There's a saying: Don't judge a book by its cover.
Sure, in a world obsessed with appearances, most people don't follow that wisdom, but the phrase exists for a reason. Some people have definitely suffered for ignoring it.
Take, for instance, the stuttering, nervous wreck of a man standing in front of Allen right now.
If Allen hadn't already known that this man was secretly the final boss of this game, there's no way he'd think this pale-faced young man was any sort of threat.
Teachers love to say things like:
"I've taught countless students over the years, and you lot are the worst I've ever seen."
But from a student's point of view, we've been students for years. You think we haven't seen our fair share of insane teachers?
And yet, Professor Quirrell managed to be the worst teacher most of the young wizards had ever encountered in their entire Hogwarts experience.
You couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore had simply run out of qualified candidates to face the cursed position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and this was the best he could scrounge up from the Muggle Studies Department.
Never mind the overwhelming stench of garlic strong enough to knock out a vampire, or the absurdity of wearing a scarf in the middle of summer, this man's overall presence had earned him a negative score in student popularity polls.
And his teaching methods? Bizarre, even by Hogwarts standards.
Sure, Umbridge might later say that Quirrell's class was the most "reliable" among all the Defense professors, but Allen could only respond with a sarcastic "Heh."
Shaky voice? Fine. But reading straight out of the textbook? Anyone could do that!
Oh, Tom Riddle, so this is why you were so desperate to get this job and why Dumbledore turned you down.
This isn't teaching. This is straight-up sabotage.
And to think, you're supposed to be the most powerful Dark Wizard in history.
At this rate, the only one you're barely outclassing is Gilderoy Lockhart! Just barely!
Sure, Allen understood that Quirrell was deliberately holding back to avoid revealing his true identity.
But come on, at least give us something!
Is this really how you honor the position you longed for?
How can you look all those past professors, who gave their lives in this cursed job, in the eye?
Where is your conscience?
Of course, whether it was Professor Quirrell or Lord Voldemort himself, neither of them would've had any use for something as bothersome as a conscience.
Clearly, being a villain means you threw that out a long time ago.
For Allen, this was a soul-crushing disappointment, on multiple levels.
He had genuinely been looking forward to Quirrell's class.
After all, he believed in treating his enemy with a baseline level of respect.
This was the most feared Dark Wizard in history, surely teaching a class like this would be a breeze?
Riding that wave of confidence, Allen had made a series of bets with Fred and George and the others, bets that he would soon come to regret.
He'd wagered the bill for his first trip to Hogsmeade next week in exchange for exclusive access to the Marauder's Map for an entire semester.
He bet Marshall a month's worth of dirty socks, and with Shane, he put two weeks of History of Magic essays on the line, which, to be honest, everyone agreed was worse than the socks.
And that was just the beginning.
Thanks to everyone wanting in on the fun, the number of participants in this little gamble only grew.
Even Annie boldly tried to bet her snacks for the next half month, only to be angrily shooed away by Allen. "What the hell?! I bought those snacks!"
Still, at the time, Allen had been overjoyed.
With a Dark Lord on my side, how can I possibly lose?
He had the ultimate boss-level wizard on his team!
Sure, Voldemort never went toe-to-toe with Dumbledore directly, but he still lived long enough to see Dumbledore die, right?
Even if they were evenly matched, Voldemort had to be at least 60–40 in his favor!
Even if he was playing dumb, surely a little knowledge would leak out.
Allen was ready to casually toss out a few questions and rake in the rewards.
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That afternoon, in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom,
When Professor Quirrell walked in, he was genuinely moved by what he saw.
His morning had been an absolute disaster.
Back when he was teaching Muggle Studies, Quirrell had at least been considered passably attractive and relatively well-liked by students.
But that image had completely collapsed thanks to his current… condition.
The overwhelming garlic stench used to mask the smell of decay, the scarf wrapped tightly to hide the presence of his master, it all added up to a look no student could stomach.
Not to mention the vibes he gave off screamed "there's something seriously wrong with this guy."
And his suffering didn't stop there.
He had to endure the students' awkward stares, and Dumbledore's dagger-like gaze.
Sure, Dumbledore, he could understand. But Hagrid?
What gave that oaf the right to look down on him?
Still, every time he was insulted, he would silently encourage himself:
No matter how happy these fools look now, it's all an illusion. My patience today is for my liberation tomorrow.
Only what Lord Voldemort said was the true path.
It was just a mistake, a tiny mistake, that led to their current situation.
That weak, unremarkable little brat Harry Potter should never have been able to bring the Dark Lord to ruin.
The first time Quirrell laid eyes on Harry, he could feel the furious wrath bubbling up from his master.
How dare that pathetic child receive such glory?
Even after the failure to steal the Philosopher's Stone and the punishment that followed, Quirrell didn't care about the disdain from students.
Laugh now all you want. When the Dark Lord rises again, you'll be begging to kneel before me.
When that time comes, pure-blood wizards will reign supreme!
And yet, despite having made peace with his plans, when he entered the room and saw the hopeful faces of these young students, a tiny ember flickered in his frozen heart.
Even the loneliest wanderer craves the distant warmth of a campfire in the night.
Question after question was handed to him.
To a once top-performing student, these queries were child's play.
He could've answered them with ease.
But just as he was about to respond to the first one, a sharp pain ripped through his soul.
His master was displeased.
He didn't even have the courage to look at the student who asked.
Instead, the words that came out of his mouth weren't his own:
"I'm sorry, child. That question is... a bit outside the scope of this class. I don't think it's necessary for you to know."
But one rejection wasn't enough to deter these eager students.
They pressed on, asking more and more.
And with each guilty refusal, Quirrell felt more and more like a criminal.
What he didn't know was that, every time he shut someone down, the resentment in a certain corner of the classroom grew darker and deeper.
If only he had taken attendance…
He would've noticed the name of the student sitting there:
Allen.
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