The Sorting. The Fear. The Extraction.
The Great Hall buzzed with energy — floating candles above, enchanted ceiling flickering with storm clouds rolling in, as if the castle itself felt the weight of what walked among them now.
Daniel leaned against the cold stone pillar near the far end of the Hall, dressed not in the traditional wizard robes, but in that sleek black suit and the long, heavy trench coat — shadows coiling at his heels like leashed predators.
His eyes, cold as the grave, swept over the new students as the Sorting Hat made its declarations.
"Gryffindor!"
"Ravenclaw!"
"Another Weasley…"
The crowd cheered, unaware of the storm crawling behind the veil of their reality. Only a few — those ancient enough, those who brushed close to death — noticed the subtle shift in the air.
And then, the eyes fell on him.
Professor Quirinus Quirrell, trembling in his turban, paling as his eyes locked onto Daniel's. The color drained from his face like a man watching his executioner step onto the stage.
The whispers of students faded as Quirrell's hands shook.
Daniel smiled — but it was a cold, graveyard smile.
"Run, coward," Daniel's voice whispered directly into Quirrell's mind, bypassing the hall's noise entirely. "But you know it's useless."
Quirrell nearly stumbled as he turned, robes billowing, making a poor attempt to excuse himself from the Head Table.
Daniel pushed off the wall, walking — no, gliding — across the floor with that predatory grace. The students parted instinctively, though they didn't know why. A ripple of silence followed in his wake.
He caught Quirrell at the exit, a hand on his shoulder — the touch light, yet impossibly heavy. Death itself pressing down.
Quirrell flinched, eyes wild, breath shallow.
Daniel leaned in, voice low, brutal, cutting through the layers of the man's fear.
"I won't call you 'Lord Voldemort.'" His words laced with mockery, but elegant, precise. "Lords… were beings like Odin. Their deaths carried weight. I fetched Odin's soul myself — honored him. You?" His eyes sharpened, predatory amusement curling at the edges. "Your soul's been on my list for a long time, Quirinus. And it won't go to hell — that'd be mercy. I'll erase it myself."
Quirrell tried to pull back, but it was useless. Shadows wrapped around him like smoke, like chains.
Daniel's hand hovered near Quirrell's chest — fingers cutting through the layers of flesh, fabric, and magic — plunging into the unseen.
A gasp escaped Quirrell's lips, eyes bulging as Daniel gripped something spectral, writhing beneath his ribs.
From within — coiled like a parasite — the fragmented soul of Voldemort twisted, a distorted whisper echoing as it felt Daniel's touch.
Daniel exhaled softly, a sound colder than winter. "You thought you could hide pieces of yourself, snake. But I see all fractures."
With a vicious pull, he yanked the cursed fragment free — black, formless, yet pulsing with malicious energy.
Quirrell collapsed, the parasite severed, trembling like a broken shell.
Voldemort's voice — thin, weak — hissed in protest within the fragment.
"Not near Harry," Daniel snarled, shadows deepening, coiling around the soul-piece like vipers. "None of your ambitions. None of your luxuries. If I find even a whisper of your influence near the Weasleys or that boy — your end won't be fragmented… it'll be final."
With a closing fist, the fragment cracked, shattering into ethereal dust — not sent to the beyond, but destroyed, unmade, forgotten by even the deepest shadows.
Quirrell slumped to the ground, sweat dripping, his connection to the Dark Lord severed entirely.
Daniel straightened, dusting his coat sleeves.
"Your resignation's accepted," he said casually, as if dismissing a house elf. "You leave. I replace you."
And so it was.
The New Professor of the Dark Arts
The next day, the announcement echoed through Hogwarts.
"Due to unforeseen circumstances, Professor Quirrell has stepped down. Stepping in is Professor Daniel…"
The name wasn't needed. His presence was felt — his reputation, ancient and unspoken.
In the classroom, students shifted uncomfortably as Daniel entered — tall, sharp, with that subtle, predatory elegance, trench coat flowing behind him like a living shadow.
The blackboard behind him remained untouched — the lesson would not be written. It would be etched in them, in their bones.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," he began, voice calm but heavy like a closing tomb. "You've been taught to fear it. To avoid it. To hope light alone keeps shadows at bay."
He circled the room like a wolf among sheep, gaze dissecting every student.
"But shadows don't ask for permission. Darkness doesn't care for your innocence. And death —" his eyes lingered briefly on Harry, hidden among his peers, "— death arrives, regardless of your preparedness."
He snapped his fingers — the candles dimmed, the room plunged into a cold so biting it touched their bones.
Whispers of unseen creatures danced at the edges — ceifadores, watching, waiting, always near.
"You will learn what the Ministry censors," Daniel declared. "You will learn how to truly defend — not with sanitized spells, but with the raw, brutal truths they're too afraid to teach."
The students stared — some wide-eyed, some trembling — but all listening.
Daniel smiled faintly — a death's promise, elegant, inevitable.
The era of pretenders was over.
The real lessons had begun.