The corridor outside the hospital wing was jammed with students. The door, unable to bear the pressure, creaked open.
Madam Pomfrey did not look pleased.
"Seven visits in three days—do you think this is the Great Hall?"
She was a kind witch, but very strict. The students all flinched, then decided to brazen it out.
"We heard Harry… and Professor Quirrell woke up."
"Of course they did—if I were pestered seven times in three days, I'd wake up quickly too," she snapped.
In the end it was Professor Dumbledore who called them in; he was still speaking with Harry. They saw the same dazed look cross Harry's face that he'd worn when he'd learned Snape wasn't Voldemort's servant—and that Voldemort had been in the Forest.
"Harry—" Ron and Hermione's voices trembled as they called to him, and everyone moved to Harry's bedside. Dumbledore stepped aside for them, giving Sean a meaningful look before leaving the ward.
While they fussed over Harry, Sean glanced at Professor Quirrell in the next bed. Quirrell's face was chalk-white, his lips bloodless; when he caught Sean's eye, he struggled to sit up.
"Are you all right, Professor?" Sean hurried over.
"Of course, of course, Mr. Green—better than I've felt all year…" Quirrell's voice did not stutter.
"Out!" Madam Pomfrey swept in to drive them away, and soon they found themselves in the corridor again. It was loud and lively out there, the exact opposite of the quiet, white ward. After asking about Harry and breathing a collective sigh of relief, the group headed back to the Hope Nook.
Dusk gathered. A black cat slipped silently back into the ward.
"Professor Quirrell."
At evening, beside a curtained bed in a private cubicle, a small wizard in black robes appeared. Sean hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject, and flicked a Softening—then a Quieting Charm into place. Looking back, he found Quirrell oddly absent-minded.
The hospital wing at night was blue; moonlight poured through the arched windows, catching on every vase at every bedside. Harry's corner was piled with bottles, boxes, and sweets; Quirrell's had only a single book—Sean's gift.
It was very still. The noisy Gryffindor who'd broken his wrist at Quidditch had finally drifted off to sleep.
"I think I'll be leaving Hogwarts soon," Quirrell whispered humbly, almost timidly. "Would you… like to hear a story?"
"I'd be glad to," said Sean.
Quirrell pressed his lips tight. Moonlight brushed the boy's face; it was all Quirrell could do not to bury his head and weep.
"You know, my student days were a tragedy of hunger—of craving. Insecure and sensitive—that is when a man most easily falls into darkness. I had some achievements. They did not satisfy me; they did not fill the want. Under the temptation of dark power, it is hard to control oneself." His voice carried the strain of an inner wrestling. "Under such a man's hand, the world is dim. I lied to myself that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would grant me honor. But truth is cruel. So cruel that one would rather remain numb than accept it."
He covered his face with both hands. Sean could not tell whether the pain was from the tearing of soul and life, or an old wound in the mind ripped open again.
"Mr. Green, allow me to describe that world—it was gray and white. No color. At the crucial moment I saw a star that flashed and flashed—Uranus—suddenly, in moonlight, as if I had realized something. The colored biscuit showed me a possible escape. I knew it was the only chance I would ever have. But when I scraped together my courage and reached the Headmaster's door… may you never know that kind of despair.
"Despair is not the end—there is always some light in this world. The biscuit hidden in the corner gave me courage again. 'Quirrell—so small, hateful, and pitiful—why would anyone risk death to save such a man?' And when I saw you, I knew I had already decided—if I must die, then I would be free at last. To live in deceit, disguise, lies, fear, panic, and helplessness—Mr. Green, better to die for you than live so."
The ward remained hushed. Sean was silent too—so long that he scarcely knew what to say.
"This story should have ended in scorn and loathing—a wizard drunk on greed, a cowardly selfish wizard, a foolish wizard… Now he has woken. He knows perhaps there is only one thing in this world that is right, Mr. Green—that is to fight the dark to the end, and walk forward in your resolve."
Quirrell bowed his head deeply and pressed his left hand to his chest; he knew what he was saying, and his body trembled.
There was no formal oath in the hospital wing—only a buried resolve.
Sean stood in the path of the moonlight. Its beam passed through Quirrell's thin frame and fell on the ward floor, outlining a faint, blurred shape.
…
Back in the Hope Nook, Sean sat silent for a long time. When curfew tolled, a photograph in his hand winked with light.
It was a unique photograph—originally a Christmas Great Hall group shot Justin had taken, now altered with a delicate bit of magic. To others it looked normal, but when Sean gazed at it, certain lively figures faded to gray.
Dumbledore's pale eyes still twinkled; Snape's gray robes still weighed like a storm. Here and there, faces turned gray. No one knew what it meant, nor why such a spell had been cast.
Only Sean saw it: Professor Quirrell's gray skin regained its color. Then, in the photograph, the professor turned into a squirrel—and sprang out of the picture.
The little squirrel scampered around the Hope Nook; one moment in front of the cold hearth, the next staring at an odd photo, dazed.
Sean's gaze remained calm. As he pushed open the door, the green eyes in the enchanted mirror followed like a shadow.
No clouds. No torrent against the panes. Tonight, Jupiter and Uranus shone especially bright.
~~~
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