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— Tonight, much as Ian had remarked earlier, seemed destined to be a somewhat restless evening.
Even as Dumbledore lay awake due to the diadem Ian had brought him, the master of an office on the second floor of the castle was similarly far from sleep.
“Haaah…
haaah…” Professor Quirrell, pale-faced and drenched in cold sweat, lay collapsed on the floor, gasping hungrily for fresh air as though he had barely survived a catastrophe.
“Get up, you fool!” Suddenly, a voice resembling the hiss of a viper—even more so than Snape’s—resounded through the office.
The moment the voice spoke, the temperature in the room plummeted sharply, turning the very air frigid.
Quirrell shivered violently, trembling as he scrambled up from the stone floor.
He cautiously began unraveling the purple turban wrapped around his head, turn after turn.
As the layers of fabric came undone, what was revealed was not the back of Quirrell’s head, but a face.
It was a twisted, blurred, and monstrous face, pressed tight against his skin like a melting wax statue, looking profoundly eerie in the dim candlelight.
“M-Master…” Quirrell’s voice shook so badly he could barely form a complete sentence.
“Useless creature!” the venomous voice spoke again.
That face—or rather, the remnant soul of Lord Voldemort—dripped with utter disdain and fury.
“Quirrell, did you see him?
That boy…
the boy everyone is watching, the so-called ‘Savior’—Harry Potter!” “Yes, Master, I saw him!
That wretched bastard…
I will find a way to kill him for you…” Bang!
Before Quirrell could finish, his entire body jolted, and his knees struck the floor with a heavy thud.
His mouth gasped open in an attempt to scream, but all strength was drained from his body.
He could only kneel there, his muscles twitching uncontrollably in agony.
Gradually, despair filled Quirrell’s eyes, and he squeezed out a barely audible plea: “S-Spare…
me…
M-Master…” Fortunately, Voldemort finally recalled that he still required Quirrell’s body for the time being, and he released his grip on the punishment.
“Remember, you are merely a lowly servant of Lord Voldemort.
You are not worthy of taking revenge in my name.
Quirrell, this is the first time, and it shall be the last.” “Yes, Master!” Having barely escaped with his life once more, Quirrell didn’t dare pay any mind to his weakened frame, hastily agreeing.
At that moment, something else crossed Voldemort’s mind, and he issued a final command: “Also, that young wizard named Ian—find out exactly how he survived.” With that, without waiting for Quirrell’s reply, Voldemort simply closed his eyes.
Having heard no further sound for a long while, Quirrell dragged his exhausted body up and began inching painfully toward his trunk.
Ian, of course, had no idea what was transpiring in the Headmaster’s office or the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.
In truth, the moment he returned to his quarters, exhaustion had overtaken him, and he had swiftly fallen asleep.
Unsurprisingly, Ian slept in the next day, only waking when it was already midday.
If he hadn’t been keeping his two afternoon classes in mind, he likely would have slept straight through until evening.
There was no helping it; in this life, Ian placed great importance on his physical health, and maintaining a regular routine of early nights and early mornings was undoubtedly paramount.
Thus, by the time Ian finished getting ready, it was already close to class time.
By two o’clock in the afternoon, the first-year students had gathered outside Greenhouse One.
Today’s Herbology lesson happened to be a joint class for Gryffindor and Slytherin.
Consequently, before Ian had even arrived, the figures representing each house—Harry and Draco—had already crossed paths once more.
“Scarhead,” Draco Malfoy sneered as he stepped up to Harry, tossing out the nickname he had coined for him.
It had to be said that Mr.
Malfoy possessed quite a knack for igniting someone’s anger with a single word—or perhaps he simply had a gift for drawing attention to himself at any given moment.
Harry naturally knew why Malfoy had given him that nickname, and his gaze turned hostile as he looked at the boy.
To others, the scar on his forehead might have been a badge of honor, but to Harry, it brought nothing but memories of pain.
Malfoy wanted to hurl a few more taunts, but meeting Harry’s eyes—and recalling what had happened yesterday—he decided to abandon his reckless behavior for the time being.
“I heard that the teaching assistant for Herbology today is your uncle?” Even so, Malfoy’s tone remained utterly grating.
“You’d better put on a good performance then, Potter, or it’ll be quite embarrassing when you make a fool of yourself.” “Wouldn’t you say, Potter?” Malfoy added, casting a fleeting glance toward a spot not far off.
There, several professors stood with their heads together in quiet conversation, Dumbledore among them.
“That’s impossible!” Just as Malfoy was quietly smirking, Hermione Granger stepped out from the crowd and refuted him loudly.
“Harry said that Mr.
Evans is exceptionally knowledgeable!
His understanding of magical plants is remarkably deep—more than qualified to teach us!” With that, Hermione glared at Malfoy with an unreserved expression of disgust.
“How deep could it possibly be?” Malfoy asked instinctively.
“As deep as a three- or four-story building!” This time, it was Ron who answered, directly quoting Harry’s evaluation of Ian from the previous day.
Upon hearing this, Harry slapped a hand against his forehead.
He had indeed mentioned Ian to the two of them yesterday, mainly because Hermione had voiced her doubts about Ian’s qualifications.
After all, Ian looked far too young.
None of the professors at Hogwarts looked anywhere near his age, not even Quirrell.
Left with no choice, Harry had recounted a portion of the special training Ian had given him over the summer.
Naturally, as a nephew, it was only expected that he might exaggerate his uncle’s capabilities a little.
Who could have guessed…
“As deep as a three- or four-story building?
Who do you think he is, Professor Sprout?” Malfoy scoffed, completely disbelieving Ron’s claim.
Ron, however, seemed to have been waiting for Malfoy to say precisely that.
A glint of cunning flashed in his eyes as he deliberately baited him: “Then why don’t you try answering a question in class later?
Just like Hermione did in Transfiguration this morning.” “You!” Malfoy’s face flushed bright red in an instant.
He opened his mouth as if to retort, yet he refused to lose face right then and there.
“Ron, how could you say that?” Hermione said with dissatisfaction, tugging on Ron’s sleeve and lowering her voice.
“When a professor asks a question, we ought to answer actively!
It helps us master the material faster and earns house points.
How could you just hand that opportunity over to Malfoy?” The moment those words were spoken, it wasn’t just Malfoy—both Ron and Harry were completely floored by Hermione’s bizarre train of thought.
Ron’s jaw dropped as he stared at her in sheer disbelief.
Harry, after his initial surprise, wore a thoughtful look.
He hadn’t forgotten that Gryffindor had already lost fifty points yesterday because of him.
“Miss Granger makes a fine point,” a tall figure remarked as he walked over.
It was Ian.
He offered Hermione an approving smile.
“Asking and answering questions indeed helps everyone master knowledge more quickly.
I will pay special attention to that during class shortly.” “I—” Harry began, about to call Ian by his name, but catching sight of the teaching assistant robes Ian was wearing, he quickly corrected himself: “Professor!” Ian nodded, his gaze sweeping over the assembled first-years as the atmosphere turned subtly tense.
Finally, Ian looked toward the small group of professors standing nearby.
It wasn’t just Dumbledore; Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout were also present, clearly having come to observe Ian’s teaching abilities firsthand.
To Ian’s surprise, Snape had come along as well, though the Potions Master wore an exceedingly sour expression.
Nodding politely to the professors by way of greeting, Ian withdrew his gaze.
“Head inside, everyone.
It’s time.” Saying this, Ian pushed open the greenhouse door first.
The first-years exchanged glances before filing in right behind him.
The moment they stepped into the greenhouse, a thick scent of moist earth mingled with the aroma of various magical herbs rushed into their noses.
Several young wizards recoiled at the strong smell, hastily covering their noses.
As if on cue, Ian officially began his lesson: “Greenhouse One is primarily used to cultivate magical plants that are relatively harmless and require a mild environment.” Ian’s voice was clear and steady.
As his eyes swept across the students covering their noses, the corners of his mouth curled slightly.
“Inside here, an ample amount of fertilizer must be applied daily to ensure these plants receive sufficient nutrients.” Hearing this, the faces of the students holding their noses turned completely pale.
Talk about rubbing salt in the wound!
Yet Ian’s intention went beyond a simple joke.
Looking around the room, he posed a question: “So, can anyone tell me what the most common fertilizers used in the wizarding world are?” Whoosh!
The moment Ian finished speaking, Hermione’s hand shot up like lightning, her arm nearly brushing past Ron’s face.
Ian’s eyes scanned the crowd, pausing briefly on Hermione, but he didn’t call on her.
Instead, he turned toward the Slytherin side.
“Mr.
Malfoy, if you would.” Malfoy clearly hadn’t expected Ian to call on him first.
He froze for a moment, a flash of fluster crossing his face before it was quickly masked by his habitual arrogance.
“Umm…
dragon dung?” he offered, sounding somewhat uncertain.
“Correct, but incomplete,” Ian nodded, his tone calm.
“Dragon dung is indeed one of the primary sources of fertilizer, particularly suitable for magical plants that thrive on fire or require large amounts of mineral elements.
Are there any others?” Malfoy bit his lip, his eyes darting toward Harry as though checking his rival’s reaction, but Harry merely watched him placidly.
By now, Hermione had raised her hand even higher, practically bouncing on her heels.
Ian smiled faintly.
“Miss Granger, please supplement.” “There are also squeezed Toadsstool juice extracts, decayed Jobberknoll feather substrates, and a mixture of morning dew gathered under moonlight combined with shredded Mandrake leaves!” Hermione spoke at a rapid-fire pace without pausing once, her face beaming with radiant self-confidence.
A wave of low murmurs echoed through the greenhouse, and even Snape’s brow twitched imperceptibly.
Ian nodded in approval.
“Exceedingly detailed.
Five points to Gryffindor.” Turning back to Malfoy, he added, “And one point to Slytherin.” A blush rose on Hermione’s cheeks as she straightened her back proudly.
Beside her, Ron muttered under his breath, “When did she memorize all of that…” Malfoy, on the other hand, wore a grim expression, deriving not a single shred of joy from the point he had earned.
Sometimes, as it turned out, one didn’t need to dock house points to achieve the desired effect.