The Quidditch match was over.
Living up to everyone's expectations, Harley caught the Golden Snitch, and Gryffindor won with a score of 450 to 360.
In a head-on confrontation, the all-male, muscle-bound Slytherin team may have been lacking in technique, but their physical advantage allowed them to take the lead in goal-scoring. For three girls to go up against three brawny men was simply too difficult; had the match dragged on any longer, Gryffindor's chances of winning would have dropped even further.
This is the reason why professional Quidditch matches are dominated almost entirely by men. While there is no shortage of all-female Quidditch teams, they rarely rank high in international leagues. Even the best among them, the Holyhead Harpies, have yet to win a single league championship to this day.
The Gryffindor students were immersed in the joy of their Quidditch victory. Lynn dipped into his own pocket to buy some Butterbeer from the Three Broomsticks, as this non-alcoholic beverage was deeply loved by the young wizards.
In stark contrast to the lively scene in the Gryffindor common room, behind the locked door of the Defense Against the Dark Arts office on the third floor of the castle, Quirrell was on the verge of tears.
He had positioned two mirrors, one in front of him and one behind, allowing him to see exactly what the back of his head had become.
After unwrapping his turban, the back of his head usually featured a protruding face, making his head nearly one and a half times the size of a normal person's. But at this moment, that protruding, twisted face was nothing but twisted.
A massive depression had appeared there, forming a perfectly round crater.
Inlaid at the bottom of this crater was an abstract, deformed face.
Voldemort's eyes were shut tight, and no matter how Quirrell called out to him, he would not wake. For a moment, this gave Quirrell the distinct feeling that his "Master seemed a bit dead." His panic was tinged with a trace of sorrow, and within that sorrow lay a hint of relief; if Voldemort had truly died just like that, for him... it might not necessarily be a bad thing.
Although the power Voldemort promised him was the root cause of Quirrell's corruption, it wasn't until Voldemort had actually parasitized his body—and the terrifying sensation of watching his own life force drain away set in—that Quirrell began to feel a twinge of regret and dread.
Quirrell was not Barty Crouch Jr., nor was he Bellatrix Lestrange. He did not possess the kind of loyalty and madness that would drive him to sacrifice everything, including his own life, for the Dark Lord's cause. He merely coveted the knowledge and power Voldemort had promised.
Voldemort had guaranteed his safety once the deed was done, but right now, Quirrell wasn't so sure he believed that anymore.
Stuck to the back of his head was Lord Dent-a-mort; Voldemort had been lying prone, only to cave inward. He had been unconscious for so long without waking, and it even looked like something was... leaking out...
"That couldn't be my brain matter, could it?"
Quirrell suddenly shuddered.
Just as this thought crossed his mind, he saw in the mirror that the eyelids on that dented, leaking face twitched slightly.
A voice laden with malice spilled from lips that had been twisted into a mere slit.
"Quirrell..."
Voldemort called out his servant's name.
"M... Master... You... you... you... it's so good that you're alright!"
Whether from excitement or terror, Quirrell spoke with tears streaming down his face. "I thought you weren't coming back."
"Indeed, I almost didn't."
Voldemort's voice was hoarse and low, radiating an aura of death. "Perhaps you should explain to me why you went to the Quidditch pitch?"
"And why that damned Bludger hit me!"
"It... it... it... it was because... because..."
Quirrell's legs turned to jelly, and he fell to his knees, trembling. "I... I... I just wanted to confirm... that Harley... yes, Harley!"
Suddenly clutching at a straw, Quirrell spoke hurriedly: "Master, didn't you suspect her... her identity before? That boy... no, that girl, what exactly is her identity?"
"But no one has seen if she has that scar on her forehead. I haven't had the chance, but on the pitch, it might have been possible. She was flying on a broomstick, I mean—"
"Enough! You fool!"
Voldemort shouted in rage. He had been somewhat concerned about this girl surnamed Potter, but he was more inclined to believe it was merely a coincidence. The Potter family might not have been completely wiped out; after all, there were so many Weasleys in the wizarding world, so why couldn't there be a girl named Potter?
The prophecy spoke of a boy. And when he prepared to kill the boy in the prophecy, he had heard with his own ears that the woman shouted "Harry," not "Harley." Voldemort was confident he had not misheard.
"Is figuring out such trivial matters what you should be doing right now?"
Voldemort gritted his teeth, speaking weakly. "Getting the Philosopher's Stone is the key. While I still have a little strength left, go and get it. Create a new body for me. You must be getting tired of me living on your body by now, aren't you?"
"How could that be... it is my honor, Master..." Quirrell stammered, trembling, not daring to speak his true thoughts.
"Lies."
Voldemort whispered, which only deepened Quirrell's terror.
"Go and deal with that dog. Find a way to get past it. The Philosopher's Stone—that is your goal, and your only goal."
"Once you have obtained the Stone and created a new body for me, I will fulfill my promise and grant you knowledge and power beyond your wildest imagination."
"Now, go and brew a potion."
"I need to rest, so listen closely..."
Quirrell summoned every ounce of his concentration to memorize the potion's recipe, daring not to slack off in the slightest.
But upon hearing the ingredients for this potion, Quirrell could not help but shudder once more.
"Unicorn blood..."
As an outstanding graduate of Ravenclaw, Quirrell possessed an intense thirst for knowledge. He had traveled the world and even willingly become Voldemort's lapdog, all to satisfy his ever-expanding, greedy possessiveness over knowledge.
And such people could always be found in Ravenclaw every now and then. Among the Ravenclaw graduates serving time in Azkaban, nine out of ten had broken taboos for similar reasons.
Quirrell naturally knew about unicorns. These pure creatures were magical beings favored by magic itself; they could bestow blessings, but they could also bring about terrible curses.
Even poachers who targeted unicorns sought only their horns and fur, not their blood. When killing them, they had to take extra care to avoid touching the unicorn's blood at all costs. Almost anyone tainted by this cursed blood would not live past a year; a miserable death was the inevitable conclusion they would face.
The materials obtained by killing a unicorn were excellent ingredients for crafting Dark Magic items—malicious, powerful, and brimming with defiled energy. Dark wizards salivated over them.
Hogwarts indeed had many unicorns; in fact, one would be hard-pressed to find another place in Europe with a larger population of them.
Quirrell knew very well that he could never gain a unicorn's acknowledgement to obtain uncursed blood. His only path to acquiring the blood was to take it by force, or even to kill a unicorn to get it.
"Can the Master really enable me to escape the unicorn's curse?"
Quirrell thought uneasily. He hesitated over whether to go through with it, yet he dared not truly defy Voldemort's orders. The price he had already paid was far too great; other than continuing down this dark path to the bitter end, Quirrell had no other choice.
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