Since Hagrid had made such an earnest promise, Louis had no choice but to trust him. After bidding farewell to Hagrid and Harry, Louis and Mr. Wilson gathered their pile of supplies and prepared to head home.
Hagrid had his own matters to deal with, so of course he couldn't escort Louis back. Not that it mattered—Louis was already familiar with the route and didn't need his help.
Right now, he was more concerned with how to explain everything to his mother.
"Dear Mr. Wilson, have you thought about how you'll explain all this to Mrs. Wilson?" Louis asked with a mischievous grin as they stood at the bar, watching Mr. Wilson drink his butterbeer.
It was hard to tell whether his sour expression came from the taste of the butterbeer or the challenge of explaining why he'd taken his son out in the middle of the night to roam around.
"I'll just explain it normally. Your mother's a reasonable woman. She'll understand," Mr. Wilson muttered, pushing the half-finished butterbeer back to Tom the bartender. "God, this drink is so cloying."
"Not liking it is pretty normal," Louis replied offhandedly. Just then, a pungent odor wafted over. Louis turned to see Quirrell—head wrapped in layers of cloth—approach the bar and speak to Tom.
"A lunch, please. Send it to my room."
"Of course, sir," old Tom replied politely. Only after Quirrell left did he grumble, "Merlin's beard, that man reeks. He's going to drive away my other customers."
"Well, we should respect other people's customs. He's Chinese, right?" Mr. Wilson remarked casually. "Can't be discriminatory."
You do realize that assuming someone's race because of how they smell is already discriminatory, right?
Louis held back the urge to comment and instead rolled his eyes before saying, "Dad, I'm gonna use the washroom."
"Make it quick. Don't sneak off again—we need to be home before lunch or your mother's going to explode," Mr. Wilson warned.
"I'll be right back," Louis said with a blink, then dashed off like a gust of wind.
Since I'm already here, it'd be rude not to pay Voldemort a little visit.
—
In a dark room upstairs, Quirinus Quirrell locked the door and shrank into a corner, trembling as he listened to the hissing voice echoing in his mind.
"Don't worry, Master," he whispered. "I've already marked the spot. Everything is perfectly prepared. I'll have the Philosopher's Stone for you very soon."
He was communicating with the powerful being possessing him. Though he kept up the act of reverence, deep inside, regret gnawed at him like a venomous serpent.
Quirinus Quirrell—graduate of Ravenclaw House at Hogwarts. A man foolish enough to believe that wisdom alone could bring him power.
In pursuit of strength, he scoured ancient texts and, through obscure hints, discovered the rumored hiding place of the Dark Lord Voldemort. Through flattery and clever words, he lured the fallen dark wizard out of hiding, hoping to learn powerful magic from him.
But he had no idea what kind of person he was really dealing with.
This was a man who, even as a student, could charm every professor into believing he was a model student—virtuous and brilliant. Voldemort's grasp of the human heart and his ability to manipulate others was far beyond what a bookish Quirrell could comprehend.
While Quirrell thought he was extracting knowledge from Voldemort, the Dark Lord had been subtly consuming him from the inside. Now, Voldemort had fully fused with him—their lives were tied together.
At this point, Quirrell, who had once half-heartedly served Voldemort, realized an unavoidable truth: if he didn't retrieve the Philosopher's Stone, he'd die right along with the Dark Lord, rotting away in the same body.
So, he finally began taking the mission seriously. He scoped out the location and prepared to steal the Stone from Gringotts.
"You've delayed long enough," came Voldemort's cold, raspy voice in his mind. "Your body may survive another six months, but do you really want to spend the rest of your life as a cripple?"
"Yes, my Lord. I will never betray you. I offer you my complete loyalty," Quirrell said miserably.
"Good," Voldemort said, satisfied. "Rest assured—serve me, and you shall receive boundless power and eternal life."
"Thank you, my Lord," Quirrell murmured, overwhelmed by the grand promises Voldemort painted.
Just as this "cordial" exchange between master and servant was taking place, the supposedly locked door slowly creaked open, the aging hinges letting out a sharp, screeching sound.
Quirrell jerked his head up, assuming it was Tom sending up his lunch, and snapped, "Who let you in?"
But as soon as the words left his mouth, his expression changed. He remembered clearly that he had locked the door—so how could it have opened so easily?
Even with an unlocking charm, it wouldn't have been this silent.
The door opened fully, revealing not the familiar corridor of the Leaky Cauldron—but an abyss of endless blackness, as if it led into the depths of the void.
"Quirinus Quirrell… and Voldemort?"
A strange voice echoed from the darkness beyond the door.
Quirrell's body froze. Eyes wide with terror, he stared at the threshold.
Who was this person—who could speak his greatest secret aloud so easily?
---