The most intense DADA class was in progress. Though, calling it just a DADA class would not be doing it right. This was a collision of power, morality, and the unvarnished truth about the dangers that lurked in the wizarding world. One thing was guaranteed — Alastor Moody was definitely the right teacher for this job, bringing all his expertise and experience into fashioning a lesson the students of Hogwarts would likely never forget in their lives.
The entire classroom felt akin to a battlefield. The usually lively space was subdued, the charged atmosphere pressing down the assembled students and guests. The fourth-years sat stiffly at their desks, their quills and parchment forgotten as they faced the imposing figure of Alastor Moody continuing his grim exposition on the nature of the Unforgivable curses.
Amelia Bones stood there, her arms crossed, but her posture unrelenting, as though she too, was taking a measure of everyone in the room. Knowing her, she probably was, only her gaze was less focussed on the students, and more on the two authority male figures in the classroom. Emmeline too had her arms crossed, but her gaze remained affixed at Moody, her sharp eyes betraying a quiet unease. Hestia was the same, and every so often, she would glance nervously at me, then at Tonks and then back at the notebook she was carrying in one hand. Even Albus Dumbledore wasn't left unshaken, as he watched the class with a careful eye, paying a keen interest to the students. Every now and then, his eyes would dart further towards the other side of the class where the Slytherins were mostly huddled together.
Nymphadora Tonks on the other hand, remained utterly unfazed.
"It is time we move on to the next Unforgivable curse — the Cruciatus. Much like the killing curse, the cruciatus travels in a straight line, and is characterised by its infamous twisting beam of dark crimson. The incantation for it is Crucio. There are people that prefer to call it the torture curse, since it's function is based on the concept of causing intense pain to the victim."
Moody sneered, his eyes glaring at the students.
"FOOLS! As if being tortured was anything remotely close to experiencing the Cruciatus."
I couldn't help but glance at Draco Mal — Rosier, who was sitting mightily quiet, doing his best to ignore the looks he was getting from his fellow classmates. Earlier during the summer, I had gotten a taste of what it was to be under the cruciatus, twice. The first had been at Draco's hand, and the next, poetically, at his father's. Obviously the pain amounting from Draco's curse was fleeting at best, nothing compared to what I had experienced under his father. If not for my personal experience with bearing agony under Walburga's tutelage, I'd probably have succumbed completely to the latter. Well that, and the raw energy of the yenaldooshi and the cumulative effects of eating those hearts to empower myself.
Still, the fact that Draco could cast an Unforgivable spoke volumes about his character. No wonder Robards and Amelia were mightily pissed at me letting the little bastard go with nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
"The cruciatus operates on principles of raw, primal magic," said Moody. "It is designed to disrupt the mind-body connection, reducing the victim to an entity of pure torment. Unlike physical harm, which targets the body, the Cruciatus curse bypasses all physical limits to inflict pain directly upon the nervous system and consciousness. When cast perfectly, this pain cannot be quantified, dulled or escaped. It's a complete obliteration of sensation, where even the concept of relief is annihilated."
"POTTER!"
I blinked, and realised that for the second time, Moody had singled me out in the entire class. "I am reliably informed that you have been the victim of this curse not once, but twice during this summer."
I stiffened. My episode with Draco in Diagon Alley was pretty much an open secret, and Sebastian Delacour had given a statement about my aid in his rescue and eventual survival against Lucius Malfoy and his goons. But the cruciatus….
"There is nothing to be ashamed of, son," said Moody, his tone ameliorating just a bit. Coming from the mad auror, one might even call it sympathetic. "I contacted Sebastian Delacour over his statement. He told me that Lucius Malfoy held you under the cruciatus."
"Alastor!" Dumbledore snapped irritably. "We do not discuss such sensitive matters in the presence of sixteen-year-olds!"
"Oh, of course not. Silly me." Moody's tone made it clear that he was not even the least bit chastened. "I totally forgot that out of the two occasions, the first involved sixteen-year-olds as the caster and the victim."
Dumbledore sighed and shook his head. "Har— Mr. Potter, would you perhaps, go ahead and answer his question?"
I glanced at Draco for the first time. Narcissa had been clear. I would not start anything. But, this was instigated by Moody and the Headmaster of Hogwarts had asked me to answer the question, in the presence of several notable members as witnesses. Today's events would definitely portray Malfoy in a very bad light, and maybe make things worse for him for the rest of the year. It might even push him further down into a twisted, spiral path, ending with him either causing harm to me and mine, or end up lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Or maybe both.
From that standpoint, it would be wise to mollify the situation as much as possible.
But if I did that, it would paint me in a bad light. Especially with the DMLE standing before me.
Also, I reasoned, if today's actions ended up with Draco being taken away from Hogwarts, it would be for the better.
"Potter?" asked Moody.
The question hung in the air, and I could feel everyone's eyes on me. My throat was dry, and I didn't want to answer. But the look on their faces — demanding, almost pleading — left me no choice.
"How was it?" I repeated, my voice rough, like I'd been screaming even though I hadn't. "It was... awful. But not the way you think."
I leaned back in the chair, trying to steady my breathing, but the memory clawed at me. Living The Role instantly surged up, like a serpent ready to strike. I let it permeate through me, and I knew that whatever I was going to say would convince everyone. Naturally, I was going to stick with the truth this time around.
"That curse at Lucius Malfoy's hands… it wasn't clean. It wasn't sharp or sudden. It started slow, like my nerves were waking up wrong—burning, twisting. Every muscle in my body clenched, like it was trying to tear itself apart. But it wasn't paralyzing, not completely. It wasn't like what you described, you know…. Overwhelming, and complete absence of sensation. This was different."
I glanced up at Amelia, who was listening intents, her sharp eyes fixed on me. She sat unusually stiff, her hands clasped in front of her as though bracing herself against the weight of what she was hearing.
My voice rising slightly, the words tumbled out faster now.
"It felt... unsteady. Erratic. Like the spell wasn't even sure what it was trying to do to me. It hurt, yeah, but it wasn't just physical. It gets into your head, too. I was seeing things—flashes of memories I didn't want to think about. Running from the basilisk, terrified of Professor Quirrell, my parents, hearing them die... all twisted up with the pain, like it was trying to break me, but it didn't quite know how."
Hestia's dark eyes burned with fury.
I looked away, my hands tightening into fists. "And I could feel the caster, too—his anger, his frustration. It bled into me, like it was mixing with my own. It wasn't calculated, wasn't controlled. There was no joy in it, no wickedness. Just rage. And that... that's why it wasn't as bad as it could've been."
Their eyes narrowed, but I pressed on, my voice quieter now. "I don't think anger does it. I think it needs something worse. That cold, sadistic desire to make someone suffer, to see them break and enjoy it. That's what gives it power. And this... this didn't have that. It was sloppy. Weak. But even a weak curse..." I trailed off, rubbing my arm as if the pain were still there. "Even a weak curse is enough to make you feel like you're being pulled apart."
I looked back up, meeting their gaze. "When it ended, the pain didn't just stop. It lingered, like it wanted me to remember. And I do. I remember every second of it. I remember Lucius telling me that the Dark Lord needs me alive. Alive, but only just. So maybe he was taking it easy. And that's the worst part, I know that wasn't even the full curse. It was just... a shadow. A fraction of what it can do."
My voice faltered, but I pushed through, the words bitter in my mouth. "So if you're asking me how it felt... It felt like a warning. Like it was telling me, 'This is what you'll face if you ever meet someone who really means it.' And that thought... that scares me more than anything."
The room was thick with tension, a suffocating weight that pressed down on every student in the class. They had all been silent as I spoke, their faces ranging from pale horror to quiet, simmering anger. Some looked at me like they couldn't believe what they were hearing, as though the thought of someone enduring the Cruciatus Curse—twice—was too much to process.
Hermione's face was a mask of controlled anger, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She grasped my left hand tightly, but the silver sheen in her eyes suggested that Draco had better guard his back for the foreseeable future if he didn't want to be skewered and chopped to pieces by an angry werewolf.
Even Ron, who was sitting two rows before me, was visibly shaking. His ears were bright red, and his jaw clenched so tightly that it looked like he might crack his teeth. He kept shooting me sidelong glances, as though struggling. Susan and Hannah, who had both been present when Draco had cruciated me in Diagon Alley sat stunned, their hands trembling. Other students were exchanging wide-eyed glances, and I heard Ernie mutter ' bastard!' under his breath. Parvati, her twin sister Padma looked utterly horrified, their hands covering their mouths as though they couldn't bear to hear another word. Parvati whispered something to Lavender, her voice shaky, and they both cast anxious looks at me, their expressions a mix of pity and fear.
It was right then that I dropped the bomb.
"And the first time I felt the Cruciatus," I said, my voice steady but laced with an edge of steel, "was at Draco Malfoy's hand."
The room froze. The Gryffindors stiffened, their gazes snapping to Draco as though daring him to deny it. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws exchanged uneasy glances, the shock and disbelief clear on several faces. Even some of the Slytherins turned to look at Draco, their expressions ranging from curiosity to discomfort.
Draco, for his part, went pale. The color drained from his face so quickly it was as if someone had cast a Disillusionment Charm on him. He straightened in his seat, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his composure. But his usual sneer wasn't there—only a faint, nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrayed his fear.
He glanced toward Professor Moody first, whose magical eye was fixed squarely on him, spinning faster than Harry had ever seen it. Moody's normal eye narrowed, his lips curling into a snarl. The room's collective attention on Draco didn't seem to faze Moody; his entire focus was on the boy, as though he were seconds away from pouncing.
Amelia drew in a sharp breath, her normally stoic demeanor cracking for a brief moment. Her piercing gaze locked onto Draco, sharp and unyielding, as though she were memorizing every detail of his face. A quiet, simmering anger began to radiate from her.
Emmeline exchanged a glance with Hestia, both of them visibly tense. Hestia's arms were crossed, her fingers gripping her sleeves so tightly her knuckles were white. Emmeline's expression was one of quiet disbelief, but her eyes lingered on Draco, as if trying to decide whether he was irredeemable or just foolish.
Tonks shifted uncomfortably, her dull brown hair reflecting her mood. Her eyes flickered between me and Draco, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of guilt in her features.
Dumbledore's expression, however, was unreadable. His hands were steepled in front of him, and his blue eyes rested on Draco with a calm neutrality that only made the tension worse. He didn't speak, didn't move, but the weight of his gaze was as oppressive as any spell. It was as though he were waiting, giving Draco the chance to speak—or hang himself with silence.
Draco finally managed to speak, though his voice was strained, cracking under the weight of the room's attention. "I—" he began, then faltered, his gaze darting to Moody again. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his robes, a telltale sign that he was losing his nerve. "I didn't—" he stammered, but stopped abruptly, as if realizing that any denial would fall flat.
"It was a weak attempt," I said suddenly, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You didn't mean it. You didn't feel it. But you still tried."
The words hung in the air like a curse of their own, and Draco visibly flinched. The sneer he tried to muster came off as weak, hollow. "It was just... a spell," he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. He looked at his desk, unable to meet anyone's gaze.
The silence that followed was deafening. The room felt like it was holding its breath, every student waiting to see what would happen next.
Finally, Moody broke the quiet, his voice low and dangerous. "Just a spell?" he growled, leaning forward in his seat. "The Cruciatus Curse isn't just a spell, boy. It's an Unforgivable. And you're damn lucky you're still sitting there instead of locked up in Azkaban where you belong."
Draco's pale face turned red with shame—or anger, or both—and he clenched his fists, but he didn't dare respond.
"Enough," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension. He didn't look at Draco but instead turned his gaze at me. "Thank you for sharing your story, Harry. It takes great courage to speak of such things."
The Headmaster's calm words seemed to diffuse some of the tension, but the damage was done. Draco sat stiffly in his seat, his head bowed slightly, the weight of every gaze in the room pressing down on him. For once, he looked small, not the arrogant, sneering boy, filled with hatred that I had come to expect.
No one would forget what had been said—or the way Draco Malfoy, now Rosier had been exposed for what he'd done. The weight of his actions hung over him, a silent condemnation that would follow him out of the room.
Moody leaned forward, his gnarled hand gripping the edge of the desk. "You listened to Potter's narration." His false eye fixed on Draco first, and then swept across the others like a predator surveying its prey. "Maybe some of you now think you know what it feels like? You don't!"
The room grew still, the faint crackle of the torches on the walls the only sound. Moody straightened slightly, his scarred face a mask of grim resolve. His normal eye locked onto me but there was no pity there—only a kind of acknowledgment, a shared understanding of pain.
"The Cruciatus isn't just pain," Moody said, his voice heavy with authority. "It's raw suffering. It's the kind of agony that doesn't just stop at your body. It gets inside you—into your mind, your soul. It digs in deep, tears you apart from the inside out. You can feel every nerve in your body screaming, every thought turning against you. And the worst part?" He paused, his lips twisting into a grimace. "You know it's not going to kill you. No matter how much you beg for it to end, it doesn't. It just goes on and on."
Moody turned his gaze back to me, his tone softening slightly. "You've felt a fraction of it, Potter. Twice, you said. First from a child who didn't know what he was doing." His magical eye swiveled to Draco, who visibly tensed. "And then from someone who knew exactly what he was doing. Someone who meant every second of it."
I didn't respond.
"And that," Moody said, his voice rising slightly, "is the difference. The Cruciatus Curse isn't about power. It's about intent. Real intent. You cast it because you want someone to suffer. Not hurt, not ache, but truly, deeply suffer. And that suffering is supposed to bring you joy. That's why the boy here couldn't manage it properly." His magical eye locked on Draco again, who shrank further into his chair. "Because he doesn't have the stomach for it. And thank Merlin for that."
Moody stepped forward, his wooden leg thudding heavily against the floor, and leaned closer to the group. "But the ones who do? The ones who cast it with that cold, wicked joy? They're monsters. No matter what they look like, no matter what name they carry. They've given up their humanity for the sake of their own sick pleasure. And let me tell you something." He jabbed a gnarled finger into the air for emphasis. "Once you've seen it—once you've felt it—you never forget it. It changes you. Leaves scars, and not everyone is lucky enough to have visible ones."
His gaze softened slightly as it landed back on me, and I wondered if his twisted features were the effects of cruciatus exposure.
"You've survived it, Potter. Twice. That says a hell of a lot about you. More than any title ever could."
Moody straightened again, his face darkening as he glanced back at Draco. "And you," he said coldly, "had better think long and hard about what you did. Because the road you're on?" He gestured sharply with his hand, his magical eye narrowing. "It doesn't end well. Not for you, and not for anyone else who follows it."
Draco didn't reply. His face was pale, his usual arrogance completely gone. He looked like he wanted to sink through the floor and disappear, and for once, no one seemed inclined to offer him any support.
The room fell into a heavy silence, Moody's words lingering in the air like smoke. It was a silence no one dared to break.
"To surmise, the cruciatus curse follows the philosophy that pain is power. The curse does not merely inflict suffering—it asserts the caster's supremacy by reducing the victim to a state of utter vulnerability. Where pain is the universal language, the Cruciatus Curse is its most eloquent expression. That is why the cruciatus is not just a mere weapon of torment, but a profound assertion of control over life itself. It annihilates the very concept of autonomy through suffering, with a singular purpose: to make the victim a vessel of pain so absolute that they are unmade, reduced to nothing but their agony. For obvious reasons, I shall not be demonstrating the curse before you, not even on simpler creatures."
"Why would anyone create a curse like that?" asked Susan Bones.
"Why would anyone create anything remotely designed for torture?" countered Moody. "There is nothing new about dark wizards devising new and improved methods of torturing their victims. But it takes a rare psychopath to twist magic into something like the cruciatus. In fact, legends trace the origins of the Cruciatus curse to the forgotten rituals of the ancient pain-worshippers of Leviathan, an extinct wizarding civilization that revered suffering as the highest truth. It is believed that those sorcerers studied a strange box that supposedly opened a gateway to a dimension dedicated to exploring the extremities of pleasure and pain, and that their development of the cruciatus was a mortal-friendly adaptation of the ultimate torment caused by those summoned through that mystical box."
I sat there, frozen, my hands gripping the desk so tightly my knuckles turned white. It wasn't just the room that felt off—the darkened classroom, the grim, flickering light from the enchanted candles. The words — those words shouldn't have existed together, not in the same breath. Moody's voice, gravelly and harsh, carried the weight of something ancient, something impossibly wrong.
"A mystical box?" asked someone. "What sort of box?"
"That's difficult to say, though some texts call it the Lament Configuration. Dark wizards thought they could cheat their way into its secrets, mimicking the torment the box supposedly unleashed without the need to confront the creatures that the box called forth."
My heart skipped a beat. My head swam.
The Lament Configuration? The puzzle box from Hellraiser?
This wasn't happening. I couldn't be hearing this. My brain fought to rationalize the impossible, but Moody kept talking, his voice drilling deeper into my psyche.
Moody was practically snarling as he went on. "The Cruciatus is the ultimate expression of that sadistic power, a statement that existence itself can be reduced to an endless scream at the whim of the wielder, just like the box answered only to those willing to offer themselves to its horrors."
It hit me like a tidal wave, the realization that this wasn't some fever dream. I wasn't just watching Moody explain magic like I'd always imagined it in Harry Potter. I wasn't sitting in my living room, drifting off while reading The Goblet of Fire. I was here. I was him. Harry. This was real—or as real as anything could feel when you were suddenly stuck inside the body of a teenage wizard in a universe you thought was fiction.
The room around me seemed to tilt, as if the walls and ceiling were sliding away from each other. The weight of Moody's words pressed down on me. The Cruciatus Curse and the Lament Configuration—two nightmares from entirely different corners of my imagination—were now interwoven in a way that made too much sense and no sense at all. My stomach churned as I felt the sheer wrongness of it, the inexplicable familiarity of something I'd never actually experienced.
I wanted to ask questions, to shout, to do something, but my throat was dry, and my voice stayed silent. My mind raced instead, spinning with possibilities. Was I losing it? Or was this just the beginning? If the Lament Configuration existed here, what else did? Would I find Pinhead stalking the Forbidden Forest? Was Voldemort dabbling in something far worse than Horcruxes?
And why, oh why, did I feel like Moody was looking directly into my soul, as if he knew I wasn't really Harry Potter?
My heart pounded so loudly in my ears I could barely hear the rest of what Moody was saying. The words kept tumbling out of his mouth like jagged shards of glass, each one slicing away at the fragile logic I'd been clinging to.
Moody went on. "Some say it's a tale to frighten others to keep them from dabbing into the Unforgivable lore. Others say that the box was destroyed. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dark magic like that doesn't just vanish. It changes hands, disappears into the shadows, waiting for someone foolish enough—or desperate enough—to seek it out again."
I blinked hard, trying to process what I was hearing. The Lament Configuration—here, in the Wizarding World. My stomach churned. Every part of me screamed that this was wrong, that these two worlds weren't meant to collide. And yet, there it was, spilling out of Moody's mouth like it was just another chapter in wizarding history.
I tried to breathe, to steady myself, but the room seemed to press in closer with every word. The flickering candlelight threw jagged shadows across the walls, and I swore I could see shapes moving in them, just on the edge of perception. Something about the way Moody spoke—about how the curse's origins and the eerie similarities with the Lament Configuration —made me feel as if the room itself were alive, listening, feeding on the tension.
"Potter!"
I jolted upright, realizing Moody was glaring directly at me now. His magical eye spun wildly, locking onto me with an unsettling precision. "You're looking pale. Something you'd like to share with the class?"
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My mind was a hurricane of thoughts, all of them screaming at me to wake up, to snap out of whatever nightmare I'd fallen into. But the weight of Moody's gaze pinned me in place. The rest of the room seemed to blur, my classmates little more than shadows in the periphery.
"N-no, Professor," I managed to stammer, my voice cracking. The words felt foreign on my tongue—someone else's words. Harry's words. Not mine.
Moody's normal eye narrowed, and for a terrifying moment, I thought he might see right through me—through Harry. His magical eye seemed to linger, spinning slowly, as though peering into something far deeper than my face. Something deeper than my very being.
"Right," he said at last, his voice low and gravelly, before turning away. "The point is, there are forces in this world even darker than anything you can imagine. Things that don't care about wands or curses. Things that hunger for far worse than power."
His words sank into me like hooks, dragging me down into a pit of dread. My mouth was dry, my pulse hammering in my ears. I nodded stiffly, not trusting myself to speak again. The room felt colder now, the air heavier, and I couldn't shake the feeling that Moody's warning wasn't hypothetical. It was personal.
As the lesson dragged on, I kept my head down, staring at the desk in front of me. But my thoughts were a chaotic mess. If the Lament Configuration was real here, what did that mean? Had I stumbled into some bizarre fusion of universes, or was there something bigger at play? And what would happen if the box found its way into the hands of someone like Voldemort?
Or worse... what if I found it?
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