Chapter 73. After the Match
After leaving the Quidditch pitch, Quirrell stumbled and lurched to the back of a stretch of wall by the Black Lake.
With his back pressed to the cold stone, Quirrell's hands trembled, the tips of his fingers shaking beyond his control.
He knew that after he had eaten that oddly coloured apple, Lord Voldemort must have encountered a problem.
Quirrell glanced left and right; once he was sure no one was around, he finally let out a breath.
His fingers slowly reached up to the heavy turban wound around his head. When his fingertips touched the rough fabric, his body shuddered involuntarily.
"Master…" he quavered. "Please forgive me."
Lord Voldemort did not reply at once.
As the turban was unwrapped layer by layer, the back of Quirrell's head was gradually exposed to the air.
There, a pale, twisted face emerged — Lord Voldemort's face.
"Ma… Master…" Quirrell's voice was almost a sob. "I didn't know there was something wrong with that apple… I…"
At the back of Quirrell's head, Lord Voldemort had no time to bother with this foolish creature.
His face warped and distorted, then turned into a pitch-black, shadow-like mass that detached from the back of Quirrell's head.
The shadow whirled in the air for a moment, as if searching for a new host, then suddenly hurled itself at a rat by the wall.
The poor rat had been hiding in the corner, gnawing on a tiny breadcrumb.
After the shadow invaded its body, its eyes turned scarlet in an instant, its fur bristling.
Quirrell noticed this as well. It was obvious that Lord Voldemort had left the back of his head and entered the body of the little rat before him.
"Ma… Master…" Quirrell's voice shook; his legs gave way and he knelt before the rat that now hosted Lord Voldemort.
The rat turned slowly, its scarlet eyes staring straight at Quirrell.
Lord Voldemort's voice sounded directly in Quirrell's mind: "Useless wretch! Your body is no longer suitable for me. There is a power repelling me, forcing me out of you."
Quirrell's face turned even paler.
"I didn't know… didn't know it would be like that…" he said with his head bowed. "Master, what… what should I do? I don't want to disappoint you."
In truth, Lord Voldemort regretted taking up residence in Quirrell.
The man was unbelievably stupid!
He had so many Death Eaters to choose from — why did he choose Quirrell?
Look at him now. Before this, he could still draw some strength from Quirrell; but now it was as if he had returned to those days in the forests of Albania, forced to parasitise small animals and eke out a pitiful existence.
"Fool!" Lord Voldemort's voice rang again in Quirrell's mind. "I must rest for a time. During this period you must act carefully and arouse no one's suspicion, until that power within you dissipates."
Quirrell nodded at once, his voice trembling. "Yes, Master… I will be careful…"
Lord Voldemort's voice gradually weakened, as though receding into the distance. "Very good. Remember, Quirrell — if you fail again, I will make you pay…"
As Lord Voldemort's voice faded, the rat slowly crawled towards Quirrell.
Quirrell, shaking, held out his hand. The rat climbed along his arm to his shoulder, then finally burrowed into his robe pocket. After that, Quirrell's body suddenly slackened; he almost collapsed to the ground, leaning against the wall, breathing hard, his face deathly white.
He looked around; once he was sure no one had noticed him, he forced himself to his feet.
At that moment he thought again of Adrian Wesson's smiling face.
That was definitely a troublesome fellow!
He must have seen through something!
"I must… I must act carefully…" Quirrell muttered under his breath, his steps unsteady as he made for the castle. As for the task Lord Voldemort had given him — to obstruct Harry Potter — who cared about that now?
That evening, when Adrian Wesson reached the Great Hall, he found the Gryffindor table in high spirits.
By contrast, a low pressure hung over the Slytherin table.
No wonder — Gryffindor had won the Quidditch match, and for the next few days most Slytherin students were bound to be out of sorts.
Harry spotted Wesson at once, and when Wesson came near, he ran straight up to him.
"Professor!" Harry said excitedly. "Did you see it? The Quidditch match!"
Looking at how eager Harry was for praise, Wesson couldn't help but smile. "Of course, Harry. You flew brilliantly. I saw that final tail-flick of yours — they couldn't keep up with your speed at all."
Harry nodded; the flush of excitement was still on his cheeks. "All thanks to Professor McGonagall's Nimbus 2000."
As it happened, Professor McGonagall was standing not far away. Hearing Harry mention her, she came over, a rare gentle smile on her face. "You performed exceptionally well today, Harry. The Nimbus 2000 is indeed a fine broom — but even more important are your flying skills and courage."
"Quite right," Wesson said, patting Harry on the shoulder.
Just then, Professor McGonagall seemed to remember something. She looked at Wesson and said, "Ah, I nearly forgot, Professor Wesson. I recall you were rather good at Quidditch in your day."
"Really?" Harry asked in delight.
"Without question," said Professor McGonagall with a smile. "An impressive match — Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. We didn't score a single goal. Professor Wesson was Hufflepuff's Keeper at the time."
Harry stared, wide-eyed, looking at Wesson in utter disbelief.
Wesson shrugged. "Ancient history."
When the conversation ended, Harry went back to the Gryffindor table and sat down between Ron and Hermione.
Ron was eating a pudding; Hermione, even while eating, hadn't set down the book in her hands.
Harry's gaze fell on the book Hermione was holding.
"Quidditch: History and Tactics?" Harry read the title on the cover. "What are you reading that for? Hermione, do you want to play Quidditch too?"
Hermione said thoughtfully, "I just want to know why wizards like Quidditch so much."
With his mouth full of pudding, Ron mumbled, "Oh, come off it, Hermione — don't you like Quidditch? Weren't you watching with great interest just now?"
"That's different." Hermione gave Ron a withering look.
At that moment, a commotion rose beside them.
A photograph was passed into Harry's hands.
"Taken by Professor Wesson — for you, Harry. Well done," said an older Gryffindor student.
Harry took the photograph and looked down — and froze at once.
It was a scene from the Quidditch match: he was astride the Nimbus 2000, body leaning forward, his fingers almost touching the Golden Snitch.
What's more, it was a moving magical photograph.
"You can hang it by your bed, Harry," Ron said in delight. "It's quite the keepsake."
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