Lord Voldemort wanted the Philosopher’s Stone.
The Stone still sat inside a vault at Gringotts.
The bank liked to call itself the safest in the world.
Nothing placed inside had ever been lost.
That was the official story.
Every wall could be broken if you started from the right side.
The problem was simple.
Quirrell first had to learn which vault held the Stone.
Black-market information had cost him a small fortune.
Nicolas Flamel had caught the scent early.
The old alchemist had simply handed the Stone to his oldest friend for safekeeping.
Albus Dumbledore’s personal vault now held it.
Vault locations were Gringotts’ deepest secret.
Only the owner and the goblins knew.
Outsiders never got close.
Finding one specific vault among the endless underground corridors would have required luck Quirrell had never possessed.
If he had owned that kind of luck he would never have ended up as a living host in the first place.
So he had spent most of what remained of his savings on a single living tool banned from open sale.
He dragged an old leather suitcase out of the pile of luggage.
The leather was cracked and peeling.
The interior had been expanded with an Undetectable Extension Charm—standard black-market packing for both goods and creatures.
He opened the lid and gave two short, sharp whistles.
The suitcase shuddered.
A snow-white shape shoved its way out of the ragged opening.
It was a marten, large for its kind, fur pure white and almost too fine.
It turned its head, nose twitching, surveying the room with bright, intelligent eyes.
At first glance the creature looked exquisite.
Quirrell knew exactly what he had bought.
He had never felt a single kind impulse toward the thing.
“Fuck me, what kind of shit-hole is this?” the marten said.
The voice that came out of that delicate mouth could have stripped paint.
“Do only broke bastards live here?”
The muscles in Quirrell’s cheek jumped.
He forced himself to remember the price.
Several years of carefully saved wages from teaching Muggle Studies.
He could not afford to kill it.
Later, when the time came to slip into Gringotts, he would still need the foul-mouthed little bastard.
Even if his fingers itched to crush its throat, the presence on the back of his neck would never allow it.
The creature was a Murtlap—native to Britain, Ireland, and parts of North America.
It spoke human language, could read simple writing, and after training answered direct questions.
Its only real flaw was that basic decency had been left out of its making.
It lived to insult whatever stood in front of it.
The Ministry rated its danger low—three crosses—but its ability to tunnel through earth made the rating a joke.
Most defensive magic might as well have been open air.
That was why the Ministry had banned open sales.
Quirrell had paid more than a thousand Galleons for this one.
Nearly every Knut he had managed to put aside during his years at Hogwarts had gone into that filthy mouth.
“Tonight you work,” he said, gripping the loose skin at the back of the Murtlap’s neck.
“You go into Gringotts.
You find the vault number that belongs to Albus Dumbledore.”
“All right, all right—let go of your fucking dog paws, you son of a bitch!” The Murtlap twisted and snapped.
Black-market Murtlaps came trained.
They understood orders and they carried them out.
The only problem was the constant stream of abuse.
Quirrell still could not understand why the dealers had never simply broken that particular habit.
He tried to force the creature back into the suitcase.
The Murtlap went wild, legs kicking, voice rising.
“It’s recess, you piece of shit that needs a beating!
Let me out!”
Quirrell’s fingers tightened.
For a second he genuinely considered ending the problem permanently.
Then the mission and the price came back.
His grip loosened.
He had no real choice.
The seller had been clear: a Murtlap could not stay sealed inside an expanded suitcase indefinitely.
Every few days it needed real earth under its feet or the tunneling gift simply withered.
In the past Quirrell had tried following it when he let it out.
The creature always knew the suitcase was home.
It was quick, clever, and faster than he expected.
It always slipped back inside a step ahead of him.
After a while he had stopped bothering.
When the time came he simply opened the lid and let it run.
This time was different.
Diagon Alley was crowded with every kind of trouble.
If the Murtlap vanished for good, the loss would be permanent.
The white shape in his hand glared up at him with pure murder in its eyes, the expression of a creature ready to die rather than stay locked away.
Quirrell opened his fingers.
The Murtlap hit the floor and vanished into a crack between the boards so fast that not a single white hair remained.
“Be back early,” Quirrell said to the empty floor.