By Wednesday, Harry had already begun feeling the strain of dual roles. Even though he was yet to conduct his first class, the entire school body bombarded him with questions whenever they got the slightest chance.
His earlier evenings of quiet reading or having fun with his friends was now spent answering questions.
Still, he welcomed the challenge. There was something oddly satisfying about watching someone light up when they understood a concept—truly understood it.
But today, he wasn't the one teaching. The second years were going to their first DADA class of the year.
It was just after lunch when the students headed for the class of their new professor. Whispers trailed the corridors—rumors about the new professor had been swirling since the Welcoming Feast.
As they stepped into the classroom, the chatter died instantly.
There were no desks. No chairs. The classroom was almost entirely empty, save for a few old training dummies and spell-scorched tiles that suggested the space had seen more battles than theory.
And standing dead center—arms folded, casually leaning on a lone desk—was Professor Kael Thorne.
He was tanned, late-30s perhaps, lean with the air of someone who'd seen too much and slept too little. His dragonhide coat was unfastened, revealing a fine black shirt with leather straps. One eyebrow raised slightly as the students filled in, confused.
"Room look a little... different than you expected?" he asked, his voice low but sharp.
No one answered.
"Good," he said, standing up straight and walking to the front. "Because nothing about this class is going to be what you expect."
With a lazy flick of his wand, the classroom door slammed shut behind them.
"I'm Kael Thorne," he continued. "Previous head of Auror Corps. Two hundred-thirty mission worldwide. Survived all of them. And now I'll teach you how to survive as well."
He paced slowly, almost like a predator circling prey—but not threatening, just deliberate.
"Today, let's discuss things. I want to know your mind before I teach you spells," Thorne said, eyes flicking from student to student. "Tell me, what exactly is dark magic?"
A few hands hesitated upward. Hermione looked ready to explain the textbook definition. But before anyone could speak, a short, sharp scoff cut through the quiet.
Thorne's eyes locked instantly onto the source.
"Something funny, Mr. Potter?" he asked calmly, stopping mid-step.
Harry, unfazed by the sudden attention, shrugged and met Thorne's gaze head-on. "Yeah," he said plainly. "The term 'dark magic' is funny. And honestly, anyone who believes in it as some separate category is stupid."
The room went silent, the kind of silence that weighs down on your chest. Even Ron looked like he wanted to slide away from Harry.
Thorne stared at him for a beat. His face was unreadable—but Harry didn't miss the tiniest twitch at the corner of his lips. Not quite a smile, but a flicker of amusement. Approval, maybe.
"Bold statement," Thorne said. "Explain."
Harry didn't hesitate. "Magic is just magic. Energy. Power. It doesn't come pre-packaged with morality. The caster determines the spell's intent. A cutting charm can be used to do a surgery or to kill in a duel. Same spell. Different intent."
Some of the students leaned forward, listening now. Even Slytherins were listening in closely.
Thorne tilted his head slightly. "And the Unforgivables?"
"What about them?" Harry countered, voice even. "You think Avada Kedavra is evil? It kills quickly. Painlessly. Compared to some spells I've seen used in battle, it's merciful."
A few students gasped, but Thorne showed no reaction.
Harry went on, voice steady and measured. "Let me ask you something, Professor. If I levitated someone off the Astronomy Tower using Wingardium Leviosa… and then dropped them to their death—does that make the levitation charm dark magic?"
Now Thorne smiled. A real, slow smile. Not condescending. Not mocking. Just… pleased.
"No, Mr. Potter. It does not."
"Exactly," Harry said. "Intent is everything. Not the spell."
For a moment, the only sound was the subtle hum of magic in the air, as if the room itself had paused to listen. Then Thorne laughed out loud and finally spoke, voice low but powerful. "Ten points to Gryffindor. Not for courage—but for clarity. That, class, is the perspective I've been waiting to hear."
He turned to address the rest. "There is no such thing as dark or light magic. Those are human labels slapped on spells by frightened people trying to make sense of power they didn't understand."
He let that sink in.
"I'm not here to teach you which spells to use and which to fear. I'm here to make you understand why you're using them. Because if you don't… one day, you'll use the right spell the wrong way. And that makes you no better than the fools we lock away in Azkaban."
Thorne turned from Harry, letting his words about Azkaban settle over the class like a heavy fog.
A hesitant hand rose from the middle of the room. It was Susan Bones.
"Professor Thorne," she asked cautiously, "do you really believe the Unforgivables aren't dark magic either?"
Thorne turned toward her slowly, a faint glint in his eyes. "Tell me, Miss Bones… have you ever read about the history of those spells? Not from a Ministry-sanctioned textbook, but the actual origin?"
Susan flushed slightly. "No, sir. I haven't."
"No shame in that," Thorne said gently, his tone shifting from sharp to almost conversational. "Very few do."
He walked slowly across the front of the class, speaking as he passed each student.
"The truth is, those spells weren't made for torture, control, or murder—not originally. They were survival tools. Thousands of years ago, magical Britain—hell, most of magical Europe—was a death trap. Dragons soared in flocks. Chimeras hunted in packs. Vampires weren't secretive—they ruled over villages. Acromantulas? Whole forests were theirs. Every witch or wizard born back then grew up knowing their odds of seeing adulthood were slim."
He stopped at the center of the classroom, hands folded behind his back.
"So they adapted. They didn't have wards, concealment spells, or protective charms we take for granted today. What they had was raw magic—and the will to shape it. The Killing Curse? That was invented to deal with creatures that didn't die from fire, steel, or arrows. One flash. One chance. It wasn't evil—it was necessary. It's unblockable because there was no time to fail."
The class sat in stunned silence.
Thorne continued, voice steady and clear. "The Cruciatus Curse came next. It wasn't designed for humans. It was made to bring dragons down from the sky. Killing spells couldn't reach them—nothing could. But pain… pain made them land. Pain gave villagers time to run, or strike, or hide their children."
He glanced upward, as if seeing the battles of ancient times in his mind's eye.
"And the Imperius Curse… was a gift. Imagine facing a chimera—a beast of lion, goat, and serpent. Stronger than giants. Faster than banshees. You could kill it… or you could control it. Lead it away. Spare it. Pass through its territory without bloodshed. The Imperius was a mercy spell compared to war."
Thorne finally met the class's eyes again.
"It was only later—when humans started turning these spells on each other—that their reputation changed. And fair enough. Intent matters. The law needed to draw lines. But never forget… these spells weren't born from cruelty. They were born from desperation, survival… and ingenuity."
There was a long, reflective silence.
Even Hermione had her quill paused mid-sentence, lips parted slightly in thought.
Harry shifted his legs, arms crossed, eyes locked on Thorne with something rare in them—admiration. At least someone in the teaching staff agreed with what he in his mind.
Thorne's gaze swept across the classroom once more, the corners of his lips twitching as he repeated, quieter this time but no less intense:
"So… what is dark magic?"
This time, a hand rose confidently from the Slytherin side.
"Miss Greengrass," he acknowledged.
Daphne sat tall, her tone clear and calm. "It's an idea. A label created by humans to separate what they fear from what they understand."
A beat of silence.
Thorne's smirk sharpened. "Good," he said, voice low with approval. "You're learning."
There was no mockery in his tone—only satisfaction, like a puzzle piece clicking into place. He didn't congratulate her with claps or praise; that single word from him somehow carried more weight than any House Points ever could.
Then Thorne turned to Harry, eyes glinting.
"Potter, join me."
Harry blinked, startled. He hadn't expected that.
Ron gave a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Hermione went visibly pale.
"Wait, what?" Harry said, voice calm but cautious. "Why me?"
Thorne's tone was matter-of-fact. "I've heard what you can do. From Dumbledore. If even half of it is true, then you're the only one who can help me show this class what a real duel looks like."
There was no challenge in his voice—only certainty.
Harry, flattered but visibly hesitant, stood up. "Fine," he said simply, walking toward the front, his robes trailing quietly behind him.
"Everyone, back up," Thorne said. With a single flick of his wand, the desks vanished completely, and a long rectangular platform about a meter high rose from the center of the classroom—like a dueling bridge drawn from the floor itself.
He hopped up onto it with a casual grace and turned to Harry, who joined him a moment later.
"Know the rules?"
"Of course," Harry replied, tightening his stance.
Thorne inclined his head. "Then bow."
They bowed. It wasn't ceremonial—it was respectful, heavy with intent.
And then—without a countdown, without drama—they moved.
A burst of golden light streaked from Thorne's wand. Harry's shield absorbed it with a shimmer before he responded with a whip-fast jet of pale blue that curved like a crescent. Thorne sidestepped—just barely—and countered with a silent disarming charm.
Harry spun, using a rotation spell to redirect the force, his wand whirling back into form as he slammed a flat shield between them that shattered like glass when Thorne sent a crackling bolt of compressed force through it.
Back and forth they moved—each spell fast, efficient, elegant.
Harry never blinked, never flinched. He weaved through attacks with precise footwork, casting mirror-hexes and echo barriers, each time reducing Thorne's spell to a harmless flicker or turning it into something else entirely.
Thorne's movements were deceptively smooth—every spell cast with minimal motion. He conjured chains of fire and flung them forward like serpents; Harry responded with a freezing gale that shattered them mid-air into glittering shards of steam.
A powerful banishing spell surged forward—Harry ducked under, then returned with a series of lightning-speed pulses that would have overwhelmed most duelists. Thorne matched him, wand dancing in counter-rhythms, dispersing the attacks with shield-breakers and rippling air currents.
The platform trembled slightly under the pressure of clashing forces, and students sat frozen, barely breathing.
Then—they both paused.
Wands raised, both poised, both untouched.
Thorne's lip twitched. "That'll do."
Harry exhaled softly. A sheen of sweat glistened at his temples, but his stance was steady. A long moment passed, then applause—slow, then the entire class erupted.
Thorne turned to the class. "That," he said, "is the kind of control and intuition I expect you to start working toward. Not today, not tomorrow. But eventually."
He paused for a moment and then added, "And I believe Mr. Potter's class will teach you exactly that."
He turned to Harry and gave him a slight nod of respect. "Thank you Mr. Potter for helping me with the demonstration."
Harry gave a small smile, "Please Professor, just call me Harry. And the pleasure is mine."
Thorne chuckled softly. "Of course, Harry."
The platform lowered itself into the floor and then Thorne dismissed the class saying that their homework was to read about magic's history and they will find the books in the library.
The corridor buzzed with excitement.
"That class was insane—did you see how Thorne dueled Potter?"
"I've never seen spells move like that, not even from Dumbledore!"
"Forget the spells. Did you see Potter's shield work? That was art."
Everyone alike talked in awe as they streamed away from the Defense classroom. For once, no one was whispering behind hands or sneering across house lines.
Harry walked alongside Ron and Hermione, heading back toward Gryffindor Tower, quiet but clearly amused by all the murmuring.
"That was bloody terrifying," Ron muttered, glancing sideways. "You two looked like you were holding back a war."
"Thank god, you were holding back Harry!" Hermione added under her breath. "Otherwise I don't even know what Professor would have gone through."
Harry gave a light chuckle and in his mind he thought. "So was he. This is the first time I am meeting someone like this. He maybe on par with Dumbledore."
"Harry," came a calm voice from behind.
He turned. Daphne Greengrass stood there, hands folded neatly behind her back. She didn't look nervous, but something flickered behind her eyes.
"I'll catch up," he told Ron and Hermione.
Ron glanced between the two, smirked faintly, and dragged Hermione along before she could start hovering.
Daphne stepped closer, holding out a small, wrapped parcel. It was elegant—silver ribbon, deep green wrapping, clearly expensive.
Harry blinked. "Did I miss my birthday?"
She rolled her eyes. "It's a thank you gift. From my family."
He took it slowly, weighing it in his palm. "What for?"
"For giving us a new life," she said, her voice steady but soft. "For breaking the curse. For helping our family. For helping Astoria. For helping me."
Harry's face sobered, but his tone stayed light. "Ah, I just did what I could. I was there at the right time."
"That doesn't change the fact that you did it," she said. "You didn't have to, but you did anyway. My parents wanted to come to your place but they thought it would be bad to turn up uninvited."
Harry chuckled, "Don't worry about it. If you want to you can come over anytime."
Daphne let out a small smile, eyes glinting.
Harry tucked the gift into his pouch, then reached in and pulled out two boxes of Chocolate Cauldrons. He offered them to her.
"What's this?" she asked, brows arching.
"My welcome gift. You know, new school year, new beginnings, casual chocolate bribery."
Daphne made to protest, but he gently pressed them into her hands. "No take-backs," he said with a wink. "Just eat it and think of me."
She stared at the boxes, then at him. "You really don't make this easy, Potter."
Harry leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. "Life's more fun when things aren't easy."
Her cheeks flushed, just faintly. She looked away and then back, lips twitching into a reluctant smile.
"You're dangerous," she murmured.
Harry smirked, "Oh, I know. But how dangerous will you let me be?"
There was a moment of stillness. A soft, unspoken pause.
Then Daphne stepped back. "Thank you again. For everything."
As she turned to walk away, Harry called out over his shoulder, tone casual but unmistakably playful,
"Anytime, Greenshrub."
Daphne froze mid-step.
She spun on her heel, eyes narrowed, cheeks now tinged with a definite pink.
"It's Greengrass, not Greenshrub, you prat!"
But Harry was already striding off, hands in his pockets, a quiet chuckle echoing down the corridor.
Daphne stood there for a long second, watching his retreating back.
The blush hadn't faded. In fact, it deepened.
And she wasn't sure if it was from the nickname, the chocolates—or the way he said anytime like he meant it.
She shook her head to herself, lips curled into the faintest smile.
"Greenshrub… honestly."
But her gaze didn't move from Harry until he turned the corner.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The room was silent as Harry stood in the center of the classroom assigned to him, sleeves rolled to the forearms. The scent of old parchment still lingered faintly in the air, but the room no longer resembled a traditional Hogwarts Classroom.
He had removed all the desk and chairs—vanished, not stacked or moved. The space inside the classroom had been extended magically so that they could move around properly, without disrupting the castle's structure. He had also marked about 40 circles on the ground with enough distance from each other.
He'd kept the room empty on purpose. His class was not going to be about sitting and scribbling on parchment.
His class was about feeling magic.
The seventh years would be here at 9:00 sharp. They were the toughest to break—older students, full of theory, drilled in spells and wandwork but blind to why it worked. He'd seen it before: they knew magic, but they didn't understand it. And if he couldn't break that illusion fast, they'd never improve beyond the limitations they'd unknowingly set for themselves.
But… if he could make them feel it?
That might work.
By 8:40 Am, the room was ready. Wide. Empty. Expectant.
Harry stepped back and surveyed the space, nodding once in satisfaction. Then he called out softly, "Midge!" Pop!
A small figure appeared with a quiet snap—Midge. Harry grinned.
"Hello, Midge! Did Mum make any breakfast?"
Midge beamed. "Yes, Master Harry, Mistress Petunia made sandwiches and burritos this morning."
Harry smiled, "Can you get me a few, Midge?"
Midge bowed and disappeared with a pop and returned just as fast but this time holding a neatly wrapped stack of breakfast burritos and a tray of sandwiches, still steaming slightly.
Harry took the food gratefully as he was hungry. He had skipped breakfast since this was his first class and he wanted to make sure everything was perfect.
"Thanks Midge, and tell Mum that me and Abby will be back for lunch day after tomorrow."
Midge bowed and disappeared with a small pop. Out of all the elves that were bound to Harry, Midge was the one that spoke the least.
Turning to the food, Harry quickly conjured up an armchair and sat down to eat. He bit into a burrito and leaned back, eyes lazily tracking the hands of the clock on the wall.
8:58 AM
The doors creaked open as the seventh-years filed into the classroom. They looked around, confused. No desks. No chairs. Everything was gone. They had experienced it once before in Thorne's first class but they were skeptical of having a good experience here, considering that a second year was their professor.
"Is this some kind of joke?" one of them muttered under their breath. Another snorted.
"That's Harry Potter, right? The second-year? This is who's teaching us?"
A few shook their heads, unimpressed. After all, they were seventh years. Just a few months from completing their education at the most prestigious magical school in the world—and now this?
Harry stood up, brushing crumbs off his hands. His expression calm. Poised.
"Welcome to Basics of Magic," he said, voice low but carrying through the room. "I'll be your professor for this class."
Someone in the back coughed to hide a laugh.
"And what exactly," a tall Slytherin boy drawled, "is a second-year supposed to teach us that we haven't already learned?"
Harry just smiled. Not annoyed. Not offended. Amused.
"I'll teach you," he said slowly, "what real magic is."
Scoffs echoed. A few students outright laughed. Others exchanged glances that said this is going to be a joke.
Harry continued unfazed, walking slowly in front of them.
"Magic," he began, "comes from your core. From the magical energy flowing through your body. Every wand movement, every chant—it's just a tool. A method of shaping that energy. But none of you were ever taught to feel it. To control it directly."
The room quieted slightly. Some expressions turned thoughtful. Others skeptical.
"I want you to learn how to sense that current inside you. I want you to learn to manipulate it—not with a wand, not with a chant, but with intent. Because once you can do that, you'll do things you've always thought were impossible."
A Gryffindor girl frowned. "But that's just theory. No one can actually control magic like that without years of training—"
"Wandless magic is unstable—" a Ravenclaw cut in. "And low intensity—"
"Wandless magic is unstable—" a Ravenclaw cut in. "And low intensity—"
Harry raised a hand, and silence followed. "Let me show you why that thinking is wrong."
He pointed to a Hufflepuff boy in the third row. "Conjure a desk. Right here."
The boy hesitated, then muttered the incantation and waved his wand. A desk sprang into existence, solid and smooth.
"Good," Harry said with a nod. "Now someone else—give me a goblet of pumpkin juice."
A Slytherin girl obliged. The goblet appeared atop the desk.
Harry walked to it.
"Now, I'll cast Glacius. My goal? Chill the drink. Not freeze. Not shatter the goblet. Just cold."
He raised his hand, palm open. "Glacius."
The air shimmered. Mist formed softly around the goblet's rim. A thin trail of condensation rolled down the side.
"Go ahead, check it," Harry said casually, stepping aside.
A Ravenclaw girl moved forward and felt the goblet. Her eyes widened. "It's perfectly chilled."
From the back, the tall Slytherin boy scoffed. "That's wandless. But wandless magic's weak. Doesn't prove anything."
Harry just smiled.
"Then let's compare."
He looked at the class. "Two of you—conjure two identical tables and goblets of pumpkin juice."
It took only seconds.
Harry now stood before three goblets.
He raised his hand again. This time, Elythral appeared in his grip with a soft pulse of white-blue energy. There was no movement. No grab. Just magic.
Gasps followed.
He turned to the second goblet.
"Glacius."
The result was the same. A perfect chill. Identical to the first.
This time, a Ravenclaw muttered, "That wand… It's special, isn't it? Probably amplifies magic—"
Harry nodded, not denying it.
"Could be. Let's test that theory."
He extended his hand toward the Slytherin boy who'd spoken first. "Your wand."
The boy looked unsure but handed it over.
Harry walked to the third goblet, holding the borrowed wand. He paused. Looked directly at the class.
"Glacius."
Once more, the goblet misted. Just like the others.
He stepped back and beckoned two students forward.
"Compare all three."
The students moved. Felt. Measured. Whispered.
Finally, the girl from before said, "They're all the same. Exactly the same temperature."
Harry handed the wand back to the Slytherin.
"It wasn't the wand. It wasn't the chant. It was control."
He looked around slowly.
"Until now, you've been using magic like a hammer. I'm going to teach you how to use it like a brush. And when you do, you'll wonder why you ever settled for the noise of brute force."
Harry let the silence stretch, watching the flicker of emotions crossing the seventh-years' faces—doubt, curiosity, and, finally, intrigue.
Then, calmly, he spoke again.
"Before you can shape magic, you have to know it. You've been casting spells like reading from a script—never really understanding the language."He tapped his chest lightly. "Your magical core is right here. From it, your magic flows like blood. But unlike blood, you can feel it, move it, shape it, even restrain it—once you learn how."
He stepped away from the goblets and tables, letting the room quiet again.
"This first step is simple. No wands. No incantations. Just you and your breath."
A few exchanged glances.
Harry raised both hands slightly, like a conductor preparing his orchestra.
"Close your eyes."He waited. Reluctantly, they obeyed.
"Now breathe in slowly. And when you do, try to sense something—like a thread running through your arms, your chest, your fingers. It may be a tingle, a warmth, or a rhythm. That's your magic. That's you."
He walked silently between the rows as he continued.
"Don't force it. Don't reach for it. Just... observe. Like watching a ripple spread across a pond. The more you listen, the more it speaks."
There was no laughter now. No skepticism. Just the soft rhythm of breath, the silence of concentration, and the quiet hum of awakening potential.
Harry reached the front of the room once more, then turned.
"Do this for the next fifteen minutes. When you open your eyes, you'll know whether you felt something—or you didn't. Either way, it's your first step."
And with that, he walked to the door and leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching them. No longer just students. But initiates. Beginners, yes—but on the path to something greater.
The room was dim with quiet focus, each seventh-year lost in their own mind, trying—struggling—to feel the invisible.
Harry didn't speak again.
He didn't need to.