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BFH# Chapter 31: Conversation in the Carriage
🕑 Added 2024-12-26 00:05:23 +0000 UTCAfter Victor boarded the carriage, students continued to file into the various carriages, preparing to embark on their trip to Hogsmeade.
Despite the number of students avoiding the same carriage as the professors, someone approached Victor's carriage—Quirrell.
Today, Quirrell wore a purple turban, and his gait and expression still carried a nervous edge. But under the bright sunlight, others were surprised to notice that he had a rather delicate face and a tall, slender figure.
Were it not for the pervasive smell of garlic around him, he might have been a popular professor.
In fact, he had been.
A few years ago, Quirrell was known for his quick wit and amiable demeanor.
Thus, many upperclassmen were astonished at the change in him now—they couldn’t fathom how someone could transform so drastically in just a year.
“You don’t mind if I join you, Professor Victor?” Quirrell stammered.
As he approached, a strong wave of garlic scent hit Victor, making him frown slightly.
“Sorry, I had a run-in with a vampire in Romania, you see. Once they’re onto you, it’s hard to shake them off. I’ve had to use garlic water liberally to keep them at bay,” Quirrell explained, stepping into the carriage. His boots hit the wooden floorboards with a solid thud.
Victor didn’t object, merely watching Quirrell quietly as the latter sat across from him, shivering slightly before muttering, “You must understand, right? I didn’t expect you could see death as well.”
“See death?”
“Oh, those Thestrals up front. Only those who’ve truly understood death can see them.”
“When they approached you earlier, you leaned aside slightly, so I assumed you could see them. They do have a bit of an ominous look about them.”
Hearing this, Victor glanced forward.
Pulling the carriage were two emaciated horse-like creatures. Their skeletal bodies were draped in a thin layer of black skin, through which their ribs and leg bones were clearly visible. At their midsection, the outlines of their intestines could be discerned with every breath, a sight both macabre and chilling.
Though their bodies resembled starved horses, their backs bore bat-like wings, and their heads resembled dragon skulls adorned with tiny horns, with blue flames burning in their hollow eyes.
These were Thestrals.
As Victor looked at them, the creatures began to move forward. All the students had boarded the carriages, and the Thestrals spread their wings, galloping toward the end of the road.
Outside the window, the school grounds and the dense Forbidden Forest began to recede rapidly.
“Whoosh—whoosh—”
The wind roared past the sides of the carriage.
No wonder the students acted as if they didn’t see them; only those who had witnessed death could perceive Thestrals.
Speaking of death, countless faces flashed through Victor’s mind.
Quirrell’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Stammering, he asked, “I thought there wasn’t much death in the Far East. When—when did you first start seeing them?”
“Death is everywhere,” Victor replied coolly.
“We don’t have Thestrals where I come from, but the death rate is quite high. As for the first time... it was probably when I saw Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother.”
“Little Red Riding Hood?”
“A child. Her red hood had magical properties that warded off giant wolves in the forest. But when she left, the wolf ate her grandmother, and the two became one. The hood’s effect vanished.”
“Later, she traded the hood with me, asking me to deal with the wolf for her.”
“The wolf’s head still hangs over the doorway of my second-floor study.”
…What kind of story was this?
Quirrell was momentarily speechless, feeling like he had absorbed a lot of information that ultimately made no sense. Little Red Riding Hood, wolves—none of these seemed connected to the British wizarding world.
How could such a diviner call his soul “bloated”?
Victor suddenly turned the question around: “And you?”
“Me?” Quirrell shuddered, as though the question terrified him. “Perhaps it was when I dealt with zombies.”
“That time, I was invited by a prince friend of mine in Africa to help him handle some zombies. They were preserved by cursed gold. When I used certain techniques to strip the gold from them, they turned to dust.”
“It was frightening—they had once been Muggle pharaohs...”
Quirrell abruptly fell silent, his face twitching as if recalling memories he didn’t want to revisit.
“What’s a pharaoh?” Victor asked with interest.
“A leader in Muggle history. But it doesn’t matter—it’s not significant. I don’t want to talk about it anymore...”
“Not significant? Is that why you stopped teaching Muggle Studies?”
“Yes, yes. Defense Against the Dark Arts is much more useful. I prefer it.”
“Sometimes, being honest with yourself is better, Professor Quirrell,” Victor remarked suddenly.
“Your spirit suggests you’re lying. If you keep this up, even your natal star will begin to dim. Perhaps the matter I mentioned before—if you still want to return to a normal life—my offer stands. But the price… you’ll have to work a bit harder to afford it.”
Victor and Quirrell locked eyes.
In that instant, Quirrell was not only speechless but felt as if his heartbeat stopped for a second. He dared not ask further, fearing Victor might shatter his fragile truth.
At that moment, the carriage began to slow. Outside, a wizarding village with a style distinct from Diagon Alley came into view.
They had arrived at Hogsmeade.
When the carriage stopped, Quirrell muttered under his breath, “…I don’t need it.”
“Very well.”
Victor raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. He simply opened the door and left decisively.
Almost the moment Victor disappeared from sight, Quirrell’s face turned ashen.
“Master—Master—believe me, I absolutely had no intention of defying your orders!”
Suddenly, his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the carriage floor, trembling so hard his lips quivered.
“I don’t know what he’s thinking—how could he possibly—”
“Silence!”
As Quirrell trembled, a sharp voice suddenly echoed in the otherwise empty carriage. It seemed to come from beneath his thick purple turban.
The voice made Quirrell’s face turn even paler.
Oh, he knew exactly who it was.
It was Voldemort.
His master, the man he had encountered in the Albanian forest.
When speaking with Voldemort, Quirrell’s stammer vanished. His facial twitches ceased, and his expression, while still pale, was one of sheer terror.
The sharp voice paused for a moment before resuming, weaker this time:
“...Approach him. Make a deal with him... I know that cursed diviner thinks you have value; otherwise, he wouldn’t have offered to ‘help’ so proactively...”
“Disguise yourself, find him, and ask if he can stabilize your soul—for a similar price…”
