Palette

The idea was to catch Voldermort once and for all. Well, obviously, the idea wasn’t that boldly worded even in his head. It was more of a “track and locate what is left of Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and come back as a modest hero”. But some time has passed and the wording started changing slightly. At first, it morphed into “locate and find what is left of You-Know-Who to return as a hero”. He decided to get rid of the “modest” part because it wasn’t really fitting. Not that he wasn’t modest but “modest” is a value judgment rather than an objective statement. It would be up to the press and others to say whether he’s modest or not. Also the agenda had to be changed because locating only sounded too general. It sounded as if he would only name the country or geographic region. Then another modification followed. The idea turned into “find and defeat the Dark Lord and victoriously return”. He liked it more because it was shorter — fitting enough for the headlines. Also he liked “the Dark Lord” much better than You-Know-Who. You-Know-Who felt like an old boggart from under the bed, like a scary fairy tale to make kids behave. The Dark Lord, on the contrary, sounded dangerous and… regal. One day he was taking a shower, daydreaming about the headlines, and then… he saw it clear and simple: “Voldemort defeated and imprisoned by a hero”. He saw the headlines, and he saw the photos: one of them was the photo of the Minister for Magic shaking his hand. Another was the photo of Albus Dumbledore and the whole school alongside applauding him. He was smiling and nodding, modest, brave and good-looking. The thought gave him an erection, and he wasn’t sure about the reason behind it: simple “hero” in the headline or the fact that he dared to use the name “Voldemort”. After the shower, he decided to give it another thought. And another thought was given. And then another one. And another. Thorough thinking is a process that cannot be rushed, so he took his time, and the time happened to be a whole school year… And when the school year was over, he took a sabbatical. The Grand Tour that he had envisioned, didn’t go as easy and well as he had planned. The research he had done didn’t prepare him for anything really. A brilliant theorist and Ravenclaw’s valedictorian Quirinus Quirrell soon realised that sometimes theory and practice don’t come side by side. It was one thing to teach Muggle Studies to a class full of students who didn’t have the slightest idea what a telephone was and why they should care. It was a whole different world full of shady witches and wizards that could give odds to the habitants of a Knockturn Alley that he had to dive into. By the end of his seventh month of the Grand Tour he was tired, desperate and hopeless. The headlines in his thoughts faded and Quirinus started thinking about returning back home. Then he found himself in the Accursed Mountains of Albania. And it was the place where all the games were over for Quirinus Quirrell. The locals called them Prokletije which translated as the Cursed Mountains. Quirinus arrived there and was heartbroken by the beauty of this place. He half-expected to see the bare wasteland — the name hinted that much — and fell in love with the picturesque peaks covered with lush forests slowly turning red and golden with every passing day. That is the place to stay at, he thought and for a moment nothing mattered. No Dark Lords, no Ministers for Magic and photos in newspapers, nothing made any sense. These mountains must have seen several Dark Lords, each darker than the previous one, and they didn’t care. Quirinus envied them, calm and indifferent, and thought that it didn’t really matter whether he’d find any information on his Grand Tour or not. He could stay there, far away from the students mocking him behind his back, and colleagues who wouldn’t let go of the fact that Quirinus was the youngest hire of them all, and all the sorrows of his real life. He could imagine a new, better life for himself here, in Prokletije, and he could see himself growing older, sturdier and manlier with the influence of this enchanted place. He could see himself becoming a legend, a wise man of the Cursed Mountains, the one that muggles would tell stories about. Quirrell decided he would stay here for a month, and he would write a letter to professor Dumbledore at the end. And whether this letter would be a letter of resignation or a letter informing that he’s ready to come back to teaching… time would show. It was at night when he realised why this beautiful place was called the Cursed Mountains. The moon looked like a drop of pale gold and the clouds were quickly moving across the sky as if trying to swallow it. An infinite game of catch above the vast sea of trees whispering their old secrets. Quirinus raised his face to the skies and saw that the wind was visible there. The clouds looked like a veil or a shroud, and they were desperately trying to envelope the moon. To cover it. What if there are werewolves here, Quirrell thought but it wasn’t a scary thought. Deep in his heart he knew that there were no werewolves in this part of the forest, and no wolves whatsoever. Deep in his heart he knew that he wouldn’t be leaving the Cursed Mountains. When one of the shadows spoke to him, Quirinus was ready. The shadow said there was no evil in the Cursed Mountains as there was no good. It explained to Quirinus, who felt like he was dreaming, lulled by the sounds of the night forest, that there was only power. Power to make evil and power to make good. – What is your name? — he asked and was desperately afraid to hear the answer. – What’s in a name? — the shadow replied and there was a hint of a smile in that voice, quiet and rustling along with the leaves. Quirinus Quirrell didn’t want to but he smiled back. And lowered his wand.