Tver figured he could guess the reason behind the sudden shift in attitude—word had spread about how he'd clashed and joked with the students during class.
At Hogwarts, it only took a single day for news to reach every corner of the castle. Truly, this school never failed to amaze.
"Just a bit of teaching technique," Tver shrugged. "Seems the students didn't mind."
"They're more than just not opposed," Professor Flitwick said with a conspiratorial wink. "I was actually worried you'd be nervous on your first day."
"Only a bunch of third-years. They're easy enough to handle," Tver replied with a tone of false world-weariness that could easily have come from Flitwick himself.
He kept smiling as they walked, until his face began to feel stiff. He'd only met the students at last night's banquet, and today was merely the first day of term—yet it felt as though every single one of them already knew the new professor.
The moment he stepped into the Great Hall, however, he understood exactly what Flitwick had meant.
As soon as the students saw him, someone let out a dramatic cry.
"Professor Fawley! Can't you consider whipping me too—I'm a fourth-year!"
The words came from a rather rugged-looking boy.
The Great Hall burst into laughter, but beneath the laughter, eager eyes locked on Tver, full of expectation.
"Professor, please teach us combat skills too!"
"Please tie me up tightly—I don't mind!"
Meanwhile, at the staff table, Quirrell looked like he'd gladly never teach another class, content to spend his days obsessing over how to deal with the Three-Headed Dog.
Tver had only taught one lesson—it wasn't enough to explain why students were this excited.
But comparisons were unavoidable. Quirrell's first class, in contrast, was painfully dull.
The entire classroom reeked of garlic, enough to give students headaches. As for the content, he simply read from the textbook—only a touch livelier than Binns in History of Magic.
When it came to demonstrating spells, he called on students to try, never showing them himself. His endless talk left them to fumble through the magic alone.
Tver, on the other hand, was entirely different. That golden membrane he conjured had been enough for the Weasley twins to rave about all afternoon.
And Ravenclaw's Davies? He was practically Professor Fawley's most zealous fan already, praising his power to the skies.
In the eyes of the young wizards, from looks to ability, Professor Fawley utterly crushed Professor Quirrell.
Tver raised his hand, and silence fell instantly across the hall. Seeing the burning anticipation in the students' eyes—especially the upper years—he made a broad gesture toward Quirrell at the staff table.
"All fourth-year and above classes are taught by Professor Quirrell. Believe me, his abilities are more than sufficient for Defence Against the Dark Arts. He simply hasn't had the chance to show them yet."
Quirrell wanted to keep his strength hidden, and Tver had no problem digging him a little pit to fall into. Now that they were colleagues, who else would he tease if not him?
The effect was immediate. Quirrell's amused, spectator's smile froze in place, his mouth twitching as he struggled to settle on an expression in the face of the students' questioning stares.
And just like that, the brief uproar in the Great Hall faded away, though the students continued whispering about their dashing Professor Fawley.
"We still have a few days before Professor Fawley's class," Ron said, a chicken leg in one hand and a custard tart in the other, his mouth working nonstop. "So there's no need to get excited already."
"I'm not excited!" Hermione, who was reading while eating, looked up with a frown, her tone sharp with irritation.
"Professor Fawley's first lesson is about testing our abilities. If you can't even cast one spell, we'll lose the moment we face him!"
Neville set down his chicken leg in despair. "That's it then. Even if I study all year, I might not manage to cast a proper spell."
Harry stayed quiet, listening, but his chest tightened.
In class earlier, he'd been thrilled to discover he wasn't falling behind the others—Hermione excluded, of course. But now, hearing that their very first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson involved dueling a professor, he couldn't help but panic. What if he failed? Would they send him straight back to the Dursleys?
George had plopped himself right in the middle of the group, positively buzzing. Wherever talk of Professor Fawley cropped up at the Gryffindor table, he was sure to appear.
"Don't worry. No matter how much you learn, Professor Fawley can flatten you with just one spell."
"Maybe he won't even need that," Fred added with a wicked grin. "Just a flick of his wand and you'll all faint from fright."
"But I heard it only took him one spell to knock the three of you down—and then you were all strung up," Ron said, blinking innocently, wide-eyed and clueless that he'd just stepped on a landmine.
"..."
The twins exchanged a silent look.
"I think we should invent Spider Candy," George said finally. "Turning people into spiders would be hilarious."
"Or we could pack the common room full of them. That way Gryffindors could practice their movement early," Fred chimed in.
"Movement? You mean like a combat technique?" Hermione's curiosity flared instantly. "Can you explain it to us in detail?"
She was more interested in Professor Fawley's lessons than anything. A model student, she liked to prepare before class—but from what little she'd overheard, his lessons didn't seem to follow the textbook at all. In fact, she couldn't recall any books that covered such topics.
"Patience. You'll learn it soon enough. We've got a whole year," George said smugly, shaking his head.
At the moment, only their year had taken Fawley's class, and by unspoken agreement, no one shared the details. These were secret techniques to sharpen their skills!
Of course, eventually everyone would learn them once they had Defence Against the Dark Arts—but by then, it would be a shared bond, forged from hanging upside down together. It wouldn't matter.
Hermione pursed her lips, annoyed, and turned away from the tight-lipped twins.
After polishing off his food, Ron suddenly asked, "Aren't you worried Professor Fawley might use dark magic?"
"Impossible! Why would a professor use dark magic on students?!" Hermione shot back instantly.
"But he's a proper Durmstrang, isn't he? Knowing dark magic's normal for them," Ron said with a frown.
In his mind, knowing dark magic was the same as being a dark wizard—and Durmstrang, which actually taught it, was nothing less than a dark wizard training ground.
George scowled and gave Ron a hard slap on the shoulder.
"My dear brother, knowing dark magic doesn't mean using it. I'd bet Headmaster Dumbledore knows plenty himself."
"Even if he is a dark wizard, who cares?" Fred said, eyes gleaming like the worst kind of fanboy. "As long as he doesn't use it on us."
Ron cast both of his brothers a look of pure disdain.
Weren't you two the ones betting this morning on how long it'd take Professor Fawley to get thrown into Azkaban…?