He went to the Great Hall, where his backup plan was waiting.
"Well, well — look who's looking for us."
"It's the little snake."
The twins were waiting near the entrance. One of them carried a wrapped bundle — something long was sticking out of it.
"George on the left. Fred on the right."
The twins exchanged surprised glances. Even their own family sometimes mixed them up. But this Henry William had identified them instantly.
"Enough small talk," Fred said. "Here's what you wanted. You've no idea how hard this was to get."
"We went through a lot of trouble," George added.
They spoke in unison: "It'll cost extra."
Hall stared at them. They stole my line.
"How much?"
"Since it's your first time dealing with us, we'll give you the family discount. One Galleon, thirteen Sickles."
Hall pulled out the coin purse.
"I heard you're working on a humour potion," he said casually. "Lots of trial and error. Lots of wasted ingredients. And I happen to have unlimited access to the school's Potions materials."
The twins exchanged a look. They'd heard about this from Ron.
"If I join your project," Hall continued, "I'll supply all basic materials for free. Rare materials get priority access from my stock. No charge."
"What do you want?" Fred's voice was serious.
"When you open your shop, I want twenty percent of the profits."
The twins hesitated.
"We need to think about it."
Hall shrugged. "Sure. But the price won't be the same then."
He took the wrapped bundle and left. The twins, after a moment of deliberation, decided that the bag was a gift and money was too hurtful to discuss.
Ten minutes later, class began.
Ten minutes later, class began.
"P-p-p-p-please open your textbooks," Quirrell stammered. He hunched over the lectern, glancing around nervously after every word, as if afraid something would leap out at him.
For the entire lesson, he never left his seat. He read from the textbook in a thin, dry voice while the students covered their noses and mouths.
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Hall studied the back of Quirrell's head.
I wonder if You-Know-Who can actually be suffocated by the smell. That would be a footnote in magical history. The first Dark Lord defeated by garlic.
He didn't act immediately. The trick was to let the situation reach its breaking point — that was when help was most appreciated.
But beneath the garlic, Hall could detect it. The faint, rotting odour of something dying from the inside.
A body could only hold one soul. When a second soul was forced in, the vessel began to break down. Tissues rotted. Pain became constant. The soul that was already there slowly suffocated.
Whatever Voldemort had offered Quirrell to endure this — it must have been immense.
Halfway through the lesson, Zabini tugged Hall's sleeve. His voice was muffled by his hand. "When are you going to act?"
Malfoy was desperately trying to signal Hall with his eyes, barely breathing through his collar.
The other students who knew about the plan looked at Hall with identical expressions of desperate hope.
Hall smiled innocently and made a small gesture — thumb rubbing against fingers.
Pay up.
"We agreed — after you succeed!" Malfoy muttered, then inhaled by accident and nearly gagged. "Ugh — ugh —"
"Deposit."
Malfoy shoved a small wallet into Hall's hands under the table.
Hall weighed it. Satisfied.
He raised his hand.
"P-p-please speak," Quirrell said, setting down his book.
"Professor, I heard you once drove away a vampire in Romania, and you're afraid of its revenge." Hall stood, picking up his bag. "I know a method that might help."
Without waiting for a response, he walked to the front of the classroom and began unloading items from his storage bag onto Quirrell's desk.
A ritual blade carved from rowan wood. A coil of enchanted red cord. A small flask of black dog blood — obtained from Knockturn Alley through the twins.
"Professor, this will be a permanent solution."
Hall studied the items, mentally reviewing the old texts he'd found in the Restricted Section. Folk magic. Unorthodox methods that the Ministry didn't officially recognise. But they worked, according to the accounts.
Quirrell stared at the strange objects with growing unease. The hairs on the back of his hands stood up.
"W-W-William — what are you doing?" He edged backward.
Hall considered his options. A decaying body sustained by another soul's life force, requiring blood to survive.
This is essentially a type of undead attachment.
"Professor, you can't ignore the problem. Let me help."
Hall grabbed Quirrell's arm before he could retreat further. Quirrell was taller, but thin and weak — no match for Hall's determined grip.
"What are you going to—"
Hall uncorked the flask of black dog blood.
In folklore, black dog blood was one of the most potent substances against unnatural attachments. The old texts called it "unbinding blood" — capable of severing magical bonds that normal spells couldn't touch.
He hesitated. The blood was powerful. If he used it directly, it might do more than just drive out the parasite — it could damage Quirrell's body permanently.
Just as he was deciding on a gentler approach, Quirrell grabbed the flask and drank it.
"Hey — no — that's for external—" Hall reached for it, but the flask was empty.
Quirrell's face contorted. The black dog blood hit his stomach like liquid fire. He gagged, clutching his throat.
"That's black dog blood," Hall said flatly. "It's used for breaking unnatural attachments."
A piercing scream echoed inside Quirrell's skull — but it came from the back of his head, not his mouth.
Quirrell doubled over, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other pressed against the back of his skull. Something was moving under his skin.
"Professor Quirrell is going to be sick!" someone shouted.
"Get a bin!"
"Summon a bin!"
Hall moved quickly. He grabbed the enchanted red cord and bound Quirrell's hands before he could resist further. Then he pulled out the rowan-wood ritual blade — it wasn't meant for cutting flesh. It was meant for cutting spiritual ties.
"What's happening?" a Gryffindor whispered.
"Is the professor okay?"
"Henry said he was going to cure the smell — is this part of it?!"
On the Gryffindor side, Hermione stood up. "This is — this is bullying! I'm going to get Professor McGonagall!"
Ron grabbed her robe. "I don't know why, but my gut says don't."
Hermione hesitated at Ron's words, then sat back down, watching with wide eyes.