"My Merlin, he's still eating! He's already devoured three whole roasted chickens, an entire roasted lamb, five plates of steak, at least five pounds of potatoes… and who knows how many pieces of bread—I lost count!"
Quirrell reported, feeling that everything about Harry was perhaps extraordinary. From the moment they shook hands at their first meeting, he knew this boy could probably kill him with a single punch.
At this moment, Voldemort was using pure Legilimency on Quirrell. Those with weak Occlumency skills couldn't lie in his presence. After his magical prowess reached such profound heights, he rarely needed to rely on cunning—nobody could deceive him.
Unfortunately, Voldemort was now fallen, forced to resort to scheming once more, like plotting to steal the Philosopher's Stone from under Dumbledore's nose. A direct confrontation was out of the question.
But in his youth, Voldemort had been sharp, and he wasn't worried about being outwitted by Harry. Joking aside, I've cast Avada Kedavra more times than all the spells he's ever performed combined.
It might take Harry's astonishing brilliance humiliating him thoroughly for Voldemort to realize he wasn't as clever as he once was. He's from the '80s—I can't outsmart him.
Right now, Voldemort was the epitome of a muddled fool, while Harry's intellect was a dazzling one point.
"Is that so? As expected of the prophesied Chosen One—truly exceptional… Keep watching him. If you get the chance, cast a dark curse and see how he handles it."
"What? Me?" Quirrell's voice trembled with unease.
Before coming here, Quirrell had been brimming with confidence, his only worry being discovery by Dumbledore. Now, he feared Harry himself even more.
If things went south, Dumbledore might subdue him and send him to Azkaban. But Harry Potter, young as he was, might strike far more ruthlessly.
From their first encounter, Quirrell stopped seeing Harry as a child. He was convinced Harry was capable of killing.
If he were an ally, it might be fine. But for someone like Quirrell, approaching Harry with hostility, the boy's sheer charisma hit like a wave, instilling a preemptive dread—a layer of fear aura stacked upon him before any battle began.
"Yes, you," Voldemort snapped. "Don't be afraid. He hasn't even started school yet. Those incidents before were just flukes. You're scaring yourself."
"Alright… fine."
Quirrell, hidden beneath his turban, had no choice but to comply.
Voldemort was right at the back of his head—literally. At this distance, even Dumbledore couldn't save him.
Voldemort didn't care about his servant's hesitation. All Quirrell needed to do was act convincingly to fool Dumbledore, gather intelligence, cause trouble for Harry, and stay alive in the boy's presence. Voldemort, meanwhile, had bigger plans to consider.
He pondered: if Harry was truly as formidable as he seemed, should he eliminate him now while he was young, or prioritize securing the Philosopher's Stone?
Voldemort still believed that what happened ten years ago, when Harry was one, was a fluke. The real Harry couldn't possibly be that powerful.
Yet, he was undeniably extraordinary—worthy of the prophecy. Voldemort couldn't let him grow up. If Harry reached adulthood, he might become even more terrifying than Dumbledore. By then, outsmarting him would be impossible.
Dumbledore was old; Voldemort could outlive him. Wizards with great magical power often lived long lives. But if Harry grew up, he could be the most powerful for another century, and Voldemort had no desire to be suppressed for a hundred years again.
Harry sensed the malice emanating from Quirrell's direction but paid it no mind—it didn't affect his appetite.
Eat as much as you can when the food's free. This is practically a golden perk.
He was merely surprised that Quirrell, who didn't seem particularly powerful, had the guts to face him. Why wasn't he in Gryffindor?
But that turban of his… it seemed to conceal some powerful magical artifact, radiating at least a point of magical energy—
Harry's own magical power was only two points. In the world of A Song of Ice and Fire, that was decent, but here, it was likely middling. He could only vaguely sense whether someone or something had at least a point of magical energy, unable to discern precise values or guarantee complete accuracy.
After a while, when everyone had stuffed themselves—mostly Harry, who had eaten his fill—the remaining food vanished from the plates in one fell swoop.
The plates gleamed as if brand new. Moments later, desserts appeared: ice creams of every flavor, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs, jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, jelly, rice pudding…
Harry grabbed a slice of treacle tart. The conversation around the table shifted to everyone's families.
Harry learned that mixed-blood wizards were quite common. Most modern wizards didn't seem to mind such things. Ron had already talked about his family on the train, Neville came from a pure-blood line, and Hermione was Muggle-born.
Perhaps because Hermione had been a top student in Muggle schools, she was terrified of falling behind and becoming a failure here. She was already discussing coursework with older students.
Harry asked other students about the infamous Professor Snape, whom everyone needed to watch out for. All the Gryffindors agreed he was a creepy old git, but they offered little concrete information, only exaggerated, clearly fabricated tales.
Harry nodded, saying little. This only piqued his curiosity. What kind of person was Snape, really? Why did he harbor such complex feelings toward Harry? Was he truly as perverse as the Gryffindors claimed?
It wasn't that Harry wanted to rebel or challenge popular opinion. He simply trusted his own observations and discoveries.
Finally, the feast ended, and the food disappeared. Professor Dumbledore stood again, and the Great Hall fell silent.
"Now that everyone's eaten and drunk their fill, I have a few words to say. At the start of the term, I'd like to highlight a few important notices."
"To first-year students: the forest on the school grounds is off-limits to all students. Some of our older students would do well to remember this too."
Dumbledore's twinkling eyes swept toward the Weasley twins, and Harry noticed. Those two must be repeat offenders.
Already on the headmaster's radar at such a young age—they were clearly exceptional. Harry didn't dislike their personalities. They were worth recruiting; talents like theirs always came in handy.
"Additionally, Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to remind you all: no magic in the corridors between classes."
Dumbledore went on about Quidditch details that didn't interest Harry. "Finally, I must warn everyone: unless you wish to meet an unfortunate and painful demise, do not enter the corridor on the right side of the fourth floor."
Harry burst out laughing, but only a few others joined him.
"Why aren't you laughing?" Harry whispered to Percy.
Percy explained that places Dumbledore forbade were always dangerous. The Forbidden Forest, for instance, was home to many dangerous beasts. But a corridor on the fourth floor, inside the school? That danger was incomprehensible.
"It's just some dangerous place they don't want us to go, right? Why so serious?"
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