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Inside the castle of Hogwarts.
A middle-aged man with a thick purple turban wrapped tightly around his head was currently giving instructions to his teaching assistant.
"Marcus, to truly master Defense Against the Dark Arts, one must first understand the Dark Arts themselves. There's no question about it. Many pure-blood families uphold this tradition."
His tone was patient and coaxing—gentle, even.
Completely different from his usual sharp, stern voice.
The burly boy standing beside him looked troubled.
"Professor, but… I'm not sure..."
Seeing his hesitation, Quirrell patted Marcus on the shoulder, sighing as he shook his head slightly.
"Alas, I know you have reservations about the Dark Arts. After all, you don't come from a pure-blood wizarding family. That's understandable. But as my teaching assistant, if you don't possess at least a basic grasp of it, I fear you won't be able to fulfill the role."
Then he slowly withdrew his hand.
"It's fine. I won't force you. This sort of thing really is too difficult for a student. I'll just find a pure-blood wizard instead. I'm sure someone else will be able to manage it."
"You're no longer my teaching assistant."
Having said that, Quirrell turned and began walking away.
Marcus panicked.
He rushed forward and grabbed Quirrell's arm. "No, Professor, I really want to be your teaching assistant! I just—"
Hearing this, a faint, nearly imperceptible sly smile curled at the corner of Quirrell's mouth.
Children are so easily manipulated.
A flash of ruthlessness flickered in his eyes.
But that's not enough!
Quirrell stopped. His gaze turned cold and piercing as he looked Marcus in the eye.
His demeanor shifted in an instant.
Marcus instinctively recoiled, unable to meet his gaze.
"Mr. Flint, I believe I made myself very clear just now, didn't I?"
Quirrell raised his hand and effortlessly brushed off Marcus's grip.
"Your abilities are too weak. Of all the tasks I've assigned you recently, have you completed even one properly? You're stubborn, unyielding. With your current performance, you're simply not qualified to be my teaching assistant. Do you understand that?"
Marcus stood frozen, his mind blank.
It was as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over him in the dead of winter. His entire body trembled. He felt as though he'd been struck down completely.
Seeing his defeated expression, Quirrell could barely suppress the satisfaction on his face.
Snape's way of speaking really is effective. It can so easily shatter a student's self-esteem.
He was thoroughly pleased with Marcus's current state.
The heavy workloads from the past few days, the lack of rest, the imbalance of authority between professor and student—all of it was worth it.
Now, using Snape's cold, sarcastic words…
He was breaking through the Slytherin prefect's defenses!
Bringing him to the brink of total submission!
This was the very technique of manipulation Lord Voldemort had passed down to him.
"Master, you are truly brilliant!"
Quirrell praised inwardly.
But outwardly, he still had to maintain the performance.
He turned and strode away, as though truly uninterested in giving Marcus another chance.
Marcus stood stunned.
Suddenly, Quirrell's voice echoed again:
"Alright, enjoy the weekend with the rest of the students, Mr. Flint."
Enjoy the weekend?
Enjoy the weekend?!
Weekend?!
No! I refuse to be inferior to those pigheaded fools obsessed with pure-blood lineage! That's impossible!!
Marcus screamed internally.
He suddenly dashed forward and blocked Quirrell's path with outstretched arms.
"Professor, please give me another chance! I'll do anything!"
His face had become contorted with desperation and anger.
If Quirrell didn't still need to keep up the act, he would have burst into laughter. The boy had basically walked right into his trap.
But he forced a stern expression, still wanting to draw things out just a little longer.
Suddenly—
"Professor Quirrell!"
A thunderous shout rang out from nearby.
The glass around them trembled from the sound.
Quirrell's face twisted in annoyance.
Why now, of all times, would someone interrupt my progress?!
He turned his head sharply. "Who is it?"
But the moment he saw the source of the voice, his expression changed.
A towering figure was charging toward them.
Crying loudly as he ran.
For a brief moment, Quirrell instinctively reached for his wand.
He even considered casting the Killing Curse his master had taught him.
But no—this was Hogwarts.
Dumbledore was still here.
He forcefully suppressed the urge, fingers tightening around his wand.
"Professor Quirrell! A Dark Wizard has broken into the school! At the Owlery!"
Hagrid shouted as he stormed past Quirrell, no more than a meter away.
Tears streamed down his face, each one the size of a ping-pong ball.
"Harry's fainted! I have to get him to the Hospital Wing immediately!"
"There's also a Slytherin there, sorry—I don't have time to help him!"
He ran wildly, disappearing from sight almost instantly.
Quirrell's pupils contracted sharply.
Marcus was also stunned.
Despite a natural fear of Dark Wizards, he immediately pulled out his wand.
He turned to dash toward the Owlery.
"What are you doing?!" Quirrell shouted, stopping him.
"Professor! A classmate might be killed by the Dark Wizard! I have to help him!"
Marcus didn't slow down. He only turned his head to shout back.
Quirrell's expression turned cold.
He waved his wand.
"Fool! Petrificus Totalus!"
A flash of light struck Marcus mid-run.
He collapsed, immobilized.
Quirrell approached and glared down at him.
"That's no place for you. Once the spell wears off, come to my office. Then we'll talk about your role as my assistant."
He turned and headed toward the Owlery.
Marcus was a puppet he had worked hard to brainwash.
There was no way he'd let him throw himself into such danger.
A Dark Wizard? Breaking into Hogwarts?
Quirrell was full of questions.
If this had happened before he met the Dark Lord, he would have assumed Voldemort himself was behind it—making his move against Dumbledore.
But now...
The Dark Lord was residing on the back of his head.
So it couldn't be him.
Then who had the audacity to attack Hogwarts?
To confront the Boy Who Lived?
What was their purpose?
For the first time in a long while, Quirrell felt a creeping sense of fear.
He feared facing an unknown enemy.
But then—
A whisper, one only he could hear, slithered into his ear:
"Go take a look."
Instantly, all his fear melted away.
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