Chapter 28: Quirrell's Confession
"I… I was… c-corrupted… by You-Know-Who," Quirrell began, dropping the bombshell. "I have made a terrible mistake." He had expected a reaction of shock and panic, but the three people in front of him remained completely unfazed.
Ryan calmly conjured three chairs, offered one to the Headmaster and one to Professor Flitwick, and then sat down himself. The entire exchange was so devoid of drama that it was almost comical.
This isn't nearly shocking enough, Ryan thought. Can't he tell us something we don't already know? He felt an urge to pull out an apple and start munching.
"Y-you're not… s-surprised?!" Quirrell's eyes widened. He almost choked, and a violent coughing fit wracked his body before he could speak again.
"What happened next, Quirinus?" Dumbledore asked calmly. "And why did you decide to confess to us now?"
Ryan could practically feel Quirrell's panic. Imagine confessing your deepest, darkest secret, only to have your audience react as if you'd just told them the sky was blue. The only possible explanation was that they had known all along. It was like thinking you were walking down a deserted alleyway, only to realize you were strolling naked through the middle of a crowded plaza. Ryan shivered at the thought of the social death.
Quirrell's eyes went blank. "I… want… to be discharged…"
So, he's realized his social life is over and now he wants to give up on treatment? Ryan thought, briefly putting himself in Quirrell's shoes and finding the idea of living on the moon suddenly very appealing.
"No, Quirinus," Dumbledore said gently. "You need to heal. Do you have more to tell us?"
Quirrell—now a walking corpse of social annihilation—began to speak in a hollow, robotic tone. "You-Know-Who… was attached to me. He treated me as… a slave. He made me… rob Gringotts… to find the Philosopher's Stone."
"Last night," he continued, the words coming out in clipped, lifeless fragments, "he needed to sustain himself… He went to find a former… important treasure. He failed. He forced an… Apparition… inside the castle."
"It caused… great harm… to us both."
"Ryan… came to me for detention. He was concerned… for me. He respected me. He didn't treat me… like a slave." As he said this, a flicker of light returned to Quirrell's vacant eyes.
Dumbledore nodded at Ryan in approval, and Professor Flitwick gave him a thumbs-up. Ryan was surprised his simple words of concern had had such a profound effect. It just went to show, it was all a matter of perspective. Compared to Voldemort's high-pressure, tyrannical style—a philosophy where even the purest of pure-bloods were merely his servants—basic human decency seemed like an incredible act of kindness.
Quirrell, perhaps wanting to thank Ryan properly, tried to straighten up in his bed. He immediately winced, and a low groan of pain escaped his lips, loud enough to elicit an annoyed grunt from Madam Pomfrey in the next room.
"My apologies, Poppy," Dumbledore called out. "I believe Quirinus is just about finished."
"S-sorry, Headmaster, sorry," Quirrell mumbled, mustering his strength to finish his story. "In the end… You-Know-Who… tried to force me… to drink the blood of a unicorn. I resisted… but I failed."
"But my resistance… had an effect. As we neared the unicorn clearing… You-Know-Who couldn't hold on any longer. He left me. I… crawled my way back. The next thing I knew… I woke up here, in the hospital wing."
"Thank you for your story, Quirinus," Dumbledore said, rising from his chair. "You need to rest now. Poppy is getting rather impatient. We will visit you when you are feeling better."
Professor Flitwick, who had been tearing up throughout Quirrell's halting confession, also stood. "You are a brave student, Quirinus. Many wizards have been swayed by Voldemort. But anyone who is willing to fight against him is a hero."
"I look forward to our first real lesson in Defense Against the Dark Arts, senior Quirrell," Ryan said, then followed Dumbledore and Flitwick out of the hospital wing.
The Headmaster's Office.
"Oh, Albus, this situation with Quirinus…" Professor Flitwick began, then trailed off, unsure what to say. Ryan knew his Head of House was torn, wanting to speak up for Quirrell but not knowing if he should. No one outside of the three of them knew that Voldemort had possessed him. And even they didn't know where Voldemort was now, or if Quirrell was truly free from his influence.
"Quirinus's story is entirely logical," Dumbledore said slowly, his fingers steepled. "I am willing to trust my student. However, we must continue to observe."
"If I get any relevant prophecies, I will inform you immediately," Ryan promised.
.....
Friday Morning, First-Year Potions, The Dungeons.
Professor Snape began the first Potions class of the term by slowly and deliberately taking roll. "Ah, yes. Harry Potter. Our new… celebrity." Harry had a bad feeling about this. Snape's tone was not complimentary.
Sure enough, Snape immediately launched into a series of impossible questions. "Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" "Where, Potter, would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
For various reasons, Harry lost two points for Gryffindor and received a lecture on how "fame isn't everything." Hermione, sitting beside him with her hand shooting into the air, was completely ignored.
Harry and Ron quickly discovered that Gryffindors were treated with particular contempt in Potions class. Their dislike for the sallow-skinned, empty-eyed Potions Master grew by the minute. Unfortunately, their anger did little to improve their potion-making skills. Distracted and fuming, they made a critical error.
Snape swept over to their cauldron. With a flick of his wand, he vanished the contents. "You fools," he sneered. "You stir twelve times before adding the dried snakeskin. The concoction you were brewing is fit only for poisoning yourselves. Five points from Gryffindor."
From the other side of the classroom, Malfoy poked his head up and smirked at Harry and Ron. "Look what I've got, Potter," he mouthed, pointing to the black-and-gold pin on his right sleeve.
Ron's eyes widened in disbelief. He couldn't believe a Slytherin had gotten into the Adventurers' Club. He was more convinced than ever that Ryan Welles was a closet Slytherin, and probably the one who had attacked Professor Quirrell.
"Weasley, do not let your mind wander in my classroom. Another point from Gryffindor," Snape's voice hissed from beside them.
"Sir, it was Malfoy—" Harry finally snapped, unable to take any more.
"Silence, Potter," Snape cut him off, his voice dangerously low. Behind Snape's back, Malfoy's grin widened. Snape's empty gaze flickered for a moment to the black-and-gold pin on Harry's sleeve, and his brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
He turned and continued his patrol of the dungeon, searching for other students who were not following instructions. When he passed Malfoy, he stopped to praise his "perfectly stewed horned slugs." Then, a cloud of acrid smoke billowed up from another cauldron. Neville had, unfortunately, chosen that exact moment to melt his.
"Idiot!" Snape roared. "You added the porcupine quills too early! This will only cause boils!" He then turned his glare on Harry. "And because you did not warn your classmate, you have lost Gryffindor another point."
Harry felt a surge of pure, unadulterated rage.
After Class.
Hermione hurried off towards the Ravenclaw Tower, clearly hoping to get a head start on networking with the older students before the first Adventurers' Club meeting. As first-years, their Fridays ended early, while most of the older students had classes until five. She wanted to gather as much information as she could, to find out what might be discussed at the meeting so she could prepare. Miss Granger could not abide the thought of attending a class of any kind without having studied for it beforehand.
Ron watched her go, an expression of pure disgust on his face. Harry, on the other hand, felt a pang of guilt. Having such a diligent peer was a constant, shameful reminder of his own academic anxieties, especially since he had a meeting with Hagrid at three.