Scotland.
Hogwarts.
Headmaster's Office.
It was a circular room, decorated with antiques and magical objects. Strange portraits hung on the walls, their figures moving within the frames, occasionally offering advice or commentary—just like any other Hogwarts portrait.
In the center stood a large, elaborately carved oak desk, scattered with peculiar gadgets and silver instruments. They emitted a soft buzzing sound, and wisps of blue smoke floated above them.
At the desk sat Dumbledore, busy writing.
"I strongly object! Allowing someone as ominous as Mosfelos into the school is absolutely the wrong decision!"
A figure in a portrait spoke sternly and loudly. He wore a black robe, and his thick black eyebrows nearly formed a single line, making his expression even fiercer. The frame read:
"Phineas Nigellus Black, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (1891–1926)."
"I never thought I'd agree with Black, but he's right, Albus. You should reconsider," said another portrait—a kind-looking lady with long, flowing silver curls. The text beneath her portrait was longer than most:
"Dilys Derwent, St. Mungo's Healer (1722–1741), Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (1741–1768)."
Dumbledore looked up slightly. At that moment, almost all the portraits were awake—something that only happened when the school's very survival was at stake.
"Everyone," Dumbledore began, "I understand your concerns. But we cannot ignore the prophecy. Sybill's words have been proven correct twice."
He paused.
"Before he arrives, I will make an Unbreakable Vow with him, ensuring that he will not harm any teacher or student at Hogwarts."
He continued, "Moreover, when facing the Tindalos Confraternity, we need his help."
The portraits whispered among themselves again.
"I still reserve my opinion," Headmaster Black said grimly, closing his eyes as if falling into a deep sleep.
"Albus," Dilys added seriously, "you are the Headmaster. The decision is ultimately yours. But inviting a wizard—who may be as ancient as the Founders themselves—to be a professor is very dangerous."
Then she too closed her eyes, returning to slumber.
Almost all the portraits shared their concerns, but it did not stop Dumbledore from finishing his letter.
Dear Kem,
I hope this letter finds you well. It has been fifty years since we parted ways beneath the pyramids of Egypt, but I often recall our unforgettable encounter. Together, we explored the metamorphosis of the Sphinx and the boundaries between life and death—memories that remain vivid to this day.
Your wisdom and insight left a deep impression on me. Your mastery of magic is unparalleled.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is currently facing certain difficulties, especially with our Defense Against the Dark Arts course. Due to personal reasons, the current professor will soon be stepping down, leaving us in a difficult situation.
Naturally, I thought of you, Kem. I believe you are the perfect candidate for this position. Your knowledge and experience would help students truly understand the nature of the Dark Arts—and how to defend against them effectively.
I sincerely invite you to join Hogwarts as the new professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
I am aware that you have many responsibilities in America. Nevertheless, please know that I, along with the rest of the faculty, will fully support you and ensure that you have everything you need to succeed.
Of course, there will be some necessary restrictions; after all, bringing an American wizard to Hogwarts requires certain special procedures.
I apologize for the delay in sending this letter. We would greatly appreciate it if you could reply as soon as possible. The school year is already underway, and we urgently need a capable teacher like yourself.
Looking forward to hearing from you, Kem. Thank you once again for considering this request. Regardless of your decision, I hope we can stay in touch.
Best regards,
Albus Dumbledore
Dumbledore carefully packed the letter, stood up, and walked to a swirling mass of flames burning fiercely in the fireplace. His face was blurred by the firelight.
He silently threw the letter into the flames, watching as the parchment was gradually consumed. Only when it had completely vanished did he murmur softly:
"United States, Massachusetts, Arkham, 1317 Eldridge Road."
The fire flared and disappeared. The office returned to silence.
Meanwhile, Professor Quirrell was carefully holding a stack of student papers, walking slowly up the stairs with heavy steps. He entered the private office of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
After Marcus entered carrying teaching aids, the door softly closed behind him with a click, sounding almost final.
Quirrell exhaled deeply, putting his wand back into his belt.
He picked up the paper on top of the stack, sat down in his chair, and eagerly began admiring it again—despite having already read it countless times.
"Good heavens, Marcus," Quirrell exclaimed, "can you imagine? This was written by a first-year student!"
He caressed the parchment with fascination, his fingers stroking it repeatedly, as if handling a priceless treasure. A hint of infatuation gleamed in his eyes.
Marcus stood silently to the side, his back turned. A faint flash of scarlet light flickered in his eyes as he coldly fiddled with the teaching aids.
Quirrell didn't seem to notice—or perhaps he didn't care. He was entirely absorbed in the paper.
The more he read, the more restless he felt inside. A growing impulse swelled within him—the desire to become a good teacher.
"Alas, now that I think about it, it really wasn't right to just use the master's lesson plans without adapting them," Quirrell muttered.
He reflected on his lazy ways. After all, he would be staying here for a full year, and the lesson plans his master had given him were nearly forty years old—clearly outdated.
Maybe he should revise the material himself?
Determined, Quirrell slammed the parchment onto the table, breaking the stagnant air in the room.
"Marcus, fetch my lesson plans. I found a mistake and need to fix it," he commanded.
Quirrell picked up a quill and a blank sheet of parchment. He tested the quill, saw the ink marks appear clearly, and nodded in satisfaction.
Then he frowned. Marcus hadn't moved yet.
Today, Marcus seemed oddly slow and disobedient.
Quirrell looked up—
—and saw Marcus slowly turning around.
But there was no emotion on Marcus's face. His eyes gleamed with a cold, sinister light.
A chill ran down Quirrell's spine. His pupils shrank in an instant.
A flash of green light shot across the room.
The air grew deathly cold.
The quill slipped from Quirrell's fingers, making a soft clink on the floor—a sound like a death knell.
Quirrell fell stiffly back into his chair, his eyes wide open, forever frozen in horror and disbelief. It was as if his soul had been ripped away in an instant, vanishing into the gloomy room.
Marcus walked over expressionlessly, produced a vial of silvery liquid, and coldly poured it into Quirrell's open mouth.
The eerie liquid flowed slowly down his throat, cold death traveling through his veins.
Without a word, Marcus turned and left, pushing open the door silently behind him.
There you go!
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