Alaric did not stare at Quirrell for long; both he and Hagrid had offered only the briefest of glances. However, beneath Alaric's refined exterior, a cold fury was beginning to simmer, threatening to break his composure.
To Alaric Thorn—an orphan in both his past life and this one—family was a sacred concept. From the moment he had been granted the name "Thorn," he had viewed the protection of his kin as his absolute duty. It was a duty he felt he had failed. His sister remained in a coma, a tragedy that led directly back to the doorstep of Lord Voldemort.
Though the wizard who had actually cast the Cruciatus Curse on her had long since died quietly in a cell in Azkaban, Alaric could not find peace. He could not comprehend a being so devoted to war, fear, and the systematic oppression of others. In Alaric's view, the world was meant to be a place of growth and beauty. Voldemort was the antithesis of everything Alaric cultivated.
He had to be uprooted. Permanently.
"Professor Thorn?"
Hagrid tapped the table, jolting Alaric out of his dark thoughts. The giant looked concerned; Alaric's aura had shifted into something uncharacteristically sharp.
"Ah, my apologies, Hagrid," Alaric said, withdrawing his gaze and forcing a faint smile. "I drifted off for a moment. Where were we?"
Now was not the time to strike. Even if he could destroy the fragment of Voldemort currently hitching a ride on Quirrell, it would be a hollow victory. As long as the Horcruxes existed, Voldemort was functionally immortal. He needed to be dealt with root and branch.
"Quirinus Quirrell, the new Defense professor," Hagrid said, scratching his beard as he struggled to remember the details. "Professor McGonagall was tellin' me 'bout him. Said he was brilliant at school, real solid on the theory. A Ravenclaw through and through."
"Sounds promising," Alaric replied neutrally, taking a sip of his mead. His mind, however, was miles away.
Hagrid shook his head sadly. "Poor Professor Quirrell. Yeh know how it is at Hogwarts—no one in that post ever leaves in one piece. Mebbe Dumbledore could take it on himself; he'd have a way with the curse, surely. But the man's just too busy."
Alaric wondered what Quirrell—or rather, the passenger on the back of his head—was doing at the Leaky Cauldron. It seemed a reckless risk to be in such a crowded place. Perhaps Voldemort was overconfident in the disguise, which consisted of a massive purple turban emitting a stench of garlic so potent it acted as a natural repellent. Alaric noticed that no one was willing to sit within ten feet of the man.
Suddenly, Quirrell moved.
Alaric and Hagrid fell silent, their eyes tracking him instinctively. Quirrell rose from his seat, his back still toward them. Alaric felt a sudden spike in his heart rate—a visceral sense of unease.
A feeling of intense scrutiny washed over him, like a cold blade pressed against his spine.
He's watching me. Voldemort is watching me.
Cold sweat broke out in Alaric's palms. Yet, Quirrell did not turn. He did not pause. He simply walked out of the pub with a slow, deliberate gait.
By the time Alaric regained his composure, the heavy door had swung shut behind the departing professor. Hagrid, seemingly oblivious to the silent exchange, began rambling about other Hogwarts matters.
Alaric was distracted. He was certain Voldemort had been gauging him. But why? He and Hagrid had both been looking; why single him out? Had the Dark Lord sensed the observation of the Tree of Wisdom? If so, Voldemort was far more dangerous than the history books suggested. Not even Dumbledore had ever detected Eldra's reach.
I hope I'm just being paranoid, Alaric thought.
Night had fallen by the time Alaric returned to Privet Drive. As he approached his shop, he noticed a dark shape circling in the air above. Seeing Alaric, the creature performed a sharp dive and landed gracefully on the mailbox.
It was a Snowy Owl.
Alaric knew immediately it was a pet; Snowy Owls weren't native to Britain, appearing only in the Arctic. The bird held a long, slender parcel in its beak.
"For me?" Alaric took the package. "Thank you. Would you like a treat?"
After accepting an owl nut, the bird took flight, disappearing into the dark. Alaric opened the parcel to find an elegantly wrapped rectangular box and a scrap of paper. The note appeared to have been torn from a school notebook in a hurry; Alaric could see messy scribbles on the reverse side.
The handwriting was a disaster—he recognized it instantly.
It was from Harry. This was the gift Hagrid had mentioned.
Alaric carefully peeled back the paper to reveal an exquisite silver pocket watch. The casing was etched with an intricate lattice of patterns. When he clicked the watch open, he saw a line of text engraved on the inner lid: To my most respected teacher.
"A clever gift," Alaric murmured. He closed the watch with a soft click and slid it into his pocket. The dark mood from the pub seemed to lift instantly.
The following afternoon, Harry arrived at the shop clutching a battered flowerpot.
"Teacher, I think something's wrong with it," Harry said, placing the Chinese Chomping Cabbage on the counter. "I used the potion exactly like the instructions said when I watered it, but look at it. It doesn't look right, does it?"
Alaric frowned, leaning over the pot. The cabbage's leaves were limp and drooping, and the vibrant green had faded into a dull, sickly hue. It looked far from healthy.
"That shouldn't be happening," Alaric muttered. Every plant he had ever treated with his blood-enriched stimulant had shown explosive growth or immediate mutation.
Eldra, analyze.
Species: Chinese Chomping Cabbage
Level: 1
Traits: Unknown
Status: Growing (99%), Malnourished