Aglaya's prediction was spot-on. In just one afternoon, Tom Riddle defeated all challengers with a single curse, without needing any assistance.
No one could defend against his curse.
The price? Just a row of withered plants on the balcony.
Unquestionably, he became Professor Melos' assistant, skyrocketing to the position of Hogwarts' first-ever teaching assistant in record time.
This news shocked not only all of Gryffindor but also became the subject of heated discussions among the entire student body. A Slytherin serving as the assistant to the Head of Gryffindor House, and a relatively unknown second-year student at that?
Suddenly, Gryffindors turned on one another in blame.
The second-years blamed the third-years, the third-years blamed the fourth-years, and so on, all the way up to the seventh-years.
But the fact remained: no one could break the curse.
To be honest, even Hoffa didn't know how to break that strange curse. He could use his ghost-walking ability to evade it, sure, but that was evasion, not a solution.
Still, now wasn't the time to dwell on Tom Riddle's peculiar curse. Two days passed like a flash of lightning.
On Wednesday, Hoffa faced his first Transfiguration class of the year.
Without a doubt, he wasn't looking forward to it.
He even considered skipping all Transfiguration classes, just like Miranda skipped Charms last year. But he couldn't. His grandfather wasn't a deputy headmaster, and he wasn't an eleven-year-old kid.
Thoughts were just thoughts.
After breakfast, he quietly followed his two friends into the third-floor Transfiguration classroom.
Inside, Tom Riddle was already hailed as a hero by all the Slytherins. Even the usually arrogant Malfoy was full of admiration for him.
Malfoy had an arm around Tom's shoulder, sitting on a desk, boasting with grand gestures.
Tom, however, remained humble, smiling kindly as he chatted with his admirers.
Hoffa didn't know what this guy had been up to during the two months he stayed at school, but clearly, not a moment was wasted.
They didn't wait long in the classroom before a firm yet unyielding presence approached.
Bang!
The door to the Transfiguration classroom swung open. Amid the laughter, Hoffa lowered his head and remained silent.
Ossivia walked in slowly, wearing a purple robe and high-top boots, carrying an ordinary satchel. She maintained her usual meticulous, cold demeanor.
Unlike Hoffa, the others didn't share his prior experience with this tall, stern young woman. They were abuzz with excitement.
Abraxas Malfoy even thumped the table enthusiastically, trying to catch the attention of the beautiful professor.
At the Slytherin table, only Tom Riddle's expression remained calm.
Ossivia stood at the podium, scanned the room, and said nothing. She neither silenced the crowd nor scolded them.
Only when the students began to sense something was off did the chatter gradually die down, fading into complete silence.
She slowly picked up the attendance sheet from the desk and started calling names.
"Abraxas Malfoy."
Malfoy raised his hand eagerly.
"Present."
"Finjer Rockner."
"Present."
"Charlie Black."
"Present."
"Falco Acron."
"Present."
After calling out about a dozen names, she put down the sheet and said flatly, "Those I just called, ten points from each of you. If there's a next time, it'll be twenty points. A third offense, and you won't need to attend the final exams."
The fiery enthusiasm in the classroom was instantly extinguished, like a Siberian wind snuffing out a campfire.
The Slytherins were stunned, exchanging bewildered glances, their mouths agape.
She hadn't even started the lesson, but she'd already memorized everyone's names.
Aglaya smirked and nudged Hoffa with her elbow, mouthing, "I like this professor."
Hoffa merely glanced at her, then looked down again, saying nothing.
Ossivia didn't waste time elaborating on the punishments. Efficient and to the point, she stood at the podium and opened her textbook.
"Transfiguration is the most precise and intellectually demanding discipline among all magical subjects. It requires unparalleled creativity. Unlike the rote memorization of Charms or the targeted efficacy of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration is immensely versatile. Only those with boundless imagination can truly master it."
Her tone was as flat and lifeless as it had been on the ship in Morocco.
"What is Transfiguration? How can one utilize it effectively? Every accomplished wizard has their own answer. My answer is simple: play the hand you're dealt, but play it well.
Last year, Professor Dumbledore laid the groundwork for you. But based on your grades, you're far from practical application."
Aglaya elbowed Hoffa again, whispering, "This fresh-out-of-school teacher is a bit full of herself. Why not show off and put her in her place?"
Hoffa didn't reply, simply scooting away to avoid her elbow.
To be honest, he had zero interest in Ossivia's lessons. He didn't want to learn her perspective on Transfiguration, nor did he want to fawn over her beauty like some of the smitten Slytherins.
Every second in the classroom felt like torture.
Ossivia continued, her voice unwavering:
"Transfiguration lacks fixed formulas. Even Animagus forms differ for every individual.
Following instructions blindly is not the path of a true master of Transfiguration.
This year, I will teach you human Transfiguration. It's the curriculum assigned to me by the school.
I don't expect all of you to become Animagi—it's unrealistic. But by the end of the year, I want each of you to develop your own unique approach to Transfiguration, capable of handling unforeseen challenges, rather than merely transfiguring bottles and jars for exams."
She paused and added,
"For today's first lesson, I want to gauge your current Transfiguration skills to tailor my teaching accordingly."
At these words, the previously extinguished fire of enthusiasm flared up again.
Many boys began fidgeting, eager to prove themselves in front of the beautiful professor.
Ossivia said, "If any of you demonstrate Transfiguration skills that impress me, I will appoint one of you as my assistant."
The youthful fire burned even brighter.
Cheers erupted!
At that moment, over twenty arms shot straight into the air.
"Hoffa, Hoffa,"
Agleia excitedly began nudging Hoffa again.
Hoffa scooted farther away from her, but she persistently slid closer.
"What?" Hoffa asked irritably in a low voice.
"Go on! Isn't this what you're best at?" Agleia urged him impatiently.
"I don't know anything about it. Stop calling me," Hoffa replied coldly.
Agleia widened her eyes in surprise and whispered, "What's wrong with you? You were quite eager in Dumbledore's class."
"Maybe he's shy because the teacher is beautiful," Miranda teased quietly.
"You. Shut. Up." Hoffa glared at her.
Miranda was momentarily taken aback. "It was just a joke."
Osivia rapped her fingers on the desk. "Silence."
Hoffa's two friends stopped talking. Meanwhile, the students with their hands raised had faces flushed with anticipation, their lips pressed tight as if they were courtiers awaiting the king's favor.
Malfoy was practically standing on his chair.
Osivia scanned the room and said, "Malfoy."
"Yes!!"
Malfoy clenched his fists and leapt onto the podium in two steps.
"What should I transform? Into what?" he asked eagerly.
Osivia, holding a clipboard and a quill, didn't even look up. "Show me the transformation you're most skilled at."
Malfoy's fingers trembled as he picked up a piece of chalk. With a showy flourish, he transformed it into a rose. Smirking theatrically, he stepped forward, placed one hand on his abdomen, and performed a flawless aristocratic bow.
The move elicited restrained jeers from the boys and excited murmurs from the girls.
Osivia, who had been jotting notes, raised her gaze. "A meaningless, valueless transformation. The level of an ordinary first-year graduate."
Malfoy's flushed face froze in astonishment. The muffled laughter of the students below darkened his expression, leaving him utterly embarrassed.
"How is it meaningless, Miss Romanov?" Malfoy stressed the "Miss" in English pointedly.
"Slytherin loses ten points," she said flatly. "Call me Professor."
"You!" Malfoy was thoroughly disgruntled.
Osivia put down her quill. "The essence of transformation lies in understanding. Without truly comprehending the nature of an object, the form you produce is mere mimicry. Mr. Malfoy, your rose lacks thorns."
Malfoy straightened up, his face icy. He threw the rose to the floor, cast her a sidelong glare, and stormed off the podium with a disdainful huff, his robes billowing behind him.
Osivia raised her head and surveyed the room. "This year, our focus will be on human transfiguration. There's no need to demonstrate basic object transformations."
Pausing, she asked, "Does anyone here know human transfiguration?"
All the raised hands slowly dropped, extinguishing the fiery enthusiasm of youth completely.
Seeing no volunteers, Osivia calmly turned a page in her book.
"In that case, I'll call on students based on last term's grades. Agleia Drassel."
Agleia stood reluctantly.
"Do you know human transfiguration?" Osivia asked directly.
Agleia shook her head, clearly displeased.
Hoffa tapped the desk with his fingers, remaining silent. His name came right after Agleia's on the list of transfiguration grades, and he had no desire to interact with this "new teacher."
"Tom Marvolo Riddle."
Osivia called out the third name, skipping over Hoffa entirely. Hoffa let out a small sigh of relief.
Finally, an hour later, the strange and stifling transfiguration lesson came to an end. The students, carrying mixed emotions, rose from their seats and filed out.
Slytherin's Malfoy kicked the door open as he left.
Hoffa kept his head down, blending into the crowd as he quickly made his way to the door.
But just as he reached it, a cold voice called out from behind him.
"Hoffa Bach, please wait."
The transfiguration teacher's summons caused all the students to turn their heads and look at Hoffa. To them, it was peculiar that the top transfiguration student had remained silent the entire lesson.
Miranda and Agleia froze in surprise, glancing back and forth between Hoffa and the new transfiguration teacher with curiosity.
Hoffa stopped, took a deep breath, and unclenched his fists. He turned to his two friends with a calm demeanor.
"You two go on ahead. I'll catch up in a bit," he said warmly.
Agleia hesitated. "Alright then."
Miranda glanced at the Transfiguration teacher, then at Hoffa, who was smiling. "Interesting."
She then dragged the puzzled Agleia, who kept looking back with every step, out of the classroom.
Once the room was empty, Hoffa let out a sigh, turned around, and asked coldly, "What do you want?"
Osivia waved her wand, and the classroom door slammed shut.
"During the summer break, you left without a word," she began.
"Can we not talk about the summer?" Hoffa replied calmly. "Now you're the teacher, and I'm the student. What do you need from me?"
After a brief silence, Osivia stepped down from the podium. "There's something I need your help with."
"Staying in the dorm and doing nothing? I can manage that," Hoffa replied with a nod.
"No," Osivia ignored the sarcasm in his tone. "Dumbledore mentioned you to me, and I've seen your grades from last year. You're an excellent student."
"Just say what you mean," Hoffa interrupted.
"I want you to be my teaching assistant for Transfiguration," she said.
Hoffa raised an eyebrow. "Me?"
"Yes."
"May I ask why?"
"This year, every teacher has an additional task. Mine is to assist Hogwarts and the British Ministry of Magic in locating the Forbidden Spell Library. I hope you can help me with this."
The library. Always the library.
Hoffa chuckled wryly, shook his head, and said softly, "Find someone else."
With that, he bowed slightly and began to stride away.
Osivia reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
Hoffa jerked away sharply, drew his wand, and hissed, "What are you trying to do?"
"I need your help. If you have any objections, feel free to voice them," Osivia said sincerely.
"Objections?"
"Yes."
"Then let me ask you again—what exactly are you looking for?"
"The Forbidden Spell Library."
Hoffa scoffed, a trace of mockery in his expression. He spread his hands, looking somewhat pained. "Professor Romanov, I think you're lying."
"I'm not."
"Not lying? Then what's this?"
Hoffa pointed with his hand.
Osivia turned to look, and her eye twitched slightly.
Hoffa stepped forward, reached into her satchel, and slowly pulled out an old newspaper, holding it up in front of her.
"You've lost your mind. How old is this newspaper? Four months?"
Osivia finally fell silent.
Hoffa sighed.
"You're still the same, Professor—hiding your burning anger and hatred behind a cold exterior and aloof attitude.
What you want is revenge, not to find some so-called library or fulfill some so-called mission. You just want to use this task to uncover the truth about who killed your father, don't you?"
(End of Chapter)
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