24.Sudden Escalation

1st of June 1992, Monday

According to Lavender, Professor Dumbledore had used his connections to an Irish Dragon Reserve to order vast quantities of fresh dragon dung… just outside the school. The stench was so strong you could choke on it as soon as you left the castle, but Professor Sprout had been mighty happy about it. The troublemakers in detention, however, were not. For a month, the seven Slytherin boys and the Weasley twins shovelled the stinky thing and carted it like muggles by the Greenhouses.

All that was done while wearing pink robes with big sparkly orange DUNCES stylishly written on their backs.

Just remembering made Hermione chuckle. According to Katie Bell, some of the Slytherins’ parents had protested and threatened to have their boys move to another school. Yet, no such threats were followed, which led to rumours about how Dumbledore promised to turn them into peacocks for daring to threaten him, to the more farfetched ones that he did do it, which was why no one saw them again.

They could have left through the floo, but she supposed that was less entertaining. Even after the dragon dung ran out, the pink detention squad continued to do all sorts of gruelling menial labour, including tilling, planting, and cleaning. If the rumours were correct, it had all been at Grigori Petrov’s suggestion. Hermione could easily believe it; the dodgy caretaker sported a nasty smirk while herding the punished students, who looked like they wanted to disappear into the ground with the turnips.

She had seen the Weasley twins – too tired to do anything but sleep at the end of the day, and the Slytherins were much the same. Needless to say, there were no more mishaps, fights, brawls, or pranks… aside from the toilets on the fourth floor exploding twice. For once, nobody had managed to blame the Weasley Twins because it had happened while they were in detention.

“Damn it,” Wood was beside himself each time Hermione saw him in the common room. “Now the Hufflepuffs will win the cup.”

“At least it seems that Slytherins will be last instead of us this time,” Angelina Johnson and the other chasers placated him.

The Hufflepuff captain, some fifth-year called Tonks, received an unhealthy amount of glares from both Slytherins and Gryffindors for being responsible for bringing Ron’s matter to the headmaster. The girl being a prefect made many wary of antagonising her, even without the threat of Dumbledore’s heavy-handed punishments still hanging in the air. The House Cup was another matter, as Ravenclaw were three hundred points clear from the second place, making the other three Houses begrudgingly give up for this year.

And last was Ronald Weasley, who was avoided like the plague everywhere. Slytherin and Gryffindor would glare at the seemingly nonchalant boy, who stuffed himself with food at meal times. Nobody dared to do anything, however, much to Hermione’s amusement. The promise of wearing pink and doing dirty muggle things for everyone to gawk at seemed too much for the wizards and witches. After a month or so, the dislike turned into isolation, and many were content to pretend the gangly, red-haired boy didn’t exist. It made the boy study harder, which Hermione approved. He had almost managed to claw his way to the second spot in Gryffindor in grades, but Sophie wasn’t so easily dislodged.

Nevertheless, tenseness returned to Hogwarts with the arrival of the end-of-the-year exams.

The last days of spring had turned almost unbearably warm, and all the classrooms felt stuffy as they were handed new quills enchanted with an Anti-Cheating spell. Hermione spent the last month in fervent study and revision, but the talk with Professor Quirrell would not leave her mind.

No witch can be master of all trades…

Still, she didn’t have much time to think about it, for the written tests were easy enough, but they had practicals in all the wanded subjects and Potions at the end.

Slughorn had the first-year Gryffindors and the Slytherins brew a forgetfulness potion; each student had to do it alone instead of in pairs and couldn’t use any textbooks or their notes. The ingredients were written with white chalk on the board, but they had their orders swapped, and no amounts were given, which probably confused everyone else who had failed to memorise the recipes. Not Hermione, though.

The extremely plump professor, dressed in his lavish, silken waistcoat with golden buttons, remained on his desk, only moving around to scold a few students who dared chatter.

Still, remembering the potion wasn’t easy; she was too used to working in pairs, and the hourglass that measured the exam length grew emptier by the minute.

Wiping the sweat off her brow, the bushy-haired girl checked her clock as the reddish concoction was still simmering. Focusing, she returned to the worktable and started crushing two measures of standard herbs along with the four pale mistletoe berries in the mortar. Turning it all into a medium-fine powder was the hardest part. If you crushed the mixture too much, the powder would be too fine, and the potion would lose efficiency. It took her two tries to get the medium-fine powder, and Hermione returned to her cauldron and focused on keeping the magical heating stove output consistent.

Thankfully, the Potions classroom was enchanted to dissipate fumes and condensation, an amazing piece of magic Slughorn was all too happy to brag about when Hermione asked.

This meant brewing potions on your own was quite dangerous without additional preparations. It confused her whether the old professor had the same enchantments, but she recalled the classroom always being stuffy with Snape.

A glance around the room told her only the arrogant Malfoy and Damien Greengrass were doing as well as she was.

When her simmering potion turned ruby red, she carefully added two pinches of the medium-fine powder, causing it to bubble dangerously. Thankfully, after Hermione stirred five times counterclockwise, the potion finally took the proper orange hue and settled down.

She tapped the magical stove to halt it, quickly poured her results into vials, and carefully walked over to Slughorn’s desk, where the professor was chatting with Damien Greengrass, who had been the first to finish, only half a minute ahead of her.

“Ah, Miss Granger, yes.” The professor picked up one of her vials and inspected it closely. “Good, very good. It is almost perfect.”

“Almost?” Her voice cracked at the end. She had studied at least ninety hours for this exam!

“Indeed. Half a shade away from the tangerine.” Slughorn placed her vial next to Damien’s, and she could see a slightly richer hue in the boy’s work. “Some sweat must have fallen into the cauldron, I’d say. Or a strand of hair. You’d be better off tying your hair while brewing, dear. Or perhaps wear a hairnet.”

“Yes, professor,” Hermione muttered dully, inwardly cursing the heat.

“Now, now. It’s still an Outstanding, if with a minus for the practical. Quite the talent, I’d say.” The Potions master smiled patiently, but it felt haughty. Not sparing her a second glance, he turned to the pretty Slytherin blonde boy. ” Now, Damien, what did you say about your greenhouse…”

With a grimace, the bushy-haired muggle-born girl gathered her things and went to wait outside for Sophie.

In around ten minutes, many of the Gryffindors and Slytherins started leaving the Potions classroom, and almost all of them ignored her. Sophie was among the last to come out.

“Acceptable with a plus,” she muttered glumly. “Slughorn said I added too many ingredients and stirred one time too many at the start. It’s so bloody hard to memorise thirty different potion recipes by heart. Goyle did much worse and got the same grade! With a minus, though.”

“With the written exam, you should have Exceeds Expectations with a minus, at least,” Hermione noted. “Professor Slughorn is fair but does seem to prefer purebloods, if slightly.”

Sophie childishly snorted as they headed outside. “Still not as biased as Snape, but he’s a far bigger toad.”

“He’s still a professor,” the half-hearted reply rolled off her tongue.

“Who likes to butter up to everyone of importance? Remember when he stopped Potter and his groupies in the middle of the hallway?” her friend snickered. “Oh, Mr Potter, Miss Lestrange, how extraordinary and marvellous. Even more brilliant than your parents, I say Merlin and Morgana come again!”

Hermione swallowed her chortle at the imitation, “He isn’t that obvious. Though no doubt they would be invited to the Slug Club in the third year, it seems.” The unfairness burned in her gut because Slughorn’s club was the best way for her to make her own connections.

Sophie’s face scrunched up. “Forget it. That place is full of snobs like Slughorn. How did you do on the exam?”

“Outstanding. But I am definitely behind Potter, Lestrange, and Greengrass. Maybe even Taylor.” It hurt to admit, but it was the truth.

“At least you passed Malfoy.”

“Yeah,” Hermione agreed unenthusiastically. The arrogant Slytherin boy was very good in potions and decent in the other subjects. After Snape had been sent to Azkaban, he had only studied harder. According to the rumours, Malfoy and Greengrass were wrangling for influence between the first years in the dungeons. Judging by grades and popularity, Greengrass was clearly winning, not that it was any of her business. “Only History of Magic and Astronomy left now.”

“We should take a break,” Sophie groaned and motioned her hand towards the window. “It’s so sunny and nice outside.”

“Half an hour,” Hermione conceded. So far, the bushy-haired girl had scored only O-s, and she intended to keep it that way. Besides, she had her notes for both subjects in the bag on her shoulder, and the fifth and seventh years had taken over the library. “The astronomy exam is tomorrow.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” her friend grumbled as they joined the crowds flocking into the sunny grounds.

They settled under a tree, enjoying the breeze and shade. Lee Jordan tickled the tentacles of the great squid lounging in the lake’s shallows while laughing at the Weasley twins toiling in their pink robes in Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. The seven Slytherin boys were hard at work near the Greenhouses under Sprout’s stern eyes. They must have been dragged to detention again right after their exams. Many others were just stretching their legs or hiding under the shade.

“Potter, Lestrange, and Taylor aren’t here,” Hermione noticed unhappily. “They must be doing last-minute studying!”

“Or maybe they are resting in their common room. My Mum always said the only one you should compare yourself to is yourself,” Sophie sighed. “Besides, I heard Su Li mention they’re sitting additional exams for extra credit with Flitwick.”

“That’s not fair! Why didn’t he offer?”

“Perhaps we didn’t cut it,” came the quiet response that made Hermione grimace inwardly. “It’s supposedly only Lestrange and Potter, you know. Taylor, who’s better at Charms than us, wasn’t invited.”

Next year… next year Hermione would beat Potter. Perhaps not at everything, but at least one subject.

While she was trying to come to terms with the unpleasant tangle of emotions in her stomach, Sophie flicked back her chestnut hair and pulled out the Daily Prophet from her bag.

“Why are you still reading that rag?”

Her friend grimaced as her eyes roamed over the paper. “Three more victims for the Wiltshire warlock from this Saturday. The Wizengamot should vote for an increased budget for the DMLE and other things today.”

That soured Hermione’s mood even further. The murderer was infamous now, with over fifty victims to his name, and everyone in Wizarding Britain knew about him—no traces of struggle, no known motive, only dead children found in their homes. The purebloods and half-bloods didn’t seem too worried as all the victims were mere muggles, but muggle-borns like Hermione could only fret.

She could barely focus on her Astronomy notes now, especially with a few older girls tittering around some Ravenclaw prefect.

“I think I will return to our common room,” Hermione decided, shoving her notes into the bag and standing up. “It should be quiet with everyone out here.”

Sophie only grunted but didn’t deign to get up from between the roots.

Shaking her head, the bushy-haired girl went into the castle and up the marble staircase when she saw Petrov going into the third-floor hallway with an empty bag over his shoulder. The caretaker could often be seen around the castle, but she had remembered Quirrell’s words – the man was very dangerous. Hermione was just going to continue to the common room, but the niggling sense of suspicion at the back of her head only intensified.

He did not carry a bucket of fresh meat to feed the supposed cerberus this time.

Grigori Petrov was greedy and suspicious, and now… he was going into the forbidden corridor. His gait wasn’t his usual heavy one that echoed from afar but light, cautious steps as if he did not want to be heard.

Her parents had always cautioned her against foreigners, especially those from the former Iron Curtain countries like Bulgaria and Romania. Even the wizards seemed to distrust them, if for completely different reasons. Almost all of Gryffindor agreed Petrov was a dodgy scoundrel, probably a thief and a wand for hire and a murderer at worst, forced upon the headmaster by the Board of Governors. Even Professor Quirrell agreed he was dangerous.

For a moment, Hermione almost turned around and went to the Gryffindor common room to continue revising her Astronomy notes. If Petrov were up to something, she wouldn’t let him kill someone or rob the school of whatever treasure was hidden in the third-floor corridor. But the teachers wouldn’t believe her without any proof.

Swearing inwardly, she removed her shoes, shoved them in her backpack, and carefully prowled after the suspicious caretaker.

Today was the day. His stay at Hogwarts had been even more productive than he ever expected. All of his exams were concluded, and students were graded. It irked him to leave behind an unfinished job, even if it didn’t matter. Teaching children was a great way to spread your influence and make connections, even if he had to be subtle about it while Dumbledore was on the prowl.

And, of course, scout for potential recruits.

“Thank you, Professor,” Elyna Selwyn, the seventh-year Ravenclaw prefect, bowed her head deeply.

“Fret not, my dear.” Quirrell inked a recommendation and handed it to the awed girl. “You can further your studies in Charms and Enchantments with Master Hellquist.”

The young witches were most pliable. A good word here, a favour there, a charming smile, a show of power, and they were ready to grovel in your feet.

“Thank you-“

“Empty platitudes are useless, Elyna,” he interrupted, letting coldness seep into his voice. “Master Hellquist is a very demanding enchanter, and I expect your work to not shame my recommendations.”

“I shall not disappoint,” the curvy Selwyn maiden curtsied, giving him a good view of her ample cleavage, and finally left his office. The girl had potential, and she wanted to get a chance to escape her family’s influence, but she was still green. Such clumsy attempts at seduction only worked on lackwits.

A mistress of Enchanting could control her fate far more than a pureblood daughter to be wedded to the highest bidder, to seal a business deal or even a political alliance in the Mot. Of course, Elyna Selwyn would owe him for it, provided that she succeeded. And he knew all about using debts and favours to spin someone the way you desired.

The more traditional pureblood families rarely bothered investing their connections in their daughters. After all, why would they? A daughter would eventually be wedded to another family, gifting all the additional effort and resources to someone else, unless they were sole heiresses, of course, but that was rare.

Quirrell hummed a slow, dark tune while slowly preparing himself. It would have been infinitely easier if Dumbledore had not quit his post as a Supreme Mugwump, for the ICW meetings often lasted two or even three days. His moves had forced the headmaster out of the Castle for the day, and Dumbledore would be wrangling with the legislative Wizengamot meeting that took seven hours… on a good day. The DMLE act was only tangentially related to the DMLE funding, and there were dozens of added proposals and just as many back doors that had to be discussed at great length, something that would take hours.

The Wizengamot meeting could continue deep into the night if he were lucky enough.

His attempts to brew polyjuice had failed due to a slight mistake in the timing, after taking months to slowly purchase ingredients from different apothecaries so he could not be traced. Quirrell was confident that he was the best in every branch of magic known to man, yet potions and herbology had always been ones he had no large interest in. That did not mean he did not get O-s in them for his OWLs and NEWTs, but not having the disposition for them meant the line between success and failure was ever fragile. Thus, his backup plan had failed, for there was no time to do a second batch. There was a reason why Potion masters were rare and valuable friends.

Alas, he would have to rely on improvisation should things go awry. It was far easier to blame someone else for a crime and leave confusion in one’s wake.

Just as he was ready to venture out, an urgent knock on his door caught him unaware. Quirrell had been expecting nobody else today, for his exams were all done, tests graded, connections made, and Sybill was busy with her sixth-year Divination exams. Ah, he would miss his Divination mistress.

“Come in,” he said pensively after he made his way behind his desk, his fingers gripping the wand beneath the tabletop, out of sight but ready to act.

A rattled Hermione Granger entered his office like a whirlwind.

“Professor, you have to stop him!” The words were breathless; this was the first time Quirrell had seen the muggle-born girl so panicked. “He’s going to-“

“Stop who, Miss Granger? Come now, sit down and take a breather.” He was very tempted to peek into her mind, but this body was too clumsy with Legilimency. In the end, a well-aimed word and a bit of kindness could achieve the same results.

The bushy-haired girl took a deep breath. “Mr Petrov. I saw him in the forbidden hallway on the third floor.”

“Grigori does go there often, as are his duties.” Quirrell’s voice thickened with amusement to cover his wariness. “Why would today be any different?”

“He was sneaking about,” Granger nervously wrung her hands, and her face went pale as chalk. “I decided to follow him for some proof,” she choked out, her hands shaking around the cup.

“A bold deed fitting for a Gryffindor,” he encouraged. “And was our suspicious caretaker up to no good?”

The Gryffindor girl shrank under his gaze, and her voice – thinner, “He entered the room where the three-headed dog was supposed to be. I heard nothing and decided to follow after three minutes. Blood… so much blood…”

The quivering words drained his amusement instantly. “Whose blood?”

“The enormous dog was slaughtered like a pig. I ran-“

“Straight to the nearest professor, me.” Quirrell stood up and patted her shoulder; he could now read Granger like an open book. “You did the right thing, Miss Granger. I’ll take care of it!”

The girl grew even more distraught. “Shouldn’t… we tell the headmaster? You said the caretaker is a dangerous man, professor!”

“Alas, Professor Dumbledore is busy at the Wizengamot today.” It seemed someone else had the same idea as him. The rage within him threatened to erupt, but Quirrell pushed the bubbling fury down and smiled reassuringly as he walked behind his student. “Perhaps that’s why our dear monster hunter has made his move. Did you alert anyone else?”

“No, Professor. But-“

The stunning charm struck the unsuspecting girl from the side, and Quirrell quickly caught her. It was a weak stunner, just enough to knock her out for about two hours because he had no desire to deal with a hysterical first-year girl on his hands. And it would be best if she did not go to another teacher out of worry.

With Hermione Granger positioned as if she had fallen asleep on his desk from exhaustion, Quirrell left his office, completely disillusioned, with his boots charmed silent, in contrast to the rage that threatened to drown him.

The way to the forbidden corridor was clear, and Quirrell rushed forth, but his slivers of pain almost halted him. His magic coiled inside him, roiling like a raging wave within his flesh before coiling tight like a venomous dragon that ate through the weakened flesh. The body was rejecting him again, and his volatile power only hastened the process.

Focusing, his fury slowly drained, and his breathing grew easier as a better plan spun in his mind. Petrov might have forced his hand, but… did it matter? It created a perfect opportunity.

The door to the gauntlet was open, and he quickly slipped through, only to be faced with a grizzly sight and the heavy metallic scent of blood. The Monster Hunter seemed to have ripped the heart out, as it was the most expensive part of the three-headed dog, while ignoring the rest of the body. The shattered harp on the floor had probably forced the beast asleep first… With a flick of his wand, he flung the heavy carcass away from the trapdoor below.

A powerful Lumos illuminated a deep dive and a devil’s snare at the bottom, which hastily jerked away at the light.

Pomona was certainly more cunning than most would expect. Leaping blind would land you into the plant’s soft embrace, but if you checked it first, you’d have to brave the cold stone floor below – a fall that could easily cripple you. Quirrell jumped down the trapdoor.

“Arresto Momentum.” The landing was still heavy and made his knee groan at the impact, but every bit of magic preserved was essential.

Through a dark passageway, he followed a well-illuminated room filled with the buzz of enchanted flying keys. A careful glance told him over a hundred of them were charmed and lifelike. Only Flitwick could create such a thing.

Quirrell cautiously approached the heavy oak door, remaining unmolested. Carefully, he placed his wand on the keyhole.

“Alohomora,” the silver handle remained unmoved. “Aperta!” Nothing. “Professor Quirrell, a master of this school, bids you open!”

“Incendio!”

“Bombarda!”

The door stood mockingly, completely unblemished and still locked despite his efforts. The diminutive Charms master could be a monster if you gave him enough time to set up. Quirrell could probably unravel it, but it would take him far more power and time than he was willing to spare. Even ghosts seemed to be blocked from passing. A tap on the stone wall told him it was much the same. Frowning, he looked around the vaulted chamber, only to spot a handful of old flying brooms.

After identifying the silver key with bruised wings, the only one the same colour as the handle, he lunged after it. After a mad chase that wasted three precious minutes, Quirrell managed to snatch it.

His patience had begun to run thin, but the next obstacle proved easier. The human-sized chess which screamed McGonagall followed, but Petrov had shattered all the figures, and they were still slowly reforming, so a relieved Quirrell proceeded forward unimpeded.

The next chamber was choked with the stench of a big mountain troll who lay decapitated on the floor. Despite everything, the dark lord could respect Petrov’s ruthless streak.

Last was a table with seven potions and a piece of parchment. The moment he stepped near, a wall of purple flames blocked his entrance, and a curtain of black ones – the path forward. Neither produced enough heat, but Quirrell could feel the sheer magic coursing through them—this was not a simple magical flame, but an alchemical creation of Dumbledore, and freezing such a fire would exhaust him greatly. With his current powers, he wasn’t even sure he could succeed before he ran out of magic.

The most insulting part was that it was solvable by a muggle puzzle. Quirrell could imagine Snape’s sneer looking at the roll of parchment; Slughorn never had a thing for muggle things like this.

It didn’t slow him for more than two minutes but made him angry. Yet his fury was held under a tight leash; now was not the time, and the Dark Lord always had the last laugh. After drinking the correct potion and stepping through the curtain of black flame, Quirrell rushed into the next room.

“Quirinus,” Petrov calmly greeted in his usual hoarse voice. His wand was drawn, yet its tip peacefully pointed at the floor. “Are you here to stop me?”

“Indeed,” Quirrell confirmed, lazily rolling his wand through his fingers.

“Do you know what this is?” With his free hand, the balding caretaker motioned to a very tall, gaudy mirror behind him.

“An enchanted mirror?”

Petrov’s dark eyes were alight with greed. “That and much more, Quirrell.” His voice grew feverish and his smile wider, “This mirror contains the Philosopher’s Stone, Nicolas Flamel’s opus magnum. You… don’t seem surprised.”

“Not at all.” the Defence teacher smiled. “I already suspected, after all. How did you find out?”

“I spent three years tracking down the Flamels for it, only for them to slip away from me this summer. Then Dumbledore visited them, and they no longer hid afterwards,” he clicked his tongue. “Alas, Hogwarts is not a place easily breached. Unless they decide to hire you, that is.”

“Indeed,” Quirrell laughed but raised his wand, letting his hatred and fury bubble overflow.

Petrov tensed. “Unlimited gold, Quirinus. I can see the desire in your eyes. We can split it and walk rich men for the rest of our immortal lives.”

He dared. The fool dared to offer things that already belong to Lord Voldemort!?

“Avada Kedavra!”

The poisonously green spell streaked towards the caretaker. Petrov twisted his wand, tearing a piece of stone from the floor that met the curse and shattered on impact—debris and dust filed through the room.

“There wasn’t any need for a fight, you bloody ponce,” Grigori coughed amidst the dust, brandishing his wand. “We could have shared!”

“You’re a liar and a fool, Petrov. And even if you were not, I was never one for sharing.” Quirrell’s shield cracked in the face of a sickly, purple curse, and the Defence teacher felt the strain on his magic. “And a rude sot, too.”

No more words were said, and Quirrell could not afford to play with his food. With an annoyed slash, he dispersed the dust and jerked away from a Killing Curse. The stone wall it hit cracked, and its fragments erupted everywhere.

Quirrell hastily transfigured some of the debris into arrows and hurled them at his foe, following up with an entrail-expelling curse and a bone-breaker.

Petrov’s shield held, and he was quick to fling four lesser curses rapidly. A shield breaker forced Quirrell to drop his prepared shield and jerk out of the way just in time to dodge an organ-liquifying curse. The caretaker was a special kind of lethal: his spells were quick, silent, and powerful enough to crack Quirrell’s shields reliably. After over three decades in his bloody profession, it was clear that the monster hunter had been tempered by life and death and had become far more powerful than the young Defence teacher. Worse, he was quick on his feet and fought like a juggernaut.

Dust drifted through the air, and the floor was smeared with a jagged array of shattered stone where the more powerful curses kept landing. Both of them were careful not to hit the mirror, however.

Any other young wizard would have been overwhelmed by the rapid-fire onslaught of lethal magic, and his foe did not seem even remotely winded.

But he was Lord Voldemort, even in this weak and pathetic meat suit. Brutish power, ruthlessness, and speed were not enough to bring him down. As he traded curse after curse with the caretaker, he noticed the man still avoided transfiguration and spell deflections, preferring to always fall back on his shields, which were quite sturdy. Yet the Dark Lord knew many ways to crack open turtles.

Alas, apparition was blocked in Hogwarts, which forced him to improvise.

Sidestepping another angry barrage of curses, Quirrell’s wand blurred. Three purple but harmless sparks erupted from his wand in conjunction with smoke, forcing Petrov to shield. With a flourish, the Dark Lord transfigured the shattered floor into a nest of snakes as he ducked under what looked like a ribbon-cutting curse.

“Kill him! Avada Kedavra!” The Parseltongue seemed to surprise the monster hunter for a heartbeat, but it was enough to interrupt his tempo and put him on the back foot.

Petrov managed to slip away from the green curse and jab his wand downward, setting the floor on reddish fire and breaking the snake transfiguration.

With a slash of Quirrell’s wand, all of the jagged parts of the floor behind Petrov turned into knives. Another pull summoned them, and Quirrell finished with another Killing Curse.

A pained grunt escaped Petrov’s throat as the daggers sank into his back, but he managed to jerk away from the curse at the last moment.

“Avis, Avada Kedavra!”

Quirrell used the lapse in concentration as the Bulgarian flinched from the oncoming flock of birds to transfigure the ground under the caretaker, causing it to latch onto his feet and lose balance as he tried to dodge. Understanding that he would have no time to escape, the stubborn fool closed his eyes as the flock assaulted his face as if accepting death.

Yet the joy of besting out a worthy foe was short-lived. A heartbeat before the Killing Curse struck, Petrov’s wand vengefully stabbed at Quirrell, spewing a bright orange jet of light. The spell surprised him and made all his senses scream with danger, and he hastily dropped to the floor like a muggle.

Crack!

Coughing, the dark lord stood up, banishing the dust in the air with a shaky wave. A glance made him grimace; the wall behind him looked like an elaborate web of cracks from top to bottom with a jagged gaping hole in the centre.

“Bloody Bulgarians,” Quirrell hissed breathlessly. He gingerly approached his fallen foe and cautiously confirmed his death. The fight had taken a lot out of him, and even his flesh had begun to fracture under the strain. Even now, he barely had a third of his magic left.

The floor was covered with a carpet of holes, cracks, debris and a thin layer of soot.

He carefully looked at the mirror; it was perfectly intact, even shrugging off dust. It was a magnificent item, nearly as high as Hagrid, bound by an intricate golden frame. He could feel the searing power of Flamel’s stone thrum from inside. Yet there was no time to play with Dumbledore’s riddles, and there was no doubt in his mind that the old headmaster had prepared something that would slow him down greatly and irritate him even more.

It was still daytime, and someone might have heard the fight, even if this wing was remote and forbidden. He wouldn’t even put it past the headmaster to already be on the way.

A look at his watch told him fifty minutes had passed since he had entered the insulting gauntlet.

“Reducio!” The shrinking spell splashed against the silvery surface, doing nothing. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

To his chagrin, the golden-framed mirror mockingly remained glued to the ground. Of course, Dumbledore managed to turn it somehow magically inert. Or the item itself was created as such. He was not a stranger to such items after making five himself, albeit through drastically different means.

It didn’t truly matter. After five minutes of struggle and copious amounts of stretching charms, Quirrell barely shoved the enormous mirror into his expanded bag, which weighed heavily on his belt despite the featherlight charm woven into the cloth.

An angry curse escaped his lips. The bloody mirror slowly unravelled the enchantments, and the Dark Lord could feel them straining and buckling with every second. He should have bought a mokeskin pouch instead of choosing to be frugal.

The bag’s enchantments would crumble in about an hour. But an hour was plenty.

As he was about to flee, he paused to look at the fallen corpse of Petrov, where a pool of blood was gathering in the soot-covered debris below his back.

A part of him wanted the headmaster to know it was him.

That Voldemort had outsmarted the great Albus Dumbledore right under his nose, but another part rebelled at the thought. All those connections, all the stellar reputation that Quirrell had forged for himself, would be either void or tracked down.

Dumbledore… would find out Lord Voldemort knew the prophecy and possibly even more. Despite everything, the headmaster was a cunning man, and if you gave him a finger, he could devour the whole hand. He needed more time. Days, even hours, would be a boon.

Voldemort gritted his teeth and brandished his wand at the fallen corpse. If he were unlucky, this stunt would buy him half a day, and if magic smiled upon him, it would be up to a whole week.

Twenty minutes later, Quirrell, disguised as Grigori Petrov, finally reached the Grand Staircase with only a seventh of his magic left. While corpses were easy to transfigure, the Dark Lord dared not risk transfiguration on himself, unprepared and in such a tired state. Hair, eyes, and face with scars were easy enough to do with charms and minor transfiguration, but he had padded his body with layers beneath the robes to replicate the caretaker’s burly figure. Unless someone looked closer, he could leave Hogwarts with none the wiser.

Walking out of the front entrance would have been risky before, but his skin crawled at the mere idea now. His instincts told the dark lord he would never pass through the orichalcum statues as he was now. Even on a foggy day, they sang with magic for those who were not deaf.

Bloody Albus Dumbledore and his bloody alchemy. All the known master alchemists were notoriously picky about their apprentices, and everyone else was practically worthless.

But Lord Voldemort would have the last laugh, for there were other ways to leave Hogwarts.

Just as he reached the mirror on the right side of the fourth floor and was ready to open the secret passageway-

“Mr Petrov!” McGonagall’s concerned voice made him halt and curse inwardly.

A response would give him away, for he couldn’t copy Petrov’s accent. Worse, he had no magic to fight fairly with a Transfiguration mistress of her calibre.

His palm felt clammy. Chanting the Killing Curse might give her a chance to react, but Quirrell’s pathetic magic was already very low.

Petrov twirled around and struck her with a silent stunner in the chest. McGonagall, face frozen in surprise, fell like a puppet with her strings cut.

In the end, only fools fought fair.

Opening the mirror, the dark lord dragged the Transfiguration mistress into the secret passage, where students wouldn’t easily find her.

Bloody Minerva McGonagall and her meddling, she would wake up by herself in a handful of hours. He took her wand, which felt cold and unwilling, and angrily snapped it in half, dropping it on the ground.

The dark lord would have killed her here and now, but a Killing Curse would exhaust him too much. Even a cutting charm across her neck would be enough for McGonagall to bleed out before she awoke.

But such a petty, tasteless way of murder was beneath him. He preferred to look his foes in the eye as his Killing Curse struck after they had been defeated by his hand. Nothing was more delicious than the despair, unwillingness, and disbelief of a bested enemy about to perish.

Instead, he threw an obscure Assyrian rotting curse at the unconscious professor, and the emptiness inside intensified. He still had enough magic left to apparate to his hideout, if barely.

Let it not be said Lord Voldemort was without mercy; once Minerva McGonagall awoke, she could struggle for her life.

Hobbling down the narrow passageway, the dark lord finally felt relief when he reached the boundary where the castle’s protections ended and laughed. It was a hoarse, grating sound that would give anyone who heard it chills.

Gathering the last vestiges of magic, he disappeared with a loud pop.