Harry’s detention with Professor Quirrell didn’t cause much of a stir in Slytherin House. Unlike Gryffindor, where losing even a handful of points could lead to outrage, Slytherins were more practical about rule-breaking. As long as the house points bance stayed positive, no one really cared about detentions.

  And Harry?

  He was one of Slytherin’s top point-earners, thanks to his spellwork, warding talents, and quick thinking in csses. Losing a few points here and there wasn’t enough to tarnish his growing reputation as one of Slytherin’s most promising first-years.

  But while the house shrugged off Harry’s adventure as no big deal, Bise and Daphne didn’t let it go so easily.

  The moment Harry returned from his final day of detention, both of them were waiting for him in his private room—arms crossed, expressions stormy.

  “You’re an idiot, you know that?” Daphne snapped the moment Harry stepped through the door.

  “What did I do now?” Harry asked, dropping his bag on the table and raising an eyebrow.

  “What did you do?” Bise echoed, looking equally annoyed. “You went sneaking around the forbidden corridor—alone!”

  “And you didn’t even tell us!” Daphne added.

  Harry winced. He knew this was coming. Ever since the three of them had started spending more time together, their friendship had solidified into something stronger than the loose alliances most Slytherins preferred. And apparently, that also meant they now had opinions about what he should and shouldn’t do.

  “I didn’t think it was a big deal,” Harry tried to expin. “I just wanted to check it out—I didn’t expect to get caught.”

  “Not a big deal?” Daphne’s voice rose slightly. “You almost got caught by Filch, and you ended up stuck in detention with Quirrell for two weeks!”

  “And,” Bise cut in, “you didn’t even tell us what you found in there!”

  Harry hesitated. He hadn’t told them much about what he’d seen—especially the three-headed dog.

  “It’s... complicated,” Harry admitted, gncing away.

  “Try us,” Bise said firmly, crossing his arms.

  Harry sighed and finally relented, telling them about the giant dog guarding something in the forbidden corridor. By the time he finished, Daphne and Bise looked more intrigued than angry.

  “That’s insane,” Daphne whispered. “A Cerberus in the school? What could it possibly be guarding?”

  “I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “But I think it has something to do with Nichos Fmel.”

  Bise’s eyes narrowed. “The alchemist? The one who made the Philosopher’s Stone?”

  Harry nodded.

  “Well, that’s just great,” Daphne muttered. “Not only are you sneaking around dangerous corridors, but now you’re tangled up in ancient magical artifacts and legendary alchemists.”

  “Rex,” Harry said, grinning. “I’ll figure it out.”

  Despite their initial frustration, Daphne and Bise couldn’t stay mad at Harry for long—especially not after he apologized and promised to include them in his future adventures.

  To make up for it, Harry even showed them his invisibility cloak, which instantly restored their good mood.

  “Merlin’s beard,” Bise breathed, running his fingers along the silky fabric. “Where did you even get this?”

  “It was a gift,” Harry said vaguely.

  Neither Daphne nor Bise pushed for more details. After all, the Weasleys weren’t poor anymore. Ever since their business success, it wasn’t hard to believe that Harry could have acquired something rare and expensive.

  From that day forward, their friendship deepened. Harry, Daphne, and Bise weren’t just acquaintances bound by convenience anymore—they were true friends, a rare bond in Slytherin House.

  And even though Harry knew their friendship came with expectations—to trust them, to include them, to share his secrets—he didn’t mind.

  The detention with Professor Quirrell turned out to be far more interesting than Harry had initially feared. Instead of scrubbing cauldrons or polishing trophies, Harry found himself tasked with something entirely different—grading homework.

  On the first day, Quirrell handed Harry a stack of parchments—assignments from fifth-, sixth-, and even seventh-year students.

  “You’ll be looking for... key points,” Quirrell instructed, his usual stutter almost absent as he expined. “Make sure they’ve covered the essential details about each dark creature or defensive spell. If they have, full marks—if not, deduct accordingly.”

  Harry blinked at the pile. “You’re trusting me to grade work for older students?”

  “Of course, Mr. Weasley,” Quirrell said, fshing a faint smile. “You’re capable, aren’t you? Or should I find... someone else?”

  That was all the challenge Harry needed.

  As the days passed, Harry was amazed at how much he learned simply by grading essays. The upper-year students had written detailed analyses about dark creatures, their weaknesses, and the most effective defensive spells against them.

  But what surprised Harry most was how Quirrell responded to his questions.

  Whenever Harry came across something interesting or confusing, he’d ask Quirrell for crification—and each time, the professor would unch into an impassioned expnation, speaking with a confidence and authority that seemed almost unlike him.

  “Professor,” Harry asked one evening, holding up an essay on Grindylows, “why do they prefer to attack ankles instead of going for a deadlier strike?”

  Quirrell’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward.

  “Ah, excellent question, Mr. Weasley. You see, Grindylows rely on their speed and agility rather than brute force. They aim for vulnerable spots—the ankles—because it causes panic and immobility in their prey. Once the prey is off-bance, the Grindylow can drag them underwater for the kill.”

  Harry scribbled notes furiously, fascinated by the insight.

  “And what about their weaknesses?” he pressed.

  “Light spells,” Quirrell said instantly. “They’re extremely sensitive to light, especially Lumos Solem, which simutes sunlight. That’s why you should always carry a wand-light spell when near dark waters.”

  By the end of the week, Harry had absorbed more information about dark creatures and defensive magic than he ever thought possible.

  He had learned about Boggarts, Red Caps, Kappas, and even rare creatures like Chimaeras and Manticores. He could now identify weaknesses, predict behaviors, and even suggest countermeasures—skills that most first-years wouldn’t learn for years.

  What intrigued Harry the most, however, was how different Quirrell became during their discussions.

  Gone was the nervous, stuttering professor who seemed to crumble under pressure. In his pce was someone who spoke with crity, passion, and depth of knowledge that fascinated Harry.

  But Harry also noticed something else—a glint in Quirrell’s eyes, like he was testing him, pushing Harry to think critically and ask questions others might shy away from.

  By the end of the first week, Harry no longer dreaded his detentions. Instead, he found himself looking forward to them, eager to learn more and challenge himself.

  Harry was disappointed when Professor Quirrell informed him that his detention duties were changing. He had genuinely enjoyed grading papers, learning far more than he had anticipated about dark creatures and defensive spells.

  But Quirrell, with his usual soft stammer, dismissed Harry’s enthusiasm.

  “Detention is... not supposed to be... enjoyable, Mr. Weasley,” Quirrell said, his voice unusually firm. “You seem to be... learning too much from it.”

  Harry tried to protest, but Quirrell had already assigned him a new task—reorganizing his bookshelves.

  The first time Harry stepped into Quirrell’s office, he was surprised by how cluttered it was. Books were stacked haphazardly on shelves, tables, and even the floor. Some had faded covers, others were bound in strange materials that Harry couldn’t even identify.

  Quirrell gestured to the chaos.

  “I want you to... organize everything,” he instructed. “Sort them by subject—Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Magical Creatures, and so on.”

  Harry rolled up his sleeves and got to work, sorting through the books.

  Hours passed, and Harry began to notice patterns in the collection. Most of the books were standard textbooks—spells, theory, and magical history. But as Harry worked his way through the higher shelves, he found something unexpected.

  Books on Dark Arts.

  Not Defensive Magic, but actual books detailing curses, hexes, and forbidden rituals. Some were even written in nguages Harry couldn’t read.

  Curiosity got the better of him. He pulled out a thin, bck leather-bound book with silver runes etched on the spine.

  “Why do you have books on the Dark Arts?” Harry asked cautiously.

  Quirrell, who had been quietly grading papers at his desk, looked up sharply.

  For a moment, the professor’s eyes gleamed, and the nervous stutter disappeared completely.

  “There is no... Light and Dark, Mr. Weasley,” Quirrell said, his voice low and measured. “There is only... power—and those too weak to seek it.”

  Harry froze.

  Something about the way Quirrell said it made the hairs on his neck stand up.

  “But... but my father says—”

  Quirrell cut him off.

  “Your father is... a fool, obsessed with outdated ideals of good and evil.”

  The room seemed to darken slightly as Quirrell continued, his voice almost a whisper.

  “Magic is power, Harry. And power is neither good nor evil—it simply... is. It’s how you use it that matters.”

  Harry quickly changed the subject, pretending to focus on organizing the rest of the books. But Quirrell’s words lingered in his mind long after the detention ended.

  Was it wrong to study the Dark Arts, even if it was just to understand them?

  Or was Quirrell right—was magic just magic, with no morality attached to it?

  Harry didn’t know.

  Harry couldn’t shake off what Quirrell had said earlier—about magic being power and the false divide between light and dark. It was fascinating and terrifying all at once.

  Finally, he asked, "Why did you say that about magic? That there's no light or dark—just power?"

  Quirrell didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he walked to a shelf and pulled out a dusty old book.

  “Let me... show you, Mr. Weasley,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically steady.

  He flipped through the yellowed pages until he stopped at a section and handed it to Harry.

  “This,” he said, tapping the page with his wand, “is a spell taught to... sixth-year students—even in my time.”

  Harry read the incantation, his eyes scanning the Latin words, followed by a detailed expnation about the spell’s uses and effects.

  “It’s a... Sshing Charm,” Quirrell expined. “Simple, effective. Used for... cutting ropes, cloth, vines—practical, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Harry nodded, still not sure where Quirrell was going with this.

  Quirrell took another newer book off the shelf, one far glossier and cleaner than the first. He flipped it open and pointed to a different page.

  “And this,” Quirrell said, tapping another section, “is how the Ministry of Magic has cssified the same spell today.”

  Harry’s eyes widened.

  “It’s listed as a... Dark Arts curse?” Harry asked, shocked.

  “Indeed,” Quirrell said with a slight smirk. “And why? Because someone decided it could be used to... harm a person.”

  Harry’s mouth went dry.

  “But... can’t all spells harm someone? Even... simple charms?” he asked, recalling the stories Fred and George had told him about mischievous pranks gone wrong.

  Quirrell’s eyes gleamed.

  “Exactly, Mr. Weasley. Even a levitation charm—Wingardium Leviosa—can be... deadly if used to drop a heavy object on someone’s head.”

  Harry felt a chill run down his spine.

  “So what makes it... dark?” he asked quietly.

  “The Ministry, Harry,” Quirrell said, leaning closer. “They decide what is acceptable and what is not. But magic itself? Magic has no... morality. It is neutral, waiting for someone... strong enough to wield it.”

  Harry stared at the books in front of him, his mind racing.

  Was it really the intention that mattered? Could something be dark just because someone used it in a harmful way?

  He thought about the Weasleys and how they used their magic for fun, pranks, and making life easier. But he also thought about the Wardings he had created in his room—traps designed to hurt anyone who dared to break in.

  Was that dark magic?

  “I can see you’re... thinking deeply, Mr. Weasley,” Quirrell said, his voice calm but filled with an undercurrent of satisfaction.

  “Magic is not a tool for the weak. It’s a weapon—and only those who understand its true nature can master it. Remember that.”

  Harry nodded slowly, absorbing every word.

  He didn’t know if he agreed with Quirrell entirely, but he knew one thing—he wanted to learn more.

  On the st day of detention, Harry sat in Professor Quirrell's dimly lit office, carefully organizing the final set of books into their assigned categories. The shelves were now neatly arranged, and the room no longer had the chaotic clutter it once did.

  Harry felt a sense of accomplishment, but also a tinge of disappointment. Over the past two weeks, his conversations with Quirrell had sparked questions and curiosity about the nature of magic—questions he hadn’t thought to ask before.

  As he pced the st book on the shelf, Quirrell spoke, breaking the silence.

  “You’ve... learned much, Mr. Weasley,” Quirrell said, his stutter absent once again. “But I’d like to give you... one st lesson.”

  Harry turned around, intrigued.

  “What is it, Professor?”

  Quirrell leaned back in his chair, his pale fingers tapping the desk.

  “You must always keep an... open mind about magic,” he said carefully. “Magic is... evolving, Harry. And so must those who... wield it.”

  Harry frowned.

  “But why does the Ministry keep restricting spells? Even ones that used to be taught in schools?”

  Quirrell’s eyes gleamed.

  “Ah... an excellent question, Mr. Weasley.”

  He stood up and walked over to the window, gazing out at the darkened grounds of Hogwarts.

  “Let me tell you something the Ministry doesn’t want people like you to know.”

  Harry leaned forward, his interest piqued.

  Quirrell turned to face Harry, his expression unreadable.

  “The old pure-blood families—the ones who control the Ministry—are not as... powerful as they used to be,” he said slowly.

  Harry blinked.

  “What do you mean?”

  Quirrell’s lips curled into a thin smile.

  “They’ve been... inbreeding for centuries,” he expined. “Keeping their bloodlines pure, but at a... cost. Their magic is weakening.”

  Harry’s eyes widened.

  “Weakening?”

  Quirrell nodded.

  “Yes. They’re losing their ability to perform... stronger spells—the kind of magic that once made their families... great.”

  Harry’s mind raced.

  “So... that’s why they’re banning spells? To stop people from... becoming stronger than them?”

  “Precisely,” Quirrell said, his voice low. “They fear... competition. They know their own children can’t wield the same power their ancestors did. So instead of admitting it, they cssify spells as dark arts and forbid others from learning them.”

  Harry felt a cold chill run down his spine.

  “But... that’s not fair,” he said.

  Quirrell’s eyes narrowed.

  “No, it’s not,” he said softly. “Which is why you must always... question authority, Harry. Never let someone else decide what knowledge you can or cannot possess.”

  Harry sat back in his chair, his mind spinning with new ideas.

  He thought about his own studies, the wards he had created, and the advanced spells he had learned at home. Was it wrong to seek power if it meant protecting himself and those he cared about?

  And then, for the first time, Harry wondered—what else had the Ministry hidden?

  Quirrell smiled at Harry’s thoughtful expression.

  “Remember this lesson, Mr. Weasley,” he said, stepping closer. “Knowledge is power. And those who seek it... must be brave enough to cim it.”