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At the end of the staff meeting, Mad-Eye Moody—who had shown up late to the feast—polished off every last pastry on the table, drained an entire jug of wine, and let out a long, rumbling belch.
"Dark wizards don't change," he growled casually. His electric-blue eye fixed straight on Wormtail. "And neither does this stinking rat. Keep an eye on him at school. Don't let the little bastard tip over the soup pot."
As he spoke, Moody's scarred face stayed relaxed, but that blue eye never blinked. "Punish him when he needs it. Cruciatus if he steps out of line. Sectumsempra if he gets cocky. Slice off a finger or two—or the whole hand if he still doesn't learn."
"Right now, he should get a taste!" Moody barked. He suddenly grabbed the silver flask and slammed it down hard on the table.
---
Wormtail jolted awake, heart hammering like he'd just fallen off a cliff.
He wasn't inside the silver flask anymore. The staff meeting had ended hours ago. He was lying in the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's private quarters, tangled in warm blankets instead of Moody's rough grip.
A few glowing embers still smoldered in the fireplace. The room was spacious and cozy. Moody's battered trunk sat against the wall. On the desk lay a lock of gray hair and several vials of Polyjuice Potion—Snape's handiwork.
The nightmare was already fading, but Moody's terrifying scarred face still lingered in his mind. Wormtail rolled over, opened the window, and let in the cool night air.
The storm had passed. Thick lead-gray clouds had cracked open, letting pale Scottish September light spill through. The damp, fresh breeze cleared his head.
No more hiding as a rat. No more terror of Aurors or Voldemort. He still had to wear Moody's face, but McGonagall and Levent knew the truth, so he didn't have to stay constantly on edge.
Despite the nightmare, it was the most peaceful sleep he'd had in years—maybe even more restful than the nights he'd spent hiding at the Burrow.
"Hogwarts… Hogwarts…"
Peter Pettigrew breathed in the clean air greedily.
---
Great Hall, breakfast time.
Melvin chewed on half a slice of buttered toast while forcefully opening that morning's Daily Prophet. The loud rustle of pages drew glances from the other staff.
He sat between two people who needed careful watching so they wouldn't slip up: "Headmaster Dumbledore" (actually Aberforth) on one side and "Mad-Eye Moody" (actually Wormtail) on the other.
Luckily, Dumbledore had always been eccentric, and Aberforth had some practice pretending last term. Moody already looked like a freak, so even if he acted a little off, the students probably wouldn't think twice.
"Sir, I've got Defense Against the Dark Arts first period this morning," Peter whispered, his voice tight with nerves. "I have no idea how to teach."
"Didn't the real Moody leave any lesson plans?" Melvin asked, eyes still on the newspaper.
"I… I didn't dare ask him. He would've turned me into a teaching aid."
Melvin sighed. Peter's plate was barely touched. The man was trying too hard to sell Moody's gruff persona and looked terrified.
Peter pulled out the hip flask and took a swig. He knew the Polyjuice was wearing off—he had about fifty minutes left before he had to refresh it.
He frowned. Moody's taste was awful. "I looked through the textbooks for every year. I thought I could just follow them and teach straight from the book, but that doesn't feel right. Moody wouldn't do normal lessons. It wouldn't match his crazy personality."
"Then teach like a crazy person. Think about how Moody would do it."
"I can't. I'm not used to everyone staring at me. I just want to hide."
Melvin flipped the page and glanced at Aberforth, who was wolfing down a sandwich on the other side. This was giving him a headache. After a moment he said quietly:
"For the younger years, stick to the textbook and let them read on their own. For the older years, get aggressive. Teach them some practical dark curses and black magic… especially focus on Harry. Scare him. Make him afraid. Teach them the Unforgivable Curses."
"Unforgiv—?" Peter sucked in a sharp breath, his voice rising. "Even the Killing Curse?"
"Not only teach it—demonstrate it in front of them."
Melvin lowered the newspaper and turned, smiling faintly. "Avada Kedavra. You should be familiar with that one, right?"
Peter's hand shook so badly he nearly dropped the flask. He wasn't used to Moody's missing finger; it felt like Parkinson's or some old dark-magic injury that never healed.
He didn't know what to say. Face twisted in misery, he finally muttered, "I don't have Harry's class until Thursday."
---
"Ministry in Fresh Chaos"
"Trouble at the Ministry isn't over. The Minister and Senior Undersecretary have been sacked. Two riots at the Quidditch World Cup final. A missing female Ministry employee finally returns from holiday. Since last year the Ministry has faced constant criticism. Yesterday, thanks to Arthur Weasley of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office and retired Auror Alastor Moody, the Ministry found itself embarrassed once again…"
The front page showed several dustbins chasing terrified Muggles. One spewed melon rinds and fish bones; another snapped its lid open and shut like jaws. A group of Muggle police officers waved guns in panic, unsure whether to shoot. Arthur Weasley stood in the middle looking frantic.
As Britain's most influential wizarding newspaper, the Daily Prophet was read by many students. The ridiculous scene made them burst out laughing.
Hufflepuff and Gryffindor students tried to stay polite, but the Slytherin table made no effort to hide their loud sneers.
"Ha! Pure-blood shame, that is," Pansy Parkinson said loudly on purpose. "Honestly, the Sacred Twenty-Eight shouldn't even include the Weasleys. Don't you agree, Draco? Look at their house. You can't even call that a house."
Draco gave her a cool sideways glance and said nothing. He wiped his mouth slowly with a napkin and stood up to leave.
If this had been first-year Draco, he might have joined in. But he wasn't a ten-year-old anymore. He'd already done business representing the Malfoys with the Longbottoms and taken lessons from Professor Levent.
Now that he understood how power and profit actually worked—and was starting to take over family affairs—he had no interest in childish bullying games.
The Malfoy family's influence had grown after the Magical History Epic films. He had insider information about the Triwizard Tournament and needed to practice hard to prepare.
But at the Gryffindor table, Ron was shaking with rage. "That bloody Parkinson!"
Ginny's comeback was sharper. "Parkinson! You think anyone wants to be on the same list as you? Death Eater families, criminal families—where are your aunt and uncle right now? Still rotting in Azkaban?"
Harry looked up, startled, at the red-haired girl. Ginny froze for a second, then turned away, cheeks flushed pink.
"Where are your relatives?"
"In Azkaban?"
George and Fred repeated the lines, cheering their sister's perfect burn. The two sides immediately launched into a full shouting match that drew the whole Hall's attention.
There weren't many adult witches and wizards left in the Hall. The Heads of House had already handed out timetables for third- and fifth-years. Most professors had finished breakfast and returned to their offices or classrooms to prepare for the first lessons of the new year.
Melvin finished eating and stood to leave.
Peter limped along beside him. The noise from the students was getting louder. He didn't want to get dragged into it. He'd seen this kind of shouting match back in his own school days—but back then he'd always hidden behind James and Sirius.
A clever rat knew how to avoid danger.
"You're not Peter Pettigrew right now. You're Mad-Eye Moody. You can't just slink away. Think about what he would do if he saw this." Melvin turned, blocked his path, and left him with that advice.
Peter stopped, face twisted in distress. He wrestled with himself for a long moment, then turned back. Pansy was already reaching for her wand. He forced a scowl and barked in Moody's rough voice:
"Oi! None of that, witch!"
"I hate cowards who attack from behind. That's dirty and low. Pure cowardice… Don't ever do it again! Got it?"
---
The new school year of 1994 had barely started, and the Quidditch World Cup was still fresh on everyone's lips, but fresh gossip spread like wildfire—from the Great Hall to the Astronomy Tower, from the Black Lake to the grounds. Everyone was talking about the latest school news:
"The Quidditch House Cup has been canceled. The Triwizard—sorry, Quadwizard—Tournament opens in October."
"George and Fred are openly selling joke items that aren't on Filch's banned list. You can play with them right in the corridors, even in front of the caretaker."
"The retired Auror brought back as Defense professor is a real hardliner. First day and he already turned a student into a rat."
"…"
Thursday afternoon, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked along the castle corridor with the rest of the Gryffindor fourth-years. They'd finished lunch and were heading to Defense Against the Dark Arts for Moody's first lesson.
"George and Fred said Moody's classes are brilliant," Harry said, hugging his textbook The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. "They had him on Monday."
"Of course they're brilliant. He's a retired Auror. The real deal."
Ron was especially excited. That morning in the Hall, Moody had turned Parkinson into a rat and hung her upside down as punishment.
"This year's Defense professor won't be a disaster. It's Mad-Eye Moody—the guy dark wizards are terrified of!"
He rubbed his hands together. "If McGonagall hadn't shown up and stopped it that morning, I could've enjoyed it a bit longer."
Hermione frowned slightly. She hated Parkinson's behavior too, but she didn't approve of that kind of teaching.
"It's wrong. Not just the professor punishing students, but the casual cruelty toward house-elves too. The wizarding world's social system is a mess… Maybe I should write a special report for the Prophet."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Isn't that what Professor Levent's already doing?"
The two started bickering. Harry's ears hurt. He was about to say something when he spotted two professors walking toward them side by side. He quickly tugged on both their sleeves.
"Quiet—McGonagall and Levent are coming."
Hermione and Ron shut up at once. They nodded politely. The professors nodded back. As the groups passed, they could still hear the tail end of the professors' conversation.
"Outrageous! Absolutely outrageous! Hogwarts hasn't seen this kind of thing in decades. Using Transfiguration to punish students—Professor Dippet banned it when he was Headmaster…"
Hearing McGonagall, Hermione shot Ron a triumphant look and lifted her chin.
Ron snorted and dropped the argument.
Ever since her summer internship at the Prophet, Hermione had started sounding like the bossy first-year bookworm again. She corrected anything she thought was wrong and backed it up with sources until you couldn't argue.
The professors' voices faded as they walked away.
"…Stop nagging, woman. It was a special situation. We needed the disguise."
"The classroom was wrong too. Students have already complained to me. After I finish the budget meeting, I'm coming back to see exactly how he's teaching!"
Watching the professors disappear, Harry tilted his head, puzzled. "Is McGonagall going to sit in on his class?"
Disguise? What disguise?
He had a strange feeling that all the professors were acting weird this year. First Dumbledore told him not to get involved with Voldemort. Then Snape, who had been slightly less horrible, had gone back to targeting Gryffindors. He didn't even have to brew Wolfsbane for Lupin anymore, yet his temper seemed worse than ever.
"Stop daydreaming, Harry. The bell's ringing."
---
Twenty minutes later, third-floor classroom.
The long-awaited Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. The fourth-years had already heard the older students rave about the new professor—a real expert who actually knew his stuff. Even though Moody looked terrifying, students still crammed the front rows.
"I received a letter from Professor Lupin describing what you covered last term. You've learned a decent amount about dealing with dark creatures—Red Caps, Hinkypunks, Grindylows…"
"But when it comes to fighting dark wizards, you're nowhere near ready."
"Who can tell me which curses receive the harshest sentences and the most severe punishments?"
"Five points to Gryffindor for our resident know-it-all… Correct. The Unforgivable Curses!"
The very first lesson was heavy material.
Defense Against the Dark Arts had to show students real dark magic. The Unforgivable Curses were the mountain you couldn't avoid. The professor had a perfectly reasonable excuse to demonstrate them.
But Professor McGonagall, listening outside the door, could not accept it. The Deputy Headmistress was shaking with fury, her glasses flashing with rage.
"In all my years at Hogwarts… never… never…"
"How dare he… those are Unforgivable Curses…"
"If I hadn't come to observe today, I would never have known…"
She was about to storm in and stop the lesson when Melvin reached out and gently pulled her back, leading her a short distance down the corridor.
"Madam, this was my suggestion."
McGonagall stared at him, demanding an explanation.
"Let them see it. Hogwarts isn't a greenhouse. The storm is coming."
McGonagall paused. Her lips pressed into a thin line. After a long silence she glanced at the students inside—pale-faced and terrified—and quietly turned away.
---