"The earliest Snot Hex was... was incredibly complex—a compound curse that could cause severe... severe diarrhea, unrelenting high fevers, and festering skin..."
Quirrell's stammering was so relentless that, within three minutes, the briefly reawakened students began nodding off again, succumbing to sleep.
But Wyzett's genuine curiosity seemed to touch Quirrell, unlocking a rare enthusiasm in the man. He launched into a deep, almost exhaustive analysis of the Snot Hex, as if eager to pour out every ounce of knowledge he possessed.
Only Wyzett listened intently, his quill flying across the parchment as he filled an entire page with notes.
When the bell rang, Quirrell approached him, looking anxious, his voice rasping with uncertainty. "So... so, how was it? Did you... did you understand?"
"Absolutely fascinating!" Wyzett replied, beaming. "This is my first real encounter with compound magic. Do all those older spells have similar properties?"
Quirrell brightened, a genuine smile flickering across his face. "Brilliant deduction! No wonder... no wonder Professor Flitwick and the others are always singing your praises."
"If you're interested in learning more... more about this kind of magic, come to my office at noon. I'll recommend... recommend a few books!"
"Of course, I'd be delighted," Wyzett agreed. "I hope I won't be disturbing your lunch break."
"No... not at all!" Quirrell waved a hand, his smile growing even warmer. "It's rare to meet such a... such a studious student."
He made his way back to his office, footsteps heavy. Pressing his back against the closed door, his eyes filled with pain.
"I have to do this... It's the master's command..." he muttered, voice cracking with hysteria. "But he's just a bright-eyed Ravenclaw, just like I once was... I'm sorry..."
"Hiss!" Quirrell drew a sharp breath, clutching his head as a wave of agony crashed over him—Voldemort was summoning.
He staggered to the center of the office and, standing before the mirror, slowly unwound his purple turban.
The glass reflected the back of his head, where a monstrous face had formed—a face like a serpent, with only slits for a nose and eyes that glowed with a sinister, unnatural red.
Once bound to a snake's body, Voldemort had now latched onto Quirrell, forging a bond of absolute subjugation.
Voldemort's voice slithered out, cold and venomous: "Quirinus... I trust you bring me good news this time!"
"Master..." Quirrell trembled, every word thick with fear and reverence. "I've invited one of the two boys you asked me to watch."
"Harry Potter?" The red in Voldemort's eyes flared, then faded. "No... Not that one. He's weak. You invited Wyzett Lovegood?"
"Yes! I discussed the Snot Hex today and managed to catch his interest," Quirrell hurried to explain. "I invited him to my office at noon, to recommend some books."
"A Ravenclaw, just like you. The lure of knowledge is deadly for your kind." Voldemort let out a chilling laugh.
"Well done, Quirinus! At last, after all this time, you've finally accomplished something for me!"
"Now, waste no time—keep investigating how to access that room on the fourth floor. Once you succeed, everything you desire will be yours!"
"Thank you, my master!" Quirrell squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw twitching. "What should I do next?"
"What did you teach today? Why did it attract his attention?"
"The Snot Hex—I told them its history. Wyzett said that as a curse, it ought to be far more dangerous."
"Sharp instincts," Voldemort sneered. "Those fools gave it a silly, harmless name—Snot Hex—to hide its true identity."
"The Wasting Curse! Master, you just told me about it yesterday," Quirrell said, confused. "But I don't understand—what do you want with Wyzett? I thought it was only Harry Potter you needed..."
"Quirinus, do not presume to guess my intentions!" Voldemort's voice cracked like a whip.
A blinding pain exploded in Quirrell's skull. His body buckled, sweat pouring down his face as he collapsed to his knees.
"Master... I was wrong! Please, forgive me! What should I do?"
"Let go of everything, Quirinus..." Voldemort's tone became almost hypnotic. "I will pour the secrets of the Wasting Curse into your mind. Then you will teach it to him."
Quirrell had no chance to reply. He tried to shake his head, but his thoughts blurred and faded. He could only nod, barely conscious.
Dragging himself to a chair, he collapsed, the torrent of knowledge overwhelming him. Pain split his skull, and he lost consciousness instantly, slumping in the seat...
"His soul resists me less and less," Voldemort hissed with cold satisfaction. "For all his failures, he is a serviceable servant."
He gazed into the mirror. "An Obscurus... It's not easy to find an Obscurial these days."
"I hope Quirrell lasts a bit longer, so I can fully excavate this Obscurial's potential—and make him the perfect vessel!"
At noon, Wyzett knocked on the office door.
"Come in!"
The office, nestled on the castle's third floor, was well-lit yet inexplicably cold.
There wasn't much inside. In one corner sat an iron cage, half-covered with coarse linen. The air was thick not only with garlic but also a strange, metallic tang.
"Mr. Lovegood!" Quirrell called. "Take a seat! The lesson will begin shortly."
Compared to that morning, he looked deathly pale, lips drained of all color, as if he'd only just survived a serious illness.
"Professor Quirrell, are you alright?" Wyzett asked quietly. "If you need to rest, I can come back another time."
"No need!" Quirrell replied at once, summoning a chair with a flick of his wand. It landed behind Wyzett.
"I believe I mentioned before—I ran into a few vampires and hags over the summer. They cursed me, and I get these episodes from time to time."
"It's the same in class. Too many people, and I start remembering those scenes. That's why I stammer. With fewer people, I'm much better."
"Curses really are dreadful," Wyzett said politely. "You should take care of yourself, Professor."
Quirrell shuddered, then stammered again, "You're the... the first student who's ever shown concern for me."
Wyzett smiled, noncommittal, pulling out his notebook and quill, ready to take notes.
Quirrell didn't waste time. His speech grew smooth again. "You mentioned this morning that you're interested in compound magic."
"That's right!" Wyzett replied cheerfully. "Honestly, anything related to magic fascinates me."
"Excellent! That's the Ravenclaw spirit," Quirrell said, forcing a kind smile—though it came out stiff, as if he hadn't worn it in years.
"Let me use the Wasting Curse to show you what makes a spell 'compound'—and what characteristics such magic tends to have."
"The Wasting Curse?" Wyzett echoed. "Is that the true name of the Snot Hex?"
Quirrell nodded. "Exactly. Its power was diminished, and only then did it receive a new, less threatening name."
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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