At some point, without anyone quite noticing when, Professor Quirrell suddenly appeared in front of Harry. Gone was his usual cowering, stammering act; instead, it was as if a layer of frost had settled over him, his whole body radiating a clammy, sinister chill.
His lips trembled, and the veins on his tightly clenched fists bulged with rage as he howled inwardly:
"How dare he ignore me, as if I were some transparent nobody? Why do all eyes fall on him, while I'm treated as optional, disposable?"
After his first barked shout, Harry still hadn't reacted—he just looked at Quirrell with deep, calm eyes, full of open mockery. Quirrell couldn't hold himself back and roared again:
"Potter, answer me! Did you hear the question I just asked? What is the Imperius Curse, and what are its characteristics and effects?"
Harry was a little impatient. He really had no idea what had set Quirrell off to make him interrupt his magic research like this.
Did Quirrell seriously not know his own level as a teacher?
Harry decided to use this chance to give him a proper lesson and make him behave himself for a while.
All he needed to do was sit quietly and wait for death to come—why insist on jumping out to play the clown? What was so entertaining about that?
Calmly, Harry answered,
"The Imperius Curse is one of the three Unforgivable Curses. It allows the caster to control a person's thoughts and actions, forcing the victim to act entirely according to the caster's will, losing their own consciousness and ability to act independently."
Even though Harry had given a perfectly correct answer, Quirrell was obviously looking for trouble; he had no intention of letting things end there. A vicious glint flashed in his eyes as he raised his voice and asked another question:
"When you're faced with Avada Kedavra, what is the best way to defend yourself?"
"The best method is to dodge as much as possible—move quickly, change position, and use anything in the surroundings as cover," Harry replied without needing to think.
But seeing Quirrell about to press on with yet another question, Harry's brows drew together. He really didn't have time to waste on this idiot.
His expression turned openly scornful, and before Quirrell could speak again, Harry cut in:
"Professor Quirrell, your teaching style really is… unique. You just read straight from the book. At that rate, we'd learn faster if we just read it ourselves.
"I suggest turning Defence Against the Dark Arts into a self-study period in future—or letting Professor Snape take over the class. You're simply not qualified.
"In short, attending your lessons is a waste of my time."
Quirrell's face flushed a mottled red, his breathing turning heavy and harsh like a lit powder keg on the verge of exploding. His eyes bulged as he glared at Harry, like he wanted to devour him alive on the spot.
"You… you insolent brat who doesn't know his place!" Quirrell had never imagined Harry would be so brazen as to insult a professor to his face. "I am a professor. How dare you speak to me like that? Do you really think a bit of fame lets you do whatever you please?"
Meeting Quirrell's furious glare head-on, Harry replied coolly,
"I apologise for my rudeness, Professor, but I'm only stating the facts. Your lessons are full of holes and completely lacking in substance. You really don't have anything to teach us.
"So how about we settle this with a duel? I'll give you a chance to demonstrate your spellwork in front of everyone—otherwise, you really do look like a complete dunce who can't even beat his own students."
Quirrell's face went from green to white and back again. He ground his teeth so hard they creaked, forcing his words out between them:
"Fine. Since you're so eager to challenge a professor, I'll grant your wish. Just don't cry and beg for mercy when I've beaten you so badly you can't stand!"
His smile was a twisted mask that didn't reach his eyes. While he mouthed all the usual formalities, in his heart he was swearing to make Harry pay.
This was too good an opportunity to pass up. With Dumbledore still at Hogwarts, he didn't dare kill Harry outright—he needed the Philosopher's Stone, after all—but nothing said he couldn't put Harry in the hospital wing for a few months and vent some of his pent-up rage.
And a few months from now, his great master would return in glory. When that happened, Harry Potter would die anyway.
In the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, desks and chairs were hastily shoved up against the walls, clearing an open space in the middle. The air was thick with a mix of tension and excitement as the students gathered in a circle, eagerly awaiting the magical showdown.
None of them had expected a few minutes of argument to escalate into this— the Savior himself duelling a professor.
The young wizards sized up the two people standing in the middle of the improvised arena and whispered among themselves.
"Who do you want to win?"
"Potter, of course. He's the Savior, and he's a genuinely nice person. Besides, he's not wrong—Professor Quirrell really is useless. He's got nothing beyond reading out what's in the book."
"I want Harry to win too, but it'll be really hard. Even if Professor Quirrell is weak, he's still a professor and decades older than Harry. That's not the kind of gap you can just ignore."
"Exactly. Harry's far too young. If he were an upper-year student, maybe with his talent he could beat Professor Quirrell. But right now he's only a first-year. There are loads of spells he hasn't even learned yet. He probably isn't a match for a professor."
A die-hard Harry fan immediately jumped in to argue:
"Harry is the Savior—there's nothing he can't do. He's smashed one record after another to prove that nothing's impossible.
"Before him, who's ever heard of a first-year Potions master? Or a first-year House Quidditch player? Or a Savior who defeated You-Know-Who the moment he was born?
"I'm sure Harry can beat Professor Quirrell, just like he beat the Dark wizard once before!"
The speech set off a wave of agreement. One after another, the students began cheering Harry on.
Hermione and Ron were no exception. Hermione stared at Harry with anxious eyes, while Ron was much more relaxed about it. In his mind, Harry was unbeaten and unbeatable.
Professor Quirrell stood at one end of the ring. His usual cowardice was gone—only cold ferocity and grim resolve remained.
"You'll pay the price for your arrogance, Harry Potter!"
Harry drew his wand but didn't bother answering Quirrell's taunts. Instead, he focused seriously on sensing Quirrell's magic.
The Sorcerer Supreme had once told him: if you can't win, then talk; if you can, shut up and hit.
She'd also said: you go all out even when you're dealing with insects.
Oh, and this Sorcerer Supreme wasn't the Ancient One—it was Harry himself.
Harry was a Sorcerer Supreme too, so the Sorcerer Supreme was absolutely right.
Tiny Miss Hannah was serving as referee. She took a deep breath, her rosy lips closing around the whistle as her cheeks puffed out slightly.
With a sharp, piercing tweet that cut through the air, the long-awaited duel officially began!
Quirrell struck first. He slashed his wand through the air and shouted,
"Blazing Flames!"
A column of searing fire roared forth like an enraged dragon, surging straight toward Harry, the air warping with the heat in its wake.
Harry could have dodged, but chose not to move. He had a better way to deal with it.
A faint smile curved his lips. Confident and composed, he swept his wand and unleashed his prototype electromagnetic-force spell—his new brand of railgun magic.
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