In his office, Professor Quirrell was pacing back and forth.
A cold, ghostly sigh drifted out from that lump of purple turban on his head. "That transfer student… he still hasn't come…"
Quirrell muttered in terror and reverence, "Please be a bit more patient, my lord, he will come. Even if he avoids me, I'll find him for you."
"Find out… where that pure gold came from… find out what he talked about with Dumbledore…"
"I understand, my lord. I'll get it done."
Knock, knock!
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in!"
Skyl pushed the door open and stepped inside.
He saw Quirrell drawing the curtains. As the last afterglow of the sunset vanished, the magic candelabra in the room gave a drowsy yawn and lit themselves. The office was full of a strange smell—coming from Professor Quirrell himself. The Weasley twins said it was garlic, but the Patil sisters from India insisted it was masala. It was pungent, with a faint reek of rot underneath.
"Professor Quirrell, I'm so glad to see you. I heard you were looking for me?"
The always-stammering Professor Quirrell forced out a fake smile. "Y-yes, Skyl, we meet again. H-how are you? Please, sit down, I have some questions. Er, about your classes. Even though I know about your… situation, not coming to a single lesson has me a bit worried."
Skyl had been an educator himself once; he understood how Quirrell felt. But he had no intention of wasting his life on idle, empty time. To be honest, many classes were utterly devoid of substance—cancers and parasites in the education system.
"I'm fine, Professor, and I wish you all the best as well. Forgive me if I speak bluntly, but the fact is, I don't think much of your class. While I'm grateful to you for taking me to Diagon Alley to do my school shopping—that favour is something I keep close to my heart and can repay at any time—it doesn't lessen my aversion to what you teach."
Quirrell was stunned by Skyl's frankness.
"Ah? Th-that… y-you haven't even attended a single lesson…"
"True. Normally, you'd say there's no right to comment without investigation. But, Professor, what do you think the purpose of teaching in a school is? To make students submit to a system of rigid management—or to help them develop fully in body and mind?"
"I suppose… it should be… development. The students are more important."
"Exactly. Then we actually have some common ground. My reason for skipping Defence Against the Dark Arts is very simple: I don't need it. On the night before this course even began, I no longer needed anyone to teach me how to defend against dark magic."
"…" Quirrell was left gaping.
Skyl spoke again in the same gentle, courteous tone. "Do you remember, Professor, when we first met at the Leaky Cauldron? We didn't talk much that day, because at the time I was a complete nobody—utterly ignorant of magic, ignorant of power. Now we can talk as equals. I no longer need to fear harm from you."
Quirrell's face was already beaded with sweat. He took a deep breath, clutching at the front of his robes like a man having a heart attack. His stammer worsened. "I—I know what you're implying. H-how could I possibly… harm a student?"
Skyl didn't press him with aggressive words. He simply looked at Quirrell with calm, sorrowful eyes, silver light gleaming in his pupils.
"Professor, I still remember the look in your eyes when we said goodbye. Alas, it's all like a nightmare, isn't it?"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"The black forest of Albania. You went in alone, in pursuit of knowledge, and instead you met a demon. His soul latched onto you, soaking your own spirit day and night in his poisonous slime, twisting your will bit by bit. Quirinus Quirrell—an outstanding graduate of Ravenclaw, brilliantly gifted. People say you encountered vampires and dark wizards there. They talk about how you changed, and they pity you. You should have had a much brighter future."
Quirrell's face had gone the colour of a corpse that had been soaking in ice water. He stopped pretending to stammer. In a low, hard voice he demanded, "Just what do you know? Who told you all this?!"
"Idiot…"
A voice seeped out from the turban, carrying an evil, chill magic that made one break out in a full-body cold sweat, an unholy, alien taint. "He's reading your mind… don't look into his eyes…"
Voldemort's words quivered faintly, because he'd realised Skyl wasn't just reading Quirrell's thoughts—he was directly invading his soul.
"Kill him!"
"As you command, my lord!"
Quirrell whipped out his wand and, in shock and rage, hurled the Bone-Shattering Curse at Skyl.
The searing ray of spellfire slammed into Skyl—only to be stopped short by an invisible shield. Even the impact of the magic itself dissipated into nothing.
Quirrell's shaking grew worse. He realised how terrifyingly powerful this transfer student truly was. He conjured ropes again and again, trying to bind Skyl, but the black cords of hemp turned into clusters of exuberant mountain flowers the instant they neared him, a trail of blossoms in every vivid colour swirling around his body.
"What kind of magic is this?!"
"Transfiguration, Professor." Skyl's tone grew solemn. "It seems we're going to have ourselves a wizard's duel. Excellent. Bear witness, then—to Destruction magic from the College of Winterhold."
He raised his hand. The air above his palm was pierced by flickering sparks. A massive surge of lightning-element power rushed together, forming a blinding sphere of ball lightning. The air ionised; every sound in the office seemed to drop by several octaves, as if submerged underwater. A powerful stench of ozone billowed outward—rough and domineering—blowing away the rotten stink clinging to Quirrell.
"Move!" Voldemort shouted furiously. "Get out of the way!"
Skyl pointed his palm at Quirrell, as casually as one might level a gun barrel at a barnyard fowl.
Every hair on Quirrell's body stood on end with static. His legs refused to move, as if they'd been hit with a spell; he was rooted to the spot.
The ball of lightning drifted out of Skyl's hand, moving lazily at first. When it reached Quirrell, it began to orbit him. Throughout the whole process, Quirrell didn't so much as twitch. He was scared witless.
A pleased smile touched Skyl's face. "Looks like I've won. My apologies for taking over your office, but I do have a few questions of my own. Professor, on the twenty-ninth of August, when I came out of Gringotts, I saw you sitting by the roadside, apparently watching something. Care to tell me whom you were looking for?"
Sweat poured down Quirrell's face in rivulets. He shook his head in terror.
Skyl already knew the truth from inside his mind.
"Ah, look at me—how terribly careless." Skyl sighed in mock relief. "I actually did something so stupid as to make the gold I created completely pure, without adding any trace impurities. That really shouldn't have happened. It's an insult to the scientific education I received. In this world, aside from me, only the Philosopher's Stone can produce pure gold. Gringotts, Gringotts… they say you're the safest bank in the world, and yet you manage to let even this kind of information leak out. What a sieve you are.
"I ought to thank you, Professor. This is the first lesson you've taught me: the weak must be a thousand times more cautious. That's a lesson of great value to me. I won't make the same mistake again."
"Stop it! D-don't read my mind any more!"
Skyl walked toward him step by step. Quirrell desperately wanted to back away, but with that ball lightning circling him he didn't dare make any large movement at all.
"Professor, do you trust me?"
"I…I…"
"I can get rid of this little problem clinging to you. All you need to do is nod. From that moment on, Voldemort's shard of soul will never trouble your life again. And you will forget the suffering you've gone through during this time. Just nod, and you'll still be Quirinus Quirrell, the brilliant Ravenclaw graduate—young, accomplished, full of promise."
Sensing Quirrell's wavering, Voldemort immediately shrieked. His voice was weak, but razor-sharp, like a banshee's wail. "Idiot… how dare you betray me?!"
"Shut up, Afu!" Skyl roared.
Using a soul-draining spell from the school of Conjuration, he forcibly ripped Voldemort's remaining soul out of Quirrell.
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