Tver was unaware of the students' praise—or rather, he had no time to pay attention to it.
He had run into a small problem.
The students had lauded the classroom battle, calling it the most valuable combat training they had ever received. But some professors saw it differently, particularly Professor McGonagall, famed for her strictness.
"I'm not questioning your methods. In fact, I'm very glad Hogwarts now has another professor skilled in combat."
Professor McGonagall paused, choosing her words carefully before continuing.
"But I do hope you'll consider the children's abilities. Suspending them from the ceiling is simply…"
She struggled for the right word until Tver supplied it.
"Unseemly?"
"Exactly—unseemly," Professor McGonagall said firmly with a nod. "Binding them would have been enough. But hanging them from the ceiling could easily make parents think our school is engaging in corporal punishment."
Tver was about to explain when Dumbledore spoke first.
"It's quite all right, Minerva. Tver's method is rather creative," he said, gesturing toward the cheerful students. "As you can see, they enjoy it immensely."
"As for the parents, I believe they'll overlook such trivial matters once they see their children's growth."
With the Headmaster's word, Professor McGonagall fell silent. After all, any complaints would ultimately land on Dumbledore's desk.
Still, Tver offered a brief clarification, lest anyone think he had unusual tastes.
"This punishment is reserved only for third-years, so they can experience a taste of combat's harshness."
"As for first- and second-years—pardon my bluntness—they're far from combat-ready. At most, it's just play for them."
Professor McGonagall gave a somewhat awkward smile.
It was natural for first-years to be weak at the start of term; if they weren't, it would be suspicious. As for the second-years, after a year of study, she honestly felt they weren't much stronger than the new first-years.
That thought made her glance sidelong at Quirrell, who was shrinking into himself and avoiding eye contact.
Professors like him, occupying the Defence Against the Dark Arts post, were precisely why Hogwarts students weren't learning anything useful.
At least this year, Albus had shown some sense, hiring an assistant professor—one this capable.
But when she recalled the rumors, unease tugged at her again.
Would Tver, too, last only a year before being forced to leave?
Tver's hand, holding his goblet, stilled. What had he said to make McGonagall look at him with such worry?
Professor Flitwick, meanwhile, hadn't thought so far ahead.
"Tver, you teach combat, but the students know so few spells. How do you intend to teach them?"
Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms were closely linked. Charms taught new spells, while Defence taught how to use those spells against real dangers.
Naturally, the older the students, the easier it was for them to grasp Defence, since they had more spells at their disposal.
But Tver only taught those below third year, which was why Flitwick worried—concerned that the lessons wouldn't feel as substantial as upper-year classes, leading to dissatisfaction.
Tver had already prepared his answer.
"Primarily, I'll focus on spellcasting techniques and alternative applications for spells they've already learned."
"And, if you don't mind, I'll also teach them practical combat spells."
"Of course not," Flitwick said warmly. "I wonder—are you skilled in Transfiguration? It's quite useful in battle."
McGonagall's attitude toward Tver softened further, as though afraid they might not see each other after this year. Hearing Flitwick, she turned to join in.
"I certainly wouldn't mind if Tver taught them to apply Transfiguration. Honestly, many students don't realize its combat potential—they think it's useless."
Tver could only sigh at that misconception. Aside from true masters of the craft, few appreciated Transfiguration's tremendous value in battle.
Fortunately, his own teacher had been one such master. Though often chastised for favoring dark magic over Transfiguration, Tver's level in the subject was still far beyond ordinary wizards.
But he couldn't help wondering—how strong was Dumbledore, the man reputed to be capable of becoming the world's greatest wizard through Transfiguration alone?
Sensing Tver's gaze, Dumbledore turned and raised his goblet in a silent toast. His blue eyes were as clear as a newborn's, yet remained impenetrable even to a master of Legilimency like Tver.
"I too look forward to seeing Transfiguration applied in more ways than just combat. If you'd ever like, Tver, we could exchange ideas."
"Exchange? I wouldn't dare." Tver quickly lifted his goblet in return. "Before you, I'm nothing more than a student."
…
After dinner, Tver followed Dumbledore to the Headmaster's office.
It was the same room as before, with the same furnishings, and the portraits still watched with faintly scrutinizing eyes.
"Old men never like change," Dumbledore said, seated behind the long table, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. "Tea, or pumpkin juice?"
Tver settled comfortably in the chair opposite him. "Pumpkin juice, please. I think I've grown rather fond of it."
No sooner had he spoken than a bottle brimming with pumpkin juice sprouted four little legs, trotting cheerfully across the table to his side. The bottle cap twisted and reshaped itself into a small, delicate cup, etched with swirling cloud-like patterns.
Tver smiled knowingly at the sight.
So, a little show of power to start with.
"Though I do prefer a larger cup. I trust you don't mind?"
Before Dumbledore could respond, the cup stretched upward, reshaping into a goblet. The bottle's neck bent of its own accord and began to pour a rich stream of pumpkin juice.
Dumbledore's smug smile faltered.
A wandless, nonverbal spell, and advanced Transfiguration at that—he'd intended the trick to impress, to remind this young professor not to grow arrogant despite his early prowess.
But Tver had casually countered with his own wandless, nonverbal Transfiguration—altering the transformation Dumbledore himself had just cast.
A transformation within a transformation. And Dumbledore was the one outplayed.
The juice, however, poured only for a moment before stopping abruptly.
Tver's goblet had suddenly shrunk into a tiny cup. Any more liquid and it would have spilled over.
"I just remembered—we only just finished dinner. Best not to drink too much pumpkin juice."
My damned competitive streak.
Dumbledore looked on with quiet amusement as Tver's face darkened.
"No matter. I'm young—my digestion's strong." Tver's smile returned, more triumphant than ever.
The cup shifted back again.