Kapitel 163: Chapter 163: The Dark Lord’s Contingency

Quirrell forced down the potion, enduring its nauseatingly "special" flavor, until the last drop was gone.

"Have you figured out who's responsible yet?" the shrill voice demanded.

To be burned by fire, struck in the face with clothes, and doused with freezing water—the great Dark Lord had never suffered such humiliations before.

Not even his rebound from the Killing Curse that left him in this pitiful state felt as degrading as this.

"Master… no… I haven't," Quirrell stammered, trembling as tears threatened to spill. "Could it be that Dumbledore has discovered you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," the face snapped. "Dumbledore still thinks I'm hiding in the Albanian forest.

"He'd never suspect that I'm operating right under his nose!"

"Of course, he must have noticed something odd about you. I would never underestimate Dumbledore," the face continued with a chilling laugh.

"But he's arrogant, just like me. He believes he can control everything.

"Quirrell, Dumbledore won't act hastily to catch you. He'll first try to uncover who you're working for and who's after the Philosopher's Stone.

"His overconfidence is our opportunity."

"But Snape… the way he looks at me, it's like he knows," Quirrell sniffled. "Isn't he your servant too? Why can't we ask for his help?"

"Snape…" The face's crimson eyes glinted coldly.

"Quirrell, look at what I've become: a weak, disembodied soul....Snape?

"He's not the only one. My so-called 'loyal' followers…perhaps they now serve others.

"Maybe even the champion of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore.

"I don't know who I can trust anymore. Why else have they not sought me out to restore my strength?"

"But, Master… my own powers are too weak. After Gringotts, my body was nearly broken," Quirrell choked, his voice cracking.

"I couldn't even kill Harry Potter. I can't handle the three-headed dog. You should seek Snape's assistance—"

"Quirrell," the voice interrupted, its tone icy, "has serving me become unbearable for you?

"Are you trying to expose me to win Dumbledore's favor?"

"Master! No, I'd never— I'm just… afraid…"

"Don't lie to me!" The voice turned into a rasping hiss.

"I know everything, Quirrell! You regret going to the Albanian forest!"

Quirrell shook uncontrollably, but the face's tone softened suddenly.

"Don't be afraid, my loyal servant," it whispered soothingly.

"As long as I'm here, nothing will harm you.

"Once you retrieve the Philosopher's Stone, I will create a new body and rise again.

"The Dark Lord never forgets.

"I'll remember the faithful who helped me in my darkest hour.

"Immortality—

"How does that sound as your reward? It's well within my power."

Voldemort's words were imbued with a dark allure, and a twisted expression of yearning crept onto Quirrell's face.

Pleased, Voldemort relished at how easily human hearts could be manipulated.

"Good. Now, gather more unicorn blood. I need strength to protect you better."

Quirrell grinned stupidly. "Yes, Master. I've already located the unicorns."

"Excellent. And what about the herbs I asked for?"

"I've collected most of them, but I think Professor Sprout might have noticed—"

"She won't suspect a thing," Voldemort assured with a sinister smile. "She'll think it's the work of some magical creature.

"I've done this before, decades ago. Even Hagrid unknowingly helped cover for me back then.

"It's amusing how useful my dear old schoolmate still is after all these years."

Quirrell flinched at the mention of Hagrid, remembering the terrifying three-headed dog.

"Don't worry," Voldemort said, seeming to read Quirrell's thoughts.

"Hagrid's little pet can be dealt with easily. My dear junior still has his adorable interests…

"We'll get the information we need from him to handle the dog."

Quirrell nodded fervently.

"One last thing," Voldemort continued, his voice full of memories. "Fetch me something I left at Hogwarts long ago—a little insurance.

"It will bolster our strength."

Quirrell's expression turned fanatical. His master remained as formidable as ever.

But Voldemort smirked disdainfully. He had no intention of keeping Quirrell beyond his usefulness. If Quirrell failed, the "insurance" would serve as the backup plan.

The Philosopher's Stone… he would stop at nothing to claim it.

…

In the morning, Quirrell donned a fresh set of robes, a new garlic necklace, and a pristine scarf, playing up his injuries as he wobbled into the Great Hall.

As he entered, students from multiple Houses paused mid-breakfast to steal glances at him.

Quirrell was bewildered. Was it his flashy "deluxe ensemble" drawing all this attention?

Adjusting his robe collar with trembling hands, he sank into his seat with an air of frailty.

"Professor Quirrell," Dumbledore called out warmly through his half-moon spectacles. "Are your burns still severe?"

"Headmaster… they're not as… painful now," Quirrell stammered.

"You really should see Madam Pomfrey," Dumbledore suggested kindly. "I know you're well-traveled and experienced, but she's a specialist."

"No… no need," Quirrell waved his hands frantically. "I wouldn't want to… interrupt my students' lessons."

"Such dedication," Snape drawled with a faint smirk. The faint smile on his sallow face betrayed his amusement though.

"I was burned last year too, though not as severely as you. Burns are especially stubborn in winter.

"How about this: I'll brew you some potions for external application and internal use. That way, your teaching schedule won't be disrupted, and your injuries will heal faster."

Quirrell hesitated. Surely, Snape wouldn't poison him—not without reason. Besides, how much worse could it taste compared to Madam Pomfrey's concoctions?

"Thank you… Professor Snape," Quirrell finally said with an awkward bow.

…

"And Sybill? How is she doing?" Dumbledore inquired.

"She only broke a crystal ball," Professor McGonagall said irritably. "She's fine otherwise. Though, she's now demanding a raise for her 'work injury.'"

"A reasonable request," Dumbledore replied with a genial smile. "She's been here for eleven years on the same starting salary."

"That says a lot," McGonagall said sharply. "And if Sybill were truly as talented as she claims, she would have foreseen that she shouldn't attend Quidditch matches."

Though McGonagall disapproved of Trelawney, she didn't oppose the raise. After all, who besides Trelawney actually relied on their Hogwarts salary?

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