— — — — — —
At first, Moody was pleased with the tension he'd stirred up.
In his opinion, Hogwarts had grown far too peaceful. The students were being raised like docile little lambs, stripped of any edge. No bite left in them.
Conflict bred competition. Competition drove progress.
And he didn't think he was talking nonsense. The highest number of dark wizards had come from Slytherin and Ravenclaw. That was simply a fact.
He wasn't about to brand the students with labels. But he would give Gryffindor a warning. Better they stay sharp.
Still, when he saw the way the Slytherins reacted, something like frustration crept into his chest.
Riddle… that boy really was a walking imbalance.
Just like Voldemort back in the day. Annoyingly charismatic, surrounded by a flock of followers. Meanwhile, Gryffindor didn't have anyone who could truly carry the banner.
Harry Potter?
The thought flickered through Moody's mind, and he placed a bit of hope in the so-called Chosen One. But when he actually looked over at Harry, he nearly choked on his own anger.
For Merlin's sake. Potter was grinning at Riddle.
And not just grinning. He was practically competing with that Malfoy brat for favor.
"Enough."
Moody coughed sharply, cutting through the thickening atmosphere.
"What I'm saying is this: the human heart is the hardest thing to read. More wizards have died at the hands of their own kind than at the claws of dark creatures."
"I agreed to fill in for Dumbledore for one year. After that, I'm going back to my quiet retirement. But in that year, I will teach you how to fight your own kind."
"We've had some experience," a girl muttered under her breath. "Second-year Duelling Class."
"Oh?" Moody's expression twisted. "You mean that circus act of a dueling show? Or the little stick-waving game where both sides stand there like idiots taking turns? You hit me, I hit you?"
His face grew harsher. "That's not combat. It's not war. In real combat, your enemy won't attack you head-on. They won't wait for you to be ready before casting. They'll use whatever means necessary… to take your life."
The classroom fell dead silent.
True killing intent was rare in the wizarding world. It wasn't something you gained from taking one or two lives. It came from becoming accustomed to slaughter, from growing numb to the value of human life.
And right now, the students could feel it radiating off Moody.
A chill crept down their spines. They felt like fish laid out on a chopping board, a blade already resting against their throats.
"Scared already?" Moody's voice rang out clearly. "That's without me targeting you. If it were Death Eaters…"
A thin, meaningful smile tugged at his lips.
"You wouldn't even have the courage to lift your wands. If anyone disagrees, step up here right now. If you can cast two spells in my direction, I'll apologize on the spot."
…
Silence held.
Daphne looked tempted, ready to move, but one glance at Moody's grim, twisted face was enough to make her reconsider.
Moody, for his part, quietly let out a breath.
He'd never been a teacher before, but he understood the importance of establishing authority.
The last thing he needed was Tom jumping up to challenge him. And the little witch beside him feared nothing either. That would've been trouble.
Moody dragged a chair over and lowered himself into it with some effort. Then he began talking about his days as an Auror.
He had no intention of teaching specific spells or techniques in the first lesson. What he wanted was for the students to understand what real combat actually meant.
It was a bit like Lockhart's style. The difference was that Lockhart had been full of hot air, stealing other people's stories. While everything Moody told was from his own life.
He wasn't a natural storyteller. His descriptions were dry, stripped of ornament. But the twists, the sudden reversals, the life-or-death clashes held the class in a tight grip. In their own way, they were far more compelling than Lockhart's flowery words.
Even when the bell rang, the students were reluctant to leave. Moody had just reached the part where he'd been ambushed by a dark wizard and struck by a vicious curse.
"If you want to hear the rest," Moody said gruffly, "that depends on your performance. Homework: pick a few of the spells I mentioned. Analyze them. Write down what you think would've been a better response. No length requirement."
When he dismissed them, the students filed out one by one.
No one approached him with questions.
Even though everyone agreed the lesson had been riveting.
Tom deliberately lingered until the room emptied. When only Hermione and Daphne remained at his side, he took out a bottle containing the magical eye.
"Professor Moody," he said calmly, holding it out, "your eye."
Hermione stared as Moody took the crystal vial, then looked at Tom in disbelief. She hadn't had the faintest idea the eye had been in his possession.
Honestly, no one would have guessed.
"Riddle, you're exempt from the homework," Moody said. Tom kept his word; Moody returned the courtesy. "Teaching you would be a joke at my level. But I hope you won't influence the others too much. You're a genius, Merlin's favorite child. They're not."
What seemed ordinary in a genius's eyes often looked like a miracle to everyone else.
In some prodigy's worldview, even the dullest kid should have mastered calculus by fourteen. In another basketball legend's mind, if you ran into a block, you could just wait for the defender to land before shooting. Or, if that was too troublesome, just switch hands midair and glide past.
Geniuses rarely make good teachers. Unless they're teaching other geniuses. Swap in someone average and it's misery on both sides. The teacher feels constrained; the student feels lost.
Tom didn't refuse the offer. Not that he ever did homework anyway, but this spared Hermione a fair bit of effort. You could tell by the way her front teeth peeked out when she smiled.
"Professor Moody, what are you planning for next lesson?" Tom asked, curious. He hadn't seen any lesson plan. Moody had been improvising from start to finish.
If that was the case, they might as well let Barty Jr. take over.
"I'm thinking of demonstrating some real Dark Magic. For example… the three Unforgivable Curses." Moody bared his teeth in a grin as he reattached the magical eye.
It literally brightened.
The lens gleamed more vividly than before, clearer and sharper.
Tom hadn't improved the eye itself. He'd simply mixed a basic solution, more like eye drops. It was professional habit. If you were studying something, you kept your specimen in optimal condition.
"Got any more of that solution?" Moody asked immediately, having caught on.
Tom considered Slytherin's current negative point balance and nodded. "Fifty points for a bottle. Interested?"
"Fifty points to Slytherin," Moody said without hesitation. "Reason... Riddle did me a great favor."
"..."
---
The first week of term passed quickly. Moody awarding points to Slytherin caused quite a stir. Everyone knew the old Auror loathed dark wizards, and Slytherin had a reputation as their breeding ground. Even Snape cornered Tom to ask how on earth he'd pulled it off.
Tom didn't hide anything. He told him outright and even handed over the task of brewing the eye solution to his Head of House. Snape left wearing an expression that suggested he'd just swallowed something sweet and disgusting at the same time.
Still, it was only gossip.
By now, though, Tom's year finally understood why fourth year was considered "upper level."
The material had taken a sharp turn into the deep end. Beginner texts were replaced with advanced volumes. Homework multiplied. Worse, what the professors covered in class wasn't nearly enough to finish the assignments. You had to dig in on your own time.
The final blow: exams that weekend.
Which meant revision.
Every night, the lights in the common room burned late before finally going dark.
The two-day exam marathon was brutal. Tom spent most of it half-distracted. When the final written History of Magic paper ended, cheers erupted around him. He slipped away from the celebrating crowd, found a quiet corner, and Disapparated without a sound.
His destination was... Dorset.
He stopped by the construction site first. The prison was being built on a low hill. Hundreds of Dementors drifted in the air above it. On the slopes, even more wizards worked below. Many of them now held wands, guiding massive stones to float slowly upward from the base of the hill.
With wands, efficiency increased dramatically.
Tom wasn't worried about rebellion. He had only distributed two hundred wands in total. Patronus charms weren't exactly common magic. Out of several thousand prisoners, it was doubtful even a hundred could cast one.
Anti-Apparition wards surrounded the area. Even with a wand, the prisoners could only work.
Of course, a few bold souls had tried to escape.
Congratulations to them. They would become the first official inmates once the prison was complete.
The structure itself was modeled after the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Its skeletal outline was already visible, rising over twenty meters high. At this pace, three months would be more than enough.
Satisfied that everything was in place, Tom went straight to Nicolas's residence.
And Nicolas had news.
When Tom arrived, the Tear of Isis was mounted on a high-speed rotating disc. On either side of it stood two strange relics. From the spinning gemstone, threads of red light finer than hair were being drawn out…
.
.
.