Quirrell was so startled by the sudden sound that his entire body trembled. His lips stopped moving mid-spell, abruptly halting his incantation.
He turned his head sharply. His face was pale, cold sweat beading on his forehead. He stammered, "Professor Vison? Is… is something the matter?"
Vison gave a casual smile, as if nothing had happened. "Oh, nothing really. I just think today's game is quite thrilling, don't you agree, Professor Quirrell? Harry's flying quite well, wouldn't you say?"
Quirrell forced a smile, nodding stiffly. "Yes… yes, it's indeed very exciting."
Their conversation ended there. Quirrell felt a little confused, unsure of Vison's intentions.
Vison said no more and turned his gaze back to the Quidditch match.
Quirrell let out a silent breath, inwardly relieved. It didn't seem like Vison had noticed anything unusual.
He lowered his head, pretending to watch the game. Then he resumed the incantation, beginning to cast the spell again.
Just as he was about to speak the spell aloud…
"Professor Quirrell."
Vison's voice rang in his ear once more.
Quirrell's hand jolted violently. The spell was interrupted again.
"What… what is it now, Professor Vison?"
He turned to Vison, trying to hide his irritation behind a forced expression. To his surprise, Vison held a plate in his hand—with several slices of what looked like apples.
"Professor Quirrell," Vison said, still smiling, as he offered the plate forward, "This is a new variety of apple I've recently grown. It tastes quite good. Would you like to try one?"
Apples? Seriously? Just for this?
Can't this man simply watch the game in peace!?
Quirrell's expression twisted slightly, but he still managed a stiff smile. "Ah… Thank… thank you, Professor Vison. But I'm not… I don't really want anything to eat right now."
Vison raised an eyebrow, took a slice of apple for himself, and bit into it. "Have some, Professor Quirrell. You don't look well—nervous, perhaps? A bit of fruit might help you relax."
"No need…"
"Oh, alright. That's a pity." Vison turned back to the match again, seemingly uninterested.
Quirrell clenched his jaw, suppressing his growing irritation. He looked back toward the game, spotted Harry on the pitch, and once again readied himself to cast the spell.
But just as he opened his mouth to chant—
"Professor Quirrell," Vison's voice came again, low and insistent, "Are you sure you don't want some apples?"
Quirrell trembled from head to toe. The spell was interrupted for the third time. His face turned ashen.
His patience was nearing its limit.
"Thank… thank you, Professor Vison," he muttered, barely hiding the gritted teeth behind the words.
But Vison only smiled, extending the plate again so the apple slices were right in front of Quirrell's face.
Clearly, this man wouldn't back off until he took a piece.
Reluctantly, Quirrell picked up an apple slice and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed a few times mechanically and swallowed quickly, anxious to be done with it.
He didn't even notice that the apples had a faint golden hue to their skin.
Vison watched him swallow, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly in satisfaction.
"Professor Quirrell," he said casually, "How do you feel? These aren't ordinary apples, you know. They possess special magical effects."
Quirrell paused and looked at him with confusion. "Magical effects?"
Vison replied in a low, almost conspiratorial voice, "Yes, they can cleanse the body of unclean things—fatigue, injuries, toxins… You could think of it as both a blood tonic and an antidote."
"I see…"
Quirrell nodded vaguely, not taking Vison's words seriously. His mind remained fixated on the match.
A blood tonic? Magical apples?
Right now, all Quirrell could think about was how to complete the mission Lord Voldemort had given him. He had no time for such trivial distractions.
But just as he lowered his gaze again to resume the spell, a sharp, searing pain exploded in his mind—as if a blade had suddenly pierced his nerves.
"FOOL!!"
A terrifying voice erupted inside his head.
Quirrell's body went rigid. His face drained of all color. His fingers dug into the edge of his robe, knuckles turning white from the pressure. Cold sweat streamed down his temples.
"Mas… Master…" he responded internally, voice shaking.
"You FOOL!" Lord Voldemort's furious voice rang again, unmistakable in its rage. "What did you just eat!? That thing…!"
Quirrell's heart pounded like a drum. He was drowning in fear.
He had never heard the Dark Lord so enraged.
He had to get out of there—now!
Glancing around, Quirrell saw that no one was paying close attention to him. He turned to Vison, voice shaking, "Professor Vison, I just remembered… I have something urgent to take care of. I'll be leaving now."
"Oh? That's unfortunate. The game is quite exciting," Vison replied with a knowing smile.
Watching Quirrell's retreating form, Vison was satisfied. Clearly, the golden apple had taken effect.
Truthfully, he hadn't been entirely sure the purification property of the golden apple would work on Quirrell. Especially now.
But judging by Quirrell's reaction—it definitely had an effect.
If only it could rid them of Lord Voldemort entirely.
That, however, was likely too much to hope for.
Still, if it even caused a little trouble for the Dark Lord, that was a win.
Quirrell said nothing more. He stumbled away from the stands, back hunched like a desperate beast fleeing a dead end.
Vison shrugged and turned his attention back to the Quidditch match.
Lee Jordan's magically amplified voice echoed through the stadium, brimming with excitement.
"Harry Potter is closing in on the Golden Snitch! His fingers are nearly there! The Slytherin Seeker is trying to block him—but Harry dodges skillfully—Oh my goodness! Harry Potter—he caught it! HE CAUGHT THE GOLDEN SNITCH!"
With no interference, Harry had been able to show off his talent in flying to the fullest.
And at last, after a brilliant tail-turn that evaded the pursuing Slytherin, Harry successfully seized the Golden Snitch.
The stands erupted with thunderous cheers. Gryffindor students leaped from their seats, waving red flags and screaming Harry's name.
From the professors' section, Professor McGonagall stood up in a rare burst of visible emotion, her normally strict expression flushed with pride.
"Well done, Harry!" she called out, voice several decibels higher than usual.
Vison applauded along with the others.
He couldn't help but think—it would be wonderful if Harry had been sorted into Hufflepuff instead.
With a Seeker like that, maybe Hufflepuff could have actually contended for the Quidditch Cup in recent years.
After all, in Quidditch, a top-tier Seeker is the cornerstone of victory.
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