Quirrell took the small, shimmering glass vial with trembling suspicion. The cool glass felt alien in his hand. He uncorked it with difficulty and brought the opening to his nose, sniffing the contents.
He did not detect any known potion ingredient, but a fierce, indescribable energy signature—a vibrant essence of purified life force—registered immediately, both in his magical senses and in the cold consciousness residing beneath his turban.
Merlin! What is that incredible source of power? The sheer purity of the energy was unsettling, yet overwhelmingly tempting.
Quirrell looked up, his eyes darting between Sebastian's expectant, calm gaze and the minuscule amount of fluid in the vial. Sebastian offered a slight, encouraging nod. Quirrell's mind raced through defensive curses and counter-potions. Swann wouldn't dare harm me here, not under Dumbledore's nose. This risk is nothing compared to the death gripping my throat.
Overcome by the desperate, clawing need to replenish the vitality Voldemort was stripping away, Quirrell tilted his head back, gulping the contents in a single, unceremonious swallow. It was gone too fast; he barely felt the liquid hit his tongue.
Then, an impossible sensation: his vision sharpened, a powerful, warm wave of pure life force radiated from his solar plexus and flooded through every nerve ending.
The crushing exhaustion of months vanished in an instant; the sickly, cold drain of the parasitic spirit was briefly neutralized. He felt his blood surge, his limbs become light, and his thoughts clear for the first time since meeting the Dark Lord.
But before he could even process the euphoria, the surge abruptly ceased. The powerful life force was instantly consumed by the massive deficit in his system. The temporary feeling of well-being had vanished, replaced by the familiar, gnawing emptiness. The effect was immediate, profound, and alarmingly brief.
It was too small! Quirrell felt a flash of fury and deep disappointment, like a starving man offered a single, perfect crumb. Is this a mockery?
He couldn't restrain the panic that welled up. His feigned meekness evaporated, replaced by frantic, raw desperation.
"P-Professor Swann, what was that?" Quirrell demanded, his voice suddenly loud, his stammer momentarily forgotten. "I need more! Where did it come from? Can you give me more? I am ready to consume more, immediately!"
Sebastian's smile was knowing, his eyes twinkling with the satisfaction of a master fisherman setting the hook.
"That, Professor Quirrell," Sebastian stated, leaning back comfortably in his chair, "was a highly potent restorative. I acquired it, at great personal expense—many, many Galleons, mind you—from the rare objects Dumbledore sometimes keeps locked away. I call it 'Philosopher's Stone Water'; a liquid that has been in continuous, close proximity to the Stone itself, absorbing its unique energy."
Sebastian shook his head, feigning reluctance. "I regret to say, I have very little left. That small vial was simply a friendly, philanthropic gesture—a temporary restorative to ease your discomfort. I certainly cannot sell it to you. Unless…"
Sebastian let the word hang in the air, his gaze sharp and calculating.
"…Unless we become allies."
Quirrell's mind reeled. The Philosopher's Stone! The very source of the vitality that had just briefly resurrected him! If water merely soaked in the stone could do that, the stone itself was infinitely more valuable than he had imagined. His desperate need to survive instantly merged with the Dark Lord's greedy ambition for immortality.
"If we become allies," Quirrell pressed, his heart hammering against his ribs, "I would then have access to this… this Philosopher's Stone Water? Without charge?"
Sebastian looked utterly bewildered by the naivety. "Free? Professor Quirrell, I am an alchemist and a businessman, not a charity. I never operate at a loss. As an ally, you would gain the opportunity to acquire purchasing rights to my limited stock. I spent a fortune to extract and purchase this residual energy; it is not simply available for the taking."
He then narrowed his eyes, injecting a calculated measure of skepticism into his voice. "Furthermore, you seem exceedingly weak. Are you honestly suggesting that a bit of fatigue warrants such a drastic need for constant, magical replenishment?"
Quirrell faltered. The truth—that a fragment of the Dark Lord was draining his soul—could not be spoken. He had to lie, and quickly.
"This… this is a curse," Quirrell improvised, leaning forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. "From my travels last year. A particularly vile curse that saps life energy. It is why I became so focused on the Philosopher's Stone—not for power, but purely to save my own dwindling life force."
"Ah, I see! A terrible affliction indeed," Sebastian murmured, his expression sympathetic, yet his tone perfectly level. "So, our motivations concerning the Stone are, fundamentally, aligned. You seek survival, and I seek the knowledge and power it represents. We are, Professor, natural allies."
"Yes! Absolutely!" Quirrell exclaimed, desperate relief washing over him. "Let us formalize this alliance now!"
"Hold your enthusiasm, Professor," Sebastian commanded, waving a hand dismissively. "An alliance with me is not a casual partnership. If you are to be my operative in securing the Stone, you must possess sufficient capability and utility. I will not partner with incompetence."
Sebastian's voice hardened. "Let us review your progress. Two months have passed since I first presented you with the framework of the challenge. Tell me, what actionable progress have you made on the fourth-floor defenses? Have you mastered the counter-charm to my Love Magic ward? Have you found a consistent means of neutralizing Cerberus?"
Quirrell's relief instantly evaporated, replaced by mortification. He wrung his hands. "The Love Magic… no. Your problem remains unsolved. And Cerberus…" He shook his head miserably. "But I can tell you it is Hagrid's pet. I only require a short time to exploit that weakness."
Sebastian sighed dramatically, rubbing his temples as if afflicted by an agonizing headache. "Ah, that explains the weakness. Your operational skill is, frankly, lamentable. I struggle to justify this partnership."
He fixed Quirrell with a look of stern, professional doubt. "Very well. Since your practical application is lacking, let us test your theoretical foundation. You read the notes I provided on the structure of the magic of love, did you not? How far does your understanding extend?"
"Your theoretical framework is sound, Professor Swann," Quirrell admitted grudgingly, "but my Dark Arts training makes the practical execution… difficult. I still cannot cast that particular spell."
"It's quite alright. I never expected a Dark Arts professor to conjure a Patronus on command." Sebastian reached into his desk drawer and produced a crisp roll of parchment—a carefully prepared examination paper—and slid it across the desk.
"Since your theoretical foundation is supposedly solid, let us verify it. Please take this preliminary theoretical examination on the components of Emotional Magic."
Quirrell stared at the parchment, then at Sebastian, convinced this was an elaborate, bizarre jest. An exam? I am a Hogwarts professor! I am being consumed by the Dark Lord, and this man demands an essay test on sentimentality?
"This is an insult! A distraction! Do not waste time, Quirrell!" the voice in his turban screamed internally, thick with disgust.
"Do not misunderstand, Professor Quirrell," Sebastian said, his voice now devoid of humor. "I simply require assurance that my partner is not a fundamentally cruel, heartless dark wizard. I believe that anyone who truly understands the mechanism of love, even academically, retains a core of humanity that is not entirely corruptible."
Sebastian tapped the parchment. "The questions are all essay-based. The more nuanced and detailed your explanations—the more you draw from genuine, personal experience—the higher your score. The time limit is one hour. Begin."
Quirrell, his body aching from the strain, glanced longingly at the invisible, phantom supply of Philosopher's Stone water he desperately needed. With a defeated grimace, he picked up the quill.
The essay questions were relentless, targeting every facet of human connection:
Philosophical Love (Agape/Eros): What is the nature of transcendent love? Explain the difference between love as valuing a person for their utility, versus valuing a person for their inherent being.
Filial Affection: Analyze the bonds of family love. Discuss, in detail, the responsibilities and sacrifices inherent in honoring and caring for one's parents.
Maternal/Paternal Devotion: Examine the depth of a mother's or father's love for their child. Detail a scenario demonstrating this bond's power as a shield against the Dark Arts.
Love of Life (Zoe): Define your passion for existence and the methods you would employ to maintain your vitality and zeal in the face of inevitable adversity.
Quirrell began writing, initially penning stilted, academic answers. But under the immense, debilitating pressure—the ticking clock, the knowledge that his life hung on the whims of this eccentric master alchemist—his guard dropped.
He began writing not from research, but from the raw, repressed pain of his own existence, filling the parchment with the pathetic echoes of the feelings he had long since betrayed: the faint memory of wanting his mother's pride, the deep, terrible fear of death, and the pathetic longing for his old, harmless life.
As he wrote, tiny, almost invisible motes of flickering red light—the E-Energy of his residual, repressed human emotion—began to bleed from his body. Sebastian watched, satisfied, as the faint energy was silently and harmlessly absorbed by the pervasive, sensitive runic matrix of the castle walls.
Excellent, Sebastian thought. The core is still there. He is salvageable.
The hour passed quickly. Quirrell's hand cramped as he put down his quill, the entire parchment covered in frantic, tight script.
"Time," Sebastian announced. He quickly scanned the paper, noting the authenticity bleeding through the polished words.
Sebastian smiled brilliantly. "Professor Quirrell, I genuinely appreciate your answers. They reveal a man whose heart, though troubled, is not entirely vacant. Congratulations. We are now allies."
He produced two elegant parchments and slid them across the desk.
"These are magical contracts. The first is a covenant of failure: 'Should you fail in the attempt to secure the Philosopher's Stone, you must sever all contact and dealings with me and never reveal the contents of our conversations.' This is to protect my business interests and reputation. The second is a covenant of success: 'Upon the successful acquisition of the Stone, you and I will share the results, including the residual Stone Water, under mutually agreed-upon terms.' This ensures my investment is protected. Read them closely and sign."
Quirrell seized the contracts. He read every line, every fine-print clause regarding penalties for betrayal (magical binding, ruinous financial forfeiture). He noted that both documents were drafted with meticulous, legally sound, and terrifying magical protection.
This is real. This is not a Dumbledore trap! The contracts confirmed what Quirrell most desperately wanted to believe: Sebastian Swann was a ruthlessly pragmatic, high-level thief, intent on securing the Stone for his own gain, not a moralistic spy.
A wave of profound relief washed over Quirrell. He signed both happily, a surge of adrenaline masking his exhaustion.
"The Cerberus…" Quirrell began, now eager to prove his worth. "You mentioned you had intelligence?"
Sebastian raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Professor, you claimed to be making progress. I am far too busy to solicit detailed plans from a sentimental groundskeeper. But you need not worry about the other defenses. I am privy to the methods all the professors used to pass their levels."
He leaned in, his voice low and confidential. "More crucially, I can tell you that Albus Dumbledore still suspects the existence of an amateur thief—a lone operator—and has therefore not yet placed the Philosopher's Stone on the fourth floor. It remains under his personal, impenetrable guard."
"Therefore, we must exercise patience. My current role is to monitor Dumbledore's movements and determine the exact moment the Stone is relocated. In the meantime, your task is simple: master the method of bypassing Cerberus, and study the weaknesses of the other professors' wards."
Intelligence… logistics… a master plan! Quirrell felt an instant sense of immense security. This was true power—not the bluster of the Dark Lord, but the cold, meticulous planning of a master criminal. Allying with Sebastian had been a stroke of genius; he finally had hope.
Quirrell rubbed his clammy hands together, his gaze fixed on Sebastian. "The… the Philosopher's Stone Water?"
Sebastian produced a full, stoppered glass bottle, nearly ten times the size of the tiny vial he'd given Quirrell, and pushed it across the table. It glowed faintly, powerfully.
"One thousand Galleons per bottle, Professor," Sebastian stated, his smile purely transactional. "Small business. No credit."
One thousand Galleons. Quirrell froze, the cost an immediate, painful constraint. That is the entirety of my disposable income for the year, maybe more!
I won't even keep my first paycheck!
But survival trumped solvency. He counted out the heavy gold coins, pushing them across the table. As he took the large bottle of potent restorative, a wicked, mercenary idea sparked in his desperate mind.
Making money… Quirrell thought, remembering the recent influx of low-grade Dark Wizards he'd encountered drinking at the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade. They were easy marks, barely competent criminals with modest bounties on their heads.
He clutched the precious bottle. I am a Hogwarts Professor. I can easily subdue them, hand them over to the Ministry of Magic, and collect the rewards.
A cruel, predatory grin stretched Quirrell's pale face. Dark Wizards. Your Uncle Quirrell is coming for your reward money!