Author's Note: This chapter is inspired by Person of Interest, one of my favorite TV shows. Mr. Reese, you left us too soon!
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Confluence of Fate
"Here's your food, gentlemen," a smiling young woman of Pakistani descent murmured as she set steaming plates of curry down in front of Harry Potter and Quirinus Quirrell. "Enjoy, and let me know if I can get you anything else."
"Thank you," Harry replied politely, settling his napkin in his lap. When the waitress had moved on, Harry looked across the table at Quirrell, who was sipping a cup of hot tea contentedly. "What are we doing, professor? Not that this isn't more pleasant than writing lines, but I assume there's a point to our presence here."
'Here' was a hole in the wall restaurant in Muggle London, only sparsely occupied as it was still late afternoon. When Quirrell had told Harry to wear Muggle clothes to his first detention he'd suspected that they'd be leaving campus, and that suspicion had been borne out. Quirrell was dressed to match, looking very different with a heavy coat and knit cap replacing his colorful turban and robes.
"The w-walls in H-hogwarts h-have ears, Mr. P-potter," Quirrell replied after a moment. "It's not the best place to h-have h-honest conversations."
"What conversation are we having, professor?" Harry asked. "So far all you've told me is that the curry here is good." Taking a bite, he had to concede that it was true.
"Let's start w-with a question. It's one I usually don't ask my students until the fourth year, so I'm not expecting any specific answer. W-what is dark magic, Mr. P-potter?"
Harry considered that. "The use or creation of any spell intended to harm another, or one not approved by the Ministry of Magic."
"Almost a direct quote from your textbook," Quirrell noted. "Ms. Granger is rubbing off on you, Mr. P-potter. So w-what makes a spell light or dark is w-whether a bureaucrat at the Ministry says it is so?"
"That's what the textbook says," Harry replied with a shrug.
Quirrell shook his head. "On your first day in Charms class, P-professor Flitwick taught you the levitation charm, yes?"
"He did," Harry answered.
"I'd imagine you and your classmates h-had some fun using your magic in school for the first time, making feathers drift through the air… once you got the p-pronunciations right, anyways." Harry nodded. "Leviosa is a Ministry-approved charm. W-with enough p-power, it frees even very h-heavy things from the grip of gravity. Every w-witch and w-wizard alive uses it for tasks ranging from carrying groceries to moving furniture."
"Okay…?" Harry still wasn't sure what the point was.
Quirrell leaned forward. "The oven in the kitchen of this restaurant w-weighs roughly h-half a ton. If I wished, I could lift it with that charm, and then drop it on the cook. H-he would be dead as surely as if I h-had cast the killing curse upon h-him. So w-why is one of those spells taught to twelve year olds, w-while the other is p-punishable by a life sentence in Azkaban?"
Harry shivered. It was not a pleasant question to consider. "You just said that the levitating charm has uses other than doing harm. The killing curse… does not. If you used an innocuous piece of magic to do something criminal, it's still a criminal act and would be treated as such. An auror witnessing your execution by floating oven would still arrest you, wouldn't he professor?"
"He would certainly try," Quirrell agreed with a chuckle. "Very good Mr. P-potter, you are correct. Motive does matter. H-however, there is one key difference between those two spells, a true difference between 'dark' magic and more w-widely accepted spells that goes beyond semantics or bureaucracy. Can you guess w-what it is?"
Harry considered the question, but it wasn't exactly the sort of thing Remus or Sirius had ever discussed with him, and he came up empty. He simply shook his head.
"Intent, Mr. P-potter, is the difference. Leviosa will w-work the same regardless of your emotional state: h-happy, sad, angry… it doesn't matter. Say the w-words correctly, apply your magic, and the same thing will h-happen every time. Dark magic – spells that are truly malignant, not merely frowned upon by the Ministry – is different. Dark spells actually require ill intent. I believe you've seen the Cruciatus Curse used on others?"
Harry nodded jerkily, trying not to remember the screams of Sirius and his mother. "Saying that one w-word is not enough to cast the Cruciatus effectively; one must w-want very badly to inflict unimaginable pain on another. Truly dark spells are all the same in that regard."
"Why are you telling me this, professor?" Harry asked. It seemed like information that shouldn't be shared with students of magic. If there was a component to effective dark magic that wasn't commonly known, why not keep it a secret?
Quirrell's gaze was serious. "I tell you this because despite your age, you have a depth of life experience alien to most young w-wizards your age. Those experiences along w-with your natural talent for magic p-place you at a very dangerous p-precipice. Dark magic does not always require w-words, Mr. P-potter. Combine enough anger and enough magic, and something truly h-horrifying can be born even w-without a w-word being spoken. You h-have been tested before, and you w-will be tested again. I w-would not w-wish for you to do something out of ignorance that you w-would have cause to regret."
Harry shivered. In his confrontation with Draco he'd never drawn his wand, because his mother's training was reflex to him, while magic was a world he was still exploring. But he could see what Quirrell was trying to tell him. Draco was back at Hogwarts with a new wand, unable to even look Harry in the eye, but he was fully healed. If Harry had drawn his wand that afternoon though, angry as he was… he understood very well what Quirrell was getting at.
The rest of the meal passed in silence. Quirrell paid the bill in cash, but as they were preparing to go he stooped and plucked something from the ground. It was an earring their waitress had been wearing. "Oh dear, I do believe that young lady dropped this. Mr. P-potter, would you return it to h-her before w-we go?"
"Yes, professor," Harry murmured. Taking the earring he headed back to the counter at the rear of the restaurant. "Our waitress dropped her earring," he explained to the matronly hostess.
"Oh, well thank you. Amira just went to take out the trash, she'll be right back."
Harry glanced at the rear exit door, which was hanging ajar. Shrugging, he walked down the hallway to just go give it to her instead of standing there waiting. Stepping out into the cold January air, Harry shivered a bit and pulled up the collar of his coat. Then he frowned, hearing raised voices in Pashtun on the other side of the dumpster. Glancing around the edge, he saw the waitress Amira arguing with two Pakistani men.
Both of them looked enough like Amira to be family. One was considerably older than her, the other close to her age. Both men sounded angry, the older one red in the face as he shouted. Amira looked nervous, her back to the alley wall and her body language defensive as she shook her head and replied with a clear negative.
The older man spat at her feet and said something in a cold tone that made Amira flinch. The man her age dipped a hand inside his coat, and when it came out he was holding a knife. Amira screamed at the sight of it. "No! Help! Someone help me," she cried out as he raised the weapon.
Harry considered his options, but the long conversation with Quirrell about spells and intent made the decision for him. He took a step back, drew his wand and pointed it at the dumpster. "Bombarda," he whispered. The kinetic impact spell struck the heavy, wheeled metal box and set it into rapid motion. Harry heard a shout of surprise a moment before two heavy impacts. He quickly made his wand disappear into his sleeve and stepped deeper into the early evening shadows of the alley.
Amira, her back still pressed to the alley wall, stared in shock for a moment at the dumpster that had passed less than a meter in front of her, striking both men and throwing them all the way to the sidewalk at the mouth of the alley to lie there groaning. Overcoming her surprise, Amira shook herself and ran out of the alley.
"Well h-handled, Mr. P-potter."
Harry wasn't really surprised to find Quirrell right behind him. "How did you know that was going to happen, professor?"
"Oy, what's this?" That shout came from outside the alley, and Harry saw a pair of Muggle policemen approach the downed pair. They spotted the fleeing waitress and the knife glittering on the sidewalk, and proceeded to arrest the two men.
"That's our cue to leave," Quirrell murmured, his hand falling on Harry's shoulder. His wand moved, and the world twisted around them, depositing the pair in the dark, deserted courtyard outside of Hogwarts' entrance.
"You knew that was going to happen," Harry said again. "Why the subterfuge, professor? Why send me out there to deal with it?"
Quirrell shook his head. "Mr. P-potter, if I h-had known exactly what was going to h-happen and w-when, the problem w-would have been solved with a telephone tip to the Muggle p-police. You are an unusually capable young w-wizard, but believe me w-when I say I w-would not have risked young Amira's life in your h-hands if I w-was truly prescient."
"But you know her name," Harry said suspiciously, "and I don't believe she dropped that earring; you lifted it, didn't you?"
"I know Amira's name because I eat at that restaurant regularly," Quirrell replied patiently, "and yes, I did covertly remove h-her earring. The unexpected event I was expecting h-had not yet occurred when our meal ended, so I conspired to lengthen our stay."
Harry blinked. "So… you knew something was going to happen at that restaurant?"
"I suspected matters w-would come to a h-head soon between Amira and h-her unfortunately conservative family," Quirrell explained. "Divination is not a p-p-precise art, Mr. P-potter, w-which is w-why most seers are so p-poorly regarded. W-when young Amira p-poured my tea last w-week I gazed into its dregs and glimpsed h-her lying in a pool of blood. Visions such as that one, unfortunately, do not p-provide a 'w-when' or a 'w-where'."
"Yet you seem to know a great deal about her situation," Harry noted.
"I know because I put the effort into knowing, something few seers bother to do w-when they h-have a vision," Quirrell replied sharply. "I did my research; I gained entry into the young lady's h-home and found a h-history of correspondence with h-her father and brother in regards to returning to their native country and submitting to an arranged marriage, something she w-was unwilling to do after undertaking an education in this country and tasting freedom of choice. I then made it my business to be informed w-when those same men entered this country on tourist visas and came to London."
"So why were we there?" Harry demanded. "Did you want to see what I'd do?"
"W-we w-were there, Mr. P-potter, because I had a p-prior commitment to spend this afternoon w-with you, and I needed to relieve the friend of mine w-who had been keeping an eye on the girl," Quirrell said. "It w-was not my intent that you take a direct hand in p-protecting Amira, but you did so and did it w-well. Many students older than yourself w-would have frozen upon stumbling into that situation, or fled to seek h-help that would arrive too late. You assessed the situation and acted efficiently, much as you did the other day. I w-won't ask w-who trained you to think and to fight, because I respect your privacy and it doesn't really matter. W-whoever it w-was did an excellent job. W-what I w-will ask you is this: w-would you rather h-have spent the afternoon w-writing lines, something other p-professors are fond of assigning to students who attend detention w-with them?"
Harry slowed his breathing, focused and considered the question. "No, professor," he admitted.
Quirrell smiled faintly. "I shall offer you a choice then. W-wear your robes to detention next w-week, and w-we w-will remain within H-hogwarts' w-walls. W-wear your Muggle garb, and w-we w-will undertake another excursion. Now, curfew is nearly upon us so I w-would recommend an expedited trip to the Gryffindor dormitory. Good evening, Mr. P-potter."
Harry watched Quirrell depart silently before shaking himself and heading inside. The halls were mostly empty and he hurried up to the tower, making it through the painting just seconds before the bell tolled signaling curfew.
"Harry!" Hermione called out. She and Ron were doing homework by the fireplace when he entered, and they both leapt up at the sight of him.
"How bad was it, mate?" Ron asked.
"Not as bad as I was expecting," Harry replied. "Nothing like what I was expecting, in fact."
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked with a frown.
"Professor Quirrell seems to be of the belief that detention should be productive," Harry answered vaguely, "and it was. I think… I think I learned a lot. This will sound weird, but I'm looking forward to going back next week."
"That does sound weird, mate," Ron agreed. "Don't go noising that about too loudly, or people will think you're mental."
"Well I'm glad it wasn't unpleasant," Hermione interjected.
"Far from it," Harry agreed. He went up to his room to get his book bag and then returned to the common room to work on some essays due on Monday. As he was struggling through an analysis of the goblin wars and fantasizing about Professor Binns being run over by a dumpster, he realized that he'd already decided what he was going to wear to next week's detention.
