The first meeting

"No, this curriculum is not satisfactory!" The parchment scrolls quickly coiled themselves into tubes and fell off the desk, forcing the young sorcerer to angrily return the quill to the inkwell.

"But this curriculum was developed by the ministry itself," he attempted to argue, only to hear an indignant shriek in his mind.

"There are only bureaucrats and incompetents in that ministry who do not concern themselves with the education of the youth from the astronomical tower. In my day, things were different; even if the defence was imperfect, more time was devoted to it, so at least one could learn something worthwhile."

"I entirely agree with you, my lord," a second voice responded, sounding more composed but with traces of irritation. "You cannot teach a subject in such a format. My lord, as I am aware, you once aspired to be a professor of Z.O.T.I., do you still have any vestiges of that ambition?"

"They won't do. We won't be able to cram all the material into such a limited number of hours, and Dumbledore would be against such an innovation."

"As if we're going to take his word for it! The agreement with the school leaves us plenty of leeway. We can adjust the curriculum as we see fit, so long as it doesn't affect the final assessment in any way. In fact, I can already envision where we can trim the programming material. I'm sorry, My Lord, but it's necessary."

"Are you suggesting we limit ourselves to magical creatures native to the UK, or everywhere?"

"Why not? Why should children need to learn about, say, some kind of hippopotamus only found in Africa? They'll want to learn new things – no one's forbidden from consulting outside sources or taking extra classes. Moreover, such classes will show who's willing to persevere for the greater good and who might benefit us in the future."

"Marvelous, Mr. Grimm. Your way of thinking is quite fascinating. Quirrell, do you have it all sorted out? Please, put it down in writing immediately."

"Yes, sir," Quirinus responded obediently, nodding his head and scribbling with a quill pen on a pristine parchment.

***

Quirrell had always considered himself a gifted individual. Even the Sorting Hat, without a moment's hesitation, had sent him to Ravenclaw, where he flourished. With his sharp intellect and extensive knowledge, he never failed to impress.

After the fall of the Dark Lord, Quirinus remained one of the rare neutral individuals who mourned his absence. However, it was Dumbledore's statement that Voldemort was not entirely gone that ignited a spark of hope within the wizard.

Driven by a combination of curiosity and ambition, Quirrell embarked on a quest to find the Dark Lord. His goal was not only to track down Voldemort but also to gain the knowledge and power associated with his defeat. In his dreams, he envisioned becoming the one who brought down the Dark Lord and acquiring knowledge that would leave others in awe.

During his journey across the globe, Quirrell grasped at every clue, every lead that might lead him to Voldemort. Finally, in the remote forests of Albania, he stumbled upon a clear trail that pointed to the Dark Lord's presence.

Silence. She had stepped on him with such suddenness that he momentarily thought he had gone deaf. Not a bird sang, not a leaf rustled. Not even the crunch of his own footfalls on the dried grass broke the silence.

Quirrell wandered the forest for what seemed an eternity, straining his ears for the slightest whisper. The silence weighed heavily upon him, like a blanket of oppression, and only his own breath assured him that his hearing still functioned.

When a twig snapped behind him, Quirrell's heart skipped a beat. Slowly turning, he beheld what he had sought for so long: a dark figure, as if composed of liquid shadow, looming over him. From its depths, two ruby-like flames gazed back at him.

"The Dark Lord," he whispered. The figure swayed ever so slightly.

"Do you know me?" it asked. "It matters not. What is important is that I see your desire."

The mist caressed Quirrell's face with cool tendrils.

"Mmm, such a scent. A thirst for power, for strength, for knowledge. It cannot be mistaken for anything else," Quirrell looked into the ruby eyes of Voldemort like a rabbit into the eyes of a boa constrictor. The words of the Dark Lord flowed into Quirrell's ears like sweet poison, seeping into his cerebral cortex. "I see great potential in you, a sharp intellect. A pity others do not appreciate it. But I am not like them. I will help you obtain a confession, so that these fools will not dare to mock you again. Just ask."

Quirrell nodded, entranced.

"But you and I are both adults, you know that nothing comes for free. I will aid you, and you will aid me. Will that be fair?" Voldemort spoke with calm conviction, and I wanted to believe him.

"What would you have me do, my Lord?"

"As you can observe, I find myself in a rather precarious position at the moment: I lack a physical form, and my influence on the surrounding world is limited. However, you are a different matter entirely. Young, vigorous, strong," Quirrell drew himself up after these words, "with the power to influence young minds. Your abilities will prove invaluable to me. Will you pledge your loyalty to me in exchange for aid?"

A hand emerged from the darkness. Quirinus seized it, and strong fingers sank into his arm. "I pledge my allegiance."

"Do you vow to obey my every command?"

"I do," silver threads materialized, binding flesh and mist together.

"Will you assist me in all my endeavors?" The two sorcerers were so engrossed in the oath-taking that they failed to notice the emergence of a third figure in the clearing. A silhouette, as though composed of shattered fragments, approached them. The moment the final words of the oath were spoken, it crumbled into dust. The vow had been witnessed.

"And now," the red embers in his eyes narrowed fractionally, "Quirrell, my most faithful servant, allow me entrance into your corporeal form."

— Yes, master.

The dark mist enveloped the sorcerer, swiftly permeating his being. The silver particles that had previously floated serenely through the air now swayed, swept away by the shadows of the spirit and dissipating into nothingness. Quirinus's body contorted, an agonized gasp escaping his lips, before collapsing to the ground. As the sorcerer fell, a gust of wind arose, restoring the tranquil sounds of the woodland. The restless essence had finally departed this realm.

***

The two men, both with dark hair and scarlet eyes, stood facing each other in the middle of the living room. A third man, seated in an armchair, seemed to be huddled, not fully comprehending what was transpiring.

"Who in blazes are you?" the first man demanded, pointing his wand at the newcomer. Voldemort, having assumed the body of the foolish and naïve wizard, was certain he could easily subdue him and take full control. The appearance of another person in the room posed a potential threat to his plans.

The stranger responded, "I would like to ask the same question, gentlemen, although I already know who you both are. My presence here is not welcome, nor is it for you? Let us not exchange spells, Mr. —, we do not wish to cause our host's mind any undue strain." He nodded slightly towards Quirrell.

Quirinus spoke up, his voice trembling, "You are also a wizard, Mr. ..." He attempted to steady his wand in his shaking hand.

"Grimm, Robert Grimm," he said, a qualified wizard, if you will. "And where is your staff?"

The magician gave a nonchalant shrug. "Where I come from, we don't use them. Though I believe the magical systems of our realms don't differ greatly."

"And what brings you here?" Voldemort inquired with a sneer. "Fate, an evil fate?"

"If only," Grimm replied sourly. "As soon as I get back to my world, I'll raise the question of banishing these fools!" he thought, recalling the reason for his presence here.