Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Snape gave him even more ammunition to target Gryffindor—especially Harry.
Of course, picking on Harry and the other Gryffindors only took up half the lesson.
The other half?
Well, Professor Snape started by tearing into Professor Lupin's teaching progress from top to bottom, inside and out, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet—laced with enough sarcasm to fill a cauldron.
Finally, when he got around to actually teaching, Snape noticed the Gryffindors' slow progress and shoddy grasp of the material.
This, naturally, gave him another chance to mock Lupin's teaching quality, followed by a healthy dose of humiliation for the Gryffindor students.
Some tried to fight back.
Their rebellion? When they couldn't answer Snape's questions, they'd beg him to ask Dylan instead.
But Dylan wasn't about to just blurt out answers for them—unless Snape actually turned and asked him directly.
Snape's hair was finally looking less greasy.
Why go out of the way to rile him up?
Couldn't they just humor him a bit?
Dylan didn't mind Snape's sharp-tongued, sarcastic ways. In fact, he found it rather amusing.
—Watching a grumpy old professor act like a mischievous kid was pretty entertaining, wasn't it?
Besides, when faced with taunts or insults, if you're the first to crack, the person mocking you wins.
But if they can't break through your defenses no matter how hard they try, they're the ones who end up rattled.
So, while Snape was busy sniping at the Gryffindors, if these kids had the skills to meet his ridiculously high standards, he'd have no excuse to keep needling them.
And if they could stay as cool as Dylan did, shrugging off the jabs, they wouldn't let someone's words throw their emotions into a tailspin.
Dylan figured students should act like students.
If you're not doing well, learning slowly, and get a tongue-lashing from a professor, that's fair game.
—Though Snape's "criticism" was more than just criticism.
If professors had to coddle students while teaching, the whole system would fall apart.
Especially in a world where you could learn magic!
When wielding magical power, there was no room for carelessness.
Strict standards, when you thought about it, were just a sign of a professor taking their job seriously.
Dylan, who'd mastered a fair share of advanced spells and even started tinkering with creating his own, knew full well magic wasn't a game.
One slip-up could spark an accident—maybe endangering your own life, or the lives of those around you.
So, being tough was better than letting students mess around with magic and suffer the backlash.
At last, the lesson—breezy and pleasant for Dylan, but nerve-wracking for everyone else—neared its end.
—Even though Snape hadn't really taught them any spells.
Just listening to his reprimands left many students squirming, feeling like they were sitting on pins and needles.
Of course, Snape didn't teach nothing. He focused heavily on one particularly grim creature.
—Werewolves.
In Snape's words:
"Werewolves are cursed, twisted monsters. On the night of the full moon, they shed their deceptive skins, baring fangs stained with foul blood.
They scramble on all fours—"
—Dylan wasn't sure why Snape felt the need to stress that werewolves moved on all fours.
But, well, they did.
"—racing through the gutters, their throats unleashing howls more nauseating than a Death Eater's cry."
Werewolves were pitiful creatures, not worth your sympathy.
They were walking disasters, a stain the wizarding world could never scrub clean!
Hmm… not the most accurate description, but definitely a biased one.
Just then, the candles in the classroom flickered, dimming slightly.
Snape's black robes billowed with a chill as he swept down the aisle between the desks.
He slammed a stack of assignments onto the lectern.
The dull thud of parchment startled the front-row students, their shoulders jumping.
—If they'd known Lupin wasn't teaching today, they'd never have fought to sit in the front!
But it was too late for regrets. They just ducked their heads as low as they could.
"This is what Lupin taught you as a 'strategy' for Defense Against the Dark Arts?"
Snape snatched up one assignment.
"Using a Levitation Charm against a Boggart? I suggest you head to the Owlery right now and write home, begging them to withdraw your enrollment."
"Didn't Lupin show you a Boggart in person? Were you too busy laughing at everyone else's fears?"
At that, Snape shot a subtle glance at Dylan.
—Dylan pretended not to notice.
"And I asked for your thoughts on this lesson, and someone actually wrote they'd try to make friends with a werewolf?"
Snape's shoulders relaxed slightly, a cold laugh rumbling from his throat.
"When the full moon rises and they rip out your throat, be sure to ask—while they're guzzling your blood and gnawing your flesh—if they'd like to chat about the meaning of friendship!"
In the corner, a student buried their head even lower.
Snape narrowed his eyes, his voice like an icy spike piercing everyone's ears.
"Utterly, hopelessly stupid—Defense Against the Dark Arts isn't a bedtime story for your childish fantasies!"
Right as the bell rang, Snape's voice rang out in sync.
"By next week, everyone! Two rolls of parchment—detailing werewolf habits and defense strategies."
His gaze swept the room.
"If I see one more ridiculous, brainless idea like 'feed them moonwort to tame them,' you'll be dancing with a Boggart in my dungeon until dawn."
With his final word, the bell chimed softly, its gentle echo drifting through the classroom.
It tugged at Snape's robes as they billowed over the threshold.
All that was left was a chorus of groans from the students.
Dylan started packing up.
Not that there was much to pack—just a quick tap of his wand, and everything vanished into his system panel.
He headed to the Great Hall with Neville, who still looked a bit dazed.
—Snape hadn't spared Neville either, tearing into him during the lesson.
Dylan blinked.
Snape had been on a rampage today.
He'd even tried to take a shot at Dylan.
Of course, he didn't succeed.
Every question Snape threw his way—or the ones others couldn't answer and tossed to him—Dylan handled with ease, giving thorough, spot-on responses.
It left Snape with no room to nitpick.
In fact, because Dylan kept nailing every answer, textbook-perfect and precise, Snape had no choice but to award Gryffindor ten points.
—Ten was the most he'd give.
He'd rather add points one by one than take them away in chunks.
"Head hurting from all the scolding?" Dylan asked Neville with a grin.
Neville scratched his head sheepishly. "Yeah, it's got me a bit turned around. Guess I've got no talent for Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Dylan shook his head, smiling. "Snape's pace is a bit fast. Professor Lupin hasn't even covered werewolves yet, so it's normal you're not up to speed."
Neville blinked and looked up. "But you answered everything so smoothly, Dylan. It's like you know the answer to anything Snape asks."
Dylan settled into a seat. "That's because I've already previewed all the lessons, so I'm prepared."
—Obviously. He could even brew a potion for werewolves; of course he knew what they were.
Snape knew this too, which was why he'd thrown some particularly tricky questions at Dylan today.
But Dylan batted them all away.
Neville sat beside him. "I think I'd better get started on that Defense homework. I don't fancy spending a night with a Boggart."
Dylan chuckled at Neville's pale, worried face.
Poor guy. If he ran into a Boggart right now, it'd probably turn into Snape.
But then…
Dylan pictured Neville dancing with a Boggart-Snape all night, and the absurd image made him grimace.
"Ugh, weird."
Hermione joined them, looking a bit glum.
She'd been chewed out by Snape too.
Not because he'd deliberately targeted her with impossible questions, but because, after trashing Lupin's teaching pace, Snape had skipped ahead to werewolves.
Hermione had questioned it.
And, well… the result was predictable.
She slumped into a seat.
"I don't get it. Has Snape lost his mind?"
Neville flinched, tucking his chin and glancing around nervously.
When he saw no sign of Snape, he let out a relieved breath.
How could she say that about Snape?
If he overheard…
Neville shuddered, not daring to imagine it, and definitely not touching that comment.
—Hermione seemed a bit unhinged herself.
Dylan shook his head.
After that lesson, everyone was a little off.
—Snape included.
But Dylan was the exception.
His mental state was rock-solid, unshaken by anything external.
Dylan picked up a piece of steak, then paused.
"Well… except for that sharp-tongued little witch who somehow manages to out-snark me."
After lunch, the afternoon classes rolled on.
Time flew by.
Soon, everyone's focus shifted to the excitement of tomorrow—the first Quidditch match of the season.
The buzz of anticipation washed away much of the stress Snape had piled on them.
Until the day of the match arrived.
Dylan gazed out at the gloomy weather and sighed.
"Do we really have to chase that little Quidditch ball?"
A match in the rain?
That was some serious sports spirit.
For Quidditch, bad weather was just a minor hurdle.
Hogwarts house matches were basic affairs.
If something extreme happened, like last year, they'd cancel it.
But the Quidditch World Cup? That was different.
Rainstorm? No problem.
Knives falling from the sky?
If a player got skewered, the substitute came in.
The game went on!
Lead-gray clouds hung heavy, like the sky was about to collapse.
Muffled thunder rumbled like a coiled serpent, hissing and rolling through the clouds, ready to strike.
Fierce winds whipped fat raindrops into a frenzy, battering Hogwarts' weathered stone walls, splashing into broken shards of water.
Dylan stepped outside.
A damp chill hit him, carrying the sharp scent of rain.
The storm bent the trees in the Forbidden Forest, their branches twisting, the occasional snap of a dry limb cracking through the air.
Dylan glanced back.
Rain, wind, dark clouds, the Forest, the castle, and…
The match about to begin.
"Tch, this magical, adventure-filled scene really is the classic opening for a fantasy tale."
Dylan felt a strange wave of emotion.
In his past life, he'd never have experienced this.
But now, he had the chance to live it, to touch it, even to shape it—this epic, magical saga!
The downpour drenched Hogwarts, cloaking it in a hazy gray veil.
Dylan splashed through puddles, heading for the Quidditch pitch.
Above his head, an invisible barrier hovered—a shield of magic, an unseen umbrella.
Raindrops struck it, rippling with faint glimmers of light, then slid off, splashing at his feet.
Not a single drop touched him.
Back in his old life, bad weather always sparked little daydreams.
On rainy days, he'd imagine conjuring an invisible umbrella like this, no need to carry one or tire his arm holding it.
Or in summer, when the heat flipped between a steamer and an oven, he'd fantasize about having a Doraemon-style pocket.
He could pull out a portable air conditioner—a floating device that followed overhead, keeping a perfect temperature around him.
But now, he didn't need Doraemon's gadgets. He was his own Doraemon, making anything possible!
That thought brought a saying to mind.
"The end of science is magic!"