The echo of footsteps resounded through the castle corridors as the students made their way to the Great Hall. Aurelian felt a mixture of familiarity and anticipation for the start of the school year. Lit torches illuminated the ancient walls with golden flashes, and the solid oak door swung open to welcome them.
The Great Hall unfolded before them in all its magnificence: the enchanted sky showed a clear firmament full of stars, the long tables glistened under the light of hundreds of candles. The murmur of the upperclassmen filled the air.
Aurelian settled into the Slytherin table. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on every detail, every gesture. Some students whispered about the new Noxum broomsticks, others looked curiously toward the door, waiting to see the newcomers enter. Aurelian simply settled into his seat, folded his hands on the table, and let the anticipation float in the air.
The door opened again, and at that moment silence fell like a spell. All the students turned their heads in unison.
Professor McGonagall, with her usual solemn dignity, led in a group of first-years. Their brand-new robes fluttered awkwardly with each step, their eyes filled with wonder, nervousness... and a little fear.
The eyes of students from all houses lit up when they saw him pass by. Some whispered his name, others looked at him curiously, and at the Slytherin table, more than one grimaced with disdain.
Aurelian, however, remained calm, watching silently.
"So the fun finally begins," he thought, with a cold gleam in his eyes.
McGonagall stepped forward until the children were standing in front of the stool with the Sorting Hat. The ceremony was about to begin, the Great Hall held its breath, all the students were waiting to see which house "The Boy Who Lived" would be sorted into.
The Sorting Hat, resting on the stool, sang its traditional song about the four houses and unity in diversity, and finally began the ceremony.
The names were called one by one, and expectant silence filled the room with each announcement.
"Abbott, Hannah."
A shy-looking blonde girl stepped forward with short steps. The Sorting Hat took only a few seconds.
"Hufflepuff!"
Applause rang out from the yellow and black table.
"Bones, Susan."
The freckled redhead stepped forward and sat stiffly. After a brief deliberation, the Sorting Hat announced:
"Hufflepuff!"
Another wave of applause.
"Boot, Terry."
The brown-haired boy shifted nervously.
"Ravenclaw!"
Cheers rang out from the blue table.
Aurelian watched every movement, every expression. Names he had read in the books of his past life... and now they were real.
"Brown, Lavender."
A smiling girl with blonde hair put on the hat.
"Gryffindor!"
The lions roared with cheers, raising their arms.
"Bulstrode, Millicent."
A sturdy, serious girl stepped forward with a firm stride.
"Slytherin!"
Applause rang out at his table, while Aurelian kept his expression neutral.
The parade of names continued.
"Finch-Fletchley, Justin."
"Hufflepuff!"
"Granger, Hermione."
A girl with tousled hair and bright eyes stepped forward decisively. The Sorting Hat seemed to deliberate for a long time, its face showing the invisible tension of that internal conversation. Finally, it spoke:
"Gryffindor!"
The roar from the red table was deafening. Aurelian watched as the little girl made her way to her new place with a satisfied smile. The witch of logic, obsession, and study, he thought amusedly.
"Longbottom, Neville."
A chubby boy stumbled forward, almost tripping over his own feet. The Hat remained on his head for a long time.
"Gryffindor!"
The table erupted in applause, several students laughing softly at his clumsiness.
"Malfoy, Draco."
The hall murmured. The arrogant blond boy stepped forward confidently. As soon as the Sorting Hat touched his head, he shouted:
"Slytherin!"
The green and silver table erupted in cheers as Draco sat down with a smug smile. Aurelian watched him out of the corner of his eye. A proud pawn, raised on his family's venom. Someone useful if handled well, or a nuisance if he misbehaved.
Then, the moment everyone had been waiting for.
"Potter, Harry."
Silence fell over the Great Hall like a tombstone. Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the thin boy with round glasses and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. Harry nervously made his way to the stool.
The hat sat on him for several seconds. Aurelian, from his seat, recognized the tension in its gaze, the internal debate that would never be heard. Finally, the cry rang out loud and clear:
"Gryffindor!"
The red table rose as one, cheering the new hero. Harry sat down at the long table, where he was welcomed as if they were lifelong friends.
Hestia and Flora squeezed Aurelian's arms with obvious disdain. One of them whispered in his ear.
"That boy is nothing compared to you."
Aurelian barely smiled, keeping his gaze fixed on the "Boy Who Lived."
The rest of the ceremony continued.
"Parkinson, Pansy." "Slytherin!"
"Patil, Parvati." "Gryffindor!"
"Patil, Padma." "Ravenclaw!"
"Thomas, Dean." "Gryffindor!"
"Weasley, Ron."
The redhead walked awkwardly.
"Gryffindor!"
The roar of the lions filled the hall once more.
"Zabini, Blaise."
A dark-haired boy with an elegant bearing and a cold gaze advanced calmly.
"Slytherin!"
The green table greeted him with applause. Aurelian watched him with a glint of interest: at least one seemed to have more intelligence than arrogance.
Finally, after several long minutes, Professor McGonagall closed the parchment.
"This concludes this year's selection."
The banquet began, and food suddenly appeared on the tables. Stews, juicy meats, cakes, jugs of juice, and sparkling wine. The students laughed, toasted, and talked about everything they had experienced.
Aurelian, however, remained distant, pondering each face, each name. Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom... all in their places. All the pieces were on the board. Waiting for the moment when someone wanted to use them.
Then Dumbledore stood up.
With open arms and a twinkle in his eyes, he spoke:
"Welcome! Another year begins, and with it, new adventures and challenges. Before I let you enjoy the banquet, a few words: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
Laughter erupted among the younger students.
But Aurelian watched him closely. He did not see the wise headmaster, but an Archmage disguised as a clown, whose true mind was hidden behind absurd phrases.
The headmaster continued with the announcements: the prohibition of the Forbidden Forest, the rules of behavior, and finally, his warning with a hint of real danger:
"This year, the right wing of the third floor is strictly off-limits to anyone who doesn't want to die an extremely painful death."
A murmur spread through the Great Hall.
Aurelian rested his chin on his hand. The Philosopher's Stone... but is it the same one from his past life? Or in this older, more brutal world, is it something closer to a relic of some Sage?
The banquet proceeded with the students' joy, the tables full of delicacies, and the constant murmur of hundreds of voices. Aurelian, however, was not distracted by the food or the shouting. His gaze moved, calculating, silently scanning the room.
That was when he saw him.
At the teachers' table, sitting slightly hunched but with a proud expression, was Quirinus Quirrell. He was not the shy, stuttering, cowering man Aurelian remembered from his past life. Here, there was no turban, no nervous smile: just a wizard with straight shoulders and a high chin, calmly enjoying a piece of meat.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still.
Aurelian sensed something strange in that gaze: an icy, unnatural glint that pierced beyond the flesh. It was not the gaze of a mere teacher.
On the other side, in the mind that inhabited Quirrell's body, something flashed like lightning.
"That presence... It can't be... Could it be...?"
Quirrell's eyes widened slightly, surprise almost breaking his expression. Inside him, a much older and more terrifying echo roared.
Lord Voldemort.
The Dark Lord, trapped in that borrowed body, recognized it: the mark of his own blood.
"That boy... my son! My flesh and my magic flowing through him. Elaine..."
A memory, cruel and bitter, pierced him like a dagger: Elaine Harper, the woman he had loved in silence and whose death had sealed his own fate. Regret burned in his chest. If only... if only he hadn't let the darkness consume everything we were.
And now, there was the fruit of that union. Alive. Strong. Proud. Perhaps more powerful than he himself had been at that age.
Quirrell's body trembled for a moment, the contradiction burning inside him. Because even though regret gnawed at him, ambition remained stronger.
"I can't stop what I am. I won't give up my plans. But... maybe... I can watch him. Get to know him. Not just as the heir to my blood, but as the only valuable thing left of Elaine."
As he watched his son, he thought about how he had obtained his new body.
Magic had reduced him to a specter after the failed curse against the Potter child, the long flight to foreign lands, and the day he met Quirinus Quirrell, a weak but ambitious wizard.
The encounter had been almost trivial. Quirrell sought him for glory, for power. Voldemort observed him, tested him... and finally took him. First, with whispers, with advice in the darkness. Then, with increasingly harsh orders. Finally, he swept away his will like a fire consuming a crop.
Quirrell's body became a vessel, a shell forced to house a spirit too powerful for his flesh.
It was not perfect.
Voldemort knew it: It is not my body. It is not my blood. Magic is corrupted in these foreign veins. He was already beginning to notice how his fingers trembled, how Quirrell's skin grew paler every day, drier, as if life itself were slipping away.
His thoughts grew tense, cruel and contradictory:
"Will he be my ally? My enemy? I don't know... but I won't let anyone claim him before I do."
The heart of the borrowed body beat violently. Voldemort looked away before attracting too much attention, though he knew Aurelian had sensed something.
The silence between them had said more than any words.
Aurelian looked down at his plate, but his thoughts were burning. That's not the Quirrell from the books... That man doesn't hesitate, he doesn't hide anything... his eyes... A suspicion began to form in his mind.
Meanwhile, in Quirrell's mind, Voldemort hissed to himself, but with a voice laden with a new, almost human nuance:
"My son... you don't know who I am yet. You don't know what chains bind me. But the day will come... and when it does, perhaps I will no longer seek only to subdue you. Perhaps... I will seek something more."
The Dark Lord closed his eyes, stifling that pang of weakness. For although repentance had been born, his ambition would never die.
The banquet was in full swing. The sound of glasses clinking, the clatter of trays laden with desserts floating between the tables, and the hubbub of hundreds of students mingled in a warm atmosphere. No one seemed to notice the invisible line of tension that had woven itself into the teachers' table.
Quirrell tilted his head just a little, glancing sideways at Aurelian sitting among the Slytherin rows. He couldn't afford to draw attention with direct glances, but he couldn't help a question bubbling up inside him.
With a calculated movement, he leaned to one side. His words were low, drawn out, as if they were just a casual comment.
"Severus..." he whispered, Quirrell's voice tinged with that serpentine tone, "That boy in your house... the one with dark hair and sharp eyes. What do you know about him?"
Snape turned his face slightly, his expression inscrutable. His black eyes shone like impenetrable wells.
"Gaunt," he said calmly, his voice silky and icy at the same time, "A student... different from the others. Quiet, brilliant, a mind that cannot be easily trapped. He stands out in class even without trying. The others fear him... I would say they respect him." A pause. Snape's lips curved into a barely perceptible smile. "And I have a little respect for him too."
A heavy silence followed those words.
Inside Quirrell, Voldemort felt something that completely threw him off balance. It wasn't anger or suspicion. It was... pride.
Pride not in himself, as he was accustomed to, but in that boy who carried his blood.
"Is this... is this what parents feel?" he thought, confused, almost irritated at finding himself with such thoughts.
His mind was filled with questions. How could he feel this strange warmth toward the very son he had never expected? Even more dangerous, what did that mean for his plans?
Quirrell blinked, controlling the trembling of his hands. Voldemort stifled that weakness with an internal growl.
"No. I will not allow myself to falter. My ambition remains intact."
With forced calm, he reached out and took a piece of cake from the platter in front of him. He brought it slowly to his mouth, chewing as if nothing had happened.
But deep down, he knew that something had changed forever that night.
The Dark Lord had just discovered the weight of paternal pride.
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