The weeks passed, and Dante Malfoy's Defense Against the Dark Arts class became the most talked-about subject in Hogwarts. What had once been met with skepticism was now praised even by seventh-years, who admitted it was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts class they'd ever received.
The professors who had initially doubted Dante's qualifications now found themselves reluctantly impressed. His lessons weren't just lectures, they were masterclasses in magical theory and application. Even McGonagall, with decades of experience, couldn't deny that he is on a level of his own even in teaching.
Dante didn't just teach Defense. His lessons branched into potions, charms, runes, and even magical circuits, showing students how different disciplines could intertwine.
First-years learned modified versions of spells, tailored to their abilities. Older students experimented with advanced spellcraft, pushing boundaries they hadn't known existed. Even struggling students received detailed notes and personalized guidance, ensuring no one fell behind.
By the end of two months, the improvement was undeniable. Spells were cast more precisely, essays were written with deeper insight, and most shockingly, even Neville Longbottom managed to produce a flawless Shield Charm.
There was only one issue, Dante's expectations were brutal.
"Outstanding is the baseline," he'd say coldly when a student presented a merely "Exceeds Expectations" level essay.
Ron Weasley, slumped in the Gryffindor common room, groaned into his hands.
"That heartless Malfoy is a slave driver!" he complained. "Who asks us to write about the structural manipulation of Reducto? It's a curse for blowing things up! What else is there to know?"
Hermione, flipping through her meticulously annotated notes, didn't look up. "It's Professor Malfoy, Ron. And he's doing this for your own good. Everything he's taught us so far has had a purpose."
Ron scowled. "Only you like him. Any of our last three professors were better than him!"
Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You'd prefer Lockhart? Or a Death Eater?" She leaned forward. "Have you turned into a troll?"
Harry, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up. "I'm with Hermione on this one. He's the best professor we've ever had. And thank Merlin he doesn't play favorites like Snape." He shuddered. "Imagine if someone like him wanted to make our lives hell."
Ron paled slightly. "Yeah… I don't want to be on his bad side. You saw what he did to fake Moody. It's scary to think what he could do to us." He lowered his voice. "Sometimes I think even the other professors are afraid of him."
Hermione rolled her eyes but then hesitated. Ron wasn't entirely wrong. Dante did whatever he wanted. Said whatever he wanted. No one opposed him, not even Dumbledore.
"He's either the next Dark Lord," Ron muttered, "or he's completely mental. Remember what he said? That he helped revive Voldemort last time just to kill him. If that's true… then he's the scariest professor we've ever had."
Hermione had no rebuttal. The memory of Dante's casual admission "I helped resurrect that fool because it was the fastest way to get my hands on him" sent a chill down her spine.
Harry swallowed hard. "You don't think… he'd hand me over to Voldemort this time, right?"
Ron patted his shoulder grimly. "Nah, mate. I think he's bored of that. You're safe… for now."
Silence settled over them. Outside the window, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the castle walls.
___________
Minerva McGonagall sat behind her desk, grading a stack of essays when a sharp knock interrupted her. Before she could respond, Filius Flitwick pushed open the door, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by something far more serious.
"Minerva," he said, holding up a thick, leather-bound notebook. "You need to see this."
McGonagall set down her quill, adjusting her spectacles. "What is it?"
"One of Dante's notebooks, distributed to seventh-years." Flitwick placed it on her desk, flipping to a marked section. "Read the human body transfiguration portion."
Curious, McGonagall scanned the pages and her breath caught.
"I've never seen or heard of this," she murmured, her fingers tracing the detailed diagrams. "Transfiguring oneself to gain magical abilities... and making them hereditary?"
Flitwick nodded in awe. "Metamorphmagi and Parseltongues are examples of successful cases of permanent self-transfiguration. Dante's notes explain the process and suggest it can be replicated." He hesitated. "And there's more. That Crumple-Horned Snorkack Luna Lovegood tends to? It can no longer use its natural disillusionment magic. Dante removed a magical beast's natural ability permanently."
McGonagall stiffened. "That would require..."
"A level of skill beyond even what's written here," Flitwick finished.
A memory surfaced of Arthur Weasley, his eyes permanently altered after Dante's curse years ago. "Despite Arthur's looks his vision improved noticeably," she murmured. "And during the Basilisk incident, Dante transfigured students' eyes to protect them from the gaze on the spot..." She exhaled sharply. "He's reached unprecedented mastery in body transfiguration."
Flitwick's next words carried reluctant awe. "It's not just transfiguration. His potions knowledge rivals or exceeds Severus'. His understanding of charms definitely surpasses mine. And his notes on runes, herbology, magical creatures, they're all at mastery level." He gave a helpless chuckle. "It's as if he's perfected every magical discipline."
McGonagall leaned back in her chair, a rare weight settling over her. "I've taught for decades," she admitted quietly. "This is the first time I've felt... inadequate." A dry smile touched her lips. "No wonder he nearly killed Lockhart after a few minutes. Dante's standards are beyond human."
Flitwick chuckled. "Well, he hasn't publicly denounced our teaching. I suppose we pass as 'decent' in his eyes."
McGonagall let out a soft snort, shaking her head.
___________
The graveyard of Little Hangleton was shrouded in unnatural gloom, the sky choked with dark clouds that blotted out the stars. The earth itself seemed drained of color, a sickly gray stretching beneath the twisted tombstones.
At the center stood a nightmare given form—a pale, skeletal figure with crimson eyes and a face more serpent than man. His lipless mouth curled into a cruel smile as he turned to the trembling, one-armed man groveling behind him.
One by one, shadows emerged from the darkness—figures in robes and masks. But beneath those masks, their eyes betrayed them. Fear.
The Dark Lord welcomed them with mocking warmth.
"My... friends," he hissed, his voice like poison. "How... disappointing. Fourteen years I waited. Fourteen years I suffered. And not one of you came searching."
He moved among them, yanking off masks with bone-white fingers, calling each by name like a death sentence.
"Macnair. Crabbe. Goyle. Nott." His voice dripped with contempt. "But I am merciful. I... forgive you."
Then his slit-like nostrils flared. "Lucius is missing." A dangerous pause. "It seems our dear Lucius has abandoned us completely." His fingers twitched around his wand before stilling. "No matter. He will be... dealt with."
He turned, robes whispering against the dead earth. "I have returned greater than before. Harry Potter did not defeat me, it was Lily Potter's sacrifice, a fluke of ancient magic. But now... now there are no more surprises."
Then his gaze sharpened. "Tell me... how was Barty captured?"
Theodore Nott Sr. stepped forward hesitantly. "My Lord... my son wrote that Dante Malfoy exposed him. Then declared himself the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
Voldemort's brow twitched. "...Lucius's son? The new professor? Did he even finish school?"
"He is a fifth or sixth-year, my Lord."
For a moment, the graveyard was utterly silent.
"Barty... was undone by a child wanting to play a teacher?" Voldemort's voice was dangerously soft.
Nott swallowed. "He... teaches at Hogwarts now. Calls himself the greatest Dark Wizard. And—" He hesitated. "He does not... acknowledge you, my Lord. It is even said that Dumbledore fears to oppose him."
The air turned to ice.
Voldemort's mind reeled. A student? Mocking him? Dumbledore afraid? It was absurd. Impossible.
"Lies," he whispered.
Then without warning, he struck.
"Legilimens!"
Nott screamed as the Dark Lord's mind ripped into his, tearing through memories with brutal force. He saw his son's letters—Dante's casual insults ("a buffoon called himself Voldemort? He was nothing special"). The rumors of professors stepping lightly around him. The awed whispers of students calling him the most brilliant wizard Hogwarts had ever seen.
When Voldemort withdrew, Nott collapsed, gasping. For a heartbeat, the Dark Lord stood perfectly still.
Then—
"Lucius," he murmured, "has not only betrayed me... but raised his son to spit on my name." His voice was calm. Too calm.
Every Death Eater felt it—the rage beneath the surface, like a volcano moments from eruption.
"I believe... I shall pay him and his son a visit."
And in that moment, the graveyard remembered true fear.