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BFH# Chapter 64: Quirrell and Voldemort
🕑 Added 2025-02-21 02:21:46 +0000 UTCWhat... just happened?
This was the first thought that surfaced in Quirrell’s numb mind.
Suddenly losing consciousness was a peculiar sensation. At first, it felt like being freed from a long and agonizing dream, but the moment you opened your eyes again, you were met with a fleeting sense of confusion, followed by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion and the lingering echoes of phantom pain.
For Quirrell, this was exactly the case.
He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the canopy above him. Every bed in the Hogwarts infirmary was surrounded by white drapes to ensure the patients could rest undisturbed. Through a small gap in the curtain, he could see the infirmary’s dim white walls and the faint golden light filtering in from the window.
It was dusk.
The room was empty.
Two or three seconds later, as his clarity of mind returned, all of his memories suddenly came rushing back.
All it took was shaking Viktor’s hand, and his body had inexplicably sprouted feathers before he collapsed in pain. Viktor had even said something about his "wish being granted."
Right—the feathers!
Quirrell jolted upright, frantically feeling along his arms—
But all he touched was smooth skin.
Disbelieving, he looked down at himself and found that his initial impression was correct—his skin had returned to normal, unnervingly smooth, as though those black feathers had never existed.
The pain, too, had vanished like a mere illusion, retreating like a receding tide the moment he regained consciousness.
Impossible!
“What’s so impossible?”
A sharp, irritable voice spoke from behind him.
At the sound, Quirrell shuddered violently. He scrambled to sit up in bed, his hands instinctively reaching for his head—
His turban was still there. Thank Merlin.
“...Hah! What good does checking now do? If it weren’t there, do you think you’d still be here? You’d have woken up in Azkaban!”
The sharp voice spat angrily.
Quirrell trembled again, hastily sitting upright as he bowed his head and said in a panic,
“I-I’m sorry, my Lord! I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—he was too cunning!”
Viktor had set a trap for him!
Just a simple handshake, and Viktor’s magic had already taken effect, catching him completely off guard. As a Ravenclaw, Quirrell prided himself on his extensive knowledge, yet he had never encountered a spell like this before.
What exactly had happened?
Had he lost his nights already?
The thought filled Quirrell with both shock and anger.
He had never truly intended to agree to that absurd request—he had only wanted to negotiate with Viktor and, if necessary, steal the formula and ingredients when the opportunity arose. How could he possibly have willingly given up his nights?
But a few seconds later, the sharp voice spoke again from the back of his head:
“There’s no use regretting it now.”
The voice was cold and certain, as if it could read Quirrell’s every thought.
“I had thought you weren’t quite so foolish, Quirinus. Even though you chose the most idiotic subject at Hogwarts, I at least believed you capable of recognizing such an obvious scheme from that man’s face.”
“And yet, you have disappointed me once again.”
“I—I’m sorry, my Lord,” Quirrell’s face twisted in terror. “I will do my best to m-make up for it.”
“Oh? And what do you intend to do?”
“Perhaps we could hint at your identity? He always seems to know exactly what we want—he must have some suspicions. We could reveal the truth, force him to join us, and take back what’s ours—”
“Foolish!”
The sharp voice snapped, enraged.
But the power behind it was still weak. After that furious outburst, it fell silent for a long while, as if out of breath. In the meantime, Quirrell shrank in fear, beads of cold sweat rolling down his forehead.
At least he had been spared the Cruciatus Curse.
Several seconds later, the voice, weary yet still scornful, continued:
“Foolish. Can you not see how bizarre his magic is? He is hiding something. Until we uncover his secrets, we must not act rashly.”
“And besides... do you really think I am in any condition to intimidate him?”
“Look at me—go on, look in a mirror and see what I’ve become! The once-feared Dark Lord, reduced to a shadow and mist, only able to take form when bound to another’s body... I no longer inspire fear.”
“Then w-what should I do?”
Voldemort’s voice was cold:
“Simply maintain the status quo. He is not our enemy.”
“Ah, yes. He is just like my former followers—seeking safety while keeping their options open. He aids us, but as long as we remain silent, he will always be a respectable professor at Hogwarts.”
“Y-you mean he intends to join us?”
Quirrell, trembling and incredulous, asked in a whisper.
“Yes. Otherwise, why give us the formula? It is unheard of, yet it cannot be fake... because it was meant for me. He wanted me to hear it.”
The voice carried an air of arrogance, as though the entire world revolved around its speaker.
After another weak pause, Voldemort continued:
“As long as the formula works, even if you truly lose every night, it doesn’t matter... Consider it an advance reward for him. The Dark Lord never mistreats those who serve him well.”
“But do not expose the unspoken truth... Do not be so foolish as to hand over leverage to that clearly suspicious man...”
“Hmph, he is certainly a Dark wizard—I can feel it.”
“Dumbledore is a senile fool for allowing someone like him into the school...”
The voice grew fainter, its pauses longer, until finally, it dissolved into incoherence and faded into silence.
Voldemort had exhausted his strength.
He fell into slumber once more.
Only when Quirrell could no longer feel his presence did he dare to lift his head. His face was deathly pale, drenched in cold sweat.
But he did not speak another word. He simply crawled back into bed, not daring to think too much—lest he anger the Dark Lord, who could sense his every thought.
...
Minutes later, the infirmary door creaked open after a soft knock.
Madam Pomfrey entered, carrying a bowl of potion.
Quirrell lay weakly on the bed, his face still ashen, sweat glistening on his forehead. As she approached, he turned his head toward her, lips drained of all color.
“My goodness, Quirinus,” she said, hurrying over and pressing her wand to his forehead. “I was only gone for a moment—how did you end up in this state?”
“S-sorry,” Quirrell murmured feebly.
Her wand emitted a faint yellow glow, and after a moment, she withdrew it, relieved.
“At least you don’t have a fever,” she said. “Just drink this calming draught, and you’ll be fine.”
She turned to stir the dark potion, its bitter scent filling the air.
But when she looked back, Quirrell had already fallen asleep, lying motionless on the bed.
“Quirinus? At least drink the potion first...
Quirinus?”
But no matter how she called, Quirrell remained unresponsive, as though he had lost consciousness once again.
Beyond the window, the last sliver of sunset slipped beneath the horizon.
