Tver suspected he had figured out the reason behind their sudden change in attitude—word had spread about how he had engaged with his students in class.
It took only a single afternoon for news to reach every ear in the castle.
One could only marvel at how efficiently Hogwarts operated in that regard.
“Just a bit of pedagogical technique,” Tver said with a shrug.
“It seems the students didn’t mind it.”
“They did far more than ‘not mind it,'” Professor Flitwick said, winking conspiratorially.
“And here I was, worried you might be nervous on your first day.”
“They’re just a bunch of third-year children.
They’re quite easy to win over,” Tver replied in an oddly seasoned tone, sounding as though the words ought to have come from Flitwick instead.
Smiling all the way, Tver felt his facial muscles growing stiff.
He had only seen them at the feast the previous evening, and today was merely the first day of term, yet it felt as if every student in the school had become intimately acquainted with their new professor.
The moment he stepped into the Great Hall, however, the full meaning of Flitwick’s words hit him.
Seeing him appear, a student immediately let out a loud shriek.
“Professor Foley, won’t you consider hanging me upside down and giving me a thrashing too?
I’m in fourth year!”
The voice belonged to a rather burly-looking boy.
The Great Hall erupted into roaring laughter, yet beneath the jest, the students’ eyes were shining with genuine, burning anticipation as they looked toward Tver.
“Professor, please teach us dueling techniques as well!”
“Feel free to tie me up as tightly as you want, Professor, I really don’t mind!”
As for Quirrell up at the staff table, he wished he didn’t have to teach a single class at all; he was entirely preoccupied with figuring out how to bypass the three-headed dog.
Tver had only taught one lesson, which ordinarily wouldn’t have provoked such fervor.
The trouble was that everything looked starker by comparison.
Taking their very first lessons into account, Quirrell’s class had been utterly, mind-numbingly dull.
For starters, his classroom reeked so strongly of garlic that it gave everyone a pounding headache.
To say nothing of the curriculum itself, which consisted of nothing more than him reading straight from the textbook.
Compared to Professor Binns’s History of Magic lectures, the only difference was a marginal trace of emotion in his voice.
Whenever it came time to cast spells, Quirrell would merely summon students up for demonstrations; while he talked endlessly, he never demonstrated anything himself, leaving the students to fumble in the dark.
Tver, on the other hand, was an entirely different story.
That golden barrier alone had given the Weasley twins enough material to rave about for hours.
Then there was Davies from Ravenclaw, who had practically turned into Professor Foley’s most devoted disciple, praising his prowess to high heaven.
In the eyes of the young witches and wizards, from his dashing looks to his sheer magical skill, Professor Foley blew Professor Quirrell completely out of the water! This story is hosted at novelping.com.
Tver raised his hand, and the Great Hall instantly quieted down.
Observing the eager expressions, especially from the upper years, he gave a broad sweep of his arm, gesturing toward Quirrell at the staff table.
“Fourth year and above fall under Professor Quirrell’s purview.
Believe me, his capabilities are more than sufficient for your Defense Against the Dark Arts education; he simply hasn’t showcased them yet.”
If Quirrell wanted to hide his true strength, Tver had no qualms about laying a few traps for him.
They were colleagues in more ways than one, after all.
If he didn’t throw him under the bus, who would?
The maneuver worked wonders.
Quirrell’s polite, detached smile froze solid on his face, a twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth as he struggled to find an appropriate expression to meet the inquiring stares of the students.
With that, the minor stir in the Great Hall subsided, though the students continued to buzz about the suave, charismatic Professor Foley.
“We won’t have Professor Foley’s class for another few days,” Ron mumbled around a mouthful of food, a chicken drumstick in his left hand and a custard tart in his right.
“There’s no point getting worked up this early.”
“I am not getting worked up!” Hermione snapped, looking up from her book while eating her dinner, her brow furrowed in annoyance.
“Professor Foley’s first class is an assessment of our current abilities!
If you can’t cast a single spell, won’t we lose right at the very start?!”
Neville set down his chicken leg in utter despair.
“I’m done for.
Even with a whole year to study, I still wouldn’t be able to cast a proper spell.”
Harry listened in silence, his chest tightening with unease.
During classes that day, he had been pleasantly surprised to find that his magical grasp wasn’t lagging behind his peers—with the obvious exception of Hermione.
Yet hearing now that their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class would involve a duel against an actual professor, he couldn’t help but worry.
If he performed terribly, could he be expelled and sent right back to the Dursleys for failing?
George squeezed himself excitedly into the space between them.
Wherever Professor Foley was being discussed at the Gryffindor table, he was sure to be there.
“Don’t fret.
No matter how much you learn beforehand, you’ll still get flattened by Professor Foley in a single spell.”
“Who knows, the professor might scare them out of their wits just by waving his wand,” Fred chimed in with a wicked grin.
“Wait, didn’t I hear that you three only took one spell from the professor before getting hoisted into the air?” Ron blinked his large, innocent eyes in complete bewilderment, entirely oblivious to the landmine he had just stepped on.
“…”
“I think we ought to invent some spider sweets.
Turning someone into a spider sounds like loads of fun.”
“Or we could just fill the common room with spiders, so our fellow Gryffindors can practice their footwork ahead of time.”
“Footwork?
Are you talking about dueling techniques?” Hermione’s thirst for knowledge flared up instantly.
“Could you tell us more about that?”
She was far more interested in the actual content of Professor Foley’s curriculum.
As an eager student, she always made a point to read ahead before any class.
Yet judging from the snippets she had gathered, Professor Foley didn’t seem to follow the standard syllabus in the slightest.
What was more, she couldn’t recall reading any books that covered topics like that.
“Patience!
You’ll learn it all in due time—we have an entire year ahead of us!” George shook his head with an air of smug superiority.
As it stood, only their group had experienced Professor Foley’s teaching, and they had tacitly agreed to keep the details tightly under wraps.
These were closely guarded secrets capable of making someone formidable!
Of course, once the rest of the school went through their Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons, the truth would come out anyway.
By then, however, they would share the solemn bond of having hung from the ceiling together, so keeping secrets wouldn’t matter anymore.
Hermione pursed her lips in dissatisfaction, choosing to ignore the tight-lipped Weasley twins.
After finishing off his meal, Ron suddenly voiced another thought.
“Aren’t any of you worried that Professor Foley might use Dark Arts?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!
How could a professor ever use Dark Arts against students?!” Hermione countered immediately.
“Well, he is from Durmstrang through and through.
Wouldn’t knowing a bit of Dark Arts be completely normal for him?” Ron pressed, his brows furrowing.
To his mind, knowing the Dark Arts was synonymous with being a Dark wizard, and Durmstrang—which taught the Dark Arts openly—was practically a breeding ground for them.
George scoffed at that, clapping a heavy hand onto Ron’s shoulder.
“My dear little brother, knowing Dark Arts doesn’t mean one goes around casting them.
I’d wager even Headmaster Dumbledore knows his fair share of Dark spells.”
“Even if he were a Dark wizard, who cares?” Fred added, wearing the shameless expression of a devoted fan.
“As long as he doesn’t cast them on us, that’s all that matters.”
Ron shot his two older brothers a look of deep contempt.
*You two were literally taking bets this morning on how long it would take Professor Foley to get tossed into Azkaban…*