"Quirrell." Ron smothered a smile at the way she’d pronounced it. His little sister wouldn’t appreciate being made fun of. "Yeah. He died, and they never found out why, and—I’d seen him in class every week. He ate breakfast at the professors’ table and fussed over his eggs. He wore this ridiculous turban..." He took a deep breath. "It was just a shock, you know? Understanding that he was dead."