Chapter 9: Deployment and Alert
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was a study in gloom, its air thick with the pungent reek of garlic and damp, mildewed textbooks. The high, narrow windows let in slivers of grey light, barely illuminating the scratched desks and faded tapestries. Professor Quirinus Quirrell stood at the front, his purple turban slightly askew, his trembling hands fumbling with a piece of chalk. His stuttering voice droned over a lecture on Vanishing Charms, the words punctuated by nervous glances at the class. Alex Sterling sat near the back, his Slytherin robes neatly pressed, his fingers brushing the quartz sigil in his pocket. The atmosphere was a nerve-shredding suspense, each tick of the classroom clock amplifying his tension.
"This is it. One chance to plant the sigil. No mistakes." His heart hammered, but his face was a mask of bored focus, his wand tapping lightly on his desk to mimic the other students.
Ron, seated two rows ahead, was ready. His freckled face was set in a mischievous grin as he fumbled with his quill case, deliberately clumsy. With a dramatic clatter, the brass case hit the stone floor, scattering quills like startled birds. "Oh, no! Professor, I'm so sorry, I'm such a klutz!" Ron's voice was loud, his panic exaggerated as he scrambled to his knees, gathering quills.
Quirrell flinched, his hands flying to his turban as he spun around. "N-n-not to w-worry, W-weasley! C-clumsiness is n-no crime! P-pick them up q-quickly!" His stammer was a high-pitched squeak, his eyes darting nervously.
Alex moved like a shadow, his steps silent on the stone floor. Quirrell's back was turned, his robes swaying as he gestured at the blackboard. Alex's fingers, steady despite the adrenaline, slipped the quartz sigil from his pocket. With a flick honed by years of sleight-of-hand tricks at the orphanage, he dropped the sigil into the deep, sagging pocket of Quirrell's robes. The contact was clean, the sigil's Concealment Node masking its presence. A faint mental click confirmed it had landed.
"Done. Now we wait." Alex retreated to his seat, his back slick with sweat, his wand twirling to cover the trembling in his hands. Quirrell, oblivious, continued his lecture, his voice a nervous drone. "F-five p-points from G-gryffindor, W-weasley, for the n-noise! And t-ten for the effort. N-now, the V-vanishing Charm…"
The class dragged on, a blur of purple smoke and Hermione's exasperated corrections. Alex's focus was split, half on the sigil, half on maintaining his facade. The AE regeneration was a slow trickle, a faint warmth in his core, but the suspense was a vise around his chest. "Did it work? Will it ping? If he notices…"
The day stretched, each hour a test of patience. Alex moved through classes, his mind tethered to the sigil's silence. It wasn't until evening, in the fourth-floor corridor, that the system screamed. He was leaning against a cold stone wall, a history textbook open but unread, when a sharp, mental thrum hit him like a tuning fork.
[ALERT: Dark Signature Detected! Intensity: Low/Stable. Location: Third Floor, Corridor 3B]
The shock was a cold wave, his breath catching as the sigil's signal pulsed. "He's practicing dark magic. Now." The low intensity suggested a subtle spell, not a Stone theft, but it was proof—Quirrell was active, and Voldemort was guiding him. Alex moved, not running but gliding with purpose, his meta-knowledge and the sigil's signal a perfect map. The third-floor corridor was dim, the air sharp with sulfur and a cold, ancient chill. He paused outside an unused classroom, pressing his ear to the door.
A low, sibilant voice hissed, not Quirrell's stammer but something colder, reptilian. "…Cruenta Veritas… Why do you fail me? A simple curse! The item must be ours before the old fool intervenes!" Quirrell's gasp followed, pained and desperate, as if fighting the voice in his head.
"Voldemort. It's real." Alex's blood ran cold, his hand gripping the doorframe, the rough wood grounding him. He didn't draw his wand—confrontation was suicide. Instead, he cataloged details: the curse Cruenta Veritas, likely a truth or pain spell; the mention of an "item"—the Philosopher's Stone; and the "old fool"—Dumbledore. The sigil's signal was a steady hum, confirming the corrupted aether bleeding through the door's crack.
[CS Increased by 8%. Cognitive Strain: 35%]
He backed away, silent as a ghost, his heart pounding but his mind clear. "Evidence secured. Now to get it to Dumbledore without exposing myself." In an empty classroom, he pulled out a sheet of parchment, his quill moving with deliberate care to mask his handwriting. The air smelled faintly of chalk and old wood, the silence amplifying his focus.
Headmaster Dumbledore,
This evening, I overheard Professor Quirrell practicing advanced dark magic (Cruenta Veritas) near the third-floor statue of the one-eyed witch. He spoke of an "item" and a theft, guided by a darker voice. Check his left robe pocket for a quartz crystal, attuned to his magic's signature. It's undetectable by simple spells. This is a warning of great danger.
A Concerned Student
He pressed the sigil's edge to the parchment, leaving a faint magical trace—a breadcrumb only Dumbledore could follow. Folding the note three times, he sealed it with plain wax, avoiding any identifying marks. "No crest, no trace. Just the truth."
The Owlery was a chilly tower, the air thick with the musky scent of feathers and the soft hoots of sleeping owls. Alex chose a dusty barn owl, its feathers ruffled but eyes alert. "Take this to the Headmaster. No stops." He scratched its head, a gentle gesture, and the owl soared into the night, a shadow carrying his secret.
At breakfast, the Great Hall was a riot of noise and warmth, the scent of bacon and syrup a stark contrast to the Owlery's chill. Alex sat at the Slytherin table, his eyes locked on the Head Table. Dumbledore entered, his silver beard glinting under the floating candles, his half-moon spectacles catching the light. His movements were deliberate, but Alex caught the hesitation—a brief pause before lifting his goblet, a subtle brush of his hand against his sleeve. His eyes swept the hall, lingering on the Slytherin table for a fraction too long, their weight a silent scrutiny.
"He knows. He's watching." Alex's heart raced, but he forced his gaze to his plate, spearing a piece of bacon with deliberate calm. The sigil had worked, the note delivered. Quirrell was exposed, but Alex's secrecy was now a tightrope.
[Quest Updated: Expose the Threat. Status: Confirmed. Dumbledore Alerted]
The victory was cautious, tempered by the knowledge that Dumbledore's gaze would follow him. "I've changed the game. Now I need to stay ahead." His CS pulsed, a reminder of the cost, but the path forward was clear: protect Harry, sabotage Voldemort, and keep the system hidden.
Mechanics Recap: CS at 35%; AE Low; Quest Progress.
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