The Professor Looked Well Today

February brought a little sunshine to Hogwarts. At last, the weather was no longer quite so gloomy.

The weather outside might be poor, but the Great Hall at Hogwarts always conjured up random weather effects. Gavin rather liked that.

He didn't know who had designed the effect, but whoever it was clearly shared his fondness for sunshine and the occasional downpour.

If he hadn't had so much on his plate lately, Gavin would have liked to study the spell that controlled the weather and teach London a lesson.

Gavin went to classes and the library as usual that week. Every Saturday, he visited St. Mungo's, then returned for detention with Professor McGonagall. The latter had gradually changed from a "punishment" into an oddly charged private tutorial in advanced Transfiguration, though Professor McGonagall clearly refused to admit it.

The only unusual thing lately was Quirrell.

Or rather, Quirrell's growing interest in him.

At first, Quirrell had merely asked him a few extra questions in class or lingered after lessons as though he had something to say to Gavin but hadn't quite decided what.

Gavin could handle that much. His approach was simple: I can't afford to cross you, but I can avoid you.

This time was different. As the saying went, he could dodge Quirrell for a while, but not forever.

That afternoon, after Defense Against the Dark Arts ended, students were leaving in twos and threes. Quirrell stood beside the lectern, looking much tidier than usual. His robes were neatly pressed, his turban more carefully tied, and even his customary stammer was less pronounced.

"Mr. Gu." He suddenly appeared in front of Gavin.

Gavin stopped, alert but polite. "Professor."

Quirrell stepped a little closer, an elegant smile on his lips. "I'd like to invite you for a cup of tea today. Do you have time?"

At the door, Justin merely glanced back in confusion. Inside, Gavin's alarm bells went off.

Quirrell's next remark sent a chill through him and cut off his escape.

"Professor Dumbledore... isn't at school today," he said with a smile, leaving Gavin no chance to make an excuse.

"Is that so?" Gavin's expression didn't change, though he was now on full alert. "I hope he enjoys his trip."

Quirrell paused briefly, then smiled again. "Come along. I won't keep you long."

Gavin's instinct was still to refuse. But on second thought, a direct refusal might provoke Quirrell into using rougher methods.

Especially when a remnant of the Dark Lord's soul was attached to the back of this man's head.

So Gavin decided to have the tea and find out what the professor wanted.

Quirrell's office was plain. A faint scent hung in the air, some indistinct mixture of herbs and something else. The fire in the fireplace was low, and a teapot sat at the edge of the desk. Nothing about the furnishings stood out.

Quirrell poured him a cup of tea with graceful, unhurried movements. "Sit."

Gavin sat down without touching the tea beside him.

Quirrell glanced at it but said nothing. He simply lifted his own cup and took a sip.

"You've been recovering well lately," Quirrell began with a smile.

"Thank you for your concern, Professor."

"St. Mungo's... are you settling in there?"

"Well enough."

"I hear you've even made friends there."

Gavin's pupils contracted slightly. "You're well informed, Professor."

Quirrell smiled faintly. "There's always plenty of news at Hogwarts, especially about... unusual students like you."

He watched Gavin as he spoke, looking for a reaction.

Gavin said nothing. He was waiting for Quirrell to ask what he really wanted to know.

Sure enough, after a few more harmless remarks about classes, holidays, and the weather, Quirrell began steering the conversation elsewhere.

"What happened at the Astronomy Tower... was unfortunate," he said as though the subject had occurred to him. "It must have frightened you terribly."

"Not too badly."

"Was it really just... a magical experiment gone wrong?"

"That's the official account."

Quirrell studied him. "And what's your account?"

Gavin shrugged. "I generally respect the official account."

Quirrell tapped a finger lightly against the rim of his cup.

"You're clever, Mr. Gu," he said. "And clever people don't always need to hide themselves so thoroughly."

"I think so too," Gavin said. "That's why I already try not to hide much."

Quirrell clearly hadn't expected the boy to remain so calm. The feigned warmth in his eyes finally began to fade.

He asked another couple of questions, but Gavin played dumb throughout. He neither confirmed nor denied anything, told no obvious lies, and offered nothing substantial Quirrell could follow up on.

To Quirrell, it felt like trying to bite through a piece of rice cake. It wasn't hard or soft, but no matter how he bit down, he couldn't break through.

At last, Quirrell's patience began to wear thin. He set down his cup, narrowed his eyes, and stared straight at Gavin.

For an instant, Gavin felt he was facing not a stammering, timid Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts who had suffered one fright too many, but a venomous snake slowly waking up.

"You're hiding something from me." Quirrell's voice had turned low and hoarse.

Gavin's heart sank.

The next second, a familiar sensation struck.

A probing force reached straight through Quirrell's gaze, unmistakably invasive. It felt as though someone were pushing a long, sharp needle through Gavin's eyes and into his brain.

Legilimency.

Gavin recognized it at once. He had been studying it lately. Though he was usually the one casting it, he had grown quite familiar with the technique.

Fine, Gavin thought, perfectly calm. You're not the only one who knows Legilimency.

If you insist on looking, I'll show you the way.

He didn't resist. There was no need. He might not know Occlumency, but he had other means.

Following the probing force, Gavin opened a suitable path through his mind and gently guided the intruder toward a place particularly well suited to visitors.

Quirrell got in with almost no effort.

The moment his Legilimency entered, he gave a faint, contemptuous snort to himself.

The boy was only eleven, after all. Quick-witted and quick to react, perhaps, but helpless when faced with real magic. There was no proper barrier. The boundary of his mind was as loose as a door left ajar. Quirrell pushed, and it opened.

He found himself in a room.

It was small, even shabby. There was a wooden table, a straight-backed chair, and a lamp that cast yellow light. A cup sat in the corner, as though someone had put it down halfway through a drink and forgotten it.

How strange. He had wanted to see the memory of that night at the Astronomy Tower, yet he had arrived in this room instead.

Quirrell stayed where he was. He scanned the tabletop, looked up at the lamp, and only then turned his gaze to the door.

It looked ordinary in a way that felt deliberately staged.

Frowning, he reached out and pushed it open.

The door opened.

Beyond it lay pure white. There was no corridor, no next room, only a black whirlpool slowly turning in midair, like smoke and fire at once.

Quirrell stared at it, puzzled. Why would something like this be inside the boy's mind?

Before he could move any closer, a host of negative emotions surged over him.

Fear, hatred, shame, jealousy, emptiness, despair—they burst from deep within him all at once, like a volcano erupting after years of pressure.

Quirrell grunted and staggered back.

He tried to drive the emotions away, but failed. Worse, they dragged his own terrible memories to the surface.

The times he had stood in a crowd and been passed over; the times he had bowed his head and obeyed; the mockery, the contempt, the dismissive pats on the shoulder offered as comfort. And beneath those lay thoughts he himself dared not face—spite, cowardice, envy, the urge to turn on the Dark Lord, and the fear that kept him from doing it—

All of it churned up and battered his mind.

"Enough—"

He let out a shrill cry and jerked up a hand, as though trying to sweep something away from his face.

He was about to end the spell when the ground vanished beneath his feet. The house collapsed. The floor dropped away, the walls fell outward, and Quirrell plunged down with the table, chair, and cup, all of them tumbling into the darkness below.

Quirrell struggled to right himself in midair, trying to change his angle.

Before he managed it, he hit water with a splash.

Icy water rushed up his nose. He floundered before scrambling to his feet, his soaked robes clinging to his legs. Looking down, he saw that the water barely reached his ankles. It was absurdly shallow, yet cold enough to cut to the bone. The river's surface was calm, stretching away into the distance.

Quirrell panted and straightened, struggling to calm himself.

Then his expression changed. Something was wrong with the water. The river looked still, but hidden currents surged beneath its surface, scouring his consciousness.

Quirrell immediately drew on his power to steady himself. But the harder he tried, the more clearly he felt his boundaries loosening. The division between himself and everything else, something he had always taken for granted, was growing thin.

Like an ink line touched by water. Like a figure on paper slowly washing away.

"...No. No, no, no!"

This time, his voice trembled.

He finally understood. This wasn't a memory of the Astronomy Tower at Christmas at all. It was some unknown means of dissolving his very existence, of trapping him here forever.

Escape!

The thought seized Quirrell's mind.

He no longer cared about his investigation or his dignity. He violently summoned the power that did not belong to him and wrenched his consciousness backward. The river kept working on him, threatening to erase the last traces of his outline. Teeth clenched, face deathly pale, veins bulging at his temples, he fought his way out with everything he had.

In the real world, Quirrell jerked violently.

It was as though he had been dragged out of the water. He drew a ragged breath, cold sweat covering his forehead. The hand gripping his teacup shook, and his temples throbbed.

Watching from across the desk, Gavin knew he had succeeded. This really could serve as a mental defense in place of Occlumency.

This professor with two souls in one body had probably experienced a terror somewhere between Am I about to die? and Am I no longer myself?

Gavin knew the feeling well—so well it was almost as if he had experienced it himself.

"Professor," Gavin said politely, "are you all right?"

Quirrell looked up and fixed him with a stare.

There was no trace of his earlier, feigned composure or warmth. Only viciousness and lingering fear remained, laid bare by a shock he had not yet had time to recover from.

His lips moved, but no words came. He only breathed heavily and kept staring at Gavin.

Gavin added considerately, "You look like you need help."

At that false show of concern, Quirrell's expression worsened. He thrust a hand toward the door, almost savagely.

"G-get... out."

The stammer was back.

This time, though, it sounded less like his usual timidity and more like he was too shaken to keep up the "composed Quirrell" act.

Gavin stood, his expression still perfectly proper.

"Of course, Professor."

Then he paused and made sure to add:

"The tea was good."

Quirrell nearly crushed his cup.

"Get out!"

"Of course."

Gavin turned and left.

Only after he was out the door and around the corner did his steps falter slightly.

Not because he was afraid.

He had succeeded, and now he had to keep himself from smiling too obviously.

It worked well, he judged.

Better than expected, even.

After today, this dangerous professor would probably think twice before casually taking a stroll through someone else's mind.

Especially the mind of a first-year Hufflepuff student.

At that thought, Gavin finally let the corner of his mouth lift a little.

"You brought this on yourself," he said.

Then he composed his expression again and walked briskly away, like an ordinary student who had been inexplicably invited to tea by a professor and was now heading to the Great Hall for dinner.

Quirrell's hand was still shaking when he locked the door.

All he felt was cold.

Dread.

Fear.

It was as though his mind had just fallen from a great height. His body was still standing, but the sickening sense of weightlessness in his chest would not subside.

The office was very quiet.

The fire in the fireplace was low, but beneath his turban, heat had begun to build. Something that had been asleep was slowly waking.

"Master..."

Quirrell's voice was dry.

"Shut up." A cold, rasping voice came from the back of his head. "You dare speak first?"

Quirrell went rigid.

The next second, Voldemort's voice turned colder still.

"How much of my power did you use?"

Quirrell's lips moved.

"I only wanted to confirm—"

"Confirm?" The voice rose sharply, barely containing its fury. "You couldn't even handle a student, and you wasted my power and your own life!"

Quirrell did not dare answer back.

He knew better than anyone that the attempt had been a complete failure.

His master had taken an interest in the boy and wanted to know what lay behind the accident at the Astronomy Tower after Christmas. Instead, Quirrell had learned nothing and, after losing control of his emotions, had consumed far too much precious magic.

For him, magic was now as good as life force. When he lacked enough magic, he had to sustain his master with his own life force.

This miscalculation had left his already weakened body in even worse shape.

Darkness, resentment, a misstep, a fall, water, and the horror of feeling the boundaries of his own existence begin to dissolve...

Just remembering it still sent a chill down Quirrell's spine.

"That wasn't a memory," he whispered. "Master, that child—"

"Of course I know it wasn't a memory!" Voldemort cut in sharply. "That isn't the problem. The problem is that you couldn't even handle one child!"

Quirrell shut his mouth.

He didn't dare say another word.

After a while, Voldemort spoke again, his voice as cold as a venomous snake.

"Leave that child alone for now."

Quirrell froze.

"Master?"

"I said, leave him alone," Voldemort said slowly. "At least for the time being. We still don't have the Philosopher's Stone. Wasting more power on a freak right now would be utterly foolish."

Quirrell lowered his head.

"Yes."

"Keep an eye on him," Voldemort said. "But don't go probing deeper on your own again."

"Yes, Master."

This time, Quirrell answered at once.

He truly didn't want to go near that child again.

As a former Ravenclaw, he couldn't help wondering: had his Hufflepuff classmates been like that too?