Harry Potter and Dumbledore in the Kitchens

Harry's detention ended that night—or rather, Snape threw him out. After exchanging a few words with Professor Flitwick, Snape suddenly told Harry to leave his office. Any other time, Harry wouldn't have wanted to spend another second with Snape, but now he desperately wanted to know what the two professors were discussing.

And how had Will gotten Professor Dumbledore's permission to read books from the Restricted Section? Wasn't he a first-year student too?

Harry remembered what Hermione had said about the Restricted Section: access was strictly controlled, and many of its books dealt with Dark Magic. Throughout Hogwarts' history, plenty of young wizards had been led astray by them.

Hermione had read that in Hogwarts, A History, of course.

Harry couldn't understand why Dumbledore had allowed Will to read those books, even if he was the greatest wizard of the century.

Maybe Hermione and Neville would know. Harry decided to ask them.

"M-M-Mr. Potter?" a stammering voice called from behind him. Harry knew at once who it was. Professor Quirrell was the only person he knew who stammered.

"Good evening, Professor Quirrell. Did you need something?" Harry turned to greet him. Quirrell's classes were dreadful, but he never minded when students arrived late or failed to do their homework. Plenty of young wizards liked that, and Harry had nothing against him.

Besides, Snape had kept him in detention tonight. He had a good reason to be out in the Castle, and even Professor McGonagall wouldn't dock points because he hadn't returned to the Common Room yet.

"N-N-No... I just... just got back... from outside..." Quirrell stammered so badly that Harry grew impatient listening to him.

Harry didn't know what Quirrell had been doing outside at night, but a professor's business had nothing to do with him. Professors didn't lose points for wandering around after dark anyway. As he thought this, Harry noticed that Quirrell seemed terribly nervous.

Quirrell also seemed hot. Sweat had begun to bead on his face, soaking the edges of his enormous purple turban. Winter had already arrived, and Hogwarts had even seen two snowfalls. Harry felt chilly despite being bundled up beneath his robes, yet Quirrell, dressed in thin clothes, was sweating profusely.

It would have looked strange on anyone, even Professor Quirrell, who was always odd.

Harry had no idea how much pressure Quirrell was under.

"Kill him... Kill that boy!" A hoarse, cold voice filled with hatred echoed through Quirrell's mind, urging him to attack Harry Potter.

Quirrell's head felt ready to split open, but he forced himself to endure it. The Dark Lord had been in terrible condition these past few days. Quirrell had gone into the Forbidden Forest tonight to find a unicorn that might help him recover, but he hadn't managed to catch one.

Then, on his way back, he had run into Harry Potter. Something about the sight of Harry seemed to have set the Dark Lord off. He kept demanding that Quirrell kill him, but Quirrell didn't dare!

Merlin's toes! In his confused state, the Dark Lord apparently couldn't grasp that if Quirrell killed Harry Potter now, Dumbledore would probably kill him a moment later. Dumbledore was still at Hogwarts!

"Master! My great master! Dumbledore is still at Hogwarts, and you haven't recovered. I can't do it!" Quirrell kept explaining to the "master" on his head. Even at the height of his power, the Dark Lord hadn't dared appear at Hogwarts, let alone now, when he was little more than a wandering spirit that could only possess other people.

Quirrell could only hope the Dark Lord hadn't completely lost his reason and would realize how high the price of killing Harry Potter would be.

Fortunately, the voice in his head seemed to calm at the mention of "Dumbledore." It stopped pressing him so urgently, and the tearing pain in his head eased considerably. Quirrell breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, just as he began to relax...

Footsteps sounded at the stairwell. A boy with silver-gray eyes came upstairs, holding a worn book. His expressionless face made him seem distant and cold.

Will Behrens.

The moment Quirrell saw him, the Dark Lord, still lost in his confusion, began rambling in his head again. "That boy... He'll be an important asset to me..."

"That child who resembles me... Catch him... Catch him..."

Quirrell's headache returned. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to grab Voldemort and demand to know whether he was the Dark Lord or a priest, and why he was so interested in little boys.

If Voldemort hadn't insisted on taking over Quirrell's body to give Will Behrens that pointless lesson, things would never have reached this point:

First, Dumbledore had grown wary of Quirrell. Then, before long, the Dark Lord's condition had begun to deteriorate again, forcing Quirrell to drink unicorn blood. And unicorn blood carried a curse!

Quirrell was beginning to regret ever going to the forests of Albania. He could have been a professor at Hogwarts and lived a promising life. Instead, he was about to become a cursed vessel.

Damn it!

"Ah, Harry, Professor Quirrell. Hello." Will's voice sounded a little distant.

Quirrell saw the title of the book in Will's hand and was startled that he had already begun reading books on Dark Magic. Then he caught Will's blank, indifferent gaze and felt a chill. He knew Will was extraordinarily gifted, and now the boy had encountered Dark Magic in his first year. Judging by that distant, vacant expression, he seemed utterly unconcerned by its influence. No wonder the Dark Lord liked him so much. The boy was practically a Dark Lord in the making!

Harry noticed the book in Will's hand too. Remembering what Professor Flitwick had said, he blurted out, "Will, I heard Professor Dumbledore..."

"Professor Dumbledore? Oh, I just ran into him in the Kitchens," Will replied in a detached tone before Harry could finish.

At that, Quirrell turned and hurried away. He didn't dare stand there any longer with the Dark Lord on his head. If Dumbledore came up too, the Dark Lord was in such poor condition that the slightest slip in their disguise could spell disaster for Quirrell.

"Harry, I'm going to get some rest. Good night. Yaaawn—" Will yawned. He hadn't slept for two days and a night, and the few mouthfuls of Invigoration Draught he'd taken had worn off. He had already been struggling to stay awake while eating a late-night snack in the Kitchens.

He had no idea Quirrell saw him as a Dark Lord in the making, nor did he know what Harry had been about to say. He needed a good rest.

"Good night, Harry. I really want to sleep..."

Will continued up the stairs. Harry called after him in confusion, "Is that the way to the Slytherin Common Room?"

Will didn't answer—or perhaps he didn't hear. He kept climbing. He was headed for the Room of Requirement, of course.