Chapter 109: The Feast
Seeing that Wednesday had no interest in conversation, the young Slytherins wisely returned to their seats.
"Hey, Draco," a brown-haired witch beside Malfoy whispered pointedly, "didn't you say you knew Addams? Why don't you go talk to her? Maybe she'll even acknowledge you."
Her name was Pansy Parkinson.
She had a face that resembled a pug—sharp, tight, and full of habitual disdain—and her expression carried a mix of arrogance and cattiness.
"Oh—Pansy, of course," Malfoy said stiffly, feeling sweat bead on his forehead. He'd only been boasting casually; he hadn't expected her to take it seriously.
Pansy disliked Wednesday, and not without reason.
She and Malfoy had known each other since childhood—practically grown up together. Yet lately, he kept talking about another girl. About her looks. Her presence. Her family.
In terms of appearance or temperament, Pansy didn't think she was inferior to Wednesday at all.
The difference lay in one thing only—family standing. And there, the gap was enormous.
"Then go on," Pansy pressed, believing Malfoy's claim. More than that, she wanted to go with him—to deliberately show closeness, to display intimacy in front of Wednesday and force her to back off.
It must be said—Pansy was overthinking things.
Her voice was loud enough that it didn't catch Wednesday's attention—but it did attract the eyes of everyone around them.
Malfoy inwardly cursed her. He was now trapped between embarrassment and exposure. If he didn't go, people would assume he'd been lying.
"Fine… fine."
He stood up reluctantly, face darkening, just as a voice like heavenly salvation rang through the hall.
"Welcome, everyone, to another year at Hogwarts!" Dumbledore announced cheerfully. "Before the feast begins, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
The moment the words left his mouth, the empty plates before them instantly filled with food.
Malfoy nearly sighed out loud in relief and hurriedly sat back down.
The curious gazes around him withdrew as well. After all, no matter how interesting the drama, nothing was more important than eating.
"What on earth is that?" James frowned at the strange purple dish in front of him.
Russell, on the other hand, was very familiar with it—wasn't this the Addams family's wriggling, screaming oatmeal?
It seemed Hogwarts had gone to considerable lengths to help Wednesday feel at home.
He glanced toward the staff table. Most of the professors looked the same as ever, except that Professor Corvey's seat had been taken by a pale-faced wizard wrapped in an enormous purple turban.
Russell's gaze swept over him briefly without lingering. He didn't want Voldemort to sense his attention.
"Do you know anything about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?" James asked, noticing Russell's glance.
"I do," Rosen leaned in. "Quirinus Quirrell. An outstanding Ravenclaw graduate."
Russell sucked in a breath. He'd developed a condition—he got headaches whenever he heard long, elaborate names.
While Ravenclaw didn't produce many major villains in the original story, it certainly had its share of irritating ones. Quirrell, and possibly Lockhart next year.
"He looks really strange," a newly enrolled first-year beside them chimed in. "Why is he wrapping his head up in this weather? Isn't he hot?"
The speaker was Padma Patil. Of Indian descent, she had long dark hair, delicate features, and an elegant, scholarly air.
"Well, that's hard to say," James replied with exaggerated seriousness, clearly eager to impress the pretty junior. "Maybe he's bald. Or maybe his head's covered in boils and sores. Or perhaps he's raising a snake under that turban."
"Enough, James. Don't ruin my appetite," Rosen said, putting down his knife and fork. "I'm trying to enjoy my dinner."
"All right, all right," James said perfunctorily. Eager to keep talking to Padma, he turned back toward her.
"I think Quirrell might be a Dark wizard," he continued in a conspiratorial tone. "After all, he is teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Padma didn't look frightened—instead, she looked intrigued.
"Why do you say that? Were the previous professors Dark wizards too?"
"Absolutely. Dark as they come," James said confidently. "But don't worry—Dumbledore's here. Even last year's Professor Corvey didn't dare touch us."
Russell nearly laughed out loud.
Right—Corvey hadn't touched them. He'd gone straight for Russell, and with lethal intent.
If not for Russell's extraordinary wit—plus a little help from potions—he wouldn't even be sitting here now.
Besides, what did they have that made them worth targeting?
Thinking of this, Russell patted James on the shoulder. "In a situation like this, shouldn't you be saying that you would protect her?"
"Oh, come on. I know my limits," James replied casually. "I can handle a Red Cap or two, sure. But Dark wizards? I'd rather go back to bed early."
To be fair, James might be lazy—but he knew himself well.
Unfortunately, his blunt honesty had consequences.
Padma's smile faded slightly, and she began carving her roast chicken with noticeably more force.
After all, Russell's two roommates were undeniably good-looking. Maybe not quite on his level, but still impressive enough that Padma had been willing to strike up a conversation in the first place.
"Congratulations on earning the Third Class Order of Merlin."
Penelope Clearwater, Ravenclaw's new prefect, approached with a gentle smile. The student sitting beside Russell tactfully shifted away to make room.
She thanked him with a smile and turned back to Russell.
"Thank you," Russell replied politely, a trace of puzzlement in his eyes. He accepted her congratulations but remained distant.
They barely spoke before—he wasn't sure why she'd come over now.
"I just wanted to congratulate you," Penelope said, momentarily stunned. No boy had ever reacted to her like this before, and for a second she wondered if her charm had somehow failed.
Just as she was about to continue, a voice cut in.
"Hey, Russell! Did you know?" Senior Louis grinned. "I snuck a look at Prof. Severus's notes. He's planning to bring you into the Potions Club this term."
"That's great news," Russell replied.
Penelope had no choice but to withdraw.
As they continued eating, dozens of milky-white, translucent ghosts drifted out from the walls and took seats at the various house tables.
Slytherin's ghost—the Bloody Baron—settled beside Wednesday. Students nearby immediately showed fear, lifting their plates and moving elsewhere.
Only Wednesday smiled.
She found Hogwarts' ghosts fascinating—especially this one.
Tall and gaunt, clad in ancient robes and draped with chains, he was truly menacing.
What delighted Wednesday most were the silvery stains of blood scattered across him.
"Hello," she said, stabbing her fork into the oatmeal. It let out a dying scream before collapsing into silence.
"Hello," the Bloody Baron replied. "A first-year, are you?"
Wednesday nodded.
"You're not afraid of me?" he asked, surprised. Even Slytherins usually kept their distance.
"Why should I be?" she asked sincerely. "Can ghosts even hurt people?"
"Perhaps I just look frightening," he murmured. It had been a long time since he'd met a student who wasn't afraid of him.
"How did you die?" Wednesday asked eagerly. "What does death feel like?"
His expression darkened instantly.
"Oh," he said softly—and fell silent.
Unbothered, Wednesday continued asking questions. She wasn't malicious—only curious.
She had always wanted to understand death while still alive.
The Bloody Baron eventually drifted away.
"How unfortunate," Wednesday thought. I'll ask next time.
"All right," Dumbledore said, rising and clapping his hands. "Now that everyone has eaten their fill, there are a few announcements—especially for the start of term."
"First, for reasons well known to all, our previous Defense Against the Dark Arts professor has been convicted of numerous crimes and sent to Azkaban. Barring a miracle, he will not be returning."
"Thus, we are fortunate to welcome Professor Quirrell as your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."
"Say a few words," Dumbledore prompted warmly.
"H-hello… my n-name is Q-Quirinus Q-Quir—" Quirrell stammered as he stood, trembling.
"I'm very p-pleased to—ugh—"
His face went white. Bracing himself on the table, he vomited a large mass of thick, black, sticky blood—within which several indistinct shapes writhed and squirmed.
Snape had anticipated this. He cast a Shield Charm just in time; the blood splattered against it, releasing wisps of white steam.
Professor Flitwick also dodged swiftly—being splashed by that would've been revolting even if harmless.
With shaking hands, Quirrell pulled a small vial of black potion from his robes, uncorked it with his teeth, and swallowed it down. Color slowly returned to his face.
But he knew it was only temporary. His body was failing.
Dumbledore's expression hardened.
"Next," he said quickly, "first-years should note that the forest on the school grounds is strictly forbidden. Some older students would also do well to remember this."
His gaze landed squarely on the Weasley twins.
"And Mr. Filch asks me to remind everyone that magic is not to be used in the corridors between classes."
"Quidditch tryouts will be held in the second week. Interested students should see Madam Hooch."
"And finally—this must be emphasized—anyone wishing to avoid pain, danger, or death should stay away from the corridor on the right side of the fourth floor."
The Philosopher's Stone… Russell thought darkly.
Even Morgan considered it priceless. Naturally, Russell wanted it too.
Still, rather than stealing a ready-made Stone, he'd much prefer learning alchemy from Nicolas Flamel himself. With the system at his disposal, Russell was confident he'd one day create one on his own.
The Addams family practiced alchemy too—but theirs leaned toward explosive, dangerous creations. Not what he wanted.
The feast ended without even the school song. Under the prefects' guidance, students headed for their common rooms.
Passing the Ravenclaw table, Russell waved.
"Good night. See you tomorrow."
Wednesday waved back—yet her mood dipped for reasons she couldn't explain.
Once the hall had emptied, Snape finally lowered his wand.
"Professor Quirrell," he said coldly, "your condition seems… serious. A curse, perhaps?"
His lips curled faintly. "I hardly think you're fit to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Or even to remain at Hogwarts. You should be recuperating at St. Mungo's—or at least under Madam Pomfrey's care."
"And who," Quirrell asked quietly after cleaning up the mess, "would take my place?"
"If no substitute can be found," Snape replied smoothly, "I would be willing to fill in."
So this is it, Quirrell thought. The dagger finally revealed.
He'd known Snape coveted the position. He'd assumed it was a rumor—the post was cursed, after all.
Apparently, Snape was serious.
But Quirrell wouldn't yield. And arguing with Snape was pointless—the real decision-maker stood nearby.
"Professor Dumbledore," Quirrell said weakly, "this is an old injury. I was cursed while driving vampires out of Romania."
"It looks frightening, but I'm much better now."
"See?"