Chapter 114 – A Disappointing Defense Against the Dark Arts Class
"It just won't turn into what I want," Wednesday said, sounding uncharacteristically frustrated.
Russell suddenly remembered how the Room of Requirement actually worked.
It didn't respond to casual imagination, nor did it allow complete, fine-grained customization. Instead, it sensed the user's strongest need and manifested a space that fulfilled that need.
You couldn't simply design a room.
You had to want something intensely—a place to hide, a space to practice magic, a room to store forbidden objects. The Room would then reshape itself accordingly, adjusting its layout and functions on its own.
"But I did find this," Wednesday said, lifting something up with a faintly triumphant air.
It was a corroded, ancient-looking diadem, its surface mottled with rust and age.
"Oh no—put that down. Now."
Russell's expression changed instantly. His voice was sharp, urgent.
Sensing the seriousness of his reaction, Wednesday didn't hesitate. She dropped the diadem to the floor at once.
"Are you alright?" Russell rushed forward, grabbing her hand and inspecting her carefully.
She looked normal. Completely fine.
Still uneasy, he asked in a low voice,
"When you were holding it… did you hear anything strange?"
"Yes," Wednesday replied calmly.
"A voice told me to put it on my head."
Russell's heart sank.
"What is that thing?" she asked.
"That," Russell said, staring warily at the diadem,
"is Ravenclaw's diadem. Legend says that whoever wears it gains the wisdom of Ravenclaw herself. But now… it's been corrupted."
He had tried to locate the diadem before. More than once.
Yet every time he searched for it, it was as if the thing were deliberately avoiding him—never appearing, never revealing itself. Eventually, he'd given up.
And now, somehow, Wednesday had found it.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
For a brief moment, Russell considered turning it over to Dumbledore.
Then he dismissed the idea.
If Dumbledore took it, he would almost certainly destroy it outright. It was the simplest, safest solution.
And even if Dumbledore somehow purified it and restored it to its original state, there was no chance it would end up in Russell's hands afterward.
But Russell didn't want that.
This was Ravenclaw's legacy.
If anyone had the right to reclaim it, it was him—a Ravenclaw through and through.
No.
He would find a way.
A way to remove Voldemort's soul fragment from the diadem himself.
And when he did, the wisdom of Ravenclaw would return—untainted, and finally home.
He even began to suspect that Voldemort's success in creating seven Horcruxes owed a great deal to the intelligence granted by the diadem itself.
As for how to remove the soul fragment—
Well, that was something best left to his ever-miraculous teacher- Morgan.
---
"Horcruxes?" Morgan's voice sounded surprised, laced with unmistakable disdain.
"In your era, such things still exist?"
"They do," Russell replied. "Why—are Horcruxes a problem?"
By all logic, as long as a Horcrux endured, its creator could not truly die. It was no different from a lich's phylactery.
"Not just a problem," Morgan said gravely. "A very serious one. And let me be clear—never, under any circumstances, attempt to create one out of curiosity."
"Of course," Russell said quickly. "I know my limits."
If Morgan reacted like this, only a fool would experiment further.
"Do you know where Horcruxes came from?" she asked.
"Let me think… the ancient Greek Dark wizard, Herpo the Foul, invented the method."
"No," Morgan corrected. "He didn't invent it. He was merely the first to successfully create one."
She continued, her tone darkening.
"And he regretted it soon after. The side effects of splitting the soul were unbearable. His mind hovered on the brink of collapse. In the end, he tried to destroy the Horcrux and reunite his soul."
"Did he succeed?"
"No. He failed. Herpo the Foul became lost in the Sea of Souls. Even in my time, there were rumors of people glimpsing him."
"How many Horcruxes did he make?"
Morgan stared at him.
"What kind of question is that? One. Even a single split inflicts agony most people could never endure."
Russell suddenly understood.
No wonder Voldemort had gone mad. Splitting his soul six times—anyone would lose their sanity.
"What if I told you," Russell said carefully, "that in my era, a Dark wizard made six Horcruxes?" (splitting his soul six times to get seven pieces total—the most magically powerful number)
"What?!" Morgan was stunned. "What became of him?"
"He was struck by his own Killing Curse, reflected by a mother's desperate love while she protected her child. He's been gone for ten years."
Morgan let out a soft, mocking laugh.
"How ironic."
"So, Teacher," Russell asked, getting to the point, "is there a way to remove the soul from a Horcrux?"
Morgan paused, then said knowingly,
"So this madman turned a priceless artifact into a Horcrux?"
"As expected of you," Russell replied smoothly.
"Flattery won't help," Morgan said—though she sounded pleased.
"I don't know how."
"…After all that, you don't know?" Russell laughed despite himself.
"Calm down," Morgan continued. "Separating a soul fragment would certainly require alchemy. Unfortunately, I know nothing about it."
"However, I once commanded an entire alchemical cabal. If you could still contact them, they might manage it."
"Alchemy…" Russell murmured.
His desire to apprentice under Nicolas Flamel intensified.
An alchemist capable of creating the Philosopher's Stone could surely purify a Horcrux.
"By the way, Teacher," Russell added, "do you know any spells specifically designed to break shields?"
---
The next morning, while eating breakfast, Russell overheard Harry and Ron talking about Professor Quirrell as they passed by.
Curious, he called out to them.
"Harry, Ron—mind telling me about Professor Quirrell?"
They exchanged glances and nodded.
From them, Russell learned Quirrell's many shortcomings—none flattering.
His overpowering stench.
His stammering speech.
His strange accent.
And, most memorably, the incident where he vomited blood all over Malfoy.
They described that part with great enthusiasm.
Their exact words were: "That was the first time we thought Professor Quirrell wasn't so bad."
Russell, meanwhile, was quietly wondering whether Quirrell carried something contagious—and why Dumbledore hadn't insisted on a medical examination before hiring him.
With these impressions in mind, Russell finally attended his first second-year Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
The moment Quirrell entered, a horrifying odor filled the room.
Not just garlic—but the unmistakable stench of decay.
Human filth, made manifest.
"G-g-good morning, g-gentlemen… and l-ladies," Quirrell said, forcing a smile as he shakily opened his textbook.
"I am… P-Professor Quirrell… and I'm v-very pleased to teach you D-Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Russell couldn't take it anymore.
He subtly raised his wand beneath the desk.
"Scourgify."
Instant relief. The air around him cleared, and he took several deep breaths.
Seconds later—the smell returned.
He cast the spell again.
Students nearby noticed the fresh air and crowded toward him.
The stench came back even faster this time.
That was it.
This wasn't a classroom anymore—it was a biological weapon test site.
If magic didn't work, then he'd use a Muggle solution.
"F-F-Fythorne, Mr. Fythorne!" Quirrell stared in shock as Russell pulled a strange object from beneath his desk.
It was a gas mask, complete with transparent goggles and a filter canister.
A Soviet model, no less. Hot and uncomfortable—but infinitely better than inhaling that.
"Sorry, Professor," Russell said, his voice muffled.
"I've caught a cold. To avoid infecting my classmates, this seemed appropriate."
"You think I don't know what that is?!" Quirrell trembled.
"That's a Muggle device—a gas mask! What are you implying?!"
"Well," Russell replied calmly, "it does prevent harmful substances from spreading."
"I have a cold too, Professor," Cho said smoothly, frowning.
"Russell, do you have another?"
"Of course."
He handed her one.
"Any more?" Marietta asked.
"I'll pay," said a Slytherin student—Cassius Nott.
Russell's supply was limited, but with Transfiguration he quickly improvised simpler versions.
Soon, the entire classroom was coughing and strapping on masks.
Anyone passing by might've thought a tuberculosis ward had broken loose.
Blood seeped from the corner of Quirrell's mouth as he hastily explained:
"The smell… is b-because I angered some v-vampires in Romania. I carry garlic to p-prevent retaliation!"
"Then why hide it in your turban?" someone muttered.
"Do vampires bite the back of the head now?"
The room erupted in laughter.
"D-Don't… laugh!" Quirrell slammed the desk—hurting himself more than anything.
That only made it worse.
"This turban was a g-gift from the L-Labralaka Prince of the African… M-Mauritius Kingdom… for helping him defeat r-r-revenants."
"Professor," a Muggle-born student chimed in, "Mauritius is a republic. No prince. Also—did you fight revenants with garlic too?"
Quirrell's face flushed crimson.
He quickly began rambling about British weather, desperately changing the subject.
The rest of the lesson was painfully dull—just reading from the textbook.
Compared to Corvey, it was utterly disappointing.