A small, childish fist pounded relentlessly against Quirrell's face and head. The young wizard lacked strength, and the blows caused little physical damage, but each contact sent unbearable, searing pain through Quirrell, forcing anguished wails from his lips.
Every bone in his body felt like red-hot iron, his blood like molten lava. His vision blurred as the pain drove him to resist instinctively. He thrashed violently, trying to shove the boy off, but every touch only intensified the agony coursing through him.
"Master… Master…" Quirrell's screams were shrill, his body marked with burns, red light glowing from the cracks in his splintered skin.
"Please… great Dark Lord…"
His pleas went unanswered.
The Dark Lord, residing within him, was also howling in torment.
The boy's fists, hammering at Quirrell's head, grew weaker as his stamina faded. Eventually, he could no longer swing, but his hands pressed firmly against Quirrell's face. The constant contact was even worse, as if it ignited his very soul. Quirrell felt his body teetering on the edge of collapse.
As his body neared destruction, his consciousness dimmed, and the pain began to ebb.
With the last of his strength, Quirrell reached out, trembling, trying to grasp the headscarf he imagined still hung before him.
He found nothing.
In his haze, he remembered he'd long since removed it, allowing the Dark Lord to see the world.
"Why… why doesn't the Dark Lord help me?"
An invisible, intangible fire enveloped his body, consuming his soul and magic like kindling. His awareness of his body faded, and the pain dulled. Quirrell's pupils dilated, and just before he lost consciousness, he vaguely saw a dark, ashen mist rise from behind his head.
It was the Dark Lord's wraith, the one who'd dragged him into this abyss of suffering and now abandoned him without mercy.
Quirrell felt weightless, as if he'd never been drained by the wraith, never had his flesh eroded by death. For a moment, he was a healthy, whole wizard again.
When had he chosen to forsake the good things he once had…?
…
"Dear Mr. Quirrell, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of required books and supplies. The term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than March 31!"
…
"Quirinius Quir rell, Ravenclaw!"
"Another Muggle-born bookworm. How dull…"
…
"Mr. Quirrell, your grades are excellent, but you don't quite meet the Ministry's requirements. If you're interested in other departments, feel free to apply."
"Mr. Quirrell, I'm sorry, but we only hire pure-blood wizards. However, we need a clerk stationed in Africa for procurement. Are you interested?"
…
"Quirinius, welcome back to Hogwarts. I'm confident you'll be an excellent professor and bring the best Muggle Studies lessons to our students."
…
"Professor Quirrell, haha! Look at that ridiculous man—stuttering in class as a grown wizard. He's fit to be a professor?!"
"My dad says his grades were decent, but he's too weak and spineless. No one would hire him. Dumbledore only took him on out of pity."
…
Hic "The Firewhisky at the Hog's Head is the best. Have you heard? That legendary Dark Lord isn't dead. He's been hiding in the forests of Albania, waiting for Dumbledore to die so he can make his comeback."
"Are you pickled from bad booze? Spouting nonsense like that? The… the Dark Lord's return—what good would that do?"
"I say, what's wrong with it? These days, half-bloods and Mudbloods are walking all over us. That one… he's for pure-bloods."
"Didn't enough pure-bloods die in the last Wizarding War? You idiot…"
…
"Quirinius Quirrell, you're the first to find me. Lady Luck has guided you."
"Young fool, you're still naive. I can forgive your absurd notions of good and evil. The world has no right or wrong—only power, and the powerless who can't seize it. Swear loyalty to me, and I'll grant you strength beyond your dreams. Those who scorned you will pay, and I'll give you endless wealth, power, status…"
"Useless! Worthless! Why couldn't you retrieve the Philosopher's Stone?! What can I possibly rely on you for?!"
"Of course I'll forgive you. Give me your body, and I'll show you how it's done… a small price to pay. Once we have the Stone, I'll grant you a healthy body, immense power, even a long life."
…
Memories flooded Quirrell's mind as he lay powerless on the cold floor. His blurred vision softened with unshed tears—his body had no moisture left to cry.
He faintly heard the sound of his bones and flesh crumbling, turning to ash. Quirrell twitched, recalling the body he'd destroyed earlier, now mirroring his own fate. He wanted to reach out, to hold onto those fading embers, but he could do nothing.
The ashes scattered completely.
Hiss…
The dark, ashen wraith, like rolling smoke, took the form of a twisted, serpentine face, translucent and ethereal. Ignoring the disintegrated Quirrell and the unconscious Harry, it whipped up a chilling gust and surged toward the exit.
Before leaving Hogwarts, Melvin had been a theoretical scholar, spending long hours in Ilvermorny's library poring over centuries of magical theory. When stumped, he'd consult professors. After receiving the gift of a Horned Serpent, he began pondering how to rapidly boost his magic, but it was always ordinary research. He'd never witnessed true, cutting-edge magic firsthand.
Now, Melvin stared intently at the malevolent wraith stirring a tempest, his eyes wide—not with fear, but excitement. Was this the most powerful dark wizard in history?
"Fiendfyre…"
Orange-red flames roared, instantly illuminating the dim room. Moths and bats scattered, instinctively fleeing the area, but the flames, terrifying to living creatures, didn't slow the wraith for even a moment.
Expecto Patronum!
Silvery mist surged, and a pained wail echoed from the dark smoke, yet it still couldn't hold the wraith back.
Dumbledore, watching the scene, remained impassive, lost in thought. Melvin, too, was pondering. What state was Voldemort in? No tangible form, yet unlike any ghost.
A wraith, neither living nor dead…
"Professor!" Hermione, supporting an unconscious Harry, glared up at them, her small face indignant. "What are you just standing there for?!"
Dumbledore snapped out of it, his old face slightly embarrassed. He coughed. "Coming."
…
Hospital Wing
Madam Pomfrey left the ward to prepare potions.
Ron, who'd taken a blow to the head, woke up that afternoon. Harry's injuries were lighter—just minor scrapes on his fists—but his mind was another matter. Madam Pomfrey said he'd endured too much stimulation and needed to sleep for a few days.
Hermione, after a thorough check, was diagnosed with shock and stress. She was prescribed half a bottle of Cheering Potion and ordered to rest.
Now, she lay in a hospital bed, tucked tightly under blankets, barely able to move. Two pillows propped up her head, letting her just see Dumbledore and Melvin by the bedside. Her eyes darted between them, scrutinizing.
Professor Wright's two hints, Dumbledore's deliberate inaction—the whole thing felt wrong, like it was orchestrated.
It was almost certainly orchestrated!
Melvin glanced at her.
Hermione instinctively looked away, then caught herself and stared back defiantly.
Learning Harry and Ron were okay had eased her mind, so she'd started probing for the truth. But after a few questions, Professor Wright had handed her off to Madam Pomfrey, who promptly confined her to bed.
He'd tucked the blankets this tightly on purpose.
"No visitors in the ward! Don't disturb the patients!" Madam Pomfrey, kind-hearted but fearless, didn't even give the headmaster face.
Dumbledore coughed lightly and left with Professor Wright, their voices fading as they walked away:
"Quirrell was a gifted but sensitive boy. At school, his shyness and sensitivity made him a target for mockery. Perhaps feeling weak, he was desperate to prove himself, to make the world take notice. At some point, he grew fascinated with dark magic…
"Part curiosity, part craving for recognition, Quirrell began exploring what it took to become a dark wizard. His mind was warped by dark magic, and he believed he could track down Voldemort, even learn advanced techniques from him to never be a laughingstock again.
"His ideas were naive and arrogant, thinking he could handle meeting Voldemort. Though Voldemort is weak now, he easily dominated this lost wizard, and Quirrell had no strength to resist…"
Hermione strained to hear more, but the blankets held her like a Binding Charm. Struggling was futile, and the voices of Dumbledore and Wright faded completely.
Madam Pomfrey returned with a tray of potions, administering three to Harry, two to Ron, and one to herself.
Hermione, curled numbly in bed, wrapped in soft, warm blankets, stared blankly ahead.
Gulp…
Madam Pomfrey's healing magic and theoretical knowledge were impeccable, but her bedside manner needed work. Hermione nearly choked on the liquid potion.
…
Dumbledore's recollections were largely useless.
Melvin had no interest in Quirrell's past but was intrigued by Horcruxes. Based on his knowledge, Quirrell's existence was a research goldmine.
As a living wizard, Quirrell's body had housed two souls, with Voldemort able to control it and drain its life force. Could it be inferred that Quirrell's body was a vessel for a soul—essentially a temporary Horcrux for Voldemort?
"A living Horcrux…"
Unfortunately, Dumbledore preferred to discuss the Philosopher's Stone over Horcruxes, leaving Melvin's questions unanswered.
When the professors learned what happened in the fourth-floor restricted area, they flooded Dumbledore's office. McGonagall, worried for her students, demanded answers. Snape, concerned for Harry's safety, also held Dumbledore accountable.
Flitwick and Sprout were simply curious, tagging along for the gossip.
Melvin, having been involved, wanted no part in the commotion. He'd gathered plenty of valuable memory footage, enough to complete his film. Only some editing and post-production remained.
If he hurried, it could premiere by Easter.
…
Hogwarts held significant sway in Britain. A core-subject professor's death barely made a ripple outside the school. That week's Daily Prophet front page was about Romania, and the Board of Governors stayed quiet.
Dumbledore's influence was undeniable.
Within the school, the mood was lighter. News of the underground chambers spread quickly, mostly through the ghosts, who emphasized the trio's bravery and wit in navigating the challenges. Details about the final room, however, were vague.
Once Ron was discharged, he took over storytelling.
The first day's tale matched the ghosts' version: the trio solved the professors' obstacles, never encountering Quirrell. The clever Weasley fell to the white queen's chess piece.
By the second day, the story shifted focus to McGonagall's chessboard challenge. Ron vividly described the perilous match, his clever strategy, and his heroic sacrifice, falling bravely to the chess pieces' onslaught.
By the third day, the tale transformed. McGonagall's chessboard was secretly controlled by the dark wizard Quirrell, its moves shifting unpredictably, nearly impossible to solve. Weasley stayed behind to hold the line, battling Quirrell for half an hour, gravely wounding him. Though defeated, his efforts bought Harry time, laying the foundation for victory. The wise, brave, and mighty Weasley, though fallen, was honored.
The young wizards knew Ron was exaggerating but listened eagerly. The "Gryffindor Trio" became the talk of the school, their exploits discussed over breakfast in the Great Hall.
Flitwick and Sprout joined in, debating the challenges. They felt the Devil's Snare and flying keys were suitable for first-years, but the other professors' obstacles were too tough, leading to the students' injuries.
"Melvin, you all made it too complicated," Flitwick said with a chuckle. "Oh, Dumbledore asked me to tell you the house-elves are too scared to clean your room. You'll need to handle it yourself."
Snape, Sprout, and the others smirked gleefully.
Melvin sipped his milk, pausing thoughtfully. "Harry and the others protected the Philosopher's Stone. How many points do you think Gryffindor should get?"
Flitwick and Sprout's smiles froze.
After Gryffindor and Slytherin's brawl had zeroed their house points, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had hoped for the House Cup. Now, those hopes were dashed.
Snape's face darkened.
Only McGonagall looked pleased.
"With four months left in the term and the Defense Against the Dark Arts post vacant, who'll cover the classes?"
Now even McGonagall's smile faded.
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