"Each class would be attended by two Houses together. This was to encourage students from different Houses to interact, so..."
Dumbledore didn't continue. He reached for a Toffee Finger Biscuit and began to eat.
Clearly, he expected Quirrell to come up with a solution himself.
"Set up a practical training ground," Quirrell said. "Only teams made up of students from all four Houses would be allowed to participate. That would solve the problem of getting them to interact."
"That's one solution. But where would you put this training ground?" Dumbledore asked, picking up his honey drink and taking a sip.
"The Forbidden Forest. If you'll allow it, I'll need Hagrid as an assistant professor. He can help me find enough Magical Creatures."
"You seem to have thought this through very carefully." Dumbledore set down his biscuit and furrowed his brow, deep in thought.
Quirrell waited quietly. He knew Dumbledore needed time to think—the new approach to teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts was a major change, and the Headmaster would surely need to consider it carefully.
"Give him a chance." A woman's voice suddenly rang out, startling them both into turning around.
It was the portrait of Headmistress Dilys Derwent speaking. She had been Headmistress of Hogwarts in the mid-eighteenth century and was well known both at Hogwarts and throughout the Wizarding World.
"Oh, Dilys," Dumbledore said to her. "Tell us what you think. You haven't spoken up in a long time."
"My portrait at St. Mungo's has seen far too many incompetent wizards. Over the past two centuries, wizards' practical combat skills have declined terribly."
She rolled her eyes. "Wizards in the past weren't afraid to face dozens of opponents. But nowadays... they can be killed by fake Floo Powder. Those foolish wizards need to grow up."
"Dilys, fighting Muggles and using fake Floo Powder are two different things."
A portrait not far from Dilys spoke up. Quirrell recognized Headmaster Black, another very famous Headmaster.
"I know that, but I can't stand their stupidity. A little risk would help them understand the world," Dilys retorted, displeased.
"All right," Dumbledore said, making Headmaster Black swallow his rebuttal. "I accept your opinion. It's just..."
He turned to Quirrell, who met his gaze with a mixture of anticipation and curiosity.
"How will you handle the timetable?" Dumbledore asked. "If you have to teach each year group from each House separately, I don't think you'll be able to manage it all."
"Perhaps I could use a Time-Turner," Quirrell said.
As a top Ravenclaw student, he had used one for a year in his third year, but afterward he had given up that privilege. The device had made him feel as though time itself were out of joint. But this time, it was Voldemort's request.
"No."
Dumbledore rejected the idea without hesitation. "An adult's magic would make it malfunction. Besides, doubling your teaching hours would leave you dead on your feet—and the curse might double in strength too."
Quirrell shuddered. He drained a cup of honey drink before speaking again. "Then we could combine neighboring year groups within the same House, and cover two topics in each class. With the help of seventh-year teaching assistants, I don't think it would be a problem."
Dumbledore took off his half-moon spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose between his right thumb and forefinger. He looked rather helpless as he closed his eyes and thought.
Quirrell waited quietly. He knew he was asking for a lot, but... these were the Dark Lord's ideas.
More than forty years ago, the Dark Lord had wanted to become the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. When he was denied the position, he had even cursed it.
Now he had finally gotten what he wanted, and these ideas...
Quirrell couldn't help thinking that this was the curriculum the Dark Lord had been dreaming about and refining for forty years.
Seen in that light, its complexity and the scale of the changes didn't seem quite so unreasonable.
In truth, some of the ideas had indeed come from the Dark Lord's Remnant Soul. But after their souls merged, they had been heavily revised—he firmly believed that setting up a training ground where students fought one another until one side was knocked unconscious was unacceptable.
"So, in other words..."
Dumbledore finally spoke. "You need to set up a practical training ground in the Forbidden Forest, overhaul the entire curriculum, and... have several teaching assistants, including Hagrid?"
Quirrell blinked. It suddenly occurred to him that he really might be asking too much.
"Ahem... I suppose... that's about right," he said at last, bracing himself.
"I imagine you've given Professor McGonagall quite a lot of extra work."
As he spoke, Dumbledore waved his wand. A silver phoenix burst from the Elder Wand, circled once, then flew out the door. It was probably off to deliver a message to Professor McGonagall.
"If Professor McGonagall can adjust the timetable to suit your needs, I'll support your changes to Defense Against the Dark Arts."
As he spoke, Dumbledore moved the blood donation pamphlet aside and took out a blank sheet of paper. "But if the timetable won't allow it, can you teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in the usual way?"
He had already picked up his quill and dipped it in ink.
"Of course," Quirrell said confidently. "Ravenclaw's wisdom means I usually make two sets of plans."
"Then wait a moment, please. Allow me to write your appointment letter." Dumbledore began writing Quirrell's letter of appointment right there.
It seemed a little formalistic, but surely the great White Wizard wouldn't do anything without reason. Hogwarts was a mysterious place; perhaps this was a necessary part of the process.
Quirrell suppressed his excitement and did his best to look calm, but his eyes couldn't help drifting toward Dumbledore's elegant handwriting. And then...
He saw something he shouldn't have.
Just in front of the appointment letter—partly hidden beneath the blood donation pamphlet—was a short letter. It read:
Dear Dumbledore,
I will place the Philosopher's Stone in Vault 713 at Gringotts on the morning of July 31. I hope you can retrieve it before nightfall, as the Goblins have their eyes on it.
Your friend, Nicolas Flamel.
The short letter revealed enough to drive any wizard mad.
But in that instant, what rose in Quirrell's heart wasn't greed. It was fear. He was absolutely certain that Dumbledore had let him see it on purpose, because his master had once suspected the Philosopher's Stone was a trap.
"My goodness, Headmaster, is that really the Philosopher's Stone?" he cried out without hesitation. Dumbledore turned to him in surprise.
"Oh, it's still here. I should have put it away."
As he spoke, Dumbledore tucked the letter into his robes. But it was obviously too late, wasn't it?
"I mean..." Quirrell still looked astonished. "This is incredible. I never imagined I'd be this close to it."
"You're a long way from it, my boy." Dumbledore chuckled at him.
"All right, Headmaster. You're right."
Quirrell slumped in his chair like a deflated balloon, as if Dumbledore hadn't just put away a letter, but the Philosopher's Stone he'd been about to get.
If Voldemort were still awake, he would surely have used a Chinese expression to describe how Quirrell felt at that moment:
He'd just missed out on a fortune.
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