Chapter 339: Open Lesson! The Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom Has Become a Fog Door?!
With that, Ethan tipped his top hat with unhurried elegance, picked up his gold-tipped cane, and made his way to the staff table with a steady tap, tap, tap, settling into the seat beside Snape.
He had barely sat down before a drawling, pointed voice came from his left.
"My, what grand promises from Professor Unknown." Snape's tone was slow and poisonous as ever. "Claiming he'll teach wandless magic to this lot — children who can't even tell monkshood from wolfsbane. Truly, a historic first for Hogwarts."
Ethan lifted his chin with obvious satisfaction. "You flatter me."
"..."
Snape's jaw tightened. He turned to look at Ethan — then turned away again, pained. That spiral face had an almost supernatural capacity for psychological damage simply by existing.
He knew perfectly well that the bizarre Spiral Being beside him was Ethan. Only that attention-hungry little brat would make an entrance like that.
"Hmph," Snape said. "If it weren't for that Dumbledore deciding to hand the post to you, this position should have been mine." He paused, then added, with the bitterness of someone who had been nursing a grievance for years, "I was planning to teach Nonverbal Spells. And now a student has beaten me to it."
Was that reasonable? Was that in any way reasonable?
Ethan glanced at Snape's expression and nodded thoughtfully. "You'll have the Defence Against the Dark Arts post next year, as it happens. Professor Slughorn will take over Potions in your place."
He said it as though it were a simple fact.
Snape stared at him, one eyebrow slowly lowering into a deep furrow. Then he let out a sharp, contemptuous laugh. "What nonsense. You say it like it's already decided. Anyone who didn't know better would think you were a great prophet—a descendant of Cassandra Trelawney herself." He turned away with a sniff. "You'd do better to worry about whether you can deliver on your own ridiculous boasts."
He settled back into his chair with the air of someone looking forward to watching a disaster unfold. "I shall be very interested to see how you propose to teach wandless magic to this pack of ignorant little dunderheads."
"Severus," Ethan said earnestly, "jealousy really is very unbecoming."
"I — AM — NOT — JEALOUS!!!"
The shout rang through the Great Hall, sharp enough to rattle the silver goblets. Every head turned.
Snape went rigid.
The silence that followed was so heavy it felt as though the thousand floating candles had flickered out at once.
Even the ghosts seemed to freeze mid-air.
Somehow, Snape's nose had gone slightly red. He stared at that incomprehensible spiral face and—against all reason—had the distinct impression that it was smiling at him.
It struck every sensitive corner of his soul.
That damned Ethan Vincent. I will end you!
The internal screaming was considerable. He was in serious danger of grinding his back teeth to dust.
He breathed in. Slowly. He summoned the image of Lily with deliberate effort and held onto it until the rage ebbed.
Hmph. When he fails to deliver, the embarrassment won't be mine.
That thought helped. The resentment and jealousy swirling in his chest settled by a fraction.
He allowed himself a thin, satisfied smirk, then shifted his gaze sideways toward the Ministry officials, who were still standing there looking rather stupefied.
A cold gleam entered his eyes. Daring to come onto our grounds and throw their weight around. The Ministry really does have a death wish.
The following afternoon, before the first Defence Against the Dark Arts open lesson, the castle staircases were packed. Students poured in from every direction, converging on the Great Hall in streams.
Hermione descended the steps at an alarming angle, arms wrapped around a tower of books that swayed with each step and looked one slip away from a catastrophic avalanche.
Harry and Ron watched her with identical expressions.
"What have you even got there?" Ron said. "Wandless Casting, A History of Defence Against the Dark Arts..." He squinted. "Give Your Friends Two Heads: A Compendium of Jinxes?"
"You do know the Professor said we don't need to bring books today, right?" Harry added.
The two of them edged back with the quiet caution of people who had learned not to irritate this particular person. Neither of them was keen to spend the rest of the term as Double-Headed Harry or Three-Headed Ron.
Hermione wheezed, rolled her eyes comprehensively at both of them, and said with agitated urgency, "Professor Unknown told us not to bring books, yes—but what if he springs a surprise test? We've had barely any proper instruction for years! I keep muddling up Protego and Protego Totalum!"
Ron blinked. "Aren't those the same spell?"
Hermione stared at him in a silence so profound it was almost deafening. Without a word, she pressed her lips together, turned on her heel, and marched down the stairs.
She was done with sub-humans for the moment.
"She's just wound herself up," Ron said cheerfully, turning back to Harry with a shrug. "Look, the Professor's got a weird face, fine, but name one Defence Against the Dark Arts professor we've had who was actually normal."
"At least there's not another face growing out of the back of his head," Harry said.
Ron laughed. "Exactly. I reckon gathering everyone together like this is probably just so he can test our level — have us cast a few spells, answer some questions—"
"As long as it's not like Lockhart and every question is about him."
They looked at each other and broke into cackles, earning several pointed looks from the Ravenclaws nearby, a few of whom shuffled tactfully away.
"Honestly," Michael said, "sometimes I think Slytherins are easier to deal with."
He had grown over the summer—fifth year had produced a tall, broad-shouldered version of Michael Corner, and prolonged proximity to Ethan appeared to have given him a trace of that particular brand of casual arrogance. Environment, as they say, shapes character.
His roommate, Stephen Cornfoot, pushed his glasses up with one hand, his other hand similarly full of books, and said thoughtfully, "It seems fairly clear that Professor Unknown is not a normal human being."
"Groundbreaking," Michael said.
"What I mean is, he's likely to teach us something different. I've heard that African wizards favour gesture-based casting over wands." His eyes lit up with the fervour of someone who had stayed up past midnight for a reason. "So I believe this open lesson will be a demonstration of his unique magical system. To follow along, I stayed up last night reading A Complete Survey of Global Magical Traditions cover to cover and committed it to memory. Whatever system he uses, I'll be ready. This time, I'm taking second place this year."
"...Good luck," Michael said.
He scratched his head. He didn't share his ambitions. He glanced around the corridor — no Ethan anywhere. "Funny, Ethan usually pulls something dramatic on the first lesson back. Looks like this year he just wants a quiet life."
Not that there was anything strange about that. This was Ethan Vincent. He went where he liked and did what he liked. Michael was fairly certain that if Ethan ever announced he wanted to take over as headmaster and rule the school as some sort of ancient deity, Dumbledore would step aside with a benevolent smile.
A chill ran down his spine at the thought.
He shook his head vigorously and drove the image out. He did not want his remaining two and a half years at school to become the most unforgettable years of his life.
Still talking, they reached the entrance to the Great Hall — and stopped.
The corridor ahead was a solid wall of students, completely immovable. Five minutes until the lesson was due to start, and nobody was getting through.
Michael stood on his toes to see over the crowd.
He blinked. His eyes went wide.
Because what stood at the entrance to the Great Hall was not the tall, familiar set of doors.
It was a roiling mass of deep golden fog.