Hogwarts' Golden Glory

"Now! Use the poison fang serum!"

Voldemort's voice shrieked in Quirrell's mind.

It was a dark green potion; once it touched the skin...

This will cause the other person's muscles to stiffen and their breathing to fail!

Similar to the venom of a basilisk.

This is the potion Voldemort hid in Hogwarts.

"Put it in the bottle on your right!"

Quirrell's right hand began to twitch uncontrollably.

Slowly move towards the crystal bottle containing the dark green liquid.

Harry was intently looking at the exam instructions posted on the wall.

They didn't notice the professor's unusual behavior at all.

Just one drop... just one drop...

Voldemort's consciousness enveloped Quirrell's thoughts like viscous asphalt.

Just as Quirrell's fingers touched the cork.

Neville Longbottom suddenly screamed from outside the corridor—he had stepped on a banana peel that Peeves had thrown.

The scream made Harry turn around sharply, and Quirrell took the opportunity to sweep the poison bottle into the drawer.

"Teach, or professor?"

Harry looked at Quirrell, who was covered in sweat, with a puzzled expression. "Are you alright?"

"Foolish!" Voldemort roared in Quirrell's mind.

"He cares about you! Like he cares about a lame dog!"

Quirrell's temples throbbed.

He forced a distorted smile: "I...I just haven't had much rest. Now, I have an exam...Please tell me, how do you identify a werewolf?"

Harry watched Quirrell's twitching facial muscles warily. "Uh... silver-grey fur? Yellow eyes? And... a heightened sensitivity to full moons?"

"Don't let him do it!" Voldemort sneered. "Let him demonstrate the spell! When he raises his wand—"

"Very good."

Quirrell suddenly interrupted the voice in his head, "Now, please demonstrate the repelling spell."

Harry raised his wand and aimed it at the dummy.

But suddenly I felt a sharp, piercing pain.

His scar suddenly burned, and he almost dropped his wand.

"Ah!" Harry covered his forehead and staggered back two steps.

A barely audible hissing sound came from behind Quirrell's headscarf.

Voldemort's consciousness suddenly became exceptionally clear: "His scars... can sense me... interesting... very interesting..."

"I'm sorry, Professor."

"I'm suddenly feeling a little dizzy," Harry said, panting.

Quirrell pressed his hands firmly on the podium, his knuckles turning white.

Two opposing ideas clashed fiercely in his mind:

"Kill him now! Burn this classroom down with Fiendfyre!"

"But Master... the Philosopher's Stone..."

"I want him dead! Now! Immediately!"

Dumbledore will realize... the time is not right...

In the end, Voldemort's resolve wavered slightly: "...Never mind, let him through. We have bigger goals."

Quirrell was soaking wet, as if he'd just been pulled from the water. "You can do it, you can go, Potter."

Harry looked at the suddenly ended exam with a puzzled expression.

But the pain from the scars made him want to leave as soon as possible.

Just as he turned around, he caught a glimpse of wisps of dark green smoke seeping from the cracks in Quirrell's drawer.

It was accompanied by a slight "buzzing" sound.

"Is...is there anything else?" Quirrell asked nervously, blocking the drawer with his body.

Harry shook his head and strode towards the door.

This is Professor Quirrell, the same Professor Quirrell who saved them in the Forbidden Forest last time.

They don't look like the same person at all.

After Harry left, Quirrell's office door closed again.

He slumped into the chair.

The face beneath the purple headscarf was contorted, and Voldemort's hoarse whisper came from the back of his head.

Voldemort: "Bring in that Malfoy boy...it's time..."

Quirrell trembled as he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.

Fingers left wet marks on the table.

He took a deep breath and tapped the door frame with his wand.

"Next... Mr. Malfoy."

Draco Malfoy pushed open the door and entered, his grey-blue eyes carrying his usual arrogance.

But when he saw Quirrell's condition, he paused slightly.

The professor's robe was soaked, and his face was as pale as if he had been kissed by a Dementor.

Even more strangely, his headscarf moved without wind, as if some living thing was hiding underneath.

"Teach, Professor?" Draco instinctively gripped the wand hidden in his sleeve.

Quirrell suddenly flashed an exaggerated smile.

His lips twitched. "Ah... Draco Malfoy... please, please sit down."

His voice had changed, though he was still stuttering.

But there was a strange rhythm to his tone.

It was as if someone was controlling his vocal cords in sync.

Draco did not sit down.

He stared at Quirrell warily: "What's on the exam?"

Quirrell's fingers tapped nervously on the table: "First... tell me... what are your... thoughts on dark magic?"

What kind of question is this?

Draco was taught the honor of pure-bloods from a young age.

But his father Lucius and Kane had also warned him that some topics had to be discussed with caution at school.

“Dark magic is part of the ancient wizarding tradition,” Draco replied cautiously, “but it shouldn’t be covered in the first-year curriculum.”

Quirrell's headscarf suddenly bulged up, then quickly flattened out.

His eyes were fixed on Draco: "What if I told you... there's a very important person... who admired your father before... and now... values ​​you highly?"

Draco's breath hitched.

He certainly knew who the "big shot" was.

"My father said...that person has disappeared."

Draco said in a low voice, but his heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest.

Quirrell suddenly stood up, his movements as stiff as a marionette.

He walked around the table, each step accompanied by a strange "clicking" sound, as if his joints weren't his own.

As he approached Draco, a stench mixed with the smell of garlic hit him.

"Look at me, boy..."

Quirrell's voice suddenly stopped stuttering, and his tone became low and hoarse.

"Use your...pure-blooded eyes...to look carefully..."

He slowly pulled his headscarf open a little—

The sight Draco saw froze his blood: on Quirrell's head, a pale face bulged out like a relief, with crimson snake eyes, a flat nose, and a mouth twisted into an inhuman smile—

Voldemort's face.

"ah--!"

Before Draco could even scream, Quirrell's (or Voldemort's) wand was already pressed against his throat.

"Shh... Malfoy..." The voice came directly from the back of Quirrell's head.

Hissed like a snake's tongue, "Do you want the whole school to know... what you saw?"

"Your brother, your parents, and I have a very good relationship."

Draco was trembling all over.

But Kane's training these past few days has kept him from collapsing.

His father had said—when facing the Dark Lord, fear is permissible, but losing control is fatal.

"I...I won't tell anyone," Draco's voice was barely audible.

"A clever, intelligent child..."

Quirrell wrapped his headscarf back up and resumed his stuttering disguise. "Now... let's talk about... your... secret mission."