What Ron described had indeed become one of the strangest sights at Hogwarts—Snape was awarding Gryffindor points from every possible angle and for all kinds of reasons. Yet before the Gryffindor students could even begin to celebrate, they found that Professor McGonagall was going out of her way to deduct points from them at every turn.

Many upper-year students were convinced that something had gone terribly wrong with the world. Some of the braver ones even went to the Headmaster’s office to ask Dumbledore to step in and check if Professors Snape and McGonagall had lost their minds.

While most students were now viewing Snape in a new, more complicated light, Ron alone remained steadfast in his... well, hatred of the man.

After all, under Snape’s "generosity," Ron was currently the student who had lost the most points in Gryffindor. He also had to endure Snape’s relentless sarcasm and sharp tongue—though, oddly enough, this had earned him quite a bit of fame in Gryffindor. Many older students had even gone out of their way to encourage him, gifting him snacks and small presents.

This situation left Ron with an odd mix of suffering and satisfaction.

For once, he wasn’t famous for being "Harry Potter’s best friend, the companion of the Boy Who Lived," but rather for being "the brave warrior standing at the front lines against Snape."

Ron rather liked this title.

After spending day after day enduring Snape’s verbal onslaughts and the mental strain that came with them, Ron felt like he had grown stronger.

"Uh, I think Neville has a point—Professor McGonagall isn’t like Professor Snape. She values fairness," Hagrid said, after mumbling a bit as he listened to Ron’s complaints.

"Oh, she’s fair, all right," Ron muttered sarcastically. "If it weren’t for Snape, I don’t even want to think about how many points Gryffindor would have left. It’s like McGonagall’s trying to prove something—does she really have to deduct more points just to show she’s fair?"

"Ahem! Let’s not talk about this, Ron!" Hagrid let out a loud cough and forcibly changed the subject. "So, Harry, if you really want to be my neighbor, you could consider staying at Hogwarts as a professor after you graduate."

"Hmm, I think you’d make a great Divination professor. After all, you actually can predict the future—way better than that fraud—uh, I mean, way better than Professor Trelawney!" Hagrid nearly blurted out his real thoughts before catching himself. He then enthusiastically added, "I could even help you build a wooden cabin! What kind of style do you like?"

"Fraud?" Hermione, who had finally caught her breath, still had flushed cheeks but was at least willing to speak now. She immediately latched onto the unfinished word, curiosity shining in her eyes. "Why would you say that? What did she fake?"

"Oh! I didn’t say anything like that!" Hagrid waved his hands frantically. "Don’t go spreading rumors—especially not inside the castle. She is your professor, after all."

"Fine, we won’t spread it," Hermione nodded but persisted, "But are you saying Professor Trelawney actually can’t do Divination? How is that possible? I mean—if she couldn’t, Headmaster Dumbledore wouldn’t have made her a professor, right? That would be irresponsible to students, and someone like that shouldn’t be called a professor at all."

Hermione simply couldn’t believe that Hogwarts would employ a fraud.

"Hah!" Hagrid let out a loud laugh, clearly unimpressed. "Don’t ask, Hermione. I don’t want to badmouth a colleague—but when you get to third year and take Divination, you’ll understand why I said that."

Hermione’s curiosity was at an all-time high, and she clearly wanted to ask more questions. However, this time, Hagrid kept his lips sealed, refusing to say another word. This left the young witch sitting there fuming in frustration.

As for Harry… he was currently amusing himself by using lightning bolts to zap mosquitoes.

Sizzle. Sizzle. One bolt after another streaked across the hut, frying the tenacious little creatures mid-air.

"Hey, mate, that looks fun," Ron said after counting seven or eight successful hits. "Can you teach me how to do that?"

"Of course," Harry agreed readily. Then he turned to Hagrid. "Actually, if everything goes smoothly, I might become your neighbor sooner than you think. I’m planning to submit my application to Headmaster Dumbledore this week, and starting next week, I’ll be holding the first meeting of the Shaman Club. Would you mind if we used your place for it?"

"Shaman Club? Next week?" Hagrid was momentarily stunned, but then he beamed. "Of course, Harry! And if you don’t mind, I’d love to give it a try too!"

"Absolutely no problem."

Harry had already managed to recreate a prototype of the Spirit Pact Potion needed to walk the Shaman’s path. While its taste and effects weren’t identical to what he had experienced in Azeroth, after personally testing it, he was confident it would produce the results he wanted.

Alchemy and potion-making worked like this—since ingredients constantly changed or disappeared, one couldn’t simply abandon a potion just because certain materials were unavailable. Instead, the key was to understand their properties and experiment with new combinations. In the end, what mattered most was the potion’s effect.

The group spent a pleasant afternoon at Hagrid’s hut—well, except for one young witch who might have had a different opinion. But that wasn’t a big deal.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

They declined Hagrid’s dinner invitation, and by the time they returned to the castle, the sky had already darkened.

By coincidence, they ran into Professor Quirrell in the first-floor corridor.

"Good luck, Professor Quirrell! You can definitely defeat the vampires!" Ron suddenly raised his hand and called out, offering sincere encouragement to the young professor, who looked worse by the day.

The proof? The garlic smell around him was even stronger than usual, and his movements had become increasingly twitchy.

Ron wasn’t the only one—Hermione and Neville also smiled at Professor Quirrell in an encouraging, supportive manner.

Ever since Harry’s past predictions had started coming true one after another, his vision of Professor Quirrell lying on the ground, covered in blood, had taken on an increasingly eerie significance.

Rumors had begun circulating wildly among the students—some said Hogwarts was going to be attacked by vampires, who were searching for their "beloved" Professor Quirrell. Others believed that Quirrell’s tragic fate in the prophecy was because he constantly doused himself in garlic essence, angering the legendary "Garlic King," who would eventually beat him to a pulp…

Well, Hogwarts students certainly had vivid imaginations.

And somehow, over time, the way students viewed Professor Quirrell had changed. Complaints about his uninspired, textbook-based lectures had dwindled, replaced by an outpouring of positive energy—students were now actively encouraging him.

Even Harry—Harry gave Quirrell a smile and a thumbs-up.

Harry’s encouragement was entirely sincere.

Of course, the reason he was cheering Quirrell on might have been slightly different from the rest of the students.

He was eagerly waiting for Quirrell to step into the traps on the fourth floor.

Once Quirrell took the bait and fell into Dumbledore’s carefully laid-out defenses, the Headmaster would have no reason to keep such an unstable element around.

And then—Harry could finally collect his mission reward.

Flawless logic.

Harry was dying to know how Dumbledore had managed to create the vision he saw in the Divination scene—and what exactly that suitcase was... The curiosity in his heart felt like a cat scratching at him.

The four of them left just like that, while Quirrell—Quirrell stood behind, staring at their departing figures until they disappeared from sight. Only then did he hurriedly rush toward his office.

…What to do, what to do, what to do?! Master! He must know!!

As soon as he entered, he went straight for the mirror, pressing both hands against the cabinet and muttering to himself, his voice filled with panic. There was none of the composure and steadiness Harry had seen that day.

"Silence!!"

A second voice suddenly rang out in what should have been Quirrell’s empty office. It was harsh and hoarse, laced with an undeniable frailty. "Look at you now—how ridiculous."

Who else could it be but Voldemort?

"Master!!" Quirrell nearly collapsed to his knees, tears already welling up in his eyes. His voice trembled. "But Dumbledore—That boy must have told Dumbledore!"

"Quiet!!" The voice grew sharper, but then, in the very next second, it softened unexpectedly. "Ah, Dumbledore… My poor servant, Dumbledore has frightened you out of your wits, hasn't he?"

"No, no, no, I haven’t, Master, I haven’t!" Quirrell's body trembled with fear.

"And even if it is Dumbledore, so what?" Voldemort’s tone turned wild, impatient. "Even Dumbledore cannot kill me! No one can kill Voldemort!!"

"Yes, Master, no one can kill you," Quirrell prostrated himself humbly on the floor, murmuring, "but your plan... your plan is still unfinished. You need to be restored. You need… the Philosopher’s Stone!"

"Ah, yes, my plan." Voldemort sounded pleased. "I'm glad you still remember my plan, my servant... There is no need for fear."

"Dumbledore is merely clinging to his final days, hiding away in Hogwarts. He can do nothing—what does it matter if he knows?"

"He knows he cannot kill me," Voldemort said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "So all he can do is watch. Watch as I reclaim my strength. Watch as I take back everything that is rightfully mine. That is his weakness."

"Your power makes me tremble, Master," Quirrell offered his flattery at just the right moment.

"The room on the fourth floor is nothing but a trap," Voldemort suddenly said. "Dumbledore knows I can see through it, so he placed what I seek there, like a bird waiting for prey to step into the snare—but I am the snake lurking in the shadows, the one who will claim everything in the end!"

Every seasoned Slytherin prided themselves on being a serpent. The journey of a wizard’s magical awakening began the moment they were sorted at eleven years old, when they chose the label they would bear.

"Then, Master, should we—"

"No rush," Voldemort cut him off leisurely. "I believe I've found a promising child—such a good child, much like you once were."

"Do you remember when you first came to me?" Voldemort’s voice grew softer, almost coaxing. "Crawling at my feet, whispering your desires... You wanted power, wanted respect, wanted to be more than a weak, insignificant… Muggle Studies professor? Ha!"

Voldemort let out a scornful chuckle.

"It was you who enlightened me, my master," Quirrell said, not daring to lift his head.

"Of course, of course I did," Voldemort's voice hissed like a serpent. "But now, I seem to have found another lonely, restless, and uneasy soul."

"Master, you mean… Harry Potter?" Quirrell asked cautiously. "The Boy Who Lived?"

"Ah, yes, the Boy Who Lived…" Voldemort’s voice took on an unreadable complexity. "So unique, so special, so... similar."

The last word was spoken so softly that Quirrell could not catch it at all.

"Dumbledore would never understand," Voldemort laughed lowly. "A childhood of suffering, growing up like a house-elf in his Muggle relatives' home—small, frail—yet with a desperate yearning for magic, displaying remarkable talent."

"Master, you—you intend to?" Quirrell held his breath. "Make the Boy Who Lived serve you?"

"Why not?" Voldemort said cheerfully. "The Potter family was never known for its study of soul magic, yet that child claims to have researched it—Quirrell, my servant, you wouldn’t understand."

"Once one delves into magic related to the soul, they can never turn back. And the pursuit of such magic inevitably demands sacrifices… That boy—Dumbledore will never understand him. Only I will."

No one could understand what it meant to grow up in such circumstances and possess such extraordinary talent better than Voldemort.

"Then, Master, I should?" Quirrell asked obediently, though his heart was filled with jealousy toward Harry Potter.

"Do what you must, Quirrell," Voldemort’s voice grew impatient. "But from now on, I will personally teach Defense Against the Dark Arts… I will show that child the true mysteries of magic, the real essence of it… and then he will…"

Voldemort’s voice grew fainter, but it did nothing to diminish his excitement. Because he had just thought of a truly marvelous idea.

Didn’t Dumbledore treasure Harry Potter greatly?

Didn’t the entire wizarding world believe that Harry Potter had defeated him, that he was their savior?

In that case, why not turn Harry Potter into a Death Eater—why not guide the boy toward the path of darkness, right under Dumbledore’s very nose? Let him witness the allure of the Dark Arts, let his soul be swallowed whole!

Voldemort could hardly wait to see the look on Dumbledore’s face when he realized that the boy he placed so much hope in… had unknowingly become another version of himself.

Oh, that would be… truly delightful.

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