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Chapter 245: Muggle Weapons Class
Professor Abigail blinked, confused. “What… contract?”
“I know!” Hermione raised her hand eagerly. “Back in 1876, the Hogwarts caretaker, Mr. Lankros Carpe, tried using modern weapons to drive Peeves out of the castle. The result? Peeves caused chaos throughout the school for three whole days—he even fired a gun at a window, nearly injuring students and staff!”
“Exactly! Exactly!” Peeves floated midair, nodding proudly. “That fool Carpe got kicked out, and I’m still here!”
“The headmistress, Madam Mor, made a contract with Peeves,” Hermione added, playing the perfect straight man. “She granted him certain privileges to cause mischief—on the condition that he put down his weapons and restored order.”
“That’s right!” Peeves grinned. “Get it? These things are useless against me! But if you want to try another round, I’m more than happy to oblige.”
He perched on the barrel of a cannon, glaring at the new professor with unmistakable challenge, as if daring her to start a fight.
“Ah… I see,” Abigail said, eyeing Peeves with mild surprise.
Until today, Peeves had maintained a respectful attitude toward professors—just a little more energetic than other ghosts. That’s why Abigail hadn’t yet sensed his destructive nature.
But now, judging by his tone and the expressions on the students’ faces, she could easily guess what kind of ghost he really was.
She didn’t understand why Dumbledore—a wizard of such immense power—would allow such a troublemaker to remain at Hogwarts.
But since the headmaster had said nothing, Abigail certainly couldn’t intervene.
“You’ve misunderstood, Peeves,” she said flatly. “I’m not using these weapons to fight you. I’m using them to teach my students.”
Without another glance at the ghost, she turned to the students before her.
“Since you’re here, help me inform your respective Houses. Tomorrow at four in the afternoon, we’ll have a Muggle Weapons Class on the southern Lawn.”
A hand rose from the crowd.
“Lisha?” Professor Abigail called.
“Yes, Professor?” Lisha answered, hesitant.
“Professor… this is usually a third-year Muggle Studies lesson. We haven’t even reached third year yet…”
“You’re mistaken,” Abigail said firmly. “Do you really think we can stay safe just by guarding against Dark Wizards and dangerous beasts?”
“No,” she continued, her voice sharp. “You’re completely wrong. History is full of wizards who were captured—or even killed—by the very Muggles they looked down upon.”
“Of course, wizards have killed far more Muggles without remorse. Take your country’s Voldemort, for example—”
Most of the students paled instantly, some even looking like they wanted to plug their ears.
“The Dark Lord… Professor, we usually don’t say that name directly…” Anthony stammered, summoning courage.
“Foolishness!” Abigail snapped without hesitation. “Hasn’t Dumbledore taught you? Fear of a name only strengthens the fear of the thing itself! And Voldemort is dead—yet you can’t even speak his name?”
The young wizards exchanged glances. Most lowered their heads.
They weren’t willing to admit they were afraid—but neither could they bring themselves to say the name as Professor Abigail demanded.
Even though these young wizards had never known Voldemort in life, his shadow still loomed over them. To many, he remained the ultimate symbol of terror.
Abigail sighed, disappointed—but then noticed a few students still held their heads high, eyes unflinching, their gazes steady.
Wade and Harry among them.
Others clearly feared, yet their expressions held something else—a strange mix of fear and defiance.
Abigail smiled faintly. She didn’t force anyone to do what they weren’t ready for.
“Some Muggle weapons require the headmaster to temporarily disable parts of the school’s protective wards. Doing so too often or for too long could threaten the safety of the entire castle. Therefore, the first-years from all four Houses will be combined into one class.”
“Second-years will meet on Friday afternoons at five o’clock by the Forbidden Forest Lawn—be early.”
……
It wasn’t long before Friday arrived.
Wade and his friends had no classes that afternoon. After lunch, they headed straight to the Umbrella Room to finish their weekend assignments. Once time was near, they set off for the Lawn together.
They were the first year group ever to take this class. Others from higher years had rushed over out of curiosity, arriving even earlier than the students in the class, forming a wide circle around the Lawn.
They weren’t strangers—students stood in small clusters, eyeing the weapons with fascination. Some were ancient, others brand new. All were protected by spells, so no one could approach too closely. Instead, they stood at the edge, discussing how the weapons worked and their potential power.
“I know that one!” a Gryffindor boy declared confidently. “That’s a landmine! My dad once accidentally stepped on one while traveling. The Muggles around him thought he’d be blown to bits—they screamed and ran. But my dad just cast a Shield Charm, deflected the blast, and when he got back, the Muggles were already preparing his funeral!”
The students burst into laughter—laughter laced with mockery toward the clumsy Muggles and a deep sense of Wizard superiority.
Suddenly, someone felt a tap on their shoulder.
“Excuse me, could you move?”
“Hey, find somewhere else!”
The student shrugged impatiently, trying to shake off the hand. But instead of letting go, the grip tightened.
“I said… please… make… room.”
The voice was cold, deliberate, and unnervingly familiar.
The student turned.
Professor Abigail stood behind them, face dark and expressionless—so much so that, for an instant, the student thought they’d seen Professor Snape.
“P-Professor!” they stammered.
A wave of movement followed. Students scrambled aside, clearing a path like the Red Sea before Moses.
Abigail walked through, flanked by a line of second-years who’d arrived just in time—only to be blocked at the edge.
The group reached the center, where their eyes lingered on the sleek, powerful modern weapons, their design both elegant and intimidating.
But Abigail didn’t go straight to them.
Instead, she picked up a crude stone axe—simple, unadorned, primitive.
“Anyone know what this is?” she asked.
“Pfft!” A snicker came from somewhere in the crowd—someone clearly thought the question was ridiculous.
(End of Chapter)
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