The Hogwarts term ended in a somewhat passive and less-than-perfect atmosphere, a far cry from the usual excitement and celebratory energy that typically marked the conclusion of a school year.
There were no grand festivities, no final tournament awards ceremony with speeches and applause, no international celebration with the visiting schools sharing food and friendship. The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations had already departed in the middle of the night, their ships and carriages vanishing before dawn like ghosts fleeing a haunted house.
Just a quiet, almost melancholy winding down remained as students packed their trunks with unusual solemnity and said their goodbyes with soft voices rather than the typical shouting and laughter.
The final days of school life continued as usual on the surface, proceeding step by step through the familiar routines—classes, meals, evening study periods but there was an undercurrent of unease that filled everything like a chill that wouldn't dissipate.
Although the school had not won the Triwizard Tournament championship, had not brought home the glory and the thousand Galleon prize, most students felt only mild regret rather than excessive disappointment. The circumstances were too obviously abnormal, and invalidated by outside forces beyond anyone's control.
How could anyone feel properly disappointed about losing a competition that had been interrupted by a terrorist attack?
Moreover...
Though they hadn't witnessed the intruders with their own eyes, the news coverage in the Daily Prophet had revealed in apparent detail what had happened that night.
The front page had screamed the story for days: escaped Azkaban prisoners, the most dangerous criminals in the wizarding world, had somehow broken into Hogwarts which was supposedly the safest place in Britain and attacked the competing champions with intent to kill or capture.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had been severely injured, had lost an arm according to some accounts, though the exact details remained vague. The Prophet had been heavy on vague speculation and light on confirmed facts, as usual.
Rita Skeeter's articles had been sensational as usual, filled with prose about "near-death experiences" and "the Boy Who Lived Almost Didn't." The coverage had whipped the entire wizarding community into a frenzy of fear and speculation.
It must be said, this year's Triwizard Tournament had been absolutely plagued with disasters from start to finish. From Karkaroff's injury and subsequent death, to Barty Crouch's murder, to Ludo Bagman's corruption scandal, to the final catastrophic attack... nothing had gone right.
The competition that was supposed to foster international magical cooperation had instead become a symbol of chaos and danger.
Many were already saying the tournament should never be held again.
On the last day of term, under overcast skies that seemed ready to spill rain, students boarded the Hogwarts Express one after another in a stream.
Due to the special circumstances and heightened security concerns following the Death Eater attack, due to the very real possibility that another attack attempt might be made on students particularly Harry Potter—Dumbledore had specifically arranged for several professors to board the train with the students for their protection.
Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Moody, and Adrian sat together in the middle carriages of the train, occupying an entire compartment that had been reserved specifically for staff use. They positioned themselves strategically at the train's center point, ready to respond to emergencies at any moment, able to reach either end of the train within minutes if necessary.
The compartment was comfortable enough but the atmosphere was tense and vigilant despite the casual postures the professors assumed.
After the train finally pulled out of Hogsmeade station, and the platform retreated behind them and the Scottish Highlands began rolling past the windows, Adrian looked curiously at Moody, who was sitting rigidly beside him in the window seat.
"You really haven't sensed anything unusual, Professor Moody?" He asked casually, keeping his voice low enough that students passing in the corridor wouldn't overhear. "Nothing at all?"
Moody was currently frowning deeply as he read a newspaper—the Daily Prophet, naturally, still full of coverage about the "Hogwarts Attack" but even while apparently absorbed in reading, he kept his wand gripped firmly in his right hand.
His magical eye was rotating autonomously of his normal eye, constantly scanning their surroundings, checking the corridor, examining passing students, sweeping over the luggage racks and under the seats with thoroughness.
"Oh?" He lowered the newspaper slightly and fixed both eyes on Adrian and asked with gruff puzzlement, "What specifically are you referring to, lad?"
"I'm talking about the curse," Adrian explained, leaning back against the seat cushions. "The curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor position. The one that's claimed every teacher for decades. The term's already ended officially, hasn't it? You've made it through the entire school year. That's never happened before in living memory."
Hearing this reminder, Moody gave a rough, gruff snort that might have been amusement or disdain or both combined. His face twisted into something that might generously be called a smile.
"Don't worry about me, lad," He said, raising his wand a bit higher in an almost defiant gesture, and his magical eye rotated twice in its socket with a faint whirring sound. "I've been vigilant the whole time, every single day. Constant vigilance, as I always say."
"Oh, Alastor!"
Professor Flitwick's high-pitched, cheerful voice came from the seat opposite them, breaking through the tension. The tiny professor was perched on the edge of his seat with his feet dangling well above the floor, and he looked genuinely pleased and excited.
"This is truly remarkable! Extraordinary! Come to think of it carefully, you're the very first Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in all these years—decades, really to complete an entire year of teaching without incident!!"
His tone made it seem like this was a momentous achievement worthy of celebration.
"Don't let your guard down yet," Professor McGonagall beside him reminded sharply, though her voice carried a hint of approval as well.
"I've never been lax, Minerva. Not for a single moment." Moody nodded in agreement, his magical eye spinning to focus on her briefly before resuming its constant patrol.
"I knew about that blasted curse from the very beginning, before I even accepted this position. The moment Dumbledore offered me the job, I knew what I was getting into.
From the moment I accepted and signed the contract, I made thorough preparations for dealing with it: rotating seven different protective spells each day, testing all food and drink for poisons and potions before consuming anything, setting up three layers of alert wards around my quarters while resting, checking my office for hexes every morning..."
He continued listing his paranoid precautions with pride.
'That's hardly necessary,' Adrian thought privately, suppressing a smile.
Moody's level of paranoia bordered on OCD, though given his history as an Auror and the very real dangers he'd faced, perhaps it was somewhat justified.
Still, Adrian couldn't help but wonder—could such behavior really resist or counteract Voldemort's curse? Was it the precautions that had protected Moody, or had something else changed?
The mechanism behind the curse remained a mystery even to Dumbledore.
Professor McGonagall adjusted her spectacles with one finger and looked seriously at Moody, her expression becoming more intent. "So, Alastor, will you continue in this position next year? Now that you've successfully broken the curse? After all, you're clearly capable of the role and the students need consistency."
For a moment, everyone in the compartment looked expectantly at Moody, waiting for his answer.
This was indeed the question they all cared most about at the moment, the crucial issue that would affect the entire school.
Finding competent Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers had become increasingly difficult over the years as the curse's reputation spread. Qualified candidates simply refused the position, considering it cursed and dangerous which it evidently was.
Thinking of Quirrell and Lockhart before him—one possessed by Voldemort, one a complete fraud, not to mention all the others who had fled or died or been injured over the decades... Moody could indeed be considered an excellent Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher by comparison.
Competent, experienced, genuinely knowledgeable, and apparently capable of surviving the position.
The bar had been set remarkably low.
"If you can't find a suitable replacement," Moody answered gruffly after a long pause, "I'll consider it."
Adrian's mind immediately jumped to what he remembered from the original plot.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for the next year should be a truly detestable woman named Dolores Umbridge sent by the Ministry to spy on Hogwarts, to undermine Dumbledore, to torment students with barbaric punishments and refuse to actually teach them anything useful.
If Moody continued as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, then she probably wouldn't have any opportunity to worm her way into Hogwarts.
That was genuinely good news, because Umbridge had been a thoroughly detestable woman by all accounts—cruel, sadistic, power-hungry, and utterly convinced of her own righteousness. The kind of person who would use a Blood Quill on children.
Adrian made a mental note to encourage Moody to stay on. Anything to prevent that disaster from manifesting.
After the train had traveled for some time, the scenery outside the windows gradually changing from the wild Scottish Highlands to countryside, with fields and forests and occasional villages flashing past, then Professor McGonagall stood up and announced,
"Well then, everyone, time to begin our patrol rounds. We should check on the students, make sure everything is proceeding smoothly. Filius and I will be one team, covering the front half of the train."
She looked at Adrian and Moody expectantly.
"We'll take the rear sections," Adrian agreed, standing and stretching slightly. His legs had gone a bit stiff from sitting.
He slid open the compartment door and walked toward the rear of the train with Moody following behind.
Honestly, Adrian didn't think anything genuinely unexpected would actually happen during this journey. The train route was very public, and too exposed for a serious attack. Death Eaters weren't suicidal. But the precautions were necessary for public assurance, for the parents' peace of mind, and for the distant possibility that something might go wrong.
Better safe than dead, as Moody would say.
In the corridor, the familiar witch with the snack trolley happened to be passing by, pushing her cart with sweets and treats. The delicious smells of chocolate and sugar wafted through the air.
"Anything from the trolley, dears?" She asked cheerfully, her face breaking into a warm smile.
Adrian quickly ordered two liquorice wands without much thought—he'd recently developed an unexpected taste for this sweet and peculiar flavor. There was something nostalgic about it.
"Oh, I don't need any, thank you," Moody refused the liquorice wand Adrian immediately offered to him.
Adrian wasn't surprised by this rejection at all. Moody never easily accepted food or drink from others, even colleagues he'd worked with for years.
After stuffing the candy into his mouth and savoring the odd but pleasant taste, Adrian pulled open the door to the nearest compartment with his free hand.
"Routine inspection," He announced, poking his head through the doorway.
Because of the advance notice that professors would be patrolling, the students in the compartment weren't particularly surprised by Adrian's sudden arrival. They looked up from their various activities of reading magazines, playing Exploding Snap, discussing summer plans with curiosity rather than alarm.
Several girls sat in the compartment around the small table between the seats, and Adrian immediately spotted that head of pale, almost silvery blonde hair.
Luna was gazing out the window in a daze, her large eyes were slightly unfocused as she watched the countryside roll past. She wore her usual dreamy, distant expression, as if her mind was somewhere far away from the train.
Ginny sat beside her, looking considerably more alert. She noticed Adrian's inspection and immediately patted Luna's shoulder, leaning close to remind her in a low whisper, "Luna, the professor's here."
Luna's unclear gaze slowly sharpened as she turned away from the window, her eyes finding Adrian and brightening with recognition. A small, ethereal smile appeared on her face.
"Hello, Professor Westeros," She said in her typical dreamy voice that always sounded slightly sing-song.
"Are you checking for Wrackspurts? There are quite a few in this compartment indeed, I've noticed. They've been buzzing around people's ears all day. They particularly like to come out at the end of term, when people's heads are full of confused thoughts and worries. All that mental clutter attracts them."
Adrian casually swept his gaze around the compartment a few times and nodded with a smile.
"Nothing unusual, girls. Everything seems perfectly in order," He said. "Have a pleasant journey home. Enjoy your summer holidays."
Just as he was about to close the compartment door and move on to the next one, Luna spoke up again: "Dad invited you to visit our home during the summer holiday, Professor Westeros."
"I'd be delighted to visit," Adrian responded warmly.
Luna's smile brightened at this acceptance.
After Adrian stepped back out into the corridor and slid the door closed with a soft click, he found that Moody had also finished checking the opposite compartment.
The first-year students in that compartment were now huddled together in the corner of their seats like frightened rabbits, their faces pale and their eyes wide. They looked thoroughly traumatized by whatever Moody had said or done during his "inspection."
A small boy with oversized glasses had apparently dropped his Chocolate Frog on the floor in fright, it was hopping weakly near his feet, making a break for freedom but the boy didn't dare move to pick it up. He just stared at it with a mixture of longing and fear, clearly worried that bending down might attract Moody's attention again.
"You've scared them quite badly, Professor Moody," Adrian said softly, as they moved away down the corridor. "They look like they've seen a Dementor."
"Better to be scared and alert than comfortable and dead," Moody said harshly, with no trace of remorse in his gravelly voice. "Those children need to learn that the world's a dangerous place. Vigilance, that's what they need. Can't start teaching that too early."
His magical eye spun backward, probably still watching the traumatized first-years.
The two continued moving forward toward the rear of the train, checking compartments on both sides of the corridor. Most were filled with laughing students, some sleeping, others playing games or sharing snacks. Everything seemed normal and peaceful.
Harry and his friends were sitting in the very last compartment at the train's rear end, which made sense. Harry probably wanted privacy and distance from the inevitable stares and whispers that followed him everywhere these days.
When Adrian pulled open the sliding door, he saw the Weasley twins squeezed inside the already-crowded space as well, making the compartment rather cramped and stuffy.
Fred and George were practically stacked on the same seat, while Ron was squeezed so tightly between them and the window that he could only rest half his bottom on the cushion. He looked uncomfortable and annoyed, his face was flushed from the heat and close quarters.
Hermione was sitting beside Harry on the opposite bench, looking concerned and slightly exasperated.
"Five people in one compartment is still a bit too cramped," Adrian commented, surveying the crowded scene with raised eyebrows. "Especially with you two in here."
He gestured at the twins.
"You two can go back to your own compartment now!" Ron said irritably, pushing weakly at Fred's shoulder beside him. "You're crushing me! I can't feel my legs!"
Fred nimbly steadied himself, completely unbothered by his brother's complaints, and sighed dramatically with exaggerated patience. "Ickle Ronniekins, we're protecting your safety and the safety of your famous friend. Bodyguard duty. Very important work."
"That's absolutely right," George chimed in, nodding seriously. "Can't have Death Eaters snatching Harry off the train, can we? We're a human shield."
"You're a pain in my arse, is what you are," Ron muttered.
At that moment, Adrian's attention shifted away from the twins' performance and their ongoing bickering with Ron.
He keenly noticed that small beads of sweat dotted Harry's temples, glistening in the light from the window. His face was slightly pale, and the hand gripping his wand was trembling.
"Harry, are you all right?" Adrian asked with concern. "What were you just doing?"
"Just a bit of practice," Harry answered, his voice sounding weary and slightly strained. "Nothing to worry about, Professor."
Hermione immediately interjected, her worried tone making it clear she'd been trying to get Harry to stop for some time. "He's been practicing spells constantly ever since he got his …err…. new arm, Professor."
From Harry's thoroughly exhausted appearance, from the dark circles under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hands, Adrian immediately figured it wasn't just "a bit" of practice as Harry had claimed.
He'd probably been trying continuously, obsessively, to cast magic again, pushing himself to the point of magical exhaustion.
But this desperate determination was somewhat unavoidable, Adrian realized with sympathy.
For a wizard, especially a young wizard who'd grown up with magic as a core part of his identity, even temporarily losing the ability to cast spells reliably was something incredibly difficult to endure and psychologically devastating.
"How's the recovery going?" Adrian asked, keeping his voice gentle and non-judgmental.
Harry forced out a weak smile. He raised his wand arm and concentrated hard, his brow furrowing with intense focus and his jaw clenching with determination.
The tip of his wand tremulously, shakily produced a small cluster of weak, wavering light. It was barely brighter than a candle flame, flickering uncertainly in the compartment's dimness.
"I can only manage this much,"
The light flickered unsteadily, like a candle struggling in a strong wind, clearly maintained with great difficulty and concentration. Harry's hand shook from the effort, and sweat trickled on his forehead.
Harry's shoulders slumped in defeat.
"That's already very good progress, Harry. Much better than I expected at this stage," Adrian said encouragingly, meaning it sincerely. "Perhaps in another two weeks of steady practice—not this obsessive pace you're maintaining, but regular, consistent practice with proper rest, you'll be completely back to normal."
Honestly, this recovery speed far exceeded his initial expectations and assessment.
He'd always thought Harry would need at least a full month, possibly six weeks, to barely adapt to his regenerated right arm and restore even basic magical functionality. The fact that he was already producing light, even weak light, after less than two weeks was remarkable.
After hearing Adrian's reassuring words, Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead with his left hand.
"I hope so, Professor," He said softly.
Just as Harry raised his hand to wipe away more sweat from his temples, Ron suddenly widened his eyes. He leaned forward from his cramped position, nearly toppling off his seat portion, and said, "Wait, Harry—has the scar on your forehead changed?!"
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