Morning sunlight poured through the Great Hall's stained glass like melted honey, slow and golden.
The beams cut across the floating candles and the four long House tables, but they couldn't quite burn off the faint, barely-there tension hanging in the air.
Douglas leafed through the Daily Prophet at a leisurely pace, fingertips skimming over Ministry personnel shuffles and articles that didn't deserve the ink they were printed on. His gaze drifted down the page and finally settled on a small corner of the classifieds.
The notice was wedged between a second-hand broomstick sale and a job listing. Easy to miss. Completely unremarkable.
[Lost Item Notice]
The undersigned has carelessly misplaced a pure silver cufflink in the vicinity of the Quidditch World Cup stadium. The design is exquisite , a small rodent (beaver form, rendered with lifelike detail). The family crest abbreviation M is engraved on the reverse.
This cufflink is an old family heirloom. Not of great monetary value, but of considerable sentimental significance.
Any kind-hearted person who finds it is asked to deliver it to the Malfoy Manor butler. A reward will be offered.
, Respectfully, Lucius Malfoy
Not a flicker crossed Douglas's face. He looked exactly like a man reading the most boring lost-and-found notice in the history of wizarding print.
But his fingers, pinching the edge of the paper, tapped three deliberate times on the little beaver illustration.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
Clear. Unhurried. Loaded with meaning.
Then ,
"THUMP! Clack — THUMP! Clack —"
Heavy, irregular footsteps boomed from the entrance of the Great Hall, closing in fast.
The sound was somewhere between a troll hammering a wooden door and some old, broken machine grinding itself to death. The hall's noise , cutlery, chatter, laughter , died instantly. Swallowed whole.
Every student turned their head.
Alastor Moody limped through the doors.
His electric-blue Magical Eye moved like a panicked beetle trapped in its socket, spinning a frantic 360, sweeping over every student, every candle, every inch of ceiling. Hunting for Dark wizards lurking in the play of light and shadow. Or a Boggart wearing the face of a butter dish.
He came to a stop before the staff table. His normal eye held the deep, ground-in exhaustion of a man who'd survived things that would break anyone else. His Magical Eye had no such problems. It kept going.
"All students not sitting exams!"
His voice scraped out like rusty chain dragged across flagstone.
"Assemble at the Quidditch pitch after breakfast!"
"I'm giving you a real lesson. A practical one!"
---
The morning Quidditch pitch was dead calm. Not a breath of wind.
No colorful House banners, no cushioned seating like the last time Sirius Black had given a lecture here. Just a wide stretch of grass bleached pale by the sun, and in the center of it all, the massive, weathered octagonal dueling platform standing in silence , like some ancient creature that had simply decided to stop moving and wait.
Students filed in gradually, clustering in small groups, wearing the particular expression of people who are curious, a little excited, and quietly unsure all at once.
Harry and Hermione stood together, speaking in low voices. They'd heard from Ron what Moody was like during the exam sessions these past few days. They had an idea of what was coming.
Nearby, Draco Malfoy stood with Crabbe and Goyle, the three of them looking for all the world like old friends reunited. But between them and the broader Slytherin crowd, there was something like an invisible glass wall.
Since Crabbe and Goyle's fathers had been taken at the World Cup , caught in Death Eater robes, in the middle of the chaos , the two of them had become something Slytherin didn't know what to do with. Not because their fathers were Death Eaters. That, the House could live with. The problem was that their fathers were among the very few who'd actually been caught, more than a decade after the war.
Their former admirers kept their distance now. A complicated look from across the pitch, then a quick turn of the head, suddenly very interested in a conversation happening somewhere else entirely.
CLACK... CLACK...
The heavy, rhythmic sound announced him before he appeared.
Moody limped into the pitch, his Magical Eye spinning faster here than it had in the hall , raking over every face, every patch of ground, dragging the invisible into the light.
Up in a quiet corner of the stands, Douglas and Dumbledore had slipped in without fanfare.
Douglas snapped his fingers. Two cups of sweet milk tea appeared on the armrests in front of them, steam curling upward, the kind that refilled itself whenever it ran low.
"Alastor's teaching style," Dumbledore said, lifting his cup and watching Moody below, "is always so... distinctive."
"Pragmatism has its own kind of charm." Douglas took a sip. Sweet warmth slid down his throat. "Especially in the shadow of war."
Down on the pitch, Moody planted himself in front of the octagonal platform. His wooden leg and cane hit the ground together with a single dull, heavy thud.
Then he roared.
"Listen up, you lot , practical combat is not a classroom exercise! One wrong step and you're dead! Three rules. Remember them!"
His voice carried across the empty pitch with the weight of someone who meant every word.
"First , never turn your back to a door! Whatever's in the dark loves to come from behind. Unless your eyes work like my fake one, you'll never see the shadow until it's already on you!"
"Second , wand in hand, always! Even bending down to pick up a feather, keep it pointed at anything suspicious! Drill your Disarming Charm until it's faster than breathing , because if it isn't, the next second your wand will be buried in the dirt of the Forbidden Forest!"
"Third — never trust the word 'safe'!"
His voice cracked upward, raw with something that sounded like blood and smoke and lived experience.
"Marks can appear out of nowhere. Allies can be vipers wearing a friendly face. The moment you think everything's fine , that is when you are in the most danger!"
On the word allies, his normal eye flicked up. Fast. Almost imperceptible. Straight toward the stands where Douglas and Dumbledore sat.
That look lasted less than a second. It said everything.
He held the pause, then roared on.
"Especially on a full moon night , if you hear a wolf howling, run toward the light and don't look back!"
As he said it, his Magical Eye swept the crowd. Quick, purposeful. Searching for something specific.
It didn't find it. A brief pause. Then it moved on.
Lupin hadn't come.
"That's all!"
Moody's summary was blunt as a fist.
"Anyone who can't remember , feel free to go ask the Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest. They'll be delighted to give you your final lesson."
The lecture was over.
The corner of Moody's mouth pulled into a grin. It was not a warm grin. There was nothing warm about it at all.
Both eyes , the natural one and the spinning blue one , turned and found Harry in the crowd.
"Theory is soft-headed rubbish! Truth lives at the tip of a wand and nowhere else!"
Every head in the crowd followed Moody's gaze. They all landed on the same person.
"Potter!"
Nobody was surprised.
"Get up here. Let me see what our great savior is actually made of."
Being called out in front of everyone is a test. It is also a very particular kind of pressure.
Harry breathed in slow and deep. He tightened his grip on his holly wand and walked forward.
After everything Douglas had put him through , sessions that blurred into each other, repetition until the body moved before the mind caught up , the uncertainty that used to live in his eyes was gone. What had replaced it was something quieter. Harder. A steadiness that didn't quite belong on a fourteen-year-old's face.
Moody gave a single nod. He seemed to approve of the fact that Harry hadn't flinched.
Then his Magical Eye swung wide.
It locked on like a searchlight finding its mark , snapping onto Crabbe and Goyle, isolated on the far side of the crowd.
Moody's grin shifted. It got worse.
"And you two! Death Eater brats!"
His voice went sharp as something dipped in venom.
"Get up here. Both of you."
"You think hiding in a corner means trouble won't come looking for you on its own?"
➤ Next: Defense Against the Dark Arts Class Pays Off! Harry's Instinctive Counteratta...
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