Hermione, let's start a revolution from Hogwarts!

"Aha, a letter from my friend."

The owl used its beak to pull a letter from the package and slipped it through the crack in the window. Nietzsche noticed the mimeographed badge on it the moment it fell onto the windowsill.

It was an open book, with a crown on each page, making it look like two fortresses.

If Nietzsche remembered correctly, this was a letter from Oxford University... It sounded absurd, a professor sitting in a magic school seemingly having dealings with a Muggle school.

"That is..."

“No…yes, it is indeed a letter from a Muggle.” Quirrell hesitated for a moment before continuing, “It’s a friend I met when I was traveling. He’s said to be more knowledgeable than most people.”

The wizarding world has always been very domineering towards Muggles.

Unless they are family members of wizards, any Muggle who knows anything about magic must have their memory erased, a fact clearly stated in books about the wizarding world.

There are two possibilities: either Quirrell concealed his identity, or the other party knew of the wizard's existence.

Nietzsche sighed inwardly. To be honest, he really didn't want Professor Quirrell to be the person he was looking for, because he had finally managed to improve the professor's condition, so it seemed like he was 'deceiving himself'.

"It seems that not every genius wizard is so pure-blooded~" he said jokingly.

The firelight from the fireplace illuminated the sweat on the professor's forehead, but Quirrell didn't feel hot at all and even wrapped his clothes tighter around himself.

As he opened the envelope, he said, "Why do you say that?"

"After all, the more you see, the more you understand. Naturally, you won't be like those purebloods, staring blankly at the theory of bloodlines. Aren't all powerful wizards striving to surpass themselves?"

Only a mind free from shackles has more choices.

“Perhaps… there are still some exceptions.” Quirrell lowered his voice. “Wasn’t that mysterious person a pureblood back then?”

"Maybe he isn't? Maybe... that person whose name can't even be mentioned is just someone the purebloods make him think he is?"

Quirrell opened his mouth, about to say something, when suddenly he frowned, put his hands on both sides of his head and started rubbing them again. It was an old problem; the professor would get a headache every time he reached a certain point.

He became even more flustered at this point, and ignoring the letter from the Muggle, he immediately pushed away Nietzsche, who came forward to express his concern.

"Let me... rest. Go ahead, once you've mastered the new spell, we still have a lot... a lot of things to research."

"Is it a curse from Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Nietzsche's movements were stiff; he didn't want to leave just like that. "I've heard about this course, Professor... Professor?!"

"That's right, it's a curse. I'm not worried about that, but I don't want you to get too tainted."

Quirrell was stunned for a moment, then immediately admitted it.

It seems that the reason for his physical weakness is this invisible and intangible curse, and every time the curse takes effect on him, Quirrell just wants his students to stay far away from him.

Only after Nietzsche was pushed outside did Quirrell lie on the ground, pressed against the doorframe, like a lump of mud.

"Master... Master?"

“Quirinus, I want you to kill him! Kill... that filthy mudblood! No, I want him to feel the pain himself…”

“No, now is not the time.” Quirrell’s voice was much clearer, though somewhat halting. “I’m worried Dumbledore will find out… Master, you can do it yourself after it’s done.”

But his intentions had already been discovered.

"Heart-piercing...bone-ripping! You piece of trash, you can't even kill a...Potter...you can't even kill a Mudblood, take off your turban, take it off!"

Quirrell, just like during a Quidditch match, clutched his chest with his left hand. Gone was the confidence he once had. In the empty room, he crawled slowly towards the mirror like a dead dog.

As he slowly untied his headscarf, his scalp, devoid of any hair, was revealed.

"Do you think that the great Voldemort is...not long for this world?" the hoarse voice said. "'Look, he's even having trouble...talking to people now,' Quirrell, that's what you think, isn't it?"

Quirrell turned his head away listlessly, revealing a wrinkled face on the back of his head.

That hoarse voice, the one he called 'master,' belonged to Voldemort, the dark wizard whose name couldn't even be mentioned, just as he had made excuses for Snape—perhaps he had some unspeakable secret?

But now Quirrell dared not make a sound, and could only fill himself with fear and terror.

“Ah…that’s it. Maintain…your respect.” Voldemort examined himself in the mirror. “Choosing you as a vessel…maybe it was a mistake in itself, that damned Mudblood….”

What a terrifying scene.

Two faces on one head; Voldemort's entire face seemed to be squeezed out of Quirrell's original skin.

His eyes were framed by dark sockets with only a pair of red pupils, and where his nose should have been was two gashes cut into the back of Quirrell's head with a dagger... This was the great Voldemort.

"A Slytherin Mudblood, huh? If it weren't for the fact that he's still alive... he might be somewhat useful... Master, I'd be willing to help you get rid of him."

"Fool!" Voldemort muttered, his eyes drooping. "Fine, you'd better get me a body before you run out of life force... I really... nothing ever gives me a moment's peace."

This is the curse of Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Quirrell's weakness was no lie; Voldemort was indeed a curse to him, tormenting him constantly.

Fortunately, he had achieved his goal, because Nietzsche had seen his extremely abnormal behavior, and Quirrell did not hide himself, but simply exposed everything.

After leaving his office, Nietzsche did not immediately return to the lounge, but instead found an empty classroom to sort out his thoughts.

"How could a wizard who is used to solving problems with magic make such a mistake... No, no, no, he was deliberately trying to be discovered, but his clumsy manner didn't seem to be an act."

"What does Kochiro want me to see...think carefully, Holmes..."

By the way, Hagrid said that the only people in the wizarding world who want to harm Harry now are dark wizards, because it involves the First Wizarding War—Varu died because of Harry Potter, so they want revenge.

Could Quirrell be the dark wizard?

Nietzsche didn't think so. To understand why Quirrell was afraid of his position, it might be due to a curse, and this 'curse' could be that 'unspeakable secret'.

In the empty classroom, Nietzsche moved all the desks and chairs to the edge and walked back and forth in the center of the classroom.

“This is revenge, a revenge orchestrated.” Nietzsche seemed to be standing before another version of himself, and lost in his fantasy, he spoke earnestly to 'him'.

"If he is the knife in the Quidditch incident, then who is the thief?"

“Good question!” Nietzsche waved his wand, moved two chairs over, and placed the other empty one opposite him. “In fact, the thief is the hand that wields the professor’s knife.”

How could a sensitive professor tolerate the stench emanating from a troll? This was clearly a sign.

Nietzsche later distinguished between dragon dung and trolls in his herbalism class. Quirrell was indeed lying that day, or rather, he was deliberately reminding others in a certain way.

So right now, the one in the most danger is actually Quirrell...

"You can try communicating with him."

“There’s no way to communicate. Professor Quirrell doesn’t want me to be tainted by the curse, which means he sees the curse as contagious. And contagion means he might be monitored. If we have direct communication, the curse will spread.”

He was deliberately avoiding the topic, and the so-called physical weakness was probably a side effect of some kind of control method.

"The perfect answer is right in front of you! It's not too late!"

The next day, Nietzsche took a note and ran up to the third floor.

The list above is of the desserts he asked about from others. Nietzsche said dozens of names to the ugly gargoyle statue, and it wasn't until he said "a pile of cockroaches" that the statue made way for him.

Nietzsche rubbed his eyes, but his spirits were unusually high.

"headmaster!"

"Huh? What brings you here?" Dumbledore hadn't even had time to change out of his dressing gown. "If I'm not mistaken, it's Sunday. Slytherin doesn't have morning classes on weekends."

"It's Professor Quirrell! He's in danger!"

Nietzsche walked straight over, grabbed a glass of water from the table, and took a swig.

He then recounted the entire reasoning process at an extremely fast pace, from the professor's unusual behavior at the beginning to the triple relationship between the dark wizard, Gringotts, and Quirrell.

Dumbledore's lips parted slightly, like a dazed old man, and a deep murmur came from his throat. Nietzsche thought for a moment that the headmaster was asleep standing up.

"So you believe there's a dark wizard left over from the ancient magical war, threatening Quirrell with some kind of curse," Dumbledore suddenly said. "In that case, it makes sense...no wonder he wanted to steal that thing."

However, the principal's focus was completely different from Nietzsche's.

This made Nietzsche feel depressed. Already agitated from not sleeping all night, he disregarded his status as a student and raised his voice a few decibels.

“I think what we should be focusing on now is Quirrell, sir! I don’t care what Galleons are buried there, or what relics of Nicolas Lemaître are there, none of these things are as important as a life!”

“Mr. Holmes... I don’t know how you know, but what I’m protecting is life, or more precisely, a precious opportunity.”

This is why Nietzsche was bored; the old headmaster just liked to tell riddles.

The Riddler, get out of Hogwarts... Oh, no, Hogwarts originally belonged to the Riddler.

"What do you mean?"

"Let me be frank, if what you say is true, then Professor Quirrell's situation is more than just dangerous."

After Nietzsche described the events, Dumbledore understood what had happened, and his expression became filled with sorrow, the meaning of which was self-evident—he was powerless to change anything.

“Principal, if you still acknowledge our relationship, you might as well be more explicit.”

Nietzsche's heart was racing from staying up all night and his emotions running high. He braced himself on the table to keep from falling, and his questioning voice woke up the portraits on the wall. Many principals opened their eyes, cursing as they did so.

But his attention was now entirely focused on Dumbledore.

"Wrong time, wrong place, wrong person – that's how tragedy is born."

"My purpose in handling cases has never been to uncover tragedies, but to prevent them!"

Chapter Forty-Eight: He Will Rival Death

On some matters, the Holmes family members or friends are somewhat stubborn.

Nietzsche was no exception. He did not stubbornly try to find the director of the tragedy, but rather wanted to prevent the tragedy from happening. In this respect, Nietzsche was very different from Shylock, especially after he discovered 'magic'.

The eleven-year-old student was ignoring the reproaches of the other portraits and the unspoken rules, staring intently at Dumbledore.

Finally, the old headmaster gave up, having lost to Nietzsche in terms of 'persistence'.

"Okay, your reasoning is completely correct, but because of some missing information, it's not entirely accurate. However, we two need to combine our conclusions."

Dumbledore walked up to him, helped him sit in his chair, and looked at him with affection and admiration.

“Hey! That’s the principal’s chair!” one of the portraits shouted.

Nietzsche looked over there and saw that the gloomy old man sitting in the luxurious armchair was Phineas Nigellus Black.

Opposite the wall covered with portraits of the principal, next to the black cabinet, was a huge mirror, though it was temporarily covered by gauze, with only the edges and the golden top showing.