Quirrell

As the portal's golden light faded, Silas and Professor Quirrell, whom he had tightly bound with Sekern Red Belts, appeared in a desolate, silent clearing far from Hogwarts Castle. The cold wind howled, and all around them were withered yellow grass and exposed rocks.

Quirrell—or rather, Voldemort, who controlled Quirrell—was clearly stunned by the sudden spatial transfer and restraint, but he was even more enraged! He, Voldemort, had never suffered such humiliation!

"You... you fool who doesn't know his place! Let me go!" Quirrell's voice became shrill and warped, filled with malice that did not belong to him.

Silas did not waste words on him. His gaze was icy as he swung his left hand again, firing another Sekern Red Belt that wrapped precisely around Quirrell's left wrist! The two scarlet energy bands were like red-hot iron chains, locking Quirrell's arms tightly against his sides. Their powerful sealing force not only restrained his movements, but completely suppressed the flow of magic within him!

Quirrell—Voldemort—realized in horror that he could not draw upon even the slightest bit of magic! The binding spell used by this red-haired boy possessed an energy level and sealing effect far beyond his imagination! What filled him with even greater despair was that Quirrell's body itself had far less magic than the strange child before him. Under the suppression of the two Red Belts, he had no room even to struggle!

"Wh-what do you want?!" Real fear entered Quirrell's voice.

Silas did not answer. He stepped forward and brutally snatched away the wand Quirrell had been gripping. Grasping both ends of it with his hands, he drove his knee upward!

Crack!

A crisp snap rang out, and Quirrell's wand broke in two, becoming two useless pieces of wood.

"No—!" Quirrell let out a desperate howl.

But Silas was not done! He tossed aside the broken wand, reached out, grabbed the scarf around Quirrell's head—the one reeking strongly of garlic, meant to conceal Voldemort's presence—and yanked hard!

The scarf came off, revealing the back of Quirrell's head... and the pale, warped, serpent-like, vicious face embedded there—Voldemort's face!

That face twisted violently with rage at being exposed. Its scarlet eyes fixed on Silas as it let out a hoarse roar. "You! How could you know?! How dare you—Aaargh!!"

Before he could finish, Silas had already raised his foot and kicked that revolting face with all his strength!

Bang!

Voldemort cried out in pain, his entire face distorted by the kick.

The rage and disgust in Silas's heart erupted completely. He stopped using magic and, like he was in a street brawl, rained down fists and kicks on Quirrell's body—or rather, on the body Voldemort inhabited!

"That's for hurting people! That's for possessing someone! That's for causing trouble!"

His fists struck ribs with dull thuds; his feet kicked behind Quirrell's knees, forcing Quirrell—Voldemort—to his knees. Silas was venting completely, beating the culprit who had brought fear and chaos to Hogwarts in the most primitive, violent way possible.

As he hit him, he growled through gritted teeth, "It's a damn shame I can't use the Cruciatus Curse on you! Otherwise, I'd make you learn what it means to wish you were dead!"

He remembered his "promise" to Dumbledore and did not use the Unforgivable Curses, but this purely physical beating was savage enough to chill any observer to the bone. Quirrell's body groaned and wailed under the one-sided assault, while Voldemort's face on the back of his head twisted to the extreme with rage and humiliation, spewing silent, vicious curses.

In this deserted clearing, Silas, a first-year Hogwarts student, was mercilessly beating the weakened Dark Lord Voldemort in a manner utterly unbecoming of a wizard. The scene was absurd, violent, and... possessed an indescribable, subversive shock.

As he beat him, he kept muttering, his tone carrying the calm mockery of a certain kind of "professional."

"I studied medicine before! I know the human body inside out! Don't worry, I definitely won't beat you to death! But... I can make you die from the pain, you bastard!"

Every punch and kick came with Quirrell's—Voldemort's—painful grunts and spasms. Voldemort's face, parasitic on the back of Quirrell's head, warped out of shape under the extreme pain and humiliation. Scarlet eyes burned with towering fury and resentment as he exhausted his strength to hiss a curse like a venomous snake.

"You... you're dead! Once I regain my strength... I'll make you... I'll make you suffer endlessly! I'll make you..."

"Go to hell!" Silas interrupted him without hesitation, delivering another vicious kick to Quirrell's kidney and making him curl up in agony. "You bastard who goes on and on about pure-blood supremacy and noble wizard bloodlines! Your mother was a witch, sure, but your father was a Muggle landowner! You're a half-blood yourself! Who the hell are you trying to impress?!"

Those words were like a sharp blade, striking precisely at Voldemort's deepest pain and most hypocritical disguise! The background he feared most and desperately tried to conceal had been revealed with such contempt by this brat who had appeared from nowhere!

"Shut up!!!" Voldemort let out a shriek so sharp that his voice cracked. His face twisted violently with utter rage, nearly tearing free from the back of Quirrell's head. "You... how dare you... how could you know?!"

"I know a lot more than that!" Silas smashed another fist into Quirrell's nose, sending blood spurting out at once. "You twisted psychopath! You hate the whole world because you came from a bad background? Then you came up with all that pure-blood nonsense and got so many people killed! What the hell are you?"

Every rebuke from Silas came with a precise physical blow. He was not only destroying Quirrell's body, but viciously trampling Voldemort's twisted self-esteem and pride. This double torture of body and mind nearly drove the weakened Voldemort mad! He had never suffered such humiliation!

Yet no matter how furious he became or how he cursed, under the absolute restraint of the Sekern Red Belts and Silas's "professional" beating, he had no ability to fight back. He could only passively endure this unprecedented degradation.

This one-sided "private punishment" continued in the desolate clearing. Silas Cyril, a first-year Hogwarts student, was carrying out his own idea of "justice" in the simplest way possible, while leaving the Dark Lord Voldemort with an unforgettable and deeply humiliating psychological scar.

Dumbledore, Snape, and the others finally located the secluded clearing outside Hogsmeade Village through tracking magic. When they hurried there, the sight before them made everyone suck in a breath!

Professor Quirrell—or rather, his body—lay collapsed on the ground, covered in injuries, his face swollen and bruised. He was curled up and letting out faint groans. Beside him stood Silas Cyril, the first-year student, his face carrying a mixture of anger, disgust, and... a hint of exhaustion.

What made Dumbledore's pupils contract even more was that he could clearly see Voldemort's face on the back of Quirrell's head. It had become extremely dim, warped, and even somewhat blurry, as if it might dissipate at any moment! Voldemort's presence had weakened to the extreme. He had clearly suffered severe damage!

Just as Voldemort—or rather, Quirrell's vital signs—was about to fade completely, Dumbledore saw Silas raise his hand and cast a Reparo on Quirrell, followed immediately by an Ennervate.

Soft white light flashed. Quirrell's external injuries healed at a visible rate, and his breathing became somewhat stronger again. But Voldemort's face did not recover much. It still looked as though it were on the verge of death.

Then, apparently feeling that the "treatment" had gone far enough, Silas raised his foot again, looking as though he was about to resume his previous "work"...

Dumbledore: "..."

Snape: "..."

The other professors who had followed them were also dumbfounded.

As Dumbledore watched this unimaginable scene, he suffered an unprecedented shock. He had originally expected to find Silas badly injured or even dead, or perhaps in the middle of an intense magical duel. But he had never expected to see... one-sided, utterly primitive physical violence, combined with precise "medical maintenance" to ensure that the target remained in a state of torment worse than death?

This method was less a battle than an exceptionally cruel private punishment filled with personal emotion.

At that moment, Dumbledore's "training plan" for Harry Potter suddenly seemed... less important, even somewhat unnecessary.

Watching the red-haired boy curse under his breath while skillfully using healing spells to keep Voldemort alive, preparing to continue the assault, a crystal-clear thought emerged in his mind:

All right... it seems there is no longer any need to deliberately train Harry to face Voldemort.

This child before him, Silas Cyril—his power, methods, and deep-rooted disgust for Voldemort, along with his utterly merciless attacks—had already gone far beyond the scope of "training." He was practically Voldemort's natural nemesis! And he seemed to need neither hardship nor guidance. He had his own code of conduct and formidable strength.

Dumbledore took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the shock and complicated emotions in his heart, then strode forward.

"Silas," he said, his voice carrying a trace of barely noticeable weariness and relief, "that's enough. Stop."

Hearing the voice, Silas stopped and turned around. Seeing Dumbledore and several professors, an embarrassed look crossed his face, like he had been caught in the act—but it was overshadowed by his irritation at not having hit enough.

"Professor," he said, pointing at the half-dead Quirrell on the ground, "what do we do with this menace?"

Dumbledore looked at the former student on the ground, now a shell completely corrupted by darkness, and at the Dark Lord's remnant soul, weak to the extreme. His expression was complicated. He knew that this matter might end early, in a way he had never anticipated.