Hogwarts: My Grandmother is the Queen

Chapter 111 You're pretty good, help me steal something.

What a coward!

Henry cursed inwardly, deciding that he would have to tell Hagrid when he got back—if he could still return unscathed.

but----

He didn't think Voldemort would kill him, after all, there was no conflict of interest between them—but he was still bound to suffer some punishment.

Thinking of this, he turned his head slightly and relaxed, since being on guard was of little use.

"Professor, what are you trying to say?"

Quirrell stopped and looked at him, a red glint in his eyes.

Henry saw it.

His heart skipped a beat, but his hands remained at his sides, making no move.

Quirrell looked at him and suddenly smiled.

That smile was no longer the distorted smile of before, but a smile that sent chills down your spine.

"Your Highness," he said, his voice no longer stuttering, but deep and slow, like a snake hissing, "let's talk."

Henry looked at Quirrell, or rather, through Quirrell's body, at the person stuck to the back of his head.

"What are you talking about?" he asked calmly, as if he were genuinely chatting with a kind and gentle teacher, without any hint of wariness.

Quirrell looked at him, and a red light flashed in his eyes again.

"Talk about you," he said. "Talk about what kind of person you are."

He slowly walked toward Henry, the shadows of the trees swaying behind him, as if something was following him.

“You are special, Your Highness,” he said. “Everyone can see that. At eleven, you were able to save people in Quidditch matches; at twelve, you were able to befriend unicorns; and Dumbledore himself wrote you a letter introducing you to Newt Scamander—this is not something an ordinary person can do.”

He stopped a few steps away from Henry.

"But what makes you truly special," he said, "is that you know how to enjoy it all."

Henry's eyebrows twitched slightly.

"enjoy?"

“Yes. You enjoy it,” Quirrell said. “You enjoy being worshipped, you enjoy being the center of attention, you enjoy being above everyone else, being looked up to by everyone. You pretend not to care, you pretend to be calm, you pretend it doesn’t matter to you—but I know you do care.”

He stared into Henry's eyes, eyes that seemed to try to see through something.

"You enjoy that feeling, don't you?"

Henry didn't meet his gaze, but instead lowered his head and remained silent for a while.

Then he laughed.

"Professor," he said, "are you giving me a psychoanalysis?"

Quirrell paused for a moment, then laughed.

"Interesting," he said. "You're more interesting than I thought."

He paused for a moment, then continued speaking.

"Your Highness, I have a question for you."

"Please speak," Henry said, neither humble nor arrogant.

Quirrell looked at him, a strange light flashing in his eyes.

Do you believe in power?

What should I answer to this question?

"What kind of power are you referring to?" Henry asked.

"True power," Quirrell said, "not the kind of power that's recognized by unicorns, not the kind of power that's worshipped by classmates, not the kind of power that comes from birth. It's the kind of real, pure power that puts you above everyone else."

His voice became deep and seductive.

"Think about it, Your Highness. If you had that kind of power, you wouldn't need to care about anyone's opinion. You wouldn't need to curry favor with Fudge, you wouldn't need to curry favor with Dumbledore, you wouldn't need to care about the attitudes of those pure-blood families. You could do whatever you wanted; you could get whatever you desired."

He took a step forward.

"Do you want that kind of power?"

Henry looked at him without saying a word.

Quirrell waited a while, and seeing that he didn't react, he continued.

"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm a professor and I should stand with Dumbledore. But what has Dumbledore given you? He's making you do his bidding, making you deal with Fudge, making you worry about all sorts of messy things—he's using you, Your Highness."

His voice became even lower.

"And I can give you real power."

Henry finally spoke.

Why do you think I need power?

Quirrell was taken aback, clearly not expecting Henry to ask that question.

"Because you need to," he said. "You are the heir to the throne, and you will face far more complex things in the future. Who is Fudge? He's just a useless politician; the real threat is yet to come."

He stared into Henry's eyes, trying to meet his gaze, but Henry was incredibly cunning and refused to make eye contact with Quirrell for even a second.

"When a real threat comes, you need strength, not the strength of others, but your own strength."

Henry was silent for a moment, then he asked, "What do you mean by the real threat?"

Quirrell looked at him, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes.

"You know what I'm talking about," he said. "You know there are things in this world more terrifying than Fudge."

He paused, then suddenly laughed.

"You may not know it now, but you will soon."

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew by, and the leaves rustled.

Henry stood there, calm and composed. There was no fear or surprise on his face; he looked extremely peaceful.

Quirrell looked at him, seemingly somewhat surprised.

"Aren't you afraid?" he asked.

Henry shook his head: "I'm not afraid."

"Why?" Quirrell asked, intrigued. "Aren't you afraid I'll hurt you?"

"If you want to hurt me, what good is being afraid?" Henry retorted.

Quirrell laughed, his voice like the cry of an owl, sounding particularly eerie in the silent forest.

"Smart," he said. "Really smart."

He slowly walked forward, getting closer to Henry.

"Your Highness, I need you to do something for me."

"What is it?" Henry asked, looking at Quirrell's hand.

Quirrell lowered his voice, which became even lower and deeper, like the hissing of a rattlesnake.

"Hogwarts hides something, something very precious."

You're pretty smart, right? Help me steal something, is that what you mean?

"You mean the Philosopher's Stone, right?" Henry asked directly.

He didn't intend to keep anything from Quirrell; he would just say what he meant. Just as Sir Arnold said, telling the truth is often more effective than telling a lie.

Moreover, he was facing more than just Quirrell.

Quirrell's eyes lit up.

"You know?"

"Hagrid mentioned it," Henry said, "the forbidden room on the right side of the fourth-floor corridor."

Quirrell nodded. "Yes. Right there."

He stared intently at Henry's face, and after a long while, he slowly spoke.

"I need you to get it for me."