Chapter 32: The Timid Quirrell

Perhaps because of their shared experience of losing points, after Halloween, Harry, Hermione, and Ron began spending far more time together.

Although Ron and Hermione still occasionally bickered, making their bond far from inseparable, it was close enough.

At least in class, the three of them sat together every day after Halloween.

The trio was beginning to take shape.

Silven also found it strange—whether this was fate’s guidance or not, despite some detours along the way, Harry had ultimately found his external brain.

And then there was what happened that day in the fourth-floor room… Silven assumed the school would at least pretend to investigate, but nothing happened.

The professors seemed to have agreed in advance to say nothing about the three-headed dog or the troll; even when students asked directly, they only received replies blaming Peeves for a prank.

It was as if the whole incident had never occurred.

Oh, except for Quirrell—he took leave and didn’t show up for class for several days, with Snape substituting, according to his own words:

“Your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was frightened by a prank. He needs rest.” His tone dripped with disdain and contempt for Quirrell.

He seemed in good spirits, occasionally cracking small jokes about Quirrell during class.

But correspondingly, Harry was not happy at all.

Snape’s dislike for Harry showed no sign of easing with the change of subject; if anything, it had intensified. If a lab assistant were needed for Defense Against the Dark Arts, it would unquestionably be Harry.

When the textbook content didn’t require it, Snape would invent conditions himself.

Every morning, Harry’s first act upon waking was to check his schedule; if he saw Defense Against the Dark Arts or Potions, he’d curse Snape for five minutes, then drag through the rest of the day in gloom.

In a certain sense, Harry was likely the only person at Hogwarts who genuinely hoped Quirrell would recover soon.

After all, though Snape targeted Harry, his lessons were far more interesting than Quirrell’s, and most students enjoyed them.

Harry’s prayers seemed to have worked.

In the second week, Quirrell reappeared in Hogwarts Castle.

But he looked even stranger than before—most noticeably, the odor clinging to him.

Previously it had been garlic; now it was mixed with the stench of rotting onions.

“This is knowledge I learned from a wizarding tribe,” he explained during a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. “This smell repels multi-headed magical creatures.”

Silven had reason to suspect that the “multi-headed magical creature” he meant was Fluffy, the three-headed dog.

Harry had told him about that day—details were unclear, but everything concerning Quirrell was crystal clear.

In short, he’d been so terrified he vomited, all the way from the fourth floor to the hospital wing.

In a certain sense, being able to vomit that long was almost a talent.

But Quirrell refused to admit it, mumbling evasively and brushing it off. When Ron impatiently asked what had really happened that day, Quirrell turned beet red, stammered, then launched into incomprehensible ramblings about “the care and protection of magical creatures” and “even guarding against colleagues.”

He then shifted to talking about the weather and the school kitchen’s onions, sending the class into laughter, the room filled with merriment.

Unfortunately, this did nothing to change the fact that Defense Against the Dark Arts had become boring again.

Under such circumstances, Hogwarts entered November.

The weather grew colder, and most students switched to thicker robes and cloaks.

These days Harry became especially busy, as the Quidditch season had begun; team members trained three times a week, each session lasting over two hours.

As a complete novice, Harry’s training load was even heavier—he left early and returned late every day.

Fortunately, first-year classes were light; between intense training, Harry could still finish his homework, provided Hermione was willing to help.

Harry now deeply regretted not having Hermione as a friend sooner; under the temptation of homework, he unhesitatingly abandoned Ron and sided with Hermione.

This left Ron miserable for a long time—until one day, Harry secretly placed Hermione’s revised homework in front of Ron.

After that, Ron gave up entirely, raising his hands in surrender with perfect clarity.

Hermione’s personality was annoying, but if she was willing to help with these tedious assignments, she was unquestionably the most popular witch at Hogwarts.

Silven did not join the already-formed trio; these days, through the school’s owls, he purchased a batch of wand materials through his own channels.

He had originally intended to ask his grandfather Ollivander for help—it would have been easier and saved him a lot of money—but the owls couldn’t find him.

The owl he hired with three nuts flew around, then returned his letter unopened—it hadn’t found Ollivander.

Silven wasn’t particularly surprised by this result.

In fact, ever since Silven had mailed the Red Hat Nerve Wand overnight, his grandfather had seemed… off. For instance, he’d sent back three blank parchment letters.

From Wednesday to Friday, he sent a reply every morning—each one completely empty.

Not letters written in invisible ink—just plain, blank parchment.

Later, he vanished entirely, disappearing into self-imposed isolation; even the owls couldn’t find him.

With no other option, Silven had to spend his own money.

Fortunately, the items he needed weren’t expensive—Malfoy’s deposit had helped immensely.

By the way, Malfoy still hadn’t approached him, as if he’d completely forgotten the whole thing.

Then came the long wait.

Several days later, at noon, Silven finally received the package he’d been eagerly awaiting.

He was chatting with Hagrid near the Forbidden Forest.

These days, Hagrid had gathered quite a few good items: five unicorn tail hairs, a handful of centaur tail hairs, a small bundle of hippogriff feathers, and three spider legs each two feet long…

Looking at all these valuable materials, Silven suddenly felt a pang of guilt, wondering if his act of blasting Fluffy’s mouth with a wand had been excessive.

Then a package slammed into him.

A dull gray owl dropped a brown paper parcel and flew off without looking back—terrible service.

But Silven merely rubbed his shoulder, completely unfazed.

The people in Knockturn Alley had already done enough just to deliver the goods after taking his money—why care about service?

“That’s a big package. What did you buy?” Hagrid asked casually.

“Doggy-shut-up stick…” Silven blurted out.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Silven quickly waved his hand. “I need to head back. I’ll come see you this weekend.”

(End of Chapter)