A certain Hogwarts professor of runes.

“Well…” Flitwick stammered, “You’re one of the regular professors at the Duel Club, aren’t you? You should know that Defense Against the Dark Arts has always been a weak point for students, and thankfully the Duel Club can fill some of that gap.”

“Lupin taught quite well last year,” Professor McGonagall interjected.

“I understand,” Flitwick said, “and Belby, they are both very good, but…”

He hesitated for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts, and said, “But we all know what this course is like—each professor only has one year to teach it. I don’t deny that Dumbledore has tried his best to find excellent wizards to teach this course, but excellent wizards and excellent professors are two different things.”

“Just because you are good at it yourself doesn’t mean you can teach it to others,” Felix concluded.

“That’s right!” Flitwick’s eyes lit up. “Exactly! A good professor needs a wealth of experience to understand the various problems students encounter… This process may take several years, but it’s simply impossible for a professor of this course to do that.”

"Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts both teach spells, but their focuses are completely different. I teach general, practical magic, including various fundamentals, while offensive and defensive spells that can be used in duels are basically categorized under Defense Against the Dark Arts..."

"The professors for this course are the most unpredictable. If you encounter a good teacher, you can learn more. But if you encounter an unsuitable or unskilled teacher, the class will be a mess."

The professors fell silent, their minds racing with a long list of names of Defense Against the Dark Arts professors from over the years, each one trying to match up with the others.

Felix also reflected on the professors he had encountered—both in school and at work. Frankly, someone like Lockhart was the bare minimum in every sense. Most were simply mediocre, or rather, not good at teaching. They often described simple problems in a vague and confusing way, leaving young wizards bewildered; or they relied entirely on their own experience, talking to themselves and failing to effectively solve the problems their students faced.

There's another problem hidden behind this: the course has never been properly planned. Experienced professors like Flitwick and McGonagall teach from the first year until graduation, they know each student's characteristics inside and out, and they can provide targeted guidance.

Moreover, it is very clear what should be taught in each grade, how much should be taught, and what kind of feedback should be given.

As for Defense Against the Dark Arts... it's already considered good if you can just read from the textbook. Professors like Lupin who consider their students' needs and try to make up for their deficiencies are extremely rare.

Most people still follow their own habits, talking about this and that, offering random opinions.

So some students, after seven years, will be surprised to find that they have attended seven classes with the same content—from seven different professors.

……

Snape scoffed dismissively. Wasn't that the truth? What was there to discuss? He glanced at the new ghost in the corner a few times, thinking it was inextricably linked to Felix. The shiny cloak looked strangely familiar.

Moreover, this ghost never uttered a word from beginning to end, maintaining a haughty demeanor, which made Nick, who had almost no head, leave embarrassed when he floated over to strike up a conversation.

A commotion arose in the hall as students' carriages stopped at the entrance. Braving the heavy rain, they ran into the castle, chattering and making a ruckus, instantly filling the school with a lively atmosphere.

Felix fell silent, his eyes gleaming slightly. Suddenly, the ghost, who had been standing quietly in a corner of the auditorium, sprang to life, grabbing Peeves and flying toward the foyer.

The students entered the cave-like hallway and shook off the rain with the help of torches hanging high on the walls.

“Good heavens,” Ron said, shaking his head so hard that water droplets splashed everywhere, “I’m soaked to the bone.”

Harry silently wrung out his sleeves, squeezing out a large puddle of water. His shoes and trousers were also soaked, dragging heavily down, and his hair was wet and stuck to his head.

“What, what is that—” Neville, who had come in the same carriage as them, exclaimed in shock.

The people around him looked up at the marble steps leading to the auditorium. At the entrance, in the flickering firelight, a tall figure was suspended in mid-air, wearing a long cloak with flowing robes, and his silver eyes were very indifferent.

"What is he carrying in his hand?" Someone further away noticed the commotion.

"A freshman?" someone guessed, but he was far too short, like a little radish head.

"How is that possible? They should still be floating on the lake. Wait—" an older student exclaimed, his eyes wide. "That's Pikachu!"

"Mischievous Piggy was being carried in someone's hand? Good heavens!"

"No, that, that's a Dementor!" a student with particularly poor eyesight screamed.

The air seemed to freeze instantly. The students gasped, trembling, and in complete disarray.

"Call—God—Guardians!" Harry drew his wand and shouted.

Silver light spilled across the ground, and a silver shadow flew out from his wand—a stag—leaping nimbly and fearlessly toward the Dementor.

Harry didn't have time to think about why Dementors had suddenly appeared in the castle. He looked at his Patronus with anticipation, absolutely certain that it would do the same thing for him as before.

"Zizi~"

Harry wondered if he was seeing things, but the tall 'Dementor' stretched out its free hand and braced itself against the stag antlers, forcing his Patronus to stop.

He blinked in disbelief; the lenses were indeed a little blurry, but he couldn't possibly be mistaken for such a large guardian spirit.

Ron stammered, "This...this could be the leader of the Dementors? Judging by its height, it's not impossible..."

Hermione trembled, pulling out her wand in an attempt to save herself, "Hush—protect—protect the divine—"

"Take the God's Protection!"

A seventh-grade student shouted, and a silver leopard rushed forward, only to be slapped away by the Dementor. The freed Peeves immediately darted into the wall and disappeared.

Before leaving, he exaggeratedly shouted, "The new ghost is fighting with the students! The new ghost is fighting with the students!"

Professor McGonagall rushed over, her pointed hat askew, and shouted angrily, "Pee-pee, what are you up to now?" But the scene before her was not what she had imagined. She blinked and looked at the scene.

“Minerva, it’s me,” the ghost finally spoke, a gentle voice. The sight of the Dementor actually speaking terrified several nearby students, who huddled together in fear.

Professor McGonagall recognized his voice and, suppressing her anger, growled at the ghost in a low voice, "Felix Heap, impersonating a ghost to scare students is outrageous! I'm telling you—"

"Uh, it was an accident, sorry, Minerva, they mistook me for a Dementor..."

Felix the Ghost said awkwardly that he never expected anyone to identify a ghost as a Dementor, and even more absurdly, Harry immediately used the Patronus Charm to attack him.

Where's your brain?

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring as she breathed heavily—a sign that she was about to explode. This usually came with a reprimand and a deduction of points, starting at 20, plus a varying amount of detention. However, given that Felix was a professor, the latter was unnecessary.

"I'll leave right away," the ghost said hastily. He didn't want to provoke the enraged lion. Even Dumbledore wouldn't dare to reprimand McGonagall in this state. He vanished in a flash.

Professor McGonagall's chest heaved as she glanced at the hourglass in the foyer recording the college grades. After a long pause, she sternly addressed the drenched crowd, "What are you waiting for? Get into the auditorium, and hurry up!"

She led the way into the auditorium, followed by dejected students, their footsteps making a splashing sound and leaving wet footprints.

“If I were you, I would try to use a spell to dry off the moisture on my body.”

Professor McGonagall stopped, looking troubled, and said that it was hard to imagine that among these students, there would be warriors representing Hogwarts, participating in the tournament in a little over a month and bringing glory to the school.

Chapter 351 Moody

The freshmen excitedly lined up to the top of the auditorium to wait for their colleges to be assigned, while Felix just felt a little hungry.

The same goes for the Sniffer Valen.

“Let’s wait a little longer. We can make a bet to see if there will be raisin pudding on the table later. By the way, do you eat grapes?” Felix asked softly. Sniff sat on his lap, craning her neck to stare at the empty table, looking somewhat disappointed.

Especially when it pleaded with its eyes, asking if it could collect a set of Hogwarts tableware, Felix refused without hesitation.

Snape watched them with a strange expression, but Niffler was only interested in shiny, exquisite things. It kept glancing at Dumbledore's suddenly appearing silver beard and then at Flitwick sitting on the high cushion. It couldn't take it all in.

"...

Put me properly on your head.

I've never looked past it,

I want to see your head.

Determine which college you belong to!

Amidst thunderous applause, the Sorting Hat concluded its annual song, and the Sorting Ceremony officially began. Felix's only odd observation was that the song's last line wasn't "They share a dream, a wish"—he had heard it so many times in the Headmaster's office that he subconsciously assumed the Sorting Hat intended to end the song that way.

“Stuart Ackley!” Professor McGonagall stood to the side, unfolding a long parchment and reading the name aloud.

A boy stepped forward, visibly trembling from head to toe. He picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on his head, sat on the stool, and was so nervous that his eyes rolled back.

"Ravenclaw!" the Sorting Hat shouted.

Stuart Ackley took off his hat and hurried to sit down at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone applauded to welcome him.

"Malcolm Bardock!" "Slytherin!"

“Eleanor Branstone!” “Hufflepuff!”

“Owen Caldwell!” “Hufflepuff!”

"Dennis Crevy!" "Gryffindor!"

The little guy named Crevy was wearing a mole coat, clearly Hagrid's, which to a first-year student looked like a sturdy fur tent. When he was assigned to Gryffindor, he didn't hesitate and ran towards the Gryffindor house.

As he ran, he excitedly shouted, sharing his experience: "Colin! I fell into the lake! The lake!"

"The Sorting Hat! Leave the Sorting Hat behind!"

Professor McGonagall called after him twice, but he didn't react. In desperation, she tapped her wand, causing the Sorting Hat on the freshman's head to float back on its own. Felix then flicked his finger, sending the Mole Coat flying to Hagrid, who was just about to get up.

"Thanks, Felix," Hagrid said gruffly, shaking his coat as raindrops began to fall.

Meanwhile, good-natured laughter erupted from Gryffindor. The freshman scratched his head, sat shyly next to a student who looked very much like him, and after a moment of quiet, he began to excitedly describe his fall into the water: "I fell into the lake, swallowed a few mouthfuls of water, and thought, 'That's it!' But then suddenly something pushed me back onto the boat!"

“That’s so cool!” said his older brother, Colin Crevey, who was two years older than him. He was just as excited as his brother. “It’s probably a giant squid, Dennis!”

Colin pointed to Harry, who was a few seats away, and said, "See that boy over there? The one with the black hair and glasses? That's Harry Potter. He's in all twelve photo albums I sent home, along with his friends!"

His younger brother Dennis looked at Harry curiously. If it weren't for the fact that his older brother had spent more than half a year in the hospital when he was a first-year student because he indirectly made eye contact with the Basilisk, the family photo album would probably be overflowing by now.

But thanks to his brother's photo album, he recognized Harry at a glance. And his brother continued, "I just asked him to pray for you, hoping you'd be sorted into Gryffindor, and guess what? It worked!"

"Let me tell you more about the guardian spirit he released in the foyer, it was incredibly cool..."

Human emotions aren't always shared. Harry's face flushed slightly, and Ron teased him, "Did you just pray?"

Harry stammered, then quickly changed the subject, saying, "That empty seat must be for the new professor?" He pointed to the faculty seating area.

“Who else could it be?” Ron muttered. “But he’s late; the banquet is about to begin.”

In fact, until nearly the end of the dinner, when Harry was so full that he had to give up half a smoked potato from his plate, the empty seat at the teachers' table remained unoccupied.

Felix used Transfiguration to conjure a small table and chairs, where Niffler Valen sat eating a slice of raisin pudding, with a white napkin tied around its neck.

Having finished eating early, the Niffler was a little bored. It sniffed the various scents in the air and soon spotted a familiar face.

It tugged at Felix's trouser leg and pointed in a direction. Felix's face darkened—the little guy was too short—but he could roughly make out the direction and guess what it meant.

"Go on, but don't steal anything from anyone, not even cutlery, understand?"

Sniff nodded repeatedly.

It scurried under the dining table, past the kicking legs, and quickly spotted its target, climbing up her trouser leg.

"Ouch!" Hermione exclaimed, looking down to meet a pair of bright, dark eyes.

"Valen?" she whispered, and Ron, Harry, and several students around them looked over.

"A black duck?" Dean Thomas, who grew up in a Muggle family, asked curiously.

“I guess it’s a Niffler,” Neville said softly.