Harry, Ron, and Hermione had no interest in clashing with the Slytherins. They gave a quick nod and hurried to Edward's bedside.
"Edward, you alright?" Harry asked, shoving a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans into his arms, his voice full of concern.
"Doing great, no injuries. Shame I had to skip training today on Madam Pomfrey's orders," Edward replied with a grin.
"Knew something was off when I didn't see anyone sprinting up the stairs this morning," Ron muttered.
The trio visibly relaxed, thrilled to hear Edward was unscathed. Like the Slytherins before them, they started chatting excitedly about unicorns and dragons, though they were a bit more composed since they already knew about Norbert. But the excitement faded quickly, and Harry's mood darkened.
"Edward, you knew, didn't you? About Quirrell's real identity?" he whispered. "He's… Voldemort?"
Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin, like a cat with its tail yanked, and Ron shivered from head to toe.
"Don't say that name!" Ron hissed.
"Voldemort's not going to vanish from the castle just because we avoid his name," Edward said calmly.
"Oh, brilliant! Another person who's not afraid to say it!" Hermione snapped, still rattled from nearly shrieking. "I know, I just… need time to get used to it."
Harry, on the other hand, looked almost delighted. Hearing someone else say Voldemort's name out loud felt like a small victory. "So you knew! You must've figured it out in the broom shed, right? Why didn't you tell me sooner? He killed my parents—I deserve to know the truth!" His voice cracked with emotion.
"Tell you earlier so you could lose your head to anger and go after Quirrell and Voldemort?" Edward shook his head. "I'm not that reckless."
"Dumbledore wouldn't want that either," he added.
"Dumbledore and Edward are protecting you, Harry," Hermione chimed in.
"You say that like Edward's sprouting a white beard like Dumbledore," Ron quipped.
Harry looked frustrated but didn't argue. He was a kind kid and could see the logic when it was laid out. "Then why not just arrest Quirrell? Catch him in his office or somewhere, with the other teachers, and expose him?"
"Even if it is Voldemort, surely Dumbledore could take him down easily, right?" Harry pressed.
"Maybe," Edward said. "But right now, Voldemort's in a state weaker than a ghost—hard to pin down. We can't do much to him, so instead of guarding against a thief forever, it's better to keep him where we can see him, isn't it?"
"What about the Philosopher's Stone?" Ron asked, accepting the logic but still uneasy. "Isn't Dumbledore worried Voldemort will steal it?"
"I get it," Harry said, clenching his fists. "The Stone, those traps—Quirrell must've helped design them. It's a setup! As long as Dumbledore's at Hogwarts, if Voldemort tries to steal the Stone, Dumbledore will know, and that's the perfect chance to take him down!"
"But how do you know Voldemort hasn't figured out it's a trap?" Hermione asked, worried. "We've been watching the fourth-floor corridor, and Quirrell's never been near it. Snape, on the other hand, keeps showing up and docking us points."
"He's waiting for the perfect moment," Harry said firmly. "A moment he can't fail."
Then, as if struck by the same thought, the trio locked eyes and said in unison, "When Dumbledore's gone!"
Edward stayed quiet. He'd completed the small task Dumbledore had given him.
Ever since their hospital wing talk, the three Gryffindors had shifted their focus from theස
System: The fourth-floor corridor and Quirrell to Dumbledore himself.
They were practically stalking the headmaster now, especially Harry, who was one step away from camping out by the gargoyle at the entrance to the headmaster's office. But that obsession couldn't last long—final exams were here.
It was June, and even the usually crisp Scottish Highlands felt stifling. Students were stuck in a sweltering classroom, scribbling answers with special anti-cheating quills.
"It's an insult!" Draco Malfoy griped more than once. "If it were up to me, I'd never treat students like this. I'll tell my father to bring it up with the board and get this nonsense scrapped next year!" Edward knew Draco was just flexing his family's influence—cheating or not, the kid was sharp enough to do well without it.
Exams weren't just written tests. Practical exams were a big part too: Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, Potions, and Flying.
Quirrell had them hunting for camouflaged chameleons in a sandpit, leaving most students half-blind and begging Madam Pomfrey for eyedrops afterward. Professor Flitwick tasked them with making a pineapple tap-dance across a desk; Edward, ever the show-off, had his waltz instead. McGonagall wanted a mouse turned into a snuffbox, and Snape tested them on a Forgetfulness Potion—a lesson from week two that Edward had drilled into every Slytherin first-year, even Crabbe and Goyle, who were confident they'd ace it.
Sprout had them identify dittany among various plants, and Madam Hooch made them fly a lap around the Quidditch pitch on broomsticks, then lob five Quaffles through the hoops. For Edward, who'd mastered this stuff last summer, it was a breeze.
The darkest hour before dawn is the deepest, and that held true for the final exam: History of Magic. It was pure torture for everyone. Still, Edward blazed through the questions, finishing early and watching with a smile as Daphne scribbled furiously, Draco racked his brain, Pansy invented history on the spot, Harry and Ron wore pained expressions, and Hermione refused to believe anyone could finish before her.
When Professor Binns' raspy voice finally announced the end, students erupted in cheers and bolted for the door. Summer break had unofficially begun. They had a week to mess around the castle before grades were posted and they faced their fates.
Edward and the Slytherins—Daphne, Draco, and Pansy—planned to meet Ramleh after exams, near the Quidditch pitch instead of Hagrid's hut, to fill them in on Norbert and the attacker.
"Ugh, I was hoping to see you tame that dragon," Draco said, hands behind his head, sounding wistful. Norbert was gone now. After her injury, Dumbledore, using his connections, had stashed her in a clearing deep in the Forbidden Forest, far from where students could reach. Charlie, Ron's brother, was brought in to look after the young female dragon.
Edward had helped convince Norbert to move, and though she was reluctant, she'd grown fond of him. Her fiery breath singed both Hagrid's and Professor Kettleburn's beards in the process. Since that night, Edward had been dodging Kettleburn, who seemed eager to study him like a magical creature, constantly pestering him about dragon-taming.
But his Slytherin friends had just as many questions. "So, who was the attacker?" they pressed.
"Quirrell. Or rather… Voldemort," Edward said casually, waving to Ramleh, who waited at the forest's edge. The name hit like a bucket of ice water in the June heat. Daphne, Draco, and Pansy froze, stunned.
"How can you just say—?" Pansy clapped a hand over her mouth.
"It's just a name. Or do you prefer You-Know-Who or the Dark Lord?" Edward said nonchalantly, as Ramleh nuzzled him, letting him and Daphne brush her coat.
Draco's face went paler than usual. His father rarely spoke of those days, claiming he'd been under the Imperius Curse, and even at home, the name Voldemort was avoided. Draco's understanding of the Dark Lord came mostly from rumors. Honestly, he'd always thought a world under Voldemort wouldn't be so bad—or at least, it wouldn't matter. The Malfoys were rich, their life comfortable. What difference did a Dark Lord make?
But he hadn't expected Voldemort to have been this close. An unnameable fear crept into Draco's chest, one he couldn't quite explain.
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