Yesterday's chapter was shorter than expected—I've already fixed it.
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Main Story:
By midday, news had spread that Professor Quirrell was injured during his fight with the troll last night.
The reaction? Cheers erupted across the room.
That is… until Professor McGonagall glared at them.
Instant silence.
It was clear that nobody had any fondness for Quirrell.
Honestly, it wasn't surprising. Forget his personality or lack of competence—his overwhelming garlic stench alone was enough to make people avoid him at all costs.
Ron muttered quietly,
"Merlin's beard, finally! No more suffering through that nauseating garlic smell. Too bad he won't be in the hospital for longer."
Several students nodded in agreement.
"Ron!" Professor McGonagall suddenly called out, clearly having heard every word.
Ron immediately shut up.
Hermione then asked in a crisp voice,
"Professor McGonagall, what will happen to our Defense Against the Dark Arts classes this week?"
Only now did the rest of the students realize the problem.
Seamus, with zero self-preservation instincts, suggested enthusiastically,
"How about replacing them all with more flying lessons?"
Harry: (⊙o⊙)…
McGonagall didn't even dignify that with a response. Instead, she turned to the Gryffindor students and stated,
"I'm currently discussing this with Headmaster Dumbledore. We're looking for another professor to temporarily cover the class."
A collective sigh of disappointment followed.
As Harry left the Great Hall, he noticed Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall standing by a secluded staircase.
Snape's voice was cold and firm,
"I can take over the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. I expect you to support me when I bring this up to Dumbledore."
McGonagall replied smoothly,
"I believe Professor Flitwick is also more than capable of filling that role."
Then she walked away, leaving Snape looking utterly displeased.
Harry couldn't help but smirk.
"Tough luck, Professor. Your job application isn't going too well, huh?"
Oh well, Leonardo DiCaprio waited 20 years before he finally won an Oscar.
Snape might just have to wait a little longer too.
That evening, someone suggested visiting Professor Quirrell at St. Mungo's Hospital.
The idea was immediately met with enthusiasm.
Their excitement, however, did not resemble concern at all.
It was as if they were about to celebrate something.
Harry chuckled.
Of course, he would gladly join.
"When an enemy is down, the best thing to do is appear right in front of them… and pour salt on their wounds."
He could already imagine Quirrell's miserable face.
"Kicking a man while he's down?" Harry thought to himself. "Absolutely necessary."
However, Hermione didn't seem too pleased.
"We're supposed to be visiting our professor. How can you all be so excited?"
Harry grinned.
"Oh? So you're saying you're not the slightest bit happy that our classroom will finally be free of that overwhelming garlic stench?"
Hermione hesitated, fidgeting slightly.
"Well… not exactly…"
The group arrived at St. Mungo's Hospital, chatting and laughing noisily.
Madam Pomfrey immediately emerged and scolded them harshly, forcing them to quiet down.
Inside the hospital room:
Professor Quirrell lay on the bed.
Surprisingly, he was the only patient in the room.
Clearly, Madam Pomfrey was looking out for the other patients.
Otherwise, forcing someone to share a room with Quirrell—breathing in his strange, garlic-infused scent all day—would surely turn a minor illness into a major one.
Quirrell still had his signature turban wrapped tightly around his head.
Of course, even if someone tried to peel off his skin, he probably still wouldn't take that thing off.
His face was deathly pale, and his right leg was in a cast, suspended in the air by white bandages.
As soon as he saw so many students crowding in to visit him, his expression became overwhelmed with emotion.
In a stammering voice, he said,
"Th-thank you all for coming to see me. I'm… I'm truly touched!"
As he continued speaking, his voice grew more and more choked up—almost like he was about to burst into tears.
Many students shuddered involuntarily, feeling a wave of goosebumps spread across their skin.
Some of them instantly regretted coming.
Even if they got to witness Quirrell looking utterly pathetic, was it really worth enduring this…?
Damn.
This guy could really put on an act.
Harry watched Quirrell's pathetic display with an amused smile.
"If there was an award for Best Pitiful, Down-on-His-Luck Performance," he thought,
"this guy would get full marks."
The Weasley twins had also come along.
George squeezed through the crowd with a mischievous grin.
"We originally prepared a few gifts for you, Professor," he said, "but Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let us bring anything in. Except for this."
He raised his hand, revealing a massive string of garlic cloves, carefully woven into a necklace.
"Since you clearly love garlic," George continued, "I figured you'd be missing it while staying in the hospital. So, I asked the house-elves to prepare this just for you. What do you think?"
Quirrell looked deeply moved, his voice trembling with emotion.
"Th-thank you… this is the best gift… I've ever received!"
George whistled loudly, then turned to Fred with a smug expression.
"See? Told you my gift was the best!"
Meanwhile, Harry stepped forward with a look of sincere concern.
"Professor Quirrell, please recover soon! You still need to teach us powerful spells… that way, if we ever run into a troll, we won't end up like you—beaten half to death!"
Hermione: (⊙o⊙)…
Neville: (⊙o⊙)…
Ron: (⊙o⊙)…
Seamus: (⊙o⊙)…
Many students were desperately holding back their laughter, their faces turning red from the effort.
Quirrell's face, on the other hand, turned bright red with embarrassment.
But Harry wasn't done yet.
He continued, his tone serious,
"Not just trolls! What if we ever run into an idiot like Voldemort? We'll have no choice but to rely on your incredible strength to help us defeat that pathetic fool."
"Don't you agree, Professor?" Harry pressed on.
Quirrell trembled violently, his voice choked and weak as he nodded hesitantly.
Harry grinned.
"So, even you think Voldemort is a complete idiot, huh, Professor?"
A few moments later, the students left the hospital together.
Harry stretched lazily, feeling refreshed.
"Since I can't kill Voldemort just yet… might as well piss him off for now."
Earlier, while Harry was insulting Voldemort, he had sensed a faint soul fluctuation from Quirrell's body—something that immediately withdrew and hid away.
Compared to his own presence, it was like a candle about to be snuffed out.
Weak. Fragile. Pathetic.
Even when being directly insulted, the Dark Lord couldn't even muster the courage to react—he just shrunk back into his shell like a cowardly little turtle.
Harry wondered just how furious he must be right now.
Deep into the night…
St. Mungo's Hospital.
Inside a dark, pitch-black hospital room.
On the floor, a pile of ashes smoldered—the remains of George's so-called "gift."
The moment the students left the hospital, a furious Quirrell had immediately set it ablaze with a raging fire.
It was the second time something like this had happened.
The first time… was last night.
When Quirrell had attempted to steal the Philosopher's Stone.
He had been waiting for an opportunity for so long but never found the right moment—so he unleashed a troll into the school, hoping to distract the teachers just long enough.
At first, everything had gone according to plan.
Quirrell had been pleased.
But then—reality slapped him in the face.
As soon as he stepped onto the fourth floor, he triggered a ridiculous, childish prank spell.
By the time he fought his way through dozens of frustrating, annoying spells and finally reached the wooden door, he prepared to blast it open with the Unlocking Charm.
However—out of nowhere, a stone knight statue swung its battle-axe at him.
He barely dodged in time, but the axe still managed to slice his foot, chopping off several toes.
At that moment, he heard footsteps approaching.
Left with no choice, Quirrell forced himself to burn his own severed toes to ashes, watching as a part of his body was reduced to nothing.
Then, to cover up his real injuries, he had to pretend that his foot had been wounded by the troll instead.
And today?
That idiot George Weasley had the nerve to gift him a massive garland of garlic.
Quirrell had wanted so badly to turn the brat into a giant slug right then and there.
But he couldn't.
Because he was meek, cowardly, stuttering Professor Quirrell.
Author's Note (Lobei):
"I need more collections, I need more recommendation votes!
Thank you!"