The next morning, Eira stepped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom with the rest of the fourth-years. Instantly she noticed how unlike it was from any lesson she had attended so far. Ancient Runes had been quiet, filled with the scratch of quills and the patient explanations of symbols; Charms, though lively, had still carried a sense of brightness and precision. But this room felt altogether different—darker, heavier. A faint metallic tang lingered in the air, sharp like cold iron, and the walls were hung with strange instruments that whirred, clicked, or occasionally sparked with blue light, as though they were alive and watching the students.
Slytherins and Gryffindors filtered in together, their rivalry already bristling. Draco Malfoy lounged at his desk with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him, sneering across the aisle at Ron Weasley, who was muttering something to Harry. Hermione had already opened her notebook and dipped her quill, her expression set with determined seriousness.
"Well, well," Draco drawled, his eyes gleaming with malice. "If it isn't Weasley—managed to scrape together enough Sickles for parchment this year? Or did Potter buy it for you?" Crabbe and Goyle snorted with laughter, a few of the other Slytherins joining in.
Ron's ears turned red, and he glared across the aisle, his jaw tightening, but he didn't answer. Harry, sitting beside him, shifted slightly, his green eyes flashing as if daring Malfoy to push further.
"Careful, Weasley," drawled Pansy Parkinson from the row behind Draco, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Wouldn't want you to trip over your second-hand robes before class even begins."
Ron clenched his quill so hard the feather bent, but forced himself to look away, muttering under his breath to Harry. The smirk on Malfoy's face widened at Ron's silence, but Harry's steady glare made him finally lean back in his seat with a huff of contempt
Eira took a seat a little apart, her presence enough to draw glances. Some Slytherins sat straighter when she entered, as though her shadow stretched longer than her years.
Then the door banged open.
Thud. Clunk. Thud. Clunk.
Professor Moody entered, his wooden leg clunking heavily, his magical eye spinning in its socket. The effect was unsettling—half the class stared at the leg, the other half at the eye, which seemed capable of seeing through them.
"Right!" Moody barked, slamming the door shut with a sweep of his arm. "Settle down. I don't want any of your sniveling or chatter. You're here to learn how the Dark Arts work. And let me tell you—" his scarred face twisted into a grim smile "—you're going to see things in this classroom you won't forget."
"I've been told what you lot have been learning the last three years." His mismatched eyes narrowed, the normal one full of disdain while the magical one swiveled unnervingly toward the back rows. "And let me tell you, I am not impressed. In fact—" he gave a sharp snort "—I'm disappointed. Utterly. You, the next generation of wizards and witches, can't even defend yourselves properly. You're children, coddled and clueless, and you've wasted your time in this class."
A few students shifted uncomfortably, but Moody pressed on, his voice rising.
"I asked your previous professors. Well—you know what happened to two of them." His mouth twisted into something between a scowl and a grim smile. "The last one, Lupin, at least knew his craft. Taught you better than the others. But still—you lot are pathetic. You don't know anything that will keep you alive when it matters."
He slammed his fist against the desk, making several students jump.
"You've wasted three years in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and for what? You can't handle a Red Cap. You'd be torn apart by a Kappa. A simple Hinkypunk would lead half of you straight into a bog to drown without you even realizing it. You'd panic at a Grindylow's grip, and don't even get me started on what a Boggart could do if you froze in fear."
His magical eye whirled again, fixing briefly on each student in turn, lingering just a fraction longer on Malfoy, then on Ron, then on Eira.
"You think this subject is just another lesson on your timetable?" he barked. "No. This—" he stabbed a scarred finger toward the desk "—is survival. And if you don't take it seriously, you won't last long outside these walls."
The classroom fell into dead silence, the weight of his words hanging over them.
The students exchanged wary glances. Even the usual smirks from Draco faded.
Moody's spinning eye landed abruptly on Eira.
"White," he growled. "I've heard of you."
A ripple of whispers ran through the Slytherins.
Moody stalked closer, his limp jerking his gait, until he stood before her desk. "Protego Diabolica. You cast it. At the World Cup."
Eira kept her composure, though the weight of his magical eye bored into her. "I did."
Moody gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "Do you know how many 'high and mighty' pure-bloods that shield sent screaming into Azkaban back in my day? More than I can count. Dangerous magic—borderline Dark. And the only reason you're not rotting in a cell yourself—" he jabbed a twisted finger at her "—is because you're the head of the White family and Cornelius Fudge is too weak to cross you."