Draco, newly fifteen, had long since shed the last traces of boyishness—from his height to his sharp, refined features.
The soft edges of youth had hardened into a blade-like gaze, his confidence born from real strength, and the commanding presence others mistook for arrogance. Watching his back as he walked, many of the wizards wore conflicted expressions.
Setting aside rumor and bias, there was no denying it—Draco Malfoy was exceptional.
Tension and unease hung in the air, but Draco’s steps remained steady under the weight of every gaze. He t Alastor Moody’s stare head-on, silent and unwavering—like a duelist stepping onto the stage of the International Wizarding Duel Championship.
Naturally, that composure didn’t sit well with certain Gryffindors.
“He’ll be fine. It’s the professor, after all.”
“Arrogant show-off.”
“Professor Moody will put him in his place.”
At so point, Draco’s na had beco synonymous with invincibility.
Even facing Moody—a retired Auror—those sa Gryffindors didn’t seem quite as confident as they wanted to appear. Their strained expressions gave them away.
...
As Draco approached the platform with calm, asured steps, Moody’s magical eye whirred, sweeping over him again and again, as though trying to see straight through him.
anwhile, that scarred face split into a grin far too sinister for a classroom.
It wasn’t the look of a teacher at his student. It was the look of a hunter sizing up its prey.
The distance wasn’t far. In monts, Draco stood opposite Moody at center stage.
Without a word, the two took their positions at either end, a mutual understanding forming between them.
Then Moody spoke, giving no one ti to speculate.
“First, I must say—Severus, the wizard who created the Laceration Curse, was a genius. You need to understand, inventing a spell is no simple feat.”
The statent caught everyone off guard.
Rather than rebuking Draco or condemning the spell, Moody had opened with praise for its creator—Professor Snape.
But before Pansy or the others could exhale in relief, Moody’s tone turned sharp.
“However! What I’m about to explain is the true nature of this spell. It is extraordinarily dangerous—an evil form of magic that inflicts wounds beyond repair. In the simplest terms your limited magical education can grasp... it is Dark Magic.”
Even though most students had braced themselves, a collective shiver ran through the room.
Whispers rippled across the classroom as more than a few eyes darted toward Draco—now colored with unease and faint disgust.
Because dark magic was no small thing.
In the narrow, black-and-white worldview of the Gryffindors, anyone who wielded such spells could only be one thing—evil, like Voldemort himself.
Satisfied with the reaction, Moody gave a cold, twisted smirk.
“So, your second lesson will be learning how to counter such dark magic. Now, draw your wand, Mr. Malfoy.”
“...”
Moody’s words hung in the air as he lifted his own wand and leveled it directly at Draco.
The tension between them crackled. Draco could feel the hostility rolling toward him like a wave, his robes beginning to stir around him—subtle, yet unmistakable.
It was the sign of magic gathering.
And for an instant—perhaps an illusion, perhaps not—a faint flash of gold flickered deep within Draco’s storm-gray eyes.
...
“Damn it—since when is this sothing a professor should be doing?”
“Wait. Let’s see how this plays out first.”
“What’s there to see? His wand’s practically at Draco’s face!”
“Calm down! You think I’m not worried about him!?”
While Pansy and Hermione exchanged anxious whispers, Draco slowly drew his wand. He had no intention of standing there and doing nothing.
That single movent made it clear—there was no stopping what was about to happen.
“Excellent, Mr. Malfoy,” Moody rasped, his mismatched eyes glinting. “Next, I’ll walk everyone through the Laceration Curse. Don’t worry, I’ve already discussed it with Severus beforehand.”
“My godfather…?” Draco muttered.
Since when had those two been close enough to share spells? And how had his proud, solitary godfather never ntioned it?
Moody didn’t give him ti to question it. With a flick of his wand, he continued, “Though the Laceration Curse is dark magic, it is—fortunately—a reversible curse with a counter-spell. Even if you’re unlucky enough to be struck, you might be saved. Of course, that depends entirely on whether the caster feels generous enough to perform the reversal—since the counter-curse exists only in the hands of the original caster.”
“...”
A collective silence fell over the room. The students’ faces twisted in disbelief.
A lifesaving thod that relied on the attacker’s good mood? That was no salvation at all.
Moody gave a curt nod, as if their reactions were exactly what he’d expected.
“So, today’s lesson is this—how to defend against the Laceration Curse!”
“Oh… oh!” a few voices murmured, more out of confusion than understanding.
“Now, strike,” Moody ordered. “Aim to kill , Malfoy. Otherwise, the one lying flat will be you.”
“Sectumsempra!”
The word tore through the air like a blade.
The spell’s na itself—Sectumsempra, “the shadowless cut”—embodied its nature: a curse of devastating precision, leaving no visible warning. No light. No spark. No trace.
That was its terror—its invisibility.
Draco’s attack ca so fast, so sudden, that not even Pansy or Hermione could react in ti.
An ordinary wizard would have been sliced open before they could blink.
But Alastor Moody was no ordinary wizard.
BOOM—!
The lectern between them exploded, cleanly split in two, wood splinters scattering through the air.
Moody’s magical eye glowed fiercely blue through the haze, a protective barrier shimring faintly before him as it slowly dissipated.
The evidence was clear.
Gasps rippled across the room. Every student swallowed hard, caught between awe and disbelief—at Moody’s blinding reflexes, and at Draco’s sheer nerve for attacking with such intent.
He had just tried to strike down a professor. In a classroom.
As the magic in the air settled, all eyes turned back to the stage.
Draco stood unmoving, expression cold and unreadable.
And only then did they notice it—the faint pressure in the air, the power radiating off him, sharp enough to et Moody’s own.
It was at that mont the truth dawned on them.
Draco Malfoy had grown into sothing far beyond their reach.
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