Wednesday morning sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of Hogwarts' corridors, casting dappled patterns on the stone floor.
Dylan had just left the library when he ran into Hermione, both of them lugging heavy bookbags. With a soft whisper of a Levitation Charm, Dylan's dark brown leather bag floated about ten centimeters off the ground, trailing steadily behind him without so much as a wobble, despite the weighty tomes inside.
"Oh, by the way," Hermione said, lowering her voice as they walked, "this morning I ran into a Ravenclaw with a cold. They said Draco's still holed up in the hospital wing, hogging a bed and refusing to leave. Madam Pomfrey's starting to look fed up."
Dylan nodded, not too surprised. Draco was always stirring up some kind of drama.
They soon reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Pushing open the door, they found it already half-filled with students. Most were crammed toward the back, some whispering to their desk mates, others stealing nervous glances at the door.
Clearly, Professor Moody's scarred face and eerie magical eye had everyone on edge.
But Dylan and Hermione marched straight to the front row, closest to the blackboard, and settled into their seats. They pulled out their books, spreading them neatly on the desks. The classroom grew quieter, the rustle of pages barely audible.
Soon, a rhythmic thump-thump echoed from the corridor—Moody's wooden leg and cane tapping the floor, growing louder as he approached.
He pushed open the door, his dark gray robe brushing the threshold, the metal base of his wooden leg glinting faintly with fine scratches. His scarred face was as twisted as ever, his white hair a bit disheveled. With a casual shake of his head, he flicked the strands out of his eyes.
Moody's gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on Dylan with an almost imperceptible nod. Dylan returned a slight nod, acknowledging their prior acquaintance from Wizengamot matters—a quiet understanding between them.
"Put your books away," Moody rasped, his voice rough with the wear of years spent chasing dark wizards. He limped to the front, leaning on his cane, and sank heavily into the wide wooden chair behind the desk, tapping its edge with his cane. "You won't need those today."
Turning, he grabbed a piece of chalk and scrawled "Alastor Moody" in large letters across the blackboard, chalk dust drifting onto the desk.
"Some of you might've heard of me," he began, his eyes sharpening as if piercing through their thoughts. "I'm Alastor Moody, former Auror. Retired for a few years, but Dumbledore asked me to come back to teach you lot this class. Now, roll call."
He pulled a worn, yellowed roster from his robe, its edges frayed. Shaking his head to clear the hair from his face, he started reading names. His normal brown eye scanned the list, while his silver-gray magical eye spun independently, darting around the room. It lingered on students who raised their hands, scrutinizing their faces, then flicked to the corners of the room or under desks, as if checking for anyone hiding.
"Draco Malfoy," he called.
The room went still. No response.
Moody's brow furrowed. He looked up, his magical eye sweeping the classroom as his voice grew louder. "Draco Malfoy, you here?"
A chair scraped loudly in the back. Crabbe shot to his feet, accidentally elbowing Goyle, who grunted in protest. Clutching a crumpled note, Crabbe's face flushed as he stammered, "P-Professor, Malfoy's… he's injured. This is Madam Pomfrey's note, and, uh, permission from the Slytherin Head."
Moody snatched the note, his magical eye zeroing in on the text, pupil narrowing. After a moment, he gave a short, mocking laugh, confirming it wasn't forged. Holding up the note, he read aloud in a tone dripping with sarcasm, loud enough for everyone to hear: "I, Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House, grant Draco Malfoy permission to remain in the hospital wing for recovery and excuse him from classes."
He snorted, tapping the note with his cane. "Well, well, Snape and Malfoy—old pals, aren't they?"
Pausing, he drawled, "Let me see… how'd he get hurt again? Oh, right—pecked by a chicken. Heroic stuff."
He shot a pointed glance at the Slytherin section, adding, "Come to think of it, that chicken's nostrils were flat little slits. Reminds me of someone."
Stifled laughter rippled through the room. The Slytherins' faces darkened, but no one dared retort. Moody's presence was too intimidating, his magical eye sweeping over them like a hawk. The room was so quiet you could hear the faint patter of chalk dust hitting the floor.
Only Dylan let out a low chuckle, catching the hidden jab. Having seen Voldemort's eerie form, he knew Moody's "flat nostrils" quip was a dig at the Malfoys' allegiance to the Dark Lord. His lips twitched briefly, the amusement gone in a flash.
"Alright," Moody said, ignoring the brief tension. His rough voice cut through again as he pulled a folded parchment from his robe, its edges creased. "I got a letter from Professor Lupin about what you've covered so far."
He glanced at the parchment, then at the students. "Seems you've learned the basics for dealing with dark creatures—Boggarts, Red Caps, Hinkypunks, Grindylows, Kappas. That right?"
The students nodded, some quickly, as if afraid to be caught out by his magical eye. Others were still mulling over his earlier jab, their nods distracted as they snuck glances at the Slytherins.
Moody's cane rapped the desk with a sharp thud, snapping them back to attention. His tone turned sharp. "That's nowhere near enough! Those are first- and second-year basics, but your previous professors were useless. They've held back my and Lupin's teaching pace, leaving you lot defenseless—barely able to handle a chicken!"
He bit down hard on "defenseless," his cadence almost theatrical, as if he wanted the words to carry all the way to Draco in the hospital wing. His magical eye spun toward the door, like he was checking if the sound reached far enough.
"You've heard about the Quidditch World Cup, haven't you?" His voice grew heavier. "Those Death Eaters are stirring again. That means danger could come for you anytime."
He paused, his gaze hardening on the students who looked unfazed. "Don't think it's far off. There could be a dark wizard's spy among us right now."
His magical eye whirled, scanning every corner of the room—from Dylan and Hermione in the front to Goyle slouching in the back, even checking under desks and along the windowsills. Students ducked their heads, some inching closer to their desk mates, avoiding that piercing gaze. It lingered briefly on Dylan, who remained calm, before moving on.
"You've got no idea how ruthless dark wizards are!" Moody's voice rose to a near shout, shaking the desk. "They'll pose as your friend, chat you up with a smile, then stab you in the back the second you turn around."
"They lurk in the shadows, waiting for you to sleep or drop your guard. One spell, and you're off to meet Merlin!"
The room fell deathly silent, breaths held, fingers clutching robes or books. Some students tucked their chins to their desks, as if trying to disappear.
Moody's scars seemed to soften slightly as he nodded, satisfied. "What you've learned so far? Fine for small fry. But against a dark wizard? You wouldn't even have time to run."
His voice dropped, low and eerie, like it was rising from a grave. "You're just kids. You don't want to end up dragged into some lightless lab, do you? Stripped and flayed would be the easy part. Dark wizards will keep you alive, pumping you full of strange, colorful potions."
"They'll drain your blood one day, force-feed you Blood-Replenishing Potion the next, then drain you again—keeping you alive to feel every ounce of pain, unable to even die."
His scars twisted with his grim expression, his eyes glinting coldly. The students paled; some swallowed hard, imagining the horror. Hermione gripped her wand tightly, her breathing shallow, as if any noise might draw Moody's attention.
Merlin, are there really people that twisted?
Dylan's lips twitched. Moody was clearly railing against evil dark wizards—nothing to do with him. I'm a perfectly nice wizard, he thought.
"What you've learned is nowhere near enough!" Moody's voice boomed, echoing in the silent room. "But lucky for you, I've got a whole year to teach you how to handle dark magic and the vile wizards who use it!"
He stomped his wooden leg with a thud, underscoring his resolve. Students who'd ducked in fear now looked up, hope flickering in their eyes. Some gazed at him eagerly, fists clenched, whispering excitedly to their neighbors. Their looks screamed, Teach us, Professor!
Moody's lips curved slightly, pleased. He stepped away from the desk, pacing the front aisle, his wooden leg leaving faint marks on the floor, his cane tapping rhythmically. His magical eye scanned each student, gauging their reactions.
He stopped in front of Dylan's desk, leaning forward slightly, his wand tapping the table with a soft click. The room went quiet, all eyes shifting from Moody to Dylan, curious and confused.
"Maybe you don't know," Moody said, his voice slower but clear, "but among you is a wizard with exceptional skill, who's faced dark wizards multiple times."
He turned to Dylan, his normal eye expectant, his magical eye fixed on him. "I think he can help me show you what a real wizarding duel looks like."
The classroom erupted in hushed whispers. Some students gaped at Dylan, shocked that the quiet, steady boy had fought dark wizards. Others buzzed with excitement, eager to see a real duel.
"Quiet!" Moody's cane struck the floor, silencing them. "Everyone, follow me to the clearing behind the castle. It's wide enough, and we won't hurt anyone."
He strode out, his wooden leg echoing in the corridor. Students grabbed their bags and wands, trailing behind—some hurrying to see the duel, others lingering to whisper about what spells they might witness.
Dylan's reputation at Hogwarts was well-known but understated. He kept a low profile, almost mysterious, so he didn't draw much attention day-to-day. He walked in the middle of the group.
The clearing behind the castle was covered in soft grass, bordered by tall oaks swaying gently in the breeze. Moody stood in the center, motioning for the students to form a circle, leaving plenty of space in the middle.
"Stay back, keep a safe distance!" he barked. "We'll be using real combat spells. Don't get hit by mistake."
The students stepped back, forming a loose ring, their eyes locked on Moody and Dylan. Hermione stood at the edge, hands clasped, worry etched on her face. She knew Dylan was skilled, but this was a retired Auror! Harry watched wide-eyed, barely breathing, not wanting to miss a second.
"Ready, Dylan?" Moody asked, raising his wand, its tip pointed at the ground, his tone serious.
"We'll stick to less dangerous spells, focusing on reaction speed and spell flow. Got it?"
Dylan nodded, stepping five meters away, feet shoulder-width apart, wand raised toward Moody. "I'm ready, Professor."
"Good!" Moody called.
Instantly, he fired a spell. "Expelliarmus!" The spell shot out, fast and sharp, slicing through the air toward Dylan's wand.
Dylan was ready, sidestepping left while flicking his wand at the ground. "Impedimenta!"
A transparent barrier sprang up, blocking the spell with a soft bang before it fizzled out.
"Not bad!" Moody's eyes gleamed with approval. He fired again. "Stupefy!"
This time, the spell arced upward, aiming to bypass the barrier. Dylan stayed calm, raising his wand. "Finite Incantatem!"
A white arc of light met the spell midair, canceling it out in a shower of sparks.
The students gasped softly. Ron's jaw dropped, whispering to Harry, "Blimey, Dylan blocked Moody's spell like it was nothing!"
Harry nodded, eyes fixed on the center, afraid to blink.
Moody kept moving, his wooden leg leaving shallow prints in the grass. "Good defense, but in a real fight, you can't just block!"
He fired three spells in quick succession, each a different color, fanning out toward Dylan.
All defense, no offense? Dylan smirked, his wand tracing a smooth arc. "Incarcerous!"
A silver rope shot from his wand, snaring the leftmost Expelliarmus and yanking it to the ground. Then, "Incendio!"
A burst of orange flame blocked the Stupefy. Finally, against the yellow Petrificus Totalus, he cast "Protego!"
An invisible magical armor enveloped him, deflecting the last spell effortlessly.
"Brilliant!" Moody shouted, lowering his wand. "That's the key in a real fight—not just defending, but finding chances to counter while picking the right response for each spell's nature."
He turned to the students, raising his voice. "You saw how Dylan handled multiple spells without panicking, analyzing and reacting precisely. That's what you need to learn—combat isn't about memorizing spells, but making snap judgments in a chaotic moment!"
The students nodded, their gazes on Dylan now tinged with admiration. Dylan lowered his wand and stepped beside Moody, looking relaxed. The duel had used only basic spells, barely taxing him.
Moody clapped Dylan's shoulder, his tone warm. "Well done, better than I expected."
"Now, let's break down each step of that duel for them," he said, moving to where Dylan had stood and drawing a line in the grass with his cane. "First, spell identification. My Expelliarmus had a red glow, fast and straight—that's its signature."
"You need to know that attack spells differ in glow, speed, even sound. Stupefy arcs slightly, Petrificus Totalus is slower but penetrates more."
"Dylan identified my first spell instantly, choosing Impedimenta to block it. That's the foundation of combat—more crucial than memorizing a hundred spells."
He moved to his own starting spot, tapping the ground. "Second, defense strategy. You can't just use one approach."
"A straight spell like Expelliarmus? A barrier like Impedimenta works best. But my arcing Stupefy would've bypassed it, so Finite Incantatem was the right call to cancel it."
"When facing multiple spells, prioritize. In that trio, Expelliarmus threatened his wand, Petrificus Totalus his body, and Stupefy was secondary. Dylan used a rope to stop Expelliarmus, flames for Stupefy, and armor for Petrificus Totalus. The order mattered—one misstep, and he'd have been hit."
Moody scanned the students, noting some scribbling frantically in notebooks. "Finally, the part most overlook: pacing."
"Combat isn't about who casts faster, but who controls the rhythm. I sped up my spells to push Dylan, but he didn't let me rush him. After each defense, he adjusted his stance, giving himself time to think."
"That's pacing! Get flustered, and no matter how many spells you know, you'll fumble."
He glanced at Dylan, then the students. "Ask Dylan—after each defense, was he already thinking about the next spell? That's combat thinking!"
"Predict the next move while defending, don't just wait for the spell to hit."
"Now, pair up and practice identifying spells like we did. I'll watch and answer questions."
Dylan paused at Moody's words. Was I thinking about the next spell after each defense?
Well… for him, casting magic was as easy as breathing now. He didn't even need to vocalize spells—he could cast silently, even wandlessly.
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