Chapter 111: Quirinus Quirrell
Dumbledore nodded.
"Of course he's discovered something, and he has to leave Hogwarts to pursue it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have spoken to you so vaguely."
Professor McGonagall frowned. It wasn't that she looked down on Quirrell, but the truth was, he had been a rather unremarkable Muggle Studies professor for years.
Dumbledore noticed her expression and smiled.
"Minerva, surely you haven't forgotten Quirinus graduated from Ravenclaw. He only taught Muggle Studies because it was a personal interest."
"But what could he have found that makes this necessary?" she asked, still puzzled.
Dumbledore sighed.
"Minerva, I think you truly have forgotten that child."
Professor McGonagall paused, her brow furrowed. Then realization dawned.
"You mean… Mary?"
Dumbledore nodded gravely.
"Yes. Mary. What an extraordinary girl. It's a tragedy… she stood against Tom."
Professor McGonagall nodded.
"Yes. Back then, it was inevitable. A Muggle-born speaking out the way she did—she was bound to be targeted."
Dumbledore's eyes grew distant with memory.
Mary Jones, a Muggle-born Ravenclaw, had shown tremendous magical potential. By her third year, she had drawn the attention of nearly every professor. At the time, Dumbledore was only Acting Headmaster and still teaching Transfiguration. Mary had been a prominent member of his Transfiguration Club.
She was gifted enough to begin unlocking Ravenclaw's hidden legacy by fifth year, and had even begun crafting magical rings based on ancient blueprints.
But it all ended in horror. After publicly criticizing the Death Eaters and publishing harsh articles about Voldemort, she was abducted during a school break and later tortured to death. By the time help arrived, her body was beyond recognition—dismembered and soaked in blood.
What many had forgotten was that Mary and Quirrell had been in a relationship, one seen and quietly supported by several faculty members.
After graduation, Quirrell stayed on at Hogwarts to teach. Over time, people forgot he had once competed in the Global Absolute Competition and nearly won. Few remembered he had been a gifted duelist and spell creator, true to his Ravenclaw brilliance.
Dumbledore had long suspected that Quirrell never truly let go of his grief or hatred for Voldemort. Even after the Potters' victory, Quirrell didn't believe Voldemort was truly gone.
Now, with this sudden request for travel, Dumbledore could only assume Quirrell had found something important.
"Minerva, ask Quirinus to come here. Actually—never mind. I'll go to his office myself. And please tell the house-elves to ignore anyone loitering in my office. If they're foolish enough to sit hungry, so be it."
Professor McGonagall nodded.
"Understood."
She turned and headed toward the kitchens, while Dumbledore made his way to Quirrell's office.
"Quirinus, do you intend to travel?" Dumbledore asked upon entering.
Quirrell nodded.
"Yes. I still know too little. But if things go well, I'd like to return and take up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Isn't that what you've always wanted from me, Professor?"
Dumbledore sighed, looking intently into Quirrell's eyes.
"Tell me truthfully—did you find traces of him?"
Quirrell's expression grew grim.
"You're perhaps the only one who still understands me this well. Yes. I've never stopped searching. Not long ago, a very clever friend of mine found something in a forest in Albania. He died there, but managed to pass the location to me before the end."
"So now you want to go yourself?" Dumbledore asked, eyes narrowing.
"Of course," Quirrell replied. "Professor, with your mastery of magic, I know you've already noticed something wrong with me."
Dumbledore paused, then gestured with his wand. A light blue glow spread over Quirrell's body.
"What… what is this, Quirinus? What have you done?"
Quirrell gave a resigned smile.
"My friend didn't just leave a message. He left me this."
He opened a cabinet and retrieved a suitcase, which he placed on the table. From it, he drew a black-wrapped item and slowly unwrapped it to reveal a piece of ancient bark, etched with a cryptic message:
"On the road to immortality, I have gone farther than anyone else."
Dumbledore's gaze fixed not on the words, but on the bark itself.
"It's cursed," he whispered.
Quirrell nodded.
"At first I thought it was a standard curse. But when it struck me, I realized it was a soul-curse—one that steadily weakens the soul until death. Worse, it's incomplete and can't be fully analyzed."
Dumbledore's voice dropped.
"How long do you have?"
"If everything goes according to plan—three years. If not, five at most."
"You've made your choice, then."
"Of course. I believe the Dark Lord's path to immortality lies in splitting the soul—Horcruxes. If I succeed, I might uncover how many there are, maybe even destroy the main fragment. After that, all that's left is for you to eliminate the rest."
Dumbledore's voice was barely above a whisper.
"I know he created more than one. I can confirm several Horcruxes exist. As for how many, perhaps Horace can help me find out."
Quirrell shook his head.
"But nothing is certain, is it? If my plan works, we'll finally have clarity—and maybe end this for good."
Dumbledore looked at Quirrell, as if wanting to say something more. In the end, he said nothing. He just sighed, long and deep.