·Chapter "We come from prison, we crave power, we are ruthless, we are cunning, we never regret, we are Azkaban!"
On the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Harry paused in disbelief. From a distance, he saw the Weasley twins encircling a lone Dudley, singing a bizarre ditty filled with odd phrases that seemed borrowed from various house introductions. Curious and slightly alarmed, Harry quickly took a long detour and disappeared down a different staircase.
The Ravenclaws who had been following Harry—initially trying to avoid Peeves—also hastily followed his lead. It wasn't cowardice, but the wisdom born from past experience.
Take Padma Patil, for instance. She had tried to have breakfast early with her sister Parvati in Gryffindor, only to be ambushed by Peeves. With no one else around, she'd ended up completely soaked by Peeves' water bombs. If Penelope hadn't stumbled across her, she might've walked dripping into the Great Hall.
"Harry, don't you think Fred and George are going a bit too far?" Hermione asked as they walked.
"Too far? They've heard all about my life with the Dursleys. Dudley used to chase me around with his Smeltings stick like I was a dog. Do you think I think it's too much?" Harry laughed bitterly.
"Oh, Harry... I didn't think it through earlier. I'm sorry," Hermione said quietly, falling into step beside him.
"Come on," Ron chimed in. "Dudley's at Hogwarts now. My brothers are just getting started."
"When I was three, Fred turned my teddy bear into a giant spider because I broke his toy broomstick," Ron added, clearly still traumatized. Around them, Ravenclaws like Anthony, Lisa, and others leaned in, eager for gossip.
"Poor Dudley," Harry said with a wicked grin.
But his smirk faded almost instantly as a familiar, overwhelming stench drifted toward them, snapping even the groggy Ravenclaws out of their post-lunch drowsiness.
From Alexander Smith's perspective, Professor Quirrell's lifeforce seemed to be dwindling. But from everyone else's point of view—or more accurately, their noses—the stench was indescribable. It wasn't just garlic. It was... something unholy.
Hermione, however, raised her chin with confidence.
Even Alexander was curious. Had the ever-prepared Hermione discovered a method to block out the smell? Perhaps some obscure spell? Or did she just master the head-soaking charm?
When Quirrell began his usual stuttering, Hermione sat right at the front, clearly prepared. She drew her wand, pointed it at herself, and confidently recited, "Purify the heart, clear the mind!"
Hermione Granger, the seemingly invincible, fell.
Alexander sighed and rubbed his forehead. That particular charm was one he had developed to boost mental clarity and slightly enhance the senses. Hermione, not knowing this, had inadvertently strengthened her sense of smell—at the worst possible time.
"Hermione!" gasped the little Ravenclaws.
"N-No... don't worry. Let me help—" Quirrell stammered, trying to approach her.
"Professor Quirrell, stay back! Hermione fainted from the smell!" Alexander stepped forward quickly to stop him.
"How could that be? The other students are fine..." Quirrell mumbled, still trying to get closer.
"Harry!" Alexander shouted.
"Periculum!" Harry cried, pulling out his wand. A burst of fiery red sparks exploded into the air. Quirrell recoiled, collapsing in a heap. Somehow, Harry had repeated Alexander's custom version of the spell, even mimicking the slightly incorrect pronunciation—emphasizing the 'm' incorrectly and speeding up the front half.
But it worked.
Likely, it was Dudley's presence that stirred Harry's inner magic to respond. His determination, his protective instincts—it all fueled the spell.
Alexander mused that maybe, just maybe, Harry's signature spell wouldn't be Expelliarmus in this world, but this improvised version of Periculum.
Still, he'd need to train harder. Without refinement, it might fade in effectiveness once Harry reached adulthood and his raw magic stabilized.
As Quirrell lay unconscious—again—Hermione stirred awake beneath the flickering red sparks.
"Harry? What are you doing? Professor Quirrell? What happened to him?" Hermione asked groggily, her eyes wide.
"Hermione, you fainted from Quirrell's... smell. Then he tried to come near you. Harry just acted fast to protect you," Alexander explained calmly.
"Exactly," Ron agreed.
This time, Anthony Goldstein, along with Michael and Terry, got the rare honor of carrying the professor to the Hospital Wing.
Anthony crept up cautiously, confirming that the smell had faded before lifting him.
Alexander, meanwhile, discreetly reinforced the magic sealing Quirrell's turban—ensuring Voldemort wouldn't be discovered prematurely. At the moment, even the Dark Lord had fainted, preventing any unfortunate "accidents."
"Harry, if any points get deducted, it should be because of me," Hermione said quietly, guilt written all over her face.
"What are you afraid of? Even if Dumbledore shows up, I'll say the same thing. Quirrell made you faint first," Ron announced boldly from the podium.
The other Ravenclaws nodded in agreement. But truthfully, most didn't care about house points at all.
"Oh, Mr. Weasley, I'm here. What were you saying just now?" said a warm voice from the doorway.
Dumbledore had arrived.
"Sir! It was me. I knocked out Professor Quirrell," Harry said quickly, not fooled by Dumbledore's gentle tone.
"Sir, it was my fault," Hermione added, even though she had used a spell on herself. She hoped her words would emphasize Quirrell's misconduct and protect Harry from punishment.
"That's right!" Ron blurted, backing them up with a red face.
Neville and the others began chiming in too.
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