Former Muggle Studies professor Quirrell stood by the corridor, hands clasped tightly, as if he'd been waiting for a while. When he saw Melvin, he forced a nervous smile. "Professor Levent, are you heading to the Great Hall or back to your office? I've got some questions about Muggle topics I'd like your advice on—specifically, that psychology stuff you mentioned before."
"…"
"Professor Levent?"
"Professor Quirrell, if I recall, you taught Muggle Studies too."
"I have some Muggle relatives and know a bit about their world, but it's surface-level. After graduating, I've mostly stayed in the wizarding world, so I'm not well-versed in their deeper knowledge or customs," Quirrell explained, his voice trembling with excitement, no longer stuttering.
He'd waited days for this chance. Today, that bat of a professor was tied up with back-to-back classes, and Quirrell had swapped a lesson with Trelawney to carve out this free moment.
To ensure this conversation went smoothly, he'd even changed his turban this morning, refreshing the herbs stuffed inside.
Yes, herbs.
The Dark Lord wasn't some leprechaun granting wishes. He was a malevolent spirit, radiating death at all times. Quirrell had offered his body and soul, hoping to gain power through the Dark Lord's return. But instead of gold or luck, the parasitic evil brought only decay and ruin.
The spirit clung to the back of his head, constantly siphoning his flesh and magic. To sustain it, his body was teetering on the edge of collapse, rotting and reeking. The festering sores on his scalp required potent potions to manage.
Quirrell couldn't brew potions himself, so he resorted to smearing raw herbs on the wounds, mixing in heaps of garlic and onions to mask the stench.
He could tolerate the foul odor, but the sensation of his body deteriorating was inescapable. He could feel his skin softening, rotting. At night, hiding in the bathroom to clean himself, the blackened, putrid pus filled him with dread.
Things had spiraled to this point, and the Dark Lord now controlled his soul. Quirrell didn't even dare entertain thoughts of regret.
He could only obey the voice in his mind.
Following Melvin upstairs, Quirrell's stutter eased. "I'm fascinated by psychology. Last time, you mentioned something about fear. I want to overcome my own timidity. Can you tell me how to apply that knowledge practically… like the theories you used for that room you set up?"
"Oh, the room's setup is confidential. Dumbledore specifically asked me to keep it quiet," Melvin said, his smile that of a friendly colleague. His gaze lingered on Quirrell's face and turban. "But I can recommend a few books for you. Just for fun, mind you. Psychology is fascinating, but it's mostly theoretical—hard to apply in practice."
Quirrell forced a strained smile.
"Look! Like now!" Melvin said, studying his face. "Your brows are furrowed, your upper eyelids slightly raised, and your mouth is turned down. According to psychology, that suggests you're feeling annoyed or resentful toward me."
"…"
Quirrell's face froze, caught between smiling and grimacing, looking utterly awkward.
"And now you're avoiding my eyes—that's a sign of embarrassment or guilt, like you're hiding something. Your slight turn and stiff arms suggest you're on guard against me…" Melvin continued, his analysis relentless. As Quirrell's expression grew more strained, Melvin shifted tone. "But that can't be right, can it? We're just colleagues, and I'm new here this year. What reason could you have to be wary of me?"
"Exactly, exactly!" Quirrell exhaled in relief.
"Psychology's like that," Melvin said casually. "A lot of it stays theoretical, not much practical use. Muggles can't use Legilimency, so how could they know what someone's really thinking? Speaking of, you know about Legilimency, don't you?"
"I… I do," Quirrell stammered, meeting Melvin's deep, dark eyes. A chill ran up his spine, his heart trembling.
He instinctively wanted to look away but remembered Melvin's analysis and forced himself to hold steady. "I… I've got something to do… I'll go now. We… we'll talk later."
"Sure thing, Professor Quirrell. Goodbye, Professor Quirrell."
"Goodbye."
Melvin watched Quirrell's retreating figure, his smile still friendly.
The Philosopher's Stone, huh…
…
Hogwarts Castle, third floor.
The Muggle Studies office door was locked tight.
Whoosh…
A faint breeze sounded from within.
Beneath the narrow gap at the bottom of the heavy wooden door, tiny specks of dust puffed out, scattering across the floor in a thin layer.
A faint silvery glow flickered through the crack.
This silvery substance was crafted by Wright, based on the Pensieve's misty formula but tweaked to Melvin's specifications. Without the runic array etched into a stone basin, it couldn't pull someone into a memory or let them fully experience the scene—but that was exactly what they needed.
In his letter, Wright mentioned he was working on a mist container, something akin to a Muggle screen.
Melvin examined the floating silver mist in the bottle and pulled out the rubber stopper.
Tiny motes of light drifted from the glass, the ethereal silver-white mist spreading to fill the room. Neither fully gas nor liquid, it was weightless yet flowed almost like a liquid, resembling the morning fog in the Forbidden Forest.
Drawing a strand of memory and touching it to the mist, silvery light rippled outward. The formless mist soon shaped into a memory: a summer afternoon at Mount Greylock, clear streams sparkling, tree shadows stretching into one another, perfectly recreating the scene.
But it couldn't capture sensations beyond sight and sound. The memory showed a warm summer day, cooled by shade and spring water, but in reality, it was early autumn in the Scottish Highlands, with a crisp chill in the air.
Subjective memories in his mind still held a faint sense of the spring's coolness, but it was blurry, unreal. Memories were like that—the longer time passed, the hazier they became. Images, sounds, and tactile sensations faded, leaving only an emotional imprint.
Profound memories fermented over time, growing richer. Others evaporated into nothingness.
Melvin sat behind his desk, deep in thought.
As a Hogwarts professor, after three weeks of teaching, his unique Muggle-inspired methods had influenced nearly every student. Even those who hadn't taken his class felt the ripple effect through their peers or dormmates. The seeds Professor Levent had planted were taking root.
He could feel his magic growing stronger, subtle but steady, with every moment.
For now, his influence was confined to Hogwarts students. But once Wright perfected the screen design and their plan came to fruition, the impact could be transformative.
"…"
Melvin snapped back to the present, gazing at the memory's projection. He reached into the illusory stream, cupping his hands carefully to scoop up the water.
The misty memory was just an image; the air in the office was empty. Touching the water in the memory was like grasping at a phantom, a futile act even for a wizard.
Yet Melvin did it with utmost care, moving slowly, deliberately, as if it required immense effort.
The motion was simple—something a child could do—but he seemed to struggle.
Splash…
As his hands lifted from the water's surface, a faint but real sound echoed in the room.
Melvin looked down at his hands. His palms were dry, but his knuckles were damp, a few droplets sliding down, cool and slightly itchy.
The droplets fell onto the desk, soaking Wright's letter.
Many spells could conjure water, but these drops weren't from Aguamenti or a Transfiguration. They were real, tangible water.
Turning an illusion into reality, touching the very essence of magic…
Melvin broke into a smile.
He didn't need the Philosopher's Stone. He was the Philosopher's Stone.
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