— — — — — —
Turns out, Harry's nightmare was just getting started.
The insults before class? That was just the warm-up.
After giving a quick lecture on the traits and weaknesses of ghouls, and making the students jot down the banishment spell, Snape walked out of the room and returned—with two live ghouls as teaching aids.
Now, despite their creepy name, ghouls aren't all that dangerous. They're rated just XX on the magical creature danger scale—about as threatening as a puffskein or a gnome.
These little monsters are short, covered in slimy dark green skin, have crooked fangs, and patchy hair on their heads. They live in dark, damp places—think sewer pipes or attics—and mostly eat spiders and bugs.
Wizards don't even bother exterminating them. Some families even keep them around for fun, treating their ghastly howls like quirky background music.
In short, ghouls can be handled with either spells or brute force—no big deal.
"Potter, why don't you come up and show the class how it's done?" Snape invited Harry with his usual fake politeness.
But Harry didn't feel nervous. He figured he could easily deal with these little guys.
What he forgot, though, was that Snape's main job wasn't teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts—it was Potions. And he was a master at that.
These ghouls? He'd caught them just last night and force-fed them a cocktail of high-energy potions. They were basically turbo-charged and itching for a fight.
As soon as Snape lifted the Petrification Charm, the two ghouls lunged at Harry with bloodshot eyes, kicking and thrashing wildly. Poor Harry was caught completely off-guard and ended up getting KO'd.
This was not how the books had described ghouls. Wasn't this species supposed to hide in corners, not go full berserk?
He didn't even get the chance to cast a spell.
"Tsk. Seems like our little Savior isn't too good at dealing with low-level magical creatures," Snape said, the smirk on his face harder to suppress than an Avada Kedavra.
Draco Malfoy looked like Christmas had come early. He was practically praying Snape could learn cloning magic and replace every other professor in the school. Watching Harry get humiliated like this every day would be heaven for him.
And it didn't stop there.
After Harry got thrashed, Ron was next.
But Ron didn't feel nervous.
Sure, Harry would eventually surpass Ron, but right now Ron actually had the upper hand. He grew up in a pureblood family and had been exposed to magic since birth. He ought to know a thing or two.
Especially about ghouls. His family had one living in their attic. Whenever his older brothers bullied him, Ron would vent by yelling at it.
As soon as he stepped up, Ron cast the banishment spell.
Good news: it worked.
Bad news: it barely did anything.
One ghoul tumbled backward a couple of times, then popped right back up as if nothing had happened. Ron cast again, but this time he missed completely. Seeing the ghouls closing in with menacing grins, he panicked, lost control of the situation, and got his wand snatched away—followed by a beatdown just like Harry's.
The classroom erupted in laughter. Even some of the Gryffindors couldn't hold it in. Ron's hair was a mess, his robes were torn off, and the whole class got treated to a view of his bright red underwear.
The girls? Mostly disgusted, partly amused.
Harry kind of wanted to laugh too, but hey—Ron was his best mate. He forced himself to keep a straight face out of loyalty.
Snape, now feeling thoroughly satisfied, put one of the ghouls back and left the other for the rest of the class to practice with.
By the end of the lesson, everyone had gotten a chance—everyone except Tom.
Snape waved him off, muttering something about how Tom didn't know his own strength and might break the teaching aid.
Finally...
Snape ended the class by scolding Harry and Ron again and docking five points each from Gryffindor, then left the room in high spirits.
Surprisingly, everyone else thought it had been a great lesson.
And not just this class—every class that had Snape subbing for Defense Against the Dark Arts said the same. Sure, he was snarky, greasy-haired, and mean, but the guy actually taught. Everyone got hands-on experience, and there's nothing like the thrill of taking down a magical creature to make a lesson stick.
No wonder he applied for the DADA position every year.
For once, no one wanted Quirrell to come back. If Snape could just keep substituting indefinitely, that would be perfect.
Most students even assumed Quirrell wasn't coming back at all.
After all, he had taken a Bludger to the back of the head at high speed.
There were already plenty of bizarre ways previous DADA professors had left the job—one more wouldn't surprise anyone. Even the other teachers seemed used to it.
And if he was dead? Well, at least they'd get a feast out of it.
While the students were still imagining the menu, Quirrell returned two weeks later—unfortunately very much alive.
He looked like he'd just come out of a long illness—pale and weak—but otherwise fine.
The students were disappointed. Snape was pissed.
He had finally gotten a taste of teaching Defense, and now it was snatched away after barely two weeks?
---
In the whole school, only one person was genuinely happy: Tom Riddle.
After Quirrell's first class back, Tom approached him just as the lesson ended.
"Mr. Riddle," Quirrell said weakly. "Did you need something?"
"I had a few questions I wanted to ask you," Tom said with a polite smile. "But this isn't really the place. How about we go to your office?"
Quirrell blinked, surprised by the request, but nodded. Tom shot Daphne a look, then followed him out.
They arrived at the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office—Tom's first time there. The system gave him a notification: 20 achievement points.
Apparently, it was the first time anyone had ever stepped foot in Quirrell's office.
Tom took a good look around.
The office was pretty standard—big desk, a few bookshelves. The only real personal touch was the weird collection of trinkets and souvenirs hanging on the walls, plus a giant full-length mirror by the window.
Quirrell's whole persona was built around being an adventurous wizard who traveled to exotic, primitive tribes, so the decorations weren't exactly shocking.
"Mr. Riddle, shall we talk now?"
Back in his office, Quirrell seemed to regain some confidence. His tone wasn't nearly as timid as outside—he sounded much more composed.
Tom wasn't worried about him making a move.
If it was just Quirrell by himself, he couldn't lay a finger on Tom. Even if it was Voldemort pulling the strings, Tom wasn't too stressed.
'You think you're a Jinchuriki? Well, so am I.'
With Andros's full support, Tom was basically a one-minute, slightly nerfed version of the Century King.
It should be ten minutes, but since he was still just a kid, his magic reserves could only support Andros's full power for about one minute.
But that minute? Andros was confident he could level half of Hogwarts if he had to.
That's why Tom was bold enough to follow Quirrell alone.
"Professor," Tom said, dragging a chair across and casually sitting opposite him, "how's the back of your head?"
A surge of murderous intent flashed through Quirrell, but his face remained calm and even a bit touched. "Thank you so much for your concern, Mr. Riddle. It's nothing serious—just some superficial wounds."
"Glad to hear it," Tom smiled, all warmth. "I sincerely hope you can keep teaching right through to the end of the school year."
Quirrell blinked.
What was that supposed to mean?
"Mr. Riddle… what are you getting at?" he asked, since Tom hadn't followed up.
"Well, it's like this," Tom said with a bashful little smile. "During the Quidditch match the other day, I saw you muttering something at Harry's broomstick. You were trying to knock him off, weren't you?"
Quirrell's expression didn't change, but a flash of cold irritation flickered through his eyes.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," he said with a chuckle. "I may not be the most gifted wizard, but I'm still your professor. Why on earth would I try to harm a student? But since you bring it up… now that I think about it, I do recall something suspicious."
He suddenly looked a bit uneasy.
"Professor Snape was muttering under his breath the whole time. I couldn't hear what he was saying from where I was, but… I've heard he's never really liked young Mr. Potter."
"It's fine, Professor," Tom replied, smiling even wider. "A lot of people are already suspicious of Professor Snape. I'll handle the suspicion toward you. What other people do isn't really my concern."
...Was there a task force now? Was accusing people a group project?
Quirrell's murderous intent flared again, nearly impossible to suppress. He was seconds away from just attacking Tom right there.
Then Tom dropped the bomb.
"By the way, during the Halloween Feast, I noticed a strange stench on you. Not your usual smell—it was more like the troll's."
"Professor, you didn't happen to be the one who let the troll in, did you?"
Tom had fully shifted into a detective mode now, ignoring the icy look in Quirrell's eyes. He even made a little gesture like adjusting nonexistent glasses. "But why would you do that…? Hmm…"
He tapped his chin theatrically.
"It wasn't until I saw Professor Snape limping that it all clicked. Your real goal was the corridor on the third floor. Or rather, the thing Dumbledore's hiding inside that corridor."
"July 30th, Dumbledore took me to Diagon Alley to get my school supplies. While we were there, he stopped by Gringotts and removed an item from one of the vaults. The very next day, Gringotts was broken into—and the vault that was hit? The same one Dumbledore used."
Tom leaned in slightly, voice calm.
"Professor, was that you?"
Quirrell's smile disappeared completely.
"Riddle, do you realize falsely accusing a professor is a serious violation of school rules?"
He narrowed his eyes. "You've got no proof. You can tell Dumbledore, you can tell Snape—neither of them would believe you."
"Oh really? I guess I'd better go ask the Headmaster then," Tom said, standing up like he was about to walk straight to the Headmaster's office.
"Wait! Riddle!" Quirrell quickly called out, sighing deeply. "It's not what you think."
"Oh? So you are admitting something?" Tom tilted his head. "Sounds like I really should tell the Headmaster now."
Quirrell's tone suddenly shifted. His voice softened, almost soothing. "Tom… I know a lot about you."
"Just hear me out, alright? If you still want to tell Dumbledore after that, I won't stop you."
Tom nodded. "Go ahead."
"You're an orphan," Quirrell began gently. "Raised in a children's home."
He sighed. "My story's not so different. My parents divorced when I was very young. Neither of them wanted to keep me. I got a pathetic amount of child support once a year and was left to fend for myself. How is that any different from being an orphan?"
"I know what it's like to live in poverty, to feel powerless… but do you have any idea what's hidden behind that door on the third floor?"
"Oh?" Tom leaned forward, playing along. "What is it?"
"The Philosopher's Stone!" Quirrell's eyes gleamed with fanatic light. "A legendary magical artifact that can create the Elixir of Life—and turn any substance into pure gold!"
Tom let out a gasp of wonder.
"Tom," Quirrell said, his voice filled with admiration, "you noticed all this just from a few clues. That's incredible. You're much sharper than I was at your age. But I've lived a lot longer than you… I have resources you don't."
"You flatter me," Tom replied modestly.
"Let's work together," Quirrell said sincerely. "Once we get the Stone, I'll give you more gold than you could ever spend. You'll never have to go back to that wretched orphanage. You could buy yourself a mansion, live however you want. And once we brew the Elixir of Life… we'll share immortality."
"Snape is our real enemy. He's the one who tried to kill Potter. I was protecting him—casting counter-curses against Snape's dark magic."
"Think about it. Do you really think Snape would share the Stone with you if he got his hands on it? No—he'd kill anyone in his way."
"You're thinking of telling Dumbledore? Be my guest."
"But let's be real—what's he going to do? Even if he believes you, I have my ways of escaping Hogwarts. I wouldn't hurt you here, but once I'm out…"
He let the threat hang in the air.
"Can you really hide in Hogwarts forever?"
"And what's Dumbledore ever given you? Some empty praise? A few house points?"
"All of that is meaningless compared to immortality and endless wealth."
Quirrell's pitch was well-rehearsed and logical. If it had been any other naive student, they might've fallen for it by now.
And honestly, Tom was tempted. His eyes sparkled with interest—especially when it came to the gold.
"Professor… is all of that really true?"
"Of course it is," Quirrell said quickly.
"You swear? British people don't lie to other British people, right?"
"British people don't lie to British people," Quirrell repeated solemnly, inwardly smirking.
"British my ass" he scoffed to himself. "Who said I'm the same as you? I'm Welsh, you little punk."
"Well then," Tom said with a bright smile. "Alright, I'm in."
But then his expression shifted slightly, turning cautious.
"Still, Professor… I can't just trust you blindly. You'll need to show a little sincerity first."
Quirrell frowned. "What do you mean? You want money?"
Tom waved it off, playing the poor orphan to perfection. "Of course I want money."
"But what I really need… is to help Slytherin win the House Cup. That's the only way those stuck-up purebloods will respect me."
"So, Professor," he added with a knowing smile, "surely you won't be stingy about giving me a few extra house points… right?"
.
.
.