Voldemort's roar rattled Quirrell's skull.
"But, my lord—didn't you say I mustn't actually teach them Defence? That would make our work harder, and it would cost precious strength."
Voldemort hissed, ice-cold.
"So history should record this, then? That I—the great Lord Voldemort—was thwarted by Harry Potter, a Saviour who likes to dress as a girl?
"Do you have any idea how those wretched historians and reporters would write it? 'Felled beneath Harry Potter's hemline'—and that's the least humiliating version I can imagine.
"Quirrell, I will not tolerate such slander."
Quirrell drew a slow breath. Resolve hardened in his eyes.
"Understood. In that case, my lord… I'll do it properly."
As Theodore stepped into the classroom, he faltered. Something in Quirrell's aura flipped like a coin. Thanks to Born-for-Duels, Theo felt it instantly—posture, pressure, the bite of killing intent.
A moment ago, Quirrell had been trying to disappear into that ridiculous scarf, all stammer and garlic. Now his chin was up, the cringe wiped clean, a quiet menace coiling behind his eyes.
Theo recalled Hagrid's casual line from the original story: Good student. Clever as anything.
Twelve O's on his O.W.L.s—better even than Hermione's ten entries with nine O's and one E—then a period of postgraduate study, a successful bid for the DADA post, and enough gall (ambition? arrogance?) to hunt dark wizards—and even approach Voldemort. In his weakest state, Quirrell had believed he could control the Dark Lord. He overestimated himself, sure, but his skill was never ordinary. The Quidditch hex-duel with Snape and the wandless, wordless Transfiguration in the Stone gauntlet said as much.
He'd just been acting the coward in class.
Given permission to show his real hand, Quirrell's blades came out.
"This lesson," he said, voice suddenly steady, "I'll teach you something real about defending against the Dark Arts.
"To defend against black magic, first you must know what it is—indeed, what magic itself is.
"Spells and wand-motions exist, yes. But in Muggle terms, magic is ideation made force—thought given teeth.
"With your intent you drive it, and it happens. In your childhood surges you all felt it—think up and you rose, think burn and fire answered.
"As you age, your worldview hardens: you learn you can't simply fly because you want to, nor ignite things by wishing. So you lean on wand, words, and gesture—call it a form of self-hypnosis.
"But even you know this: ordinary intentions have little push. 'I will be better; I will be disciplined'—so very hard. Yet hatred and other dark emotions? Those carve themselves into you.
"Black magic is magic driven by those negatives.
"It is foul. Overused, it twists the soul. But deny it not—its power is very real."
The room had forgotten to breathe. Even the scarf and the garlic were forgotten. Heads tilted forward, eyes bright. Theo's narrowed, thoughtful. So Quirrell does have juice.
Quirrell's gaze moved over the rapt faces. "I can teach you to grow stronger, to resist black magic—and to wield magic that surpasses most black spells."
A hush of longing rippled through the class.
Quirrell's mouth curved. His eyes found Harry.
"Harry Potter. Do you wish to learn?"
Harry blinked, then nodded quickly.
"Then," Quirrell said, "you will first change out of that outfit and remove the cosmetics."
Harry paused, clearly dubious. "I can't learn unless I change back?"
Quirrell stalled. Weren't children this age supposed to fold at the first hint of a bribe? Was the dress really more important than power?
Grinding on, he forced a smile. "Not strictly. But you are Harry Potter, famed scourge of dark wizards—slayer of the Dark Lord at his height—
"Dressing like this doesn't suit the image. It clashes with your title."
Harry tilted his head. "Why?
"Why can't a dark-wizard scourge wear a dress?"
Quirrell's hand clenched. "A dress can fight dark wizards—but in a life-and-death duel, do you not think it… theatrical? At least show your opponent some respect. They are infamous dark wizards."
Harry looked honestly puzzled. "Respect? For dark wizards? Why? Better to humiliate them thoroughly.
"Fighting them in a dress makes them furious and sloppy. Then when I win, I can humiliate them again. Sounds great to me."
Inside Quirrell's skull, Voldemort howled.
"Enough, Quirrell! Stop quibbling! Potter's mind is corrupted—Bumblebee has ruined him! We must correct him with power. Make him feel it!"
Quirrell inhaled through his nose. "Very well. Let's end that discussion.
"You all know a little magic by now. I hear last week you even brawled with Slytherin. So—we'll use sparring to make my point.
"Who wants to try?"
Gryffindors shot up, none faster than the industrious queen of right answers. Hermione mounted the platform first. After a few real fights she'd begun to trust her instincts—but despair arrived fast.
Every spell she cast, Quirrell seemed to pre-read and unravel with clean counter-curses. When he moved, she never even saw the spell—her wand simply pinwheeled away.
If that was Hermione, the others stood no chance. Two, three more tried—each was floored in a heartbeat.
Down below, eyes turned hungry.
Ron muttered to Harry, "We said last week Professor Quirrell was hopeless. Looks like he's the real deal."
Harry nodded, excitement flickering. If he could learn a handful of heavy-hitting jinxes, next time Gryffindor clashed with Slytherin he could help Theo and Hermione.
Quirrell saw it—the shift—and inwardly smiled. One last nudge to bring Potter back to the 'proper path'.
His gaze slid to Theodore.
"Theodore Ashbourne, I hear your Transfiguration is exquisite.
"But Defence is not Transfiguration. This isn't parchment talk. It takes real fighting.
"Come," he said, raising a hand toward the platform. "Let's see what you can do."
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