The Great Hall was a whirlwind of noise, but Harry felt as though he were underwater. He sat at the Gryffindor table, his fork hovering uselessly over a plate of mashed potatoes. His eyes were locked on the High Table, specifically on the seat next to Professor Sebastian Swann.
There sat Mia. She was wearing elegant, deep-emerald robes that made her hair look like spun silk, laughing at something Professor Flitwick had said.
"I don't get it," Harry muttered, finally dropping his fork with a clatter. "I said goodbye to her at the station this morning. She hugged me, told me to 'have a good term,' and didn't say a word. Then I walk in here, and Dumbledore introduces her as the new Visiting Professor of Healing. She's been keeping this from us all summer!"
"It's brilliant, isn't it?" Hermione whispered, though she looked a little dazed herself. She had spent the last ten minutes alternating between staring at Mia and checking her copy of Hogwarts: A History as if the book might have updated itself mid-meal. "A professional Healer from St. Mungo's actually teaching us practical medicine. But Harry, the gossip... listen."
The Hall was buzzing with more than just the usual start-of-term excitement. The arrival of a young, stunningly beautiful professor who happened to be the wife of the school's most popular (and equally young) professor was like pouring gasoline on a fire.
"Wait, so that's actually Professor Swann's wife?" a fifth-year Ravenclaw girl whispered loudly enough for Harry to hear. "She looks like she's twenty! Are we sure he didn't just find a graduate student and put a ring on her?"
"Don't be thick," another girl countered. "Look at them. They look like they walked off the cover of Witch Weekly. And they're sitting together! Look, he just handed her the pumpkin juice. That is so sweet I think my teeth are rotting."
"I heard," a third girl added, leaning in close, "that Snape and the Swanns were all in the same year at school. Can you imagine? Snape looks like he's been pickled in vinegar for forty years, and the Swanns look like they've found the Elixir of Life."
Harry caught a glimpse of Professor Snape's face. It was indeed several shades darker than usual, his eyes fixed firmly on his goblet as if he were trying to set it on fire with his mind. Having to spend every meal sitting next to a happily married, successful couple who were also his peers was clearly Snape's personal version of hell.
Harry, however, couldn't care less about the staff's romantic lives. His mind was on the parchment in his pocket: the invitation to the Pre-Auror Training Program.
"Hermione, you're definitely coming to the Auror classes, right?" Harry asked. "Sebastian—I mean, Professor Swann—said it was essential."
Hermione shook her head, a rare look of hesitation on her face. "No, Harry. I think I'm going to pass on the Auror track. I'm actually more interested in Professor Mia's 'Trainee Healer' program. But honestly? I think it's too much for second years. We haven't even mastered basic diagnostic charms. If we jump into advanced programs now, we'll just be dead weight."
She looked at her plate, her expression turning somber. "Besides, did you hear the Headmaster? The exam reforms? There's a mandatory midterm after Christmas now. And if you fail a 'Core Concept' question, you fail the entire paper. I've already started drafting a three-month review schedule for us."
Ron, who had been blissfully demolishing a pile of chicken legs, froze mid-bite. "Hermione, please. The feast isn't even over. Can we go one hour without talking about schedules? The Director said the new exams are mostly practical. If you can do the magic, you pass. It's not about memorizing dusty old dates."
"It's about precision, Ron!" Hermione snapped. "If you can't do it under pressure after six months of practice, you shouldn't be a wizard."
Ron swallowed hard, washing the chicken down with a massive gulp of pumpkin juice. "If I can't cast a basic Shield Charm after a year of practice, you have my permission to mock me for the rest of my life."
The next afternoon, Harry arrived at the designated classroom for the first Auror training session. He was twenty minutes early, but his heart was already racing.
As the bell approached, the room began to fill. It was a small, elite group. Most were towering sixth and seventh years with serious faces and scarred wands. Among the younger students, there was only one other face Harry recognized: Cedric Diggory, the fourth-year Hufflepuff who looked remarkably calm for someone about to enter a government-level training program.
Harry realized he was the youngest person in the room by at least two years.
Sebastian entered the room exactly as the bell chimed. He wasn't wearing his usual teaching robes; he was dressed in a sleek, charcoal-colored tactical vest over a dark shirt. He looked less like a professor and more like a man who spent his nights hunting things in the dark.
"Welcome," Sebastian said, his voice carrying effortlessly to the back of the room. "Before we begin, you need to understand one thing: the Auror Office does not play games. The techniques, strategies, and cases discussed in this room are classified. If you breathe a word of our curriculum to your friends at dinner, you won't just be kicked out—you'll be facing a Ministry inquiry."
He flicked his wand, and a stack of silver-tinted parchments flew across the room, landing perfectly in front of each student. "This is a Magical Secrecy Agreement. Sign it, or leave now."
The room was silent as the students read. Harry didn't hesitate; he signed his name in bold strokes. He had seen the "real" wizarding world this summer in Knockturn Alley. He knew secrets were the only things that kept you alive.
Once the papers were collected, Sebastian leaned against the podium, his eyes scanning the group.
"First lesson," Sebastian began. "To survive as an Auror, you need two things: the power to win a fight, and the brain to avoid one. My question to you is: which one is more important? Combat prowess or intellect?"
A seventh-year Gryffindor immediately raised his hand. "Power, sir. You can't arrest a Dark Wizard with a crossword puzzle. If you can't overpower them, you're dead."
"I disagree," a Ravenclaw girl countered. "Dark Wizards are cowards. They use traps and decoys. If you're strong but stupid, you'll just walk into a poisoned room and die before you can even draw your wand."
The classroom erupted into a heated debate. Harry listened, his mind flashing back to the "Hand of Glory" Sebastian had bought him. That wasn't a weapon of brute force; it was a tool of intelligence.
Sebastian waited for the noise to peak before raising a single hand. The room went silent instantly.
"Last year," Sebastian said coldly, "the Auror Office recorded forty-eight field injuries. Only five of those happened during a direct duel. The other forty-three? They were the result of hidden curses, misidentified potions, or walking into a 'safe' room that had been rigged with a simple Trip Jinx. In the field, power is your shield, but intellect is your life."
He flicked his wand again, and the chalkboard behind him began to ripple, transforming into a grainy, moving magical photograph of a crime scene.
"We are going to look at a real case study," Sebastian said, his voice dropping into a serious, clinical tone. "A dark mage was cornered in a basement in Bristol. Three Aurors went in. Only one came out. Not because the mage was a master duelist, but because he knew something they didn't. Let's see if any of you are smart enough to spot the mistake they made."
Harry leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the image. This wasn't a school lesson anymore. This was the start of his real education.