The Pacifist Necromancer of Hogwarts

Chapter 365 Quirrell and the Anchor

Bright sunlight shimmered through the grey trunks of the beech trees. Damp, dark moss clung to the protruding roots, glistening faintly in the dappled light. Suddenly, a figure appeared in the clearing. Pale-faced and breathing rapidly, he carried a bundle in his arms and staggered forward a few steps.

"Put me down," a cold voice said.

Upon hearing the voice, the man fell to the ground as if tripped over a tree root. He carefully placed the bundle he was carrying on the ground, saying, "M-Master..."

A hideous, grotesque face emerged from the bundle and whispered, "You've disappointed me, Quirinas. I once believed in you..."

“You can still trust me—” the man said in a trembling voice.

“Hush. I once believed in you, Quirinas. Yes, you once had the chance to become one of Lord Voldemort’s most trusted servants. I taught you, shared knowledge and power with you, and showed you the power and mystery of magic. Then I gave you a task…”

"Owner--"

“The Philosopher's Stone. Honestly, that wasn't difficult. Dumbledore welcomed you warmly, my Professor Quirrell. You assured me then that no one would doubt this stuttering, cowardly, incompetent, neurotic wretch—” Each time he calmly uttered an adjective, Quirrell's kneeling body trembled violently, “—daring to covet the Philosopher's Stone hidden in the castle. I believed you, Quirrell. But what happened? You failed.”

“That’s because of Anthony, Master!” Quirrell raised his head and argued, “If Anthony hadn’t stopped me, I would have already offered the Philosopher’s Stone to you!”

“Oh, right, Anthony. The necromancer. His methods of gaining trust are far superior to yours, aren’t they, Quirinus? Dumbledore believed him and even allowed him to practice dark magic in the castle.”

He's very good at persuading people—

"And he convinced you?"

"W-what, Master?"

“Anthony is a failed necromancer,” Voldemort said coldly. “He has power, but doesn’t know how to use it. His stupidity earned him Dumbledore’s trust. And you, Quirinus, you are jealous of his stupidity.”

"I don't--"

"No one can lie to Lord Voldemort!" Voldemort roared. "You envy his magical favor, his popularity with his colleagues, his fondness for his students, and his daily pacing and busying himself with trivial matters. You were convinced by appearances, weeping and dawdling while searching for the Philosopher's Stone—"

“Snape suspects us, Master!” Quirrell shouted. “Snape has been watching me, warning me, threatening me… You heard it, Master, you heard it too…”

“Severus Snape. Hmm,” Voldemort said, “he will certainly get what he deserves for his actions. But it also proves one thing… Quirinus, you and he prove one thing together.”

Quirrell curled up and coughed violently. Voldemort didn't seem in a hurry to continue, simply waiting quietly with his bloodshot eyes half-closed in his bundle. Quirrell's heart-wrenching, dry coughs echoed through the woods.

Once Quirrell had calmed down a bit, Voldemort's silence became unusually heavy and suffocating. Finally, Quirrell couldn't bear it any longer and asked in a low voice, "What is it, Master?"

"Ok?"

“Snape and me…”

“Oh, you have disappointed me, Quirinus, you both,” Voldemort said softly. “You have shown me how fickle and incompetent those who swear allegiance to me are. You have shown me how easily people can betray my expectations.”

“I did not betray you, Master!” Quirrell’s eyes widened. “I took you away from Hogwarts—”

“You’ve accomplished nothing, you’re utterly useless,” Voldemort said coldly. “What difference is there between useless and failed loyalty and betrayal?”

"I have reconstructed your physical body—"

“A frail body, I won’t need it anymore soon,” Voldemort said. “Besides, Quirinus, you contributed less to it than Nagini. Speaking of Nagini, where did you take her?”

“I—I don’t know, Master. She might have been frightened during the fight…”

“I smell… the scent of lies,” Voldemort said softly.

Quirrell shuddered and dared not speak again.

“You want to lie to me,” Voldemort said. “You could have chosen a better lie. Unlike you, Quirinas, Nagini doesn’t flinch in a fight. Nagini doesn’t run away. Nagini doesn’t try to deceive Lord Voldemort. Nagini doesn’t betray me—she always comes back to me. Come here.”

Voldemort let out a soft, evil hiss.

As the massive, cold serpent slithered past Quirrell, he looked up and stared at it, his expression a mixture of astonishment and fear.

……

His mind was foggy.

This body was even narrower than the previous one. However, he liked the feeling of his stomach sliding along the ground; it was novel. His digestive organs took up most of the body, which was nice. He also liked to climb up trees. He didn't like that his head was always wobbling precariously.

He held out his tongue. He was looking for something...that smelled really bad...

It smells terrible everywhere.

“Come here, Nagini,” a hissing voice said. “Come to me.”

The voice sounded approachable and trustworthy. He slowly swam over and discovered that the voice came from a person wrapped in a bundle. It stank. The person stared at him with bloodshot eyes, at the narrow gap between his head and body. A thin, weak hand emerged from the bundle, its index finger tracing the crevice.

"You're seriously injured," a hissing voice said. "What happened?"

He raised his head, gently avoiding the finger, and circled the package a few times.

"Nagini?"

Nagini? Oh, that seems to be his name—he seems to have other names too, but it doesn't matter. Humans like to name things. Humans constantly name themselves and the world. Humans use this method to define themselves. Snakes don't need to do that. Snakes define themselves—he is the one on the ground beneath his belly. Generally speaking, the world can be divided into two things: him, and everything else that is different from him.

“This injury isn’t serious,” he replied. “What did people like you do that caused my head and body to split open? I’m not happy about it.”

"A wizard? That's Anthony."

The name Anthony sounded familiar. Very familiar. He flicked his tongue, making a soft, short hiss. It stank.

The red-eyed man continued, "And Quirinas? What did he do?" Quirinas was referring to the man next to him.

He fainted.

"What happened before you fainted?"

“He tried to kill me.” He tried to recall. “He failed. Then he started drinking unicorn blood because he was coughing. Unicorn blood is silvery and beautiful…”

"Was there someone like me back then? Or were there any other wizards?"

"No. It's just him and me."

"That's enough. Rest now, Nagini."

……

“Nagini brought me an interesting story, Quirinus,” Voldemort said softly.

Quirrell was deathly pale, and said in a breathless voice, "Master, I—" He glanced at the giant snake, "Nagini—"

“This interesting story makes me think,” Voldemort said. “It makes me think about when exactly you decided to run away? You seemed to have made up your mind to abandon your master and leave on your own.”

"No, Master, I never—"

"You seem to think I'm finished. You seem to believe the Dark Lord can never rise again. Have I disappointed you, Quirinas? Have I been too merciful, to the point that you've forgotten my power?"

Quirrell opened his mouth as if to argue, but only screams escaped his lips. He writhed and twisted on the ground in agony, his eyes wide, tears and sweat streaming down his pale face, mingling with the dirt and leaving trails of grime. The giant snake raised its head, staring at Quirrell, hissing incessantly.

“You might think that if you left, your master would be all alone,” Voldemort said slowly, raising his weak arm to his eyes and staring intently. “Yes, with such a frail body, how could I survive in the forest without you? But, Quirinus, you found me here two years ago. You saw with your own eyes that even without a physical body, the Dark Lord cannot die.”

"Master, Nagini has been killed by Anthony!" Quirrell cried out in despair, tears streaming down his face. "That Nagini—the Nagini beside you—I don't know what it is!"

“A snake won’t lie to Parsley, Quirinus, never,” Voldemort said wearily. “Where were we? Ah, right, I’ve gone further than anyone else on the road to avoiding death…and played some tricks on death, some of which apparently worked. Do you enjoy reading, Quirinus?”

"Nagini—"

"Quiet. Reading is a wonderful hobby. Hogwarts' library holds many secrets unimaginable to ordinary people, which only those with both talent and luck can find... Tell me, Quirinus, have you ever heard of Horcruxes? It seems not. Let me explain."

"This is the most cutting-edge and profound magical secret. Let's imagine your life as... a ship. A ship moored on the shore, tied to a post with only a rope, at risk of being swept away by a storm at any moment. What would you do if you wanted to secure it?"

Quirrell was still breathing heavily in pain. He lay on the ground, staring at Voldemort with a thoughtful expression.

“Yes, the anchor. You’ve got it. You still need materials to make the anchor. I can tell you the most important ones. You need iron, a mold, and a blacksmith. But you only have one ship right now, so you take a part of the ship off, give it to the blacksmith, cast it into an anchor, and throw it into the water. Simple, isn’t it? People usually stop at this point, relying on the anchor and praying that’s enough. But an anchor can be pulled up very easily. Quirinas, do you have a solution?”

Quirrell murmured, "Add another anchor."

“A good idea,” Voldemort said, “but not many people do it. You might ask why… The answer is simple: they’re afraid. They’re too afraid to dismantle their own ships. Their ships are too small.”

“But you are different,” Quirrell said.

“Yes, I am different,” Voldemort said softly. “My ship is more stable than anyone else’s, and I have more anchors than anyone else’s. But that necromancer made me realize that perhaps it’s not enough. If the storm is too fierce, my ship will also rock. Do you know how many anchors I want, Quirinas?”

"The more the merrier?"

“Of course not, you fool,” Voldemort said dismissively. “Don’t forget, your anchor was made from your own ship. I want six anchors. Six, plus my ship, that makes seven… a magical number.”

"Of course, Master."

“I’m still missing one, Quirinas. Just one more, which is why that necromancer almost swayed me,” Voldemort said. “I need you to do something for me.”

"It is my pleasure to serve you, master. It is my pleasure to serve you."

Voldemort hissed. The giant snake slowly swayed its body, sliding from beside the bundle to Quirrell's side.

Quirrell's gaze fell on the snake, his thoughtful expression suddenly vanishing as if he had been jolted awake from a dream: "Wait, Master, Nagini—"

“Nagini will become the mold,” Voldemort said softly. “I need you to be my blacksmith. You have helped me, Quirinus, and Voldemort never fails those who help him, so I am willing to share such profound magical secrets with you.”

Quirrell's gaze darted between the snake and Voldemort. Suddenly, as if struck by lightning, he understood.

“Master…” he trembled, his teeth chattering, “I can find you other people… Black, or Muggles… they can be blacksmiths too…”

“You want to escape. You want to betray me,” Voldemort said coldly. “Voldemort never lets traitors go unpunished. The Cruciatus Curse!”

Quirrell screamed again. He rolled to the side of the cold, giant snake, scratching the ground in agony. The snake stood up and hissed.

Voldemort said coldly, "Your voice is annoying Nagini, Quirinus."

"Master, let me serve you, I still have a use..."

“It will be gone soon,” Voldemort said cruelly. “When I was making my first anchor, I did some other experiments. I knew then that I must never try to place my hopes of reshaping my body on someone other than myself. When it has accumulated enough power, it will create the most suitable body for me… and that moment is not far off. I can feel the attraction growing stronger over there, and this weak body will soon be no match for the preparations my past self made for my present self.”

As he spoke, Quirrell's expression gradually darkened. Quirrell looked up, staring at the narrow gap between the snake's head and body.

“What…” he said softly, full of doubt, “Anthony…”

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green light followed, followed by a burst of brilliance. Quirrell collapsed to the ground, lifeless, his eyes wide open, a look of confusion still lingering on his face.

A small, foul-smelling substance squeezed into the snake's body.

(End of this chapter)