Chapter 77. Defence Against the Dark Arts
After breakfast the next day, Adrian Wesson arrived punctually at the door of Dumbledore's office.
However—
He had forgotten to ask Dumbledore for the password to the office door again.
Fortunately, this time he only tried a few times before the statue at the door moved aside.
Today's password was "Liquorice Wand."
Just as Wesson was about to step onto the revolving staircase, a set of footsteps suddenly came down from above.
Given the narrow space on the stairs, Wesson stopped to wait.
To his surprise, the person coming down was not Dumbledore.
"Professor Quirrell?"
Wesson looked up and saw that the one descending was indeed Quirrell.
Quirrell seemed a little absent-minded at the moment, his head lowered so that he did not notice Wesson at first.
Hearing Wesson's voice, Quirrell lifted his head and, hesitantly, greeted him: "G–good morning, Professor Wesson."
Seeing that it was Wesson, Quirrell remembered the odd piece of fruit Wesson had given him not long ago.
That thing had cost him no small amount of suffering.
Even now, Lord Voldemort could only parasitise small animals, having found no suitable host, barely clinging to life.
At that thought, a fine sheen of sweat broke out on Quirrell's forehead.
"Are you all right, Professor Quirrell? You look as if you've eaten a whole jar of not-so-fresh pickled herring," Wesson asked with a friendly smile and a touch of concern. "Do you need me to take you to Madam Pomfrey?"
"I'm fine, thank… thank you for your concern, Professor Wesson."
Forcing a stiff smile, Quirrell walked past Wesson and hurried downstairs.
At this moment, he had only one thought in his mind: stay well away from this fellow!
As Quirrell drew level with him and went past, Wesson turned his head; his gaze, almost by reflex, swept over the back of Quirrell's head, and he noticed the turban was a bit loose, with one corner slightly sticking up, exposing a small patch of skin beneath.
At that moment, Quirrell seemed to sense Wesson's gaze and nervously covered his turban with his hand.
Then he paused, as if recalling something, relaxed, and removed his turban; after straightening it, he put it back on.
Now that Lord Voldemort was gone, he needn't be so tense.
Wesson saw Quirrell's movements clearly.
To his surprise, Quirrell was actually bald!
Well, perhaps that was not the most important point.
What mattered was that the back of Quirrell's head was smooth and bare, just like many a bald man's.
Then… where was Lord Voldemort's face?
Wesson stood there, momentarily stunned, and did not come back to himself until the door to the Headmaster's office closed.
Where had Lord Voldemort gone?
Could it be that the golden apple he had given him had done him in?
With that question in mind, Wesson entered the Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, spectacles on his nose, a sheet of parchment in hand, studying its contents with great attention.
"Ah, you're here." When Wesson came in, Dumbledore set the parchment down and looked up at him. "Do sit, Professor Wesson—just that chair in front of you."
As Wesson sat, he let his eyes drift around the room.
In the corner to his left stood a tall object draped in cloth.
From the shape of it, that ought to be the Mirror of Erised from last night.
It seemed Dumbledore had brought it to his office.
"By the way," Wesson asked as he sat down, "Professor, I just saw Professor Quirrell on the stairs. He… erm… looked rather odd. Has something happened?"
Dumbledore removed his glasses, set the parchment aside, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and replied, "Ah, yes, Professor Wesson. In fact, that is why I have asked you here… most vexing."
Wesson blinked, puzzled.
What had Quirrell to do with him?
A faint unease stirred in Wesson's chest. He ventured, "What exactly is the problem?"
Dumbledore sighed and said, "A few days ago, Professor Quirrell told me he had recently developed some health issues and would need a period of convalescence at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Just now, he formally submitted his request."
So that was it—Quirrell had likely come to the Headmaster's office about this matter.
But… going to hospital to recuperate?
That was clearly a pretext; Quirrell's true purpose would not be so simple.
Besides, Wesson had just discovered that Lord Voldemort had disappeared from Quirrell, which likely had some connection to this.
"Then what has this to do with me?" Wesson asked, puzzled.
Dumbledore blinked and said, "A problem presents itself: Quirrell's temporary departure means that, until the Christmas holidays, the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts will be vacant. You know, Wesson, this will be no small challenge for the students—Defence Against the Dark Arts is a most important subject."
In truth, with or without Quirrell, the class was much the same; Quirrell's lessons were simply read aloud from the book.
Hearing this, Wesson froze for a moment, that faint unease stirring again. "Headmaster, you mean…?"
Dumbledore smiled slightly. "Wesson, I hope you can temporarily serve as acting professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts until Professor Quirrell returns. Ah, it won't be long—just a week."
Wesson had already suspected as much—indeed.
Be the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?
He had no wish to, especially given the precedent set by prior Defence Against the Dark Arts professors—almost none of them lasted long.
With that in mind, Wesson waved his hand at Dumbledore apologetically. "Me? I'm afraid not, Professor. I still have Care of Magical Creatures to teach, and I might not have time…"
"That won't be a problem," Dumbledore said, as if prepared in advance. "Professor McGonagall will help you arrange the timetable, and… you need only take the first- through fifth-year classes—hardly a difficulty for you. I have looked over your schedule; there is no clash. As for the other lessons, I shall find someone else to assist."
Wesson was about to attempt another refusal when Dumbledore handed him the parchment he had just set on the desk.
"?"
"Your new timetable, Wesson," Dumbledore said before Wesson could respond. "I am sure you will do splendidly."
At this point, Wesson could hardly refuse; he had no grounds left to decline.
Dumbledore had thought of everything.
It was merely a week of teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, and only for three year groups—there should be no problem… right?
"Very well, Professor Dumbledore. I'll do my best."
In the end, Wesson nodded and agreed.
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