"Who do you think will end up being Hogwarts' champion?" Fred asked George and the others. "I reckon it'll be someone from Gryffindor, like—maybe one of the seventh years."
"Not likely," George said with a serious expression. "If Dumbledore hadn't said that bit about allowing students under seventeen to enter the Triwizard Tournament, the champion would probably be chosen from the sixth or seventh years. But since Dumbledore did say it… well, it means he's probably hoping Harry will compete—oi, Harry, what do you think?"
Harry, suddenly called out, had a question mark practically floating above his head. Then, with a practiced air, he said, "Though I don't seek the position, I still consider it my duty to bring glory to the school. If it's the will of the masses that only by becoming champion can I best serve Hogwarts, then I'll have to take up the responsibility and set aside my personal desires."
Everyone: …
Blimey, how was he so slick?
"Looks like Harry doesn't mind being Hogwarts' champion," the twins said, chuckling mischievously. "Alright, mate, if you want to be the champion, we're officially stepping back. Gryffindor's glory is all yours to inherit."
"I won't claim that glory alone," Harry said, his expression as resolute as if he were standing atop the dragon's perch.
The twins immediately dropped to one knee in an exaggerated, theatrical gesture, miming the act of presenting a crown.
"Then please, ascend the throne, Your Majesty, King of the Lions!"
Their antics sent everyone into fits of laughter.
They continued onward, arriving at the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower. The doorway was hidden behind a large portrait of a lady in a pink silk dress—the Fat Lady.
"Password?" she asked as they approached.
"Balderdash," George said. "A prefect downstairs told me."
With a soft click, the Fat Lady swung open to reveal the passage to the common room.
No one was in the mood for much chatter, though. After a long day on the train and getting soaked in the rain, they exchanged goodnights and headed to their dormitories.
The next morning, the fourth-year students started the new term with Herbology.
Their task in Herbology was to collect Bubotuber pus, focusing on studying how to extract the liquid properly.
Harry was astonished to find that the stuff smelled like petrol. If you didn't know better, you'd think it was some highly flammable, explosive substance.
Naturally, the boys were thrilled by the smell—but the girls? Not so much. They found it utterly repulsive.
The process of squeezing the Bubotuber pus was particularly nauseating.
But Professor Sprout's next words quickly dispelled the girls' disgust, even sparking a newfound fondness for the revolting plant.
"Bubotuber pus is the best remedy for stubborn acne," she said. "This should put an end to students using drastic measures to get rid of their pimples."
After Herbology came the first Care of Magical Creatures lesson of the term.
Newt had only returned to the school that morning, accompanied by Poppy Sweeting.
Upon seeing Harry, Poppy nearly suffocated him with a hug that lasted a full two minutes.
"You're going to smother me!" Harry gasped.
But Poppy was clearly overjoyed. She dragged him off to a secluded grove of trees for a proper reunion, clinging to him tightly.
"I missed you so much, Harry," she said, her voice dripping with affection.
"Alright, I get it," Harry said, catching his breath, though now with a hint of excitement. "Can we talk about this later? I've got to get to class—you know, even though Newt's your nephew, I can't push it too far, right?"
"Fine," Poppy said, a touch disappointed. But she perked up and told Harry, "Hagrid's got some new creatures. Newt thinks they're fascinating, and this Care of Magical Creatures lesson is all about them…"
New creatures?
"What kind of new creatures?" Harry asked, intrigued. "Did he catch some new magical beast?"
"Oh, not exactly," Poppy said. "It's more like he bred them—or rather, had a hand in their creation. They're not exactly pretty, but Newt thinks they're valuable. If I'm not mistaken, they're called Blast-Ended Skrewts."
They made their way to the Care of Magical Creatures area.
Newt was leading the students to gather around a fenced-off enclosure, where they seemed to be observing something.
Hagrid stood at the back of the crowd, beaming with pride at whatever was in the center of the enclosure.
"Ugh, that's disgusting!" Hermione said instinctively.
Harry stepped forward and peered into the enclosure.
To be honest, "disgusting" perfectly summed up his impression of the Blast-Ended Skrewts.
They looked like deformed, shell-less lobsters—pale, slimy, and utterly grotesque, with legs jutting out at odd angles and no discernible heads.
Each crate held about a hundred of them, each roughly six inches long, crawling over one another and clumsily bumping into the crate walls.
They gave off a powerful stench of rotting fish and shrimp. Every now and then, a Skrewt's tail would shoot out sparks, followed by a soft pop as it propelled itself forward a few inches.
"Just hatched," Hagrid said proudly. "You lot can raise 'em yourselves! We'll make a big project out of it!"
"I suspect they produce some kind of methane-like gas," Hermione said, looking up at Harry. "Like certain creatures in the natural world—take the bombardier beetle, for instance, which shoots out hot, foul-smelling blasts from its rear."
The bombardier beetle, scientifically known as the Brachinus. When threatened, it emits a loud pop and sprays a scalding, noxious chemical mist to confuse, irritate, and scare off predators.
"Maybe we could use these things to collect fuel," Harry said, eyeing the Skrewts. "But if that's all they're good for, doesn't that seem a bit… useless? The wizarding world isn't exactly short on fuel…"
"I can't imagine what else they'd be good for," Hermione sighed. "Eating them is definitely out of the question. I mean, how could anyone eat that? Wouldn't it just poison you?"
Newt, however, clearly didn't share their skepticism. He was utterly engrossed in studying these new creatures, so absorbed that he'd forgotten to actually teach the class.
The students, of course, were delighted by this. They sat there, perfectly content not to remind Professor Scamander to start the lesson.
Forgetting about teaching is the best thing you could've done.
Soon, it was Thursday.
Everyone was buzzing with anticipation for what this new Auror-turned-professor would bring to their Defense Against the Dark Arts class. After all, Professor Rosier in second year and Professor Lupin in third year had left lasting impressions.
And this Professor Moody, a former Auror, surely had deep expertise in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
With high expectations, they filed into the classroom and took their seats, pulling out their copies of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection as they waited for the professor.
But when Moody strode in, his first words were to tell them to put their books away.
He pulled out the register, shook his head to sweep his long, grizzled hair away from his scarred, mangled face, and began calling names. His normal eye scanned the list while his magical eye swiveled incessantly, locking onto each student as they responded.
"Right," he said after the last name was called. "I got a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you've got a decent foundation in dealing with dark creatures—you've covered Boggarts, Red Caps, Hinkypunks, Grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, yeah?"
The class nodded in agreement.
"But when it comes to spells, you're sorely lacking—sorely lacking," Moody said. "So I'm here to show you what spells look like when cast between wizards. I've got one year to teach you how to handle dark magic—"
Handle dark magic?
Aside from Ron, Seamus, Neville, and Hermione, who'd been part of the Dueling Club, everyone was thrilled.
No professor had ever taught them how to counter dark magic directly.
"Now, let's get to it," Moody said. "Spells come in all sorts of forms, with varying degrees of power. According to Ministry regulations, I'm supposed to stick to teaching you counter-curses and leave it at that. Technically, I shouldn't be showing you what illegal dark curses look like until you're in sixth year, since you're not ready to handle them yet."
Moody looked up, his gaze sweeping the room with authority.
"But Professor Dumbledore's spoken highly of your courage. He thinks you can handle it, and I say the sooner you know what you're up against, the better. If you've never seen something, how can you protect yourself from it? A wizard casting an illegal curse isn't going to politely tell you what's coming. They won't play fair or give you a heads-up. You've got to be ready, stay sharp—oi, Finnigan, don't fidget while I'm talking!"
From somewhere, he produced a piece of chalk and lobbed it at Seamus Finnigan, who was trying to stick chewing gum under his desk.
Seamus clutched his head where the chalk had struck, quietly marveling at the new professor's pinpoint accuracy.
"Now," Moody said, his tone expectant, "who can tell me which spells carry the harshest penalties under wizarding law?"
He looked around the room, clearly eager to show these naive students the true horror of dark magic.
To his surprise, a few hands shot up—bold, reckless little creatures.
Among them, Moody spotted Neville, looking timid as ever.
Of course, he knew Neville. Seeing him like that, Moody gave a knowing, almost cryptic smile.
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