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[HP] 88: A Groveling Voldemort
🕑 Added 2025-08-08 15:40:02 +0000 UTCVoldemort suspected the potion might be cursed and intended to use Quirrell as a test subject. Though he was parasitizing Quirrell and would be forced to flee if the man died, that was still better than getting himself cursed.
If there was something wrong with the potion, at least Quirrell drinking it might give him time to escape.
“Y-Yes, Master...” Quirrell nearly passed out from the sudden agony of his forcibly healed arm. He could barely keep hold of the teacup.
But his survival instinct kicked in—he gripped the cup tightly. If it fell and broke, he’d be doomed. Voldemort would torture him to death.
Quirrell turned to look at the masked Louis, then glanced at the potion in his hand. Gritting his teeth, he downed it in one go.
He didn’t have much to lose anymore. Ever since Voldemort had taken over his body, it had decayed like a worm-eaten apple. His skin was covered in sores, his flesh weakening by the day, and he even gave off that strange odor often found on the dying. He had to rub disgusting oils on himself daily just to mask the stench.
If he didn’t drink it, he’d die sooner or later anyway. If it was poison, at least he’d get it over with quickly.
To his surprise, the potion wasn’t poisonous at all—in fact, the effects were astonishing. The moment it hit his stomach, it began to work.
Quirrell’s pale face regained color at a speed visible to the naked eye. He stared in disbelief at his hands—even the pain from Voldemort’s earlier forceful control began to fade rapidly.
“I… I’m getting better,” he said, stunned, hope flickering in his voice.
But his joy didn’t last long.
With a sickening crack of bones, Voldemort seized control of the body again.
“That stuff really works,” Voldemort muttered greedily, his eyes locked onto the Little Red Bottle in Louis’s hand. If it weren’t for his fear of Dio Brando’s strength, he might’ve already tried to snatch it.
“Of course. It’s a treasured item of our organization,” Louis said, casually twirling the bottle as if he were about to put it away.
“Wait!” Voldemort blurted out, panicked. “Can you give me some more of that potion?”
“Oh? You want more?” Louis smirked. “Giving you one serving was already a generous gift. You want more? Not afraid you’ll explode from drinking too much?”
“I need that potion. Name your price,” Voldemort said, ignoring the mockery in Louis’s voice.
“You?” Louis scoffed. “You don’t even have a body. What do you have that’s worth me naming a price for?”
Sure, Louis could have handed it over directly, but something that’s obtained too easily is never appreciated. Worse, the giver is often seen as a fool. And Louis had no desire to be seen as a fool—so of course he’d make it difficult.
“I have a dragon egg. How about trading that?” Voldemort offered. “It’s viable—guaranteed to hatch a fire-breathing dragon.”
At that, Quirrell couldn’t sit still. Even though Voldemort’s control caused him intense pain, his body trembled with resistance.
“But, Master…” Quirrell gasped through gritted teeth, “that’s the bait we’re using to extract info from that oaf.”
His heart was bleeding. He had spent his own savings to buy that dragon egg. Voldemort had nothing and no money—of course he didn’t care.
“Shut up!” Voldemort roared, furious that Quirrell dared to object in front of another villain—especially Dio Brando of all people. It was humiliating.
And so, he decided to punish him.
Quirrell’s body began to convulse. Groans escaped from his mouth, incoherent and pained.
The punishment didn’t affect Voldemort’s control, and with a cold expression, he turned back to Louis. “One dragon egg. Give me more of that potion.”
“And what do I need a dragon egg for?” Louis said mockingly. “Eat it? Seems like things are rough on your end if a single egg costs you this much.”
“Then what do you want in exchange for the potion?” Voldemort snapped, losing patience.
“Simple. Do two things for me,” Louis said. “First—something related to the bloodline of Merlin. My sources say someone at Hogwarts may possess Merlin’s bloodline.”
“You actually believe that joke?” Voldemort burst out laughing. “That’s absurd! Utterly laughable!”
He clung to the opportunity to ridicule Louis, hoping to claw back some dignity.
But Louis said nothing. He merely stared silently.
The eyes behind the mask glowed red—cold and unblinking.
Voldemort’s laughter slowly trailed off. His sneer turned into doubt, then fear. Cold sweat broke out on his brow.
Those eyes weren’t even filled with hostility. Yet Voldemort felt an immense weight pressing down on him—as if death itself were looming.
“I’ll judge the truth for myself,” Louis finally said. “Aren’t you the one with all those ‘loyal Death Eaters’? It shouldn’t be hard to investigate one person, should it?”
The moment he spoke, the crushing pressure on Voldemort’s heart vanished. But the Dark Lord’s face still looked grim.
“In my current state, I can’t summon the Death Eaters. And they wouldn’t listen to me anyway,” he admitted.
“Useless,” Louis said coldly, his words making Voldemort’s temples twitch with rage. “I’ll give you time—but don’t make me wait too long.”
“What’s the second thing?” Voldemort asked through clenched teeth.
Since his rise to infamy, never had he been forced to lower himself to such a humiliating degree. His hatred for Dio Brando now burned hot enough to overflow from his eyes.
“The second thing’s simple. I need to brew some potions. I’ve heard the Forbidden Forest is rich in magical flora. If you get the chance, gather some for me.” Louis tossed over a list. The handwriting was from his Stand, so it looked quite different from his usual script.
Voldemort caught it, eyeing the ingredient names. Even with his strong knowledge of Potions, he couldn’t figure out what this combination was meant to create.
“I’ll do it. But how do I contact you?” he asked.
“Contact me? No need. I’ll give you one month. I’ll come to collect it then. If you haven’t completed the task—I'll take back the potion I gave you,” Louis said bluntly.
Another statement that nearly made Voldemort explode in rage.
“Here.” Louis tossed the Endless Little Red Bottle to him.
Startled, Voldemort fumbled to catch it, gripping it tightly once it was secure.
“Only this much?” he growled, seeing there were only two servings’ worth inside. “You want me to do all that for just two doses?”
“Relax. That bottle is bottomless. It produces three servings per day. But you have to drink them all—it can only hold three at a time, and there’s no way to store them elsewhere.”
Louis tipped his top hat. “That’s all I needed to say. Time for me to go.”
And as he spoke, his figure began to turn translucent—fading, as if disappearing into thin air.
"By the way," Louis said just before leaving. Under Voldemort’s stunned gaze, he removed his mask—this time revealing not something terrifying, but a handsome, arrogant, and wild-looking face.
"Just a reminder: that descendant of Merlin's bloodline is very dangerous. Don’t let him find out you’re a [United Villains of the World Unite as One Big Family] candidate member. Otherwise, I won’t be able to save you.”
“Merlin’s bloodline?” Voldemort’s sinister eyes flickered with contemplation.
Just then, a knock sounded at the door, followed by a calm, indifferent voice.
“Quirinus Quirrell, are you in there?”
It was Snape!
“Oh? Looks like someone’s here for you. A friend of yours?” Louis deliberately didn’t lower his voice. “You seem to be quite popular around here.”
Voldemort’s expression turned conflicted. He hesitated, wondering if he should meet this former spy of his.
No. Not yet. His eyes darkened. He didn’t trust Snape—or rather, didn’t trust him enough.
“You’re still here? Planning to stick around and watch the show?” Voldemort snapped at Louis.
Then, he relinquished control of the body. “Play your part well, Quirrell.”
Quirrell's body convulsed in pain. He grit his teeth, not daring to make a sound for fear of alerting Snape outside.
At this moment, he deeply regretted ever getting involved with Voldemort.
He didn’t even dare to think disrespectfully of the Dark Lord—because whenever Voldemort was fully awake, he could read Quirrell’s every thought. Any trace of defiance would be met with brutal punishment.
“Heh.” Louis scoffed and vanished on the spot.
“Professor Quirrell? Are you in there?” Snape’s voice came again, now tinged with impatience. He was already starting to wonder where Quirrell might be if not in his room.
Had he already made a move? Was he attempting to break through the traps and steal the Philosopher’s Stone?
Just as Snape was preparing to rush to the fourth-floor corridor, the door finally opened.
“Professor Snape, good evening. Is there something I can help you with?” Quirrell asked nervously, rubbing his hands together like a classic socially anxious man.
“What were you just doing, Professor Quirrell?” Snape took a step back, wrinkling his nose. His sensitive sense of smell detected something foul on Quirrell.
He suspected Quirrell had been doing something unusual just now. He even thought he had heard a stranger’s voice—one that was oddly distinctive. He couldn’t quite place it, but he was sure that if he heard it again, he’d recognize it instantly.
Snape made no effort to hide his suspicion, peering into the room, though Quirrell’s heavily wrapped turban made it impossible to see anything of note.
“Oh, I was mixing some incense to repel dark creatures. Are you interested too, Professor Snape? Would you like to come in and discuss it?” Quirrell asked with a forced smile.
He hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time. It was almost hard to believe that a potion could make such a difference.
Snape looked at him with surprise. As someone well-versed in Potions, he had long noticed how pale and lifeless Quirrell looked in recent months. But now, though still somewhat wan, Quirrell’s complexion looked noticeably better.
“In that case, I’ll take you up on that,” Snape replied without hesitation, ignoring Quirrell’s attempt at polite deflection.
Quirrell kept smiling and stepped aside to let him in.
As soon as Snape entered, he was hit by a wave of strong, pungent scent from the incense. The sheer stench made his head spin.
He immediately regretted it. He shouldn’t have come in. But since he was here, he had to at least investigate—if only to justify nearly being knocked out by the smell.
Snape pressed a hand to his left arm, eyes sweeping across the small, cluttered room.
He was searching for any sign of Voldemort. Logically, as a bearer of the Dark Mark, he should be able to sense Voldemort’s presence.
But he felt nothing.
Quirrell had already poured a cup of tea and placed it on the table in front of Snape, then sat down on the sofa, staring blankly at the doorway.
Weirdo…
Snape stared at his colleague. Quirinus Quirrell wasn’t a stranger to him. Last year, he had taught Muggle Studies, and hadn’t shown any of these strange habits.
It was only after he returned from a leave of absence and became the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor that he started acting bizarre.
Something must’ve happened during that period—something that forced Quirrell to change.
“Do you have any other business?” Quirrell suddenly asked, lifting his head and making no mention of their supposed discussion.
“No,” Snape replied curtly, then turned and left the room without another word.
He urgently needed fresh air—he felt like his lungs had been pickled in incense.
Once Snape was gone, Quirrell respectfully said, “Master, Snape has left.”
Because of Snape’s status as a Death Eater, Voldemort had to remain completely silent to avoid detection. That meant his awareness of the outside world was shallow. He couldn’t even pick up Quirrell’s thoughts unless prompted directly.
“Did he notice anything?”
“No, Master.”
“Good,” Voldemort replied. “Now that your physical condition is no longer an excuse, you must act swiftly. Understood?”
“Yes, Master,” Quirrell answered obediently, rising to his feet with a scrap of paper that had somehow appeared in his hand. He tucked it carefully into his sleeve.
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