How Dare You Associate With Voldemort

The air in the cold stone chamber felt like solidified asphalt, thick with the cloying sweetness of residual dark magic and the scorched tang of violently clashing magical forces.

Though Caesar had initially been able to suppress Quirrell with an almost leisurely stride, as time wore on, the power Voldemort released through Quirrell's shell gradually seized absolute dominance.

Caesar's situation was growing perilous.

Those eerie silver-blue vines originating from Grindelwald still stubbornly drilled out of the void, entwining and slicing at the oncoming black Fiendfyre and curses.

But their growth had clearly slowed, their radiance dimmed considerably, as if their vitality was being steadily drained by some invisible force.

Caesar himself was pale as parchment, every wave of his wand seeming abnormally heavy, his breaths short and ragged, his forehead plastered with cold sweat.

The faint blue cracks beneath his skin were no longer merely hinted at; they writhed like living things across his cheeks, the side of his neck, and even the back of his wand hand, pulsing with an ominous glimmer.

The Philosopher's Stone clutched in his right hand no longer flowed with steady red light.

Instead, it flickered erratically with the trembling of his body and the surging of his magic, like an unsteady, beating heart.

"Your power is betraying you, Caesar Habs!" The voice that rolled from Quirrell's throat was hoarse and manic, carrying the cruel amusement of a cat toying with a mouse.

"Is that ancient thieving curse finally turning back on its master? Or... has your carefully chosen 'catalyst' begun to ignite you from within?"

A particularly venomous black arrow, carrying the shriek of a soul, slipped through the gap as Caesar blocked another wave of Fiendfyre, darting treacherously toward his ribs.

Caesar barely twisted aside; the arrow grazed his robes, the hem instantly turning to ash, leaving a scorched black mark on his skin.

He grunted, staggering backward until his back slammed heavily against the cold stone wall, a trace of dark red blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

Just as Quirrell laughed wildly, gathering an even vaster, more heart-stopping mass of dark magic to deliver what seemed like the final blow to Caesar, who appeared at the end of his rope—

"Reducto! Immobulus!"

Two spells came not from Caesar, nor were they aimed at Quirrell, but struck precisely at the arch above the chamber entrance and a weak point in the side wall.

Explosions and the crash of falling stone rang out simultaneously, billowing dust filling the air. Though they caused no major damage, they successfully created chaos and a brief moment of cover.

A slender figure, like a nimble swallow, darted in through the swirling dust, stopping without hesitation between Caesar and Quirrell.

Hermione Granger was slightly out of breath, her school robes dust-stained, but her eyes were sharp as tempered steel needles, instantly scanning the situation.

Caesar's grievous, near-fatal state; Quirrell's/Voldemort's triumphant, vicious sneer; and the nauseating, almost tangible malice in the air.

Her gaze finally landed on the flickering Philosopher's Stone in Caesar's hand, her pupils contracting as her worst suspicions were confirmed.

Yet no surprise showed on her face, as if all of this had been within her deeper expectations.

"Another pesky little insect?" Quirrell's hiss was filled with the fury of being interrupted. "Get lost, Mudblood, or join him as fertilizer!"

Hermione paid him no mind. She didn't even look at Caesar. Her wand was steadily aimed at Quirrell, her mouth rapidly chanting, the tip emitting several magical chains entwined with faint arcs of electricity.

Not an attack, but flexible trip-lines, attempting to coil around Quirrell's ankles, wrists, and wand, disrupting his casting and balance.

At the same time, her left hand quickly scattered a handful of glittering powder from a small pouch at her waist.

The powder, upon hitting the air, transformed into a shimmering, faint golden mist that slightly muddled the senses, spreading between her and Quirrell.

Her tactics were clear: not to wound, but to disrupt and delay.

To buy Caesar even a few seconds of breathing room, and to buy herself time to observe and judge.

Her movements were crisp and efficient, her coordination seamless as if practiced countless times, revealing a combat acumen and cool-headedness far beyond classroom level.

Caesar, leaning against the stone wall, gasped for breath, watching Hermione's back as she unhesitatingly stood before him.

Watching her execute tactics that clearly bore the marks of his teaching yet were fused with her own style.

A deeply complex glimmer passed through his fathomless eyes—bitterness, approval, and perhaps a trace of a sigh.

Just as Hermione's interference began to take effect, Quirrell growing visibly irritated and his attacks slowing—

"Petrificus Totalus!"

A cold, imperious voice, brimming with towering rage and disappointment, thundered like a clap of thunder from the chamber entrance.

The milky-white petrification beam was not aimed at Quirrell, but shot with a sharp whistle straight at Caesar, who was slumped against the wall!

Professor McGonagall's figure appeared almost simultaneously with the spell.

She had clearly arrived in great haste; her usually immaculate bun was slightly loose, and she wore only a traveling cloak hastily thrown over her emerald nightgown.

But her posture was ramrod straight, and behind her spectacles, her eyes burned with a fire Hermione had never seen before—a mix of shock, the pain of betrayal, and icy resolve.

Between her fingers, she held a crumpled corner of an envelope—the one Caesar had left in her office, containing notes on the events leading up to this.

But clearly, at this moment, McGonagall was treating it as some kind of "evidence."

Caesar seemed barely able to lift his arm; he only tilted his head slightly.

The petrification spell flew past his ear, striking the stone wall behind him and leaving a patch of stark white stone.

"Minerva,"

Caesar's voice was hoarse and broken, yet still carried that infuriating, detached calm, as if nothing concerned him. "Good evening. Though reading my letter to little Hermione doesn't seem like proper conduct for a teacher, does it?"

"Caesar Habs!"

McGonagall's voice trembled with barely restrained fury. She first shot a stern, warning glance at Hermione, who stood in the middle, her eyes filled with confusion and reproach.

She stared fixedly at Caesar. "Or should I call you something else? It doesn't matter! What matters is this letter..."

She waved the letter in her hand. Though it wasn't a true suicide note, the fragments of words on it were enough for her to piece together a terrifying implication.

"...and your actions now! You've betrayed Hogwarts, and even more, you've betrayed the trust everyone placed in you! How dare you ally with Voldemort and plot for the Philosopher's Stone?!"

"Betray Hogwarts?"

Caesar tugged at the corner of his mouth. The smile was weak but filled with distance. "I never belonged here, Minerva.

To me, this was just a temporary waystation. As for bowing to Voldemort..."

He coughed twice, dark red blood frothing at the corners of his lips. "That claim... it makes me a little sad.

You can question my motives, but don't insult my taste by comparing me to that kind of broken remnant of a soul."