Hogwarts' Golden Glory

The atmosphere in the Defense Against the Dark Arts class on Monday afternoon was more tense than ever before.

Twenty-three fourth-year students—from four colleges—stood around the edge of the training field.

Most of them were a head taller than Kane, their eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity, skepticism, and undisguised defiance.

"Today's lesson is defensive spell counterplay." Sirius leaned lazily against the wall. "Pair up in pairs, freely choose your teams. Assistant Malfoy will provide individual guidance."

Nobody moved.

Cedric Diggory was the first to step forward, speaking gently but firmly: "I'd like to spar with the assistant coach first, is that alright? I'd like to see his level of practical guidance."

This is a challenge of politeness.

Kane nodded: "Okay. The rules?"

"Standard dueling etiquette: only use defensive and disarming spells," Cedric said. "Stop when you've made your point."

The two stood in the center of the training field. Cedric was Hufflepuff's Seeker, agile and with consistent magic, making him one of the top fifth-year students.

"Three, two, one—Go!"

Cedric's Ironclad Charm instantly materialized, the silver shield thick and even—a textbook-perfect defense for a fifth-grader.

Kane did not cast a spell.

He took three steps forward.

Just as Cedric was about to unleash the disarming spell, Kane lightly tapped his wand—not on the shield, but on the ground at the edge of the shield.

The ground suddenly bulged up, not with clods of earth, but with a layer of silvery-blue cushion made of stardust.

The shield tilted due to the deformation of the ground, revealing a tiny opening.

From which angle does Kane's Disarming Curse come into play?

It's not about speed, it's about accuracy.

"Eliminate your weapon."

Cedric's wand slipped from his hand, spun three times in the air, and was caught by Kane's other hand.

The entire room fell silent.

The whole process took less than five seconds.

Cedric paused for two seconds, then smiled—not out of embarrassment, but out of genuine admiration: "I understand. It's not about the strength of the spell, it's about tactical choice."

Kane handed the wand back to him: "Your Ironclad Charm is standard, but it relies too much on textbook form. In real combat, terrain, lighting, and even your opponent's breathing rhythm should all be taken into account."

He turned to the other students:

"This is the first lesson we're going to teach today: defense isn't about putting up a shield and praying it's thick enough. Defense is dynamic; it's about prediction, manipulation, and using every available resource to make yourself harder to hit."

With a wave of his wand, the training ground began to change—small slopes, shallow pits, and even a few areas that swayed slightly appeared.

"Now, pair up. I want you to practice the Ironclad Charm on this uneven terrain. Watch your footing, watch your balance, watch... how to maintain defensive integrity while moving."

The students began practicing in groups. At first, some grumbled, "Why should second-graders teach us?", but soon they found that Kane's guidance was indeed helpful—

"Your wrist angle needs to be adjusted to the tilt of the ground, Ravenclaw."

"Hey Hufflepuff, don't keep staring into your opponent's eyes. Keep an eye on your feet out of the corner of your eye."

"Gryffindor, your spell's magical output is too strong; it'll cause you to lose your balance on unstable ground..."

He remembered everyone's name and college.

He can point out the most subtle problems in everyone.

And most importantly—he did not favor Slytherin.

When Slytherin attempted to ambush his partner from a tricky angle, Kane mercilessly deducted ten points from Slytherin's score.

"Practical training isn't for you to practice ambushing your classmates. If you want to practice dirty tricks, I'll practice with you alone after class."

The other person's face flushed red, but under Kane's cold gaze, they didn't dare to refute.

An hour later, the bell rang to signal the end of get out of class.

The students' attitudes had clearly changed by the time they left the classroom.

Cedric told Kane, "See you next week." Several Ravenclaw students were still discussing the terrain utilization techniques they had just learned. Even some of the Gryffindors who were initially the most unconvinced had at least admitted that "he does have some skills."

Sirius walked over to Kane and patted him on the shoulder: "Well done, kid. Much better than my first lesson back then—I sent three students straight to the medical wing."

Kane tidied up the teaching materials: "They have a good foundation, but they lack practical thinking."

On the morning when the screams of the mandrakes reached their peak in the greenhouse, Professor Sprout practically flew into the medical wing, carrying three fully mature mandrakes in his arms, their roots still trembling in the soil.

"It's ripe! Fully ripe!" Her face was covered in dirt, but her eyes shone with an astonishing light. "Quick, Poppy, we can brew the resurrection potion now!"

Ms. Pomfrey moved as fast as if casting a silent spell.

A crucible, a silver knife, a distillation apparatus—a professional potion-making setup was ready in thirty seconds. She placed the mandrake into the mortar and began processing it quickly but precisely.

Inside the medical wing, the petrified victims were neatly arranged: on the far left was Colin Crevey, the boy's frail body still in the pose of holding up a camera;

In the middle is Hagrid, his enormous body taking up three entire hospital beds!

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were waiting at the entrance of the hospital wing early in the morning.

As the first rays of dawn pierced through the stained-glass windows, the steam of the resurrection potion began to fill the room—a strange aroma, a mixture of freshly turned earth and grass after the rain.

"It's about to begin," Hermione whispered, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her robe.

Ms. Pomfrey divided the prepared medicine into several portions. She carefully poured the first portion into Colin's mouth.

For the first few seconds, nothing happened.

Then--

Colin's finger twitched.

His pale skin began to regain its color, and his stiff joints made a slight "creaking" sound.

His eyelids trembled, and he slowly opened them. His blue eyes, which were always full of curiosity and excitement, were now filled with confusion.

"Where...where am I?" His voice was hoarse.

"Medical Wing, Colin," Ms. Pomfrey said gently. "You were petrified, but you're alright now."

Colin blinked, and memories began to flood back. His expression shifted from confusion to terror, and then to...unbelievable excitement.

"I got it!" He suddenly sat up, nearly knocking over the medicine bottle in Ms. Pomfrey's hand. "I got a picture of the monster! In the camera! Even if it was just a fleeting moment, I really—"

His words came to an abrupt end.

Because he saw Harry Potter standing at the foot of the bed.

idol.

Savior.

He has taken hundreds of photos of the person he has been photographing since he enrolled in school.

Colin's face flushed red. He frantically tried to straighten his hospital gown, only to realize his camera wasn't with him: "I...my camera..."

"Here it is." Ms. Pomfrey took the old Kodak camera from the bedside table—the lens was completely shattered and the body was covered in cracks. "Unfortunately, it's badly damaged."

Colin's eyes dimmed for a moment, but quickly brightened again: "It's okay! The photos are probably still on the film, as long as—"