Harry sat quietly while Hagrid and Ron took turns cataloguing James Potter’s Quidditch career.
His expression darkened with every story.
His shoulders drew in until he looked like he wanted to disappear inside his own robes.
Styx set his tankard down, leaned back, and spoke into the quiet that had settled over the table.
“Harry.
How about this.” “Saturday and Sunday mornings, skip Wood’s training and come train with me instead.” The hut went silent.
Ron nearly choked on his bread.
“Skip… Wood’s training?” “Professor, do you know what Wood’s like when he’s in full captain mode?
He’ll murder Harry.” Hermione frowned.
“Is that… appropriate?
Wood is the captain.
He won’t take it well.” Hagrid scratched his beard and gave an awkward grin.
“That’s a bold suggestion, Styx.” “What’s inappropriate about it?” Styx shrugged.
“The match is still two weeks out.
Flying ten laps a day with Wood will build stamina and not much else.
Slytherin isn’t going to play fair when the real thing starts.
Stamina can be fixed later.
A loss can’t.” He looked at Harry, a small curve at the corner of his mouth.
“Interested?” Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione.
Both wore the same mix of shock and barely-contained interest.
Ron broke first.
“Professor… you don’t even know how to play Quidditch, do you?” Styx raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t.
And?” Ron’s eyes went wide.
“Then how are you going to train him?
You can’t even ride a broom!” “I saw you once by the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
You got two metres up, started wobbling, and nearly threw yourself off—” The air froze for two full seconds.
Styx cleared his throat.
The tips of his ears had gone faintly pink.
“…That was an accident.
Wrong broom model.
I was testing the balance.” Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth.
Harry’s mouth twitched.
Ron was on a roll.
“Your face went green!
You were clinging to that broom like it owed you money—” “Ron!” Hermione finally kicked him under the table.
Styx waved a hand, done with the subject.
“Mind your own business about a professor’s private experiments.
I may not play Quidditch, but helping Harry win one match is not beyond me.” He looked at Harry again.
“What position are you?” “Seeker.” “Good.” Styx held up three fingers.
“A Seeker only has three jobs.” “One—dodge.
Get out of the way of Beaters and Chasers who think the Snitch is optional.
The Snitch is fast.
Hitting the ground is faster.” Ron snorted.
Styx ignored him.
“Two—find.
Spot a tiny golden ball in the middle of chaos.” “Three—chase.
Once you see it, you do not let go.
Angle, posture, dignity—none of it matters.
Catch first.
Fall later if you have to.” He opened his hands.
“Sounds simple.
It isn’t.
Speed, reflexes, courage, judgment.
Miss any one of them and you’re just another passenger on a broom.” Ron’s eyes were already shining.
“So how are you actually going to teach him if you can’t even—” Styx reached over and planted a hand on Ron’s head, smiling with pure false kindness.
“Ron.” “You’re feeling brave today.” Ron blinked.
“I am super brave, thank you.” Hermione lost the fight against a laugh.
Styx dropped the subject.
“You three don’t need to worry about the method.
It will be better than Harry flying endless laps by himself.” He looked at them all.
“Saturday and Sunday, nine o’clock, my office.
Don’t be late.
Harry, you talk to Wood.
If he digs his heels in, take it to McGonagall or Dumbledore.
I’ll handle Filch.” Hermione still looked doubtful.
“You’re really sure about this?” Styx took a sip of Butterbeer.
A quiet, mischievous smile spread.
“I wouldn’t claim a hundred percent.
But it won’t be worse than what he’s doing now.
Worried I’ll ruin your Seeker?” Ron shook his head so hard his hair flopped.
“No!
We believe you!” Harry finally smiled—small, but real.
The gloom had lifted a fraction.
“Thank you, Professor.” “Don’t thank me.
I just don’t want Gryffindor to lose in a way that makes the whole school talk about it for months.
I have a house to keep face for.” Hagrid laughed and clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to rock the bench.
“That’s the spirit!
It’s settled then.
I’ll send food over so none of you starve.” Ron’s eyes lit up.
“Hagrid’s rock cakes—” “Shut up, Ron,” Harry and Hermione said together.
Laughter filled the hut.
Even Harry’s head dropped as he laughed properly for the first time that night.
The fire kept crackling.
Fang returned to his bone.
Outside, the wind moved through the Forbidden Forest, but inside the atmosphere had finally loosened.
— Fifth-floor classroom.
Dark Arts Practical.
Class hadn’t started and the noise level was already climbing.
Fred Weasley raised a hand with exaggerated solemnity.
“Professor.” “What are we learning today?” George picked up the cue at once, identical grin in place.
“Maybe helping the professor answer his mountains of fan mail?” He pitched his voice high and breathy.
“Dear Professor Styx, you looked so handsome at the manor—may I please have your autograph—” Fred continued without missing a beat.
“Or tell us how you made those dark wizards crawl across the floor?” George dropped his voice to a stage whisper.
“And demonstrate the most elegant way to say ‘Avada Kedavra’?” Both twins turned toward the podium at the same time, faces pure innocence.
Their shoulders were already shaking.
Styx leaned against the edge of the desk and regarded the two identical faces.
“If I actually let you answer my letters, Professor McGonagall would turn me into a quill before lunch.” Laughter rolled through the room.
He let it settle, then smiled slowly.
“In that case we might have to hand the class over to Professor Quirrell.” A beat.
“Or Professor Snape.
I’m sure he’d be delighted to step in.” Several Gryffindors in the front row went pale.
The twins’ grins locked in place and died.
“Merlin’s beard.” “Please keep teaching, Professor.”