Quirrell left the Quidditch pitch and stumbled toward a wall near the Black Lake.
With his back against the cold stone, his hands trembled, fingertips shaking uncontrollably. He knew that after eating that strangely colored apple, something had happened to Lord Voldemort.
He looked around, and after confirming that no one was nearby, he finally let out a sigh of relief. His fingers slowly reached for the heavy turban wrapped around his head. His body trembled as his fingertips touched the rough fabric.
"Master..." he whispered, his voice quivering. "Please forgive me."
But Lord Voldemort didn't respond immediately.
As Quirrell began to unwrap the turban layer by layer, the back of his head was gradually exposed to the open air. There, a pale and distorted face slowly emerged—the face of Lord Voldemort.
"Master... Master..." Quirrell's voice was nearly tearful. "I didn't know there was something wrong with the apple… I…"
But Voldemort had no time to deal with this pitiful servant.
His face twisted and deformed, transforming into a shadowy, dark mass. It detached from the back of Quirrell's head and hovered in the air, as if searching for a new host. Then, suddenly, it shot toward a rat crouching near the wall.
The rat, who had been quietly gnawing on breadcrumbs, froze. When the shadow entered its body, its eyes immediately turned blood-red, and its fur stood on end.
Quirrell saw it. It was clear—Lord Voldemort had left his body and entered the rat.
"Master…" Quirrell whispered, his legs weakening beneath him. He dropped to his knees in front of the rat now possessed by Voldemort.
The rat turned slowly, its crimson eyes fixed directly on Quirrell.
Lord Voldemort's voice echoed in Quirrell's mind. "Useless fool. Your body is no longer suitable. Something is repelling me—forcing me out."
Quirrell's face turned ghostly pale.
"I... I didn't know it would be like that…" he murmured, head bowed. "Master, what should I do? I don't want to fail you."
Voldemort, in truth, regretted ever choosing Quirrell.
He had so many Death Eaters to choose from—why had he picked this idiot?
Look at him now. At first, Voldemort could at least siphon some energy from Quirrell. But now? He had been reduced to the state he was in back in the Albanian forest—forced to rely on parasitizing animals to survive.
"Fool!" Voldemort's voice snapped in Quirrell's mind again. "I must rest. Until the lingering energy in your body fades, keep a low profile. Do not draw suspicion."
Quirrell nodded frantically, voice trembling. "Yes, Master… I will be careful."
Voldemort's voice faded, as if drifting away. "Good. But remember, Quirrell—fail me again, and I will make you pay."
With that, the rat climbed onto Quirrell's arm and disappeared into his robe pocket. Quirrell let out a long breath, collapsing against the wall. He panted heavily, face pale.
Looking around to ensure no one had seen him, he forced himself upright.
At that moment, a face flashed in his mind—Professor Vison.
That man was definitely suspicious. Had he seen something?
"Must... must act carefully…" Quirrell muttered as he walked back toward the castle, steps unsteady. As for Voldemort's task to hinder Harry Potter? That was the least of his worries now.
That evening, Vison entered the Great Hall and was immediately struck by the joyful energy at the Gryffindor table.
By contrast, the Slytherin table radiated gloom. Understandably so—Gryffindor had won the Quidditch match. The Slytherins would be in a foul mood for days.
Harry spotted Vison at once. As the professor approached, Harry rushed over to him.
"Professor!" Harry exclaimed, eyes bright. "Did you see the Quidditch match?"
Vison chuckled at the boy's excitement. "Of course, Harry. You flew brilliantly. That final tail swing—your opponent couldn't match your speed at all."
Harry's cheeks flushed with pride. "Thanks to Professor McGonagall's Nimbus 2000."
As it happened, Professor McGonagall was nearby. Hearing her name, she walked over, a rare, warm smile on her face.
"You did very well today, Harry. The Nimbus 2000 is excellent, but more important are your skill and courage."
"Exactly." Vison gave Harry's shoulder a reassuring pat.
Then, as if recalling something, McGonagall turned to Vison. "Ah, I nearly forgot. Professor Weasley, you used to be quite the Quidditch player yourself, didn't you?"
"Really?" Harry asked, eyes wide.
"No mistake about it," McGonagall said with a nostalgic smile. "A memorable match—Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. We didn't score a single goal. Professor Weasley was the Hufflepuff Keeper back then."
Harry stared at Vison in disbelief.
Vison shrugged with a smile. "Ancient history."
After their chat, Harry returned to the Gryffindor table, where Ron and Hermione were waiting. Ron was halfway through a pudding, and Hermione had her nose in a book—even as she nibbled on dinner.
Harry noticed the cover of her book. "Quidditch Through the Ages?" he read aloud. "Hermione, are you thinking about playing Quidditch too?"
Hermione didn't look up. "I just want to understand why wizards are so fascinated with it."
Ron, his mouth full, said vaguely, "Come on, Hermione. You seemed to enjoy the match just now."
"That's different." Hermione rolled her eyes.
Just then, a commotion stirred around them. A photo made its way into Harry's hands.
"Professor Vison took it," said an older Gryffindor. "It's yours, Harry. Great job out there."
Harry looked down—and froze.
The photo captured him mid-flight during the match, riding his Nimbus 2000, body leaning forward, fingers outstretched toward the Golden Snitch.
And of course, it was a magical moving photo.
"You should hang it by your bed," Ron said, clearly impressed. "That's a moment to remember."
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