Cho's face wasn't crimson anymore, but her cheeks were still flushed pink, revealing a charming smile.
She was in a good mood now, probably because her stomach wasn't hurting anymore.
After walking Cho to the vicinity of her classroom, Lynn let go of her hand, handed her textbooks back to her, and watched her enter the room.
Afterwards, Lynn turned around leisurely and headed toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom on the third floor.
His timing was perfect; just as he reached the door, the class bell rang.
But the strong smell of garlic wafting from the classroom made Lynn wrinkle his nose involuntarily.
He actually liked garlic—especially garlic vermicelli roasted scallops or garlic eggplant—but the intense garlic odor radiating from Quirrell was a different story. This overly thick, pungent smell made it hard to breathe and induced a physiological revulsion that made one want to retch.
"Might as well just flip the table."
A little figure wielding nunchucks in Lynn's mind yelled at him.
"Anyway, Harley isn't the old Harry anymore. Everything Dumbledore set up was for the male Harry, not the current female Harley. Harley is a good girl; she won't go wandering around blindly in the middle of the night. Three-headed dogs, the Chamber of Secrets, the Philosopher's Stone—the current Harley won't fall for any of Dumbledore's tricks!
"It's time to change Hogwarts, and all this reform starts with Quirrell!
"You only have seven years to learn magic at school. Although Defense Against the Dark Arts doesn't mean jack shit to you, instead of wasting time, you might as well read a couple more books and start learning wand-making early. A future of financial freedom is waiting for you; that's a monopoly business."
What the nunchuck-wielding little figure said actually made a lot of sense, but Lynn felt that doing so was a bit dangerous.
"W-what... what is it..." Quirrell stammered. He suddenly felt a bit strange inside, so he turned his head and saw Lynn standing at the door, not yet having entered.
"Hello, Professor Quirrell."
Lynn's expression remained unchanged as he spoke calmly. He walked over to Harley's side; she and her best friends had kindly saved a seat for Lynn.
However, whether it was Harley, Hermione, or Parvati, all three girls were wrinkling their noses with looks of utter despair.
Only Hermione, who loved studying seriously, still had some spirit; the other two looked listless.
The biological weapon was just too terrible.
Sitting in his seat, Lynn began a two-hour-long torture session.
Quirrell's stammering reading of the textbook inflicted a double torture on him, both physical and psychological. Hidden within the pungent garlic smell was a nauseating stench—most likely the odor of the rotting Voldemort stuck to the back of his head. The garlic was just there to cover up that foul smell.
The entire class was filled with nonsense. Apart from the textbook text, there was only Quirrell's stumbling, meaningless small talk. For instance, he claimed his turban was a gift from an African prince after he defeated a zombie, but when a young wizard asked how he defeated the zombie, his face turned beet red and he mumbled vaguely about today's weather.
This was a terrible class—arguably the worst, bar none!
Even the History of Magic class next to Defense Against the Dark Arts was ten thousand times more interesting. Even though Professor Binns, who had already become a ghost, lectured in a voice that made people drowsy, the content he spoke of was at least detailed and factual. As a teacher who hadn't realized he was dead when he died and still thought about teaching students, his attitude toward teaching was quite good. If you had a question, he would answer you very patiently.
Harley, sandwiched between Hermione and Lynn, didn't even doze off much during History of Magic. With academic overachievers on both sides—although Lynn was secretly reading extracurricular books at the time—it brought her considerable pressure, pushing her to get used to studying seriously.
After finishing the last History of Magic class of the day, Lynn had made a decision.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was simply too awful. Lynn found it hard to accept that he would have to live intimately with this pungent garlic smell for the coming year. Even if not for himself, Lynn intended to try and see if he could do something.
Helping others was his hobby. It wasn't that he wanted to show off; he didn't even need people to be terribly grateful to him. He just wanted to see the people he helped become genuinely happy, and that was enough to satisfy him.
For example, helping Neville. Lynn sought no reward; he only hoped this chubby boy could have a happier time at school, which would make him feel happy too.
But the problem was, although Quirrell pretended to be a "useless idiot," he was actually very capable. As an academically excellent Ravenclaw graduate, Quirrell's magic level was very high. With Voldemort's assistance, he could even break through the defenses of the Gringotts underground vaults, something the vast majority of wizards would find difficult to achieve.
Quirrell was not a soft target to be bullied or manipulated at will. Contrary to his appearance, this guy was extremely dangerous. Even though he had mastered three superpowers, Lynn didn't have the confidence to deal with him alone.
Later on, he would even be able to kill a unicorn. After interacting with Hagrid, Lynn had a relatively clear concept of a unicorn's strength.
That thing was a boss of the Forbidden Forest. None of the big creatures in the woods would actively look for trouble with them. Even a lone unicorn, when enraged, was not a "mammoth" that a wizard could handle one-on-one. Poachers had to work in teams to attempt attacking them, and they only had a chance of success by targeting unicorn mothers whose power had dropped after pregnancy.
But the unicorn was easily killed by Quirrell, using the very Dark Magic that unicorns were most resistant to. His magical attainment was evidently not something Lynn could easily contend with.
"Maybe I can take advantage of Halloween?"
A plan gradually formed in Lynn's mind. "Professor Quirrell looks like he really needs someone to help him."
"If only I could get some powerful gadget."
Thinking of this, Lynn felt a bit regretful. His Four-Dimensional Trash Bag was still too lame. Maybe it was just bad luck, but in over three years, he hadn't obtained a single futuristic creation that was truly useful.
Lynn didn't ask for the three divine artifacts of time, space, and causality like the Time Machine, the Anywhere Door, or the What-If Phone Booth. Give him the Power Pickaxe—that tool Doraemon used for digging pits—and he would have the ability to smash Quirrell with one blow. A heavy pickaxe with one hundred times the strength swinging down would be no less powerful than a head-on hammer blow from Hagrid.
If it were the even more powerful Super Gloves, a strength boost of hundreds of times in a single punch would allow Lynn to blow Quirrell's body apart.
And in Doraemon, people couldn't even remember the names of such items.
"If only I could get the Future Department Store Communicator. If I could buy gadgets directly, I don't know how strong I could be!"
"Sigh..."
"Lynn, what are you sighing about?"
Seeing Lynn sigh suddenly after spacing out for a long time, Harley nudged his elbow, feeling a bit strange.
"Nothing. Just thinking about having to listen to Quirrell's nonsense and smell that disgusting garlic for the whole year makes me feel a bit physiologically unwell."
"Yeah," Harley nodded. Then she leaned in mysteriously to Lynn's ear and said, "Lynn, I think I got that."
"Your period arrived?" Lynn didn't even lift his eyelids. "Then drink plenty of hot water, don't eat ice, and avoid cold water."
"Anything else?"
"Why don't you ask Hermione? She should know better than me."
"Don't you find it strange?" Harley asked in a whisper.
"What's strange about it? You're a girl," Lynn spread his hands. "Isn't it perfectly normal to have what you're supposed to have?"
Lynn didn't have the slightest doubt that future technology capable of creating causality-altering gadgets could achieve this. Was there anything more absurd than a phone booth that changed the world? And Doraemon had more than one kind of causality weapon like the What-If Phone Booth, which was quite extraordinary.
"You rest well for now. I'm going to find Cho; she hasn't been feeling well these past few days either."
"Whoa! You're so biased! I'm your good friend too, you know!"
"You have two girlfriends now; isn't that enough?"
"Cho is mine too, and she was my first girlfriend," Harley hummed, putting her hands on her hips.
"Anyway, you can't take care of everyone. I'll take care of her for you. No need to thank me."
Rubbing Harley's little head, Lynn stuffed his hands in his pockets, stood up, and leisurely walked away.
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