Chapter 43: Voldemort's Vessel
Early in the third week, a notice appeared in the common room announcing a new class: Flying Lessons, which would begin on Thursdays with Gryffindor.
Draco had never handled a broomstick before, so he couldn't resist asking, "Ethan, why do you look so unhappy?"
He finally had a subject where he could surpass his roommate, whom he'd always considered very strong.
Ethan really wasn't in the mood. "What's so exciting about it? It's just riding a broomstick, not flying unaided."
Although he couldn't actually fly on a broom, his dream wasn't to soar using external means anyway.
Draco was taken aback, then finally managed to mutter, "Tch, that sounds nice, but isn't that just because you're afraid you won't fly well? You're just making excuses. Who in the wizarding world can actually fly?"
Ethan didn't want to stoop to that level. He knew some people could fly. Voldemort, the incredibly powerful Dark Lord, was definitely one of them, whether he'd created the magic himself or learned it from ancient books.
"I wonder when I'll be able to learn the Flight spell." He didn't expect Voldemort to teach him this magic, nor did he want anything to do with the psychopathic bald man.
Flying lessons could wait until Thursday. Right now, he needed to get through his other classes first.
On Tuesday, during Defense Against the Dark Arts, Quirrell, still wearing his turban, stammered through the garlic-filled classroom, delivering a lecture that no one was listening to.
Ethan had learned his lesson after the first class and sat in the back row, far from the podium, to minimize his exposure to the garlic's assault.
When Quirrell turned to write on the blackboard again, Ethan saw something shiny on the back of the professor's head once more.
"Here we go again!" This wasn't the second time. During the first week of class, he thought he might be seeing things, but during the second week, he saw it four or five times in one class. He knew then that he was really seeing a 'ghost.'
After a while, he got used to it and pretended not to notice. After all, defeating Voldemort wasn't his job, so he figured it was better to avoid trouble and focus on getting through school peacefully.
Seeing the fragments of Voldemort's soul repeatedly was making him feel uneasy. He was already annoyed by Quirrell's mental attacks, and the visual assault of the soul fragments only made him more frustrated.
Having barely made it through the class, he glanced at the textbook and saw they'd covered less than half a chapter. He packed up his things without a word and headed off to eat.
"Jones, just a moment." It was Quirrell.
"Huh?" He stopped packing and looked up at the approaching professor, confused.
Draco and his friends quickly fled the classroom, casting a gloating look at him as they went.
Ethan glared at them, then turned to Quirrell. Taking a breath, he asked, "What do you want with me, Professor?"
"This, uh, isn't something we can discuss here. Let's go upstairs." Quirrell was still stammering.
He didn't want to go near Voldemort's vessel, especially not alone with him in his office.
He tried to decline. "I'm in a hurry for dinner, Professor. Why don't we just talk here? There's no one around."
"Upstairs." Quirrell's voice was firm.
Enduring the assault of garlic on his senses, he thought:
"Voldemort's goal is the Philosopher's Stone. He shouldn't do anything else until he gets it. I should be safe for now."
"But what if he casts the Imperius Curse? Can I withstand it?" He ran through the possibilities.
"Jones, you're hesitating. What is it?" Quirrell pressed.
"It's nothing, Professor. I was just worried my friend would be angry. She's waiting for me at dinner." He made up the excuse casually.
But under Quirrell's watchful gaze, he finally relented.
"It shouldn't be a big problem. It wouldn't do any good to cast the Imperius Curse on me. I'm not Harry Potter."
He comforted himself with that thought and followed Quirrell upstairs, his heart pounding.
To his surprise, the smell of garlic in Quirrell's office was very faint; he figured it was probably just the lingering scent on Quirrell's turban.
Once inside, Quirrell seemed like a completely different person, immediately relaxing.
He sat down in a chair and let out a long sigh. "That felt good."
Just as he was about to remove the turban, he caught sight of Ethan out of the corner of his eye. He'd completely forgotten about him. He paused, then quickly wound the turban back around his head.
He stood up. "Sit down, sit down, Mr. Jones."
Ethan shook his head. "I won't sit down yet, Professor. Please speak quickly. I'm afraid there won't be any food left if I go back late."
Quirrell didn't listen to a word he was saying and pushed him into the chair. "I'll go get you something to eat."
Ethan's muscles tensed. He'd almost acted.
"Professor, you don't stutter anymore?" he pointed out. He noted how Quirrell had just revealed his true self.
He scrambled to reassemble his act. "Oh, I... I... sometimes, I'm a little better."
Quirrell brought over a small plate of cookies, but Ethan didn't dare eat a single one, worried they might be poisoned.
Quirrell picked up a piece, popped it into his mouth, and chewed it, taking a sip of hot tea as well.
"Jones, you are very attentive in class. As the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I am very pleased." Quirrell dropped the pretense entirely and spoke fluently.
Ethan said nothing, internally rolling his eyes. "Which class of mine were you watching? I was reading an extracurricular book the entire time!"
"So, I intend to teach you something more advanced and profound." His features twisted, and he stammered again.
At the mention of teaching him something, Ethan's guard went up immediately, his expression turning serious. "What does the professor intend to teach me?"
"First, some interesting magic," Quirrell said with a mysterious smile.
He took a stack of handwritten notes from his desk and handed them to Ethan.
Ethan skimmed through them. They contained magical theory and spells, probably Dark Magic.
He knew perfectly well this must be Voldemort's doing, though he couldn't figure out why the Dark Lord had taken an interest in him.
He lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard. "Professor, this... this is Dark Magic?"
Quirrell smiled. "Not bad. Look, you're very interested in defensive magic, so I'm going to teach you some real Dark Magic so you can understand the subject from both sides."
"Isn't Dark Magic supposed to be evil?"
"Nonsense! This is just magic!" Quirrell said, clearly agitated.
Ethan, worried that Quirrell might lose control, quickly said, "Yes, yes, Professor. Please don't be angry. If there's nothing else, I'll be going now."
"Fine. You can go now."
He waved a hand dismissively, and Ethan, feeling as though he'd just been pardoned, quickly slipped away.
In the empty office, a deep voice rang out: "Idiot! You almost gave yourself away!"
"Ah! I was wrong, Master, I was wrong!" Quirrell screamed, but the soundproofing muffled it.
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