A Covenant Dancing with the Devil

"S-sorry, Professor!" A panicked, tearful voice cut in.

Neville Longbottom's chubby face poked around the corner, pale as a ghost, tears brimming in his eyes. "I-I can't find my toad, Trevor! I heard, I heard someone say he ran this way."

Snape spun around sharply, his black robes swirling like a startled bat.

His face was twisted with the irritation of being interrupted and extreme impatience as he barked, "Longbottom! Get back to your tower! Now!"

Neville flinched, burst into tears, and ran off without looking back.

Snape glared darkly at the spot where Neville had vanished, then shot a vicious glance at Quirrell, knowing this was no time to press further.

"We'll talk later, Quirinus." He dropped this icy threat and strode off in the direction Neville had gone, his robes stirring a chill wind behind him.

Quirrell watched Snape disappear, then slumped against the wall like a puppet with cut strings, sliding to the floor. He gasped for air, his fingers twitching nervously at his grimy turban.

He struggled to his feet, desperate to flee this cursed spot.

"It seems I missed a thrilling match, yet caught an interesting conversation."

A calm voice rang out from the shadows on the other side. Quirrell froze as if hit by a Petrification Curse, turning his head in terror.

Caesar stepped out slowly from behind a massive stone pillar, his face expressionless, as if he were merely stating a fact. He had clearly been listening for some time.

"Caesar! Professor Caesar!" Quirrell's voice twisted, dripping with a fear far deeper than what he'd shown Snape. He scrambled backward on all fours, trying to get away.

"When... when did you..."

Caesar didn't answer his question. He simply looked down at Quirrell, sprawled on the floor, his gaze seeming to pierce through the thick turban to the far more evil presence clinging behind it.

His eyes held none of Snape's overt suspicion or hostility, but a deeper, all-knowing coldness.

"The castle is always full of surprises, isn't it, Professor Quirrell?" Caesar's voice was soft, yet it stabbed into Quirrell's eardrums like an ice pick. "Like a lost toad, or a professor who's a little too strange."

Caesar's voice echoed through the empty corridor. Quirrell stood frozen, his eyes beneath the turban wide with terror.

His voice trembling, on the verge of tears, Quirrell said, "Professor Caesar, I-I don't know what you're talking about?"

Caesar stepped closer, his footsteps echoing coldly off the stone walls.

He stopped in front of Quirrell, his gaze seeming to pass through him, staring straight at the hidden soul behind his head. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips as he said, "Let's skip this tedious charade, Quirrell. Or would you prefer I call you Tom Riddle?"

Quirrell suddenly convulsed violently, as if struck by an invisible electric shock. His eyes rolled back, and a guttural, inhuman rattle escaped his throat.

A cold, hoarse voice, like a snake's hiss, rang out clearly from beneath the turban wrapped around the back of his head, carrying offended fury and a hint of barely concealed shock: "How dare you speak that name!"

Caesar's smile didn't fade; it deepened.

He even tilted his head slightly with interest, as if savoring the bizarre spectacle.

"It's just a name. Why so tense? Or is it that you're more concerned about the fact that I can 'see' you?"

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His fingertips tapped lightly against his wand.

That wand, made from the male feather of a One-Winged Bird and a dragon heartstring, was now emitting an extremely subtle pulse of magical energy, like an undercurrent beneath a calm surface.

"I always have an academic curiosity about pure 'forms' of existence. Especially one that continues in such an unconventional manner, Tom."

The hoarse voice fell silent for a moment. When it spoke again, it was barely containing a towering rage and icy murderous intent.

But it was also laced with a genuine shock at having been so precisely hit: "Do you know who you're speaking to, Caesar Habs? Do you know the price of provoking me?"

"Price?"

Caesar let out a soft laugh, as if he'd heard a dull joke. "Of course I do. But I know the price you're paying right now even better. Dumbledore's eyes are everywhere.

Severus is like a bloodhound on the scent, and you're trapped in a cowardly, trembling shell, barely able to get the Philosopher's Stone on your own. You need a less conspicuous helper."

"Helper?" Voldemort's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Do you crave power? Or fear death?"

"I crave revenge!" Caesar's gaze sharpened.

From the tip of his wand, a silvery thread, like moonlight, silently seeped out, pointing at Quirrell's turban, at the presence behind it.

At the same time, a destructive magical flame was summoned, taking the form of a small Fire Dragon, roaring toward Quirrell with the force to annihilate everything and devour souls.

Then, Caesar took a tiny step forward, lowering his voice even further, carrying a demonic temptation and absolute calm: "Cooperate, Tom. I'll provide you with cover, clear away some unnecessary trouble, and even give you the information and access you need at critical moments."

"Fiendfyre Curse!" Quirrell's body shook even harder, the two consciousnesses in his mind clearly locked in a fierce struggle.

Finally, the cold, hoarse voice took control again, dripping with calculated malice: "Revenge. An interesting proposal. But what grudge do you have against Hogwarts? Oh, I remember now. A remnant of Grindelwald's faction. You carry the scent of pure-blood wizards, which makes me believe it's the Black family's..."

"Then we'll both be exposed in Dumbledore's teacup, won't we?"

Caesar cut him off, his tone as casual as discussing tomorrow's weather. "This is a game where each side gets what they want. You get the resurrection and power you desire, I satisfy my hatred. Very fair."

A long, suffocating silence stretched through the corridor.

Only Quirrell's heavy, uneven breathing remained.

"Very well." Voldemort's voice finally rang out, carrying a dangerous promise like a coiled serpent.

"But remember, Caesar, if you betray me, you will taste a pain deeper than death itself, even if you flee to Nurmengard and hide behind Grindelwald."

Caesar nodded gracefully, as if accepting an ordinary farewell. "I look forward to our mutual 'harvest.'"

Then, he put away his wand, and the Fire Dragon vanished instantly.

"Tom, as a partner, I'll give you a piece of information: the Philosopher's Stone is hidden by Dumbledore in the Mirror of Erised, and only someone who desires nothing from it can retrieve it."

With that, he didn't spare another glance at the nearly collapsed Quirrell. He turned, his black robes cutting a sharp arc, and his footsteps gradually faded away, swallowed by the castle's dim shadows.

Left behind, Quirrell slumped to the floor, and from the back of his head came a suppressed, satisfied sigh, brimming with endless greed and murderous intent.

Unicorn blood prolonged his life, but only the Philosopher's Stone could restore his body.

A pact made in a dance with the devil was quietly forged in this forgotten corner.