Vinson had not paid much attention to Quirrell earlier; both he and Hagrid had only cast him a quick, passing glance. Even so, the anger simmering in Vinson's eyes was impossible to conceal. For someone who had lived his previous and current lives as an orphan, family was the thing he treasured above all else. Ever since gaining the surname "Vinson," he carried the belief that it was his duty to protect the people who bore it.
Yet reality had shown him how powerless he still was. His sister remained in a coma, trapped in a silent world she could not escape. And the root cause of all this suffering was none other than Lord Voldemort. The wizard who had personally cast the Cruciatus Curse on her had already perished in Azkaban for unrelated reasons, but that brought Vinson no comfort. The bitter knot inside him refused to loosen.
What Vinson could not comprehend—refused to accept—was Voldemort's motivations. Why would someone take pleasure in war, destruction, and terror? Why would anyone crave domination so desperately that they were willing to tear apart the world to obtain it?
To Vinson, the world should be peaceful, gentle, and filled with the possibility of beauty.
Therefore, Voldemort had to be destroyed.
"Professor Vinson?"
Hagrid's large hand knocked against the wooden table, the sound snapping Vinson out of his spiraling thoughts. He blinked and forced a faint smile.
"Ah—sorry, Hagrid. I drifted off for a moment. What were we talking about?"
Now was not the right time to act against Voldemort. Even if he managed to eliminate the weakened Dark Lord currently parasitizing Quirrell, it would accomplish nothing. The Horcruxes remained scattered across the world, tethering Voldemort's soul and granting him endless chances at rebirth. Half measures wouldn't work. If he wanted to end Voldemort, he had to cut the roots, not merely trim the branches.
"Quirinus Quirrell," Hagrid continued, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "The new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall mentioned 'im a few days ago. Said he had outstanding marks back when he was a student. Loads of theory, sharp mind—typical Ravenclaw."
"Sounds impressive," Vinson replied, taking a sip of mead. His voice was calm, but his mind was wandering far from the Leaky Cauldron.
Hagrid sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Poor Professor Quirrell. You know how it is—no Defence Against the Dark Arts professor ever leaves Hogwarts in one piece. That position's cursed, no doubt about it."
He paused, then added regretfully, "Wish Headmaster Dumbledore could teach the class himself. If anyone could break the curse, it'd be him. But he's always too busy, o' course."
Vinson didn't know why Quirrell had chosen to visit the Leaky Cauldron today of all days. With Voldemort clinging to the back of his head, being in a public place full of wandering eyes seemed almost reckless. Perhaps Quirrell trusted too much in his disguise—the thick purple turban wrapping his head exuded such a strong smell of garlic that most customers instinctively kept their distance. The odor was repelling enough that people likely avoided standing behind him long enough to notice anything strange.
Just as Vinson was pondering this, Quirrell moved.
Both he and Hagrid fell silent and watched.
Quirrell rose slowly from his seat, his back still facing Vinson. A sudden, inexplicable unease surged through Vinson's chest, sharp and cold.
Then it struck him—that sensation of being observed with terrifying focus.
He's looking at me.
No—he is looking at me.
Lord Voldemort.
Cold sweat dampened Vinson's palms. His muscles tensed, instinct screaming a warning. Yet Quirrell made no move to turn around, nor did he show any intention of approaching. He simply walked toward the exit, unhurried and calm, and disappeared through the door.
Before Vinson could process the moment, new customers entered, shutting the door behind them and blocking his view entirely.
Hagrid, oblivious to Vinson's distress, launched into another topic about Hogwarts—this time about dragons. Vinson nodded absently, barely hearing him. His mind was elsewhere.
Why?
Why had Voldemort directed his attention solely toward him?
Both he and Hagrid had been observing Quirrell. Yet Voldemort's attention had locked onto him alone.
Could Voldemort sense the observation ability granted by the Tree of Wisdom?
If that were true…
Then Voldemort was far more horrifying than Vinson had imagined. No one—not even Dumbledore—had ever noticed the Tree of Wisdom's presence before.
Vinson exhaled slowly. He could only hope he was imagining things.
Quirrell never returned to the Leaky Cauldron. Vinson and Hagrid continued their conversation, though "conversation" was generous—Hagrid did most of the talking, passionately discussing dragon species, breeding habits, and the dream of raising one himself. Vinson nodded when appropriate, his thoughts drifting like smoke.
By the time Vinson finally returned home, night had already fallen. As he approached his small house, he spotted a dark shadow circling overhead. The shadow swooped downward and perched neatly atop his mailbox.
A snowy owl.
Vinson blinked in surprise. Wild snowy owls didn't exist in Britain; this was clearly a wizard's familiar. The owl held a long, rectangular package in its beak.
"For me?" Vinson murmured, gently taking the package. "Thank you. Would you like an owl treat?"
The owl accepted the treat with dignified satisfaction, then flapped its wings and disappeared into the night sky.
Inside the wrapping was an elegantly crafted rectangular box, along with a small hand-torn note. The back of the note was scribbled with messy handwriting—clearly torn from a student's notebook. The handwriting on the front was similarly crooked.
Vinson chuckled softly.
Harry.
He recognized the handwriting immediately. This must be the gift Hagrid mentioned yesterday—the one Harry had bought for him. Carefully peeling away the wrapping paper, Vinson revealed a beautifully made silver pocket watch. Intricate patterns spread across its polished surface like vines.
When he opened the cover, glowing letters slowly formed on the inside:
"To my most respected person."
Vinson shook his head, smiling despite himself.
"A clever gift," he murmured, slipping the watch into his pocket.
The heaviness of the day lifted, replaced by a soft warmth.
The next day, around noon, Harry arrived as usual—this time holding an old flowerpot.
"Teacher, is something wrong with it?" Harry asked the moment he stepped in. He set the pot onto the table. Inside was his Biting Cabbage, its leaves limp.
"I followed everything you wrote down," Harry said nervously. "I added the potion when watering it like you said. But look… doesn't it look off?"
Vinson leaned closer, frowning. The cabbage's leaves drooped lifelessly, the rich green faded to a dull shade. It looked sickly—deflated.
"That shouldn't be happening," he murmured. Until now, every plant given his special potion had flourished dramatically. Some grew faster, others developed unique characteristics or unusual strengths.
He placed a hand over the pot.
"Eldera."
The Tree of Wisdom responded instantly:
[Type: Biting Cabbage]
[Level: 1]
[Characteristic: Unknown]
[Status: Growing (99%), Malnourished]
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