A ruined Hogwarts

It's a new week, and the atmosphere in Hogwarts is still peaceful.

The ghosts were busy preparing for the weekend ghost event. After receiving Owen's affirmative answer, almost every ghost had a joyful smile on his face, and their silver-white figures could be seen flying around in the castle corridors.

Professor Quirrell is having a hard time, because these days he is always unlucky enough to be affected by inexplicable things. Every time he walks out of the office, it feels like he is about to experience a thrilling duel, as if he is being paid special attention to by the goddess of misfortune. of.

On the first day of the week, he was hit in the back of the head by a dung egg dropped from above on the stairs. It turned out that Peeves was playing tricks on two little wizards at the top of the stairs. He accidentally dropped the dung egg on his head, and then the mischievous ghost floated away with his tongue hanging out.

The dung eggs exploded on Quirrell's head, and the foul-smelling brown juice exploded all over his head and face. Even the big purple scarf on his head was soaked. Quirrell ran back to his office with a stinky smell, crying and howling. It is said that the sobbing from his office could be heard all the way away.

But his bad luck didn't end there. The next day in the corridor, someone threw a handful of fireworks. The fireworks flying around lit the big scarf on his head, turning his head into a blazing torch. How to put it out? None can be extinguished.

Ignoring the burning pain, Quirrell raised his hands to cover the back of his head and ran for his life. After nervously dodging the chandeliers falling from the ceiling, and trudging through the tables, chairs and benches piled haphazardly in the corridor, he finally got into the office before his mind went crazy.

But Quirrell was a strong man. Even though there were big blisters on his forehead, he still resolutely refused Madam Pomfrey's request to apply ointment on the back of his head, which was more severely burned. The next day I stood in the Defense Against the Dark Arts class with a new scarf on my head. Well, according to him, this was the second scarf given to him by the African prince.

The little wizards were in awe of Professor Quirrell's unwillingness to take off his scarf even if he was injured, and at the same time they all agreed that the scarf on his head hid a big secret. Otherwise, if you insist on wearing a scarf after being burned, won't you be afraid that maggots will come out?

The Weasley twins made a bet and started a Quirrell guessing game, which attracted the participation of many young wizards. People were betting on whether the big scarf on Quirrell's head was stuffed with garlic, caterpillars or dragon dung. Some people also bet on whether he was bald or had dysentery...

Irving didn't mind watching the fun and anonymously threw in ten gold galleons to show his appreciation and encouragement for this game.

As the little wizards wait eagerly, Quirrell's situation becomes increasingly difficult. At the end of class that day, as soon as he walked out of the classroom, a hook dropped from the sky and caught the scarf above his head. Although Quirrell was caught off guard, he quickly raised his hand to cover it. As a result, his whole body was hung high in the air by the suddenly rising hook, kicking his legs like a live fish waiting to be dried.

"Ah ah ah, Professor Quirrell has hanged himself!" the little wizards below screamed.

"Peeves, well done!" Owen, who saw this scene from a distance, almost laughed out loud. If you are asked to pretend to be a pig and eat the tiger, it will be difficult for you to take it off after you have been acting like a fool for a long time.

What he was even more curious about was whether Voldemort's face on the back of Quirrell's head was covered in blisters. Uh, the picture is too beautiful to think about.

After Owen was gloating about watching the play and feeding Mrs. Norris with dried fish, he just returned to the lounge when he received a notice to go to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office in the afternoon. He expressionlessly crumpled the note into a ball and stuffed it into his hand, then blew into the palm of his hand, and the note turned into confetti and scattered everywhere.

Melete, who was sleeping in, happened to be sprinkled with confetti. She wrinkled her face and sneezed, then got up, licked her shiny hair diligently, and took the trouble to bathe herself.

Harry was flipping through the textbook absentmindedly. Ever since he left the room where the Mirror of Erised was last time, he had often been in this state of trance, looking like a poor little boy who missed his parents.

"Actually, Harry, I think you still have a relative." Owen couldn't stand this expression the most, so he said with an unfathomable expression. Then, he saw Harry's emerald green eyes shooting out a wolf-like green gaze, as if he wanted to eat people.

"Ahem, do you know Ron Weasley?" Owen coughed lightly and said.

"I know, the Gryffindor one." Harry nodded.

"He has a pet mouse named Scabbers. As long as you catch it and give it to Dumbledore, if nothing happens, you will have a relative." Owen said with a lazy smile.

Facing Harry's suspicious eyes, he said seriously: "Of course, you have to pay attention to a few points. That mouse is very difficult to deal with, timid and very smart. Don't let it know your purpose, otherwise it will You will run away without hesitation, and then your loved ones will be like fireworks, disappearing in a 'bang'."

"Oh, thank you, I didn't know my relatives could be related to mice." Harry said in a bad mood. He felt that Owen was making fun of him.

"Tsk, Harry, when did I lie to you?" Owen spread his hands, looking disappointed and sad.

"I'm sorry, Owen," Harry said quickly, then became restless. Although Owen often teases him, he has never lied to him in serious matters. Although it is indeed ridiculous to say that exchanging a mouse for a relative, what if it is true?

Dreams always have to be had, what if they come true?

Thinking like this, Harry's mind had already turned to the question of how to get the mouse from Ron Weasley.

Seeing the savior's excited look, Owen shrugged, turned to Blaise, who was playing with those weird gadgets, and said, "By the way, Blaise, do you really not want to join our strongest study group?" ?”

"No, what's the point of studying? And the name is too stupid." Blaise pulled off the red string of the box in his hand, and a large group of human-faced moths flew out. In the blink of an eye, he was drowned by countless screams and fists. .

"Tsk tsk, it's just a title. If you're arrogant enough, it doesn't matter if you want to call it a saint." Owen put Melete in the armchair indifferently and left the lounge alone. Melete looked at his back as if she was aware of it, screamed softly, and then rolled herself into a ball.

Owen was walking in the dark corridor, thinking about Voldemort. All cat lovers should strongly boycott him!

With this in mind, Owen knocked on the door of Quirrell's office and opened the door after hearing a "come in" from inside the door.

The strange thing is that the smell coming from the door today is no longer the pungent smell of garlic before, but a fragrant aroma, not like the smell of flowers or food, but not annoying.

Owen glanced at the figure sitting behind the desk. Well, it was Quirrell himself.

Feeling relaxed, Owen walked in the door with a smile and saw a pot of boiling potion on the desk in front of Quirrell. The flame under the crucible was burning brightly, and the crimson liquid was beating lively in the crucible, looking like fine red wine.

Deep red vapor continuously emerged from the top of the liquid, like a small mushroom cloud that lasted forever. That strange aroma comes from it. If you smell it for a while, you will feel intoxicated.

"Professor Quirrell, good afternoon. What kind of potion is this?" Owen greeted him very cordially, as if he were visiting a relative. He looked at the pot of potion. Even though he knew how to identify the potion, he still couldn't figure out what kind of potion was in front of him, but it was not a potion for treating burns.

Quirrell glanced sideways at the pot of potion, then quickly looked away and said proudly: "You don't need to know."

"Okay." Owen nodded thoughtfully, and then said with a smile, "Professor Quirrell, do you need some ointment to treat burns? In other words, I also have chocolates and candies here. Eating some sweets will help keep you in a good mood. oh."

Quirrell's expression suddenly became ugly, and a trace of hatred and fear could not help but appear in his eyes. He snorted coldly and said through gritted teeth: "I know that someone is targeting me recently... When I no longer need to disguise myself, I guarantee that person will die in pain."

"Ah, come on." Owen made a perfunctory gesture of cheering, then tilted his head and said, "Then why did you call me here?"