Chapter 57
Hogwarts, Hogwarts, our beloved Hogwarts…
I hummed the simple melody of the school anthem to myself as I settled back in, finding — against all expectations — that I was in a remarkably good mood.
Say what you will, but life and study at Hogwarts had long since become something genuinely special to me. I'd missed the castle over the summer holidays. The ghosts, the crowds of students, the collection of professors — strange as it felt to admit it, I was glad to be back.
Even the trouble looming on the horizon couldn't fully dispel that goodwill. There was some anxiety in me, certainly — a thread of genuine fear about what lay ahead — but the previous school year had done a great deal for my mental equilibrium and my overall confidence. The reputation of a truly talented, borderline-genius wizard had its perks. And the summer's training had only expanded my arsenal and improved my odds of executing any number of plans for the coming year.
"And I do have quite a few plans," I murmured quietly, "even if I'm hoping only one of them will be needed."
What I wanted, passionately, was for this year to pass the same way the last one had — in steady growth and quiet training. I didn't need tournaments. I didn't need to fight dragons or witness the resurrection of a Dark Lord or deal with any other variety of extreme catastrophe.
I didn't want any part of it. Even though I'd already prepared for nearly every trial I remembered from the films.
Whether it was stealing eggs from dragons, rescuing hostages underwater, or navigating the maze in the tournament's final stage — I was ready for all of it.
I'd studied a substantial number of spells specifically developed for subduing dragons. I'd learned several defenses against their all-consuming fire. I'd made serious advances in Transfiguration, which could be used to steal a golden imitation egg if it came to that. I'd even read the memoirs of several dragonologists.
Water-walking charms, underwater breathing spells, eye-protection enchantments against liquid, the Bubble-Head Charm, several semi-combat spells favored by professional harvesters of aquatic ingredients — all learned and drilled long ago.
Multiple variations on spatial orientation charms, techniques for handling aggressive magical flora and certain categories of magical creatures — all mastered to a high standard. The simplest echolocation charm, which allowed a kind of three-hundred-sixty-degree awareness, I'd even managed in wandless form. I'd grown so accustomed to it that I now used it almost instinctively — to find something I'd misplaced around the house, for instance. And none of it caused mental strain or spatial disorientation. My brain, even without the aid of mental magic, was running like clockwork these days. Magic treated the body very kindly.
"I really have prepared quite thoroughly for the Triwizard Tournament," I muttered. "So thoroughly that part of me actually wants to test myself. But a thousand Galleons aren't worth the risk."
I clicked my tongue in irritation, mentally cursing adolescent hormones and the idiotic urge to show off in front of friends and acquaintances.
Seriously. I even had ideas for how to get my own name into the Goblet if I wanted to. I'd done some reading on stationary protective and warding enchantments, which gave me at least a rough understanding of what Dumbledore might theoretically have layered over the thing.
If I go near that Goblet, it'll be my own choice and my own recklessness — the itch that just won't quit. What I'm not about to do is dance to the tune of a fake Moody.
I was still turning over my plans for the year when I abruptly rolled off my bed and plunged into my space-expanded trunk.
"Right then — where are you, our fearsome Death Eater?"
Unable to master my own nerves, I'd decided to begin investigating the false Moody from my very first night in the castle. Barty Crouch should have reached his quarters by now.
Or perhaps not?
I stared at the Marauder's Map with some confusion, knowing exactly where the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's personal chambers were, and finding there — only the name Alastor Moody.
Which was normal enough, and expected. Barty had to keep the source of hair for the Polyjuice somewhere. The potion only worked with recently collected samples from a living body. A living Moody in the Defense professor's quarters wasn't unusual in itself.
The problem was something else entirely: I couldn't find the name Barty Crouch anywhere. I went over the entire map inch by inch. I even applied the specialized search charm Sirius had shown me the previous year. Nothing.
And that was genuinely alarming. Without the map, the cornerstone of my primary plan — exposing Barty and saving myself from the tournament — would be nearly impossible to execute. I could, in theory, attempt to cast a spell that cancelled the effects of Polyjuice Potion on the false Moody. In theory. But it required physical contact between my wand tip and the target's skin — without that direct touch, the spell simply wouldn't work.
And no sane wizard would ever allow a stranger to press a wand against their bare skin. It was tantamount to suicide. Through direct wand contact you could deliver the most devastating curses, or simply punch straight through any purely magical shields and artifacts with something as basic as a Cutting Charm.
Which meant the realistic odds of a retired Auror famous for his "constant vigilance" — or whoever was hiding beneath that face — letting me get close enough to apply the necessary spell were approximately zero. Talented wizard or not, miracles of that kind were beyond me.
All of which was making me nervous, frightened, and forcing me to revise plans that hadn't even been put into motion yet. I couldn't sleep that first night. The entire next day I held it together thanks to mental magic — but I didn't let go of the Marauder's Map under any pretext, tracking every step our new professor took.
And growing increasingly uncertain about whether it really was Barty Crouch who'd come to our school. Polyjuice didn't fool the map — I'd specifically tested this the previous year, enlisting the Weasley twins in a harmless prank and personally supplying them with quality Polyjuice. There had been other motives beyond testing the map, but that wasn't the point.
The point was that the map saw everything. And the only known method of hiding from it belonged to the Headmaster — though I wasn't even certain whether Dumbledore was actually concealing himself or simply leaving the castle periodically via his phoenix.
"Damn, Potter — I had no idea you were such a Moody fanboy," one of the Weasley twins said, pulling me from my heavy thoughts. I'd been interrogating them about the new professor not long ago, but I'd drifted — the thoughts churning in my head were too dark to easily set aside.
"What did you expect? He's a genuinely legendary Auror. He trained my father and my godfather back in the day. I can't wait to learn from someone like that." I said this almost without lying — I did feel real respect for so formidable an Auror. Moody wasn't considered the third — or possibly second — most powerful wizard in Britain for nothing. His reputation was earned.
"Well, so far he hasn't shown anything too spectacular. Teaches mostly by the book, sprinkles in stories from personal experience. When anyone asks too many questions he just hands out reading lists — basically a starter kit for trainee Aurors. And he's been pushing the whole class to sign up for the Auror program pretty hard," the Weasley twins offered their assessment, alternating phrases between them with their usual casual indifference — though with a note of genuine approval for the man's methods.
"Not what I was expecting from him," I admitted honestly, drifting back into my own concerns and suspicions.
The thought that our Moody might simply be Moody — that I'd already derailed the canonical timeline by getting rid of Pettigrew — was becoming harder and harder to dismiss.
"Anyway — thanks for the intel, boys. I'll wait for my own lessons with Moody. Maybe he'll pull something different with us."
"Go for it. And we'll be waiting for your personal take on our battle-scarred veteran," Fred and George said, trading words back and forth as usual before heading off.
I let myself relax — just a fraction — and decided against doing anything rash in the first few days of term.
I need to step back and clear my head. I'll go see Luna and Ginny — they had their own lesson with Moody today. Then I can finally get some sleep.
I pushed the ugliest thoughts aside, gradually abandoning the idea of taking the most radical action available. The risk that Moody was simply Moody — not a disguised Death Eater swimming in Polyjuice — was simply too high.
I couldn't fully let my guard down yet. I wouldn't truly relax until after Halloween, when I'd know for certain whether I'd been dragged into the Triwizard Tournament. But my first impressions of our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor were, on balance, more positive than negative.
I remembered the fourth film fairly well — it had stuck with me for some reason, even though I wouldn't say I'd particularly liked it. And if memory served, the current Moody's behavior didn't much resemble what we'd been shown on screen. No Killing Curses demonstrated on the first day. No Unforgivables of any kind.
Not a hint of that sort of extremism. Every student who'd already had a class with him described roughly the same teaching style: some theory, a lot of practice, adherence to the established curriculum, frequent referrals to the library for anyone with extra curiosity, notably less shouting about "constant vigilance" than legend would suggest, and the overall impression of a grounded, self-aware man who wasn't a bad instructor — having spent many years teaching at the Auror Academy, after all.
In my own estimation — which I was only able to form after a personal encounter with the new professor during one of our Defense lessons — Moody was perhaps too exacting and demanding with students. But beyond that, he didn't particularly resemble the Death Eater I remembered from the films.
No Unforgivable Curses. No flask of Polyjuice. No strange behavioral tics. Just a grim, barking man who knew his craft and harbored no illusions about transforming every Hogwarts student into a model defender of justice within a single year.
Nothing suspicious. Nothing that didn't fit the profile of a retired Auror.
If I was remembering correctly, he hadn't even been late to the September first welcoming feast.
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