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[Monday Morning - 7:42 AM]
The Room of Requirement's door opened onto an empty seventh floor corridor. Dawn light streamed through tall windows, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. The castle was beginning to wake—distant sounds of students moving about, portraits stirring from sleep, the general ambient noise of Hogwarts preparing for a new week.
[Environmental scan: No immediate human presence. Filch last observed on ground floor. Mrs. Norris location: Unknown. Recommend swift return to Ravenclaw Tower while traffic remains minimal.]
Darius moved quickly but not frantically, maintaining the appearance of a student out for an early morning walk rather than someone sneaking back from unauthorized activities. His wandless notice-me-not effect was active but subtle—just enough to encourage casual observers to look elsewhere.
Darius reached Ravenclaw Tower without further incident, answering the bronze eagle's morning riddle ("What is always coming but never arrives?" "Tomorrow.") and slipping into the common room.
Several early risers occupied the space—a handful of seventh-years studying for NEWTs, a couple of students who appeared to be finishing homework due today. None paid him particular attention as he crossed to the dormitory stairs.
Inside the dormitory, his roommates were in various stages of waking. Stephen Cornfoot was already dressed and organizing his books. Michael Corner sat on his bed, yawning prodigiously. Anthony Goldstein was still asleep, as was Terry Boot—the latter snoring softly with his blankets twisted around him like a cocoon.
"Morning," Stephen said, glancing up as Darius entered. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," Darius said truthfully, moving to his wardrobe to collect clean robes. "Went for a walk."
"Fair enough." Stephen returned to his book-organizing. "Big day—Potions double period this morning. Snape in fine form after the weekend, no doubt."
[Cover story accepted without suspicion. Recommend normal morning routine to maintain consistency. Shower, dress, breakfast with peers. Conservation of magical reserves through passive recovery.]
Darius followed the routine mechanically, his body operating on autopilot while his mind remained partly focused on the night's work. The hot shower helped revive him somewhat, washing away the physical traces of his nocturnal activities even if it couldn't eliminate his fatigue.
By eight-thirty, he was dressed in fresh robes, his school bag packed, his appearance completely ordinary. When Terry finally woke with his characteristic last-minute panic about being late, Darius helped him find his misplaced Potions textbook and gather his scattered homework.
"You're a saint," Terry declared as they headed down to breakfast. "I swear my stuff moves on its own while I'm sleeping."
"Or you just throw it everywhere and forget where it lands," Anthony suggested dryly, joining them on the stairs.
The Great Hall was filling with students when they arrived. Darius slid into his usual spot at the Ravenclaw table, accepting a plate of eggs and toast that Emma pushed toward him.
"You look exhausted," she observed with characteristic bluntness. "Still not sleeping well?"
"Adjusting back to the schedule after London," Darius said, which was technically true. "I'll catch up tonight."
[Physiological assessment: Partner's fatigue visible to observant individuals. Recommend substantial food intake and caffeine. Tonight's final assembly session will require optimal condition.]
Darius ate methodically, consuming more than his usual breakfast while half-listening to the morning conversation flowing around him. Something about Quidditch tactics, speculation about Halloween decorations, complaints about Professor Snape's essay requirements.
Normal Hogwarts concerns. Simple problems that had nothing to do with hybrid surveillance technology or mysterious watchers or the weight of knowledge about the future.
For a moment, Darius envied them that simplicity.
At the High Table, the faculty appeared focused on their own discussions. Professor Flitwick was speaking animatedly to Professor McGonagall. Professor Snape looked even more sour than usual, mechanically cutting his food with aggressive precision.
And Professor Quirrell...
Darius's attention sharpened despite his fatigue. The Defense professor sat at the far end of the High Table, picking at his breakfast with trembling hands. But there was something in his posture—a subtle satisfaction, perhaps? A sense of recent accomplishment?
[Observation: Subject Quirrell displays microexpressions inconsistent with typical nervous presentation. Elevated mood indicators despite maintained anxiety performance. Hypothesis: Recent success in unspecified objective.]
The dragon egg, Darius thought. If he managed to get information from Hagrid...
In the original timeline, Quirrell had gotten drunk with the groundskeeper and extracted details about how to get past Fluffy—the three-headed dog guarding the path to the Philosopher's Stone. That conversation had happened around Halloween, but with Darius's changes to the timeline, who knew what butterfly effects might have accelerated or delayed events?
[Recommendation: Surveillance deployment priority should focus on Subject Quirrell first. Other targets secondary. Halloween approaches in 10 days. Time-sensitive intelligence becomes increasingly critical.]
Agreed, Darius thought. We finish the devices tonight, deploy by Tuesday. That gives us over a week of surveillance before Halloween.
Assuming nothing else went wrong. Assuming he could maintain this pace. Assuming his exhaustion didn't lead to mistakes.
"Darius?" Sarah's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Are you okay? You've been staring at your eggs for like a minute."
He blinked, refocusing on his immediate surroundings. "Sorry. Just thinking about the Potions essay."
"Well, stop thinking and start eating," Emma commanded. "You'll need energy for Snape's dungeon delights."
Darius obeyed, forcing himself to finish his breakfast while keeping up minimal conversation. By the time the morning post arrived—owls swooping through the enchanted ceiling with letters and packages—he felt marginally more alert.
No post for him, though he noticed Harry Potter receiving something at the Gryffindor table. The boy looked excited, showing whatever it was to Ron Weasley, who appeared equally thrilled.
Probably his Nimbus 2000, Darius thought, recognizing the scene. Right on schedule.
[Observation: Canon timeline proceeding with minimal deviation despite Partner's presence. Harry Potter's development continues along expected trajectory. Quidditch training will begin soon. First major divergence point: Halloween, ten days future.]
The thought of Halloween—and the troll incident that came with it—sent a spike of tension through Darius's tired mind. He had ten days to finish his surveillance devices, deploy them on Quirrell, and prepare his intervention strategy.
Ten days to make sure that when reality collided with the carefully maintained canon timeline, he was ready.
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Albus Dumbledore stood athis window, watching students drift toward their first classes of the week. His blue eyes—normally softened by quiet humor—were edged today with something sharper, thoughtful.
Behind him, Fawkes rustled his wings, releasing a soft, chiming cry that vibrated faintly through the air.
"Not troubled," Dumbledore said, "but… contemplating." He moved to his desk, where a few objects lay arranged with meticulous care: a half-faded photograph, a student report parchment with several concerning notes in Filch's unmistakable handwriting, and a small vial of memory that shimmered like liquid moonlight.
He lifted the report first.
"It seems Argus believes young Harry Potter has once again become the source of 'avoidable disruptions,'" Dumbledore murmured, quoting Filch with careful neutrality. "He views the boy as a magnet for chaos. Or perhaps," he added, voice softer, "he simply struggles to see any child kindly."
Fawkes clicked his beak, then gave a low, warbling note—something between sympathy and gentle reproach.
"Yes," Dumbledore agreed quietly, setting the parchment down. "Filch forgets that Harry is not a troublemaker by nature. The boy has lived his life with far too much weight pressing upon him. A child who carries burdens tends to stumble."
Fawkes hopped to a higher perch, feathers flaring in a small burst of gold.
Dumbledore picked up the photograph—the one of Harry laughing with Ron and Hermione as if someone had just told an impossible joke. The image tugged something deep in his chest.
"Harry is brave," he said softly. "But bravery can be misunderstood. Some see only the noise around him, never the sincerity beneath. Even among the staff, I fear his heart is sometimes overlooked." His gaze drifted toward the memory vial. "He is growing quickly. Faster than most realize."
The phoenix released a soft trill, melodic and wistful (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶).
"That is my concern as well," Dumbledore whispered. "He carries destiny like a cloak he did not choose. And yet the world expects him to wear it gracefully."
He returned to the window, watching the boy in question cross the courtyard below—head bent slightly, shoulders tense even in the morning light. A small smile, tinged with sadness, touched the Headmaster's lips.
"He needs guidance," Dumbledore murmured. "But not the kind that smothers. And not the kind that sees him as a symbol instead of a child." His voice dropped, nearly lost in the quiet room. "I must let him make his own decisions… while still ensuring he does not fall into shadows he's not ready to face."
Fawkes gave a high, bright note—almost like a refusal to let the moment sink too deeply into worry. His wings opened in a soft flare, heat shimmering through the air in gentle waves.
"You're right, old friend," Dumbledore said, the tension easing from his shoulders. "He has strength. And allies. And a spirit that refuses to break. But even so, he deserves to be seen—truly seen—not as the Boy Who Lived, nor as a source of inconvenience… but as Harry."
He dismissed the memory vial with a gentle wave of his hand, the surface turning opaque once more.
"Very well," Dumbledore murmured. "I will watch. Listen. Step in only when the boy's path grows too dark or too lonely."
Fawkes answered with a soft, approving coo, warmth like a small sun radiating from his feathers.
Dumbledore smiled—quiet, resolute, touched with something tender.
"Yes," he whispered. "We will keep an eye on him."
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In a clearing deep within the Forbidden Forest, where even Hagrid rarely ventured, Professor Quirrell stood before a makeshift altar of stacked stones. His hands didn't tremble here. His stutter was absent. And his eyes—visible despite the turban wrapped around his head—were cold and calculating.
"Master," he spoke into the morning air, "I have acquired the information from the oaf Hagrid. Music soothes the beast. A simple solution to bypass the first defense."
The voice that answered came not from Quirrell's mouth, but from deeper within—from the thing wrapped beneath the turban, pressed against the back of his skull.
"Excellent, Quirrell. And the Stone's other protections?"
"Still being mapped." Quirrell's lip curled. "All impressive. All ultimately futile against our combined power."
"Do not underestimate them. Dumbledore is no fool. He will have anticipated threats."
"Which is why we wait for the optimal moment. When the castle is distracted. When Dumbledore's attention is divided." Quirrell paced the clearing, his movements predatory now that no audience observed. "Halloween approaches. The feast will provide perfect cover."
"Yes… Halloween." The voice inside Quirrell's skull sounded almost satisfied, as if savoring an unseen memory. "But there is another matter requiring attention."
"Master?" Quirrell whispered.
"The boy. Harry Potter."
A thin tremor of interest ran across Quirrell's face, quickly overshadowed by caution. "The famous child. You believe he's becoming a threat already?"
"I believe," the voice murmured, low and cold, "that any child who has already survived what killed countless adults must not be underestimated. His presence complicates our return. And complications must be removed."
Quirrell swallowed, though the smile that crept up his cheek was sharp and intelligent—nothing like the simpering mask he wore at school. "You wish for… a test?"
"A test," the voice agreed. "And an opportunity. I want to know what the boy understands. What instincts he carries…And whether he is strong enough to pose a real danger.""
Faint amusement curled through the air like smoke. "See what he is. Probe his mind if you can. Observe his reactions. If he shows weakness, exploit it. If he shows strength…" A pause, long enough to be meaningful. "…we will need to act before he becomes an obstacle."
Quirrell bowed his head. "As you command, Master. Perhaps a moment alone with him. A conversation that reveals his fears. Children often crumble when they believe an adult is offering them guidance."
"Do not underestimate him," the voice hissed. "The world loves this boy. Dumbledore watches him with absurd devotion. Any misstep, any suspicion, and our plans unravel before Halloween arrives."
"I will be cautious," Quirrell murmured. "And thorough."
"If Harry Potter can be manipulated, we shall do so. If he cannot…then he must be dealt with. Quietly. Before he grows dangerous."
Quirrell's grin was thin and cruel, vanishing the moment he straightened his posture. His shoulders slumped, his hands twitched, and in an instant he became once more the trembling, ineffectual professor Hogwarts believed him to be.