Chapter 34: Professor Mor
Thump—thump—thump—
His heart hammered violently against his ribs. His clothes were soaked through, clinging to his skin like a second layer, and the cold wind biting through them sent icy shivers deep into his bones. This was, without a doubt, the closest Wade had come to death since his rebirth.
Sure, in the story, First Year Harry Potter had casually defeated the locket-Voldemort like it was a game—but that was only because of the protective magic left behind by his mother. If it were Wade in that situation, even if he knew ten times more spells than Harry, being discovered by Voldemort would still mean certain death.
Reincarnated, Wade wasn’t afraid of dying. But he could accept dying for a noble cause—or for someone he loved. He could not accept dying like a disposable extra, silenced for no reason other than having overheard a villain’s secret, vanishing into nothingness without a trace.
Afraid he might run into Quirrell again, Wade had stayed hidden on this secluded platform for a long time, and before he knew it, he’d slumped against the wall and fallen asleep. He jolted awake only to realize it was nearly dawn, and the sky was still pitch black.
The Quidditch Pitch was empty. The entire school was silent—except for one silver-white-haired adult wizard walking slowly along the edge of the Black Lake. Probably a professor, though not Dumbledore—Dumbledore still had that long, flowing white beard.
Wade hadn’t seen the man’s face, but he didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t Quirrell, he was fine.
He pushed himself up from the wall, but his head swam, his body swaying dangerously. He nearly fell.
Damn it.
Wade cursed inwardly, pressing a hand to his forehead. It didn’t feel feverish—but his palm was scorching hot. Each breath exhaled a stream of searing heat, making his nostrils sting. For a moment, he thought he could cook an egg just by standing near it—his own body was radiating heat like a furnace.
He climbed through the window into an empty classroom, dragging his exhausted body toward the Infirmary. The corridors were mostly quiet, the portraits mostly asleep—but one red-haired young wizard was lounging lazily across his frame, staring blankly at the wall.
When he spotted Wade, his eyes lit up.
“Hey! What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“Why aren’t you back in the Common Room?”
“Madam Pomfrey’s probably still asleep! Want me to wake her for you?”
Ha! Just kidding. I don’t even have a portrait in her bedroom.
“You’re not saying anything? Talk to me! I’m bored out of my mind, just sitting here awake!”
Wade had no strength to reply. But the red-haired wizard was relentless, chasing him through several portraits, chattering nonstop, never once seeming embarrassed by the silence. Clearly, the real-life version of this man was a hopeless chatterbox.
Only when they reached a stretch of corridor with no portraits at all did the wizard finally give up—though not without one last shout:
“You’re definitely not the social type, are you? Come find me when you’re better! I’ll keep you company!”
Wade’s head throbbed like it was being cracked open. The wizard’s endless babbling was grating, splitting his focus. It wasn’t until he finally noticed another set of footsteps approaching—close, too close—that he froze.
Almost at a corner...
Wade’s body locked up. He instinctively tried to move, but his limbs were sluggish, unresponsive.
Thump.
The footsteps drew nearer.
Thump.
The world seemed to contract. His vision blurred. All that remained sharp was his hearing.
Thump.
A figure stepped out from around the corner.
“Are you alright, child?” someone asked.
But Wade’s mind felt like a rusted gear—stiff, slow, uncooperative. He couldn’t answer.
“Oh,” the voice said gently, “you’re quite feverish.” A hand gently guided him forward. “Come with me, child. I’ll take you to my office—it’s just nearby.”
The silver-white hair swayed before his eyes. It reminded him of Dumbledore. Wade relaxed his guard.
…
A few minutes later, Wade sat with an empty cup in hand, ears still puffing steam, eyes vacant and unfocused—making him look utterly foolish.
The wizard who had appeared wasn’t Quirrell. Nor was he Dumbledore.
He was a stranger.
Older than eighty, perhaps, dressed in deep blue robes. His short silver-white hair was neatly combed. No beard. What was odd was that beneath his robes, he wore Muggle clothes—a crisp white shirt and tailored trousers, perfectly matched. His house tie was flawless—something most wizards struggled to achieve. And pinned to his chest was a strange, ornate pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
When he’d spotted Wade in distress, the wizard had brought him to his office and offered a Stimulating Elixir. It was far more effective than anything in the Infirmary. Within moments, Wade’s foggy mind cleared—except for his ears, which still hissed like steam vents.
He took in his surroundings.
The room was circular, bathed in light from a dozen magical lamps, glowing like daylight.
Shelves and tables overflowed with curious, whimsical objects. A golden hourglass spun slowly. Dozens of miniature crystal orbs dangled from silver wires, pulsing with soft, breathing-colored light. Nearby, a remarkably lifelike miniature estate sat on a cabinet—tiny people, no bigger than a thumb, lived within, tending to chores: one fetched water, another cooked food, and a tiny dog scurried about.
And yet, among these magical wonders, there were unmistakable Muggle inventions: a refrigerator, a stove, a television, a computer, a washing machine—yes, even a disassembled car engine.
This was the strangest room Wade had ever seen.
The wizard—Professor Mor—was now adjusting a radio. Moments later, a cheerful female voice filled the air:
“Hello, dear listeners! Busy wizards and witches, good morning! A wonderful day begins with Magic Time! Today, your favorite host, Grenda Chitock, is back with another show. First up—Sethina Woback’s brand-new single: You Stole My Pot, But You Can’t Have My Heart!”
“Oh, thank goodness I didn’t miss it,” the wizard murmured, turning with a warm smile. “That’s my favorite radio show. How do you feel now, child?”
“I’m much better, thank you, sir,” Wade replied cautiously. “May I ask… who you are?”
“I’m Professor Terence Mor—Professor of Alchemy.”
He chuckled. “If you manage to score ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in Charms, Transfiguration, and Ancient Runes on your O.W.L.s by fifth year, and at least ‘Acceptable’ in Defensive Magic Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, and Potions, you’ll be eligible to take my course in sixth year. You’re interested in Alchemy, aren’t you, child?”
Wade glanced down. A corner of On the Diversity of Species had slipped out of his backpack. He quickly shoved it back.
“Yes, Professor. I’m studying Alchemy on my own.”
“That’s… quite advanced for a first-year,” Professor Mor said, blinking. “You should start with the basics—like the Magic Phonetics Chart.”
Wade straightened. “I’ve memorized the Magic Phonetics Chart completely, sir. I’ve also mastered the Magic Glyph Collection, the Runic Dictionary, and Introduction to Ancient Runes. And I’ve read Introduction to Alchemy and Analysis of Alchemy—both by Nicolas Flamel.”
Professor Mor froze.
Note: Alchemy is not taught at Hogwarts until fifth year. The name of the Alchemy professor has not been mentioned in canon. Terence Mor and the course prerequisites are original creations by the author.
(End of Chapter)
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