Thursday was universally hated by students because it was packed with classes from morning to evening. The resentment ran so deep it could rival the obsession lonely wizards had with the glamorous witches featured in the Daily Prophet's gossip pages. What made it even worse was the fact that the flying lessons everyone had been looking forward to still wouldn't start until next week.
Friday, however, was a completely different story. At least for Gryffindor students, the only class they had that morning was Potions. Once they survived Snape's dungeon, the weekend practically began early.
At breakfast, Harry received a letter from Hagrid inviting him, Ron, and Ethan to visit the hut that afternoon. Ron looked delighted immediately, but Ethan spread his hands helplessly.
"No chance. I've got business with Professor Quirrell," he said. "I need to return that book he lent me. The thing ends halfway through an explanation like some kind of cruel joke."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You're actually reading those weird books?"
"They're educational," Ethan replied seriously. "Very educational."
The truth was that afternoons had become Ethan's designated social time, and his preferred conversation partner was currently hiding under a purple turban.
At first, Ethan had nearly laughed himself sick every time he thought about Voldemort's face being forced to inhale Quirrell's dandruff through the scarf wrapped around his head. Now, after weeks of practice, he had finally achieved emotional discipline. No matter how absurd the situation became, he could keep a straight face.
Mostly.
Potions class that morning was just as miserable as usual. Ethan spent most of it leaning against the table while watching Snape openly torment Harry. It was honestly impressive how little effort the professor put into hiding his favoritism.
Demanding that a first-year answer questions from next year's curriculum on the very first week was already excessive. The entire class could tell Snape was targeting Harry, and things only got worse after Neville melted his cauldron by adding porcupine quills at the wrong moment.
"Potter," Snape snapped coldly, "why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? You thought his stupidity would make you look better? Another point from Gryffindor."
Harry looked ready to explode by the end of class.
"He hates me," Harry muttered bitterly as they climbed the dungeon stairs afterward. "You can see it in his face."
Ethan looked genuinely puzzled. "Then why did I get extra homework too? I was the one laughing at you."
Harry immediately grabbed him around the neck. "You were laughing the loudest!"
"I thought your ears were too red for you to hear anything."
"I heard everything!"
By the afternoon, Harry and Ron headed off toward Hagrid's hut while Ethan made his way through the castle corridors toward Quirrell's office. The half-finished Dark Arts introduction book sat tucked beneath his arm.
When he reached the door, he paused.
There were voices inside.
"Master… please…"
"We could use… another method…"
Ethan blinked slowly.
Now that sounded interesting.
Even though he knew Quirrell was probably speaking with Voldemort, it still felt slightly awkward to walk in during whatever disturbing private conversation they were having. Before he could decide whether to leave, the sounds inside stopped instantly.
Complete silence.
It was so sudden it almost felt as if the people inside had sensed someone listening outside the door.
Ethan considered for a second, then decided it would be rude not to knock.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"P-please come in…" Quirrell's shaky voice answered from inside.
Ethan pushed the door open and stepped inside. Quirrell immediately jerked backward, frantically adjusting the enormous purple turban wrapped around his head.
"Yes, Mr. Norton…" Quirrell forced out a twitchy smile. Over the past few weeks, he had become disturbingly skilled at acting nervous. "D-do you need something?"
"I finished the book you gave me," Ethan said casually as he walked farther into the office. "Even though it had absolutely nothing to do with Transfiguration."
Quirrell froze slightly.
"But I liked it," Ethan continued. "Especially the curses."
Quirrell's eyes brightened nervously. "R-really?"
"So where's the second half?"
"The… second half?"
"The rest of the book." Ethan lifted the worn text in his hand. "This copy cuts off right in the middle of the section about the creation of Inferi. I tried looking for references elsewhere, but first-years can't borrow from the Restricted Section."
Quirrell visibly stiffened.
"Ah… well… Mr. Norton…" he stammered weakly. "I'm not certain those subjects are appropriate for s-students your age…"
Ethan looked at him innocently. "You're the one who gave me the book. I figured you were more open-minded about the Dark Arts."
Silence stretched through the office for several seconds.
Then another voice spoke.
"Let me speak to him…"
The sound was low, cold, and hoarse enough to make the room feel colder.
"But Master—"
"…"
The whispers that followed were too quiet for Ethan to hear clearly.
Finally, Quirrell swallowed hard. "A-all right…"
He lifted his wand and cast a locking charm on the office door before slowly turning around. With trembling fingers, he began unwinding the purple turban from his head layer by layer.
The cloth dropped onto the floor.
Where the back of Quirrell's head should have been, another face emerged instead.
It was pale and stretched unnaturally tight across the skull. Red eyes glowed faintly beneath heavy lids, and beneath them sat thin slits resembling snake nostrils more than a human nose.
Voldemort slowly turned his stiff neck to stare directly at Ethan.
What surprised him most was the complete absence of fear.
No screaming. No trembling. No panic.
The boy merely tilted his head curiously, as though examining a mildly unusual animal.
Voldemort interpreted this immediately as ambition overcoming terror. In his experience, the desire for power could suppress nearly anything, and that made negotiations easier. Trust was meaningless. Shared interests mattered far more.
"Very courageous… child…" Voldemort rasped. "I admire courage. You wish to learn stronger magic… do you not?"
Ethan blinked thoughtfully. "Are you Professor Quirrell? Or someone else?"
He deliberately pretended ignorance. Voldemort had supposedly died over a decade ago. It would be strange if an eleven-year-old recognized him immediately.
"It does not matter who I am…" Voldemort hissed softly. "What matters… is what I can teach you. Knowledge Hogwarts fears. Power beyond what these fools could ever offer…"
"Oh?" Ethan leaned slightly against a desk. "How powerful?"
"I have slaughtered hundreds with my own hands," Voldemort whispered proudly. "None could resist me. I can grant you strength over all others… even guide you toward conquering death itself…"
"Hm." Ethan seemed to think carefully. "Hundreds?"
Voldemort waited proudly.
"What about the next day?"
"…What?"
"You said you killed hundreds." Ethan looked genuinely curious. "Was that all in one day? Because Dumbledore said I killed over three hundred people instantly when I was one year old."
The room went silent.
Even Quirrell stopped breathing for a moment.
"Lying is not the path to knowledge," Voldemort said coldly.
"M-Master…" Quirrell interrupted shakily. "H-he's telling the truth. The Burke family experiment from ten years ago… the out-of-control specimen… more than three hundred souls were drained in a single incident…"
Another long silence followed.
Voldemort suddenly felt like Quirrell had failed to mention something extremely important.
Ten years ago, he had been wandering Albania as a weakened spirit. News about experimental monsters in Britain had not exactly reached him.
He stared at Ethan again, but this time with far more caution.
Did this child even need Dark magic?
From Voldemort's perspective, Ethan himself sounded like a classified magical catastrophe.
"Well," Ethan said sympathetically, "I guess it's understandable you haven't killed that many people. Britain doesn't really have enough wizards for large-scale numbers."
Voldemort's eye twitched slightly.
"How about this?" Ethan continued cheerfully. "You teach me more magic, and I'll grant you one wish in return."
The statement somehow made Voldemort feel as though his status had dropped several levels instantly.
Normally, trembling followers begged him to grant their wishes.
Now an eleven-year-old was offering charity like some wealthy noble dealing with a street beggar.
"…And what wish could you possibly grant me?" Voldemort asked darkly.
Ethan considered seriously.
"A pile of Galleons?"
No response.
"Stealing Hogwarts treasure?"
Still nothing.
Ethan snapped his fingers suddenly. "Actually, I'd be willing to help you kill a few thousand people. From the way you described it earlier, you really seem to enjoy murdering people. Hogwarts has plenty of living targets available."
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