Michael's resentment lasted all the way until Defence Against the Dark Arts.
It was Tuesday's Defence class, shared between Ravenclaw and Slytherin.
Most Hogwarts lessons were taught to two Houses together.
Only in special cases—such as rare astronomical phenomena—would all four Houses attend Astronomy at the same time.
Sean had learned that much from Michael's endless chatter on the way over.
According to him,
Defence Against the Dark Arts was the most popular subject at Hogwarts.
That statement alone was enough to send Anthony and Terry's expectations skyrocketing.
Walking a little behind, Sean just shook his head.
The subject itself was important, yes—irresistibly so.
The teaching quality, on the other hand… was another story.
The extremely important Defence Against the Dark Arts:
First year: a stutterer.
Second year: a fraud.
Third and fourth: reasonably normal.
Fifth year: a pink magical toad.
Sixth year: Snape, finally getting what he wanted.
Seventh year: a Death Eater who specialised in torture rather than teaching.
Looked at that way, out of seven years of Defence, only about three of them were actually useful.
So Sean had decided long ago: he'd have to self-study.
His hand tightened around the book he was carrying—Defensive Magical Theory, a fifth-year text he'd borrowed early.
He had a feeling he'd need it.
Definitely not just because it was finally a chance to read expensive books without paying.
Any last, tiny hope he had evaporated the moment Defence Against the Dark Arts actually began.
Sean knew that Professor Quirrell had once been a brilliant Ravenclaw,
but after becoming a two-sided coin, he clearly no longer had the time—or mind—to display that brilliance.
Or perhaps he simply no longer had it.
Up in the front row, Michael was finally beginning to understand Sean's strange behaviour.
Sean had arrived early, taken a seat in the very last row, and had his nose buried in a book long before class started.
Michael had wondered why—right up until the smell hit.
A thick, suffocating wave of garlic slammed into his nose,
followed by Quirrell's stuttering, mumbling, monotonous reading straight from the textbook.
Michael felt as if he'd been personally assigned a seat in the lowest level of Hell.
Sitting closest to Quirrell, Terry froze in his chair.
He looked like he'd been fumigated into rigor mortis.
[Trolls are divided into three types:
Mountain trolls, river trolls, and forest—or rather, sea—trolls.
Mountain trolls are the largest. Their skin is light grey, their heads are bald, and their hides are tougher than a rhino's.
They are as strong as ten grown men.
However, their brains are only the size of a pea, so they are easily confused…]
Sean read silently from The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble.
The book's cover was entirely black—no text, no ornaments—just a deep, heavy shade of darkness,
matching the content: concise and efficient.
Banshees, ghouls, hags, trolls, vampires, werewolves, Yetis, boggarts, red caps, kappas, hinkypunks, grindylows…
A whole menagerie of creatures and spirits crammed into one thin volume.
And somehow, despite all that, there was still room left for a variety of counter-curses and defensive spells.
Now that was practical material.
Sean read and reread, committing everything to memory.
The only thing that made his heart sink was this:
judging from the current state of Professor Quirrell, it was highly unlikely he'd ever learn any real defensive spells from him.
Which meant he'd have to learn them on his own.
Disarming Charms, Shield Charms…
They were all advanced.
He certainly hadn't seen anything like that in Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.
So how was he supposed to learn them?
As that question furrowed his brow, Defence Against the Dark Arts came to a merciful end.
The students bolted from the classroom as if fleeing a dementor.
Michael and Terry, however, remained completely motionless.
They looked almost… petrified.
Sean walked over, slightly worried—
Only for Michael to suddenly lunge at him and howl:
"IT'S SUFFERING!"
Sean nearly jumped out of his skin.
Compared to that, the next class—Charms—was something Sean genuinely looked forward to.
Professor Flitwick was no double-faced fraud; he was a real teacher, through and through.
He'd actually explain how to move a wand, how to properly stress each syllable of an incantation.
That was exactly what Sean needed.
He knew that a wizard's power came from belief—
something people in his past life would probably call "the power of 'I reckon'."
But endless "reckoning" didn't magically fix everything.
After a full week of nothing but "reckoning," Sean could confirm that much.
In his mind, it worked like this:
Yes, magic was fuelled by belief—
but how you believed, the method and structure of that belief, mattered just as much.
As Adalbert Waffling, the "Father of Magical Theory", wrote in Magical Theory:
"Most wizards cannot consciously control their magic unaided.
They require spells and wands as focusing tools,
so that their magic can be shaped, directed, and made to obey their will."
The Moving Stairs
The Charms classroom was on the fourth floor,
which meant one thing: the ever-changing staircases were out for blood again.
All the Ravenclaw first-years ended up jammed together on one staircase,
while the one leading to the Charms corridor stubbornly refused to rotate into position.
At the back of the crowd, Terry was scribbling furiously in a small notebook.
"I'm almost done… I've nearly figured out the pattern!"
Michael palmed his forehead.
"Terry, I really do believe in you, I swear I do—but by the time you figure it out, we'll already be late."
Time slipped by, the staircase stayed stubbornly where it was,
and all around them, anxiety spread like fire.
This was their very first lesson with the Ravenclaw Head of House.
And his entire House was going to arrive late.
Merlin help them.
Sean let out a quiet sigh and lowered his gaze back to his book.
He couldn't change the stairs.
He could at least revise the material.
"Fine, fine—move up a bit. Terry, get closer.
If we mess this up, you're our only hope this time.
Sean, come on—at least don't be the last one into the classroom."
Michael grabbed Sean by the sleeve and began squeezing forward.
Anthony and Terry followed, and the four of them shoved their way to the front of the crowd.
"Well?" Michael asked through gritted teeth. "Terry?"
"Almost… there…"
"That's the fourth time you've said that! By Merlin's mouldy underpants!"
Between garlic, Quirrell, and these cursed stairs, Michael sounded like he was on the verge of collapse.
At that moment, Sean saw a particularly tall ghost gliding straight through the stone wall ahead.
The sight sparked a thought.
"Grey Lady," he called softly.
The pale figure drifted toward them.
The air around the Ravenclaws went icy at once.
"A ghost—Merlin—"
"She's coming this way!"
Most first-years still found ghosts more frightening than fascinating.
They shrank together like frightened ducklings.
Even usually fearless Michael trembled as he whispered:
"Sean, what are you doing?"
"The prefect said the Grey Lady might be connected to Rowena Ravenclaw, remember?"
Sean answered quietly.
"Ma'am, would you please help us with the moving stairs?
We're about to be late for Charms."
He spoke with as much politeness as he could muster.
The Grey Lady said nothing.
She only gave Sean a long, lingering look.
That single glance was nearly enough to stop Michael and Terry's hearts.
"Too close… she's too close…"
"Sean, this doesn't feel like a good idea at all…"
But even as they whispered, the staircase ahead of them suddenly rumbled into motion.
With a grinding roar, it rotated and locked perfectly into the corridor that led straight to the Charms classroom.
Michael and Terry stared, eyes wide.
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