HP: Pure-Blood Glory

"Professor Quirrell doesn't look very energetic."

After finishing a Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Professor Quirrell quickly disappeared from sight. Harry, while packing up his books, casually talked to Ron.

Ron, whose desk was devoid of books to begin with, simply watched Harry tidying up.

"Isn't he always like that? I heard he's actually fine when teaching Slytherin. Does he think he's their Head of the House?"

Ron complained mercilessly before glancing at Harry. "By the way, why do you even bother taking your books out? We never use them in class."

"Also, Harry, what notes are you even taking? Professor Quirrell's adventure stories?"

Seamus, spinning lazily on his chair, added with a grin, "I noticed only you and Hermione bother taking notes during his class."

Harry could hear the disrespect for Professor Quirrell in their words.

But he had no way to refute them. After all, Professor Quirrell wasn't exactly a likable teacher.

If nothing else, his obvious favoritism toward Slytherin during lessons was enough to show his bias.

So it was no surprise that students didn't treat him with equal respect.

Still, if Harry remembered correctly, Professor Quirrell had graduated from Ravenclaw. Why was he so partial to Slytherin now?

"I just think this class is really important. Who knows? Maybe some of what the professor says will turn out to be useful."

Harry explained, feeling a bit uneasy about being different from his friends, and hurried to justify himself.

"This class is indeed very important," Ron said seriously. "But there's one class that's even more important!"

Harry, who had just finished packing, asked in confusion, "Which one?"

He thought for a moment about Ron's usual behavior. "Is it Transfiguration?"

In his experience, Ron was relatively attentive during Transfiguration. Of course, the class Ron paid the most attention to was Potions, though Harry suspected that had less to do with interest and more to do with survival.

"No! It's obviously Flying!"

Ron said excitedly, "Our first flying lesson is coming up!"

Harry couldn't help but shake his head helplessly. This wasn't the first time he'd heard about Flying class today. It seemed many of his friends were eagerly anticipating it.

Some of them even bragged about their past exploits—like racing Muggle helicopters or flying to London on a broomstick at age four.

He remembered how even Luke had listened intently to these stories, pulling out a peculiar crystal ball that seemed to be recording them.

When asked about his own flying skills, Luke simply said he hadn't tried flying before and that it was better to wait until after the lesson to comment.

That's when Malfoy jumped in, offering to teach Luke and promising to make him a proper Quidditch player.

It seemed Malfoy was genuinely looking forward to playing Quidditch with Luke, even though Luke didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about it.

As they left the classroom and walked down the corridor, Ron suddenly noticed Neville looking unusually cheerful.

"You're in a good mood, Neville!"

"Of course! It's been days since Peeves last messed with me. Life without Peeves is wonderful. It'd be perfect if Snape wasn't around too!"

Neville spoke in a cheerful tone.

Looking at the happier and more confident Neville compared to their first meeting, Harry could clearly feel the power of companionship.

"By the way, I heard this from Lee Jordan," Seamus suddenly spoke up, as though recalling something, "Peeves seemed to have thrown a huge tantrum a few days ago. He caused quite a commotion in the dungeons, shouting about making the one who attacked him pay!"

"Someone attacked Peeves? Was Peeves hurt?"

Luke, who had been listening to the Bloody Baron's report, frowned slightly. While he had confidence in Peeves' resilience, Voldemort was no trivial foe. Between the two, it was hard to say who would prevail in the end.

"Peeves took a bit of a hit, but he insists the other party didn't come out unscathed either," the Bloody Baron replied.

"After being injured, Peeves vanished. I believe he's likely recovering somewhere, while also plotting revenge on his opponent."

"Is there any way to find him?"

Luke pressed.

The Baron shook his head silently, and said, "It's impossible, my lord. If Peeves doesn't want to be found, then no one will be able to find him."

Hearing this, Luke glanced down at the small cat lying at his feet.

Booker gave him a disdainful look and covered its face with its tail.

Luke felt his blood pressure rising. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Fine. Please keep an eye out for Peeves, and let me know immediately if he shows up."

The Bloody Baron placed a hand over his chest and solemnly replied, "As you command, my lord."

Luke nodded and gently nudged Booker with his foot. "Let's go. You can sleep later."

Booker lazily stretched, then got up and followed Luke.

--

Meanwhile, in his office, Quirrell sat on his sofa, his face contorted as though in agonizing pain. But no sound escaped his lips.

The sofa was torn and deformed from his clawing, and his withered fists struck the sofa with dull thuds. His once well-fitted clothes became looser at a speed visible to the naked eye.

Quirrell's previously full face suddenly shrank and then swelled again violently. The back of his head, however, remained entirely unchanged.

The torment finally ended after ten minutes.

Quirrell collapsed onto the floor, struggling to crawl toward his nearby desk.

It took him half a minute to cover a distance that should have been just a few steps.

Reaching up, he grasped the handle of a drawer. His hand slipped once, but he grabbed it again, finally pulling the drawer open.

He fumbled inside and retrieved a potion bottle.

Quirrell brought the potion to his lips, gulping it down greedily.

The brown liquid disappeared quickly, and Quirrell's body began to revert to its original state.

The empty potion bottle fell onto the carpet with a dull thud.

Quirrell stood up shakily, drenched in sweat.

Stumbling back to the sofa, he collapsed onto it, breathing heavily, his eyes filled with terror and dread as though he had narrowly escaped death.

And in his mind, Voldemort was roaring.

"More energy, Quirrell! I need more energy!"

"I must recover further!"

"I must destroy that cursed ghost!"

But Quirrell, sat motionless, like a man teetering on the edge of death.

*****

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