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11. Routines and Classes (4)
🕑 Added 2025-04-19 19:26:27 +0000 UTCHighlands, Hogwarts
01-09-1969
Perteus Graymort:
We threaded back to the castle’s pulsing heart, where students sprawled in careless clumps—lounging on benches, their chatter a low hum beneath the stone arches, like drowsy bees too idle to swarm.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts chamber lay close, the location slowly infected into my awareness by the school’s ancient enchantment. A sorcery surpassing all others, this—instinct sharpened to a melody, half-remembered, now swelling into harmony’s full bloom.
I couldn’t yet fathom the charm’s workings, its mystery eluding me. My boon, bolstered as it was, still found no foothold—nothing to grasp, to unravel, to probe with the mind’s quiet scalpel. It was a spell woven of air, singing without source. Only through the keen edge of self-awareness and the grace of wizardry could I sense its nudge, yielding to its call.
Yet, I suspected a dozen unseen threads wove it tighter around me than others. I didn’t mind the favouritism, truth be told—it lent me a quiet sway, a touch of command in matters of guidance. Small as it seemed, this edge would serve my design: to cast upon myself a mantle of dependability.
I caught a smile before it could bloom, stirred by the spark of my own quiet mania.
…the lions trailed us as we walked, a loose pack of first-years still too green for grudges. The older years hadn’t yet shoved their worn-out rivalries in our faces. Time would fix that, I figured.
A stray thought took me: the venom that’d fester later, splitting houses like cracked glass. Was it all Voldemort’s doing, his poison seeping into Britain’s magical veins? Or had he just stirred a deeper rot, something carved into the castle’s bones long before his shadow fell?
I wasn’t naive—the old guard probably grumbled plenty about new ways rattling their precious traditions. But that was a vague discontent, not the sharp blade of scorn I meant. No, I was chasing something uglier: a real hatred pinned to a house—Slytherin, in honest—just for existing.
Had that bile flowed before Tom turned full sith?
I’d need to dig, root through the past, hunt for threads of misery woven into the years—dark lords and their origins.
My hand drifted to my chin, a reflex that meant nothing now with no scruff to give the act significance.
"I’ve a mind to head to the library after this," I muttered to Reid, who clung to my side like a stray hound, all eager eyes and restless feet. "You in, mate?"
Reid’s face twisted, nose wrinkling as if I’d spiked his juice with vinegar. "Library? First day, and you’re picking dust over fun?" His voice carried a whine, half-betrayed. "We’re gonna hassle some fifth-years for charm lessons—come on!"
I weighed it. Old tomes on dark lords could wait; their secrets were just ink and time, no rush. But trailing Reid’s crew to pester upper-years all night? That sounded like a slog dressed up as mischief. Besides, I had a private errand—see if lost riches existed in this castle so ancient.
Poverty wasn’t a fun time.
"Here’s the deal," I said, trying for false honesty. "You lot chase the charm tricks. I’ll swing by after the library—or wherever."
Reid bobbed his head and bolted ahead, all limbs and no grace. I slowed my steps, fingers slipping into my pocket to cradle a vial. A quick glance—no eyes on me—then I brought it close. One steady breath, and I tipped it back. It slid down like a ghost, no taste, no heft. Then the magic stirred, a faint ripple before the real wave.
It hit quiet at first. A cold flicker bloomed in my gut, spreading like frost through every nerve. My senses dulled for a heartbeat, then snapped taut, my mind caught in a sudden, eerie clarity.
It wasn’t loud. No grand arrival, no trumpets—just a presence settling in, calm as a guest who knows the house is theirs. Not pushy, just sure. For a split second, I was the same—same corridor, same stone underfoot, same me.
Then I noticed I hadn’t blinked in too long.
And that I’d noticed.
And that I’d wondered why I’d noticed.
I drew a slow breath, held it, then let it slip free. My mind gleamed, sharp as a freshly whetted blade, yet beneath, a restless spark flickered—vivid, ravenous, honed. This potion was no trifle; it rewove you, subtle as a whisper, pilfering every stray distraction.
My shroud held firm, masking any quirks. Its eighth sense, ever watchful, betrayed every twitch that dared veer from the polished self I’d sculpted.
I stepped into the classroom, and it struck me familiar—not like the dungeons’ heavy shadows. This place breathed easy, all open air and clean lines. Desks sat scattered, bare of clutter, while a wide board loomed up front, blank as a new slate. A grand desk of black wood anchored the room, empty as a held breath, waiting for something to break its silence.
No professor in sight, I noted, but I claimed a seat at an empty table near the front regardless. Reid came barreling in, all gangly enthusiasm, and dropped into the chair beside me with a thud that rattled the desk.
The professor entered not long after, his presence snuffing the room’s chatter like a doused ember. He drifted forward, robes trailing in that theatrical sweep this place seemed to breed. Old as Slughorn, with black hair shot through with grey, his eyes dragged heavy shadows beneath them—sleepless nights etched plain. No charmer, this one; his face wore a scowl like it was carved there.
I considered probing him with my shroud, letting it unfurl to catch the edges of his mystery. Tempting, but I held back—a bad churn in my gut. Still, I summoned it, feeling its weight coil under the Seraphis Serenum’s keen edge, sharper now.
The boon hummed, spilling secrets unasked: my shoulders loose, my pulse steady as a lazy stream. The potion was stoking something in the shroud’s rhythm—a flicker of clarity, raw, unbidden, whispering possibilities that hadn’t yet formed.
Yeah, I was set to turn addict.
A stray thought started to bloom, but the professor cut it dead with a sharp crack of his hand against the board, the sound snapping through the room like a whip.
"Welcome, First Years, to Defence Against the Dark Arts," he announced, as chalk scratched his words behind him. "I’m Professor Ironstaff, your guide for this rather vital subject—though I’ll only be here a short time, so mind your attachment."
That last bit might’ve been a funny if he’d cracked a smile. He didn’t.
"Per the name of this class, my job’s to teach you children how to fend off the dark arts." His gaze raked over us, intense, clearly meant to rattle our cages. "But first, you’ll need understanding. You can’t fend off what you don’t grasp, so I’ll see to it you know the dark arts proper."
"Theory!" he bellowed, loud enough to rattle the bones. I was starting to reckon old Ironstaff might’ve lost a few screws. "What are the Dark Arts?"
A lad stuck up his hand. Quick as a flash, a blue spark shot from the professor’s wand, and the boy let out a yelp.
"That wasn’t for you to answer," Ironstaff snapped. "You sit. You listen. Got a question? Jot it down and bring it after I’m done. I don’t tolerate interruptions—clear?"
Heads bobbed, a ripple of uneasy agreement. Me? I’d already pegged him—a proper tyrant, this one.
"Let’s clear the muck first," he said, voice spreading with a certainty that dared you to argue. "Some fool idea’s out there that the Dark Arts are just your everyday spells—charms, jinxes—twisted to nasty ends. That a Lumos goes dark if you blind someone, or a Stupefy’s vile if it drops a good soul."
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t half-swallowed that notion once, back when life was quieter and I wasn’t touched by death. The books never laid it bare, did they? Magic’s workings—its gears and guts—stayed shrouded in haze. I’d always figured the redhead skipped the details on purpose, leaving us readers to stumble through the fog.
Even after I’d mucked about with charms, piecing together that wizardry had a system, a logic, it still didn’t crack the riddle of what made a spell dark. Not a whisper of an answer.
Ironstaff flicked his wrist, and a white orb flared in front of me, bright as a lightning snap. I flinched—clumsy instinct—and swatted at it, half-shocked when it actually skittered away.
"Bloody hell!"
Reid jolted beside me, flailing at his own orb, though it just hovered, mocking his panic.
A heartbeat later, Ironstaff snuffed them with a lazy wave.
"Not a dark charm, that," he said, calm as if he hadn’t just set our nerves jangling. "Just poor form."
I clenched my jaw, a sharp irritation burrowing deep. I prided myself on staying cool, keeping a tight rein on things—being jerked into some gut reaction like that? It proper grated me. It mucked up my whole composure. And that barmy old professor had pushed me into it with his little stunt.
It mattered not if the outcome garnered me no mocking laughs or image, the loss of intentional dictation still grated me.
He stalked to his desk’s edge, leaning forward, his gaze pinning us like moths to a board. "No—the true Dark Arts aren’t spells gone rotten. They’re crafted."
"Dark magic doesn’t stumble out of good intentions. It’s born in malice. Not a misstep, but forged—deliberate, precise—to wound, to twist, to shatter. These spells don’t tolerate half-measures. They feed on intent. You don’t bumble into a Cruciatus Curse. You don’t trip and cast an Avada Kedavra. You have to mean it."
Ironstaff’s words hooked me. He leaned hard on intent—unshakable intent—as the dark arts’ pulse. Obvious, but thin. Plenty of spells drank from that well, I suspected.
"But that’s too wordy," he said, voice slowing as he drew a breath. "Dark Arts are charms born of spite, built to harm. That’s the core."
Tidy, but I saw fractures—holes you could fall through.
His wrist flicked, wand slipping free. I called my shroud, mist-like and sly, to probe his spellwork. I had the confidence now, even as cautious still clung to it.
"A demonstration’s due," he said, voice flat, "so you’ll taste this vile art." His wand began to twirl.
The dread hit first, a cold jab before the wand’s sick glow bloomed. It unsettled me—raw, like a scream in my bones, hard to pin down. The spell seemed to leech life’s color, swapping it for a bleak shadow.
Yet it felt staged, a conjured chill.
"You must feel it," he said, and I felt some humour in his tone.
I glanced at Reid next to me. His face was a mess—fear, unease, like he’d bitten something sour. Same look on every kid in the room. Poor sods.
"That’s the dark arts’ rot," Ironstaff said, "baked into any spell called dark. Doesn’t get worse with nastier charms. That one I cast? Just a decay jinx." The wand’s sick glow fizzled out. "Feel that dread again, and you’ll know a dark charm’s in play. That’s the Aura Malevo—the caster’s spite bleeding through magic’s weave."
He straightened, wand slipping into his sleeve with a flick that screamed habit. "That pressure, that wrongness you felt? Not just a quirk. It’s the dark spell’s mark, as real as the hex itself. A sharp witch or wizard spots it first, like a warning bell."
He stepped behind his desk, letting silence hang until his words sank in. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but dead certain. "Dark spells don’t just hit—they announce themselves. If you want to live, learn to feel them before they land."
A hand went up. He didn’t even look.
"The Aura Malevo isn’t always loud. A clever caster can mute it, dull the chill, hide the shiver—but never wipe it clean. Train your gut to catch it, even when it’s faint. Know your enemy by their shadow, not their flash."
I scribbled it down. Aura Malevo. The words were just the right amount of generic to trigger doubt.
The professor paced again. "Here’s the flip side: exposure. Use the Dark Arts too much, linger in them too long, and you pay. Your magic frays. Your soul—if you buy that talk—starts to rot. It’s subtle. Restlessness. Mood swings. A slow drift from caring."
I sat still. Ironstaff’s words dragged up Voldemort, the Death Eaters, their unhinged chaos. Back in my old life, it was all fun—watching villains play their parts, no depth needed for a kid’s story.
But here?
I bit my cheek, yanking back a thought before it spun wild. I barely knew Narcissa’s older sister, but from what I’d seen, she didn’t strike me as cruel. Maybe she kept it buried, careful with it, but she wasn’t the monster from that fictional timeline. Not yet.
Still, I didn’t rule out madness through emotional degradation—adulthood and responsibilities were a specific type of suffering.
The old man continued.
"Keep at it, and it messes with your head. Your intentions harden. Less empathy, fewer doubts. You stop second-guessing. The Dark Arts want that—to make you sure. And certainty, children, kills reason."
Nobody budged. He had us pinned.
He flicked a hand at the board, where chalk scratched out: Identifying Dark Magic—Traces, Residues, Echoes.
"Dark spells don’t vanish. They stick around, even after the glow fades. You might feel residue, see it—scorched air, warped magic, a sour taste. We’ll learn detection later—charms to read auras, test objects. For now, trust your gut. Magic doesn’t forget."
He stopped at the room’s front, giving a single nod.
"No hexing each other this week," he said, voice dry. A few shaky laughs broke the silence. "But we’ll train the body. A wand’s useless if you’re a slouch. You’ll learn to stand, to hold it right—like a blade, not a twig."
Reid perked up next to me, eyes bright.
"Stance matters," Ironstaff said, ignoring the spark. "Your posture sharpens your focus. Your movement bolsters defense. You’ll learn footing for each wand, how to move when it’s rough."
Groans rippled through the room. I got it. Most kids thought magic was just wands and words—flick, swish, done. Ironstaff wasn’t buying that.
"Physical skill isn’t optional," he said. "Magic’s in you. Your body’s your first weapon. Hone it."
The chalk scratched again, a short list this time:
Wand Handling Basics.
Footwork and Defensive Stance Theory.
Aura Sensitivity Training.
Traces of Dark Magic in Objects and Spaces.
He let us look at it, then turned with a last sharp glance.
"You’ll read Hespar’s Foundation of Magical Threats, chapters one through four." He did something—a quake in his reality if my shroud whispered true. Tomes appeared before us. On the table.
Then: "Right. Start asking."
The room woke up, hands inching skyward, eyes flickering, nervous. I stayed calm—or faked it, anyway. My head was tearing into man’s lecture, unraveling riddles, spinning what-ifs.
Dark arts? Never really chewed on them, if I’m honest. Fighting spells weren’t my thing. Even thinking about staying safe, I leaned toward slipping past magic—cloaking, binding, countering—tricks that didn’t mean chucking shiny spell-balls at each other. That always seemed stupid.
I had witchcraft—voodoo, probably, the real eerie stuff. Snatching dreams, twisting love, stirring desire. That’s the magic I craved, not hurling fireballs or soaring on brooms. Even the mundane could pull off flying with enough cash and grit. Flashy nonsense.
"Out with it," Ironstaff barked, yanking me from my brooding.
A Gryffindor lad—stocky, freckled, voice wobbling—mustered the guts to speak. "Are we, er, gonna learn dark spells?"
"No," the professor shot back, not missing a beat. "This is Defence Against the Dark Arts. You’ll study protective charms, defensive manoeuvres, and—when it fits—counter-spells to disarm or disable. Not to torment, not to kill, not to taint. Want to dabble in dark magic? You’ll need Ministry clearance and a wand you don’t mind forfeiting."
I filed that away. Dark arts being locked down tight tracked. As madman put it, their aim was sharp—pure, rotten spite.
Another voice chimed in—Narcissa. "What about dark creatures? Will we tackle those?"
"That’s next term’s fare," Ironstaff told, his expression absent of mirth. "Mind, I shan’t dampen keenness for early study. If you fancy scaring yourselves witless with tomes on lethifolds or soul-feeders, the library’s open. Just don’t come crying when the night terrors strike."
A nervous chuckle escaped from the back, and I felt the same disquiet twist in my gut. Dark creatures rattled me, prodding at what I’d call the uncanny—things that didn’t sit proper.
Odd, when you think on it. This world wasn’t your usual spell-slinging nonsense—no Dungeons and Dragons or flashy anime guff. It was more like old fireside tales given a sharp, modern polish. Ghosts, hexes, a whole mess of shenani—
I cut that thread of thought short, a flicker of irritation beginning to coil in my chest. I needed a worthy subject to channel this restless clarity into.
Reid raised a hand, his face uncharacteristically grave. "Did Grindelwald use the Dark Arts, professor?"
The professor lost whatever expression he wore on his face. "This isn’t a history lesson," he said, his words measured and crisp. "But no, he did not. Grindelwald employed cruel magic—cunning, controlling—but not dark in the true sense. His sharpest tool was persuasion, not curses."
I gave a slight twitch—barely a thing, but it snagged the professor’s eye for a fleeting second.
Yes, I knew he was spinning a load of codswallop. I wouldn’t crow about being better, but if a chap like Ironstaff—hardly a match for Pike’s raw vigour—could toss around such spells, then a proper prodigy like Grindelwald, a once-in-a-generation sort, would’ve been a bloody maestro of the dark arts.
Still, I didn’t bother unpicking the lie behind his words, and Ironstaff didn’t seem fussed by my twitch.
Another lad stuck up a hand. "Can students learn the Dark Arts? If we’re watched, that is?"
Ironstaff’s face went flat as a board. "No. Not without a Ministry permit, and not here. Hogwarts is for learning, not mucking about with forbidden magic. The Dark Arts are off-limits for a reason—and that reason’s you lot. Young heads break too easy. Get a few years and knocks under your belt before you go poking at that stuff."
The lesson carried on, a back-and-forth of questions—most of them stupid—and answers. Ironstaff showed a surprising well of patience, and I was caught up in the craft of charms, proper fascinated.
That is, until I hit a wall where my potion-sharpened wits couldn’t quite crack the puzzle.
Then I stuck up my hand. "Professor, I’d like to know if there’s any core component that runs through every dark charm?"
The room tilted into quiet. Even Reid turned to stare at me.
Ironstaff locked eyes with me. "Yes."
Just that, blunt as a brick. Then he stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back.
"I could name the precise catalysts for dark charms, but that knowledge lies beyond these walls." His mouth tightened, a faint grimace. "Your name, lad?"
That caught me off guard. The man hadn’t once bothered with who we were. I’d wager he only had a vague notion of how many of us were meant to be here.
"Graymort, sir," I answered, keeping my tone even, though my pulse gave a little kick. "Perteus Graymort."
Ironstaff gave me a proper once-over, his eyes tracing my face, my frame, lingering on the wrist where my wand lay still. I returned the favour, my shroud teasing apart the dense magic stitched into his robes. Each thread hummed with mystery, and I tucked away their strange pulse—time might unravel what spells he wore.
After what felt like an age, Ironstaff gave a curt nod and turned away. I let out a slow breath—blimey, that was intense.
The lesson dragged on until one o’clock. Ironstaff was out the door first, and we trailed behind. I swapped a few words with the lads, promised a bit of proper wand-work before curfew, and gave Reid a high-five before we parted ways.
No fibbing—I was rattled by the professor’s stare. It jogged my mind to how exposed I was, blind to the dark schemes churning in the wizarding world. Voldemort had a lackey masquerade as a professor in the tales—who was to say that was the only time?
A/N: And that’s it for long classes, we will be getting into discovery mode and plot progression. More time skips too. Do give suggestions on what you want to see.
Comments
Skruffy
Thanks, I was just about to ask when you’d update this fic. Coincidentally, you uploaded this chapter.
