He moved on to the second-year material. Aresto Momentum to slow a falling object. Vermillious to produce red sparks. Diffindo to cut a piece of parchment cleanly. Incendio to light a controlled fire in the classroom fireplace.
James worked methodically, systematically. Each spell performed, assessed, and repeated until he could cast it perfectly. His watch showed time passing, but he was lost in the rhythm of practice, and the satisfaction of mastery of each spell.
He was nearing the end of the second-year coursebook when his watch vibrated, alerting him it was fifteen minutes until his next class. Defense Against the Dark Arts. With Quirrell. And Voldemort.
James sighed, vanished the evidence of his practice with Evanesco, removed his charms from the room, and left.
Most of the spells he'd practiced today had been ones he'd done before. But he noticed something interesting: spells that had required two or three attempts months ago now came on the first try. His command of magic was improving, his control becoming more refined.
The theory reading binges were helping, giving him deeper understanding of how magic worked, and why certain wand movements produced specific effects.
He still intended to maintain his wandless practice for the most important spells. But for rapid advancement through the curriculum, he needed to rely on his wand. And he believed his wandless skills would improve alongside his wanded magic. Each form of casting informed and strengthened the other.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was on the third floor, which meant James didn't have far to go. He arrived with five minutes to spare and deliberately chose a seat in the very back of the classroom. The further from Quirrell, and by extension Voldemort, the better.
The classroom smelled of garlic.
Strongly and overpoweringly.
James's nose wrinkled at the assault on his senses. Garlic hung in bunches from every available surface, supposedly to ward off vampires Quirrell had encountered in Romania. With a smell this strong, forget vampires with their stronger senses; even he would run the other way if he wasn't required to be here.
The other students trickled in, most of them covering their noses. Hermione Granger sat in the very front row, of course, while Harry and Ron were sitting near the very back, whispering to each other.
Professor Quirrell entered, his purple turban slightly askew, and his nervous hands fluttering.
"G-good afternoon, class". The professor stuttered.
The other students just exchanged glances, some sympathetic, others amused.
"T-today we will b-begin our study of the Defence against the-dark Arts," Quirrell said, moving to stand behind his desk as if it offered protection. "Th-there are many d-dangerous creatures and d-dark wizards in the w-world. Y-you must learn to p-protect yourselves."
The class proceeded with excruciating slowness. Quirrell's fake stutter made every sentence take three times as long as necessary. He read directly from the textbook, offering no additional insight or practical demonstrations. Every few minutes, he would clutch his turban and wince, as if in pain.
Hermione's hand shot up repeatedly, and Quirrell called on her most of the time, since more often than not she was the only one raising her hand. She answered every question perfectly, reciting passages from the textbook word for word.
James kept his head down, pretending to take notes but actually working on the Ravenclaw common room rune puzzle. He'd brought his notebook with the symbols he'd copied, and he was trying to identify patterns, connections, meanings. It was far more interesting than listening to Quirrell stutter through definitions of dark creatures.
The class felt like it lasted hours instead of ninety minutes. The combination of Quirrell's fake stutter, the overwhelming garlic smell, and the tedious content was torture. And for James, with his eidetic memory, it was even worse. Every painful pause, every mangled word, every unnecessary repetition was permanently etched into his mind.
When the class finally ended, James fled with the others, grateful to escape both the smell and the sound.
His head was pounding. Actually pounding. The combination of mental strain and sensory assault had triggered a genuine migraine.
He stopped a group of older Hufflepuffs in the corridor. "Excuse me, could you point me toward the Hospital Wing?"
The Hufflepuffs immediately looked concerned. "Are you alright? You look pale."
"Just a headache. I need to see Madam Pomfrey."
"We'll take you there," one of them said immediately. "Come on, it's this way."
James was grateful but also reminded why he'd chosen Ravenclaw. The Hufflepuffs were wonderfully kind and caring, but he couldn't imagine spending years being constantly mother-henned by older students. The Ravenclaws offered help when asked, but otherwise left you alone.
Still, he appreciated the care Hufflepuffs showed all younger students. You'd be hard-pressed to get help from a Slytherin without some price attached, or worse, getting cursed. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws would help if asked, but Hufflepuffs actively looked out for everyone.
They led him through corridors and down staircases, chattering cheerfully about their classes and trying to keep his mind off his headache. The Hospital Wing was located on the ground floor, in a quiet section of the castle that smelled of antiseptic and healing potions.
The wing itself was long and bright, with tall windows that let in abundant natural light. Two rows of beds lined the walls, each with crisp white linens and a small table beside it. Magical medical equipment, which James couldn't identify, occupied the shelves and cabinets along the walls. Everything was spotlessly clean, organized with military precision.
At the far end of the wing, a door presumably led to Madam Pomfrey's private office and stores.
The matron herself emerged from that office as they entered.
Madam Pomfrey was a middle-aged witch with a kind, no-nonsense expression. She wore practical healer's robes in white with the Hogwarts emblem embroidered on the chest. Her grey hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and her sharp eyes assessed James immediately.
"Thank you for bringing him," she said to the Hufflepuffs, her tone brisk but not unkind. "You may go. I'll take care of him."
The Hufflepuffs waved goodbye, and James thanked them sincerely for their help before they left.