A month dragged by in a haze of theoretical reading. By the time the first Hogsmeade weekend arrived, frustration among the students was boiling over.
Thirty days of classes and they hadn't cast a single spell.
The Hog's Head was dim, freezing, and smelled of damp earth and goats. Grimy windows let in barely any daylight as students filtered through the door and crowded into the dusty back room.
Victor leaned against a heavy wooden pillar, arms crossed, watching the door open again and again. "Okay, that is more than I expected."
He scanned the room.
Nearly thirty people crammed between the tables, mostly fifth years — since Harry had done the quiet recruiting, the crowd was heavily Gryffindor: Fred, George, Ginny, Neville, Dean, plus a handful of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws who'd caught wind of it.
They all looked nervous, irritated, and deeply suspicious of the fact that a Slytherin — let alone a Malfoy — was standing at the front.
Victor didn't care about the stares. He stepped forward, taking control of the room.
"Before I explain why we're here." His voice cut through the murmurs, commanding silence. "Raise your hand if you hate Umbridge."
Every hand shot up. Fred and George raised two each.
Victor nodded once. "Good. Then we have a baseline." He walked slowly across the front of the room.
"For the past month the Ministry has made it clear they don't care about your education or your survival. They sent a warden to keep you docile because Fudge is terrified of Dumbledore."
"And we're supposed to just believe you?"
The voice came from the back. Zacharias Smith pushed forward, arms crossed.
"You're a Malfoy. Your dad is practically Fudge's best mate. Why should we trust you? Or Potter, for that matter? He still hasn't given us a shred of actual proof that You-Know-Who is back."
A heavy silence fell over the pub.
Victor didn't raise his voice.
"Harry doesn't owe you a bedtime story," Victor said, terrifyingly calm.
"Voldemort is back. I know because I was standing in that graveyard when he came back."
A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. Several students flinched at the name.
"I took a Killing Curse to the chest that night. I survived. The Dark Lord has returned, he's gathering his forces, and right now, because of Dolores Umbridge, every one of you is easy prey."
He turned his back on the Hufflepuff and faced the crowd.
"We aren't here to debate the Prophet or hold a support group. We're here to learn how to fight."
"If you want to sit in Umbridge's classroom and read a textbook until a Death Eater kicks your door down, leave right now."
"I won't stop you. But if you want to actually survive the war that's coming, you stay. And you practice until your bones ache."
He waited. The pub stayed silent except for wind rattling the windows. Not a single person moved toward the door.
Harry and Ron exchanged a look — vindication. Their friend had shut down the Ministry's propaganda in two minutes flat.
Hermione stepped up beside Victor, met his eyes for a brief private second — a quiet look of pride passing between them — then turned to the crowd. She pulled parchment and a quill from her bag, slapping them down on the wood.
"If you're staying," she said, voice firm, "you need to sign this."
The last student reluctantly scratched their name onto the parchment. Hermione blew on the wet ink, rolled the scroll tight, and slipped it into her bag.
Victor stepped up to the center table, resting his hands on the cracked wood.
"Good. From now on, I'll be your teacher."
A slow, dark smile spread across his face — a look that shattered his usual cold indifference.
"By the time this year is over, I'm going to make sure these defensive spells are ingrained so deeply into your bones you can cast them half-unconscious."
"You are going to sweat, you're going to bruise, and you're going to absolutely hate me. But you will survive."
A collective gulp echoed through the pub. Several students stared at Hermione's bag, clearly regretting the binding magical contract they'd just signed. Ron paled, having heard exactly how brutal Victor's summer training sessions with Draco had been.
"Where are we even going to do this?" asked Michael Corner, glancing nervously around the cramped room. "You can't fit thirty people in here, and Umbridge has Filch patrolling every empty corridor."
"Already covered," Victor said, dangerous smile lingering. "We aren't using a standard classroom. We're using a place the Ministry doesn't even know exists. A place that changes to give us exactly what we need, right when we need it."
*****
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