Michael's grudge lasted all the way through the Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
On Tuesdays, Ravenclaws attended Defense Against the Dark Arts together with Slytherins.
At Hogwarts, most classes were held with two houses together. Only on special occasions—like unusual astronomical events—would all four houses attend Astronomy class at the same time.
This was something Sean had learned from Michael's endless chatter along the way.
According to him, Defense Against the Dark Arts was the most popular class at Hogwarts.
This made Anthony and Terry extremely excited for it.
Sean, walking behind them, shook his head. The class was certainly appealing, but the teaching quality was worrying.
The extremely important Defense Against the Dark Arts course had a troubled history:
First-year professors stuttered.
Second-year professors were conmen.
Third- and fourth-year professors were relatively normal.
Fifth year brought a pink magic toad.
Sixth year was the long-awaited Professor Snape.
Seventh year? Pure persecution by a non-teaching Death Eater.
In other words, of the seven years of Defense Against the Dark Arts, only three years were truly worth learning.
Thus, Sean decided to self-study.
He held Defense Against the Dark Arts Theory in his hands. It was a fifth-year book, but Sean had borrowed it early.
He wasn't taking it just to read for free—he genuinely expected to need it.
Once the class started, any small hope Sean had quickly vanished.
Though he knew Professor Quirrell had once been a genius Ravenclaw, after becoming a double agent, he had clearly lost the scholarly brilliance he had once been proud of.
Or perhaps he simply no longer had the energy to show it.
At that moment,
Michael in the front row finally understood Sean's strange behavior.
Sean had taken a seat at the very back early and had been buried in his studies even before the class began.
Michael was still confused when a strong smell of garlic suddenly hit his nose. Coupled with Professor Quirrell's stuttering, unclear, monotone reading of the textbook,
Michael felt as if he had descended into hell.
Terry, sitting closest to Quirrell, remained perfectly still, as if he had been poisoned by the smell.
"Trolls can be divided into several types: mountain trolls, river trolls, and sea trolls.
Mountain trolls are the largest, with light gray bodies, bald heads, skin rougher than a rhinoceros, and physiques stronger than ten men.
However, their brains are only pea-sized, making them easily confused…"
Sean carefully read The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, written by Quentin Trimble.
Its cover had no text or decoration, only a deep black, just like its contents: simple and efficient.
Banshees, ghouls, hags, trolls, vampires, werewolves, Himalayan yetis, boggarts, redcaps, kappa, hinkypunks, grindylows—all were compactly included in this thin book.
Even though it was already packed with detailed knowledge of creatures and spirits, there was still room to introduce countercurses and curse-breaking techniques.
This was truly practical material, so Sean repeatedly memorized it.
The only downside: given Professor Quirrell's state, Sean probably wouldn't learn any real defensive spells from him.
Which meant he had to teach himself.
But whether it was the Disarming Charm or the Iron Armor Charm, they were all advanced spells.
At least Sean hadn't seen them in Standard Spells: Beginner.
So how was he supposed to learn them?
With a frown, Sean watched the Defense Against the Dark Arts class end.
The young wizards bolted from the classroom like escaping prey.
Michael and Terry, however, remained seated, motionless, as if they had become part of the furniture.
Sean approached them with some concern, only for Michael to suddenly leap up and roar: "It's torture!"
It startled Sean.
Compared to Defense Against the Dark Arts, the next class—Charms—was undoubtedly what Sean had been looking forward to.
Professor Flitwick was not a double agent; he was a genuinely capable teacher.
He would teach young wizards proper wand movements and the correct pronunciation of spells—the exact guidance Sean needed.
Sean knew that a wizard's power came from belief,
what many in his previous life had called "the power of pondering."
But just pondering endlessly didn't seem to work—Sean knew this well after having pondered for a full week straight.
His explanation was that yes, a wizard's power comes from belief,
but how one ponders, and in what way, is an essential part of it.
As Adalbert Waffling, the "Father of Magical Theory," said in Magical Theory:
"Most wizards cannot consciously control magic on their own, so they require spells and wands to guide it, allowing the magical power to be consciously manipulated to achieve a purpose."
…
The Charms classroom was on the fourth floor, and the constantly rotating staircases caused enormous trouble for the young wizards.
All the Ravenclaws were stuck on one section of the stairs, while the staircase connecting to the Charms classroom stubbornly refused to rotate.
At the back of the crowd, Terry held a notebook, scribbling and drawing:
"I'm about to figure out the pattern."
Michael pressed his forehead:
"Terry, I believe you can do it, but by the time you figure it out, we'll already be late."
Faced with the ticking clock and the unyielding staircase, the young wizards grew as anxious as ants on a hot pan.
It was the first class with the new Ravenclaw head, and his students were all running late— Heavens!
Sean sighed and went back to reading.
He couldn't change the staircase, so he might as well review the textbook ahead of time.
"All right, all right, get closer, Terry. We're really counting on you this time. Sean, move quickly—at least don't be the last one into the classroom."
Michael said, tugging Sean forward, with Anthony and Terry close behind.
The four of them squeezed out a path.
"Ready, Terry?"
"Almost… there…"
"That's your fourth identical answer! Merlin's underpants with stinky socks!"
Michael seemed driven half-insane by garlic and the stairs.
Just then, Sean saw an unusually tall ghost pass through the wall.
Her appearance suddenly reminded Sean of something.
"Grey Lady."
He called softly.
Grey Lady floated over, and the nearby young Ravenclaws immediately felt a chill in the air.
"A ghost! Oh my!"
"She's coming!"
For many of the young wizards, fear of ghosts still outweighed curiosity.
The students pressed together, and even the usually bold Michael trembled as he asked,
"Sean, what are you doing?"
"The prefect said Grey Lady might have a connection to the founder of the house, remember?"
Sean whispered an explanation.
"Grey Lady, could you help us with the rotating stairs? We're about to be late for Charms."
Sean asked politely.
Grey Lady didn't speak. She simply gave Sean a serious look.
That one glance nearly gave Michael and Terry heart attacks.
"Too close… too close…"
"Sean, this doesn't seem like a good idea…"
Just as the two trembled, the staircase ahead rumbled and quickly connected to the current section.
Michael and Terry's eyes widened in shock.