In the dim, candle-lit depths of the Defence Against the Dark Arts office, a soft, rasping voice echoed like a chill draft slipping through the walls.
"You failed to control them, Quirrell…"
Professor Quirrell flinched, his pale hands trembling as he stared at the faint shimmer of shadow curling beneath his turban.
"M–My Lord, I—I tried! The Hufflepuffs are too united now, and Dumbledore—he's watching more closely than ever—"
The voice hissed sharply, cutting him off.
"Excuses."
Quirrell bowed his head low, sweat trickling down his temples. The presence in the back of his mind pulsed like a cold flame — the parasite he could not resist, the will he could not defy.
"The boy… that Hufflepuff brat," Voldemort whispered, his tone icy. "He's drawing attention, disrupting the balance. If the school begins to question its professors, Dumbledore's eyes will turn toward us."
Quirrell swallowed hard.
"W–What would you have me do, my Lord?"
"Fix this mess," Voldemort hissed, the voice slithering into his skull. "Make Dumbledore forget about complaints and suspicions. If you cannot… I shall find someone else to wear this body."
Quirrell's heart hammered. He could feel the Dark Lord's hunger stirring within him, gnawing at his sanity.
Suddenly, a knock came at the door.Voldemort fell silent instantly — the air grew heavy, cold.
Quirrell composed himself, tightening his turban before opening the door.
Professor Snape stood there, his black eyes gleaming like onyx.
"Quirrell," Snape said curtly. "The Headmaster wishes to see you tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you prepare… answers."
Quirrell's lips twitched nervously.
"Y–Yes, of course, Severus."
Snape's gaze lingered, piercing — as though he could sense the darkness under that trembling facade. Then, without another word, he turned and swept away, his robes trailing behind him like smoke.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Voldemort's voice returned — low, furious.
"He suspects."
"Snape?" Quirrell stammered.
"No — Dumbledore. He sends his dog to sniff first. You must not allow him to feel my presence. We need… concealment."
A pause. Then, the voice sharpened.
"Go to Gringotts. Empty your vault. Acquire what is needed — powdered unicorn horn, mandrake essence, crushed moonseed, and ash of basilisk scale. We shall brew a potion to mask my aura."
Quirrell hesitated.
"My Lord, basilisk ash is banned—"
"Do it!" Voldemort roared inside his mind. The candles flickered wildly. "You will not be found before I am ready!"
Quirrell trembled violently but obeyed.
The Forbidden Errand
That very night, cloaked and hooded, Quirrell slipped out of Hogwarts through the secret passage behind the tapestry of Morgan le Fay. The journey to Diagon Alley was silent — the air thick with the weight of his mission.
At Gringotts, he emptied his vault — bags of galleons clinking in the dim light. He bought every rare ingredient Voldemort demanded, even those hidden behind black-market counters in Knockturn Alley.
Hours later, back in his office, the cauldron hissed with dark fumes as the potion brewed — a sickly, opalescent liquid swirling with faint silver veins.
"Now… drink," Voldemort commanded.
Quirrell lifted the vial with trembling fingers. The moment the liquid touched his lips, he felt as though fire and frost raced through his veins at once. His body convulsed — the dark presence flared — then… quieted.
For the first time in months, the air around him felt empty. Silent. Voldemort's aura was completely veiled.
"Good," the voice whispered faintly now, hidden and contained. "Now, go to him. Play the fool you pretend to be."
The Meeting with Dumbledore
The next afternoon, the great stone gargoyle turned to let Professor Quirrell through. His hands shook slightly as he ascended the spiral staircase.
Dumbledore awaited him behind the vast oak desk, the soft light of Fawkes the phoenix flickering over the room.
"Ah, Quirinus," Dumbledore said kindly, his blue eyes twinkling with their usual unreadable calm. "I was wondering when I'd see you."
Quirrell bowed deeply.
"P–Professor Dumbledore, I wished to speak regarding… my condition."
"Your condition?"
"Yes, sir," Quirrell said, wringing his hands nervously. "You see, the vampire I once encountered — he continues to search for me. To protect myself — and the students, of course — I thought to brew a potion of concealment. One that would require…"
He hesitated dramatically.
"…Phoenix tears."
Dumbledore studied him quietly for a long moment. Then, with a faint nod, he turned to Fawkes.
The phoenix gave a soft, melodious cry and shed a single tear into a vial that appeared in Dumbledore's hand — a vial shimmering with six drops of radiant gold.
"Use these wisely, Quirinus," Dumbledore said, handing them over. "Phoenix tears are a gift of life. Do not waste them on fear."
Quirrell forced a trembling smile.
"Y–Yes, Headmaster. You have my gratitude."
He left quickly, clutching the vial in both hands — but once outside the office, his expression changed. The nervous smile melted away, replaced by a cold, knowing grin.
"Perfect," Voldemort hissed inside his skull, the faint voice purring with satisfaction. "With the tears of a phoenix, we are one step closer to immortality… and one step further from his sight."
The torches along the corridor flickered briefly — and for a moment, the shadow beneath Quirrell's turban seemed to smile.