The afternoon's Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson did not disappoint.
Professor Bard Broad, a sprightly old wizard with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, began his very first class with a startling announcement:
"You may not know," he said, leaning on his wand like a walking stick, "that the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor is cursed. No one has held it for longer than a year. I daresay I will be no exception. But before the curse claims me, I intend to teach you what you truly need to survive."
A ripple of astonishment swept through the classroom.
"Professor, even you can't break the curse?" asked Roger Davies, raising his hand.
"I'm afraid not," Broad replied gravely. "For decades, countless professors have tried, and all have failed. Even Dumbledore himself could not undo it. One must know one's limits. Now—turn to page five of Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. Let us begin."
Yet Broad rarely stuck to the textbook. He digressed into tales from his travels, recounting how he once fended off a ravenous vampire with nothing more than a blood-flavoured lollipop from Honeydukes.
"Contrary to popular belief," he explained, "vampires do not need blood to survive. They crave the taste of it. Young witches, in particular, must be cautious—vampires often prefer their prey fresh and unsuspecting."
He reminded the class that most vampires and werewolves were registered with the Ministry of Magic, though stragglers still lurked in the shadows.
When the subject turned to werewolves, Broad's tone grew serious.
"Keep your distance," he warned. "A bite from a transformed werewolf will curse you with lycanthropy. Werewolves are shunned by wizarding society, struggle to find work, and many fall into darker paths. If I ever encountered one mid-transformation, I would Apparate away at once."
"Professor, what if we do meet one?" a student asked nervously.
"In a village or town, lock the doors with Alohomora reversed, then send up red sparks with your wand. That signals danger and summons help. In the wilderness…" He sighed. "Well, then you had better pray to Merlin."
"Couldn't we simply duel it?" another voice piped up.
"Powerful witches and wizards may subdue a werewolf," Broad admitted, "but I would never advise you to try. That path leads only to ruin. A bite untreated is fatal, and survival means something worse than death—life as a werewolf."
Albert raised his hand. "What if we're bitten by a werewolf in human form, not transformed?"
Broad's eyes twinkled. "Ah, an excellent question. Such a bite will not transmit full lycanthropy, but the wound will bear werewolf-like traits and resist healing. Only a mixture of powdered silver and dittany can treat it properly. Write that down."
The class scribbled furiously as Broad clapped his hands. "Remember: vigilance is your best defense. Avoid werewolves altogether, and you'll avoid the curse."
Before dismissing them, he taught two practical wand signals: red sparks for danger, green sparks for assembly or locating allies. The homework was simple—practice until the sparks flew true.
Albert found himself impressed. Broad was witty, humorous, and practical. He ignored the textbook when it suited him, preferring to pass on hard-earned wisdom.
"I wish he'd teach us more combat spells," George Weasley muttered, itching for excitement.
"They don't realize how much he's already giving them," Albert thought. Aloud, he said, "Don't be greedy. You haven't mastered Lumos yet, let alone Transfiguration or Alohomora. Focus on your sparks first."
The twins and Lee Jordan groaned, wilting like pumpkins after frost.
Albert smiled. "If you're serious, I can lend you Practical Defensive Magic and Its Restraint Against Dark Arts. That's where I found the Shield Charm this morning. It's full of counter-curses and jinxes, complete with animated diagrams."
Their eyes lit up instantly, hunger for magic replacing their complaints.
"You've learned them all?" Lee asked eagerly.
Albert scowled. "Hardly. And weren't you two supposed to master Alohomora first?"
The twins exchanged sheepish grins. Clearly, Broad's lessons—and Albert's book—had given them more than enough to keep busy.