Thoughts raced through Sharl's mind as he made his way toward the Quidditch Pitch.
Suddenly, a hesitant voice called out from behind him.
"Sh-Sharl… Are you also going to watch Quidditch? Wh-What a coincidence."
Sharl's palm instinctively clenched as he turned to see Professor Quirrell emerging from the shadowy corridor, forcing a stiff smile.
Ever since Quirrell had lost control in front of Sharl the last time, he hadn't managed to pass Cerberus and reach his target. But he hadn't given up. No, the Professor still harbored schemes against the young wizard.
"Would you like to watch the game together? I'm not bragging, not bragging… Back in school, I knew quite a lot about Quidditch."
Quirrell was already plotting in his heart. If he could just get closer to Sharl, there would surely come a moment when he could bewitch him. He refused to believe a young wizard could consistently discern right from wrong. Besides, he was still Sharl's teacher—an identity that came with natural authority and influence. That advantage alone could be useful.
But Sharl immediately declined the offer.
"Sorry, Professor," Sharl said politely. "I've already arranged to watch the match with my aunt. It's almost time—I should go now."
Quirrell's awkward smile froze. He watched Sharl's figure walk away, a suppressed fury boiling inside him.
Damn brat. Doesn't even know what's good for him!
At the same time, a dangerous gleam flickered in Sharl's eyes.
Quirrell was like a stubborn rash—always showing up uninvited. If this went on, he'd have to worry about the professor showing up whenever he visited the Greenhouse or Potions classroom at night. While Quirrell probably wouldn't dare attack him outright within Hogwarts Castle, Sharl couldn't afford to bet his safety on that assumption. The man had tried to kill Harry in the middle of a Quidditch match, after all—there was no telling what lengths he'd go to.
And worse—Lord Voldemort was still parasitizing him.
If that noseless monster awoke, his warped Legilimency could possibly uncover Sharl's secrets. That was a risk Sharl could not take.
He had to find a way to silence Quirrell—at least for a while.
But how?
A direct confrontation would be unwise. Despite being ultimately destroyed by Voldemort's own parasitic soul in the original timeline, Quirrell had demonstrated his formidable magical abilities—like wandless, wordless Transfiguration. That kind of magic was rare even among skilled wizards.
As Sharl mulled over his options, a memory surfaced—how he'd gotten back at Malfoy earlier.
Then, an idea sparked.
The strong garlic odor that Quirrell carried everywhere was used to cover the foul stench of Voldemort, who had taken up residence at the back of his head. To mask that decay, Quirrell had to use large quantities of fresh garlic daily.
A mischievous glint appeared in Sharl's eyes.
"I've got it."
By eleven o'clock, the Quidditch Pitch was almost packed. Excited chatter buzzed through the stands. It seemed like the entire school—students and teachers alike—had turned out for the opening match of the season.
Sharl arrived just in time and quickly found the seat Professor Sprout had saved for him.
She looked surprised. "Sharl, why are you only just arriving now? You almost missed the players' entrance!"
Sharl gave her an apologetic smile. "I suddenly remembered I forgot to water a few pots of Goldfish Vine, so I had to run back."
Professor Sprout looked torn between laughter and frustration.
This was the first Quidditch match of the year—most students had been too excited to sleep the night before. And yet, here was Sharl, more concerned about plants than flying brooms and rival houses.
This child…
Just then, cheers erupted across the stands. The two teams—Gryffindor and Slytherin—had entered the pitch, robes fluttering in the wind. The tension was palpable, their fierce glares practically sparking as they passed each other.
Roars and applause surged from the crowd. It was a war of colors, house pride, and years of rivalry.
A strong scent of garlic suddenly drifted into the air.
Quirrell arrived in the stands, carrying a full basket of garlic—harvested just that morning from the patch outside his office. He needed it. Later, he would attempt to jinx Harry's Nimbus 2000 during the match. For that, he would need to unleash powerful Dark Magic—enough to cause Voldemort's stench to seep through his turban.
He couldn't risk alerting Dumbledore or anyone else.
That's what the garlic was for.
But today… something felt off. There was something strange about the garlic.
Quirrell narrowed his eyes. Suspicion flickered in his gaze.
No… it's just my nerves.
A whistle blew, signaling the start of the match. Cheers thundered once again as the players soared into the sky.
Quirrell focused. His eyes locked onto Harry.
As the game intensified, the crowd's attention fixated on the sky. Seizing the moment, Quirrell began chanting silently. His lips barely moved, but the power of his spell surged through the air, directed at Harry's broom.
Dark energy crept toward the Nimbus 2000. Slowly, Harry's broom began to wobble. He swayed dangerously in the air.
In the stands, Professor Snape's brows furrowed. He recognized the Dark Arts signature and began chanting counter-spells silently, channeling protective magic toward the broom.
Two invisible forces clashed in the sky—Dark Magic versus counter-curse. The broom shuddered between chaos and stability.
Quirrell's eyes flashed in surprise.
Someone noticed? And is trying to interfere?
But after a brief pause, his confidence returned.
He had grown exponentially in power since Voldemort had taken residence within him. As long as Dumbledore remained passive, Quirrell feared no one.
Snape, however, was grim. The Dark Magic was formidable, beyond what he'd expected.
All he could do was buffer it—slow it down.
Still, he felt grateful. If Sharl hadn't previously healed his leg and dispelled Cerberus's lingering curse, he wouldn't have the strength now to intervene.
Snape doubled his efforts. His chanting quickened, launching a stronger counter-attack.
Quirrell flinched—caught off guard—but quickly adjusted, increasing the intensity of his own spells.
Darkness swelled.
And with it… a stench.
The putrid odor of Voldemort leaked from the back of his head, soaking into his turban.
Too strong! Quirrell panicked.
Dumbledore was here. If the smell drew attention…
Quirrell grabbed a handful of garlic from his basket and stuffed it into his turban.
"Master, please endure this," he whispered.
He relaxed slightly. With the smell masked, he could unleash his full strength.
Soon, Harry Potter would plummet to his death.
Or so he thought.
Just as he prepared his next spell, searing pain exploded at the back of his head.
"Aaaargh!"
Quirrell screamed in agony.
Inside his mind, Voldemort's furious voice bellowed.
"Quirrell?! You… you put BITING CABBAGE on my face?!"
"ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!"
"DAMN IT, DON'T BITE MY NOSE!!!"
Quirrell froze. Pure terror gripped him.
"What? Biting cabbage?!"
The sharp pain grew worse—like fangs digging into sensitive flesh. He itched, burned, and nearly lost consciousness as another wave of torment flooded him.
"AND GROGRAMAN SHAMO FLOWER JUICE?! YOU SMEARED THAT ON MY FACE TOO?!"
Voldemort's voice shrieked in disbelief.
Quirrell could barely think. It was as though hundreds of tiny blisters were exploding at once.
"Master! It wasn't me—I swear it wasn't me!" he pleaded mentally.
Then realization struck.
Who would have dared to tamper with his garlic basket?
Biting cabbage… Grograman shamo flower juice…
He remembered someone—someone clever. Someone capable of this.
Sharl.
But… no. That Young Wizard wouldn't do something so wicked, would he?
Then Quirrell's eyes narrowed.
This doesn't feel like his style…
And then it hit him.
"I know who it was!" he shouted internally. "Master! It must have been the Weasley twins! They've always loved pranking me—and they've thrown rocks at you before!"
"It has to be those damned brothers!"
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