Kristen Roberts

Dr. Heller

English 2003: The Magic of Harry Potter

15 October 2019

A Missing Chapter: The Lord’s Dream

A purple scarf covered his eyes from the tragic truth of his circumstance. The fabric was

tight and a bit scratchy, but the fact that the great Lord Voldemort was reduced to sharing a head

with a being as insipid and cowardly as Quirrell, was enough to make anyone develop murderous

inclinations. The Lord, however, was better than the rest; he controlled these tendencies and only

entertained his rage when prudent.

“N-now, who ca-can tell me wha-what a red-c-cap does?” Quirrell stumbled. Every time

he opened his mouth, the Lord’s head stretched this way and that, accounting for the false stutter.

If only he could sigh—if only the students in the audience knew who laid behind that coward. No

one would dare to scoff in his presence.

A ball of paper flew towards Quirrell and he jumped away, barely escaping the missile.

The class was becoming quite irksome to attend and as much as Quirrell tried, he was an

abhorrent teacher. The Lord’s days were becoming increasingly tedious, and for a moment, he

wished to be back in the forest. There he was able to do far more than sit, listen, and think. He

already had another plan to kill that Potter boy and plotting to overthrow Dumbledore lost its

appeal after listening to the great Albus—with five billion important middle-names—

Dumbledore give his commencement speech: “Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!” (Sorcerer’s,

123). He certainly has let himself grow docile during the Lord’s absence. The Lord cannot say he

was not surprised; he always knew that Dumbledore lacked ambition and foresight, even when
he was a professor. Perhaps, he would have been a true competitor if he knew as much as the

Lord, but that would be impossible for someone Dumbledore’s age.

“Mr. We-Wea-Weasley! Five po-points from Gryff-ffin-dor!” The Lord was developing a

headache from all of this fuss. He indulged himself with the knowledge of knowing how he

would have dealt with this pest:

The boy was openly laughing at Quirrell and looking around at the class, enjoying how

easily he earned the approval of his classmates. His green eyes filled with pride as he lazily

leaned back in his chair. Although something caught his attention in the front of the classroom:

the Professor was turning his back on the class. The tangle of red hair, which appeared to the

Lord as jet black, tilted to the side as the boy wonder what idiotic activity Quirrell was engaging

in, but these thoughts were interrupted by the silent descent of the purple scarf. It floated down to

the wooden floor, almost creating a line between the class and Quirrell. Only, it was not Quirrell.

A shape began to overtake Quirrell’s body: stretching and perfecting the body. The being

grew stronger, paler, and more striking than Quirrell. At that moment, the class seemed to realize

that their Professor was gone, and, in that void, a god was rising. Robes of pure black and silk

billowed out from the form, clothing his pristine skin. His sole tool, a wand, sprang into his hand,

which he caressed, raising it slowly in the direction of the class. His haughty smirk and poignant

red eyes met the class. No one spoke, and no one dared to say his immaculate name. The Great

Lord Voldemort greeted the class with a flick of his wand: the lights vanished, the door closed,

and the boy screamed.

In the dark, Lord Voldemort sauntered over to the terrified boy and calmly said, “Did you

throw that?” His soft voice curled around the words, giving them a new life and meaning:

Prepare for death.

 The boy was frozen in his seat, unable to move or defend himself—a weak, little mouse.

The Lord paused for a second, relishing in the scent of the boy’s fear, and he exhaled the spelled

tethered so intricately to his bones, “Avada Kedvra.” The Lord crept closer to the boy and saw

the body grow still. The lids of his eyes closed, reveling in this peace. A clarity unknown to all

presented itself to him—the only one deserving of this knowledge.

The body flopped to the side and the class erupted into chaos: they screamed, writhed,

and fainted. His elegant and bare head tilted back as he delighted in his old freedom. He had

finally—

Suddenly, his grand thought was interrupted by an immense pain originating from the

side of his head. The boy had thrown what the Lord assumed to be an apple. The Lord heard a

horde of laughter radiating from the other side of the room. Quirrell’s side of the head felt oddly

warm and after a moment, the Lord realized what Quirrell was experiencing: shame. How

terribly pathetic.

“Detent-tion! Class Dis-mis-Dismissed!” Quirrell shrieked, his voice cracking. Quirrell

gathered his things and ventured outside into the corridors. There were sounds of laughter and

yelling—the marks of utter chaos. The Professor carefully made his way to the third corridor,

taking pains to ensure no one was following him. In front of the duo lay a wooden door, and

behind it, a three-headed dog. The Lord could hear the slight growls emulating from the creature,

but that never concerned him. Quirrell was the only unreliable part of his plan. If only the Lord

was still at large, he would be wading in blood right now, delighting in the mayhem. The Lord

licked his cracked, malformed lips and conjured the words he desired.
 “There, beyond this door lies my prize. After this Halloween, you almost ruined it, but I,

the merciful Lord, have given you another chance. Continue on this path, give me the Stone, and

you know how I will reward you.”

Quirrell gulped, from fear or excitement the Lord cared not. The man looked at his watch

and saw that it was supper time. They walked down the hall, lost in thought. Visions of a boy

with a scar finally being silenced, and a man walking free in control of his own body filled the

two respective minds. The Lord forced Quirrell to stop and go to the girls’ bathroom on this

floor, as the Lord knows it was always empty. Quirrell understood and removed the suffocating

purple scarf.

The Lord stared at his face, taking in the gruesome scene. But he was not concerned in

the slightest. At Hogwarts, he was powerful—safe. The Lord smiled at the disfigured face,

knowing it was more than it seems, and looked briefly at the sink. Nothing could ever hope to

stop Lord Voldemort, especially not a senile man or an eleven-year-old. Only a fool would

believe otherwise.

Works Cited:
Rowling, J. K.. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Illustrated by Mary Grandpré,

Scholastic Press, First American edition, June 1999.

---. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Illustrated by Mary Grandpré, Scholastic Press, First

American edition, July 2000.

---.. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Illustrated by Mary Grandpré, Scholastic Press, First

American edition, October 1998.