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SD: CH158 - The Imperius Curse
🕑 Added 2025-03-26 03:01:42 +0000 UTCRain lashed against the windows of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom like an overzealous drummer in a bad mood, setting a dreary tone that promised the day would spiral down from 'tolerable' straight to 'why did I even get out of bed'. Moody, our resident purveyor of doom and gloom, had already treated us to a heartwarming display of the Killing and Cruciatus curses, complete with commentary that could depress a dementor.
Now, he stood at the front like an ominous cloud promising a storm, his magical eye swiveling like it was on neighborhood watch, possibly looking out for late sneezes or unauthorized thoughts.
"Now," he barked, his staff thudding against the floor with a sound that made Parvati jump like she'd been electrocuted, "we've covered death. We've dabbled in pain. Let’s graduate to control."
Perfect. Discussing control in front of Amelia Bones, Emmeline Vance, and Hestia Jones. With Amelia's soul refurbished by Voldemort's DIY necromancy kit, Emmeline twisted up by the Lecherous Shrine and an Imperius curse, and Hestia as the enthusiastic spell-caster, it was a classroom dynamic that could only inspire the warmest feelings.
Moody was shaping up to be less of a teacher and more of an ancient warlord as he delivered his grim lecture. The room's dim light threw his scarred face into shadow, making him look like he might start a battle right after class—or maybe just fail us all.
"You’ve been introduced to the Cruciatus Curse," Moody growled, pacing like a caged beast, each step punctuated by the solid thunk of his wooden leg. "Pain so intense, you’d trade your mother to make it stop. You’ve seen the Killing Curse—swift, clean, no messy leftovers. But the Imperius Curse..."
He paused for dramatic effect, his mismatched eyes locking onto the class with the intensity of a tax inspector. "The Imperius doesn't just mess with your body. It plays house with your will, renovates your choices, flips your identity for a profit. Under its spell, you think you’re free."
With a flick of his wand, a spider ambled out from under a desk, suddenly ballooning in size at his command.
Ron squeaked out a protest that died under Moody's glare.
"One word, one flick, and you’re mine. All of you." His wand twitched, and the spider froze, then sprang into the air, doing a backflip that would score a solid ten in the Animagus Olympics. "Imperio."
The spider landed, did a little jig that would have been adorable if it weren’t so terrifying, demonstrating the curse's lighter side. "Looks fun, doesn’t it? But what if I told it to leap from a window, or tickle a dragon’s nostril?"
Moody continued, the tone of his voice suggesting he'd only be too happy to demonstrate either scenario. "The first bloke to document the Imperius was Ikh’valar of Haradneth. Ever heard of him?" He eyed us like he was considering assigning homework on it.
Silence. Even Hermione didn’t dare.
"Ikh’valar was a charmer, really. Used the Imperius to turn his enemies into party planners for his coronation. His reign lasted longer than most celebrity marriages, all without lifting a wand for violence. Why bother, when he had everyone else lifting theirs for him?"
The spider, now dancing a samba, seemed blissfully unaware of its role in our existential crisis. "Imperio doesn’t need to shout," Moody muttered, almost thoughtfully. "It’s the whisper you can’t help agreeing with. Makes you betray your best friend with a smile. And it’ll feel like the best idea you’ve ever had."
I shifted uncomfortably, catching Hermione’s eye. She was scribbling notes that would likely turn into a dissertation on ethical spell use by dinner. I, meanwhile, was pondering the unnerving ease with which Moody described mental hijacking. Thanks to the Defiant perk, my mind was a fortress, but the others...
"And here’s the kicker," Moody concluded, leaning forward as if to share a secret. "It feels good. That’s the real horror. It’s peace sold at the price of your soul. Want to resist? Better know yourself better than you know your Potions textbook."
As he wrapped up, the rain hammered harder, as if desperate to drown out the lesson. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to applaud Moody for his teaching flair or run for the hills. Maybe both. Either way, Defence Against the Dark Arts had never been so ironically educational.
“At the start of this special session, I warned you that this class would be about gaining familiarity with the Unforgivables. I have done all I can to warn you against the killing curse and the cruciatus. However, with the Imperius, we will go a tad deeper. With the upcoming tournament, Hogwarts will become a hub of activity, and despite my best attempts, it is impossible to say when and where danger might find you. Remember, one little flick, one single incantation, and you could be the one casting a severing hex at your best friend behind their back. Or perhaps imperius you to go home and murder your entire family in their sleep. Or perhaps dance on one foot on the roof of the Astronomy tower until you drop —”
Albus Dumbledore cleared his throat loudly.
“I think they get the point, Alastor,” said Amelia grimly.
“For that reason, all of you shall undergo a basic Imperius resistance training. With the DMLE Director’s order, I shall cast the Imperius curse upon each of you and you shall attempt to recognize its effects, and fight my will. Post that, the Obliviator Vance shall scan your psyche for any residual effects. Quite naturally, this part is compulsory —”
Hermione raised her hand.
“—and anyone attempting to cite violations of human rights in front of you will find themselves sitting in front of those hit-wizards over there, who’ll drop Veritaserum down your throat, interrogate and verify that you don’t have any ulterior motives or worse, not under the Imperius. Like I always say, CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”
Hermione slowly withdrew her hand.
Moody thumped his staff on the floor again, snapping us out of the collective daze he’d left us in.
“Now,” he growled, “Knowing isn’t the same as doing. And let me tell you, kids, resisting the Imperius Curse takes more than guts. It takes control. It takes knowing exactly who you are, and most of you don’t.”
That wasn’t the most inspiring motivational speech I’d ever heard, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. (That honor still belonged to Lockhart.) I glanced at Ron, who was doing his best to look anywhere but at Moody, and Hermione, who was clutching her quill like it might defend her from impending doom.
“Volunteers,” Moody barked, his magical eye locking onto each of us in turn. “Step forward if you think you’ve got the guts to resist. And if you’re scared, well, at least you’ll learn what it feels like to lose control. That’s a lesson in itself.”
The room went silent, save for the rain hammering against the windows. I half-expected someone to faint, but no one moved. Even Neville, who’d faced more than his fair share of terror, was staring resolutely at his desk.
“No one?” Moody’s lips twisted into something that might have been a smile if it wasn’t so terrifying. “Not a single one of you brave enough to give it a go? Or curious? Or diligent or simply ambitious enough to defy the power of an Unforgivable?”
I don’t know what possessed me to stand up first. Maybe it was a Gryffindor thing. Maybe it was a ‘let’s get this over with before he decides to volunteer me’ thing. Either way, my legs carried me forward before my brain could catch up. I noted the strain of my women’s faces and did my best not to reflect their anguish.
“Well, well,” Moody said, his tone a mix of approval and amusement. “Potter, of course. Always the first to throw himself into danger. Let’s see if you’ve got the mind to back up that courage.”
I found myself at the front of the class, feeling like the main course at a dinner party no one wanted to attend. Moody loomed over me, his magical eye doing its unnerving, frenetic dance while his normal one fixed on me with unsettling intensity.
"Here's the scoop, Potter," he growled, his wand at the ready like a duelist's blade. "I'm going to cast the Imperius. I’ll try to overwrite your free will, plant a few easy commands in that stubborn head of yours. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to resist. Sounds good?"
Not particularly, but I nodded. What else could I do?
"Brilliant." His voice dripped with a kind of glee usually reserved for villains in a bad spy novel. "Ready? Imperio."
The spell hit me with the gentleness of a sledgehammer to the psyche. Suddenly, my body slackened, my mind floated free, and I was swept up in a current of unadulterated bliss. Worries? Gone. Stress? What stress? It was just me and a sea of serene peace.
But then, like a glitch on an app, the Shrine’s influence snapped back, leaving a psychic lifeline dangling at my fingertips.
Unbeknownst to Moody, whose voice now slithered into my ears, smooth and coaxing, I had a secret weapon. “Surrender your wand."
In the books, this was a pivotal showdown—’my’ first grand display of mental fortitude. If I resisted, Dumbledore might try other, less pleasant means to pry secrets from my brain. If I capitulated...
Well, capitulating had its charms.
With all the theatricality of a seasoned actor, I unfurled my legs, my hands balling into fists as though preparing for a dramatic revelation. Moody repeated his command, a trace of anticipation in his voice.
Time to drop the curtain on this performance.
My legs carried me forward, each step measured and laden with feigned surrender. Hestia’s gaze sharpened, a silent sentinel aware of the stakes. I reached Moody, turned to face him squarely, and held my wand, hilt-side, facing Moody.
Take that, master of mind games.
Moody blinked, the impact of my 'surrender' visibly deflating his expectations. Perhaps he had hoped for something more dramatic, or at least, some form of resistance. The man shared a glance with Albus before quickly cancelling the spell.
When I straightened, there was an almost imperceptible pause as Moody digested my response. His voice, when it finally broke the quiet, carried a note of grudging respect tinged with suspicion. "Well then, Potter," he said slowly, "seems you’re not quite the open book one might expect."
I tilted my head, feigning confusion but internally gauging his reaction. Had I played the obedient puppet too convincingly?
“But Professor,” said Daphne of all people, raising her hand. “He just followed your directions, didn’t he? Doesn’t that mean he’s vulnerable to the curse?”
Moody tapped his chin thoughtfully with his wand. “Is he now?” His eyes flickered at me, as I turned to return to my seat. “Bother, let us now demonstrate some interesting applications of the Imperius curse.” His magical eye spun like it was auditing the room, catching anyone daring enough to look less than completely terrified.
He pointed his wand at Crabbe, who looked about as thrilled as a muggle on a broomstick — high, dry and desperate to get off. “You, up front. What is your name?”
“Cra— Vincent Crabbe.”
Moody’s lips twisted. “Crabbe. Let’s have you do something simple. Ever done a backflip?”
Crabbe’s expression soured by the second as if he had bitten into a lemon thinking it was an apple. Crabbe was easily the healthiest among the lot, and definitely out of shape. He had far greater chances of breaking himself in half than doing a successful backflip.
“Perfect,” said Moody. “Imperio.”
The change in the boy was instant. His usual confused demeanor melted away, replaced by a serene, almost blissful smile. Then, fluid as a professional gymnast, he executed a perfect backflip. The class looked at him with a mix of awe and shock, only for it to turn to horror as he fucked up the last flip and unceremoniously dropped down to the floor, severely spraining himself. Despite the obvious injury, that blissful expression refused to fade from his features.
Instantly, Moody cut off the curse, and one of the hit-wizards cast a stasis charm on the boy, before taking him out of the class, likely to the infirmary.
“Note, class. Mr. Crabbe has never done a backflip in his life. Yet, when I mentally sent the image of an athlete performing a backflip through the Imperius link, he was instantly able to copy it. What does that tell you?”
“That he’s better at following than using his brain for once?” cajoled Ron.
Several people laughed.
“Funny, Weasley,” growled Moody. “You’re up next.”
And just like that, the grin vanished from Ron’s face.
“A sufficiently skilled caster can compel his victims to perform physical activities that they have never done before. It can be something as simple as a memory of watching someone backflip.”
“But professor,” interrupted Padma Patil. “Crabbe didn’t do it perfectly. He failed to do the last flip properly.”
“Yes, and that shows the limitations of the curse. Even with a perfect casting, and an equally perfect memory, the victim’s physical limitations will still affect the result to a degree. As any healer can tell you, our bodies have a pain threshold, and we naturally operate below that threshold. It is why when you punch someone, it is always hard enough to make your knuckles hurt, but never hard enough to shatter your finger bones or dislocate your wrist joint. What the Imperius curse does is that it desensitizes your brain to your pain threshold, allowing you to function through injuries that would incapacitate you normally. Mind you, it does not reduce the pain, but simply keeps the victim’s brain from processing it while under the imperius. Quite naturally, imperius victims are more resilient and capable in combat or other demanding situations. In fact, the Death Eaters were supposedly put under the Imperius curse before they were sent on a mission by the Dark Lord You-Know-Who, just to ensure that their performance remained optimal.”
The entire class fell silent. I glanced at Hestia, who firmly avoided me.
“Weasley,” Moody barked. “What are your electives?”
“Err… divination, and magical creatures, sir.”
“As expected. You’re going to cast a runic privacy ward,” Moody said, as though he’d just asked Ron to tie his shoes.
“A—what?” Ron spluttered. “I don’t even know how to—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Moody interrupted. “That’s the beauty of the curse. You don’t need to know. I’ll give you the knowledge. All you have to do is do it.”
This was a new twist. Up until now, Moody’s commands had been about physical actions. Now he was talking about channeling magical theory, something Ron had definitely not signed up for. I leaned forward, half out of curiosity and half out of the sheer inevitability that something was about to go very, very wrong.
Moody raised his wand, and his voice dropped into that unsettling tone he used when casting the curse. “Imperio.”
Ron froze for a moment, his shoulders slackening, his face going blank. Then, with the eerie fluidity of someone moving against their own will, he raised his wand and began tracing glowing runes in the air.
To anyone else, it might have looked impressive. Intricate symbols appeared, their light bright and pulsing, as though they were alive. To me, it looked like a disaster waiting to happen. Ron’s hand moved with deliberate precision, guided by Moody’s knowledge of the ward, but there was something… off. His grip was too tight, his movements too rigid, like he was sketching from a memory he didn’t fully understand.
The runes hung in the air, shimmering and fragile. I held my breath, waiting for something miraculous or catastrophic—or maybe both.
“Now hold it,” Moody muttered, still controlling Ron’s movements. The runes flickered as Ron tried to stabilize them. His hand trembled, and I saw the moment it all went wrong. The glow dimmed, then surged too brightly. The runes shifted, wobbled, and then—
Boom!
The entire ward collapsed in on itself with a loud pop, like a magical balloon bursting. A puff of black soot exploded from the runes, hitting Ron square in the face. He stumbled back, coughing and waving his arms, his freckled features now entirely obscured by a fine layer of smoky residue.
The class erupted into laughter. Even Hermione snorted, though she quickly covered her mouth and tried to look sympathetic. Tonks actually clapped, and Moody? Moody just stood there, looking entirely unsurprised.
Ron wiped at his face, smearing the soot further and making himself look like he’d just crawled out of a chimney. “What—what happened?” he sputtered, his voice slightly higher than usual.
Moody released the curse and stomped toward him, his magical eye swiveling to inspect the ruined runes. “What happened, Weasley,” he said, his voice sharp enough to cut glass, “is that the Imperius Curse gave you the knowledge of how to cast the ward, but not the skill or experience to pull it off.”
Ron blinked at him, soot still dripping off his nose. “But… I did what you told me to.”
“Exactly,” Moody said. “You drew the runes. You channeled the magic. But magic isn’t just about knowing the incantation or the gestures. It’s about finesse. Balance. Understanding the flow of power.”
He jabbed his staff at the faint remnants of the runic ward. “You can’t fake that, Weasley, not even with the Imperius Curse. I could make you think you’re an expert wardcaster, but if your body doesn’t know the movements or your magic doesn’t know the flow, it’ll fail. Every. Single. Time.”
Ron nodded slowly, though he still looked confused. I couldn’t blame him. Having your face exploded by your own attempt at spellwork wasn’t exactly a common learning experience.
Moody turned back to the class, his expression grim. “And that’s the limitation of the Imperius Curse. The caster can channel their knowledge into the victim, force them to perform actions they wouldn’t normally understand, but there’s no guarantee of success. If the victim doesn’t have the skill, the control, or the magical aptitude, they’ll fail. Maybe spectacularly.”
“Like Ron,” Hermione muttered under her breath. I elbowed her.
Moody’s magical eye swiveled around the class. “Weasley’s lucky. A collapsed ward is just an inconvenience. But imagine this scenario: you’re under the Imperius Curse. The caster forces you to try a spell you’re not prepared for—Apparition, high-level transfiguration, dangerous curses. You fail, and the failure costs you your life—or worse, someone else’s.”
The laughter in the room died immediately. Even Tonks, who had been smirking a moment ago, sobered. Ron sat down heavily, still swiping at his soot-covered face.
“And that,” Moody growled, “is why dark wizards don’t rely on the Imperius Curse for everything. Sure, it’s powerful. Sure, it’s effective. But it’s not foolproof. If they want precision, they use loyal followers. If they want chaos, then they use Imperio.”
After Ron’s runic disaster (which, judging by the lingering smell of soot, had left a permanent mark on both his pride and the room), Moody decided to crank the Imperius Curse up to eleven.
“All right,” he growled, his magical eye sweeping the room. “If you’re going to learn how to resist this curse, you need to understand how it feels. And if you can’t resist, well…” He shrugged, his gnarled face twisting into something resembling a grin. “At least you’ll entertain the rest of us.”
The class collectively paled, but there was no stopping him. Moody was a one-man chaos machine, and we were his very unwilling audience. One by one, he called us up, put us under the curse, and turned us into unwilling participants in his magical comedy show. I wasn’t sure if this was for training or his personal amusement, but either way, it was equal parts terrifying and hilarious.
Justin, always polite and well-spoken, marched up next like he was heading to tea with the Queen. Moody cast the curse, and the next thing we knew, Justin was belting out an old pureblood witching song called "My Sweet Hippogriff Heart."
His voice was shockingly good—opera-level, even—but the lyrics were absurdly archaic:
"My love doth soar on wings so fleet,
Through fog and mire my soul doth meet..."
“That’s… disturbingly accurate,” Lavender Brown muttered. “My gran loves that song! But Justin’s a muggleborn. How does he even know that song?”
“Doesn’t,” Moody said gruffly. “The Imperius channels the caster’s knowledge. He’s singing it because I know it.”
Justin finished with a bow, utterly oblivious to the stunned faces around him.
Lavender’s curiosity ended sooner than she thought, for Moody selected her next, and she immediately snapped to attention like she was in a military parade.
“LEFT! RIGHT! LEFT!” she shouted, marching back and forth with terrifying precision. “TEN-HUT!”
Seamus Finnegan was turned into my personal hype man. After all the ‘Harry is immortal’ thing, it was oddly satisfying to see him cheering for me in his typical Irish accent. Theodore Nott had turned into a mime — no speaking, just exaggerated gestures and pretend rope-pulling. Pansy Parkinson strutted to the front of the room, shaking her hips and holding two invisible pompoms, cheering for Gryffindor. Malfoy’s jaw had hit the floor, and Pansy looked ready to curse Moody into oblivion the moment the curse lifted.
Next up was Daphne Greengrass, and for the first time, I straightened up, wondering exactly how this one would turn out to be. Daphne slowly stood up, exuding an aura of ‘I’m too good for this’. It was just as fake as everything else about this girl, which made me even more curious as to how she’d behave with her will stripped off. Moody hit her with the curse, and just for a moment, a shadow of a smirk flickered on her features, before the blissful expression manifested. Maybe I was wrong, but even that imperiused look felt just as fake.
And then she started spinning around the room to a Muggle pop tune I vaguely recognized as ‘Dancing queen’. Her posh accent was giving the song an odd dignity. She twirled, clapped and even threw in some jazz hands.
And then Hermione raised her hand to volunteer herself. I didn’t know if it had something to do with Daphne, though Moody seemed amused by the challenge.
“Relax, Granger,” he growled after casting the curse. “No books. No quills. Feet on the desk.”
To our shock, Hermione complied, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed behind her head. She even smirked.
“Ten out of ten,”whispered Neville. “That’s the scariest thing I’ve seen all day.”
But the most surprising thing was…
“Imperio,” said Moody at Draco, who looked nervous like the others. Moody instructed him to cheer for muggleborn rights, but Draco just stood right there.
“Campaign loudly for muggleborn rights,” Moody stressed, but Draco still did not move. The paranoid auror glanced at Amelia and Dumbledore who looked just as curious. Amelia and I exchanged a quick glance, but honestly, I had no idea what could be granting Draco this degree of resistance against the Imperius.
Finally, the auror lowered his wand, and Draco shook his head, clearing off whatever was affecting him. He looked down at his hands, and then at Moody, before turning and returning to his seat, all without a word.
“Alright,” said the Auror after he had put each and every student through the grinder. “You all saw the kind of effect the Imperius curse has on you. It strips you off your will, and turns you into a puppet of the caster’s making. It doesn't matter if you can or can’t cast something. It does not matter if you are even physically capable of performing what the caster intends you to perform — you will do it. Even at the cost of your own life. And you know what’s the worst part?”
His magical eye swiveled all across the class.
“It is the Unforgivable that attracts people the most. You may dislike someone, might even hate someone, but it takes a rare degree of emotion to reject the sanctity of life — which is why none but the darkest of wizards tend to use the killing curse. It takes being a psychopath to revel in the suffering of another, but the Imperius is different. It's fun, isn’t it? Seeing your classmates commit those funny acts? Just a little bit of harmless compulsion, isn’t it? IT BLOODY ISN’T.”
He glared at the class, as if daring them to challenge his words.
“To compel someone, you need to believe that you have the authority to alter their mind, affect their free will, to control their very thoughts and emotions. You need to believe that not only is doing that acceptable, but that it is your prerogative to do so. Maybe it starts with something simple, like ‘I don’t want them to do something’. Or maybe act funny, and just embarrass them. Harmless, right? Then a little more, and a little more. Before you know it, you’re invading their mind to find out what they are thinking or feeling, not only because you can, but because it is your right. Do it enough, and you’re not compelling them for a purpose, but your purpose becomes to compel. At that point, you are a rabid creature, a dark witch or wizard, and the Imperius is your favorite tool. You are the kind of monster that people like us hunt and throw in Azkaban, if not put down for good.”
I hoped it was just a trick of the light, but I could swear that Albus Dumbledore, Alastor Moody and Nymphadora Tonks were all looking at me right that instant.
Comments
mz304
More chapters faster
Michael Friede
"Your mission, should you choose to accept it", It's an easter egg, and maybe a bit meta, but I find the idea that Moody is at least passingly familiar with the Mission Impossible series really funny. Its not even that crazy of an idea either, since the original tv show and novels came out in the 1960s and 70s. Fantastic chapter as usual!
