"ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ," ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴɢ: "ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ɪᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɴᴅ, ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ." - ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ᴄᴀʀʀᴏʟʟ, ᴀʟɪᴄᴇ'ꜱ ᴀᴅᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ
Chapter Twenty: Something Rotten
The strange, offbeat ticking of the clock filled the room.
Tick, tock. Pause. Tock, tick. Tick, tick. Tock.
Professor Quirrell smiled, tapping the nib of his quill against the inkwell to remove the excess. Harry swallowed nervously, watching the obsidian droplets slip down into the black pool beneath them.
"Obscurials," said Quirrell. "Rather p-pr-precocious, aren't you, Mr. P-Potter? Youngest S-Seeker in a c-century, and p-p-pursuing extracurricular academics... C-C-Colour me impressed. And I m-must say, I was very pleased with your p-p-performance on the exam."
"Thank you, sir," said Harry, but Quirrell's praise did little to make him feel less uncomfortable.
He turned his head away from Quirrell, letting his gaze wander along the walls.
"That's a strange clock," he said.
The six hands, each tipped with an ornate arrow, swung back-and-forth with seemingly no regard for the continual passing of time.
Quirrell smiled again; sheepish, but somehow charming.
And yet, thought Harry, there's something unnerving behind his eyes. Hagrid's right. He's smarter than he lets on.
"Yes," said Quirrell, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Quite nice, don't you think, Harry?"
Harry blinked. His voice sounded completely different again.
"Professor Quirrell," he said, "are you feeling all right?"
"Quite," said Quirrell, shaking his head and flashing another (tired-looking, Harry realised) smile. Now he sounded normal once more.
"What does that clock measure, Professor?" asked Harry. "It's not time, is it?"
"No," said Quirrell. "Not at all. But I am sure a c-cl-clever boy like yourself can f-f-fig-figure it out. Why don't you get up and have a c-closer look at it? I brought it back with me from my travels."
He did; the clock was hanging on the wall furthest from the door. It was very ornate and looked a little like something he had seen in a book.
The clock was really a clock-within-a-clock because it had a second, cobalt-coloured, lacquered ring mounted inside its face. Golden symbols ran along the outside of both rings, and Harry couldn't help but notice that some of them looked like the symbols from the sealed room.
Still smiling, Quirrell lifted his wand and gave it a little flick that looked more expert than any spell he had shown them in their Defence lessons. The hands of the clock began to spin, and the ticking became rhythmic, filling the room with the low hum of friction.
"The c-creator of the c-c-clock was blinded after he completed it," Quirrell explained, "s-so that he could never m-make s-s-such a thing again."
"Magic," Harry breathed, watching the hands slow to a stop. "But how?"
"M-Magic is a s-science, albeit an under-studied and p-p-p-poorly understood one, H-Harry."
"And Obscurials? What about them?"
Quirrell watched him set the library book on the table, then put on his reading glasses.
"S-Shadows and Spirits," he read, opening the cover and then quickly flicking through the book to the section on Obscurials.
For a few minutes, the room was silent except for the erratic ticking of the clock and the rustle of the pages.
Quirrell cleared his throat, and Harry sat up straight in surprise.
"I must c-c-confess that I am not le-learned in the p-p-practice of this kind of m-magic," he said.
"I thought that's why you went to Albania, sir."
"S-So it is," said Quirrell. "That is why I think I m-m-may be able to help you, Harry."
"Do you think I'm an Obscurial?"
"We s-sh-shan't talk about that, Harry," said Quirrell. "If the wrong p-p-people hear, they might want to c-c-come for you."
"Who?"
"You must understand, Harry, there are f-f-few things wizards are more afraid of than Obscurials. S-Should they s-s-sus-suspect a glimmer of truth to your hypothesis, they will have you locked up immediately."
Harry's hand wrapped around the handle of the chair; his heart nearly stopped beating.
Locked up. The air smelled like sawdust. Harry heard Uncle Vernon's laugh and the rattle of a key in the cupboard door: You won't be seeing the outside of this cupboard for the summer, boy! You should have behaved yourself!
"No!"
"I won't breathe a word, Harry," said Quirrell, confident and reassuring. "Your s-s-secret is safe with me. Fear not; I will not let Dumbledore rip it fr-from my m-m-mind. But trust... no one."
Harry shook his head. Quirrell was right. He was safe. He was at Hogwarts. Nothing could hurt him here, but...
"You... sir... I don't understand... what about Professor Dumbledore?"
Quirrell flashed his sheepish, charming smile once more. "Oh, yes ... tell me, have you heard of Legilimency?"
When he shook his head, Quirrell continued. "A Legilimens is a witch or wizard who has m-mastered the art of navigating through m-m-minds, but m-m-more importantly, being able to c-c-co-correctly interpret what they s-see, and if s-sk-skilled enough, even influence their target to... do things. S-Show them visions... tell them what to believe. Make them s-slaughter their loved ones, or beg for death." He paused. "F-Fr-Frightening stuff, isn't it, H-Harry?"
He nodded, barely able to breathe.
"People can read my mind? Everyone? Can you?" asked Harry. His stomach began to fill with dread; his breath caught in his throat.
"No, H-Harry. I am, I am afraid, m-merely f-f-familiar with the theory. Any f-f-fool with enough determination can p-p-push into another's m-m-mind, just as any brute c-c-can rip off the bonnet of a c-c-car. It takes a great deal of p-p-practice and s-sk-skill to understand the mind of even a c-ch-child, just as a m-mechanic must train to understand the interplay of each little p-p-p-piece of an engine."
Now, how does he know what a car is? Harry wondered. I thought Quirrell was a pureblood?
Quirrell clapped his hands. "But f-fear not, Harry. You were right to c-c-come to me. I will teach you how to s-sh-shield your m-m-mind from Dumbledore, but in the m-meantime, this will do. It will help c-c-contain your p-p-powers."
He pulled open a drawer and took out a small, silvery ring. It was delicately crafted and looked ancient, yet without a speck of tarnish, shimmering brightly in the candlelight of Quirrell's office.
When he put it into Harry's palm, he found that the ring was much heavier than it looked. It buzzed against his hand, and when he looked at it closely, he saw that it was decorated with exquisitely detailed scales.
Turning it in his hand, Harry realised that the ring depicted a snake with its tail in its mouth (pretty gruesome, Harry thought). It was so finely-wrought that the tiny emerald eyes of the snake looked real and alive, and it had delicate but deadly-looking fangs.
"Are you sure you want to give this to me, sir?" asked Harry, remembering how jealously Aunt Petunia had guarded her jewellery, and this ring looked particularly expensive. It had to be a family heirloom. "I might ruin it."
Quirrell smiled. "There is nothing ordinary that c-c-could ruin that ring."
"Is it made with magic, Professor Quirrell?" No tools nor hands could make something so tiny yet detailed.
"Yes. C-C-Clever boy, aren't you, H-Harry?"
Despite himself, Harry smiled too. He had never been praised for his cleverness before.
"You would have done well in S-S-Slytherin," said Quirrell.
"That's what the Sorting Hat said," Harry murmured, sliding the ring onto his finger. He was surprised that it fit.
Quirrell gave him a curious look. "The S-Sorting Hat considered Slytherin?"
"That's where it wanted to put me, sir."
"So," said Quirrell, "you would have been with your s-s-sister, otherwise."
"I didn't know she would end up in Slytherin. Or else I would have let it sort me there."
"Let it?"
Harry swallowed. "I said no. I didn't want to be in Slytherin."
"Why not? I am c-curious."
"Well," said Harry, not sure if what he was about to say was at all appropriate, so he abridged it, "I don't think I'm as good of a fit as the Sorting Hat thought I would be."
Quirrell raised an eyebrow.
"Or perhaps in S-Slytherin," he recited. "You'll make your real f-fr-friends; Those c-c-cunning folk use any m-means to achieve their ends."
Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends. Yes, that fit Ruby to a T. And Slytherin House wasn't all bad.
But, even though Harry was sure he could manage to look past the snideness and the airs of superiority and the way that Slytherins tended to strut around Hogwarts in their little mobs as if they owned the place, the inalienable fact remained that Voldemort was a Slytherin.
Harry twisted the ring nervously and looked up at Quirrell.
"I didn't want to go in the House Voldemort was in."
Quirrell's eyes widened.
"You say his name... but of c-c-course you do, Harry P-P-Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived."
"Why are people so afraid of it?" asked Harry. "I know he was really evil, but we say Hitler's name, don't we?"
Did Quirrell even know who Hitler was?
But he nodded. There was a strange glint in his eyes again, knowing and almost pained.
"Yes, even after he was responsible for the deaths of millions."
"And you say Grindelwald's name, too. I don't know much about him, but wasn't he just as bad?"
Quirrell laughed. "Just as bad. No, Harry, you greatly underestimate the Dark Lord. How p-people f-f-feared him."
"Yeah," said Harry, testing the waters. "Yeah, of course, he was powerful, but he was just another wizard, right? They could get together and fight him; I'm sure Dumbledore could. He defeated Grindelwald, didn't he? And anyway, Voldemort was just human. He died, after all."
Did Quirrell know? That Voldemort wasn't dead, or even if he was, someone was trying to bring him back?
"Yes," said Quirrell. Harry could not parse his expression. "Yes, H-Harry, from a c-c-completely logical p-p-perspective, that is true. But imagine this."
Quirrell paused.
"He could read minds, couldn't he?" asked Harry. "Whatever you called it. Legilimency."
"Oh, s-s-so much more than that, Harry. The Dark Lord was highly sk-skilled at the art of Legilimency, but that is barely the tip of the iceberg." He lowered his voice. The fire seemed to dim, and the room grew a shade darker and colder. Quirrell's stutter only served to make his voice sound yet more ominous; his eyes became wide as saucers.
"Imagine this, H-Harry. The D-Dark Lord is p-p-powerful now. At the heights of his p-power. The s-str-streets c-crawling with hags, and werewolves, and Death Eaters. But that is not the worst of it. When you c-c-can s-see your enemy, you c-can f-f-fight it. It is the s-sh-shadows where your f-fr-friends lurk that you s-sh-should f-f-feel the m-most f-fear, H-Harry."
Despite himself, Harry felt a shiver run down his spine, and he reached for his wand to make sure it was still in his pocket (the gesture, though new, was strangely comforting).
Quirrell continued. "You don't know who his Death Eaters are, H-Harry. Your closest f-fr-friends ― I s-s-see you are f-fond of Mr. Weasley; imagine one day he turns up dead, and you are left to wonder if M-M-Miss Granger is to blame."
"Hermione would never do something like that!" said Harry, nearly forgetting it wasn't real.
Quirrell really knows how to tell stories, he thought.
"The Dark Lord c-c-can make the p-p-people you know and love best do t-t-terrible things. You are s-s-sc-scared, Harry. Every week, news c-c-comes of m-more deaths, more disappearances, m-m-more torturing... m-meanwhile, the M-Ministry of Magic itself is f-f-full of traitors. You don't know who you c-c-can trust. Every day, there are m-more dead... Even your father's own best friend f-f-from s-school betrayed your f-family to the Dark Lord."
"What?" asked Harry, sitting up straight.
"I apologise," said Quirrell. "I thought you had been told." He waved a hand. "Terror everywhere...p-p-panic... c-confusion... that is how it used to be when the Dark Lord was in his full, terrible p-p-power. It was a wild time, H-Harry. A strange time."
"And his name? Why don't we say it?"
"Do not call upon the gods unless you wish to s-summon them." Quirrell paused once more; there was something wild and almost unnaturally intelligent behind his eyes. "The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters s-s-sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed. The terror it inspired... you c-c-can't imagine, you c-can't know. But just p-p-p-picture, H-Harry, leaving your s-s-sister at home while you have left to run a little errand, and returning to find the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and knowing what you're about to find inside..."
"No," said Harry shakily. The ring burned against his hand, but the shadows did not rise or shudder or darken. Good. He would block it out. He wouldn't believe it. He wouldn't be afraid. "No."
"Everyone's worst fear..." said Quirrell, nodding.
I won't believe it. He can't hurt me. He won't. He won't hurt Ruby, or Ron, or Hermione, or anyone else, ever again. I won't let him.
"Voldemort's dead," said Harry. "He's gone."
And I'm not going to let him come back.
"Is he?"
"Do you know, then?" asked Harry, lifting his head to look Quirrell in the eye. "That he's got someone here going after the Philosopher's Stone?"
"Yes, I do, Harry," said Quirrell, patting him on the shoulder as he stood up. "I will do my utmost to find and apprehend the imposter before anything can go wrong... But allow me, H-Harry, to escort you back to your dormitory. It will c-certainly be after c-c-curfew by now."
"Morning, Heph," said Ruby as she pulled her socks on. He was busying himself with rolling around the floor on his back, his citrus-coloured eyes bugging out of his head. It was so dark in the girls' dormitory that he looked more like a shadow than a cat.
"If you don't want fleas," she said, as if he could understand her, "you shouldn't wander in the grass."
He pawed at the air, and she rolled her eyes.
"Stop being dopey," said Ruby. She slipped her feet into her shoes and stood up. "We've got Transfiguration today."
Hephaestus sprang onto the bed to cower in the duvet. Sometimes she wondered if he did understand her. Hedwig and all of the other owls seemed to be smarter than ordinary birds.
"Don't worry, it's not you I've got to transfigure," said Ruby, wondering if there was some way to get her hair to behave itself. "We're learning how to turn things into little birds. No one's got it yet, except Anthony."
She frowned at her reflection. Behind her, she thought she could see Aunt Petunia's disapproving face, her blonde hair pulled into a neat, perfect bun, and her pale eyes glimmering in the darkness of the dormitory.
"She was always so pretty," Aunt Petunia would say. She would scoop Ruby's hair away from her face and tug on it, forcing it into a tight ponytail.
Am I pretty, like my mother? Like your sister? Ruby would let that treacherous thought roll around inside her head and wait, with bated breath, for her mother's sister, some reasonable, affectionate being to emerge. But it never did.
"Head forward!" The comb would dig into the back of her scalp, forcing her head towards the mirror. Pulling painfully. Cold fingers. Cruel hands.
"You don't look like her. You look like your good-for-nothing father. You and your brother both. You're a freak, but you're not pretty like her."
And then, Aunt Petunia was gone as quickly as she came, and Ruby was left grasping at the ghosts.
Her hair was tied back. She must have done it herself and imagined Aunt Petunia's hands.
Did any of it really happen? Ruby couldn't tell.
Slowly and deliberately, she fixed her gaze on her reflection in the spotty mirror and looped her hair into a bun, just like Aunt Petunia's.
Vaguely, she wondered if Aunt Petunia had ever met her father, and if so, what she'd had to say about him.
Hagrid always seemed too upset to talk about Lily and James Potter. But Dumbledore would be able to put his feelings aside. He might tell her; if he wanted to.
"That's all I can do," she said, pointlessly batting a few stray curls out of her face. "Right. Let's go."
Her resolution to make this morning a Reasonably Decent one soon crumbled when she collided headfirst with Theodore Nott in the hallway.
"Sorry, Theo," she muttered, bending down to help pick up the scattered books. "I should look where I'm going."
"Theo?" he repeated, his tone laced with danger.
Ruby realised what she had just said and desperately tried to backtrack. "Sorry, I didn't mean — that's what Daphne called you — I'm just making it all worse, aren't I?"
Theodore sighed. "It's fine," he said sharply, grabbing A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration and shoving it deep into his bag. "You can call me Theo if you want."
He paused. "What did Daphne say?"
"Nothing much."
"Was she talking about my dad?"
Ruby hesitated.
Who should I worry about more? Daphne or Theodore?
Theodore's kind of a loner, but I'm sure Daphne could make my life hell if she wanted to.
"No, she wasn't," said Ruby. "She just told me..."
How am I supposed to finish that sentence?
"... I'm sorry to hear about your mum," she said hastily, remembering too late that Daphne had warned her to keep her mouth shut.
"Thank you for your condolences," he said, the corner of his bottom lip snagging on his front teeth. Then, without wasting a second glance at her, he picked up his bag and scampered up the stairs.
"Hey, Theo, wait!" she called, gathering up the rest of the books that he had left on the floor. "I didn't mean to!"
Hephaestus stopped cleaning his whiskers and gave her a supercilious look.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," said Ruby and followed after Theodore.
Someone patted her on the shoulder, and she turned around.
Blaise laughed. "Brilliant job, Pyromaniac Potter."
"It's not funny, Blaise!" she snapped.
Why can't you behave?
Aunt Petunia, with a letter from one of her teachers dangling from her spidery fingers, her wedding band glinting in the light.
Behave... Behave... Behave... no one will ever want you... Behave...
It echoed, and Ruby had to squeeze her eyes shut to drown it out.
Blaise shook his head, still consumed with laughter — whatever he'd said, she hadn't heard it — and walked off.
But the teasing seemed more good-natured than usual.
Theo was nowhere to be seen in the common room, so she left in hopes of finding him in the Great Hall.
"How do I keep getting into confrontations?" she asked Heph as the door shut behind them, melting nearly seamlessly into the wall. "Let's go find him and apologise."
Ruby shifted the pile of books that she was carrying.
The book on top of the pile was had a rich emerald cover, with A Brief History of Time Magic embossed in golden script, a decorated with flecks of gold leaf and shimmering clocks; even the edges of the pages had been painted with gold. The middle one was their regular first-year Defence textbook, The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, as ordinary and plain as a grimoire could be.
But the last had a false cover. The pages seemed to be glued together because they wouldn't open.
But never mind. She could just give them back to Theodore during their Defence lesson.
"Bad morning?" asked Anthony as she sat down in her usual spot in Transfiguration, still in a huff.
"Bad morning," agreed Ruby, sifting through the mess in her bag to find her quill. "Did you finish the star chart for Astronomy? I'm nearly done."
"Yep," said Anthony. "Finished it yesterday." He paused. "What's this? I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body but come alive with the wind."
Ruby really wasn't in the mood today.
"Uh, a wind chime?"
"Exactly!" said Anthony. "That's what I thought, but the knocker kept arguing with me!"
"It was definitely an echo!" said Padma Patil from across the room, turning around in her chair to face them. "How could it be a wind chime?"
Professor McGonagall coughed. "Mr. Goldstein, Miss Patil; enough chit-chatting."
"Sorry, Professor," they chorused.
McGonagall sniffed and began to take attendance.
"Hmm... yes, Mr. Goldstein is here, so is Miss Patil... Draco Malfoy?"
"Here, Professor."
Professor McGonagall glanced at her list, then glanced back at Theodore's empty seat next to Blaise.
"Mr. Zabini, where is Mr. Nott?"
"I don't know, Professor," said Blaise, picking at the fibres in his quill. "I saw him this morning in the common room. He looked upset."
Malfoy nudged Blaise, and whispered something in his ear. Both boys smirked, and Blaise gave Ruby a sly, sideways glance. "I think Potter said something to him."
Professor McGonagall turned to her with a steely glint in her eye.
"Miss Potter, is that true?"
"Yes, Professor," she said, staring at her desk and thinking of how to get revenge on the two of them (Tweedledee and Tweedledum, always up to no good). "I didn't mean to repeat what I heard from—" She could feel Daphne's eyes burning holes in her skull from where she and Pansy sat behind her and Anthony. "—people. I didn't realise I'd hurt his feelings."
"Yes, you should not repeat things said in bad faith, Miss Potter," said Professor McGonagall in a disapproving tone, pressing her lips together so that they looked even thinner. She appeared to be deliberating whether or not this offence was worth House points.
Ruby picked at the soft wood of the desk with her fingernail and scowled. Everyone seems to be angry with me these days.
Without thinking it through, Ruby put her hand up.
"Professor McGonagall?"
"Yes, Miss Potter?"
"Um, if I finish the assignment, can I leave class early to look for Theodore? I want to apologise."
She could not read the professor's expression.
"That will do," said Professor McGonagall.
Pansy scoffed. "Like she'll manage to even do it by the end of the week!"
"Enough, Miss Parkinson."
Ruby didn't manage to turn her paperweight into a bird; the best she could do was make it sprout wings, which amused Pansy to no end.
"Poor Theo," muttered Daphne as they left the classroom, purposefully loud enough for Ruby to hear.
Theodore re-appeared during Potions and, as was usual, barely talked to anyone. Least of her.
The books stayed in her bag.
"Quirrell gave me this," said Harry when they had gathered in the courtyard after Potions, holding up his hand. On his little finger, there was a silver, ancient-looking ring.
"Isn't that like one of the symbols from the room that Dumbledore sealed?" asked Ron. "That funny snake thing."
"An ouroboros, the alchemical symbol of eternal life, resurrection, and the cyclical nature of the universe, because it has no beginning and no end. In fact, it's the oldest allegorical symbol in alchemy," said Hermione. The other three turned to stare at her; Anthony was walking in a circle and humming to himself, apparently in his own world.
Hermione shrugged. "I decided to do a bit of light reading," she said defensively.
"That's great," said Harry, "but I can't get it off now. I've been trying for ages."
"It doesn't hurt, does it?" asked Ruby.
"No, but it's a bit weird, isn't it?"
"Quirrell's a bit weird," said Ron.
"Anyone who takes that position after it was jinxed is a little bit off," said Ruby, and when they all looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head, added: "That's what the Bloody Baron said."
"Anyway," said Ron, patting Harry on the shoulder. "It's probably nothing; loads of jewellery is charmed not to fall off. Quirrell's a professor, he wouldn't do anything weird to it, and he'd be able to tell if it was cursed."
"Yeah," said Harry, though he sounded somewhat unconvinced. "You're probably right."
He nodded at Ruby and Anthony. "We've got Herbology in ten minutes. See you two later?"
"I expect," said Ruby, when the others had left, "there's a really good and completely logical reason for hanging off of a tree like a bat."
In fact, she was quite impressed with Anthony's nerve and balance (although she was unclear on how he planned to get down without cracking his head open). His shirt had somehow managed to stay tucked into his trousers, but his jumper was bunched up around his armpits, and he was wearing a morose expression.
"Thinking," was all the light that he cared to shed on his current position. "It makes the blood flow to your head."
Ruby was sceptical of the utility of such an approach. Instead of retorting, though, she chewed on her nails.
"So the Philosopher's Stone is at Hogwarts. Probably. And it's got something to do with the Vanished room."
"It might not have been Vanished," said Anthony. "Dumbledore said it was sealed."
He paused, deep in thought.
"Let's ask the Bloody Baron for help; he's the Head ghost, so he's bound to know something about it."
Ruby wrinkled her nose. "You've got a death wish."
"You should ask; you're the Slytherin."
Ruby was not keen on the scraping and bowing and appealing to My Lord. But she was in a generous mood.
"I'll think about it," said Ruby.
"Here," said Anthony, stretching his arms out to hold onto her shoulder as he carefully slipped his leg off of the tree branch, landing on the ground relatively unharmed. "Let's go ask him."
"Now?" asked Ruby.
"Yeah, we've both got an hour until our next class. No time like the present, right?"
Ruby shook her head, then followed Anthony into the library, hoping that he would tire himself out and give up on the idea.
He did not.
"Hi, Helena!" he chirped to the ghost of a young woman, who was sitting in the corner with her nose in a book.
"Hello," she said haughtily, glancing up at Anthony and then back down at her book.
"Do you know where the Bloody Baron is?"
"No idea," said Helena, without looking up. "I have no desire to associate with such company."
"But me and Ruby need your help—"
Now, Helena stared up at them, her eyes burning cold and hard.
"You will find him groaning and clanking, as is his pathetic habit, upon the Astronomy Tower. Do not tell him I sent you."
And, of course, Anthony thanked Helena and proceeded to drag Ruby up the Astronomy Tower, where they did, to Ruby's horror, find the Bloody Baron.
The Baron adjusted the gold band resting on his head and glared down at them, looking not the least bit embarrassed about being caught having a melodramatic fit.
"Excuse me, er, My Lord — could I ask you a question?" asked Ruby.
"It depends, as do all hypothetical scenarios, on the identity of your question and whether I wish to answer," said the Baron, drawing his (thankfully immaterial) sword and admiring the way that the light glinted off of it. Anthony edged slightly behind her.
"Can you tell us about the Mirror of Erised?"
"Ah," said the Baron grandly. "Can I, or will I? That is the question."
Ruby sighed.
"Will you tell us, Your Lordship?" she asked in a monotone voice.
The Baron seemed placated.
"I will," he said, sheathing his sword and making the air sing with the hiss of metal. The Baron began to circle them, probably for dramatic effect; Ruby could tell that Anthony regretted his choice to come up here.
"The Mirror of Erised shows the most desperate desire of a person's heart," said the Baron, stopping directly in front of Ruby. "It is a vision that has been known to drive men mad. No one knows from whence it came or why it was created, but one thing is clear... it has done more harm than good."
"Do you know about my dogs?" asked Anthony. "Everyone says they're not real, but I saw them, I did!"
The Baron gave him a haughty look.
"The Cerberus does indeed exist; however, I am not at liberty to discuss any further qualities," he said, smiling evenly.
"There was a rusty-looking stain on the floor," said Ruby. "I thought it was from ages ago, but Dumbledore seemed to think it was new. Someone had gone over the philosopher's stone rune recently."
"There was a bloodstain, you say? Blood magic? Very Dark stuff," said the Baron, nodding meaningfully. "Not at all suitable for children. I will let the Headmaster know—"
"Don't tell him!" Ruby interrupted. "Please! I don't want to get in trouble again."
The Baron grinned wickedly. "There are ways of telling people things, little girl, that do not involve the complete truth. However, I am sure he knows."
"Those symbols — that's why Dumbledore sealed the room?"
"I think," said the Baron. "You and I know the answer to that question."
"Then what does it mean? Is the Philosopher's Stone here? Voldemort's servant's trying to get it for them, aren't they? But what's the Mirror and the runes got to do with it, anyway?"
The Baron did not answer and instead floated through Anthony, making him shriek and shudder.
"I don't know any of the answers!" said Ruby, stamping her foot. "Why else would I ask?"
"You know what?" she asked, turning to Anthony. "I'm going to ask Quirrell."
"No!" said Anthony, following her down the stairs, "You can't!"
"Why not? He's the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor; shouldn't he know?"
Although Anthony did his best to plead with her, he eventually had to go the other way to Potions, and Ruby remained unmoved.
Fortunately, Quirrell's lesson plan for today was lazy as usual; once they had finished a short and very dull quiz on curing werewolf bites, he allowed them to read quietly (Lavender had gone to sleep). The room was filled with whispering and the soft scratching of Quirrell's quill.
Ruby leaned over her desk to tap Harry, who was sitting in front of her, on his shoulder.
"Can I borrow the runes?"
He nodded and handed her the folded-up piece of paper.
"I really hope you know what you're doing," he said.
"Professor Quirrell?" she asked.
"Yes, just a s-second, Miss Potter."
He smiled bashfully and removed his reading glasses. Ruby stood up and started to walk towards Quirrell.
Blaise and Pansy were whispering something, but she ignored them.
"Could you take a look at this, Professor?" asked Ruby, holding out the piece of paper.
Harry was sitting up straight and watching Quirrell intently; everyone else seemed disinterested.
Quirrell unfolded the paper, and his composure shattered; he breathed in sharply as if he had been stung.
"P-Paper cut," he said, flashing her a reassuring smile. "Horrid, aren't they?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Extracurricular p-p-project, Miss Potter?" Quirrell looked at Harry as if they were sharing an inside joke. "Where did you c-come across this?"
"I can't tell you, sir," said Ruby.
She half-expected him to, like the Bloody Baron, tell her it was very Dark stuff, indeed, fold up the paper and tell her to get rid of it. But he did not.
"I would not worry about this," said Quirrell. "They are p-potentially symbols that may be used in the worst kinds of Dark m-m-magic, yes, but together, it is nonsensical. Gibberish."
"What if there was a bloodstain?" whispered Ruby so that no one but them could hear.
"The blood of a unicorn has healing p-p-powers," said Quirrell flippantly. "That is the most likely possibility. But again, this is a s-s-sentence without s-structure. It is nonsense."
"Right," said Ruby. "Thanks, Professor Quirrell."
As she walked back to her seat, she passed the piece of paper back to Harry.
Somehow, she could not help but feel deflated.
"There has to be something more to it, Harry. There has to. Dumbledore wouldn't have sealed the room and had Aurors protecting everyone otherwise; the Bloody Baron said so himself!"
"Maybe you're right," said Harry, swivelling around in his chair to face her. "I don't like it either. Something is definitely rotten about this."
He paused.
"Someone's not telling the truth."