Hogwarts: This professor is too Muggle.

Chapter 197 is a good professor

"Did you hear that just now? This professor's surname is Gaunt. Is that the Gaunt I'm thinking of?"

Harry asked in a low voice; he had been preoccupied with this matter and hadn't paid attention for half the class.

Ron, standing nearby, thought he was overthinking things and muttered, "It doesn't matter what the surname is. Not all Gauntlets are related to Slytherin. But you never know, pure-blood families are related by marriage, so maybe they really are."

Hermione, what do you think?

They sat in the middle rows of the classroom, and Hermione in front could join the discussion by simply turning slightly to the side.

"..."

Hermione didn't offer any opinion; she buried herself in taking notes. Professor Gaunt was very knowledgeable and liked to use examples to expand on the subject during his lectures. Just talking about Sulley led to thirteen similar magical creatures, and he also mentioned potions with similar effects.

If Professor Levent hadn't interrupted, he would have continued talking about related black magic.

This wasn't just a teaching assistant; he was practically the most knowledgeable Defense Against the Dark Arts professor she had ever encountered.

"Huh, what are you saying?"

Hermione hastily jotted down the last method for dealing with Sulley, then looked up and caught a glimpse of Gauntlet's shadowy figure approaching, drifting past the tables of students discussing their problems, patiently answering their questions with a faint smile.

A short while later, Professor Gaunt approached the three: "This class was a bit rushed, so I only gave a brief self-introduction and haven't had a chance to get to know you all yet. May I ask..."

"Hello Professor, I am Hermione Granger."

I've never heard of him before, and his surname is unfamiliar. He must be of mixed race or Muggle origin.

"Hello Professor, just call me Ron, Ron Weasley."

The Weasleys, with their red hair, belong to the poorest pure-blood family.

"Harry, Harry Potter."

Harry felt uneasy as the professor stared at him.

“Oh, Mr. Potter.”

Riddle scrutinized his face, especially the scar on his forehead. "I can't believe it. It's such an honor to finally meet you. I'm so happy."

Harry felt like the assistant was about to pounce on him. He had been in similar situations before, but for some reason, the assistant's enthusiasm made him feel awkward and uncomfortable.

Upon closer inspection, however, there was nothing unusual, which reminded him of the lesson he had just learned: walking alone on a dimly lit path, feeling as if he were being watched by an unknown monster, which was hiding in the shadows.

Professor Gaunt smiled gently: "Mr. Potter, do you have any further questions about Sulley?"

"No...no."

“I think so too. Defense Against the Dark Arts is nothing to you, who defeated the Dark Lord. I even think you don’t need to learn it anymore, right, Mr. Potter?”

“Professor, I don’t know what kind of misunderstanding you have about me, but I am just an ordinary student. My grades are only average. I even failed the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam last year.”

"Failed?" Riddle was taken aback, his pretense crumbling, and an incredulous expression appeared in his eyes.

Just as he was about to ask more questions, the bell rang, signaling the end of get out of class.

Night falls, in the Muggle Studies office.

Melvin sat behind his desk, head down, holding a quill pen, making final revisions to his paper. A lazy young snake lay in a silver dish beside the desk, its belly bloated after eating, its eyes vacant, unwilling to move.

On the shelf was a gold cup dripping with developing solution, its illusory image floating in mid-air, swaying back and forth as if pacing.

“Harry Potter, he has no special talents other than Quidditch. He’s just an ordinary student. He failed his exams last year…” Riddle said, unable to accept it. “How could he possibly defeat the Dark Lord!”

Since opening the Chamber of Secrets in Slytherin and unraveling the mystery of his origins, Tom Riddle has been the most outstanding student, achieving perfect scores in all subjects, not because his ability is perfect, but because perfect scores are the highest one one can achieve.

When he graduated from Hogwarts with twelve diplomas, he was already more powerful than most adult wizards, and many elective professors were no match for him.

During his two years at Borgin Burke, living in Knockturn Alley, he interacted with many dark wizards, none of whom were his match. In Riddle's vision, after twenty years of growth, he would become a true Dark Lord, leading the Death Eaters to sweep across Britain, with only Dumbledore worthy of being his opponent.

Unable to find an answer, Riddle's bewilderment turned into anger, and his roar carried a hint of rage and frustration.
What is so special about him?

"There's plenty of time in the future, you can ask him yourself."

Melvin didn't even look up. "But I must remind you, Dumbledore is still the headmaster of Hogwarts. He's in his office on the eighth floor of the castle. If you continue to behave like a dark wizard as you did today, openly teaching dark magic in class, or doing anything else suspicious that makes people notice your identity, our cooperation ends here."

"..."

Riddle's expression shifted constantly. He knew all too well how difficult the old man was to deal with. Back then, he had only framed Hagrid, but the old man had been on guard ever since, and he hadn't let his guard down until graduation.

"I understand," he replied with a somber expression.

The office quieted down. The window was open, and Riddle saw the golden cup facing upwards, but he didn't want to go back to it. The fragments of his soul didn't need rest, and who wouldn't want to have more contact with the real world?

"What are you writing?" A ghostly figure floated to the desk.

“A paper, a paper on Muggle studies,” Melvin replied calmly, without looking up.

Riddle frowned slightly. He looked down on Muggle studies and the wizards who studied it. However, there were only two people in the office, and the only snake was a fool who couldn't speak Parsley. Since he couldn't do anything else, he simply floated into the air and watched.

"Discipline, punishment, and feeding... the birth of Azkaban..."

Riddle glanced at the paper's title, and as he read on, his brow furrowed deeper and deeper.

After waiting for Melvin to finish revising and put down his pen, he slowly sat down beside him and expressed his opinion: "The part about the exploitation of prisoners is worthless. Those prisoners are all guilty wizards. Whether they are tortured or raised like livestock, no one will sympathize with them."

Melvin was too lazy to argue with him. What was the point of reasoning with an antisocial, extreme terrorist?
"The discussion about Dementors that followed was quite interesting."

"Oh, you've also studied Dementors?"

"Of course, although these creatures are filthy and despicable, they are immortal after birth and cannot be destroyed by any magic. Even guardian spells can only drive them away. I am very interested in this trait of theirs..."

As Riddle spoke eloquently, Melvin gradually put down his work and listened attentively like a student.

As expected of the most powerful dark wizard in hundreds of years, his research in this area is indeed profound. He must be an excellent substitute professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts!

(End of this chapter)