Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

Inside the dim, musty office of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Professor Quirrell sat hunched at his desk, trembling. His hands, pale and clammy, fidgeted with the edge of his robes as faint candlelight flickered against the stone walls. His eyes, glassy with fear, remained fixed on the floor—unable, or perhaps unwilling, to meet the oppressive silence that pressed in around him.

But the silence did not last.

"Did you find the way to bypass the door…?"

The voice slithered through his mind, smooth as silk, cold as a serpent's scales. It coiled behind his thoughts, threading through his skull with quiet menace.

Quirrell swallowed hard, his throat dry as parchment. The fabric of his turban felt suffocating, wrapped far too tight. "N-no, M-master…" His voice quivered, cracking like brittle glass. "I—I searched. The library… the Restricted Section… even the old staff records… there's nothing. The creature guarding the fourth-floor corridor—it's ancient, powerful… Dumbledore's enchantments… they—they make it impenetrable. Magic, force—nothing works…"

For a moment, silence again—heavier this time. Suffocating. Icy.

"You disappoint me."

A jolt of pain ignited at the back of Quirrell's skull—sharp, searing—as though invisible claws had sunk into his mind. He recoiled, clutching his head, his trembling worsening.

"Books are tools," the voice murmured, silk turning to steel, "but not the only tools, fool."

Quirrell's breath came in shallow, rasping bursts. The voice, colder than before, curled tighter, squeezing around his thoughts like a vice.

"If you cannot best the beast, you will extract the knowledge from weaker minds. Find the oaf… the half-blood giant… Hagrid."

The name slammed into Quirrell's consciousness. His wide, bloodshot eyes snapped upward, disbelief etched across his face. "H-Hagrid? That… that blundering simpleton? He's—he's harmless! A—a drunken gamekeeper! Barely a wizard—"

"Harmless?" The voice chuckled low and cold, laced with amusement so sharp it stung. "That 'drunken gamekeeper' tames creatures that send grown men screaming. Dumbledore entrusts him with keys… secrets… monsters. His mind is soft, his heart weaker still."

Doubt gnawed at Quirrell's resolve. His fingers tugged at his sleeves, his lips chewed raw with anxiety. "But… if he won't tell me willingly…"

The voice hissed, dangerous and smooth. "Then make him talk. Exploit his affections… his misplaced love for those beasts. Dangle them before him—break them if you must. His loyalty will crumble like wet parchment under the right pressure."

Quirrell's pulse thundered in his ears, panic rising in his chest. "B-but… Dumbledore—he'll know—he'll suspect—"

"Dumbledore," the voice sneered, venom dripping from every syllable, "cannot watch every corner, every shadow. His gaze is divided. His castle… already cracks at the edges. Use that. The forest… the beasts… the fool's trust in those beneath him. Through Hagrid, the path will open."

A pause followed, stretching like a noose tightening.

Then the voice returned, quieter now—but sharpened with lethal promise.

"And remember this, Quirinus… failure is not an option. Your body… is temporary. I will find another… vessel… if you prove unworthy."

Quirrell's breath faltered. His shoulders sagged beneath the crushing weight of fear, cold sweat beading across his skin. He bowed his head lower, as if the stone floor might swallow him whole.

"Y-yes… Master…" he whispered, voice barely audible, cracked with terror.

The shadows coiled tighter, and the room fell deathly silent once more.