Chapter 80. A Fixation Is Disturbing It
When Adrian Wesson returned to his office, he finally let out a long breath.
Although it had only been a single soul fragment of Lord Voldemort, it was dangerous enough.
If he hadn't managed to deal with Voldemort's soul just now, he might have had to ask Albus Dumbledore for help.
That would have been far more troublesome than this.
And…
Wesson turned his gaze to Ravenclaw's Diadem on the desk.
Dumbledore would definitely take this back.
Strictly speaking, the diadem had been left by Rowena Ravenclaw and ought to belong to Hogwarts.
"Eldra."
Wesson examined the diadem's condition again.
[Name: Ravenclaw's Diadem]
[Status: It has lost its original ability. A fixation is disturbing it. However, it is safe.]
A fixation is disturbing it?
Wesson was a bit puzzled. What was that about? Voldemort's soul fragment should already have been cleared away.
He took off his dragon-hide gloves and touched the jewel on the diadem.
Mm, cold. Nothing strange happened.
Next, Wesson carefully set the diadem on his own head.
A moment later, Wesson silently removed it.
He didn't feel any cleverer.
Which meant…
This was a problem inherent to the diadem itself, not caused by Voldemort's soul.
Wesson vaguely remembered that in the original story there was another tale hidden within Ravenclaw's Diadem—that should be why the diadem was disturbed.
However…
Wesson could no longer recall the exact details.
He remembered only the two protagonists of that tale.
Those two had already become Hogwarts' ghosts—the Grey Lady of Ravenclaw and the Bloody Baron of Slytherin.
Still, even knowing why the diadem was disturbed, Wesson had no good way to solve the problem.
He couldn't just go up to the Grey Lady or the Bloody Baron and say:
Hey, do you have any fixations? Let me help you resolve them!
Besides, the fact that the two of them had become ghosts implied they had powerful fixations in life; Wesson didn't think he could easily dispel them.
Troublesome…
The next day, Wesson still hadn't thought of any good method.
He could only set Ravenclaw's Diadem aside for the time being.
Although he hadn't experienced the diadem's effect, at least he had destroyed the fragment of Voldemort's soul within it, and the Tree of Wisdom's growth had also made some progress.
All in all, the past few days had been fruitful.
Apart from that, Quirinus Quirrell's odd movements made him a little worried; he hadn't seen Quirrell at all this morning.
It should be as Dumbledore had said: Quirrell had "gone to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries to recuperate."
A few days later in the afternoon, in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Harry sat beside Ron, glancing at the door from time to time, looking a little nervous.
"What's up with you? You keep looking at the doorway—did something happen?" Ron asked casually as he fiddled with a quill beside him—the feathers on that quill were nearly bald.
"You don't know?"
Hermione lifted her head from the hefty The Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Defence, her curls swaying slightly with the motion. "We've changed Defence Against the Dark Arts professor this week."
Ron's quill fell onto the desk with a plop, and he looked astonished. "Really? Why did no one tell me?"
"I thought you knew," Harry said helplessly, giving Ron a look. "It was posted on the noticeboard first thing this morning. And everyone was talking about it at lunch—"
"That's brilliant—we finally won't have to smell that annoying reek of garlic anymore!"
In fact, he really hadn't heard the news at lunch. He'd been focused on demolishing his favourite sausages and had no time for anything else.
"Only for a week," just as Ron was getting excited, Hermione doused him with a bucket of cold water. "Professor Quirrell will be back after Christmas."
"That's still something," Ron went on. "Who's the new professor?"
"Professor Wesson."
No sooner had Harry spoken than the classroom door swung open.
All the students fell silent at once and looked toward the door.
Wesson stepped inside, glanced in puzzlement at the clock on the wall, then lifted his head and swept his eyes over the room, frowning slightly. "I shouldn't… be late, should I?"
The students immediately began murmuring again; the chattering rose and echoed through the classroom.
"Quiet, everyone." Carrying a square wooden box, Wesson walked to the front and gave the class a quick once-over.
"I suppose you already know that I'll be covering Professor Quirrell's lessons this week."
"I'll bet Professor Wesson's lessons are miles better than Professor Quirrell's," Hermione said from the side.
Propping his chin in his hand, Ron said offhandedly, "I don't think anyone could possibly teach worse than Professor Quirrell—unless—well, unless the person can't read the words in the book."
Harry nodded in agreement.
Quirrell's Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons had only one "content": reading out the text in the book, word by halting word.
He even stumbled over it.
Let alone teaching them any useful spells.
Occasionally, Quirrell would formulaically ask a few questions, then formulaically award a few points to whoever answered correctly—like ticking off a daily task.
However, apart from Hermione, almost no one raised a hand to answer.
Because most people weren't listening to Quirrell at all.
Wesson clapped his hands to signal everyone to look over.
"As far as I know, Professor Quirrell has taught you a great deal of theory…"
"That's far too much," Ron muttered under his breath.
"Therefore, this period is a practical lesson," Wesson continued.
The classroom immediately erupted in cheers.
They had never had a practical lesson!
"Come on then, everyone up, and have your wands ready. I trust no one has forgotten to bring a wand…" Wesson went on cheerfully. "We'll be needing them in a moment."
At Wesson's words, Neville's face instantly turned ashen. He fumbled frantically through the pockets of his robes, his voice shaking. "I've just remembered what I forgot at lunch…"
Sitting next to him, Seamus patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.
Wesson, however, had anticipated that something like this might happen.
"Mr Longbottom."
"Yes!"
Neville shot to his feet with a face like a funeral.
"Don't worry." Wesson gave him a reassuring smile, then walked to his side and drew a long stick from within his robes. "This is my spare wand—hornbeam. It's not very common, but I think you can give it a try."
Neville took the wand gingerly. The moment his fingertips touched the shaft, a spray of golden sparks burst from the tip.
"Excellent," Wesson said with a nod, then returned to the lectern.
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