Defense Against the Dark Arts finally arrived.
Alexander had been looking forward to this one.
The classroom was colder than most, the windows tall and narrow, the walls lined with old protective charms carved directly into the stone. This was the class that mattered—the one about survival, danger, and the real world beyond Hogwarts.
Then Professor Adrian Blackwood walked in.
Mid-forties. Sharp posture. Dark robes worn plainly, without flair. There was something restrained about him, like a man who had learned long ago not to stand out.
"I am Professor Adrian Blackwood," he said calmly. "Former Slytherin. Half-blood. Previously a field operative for the British Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
That got everyone's attention.
Field operative?
Now that sounded interesting.
Alexander leaned forward, waiting for stories—duels, dark wizards, close calls.
Blackwood gestured toward the desks.
"Open your textbooks."
That was it.
No dramatic buildup.
No cautionary tale.
No mention of what he had seen.
He began lecturing straight from the text, summarizing chapters instead of explaining them. Defensive classifications. Ministry-approved terminology. Definitions that felt stripped of life and danger.
Alexander tried to listen.
Five minutes in, his eyelids drooped.
Ten minutes in, his head dipped.
"Mr. Chen."
Alexander snapped upright.
"Sleeping in Defense Against the Dark Arts is unacceptable," Blackwood said flatly. "Ten points from Ravenclaw."
A few students glanced at him with sympathy. Alexander straightened, annoyed but alert now.
So I can't nap here. Noted.
Blackwood continued, voice steady and detached.
This was wrong.
A man who had worked in the field—who had fought dark magic—should have stories. Warnings. Tricks that never made it into textbooks.
Alexander raised his hand.
"Yes?" Blackwood said, clearly reluctant.
"Sir," Alexander began, "during your time as a field operative, what was the most common mistake people made when facing Dark Arts in real situations?"
Blackwood paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
"That is beyond the scope of today's lesson," he said. "Refer to chapter three."
Alexander frowned.
Another hand raised. "What about improvised defense, sir? When spells fail?"
"Textbook," Blackwood replied. "Page seventy-two."
No elaboration.
No emotion.
No insight.
Alexander leaned back slowly.
Interesting.
Defense Against the Dark Arts professors were always strange—some incompetent, some cursed, some hiding something. But this one?
He wasn't careless.
He was guarded.
A man who talked only in safe words. Approved material. Nothing personal. Nothing dangerous.
You don't survive the field by being this boring, Alexander thought.
An idea began forming.
If Blackwood was hiding something, then pressure would reveal it. Questions. Persistence. Patience tested slowly, carefully—like poking a wall to find the weak brick.
Blackwood lectured until the bell rang.
Alexander barely noticed.
He gathered his things and walked toward the Great Hall, mind racing.
Alright, Professor Blackwood, he thought.
Let's see what you're really afraid of.