To prepare for the N.E.W.T.s, the same routine was repeated in the seventh-year classroom.
However, with fewer students and all of them already performing at an advanced level, those lessons were far less demanding.
The fourth and sixth years, on the other hand, were much more interesting.
As usual, Tver brought his signature light-orb game—but this time, it was the advanced version. The orbs not only moved faster but also required students to attack them using spells.
Of course, unlike his earlier demonstration, the students only needed to be proficient in a few basic spells: the Stunning Spell, the Impediment Jinx, and the Disarming Charm.
Otherwise, given their current knowledge, very few of them would even be able to play the game properly.
Beyond the standard lessons, Tver also brought along several small creatures he had been raising, teaching the students how to handle relatively harmless beings like Grindylows, Kappas, and Red Caps.
Compared to Quirrell's dull, lifeless classes, the students quickly realized—the difference between professors might actually be greater than the difference between them and pigs!
...
After finishing his weekly Dumbledore-mandated "ideological education" session, Tver spent a little extra time retrieving some treasures he had stored in the Room of Requirement.
Only after that did he leisurely head back toward his office.
To be honest, he was starting to regret agreeing to Dumbledore's request to teach all seven year groups.
Now, he spent at least seven hours a day in lectures. After subtracting the time for meals and rest, there was hardly any left for his own research into the Philosopher's Stone and Horcruxes.
Next school year, he had to get the Headmaster to hire another Defence Against the Dark Arts professor to share the load. Otherwise, even a Dark Lord would burn out before managing to conquer anything.
Grumbling internally, Tver entered his brightly lit office, which was filled with the steady scratching of quills.
The sound came from two faceless, featureless mannequins seated in the corner, quills moving tirelessly as they graded papers.
They could handle the multiple-choice and true-or-false questions easily enough, but the essay sections still required Tver's personal review.
Reading comprehension, it turned out, was far trickier than expected. The dummies lacked real intelligence; they could only recognize the meaning of full, fixed sentences. Change even one word, and they'd be completely lost.
Unless, of course, he personally controlled them—directing their every movement and thought. But at that point, how was that any different from grading the papers himself?
With a sigh, Tver tossed the Diadem onto the desk, skimmed through the dummies' graded work to confirm their accuracy, and then turned his full attention to the Horcruxes.
He had decided to follow his teacher's advice and adopt a survival-of-the-fittest approach—keeping only the ones he could truly control.
Before him now lay three magical objects: the Diadem, the Ring, and the Philosopher's Stone.
The Philosopher's Stone emitted faint traces of life energy, giving a slight vitality to the sinister souls that lingered in the room.
The Diadem, by contrast, appeared ancient and unassuming. If not for the faint absorption of life force, one might mistake it for an ordinary crown.
The Ring, however, was different. Sensing the presence of the Philosopher's Stone, it suddenly leapt from its place.
"Tver, my dear friend! I knew you wouldn't forget about me!" the Ring said in an overly saccharine tone. "But really, there's no rush. You've been so busy lately—take your time!"
"You're absolutely right," Tver replied, enlightened. He picked up the Ring and tossed it straight into a drawer. "Then I'll handle you when I have the time~"
"Tver, you %￥#——!"
He shut the drawer, and the world returned to blissful silence.
Only then did Tver pick up the Diadem and begin examining it closely.
The most striking feature was the green gemstone set in its center—cradled in an eagle's wings, gleaming like an eye that could see into one's soul.
The once-bright gold of the Diadem had dulled with age, losing its luster.
Still visible, however, was the famous Ravenclaw motto engraved along its base: "Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure."
The corrosion marring the crown wasn't from the passage of time—it was the residue of dark magic, left behind by Voldemort when he turned it into a Horcrux.
Legend said Rowena Ravenclaw had enchanted it to enhance the wearer's intellect.
Yet whether because of its corruption as a Horcrux or something else, Tver couldn't sense a trace of any magic that could be called "enlightening."
Or perhaps one needed to wear it to feel the effect?
Gently, Tver placed the Diadem upon his head.
Full of anticipation...
His smile faded...
His expression froze...
"Damn it, I actually fell for that!"
Ten minutes later, Tver tore the Diadem from his head and slammed it onto the table. It bounced twice before settling.
Spending too much time around Horcruxes was starting to make him feel like his IQ was dropping—absolutely terrifying.
But that little outburst seemed to enrage the soul fragment of Voldemort trapped inside.
"Child, put me back on. This time, I'll truly let you feel your wisdom grow!"
Tver carefully set the Diadem down in front of him and drew his wand.
"I heard that exact line seven years ago. Next time, try to come up with something original."
"Heard it before?"
Tver didn't bother answering. He simply pressed the tip of his wand against the Diadem's emerald centerpiece.
"Wait—what are you doing? Ah—!"
As the wand released a surge of magic, a thin wisp of Voldemort's soul was drawn out—like a strand of black silk drifting in the air.
The already damaged soul was torn apart even further, and the Diadem screamed—a high, sharp, metallic sound laced with tendrils of dark magic that clawed at Tver's mind.
And yes, it did affect him.
"Why don't you have your little friend teach you what Professor Fawley's rules are," he muttered dryly.
He shoved the Diadem into a drawer, then turned his focus to the fragment he had extracted.
Like someone who had done this many times before, he took out a small dish, infused it with magic to create a hollow space, and placed the soul fragment inside.
At once, Voldemort's face surfaced within the swirling magic of the dish.
It looked more mature and malicious than the version from the ring—less bookish, more unhinged, the faint madness of a fractured soul already visible.
"Boy, I didn't think you'd dare meddle with souls!" Voldemort's distorted voice hissed.
With so little of his essence left, this fragment couldn't think independently. It was like a talking portrait—limited to repeating old memories.
So Tver had heard this exact speech more times than he could count.
"Yes, yes, Lord Voldemort," he replied lazily. "I have no interest in further exploring dark magic, nor in splitting my soul for immortality."
He spoke almost absently, even before the soul fragment could respond.
Then, as the Dark Lord's mind drifted into a haze of fragmented memories, Tver reached into the dish, his finger stirring through the black mist.
"Mr. Tom Riddle," he said quietly, a blue-violet flame flickering at his fingertip, "do you swear your loyalty to me?"
The fragment writhed violently. The flame burned, searing and agonizing, but the soul still gathered all its strength and bellowed,
"Arroga—!"
Squish.
Tver pressed down and crushed it flat.
He flicked his hand in mild disgust, shaking off the lingering traces.
As expected, Voldemort's arrogance wouldn't break so easily.
But that was fine.
He had all the time in the world to experiment.