CH: 5 Quirinus Quirrell
On a bright sunny day, a room in the Leaky Cauldron remained shrouded in darkness, with thick curtains blocking out all the light.
A torn and crumpled letter with a Hogwarts postmark lay scattered on the table by the window.
Quirinus Quirrell, whom Harry had just mentioned, writhed on the ground in agony, screaming. A purple turban fell aside, revealing his bald head.
Where the back of Quirrell's head should have been, a grotesque and terrifying face emerged. The face was as white as chalk, with piercing red eyes that gleamed, and beneath them were two snake-like nostrils.
In that very moment, a chilling roar erupted from the hideous face nestled on the back of Quirrell's head, its twisted features contorting with fury. The disembodied voice seethed with anger as it unleashed a torrent of curses and venomous words.
"Damn you Dumbledore!" The face seethed with hatred, its voice oozing with a venomous fury. "How dare he betray me! And that newly appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, daring to steal my rightful position. I shall ensure his existence becomes a living nightmare, an eternity far worse than mere death!"
The terrifying face revealed itself to be none other than Voldemort, the dread-inducing figure who cast a long shadow of fear across the Wizarding World.
However, he was no longer as powerful and independent as before. He existed in a weakened state, only able to survive within Quirrell's body as a fragmented soul.
When Quirrell received a letter from Dumbledore informing him that a more suitable professor had been found for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, Voldemort, who was parasitically attached to the back of Quirrell's head, was on the verge of exploding with rage.
Decades ago, Voldemort had aspired to become the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. After being rejected twice in a row, he even placed a curse on the position, ensuring that no one could hold the position for more than a year.
Beyond being a mere obsession, Voldemort knew the Defense Against the Dark Arts position held grave importance in his master plan, specifically in his quest to obtain the elusive Philosopher's Stone. Should Quirrell fail to retain his position, all their carefully laid plans and arduous preparations would crumble into oblivion.
"It is all your fault, you bumbling imbecile!" Voldemort's parasitic influence intensified within Quirrell's weakened vessel, his voice laced with seething rage. "Your incompetence cost us the Philosopher's Stone at Gringotts. And now, we find ourselves in this wretched predicament!"
Quirrell was pushed to the brink of desperation by the overwhelming control and torment of his parasitic master. In utter anguish, he cried out, his voice betraying a mix of agony and determination. "Master, we can track him down and eliminate him! I swear, I will handle this matter with utmost success, and I shall not disappoint you again!"
Suddenly, there was a series of knocks on the door—Thud, thud, thud.
The echoing voices abruptly ceased, leaving the room suspended in an eerie silence.
Exhaling a weary sigh of relief, Quirrell fumbled to retrieve his wand, waving it lightly in the air to dispel the Muffliato charm that had been shielding their conversation.
With an air of trepidation, he turned toward the door, addressing the unexpected interruption in a wavering tone. "N-No... Haven't you mentioned... n-n-not to... not to disturb me?"
A momentary silence followed, and the incessant knocking paused.
But Voldemort's ferocious visage morphed into a tense expression as he leaned closer to Quirrell, his voice urgent and barely audible. "Quickly put on the turban!" He hissed, his tone filled with a sense of urgency. "He has broken through the Ward on the door!"
Quirrell's expression shifted from cowardice to panic as he scrambled to wave his wand in desperation. With trembling hands, he hastily retrieved the fallen turban from the ground and wrapped it tightly around his head, hoping to conceal the abhorrent secret hidden within.
BANG!
The door of the room was violently thrust open, crashing against the wall with a resounding impact.
A tall figure, adorned with silver locks and eyes of deep burgundy, strode into the room, emanating an aura of malevolence as his piercing gaze fell upon the wizard wearing a conspicuous turban.
"I was informed that the newly appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts is housed within this room, hence, my special visit..." Dracula began, his brow furrowing inquisitively. However, he was abruptly interrupted by a pungent odor that invaded his senses. "What is this overpowering scent? Garlic?" He remarked, his voice laced with mild disdain.
Reacting on instinct, Dracula gracefully waved his hand, causing the previously tightly shut curtains and windows to swing open. With a swift rush of wind, the room was instantly flooded with a gust of invigorating air, effacing the remnants of the potent garlic scent in the process.
Quirrell, his body tense with apprehension, instinctively shielded his precious turban, wary of the forceful gust of wind that threatened to snatch it away.
Stammering nervously, he attempted to assert some semblance of authority amidst the intrusion. "Y-you...What do you think you are doing here?" Quirrell stuttered, his voice fraught with unease. "This is...private property. Y-you have no right...you c-can't simply waltz in like this."
Dracula paid little heed to the feeble protests, his gaze unwavering as he patiently waited for the pungent garlic scent to dissipate to a significant degree. Only then did he turn to face the enigmatic figure before him, the wizard cloaked in the peculiarly wrapped turban.
"Are you Quirinus Quirrell, the newly appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts?" Dracula inquired, his tone steady and composed despite the intense atmosphere surrounding them.
Quirrell, his voice trembling with fear, managed to conjure a shaky response. "Y-Yes...Y-yes, I am...And y-you are...?" His words trailed off, his body trembling in the presence of this intimidating figure before him.
As Dracula observed the timid wizard standing before him, a dark glint flickered within his eyes, and his expression contorted into a sneer.
"What a remarkable coincidence!" Dracula's voice dripped with a mixture of sarcasm and derision. "I happen to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts as well!" Dracula proclaimed, his voice dripping with mockery.
Quirrell's eyes grew wide with disbelief, his mind reeling at the unexpected turn of events. He had anticipated seeking out the person who had stolen his position, only to find that fate had brought them face to face in this very moment.
An intense mix of emotions stirred within Quirrell, and the trembling and stammering that once gripped him dissipated, giving way to a burning rage. Determined to unleash the pent-up pain and suffering he had endured under Voldemort's grip, Quirrell's voice hardened as he scornfully addressed the man standing before him.
"So, you're the bastard who took my place!" Quirrell's words slashed through the air, laced with bitterness and animosity as he sought to vent the immense pain and anguish Voldemort had inflicted upon him, directing his frustration at this unexpected adversary.
"I never anticipated that you would willingly walk into my carefully laid trap," Quirrell coldly remarked, his voice tinged with a mixture of malice and satisfaction.
With trembling hands, Quirrell slowly raised his wand, preparing to unleash the fury that had simmered within him for far too long.
Yet, in the midst of this pivotal moment, an urgent and frantic warning reverberated through Quirrell's mind, a chilling echo of Voldemort's voice piercing his thoughts.
"Stop! Don't do it! Run! Run for your life!!" Voldemort's warning rang out, the fear in his voice palpable and unlike anything Quirrell had ever heard before.
Quirrell's heart pounded in his chest as an unexpected surge of fear gripped him, causing his body to break out in a cold sweat. In that moment, the weight of Voldemort's frantic plea weighed heavily upon him, overwhelming his own actions.
Making a swift decision, he turned his body abruptly, preparing to Apparate away from the scene.
On the other side, Dracula crossed his arms, ready to witness what surprises Professor Quirrell, who had sought to steal his own amusement, had in store.
As Dracula witnessed Quirrell's attempt to Apparate, he was momentarily taken aback. However, he soon shook his head with amusement and raised his hand to halt the process.
Following Dracula's movements, Quirrell, who had already partially entered the apparition space, was forcefully pulled back into the room of the Leaky Cauldron and slammed onto the table in front of the window.
With a loud crash, the table split into two.
Quirrell screamed in pain, clutching his back.
Closing the distance between them, Dracula took deliberate steps forward, positioning himself in front of Quirrell, his gaze piercing and dominating.
"What do you mean I took your place?" Dracula questioned, a faint chuckle escaping his lips.
Quirrell remained silent, oblivious to Dracula's inquiry, as his countenance transformed from one of flustered confusion to an eerie vacancy. A sinister gleam danced within his eyes, his visage now etched with an unsettling intensity.
"What a waste!" Quirrell's voice, dripping with disappointment and bitterness, hissed through clenched teeth, the words a venomous whisper.
A sudden interruption severed the tension-filled air, as Voldemort's cold voice rang out, cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Quirrell!"
In the ensuing moment, an inky surge of black mist erupted from Quirrell's very being, tendrils snaking and coiling around him with an ominous grip, wrapping him tightly in its dark embrace. The mist served as both a shield and a conduit, shrouding the wizard in an suffocating embrace.
Dracula's brow furrowed slightly as he raised his hand once again.
However, this time, Quirrell seemed to have completely transformed into a cloud of mist, becoming intangible and elusive, slipping through Dracula's grasp.
As Dracula contemplated the enigmatic turn of events, the dense black mist stealthily slithered through every nook and cranny in the room, evaporating into nothingness.
A deep frown marred Dracula's face as he attentively observed the gradual disappearance of Quirrell's form, his mind delving into the intricacies of this peculiar phenomenon.
"How intriguing..." Dracula mused aloud, a glimmer of fascination dancing in his eyes.
Slowly, the corners of his mouth curled upward, transforming his previously furrowed countenance into a subtle smirk. With the tension in his brow dissipating and replaced by a sense of intrigue, Dracula reveled in the unfolding mystery.
"Well then," He spoke with a calculated air of curiosity, "Let's see what secrets you were hiding."
With a nonchalant flick of his fingers, Dracula effortlessly restored the room within the Leaky Cauldron to its original state, as if erasing any traces of disturbance. Remarkably, he achieved this without uttering a single incantation, a testament to his formidable power and mastery over magic.
Casting a glance at the bright sunlight streaming in through the window, he pouted inwardly before confidently striding out of the room through the main door.