Ivy had only attended one Defense Against the Dark Arts class during the first week of term. What he found was exactly as the original novel had described: Professor Quirrell merely read straight from the textbook, parroting lines without any real depth.
Ivy had originally hoped Voldemort might offer some true insights into the Dark Arts. Instead, the utter lack of substance left him deeply disappointed. From that day on, he never bothered attending another of Quirrell's classes.
As for the other first-year subjects—
Back when Ivy himself studied at Hogwarts, he had started directly as a fifth-year. Not only had he been facing his O.W.L.s, but also contending with Ranrok's goblin rebellion. He'd been forced to rely on unconventional methods of learning. That meant he had never gone through the standard first-to-fourth-year curriculum at all.
Now, though, there were interesting classmates and charismatic professors in every lesson. That alone was enough reason not to miss classes.
But when it came to Quirrell's Defense Against the Dark Arts? Since everyone knew that position was essentially a revolving door—cursed to be short-lived—it meant Ivy didn't feel any need to maintain a relationship with him. Sooner or later, Quirrell would be "game over," and a new professor would replace him.
As for the shadow under Quirrell's turban?
In Ivy's eyes, Voldemort was nothing more than a junior on the path of dark magic. Especially now—he had no body, nothing but vapor and shadow.
Quirrell, who had been lingering in the fourth-floor stairwell, nearly bulged his eyes out when he overheard Ivy's bold remark.
"I–I…I'm sorry you feel that way… b-but if you… If you ever wish to consider any other perspectives on Defense Against the Dark Arts—"
"No. Thank you." Ivy cut him off curtly, his gaze sliding past Quirrell's head to the corridor behind him—the one that led to the chamber where the Philosopher's Stone would eventually be kept. For now, though, the Stone was not there.
Quirrell sucked in a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of garlic-scented air.
Ivy grimaced in disgust and quickly cast a Bubble-Head Charm on himself.
That simple gesture clearly shattered Quirrell's composure. "I trust that… that Professor Snape is aware you've been skipping Defense Against the Dark Arts?" he demanded, eyes narrowing.
"Of course," Ivy replied easily, though in truth he had no idea whether Snape knew. Still, why miss the chance to set a trap? "I've been studying defensive spells directly under Professor Snape. No need for you to worry about it, Professor Quirrell."
He adjusted his bag, clearly signaling the end of the pointless exchange. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get to the library. If you have further questions, I'm sure you can take them up with Professor Snape."
"Wait!" Quirrell called out just as Ivy turned to leave. This time, his voice no longer trembled or stammered—it carried a sharp edge of anger.
"Mr. Doom. I mean no disrespect to Snape's talents, but you must understand that I am the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
Ivy raised an eyebrow. "So you can speak properly after all. I was starting to think you were a permanent stammerer, Professor Quirrell."
"I only wish to prevent you from straying down the wrong path, Mr. Doom." Quirrell's lips curved into a prideful smile. "Perhaps Snape amuses you with a few 'little tricks' in the dungeon… but in time, you'll come to realize who is truly worthy of your respect—"
"Perhaps… Dumbledore?" Ivy interrupted deliberately, knowing exactly who he was truly addressing. "After all, he's the acknowledged master of magic. The most powerful wizard of the 20th century."
Quirrell's expression darkened, but soon twisted back into a smile. "I understand your meaning, Mr. Doom. But Dumbledore will not live forever."
He pulled out a scrap of parchment and quickly scribbled something before handing it over.
"Take this, Mr. Doom. I believe you'll find more intriguing knowledge in the Restricted Section of the library. Perhaps then, we can discuss the true secrets of magic once more."
Ivy accepted the permission slip with a bemused look.
What on earth was this supposed to mean?
I mocked you outright, and instead of lashing out, you shove a Restricted Section pass into my hands?
Did Voldemort misunderstand something?
Or was this what happened when one made too many Horcruxes—the brain went soft?
Ivy decided it wasn't worth overthinking the mind of someone that dim.
He now had access to the Restricted Section. Not using it would be a crime against himself.
"Scholar's Touch—activate!"
Hours later, Ivy finally emerged from the Restricted Section, having burned through every first-level spell slot he had, still hungry for more.
And there, in the main library, he spotted Harry and Ron hunched miserably over a desk, scratching their heads in frustration.
He hadn't seen them since the night of their so-called duel. Judging by their current state, their homework hadn't gone well.
"It's Ivy!" Ron nudged Harry with his elbow. "If he'd just lend us his homework to copy, we could finish fast and go look at that broom!"
At the mention of "broom," the gloom on Harry's face vanished instantly, replaced by eager anticipation. He turned, staring intently at Ivy.
"I thought I heard the word 'broom'?" Ivy asked with interest. He was more than a little curious about the new generation of brooms—especially Nimbus models.
As the wizarding world's main means of transport, broomsticks had undergone many evolutions.
Over a century ago, brooms had been bespoke items, crafted like wands. But broom-making was far more complex, and even the most skilled broom-makers could only produce a few a year.
A good broom had been both rare and exorbitantly expensive.
That was why Ivy's Moon Dream broom was considered such a priceless antique by Madam Hooch.
In the new century, however, broomstick production had shifted to assembly-line manufacturing. Companies like Comet and Cleansweep employed teams of witches and wizards, each handling a specific step. Output soared, and secrecy was better protected.
Until Nimbus arrived, Comet and Cleansweep had dominated the market.
At Hogwarts Castle, no Nimbus brooms existed—except for the one in Gryffindor's dormitory.
Ivy was eager to learn what made these modern brooms tick—especially Nimbus's exclusive patent: the "Braking Charm."
Who knew? Maybe he could use that research to design other flying devices—flying swords, perhaps, or a magic hoverboard.
Ron and Harry exchanged a glance, then Harry whispered, "If… if you let me take a look at your homework—"
Before he could even finish, Ivy had already dropped his assignment onto the table.