Ch: 21-30
Chapter 21: He Felt Like His Heart Had Been Stabbed
Friday morning, there were two Potion Classes. Slytherin and Gryffindor had them together.
The stone steps leading to the dungeon were cold and damp. Water droplets seeping from the walls glistened with a faint light under the glow of the torches.
The air was filled with a peculiar scent, a mixture of formalin and various unknown plants.
There were no windows in the Potion Class classroom; only the torches on the walls provided illumination, making the light appear dim.
In the glass jars all around the classroom, various creepy animal specimens were preserved in liquid, as if countless pairs of eyes were watching them from the darkness.
Signas found a seat and sat down. Daphne hesitated for a moment before sitting next to him.
On the other side, Harry, Ron, and Hermione also arrived and found their seats.
Hermione seemed a bit nervous yet excited; she had already spread out her textbook and started previewing.
Ron was more interested in the things inside the jars, but after seeing the Potion ingredients clearly, his face was full of disgust, clearly lacking any talent for Potions.
Malfoy, with his two lackeys, deliberately chose the seat furthest away from Signas.
The classroom door burst open with a "bang," and Snape swept in like a black tornado.
He walked up to the podium, his cold eyes scanning the room, pausing on Harry for three seconds and on Sig's face for five seconds longer.
[resentment points from Severus Snape +33!]
"There will be no foolish wand-waving in this class." His voice was low, yet it was like a poison-tipped ice pick piercing into everyone's ears. "As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art of Potion-making."
His gaze was like a searchlight, slowly scanning the room.
"However, for those select few who possess the talent... though there may be none at all," he drawled, his gaze sweeping over the Slytherin side.
"...I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in... death."
These words made the eyes of many young Wizards light up.
A cold, mocking sneer curled at the corner of Snape's mouth.
"But I don't think you're worthy at all..." He paused, his dark, brooding gaze scanning the silent freshmen.
The opening remarks ended, and the whole class was dead silent.
Everyone had the same expression; he truly lived up to his reputation. No one even dared to breathe loudly.
Snape's gaze locked onto Harry.
"Potter!" he suddenly opened fire. "What would I get if I added Daffodil Root Powder to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry looked dazed, while Hermione next to him had already raised her hand so high it almost poked the ceiling.
"You don't know, do you?" Snape's lips curled in an almost imperceptible way. "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find a bezoar?"
Harry still couldn't answer. Hermione's hand waved even more vigorously in the air, but Snape acted as if she didn't exist.
"It seems that fame isn't everything." Snape paced slowly, enjoying the pleasure of humiliating the Savior.
"Then, let's try another 'celebrity'."
His gaze turned slowly toward the other side of the classroom, with a cruelty that seemed to savor the delicious taste of revenge.
"Shalk."
The name was uttered with a hint of gritted teeth.
Snape leaned forward slightly, a dangerous light flashing in his black eyes. "I presume a genius like you, who shone so brightly in Transfiguration Class, would be somewhat different?"
[resentment points from Severus Snape +33!]
Sig stood up, not feeling surprised at all. Ever since he had disobeyed Snape's punishment that day, he had long anticipated today's encounter.
He asked, "Professor, why don't you ask Miss Granger? She really wants to answer and should be able to answer your question."
Snape snorted coldly, "I am asking you now!"
Then, he threw the same question he had just asked Harry: "What would I get if I added Daffodil Root Powder to an infusion of wormwood?"
Snape was ready; no matter how the boy answered, he had ten thousand ways to deal with him.
Couldn't answer? Just as stupid as Potter. Answered incorrectly? Even stupider. Even if he luckily got it right, Snape could say he was just reciting from memory.
However, Signas's subsequent answer exceeded his expectations.
"You would get the Draught of Living Death, a powerful sleeping Potion."
Signas's voice was clear and steady, echoing in the silent classroom. "If aged wormwood is used and the infusion time exceeds three full moons, the finished product can not only induce sleep but also suppress nightmares. Of course, that would require adding two extra drops of Unicorn tears to neutralize the bitterness; otherwise, the taste would be terrible. You could also try troll boogers, which might have a miraculous effect..."
The muscles in Snape's cheek twitched.
In psychology, there is a concept called the Primacy Effect.
The first impression has a powerful "preconceived" effect on the interaction between two parties. If someone makes a good first impression, then whatever unpleasant things they do later will not affect that good impression. Conversely, no matter how well a person performs later, it will only make people feel more repulsed and disgusted by them.
This was exactly Snape's psychological state toward Sig at this moment.
He could tell how perfect and professional Sig's answer was, so the series of humiliations and rebukes he had prepared were all stuck in his throat, neither going up nor down, making him almost choke.
The students in the classroom were even more shocked, their jaws nearly dropping to the floor.
Hermione's raised hand slowly lowered, her mouth slightly agape.
Her gaze toward Signas changed from the initial recognition of "so you know it too" to the shock of "how do you know so much," and finally transformed into a complex light mixed with frustration and excitement.
Ron's mouth hung open as he looked at Harry and then at Signas, wondering why there was such a huge gap between them since they were both freshmen.
The schadenfreude on Draco Malfoy's face had long since vanished without a trace, replaced by a look of shock even uglier than if he had eaten a booger-flavored Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean.
Seeing an enemy getting better and better only made him look like a clown.
"Not only that," Signas added casually, as if he hadn't noticed everyone's expressions, "in the Victorian language of flowers, asphodel is a type of 'lily' that symbolizes 'my regrets will follow you to the grave'; while wormwood means 'absence' and 'bitter sorrow'."
"The combination of the two implies extreme regret and pain, and the effect of the Draught of Living Death is to make one sleep. Obviously, from an occult perspective, extreme regret and pain require a cup of the Draught of Living Death to be resolved..."
Everyone thought Sig's answer was exceptionally good, but Snape's reaction was not.
On his face that was usually devoid of emotion, his eyes suddenly widened, blood rushed to his head, his face turned bright red, and a mouthful of blood even surged to his throat, but he forced himself to swallow it back down.
Caught off guard, the deepest scar in his heart was suddenly torn open, and the pain was so intense that he almost couldn't stand steadily, needing to lean on the podium to hide his abnormality... Sigraised an eyebrow and keenly noticed the other's state: "Professor, how was my answer?"
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
...A series of system notification sounds exploded in Signas's mind.
Wait, what?
What's the situation?
"You..." Snape's lips trembled, unable to squeeze out a complete word for a long time. He felt as if his heart had been stabbed viciously, and all his defenses and disguises collapsed under those light words.
"Gryffindor, ten points will be deducted because your stupid Savior knows nothing!" Snape suddenly turned toward the other side and let out a sharp roar.
Harry was completely stunned.
Isn't that Slytherin the one answering the question right now?
Whether he answered well or not, what does it have to do with Gryffindor?
Chapter 22: Is This Potion Actually a Flawless Remedy?
"Now, begin brewing the Potion to Cure Boils!"
Snape practically roared it out. He tapped the blackboard with his wand, producing lines of scrawled handwriting; the recipe and steps glowed with a sickly white light in the dim classroom.
"In pairs. Ingredients are in the storage cupboard. Before class ends this morning, I will come to inspect your results. Now, begin!"
His chest heaved violently, and his sallow face took on an abnormal flush from lack of oxygen and anger, clearly on the verge of losing control.
The students were startled by his appearance and scrambled into action, the clinking of cauldrons and glass bottles echoing through the classroom.
Snape didn't move. His dark eyes, like a snake locking onto its prey before striking, were fixed firmly on Signas.
"As for you, Mr. Shalk." He gritted his teeth, each word squeezed out from between them, "Since your understanding of Potions is so 'profound,' I imagine a mere Potion to Cure Boils is beneath your notice."
He paused, enjoying the terrified gazes from the rest of the class.
"You will brew a more advanced Potion alone. Any kind, as long as it is more advanced than what's on the blackboard. If, before class ends, I see that the cauldron in front of you is empty, or filled with a pot of useless trash... then don't even think about passing this class!"
As soon as these words were spoken, the air in the entire dungeon classroom froze.
"Hiss..." Ron sucked in a breath of cold air, feeling the injustice for this muggle-born classmate.
He whispered to Harry, "Professor Snape is trying to finish Sig off! How is a first-year student supposed to brew an advanced Potion?"
Harry frowned. Although he didn't like Signas's know-it-all attitude, Snape's act of using public office to settle a private grudge made him feel strongly uncomfortable.
Moreover, Harry could sense that Snape wasn't very friendly toward him either—in fact, he seemed to harbor some hatred! So, mentally, he still stood on Sig's side.
Hermione also felt that Snape was completely abusing his authority for a personal vendetta; it was too unfair!
But on Draco Malfoy's face, a smug expression finally resurfaced.
He straightened his back, as if he could already see Signas being berated by Snape until his head spun, and then Sig slinking away with his tail between his legs.
This was how the script should be! How could a mudblood truly understand any advanced Potion? What happened earlier must have just been rote memorization!
Daphne Greengrass nervously clutched the hem of her robes. She looked at Sig with concern, her lips moving, but she didn't know what to say. This was simply an impossible task.
However, to everyone's surprise, not only was there no trace of panic on Signas's face, but his eyes actually lit up.
What an opportunity! Isn't this like someone handing you a pillow just as you're getting sleepy?
He immediately stood up from his seat and, under everyone's shocked gaze, walked straight toward the storage cupboard in the corner of the classroom where the advanced ingredients were kept.
Moonstone powder, Sopophorous beans, Valerian root, and a small bottle of strangely colored liquid... He selected them methodically, his movements as practiced as if he had lived here for ten years.
This move left everyone completely bewildered.
He's actually going to brew? A muggle-born freshman who's only been in school for a month is going to challenge an advanced Potion?
This scene caused even Snape, who was originally certain he was just posturing, to feel a flicker of suspicion.
Those ingredients... he recognized them, but combined together, they didn't form any Potion he was familiar with.
Hermione craned her neck, trying hard to identify every item Signas picked up. Her brain worked rapidly, trying to find a corresponding Potion in her textbooks, but ultimately she found nothing.
"What are you brewing?" Snape walked over and asked condescendingly.
Without looking up, Signas weighed the Moonstone powder while casually replying, "Oh, I happened to come across a recipe for a Soothing Potion while reading. It's said to calm the mind and spirit. I figured I'd try my hand at it today."
Soothing Potion? Snape quickly ran through every formula for soothing-type draughts he knew, from basic Sleeping Draughts to the complex Draught of Living Death; none of them started like this.
He concluded that the boy was just messing around.
Good, very good. This played right into his hands. Messing around with ingredients would only result in a pot of waste.
When that happened, he would have plenty of justification to discipline Signas properly.
Snape gave a cold snort and said no more, standing beside him like a black statue, ready to witness his failure firsthand.
Sig didn't care at all; he was completely immersed in his own world.
After maxing out Primary Potions, it was as if a Potion-brewing operating program had been pre-installed in his mind.
When to add ingredients, when to raise the temperature—every action was as precise as a textbook.
Although the system warned that this Potion had side effects, hadn't the "Performance Charm" it gave him also been quite useful? As long as it was brewed, it would have an effect, and that would certainly count as a success!
The surrounding students had long since lost the heart to brew their own potions; everyone's attention was drawn here.
They watched Signas's fluid movements, watched as the liquid in the cauldron went from cloudy to clear, changing colors several times before finally becoming a pool of transparent, colorless liquid, like a pot of pure water.
Throughout the entire process, there wasn't a hint of a strange smell or a single mistake.
Finally, Signas extinguished the fire under the cauldron.
Done!
Sig was certain that this thing was definitely an effective Potion. He just didn't know how effective it was or what the "unknown side effects" were.
Whatever, he'd hand it in first.
Dean Snape is a Potions Master; surely he could tell what the effects were with one look and identify the side effects while he was at it.
Signas calculated happily in his mind.
"Professor, it's finished."
A faint, cool, and refreshing fragrance spread through the air with his movements.
In an instant, dozens of pairs of eyes in the class shifted in unison from Signas to Snape.
Snape walked over slowly, expecting to be met with a pot of failed, black-smoke-belching viscous liquid.
However, when he reached the cauldron, what he saw was a Potion so clear he could see the bottom, even shimmering with a soft halo under the torchlight.
He leaned in, full of doubt, and took a deep breath of the vapor rising from the cauldron.
A cool, tranquil scent instantly flooded his nostrils and rushed to his brain.
In that moment, he felt the agitation he'd carried for days due to Harry Potter's enrollment, as well as the explosive rage Signas had just provoked, all rapidly subside as if doused with ice water.
He even felt that the scar in his heart that had been ripped open didn't hurt so much anymore—he could even take a few more stabs.
Furthermore, the whole world became clear and peaceful, and his mind was sharper than ever before.
Snape's heart skipped a beat.
This thing... was actually effective? This was indeed some sort of sophisticated Soothing Potion!
At the same time, the fresh scent drifted throughout the entire classroom.
Everyone who smelled it felt their minds clear up instantly, as if a cool breeze had blown through a sweltering summer day; even the fatigue from days of studying dissipated a little.
"Wow, what's that smell? It smells so good!"
"I feel much clearer-headed!"
"Heavens, he actually brewed it?"
The young Wizards whispered among themselves, their gaze toward Signas completely changed.
Shock, admiration, disbelief.
Was this still that muggle-born freshman? This talent, this technique, this result... if someone said he was pure-blooded, people would believe it!
Snape's mind was in turmoil, but his face remained impassive. Having calmed his emotions and regained his rationality, Snape could now examine the student before him more objectively.
This boy was indeed a rare genius in Potions. His previous prejudice against him... did indeed seem a bit excessive.
But he couldn't bring himself to back down.
So, keeping a deadpan face, he announced coldly in that flat tone, "Passable. Ten points to Slytherin."
[resentment points from Severus Snape +5!]
The whole room erupted.
Draco Malfoy's face turned from red to white, then white to green, finally settling into a dull grey mixed with jealousy and frustration.
Harry and Ron looked at each other, their faces full of disbelief.
Hermione's eyes were practically glowing; she couldn't wait to rush over and ask Signas which book he had read.
The faces of Pansy, Nott, and the others had turned green. Their proud pure-blood status seemed so laughable and powerless in front of him.
Signas bowed slightly, but his mind was a complete blank.
That's it?
What about the promised side effects?
Where was the "unknown side effects, use with caution" warning from the system?
Could it be... this Potion is actually a flawless remedy?
Chapter 23: Dean Snape... This really has nothing to do with me!
Snape began to objectively examine the student before him.
Perhaps... he really had held too deep a prejudice against him before?
As soon as this thought surfaced, it was snuffed out by Snape himself.
No, so what if he had talent? His arrogant, rude, and glib character was exactly the same as that damn James Potter!
Thinking of this, the anger Snape had finally managed to calm down showed signs of surging again.
Just then, driven by some inexplicable impulse, he made another decision.
He wanted to know where the limit of this Potion lay.
Under the gaze of the entire class, Snape scooped up a spoonful of the transparent Potion, tilted the bottle slightly, and let a small drop of liquid fall onto the tip of his tongue.
He closed his eyes and savored it carefully.
The Potion entered his mouth without any taste, like the purest morning dew.
But the next second, a gentle energy slid down his throat, quickly spreading to every limb and bone.
He felt as if the invisible barrier between himself and his wand had thinned. His thinking became sharper, and his perception and control of magic also rose by a tiny, but definitely existing, level.
This... this wasn't just a Soothing Potion!
It could also enhance focus while casting!
Snape snapped his eyes open, the shock in them no longer possible to hide.
A Potion that could instantly calm the mind and briefly enhance spellcasting focus!
Merlin's beard, if this thing could be mass-produced, its value would be immeasurable!
Any Wizard who needed to perform precise spellcasting, any duelist, would go crazy for it!
At this moment, all personal grudges and bloodline prejudices were thrown out of the window.
Faced with a discovery significant enough to change the history of Potions, only two words remained in Snape's mind: The recipe!
He had to get this recipe!
"Sig."
Snape spoke again, his voice no longer sharp and biting, but instead carrying an eagerness he hadn't even noticed himself, almost bordering on pleasantness.
"You... did very well. This Potion has great... research value."
He weighed his words, trying to make himself look less like a bandit eager to snatch results. "After class, come to my office. We need to... discuss the improvement of this recipe in depth."
This 180-degree turn in attitude left the entire classroom in a new state of petrification.
If the point addition earlier was a shock, this was now terrifying.
That Professor Snape, who never gave anyone a good face, was actually talking to a Muggle student in an almost "consultative" tone?
Draco felt like he was dreaming; he even pinched his thigh, making him grimace in pain.
Sig was also a bit dazed.
He looked at Snape's suddenly "kind and amiable" face, feeling a chill in his heart.
This Potion... really has no side effects?
Did the system change its nature this time and give me some peerless treasure?
It shouldn't be. Given the system's usual behavior, it wouldn't just scare him for no reason!
Or was this the side effect?
Affecting the brain or affecting the temperament?
Sig's heart was in turmoil, but he still maintained a humble smile: "Alright, Professor."
The following second Potion Class period became harmonized like never before.
Snape didn't even trouble anyone else; he just paced back and forth in the classroom, occasionally glancing at Signas with a complex gaze, seemingly lost in thought.
Having already completed his task, Signas sat in his seat, bored, continuing to doubt life.
What exactly was the side effect of this "Flawed Soothing Potion"?
Just as his mind was wandering, the anomaly finally occurred.
Snape, who was inspecting the students' cauldrons, suddenly stiffened.
His brow furrowed slightly, and one hand instinctively pressed against his lower abdomen.
"Gurgle... gurgle..."
A clear sound, like air bubbles passing through a water pipe, came from under his robes.
The sound wasn't loud, but in the quiet classroom, it was enough for Hermione and Neville, who were closest to him, to hear. The two exchanged a confused look.
Snape's face darkened.
He straightened up as if nothing had happened and continued walking forward, trying to cover up this minor physiological embarrassment with action.
He walked to a relatively empty corner of the classroom, turning his back to most of the students, and relaxed his body slightly, seemingly wanting to resolve a physiological issue unnoticed.
He looked left and right; no one was paying attention here.
Good.
He gently, very restrainingly, puffed out his buttocks.
"Pfft."
A slight, almost inaudible sound of gas being released.
Snape breathed a sigh of relief.
Resolved.
However, he had celebrated too early.
The next second, an indescribable smell began to spread silently, centered on him.
"Huh? What's that smell?" Ron, who was closest, was the first to smell it. He sniffed hard, an expression of disgust appearing on his face. "It smells... like rotten eggs and burnt cow dung mixed together?"
"Is there something wrong with your cauldron, Weasley?" Snape immediately scolded coldly, trying to divert attention.
"It's not me, Professor!" Ron shouted, feeling wronged.
More and more people smelled the odor, and a small commotion began to stir in the classroom.
"It's so smelly!"
"Whose Potion is ruined?"
"Oh my god, I'm going to throw up!"
Snape's face was already as black as the bottom of a cauldron. He forced himself to stay calm, but an ominous premonition welled up in his heart.
That gust of air seemed to be just a scout. A more surging, more majestic, and more irresistible force was gathering in his abdomen, like a flood about to burst through a dam!
He wanted to squeeze tight, to use force, to use willpower to overcome this primitive urge.
But he failed.
"Bang!—Bang! Bang! Bang!"
This time, it was no longer a shy little sound.
It was a series of loud, powerful, melodious, and metallic-sounding explosions!
The sound was so loud it was as if someone had lit a string of powerful firecrackers behind him, finishing with a long, vibrato-laden glissando.
His iconic black robes were blown backward by this powerful gust of air, forming an exaggerated arc.
Time froze at this moment.
The classroom was deathly silent.
All hands stirring cauldrons stopped.
All whispering voices vanished.
Dozens of eyes, filled with horror, bewilderment, and disbelief, focused simultaneously on the man with the fluttering black robes.
Draco had just been choked by the thick smoke rising from his cauldron. He jerked upright, opened his mouth wide, and greedily took a breath of "fresh" air.
Then, he got a mouthful precisely.
It was a... flavor that couldn't be described in words, highly penetrating and aggressive.
It was like the essence of a whole bottle of aged vinegar poured into a can of rotten chili peppers, with feces stewed in it for three days and three nights, then concentrated.
The smell rushed straight to the top of his head, instantly dismantling his olfactory nerves and his will to live.
"Blegh..."
Draco's eyes rolled back, his body went limp, and he almost slid off his stool.
Pansy Parkinson and several Slytherin girls next to him weren't so lucky; they let out a short cry of alarm and promptly fainted.
Signas covered his mouth and nose tightly with one hand and supported himself against the table with the other, just barely keeping himself from passing away on the spot.
In his heart, ten thousand Grass Mud Horses galloped past.
Holy sh*t!
After all that... the side effect of this Flawed Soothing Potion is... this?!
Could letting one out completely calm the mind and spirit?
The logic seems to hold up... but Dean Snape... this really has nothing to do with me!
I didn't ask you to drink it!
You... tasted it yourself!
It has nothing to do with me, Cygnus Sharke, not even for a single Knuts!
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
Chapter 24: He Only Felt an Unprecedented Sense of Relief
Snape himself stood stiffly in place, as if he had been hit by Petrificus Totalus.
His mind went blank, all his thoughts swept away by that surging odor and the overwhelming wave of resentment.
He felt his dignity, his pride, and his decency as a Potion Master being blown to pieces by that loud explosion, leaving nothing behind.
However, his body's reaction was far more honest than his mental breakdown.
"Gurgle... gurgle gurgle..."
The churning cramps in his belly felt as if a violent Dragon was rampaging through his intestines.
An unprecedented, tsunami-like urge to relieve himself was crashing against his final line of defense.
No... it's coming out!
Snape's face could no longer be described as merely dark; it was a mixture of ashen gray, lividity, and despair.
He spun around abruptly, roaring in a voice raspier and more terrifying than ever before: "Practice on your own first... wait for me..."
He had intended to leave this hellish place that had disgraced him in a whirlwind of black robes, striding away as he usually did.
But the moment he took his first step, he felt his sphincter on the verge of total failure.
He didn't dare stride anymore.
Under the complex gazes of the entire class—a mix of sympathy, fear, and a hint of schadenfreude—Professor Snape clamped his legs together, leaned slightly forward, and shuffled toward the classroom door in an extremely awkward and bizarre posture.
His walking posture was like that of a Troll wearing a tight dress and high heels for the first time; every step was taken with extreme caution, as if walking on thin ice.
His tall back looked so thin and helpless at this moment.
"Bang!"
He slammed the classroom door shut with the last of his strength, cutting off all the gazes behind him.
Snape leaned against the cold stone wall, panting heavily, cold sweat already soaking through his back.
Must get to the lavatory! Right now! Immediately!
He headed toward the Third Floor lavatory. Fortunately, it was class time and the corridor was empty, which allowed him to breathe a small sigh of relief.
But he soon encountered a more terrifying problem—Hogwarts' unpredictable staircases.
When he shuffled to the top of the stairs leading to the Second Floor, the wide stone staircase was slowly and leisurely turning to the other side.
Snape stood at the landing, not daring to move an inch, his facial muscles twitching from the extreme effort of holding it in.
He waited anxiously, feeling every second last a century. The "Dragon" in his intestines seemed increasingly impatient, starting to protest in more violent ways.
"Oh ho ho! Look who it is? Our greasy old bat, why are you doing the leg-clamping dance here?"
An annoying voice came from above; Peeves was hanging upside down from the ceiling, making faces at Snape with malicious glee.
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
"Go away, Peeves!" Snape gritted his teeth; he had no time to deal with this troublemaker now.
"Don't be so grumpy, Snape!" Peeves did a somersault in the air and sang a little tune he'd composed: "Legs clamped tight, face turning white, is someone trying to poop but it won't come out right? Want Peeves to give you a poke and a prod? Guaranteed to clear the way and make you feel light!"
As he spoke, he actually made a diving motion.
Snape was scared out of his wits and subconsciously took a step back, his entire body's muscles instantly tensing to the limit.
Finally, the stairs slowly turned back. Snape felt as if he had been granted amnesty; ignoring Peeves, he immediately shuffled up quickly.
However, perhaps his overly small steps triggered some strange transformation mechanism of the stairs.
Just as he reached the middle, the entire staircase suddenly shook violently and then swung back at double the speed!
Snape was forced right back to the starting point.
"..."
He was going crazy.
Why hadn't he noticed before that Hogwarts' stairs were so annoying?!
This is practically an anti-Wizard design!
He must complain to Dumbledore!
Now! Immediately replace these damn stairs with fixed ones!
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
Finally, the stairs favored him again and slowly returned to their position.
Snape didn't dare take small steps anymore.
He took a deep breath, used all his willpower to hold back the primal force that was about to burst out, and then, clenching his buttocks, he strode forward in an extremely distorted, almost same-side-arm-and-leg posture.
Like a wound-up zombie, he strode up to the Second Floor and then to the third in one go.
However, when he stood panting at the top of the Third Floor stairs, he could no longer move; he no longer had the strength to walk toward the lavatory. It was as if that previous stride had exhausted all the steps he could possibly take.
Just then, a timid figure came down from the Fourth Floor—it was Professor Quirrell.
His signature large Turban was wrapped tightly, leaving only a pair of terrified and uneasy eyes visible.
Seeing Snape, Quirrell just nodded timidly and stuttered a greeting: "P... Professor Snape." Then he stood aside, also waiting for the stairs to change.
Normally, this would be nothing.
But the smell on Professor Quirrell was too much!
It was a thick, inseparable smell of garlic, as if he had just swallowed a hundred pounds of single-clove garlic.
This smell was incredibly domineering, instantly overpowering the remaining "afterglow" Snape had brought with him.
What was worse, the smell of garlic... stimulates the intestines!
Snape had just taken a rough breath and inhaled a high concentration of garlic essence, only to feel that Blast-Ended Skrewt in his belly instantly get a shot of adrenaline, its power increasing tenfold!
He clamped his legs even tighter, his body involuntarily arching like a shrimp, holding onto the wall tightly in a strange posture as veins bulged on his forehead.
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
Meanwhile, on the back of Quirrell's head, on that invisible face, Lord Voldemort's remnant soul was nearly scared out of its wits by the double stench.
At this time, Quirrell also noticed Snape's abnormality. He saw Snape's face was pale, his body trembling, cold sweat pouring down, leaning against the wall as if he would collapse the next second.
"P... Professor Snape, are... are you alright?" Quirrell asked stutteringly.
Snape squeezed out a few words through his teeth: "Stay away from me!"
The killing intent in his voice made Quirrell instinctively take a step back.
However, the thick smell of garlic on him was like a maggot on a bone, still stubbornly stimulating Snape's fragile nerves and collapsing intestines.
"You... you look like you've been hit by a Dark Curse," Quirrell said, seemingly out of "kindness," taking another step closer and saying with concern, "Should... should I take a look for you?"
'Idiot! Stay away from him! I'm about to be suffocated to death!' Lord Voldemort roared silently in Quirrell's mind.
"No need!" Snape felt his defense line had cracked; he could even feel something knocking at the gate.
"B... but you really look like you're in pain." Quirrell reached out, seemingly wanting to give him a hand, "I... I'll help you to the Hospital Wing?"
As he spoke, his trembling hand lightly and "kindly" patted Snape's back.
That was it.
Like the last straw that broke the camel's back.
Like the first domino to fall.
Snape's entire body's muscles, under that pat, experienced a momentary relaxation.
And that Dragon that had been rampaging in his intestines for so long finally found the outlet it had been dreaming of.
"Pffft—Boom—!!!!!"
This time, it wasn't a series of pops, nor was it a melodious trombone.
It was a dull, heavy boom, like a Troll's burp, as if something had been ejected from a narrow space at extremely high speed and pressure!
Snape's body lunged forward, slamming into the opposite wall with a muffled thud.
His black robes were once again violently lifted backward by a visible powerful current of yellow-brown mist, like a battle flag flapping in a storm.
Professor Quirrell froze in place, his outstretched hand still in that position. He watched helplessly as that wave of air... came right at his face.
He didn't even have time to retreat before he was hit full-on by that hurricane, a mix of garlic and a more destructive scent.
Quirrell's eyes instantly bulged like bronze bells, the color drained from his face at a visible rate, then he spun around, leaning against the wall, and with a "bleh," threw up all the mashed potatoes and pumpkin juice he'd had for lunch.
'Quirrell! You useless waste! I'll kill you! Kill you!!!' Lord Voldemort's remnant soul felt it had suffered an unprecedented insult, more humiliating than being rebounded by a baby's killing curse back then.
Snape slowly slid down the wall and sat on the floor.
He couldn't feel anything anymore.
The world was so quiet.
He only felt... an unprecedented sense of... relief.
In the Potion Class classroom, Signas was staring blankly with his chin in his hand when suddenly, the System notification in his mind started ringing like crazy.
Over a dozen in a row!
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
[resentment points from Professor Quirrell +99!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +299!]
...Signas: "???"
Chapter 25: Lord Voldemort Affected
Signas's CPU was about to burn out.
He understood Snape's resentment points. After all, he had brewed the Potion himself; it would be strange if Snape didn't hate him to the core.
Quirrell... was he affected too? It seemed so. Was he overwhelmed by the smell?
As for Lord Voldemort... what the hell?
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +299!]
This message flashed on the system panel with a unique, deeper red light than the other resentment points.
Signas knew this guy was the ultimate villain throughout the story and that he should currently be in a weakened state as a remnant soul, but Sig wasn't clear on the specific plot details of the first year.
He never expected that this Dark Lord, who once stirred up a storm in the entire Magical World, would actually contribute resentment points to him at Hogwarts?
Could it be... a bold and outrageous guess formed in Signas's mind—was Lord Voldemort actually possessing Professor Quirrell?
The thought made him shiver.
Recalling Quirrell's iconic turban, that thick smell of garlic, and his nervous, stuttering behavior... everything seemed to make sense.
The turban and garlic smell were perhaps both to cover up Lord Voldemort's presence.
In that case, hadn't he been with Lord Voldemort the whole time at the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley that day? And he even dragged the man along to help him apply for a scholarship?
Signas suddenly felt a chill down his spine, but immediately after, a stronger surge of excitement welled up in his heart.
Because the resentment points given by Lord Voldemort were a qualitative leap in quantity.
For others, even someone like Snape who was overflowing with resentment, the single-time limit seemed to be 99 points.
But Lord Voldemort gave 299 points in one go—one person worth three! Did this mean the Dark Lord's "resentment productivity" far exceeded that of ordinary people?
If he "cared" a bit more about Professor Quirrell, could he pull even more wool from Lord Voldemort?
If his limit was perhaps over a thousand resentment points, this productivity would almost equal the sum of both Slytherin and Hufflepuff houses combined!
Signas's mind instantly became active.
Professor Snape did not return to the Potion Class classroom until lunchtime.
Until lunchtime, Professor Snape did not return to the Potion Class classroom.
In the dungeon classroom, the air mixed with the aroma of Potions and an indescribable smell made every second feel like a year for everyone.
When the bell for the end of class finally rang, the young Wizards, as if granted a general amnesty, fled the scene one after another.
Arriving at the Great Hall, the atmosphere at the Slytherin table was eerie to the extreme.
As Signas walked over, all the Slytherin students, regardless of their year, watched him from a distance with eyes as if looking at a prehistoric beast.
Those gazes were mixed with fear, awe, and even a hint of unspeakable admiration.
After all, to be able to "anger" Dean Snape into incontinence on the spot was likely a first in Hogwarts' thousand-year history.
Signas was happy to have some peace and quiet, cutting the steak on his plate to himself, listening to the whispers around him as he ate.
"Have you heard? Professor Snape in the third-floor corridor... right then and there..." A Ravenclaw girl lowered her voice, trembling with laughter before she could even finish.
"That's not all! I heard Peeves singing that Professor Quirrell was also affected and threw up everywhere! Peeves said even he couldn't stand the smell, and he's decided to use this story to scare Filch from now on!" another Hufflepuff student added.
"My god, what on earth did that Slytherin freshman do? How did he do it? Did he invent a new Dark Curse?"
"Who knows? Anyway, stay away from him in the future, he's too terrifying..."
Signas listened to these rumors with a pleasant mood, eating an extra piece of steak.
He looked up to see Draco Malfoy shrinking at the other end of the long table with his two lackeys, his face pale, not even daring to glance this way.
When Signas's gaze swept over, Malfoy flinched in fright, his knife and fork clattering onto his plate with a sharp sound.
Clearly, the psychological shadow that class left on him was much greater than the smell of the Potionitself.
After lunch, there happened to be no classes in the afternoon. Daphne sat across from Signas with her tray.
"Are you... okay?" she asked softly, her emerald eyes filled with worry. Professor Snape's prejudice had exceeded her expectations. "Professor Snape... he definitely won't let you off."
However, Sig didn't mind. He had intended to cause trouble for Snape anyway; since these Pure-bloods were always bothering him, he had to find a chance to ramp up the intensity on Snape to rid him of his erroneous Pure-blood values as soon as possible.
"Don't worry, he probably doesn't have time to think about me right now." Sig wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Instead of causing me trouble, he's probably busy cleaning the corridors of Hogwarts."
Daphne burst into a giggle at his words, and the tense atmosphere immediately softened.
"The weather is nice this afternoon, shall we go for a walk by the Black Lake?" she suggested.
The little Witch's smile was sweet, and her emerald eyes were cute and lively, a sight for sore eyes.
"Sure," Signas readily agreed.
In the September Scottish Highlands, the sunlight was warm but not scorching.
The surface of the Black Lake shimmered under the breeze, and the Forbidden Forest in the distance was lush and green.
The two walked slowly along the gravel path by the lake. Daphne finally couldn't help but start standing up for Sig.
"Professor Snape is too much; that was entirely a personal vendetta! Just because you answered so well and made him look bad, he went out of his way to make things difficult for you!"
The girl said indignantly, "Is being a Pure-blood really that great? Malfoy and the others can't even identify the most basic Potion ingredients, yet the Professor doesn't say a word!"
Signas gave her a surprised look: "Aren't you a Pure-blood too?"
Ever since Daphne had stated her family's neutral stance and lack of discrimination against Muggles on the train, her behavior seemed to be aligning more and more with the Weasley family.
Hearing Signas's question, a blush crept onto the girl's fair cheeks. She kicked away a small stone at her feet and said seriously, "Pure-blood is just an origin; it shouldn't be the standard for judging a person. I think treating students with inherent prejudice and emotion is not how a Professor should behave!"
Signas watched her. In the sunlight, the girl's profile was soft, and her emerald eyes were clear and bright, shining with a pure and firm light.
"You're right," he praised sincerely. "You are more clear-headed and noble than the vast majority of Pure-blood Wizards."
Being watched by Sig for so long made Daphne's face turn completely red in an instant. She lowered her head, shyly fiddling with the hem of her robes, her heart feeling as sweet as honey.
Just then, two figures approached them from the direction of the Castle.
"Hey! Signas!" It was Harry Potter, followed by a freckle-faced Ron Weasley.
Harry looked both excited and a bit shy: "We're on our way to Hagrid's for tea. Do you two want to come along?"
Signas's stunning performance in Potion Class and Snape's blatant malice gave Harry a sense of kinship with him. In his view, someone who could anger Snape like that couldn't possibly be a bad person.
Ron tugged at Harry's sleeve from the side, lowering his voice with a resistant expression: "Harry, they're Slytherins..."
"Ron!" Harry glared at him awkwardly, then looked apologetically at Signas and Daphne. "Don't mind him, he doesn't mean anything by it. He just thinks... Snape was too much in class today, and you were amazing."
Signas cast a meaningful glance at Ron, making the other boy shift his gaze uncomfortably.
Chapter 26: Hagrid's rock cakes and the Expulsion of Sig
Signas shrugged and said to Daphne, "Ever heard of rock cakes? They say that stuff is hard enough to be used as a weapon. I'm actually quite curious to see it."
Daphne was slightly taken aback, then pursed her lips and smiled softly. "That does sound quite interesting."
"Great!" Harry said happily... A small wooden hut stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, looking as if it had been haphazardly constructed from several massive wooden planks.
A Giant nearly three meters tall was struggling to squeeze out of the narrow door frame. A coarse moleskin overcoat wrapped around his bulky frame, and his shaggy black hair and beard almost covered his entire face.
"Harry! Ron!" Hagrid's voice boomed like muffled thunder. "You're here! Oh... and these two are?"
His gaze fell upon Signas and Daphne.
"Hagrid, this is Cygnus Sharke and Daphne Greengrass, our... classmates," Harry introduced.
"Slytherins?" Hagrid's brow furrowed immediately, and the warmth in his voice noticeably diminished. He had never had much of a liking for Slytherin House.
"Hagrid, you should have seen Signas's performance in Potion Class today! He even made Snape..." Ron recounted the events of the Potion Class with great excitement, even gesturing wildly to mimic Professor Snape's strange gait at the time, making Harry double over with laughter.
Hagrid listened in a daze, his huge mouth hanging wider and wider. When he finally processed all the information, he erupted into a thunderous roar of laughter. "Oh, Merlin's beard! Really? He actually... Hahaha! Well done, lad! Splendidly done!"
Anyone who could make Snape miserable automatically gained a favorability boost with him. He instantly threw the memory of Signas questioning tradition on the boat on the first day of school to the back of his mind.
Hams and pheasants hung inside the house, and a massive copper kettle was boiling on the hearth in the corner. Signas and Daphne looked around this place, which was filled with a primitive, wild atmosphere, with curiosity.
Hagrid brought them teacups the size of washbasins and a plate of dark, hard things that looked like fossils.
"Try some, I just baked these rock cakess," Hagrid said proudly.
Signas picked one up and felt it had the weight of a brick. He thanked him politely and then, in front of Hagrid, tentatively tested it with his teeth.
*Crack!*
With a crisp sound, Signas felt like his front teeth had almost died on the spot.
Without changing his expression, he pulled the rock cakes back and, while no one was looking, silently pocketed it in his robes.
This thing would be good for self-defense; in an emergency, it could definitely knock out a Troll—in the physical sense.
Harry and Ron felt even more awkward about refusing. They picked up the rock cakess and took a few symbolic nibbles, grimacing in pain.
Daphne, meanwhile, sipped her tea elegantly and never touched the plate of "fossils."
The group sat around the table and chatted about their feelings during the first week of school.
"I really don't understand why Snape hates me so much," Harry complained, his experience in Potion Class still weighing on his mind.
"He's not just targeting you," Signas said calmly, taking a small sip of tea. "He likely holds a prejudice against all students who aren't in Slytherin House or aren't of Pure-blood descent."
"Sig is right," Hagrid sighed, his voice heavy. "Snape... well, it's a long story. Anyway, it's got nothing to do with you..."
Rather than saying Snape was targeting Harry, it was more accurate to say he was targeting Harry's father, James Potter.
Back then, James Potter and his friends were as arrogant as could be and bullied Snape quite a bit.
Now, Snape naturally wouldn't have any good feelings toward his son!
Hagrid gave a vague explanation, but the young Wizards were still left in a fog.
However, he didn't want to continue the topic, so he waved his hand and shifted the conversation to things they needed to watch out for at school.
When he mentioned Slytherin's Pure-blood tradition, he specifically glanced at Signas and Daphne, clearly choosing his words carefully for fear of offending them.
Harry was still preoccupied with the Snape matter and seemed a bit distracted. As he looked down, he accidentally caught sight of a small scrap of paper tucked under the tea cozy—a report clipped from The Daily Prophet.
"Latest development in the Gringotts illegal break-in..." Harry read the headline softly, then his eyes suddenly lit up. "Hagrid, Gringotts was attacked? The report says it happened on July 31st. Wait, isn't that the day we went to Diagon Alley?"
When Signas heard that date, his heart suddenly skipped a beat. July 31st was the very day he went to Gringotts to handle his student loan.
He leaned in to look closely at the report, which read: Gringotts officials claim that although a Trollattack occurred, no one successfully intruded... A Troll attack... Signas instantly connected all the dots.
Professor Quirrell's restlessness that day, him constantly checking the time, trying every way possible to ditch him, and the Troll that suddenly appeared at dusk... So that was it.
The Troll was just a decoy, a diversionary tactic he used to draw the Goblins' attention.
Quirrell's true purpose was to sneak into Gringotts during the chaos to steal something from a certain vault.
And his own unexpected appearance as a "tag-along" had forcibly dragged him from morning until dusk, unintentionally ruining his plan.
No wonder he had contributed so many resentment points.
But what exactly was he trying to steal?
"The Philosopher's Stone?"
The theme of the first book flashed through Sig's mind like lightning.
Thinking of this, Signas couldn't help but chuckle. In that case, he had unintentionally protected the school's Philosopher's Stone and played the part of Hogwarts' "unsung hero."
But Sig wasn't interested in the Philosopher's Stone; how could such a thing be as attractive as the system?
He was more interested in Professor Quirrell himself.
After all, Lord Voldemort was inside his body; one could even say he was Lord Voldemort. If he used the Philosopher's Stone as bait, it would surely attract Lord Voldemort and generate resentment points.
Anyway, Lord Voldemort's strength was very weak right now; there shouldn't be much risk in provoking him!
Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, in the Principal's office.
The air in the office was almost frozen, half-filled with the heavy smell of garlic and half with suppressed rage.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking at the two Professors in front of him who were fuming with rage yet forced to stand together, feeling his temples throb.
"Albus! I demand the immediate expulsion of Cygnus Sharke!"
Snape's face was paler than ever before, and his newly changed black robes couldn't seem to hide the gloom and... a faint, indefinable odd smell radiating from him.
His voice was hoarse, every word seemingly squeezed through his teeth. "He openly concocted a dangerous, unknown Potion in class and caused... caused a severe teaching accident!"
"Y-yes, Principal!" Quirrell stammered from the side, covering his mouth with his turban, his face pale green. "Th-that student... is t-too annoying, always causing trouble!"
"Severus, Quirinus," Dumbledore spoke gently, the blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles sparkling with wisdom. "I have already analyzed the sample of that Potion. Its primary effect is to calm the nerves and improve focus. Although... it came with some unexpected physiological reactions, it does not essentially fall under the category of a dangerous Potion."
He paused, his tone becoming a bit more serious. "Furthermore, Severus, it was you who required him to brew an advanced Potion individually in class, was it not? He fulfilled your requirement and, as a freshman, displayed extraordinary Potion-making talent..."
"As a reward, I have decided to award fifty points to Slytherin."
"What?!" Snape could hardly believe his ears. His chest heaved violently, and his sallow face turned the color of a pig's liver. He never thought there would come a day when he would so vehemently oppose awarding points to his own house.
[resentment points from Severus Snape +99!]
"As for Quirinus," Dumbledore turned back to Quirrell, "I believe you were simply unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Drinking some pumpkin juice will make you feel better."
"Finally, I ask that both of you hurry to complete your respective tasks. The defenses for the Philosopher's Stone must be set up as soon as possible..."
After seeing off the two still-indignant Professors, Dumbledore let out a weary sigh. At the same time, he became curious about the young Wizard, Signas.
He walked over to the shelf holding the Sorting Hat and took down the tattered hat.
"Old friend," he asked softly, "can you tell me something about Cygnus Sharke, that young lad?"
Chapter 27: This Child Needs Proper Guidance!
The Sorting Hat lay slumped on the shelf, looking as though a hundred Trolls had taken turns sitting on it. Every wrinkle seemed to scream, 'Thanks, but no thanks—just got off the Sorting Stool, leave me alone.'
Dumbledore walked over, extended his somewhat withered hand, and gently lifted the hat.
'Old friend,' Dumbledore asked in his usual gentle tone, 'can you tell me what exactly you saw regarding Cygnus Sharke during the Sorting Ceremony?'
The Sorting Hat remained motionless, playing dead.
Dumbledore waited patiently. The only sounds in the office were the soft rustle of Fawkes the Phoenixpreening his feathers and the faint hum of various silver instruments.
A minute passed.
Not a single wrinkle on the Sorting Hat's tip had changed.
Unperturbed, Dumbledore adjusted his hold on the hat to a more comfortable position and continued in his coaxing manner, 'You see, this child is quite special, isn't he? It's been many years since Slytherin has accepted a muggle-born student. You made a brave decision...'
'No!'
A sharp, abrupt, and deeply traumatized refusal burst from the hat's brim.
The refusal was so decisive, so heart-wrenching, that Dumbledore's smile froze on his face. His prepared follow-up—'...what led you to make such an insightful judgment'—got stuck in his throat, neither coming out nor going down.
The silver instruments in the office seemed startled by the scream, falling silent for a second.
Fawkes the Phoenix tilted his head, casting a look that said, 'Are you an idiot?'
After a long moment, the old man, who had weathered countless storms, recovered. He blinked, trying to process what had just happened.
'Why?' Dumbledore pressed on, feeling less like he was conversing with a magical object and more like he was comforting a victim who had just been interrogated by Death Eaters. 'You seem... well, rather agitated. Did he give you a hard time?'
The Sorting Hat shuddered violently, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
'A hard time?!' Its voice rose an octave, sounding aggrieved. 'Albus, you call that a hard time?! That was humiliation!'
Dumbledore was utterly baffled. 'Calm down, old friend. Take your time. What exactly happened?'
The Sorting Hat's brim flapped up and down wildly, throwing a tantrum. 'My mind... oh no, my stuffing is still echoing with his ear-piercing Make complaints!'
'What did he say about you?' Dumbledore grew even more curious.
'He asked me... he actually asked me... if anyone had ever complimented my singing!' The Sorting Hat's voice was tearful. 'He listened to my opening song and then demanded I 'never sing again' next time! For a thousand years! No one has ever dared question my musical taste!'
'Godric Gryffindor himself certified that my singing is full of courage and power!'
'Salazar Slytherin also acknowledged my melody... Well, actually, he didn't acknowledge it, but he didn't object either!'
'But that brat, he actually said I sing badly! Said I'd get beaten up if I sang outside!'
Dumbledore: '...'
He recalled the Sorting Hat's singing and found himself thinking... that there might be a tiny bit of truth to it.
'And!' The Sorting Hat grew more agitated. 'He actually called me a prehistoric artifact, no wonder I only boot up once a year and frequently lag!'
'Said my system hasn't been updated in millennia, that the interface is ugly, the interaction is poor, and the user experience is zero! He even asked if I'd done any user research or data analysis! What in Merlin's name are those things?!'
'The worst part!' The Sorting Hat's accusation reached its peak. 'He actually said I'm not smart enough! Said I should keep up with the times and add features like 'one-click house selection' and'seven-day no-reason house exchange'! I am a respected ancient magical artifact, and he said I'm not smart enough?!'
Dumbledore felt a throbbing in his temples.
He was starting to understand how Snape and Quirrell felt.
'So...' Dumbledore struggled to find the right words. 'You placed him in Slytherin because...?'
'Because... because I had no other choice!' The Sorting Hat's voice suddenly turned mournful. 'I suggested Gryffindor. I said there's courage, passion, and camaraderie there! Guess how he responded?'
Dumbledore leaned in with keen interest, his eyes twinkling with curiosity behind his half-moon spectacles.
'He said, 'Forget it. A bunch of simple-minded muscleheads charging forward every day, shouting slogans—do they have a death wish?''
'Then I recommended Ravenclaw. I said there's wisdom, debate, and infinite knowledge there! He said, 'Give me a break. A bunch of bookworms. By the time they debate a conclusion, the enemy would've already stolen our home! Classic overthinkers who think they're clever but have zero action!''
The Sorting Hat's tip trembled with rage. 'As for Hufflepuff, you can probably tell this guy doesn't have many Hufflepuff traits... He had his own evaluate for loyal, kind, and upright Hufflepuffs too, saying they're the gullible honest folks who get scammed and still help count the money, the ones who take the most blame and get the least pay in a team!'
Dumbledore's hand, which had been stroking his beard, froze mid-air. His expression was a sight to behold.
In over a hundred years of life, this was the first time he'd heard anyone describe Hogwarts' four houses this way.
'So...' Dumbledore swallowed hard, feeling his worldview being reshaped. 'You placed him in Slytherinbecause... he drove you out of your wits?'
'No! I was clear-headed and saw into his heart,' the Sorting Hat continued, its voice regaining a trace of the solemnity befitting an ancient magical artifact.
'I clearly saw that he possesses Gryffindor's courage, daring to challenge all rules; he has Ravenclaw's wisdom, though that wisdom sounds rather odd; he even has a certain Hufflepuff-like determination, willing to go to any lengths to achieve his goals... But all these qualities ultimately serve that restless ambition.'
'He worships power, believing it's the fastest way to solve problems; he's cunning, judges the situation, and knows how to use rules to his advantage. These are the purest Slytherin traits. Only...'
The Sorting Hat's brim curled slightly, as if sighing.
'Salazar Slytherin wanted to build a fortress for Pure-bloods, but this child... he despises that disgusting Pure-blood supremacy ideology. His ambition might just dismantle the very wall Salazarbuilt, brick by brick, from the inside!'
'He might use Slytherin's methods to fight Slytherin. Albus, you could say he is the other side of Slytherin...'
A long silence fell in the office, broken only by the soft sound of Fawkes preening his feathers.
The smile slowly faded from Dumbledore's face. In his bright blue eyes, the lightness and curiosity were replaced by a deep, solemn glow.
He stood up slowly, walked to the window, and looked down at the Hogwarts campus under the dusk sky.
He understood.
This child wasn't here just to learn magic; he was here to stir up trouble... A muggle-born Wizard trying to purify Slytherin using Slytherin's own methods... It was like using a snake's venom to make an antidote.
Dumbledore felt as though an unpredictable piece had suddenly entered the chessboard. It followed no rules, acted on whim, yet had a clear goal.
'Interesting, truly interesting...' the old man murmured to himself, his eyes shining with an unprecedented light—a mix of surprise, gravity, and a hint of... concern.
This child needs proper guidance!
Chapter 28 – Use Slytherin's Way Against Slytherin
"Use Slytherin's way against Slytherin…" Dumbledore murmured, the blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles glinting with inscrutable complexity.
He recalled another equally gifted student from Slytherin, years ago—Tom Riddle.
That boy had also walked the halls of Hogwarts, his courteous mask concealing an unbridled hunger for change.
But Cygnus Sharke was different. His ambition held no zeal for Pure-blood supremacy; instead, it brimmed with outright disdain for those stale dogmas.
It was a double-edged sword: wielded well, it could slash through tangled thickets of poison vine; wielded poorly, it would cut the swordsman—and perhaps birth entirely new, unpredictable chaos.
"I'd better have a word with Minerva," Dumbledore decided, settling back into his chair.
As he returned from Hagrid's hut to the Castle, the sunset dyed the clouds a blazing orange-red, the Castle's silhouette rising grandly against the dusk.
Signas and Daphne walked side by side along the flagstone path, the air between them momentarily quiet.
"Those… rock cakess," Daphne finally blurted, curiosity winning over caution. "Are they really that hard?"
She had grown up on delicate French pastries and tea-time treats crafted by House-elves; Hagrid's plate of "snacks," which looked freshly quarried from a rock pile, upended every notion she had of food.
"Hard?" Signas produced the "fossil" he'd pocketed, weighing it in his palm. "I suspect if Mr. Filch had this, he wouldn't need chains for punishment—just hang it round a student's neck and the effect would be far stronger."
He paused, then added, "It even has recycling value. After public display, you can take it off, and when you're hungry it doubles as rations—though it might dislocate your jaw. In danger, its lethality rivals a solid Stupefy."
Daphne pictured some poor soul parading the corridor with that blackened rock cakes hung round their neck and couldn't help bursting into laughter, her jade eyes curving like crescent moons.
"Hagrid's actually a good sort—just… a bit rough," she judged, hunting for the right word.
"And sincere," Signas said, stuffing the pie back into his pocket. "More sincere than plenty who wear fine robes and prettier words."
Daphne's steps slowed; she tilted her head to study Signas, the afterglow outlining his sharp profile.
She knew the "plenty" he meant were Pure-bloods like Malfoy and Pansy.
Daphne nodded. "You're right."
They passed beneath an archway into the Castle. Torches flared to life along the corridor.
"Hagrid said Professor Quirrell's actually quite capable, but…" Daphne lowered her voice, shifting topics. "His Defense Against the Dark Arts Class is awful—I've learned practically nothing."
"Perhaps he has talents we haven't noticed," Signas replied off-handedly.
If "talent" meant efficiency at generating resentment points, Quirrell certainly possessed it—worth several people combined!
"Talents? You mean the garlic smell?" Daphne wrinkled her nose. "A Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts who needs garlic for courage clearly lacks real skill."
"Maybe it's a unique teaching style," Signas deadpanned. "Imagine a Dark Wizard about to hit you with a Killing Curse, only to keel over from your stench—still counts as successful defense."
After all, even the mighty Lord Voldemort had coughed up plenty of resentment points under Snape's biochemical assault; reeking had its uses.
"Stop joking," Daphne laughed, swatting him lightly. "I'm serious. My family has contacts at the Ministry; Mother says no one dares apply for the Defense post here."
"Why?" Signas was genuinely curious. "Hogwarts is the best magical school in the world. Being a Professor here is prestigious, isn't it? Low salary?"
"It's not the salary." Daphne's tone turned grave; she leaned closer, whispering as if sharing a dire secret. "The position is cursed."
"Cursed?" Signas raised an eyebrow.
High-level, potent magic—available in the system's prize pool, but with abysmal draw odds!
"Yes. Ever since Dumbledore refused a very powerful Dark Wizard the post, no Defense teacher has lasted a full year. They resign, meet with accidents, or… go mad."
Daphne shuddered. "Mother said the last one, a famous Auror, was committed to St. Mungo's after six months. Before him, a retired adventurer vanished while being 'chased by Acromantulas' during a practical lesson in the Forbidden Forest."
She rattled off several more disastrous fates, each stranger than the last, sounding like headlines from The Quibbler.
Signas listened, enthralled.
A curse that powerful?
If he drew it from the system, he could hex anyone he disliked… with no one the wiser. "So Quirrell isn't here because he's outstanding—he's the only one willing?" Signas summarized.
"Exactly." Daphne sighed. "Most capable Wizards would rather clerk at the Ministry or open a shop than risk it. The school scrapes together whoever they can find each year. Quirrell is this year's 'whoever.'"
Signas rubbed his chin, thoughtful.
Bad news and good news.
Bad: the "resentment supplier" would be gone next year.
Good: he still had nearly a year to mine this rich vein.
He needed a detailed, sustainable, trawl-every-ounce—no, farsighted—plan, and fast.
To squeeze every last drop of resentment from the entity hitching a ride on the back of Quirrell's head.
Chapter 29: The Broad Road to resentment points Freedom
The atmosphere in Defense Against the Dark Arts class this new week was as drowsy as ever.
Professor Quirrell stood behind the podium, like a startled quail, his signature large scarf seeming to be wrapped even tighter today.
The pungent, choking smell of garlic in the classroom was almost pickling the very syllables of the spells, making everyone's eyes water.
"Zom... zombies, th... they, ar... are very dangerous... afraid... of fire..."
Quirrell stammered through his explanation, his bloodshot eyes restlessly darting across the students' faces, as if a zombie might crawl out from under a desk at any moment to bite him.
Over in Ravenclaw, the young Wizards' heads were bobbing like roly-poly toys, inching closer to an intimate encounter with their open textbooks.
Draco Malfoy and the other Slytherins were struggling to keep their eyelids open, feeling as if their eyes were about to glue shut.
Just then, a hand went up from the Slytherin long table.
"Professor, I have a question." Signas's voice was clear and steady, sounding particularly abrupt.
Quirrell flinched violently, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, almost knocking over the ink bottle on the podium.
When he saw that it was Signas who had raised his hand, his already pale face instantly turned as white as a piece of parchment just pulled from bleach.
Snape's "previous example" was still fresh in his mind; this student, in his eyes, was synonymous with "walking disaster."
"Sha... Shalk, Mr. Shalk, do... do you have a question?" His voice was even more stammering than usual, with a hint of an imperceptible tremor.
Signas stood up, his posture composed, with a curious expression on his face, like a good student genuinely eager to learn.
"Professor, you just said that zombies have no thoughts, only follow instinct, and are controlled by Dark Wizards."
Quirrell nodded nervously.
"My question is," Signas's tone was steady, as if discussing a purely academic problem, "if a once very powerful Wizard, due to some accident, lost his body, and only a weak remnant soul remained, which had to attach itself to another person's body to survive..."
The classroom fell silent.
All the drowsy young Wizards woke up, looking at Signas as if he were an idiot.
What kind of strange question was this? It sounded like a plot from some third-rate adventure novel!
Signas paused, giving the person on the podium enough time to digest, and then continued: "Then, broadly speaking, isn't he another form of 'zombie'? After all, he also lost the ability to act independently, didn't he? He might even be worse off than a zombie; at least a zombie still has its own body."
"Bang!"
Professor Quirrell on the podium suddenly froze.
The ridiculous large purple scarf on his head seemed to come alive, trembling violently and unconsciously.
"Non... Nonsense!" Quirrell's voice suddenly became sharp, completely losing its original stammer. "Th... that can't be compared! Sit... sit down!"
[resentment points from Quirrell +76!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +199!]
Signas shook his head inwardly, only this much? It seems the intensity isn't enough.
"But Professor, forgive my ignorance," he said, displaying just the right amount of confusion and grievance after being reprimanded by the teacher. Instead of sitting down, he pressed on.
"This parasitic state and a zombie controlled by a Dark Wizard seem to be essentially no different. Both involve a soul occupying or controlling another body, and the former is even more evil, isn't it?"
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +299!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +399!]
"Enough!"
Quirrell slammed the podium, his roar no longer stammering, but carrying a cold, malevolent authority that did not belong to him.
A crimson glint flashed in his terrified eyes, so quickly that one might have mistaken it for the reflection of a torch.
"If... if you disturb class discipline again, Sly... Slytherin will lose ten points!"
All the young Wizards looked at each other.
"What's gotten into Signas today?" they whispered. "Why does he always ask such strange questions?"
Some Ravenclaws, however, frowned, seemingly seriously contemplating the possibility of Signas's bizarre theory.
Signas sat down nonchalantly, ignoring the strange looks from his classmates, his heart already blooming with joy.
It really works!
The Dark Lord's resentment points came quickly and fiercely, even easier to earn than Dean Snape's!
High quality, large output, and stable!
For the second half of the class, Quirrell had the students pair up to practice the "Freezing Charm" against Cornish Pixies.
His emotions were clearly still unsettled; his steps were somewhat unsteady as he patrolled, and he deliberately avoided Signas.
Signas and Daphne were paired together.
Just as Quirrell had his back to them, instructing another group of students, Signas lowered his voice, speaking in a volume only he and Daphne could hear, as if talking to himself: "Speaking of which, I recently found a book about souls in the library, which tells a very interesting story."
As he spoke, he observed Quirrell not far away out of the corner of his eye.
"The book says, if a Wizard tears his soul into many pieces and hides them in different objects, can he achieve immortality?"
Daphne was about to cast a spell, but her movements paused when she heard this, and she looked at him in confusion: "What are you talking about? How can a soul be torn apart?"
Sig ignored her and continued in that tone full of exclamation: "But the book also says that this practice makes the soul very fragile and unstable."
"Moreover, each time the soul is torn, a part of humanity is lost, eventually becoming unrecognizable, brutal and suspicious, even forgetting who one is."
"It sounds truly pathetic, to make oneself neither human nor ghost, like a pitiful parasite, just to survive."
Daphne was utterly confused, and was about to say that it was too far-fetched.
She didn't notice that as Signas spoke, Professor Quirrell, not far away, had his entire back stiffen, like a statue instantly turned to stone.
He suddenly turned around, staring intently at Signas, his gaze no longer the previous fear and anger, but a cold, scrutinizing, murderous intent that seemed to want to pierce through his body and see the deepest secrets of his heart.
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +777!]
Signas met his almost man-eating gaze, a naive smile slowly blossoming on his face.
It worked.
He knew he had found a Broad Road to resentment points freedom!
Chapter 30: resentment points Poured Down Like Niagara Falls
Ever since Sig found a new "growth point" in Defense Against the Dark Arts class, his days had become especially fulfilling.
Before every class, he would meticulously prepare several tricky and devastating questions, specifically designed to stomp on Lord Voldemort's tattered soul.
Today was no exception.
The classroom was still filled with that pungent garlic smell that could pickle a person, and Professor Quirrell was stammering through the textbook content. Most students were already daydreaming.
Just then, that familiar hand was raised once again from the Slytherin side.
Professor Quirrell's body jolted violently, as if he had been electrocuted.
When he saw Signas's face, sporting an innocent and harmless smile, his eyelids began to twitch wildly, and a sense of foreboding instantly enveloped him.
Professor, I have a question." Signas stood up, his voice clear and his attitude humble.
Sh-Shalk, Mr.... P-please... please speak..." Quirrell's voice was already bordering on a whimper.
Professor, you previously said that powerful magic comes from strong will and a powerful soul.
Since the source of power is will and soul, why do some people always believe that Pure-bloods are nobler and more powerful? Do these people not understand the essence of magic?
Or are they simply using bloodline to cover up the weakness of their own will and the smallness of their soul?"
This question was like a stone tossed into a calm lake, instantly drawing everyone's attention.
Draco's face instantly flushed red. He wanted to refute it, but remembering the terror of being dominated by Sig, he swallowed his words, glaring at Signas with venomous eyes.
This strike, based purely on theoretical grounds, negated the entire Pure-blood supremacy ideology, along with the Dark Lord himself and countless Pure-blood Wizards.
[resentment points from Nott +66]
[resentment points from Malfoy +66]
[resentment points from Shabini +66]
[resentment points from Pansy +44]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +399!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +499!]
...Quirrell, standing at the podium, was completely petrified, as if he had been looked at by Medusa.
Clearly, Lord Voldemort had also been awakened!
The comical purple turban on Quirrell's head was shaking violently at a visible rate, as if something beneath it was struggling madly, trying to burst out of his body.
Quirrell felt like he was going insane.
In all his years of teaching, he had never encountered such a tormenting student.
Every single one of his words was like a precise scalpel, specifically aimed at stabbing the wound of the Master residing on the back of his head!
It was as if he desperately wanted to provoke the Master into going on a killing spree at Hogwarts!
"Mr. Shalk!" Quirrell suddenly raised his voice, his sharp tone becoming grating due to anger. "This question... is beyond the curriculum... it is not what you need to... be thinking about right now!"
"Is that so?" Signas tilted his head, feigning confusion, his face displaying an utterly pure thirst for knowledge, as if genuinely puzzled by the Professor's reaction.
Not only did he not sit down, but he also threw out a second question.
"Professor, I have another question," Signas continued, discussing the academic point seriously. "We all know that some extremely powerful magic is irreversible, for instance... the Avada Kedavra curse."
He paused deliberately, allowing those words to echo clearly throughout the classroom.
Quirrell could feel the back of his head tightening again; clearly, the Master was also very interested in this topic.
"My question is," Signas continued, looking purely at the podium, "what if—just hypothetically—this curse failed during casting due to some reason we cannot comprehend, didn't kill the target, and instead rebounded onto the caster for unknown reasons?"
"Then, Professor, what changes do you think would happen to the caster? Would he... die? Or would he be half-dead? Or would he exhibit some other state?"
Dead silence fell over the classroom.
The young Wizards were all bewildered, having completely failed to understand what this tongue-twister of a question was even about.
What does the Killing Curse rebounding mean? Isn't the Killing Curse undefendable? Half-dead? What in the world is he talking about?
Immediately afterward, the system notification sounds in Signas's mind poured down like Niagara Falls, instantly flooding the screen.
[resentment points from Professor Quirrell +99!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +499!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +599!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +699!]
[Warning! High-intensity resentment shock detected! Single acquisition of resentment points has broken the limit!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +799!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +899!]
Signas looked at the rows of glaring red numbers on the system panel, unable to suppress the curve of his lips.
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +999!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +999!]
[resentment points from Lord Voldemort +999!]
This wave not only broke even but resulted in huge profits!
"Wh-What... half-dead..." Quirrell's voice was completely distorted, hoarse and sharp, sounding like a chicken being strangled.
The hand gripping the podium was shaking violently, his knuckles turning a deathly pale from the excessive force.
His already terrified eyes were wide and bloodshot, staring fixedly at Signas with a look that suggested he was seeing a demon crawling out of the abyss of hell.
This question had precisely stabbed the raw nerve of the Master residing on the back of his head.
The Avada Kedavra curse rebounding!?
Wasn't this the exact reason for the miserable state of him—the Dark Lord who once struck fear into hearts, the great Lord Voldemort?
This mudblood! This damned, despicable Muggle who popped out of nowhere!
How could he possibly know this? How dare he ask such a question?!
'Kill him! Quirrell! Now! Immediately! Kill him with the Killing Curse!'
Lord Voldemort's lingering soul roared madly inside Quirrell's mind. The fury, terror, and shame originating from the deepest part of his soul were practically about to tear through Quirrell's body and materialize.
He felt his biggest, most shameful secret had been ripped open nakedly and displayed right here in a Hogwarts classroom, exposed within the school controlled by Dumbledore!
If Dumbledore found out, he would likely be completely destroyed!
Quirrell's body swayed under the impact of this violent will. One hand trembled as it reached for the wand tucked into his waist, but the last thread of his sanity held him fast.
No, absolutely not. This is Hogwarts, and Dumbledore is just upstairs!
I... I... don't know... what... what you are saying..." Quirrell squeezed the words out through clenched teeth, his lips trembling violently. "This... this is very... very dark Dark Arts... it's not... not something you should know about... Sit... sit... sit down!"
"Alright, Professor." He obediently sat down, muttering quietly under his breath. The sound was low, but loud enough for the students in the front rows and the sharp-eared Professor to hear.
"I thought a Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts would know a little more... I still have so many questions I wanted to ask..."
This seemingly light remark was the final straw that completely broke Quirrell's already strained nerves.
"Cl-Class dismissed!"
He practically shrieked the two words, then stumbled out of the classroom without looking back, forgetting even his lesson plan, as if Dementors were chasing him.
His panicked escape was three times more wretched than Snape's hobbling walk toward the washroom a few days earlier.