On Saturday evening, Daimon arrived at Professor Flitwick’s office right on time.
The doorknob was significantly lower than standard height—was it positioned to accommodate Professor Flitwick?
Daimon wondered thoughtfully, then knocked on the door.
“Come in, come in!” a squeaky voice called from within.
Daimon pushed open the door to find Professor Flitwick standing on a high stack of books, stretching to reach a thick volume on the very top shelf.
He wore deep crimson robes, his beard was neatly trimmed, and his bald head gleamed brightly under the candlelight.
“Have a seat, Mr.
Ignis.” Flitwick hopped down from the pile of books, landing as lightly as a sparrow.
“Professor McGonagall came to see me specifically.
She mentioned that your understanding of charms far exceeds that of your peers, and she felt you should receive extra instruction so your talent doesn’t go to waste.” “She flatters me.” “You’re just being modest.
I know exactly how well you perform in class.” Flitwick sat down on a low chair.
“But I must say, even if she hadn’t brought it up, I would have been more than happy to teach you.” Daimon looked at Professor Flitwick, wondering what he would think if he knew Professor McGonagall had only asked this of him to secure Daimon’s recruitment for the Gryffindor Quidditch team—especially when Gryffindor eventually defeated Ravenclaw.
“Hogwarts gets quite a few new students every year, but very few have a real passion for charms.
Most of the children only care about passing their exams,” Flitwick continued enthusiastically.
“I love magic, and charms are its vital core,” Daimon said.
“Interest is the best driver of learning,” Flitwick nodded.
“In that case, let us begin right away!
Let me see your level.
Which spells have you learned?
I’m sure it’s far more than what I’ve taught in class.
Show me your best.” Professor Flitwick snapped his fingers, and a small white mouse instantly appeared on the desk.
Daimon stood up, drew his wand, pointed it at the mouse, and cast his spell.
A second later, the little white mouse began rolling around on the desk in pure, ecstatic delight.
Flitwick tilted his head to watch, a look of pleasant surprise crossing his face.
“An exceptionally well-cast Cheering Charm!
That’s a third-year spell.
Any others?” “The Summoning Charm.” Daimon turned toward a bronze bell on the windowsill.
“*Accio* bell.” The bronze bell flew up in response, landing steadily in his palm.
“Wonderful!” Flitwick clapped his hands.
“Your incantations are crisp, and your movements are perfectly standard.
Any other surprises?” “Stupefy.” Daimon aimed his wand at the white mouse once more.
A jet of red light shot out, hitting the mouse, which instantly went limp and fell over.
Flitwick’s eyes shone with frightening intensity.
“Using the Stunning Spell in your first year—absolutely remarkable.” He rose from his chair.
“Did you teach yourself all of this?” “More or less.” “Pure talent and hard work,” Flitwick sighed in admiration, shaking his head.
“To be honest, you are better than many upperclassmen.” “I have a good grasp of your current spellwork.
Let’s officially begin the lesson.
Based on your performance, the first spell I want to teach you is the Shield Charm.
Though it is somewhat difficult, I think you can give it a try.” “Remember its incantation: *Protego*.” Flitwick excitedly drew his wand, guiding Daimon’s casting movements step by step and explaining the fine details of executing the spell.
…
Time always flew when studying.
By the end of the lesson, Professor Flitwick was still raring to go.
Daimon pocketed his wand.
“Professor Flitwick, there are a few other questions I’d like to ask you.” “Go ahead.” Flitwick was in high spirits and answered without a second thought.
“I was born with the ability to use a type of fire magic.” Daimon held out his hand, and a small wisp of flame ignited in his palm.
“No wand, no incantations—I can release it freely at will.
I am quite curious how my fire magic compares to the Fiendfyre Curse.
I’ve heard that Fiendfyre is an incredibly powerful fire spell.” “The Fiendfyre Curse?!” he repeated, his expression turning solemn.
“You certainly read quite widely.” “I saw some descriptions of it in a book,” Daimon said calmly.
“Only a few sentences, mentioning it’s an unquenchable flame and a highly dangerous Dark magic.” Flitwick fell silent for a few seconds.
“To be precise, the Fiendfyre Curse is an exceptionally advanced Dark magic,” his tone grew serious.
“It is an extremely dangerous flame summoned by the caster.
It carries a curse, incinerating everything it touches, and is practically impossible to extinguish.” “Practically impossible?” “Only its specific counter-curse can suppress it,” Flitwick said.
“But your flame…” He stared at the spark in Daimon’s palm.
“I can feel its purity.
It burns cleanly, and it carries…
an ancient aura.” “I cannot be sure which is stronger, your flame or Fiendfyre, but I advise you never to test it against the Fiendfyre Curse.
It is not just fire; it is a curse.
Moreover, Fiendfyre is notoriously difficult to control.
Many Dark wizards have been consumed by the very flames they summoned.” “I understand.” Daimon extinguished the flame.
“What about the Killing Curse?” Flitwick’s eye twitched.
“The Killing Curse!” His voice pitched higher.
“Your questions today are certainly giving me a surprise.
Why do you ask?” Daimon’s expression remained perfectly neutral.
“Because of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes taught by Professor Quirrell—you’ve probably heard about the quality of his lessons.
If we ever encounter Dark wizards outside school, like You-Know-Who’s followers, we wouldn’t even know how to defend ourselves.
I wanted to understand more, just in case.” Flitwick went silent again.
The surprise on his face gradually faded into a helpless sigh.
“You have a point.
Quirrell’s teaching is indeed…
lacking,” he sighed.
“But the Killing Curse is one of the Unforgivable Curses.
It is pure slaughter.
There is no shielding against it, and no counter-curse.
There are only two ways to survive it: either the caster misses, or…
Harry Potter.” “Harry?” “Exactly.
Harry is the only person in history to ever survive being hit by the Killing Curse.
No one knows how he did it.” Daimon was quiet for a moment.
“Is it possible that if someone’s soul is strong enough, they can withstand the Killing Curse?” He wanted to know if his Sheep Talisman, combined with his resilient demon soul, could withstand the damage of the Killing Curse.
As far as he knew, before reclaiming the Dog Talisman, the Killing Curse was the single magic in this world most likely to pose a real threat to him.
“That is a question I cannot answer,” Flitwick shook his head.
“However, you needn’t worry too much.
You will never face the threat of the Killing Curse here at Hogwarts.
Even outside, with You-Know-Who’s demise, his lackeys have been locked away in Azkaban.
There are very few lunatics left who would use the Killing Curse to murder people.” “That’s reassuring.” Daimon seemed to let out a sigh of relief.
Standing on the desk, Flitwick patted Daimon on the shoulder.
“We shall call it a day, then.” He picked up a thick magic book from his desk and handed it to Daimon.
“This *Compendium of Charms* contains my personal annotations.
Take it back and study it carefully.
Next week’s lesson will be based on its contents.” “Thank you, Professor.” Daimon hugged the book to his chest and said goodbye, looking for all the world like an exemplary student.
Long after Daimon’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Flitwick remained standing at his office door.
“Quirrell…” he muttered softly, shaking his head.
“Perhaps I should have a word with Dumbledore.
We ought to be much more careful about choosing next year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”