Author's Note: This is a simple oneshot, in which Alastar Moody, really Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise, is replaced by someone else for the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Exaggerated Self-Insert. Malfoy Bashing because I hate that pompous ass.

The first DADA class of Harry Potter's fourth year at Hogwarts began with a simple introduction from the current teacher.

"Zach Hamilton," the young man, no older than twenty, said, writing his name in swift curves on the chalkboard. Dressed in a simple red tunic and black slacks, he eyed his students with hawk-like precision. "Born and raised in America. Auror-in-training, Order of Merlin, First Class, and your new Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher."

He plopped the chalk down and spun around on his class, his ocean blue eyes piercing into each student as though they were pieces of meat on a plate. "I am here because Dumbledore asked me; End of story, goodbye, the end!" He took a brief pause, taking his time to watch the faces of those under his tutelage. "Any questions?"

No one spoke, nor even showed the slightest hint of curiosity, their eyes fixed on the angry-looking teacher.

Zach shrugged and retrieved his wand from the pocket of his slacks. Barely eight and a half inches long, the wand was cedar with the core of unicorn hair, good for charms and duels. The class shook with ill-concealed snickers and whispers at the unusual wand, finally culminating with a Slytherin's comment: "Look at it, can barely fit in his hand!"

His reply was swift and laced with contempt. "Forgive me for not having a wand length up to your specifications, Miss Parkinson. Perhaps you chance a go at a duel?" Pansy Parkinson slid down in her seat, her cheeks flushed and her brow furrowed. "But first, who among you can tell me how many Unforgiveable Curses there are?"

With extreme hesitance, Hermione Granger answered, "Three, sir."

"And they are so named?" The professor turned and began scrawling 'UNFORGIVEABLE CURSES' on the board.

"Because they are Unforgiveable—"

Hamilton raised a hand and snapped, "I was hoping for something less obvious, Miss Granger! Why are they unforgiveable? Are they pranks, shameless distractions from the woes of everyday life?"

"No sir—" Hermione felt her voice crack with emotion.

"No, they are not!" Professor Hamilton spun on her and gripped her desk, leaning into her face. "They are Unforgiveable because they are cruel, painful, and deadly!" He sneered and stepped away. "The use of any one of them will earn you a one way ticket to Azkaban!"

Hamilton began to slowly pace in front of the students, his eyes never leaving theirs. "Now, the Minister says you're too young to see what these curses do." He slammed his fist on his mahogany desk. "I say different! You need to know what you're up against!" He spun away and turned his back to the class. "You need to be prepared! You need to find somewhere else to put your chewing gum besides the underside of your desk, Mister Finnigan!"

Everyone turned to look at Seamus hastily wipe his hands on his robes. "Aw, no way!" he whispered. "The codger can see out the back of his head!"

Hamilton swung around and threw the chalk straight at Finnigan's head, missing only because the Irish student ducked just in time. "And hear across classrooms!" He stepped forward, over to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley's two-student desk, Ron still looking at Finnigan. "So, what curse shall we see first?" Without skipping a beat, his head and eyes pinned on the red-head seated before him. "WEASLEY!"

Ron snapped to attention and weakly uttered, "Yes?"

"Stand!" Ron trembled in his pants as he rose. "Give us a curse."

Ron looked down, afraid his answer was incorrect. "Well, my- my dad did tell me about one…" Hamilton offered an encouraging nod. "The Imperius Curse."

Hamilton nodded quickly and said, "Ah, yes, your father would know all about that." He motioned for Ron to sit. "Gave the Ministry quite a bit of grief over the years. Perhaps this will show you why." He backed away from Weasley's desk and scanned the crowd, then aimed his finger like a rifle at one blond-haired Slytherin.

"Malfoy!" The professor curled his finger once and watched Draco Malfoy confidently stride up to the front, though anyone paying close attention could see his chin and fingers trembling ever so slightly. Hamilton pointed his wand on the floor and traced several squares into the stone, then turned to Malfoy. "Ever heard of Hopscotch?"

Malfoy sneered and crossed his arms. "That sounds like a Mudblood game," he glanced at Hermione, "No doubt you've played it then."

Before any other words or glares could fly, Professor Hamilton nodded and replied, "This is a popular game among Muggle-folk. The goal is simple; hop on one foot from one square to another until you reach the end."

To his credit, Malfoy drew up the courage (or haughtiness) and asked, "Is there a point to this, Professor?"

"Yes. Play Hopscotch."

"Wha- no! I will not lower myself to dance on one foot!"

Hamilton lifted an eyebrow. "Is that your final answer?" His voice was casual, almost conversational, but his eyes were dark and brewing. Malfoy nodded and went to go to his desk when Hamilton aimed his wand and cried, "Imperio!" The Slytherin froze on the spot, his eyes glazed over and his back painfully straight, then turned round and came back up to stand beside the professor. "Care for a bit of Hopscotch?"

The enslaved pureblood nodded and began hopping on one foot down the track, his ears not hearing the laughs and guffaws of the class. There was no hesitance as Malfoy skipped and jumped from one square to the next, then spun on his heel and went the way he came. As if that was not humorous enough, the boy began patting his head and rubbing his stomach, chanting "I'm a Pretty Princess, I'm a Pretty Princess" as if it were a daily occurrence.

"Talented, isn't he?" Hamilton chuckled over the roar of laughter. "What should I have him do next? Kiss Miss Granger?" Hermione quickly found her face being grabbed by Draco and pulled into a passionate lip-lock, her eyes wide and her cheeks turning red from a combination of embarrassment, anger, and hormones. "Throttle Weasley?" Instantly, Malfoy left Hermione slightly dazed and flustered and wrapped his hands around Ron's neck, shaking him as one would a panicking woman on a pilotless airplane. Ten seconds after he began, he stopped and stood straight. The laughter died down as Hamilton casually asked, "Drown himself?"

The Slytherin walked over to the conveniently placed water bucket and dunked his head in, his body completely still and bubbles bobbing around his ears and hair. Hamilton lowered his wand and Malfoy thrust himself out of the bucket, wiping at his mouth as though he drank acid.

"Under the Imperius, the victim's will and mind are completely dominated by the caster, their hopes and dreams and ambitions crumbling beneath the power of the curse. They become slaves to their Master's will, forced to do whatever is ordered and remaining conscious through it all."

Malfoy sputtered and pointed a finger at the professor. "My father will hear about thi—"

"Obliviate," Hamilton said casually. Malfoy went stiff as a board for two seconds before regaining himself.

"Where am I? Who are you? And why am I soaking wet?"

Hamilton shook his head tiredly and answered, "Seems you were caught in the rain and came in late to your DADA class. I'm the new teacher, and that's ten points from Slytherin for your tardiness. Take your seat." Malfoy did so and no one bothered to point out that it was a brilliantly sunny day outside. "Scores of witches and wizards have claimed that they only did You-Know-Who's bidding under the influence of the Imperius Curse." Hamilton growled and leaned back against his desk. "Question is, how do we sort out the liars?"

The silence was deafening for a good few seconds until Hamilton gestured over the class. "Another curse, perhaps?" Several shaky hands rose up, and Hamilton honed in on one Gryffindor with pudgy cheeks and buck teeth. "Longbottom, is it?"

Said student nodded and looked up at the intimidating teacher. "The… the Cruciatus Curse."

Hamilton said, "Correct," and turned to the curtain near the chalkboard. He pulled it back to reveal a brown tabby cat licking away at itself. "Hello," he cooed and gently lifted the feline from the podium to his desk. Several students aww'd at the adorable sight, especially when Hamilton stroked the cat under its chin. "Ah, I've always been such a softy for cats." The look on his face was dreamy and far-off, probably reminiscing about past pets. In a flash, Hamilton shrugged and his expression turned murderous.

"Crucio!" The only sound heard in the room was the cat's pathetic howling and mewling, its limbs twisting and contorting in agony at the pain of thousands of hot knives buttering through its skin and muscles. Its back arched and collapsed, its eyes looked around unseeing as it tried to escape the torture.

This went on for a good thirty seconds before Hermione broke from her horrified trance and screeched, "Stop it! You're hurting it! STOP IT!"

Hamilton looked up as if noticing the class for the first time, glanced down at the feline, and ceased the spell. The cat went limp as sweet relief flooded its senses, its breathing shallow but steady. The professor lifted the cat up and lay it softly on Hermione's desk, her eyes watering and lip quivering.

"The final curse, Miss Granger?" His voice was soft, almost comforting were it not for the words he uttered. Hermione bit her lip to keep from crying and shook her head fervently. "No?" He sighed and deftly aimed his wand at the feline.

"Avada Kedavra!" A bolt of green light shot from the tip of his wand and struck the creature. It jolted for an instant and went limp, its eyes open in blissful death and tail slack against Hermione's thigh.

"The Killing Curse." Hermione nodded before pressing her hands to her face, quiet sobs echoing around the room. "Only one person is known to have survived it," Hamilton slowly, purposefully strode over to the desk of Harry Potter, who was keeping his eyes locked on either the dead cat, Hermione's whimpering cries, or both. "And he's sitting in this room."

Harry tentatively let his gaze lead up to the teacher in front of him, the scar on his forehead aching at the distant memory of a red-headed witch being struck by that same green light.

"Class Dismissed."