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[HP:Failed Art Student]-Chapter 33: Professor Quirrell: I Have Never Suffered Such Injustice
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 16:51:13 +0000 UTCProfessor Quirrell stood frozen, his jaw slack for a full two seconds before the weight of Ethan’s words sank in. His eyes widened, his forced smile petrified on his face, and he stared at Ethan Vincent with a mixture of shock and disbelief, as if questioning the very function of his ears.
Pay him to attend this class? The audacity was unthinkable!
The classroom fell into a stunned silence as Ethan’s bold declaration rippled through the air. Students hunched over Wizard’s Chess boards froze mid-move, their pieces forgotten. Whispers of gossip died on lips as every head swiveled toward Ethan, eyes wide with a mix of awe and incredulity.
Two seconds ticked by.
Then, like a spell breaking, the room erupted. Students from Ravenclaw and Gryffindor sat bolt upright, their faces alight with barely contained excitement. Ron Weasley clutched his chess piece so tightly that the tiny knight in his hand grumbled in protest. “Merlin’s underpants!” he hissed, leaning toward Harry. “Ethan just said what I’ve been thinking forever! This class is pointless—give me back my Galleons!”
Harry’s lips twitched, suppressing a grin. Ron barely paid attention in any class, properly taught or not. Still, Harry couldn’t deny the thrill sparking in his chest. He glanced at Ethan, admiration flickering in his green eyes. The guy was shady—dangerously so—but he had a knack for doing what others only dreamed of. Brave didn’t even begin to cover it. Ethan belonged in Gryffindor.
Well, except for the whole “not exactly righteous” thing. Maybe not, then.
Across the room, Ethan locked eyes with Professor Quirrell, whose trembling gaze betrayed his crumbling composure. With a sly, disarming smile, Ethan hefted his copy of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection and began, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “Expelliarmus, defensive spells, counter-curses, how to fend off dark creatures and forces—you haven’t taught us a single one, Professor.”
He tapped the textbook’s cover. “A brand-new copy of this costs several Galleons. Even a used one runs over ten Sickles. Now, I’m not fussed about the money, but time? That’s another story. We’ve only got seven years at Hogwarts, and your teaching is wasting a full seventh of it. Wasting our time, Professor Quirrell, is like stealing our lives. You’re practically murdering us, one useless lesson at a time.”
His words rang out, sharp and deliberate, echoing in the stone-walled classroom. The Ravenclaws, usually buried in their notes or textbooks, lifted their heads, nodding in silent agreement. Ethan had voiced their collective frustration. They’d come to Defense Against the Dark Arts brimming with anticipation, only to be met with disappointment—and the overpowering stench of garlic. Some had even started bringing earplugs to endure Quirrell’s stammering lectures.
Quirrell let out a nervous, “Heh, heh!” his shoulders quaking. A shadow flickered in his eyes, dark and fleeting, unnoticed by most. Insolent little brat, he thought. Did this boy have any idea who he was challenging? Did he know the Dark Lord himself—Voldemort, the terror of the wizarding world—lurked within Quirrell’s very being? With that sharp tongue, Ethan would scream himself hoarse when the truth came out.
But Quirrell, still playing the bumbling fool under Dumbledore’s watchful eye, couldn’t unleash the Avada Kedavra he so desperately wanted to cast. Instead, he forced a weak smile and stammered, “Th-then, Mr. Vincent, w-what do you propose?”
Ethan’s grin widened, all teeth and menace. “Simple. Either pay us a Galleon per person per class to sit through this nonsense, or start teaching properly.”
Ron’s posture snapped to attention, his eyes gleaming at the mention of Galleons. Quirrell, meanwhile, twitched as if struck, his hand instinctively grazing the pocket where his wand hid. A Galleon per person per class? Why not just rob Gringotts blind?
“V-very well, Mr. Vincent,” Quirrell managed, his voice strained. “I’ll t-teach properly. Now, please, s-sit down.”
But Ethan didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned forward, his tone deceptively light. “That’s fantastic, Professor. As it happens, I have a question.”
Quirrell’s face fell. You insufferable little—
“A-ask away,” he choked out.
“I want to know about Herpo the Foul,” Ethan said, each word deliberate and clear.
The night before, Ethan had stepped through the Mirror of Erised, following a moonlit path to a hidden location: 【Herpo the Foul’s Abandoned Mansion】. A treasure lay concealed there, and Ethan was determined to uncover its secrets. The library was an option, of course, but after recalling how Harry, Ron, and Hermione spent half a term hunting down Nicolas Flamel, Ethan figured asking Quirrell directly might yield faster results.
At the Gryffindor table, Hermione Granger’s head whipped around. Herpo the Foul? The name was unfamiliar, but her mind raced. Was this some obscure exam topic? Had a professor tipped Ethan off? Her eyes narrowed, ears straining to catch every word.
“H-Herpo the Foul?” Quirrell’s face stiffened, his stutter worsening. He could feel the dark presence on the back of his head stirring, a cold weight awakening. “Th-that’s not knowledge for first-years. It’s f-far too dangerous!”
Ethan tilted his head, his smile turning cherubic, almost angelic. “Oh? That’s a pity.” He paused, then added, “You know, Draco Malfoy and I are quite close.”
Quirrell froze. “H-huh?”
Ethan’s smile grew sharper, his voice honeyed with threat. “I could ask Draco to have his father, Lucius, arrange for your… transfer from Hogwarts. The school board would likely agree that a professor who can’t teach isn’t fit for the job. And I’ve heard Lucius is already less than pleased with you. Don’t you think so, Professor?”
The room went deathly quiet. Quirrell’s mouth hung open, speechless. This boy—this brat—dared to threaten him? A professor? Worse, Quirrell couldn’t refute him. Lucius Malfoy’s influence was no small matter, and Quirrell’s position was precarious at best. Unlike Hagrid, who had Dumbledore’s unshakable loyalty despite his blunders, Quirrell had no such protection. If exposed, he’d be served up to Harry Potter like a sacrificial lamb guarding the Philosopher’s Stone.
The students gaped, awestruck. Threatening a professor with the Malfoy name? Even Draco himself, with all his swagger, had never gone that far. Hermione, her shock giving way to grudging admiration, stared at Ethan. To go to such lengths for knowledge—this was a rival worth respecting. Her competitive spirit flared, her resolve hardening.
Quirrell’s trembling hands betrayed his fury, but his smile was a grotesque mask of compliance. Then, a faint, rasping voice slithered through his mind: Tell him… tell him of the great Dark Wizard, Herpo the Foul… This boy is clever. His paintings hold true, eerie magic—a rare and precious gift. Teach him. Use him. Make his power yours.
