Harry Potter: Is It Normal for a Hogwarts Professor to Be a Dark Lord?

Tver's face changed color. But by the time he reached for his wand, it was too late. Quirrell was too close to Harry—"Avada Kedavra!"—the green light reached Harry in an instant.

Facing the green flash, Harry was frozen in place, helplessly watching as the light shattered the first and second layers of the Shield Charm, then tinkled against the last layer of golden film before dissipating together.

(A small tip: Ordinary Shield Charms cannot block the three Unforgivable Curses; only the strongest can, so don't try to withstand the Killing Curse lightly~)

"Oh?" Quirrell then noticed the three badges Harry was wearing.

After such an attack, one badge had visibly dimmed, and the others were also dulled to various extents.

"Fawley is full of ingenious ideas, but a few badges won't save you!" Quirrell sneered at Harry, his wand continuously casting another Killing Curse.

Under the shadow of death, Harry trembled, trying twice before he could draw his wand, but he could only watch helplessly as his Shield Charm was shattered.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

"Eh?"

Quirrell curiously felt the pressure emanating from his body. It wasn't strong, but it was enough to slow his movements, even his wand waving was delayed.

"It seems Fawley has taught you quite a few tricks."

"He's a thousand times better than you!" Harry's spell suddenly flashed red, striking precisely at Quirrell's eyes.

It was effective; Quirrell's eyes were dazzled momentarily, and he immediately clutched his eyes, crying out in pain.

Unfortunately, it was just a flash of light.

"Confringo!"

The staircase beneath exploded, and Harry, who had planned to take the opportunity to escape, was violently thrown by the blast.

Dizzy and disoriented, Harry was thrown high into the air and it took him a while to regain his senses. "Why am I still floating in the air?" he wondered, looking at the ground several feet below.

Then he slowly drifted towards the doorway, where Professor Fawley stood with his wand in hand, smiling at him.

"You've done very well, leave the rest to me."

Harry's face lit up with joy, but before he could speak, he passed out, slowly drifting outward.

Meanwhile, Tver extracted the Philosopher's Stone from his pocket and placed it in his own.

Quirrell did not stop him but instead watched Tver with a leisurely smile, as if on a picnic, taking measured steps toward him.

"Why bother? We villains should have some standards," Tver said earnestly, "The stone was in his pocket, why not just take it?"

"Standards?" Quirrell scoffed. "My only standard is my master's command!"

Hearing this, Tver revealed a meaningful smile, leaving Quirrell puzzled.

"Master, huh? It's easily make one think you two have some bizarre relationship."

He frowned in thought for a moment but couldn't decipher Tver's meaning.

"Enough talk, hand over the stone, or you'll die in that kid's place!"

Tver's smile vanished instantly, and without any extra movement, he exerted immense pressure on Quirrell.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure!"

Unexpectedly, the response came not from Quirrell but from Voldemort at the back of his head!

"Mas—ah, ah ah ah—"

Quirrell hadn't finished speaking when his face seemed to meld into one, twisting in agony as he shrieked in pain, curling up on the ground. The sight sent shivers down Tver's spine.

Soon, Quirrell's cries stopped, and he stood up again. But at this time, he could no longer be called Quirrell.

Tver examined "Quirrell's" face, which seemed to have another face overlaid on top of the original, merged onto the same head.

"So, you've been draining Quirrell of his life force just to take over his body on this day?"

Quirrell, no, Voldemort now, grinned, his hands moving involuntarily as if getting accustomed to this new face and body.

"Quirrell was always meant to die; giving him a chance to sacrifice himself for me was fitting, wasn't it?" Voldemort spread his arms, his wand casually clutched in his right hand.

"The question is, what are you really after?" Tver tilted his head, observing Voldemort's current form, noting how uncoordinated it seemed, even the skin starting to peel.

"To kill me and take the Philosopher's Stone? But Quirrell's body won't last long, and when it collapses, you won't be able to take the stone with you."

"No, once I realized Dumbledore was constantly watching this place, I knew neither you nor Quirrell could take the stone," Voldemort said proudly.

Tver's expression grew solemn. His plan had always feared Dumbledore the most.

"I think you're unaware of what Dumbledore has released here," Voldemort pointed to the surrounding torches, "He doesn't need to set up detection magic; simply by utilizing the torches that light up upon detecting people, he can monitor this room."

Tver had an epiphany and couldn't help but smile wryly. Truly Dumbledore, always able to utilize unnoticed elements to incredible effect. In a way, he had achieved a return to simplicity.

"Why aren't you running already, waiting here to be caught by Dumbledore?"

Voldemort shrugged mischievously, pulling a face—well, merely a smile, but for him, that was as good as a ghastly grimace.

"I can't die anyway, it's you who should be worried, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've done all this for you, Tver Fawley!" He stepped up to Tver, sizing him up with an appreciative gaze. "I've never seen a young wizard with as much talent as you. Join me, and with your help, not only could I resurrect with ease, but we could also eliminate all the dissenters and forge an era of our own!"

His excitement grew as he spoke, but no color came to his pale face, making him look eerily unsettling.

Tver's heart remained still, and he even felt like laughing.

"But now you're wasting so much of my time. What if we run into Dumbledore later? How am I supposed to escape?"

"With so many students around the school, we can always grab one or two. Then, escaping will be as easy as we like," Voldemort said nonchalantly.

Tver sighed in disappointment. "Hasn't all your years of wandering taught you to refine your methods a bit?"

Voldemort blinked blankly for a moment, "Why do we need such sophisticated methods?"

"See, this is the difference between you and me. I've never stooped to such base tactics because I am far smarter than you," Tver said, feigning disappointment as he shook his head.

Feeling the sting of the sarcasm, Voldemort's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then let this lowly man teach you a lesson!"

"Really? If you can't have it, destroy it?" Tver mocked.

"That's the plan," Voldemort stepped back to ready his magic. "If you won't join, then I'll just waste time and let Dumbledore handle you. Would you say that's a sophisticated method?"

After saying this, he gave a ceremonious bow.

Tver watched him amusingly and returned the bow impeccably, adding, "But how long can you really delay me?"

Before Voldemort could stabilize, he launched a deadly curse that Tver easily dodged. In response, Tver sent three consecutive killing curses!

At the same time, the flagstones at Voldemort's feet seemed to melt, instantly turning into a swamp.

Caught off guard, Voldemort's feet sank into the ground, but with a wave of his wand, three black snakes sprang forth, blocking the curses. He continued to wave his wand, and a mud-made serpent's head emerged from the swamp to lift him up. But in the next second, Tver shattered the serpent's head, splashing Voldemort with mud.

"I'm sorry for the mess~"

Voldemort sneered, eyeing the mud stains on his body. Though it wasn't his own flesh, the ever-proud Dark Lord was unaccustomed to such indignity.

"I was merely trying to buy some time, and yet you—"

"Snap."

He lifted his wand, deflecting Tver's curse effortlessly.

"Even my students know better than to chatter during a duel. Didn't your teacher ever teach you that?"

Despite speaking, Tver did not cease his assault, continuously casting spells at Voldemort.

"You bastard!"

In retaliation, Voldemort cast a deadly curse, his face flushing with a rare hint of color, making him appear even more sinister.

Tver parried with ease, "Be more graceful, Tom. This is a rare duel, one that could offer you much insight."

"How dare you?!"

For the first time, Voldemort felt such intense hatred not just for the spells hurtling towards him but for the mouth from which they came.

"During a battle, do not let your emotions get the better of you. Staying calm is your greatest weapon," Tver chided as if giving a private lesson.

"Go to hell, bastard!"

Voldemort discarded any thoughts of delay, gathering all his dwindling life force and magical power. With a wave of his wand, the walls shattered, sending debris swirling around the room.

Instantly, a tornado of dirt formed, surging towards Tver with a roaring momentum.

"Boom—"

The earthen tornado crashed into Tver's position, the dust spreading out but also obscuring Voldemort's view of the aftermath.

After a moment, the smoke seemed to be sucked into a giant vacuum cleaner.

"Just a reminder—size doesn't equate to strength; it often leads to a dispersion of magical energy, which is inefficient in a one-on-one fight," Tver's voice followed by his silhouette appeared, his wand directed at the overhead tornado. "And stop using magic that pollutes the environment. Look, the PM2.5 levels here are off the charts!"

As he spoke, the tornado drifted towards Voldemort like an autumn breeze. But the scope of the wind was too vast, and in a place where the apparition was impossible, Voldemort could only watch helplessly as the tornado engulfed him.

The dust tore at his skin like blades, slicing his body into fragments.

What was worse, even though it wasn't his own body, Voldemort could still feel the soul-deep agony.

Torn asunder, he fled from Quirrell's shattered form in a wisp of black smoke, heading for the exit.

Behind him, Tver's last words echoed—"Remember, Tom, just because a soul doesn't die, doesn't mean it can't feel pain. On the contrary, being in a soul state might subject you to even more unbearable agony."

Watching Voldemort flee, Tver shook his head ruefully, unsure if his student had taken the lesson to heart.

Yet, having been a teacher for only half a year, he was already accustomed to the role of instructor.

He glanced nonchalantly at what was left of Quirrell, unable to tell whether it was ashes or just dust.

Indeed, he was nothing if not dedicated.