Watching the students laughing and chatting over the weekend, Quirrell felt completely out of place at the school. Those children were young and full of life, while he, though appearing youthful, was decaying inside—his body wasting away like rotting wood.
Even that Squib who cleaned the castle seemed to be in better condition than him.
It was all thanks to his noble master—like a leech clinging to his bones and sucking the marrow dry, draining his life bit by bit. And Quirrell dared not utter a word of complaint.
Lately, he had begun to notice a foul stench coming from his body. He had no choice but to smother it with strong perfumes, though that only made him feel like a slab of spoiled meat marinated in spices.
The smell was all too familiar. In the past, when Voldemort possessed those serpents—the so-called gambling gods—within days, the snakes would start to emit this same stench. A few days later, they would die, and Voldemort would simply move on to another body.
He was a demon, feeding his soul on the lives of others. And now, the next sacrifice was Quirrell himself.
Unless he could find a unicorn and drink its blood.
Though doing so would curse him for eternity, between dying and being cursed, Quirrell would rather take the curse.
But... damn it, where had all the unicorns gone? Ever since that first encounter—when he lost track of one—he hadn't seen a single one since. It was as if the whole herd had abandoned their usual territory and vanished.
Wasn't this just a death sentence?
Quirrell thought bitterly and slapped his forehead in frustration. His condition was deteriorating—not just his body, but his mind as well. His memory and reasoning had begun to fail. He'd wanted to perform well in Defense Against the Dark Arts, yet every time he stepped into the classroom, his mind went completely blank.
The knowledge he'd once memorized and the spells he'd practiced had all faded away. He couldn't recall them, much less teach them to his students.
Because of this, his standing at Hogwarts had plummeted. He had become the school's laughingstock.
Still, there was one small advantage—everyone thought he was just a simple, dim-witted man. And a simple, dim-witted man wasn't capable of evil deeds.
But Quirrell found no comfort in that. His instincts told him his condition was far worse than he wanted to admit—he could die at any moment.
"Find the Philosopher's Stone, and you might not die."
Voldemort's cold voice suddenly echoed in his mind, making Quirrell flinch.
"M-Master... you're awake," he stammered, forcing the words out through his fear.
"Yes. I woke up only to hear your endless whining," Voldemort hissed, his tone cruel. "The noise in your head is unbearable. Instead of complaining, perhaps you should be using that time to find out what obstacles the other professors have set."
At that point, neither Voldemort nor Quirrell had gone to the third-floor corridor to see what dangers awaited there. Their only information came from Dumbledore's warning: "If you wish to avoid misfortune, do not go there," along with his instruction for each professor to create dangerous barriers to guard something.
Clearly, the Philosopher's Stone was hidden in that corridor. Yet Quirrell dared not make a move—one mistake could cost him his life.
He never imagined that the so-called "barriers" Dumbledore arranged to protect that "something" would turn out to be such bizarre and childish contraptions.
He had assumed the other professors would go all out, using every ounce of skill to create formidable defenses around the Stone.
That was why gathering information on the obstacles beforehand was essential.
But Dumbledore had already told him that the professors knew nothing of each other's enchantments. That left him frustrated, forcing him to probe cautiously and indirectly, terrified of drawing suspicion.
And despite his caution, suspicion had already begun to fall upon him.
"Sorry, Master. I tried my best, but those professors are tight-lipped. I couldn't find anything, and now Snape suspects me." Quirrell said, voice on the verge of tears.
"Snape..." Voldemort fell silent for a moment. "He really is a very sharp man."
"Master, let's just get rid of him—then things will be easier for me," Quirrell murmured, thinking up a dark solution.
"Don't entertain such thoughts." Voldemort's tone was cold. "If you can't find anything out, don't pry. Create a diversion and go see for yourself."
"But... but Master, the three-headed dog guarding the first obstacle... I'm worried..." Quirrell said, fear in his voice.
He imagined the beast tearing him limb from limb.
"With me here, what do you have to fear? Your job is to make sure whatever chaos you start can hold off all the professors, and that no students notice or interfere." Voldemort said.
"But Master, how am I supposed to do that?" Quirrell asked.
...
Voldemort's voice hiccupped inwardly. Possessing Quirrell really hadn't made him smarter — was this supposed Ravenclaw truly this useless?
"Can't you use your head? Didn't you arrange a troll for the obstacles and never put it in? Use it!" Voldemort snarled, furious enough to want to tear his ineffective servant apart.
"S-sorry, Master, please calm down." Quirrell's forehead beaded with cold sweat, but he still asked hesitantly, "How can I keep the students from noticing? They're always running about the castle."
"Then wait for the right moment! You brainless fool—don't you pick times when students are forced to gather together for the professors to manage them?" Voldemort's roar made Quirrell's temples throb.
"I understand, Master." Quirrell felt like his brain was too slow, but as Voldemort laid the plan out piece by piece, he finally grasped it and nodded eagerly.
The opportunity wasn't far off. Quirrell remembered that Halloween was coming—Hogwarts' long-standing tradition was a feast held on Halloween night.
All the students, professors, and staff would attend.
That would be his chance.