Chapter 82. After-Class Encounter
When the Acromantula struggled—
"Very precise!" Adrian Wesson applauded warmly. "Your posture is spot-on, but it would be best to adjust the angle of your wand. Two points to Gryffindor, for that bit of courage!"
"Not precise…"
"Not courage…"
Harry heard the murmurs from the classmates behind him.
Of course, although the process wasn't exactly elegant, the classroom still filled with applause.
Hearing the noise, Ron blinked his eyes open in disbelief. His breathing steadied a little, and his wand wasn't trembling quite so badly. "I did it!" he shouted to Hermione beside him.
Next, the students began taking turns casting at the poor Acromantula.
When it was Hermione's turn, she wore a hesitant look.
Hermione bit her lip, her wand slow to rise. "Professor, isn't this a bit cruel to it?"
"Cruel?" Ron, just behind her, goggled. "What are you on about?"
In truth, it wasn't only Hermione—there were other students who felt the same.
"Let me explain," Wesson clapped his hands, signalling everyone to look his way. "The Acromantula is a magical beast with a cruel nature. Don't be fooled by the fact that it's not even as big as my head right now—these little blighters will grow to the size of a car in a few months, and…"
Wesson paused, swept the room with a serious gaze, and said, "On their menu, humans rank near the top—or rather, humans are their favourite food of all. In history, quite a few witches and wizards have perished in their jaws."
The classroom fell into dead silence.
As if to confirm Wesson's words, the little spider suddenly spread its chelicerae and scraped the barrier around it with a tooth-grinding screech.
Hermione took a deep breath, raised her wand, and hesitated no longer.
"Locomotor Mortis!"
Her spell struck true, and the spider's legs locked rigid at once.
"Excellent," Wesson said with satisfaction. "Two points to Gryffindor."
Amid a chorus of "Locomotor Mortis!" Wesson's first Defence Against the Dark Arts class finally drew to a close.
Though the Leg-Locker Curse is a rather minor hex, it's still a bit demanding for first-years.
Aside from Harry and Hermione, only a handful of students managed it properly.
Ah—Ron counted as half.
Wesson awarded two points to every student who succeeded.
After class, the three of them walked along the corridor.
Ron waved his wand in excitement and almost clipped a passing portrait. "Did you see my spell just now? I even won two points for Gryffindor! That spell was brilliant!"
Hermione frowned and dodged Ron's flailing wand. "That was pure luck. A proper spell needs precise control. I'd wager you absolutely couldn't cast a second Leg-Locker Curse right now."
"'Course I can!" Ron said, brimming with confidence. "I can show you again. Harry, do me a favour and stand there, don't move."
Harry hopped aside at once. "Not a chance! I'm not becoming your practice target!"
He was quite sure that if Ron's spell landed on him, he'd be stuck with Madam Pomfrey for a while.
Ron pulled a face, then swung his wand toward a suit of armour by the corridor. "Then let that be the—"
"Stop!" Hermione cut him off. "No casting spells in the corridor!"
"Oh, come off it—you sound exactly like Professor McGonagall."
Ron shrugged, then pointed his wand at the armour and recited the incantation with full confidence.
"Locomotor Mortas!"
Harry was certain Ron had got the incantation wrong.
What happened next proved Harry right.
A crooked red flash shot from Ron's wand, splitting mid-air into several erratic beams.
One struck the armour's helmet with a resounding bang.
"Heavens!"
Hermione screamed and dove to the floor as the armour's left arm blew off, skimmed her hair, and crashed into the wall behind her.
Staring at the armour strewn in pieces across the floor, Ron realised he'd made a mistake.
"I…I didn't mean to…" Ron stammered, his face as white as parchment.
Hermione pushed herself up off the floor, furious. "That's something you should say to the professors!"
Worse was still to come.
The explosion drew Filch—and his cat.
"Who's there!?"
Filch's familiar voice echoed from the turn in the corridor. "What's happened!?"
Harry and Hermione traded a glance and immediately chose the wisest option—run for it!
Harry grabbed the still-dazed Ron. "Move!"
The three of them bolted like startled rabbits into a side passage; Ron's robes nearly tangled Harry's feet.
"This way!"
After a few flights of stairs, Harry lowered his voice and pulled them into a room.
Hermione pressed her ear to the door and listened intently, until Filch's muttering gradually faded into the distance.
She let out a long breath and turned around, only to find Harry and Ron collapsed on the floor, faces still pale with fright.
The three exchanged a look for a few seconds. Suddenly, Harry snorted with laughter.
Then Ron and Hermione followed suit.
"Feels familiar," Harry said. "Let's hope there isn't a three-headed dog behind us this time."
They glanced around the room. It looked like an empty classroom. There was nothing inside—save for a huge object in the very centre, draped in a white cloth.
Ron rubbed his nose and lifted his head to look at the hulking thing under the cloth.
"What's that?" Ron stood up, brushed the dust from his robes, and walked toward it, curious.
"Don't touch it!" Hermione warned in a low voice. "You've made enough trouble already! What if it's something dangerous…"
But before Hermione could finish, Ron had already yanked the cloth away.
"That's…" Harry murmured.
A great, ornate mirror stood before them.
Ron glanced oddly at the mirror, then turned to Harry and Hermione. "A mirror? Who'd leave a mirror like this here?"
"A mirror—perfect. I think my hair's a mess."
Hermione strode toward it, quickly combing her curls with her fingers, mussed by their mad dash.
"She actually cares about that…" Ron nudged Harry with his elbow, whispering.
The tips of Hermione's ears flushed—she had clearly heard him.
She turned and shot Ron a massive eye-roll. "Some people might want to sort out their robes first!"
Ron looked down and discovered that, at some point, the hem of his robe had got caught in his belt. Half of it was flipped up and out, like an old-fashioned apron.
He grabbed at it in a panic, only to make the robe even messier.
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