"Are you alright, Professor Quirrell?"
Snape's hand suddenly rested on Quirrell's shoulder from behind, startling Quirrell so much that he shivered uncontrollably. He quickly turned his head to look at the black bat standing behind him.
"Maybe... maybe it's because I didn't... didn't sleep well last night."
The guilty Professor of Muggle Studies couldn't help but stammer. This wasn't his act—he really almost lost his soul in fright when he thought about Voldemort and then got scared like that.
"If you have trouble sleeping at night, I suggest you patrol the corridors more often... There are rats in the school." Snape stared at Quirrell's slightly sweaty face and spoke in a low voice.
He paused for quite a while before speaking again, his voice slow and deliberate: "I lost quite a few things last night, too. I wonder which rat took them without saying a word."
Snape's eyes made Quirrell nervous.
"I... I'm not really sure... Maybe... maybe I can help you keep an eye out," Quirrell said, sweat continuously breaking out on his forehead despite the winter chill. He hurriedly tried to cover up by pretending he had some rare disease. Snape didn't say anything—he just gave Quirrell a deep look and then left the pitch with the students.
"How very strange."
Quirrell looked after Snape's back with lingering fear, his eyes tinged with worry. He was really afraid that Snape would figure out exactly what kind of magic he'd performed from the few ingredients he'd stolen. He couldn't understand how this damned Head of Slytherin House could even notice when the tiniest bit of his office materials went missing.
…
In the Great Hall.
Lunch began.
The players were reflecting on themselves, reviewing exactly where they hadn't played well enough. What puzzled Ian was that, whether it was these self-reflecting players or the little wizards discussing things, not a single one mentioned the absurdity of the Golden Snitch. It just showed how terrifying the inertia of thought could be.
"Quidditch is just amazing! I have to become a Seeker in the future! If it had been me just now, we'd definitely have won already. Our Seeker is just too slow!"
"It probably has something to do with the broom, too. Our Seeker's broom is new, they might not be used to it yet," William and Michael both looked like they hadn't had enough yet.
Ian took advantage of their chatting to quietly polish off all the steak in front of him. He let out a satisfied burp, raised his hand, and a glass of lemonade with five whole lemons appeared in front of him.
This was the handiwork of the House-Elves hiding in the shadows. Because he'd had some shady drinks the night before, he'd already negotiated a deal with the House-Elves for unlimited free drinks.
"I love House-Elves."
Full and satisfied.
After lunch, Ian returned to the Room of Requirement to tweak a complex magic potion he was brewing, dumping all the scraps and his household trash straight into the Dementor's mouth.
The Dementor's mouth, which seemed linked to some unknown dimension, was really handy—at least when it came to waste disposal, it was like having an endless processing plant.
"Eat, eat up, eat it all for me," Ian said as he held down the Dementor, who was trying to slip away, then pried open its mouth and dumped all the trash inside. Although the Dementor struggled, Ian firmly believed what the books said: Dementors don't have taste buds—his was just naturally timid, that's all.
"Don't spit it out, okay?"
Ian watched as the Dementor stuffed both its hands into that O-shaped mouth, and gently reminded it. The Dementor immediately, very obediently, took its hands out. That's what Ian liked best about this Dementor—it was even more obedient than a puppy; once you taught it something once, it never made the same mistake again.
"I... I want... go... go..." The Dementor's grasp of human speech was dismal; it stammered for ages without managing to string together a full sentence.
"Be good. You're not going back to the cage. You're staying right here to watch the fire for me."
Ian added a few more ingredients into the crucible as required, then, having briefed the Dementor on its duties, went back to contemplating the Room of Requirement's alchemy technique.
"Gurgle~ gurgle~ gurgle~"
Several huge crucibles bubbled away.
The Dementor silently tended the fire.
It had no eyes.
But it somehow felt its eye sockets getting a bit damp.
"What a marvelous alchemical method. Time just flies by." Ian studied all the way until it was nearly time for afternoon Spell Class, then hurried from the Room of Requirement to the Spell Classroom.
The first-year basic curriculum was already child's play for him—not only did he know it, Professor Filius Flitwick, the Head of Ravenclaw, was obviously very clear about it too.
The whole class long,
Filius Flitwick took every opportunity to ask Ian questions and have him perform magic demonstrations. It let him slack off a little, while also racking up House Points for Ravenclaw College.
Who says the Heads of House don't have their own petty schemes?
This was very clearly Filius Flitwick's little trick.
Compared to the cautious Professor McGonagall, wary due to historical baggage, and the nitpicking Snape, Filius Flitwick didn't hide his favoritism for Ian, his Ravenclaw student, at all. After all, compared to students who could turn the classroom into a cloud of choking smoke with a single flick of their magic wands, Ian was practically a breath of fresh air.
He even supported Ian's little after-school classes wholeheartedly. Thanks to them, the little wizards of Ravenclaw were making really fast progress, which also lightened his own teaching workload in class.