Chapter 312: Voldemort's Defense Against the Dark Arts
Neville's sudden outburst had made the entire class — tense from Riddle's lecture — collectively exhale.
It wasn't that Riddle didn't know how to lighten the atmosphere; he simply didn't consider it necessary.
For him, a class was a class. As long as students listened, that was enough.
"Now," Riddle continued, clearing his throat, "a question. Why don't we cast spells directly on the Muggle holding the weapon?"
"You know… a powerful Lumos Maxima would blind him instantly."
"Even a simple Confundus Charm could disorient him."
He raised an eyebrow. "So why not do that?"
Lisa Dupin shot her hand up immediately.
She'd been desperate to answer earlier, but Michael had beaten her to it — and then Neville, with his toad of all things, managed to draw Riddle's attention.
This was her chance.
"Because, Professor," Lisa said confidently, "even though Muggles are fragile, the moment he pulls the trigger, he becomes extremely dangerous."
"Not bad," Riddle nodded approvingly. "Anything else?"
His eyes slid to Harry. "What about you, Harry?"
Harry straightened. "Most spells besides Transfiguration can still harm Muggles. If they misfire their weapon, or if a Confundus Charm makes them aim at themselves… they might injure themselves badly. Or worse."
"Very observant," Riddle said, "and considerate of Muggle safety."
"But — think of it in a more unpleasant, pragmatic way. If that Muggle dies because of your spell, and the Ministry discovers it, the result is simple."
"Azkaban."
Gasps rippled across the room.
"In the Ministry's view, Muggles must be protected at all costs. That is their political stance."
"So when faced with an armed Muggle, your goal is not to attack the person. You aim only at the object that makes them dangerous to you."
He clapped his hands once.
"Finally, write a one-foot essay based on today's lesson and my textbook. Any topic or angle is acceptable."
"Oh — and before I forget: five points to Ravenclaw."
"Class dismissed."
In an instant, the students — led by Lisa Dupin — swarmed toward Riddle, abandoning all tradition of respectful distance.
Even the threat of Peeves's revenge seemed to vanish from their minds.
Given Harry's involvement last year, Peeves harbored a special hatred for Ravenclaws… especially those in Harry's year.
---
"One foot?! That's horrible!" Ron complained as they left the classroom. "Even ignoring who he really is — our homework length just jumped to feet for second-year standards!"
Then, lowering his voice, he asked, "Is the Ministry really like that?"
"I don't get why Hufflepuff has dark wizards," Terry Boot muttered bleakly. "They were probably arrested for stuff like this…"
Terry looked crushed.
He'd always dreamed of working for the Ministry — just like Percy.
Ron perked up.
"A-ah! But my dad works for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement! His rank isn't high, but he helps write legislation and gives feedback."
"Like the Muggle Protection Act — my dad helped draft it."
Terry blinked.
Ron's words didn't actually help… but they reminded him of something:
If the Ministry was so flawed, then he could help fix it one day.
He didn't need Ron's dad for that.
But Ron had already wandered ahead, whispering excitedly to Harry.
"I'll write to my dad — tell him what Riddle taught today. If I send it this afternoon, he'll reply before dinner with loads of useful stuff!"
"I could quote it for the essay," Ron said, practically glowing at the idea.
Harry sighed fondly.
Sometimes friendship wasn't about how long you knew someone.
Sometimes it was simply understanding them instinctively.
For Harry, even if Ron bent over backwards, he'd still know exactly what Ron was thinking.
Which… made the rumors last year understandable.
---
Suddenly Harry stopped.
"Look — Peeves!"
A small shape zipped toward the fourth floor, cackling.
No mistaking him — Peeves looked nothing like a ghost.
A small, solid-looking man with wicked black eyes and a mouth too wide for his face, always dressed in garish, mismatched clothing — bells, bows, and colors that hurt to look at.
He could fly like a ghost, hurl objects like a poltergeist, and vanish at will.
Harry had never encountered him directly. Peeves always avoided him — something Harry still didn't fully understand.
But he knew the signs of a prank brewing.
And Peeves's grin was wide.
Ron's face drained.
"Ginny! Their first class is Charms!"
Harry and Ron exchanged one look — then sprinted for the staircase.
Neville and Terry stumbled after them, confused.
Harry understood the danger clearly:
If Peeves was planning something targeting first-year Ravenclaws — especially because of Harry — then as long as Harry reached the classroom, Peeves would retreat on instinct.
"Relax!" Ron wheezed. "Professor Flitwick is there."
"Right," Harry nodded. "Peeves wouldn't dare pull a big prank with Flitwick watching."
Ron slowed slightly.
"Yeah… Peeves only messes with Filch."
"I bet he's got a new prank planned — on Filch."
They turned the corner.
Ron froze.
"Wait — why is Alexander there?"
Alexander Smith stood at the end of the corridor chatting casually with Luna Lovegood.
Ginny, nearby, looked starstruck, hands clasped like a fangirl.
Ron grimaced automatically.
"Of course it's Alexander," Harry said dryly. "He's always impossible to track."
He knew perfectly well how Alexander got there.
This Alexander was clearly one of his clones — created through that necklace of his.
Ahead, Ginny finally caught sight of Harry.
After a long moment of hesitation, she jogged toward him.
(End of chapter)
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