"In short, I want you to train the students to develop a sense of crisis and vigilance, to teach them not to wander into dangerous places or fall for scams.
It's not just about being able to fight back after an attack," Harry said, shaking his head slightly.
"Er, I'm afraid I must correct you, Headmaster Potter," Lupin said weakly. "Being able to protect oneself with a spell in the instant of an attack is already an exceptional standard for most Aurors, let alone pinpointing the enemy's position and counterattacking immediately afterward… Well, that requires both rigorous training and natural talent."
"Having magical talent doesn't mean having combat talent. Not everyone is like you or, well, Dumbledore—a prodigy in every sense," Lupin said with a troubled expression. "It's really quite difficult."
"I know. That's why I only ask you to teach them to the best of your ability. How much they learn is up to them," Harry added after a moment's thought. "And it's not just about this kind of training. I also need you to teach them some practical knowledge."
"Practical knowledge?" Lupin asked.
"Smugglers, con artists, dark wizards, poaching gangs, even ways to deal with less-than-honest Aurors or Hit Wizards—anything you can think of that they might encounter while adventuring in the wizarding world," Harry continued. "Both Dumbledore and I know what the world out there is really like."
"But where I differ from Dumbledore is that he tried to let students enjoy a carefree time during their school years, to savor their last moments of innocence. I, on the other hand, want them to face the world's harsh realities early. It's better than them stumbling out there, getting battered and bruised, and paying a steep price before they learn to grow up… That's the true purpose of a school, isn't it?"
"To be honest, I don't entirely agree," Lupin said plainly. "But—you're the Headmaster, so you call the shots. I'll pass on my experiences to them. Ha, who would've thought those days of wandering would come in handy one day?"
"Excellent. Then congratulations, Professor Remus Lupin," Harry said with a smile, handing a letter from his desk to Lupin. "You're hired. The benefits are all detailed in there. I'll coordinate with the Ministry to ensure you get the same legal exemptions as the other professors. You have two months to decide on your textbooks—just don't pull a Lockhart and make the students buy seven books."
"Absolutely not," Lupin said with a laugh. "By the way, can I continue using the Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks? Like The Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Defense? I think a lot of the material in those traditional books is still useful."
"Of course, that's your call," Harry affirmed. "Just submit your textbook list to Professor McGonagall later."
"Got it, Headmaster."
Without any resistance, Lupin happily accepted his new role as a professor. After all, even in the broader wizarding world, a teaching position at Hogwarts was a coveted job—well-paid and highly respected.
Harry still had to placate Snape, though, to ensure he didn't tamper with Lupin's Wolfsbane Potion (a potion that allows werewolves to retain their sanity during the full moon, preventing them from harming others). At the very least, Harry had to make sure Snape didn't slip in anything life-threatening or something that would prevent Lupin from fulfilling his duties as a professor.
When it came to the grudges between the previous generation, Harry found it hard to say much.
Decades ago, there was no such thing as Wolfsbane Potion. Back when Lupin was a student at Hogwarts, he had to sneak through a secret passage to an abandoned house in Hogsmeade every full moon to endure his painful werewolf transformations, ensuring he didn't harm innocent students.
But back then, Sirius Black had tricked Snape into following that same passage during a full moon, an act that amounted to attempted murder. If Snape had come face-to-face with Lupin in his werewolf form, the best outcome would've been Snape becoming a werewolf himself. More likely, he would've been torn to pieces by a frenzied werewolf.
If it weren't for Harry's father, James Potter, who at least knew things couldn't go too far and risked his life to drag Snape out, there wouldn't be a Severus Snape today.
Arrogant, cold, and utterly indifferent to the lives of those he didn't care about—Harry hated to admit it, but that was his godfather. Even though Sirius had publicly disowned his family, the Black family's influence still ran deep in him, impossible to sever.
Even after being sorted into Gryffindor, becoming friends with James, and earning fame as a war hero, Sirius still carried the unmistakable air of a Slytherin pure-blood aristocrat.
Harry couldn't change what had happened in the past. All he knew was that if what happened to Snape had happened to him, there wouldn't be a Sirius Black anymore.
So when it came to Snape pulling harmless pranks on the remaining three members of the Marauders as a form of petty revenge… Harry didn't really mind.
Walking down the streets of Diagon Alley, Harry's face was well-known these days, but with his hood up, he went unnoticed.
"Muggle-Repelling Statue! As long as the statue's intact, Muggle guns can't hit you! Only three Galleons! Three Galleons!"
"Healing Potions! Cheaper than the shops! Fake one, get ten free—buy now!"
The main street of Diagon Alley remained as lively as ever, seemingly untouched by the growing tension in the outside world. However, the items being peddled had subtly shifted, with more and more goods related to Muggles appearing on the market.
The Daily Prophet had reported several incidents where Memory Charms failed to fully erase Muggle awareness of wizards. Muggles didn't yet know to call them wizards, instead referring to them as "superhumans." Some confused wizards with the newly emerged Muggle shamans, while others believed wizards were angels sent by God, or divine emissaries. It was all a chaotic mess.
There were even reports of wizards being shot by Muggle bullets—not from high-caliber firearms, but even a handgun bullet had caused one wizard to botch an Apparition due to pain and distraction, resulting in a Splinching accident. If his destination hadn't been Diagon Alley's main street, he might have died unnoticed in some obscure corner.
Mr. Weasley's hard-fought Muggle Protection Act was gradually losing its effectiveness, not just because of Harry's speech at the International Confederation of Wizards, but because more and more wizards were realizing, through their everyday lives, that Muggles didn't need protecting—they were, in fact, quite dangerous.
Rumor had it that in America, Muggles were quick to empty their gun clips at any wizard who seemed suspicious.
While wizards had plenty of spells and potions to heal purely physical, non-magical injuries, if death came too quickly for them to act… well, the only way to stay in this world was as a ghost.
By now, almost everyone—even those outside the Ministry or the well-informed circles, even the most ordinary wizards in the magical world—had come to a stark realization: the Statute of Secrecy was not far from collapse.
No one knew what the future held, or whether a massive, world-encompassing war would sweep them up. This tension and panic drove people to seek out any means to protect themselves.
Amulets, smuggled goods… even Ministry Hit Wizards and some Aurors weren't immune to the trend. Crackdowns on smugglers had noticeably softened during this time.
As a result, Diagon Alley had become even more vibrant, as if unaffected by the looming crisis.
But when Harry stepped into Knockturn Alley, the chaotic area known as a haven for dark wizards and criminals, the shouts of vendors took on a different tone.
"…Poisonous Frog Hands! Guaranteed to kill anyone who harms you!"
"What's this?" Harry stopped at a stall, eyeing an object on the ground.
Small, black, wrinkled, and bound with blood-red chains.
"A curse doll," the vendor, a shriveled old witch with two missing front teeth, said with a wheezy laugh. "Want one? It'll curse those foolish Muggles, making them think they're just unlucky. Guarantees a gruesome death for every one of them."
"…Made from babies?" Harry asked.
"Muggle babies," the old witch cackled. "Effective, plentiful, you—"
Her words cut off abruptly as a green flash shot from beneath Harry's cloak, piercing her hastily conjured shield charm and striking her. She collapsed, dead.
For a brief moment, the cacophony of Knockturn Alley fell silent, only to resume as if nothing had happened. Everyone suddenly found something else to focus on, and the malicious stares directed at Harry quickly turned away.
No one wanted trouble. A Killing Curse cast with enough malice to kill instantly wasn't the work of someone harmless. No need to take unnecessary risks.
In a few swift motions, Harry obliterated the old witch and her stall's contents, ensuring nothing could be salvaged for reuse. He couldn't tolerate such vile dark magic artifacts—or the people who peddled them.
So he didn't.
A rapid series of green flashes caught the witches and wizards of Knockturn Alley off guard. Harry struck without warning, not using shamanic spells but the classic wizarding Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra. Fueled by genuine intent to kill, each green flash claimed a life with precision. Before acting, Harry had cast an Anti-Apparition Jinx, trapping his targets.
These dark wizards were no amateurs, and after the first three or four fell, they immediately tried to fight back or flee the jinx's range. Anyone capable of repeatedly casting a high-cost, high-power spell like the Killing Curse was not to be trifled with. When a few who dared to counterattack were twisted into knots by a Transfiguration spell, escape became the priority for the rest.
Harry's efficiency was remarkable, far surpassing the Ministry's Aurors when it came to clearing out this scum. It wasn't that Aurors lacked skill—it was that they arrested rather than killed on sight. Decades ago, those who slung Avada Kedavra at the first opportunity were called Death Eaters.
And the Death Eaters had been crushed.
It didn't take long before Harry was left staring at a dozen corpses and an empty Knockturn Alley. The Anti-Apparition Jinx he'd cast in haste had a limited range, and these seasoned denizens of the gray underworld were adept at escaping such situations.
Harry watched as a one-legged wizard hopped onto a nearby wooden board, which sprouted two pairs of wheels and sped off with him in a puff of smoke.
Each had their own tricks.
Using a Vanishing Charm to dispose of the bodies and their repulsive wares, Harry turned to find the shops on either side of the alley locked tight. They, too, were experienced.
No matter. Harry could open doors.
Boom!
The glass door and windows of a shop shattered as Harry strode in. A balding man with a smile on his face rose from behind the counter, bowing politely.
"Welcome to Borgin and Burkes! How may I assist you, dear customer?"
His expression remained calm, as if his shop's door hadn't just been blasted apart.
"Caractacus Burke?" Harry asked.
"The very same, sir," Burke said with a slight bow. "I admire your boldness and respect your strength. Old Borgo was no fresh-faced Hogwarts graduate, yet you dispatched him like a chicken, along with the others… May I ask what they did to anger you? Knowing might help me serve you better."
As expected of someone who once served Voldemort, Caractacus Burke appeared deferential but utterly unshaken—as if he believed nothing could harm him in his own shop.
"No reason," Harry said casually. "I saw them, so I killed them."
Those vile dark magic artifacts and the wicked wizards who sold them disgusted Harry just by existing. Since he had no intention of tolerating them and possessed the power to act, he followed his instincts.
And the results spoke for themselves. For a while, at least, Knockturn Alley's air would be cleaner.
"…Fair enough," Burke said dryly, his composed facade slipping for the first time since Harry entered.
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