The life of the owner of 36 Hall Street was busy and relentlessly demanding.
Quirrell's body had truly embodied a saying:
So busy, you could split one person in two.
6–7 a.m.: Morning exercise and breakfast.
7 a.m.–12 p.m.: Voldemort practiced spells.
12–1 p.m.: Lunch and a nap.
1–3 p.m.: Quirrell's acting lessons.
3–7 p.m.: Quirrell's therapy sessions.
7–11 p.m.: Voldemort's close-combat lessons.
11 p.m.–1 a.m.: Quirrell's Legilimency lessons.
1–6 a.m.: Sleep.
The days followed the same rhythm, as if they would repeat forever—until one night, when a bat broke the routine.
"Knock, knock, knock~"
The rhythmic tapping at the window caught everyone's attention at 36 Hall Street.
"Perhaps using this bat to practice my marksmanship would be a good idea."
Paul Casso, Voldemort's shooting instructor, said jokingly.
Voldemort smiled and waited until the others had left before opening the window to let the bat in.
"Blood bag, Accio."
He flicked his wand and effortlessly cast Accio. The blood bag burst out of the fridge and flew into his hand.
"Easy now. Don't rush, little one."
Voldemort spoke softly as he waved his wand, and the fridge door closed by itself.
Then he pointed his wand at the blood bag in his hand, making it float into a nearby bowl, where it burst open.
"Give me the letter first, then you can drink."
Voldemort blocked the bat's path with his wand and spoke to it.
The bat held out a claw. Sure enough, a strip of black cloth was tied to it.
He removed the cloth and unfolded it. The words appeared:
To the Dark Lord, respected by the Death Eaters and feared by the Wizarding World:
If you need it, you can return at any time. There will always be a place for you in the Albanian Black Forest.
P.S. Your owl has been eaten by Winnie—and perhaps more than one. I sincerely apologize.
Your eternal friend, Count Nosferatu.
Once Voldemort had finished reading the cloth, it slowly dissolved into a cloud of black smoke.
Evil, dark power radiated from the smoke. It was decidedly unfriendly.
Winnie, who was drinking blood, glanced over, then returned to the basin of blood in front of him.
"My Dark Lord, do you really think this is necessary?" Quirrell asked fearfully from deep within his mind.
"Nothing can escape Old Bee's notice—except the truth."
Voldemort replied softly, his eyes fixed on the slowly fading smoke.
That old friend of his... His words were not nearly as friendly as his actions.
"Can you use the Firebolt Letter spell?" Voldemort asked Quirrell inside his mind.
"Of course. I'm just not very proficient at it," Quirrell said.
"Then you take control of the body. I'll provide the message, and you can write the reply."
"Also, try to make the Firebolt Letter as powerful as possible. Count Nosferatu never befriends the weak."
As he spoke, Voldemort switched control of the body with Quirrell.
Quirrell tightened his grip on his wand. Then, guided by Voldemort's words, he began to move it:
To Count Nosferatu, respected by the Primal Bloodline:
I will visit your castle in the early hours of the thirteenth of this month. I hope to enjoy the Blood Feast prepared by your wife herself. It is a delicacy I will never forget.
P.S. Owl blood doesn't taste very good. I've prepared blood for Winnie, and he seems to like it.
P.P.S. I hope you'll have what I need ready. It will bring our friendship even closer.
Your eternal friend, the Dark Lord.
As the wand wrote the final few words, its flames visibly flared hotter.
When it was done, the fire burned chaotically in the air before transforming into a scarlet chain.
"Winnie, it may be a little hot, but I think you can handle it, right?"
Voldemort took control of the body again and smiled at Winnie the bat.
On the fifth day after the letter was sent, Voldemort had begun considering shortening Quirrell's therapy sessions.
Unexpectedly, Quirrell objected. Before Voldemort had even confirmed whether Quirrell's reasoning was sound, he was already delighted.
"Quirrell, that's exactly how it should be."
He praised him loudly, like a father whose child had scored the only hundred on the entire grade's exam.
"Voice your opinions. Say what you think. Face everything boldly and leave your timid old self behind."
As he praised him, he could feel Quirrell's excitement.
"Thank you, my master. Please allow me to call you that just this once. I'm simply so happy."
Quirrell had dared to speak up again, and Voldemort continued to encourage him. For someone who had nothing, if calling him "master" was a reward, Voldemort wouldn't begrudge him it.
"Tell me your reasons, Quirrell. I'll give them serious consideration."
"Therapy helps me learn Legilimency. I can't say for certain, but that's how it feels to me."
Quirrell's words surprised Voldemort.
What connection was there between therapy and Legilimency?
There might be one, or there might not. It needed to be tested.
"Give it a try, Quirrell. If you can, write down what you learn, too."
Voldemort praised him, hoping he might learn something from it as well.
Though his Legilimency was powerful enough that he could simply attack instead of defend, Voldemort was still willing to make extra preparations.
When dealing with Old Bee, no amount of backup plans was excessive.
Quirrell eagerly agreed, and began organizing his notes that very day.
"Perhaps this will become a rare and valuable reference book for those who practice Legilimency."
After encouraging him once more, Voldemort fell silent.
In fact,
when one of two souls controlled the body, the other soul's thinking also consumed mental energy.
So...
When they took turns using the body, the one not in control should politely remain silent.
The days grew peaceful again. Nothing changed until the early hours of July 13.
"Come on, Quirrell. Apparate to the place where we first met."
They switched control of the body. Then...
"Crack."
Everything around them was pitch-black. Voldemort could faintly feel an intense pressure squeezing him from every direction. It was as if several iron bands were cinched tightly around his chest, his eyeballs were being forced into his brain, and his eardrums were sinking deep into his soul. Then...
"Crack."
With a soft pop, they found themselves at the foot of a mountain shrouded in black mist.
"Well done, Quirrell."
Voldemort's tone held both encouragement and envy.
Practicing ordinary spells with someone else's body was one thing, but practicing Apparition was simply too dangerous.
Controlling Quirrell's body always felt a little strange. There was nothing he could do to change that, so Voldemort could only accept it with resignation—at least it was far better than the ghostlike state he'd endured for the past ten years.
As he comforted himself with that thought, a greeting came from nearby:
"Welcome to Mount Auricino, most revered Dark Lord."
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