A certain broken Hogwarts

Chapter 90 Night Talk

After dinner, Owen returned to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. As soon as he opened the door, he was nearly choked by the strong smell of garlic.

The dark, cramped office was cold and damp, the curtains were drawn tightly, and the fireplace was not lit. Quirrell sat behind his desk with a gloomy face; his deathly pale complexion made him look like a vampire.

"Oh dear, Professor Quirrell, even if you're single, you should still learn to take good care of yourself." Owen shook his head with a sigh, looking around at the somewhat messy room. "Mind if I tidy up for you?"

Quirrell looked at him with a strange expression, unable to speak for a moment.

Owen grinned at him, taking it as a tacit agreement, then drew his wand and waved it, chanting, "Whirlwind Sweep."

The surrounding trash and the lingering smell of garlic in the air were swept away, and the haphazardly piled-up items were neatly categorized and stored away. The office instantly became much cleaner and tidier, and even the air felt fresher.

Owen chanted "Burning Flame!" over the fireplace again, and bright orange flames roared up, illuminating the surroundings and bringing a warm glow. He then waved his wand once more, and several oil lamps hanging on the wall lit up one after another. A copper kettle flew above the fireplace, and soon the sound of boiling water filled the air. A teapot and two teacups floated onto the table, and Owen took some tea leaves from his pocket.

"Fine Ceylon black tea, would you like to have a cup with me?" Owen said with a bright smile.

This sudden turn of events left Quirrell stunned. He sat there staring at Irving for a long time, speechless.

Owen thoughtfully observed Quirrell's attire, then suddenly tilted his head and asked, "Professor Quirrell, if I may ask, why do you love garlic so much?"

Quirrell gave him a cold, indifferent look, then lowered his eyes to look at the kettle on the table, unconsciously rubbing his hands together: "For the sake of pretense."

"To be honest, your disguise wasn't much better. Professor Snape must be suspicious of you, right?" Owen brought up the very thing he didn't want to say.

"He can only suspect it," Quirrell sneered.

"Aren't you afraid he'll tell Dumbledore?" Owen raised an eyebrow.

"His past actions determined that he would never gain Dumbledore's trust." Quirrell smiled mysteriously. "Without evidence, he was powerless against me. It's just a pity that the big dog didn't manage to bite his neck off that day."

"But you didn't get the Philosopher's Stone either?" Owen said bluntly. "And we almost got wiped out by a Chimera. We were chased by that monster all the way before Halloween."

Quirrell's expression suddenly darkened, his eyes filled with deep fear and pain. He shook his head violently and said, "Where those monsters go is their own business."

Irving stared at him for a moment, then pursed his lips and returned to the previous topic: "Disguise doesn't necessarily mean making yourself look weird. Being different from others will attract curiosity and investigation. Think about it, lately people have been interested in the scarf on your head, which means your disguise has been a complete failure..."

He said mysteriously, "Professor Quirrell, why not try changing your image? You see, you're actually quite good-looking. You became a professor at Hogwarts at such a young age, you're promising, and your appearance isn't bad either. Why not be more confident and make yourself more popular?"

"Hmm, let me think... we could start by changing our style of dress. Oh, and we could replace the scarf with various styles of hats. Haha, that's right! Most importantly, I have a few bottles of perfume potions here, men's favorites, you know." Owen gave a strong recommendation, "They can significantly increase charm, and, if you wish, they have a certain repellent effect on vampires..."

As he spoke, under Quirrell's slightly dazed gaze, he flipped his empty hand, and several crystal bottles of different colors appeared in his palm, which he placed on the table. These were products he had recently obtained from his family's potions shop, and he had even added a little bit of vampire-repelling ingredient to them.

"Of course, if you really like garlic, this one is garlic-flavored," Irving said, pushing one of the bottles forward with a sparkling look in his eyes. "Need me to find you a fashion magazine?"

"Are you trying to expose me?" Quirrell glared at him with a gloomy expression.

"How could that be? Aren't you already under suspicion?" Owen winked at him with his left eye, coaxing him gently. "There are many things in this world that can change a person. You can use being scared by vampires as an excuse to become cowardly, and you can also change again in a logical way. For example, you can have a sudden realization after facing the danger of monsters, or find a favorite witch or wizard... That way, you're less likely to be suspected."

Under Quirrell's flickering gaze, a cold voice, not belonging to either of them, rang out: "Enough, Owen, stop playing around."

Quirrell suddenly clutched his head and trembled, while Owen's amused expression vanished, his dark eyes watching the scene with a deep and unfathomable look, his expression becoming a half-smile.

When Quirrell looked up again, his eyes and expression were completely different from before.

"Good evening, Professor," Irving said with a graceful bow.

"Owen, I need you to do something," Voldemort said calmly. "Find out from Hagrid how to get past the three-headed dog."

"Huh? Professor, you couldn't handle that Cerberus?" Owen raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "I thought it was Professor Snape who stopped you that night..."

Voldemort glanced at his bloodless hands, then looked at Owen with eyes that concealed desire and greed, and said softly, "My magic power now depends on this weak body, and the strength I can exert is far too little... Even if I defeat that Cerberus, I won't have the strength to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone."

"Since it wasn't Professor Snape who stopped you, why don't you go find him?" Owen said softly. "I think his identity and abilities will be of great help to you." His father knew that Snape had been a Death Eater. In fact, for ancient pure-blood families like the Shafiq family, which still have enormous wealth and power in the wizarding world, the identities of almost all Death Eaters are not a secret.

"But he could also thwart my plans completely." Voldemort stared intently at the tightly closed curtains, as if he could see the dark sky outside through them. "Severus was indeed a gifted wizard, once my most loyal follower... I wonder if he has now completely turned against me."

He turned to look at Owen, pulled the cauldron beside him to his side, lit a fire beneath it, and slowly tossed in potion ingredients. His tone was calm as he said, "This is truly a source of great disappointment. Ten years have passed, and not a single person who swore eternal loyalty to me has gone to seek out their master. How could they be so certain I wouldn't rise again?"

Irving opened his mouth, then said softly, "I guess everyone thinks you're... dead."

Voldemort didn't look up, but said calmly, "Yes, yes, they thought I was finished, so they couldn't wait to sneak back to my enemies, claiming they were innocent, bewitched. Even though I had already let them know that I had found a way to prevent death, and proved my boundless power countless times... Perhaps they thought there was an even more powerful force in this world that could defeat Voldemort..."

He added the last few medicinal herbs to the crucible, and wisps of white mist drifted from the blue liquid, carrying a slightly sour-sweet aroma, gradually filling the small office.

Owen, smelling the increasingly sweet scent in the air, silently stared at the potion in the cauldron. Was this blatant poisoning? How arrogant of you.

"Excuse my bluntness, Professor, if you suddenly and completely disappeared from this world, any normal person would think you were gone..." He blinked and said, "There are a few people who don't want to believe it, but they are all locked up in Azkaban now."

Owen has found a way to deal with Voldemort now. Since Voldemort has designs on him, it means that he can relax a bit more while maintaining a proper balance. And Voldemort in his weakened state is not as arrogant as he is in his prime; at least he can listen to some human words.

"As for you claiming you've found a way to stop death... isn't that just a slogan you used when recruiting followers?" he said innocently. "Perhaps to many, it's as unbelievable as a slogan shouted during a campaign for Minister of Magic..."

Owen seemed to sense Voldemort's cold glare at him. He calmly let the kettle on the fireplace fly over, dropped some tea leaves into the teapot, poured in water, put the lid on, and quietly waited for the tea leaves to steep.

"Professor, would you like some tea? I'm quite good at brewing tea." He said casually, "Or, I could help you with brewing potions, but unfortunately, my potion-making skills aren't very good..." He glanced at the pot of boiling potions.

Voldemort stared at him for a while, but didn't get angry. He actually found this little wizard, who was becoming increasingly audacious in front of him, rather amusing.

"Owen, are you willing to offer me your loyalty, even your life?" he said with a playful expression, his deep voice sounding quite pleasant.

Owen stiffened, almost thinking the other was about to attack. He glanced at the inscrutable Voldemort and said softly, "I am willing to offer my loyalty to you, but to sacrifice my life... this is too sudden, Professor. I don't think I'm ready."

"I thought you had already submitted to me." Voldemort narrowed his eyes dangerously.

Owen silently poured two cups of tea, picked up one and took a sip, savoring the rich and mellow aroma of the black tea, before sighing, "Who would want to die if they could live, Professor?"

"There are many reasons why someone might give their life, such as for love, pursuit, or faith. If you, Professor, can gather like-minded people with an ideal future, conquer their hearts with your personal charm and skillful means, and become the hope and faith in the eyes of your followers, then countless people will be fervently willing to die for you."

"You want to discuss love with me? That sounds like one of Dumbledore's hypocritical and weak theories." Voldemort sneered sarcastically. "I don't need those trivial things; power is enough for me. I don't need anyone to die willingly for me; I can force anyone to die."

Irving quickly picked up his teacup, took a sip, and gave an awkward but polite smile. "Then why are you asking me? Just for fun?"

"At least you're honest. You finally understand that trying to outsmart me is ridiculous, Owen," Voldemort said lazily, his previous cold and dangerous aura instantly dissipating, his amused expression resembling that of someone teasing an interesting little pet.

Owen gripped his teacup tightly and silently poured himself another cup. He was being teased! Dark Lord, you're a bit cheeky... Who said Voldemort wasn't smart? This guy is perfectly clear-headed about many things; he just got too arrogant after creating Horcruxes to escape death and didn't want to use his brain anymore.

"What do you think of my past beliefs?" Voldemort asked casually.

"Very tempting, Professor. Pure-blood supremacy, enslaving Muggles—it fits my family's interests perfectly." Owen wore a flawless smile. "Compared to Grindelwald's slogans back then, your ideals are like a fairy tale." Absurd and naive!

Although he knew that Voldemort's true goal was to achieve immortality and to use power to do whatever he wanted, making everyone submit to him, the idea of ​​pure-blood supremacy would have to take a backseat. Proposing such a concept was probably more about gathering a group of subordinates who were acceptable to him.

"So you believe our future is bright," Voldemort said slowly.

"Of course...no. Quite the opposite, I feel gloomy about the future, Professor." Owen gasped for breath, adopting a sorrowful expression. Come on, let's have some fun.

Voldemort's expression paused for a moment, then he chuckled lightly. "Interesting. You think I'll eventually lose power again?"

"No, Professor, of course you'll be fine, but I don't see any chance of this goal succeeding..." Owen said pessimistically, almost bursting into tears.

"Do you think my power is insufficient to fulfill my ambitions, or that my allies are not strong enough?" Voldemort looked down at him.

"Professor, your power is certainly great enough, but your potential supporters are destined to be only a portion of pure-blood families, while the vast majority of wizards will stand on the opposite side. Although most wizards will remain indifferent until the fire burns them, when pure-bloods rise to power and wizards are divided into different classes based on bloodline, when oppression truly descends, there will never be a shortage of people who will rise up in resistance. What's more, there is Dumbledore here."

"Dumbledore? He'll only build a pathetic little organization and let them jump around like clowns," Voldemort said coldly. "And those mediocre wizards? What good will their resistance do?"

"Dumbledore does have a strange kind of persistence, but I think when the situation develops to the point where he has to step forward, when he realizes that a real crisis is coming, he will no longer stay in one place but will take the lead and rally the wizards. Those scattered wizards will be united in an instant, and we will have no advantage at all," Owen shrugged.

"But he was so weak that he didn't dare to step forward, both during Grindelwald's time and later." Voldemort's expression was extremely sarcastic.

"That's different," Owen said mysteriously. "I have a rumor that Dumbledore isn't going after Grindelwald because they used to be very, very good friends..."

"..."

"..."

An awkward silence fell over the room. Owen coughed lightly and took a sip of his black tea. Steam rose from the cauldron on the table, obscuring Voldemort's face and expression. The two sat opposite each other, and the atmosphere surprisingly seemed somewhat harmonious.

"Okay, even if we manage to outlive Dumbledore, and the pure-bloods succeed in taking over, and we enslave the Muggles..." Owen continued, "the Muggles will still have access to firearms and other firearms, and wizards will emerge among them. Muggles who are unwilling to be enslaved will definitely rise up in resistance, and the biggest targets will naturally be the high and mighty wizards."

"At that time, there will be no shortage of ambushes and assassinations targeting wizards. Wizards' situation will not improve; on the contrary, they will be even more afraid to appear in front of Muggles. Unless we can kill all the Muggles, but there are so many Muggles, how long would it take? Moreover, too many wizards have close ties with Muggles and will only cause trouble..."

"As for the wizarding community, pure-blood wizards occupy high positions. Under oppression and exploitation, not only will there be rebels, but also some resentful extremists. They can't deal with you, Professor, but they are more than capable of assassinating pure-blood wizards and even their children. Pure-blood wizards will only face an extremely difficult situation, and in the end, they will either be extinct or compromise."

"And Professor, without a capable subordinate, you will be constantly harassed and targeted by wizards. After all, wizards are born with extraordinary talents and power, and there might be a group of them lying in wait every day, ready to cast a killing curse on you..."

Irving finished speaking in one breath, picked up his teacup and drank it all in one gulp, then let out a soft exhale and poured himself another cup of tea. What he said was somewhat exaggerated, but it was by no means alarmist.

Voldemort's expression remained unfathomable. He didn't care much about the lives of other wizards, but when it came to his own interests, he couldn't help but think carefully. Thinking about it this way, he realized that Owen's words could very well become reality. Although he was confident in his own strength, he didn't want to be targeted by a group of people who wanted to ambush him with the Killing Curse—although he could resurrect, the taste of death was unpleasant.

"So what's your solution?" he asked slowly, his expression becoming serious.

"This is too complicated. I'm just an eleven-year-old wizard. How could I possibly come up with a good solution?" Owen spread his hands innocently, thinking to himself, "I've finally fooled you."

Voldemort's slender fingers gently traced the surface of the table, his eyes almost narrowed to slits. The little fellow before him was intelligent, possessing a keen sense of the situation and extraordinary foresight—surpassing all his Death Eaters—making him somewhat reluctant to completely seize control.

"Then go back and think it over carefully, and hand in a paper before I lose my patience," he said calmly.

Irving's expression froze. This guy actually turned the tables on me? I was just being cheeky, and you're already showing no sportsmanship?

"Well then, let's begin today's lesson." Voldemort glanced at the somewhat dejected young wizard, his mood brightening. "You've already mastered the Explosion Charm, so let's talk about the Fiendfyre Charm, which represents ultimate destruction."

(End of this chapter)