Chapter 36: A Friendly Exchange with Quirrell [Please Read~]
Quirrell, the former Muggle Studies professor, stood by the corridor with his hands clasped, as if he had been waiting for ages. When he saw Melvin, he forced an awkward smile.
"Professor Lewynter, are you heading to the Great Hall or your office? I have a few questions about Muggles and that psychology topic you mentioned earlier."
"…"
"Professor Lewynter?"
"Professor Quirrell," Melvin replied calmly, "if I recall correctly, you once taught Muggle Studies as well."
"I did," Quirrell said nervously. "I have a few Muggle relatives, so I know a bit about them, but not deeply. After graduation, I've spent most of my time traveling the magical world, so I'm not too familiar with Muggle customs and knowledge in detail."
Hearing that Melvin was willing to speak, Quirrell's voice trembled with excitement and for once, his stammer disappeared.
He had waited days for this perfect opportunity. Today, "the bat" (Snape) had several classes back-to-back, leaving no time to bother him. Quirrell had swapped a class with Trelawney just to free his schedule.
To make sure the meeting went smoothly, he had even changed his turban before leaving his chambers removing the herbs hidden inside.
Yes, herbs.
The Dark Lord was no goblin he was a specter, a spirit that constantly emitted the aura of death.
In his desperate bid to resurrect the Dark Lord and gain power, Quirrell had sacrificed his body and soul. But instead of granting him gold or glory, the parasite brought only weakness and decay.
The wraith dwelled at the back of his head, endlessly consuming his flesh and magic. His body teetered on the edge of decomposition rotting, festering, reeking. The pus that gathered at the back of his head required potent potions just to relieve the pain.
But Quirrell was no potion master. He could only rely on crude herbal remedies mixing garlic and onions generously to mask the stench.
He had grown used to the smell… but not to the feeling of his own flesh decaying. He could feel it skin softening, festering. Every night, he would sneak into the bathroom to clean himself, terrified of the black, oozing pus.
At that point, under the Dark Lord's control, Quirrell didn't even dare to think of regret.
He was driven only by the voice whispering inside his mind.
He followed Melvin up the stairs, his stammer now barely noticeable.
"I'm really interested in psychology," he said. "Last time, I heard you talk about fear. I want to overcome my own timidity and understand how to apply that knowledge in practice… For example, the theory you used when decorating your room last time. Could you tell me about it?"
"Oh, I can't reveal the layout of the room Dumbledore ordered me not to." Melvin smiled pleasantly, his dark eyes fixed on Quirrell's expression and the folds of his turban. "But I can recommend a few books for you, just for fun. Psychology is interesting, but it's all theory hardly useful in real practice."
Quirrell's forced smile faltered.
"See? Just like that," Melvin said suddenly, studying his face. "Your brows are lowered, your upper eyelids slightly raised, and the corners of your mouth tilt downward. According to psychology, that means you're angry and resentful toward me."
"…"
Quirrell froze, caught between smiling and grimacing, his expression hideous.
"Avoiding my eyes now? That indicates shame and guilt a desire to hide something. Your slight sidestep and stiff arms mean you don't trust me…"
Melvin continued analyzing, watching as Quirrell's expression darkened further then suddenly changed his tone, light and cheerful again. "But how could that be? We're just colleagues, and I only joined this year. Why would you distrust me?"
"E-exactly!" Quirrell exhaled in relief.
"That's psychology for you," Melvin said with mild amusement. "A lot of theory, not much use in practice. Muggles can't use Legilimency, so how could they ever truly know someone's thoughts? By the way are you familiar with Legilimency?"
"I… I am."
As Quirrell met Melvin's calm, dark gaze, a chill ran through his spine. His heart trembled violently.
Instinctively, he wanted to turn away but remembering Melvin's earlier "analysis," he forced himself still.
"I I have something to do. I'll be going now. We'll… talk again later."
"Of course, Professor Quirrell. Goodbye."
"G-goodbye."
Melvin smiled warmly as he watched Quirrell hurry off, almost tripping over himself.
The Philosopher's Stone…
In the third floor of Hogwarts Castle, the wooden door of the Muggle Research Office was closed.
A soft breeze drifted through the room.
From beneath the door's light brown cracks, faint particles of silver dust shimmered, settling onto the floor before the office in a thin layer.
A dim silver glow flickered through the seams.
Inside, a small glass vial containing a silvery substance pulsed faintly. It had been crafted by Wright, using the formula of the Pensieve's "silver mist" as reference modified to suit Melvin's research needs.
Without the runic carvings of a true Pensieve, it couldn't transport someone into a memory or let them relive it but that was precisely what Melvin needed.
In Wright's letter, he mentioned experimenting with a new kind of cloud container, similar to what Muggles call a screen.
Melvin gazed at the silver mist floating inside the bottle, then removed the rubber stopper.
Tiny particles of light drifted out, filling the room with a silvery-white haze half gas, half liquid, fluid yet weightless, like the morning fog of the Forbidden Forest.
Touching the mist with his wand, Melvin drew a fragment of memory. Ripples of silver spread outward, shaping themselves into a vivid image:
Mount Greylock on a summer afternoon, with crystal-clear water flowing and tree shadows interwoven an exact replica of his memory.
But the image carried only sight and sound.
It could not reproduce touch, temperature, or true sensation.
The scene showed midsummer heat softened by mountain shade and spring water, while in reality it was early autumn in the Scottish Highlands, cool and sharp.
He could still feel the freshness of the spring water in his memory but faintly, unreal, like a dream fading at dawn. Memories worked that way: with time, their images, sounds, and textures blurred, leaving only emotion behind.
The most profound memories fermented over time, growing stronger. The rest simply evaporated into nothingness.
Melvin sat silently at his desk, deep in thought.
After three weeks of teaching at Hogwarts, his uniquely "Muggle-based" teaching style had begun to influence nearly the entire school. Even students who hadn't taken Muggle Studies were affected indirectly through their peers and roommates.
The seeds Professor Lewynter had planted were already taking root.
He could feel his magical power growing not dramatically, but steadily, moment by moment.
For now, that influence extended only within Hogwarts. But once Wright's "screen" was completed and the plan proceeded as intended, the results would be something else entirely.
"…"
Melvin focused again on the floating silver memory before him.
He reached into the image his hands entering the spring water of his recollection. Slowly, carefully, he cupped his palms and lifted them.
The mist was only a projection, and the air in the real office was just air. To draw real water from memory should have been impossible an illusion within an illusion.
But Melvin moved with such precision and slowness it was almost painful to watch.
Then
Splash.
When he lifted his hands, droplets scattered and the faint sound of real water echoed in the room.
He looked down. His palms were dry, but the backs of his hands were wet. A few cool drops rolled down, leaving a faint sting.
The droplets fell onto the desk, soaking Wright's parchment letter.
There were countless spells that could conjure water, but these were different
not transfigured, not summoned, not condensed from air
real water, drawn out from a false memory.
Turning illusion into reality, touching the essence of magic itself…
Melvin smiled faintly.
He didn't need the Philosopher's Stone.
He was the Philosopher's Stone.
(End of Chapter)