Dewey's first day of teaching at Hogwarts soon came to an end. The young witches and wizards were generally pleased with his lessons. For the first and second years, he focused on making learning fun.
Dewey taught them what Dark Magic was, what a Dark Creature was, and how to recognize Dark Magic. He made his lessons entertaining, liked telling jokes, and didn't assign much homework. The young witches and wizards all liked him.
"The new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor is really interesting."
That was what everyone said.
On his first day, in his very first lesson, Dewey saw the little girl he'd noticed beside the carriage when he'd first arrived at Hogwarts. Her name was Luna. Her classmates called her Loony, and she was a second-year Ravenclaw.
She was a very interesting girl. People who stood out like she did were always isolated.
During class, she watched Dewey with her bright, shining eyes.
Dewey smiled back at her.
The little girl seemed quite interested in him.
As for Tuesday's seventh-year students, they had a very low opinion of Dewey.
"An old fuddy-duddy."
"A boring professor."
"I feel like falling asleep in class."
Dewey had no intention of getting into a fight with these students.
If it really came to blows, Dewey wasn't sure he could beat them. In their seventh year, these young witches and wizards were at the peak of their knowledge and magical combat abilities.
After graduating, most Wizards would take desk jobs or enter other professions. Their memories of most spells would grow hazy, and their practical skills would grow rusty.
Magic, too, was a use-it-or-lose-it skill.
Most Wizards were less capable than ordinary people without their wands. At least ordinary people knew how to throw a punch. Wizards relied too heavily on magic, and had lost many other options as a result.
In the Wizarding World, most Wizards together wouldn't stand a chance against one top-tier Wizard. That was what a complete gap in strength looked like.
Facing these dangerous seventeen-year-old seventh-years, Dewey calmly told them to write essays.
Classes, lessons, essays, practice questions.
"Everything revolves around the exam. I want you to get an O in Defense Against the Dark Arts in your N.E.W.T.s. If you can't get an O, then at least get an A."
He spoke to the students earnestly. "I won't let the Defense Against the Dark Arts class I teach become an obstacle in your future careers."
The seventh-years groaned in despair.
Dewey didn't budge. He'd looked into it thoroughly: about eighty percent of the Defense Against the Dark Arts assessment in the N.E.W.T.s was written.
Practical work made up only twenty percent of the overall score.
That was one reason an Auror who'd passed the N.E.W.T.s with excellent marks could be sent running by an old woman.
A head full of knowledge wouldn't make you cast the right spell at the right time. It was hardly unusual for a person's brain and hands to fail to work together.
Knowledge and training were both indispensable for an excellent Wizard.
If that was true even of the Ministry of Magic's Hit Wizards and Aurors, then it went without saying how things stood for other Wizards.
Ever since Barty Crouch Sr., the iron-fisted old man, had stepped down, the Auror who'd taken over as Head of the Auror Office had been fit to lead the charge, but not to command. Apart from a few veterans, his Aurors could almost all be summed up in one phrase:
"A complete mess."
In other words, the new Head of the Auror Office could only rush into a fight himself. He couldn't maintain order from the rear, devise strategies, or gather talent.
He was better suited to being an Auror than a decision-maker.
Dewey easily got the students under control. His plans for teaching were simple: drag things out whenever possible, let the younger students fend for themselves, and give the fifth- and seventh-years an advanced education. Essays, questions, and practice problems—a full combination of methods that worked surprisingly well. His real focus, though, was Harry and the others in the third year.
In the Staff Room, Dewey drank his Potions and sat there calmly, discussing teaching methods with Professor Flitwick. Professor McGonagall was sitting nearby. None of them had a class at the moment, and after hearing Dewey's educational philosophy, Professor McGonagall wholeheartedly agreed.
Dewey approached it from the perspective of a graduate who'd left school several years ago, and focused on the future of Half-blood Wizards. He gave his ideas a polished framing. "I don't want my students to be unable to get the jobs they want after graduation because of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
"If they're especially passionate about Defense Against the Dark Arts and want to become Aurors, we can train them specifically for that.
"Care for most students, and care for each individual."
Dewey chatted animatedly with the two professors, exchanging ideas. His point was that not everyone could be a genius like Professor Dumbledore, but anyone could go to Hogwarts, become an ordinary person like him, Lupin, and find a respectable job. Professor McGonagall praised his approach. She cared deeply about her students, too.
She thought Lupin was right.
Professor McGonagall might be strict with her students and keep a stern expression most of the time. Even the Weasley family twins would shrink their necks instinctively when they saw her. But every professor at Hogwarts loved their students: Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout. They were all genuinely good people.
One unnamed Potions professor, who was not a good person and truly loathed one of his students, Neville, was standing outside the Staff Room door at that very moment.
Hearing the lively discussion inside and the laughter that occasionally drifted out, his face darkened. Grinding his teeth, he wished he could use his wand to poke a hundred holes in Lupin, who was holding forth inside.
"A hypocritical liar."
He'd planned to watch Lupin make a fool of himself, but Lupin was doing even better than he'd expected. Over the past few days, the first- and second-years had praised Professor Lupin's teaching. The third- and fourth-years hadn't started their lessons yet, so there was no word on their opinions. The fifth- and seventh-years were complaining bitterly about Professor Lupin's classes. Snape hated this teaching style—it was a way of teaching fools. True geniuses didn't need it. But all he could do was hate it.
The other professors all thought there was nothing wrong with this teaching style. Snape understood why: at Hogwarts, nobody criticized another teacher's methods unless they caused a major teaching disaster. Only then would someone resign and take responsibility. Otherwise, no one meddled in anyone else's teaching.
But what made Snape grind his teeth was that this teaching style was too cautious. What kind of teaching disaster could Lupin possibly cause if he kept going like this?
Hmm? The crime of assigning too much homework, so that students couldn't finish it and used magic to help?
The crime of assigning too many essays?
The crime of keeping students from sleeping at night?
Lupin really was too cautious!
The only way things could go wrong was if Lupin turned into a Werewolf and clawed one of his students! But that wasn't what Snape wanted to see!
Clenching his fists, Snape turned and left the Staff Room door, seething with resentment.
Even Snape couldn't find anything to attack Lupin over for the time being.
So in Potions Class that day, Neville Longbottom had an even worse time.
He had to bear the full brunt of Professor Snape's anger.
Time passed.
Thursday afternoon.
The trio walked together up the castle stairs, panting and sweating.
"Whew, whew! We've got Professor Lupin's Defense Against the Dark Arts class this afternoon. Oh, Hermione, I saw on the timetable that you've also taken Ancient Runes. I remember that class clashes with Defense Against the Dark Arts. How did you work that out?"
Ron asked, gasping for breath, but no one answered.
Harry and Ron turned around and realized that Hermione, who should have been following behind them, was nowhere to be seen.
"Uh, have you seen where Hermione went?"
Ron was dumbfounded.
He asked Harry, who turned around too, looking just as confused.
"I—I don't know."
He thought it was strange, too. Hermione had about twelve classes this year, counting both electives and required subjects. He couldn't figure out how she managed to attend every single one. But because of that, Harry had noticed that Hermione's temper was getting worse. She was becoming more impatient, her memory was failing, and she walked at a brisk pace.
And she kept appearing and disappearing without warning.
Just like now: Hermione had vanished, and Harry and Ron leaned over the stairs, searching for her without a trace.
Dewey calmly drank his Potions and sat in the classroom. There were only a few minutes before class began when someone pushed open the door, sweating profusely.
It was Hermione.
Seeing someone in the classroom, she hastily stuffed something into her pocket. Dewey saw how flustered she was and said with a smile, "Don't worry, Hermione. I think I know what that is.
"You got a Time-Turner?
"You're taking twelve classes too?"
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