The students' reactions split cleanly down the middle.
A few girls flushed pink, clearly caught off guard by Valerius's classical, aristocratic looks and the kind of lethal charm that didn't need to announce itself.
But most of them felt something else entirely. Something instinctual. The bone-deep trembling of prey that has just recognized a predator.
"Right." Douglas clapped his hands. "Back to business."
Every head snapped toward him.
"It's been a month. Time to see what you've all actually learned about Silent Spells."
"Rules are simple. Groups of three. You come up, you try to hold off Teaching Assistant Valerius."
The temperature in the classroom seemed to drop several degrees.
The first group steeled themselves and walked to the front. Their wands were out, their palms slick with sweat. Valerius stood across from them, that polished smile still in place, completely unbothered.
The students were still debating whether to strike first.
He moved.
No one saw it happen. One moment his hands were still; the next, three silent spells were already in the air , sharp and quick, like three vipers snapping forward with tongues out.
The crisis hit them like cold water in the face.
Adrenaline spiked. Survival instinct bulldozed through every last thread of hesitation.
"Protego!"
Three silent Shield Charms snapped into place. The incoming spells burst against them in flashes of light.
They held.
They actually held.
But before a single breath of relief could escape —
The second wave came.
These angles were nastier. One student reacted a half-beat too late. A spell cracked against his wand like a slap, sending it spinning through the air in a clean arc straight into Valerius's waiting hand. The other two went down together, caught by a Trip Jinx neither of them saw coming, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
Three seconds. Maybe less.
It was over.
The students stared. For the first time, the gap between textbook theory and an actual duel wasn't an abstract concept , it was a chasm with life on one side and something else on the other. The moment it took to speak a spell out loud was all the time you needed to lose everything.
Valerius lowered his hand, that cool, distant smile still hanging at the corner of his mouth. As if he'd just finished a light stretch. He gave the confiscated wand a gentle toss back to its wide-eyed owner.
Douglas clapped once. The silence broke.
"Plenty of room to grow," he said, his tone almost cheerful. "We'll pick this up next class."
The scene seemed to freeze there , students still rooted in place, faces caught somewhere between fear and a slightly unhealthy fascination. Their eyes moved between the two figures on the platform.
One looked like he'd wandered in from a weekend stroll.
The other looked like he'd come from somewhere considerably worse.
A Hufflepuff girl had her hand flat against the wall, catching her breath. For one split second, she'd been completely certain she was about to die. She looked at Professor Douglas smiling on the platform. She looked at the stone-faced assistant beside him.
One thought settled in her chest and refused to leave:
This class isn't about learning magic. It's about learning how to survive.
---
Dinner.
The Great Hall was as loud and alive as ever. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the sky outside , a sweeping sunset bleeding from deep violet into burnt orange before sinking below the horizon, leaving behind a quiet, melancholy indigo. The golden plates were heaped with roast chicken, grilled steaks, sausages. A proper feast.
Nobody cared.
Most of the older students were somewhere else entirely in their heads. Their eyes kept drifting, involuntarily, toward the staff table. The whole hall had a restless, stretched quality , anticipation pulled wire-thin.
At the Ravenclaw table, a small tactical council had convened. Several seventh-years had pushed their plates aside entirely and were bent over a thick copy of A History of European Magical Schools, faces set in the kind of grim concentration usually reserved for exams.
"Beauxbatons — alchemy and Transfiguration, no question," said a Prefect with glasses, tapping a finger against an illustration of a palace ringed by ornate magical fountains. "Nicolas Flamel is their alumnus. Their alchemical tradition goes deeper than most people realize. Expect their champion to lean heavily on transformation magic."
"And don't underestimate their charm work," another student added. "Fleur Delacour. Veela blood. In the right event, that's a decisive edge."
The Prefect turned the page. The next illustration was a castle , dark, angular, hunched over an icebound landscape like something waiting.
"Durmstrang." His voice dropped. "Their history is tangled up with the Dark Arts. Grindelwald came out of that school. Their training covers actual combat magic — frost curses, old Nordic spellwork. Whoever goes up against their champion needs to be ready for that."
They pressed on, voices low and intense, dissecting the competition like they already had the syllabus in hand.
At the Hufflepuff table, the mood was entirely different.
Cedric Diggory sat at the center of it , surrounded, practically submerged, by his housemates. The pride of Hufflepuff. Their one and only hope.
"You'll definitely be chosen, Cedric!"
"We've got your back, no matter what!"
Cedric smiled, steady and warm as always, answering each of them in turn. But his gaze had already moved past the crowd, cutting clean across the hall to the staff table.
To the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Mad-Eye Moody.
A real legend. The genuine article.
Something sharp and unapologetic lit up in Cedric's eyes.
---
At the staff table, Alastor Moody hadn't touched his food.
Every so often he reached into his robes, pulled out a battered silver flask, and knocked back a swig. A smell drifted from it , bitter potion cut through with something cloyingly sweet. His real eye moved across the hall in a slow, flat sweep. His other eye, that unsettling pale blue whirl, never stopped moving. It spun and tracked and bored through wood, through fabric, through walls. Every student, every professor, the house-elves rattling pots in the kitchen below , all of it fed directly into his head.
The eye swept across the Gryffindor table.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was absently jabbing a shrimp dumpling with his fork and staring at nothing.
Hermione Granger sat rigid beside him, brow knotted, unable to settle.
Ron Weasley was one of the few people in the hall actually eating, cheeks packed like a chipmunk.
Kids, Moody thought.
The corner of his mouth pulled into something that could, generously, be called a smile.
---
PS: Daily question.
The correct procedure for handling a "Muggle who has accidentally wandered into Diagon Alley" is:
A. Immediately apply a Memory Charm → guide them back to a Muggle street → log the incident
B. Detain for 24 hours to confirm intent → then erase memory
C. Muggle Liaison Office staff pose as tour guides → naturally escort them out
D. Use Transfiguration to temporarily turn them into an animal → restore original form after Diagon Alley closes
➤ Next: Night of Terror! Harry's Talisman Fails!
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