Quirrell's voice echoed clearly off the tiled walls. Anthony couldn't even pretend he hadn't heard. The black-and-white room felt cold. Stone-crowned kings stood at opposite ends of the board. Faceless. Staring at each other across the squares.
"Why would you think that?" Anthony asked. "Even if I'm not a graduate here, what about you? Don't you have any attachment to Hogwarts?"
Quirrell's face twisted for an instant.
"I—of course I did. Once. Even when everyone looked down on me, ignored me, I still..." He said calmly. "But not anymore. I've recognized my past foolishness. Become immensely powerful. Because he is with me every moment."
"He?" Anthony asked, puzzled. Then realized he'd asked a stupid question. Believers did describe their gods and masters that way.
Sure enough, Quirrell said: "My master. My guardian and overseer." He seemed unwilling to elaborate—shuddered again, showed a pained expression, then quickly changed the subject. "All these days, Henry, we've observed and tested you repeatedly. Finally dared to confirm it. You truly are a necromancer. I hope you'll forgive our caution. Most people are fools. They see Dark magic as a scourge. Ashamed to admit their ambition for power. We Dark wizards..."
Anthony frowned. Interrupted his rambling sermon: "'We Dark wizards'? You too?"
Though he knew Quirrell, as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, had studied Dark magic extensively, research and practice were two different things. One didn't need to become a plant to be a botanist.
Moreover, what determined whether someone was a scholar or a Dark wizard wasn't how deeply they studied Dark magic, but Ministry documents and personal positioning—when Quirrell called himself a "Dark wizard," that absolutely meant something.
"Me too?" Quirrell repeated softly. Expression strange. "Of course I am. Didn't you know? Come. Follow me. I'll show you my power—his power—and then, Henry, I truly hope you'll join us."
He stepped onto the chessboard. Walked across the black-and-white squares. Straight toward the opposite side of the room. Lightly tapped the white king standing there. The king toppled onto the soldier in front of it. Shattered. Behind the board, a door appeared. Beyond it, undoubtedly another corridor.
Anthony saw Quirrell turn back. His face wore an impatient expression Anthony had never seen before. The expression was so unfamiliar that a strange thought occurred to him—the person wasn't Quirrell. Not the professor who lived next door with a garlic portrait for a door.
"Keep up. Unless you want to experience that power yourself," Quirrell said. "Or have you already figured it out? That's right. This chessboard is enchanted. Those dim-witted, weak people can only follow stupid instructions. Win this boring game of wizard's chess to reach where I stand. But I don't need to." He coughed a few times. "My body may not be well, but power won't abandon me. With this power, I can mock the rules to their face."
Anthony slowly crossed the chessboard. His patchwork slippers slapped against the floor. Carried him past knights on horseback, soldiers in neat rows, bishops in stone robes, the queen standing majestically. Finally reached Quirrell's side.
"Good," Quirrell said, satisfied. Walked forward with him. "That's it, Henry. No need to hide your power anymore..." Though the words sounded condescending, his tone carried a hint of envy and madness that made Anthony glance at him.
In the dim corridor light, Quirrell looked like the familiar, helpful, friendly professor again. Still wore that ridiculous large scarf on his head. In the firelight, the scarf's shadow danced across his forehead, eyes, nose. As if he were still making those twitching facial expressions.
At the corridor's end, Quirrell opened the door with practiced ease. Like he knew this area intimately.
Even having missed Halloween's chaos, when an astonishing stench hit him, Anthony immediately knew what was inside.
A troll. The grunting thing sat on the floor, bored. Hadn't noticed the small door opening. Or the human outside radiating fresh garlic scent. Or the corpse behind that human who'd stopped breathing from the stench.
Quirrell entered first.
"Watch closely, Professor Anthony," he said excitedly in a low voice.
Quirrell raised his wand. Slashed sharply. The troll immediately jumped up like it'd been stung. Looked around furiously. But before it could raise its club overhead, a flying curse made its forearm and club crash to the ground together. The troll seemed not to understand what happened. Flailed its remaining arm in pain. Sprayed blood on all four walls, the ceiling overhead, even Quirrell's scarf and robes.
Quirrell laughed softly. Then looked at Anthony still outside: "Come in, Anthony. Don't make me repeat myself." His face flashed with fanatical amusement. "I'm afraid it's too late for you to leave now."
Quirrell did look like a Dark wizard now. And Anthony found he couldn't lift his feet at all.
Perhaps this was all an illusion. No Dark wizard Quirrell at all. This bizarre event was the mechanism Dumbledore said would cause "innocent deaths." This was the end. Or perhaps this was Quirrell's trap. Anthony had pathetically stepped in it. Or perhaps troll snot was very sticky. And he'd unluckily glued his slippers to the floor...
But none of those were true. Quirrell impatiently pulled. He entered this warm, stinking room. At the same time, he heard the sound of his warm, friendly, peaceful life memories breaking. Like a stone thrown into the Black Lake.
Splash.
Splash.
The troll collapsed on the floor. Unconscious. Its tiny head pressed against the corner. Facing Quirrell and Anthony. Blood pooled everywhere. The room stank. Though Anthony didn't need to breathe, he still wondered why Quirrell could talk so calmly and endlessly. Why Quirrell's face remained pale white instead of vegetable green.
"It's big. But stupid," Quirrell said contemptuously. "Like many people in this world. Only know how to use brute force. But here—" He pointed at his head. "—nothing."
"I have a knack for dealing with these dumb things," Quirrell said. "I can chop. Slash. Cut. Make it hit itself. Make it feel pain without knowing where the pain comes from... I can make it dance in circles—oh, how Barnabas the Barmy would envy me—you see, Professor Anthony, I possess this power."
Anthony said quietly: "Yes. You have this power... Just confirming—do you treat humans like you treat trolls?"
"I—no," Quirrell said. His face twitched strangely. "I haven't yet... haven't found the opportunity. I must hide myself. I know before necromancy these may all be games, but this is only a small part of my master's power. He—" His words cut off abruptly. Sweat rolled down his forehead.
Anthony watched him quietly.
Quirrell bent over. Coughed. Muttered painfully to himself. Against the troll blood's backdrop, his complexion seemed even worse. When he spoke again, tears of pain filled his eyes. And he'd changed the subject.
"But such a big thing. Such a big magical creature. Should be useful to you, shouldn't it?" Quirrell said. "I know. Necromancy always needs some material assistance. Something like a troll—no brains, but such a large corpse... Its bones. Its flesh. Should all be useful to you, right?"
Seeing Anthony's expressionless face, Quirrell continued: "And the basilisk. Its corpse also realized its value in your hands, didn't it? Professor Anthony, we can provide you with an endless stream of corpses. Magical creatures or humans. Whatever you need. Werewolves mid-transformation. Wizards still in Animagus form... The mysteries of magic. The secrets of immortality. Power and authority..."
"Why?" Anthony asked.
Quirrell sighed impatiently.
Seeming to find the troll's moaning in unconsciousness annoying, he raised his wand overhead. Waved it at the troll in the corner. It made a phlegmy sound. The troll's eyes opened. Then in a daze of confused, pained staring, it gazed at the contemporary art piece formed by blood behind Anthony. Puzzled. Lost its breath.
Quirrell wiped his wand. Said: "Lost necromancy... You should be smarter than this, Anthony. From that day—the day Slytherin lost one hundred sixty points—I knew. You're also a Dark wizard. A very powerful Dark wizard. But only recently did we dare confirm you're truly a necromancer. And necromancers deserve preferential treatment. Those Ministry idiots will never understand this. Neither will Hogwarts. We can provide you with endless research materials. Profound, mysterious magical knowledge. As long as you're willing—"
"I'm not willing," Anthony said.
Quirrell stopped: "I'm sorry?"
"I'm not willing."
"I suggest you agree, Professor Anthony," Quirrell said. Seemed uneasy for the first time. "I really suggest you do. It won't harm you. You see, you're a necromancer—"
"Yes. But I don't like killing people," Anthony said.
Even looking confused, Quirrell still seemed relieved: "That's fine. That's what I mean. You don't need to kill personally. You can still get your experimental materials..."
Anthony shook his head: "You don't understand. I mean I don't like seeing dead humans. Don't like seeing anything tortured. In fact, I think life at Hogwarts is pretty good. And you—Quirrell, if that's really your name—whoever your master is, Satan or whoever, please tell him I'm not planning to go to hell just yet. Even if that's where all necromancers end up."
Quirrell said, confused: "But aren't you a Dark wizard? Aren't you a necromancer?"
"I am," Anthony admitted. "But I—how to put it—you could say I'm a pacifist necromancer. And what you're inviting me to do sounds... subtly distant from peace."
Quirrell's eyes widened. Said with certainty: "You're insane."
"Maybe," Anthony said. "Another thing I want to tell you—whatever secret of immortality lies beyond those doors, I'm not interested. And guess what? I'm going to stop you while I'm at it."
Quirrell gripped his wand. Said: "Seriously, I suggest you reconsider. How will you stop me? Strangle me with your bathrobe? Choke me with an apple? Where's your wand, Professor Anthony?"
Anthony answered irrelevantly: "I really don't like using necromancy."
The next moment, Quirrell turned at a strange noise behind him. Saw the battered troll slowly sitting up. He whipped around. Glared at Anthony's velvet pocket and the hand inside gripping an apple tightly.
"You—you don't use a wand?" Quirrell asked hoarsely. "Not at all?"
"Of course not," Anthony said. "I just don't need a wand when using necromancy."
The troll dragged its bruised, swollen body. Walked heavily to the small door opposite. Sat down. Quirrell looked at the massive troll corpse. Then at Anthony. Raised his wand.
Anthony made the troll tap the floor with its club. Since the forearm was still attached, the sound was very strange. Quirrell jumped as if startled by the friction of bone against floor. Glanced at the troll again.
"That door has a troll. Very smelly," Anthony kindly explained. Then stood by the door. Reached out. Pulled out the little mouse's apple. "And here's an apple. Fragrant and sweet."
The mouse squeaked. Complained about why he'd taken its apple.
"Make a choice," Anthony said.
Quirrell held his wand. Slowly approached the apple in Anthony's hand. Then suddenly snapped his fingers. A rope appeared from nowhere. Bound Anthony tightly. In that instant, his expression twisted grotesquely: "My master—"
"—is an idiot," Anthony said. The troll corpse charged across the room. Swung its severed arm. Smashed the back of Quirrell's head hard.
"I thought I told you I don't use a wand," Anthony said. Felt the troll's blow still echoing in the room. Made his ears ring. He seemed to hear a shrill voice also shouting "idiot."
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