Hogwarts: I am Voldemort

The life of the owner of 36 Hall Street is busy and exciting.

Quirrell's body truly fulfills a common saying:

He was so busy that he broke a person in half.

6 a.m. to 7 a.m.: Morning exercise and meal.

7 a.m. to 12 p.m.: Voldemort practices his spells.

12:00-1:00: Lunch and nap.

1 a.m. to 3 p.m.: Quirrell’s acting class.

3pm-7pm: Quirrell’s psychotherapy session.

7 a.m. to 11 a.m.: Voldemort’s melee combat course.

11 a.m. - 1 a.m.: Quirrell's Occlumency lessons.

1 a.m. to 6 a.m.: Sleep.

The days followed the same rhythm, as if it was going to repeat indefinitely, until one night, it was broken by a bat.

"Knock~knock~knock~"

Rhythmic tapping on the windows attracted the attention of everyone at 36 Hall Street.

"Perhaps, using this bat to practice marksmanship is a good choice."

Paul Castle, Voldemort's marksmanship teacher, said jokingly.

Voldemort smiled and asked them to leave, then opened the window to welcome the bat in.

"The blood bag is flying."

He waved his wand and easily used a flying spell, and the blood bag knocked open the refrigerator and flew into his hand.

"Quiet, don't worry, little cutie."

Voldemort said softly, waved his wand, and the refrigerator door closed automatically.

Then the wand pointed at the blood bag in his hand, causing it to float to a bowl not far away and burst open.

"Give me the letter first, and then go drink."

Voldemort blocked the bat's path with his wand and said to it.

The bat stretched out its claws, and there was indeed a black cloth strip tied to it.

Take the cloth strip and unfold it, and the text on it appears:

The Dark Lord, respected by Death Eaters and making the wizarding world tremble:

If you need, you can come back at any time, the Black Forest of Albania will always have a place for you.

Also: Your owl has been eaten by Pooh, and there may have been more than one, and I'm very sorry about that.

Your forever friend: Count Nosferatu.

When Voldemort finished reading the cloth, it turned into a black mist and slowly dispersed.

In the black mist, evil dark power emanates, which is very unfriendly.

Pooh, who was drinking blood, turned his head and glanced, and then began to focus on the blood basin in front of him again.

"Mysterious man, do you really think it is necessary to do this?"

In the back of his mind, Quirrell asked in horror.

"Nothing escapes the old bee except the truth."

Voldemort responded softly, staring at the slowly disappearing black mist.

My old friend, his words are not as friendly as his actions.

"Can you use the spell of the Flame Letter?" Voldemort asked Quirrell in his mind.

"Of course, I'm just not very familiar with it," Quirrell said.

"Then, you control the body, I provide the content, and you write the reply."

"Also, try to make the magic of the flame letter as full as possible. Count Nosferatu never makes friends with the weak."

Voldemort said, exchanging body control with Quirrell.

Quirrell tightened the wand in his hand, and then waved the wand according to Voldemort's instructions:

Count Nosferatu, respected by the original vampires:

I will visit your castle in the early morning of the 13th of this month, hoping to eat the blood feast made by your wife. It is a delicacy that I will never forget in my life.

Another note: Owl blood doesn’t taste good. I’ve prepared blood food for Pooh, and it’s obvious that he likes it very much.

Another: I hope you can prepare what I need, which will make our friendship go further.

Your forever friend: The Dark Lord.

When the wand was writing the last few words, the flames obviously became hotter.

And when everything was over, the flames burned disorderly in the air and turned into a fiery red chain.

"Pooh, although it's a little hot, I think you can bear it, right?"

Voldemort regained control of his body and said to Pooh the Bat with a smile.

…

On the fifth day after the letter was sent, Voldemort had already begun to consider shortening the duration of Quirrell's mental medical treatment.

But unexpectedly, Quirrell expressed his opposition - before confirming whether Quirrell's idea was correct or not, Voldemort was already happy.

"Quirrell, that's how it should be."

He praised loudly, as if his own child had scored 100 points in the exam, and was the only one in the whole grade.

"Express your opinions, speak your thoughts, face everything boldly, and abandon your timid self."

He could feel the excitement in Quirrell's emotions as he praised him.

"Thank you, my master, please allow me to call you this once. I am so happy."

Quirrell became bold again, and Voldemort still gave him recognition - for him who had nothing, if calling "Master" was a reward, then he would not be stingy.

"Tell me your reasons, Quirrell, and I'll think about it seriously."

"Psychotherapy is good for me to learn Occlumency. I can't be 100% sure, but I have this feeling."

Quirrell's words surprised Voldemort.

Is there any connection between psychotherapy and Occlumency?

Maybe, maybe not, it needs to be verified.

"Go ahead and try it, Quirrell. If you can, you'd better write down your experience."

While Voldemort appreciated it, he hoped that he could also learn from it.

Although he has extremely strong Legilimency strength and can completely replace defense with offense, Voldemort is still willing to make more preparations.

To deal with old bees, no amount of backup is too much.

Quirrell also agreed excitedly and started organizing his notes from that day on.

"Perhaps this will become a rare reference book for Occlumency practitioners."

After Voldemort encouraged him again, he chose silence.

In fact.

When one of the two souls controls the body, the thinking of the other soul also consumes brain power.

so……

In alternating uses of the body, non-users should politely choose silence.

The days became calm again, and nothing changed until the early morning of July 13th.

"Come Quirrell, Apparate and go to the place where we first met."

Swapping body control, then...

"Snapped."

The surroundings were dark, and Voldemort could vaguely feel the strong squeeze coming from all directions. It was more like my chest was tightly strangled by several iron hoops, my eyeballs seemed to be squeezed into my brain, and my eardrums penetrated into the depths of my soul, and then...

"Snapped."

There was a soft sound, and you were already at the foot of the mountain surrounded by black mist.

"Well done, Quirrell."

There was encouragement and envy in Voldemort's tone.

Using someone else's body to practice normal spells was okay, but practicing Apparition was too dangerous.

There will always be some uncomfortable feeling when controlling Quirrell's body, which cannot be changed. Voldemort can only accept it helplessly - at least it is much better than the wandering state of the previous ten years.

He comforted himself in this way, and at the same time, greetings rang out not far away:

"Honored Dark Lord, welcome to Mount Orikino."

It’s still a daily day of asking for votes, bland and unremarkable