Anakin stepped out of the hidden sanctum, the dark glass walls sealing behind him as if they had never existed. As he climbed back toward the upper floors, the sensation was jarring.
In the sanctum, the Force was a roar—pure, ancient, and coherent. As he moved into the lived-in parts of the castle, it felt like stepping into a room filled with thousands of tiny, buzzing insects. The magic here was cluttered with centuries of student anxiety, domestic charms, and the "crutch-work" of thousands of wands.
Yet, the castle itself was still awake. The stone of the corridors seemed to lean toward him as he passed, the floorboards settling under his feet with a respectful hush. He felt more connected to this mountain than any inhabitant ever had, save for the ghost he had seen in the silver liquid.
He reached the Great Hall just as the sun began to pour through the enchanted ceiling, which was currently reflecting a crisp, suspicious autumn morning.
_________________________________________________________________________
Inside the Great Hall, the staff were gathered at the High Table. The students had not yet arrived for the term, leaving the room echoing and vast. The air was thick with tension.
"Albus, this is beyond unorthodox," Minerva McGonagall's voice rang out, sharp with concern. "A 'Martial Defence' instructor? With no ministry record? No academic history? We are months away from the start of term, and you bring an outsider into the heart of the school."
"He has no wand, Albus! No core! No history!" That was Minerva McGonagall, her voice echoing off the rafters. "To place a man of unknown origin in charge of the students' physical safety—especially now—is a dereliction of our duty."
"The Ministry will have a field day," Pomona Sprout added, her voice worried. "A 'Martial Instructor'? It sounds like we're training a militia, not educating children."
"His power is... unconventional, Minerva," Dumbledore replied, his voice calm as he buttered a piece of toast. "But I assure you, his capability is exactly what our students require."
"Capability?" a silken, venomous voice drawled. Severus Snape sat at the far end of the table, his dark eyes fixed on his plate. "Or perhaps just another charlatan seeking the Headmaster's legendary charity? We have seen 'unconventional' before, Albus. It usually ends in incompetence or... tragedy."
"He doesn't even carry a wand, Severus," added Filius Flitwick, looking tiny and worried in his large chair. "How can one teach defence without the primary tool of the craft?"
"Exactly," Snape sneered. "A wandless wonder. Likely a stage magician with a few clever tricks and a loud voice. To put such a man in front of children—"
The massive oak doors of the Great Hall didn't just open; they were set aside.
Anakin Skywalker stepped into the Hall. He didn't use his hands, and he didn't speak. The doors simply obeyed his forward momentum, swinging back with a heavy, rhythmic thud that silenced the room instantly.
Anakin walked toward the High Table. He moved with the predatory grace of a man who had led armies through hell—a stark contrast to the scholarly, eccentric air of the other professors. He was dressed in his simple black robes, but he wore them like armor.
The staff fell into a stunned silence.
It wasn't just his appearance; it was the pressure. As he approached, the candles in the wall brackets flared brighter, their flames turning a steady, brilliant white. The ambient magical chatter of the room died down, suppressed by the sheer, singular weight of his presence.
He stopped at the foot of the table, his gaze sweeping over them. He didn't look like a teacher. He looked like an apex predator who had wandered into a library.
"Professor Skywalker," Dumbledore said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I trust you slept well?"
"The castle is... talkative," Anakin replied, his voice a low rumble that carried to every corner of the Hall. He turned his gaze to the staff. "I believe I heard my name mentioned."
The other professors stared in various states of shock and indignation.
"Professor Skywalker," McGonagall said, recovering her dignity and standing tall. "We were just discussing the... appropriateness of your curriculum. We teach our students to be witches and wizards. We teach them the history, the theory, and the precise application of charms. We do not train them for the 'martial' brutality you seem to represent."
Anakin looked at her, then at Filius Flitwick, who was peering at him over a stack of books. "You teach them to wave sticks and recite poetry," Anakin countered. "You have taken the Force—the very lifeblood of the universe—and shackled it to pieces of wood because you are afraid of the fire. Your 'theory' is a collection of crutches for the blind."
"A bold statement for a man who likely couldn't perform a simple Scouring Charm," Snape sneered, his dark eyes fixed on Anakin. "You speak of 'fire,' yet you stand there empty-handed. In this world, power is channeled, refined, and directed through a wand. Without one, you are merely a loud-mouthed anomaly."
"A wand," Anakin repeated, his lip curling in genuine contempt. "I saw your 'refined' magic in the alley. I saw people using the Force to stir tea and fold clothes because they are too lazy to move their own limbs. You've turned the very power and essence of the world into a household utility."
He turned to Flitwick. "You, Master of Charms. You think the wand is the source? No. The wand is a filter. It limits the flow so you don't burn yourselves. You've traded 'flexibility' for 'safety,' and in doing so, you've made yourselves fragile."
"It is about precision, Mr. Skywalker! An expert witch or wizard can cast spells in a manner of seconds, we have no need for flexibility when we have versatility" Flitwick squeaked, though his eyes were bright with academic interest. "The wand allows for the delicate manipulation of reality!"
"Precision is useless if you are dead before you can finish your incantation," Anakin snapped. "I have seen people die before they could take a single breath, before a single syllable made it out of their mouth. I have seen evil men use the force to electrocute their enemies to a point they couldn't lift a finger. Your enemies will not wait for you to find the right syllable. They will not care about your 'delicate manipulation.' They will crush you while you are busy checking your wand movements."
The debate had hit a wall. Snape rose slowly, his black robes billowing like a shadow. "We are tired of your posturing, charlatan. You come here with your 'Force' and your arrogance, insulting a thousand years of magical tradition. If you are so superior to our 'outdated methodology,' then prove it."
Snape drew his wand in a blur of motion and held it with a lethal, practiced ease. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to continue shouting? It seems to be the only 'martial' skill you've demonstrated thus far."
Anakin looked at the wand, then at Snape. Then he looked at McGonagall and Flitwick.
"One is not enough," Anakin said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating low.
"I beg your pardon?" McGonagall asked, her hand drifting toward her own wand.
"You want to know if my 'outdated' methods are superior?" Anakin's eyes flickered with a hint of the old, competitive fire of the Jedi Knight. "Then let us stop talking. You, Snape. You, McGonagall. And the Charms Master. The three of you, against me. Right now. In this hall."
The silence that followed was absolute.
"Albus," McGonagall whispered, "this is madness. We could seriously injure him."
Dumbledore, who had remained silent, finally stood. He looked at Anakin—really looked at him—and then at his staff. He saw the genuine contempt in Anakin's eyes and the bruised pride in his professors'.
"Professor Skywalker is quite right," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying a sudden, sharp authority. "Words have failed. A demonstration is required. Severus, Minerva, Filius... if you would be so kind."
Anakin stepped back into the center of the Hall, clearing a space between the long tables. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't take a stance. He just stood there, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his presence expanding until the very shadows in the corners of the room seemed to retreat.
"Whenever you are ready," Anakin said. "Show me your 'precision.'"
The air in the Great Hall didn't just grow cold; it grew heavy. As Anakin took his place in the center of the room, the ambient magical light of the enchanted ceiling dimmed, shifting from a bright morning sky to the bruised, swirling grey of a gathering storm.
He didn't take a duelist's stance. He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his arms hanging loosely, a silhouette of dark robes against the pale stone. To the three professors facing him, he no longer looked like a man. He seemed inevitable, like he knew exactly what they were going to do.
"Begin," Dumbledore's voice rang out, sounding strangely distant.
The First Volley Filius Flitwick moved with the legendary speed of a dueling champion. His wand was a blur as he slashed it through the air, shouting a rapid-fire chain of Stupefying and Binding curses. Simultaneously, Snape flicked his wand with a silent, lethal grace, sending a streak of dark, purple light—a cutting curse—aiming for Anakin's shoulder.
Anakin didn't dodge. He didn't even flinch.
He raised a single hand, palm outward. The air in front of him rippled, distorting like a heat haze. The magical bolts didn't hit a shield; they hit a wall of absolute stillness. The red jets of the Stunners and the purple edge of the cutting curse slowed, ground to a halt in mid-air, and then simply shattered like glass against a mountain.
"Too slow," Anakin's voice echoed, cold and vibrating with the resonance of the Force. "You announce your intent with every breath."
Minerva McGonagall saw the futility of direct attack. She slammed her wand toward the floor. The heavy stone flagstones beneath Anakin's feet transformed instantly into massive, iron-jawed wolves that lunged at his legs, while the long wooden tables of the Great Hall rose behind him like tidal waves of splintered oak.
Suddenly, the "Vader" who stood still was gone.
Anakin moved. It wasn't a run; it was a blur of predatory speed that defied the human eye. He became a shadow weaving through the light. As the iron wolves lunged, he didn't just step aside—he moved with an impossible, liquid agility. He leaped over the first wolf, twisting in mid-air with a grace that made McGonagall's heart stutter, landing precisely in the narrow gap between two incoming curses from Snape and Flitwick.
The professors grew desperate. Snape fired a barrage of piercing hexes, and Flitwick sent a swirling vortex of wind to pin him down.
Anakin played with them. He leaned his head an inch to the left, and a red bolt of light hissed past his ear. He spun in a tight circle, his black robes snapping like a whip, and three more spells splashed harmlessly against the stone behind him. To the teachers, it was like trying to hit the wind. Every "precise" movement of their wands was countered by a man who seemed to know where the spells would land before they were even cast.
"Your 'precision' is a cage," Anakin's voice drifted from a position five feet to the right of where he had been a second before. "You aim for where I am, but you have no concept of where I will be."
He decided the game was over.
Mid-leap, as the iron wolves turned to snap at him again, Anakin made a sharp, clenching motion with both hands. The wolves didn't just stop; they were compacted into spheres of scrap metal with a shriek of protesting iron.
He landed softly and raised his arms. The soaring tables, caught in an invisible tide, froze in mid-air, thousands of pounds of wood hovering motionless over the heads of the staff.
"Enough," Anakin said. He started a slow, measured walk toward them, an unstoppable, rhythmic momentum that radiated a promise of total destruction.
Panic, sharp and cold, finally broke through the professors' professional masks. Snape's face was a mask of fury and fear. He let out a roar, unleashing a torrent of non-verbal, dark magic—blasts of kinetic energy and localized explosions that tore up the floor. Flitwick joined him, casting a high-level Reducto that could have leveled a tower.
Anakin didn't stop walking.
He moved through the explosions as if they were rain. He swiped his hand through the air, and the incoming spells were caught and tossed aside like pebbles. One of Snape's curses was redirected with such force that it blasted the Headmaster's podium into splinters.
He reached out, and the three of them felt it: The Grip.
It wasn't a spell they could counter. It was a physical hand made of the universe itself, wrapping around their throats and their wands. Snape, McGonagall, and Flitwick were lifted six inches off the floor. Their wands were wrenched from their hands by an invisible tide and sent clattering across the stone, useless.
The Great Hall fell into a silence so absolute it felt physical. The three most powerful teachers at Hogwarts hung suspended in the air, gasping, their eyes wide with the realization of their total, utter helplessness.
Anakin stood beneath them, his presence filling the Hall like a dark sun. He wasn't even breathing hard.
"You rely on your tools," Anakin whispered, and the words felt like they were being spoken inside their very skulls. "You think the wand gives you power. It only gives you an excuse to be weak. You are not duelists. You are children playing with matches"
He closed his fist slightly, and the pressure on their chests increased just enough to show them that he could end their lives with a single thought—no words, no wand, no effort.
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he released them.
The three professors crashed to the floor, gasping for air, their dignity and their wands scattered. McGonagall's hat had fallen off, Snape was trembling with a rage he couldn't articulate, and Flitwick looked as though he had seen the end of the world.
Anakin turned his back on them, looking up at Dumbledore, who remained standing at the High Table, his face pale and his eyes stripped of all twinkling amusement.
"The lesson is over," Anakin stated. "If you want your students to survive the coming war, you will let me teach them how to be capable. If you want them to remain 'precise' and 'traditional,' then prepare to bury them."
He didn't wait for a response. He walked out of the Great Hall, the massive doors swinging open before him and slamming shut with a finality that shook the castle to its roots.