Capítulo 147: Chessboard and Trolls
Quirrell's voice echoed clearly off the cold, tiled walls, leaving no room for Anthony to pretend he hadn't heard it. In the black-and-white room, two stone kings, crowned and faceless, stood at opposite ends of the chessboard, staring silently at one another.
"Why do you think that?" Anthony asked, trying to keep his voice steady. "Even if I'm not a graduate of Hogwarts, what about you? Don't you have any attachment to this place?"
For a moment, Quirrell's face twisted with something like pain.
"I—of course I do. Even if everyone here used to look down on me, ignore me... I still did. But it's not like that anymore." His voice turned calm, cold. "I've realized how foolish I was, and now, I've become so much more powerful, because he is with me all the time."
"Him?" Anthony asked, though the answer was obvious. It was the kind of reverence only reserved for gods or dark lords.
Sure enough, Quirrell replied, "My master, my caretaker and overseer." His expression darkened, and he visibly shuddered, as if the topic brought him pain. Quickly, he changed the subject. "For days, Henry, we've observed and tested you. We're finally sure that you are indeed a necromancer. I hope you can understand our caution. Most people are ignorant, they see dark magic as a curse, too ashamed to admit their ambition for power. But we, the dark wizards..."
Anthony interrupted, frowning. "'We dark wizards'? You too?"
Though he knew Quirrell had a deep understanding of dark magic as a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, studying dark magic and practicing it were entirely different things. One didn't need to become a plant to be a botanist, after all.
And besides, what defines a dark wizard isn't just knowledge of the subject, but the official decrees of the Ministry of Magic and a person's own choices. Quirrell calling himself a "dark wizard" could only mean one thing: he'd crossed a line.
Quirrell's expression turned strange, as though he was amused by Anthony's confusion. "Me too?" he repeated softly. "Of course I am. Haven't you realized that yet? Come, let me show you my power—his power—and then, Henry, I truly hope you'll choose to join us."
Without waiting for a reply, Quirrell stepped onto the chessboard, walking straight across the alternating black and white squares. He approached the white king and touched it gently. The stone figure crumbled, falling onto the soldiers in front of it and shattering into pieces. A door appeared behind the chessboard, leading to yet another corridor.
Quirrell turned back toward Anthony, his face showing an unfamiliar impatience. It was so unfamiliar, in fact, that Anthony had a fleeting, bizarre thought that this wasn't really Quirrell at all—not the professor who lived next door with a portrait of garlic as a door.
"Follow me," Quirrell said, his tone sharp. "Unless you want to experience that power for yourself. Or have you realized it already? Yes, this chessboard is enchanted. The weak, the foolish, they have no choice but to follow mindless instructions. Only by winning this dull game of wizard chess could they get to where I am now. But I don't need that." He coughed again, his voice rasping, "My body may not be strong, but my power will not abandon me. With such strength, I can laugh in the face of rules."
Anthony stepped cautiously onto the chessboard, his patchwork slippers making soft sounds against the tiles as he passed the stone knights on horseback, the soldiers lined up neatly in rows, the bishops in their robes, and the queen standing regally. Finally, he reached Quirrell's side.
"Very good," Quirrell said with satisfaction as they moved forward together. "That's it, Henry, you don't need to hide your power anymore." Though his words were meant to sound superior, there was an unmistakable undercurrent of envy and madness in his voice. Anthony couldn't help but glance at him, wondering just how far Quirrell had gone into whatever darkness he had chosen.
In the dim light of the corridor, Quirrell once again looked like the enthusiastic, friendly professor Anthony was familiar with. He still had that oversized scarf wrapped around his head. Under the flickering firelight, the shadows of the scarf danced across his forehead, eyes, and nose, giving the impression that he was still making those strange twitching facial expressions.
As they reached the end of the corridor, Quirrell opened the door with ease, as if he was intimately familiar with this place.
Though Anthony had missed the mayhem of Halloween, the sudden, nauseating stench that hit him left no doubt as to what was inside.
A troll. The hulking creature was sitting on the floor, looking bored. It didn't notice the door opening, nor did it seem to care about the human standing just outside, reeking of garlic. Behind this man was Anthony, frozen in place.
Quirrell stepped into the room first.
"Watch closely, Professor Anthony," Quirrell whispered excitedly.
With a violent flick of his wand, Quirrell sent a spell at the troll. The beast leaped to its feet as if it had been stung, its small eyes searching wildly for the source of its pain. But before it could even raise its massive club, another spell sent the troll's arm and weapon crashing to the floor. The troll, slow and bewildered, waved its remaining arm, splattering blood across the walls, the ceiling, and even Quirrell's robe and scarf.
Quirrell chuckled softly, then turned to look at Anthony, still standing in the doorway. "Come in, Anthony. Don't make me repeat myself." A fanatical smile crossed his face. "I'm afraid it's too late for you to leave now."
Quirrell certainly looked like a dark wizard now, and Anthony found himself utterly unable to move.
Maybe all of this was an illusion, he thought. Perhaps Quirrell wasn't really a dark wizard, and this was just the mechanism Dumbledore had warned about, the one that could lead to an "innocent death." Or maybe this was a trap set by Quirrell, and Anthony had fallen straight into it. Or perhaps it was the troll's snot, and Anthony's slippers were simply stuck to the floor...
But no. Quirrell, with an impatient yank, dragged him into the warm, rancid-smelling room. And at that moment, Anthony heard the sound of his peaceful, normal life shattering like a stone breaking the surface of the Black Lake.
Thud.
...
Thud.
The troll collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Its head was pressed into the corner, facing Quirrell and Anthony. Blood was pooling around it, and the stench was unbearable. Though Anthony didn't need to breathe, he still couldn't understand how Quirrell could speak so calmly in the midst of it all. Why wasn't Quirrell's face green from the smell?
"It's big, but very stupid," Quirrell said with disdain. "Just like so many people in this world. They only know brute force, but here—" he tapped his temple, "—there's nothing inside."
"I'm very good at handling this kind of creature," Quirrell continued. "I can chop, hack, make it hit itself, or make it feel pain without ever knowing where it's coming from. I could even make it dance in circles—oh, how jealous poor Barnabas would be. You see, Professor Anthony, I have that kind of power."
Anthony spoke softly. "Yes, you do have that kind of power... Just to confirm, though—do you treat humans the same way you treat trolls?"
"I—I don't," Quirrell said, his face twitching strangely. "I haven't… I haven't found the chance yet. I have to hide myself. I know these might seem like games compared to the powers of necromancy, but this... this is just a small part of my master's strength. He—" His words suddenly cut off, and a large bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.
Anthony watched him silently.
Quirrell bent over, coughing and muttering in pain, his face pale against the bloodied backdrop of the troll's corpse. When he spoke again, his eyes were watery, filled with pain. He swiftly changed the subject.
"But this huge troll, such a big magical creature, should be of some use to you, right?" Quirrell said, his tone eager. "I know necromancy often requires certain materials. Trolls—though not very intelligent—make for large, useful corpses. Its bones, its flesh... surely that could be valuable to you?"
Anthony's expression remained unreadable.
"And the basilisk," Quirrell continued, "You've already realized its worth, haven't you? We can provide you with a constant supply of corpses, magical creatures, even humans if you need them. Werewolves, wizards in Animagus form... You could unlock the secrets of magic, immortality, power..." His words trailed off as he studied Anthony's reaction.
"Why?" Anthony asked, his tone cutting through Quirrell's ramblings.
Quirrell sighed, now clearly impatient.
Annoyed by the troll's groaning, Quirrell raised his wand and cast a spell at it. With a spitting sound, the troll's eyes flickered open, its gaze unfocused. But it was short-lived. The creature stared blankly at the blood-splattered walls before letting out a final, confused breath and collapsing, lifeless.
Quirrell wiped his wand with a strange calmness. "The lost magic of necromancy... Anthony, you should be smarter than this. Since that day—when Slytherin lost one hundred and sixty points—I knew you were a dark wizard. A very powerful one. But only recently did we confirm that you are, indeed, a necromancer. And necromancers deserve respect. The fools at the Ministry of Magic will never understand that. Neither will Hogwarts. But we can offer you endless research material and deep, mysterious magical knowledge, as long as you're willing—"
"I don't want to," Anthony said firmly.
Quirrell froze. "Excuse me?"
"I don't want to."
Quirrell's expression hardened. "I suggest you reconsider, Professor Anthony. I strongly suggest it. There's no harm in accepting. After all, you are a necromancer—"
"Yes, but I don't enjoy killing people," Anthony replied.
Quirrell seemed momentarily confused, then offered a relieved smile. "That's fine! You don't need to kill anyone yourself to get what you need for your experiments—"
"You don't get it," Anthony interrupted, shaking his head. "I don't like seeing dead humans, and I don't like seeing things tortured. In fact, I quite enjoy life at Hogwarts. And you, Quirrell—if that's really your name—can tell your master, whether he's Satan or someone else, that I have no intention of going to hell any time soon, even if that's the final destination for all necromancers."
Quirrell blinked, confused. "But... you're a dark wizard. A necromancer."
"I am," Anthony admitted. "But I guess you could say I'm a pacifist necromancer. And what you're proposing doesn't sound very peaceful."
Quirrell's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're insane."
"Maybe," Anthony said with a shrug. "But here's something else—I'm not interested in whatever secret of immortality is hidden a few doors down. And, believe it or not, I'm going to stop you from reaching it."
Quirrell's face darkened. He tightened his grip on his wand. "Think carefully, Anthony. How exactly do you plan to stop me? Choke me with your dressing gown? Or maybe strangle me with that apple you've been clutching? Where's your wand, Professor?"
Anthony remained calm. "I don't particularly want to use necromancy."
Suddenly, Quirrell turned at the sound of movement behind him. The troll, bruised and battered, was slowly sitting up. Quirrell's head snapped back toward Anthony's velvet pocket, where his hand still rested on the apple.
"You—" Quirrell's voice was hoarse, trembling with disbelief. "You don't use a wand?"
"Not for necromancy," Anthony replied.
The troll, now upright, dragged its hulking, injured body toward the door and slumped against it with a heavy thud. Quirrell looked from the massive creature to Anthony, his wand shaking slightly.
Anthony gestured toward the floor where the troll had tapped its club, producing a strange scraping sound as its broken arm dragged along the ground. Quirrell stared, startled by the unnatural noise.
"There's a troll at the door," Anthony said mildly. "It smells terrible." He pulled out the apple from his pocket, holding it up. "And here's an apple—fragrant and sweet."
The wraith mouse squeaked from Anthony's pocket, clearly annoyed that its apple had been taken.
"Make a choice," Anthony said.
Quirrell, visibly rattled, raised his wand and slowly approached Anthony. But just as he got close, Quirrell snapped his fingers, and a rope shot out, wrapping around Anthony tightly. Quirrell's face twisted into a feral snarl. "My master—"
"—is a fool," Anthony interrupted calmly.
At that moment, the troll lunged across the room, swinging its severed arm. The heavy blow landed squarely on the back of Quirrell's head, sending him crashing to the ground.
"I told you, I don't need a wand," Anthony said, as the impact reverberated through the room. He could've sworn he heard a sharp voice in the background calling Quirrell an "idiot."
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