He'd changed.
Professor Fawley had changed.
That was the prevailing thought among all students in third year and below.
The professor still carried the same gentle and elegant demeanor, but beneath that handsome face lurked a secretly wicked heart—or so they claimed.
After returning from Christmas break, Tver had successfully introduced an advanced version of the Light Orb Game across all three lower grades, earning what could only be described as unanimous "praise" from the students.
Of course, the difficulty varied by year. Third-years had only two correct squares to choose from each round, second-years had four, and first-years had six.
When the correct squares lit up, they also emitted distinct magical fluctuations, allowing students to rely on sensing magic instead of constantly looking down at their feet.
The only thing that hadn't changed was the invisible clamp that snapped shut the instant someone stepped on a wrong square.
One clamp wasn't too bad—it lasted barely a second, like being pinched. But the real torture came from repetition.
After five or six missteps, their ankles would start throbbing. More than ten, and swelling was guaranteed. Worse still, the pain made them more likely to misstep again, which only made things worse. A vicious cycle in its purest form.
And the cruelest part? The professor's chocolate actually worked. One piece, and by the next class, every ache was gone as if nothing had happened.
Naturally, the younger students' complaints sounded more like bragging to the upper years. Having already endured Professor Fawley's pre-Christmas classes, they only grew more impressed by him.
During the holiday reunions, students from wizarding families had eagerly asked their parents and relatives about the professor's magic. The adults couldn't praise it enough—especially the snowball game—and their opinions of the professor were unanimously high.
After all, most adult wizards couldn't even manage to momentarily suspend their magic, let alone fuse different spells together.
It made the students realize just how valuable his lessons truly were—perhaps the most meaningful ones they'd ever have at Hogwarts.
Unless, of course, the professor decided to give them another.
...
Rumor had it Harry and Ron were now despised by nearly everyone in the school—all because they'd tried to break into Professor Fawley's office.
And failed spectacularly.
But when word of their misadventure spread, several more reckless students tried their luck at cracking the professor's enchantments to uncover the "secrets" of his office.
Unsurprisingly, they were each left hanging—literally—for an entire night. Afterward, in a strange show of poetic justice, the points of all four houses dropped to exactly the same level.
The once-furious Gryffindors could only laugh at the absurdity of it, and their resentment toward Harry and Ron eased—if only a little.
Still, the trio wasn't particularly cheerful about it, even after finding information about the Philosopher's Stone.
With the addition of movement training in class, Hermione's weaker combat instincts had become obvious. Though her scores remained among the best, several talented students—Malfoy among them—had surpassed her.
Now she spent her days fretting over how to improve her skills, surrounding herself with borrowed books.
Ron, on the other hand, had made noticeable progress. A month of private tutoring from Tver had clearly paid off. His wand, however, continued to hold him back, leaving him solid but unremarkable.
Harry, of course, had it the worst.
Between regular classes and Quidditch training, he was running on fumes.
"Can't you just tell Wood your ankle's still sore and take a break?" Ron suggested.
Harry had just come back from practice, soaked to the bone and completely spent. He collapsed into a chair, too tired even to pour himself a drink.
Hermione set aside the massive book she was reading and poured him a glass of pumpkin juice instead.
Ever since learning that Professor Fawley liked pumpkin juice, they'd made sure to always keep some around.
"Thanks." Harry took a long gulp before catching his breath.
"The problem is, George and the others already tried that excuse. But Wood said once you're on a broom, you don't need your feet—unless our butts split in half someday, we're still going to practice!"
"Well, I'd rather your butt split." George suddenly appeared beside them, he and Fred both dripping wet.
More than their soaked state, it was the grim look on their faces that caught everyone's attention.
"What do you mean?" Harry stopped mid-drink, frowning in confusion.
"It's Snape," George said darkly.
"He's going to be the referee for our match against Hufflepuff!"
The twins slumped into chairs, pouring themselves cups of pumpkin juice with expressions of total despair. At this point, it was the only thing that could comfort them.
"But does Snape even know the rules of Quidditch?!" Ron gaped, his quill slipping from his fingers.
Harry sighed. "He doesn't need to know the rules. He just has to keep giving us fouls."
A collective groan went around the group.
After the twins finished their drinks and trudged off to take a shower, Hermione turned to Harry, worry written all over her face. Scoring points didn't matter to her half as much as his safety did.
"Snape tried to kill you last time. If he's the referee now, won't it be even easier for him to take another shot at you?"
"We could just tell Wood Harry's got a cracked backside and can't play," Ron suggested lamely.
"You might as well really break his backside while you're at it!" Hermione snapped.
Ron's eyes lit up. "That's… actually not a bad idea!"
Harry shook his head firmly. This was his second match; he couldn't back down over something that hadn't even happened.
"Forget it. Snape might not be able to hurt me—but if I don't play, we'll definitely lose."
Hermione fell silent, thinking hard, before her eyes suddenly brightened.
"Professor Fawley!"
"What about him?" Ron asked, puzzled.
"He definitely wouldn't want Harry getting hurt. We could ask him to counter Snape's curse!"
"No." Harry's brow furrowed in refusal.
"We're not supposed to know about Professor Fawley and Snape's situation. Or even about the Philosopher's Stone. If we drag him into this, Snape might go after him."
Hermione and Ron both paused, realizing the same thing. As much as they worried about Harry, none of them wanted to put their professor at risk.
The three exchanged glances—then burst out laughing.
"Haha," Ron chuckled between hiccups, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Don't get me wrong, mate. But we can't drag the professor into this, right?"
"Harry might not even be in danger!" Hermione grinned. "And besides, we could always do what we did last time—cast a few spells on Snape from the stands!"
Her excitement grew as she flipped open the thick tome beside her, muttering rapidly,
"Tickling Charm, Leg-Locker Curse, Dancing Feet Spell…"
But she didn't get far before Neville appeared, clutching two slips of parchment.
"Harry, Ron—Professor McGonagall asked me to give these to you."
Harry unfolded his note and read aloud.
"Your detention begins at eleven tonight. Report to Mr. Filch in the Entrance Hall. —Professor McGonagall."
"I'd almost forgotten about that," Ron groaned. "I'd rather be hung from the ceiling by Professor Fawley than spend detention with Filch."
Hermione sighed and closed her book, trying to comfort them.
"Well, at least after tonight, you won't have to worry about detention anymore."