Dumbledore's Final Probe

"Each class will be taught jointly by two houses. This is to encourage interaction between students of different houses, so..."

Dumbledore didn't finish. He picked up a Toffee Finger Biscuit and began to eat it.

Clearly, he wanted Quirrell to come up with the solution himself.

"Set up a combat training ground," Quirrell said. "It must be a team composed of students from all four houses. This will solve the interaction problem."

"That's one method, but where will the combat training ground be set up?" Dumbledore asked, taking a sip of honeyed mead.

"The Forbidden Forest. If you allow me to do so, I'll need Hagrid as an assistant professor. He can help me find enough magical creatures."

"It seems you've thought this through very thoroughly," Dumbledore said, putting down the biscuit and frowning in thought.

Quirrell waited quietly. He knew Dumbledore needed time to think. The new teaching methods for Defense Against the Dark Arts were too drastic, and the Headmaster would certainly need to make a cautious decision.

"Agree to it," a woman's voice suddenly said, startling both of them as they turned to look.

It was the portrait of Headmistress Dilys Derwent, a former Headmistress of Hogwarts in the mid-eighteenth century, renowned in Hogwarts and the wizarding world.

"Oh, Dilys," Dumbledore said to her. "Tell us your thoughts. You haven't offered an opinion in a long time."

"My portrait hangs in St. Mungo's, and I've seen too many incompetent wizards. In two centuries, the practical abilities of wizards have declined too much," she said, rolling her eyes. "Wizards of the past feared being surrounded by dozens of people, but now... they can be killed by Floo Powder. Foolish wizards, it's time they grew up."

"Dilys, fighting Muggles is different from using fake Floo Powder," a voice interjected from a portrait not far from Dilys. Quirrell recognized it as Headmaster Black, another famous former Headmaster.

"I know, but I can't stand their stupidity. A little risk helps them understand the world," Dilys retorted unhappily.

"Alright," Dumbledore said, causing Headmaster Black to swallow his retort. "I accept your opinion, but..."

He looked at Quirrell, who met his gaze with anticipation and curiosity.

"How will you solve the class schedule problem?" Dumbledore asked. "If each house in each year needs separate instruction, I imagine you'll be stretched too thin."

"Perhaps I can use a Time-Turner," Quirrell said.

As a top Ravenclaw student, he had used one for a year in his third year, but he had given up that privilege afterward. It gave him a sense of temporal disorientation, but this time it was Voldemort's request.

"No."

Dumbledore refused without hesitation. "The magic of adults will cause problems with it, and double the class time will exhaust you to death on the podium—the curse might also multiply."

Quirrell shivered. After drinking a cup of honeyed mead, he spoke again, "Then let's merge two adjacent years of the same house. We'll cover two topics in one class, and with the help of seventh-year prefects, I don't think it will be a big problem."

Dumbledore took off his half-moon spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his right thumb and forefinger. He looked somewhat helpless, closing his eyes and thinking about something.

Quirrell waited quietly. He knew his requests were a bit excessive, but... these were the Dark Lord's ideas.

More than forty years ago, the Dark Lord had wanted to become the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. He had even placed a curse on the position because he couldn't get it.

Now, he had finally achieved his wish, and these ideas...

Quirrell had to believe that these were the teaching concepts the Dark Lord had longed for and summarized over forty years. In that light, their complexity and drastic changes were not so unreasonable.

In fact, these were indeed some of the ideas from the Dark Lord's fragmented soul, but the merged soul had made significant changes. He firmly believed that establishing a combat training ground where students would fight each other to the point of one fainting was not advisable.

"So, if I understand correctly."

Finally, Dumbledore spoke. "You need to establish a combat training ground in the Forbidden Forest, reorganize the entire curriculum, and... require several assistants, including Hagrid?"

Quirrell blinked. He suddenly felt that his requests were indeed a bit excessive.

"Ahem... I think... that's about right," he said, forcing himself to answer.

"I think you've caused Professor McGonagall a lot of trouble."

As Dumbledore spoke, he waved his wand, and a silver phoenix shot out from the Elder Wand. It circled once and then flew out the door—it was likely delivering a message to Professor McGonagall.

"If Professor McGonagall can adjust the class schedule to what you need, I support your adjustments to Defense Against the Dark Arts," Dumbledore said, moving aside the blood donation brochure and taking out a blank sheet of paper. "But if the schedule doesn't allow it, can you maintain the original teaching method for your Defense Against the Dark Arts position?"

As he spoke, he picked up a pen and dipped it generously in ink.

"Of course," Quirrell said confidently. "Ravenclaw's wisdom means I usually have a backup plan."

"Then, please wait a moment. Allow me to write out the appointment letter," Dumbledore said, beginning to write Quirrell's appointment letter on the spot.

This seemed a bit formalistic, but surely this great white wizard wouldn't do anything useless. Hogwarts was a mysterious place; perhaps this was a necessary process.

Quirrell suppressed his inner joy, trying his best to appear calm, but his gaze couldn't help but drift to Dumbledore's beautiful calligraphy. Then...

He saw something extraordinary.

Just in front of the appointment letter—where it had been covered by the blood donation brochure—was a short letter. It read:

Dear Dumbledore, I will temporarily store the Philosopher's Stone in Gringotts' vault 713 on the morning of July 31st. I hope you can retrieve it before nightfall, as the goblins are coveting it.

Your friend, Nicolas Flamel.

A brief letter, yet it contained content that would drive any wizard mad.

In an instant, what rose in Quirrell's heart wasn't greed, but fear—he was one hundred percent certain that Dumbledore had let him see it on purpose, because his master had suspected the Philosopher's Stone was a fraud.

"Good heavens, Headmaster, is that really the Philosopher's Stone?" he blurted out without hesitation, which surprised Dumbledore into looking at him.

"Oh, it's still here, I should put it away."

Dumbledore said, tucking the letter into his robes, but it was clearly too late, wasn't it?

"I mean..." Quirrell's face was still full of surprise, "This is incredible. I never imagined I'd be this close to it."

"You are very far from it, child." Dumbledore chuckled at him.

"Alright, Headmaster, you are right."

Quirrell slumped into the chair like a deflated balloon, as if what Dumbledore had just put away wasn't a letter, but the Philosopher's Stone he was about to obtain.

If Voldemort were awake, he would definitely use a Chinese word to describe Quirrell's feeling at this moment, that word would be...

Cùo yì (a mistake worth billions).