Hogwarts: Please Graduate Soon

Friday morning. 

The Hufflepuff first-years finally had their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class. 

The classroom was located in a corner on the third floor, and when the first young wizard arrived, he hesitated, repeatedly checking to make sure he wasn't in the wrong place before stepping inside. 

The room was very dimly lit, with only a small window that was tightly shut, and it was filled with an indescribable, strange odor. 

When Wayne arrived, he instinctively frowned. 

Just as he was about to open the window, Professor Quirrell came in. 

"Don't... don't open it; it's fine just like this," he stammered. 

"Professor, I'm here to attend class, not to inhale toxic gas," Wayne replied unhappily, causing some young wizards to laugh. 

But they quickly covered their mouths. 

They weren't afraid of being scolded by the professor; it was more about the intense garlic smell Quirrell had brought with him, which worsened the already unpleasant odor in the room. 

"I encountered... encountered a wraith zombie in the Black State, and I was cursed, so I can't let in any wind," Quirrell explained, stumbling over his words and pointing to the scarf wrapped around his neck. 

"This is a gift from a tribal prince." 

Wraith zombies? 

Many young wizards perked up at this. 

The name of a wraith zombie, or a wraith, was well-known in the magical world; it was a mysterious product of religion. 

Each wraith was a living dead thing, devoid of perception or soul, mere animated corpses. They weren't particularly strong in terms of attacking power, but they had various uses. 

They were essential sacrifices for dark wizards practicing dark magic. 

"Professor, how did you subdue the wraith zombies?" Justin Finch-Fletchley raised his hand to ask. 

"This, this is not related to today's class," Quirrell dodged the question, "Turn to page three in your textbooks; today we will learn how to avoid the kappa…" 

"Come on, Professor, why not share your experience?" Hannah pressed again, but Quirrell ignored her and vaguely began the lesson. 

How do I put this? 

He was even worse than Professor Binns. 

Although Professor Binns could be rather hypnotic, at least he articulated clearly enough to tell a bedtime story. But Quirrell stumbled over his words and couldn't read fluently; who could sleep in this room's atmosphere? 

For a moment, what everyone looked forward to as Defense Against the Dark Arts turned into a torturous two-hour ordeal. 

Wayne raised his hand. 

"Um, Lawrence, do you have a question?" Quirrell asked. 

"Professor, I do have a question—a rather big one," Wayne stood up. "I understand Professor Binns reading from the textbook, but if you keep reading from the textbook, then what are we learning in Defense Against the Dark Arts?" 

"Are we supposed to just wave the textbook to defeat a kappa?" 

"Defense Against the Dark Arts certainly involves learning spells. Can you discuss the use of the Repelling Charm?" 

His words were met with strong support from the other students, all speaking at once. 

Quirrell was taken aback and stammered that he wanted everyone to grasp more knowledge and would teach them spells later. 

In fact, he did teach a spell. 

After enduring for an hour, Quirrell finally wrote the incantation for the Repelling Charm on the blackboard. 

Then he ended the lesson. 

Wayne spoke up again, "Professor, could you demonstrate it for us?" 

Quirrell stuttered and evaded the request, citing that it was too dangerous. 

Everyone was increasingly dissatisfied—what danger could there be in a simple Repelling Charm? 

Seeing the situation deteriorate, Quirrell's eyes, which had been darting nervously, actually shed a few tears, and he ran off, leaving a bunch of stunned young wizards behind. 

Wayne was also bewildered. 

He just wanted to earn some points; how did it turn into making someone cry? 

After being at the school for almost a week, Wayne was familiarizing himself with the surroundings while also trying to find appropriate opportunities to earn points. 

He respected all the other professors and couldn't bring himself to deliberately cause trouble for the sake of points. 

Only with Quirrell—this guy was purposely acting incompetent, yet he was under Voldemort's influence. Wayne felt no guilt in bullying him whatsoever. 

In just one class, he had already accumulated over a hundred points. 

Just as Wayne was planning to press on and earn enough points for a break, 

who would have thought Quirrell's breaking point was so low that he actually fled? 

Who could he report this to? 

At Hogwarts, no secret stayed hidden for long; news of what happened in class spread quickly, with the first to know being the other two houses of first-years. 

"Did you really make Professor Quirrell cry?" 

At lunch, Wayne was pulled to the Gryffindor table by Hermione, who asked curiously. 

"No, what happened to those two?" 

Ignoring Hermione, Wayne glanced at Harry and Neville, who both looked dazed and expressionless, as if they had been thoroughly defeated. 

"Don't mention it!" 

Ron slammed his knife and fork down in frustration. "In Potions class, Snape kept hounding Harry like a hawk, asking a bunch of stuff that we hadn't even learned yet, and when Harry couldn't answer, he took two points from us." 

"Hermione's hand was practically raised to the ceiling; was he blind?" 

Hermione shot an annoyed glance at him. 

What does it mean to raise her hand to the ceiling? Was she some kind of long-armed creature? 

So they had Potions class... 

Wayne wasn't surprised at all now and was rather puzzled that Snape only deducted two points—that was pretty lenient. 

"I have a method to help you avoid some of this targeting," Wayne said after thinking for a moment. 

Harry's eyelids flickered, and he instinctively looked over. 

"Coach, I want to learn." 

"Ahem." Wayne spoke with feigned profundity. "When Snape was asking you questions, did you notice you were making direct eye contact with him?" 

Harry nodded vigorously. 

This guy truly is a master; even this is known. 

"That's where you went wrong," Wayne shook his head. "Think about it—when you dislike someone, and they're staring you down, it's obvious they're being defiant; how would you feel?" 

Harry pondered: "I'd get angrier." 

Wayne clapped his hands: "Exactly! Next time you're in that situation, just lower your head and sincerely admit you were wrong. No matter how angry the professor is, he won't be able to hold it against you when you're being so polite." 

Harry's eyes lit up more and more, and finally, he gratefully said, 

"Thank you, Wayne. Otherwise, I really wouldn't know what to do." 

"Don't mention it," Wayne replied with a gentle smile. "Just remember, never make eye contact with Snape!"

With that, he floated away after the system prompted that his points had increased by 50.

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