Chapter 126: Alexander's Lie
The corridor on the third floor was unusually quiet.
After Madam Pomfrey's firm insistence, Ron finally left the infirmary with Harry, dragging his feet on the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts.
"This is so unfair," Ron grumbled. "Other students get to stay in the hospital wing for the tiniest things. Why was I booted out the moment I could move again?"
"Shut it, Ron. It's already 3:35—we're late," Harry said, frowning. In his mind, if Ron hadn't kept dawdling, they wouldn't be behind schedule.
Besides, Harry hated walking into class late and getting stared at—especially when the professor had already been knocked unconscious twice... by him.
"Harry, why don't we just skip it?" Ron muttered. "Professor Quirrell still smells like... that. Ugh."
"You've said that a dozen times," Harry said, pretending not to hear him.
"Harry, come on—"
"Ron, Dumbledore already said he'd speak to Professor Quirrell about it," Harry interrupted. "It'll probably be better this time."
He immediately regretted saying that.
As soon as they stepped into the classroom, they were hit not with the fresh air they hoped for, but with that familiar sour odor. Maybe it was slightly lighter... and there seemed to be a hint of perfume mixed in?
Unlike most first-years, the upper-year students had grown used to Quirrell's unfortunate stench. There was even a third-year Gryffindor, Devon, who used to rush to the front row just so he wouldn't miss it. He even claimed it helped his studying. But recently, for some bizarre reason, he'd lost a bet and eaten a few vixen eggs, ended up hospitalized at St. Mungo's, and was now suspended.
Quirrell reportedly lost several pounds from the stress.
Only Alexander Smith knew the full truth. Over the past week, Quirrell had been sneaking off under the pretense of helping Dumbledore reinforce the protections around the Philosopher's Stone. In truth, he was exploring the forbidden corridor on the fourth floor.
Devon had kept pestering him during this time. If it hadn't been for Dumbledore watching, Alexander suspected Quirrell might have permanently silenced the poor boy.
Originally, Quirrell shouldn't have been so impatient. In the original timeline, he didn't attempt to steal the Stone until Halloween. But after Harry's two accidental purifications, Quirrell's vitality hadn't returned. Instead, Voldemort's control over him had only tightened.
It was partly Quirrell's own fault—he'd tried to take advantage of Voldemort, thinking he could manipulate the Dark Lord while he slept.
Alexander often wondered why Quirrell hadn't just gone to Dumbledore for help. But it was his own grave to dig.
He'd had his chance.
On the other side of the room, Quirrell flinched the moment Harry stepped inside, shrinking back like a frightened house-elf. "Ah—ah—ah... back row... empty... looks good—very good," he stammered.
Unsurprisingly, the back row was already packed.
Harry didn't mind; he didn't want to sit close to Quirrell anyway. Ron, on the other hand, looked miffed. Quirrell hadn't even acknowledged him. Ron had just come back from the hospital wing, after all!
It was just another weird thing Ron always seemed to fixate on.
Now, almost all the first-years were sitting in the last two rows... except for Hermione.
She was sitting boldly in the front row—right beside Alexander. And strangely, the sour stench didn't seem to reach them. It was as if the air around them had been purified.
Quirrell, oblivious as ever, didn't even seem to notice.
Since completing his ritual, Alexander had stopped worrying about Voldemort, Dumbledore, or anyone else. He knew that even in the presence of Voldemort's fragment, Quirrell couldn't detect him.
"Harry, did you notice?" Ron whispered as he squeezed in next to Neville. "Professor Quirrell smells a bit less awful today."
"Ron, are you mad? It all stinks," Neville said, eyes wide. "Although... now that you mention it, there's definitely some perfume."
"Harry, please—cast that spell again. I'm going to pass out," Michael Corner said, suddenly appearing beside them. Meanwhile, Professor Quirrell continued lecturing at the front, utterly ignoring the growing chaos in the back.
It wasn't that the students didn't care about learning. It was that Dumbledore had already walked the first-years through the entire Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum.
With all the key points memorized, they were mostly just reviewing from textbooks now.
Besides, Quirrell was teaching by the book—literally.
Most of the Ravenclaws were now wondering if Roger Davies had gone mad. He'd once praised Quirrell as an outstanding former Ravenclaw. But even if Quirrell had suffered a terrible trauma, that didn't excuse teaching straight from the script. If he had just taught sincerely—even with his stutter—he wouldn't be worse than half the students pretending to pay attention.
Suddenly, Harry realized something.
Ron wasn't lazy. He had wanted to skip class because he already knew how pointless it would be.
And maybe he was right.
"Michael, forget it," Harry said. "We got lucky last time—no points were taken. But I'm not risking losing any house points now."
Michael looked disappointed.
Alexander noticed everything. From the corner of the room, Quirrell gave a quiet sigh of relief.
At the front, Hermione sat in peace, breathing in the purified air. Compared to the stench that greeted her at the door, it was like stepping into another world.
"Alexander," she whispered, "is this a spell from Atlantis too?"
"No," Alexander said softly, lowering his voice with a hint of melancholy. "It's something from the Smith family. We're born with a naturally low sense of presence. If I hadn't awakened in Atlantis, I'd probably have lived alone my whole life."
"Oh, Alexander… that's all over now," Hermione said in a surprisingly gentle tone. She took his hand naturally and didn't let go until class was over.
Not because she was shy—Hermione was beyond that now. Alexander's handsome face had done away with all shame long ago.
The only reason she let go was because the classroom was suddenly swarming.
Classes had ended, and students who hadn't had a chance to gossip earlier were now flooding the Defense classroom.
Even Filch pretended not to see them.
Mrs. Norris, confused by the crowd, hesitated in the doorway.
If not for Quirrell's "biological weapon" stench clearing a path through the crowd, Harry might not have made it to dinner.
Hermione finally let go of Alexander's hand—but judging by the blissful look on her face, she probably wouldn't be washing that hand tonight.
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