Chapter 97
Lupin's Defense Against the Dark Arts classes quickly became a major topic of discussion among the third-year students.
Compared to the previous two professors, Lupin gave them an experience that was, frankly, excellent. Even Slytherin—usually accused of "respecting wealth and power over everything else"—spoke highly of him. Of course, their praise was more restrained than that of the other Houses. After all, they were well aware that their Head of House had once been publicly embarrassed in Lupin's class, and it was obvious that Snape and Lupin did not share a good relationship.
If a teacher could avoid offending either side, then from the students' point of view, he was the safest choice.
What did it matter whether a teacher was rich or poor? Ambitious and pragmatic as ever, Slytherin didn't mind being flexible for once. And objectively speaking, this new professor really was good.
The following lessons were just as engaging as the first.
After Boggarts, they moved on to Red Caps—vicious little creatures that lurked wherever blood had been spilled. Castle stairwells, abandoned battlefields, forgotten corners of old fortresses… anywhere someone might wander alone and injured, a Red Cap would be waiting to strike.
From Red Caps, they progressed to Grindylows—web-fingered, scaly aquatic creatures that resembled twisted little monkeys, infamous for dragging careless waders beneath the surface of ponds and streams.
Meanwhile, ever since the class where "Snape" had walked away with a swollen face and a bloody nose, the real Snape's behavior in Potions had noticeably worsened.
He stopped bothering much with Harry altogether.
Instead, he focused his attention squarely on Neville.
And Neville—unexpectedly—started fighting back.
This alone was enough to make the Gryffindors look at him with fresh eyes.
On several occasions, when Snape ordered Neville to test a potion on his pet, Neville responded without hesitation:
"I'm completely confident in my potion. If you insist on testing it, I'll drink it myself."
Every student present would later swear that this was the darkest expression they had ever seen on Snape's face.
"Ten points from Gryffindor for talking back to a teacher," Snape snapped.
Neville stared straight back at him.
"Why has Neville changed so much?" Ron whispered, genuinely puzzled. "I mean, even after beating a Boggart, I'd still panic if a giant spider showed up in front of me."
"Maybe the shock was too great," Harry said, sounding almost cheerful. "He really thought his pet died. But at least the outcome's good."
"Neville's toad isn't dead," Hermione added quietly, after confirming Snape wasn't looking their way.
"That's great news!" Ron brightened, before frowning again. "But then why such a huge change?"
He thought for a moment, then nodded decisively. "We'll just ask him later."
Harry nodded. He was curious too—and lately, his own fear of Dementors had been troubling him. Maybe Neville had learned something useful.
Hermione stayed silent.
She felt that she knew the answer—but for reasons she couldn't quite explain, she didn't want to tell them.
After class, Harry and Ron ran into a wall at the same time. Neville refused to explain, saying only that he'd promised someone to keep it secret.
That alone was astonishing.
Neville had always been accommodating to a fault. Aside from matters of principle, he rarely refused anything outright.
"Well," Harry thought helplessly, "I'll have to find time to ask Lupin instead."
Unfortunately, the next class brought him an even greater headache.
Divination.
He had to endure Professor Trelawney's dramatic prophecies, along with the pitying looks from several girls. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown loved spending lunchtime in the Divination classroom. When they returned, they always carried an irritating sense of superiority, as though they'd glimpsed secrets no one else could understand.
And whenever they spoke to Harry, their voices grew hushed and reverent—like he was already lying on his deathbed.
As for Care of Magical Creatures, there was little to say.
Hagrid looked constantly dejected, his beard more unkempt than usual. Ron would never blame him, but another organization had apparently filed a complaint against Hagrid in the Wizengamot, accusing him of endangering public safety. They'd even used his previous teaching accident as grounds to demand his removal from the post—possibly with additional penalties.
Ron went to apologize in private, only to be met with Hagrid's endless self-blame.
After that, Hagrid switched to teaching harmless creatures, and lesson after lesson was spent caring for Flobberworms.
It was unbearably dull.
Time slipped by quickly, and before anyone noticed, October had arrived.
Harry felt the pressure mounting.
Their Quidditch captain, Oliver Wood, was already in his seventh year—a solidly built seventeen-year-old utterly obsessed with winning the Cup in his final season. Naturally, the rest of the Gryffindor team wanted the trophy just as badly.
They trained relentlessly.
The weather grew colder and wetter, nights darker and heavier. Mud, wind, rain—none of it dampened Harry's conviction.
They would win.
Their next match would be against Slytherin.
Their previous victory had filled them with confidence. Even with seven brand-new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, Slytherin still wouldn't be able to stop Gryffindor's Seeker.
The team was brimming with optimism.
Slytherin, by contrast, was tense and gloomy.
Malfoy was thoroughly annoyed by Pansy.
She kept repeating things like, "A man should keep his word," claiming it was something he had taught her. Only then did Malfoy remember—he might have made a few promises.
"I'll help you for one match," he said at last. "Only the final match for Slytherin this year. I guarantee the Cup—but after Christmas, you'll all take part in my special training."
"I thought you said you'd play personally," Pansy protested.
"Compared to you," Malfoy replied coolly, "who've trained properly all year, why are you less confident than an outsider like me?"
Pansy had no response.
"And this tactic only works once," Malfoy added. "Next year—and every year after—I expect you to rely on your own strength."
The Slytherin team trusted him.
In every respect—ability, influence, composure—Malfoy had more than enough authority to lead them, age notwithstanding. His skill and attitude spoke for themselves.
That trust made them eager to see the strategy he claimed could only be used once.
"Training starts now," Malfoy ordered, standing at the edge of the pitch. "Anyone who relies entirely on me and slacks off—I'll drop them without hesitation."
From that day on, Slytherin's training intensity surged.
And with it, their morale.