Quirrell felt terrible.
Ever since some idle little wizard's complaint got him stripped of the Defence Against the Dark Arts post, the Dark Lord had been "educating" him for half an hour every day.
While tormenting him and raging that he was "trash who couldn't even manage the degree of disguise," Voldemort was completely oblivious to the fact that disguising himself as trash had been his own idea.
For Voldemort, this was the second time he'd been rejected for the Defence against the Dark Arts post at Hogwarts. This was a hundred times more humiliating than Dumbledore's first refusal. This time, he'd actually been kicked out and replaced...
If he weren't currently incomplete, he would have raised the position's curse to the point where every new appointee died on the job.
Today, too, Quirrell was left listless and unfocused by the "education".
He even had the illusion he was being followed.
Sterling immediately withdrew his head behind the corner. He hadn't expected that even with a Disillusionment Charm up, Quirrell could instinctively sense a gaze on him.
If not for writing Quirrell's name in "Witness of the Author" and obtaining the current reality, "his magic is nearly exhausted," Sterling wouldn't have dared simply tail him like this.
Switching on magical sight, Sterling noticed something he'd never seen before.
At the back of Quirrell's head, there appeared a "thread" whose colour didn't match Quirrell's own. In previous observations, this had never been there. And the thread at the back of his head was obviously far thicker than his own, equal in number and quality to Dumbledore's.
That was... very bad...
Sterling had always thought Quirrell merely served the Dark Lord, and that the darkness at the back of his head might be some kind of binding. He hadn't expected Voldemort to be riding on him directly into Hogwarts. The reason he hadn't seen it before might be that Voldemort had concealed his presence with magic.
After all, as a Dark wizard who could stand against Dumbledore and a being beyond ordinary wizarding limits, deceiving Sterling's magical sight wasn't impossible.
But that meant Sterling's plan to club Quirrell in a surprise hit was finished.
He didn't know why the Dark Lord had stopped masking himself, but as long as he was still on Quirrell's head, sleeping, sealed, whatever, he wouldn't sit back if Quirrell faced danger. If a fight with Voldemort broke out in the castle...
First, Sterling couldn't win. From Dumbledore alone, it was clear: surpassing wizardly limits lets you touch the realm of great mages. Sterling wasn't there yet. At best he could stall until Dumbledore came to finish it.
Second, even if he could fight, he mustn't. This was a school. If a terrorist were pushed into a full eruption, Sterling was sure he'd take hostages or simply use students as fuel for Dark rituals.
That meant there was no stopping him before he reached the Forbidden Forest.
Compared to the forest's magical creatures and plants, Sterling believed the little wizards in the castle were far more important.
Sterling stopped monitoring Quirrell. He needed to set things in the Forbidden Forest... After all, Maleficent's Black Forest wasn't just for show, and Vivian's garden wasn't a place for idle wandering.
For Avalonian mages, home-field advantage could at times surpass raw magical attainment.
Both Maleficent and Vivian excelled in natural environments. And, conveniently, Hogwarts had no place more natural than the Forbidden Forest.
Sterling strolled beneath the trees. Misty starlight drifted from his lowered hands, and the magic borne in it slowly soaked into the ground he passed over. Pure white iris blooms unfurled beneath his feet.
Quirrell had never imagined he'd one day enjoy Muggle Studies so much.
The one at the back of his head so despised all mention of Muggles that he would fall asleep at the start of every lesson, during which Quirrell was "free"...
At least then, his thoughts wouldn't be constantly read.
Of course, he couldn't do anything during that window. The Dark Lord was especially adept at controlling servants; the instant Quirrell even conceived of betrayal, he'd awaken and deliver "weighty instruction".
Voldemort had perfected a level of Cruciatus that shattered all thought down to the root, leaving only obedience.
Sometimes, catching sight of his atrophying fingers and feeling his shrivelled magic, no better than a Squib's, Quirrell would regret it. But that emotion flickered only an instant before a deep crimson bolt struck.
He now had only the Dark Lord's plan in his head.
As long as he completed it, perhaps the Dark Lord would be especially merciful and leave this broken body...
It was Quirrell's sole hope.
The promised immortality and status no longer entered his thoughts. He only wished to live on, even as a Squib, even forever away from the wizarding world...
"Quirrell, are you ready?"
He had just entered his office when the voice from hell seized his soul. He cringed to the floor and knocked his head to the ground.
"Great... my Lord... the troll has already been hidden in the dungeons..."
"Fool. I meant the place where the Philosopher's Stone is kept! You still haven't obtained any details?"
A cloud of darkness rose from the back of Quirrell's head and hovered in the air. Two long, narrow crimson points glared at him with anger.
"My Lord! I have clues, my Lord, ahhhhhhh!"
Voldemort was not patient. Clues? Useless. If he didn't have what Voldemort wanted now, he would be punished.
"Unthinkable that I must rely on a servant as useless as you... Perhaps you now hate that former self who went seeking the Dark Lord's trail?"
Under repeated Cruciatus, Quirrell writhed in agony. Veins in his forehead burst under the pressure, blood pooling on the floor.
Voldemort, disgusted, drifted a little higher.
"My Lord... Quirrell is forever your most faithful servant..."
Seizing a pause, Quirrell crawled forward to kiss the shadow Voldemort cast on the floor, but his mouth was still full of blood. It spilt onto Voldemort's shadow...
"Crucio."
Red light filled the office. Miserable howls echoed in the closed space. Voldemort, irritated by the sound, casually flicked a Tongue-Tying curse.
Quirrell could only writhe like a maggot on the floor. He no longer had the strength to roll. Even his twitching now was merely a body's instinctive reaction to extremity of pain.
Only when Quirrell could no longer make a sound did Voldemort condescend to inject a streak of ash-black light into him.
Breathing returned. In the filthy blood, Quirrell's unfocused eyes gathered back into awareness.
"Quirrell… my child… You know I hold such high expectations for you. It leaves me no choice but to educate you properly."
A dark mist shaped into a hand and lightly stroked Quirrell's cheek.
Clearly cold fog, yet Quirrell felt warmth. Only then did he realise his body was as cold as a corpse.
Just like the first person he'd killed under the Dark Lord's coercion.
His blood stained the Dark Lord's hand as Voldemort kneaded the burst veins until half his face was red.
"You will meet my expectations, won't you?"
"As you wish..." Quirrell's eyes could shed no tears; his tears had long become one with the filth on the ground.
Voldemort returned to the back of his head and fell asleep again. Numbly, Quirrell rose and tidied his body, piece by piece.
He didn't know what magic Voldemort had used, but though his wounds still throbbed, bone white on his leg was even visible, his movement was unaffected, as if he were unhurt.
Only the pain remained, and he was not permitted to numb it.
"The last time... the last time..."
Quirrell wrapped himself in heavy robes and pulled a grey potion from a sealed cabinet, drinking it down in one go.
A torrent of magic erupted, almost tangible, ten times his peak. Feeling magic flow in him again after so long, Quirrell could no longer cry, but he still sobbed.
He felt it: his life had truly become a half-spent candle on a candlestick.
Quirrell took a deep breath and left the office.
The lively Great Hall was suddenly broken into by a figure shrouded in tattered black robes. He collapsed to the floor, eyes wide with terror.
"Troll! Troll in the dungeons!"
Blood trickled in a steady line down his arm.
"I thought you ought to know..."
Quirrell toppled over, and the Hall was instantly engulfed by uproar.