"Harry? Why are you here? I thought Gryffindor's tryouts weren't until tomorrow?"
Avada blinked, genuinely confused. He did know that Harry, thanks to his outstanding flying talent, had been noticed by Professor McGonagall in his first year and made a Seeker—but had he really skipped even the preliminaries?If that were the case, what would the other players think? And how were they supposed to coordinate during matches?
Oh. Right. Seekers didn't really need to coordinate with anyone.Never mind, then.
"Oh, you don't know yet—I was just about to—"
Harry was just about to excitedly explain how Professor McGonagall had personally approved him as Gryffindor's youngest Seeker ever and even given him a Nimbus 2000, when a voice suddenly interrupted him—
"Harry?"
A tall boy in red protective gear came over, tucking a large crate under his arm. When he saw Harry chatting with someone, he froze for a moment. "Is this your friend? Wait, you're that—"
"Wood."
Avada raised a hand in greeting. They had met last year during the Weasley twins' tryouts.
"Oh—Ken."
Wood finally fished out the memory of "that person whose name couldn't be mentioned" and nodded back before continuing, "Sorry, Ken, but could I ask you to give us a bit of privacy? We're kind of—"
"Wood, I think—" Harry started to protest, but Avada cut in first.
"Is it something confidential? In that case, no problem. I'll head out."
Avada smiled. It seemed Wood wanted to keep Harry's true skill level under wraps, saving it as a surprise weapon for official matches. "See you, Harry. And good luck with training, Wood."
Besides, after watching Quidditch matches all day, he was more than ready for a break.
After saying goodbye to a slightly regretful-looking Harry, Avada headed straight for the Great Hall. Dinner time wasn't quite over yet, and plenty of students were still eating—many of them Slytherins who had just finished their tryouts. They hadn't even changed out of their gear, stuffing themselves at the tables like they were starving. Which, to be fair, they probably were—their tryouts had landed right on top of dinner.
"Hey, Ken!"
Avada turned to see Baron waving at him while elegantly cutting into a steak. Avada walked over and sat opposite him, helping himself to some food as they chatted.
"I haven't congratulated you yet—congrats on getting the Seeker position."
"Forget that for a second. I just heard Draco saying Harry Potter nearly broke his neck in flying class. You Hufflepuffs get along well with Gryffindor—heard anything?"
"...I literally just saw him. He looked cheerful enough, didn't seem hurt at all."
Avada hesitated over whether to tell Baron about the fact that Harry had already rolled a piece of god-tier equipment, but decided against it. Better to wait until Quidditch season was closer—no need to stir up trouble early.
When the time came, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, two first-years riding the world's top competition brooms while fighting over the Golden Snitch—that would be one hell of a spectacle. Though it would be rough on Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory...
"Huh?"
Avada froze, suddenly realizing what felt off.
Why was it that everyone close to him kept becoming Seekers?
He'd always thought Seeker was the most irrational position in Quidditch...
"Hey, what are you thinking about?"
Baron waved a hand in front of his face, snapping him out of it. "Oh—sorry. What were we talking about?"
"Draco and Harry," Baron said, having already finished eating and now wiping his mouth. "I'll ask Draco about it later. The way he talked about it felt off—didn't sound like shock or concern..."
"Oh! Right—almost forgot!"
Baron suddenly jolted upright. "Merlin, we got carried away talking. Almost forgot the important part—Professor Quirrell came by earlier asking where you were. He said that if I saw you, I should tell you to go to his office."
Avada's expression tightened.
What's going on? Why is Voldemort looking for me now?He's not planning to toss me to Fluffy as a test subject, is he? Come to think of it, by now Harry and the others should already know about the trapdoor...
"What's wrong?" Baron asked, noticing his change in expression. He couldn't help recalling last year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. "Don't tell me this one's got problems too? I thought something was off during his classes—who teaches for two weeks and still looks terrified of students?"
"What are you thinking?" Avada laughed and shook his head. "I just asked him some tricky questions last time and stumped him. He said he'd call me back once he'd sorted out his thoughts. Guess this is that."
"Relax. Defense Against the Dark Arts professors change every year, sure—but it can't go wrong every year, or no one would take the job. I'll get going."
"Yeah, see you."
Last term, Baron had only gotten dragged into Professor Baker's incident because Avada had shown him the Room of Requirement. This time, the opponent was far more dangerous—and the payoff for beating him was practically nonexistent. There was no reason to involve Baron.
Against Voldemort, having Dumbledore and the professors, Harry with his protective enchantments, his two friends—and himself, armed with foreknowledge and cheats—was more than enough.
Avada hurried back to the dormitory, quickly emptied his bag until only a blank notebook and a Quick-Quotes Quill remained. With Psychodynamics and his related notes in hand, he slung the bag over his shoulder and headed to the third floor, knocking on the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.
The moment the door opened, he activated Occlumency—and saw that Quirrell's body was already being dominated by a mass of dark-golden mental energy.
Voldemort was personally logged in again.
"Professor Quirrell, you were looking for me?"
"Oh, nothing serious," Quirrell said with a gentle smile, pulling out a chair for Avada. "After recommending Psychodynamics to you, I realized the content might be a bit too advanced. I was worried you might have trouble grasping it, so I wanted to ask how your progress was."
"Ah—perfect timing, actually. I've accumulated quite a few questions. I was planning to gather them all before coming to you, so I wouldn't take up too much of your time..."
"You see here—I made some notes. Regarding the specific meaning of this logical symbol, the phenomenon it describes seems to involve greater uncertainty and unpredictability..."
While maintaining Occlumency, Avada discreetly activated the Quick-Quotes Quill hidden in his bag, recording Voldemort's mental energy fluctuations. He'd deliberately placed the bag near the door, far from the desk, and modified it beforehand. Combined with the quill's near-silent operation, it minimized the risk of being detected.
"You haven't fully understood this part... no, rather, the book itself doesn't explain it clearly. It is several decades old, after all. In fact..."
Voldemort flipped through Avada's notes, nodding in approval as he picked up a pen and began annotating and explaining in earnest. The thoroughness of it all almost made Avada feel guilty—analyzing Voldemort's mind while freeloading off his knowledge and plotting to kill him at the same time. Even sheep shearing had its limits.
But then he remembered what the man before him had done—and what he would do in the future—and that fleeting guilt evaporated.
For his own sake, and for everyone's peaceful lives, it was better to deal with this monster as early as possible. If Voldemort truly revived and reassembled the Death Eaters, the British wizarding world would descend into chaos—and Avada, a Muggle-born, would be among those targeted most viciously. Others might not know his blood status, but would the Department of Mysteries have failed to investigate his ancestry? If they said he was Muggle-born, then he was Muggle-born. No escaping that.
(End of Chapter)