HP: A Magical Journey

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“Alright, I admit, I was there. What’s next?”

Quinn heavily leaned into his chair and crossed his legs with his hands firmly resting on the armrest. If not for his clothes, it’d look like he was in his home, getting comfortable for a night of relaxation in front of a fireplace.

“Why did you hide it?” asked James.

Quinn looked at James, contemplating if he should put him in the answerable bucket or dump him with Moody and ignore the Auror. After a second of thought, he decided to answer the man,

“I hid it because I thought no one knew about it.” He gazed at the Sorting hat, which again had gone to looking like a dilapidated hat. “But it seems I was wrong. . . . I feel ashamed I forgot about the hat which brought in the Gryffindor’s sword used to stab and end the Basilisk. . . . I was particularly distracted that day,” that day he was just at the edge of the first bout of Sin curse taking over.

He remembered how he had met with Lockhart shortly after, and the greedy, pompous bastard had triggered his emotions enough to let the Sin curse take over. Soon after, he had almost tortured two girls, and things had come this close to going down terribly wrong.

Every pair of eyes— even the one with the artificial eye— stared at Quinn. Their eyes were full of shocked curiosity and various other varying emotions.

“. . . Why did you stab the diary with the Basilisk fang, Mr. West? How did you know that the spirit was attached to the diary?”

Quinn shrugged, “I observed, listened, and applied my brain to deduce that the suspicious leather diary laying on the ground of the previously deserted Chamber of Secrets would probably have something to do with spirit spouting maniacal ambitions would be connected.”

He stared directly at Dumbledore as he said those words. Not for a second did he break away from eye contact with the blue eyes.

When Quinn got a call from Ivy about the situation, he had scoured the memory of the day with a fine-toothed comb. He had increased the immersion on the memory book to the max— and could live in the memory as if he was experiencing it firsthand. He noticed all the little things he had not thought about in-depth— the actions he had taken, the magic he had cast, and, more importantly, the words he had spoken.

According to Ivy, the Sorting hat provided them a gist of the situation and his(Quinn) involvement, but the hat hadn’t provided the specifics; at least, not to everyone in the room. . . but the same couldn’t be said about Dumbledore. The hat had been in Dumbledore’s company ever since; who knew how much in detail the hat might have retold the incident.

‘Expect and prepare for the worst,’ Quinn thought. ‘And it’s not like it matters, does it.’

“The Sorting hat tells me that you took away the Basilisk’s fangs and its venom. May I know what you did with them, Mr. West?” asked Dumbledore.

Quinn could feel the eyes on him. Basilisk fang and venom— two priceless commodities that couldn’t be procured by usual means, only available through highly illegal means in exotic black markets, but here he was in possession of invaluable materials.

“It’s ironic,” said Quinn instead of answering the question, “a man produced a feat of magic, created to protect his life at all costs, but then he created a second one, something amazing, fascinating. . . he had created a new life— but that new life somehow threatened his own— I’m not sure if the man knew. . . but I do. . . I have seen it in action after all.”

Quinn turned his eye to the Sword of Gryffindor encased inside a glass showcase, enhancing the aesthetic of the office by displaying the glory of Gryffindor. It was goblin-made metal which had been dipped inside the Basilisk venom and magically took on the properties, henceforth becoming a more valuable asset.

“Ironic isn’t it, Headmaster,” said Quinn.

He had spent seven years walking around on eggshells because Dumbledore had substantial authority over and it didn’t seem wise to be at loggerheads with the person who ran the place where he had to spend seven years of his life. But now, he had graduated, and he was out of Dumbledore’s umbrella, free to do things he couldn’t do before. . . and it felt great to act out so boldly.

Dumbledore showed no reaction. He stared at Quinn in silence while others seemed confused about what Quinn was talking about.

Quinn enjoyed seeing Dumbledore so restrained. It was clear that he hadn’t told anyone about the existence of Horcruxes. He was still trying to keep the cards so close to his chest.

“. . . Everyone, please give Mr. West and me some time alone; it’d be much be appreciated,” said Dumbledore.

Before anyone from Dumbledore’s said could even raise a single word of objection, Quinn spoke up,

“It’s okay; they can stay. I’m not going to say that I’d want to hide.”

“So you wouldn’t be saying things to you want to hide,” Dumbledore sighed before saying. “Nevertheless, I would prefer if we could have a talk privately.”

“I would like for everyone to stay.”

“Mr. West—”

“I insist, Headmaster,” Quinn said flat-out.

If he was asked to choose a side between Voldemort and Dumbledore— not the Light and Dark side, but who he would follow between the two leaders— he would go with Voldemort. From what Quinn perceived, the violent megalomaniac seemed easier to work with than the smiling manipulator. At least with Voldemort, he would know when the man was angry and happy, but with Dumbledore, Quinn wasn’t sure what the man was thinking at any point. That wasn’t to say that Voldemort didn’t use manipulation— the Dark Lord had fooled a society of high-class pureblood supremacists into following him, and one young Tom Riddle was particularly charming and persuasive— but to Quinn, that couldn’t be compared with Dumbledore who had built a reputation in an entire country’s heart’s, which only seemed to grow stronger after every adversary and obstacle.

Quinn looked to the people around the country. Especially to the parents of the Boy-Who-Lived. Lily and James Potter had no idea what Dumbledore was hiding from them. Quinn had tried to put himself in their positions and had imagined what it would feel like if something so big would be hidden from him. . . that imagination didn’t feel pleasant at all.

So he decided. If nothing else, he was going to break Dumbledore’s grasp on information that the Potter family and even those who fought for Dumbledore deserved to know.

“I was shocked when I realized what the Dark Lord had done,” said Quinn spinning a small narrative for himself. “No, shocked wouldn’t be the right word. . . I was repulsed when I found out. To soil the sanctity of something so pure. A dirty stain on the name of magic. It was fortunate that I did what I did, or who knows what would’ve happened. It wasn’t after some years that I realized what I had destroyed that say when I stabbed the diary. I felt elated— I had destroyed the Dark Lord’s twisted safeguard. . . but then”— Quinn stared at Dumbledore with a face without warmth— “after several years, when I had progressed further in my studies of magic. . . I found myself staring at another one of those twisted things, and never in my life I expected it to see in such a form.”

Quinn kept his eye on the Dumbledore, but he could that Dumbledore knew precisely what he was talking about.

“What are you talking about?” asked Lily.

“Dumbledore will tell you afterward,” said Quinn, not looking at her. “If he doesn’t come to me and I will tell you. . . you know what, even if he does tell, come to me, in case he forgets to tell you something. I’ll fill those gaps in.”

“. . . Mr. West, why you’re doing this?”

“Because I want the Dark Lord gone, and unfortunately, you’re the best chance anyone has of doing that,” said Quinn. “And if you keep things as I’m assuming you are, so hidden, it will come back to bite you and everyone in the ass.”

“There’s a reason why I have kept things as they are, Mr. West.”

“Headmaster, believe me when I say that I’m an avid believer of the following: A secret is the strongest when only one person knows about it— but this is not one of those things— this is not something you have the right to keep to yourself.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows crinkled, “You say such things, then why haven’t you told them. After all, it seems you’ve known about it for a considerable amount of time.”

Quinn laughed inside; Dumbledore was cunning. He had flipped the question away from him towards Quinn. And it wasn’t like it was unsightly— Quinn has indeed kept it hidden. . . but Quinn wasn’t born yesterday.

“Tell me, Headmaster. How long would it take you to destroy the entirety of London?” asked Quinn abruptly.

“. . . Pardon?” Dumbledore seemed stumped.

“What kind of question is this, boy!” Moody grunted.

“In 1927, the recently dead Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald unleashed a terrible towards the city of Paris after a rally. . . and according to those present there, the spell held enough power to raze the entire capital city to the ground. . . so my question is to the man who defeated Gellert Grindelwald— How long would it take you to destroy London?”

Dumbledore remained silent, his eyes studying Quinn and his intention.

Quinn turned to Hermione and asked her the same question.

“Err. . . I-I couldn’t,” Hermione fumbled. “He couldn’t?”

“Oh no, he could definitely; there’s no doubt about it,” Quinn shook his head.

He turned to James and yet again asked him the same question. The Auror didn’t fumble like Hermione and actually looked like he thought it through before answering: “A month?”

Gasps sounded across the room. A month. One month to destroy an entire city. A shocking value when put into the context they talked about.

However. . .

“Wrong, that isn’t close to the real value,” he turned to Dumbledore. “Come one, Headmaster. Hazard a guess; there’s no harm in it.”

After some silent deliberation, Dumbledore sighed and gave his answer, “Less than a week.”

It was as if someone had dropped a silencing spell on everyone in the room as all went silent with surprise and shock overflowing on their faces. Even Moody’s both eyes stared at Dumbledore with rare utter shock.

“London is 6.6 percent larger than Paris. Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore stand on the same level of destructive power,” said Quinn with a bitter smile.

But it wasn’t over yet.

“You know the best part?” continued Quinn. “All it would take for him,” he pointed at Dumbledore, “is three meals a day, a good night of sleep after every day of destruction and great health. . . that’s all it would take to bring a great city to the ground.”

Unknowingly, Quinn had started tapping his foot on the floor as he stared at Dumbledore. It wasn’t a face of triumph or even satisfaction. It was a bitter face of unwillingness through and through.

“How am I supposed to oppose that?”

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Quinn West – MC – I love derailing conversations.

FictionOnlyReader – Author – Any tips to increase focus and concentration. And those who are currently working corporate jobs, I want to write more while in the office so I don’t have to stay late in the night, any tips regarding that will be appreciated.

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