The very first Defence Against the Dark Arts class for Gryffindor and Slytherin hadn't even begun, yet it had already left everyone with an unforgettable assault on the senses.
It was a smell.
A pungent, overwhelming smell that was almost aggressive in its intensity.
Garlic.
A sharp, stinging, inescapable garlic stench that seemed to have seeped into every brick of the classroom, clung to every surface of the old desks, and even tainted the motes of dust drifting in the air.
Several Slytherin students had already covered their noses with handkerchiefs, their faces openly twisted in disgust. The Gryffindor first-years, meanwhile, were whispering among themselves, speculating on the source of this bizarre odor.
The door creaked open, and in stumbled a thin figure, clutching a stack of books taller than himself, nearly tripping with every step.
It was their new professor: Quirinus Quirrell.
He looked far too young for the post—his face pale, his eyes darting nervously, every movement radiating a constant tension he could not shake. But what drew the most attention was the ridiculous, oversized purple turban wrapped tightly around his head, making it look almost twice its normal size.
"W-welcome… welcome to Defence Ag-against the Dark Arts."
Professor Quirrell dumped the stack of books heavily onto the lectern with a loud thud. He jumped at the sound himself, shivering, before hastily adjusting his turban. He attempted a smile for the students, but his mouth only twitched twice, resulting in something far closer to a grimace.
"M-my name is Quirrell, and I… I will be your pr-professor this year."
Every word came out haltingly, as if his tongue were struggling uphill, rolling and stumbling before barely making it past his lips.
He pointed nervously at his turban. The garlic stench seemed to be emanating from it.
"Th-this… this turban… it's f-filled with garlic charms, a g-gift from an African prince. They're to ward off… ward off the v-vampire I encountered last year in the Black Forest."
The explanation immediately set off a wave of suppressed whispers.
Fred Weasley nudged Alan with his elbow, lowering his voice, his face failing to hide a grin.
"An African prince? A vampire in the Black Forest? Even my grandma's bedtime stories are more believable than that!"
Alan didn't laugh.
His calm gaze rested on Professor Quirrell, while inside his mind palace, information about the new teacher was already being analysed and catalogued.
Nervous. Stammering. Shifty eyes. Awkward body language.
And above all—a story that made no sense.
His first lesson would soon prove Alan's assessment correct.
"Today… we w-we will learn… about G-Gnomes."
Quirrell opened his textbook with trembling hands, the pages rattling noisily. He didn't dare stray from the text, simply pointing to the paragraphs with his finger and reading them aloud verbatim.
"G-gnomes are… small magical creatures that live in wizarding gardens. Ann-annoying, yes, but… but not really d-dangerous."
His monotone voice, broken constantly by stammers, destroyed any natural rhythm the words might have had. It was as if the class was being lulled into sleep. Within minutes, most students were already nodding off. Some doodled on their parchment, others leaned on their arms, their eyelids drooping.
"…G-gnomes are very, very afraid of… of sunlight."
Quirrell stumbled into what he clearly thought was an important point, repeating it with forced emphasis, though it only made his words more garbled.
"S-so… the best… the best way to d-deal with them… is to c-catch them… and throw them into the sunlight… th-they will be petrified…"
It was stammered nonsense, devoid of logic.
The air in the classroom, thick with garlic, grew heavier still with boredom.
Then—
A hand rose. Calmly. Steadily.
The motion wasn't abrupt, but in the drowsy atmosphere, it stood out like a beacon.
Alan Scott.
Every head turned. The room's lethargy vanished, replaced by eager anticipation of drama.
Quirrell, clearly not expecting any questions, flinched like a startled rabbit. He adjusted his purple turban nervously.
"Y-yes… M-Mr. Scott?"
Alan stood.
The sound of his chair sliding back cut sharply through the silence.
His posture was straight, his voice clear and steady, each word enunciated with precision—worlds apart from Quirrell's stumbling mutters.
"Apologies, Professor. I have a question."
Alan's eyes locked firmly on the uneasy man behind the lectern.
"According to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, third edition, page forty-two, written by Mr. Newton Scamander, gnomes are burrowing creatures. They do not fear sunlight, but merely dislike strong light due to their physiology."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried to every corner of the room.
"The book clearly states that sunlight may stun them briefly, but it cannot cause any lasting harm—let alone petrify them."
If Quirrell's lesson was like a dull, blunted blade slowly wearing down everyone's patience, Alan's words were a scalpel—precise, sharp, cutting straight through the fragile façade of falsehood.
He paused, giving the class—and especially the professor—a moment to digest his point. Then he asked, calmly but firmly, a question that struck at the heart of the matter:
"So my question is: if we were indoors—say, in a cellar—facing a large number of gnomes, without sunlight to rely on, how should we instead exploit their weaknesses, such as their low intelligence or greed, to construct an effective, systematic defence?"
Alan placed deliberate emphasis on the words "systematic" and " weaknesses."
"Rather than relying solely on their dislike of a certain environment?"
This question completely shredded the flimsy, copy-and-paste nature of Professor Quirrell's lecture. It exposed not just a factual error, but the absence of any deeper theoretical framework—and the utter collapse of logical consistency behind his teaching.
He had no system of knowledge of his own. He was nothing more than a poor-quality echo.
Quirrell's face turned livid, the color of raw liver.
It wasn't the blush of shyness, but a sickly mixture of humiliation, anger, and panic. His shifty eyes now brimmed with unmistakable fear.
Alan's question struck him like a curse from another dimension—far beyond the boundaries of his prepared material, beyond even the limits of his actual knowledge.
"Th-this… this…"
His lips flapped uselessly, producing a string of wet, incoherent syllables. He stammered and stuttered, yet not a single complete word emerged. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow, trailing down his temples, soaking the edge of his purple turban.
His fingers clutched the edge of the lectern so tightly that his knuckles turned white, as if it were the only lifeline keeping him from collapse.
At last, under the deathly silence of the entire class, he broke.
He waved his hand weakly—an embarrassed, desperate gesture.
"…A very interesting question, M-Mr. Scott."
His voice cracked sharply as he forced the words out, pitching unnaturally high.
"We… we will discuss this another time. F-for now, please turn to p-page five of your textbooks…"
Every student in the room looked at him with a complicated mix of expressions.
The Gryffindors' eyes shone with open admiration and excitement. Even the Slytherins, Draco Malfoy among them, though still holding their proud airs, could not fully conceal their surprise—or the scrutiny now flickering in their gazes.
They might not fully grasp the depth of Alan's logic, but they all understood one thing clearly:
This timid-looking new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had just been effortlessly crushed—humiliatingly so—by an eleven-year-old first-year student, on the most basic level of theoretical knowledge.
His authority, in the very first lesson, was already gone.
The bell rang. Professor Quirrell fled the classroom as though escaping for his life.
"Bloody brilliant, Alan!" Fred Weasley exclaimed the moment they were outside, slapping him on the shoulder in excitement. "Did you see his face? Looked worse than a slug hit by the Swelling Charm!"
"I've never seen a professor left speechless like that," said Lee Jordan in open admiration. "You're practically our hero."
Alan's expression remained calm. As he packed away his textbooks, he spoke with the measured tone of someone delivering a clinical report.
"This professor's theoretical foundation has very obvious logical flaws. His knowledge is unsystematic, perhaps even second-hand hearsay."
He lifted his eyes to the twins and Lee, his gaze serious.
"In our future studies, his words are not to be fully trusted."
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