31-35

*Chapter 31: Chameleon *

"That's true, but..." Hermione clearly still couldn't accept this explanation. She seemed a bit emo. "Forget it, I don't even know how to describe it, it just feels so out of place."

"Sometimes, not thinking about anything at all is actually a kind of happiness," Luke raised an eyebrow and wrote down what he wanted to eat on a card.

At this point, Harry completely lost interest in the chess game. After quickly losing to Ron, he started asking Jerry all sorts of questions—God knows that during countless difficult days, the only thing that brought him comfort was sneaking a peek through the door crack at his cousin Dudley, who would play Tom and Jerry with a VHS tape.

Jerry didn't mind this kind-hearted savior. Besides, he was one of those foolishly bold social butterflies. Social anxiety? Not at all. The only person who made him feel even a little bit of danger was that blonde bad woman.

"I have to say, you mouse doesn't look like my Scabbers at all," Ron chewed on an apple and commented about Jerry. "My God, although he's not like an ordinary mouse, the moment I see him, I immediately think of a rat."

With that, he took Scabbers out of his pocket. "Scabbers, go meet our new friend."

"I should warn you, Jerry's personality is more like that of your two brothers," Luke said, watching Jerry somehow pull out a pair of skates, put Scabbers inside, and slide him from one end of the table to the other so quickly that if Percy hadn't reacted fast, Scabbers would have performed an aerial stunt.

"He really is as bad as George and Fred," Ron took the mouse from Percy and looked at it with pity. "Oh, my poor Scabbers... he's so old, he shouldn't be treated like this..."

"How old is he?" Luke asked, pretending to be curious.

"11 years," Ron said, still clearly upset. Luke fully understood—11 years of companionship made Scabbers like family to him. Even though he used to be Percy's rat, they had gotten along well.

I wonder what Ron would think if he knew this rat was a term used to describe a sleazy, short, chubby man.

Would he want to throw up?

"Eleven years?" Hermione interrupted. "Uh, can rats really live that long? I heard cats can live that long."

"I don't know. Maybe he's just very long-lived," Ron sighed.

Jerry was laughing heartily, slapping his leg, with the classic violin sound of laughter accompanying him. Everyone stopped worrying about why Scabbers was so long-lived and looked at Jerry, curious about how a mouse could laugh with the sound of a violin.

"Mr. Mountbatten? Mr. Mountbatten?" Professor McGonagall's voice came from behind him. Luke turned around and saw the stern-looking Professor McGonagall standing some distance away.

He quickly put Jerry in his pocket and walked over. "Professor, is there something you need?"

"Professor Dumbledore is looking for you. He's in the headmaster's office on the eighth floor," Professor McGonagall's expression was very serious. "The password is 'Lemon Snowball,' you need to remember it."

"Okay, Professor," Luke replied crisply. "But, Professor, I have a small question."

"What?"

"I don't know the way..." Luke said innocently.

"Alright, follow me."

In the headmaster's office, Dumbledore was chatting with a portrait of a figure wrapped in a large headscarf.

"I don't understand, Dumbledore, why are you so protective of him? Someone actually broke a classmate's legs in public at this school, he should be..." The portrait's tone was full of anger.

Dumbledore clicked his tongue and said slowly, "Calm down, Phineas. He's a Slytherin, well, a pure-blood wizard."

"He should be treated as a priority, damn it," Phineas Black's tone took a 180-degree turn. "If he was forced to it, how could he possibly hurt a classmate? It must be like that, Dumbledore, ha... a Slytherin genius!"

Phineas looked quite pleased with himself, almost boasting.

"By the way, the injured student is from your Black family," Dumbledore kindly reminded him.

"Heh... Sirius is in Azkaban, Regulus is dead, how could the Black family have any more descendants?" Phineas sneered. "You're talking about Patrick, right? Ha, a dirty mudblood—he's begging for food from the Black family now?"

The disdain in his expression was overwhelming.

Just as they were talking, the headmaster's office door opened, and Professor McGonagall led Luke inside.

"Oh, look who’s here, our Slytherin genius," Phineas said with genuine delight. "Elegant, truly elegant. No wonder he's our Slytherin genius!"

Professor McGonagall’s lip twitched as she struggled to suppress her urge to scold and left the office.

"Enough, Phineas!" A different portrait spoke, featuring a kind-looking lady. "A first-year student is so ruthless, and you're praising him instead of condemning him?"

"Calm down, Daisley," Phineas said indifferently. "Slytherin has finally produced a genius, we shouldn’t scare our little student."

"You!" Principal Daisley was clearly furious, speechless after being rebutted by Phineas.

In her past life, she had been an outstanding healer. The compassionate at heart, she couldn't stand seeing others hurt.

"Alright, Daisley and Phineas, stop arguing," Dumbledore interjected, then turned to Luke. "Would you like some lemon juice?"

"Sure, Headmaster, I had something salty for breakfast," Luke cooperated. "Low sugar, please."

It’s better to consume less sugar in the morning—too much, and you'd end up like Little Li with a squirt gun.

"Eating sweets is a joyful thing," Dumbledore waved his hand, and an iced lemon juice appeared in front of him. He gestured for Luke to sit. "Now, tell me, why did you treat the Black student like that?"

"He doesn’t even have the Black surname. That damn, filthy half-blood, he has completely tarnished the noble soul of the Black family!" Phineas shouted angrily.

Then, Principal Daisley and several others bound him to a chair, stuffing his mouth so tightly that he couldn't say a word, helplessly struggling. It was quite an amusing sight.

Luke chuckled for a moment, then looked up at Dumbledore and smiled as he replied, "Professor, I had no choice. Black challenged you and Professor Snape's policies in the lounge and bullied a classmate. This wasn’t just about me. It was an attack on your and Professor Snape's authority."

---

*(End of Chapter)*

*Chapter 32: A Humble Contribution *

“Oh?” Dumbledore raised his eyebrows noncommittally. “You’ve already come up with a solution?”

It seemed he didn’t particularly care about Patrick Black’s fate.

In fact, he was well aware of Patrick’s misdeeds at school. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sent him to Durmstrang as an exchange student. If not for Phineas’ influence, Patrick would’ve been expelled long ago.

Having someone even worse deal with him? That works too.

However, Dumbledore was more concerned about Luke’ psychological state. If Luke turned into the next Tom Riddle, it would be disastrous.

Luke had no idea what was going through Dumbledore’s mind. He said, “In order to implement your important directives, Professor Snape and I have assessed the current situation and agreed that reforming coursework policies for all the houses would be quite difficult. Surely you don’t think Professor McGonagall would take my suggestion to add two extra study periods for the students?”

“Hmm, you’re right,” Dumbledore nodded. “So, what did you do?”

“Considering the circumstances, I decided to leverage Professor Snape’s position as the Potions Master to implement a new policy. It includes monthly exams, a midterm, and a final exam. These exams will contribute points to individuals and their houses based on performance.”

“This way, Slytherin will likely excel in the first monthly exam. If the other house heads want to stay competitive for the House Cup, they’ll have to adopt the policy as well, or at least prevent Slytherin from pulling too far ahead.”

“In this way, our plan can be considered a preliminary success.” Luke concluded, “I’m humbled to have made a small contribution.”

Dumbledore looked at Luke and suddenly realized something alarming.

If this kid ever turned to the dark side, he’d be far more troublesome than Voldemort. Sure, his methods were still a bit immature, but he had the potential to become a politically savvy manipulator.

It’s widely known that the most politically adept people come from two places: the Celestial Empire in the Far East and Britain.

He’d have plenty of room to develop.

Dumbledore decided it was necessary to have a serious conversation with Luke.

“Have you heard of Voldemort?” Dumbledore asked, almost as if pitching an idea.

“How could I not, Professor?” Luke gave Dumbledore a look one might give a senile elder. “Professor, you really need to cut back on sugar. It’s starting to affect your thinking.”

“Oh, really?” Only then did Dumbledore realize his mistake. How could any wizard not know about Voldemort? Even if they didn’t read, they’d surely hear about him from classmates.

Luke clicked his tongue, looking slightly annoyed. “Voldemort’s magical abilities are impressive, no doubt. But, Professor, don’t you think his style is rather... tacky?”

“Hmm?” This was the first time Dumbledore had heard Voldemort described that way. A tacky Voldemort? Now that was a fresh perspective.

“I feel like there’s something deeply wrong with him. What normal person acts like that?” Luke hadn’t noticed Jerry, the mouse in his pocket, quietly climbing out, sliding down his robes like a little adventurer, and sneaking toward the Sorting Hat.

“Professor, if you’re worried I might turn into someone like him, I can understand. After all, I was a bit harsh with Black yesterday. But...” Luke set down his glass of lemonade and said seriously, “Professor, you’re overthinking it. I have a loving grandfather, caring uncles and aunts, plenty of good friends, and my family isn’t lacking in money. Do you think I’d be bored enough to become some sort of dark wizard?”

“You make a valid point,” Dumbledore chuckled, his white beard trembling slightly. “By the way, your mouse is climbing toward the Sorting Hat.”

Luke turned to see Jerry scaling the Sorting Hat. Without even looking back, he remarked, “Shouldn’t you be more worried, Professor? After all, that hat isn’t mine.”

Indeed, why should he panic? The Sorting Hat wasn’t his.

“Gryffindor!” The ancient hat suddenly shouted, startling Jerry so badly that he flipped off the hat and hit the floor with a cartoonish crash.

Luke walked over, picked Jerry up by his tail, and shook him until he reverted to his original shape.

Dumbledore watched with interest. “This mouse is from that cartoon, isn’t it? If I’m not mistaken, his name is Jerry?”

“Yes, Professor,” Luke replied, patting Jerry’s head and motioning for him to stay put. A devious idea formed in his mind.

Since he’s called Jerry, why not send him to mess with Professor Quirrell? After all, I’m visiting his office tomorrow—might as well make it entertaining.

“A truly remarkable mouse,” Dumbledore said, stroking his beard. “I wouldn’t have guessed the Sorting Hat would place him in Gryffindor. Personally, I think he belongs in a different house.”

“Which one?” Luke asked, his curiosity mirrored by Jerry, who twitched his whiskers as he stared at Dumbledore.

“Azkaban,” Dumbledore joked before laughing. “Of course, if pranks warranted a trip to Azkaban, the Weasley twins would’ve been there for two years already.”

Dumbledore’s expression turned wistful.

“Sigh. I used to bump into them on my late-night walks. Then, one day, they simply vanished.”

So now you run into me and my senior instead? Luke thought sarcastically, though he maintained a polite smile.

“Well, I have nothing else for you. You may leave now.” Dumbledore’s eyes, hidden behind his half-moon glasses, gave no hint of his thoughts.

In Luke’ previous life, fanfics often claimed Dumbledore used Legilimency on his students. That always seemed far-fetched. A hundred-year-old wizard, known as the White Wizard, who held high office for decades—he wouldn’t need magic to read a teenager’s face.

If Dumbledore were so intrusive, Voldemort would never have risen.

Not to mention Luke’ grandfather. Despite his double lifetime of experience, Luke couldn’t hide his thoughts from the old man.

As his grandfather often said, “I’ve eaten more salt than you’ve eaten rice. Do you think I don’t know what’s on your mind?”  

“Alright, I’ll take my leave then, Professor.” Luke placed Jerry back in his pocket and left without hesitation.

On his way out, he glanced at Phineas’ portrait, where the former headmaster was still tied to a chair, kicking helplessly.

End of Chapter

*Chapter 33: You Dare Call Yourself the Dark Lord?*

While the other three houses were cheerfully celebrating the weekend, only Slytherin was filled with sighs and complaints.

It wasn’t for no reason—Snape had even insisted on maintaining study hours from 3 to 4 in the afternoon and 7 to 9 in the evening.

Luke clicked his tongue, thinking to himself, Can’t handle this? Back in my day, I had full-day study sessions every weekend.  

Despite this, the weekend passed peacefully. With Catherine accompanying him, it wasn’t dull. They even discussed any questions that arose in Potions class.

Tom and Jerry were tactful enough not to play third wheel and upset Catherine. The cat and mouse duo amused themselves by playing wizard chess and occasionally teasing Ron’s pet rat when he wasn’t paying attention. Of course, Scabbers never dared to complain; otherwise, Ron would surely have been furious.

Ron often wondered why Scabbers seemed so lethargic and listless all the time.

Whenever Draco tried to join in, he was always scared off by the menacing glare from the older student. Poor Draco—he was practically developing a trauma from it.

Good times never last long. On Sunday evening, Luke, with Jerry tucked into his pocket, nervously made his way to Professor Quirrell’s office.

At the door, he happened to run into Patrick, who was just leaving. When Patrick saw Luke, his face instantly paled.

“Well, if it isn’t Senior Black,” Luke said with a hint of disdain. “It’s been a few days—how come you look so... defeated?”

“This… this is Professor Quirrell’s office. You… you better not do anything reckless!” Patrick stammered, almost as if he’d caught Quirrell’s stutter.

Could stuttering be contagious like some kind of royal blight?  

“I believe I’ve warned you before, dear senior,” Luke said, drawing his wand and speaking gently. “I hope you’ll be careful not to cross paths with me again. Otherwise, Madam Pomfrey might have to help reattach your legs.”

“Now, since no one else is around, I’ll give you a choice. Will you handle this yourself, or should I step in?”

“A friendly tip: if I step in, it won’t be... friendly.”

Patrick gritted his teeth and drew his wand. “Expelliarmus!”

He had hoped to catch Luke off guard.

But with his weakened spells, Patrick was no match for Luke. With a flick, Luke disarmed him, and a Confringo spell followed, striking Patrick’s knee.

Patrick screamed in pain, drawing a crowd of students. Spotting a Slytherin among them, Luke gestured. “You there, senior—yes, you. Could you help escort Senior Black to the hospital wing? He’s so clumsy, tripping and breaking his leg just like that.”

The student didn’t dare refuse. Grabbing a friend, they carried Patrick away at a speed that resembled a pair of windmills.

Sighing regretfully, Luke knocked on Professor Quirrell’s office door.

“Come in,” called Quirrell.

Luke entered the office, which was just as eerie and gloomy as he’d imagined. The greenish walls crawled with giant lizards, making it look more like a Dark Arts classroom than a Defense Against the Dark Arts one.

What’s with the green obsession? Luke mused. Could it be heartbreak? Or maybe just Voldemort’s preference?  

The moment he stepped inside, he felt a chilling presence watching him, as if an icy, invisible hand were gripping his heart.

“I must admit, Mr. Montbatten, you’re… quite unusual,” Quirrell stammered. “About… about Black—I heard what happened. Who would’ve thought that someone from such a pure-blood family could end up like this?”

“Isn’t he a half-blood?” Luke asked, puzzled.

“Oh, right… right, I misspoke.” Quirrell smiled faintly. “One would think the Black family, with their pure-blood pride, wouldn’t allow a half-blood into their lineage.”

His stutter disappeared entirely.

“Pure-blood families always have flexible moral boundaries,” Luke remarked with a chuckle.

Quirrell laughed heartily. “You’re quite right, Mr. Montbatten. Pure-blood families are exactly like that.”

Luke couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Quirrell—or rather Voldemort—seemed to be deliberately pretending not to know Patrick.

“Professor, are you familiar with Patrick? I saw him leaving your office just now,” Luke asked, testing Quirrell’s reaction.

“Ah, not… not very well.” Quirrell hesitated briefly, his expression faltering. “Mr. Black just came to consult me about… about vampires.”

What nonsense… Luke thought. And there’s that stutter again.  

“I see,” Luke said, feigning understanding. “No wonder he came to see you. But Professor, surely you didn’t summon me just to vent about pure-blood families?”

At this point, Luke discreetly used his Eye of Identification on Quirrell’s turban.

*Tom Riddle (Golden Dragon Emblem)*

*Level: ??? (Wizard)*

*Talents:* Charms (13), Potions (8), Transfiguration (11), Dark Arts (15), Defense Against the Dark Arts (11), Flying (10), Herbology (3).

*Known Spells:* Avada Kedavra (Level 10), Crucio (Level 10), Imperius (Level 10), Expelliarmus (Level 9), ???, ???

What an exceptional talent, Luke thought, eyeing the Dark Arts score. A peculiar thought crossed his mind.

With this level of Dark Arts talent, how dare you call yourself the Dark Lord in front of me?  

If Voldemort had heard this, he might have roared, Am I no longer intimidating, or have you gotten cocky, boy?  

A small note below caught Luke’s attention:

*“A talent score of 10 is the upper limit for ordinary individuals. Talent exceeding this indicates an extraordinary capacity for greatness in that field.”*

(Hermione: Please don’t bring me into this.)

“Indeed,” Quirrell—or Voldemort—continued, oblivious to Luke’s inner thoughts. “I must say, Mr. Montbatten, most young wizards your age struggle to cast basic spells. But you’ve already mastered silent casting and advanced spells like Protego Totalum. It’s truly impressive.”

Luke smiled modestly. “Throughout history, those who achieve greatness possess not only extraordinary talent but also unyielding determination. That’s always been my motto.”

Quirrell seemed genuinely pleased by the remark, unaware of Luke’s sharp inner critique.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 34: Professor Rocky

Professor Voldemort's appreciation for Luke grew increasingly evident in his gaze.

"I must remind you," Voldemort said, his eyes gleaming, "this world is far from peaceful. Defensive magic alone cannot handle every situation. As your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, it is my duty to inform you that dealing with certain dark wizards often requires extraordinary magic."

Luke couldn't help but suspect that the Dark Lord might have moonlighted as someone who lured children with candy.

He looked like a shady uncle trying to entice kids with goldfish.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Professor," Luke said, feigning confusion as he looked at Voldemort.

"Take werewolves, for instance. They possess an innate resistance to magic far beyond the ordinary," Voldemort explained, his expression unnervingly sincere. "Generally, common spells like Stupefy or Bombarda alone are not sufficient to harm them effectively."

"So… you're suggesting that I learn some extracurricular magic?" Luke asked, a hint of knowing in his tone.

"I understand your doubts," Voldemort said sympathetically, his voice smooth as silk, likely to lull Luke into complacency. "To dispel those doubts, I believe a practical demonstration is in order."

"How, exactly?" Luke's curiosity was piqued.

"As it happens, I've captured a werewolf. You can practice attacking it," Voldemort said, flicking his wand. A dark, eerie cabinet opened, revealing a slumbering werewolf.

"Uh, Professor, I'm just a first-year," Luke said, putting on a deliberately frightened expression as he eyed the werewolf. "What if it hurts me?"

"Rest assured, Mr. Montbatten," Voldemort replied calmly, "as long as I am here, this werewolf will not harm you."

With a flick of his wand, Voldemort conjured a jet of water that splashed the werewolf's face, rousing it from its stupor. The werewolf blinked, disoriented, clearly unsure of what was happening.

"Nicholas Adelaide," Voldemort murmured, a flicker of nostalgia crossing his face. "Once a Death Eater, he was imprisoned in Azkaban after my fall. He recently escaped and was unfortunate enough to cross my path in the Forbidden Forest."

Well, that's quite the betrayal of your own, Luke thought, his mind filling in a silent ellipsis.

He couldn't help but wonder what Voldemort's feelings were when he referred to his own "defeat." After all, being backfired on by a Killing Curse while trying to murder a one-year-old was...

Difficult to put into words.

"I'll keep an eye on your safety. Your task is simple—attack the werewolf," Voldemort said, his tone firm. "You must learn through combat that spells like Expelliarmus and Stupefy aren't always enough."

"This werewolf will make you understand the necessity of mastering new spells," Voldemort added, his voice tempting, almost hypnotic.

"Professor," Luke said with an innocent look, "what if I accidentally kill the werewolf? You wouldn't blame me, would you?"

Voldemort burst into laughter, his expression one of amused disbelief. "Hahaha… Mr. Montbatten, you're quite humorous! I sincerely doubt a first-year like you could kill a werewolf on your own. You're talented, yes, but talent alone doesn't make the impossible possible."

"Just answer me, Professor—what if I succeed?"

"If you manage to kill this werewolf," Voldemort said with absolute confidence, "I’ll call myself Rocky from now on."

Professor Quirrell: "?"

Luke raised his hand, and to Voldemort's astonishment, a long crystal sword materialized in his grasp.

"Lumos Maxima!"

A dazzling burst of light blinded the werewolf. It managed only a startled howl before Luke deftly swung the sword, decapitating it in one stroke.

Voldemort stood there, eyes wide and mouth agape, resembling a stunned toad.

"Professor Rocky," Luke said with a smile, holding up the pristine crystal sword, not a single drop of blood on it. "It seems this werewolf wasn't beyond the capabilities of a ‘small wizard’ like me. Physical magic appears quite effective."

Spending so much time with Catherine had clearly influenced Luke's penchant for sarcasm.

That said, crystal swords were exceptionally effective against werewolves due to their innate purification properties.

"Professor? What's wrong?" Luke waved a hand in front of Voldemort's stunned face. "What do you think of the surprise I prepared for you?"

Voldemort: Translate this for me. What, exactly, is the meaning of surprise?

"Very good… very good, Mr. Montbatten," Voldemort said after a long pause, finally recovering from Luke's impeccable swordsmanship. "You’ve exceeded my expectations. However, you still need to learn other forms of magic." He glanced at the lifeless werewolf's head. "For now, I need to tidy up my office. Leaving a werewolf corpse on the floor isn't exactly appealing."

"You mean…?"

"Go back for now. Return next Saturday. I'll personally teach you some interesting new spells," Voldemort said, his voice tinged with weariness.

"Of course, Professor. I'll take my leave. Good night," Luke said cheerfully, waving as he restrained Jerry, who was itching to cause more mischief, and dashed out of the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.

Once Luke was gone, Professor Quirrell's sinister demeanor returned. Glancing around nervously, he muttered, "Master…?"

"Imbecile! You nearly ruined my plans!" Voldemort's voice hissed from the back of Quirrell's head. "Why did you allow Black to visit now? Damn it…"

"Remove the turban. Let me breathe," Voldemort commanded.

Quirrell complied, unwinding the turban to reveal a grotesque face on the back of his head—a face that looked even more deformed due to its foul mood.

"Mr. Montbatten… he seems to suspect something about you and Patrick," Quirrell stammered.

"Fool! You're the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Why would a mere student suspect you for no reason?" Voldemort's frustration was palpable. "Use your brain before speaking!"

"Never mind. Find time to remove the Imperius Curse on Black and dispose of him. The longer we keep him alive, the more suspicious Dumbledore will become."

"Yes, Master," Quirrell replied humbly.

Voldemort's face twisted in annoyance, finally letting out a long sigh.

Exhausted. Destroy it all.

The Dark Lord’s brilliant schemes were once again undone, losing both a werewolf and his dignity in the process.

(End of Chapter)

*Chapter 35: When You Can’t Win, Call for Reinforcements*

Time flew by, and Halloween was just around the corner. Professor Snape finally showed his true colors—announcing a midterm exam during sixth-year Potions class.

Seventh-years, busy as they were, were spared the ordeal. Besides, they were already set in their ways, so there was no point in playing mind games with them.

The announcement caused an uproar throughout the school, except in Slytherin.

No one could believe that Snape, as both a professor and Head of House, had the audacity to trick these underage wizards and witches into such a scheme.

Was this acceptable? No, it was not. The students dearly wished to advise Professor Snape to "drink mouse tail juice" and reflect on his actions, but fear of his sharp tongue silenced any opposition. Apart from Professor Sprout of Hufflepuff voicing a couple of complaints, even Professor McGonagall showed tacit approval of Snape's midterm plan.

While “accidentally” overhearing Luke and Catherine discussing Slytherin’s study schedule in the hallway, McGonagall pretended to admire the scenery but kept her ears perked. That very evening, she implemented an identical study plan for Gryffindor, enforcing it with great enthusiasm.

After all, she had time on her hands and wasn’t keen on returning to her lonely little cottage in Hogsmeade. Instead, she relished in tormenting her Gryffindor cubs.

Ron was beside himself with frustration. He and Harry complained endlessly to Luke, venting their desire to see the instigator eat three pounds of slugs.

Luke barely resisted the urge to retaliate, inwardly repeating to himself, I’ll carry you through this.  

Thanks to Catherine’s help, Luke’s magic improved by leaps and bounds. Most of his spells had reached Level 5, with his shield charm advancing to Level 8—a significant achievement.

Yet he still couldn’t defeat Catherine unless he fought with everything he had.

But considering how kind Catherine was to him, there seemed no reason to go all out against her.

Their relationship, meanwhile, was growing stronger by the day.

As for flying lessons… to avoid exposing his utter lack of skill, Luke opted to skip them entirely.

Unfortunately, he was caught red-handed by Professor Dumbledore, who treated him to several cockroach clusters.

After a “friendly” conversation, Dumbledore ultimately granted Luke permission to skip flying lessons. The Headmaster, ever the understanding soul, couldn’t resist.

Luke sat in the Headmaster’s office, patting the £30 million check in his pocket, marveling at how effortlessly Hogwarts’s decades of food expenses had been covered.

Over in Professor Quirrell’s camp, Voldemort seemed intent on grooming Luke, teaching him advanced dark magic. Just yesterday, Quirrell had secretly taught him the Imperius Curse.

Luke understood there was no such thing as a free lunch. Voldemort appeared to be boiling the frog slowly, trying to lure him into darkness step by step.

Still, Luke couldn’t deny feeling some gratitude. Many of the spells Voldemort shared—even those forbidden in the Restricted Section—were invaluable, especially the Imperius Curse.

It was, after all, one of the three Unforgivable Curses alongside the Cruciatus and Killing Curse.

“So, is that your reason for reporting Professor Quirrell?” Dumbledore shrugged, his tone casual.

Luke nodded with righteous indignation, his expression unwavering. “Yes, Professor. Teaching an Unforgivable Curse to a student is utterly… utterly…”

Dumbledore said nothing, sitting calmly as he watched Luke perform his theatrical outburst.

“Irredeemable,” Luke finished, staring at the Headmaster with anticipation.

“Precisely—irredeemable.” Dumbledore’s words were succinct, befitting his role as Headmaster.

“Exactly! Irredeemable!” Luke echoed. “I’ve always suspected Professor Quirrell had ulterior motives. It’s as if he’s deliberately trying to lead me astray.”

“That’s a serious accusation, Luke.” Dumbledore straightened, pouring Luke a glass of unsweetened lemonade. “It’s hard to understand how someone so young could lose the joy of life. Ah, I cannot imagine a world without sugar.”

“That’s why everyone calls you ‘Old Honeybee’ behind your back,” Luke retorted, rolling his eyes.

“A charming nickname, isn’t it?” Dumbledore chuckled, pulling out his own glass of lemonade. “Since you refused sugar, I added your share to mine… alas, too sweet.”

His white beard quivered as he retrieved a cluster of cockroach candies from his drawer. Breaking one off, he popped it into his mouth.

“Sometimes, I think you resemble a huntsman spider more than a bee,” Luke muttered, fighting the urge to grimace. “There’s a species in warmer regions that’s massive, shy, and loves eating cockroaches.”

For a moment, Luke forgot the English name and used the spider’s Latin classification instead.

“Old Huntsman Spider, huh? A bit of a tongue-twister,” Dumbledore mused, unbothered by his student’s penchant for nicknames. He even joined in the discussion with interest.

“But let’s not get off topic, Professor. Surely you’ve noticed how suspicious Quirrell is?” Luke redirected, trying to attack Dumbledore’s main argument.

The Headmaster remained noncommittal, munching on his cockroach cluster.

Luke pulled out a card from his pocket, careful not to speak aloud due to the numerous portraits in the room. He scrawled on the card: “Aren’t you worried that allowing Voldemort into Hogwarts might push him to desperation?”  

Dumbledore glanced at the card, his eyes narrowing briefly behind his half-moon glasses. For a moment, his penetrating gaze seemed to pierce Luke’s soul.

Soon, though, his expression softened, replaced by the benevolent look of a mischievous old man. “I must admit, your instincts are sharp… When did you realize it?”

“At the Sorting Ceremony, Professor,” Luke lied smoothly, though he’d known for years.

Without missing a beat, he elaborated, “Harry told me his scar hurt when he looked at Professor Snape. But given Snape’s history with his family, there’s no way he’d side with Voldemort.

“I thought back to that moment. Sitting beside Snape was none other than Professor Quirrell. Since he had his back to Harry, I suspected Voldemort hadn’t truly perished and might be possessing Quirrell. Otherwise, Harry’s scar wouldn’t have hurt.”

With that, he pulled Jerry, his pet, from his pocket and placed him on the table.

“Brilliant deduction, Luke,” Dumbledore said, handing Jerry a cockroach candy.

Jerry sniffed it with disdain until the sweet aroma caught his attention. After scrutinizing the old man and finding no malice, Jerry opened wide and swallowed the struggling candy whole.

The cockroach made a distinctly magical, squelching noise as it slid down his throat, his belly briefly flattening against the table before bouncing back.

“As for Voldemort…” Dumbledore sighed deeply after a moment’s thought. “Well, now that you’re on our side, there’s no need to hide anything.

“My intent was to give Harry a trial, to help him grow through this experience.”

(End of Chapter)