The next morning, the first-year Slytherins had their long-awaited first Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
To say they were excited would be an understatement.
It was common knowledge: Slytherin students craved Dark magic the way Hufflepuffs loved food, Ravenclaws pursued knowledge, and Gryffindors sought thrills in breaking the rules. It was practically tradition.
Among them, none were more eager than Draco Malfoy, heir to a Death Eater family, raised on whispers of forbidden spells and old pure-blood superiority.
"Lycos, do you think we'll learn real Dark magic today?"
"Lycos, how did you learn your spells?"
"Lycos, what kind of curses do you think Professor Quirrell's going to teach us?"
Draco's enthusiasm didn't let up for even a second as they made their way to the classroom.
Lycos didn't answer. His mind was elsewhere.
He was still contemplating how best to help Quirrell accomplish his ridiculous request: to make himself look pathetic and incompetent in front of the class.
Lycos had never met someone who wanted to be humiliated—what else could he do but oblige?
"Do you think once I learn Dark magic, I can challenge Potter to a duel?" Draco prattled on, clearly not noticing Lycos' silence. "He actually dared to ignore me! I have to teach him a lesson!"
At that, Lycos finally turned his head slightly and gave Draco a look.
"First of all, this is Defense Against the Dark Arts, not a Dark Arts lesson. Professor Quirrell isn't going to teach you how to curse people."
"And second, I've heard his teaching skills… leave a lot to be desired."
He clapped Draco on the shoulder and strode confidently ahead. Lycos had been to Quirrell's office twice already—the classroom, located just above it and connected by a stairway, was familiar terrain.
...
"Ugh… what's that smell?"
Draco gagged the moment they reached the second floor, where the Defense classroom was located.
"Rotten garlic," Goyle said confidently, after taking a deep whiff like a wine connoisseur.
And promptly doubled over, dry heaving.
Crabbe, ever the curious fool, decided to verify this for himself. He inhaled.
"Yep, definitely garlic." He nodded seriously. Then he too started to retch.
Lycos: "…"
Draco: "…"
Without a word, they both took a few cautious steps away from the duo, as if stupidity might be contagious.
The smell grew stronger as they entered the classroom.
All eyes turned to the source: a pale, nervous young man with a large purple turban—Professor Quirrell.
When Lycos had met him privately, the garlic stench hadn't been nearly this overpowering.
But rumor had it that Quirrell's earlier classes hadn't gone well. Students said something foul and unnatural was leaking from under that turban.
Two particularly mischievous red-haired Gryffindors were even plotting to yank it off just to see what he was hiding.
To cover the stench of Voldemort—who was secretly parasitizing the back of his head—Quirrell had resorted to stuffing large quantities of raw garlic around his turban.
"Honestly, how much garlic does one man need? He smells like a walking anti-vampire potion," Draco whispered to Lycos, his excitement for the class deflating like a popped balloon.
"Maybe garlic's just a core requirement for advanced defense," Lycos muttered back with a shrug.
---
"G-Good m-m-morning, everyone…"
The bell rang.
Quirrell emerged from behind the desk, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
"I-I'm your D-Defense Against the D-Dark Arts professor, Q-Quirinus Q-Quirrell."
"T-Today we'll be learning… um… the Spark Charm… P-Please open your—"
"Professor," Lycos raised his hand abruptly, cutting him off. "The smell in here is a bit overwhelming. Could we open a window for some fresh air?"
The entire class went dead silent. Then, several students turned to Lycos with expressions of admiration. A few even gave him quiet thumbs-up.
It was their first DADA class. No one dared antagonize a professor—no matter how weak or bumbling he seemed. No one except Lycos, who had every intention of turning Quirrell into a public joke.
"W-We c-can't open the windows," Quirrell stammered. "I… I angered a v-vampire in R-Romania. Garlic r-repels them."
"You mean you can't even beat a vampire?" Lycos asked, voice neutral but cutting.
"I c-c-could, but a w-w-wise w-wizard knows h-how to avoid conflict…" Quirrell insisted. "I-I once helped a p-prince in Africa banish a… a revenant…"
At that, the class realized something—they could have fun with this guy.
"Professor, how exactly did you defeat that revenant?" asked Ernie Macmillan from Hufflepuff.
"I-I, uh… I did this… and that… and then, poof, it was g-gone!" Quirrell waved vaguely.
"W-Wonderful weather today, isn't it? P-Perfect for learning!"
Everyone glanced at the cloudy sky outside the window.
More hands went up.
"What's inside your turban, Professor?" a Hufflepuff girl asked curiously.
"It was a… a gift. From an African prince," Quirrell answered proudly. "A symbol of… h-honor."
"So honor doesn't need washing?" Theodore Nott pressed. "How long have you worn that thing? Haven't you noticed the smell?"
"I-I think it's… n-not so bad…"
"Professor," Draco piped up smugly, "if you really are a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, shouldn't you at least know some Dark magic?"
"…"
Quirrell faltered. The color drained from his face even further.
But with no escape, he stood up shakily.
"V-Very well. I-I shall now d-demonstrate a very d-dangerous… curse!"