Patience...
The atmosphere in the staffroom was thick with tension. A fire crackled in the hearth, but its warmth did little to ease the cold stares and hushed whispers that filled the room. Once again, the professors of Hogwarts gathered to discuss the mystery that was Harry Potter. What they knew was unsettling, and what they didn’t know was even worse.
Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, his hands folded together, his eyes betraying the ever-present weight of knowing more than he would ever share. Across from him sat the rest of the staff, most of them in varying degrees of unease.
Snape, as usual, sat with a scowl etched into his features, arms crossed tightly across his chest. His obsidian eyes gleamed with frustration, his usual air of smug superiority replaced by a barely-contained irritation.
"I suppose we’ll have to learn something new about Potter today, won’t we?" Snape's voice was thick with sarcasm as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, bitter tone. "Perhaps he’s found a new way to avoid detection? Maybe he’s brewing potions now, just like a good little Slytherin?"
Dumbledore’s gaze flicked to Snape, a subtle but knowing smile playing on his lips. "Severus, as always, your sharp mind is appreciated," he said gently, though there was an unmistakable hint of amusement in his voice. "But we mustn’t allow our frustrations to cloud our judgment. We need to remain patient, for Harry’s sake."
"Patient?" Snape scoffed. "We’ve been patient for five years, Albus. Five years of searching for him, only for him to show up on our doorstep like a... like a child lost in the woods, Not willing to share where he has been or why. How is that patient?"
Dumbledore's gaze softened, his tone becoming more serious. "Severus, Harry simply isn’t willing to share the memory of those years with us. It’s not that he doesn’t remember—it’s that he chooses not to. And we must respect his privacy in this regard."
"Choosing not to remember, is it?" Snape sneered, his hands tightening into fists. "How convenient."
"Severus," McGonagall interjected, her voice calm but firm. "There’s no use in continuing this cycle of frustration. We must take the facts we have and work from them, not allow emotions to dictate our actions."
Before Snape could respond, Hagrid, who had been unusually quiet, spoke up, his voice low and rumbling. "I’ve been watchin’ him. Harry’s different. He’s not like the other students. He spends time with the Thestrals—y’know, the ones we can see only after we’ve seen death. And... he doesn’t seem scared of ‘em. He’s not frightened by much, really. Not anymore."
The room grew quieter at that, and several of the professors exchanged uneasy glances. Dumbledore, for his part, watched Hagrid with a look of concern, but said nothing.
"Indeed," Dumbledore said eventually, breaking the silence. "Harry’s... experiences before he came to Hogwarts have shaped him in ways that none of us can fully comprehend. We must tread carefully with our inquiries. We’ve seen the signs before: his detachment, his tendency to keep things locked away behind those sharp eyes of his. But the more we learn, the more it becomes clear that Harry is not just a boy—he is something different."
As the conversation continued, Quirrell sat in the corner of the room, his eyes darting nervously between his colleagues. It was as though he were watching through someone else's eyes, his movements stiff and controlled. Under the table, his hand clenched tightly around the corners of his robes, but he said nothing. The other professors were too busy debating Harry’s behavior to notice the subtle movements, unaware that the truth they were discussing was already being heard by someone else.
In the shadows of the staffroom, in the darkness that had crept into Quirrell’s mind, Lord Voldemort listened intently. His presence was subtle, but palpable, like a whisper that caressed the edges of the room, waiting for the right moment to speak.
"He sees them," Voldemort murmured, his voice as cold and serpentine as ever, though Quirrell’s lips did not move. "The Thestrals. He’s seen death, and he doesn’t fear it. No... he embraces it."
Quirrell shuddered involuntarily, but he kept his composure, his hands still gripping the table, his thoughts a twisted mix of dread and curiosity. The Dark Lord’s influence on him was still strong, even now, even after all this time.
"Interesting," Voldemort mused, his voice like a dark cloud in Quirrell’s mind. "We will need to learn more about him. About Potter. He is not what he seems."
The conversation in the staffroom continued, oblivious to the dark presence that loomed behind them, invisible but ever-watchful.
The meeting dragged on for what felt like hours, each new revelation about Harry Potter adding another layer of confusion and anxiety. Snape’s irritation grew with each passing minute, his eyes narrowed and focused on Dumbledore as though waiting for an answer that never came.
"You still haven’t told us what we’re supposed to do about him," Snape finally said, his voice sharp. "We can’t continue to ignore the fact that Potter is not the child he’s meant to be. We’re all walking on eggshells around him, unsure whether he’s a threat or just... damaged."
Dumbledore regarded Snape with a calm, unwavering expression. "We will approach him as we always do—with care. But we must remember that Harry is not the only one with secrets. There are those in this room who hold their own truths just as tightly."
The indirect reference to Snape’s past was not lost on the Potions Master, and he glared at Dumbledore with barely concealed venom.
"I’m not the one who disappeared for five years and returned like it was nothing, Dumbledore," Snape hissed. "You may be playing your little games, but I’m not interested in babysitting the boy. If you want him to stay here, then you’d better tell me exactly what we’re dealing with."
Dumbledore’s eyes softened, but his tone was firm. "We all have our roles, Severus. But right now, Harry needs our guidance, not our suspicions."
Snape clenched his jaw, obviously unsatisfied by Dumbledore’s response. He stood up abruptly, his robes swishing as he turned to leave the room.
"If you need me, I’ll be in the dungeons, where the real work gets done," he muttered under his breath.
As Snape stormed out of the room, the others exchanged uneasy glances. The sense of foreboding had only grown stronger with each meeting, and now, as Harry Potter returned to Hogwarts, the questions and the dangers surrounding him seemed to multiply.