Chapter 72. Influence
Professor Quirrell jolted at the sudden voice, his whole body giving a shudder; the writhing of his lips ceased at once, and his incantation was cut off.
He snapped his head round, face drained of colour, cold sweat beading on his brow. He stammered, "Pr—… Professor Wesson? I… is there something you need?"
Adrian Wesson affected a casual air and smiled. "Oh, nothing much. I just thought today's match is truly splendid. Don't you think so, Professor Quirrell? Harry's flying rather well, isn't he?"
Quirrell forced out a smile and nodded. "Y-… yes, quite splendid indeed."
Their conversation ended there, and Quirrell felt a bit baffled.
After that, Wesson said nothing more and turned his gaze back to the Quidditch match.
Quirrell let out a breath of relief, secretly glad that Wesson seemed not to have noticed anything amiss.
He lowered his head, pretended to watch the game, and resumed muttering, starting to cast again.
However, just as he was about to speak the incantation…
"Professor Quirrell."
Wesson's voice sounded by his ear once more.
Quirrell's hand gave a violent twitch, and the incantation was broken again.
"A-… again? What is it, Professor Wesson?"
He turned towards Wesson with an ugly look and saw that Wesson was holding up a plate with several slices of fruit that looked like apples.
"Professor Quirrell," Wesson kept that smiling expression as he proffered the plate, "this is a new apple cultivar I've been growing lately. Tastes rather good. Would you like a bite?"
Apples?
Just for this?
Can't this man simply watch the match in peace!?
Quirrell's face grew even darker, but he still wore a stiff smile as he replied, "Ah… th—… thank you, Professor Wesson. But at the moment I… I don't much feel like eating."
Wesson raised an eyebrow, picked up a slice of apple, and popped it into his own mouth. In a light tone he said, "Have a little, Professor Quirrell. You don't look too well—nervous, perhaps? A bit of fruit might help you relax."
"No need…"
"Oh, all right, what a pity." Wesson turned his head back again and continued watching the match.
Quirrell forced down his vexation, lowered his head once more, found Harry on the pitch, and prepared to cast for the third time.
Yet again, just as he was about to speak the incantation—
"Professor Quirrell," Wesson's voice reached his ear yet again, "are you quite sure you won't have some apple?"
Quirrell's whole body trembled; the incantation was disrupted for the third time, and his face turned livid.
His patience was close to its limit.
"Th—… thank you, Professor Wesson," Quirrell squeezed the words out through gritted teeth.
But Wesson only smiled and held the plate of apples right before Quirrell's eyes.
Looks like if I don't eat, this fellow won't let me go, Quirrell thought.
So he forced himself to stuff a slice into his mouth, chewed mechanically a few times, and swallowed quickly.
He did not even notice that the surface of those apples was golden.
Watching Quirrell swallow, Wesson's lips quirked with a faint, meaningful smile. "Professor Quirrell, how do you feel? This apple isn't an ordinary apple—it carries a special magical effect."
Quirrell froze for a moment and, almost involuntarily, turned his head to look at Wesson, eyes a little blank. "What magical effect?"
Wesson spoke mysteriously. "Oh, this… it can remove unclean things from the body—fatigue, injuries, that sort. In short, you can think of it as something like a Blood-Replenishing Potion or an antidote."
"Oh, I see."
Quirrell nodded and did not take Wesson's words to heart.
His thoughts were still entirely on the match.
A magical effect from an apple? A Blood-Replenishing Potion?
Right now Quirrell's head was full of how to accomplish Lord Voldemort's task; he had no time for such trifling details.
However, just as he was about to lower his head again to seek an opening, a sudden pain stabbed through his scalp, like a sharp knife driven into his nerves.
"Fool!!"
A voice that filled him with terror exploded in his mind without warning.
Quirrell's body went rigid; his face turned deathly pale. He clenched the hem of his robe so hard that his knuckles whitened, and cold sweat traced down his cheeks.
"M—… my Lord…" Quirrell answered in his heart, trembling.
"You fool!" Voldemort's voice rang out in his mind again, undisguised fury in his tone. "What have you just done!? That thing you ate—…"
Quirrell's heart hammered madly; fear threatened to drown him.
He had never seen Voldemort this enraged.
I must find a place where no one is around—quickly!
He glanced about—no one seemed to be paying him any mind. He hastily turned, shaking, and said to Wesson, "Pr—… Professor Wesson, I suddenly remembered there are matters I must attend to, so I… I'll take my leave first."
"Oh? Is that so? What a pity. The match is at its most exciting."
Seeing Quirrell's reaction, Wesson knew his Golden Apple had taken effect.
In truth, he had not been certain whether the apple's 'purification' would work on Quirrell in his present state.
Now, it seemed there was certainly an impact.
If this could finish off Voldemort in one stroke, that would be best of all!
Still, Wesson thought that unlikely.
At most, it would cause a bit of trouble.
Quirrell gave no reply; he stood at once and hurried off the stands, all but stumbling.
His retreating back looked wretched, like a beast driven into a corner.
Wesson shrugged and turned his attention back to the entertaining match.
Lee Jordan's voice boomed across the Quidditch pitch through magical amplification, brimming with barely contained excitement.
"Harry Potter is closing in on the Golden Snitch! His fingers are almost on it! Slytherin's Seeker tries to interfere, but Harry slips past with ease! Oh, Merlin! Harry Potter—he's got it! He's got the Golden Snitch!"
With no outside interference, Harry could give full rein to his natural gift for flying.
At last, after a neat Sloth Grip Roll to shake off Slytherin's Seeker, Harry successfully caught the Snitch.
The stands erupted at once into thunderous cheers. Gryffindor students leapt to their feet, waving red banners and shouting Harry's name at the top of their lungs.
On the staff stand, Professor McGonagall sprang up from her seat, her usually severe face flushed with excitement.
"Well done, Harry!" Professor McGonagall's voice was several degrees louder than usual.
Wesson applauded alongside her.
If only Harry were a Hufflepuff student, he thought involuntarily.
Then perhaps Hufflepuff might contend for the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup for once in these few years.
After all, in a sport like Quidditch, an outstanding Seeker is the key to victory.
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