The First Lesson – Death Without Corruption
The classroom was suffocatingly silent.
Rows of students, from first-years to seventh, filled the Defense Against the Dark Arts hall — wide-eyed, nervous, uncertain why every year had been called to a single lesson. Unprecedented. Unsettling.
But nothing was ordinary anymore.
At the front stood Daniel.
Tall. Unapologetically clad in that black tailored suit, the trench coat falling like shadows over the stone floor. His eyes, colder than winter, swept across the assembled students — analyzing them, weighing them, as though already carving their fates.
At his heels, the faintest silhouettes of reapers flickered — unseen by most, but their presence suffused the room with a quiet terror.
The younger students shifted nervously. The seventh-years tried to hold composure, but even they — those almost of age, nearly adults — felt the pressure. Ancient. Unavoidable.
Only one sat calm.
Harry Potter.
But not the fragile boy from stories. Not the soft-eyed, uncertain child Dumbledore dreamed of molding.
No.
This was the Harry Daniel forged — sharpened under brutal, relentless training. Built in shadows, baptized in forgotten magic. His posture radiated quiet control, and his eyes held the same storm as Daniel's — carrying weight beyond his years.
"Stand," Daniel commanded, voice sharp as breaking glass.
The students obeyed, chairs scraping as they rose.
Daniel walked the line — slow, deliberate — his trench coat whispering like a funeral shroud.
"You've been lied to," he began, tone laced with quiet authority. "Your professors… the Ministry… they tell you the Unforgivable Curses are forbidden, that speaking them corrupts you. That killing irreversibly taints your soul."
He stopped, letting the silence stretch — heavy, suffocating.
Then, with quiet venom:
"Half-truths. Cowardice wrapped in propaganda."
Gasps rippled through the younger students. Even some of the seventh-years exchanged uneasy glances.
Daniel turned, facing them fully now.
"Killing," he stated simply, "does not corrode your soul. Murdering the innocent — that is where corruption breeds."
The air thickened — students frozen, hanging on his every word.
"You will learn," Daniel continued, pacing again, "to defend yourselves not with naïve light spells, but with truths. You will learn the Unforgivable Curses — not to wield them recklessly, but to recognize them, to counter them… to end threats cleanly, efficiently."
He flicked his wrist — dark, ancient runes etched themselves mid-air, glowing faintly with death's chill.
"This world isn't divided into heroes and villains," Daniel murmured, voice low yet carrying. "It's divided into survivors and corpses."
A few students paled visibly.
Daniel smirked — cold, measured.
"Your choices," he said, eyes gleaming faintly like polished obsidian, "define who lives. Who dies. Who suffers."
His gaze settled briefly on Harry — unflinching, composed, the perfect soldier forged under Daniel's brutal tutelage.
Harry met his gaze, respectful, unwavering.
"Mestre," Harry greeted quietly, barely audible, yet filled with weight — the room stilled further as Daniel inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.
Or, as Harry sometimes called him in rare moments of quiet reflection:
"Father."
Daniel turned his attention back to the students.
"Some of you will break," he warned, voice silk over steel. "Some of you will walk away. But those who stay — those who listen — will walk out of this school alive. And uncorrupted."
A swirl of magic gathered at his fingertips — dark, complex, yet controlled.
The lesson began.
And Hogwarts… changed forever.
The Lesson Continues — Gryffindor and Slytherin Together
The tension in the room could slice through bone.
Gryffindor and Slytherin—two houses locked in silent rivalry—stood side by side, yet divided by decades of hatred and misplaced pride. But under Daniel's watch, petty rivalries became irrelevant. Death, after all, made everyone equal.
Daniel stood at the front, coat falling around him like sentient shadows, his eyes darker than the abyss itself.
"Some of you," he began, voice calm, laced with venom, "follow the nonsense about blood purity… about this so-called 'Dark Lord.'"
The room stiffened. Several pureblood Slytherins straightened, expressions sharp, defensive, but they dared not speak.
Daniel's eyes glittered with quiet amusement.
"Let me tell you how that idiot Voldemort," — he deliberately emphasized the name, watching the flinches ripple through the crowd — "gathered so many followers."
He paced slowly, like a wolf among sheep.
"Fear. Arrogance. Manipulation." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "And the promise that their 'bloodline' made them superior. How easily they swallowed that lie."
A few pureblood students flushed red with indignation, but they held their tongues.
"But let's correct a misconception," Daniel added, pausing mid-step, his eyes scanning them all. "Traitors aren't confined to one house."
He let the words hang in the cold air, his tone razor-sharp.
"In Gryffindor… in Hufflepuff… even in Ravenclaw…" His eyes flicked to the group of students, dissecting them one by one. "You'll find cowards. Opportunists. Traitors who'll sell out their friends, their families, for power, gold, or survival."
The silence thickened. No one dared interrupt.
Daniel raised his hand, and with a flick of his fingers—without wand, without incantation—a series of ethereal shields materialized around the classroom, swirling with ancient sigils of protection.
"I'm teaching you to survive them," he concluded coldly. "To survive betrayal. Lies. Weakness."
The students exchanged nervous glances, uncertain whether to admire or fear him.
Daniel conjured a complex barrier—layer upon layer of protective magic—without uttering a single word.
It was seamless. Elegant. Beyond standard spellcasting.
A hand rose hesitantly from the Gryffindor side—a girl with fiery hair, sharp eyes full of quiet curiosity.
Of course.
Hermione Granger.
"Sir…" she began, careful but burning with questions, "How—how do you perform such complex magic without… a wand?"
Murmurs spread. Even the Slytherins, usually cold and composed, leaned in, their interest piqued.
Daniel smirked faintly, shadows curling at his feet like smoke.
"Wands are tools," he explained, his voice low, patient, dangerous. "Crutches for the undisciplined."
He held up his hand—deathly pale, veined with faint traces of energy.
"But true power—" He clenched his fist; the entire room pulsed with raw magic, thick and suffocating. "—comes from within."
The students' expressions shifted—from fear to awe, from skepticism to begrudging fascination.
"Your mind is the weapon," Daniel continued. "Your will is the catalyst. The wand? Optional."
Hermione's eyes sparkled with both understanding and relentless hunger for knowledge. Typical of her.
Daniel's gaze softened for half a second—respect hidden beneath layers of indifference.
"You'll learn," he said, stepping back, the shadows receding momentarily. "Or you'll die unprepared."
His eyes lingered on Harry—composed, calm, already ahead of the lesson, a product of merciless training and hard truths.
"Class dismissed," Daniel finished, coat swirling as he turned. "Tomorrow, we learn how to end threats without leaving corpses behind."
As the students filed out—whispers following them—one thing was certain:
Hogwarts… would never be the same.