Chapter 116 – Voldemort's Interest
"Impressive," Voldemort's voice hissed within Quirrell's mind.
"At such a young age, to command so many spells… I even sensed traces of ancient magic."
"And more importantly," the voice continued, carrying a note of approval,
"he does not reject the Dark Arts. If this were not Hogwarts, he would not have held back so much—just like I didn't, back then."
"Give him a chance to study Dark Magic, and he would accept it gladly."
In short: this child is like me.
Quirrell had witnessed the entire confrontation from the classroom. Since Voldemort shared his senses, he too had seen Russell's performance in full.
"I believe it is time to recruit another talented young wizard," Voldemort said calmly.
"He could be of great use to my resurrection."
Voldemort's interest in Russell deepened. A second-year student—tempting him should not be difficult.
"But… why, my Lord?" Quirrell protested uneasily.
"Isn't having me enough?"
He definitely wasn't biased against Russell.
Absolutely not because Russell had worn a gas mask in class and pretended to be sick.
He wasn't that petty.
"You?" Voldemort scoffed, as though hearing a cosmic joke.
"Look at the state you're in. You vomit blood just from walking a few extra steps. Relying on you is worse than relying on Nagini."
"Nagini—yes, Nagini!" Voldemort suddenly sounded anxious.
"Where is my Nagini?"
If that impostor found her first, it would be disastrous.
___
But his concern was unnecessary.
At this very moment, Mimiron and Cup Voldemort were in far worse condition than either Quirrell or Voldemort.
They were barely surviving in the Shrieking Shack.
Some might say the Shrieking Shack had already been destroyed by Russell.
That was true—at the time.
But Dumbledore had later restored it completely using the Elder Wand.
A Deathly Hallow was not comparable to an ordinary wand.
No one knew why Dumbledore had done so.
Perhaps to conceal secrets.
Or perhaps simply to preserve a memory.
Ever since his mutual destruction with Quirrell—
(in truth, he had lost, though he refused to admit it)—
Mimiron had been hiding in the Shrieking Shack, sneaking into Hogsmeade at night under a Disillusionment Charm to steal food.
The villagers noticed missing meals but assumed it was stray cats or dogs.
And so, Mimiron survived on leftovers.
"My Lord… this can't go on," Mimiron said after devouring all three meals of the day at once, licking the grease from the plate clean before carefully returning it.
If he took the plate, there would be no food next time.
He understood this well.
Although Cup Voldemort's injuries were no longer worsening, they showed no sign of healing either.
"Are you questioning me?" Cup Voldemort asked coldly.
"I wouldn't dare," Mimiron replied hastily.
"But… it is a problem," Voldemort continued.
"My other self at Hogwarts surely has better means of recovery. If he recovers first…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
"Then… what should we do?" Mimiron asked urgently.
"I've heard that unicorn blood can extend life," Voldemort said.
"Mimiron—can you obtain it?"
"That will be difficult," Mimiron frowned.
"Unicorn blood does prolong life, but those who drink it are cursed—condemned to a half-life."
"Are you afraid?" Voldemort sneered.
"Afraid of being cursed for my sake?"
"No, my Lord," Mimiron said quickly.
From the moment he drank from the Cup and became bound to Voldemort, there had been no turning back.
"It's just that for this reason, unicorn blood is rarely sold—even in Diagon Alley. Unless we find a fresh unicorn."
"Let me think," Voldemort murmured.
A moment passed.
Then his tone shifted—sharp, excited.
"The Forbidden Forest outside Hogwarts contains an entire herd of unicorns."
Meanwhile—
"My Lord… how should we approach Fythorne?" Quirrell asked reluctantly, having accepted the grim reality.
"If we approach him directly, he may grow suspicious," Quirrell added, making one final attempt to delay the inevitable.
"That," Voldemort replied coldly, "is your problem."
"If you fail…"
He chuckled softly.
The voice faded.
Quirrell clenched his fingers until they cracked, his expression dark and twisted.
His behavior earlier had already left Russell with a bad impression. At this point, no matter what he said, Russell probably wouldn't take it seriously. After all—who would believe that a stuttering, trembling professor could teach him anything worthwhile?
Night gradually fell.
Inside the Defence Against the Dark Arts office, half of Quirrell's face was swallowed by shadow, giving him a strangely unsettling look. He let out a long sigh.
It seemed there was no choice left—he would have to show Russell his true abilities, even if doing so would further burden his body, already flickering like a candle in the wind.
He could only hope Russell would be sensible enough to accept it.
Otherwise—
A vicious glint flashed across Quirrell's eyes. He suddenly stood up, staggered to the rubbish bin, and clutched it tightly as he vomited mouthful after mouthful of blood.
He'd gotten too worked up.
The old illness was acting up again.
A deep sense of bitterness welled up inside him.
He had thought that after pledging himself to Voldemort, even if he didn't become powerful and feared, he would at least earn respect. Instead, now even first-year students looked down on him—and his body was riddled with disease.
"Are you dissatisfied with me?"
A cold, serpentine voice echoed in his mind.
Quirrell's already pale face drained of all color.
"My Lord—no, I didn't mean it! Please forgive me, please!"
"You have made many mistakes today," the voice said icily.
"It is time you learned a lesson. You should understand—there are some thoughts you are not even allowed to have."
"AAAAHH—!"
A piercing scream rang out inside the office, yet not a single sound escaped beyond its walls.
---
Meanwhile, Russell leisurely spread a thick layer of chili sauce over a slice of golden, crispy toasted mantou.
This was the result of his excellent relationship with the house-elves in the kitchens. Before the term began, he had thoughtfully bought each of them a gift.
As a result, he now enjoyed the same privileges as the professors—custom orders, whenever he wanted.
Life was really starting to look promising.
He took a bite.
Crunch.
The crisp toast crackled pleasantly, perfectly blending with the chili sauce. Absolutely authentic.
Over at the Slytherin table, however, Rosier was having a far less pleasant evening.
His plan to humiliate Russell had completely failed—and worse, he had lost all face.
Although the duel had been stopped by Professor Snape before a winner was decided, anyone with eyes could tell that if Snape hadn't intervened, Russell's spell would have struck him directly.
As Rosier walked through the corridors earlier, he felt as though everyone was staring at him. Every whisper, every burst of laughter seemed—at least to him—to be mocking his humiliation.
In truth, he was overthinking it.
If the incident had involved Harry Potter, perhaps people would have cared.
But Rosier?
Who was that again?
Still, Rosier blamed everything on Russell.
He stared at Russell with naked malice, veins bulging on his hands as he hacked viciously at the chicken on his plate.
"Hey, Cyrian, easy there," someone beside him said kindly.
"You're about to cut through the plate."
Rosier snapped back to reality. Looking down, he saw that the chicken had been shredded into mush, and deep scratches marred the once-smooth plate.
Disgust flickered across his face. He tossed aside his knife and fork.
"I'm done eating."
"Still thinking about what happened earlier?"
A burly wizard sat down beside him, casually grabbing a meat pie and taking a huge bite.
"Flint?" Rosier sneered.
"What, here to laugh at me? Since when does a prefect get that bored?"
Flint didn't take offense. He simply chuckled.
"Of course not. Don't tell me you think I like Fythorne either."
"Ever since I entered Slytherin, we've won the House Cup every single year. I wanted to keep that streak going for all seven years."
"And then he ruined it."
Flint's voice darkened with anger.
"Is that so…?" Rosier said slowly, his opinion of Flint subtly shifting.
"Of course," Flint said, patting him on the shoulder.
Under normal circumstances, Rosier would have slapped Flint's hand away in disgust. But now—perhaps because they shared a common enemy—he let it slide.
"There's no rush," Flint added with a wink.
"Plenty of time ahead, isn't there?"
With that, Flint stood and walked away.
He's right, Rosier thought.
A gentleman's revenge can wait ten years.
His mood lifted considerably. His appetite even returned.
He picked up a piece of cake and stuffed it into his mouth.
Just you wait, Fythorne.
But just as he stood to leave for the common room to plan his next move, a sudden, violent pain twisted through his abdomen.
His stomach churned violently.
"W—ugh!"
He doubled over and vomited a foul, black, stinking liquid onto the floor.
Within it, pale shapes writhed.
Thick, white maggots—dozens of them—twisting and squirming.
"Disgusting!"
Nearby students gagged and fled, covering their noses.
"It wasn't me—!" Rosier tried to protest.
But the sensation surged again.
He retched once more.
This time, there was less black fluid—but far more writhing worms.
"What on earth is going on here?"
Professor Snape's voice rang out, cold and thunderous.