Hogwarts' Golden Glory

"Raise your wrist half an inch higher, Weasley," Snape suddenly said, startling Ron so much he almost dropped his wand. "Your magic flows from your heart to your fingertips, not from your stomach."

Ron blushed, but after adjusting according to the instructions, the shield stabilized considerably.

Snape turned to Harry, staring at the scar on his forehead for two seconds. "Potter, your problem is distraction. The Ironclad Charm requires absolute focus—what imagined attack are you defending against?"

Harry bit his lip and didn't say anything.

"Imagine this." Snape pulled a spare wand from his sleeve and tapped it casually—a faint but sharp red light shot towards Harry's face.

It was a complete surprise attack.

Harry instinctively raised his hand: "Protect Yourself!"

The silver shield materialized instantly, stronger and more complete than ever before. With a soft "bang," the red light was deflected and dissipated into the air.

The whole class looked over.

Snape withdrew his wand expressionlessly: "See? The real threat can unleash potential more powerfully than any theory."

He paused, "Although your posture is still as ugly as a troll dancing."

Harry blushed, but his eyes lit up—for a moment, the pain in his scar seemed to have been temporarily suppressed by the flow of magic from the spell.

Sirius Black approached, his face grim. "Severus, in my class—"

"It is the responsibility of every professor to correct students' mistakes," Snape interrupted him, his dark eyes sweeping across the classroom.

"Furthermore, Professor Black, if you look closely, you'll find that at least a third of the students make the same mistake at the seventh node—wrist angle deviation causes magic diversion."

He walked to the front of the classroom and picked up the chalk.

A perfectly accurate diagram of wrist angles was drawn on the blackboard.

"The outlet of the Armor Charm's magic is here." Chalk pointed to a spot on his wrist. "If the angle deviation exceeds 15 degrees, at least 20% of the magic will be wasted on meaningless air disturbances. That's why some people's protective charms are like paper, while others are like walls."

He drew very quickly and explained even faster, but every step was frighteningly clear.

Even Neville understood it.

"Now, redo it." Snape put down the chalk and returned to his seat. "I want to see everyone at least pass—a shield that lasts ten seconds and is thick enough to withstand my weakest sleeping spell."

The second half of the class turned into high-intensity training.

Snape actually began testing them one by one—using the weak spell that was enough to put a second-year student to sleep for ten minutes. Those who failed had to repeat the wrist exercise ten times in front of everyone.

Strangely, no one complained.

Even Draco gritted his teeth and adjusted his posture again and again—Snape's demands on him were stricter than on anyone else.

When the bell rang, the whole class was almost exhausted, but in front of each person was a realistic-looking armored spell slowly rotating.

"Homework." Sirius stood in the doorway, trying to regain control. "Read pages 140-150 of the textbook and write an analysis of the magical structure of the Ironclad Charm, at least twelve inches long. Also—" He glanced at Snape, "practice wrist angles; I'll check next class."

The students filed out. Hermione frantically jotted down notes in her notebook as she walked.

Ron rubbed his aching wrists: "Merlin, I'd rather fight that troll again..."

Harry lagged behind. He glanced back at the classroom—Sirius was whispering with Snape.

He even suspected that the two were about to fight!

If Kane hadn't been there, he definitely would have taken Sirius away.

In the classroom, Snape put away the parchment containing his notes.

"The first lesson," he said coldly, "barely passed. But if you continue to use this standard to demand sophomores, I will take over the next lesson."

Sirius did not refute.

He stared at the wrist diagram Snape had drawn on the blackboard for a long time before saying:

"You draw better than me."

"I've been a professor for ten years," Snape said, turning and leaving. "And you've only been one for forty-five minutes."

The door closed.

Sirius stood alone in the empty classroom, looking at the precise diagrams on the blackboard.

He suddenly remembered James's words from years ago: "You know, sometimes the person who understands you best is the one you hate the most."

......

A tense silence permeated dinner time in the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

The long tables were no longer as noisy as before. The students talked in hushed tones, their eyes occasionally drifting toward the teachers' table—where Gilderoy Lockhart's seat used to be, but now Sirius Black with his long, black hair was sitting.

“My mother wrote again this morning,” Lavender Brown whispered to Parvati Petit, his voice trembling. “She said if Hogwarts can’t even protect a professor, she’ll come and take me back herself next week.”

Parvati bit her lip and nodded: "That's what my dad said too. He said Professor Lockhart has gone mad, and the new Professor Black doesn't seem to be in good mental condition either... We've already had two new Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers this semester."

This unease spread like a plague.

At the Hufflepuff table, Ernie McMillan was loudly analyzing:

"Just think! Professor Lockhart is hospitalized, Crevy is petrified, Hagrid is petrified—and now even the Defense Against the Dark Arts class is being taught by a former Azkaban prisoner! Who's next? Us?"

His words triggered a flurry of panicked whispers.

Several first-grade students had already started wiping away tears.

Professor McGonagall set down her knife and fork at the teachers' table, her emerald green robe billowing with her deep breaths.

She looked at Dumbledore, her eyes conveying a silent urging: something must be done.

Dumbledore nodded slightly and stood up.

He didn't use an amplification spell, but when he spoke, the entire auditorium fell silent instantly.

That silence wasn't out of discipline, but rather out of a deeper trust and expectation in the old principal.

"Children," Dumbledore's voice was gentle and clear, "I know what you are worried about."

He stepped down from the teacher's seat, his long, silvery-white hair shimmering like silk threads in the morning light.

Instead of walking to the center of the auditorium, he strolled slowly between the long tables, making eye contact with each student.

"You're worried that Hogwarts is no longer safe. You're worried that the professors can't protect you. You're worried..."

He stopped at the Gryffindor table, looking at the young, terrified faces. "I'll be next."

Harry looked up and his green eyes met Dumbledore's.

"So today," Dumbledore said, "I have something to tell you. Something that has been kept hidden for so long that fear has grown."

He walked to the Slytherin table and gently placed his hand on Kane Malfoy's shoulder.

This action stunned everyone—including Kane himself, a rare look of surprise flashing in his grey-blue eyes.

"The first thing," Dumbledore's voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, "is that the Chamber of Secrets has been opened."

A chorus of exclamations erupted. Several students nearly jumped up from their benches.

"Quiet." Dumbledore's voice carried an undeniable force. "Let me finish—the Chamber of Secrets has been opened, but the danger has been averted."

He paused, letting the word sink into everyone's consciousness:

"It's off. Permanently."

The auditorium fell into a deathly silence. Everyone held their breath.

"The second thing," Dumbledore continued, "is that Professor Gilderoy Lockhart did indeed suffer an accident. But it was due to his heroic actions while investigating the Chamber of Secrets—he tried to protect his students but unfortunately was struck by the backlash of the Dark Arts. He is now receiving the best treatment at St. Mungo's, and although recovery will take time, he will be fine."

This is not the complete truth, but it is not a lie either.

Lockhart did indeed "heroically" fall into the pipe near the secret room—if escaping counts as heroism.

Several students quietly sat up straight.

"Finally," Dumbledore returned to the front of the Great Hall, his gaze becoming extremely serious, "regarding those students who were petrified—Colin Creevey, and Rupert Hagrid, the hunting grounds manager—the mandrakes in Professor Sprout's greenhouse are thriving, and in two months at most they will be fully recovered."

He raised his wand and drew a complex rune in the air.

The runes bloomed into a patch of light and shadow, projecting a greenhouse scene: in rows of ceramic pots, the mandrakes shaped like "babies" had grown lush leaves, and some were even waving their little hands in their sleep.

"See," said Dumbledore, "hope is always growing."