Chapter 18: Defence Against the Dark Arts
Michael's resentment over the History of Magic essay lingered all the way to their next class.
On Tuesdays, the Ravenclaw first-years had Defence Against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins. Most Hogwarts classes were shared between two houses. Only on special occasions, such as a unique astronomical event, would all four houses attend a class like Astronomy together.
This was just one of the many facts Sean had gleaned from Michael's incessant chatter on their way to the classroom.
According to him, Defence Against the Dark Arts was the most popular subject at Hogwarts. This proclamation had raised Anthony's and Terry's expectations to a fever pitch.
Walking behind them, Sean shook his head. While the subject matter was certainly fascinating, the quality of the teaching was notoriously inconsistent. For a class of such vital importance, the track record was abysmal.
The first-year professor was a stutterer.
The second-year was a fraud.
The third and fourth years were reasonably competent.
The fifth-year was a pink, magical toad.
The sixth-year was a finally-successful Professor Snape.
The seventh-year was a Death Eater who specialized in persecution, not education.
Looking at it that way, out of seven years of Defence Against the Dark Arts, only three of them offered a proper education.
For that reason, Sean had resolved to teach himself. He clutched a copy of Defensive Magical Theory, a fifth-year textbook he had checked out from the library in advance. He had a feeling he would need it. It certainly wasn't just because he could read it for free.
Any lingering hope for the class vanished the moment Professor Quirrell began. Sean knew that Quirrell had once been a brilliant Ravenclaw, but after becoming a host for Voldemort, he had clearly lost access to the knowledge he was once so proud of. Or perhaps he simply no longer had the energy to display it.
It was then that Michael, sitting in the front row, finally understood Sean's strange behaviour. Sean had chosen a seat in the very back corner and had been buried in a book since before the class had even started. Michael had been confused, but then a thick, overpowering stench of garlic washed over him. That, combined with Professor Quirrell's stammering, incomprehensible lecture, which he read verbatim from a textbook, made Michael feel as though he had descended into a special kind of hell.
Terry, sitting closest to Quirrell, was completely motionless. He looked as if he had been asphyxiated.
Trolls are classified into several types: Mountain, River, and Sea. The Mountain Troll is the largest and most vicious. It is bald, with a pale-grey hide tougher than rhinoceros skin, and has the strength of ten men. However, its brain is the size of a pea, making it easy to confuse…
Sean was engrossed in The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble. The book's cover was a deep, featureless black, reflecting the concise and efficient nature of its contents.
Banshees, ghouls, hags, trolls, vampires, werewolves, yetis, boggarts, Red Caps, Kappas, Hinkypunks, Grindylows—detailed information on all of them was packed into this one slim volume. Miraculously, it still had space to cover a variety of counter-jinxes and defensive spells.
This was truly practical, useful knowledge, and Sean committed it to memory. His only disappointment was the realization that, given Professor Quirrell's state, he was unlikely to learn any real defensive magic in class. He would have to learn on his own.
But spells like the Disarming Charm and the Shield Charm were advanced magic. At the very least, he hadn't found them in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. How was he supposed to learn them?
As Sean was frowning over this problem, the class finally ended. The students fled the classroom as if escaping a plague. Michael and Terry, however, remained frozen in their seats, looking like they had been petrified.
Sean walked over, a bit concerned. He wasn't prepared for Michael to suddenly lunge at him, roaring, "The agony!"
The outburst made Sean jump.
Compared to Defence Against the Dark Arts, the next class was one Sean was genuinely looking forward to. Unlike certain two-faced individuals, Professor Flitwick was a truly capable teacher. He would instruct them on the proper wand movements and incantations, which was exactly what Sean needed.
Sean knew that a wizard's power came from belief. But simply believing wasn't enough, as he had learned from a week of fruitless "believing" before he started at Hogwarts. A wizard's power came from belief, yes, but how you believed, and the method through which you channeled that belief, was a crucial part of the equation.
As Adalbert Waffling, the "Father of Magical Theory," had written: "Most wizards cannot consciously control this raw force on their own. They require the focusing conduits of a wand and the structure of an incantation to shape their magic and direct it toward a specific purpose."
The Charms classroom was on the third floor, and the constantly shifting Grand Staircase was causing the first-years a massive headache. The entire group of Ravenclaws was stranded on one landing, waiting for the staircase that connected to their classroom to swing into place.
At the back of the crowd, Terry was scribbling frantically in a notebook. "I'm close to figuring out the pattern," he muttered.
Michael clapped a hand to his forehead. "Terry, I have no doubt that you'll succeed, but by the time you've figured it out, we'll already be late."
As the minutes ticked by and the staircase remained stubbornly out of reach, the students grew more and more anxious. It was their very first lesson with their own Head of House, and the entire Ravenclaw class was about to be late. The thought was horrifying.
Sean sighed and went back to his book. He couldn't change the staircase, so he might as well review the textbook.
"Alright, alright, huddle up. Terry, we're counting on you," Michael said, giving up. "Sean, let's go. At least we don't have to be the last ones in." He grabbed Sean's arm and started pushing his way to the front, with Anthony and Terry close behind.
"Are you ready, Terry?"
"Almost…"
"That's the fourth time you've said that! Merlin's mouldy underpants!" Michael shrieked, clearly at the end of his rope after the ordeals of garlic and rogue staircases.
Just then, Sean saw a tall, spectral figure drift through a nearby wall. Her appearance gave him an idea.
"The Grey Lady," he called out softly.
The ghost floated towards them. The temperature around the Ravenclaws dropped noticeably.
"A ghost! Merlin!"
"She's coming this way!"
For many of the young wizards, fear still outweighed curiosity when it came to ghosts. The crowd instinctively pressed together. Even the usually bold Michael was trembling. "Sean, what are you doing?"
"The prefect said the Grey Lady might have a connection to our founder, remember?" Sean explained quietly. He then addressed the ghost directly. "Lady Helena, could you possibly help us with the staircase? We're going to be late for Charms class."
The Grey Lady didn't speak, but she turned her head and fixed her gaze on Sean. The silent stare nearly gave Michael and Terry a heart attack.
"She's too close… way too close…"
"Sean, this doesn't seem like a good idea…"
As the two of them stammered in fear, the staircase in front of them began to move with a low rumble, swinging around to connect perfectly with their landing.
Michael and Terry stared, their eyes wide with disbelief.