Quirrell was by far the worst teacher Tom had ever encountered in this life.
Not only had he failed to prepare a lesson, he spent the entire class reading the textbook aloud, word for word. He even stumbled over his words.
The whole class was a struggle for every student.
Harry had even collapsed onto his desk and fallen asleep, figuring he might as well catch up on some rest.
Seeing this, Tom stopped listening too. He opened his book and began studying on his own.
Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection contained two sections: defensive spells and descriptions of some Dark creatures.
Tom had memorized the entire book before he even started school. Now, to make sure he hadn't remembered anything incorrectly, he read through it while practicing the spells.
Release Charm: Makes an enemy let go of an object in their hand. Banishing Charm: Uses magic to strike an enemy hard and force them back. Booger Curse: Makes a large amount of boogers pour from an enemy's nose...
Quirrell might as well have been an invisible textbook-reading machine. Faced with a roomful of students occupied with anything but his lesson, he chose to ignore them.
"How pitiful." Tom felt a little sorry for Quirrell.
Before encountering Voldemort, Quirrell had been an outstanding Ravenclaw. Not only was he a top student who had excelled in his final exams, he had even been called "a genius in theoretical defensive magic."
Otherwise, Dumbledore wouldn't have chosen him to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Unfortunately, Quirrell was timid and cowardly. Then, during his travels, he happened to cross paths with Voldemort, and his life took a turn for the worse.
If Quirrell were still in his right mind, he could probably teach Tom quite a few advanced defensive spells.
The Disarming Charm and Shield Charm, for instance.
At last.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was over.
The bell had rung quite some time ago before the students, who had been listening until their minds went numb, finally came to their senses and fled the classroom.
"You two go on to the next classroom. Don't wait for me."
Tom gave the order to Harry and the other boy, then walked over to Quirrell, who was waiting for him by the classroom door.
Quirrell's office was close to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. It was just past a short flight of stairs.
The moment the two of them entered, Quirrell locked the door, then shakily cast a Silencing Charm on it.
Once he was sure no one outside could hear their conversation, he gradually relaxed, preparing to let the face on the back of his head take control of his body.
Voldemort had been curious about Tom for a long time: a young wizard who shared his name and surname, and had been introduced to the wizarding world by Dumbledore.
It was far too much of a coincidence.
Now that he had the chance, he wanted to use the Imperius Curse to control young Tom's mind for a while and resolve his doubts.
"Tom, tell me your—"
Before Quirrell could finish, Tom spoke first.
"If I'm not mistaken, you must be the newly recruited Death Eater, right?"
"!"
Quirrell clenched his buttocks, his body stiffening with a jolt. He interrupted Voldemort's progress in taking control.
"H-how did you know?"
"I'm Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord who created the Death Eaters. How could I not guess who you are?"
Tom's plan was simple. He would pretend to be Voldemort, just as the real Voldemort had planned, and make Quirrell an ally he could use.
Quirrell was at the lowest point of his life.
Magic was a deeply personal thing. If you didn't believe in your own magic, how could you hope to cast a spell successfully?
Quirrell had just needed to tremble for ages before managing even a Silencing Charm. That alone showed just how unstable his state of mind was.
Even if things went wrong, Tom was confident he could escape with his life.
"Why should I believe you?"
Quirrell tried to look out of the corner of his eye at the back of his own head. There was already a Voldemort on the back of it, so why had another one appeared in front of him?
Was the world mad, or was he?
"Do you want to become a true Death Eater?" Tom asked.
"A true Death Eater?" Quirrell tilted his head.
Of course he knew that real Death Eaters bore the Dark Mark. It was a magical brand that allowed them to communicate with Voldemort and was the symbol of a core member of the Death Eaters.
The Ministry of Magic had tried to uncover the secrets of the Dark Mark, but to this day, it had failed.
Quirrell had always wanted the mark.
It represented acceptance and would prove that everything he had done over the past few months had meant something.
Unfortunately, Voldemort had kept refusing to give him the Dark Mark, using his own weakness as an excuse.
"Hold out your arm."
Perhaps Tom's confidence had overwhelmed Quirrell. He actually held out his arm.
A tiny fingertip touched it.
"Ah!"
Quirrell felt a searing heat in his arm. The smell of burning flesh mingled with the scent of garlic.
He looked down carefully.
A skull and a snake.
It was identical to the Dark Mark on the Ministry of Magic's wanted posters. The snake in the mark seemed almost alive, writhing faintly beneath his skin.
"Interesting." Tom focused his attention.
Through the Dark Mark, he could clearly sense Quirrell's location. And as long as he willed it—
"Pain!!!"
Quirrell suddenly felt a wave of agony surge through his arm. His already weakened body grew even weaker, and he doubled over, curling up on the floor in pain.
The Dark Mark could sense its bearer's loyalty and punish disloyalty with pain.
Of course, Tom, as the caster, could also trigger the punishment at will.
In other words, whoever he said was disloyal was disloyal.
"Impossible!" a furious shout came from the back of Quirrell's head.
The turban came loose, revealing the hideous face beneath it.
Voldemort glared at Tom with blazing, incredulous hostility.
He couldn't believe it. How had a little brat gotten hold of the Dark Mark, something he had never revealed to anyone?
He was the real one, yet compared to the fellow in front of him, he was the one who seemed like a fake!
"You—"
Before Voldemort could get another word out, Tom cut him off.
"Hello, my Horcrux. Does it feel good to cling to someone else and scrape by?"
"Fuck!" Even someone as refined as Voldemort couldn't help swearing.
Tom's words! Those were my words!
"Your... Horcrux?" Quirrell shakily got back to his feet.
As a brilliant graduate in his day, he had read widely. Somewhere in the depths of his memory, an ancient text seemed to mention "Horcruxes," though they were a long-lost magical artifact.
"I hereby appoint you a core member of the Death Eaters. Help me rise to power." Tom slowly held out a hand.
"Yes." Quirrell slowly lowered himself.
No matter how Voldemort on the back of his head roared and struggled, denying Tom's identity, Quirrell still went down on one knee before Tom.
He had spent the most time with the Voldemort on the back of his head, but compared to the child before him, the difference was simply too great.
Who cared which one was real?
The stronger one was the original.
"Professor, did Dumbledore never teach you basic manners?" Tom smiled faintly.
"I understand."
Quirrell leaned forward slightly and kissed the back of Tom's hand.
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