A Pact to Dance with the Devil

"Y-yes, I'm sorry, Professor!" A panicked voice, choked with tears, cut in.

Neville Longbottom's chubby face appeared around the corner. He was deathly pale, tears welling in his eyes.

"I-I can't find my toad, Trevor! I heard—I heard someone saw him run this way."

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

His face was full of irritation at being interrupted and utter impatience. He barked, "Longbottom! Get back to your tower! Now!"

Neville flinched in fright, burst into tears, and turned to run.

Snape glared darkly after Neville, then shot Quirrell another vicious look. He knew this wasn't the time to keep pressing him.

"We'll talk later, Quirinus." He left that cold threat hanging and strode off in the direction Neville had gone, his black robes stirring up a chilling draft behind him.

Watching Snape disappear, Quirrell slid down the wall and crumpled to the floor as if all his strength had left him. He gulped for air, his fingers nervously tugging at his filthy turban.

He struggled to get to his feet, eager to leave this troublesome place as soon as possible.

"Looks like I missed an exciting match, but arrived in time for an interesting conversation."

A calm voice came from the shadows on the other side. Quirrell froze as if hit by Petrificus Totalus, then turned to look in abject terror.

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

"Caesar! Professor Caesar!" Quirrell's voice twisted with extreme terror, even worse than when he had faced Snape. Scrambling backward on all fours, he tried to get away from Caesar.

"When—when did you...?"

Caesar didn't answer. He simply looked down at Quirrell, sprawled on the floor, his gaze seeming to pierce the thick turban and see the even more wicked presence clinging beneath it.

His eyes held none of Snape's overt suspicion or hostility. Instead, they were cold with a deeper, all-seeing indifference.

"There are always plenty of surprises in a castle, aren't there, Professor Quirrell?" Caesar's voice was soft, yet it stabbed into Quirrell's ears like an icicle.

"Like a missing toad, or a professor who's far too strange."

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

Quirrell's voice trembled, choked with tears. "Professor Caesar, I-I don't know what you're talking about."

Caesar approached at an unhurried pace, his footsteps ringing coldly against the stone walls.

He stopped in front of Quirrell, but his gaze seemed to pass right through him and stare at the hidden soul behind his head. A faint smile touched his lips.

"Let's skip the tedious act, Quirrell. Or would you rather I call you Tom Riddle?"

Quirrell suddenly convulsed violently, as if struck by an invisible current. His eyes rolled back, and a guttural, inhuman sound rattled in his throat.

A cold, hoarse voice, like a snake hissing, came clearly from beneath the turban wrapped around the back of his head. It was tinged with offended anger and a trace of poorly concealed alarm.

"How dare you speak that name!"

The smile on Caesar's face didn't fade. If anything, it deepened.

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

"It's just a name. Why get so worked up? Or is it that you're more concerned I 'saw' you?"

His fingers tapped lightly against his wand.

The wand, made from the feather of a male One-Winged Bird and Dragon Heartstring, was giving off an extremely subtle magical pulse, like a hidden current beneath still water.

"I've always had an academic curiosity about the forms pure existence can take. Especially a being like you, continuing on in such an unconventional way, Tom."

The hoarse voice fell silent for a moment. When it spoke again, it was choked with raging fury and a cold desire to kill.

Yet it also held a trace of alarm at having been struck so precisely: "Do you know who you're speaking to, Caesar Habs? Do you know the price of defying me?"

"The price?"

Caesar chuckled, as if he'd heard an unfunny joke. "Of course I do. But I also know the price you're facing right now. Dumbledore's eyes are everywhere."

"Severus is like a hound that's caught the scent of blood, and you're trapped in a cowardly, trembling body, barely able to obtain the Philosopher's Stone on your own."

"You need a helper who won't draw too much attention."

"A helper?" Voldemort's voice was full of scorn. "Do you crave power? Or fear death?"

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

A silver thread, like moonlight, seeped from the tip of his wand, pointing at Quirrell's turban—and the presence behind it.

At the same time, he conjured a devastating magical flame. It took the shape of a small Fire Dragon, roaring at Quirrell with the force of something that could destroy everything and devour souls.

Then Caesar took the tiniest step forward, lowering his voice with demonic persuasion and absolute composure. "Work with me, Tom."

"I'll provide cover, clear away some unnecessary obstacles, and even give you the information and access you need at certain crucial moments."

"Fiendfyre Curse!" Quirrell's body shook even harder. Clearly, the two minds inside him were locked in a fierce struggle.

In the end, the cold, hoarse voice took control once more, its words icy with calculation. "Revenge. An interesting proposal. But what grudge do you hold against Hogwarts?"

"Oh, I remember now. You're a remnant of Grindelwald's followers. You have the air of a Pure-blood wizard about you. Let me guess, you're from the Black family..."

"Then we'd both be exposed under Dumbledore's gaze, wouldn't we?"

Caesar cut him off, his tone as casual as if they were discussing tomorrow's weather. "This is a game where we each get what we want. You get the resurrection and power you seek, and I get my revenge. Fair enough."

A long, suffocating silence spread through the corridor.

Only Quirrell's ragged, unsteady breathing could be heard.

"Very well." Voldemort's voice finally came, a dangerous promise coiled like a snake.

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

Caesar nodded elegantly, as if he'd received an ordinary farewell. "I look forward to what we'll 'gain' together."

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

"Tom, as your partner, I'll tell you something. Dumbledore hid the Philosopher's Stone in the Mirror of Erised. Only someone who doesn't desire the Stone can obtain it."

With that, he paid no further attention to the nearly exhausted Quirrell. He turned, his black robes sweeping through a crisp arc, and his footsteps gradually faded into the castle's dark shadows.

All that remained was Quirrell, slumped on the floor, and a satisfied sigh from the back of his head, thick with boundless greed and murderous intent.

Unicorn Blood could sustain his life, but only the Philosopher's Stone could restore his body.

A pact to dance with the devil had been quietly sealed in this desolate corner, unknown to all.