Probe from an Old Friend

The life of the master of 36 Hall Street was busy and invigorating.

Quirrell's body truly realized the saying:

Busy enough to split a man in two.

6:00–7:00: Morning exercise, breakfast. 7:00–12:00: Voldemort practices spells. 12:00–1:00: Lunch, nap. 1:00–3:00: Quirrell's acting lessons. 3:00–7:00: Quirrell's psychotherapy sessions. 7:00–11:00: Voldemort's close-combat training. 11:00–1:00 AM: Quirrell's Legilimency lessons. 1:00 AM–6:00 AM: Sleep.

The days marched to the same rhythm, as if they would repeat endlessly—until one night, broken by a bat.

"Tap~ tap~ tap~"

A rhythmic knocking at the window caught the attention of everyone at 36 Hall Street.

"Perhaps using this bat for target practice wouldn't be a bad idea," joked Paul Casso, Voldemort's firearms instructor.

Voldemort smiled and dismissed them before opening the window to let the bat in.

"Accio blood bag."

With a flick of his wand, he casually cast a Summoning Charm, and the blood bag burst out of the fridge into his hand.

"Quiet, don't be impatient, little darling," Voldemort said softly, waving his wand to close the refrigerator door.

Then he pointed his wand at the blood bag in his hand, levitating it into a nearby bowl, where it split open.

"Give me the letter first, then you may drink," Voldemort said, blocking the bat's path with his wand.

The bat extended its claw, and sure enough, a black cloth strip was tied around it.

He took the cloth and unfurled it; words appeared:

To the Dark Lord, respected by Death Eaters and feared by the Wizarding World:

If you ever need, you may return at any time. The Albanian Black Forest will always have a place for you.

P.S. Your owl has been eaten by Winnie—and possibly more than one. For this, I am deeply sorry.

Your eternal friend: Count Nosferatu.

As Voldemort finished reading, the cloth dissolved into a cloud of black mist that slowly dispersed.

From within the mist emanated an evil dark power, far from friendly.

Winnie, busy drinking blood, glanced back for a moment, then returned to focus on the basin before him.

"My Lord, do you really think this is necessary?" Quirrell asked in terror from the depths of his mind.

"Nothing escapes the Old Bee's eyes—except the truth," Voldemort replied softly, his gaze fixed on the fading black mist.

This old friend of his... his words were not as kind as his actions.

"Can you use the Firebolt Letter spell?" Voldemort asked Quirrell in his mind.

"Of course, though not very proficiently," Quirrell said.

"Then you take control of the body. I'll provide the content, and you write the reply."

"And make sure the Firebolt Letter's magic is as potent as possible. Count Nosferatu never befriends the weak."

With that, Voldemort exchanged control of the body with Quirrell.

Quirrell tightened his grip on the wand, then began to wave it according to Voldemort's dictation:

To Count Nosferatu, respected by the Primal Bloodline:

I shall visit your castle on the 13th of this month at dawn. I hope to taste the Blood Feast prepared by your lady—a delicacy I will never forget in this life.

P.S. Owl blood is not pleasant to drink. I have prepared blood rations for Winnie, and it seems he enjoys them greatly.

P.P.S. I hope you will have what I require ready. This will bring our friendship to a new level.

Your eternal friend: The Dark Lord.

As the wand wrote the final few words, the flames it spewed burned noticeably hotter.

When it was all over, the flames burned chaotically in the air before condensing into a chain of fiery red.

"Winnie, it's a bit hot, but I think you can bear it, right?"

Voldemort regained control of the body and said with a smile to Bat Winnie.

On the fifth day after sending the letter, Voldemort had already begun considering shortening Quirrell's psychological therapy sessions.

But unexpectedly, Quirrell objected—before Voldemort could confirm whether Quirrell's thoughts were correct or not, he was already pleased.

"Quirrell, this is how it should be."

He praised loudly, like a parent whose child had scored full marks on an exam, the only perfect score in the entire grade.

"Voice your opinions, speak your thoughts, boldly face everything, and cast aside that timid self."

With his praise, he could feel the excitement in Quirrell's emotions.

"Thank you, my master, allow me to call you that just once—I am truly overjoyed."

Quirrell grew bold again, and Voldemort continued to affirm him—for someone who had nothing, if a single cry of "master" was a reward, he would not be stingy.

"State your reason, Quirrell. I will consider it carefully."

"Psychological therapy helps me learn Legilimency. I can't be one hundred percent sure, but that's how I feel."

Quirrell's words caught Voldemort somewhat off guard.

Was there a connection between psychological therapy and Legilimency?

Perhaps there was, perhaps there wasn't—it needed verification.

"Go ahead and try, Quirrell. If possible, it would be best to write down your insights."

As Voldemort praised him, he also hoped to glean experience from it himself.

Though he possessed formidable skill in Legilimency and could fully rely on offense as defense, Voldemort was still willing to prepare more.

Against the Old Bee, no amount of contingency plans was excessive.

Quirrell agreed excitedly and began organizing his notes from that very day.

"Perhaps this could become an invaluable reference for practitioners of Legilimency."

After offering another word of encouragement, Voldemort fell silent.

In truth.

When one of two souls controlled the body, the other soul's contemplation also consumed mental energy.

So...

In the alternating use of the body, the one not in control should politely choose silence.

Days settled back into calm, with nothing changing, until the early morning of July thirteenth arrived.

"Come, Quirrell, Apparate—to the place where we first met."

They exchanged control of the body, and then...

"Pop."

All around was pitch black. Voldemort could faintly feel intense pressure coming from every direction. His chest felt as if tightly bound by several iron hoops, his eyeballs seemed crushed into his skull, his eardrums sank into the depths of his soul, and then...

"Pop."

With a soft sound, he found himself at the foot of a mountain shrouded in black mist.

"Well done, Quirrell."

Voldemort's tone carried both encouragement and envy.

Practicing ordinary spells with someone else's body was manageable, but practicing Apparition was far too dangerous.

Controlling Quirrell's body always came with a sense of discomfort—something that couldn't be changed, and Voldemort could only reluctantly accept it. At least it was far better than the decade of being a wandering spirit.

He consoled himself like this, and at the same time, a greeting came from not far away:

"Respected Dark Lord, welcome to Mount Auricino."