At Hogwarts, the story begins with deconstructing Avada Kedavra.

Chapter 75 After the Forbidden Forest

The boots made a sloshing sound as they stepped on the carpet in the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.

Quirrell did not light a lamp.

He stumbled toward the washroom, his hands trembling as he untied his soaked cloak.

The mud from the forbidden forest had dried into a gray crust that clung tightly to his skin.

"Nothing—useless stuff—"

A hoarse voice came from behind his head, accompanied by a piercing pain. Quirrell let out a low scream and collapsed to his knees on the cold tile floor.

"Master—have mercy—I—I didn't expect this—"

"You didn't expect this?" The voice behind me sharpened with anger. "You made my will, made the great Dark Lord, like a circus clown, to be played with by that—that despicable language, and then forced to hide in the forest?"

Quirrell buried his head between his arms.

That scene kept replaying in his mind:

A sky full of golden-red nebulae, with the line of 【ⅠAMABIGFOOL】 flashing with mocking light.

That's a death curse.

The Death Ray, which once terrified the entire British wizarding world, was actually tricked by a cheap, whimsical glass ball.

"That was an accident, Master—a pure accident—" Quirrell's voice echoed in the bathroom.

"Shut up!"

A sudden tug came from behind my head.

Quirrell's body stood upright uncontrollably, like a puppet being manipulated by strings.

He mechanically walked to the mirror, his hands trembling, and untied the scarf that reeked of garlic, layer by layer.

A pale, listless face with bloodshot veins appeared in the mirror.

As the scarf fell completely off, a snake-like face was writhing violently on the back of Quirrell's head.

"That's not just gunpowder."

"That's some kind of—some kind of lowly, insect-like luck." Dumbledore—did he foresee something?

"No—the headmaster has been—busy dealing with the Ministry of Magic's audit these past few days—" Quirrell gasped for breath.

"He's mocking me," Voldemort muttered to himself. "He's telling me in this most absurd way that my destined enemy doesn't even need a wand, just a little bit of stupid coincidence," to humiliate me.

Quirrell looked at the sink.

There remained a small patch of red glitter brought back from the Forbidden Forest, which appeared somewhat glaring in the dim light.

Voldemort controlled Quirrell's hand and plunged it into the pool, shattering the glitter into dust.

"Speed ​​up the process," the Dark Lord commanded, "I can't wait any longer."

This body is rotting, and the air in this school is becoming nauseating.

Final exam week has arrived as scheduled.

The bright sunlight streamed through the high windows of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, falling on the heads of the students who were writing furiously.

Quirrell sat behind the podium, his face even paler than Neville Longbottom's before the exam.

He held a quill pen in his hand, but hesitated to write.

His eyes lingered on the boy.

Harry Potter.

The "boy who survived" was frowning as he earnestly answered questions about how to deal with the red hat.

"Does he know?" Voldemort's voice sneered in Quirrell's mind. "Judging from his expression, he doesn't even know how he survived. He's enjoying the exams, enjoying the sunshine, enjoying the company of those idiots."

And I, I must endure this—this humiliating parasitic existence.

Suddenly, a sound came from the other end of the examination room.

Quirrell's body jerked, and the quill pen left a mark on the exam paper.

He suddenly turned his head and looked towards the source of the sound.

It's Ron Weasley.

He had simply broken his automatic quill pen by accident and was now awkwardly trying to put it back together.

"Mr. Weasley—" Quirrell began, his voice trembling with genuine fear, "Please—please remain—quiet. Don't—don't move."

He now views every student as if they are harboring some destructive prank.

What is Parvati Petit doing with her hands in her pockets while she's secretly wiping away sweat? Is there a second glass marble?

"Enough, Quirrell," Voldemort roared furiously in his mind, "You've been scared out of your wits by a bunch of cubs!"

Look at yourself now! You're even more pathetic than that bastard forester!

"Master—Master, this is too strange—"

"That wasn't a trap! It was a coincidence!"

"There is no logic in this world more powerful than black magic. That night—it was just a low-probability event. As long as we are fast enough, as long as we get that stone—"

Quirrell lowered his head and continued answering the questions on the test.

On the night the exams ended, the atmosphere in the castle became relaxed and cheerful.

The students were all talking about the holidays and Quidditch, and no one noticed the professor cowering in the hallway.

Quirrell's condition is terrible.

Numbness had begun to appear on the right side of his face, a side effect of the unicorn blood.

With each step he took, he could hear his bones creaking and his soul wailing.

He entered an empty classroom in the dungeon, where discarded crucibles were stored. The solitude brought him a moment of peace.

He needs soundproofing.

He needs absolute silence.

"Whisper—whisper spell!"

Quirrell raised his wand, but his trembling made the spell unclear.

The wand emitted an unstable red light, striking a glass bottle filled with glittering powder in front of him.

"Snapped!"

The bottle shattered instantly.

Countless silver, shimmering powders, like festive fireworks, suddenly drenched him from head to toe.

Quirrell looked at the silver powder shimmering like stars on his body, "Hahahahahahahahahaha!"

He let out a dry laugh that sounded worse than crying, and tears welled up uncontrollably.

"Look, Quirrell, this is you."

"You can't even cast a first-grade spell."

You're nothing but a piece of trash now, a piece of trash who's scared out of his wits by glitter and glass beads!

"Master—let's make our move tonight." Quirrell wiped the cold sweat from his face. "Dumbledore just received an urgent letter from London; he has already left the school on a flying broomstick. This is the best opportunity—and the last."

"Very well." Voldemort's voice was filled with pleasure. "I will strangle that boy in front of that mirror. I will use his blood to wash away that filthy spectacle in the Forbidden Forest."

Quirrell straightened up and took out a small vial of medicine from his pocket—Felix Felicis.

He tilted his head back and drank it down, as if he had gained a halo.

"Go, Quirrell. Go through that three-headed dog, through those ridiculous traps," Voldemort whispered, urging. "We're going to get our crown."