Michael's lingering resentment lasted clear up to Defense Against the Dark Arts.
On Tuesday, Ravenclaw had DADA with Slytherin. At Hogwarts, most classes paired two houses; only in special cases—say, a rare astronomical event—would all four houses attend Astronomy together. Sean picked that up from Michael's ongoing muttering on the way.
According to him, DADA was Hogwarts' most popular course. That sent Anthony and Terry's expectations through the roof. Walking behind them, Sean just shook his head. The subject was indeed compelling—but the teaching quality was… worrying.
A vitally important class: Year 1's professor stuttered, Year 2's was a fraud, Years 3 and 4 were decent, Year 5 brought the pink toad, Year 6 finally had Snape, Year 7 was a Death Eater who persecuted students instead of teaching.
Out of seven years, you really only got three good ones.
So Sean decided to self-study. He clutched Defensive Magical Theory—technically a fifth-year text, but he'd checked it out early. He figured he'd need it (and certainly not because library books were free).
Any shred of hope he'd had for this class died once it began. Sean knew Professor Quirrell had once been a brilliant Ravenclaw, but after turning double-agent, he clearly had no spare bandwidth—or will—to teach what he knew.
Up front, Michael finally understood Sean's "weird" behavior. Sean had taken the back row early and kept his head in a book since before class started. Michael was still puzzled when a powerful waft of garlic hit his nose. Pair that with Quirrell's stuttering, mumbled recitation and Michael felt like he'd been banished to hell. Terry, seated closest to Quirrell, sat frozen—either paralyzed or asphyxiated.
[Types of trolls: Mountain, River, and Forest (Sea) Trolls. Mountain trolls are largest, light-gray, bald, skin tougher than a rhino's, and stronger than ten men. Their brains, however, are pea-sized, so they're easily confused…]
Sean read The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble. Its cover bore no title or flourishes, only deep black—like its contents: lean and effective. Banshees, ghouls, hags, trolls, vampires, werewolves, Yetis, boggarts, Red Caps, kappas, hinkypunks, grindylows—packed into a thin volume, yet somehow there was still space for counters and defensive charms.
Actual, practical stuff—so Sean drilled it. The only downer: with Quirrell in this state, it was unlikely Sean would learn real defensive spells from him. Which meant self-study for things like Expelliarmus and Protego—both higher-level charms not found in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.
How to learn them, then?
While he frowned over that, DADA ended. First-years bolted for the corridor. Michael and Terry, though, sat motionless—like they'd turned to stone. Concerned, Sean stepped over—only for Michael to lunge at him and bellow:
"Pure agony!"
Compared to DADA, the next class—Charms—was one Sean genuinely looked forward to. Professor Flitwick wasn't a double-dealer; he could actually teach. He'd show them proper wand motions and pronunciation—exactly what Sean needed.
Sean knew a wizard's power flows from belief—what folks in his previous life joked about as the "I reckon" power. But nonstop "reckoning" doesn't work; he'd tried thinking himself into power for a week once. His take: belief is essential, yes—but how you focus it, the form that belief takes, matters just as much. As Adalbert Waffling, "father of magical theory," wrote in Magical Theory:
"Most witches and wizards cannot control their magic by will alone, so they require the guidance of spells and wands, allowing them to direct their magic consciously toward a goal."
…
The Charms classroom was on the fourth floor. The ever-shifting staircases were a nightmare: all the Ravenclaws were stuck on one flight while the one they needed refused to swing over. At the back, Terry scribbled in a notebook. "I'm about to crack the pattern."
Michael palmed his face. "Terry, I believe in you, but by the time you do, we'll already be late."
Time bled away. The staircase still wouldn't rotate. First-years fidgeted like ants on a hot griddle. This was the first lesson with their Head of House—and every Ravenclaw was about to be late. Merlin help them.
Sean sighed and kept reading. He couldn't move the stairs; he could at least review.
"Okay, okay—close ranks. Terry, this one's on you. Sean, move—at least don't be the last one through the door." Michael dragged him forward; Anthony and Terry followed, forcing a narrow path through the crowd.
"Well?" Michael asked. "Terry?"
"A-almost…"
"That's the fourth time you've said that! Merlin's underpants—and his stinky socks!"
Between the garlic and the stairs, Michael sounded half-deranged.
Just then, Sean saw a very tall ghost glide through the wall.
An idea struck.
"Grey Lady," he called softly.
She drifted over. The temperature dipped; the Ravenclaws around them shivered.
"A ghost—Merlin!"
"She's coming!"
For most first-years, fear outweighed curiosity. They bunched together. Even bold Michael quavered, "Sean, what are you doing?"
"The prefect said the Grey Lady may be connected to our founder—remember?" Sean murmured. Then, to her: "My lady, could you help us with the moving stairs? We're about to be late for Charms."
The Grey Lady said nothing. She regarded Sean with a single, steady look—which nearly gave Michael and Terry heart attacks.
"Too close… way too close…"
"Sean, this doesn't feel like a good idea…"
As they trembled, the staircase ahead rumbled—then swung into place to meet theirs.
Michael and Terry stared, eyes wide.
~~~
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