"Professor Quirrell, haven't you always wanted to steal something from the depths of the fourth-floor corridor?"
The casual nature of Sebastian's tone struck Quirrell with the force of a full-body binding curse. His breath caught, his eyes, momentarily darting and unfocused, gave away the profound shock. The faint, high-pitched hiss that was never meant for human ears had been utterly silenced by the audacity of the younger professor's declaration.
How does he know the destination? Quirrell's mind screamed, the fear overwhelming the tactical calm he had fought so hard to regain. Dumbledore had been meticulously subtle about the nature of the Stone, revealing only the trap's location, not its prize. This man knew both.
He quickly attempted to plaster a look of utter bewilderment back onto his sweating face. "I—I fail to grasp your meaning. The fourth-floor corridor holds no particular interest beyond the usual cautionary spells placed by the Headmaster to discourage nocturnal wandering."
Sebastian's smile did not waver; it merely sharpened, becoming dismissive. "Your office is on the third floor. Why, then, do the house-elves report seeing you loitering with uncomfortable frequency near the staircase to the fourth? And that pathetic display during the feast… A professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, fainting at the mere mention of a common Mountain Troll?"
Sebastian leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, projecting an air of dangerous, relaxed confidence.
"And the troll's entry, Professor. That was your initiative. You designed that specific layer of defense, yet you were the only one surprised by its arrival. You unleashed a known, chaotic threat during the busiest dinner of the year to create the perfect diversion. Am I wrong, Professor Quirrell? Was your objective chaos, or was it a clear run at the fourth-floor gauntlet?"
Quirrell's control snapped. The accusation, delivered with such clinical precision, was devastating. "Nonsense! I was not involved! You are making wild accusations!" The words were too quick, too loud, lacking his usual nervous stammer.
"Wild accusations?" Sebastian's gaze was laced with utter contempt. "I never mentioned what was hidden there, Professor. Yet, you just blurted out: 'I had no intention of stealing the Philosopher's Stone.'"
Quirrell froze, his body rigid. He had given it away. The panic had forced a confession more damning than any accusation. He felt a chilling sense of dread emanating from the back of his own skull—the silent fury of the entity he carried.
Sebastian stepped away from the door and softened his voice, switching gears with practiced ease. "Do not panic, Professor. That knowledge changes nothing. In fact, it reinforces my initial point: we are natural, necessary allies."
Quirrell stared, suspicion warring with a terrible, consuming curiosity. "Allies? You... you also wish to steal the Stone?"
"Of course," Sebastian replied simply, rolling his eyes as if the question were absurd. "Do you truly believe an artifact that grants eternal life and limitless wealth would remain unclaimed by the few of us intelligent enough to even attempt to acquire it? You see hypocrisy, I see opportunity. I have the means; I only lack the political chaos required for the proper execution."
Quirrell's mind, and the dark parasite clinging to it, were racing. The thought of another rival was infuriating, but the arrogance in Sebastian's voice suggested he was either a master plotter or utterly insane.
A rival… but an open one. The cold logic of Voldemort began to surface, overriding Quirrell's human fear. Dumbledore is the primary impediment. Any disruption to Dumbledore's focus is valuable. And this impertinent boy clearly has powerful, non-traditional magic—the kind that saved Potter from the broom curse.
"I could expose you to the Headmaster immediately," Quirrell threatened weakly, leaning heavily on the desk.
Sebastian chuckled softly. "Please do. Tell Albus Dumbledore that his brilliant, new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, who fainted in fear of a beast he himself introduced to the castle, is accusing the beloved and highly favored Potions Master of attempting to steal a magical artifact that the Headmaster hasn't even officially announced exists. Go on. Let us see whose credibility crumbles first."
Sebastian took another slow, deliberate step toward the door, amplifying the fear of his departure.
"Look, Professor. I came to you with a genuine proposal for a temporary, mutually beneficial collaboration. If you refuse, I will simply revert to being your rival. And I assure you, my focus will shift entirely from acquiring the Stone to merely ensuring that you do not. I will be your shadow, your persistent, alchemically fortified obstacle. You may win, but you will spend every single night of the year looking over your shoulder. Consider my suggestion, Professor Quirrell."
The room was thick with oppressive silence. Quirrell felt the crushing weight of the Dark Lord's fury pressing against the back of his skull, interspersed with cold, tactical calculation.
"Stop him," a high, dry voice hissed from the back of his mind. "The boy is a threat, but a known threat. He seeks the prize, but he offers a service. Dumbledore's defenses have proven formidable. We require chaos and specialized knowledge."
The pride of Lord Voldemort despised the concept of an ally, yet his desperation for the Stone—and his crippling weakness—demanded practicality. Sebastian had identified the major flaw in their operation: Dumbledore. A second, independent actor creating distraction was priceless.
Quirrell, his face still pale, finally managed to force himself upright. He spoke with a new, strained firmness, imitating the entity whispering within him.
"Professor Swann, please… wait."
Sebastian slowly turned, his expression carefully neutral, though internally, he was noting the subtle shift in Quirrell's posture—more rigid, more commanding. He had gained a foothold.
"Yes, Professor?"
"You speak of… alliance. But you speak as a solitary player, purely for your own gain. Why should I, or rather, why should we, believe that your self-interest aligns with the necessary discretion this endeavor requires?" Quirrell stammered slightly on the final words, but the intent was clear.
Sebastian recognized the shift: the negotiation was now being run by the parasite, Voldemort, who valued capability over morality. Sebastian leaned back, adopting a posture of supreme confidence.
"Let's be honest, Professor. The Philosopher's Stone is not protected by Knockback Jinxes. It is guarded by Dumbledore's genius, and Dumbledore's defenses are designed to be bypassed not by brute force, but by specialized knowledge. You, Professor, are failing to acquire the Stone not because of lack of nerve, but because of a lack of requisite skills."
Sebastian walked over to the desk and tapped a precise rhythm with his wand. "I possess alchemical expertise. I can bypass magical barriers that require precise counter-transfiguration or complex runic calculations. You have failed to secure the Stone for a reason, Professor. Tell me, how far have you gotten?"
Quirrell hesitated, glancing nervously at the silent turban. He couldn't possibly admit the truth: that he hadn't even gotten past the first layer, the massive, three-headed dog.
"We… we have assessed the initial barriers and found them lacking in imagination," Quirrell lied, trying to sound dismissive. "But this talk of partnership—it demands trust."
"Trust is for children who play Quidditch," Sebastian countered dismissively. "This requires a contractual necessity. I offer you two things you clearly lack: Advanced Tactical Information and Distraction. You provide me with access to the site and the removal of certain obstacles that only a Defense Professor, or someone with access to his knowledge, can manage."
Sebastian lowered his voice, making the proposal sound dark and appealing. "We are not equals in this, Professor. We are complementary tools. You are better at securing access and moving within the castle structure. I am better at solving the magical problems Dumbledore has created. You are too visible; I am too resourceful. We need each other to split the risk of discovery."
Sebastian let the offer hang in the air, allowing the ambition—Voldemort's ambition—to chew on the practicality of the arrangement.
"Let us not pretend this is a friendship," Sebastian finished, his eyes cold. "This is a business proposition. I swear on my magical core that if you assist me in gaining the Stone, I will take the Stone and disappear, never setting foot in this castle again. You will be free of me, and you will have survived the attempt. If you continue to try alone, I will be a relentless impediment, and Dumbledore will catch you first."
Quirrell felt a sudden, sharp, almost painful relief from the back of his head. The Dark Lord had made his calculation: The boy is a fool who only wants the artifact for base desires. We shall use his skills, eliminate him when he is no longer necessary, and secure the prize.
Quirrell took a stuttering breath, forcing out a reluctant agreement.
"Very well, Professor Swann. Your proposal… is opportunistic, but the current climate demands calculated risks. I will agree to a limited, information-sharing partnership. You will cease your surveillance of me, and in exchange, you will provide proof of your unique capabilities—perhaps a blueprint of the defenses, and how you propose to breach them—before any joint physical action is taken."
"Excellent," Sebastian replied, the warmth returning to his smile, making the arrangement appear perfectly normal.
"I will provide you with the first piece of information on how to bypass the initial obstacle—the three-headed dog, Fluffy—by the end of the day tomorrow. You will then, in turn, provide me with your schematics of the subsequent traps. We shall meet here, in this office, tomorrow evening, precisely at 9:00 PM."
Sebastian nodded curtly, then turned decisively toward the door. The moment of confrontation was over; the secret alliance was sealed.
"Until tomorrow, Professor Quirrell. Try to enjoy your lunch."
He opened the door and stepped out, the air in the corridor suddenly feeling lighter and less putrid. Quirrell, left alone in the room, slumped back against the desk, his legs weak, his face buried in his hands. The constant, chilling voice in his mind, however, was already planning.
"He thinks he is the master. He is merely the key. When the time comes, Quirinus, you will deliver both the Stone and his soul to your Lord."
Do you think Sebastian will stick to his promise of only helping Quirrell until the unicorn blood stage, or will he find a way to intervene earlier now that he has access to the defense schematics?
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Merry Christmas to u all. Hope u all are happy and healthy ☺️ ☺️