Corridor on the right side of the third floor

Anthony found it difficult to sleep that night. Hagrid's dragon, Parkinson's injury, Quirrell's unanswered letter, and various other messy, trivial thoughts crawled out from under his bed in the dark, wrapping themselves around his sheets, wandering beneath his pillow, tugging at his hair, and nibbling on his ears. Even the calm, steady flow of the black river of sleep couldn't pull him into dreams.

He sat up in bed and pushed open the window. The night air was cool and refreshing, the moonlight bathing the grounds in silver. From the Black Lake in the distance came a faint thumping sound, sending ripples through the quiet night. Anthony knew it was the giant squid playing in the water.

The cat wasn't sleeping either. Its yellow eyes, glowing like tiny lanterns, fixed on him. It leapt onto Anthony's pillow, curling up in the hollow his tossing and turning had created. Anthony glanced around but couldn't see the mouse.

"Alright, go to sleep," Anthony muttered, feeling as though he were the only one awake in the entire castle.

He stood up, deciding to greet the giant squid. It just so happened he had some bread left over, perfect as a peace offering for a new aquatic friend.

…

Humming a tune ("I'm a giant squid, I never sleep, I crush everything"), he made his way halfway down the corridor before abruptly stopping. The torches burned quietly, casting flickering shadows, and the corridor seemed utterly deserted.

But deep in his mind, Anthony sensed something. A faint aura of undead magic, passing by without stirring the air. It was barely detectable, yet familiar—like the faint aura he had sensed from a skeleton cat. Could it be Professor Quirrell? Or perhaps someone else who had been unlucky enough to encounter one of those cursed creatures?

Anthony remained silent, pretending to study the gilded base of a torch with exaggerated interest. Shadows danced across the walls as his attention focused entirely on the unseen presence behind him.

Whoever it was—likely a human—was slowly approaching the stairs, then suddenly sprinting up with unnatural speed. Anthony stared at the stone wall in front of him, thinking. If it was Quirrell, he might suggest a career change. With his stair-climbing speed and a solid command of Aguamenti and Lumos, Quirrell could make an excellent firefighter—perhaps even a national model for the UK's firefighting forces.

Anthony's thoughts were interrupted by another flicker of undead magic. This one was much smaller, but purer—composed entirely of dark magic. His little wraith mouse had appeared, rolling an apple across the corridor.

"Do you like apples?" Anthony whispered, scooping the mouse and its prize into his pocket.

"Squeak," came the reply.

The faint trace of undead magic soon vanished. For a moment, Anthony felt the urge to turn back, return to his room, shut the door, feed his mouse, and pretend nothing had happened. Pretend he hadn't sensed something sneaking around the castle. Pretend his life was as peaceful as ever.

But instead, he took a deep breath and stepped onto the stairs.

He started walking, then broke into a run. Faster and faster he went, the mouse clinging to the edge of his pocket, the apple bouncing against his thigh. He came to a sudden stop. The trace of undead magic was nearby, in the corridor: the infamous third-floor corridor.

"No matter who you are," Anthony called out to the empty air, his voice echoing against the brick walls, "this is very dangerous. I'll repeat Dumbledore's words: anyone who doesn't want to die a needless death should avoid the third-floor corridor."

But whoever—or whatever—it was, merely hesitated for a moment before continuing to swagger down the forbidden corridor. No sizzling lasers, no flying curses, no arrows from the walls, no spikes or pits opened up as Anthony had imagined.

Cautiously, Anthony took a step forward. The tiles remained firm beneath his feet, not sinking or snapping into a trap. At that moment, Anthony really wanted to know how Dumbledore defined "step in" and "innocent death."

The aura in front of Anthony moved with clear purpose, heading straight for a door that appeared to be locked. But with a soft, distinct click, the doorknob turned, and the door opened smoothly. Before Anthony could fully process what was happening, the melodious sound of a harp drifted out from the room beyond.

"Well, that's... quite leisurely," Anthony muttered to himself, hearing the elegant, flowing music.

Determined, he stepped through the door after the figure, calling out, "Professor Quirrell, is that you?"

Sure enough, it was Quirrell, standing in the room, draped in his usual black robe with a scarf and a wide hood that obscured his face. If it weren't for his frail frame and familiar stoop, Anthony might not have recognized him at first glance.

Quirrell was standing near a massive three-headed dog—no, make that one massive three-headed dog. The creature lay peacefully, lulled into sleep by the gentle music from the harp that Quirrell had set at its feet. It seemed as though all of Quirrell's effort had been spent just to ensure this beast could enjoy some elegant tunes.

"What… is this?" Anthony asked, bewildered.

Quirrell said nothing. He nudged one of the giant dog's soft, slumbering paws out of the way, revealing a trapdoor beneath it. Raising his pale face, still wrapped in that large scarf, he gave Anthony a smile—a strange, unsettling smile. Then, without a word, Quirrell bent down, opened the trapdoor, and jumped down into the darkness.

"Wait!" Anthony shouted, rushing toward the door.

Peering down, he saw nothing but blackness—dark, wet, and cold. There was a dull thud below, followed by a muffled grunt. Quirrell had landed.

Without hesitation, Anthony followed. He jumped down, bracing himself for impact. The descent was deeper than he'd expected, as dark as a tomb. The faint light from the trapdoor above barely illuminated the area. The walls were damp, glistening with moisture.

Anthony landed on something cold and slippery. He quickly realized it was some sort of plant, writhing beneath him like a living thing. The strange vegetation began slithering away, creeping toward Quirrell, who stood nearby.

"Ah, Devil's Snare," came Quirrell's voice, though this time it was different—no longer stuttering or uncertain. It was smooth, confident, and unsettling.

A bright flame suddenly flared from the tip of Quirrell's wand, casting eerie blue light across the room. The Devil's Snare recoiled immediately, shrinking back from the fire, twisting and retreating into the shadows. In the flickering firelight, Quirrell's pale face gleamed with a strange intensity. His eyes burned with a fervor and madness that sent a shiver down Anthony's spine.

"Professor Anthony, how nice of you to join me," Quirrell said calmly, nodding toward him. "Do you mind if I close the door a little? I can't stand the cold draft."

Anthony's senses were on high alert. His hand remained in his pocket, feeling the bread and apples he'd packed for the giant squid, along with the wraith mouse that nudged his finger. He mentally cursed his lack of preparation—he was wearing only his old checkered pajamas and a velvet dressing gown. In his rush to get out earlier, he hadn't brought his wand.

"Where is this, Professor Quirrell?" Anthony asked, his voice steady despite the rising tension.

But Quirrell ignored the question entirely. "What a pity," he mused, twirling his wand casually. "Meeting you here, in such a dreary place... I had hoped for a setting with more... refinement, not this." He gestured to the room as the Devil's Snare recoiled from the light of his wand, clearing a large open space around him. "If we'd met tomorrow as planned—"

"Did you even reply to my letter?" Anthony interrupted, frowning.

Quirrell hesitated for just a moment, as though caught off guard. "I did," he said, though his tone suggested uncertainty.

"Really?" Anthony asked, confused. "I didn't receive a reply."

Quirrell coughed a few times, seemingly to regain composure, before continuing. "No matter. We've met, as fate intended. Me and you, in our true forms."

Anthony's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, true forms?"

Quirrell smiled, the kind of smile reserved for someone explaining something to a child. "Look around you, Professor Anthony," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "The Devil's Snare no longer recognizes you as alive. It believes you are already dead—Mr. Necromancer."

Anthony's stomach lurched at Quirrell's words. He knew his dabbling in necromancy gave him a unique aura, but for Quirrell to sense it—and to use it against him—was deeply unsettling.

"And you?" Anthony asked, forcing his voice to remain calm. "What is your true form, Professor?"

Quirrell chuckled softly, clearly amused by Anthony's question.

"Me? Of course, I am Quirinus Quirrell, but not the one you think you know," Quirrell said, his voice dripping with confidence. "I'm not the pitiable, stammering fool bullied by students. No, I am much stronger than you realize, Professor Anthony. Ever since I discovered what I truly desire, and learned the rules that govern this world..." His grip on his wand tightened, and the flames beside him roared higher. "I am no longer that incompetent, spineless boy."

Anthony stood there, feeling the weight of the apple in his pocket, unsure of what else he could do. The situation felt surreal, almost like he was caught in an absurd dream. Not quite a nightmare—just ridiculous.

"Follow me, Anthony," Quirrell commanded, striding into a long stone corridor.

Reluctantly, Anthony followed, watching the figure in front of him, who showed no concern for leaving his back exposed. He briefly considered whether hurling the apple at Quirrell might knock him out long enough to drag him to Madam Pomfrey, but something about the situation kept him from acting. He couldn't help but wonder where they were and what Quirrell was planning to show him.

They soon arrived in a room that was more "tasteful" than the previous one. This room was filled with hundreds of flapping, glittering keys, the bright light from numerous candlesticks making it shine as if the night had never existed.

"Flitwick's work," Quirrell remarked casually, as though he was already familiar with the challenge before him. He confidently walked across the room, tapping a door with his wand. In response, one of the airborne keys twitched, as if caught by an invisible thread, and flew unsteadily into Quirrell's hand. He seized it roughly and unlocked the door.

"Come in, Professor Anthony," he said politely, with an air of mock civility. "I'll follow behind you."

Anthony hesitated at the threshold. "Is there something you're trying to tell me, Professor Quirrell?" he asked. "We had an appointment for tomorrow—meeting early shouldn't change anything, should it?"

Quirrell's lips curled into a tight smile. "You'll understand soon enough, Anthony. Now, step inside."

Anthony stepped into another massive, cold room. At first, it was pitch-dark, but as soon as Quirrell entered behind him, the room was bathed in light, revealing a gigantic chessboard.

"McGonagall's handiwork," Quirrell said with a few coughs. His voice sounded different again—more measured and sinister. "I gave you a hint earlier. Don't you remember? Ah, but of course... as expected, you forgot." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "That's a shame."

Anthony furrowed his brow, trying to piece together what Quirrell meant. "What hint?" he asked, confused.

Quirrell's voice oozed with a strange excitement, his words painting an unsettling picture. "My purpose for coming to this school, your purpose for coming to this school," he began, his tone growing more fervent. "But we were both looking in the wrong place, weren't we? The Chamber of Secrets—it sounds like the perfect place to hide a secret as grand as eternal life, doesn't it? Quite poetic, really. You, being willing to share what you found there... We were actually planning to visit tomorrow to see exactly what you've uncovered."

"So, there is a secret to eternal life behind all of this?" Anthony asked, his suspicions sharpening. Dumbledore had indeed tasked him with studying resurrection, but the idea that the school itself could be hiding the key to immortality was a leap—albeit not entirely impossible, considering the peculiar nature of Hogwarts.

Quirrell smiled, his eyes gleaming with a twisted enthusiasm. "Yes—no need for pretense anymore, Professor Anthony. Henry, my friend, we can enjoy this together, study it together. Join us, and imagine the possibilities! Disguising oneself as harmless—whether as a man, an animal, or something else—is not easy, but there's a thrill in it, don't you think?" He chuckled darkly. "I must say, you've done it much better than I ever could."

For a moment, Quirrell shuddered, as though some distant memory gripped him, but he quickly pushed on, his voice more forceful. "But now, we're so close. Victory is just a few doors away, and the sweet fruits of eternal life are within reach! Think of it, Anthony. You wouldn't have to waste time pretending to care about Muggles, or spending your days as some mere professor. You could dive deep into the subjects that truly fascinate you: life, death, the soul, resurrection... Imagine the power in that knowledge."

Anthony studied Quirrell, his unease growing. It was becoming clearer that Quirrell wasn't just a puppet—he was part of something much darker, something obsessed with dangerous knowledge. A part of him suspected that Quirrell had aligned himself with a madman's cause, a twisted pursuit of immortality and forbidden science.

Quirrell continued, his voice almost pleading now, as though he were making the most reasonable offer in the world. "He—my master—he's right. You have no real attachment to Hogwarts, do you? No fondness for the students, nor for your colleagues. When you look at them, you see nothing more than obligation, don't you? You know what a professor should be like, and you perform the role well—brilliantly, in fact. But deep down, it's all just a façade, isn't it?" He trembled again, his voice faltering. "You're cold... so very, very cold."