The students erupted. Every head turned, following Moody's gaze toward the stands.
Douglas and Albus Dumbledore had appeared there at some point, unnoticed until now.
Moody leveled his weathered wand directly at Douglas. The tip caught the sunlight and threw back something cold.
"I heard your performance in Italy was quite something."
Moody's voice had a deliberate rasp, a challenge wrapped in gravel.
"Taming werewolves. Capturing a holy relic..."
The crowd couldn't hold it in. Gasps broke out across the pitch. The Ministry had buried that story, buried it deep, and not a single student had heard a word of it until this moment.
"Stop hiding behind your pastries and these milk-fed students!"
Moody's roar hit the Quidditch pitch like a physical force.
"Get down here!"
"Let these children see what a real duel looks like!"
"Or are you just a nanny, after all?"
The challenge rang out over the stands, sharp as a hawk's cry.
Before the echo faded, a gentle but absolute force swept Harry off the platform and floated Crabbe and Goyle up from where they were still sprawled on the ground. All three were set down at the edge with a feather-light touch. They landed on their toes, hearts still hammering, eyes moving to the stands, toward the eye of the storm.
Douglas was still in his chair.
A faint, unreadable smile sat on his face. As if Moody's earth-shaking roar had been nothing more than a dull wind drifting in from somewhere far away.
He lifted the bone china teacup with unhurried ease and drank the last of his warm milk tea. The crisp clink of cup meeting saucer rang out impossibly clear in the silence that had swallowed the entire pitch.
He set the cup down on the small table beside him, then turned to Albus Dumbledore.
"It seems today's tea break is ending early."
Dumbledore's bright blue eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. "Sometimes," he replied, smiling, "a little exercise aids digestion."
Douglas stood.
No flashy magic. No dramatic leap into empty air. He simply stood and walked — like an ordinary spectator who had watched the match and decided it was time to go , descending the stands step by step from the highest tier.
The stone steps were ancient and hard.
Each time his leather sole met the stone, the sound carried through the silence.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The atmosphere inside the pitch compressed with every beat, growing heavier, denser, harder to breathe.
The students forgot to breathe at all.
They had rarely seen it , this version of their professor. The man who was always warm, always slightly scheming beneath that easy smile, now wore something else entirely. Serious. Calm in a way that was almost frightening. Not anger. Something more precise than anger. Total focus, like a sword humming in its scabbard the moment before it's drawn.
Hermione's fists were clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
"Director Moody is far too aggressive," she said, voice tight with worry. "Professor Holmes — he won't get hurt, will he?"
Harry was burning beside her.
"Relax," he said, dropping his voice. "This is going to be better than the Quidditch World Cup."
Every eye in the pitch tracked Douglas as he reached the dueling platform. He looked up, calm, studying the man who stood above him , a man covered in scars, built like a fortress that had survived too many wars to count.
"Deputy Director Moody," Douglas said. His voice was clear and even, carrying to every corner of the pitch without effort. "I have always admired what you achieved on the battlefield."
"It would be my honor to learn from you directly."
"Skip the pleasantries."
Moody's growl came from somewhere deep in his chest. His one good eye sharpened to a point. His electric blue magical eye spun in frantic arcs , but carefully, deliberately, it never landed on Douglas himself. It kept moving to the ground behind him, scanning. Moody wasn't going to gamble. Douglas wasn't wearing the same clothes as last time, but that didn't mean this outfit was clean.
"I hope your spells are half as sharp as your tongue!"
Douglas did not step onto the platform.
He extended one hand. His fingers , long, unhurried , gave the platform's hard wooden edge a single light flick.
No incantation. No flash of light.
Then the edge moved.
The thick, solid rim of the octagonal platform seemed to wake up. The hard wood softened in an instant, unraveling into countless thick, dark-brown vines. They coiled outward and upward, growing fast, weaving themselves into a staircase that curved with quiet elegance toward the center of the platform.
The whole thing happened in silence. It looked alive.
Every person in the stands sucked in a breath.
The Slytherin students stared, wide-eyed. The Gryffindors let out a low collective sound, somewhere between a gasp and a cheer.
Moody's magical eye stopped spinning.
For the first time, it was still.
He could feel it , in that single, effortless piece of Transfiguration , a degree of control over magical energy that went beyond anything brute force could produce. This wasn't twisting matter into shape by overpowering it. It was like watching someone move their own hand. The wood simply obeyed, the way a limb obeys a thought.
Douglas stepped onto the vine staircase and walked.
Step by step. Toward the center of the platform. Toward Moody.
"Since you have doubts about my work as a nanny," he said, still moving, not breaking stride, "I'd be happy to show you some of what my students have learned."
His gaze passed over Moody and swept the crowd below. It lingered for a moment on Crabbe and Goyle, still trembling slightly at the platform's edge. Then it moved to Harry's face , wound tight with nerves, lit up with excitement.
Then his eyes came back to Moody, and something in them settled and deepened.
"I happen to believe," he said, "that some things can only be truly learned in real combat."
"For example — how to control the power you carry."
"Rather than letting it control you."
The last word landed as his foot touched the center of the platform.
They stood ten paces apart.
Moody's heavy wooden leg came down on the platform with a low, resonant thud. He raised his weathered wand, shaft scarred, grip worn smooth by decades of use, and pointed it straight at Douglas's face.
---
PS: Daily question answer.
Answer: D
Explanation: Low temperatures in snowy terrain extend the duration of the Freezing Charm (cold stacks with the spell's effect), so option D describes the opposite of what actually occurs. The remaining options are all correct: A , tight spaces limit area-of-effect spells; B , rain enhances water-attribute spells; C , Lumos exposes the caster's position.
➤ Next: A Fortune at a Toss! My Wand Became a Golden Holy Sword!
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