"Finally, it's Defense Against the Dark Arts. I wonder how good the new professor actually is."
"He looks pretty average to me. He seems really nervous—can't even speak smoothly. That's not a good sign in a classroom."
"But what if he's actually very capable, just not good at expressing himself?"
"That's still doubtful. He looks pretty young, and I've never heard of him before. He's nothing like last year's Professor Baker…"
"Sigh, forget it. No matter what, he'll only be teaching for one year anyway. I just wonder how this professor is going to bow out…"
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom that morning was already nearly full. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students clustered together in small groups, quietly discussing the new professor who looked distinctly lacking in confidence.
Creak—
As the sound of hinges turning echoed through the room, the students immediately settled back into their seats. Curious gazes followed a young professor with a pale, nervous face as he swayed his way onto the podium, his head wrapped in a large turban and his entire person reeking faintly of garlic.
"G–good morning!"
He forced out an extremely stiff smile, picked up the chalk with slightly rigid fingers, and turned to write his name on the blackboard in crooked, uneven letters.
"My name is Quirinus Quirrell. I am a graduate of Ravenclaw. It is a great honor to—t-to serve as your D–Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
"Then, um… l-let's begin… begin with roll call?"
Quirrell picked up the parchment on the lectern, glanced at it—and immediately shuddered. His legs went weak, and he nearly slid right off the podium.
"Hah… A–A… Ken!"
He read the name in a trembling voice—no, not stammering, but outright shaking.
"Here."
Avada, who had long since prepared himself mentally for this scene, felt absolutely nothing.
"X–Xavier N–Nott!"
"Here."
Xavier rolled his eyes silently. He'd been mistaken more than once for a member of that former Death Eater pure-blood family just because of his surname. The problem was, he was a half-blood wizard—his last name came from his Muggle father…
With only a few dozen names on the list, Quirrell still took nearly five full minutes to finish roll call. He wiped the sweat from his brow and tucked the parchment away in relief, seemingly unaware that "roll call" was the easiest part of any lesson.
Throughout all of this, the dark-golden mass of mental power behind him remained completely still. There was no reaction at all—even when Avada's name was read. It seemed Voldemort was still resting.
"All… all right."
Quirrell adjusted his robes and slowly took a deep breath before beginning the lecture.
"You are now in second year… yes, so last term you were first-years. Over the past year, you should have learned to recognize the basic characteristics of Dark magic, the fundamentals of… of wand usage and combat movements, as well as…"
He froze for a moment before suddenly remembering.
"Ah, yes—also some of the simplest minor jinxes, such as petrification spells and the like…"
"In… in second year, you will begin to study more deeply… the principles behind jinxes, as well as learn jinxes with more… more varied applications, and how to combine them in combat…"
This opening speech was clearly something he had memorized by rote—and not very fluently.
"After mastering second-year material, you may even… uh… create some jinxes of your own, according to your preferences—no, your objectives. For example, ear-twisting, tripping, itching…"
"Professor?"
A Ravenclaw student raised his hand. After Quirrell nodded permission, he stood and asked, "If we really can freely control the effects of jinxes, then if we keep enhancing their power and intensity, wouldn't they eventually develop in the direction of Dark magic?"
"Yes."
Quirrell nodded without thinking. Then, in the very next moment, his eyes widened in panic and he hurriedly tried to explain.
"Ah—no, I mean… what I mean is…"
"You must understand that jinxes are, by nature, the branch of spells closest to Dark magic. Um… the only difference is that they are generally less harmful, and they do not… do not cause mental damage. In fact, some highly trained combat experts can make certain jinxes produce destructive effects comparable to Dark magic itself."
He shuddered as if recalling something unpleasant.
"Then, Professor," another student raised his hand, "if jinxes can reach a level of harm comparable to Dark magic, why don't we ban jinxes the same way Dark magic is banned?"
"Uh…"
Quirrell stalled for a long while. Only when the students were nearly about to speak up did he finally manage to organize his thoughts.
"Because jinxes are, overall, f-far less harmful than Dark magic. The example I gave just now is relatively rare. And—and because jinxes do not damage the mind, their users can usually remain rational, unlike Dark w–wizards…"
He visibly tensed up whenever Dark magic or Dark wizards were mentioned.
"Dark wizards, due to frequent use of Dark magic, suffer irreversible mental damage, which causes them to…"
"They…"
Quirrell's face suddenly went deathly pale.
"Causes them to what, Professor? And are you feeling unwell?"
"I… I was just…"
Suddenly, the dark-golden mental power within Quirrell stirred ever so slightly. After that, he gradually calmed down, and his tone returned to normal.
"This causes Dark wizards to often become mentally unstable—mad, erratic—and more prone to acts of harm and destruction, inflicting far greater damage upon the wizarding world…"
Well, I'll be damned.
Only then did Avada realize what had happened earlier. When Quirrell was explaining the effects of Dark magic on Dark wizards, he had accidentally included his own master in the condemnation—which was why he'd panicked so badly. That brief fluctuation of Voldemort's mental power afterward was likely meant to reassure him, telling him to continue and reminding him that maintaining the disguise was what mattered most.
What amused Avada, however, was that Voldemort's mental power carried no trace of "comfort" or "forgiveness"—only irritation and resentment.
And so, amid constant stammering, Quirrell somehow endured until the bell rang. He then fled the classroom as if escaping for his life, not even assigning homework, leaving behind a group of students chattering noisily about the lesson.
"This professor… how should I put it? He's way too nervous!"
"Yeah, if I didn't know better, I'd think he was lecturing a pack of Quintapeds."
"The content itself was actually pretty good, but his performance completely undermined it… what a shame."
"If that's the case, how is he supposed to teach practical combat later? What if he just faints halfway through class?"
"Could happen. I heard that in first year class, Professor Flitwick almost fainted when he called out Harry Potter's name."
"Seriously?"
"Absolutely. Let me tell you, back then…"
As usual, student conversations veered wildly off topic at lightning speed. Avada nodded to himself, packed up his things, and left the classroom to head for his next lesson.
The night before, he had spent hours preparing a topic suitable for second-year difficulty—something that should also pique Quirrell's interest enough that he wouldn't resist explaining it in detail. He planned to present it to him that evening and see how effective it was.
(End of Chapter)