By Thursday morning, the atmosphere in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had shifted from anticipation to a distinct, electric nervous energy. The desks had been cleared away and pushed flat against the stone walls, revealing a long, empty stone floor.
At the far end of the room stood five heavy, iron-bound wooden dummies. They looked like stylized, armless soldiers, enchanted to rock back and forth on heavy, rounded iron bases.
Richard Prewett stood in the center of the room, his hands clasped casually behind his back. As the first-year Gryffindors filed in, their eyes immediately locked onto the targets. Some of the boys, like Seamus Finnigan, looked eager to blast something, while others looked entirely out of their depth.
"Line up," Richard commanded, his voice echoing off the bare stone.
The students scrambled into a single line facing the targets. Harry ended up near the middle, flanked by Ron, who nervously rolled his wand between his palms, and Hermione, who muttered the wand movements under her breath like a mantra.
"Today is the spellwork Practical," Richard said, pacing slowly down the line of students. "On Tuesday, we discussed the theory of the Knockback Jinx. We talked about the sharp, decisive snap of the wrist. We talked about the absolute clarity of intent required to project force. Today, we see who was listening."
He stopped at the front of the line, facing the first dummy.
"The criteria are simple. Step forward. Cast once. If the dummy travels back five paces to the white chalk line on the floor, and you did it without a word of correction from me, that is an Outstanding for the day. If I have to fix your stance or your grip, you drop to an Acceptable. If you cannot move it at all, you fail."
Richard turned to the first student in line—Neville Longbottom. The boy looked pale, his hands trembling slightly as he held his wand.
"Step up, Longbottom," Richard said softly, stepping back to give him room. "Remember the snap. Don't push with your shoulder; push with the magic."
Neville took a shaky breath, raised his wand, and gave a massive, sweeping wave of his arm. "Flipendo!"
A weak, sputtering red spark flew from his wand and dissipated against the dummy's iron chest. The target didn't even wobble. Neville dropped his head, his ears burning red.
"Your movement was too broad, Longbottom," Richard noted calmly, writing a quick note on his clipboard. "You scattered the force before it could leave the wood. That's a fail for today, but you'll practice the wrist movement in the back of the room until the bell rings. Next."
The line moved forward. Hermione Granger stepped up next. Her jaw was set with fierce determination. She took a flawless stance, drew a sharp, precise triangle in the air, and snapped her wrist.
"Flipendo!"
A solid, vibrant burst of blue light erupted from her wand tip. The heavy wooden dummy groaned, tilting back and sliding across the stone floor, coming to a dead stop exactly on the five-pace chalk line.
"Perfect form, Miss Granger," Richard said, with a small nod of approval. "Excellent clarity of intent. An Outstanding."
Hermione practically beamed, her chest puffing out with pride as she walked to the designated "success" side of the room.
Several students followed with mixed results. Seamus managed to move his dummy three paces before it swung back violently, nearly taking his nose off—earning him an Acceptable after Richard manually adjusted his elbow placement. Ron stepped up, his ears turning red as his spell caused the dummy to rock back and forth heavily, but it didn't slide backward.
"You're holding the wand like a club, Weasley," Richard remarked, stepping in to adjust Ron's fingers. "Loosen your grip. The magic needs to flow, not be squeezed out. Try again."
On his second attempt, with the corrected grip, Ron managed to send the dummy sliding four paces. "An Acceptable, Weasley. Keep that grip relaxed."
Then, it was Harry's turn.
The classroom went remarkably quiet as the Boy Who Lived stepped up to the line. Harry felt the weight of every eye in the room on his back—including Professor Prewett's piercing, analytical gaze.
Harry looked at the heavy iron-bound target. He remembered what the professor had said about his mother being brilliant, and about proving he was more than just a name in a history book. He didn't want to fail. He didn't want to look like the fraud Snape thought he was.
He raised his wand. He didn't rush. He pictured the kinetic path Richard had drawn on the blackboard on Tuesday—the internal force gathering, traveling down his arm, and exploding outward through a single point.
Harry drew the sharp, tight movement in the air. His wrist snapped like a whip.
"Flipendo!"
A loud CRACK echoed through the room. A beam of blue light, significantly brighter and louder than Hermione's, slammed into the center of the dummy. The heavy wooden structure didn't just slide—it was lifted completely off its iron base for a fraction of a second, hurtling backward through the air and crashing down heavily well past the five-pace line, skidding until it hit the back wall with a dull thud.
The classroom fell into absolute silence. Ron's jaw dropped. Hermione blinked in astonishment.
Richard looked from the battered dummy against the back wall to the scrawny boy standing at the line, whose wand was still smoking slightly. To a normal wizard, it was a display of raw, accidental power. But Richard knew better. He had seen the boy's suppressed core; this wasn't accidental. It was a massive breakthrough of intent breaking through years of suppression.
Richard walked slowly over to the skidding line, inspecting the distance. He turned back to Harry, his expression neutral, though a sharp, calculating glint sparked in his eyes.
"A bit excessive on the volume, Potter," Richard said, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. "You wasted a lot of energy making that loud of a noise. Duelling is about economy of movement and discretion, not theatricality."
Harry's shoulders slumped slightly, thinking he had failed.
"However," Richard continued, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he made a decisive stroke on his clipboard, "the target is past the line, and your form was entirely unassisted. An Outstanding, Potter. Go join Miss Granger."
Harry let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, a huge grin breaking across his face as he jogged over to the success side of the room. Ron gave him a massive thumbs-up from the line.
As the rest of the class finished their turns, Richard kept a watchful eye on the back of the room. Through the heavy wooden classroom door, he could feel a very specific magic lingering in the corridor. Dumbledore was out there, listening to the echoes of the spells, trying to gauge exactly how much of a "wild card" his new Defense professor really was.
Richard smiled to himself and turned back to the class. Let him wonder, he thought. The boy is learning, and that's all that matters.
The line reset as the Slytherin first-years took their places at the marker. The easy camaraderie of the Gryffindors evaporated, replaced by a rigid, competitive tension. Near the front of the Slytherin line stood Draco Malfoy, his chin tilted up, his eyes darting toward the back wall where Harry's target still lay skewed against the stone.
Malfoy's expression mixed intense irritation with calculated confidence. When Richard called his name, the boy stepped forward with a deliberate, slow grace, flattening his robes before raising his wand.
"Remember the snap, Malfoy," Richard said, observing the boy's posture. "A tight triangle. Don't let your elbow drift."
Malfoy didn't look at the professor. He kept his silver-grey eyes locked onto the iron-bound chest of his target dummy. He drew the pattern in the air—sharp, clean, and practiced. His family had clearly ensured he had private tutoring before setting foot in Hogwarts. His wrist snapped with precision.
"Flipendo!"
A spark of crisp, silver-blue light shot across the aisle. It hit the dummy dead center. The wooden soldier groaned, rocked backward, and slid smoothly across the stone floor, crossing the white chalk line and stopping exactly six paces out. It was a textbook cast—flawless, efficient, and quiet.
Malfoy lowered his wand, a smug, self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He looked toward the Gryffindors, his eyes lingering on Harry with clear superiority. That, his expression seemed to say, is how a real wizard does it. No noise. No smoke.
"Excellent control, Malfoy," Richard noted, his voice level as he marked the clipboard. "Clean form, quiet release. An Outstanding."
Malfoy bowed his head slightly, the smirk turning into a satisfied grin as he walked over to the success side of the room, intentionally passing close to Harry.
"Some people have to shout to make up for a lack of proper breeding, Potter," Malfoy muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Harry and Ron to hear. "True magic doesn't need to bark like a dog."
Ron's hands instantly balled into fists, his face flushing to match his hair. "Shut up, Malfoy—"
"Mr. Weasley," Richard's voice rang out, dropping the room temperature by several degrees. He hadn't raised his voice, but the sheer authority behind it froze both boys in their tracks.
Richard walked slowly down the aisle until he stood between Malfoy and the Gryffindors. He looked down at the pale Slytherin heir, his expression entirely unreadable.
"In this classroom, Malfoy, we evaluate results, not bloodlines," Richard said, his tone smooth but cutting. "Your cast was precise, yes. But don't mistake refined technique for real combat effectiveness. A target that is merely pushed back six paces can still throw a curse at you. A target that is lifted off its feet and thrown against a wall usually cannot."
A few of the Gryffindors snickered, and Malfoy's smirk vanished instantly, his pale cheeks flaring with a sudden pink tint.
"Magic in the real world is unpredictable," Richard continued, turning his gaze to the rest of the class. "Precision is half the battle; power is the other. If you cannot combine both when the time comes, you will fail. Malfoy, go stand with the others. Weasley, control your temper or your next grade will be a Fail regardless of where your target lands."
The rest of the Slytherins took their turns under a much tighter, quieter atmosphere. Blaise Zabini managed an Exceeds Expectations with a solid four-pace push, while Pansy Parkinson required a manual adjustment to her stance, dropping her to an Acceptable.
By the time the bell rang, the students left the room in a completely different mood than they had entered. The lines between the houses were still there, but a new standard had been set. They weren't just learning spells to pass a written exam at the end of June; they were being tested on their ability to survive.
Richard watched the last of the first-years file out, the heavy oak doors swinging shut. The magical signature that had been lingering in the corridor outside finally began to drift away, heading back toward the headmaster's tower. Dumbledore had heard enough for one morning.
Richard picked up a rag and wiped down the chalkboard, his mind already calculating the next lesson. The first hurdles were cleared, but the real test of the term was still to come.