Before Friday’s Potions class finally arrived, Silan had a few other lessons to get through first.
First up was Charms, taught by Professor Flitwick.
The Head of Ravenclaw was a remarkably short wizard whose head barely reached Albus Dumbledore’s waist, leading to widespread rumors that he had a bit of goblin ancestry.
Yet, despite his high-pitched, squeaky voice, the man was a certified Master of Charms and a former dueling champion.
To be frank, finding a wizard of his caliber outside the walls of Hogwarts would be near impossible.
Even if one were lucky enough to study under such a wizard, it was highly unlikely they would receive the hands-on, patient guidance that Flitwick provided.
He was even known to pull tiny, delicious cupcakes from his desk drawers and make them dance to cheer up students who were feeling down.
Teachers like him were rare indeed.
Their very first lesson focused on the Wand-Lighting Charm, utilizing the incantation Lumos.
While the spell was incredibly simple, it hadn’t actually been invented until the eighteenth century.
Because it was so straightforward and easy to learn, any wizard with a wand and the ability to speak could cast it.
In its early days, the charm was even used to differentiate between true wizards and Squibs, boasting a near hundred percent accuracy rate.
It was generally accepted that if someone couldn’t manage a Wand-Lighting Charm, they simply weren’t a wizard.
It was also a highly practical, frequently used spell.
The famous Magizoologist Newt Scamander had famously lit his wand in Nicolas Flamel’s home to examine Yousaf Kama’s eye and extract a water dragon parasite from it.
Professor Flitwick understood perfectly that learning required positive reinforcement to create a healthy cycle.
Letting the young wizards successfully cast a minor spell right away gave them a rush of excitement that would make them fall in love with Charms.
That was exactly why he chose Lumos for the first day.
Unfortunately for his lesson plan, Silan had mastered that spell ages ago.
He simply spent the period flipping through the library book he had brought along, teaching himself other charms.
Following Charms was Defense Against the Dark Arts–or, as it could otherwise be known, the “Disposable Professor’s Class.” This year’s instructor was Professor Quirrell, a former Ravenclaw.
He had previously taught Muggle Studies until Dumbledore recruited him for this post.
“A-Alright, class…
quiet down, please.
Today…
t-today we will be looking at…” Quirrell’s heavy stutter immediately filled the classroom with a lighthearted, amused atmosphere.
The students pointed at him, giggling and whispering, with Draco Malfoy laughing the loudest of all.
The lesson itself was entirely dry and boring.
Quirrell simply held his textbook and read from the pages in a halting, nervous drone.
The students quickly lost interest and began messing about among themselves, completely ignoring him.
Silan couldn’t help but think that if the man were to unwrap his turban and let Voldemort out for a quick stroll, these gossiping little wizards would probably drop dead of fright.
To be honest, Silan found it a bit of a pity.
Quirrell had been a brilliant student in Ravenclaw and possessed an immense amount of knowledge, but now he was reduced to a cowardly professor who could do nothing but read out loud from a book.
It meant Silan was missing out on a lot of potentially useful information.
*If I went to see Quirrell in private, would the Dark Lord log into the account?* Silan wondered to himself.
For some unknown reason, Voldemort–despite his mastery of the Dark Arts–had a borderline obsessive fix on teaching the Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
When Dumbledore had refused to give him the job years ago, he had flown into a rage and placed a curse on the position that even Dumbledore couldn’t break.
Silan didn’t particularly care who did the teaching.
Whether it was Quirrell or Voldemort, knowledge and power had no inherent morality; it all depended on how a person used them.
Besides, learning from Voldemort was the best way to fight Voldemort–learning the enemy’s advanced techniques to control the enemy.
Of course, he kept that thought strictly to himself.
Next came Herbology with the Head of Hufflepuff, Professor Sprout.
She was a short, plump witch who spent nearly all her time in the greenhouses tending to her plants.
As a result, her robes were always covered in patches of dirt, making her look far more like a dedicated gardener than an academic scholar.
“Welcome to the greenhouses,” Professor Sprout said warmly, looking at the assembled first-years.
“Before we step inside, I must give you a few warnings.” “The herbs in these greenhouses are magical plants.
Even the most ordinary-looking specimen carries a degree of danger.
Therefore, you are not to touch anything without my explicit permission, and you must wear your protective gear at all times.
Do you understand?” “Yes, Professor,” the students chorused.
Once inside, Professor Sprout arranged them around a long trestle table lined with pots of herbs.
The shifting, moving magical plants immediately fascinated the young wizards.
Combined with Sprout’s clear, engaging style, the class listened with rapt attention, completely absorbed in the lesson.
But the biggest surprise of the day was Neville.
To everyone’s astonishment, he was the very first student to successfully complete the task Professor Sprout had set, earning five points for Gryffindor in the process.
“Neville, you must be a natural genius at Herbology,” Silan remarked.
“Thanks, Silan,” Neville said, rubbing the back of his neck rather shyly.
“I don’t really know what happened, it just clicked for me.” Silan looked at the pot of Dittany sitting in front of Neville.
He poured on the praise deliberately, continuing until the boy was practically blushing, before smoothly steering the conversation where he wanted it to go.
“Seriously, you should focus a lot of your energy on Herbology.
It would be a crime to waste a gift like that.” “Do you really think so?
I’ll work hard at it, then!” Neville’s eyes shone with sudden determination, as if he had finally found his purpose.
“As your friend, just let me know if you ever need any help with your studies.” “Silan, you’re the best.” Neville looked incredibly moved.
What the poor boy didn’t realize was that the moment Silan had stepped into the greenhouse, his eyes had locked onto the plants.
Every single one of them was a highly valuable, rare specimen.
Just a few cuttings from some of these leaves could easily fetch hundreds of gold Galleons on the market.
Silan’s internal train of thought was much simpler: *If I encourage Neville to become an expert, he’ll eventually end up as the Herbology professor here.
When that happens, won’t all these priceless ingredients be mine for the taking?* *Maybe I can find a spot to build a private greenhouse for Neville–the Room of Requirement should work perfectly.
I can have him grow rare herbs there, providing me with free labor.
We’re mates, after all; surely he wouldn’t charge me for them?
He gets to improve his grades, and I get a steady supply of premium ingredients.
It’s a win-win.
Heck, he might even thank me for the opportunity!* Silan thought gleefully.
Soon enough, Friday arrived, and the first-years prepared for their very first Potions class.
Because Professor Snape’s reputation as a greasy, giant bat was so well-established, many of the new students had heard terrifying rumors about him long before setting foot in his classroom.
The gossip was extensive: “He never washes his hair,” “He won’t give a single point to Gryffindor but will never dock one from Slytherin,” and “He regularly reduces students to tears during class.” This left the incoming wizards thoroughly intimidated.
Every single one of them hurried toward the classroom early, terrified of being late.
Sure enough, the moment Silan stepped out of the Great Hall after breakfast, he spotted several first-years practically sprinting toward the dungeons.
“Hurry up, hurry up!
Potions is with Snape today!” “Don’t you dare be late!
He’s absolutely terrifying!” “I heard he screams at people until they cry in almost every lesson.” When Silan arrived at the Potions classroom, the first thing that caught his eye were the long shelves lining the stone walls.
They were packed with jars containing all sorts of pickled animal specimens floating in colored liquids.
The more timid students were visibly trembling, giving the creepy jars as wide a berth as possible.
“Silan!
Over here!” Hermione called out, waving her hand to beckon him to a seat.