A Small Lesson

No matter how reluctant Klein was, Wednesday always came.

After dinner with his friends, he walked alone up to the third floor of the castle and stopped outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts office—Quirinus Quirrell's office.

"Knock, knock, knock."

At exactly seven o'clock, Klein rapped on the pair of brass lion-head knockers.

"Creak~"

The door swung open with the distinctive groan of old wood. Quirinus Quirrell stood in the middle of the room, smiling warmly at Klein in the doorway as he gestured him inside.

"Ah~ Grindelwald, y-you're here. I'm so glad. P-please, come in."

"Good evening, Professor Quirrell."

Klein smiled and walked into the office with easy confidence.

"Sit down, Grindelwald. I-I'll get you some refreshments."

With a wave of his wand, Quirrell shut the door and stammered an invitation for Klein to sit. Though he thought he had done it discreetly, Klein still sensed a faint magical ripple the instant he waved his wand.

The office was now completely cut off from the outside world.

What's he planning? To put a spell on me?

Klein found the thought amusing, but showed nothing on his face. He sat obediently on the only low sofa in Quirrell's office and said, "Professor, Draco told me you had some things about spells to teach me."

Quirrell had told Draco Malfoy that they would "exchange ideas," but with Klein, it had become "teach me." That subtle flattery clearly pleased Quirrell, enough to make even his carefully faked smile seem a little more natural.

"Haha, what could I possibly teach the Genius of Hogwarts? You know, I'm just a bookworm. I'm not very capable."

Quirinus Quirrell had graduated from Ravenclaw with honors. Even Klein found it hard to listen to him put himself down like that. But remembering the plan, he had to suppress the urge to draw his wand and kill Voldemort on the spot. He waved his hands and modestly insisted that he still had much to learn.

"Good boy, Grindelwald. Good boy."

Quirrell brought over two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.

"Here, have a taste."

"Thank you."

Though he had eaten plenty at dinner, it would obviously have been rude to refuse Quirrell's "kind offer." Klein picked up his teacup, his guard raised.

But the warning spell he had cast on himself beforehand hadn't gone off, which puzzled him.

Why hasn't Voldemort made a move yet?

"Master, why aren't we making a move?"

In truth, Quirrell, smiling on the outside, had long been struggling to contain his endless malice. But Voldemort's weak voice kept echoing in his mind, reminding him to be cautious and not act rashly.

Now isn't the time.

"Grindelwald, I heard you're German."

Suppressing his impatience, Quirrell rolled his eyes and spoke with a smirk, his face wearing its habitual ingratiating expression.

"Yes, Professor Quirrell. I'm from Berlin."

Klein's reply was neither servile nor defiant. His eyes were as clear and pure as a spring stream in early spring.

"What beautiful eyes."

Voldemort, sharing Quirrell's senses, praised them silently. Such a pure soul only stirred his greed even further.

He had to get that body!

Quirrell could clearly sense his master's desire for the wretched boy in front of them, and his smile turned strained.

Lifting his teacup, he continued, "Let's talk about spells. I'm very interested in your newly improved spell."

Interested in spells? As if!

Klein laughed inwardly, but went along with him. Besides the Improved Healing Spell, he even let slip a tiny bit of his unique insight into other spells.

That's right—a "tiny" bit.

The more Quirrell listened, the more unsettled he became. His expression gradually stiffened.

"Haha, very good. You certainly live up to your reputation as a genius."

When Klein finally paused, Quirrell hurriedly forced out a dry laugh, more pained than amused, and praised him.

Then Quirrell changed the subject and rubbed his hands together.

"That was truly impressive. I-I've got some of my own research notes here, too. Would you like to see them?"

"Really? That would be wonderful."

Klein's lips curved into a bright smile.

Children really are children. Seeing Klein's unguarded expression, Quirrell couldn't help feeling a little smug. He pretended to turn and fetch his research notes from the desk, but the instant he turned away, a sickly green beam shot from beneath the large turban wrapped around the back of his head and struck Klein squarely on the forehead!

"Now!"

Voldemort's voice was urgent. The Soul Capture Light had used up the last of his magical power.

At the sound of his voice, Quirrell hurriedly turned around, laid the dazed Klein flat on the sofa, and roughly tore off his own large scarf.

Though he was deeply unwilling, this was his master's will. He could not disobey.

"Out of body."

With his wand pressed to his own face, Quirrell's voice trembled. As soon as the Soul Separation Curse took effect, a pain like the Cruciatus Curse spread through his whole body.

"Ah!"

The sensation, as if he were being cut to pieces by a thousand blades, made Quirrell howl.

"You're mine!"

Amid Quirrell's shrill screams, Voldemort cackled wildly. His twisted soul, like a black serpent, lunged madly at Klein.

Once he entered that young, gifted body, he would rise again!

But—

Things didn't go as smoothly as Voldemort had imagined.

"DUMBLEDORE!"

It took only an instant to fall from heaven into hell.

His laughter still echoed around the sealed office when Voldemort suddenly let out a scream even more agonized than Quirrell's.

The instant he touched Klein's skin, he began to melt away like snow under the blazing sun!

He vaguely saw a "bird" in Klein's soul.

A phoenix!

It had to be a phoenix!

Albus Dumbledore, that old bastard, had actually cast a protective spell on the body he so desperately wanted!

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

Voldemort cursed Dumbledore over and over in his heart, but he didn't know he had the wrong person.

That bird wasn't a phoenix.

It was a spirit crow.

Klein's Patronus.

"Heh."

Lying on the sofa, Klein was in an excellent mood. After this small lesson, Voldemort would surely behave himself for a long time and wouldn't dare try anything with him.

After going to all the trouble of splitting his soul, Voldemort had to merge it again in the end. He screamed as he burrowed back into Quirrell's body, then fell into a weakened sleep.

Quirrell, the second victim, also spat out several mouthfuls of foul blood. His already sallow face had turned utterly colorless.

Endless hatred surged up from the depths of his heart.

Looking at Klein "sleeping" on the sofa, he clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his skin, drawing bright red drops of blood.