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Chapter Text

Moody was speaking again, from a great distance, it seemed to Harry. With a massive effort, he pulled himself back to the present and listened to what Moody was saying.

" Avada Kedavra 's a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it - you could all get your wands out now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I'd get so much as a nosebleed-"

Harry's hand twitched, and he realized he had taken his wand in hand, under the desk. If Moody noticed, he didn't say anything about it; he was still talking about the spell.

And Harry wasn't listening, because he was lifting his wand, resting it in his hand on the desk, and revolving it slowly in his hand to point at Moody.

He breathed in. Glanced around. No one else was looking, either. They were all watching Moody, except for Harry.

He looked up at where the professor stood in the room, adjusting his aim.

"...Avada Kedavra," he breathed out on a sigh.

Green light. A rushing sound. The people next to him screamed, recoiling. The professor jolted out of the path of the spell, and it left a singed spot on the blackboard behind him. Both eyes turned sharply to look at Harry now, almost like they were boring into him; students had gotten out of their seats, some still shrieking, all of them parting like the Red Sea so there was only Moody, frozen at the front of the room, and Harry, gone equally still in his seat.

A long moment. The students quieted, some returning to their seats, and still the professor had not said anything, blinking slowly at Harry like a specimen in a zoo.

(Harry remembered the snake he'd freed from the zoo, and the even older memory of the scene with the snake in The Jungle Book, and wondered whether he or Moody was doing the mesmerizing, because their eyes still met.)

Eventually, Moody stood straighter, cocking his head at Harry, still meeting his eyes. "...Twenty points to Gryffindor," he murmured, "for calling my bluff."

Moody was the first to turn away from their peculiar staring contest, as well. "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he roared at the class. "Return to your seats; there's more to this lesson yet."

There was only a bit more lecture and note-taking before class was over; Harry felt the eyes of his classmates on him the entire time, crawling over his skin. When he looked up at the board, he could see Slytherins leaning forward in their seats to look at him from the periphery; and Harry wanted to hide under the Invisibility Cloak for the rest of the day, because he was only just realizing what he'd done.

He'd incanted the Killing Curse. An illegal spell. At his professor. And it had cast.

(What is wrong with me?)

At the end of the lesson, Moody asked Harry to stay behind. Ron and Hermione threw wary looks at him over their shoulders as they left - not even talking to him. A sinking feeling in Harry's stomach told him he'd done something... unforgivable.

(Oh.)

Chapter Text

The door to the classroom closed, and then Harry and Moody were alone. The professor took a long swig of his hip flask before sitting heavily back on his desk.

"So, Potter," he said. "Nice spell."

Harry blinked at him, confused. "Er... thank you, sir? I'm s-"

Moody cut him off with a wave of his hand. One side of his scarred mouth pulled up in a snarl. "Don't apologize! I'm impressed!"

Harry faltered, shutting his mouth.

The professor's wooden leg clunked loud against the stone floor as he got up to pace back and forth. "You think just anyone with the balls could pull off a Killing Curse, Potter? It's not that easy! Never mind the magical drain - and you don't even look tired - it's a trickier spell than it looks, and you've cast it anyway. Tell me," he barked, and Harry jumped, "did you even think much about it when you cast that, or did it flow from your wand fast as a Lumos?"

"Erm-"

Moody burst out laughing, clutching at his stomach. He sidled over to Harry and clapped him on the shoulder, still chuckling. Eventually, the laughter faded, and he fixed Harry with a more somber look. "You've got talent, kid. Real talent. And about ten minutes before Albus hears about what you did and comes to investigate."

"I'm in trouble, aren't I," Harry realized quietly, going pale.

The hand on his shoulder shook him a little. "Listen carefully," Moody said, and Harry gave a jerky nod, eyes wide. "You and I planned this out ahead of time. You didn't really cast the spell. It was an illusion I made in advance to make the lesson more interesting. Got it?"

Harry nodded again. "And that's why I picked the seat I picked," he suggested, adding on to the story.

Moody's face twitched into the snarl again; Harry realized it was his face's attempt at a smile. "Atta boy," the man said. "Now, hand me your wand so I can clear that spell off the record."

Harry's mind was full of questions - 'the record' as in Priori Incantatem like they'd done at the World Cup? - as he passed his wand to Moody, who tapped it with his own wand and muttered something under his breath. His blue eye swivelled to the door, and he hurriedly returned it to Harry (who pocketed it) only seconds before it burst open to reveal the Headmaster, just as Moody had predicted.

Chapter Text

In the three years that Harry had known the headmaster so far, their interactions had been few and far between, most of the time - with the exceptions of moments in which some great thing had happened, like Quirrell, or the Basilisk, or Sirius’ flight to freedom.

He had never been afraid of Dumbledore - but right now, faced with the flurry of dazzling robes and a piercing blue glare that he could not meet directly, it was so cold, Harry thought he was learning to be.

“Mister Potter,” Dumbledore addressed him, low, demanding, “did you truly cast the Killing Curse at your professor?”

“N-no, sir, I - he-” A flush reddened Harry’s face as he babbled, and he averted his eyes to the floor.

He was startled to feel a hand on his shoulder, and even more so to realize it was Moody, who never seemed to touch anyone, doing so: “What the lad’s trying to say, Albus, is that it was a trick,” a barked laugh, “and a damn good one if it brought you all the way down here!”

“Alastor,” Dumbledore started, but was interrupted - something that also never happened, but for different reasons - by Moody waving a dismissive hand.

“No, no, listen! ‘Twas an illusion spell I’ve got handy for training the Corps. Scares ‘em like nothin’ else the first couple times, ‘til they don’t flinch anymore - how else would they go out and fight Dark wizards, who use the damn thing as they please?” Moody gestured to Harry’s seat, where Harry saw - with muted surprise - that a faint circle had been carved into the wood, something he hadn’t noticed the man doing.

Dumbledore seemed to be buying it, but he wasn’t completely at ease until he had taken Harry’s wand and cast Priori Incantatem, and found - of course - no Killing Curse on it. Then he seemed to deflate, looking several times more world-weary than he had when Harry had last seen him. “I will make an announcement at dinner,” the headmaster promised, “but this was in extremely poor taste, Alastor. Your seventh-years, I might understand, but fourth?”

“Bah, what’s wrong with fourth? They’re old enough to learn about the Unforgivables-”

“But not, I am afraid, sensible enough to ask Harry about the truth, before spreading false rumors,” Dumbledore finished sadly.

“...Rumors?” Harry all but whispered, his stomach sinking.

This was going to be second year all over again.

Chapter Text

This is going to be second year all over again, Harry had thought, and it was.

No, in some ways, it was worse: now, unlike then, even the upper-years were suspicious of him. Harry reached the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall for dinner and found that no seat had been left open for him within his year - he was shuffled along all the way to the far end, with the prefects, who eyed him suspiciously through the entire meal.

And they weren’t the only ones. Harry felt himself drawing stares from what seemed like half the school, all too aware of the whispering and murmuring going on just quiet enough that he couldn’t hear every word they were saying, but what he did hear was plenty.

Even Ron and Hermione had avoided him - and that, perhaps, was the worst part, because they hadn’t even given him a chance to tell the - well, not truth, but.

If this is what I get, he thought, picking at the food on his plate, I wish I’d never cast that spell in the first place.

Which, from a certain point of view, he hadn’t.

“ALL RIGHT, YOU LOT!” Moody yelled suddenly, startling pretty much everyone - including the teachers. He aimed his wand at his throat, coughing, and cleared it; when he spoke again, to the mostly silent Great Hall, it was at a projected volume.

“I figure at this point you’ve all heard about how Potter over there supposedly cast the Killing Curse at me this afternoon.” A pause, as the man raised what was left of an eyebrow, radiating skepticism. “Here I thought you all could think for yourselves, but everyone seems to have believed that story as soon as they heard it! HA!” Moody crossed his arms, magic eye glaring at the audience.

“Let me be clear: that was FAKE! An illusion to remind you all of CONSTANT VIGILANCE! And you fumbled it!” The man stomped his wooden leg, loud and sharp on the floor. “Why, if you were my Academy trainees I’d-” Moody cut off whatever he would have done at a quelling gesture from Professor Dumbledore. “Anyway. Shame on all of you for believing ill of your fellow student so easily! Look at him, he’s got anxiety.”

(Harry cringed under the collective glance sent his way.)

“Anybody with questions can come to me later,” he finished, sitting back down and canceling the charm that had loudened his voice.

Murmuring rose among the student body, as new, assessing gazes were turned on Harry by his Housemates and those nearby. “Right, well,” Percy gave a pointed cough, “I should have known you would never cast a Dark spell, Harry! Forgive me for making strange assumptions.”

Harry nodded, but with the biggest source of stress out of the way, he felt pretty drained. “I’m going to bed,” he announced, more for his yearmates’ benefit, halfway down the table, than for the prefects and seventh-years in the adjacent seats. He saw Ron and Hermione stand up, intent on intercepting him, but went ahead before they could catch up, using a secret passage to hurry toward Gryffindor Tower.

If I’m lucky, he thought, drawing the curtains around his bed, everyone will have moved on from the gossip by tomorrow.

(They hadn't.)

Chapter Text

The day after the Incident set the tone for the rest of September.

No one was outright hostile, after Dumbledore and Moody’s announcement, but with a lack of other things to gossip about this early in the school term, Harry felt the weight of suspicious looks from all sides anyway - including his own House.

Of his friends and yearmates in Gryffindor, only Ron and Hermione had returned to his side by breakfast. Fred and George and Percy were also friendly, but they didn’t share classes, and Harry had meant to talk to the others in the fourth-year dorms last night, but he couldn’t find the right words to say. And, well, he wasn’t very good at lying.

Malfoy and his lackeys, meanwhile, were more interested in Harry than ever - and they were far from the only ones in their House to be doing so. Upper-year Slytherins eyed him with a calculative interest, a distant awe, which only made the other three-fourths of the student body more dubious.

They’re Slytherins, Harry overheard some upper-year Ravenclaws murmuring in the library one day. If it’s Dark Arts, well, wouldn’t they know?

(This was to say nothing of the quieter, more insidious rumor circulating just on the edges of Harry’s hearing: that he had cast the Killing Curse, and Dumbledore had covered for him to protect the image of the Boy-Who-Lived.

It itched at him, that it wasn’t too far off the mark.)

Three days into being the subject of gossip, Harry wrote to Sirius of his troubles - being sure to repeat Moody’s story, of course. Hedwig returned so quickly that Harry wondered if Padfoot was hiding out in the Hogsmeade cave again. Wicked prank, Prongslet, he’d written, but followed that with a strong admonishment of Moody’s actions that reminded Harry of what Dumbledore had said in Moody’s office, that day.

Seventh-years would have been able to realize it was an illusion and react accordingly, but ickle fourth-years like your lot? Of course they’ll believe the very worst. Hate to say it, but nothing you or Albus or Moody say is going to change their minds for a while, Harry. They’re too dumb.

And, unfortunately, Sirius was right. By the end of the week, Harry had resolved himself to suffering the disquieted stares of the student body for the rest of term, just as he had years earlier, during the Heir of Slytherin debacle. He would hold his head high, and be unbothered; never mind that this time, he had done something wrong.

On the eighth day, he turned a corner in an empty corridor and came face-to-face with Professor Moody.

His wand was in his hand before he gave it a thought, a spell on his lips that his brain stalled over casting. “P-Professor?” Harry stammered, glancing around. “Erm. Sorry?”

Moody looked between Harry’s wand - now aimed just to the side of him - and his face - flustered, pale - and raised a scar-bisected brow. “Was that the spell I think it is, boy?”

Harry took in a sharp breath. “I wouldn’t know, sir, I can’t read minds,” he answered levelly, but couldn’t quite meet either of Moody’s eyes.

There was a moment of silence.

“Heh. Not bad,” Moody grunted. “Follow-through could use work, but then, that’s what you’ll learn with practice. With me, Potter, we’ve got to talk. My office.”

…Practice?

Bewildered, Harry sheathed his wand, and followed after him.

Chapter Text

Every Defense professor seemed to decorate their office in a different style. Lockhart had had those obnoxious framed photos of himself; Lupin had been more subdued, with just the relevant materials for his class demonstrations, but those had still taken up a lot of space, like the boggart cabinet. Harry would place Moody’s decorating style in between the two of theirs: the contents of his office were practical, but it was also pretty cluttered.

(Harry had never been in Quirrell’s office. He now found himself curious as to what it’d looked like.)

A larger version of Harry’s Pocket Sneakoscope sat on Moody’s desk, silent and unmoving. A mirror, or some kind of weird painting, hung on the opposite wall from the door, depicting blurry, shadowy figures moving around in a grey mist. On a separate, small table in one corner, a curiously-shaped gold antenna was giving off a low hum, the droning sort of buzz that settled dreadfully at the base of one’s skull, just on the edge of Harry’s hearing as he sat down in the visitor’s chair.

“Like my Dark Detectors, do you?” Moody thunked down into his own chair with a grunt. “Got a wide-range Sneakoscope on the desk here,” he gestured at the artifact. “Had to turn the blasted thing off, though. It was picking up all sorts of pointless nonsense.

“That there’s a Foe-Glass,” referring to the weird mirror-painting-thingy; “shows one’s enemies more clearly the closer they get to you. ‘Course, unless they’re coming atcha with killing intent, strangers aren’t naturally included… would be a powerful thing otherwise, wouldn’t it? No, you have to decide someone’s your enemy…”

“I’m not in it,” Harry wondered aloud. “Even though I almost-?”

Moody’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Nah, lad, ‘twasn’t on purpose from you - either time,” he added, pointedly. “We both know that was just instinct.”

The humming from the gold antenna seemed to get just a little bit louder. Harry gritted his teeth. “What about that one?” he asked, fighting a grimace.

Moody looked over. “Oh, right, that. It’s a Secrecy Sensor - vibrates when it detects concealment or lies. Bit of a bother to use it here in Hogwarts - it’s like the Sneakoscope, detection range’s too wide. Lotta mundane background noise. I must’ve forgot to turn it off.” He gestured at it with his wand; at last, the Sensor’s low hum went silent. Harry sagged against his chair in relief.

Without the obnoxious hum rattling around in his head, Harry could focus on the reason Moody had brought him here. He waited for the professor to explain - what practice, exactly, had he meant? - and Moody… drank copiously from the flask he kept on his hip at all times, holding up a finger for Harry to wait until he was done.

“Right then,” Moody belched, grimacing at the aftertaste. “Lemme put up the privacy spells, then we’ll talk.”

He gestured with his wand at the ceiling this time; and Harry sucked in a breath: it felt like the air in the room had gotten heavier all at once. An oppressive silence fell over the space, all sounds from outside cut off - even the birds chirping somewhere beyond the window. Harry could hear his pulse in his ears, the sound of his throat working as he swallowed nervously, and the drum of Moody’s fingers on the desktop, which brought his attention back to the professor at last.

“This your first encounter with a solid ward, Potter?” Moody eyed him. Harry nodded. “Huh. Thought you were raised with our kind.”

“Er, no,” Harry said bluntly. “It was my mum’s Muggle relatives.”

“Muggles, eh,” Moody murmured darkly. His blue eye zipped around to stare piercingly at Harry. “They treat you right, lad? Don’t sugarcoat it,” he added, as if he could tell that was exactly what Harry’d been about to do.

“...They don’t,” said Harry eventually, uncomfortable.

Moody nodded, as if that were exactly what he’d expected to hear. Harry braced himself for more questions - but instead, the man changed the subject. “Wards like the kind I put up all have a weight to ‘em, the kind you’ll notice as soon as it activates. We call ‘em solid because whatever they’re warding against can’t get in or out - sound, in this case. Most wards in the field are gonna be a lot subtler, though; I’d teach a whole section on detecting ‘em if I had the time. Dead useful skill for any wizard.”

Moody leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Point is, these private lessons only happen behind solid wards. If they’re not up? You act like none of this conversation - or the ones after it - ever happened. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry nodded sharply. He was good at keeping secrets. The last thing he needed was someone eavesdropping and feeding the rumor mill.

“Great.” Moody got up from his chair, crouching down to rummage in one of the desk drawers. “Now, like I said last week,” he went on from out of sight, “that curse you sent my way? Impressive. ‘Specially for a lad your age. Takes more finesse than you’d expect for a spell that does what it says on the tin.”

“They said that about the Patronus, too,” Harry volunteered. “Kind of. I learned it last year.”

There was a loud clunk. “Elaborate,” Moody prompted. More, smaller thuds: it sounded to Harry like whatever he had in the drawer was taking a lot of finagling to remove.

“There were dementors here last year, looking for Sirius Black.” Harry wrinkled his nose at the memory. “They - affected me more than everyone else. I got Lupin to teach me outside of class-”

“Last year’s professor, yeah? Werewolf, I heard.”

“Nothing wrong with being a werewolf,” Harry declared. “He was the best professor we’ve had so far.”

“Never said there was,” Moody agreed, as he finally resurfaced with a large crystal ball hefted in both hands. It was about twice the size of the ones Trelawney used in Divination, its surface warped like it had been melted at some point and clumsily shaped back into a ball again. “Though maybe I’ll take that ‘best professor’ title from him, eh?” He chuckled. “So. This here’s a magic measurer; it’ll give me an idea of what we’re working with, what level to start teaching you at. Put your left hand on it while you tell me the rest of that story.”

Trelawney’s crystal balls were all a bit cool to the touch, same as any bit of glass; the magic-measurer surprised him by being warm against his hand. “My boggart’s a dementor,” Harry explained, watching swirls of color begin to drift out from where his palm met the artifact. “So we used that to practice against, for most of the year. At the end of term, when a bunch of dementors went after Sirius and me,” leaving out that anyone else had been there, of course, “I was able to drive them off.”

Moody raised what passed for an eyebrow. “How many is ‘a bunch’, exactly?”

“...Around a hundred?”