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Wednesday, October 30th, 1991 - Evening
6:47 PM - Ravenclaw Common Room
Darius stared at the chessboard without really seeing it, his knight hovering uncertainly over a square while Michael waited patiently for him to make his move.
Five days. Five days of undercover. Five days of careful performance and absolutely nothing happening.
And tomorrow was Halloween.
[Partner's frustration indicators elevated by 34% over baseline. Understandable given lack of actionable intelligence developments.]
Understandable? Darius thought irritably, finally placing his knight down. It's driving me insane. Where is he? What is he doing?
For five days, his surveillance network had captured almost nothing useful. Quirrell taught his classes, ate his meals, returned to his quarters, and... did absolutely nothing suspicious. No more late-night forest visits. No more reviewing maps or documents. No visitors except the occasional portrait delivering what appeared to be routine messages.
[CAM-QUIRRELL-OFFICE: Subject present during office hours only. No unusual activity detected.]
[CAM-QUIRRELL-QUARTERS: Subject maintains regular sleep schedule. No nocturnal departures since October 24th.]
[CAM-THIRD-FLOOR: Zero traffic except standard patrol routes. Fluffy's chamber undisturbed.]
It was as if Quirrell had simply... stopped. Become exactly the nervous, ineffectual professor he pretended to be.
But Darius knew better. He'd seen the recording from that night—the cold calculation, Voldemort's hissing commands, the plans for Halloween chaos and unicorn blood.
"Your move," Michael said gently.
Darius blinked, refocusing on the board. Michael's bishop was perfectly positioned to take his queen if he wasn't careful. He moved a pawn defensively, buying time.
[Analysis: Subject Quirrell's lack of observable activity suggests one of three scenarios: Planning occurs outside monitored locations, planning occurs in coded communications Partner cannot intercept, or plans already finalized with subject in waiting phase.]
Or option four, Darius thought darkly. He's figured out he's being watched and is deliberately giving me nothing.
[Probability assessment: 8%. Subject shows no behavioral indicators of surveillance awareness. More likely explanation: Critical planning conducted outside Hogwarts grounds entirely.]
Outside Hogwarts. Of course. Quirrell had weekends off, like all professors. He could have spent the past five days making arrangements in Hogsmeade, or London, or anywhere the surveillance cameras couldn't follow.
Arranging troll acquisition. Planning multiple crisis points. Coordinating whatever nightmare he had in mind for tomorrow night.
And Darius could do nothing but watch and wait and pretend everything was fine.
"Checkmate," Michael announced quietly.
Darius looked down at the board. His king was trapped, three moves he hadn't even seen coming boxing him in completely.
"Good game," he managed.
7:15 PM - Seventh Floor Corridor
Darius headed toward the library, alone. Emma was at Quidditch tryouts, Terry was desperately finishing an essay due tomorrow, and Stephen and Anthony were engaged in some complex Transfiguration theory debate.
Which meant no witnesses when Professor Snape materialized from a side corridor like a particularly ominous shadow.
"Mr. Kael." The Potions Master's voice could have frozen fire. "A word. In private."
Every instinct screamed danger, but refusing would be more suspicious than complying. Darius followed Snape into an empty classroom, the door closing with an ominous click behind them.
The professor turned, black robes swirling dramatically. His expression was... difficult to read. Not quite hostile, not quite concerned. Something in between that Darius couldn't immediately recognize.
[Subject Snape's body language analysis: 42% professional concern, 31% suspicion, 27% calculated assessment. Recommend careful response protocol.]
"Sir?" Darius kept his voice respectfully neutral.
"I have been observing you, Mr. Kael." Snape's eyes were dark, penetrating. "Over the past week, your behavior has been... notable."
Darius's heart rate spiked. Had he slipped? Had Snape noticed something—
"You are attempting," Snape continued, his voice dripping with disdain, "to emulate a troll. And doing so with less success than the average Gryffindor, which I confess I did not think possible."
Wait. What?
"Sir, I don't—"
"Do not insult my intelligence by acting ignorant." Snape's voice cut like a blade. "Your potion work has become deliberately mediocre. Your class participation has dropped to barely acceptable levels. You move through the corridors like a zombie animated by necromancy. In short, Mr. Kael, you are performing stupidity with all the conviction of a student who has suddenly decided that intelligence is somehow disadvantageous."
[Analysis: Subject Snape has detected Partner's performance of normalcy but misinterpreted motivation. Current theory appears to be academic self-sabotage rather than operational security.]
Relief and new concern warred in Darius's chest. Snape had noticed—but thought it was something else entirely.
"I'm not feeling well," Darius said, which was technically true. Five days of sustained stress and perfect performance had worn him down more than any physical injury. "Too much work. Too much research. I've been pushing too hard."
Snape's expression didn't soften, but something flickered in his eyes. Not quite sympathy—Snape didn't do sympathy—but perhaps understanding.
"Too much of something is a poison itself," the professor said, his voice losing a fraction of its cutting edge. "A basic rule of potions, Mr. Kael. I suggest you follow that principle in other aspects of your life as well."
He moved toward the door, then paused, not quite looking back.
"Whatever is driving you to this... performance... I advise you to reconsider. Talent wasted is talent destroyed. And you have more talent than you apparently realize."
Before Darius could respond, Snape swept out of the classroom, robes billowing behind him like a particularly judgmental storm cloud.
[Assessment: Subject Snape's intervention appears to be genuine concern masked as professional criticism. Interesting development. Subject displays more awareness of student welfare than typically demonstrated.]
He thinks I'm having some kind of academic crisis, Darius realized. That I'm deliberately dumbing myself down for... what? Social acceptance? Fear of standing out?
[Interpretation plausible given observable evidence. Ironically, Subject Snape's misunderstanding provides excellent cover for Partner's actual activities. Recommend maintaining current performance levels while appearing to "recover" slightly post-Halloween.]
Darius leaned against the classroom wall, processing. Of all the professors to notice something was wrong, Snape was simultaneously the worst and the best option. Worst because Snape noticed everything. Best because Snape apparently cared enough to say something, even if his delivery was pure concentrated acid.
"Too much of something is a poison itself," Darius murmured to himself.
Tomorrow night, Voldemort was going to poison Hogwarts with chaos.
Thursday, October 31st, 1991 - Morning
9:45 AM - Hogwarts Grounds
Halloween morning dawned crisp and clear, with absolutely no indication that the day would end in calculated disaster. The Great Hall had been decorated overnight with floating jack-o'-lanterns and fluttering bats. Students were excited about the evening feast, speculating about what special dishes would appear.
And Darius felt like he was waiting for an execution.
[Partner's cortisol levels approaching concerning threshold. Recommend physical activity to regulate stress response.]
Physical activity came sooner than expected, though not in any form Darius had anticipated.
"There you are!" Emma's voice rang across the grounds. She was jogging toward him with Sarah, both wearing determined expressions that made Darius immediately suspicious. "We've been looking everywhere!"
"Why do I feel like I'm about to regret asking what for?"
"Quidditch practice match!" Emma announced triumphantly. "Ravenclaw's having a pick-up game, and Roger Davies said we could invite anyone who wants to try. It'll be fun!"
"I don't play Quidditch," Darius said immediately.
"You've never tried Quidditch," Sarah corrected. "There's a difference."
"I'm not good at flying."
"Most people aren't good at flying until they practice," Emma countered. "Come on, Darius. You've been wound tighter than a bowstring all week. You need to do something that isn't studying."
[Analysis: Social pressure increasing. Refusal will draw attention. Recommendation: Participate briefly, maintain cover of normal student activities, extract after minimal acceptable time.]
You're enjoying this, Darius thought at Nano.
[Incorrect. However, statistical analysis suggests physical activity will improve Partner's operational readiness for tonight's anticipated events. Also, watching Partner attempt athletics may provide... interesting data.]
I'm going to remember you said that.
"Fine," Darius sighed. "But when I fall off the broom and die, I'm haunting both of you."
"Deal!" Emma grabbed his arm, already pulling him toward the Quidditch pitch.
10:00 AM - Quidditch Pitch
The practice match was already underway when they arrived—a chaotic mix of students from different years, divided roughly into two teams. Roger Davies, Ravenclaw's actual Quidditch Captain and Chaser, was organizing the chaos with varying degrees of success.
"Right!" he called out. "Emma, Sarah, you're on Blue team. Darius you said your name was Darius, right? you're on Gold. Ever played before?"
"No," Darius admitted.
"Can you fly?"
"Technically."
Roger's grin suggested this was going to be entertaining for all the wrong reasons. "Brilliant. You'll be Chaser. Just try to get the Quaffle through the hoops. Simple!"
[Analysis: Quidditch Chaser position requires aerial mobility, hand-eye coordination, spatial awareness, rapid decision-making, and throwing accuracy. Partner's enhanced capabilities provide theoretical advantage in most categories except aerial mobility, which requires practice not yet obtained.]
So I'm going to be terrible at everything except throwing.
[Essentially accurate, yes.]
They distributed brooms—Darius got a school broom that had clearly seen better decades—and took positions. The Quaffle was released, and immediately chaos erupted.
Darius kicked off from the ground and immediately understood why he'd avoided Quidditch. Flying was... not intuitive. The broom wobbled under him, responding to shifts in weight and intention that he couldn't quite coordinate. Other players zipped past with practiced ease while he struggled to maintain steady altitude.
[Recommendation: Reduce conscious control. Allow nano-assisted reflexes to handle micro-adjustments to balance. Partner's analytical approach counterproductive to activity requiring intuitive response.]
Easier said than done. But Darius tried to relax, let his body respond rather than overthinking every movement. The broom stabilized slightly still wobbly, still uncertain, but at least not actively trying to throw him off.
A Ravenclaw fourth-year zipped past, tossing the Quaffle to another player. Darius attempted to intercept, nearly fell off his broom, and watched the ball sail past.
"You're doing great!" Emma called out, in the tone of someone lying very kindly.
For ten minutes, Darius flew terribly. He couldn't maneuver quickly. He couldn't anticipate other players' movements well enough to compensate for his poor flying. He got nowhere near the Quaffle most of the time.
But then one of his teammates a third-year whose name he didn't know intercepted a pass and tossed the Quaffle directly at Darius.
Instinct and nano-enhanced reflexes kicked in. His hand shot out, caught the ball with perfect precision. He wobbled on the broom, nearly dropped it, recovered through sheer determination.
Three hoops. Thirty meters away. A Keeper positioning to block.
Darius couldn't fly well. But throwing?
[Calculating trajectory. Accounting for wind speed, target motion, ball mass, desired arc. Optimal release angle: 34 degrees. Release point: 0.8 seconds.]
Throwing, he could do.
He launched the Quaffle with nano-calculated precision. The ball arced through the air in a perfect parabola, curved slightly left to account for the wind, and sailed through the center hoop before the Keeper could react.
"GOAL!" Roger Davies shouted. "Holy Merlin, that was a perfect shot!"
Darius nearly fell off his broom from surprise at his own success.
For the next twenty minutes, the pattern repeated. Darius was rubbish at flying, mediocre at intercepting passes, and absolutely could not defend or maneuver worth a damn. But every time someone managed to get him the Quaffle with a clear line to the hoops, he scored.
Not every time that would be too suspicious. But often enough that people started deliberately passing to him when they had possession.
[Shot accuracy: 73%. Accounting for deliberate misses to maintain plausibility: 51% actual attempts, 22% intentional failures. Performance profile: Consistent with talented natural thrower with poor flight skills.]
By the time Roger called a halt, Darius had scored seven goals and looked like he'd been through a war. His arms ached from gripping the broom, his legs were cramping from the awkward position, and he was pretty sure he'd pulled something in his shoulder.
"Darius!" Roger flew over as they landed, looking far too excited. "That arm is incredible! I've never seen accuracy like that from someone who can barely stay on a broom!"
"Thanks?" Darius managed, dismounting with profound relief. "But as you noticed, I can barely stay on a broom."
"You just need practice! Flight skills can be learned! But that kind of natural accuracy—" Roger's eyes gleamed with the particular madness of Quidditch captains everywhere. "Listen, we've got a reserve Chaser spot open. If you're willing to do some flight training, you could actually be brilliant—"
"I appreciate the offer," Darius interrupted gently, "but I'm really too busy. Research projects, studies, that sort of thing. Maybe some other time?"
Roger looked disappointed but nodded. "Fair enough. But the offer stands! If you change your mind, we'd love to have you!"
Emma and Sarah descended on him as Roger flew off to organize the next practice round.
"You were amazing!" Emma practically bounced. "Well, amazing at shooting. The flying was... um..."
"Terrible," Darius supplied. "The word you're looking for is terrible."
"I was going to say 'under development,'" Sarah offered diplomatically. "But yes, terrible is also accurate. How did you make those shots? Some of them were impossible angles."
"Luck, I guess?" Darius tried.
Sarah's expression suggested she wasn't buying it, but she let it drop. "Well, whatever it was, that was fun to watch. You should have seen Roger's face when you scored that first goal. I thought his eyes were going to fall out."
[Assessment: Social activity successful. Partner displayed appropriate mixture of incompetence and unexpected skill. Cover maintained. Stress levels reduced by 18%. Physical activity achieved desired regulation effect.]
They walked back toward the castle, Emma and Sarah chattering about the match while Darius let the conversation wash over him.
Tonight. Everything happened tonight.
And somewhere in this castle, Quirrell was making his final preparations for chaos.