Turns out, Harry's nightmare had only just begun.
The ridicule before class was merely the warm-up.
After introducing the traits and weaknesses of ghouls and having the students jot down the banishment incantation, Snape stepped outside and dragged in his specially prepared "teaching aids"—two live ghouls.
Despite their terrifying name, ghouls weren't particularly dangerous. They were only classified as XX-level threats, the same as a Bowtruckle or a Puffskein.
These creatures were small, with slimy dark greenish-black skin, protruding fangs, and a few wisps of hair clinging to their bald heads.
They lived in damp, dark places—like sewers and attics—and fed on spiders and moths.
Wizards never bothered to wipe out ghouls. In fact, some even kept them around for amusement, treating their wailing screeches like music.
Handling such low-level creatures was simple—either physically or magically.
"Potter," Snape said with a sneer, "why don't you give the class a demonstration?"
Harry wasn't nervous. He figured these little things couldn't be that tough.
What he forgot, though, was that Snape's real job was teaching Potions. He was a master in the field.
These two ghouls weren't your average attic gremlins. Snape had found them just the night before and fed them some rather interesting potions. Now they were bursting with energy—and rage.
The moment Snape lifted the Petrificus Totalus spell, the two ghouls, eyes glowing red, lunged at Harry and kicked him in circles—literally. By the time they were done, Harry was too stunned to even think straight.
Wait a second, Harry thought. Aren't ghouls supposed to be skittish and non-aggressive? Since when did they kick like mountain trolls?
He didn't even get a chance to cast a spell.
"Tsk. Looks like our dear savior isn't quite so gifted when it comes to handling basic magical creatures," Snape sneered, his smirk practically radiating joy. "Don't worry, Potter. I'll give you something more your speed next time."
Malfoy looked like he'd just had Christmas, his birthday, and every holiday combined. If only Snape could clone himself and replace every professor, Malfoy would be the happiest boy at Hogwarts, getting front-row seats to Potter's misfortunes every day.
And the disaster wasn't over yet. After Harry got trounced, the next unlucky volunteer was Ron.
Sure, Harry eventually surpassed Ron in later years, but for now, Ron actually had the upper hand. Being raised in a pure-blood family meant he'd been exposed to magic from birth. At the very least, he knew a few useful spells.
Especially against ghouls—after all, there was one living in the attic at his house. And when his brothers bullied him, Ron often went up there to take it out on the poor thing.
Ron confidently raised his wand and cast the banishment spell.
Good news: it worked.
Bad news: it was pathetically weak.
One of the ghouls rolled backward twice before standing back up like nothing had happened.
Ron tried again, but this time he completely missed. With both ghouls closing in and grinning nastily, he panicked. One snatched his wand. And just like that—Ron joined Harry in the "pummeled by ghouls" club.
The class erupted in laughter. Even the Gryffindors couldn't hold back. Ron looked downright tragic—his hair was a mess, his robe was gone, and everyone got a clear view of his bright red underwear.
The girls groaned in disgust while giggling uncontrollably.
Harry wanted to laugh too—but Ron was his mate. He forced himself to keep a straight face, though his lips twitched.
Snape, finally satisfied, retrieved one of the ghouls and left the other for student practice.
By the end of class, everyone had a turn—except Tom.
Snape waved him off with a snort. "Your spells are too forceful. If you break my teaching aids, what am I supposed to use next class?"
Don't assume ghouls were only for first-years. At Quirrell's current teaching pace, even third-years could make use of them.
After deducting five points each from Harry and Ron and leaving them with some choice words, Snape strutted out feeling utterly refreshed.
Apart from the two battered victims, everyone agreed it had actually been a great class.
And not just this class—anyone who had Snape as a substitute came away with the same conclusion.
Sure, the man had a mouth like acid and hair like engine grease, but he actually taught. Everyone got hands-on experience. And defeating a magical creature? That sense of accomplishment was leagues beyond copying down lecture notes.
No wonder Snape applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position every year.
Before anyone realized it, students were starting to hope Quirrell wouldn't return. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Snape just kept subbing the whole year.
Some even speculated Quirrell might never come back.
After all, getting smacked in the back of the head by a rogue Bludger flying at top speed? He could very well be permanently out of commission.
No one was shocked. With the kind of turnover that job had, Quirrell just became another statistic. Even the professors were numb to it by now.
If he was dead, maybe they'd get a feast out of it.
While everyone was quietly excited about the prospect of "Professor Quirrell's Memorial Dinner," two weeks later, the man himself returned from the dead—much to everyone's disappointment.
He didn't look dead, though—just pale, like he'd spent the fortnight battling a nasty illness.
The students weren't happy to see him. Neither was Snape.
Snape had just gotten a taste of what it felt like to teach DADA. Barely two weeks in, and it was snatched away?
Only one person seemed pleased by Quirrell's return.
Tom.
After Quirrell's first class back, Tom politely stopped him in the corridor.
"Mr. Riddle," Quirrell said weakly, his voice still sounding frail. "Is something the matter?"
"I have a few questions I was hoping to ask you." Tom offered a polite smile. "But it's a bit crowded here. Perhaps we could speak in your office?"
Quirrell blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected a request like that from Tom of all people.
Still, he nodded, and Tom gave Daphne a glance to signal her to follow.
They arrived at the Defense Against the Dark Arts office—Tom's first time there. The system popped up with a notification:
Achievement Points +20.
Not 10—20.
Apparently, this wasn't just Tom's first visit. It was the first time any student had ever entered Quirrell's office.
Tom looked around curiously.
The room was pretty standard: a large desk, a few rows of bookshelves.
The only things that stood out were the bizarre trinkets and tribal souvenirs hanging on the walls, and a massive full-length mirror by the window.
Quirrell had built up a persona of being a globe-trotting wizard who loved visiting primitive magical tribes. The weird decorations weren't too surprising.
"Mr. Riddle," Quirrell said after shutting the door behind them. "Now then—what is it you wanted to ask?"
Inside the office, Quirrell seemed to regain some confidence. His voice wasn't nearly as shaky anymore. In fact, it had taken on a calm steadiness.
Tom, however, wasn't concerned about Quirrell making a move against him.
If it were just Quirrell alone, he posed no threat.
Even if it was Voldemort behind those eyes… Tom wasn't worried.
After all, if he was a Jinchūriki… it wasn't like he was the only one.
Andros burst forth with all his power. Right now, Tom was essentially a scaled-down, time-limited version of the Century King.
Sure, the effect of Embodiment had lasted over ten minutes—far more than the usual one—but Tom was still just a child. His magic reserves, while impressive for his age, only allowed Andros to remain at full strength for about a minute.
But don't underestimate that one minute.
Andros was confident he could level half of Hogwarts with it.
That, right there, was the real reason Tom dared to follow Quirrell to his office alone.
"Professor."
Tom casually pulled up a chair and sat across from Quirrell like he owned the place. "How's the back of your head doing these days?"
Quirrell's heart seethed with murderous rage, but his face put on a mask of gratitude. "Thank you for your concern, Mr. Riddle. I'm fine now—just a few scratches."
"Good to hear." Tom smiled warmly. "I genuinely hope you'll be able to stick around until the end of the school year."
Quirrell blinked.
What… did that mean?
"Mr. Riddle, what exactly are you trying to say?" he asked again, since Tom hadn't answered the first time.
"Well," Tom said with a bashful look, "I saw you during the Quidditch match. You were casting a spell on Harry's broomstick, weren't you? Trying to make him fall to his death?"
Quirrell's expression didn't change, but a flash of killing intent flickered in his eyes.
"I'm afraid I don't understand what you're talking about."
He smiled. "As mediocre as I may be, I'm still your professor. Why would I ever harm a student? But now that you mention it, I do recall something odd—"
His expression turned slightly alarmed.
"Professor Snape… he was muttering something under his breath. Unfortunately, I was too far to hear. He's never liked Mr. Potter, you know."
"No worries, Professor." Tom beamed. "Some people are already suspicious of Professor Snape. I'll handle being suspicious of you. Everyone can do their part."
What the hell kind of division of labor is this? Even suspicion needs to be assigned?
Quirrell's hands twitched. He nearly lost control.
But it was what Tom said next that truly pushed him to the brink of murder.
"During the Halloween feast," Tom said, "you smelled disgusting. Not your usual stench—worse. Almost exactly like the troll."
He tilted his head, eyes wide with faux curiosity.
"Professor, you didn't… release that troll, did you?"
Tom looked to be in full detective mode, clearly enjoying himself, as he adjusted an imaginary pair of glasses and continued, completely ignoring the glint of danger in Quirrell's eyes.
"But why would you do that?"
"It wasn't until I noticed Snape's injured leg that I realized—you weren't targeting Potter. You were after the thing Dumbledore's hiding on the fourth floor."
"I remember when he took me to Diagon Alley in July to shop for school supplies. He also visited Gringotts that day… and the next day, Gringotts was robbed. The vault that got hit? The one Dumbledore used."
He leaned forward, smiling. "Professor, was that you?"
Quirrell's fake smile finally collapsed.
"Riddle… you do know that accusing a professor without proof is a serious violation of school rules?"
"Spouting baseless stories like this—even if you tell Dumbledore or Snape—they won't believe you."
"Is that so? Let's find out."
Tom stood as if he were about to march straight to the Headmaster's office.
"Wait—Riddle!" Quirrell called out, sighing. "Things… aren't what you think."
"You're admitting it? Then I definitely have to tell the Headmaster you're the culprit!"
"Tom, I know a lot about you." Quirrell's tone changed suddenly—gentle, warm, even affectionate.
"Just hear me out. If, after listening, you still want to go to Dumbledore… I won't stop you."
Tom sat back down, nodding. He was all ears.
"You're an orphan, raised in a group home. Essentially an orphanage, yes?"
Quirrell's expression grew wistful. "In that sense, you and I aren't so different. My parents divorced when I was very young. Neither of them wanted me. They just sent a tiny stipend each year and left me to fend for myself. How is that any different from being an orphan?"
"…I know how cruel poverty is. But do you know what treasure Dumbledore's hiding on the fourth floor?"
"Oh?" Tom played along, raising an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"The Philosopher's Stone," Quirrell said, eyes gleaming. "A legendary artifact that can brew the Elixir of Life and transmute anything into pure gold!"
"Whoa…" Tom gasped, visibly impressed.
"Tom, I admire you deeply," Quirrell said. "You figured out so much just by following the clues. You're brilliant. Smarter than I am. But I've lived longer. I have advantages you don't."
"You flatter me," Tom replied modestly.
Quirrell leaned forward, voice sincere. "Let's work together. Once we get the Philosopher's Stone, I'll give you mountains of gold. You'll never have to go back to that orphanage. You could buy a mansion, live freely. And we could share the Elixir of Life."
"Snape's our rival. He's the one who tried to kill Potter that day. I was actually protecting him—countering Snape's dark magic with my own spells."
"Think about it, Tom. If Snape gets the Stone, do you think he'll share it with you? He won't. He'd kill to keep it secret."
"And if you tell Dumbledore?"
"Even if he believes you, even if he acts, I have ways to escape. I can leave Hogwarts. But once I'm out, I will come for you. Can you stay here forever?"
"And what will Dumbledore give you? A few empty compliments? Ten house points?"
"All of it is meaningless compared to immortality and limitless wealth."
His logic was smooth. His tone, persuasive. If this had been any ordinary student, they might've been swayed.
Tom was tempted. His eyes shimmered with greed.
"Professor… you mean it?" he asked, his voice tinged with longing.
"Of course," Quirrell said confidently.
"Say it: 'British people don't lie to British people.'"
"British people don't lie to British people," Quirrell echoed, chuckling inside.
You little idiot. I'm not British—I'm Welsh!
"All right, then." Tom smiled like a kid who'd just been offered a lifetime of candy. But immediately, his expression grew guarded.
"Still, Professor, I don't fully trust you yet. You'll have to show a little sincerity."
Quirrell frowned. "What do you want? Money?"
Tom waved his hand dismissively, the picture of a money-starved orphan.
"Of course I want money."
"But I also want Slytherin to win the House Cup. I need the purebloods' approval. That's how I'll make life easier here."
He paused, then stated his true request:
"So, Professor, I trust you won't be stingy about awarding me a few… completely unimportant house points, right?"