This time, during the lesson with the centaurs, Tom kept the three little ones by his side, letting them play with Usagi so Ariana wouldn't get too bored.
When students later gathered in the Great Hall for dinner, the empty seat at the staff table was suddenly filled at last.
A short, stocky wizard was enthusiastically greeting his future colleagues. Other than Snape, who scowled as usual, the rest of the staff returned his greetings with polite, if restrained, smiles.
But no one looked too enthusiastic. After all, the job of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was cursed—being overly friendly to the newcomer felt pointless when he'd likely be gone by next year.
As dinner drew to a close, Dumbledore finally rose to his feet. The Great Hall fell silent at once. Every eye turned toward the Headmaster, waiting.
"It is my great honor," Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying effortlessly, "to introduce a new member of our staff. Mr. Rouse Wilkinson."
Wilkinson rose with impeccable timing.
"He will be your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Mr. Wilkinson has agreed to share his vast knowledge and experience with you all, and I must say—even I have found his understanding of certain magics to be astonishing."
The students' response was tepid: a smattering of polite applause, more duty than enthusiasm. After all, they had seen far too many unqualified professors in this position to trust mere words.
But Dumbledore was unbothered. He continued warmly, "Mr. Wilkinson hails from the United States. He is a distinguished graduate of Ilvermorny. I hope you will learn from the strengths of both our schools, and perhaps broaden your horizons beyond Britain."
That caught their attention.
Ilvermorny?
Whispers ran through the Hall. Many had never even heard of the American wizarding school. Excited speculation buzzed among the tables as students tried to piece together whatever scraps of information they had.
Dumbledore ended his speech without further flourish, leaving curiosity to ferment.
The students filed out, already wondering what tomorrow's lesson would bring.
Tom, however, made no move to approach Wilkinson. The man still had no idea that the mysterious Michael who once saved his life was standing right there among the students.
…
The next morning, Wilkinson had two Defense Against the Dark Arts classes scheduled, the first with Gryffindor and Slytherin.
Even before lessons began, the two Houses were surrounded by a crowd of curious onlookers.
"How was he, Carrow?" someone asked eagerly.
Carrow grinned. "For once, the Headmaster did something right. Wilkinson is a descendant of one of the twelve Aurors who founded the Magical Congress of the United States. His bloodline is pure, his talent exceptional."
The Slytherins visibly relaxed. Whatever else might be said, this man's pedigree already placed him leagues above Quirrell or Lockhart.
Over at the Gryffindor table, Fred and George clutched their chests dramatically, faces full of mock agony.
"This one's the real deal," George declared. "He must've heard about Lockhart and decided to prove himself properly. He let students challenge him outright. Fred and I both tried—and he floored us in a single move. Our spells didn't even graze him."
"Finally!" a fifth-year sighed with relief. "A professor who can actually teach us something. Maybe I'll scrape a decent mark in OWLs now."
"I want to learn his dueling techniques," Angelina Johnson muttered under her breath, still stung by her losses to Slytherin students.
"You should," Fred encouraged. "He's easy to talk to—doesn't feel like a stiff professor at all. More like… a friend. Even the atmosphere in class felt different."
Hermione leaned in eagerly. "Did he say anything about Ilvermorny?"
"Oh, he did," George teased, waggling his eyebrows. "But I won't spoil the surprise. Don't worry—he promised every year would get the same first lesson. You'll see soon enough."
By lunchtime, Wilkinson's reputation had already risen dramatically. Class after class praised him, and excitement built toward his official lessons.
Finally, on Friday morning, the upper years crowded into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom for Wilkinson's first true lecture.
They entered to find the room transformed. The podium was gone. The neat rows of desks had been rearranged into a ring, leaving a wide, open space in the center. Chalk lines marked out a dueling square.
Tom and Daphne chose seats near the middle. The bell rang—and right on cue, Wilkinson strode in.
He walked directly to the center of the ring, smiling as his eyes swept the room. His gaze lingered on Tom for a few extra seconds before he forced himself to look away.
Truthfully, Wilkinson's curiosity about Tom had reached its peak. Who was this boy, close enough to Grindelwald to be called his student? How had they communicated across continents, eluding both the Ministries and Dumbledore's watchful eyes?
And—most importantly—what was his purpose in coming here now?
But Wilkinson knew better than to reveal his thoughts. He smothered his questions and turned to the class instead.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said warmly, inclining his head, "you've probably heard rumors about my methods. And I know you've all harbored doubts about your past professors in this subject.
"So, let me put it plainly. In every class, without exception, I offer the same challenge: anyone may step forward and face me. I will prove my worth not with words, but with magic."
His voice dropped into a persuasive cadence, carrying a hint of temptation.
"Defeat your professor, and you will be remembered as a prodigy. An opportunity like this doesn't come twice. Are none of you tempted?"
The room stayed quiet. Not a single student dared move.
They all remembered the seventh-years who had tried yesterday—and failed spectacularly. Even the strongest among them had barely managed to inconvenience Wilkinson.
Why volunteer to be humiliated?
Wilkinson's eyes flickered with disappointment.