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Instead of slipping to the back of Quirrell's skull as usual, Voldemort's spirit seemed to sink downward, dragged like a lead weight. A strange force tugged at him, anchoring him somewhere unexpected.
"What is happening?!" Voldemort roared, though his voice was weaker now, trembling with disbelief.
"Master?" Quirrell whispered nervously. He felt a strange discomfort as Voldemort's presence shifted. Panic welled within him. Voldemort's spirit had not returned to the back of his head.
No. It had gone lower.
"Damn it! What is wrong with your body?!" Voldemort's voice howled in fury, though the sheer indignity of his predicament was unmistakable.
"M-My body?" Quirrell stammered, flustered. His face burned with humiliation. It was as though Voldemort's essence had taken up residence somewhere... unmentionable.
He felt Voldemort struggling, but there was no reprieve. The weakened Dark Lord could not overpower the strange force keeping him trapped in this mortifying position.
"Leave, you imbecile! Get back to the castle!" Voldemort spat, though his voice was muffled and distant.
Quirrell gulped. The thought of Voldemort lurking in such an undignified place was unbearable. And what if he needed to use the bathroom?
"Okay, okay." Quirrell endured the discomfort and hurriedly left the alley; he glanced back at the fallen witness, his eyes flashing with pity and helplessness.
"Don't blame me."
Quirrell silently prayed and immediately left the secluded alley, running towards the bustling street, where many people were still wandering in Hogsmeade village.
"Care for a game of wizard chess, sir?"
A voice rang out as someone stepped forward, blocking his path. The sudden inquiry startled Quirrell.
"Out of the way!"
He shoved aside the chess player without a second thought, sending them stumbling to the ground. Not only that, but he even glared at the unfortunate wizard with Voldemort's malevolent gaze.
"This is your own doing!"
Seeing the chess player's panicked expression, Quirrell felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, the knot in his chest easing slightly as he hurried towards the castle.
"Master, do you think Dumbledore... might have already guessed that you would return?" Quirrell, a former Ravenclaw, calmed down after escaping the immediate danger, his mind gradually regaining its clarity.
"Of course, you fool. Did it only just occur to you that the ever-scheming Dumbledore would anticipate my return? This is nothing more than a game of wits between me and that old meddler."
"He wants to be rid of me once and for all, so he dangled what I most desire as bait. Both he and I are well aware of the stakes. I stepped willingly into the game, yet it seems he is more cunning than I gave him credit for," Voldemort's voice hissed in his mind, brimming with bitter resentment.
"But we are not yet defeated. No, we still have our chance. The last laugh will be mine!"
"Once I obtain the Philosopher's Stone, once I possess it... Ha, Dumbledore will rue the day he thought he could challenge me." Voldemort's sinister voice echoed through Quirrell's thoughts.
Voldemort had heard the rumors — whispers that Dumbledore intended to use the Stone to extend his own life. Allegedly, the headmaster had borrowed it from the legendary alchemist, Nicolas Flamel, to brew the Elixir of Life at Hogwarts.
But such claims were laughable. Any witch or wizard of sound mind knew better. After all, powerful wizards often lived well beyond a century without the aid of alchemical meddling. Dumbledore, in particular, showed no signs of frailty. The very notion of him desperately clutching at immortality was absurd.
Voldemort knew that.
And Dumbledore knew that Voldemort knew. Yet, as long as the Philosopher's Stone was indeed at Hogwarts, the Dark Lord could not resist the temptation.
And so he had come.
The recent destruction of several Horcruxes had filled Voldemort with an ever-mounting sense of dread. But upon hearing of the Stone's presence, the lure became irresistible. This was the key to his resurrection — a chance he could not ignore.
"Victory will be mine!"
Voldemort's determination surged within him as he steered Quirrell forward.
But he did not notice.
Behind him, the middle-aged wizard Quirrell, who had been shoved aside, was slowly getting to his feet. With a resigned sigh, he brushed the dust from his robes, grimacing.
"Truly a dreadful day," He muttered.
He dusted off his robes with clumsy swipes, wincing as he straightened his back. "I'm going to be childless at this rate. Tsk, tsk. Rushing towards disaster like a niffler chasing gold. Even that careless German fellow wasn't this foolish."
Despite Quirrell's vanishing form, the man's eyes remained fixed on the lingering memory of the professor's retreating figure.
Or rather, the face concealed beneath Quirrell's turban.
"A bit premature," The man murmured, "But nothing too disastrous." He shuffled back to his upturned wizard chessboard, his hands methodically setting the scattered pieces upright once more.
He didn't glance up, yet he felt the presence of someone taking the seat across from him.
"Care for a game of chess?"
The chess player's voice was calm, unsurprised.
"Aren't we already playing?" The young wizard across from him smiled gently, his long, fluffy brown hair twisted into simple braids that draped over his shoulders.
Arthur King.
Professor of Alchemy at Hogwarts.
"Hehe, how about a simpler game of wizard chess to relax a bit?" The chess player shrugged and looked up at the young professor across from him.
"Of course, no problem, but you mustn't cheat secretly, oh." Arthur King replied with a light laugh.
His chrome-green eyes fell on the chess player's hands as he continued to set up the pieces, reflecting the pure silver ring with a raven pattern on the chess player's hand.
"If we're talking about cheating... altering reality is cheating." The chess player did not hide his thoughts about the ring on his hand, and his gaze also fell on Professor King's hand.
There was also a ring there.
Shining with a bronze hue.
...
On the bustling street, a seemingly uneventful and ordinary confrontation was taking place. Meanwhile, Ian had not successfully found Voldemort's trace as he had hoped.
He had searched all nearby areas thoroughly but had not found even a single hair of Voldemort, and he could not help but marvel that this guy's escape skills must have been maxed out long ago.
"It's the professors..."
Not only did he not find Voldemort, but Ian also spotted several professors.
His keen eyes caught sight of a few small figures in the distance, which was clearly not a good sign; he hurriedly retracted his magic broom, allowing himself to be caught by a Fiendfyre western dragon.
"Help! Is there anyone to save me? Help me!" Ian shouted in terror, pretending to be flustered as he waved his hands in a panic. After a moment, he felt that his position of being grabbed by the head didn't look sufficiently desperate, so he adjusted himself to hang upside down in the dragon's claws.
"Where is this place!? I was clearly on the school lawn, legally and legitimately taking a nap! Ah! Why have I been taken to this horrible place?"
His frantic cries immediately attracted the attention of several professors who were using Finite to dispel other Fiendfyre western dragons.
"It's a kid's call for help!"
Pomona Sprout, the Head of Hufflepuff, was the first to rush towards Ian's direction, followed closely by several other professors. Filius Flitwick raised his wand to eliminate the Fiendfyre western dragon that was holding Ian.
"Whoosh~"
Ian began to fall rapidly, brushing against many branches and leaves. Just as he was wondering if he should stop acting or he would end up face-first in the charred ground of the forest, Pomona Sprout quickly cast a Levitation Charm, suspending Ian in mid-air. Ian immediately resumed his frantic flailing.
"It's one of our House's kid!"
Filius Flitwick recognized Ian and exclaimed.
"Professors! I've been captured!" Ian tried to widen his eyes to appear terrified and innocent, but the three Heads of House exchanged strange glances.
"Mr. Prince, your transfiguration skills have indeed improved rapidly; you can even apply this kind of transformation to Fiendfyre. I believe many graduated adult wizards would not compare to you," Professor McGonagall bluntly exposed Ian's act, never once raising her wand to attempt to rescue him.
Clearly, she had seen through everything.
(To Be Continued…)