Harry had been wondering all summer what the classes of Saturnine—Professor Nine, he corrected himself mentally again—would be like. Damn, I had better get this name thing right, he thought. If he kept thinking of the friend he’d made during the summer, he was sure to slip up at some point.

Would she be the kind of teacher she had been to him? Patient and understanding; eager to explain the finer points and ready to unravel the logical thread until Harry was all caught up? Somehow, he doubted it. While Harry was familiar with the sixth year syllabus’ broad lines—and was he ever eager to learn more about wandless and nonverbal magic—he had no idea what the witch’s attitude would be like. Her new demure and shy persona had taken him by surprise, and it had shattered any preconception of her teaching method he’d had.

So it was that on Monday morning, he entered the redecorated Defence classroom with the same uncertainties as the rest of the students. Once again, Gryffindor was paired with Slytherin, like a badly matched couple who’d chosen to have their honeymoon on a sinking ship.

The students with the red ties and lapels sat on one side, while those wearing green took over the other half, with a few scathing comments about the strange vibe that the classroom gave off. The blinds had all been drawn, and they filtered the incoming light by half. Huge black-and-white portraits had been hung on the walls. They depicted various wizards and witches who were either throwing or receiving curses. Their new teacher had put the dark in Dark Arts.

Students had been sitting alone for close to five minutes when Professor Nine made her entrance, descending the staircase that led to a private office on the third floor. She had forgone the use of her teaching robes and wore nothing more than her dark, tight-fitting trousers and an ample light-blue blouse. Her long hair was, as always, held back in a tight, severe chignon.

Her lack of robes was a clear sign that she expected to be doing magic and wanted the complete freedom of movement to do so. That was also the reason why, Harry knew, she’d decided on trousers instead of a robe or a skirt and why her choice of shoes had leaned towards practical low-ankle boots, rather than high-heel pumps.

“You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe,” she started, her voice coloured by a faint French accent that she faked with eerie ease. “Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion, I am surprised that so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with N.E.W.T. work, which will be much more advanced.”

While their lessons would tend towards the practical, their professor informed them that she would assign them a lot of extra reading on top of their regular homework. While this was unfortunate, it was also the only way to get them up to speed with a demanding syllabus geared towards giving them a fair chance for next year’s N.E.W.T. exam.

She explained what her take on the class would be like, and it was easy to understand that she wouldn’t suffer any nonsense from the students. She would be strict but fair, she assured them. She wouldn’t sugar-coat the harsher truth of life for them. Some things had to be learned the hard way, and her teachings would be geared towards a much-needed practical approach.

“Your defences must be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo,” she finished before pulling out her wand in one sleek motion that put Harry’s seeker reflexes to shame. An instant later, dark tendrils of smoke curled from the tip of her acorn wand. They seeped forward at an ever-increasing speed, swirling and twirling about as if they had a mind of their own, until two large black dogs stood by the professor’s side. At a snap of her fingers, they leapt forward, snarling mouths agape, teeth bared. They went for two of the students sitting in the front row, Neville Longbottom and Blaise Zabini. Both leapt from their chairs the second they understood the dogs’ intent. Blaise was quick to get out of harm’s way, but Neville stepped onto one of his untied shoelaces, and he fell flat on the floor. Or he would have, if a spell hadn’t frozen him inches away from the ground.

The dogs were still dead-set on their prey, though. And when it looked like they were about to leap in for the kill, they vanished into thin air. Here one instant and gone the next, leaving behind a puff of black smoke that quickly vanished.

Professor Nine stepped forward and, with a strong hand, she hauled an unarmed Neville back onto his feet. She kept an eye on him until he was safely back in his chair before returning to her spot at the front of the class.

“Now that I have your attention,” she said. “Who can tell me the spell I used?”

Harry half-expected Hermione’s hand to shoot up at that, but there was no such reaction from his bushy-haired friend. Turning his head to look at her, he was surprised by the puzzled expression on her face—she didn’t know. Judging by the heavy silence in the room, no one else did, either.

“Cheap parlour tricks,” someone muttered, and Harry recognised Draco Malfoy’s haughty tone.

“I will not dispute that fact—Mr Malfoy, is it?” their professor said. “But I wasn’t trying to impress, merely to instruct.” Her almond-shaped brown eyes narrowed at the blond boy sitting in the back row. “Seeing as nothing seems to escape your notice, perhaps you would like to enlighten us as to the subject of today’s lesson?”

All eyes rounded on Malfoy, and he squirmed in his seat. Harry rejoiced on the inside and smirked on the outside. In only one sentence, Saturnine had put the annoying Slytherin squarely back in his place. First, she had made sure to let him know that she was fully aware of his identity, and then she had shown him that it didn’t matter to her. In this class, Malfoy’s Pureblood status and the size of his father’s Gringotts vaults would be of little importance.

“No idea, Mr Malfoy?” she asked, drawing her point home. “What a shame. Perhaps if you’d paid more attention.” Then, addressing the room at large, she asked, “Can anyone else tell me what I just demonstrated—not once, but twice, before you?”

That did the trick, and Harry’s hand shot up. It was the only one, and their professor gave him a nod that prompted him to talk. “Nonverbal spells, ma’am,” he said, recalling that she hadn’t said a word when she summoned the smoke-dogs, and she’d been equally quiet when she arrested Neville’s fall.

“Five points to Gryffindor,” Professor Nine said, her mouth slightly curling up in one corner.

Harry had a hard time resisting the urge to smile.

“In the coming weeks, I will be teaching you to perform nonverbal magic,” the dark-haired witch started to lecture. “While it will be of little use to your daily life, I assure you that it can be the difference between life and death in a duel. Every time you utter a spell aloud, you inform your opponent of your actions. You tell him exactly what you will cast and give him enough warning to counter your attack. Nonverbal magic eliminates that liability.”

Next to him, Hermione was furiously writing down each word Professor Nine said, and Harry jotted down a few remarks of his own as their teacher sought to explain her lesson subject further. More than once, she illustrated her propos with a demonstration of her talent at nonverbal spells. The knife that came out of nowhere and shot across the room at high speed sure shook the students out of the torpor her lengthy lecture had plunged them into. It was one way to keep them on their toes, Harry guessed.

Thirty minutes in, Professor Nine had them split into pairs to practice their first nonverbal spells. She allowed students three spells, which they could try and use on each other in turns—the Jelly Legs Curse, Stupefy, and a Tickling Charm. Twenty minutes later, she put an end to their misery when it became clear that none of them had grasped the subject. Thus, she launched herself into another lecture centred on mentally focusing on the intent of the spells.

All in all, the double-lesson flew by. And it was evident throughout that their professor was passionate about the subject and that this year would be nothing like the ones that had come before. Students wouldn’t need to gather in secret groups to learn how to defend themselves, for they would be getting proper teaching in class this time around.

It also became obvious that a certain level of discipline would be required at all times. For it seemed Professor Nine, exacting as she was, had no patience for students whispering to each other or the passing of enchanted notes from one end of the classroom to the other. Pansy Parkinson lost one or two of her brow hairs when the flying paper plane Blaise Zabini had charmed her way nonverbally caught fire inches from its destination.

This year, Defence Against the Dark Arts classes would be held with rigorous respect of the craft, and Harry had a fleeting thought that Saturnine’s methods reminded him of another professor’s teaching practices. Unfairness and scathing comments aside, their Defence Against the Dark Arts classes now looked a lot like Potions’.

***

Harry understood he was in trouble the moment Professor Snape started handing back their Potions’ summer essays. Hermione’s face crumpled as she discovered the red ink A in the top left corner that signalled her work had been deemed nothing more than Acceptable. Ron sighed when he saw that his parchment held a T that was short for Troll. No one in their class had scraped anything better than Hermione’s A—not even Snape’s star pupil, Draco Malfoy. Even the Slytherin blond had tied with the Gryffindor witch.

“What about me, sir?” Harry asked when it became apparent the Potions Master was done handing back the parchments covered in copious amounts of red ink, and that his wasn’t amongst the lot.

“Problem, Mr Potter?” Professor Snape asked, his tone a sardonic drawl, as he sat back down behind his wooden desk.

Harry decided to bite the bullet and play the surly wizard’s game. “You haven’t handed me back mine, sir.”

Snape’s elbows came to rest atop his desk, and he steepled his long fingers. Black eyes glinted above his hands as his focus narrowed on the young Gryffindor. “You haven’t handed in any, I’m afraid, Mr Potter.”

“Yes, I have.” Harry’s anger roared up at his words. He’d done the work, slaved over it for days—and—and the man wasn’t going to grade him, again. “You know I have; I handed it to you last week!”

And Harry knew he’d said exactly what Snape had expected him to say when the man’s lips stretched into the kind of smile that would have had its place on a shark’s face—if sharks knew how to smile, that was. Harry had walked right into whatever trap had been laid out for him with both feet.

“Oh, but I have the essay you handed in, Mr Potter,” Snape said, acerbic tone at the ready. “But it certainly wasn’t yours. You’re welcome to stay behind after class to discuss your punishment for this blatant attempt at cheating.” A pause. “In the meantime, twenty points from Gryffindor.”

Biting his tongue to keep from retorting, Harry placed his hands under the table, where he curled his fingers into fists.

“Now,” Snape said, sitting up and getting everyone’s attention. “Can anyone list for me the ingredients for the Anti-Sleeping Charm Potion you were assigned at the end of last year?”

Hermione’s hand shot up, but Snape ignored her, choosing instead to run his eyes up and down the rows, waiting for somebody to attempt an answer. For once, Harry did know the answer—it was one of the potions he’d considered for his essay before deciding on the Strengthening Solution. Heaving in a breath, he rose his hand, wondering if he would be ignored as Hermione was.

An onyx brow shot up at his gesture, and when Snape called out his name, it sounded like crushed gravel. Focusing on the memory of the parchment he had looked at for hours on end that very summer, Harry correctly listed all the ingredients in the precise order they should be used.

Snape said nothing as he turned away to slowly pace in the front of the room, and he launched himself into a lecture about the benefits of using a potion to counter a charm rather than another charm.

***

Harry waited for the last student to have left the room to gather his stuff—and his courage—to walk up to his professor’s desk. His essay was on full display on the wooden surface, but there was a notable absence of red ink over its length.

Professor Snape remained seated, his greasy black hair hanging limply at his sides, shrouding his face in dark shadows. A grim leer was revealed on his face when he pushed his chair backwards to give himself room enough to cross his arms over his chest. He’d been waiting for this moment for the entire class, it would seem—and he fully intended to enjoy it.

“Whose work is this, Mr Potter?” the Potions Master asked, pointing at the offending document with one index finger.

“Mine!” Harry said, fighting hard not to let his temper get the better of him.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr Potter. I’m used to your barely passable homework and, quite frankly, dreadful summer essays. This may be done in your handwriting, but the content most definitely isn’t of your device.” If at all possible, the man’s tone darkened. “Cheating now, Potter. I never thought you would stoop so low. So much like your—”

“I didn’t cheat!” Harry said, cutting him off mid-sentence. It was rude, but he hadn’t wanted Snape to finish that phrase, knowing full well it wouldn’t have led to anything good. “It’s mine.”

“Why do you insist on lying to me, Potter? You tried to cheat, and you were caught. Cease this game, now, and admit to it!” Snape was long since past furious; his eyes glittered in warning. “You cannot seem to be able to complete a potion without Ms Granger’s helping hand, and you would like me to believe that you had enough understanding to grasp the Simili Principle and the Substitution Axiom? Stop taking me for a fool.”

“I’m not, sir. Honest,” Harry said, and boy did that sir cost him. He drew on his last reserve of Gryffindor courage to stand his ground and face the man with something akin to calm. “I had someone look over it when I was done to make sure it was all right, but I did it all myself.” Then, taking a breath, he added with venom, “I don’t know why I bothered, though. I should have known you’d never be fair to me.”

That seemed to trigger something in the elder wizard, and he inched forward menacingly, seemingly barely able to control his actions. He hadn’t liked it that Harry dared to question his motives, and despite the height difference, he managed to look down his nose at him.

“Your proposed Cure for Boils—why the chilled Alka-Seltzer?” Snape asked, throwing him off with the randomness of the question. “Why not use it at room temperature?”

“It’s not as potent as the Advil that’s traditionally used, sir. The chill adds an extra kick that evens things out,” he replied, remembering that Saturnine had made him swallow mouthful after mouthful of both liquids in various states until he’d made the connection for himself.

“Was that why you switched the mistletoe flowers to the rose petals for the Forgetfulness Potion?” Snape continued without missing a beat.

That was a trick question, and Harry knew it. “I supplemented the mistletoe berries for red roses’ petals for their shared intent.” Then feeling his cheeks redden, but with no other choice than to explain further, he added, “They’re both strong romantic symbols—the roses more so than the mistletoe, which is why three petals were enough to balance four berries.”

“And your reasoning to explain why you’ve replaced the viper venom with coffee, Potter? Surely you will not have me believe that they have the same effect on the human body?”

“Actually, the coffee’s just that, sir—a little something to give the Strengthening Solution an extra boost. It’s rather harmless, just like the viper venom gets when it’s set to overheating for ten minutes like that potion requires it to.”

When he’d realised that the venom in the potion was next to useless, Harry’s mind had suffered a little meltdown. Chuckling at his dismay, Saturnine had launched into a lengthy lecture, supplemented by dozens of examples, on potions that used rare and costly ingredients for no reason other than to look fancy. It was something that was a bit of a favourite pastime of 18th Century potioneers, he’d learned.

Snape opened his mouth to volley another question, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, hard obsidian eyes bore into softer green ones, and something seemed to come to life within the dark orbs. Harry felt the familiar tug of a Legilimency attack in the back of his mind—wandless, nonverbal Legilimency, he noted in passing.

If his professor thought he would catch him unaware, though, he was in for a nasty surprise. Heaving in a deep breath to centre himself, Harry brought forth his Occlumency barrier that consisted of a massive forest with a long sinuous river that had been turned into a training ground for Quidditch practice. The further he felt the wizard dig, the more Harry added to it, until he was frantically zigzagging around giant treetops and a plantation of hoops, all the while avoiding half a dozen nasty Bludgers dead-set on dismounting him.

Snape pulled back with a reverberating slap that felt like he’d been hit in the face by a rubber band. “Potions are not the only thing you’ve learned over the summer, it would seem,” he said after a while. The glare in his obsidian eyes lost its intensity as his face emptied of all emotions.

Harry almost, almost, had the feeling he’d impressed the sour Potions Master somehow.

“Who tutored you?” he asked, with the barest hint of curiosity.

Forest firmly in place, Harry calmly flew along the river to make sure his thoughts would stay clear of his tutor’s identity. “A friend,” he said, in a tone that held no emotion at all.

“So, you are capable of learning, after all. Wonders never cease,” Snape said in a tone that made his words sound nothing like a compliment. “Very well, then. I accept your essay, but know that I will be testing each and every one of your proposed potions to check the results myself.”

Incapable of repressing a winning smile, Harry reached for the three tiny phials he’d been carrying all day. “Don’t bother, sir. I’ve already done that.”

That effectively shut the dark-haired wizard up. Snape bent forward, long, pale fingers clasping around each phial in turn, to better inspect them. “You would have me believe that you brewed these?” he asked at last, and his surprise was such that he forgot to sound scathing.

“Under supervision, but yes,” Harry said. “You can test them, sir. They all work.”

“That’ll be all, Mr Potter,” Snape said at last, waving a dismissing hand in his direction. His eyes had yet to leave the tiny phials perched on the edge of his desk.

Harry obliged him, only turning back when he’d reached the door.

“Will I be getting my essay back, sir?” he asked, hoping against all odds.

“Eventually, Mr Potter.” Snape stood up, phials in hand. Then he turned on his heel to retreat to his private office, his voice calling out over his shoulder, “Once I am done grading it.”

And with that, Harry understood that Professor Snape would most likely never be done grading that particular essay; the man just didn’t have it in him to give him a good grade.