The next morning, after breakfast, Vison arrived promptly at the entrance of Professor Dumbledore's office.
However, he had forgotten to ask for the password again.
Fortunately, he only had to guess a few times before the stone gargoyle guarding the door moved aside. Today's password was "Licorice Wand."
Just as Vison stepped toward the spiral staircase, he heard footsteps descending from above. Given the staircase's narrow structure, he paused and waited.
To his surprise, it wasn't Dumbledore coming down.
"Professor Quirrell?" Vison looked up and saw none other than Professor Quirrell slowly descending.
Quirrell appeared distracted, head lowered, seemingly unaware of Vison's presence at first. When he heard Vison's voice, he glanced up and greeted him with a hesitant, "G-Good morning, Professor Vison."
Upon recognizing Vison, Quirrell was reminded of the strange fruit the latter had given him some time ago—a fruit that had caused him considerable suffering.
Even now, Voldemort could only possess small animals, barely surviving without a suitable host.
Just thinking about this made sweat bead on Quirrell's forehead.
"Are you alright, Professor Quirrell? You look like you've eaten an entire jar of spoiled pickled herring." Vison offered a friendly smile, his tone lightly concerned. "Do you need me to escort you to Madam Pomfrey?"
"I-I'm fine, thank you… thank you for your concern, Professor Vison." Quirrell forced a stiff smile and hurried past Vison, descending quickly.
At that moment, he had only one thought: Stay away from this man!
As Quirrell walked behind him, Vison instinctively glanced over his shoulder and noticed that Quirrell's turban looked loose. A small corner had even lifted, exposing a bit of skin underneath.
It was then Quirrell seemed to sense Vison's gaze. Nervously, he raised a hand to adjust his turban.
He paused, as if remembering something, then relaxed. Casually, he removed his hat, tidied it, and placed it back on properly.
Now that Voldemort was no longer possessing him, there was no need to be so cautious.
Vison watched the entire sequence of actions and was surprised to discover something unexpected—Quirrell was bald.
But that wasn't the important part.
The back of Quirrell's head was smooth—like the crown of any bald man.
So then… where was Voldemort's face?
Vison stood frozen, stunned by the realization, until the door to the Headmaster's office finally closed behind Quirrell.
Where did Voldemort go?
Could it be… that golden apple made him sick?
Puzzled, Vison entered the Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, glasses perched on his nose, studying a parchment with deep concentration.
"Ah, you're here," Dumbledore looked up and set the parchment aside as Vison stepped in. "Please, have a seat, Professor Vison."
As Vison sat down in the chair opposite, he glanced around the room. In the far left corner, covered by a cloth, stood a tall object whose shape was unmistakable.
The Mirror of Erised.
Dumbledore must have moved it to his office.
"By the way," Vison said casually, settling into his seat, "I just saw Professor Quirrell on the stairs. He looked a bit off. Is something wrong?"
Dumbledore removed his glasses, set the parchment down, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Ah, yes. That's actually the reason I asked you here—it's become quite the headache."
Vison blinked, confused.
What did Quirrell have to do with him?
A strange sense of unease prickled at the back of his mind.
"What exactly is the problem?" he asked, cautiously.
Dumbledore sighed and replied, "Professor Quirrell informed me a few days ago that he's been experiencing some health issues. He's requested a leave of absence to recuperate at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He just submitted the formal request."
So that's why Quirrell had come to the Headmaster's office earlier.
But "recuperation"? That excuse sounded suspicious. It was likely a cover for something else.
And given that Vison had just noticed Voldemort was no longer on the back of Quirrell's head, the two matters were likely connected.
"Then… what does this have to do with me?" Vison asked warily.
Dumbledore folded his hands and spoke calmly, "A rather serious issue, actually. With Quirrell's temporary leave, the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor will be vacant—at least until the Christmas holidays. And as you know, Vison, this is a core subject for the students."
To be fair, with Quirrell in charge, the class hadn't been particularly helpful. It mostly involved reading directly from the textbook.
Still, hearing Dumbledore's words made Vison shift uncomfortably in his chair.
"Headmaster, are you implying…?"
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Vison, I hope you'll temporarily take over as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor until Quirrell returns. It's only for a week."
As Vison had feared.
He sighed. Becoming the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor? That post was famously cursed. Almost no one had lasted more than a year—and some not even that.
He waved his hand apologetically. "Me? I'm afraid I can't, Professor. I already have Care of Magical Creatures to teach. I might not have enough time."
"That's not an issue," Dumbledore said smoothly. "Professor McGonagall will help adjust your schedule. You'll only need to teach the first to fifth-year students. That shouldn't be too difficult. I've already reviewed your timetable—there are no conflicts. I'll arrange for someone else to cover the upper years."
Vison opened his mouth to decline again, but Dumbledore handed him the parchment he had been reading earlier.
"Your new schedule," Dumbledore said, as Vison glanced at the parchment. "I'm confident you'll do an excellent job."
He had no choice.
Dumbledore had anticipated every excuse.
One week. Just one week. Only three year groups. It shouldn't be too bad… right?
Vison sighed and nodded. "Alright, Professor Dumbledore. I'll do my best."
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