INTERLUDE: RAMBLINGS OF OLD MEN
Dumbledore had been rather disappointed that the mirror had not given Sparhawk the Sorcerer's Stone. That meant one of two things. The boy did not know about the Stone at all. But that was unlikely given that he'd been snooping on his library habits. They'd gone clomping off in the wrong direction with animals, swords, and such, but young Sparhawk, he was sure, had stumbled upon the right idea in the end. It was easy to underestimate the boy.
Then that left the other alternative. Sparhawk wanted the stone and he wanted to use it. Oh well, maybe he was reading too much into this. After all, he was just a wee boy with a streak of violence in him. All this politicking about that he'd been doing the last few decades had left him entirely bent. If you know what I mean. Well, so much for the ramblings of an old man.
Quirrell quivered and covered his head, or would have had he not remembered just in time his rather insubstantial erstwhile master. The Dark Lord was well underway in yet another of his now frequent ravings about how he was going to murder Dumbledore painfully when all of this was done. And by done, he meant once he'd gotten the Sorcerer's stone, figured out his secrets, and restored himself to his rightful glory. Quirrell couldn't wait. His head was getting too crowded.
Once his lord had settled down somewhat, they got back to planning the real meat and bones of the operation. Their problems were not really manifold. Access into the school itself was not as hard as it should be, a thing Quirrell would have surely gone to Dumbledore about if he'd still been on the teaching staff. As it was, he'd been rather unceremoniously fired, without so much as a notice period, and he was feeling rather vindictive. As for the Cerebrus, at great personal intoxication and liberal use of the magical equivalent of roofies (Well, he WAS the muggle studies professor) and a dragon egg, he'd finally managed to milk it from Hagrid that What was needed was simply music. And believe it or not, the Dark Lord had apparently had a great singing voice back in the day and was raring for another go.
The only problem arose in the form of that wretched headmaster, that senile old fart, that meddling old coot, that…well, you get the point. Loath as his Lord was to admit that, they were both of them nowhere near strong enough to face down Dumbledore in his place of power along with his various toadies. Not yet, anyway. Which would change surely once they got their hands on Nicholas Flamel's bloody stone. Literally speaking.
But there would be a window of opportunity, or so Quirrell had informed the master. Every year at the end of the exams, the headmaster would go down to the ministry with the examiners. People were sure it was so he could plead for the occasional candidate who they considered failing; some others debated it was so he could have hot passionate sex with Madam Marchbanks. Whatever the case, that was one day when Dumbledore could be counted to be away from the school.
And when Dumbledore was away, the Dark Lord would come out to play.