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HP415- Professor "No First Name" Tonks!
🕑 Added 2025-04-23 22:43:47 +0000 UTCLeaving Charms, Harry and his lot didn’t waste time dawdling in the halls. They cut straight through the main corridor toward the Defense classroom. A few Hufflepuffs shuffled past, whispering about Flitwick’s warning on OWLs like it was some divine prophecy.
Tonks was already at the door when they arrived, practically bouncing in place. Her hair was a bright teal now, standing up in tufts like she’d been hit with a mild static jinx. She had one foot on the wall, arms crossed, and a grin that looked like it had no business being that wide this early in the year.
“Wotcher,” she said as they filed in, clearly trying not to explode from excitement.
Chairs scraped, bags hit floors, and wands clinked as everyone settled into the space.
“I give her five minutes before she casts something ridiculous,” Tracey said, dropping into the seat beside Harry.
“I’m betting on three,” Daphne replied, stretching out her legs under the desk.
Tonks bounced to the front, spinning once for no reason before turning to face the class. “Right then! Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts, version whatever this is now—we’re not counting anymore.”
She waved her wand, and the board behind her scribbled out her name in overly large, glowing letters: PROFESSOR TONKS. The last S had a lightning bolt through it.
A few students snorted.
“Before we start,” Tonks went on, still grinning, “yes, I’m related to Malfoy. No, I don’t talk to him at family parties. Yes, I was an Auror. Yes, I’ve seen dark stuff. No, I won’t be telling you bedtime stories about it. And no, I don't have a first name.”
Across the room, Theo muttered, “Already better than last year.”
Tonks clapped her hands. “This year, we’re not messing around. You’ll learn to hex, shield, and counter faster than the Ministry thinks is appropriate. And no, I’m not asking permission.”
Blaise raised a hand, not looking up from his desk. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Depends if you’re good,” Tonks shot back.
Draco, sitting near the edge, gave her a long look. “You’re going to blow something up.”
“Probably,” she said brightly.
“Fantastic,” he muttered.
Tonks started pacing. “Here’s the deal. We train. We duel. We drill until you can cast in your sleep. You mess up, we fix it. If you’re lazy, you’ll get smoked in the first partner rotation.”
A few Gryffindors straightened up like they were trying not to look lazy. One of them elbowed another. A third fumbled with her wand.
Tonks spotted them. “Relax. I only duel students after lunch. I’m not cruel.”
Pansy raised her hand. “Do we get extra credit if we beat you?”
“You get a handshake and bragging rights,” Tonks said. “But don’t hold your breath.”
Lavender leaned across the aisle. “You’re going to try, aren’t you?”
“Obviously,” Pansy replied.
Tonks flicked her wand again, and a stack of booklets soared from a nearby shelf, landing with thuds on each desk.
“No textbook this year,” she said. “You get these instead. Daily practice logs. I don’t want essays. I want results. You keep track of what you cast, how it went, and what you fixed. You lie, I’ll know.”
Tonks turned toward Harry, still grinning like she’d won something. “Now, my teacher, Alastor Moody—mad as he is—told me Mr. Potter does a splendid job running the Duelling Club. And I’m not daft enough to stop anyone from learning where it works. So as far as I’m concerned, you use your time however you like, Potter—just show results.”
Harry nodded once. “Fair enough.”
She pointed at him with her wand, casually. “Good. You’ve got reputation enough already. Just don’t make me look bad.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry said, voice dry.
“Liar,” Draco muttered from the side.
Tonks caught that and shot him a grin. “Glad you’re lively, Cousin. I’ll make you a demonstration partner.”
Draco didn’t even blink. “As long as you’re ready to hit the floor.”
The class laughed, a few students banging their desks in agreement. Tonks chuckled, clearly not bothered.
“Right, enough faffing about.” She twirled her wand, and the glowing letters on the board vanished. “Wands out. Basic drills first. Then we’ll see who’s actually awake.”
They started with shield drills. Nothing flashy—just the kind of repetition that made spells stick. Protego, countercurse, Protego again. Tonks didn’t walk so much as bounce from pair to pair, occasionally blasting a shield herself just to test someone’s footing.
Tracey caught a Stinging Hex that sent her skidding a step, shot Tonks a glare, and muttered, “You said drills, not live fire.”
“I lied,” Tonks called back. “Get over it.”
Harry rotated through Blaise, Hermione, then Pansy, making quick work of each drill set. No one needed to ask if he’d kept up practice over the summer—his casting was tight, spells fast and clean. By the time they circled into formation changes, most of the class was sweating.
Tonks gave Harry a short nod during one of the pauses. “I’ll want your notes on your training program. Especially the wand repetition patterns. Bet they’re better than the Ministry’s.”
“I’ll send a copy,” Harry said.
“Excellent.” She clapped once. “Now pair up with someone new. No friends.”
Groans followed immediately. She ignored them and started moving the desks back with a wave of her wand.
Harry ended up opposite Seamus Finnigan, who looked vaguely like he’d rather be facing a dragon. To his credit, Seamus kept his wand steady even when Harry’s spell snapped his shield like glass. Tonks didn’t comment, just motioned them to reset and go again.
They cycled through more drills, speed work this time. Reflex spells, ducking, redirection. Tonks stopped them midway, adjusted someone’s stance, corrected another’s elbow. When Neville accidentally sent a shield backwards into Lavender, Tonks just barked out, “Nice angle, wrong direction,” and moved on.
At the end of class, she flicked her wand and all the desks returned to place in a neat row.
Tonks glanced at the clock, then waved them off. “That’s it. You’re done. Get out before I remember we haven’t done counterjinx sequences yet.”
As the class packed up, Tonks caught Harry by the door. “Also, Potter—if you ever feel like sparring with someone who doesn’t hold back, you know where to find me.”
Harry gave a slight grin. “Careful. I don’t either.”
Tonks laughed. “That’s why it’ll be fun.”
He walked out with the rest, Tracey rolled her shoulder with a wince.
“She’s going to be a menace.”
“More useful than most,” Harry said.
“True. But my shoulder disagrees.”
They met up with the others near the stairwell, just ahead of Transfiguration. Fred and George had somehow acquired licorice bats and were feeding them to the gargoyles near the armor gallery. One of them bit George.
“Still counts,” he said, holding his finger.
Tracey snatched the licorice bag from him. “You’re banned from snacks until after class.”
“No fun,” Fred muttered.
The days blurred into something that resembled a schedule, but tighter. Every morning started with Harry’s voice ringing out through the cards—no one liked it, but no one dared sleep through it anymore. They were up before the sun, dragging themselves to the lake for the same brutal workouts that made Hogwarts feel more like a training camp.
By the time breakfast hit, most of them were halfway through their day. Toast and tea were consumed with muscle aches and muttering. Then came classes—Charms, Transfiguration, Runes, Potions—and then whatever they could squeeze into their breaks. If they had a free period, they used the Room of Requirement. Training in short bursts. Clean spell work, shield drills, double wand practice if they were feeling cocky.
Lunch was the only time things slowed down. Sort of. Everyone shoved food in quickly and complained in unison, like that was a House requirement now.
Evenings picked up again. Dinner, then Duelling Club. Most nights, Harry didn’t duel. He moved around, watching students, correcting wand angles, tossing feedback at friends mid-match. Daphne handled pairings. Hermione took notes. Blaise watched footwork like a scout. Everyone had a role. The younger years were slowly improving. Not brilliant yet, but better than last year’s crowd. Less screaming. Fewer injuries.
Tonks showed up nearly every night. First time she did, she got into a match with Harry that had half the castle trying to peek through the door.
Word got around fast. Even staff started turning up.
Flitwick sat near the front row like it was a Quidditch match. Hagrid took up a full corner, clapping every time someone landed a hit. Even Trelawney floated in with her shawls and muttered predictions about “violent auras” and “reckless destinies,” though nobody really listened to her.
Harry stood at one end of the mat, Tonks at the other, both of them grinning. No countdown. No dramatic speeches. Just a sharp nod and wands drawn.
Tonks opened with a feint—flicked right, shot left. Harry parried, sidestepped, and threw a Disarming Charm too fast for most to follow. She ducked, rolled under it, and fired a volley that scattered over his shield like rain on glass.
Students held their breath. Even the dummies watching from the back wall leaned slightly forward.
They moved fast. No dragging it out, no showboating. Just clean, tight spellwork. Tonks clipped his sleeve with a knockback charm. Harry answered with a chain bind she barely dodged.
When it ended, neither of them was winded, but Tonks called it with a two-finger salute.
“Draw,” she said. “Unless you want to test who’s better at hospital bed rest.”
“I like my limbs attached,” Harry said, lowering his wand.
Flitwick stood and gave a few claps. “Excellent form. Mr. Potter, Professor Tonks—impressive restraint for two people clearly holding back.”
“Only a little,” Tonks said with a wink.
Chatter exploded the second they lowered their wands. Someone shouted something about asking for a rematch next week. Fred claimed Tonks cheated by being “too bendy.” George started sketching a scoreboard. It turned into part of the club routine—when Tonks was in, there’d be at least one duel worth watching.
By the end of the week, everything ran smoothly. Classes during the day. Room of Requirement sessions in between. Duelling Club after dinner. Then everyone collapsed into bed, half-dreading the next morning but never skipping it.
