Oh, the goblins, always one step ahead when it comes to practical matters. They'd seen my scar, the mark I had no real interest in—too much drama, too many questions. And, well, the goblins weren't ones to let things like that linger. They'd taken care of it, leaving me free of that particular symbol, but there was something far worse to contend with.
The idiot in the turban.
The Dark Lord, or whatever title he was throwing around today, wasn't just annoying. He was unbearable. The way he acted, like the world owed him something, like the universe was just waiting for him to snap his fingers and get whatever he wanted. It was ridiculous. And the best part? I was supposed to be afraid of him.
I wasn't. Not in the slightest. I could already feel the stirrings of something far more chaotic in the air, the kind of magic that didn't bow down to anyone—least of all to some power-hungry man-child who thought wearing a turban made him look imposing.
Thanatos hissed in my mind, clearly annoyed by the constant references to the Dark Lord. "That fool? Seriously? You're letting him get under your skin? You have way better things to do."
I wanted to agree. I was getting pulled in, but not in the way he thought. The idea of breaking the system from the inside out was becoming far more appealing. If the turban-wearing idiot thought he could simply rule over everything, well, he was in for a surprise.
For now, I wasn't going to waste my energy on his theatrics. But when the time came? When I had the right tools and the right moment? I'd show him that the real power here wasn't in some ancient bloodline or creepy followers. No, the real magic was in the chaos—and that was the one thing he'd never understand.
I wasn't hiding anymore. Not from him, not from anyone. And that, my friend, was going to make all the difference.
Ah, Dark Arts class. The one subject where it was nearly impossible to not feel the weight of the atmosphere—and, of course, he had to show up there too. That idiot in the turban, strolling in with that ridiculous air of self-importance, a shuddering mess of dark magic and garlic scent. The irony wasn't lost on me. I was supposed to be learning how to defend against this crap, and here he was, acting like some twisted shadow of a man, stinking like a low-budget vampire wannabe.
I couldn't focus. Not with him sitting there, like he was some sort of living bad omen. He wasn't even that impressive. Dark magic, yeah, it was dangerous, but you could practically feel the desperation clinging to him. And the garlic—seriously? That was the best he could do? I thought he was supposed to be this grandiose figure of terror, but instead, he looked like a cheap Halloween costume.
Thanatos, the ever-helpful commentary machine, had a field day with it. "Oh, perfect. So now we're stuck with a garlic-scented dark lord. You sure you're not in the wrong class, Harry? Seems more like a cooking class than Dark Arts."
I had to bite back a smile. As much as I hated him being here, I couldn't help but find the absurdity of the situation a little amusing. The man was so ridiculous that I almost couldn't take the lesson seriously.
Still, I didn't want to waste my time. Dark magic was important—dangerous, yes, but important. The more I learned about it, the more control I could take over it. It was the only way I'd ever be able to outsmart these so-called "dark" figures and eventually change the rules of the game.
I snapped myself out of my thoughts, forcing myself to refocus. Despite the distractions, despite the smell of garlic and the idiocy sitting across from me, this class mattered. But that didn't mean I wasn't going to make him regret ever showing up.
As much as I wanted to turn to him and say, "Hey, dark lord, do you have to wear towels? Because it's giving off more of a 'trying too hard' vibe than 'supreme ruler of the wizarding world,'" I knew that wouldn't exactly fly. Calling him out in front of the class would probably get me cursed into oblivion, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with that level of drama just yet. But there was a far more satisfying option that didn't involve me looking like a target for his nonsense.
Instead, I leaned into my own brand of dry humor, keeping the sarcasm well-contained but just sharp enough to poke at him without directly calling him out. If he wanted to act all superior and terrifying, I was going to make him feel it, just not in the way he expected.
"Professor," I said loudly, turning to the instructor with exaggerated innocence, "I must say, I'm just fascinated by the Dark Arts. Especially by how well the magical world has convinced itself that garlic is the antidote to all things dark and evil." I gave a subtle nod toward the turban-wearing disaster in the back corner, my gaze lingering just long enough to make it clear who I was referring to. "I mean, if that doesn't scream 'powerful dark wizard,' I don't know what does."
There was a slight chuckle from a couple of the students, and even McGonagall, who was probably lurking in the shadows, raised an eyebrow. I'd left the remark just vague enough to make it an ambiguous observation, but sharp enough for anyone with half a brain to catch the hidden jab.
Thanatos couldn't resist. "Oh, well played. You've officially turned the Dark Lord into a walking joke. At least we know now that garlic's his real weakness."
It wasn't the full-on confrontation I'd dreamt of, but it was enough to plant a seed of doubt in his mind. Dark Lords thrived on intimidation, on control. A simple, well-timed jab to his supposed supremacy was the kind of thing that made him question whether he was the terrifying figure everyone made him out to be, or just a ridiculous figure parading around in overpriced tablecloths. And that, in itself, was a victory.
If I had to deal with him in this class, fine. But I wasn't going to let him think for one second that he could walk in and command respect. Not from me. Not from anyone. I was going to make sure he knew he wasn't nearly as untouchable as he thought.
The Dark Lord, with his dramatic aura and constant garlic cloud, wasn't about to let my dry humor slide for long. As the class settled down, I could feel his beady eyes narrowing at me, like a hawk deciding whether I was worth the hunt. He wasn't going to let me have the last word—no, of course not. His whole existence was built on proving how terrifying he could be, how much authority he wielded. But if he thought I was going to let him have the upper hand with just a flick of his wand, he had another thing coming.
"Mr. Potter," he began, his voice an eerie mix of smug satisfaction and thinly veiled irritation, "it's clear your humor is… well, charming. But perhaps you should focus more on the lesson than on cracking jokes. The Dark Arts require more than wit—they demand precision, skill, and control."
I could hear the low chuckles from a few students—probably Slytherins, the ones who didn't mind poking fun at him behind his back. But there was no way I was letting this slide without a little fun of my own.
"Professor," I responded, keeping my voice sweet but laced with sarcasm, "I absolutely agree. Control, precision, and skill are essential, which is why I'm so fascinated by your application of garlic as a defense against dark magic. It seems… well, highly specialized." I gave him a polite little nod. "Perhaps a touch too exclusive for us common folk, though?"
The class was starting to edge into that uncomfortable silence, but I could feel the power of the words rippling under the surface. This wasn't just a jab anymore; it was a challenge. I wasn't going to let him walk in here and take charge just because of his so-called "Dark Lord" title. If he wanted to play this game, then fine. But at least make me work for it.
Thanatos couldn't resist, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Ooooh, we're getting a bit feisty now, aren't we? The Dark Lord's garlic defense is really impressive. Can we expect that in the syllabus next term?"
The Dark Lord, to his credit, didn't immediately lose his composure. But I could tell it was eating at him. He was used to everyone cowering in fear, but me? I wasn't having it.
"Mr. Potter," he said, his tone now dangerously calm, "I suggest you focus on your studies. The Dark Arts aren't a joke. I would hate for you to find that out the hard way."
I just grinned, ready for the next round. He'd made his move. Now it was my turn.
The shuddering? Oh, that was still there, but it was far less noticeable now. It was almost like the garlic stench had shifted from a dramatic force field into the backdrop of his power, something so ingrained in his pathetic persona that it barely registered. I couldn't help but watch him for a moment, as his rigid form stood in the front of the class, clearly doing his best to not tremble with every snide comment I made.
But hey, that was on him. If you want to play the dark lord, you better get a little thicker skin.
So, I snapped myself out of the internal commentary. As much as I loved to roast him, there was something more pressing to focus on—like, you know, what the hell we were actually learning today. I glanced around the room, and sure enough, there was a distinct lack of direction.
The Dark Lord seemed to catch my shift in focus, because there it was again—the irritated, barely restrained hiss of a breath he took in, like I was somehow violating the sacred sanctity of his lesson. I didn't really care. If he couldn't handle a little questioning, then he had no business being up there at the front.
"Well, Professor," I said, still with that smooth, sarcastic edge, "since you're obviously so well-versed in the dark arts and all, I was hoping you might enlighten us on… what exactly we're supposed to be learning today?"
I could feel the class pause, everyone watching the exchange as the tension shifted. For a brief moment, it was almost like I was the one in charge. I wasn't about to let this idiot think he could float by without giving us any substance. He had to earn his place in my class, and at the moment, he was failing spectacularly.
Thanatos couldn't help but chime in, "Maybe you should ask him for a syllabus. Perhaps we can get a list of all the 'things we're supposed to fear' so we can file them under 'ridiculous'."
The Dark Lord's expression flickered—just for a second—and that was enough. If he'd come here to intimidate, to teach fear, he'd failed. But if he wanted to teach us anything, it was time he got to it.
His jaw clenched, but he did finally take the bait, lifting his wand. "Today, we will be learning about the creation and control of Dark Potions," he announced, his voice far too sure of itself. "A skill every true wizard of power should master."
"How thrilling," I muttered, but the sarcasm was clear. "Because nothing says 'true power' like concocting potions that smell like bad decisions."
The classroom tensed for a moment, but there was no turning back now. He had to teach, and for once, I wasn't going to let the Dark Lord get away with any half-baked lesson. Not while I was still here, still pulling at the edges of my own chaos.
Oh, right. Potions—that was Snape's gig, not his. I let out a sharp breath, realizing what was happening here. Dark Lord wannabe had obviously mistaken his role, and I wasn't about to let him get away with it. If he wanted to prance around pretending he was an expert in all things dark and sinister, then he needed to actually follow the curriculum, not come up with his own twisted version of it.
"Wait a second, Professor," I said, cutting through his attempt to impress with his potions nonsense. "Potions? Really? That's Snape's department. Last I checked, this was Defense Against the Dark Arts—or, as I like to call it, the 'how to not get killed by things that go bump in the night' class. You know, things like defending yourself from Dementors, or learning how to escape when a giant spider decides you're lunch. Or, just a thought—maybe you could teach us how to survive a stroll through the Forbidden Forest without getting eaten?"
The whole class went silent for a second, as if everyone was waiting to see how he'd react to the blatant callout. I could practically feel Thanatos grinning in my mind. "Oh, you've done it now. He's going to have to either fix this, or it's a full-on meltdown."
The Dark Lord in the turban was definitely caught off guard. He twitched, a visible shudder running through him, but this time it was more frustration than fear. I could almost hear him trying to hold on to whatever shred of dignity he had left, clearly struggling to regain control.
"Potter," he said slowly, each word deliberately measured, like he was trying to force it out without sounding defeated. "You will learn the value of Dark magic and its defensive properties. And maybe, just maybe, you will realize that understanding the creatures in the Forbidden Forest—or the forces like Dementors—is part of a greater understanding of the Dark Arts."
I tilted my head, giving him a pointed look. "Right. So you are teaching us how to escape a Dementor's kiss, right? Because, you know, when I think 'Dark Arts,' I sure think about the art of survival. Totally makes sense."
Thanatos, of course, wasn't going to miss the opportunity. "You know, Potter, the only thing he's teaching is how to be an embarrassment. Maybe we should offer him some garlic potions. Could be a game-changer."
There was a chuckle from the back, and I could feel a shift in the room. The other students were starting to realize something: the so-called Dark Lord wasn't nearly as terrifying as his theatrics made him out to be. His lack of focus on what we actually needed to learn—basic self-defense—was glaring, and for once, I wasn't going to let him hide behind his delusions of grandeur.
"Maybe next time, Professor," I said sweetly, "you could teach us how to, I don't know, defend ourselves against you."
For a moment, everything was still. The room, already tense, grew absolutely silent as the Dark Lord—Professor Quirrell—seemed to... disintegrate? No, it wasn't exactly disintegration, but it was close enough. One second, he was there, standing in front of me, shaking like a leaf under my pointed remarks. The next, he turned into a swirling, grey cloud of dust—an ominous, chaotic mist that swirled around the room like it had a mind of its own.
I blinked, watching as the last remnants of his figure crumbled into nothingness, and all I could do was stare at the growing cloud of dust that was now all over my pristine spider silk robes. My perfectly cool, perfectly sarcastic, perfectly ruined robes.
"What in the actual—" I muttered under my breath, completely thrown off. This wasn't the kind of outcome I'd been expecting from my witty commentary. I thought he'd at least yell or curse me back, not vanish into a cloud like some magical fog of despair.
Thanatos, of course, was absolutely loving it. "Well, Potter, I have to admit, you've outdone yourself. You really made him disappear. No, seriously—he's gone. Where'd he even go? This is either the best or worst thing to happen to this castle."
I wasn't sure if I should feel victorious or just deeply disturbed by the fact that a professor—my professor—just turned into dust, but here we were. The room was dead quiet, except for the sound of the faintest whispers floating around us. The students around me were either gawking in disbelief or nervously shifting in their seats. Nobody knew what just happened, least of all me.
"Did... did Quirrell just...?" someone from the back of the class whispered, their voice quivering. I had no answer. There was nothing to answer.
I slowly brushed the dust from my robes, eyeing the space where the Dark Lord—or whatever he was—had been standing. The dust had started to settle, leaving an eerie calm behind.
"Well, that was anticlimactic," I said dryly, trying to regain my composure, but honestly? I was kind of thrilled that I hadn't ended up cursed into oblivion. Yet. "Can someone tell me what the hell just happened here?"
Thanatos was already spinning in circles, clearly enjoying the chaos. "Oh, no big deal, just another day in your life. Maybe next time, we'll avoid turning professors into mist clouds. Then again, that was far more entertaining."
I was half expecting the room to erupt into chaos, but instead, everything was suspiciously quiet. Whatever had just gone down was obviously not something anyone in this room had ever seen before, and I had no idea what to do with the aftermath.
At this point, I figured I should probably leave the classroom. But, of course, I wasn't going to do it without my trademark sarcasm. "Well, I guess class is dismissed?" I raised an eyebrow, glancing around at my peers. "Unless someone else wants to teach us about the magical art of turning into a dust storm? No? Didn't think so."
That was when the door to the classroom finally creaked open, and someone—probably McGonagall—stepped in, surveying the scene like she'd seen it all before.
"I take it there was a... slight mishap?" she asked dryly, eyeing the dust and the somewhat shell-shocked class.
I straightened up, brushing myself off as casually as I could. "Oh, just a little defensive teaching. You know, in case we need to know how to disappear dramatically in front of a class full of students."
And that, my friends, was how the Dark Lord became nothing more than a bad memory and a cloud of dust.