Chapter 90. Poor Quirrell
"This little thing is truly venomous..."
Quirrell looked at the little swelling that had quickly risen at the wound and frowned.
But this minor injury was not enough to stop his steps, so Quirrell casually cast a healing spell and continued luring the troll forward.
He had taken barely two steps when a sharp pain shot through his right foot, and, lifting it, he saw a porcupine quill stuck in it.
"Damn..." Quirrell cried out in pain, and, catching sight of the troll drawing near behind him, he hurriedly yanked the quill out and limped onward.
The troll blinked.
It had noticed that when it touched one of those nice-smelling spots, the strange man ahead would scream.
Realising this, the troll suddenly grew excited and quickly searched for the next spot, for it had long wanted to teach that fellow a lesson.
Knowing nothing of this, Quirrell walked on slowly but determinedly, yet gradually he suddenly felt a bit dizzy.
"Was that little bug, or that quill, poisonous?" Quirrell thought to himself.
He set his hand against a nearby tree to steady himself for a moment, but a burning sensation flared in his palm.
He hastily took his hand off the trunk and, by moonlight, saw that his palm was flushed red, as if marked with a blurred pattern.
Quirrell felt that something was off about the forest tonight.
He knit his brows tightly, ignored the pain in his right foot, and quickened his pace.
Just then, the troll's big foot trod upon another fragrant patch, and it looked ahead expectantly.
Hazy white mist suddenly rose in the forest.
Everything around became indistinct, as though he had stepped into a fairyland.
"What on earth is going on?"
A bad premonition grew in Quirrell's heart, and he tightened his grip on his wand, moving forward warily.
Vague shapes seemed to flit through the white fog one after another, and a rumbling of footsteps came from not far away.
Quirrell narrowed his eyes, peering past the shrub in front of him into the distance, and what he saw made him freeze.
Several enormous Erumpents were charging him, heads lowered, horns thrust forward, with an irresistible momentum.
A great tree blocking his way was barely brushed by a horn before it was swiftly melted by searing molten rock and blew apart into fragments that filled the air.
"How can there be Erumpents here?" Quirrell stared in disbelief, brandishing his wand and firing off every kind of spell he could.
He no longer cared about blowing his cover.
With his foot injured, if the Erumpents caught up, he was dead for certain.
After a period of frenzied bombardment, those Erumpents let out cries of pain and crashed to the ground.
Quirrell panted heavily, his eyes a little proud.
Ordinarily, even several wizards had to take great care with a single Erumpent, yet he had, by his own power, taken down quite a few at once.
If word got out, it would surely make wizards' jaws drop and be enough to land him on the front page of The Daily Prophet!
When his breathing had steadied a little, Quirrell hastily turned to look for the troll.
Seeing it still following and not having wandered off, he breathed out in relief.
"You are obedient enough. When the task is done, if you're not dead yet, I'll feed you some extra meat."
Quirrell smiled at the troll, but he failed to read the odd look in the troll's eyes.
As Quirrell turned away, a tremendous force slammed into him from the side, like a speeding train smashing into his body.
Quirrell was flung high into the air, soared for a long stretch, only stopping when he crashed into a tall tree, and then thudded to the ground.
"Oh, my God..."
Clutching the part that had just been hit, Quirrell cried out in pain, feeling as though every bone in his body were about to shatter.
"No, no, someone's definitely trying to harm me. There's something wrong with this forest..."
A thought flashed through Quirrell's mind.
He dared not keep lying there.
He scrambled up, wanting to get out of the forest as fast as he could.
But before he had even gained his footing, a deafening bellow thundered down from the sky, sounding somewhat like a dragon's roar.
"Merlin's beard, am I still not awake? How can there be a dragon near Hogwarts?"
Quirrell's heart gave a shudder.
Praying he had misheard, he raised his head in fear and looked up.
Reality shattered his illusions.
From not far away, a dragon with black scales and lantern-like eyes was flying towards him.
Its outspread wings seemed to blot out the sky, and each beat kicked up a gale.
"I've got to get out, now."
Quirrell no longer cared about the troll behind him.
He ran for the castle at full tilt.
"Where is Dumbledore? Why isn't he making a move? The dragon is almost at the castle—does he not fear the students inside will be hurt?"
Quirrell fled blindly through the fog-shrouded forest, glancing up at the sky from time to time.
The hulking, ferocious dragon pressed ever closer, its blood-red maw yawning wide as gouts of scorching dragonfire spewed forth.
Quirrell flailed, brandishing his wand without pause, using every spell he could think of to fend off the dragon's attacks.
But his enemies in the forest seemed rather numerous tonight.
Magical creatures rarely seen at ordinary times were all appearing.
Nundu, Mountain Tyrant Dragon, Chimaera... they assailed him one after another, and from such tricky angles that he often could not dodge at all.
"How can so many magical creatures suddenly appear?"
After several waves of attacks, Quirrell was on the verge of tears.
He began to shout for his master over and over, calling to the sleeping Lord Voldemort.
He was now battered from head to toe, his head spinning.
He felt that if Lord Voldemort did not wake, he truly might be off to meet Merlin.
After who knew how many earnest calls, Lord Voldemort finally woke from his slumber.
Dissatisfied, he said, "You wake me now—have you got the Philosopher's Stone? Do you not realise I must recover my strength in sleep?"
"Almost, almost..." Quirrell breathed out in relief, saying in quick succession, "But I've run into trouble, Master. I need your help."
"What trouble?" Lord Voldemort asked in a low voice.
Quirrell suddenly rolled across the ground and once again narrowly avoided a leopard that had pounced at him, catching his breath for a moment.
But the Lord Voldemort at the back of his head was not so fortunate, for a slanted-leaning stick whipped him hard across the face, making him see stars.
"Quirrell!" Lord Voldemort roared in fury, and he could not even raise a hand to rub the aching spot.
"Master, did you not see? I was just attacked by a leopard, and look over there—there's a Horned Serpent hiding and flicking its tongue at me. Master, we're surrounded by magical creatures!"
"Magical creatures?"
Lord Voldemort looked round.
In the empty forest, there was only Quirrell capering and rolling about like a madman.
"You fool, where are the magical creatures?"
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