Quirrell hastily waved his hands. "No, no, that's not it, I… I'm just a bit curious."
"Can you show me your Phoenix?"
"Of course…" Under Quirrell's eager gaze, Wayne made an abrupt turn. "No."
"Professor, if you teach us some useful spells in the next class, I will call the Royal Phoenix back. What do you think?"
Aside from McGonagall frowning slightly at Wayne's reckless teasing of a professor, the other teachers seemed unfazed. Quirrell's performance had been so poor that all the young wizards had grievances against him, which was hardly anyone else's fault. The teachers also shared similar sentiments toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, as he perpetually emanated an unpleasant odor that was off-putting.
Faced with Wayne's pressure, Quirrell could only stammer that he would try his best without making any promises. Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his eyes hidden in the reflection of the mirror, not revealing his thoughts.
On the fourth floor, in Quirrell's office, after breakfast and with no classes scheduled for the morning, he returned directly to his office. Along the way, few young wizards greeted him; the looks he received were filled with disdain and contempt.
As always, Quirrell kept his head down, refusing to respond. He closed the door and locked it. Pulling out his wand, he cast several trap spells and warning charms before finally standing in front of a floor-length mirror, removing the head covering that had drawn the curiosity of all the young witches and wizards.
Then, a face appeared on the back of his head. What a ghastly face it was—grayish-white, its expression twisted in perpetual pain. Just seeing it could scare a child to tears. This was the face of the being sealed within the host…
"Uh, it's Voldemort."
If Wayne were here, he would surely be amazed.
Although he looks ugly, at least he has a nose. Just look at how he has changed!
"Master…"
Quirrell prostrated respectfully on the ground, allowing Voldemort's face to bask in the sunlight.
"You fool! You can't even handle a first-year wizard. Why did I ever choose a worthless wretch like you?"
Voldemort's scolding was intermittent, sounding quite weak, yet Quirrell still trembled in fear, quietly justifying himself:
"Master, I had no other choice. If I show too much enthusiasm, Dumbledore will discover my abnormality."
Voldemort sneered, "Do you really think Dumbledore doesn't know you are mine?"
Quirrell was startled. "What? Then why doesn't he expose you and get rid of you?"
Voldemort retorted, his voice filled with malice: "I know Dumbledore is aware of my existence. He knows that I know he knows I exist. I also know…"
"This is a balance, a game between him and me, but Dumbledore would never expect that I, a lost soul, would dare to go to Hogwarts myself. In his mind, you are likely nothing more than a pitiful fool being manipulated by me!"
Quirrell stopped trembling and flattered, "No, Master. I have turned away from the darkness and followed you. It is only now that I see how hypocritical Dumbledore truly is."
"Then show me your worth! I don't need useless trash," Voldemort scolded. "I need the tears of a phoenix, especially those from Lawrence's phoenix!"
Voldemort knew very well that he was in a weakened state and could only regain some power through rare methods and evil rituals. The tears, even blood, of a phoenix were among those methods. That damned first-year wizard was continually pressing his servant, and some of his remarks were so harsh that even Voldemort could not tolerate them.
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