Early the next morning, Jerael got up at half past six as usual.
He went for a run around the lawn outside the castle, then stretched under the morning sun to loosen his muscles.
Around seven-thirty, he had breakfast and headed back to the dormitory to read the books he had borrowed from the library the day before in the common room.
Ravenclaw truly lived up to its reputation for having the most studious atmosphere; even though it was still early before class, plenty of students were already reading or practicing spells.
Several older students were pleased to see Jerael studying so early and greeted him warmly.
When it was almost time, Jack walked out of the dormitory.
Spotting Jerael, he hopped over happily, and the two walked together toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was another joint class with Slytherin.
Rooney Selwyn seemed to have spread the word about what had happened yesterday, because whenever the Slytherin first-years passed Jerael, they cast covert, wary glances at him.
Jerael didn’t care in the slightest.
As long as he wasn’t embarrassed, the awkwardness belonged to everyone else.
Sure enough, seeing Jerael completely unfazed, one of the Slytherin boys—who seemed to be their ringleader—grew thoroughly annoyed and flipped the pages of his textbook with loud, aggressive rustles.
The professor for this course was Winston Pawacina, a man in his nineties who looked to be around forty.
He was said to be a former Auror who had retired after being injured in battle against Death Eaters, before Headmaster Dumbledore invited him to teach.
Jerael remembered that Voldemort had applied for a teaching position around 1960 and cursed the post after Headmaster Dumbledore turned him down.
It had been over twenty years since then, so everyone probably knew about the curse by now.
It really must have been tough.
From 1960 to 1998, Headmaster Dumbledore had to find thirty-eight qualified witches and wizards from the wizarding world to fill the post, even ending up with people like Lockhart.
It truly wasn’t easy.
Professor Pawacina was highly experienced and gave brilliant lectures.
He didn’t just explain the material in the textbook; he also wove the characteristics of various magical creatures into stories from his own past.
His tales were grand, perilous, and full of narrow escapes—all resolved thanks to his rich knowledge of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
The young wizards sat mesmerized below the podium, gasping and exclaiming in wonder.
Even the Slytherins couldn’t resist the charm of his stories and listened intently.
“Now then, does anyone know which creatures qualify as magical beasts?
Who would like to tell me?
I’d bet you all have plenty of interesting stories to share.”
With half an hour left of class, Professor Pawacina took a sip of water and paused briefly before making his proposal.
He was a veteran educator who knew that young children didn’t like long-winded textbook lectures and preferred active participation.
So he intended to use this approach to broaden their horizons while fostering camaraderie among classmates.
He knew the method all too well.
Back when he trained new Aurors, he had used this exact strategy—getting veteran Aurors to recount their glorious, grueling, thrilling, and dangerous exploits.
It established authority among the recruits while encouraging them to open up and share their own experiences without reservation.
This helped him understand the newcomers better so he could assign appropriate mentors based on their traits, maximize their strengths, and lower casualty rates. Follow the newest chapters on novelping . com.
Professor Pawacina set his chessboard with a smile, waiting for the young wizards to step into his trap one by one.
Of course, young students didn’t need to understand as much as Aurors did, but exchanging secrets and sharing experiences would greatly bond them together.
The times were peaceful now.
Even Slytherin students shouldn’t face discrimination—after all, they weren’t followers of You-Know-Who.
Sure enough, the moment he spoke, the classroom atmosphere immediately livened up.
Most of the students from both houses came from wizarding families, had grown up in the magical world, and possessed some knowledge of magical creatures.
The young wizards began chattering about things they had seen or heard.
Some children loved catching gnomes, recounting how they matched wits with gnomes in their childhoods and even made special nests for them so they’d have a place to sleep after being degnomed and thrown over the fence.
Another child’s elders loved herbology, and he had wreaked havoc in their herb garden.
“I loved Mandrakes the most!
They were like my little sister—crying loudly and shrilly whenever they were pulled up.
I used to faint every time I heard it, but back then, I thought the Mandrake *was* my sister.
I hugged it all day and wouldn’t let go.
My mother had no choice but to send me to stay at my grandfather’s house until all the Mandrakes were brewed into potions before bringing me back.”
“And then?
What happened next?” the surrounding students asked eagerly, completely absorbed in the story.
The young wizard blushed in embarrassment and disappointment.
“Then I thought my real sister was a Mandrake and kept trying to plant her in a flowerpot.
My mom gave me a thrashing for it.
To this day, my sister runs away whenever she sees me, even though I clearly know I was wrong.”
The students burst into laughter, and Professor Pawacina couldn’t help smiling either, hiding his face behind his textbook.
He noticed that several Slytherin students were covering their mouths, their shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Another young witch with brownish-yellow hair spoke up excitedly.
“When I went traveling with my parents, I saw a Jobberknoll!”
Jerael had never heard of a Jobberknoll, so he leaned in to listen closely.
“My dad said it never makes a sound its whole life—not until the moment before it dies.
Then it lets out every sound it ever heard all at once before turning to ash, leaving only its feathers behind.
We happened to run into one right as it was dying.
By Merlin, it’s hard to describe its cry—it sounded like crisp, lovely wind chimes, ringing continuously for three days and three nights before stopping.
Then *poof*, it vanished!
My dad took the feathers and sold them, then bought me an enchanted Jobberknoll toy to use as an alarm clock!” Find the original chapter at g.com.
Another wave of amazed “oohs” and “aahs” erupted, making the praised young witch flush with pride.
“Hmph.
Naturally, a pauper’s choice.
Jobberknoll feathers are a primary ingredient in brewing Veritaserum and Memory Potions.
If your father actually knew a Potions master and handed the feathers over, he would have gained far more wealth instead of a ridiculous, cheap magical toy.”
A juvenile but arrogant voice echoed from among the Slytherins, instantly pouring cold water on the lively mood of the Ravenclaw first-years.
However, when dealing with tactless Slytherins, he didn’t mind giving them a stern lesson himself.
Professor Pawacina lowered his textbook and slowly looked over at the Slytherin first-years, withdrawing some of the leniency he had held toward them before class.
A Slytherin first-year sneered at her with a haughty expression.
“What, am I wrong?
Oh, I forgot—how could someone like you know a Potions master?
With no money and no power, you can only rely on odd novelties to impress Muggle-born wizards.
Heh.”
Jerael noticed the boy glinting a glance toward him when mentioning the Muggle world.
He frowned slightly to himself but remained silent.
Seeing that Jerael didn’t take the bait, the Slytherin student grit his teeth and continued, “Some people haven’t even stepped into the magical world before bringing Muggle methods into Hogwarts.
Who knows what intentions they harbor?
I suppose when he graduates, he’ll lead the Muggles to invade the wizarding world!”
“Ouden Slav!” Professor Pawacina roared in anger.
Stepping down from the podium in long strides, his tall, broad frame stood directly over Ouden Slav, casting a dark shadow across the boy’s pale face and uneasy expression.
Jerael turned his head expressionlessly, certain that this person was targeting him.
“Muggle methods” was almost certainly referring to his simulated brewing technique.
It seemed that being too outstanding in Potions class invited envy.
But from this, Jerael also judged that even pure-blood wizarding families in Slytherin didn’t educate their children very deeply before enrollment; otherwise, he wouldn’t have been the only one able to brew a Cure for Boils potion of perfect quality.
Was a pure-blood family being outshone by a half-blood like him and flying into a rage of humiliation?
Hmph.
When would Slytherin’s sense of honor ever be used in the right place?
A simple potion had already made them lose their composure.
If he really became Professor Snape’s disciple in the future, wouldn’t they burst a blood vessel from rage?
Professor Pawacina was angry, but he also smiled.
Having fought against pure-blood wizards for over twenty years, he knew all too well how to hit them right where it hurt—hitting the mark every single time.