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Under the Weasley twins' influence (and Dumbledore's appreciation), Anthony occasionally heard hissing echoing under some corridor arches. Not just those few students close to the Weasley brothers joking with it—Anthony even discovered several lower-year Slytherins seriously trying to speak Parseltongue. As if this represented their closer relationship with Slytherin.
But just as Tracey said, some people refused to believe that was Parseltongue.
"Stop biting your tongue, idiot!" After sitting down at an empty table near the archives, Anthony heard Draco Malfoy say exasperatedly. "Do you think Potter could be Slytherin's heir, hmm? No? Then why are you making that weird sound?"
Don't know what the other answered. Malfoy sounded somewhat satisfied. "Alright, since you still remember... go find it quickly. I won't believe..."
"But we don't even know how to find it," another voice said. "We all ran to the library. Can't be to find which referee thought throwing snakes at opponents was normal, right?"
"You needn't speak like that, Zabini!" Malfoy said as severely as possible with his young boy's voice. "Ravenclaw found at least six pieces of evidence before convincing Madam Hooch to directly rule their victory. In so many records, there must be counterexamples too. As long as we can find..." His voice suddenly paused. Then asked, "Right, where's Pansy?"
Zabini said impatiently, "Ha, she thinks she'll be expelled one moment, then thinks someone will retaliate against her the next. Hiding in the girls' dormitory not daring to come out."
Malfoy snorted. "Coward."
Their discussion was too loud. So Madam Pince's vulture-like face soon appeared at the doorway.
"One more word..." she said through gritted teeth. "Get out. No matter whose authorization, useless."
Silence in the archives. Madam Pince sternly and suspiciously swept around. "What's that?"
"Uh... bread."
"Bread!" Her voice rose. As if the other said not bread but bedbugs. "Out! Now!"
"But—"
"Out!" Madam Pince waved a feather duster. Said sharply. Next second, a group of teenagers holding their heads ran out from the archives. Behind them chased a long trail of quills, ink bottles, and parchments. Last to fly out was a bag of flattened bread. It traced a perfect arc before Anthony's eyes. Precisely smashed the slowest student's head.
Madam Pince stood in place panting with lingering anger for a while. Then noticed Anthony sitting beside. "Professor Anthony, haven't seen you for a while."
"Madam Pince," Anthony quickly greeted her. "I think maybe because recently I've been in my office..."
Madam Pince said, "Ah, practical activities, right? I heard too."
Her expression showed she didn't hear through any particularly library-rules-compliant channels. Anthony couldn't help being curious what his students actually did.
But Madam Pince already started complaining to him about Slytherin students.
"You might find it hard to imagine, Professor Anthony, but Professor Snape authorized all of them into the archives," she said dissatisfied. "I hope professors are all cautious before issuing authorizations. Look at the mess they made in public areas! Not all students should be allowed into more precious places!"
Her sharp gaze swept around the library. Fiercely stared at a student looking around with raised head. Until discovering he was just aimlessly spacing out between writing essays. Then withdrew her gaze. Returned to the previous topic. "Bread!"
"I know. The library doesn't allow eating," Anthony said.
Madam Pince snorted through her nose. Glared at Anthony. Then probably remembered he hadn't approved a single Restricted Section slip until now. Expression softened somewhat.
"I'm not talking about you, Professor Anthony. I know you're cautious," she said. "You, and Professor Trelawney, both haven't sent any strange students to the Restricted Section—of course, Professor McGonagall is also very cautious now. Let me think... Professor Binns also hasn't signed authorization for long."
Anthony secretly wondered how Professor Binns could grip a pen to sign. He nominated, "What about Professor Quirrell?"
Madam Pince seemed to almost forget there was this professor. She paused. Then nodded. "Right, and Professor Quirrell. I think he himself doesn't come to the library much either. I haven't seen him for long."
Anthony could imagine.
Besides classes, Professor Quirrell rarely appeared anywhere outside his office during daytime. Professor Sprout privately told Anthony she thought Professor Quirrell even somewhat feared students.
Honestly, after Snape substituted, students rarely showed Professor Quirrell a bit more respect. But his classroom seemed increasingly worse. So this bit of respect was also quickly exhausted.
Weather gradually became warmer. And for some reason, garlic smell in warm air was even more unbearable than in cold.
A student halfway through class couldn't stand it anymore and rushed outside to vomit. Anthony heard that day Professor Flitwick even specially stopped the scheduled Cheering Charm lesson. Instead taught a household charm about how to make air fresh. That class students all studied seriously. As if everyone wanted to devote themselves to domestic service careers after graduation.
"Should've been taught by Severus," Professor Flitwick said then. "Potion apprentices seem to often use this, right? I thought they'd already learned it."
Snape was wearing a satisfied cold smile. Listening to Professor Sprout describe Defense Against the Dark Arts chaos. Hearing this, drank a sip of tea.
"Potion masters must wholeheartedly experience the exquisiteness of potions they brew," he said. "If someone can make their cauldron emit vomit-inducing smells, they'd better firmly remember what exactly they did. But, at least from current perspective, no one has complained about Potions classroom ventilation problems—if Quirrell needs, he can come teach in the dungeons."
Professor Sprout said somewhat reproachfully, "Poor Quirinus is already unlucky enough."
"What's wrong, Pomona?" Snape said smoothly. "I thought I was just trying to provide help for him."
Besides strong smell, students also complained about Professor Quirrell's increasingly severe stuttering problem.
Anthony buried himself in his lesson plans. While wondering how Professor Burbage tirelessly produced exam papers for so many years. While considering if he needed to arrange a review class before finals like university. Unknowingly missed lunch time. By the time he finally finished the third-year final exam first draft, people in the library also gradually increased.
A student sat behind Anthony. Described to friends how rampant Peeves was. Taking advantage of the Bloody Baron's listlessness, singing and tearing up his essay. While complaining Professor Quirrell's assigned essay topic had no relation to his classroom at all. Taking notes was useless.
"You still listen in class?" his friend asked surprised. "I can't quite understand what he's saying now."
"Not that hard to understand," that student said sharply. "Except last week's spell and the week before's, what he teaches is still fairly normal."
His friend sighed. "Our Defense Against the Dark Arts is getting more absurd. Last professor was just another Binns. This time already became a stutterer who bravely fought vampires."
"I know. I just want a certificate. Don't need to translate spells for our professor's speech impediment. Is that too much to ask?"
"Snape," his friend said bitterly. "He doesn't have any speech impediment."
"I mean, normal."
"Hey, that's a bit much," his friend said sternly. "You actually have unrealistic fantasies about Defense Against the Dark Arts professors."
That student actually laughed out loud. Then choked into a series of coughs. This drew Madam Pince's attention. So behind Anthony quieted for a while.
After a while, Anthony heard the person behind ask quietly, "That funny?"
"No, I'm thinking about something else," that student said. "You know? Quirrell might be a Parselmouth. Especially when Snape's around."
"Why?"
"Very pleased to meet you," the student stuttered. "Hiss hiss hiss hiss Professor Snape."
His friend was also amused.
For a moment, behind Anthony filled with hissing. As if two leaking balloons sat there.
Anthony faced away from them. Sighed.
Even from a friend's perspective, Professor Quirrell was hard to call competent. If his reputation among students continued deteriorating like this, Anthony was somewhat worried Quirrell might become the first professor Dumbledore fired—perhaps he had no problem as Muggle Studies professor, but Defense Against the Dark Arts, this multi-year required course, pressure was really too great.
Anthony stared at the first draft before him. Thought, maybe he should go care about Professor Quirrell.
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