After Wyzett left the headmaster's office, a hush fell over the room.
Dumbledore drew his wand in a slow, deliberate circle. "Expecto Patronum!"
A brilliant silver light burst from his wandtip, coalescing in midair into a majestic, lifelike phoenix.
"Newt, how have you been lately? My student has invented a new spell. The casting sequence goes like this… The incantation is 'Mundus Totalus'…"
"Yes, it's an exceptionally efficient household spell. I seem to recall you still have an Obscurus in your care."
"So I'd like to know—does this magic help suppress it? Write back as soon as you can. My best to you and Tina."
With a gentle flick of his wand, the silver phoenix circled once, then soared out of the headmaster's office and vanished into the night.
"Occlumency…" Dumbledore murmured, a long sigh escaping him as fatigue crept into his features. "I'll have to see him again…"
. . .
Quirrell's Office
Snape rose to his full height, looming over Quirrell with icy disdain.
"Quirinus Quirrell, since you want more time to think, then by all means use that garlic-addled brain of yours to figure it out."
"Do you really believe you alone can help the Dark Lord? Frankly, I'd be a far more reliable ally than you."
Quirrell gritted his teeth, stubbornly denying everything. "Professor Snape, I really… I don't know anything about the Dark Lord."
"Very well." Snape sneered, tossing the words over his shoulder as he strode to the door. "I'll be back for you."
BANG!
The door slammed with a thunderous crash.
As soon as Snape was gone, all the strength seemed to drain from Quirrell. He collapsed to the floor, limp and trembling.
Suddenly, he sprang up like a wound spring, clutching his head and howling like a wounded beast.
He quickly cast a muffling charm at the door to keep his cries from escaping, then tore off the cloth wrapped around his head.
In the mirror, Voldemort's twisted face leered back at him.
"You did well," Voldemort said, voice cold and flat. "Snape is not to be trusted. You were wise not to mention me to him."
"But I don't understand…" Quirrell gasped, the searing pain in his skull slowly fading. "He knows so much about you. Isn't he a Death Eater?"
"He's a traitor!" Voldemort snarled.
Pain exploded in Quirrell's head again, so fierce he nearly blacked out.
"Your ignorance amuses me, Quirinus," Voldemort sneered. "Even I know that my truly loyal followers are all rotting in Azkaban."
"Only those like Snape, who wriggled out of punishment with clever excuses, have enjoyed ten years of freedom! Ten years! They're all traitors."
"Of course, it's only natural that some of them, hearing rumors of my return, want to find me and beg for forgiveness. After all, I told them I'd achieved immortality."
"I see…" Quirrell muttered, clutching his head. "So he covered up what I did tonight…"
Voldemort's voice turned impatient. "I don't need your reminders, Quirinus. I know everything you do."
A shiver ran through Quirrell; regret flickered in his eyes.
"Regretting your choices?" Voldemort's smile was wickedly satisfied. "I never lied to you. Haven't you mastered powerful Dark Magic because of me?"
"Wasn't it my guidance that helped you perfect your nonverbal spellwork? Get me the Philosopher's Stone, and I'll reward you with even more."
"And as for that Obscurial—he survived tonight thanks to the Withering Curse. So… keep teaching him more Dark Magic. Do you understand?"
Quirrell shuddered, hesitating. "But…"
Voldemort hummed dangerously. "Hmm?"
"Yes… my master!" Quirrell's voice trembled, echoing through the office like a cry from the abyss.
Voldemort's laughter filled the room, cruel and triumphant. "That's more like it. I'm watching you—never forget it!"
"I was not pleased with your performance tonight. You dared to stop the Obscurus from going berserk? And just now… don't tell me you actually want to be a good professor? How utterly laughable!"
"In that case…" His laughter grew even more deranged. "Then suffer! Suffer my wrath!"
Quirrell clutched his head as black and green light swirled around him, swallowing his screams. Only the violent convulsions of his body betrayed his agony—a silent, ceaseless torment.
. . .
"When silent, you possess my true name; when you speak, I cease to exist."
Standing before the bronze doors of the Ravenclaw common room, confronted with the eagle knocker's riddle, Wyzett paused to ponder.
He'd lived here for two months, and the knocker never failed to come up with a new challenge—he rather enjoyed it.
"It's 'silence,'" Wyzett answered. "If I don't speak, silence remains. The moment I open my mouth, silence is broken—so it no longer exists."
"An excellent answer."
The eagle statue spread its broad wings, and the bronze doors swung open.
It was already past midnight, but to Wyzett's surprise, the common room was still lively.
Hearing his footsteps, the Quidditch team captain, Arsenal, stood up and called out, "You're finally back! I'm so glad you're safe!"
His roommates and several other Quidditch players had stayed up, clearly waiting for his return.
"Thank goodness you're all right!" Cho Chang pressed a hand to her chest, relief written all over her face.
Penelope tucked away her revision notes and turned to Cho. "Didn't I say he'd be fine?"
Roger hurried over and threw an arm around Wyzett's shoulders. "A first-year taking on a troll—sounds like something out of a Lockhart novel!"
Anthony couldn't wait. "That's an XXXX-class dangerous creature! Come on, tell us—how did you beat it?"
Everyone crowded closer.
"Yeah! Fred and George have been arguing about it, but we'd rather hear your version."
"I remember trolls are weak in the head. If it were me, I'd aim a Stunning Spell right there!"
"Trolls are really resistant to magic. Are you sure a Stunning Spell would work? And they're so tall—hitting that spot can't be easy."
"Maybe you should use some Transfiguration first. That way you could slow it down, at least keep yourself safe."
"I think potions would work too. Draught of Living Death—trolls will eat anything, right?"
. . .
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