Quirrell was ambitious, and that very ambition proved his undoing. Before taking up his post at Hogwarts, the professor had prepared meticulously for his role. He dreamed of excelling as an educator, which drove him into the dark forests of Albania—a place teeming with shadowy creatures and rogue wizards.
There, Quirrell ran afoul of vampires and a witch whose dark dealings left him broken. Whatever torment he endured, it shattered him, turning him into Voldemort's puppet. By the time he arrived at Hogwarts, the once-brilliant man was a stuttering shadow of himself, flinching at every noise.
Hagrid, who knew Quirrell from school days, called him clever and accomplished back then—a top student with brilliant marks. But fate had dealt him a cruel hand, twisting his personality into one of timidity and helplessness. Still, Quirrell managed the first-years' Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons without much trouble, even if the students snickered at his nerves.
He shuffled to the front of the class, voice trembling. "H-Hello, everyone! P-Please turn to p-page two of your books!"
His stutter and faint accent drew peals of laughter from the young witches and wizards. Erwin frowned and shot a sharp glance at the Slytherins. The room fell silent at once. Even the Ravenclaws, who had joined in, quieted down, exchanging uneasy looks.
Quirrell caught Erwin's eye and offered a quick, grateful nod. He'd grown used to mockery, but this was the first time anyone had stepped in. He knew Erwin's intervention had silenced the room.
The lesson proceeded smoothly, thanks in part to Erwin's steady presence. Quirrell took a shine to him, awarding Slytherin thirty points when Erwin answered a question effortlessly. As the bell rang, the professor hurried out, turban askew.
Hermione pouted, arms crossed. "That's so unfair!"
Erwin gathered his books, amused. "What's unfair this time, Miss Granger?"
"I knew the answers to half those questions! I had my hand up the whole time, but he called on you instead. You didn't even raise yours!"
Erwin chuckled. "Is that all?"
"It's frustrating being around you! All the professors adore you. You're just... too brilliant sometimes."
"Don't read too much into it. Quirrell's shy—he probably couldn't bring himself to pick you. You saw how nervous he gets."
Hermione sighed. "Maybe you're right."
"Anyway, you'd better head to History of Magic. Next up is Herbology, and we've only got twenty minutes. Grab a drink or sort yourself out."
She snatched her books from the desk. "Oh, right! See you there!" With that, she dashed off.
Erwin watched her go, shaking his head. Sensitive girl. He leaned back on his stool, waiting for the Slytherins to return from the loos. As a prefect, it was his job to lead them to the greenhouses.
The group trickled back soon enough. "Right, let's go. Grab your books—Herbology's hands-on. Some plants bite, so pay attention to Professor Sprout. No heroics, understand?"
The first-years nodded vigorously. Erwin's eyes lingered on Malfoy. He meant him, mostly. The boy's ideas could use some sense.
They reached the greenhouses to find a disorganized gaggle waiting outside—Gryffindors, by the look of their haphazard lineup. No surprise there; the lions always brought chaos.
Their teacher, Professor Pomona Sprout, bustled forward. She was stout and kindly, with dirt-streaked cheeks and a warm smile—the Head of Hufflepuff House. Don't let her grandmotherly air fool you; she was a force in a fight. In the original timeline's final battle, she'd teamed up with Professors Flitwick and McGonagall to fend off Snape—likely on purpose, but her silent spells had been devastating. She'd shielded every Hufflepuff single-handedly, her power rivaling Dumbledore's in a pinch. But her true mastery lay in Herbology; no one in the wizarding world could touch her. After all, she tamed the Whomping Willow.
Professor Sprout clapped her hands. "All right, my dears! Before we start, a quick word. Today, we're transplanting Venomous Tentacula. It's a sly plant, so watch my every move and follow suit. No fooling about, or if it nips you, I did warn you!"
The students blinked in confusion. Bite? Wasn't this Herbology? They half-expected a Magical Creatures lesson, but first-years didn't have that yet.
Ignoring the murmurs, Sprout ushered them inside. Three long tables held pots where slender, writhing plants coiled restlessly. From afar, they resembled snakes with heads buried in soil—hence the name.
Erwin didn't bother hiding his grimace. Ugly blighters.
Sprout clapped again, demonstrating the careful transplant: firm grip, swift pot-to-pot transfer, avoiding the snapping tendrils. "Now, who can tell me the uses of Venomous Tentacula?"
Erwin raised his hand.
Sprout beamed. "Mr. Cavendish, please!"
...
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