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Time flowed slowly through the ancient walls of Hogwarts, like the still surface of the Black Lake—calm on the outside, yet teeming with life and countless hidden secrets beneath.
Another cheerful weekend slipped away unnoticed, and a fresh week began at the castle.
After two weeks of adjustment, Viktor had finally settled into the rhythm of professorship.
He had transformed his passion for magical creatures and wilderness survival into lessons that students actually looked forward to—talked about in excited whispers long after the bell rang.
For the third- and fourth-years, his classes felt less like lessons and more like carefully orchestrated adventures.
They rarely stayed inside the classroom for long.
Most sessions took place inside Viktor's suitcase, or—when permission was granted—in the relatively safe outer fringes of the Forbidden Forest.
The curriculum revolved around careful observation and gentle first contacts with creatures classified as XX or XXX danger level.
They learned how to safely harvest fluff from a dozing Puffskein without waking it.
How to spot and avoid Acromantula disguised as fallen leaves.
What calming hand gestures and soft incantations to use when an angry Kneazle's tail bristles straight up.
Throughout every practical, Viktor wove in small, immediately useful tricks:
A modified Lumos variant that produced a gentle, low glow—perfect for observing nocturnal creatures without startling them.
A simple Transfiguration to turn a handkerchief into temporary protective gloves.
Basic concealment charms that let them watch animal behaviour in its natural state.
The atmosphere was usually relaxed and joyful.
But there were moments that made the younger students' hearts skip.
Like the day near the end of class when Viktor smiled brightly and announced:
"Right, everyone—next lesson we'll have our first 'Monthly Learning Progress Review'."
He insisted on the formal title.
Every student privately called it "Despair Monthlies."
The assessments weren't just written theory.
They included oral explanations of recently encountered creatures' behaviour patterns and emergency response protocols.
Sometimes even practical demonstrations: approaching a model of a magically sedated (but still terrifying-looking) beast using the correct sequence of steps.
The sheer variety of questions—things they'd never heard of, things they had no idea where Viktor even learned them—kept the students from ever fully relaxing.
Yet compared to other subjects, Magical Creature Protection remained one of their favourites.
Learning while "playing" outdoors, getting to touch fluffy or slimy creatures—it was hard to compete with that.
For the fifth-years, though, life looked very different.
O.W.L. pressure hung over the castle like a low, grey cloud front that refused to move on.
Viktor's "monthly review system" and the giant glowing O.W.L. countdown calendar had been enthusiastically endorsed by McGonagall and rolled out across all core subjects.
The pressure had become tangible, measurable, inescapable.
Every class ran dense revision cycles, frequent quizzes, public rankings.
Common rooms smelled permanently of parchment, Pepperup Potion, and barely contained anxiety.
And yet—in Viktor's own lessons—pain and pleasure twisted together in strange harmony.
Course content had deepened dramatically. Theory became rigorous.
Students now had to memorise complex creature classifications, global distributions, specialised behaviours, and the full web of related Ministry legislation.
Viktor's monthly questions were notoriously tricky—often requiring cross-species comparison or real-world case analysis.
But the rewards were correspondingly irresistible.
Consistent improvement on mini-quizzes or monthlies earned "special practical privileges":
Access to the suitcase for high-year-level "adventure simulations."
Or simply free time inside the pocket world to run wild.
The suitcase's existence was no longer a secret.
Its vivid landscapes and carefully measured dangers had become the single strongest motivator keeping exhausted fifth-years grinding through late-night revision.
What they didn't know was that every single suitcase pass was the result of Viktor's quiet, meticulous observation.
He noticed everything.
Who came to class with glassy eyes after pulling all-nighters.
Who slumped after a bad Potions mark.
Who was quietly fraying under the weight of endless homework.
For students showing signs of burnout or crumbling confidence, Viktor would subtly adjust the next quiz—easing marking thresholds slightly, or weighting questions toward their stronger areas.
Just enough to push them over the "improvement" line—so they could earn suitcase time, relax, and rebuild.
For those getting too complacent or arrogant, the difficulty would creep up.
A perfectly timed挫败 (setback) served as gentle (but firm) motivation.
These invisible adjustments were seamless—never obvious—yet they kept the fifth-years in a fragile but functional mental balance.
Sixth-year lessons had shifted toward higher synthesis and real-world utility.
Content now regularly went beyond textbooks and exam syllabi.
They explored basic alchemical principles for crafting simple alert devices or processing rare creature materials.
They learned more practical charms—including gesture-casting techniques Viktor had picked up from wizarding communities around the world.
Targeted expulsion or binding spells for specific creature types.
Wilderness survival magic:
Using natural markers and wandless charms to navigate without a wand.
Finding and purifying water sources.
Building temporary magical shelters.
Identifying common magical flora and their uses.
But the core remained magical creatures.
They began serious study of safe interaction with more powerful, exotic beings.
Calming rampaging creatures with species-specific musical frequencies.
Analysing attack pattern differences between dragon breeds and age groups.
Practising safe wound treatment on a Hippogriff mannequin.
Viktor loved setting up complex multi-stage simulations—group challenges that tested teamwork, quick thinking, and crisis decision-making under pressure.
For the seventh-years—on the very cusp of the real wizarding world—his classroom became a window opening onto vast horizons.
Drawing on his own travels, he brought the world to them.
Miniature poison-horns from Australia.
Qilin from the Far East.
Iron-eating beasts.
Arctic cave stingrays beneath northern ice fields…
He wove in stories of local wizarding customs, hidden magical enclaves, and the unspoken rules of the wizard-Muggle borderlands.
He pushed them to hammer their existing spells and techniques to instinctive mastery—especially the ones most likely to save lives in the field, in research, or in sudden emergencies.
Above all, he stressed legacy.
"You are witches and wizards trained by Hogwarts," he often told the seventh-years.
"Your experiences—successes and failures alike—are treasures to the younger students. Talk to them. Share what you've learned during O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. preparation. Show them there's a world of exploration beyond the classroom."
Under his encouragement, a few seventh-years began appearing as guest assistants or speakers in lower-year classes.
They shared funny (or terrifying) stories of encounters with particular creatures, demonstrated useful tricks.
The younger students soaked it up.
The older ones—forced to explain and revisit—deepened their own understanding and felt the quiet weight of responsibility that came with being seniors.