Quirrell's mind, already warped from hosting Voldemort's soul, was on the verge of collapse. Letting him teach was a major risk—it could easily expose them both.
But Voldemort had gone to great lengths to remain at Hogwarts.
Even though he was just giving lectures without using any magic, for a fragmented soul that struggled just to speak, even this was a significant burden.
Most of the time, Voldemort stayed dormant, conserving every bit of energy.
Fortunately, Quirrell's private stash had been fully emptied, exchanged for rare ingredients, plus the Phoenix Tears gifted by Dumbledore.
That had restored some of Voldemort's strength—enough to get him through this phase.
"Defense," Quirrell said, "is the foundation of everything."
Quirrell—or more accurately, Voldemort—was the very model of someone who took pride in his work. Since he was the one giving the lesson, he refused to do it half-heartedly.
Letting word get out that the Dark Lord himself gave a boring lecture? Unthinkable.
So while staying within the limits of Quirrell's character, Voldemort was pulling out real material.
"Survival is the first priority when facing danger. Defense isn't just about using spells to block attacks."
"Dodging—even fleeing—is a part of defense."
"Mr. Lawrence…" Quirrell suddenly called out, turning to Wayne. "If a Dark wizard blocked your path, what would be the correct response?"
Wayne stood up calmly.
"Analyze their intent. Compare our power levels. If I have no choice but to fight—then I fight with everything I've got."
A flicker of admiration passed through Voldemort's eyes.
He did hate Wayne. After all, it was Wayne who'd forced him into this situation, driven him to take such dangerous risks, to step out from the shadows.
But Voldemort wasn't so petty as to deny someone's talent out of personal spite.
Only by recognizing the strength of an opponent can defeating them truly mean something.
That's how Voldemort always operated.
He never shied away from acknowledging Harry Potter's uniqueness. He even called him The Boy Who Lived—all to prove that he, the Dark Lord, could break fate itself and defeat the so-called Chosen One.
(Of course, he failed.)
He still didn't fully understand Wayne's capabilities, so to Voldemort, Wayne wasn't yet worthy of being called an enemy—but that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate what he saw.
Intellect. Talent. Strategy. Charisma.
All top-tier.
Reminded him a bit of himself in his youth.
"Very well said, Mr. Lawrence," Quirrell nodded and let him sit. "Before entering a duel, always be clear about why you fight…"
"Is it to survive? To defeat your foe? Or perhaps..."
Voldemort's lips curled in the barest hint of a smile—but he quickly concealed it and didn't elaborate.
Wayne looked around at the first-years, completely enthralled by Voldemort's lecture. It was a strange feeling.
What were they now?
Voldemort's direct disciples? Azkaban interns in training?
Still, credit where credit was due: Dumbledore really had poor judgment.
How had a teacher this capable been rejected from the Defense Against the Dark Arts post?
Voldemort hadn't even taught any spells, yet what he conveyed was far more valuable than memorizing incantations.
He was instilling in them a foundational understanding of the theory behind both defending against and casting Dark magic.
You build a towering fortress from the ground up—and a strong mindset and clarity of purpose made every other skill twice as effective.
Just like what Wayne had taught Hermione: focused intent, clear goals—that alone could vastly improve your spellcasting success rate.
Honestly, this was... amazing.
Even he was getting absorbed. No wonder Voldemort had once attracted so many followers.
"A clear understanding of defense, paired with the inevitability of battle, means you must seize the initiative and suppress your opponent."
"With control of the battle, you can advance or retreat. Advance to subdue the enemy. Retreat to protect yourself."
"To suppress the enemy, you need more than just powerful magic. Your intelligence and experience are part of your arsenal too."
"A single glance, a minor movement—these can reveal your opponent's intentions and the spell they're about to cast…"
"…"
The bell rang at last, cutting the lesson short.
Voldemort calmly sipped water and assigned homework.
"Two feet of parchment: How to Remain Calm in Combat and Analyze Opponents' Intentions Through Movement."
"Class dismissed."
The little wizards woke from their trance, and thunderous applause erupted from beneath the podium.
Their excited cheers were loud enough to shake the ceiling—audible even from classrooms far away.
"That was incredible!"
"Professor, was this your real teaching level?!"
They were beyond thrilled. Not a single spell had been cast, but what they'd learned was more valuable than any incantation.
The only thing dampening their joy?
Two feet of parchment.
Were they trying to kill them?
That was 60 centimeters, for Merlin's sake!
Even as they reluctantly filed out of the classroom, many were already looking forward to the next Defense lesson.
"Mr. Lawrence, if you would stay a moment."
Wayne had been walking with the others—until he was suddenly called back.
The young Badgers thought that Professor Quirrell was coming after Wayne because of the earlier complaint and instinctively surrounded him in protection.
The lesson had been well-taught, but Badgers would never abandon a friend.
"Don't misunderstand," Quirrell also guessed what they were thinking. "I just want to have a chat with Lawrence."
Wayne also tried to reassure them: "It's fine. Professor Quirrell wouldn't do anything to me."
He said that, but within the wide sleeves of his robe, his wand was already firmly in hand. Dynamic Perception had quietly been activated.
If Voldemort dared to make a move, he'd be able to react in an instant.
He would treat an injured old Voldemort with caution, but never with fear.
Hearing Wayne say that, the others had no choice but to leave.
Soon, only Wayne and Quirrell remained in the classroom.
"Lawrence, even though I didn't teach any actual spells today, this lesson could barely be considered passable," Quirrell said in an unusually gentle tone. "I wonder if you could spare some phoenix tears. The curse I've been suffering from still hasn't fully healed."
"Professor, how about this—after you teach us a spell next lesson, I'll give them to you?" Wayne said with a smile.
You brat!
One day I'll get rid of you!
Voldemort cursed inwardly, but maintained a calm expression and pulled out a slip of parchment.
"This is a spell I discovered while exploring some ruins. It's quite powerful, and even I haven't fully mastered it. Do you think it's enough?"
Wayne took it and read it over.
[Lightning Net]
Using lightning as thread, it weaves a net. Not only can it effectively restrain enemies, but contact with it also causes significant damage.
Talk about perfect timing.
Just last night, he'd drawn the Decree of the Thunder Lord—and now Voldemort was handing him a lightning-type spell.
Wayne cheerfully tucked the spell away.
"Thank you, Professor."
He wouldn't recklessly start learning it just yet—first, he'd ask Dumbledore to inspect it.
At first glance, the spell seemed fine, but who could tell what kind of traps Voldemort might have hidden inside?
His power wasn't what it used to be, but when it came to magical knowledge, Voldemort was still leagues ahead.
Since he'd gotten something valuable, Wayne was generous enough to hand over the tears.
Quirrell snatched them quickly, afraid Wayne might change his mind—but soon, his face darkened.
"These aren't your phoenix's tears?"
"Nope," Wayne replied happily. "My Ho-Oh has conjunctivitis lately. It can't shed tears right now."
"These are Fawkes' tears. Still phoenix tears, right? Shouldn't be much of a difference."
Wayne had never planned on giving Voldemort his Ho-Oh's tears.
Recently, Fawkes had become Ho-Oh's little sidekick, so getting some tears from him was no trouble at all.
Conjunctivitis, seriously?
Why not just say your phoenix is suffering from heatstroke while you're at it?
Voldemort clenched his teeth. He was tempted to pull out his wand and blast Wayne right in the face.
"Professor," Wayne observed him carefully, "You don't look too happy. Not satisfied?"
"Shall I take the tears back and get you some once Ho-Oh recovers?"
"N–No need." Voldemort took a deep breath. If he gave them back now, who knew how long Wayne would drag it out?
By then, he might not even be able to get Fawkes' tears.
"I'll just use these for now. If your phoenix recovers, we can make another trade. I've got other advanced spells too."
Voldemort could only keep up the tempting offers, and Wayne nodded.
Not in a hurry to leave, he asked a few more questions.
With Voldemort right here—when else would he get the chance to milk him for knowledge?
~~----------------------
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