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Hogwarts (Year One) - Part 8
🕑 Added 2025-07-17 06:08:31 +0000 UTCProfessor Binns’ Classroom, First Floor, Hogwarts. September 7, 1989.
“…After the ill-advised intervention of the Department of Magical Transportation, in which Portkeys were distributed to Ministry officials but not to their goblin counterparts, the ensuing diplomatic insult was enough to fracture the already tenuous truce brokered after the 1610 Summit at Slagholt…”
A quill scraped loudly nearby as one of my peers nodded off and smudged his bottle of ink across his parchment.
Yet, adding to my growing exasperation, Professor Binns didn’t so much as pause, continuing in his droning, monotone voice.
“…and so, we conclude that the economic marginalisation of goblin-kind, when combined with the restrictive wand legislation of 1631, laid the groundwork for a series of escalations that would culminate—yes, inevitably—in the bloody yet bureaucratically fascinating conflict known as the Silver Shaft Skirmish of 1677...”
The more I listened to Professor Binns, the more I realized I was better off studying History of Magic independently. Professor Binns seldom—if ever—contributed any information outside of what was already written in the textbook. Hence, I felt like it was pretty safe to conclude that as long one memorized the readings, one would be able to pass the exams.
“And he doesn’t take attendance either…” I sighed.
That settled it, then. From now on, I’d skip Professor Binns’ lectures entirely and only turn up for the tests.
At worst, I might face a minor disciplinary note—not exactly cause for concern.
Thinking about it, I couldn’t help but chuckle. Trust a former history teacher to be the one who winds up skipping history class.
…
After the History of Magic lesson concluded for the day, I returned to my disused classroom on the fourth floor.
Thalia expressed an interest in joining me later in the afternoon, most likely accompanied by Cedric and Eveline.
Until then, I would research by myself.
Clearly, the art of binding a spell to an object—enchanting—required a different kind of intent than that of a regular charm. Overall, I’d say the process was a lot more deliberate and a lot less impulsive.
Still, thanks to my recent breakthrough, it only took three attempts before an amber glow confirmed the enchantment had taken effect.
Regrettably, those three attempts cost me nearly a fourth of my total spark energy. Apparently, enchanting was significantly more taxing than standard casting.
With this discovery in mind, I could easily see someone unversed in measuring their own spark energy reserves accidentally fizzling out.
“I guess that’s why enchanting isn’t taught until the third year…”
Then again, according to canon, Fred and George had already gained notoriety for enchanting objects in their first year at Hogwarts. As such, me learning to enchant wasn’t anything groundbreaking.
What I’d neglected to consider was the critical difference in background: Fred and George were pure-bloods raised in a magical household; I, on the other hand, was a Muggle-born with limited exposure to anything magic.
I scrutinized my spellbound satchel.
“Now I just have to figure out how to set the condition to ‘unauthorized’ contact instead of ‘general’ contact…”
Picking up my ballpoint pen, I began documenting my experiments.
…
“Finite.” I said, cutting off the alarm.
Though my wand still hummed with eager resonance, my spark flickered—spent and weary.
“That’s it for today,” I decided, scribbling down the last of my notes.
“Like I initially hypothesized, general physical contact remains the most reliable trigger condition for the bound Alarm Charm. While I’ve attempted to bind the trigger to magical signatures distinct from my own, I’ve been unable to construct a spell matrix capable of recognizing and distinguishing between individual magical signatures. As it stands, any contact, regardless of identity, activates the alarm.”
If only the spell matrix was visible to the naked eye, this entire process would be far less cumbersome.
“That said, recent progress has been made; my last iterations of the Alarm Charm have successfully managed to attach a physical ‘unlock’ mechanism to the trigger condition.”
Along with different gestures and key phrases, physical ‘keys’ was one of the potential work-arounds I tested.
In short, as it stood, if someone touched the Alarm-enchanted object without possessing the preset key—which just so happened to be my blue ten-pence coin—the dormant charm would activate, emitting a shrill wail not unlike a car alarm, and continue until it was either dispelled or the spell matrix ran out of juice.
At the moment, the reason my blue ten-pence coin performed so reliably as a key remained unclear. Working theories included prolonged familiarity with the object, residual magic contamination from repeated transfiguration, or some kind of emotional anchor effect.
Clearly, further investigation was necessary.
I also hadn’t yet tested the maximum duration of the alarm’s wail, but based on the energy investment required, I suspected it was capable of sustaining the sound for a considerable period.
Long enough to be very annoying.
The charm’s auditory effect was selected based on the memory catalyst that proved most responsive during casting—in this case, the catalyst was a car alarm that I’d accidentally triggered in my youth.
An innocuous memory, but one that served its purpose brilliantly.
“Looks like Thalia and the rest are running late,” I muttered, glancing at the clock.
With half an hour left until dinner—and a depleted spark reserve—I figured I might as well pack up my things and head downstairs.
…
“… you say?!” Eveline voice echoed down the corridor, catching my attention as I stepped off the staircase.
“You heard me,” a familiar voice scoffed. “And if you weren’t so busy sucking up to Dumbledore’s lot, you might actually see things clearly.”
“Michael is a great person—and an even greater wizard.” Cedric shot back, his voice tight with restrained anger.
“Oh, please,” Cassius groaned. “It’s always the soft-blooded families that forget who they are. Defending Muggle-borns doesn’t make you righteous—it makes you pathetic.”
“Shut yo—”
“And you, Diggory. I thought your family had some spine. But I guess I was wrong. First the Weasleys, and now a Mudblood? Are you that determined to become a blood traitor? What do you think your mum would say if she knew—”
“Enough.” Thalia’s voice sliced through the air like a sharp blade. “You speak of things you have no right to, Warrington.”
“Tsk.” Another voice sneered. “Cassius might be blunt, but he’s not wrong. What you’re doing, however, three pure-bloods following an Unblooded around like a bunch of lost puppies—it’s outright disgraceful.”
Quentin turned to glare directly at Thalia.
“Especially you, Thalia. Your family might be crumbling apart at the seams, but the name Fawley still means something. You may forget it, but you’re still Sacred Twenty-Eight. I doubt your family would be thrilled to learn their heir’s playing chaperone to a Muggle-born.”
Quentin gave her a pointed look.
“Or worse—getting sweet on one.”
Whilst Thalia didn’t flinch, her lips thinned dangerously—eyes like frost.
“Or maybe you’ve already disgraced them properly?” Quentin sneered.
Cedric didn’t hold back as his jaw tightened.
“You’re the only one here who’s being disgraceful, Avery. Say what you want about me—but you leave Thalia out of it.”
In a manner that could only be interpreted as aggressive, Cedric took a step closer, eyes hard.
“Being pure-blood doesn’t give you the right to decide who’s worth respecting. Michael’s earned ours. You definitely haven’t.”
“Like I said—disgraceful.” Quentin snorted, shaking his head, but stopped short when he noticed me watching.
His gaze locked with mine, he continued, his tone sharp and accusing.
“Have you even given any thought to what your association will do to them? What it’ll mean to their future? Or are you simply too used to being an ignorant burden to notice?”
“You go too far, Quentin!” Cedric shouted, his hand reaching for his wand.
Yet, before the situation could escalate any further, a sharp voice rang out like a whipcrack down the corridor.
“What’s the meaning of this?!”
At the end of the hallway, Professor McGonagall stood, eyes narrowed, and lips pressed into a razor thin line. Her gaze swept over the group like a storm front.
“Drawing your wand in a corridor, Mr. Diggory? I trust, for all of your sakes, that there’s a very good explanation for all of this.”
“Professor!” Eveline burst out, clearly brimming with righteous anger. “Quentin just insulted Thalia’s modesty right to her face—and he said we should all stay away from Michael because he’s Unblooded.”
She folded her arms with a dramatic huff, clearly expecting justice on the spot.
“Thank you, Miss Thorne,” McGonagall’s tone was clipped and cold. “But I will not have accusations shouted down corridors like common room gossip.”
Before Eveline could comprehend what the professor had said, McGonagall turned her sharp gaze toward Cedric.
“Mr. Diggory, reaching for your wand in a verbal dispute is completely unacceptable—no matter how provoked. Expect a letter to be penned to your father about this incident.”
The smug looks on Cassius and Quentin’s faces were clear for all to see.
“And Mr. Avery, this is the second time allegations about your conduct has been brought to my attention. If I so much as hear you whisper the term ‘Unblooded’ in my presence again, you will spend the rest of the semester in detention, writing lines about tolerance and decency.”
Quentin scoffed but wisely chose not to retort.
Professor McGonagall’s lips thinned further.
“Rest assured, I will be informing your Heads of House about this.” She gave the group one final sweep of her gaze.
“Now. All of you—disperse. Dinner is in fifteen minutes, and I suggest you use the time to seriously reconsider your priorities.”
…
“So…” I began slowly, glancing around at my friends gathered at the dinner table. “What was that all about?”
“Hogwash. That’s what it was.” Cedric’s fists were clenched; his gaze still fixed on Quentin across the hall. “Cassius and Quentin think they can run their mouths just because their parents hold an ounce of influence. Ridiculous.”
“I knew Quentin’s family was old-fashioned,” Eveline muttered softly, frowning into her plate, “but I didn’t think he was that crude.”
“Not all snakes wind up in Slytherin.” Thalia said coolly, her eyes still frosty. “His behaviour dishonours the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Thankfully, he isn’t in line to inherit the Lordship.”
“He’s not?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.
“No,” Thalia said, shaking her head. “Their family’s heir is his older brother—Bastian. A fifth-year Ravenclaw. Arrogant, yes, but far more tolerable than Quentin.”
I stared down at my plate, thinking.
“This is getting more and more complicated,” I sighed.
Thus, deciding it was best to rip the bandage off quickly, I looked up and asked, “What about what they said—about associating with me? Am I really causing problems for you?”
In hindsight, it should’ve been obvious. And I couldn’t even claim ignorance—I’d known from the beginning that my presence carried political weight. I’d just chosen not to think too hard about it. Relieved as I’d been to have friends like Cedric, Thalia, and Eveline by my side, I’d pretended it didn’t matter.
“Quentin was right about one thing; I haven’t truly considered what my presence might mean for my friends’ future.” I sighed inwardly.
“N-No wa—”
“No, you’re not,” Thalia cut in sharply, fixing me with a look. “And the fact you even have to ask is frankly a little insulting.”
Thalia’s iron-clad gaze faltered slightly.
“I mean, we’re friends, right?”
I nodded, unable to stop myself from smiling.
Beside us, Cedric and Eveline shared a meaningful look.
“Honestly, it’s more like the other way around,” Eveline said, her voice tinged with guilt. “None of this would even be happening if I hadn’t—"
“Again,” I interrupted gently, “my blood status was bound to come out eventually.”
I glanced around at my awkwardly silent friends. “So… does that mean we’re good? I mean, me being friends with you guys—it’s not causing any trouble with your families?”
Cedric gave a casual shrug. “No problem at all. My dad doesn’t really have a stance on the whole Muggle thing.”
“I’ve got uncles who’ve married Muggles,” Eveline chimed in, with the same tone a child might use to prove she knows all about something exotic.
“It’s probably—” Thalia shook her head before correcting herself. “No, it’s definitely fine. The Fawleys were never a stalwart traditionalist family to begin with.”
“Good.” I said, smiling at my friends. “Promise to tell me if it ever becomes an issue?”
“Again Michael, it’s not really a problem,” Cedric said, frowning at me. “But fine, if it makes you happy, I guess.”
“I promise,” Eveline nodded.
Turning, I met Thalia’s icy blue stare without flinching.
“Promise?” I pressed.
Strange, really—of all the Sacred families, Thalia’s was the one I feared offending most.
“You do realize I’m an heir, right?” Thalia replied, narrowing her eyes at me.
I shrugged. It hadn’t mattered so far—and I doubted it ever would, not to me at least.
“Fine, whatever,” in a display of rare bashfulness, Thalia looked away first, “I promise to let you know if your blood status ever becomes an issue.”
Nodding in approval, I decided to accept her awkward mumbling.
“Then that settles the matter,” I said, stuffing a few French fries into my mouth. “Now hurry up and eat—I’ve come up with a solution to my shoe burglar problem, and I want to show you.”
…
“Go ahead, touch it.” I urged, looking at the bespectacled girl in front of me.
“I don’t know…” Eveline muttered, clearly hesitant. Behind her, Thalia and Cedric groaned in irritation.
“Michael…” Cedric sighed. “Try saying it again without wearing that stupid grin on your face.”
Quickly fixing my facial expression, I glanced back at him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Again, the eleven-year-old boy groaned exaggeratedly.
“Come on Eveline, just touch it,” I said, forcing what was hopefully a sweet smile on my face. “It won’t hurt you.”
“You say that, but…” Eveline glanced at my wand.
“Eve,” Thalia snapped, “stop acting weird and touch the satchel already.”
Mustering her courage, the bespectacled girl reached out and touched my alarm-enchanted bag.
Weee! Weee! Weee!
To my immense satisfaction, Eveline wasn’t the only one who visibly flinched as the shrill car alarm tore through the room.
“What is that noise?!”
“Make it stop!”
Smiling, I flicked my wand.
“Finite.”
Instantly, the alarm cut out.
Interestingly, dispelling the effect of an enchantment was markedly easier than cancelling a charm cast directly by another witch or wizard.
Heck, even Thalia’s weakest Lumos Charm had been harder to dispel than my own enchantment.
Presumably, it was because enchantments functioned as passive constructs—less direct than the active, intent-driven nature of charms. As a result, there wasn’t as much shielding around the spell matrix.
“Or perhaps it’s simply easier to dispel the Alarm Charm because I was the original creator of the spell matrix?” In either case, the matter deserved closer study.
Sighing loudly, Thalia was the first to break the silence that ensued.
“That’s definitely going to keep burglars at bay.”
“Keep them at bay?” Cedric shook his head incredulously. “Try giving them a heart attack! What even was that sound?!”
Lifting an eyebrow, it took me a moment to realise that Cedric genuinely hadn’t heard a car alarm before.
“How out of touch can wizards be…”
“A car alarm,” I explained patiently. “It’s a… security mechanism used by Muggles to prevent car theft. You do know what a car is… right?”
Cedric had the audacity to look at me like I was the one who was stupid.
“Of course I know what a car is!”
“Merlin, that scared me…” Eveline muttered, pressing a hand to her beating heart. “Was there really a need to make it so loud?”
“Yeah, about that…” I scratched my head, somewhat sheepishly, “I, uh… haven’t quite figured out how to control the volume yet.”
Lowering the spark investment only shortened the duration, so the issue had to be with intent.
“First the General-Counter Spell, and now Alarm enchantments…” Thalia muttered softly, shaking her head in disbelief.
I smiled sheepishly.
Afterward, I took it upon myself to help the others master their Red Spark Charms, offering advice and the occasional correction where I saw fit.
Interestingly, even though we used the same incantations and wand movements, our spells still came out differently. At first, I chalked it up to variations in intent and spark reserve—but the more I observed them practicing, the more it got me thinking.
The differences in our spells likely weren’t just about intent. Our wands, our personalities… perhaps even our individual understanding of magic itself shaped how our charms manifested.
Thalia’s Vermilious Charm flew the farthest, sharp and fast. In contrast, Cedric’s might not possess the same range or speed, but it flared brighter—more solid, more stable.
Eveline’s, though… her Red Spark Charm barely made it halfway before sputtering out.
More and more, it seemed like even structured wand magic wasn’t as rigid or uniform as I’d initially presumed.
And so, we prepared—each in our own way—for tomorrow’s Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson.
…
A chilling shiver trickled down my spine as I stepped into Professor Snape’s classroom.
The dungeons were as unpleasant as its name implied. The stone walls were slick with condensation, and the air perpetually saturated with dampness that clung to my skin like a second layer.
Farther down the shadowed corridors lay the entrance to the Snake Pit.
Though I’d never seen it in person, Hogwarts: A History described it as eerily beautiful—bathed in green-tinged light filtering in from the Black lake above.
“Then again, I suppose most common rooms have their own kind of charm.” Personally, however, I really enjoyed waking up to the airy atmosphere of the Aerie.
While we waited for Snape to begin the lesson, my gaze unconsciously drifted to the table in front of me, settling on a patch of old scorch marks.
“A failed experiment, most likely…”
“Starting today,” came Snape’s voice—quiet, but slicing through the room like a scalpel. Behind him, the dungeon gate clicked shut, the sound reverberating ominously through the hall. “You will attempt to brew the Cure for Boils.”
His gaze swept across the room, expression utterly unreadable.
“And since we already covered basic safety measures, I trust there will be no accidents. To my knowledge, Madame Pomfrey has little patience for those who injure themselves through incompetence.”
He turned, already moving toward the blackboard.
“Prepare your cauldron properly. Page eleven, Magical Drafts and Potions by Jigger. The ingredients,” he added, with a faint curl of disdain, “are at the back of the room. Do try not to waste them.”
Very hesitantly, Ophelia raised her hand.
“What is it, Miss Hollis?” Snape asked, his tone dripping with impatience.
“S-Sir, w-what s-should we do…” Ophelia gulped audibly. “I-If we f-forgot to bring our cauldron w-with us to class?”
Looking around the classroom, I sighed. Every single Slytherin had remembered to bring their cauldron with them.
Among the Ravenclaws, however, several students had clearly forgotten—fidgeting in their seats, avoiding Snape’s eye like their lives depended on it.
Judging by the smug looks on the Slytherins’ faces, I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been deliberate somehow.
The Potions Master was their Head of House, after all.
Snape said nothing at first. His gaze drifted slowly from face to face, lingering on each offender as though committing them to memory.
“Five points,” he said at last, voice low and measured. “For each of you incapable of following the simplest instructions. There are spares in the back. Sort it out—quietly.”
And just like that, Ravenclaw lost a ground-breaking thirty points. After today, I doubt any of the Ravens would ever forget their class material again.
I sighed, ignoring the quiet groans and winces of my housemates as I opened my textbook.
“Let’s see… page eleven.”
Magical Drafts and Potions was to Potions what the Standard Book of Spells was to Charms—the standard, Ministry-approved text for first-years.
Its pages were a chaotic mixture of brewing instructions, basic theory, and ingredients lists—densely written and dry, with only the occasional diagram. Illustrations, it seemed, were a luxury.
I didn’t mind, but I figured some of my peers would.
“Cure for Boils, classified as a basic restorative or dermatological draft.” I read, committing the information to memory. “Requires a standard pewter cauldron, size 2, thoroughly cleaned to remove prior residue. Then, fill to the halfway mark with fresh spring water, cold.”
Nodding, I wiped my pewter cauldron clean, just in case there were any dust or contaminants in it.
“Set cauldron over medium flame, brining water to a gentle simmer—no bubbling.”
Lighting the fire using the burner beneath my workstation, I turned the brass dial that regulated the flame intensity to medium.
Fortunately, small freshwater basins had been prepared beforehand—most likely a preventative measure.
Satisfied, I headed to the back of the classroom to grab some ingredients, before all the good ones were gone.
Arranged neatly on shelves and cabinets in the back were rows of glass jars, phials, and containers of different shapes and sizes. The majority were left out in the open, while a few jars were kept in a locket glass cabinet.
The contents ranged from coiled roots to glittering powders, each sealed with wax or glass stoppers.
Naturally, the jars were labelled in Latin—which meant I had to cross-reference every single label with the ingredients listed in the textbook.
Without relying too heavily on my peers, I swiftly located some dried nettles, three snake fangs, two stewed horned slugs, and a pair of porcupine quills.
Needless to say, it was an odd assortment—vaguely repulsive ingredients I never imagined I’d be handling. Yet, still, I found it rather fascinating.
Especially the horned slugs.
Back at my workstation, I gave Thalia a friendly nod. One she met with a narrowed glance before turning back to her own cauldron without a word.
“Alright, I see how it is…” I thought, shaking my head with a weary smile.
Recalling Snape’s words from last class—that potion-making was an exact science—I followed the instructions in the textbook rigidly, almost religiously. Preparing the ingredients to the best of my ability.
Once the freshwater had begun to simmer gently, I added my first ingredient into the cauldron: twenty-five grams of finely chopped dried nettles.
This was the first time I’d gotten to use the brass scales I bought with Professor McGonagall back in Diagon Alley.
With the dried nettles added, I stirred the water clockwise for fifteen seconds.
Once the fifteen seconds were up, I introduced the crushed snake fangs slowly, ensuring even distribution-
Nodding in satisfaction, I moved on to the next step and added one stewed horned slug in at a time, stirring the concoction counter-clockwise between each.
“I wonder how they created this recipe.” I mused, holding the wooden ladle.
It hardly felt like you accidentally stumbled upon a recipe like this.
Anyway, since the mixture had to settle for a minute and a half, I took the opportunity to glance around the classroom.
At the front, Snape could be seen, observing the proceedings with narrowed eyes and a faintly disdainful expression.
Following his cold gaze, I couldn’t help but sigh.
“Thomas… what have you done?”
Inexplicably, my fellow Muggle-born Raven’s mixture was a sickly green—and not purple, like it was supposed to.
Still, Snape remained quiet, even though he clearly knew that Thomas had messed up somewhere.
I only hesitated briefly before deciding to speak up.
“Tom!” I called, drawing the wide-eyed attention of several classmates. “You might want to start over—the mixture’s supposed to be purple, not green.”
“Five points from Ravenclaw,” Snape snapped, his eyes narrowing in my direction. “For disrupting the class.”
A few Ravens immediately shot me irritated looks, while others suddenly became very interested in the colour of their own brews.
I shrugged as I returned to my cauldron. Honestly, helping a housemate felt like it was worth the loss of a few meagre house points.
Truthfully, in any other class, my actions probably would’ve earned us points.
“Snape really is an unlikeable fellow.”
After a minute and a half, I carefully removed the cauldron from the heat—the accompanying fumes smelled like something between wet stone and an old aquarium. A bad odour, for sure, but not nauseating.
Once the brew had cooled down, I finally added the porcupine quills.
“Is it finished?” I mused, studying my brew with furrowed brows.
The mixture was purple, with a faint silver sheen that had appeared when I’d added the porcupine quills.
According to the textbook, it was supposed to be a deep and rich mauve with a silvery sheen—which meant that somewhere, my brew must’ve lost potency somehow.
Just as I was studying my brew, a loud boom erupted from across the classroom, snapping everyone’s attention.
As far as I could tell, one of the Snakes’ mixtures had apparently exploded.
“He must’ve added the porcupine quills too early…” I thought, recalling the textbook’s warning about introducing them before the mixture had cooled properly.
A thick, foul-smelling steam billowed toward the ceiling—causing some of the nearby students to cough in disgust.
Snape was at the scene in two strides, robes swirling behind him.
“Mr Rosier,” he said venomously, “if your objective was to destroy my classroom, you’re remarkably close to success.”
Said Slytherin’s face paled as he stammered something incoherent, but Snape wasn’t having any of it.
“Ten points from Slytherin.” He proclaimed, causing some of us to gasp in surprise. “Clean it up. Without magic.”
Snape turned, surveying the rest of the class with narrowed eyes. “If anyone else feels the urge to defy basic brewing protocol, do let me know—so I can deduct House points in advance.”
He sniffed once, sharply, then snapped his attention to a nearby workstation.
“Mr. Winslow, you’re brew is boiling.”
…
After finishing his silent lap around the classroom, Snape turned to address the class with an unreadable expression.
“Most of you performed… practicably. That is to say, poorly.” Snape began, apparently not worried about singling a few students out with his pointed glare. “A few of you, however, showed the faintest spark of competence.”
“Bottle your brews. Label them clearly. And leave them on my desk. Do not speak as you exit the classroom.”
Following the professor’s instructions, I poured my brew into a phial and labelled it carefully—with the potion’s name, the date, and my own. After placing it on Snape’s desk, I slipped out of the classroom—one of the first to leave.
“Snape’s horrible,” someone whispered behind me.
“Did you hear the rumour about him being part-vampire?”
“I heard he once cursed a student who talked back to him; they had to be taken out of Hogwarts entirely.”
I scoffed, shaking my head at their silly gossip.
“He’s not part-vampire,” Quentin whispered. “My brother says he used to be a Death Eater.”
“A-A w-what?” Thomas stammered.
Quentin clicked his tongue in disgust, not even bothering to answer him.
“A Death Eater is one of You-Know-Who’s followers. They used to sneak into people’s houses and curse them. Or worse.” Matilda offered, her voice hushed.
“T-Then w-why isn’t he in prison?” Thomas asked, pale as a sheet of paper.
“Why even bother explaining it to him Matilda,” Quentin scoffed. “He probably doesn’t even know who You-Know-Who is anyway.”
Quentin shot me a narrow-eyed look as their little clique strode past, but ultimately chose to ignore me.
Matilda, on the other hand, gave me a polite node in passing, which I returned in kind.
Thomas, however, looked like he was about to say something, but hesitated—and glanced away at the last second.
“Children.” I sighed.
“Thank Merlin it’s over…” Ophelia sighed as she stepped out of the classroom, Thalia and Selene flanking her. “Snape give me the creeps.”
“H-He’s not that bad.” Selene offered tentatively.
“He’s not?!” Ophelia exclaimed, eyes wide. “I thought for sure he was going to chop my head off when I asked him about the cauldron thing.”
“Well, to be fair, you did forget to bring your cauldron to class,” Thalia pointed out.
“Sure, but still—thirty points? Seems a bit heavy-handed, no?”
“How’d it go?” I asked, joining their stride. “Did you manage it?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t know.” Ophelia spluttered, clearly irritated. “Snape only bothers to speak when you’ve done something wrong.”
“I’m think I did,” Thalia replied, her expression thoughtful. “The colour looked like what the textbook described.”
I nodded. “Same here—though I’m pretty sure I lost a bit of potency from adding the porcupine quills too late.”
Behind us, Ophelia groaned loudly as we continued discussing the finer points of the Cure for Boils.
…
It didn’t take long before it was time to take our seats in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Like usual, I plopped down in the front—Thalia taking the seat next to me—while Ophelia and Selene sat behind us.
Professor Crowe was already here—still missing an ear—waiting for us.
Comparing Crowe to Snape was like comparing a wild wolf to a venomous snake—both intimidating in their own way.
When the clock hit 10:45 a.m., the professor started.
“Today, I would like to start class with something of a story,” Crowe tapped the side of his head, the side missing an ear.
“Unless you haven’t noticed, I used to have an ear here. Lost it in Inverness around ten years ago, in a midnight raid on a rogue spellcircle. One particularly charming dark wizard who liked transfiguring hexes mid-flight.”
Crowe chuckled, as if recalling a funny memory.
“I went in clean. Me and a wand, just like we’re taught. Got a good spell off even—textbook, really. But I didn’t dodge.”
A pause. Crowe stared at the class, and round me, my peers watched him with rapt attention.
“Thought I didn’t have to. I didn’t sidestep. Just stood there, like an overconfident idiot, assuming my spell would be faster.”
Again, Professor Crowe tapped the side of his head.
“Hex sheared the ear clean off. No pain, just heat and three days of the worst ringing imaginable. After the fight concluded, I picked the ear up on the way out. It’s in a jar on my desk if any of you are the curious sort.”
Next to me, Thalia squirmed uncomfortably. And truthfully, she wasn’t the only one feeling a bit queasy.
Wasn’t magic supposed to be wonderous and… well, magical?
“Now. To the point.” Crowe sighed. “Shielding is important. Obviously. But if you stand still in a fight, you will lose something. Fingers. Teeth. Friends… Or, in my case, symmetry.”
He smiled a smile that promised pain.
“Henceforth, we dodge. Today, tomorrow, next week—until even the bloody wind struggles to touch you. When I’m finished, you lot will be the most acrobatic witches and wizards this castle has ever seen—springy as Kneazles, and twice as mean.”
“Line up along that wall,” Professor Crowe ordered. “Wands at the ready.”
With a flick of his wand, the desks and chairs scraped back against the floor, clearing a broad space at the centre of the room.
“Last class, I assigned you homework,” Professor Crowe said, surveying us like a drill sergeant reviewing fresh recruits.
Several students began fidgeting nervously with their robes.
“One by one, you’ll cast the Red Sparks Charm—at me.”
He gave a wolfish grin.
“To make it interesting: ten points to whoever manages to land a hit.”
Unable to help it, chatter erupted as the wide-eyed students processed what the professor had just said.
And honestly, I couldn’t blame them. We were being encouraged to point our wands at a professor—and rewarded for it.
“Let’s start from the right,” Crowe announced, turning to look at one of the “outsiders.”
“Miss Greengrave, right? Go ahead.”
Said student’s look like she’d seen a ghost, as the entire class focused on her.
Urged by the student next to her, the shy girl eventually stammered.
“V-Vermilious…”
An awkward silence settled over the room as a feeble glob of red light spluttered from her wand, floated a few centimetres, before suddenly taking a nose-dive straight into the floor.
If the onlookers were uncomfortable, Miss Greengrave looked downright mortified—eyes wode, lips trembling, and clearly on the verge of tears.
“Better a misfire in practice than a real duel. Adjust your grip. Try again.” Professor Crowe demanded, watching with crossed arms.
Greengrave looked like she was about to break out in tears, but the girl next to her nudged her.
“V-Vermilious!”
Fortunately, the second try was markedly better than her first.
“Good, continue practicing,” Crowe nodded, turning his attention to the student standing to the left of Greengrave.
“Miss Blight, if you will.”
The proud girl gave a silent nod, raising her wand with practiced grace.
“Oh?” I couldn’t help but to lift a brow.
“Vermilious!”
In accordance with her fluid and deliberate wandwork, the resulting bolt flew clean and precise, spluttering out just as it was about to reach Professor Crowe.
“Nice try, Miss Blight,” Crowe said, allowing a rare smile. “With a bit more power behind the spell, you might’ve hit me. Five points to Ravenclaw.”
And just like that, it was as if the rest of the class were seeing her for the first time.
My reaction, however, wasn’t envy or surprise—just confusion.
“If a bolt like that earned five points, then why didn’t he give me any last class?”
Unconsciously, a knot tightened low in my stomach.
After Blight’s demonstration, it was Rufus, William and Roger’s turn.
Rufus and William both managed to produce the charm, but theirs lacked Blight’s precision—slower and wobbling mid-air. Needless to say, neither earned any points.
Roger, however, must’ve channelled his inner canonical powers, because his unstable bolt actually made it all the way to where Professor Crowe was standing.
Who dodged it with nothing more than a slight tilt of the head.
“Well done. Though your wandwork needs more practice. Five points to Ravenclaw.”
After my Roger, I took a deep breath.
“Mr. Morgan." Crowe said simply, his expression neutral as he turned my way.
Around me, my peers immediately began to whisper—mainly about the spell I'd cast in Professor Flitwick's class.
Taking a step forward, I ignored their chatter and I studied my target.
Without relying on the proper wand movements, I pointed my wand at the professor.
“Vermilious.” I said, voice laced with intent.
The bolt that subsequently erupted from my wand was easily twice the size of Roger’s—so dense it looked almost tangible—and flew faster than Blight’s, whistling sharply through the air as it tore across the room.
My aim was precise—but not fixed. Just as the bolt neared Crowe’s head, I gave my wand a sharp but discreet flick.
Crowe’s eyes widened—minutely—as he registered the shift in trajectory. At the last possible second, he waved a wandless hand, and the crimson bolt ricocheted off a hastily conjured shield.
"A wandless and wordless Protego Charm?" I raised a brow in surprise.
This time, the silence that ensued was positively deafening.
Truthfully, I couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at my lips. Sure, I hadn’t hit him—but I’d forced the older wizard to break his own rule.
He hadn’t dodged the bolt.
He’d deflected it.
And everyone knew it.
“Well done,” Professor Crowe said evenly, his eyes narrowing at me slightly.
Just as I thought he was about to add something, he turned his attention toward Thalia.
“Miss Fawley, if you will.”
If they hadn’t noticed it yet, everyone realized something was off when Thalia pointedly refused to step forward
“Professor,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I believe you forgot something.”
“Hm?” Crowe raised a brow in feigned surprise. “Did I?”
“You didn’t award Michael any points.”
For a moment, the room was silent, the air taut with unspoken tension.
“I didn’t forget,” Crowe said at last, meeting Thalia’s gaze completely unfazed. “Mr. Morgan’s spell didn’t hit me.”
…
Author's note: Approximately 12,000 words in three days. I do plan to flesh out this chapter a bit more, but the structure and core content are in place.
