Chapter 141: Professor Quirrell, who is plagued by negative criticism
With the Weasley twins' guidance (and Dumbledore's bemused approval), Anthony occasionally heard hissing sounds echoing under the vaulted ceiling of certain corridors. It wasn't just the students close to the Weasley brothers who were joking about it—Anthony even noticed that a few younger Slytherins were seriously trying to speak Parseltongue, as if doing so would strengthen their connection to their house.
But as Tracy had mentioned, some students refused to believe it was real Parseltongue.
"Stop biting your tongue, you idiot!" Anthony overheard Draco Malfoy's frustrated voice as he sat down at an empty table near the library archives. "Do you think Potter's going to be Slytherin's heir? No? Then why are you making that ridiculous sound?"
Anthony couldn't make out the reply, but Malfoy's tone grew slightly more satisfied. "Fine, since you remember that much... Now go find it. I'm not buying this—"
"But we don't even know what we're looking for," a second voice said. "We've searched the library. We're not going to find anything saying it's normal to throw snakes at your opponents, are we?"
"Don't talk like that, Zabini!" Malfoy retorted, trying to sound authoritative despite his age. "Ravenclaw found at least six pieces of evidence before they convinced Madam Hooch to declare their victory. So, there must be examples in the records somewhere! We just have to find them..." His voice faltered for a moment before he asked, "By the way, where's Pansy?"
Zabini sighed impatiently. "She's convinced she's going to get expelled any minute, or that someone's out to get revenge on her. So, she's hiding in the girls' dormitory and won't come out."
Malfoy snorted. "Coward."
Their conversation was loud enough that Mrs. Pince's sharp, vulture-like face soon appeared at the door.
"Say one more word..." she hissed through gritted teeth, "and you're all out of here. I don't care who authorized you."
The archives fell silent. Mrs. Pince cast a stern, suspicious glance around the room. "What's that?" she asked suddenly.
"Uh... bread," came the awkward reply.
"Bread!" Her voice rose as if the word itself were an insult. "Get out! Now!"
"But—"
"Out!" she snapped, waving her feather duster at the offenders. The next second, a group of students, hands over their heads, ran out of the archives, chased by a stream of quills, ink bottles, and parchment. The last item to fly out was a bag of squashed bread, which soared through the air and hit the slowest student on the head.
Mrs. Pince, still fuming, took a moment to compose herself before she noticed Anthony sitting nearby. "Professor Anthony, I haven't seen you in a while."
"Mrs. Pince," Anthony greeted her with a quick nod. "I think I've been spending too much time in my office recently..."
"Ah, practical activities, right?" she said with a hint of disapproval. "I've heard about that."
From her expression, Anthony suspected she hadn't heard about his work from anyone particularly fond of the library's rules. He couldn't help but wonder what his students had gotten into this time.
But before he could ask, Mrs. Pince was already launching into complaints about the Slytherin students.
"It may be hard for you to imagine, Professor Anthony, but Professor Snape authorized all of them to access the archives," Mrs. Pince said, clearly displeased. "I just wish the professors would be more cautious when issuing these authorizations, especially when they result in chaos in public spaces! Not every student should be allowed into the more... delicate sections of the library!"
She shot a sharp glance around the library, her gaze landing on a student staring blankly into space, his quill hovering over a piece of parchment. Once she realized he was merely daydreaming rather than causing trouble, she returned to the matter at hand: "Bread!"
"I understand—eating isn't allowed in the library," Anthony said, trying to placate her.
Mrs. Pince huffed, glaring at him for a moment, but then her expression softened slightly, probably recalling that Anthony had never signed off on any reckless requests for restricted section books.
"I'm not talking about you, Professor Anthony. You've always been careful. Neither you nor Professor Trelawney have sent questionable students into the restricted section—and, of course, Professor McGonagall is very cautious now. Let me think... it's been quite a while since Professor Binns signed an authorization."
Anthony suppressed a smile, imagining how a ghost like Professor Binns would even hold a pen. He asked, "What about Professor Quirrell?"
Mrs. Pince seemed momentarily startled, as if she had almost forgotten about him. She nodded after a pause. "Yes, there's Professor Quirrell. But he doesn't come to the library much. In fact, I haven't seen him here for quite some time."
Anthony could imagine why.
Outside of his classes, Professor Quirrell was rarely seen during the day, often hiding away in his office. Professor Sprout had confided to Anthony that she believed Quirrell was even a bit afraid of his own students.
In truth, after Snape took over some of Quirrell's lessons, the students' respect for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had quickly dwindled. His classes, which had started off poorly, only seemed to get worse with time, and whatever respect he had once commanded evaporated quickly.
As the weather warmed, the ever-present smell of garlic in Quirrell's classroom became even more unbearable. One day, during a particularly warm afternoon, a student couldn't take it any longer, ran out of the classroom, and vomited in the corridor. That same day, Anthony heard that Professor Flitwick had abandoned his planned lesson on the Cheering Charm and instead taught the class a household spell to freshen the air. The students had never been more attentive, as though preparing for careers in domestic service.
"Severus should have taught that spell," Flitwick remarked afterward. "Potions apprentices must use it regularly, don't they? I would have thought they'd learned it already."
Snape, sitting nearby with a smug sneer, sipped his tea as Professor Sprout described the ongoing chaos in Quirrell's classes. When Flitwick mentioned the air freshening charm, Snape said, "A potioneer must appreciate the delicate subtleties of the potions they brew. If anyone causes their cauldron to emit a foul odor, they'd better remember what they did wrong. However, no one has complained about the air quality in the Potions classroom. If Quirrell is struggling with ventilation, he's welcome to hold his lessons in the dungeons."
Professor Sprout said with some reproach, "Poor Quirinus is unlucky enough as it is."
"What's the matter, Pomona?" Snape replied diplomatically. "I thought I was trying to help him."
…
In addition to the overpowering smell of garlic, students were increasingly complaining about Professor Quirrell's worsening stutter.
Anthony was deep in his lesson planning, pondering how Professor Burbage had managed to oversee O.W.L. exams for so many years and whether he should arrange a review class before the end of the semester, much like universities did. Before he realized it, he had missed lunchtime. When he finally completed the first draft of the third-year final exam, the library had begun to fill up with students.
A group of students settled behind him, and one of them began recounting how Peeves had been wreaking havoc, ripping up a melancholic Bloody Baron's papers while singing loudly. The student also complained about how irrelevant Professor Quirrell's assignments were, saying that taking notes in his class was pointless.
"Are you still paying attention in that class?" a friend asked, surprised. "I can barely understand what he's saying anymore."
"It's not that hard to follow," the first student said sharply. "Aside from the 'obstacles and barriers' curse last week and the 'stunning' spell, the rest of it's been pretty normal."
His friend sighed. "Our Defense Against the Dark Arts classes are getting ridiculous. The last professor was basically another Binns, and now we've got a stuttering vampire."
"I know, right? I just want to get through O.W.L.s without needing to translate spells because of our professor's speech issues. Is that too much to ask?"
"Snape," the friend said bitterly, "doesn't have a speech impediment."
"I mean, someone normal."
"Hey, that's a bit harsh," the friend said, slightly more serious. "You've got some unrealistic expectations for a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
The first student burst into laughter, which quickly turned into a coughing fit, attracting Mrs. Pince's disapproving gaze. Silence followed.
After a moment, Anthony heard one of them whisper, "Was it really that funny?"
"No, I was thinking about something else," the student replied. "You know what? Quirrell might be a Parselmouth. Especially if Snape's involved."
"Why do you think that?"
The student stammered mockingly, "Hisssss... 'It's sssso good to ssssee you, Professor Ssssnape.'"
Both students began giggling, the sound of hissing filling the air like two deflated balloons. Anthony sighed to himself, turning his back to them.
Even with sympathy, it was hard to view Professor Quirrell as competent. His standing among the students was rapidly deteriorating, and Anthony was beginning to worry that Quirrell might end up being the first professor Dumbledore would have to dismiss. Perhaps Quirrell would have been better suited for Muggle Studies, but the pressure of teaching a core subject like Defense Against the Dark Arts seemed to be overwhelming him.
Staring at the first draft of his exam, Anthony thought that perhaps he should keep a closer eye on Professor Quirrell.
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