Chapter 51
"That actually doesn't sound half bad," Ron said with a grin. "Gray's earned loads of points for the house already. We could probably even get away with raising another dragon."
Hermione shot him a withering look.
"Of course no one else would see it that way," she said firmly. "For the next little while we need to keep our heads down. No more drawing attention. We stay quiet until this blows over."
Harry nodded. It made perfect sense.
Ron nodded too, though privately he thought Hermione was usually the one who attracted the most attention. He and Harry managed to stay almost invisible most of the time—so invisible that he sometimes wished the professors would simply forget they existed.
Especially Snape. If Snape could just stop calling on Harry—or on whoever happened to be sitting next to Harry—that would be brilliant.
Gray watched the exchange and found himself quietly revising his opinion of Hermione.
He already knew, from fragmented memories of the future, that she would one day become Minister for Magic. Still, seeing her display such composure and natural leadership at only twelve was impressive—even if her "team" currently consisted of two boys a year younger than herself.
There was no denying it: the future Minister had been exceptional even as a child.
At that moment Parvati and Lavender entered the Great Hall for breakfast.
They were Hermione's dorm-mates and, in a general sense, her friends.
Their eyes met Hermione's. For a heartbeat the three of them seemed frozen. Then Parvati and Lavender quietly chose seats a careful distance away and spent the entire meal pointedly not looking in Hermione's direction.
A flicker of loneliness crossed Hermione's face. The brightness in her eyes dimmed just a fraction. Without a word she bent her head and carried on eating her breakfast.
In that moment she looked exactly like what she was: a twelve-year-old girl.
For the next several days the three of them—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—stuck rigidly to their plan of lying low. No extra talking in the corridors, no unnecessary risks, nothing that might draw further notice.
Gray, for his part, had always been low-profile. Plenty of students had probably forgotten there was even a mute wizard in the school.
Before Norbert's arrival he had spent almost every spare moment either in the library or in the Room of Requirement; he rarely lingered in the Gryffindor common room. After Norbert left he simply returned to the same routine, the only real change being that he now occasionally answered questions in class.
That small shift had already earned Gryffindor a respectable number of points.
Hermione no longer shot her hand into the air at every lesson, but she poured extra effort into written assignments and steadily reclaimed a few points here and there.
Harry and Ron, by contrast, felt rather helpless. They even had a serious discussion about whether they should approach Filch and offer to polish the trophies on the third-floor corridor in exchange for points.
Then they remembered that Filch was only the caretaker—he had the power to punish, not to award house points—and the idea was abandoned.
Defence Against the Dark Arts.
As usual, Quirrell delivered his lesson in a painful, stammering monotone. Most of the class ignored him entirely, occupying themselves with doodles, whispered conversations, or surreptitious games of Exploding Snap under the desks.
Gray was no exception. Today's topic was the Ramora—a magical fish capable of attaching itself to ships' hulls and slowing them to a standstill—and he had already read and memorised the relevant chapter in 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them'. He was simply waiting for the bell.
When it finally rang, students packed up with practised speed. Gray did the same; he had arranged to meet Hermione in the library. She wanted to review this term's material; he intended to sort through the jumble of magical history he had been reading lately.
Too many books in too short a time. The facts were starting to blur. He needed to organise them properly—perhaps even construct a proper memory palace in his mind.
He was almost at the door when a voice stopped him.
"Mr—Mr G-G-Gabin," Quirrell called, the words dragging painfully. "A—a moment, if you p-please."
Gray paused, expression neutral, and turned.
Quirrell's face was whiter than ever. If he had previously resembled a ghost, now he looked like a ghost that had died a second time. Even fresh snow seemed warm by comparison.
It was almost remarkable that someone who appeared so close to collapse had managed to stay upright—and teaching—for so long. Fred and George had once started a betting pool on exactly when Professor Quirrell's body would finally give out, though they had eventually decided it was too disrespectful to a teacher and quietly dropped the idea.
Gray gave Hermione a small nod—go on ahead—then waited alone in the emptying classroom.
Truthfully, he felt a prickle of tension. He had no idea what Quirrell wanted… or rather, what 'Voldemort' wanted.
Still, his wand was already in his hand. That helped.
Months of dedicated practice in the Room of Requirement had not been wasted. He didn't flatter himself that he could defeat Quirrell—or the thing possessing him—but he was reasonably confident he could create enough surprise to get away cleanly.
Besides, his body had absorbed more than one slab of Rock Cake over the years. He was certain he could outrun the wheezing, half-dead figure currently shuffling towards him.
And if things went truly wrong… well, he wouldn't hesitate to shout for Dumbledore and let the headmaster sort out the possession problem.
"Mr G-G-Gabin," Quirrell said, drawing close enough that a powerful waft of garlic hit Gray like a Bludger.
Gray wrinkled his nose but kept his wand steady.
"I—I was w-wondering," Quirrell continued with what he clearly meant to be a friendly smile, "where your p-parents… where they c-come from?"
Gray let a few sparks of light drift from his wand, arranging themselves into neat floating letters.
I don't know. I'm an orphan. I grew up in an orphanage.
"Ah. I s-see." Quirrell exhaled heavily. "I—I had h-hoped to discuss with you the m-matter of the… the f-face boil."
He gasped the last words as though they had cost him his remaining strength, tilting his head this way and that so that fresh waves of garlic odour rolled over Gray.
"I don't know anything about face boils," Gray replied, more light-formed words appearing. "I've never lived in the East."
He genuinely couldn't fathom what Quirrell was playing at. Why keep bringing up face boils? Was he trying to hint that Voldemort was riding around on the back of his head?
And even if Gray 'did' know, what exactly was he supposed to do about it? He wasn't about to volunteer to fight the Dark Lord.
"I—I s-see," Quirrell said, sounding crestfallen.
Then, abruptly, his entire demeanour changed.
"You may g-go," he said—suddenly speaking at normal speed.
Gray blinked, surprised, but gave a short nod. He picked up his bag and backed slowly towards the door, never quite turning his back.
Just as he reached the threshold, he felt it: a sharp, malevolent probe—like a needle being jabbed towards his mind.
Silver light flared briefly in his eyes. His magic surged, hot and restless, like water coming to the boil. His footsteps quickened.
Behind him, in the empty classroom, a cold, hissing voice echoed inside Quirrell's skull.
"Why were you speaking to that boy?"
The words struck Quirrell like blows; his already pallid face drained further.
"M-Master," he whispered, eyes wide with terror and a strange, desperate resolve, "the boy has… exceptional talent. Dumbledore himself said he could become the greatest wizard in the world. I thought… his body would be suitable for you."
He did not want to die. If that was the price of survival, then so be it.
A low, venomous chuckle rolled through Quirrell's mind.
"He will 'never' be the greatest wizard."
The voice dripped with contempt.
"'Never.'"
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