Chapter 53
Gray left the classroom without seeing what happened to Quirrell afterwards, but he could easily guess.
That surge of dark intent at the end had undoubtedly come from Voldemort. The needle-like prick against his mind had been an attempt at Legilimency.
Fortunately, Voldemort was currently in a severely weakened state; the spell had barely any force behind it and had been deflected by Gray's own instinctive Magical Surge.
Magical Surge was the term he had given to the phenomenon he had first observed while handling the unicorn carcass: the violent shattering and dispersal of magical circuits, like a breaking dam releasing a flood that swept away and disrupted any incoming spellwork directed at the same target.
It wasn't a formal spell, merely a specialised technique for manipulating one's own magic. By deliberately diffusing his magical energy outward in a chaotic burst, he could interfere with—and greatly weaken—any spell attempting to take hold on him, providing a layer of crude but effective protection.
Of course, against someone of Dumbledore's calibre the defence would be about as substantial as wet parchment. But Gray knew Dumbledore's character well enough: unless Gray himself turned to the Dark Arts, the headmaster would never subject a student to harmful magic. Dumbledore had spent decades mastering self-restraint.
The effectiveness of Magical Surge depended entirely on the caster's total magical reserves. It was, in essence, a direct outward explosion of one's own power that collided with incoming spell circuits, scattering or neutralising them.
Gray's natural talent meant his magical core was already ten times larger than that of most wizards his age—and it was still growing steadily. He had no immediate worry about burning through his reserves.
He exhaled slowly and set off towards the Gryffindor common room.
The encounter had been unnerving. Better to stick close to the Boy Who Lived for a while. If Quirrell really did try anything, Gray could simply point Harry in his direction and let "the power of love" sort things out.
As for himself, Gray had a very clear sense of his current limitations. He could handle most first-years without difficulty, surprise a second- or third-year if he caught them off guard, but fourth-year and above was already pushing it. An adult wizard like Quirrell—let alone the thing riding around inside Quirrell's head—was far beyond him at present.
Halfway to the tower, a tall figure stepped out from an alcove and blocked his path.
Snape.
The Potions Master stared down at him with eyes like empty tunnels, utterly devoid of warmth.
"Is something the matter, Professor Snape?" Light particles drifted from Gray's wand, forming the question in the air.
"I have a few questions for you, Gabin," Snape said. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile that was more grimace than anything welcoming.
"Do you ever think that Harry Potter is… too foolish to deserve the title of 'the Chosen One'?"
Contempt and disdain flickered openly in Snape's gaze.
"I don't understand what you mean," Gray replied.
"I mean," Snape continued, forcing his voice into something approximating gentleness, "that the title would suit 'you' far better."
"You possess exceptional talent. You are exceptionally intelligent. That honour should belong to you—not to that idiotic Potter."
Gray fell silent.
The "Chosen One" wasn't something you could activate with a quick press of a button, and he had no interest in claiming it anyway. He didn't have a famous scar on his forehead or any protective love-magic woven into his very being.
More to the point: accepting that title meant going toe-to-toe with Voldemort. One mistake and you were dead. Gray had no intention of playing the martyr. Right now all he wanted was to study magic properly, then—when the time was right—slip away abroad for a few years. Travel the wizarding world, see the sights, and return only after everything had blown over.
But why was Snape telling 'him' all this?
"I still don't understand," Gray said. The same words reformed in light above his wand.
Snape didn't elaborate. He simply studied Gray for a long moment before asking, almost casually,
"When is your birthday?"
Gray knew the answer.
"March," he replied. "I was born in March."
Snape went very still. An unreadable light passed through his eyes as he looked at Gray.
"Think carefully about what I've said, Gabin."
With that, he turned and swept away, black robes billowing behind him like dark wings, making him look for all the world like a giant bat gliding through the shadows.
Gray stared after him, utterly baffled.
Had Snape really just tried to turn him against Harry? Was this some bizarre attempt to drive a wedge between them so Gray could challenge Harry, steal his glory, and claim the "Chosen One" mantle for himself?
No thanks. Gray had zero interest in inheriting Harry's destiny or squaring off against Voldemort. Far too much hassle.
When he finally reached the Gryffindor common room, he found Hermione, Harry and Ron clustered around a table, deep in discussion.
As Gray approached, he saw two identical slips of parchment lying between them.
Your detention will begin tonight at eleven o'clock. Meet Mr Filch in the Entrance Hall.
Signed: Professor McGonagall.
"Gray, you're back," Hermione said, noticing him first.
She pointed at the notes. "It's about last time. Professor McGonagall says Harry and I have to serve another detention—something about making the lesson stick."
"That's not fair," Ron protested. "You and Gray have probably earned back eighty or a hundred points between you by now. Why do you still have to do detention?"
"I wonder what we'll actually have to do," Harry said, frowning. "It won't be polishing the third-floor trophy room again, will it?"
"I bet they lock us in an empty classroom and slide exam papers under the door," Hermione said darkly. "No leaving until everything's finished."
"Then you'd be in permanent detention," Ron quipped.
Gray listened quietly—and suddenly remembered exactly what this particular detention entailed.
The Forbidden Forest.
They would be sent into the forest… and there they would encounter Quirrell—Voldemort riding on the back of his head.
A sudden thought struck Gray like a spark.
He had always found this punishment oddly harsh when he'd read about it in his previous life. Sending students who'd only broken curfew into the Forbidden Forest? One wrong step and they could be killed.
But now, looking at Harry, another possibility occurred to him.
What if this wasn't really a punishment at all?
What if it was Dumbledore fishing—with Harry as the bait.
At this point in time—especially after Hagrid had reported the dead unicorns to the school—Dumbledore almost certainly suspected Voldemort's return. He just didn't yet know exactly where the Dark Lord was hiding, or in what condition.
No one—except perhaps Gray himself—suspected that Voldemort was physically present inside the castle, riding around on the back of Quirrell's head. Most people who distrusted Quirrell assumed he was merely dabbling in the Dark Arts or had sworn allegiance to Voldemort from afar.
Even Dumbledore probably hadn't pieced 'that' together yet. He likely believed Voldemort was lurking somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
And so he had arranged for two students—one of them the very boy destined to face Voldemort—to be sent straight into the forest under the pretext of detention.
Gray kept the thought to himself.
Some things, he decided, were better left unsaid.
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