┏ ೋღ : 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂. ೋღ ┓

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖞:
𝔴𝔥𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢?

┗━━ ೋღ : ©-fictophilic :  ೋღ ━━━┛

𝕿HE GREAT HALL BUZZED WITH CHATTER as you slipped onto the bench at the Ravenclaw table, rubbing the last traces of sleep from your eyes. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the soft gray of the morning sky, streaked with hints of pale gold as the sun began its slow ascent. Golden plates were piled high with breakfast — toast, eggs, sausages, and steaming cups of pumpkin juice.

Kyra was already deep in conversation with Isaac and Indie about the upcoming school year, while Luna dreamily stirred her tea, humming under her breath. Across from you, Violaine was delicately buttering her toast, her expression pleasant but mildly bored as she listened to Marietta, Cho, and Fleur discussing something about future careers.

Before you could reach for the plate of scrambled eggs, the unmistakable sound of Dumbledore tapping his goblet echoed through the Hall, calling for attention. The murmuring quieted almost instantly as all eyes turned toward the headmaster, who stood at the staff table with his usual twinkling gaze.

"Good morning, students," Dumbledore greeted, his voice carrying easily across the room. "As you know, the Triwizard Tournament will be held this year."

A ripple of excitement spread through the students. Everyone already knew what was coming, but it didn't make it any less thrilling to hear it confirmed.

"As a result, certain adjustments must be made to accommodate the festivities. One such adjustment..." He paused briefly, his tone light but firm. "Is that, for this year, the Hogwarts Quidditch season will be canceled to make way for the tournament's events."

"This can't be happening," Jamie whined from the Hufflepuff table behind you.

The reaction was immediate. Some students gasped. Others groaned. A loud "What?!" erupted from the Gryffindor table, and you turned just in time to see Oliver bolt upright, his face contorted in a mixture of disbelief and horror.

"Bloody hell," Isaac muttered beside you, craning his neck to watch the scene unfold.

Oliver looked as though the entire world had just collapsed around him. His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to choke out, "They're canceling Quidditch?! They... They can't cancel Quidditch!"

His teammates tried to calm him, but it was futile. Alicia patted his back sympathetically, while Angelina sighed, muttering something that sounded like "I knew this was coming." Katie was frowning deeply, and even Fred and George looked put out, though they mostly seemed amused by Oliver's outrage.

Sitting beside you, Violaine tilted her head, watching the scene with mild curiosity. "What's gotten him so worked up?" She asked, dabbing at her lips with a napkin as though this wasn't a world-ending moment for some.

You almost laughed. "That's Oliver Wood. Gryffindor's captain and Hogwarts' biggest Quidditch fanatic. This is probably the worst news he's ever received."

Violaine blinked, then gave a small shrug. "I mean, it's just a game."

Isaac choked on his pumpkin juice, eyeing Jamie. Jamie gaped at her, muttering, "Just a game?"

"It's Quidditch," you added, as if that was explanation enough.

Violaine waved a dismissive hand. "Alright, alright. Some people take it seriously. I get it." She glanced back at Oliver, who was now gesturing wildly at his teammates, looking as though he was about to launch into a full-blown protest. "But, really, he might want to breathe before he passes out."

Indie chuckled. "Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to stage a riot in McGonagall's office after this."

The commotion at the Gryffindor table continued even as students returned to their breakfasts, some muttering about how unfair the decision was while others were simply thrilled about the upcoming tournament. You couldn't help but feel a bit conflicted yourself — on one hand, the Triwizard Tournament was a once-in-a-lifetime event, but on the other, no Quidditch?

You glanced over at the Gryffindor table one last time, where Oliver was still ranting, looking absolutely betrayed by the universe.

As you stepped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, your eyes immediately found Kyra, who was already seated near the middle of the classroom. She caught your gaze with a bright smile and waved you over, patting the empty seat beside her.

For a moment, you hesitated, your grip tightening slightly on your books. Your usual place was next to Kyra, but just behind her, Alana lingered in the aisle, glancing between the open spot next to Kyra and the rest of the room.

You shifted your weight, making a quick decision. Instead of heading toward Kyra, you veered slightly and slid into the seat beside Hermione.

Kyra blinked, her hand still half-raised from waving you over. "Oh—" She started, but then she caught herself, turning toward Alana instead.

Hesitating near the aisle, Alana perked up slightly at the sudden availability of the seat. "Mind if I sit here?" She asked, trying to sound casual, though there was a flicker of something almost hopeful in her voice.

Kyra's lips quirked in a small smile, her fingers tapping lightly against the desk. "Yeah, of course. I mean, yeah, sit."

Tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, Alana sat down as she placed her books down a little too carefully, as if overthinking the simple movement. Kyra angled her body slightly toward her, the corners of her mouth still upturned, and you didn't miss the way their shoulders brushed as they both adjusted in their seats.

Flipping through her textbook, Hermione glanced at you with a knowing look. "That was intentional, wasn't it?" She murmured, keeping her voice low enough that only you could hear.

You simply shrugged, though there was a small smirk tugging at your lips.

Ahead of you, Kyra leaned in toward Alana slightly, whispering something that made Alana laugh — a quiet, almost nervous sound, but one that lit up her expression. Kyra grinned in response, her fingers twirling the end of her quill absently.

It was subtle — so subtle that most people wouldn't notice. But you did. And by the way Hermione's lips twitched as she turned a page in her book, she did too.

Before you could say anything, the classroom door swung shut with a loud bang, and all conversation ceased. Professor Moody had arrived, his piercing blue magical eye already scanning the room with unsettling precision.

"Alastor Moody," he introduced firmly, his voice a gravelly growl that cut through the murmurs of the classroom like a blade. The heavy clunk of his wooden leg echoed against the stone floor as he turned toward the chalkboard, the room holding its breath in eerie silence. With a sharp, almost violent flick of his wrist, he scrawled his name in jagged white strokes. "Ex-auror, Ministry malcontent, and your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." He tossed the piece of chalk aside onto the table. "I am here because Dumbledore asked me. End of story, goodbye, the end. Any questions?"

The students exchanged nervous glances. The usual chatter, the whispers and scribbled notes, had all but vanished. Even the most brazen students — those who never hesitated to talk back or show off — remained silent, unnerved by the piercing intensity of his magical eye. It whirred and twitched in its socket, scanning the room in unsettling jerks.

Beside you, Hermione, who was almost always the first to raise her hand, seemed unusually hesitant. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her brow furrowed. The weight of Moody's presence was suffocating, pressing down on the classroom like an invisible force.

"When it comes to the Dark Arts, I believe in a practical approach," Moody explained, his voice carrying the certainty of someone who had seen — and done — far worse than any of them could imagine. He turned back toward the board, his movements swift despite the limp. "But first, which of you can tell me how many Unforgivable Curses there are?"

"Three, sir," Hermione piped up, her voice steadier than most would have managed under his scrutinizing gaze.

"And they are so named?" Moody prompted, already scrawling the number 3 onto the board in rough, uneven strokes.

"Because they are unforgivable," Hermione answered quickly, sitting up straighter. "The use of any one of them will—"

"Will earn you a one-way ticket to Azkaban, correct," Moody cut in gruffly, slamming the chalk down on the desk with a loud thud. Some students flinched at the sound. Others remained frozen in place, too transfixed by the imposing figure in front of them. "The Ministry says you're too young to see what these curses do. I say different! You need to know what you're up against! You need to be prepared! You need to find another place to put your chewing gum besides the underside of your desk, Mr. Finnigan!"

In an instant, everyone's eyes were drawn to Seamus, who sighed and looked to Dean beside him. "Ugh, no way," Seamus muttered under his breath, looking incredulously at his friend. "The old codger can see out the back of his head."

Before anyone could even chuckle, Moody grabbed his piece of chalk and hurled it in Seamus' direction. The small projectile shot through the air and Seamus barely had time to duck. Students gasped, some ducking themselves. "And hear across classrooms!"

Silence fell again. The students watched Moody with wide eyes, the weight of his words settling in. Professor Moody's gaze swept across the sea of students once more, searching for his next victim.

"So, which curse shall we see first?" His lips barely moved as he spoke, but his voice carried through the room like a storm brewing in the distance. His gaze stopped on a boy. "Weasley!"

"Yes?" Ron squeaked. He straightened so quickly that he nearly knocked over his textbook. His face had gone pale, his red hair standing out starkly against his skin.

"Stand," Professor Moody ordered, causing the redheaded boy to slowly stand from his seat. Ron nervously glanced at Harry before looking back to Moody. "Give us a curse."

"Well, my... my dad did tell me about one," Ron stammered. Moody hummed, wanting the boy to finish his sentence. "The Imperius Curse."

"Oh, yeah, your father would know all about that," Moody mentioned, his scarred lips twisting into something that might have been a smirk. "Gave the Ministry quite a bit of grief a few years ago. Perhaps this will show you why."

The room held its breath as Moody turned back to the front, his wooden leg clunking against the stone floor. His movements were sharp and deliberate as he reached into a glass jar on his desk, pulling out a large spider. Then, with a flick of his wand, he muttered, "Engorgio."

You had to fight the instinct to recoil as the spider swelled grotesquely, its legs stretching, body expanding until it was the size of a small plate. Its too-many eyes glistened under the classroom's torchlight, and its spindly legs twitched unnervingly.

"Imperio!" Moody cast the next spell without hesitation. The reaction was immediate. The spider jerked unnaturally, then began moving in ways it shouldn't have.

With a wave of Moody's wand, it soared through the air, landing directly on a student's desk. "Eugh!"

Another wand movement and the spider was on Crabbe's face. "Ugh!"

Laughter erupted. Some students cheered, others cringed, but the air of amusement spread quickly. Even you found yourself exhaling in nervous relief — it wasn't on your face, after all.

"Don't worry. It's completely harmless," Moody muttered. But his tone was unreadable, and something about the way his magical eye whirred in its socket made it feel like he was lying.

Another flick, and suddenly, the spider was skittering onto Padma's hand. She gasped, shaking her hand violently, her face paling in terror. Moody was laughing now — a sharp, wicked sound that set you on edge. Then Ron froze in horror as the spider hovered inches above his head. "If she bites, she's lethal."

Moody began to laugh as the spider landed on Ron's head. The laughter from the class reached its peak, but you couldn't help but feel like there was something off about this. Moody wasn't just demonstrating. He was playing. Looking over, Moody questioned, "What are you laughing at?"

The spider shot toward Draco's face. He yelped, flailing as Goyle smacked wildly at the air, trying to bat it away. "Get off!" Draco cried out as the laughter grew louder.

"Talented, isn't she?" Moody mused. "What should I have her do next?" Then, his voice dropped to something darker. "Jump out the window?" With a flick of his wrist, the spider was yanked toward the glass, slamming against it with a dull thud. A few students gasped.

"Drown herself?" A metal bucket filled with water sat beside the window. The spider was twitching in resistance, its tiny legs flailing wildly as it hovered just above the surface. It let out a horrible, unnatural squeal as if it knew exactly what was coming. The laughter stopped.

Moody let the tension settle before he finally lifted the spell, and the spider floated back into his palm, its legs curling inward in fear. "Scores of witches and wizards have claimed that they only did You-Know-Who's bidding under the influence of the Imperius Curse. But here's the rub, how do we sort out the liars?" Students remained silent and no one answered. "Another, another."

A few hands tentatively went up. Others remained frozen, the weight of the demonstration sinking into them. "Up, up, come on," Moody encouraged as his magical eye whirred and scanned the room. Then, it locked onto one person. "Longbottom, is it?" Neville peered up at the professor, his hand raised. "Up."

Slowly, Neville pushed himself to his feet, his hands shaking slightly. "Professor Sprout tells me you have an aptitude for Herbology," Moody mentioned, causing Neville to nod in confirmation.

"There's... There's the, uhm, the Cruciatus Curse," Neville stammered. His voice was small, barely above a whisper.

"Correct, correct. Come, come," Moody urged, his tone almost too eager. He waved for Neville to step up to the table, to which Neville obliged hesitantly as Moody muttered, "Particularly nasty. The torture curse. Crucio!" 

At first, you weren't sure what you were seeing. The spider convulsed violently, its legs curling inward as if trying to protect itself. But then came the sound — the tiny, agonized squeals that cut through the classroom like nails on a chalkboard. Your stomach twisted at the sound.

Neville looked like he was about to be sick. His hands trembled at his sides, his entire body rigid. His breath was coming too fast and too shallow, but Moody didn't stop.

It felt like forever, the spider writhing and crying, Neville's hands clenching into fists, his face drained of all color.

"Stop it! Can't you see it's bothering him? Stop it!" Hermione's voice cut through the air like a whip. You turned toward her, startled by the sudden outburst.

For the first time since the lesson began, Moody hesitated. His magical eye flicked to Hermione, considering. Then, finally, he lifted his wand. The spider collapsed onto the desk, twitching. The silence in the room was suffocating.

You should have been focused on the tension hanging so thick in the air that it was hard to breathe. But you weren't.

You were looking at her.

Hermione was still glaring, her chest rising and falling quickly, her fists clenched at her sides. There was a fire in her eyes — a righteous fury, one that burned so bright it left you stunned. Despite her glare, she still shook with nerves and slight fear.

You had always known Hermione was brilliant. You had always known she was brave. But this was different. This was raw, unapologetic courage.

She had spoken out when no one else would.

She had seen Neville's pain when everyone else had been too afraid to look.

Your heart skipped, something warm and familiar unfurling in your chest.

You had never really noticed her like this before, but now?

Picking up the spider with his hand, Moody's gaze swept over the classroom, his magical eye whirring in its socket before settling on you and Hermione. His wooden leg thumped against the stone floor as he made his way over, the weight of his presence pressing down on the already tense atmosphere.

Without a word, he placed the spider onto Hermione's book, the creature's unmoving legs twitching slightly. She frowned immediately, her lips tightening in clear disapproval. "Perhaps you could give us the last Unforgivable Curse, Ms. Granger."

Hermione's breath hitched. You could see it in the way her shoulders tensed, the slight shake of her fingers as they curled into her lap. Glancing up at him, her lip quivered before she shook her head.

"No?" He mumbled. With a quick movement, he demonstrated the curse right in front of her, "Avada Kedavra!" The words came sharp and sudden, splitting the air with a finality that sent a chill down your spine.

A jet of green light erupted from Moody's wand, striking the spider dead in an instant. No pain, no struggle — just death, swift and merciless. The spider's body gave a tiny jerk before going limp.

The force of the spell made Hermione flinch, her hands clenching into fists on either side of her. You saw her throat bob as she swallowed thickly, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the desk.

"The Killing Curse," Moody explained, his voice grave, yet almost casual, as if he were discussing an everyday spell. Silence stretched across the room. No one dared to speak.

Moody took a step back, his