Chapter 69

"I n-notice your m-mind jumped straight to the P-Potions Master," Quirrell said. "W-why?"

"He's working for Lucius Malfoy," said Milo. "Who was a Death Eater, and therefore working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." As Milo filled Quirrell in on his theory about Draco, Snape, and Lucius, they approached Quirrell's office. The simple wooden door opened with a wave of Quirrell's hand.

"H-how do you know that L-Lucius is still loyal to the D-Dark L-Lord?" Quirrell asked. "Hasn't h-he told the w-w-world that he was 'b-bewitched,'" Quirrell said the last with a sneer, sitting down behind his desk.

"Well, for one, that's obviously a lie. Everything about the Malfoys has evil written all over it. But also, when I was summoned here, I woke up in the Malfoy manor surrounded by dark wizards in masks that sound an awful lot like the old Death Eater getups."

"S-so," Quirrell mused softly. "They're still active, even w-without their m-master..."

"Oh," Milo added as an afterthought. "While I'm here, want me to protect your office against vampires?"

"W-what?" Quirrell asked. He seemed totally thrown by the question. "Why?"

"To keep Vampiremort from murdering you in your sleep when he fails to get the Stone," Milo said. It took effort not to add 'duh.'

"Wh-what exactly c-can you do against v-v-vampires? Y-you're only eleven," Quirrell said, taking a sip from a glass of water that he created with a wave of his wand.

"Ah," Milo countered. "I might be twelve, now—I don't know when my birthday is."

"Q-quite besides the p-point," Quirrell said.

"It's easy, really," Milo said. "I just carve a few holy symbols onto the doors, windows, vents, and, ideally, every brick of the wall. You've already got the garlic covered—I don't suppose you can get Holy Water in this universe? Eh, nevermind, it's suboptimal anyways. 'Course, the vamp can just Dominate you with a look—you guys have anything like Protection from Evil?"

"W-what is this 'Protection F-From E-E-Evil?'" Quirrell asked.

"Handy little spell. Makes it hard for Evil creatures to touch you—they can't at all if they're summoned—and makes you totally immune from all forms of mental control, whether the originator is Evil or not."

Quirrell dropped his glass, which shattered on the hard stone ground.

"Permanently?" Quirrell asked, his expression carefully neutral.

"Nah, just for a few minutes. Want me to Prestidigitate that?" he asked, pointing at the shards of glass.

Quirrell shook his head, carefully waved his wand, and the glass shards were gone. He looked and moved as if every part of him were focussing on the simple cleaning spell.

"I think," Quirrell said slowly and deliberately, "that it would be best, if we are to work together, if you explain to me just how your magic works."

Milo shrugged.

"It's simple enough. There are ten levels of spells, from 0th to 9th. There are thousands of spells out there that wizards have invented (and a few dozen by Sorcerers), but I can only cast ones that I've written into my spellbook. Every morning, I can prepare a fixed list of spells from my book, and I can cast those—and only those—at any point that I want. How many spells, and of what level, is determined by my Wizard level—not to be confused with spell level. I'm a level five Wizard," Milo said proudly, "so I can cast up to 3rd-level spells. At every second Wizard level, I can cast a higher level of spell."

"So, you can increase in level? How?" Again, Quirrell seemed to be spending a large amount of effort concentrating on his words. Maybe it's a trick to avoid stuttering? Milo thought.

"There are a few ways, but the main one is combat. Defeating monsters and such gives me Experience Points, when I have enough of those I go up a level."

"You said you could cast up to 3rd-level spells. Could you give me an example?"

"Sure... Summon Hippogriff."

Milo decided, in hindsight, that summoning the largest possible creature that he could manage into Quirrell's compact little office may not have been the best idea.

The Hippogriff, a massive, aggressive Magical Beast that looked like the front of a giant eagle on the body of a horse, let out a roar that knocked the stunned Quirrell out of his chair.

"Uh," he said. "Sorry about that." With a deliberately casual wave of his hand, Milo dismissed the voracious omnivore before it developed a taste for human flesh.

"So, you gain power directly by being involved in combat? By defeating your foes?"

"Yup."

"Does the strength of the foe matter?"

"Oh, yeah. The harder the challenge, the more XP I get—assuming, of course, that I survive."

"Indeed."

"So, about the vampires and Protection from Evil—" Milo began.

"It is of no matter. I already told you that I don't..." Quirrell paused. "I mean, as I was telling your doppelganger, I don't believe the Dark Lord will become a vampire; he has always believed strongly in blood purity" he said, smoothly changing the topic.

"That's why the villains always lose," Milo said. "Blinded by their own prejudices and killing their own minions. If I had minions," Milo said with a slightly dreamy expression, "I'd treat them right. Well, I mean, I'd work them like slaves, I wouldn't pay them, and I'd feed them only enough to keep them from starving to death—it's just efficient—but aside from that, I'd treat them right. Oh, and if I can find some way to keep them working without needing sleep, I'd use that, of course, but honestly."

"Do you have any theories," Quirrell said carefully, cutting off Milo's rambling speech, "as to why Lucius brought you here?"

Milo frowned.

"I'd just sort of assumed it was an accident," he said. "I mean, whatever they were doing, it didn't look like they expected an eleven year-old to appear on their dining room table in the middle of it."

"And yet, you yourself admitted that you could, one day, have the power to bring back their lord."

"I don't follow," Milo confessed.

"You can bring back the dead," Quirrell said. "That makes you, Milo, a prize greater than any Philosopher's Stone."

Before Milo could respond, there was a brisk rap on the door.

"E-enter," Quirrell said, looking frustrated, his concentration evidently broken.

The door opened to reveal a very, very angry looking Professor McGonagall.

"You," she said, pointing at Milo. "Come with me." Her tone brooked no dissent.

o—o—o—o

"Blimey," said Fred as Harry was carried out of the stands.

"Just once, we're going to be able to throw a party on a Friday—" said George.

"—and the star of the show won't be in the hospital wing—"

"—and on that day, the house-elves will overthrow their masters, and become lords of the universe."

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