Chapter 197: A Good Professor
“Did you hear that just now? This professor’s surname is Gaunt—is it the Gaunt I’m thinking of?”
Harry asked in a low voice. He had been dwelling on this matter and hadn’t listened to half the lesson.
Ron beside him thought he was overthinking it and muttered lowly, “It doesn’t matter what his surname is—not all Gaunts are connected to Slytherin. Though it might be possible; pure-blood families are all interrelated by marriage, so he might really be connected to Slytherin.”
“Hermione, what do you think?”
They were sitting in the middle rows of the classroom, and Hermione up front could join the discussion by turning slightly.
“…”
Hermione didn’t offer an opinion. She was buried in taking notes. This Professor Gaunt was extremely knowledgeable and liked to expand on extracurricular content with examples during lectures. Just talking about Hogwarts had led to thirteen similar magical creatures, and he had also mentioned potions with similar effects.
If Professor Levent hadn’t interrupted just now, he would have gone on to related dark magic.
This was no assistant teacher; he was simply the most learned Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor she had ever encountered.
“Ah, what did you say?”
After hurriedly noting down the method for dealing with fur monsters mentioned at the end, Hermione looked up. In her peripheral vision, she saw the silhouette of that Gaunt assistant teacher approaching, floating table by table past the discussing students, patiently answering their questions with a faint smile.
Before long, Professor Gaunt came to the trio: “This lesson was quite rushed. I only did a brief self-introduction and haven’t had a chance to get to know you. May I ask…”
“Hello, Professor. I’m Hermione Granger.”
Never heard of her. The surname was also very unfamiliar—probably half-blood or Muggle-born.
“Hello, Professor. Just call me Ron—Ron Weasley.”
Red-haired Weasley, the poorest pure-blood family.
“Harry, Harry Potter.”
Harry always felt like this professor was staring at him, making him somewhat uneasy.
“Oh, Mr. Potter.”
Riddle carefully scrutinized his face, especially the scar on his forehead. “It’s truly unbelievable. I’ve finally met you—such an honor. I’m indescribably pleased.”
Harry felt like he was about to pounce. He had experienced similar situations before, but for some reason, this assistant teacher’s enthusiasm made him feel awkward, like a very uncomfortable sensation.
Looking closely, there was nothing unusual, which reminded him of the earlier course content: walking alone on a dim path, feeling stalked by an unknown monster, that monster hiding in the shadows.
Professor Gaunt smiled mildly: “Mr. Potter, do you have any questions about Hogwarts?”
“N-no… none.”
“I thought so. Defence Against the Dark Arts—for you, who defeated the Dark Lord, it’s utterly trivial. I even think you don’t need to study it anymore, right, Mr. Potter?”
“Professor, I don’t know what misunderstanding you have about me, but I’m just an ordinary student. My grades are only average. Last year’s Defence Against the Dark Arts exam was unacceptable.”
“Unacceptable?” Riddle was stunned, his disguise nearly cracking, an incredulous expression in his eyes.
Just as he wanted to press further, the bell rang for the end of class.
…
Night fell, Muggle Studies Office.
Melvin sat behind the desk, head down with a quill in hand, making final revisions to his thesis. On the silver plate beside the desk lay a lazy young snake, bloated from eating, eyes dull, not wanting to move.
On the bookshelf was the golden goblet dripped with developing potion, its silhouette floating in midair, pacing back and forth.
“Harry Potter, no special talents except Quidditch—he’s just an ordinary student. His exam last year was unacceptable…” Riddle said in disbelief. “How could he defeat the Dark Lord!”
Since opening Slytherin’s Chamber and solving the mystery of his heritage, Tom Riddle had been the top student, with perfect scores in all subjects—not because his ability was perfect, but because perfect was the maximum.
When he graduated from Hogwarts with twelve certificates, his power already surpassed most adult wizards; many elective professors were no match for him.
The two years in Borgin and Burkes, living in Knockturn Alley and associating with many dark wizards—those dark wizards were also no match for him. In Riddle’s vision, after twenty years of such growth, he would become the true Dark Lord, leading Death Eaters to sweep through Britain, with the whole world having only Dumbledore as a worthy opponent.
The doubt went unanswered, turning into anger. Riddle’s roar carried a hint of frustrated rage:
“What exactly is so special about him!”
“You have plenty of time ahead. You can ask him yourself.”
Melvin didn’t look up. “But I must remind you, Dumbledore is still Hogwarts’s Headmaster. He’s in his office on the eighth floor of the castle. If you continue acting like a dark wizard today—openly teaching dark magic in class or other suspicious behavior—and someone notices your identity, our cooperation ends here.”
“…”
Riddle’s expression shifted uncertainly. He knew full well how troublesome that old man was. Back then, just framing Hagrid had made him guarded until graduation without letting up.
“I understand.” He agreed with a sullen face.
The office quieted. The window was open, and Riddle saw the goblet’s opening facing up, but he had no desire to return to it. A soul fragment didn’t need rest—who wouldn’t want more contact with the real world.
“What are you writing?” The ghostly silhouette floated to the front of the desk.
“Thesis, Muggle Studies thesis.” Melvin answered calmly, not looking up.
Riddle frowned slightly. He looked down on Muggle Studies and the wizards who taught it. But in this office, there were only two of them; the only snake was a dumb one that couldn’t speak Parseltongue. With nothing else to do, he simply floated in midair and read.
“Discipline, punishment, and husbandry… The birth of Azkaban…”
Riddle glanced at the thesis title, his brows furrowing tighter as he read on.
After waiting for Melvin to finish revising and set down his pen, he slowly landed nearby and gave his opinion: “The early discussion on prisoners being exploited is worthless. Those prisoners are all guilty wizards—whether tortured or raised like livestock, no one sympathizes with them.”
Melvin couldn’t be bothered to argue with him. What reason could he discuss with an antisocial extremist terrorist?
“The later discussion on Dementors is quite interesting.”
“Oh, you’ve studied Dementors too?”
“Of course. Though these creatures are filthy and lowly, once born they are immortal and indestructible by any magic. The Patronus Charm can only repel them. I’m very interested in that trait…”
Listening to Riddle expound, Melvin gradually set aside his work, listening attentively like a student.
As expected of the most powerful dark wizard in centuries—his research on this was profound. He would surely be an outstanding substitute Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor!
