Everyday Life of a Top Student at Hogwarts

Chapter 173 Quirrell's Dilemma and Voldemort's Anxiety

Chapter 173 Quirrell's Dilemma and Voldemort's Anxiety

Professor Quirrell's first Defense Against the Dark Arts class since his "recovery" was scheduled for Thursday afternoon. This was his first public appearance since Halloween, apart from the Quidditch session.

When Quirrell pushed open the classroom door and ran in, the previously hushed classroom fell silent instantly. All eyes were on him.

He looked worse than before Halloween. His sallow complexion suggested a prolonged illness, and his deep-set eyes held bloodshot, anxious ones. Karen was certain that Quirrell's performance at the start of the school year was an act, but his current demeanor made her think he might be the real deal.

"Good afternoon, classmates." His voice was so weak it was almost a whisper, trembling so much it was barely a sentence, each word seeming to be squeezed out with difficulty from between his teeth. He tried to force a smile, but it was stiff and distorted, uglier than crying.

"Merlin, has he been drained dry by a vampire?" a Hufflepuff girl whispered to her deskmate, instinctively covering her nose.

"That headscarf is still wrapped tightly, and the smell is even stronger. I bet my new broom care kit that there's something fishy down there," the Ravenclaw boy next to her whispered in response.

Karen sat in the back row, her grey-blue eyes calmly watching the trembling figure on the podium. Quirrell was enveloped in a thin, dim, flickering, yellowish-brown halo—his own magical field, weaker and more chaotic than before. His life force was draining away at a steady, visible rate, like grains of sand constantly decreasing in an hourglass. Yet, deep within this decaying, yellowish-brown halo, at the back of his head, the purplish-black flame, filled with malice and decay, burned even more "vigorously." But this "vigor" wasn't powerful; rather, it manifested as extreme instability and agitation.

"The rate at which life force is draining is accelerating, but this broken body should be able to hold on for another two or three months," Karen calmly assessed. "The fragment of Voldemort is too agitated. There's no sign of its power recovering; instead, due to the continuous failures and the accelerated weakening of the parasite, it's become even more violent and—fearful? What is it afraid of?"

He could clearly sense that deep within the core of that purplish-black flame, besides the churning anger, there was also a chilling, bone-chilling fear.

"Today, we're going to review the Ironclad Curse—the—listen—" Quirrell stammered as he tried to begin the lesson, frantically flipping through his lesson plan, his fingers trembling so hard the parchment rattled. His eyes were unfocused and unfocused. "It's about breaking curses and advanced applications of curses." He stammered, his words disjointed.

"Professor," a Slytherin student lazily raised his hand, his tone carrying a hint of barely perceptible mockery, "the paper you assigned at the end of last class about the weaknesses of the Red Hats hasn't been graded and returned yet."

"Thesis?" Quirrell looked up blankly, his eyes even more confused. "Ah—yes—thesis—grading—I—I was sick and delayed—very—soon—" He stammered, cold sweat beading on his forehead, his head seemingly taut. A purplish-black flame suddenly shot up from the back of his head, and a strong sense of anger and humiliation spread out like a tangible shockwave, causing Karen to brow furrow slightly.

"He's forgotten what he even assigned? He's never assigned a Red Hats paper before!" Fabian said to Karen in a low voice, his voice filled with disbelief. Karen tried to concentrate, attempting to sense the magical fluctuations emanating from Quirrell's head, but the fluctuations were too chaotic and weak, mixed with the magical fields of the other students in the classroom. He could only vaguely sense a repressive, irritating, and heart-pounding energy erupting intermittently.

"Quiet! Please, please be quiet!" Quirrell waved his arms in vain, his voice shrill and piercing, almost tearful. A student accidentally dropped his quill pen, making a soft "clatter" sound. This insignificant sound made Quirrell shudder as if pricked by a needle, and he looked in terror toward the source of the sound. The purplish-black flames on the back of his head surged violently again, emanating an even stronger aura of fear and violence.

"He's afraid of noise?" Wesley, sitting in the front row, could see it more clearly. He turned around and mouthed to Karen in an exaggerated way that he was "terrified," but Karen's eyes were serious. Quirrell's condition was indeed far too bad.

The entire lesson passed in this eerie and oppressive atmosphere. Quirrell's explanations were disjointed and riddled with errors. When demonstrating a simple technique to break a curse, he nearly dropped his wand, and the light from the spell flickered like a candle about to go out. The students, initially surprised and curious, gradually reverted to their previous impatience and disdain. Whispers grew louder, and some even began openly passing notes and yawning.

Karen observed silently. He could see the intense reaction of the fire in the back of Quirrell's head with each stutter, each tremor, each startle from a student's question or a sound. Anger, humiliation, fear—these negative emotions acted as fuel, making the already unstable fragments of his soul burn even more wildly, emitting more and more frequent black "sparks." With each violent fluctuation of emotion,

It was as if they had dealt another heavy blow to Quirrell's already depleted vitality.

"The emotional fluctuations are intense, frequent, and the intensity is sufficient—but the location is unsuitable." Karen assessed calmly. This was the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, relatively enclosed, with a fixed group of people, Quirrell being the leader, and even if the prank succeeded, it wouldn't be convenient to collect the evidence.

The school bell rang like a clarion call of liberation. Quirrell practically tumbled out of the classroom, as if countless venomous snakes were chasing him, leaving behind a room full of students gossiping.

"I think he was knocked unconscious by the strange smell on himself!"

"Why is Dumbledore keeping him alive? He can't even protect himself!"

"That headscarf is definitely suspicious! I bet ten Galleons!"

The three followed the flow of people out of the underground classroom and walked along the corridor towards the Ravenclaw Tower. Ernesto walked up to Cullen, "The suitable locations and times for the near future have been basically determined. Excluding classrooms, offices, and less crowded corridors, there are three locations that best fit the requirements: Tomorrow, Friday morning around 10:00 AM, the third-floor landing of the main staircase, which is his usual route back to his office after class, and it's very busy with students going to and from get out of class; then there's tomorrow's lunchtime, Quirrell rarely goes to the cafeteria for breakfast and dinner, so the probability of him going there is relatively high, but it's not certain; the entrance to the Great Hall is peak time for entry and exit; and the day after tomorrow, Saturday afternoon, near the library entrance..."

During this period, he often loitered near the entrance to the restricted section, usually in the afternoon. There were quite a few people at the library on Saturday afternoons because there was a Quidditch match that Saturday morning—we were playing Hufflepuff—and many students planned to watch the match in the morning and then go to the library to do their homework in the afternoon.

"In terms of timing, tomorrow is the best time, with two opportunities in quick succession. As for location," Ernesto analyzed, "the main staircase platform has a complex structure that makes it easy to hide bottles, but the flow of people is fast, and recycling could easily lead to encounters. The auditorium entrance is open, making it difficult to hide bottles, and recycling could easily be exposed. The library entrance has a stable flow of people, and there are bookshelves and statues for cover, making it relatively discreet to place and recycle bottles, but the timing of their appearance is difficult to control."

"Priority is the library entrance," Karen decided immediately. "Concealment is paramount, and it's Saturday afternoon. But Ernesto, I remember you and Wesley are both Quidditch players, will you make it in time?"

"No problem, I'm the reserve finder, so I basically won't need to play. Wesley, on the other hand, is confirmed to play," Ernesto nodded and explained.

"Alright, Saturday afternoon, near the library entrance," Karen decided. "The location and the framework are set. Now, I need to find Fred and George and talk to them about the big surprise." A sharp glint flashed in his eyes. Voldemort's restlessness and Quirrell's weakening were like a net tightening ever tighter. Saturday was the day to strike.