Zhang Wen’s first week as a professor was more packed than the Holy Grail War.
Monday was for second-year Gryffindors and Slytherins; Tuesday was for second-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs; Wednesday was for the third years; Thursday was one class each for the fourth and fifth years; and Friday was for the sixth and seventh years.
Every year level had a different foundation, used different textbooks, and held a different attitude toward their new professor.
The younger students were mostly filled with curiosity and excitement.
The older students, however, were noticeably more cautious.
On the first day of class, a sixth-year student even asked him, “Professor, do you have any actual combat experience?”
Zhang Wen replied, “I do.”
“Against what kind of opponents?”
“A demigod wielding twelve Noble Phantasms, an assassin who could manipulate shadows, and a madman who turned himself into a snake.”
The students thought he was joking and laughed for a while.
Zhang Wen laughed along with them.
He wasn’t joking.
Wednesday afternoon, Zhang Wen was in his office grading homework.
The second-year assignment was a short essay on “Response Strategies When Encountering Dark Creatures.”
Hermione Granger’s homework spanned three rolls of parchment, cited seven reference books, and was formatted as precisely as an academic thesis.
Zhang Wen gave her an “Outstanding” and added a note at the end: *Next time, please keep it within one roll.*
Harry Potter’s homework was brief but cut straight to the point—”Determine threat level, assess escape routes, and only fight if you absolutely cannot run.”
Zhang Wen gave him an “Outstanding” without any notes.
The boy had a natural instinct for combat.
Ron Weasley’s homework was only half a roll, written in messy handwriting.
The gist of it was “Scream for help and then run.”
Zhang Wen hesitated for a moment and gave him an “Acceptable.” Although the effort was superficial, the core logic wasn’t wrong.
Neville Longbottom’s homework had visible tear stains on it.
He wrote, “Stand perfectly still and hope the dark creature doesn’t see me.”
Zhang Wen didn’t give him a grade.
Instead, he wrote a line: *Mr.
Longbottom, please come see me after class.*
Malfoy’s homework was a rambling two rolls long.
His core argument was “Let a house-elf stand in front while I retreat.”
Zhang Wen gave him a “Poor” and noted: *Please rely on your own abilities rather than others’.*
He could imagine the expression on Malfoy’s face when he saw that grade.
As he was grading, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
Severus Snape stood at the threshold—black robes, black hair, black eyes, looking like a mass of solidified shadow.
“Professor Snape.” Zhang Wen set down his quill.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
Snape walked in, his gaze sweeping over the open textbooks and homework on the desk before landing on Artoria, who was drinking tea in the corner.
Artoria glanced back at him and then continued drinking her tea.
Snape sat in a chair without waiting for Zhang Wen to invite him.
“I came to see how our new colleague is adjusting,” Snape said, his speech slow, each word trailing a long tail.
“Adjusting quite well, thank you for your concern.”
“I heard you had the students practicing the Disarming Charm in your very first lesson?”
“Yes.”
“Second years.” Snape’s tone held a layer of hidden meaning.
“The Disarming Charm is usually Fourth Year material or higher.”
Zhang Wen had long expected someone to question his curriculum.
“The difficulty of casting the Disarming Charm isn’t high; it’s just that previous professors scheduled it for the upper years,” Zhang Wen said.
“I believe the sooner this spell is mastered, the better.
It might be the most practical spell one has in a critical moment.”
Snape stared at him for several seconds.
Those black eyes reminded Zhang Wen of Kirei Kotomine from the Type-Moon world—equally unfathomable, equally unsettling.
Of course, Snape was much better than Kirei.
At least Snape was a man standing on the right side.
It was just that his way of expressing goodwill was a bit different from normal people.
“You seem very confident in your teaching methods,” Snape said.
“Not necessarily confident, I just feel the original methods weren’t good enough.”
“Oh?” Snape raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve been here a week, and you already feel the teaching system Hogwarts has used for centuries isn’t good enough?”
“Being used for centuries doesn’t mean it’s right,” Zhang Wen said calmly.
“The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor changes every year.
Everyone’s teaching style is different, leaving the students with fragmented knowledge.
This isn’t a problem with the system; it’s a problem of continuity.”
Snape fell silent.
Zhang Wen was speaking the truth, and he couldn’t refute it.
After a brief silence, Snape changed the subject.
“Your assistant.” His gaze moved toward Artoria again.
“Miss Pendragon.
She is not a witch.”
It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.
Zhang Wen’s heart tightened slightly.
Snape was indeed not an easy man to fool.
He had likely observed long ago that Artoria didn’t use a wand, possessed no magical fluctuations unique to wizards, and didn’t act like someone trained in any magical school.
“Her ability system is different from traditional wizards,” Zhang Wen said, weighing his words.
“You saw it at the opening feast.”
“I saw,” Snape said.
“A power that does not rely on a wand, belonging to no known category of magic.
Very interesting.”
He stood up.
“I hope you understand, Professor Zhang—Dumbledore may tolerate mysteries, but I do not like them.”
Snape walked to the door and paused.
“By the way, that wand of yours is a very poor match for you.
If you don’t wish to make a fool of yourself in the upper-level classes, I suggest you go to Ollivanders and get a proper one.”
The door closed.
Zhang Wen and Artoria looked at each other.
“He is very sharp,” Artoria said, setting down her teacup.
“More than just sharp.” Zhang Wen sighed.
“The man has been a double agent for over a decade.
Reading people is his fundamental skill.”
“A double agent?”
“It’s a long story.” Zhang Wen leaned back in his chair.
“Simply put, he was once a subordinate of Voldemort, then defected to Dumbledore’s side, but Voldemort doesn’t know he defected.
He acts as a spy for both sides simultaneously.”
Artoria was silent for a moment.
“Why did he defect?”
“For a woman.”
Artoria’s expression shifted subtly.
“A woman he loved deeply but can never see again,” Zhang Wen added.
“On the surface, this man is cold and caustic, but in reality, he carries perhaps the heaviest secrets in this entire school.”
Artoria said nothing.
She seemed to be lost in thought.
After a while, she said, “His suggestion about changing your wand.
That suggestion is correct.”
“I know.” Zhang Wen picked up Lockhart’s wand and looked at it.
“But Ollivanders is in Diagon Alley.
My schedule is so full right now, when would I have time to buy a wand?”
“The weekend.”
“I have to prepare lessons over the weekend.”
“Go to Diagon Alley on Saturday morning to buy the wand, and return in the afternoon to prepare your lessons.” Artoria’s tone left no room for negotiation.
“To do a good job, one must first sharpen one’s tools.”
Zhang Wen arched an eyebrow.
“When did you learn to use Chinese idioms?”
“I leafed through a book called *A Collection of Eastern Proverbs* in the bookstore.”
“…When did you flip through that?”
“While you were preparing your lessons.”
Zhang Wen suddenly realized something.
When he was preparing lessons, Artoria appeared to just be drinking tea and spacing out.
But in reality, she had been engaged in self-directed learning.
Browsing books, observing students, communicating with the kitchen elves, studying the castle’s layout—
She was adapting to this new world in her own way.
Quietly.
As she always did.
She was likely the same when she was the King of Camelot—everyone thought she was just a silent, stoic king, but in truth, she worked harder than anyone.
Looking at her, Zhang Wen suddenly felt a bit guilty.
Ever since they transmigrated to this world, he had been busy with his own affairs—grabbing the professor position, learning magic, preparing lessons—but he had never once asked Artoria how she was adjusting.
She had left her era, left Britain, and left her knights.
First, she was summoned to the Holy Grail War, then she was tossed into this strange world.
She never complained.
Not even once.
“Artoria,” Zhang Wen spoke.
“Yes?”
“Are you…
getting used to it here?”
Artoria looked at him.
“The food at Hogwarts is very good,” she said.
“I wasn’t asking about the food.”
“The library’s collection is also very extensive.”
“I wasn’t asking about the library either.”
Artoria was silent for a few seconds.
“What is it Master wishes to ask?”
Zhang Wen opened his mouth.
What he wanted to say was: *You followed me to this nonsensical world all alone, with no goal, no mission, and no Holy Grail to wish upon—are you really okay?*
But as the words reached his lips, he felt they weren’t quite right.
Artoria was the King of Knights.
The concept of “not being okay” didn’t exist in her dictionary.
Even if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t say so.
“It’s nothing.” Zhang Wen shook his head.
“I just wanted to say—thank you.”
Artoria’s expression didn’t change.
“As a Servant, it is only natural to assist my Master.”
“The Holy Grail War is over,” Zhang Wen said.
“You aren’t a Servant anymore.
You’re following me not because of a contract.”
After he said those words, the office fell silent for a moment.
Artoria’s hand, holding the teacup, paused for a split second.
It really was just a split second.
“The contract indeed no longer exists,” she said, her voice steady.
“But a knight’s loyalty does not require a contract to be maintained.”
Zhang Wen looked at her.
She looked out the window.
Outside was the twilight of the Scottish Highlands; the horizon was burning a deep orange-red.
The surface of the Black Lake reflected the colors of the sunset.
“Besides,” Artoria added, her voice a bit lower than before, “the roasted lamb chops here are indeed quite excellent.”
Zhang Wen laughed.
“Let’s go,” he stood up.
“Time for dinner.”
“Yes.”
On the way to the Great Hall, they ran into Harry Potter in the corridor.
Harry was clutching a pile of books, likely having just come from the library.
Seeing Zhang Wen and Artoria, he clearly hesitated for a moment before coming to a stop.
“Professor Zhang, good evening.”
“Mr.
Potter.” Zhang Wen nodded.
“In the library this late?”
“I was looking up information on the Disarming Charm,” Harry said, looking a bit embarrassed.
“I wanted to see if there were any advanced techniques besides the basic usage.”
Zhang Wen was somewhat surprised.
He had thought that second-year Harry was still in the stage of being “passively swept into events.” He hadn’t expected him to start learning proactively.
Was it the butterfly effect?
Because his teaching method was different, it had sparked Harry’s enthusiasm for learning?
Or was Harry always this kind of person, but in the original story, he just never met a professor who could ignite his interest in the very first class?
“There are many advanced uses for the Disarming Charm,” Zhang Wen said.
“The most basic is controlling the force—precisely disarming the opponent’s weapon without harming them.
A bit more advanced is disarming multiple targets simultaneously.”
Harry’s eyes lit up.
“Could you teach me?”
“I will teach it in class,” Zhang Wen said.
“However, if you want to practice ahead of time—come to my office every day before dinner.
I can give you fifteen minutes of private tutoring.”
He saw a flash of surprise on Harry’s face, which was quickly suppressed.
This boy wasn’t used to being treated with kindness.
Zhang Wen sighed inwardly.
The Dursleys.
There were some things he couldn’t change, but at least during this time at Hogwarts, he could make life a little better for this child.
“Thank you, Professor!” Harry said, clutching his books and walking away quickly.
Artoria watched Harry’s retreating back.
“This boy possesses a certain quality,” she said.
“What quality?”
“Like a young knight who has not yet pulled the Sword in the Stone.”
Zhang Wen glanced at her.
For such an assessment to come from the mouth of the King of Britain, it carried significant weight.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“The lamb chops will get cold.”
Artoria quickened her pace.
This prioritization was very Artoria.
Evaluating future heroes could wait.
The roasted lamb chops could not.