Tver had no idea the students were heaping such praise upon him—or rather, he simply had no time to pay attention to them.
He had run into a bit of trouble.
The students held the duel from his class in exceptionally high regard, considering it the most valuable combat instruction they had ever experienced.
In the eyes of certain professors, however, things looked quite different—especially to Professor McGonagall, who was renowned for her strictness.
“I am not questioning your methods.
In fact, I am delighted that Hogwarts has gained another professor skilled in combat.”
Professor McGonagall paused to gather her thoughts before continuing.
“However, I do hope you will take the children’s capabilities into account.
Suspending them from the ceiling is truly rather…”
She searched for the right word for quite some time without success, so Tver helpfully supplied one for her.
“Undignified?”
“Precisely, undignified,” Professor McGonagall said with a firm nod.
“Binding them would have been one thing, but stringing them up from the ceiling could easily lead parents to believe our school is subjecting students to corporal punishment.”
Just as Tver opened his mouth to explain, Albus Dumbledore spoke up from beside them.
“It is quite all right, Minerva.
Tver’s approach is rather amusing.” He gestured toward the cheerful students with his right hand.
“As you can see, the students enjoyed it immensely.”
“As for the parents, I imagine that once they see their children’s abilities growing, they will hardly mind such a minor detail.”
With the Headmaster speaking on his behalf, Professor McGonagall dropped the subject.
After all, if any letters of complaint arrived, they would end up on Dumbledore’s desk anyway.
Even so, Tver offered a brief explanation to avoid giving anyone the impression that he harbored some bizarre penchant.
“That was merely a small punishment reserved for third-years, to give them a taste of the harsh realities of combat.”
“As for the first- and second-years, if you’ll forgive my bluntness, they are nowhere near ready for real combat.
At most, it’s just a game to them.”
Professor McGonagall offered an awkward smile.
With term having just begun, it was only natural for first-years to be weak; had they been remarkably capable, the staff would have found it suspicious instead.
As for the second-years, however, after an entire year of instruction, Professor McGonagall felt their skills were frankly scarcely better than those of the incoming first-years.
At that thought, she cast a discreet glance at Quirrell, who was cowering with evasive eyes.
It was precisely because professors like him occupied the Defense Against the Dark Arts post that Hogwarts students failed to learn anything useful.
Yet considering that particular rumor, she could not help but feel a pang of worry.
Could it be that Tver, too, would only last a single year before being forced to leave the school?
Tver’s hand paused as he held his goblet.
What on earth had he said to make Professor McGonagall look at him with such profound concern?
Professor Flitwick, meanwhile, had not overthought things nearly as much.
“Tver, you’re teaching combat, but the students know so few spells.
How do you plan to instruct them?”
Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms were, in truth, intimately connected.
Charms taught students new spells, while Defense Against the Dark Arts taught them how to apply those spells against the dangers they might encounter in life.
Thus, the older the students were, the easier it was for them to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts, as they possessed a wider repertoire of magic.
Because Tver was only instructing students up to the third year, Flitwick was naturally concerned that the curriculum might lack the depth of the upper years, leading to student dissatisfaction.
Tver had come prepared.
“In class, I will primarily teach them spellcasting techniques and alternative applications for the magic they have already learned.”
“If you don’t mind, I also plan to teach them practical spells for combat.”
“Not at all,” Flitwick chuckled warmly.
“I wonder if you are skilled in Transfiguration?
It can be quite practical in battle as well.”
Professor McGonagall’s demeanor toward Tver softened even further, as though she feared this might be their only year together.
Hearing this, she turned and joined the conversation.
“I certainly wouldn’t object to Tver teaching the students how to apply Transfiguration.
Frankly, far too many students have no idea how to use Transfiguration in combat, always assuming it to be rather useless.”
Tver felt equally exasperated by that common misconception.
Aside from Transfiguration masters, very few people recognized its immense value in combat.
Coincidentally, his own mentor was a master of Transfiguration.
Though the man often criticized him for favoring the Dark Arts over Transfiguration, Tver’s attainments in the subject were nonetheless far beyond the reach of ordinary wizards.
He merely wondered just how formidable Dumbledore was in this regard—the man hailed as capable of standing at the pinnacle of the world through Transfiguration alone.
Sensing Tver’s gaze, Dumbledore turned and raised his goblet to him.
His clear blue eyes were as innocent as an infant’s, yet Tver, a master of Legilimency, found himself utterly unable to see through them. This chapter is updated first at novelping.com.
“I, too, look forward to seeing Transfiguration put to broader use, and not merely in combat.
If you ever wish, Tver, perhaps we might exchange a few thoughts?”
“I wouldn’t presume to call it an exchange,” Tver said, hurriedly raising his goblet in return.
“Before you, I am merely a student.”
And so, after dinner, Tver accompanied Dumbledore to the Headmaster’s office.
It was the same room as before, arranged in the exact same manner, with the portraits regarding him with faint scrutiny.
“As one grows old, one tends to dislike change,” Dumbledore said, taking his seat behind the long desk with an expectant smile.
“Tea, or pumpkin juice?”
Tver sat down calmly opposite Dumbledore.
“Pumpkin juice, please.
I seem to have developed quite a fondness for it.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the pitcher of pumpkin juice on the desk suddenly sprouted four legs and trotted merrily over to him.
The cup had been transfigured from the bottle’s stopper—delicate, exquisite, and adorned with patterns resembling drifting clouds.
Witnessing this, Tver offered a knowing smile.
Trying to establish dominance right out of the gate, was he?
“Though I do prefer a somewhat larger cup.
You wouldn’t mind, would you, Headmaster?”
Without waiting for Dumbledore’s reply, the cup elongated into a goblet, and the spout of the pitcher automatically tilted forward, pouring out rich pumpkin juice.
Dumbledore’s smug smile froze instantly.
Wandless, nonverbal casting combined with advanced Transfiguration—he had intended to show off a little to humble the young professor, lest Tver grow arrogant at such a young age on account of his extraordinary strength.
He had hardly expected Tver to counter with wandless, nonverbal magic of his own, transfiguring directly atop his Transfiguration.
It was practically nesting Transfigurations inside one another, and he was the one who had been outmaneuvered.
Yet the pumpkin juice did not pour for long before it abruptly halted.
The goblet Tver had fashioned shrank back into a tiny cup; had it poured any longer, the juice would have spilled over.
“I just remembered that we have only just finished dinner; it would be best not to drink too much pumpkin juice.”
*Curse my damned competitive streak.*
Dumbledore looked smugly at Tver, whose face had gone dark.
“It is quite all right.
I am still young; my digestion is excellent.” Tver’s smile turned even smugger.
The cup shifted back once more.