HP: The Right Way To Use Fantastic Beasts

"An excellent Defense Against the Dark Arts class. If not for that particular spell, I would have given you an extremely high evaluation."

After class, Evans stood in a corridor on the first floor, patiently receiving instructions from the Deputy Headmistress. He believed, however, that there was still room for him to explain his actions.

"You know, Professor," he began, a charming smile on his face, "those young wizards love to see spectacular magic, and I was just catering to their preferences. Besides, I didn't unleash the full power of that spell, did I?"

"Do you have some misunderstanding of the word 'spectacular'?" Professor McGonagall's tone was dangerously flat, her expression clearly unimpressed. "As far as I know, you are familiar with quite a few spells that are both spectacular and won't cause any damage to the surrounding environment."

"Those are too boring," he countered. "They can't provide an immersive experience."

Watching Professor McGonagall's face gradually darken, Evans wisely gave up.

But she didn't linger on his questionable methods. Instead, she shifted the conversation to his subsequent teaching plans. Just as she'd said, apart from that one earth-shattering spell, the quality of his teaching had been truly excellent.

And with Professor Kettleburn's chaotic tenure as the benchmark, Evans's meticulous preparation seemed all the more precious. He had diligently prepared his lesson plans and customized his teaching methods to the characteristics of each magical creature. Hogwarts hadn't had such a reliable Care of Magical Creatures professor in a very long time.

Professor McGonagall was even a little touched.

Just as she was about to discuss his plans further, however, something caught her eye. She turned her head, and the faint smile on her face vanished. At the same time, Evans's gaze shifted to the window.

He saw Harry, far below on the lawn, plummeting towards the ground.

But unlike Neville's uncontrolled fall, Harry was still gripping his broomstick, a fact that made his descent even faster. At that speed, if he hit the ground, the Boy Who Lived would become Harry Paste.

Without hesitation, Evans instinctively prepared to Apparate over and intervene. But the next moment, he froze.

Just before hitting the ground, the boy extended his hand as if grabbing onto something, then executed a beautiful, fluid pull-up, hovering stably in the air. The movement was so effortless it was as if the broom beneath him was an extension of his own body.

Retracting his half-formed spell, Evans's expression remained unchanged, but a flicker of genuine admiration flashed in his eyes.

Enviable flying talent.

Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, was a study in contrasts. The expression on her face was a bizarre mix of exaggerated anger and undisguised astonishment.

"He really… this child doesn't value his own life!" she muttered, but as she spoke, a certain light in her eyes grew brighter and brighter. "But he flies so well."

"Excuse me, Evans, I have to go scold that child!"

With that, she hurried out of the castle, muttering strange words like "Seeker" and "flying genius" as she went. It was clear the Gryffindor Head of House was very dissatisfied with her team's Quidditch performance in recent years.

But Harry is only eleven, isn't he? Can someone so young even be a Quidditch player? Won't he be smashed to death by a Bludger?

Evans was genuinely worried. Quidditch seemed utterly barbaric to him. A dozen wizards on broomsticks engaged in close combat in the sky, with two massive, erratically moving iron balls trying to knock them from their brooms. Just thinking about the scene made his legs go weak.

If they flew any higher and no one cast a Hover Charm when they were knocked off, people would die, wouldn't they? People would definitely die! How was such a bloody sport even invented? What complex psychology did the inventor have?

But watching Professor McGonagall stride away, he ultimately said nothing. Quidditch had developed to this point and hadn't seemed to cause too many deaths, at most only serious injuries.

It should… be fine, right?

Shaking his head, Evans instantly dissolved into a silver-white ball of light. His first class had been a success. The remaining time was entirely his own.

The great Evans Kahn was returning to his loyal Forbidden Forest.

"Good afternoon, Professor Quirrell."

On the fourth floor of the castle, Filch, walking his cat, ran into Professor Quirrell after rounding a corner. The man had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

"G-good afternoon, Filch."

Stuttering a greeting, Quirrell hurried past. His face was pale, and his steps seemed unsteady. Filch eyed the professor's back with a puzzled expression.

"You don't look too well," he called out politely. "Do you need me to notify Madam Pomfrey?"

"No need!" Quirrell shouted, then disappeared around the next corner.

Watching him retreat, Filch spat softly. "Tsk. Ill-mannered wizard."

Muttering to himself, he resumed his patrol of the thousand-year-old castle, his steps as arrogant as if he owned the place.

After walking a bit further and confirming that there was no one else around, Quirrell slowly relaxed. He leaned heavily against the wall, breathing hard. Although it had only been a fleeting glimpse, the massive, three-headed dog still left him with a lingering fear. If he had run any later, he would have been caught. Getting injured would be one thing, but if it aroused Dumbledore's suspicion, his master's presence within him would surely be exposed.

Thinking of what might happen then, Quirrell couldn't help but tremble. A weak, sibilant voice came from the turban behind his head, making him feel as if he had fallen into an ice cellar.

"Again… you have disappointed me again."

"My patience is limited. If there is a next time, I will punish you even more severely."

As the voice faded, Quirrell felt as if he had suffered a severe blow. He leaned against the wall, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.

"Sorry, Master." He lowered his head, his body trembling slightly.

"On Halloween eve," he whispered, his usual stutter gone. "All the professors and students will be gathered in the Great Hall. I will create a disturbance, a disturbance that will give us ample time to figure out what Dumbledore has set up there."

Perhaps approving the plan, the wriggling turban returned to stillness, and Quirrell's thoughts returned to his own mind. He now had the leisure to analyze his experience.

The three-headed dog's pursuit had been terrifying, but besides its barking, he seemed to have vaguely heard other sounds. They were different from the dog's barks—not loud, but deep, making one's heart ache faintly. The sound had been too distant, and by the time it reached his ears, it was extremely faint. He wondered if he had been too nervous and had simply misheard.

After a long period of contemplation, he gave up and started walking towards his office. Instead of thinking about that inexplicable sound, he should be thinking about how to get past that monstrous dog.

(End of Chapter)

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