Tom, Open the Door, Tom!

In central London, Quirinus Quirrell's apartment in a Muggle neighborhood.

Quirrell was a half-blood wizard, which meant he did not have many assets in the Wizarding World.

More likely, he had lived in Muggle neighborhoods before enrolling at Hogwarts.

And that was indeed the case.

As a half-blood wizard raised in Muggle society, Quirrell had done fairly well among Hogwarts graduates.

He had achieved excellent grades while at school and had successfully remained at Hogwarts as a teacher after graduating.

Although he taught Hogwarts's famously "easy course"—Muggle Studies—it was already a highly respectable job.

Those wizards who failed to earn enough qualifications became unemployed the moment they graduated.

With generation after generation of Hogwarts graduates accumulating, only the very best among them could find sufficiently respectable work.

As for the rest of the graduates...

Young wizards from pure-blood families did not need to worry about their futures. Once they grew up, they naturally had families and inheritances waiting for them.

Half-blood wizards were slightly more accepting of wizarding society, since one of their parents was also a wizard.

The truly miserable ones were wizards born to Muggle families.

They felt a sense of belonging at Hogwarts, but had absolutely none in the Wizarding World.

During their seven years at Hogwarts, their friends were fellow young wizards their own age.

Yet their family members were all Muggles.

In the era when the Statute of Secrecy was enforced, the Wizarding World and Muggle society were like two lines that occasionally intersected.

But more often than not, those two lines never met.

Young wizards spent seven years studying at Hogwarts and learned all sorts of magic, only for it to be utterly useless in Muggle society.

They could not abuse magic, because the British Ministry of Magic wielded the Statute of Secrecy like a club to restrain them.

Nor did they have any clear place in Muggle society.

Seven years was just enough time to finish middle school and high school. They could hardly take a Hogwarts diploma and apply to a Muggle university.

It was only because wizards were so productive that they did not need to worry about food.

Otherwise, with graduates piling up year after year, the Wizarding World would have fallen into chaos long ago.

Someone content to drift through life might be able to accept such a state of affairs, but for someone who aspired to accomplish great things,

there was no question that they could never accept such a lifestyle, one that was practically "slow suicide."

Quirrell was such a person.

The fact that he had secured a teaching post at Hogwarts proved his excellence, but it was not enough.

He refused to follow the usual path of patiently accumulating experience and instead chose a shortcut.

But every gift bestowed by fate had long since been marked with its price.

On this trip to the Albanian Forest, Quirrell had gained the privilege of receiving one-on-one personal instruction from a world-renowned master of the Dark Arts.

In return, however, he had to use his body to house Voldemort's wandering soul.

A fair trade. Very fair.

Quirrell had offered Voldemort the back of his head, and it was precisely because of that head that he could not return to Hogwarts early.

Neither he nor his new master, Voldemort, could guarantee that Dumbledore would not see through his disguise.

This year, "The Boy Who Lived," Harry Potter, would enroll, so Dumbledore's attention would surely be focused more on "The Boy Who Lived."

By then, no one would care about the minor abnormalities on Quirrell's person.

Quirinus Quirrell had never understood why the Dark Lord insisted that he become Hogwarts's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

Given their current situation, should they not be keeping a low profile? Keeping a low profile, and then keeping a fucking low profile?

Quirinus Quirrell was deeply confused by Voldemort's behavior of provoking Dumbledore right to his face.

But it did not matter whether he understood or not.

Once Voldemort became his master, his body was no longer his to command.

"Master, my master... I'm sorry, but I still haven't found any clues about the Sorcerer's Stone..."

Inside the apartment, Quirrell knelt humbly on the carpet, pleading before a mirror.

As his intermittent calls continued, the purple turban on his head fell away on its own, revealing the noseless face on the back of his head.

"Useless trash, idiot, fool! You cannot even handle such a trivial matter! I will punish you severely!"

Upon "waking up" and hearing this irritating bad news from Quirrell, Voldemort flew into a rage.

Immediately afterward, Quirinus Quirrell felt agony like being torn apart by the Cruciatus Curse. It was the Cruciatus Curse, cast wandlessly and silently by the Dark Lord.

Using Quirrell's body.

This method of casting through possession was practically an ideal teaching method for wizards.

If Quirrell could ignore the pain in his body and carefully study Voldemort's casting technique,

he might actually have had a chance of learning Voldemort's wandless, silent Cruciatus Curse.

A vicious glare, followed by a silently cast Cruciatus Curse—was there any more sinister way to cast a spell in this world?

Unfortunately, Quirrell was not up to it. In the end, he could not endure the pain of the Cruciatus Curse.

As he rolled across the floor in agony, he wailed at the Dark Lord.

"Master, Master! It is not that I have not tried my best. It is simply that Nicolas Flamel spends most of his time in seclusion in France.

The British Wizarding World simply cannot obtain much useful information!"

"Master, please forgive me!"

"I have a way. I've thought of a way!"

Suffering had always been fertile ground for literature, and suffering could likewise give rise to flashes of quick wit.

Feeling as if he stood on the brink of death, Quirinus Quirrell suddenly had an idea—a plan that would "serve both purposes."

Voldemort stopped the Cruciatus Curse, intending to hear this useless subordinate's "brilliant idea."

"Mas...ter, since we cannot obtain information about Nicolas Flamel in Britain, why don't we go to France?

There is still a month before school begins. Surely we can uncover some useful clues, at least.

If things go smoothly, we might even obtain the Sorcerer's Stone before term starts!"

"Idiot!" Voldemort, on the back of Quirrell's head, immediately cursed, "You really are an idiot, Quirrell!"

"Do you think Dumbledore is a fool? If you run off to France at a time like this, would he not become suspicious?

Are you trying to get me killed?!"

"I am deeply sorry, Master!" Quirrell immediately began repenting and begging for Voldemort's forgiveness.

At this moment, it no longer mattered what Voldemort said. Quirrell's highest priority was to apologize at once, then beg forgiveness from the master on the back of his head.

Just as Quirrell trembled while waiting for another round of punishment to descend, Voldemort on the back of his head suddenly fell silent.

Voldemort stared toward the door, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

"Idiot, hide me quickly. Someone is outside the door!"