A Professor of Magic at Hogwarts

His cell was located at the top of this dark, gloomy fortress, in a tower. The view outside remained unchanged.

Honestly, he was getting a bit tired.

Especially with that little scoundrel outside, constantly enticing him with various pieces of information.

He lost track of time and came back to himself, spreading his palm, gazing at the dozen strands of faint magic there, moving like fish in the palm of his hand.

That wasn't his magic, but the magic he just gathered from the house-elf.

…

The graveyard in Little Hangleton village lay desolate, bearing remnants of past battles. Despite the Ministry's attempts at restoration, it remained forever scarred, becoming a subject of eerie tales among the villagers.

"Could be a beast—"

"Nonsense! I reckon it's connected to the Riddles' deaths. Took them over a decade to turn into ghosts, and they finally got their revenge," muttered Dort at the Hanged Man's Tavern, one leg propped up, tilting his head—a typical drunkard, reeking of alcohol.

"You mean that dead gardener, Frank Bryce?" someone whispered.

"Who else? Thanks to the incompetence of the police, he got off scot-free, lived all these years. Think about it, the Riddles' mysterious deaths back then? It's karma, I tell ya."

"Ghosts, indeed? Any evidence?" the bartender, eyeing him skeptically, retorted, "Pay up your tab!"

Dort chuckled, "Don't interrupt!" He leaned in conspiratorially, "I've got proof. I checked the cemetery behind the church. Little Riddle's grave—someone tampered with it!"

"Really?"

Some chimed in, "You making this up? Why not check it now?"

"You won't see a thing," regretted Dort. "It's all fixed up."

While they conversed, someone had already sneaked into the graveyard behind the church.

Bellatrix Lestrange's face lit up fervently as she downed a potion.

"Master—"

"Rest now, my dear Bellatrix," Voldemort said. "I'll wake you before the final battle."

Bellatrix fell into a deep slumber; the madness on her face subsided. She lay quietly in the coffin, hands clasping a golden cup tightly. Voldemort waved his wand; the lid closed, and numerous alchemical symbols lit up.

Waving his wand again, Voldemort buried the coffin deep, covered it with layers of thick soil.

He intended to stay here until the duel day. If undisturbed, he'd take a risk, temporarily separating from his Horcrux, confronting Dumbledore.

Dumbledore appeared weakened, evident to him.

This positive news eclipsed Malfoy's sense of shame brought by the traitorous Death Eater.

He knew the severity of his own curse. "Using the aftermath of vanquishing a curse as an excuse," Voldemort sneered, extremely satisfied with Severus's work.

Deliberately choosing the O.W.Ls exam period for the duel, with professors confined to school, especially with Severus around, any disappearance of Harry would be instantly reported.

But relying solely on Severus was risky...

Voldemort's mind brewed various thoughts. From all angles, he seemed a loyal Death Eater, flawlessly executing orders. But Voldemort never entrusted trust to anyone, just as he never revealed the secret of his Horcruxes to any loyal Death Eater.

Perhaps he should prepare more... Use the Ministry's examiners as spies? Use the Imperius Curse? No, the Anti-Thief Waterfall guarded against that; he needed a cleverer plan. He didn't need help, just confirmation that Felix Haup was indeed at the school.

And the Ministry's Aurors...

Voldemort began to devise various evil tricks.

...

After the start of the term, especially following the career advice sessions in the first week, fifth-year students had only one thing on their minds.

Preparing for exams.

Felix almost visibly noticed how students became more conscientious and diligent. It wasn't hard to understand; after career advice, each student had one or two goals under their respective heads of houses.

Moreover, almost every professor subtly emphasized the importance of their subject.

Sometime during the term, a simplified process for brewing potions began circulating in the school. At first, young wizards were skeptical. Traditionally, this time usually saw trends like protective amulets, Babbling Beverage, or Dragon Claw Powder.

But facts prevailed, and a series of astounding coincidences emerged.

Neville Longbottom, previously average in Potions, surged ahead, and with him, even Harry and Ron, with moderate grades, excelled. This abnormal behavior naturally drew attention from both students and a certain professor, who seemed to haunt them like a ghost during Potions class.

Harry's forehead dripped sweat; he hadn't made a move for a solid ten minutes, nearly pulverizing the chamomile roots.

When Snape disappeared, Harry swiftly flipped open the Potions textbook, finding a parchment titled 'Revitalizing Tonic.' Dense script covered it, but Harry knew this potion could be broken down into seven major steps, three phases.

He skimmed through the content of the fifth step, finding something like an outline: 'Enhance the effect of fire lizard blood.' He continued reading; the original text was verbose, spanning five steps, whereas the new improved method was concise: 'Filter residues, stir counterclockwise twice, then clockwise twice, slowly infuse magic.'

Harry grinned; this was almost like a blend of Professor Haup and the 'Half-Blood Prince.'

He murmured a spell; the parchment on the desk swiftly morphed into a strainer. He dipped it twice, stirred clockwise and counterclockwise, infused magic, and the potion turned a light blue.

Looking around excitedly, he read further, when—

"Potter." Snape's cold voice interrupted, nearly startling Harry off his seat.

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