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"Defend! Defend! Defend! I didn't tell you to cower with your heads in your arms!"
Kestrel stood tall on a chair, her voice slicing through the storm like a blade. The wind howled, but her words cut louder.
"Listen up! Whoever manages to hit me with a snowball.." she gestured to the towering snowman behind her, its blank eyes looming over the field, "—gets command of this big snowman."
"Like hell we could. We aren't even able to defend, let alone attack you..."
"It isn't our fault that our previous DADA teachers didn't teach us properly.." A murmur stirred—but Kestrel wasn't finished.
"Don't you want to be powerful?" Her voice turned colder, sharper. "Or should I ask—do you want to stay weak?"
Her eyes scanned the crowd like a judge weighing their worth.
"You've seen Professor Dumbledore. You've seen Mr. Greengrass. You've heard the stories of the Dark Lord's power. The ceiling is higher than you can imagine—Even after knowing that.... Do you think you can live the way you want in this world while being weak?"
"In this class, right now—" she motioned to the snowman again, "—this is power. And it belongs to the one strong enough to take it."
"Use it to command. To entertain. To conquer the opposing house—whatever you want. But know this..."
She drew her wand in a slow, deliberate motion. Her eyes narrowed, daring, burning.
"If you want it.. then you'll have to take it. Heh~"
That was all it took.
The field exploded into motion.
The Gryffindor and Slytherin students went wild at her words, snowballs flying in dense volleys toward Kestrel, carrying all the "respect" they had pent up through the lesson.
With a light tap of her wand, she sent an Obstacle Charm flickering into place, neatly deflecting every attack. Now and then, a stray snowball grazed her robes, only making her laugh louder as she sent back even trickier counterattacks with a flick of her wand.
At last, she swept her wand in a sharp arc, conjuring a massive Shield Charm before her that stopped the incoming barrage cold. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭⟡𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦⟡𝘯𝘦𝘵
"Ahaha~ Yes, just like that!" she cried, spinning nimbly to dodge three snowballs in a row. "Precision, timing, and—hey—don't hit your own teammates!"
No sooner had she spoken than a Slytherin boy, attempting a sneak attack, caught a "misfired" giant snowball full in the face from a Gryffindor. He toppled into a snowdrift, his legs sticking out and kicking helplessly.
The crowd burst into brief, stifled laughter before unleashing an even fiercer wave of snowballs.
In the chaos, a Slytherin student suddenly had a flash of inspiration.
Instead of throwing blindly, he ducked behind a stone statue warped by the giant snowman, holding his breath.
The moment Kestrel turned her back to dodge a volley and leapt down from the chair—
"Now!" someone shouted.
The young wizard suddenly leaned out, hurling a snowball with all his strength—a snowball that was unusually solid and secretly packed with a shard of ice.
It traced a near-perfect arc through the air and landed squarely on the back of Kestrel's head.
The snowball burst against her dark red hair, shards of ice and snow sliding down her collar, freezing her in place.
The students froze too, their attacks halting mid-flight. No one dared to breathe. All eyes turned to the Slytherin boy, filled with a complicated mix of you're doomed and you're a legend.
Even the two giant snowmen stopped their assault, their carrot noses seeming to tilt in puzzlement.
Kestrel turned slowly, wiping the wet snow from her face.
But instead of anger, her lips curled into a dazzling smile, her white teeth gleaming against the snow.
"Excellent!" Her voice rang out, brimming with open admiration. "Twenty points to Slytherin—for this precise, clever, and… uh… very wise attack! What's your name, boy?"
"Mike Warrington, Professor," the boy answered, his face flushed with excitement.
"Alright, Mike…" Kestrel lifted her wand, pointing at the massive snowman that had just been chasing the Gryffindors to the brink of tears. "Now it's yours! Go on, give your Gryffindor 'friends' a proper Slytherin welcome!"
Before Mike could even react, he felt a sudden, icy force press into his mind. Clumsily raising his wand, he imitated Kestrel and pointed it toward the snowman on the Gryffindor side.
"Uh… Snowman… attack?"
The giant snowman rumbled as it turned, its hollow coal eyes "locking" onto the Gryffindor students.
Under Mike's shaky command, it stomped forward, each snowy step clumsy yet heavy, forcing the shrieking Gryffindors to scatter in panic.
"N-No, Mike!" wailed a Gryffindor who had pelted him earlier, just before the snowman rolled a huge ball of snow and pressed it down, burying him up to the chest. His head stuck out helplessly, still yelling, until another massive snowball smacked him square in the face.
Kestrel stood with her hands on her hips, barking out commands:
"See? Controlling power is much harder than just getting it! Mike, where's your Shield Charm?"
"Gryffindors—use Impedimenta! Trip it up! Don't just stand there shouting!"
"Slytherins, don't just stand around grinning! Help your ally—defend, cooperate! Otherwise, you'll be the next ones turned into ice statues!"
The students, half-panicked and half-laughing, scrambled to follow her orders.
The Gryffindors quickly cast Scourgify on their half-buried classmate, then sent Impedimenta spells at the snowman, while at the same time hurling enchanted snowballs directly at Mike, hoping to break his focus.
Mike, flustered and red-faced, struggled to command the snowman to keep chasing while also ducking and shielding himself from the retaliatory barrage.
For the first time, Mike truly understood how hard it was to control magic while juggling the chaos of a battlefield.
When the shrill end-of-class bell finally rang, the training ground was a wreck.
The two giant snowmen were riddled with holes from spells, tottering like they might collapse at any second.
The students looked like half-drowned cats dragged from a snowbank—some with swollen noses from snowball impacts, others with shards of ice clinging to their hair and eyebrows. Yet, without exception, their eyes gleamed with a strange fire—exhausted, but exhilarated.
Kestrel hopped onto a chair, clapping her hands, her voice still brimming with energy.
"Alright, rookies, well done…"
She surveyed the bedraggled crowd with a bright smile, then flicked her wand.
"But let me warn you—if anyone still can't manage these basic defensive spells by next class…" Her lips curved into a mischievous grin. "Hmph, hmph!"
With a flourish, she waved her arm and declared: "Class dismissed!"
Immediately, chatter and groans broke out across the snowy field. Students hauled each other to their feet, brushing snow off one another while bickering about whose spell had been the most timely, or whose backside hurt the most from a snowman's kick.
"When's the next Defense Against the Dark Arts class?"
"I blocked three tracking snowballs!"
The students chattered excitedly. Though the lesson had been chaotic, everyone felt that the dry defensive spells from textbooks had never imprinted themselves so deeply in their minds as they had today.
The Hospital Wing was soon overflowing with students who had overexerted themselves—twisted ankles, frostbitten fingers, nosebleeds from snowball impacts, and more than a few who had been flattened or face-planted by the snowmen.
Madam Pomfrey would be working late into the night.
But the students were thrilled.
Many discovered they could already cast spells while on the move, and Angelina from Gryffindor even managed to begin mastering silent casting of the Impedimenta.
From a high window in the Castle, Sagres stood watching the scene below, expression unreadable.
The students were battered and disheveled, yet their excitement shone bright. And in the midst of it all stood Kestrel, balanced on a chair, her hair a snowy mess, grinning like she had pulled off a prank to perfection.
A quiet sigh escaped Sagres, but the faintest curve touched the corners of his mouth.
Unreliable as she was, Kestrel's playful method of teaching had proven unexpectedly effective.
Of course, only she could get away with such antics. If it were Snape… Sagres's mind flashed with the Potions Master's dark, sour face, and he swiftly dismissed the thought.
That afternoon, attendance at Sagres's theory lecture hit a new high.
Word of Professor Lumina's "unique" teaching style had spread quickly, and the younger students, desperate to master the Shield Charm and the Impediment Jinx, began cramming knowledge with renewed fervor—not so much to excel, but simply to avoid being pummeled quite so badly in the next Defense Against the Dark Arts class.