Friday morning.
The Hufflepuff first-years were finally about to have their first Defence Against the Dark Arts class.
The classroom was tucked away in a corner on the third floor. When the first young wizard arrived, he repeatedly double-checked to make sure he hadn't gone to the wrong place before hesitantly stepping inside.
The classroom was very dark, with only one small window—and even that was tightly shut. A strange, indescribable smell filled the entire room.
When Wayne arrived, he instinctively frowned.
He was just about to open the window when Professor Quirrell walked in.
"D-Don't open it... it's f-f-fine like this. J-Just fine," Quirrell stammered nervously.
"Professor, I'm here for a class, not to breathe toxic gas," Wayne said unhappily, which drew a few chuckles from the other young wizards.
But they quickly covered their mouths.
It wasn't because they feared being scolded by the professor—but because as soon as Quirrell entered the room, a strong smell of garlic wafted in with him, making the already awful classroom air unbearable.
"I—I encountered an Inferius in the Black State... got cursed... can't be exposed to wind," Quirrell stuttered in explanation, pointing to the scarf wrapped around his head.
"T-This was a gift from a tribal p-p-prince."
Inferius?
A lot of the young wizards instantly perked up.
The Inferius—more commonly known as an animated corpse—was a name that rang loudly in the magical world. These were mysterious products of dark rituals.
Each Inferius was an undead being—mindless and soulless, a walking corpse. They weren't particularly strong, but they had various magical uses.
They were a must-have sacrifice for Dark Wizards when practicing black magic.
"Professor, how did you defeat the Inferius?" Justin Finch-Fletchley raised his hand eagerly.
"T-That's not r-r-related to today's lesson," Quirrell dodged the question. "Turn to page three of your textbooks. Today, we'll be learning how to evade a Kappa—"
"Don't be like that, Professor! Please tell us your story!" Hannah pressed again.
But Quirrell ignored her and began mumbling the lesson.
How should one describe it...
Even Professor Binns was better.
At least Binns' monotone was clear enough to be used as a bedtime story.
But Quirrell stammered so badly that he couldn't even read a sentence smoothly. And as for sleeping—well, the smell in the room made that impossible.
In no time, the most anticipated Defence Against the Dark Arts class turned into two hours of pure torture.
Wayne raised his hand.
"Y-Yes, M-Mr. Lawrence, d-do you have a question?" Quirrell asked.
"Professor, I do. In fact, it's a very serious problem," Wayne stood up. "I can understand Professor Binns reading from the book, but if you're also going to read from the book, then what are we even learning in Defence Against the Dark Arts?"
"If we encounter a Kappa, are we supposed to smack it to death with our textbooks?"
"Defence Against the Dark Arts is supposed to teach us spells! Can you teach us how to use the Repelling Charm?"
His words received loud support from the students. Everyone began to chatter at once.
Quirrell was frightened and stammered an explanation, saying he wanted everyone to gain more foundational knowledge first, and that he would teach spells eventually.
To be fair, he did teach one.
After another hour of torture, Quirrell finally wrote the incantation for the Repelling Charm on the blackboard.
And then... he ended the class.
Wayne spoke up again:
"Professor, could you demonstrate it for us?"
Quirrell hemmed and hawed for a long time, then made an excuse about it being "too dangerous."
The students became even more disgruntled. What danger could a Repelling Charm possibly pose?
As the situation spiraled out of control, Quirrell's shifty eyes began to well up with tears, and to everyone's shock, he hugged his textbook and ran out, leaving behind a room full of stunned first-years.
Wayne was stunned too.
All he wanted was to earn a few house points—how did it end with him making someone cry?
Having been at Hogwarts for nearly a week now, Wayne had spent his time familiarizing himself with the school and looking for a good opportunity to start earning points.
Most of the other professors were people he respected. He couldn't bring himself to intentionally stir up trouble just for points.
But Quirrell?
This guy was deliberately pretending to be weak, and he was also Voldemort's host.
Wayne had absolutely no guilt bullying him.
In just one class period, Wayne had already earned over a hundred points.
Just as he was preparing to keep pushing toward two hundred before taking a break—
Who would've thought Quirrell's tolerance was so low that he actually ran off?
Who was he supposed to reason with now?
At Hogwarts, there were no secrets. What happened in class quickly spread, and the first to hear of it were the other two first-year houses.
"You really made Professor Quirrell cry?"
At lunch, Hermione pulled Wayne over to the Gryffindor table and asked curiously.
"What's wrong with these two?"
Wayne didn't answer her. Instead, he looked at Harry and Neville sitting beside her—both of them staring blankly ahead, their expressions numb, like they'd just been through hell.
"Don't even mention it!"
Ron angrily slammed down his knife and fork. "Just now in Potions class, Snape was chasing after Harry like a bloodhound! He kept asking all these questions we haven't even learned yet. Harry couldn't answer, and we lost two points for it."
"Granger's hand was practically touching the ceiling, and he still ignored her. Is he blind or something?!"
Hermione shot him a glare.
What did he mean by 'touching the ceiling'? Was he calling her some kind of long-armed freak?
So it was Potions class, huh...
Wayne didn't find it strange at all now. In fact, he was surprised Snape had only deducted two points—seemed far too lenient.
"I actually have a way to help you all avoid being targeted so much," Wayne said after thinking for a moment.
Harry's eyelids twitched, and he instinctively looked over.
"Coach, I want to learn."
Ahem ahem. Wayne cleared his throat, putting on an air of wisdom. "When Snape asked you a question earlier, you were staring straight at him the whole time, weren't you?"
Harry nodded furiously.
This guy's a master—he even noticed that?
"That's where you went wrong," Wayne shook his head. "Think about it—when you hate someone, and that person keeps staring you in the eye, clearly not backing down, what would you do?"
Harry thought it over. "I'd get angrier and angrier."
Wayne clapped his hands. "Exactly! So next time this happens, just lower your head and sincerely apologize. Even if the professor is still angry, he won't be able to do much—your attitude is just too good."
Harry's eyes grew brighter and brighter, and in the end, he gratefully said,
"Thank you, Wayne. Otherwise, I really wouldn't know what to do."
"No need to thank me," Wayne replied with a gentle smile. "Just remember—never make eye contact with Snape."
With that, and after receiving a system prompt of +50 points, he drifted away coolly.