Anthony found sleep impossible tonight. Hagrid's dragon, Parkinson's injury, Quirrell's unanswered letter—a dozen other scattered, trivial things crawled out from under his bed in the darkness. They covered his blanket, wandered through his pillow, tugged his hair, gnawed his ears. Even that viscous, quiet, endless black river couldn't drag him into dreams anymore.
He sat up. Pushed open the window. The night breeze was cool and comfortable, moonlight falling bright on the ground. From the distant Black Lake came a soft splash, rippling through the silent night. Anthony knew it had to be the giant squid at play.
The cat wasn't sleeping either. Two yellow bulb-eyes stared at him. It jumped onto Anthony's pillow, settling into the cotton crater he'd pressed flat with all his tossing and turning. Anthony looked around. Didn't see his mouse.
"Fine, you sleep," Anthony muttered, feeling like he was the only person awake in the entire castle.
He stood. Decided to go say hello to the giant squid. He still had some bread in his stash—a decent gift for a new friend.
...
He hummed as he pulled open the door ("I am the giant squid, I never sleep, I crush everything"), walking briskly down half the corridor before suddenly stopping. The torches burned quietly. The corridor looked empty—looked empty.
But deep in Anthony's awareness, he could sense something carrying the aura of necromancy slipping past him, not disturbing even a whisper of wind. Very, very faint necromantic traces, remarkably similar to what the Skeleton Cat carried. Professor Quirrell, or another poor soul attacked by the cat.
Anthony said nothing. Just pretended sudden fascination with the gilded torch bracket, studying the rough wave-pattern engravings with apparent interest. Shadows danced before him while his attention fixed entirely on the invisible figure behind.
The person—probably a person—was slowly approaching the stairs. Then shot upward at an abnormal speed. Anthony stared at the brick wall. If that was Professor Quirrell, Anthony hoped he'd consider a career change. With that stair-climbing speed plus a solid Aguamenti and Lumos, he could be England's model firefighter.
Anthony suddenly sensed another tiny cluster of necromantic magic beside him. Very small, but pure—constructed entirely of dark magic. The little mouse had found an apple somewhere, rolling the red, sweet thing across the corridor.
"You like apples? Hm?" Anthony whispered, pocketing both mouse and apple.
"Squeak."
He quickly lost track of that faint necromantic trace. An impulse hit him—turn around right now, lock himself and the cat in his room, feed the mouse its apple, pretend nothing happened tonight, pretend he didn't know something was sneaking through the castle, keep dreaming his peaceful life.
But he took a deep breath. Stepped onto the stairs.
He walked a few steps. Then ran. Faster and faster—the mouse clutching his pocket edge, the apple swinging and banging against his thigh—then stopped abruptly. That thread of necromantic magic was close. In a corridor. The third-floor corridor, right side.
"Whoever you are," Anthony said to the empty air, his voice echoing hollow off the brick walls, "this place is dangerous. I'm repeating Dumbledore's words: Anyone who does not wish to suffer a most painful death should not enter the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side."
But the unknown invisible person only paused briefly before continuing to swagger deeper into the third-floor corridor, right side. The lasers Anthony imagined—the flying curses, arrows shooting from walls, spikes or swamps sprouting from the floor—none of it appeared.
Anthony carefully stepped forward. The floor tile held his foot steady. Didn't suddenly sink or turn into a mouth to bite. In that instant, Anthony really wanted to know how exactly Dumbledore defined "enter" and "most painful death."
The presence ahead moved purposefully straight toward a door. The door looked locked, but with a crisp click, the handle turned. Immediately, before Anthony could react, harp music floated from within.
Wonderful. How leisurely.
In the flowing, soft, clear music, Anthony rushed forward in a few steps and yanked open the door. "Professor Quirrell, is that you?"
Standing in the room was indeed Quirrell. He wore black robes, and above his scarf, a wide black hood concealing his face completely. If not for his thin, hunched frame, Anthony might not have recognized him at first glance.
Quirrell stood beside three—wait, no, one—massive three-headed dog, carefully placing a self-playing harp near the dog's feet, as if he'd gone through all this trouble just to let the beast appreciate some refined music.
"What is this?" Anthony asked, confused.
Quirrell didn't answer. He kicked aside the sleeping dog's limp paw, lifted his pale face wrapped in that huge scarf, smiled at Anthony, bent down to pull open a trapdoor (Anthony had been watching him the whole time and hadn't even noticed it), and jumped straight down.
"Wait!" Anthony grabbed the door panel.
Below was pitch black. Wet and cold. He heard a dull thud, then a grunt. Quirrell had landed.
No time to think. Anthony jumped after him. The space beneath the trapdoor was deeper than he'd imagined. Black as a grave. By the weak light spilling through that small opening overhead, Anthony could see a few scattered damp walls reflecting light. This was a surprisingly large room.
With a strange sound, he hit something solid. Beneath him was something cold and slippery—some kind of odd plant. The plant was moving silently, sliding away from Anthony like water, surging toward somewhere not far from him.
"Ah, Devil's Snare. I was expecting something more exciting." Another voice suddenly filled the room. It didn't even sound like Quirrell anymore—it no longer carried that stuttering, uncertain tone.
Bright flames ignited from Quirrell's wand tip. The vines that had just curled around his ankles immediately flinched, twisting away from the light's reach. In the ghostly blue firelight, on Quirrell's pale face, his eyes gleamed with fanaticism and madness.
"Professor Anthony, how delightful to see you." He nodded to Anthony. "You don't mind if I close the door a bit? I can't quite stand the cold draft."
He coughed twice, waved his hand, and the trapdoor above them slammed shut. In this dark, damp room, the only light source was his steadily held wand.
Anthony grew alert. Discreetly reached into his pocket. He felt bread and apple, plus the Wraith Mouse pressing its head against his fingers. Having left only to feed the giant squid, Anthony wore his old plaid pajamas under a flannel robe. No wand.
"Where is this, Professor Quirrell?" Anthony asked.
Quirrell continued as if he hadn't heard the question. "Such a shame, meeting you in this place. I'd hoped for a room with more taste, not this—" His wand spun nimbly in his hand, and the illuminated vines immediately curled up, leaving a large clearing around him. "Dreadful environment. If we'd met tomorrow as agreed..."
"You replied?" Anthony frowned.
Quirrell paused, seemingly not expecting that question. "I did."
"All right," Anthony said, confused. He definitely hadn't received a reply.
Quirrell coughed a few more times before continuing. "But regardless, we've met. You and I, in our true forms and identities."
"Wait... what do you mean?"
Quirrell smiled like someone facing a child still trying to lie. Patiently, he said, "Look around you—even the Devil's Snare doesn't think you're alive, Professor Anthony. Mr. Necromancer."
"And you? What's your true form and identity?" Anthony heard himself ask.
Quirrell chuckled softly, as if finding his question quite amusing.
"Me? I'm Quirinus Quirrell, of course. Just perhaps not quite the one you imagined or heard about." Quirrell said. "I'm not the p-p-poor, student-b-b-bullied Quirrell. I'm far more powerful than you imagine, Professor Anthony. Since I learned what I truly wanted, since I understood how this world operates..." He gripped his wand tight. The flames shot up several feet. "I'm no longer that incompetent fool."
Beyond clutching his apple and watching Quirrell, Anthony didn't know what else to do. He almost felt trapped in a strange dream—not even a nightmare, just absurd.
"Follow me, Anthony," Quirrell said, turning into a stone corridor.
Anthony followed, watching the back Quirrell so brazenly displayed, weighing the odds of throwing his apple right now, knocking Quirrell out, and dragging him to Madam Pomfrey. Meanwhile, Anthony couldn't help wondering: where exactly were they? What did Quirrell want to show him?
They reached a "more tasteful" room filled with fluttering, glittering keys. The room blazed with light, as if all the candlesticks saved from the previous room had been moved here.
"Flitwick," Quirrell said simply, apparently already knowing what awaited him. He strode across the room, tapped the door with his wand. As if yanked by invisible strings, a flying key stumbled mid-air, then flew awkwardly into Quirrell's hand. Quirrell grabbed it roughly, unlocked the door.
"After you, Professor Anthony," he said politely. "I'll walk behind you."
"Do you have something you want to tell me, Professor Quirrell?" Anthony asked. "Since we'd already agreed to meet tomorrow, a bit early shouldn't matter?"
"You'll understand soon, Anthony. Go in."
Another huge, cold room. Though pitch black when Anthony entered, the moment Quirrell stepped in, all the lights suddenly blazed, illuminating a giant chessboard.
"McGonagall." Quirrell turned, coughed a few times, then continued. "I gave you a hint, remember? Ah, just as I thought, you forgot. Tsk, that's not good."
"Hint about what?" Anthony asked.
"My goal at this school. Your goal at this school," Quirrell said. "Only we both didn't expect you'd look in the wrong place. Yes, the Chamber of Secrets does sound more like where immortality's secrets would be buried, doesn't it? Though your willingness to share was rather touching. We were planning to see tomorrow what exactly you found there."
"So behind this is the secret of immortality?" Anthony confirmed. Considering Dumbledore had given him a resurrection research project, the Headmaster storing an immortality secret at school wasn't impossible—assuming such things actually existed.
"Yes—no need to pretend anymore, Professor Anthony. Henry, my friend. We can share it together, study it together, if you join us! Disguising oneself as harmless is very difficult, but the feeling is also quite intoxicating. I must say, you did it far better than I—"
He suddenly trembled, as if remembering something, but quickly continued. "Far better. But now, victory lies just a few doors away. Sweet fruit within reach. Yes, you won't need to pretend to research Muggles anymore, waste time being a professor, but can explore topics you're truly interested in: life, death, souls, resurrection. Such beautiful, powerful subjects."
Anthony studied Quirrell, suspecting he'd joined some terrifying organization of research fanatics.
And Quirrell kept speaking fervently. "My—he was right, you have no attachment to Hogwarts, no real feelings for students or colleagues. When you look at students, you only see duty, correct? You know what a professor should be like, so you perform according to your mental image of a professor. Very clever, very powerful, very, very..." Quirrell trembled again, his voice dropping. "Cold."
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