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HRA# Chapter 66: Voldemort’s Thoughts and Quirrell’s Change
🕑 Added 2025-03-13 22:40:13 +0000 UTCThe only thing people could hear was Ron’s endless rambling, though the specifics were lost in a jumble of words. Something about the Chudley Cannons being invincible, their long and glorious history, and their twenty-one championship titles.
But truth be told, the more Ron spoke of the Chudley Cannons’ golden years, the louder the laughter from fans of other teams grew. In contrast, Ron himself seemed to lose confidence with every word. By the end, he looked utterly dejected, his face clouded with gloom, and his words became completely unintelligible.
That’s just how competitive sports are—winning is winning, and losing is losing. People only remember the champions, never the runners-up. Unless, of course, someone is exceptionally skilled but always falls short due to unforeseen circumstances, securing second place time and again.
All that talk about “friendship first, competition second” was a farce. Once on the field, every player wanted nothing but victory. No one wanted to lose. A team’s strength was measured by its results, and no matter how much fans tried to make excuses, without achievements, it was all meaningless.
As for the Chudley Cannons, a team that had lost even its fighting spirit—there was nothing more to say.
The surrounding discussions grew increasingly lively, with various voices shouting suggestions on where Harry should go. Watching the excitement, Harry simply grinned.
If, at first, he had joined the Quidditch team merely as part of Professor McGonagall’s mission, now he had genuinely come to enjoy the sport. He relished the thrill of soaring through the sky, the fierce competition—it made him feel alive. The peaceful life of a wizard, without such excitement, would have left his bones itching for action.
That was just how people were. Back in Azeroth, Harry had often wondered why there was always some crisis threatening his home. Why was war never-ending? Why was the peace between the Horde and the Alliance always so fragile?—Yet now, having returned to a truly peaceful environment, he found it… a little too dull. Not thrilling enough.
Harry was seriously considering joining a professional Quidditch club. After all, compared to school players, those who played professionally were far more skilled, faster, and more competitive.
More speed. More intensity. More professionalism.
And if the people around him were right, there were precedents for this… Besides, it could even expand his influence in the wizarding world, laying the groundwork for the future establishment of the Earthen Ring.
In the magical world, fame could genuinely translate into power and status. Some retired Quidditch stars even secured positions in the Ministry of Magic, and the most famous ones could even run for Minister.
Harry felt that someday, he might need that influence and leadership. There was nothing shameful about it.
After all, heroes were meant to stand at the forefront—to lead and protect the ordinary people. Harry had already learned this lesson in Azeroth.
“Harry? You’re not seriously thinking about joining a Quidditch club, are you?” Hermione finally managed to push through the crowd and asked seriously.
“I am considering it. I find Quidditch quite fun,” Harry admitted after some thought.
His answer only fueled the frenzy around him, as people began desperately advertising their favorite teams.
“Harry! We just won Gryffindor a whole three hundred and forty points today!” someone called, and moments later, Fred and George Weasley burst into the crowd, each grabbing one of Harry’s shoulders, laughing heartily. “We’re leading Slytherin by two hundred and seventy points! Cheers! Cheers! Let’s have a toast first!”
The reason Quidditch was so beloved at Hogwarts was that a team’s match points were directly added to the House Cup standings, making every match intensely personal.
Today’s game had ended with Gryffindor winning three hundred and forty points to Slytherin’s seventy. This meant Gryffindor had gained a massive advantage, and for once, the students wouldn’t feel so anxious about losing points.
“That’s right, Harry!” George added excitedly. “You’ll never believe what Fred and I saw when we were bringing back the Butterbeer—McGonagall was talking to Snape, ha ha ha!”
“Yes! And they were discussing the Quidditch match,” Fred added, laughing. “Merlin, you should have seen the look on the old bat’s face! He was absolutely furious. I swear, Flint is in for a tough time after this!”
Even professors compared their respective Houses, whether it was for the House Cup or the Quidditch Cup. New students from the Muggle world often found it hard to grasp just how passionate wizards were about Quidditch.
Just as before, when Gryffindor kept failing to win either the House Cup or the Quidditch Cup, McGonagall would go out of her way to avoid conversations with Snape about it.
The twins’ news only intensified the festive atmosphere in the common room. For every Gryffindor student, there was only one thing better than their House winning a Quidditch match—seeing Snape suffer because of it.
Just imagining their Head of House rubbing his victory in Snape’s face was enough to send waves of joy through the crowd.
As for Harry… he took a sip of Butterbeer, feeling slightly exasperated—he had warned Snape, but the man just refused to change.
The twins, meanwhile, were determined to get Harry drunk, making up all sorts of excuses to keep pouring him drinks. Fred even brought up Ron’s boasts about their adventures in Newt Scamander’s trunk, accusing Harry of being a bad friend for not inviting them along.
Honestly, there wasn’t enough alcohol here to actually get Harry drunk—it would just make him too full to move.
But hey, it was a celebration, and Harry wasn’t about to turn down a drink.
Butterbeer might be a low-alcohol beverage, but no matter how low the alcohol content, if you drank enough, you’d still get drunk.
By the time the sky had completely darkened and curfew approached, most of the Gryffindors were either passed out or had been helped back to their dorms. The once-lively common room finally settled into peaceful silence.
Who knew what the atmosphere was like in the Slytherin common room, but at least Gryffindor was in high spirits. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were probably just as pleased.
Even days after the first Quidditch match, Harry continued to be surrounded wherever he went—after all, while Quidditch was a yearly event at Hogwarts, a match where one side was nearly wiped out was a rarity.
As Wood put it, this game could go down in Hogwarts’ Quidditch history.
However, what surprised the students even more than Harry’s performance was Professor Quirrell—who, starting in November, had finally started acting like a proper Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.
No, to be precise—he finally started acting like a competent teacher.
Quirrell had put aside The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection and no longer just read from the textbook. He began incorporating additional materials and, more importantly, introduced practical lessons.
It was this final change that truly won over the students, making them forget all their previous grievances against him.
The news spread like wildfire throughout the castle the moment the upper-year students left his first revised lesson. Within two days, everyone knew that Professor Quirrell had overcome the trauma of his encounter with Romanian vampires. Though he still reeked of garlic, he was undeniably improved.
Even first-year students like Harry found his lessons far more engaging. Using the troll that had invaded the castle on Halloween as an example, Quirrell explained its weaknesses and stupidity, and even instructed the class on what to do if they encountered a real troll.
Trolls were remarkably dim-witted, easily distracted by noise—even something as simple as a thrown rock. Their true weakness was their small heads, the most vulnerable part of their bodies.
“Now, I shall teach you a new spell—the Eye Jinx,” Quirrell announced with a smile.
His voice, so different from his usual timid stutter, carried an undeniable charm—at least while he was in class.
Yet once lessons ended, Quirrell reverted to his old self, trembling and hunched over. Many students pitied him, assuming he was forcing himself to teach despite his suffering.
But to Harry, Quirrell’s pallor told a different story—he was growing weaker, inching ever closer to death.
"I must admit, this spell is quite challenging for most of you. You may not be able to truly master it until your second or even third year," Quirrell said softly, his gaze never leaving Harry, who was seated toward the back of the classroom. "But we all know that some individuals are different. They can surpass the expectations of their year and grasp spells beyond their peers' reach."
This wasn't just a subtle hint anymore—it was an outright declaration. As Quirrell spoke, the students in the classroom all turned their heads, directing their gazes at Harry.
Unlike the curious students, Ron and his two companions were on the verge of sheer panic under Quirrell's scrutiny.
After all, unlike the clueless students around them, they knew the professor's true identity—Voldemort’s servant.
"What do we do, Harry?!" Hermione whispered urgently, lowering her head. She even instinctively grabbed Harry’s arm, her palms slick with sweat from nerves.
It wasn't just Hermione. Even Neville was in a similar state. To them, every move Quirrell made was suspicious and dangerous, and now that he had openly singled out Harry—there had to be some kind of sinister scheme at play! Harry was in danger!
"Harry?" Quirrell called gently. "We all know you defeated the troll that broke into the castle on Halloween. Would you mind coming to the front to give us a demonstration? I can act as your opponent."
Perhaps it was to satisfy the students' curiosity and put an end to the rumors, but the events of that Halloween night had inevitably spread. However, the story had been altered—there was no mention of the four intruders, only that Harry had defeated two trolls and saved his friends from them.
"Apologies, Professor," Harry said, patting Hermione’s hand in reassurance before speaking up. "If I recall correctly, the Blinding Hex is a curse that damages the target’s vision. It falls under the category of Dark Curses—I believe it’s a bit too advanced for first-year students and quite dangerous as well."
"…What a pity." Quirrell stared at Harry for a few seconds before shaking his head.
For the rest of the lesson, he didn’t bring up the demonstration again. In fact, he didn’t mention the Blinding Hex at all, moving on to other topics instead.
As soon as the dismissal bell rang, Hermione, Ron, and Neville practically bolted from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom at top speed. Harry followed closely behind, but just before he left, he glanced back—
And saw Quirrell staring right at him.
No. That wasn’t Quirrell.
The professor watched them disappear from sight. Only when the room was empty did he lower his head.
"Master…"
Gone was the composed and easy demeanor he had shown in class. His voice trembled with an unmistakable weakness.
"Silence, my servant," Voldemort’s voice suddenly rang out from the back of Quirrell’s head, sounding even weaker than the professor himself. "Follow my command… Find an opportunity… Do not let anyone notice… Go to the eighth floor… There is a hidden room there…"
Voldemort’s voice grew fainter and fainter, forcing Quirrell to hold his breath just to hear clearly.
There were things Voldemort would never reveal to Quirrell—that at this moment, he was at his weakest since his failed attempt to kill Harry Potter eleven years ago. Weaker even than when he had barely clung to existence in the forests of Albania, reduced to possessing mere rats to survive.
The horrifying truth was that the boy from the Potter family truly wielded a mature form of soul magic. That enormous, translucent wolf! Its claws had not only torn apart the body Voldemort had possessed at the time—but had also shredded his already fractured soul.
The pain, the weakness, the utter helplessness—it all filled Voldemort with fury and hatred. When the wolf’s claws struck down, he had once again felt the call of the Veil—the second time he had been so close to death.
But his Horcruxes still held his soul tethered. Despite the agony, he had survived.
The experience of lingering on the precipice between life and death replayed endlessly in Voldemort’s mind. It made him truly realize his own fragility, the instability of his current state—
The wounds inflicted by that spectral wolf remained. The pain still tormented him.
Driven by this unbearable agony, Voldemort knew he had to recover a fragment of his severed soul—at least enough to mend the wound and make the pain disappear.
Otherwise, he would continue to weaken, growing ever more feeble, never able to truly return.
Fortunately, one of his fragmented soul pieces was hidden right here in Hogwarts—so close.
How Quirrell would carry out Voldemort’s orders was not Harry’s concern. He and his friends had hurried several floors down before finally stopping in the courtyard.
"How much longer is Dumbledore going to keep Quirrell around?" Hermione huffed in frustration, gripping her hair. "Letting a Death Eater teach students—how is that acceptable?! In a Muggle school, this would be like hiring a serial killer to teach children! This is insane!"
She had noticeably relaxed over the past few weeks. Perhaps the Halloween incident had given her some insight, or she had simply come to terms with something. Whatever the reason, she no longer bombarded people with lectures, nor did she get anxious when Harry outpaced the class in mastering spells.
Ron outright claimed she had become a completely different person.
And, well, Harry had to admit—he kind of agreed. Compared to before, this version of Hermione was definitely more pleasant to be around, even a bit… cuter.
"Relax, Hermione," Ron said, unbothered. "Trust Dumbledore. And trust Harry. That’s all we need to do."
"Even if Dumbledore has his plans, and even if Harry can protect us, this situation is still—wait a minute." Hermione suddenly turned to Ron, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Why aren’t you scared at all? You can’t even say Voldemort’s name, and Quirrell is his servant—a real Death Eater!"
"I told you not to say that name!" Ron snapped, looking exasperated. "Honestly, you guys should all be sent to Snape’s detention!"
"If I have to endure seven years of Snape’s sarcasm, point deductions, and detentions at Hogwarts, then honestly? The Dark Lord isn’t that big of a deal." Ron groaned dramatically. "Snape is worse than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!"
Truthfully, Harry had to fight to keep a straight face to avoid bursting out laughing.
Hermione and Neville, however, didn’t have his composure. Though they pressed their lips together, it was obvious to anyone that they were grinning."
