Chapter 46

The next morning, Harry and Ron woke up almost simultaneously; just as they finished dressing to head out, Neville returned from his morning run, and the three of them went together for breakfast.

“By the way, should we wake Dean and Simon?” Harry said. “They still seem to be asleep.”

“Let them sleep longer,” Neville said. “After all, they don’t have to fight You-Know-Who.”

At the mention of Voldemort, Harry’s good mood vanished; he sighed and said nothing more.

The three walked in silence to the Great Hall, where Hermione was reading at the table; Neville sat beside her and greeted her.

“Hi, Neville,” Hermione said. “Have you previewed Transfiguration?”

“Of course—I’m very familiar with beetle-to-button transfiguration…”

Hearing the others begin discussing their studies, Harry felt he’d made a huge mistake—he should’ve slept longer with Ron and come out for breakfast only after Neville left.

“You’ll get used to it,” Ron whispered. “Think of Percy.”

Donald Fontroy sat at the staff table, occasionally glancing over at Gryffindor’s table; he noticed not only that the trio’s relationship was off, but also that the expected Howler had not appeared. Recalling other rumors, Donald realized his plan needed adjustment.

“Go sit beside him,” Donald said softly behind the girl who kept glancing at Neville. “The school rules don’t forbid you from sitting at another house’s table, do they?”

“Professor Fontroy,” Hannah suddenly noticed someone behind her and grew flustered. “What are you saying?”

“You can’t hide liking someone, child,” Donald patted her shoulder. “And if you like a Gryffindor, you must have the courage to match him.”

Seeing Neville and Hermione turn to look, Hannah’s face flushed crimson; she lowered her head and said nothing. Donald merely smiled at them before leaving the Great Hall.

Herbology involved handling mandrake seedlings—simple knowledge, and the little plants had little resistance; Transfiguration was turning beetles into buttons, a topic covered last term. Yet the top Gryffindor students each carried private thoughts, so not a single point was earned all morning.

At lunch, Harry and Ron deliberately lagged behind and found a seat far from Neville. After sitting down, they instinctively glanced toward the Great Hall—and saw a splash of green amid the Ravenclaw blue uniforms.

It was Cui Ge, who had boldly sat beside Luna. The Ravenclaw girls covered their mouths, as if mocking this crazy girl’s friend.

Perhaps Cui Ge had set a good precedent—Hannah ran over and sat beside Neville, and Hermione smiled warmly at her. The Gryffindor students naturally approved of this; yellow and red weren’t so different after all, so Hannah’s presence at the table felt harmonious.

Harry remembered the morning’s scene and looked up at the staff table—sure enough, Donald wore his kindly aunt smile.

After lunch, they walked in the courtyard. Soon, Harry saw Zhang Qiu approaching him. She seemed shorter than during summer break, which amused Harry—since Ron had suddenly grown tall, all his other friends now seemed to have shrunk.

They chatted briefly when they encountered a strange man: Colin Creevey, a Muggle-born who worshipped Harry obsessively and begged for a photo. Harry was bad at handling fanatics and could only force a smile. He also noticed Malfoy watching the scene from afar, so he made an excuse to head to class early and quickly ended the spectacle.

Harry sat down in the classroom, already forming hunches about Donald’s lessons.

When the students were seated, Donald entered wearing a black wizard’s robe, his white shirt and red tie unchanged.

“I’m Donald Fontroy, formerly an American Auror, later switched to politics. My party lost the election this year, so I’m free to accept Dumbledore’s invitation to teach you,” he said, pinching two fingers together with great confidence. “Just remember—I was an Auror, and I understand Dark Wizards better than any other professor.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Ron muttered. “Snape himself is a Dark Wizard.”

Harry couldn’t help laughing. Donald glanced at him and declared loudly: “Homework: write an essay on Cornish pixies. I won’t waste class time on these silly dark creatures—I teach only how to fight Dark Wizards. Unless you’ve defeated Voldemort, listen carefully, because your life depends on it!”

The students’ expressions grew serious; some stole glances at Harry.

“Good Aurors have many ways to defend against Dark Magic—defensive spells, counter-charms, even using their wands to deflect enemy curses. But no Auror ever abandons the most practical skill: dodging. Against many terrifying Dark Spells, we can only dodge. So you second-years must train your physical fitness and reflexes early—strong fundamentals will benefit you for life. Now, come outside—to the pitch!”

On the pitch, Donald called out the two strongest students—Ron and Neville—and had each lead half the class in laps. When the young wizards were gasping for breath, he gathered them to sit and continued explaining his combat experience.

“The most common combat spell used by Dark Wizards? I’ll tell you—it’s the Killing Curse. It cannot be blocked; touch it and you die. Even the greatest Aurors can only dodge. Every class from now on will include combat drills to practice dodging the Killing Curse.”

As he spoke, he raised his wand. “I’ll teach you a spell first: the incantation is ‘Avada Joke.’ Anyone hit by it will have their hair turn green within five minutes. No wand movement is required, but you must think, ‘I’m playing a joke on them.’ Only by truly intending to joke can you cast it accurately.”

Donald cast the Joke Curse at empty ground—Harry clearly saw a sickly green beam shoot out; his breathing grew heavy involuntarily—that color had appeared repeatedly in his nightmares.

“This spell’s appearance and trajectory are identical to the Killing Curse. Now practice this one. Once you’re proficient, pair up and duel.”

For once, Hermione struggled to learn the spell—she rarely joked, so she didn’t understand what “playing a joke on someone” felt like.

Seeing this, Donald walked over, gently guided her hand by hand, and occasionally cracked jokes that made her giggle.

Hermione finally mastered the spell, but Neville still couldn’t. Donald then taught Neville—but his tone was noticeably harsher. Hermione had wanted to help Neville, but since he was being personally instructed, she began practicing with the girl beside her.

Harry and Ron often joked around; they learned effortlessly. After mastering the spell, Harry fiddled with his wand and watched Donald.

This new professor was the exact opposite of Quirrell—Quirrell always lectured theory; Donald lived for combat every second. Harry couldn’t help thinking: perhaps this was a good omen. Quirrell came with malice; Donald might have secrets too, but he radiated kindness.

“Alright, Neville, you’ve got the gist of the spell,” Donald clapped his hands. “Now, class—watch my demonstration. Neville, try to hit me with the Joke Curse.”

As all students turned to look, Donald removed his outer robe, revealing his shirt and trousers. “Robes help conceal your wand for a surprise attack, but once combat begins, they become a hindrance. Later, I’ll teach you how to shed them quickly.”

“Go on, Neville,” he bounced lightly on his feet, signaling him to begin.

Neville’s skill far exceeded Harry’s expectations—he cast the spell rapidly and often anticipated Donald’s movements. Donald struggled to dodge, but ultimately avoided every blast—or rather, he called “stop” just before he couldn’t evade one.

“You’ve probably noticed—these dodges aren’t complex; with practice, anyone can learn them. The real challenge is keeping your eyes locked on your opponent’s hand movements, judging where the spell will strike.”

“Alright, pair up and begin practicing. The last student whose hair turns green gets my prize,” Donald put his robe back on and ordered the students to duel each other with Joke Curses.

“Oh, your numbers are odd,” Donald glanced at the group. “Then, Neville—you’ll spar with me.”

At first, Neville dodged every spell perfectly. As Donald increased his attack speed, Neville began to stagger, occasionally rolling on the ground. Yet he kept seeking openings—whenever a chance appeared, his wand would suddenly fire a green beam.

Gradually, the students stopped their duels and watched Neville and Donald. Neville seemed at his limit, but Donald still had room to escalate—he began rapid-fire bursts.

“Time Shift!” Neville suddenly shouted—and in the blink of an eye, he switched positions, collapsing directly behind Donald, gasping for breath.

And every student present clearly saw: Donald’s golden hair had turned green; Neville’s remained dark brown.