Epilogue

The Forbidden Forest loomed dark and ancient, its twisted branches whispering in the night. Hidden beneath its canopy, two figures stood at the tree line, watching as lanterns bobbed in the distance—the boats carrying the first-year students across the Great Lake.

Professor Quirinus Quirrell shivered, though not from the cold. He clutched his robes tightly around his thin frame, his breath shallow, his heartbeat erratic. The scent of damp earth and blood filled his nostrils, the remains of a recent, desperate feeding.

Behind his eyes, in the depths of his mind, his Master stirred.

"Master," Quirrell murmured, his voice brittle with fear. "I—I am sorry. I have failed you. The Stone is beyond our reach. I could not procure it for you." He swallowed hard before daring to ask, "What would you have me do now?"

A chill slithered through his skull, curling like smoke through his thoughts.

"You disappoint me, Quirrell," the voice whispered, quiet yet terrible. "But I still have need of you."

Quirrell's legs nearly gave out beneath him. He nodded quickly, his hands twitching at his sides.

"The Stone is gone, but another opportunity presents itself."

The presence within him shifted, its attention turning toward the lake. The lanterns swayed gently on the water, tiny pinpricks of golden light against the vast darkness. They were too far to see the children within the boats, but they knew who was among them.

"Harry Potter," the voice murmured, cold and calculating. "The boy who lived."

Quirrell licked his lips, his throat dry.

"Yes… he is among them."

"Interesting," Voldemort mused. "Perhaps the boy will be useful to me. Or perhaps… he must die."

Quirrell flinched as a sharp, searing pain pierced through his skull. The presence within him pressed closer, curling around his mind like a vice, tightening its hold. He bit back a strangled cry, his fingers clutching his temples.

"You will continue teaching," Voldemort commanded, his voice a venomous whisper. "But I think… I must watch over you more closely."

Quirrell screamed as Voldemort's power surged through him, seizing his very being, twisting itself deeper into his flesh. His body convulsed, his thoughts shattered under the weight of the Dark Lord's will. The agony was indescribable.

When it finally passed, Quirrell swayed but did not fall. He was no longer alone in his own skin. His breath came in shuddering gasps as he reached for the turban he had prepared. With trembling hands, he wrapped the dark fabric around his head, concealing what should not be seen.

He straightened his robes, his hands still shaking as he forced himself to stand tall.

There was no time for weakness. The Welcoming Feast awaited.

As he turned toward the castle, his lips curled into a faint, sickly smile.

"Yes, Master. I will do as you ask."

The great doors of Hogwarts stood open in the distance, warm light spilling onto the grounds. Quirrell strode toward them, his step hesitant but inevitable.

And as he passed from shadow into light, a whisper of darkness clung to him still.

"Harry Potter…"

"The boy who lived… for now."

To My Readers,

First, I want to thank each and every one of you who has read Love, Dad, shared your thoughts, and connected with this story. Your enthusiasm and support mean the world to me, and I'm truly honored that so many of you want more.

I understand that ending just before the Sorting might feel like a cliffhanger, and I know many of you are eager for me to continue the story into Harry's first year. Believe me, I would love to explore that journey, but Love, Dad was always meant to be about the month before Hogwarts—a small but meaningful slice of Harry's life.

That said, I won't say "never" to a Book 2. I hope to write it, but I also have to be realistic about my time, health, and energy. Writing this story took two years, and any sequel would need just as much heart and care. I won't rush it or force it—if I continue, I want it to be right.

So while I deeply appreciate your passion for this story, I ask for patience and understanding. If I do write more, I want it to be because I truly have a story to tell—not just because there's pressure to do so.

Thank you for your kindness and for loving this story as much as I do.