Chapter Six
A week had passed since the start of term before Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the fourth-year students had their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson with Professor Moody. As they took their seats, the room was abuzz with anticipation, the wooden desks creaking under the shifting weight of eager students. The smell of old parchment and the faint odor of potion ingredients from the nearby classroom lingered in the air. Just as the last student settled, the door to Moody's office slammed open, and the man himself stormed into the room, his wooden leg thumping loudly on the stone floor.
"Right, the name's Alastor Moody," he barked, his voice rough like gravel, cutting through the low murmurs of the class. "Or Professor Moody. Professor—not Mad-Eye, not Mad-Eye Moody." His magical eye whirled madly, while his normal one locked onto each student in turn. "I plan on only staying here for a year, so we have a lot to get through. Keep questions to a minimum."
Moody turned sharply, his coat swishing as he faced the blackboard next to his desk. The scratch of chalk against the board filled the room as he wrote in large, uneven letters: The Unforgivable Three. As he wrote, Harry noticed Moody's fake eye rolling up into his head, only for the professor to suddenly snap, "You'll need to find another place to hide than the underside of your desk, Mister Finnegan."
Seamus, caught in the act, turned beet red. He muttered to Dean Thomas, "No way, the old codger can see out the back of his head."
"AND I CAN HEAR ACROSS CLASSROOMS!" Moody roared, his voice reverberating off the stone walls, making Harry's ears ring. The professor hurled a small object—a crumpled bit of parchment—at Seamus, who ducked just in time.
Harry's pulse quickened, his hands gripping the edge of his desk as Moody's intensity filled the room like a storm cloud. The air seemed charged, almost electric, as the class fell into an uneasy silence.
"Right," Moody continued, his voice a growl. "Now, who can tell me how many Unforgivable Curses there are, and why they're so?"
"There are three, Professor," Hermione answered immediately, her voice steady.
"And why are they Unforgivable?" Moody asked, his tone probing, as if testing her knowledge.
"Because the use of one—or all three—will land the user a one-way ticket to Azkaban," Draco said smoothly, his voice carrying a note of practiced confidence.
"Correct." Moody's lips twisted into what might have been a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. "Now, who can tell me the first Unforgivable?"
"The Imp... Imperius Curse," Ron stammered, the words slipping out before he could stop himself.
Moody's normal eye narrowed. "Ah, you must be a Weasley."
"Yes, sir. Ron Weasley," Ron replied, shifting uncomfortably under Moody's intense gaze.
"Your daddy would know all about the Imperius Curse," Moody said, his tone darkening. "Caused a bit of trouble back during the war." His words hung in the air, heavy with implications. Then, without warning, Moody limped over to three glass jars on his desk, each containing a large, jittery spider. "Now, the Imperius Curse—or Mind Control Spell—is hard but not impossible to detect. I'll show you the effects, and afterward, you'll have a chance to resist it yourselves."
Harry watched as Moody lifted one of the jars, his stomach twisting with a mixture of curiosity and dread. The air was thick with the scent of dust and the faint, musty smell of the spiders, which clung to the glass, their legs twitching. Moody muttered an incantation, and the spider in the first jar began to dance, its spindly legs moving in a grotesque ballet as it leaped from student to student. Gasps and shrieks filled the room as the spider landed on various desks, its hairy legs brushing against arms and faces. The sensation was unnerving—like cold, prickly fingers skittering over skin.
When the spider landed on Ron's face, he went pale and fainted dead away, collapsing against his desk with a thud. A ripple of uneasy laughter broke out among the students, but it quickly died down as Moody returned the spider to its jar.
"Now, the next Unforgivable, please," Moody said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.
"The Cruciatus Curse," Neville's voice trembled as he spoke, barely more than a whisper.
"The Pain Inflicting Spell," Moody confirmed, his tone softer but no less intense. "Longbottom, is it?"
"Ye...Yes, sir," Neville stammered, his face ashen.
Moody's expression grew even grimmer. "Trained your father among others. Damn shame for your parents to end up the way they did. To some, death would be a blessing." The words were like a physical blow, and Harry saw Neville's knuckles turn white as he gripped the edge of his desk. "I'll spare you all from the effects of the Pain-Inflicting Spell. Harming children doesn't sit well with me."
Moody leaned against his desk, his walking staff clutched in one hand as if the weight of the past was pressing down on him. The room was eerily silent, the only sound the soft crackling of the torches lining the walls, their flames casting flickering shadows across Moody's scarred face.
"Now, as for the last Unforgivable," Moody continued, straightening up with a grunt. "Who would like to tell the class about it?"
"The Killing Curse," Draco said, his voice colder than usual. "Or Avada Kedavra. It has no counter-curse and cannot be blocked by most magical means. Your best defense is to move out of its path or conjure a solid object to block or redirect the spell."
"Ten points to Slytherin for that answer, Mister Malfoy," Moody said, his expression unreadable. "Your father would be proud, as would your godmother."
A murmur of surprise rippled through the class at Moody's words, but before anyone could dwell on it, Moody clapped his hands together, the sharp sound jolting them back to attention. "Now, everyone form a line," he ordered, his magical eye spinning wildly again. "We'll have some practice resisting the Imperius Curse to end the lesson."
As the students hesitantly formed a line, Harry's heart pounded in his chest, the taste of adrenaline sharp on his tongue. The lesson wasn't over yet, and he had a feeling it was about to get even more intense.
~ Scene Break ~
After the lesson ended, the atmosphere in the classroom buzzed with a mix of relief and tension. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and the faint, acrid smell of fear—emotions that had permeated the room during their attempts to resist the Imperius Curse. Harry's head was still spinning from the intensity of the experience, his senses heightened by the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. He could still feel the echo of the curse's pull, a whisper in the back of his mind that he had managed to push away.
As they all began to file out, Harry noticed Neville lingering behind, his shoulders slumped and his usual cheerful expression replaced with one of quiet frustration. The soft murmur of voices filled the corridor outside, but inside, the silence was heavy, broken only by the shuffling of feet and the occasional clatter of a chair being pushed back.
"Neville, you did great," Harry said, trying to inject some encouragement into his voice as he approached his friend. But Neville barely responded, his gaze fixed on the floor, his face pale and drawn.
Harry felt a pang of concern in his chest, the weight of Neville's mood pressing down on him like a damp fog. He reached out, his hand hovering uncertainly over Neville's arm, but before he could say anything more, a familiar, gruff voice cut through the silence.
"Longbottom," Moody called out, his tone surprisingly gentle despite the roughness of his voice. The professor's mismatched eyes—one spinning wildly, the other focused intently—were locked onto Neville. "Come with me, lad."
Moody's scarred hand, rough and calloused, settled on Neville's shoulder with a reassuring weight. The contact seemed to steady Neville, who looked up at Moody with wide eyes.
"We'll have a cup of tea," Moody continued, his voice softer now, almost fatherly. The scent of the classroom—chalk, old wood, and the lingering remnants of magic—seemed to fade as Moody spoke. "And I'll tell you some stories about your old man. That'll cheer you right up."
Harry watched as Neville's expression shifted, a flicker of something—hope, perhaps—crossing his face. The prospect of hearing stories about his father seemed to spark a light in Neville's eyes, dim but growing.
"See you later, Neville," Harry said, giving his friend a small smile as he stepped back, the sound of his footsteps muted against the worn stone floor.
Neville nodded, still looking a bit dazed, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. As Harry turned to join Ron and Hermione, who were waiting for him by the door, he felt a strange mix of emotions—relief that Neville would be okay, but also a lingering unease about the lesson they had just endured.
The three of them exited the room, the corridor outside filled with the distant hum of students' voices and the faint clatter of footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The cool air of the castle brushed against Harry's face, a welcome contrast to the stifling tension of the classroom. But even as they walked away, the weight of what they had learned lingered, a shadow that would follow them for the rest of the day.
~ Scene Break ~
At dinner, the warm, savory scents of roasted meat and freshly baked bread filled the Great Hall, mingling with the low hum of chatter and the clatter of utensils. Harry was midway through a bite of mashed potatoes when Neville slid into the seat beside him, a stack of books cradled in his arms. The leather covers of the volumes had a worn, well-loved look, and the faint smell of old parchment and ink wafted from them.
Curious, Harry glanced at the title of the topmost book, its letters embossed in faded gold. Historia Plantarum by Theophrastus, translated into Latin by Theodore Gaza. The title alone made Harry's head spin slightly—it sounded ancient and incredibly dense.
"Interesting books, Neville," Harry said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Are they all about plants?"
"Yeah," Neville replied, a hint of excitement in his voice as he looked at the stack. "Professor Moody helped me get them. He said they might come in handy for the future."
"Cool," Harry replied, nodding appreciatively before returning his attention to his plate, the rich taste of gravy and tender meat melting in his mouth.
After dinner, the students filed out of the Great Hall, the evening air cool against their flushed cheeks as they made their way back to their respective common rooms. The Gryffindor common room was warm and cozy, the fire crackling in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. The faint scent of burning wood mixed with the comforting smell of old books and the subtle aroma of Hermione's peppermint tea.
Harry and Ron settled down at one of the tables, their Divination textbooks spread out before them. The firelight glinted off the parchment as they worked on their homework, though "worked" might have been too strong a word.
"Okay," Harry said, dipping his quill into the ink, "on Thursday, I'll travel to a new country and ride a white steed." He scribbled the prediction down, the scratch of the quill on parchment the only sound breaking the quiet of the room.
"Nice," Ron said, grinning as he followed suit. "Okay, on Thursday, I'll meet the girl who will be my future wife and the mother of my children." His tone was light, but there was a hint of wistfulness behind the humor.
Across the room, Neville was quietly immersed in his new books, the pages rustling softly as he turned them. The firelight caught the edge of the gold leaf on the book's pages, making them shimmer faintly.
The door to the common room creaked open, and Fred and George slipped in, their heads bent close together as they whispered animatedly. The twins' presence was like a sudden spark of energy, their mischievous grins giving away that they were up to something, but before Harry or Ron could ask, they were gone, disappearing into one of the far corners of the room.
As Harry and Ron began packing up their homework, Hermione stormed into the room, her face flushed with the remnants of a heated discussion.
"I just had a nice long chat with Tracey, Daphne, and Pansy," she announced, dropping into a chair beside them. "We talked about the treatment of house-elves, and I've decided to drop my plans to start a club for their rights."
Harry and Ron exchanged surprised looks. Ron, already setting up a chessboard to pass the time, raised an eyebrow at Hermione but said nothing. Before they could ask for more details, a familiar flutter of wings drew their attention to the window.
Hedwig swooped in, her feathers ruffled from the evening wind, and gracefully dropped a letter into Harry's lap before settling on his shoulder. The soft touch of her talons against his skin was a comforting reminder of her loyalty.
"What does Sirius want?" Hermione asked, her eyes full of concern as she watched Harry open the letter.
Harry scanned the contents quickly, his heart sinking as he read Sirius's words. "He says he's coming back to Britain. He's heard rumors that Voldemort's followers are gathering again, and he wants to help."
Hermione's face paled slightly. "But what about Fudge and Umbridge? They'll try to arrest him the moment he gets close to you."
Harry knew she was right. The Ministry would be out for blood if they caught wind of Sirius's return. The thought of his godfather being captured filled him with dread, but he knew Sirius wouldn't stay away, not when there was danger.
With a heavy heart, Harry grabbed a piece of parchment and quickly scrawled a warning for Sirius, urging him to be careful. The tip of his quill scratched loudly against the parchment in his haste. Attaching the note to Hedwig's leg, he gave her a gentle stroke.
"Take this to Sirius, girl," he whispered. "And be safe."
Hedwig hooted softly, her amber eyes meeting his for a moment before she spread her wings and took off into the night. Harry watched her until she was just a small, white dot against the dark sky, his stomach twisting with worry.
As he made his way up to the boys' dormitory, the wooden stairs creaked softly under his feet. Pushing open the door to the fourth-year section, he headed to his bed, the weight of the day pressing down on him. The familiar scent of his pillow and the warm comfort of his bed offered little solace as he lay down, staring up at the canopy.
Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something dark and ominous was on the horizon, not just for him, but for everyone he cared about. As sleep finally claimed him, the last image in his mind was of Sirius, alone and in danger, with the shadow of Voldemort's return looming ever closer.
