September 1st, evening.
The Great Hall of Hogwarts was ablaze with light.
Thousands of candles floated in mid-air, and the ceiling reflected the starry sky outside.
Four long tables stretched from the doors to the far end of the hall, corresponding to the four houses: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff.
Zhang Wen sat at the High Table, positioned between Snape and Flitwick.
From the moment he sat down, Snape hadn’t spared him a single pleasant look.
This wasn’t surprising.
In the original story, Snape never had a kind word for any Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, mostly because he had coveted the position himself for over a decade.
Now that the post had been snatched up by an Oriental man of unknown origin, it would be a miracle if Snape had a good attitude.
“Professor…
Zhang.” Snape’s voice was low and drawling, every word seemingly squeezed through his teeth.
“I hear you were recommended by Lockhart?”
“I was, Professor Snape,” Zhang Wen replied with a smile.
“Lockhart.” Snape repeated the name, his sarcasm so thick it could be wrung out like water.
“A most…
impressive sponsor.”
Zhang Wen decided not to take the bait.
Sparring with Snape was never a wise move.
The man’s silver tongue was ranked number one in all of Hogwarts; even Dumbledore had to yield to him occasionally.
On the other side, Professor Flitwick was quite enthusiastic.
The diminutive Charms professor had to stand on his chair just to reach the table, but this didn’t dampen his social fervor in the slightest.
“Welcome, welcome!” Flitwick’s voice was high-pitched and cheerful.
“You’ve come from the East?
I’ve always been fascinated by Eastern magic systems!
I’ve heard that Chinese Talismanry is incredibly sophisticated—”
“We can certainly discuss it in detail another day,” Zhang Wen responded politely.
He didn’t dare dive too deep.
His knowledge of Chinese Talismanry was limited to the superficial basics of the Type-Moon universe; if he actually tried to debate specifics with a Charms professor, he’d be exposed in minutes.
Artoria sat beside him, her back ramrod straight, eyes fixed forward, and lips sealed.
Originally, no seat had been arranged for her—assistants usually didn’t sit at the High Table.
But Dumbledore had waved his hand and declared, “The more, the merrier,” and had the house-elves add an extra chair.
Zhang Wen suspected Dumbledore just wanted to observe Artoria at close range.
The old man’s curiosity was greater than a cat’s.
The great doors swung open.
Professor McGonagall led a line of first-year students into the Great Hall.
The little ones walked in a nervous row, eyes wide with wonder, rendered speechless by the starlit ceiling and floating candles.
The Sorting Ceremony began.
The battered Sorting Hat was placed upon a stool.
Its brim opened wide like a mouth, and it sang a song about the four houses.
Zhang Wen caught the gist—the brave go to Gryffindor, the clever to Ravenclaw, the loyal to Hufflepuff, and the ambitious to Slytherin.
A very simple and crude way of classification.
If the Sorting Hat were to sort him, he would likely end up in Slytherin.
A man who would threaten Lockhart to take his job just for the sake of survival couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else.
As for Artoria—
Gryffindor, without a doubt.
Once the Sorting was finished, Dumbledore stood up.
The Great Hall fell silent instantly.
“Welcome back to Hogwarts!” Dumbledore’s voice echoed through the hall.
“Before we begin our feast, I have a few announcements to make.”
Zhang Wen sat up straight.
Here it came.
“First, I am pleased to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—Mr.
Zhang Wen.”
Every eye in the hall snapped toward the staff table.
Zhang Wen stood and gave a slight nod.
A scattered, confused smattering of applause broke out in the Great Hall.
This was normal.
The students had expected to see the golden-haired, bright-smiling Gilderoy Lockhart—after all, the *Daily Prophet* had been promoting it relentlessly all summer.
Instead, they got an Eastern face they had never heard of.
Zhang Wen noticed a girl with bushy brown hair at the Gryffindor table who looked profoundly disappointed.
Hermione Granger.
Lockhart’s number-one fan.
Beside her sat a black-haired boy and a red-haired boy—Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.
Wait.
Zhang Wen blinked.
Why were Harry and Ron here?
According to the original plot, these two should have been blocked from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters by Dobby, forced to steal the Weasleys’ flying car, and arrived late.
But there they were, sitting perfectly fine at the long table.
Zhang Wen performed a quick mental analysis—he had replaced Lockhart, so Lockhart hadn’t shown up at Flourish and Blotts for a book signing.
Thus, the confrontation between the Weasleys and the Malfoys at the bookstore hadn’t happened.
A series of chain reactions in the timeline had likely altered Harry and Ron’s journey.
The Butterfly Effect.
It had already begun.
Zhang Wen noted this change and drew his attention back to the banquet.
“Additionally,” Dumbledore continued, “Professor Zhang’s assistant, Miss Artoria Pendragon, will also be assisting with our lessons this term.”
Artoria stood up.
The Great Hall fell silent once more.
This silence was different from the previous one.
Before, it was confusion; now, it was—how should one put it—awe.
Artoria wore deep blue robes, her blonde hair falling neatly behind her shoulders.
Her back was straight, and her expression was serene.
She didn’t need to do anything extra; just by standing there, she possessed an aura that made it impossible to look away.
It was the aura of a King.
Even if her current status was merely that of an assistant.
“She’s so beautiful…” a girl from one of the houses whispered.
Hermione’s disappointment over Lockhart’s absence seemed to lessen slightly.
At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy stared at Artoria for several seconds before nudging Goyle with his elbow.
“Pendragon,” Malfoy whispered.
“That surname…
where have I heard it before?”
Zhang Wen thought to himself: *Of course you’ve heard it.
Arthur Pendragon, King Arthur, the legendary King of Britain.
You pure-blood families love researching ancient lineages like that.*
Of course, no one knew that the blonde woman at the High Table was the legend herself.
Dumbledore clapped his hands, and food appeared.
Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, bacon, steak, stews, fries, roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup—
Zhang Wen saw Artoria’s pupils dilate slightly.
It was only for a split second.
Then she regained her calm expression, picked up her knife and fork with impeccable aristocratic grace, and began to eat.
She was incredibly fast.
Yet, her movements remained elegant.
It was a study in contradictions—every cut, every lift of the fork, every bite was textbook-perfect, yet the frequency was dizzying.
Zhang Wen silently pushed a piece of roast beef from his plate toward her.
Artoria glanced at him.
“Eat,” Zhang Wen said.
“I’m not very hungry yet.”
Artoria didn’t stand on ceremony.
On Zhang Wen’s other side, Snape kept a dark face throughout the meal, appearing to have no interest in the food.
He only drank half a glass of pumpkin juice before using his dark eyes to sweep across the student tables.
His gaze lingered on Harry Potter for a moment before moving on.
Zhang Wen caught the detail.
Snape’s attitude toward Harry—it was clear in the books: a mixture of loathing and protection.
All because of Lily Potter.
The interpersonal relationships in this world were even more complicated than a Holy Grail War.
Dessert arrived.
Ice cream, cakes, jellies, donuts, fruit tarts, chocolate mousse, treacle tart, apple pie.
Artoria’s eating speed kicked up another notch.
Professor Flitwick whispered in Zhang Wen’s ear, “Your assistant certainly has a healthy appetite.”
“She exercises a lot,” Zhang Wen replied, deadpan.
After dessert, Dumbledore stood again to announce the usual matters—the Forbidden Forest was off-limits, Quidditch trials, and Filch’s updated list of banned items.
Then he said, “One last thing.
Professor Zhang, would you care to give a brief introduction to the students on this first day?”
All eyes gathered on him once more.
Zhang Wen stood up.
He scanned the Great Hall, his gaze moving from Gryffindor to Slytherin, from Ravenclaw to Hufflepuff.
Hundreds of young faces looked back at him—some curious, some skeptical, some indifferent, and a few already starting to doze off.
Zhang Wen cleared his throat.
“My name is Zhang Wen, your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” he said.
“I know many of you were expecting Mr.
Lockhart, and I apologize for the disappointment.”
A few girls at the Gryffindor table exchanged glances.
Hermione lowered her head.
“I won’t tell you stories about how I wrestled yetis with my bare hands, nor will I sell you my autobiography,” Zhang Wen continued.
“But I can teach you something truly useful—how to survive when facing the Dark Arts.”
The Great Hall grew a bit quieter.
“To give you a direct impression of this course, I’ve asked my assistant to provide a brief demonstration.” Zhang Wen turned to Artoria.
“Miss Pendragon?”
Artoria set down her fork—her plate was already empty—wiped her mouth, and stood up.
She walked to the open space in front of the High Table, facing the students.
“I need a target,” she said.
Zhang Wen drew his wand and flicked it toward the empty space.
A solid wooden target appeared out of thin air—this was the result of two days of practicing Transfiguration, and it was the only piece of Transfiguration he could currently pull off.
The target was a bit crooked.
But it was a target nonetheless.
Artoria didn’t look at the target.
She extended her right hand, palm down.
A golden light coalesced in her hand.
A wind blew from out of nowhere, tossing her blonde hair and the hem of her robes.
Every candle in the Great Hall flickered simultaneously.
The Barrier of the Wind King—*Invisible Air*.
The transparent sword wrapped in wind appeared in her hand.
Of course, no one present could see the sword.
They could only see a violent surge of wind—as if some invisible force were concentrating in the blonde woman’s hand.
Then, Artoria swung her hand.
Just once.
The target was split down the middle.
The two halves flew toward the sides of the Great Hall, slamming into the stone walls and shattering into sawdust.
Silence reigned in the Great Hall.
It lasted for about five seconds.
Then—
“Whoa—!”
A cheer erupted first from the Gryffindor table.
Ron Weasley’s mouth fell open, his fork clattering onto his plate.
Harry Potter stared wide-eyed, his glasses nearly sliding off his nose.
Hermione’s eyes were huge, her mouth slightly agape, her brain likely scouring every book she’d ever read to explain what had just happened.
The Slytherin table was quieter, but Malfoy’s expression was visibly shaken.
The Ravenclaws had already begun debating among themselves what kind of magic that was.
The Hufflepuffs were clapping.
At the High Table, Professor McGonagall’s lips were pressed into a thin line, her gaze sharp.
Professor Flitwick hopped off his chair, letting out a high-pitched exclamation of wonder.
Snape remained expressionless, but the hand holding his goblet paused for a second.
Dumbledore was smiling, his blue eyes twinkling.
He was observing.
Analyzing.
Judging.
Zhang Wen knew that Dumbledore’s mind was likely spinning a thousand miles a minute—who was this woman, what was the nature of this power, how strong was she really, and what was her true relationship with Zhang Wen?
But the old man simply clapped and said warmly, “A marvelous demonstration.”
Zhang Wen stepped forward to face the entire student body.
“That is the core of Defense Against the Dark Arts—power and skill,” he said.
“Starting next Monday, I will teach you how to obtain power of your own.
Not the power found in storybooks, but the power that can truly save your lives.”
He paused.
“I hope you are prepared.
My class will not be easy.”
At the Gryffindor table, Harry and Ron exchanged an excited look.
Hermione Granger pulled out a quill and began scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment—likely a to-do list involving “Researching wandless and non-verbal spellcasting literature.”
At the Slytherin table, Malfoy withdrew his gaze and whispered something to Crabbe.
Zhang Wen couldn’t see his face clearly, but he could guess the sentiment—this new professor actually had something to show.
Artoria returned to her seat and picked up her fork again.
A new piece of roast beef had appeared on the table at some point.
She glanced at Dumbledore.
The old man gave her a small, knowing nod with his glass.
Artoria was silent for a moment, then gave a slight nod in return.
“Well done,” Zhang Wen whispered.
“It was my duty.” Artoria sliced into the beef.
“The target you conjured was too soft.”
“I only practiced for two days to get to that level; don’t set your expectations so high.”
“Practice again tomorrow.”
“…Yes, ma’am.”
After the feast, the students were led back to their dormitories by their house prefects.
As Zhang Wen and Artoria walked back toward the third floor, the portraits in the castle whispered among themselves, clearly discussing the new professor and the blonde assistant who could release terrifying wind pressure.
Zhang Wen felt the first day had gone quite smoothly.
At least there were no major blunders.
Next came the actual teaching.
He still had the weekend to prepare his lesson plans.
A man who had never taught a day in his life was about to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts to a school full of wizards.
Zhang Wen took a deep breath.
*It’s fine,* he told himself.
*As long as I’m better than Quirrell and Lockhart.*
One man with Voldemort on the back of his head, and one fraud who only knew Memory Charms.
He should be able to meet that standard.
Probably.