Chapter 118 – Selling Gas Masks to Quirrell
"Alright, Professor," Russell said. He wasn't particularly disappointed—worst case, he could simply rewrite the material from memory or use a Duplication Charm to make a copy.
After finishing washing the entrails, Russell was just about to leave when Snape called out to him.
"These are the second-year textbooks. Also, the Potions Club meets every Saturday evening—starting next month. You can ask Louis for the details," Snape said stiffly.
"You may go now."
Grinning, Russell gathered up the books from the desk.
"Goodbye, Professor Snape. I'll definitely be there on Saturday nights."
"Oh—and Professor Snape," Russell suddenly remembered something and poked his head back in.
"Speak. Quickly," Snape snapped.
"I'd also like to apply for a spare classroom to brew potions."
"You?" Snape snorted. He studied Russell for a long moment before finally tossing him a key.
"Take it and leave. On the first Saturday of next month, I'll be inspecting the potion you brew."
"Got it, Professor!" Russell replied cheerfully, completely unfazed by the tone, and left in high spirits.
---
Friday afternoon soon arrived, bringing with it the week's second Defense Against the Dark Arts class. The students' faces were full of dread.
This time, however, they'd learned their lesson.
Nearly everyone was carrying a gas mask.
At this point, nobody cared whether these things were Muggle inventions or not—survival came first.
The Slytherins, of course, had taken things to another level.
Their gas masks were sleek and luxurious, painted dark green, with the Slytherin crest emblazoned across the front. Some went even further, engraving their family crests onto the masks. One particularly outrageous design featured an entire sculpted serpent coiled around the filter canister, its tongue flicking out repeatedly.
They looked down their noses at the Ravenclaws' plain, utilitarian masks, nearly lifting their chins into the sky with pride.
Russell nearly laughed out loud.
Naturally, these gas masks had everything to do with him.
After that very first Quirrell lesson, Russell had immediately spotted a business opportunity. That same evening, he teamed up with the Weasley twins to plan what would become the first flagship product of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
Cedric joined in as well.
Russell provided the prototype and design ideas.
The Weasley twins handled production.
Cedric took care of assembly.
Just like that, a miniature factory was established inside the Room of Requirement.
Their products came in several tiers.
The cheapest option cost just one silver Sickle. It was little more than a simple tube—no eye protection, just enough to cover the nose and mouth. Calling it a "mask" was generous; it was closer to a respirator or mouth-cover.
Still, for most students, that was more than sufficient.
The next tier was the model Russell himself had worn in class. It cost one Galleon—not cheap, but reasonable. The higher price came from the runes carved inside: a Cleaning Charm and a Cooling Charm, ensuring the wearer wouldn't feel suffocated or overheated.
Then came the premium line—designed specifically for people with more money than sense. Students like Malfoy.
These were mostly sold to Slytherins, who cared deeply about appearances and not at all about cost.
They marketed them under slogans like "Master-Crafted" and "Artisan Perfection", which left the little snakes dazzled.
Russell further divided these custom masks into variants:
A green-painted version for five Galleons.
Add a family crest? Another five.
Add a moving serpent wrapped around the filter? Ten Galleons.
Even at those prices, Slytherin students bought them in droves.
Russell couldn't help but marvel at just how many rich idiots Hogwarts housed.
Malfoy, in particular, was spectacularly foolish—he bought two masks, claiming that since there were two Defense classes per week, he needed to alternate them. Otherwise, Professor Quirrell's stench would permanently contaminate the mask.
Thanks to this lucrative arrangement, the Weasley twins even stopped targeting Malfoy for a while. Faced with such fresh, juicy "leeks," it felt wrong to harvest them too aggressively.
Despite the high selling prices, production costs were laughably low. Total expenses amounted to barely five Galleons—including materials wasted while the twins were still learning.
From Slytherin alone, they made over a thousand Galleons.
According to their agreement, Russell took fifty percent and the twins split the other fifty. However, since Cedric had been working like a factory slave, they decided to give him twenty percent from each side.
Flush with cash, the Weasley twins sent part of their earnings home and poured the rest into research and development.
Cedric, inspired, asked to reinvest his own share as well. After some hesitation, he put all his earnings back in, receiving a ten percent stake.
He couldn't stop smiling.
Ever since he'd started dating Cho Chang, he'd learned a bit about her culture. Russell had told him about something called a bride price, so Cedric decided to start saving early—hoping he'd have enough by the time they graduated.
---
The class bell rang.
The moment Professor Quirrell entered the classroom and saw every student wearing a gas mask, he nearly had a heart attack.
They'd actually doubled down.
This was the greatest humiliation of his life.
He flew into a rage—then promptly did nothing. All he could do was silently swear that once the Dark Lord was restored, he would personally torture these students to death with the Cruciatus Curse.
Quirrell coughed twice. He wanted to take attendance—but with everyone looking identical behind their masks, he gave up and just counted heads.
Once he confirmed no one was missing, he began the lesson.
After last class, he'd learned his lesson: these students were difficult, sharp-tongued, and completely uncooperative. So he abandoned all stories about his "adventures" and simply read straight from the textbook.
"So… when facing a vampire, we should…
When confronting a troll, we should…"
A quiet voice muttered from the back:
"If he's just going to read the book, why don't we just read it ourselves?"
Cho complained as she absentmindedly twirled her quill, clearly bored out of her mind.
"If he really keeps teaching like this," she muttered, "do you think Professor Dumbledore will call him in for a talk? I mean, Quirrell is getting paid. Even if most of it comes from the Board of Governors."
Russell lowered his voice.
"Probably. Hiring him to teach wasn't free, after all."
Ding—ding—ding.
The dismissal bell rang, and the students surged toward the door in relief, packed together like sardines spilling from a tin.
Russell lingered behind, completely unhurried. He calmly packed away his books, and just as he was about to leave, Professor Quirrell called out to him.
"Fy–thorne… Mr. Fythorne, stay for a moment."
"Yes, Professor?" Russell replied innocently. "Are you interested in a gas mask as well? I can give you fifty percent off."
I'll give you a fifty-percent discount on your bones, Quirrell cursed internally, though he forced a stiff, ingratiating smile onto his face.
"Let's… set that aside for now. I'd like to… invite you to my office. I want to learn more about how… Professor Corvey used to conduct his classes."
"Because," he continued with visible effort, "I've heard many students say that although he was a… Dark wizard, his teaching was actually… very highly regarded."
It took Quirrell considerable effort to get through such a long sentence.
"I'm quite busy," Russell frowned, glancing down at the gas mask in his hand. "I still have a lot to do today."
"Fine. Fine. I'll buy one," Quirrell snapped—so angry that he stopped stuttering altogether.
"Wonderful, Professor," Russell said instantly, his expression flipping like a switch as he held out his hand.
"That'll be fifty Galleons."
Quirrell froze.
"Why… so expensive?"
"I heard from other students that even the most expensive model only costs twenty Galleons. And didn't you say you'd give me a fifty-percent discount?"
"Of course," Russell said smoothly, without the slightest hint of guilt.
"Please allow me to explain."
"You see, although you were once a Ravenclaw, you are now a Hogwarts professor. Naturally, your gas mask should include the crests and animal emblems of all four houses."
"Then we add the Hogwarts school crest, plus a miniature sculpture of the castle itself. Let's call that another twenty Galleons."
"That brings the total to one hundred. Half off makes it fifty. Perfectly reasonable."
Quirrell's eye twitched.
"Fine… fifty it is."
Cursing Russell with every breath, Quirrell painfully counted out fifty gold Galleons and handed them over.
"Thank you for your patronage," Russell said cheerfully. "I'll deliver it as soon as it's finished."
"You spineless fool," Voldemort snarled inside Quirrell's mind.
"Once I return, you'll have more Galleons than you know what to do with."
"The priority is drawing Fythorne to our side. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord," Quirrell replied mentally.
"So," Quirrell said aloud, forcing a smile, "shall we go now?"
He swore that if Russell hesitated again, he'd make him regret it.
"Of course, Professor Quirrell," Russell replied readily. "Lead the way."
Quirrell blinked in surprise. He'd been fully prepared for more excuses.
Stepping once more into the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, Russell felt a strange sense of nostalgia. He'd visited this place many times last term, yet it now felt unfamiliar.
The Egyptian-style décor was gone—whether removed or quietly appropriated by Ministry officials was anyone's guess.
"Please, sit, Mr. Fythorne," Quirrell said, his confidence noticeably rising now that he was back on home turf.
"Professor Quirrell, I'll gladly share everything I know about Professor Corvey," Russell said warmly. After all, he'd just made fifty Galleons for free.
Quirrell pretended to ask a few perfunctory questions before moving to the main point—only for Russell's next words to ignite instant fury in the Dark Lord lurking behind his head.
"Professor Corvey stole a golden cup from Gringotts," Russell said casually.
"Unfortunately, his accomplice ran off with it. He seemed quite upset about that, so—"
"Ask him about the cup," Voldemort hissed urgently in Quirrell's mind.
"A golden cup?" Quirrell interrupted. "What did it look like?"
"How would I know?" Russell shrugged. "I just know it looked kinda—"
"How big was it?"
"How would I know? I just know it looked kinda—"
"Which vault did it come from?"
"How would I know? I just know it looked kinda—"
"Enough!" Quirrell snapped darkly. "Stop."
Taking several deep breaths, he finally steadied himself and changed the subject.
"Mr. Fythorne," Quirrell said, adopting a mysterious air, "do you truly believe my abilities are insufficient for this position?"
"Well… perhaps… possibly," Russell hedged carefully. "It's hard to say."
"Watch closely."
Quirrell's demeanor shifted. He drew his wand.
"Protego."
A shimmering barrier appeared in the room. He then cast the same spell on both himself and Russell before aiming his wand at a bookcase in the corner.
"Confringo."
Red light exploded outward. The bookcase shattered instantly, pages scattering like falling snow.
"Wow," Russell said, forcing an impressed expression. Internally, he was utterly unimpressed—Quirrell didn't even compare to that Soviet wizard Yuri.
"Well?" Quirrell asked smugly. "I'm no worse than Corvey, am I?"
"Sure," Russell said, tilting his head. "But if you're this strong, why pretend to be so incompetent? Do you enjoy being looked down on?"
"I hear there are Muggles who like that sort of thing. You're not one of those, are you?"
"What nonsense," Quirrell snapped, though he clearly sensed the insult.
"You know this position is cursed," Quirrell continued.
"Ever since You-Know-Who, no professor lasts more than a year—and their fates are usually terrible."
"I've been resisting the curse all this time. That's why I can't cast spells frequently—otherwise I cough up blood. Now do you understand?"
"I see," Russell said thoughtfully.
He didn't believe a single word.
"So," Quirrell said softly, leaning forward, "would you like to study magic with me? You're extraordinarily talented. Your future is limitless."
"Professor," Russell replied calmly, "that's exactly what Professor Corvey told me last year."
"And I nearly died because of it."
He stood up.
"Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?"