Ch: 109-120
Chapter 109: Truly, Appearances Can Be Deceiving
"No... no... can't... fight..." Quirrell was so anxious he was almost in tears. He waved his hands desperately, his voice trembling like a leaf in the wind, trying to dissuade this group of reckless men blinded by rage.
If they really started a fight, the whole lot of them would have to report to Azkaban tomorrow.
Seeing himself about to be pushed forward as a rebel leader by these hot-headed fools, Quirrellshouted in a moment of desperation: "Everyone—! Listen to me!"
He took a deep breath, squeezing the last bit of air from his lungs, forcing his trembling, cracking voice to carry some semblance of authority.
The clamor of the crowd gradually died down, and pairs of bloodshot eyes all turned to stare at him.
Quirrell tried to straighten his habitually hunched back, attempting to mimic the calm and unhurried demeanor of Dumbledore from his memory.
He pointed out at the messy street outside, his voice deliberately carrying a tone of tragic sorrow.
"Friends... this is their scheme!"
"What do those high-and-mighty lords and ladies fear most? They fear us ordinary Wizards banding together! They fear us finding our own voice!"
He spoke more and more smoothly, nearly moved by his own impromptu speech, his eyes turning red at just the right moment: "That's why they came to provoke us, using the most underhanded methods to enrage us!"
"They want to drag us into the mire of a riot—it's a trap! A blatant trap!"
"If anyone waves a wand today, tomorrow's front page of The Daily Prophet will report 'Thugs Attack Innocent Noblewomen'! By then, the Aurors will throw us all into Azkaban like they're catching gnomes..."
These words were like a bucket of ice water, splashing the hot-headed crowd awake.
Beer bottles and stools were slowly lowered. On the faces of the Wizards looking at each other, the feverish flush faded, replaced by a pale realization of what could have happened and anger at the "enemy's deviousness."
"Merlin's beard... the Professor is right! We almost fell for those women's wicked scheme! How insidious!" A burly man with a thick beard slapped his forehead and threw the stool in his hand back to the ground with a clang. "So what should we do?"
Quirrell let out a secret sigh of relief; he had finally managed to talk these reckless men down.
"Leave this place!"
His voice suddenly rose, the trembling now sounding like a quiver of excitement. He then pointed toward the backyard of the pub—where the fireplace connected to the Floo Network was.
"I... we all must leave. I will return to Ho... Hogwarts! Because Hogwarts will be very safe; they certainly won't have the nerve to come looking for trouble with me right under Dumbledore's nose!"
"Is that just it, then?" the bearded man asked on behalf of everyone, his voice full of reluctance.
Quirrell lifted his chin, a martyr-like solemnity appearing on his face: "I will continue to fight! Fight for the rights of everyone, and speak up for all Wizards who suffer injustice..."
These words spoke directly to everyone's hearts.
"The Professor is right!"
"That makes so much sense! We can't fall for their wicked scheme!"
"Right! Back to Hogwarts! That'll show them!"
"Let's go! We'll escort the Professor back to school!"
...A few minutes later, an absurd scene played out at the Leaky Cauldron.
"Make way! Protect Professor Quirrell!"
"Professor, you go first!"
Quirrell was surrounded by a group of impassioned Wizards, looking like an exiled king guarded by a loyal escort.
They shouted slogans like "Protect the Professor," "Oppose Privilege," and "Down with Monopolies" as they surged toward the backyard fireplace. The scale of it made it look less like they were taking the Floo Network and more like they were going to storm the Ministry of Magic.
When Augusta Longbottom arrived at the Leaky Cauldron with her group of furious noblewomen and guards, they were met only with an empty, trashed pub and the innocent-looking owner, Tom.
"Where are they?!" Augusta's shrill voice nearly lifted the roof off the Leaky Cauldron.
Old Tom shrunk his neck, pointed out the window, and stammered, "Ju... just left... went ba... back to Hogwarts..."
Pandora Sol looked at the mess in the room, her beautiful features twisting with rage: "He... he just ran away?!"
Augusta narrowed her eyes, her wand spinning dangerously between her fingers: "Think you're safe just because you hid back in Hogwarts?"
"Yes, this isn't over..."
...Hogwarts, Slytherin Common Room.
The fire crackled, casting a warm and quiet glow over the silver and green decorations, completely isolating the room from the outside world.
Signas was buried in the sofa, the copy of The Daily Prophet in his hands rustling loudly.
"Pfft—cough, cough, cough!"
The pumpkin juice he had just taken a sip of was all sacrificed to the hem of Daphne's spotless school robes opposite him.
"Sorry, sorry!" He hurriedly pulled out his wand and cast a Scourgify, but the muscles in his face twitched uncontrollably, the corners of his mouth curling up in a wild grin he couldn't suppress.
The magical moving photograph on the front page was truly spectacular.
On the left was the army of Pure-blood noblewomen charging toward the Leaky Cauldron with murderous intent; on the right was Quirrell, "escorted" by a group of burly Wizards, looking "tragic" (actually terrified) as he scrambled into the fireplace.
The best part was the headline written by Rita Skeeter, every letter glowing with a mischievous red light—Felix Felicis Whistleblower—Professor Quirrell Raises the Anti-Pure-blood Banner, Vowing to Fight the Privileged Class to the End!
In the article, Quirrell was depicted as the conscience of the wizarding world. To expose the ugly faces of black-hearted capitalists, he had risked his own safety, and finally, to avoid involving innocent people, he had retreated to the school with tears in his eyes, bearing his humiliation.
Phrases like "the wrath of Pure-blood noblewomen," "the guardian of common Wizards," "the hero pushing through a heavy siege"... Signas suddenly felt something was off.
Putting aside those flamboyant adjectives, the matter itself was problematic—Quirrell, that stuttering Professor who could tremble for half a day if Snape just glared at him in the hallway, where did he get the ability to accurately analyze the unicorn blood content in Felix Felicis?
That was top-tier reverse analysis work in Potions!
Signas now considered himself quite knowledgeable in Potions and knew how insane it was to deduce an exact recipe ratio from a finished product—that required genuine, expert-level Potions mastery.
Yet Quirrell was able to analyze the exact content of unicorn blood.
It was clear he had real talent; his performance in class might just be due to poor expression rather than actual incompetence.
On second thought, it made sense. How could someone as brilliant as Dumbledore choose a total incompetent to serve as the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor?
"Tsk, truly, one cannot judge a person by their appearance..." He stared at Quirrell's face in the photo, which was putting on a look of determination, and the slight contempt he had felt began to recede like the tide.
Chapter 110 – Could the Killing Curse Ruin Your Skin?
What finally stunned Signas was that Professor Quirrell had filed the complaint under his real name, openly defied the Pure-bloods, and delivered a fiery speech at the Leaky Cauldron—nearly coming to blows with those Pure-blood matrons.
This was nothing like the trembling wretch Snape had once cornered in the corridor.
'Absurdity just opened the door for its mother—peak ridiculous.' Signas muttered, fingertips drumming the arm of the sofa.
Had he not known Quirrell was playing host to Lord Voldemort, Signas would have suspected the man was auditioning to be the next Dumbledore.
Eliminating every impossibility, the remaining truth made Signas draw a sharp breath.
Because this time Quirrell had accurately quantified the unicorn blood content.
Even Hogwarts' perpetually sour Potions Master—Dean Snape—wouldn't dare claim he could do the same.
Which meant Professor Quirrell wasn't just a top-tier potioneer in hiding, but a ruthless table-flipper as well.
'A pig pretending to be a tiger…' Signas felt a chill crawl down his spine.
Thinking of this, Signas glanced at his trump card—the resentment-point system inside his head.
Right now the golden progress bar in the centre of the interface was frozen at 1%, as though hit by a Permanent Sticking Charm.
Ever since a global tsunami of Wizard resentment had crashed the wretched thing, the bar had been dead for days.
Signas had tried every trick he could think of—mental pleas, physical head-slaps (nearly giving himself a concussion), even attempting to 'feed' it magic… all useless.
The memory made Signas want to slap himself twice.
Why had he hoarded all those resentment points? He should have spent them the moment he got them, stockpiling the drawn items in his Space Pouch!
Now, with the upgrade gods-knew-when, those points were like savings in a bankrupt bank—visible but untouchable.
'It'll be fine once the upgrade finishes… right?' He could only comfort himself like a ground squirrel guarding an empty granary.
At the end of the day, the real culprit was that damned Quirrell!
Couldn't you just keep stammering through your classes like a good Professor?
If that wasn't enough, you could've focused on stealing the Philosopher's Stone!
Why play dog-catching-mouse, running off to report Felix Felicis!?
Is this the sort of work a follower of Lord Voldemort should be doing?
Fighting Pure-blood privilege? Why not fight half-dead Lord Voldemort instead!
If your scream hadn't flooded the entire Magical World with resentment, would my system have crashed?!
Without that deluge, how would it have entered upgrade mode?
The moment that clicked, Signas' resentment toward Quirrell skyrocketed.
The more he thought, the angrier he grew; his face flickered between gnashing teeth and gloomy despair, the newspaper crumpling in his grip.
Opposite him, Daphne had been observing quietly.
The little Witch had just Scourgified his robe; seeing his expression, she assumed the newspaper's mob scenes had frightened him.
The Wizards in the photo, wands waving and baying to storm the Ministry, did look terrifying.
So far it was the largest conflict since Lord Voldemort's fall.
'Sig?'
The soft voice pulled him out of his resentment spiral. Daphne, finished with his robe, was leaning toward him, pale-blue eyes full of concern.
Signas blinked back. 'Hm?'
'Are you worried about… the protesters outside?'
Her voice was gentle, as though calming a startled cat. 'There's no need. Mother wrote that they'll come to nothing. Hogwarts is safe—Headmaster Dumbledore, all those protective spells…'
She placed a small white hand over his newspaper-clenched fist, her palm warm. 'And if—if there really is trouble, I'll protect you.'
By the last sentence the little Witch's ear-tips were pink, yet her gaze was resolute.
Signas hesitated.
Looking at this Pure-blood heiress, still a girl herself yet trying to build him a safe zone, the gloom from his system crash melted away.
But she had it wrong.
With his current strength, unless Lord Voldemort resurrected on the spot, such a conflict hardly scared him—even at Hogwarts.
Besides, with Dumbledore present, the mob wouldn't reach the castle.
If they did, they'd be after Quirrell; anyone else could keep clear.
'I'm not worried about them,' Signas said, squeezing her small hand and giving a wry smile. 'I'm just thinking… some seemingly honest folk are downright rotten!'
'You mean Professor Quirrell?' Daphne tilted her head.
'Exactly.' Signas ground his molars at the newspaper photo of Quirrell haloed like a saint. 'Looks can deceive. He's being hailed as a hero, but he might be a villain—who knows what crimes he commits in the dark!'
He added silently: And for crashing my system, I'll settle the score sooner or later.
Daphne nodded vaguely; she didn't understand his grudge, but if Signas said it, it must be true.
'So… do you want more pumpkin juice?' She pointed at the empty cup. 'I can fetch a hot one.'
As Signas sipped the fresh pumpkin juice, his mind kept working.
Daphne's interruption had made him wonder: what did Quirrell gain by denouncing 'Felix Felicis'?
He didn't buy the paper's tale of 'righteous indignation'.
If Quirrell were the moral conscience of the Wizarding World, would he have trekked to the Albanian forest for that noseless fellow?
Wait… noseless fellow?
Lord Voldemort?
Signas' hand tightened on the cup.
Could Quirrell's stunt have been… ordered by Voldemort?
But why would Voldemort care about my cosmetic Potion?
Don't tell me he wants to remove spots, smooth wrinkles, lose weight?
Or has casting the Killing Curse too many times ruined his skin?
Wait.
A lightning flash lit up Signas' mind.
What state was Voldemort in now?
A crippled soul, weak and desperate for life force.
And what was inside 'Felix Felicis'?
unicorn blood—said to forcibly extend life, albeit cursed.
'Hss…' Signas hissed.
Voldemort was hunting unicorn blood!
That had to be it…
Chapter 111 – Quirrell Has Sacrificed Too Much for the Cause of Justice
Over the next few days, the debate raging across the Wizarding World only intensified.
Lucius Malfoy's business tactics were as ruthless as they were shrewd—blanket advertising, the Supreme Edition Felix Felicis, and that trendy Happiness Club. His one-two punch hit the market's sore spot with surgical precision.
The market share once held by Brain Elixir, Invigoration Draught, and Beautification Potions collapsed like an avalanche, every last drop swallowed by that tiny silver flask.
Even St. Mungo's let slip that admissions for bizarre weight-loss Potion mishaps had plummeted—everyone had switched to 'detoxing' with Felix Felicis, a brew with far fewer nasty after-effects.
The House of Malfoy reaped both fame and fortune; Galleons gushed into their Gringotts vaults like a river in flood.
Yet this triumph also drove the other Pure-blood families to white-hot fury.
After all, who doesn't have a finger in the Potion trade? Who lacks a few lucrative sidelines?
And now Lucius, preening peacock that he is, had scooped the lot.
Thus an absurd scene unfolded: those Pure-blood lords quietly bankrolled the very anti-Felix, anti-privilege, anti-monopoly groups.
The Daily Prophet ascended to new heights of schizophrenia.
The front page still carried an 'anonymous expert's' grave misgivings about Felix's side effects, hailing Professor Quirrell as 'the conscience of the Wizarding World,' while the lifestyle section overflowed with gaudy advertorials: 'I survived the days I drank only water, thanks to Felix Felicis.'
Mesdames Pandora Sol and Augusta Longbottom ground their teeth in rage, yet could only beat a temporary retreat.
The families and factions behind them refused to stand publicly with the Malfoys.
These outside squabbles fluttered into Hogwarts like Cornish pixies with wings.
Professor Quirrell, the storm's eye, visibly wasted away.
His already pallid face now looked whitewashed, eyes sunken, body so gaunt a breeze might carry him off—yet somehow he stayed on his feet.
He clutched the lectern with trembling hands, gaze darting, forever on the verge of collapse—but never quite falling.
Students whispered that, ever since he denounced the Potion by name, the Malfoys and certain 'dark forces' had cursed him in revenge.
Professor Snape's expression grew darker still.
He swept through the dungeon corridor, black robes roiling like storm clouds, the temperature plummeting in his wake.
The Golden Trio, however, interpreted the scene in their own way.
Look,' Harry whispered from behind a one-eyed Witch statue, pointing at Snape's retreating back. 'He's like a viper that's just been trodden on—our plan is working; Felix sales must be hurting!'
Ron, mouth crammed with Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, nodded vigorously. 'See how Quirrell's wasted away… Merlin, he's sacrificed too much for justice.'
Hermione mused, 'Maybe we should support him—at least morally.'
Henceforth, whenever Harry passed Quirrell in the corridor he would pause, lift his head, and bestow a smile at once encouraging, warm, and tinged with tragedy.
The look seemed to say, 'Hold on, Professor—I understand!'
Ron and Hermione urged the others to stop mocking Quirrell's stutter.
Yet each time Quirrell caught that gaze he jumped as though struck by lightning, wore the expression of someone simultaneously constipated and terrified, tightened his scarf, and fled.
He's so moved he can't face our support,' Harry concluded with perfect faith.
Signas happened by, watched the scene, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
What are you lot…?' he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Harry glanced around, then whispered, 'Sig, Professor Quirrell's having such a hard time…'
Hard?!
Indeed.
Signas watched Quirrell stumble ahead, certain the man was again playing the pig to devour the tiger.
Ah, indeed…' he nodded meaningfully. 'Professor Quirrell is… "remarkable".'
Exactly!' Ron slapped his thigh. 'Even Sig says so—it must be true!
Signas looked at the three lion-cubs duped by Quirrell's act and silently lit a candle for the man.
To be deemed a 'protected ally' by the Savior—such fortune would move even Lord Voldemort to tears.
But events galloped off in the opposite direction the trio expected.
Felix Felicis did not slump after the exposé; sales soared higher.
Harry was dumbstruck.
It shattered every rule he'd learned in the Muggle world.
There, once a fraud was unmasked, the product vanished, fines rained down, and the owners went to prison—didn't they?
In the library the crackling fire cast flickering light over Harry's stormy face.
He clutched a crumpled copy of The Daily Prophet as though it were Voldemort's nose.
This is insane!'
He slammed the freshly delivered paper onto the table.
The front page showed Gilderoy Lockhart's trademark eight-tooth grin, a flask of Supreme Edition Felix glittering under the flash.
I can't believe people swallow this! 'Lose weight effortlessly, reshape your body'? It's a Laxative—that's fraud…' Harry's face was scarlet.
Ron, wrestling a grey Bertie Bott bean, nodded so hard the sweet shot down his throat and set him coughing.
Exactly! Mum writes that her old cronies greet each other with 'Done your detox today?' Merlin's beard, half the world believes this rubbish!
Hermione sat on the hearthrug, frowning over the latest issue of Witch Weekly.
Look, Harry, Ron—here.' She tapped a tiny paragraph. 'Professor Cassbert Morag's analysis concedes Felix does contain unicorn blood—trace amounts—but that unique fusion really can create a "radiant vitality" effect.'
Ron snorted. 'I bet the "radiance" is just delirium from dehydration!'
Precisely!' Harry said. 'Why does the Wizarding World fall for obvious scams? Is everyone blind?
Hermione closed the magazine with a sigh. 'But the photos in The Daily Prophet show real witches looking… glowing. And the Ministry's official report found no toxicity or side effects.'
It's all fake! Snape and the Malfoys must've paid a fortune!' Ron declared, punching the air—just like Fred and George flogging their joke wares.
As the trio ranted that Felix was trash, Sig overheard every word.
Calling his Potion garbage?
Unacceptable.
He snapped his book shut, strolled over, and parked himself on the sofa arm beside Harry, leaning in just enough to loom.
What lively chatter,' Sig purred, tail-stepped cat evident. 'Mind repeating the bits about trash and shoddy workmanship—for my benefit?
Chapter 112: 'Felix Felicis' is Far More Advanced Than You Think
The three of them jumped in surprise, and their conversation instantly ceased.
They hadn't expected Signas to hear their "whispers" and suddenly join in.
"Oh, Sig..." A hint of awkwardness flashed across Harry's face as he explained, "We... we were just talking about that fraudulent 'Felix Felicis' advertisement. Don't you think that stuff is... a bit shoddy?"
Signas raised an eyebrow, ignoring the comment, and instead slowly countered, "Shoddy? I heard The Daily Prophet is practically praising it as Merlin's gift—'The safest slimming Potion in the Wizarding World, bar none'?"
As soon as he said this, Ron immediately scoffed, "Come on, isn't that just a high-grade Laxative!"
Signas smiled noncommittally, his expression profound, and his gaze slowly swept across the three faces: "Then do you know what precious ingredients are in 'Felix Felicis'?"
Harry shrugged without hesitation: "Who doesn't know? unicorn blood. But Potion Master Cassbert Morag said the content is almost negligible. It's like a strand of hair that fell into Mrs. Weasley's stew."
"Negligible?" Signas sneered, his laugh carrying a hint of mockery. "That's because you fundamentally don't understand the true function of unicorn blood. That substance is far more than just 'prolonging life'."
He leaned forward again, deliberately lowering his voice, his eyes becoming unfathomable: "It nourishes the soul—do you understand? The soul."
The moment the word "soul" left his mouth, the crackling sound of the hearth fire in the Common Roomseemed to quiet down considerably.
It was well known that in the Magical World, anything involving the soul was never ordinary.
"This means," Signas's voice dropped further, "as long as you have a breath left and your soul hasn't completely shattered, unicorn blood can act like an invisible spider silk, desperately clinging to your life. Even if you have one foot in the world of the dead, it can drag you back for a while."
Prolonging life? Nourishing the soul? Sustaining life?
These words hit Harry, Ron, and Hermione like three heavy punches, leaving them stunned.
Ron's eyes were wide and round, and his expression translated to: I don't quite understand, but it sounds... incredibly powerful.
Hermione's delicate eyebrows were tightly locked together.
As a "Miss Know-It-All," she certainly knew that unicorn blood had the effect of prolonging life. But no official book had ever mentioned that unicorn blood could touch upon areas like "nourishing the soul" or "sustaining vitality," which were typically only associated with Dark Arts.
But immediately afterward, Hermione's scholarly mindset allowed her to grasp the key point. The Unicorns currently existing in the world were few and far between; there had been no circulation of their blood on the market for many years, and related research had stagnated.
Most Wizards' understanding of it remained stuck on the vague records found in ancient texts from centuries ago. What Sig said counted as highly advanced knowledge.
Harry's reaction, however, was the most intense of the three.
"Sustaining life..." he muttered to himself, his face flickering between light and shadow in the reflection of the hearth fire.
Signas took in the trio's reactions and nodded contentedly.
"So," he folded his arms, leaning back against the armrest, and summarized in a deliberately profound tone, "do you still think 'Felix Felicis' is trash? It is far more advanced than you think..."
Having finished speaking, he smugly patted Harry's stiff shoulder, then left the dumbfounded trio and returned to his own seat to continue flipping through *The Culinary Secrets of Magical Plants*.
The flames in the fireplace crackled, and the Common Room fell into a deathly silence.
Signas's seemingly light words, however, were like giant boulders cast into the lake of Harry's heart, stirring up huge waves.
Nourishing the soul... sustaining life... Harry felt his breathing stop, his blood seeming to freeze at that moment.
He thought of the person whose name he dared not speak, the murderer who killed his parents.
"Hermione..." Harry's voice was dry. He turned to look at his friend, his emerald green eyes filled with unprecedented solemnity and horror. "Have you... have you ever thought... unicorn blood... sustaining life... could this be..."
Before he finished speaking, Hermione instantly reacted.
She suddenly covered her mouth with both hands, her intelligent eyes wide and round, filled with disbelief.
"Boom—"
Harry felt all the blood in his body rush "buzzing" to his head.
He suddenly sprang up from the soft sofa like a trapped beast in a cage, pacing nervously back and forth on the small wool rug, muttering incessantly, "I knew it, I knew it..."
Snape's coldness, Quirrell's fear, the restricted area on the Fourth Floor corridor, Cerberus... countless fragmented clues were linked together by a flash of lightning, piecing together a terrifying truth.
"That's right! It must be!" Harry abruptly stopped, clenching his fists tightly, his knuckles turning white from the excessive force. "I understand everything now!"
Ron was startled by his possessed appearance; the chocolate frog he hadn't had time to chew leaped out of his mouth with a "croak," landing right on his nose.
"Hey!" Ron frantically grabbed the chocolate frog, forgetting to eat it. "What... what did you figure out?"
He looked at Harry and Hermione, who had expressions like the sky was falling, yet he was still completely bewildered, feeling like an audience member who had wandered onto the wrong set.
Harry's face was flushed with excitement. He grabbed Ron's arm and leaned close to his ear, speaking rapidly in a voice that was almost a whisper, yet slightly trembling from agitation.
"Think carefully! Who is Snape? He is a Potion Master! He must know the true function of unicorn blood! His initial plan wasn't the Philosopher's Stone at all, but to use unicorn blood to resurrect that person!"
"But Headmaster Dumbledore is right here in the school, and the Unicorns in the Forbidden Forestmust be guarded closely, so he had no chance to gather enough blood!" Hermione followed Harry's line of thought, her voice also extremely low, but her speech was as fast as chanting a spell. "That's why he set his sights on the Philosopher's Stone!"
Ron seemed to understand a little now.
Harry looked at his stunned expression and continued, "But the resurrection ritual definitely requires other expensive materials, so Snape took the unicorn blood he had already collected and used it to make 'Felix Felicis' to raise funds!"
"Merlin's beard!" Ron suddenly realized, slapping his thigh. "I get it! So that night, Snape threatened Professor Quirrell in the Forbidden Forest not just because of the Felix Felicis issue, but because of the Philosopher's Stone! He wanted to force poor Professor Quirrell to steal the Philosopher's Stone for him!"
"Exactly right!" Harry nodded heavily.
The more they talked, the more seamless it felt; all the clues connected perfectly, and a shocking conspiracy involving Snape and Lord Voldemort slowly unfolded before them.
The logic was a perfect closed loop!
"So... what do we do now?" After a brief moment of excitement, Ron's voice began to tremble.
This wasn't playing Wizards Chess in the Common Room; they were facing the Dark Lord whose name could not be spoken, and a ruthless Snape.
Harry clenched his fists, an unprecedented flame of determination burning in his green eyes: "We must stop him! We absolutely cannot let him succeed!"
"But we are just students. How can we stop a Professor?" Hermione worried.
Harry was silent for a moment, his gaze involuntarily falling back onto The Daily Prophet on the table.
Professor Quirrell's "melancholy and resolute" face now appeared especially imposing.
Chapter 113 – Investigate Lucius Malfoy First
Ministry of Magic, Office
Late at night, the emergency meeting had just ended. Senior undersecretaries, department heads, and their assistants filed out, leaving the current Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, slumped alone in the wide leather chair.
Fudge felt wretched.
For months the peace of the Wizarding World had been under Crucio—no good news at all.
First, the craze for Felix Felicis touched off a string of muggings; then a Diagon Alley warehouse was robbed in broad daylight.
Not long ago the potion's fans rioted in the Leaky Cauldron and nearly struck a Hogwarts Professor. The Daily Prophet and the gutter press had feasted, roasting him without mercy.
Robberies Surge—Where Is Minister Fudge?
Fudge's Midterm Report: Dark Wizard Activity Soars!
Yes or No? We Chose 'Or'—Minister Fudge
Crisis Response? Awaiting Minister Fudge's Reply to Dumbledore…
Since taking office, Fudge had heard only louder doubts.
And now—disaster.
The Auror Office had received an anonymous letter claiming someone meant to resurrect the Wizardwhose name no one dared speak.
Fudge's fingers trembled as he reread the brief report, willing the words to rearrange themselves into a different story.
Threats like this were common enough; the Wizarding World bred lunatics. Every other year some Dark Wizard declared himself the new Dark Lord, and Fudge would merely grimace.
The problem was, the accused were no ordinary madmen.
The plotters named were Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape.
Neither man could be dismissed as a crank.
The Malfoy Family was an old, powerful house with deep roots and deeper connections.
Now, buoyed by Felix Felicis, Lucius had founded the Happiness Club, packed with idle, wealthy witches whose influence could not be ignored.
Severus Snape was worse—Dumbledore's man, his trusted agent.
Fudge had slipped into office during the vacuum left by Barty Crouch and Dumbledore's rivalry. Short on prestige, he needed the Headmaster's backing.
If he hauled Snape in without warning, the greatest Wizard alive might turn against him.
Given the chance, Dumbledore could boot him from the Ministry.
Yet how could he ignore the letter? Inaction would only confirm every accusation.
And what if it were true?
Twelve years had passed since the Dark Lord fell; his followers were dead or in Azkaban.
Only a handful escaped justice—among them, the letter claimed, Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape.
Lucius had spent a fortune, pulling strings until he passed off his crimes as the result of Imperio.
Snape had been vouched for by Dumbledore himself: a spy planted inside You-Know-Who's circle.
But both had been Death Eaters, servants of the Dark Lord.
Who could swear they were innocent now?
Fudge dared not gamble; madmen are unpredictable.
A sudden whoosh—green flames roared up the grate and a tall figure stepped calmly from the fire.
He wore star-spangled midnight robes; half-moon spectacles framed grave blue eyes.
He moved with quiet authority, as though the office were his own.
Headmaster Dumbledore!
Fudge jerked upright like a startled cat.
With Dumbledore refusing every contact, Fudge had sent his secretary Percival Busby racing to Hogwarts.
The Minister always felt inadequate before the old Wizard; without Dumbledore's refusal to rule, he would never have held this post.
Good evening, Minister. Tell me what has happened, Dumbledore said, voice gentle but hoarse from sleep.
Fudge composed himself. Percival has outlined the situation… We've only just received the letter; no inquiry has begun.
He pushed both the anonymous note and the Aurors' preliminary report across the desk.
We're deciding how to proceed with minimal disruption…
He paused, hoping for support: After all, Mr. Lucius Malfoy and Professor Severus Snape are not ordinary citizens.
Where did the letter come from? Dumbledore asked evenly, eyes scanning the parchment.
Still tracing it. An owl delivered it; by the time staff read the thing, it had flown north, Fudge said.
An owl? Dumbledore lifted an eyebrow. It sounded like a prank. What does the Ministry intend?
Fudge watched anxiously for the slightest flicker of reaction.
He wanted to move on Snape first. The letter painted him as ringleader: using Felix Felicis to raise funds, plotting to steal the Philosopher's Stone. A search of his office would silence critics, even if nothing were found.
Why not investigate Lucius Malfoy first? Dumbledore asked, voice still calm.
Fudge opened his mouth—and froze.
Why?
Because Lucius was entangled everywhere.
That peacock's web stretched through the Ministry; the Happiness Club counted hundreds of fanatical witches.
They had nearly mobbed Professor Quirrell in the Leaky Cauldron for questioning their potion.
Move against Lucius and those fanatics might riot.
Snape, by contrast, was merely a school Professor; with Dumbledore's consent the risk was smaller.
But how could he admit it?
To say so would confess he feared Lucius Malfoy more than Dumbledore.
Er… ha-ha, Fudge chuckled, fumbling a cigar between plump fingers.
That was only the Aurors' first suggestion—brutes who think with their fists. Their notions are, well, rather crude. You agree it would be unwise?
He rushed on, desperate to appear in accord. Actually, my own view is to look into Lucius Malfoy first…
Chapter 114 – I really am a political genius.
Ministry of Magic, Minister's Office.
Morning sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, casting a few pale shafts across the room; the air still carried the dull aftermath of last night's meeting and the bitter tang of coffee.
Cornelius Fudge sat behind his broad desk, fingers drumming nervously on the polished wood.
His naturally round face looked even puffier than usual, eyes baggy from a sleepless night.
Knock! Knock!
The office door was struck with a crisp, forceful sound that brooked no delay.
'Come in!' Fudge snapped upright, scrambling to project ministerial authority.
The door swung open to admit a stocky wizard whose hair was cropped as short as a wire brush.
He wore the crisp dark uniform of an Auror, jawline sharp, gaze as keen as a bared blade.
It was Rufus Scrimgeour, head of the Auror Office within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
'Good morning, Minister.' Scrimgeour's voice matched the man—gravel-rough, direct, metallic.
He strode to the desk without wasted motion and slapped a rolled parchment down. 'The surveillance and search warrant for Severus Snape—drafted. Just needs your signature.'
Clearly, he too had worked through the night.
Fudge regarded the parchment as though it were a venomous serpent; his eyelid twitched. Clearing his throat, he slid the roll aside with stiff fingers.
'A-hem, Rufus,' he intoned, striving for calm, measured statesmanship, 'regarding this… I gave it further thought last night. Our approach must change.'
'Change?' Scrimgeour blinked. 'Minister, last night's emergency meeting settled it—we prioritise Snape. He's peripheral, the easiest breach.'
'That was only a preliminary consensus!' Fudge's voice rose involuntarily, loudness masking his unease.
He flapped a plump hand. 'You must understand, as Minister I must view matters from a broader, more strategic perspective…'
Scrimgeour's brows knotted; he had no patience for bureaucratic fog. 'Minister, I'm no politician. Snape's an ex-Death Eater, the letter names him ringleader—who else do we investigate?'
'Snape is different—he's a war hero vouched for by Dumbledore himself! Move against him without solid proof and imagine the fallout!' Fudge's fist thumped the desk.
Scrimgeour fell silent. A man of action, he loathed these political hesitations; suspicion meant investigation—simple.
Seeing the Auror's mulish expression, Fudge grew irritated but softened his tone, feigning confidential camaraderie.
'Listen, Rufus. Shift targets—look at Lucius Malfoy! Consider: Lucius was likewise branded a Death Eater, accused of even more than Snape. Surely his guilt is likelier!'
'What?' Scrimgeour's eyes bulged. 'Minister, you can't be serious? Going after him is a hundred times worse than poking a Norwegian Ridgeback nest! The Happiness Club harpies alone will barricade our doors!'
He grew heated. 'And his Pure-blood web—once stirred we'll drown in pleas, complaints, hearings! We're short-staffed as it is!'
'All irrelevant!' Fudge felt suddenly Dumbledore-possessed: eloquent, brilliant, crystal-clear. 'Precisely because his connections are tangled, he's suspect!'
'Think: the anonymous letter claims they're amassing resurrection funds via Felix Felicis. Follow that money and evidence practically surfaces itself!'
'We start with the Felix accounts—sources, ingredients, revenues—out in the open, far simpler than raiding a Potions Professor's office inside Hogwarts!'
Scrimgeour, reeling from this sophistry, still pinpointed the snag: 'But Minister, seizing Felix Feliciscould create a massive uproar.'
'Exactly why we must! It proves the Ministry fears no one—wields its sword against all! Imagine the public approval, Rufus—eyes on the horizon!'
Scrimgeour was speechless, watching the Minister rave like a one-man farce.
Last night this same man had dodged the very idea of touching Malfoy; now, overnight, he was hell-bent on the toughest bone.
'Still—' Scrimgeour tried once more.
'No stills!' Fudge cut him off with an imperious sweep. 'Decision made! Cancel the Snape operation, assemble a task-force, investigate Lucius Malfoy—start with Felix Felicis! Today I want results!'
Scrimgeour's lips twitched, then yielded. Further argument was pointless; the Minister would ram head-first into the wall.
'…Yes, Minister.' He snapped a stiff salute and marched out.
As the door slammed, the heroic mask slid from Fudge's face like wax; deflated, he sagged into his chair.
He pressed a hand to his racing heart and exhaled.
That should satisfy Dumbledore. As for Lucius—let it drag, plenty of noise, little rain, a few months of theatre!
Fudge drummed the desk, envisioning loud raids on accounts, ingredients, sales—maximum fanfare for The Daily Prophet: 'Minister Fudge acts on Felix fears!'
But only theatre—invite Mr. Malfoy for cordial talks and fine food; surely he'd oblige.
Warn the Malfoy Family, court Pure-blood rivals—two birds with one stone!
If nothing surfaced, no feathers ruffled.
Yet if something did emerge, plonk it before Dumbledore—how could he object? Proof of competence!
Fudge smiled, a self-satisfied curve at his lips.
He really was a political genius!
Chapter 115 – Rich-Heir Draco's Father Has Been Taken In.
Hogwarts Castle, Slytherin Common Room.
If he overlooked the system crash, Signas had actually had a smooth term.
Under his unorthodox coaching, the Slytherin Quidditch team crushed Ravenclaw; the House Cup was virtually in the bag.
And the Felix Felicis trade had survived its frights.
Signas's first worry had been side-effects. Ministry law required every licensed Potion to list them on the bottle.
The dainty silver flasks of Felix Felicis stated in florid script: "Prolonged use may lead to mild addiction."
But he had underestimated Wizards' hunger for beauty—and their tolerance for "side-effects."
In the Magical World, mere "addiction" didn't even make the danger list; beside Potions that sprouted tentacles or dyed skin, this was a wonder-drug.
After Professor Quirrell reported the unicorn blood content, the row had dragged on, yet sales stayed red-hot, breeding a huge, loyal clientele.
The press even hailed Felix Felicis as "the safest slimming Potion ever brewed."
But that luck had finally run out.
News broke: the Ministry was investigating the Malfoy Family. Lucius himself had reportedly been "invited" to the Ministry for tea by the Auror Office.
Sales of Felix Felicis in Diagon Alley were suspended overnight.
At first it sounded like a rumor born of pure-blood envy, but seeing Draco Malfoy slouch like a frost-bitten eggplant silenced every doubt.
His gel-slicked platinum hair now hung lank, hiding his ashen face.
He sat like a puppet stripped of arrogance, mutely confirming every whisper.
"Told you the Malfoys would crash," Theodore Nott drawled from a sofa, loud enough for everyone to hear, relish all over his face.
Blaise Zabini, chatting with older students, grinned ear to ear.
Pansy Parkinson's pug face brimmed with vicious delight.
She folded her arms and shrilled, "Look at him—still thinks he's Slytherin's prince? Daddy's in trouble; what's left to flaunt?"
Signas and Daphne flanked Draco like two breakwaters against the tide of spite.
"Don't worry," Daphne murmured, tension threading her voice. "I've written Mother; I'll tell you the moment I hear."
Signas patted Draco's rigid shoulder, equally baffled.
Until now, the Ministry had stayed out of the Felix Felicis fuss; legally, the Potion was spotless.
With Lucius pulling strings, the Ministry had even helped squash slanderous gossip sheets.
Now, without warning, a top-level investigation had opened.
What had changed?
Daphne's comfort rang hollow; she had no answers herself.
That night she Flo-called her mother and, instead of clear counsel, received cryptic warnings to stay clear.
The dormitory fell silent; Signas could hear muffled sobs from behind Draco's heavy curtains, on and on.
He rolled over, at a loss for words. Draco feared not today, but tomorrow—when all Hogwarts would see him powerless.
How would former admirers—and latent enemies—look at him then?
Next morning: Potions class.
As Signas, Daphne and Draco entered the dungeon, every eye snapped to Draco like filings to a magnet.
Once he had swept in, basking in pure-blood homage.
Now he was a target of ridicule even for Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff pure-bloods.
Inside Slytherin, mockery was open.
Whistles and theatrical cheers dogged his steps, celebrating the fall of the golden House of Malfoy.
Kicking a man when he's down is common in the Magical World—only crueller.
Only Signas and Daphne walked beside him, shielding him from the stares.
For two weeks their little group suffered. Though Signas and Daphne endured only back-stab gossip, they were mocked for befriending a "has-been."
Signas didn't care; he slipped into the Forbidden Forest and harvested the first crop of Honesty Beans.
Half he left for the beautiful Unicorn; around the great oak he carefully replanted a ring of new seeds.
When he finished, only a small pouch of beans remained in his pocket.
Returning alone, he heard furtive voices ahead in a classroom.
He recognised Quirrell's voice.
"No… I can't… Severus, please!"
Signas frowned; hurried footsteps approached the door.
As he braced for collision, a hand materialised from the dark and yanked him aside…
Chapter 116 – Taking the Report All the Way
The hand was cold and gaunt, its grip impossible to resist.
Signas felt the world go black as an unseen force dragged him into a slick, freezing darkness.
The air around him turned warm and cramped, thick with the scent of wool carpet and yellowed pages.
Before he could gasp, a second hand clamped over his mouth like lightning.
In the gloom, a pair of familiar emerald eyes bored into his, tight with panic.
It was Harry Potter!
Signas glanced down; something silky clung to them, nearly invisible yet like a slice of space cut away.
Incredible!
As Signas opened his mouth, Harry pressed a finger to his lips and mouthed, "Shh."
He eased the edge of the Invisibility Cloak lower, and the two huddled, frightened as quail, backs pressed to the cold stone, scarcely breathing.
The classroom door burst open; Quirrell stumbled out.
His face was bloodless, even his forehead etched with worry-lines too old for his years. The violet turban atop his head sat askew as he fled toward his office like a ghost.
Yet as he passed the Cloak, brushing its hem, the reek of garlic made Harry's hair bristle.
Convinced they'd gone unnoticed, they froze when Quirrell paused and glanced back toward the Cloak.
Signas felt Harry's skin crawl with gooseflesh, but Quirrell merely shrugged and hurried on.
When his footsteps faded, the two peered into the classroom; it stood empty, save for the far door ajar.
Harry flung the Cloak off.
Both of them drank in the corridor air in grateful gulps.
"Did you hear that?" Harry's cheeks blazed; his fists clenched, voice trembling with bottled fury. "You heard—Snape's forcing Professor Quirrell, he's working for Him…'
Signas stared, blank. "???"
Harry remembered—Signas didn't know any of this.
He thought a moment, then decided to share what they'd uncovered; after all, Signas had helped him find Nicolas Flamel last time.
"What? So you're the one who reported the Felix Felicis?" Signas's jaw dropped.
"That's nothing. We still have to stop Snape from stealing the Philosopher's Stone—and the plan will work perfectly…"
Harry, mistaking Signas's shock for awe, waved modestly and pressed on.
The more Signas heard, the more stunned he became.
So the whole mess was the doing of the Savior standing before him—Harry Potter.
Quirrell had nearly been hexed, his own system had crashed, and Draco's father had been hauled away!
The protagonist's power level was off the charts.
Worse, the Savior thought he hadn't done enough—Snape still walked free, and the Ministry turned a blind eye to the Dark Wizard.
"Signas, why aren't you saying anything?" Harry asked, urgent, noticing the silence beside him. "You saw—Snape's the villain! We have to stop him!"
Signas met those eyes blazing with righteous fire; his brain blue-screened for three full seconds.
What could he possibly say?
Tell these little lions they had it backwards?
That the "pitiful Professor" they'd sworn to protect carried a nose-less Dark Lord on the back of his head, scheming to steal the stone and return?
"Uh… er…" Signas croaked, gaze complicated.
He chose a softer tack, trying to steer the runaway lion back on course.
"Harry… what if things aren't as simple as they look?" he ventured, careful. "Maybe a certain Professoris… a better actor than you think."
He weighted the words "certain Professor" and "actor" as heavily as he dared.
To him, the hint was obvious.
Harry, however, operated on an entirely different wavelength.
"Exactly!" Harry clapped his hands, delighted. "I knew it! That bat Snape's been acting all along—he's fooled everyone, even Dumbledore…"
Signas: "…"
He felt a Forbidden Forest-thick wall of cognitive dissonance between them.
"No, I meant—"
"I get it!" Harry cut in, seizing Signas's shoulders and shaking him. "You're saying Snape's disguise is so perfect he might have hoodwinked Headmaster Dumbledore, so we can't lower our guard. Don't worry—I've got a plan…"
Signas gave up.
He stared at the over-enthused, crimson-cheeked Savior and felt his soul leave his body.
Just end it already.
"The anonymous letter last time wasn't enough!" Harry hissed, indignant. "The Ministry didn't touch Snape—must've thought an unsigned note wasn't weighty enough…"
Signas's eyelid twitched; a bad premonition bloomed.
"What are you going to do?"
"We write another letter!" Harry's eyes blazed. "But not anonymous—this time we use Professor Quirrell's name!"
Signas felt his temples throb.
Had he heard right? Forge Quirrell's name to expose Snape?
The Savior wouldn't rest until Snape was behind bars.
"Think about it," Harry rattled on, oblivious to Signas's horror. "I'll write everything I saw, sign it as Professor Quirrell—how Snape threatened him, forced him to steal the Philosopher's Stone. The Ministry will summon Quirrell, and Snape's plot will come to light…"
Signas gaped, finally managing, "…Harry, you're a genius."
Harry's plan was backwards, yet if the Ministry hauled Quirrell in, Voldemort might surface anyway—a fortunate misfire.
"I knew you'd agree!" Beaming, Harry slapped Signas's shoulder. "Can't wait—see you later, Signas!"
With that, Harry swept up the Cloak and sprinted back toward the Gryffindor Common Room, cloak fluttering like a banner of justice.
Signas stood alone in the drafty corridor, wind whipping his hair.
He pressed fingers to his temples; chaos was coming. Would Voldemort be exposed? Would Aurors duel him here in three-hundred-move battles? "Whatever," he muttered. "Not my problem."
All he wanted now was to check on poor Draco—collateral damage of the Savior's crusade.
His father would be fine; he'd be out soon.
As for the Savior's grand scheme—when the sky fell, the tall ones would hold it up.
And the tallest figure at Hogwarts sat in the Principal's office.
Chapter 117: Quirrell Actually Has Real Skill, Enough to Be Called a Master
The next day, March began, and the wind over the Scottish Highlands already carried the warmth of spring.
The ceiling of the Hogwarts Great Hall showed a clear, bright blue, with a few white clouds drifting lazily across.
The shadow of final exams was already looming; far more than the brilliant sunshine outside, the shadows cast by the Professors' assignments piled up, forcing everyone to spend more time among the musty parchment heaps in the library.
Astronomy star charts made one dizzy, Herbology Bubotuber pus splattered everywhere, and in History of Magic Class Professor Binns's monotonous voice was even more insufferable.
Signas sat at a corner of the Slytherin table, a plate of cold bacon in front of him.
He had no appetite; the system-upgrade progress bar was still stuck at one percent.
'Draco, you should eat something.' Daphne pushed a small piece of jam-smeared bread toward Draco.
Yet Draco Malfoy's state was worse: his trademark platinum hair, once impeccably groomed, now lay tousled across his forehead.
His already pale cheeks had hollowed, showing an unhealthy bluish tinge, and he looked weighed down by worry.
'I can't eat,' Draco said hoarsely, staring blankly at the empty plate.
It had been several days since Lucius was taken away for investigation, and the Malfoy Family's owls had delivered no more expensive sweets or extravagant packages.
At the far end of the table, Pansy Parkinson was whispering and laughing with a few older girls, casting malicious glances this way from time to time.
Most of the little snakes who once orbited Draco now chose to keep their distance.
'Let's go, time for class.' Signas stood, picking up Draco's leather schoolbag.
This lesson was Defense Against the Dark Arts, Slytherin and Gryffindor together.
When Sig and Draco entered the classroom, they were met not by the usual overwhelming reek of garlic but by a strange, solemn silence.
The silence made Signas's eyelids twitch.
Inside, the Gryffindor lions were already seated in perfect rows—something that used to be unthinkable; normally they would be loudly discussing Quidditch or whatever Ron had broken this time.
Now, the trio of Harry, Ron and Hermione sat front-row center, straight-backed as though attending a master's lecture.
Harry in particular: those emerald eyes glittered with a certain light, fixed on the teacher's desk.
As Signas walked past, Harry even surreptitiously clenched a fist and gave Signas an 'all-under-control' look.
Signas nearly tripped.
Bro, do you realize you've turned a lurking Dark Lord into a folk hero?
Thanks to the earlier 'tip-off incident', Quirrell's image among students had changed dramatically.
To those little Wizards brainwashed by The Daily Prophet, Quirrell was no longer the stammering wreck but a lone hero willing to offend pure-blood magnates to expose capitalist dark secrets.
'Look, Professor's scarf is tied so neatly today,' a Hufflepuff girl in the back murmured, voice tinged with admiration. 'The Malfoy Family must be pressuring him so much that he can only relieve stress this way... he's having such a hard time.'
Signas's teeth ached at the words. He turned his head to see Pansy Parkinson pointing fingers at Draco.
'Ignore her.' Daphne gave Pansy a cold glance and pulled Draco to the seat behind Signas.
Just then the classroom door opened and Quirrell stepped onto the platform with a gait that looked almost light—though to Harry it seemed 'heroic'.
He wore a deep-purple robe today and did look more spirited, even the creases on his forehead reduced.
Professor Quirrell reached the desk. Still timid, he waved his wand and wrote large words on the blackboard: Repelling Charms and Defensive Mechanisms.
'T-today we will discuss Repelling Charms,' Quirrell began, voice still trembling but far clearer. 'This... this is not simply shooing away something dirty, but an... an art of space and will.'
In the past, whispers would already have broken out, perhaps even Peeves making faces outside the window.
Now the class was utterly silent; dozens of wands snapped out in perfect unison, making Signaswonder if he'd walked into an Auror boot camp.
Quirrell clearly startled, his scarf-wrapped neck shrinking as he glanced uncertainly over the students, finally settling on Harry in the front row.
Harry was nodding vigorously, eyes seeming to say: Professor, we support you; Snape won't be strutting much longer.
Signas covered his face in pain.
'Th-thank you,' Quirrell replied dryly. He turned to write on the board, hand shaking worse than usual.
Signas stared at the back of Quirrell's head—at that tightly wrapped scarf.
He suddenly imagined that if, at this very moment, Voldemort hiding behind it were to throw off the scarf and give these adoring little Wizards his trademark terrifying laugh, the scene would be spectacular.
Pity—Voldemort had no such leisure.
"Sig." Draco called softly from behind, his voice barely a whisper, "Do you think… my father will really be all right? My mother told me Grandfather's reached out to loads of friends, but none of them dare get involved—some can't even be reached…"
Signas turned and met Draco's eyes, bright with dread and hope.
He glanced at Quirrell and Harry ahead, then ruffled Draco's messy hair.
"Don't worry, Draco. Your father will be fine," Signas murmured, certainty in his voice steadying as stone.
Draco blinked, eyes reddening, and nodded hard.
"S-so… does anyone know the core… the core element of an Exorcism Charm?" Unused to so solemn a classroom, Quirrell stammered like a string about to snap.
Normally no one answered his questions—some even mocked his stutter—but the moment he finished, a sharp swish sounded as Hermione's arm shot up, ramrod-straight.
"M-Miss Granger?"
"Professor!" Hermione rose. "Per the third chapter of Advanced Counter-Curse Compendium, an Exorcism Charm rests on three points. First, the caster's unbreakable will must completely overwhelm the possessing spirit's mind; second, precise understanding of spatial magic, because—"
She rattled off a long paragraph, crystal-clear and flawlessly logical, virtually reciting the textbook verbatim.
At the lectern, Quirrell's pale cheeks flushed faintly after the initial shock; his usually restless eyes held a glimmer of approval—he clearly relished the attention.
"V-very… very good, Miss Granger," he stammered, voice louder than before. "T-ten points to Gryffindor!"
The brief exchange flipped a switch.
With Hermione as the perfect foil, Quirrell's lecture visibly improved.
He no longer droned from the book; he paused to add details absent from the pages, voice trembling in its unique way.
Signas raised a brow. Once Quirrell slipped into teaching, the deep-rooted self-abasementgave way to professional confidence.
"Watch closely." Quirrell lifted his wand and traced the air.
A pale-gold ring rippled from the tip; the classroom air freshened, even the corner dust seeming purified.
"Exorcism, Muggle-Repelling, Banishing… to beginners they look alike, but their underlying logics differ completely."
He began dissecting spells on the blackboard, stripping Latin roots and sketching mana flow with clean lines.
"Banishing dissolves—like untangling yarn; Exorcism repels. It locates unstable nodes in Dark-magicresidue and—bang!"
He mimed an explosion; soft gasps rippled through the room.
Signas listened intently.
Quirrell's material ran deep, even touching on spell homology.
He compared Exorcism with ancient Dark curses like Imperio, explaining how they could shift within the same incantation matrix.
Such theoretical depth lay far beyond an average Professor, revealing solid scholarship.
Quirrell grew smoother, his stammer fading altogether.
Now he radiated erudition, citing third-century-BCE Egyptian hieroglyphs and medieval witch-hunts with casual mastery.
"Remember, wand oscillation frequency sets intensity. For a Boggart you need firm will; for stronger entities, calculation!"
He chalked up a string of complex equations.
"That is the beauty of spellcraft. It isn't sentimental—it's rational."
The bell chimed; for an instant silence fell, so deep the wind brushing the Castle stones outside could be heard.
Then scattered clapping started, igniting like a fuse into roaring waves.
Crack-crack-crack—
Applause thundered on and on.
Gryffindors leapt up, cheeks red, clapping with all their might, eyes shining with admiration.
Harry Potter led the charge, palms reddened, gaze hot enough to scorch the lectern.
Quirrell stood aglow, beholding the scene with a radiance he had never shown.
Signas sat, eardrums ringing beneath the fervor.
He watched the Professor nervously stacking notes and straightening his crooked scarf.
Signas had to admit: in that hour, the man's magical mastery truly deserved the title 'Master.'
Chapter 118 – I must go to the Ministry for a meeting at once.
Hogwarts Headmaster's Office.
Professor McGonagall's lips were pressed into a stern line as she slapped a thick stack of parchment onto the enormous desk littered with silver instruments and books.
"Albus, look at these! This is the third inquiry letter from the Ministry's Department of Education this month!"
She jabbed at the topmost document sealed with bright red wax, her brows knitted so tightly they could have pinched a Billywig in half. "The rumors outside are already outrageous, and now they've officially written, demanding that Professor Quirrell remove his turban in public!"
Dumbledore calmly adjusted his half-moon spectacles, drew a lemon drop from his robe pocket, and unwrapped it leisurely. "Minerva, relax. Ever since Quirinus reported Felix Felicis, the mudslinging against him hasn't stopped."
"Relax?!" Professor McGonagall's voice shot up an octave. "They claim Professor Quirrell has some foul contagious disease, that the turban hides a mass of pustules! Even wilder, they say the real Quirrell is an impostor, wearing the turban to conceal his true face on the back of his head… and that Hogwarts is unsafe!"
"Now those idle Pure-blood matrons have stuffed every mailbox in the Department with letters of complaint! They insist on inspecting Professor Quirrell! Worse, the fools at the Ministry believe them! They'd do better to investigate what Felix Felicis actually does…"
"Minerva, it's all nonsense," Dumbledore said, blue eyes glimmering behind his lenses. "I don't know why Quirinus reported Felix Felicis, but once Lucius is involved, it's hardly surprising. Lucius offends more people than he remembers; perhaps he misspoke and provoked the sensitive Quirinus."
Professor McGonagall knew exactly what sort of man Lucius Malfoy was.
He embodied every flaw of the old Pure-blood families: selfish, arrogant, disdainful… accidentally offending an already neurotic Professor was nothing strange.
But the problem now was that the whole Wizarding World had gone mad, not Quirrell.
According to the Department of Education, they had received nearly a hundred letters, many from respected society ladies and dignitaries.
"Still, Albus, this is the third inquiry in a month, and the wording grows harsher each time. If we keep ignoring them—" Her tone brimmed with misgiving.
Dumbledore finally set down his lemon drop, took the letter, and skimmed it.
The wording was arrogant and rude, dripping with bureaucratic condescension: Your Professor is accused; strip him for inspection and give the public an answer.
Utterly absurd.
Accusers need provide no proof, yet the accused must prove innocence?
What sort of logic is that?
He laid the parchment aside, voice gentle but firm. "Minerva, we certainly won't comply. Today they make Quirrell remove his turban; tomorrow they'll make Filius teach standing on a stool; next they'll search my beard for contraband."
He paused, growing grave. "Even if an inspection of Professor Quirrell were needed, we would initiate and conduct it ourselves. The Ministry has no right to meddle with Hogwarts staff."
Dumbledore wasn't shielding Quirinus; he knew better than anyone that Quirrell had problems.
But once the Ministry could interfere in Hogwarts affairs, the consequences would be endless.
Just then, the fireplace in the corner roared, flames flaring emerald.
A bespectacled, meticulously combed face appeared in the fire, panic written across its usually prim features.
"Professor Headmaster Dumbledore,"
"Mr. Busbee?" Professor McGonagall rose in surprise.
Since the anonymous tip-off, Fudge's young secretary had become a half-liaison between the Ministry and the Headmaster's office.
Yet Percival Busbee was far too busy to use the floo for anything short of catastrophe.
"Good day, Percival—" Dumbledore's heart sank, though his expression stayed calm.
But Busbee, normally all protocol, forgot every courtesy. Words spilled like a torrent before Dumbledore could finish greeting him.
"It's Quirinus Quirrell! That anonymous letter last time—he wrote it! The Ministry just got a second, this time signed. We verified the handwriting; the owl came from Hogwarts! Minister Fudge is furious; he demands you come at once…"
When Busbee's face vanished, Dumbledore sat pensive, features set like stone.
He had long suspected Lord Voldemort might not be truly dead; Harry's scar supported the notion.
He had staked the breakthrough on Quirinus Quirrell, suspecting him of secretly serving Voldemort as a pawn.
Yet the situation had taken a drastic turn; the matter was now shrouded in fog.
Why would Quirrell report someone for resurrecting Voldemort?
What maneuver was this?
Fighting himself?
Had he gone mad?
Or had Voldemort lost his mind?
Was it some deeper plot?
A moment later Dumbledore rose slowly, bewilderment replaced by deep gravity.
"Minerva," he said, voice husky, "I must go to the Ministry. We'll deal with Quirrell when I return. While I'm gone, watch closely."
"Watch what?" Professor McGonagall asked, bewildered.
Dumbledore gave her a long look, then merely shook his head. With a flick of his wand, golden sparks scattered and he vanished, leaving only a whisper hanging in the air.
"Watch everyone…"
Chapter 119 – Rip His Mouth Apart
Meanwhile, at the Longbottom estate outside London.
The rose garden was clipped to perfection, the fountain's Merperson struck a graceful pose, but the hush of manicured serenity could not penetrate the manor's drawing-room.
The air in the room was thick with suffocating restlessness.
Mrs Augusta Longbottom, a core member of the Happiness Club, paced the drawing-room like a lioness trapped in a cage.
The peacock-blue silk robe she wore was creased, several strands had escaped her carefully pinned chignon, and she looked altogether as bedraggled as tattered silk.
Her nails scraped unconsciously across the velvet of an armchair, producing a soft, rasping sound.
Days without Felix Felicis were unbearable. Her skin seemed to have lost its glow, every fine line in the mirror glared at her, ants crawled beneath her skin, and she could not sit still.
Worst of all was the emptiness and irritation seeping from her bones, making everything an eyesore.
'Worthless! You're absolutely worthless!' Augusta stopped dead, spinning to shriek at the man by the fireplace.
Dawlish Longbottom, Head of the Minister for Magic's Office and Logistics Department, flinched, nearly dropping his teacup.
His slightly bloated face wore an ingratiating, cowardly smile, like a frightened fat puffin.
'Darling, d-don't get excited…' he tried to soothe, voice barely a thread. 'The Department is investigating; these things… take time.'
'Time? Time!' Augusta's voice shot up an octave, sharp enough to shatter glass. 'I haven't tasted Felix Felicis for almost a week! Do you know what that feels like? Look at me! I look like a forty-year-old hag! And you, an official of the Ministry, stood by while those idiots shut down Lucius's business and did nothing!'
Dawlish lowered his head further, muttering, 'It was Minister Fudge and Director Scrimgeourthemselves who gave the order. I… I'm only a logistics director…'
'So you let that bastard Quirrell spout rubbish in the papers?' Augusta found a new vent for her rage. 'Last time at the Leaky Cauldron, if he hadn't run, I'd have torn his mouth apart… and instead of backing me up you told me to come home? Are you even a man?'
Dawlish flushed but dared not answer. Ever since his wife joined that so-called Happiness Club she might as well have been cursed.
Before, she had merely a bad temper; now she was a powder-keg ready to explode.
He could only mumble, 'Yes, yes, dear, it's all my fault… I'll… I'll speak to Minister Fudge…'
Just then the fire roared up, turning bright green. Dawlish's secretary, a young, anxious face, appeared in the flames.
'Director Longbottom! Emergency!'
Dawlish lunged for the grate as if clutching a life-rope. 'What is it? Speak slowly!'
'It's… it's Professor Quirrell of Hogwarts! He… he has denounced by name, claiming Professor Snapeand Mr Lucius Malfoy are plotting to resurrect You-Know-Who. Minister Fudge has already informed Headmaster Dumbledore and summoned all relevant department heads for an emergency meeting!'
Boom!
To Dawlish it felt as though sacred light burst from the fireplace and bathed him from head to toe.
His creased, pudgy face shone with barely contained joy.
'Very well! I'll be there at once!' he answered, as though answering a king's summons.
He spun around, fussing importantly with his briefcase and declaiming, 'Darling, you heard—Ministry business, urgent business! I absolutely must go! Work, you understand!'
With that, he snatched a handful of Floo powder—still in his dressing-gown—and dived into the hearth.
With a whoosh the green flames swallowed his bulky frame and he vanished like a refugee.
The drawing-room fell silent at once.
Augusta stood frozen, chest heaving. Seconds later her face, already haggard from withdrawal, twisted in fury.
Fine. Quirinus Quirrell!
Last time he slandered Felix Felicis; now he aimed straight at Mr Lucius Malfoy himself!
He meant to destroy the Malfoy Family!
He meant to ruin their comfortable lives!
The more she thought, the fiercer the restless rage rampaged inside her.
Suddenly a flash—what had the secretary said? Minister Fudge was calling people to the Ministry… Dumbledore had been notified!
That old man, the only one who could block their 'justice', was away from Hogwarts Castle!
A dangerous, fanatical gleam lit Augusta's eyes, like a wolf scenting meat after three starving days.
She rushed to the dressing-table, snatched up the two-way mirror, and poured magic into it with shaking fingers.
'Pandora! Irene! Are you there? Answer at once!'
The mirror flickered; soon several equally anxious, haggard society faces appeared.
One of them, Mrs Pandora Sol, was painting her nails.
'Augusta? What's so urgent? I'm doing my nails…' Pandora complained.
'Listen, sisters!' Augusta's voice trembled with excitement, every word ringing with irresistible provocation. 'That damned Quirrell has stabbed us in the back again—this time accusing Mr Luciushimself… claiming he plots to resurrect You-Know-Who…'
In the most infectious, exaggerated breath she could muster Augusta relayed what she had heard.
The faces in the mirror changed colour at once.
'What?!' Mrs Irene shrieked. 'Is he mad? Mr Lucius would never do such a thing! Does he want Mr Lucius Malfoy thrown into Azkaban? What happens to our Felix Felicis then?'
'That bastard Quirrell!' Pandora snapped her wand in two.
'We can't wait any longer!' Augusta cried. 'Dumbledore's gone to the Ministry; no one in the Castle will protect that vermin…'
She sucked in a breath and bellowed, 'We act now—go to Hogwarts, find Quirrell, and rip his lying mouth apart in front of everyone!'
Chapter 120 – Dumbledore's Eye for Talent
It was Defense Against the Dark Arts the next day.
The dungeons beneath Hogwarts were always cold and damp, but today the atmosphere felt distinctly different.
Ever since Professor Quirrell had 'heroically' exposed the Felix Felicis scandal, his image in the students' eyes had been completely overturned.
After the newspapers sang his praises, Professor Quirrell had practically become the Wizarding World's whistle-blower—a tragic hero brave enough to draw his sword against the dark forces.
Young Wizards devoured this persona; their adoration for him spread like weeds in March, impossible to rein in.
For someone who had lived for years in the shadow of self-loathing and fear, such pure, untainted worship was the finest medicine.
During this period, Professor Quirrell's self-confidence swelled at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Once a person gains confidence, their entire bearing is reborn.
When Quirrell stepped into the classroom, Signas almost thought he was seeing things.
Today's Professor Quirrell had cast off his usual timid air, the look of someone who might be blown over by a gust of wind.
He wore a well-tailored robe of deep-purple velvet, its collar and cuffs embroidered with delicate silver vines, and his leather boots were polished to a mirror shine.
His trademark garlic-scented turban was wrapped more smoothly than ever, fastened with a small silver snake-shaped brooch.
Most strikingly, a pair of slender gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose; behind the lenses his gaze no longer flickered, but carried the calm sharpness of a scholar.
He walked in with steady, unhurried steps, spine perfectly straight. The air of authority was so pronounced that one might have mistaken him for a visiting academic—more professorial, even, than Snape.
'Good morning, students.' Quirrell's voice still held the faintest tremor, yet the stammer was gone.
He set a thick stack of handouts on the lectern with a soft slap, adjusted his spectacles, and swept his gaze across the room.
The classroom was silent. Every student sat bolt upright, faces alight with anticipation and reverence.
'Today we shall explore variations and applications of the Protego charm.'
Quirrell turned and tapped the blackboard with his wand; elegant cursive script appeared: Many believe Protego is merely a basic shield spell. This is a widespread misconception. In truth, its potential far exceeds your imagination.
Rather than launch into an explanation, he posed a question: 'Can anyone tell me, when you cast Protego, how does your magic form the barrier? What is its micro-structure?'
The question clearly lay beyond the textbook, and even Sig was intrigued.
Modern spells have fixed incantations and wand movements, thanks entirely to the Ministry's Department of Education.
Centuries ago, in the Middle Ages, the same spell might carry a different incantation or gesture from one Wizard to another—or a different emphasis altogether.
Because of these variations, a single spell could evolve endlessly; once the changes accumulated, an entirely new spell was born.
Quirrell had mentioned examples the previous week: the Hex-breaker, the Banishing Charm, the Muggle-Repelling Charm.
But there was a price. Ancient Wizards, heedless of consequences, tweaked and experimented until incantations and gestures became bizarre, making spellcasting perilous more often than not.
Over the past two centuries, the Ministry therefore standardized every spell's wording and motion.
These are the standard spells you learn today—easy to grasp, safe, and practical.
Yet the cost is reduced potency and a shallow grasp of the magic itself. By ancient standards, what modern schools teach is woefully inadequate.
Many magical educators protest that the Ministry's reforms have ruined the Magical World.
Pure-blood families preserved much of the lore the Ministry discarded, which is why they appear more powerful—and why Pure-blood supremacy has a foothold in reality.
A nearly invisible smile curved Quirrell's lips: the confidence of one who holds absolute knowledge.
With his wand he traced a complex three-dimensional array in the air; countless motes of golden light swirled and rearranged within it.
'Observe. magic does not simply form a "shell." Under your will, it mimics the scale-pattern of ancient dragons, creating countless tiny, interlocking energy-deflection facets. Each facet refracts and dissipates most of an offensive spell's energy…'
He explained with crystalline clarity, citing sources from the ancient alchemical law of energy imbalance to modern structural models of spellcraft.
Different wand movements and tonal inflections produced Protego charms of varying properties.
One variant offered exceptional defense against fire; he even called Sig up to endure a direct Flame Curse.
Another variant countered Dark curses such as Crucio, though he demonstrated only the theory, sparing them the practical test.
Under his guidance the dry theory became vivid and enthralling. Every witch and Wizard in the room, including the Slytherins who usually loved mischief, listened in rapt silence.
Harry Potter's cheeks flushed with excitement.
He gazed at the brilliant Professor Quirrell and felt his admiration climb to a new summit.
This—this was what a Professor should be!
This was someone worth risking everything to protect!
Compared with him, Snape—who did nothing but sneer, threaten, and belittle—wasn't fit to tie his bootlaces.
Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall had completed her patrol of the entire Castle.
Dumbledore had been gone to the Ministry all night, leaving her on edge.
She watched the school's every movement, especially outside Quirrell's office and classroom, dreading some mishap.
Yet when she peered through the small window in the classroom door, she froze.
Inside, Quirrell stood at the center of the podium, radiant and eloquent.
His confidence, his scholarly depth and charisma, felt almost foreign to her.
The students hung on every word; even the mischievous Weasley twins refrained from whispering.
In that instant, McGonagall suddenly understood Dumbledore a little better.
Back then she had been utterly baffled why Dumbledore, overruling all opposition, had promoted the newly returned, timid, and sensitive Quirrell to the perilous post of Defense Against the Dark ArtsProfessor.
At the time, Quirrell had lacked the courage to meet anyone's eyes; Dumbledore's appointment had passed almost purely on his personal authority.
Facts had proved that, early in the term, Quirrell had indeed seemed unfit for the role.
Yet over the year he had changed beyond recognition.
McGonagall voiced no opinion on his feud with Lucius Malfoy, but in this matter alone Quirrell had shown remarkable courage.
To speak out against a Pure-blood magnate like Lucius was, in itself, worthy of respect.
And after winning vast fame and applause, he had shown sufficient modesty, never bringing the matter up himself.
Now he had fully overcome his psychological barriers, standing at the lectern with the air of an inscrutable master.
Watching that confident figure, McGonagall marveled at Dumbledore's uncanny judgment.
He always spotted the glimmer others missed and gave people the chance to grow and transform.
Even as McGonagall sighed over Dumbledore's 'eye for talent,' several dozen bejeweled, silk-bedecked ladies stepped from the Hogsmeade fireplace…
More chapters available in WTR-lab, up to chapter 174: stop cursing, my system crashed at Hogwarts