On Monday at noon, the students gathered in the Great Hall for lunch. It was always lively there, but today the place somehow felt even more explosive.
A piece of news was circling over the tables like an invisible ghost, and that news contained a single name: Skyl.
There had been two Defence Against the Dark Arts classes that morning—one for fifth years, one for sixth years, all four houses included. By lunchtime, the entire school knew that the person taking over for Professor Quirrell was that transfer student.
The students who'd already had his lessons spoke of Skyl in awed, almost conspiratorial tones. Before, everyone had called him "Candy-Man Skyl" or "Skyl the Prodigy." Now they were all calling him "Skyl the Amazing"!
His name popped up in every conversation, every few sentences—as if he'd become a bottled dose of Felix Felicis, and just saying it could bring you a streak of good luck.
Skyl's performance in class was part of it; the deliberate, tantalising way the upper years hyped him up was another. The older students could keep their cool, but the younger kids were practically scratching at their own ears with impatience.
Harry's feelings were nothing short of delighted shock. He'd been certain Snape would be the one to cover the class. For some reason, the old bat was unusually harsh with him. On the very first Potions lesson he'd gone out of his way to humiliate Harry. Children were sensitive; Harry could see that Snape didn't just "have an issue" with him—Snape hated him. Hated him the same way Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon did: even if they couldn't kill him, they'd still do everything they could to make his life worse than death.
And then, like a gift from the heavens, it turned out Candy-Man Skyl was taking the class instead.
Harry was so excited at the table that he started banging his spoon against his plate. His friends were just as thrilled. Hermione's cheeks were bright red; Ron saw her draw a circle around Defence Against the Dark Arts on her timetable, and in the corner she even doodled a little smiley face. :)
Compared to the happiness down at the house tables, there was at least one person at the staff table in a foul mood. Harry and the others saw Snape's face looking like thunder and felt even better. They were in such good spirits that they couldn't help humming a Weird Sisters tune under their breath.
Unfortunately, Harry and the others still had to wait two whole days before they had Defence Against the Dark Arts. It was enough to drive a person mad. The little lions pestered everyone they could, but all the upper-year students who'd already had the class gave the same answer:
"The first rule of Defence Against the Dark Arts is: you do not talk about Defence Against the Dark Arts!"
That was exactly the transfer student's style—always hiding things, always being mysterious. No one knew what was really going on with that underground club of his either. Maybe no one had actually joined yet. Or maybe someone had… and simply never breathed a word.
Time crawled. Harry thought back to his first night at Hogwarts, sitting on a moonlit windowsill, talking to Hedwig. He hadn't dared to fall asleep; he'd been terrified that when he opened his eyes again the magical world would be gone. Back then, he'd looked to the future with a mix of excitement and anxiety.
Now it was pure excitement. The kind that kept your thoughts racing, that wouldn't let you sleep.
Finally, Wednesday arrived. Once they'd survived the morning classes, Defence Against the Dark Arts was the first lesson after lunch.
Harry dragged his roommates to the classroom early and they claimed seats in the front row.
When Skyl walked in, the first-years still couldn't quite believe it. Part of them expected him to pick a seat at one of the desks like any other student. Instead, he stepped lightly up onto the platform, carrying the easy assurance of someone who'd done this a hundred times, and that familiar calm, gentle smile.
Harry heard a solid thump—that was his own heart dropping back into place.
Yes, it really was Mr Skyl taking the class!
"In case anyone still doesn't know me," Skyl said, "I'll introduce myself again. My name is Skyl—according to English custom, you can call me Mr Skyl. In this classroom, you don't need to call me 'Professor.' Just 'sir' will do."
The room was utterly silent.
"Before we begin properly, I'd like you all to understand one thing. I'm only a substitute teacher. Whether you like me or not, you'll only see me once or twice in this classroom—maybe only this once."
The young witches and wizards whispered among themselves.
"I know Professor Quirrell hasn't left you with the best impression. I can't make up for all the gaps in your knowledge in just one or two lessons. So let's toss out all the stock phrases and fussy rituals. In this class, I'll only teach you magic and knowledge that are useful in real combat. First, I want to tell you what a wizard's fight is actually like."
Harry and the others all thought of the Hogwarts Express at once, and the way Skyl had quietly told them about his own journey as a student. The group of friends exchanged knowing smiles.
"There are two kinds of wizard combat," Skyl continued. "One is the formal wizard's duel. Some of you might not know this, but Professor Flitwick was once a duelling champion. He could tell you all about how the only thing that matters in a duel is taking away your opponent's ability to fight as quickly as possible."
He swept his gaze around the classroom. "I need a volunteer to help demonstrate."
Shff!
The first hand up was, as always, Hermione's.
Skyl saw her immediately. "Then it'll be you, Miss Granger. Please come up."
A chorus of disappointed sighs rose from the others.
All those eyes focusing on her felt like heat. Hermione could almost feel her cloak starting to smoulder at the back. It was as if their combined stare was pushing her forward, making her steps feel light and floaty. By the time she reached Skyl, she was so nervous she couldn't get a word out.
Skyl glanced down at the girl and gave her an encouraging smile. Then he looked around at the desks and benches. "Look at all this furniture. A bit cramped, isn't it?"
He gave the floor a light stomp.
Amid gasps and squeals, every desk and chair sprouted thick tufts of fur with a whoosh, turning into chubby cats and dogs. A lively little head popped up where the front edge of the desktop had been, and a long tail swished at the back. The creatures meowed and barked as they trotted around the room with the students on their backs, then trotted themselves neatly along to the walls and lined up there. Once the middle of the room was clear, they turned back into desks and benches once more.
The children burst into laughter.
Skyl sniffed the air exaggeratedly and pulled a mock-troubled face. "The atmosphere in here is far too stuffy, isn't it?" he said quietly, and clapped his hands.
The walls turned transparent. The ceiling stretched back and vanished, becoming a vault of bright blue sky. The sun shone down; clouds rolled and curled lazily overhead. Underfoot spread a vast open plain, grass up to their waists, and a fresh, cool wind blew in from every direction. Their desks were half-buried in the green, as if the entire class had been Apparated at once to some lush, wide Pampas grassland.
"What spell is this?" Hermione breathed, her eyes shining.
"Why don't you guess, clever girl?"
"Undetectable Extension Charm and Transfiguration… and… some kind of Projection Charm? And… a Weather Charm!"
"Excellent! If I actually had the authority to award points, I'd give Gryffindor a solid ten right now!" Skyl said in an exaggerated tone that made the little witch giggle helplessly.
All the first-years were amazed by Skyl's magical skill. For them it was astonishing. For the upper years who'd seen similar displays, it was downright frightening. They had never heard of anyone able to use wandless, wordless magic to this degree. It wasn't like watching a wizard anymore—it was like watching God out of a Bible story.
Magic more magical than magic.
Skyl was using it just to entertain children.
Perhaps that was what the leisure of the truly powerful looked like.
"What spells do you know?" he asked.
Hermione rattled off a long string of incantations in one breath, like a comedian doing a rapid-fire routine.
"You can do the Stunning Spell? Perfect. That's what you'll be using next."
Skyl pointed at the ground. A little clump of lush pasture shot up, the stems twining together and knitting into a solid, plump figure: a grass doll in a round straw hat, eyes made of black Xs, mouth sewn shut into a crooked, mischievous grin like a circus clown.
The grass puppet waved enthusiastically at the class, then gave Hermione a graceful courtly bow. Being Muggle-born, Hermione had no idea how to respond and could only bow repeatedly in return.
"Now, take out your wand," Skyl said. "Cast Stupefy at it."
Hermione raised her wand in careful, textbook fashion and intoned, "Stupefy!"
A short red bolt of light shot from the wand tip.
The puppet sprang into the air, flipping backward to dodge the spell, and landed with a flourish, bowing to its audience.
Hermione could hear her classmates snickering. She looked helplessly at Skyl.
"Try again," he encouraged her.
"Stupefy!"
The result was the same. This time, the grass puppet even started doing a wild Cossack kicking dance.
Far from looking disappointed, Skyl clapped for her. "Very good. I'd stake my reputation that Professor Flitwick is going to be very fond of you. Your wand movement is precise, your pronunciation is flawless, and your spell effect is stable. That shows you're very confident. So why did you fail?"
"Because… I'm too slow," she said.
"Exactly. Speed is what matters in a wizard's duel. Everything else exists for the sake of knocking your opponent down as quickly as possible. I wonder if any of you have heard the name Elizabeth Smachilin? In the wizard duelling tournament on Dartmoor in 1379, she won the championship with a Disarming Charm. No one expected her to win. People even tried to convince her to hand the trophy over without a fight, because her opponent was so powerful he could summon a hurricane to blow across the entire arena.
"And yet, when the duel that no one believed she could win began, Elizabeth's opponent started chanting a long, elaborate incantation—a spell that would bring a mountain down on her head. Unfortunately for him, the thing that defeated this great wizard was three simple words: 'Expelliarmus.'"
Seeing the thoughtful looks on the young faces, Skyl moved to stand beside Hermione, facing the clownish grass puppet.
He didn't draw his wand. He didn't speak a single syllable.
He merely snapped his fingers.
In that instant, hundreds of streaks of red light burst forth, like the fragments of a claymore mine ripping through the air, filling the cone of space in front of him. No matter how nimble the puppet was, it was reduced to a heap of shredded grass in a heartbeat.
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