I emerged from the final chamber, stepping back through the purple fire just moments after Harry was carried out, clutching the red stone. I had seen everything. I had watched Quirrell's body burn to ash under the touch of a boy protected by his mother's ancient, sacrificial magic. I had felt the disembodied wraith of Lord Voldemort flee the chamber, a powerless shriek of rage and frustration. It was a fascinating, if somewhat crude, display of fundamental magic.
My own prize was less dramatic, but far more valuable. While the trio was focused on Harry, I had cast a silent, complex scavenging charm on Quirrell's ashes, a piece of soul magic taught to me by the diary. It was a long shot, but it had worked. A small, almost invisible wisp of dark energy, the lingering residue of Voldemort's magical knowledge, had been drawn from the ashes and absorbed into a small, enchanted silver locket I had prepared. It wasn't a soul fragment, but rather a compressed echo of magical theory. A library of dark thoughts.
[You have acquired the item: [Echo of the Dark Lord (Fragmentary Knowledge)]] Description: Contains partial theories on soul magic, Horcruxes, and regenerative curses. WARNING: Studying this item carries a moderate risk of psychological corruption.
I returned to the Slytherin dungeons, my involvement a perfect secret. The official story, spun by Dumbledore himself, was that Harry Potter had bravely defended the stone from Voldemort, solidifying his status as a school hero. I was content to let him have the glory. I had the knowledge.
The final weeks of the term passed in a blur of exams and recovery. The true climax, however, was the end-of-year feast. The Great Hall was draped in the silver and green of Slytherin. We had won. Through my academic dominance, my strategic takedown of the prefects which had oddly unified the house, and Snape's relentless, biased point-awarding, we were leading by a comfortable margin. I felt a cold sense of satisfaction. My first quest from the System was about to be completed.
Then, Dumbledore stood up.
He praised Slytherin for their victory, his voice pleasant. And then, the game was rigged.
"However, recent events must be taken into account," he announced, his eyes twinkling. He awarded fifty points to Ron Weasley for "the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years." He awarded fifty points to Hermione Granger for "the use of cool logic in the face of fire." And finally, he awarded sixty points to Harry Potter for "pure nerve and outstanding courage."
The hall erupted. The Slytherin banners magically transformed into the scarlet and gold of Gryffindor. We had lost the House Cup by a mere ten points.
I did not clap. I did not scowl. I simply sat there, a calm, neutral expression on my face, while a blizzard of cold fury raged within me. It was the most valuable lesson I had learned all year. It didn't matter how well I played the game. It didn't matter if I followed the rules or broke them with superior skill. Dumbledore was the game master, and he would always ensure his chosen hero was the winner. The official system was corrupt, its points meaningless.
A notification, stark and final, appeared in my vision.
[Quest Failed: The Paragon of Hogwarts (Year 1)] Reason: External, high-level intervention has altered the final outcome. System Analysis: To succeed against an administrator-level entity, direct confrontation is ill-advised. A new strategy is required: operate outside the established ruleset.
I had never intended to play by Dumbledore's rules. But that night, I made a silent vow. I would never again allow my success to be subject to the whims of a sentimental old man. From now on, I would build my own power, on my own terms, in the shadows where he couldn't see.
The summer was a period of intense, isolated growth. Using the considerable funds I had "acquired," I rented a small, magically-warded flat in a quiet corner of London, far from the prying eyes of the orphanage. My days fell into a rigorous, disciplined routine.
Mornings were for Andros. We practiced combat magic in the Room of Requirement, which I had learned to access remotely through a complex magical resonance technique. He pushed me relentlessly, and my dueling skills sharpened from a student's proficiency to a warrior's instinct.
Afternoons were for Cadmus. We delved into the lore of magical creatures and the intricacies of ancient languages, preparing me for the challenges of the Chamber of Secrets.
Nights, however, were for my third, most dangerous tutor: the ghost in the diary. I interrogated the memory of the young Voldemort, draining him of his secrets. I learned the precise commands to control the Basilisk. I learned the theory behind creating Horcruxes, not to replicate his folly, but to understand the mechanics of soul-severing so I could one day defend against it. The[Echo of the Dark Lord]I had scavenged from Quirrell's ashes served as a cross-reference, a set of raw, unfiltered magical data that I analyzed with the help of the System, stripping it of its corrupting influence and keeping only the pure, academic knowledge.
By the end of the summer, I was transformed. I had returned to my flat one last time before the new term, and as I packed, I caught sight of myself in a mirror. The boy staring back was still handsome, but the last vestiges of childhood softness were gone, replaced by a sharp, dangerous edge. My eyes held a depth and a coldness that did not belong to a twelve-year-old.
On my way to King's Cross Station to catch the Hogwarts Express, I saw it: a massive poster plastered on the side of a building. It was a moving photograph of a man with brilliant blond hair and ridiculously dazzling teeth, winking at the crowd. The text below it read: "GILDEROY LOCKHART'S MAGICAL ME - NEWLY APPOINTED HOGWARTS DEFENCE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS PROFESSOR!"
I let out a short, humorless laugh. So that was this year's fool.
I boarded the train, my mind already calculating the new variables. A celebrity fraud for a teacher. A Basilisk sleeping in the castle's bowels. And a Boy-Who-Lived who was now the school's prime suspect for being the Heir of Slytherin.
Year two was about to begin. And this time, I was no longer just a player. I was a king, returning to his castle.