There was Cedric in third year, and now there was Wayne in first year.
Professor Sprout seemed to foresee that a new era belonging to Hufflepuff was about to arrive.
Since she had received a gift, she naturally had to show some appreciation. Both Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick smiled and told Wayne that if he encountered any problems during his studies, he was welcome to come to them anytime.
"Mr. Lawrence..."
Dumbledore, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke up, letting out a disappointed sigh:
"You wouldn't forget about this old man, would you...?"
Wayne was taken aback. "Professor, don't you already have Fawkes? Do you still need these materials?"
"Of course I do," Dumbledore said softly. "Every phoenix has its own magic. But yours… it feels ancient. Older than the rest."
Lately, Ho-Oh had been frequently visiting old Dumbledore's office, mooching food and drink along with Fawkes. Even Snape had noticed the unusual behavior—how could Dumbledore not?
Unfortunately, Dumbledore was not an expert in magical creatures. From a magical perspective, he could sense Ho-Oh's power and uniqueness, but he couldn't gather much useful information.
But that was fine. He had already written to an old friend, asking that expert for some advice.
Now that even the headmaster was shamelessly hinting for gifts, Wayne couldn't very well refuse.
He pulled out another phoenix feather and handed it to Dumbledore.
The old man gently rubbed it between his fingers, feeling the warmth in his hand, then smiled and tucked it away. He planned to mail it to his old friend shortly.
Sensing another gaze on him, Wayne turned around, the corner of his lips curling into a mischievous smile.
"What is it, Professor Quirrell? You want some materials too?"
Quirrell quickly waved his hands in panic. "N-No, it's not that. I-I was just curious..."
"C-Could I see your phoenix?"
"Of course..." Wayne said under Quirrell's hopeful gaze, then made a sudden turn.
"No."
"Professor, if you teach us some actually useful spells in your next class, I'll summon Ho-Oh for you. How's that sound?"
Apart from a slight frown from Professor McGonagall, none of the other teachers reacted to Wayne's bold teasing of a professor.
Quirrell had truly performed terribly. All the first-years had serious complaints about him—no one else could be blamed.
Even among the staff, Quirrell was disliked. He constantly reeked of an unpleasant odor that made people avoid him.
Faced with Wayne's demand, Quirrell only stammered and promised to "try," without giving a firm answer.
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly. No one could see his expression through the reflection in his glasses.
Fourth Floor – Inside Quirrell's Office
After breakfast, since he had no classes that morning, Quirrell returned directly to his office.
Along the way, very few students greeted him. Most only cast looks of disdain and disgust.
As always, Quirrell kept his head down, never responding to any of it.
Once inside, he shut the door and locked it.
Then he took out his wand and cast several trap and alarm spells before stepping up to a full-length mirror.
He removed the turban that every student was so curious about.
A face appeared on the back of his head.
What a face it was.
Ashen, twisted, constantly contorted in an expression of pain.
Just looking at it would make a small child cry in fright.
This was the tail—err, the soul fragment—sealed inside the host. In other words, Lord Voldemort.
If Wayne had been here, he would definitely have sighed.
"Hideous, yes—but at least he had a nose. Just look at what he becomes later on."
"Master..."
Quirrell knelt reverently on the floor, making sure Voldemort's face could catch some sunlight.
"You fool. You can't even handle a first-year student. Why did I ever choose a worthless failure like you?"
Voldemort's voice was weak and fragmented, but still sharp enough to make Quirrell tremble in fear.
"Ma-Master, I... I had no choice. If I showed too much interest, Dumbledore might have noticed something was off."
Voldemort sneered, "You think Dumbledore doesn't already know you're mine?"
Quirrell's face went pale. "What? Then why hasn't he...?"
"Exposed you? Expelled you?" Voldemort interrupted, his voice dripping with malice.
"I know Dumbledore knows about my existence."
"Dumbledore knows I know he knows."
"And I know..."
"This is a delicate balance—a game between him and me. But Dumbledore would never have imagined that a wandering soul like me would dare to set foot in Hogwarts in person."
"In his mind, you're probably just a pitiful puppet bewitched by me!"
Professor Quirrell stopped trembling. He flattered, "No, Master. I've turned from darkness to true light. It's only after following you that I've come to see how hypocritical Dumbledore truly is."
"Then prove your worth! I have no use for useless trash," Voldemort snapped.
"I need phoenix tears—especially from Lawrence's phoenix!"
Voldemort was all too aware of how feeble his current form was. Only through rare methods and dark rituals could he recover even a fraction of his former power.
And the tears—or even the blood—of a phoenix were among the most coveted sources of such power.
That damn first-year brat humiliated his servant daily, and some of the things he said were so infuriating that even Voldemort couldn't bear it.
Calling him a fake professor?
He was concealing his strength, damn it!
"Master, I'll do my best," Quirrell quickly pledged. "I'll get you the phoenix tears and help you recover your strength."
At this point, he hesitated for a moment. "Master, wasn't Snape once your follower too? Why don't you let me seek his help?"
"Snape?" Voldemort's voice dropped to a chilling murmur.
"He is indeed far more competent than you, far more intelligent."
Quirrell lowered his head in shame and self-loathing—though deep down, he felt a pang of resentment.
Voldemort continued coldly, "But precisely because he is so competent and cunning, I cannot appear before him in my current state."
"It's been ten years… I'm no longer the Dark Lord I once was. Would an ambitious Slytherin like him still recognize me as his master?"
"If he dares betray you…" A flicker of cold hatred flashed in Quirrell's eyes. "Then I'll kill him!"
"Sacrificing your life is meaningless if, in the process, you expose my existence. If that happens, even ten thousand deaths wouldn't be enough!" Voldemort hissed.
"You have one week. If you can't take care of that little wizard by then, you know the consequences."
With that, Voldemort closed his eyes and drifted into rest.
His reserves of strength were too limited—every word he spoke drained his life force.
Quirrell gently rewrapped the turban around his head, his eyes gleaming with murderous intent.
Wayne Lawrence…
"Wayne, stop picking on Professor Quirrell," Hermione whispered during History of Magic class.
"He's still our teacher, after all…"
Wayne yawned and replied indifferently, "Then tell me, Miss Granger, what have you learned from this teacher?"
Hermione fumbled for a moment, then finally came up with a weak answer:
"Stay away from vampires?"
"Heh, you really know how to make me laugh." Wayne smirked. "You'd learn more about how to deal with vampires from me—and I won't even charge tuition. Just give me a thirty-minute massage."
"You're impossible," the young witch swatted him lightly, choosing not to pursue the subject of Professor Quirrell.
Truthfully, she didn't like the useless Quirrell either. She only spoke out of the principle that students should respect their teachers.
Privately, Hermione had already written several complaint letters to Dumbledore.
Some were about Quirrell, others about Professor Binns, and even one about Astronomy class interfering with students' sleep schedules.
But Dumbledore only replied once—to tell her it was perfectly acceptable to sneak in a nap during Astronomy, since it wasn't particularly useful anyway.
The response had left the little witch fuming.
At the front of the class, Professor Binns continued his soporific spell.
Today's topic was about how wizards in Ancient Greece aided various city-states in their battles against Persia—events that should've been epic and stirring, but under his narration, became dry and painfully dull.
Wayne's eyes were deep with thought, analyzing Quirrell's recent behavior.
It seemed he had ulterior motives regarding Ho-Oh.
Was it Voldemort's will behind this…?
~~----------------------
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