Voldemort himself."
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
"Quirrell had been acting strange for some time. I suspected him, but I couldn't act unless he allowed me to help. Unfortunately, he didn't. He invited Voldemort in—literally. The Dark Lord was living on the back of his head. Maybe Quirrell regretted it later, but by then it was too late. Only he could reject Voldemort from within."
"I had hoped," Dumbledore said sadly, "that he would fight back. Especially after Harry defeated him twice. I even tried to get closer to him, to give him a chance to resist. But…"
"We all know the result."
"Under Voldemort's control, he released a troll during the Halloween feast, and later... a unicorn was killed."
McGonagall gasped. Even Snape looked away.
"I didn't expect him to fall so quickly," Dumbledore admitted. "And Voldemort knew I was watching. He knew I only acted for Quirrell's sake."
"You did your best, Albus. No student was harmed," McGonagall said, her eyes moist.
Flitwick nodded. "Quirrell had the same flaw many young Ravenclaws share—ambition without wisdom."
Sprout sighed in agreement.
But Snape wasn't done.
"No students? Then why did Potter and his friends face Voldemort twice? Once in the Forbidden Forest, and once in the restricted section?"
"Forbidden Forest?" Sprout's face darkened. "You came to me that night, Albus. Was it because of that? You sent the children into the forest?"
McGonagall's hand went for her wand. "Was it you who let them go to the Astronomy Tower that late too?"
Sprout and Flitwick both looked betrayed.
"Minerva, please," Dumbledore said gently, raising a hand. "Let me explain."
Snape wisely stayed silent. McGonagall paused, then slowly lowered her wand. She didn't speak, but the fire in her eyes hadn't dimmed.
She, like the others, would listen—but the answers had better be good.
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