A certain broken Hogwarts

Chapter 70 Quirrell's Tragic Life

The atmosphere at Hogwarts remained peaceful throughout the new week.

The ghosts were busy preparing for the weekend's ghost party. After receiving Owen's affirmative reply, almost every ghost had a joyful smile on their face, and their silvery-white figures could be seen flying around everywhere in the castle corridors.

Professor Quirrell was having a tough time, as he had been plagued by inexplicable misfortunes these past few days. Every time he stepped out of his office, it felt like he was about to face a thrilling duel, as if he were being particularly targeted by the goddess of misfortune.

On the first day of the week, he was hit on the back of the head by a dung ball thrown from above on the stairs. It turned out that Peeves was playing a prank on two little wizards upstairs and accidentally threw the dung ball at him. Then the mischievous ghost floated away, sticking out its tongue.

The dung ball exploded on Quirrell's head, spraying foul-smelling brown liquid all over his head and face, even soaking his large purple scarf. Quirrell, reeking of the stench, ran back to his office howling and wailing; it was said that his sobs could be heard from a great distance.

But his bad luck didn't end there. The next day in the corridor, someone threw a pair of firecrackers, which ignited the large scarf on his head, turning his head into a blazing torch that he couldn't extinguish no matter how hard he tried.

Ignoring the burning pain, Quirrell covered the back of his head with both hands and ran for his life. After nervously dodging the chandeliers that fell from the ceiling and struggling through the tables and chairs haphazardly piled up in the corridor, he finally managed to squeeze into the office before his brain started to boil.

But Quirrell was a strong man. Even with large blisters on his forehead, he resolutely refused Madam Pomfrey's offer to apply ointment to his more severely burned back of the head, and the very next day he stood in his Defense Against the Dark Arts class wearing a new scarf. Well, according to him, this was the second scarf the African prince had given him.

The young wizards were filled with awe at Professor Quirrell's refusal to remove his scarf even when injured, but they also unanimously believed that the scarf on his head held a great secret. Otherwise, wouldn't he be afraid of infesting maggots by insisting on wearing a scarf even after being burned?

The Weasley twins, in a mischievous mood, started a Quirrell guessing game, attracting many young wizards. People placed bets on whether Quirrell's large scarf was stuffed with garlic, caterpillars, or dragon dung; some even bet that he was bald or had scabies...

Irving, never one to miss a good spectacle, anonymously placed ten Galleons as a gesture of appreciation and encouragement for the game.

As the young wizards eagerly awaited his arrival, Quirrell's situation predictably worsened. That day, after class, he had barely stepped out of the classroom when a hook suddenly snagged his large scarf above his head. Caught off guard, Quirrell reacted quickly, raising his hand to cover it. As a result, he was suspended high in the air by the rising hook, kicking his legs like a fish waiting to be dried.

"Aaaaaah, Professor Quirrell has hanged himself!" the young wizards below screamed.

"Good job, you little devil!" Irving, who saw this scene from afar, almost burst out laughing. You've been playing dumb for so long, it's hard to shake off that act now.

What intrigued him even more was whether Voldemort's face on the back of Quirrell's head was covered in blisters. Uh, the image was too gruesome to contemplate.

Just as Owen was gleefully watching the drama unfold and feeding Mrs. Loris dried fish, he returned to the lounge only to receive a notice to go to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office that afternoon. He expressionlessly crumpled the note into a ball, stuffed it into his hand, and then blew on his palm, causing the note to scatter into countless pieces of paper.

Melete, who was taking a nap, was covered in scraps of paper. She grimaced, sneezed, and then got up to diligently lick her glossy fur and patiently give herself a bath.

Harry was absentmindedly flipping through his textbooks. Ever since he left the room where the Mirror of Erised was, he had often been in this dazed state, looking like a pitiful little boy missing his parents.

"Actually, Harry, I think you still have a family member." Owen couldn't stand this kind of expression, so he said with an inscrutable look. Immediately afterward, he saw a wolf-like green glint shoot from Harry's emerald green eyes, as if he wanted to devour him.

"Ahem, you know Ron Weasley, right?" Owen coughed lightly and said.

"I know, the Gryffindor one." Harry nodded.

"He has a pet mouse named Scabbers. If you catch it and give it to Dumbledore, you'll likely gain a relative," Owen said with a lazy smile.

Meeting Harry's suspicious gaze, he said seriously, "Of course, you need to pay attention to a few things. That rat is very troublesome, timid but also very intelligent. Never let it know your purpose, otherwise it will slip away without a trace, and then your loved ones will be gone like fireworks, 'bang' away."

"Oh, thank you. I didn't know my family could be associated with rats," Harry said, feeling annoyed, as he thought Owen was making fun of him.

"Tsk tsk, Harry, when have I ever lied to you?" Owen shrugged, looking dejected and heartbroken.

"I'm sorry, Owen," Harry said quickly, then became restless. Although Owen often teased him, he had never lied to him on serious matters. While exchanging a mouse for a family member was indeed far-fetched, what if it was true?

You should always have dreams; what if they come true?

With that thought in mind, Harry's mind was already on how to get the rat out of Ron Weasley's hands.

Seeing the savior's excited, almost hyped-up expression, Owen shrugged and turned to Blaise, who was fiddling with those strange gadgets, saying, "By the way, Blaise, are you really not going to join our ultimate study group?"

"No, what's the point of studying? Besides, this name is so stupid." Blaise tugged at the red string on the box in his hand, and a large group of moth-like figures flew out, instantly engulfing him in countless screams and punches.

"Tsk tsk, it's just a title. If you're arrogant enough, you can call it a saint if you want." Owen casually placed Melett in the armchair and left the lounge alone. Melett seemed to sense his retreating figure, called out softly, and then curled up into a ball.

Irving walked down the dark corridor, the thought of Boulder making him feel terrible. All cat lovers should strongly boycott him!

With this in mind, Owen knocked on Quirrell's office door and opened it after hearing a "Come in" from inside.

Strangely, the smell wafting from the door today was no longer the pungent garlic odor of before, but a rich fragrance, neither like flowers nor food, yet not unpleasant.

Irving glanced at the figure sitting behind the desk. Yes, it was Quirrell himself.

Relaxing instantly, Owen walked in with a smile and saw a potion bubbling away on Quirrell's desk. Flames roared beneath the cauldron, and the deep red liquid danced lively within, resembling fine red wine.

Deep red steam continuously rose from above the medicinal liquid, like tiny mushroom clouds that lingered for a long time. The strange aroma emanated from it; inhaling it for a while would give one a slightly intoxicating, smoky feeling.

"Professor Quirrell, good afternoon. What kind of potion is this?" Owen greeted him warmly, as if he were visiting a relative. He looked at the potion, and even though he knew how to identify potions, he couldn't figure out what it was, but it certainly wasn't a potion for treating burns.

Quirrell glanced sideways at the potion potion, then quickly looked away, saying proudly, "You don't need to know."

"Alright." Owen nodded thoughtfully, then said with a smile, "Professor Quirrell, would you like some burn ointment? Or, I also have some chocolate and candy here; eating some sweets can help keep you in a good mood."

Quirrell's expression suddenly turned ugly, and hatred and fear involuntarily welled up in his eyes. He snorted coldly and said through gritted teeth, "I know someone's been targeting me lately... When I no longer need to pretend, I guarantee that person will suffer a terrible death."

"Yeah, good luck." Owen gave a perfunctory thumbs-up, then tilted his head and said, "So, what did you call me here for?"

(End of this chapter)