Quirrell's cheeks were flushed, as if he'd just had a hearty meal and then spent an hour basking in the sun. His eyes still held a dazed, faraway look, as though he hadn't quite returned from what he'd just experienced.
"I really… did I really just fight Vol—"
He shuddered, but his voice steadied with conviction. "I did! I fought back against Voldemort! I actually defeated him! I can't believe it—I really did it!"
The realization finally dawned on him. He grinned like a child given a mountain of sweets, tears of joy slipping down his cheeks.
"I… I'm free! Wyzett, I'm free! I don't have to listen to Voldemort plotting to hurt you anymore! I can finally be myself again! And it's all thanks to you, Wyzett!"
Wyzett shook his head. "I didn't do anything. It was all you, Professor Quirrell. It was your own strength that defeated Voldemort."
"Was it really?" Quirrell glanced down, staring in wonder at the red stone resting against his chest.
"It's true," said Dumbledore, his tone warm and certain. "Choice matters far more than ability. It was your tenacity, forged through hardship, that saved you. You've done better than anyone could have hoped, Quirrell."
Quirrell opened his mouth to say more, but his eyes rolled back and he slumped, unconscious.
Wyzett moved to catch him, only for his own knees to buckle. That hollow, feverish weakness swept through him, slowing his every movement.
His mind felt empty, his breath echoing as though his head were a hollow chamber, every sound reverberating endlessly.
A plush armchair and a soft bed materialized from thin air, cushioning both Wyzett and Quirrell as they fell.
Wyzett looked up, concern in his voice. "Headmaster Dumbledore, is Professor Quirrell… will he be alright?"
"Of course," Dumbledore replied gently, shaking his head. "When you wield magic beyond your understanding—even with the aid of the Philosopher's Stone—some minor aftereffects are only to be expected."
"Magic beyond one's understanding… you mean that light?" Wyzett closed his eyes, recalling the events just before.
He asked tentatively, "Professor Quirrell doesn't understand souls, but he still managed to free his own?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Exactly. Even if you can't fully grasp the soul, you can still sense its deeper truths through what you witness. That's a rare gift."
"And your own magic achieved something similar… Wyzett, you never cease to amaze me. Truly extraordinary."
He glanced around, catching sight of the deep crater in the corner, and called up to Fawkes circling overhead. "This isn't the best place for a chat, is it? Why don't we move somewhere more comfortable?"
"Back to your office?" Wyzett guessed.
Dumbledore looked at the unconscious Harry and Quirrell, waving his hand lightly. "We'll need to stop by the hospital wing first. We should ask Madam Pomfrey to look after these two."
"As for tonight—if anyone asks, just say a dark wizard broke into Hogwarts and you all discovered him. I'll make sure Harry hears the same story."
"Headmaster Dumbledore! Three patients this time, really?"
The hospital wing was quiet and chilly, but Madam Pomfrey, who'd been looking forward to a peaceful summer, now stood with her eyebrows nearly vanishing into her hairline, her voice sharp as a whip.
"And why do all their symptoms look so… similar? Merlin's little medicine box! Headmaster Dumbledore! Can't you give me one day's peace?"
Dumbledore merely smiled, as if he relished her scolding.
He waited until Madam Pomfrey stood with her hands on her hips, lips pursed in stern disapproval, before replying, "Poppy, I'm terribly sorry…"
He held his thumb and forefinger a hair's breadth apart. "Just a tiny accident, really—barely worth mentioning… as you can see."
"Fine, fine! It's always like this!" Madam Pomfrey sighed, muttering under her breath. "Always like this!"
"Luckily, Professor Snape sent the potions over in advance. Headmaster Dumbledore, help me settle them in, will you? I'll fetch the potions."
"Delighted to help!" Dumbledore beamed, waving his wand to conjure two suits of armor out of thin air.
Wyzett's eyes widened in surprise. The armor's design was strikingly familiar—so much like the suit he'd used to crush Voldemort, only lacking the ancient magic's depth and gravitas.
"Does it look familiar?" Dumbledore winked his brilliant blue eyes, directing the suits of armor to gently lift Harry and Quirrell onto their beds.
Wyzett nodded, opening his mouth, but couldn't find the words.
"If you'd rather not talk, you don't have to." Dumbledore's voice was soft, quietly unwrapping a sherbet lemon. "Everyone has their secrets, don't they?"
Wyzett was about to reply when Madam Pomfrey swooped in, snatching the candy from Dumbledore's hand with a stern look. "Could you show a little restraint? At least in my hospital!"
"Of course!" Dumbledore retreated, winking at Wyzett as he left. "Get some rest."
"Now then, Wyzett, it's you again!" Madam Pomfrey turned, brow furrowed in mock reproach. "And for the same old reason!"
She sighed, shaking her head. "Oh well! At least you made it to the end of term this time. That's progress."
"Bed and potion—now! Here… this is what Professor Snape brewed just for you. He said to drink it quickly and stop overthinking."
"All right!" Wyzett shrugged off his bag, obediently climbed onto a bed, and picked up the Soul-Soothing Draught waiting for him.
Madam Pomfrey moved on to dosing Harry and Quirrell.
The moment they swallowed their potions, both boys wore nearly identical twisted grimaces, as though they'd just downed the world's most bitter medicine instead of a soul-soothing draught.
Even unconscious, they groaned softly, as if trapped in unpleasant dreams.
Wyzett eyed his own potion warily, watching the silver mist curl from the cup. He took a cautious sip.
No real taste—just a thick, almost syrupy texture, with the scent of lavender much stronger than before.
He finished it in two gulps. The effect was immediate; as soon as he set down the cup, a wave of drowsiness crashed over him…
Dumbledore returned to his office, pausing at the sight of the Mirror of Erised. For a moment, he hesitated, but he didn't cover it with a cloth. Instead, he carefully skirted around the mirror and settled at his desk.
He tapped the wood, conjuring a tea set, and began brewing his own tea. He even opened a bag of cockroach clusters, munching away with obvious delight.
It wasn't long before the door creaked open and Snape, draped in black robes and looking more worn than usual, stepped into the office…
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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