First-year young wizards did not have many classes.
Following their Transfiguration class, Daimon attended several other new courses over the next few days.
Professor Sprout’s Herbology class was lively and interesting, Professor Binns’s History of Magic class was dry and boring, and Professor Flitwick’s Charms class was easy to understand yet profound.
Unsurprisingly, Daimon performed excellently in all of these classes, earning endless praise from the professors.
However, the Defense Against the Dark Arts class, which had originally been the most highly anticipated, turned into a complete disaster due to Professor Quirrell’s terrible teaching.
Not only did this professor stutter, but he also did nothing but read straight from the textbook.
To make matters worse, he gave off a strange, foul odor of garlic.
Even the ever-studious Hermione sat in the back row with Daimon after their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
“I can’t believe Dumbledore chose someone like him to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” Hermione grumbled incessantly as she walked beside Daimon.
“I feel like his class is a complete waste of time.
I’d be better off studying on my own.” “If we ever run into a dark creature or a dark wizard outside of school, relying only on what Quirrell teaches us will definitely get us killed.” “I heard something about Professor Quirrell from my sister,” a dark-skinned young witch hurried to catch up with them.
She had delicate features and distinct Indian characteristics—it was Parvati Patil, one of Gryffindor’s new students.
Her sister, Padma Patil, had been sorted into Ravenclaw.
“What?” Hermione pressed, full of curiosity.
Parvati teased them with a pause, only speaking after Daimon gave her an inquiring look.
“I heard that Quirrell used to be the Muggle Studies professor.
He came from Ravenclaw and was once very talented.
He became like this after encountering vampires during his travels.” “But some people also think he’s afflicted by the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.” “What curse?” Hermione pressed further.
“You don’t know yet?” Parvati looked surprised, then quickly explained.
“For many years now, Hogwarts has never had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher last more than a year.
Almost none of them can teach for longer, and their fates…
most of them don’t end up very well.” “That might just be a coincidence, right?
Who could, or who would, curse a teaching position?” Hermione was skeptical.
Indeed, Hermione was always skeptical of things that lacked logic or supporting evidence.
Daimon looked at Hermione and said, “In the wizarding world, anything is possible.” Parvati’s eyes lit up upon hearing this, and she immediately agreed.
“Exactly!
Daimon is right.
There are too many things in the wizarding world that can’t be explained by common sense.
That curse might actually be real.
Otherwise, how do you explain why not a single Defense Against the Dark Arts professor has lasted more than a year for decades?” Hermione frowned, looking as if she wanted to argue back, but though her mouth opened, she said nothing in the end.
Though she valued logic and evidence, she had already been at Hogwarts for several days.
Having seen moving staircases, talking portraits, and flying ghosts, asserting that anything was “impossible” felt groundless even to her.
“Well,” Hermione conceded, “maybe there is a curse.
But even if there is, is there really nothing Headmaster Dumbledore can do to break it?
He is the greatest wizard of the century, after all.” Parvati shrugged.
“Who knows?
Maybe the curse is too strong, or maybe…
Dumbledore has other plans.” The three walked through the corridor, down several flights of stairs, and arrived at the dungeon corridor.
The air became cold and damp, and torches flickered against the dark walls, illuminating a heavy wooden door ahead.
“The Potions classroom is here,” Parvati whispered, her voice slowing down unconsciously.
“I heard Professor Snape is very difficult to get along with.
We must be careful.” Daimon pushed open the door, and a strange smell washed over them—a mix of herbs, potions, and some undefinable, pungent, fishy odor.
The seats in the classroom were arranged in pairs.
Daimon glanced around and chose a seat in the middle-back of the room.
Hermione naturally sat down next to him.
Parvati couldn’t help but pout, sitting down next to Lavender Brown with a trace of displeasure.
Before long, the classroom was filled with students.
Harry, Ron, and Neville sat in a corner.
Footsteps echoed from outside the door.
A man in black robes strode into the classroom.
His greasy black hair hung down to his shoulders, his hooked nose resembled a scimitar, his skin was sallow, and his eyes were dark and cold.
He walked straight to the podium, his black robes billowing behind him like a giant bat settling into its nest.
The entire classroom fell instantly silent.
Professor Severus Snape turned around, his eyes sweeping across the class.
His voice was low and slow, with almost no emotional inflection: “You are here to learn the precise science and rigorous craft of potion-making.” His gaze fell upon Harry in the front row, pausing for a second.
“As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic.
I don’t expect you will really appreciate the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron emitting white smoke and sweet fragrances, nor do I expect you to understand the liquid that flows into human veins, that wondrous, mind-expanding potion…” He paused, his tone suddenly turning sharp: “I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper on death—if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.” His gaze locked directly onto Harry.
“Potter!” Harry tensed up.
“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” Snape’s voice was like a venomous snake.
Hermione immediately raised her hand, her arm stretching straight up, almost springing out of her seat.
But Snape didn’t even spare her a glance.
Harry blinked blankly.
“I don’t know, sir.” Snape’s lips twitched slightly, revealing a cruel smirk.
“It seems fame isn’t everything.” He turned, his black robes billowing.
“Let us try again.
Potter, if I asked you to find a bezoar, where would you look?” “I don’t know, sir,” Harry answered as before.
Hermione raised her hand even higher, wishing she could touch the ceiling.
Daimon really couldn’t bear it and pulled her hand down.
Hermione shot a sharp glare at Daimon.
“Can’t you tell?
He’s targeting Harry.
He’s not going to let you answer the question,” Daimon whispered bluntly.
Hermione froze, only just realizing it.
Meanwhile, Snape was still performing.
Snape sneered.
“Clearly, you haven’t done any preparation before the term started.” Harry felt a bit defiant.
In truth, he had flipped through every book before school started, but he wasn’t Hermione, nor was he Daimon; he didn’t possess their powerful memories.
But Harry didn’t dare argue, because he felt this bat-like professor wasn’t just making things difficult for him; he hated him and wanted nothing more than to see him make a fool of himself.
“One last question—what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” Snape slowly turned around, scanning the class, before his eyes unexpectedly landed on Daimon.
“Ignis, you answer.” Daimon raised his eyes and looked straight into Snape’s deep, bottomless black eyes.
“There is no difference,” Daimon replied casually.
“Correct,” Snape’s voice was as hard as stone.
“It seems not all first-years are complete dunderheads.” “Mr.
Ignis, I have heard the other professors’ praises of you,” he drawled.
“But has your talent also bred unnecessary arrogance?
Dumbledore’s favor seems to make you think you are special.” “Even someone as foolish as Mr.
Potter knows to stand up when answering a question.
It is a matter of rules, and of respect.” Snape didn’t forget to take another jab at Harry Potter.
“Only toward you, Professor,” Daimon said bluntly.
“Because your teaching style does not show me any respect for your students, so I suppose you naturally do not require ours either.” Snape froze for a moment, clearly not expecting a student to dare talk back to his face.
Quickly, his face darkened.
He leaned in close to Daimon and said coldly, “A silver tongue.
It seems before coming to Hogwarts, you didn’t just read books, but also practiced how to talk back to professors.” “And yet you only dare to lord your authority over underage wizards,” Daimon countered sharply.
“Would you dare spew your venom in front of Voldemort?
I heard that a certain Head of Slytherin once was a Death Eater.
I wonder if you know him?” As the magnificent Fire Demon, the great Lord Shendu who once ruled the world, how could he tolerate the sarcastic mockery of a mere wizard?
“Thirty points from Gryffindor!” Snape seemed to have completely lost his composure, roaring in a fit of rage that made all the young wizards shrink back in terror.
Only Harry stared at Daimon with a face full of adoration and disbelief.
“Professor, I heard Slytherin has won the House Cup six years in a row.
If they won them in this manner, you might as well just take the House Cup home yourself,” Daimon continued to fire back, utterly fearless.
“Fifty points!” Snape practically spat the words through his teeth.