The Quidditch match was over.
Harriet Potter (Harrie), as expected, caught the Golden Snitch, securing a victory for Gryffindor with a score of 450 to 360.
In terms of sheer power, the Slytherin team—composed entirely of what sound like human Bludgers—were admittedly rougher on the tactics front, but their physical advantage allowed them to rack up points in terms of goals. Three girls against three muscle-bound guys proved too difficult to handle. If the match had dragged on any longer, Gryffindor's chances of winning would have dropped significantly.
This is exactly why professional Quidditch teams are nearly all male. While there are a few all-female Quidditch teams, they rarely rank highly in the International League. Even the best of them, the Hollyhead Harpies, has yet to win a League Cup.
The Gryffindor students were utterly lost in the glory of their Quidditch victory. Lynn even dipped into his own pocket to buy a few rounds of Butterbeer from the Three Broomsticks—that non-alcoholic drink is always a huge hit with the younger lot.
---
Compared to the raucous party going on in the Gryffindor Common Room, the office for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—locked on the third floor—was a scene of sheer misery. Quirrell was on the verge of tears.
He had placed two mirrors, facing front and back, so he could see exactly what was happening to the back of his head.
When he removed his turban, his head had originally swelled to almost one and a half times its normal size due to the protruding, ugly face on his occiput. But now, that protruding, twisted face was... well, it was mostly just twisted now.
A massive indentation had appeared there, forming a smooth, rounded pit.
Embedded deep within this pit was an abstract, deformed face.
Lord Voldemort's eyes were sealed shut. No matter how much Quirrell called out, the Dark Lord wouldn't stir. This had given Quirrell the alarming feeling that his "Master was a bit dead." His panic was tinged with a slice of sadness, a tear of mourning, but also a huge wave of relief. If Voldemort had truly just died right then and there, it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing for him.
While the promise of power was the root cause of Quirrell's downfall, that terrifying feeling of watching his life force drain away ever since Voldemort possessed him had led to a creeping sense of regret and fear.
Quirrell isn't Barty Crouch Jr. or Bellatrix Lestrange; he doesn't possess the same kind of fanatical, life-sacrificing devotion to the Dark Lord's cause. He merely craved the knowledge and power Voldemort promised.
Voldemort had guaranteed his safety after the deed was done, but now, Quirrell wasn't so sure.
The being stuck to the back of his head was now "Lord Pothole Voldemort"—the Dark Lord had somehow sunken into his skull, and had been unconscious for so long he looked like he might actually be oozing...
It can't be my brains, can it?
Quirrell suddenly shuddered.
Just as that terrified thought surfaced, he saw the oozing, sunken face move its eyelids slightly in the mirror.
A voice, thick with pure malice and resentment, rasped from the crooked slit of a mouth:
"Quirrell..."
Voldemort had called his servant's name.
"M-m-master... you... you... you're alright, thank goodness!"
Tears streaming down his face—whether from relief or terror—Quirrell stammered, "I thought you weren't coming back."
"Yes, I was nearly gone," Voldemort's voice was dry, low, and sickly. "Perhaps you should explain to me why you were at the Quidditch pitch?"
"Why that wretched Bludger struck me!"
"I-I-I-I-I was just trying to confirm... that Harrie... yes, Harrie!"
Quirrell, suddenly grasping for a lifeline, blurted out quickly: "Master, you were suspicious of her identity before, were you not? That boy... no, that girl—what exactly is her identity?"
"No one has seen the scar on her forehead, and I haven't had the chance. But out on the pitch, there might have been. She was flying on a broom, I mean—"
"Silence! You idiot!"
Voldemort roared in frustration. He had indeed been concerned about this girl named Potter, but he chose to believe it was merely a coincidence. The Potter family wasn't extinct, after all. If there were that many Weasleys in the wizarding world, why couldn't there be a girl named Potter?
The prophecy spoke of a boy, and when he prepared to kill the boy from the prophecy, he distinctly heard the mother cry out "Harry," not "Harriet" (Harrie). Voldemort trusted his own ears.
"Is that insignificant detail what you should be worrying about right now?"
Voldemort spoke weakly, gritting his teeth. "Securing the Philosopher's Stone is what matters. While I still have a shred of power, go get it. Make me a new body. Surely, you are tired of having me leech off you by now?"
"How could I be? It is my honor, Master..." Quirrell whispered, trembling, utterly unable to voice his true feelings.
"Lies," Voldemort stated quietly, which only terrified Quirrell more.
"Go deal with the dog. Find a way past it. The Philosopher's Stone. That is your goal, and only your goal."
"Once you have the Stone and fashioned me a new body, I shall fulfill my promise and reward you with knowledge and power beyond anything you could ever imagine."
"Now, go brew a potion."
"I need to rest. Listen carefully..."
Quirrell gave his full attention, frantically memorizing the potion recipe, not daring to miss a single detail.
When he heard the ingredients, Quirrell began to shake once more.
Unicorn blood...
A Ravenclaw graduate, Quirrell had an intense thirst for knowledge. He had traveled the world and even agreed to become Voldemort's dog just to satisfy his ever-growing, greedy need for information.
A person like this turns up in Ravenclaw every so often. Nine out of ten Ravenclaw graduates locked up in Azkaban are there for breaking taboos for similar reasons.
Quirrell knew about Unicorns, of course. These pure, majestic creatures are blessed by magic. They can grant blessings, but they can also carry terrible curses.
Poachers who target Unicorns don't want their blood; they want the horns and hide. They must be extremely careful not to touch the blood when killing them. Anyone who touches that cursed blood will almost certainly die a horrible death within a year.
And yet, materials gained from killing a Unicorn are prime ingredients for Black Magic artifacts—vicious, powerful, and brimming with defiling dark power—coveted by every Dark Wizard.
Hogwarts does indeed have many Unicorns. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find any other place in Europe with a larger Unicorn population.
Quirrell knew he couldn't possibly get a Unicorn's consent to obtain its blood without the curse. His only way was to steal it, or worse, kill a Unicorn to take it.
Can my Master really save me from the Unicorn curse?
Quirrell wondered anxiously. He was hesitant, yet he dared not defy Voldemort. He had invested too much to turn back now. Other than walking the dark path to the bitter end, Quirrell had no choice.