Harry only lifted his head briefly before lowering it again.
He dismissed the idea almost instantly.
Voldemort, in his current state, was barely clinging to life—parasitizing someone else's body, surviving on unicorn blood just to scrape by.
If he couldn’t defeat such a debilitated Voldemort, then all those lessons Cassandra and Veratia had drilled into him a century ago would have been for nothing. He might as well quit Hogwarts and enroll in Stonewall High to live the quiet life of a Muggle.
Harry decided to wait. He would act when Quirrell went to the third floor to steal the Philosopher’s Stone.
That way, he’d even have a legitimate reason to make use of the Stone.
Casting minor hexes in front of classmates—even harmless ones—could still scare people a little.
Harry tucked these thoughts away and kept his head low, continuing to listen to Quirrell’s lecture.
When he returned to the Gryffindor common room that evening, Ron whispered to him, “What’s going on, mate? You actually paid attention in class today. That’s not like you.”
Ron wasn’t wrong. Quirrell’s usual stammering and utterly useless lectures were practically a lullaby.
It wasn’t just Gryffindors—Ravenclaws, too, had long since categorized Defense Against the Dark Arts as being on par with History of Magic.
“Something’s wrong with Quirrell,” Harry said, sitting down on the sofa. “I just figured it out.”
“Really?” Hermione leaned in, lowering her voice. “No wonder he’s been taking so much leave. Harry, what did you find out?”
“Do you remember when I said Voldemort is hiding at Hogwarts?” Harry asked Hermione.
She hesitated before nodding. “I remember, but what does that have to do with Quirrell?”
“It was Voldemort who attacked Miss Poppy in the Forbidden Forest,” Harry explained. “When I drove him away, I left a mark on him. Today, during class, I sensed that mark on Quirrell.”
“That means Quirrell is Voldemort! Voldemort is Quirrell!” Ron declared, slamming his fist into his palm.
“No way!” Hermione furrowed her brows, resting her chin on her hand. “If Voldemort is so weak he’s attacking unicorns, then he must be in dire straits. Quirrell, on the other hand, just looks a bit pale. He doesn’t seem that weak… Wait—I’ve got it!”
She slammed the table in excitement. “I know why Quirrell wears that massive turban! If Harry’s mark is real, then Voldemort must be hiding under that turban!”
“Uh…” Seamus raised a hand. “Really? I mean, no offense, but the Dark Lord’s supposed to be this powerful dark wizard. Why would he be like… a parasite stuck to someone’s head, wrapped up in garlic-scented cloth? That’s just… off.”
“Someone as evil as Voldemort, who’s stooped to attacking unicorns, wouldn’t care about appearances anymore,” Hermione said firmly. “If that’s the case, the Philosopher’s Stone is in danger. We need to inform Professor Dumbledore!”
She hurried out of the common room.
“She’s really something, isn’t she?” Ron raised an eyebrow.
Moments later, Hermione came rushing back in.
“Bad news, Harry!” she hissed. “I just went to find Professor McGonagall. She said Dumbledore received an urgent letter from the Ministry and has left Hogwarts!”
“Didn’t you tell McGonagall about Quirrell?” Ron asked.
“She didn’t believe me!” Hermione covered her face in frustration. “She told me not to assume the worst of our professors and to stop saying things that might disrupt the school’s unity.”
Harry’s instincts told him something was off. As the greatest white wizard of the era, how could Dumbledore not notice something was wrong with Quirrell?
What troubled him most was the timing. Quirrell had just returned to school, and immediately Dumbledore was called away by the Ministry.
Could this be a scheme by Quirrell—or rather, Voldemort—to lure Dumbledore away? With Dumbledore gone, the school would be unguarded.
“We can’t wait any longer,” Harry said, standing up. He patted the wand hidden inside his robes and turned to Ron. “I’m going to stop him!”
He strode toward the exit.
Harry turned to see Ron following him.
“You’ll need a hand, won’t you?” Ron said. “I’m coming with you.”
“Me too.” “Count me in.” The other three chimed in.
“I need to remind you,” Harry said, glancing at them, “this isn’t a trip to the Room of Requirement for a little dueling practice. We’re going up against the most dangerous dark wizard of the century: Voldemort.”
“I know,” Ron said seriously. “But we’re friends. I can’t just sit by while you face danger alone.”
“Ron.” Harry placed a hand on his shoulder. “I appreciate it, but Voldemort isn’t a problem first-years should handle…”
Ron’s body trembled slightly at the mention of Voldemort, but he quickly steadied himself. “You told me once during our duel: I’m your second. If something happens to you, I’ll step up.”
Hermione added, “And Dumbledore didn’t just have Hagrid set up Fluffy for no reason. There must be more obstacles. With us, you can get through them faster.”
“Wait,” Harry said, stopping them.
He returned to the dormitory and pulled out a vial of Felix Felicis—Liquid Luck, a Christmas gift from Snape.
When he returned to the common room, his four friends were waiting anxiously.
“If anyone wants to back out, now’s the time,” Harry said, looking at them seriously. “We’re about to face Voldemort. There’s no shame in being afraid.”
“V-Voldemort’s followers tortured my parents,” Neville stammered, standing straighter. “Even if it’s for them, I can’t back down!”
“We’re Gryffindors,” Ron said, thumping his chest. “We’ve got bravery deep in our hearts. It’s our courage and determination that make our house great!”
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