Chapter Text
It was the first day of Harry’s second year at Hogwarts, and as they reached Defence Against the Dark Arts Ron was still grinning like an idiot; he simply couldn’t let Harry forget about Colin Creevey begging for a photograph. Harry yanked his robes straight and hurried to a seat at the very back, where he busied himself with piling all seven of their new Defense books in front of him, anything to block the view of the man about to teach them.
The rest of the class came clattering in behind him, full of chatter, and Ron and Hermione sat down on either side of Harry.
“You could’ve fried an egg on your face,” Ron said cheerfully. “You’d better hope Creevey doesn’t meet Ginny. They’ll be starting a Harry Potter fan club.”
“Shut up,” muttered Harry. The last thing he needed was for the professor to overhear the phrase Harry Potter fan club. The man didn’t seem like the type to let something like that slide.
Now that he thought about it, the new teacher’s absence from the Great Hall had been odd. The guy had guzzled every ounce of attention at Flourish and Blotts, why wouldn’t he show up for the sorting feast? Dumbledore had only mentioned some vague “complications” and said the new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor would arrive at the last minute.
There was a click as the door shut itself. The classroom quieted nervously.
Harry peeked between his books, shocked.
The Defense professor stood at the front of the room. He was tall, taller than any lecturer they’d seen so far, his shoulders broad beneath dark, sharply cut robes that didn’t billow or swish, but hung with quiet authority. There was nothing ornate about them, just a deep charcoal mixed with a dark red, like the shadow of something dangerous moving through the room
His face was striking in the way statues were, made of clean, sharp lines. He carried the kind of rugged handsomeness that didn’t ask for attention, it simply had it. His hair was dark and swept back, his jaw strong, lightly stubbled, and his mouth held the faint suggestion of a smirk, one that meant absolute confidence.
He studied the class with bright, grey eyes, calm, clear and far too observant. He seemed to be… counting students. When he finally spoke, his voice was light and even, with a trace of wry amusement.
“Good morning. Lovely to see that so many of you survived your summer holidays.”
The class laughed, but it was a little uneasy.
The professor stepped forward and picked up a copy of Travels with Trolls, Neville’s, judging by the hand-scrawled notes on the cover. He held it up, and sure enough, there was the familiar painting on the front, grinning toothily under a mop of golden curls. Except…
The exaggerated smile on the portrait didn’t quite match the man standing in front of it.
“This,” said the professor, “is the published author of a series of books you’ve all had to carry around. Please don’t hold it against me that he’s not the one teaching you.”
A few people murmured, confused. The man placed the book down and added, “For the record: I am, however, responsible for editing the survival guides tucked into the back of Voyages with Vampires, the useful parts.”
Hermione frowned. “But… weren’t these written by…?”
“Ah,” the professor said, raising a hand. “My predecessor’s work remained on the syllabus after his abrupt departure. Unfortunate accident involving a memory charm and a mirror. Very messy. Now then.”
He gave a short clap, and a stack of parchment flew to the desks in a neat sweep.
“I thought we’d begin today with a brief quiz. Nothing dreadful, just a bit of light mental stretching. If you’ve skimmed the books, you’ll manage. If not, well… improvisation is a skill I value highly.”
Harry glanced down at the paper.
DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS: INITIAL ASSESSMENT
Section A: Applied ReasoningA troll breaks into the staffroom and begins smashing furniture. You:
a) Cast “Expelliarmus”
b) Run
c) Distract it with food and make for the high ground
d) Offer it coffee
e) Both c and dYour wand starts shooting sparks, your cloak is on fire, and something is growling behind you. In what order do you respond?
In your opinion, what is the least stupid way to fight a banshee?
Ron blinked. “This… isn’t about the books at all.”
“No,” Harry murmured. “It’s not.”
The professor wandered between the desks, pausing only to correct someone’s grip on a quill.
“You have twenty minutes,” he said. “Use your brain, not your wand. It’s your most important piece of magical equipment, and the easiest to misplace.”
He turned back to the desk and poured himself a cup of tea from a sturdy-looking kettle. The steam curled up gently, leaving a distinctly bitter scent in the air. A few students stared. The metal looked slightly… enchanted.
“Oh, and if anyone tries to cheat, be aware that the kettle bites.”
There was silence. Then Seamus chuckled nervously.
“Sir, what did you say your name was again?”
The professor didn’t look up.
“Cain. Ciaphas Cain. Order of Merlin, First Class, possibly misfiled. And more importantly: still alive. Which, if I do my job properly, most of you will be too at the end of the year.”
And with that, he sipped his tea and opened a book titled “The Idiot’s Guide to Warding: Field Edition.”
The students had just finished scribbling their last answers when Professor Cain set his teacup aside, notably unbiting, and rose to stand at the very front of the class.
“Well,” he said briskly, “most of you did better than expected. Which, in the face of the syllabus you've been handed, is frankly miraculous.”
He picked up Travels with Trolls again and held it out at arm’s length like it might explode.
“So. This is the illustrious Gilderoy Lockhart, your intended instructor, ready to put the fear of wizards into the unsuspecting greenskin.”
A few students glanced at each other uncertainly.
Cain’s expression didn’t change, but his voice turned dry as old parchment.
“Turns out Mr. Lockhart was somewhat… imaginative with the truth. Or, to put it plainly: a fraud.”
A ripple of gasps swept the room. Hermione let out a tiny, scandalized “What?” under her breath.
“Yes, yes,” Cain went on. “Charming smile, excellent hair, couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. Those stories you read? Someone else did the work. Lockhart just memory-charmed them and took the credit. I’m the one who exposed him.”
Dead silence.
He let the weight of that hang for a beat, then added, with just a flicker of flat amusement, “And before anyone faints, yes, he’s been removed. No, he won’t be coming back. Yes, you deserve to know.”
He dropped the book onto its desk with a dull thump.
“Now then. Since we’ve established that at least I know which end of a wand to point at the enemy, which already puts me ahead of my predecessor, let’s try not to make me regret that honesty, shall we?”
The door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom clicked shut behind them, and the hallway filled with the low hum of stunned second-years blinking at each other like they’d just escaped a training session with a Quidditch team of dragons.
Harry was the first to break the silence.
“That… wasn’t what I expected from Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
Hermione looked a little pale, a shadow of horror evident on her face.
“Honestly! I can’t believe I trusted those books.”
Ron blinked. “What, Lockhart’s stuff?”
“Yes!” she snapped. “They’re full of fiction! I should’ve noticed, no proper citations, inconsistent counter-hex forms, and don’t get me started on that chapter about the Wagga Wagga Werewolf.”
Harry risked a glance at his own copy.
“At least the cover’s shiny?”
Hermione shot him a look that could’ve frozen a giant, then she resumed wailing.
“I studied every chapter of Holidays with Hags. I wrote notes on the countercurses in three colours. And yet he lied. In every single one of them. Lies. Printed. Sold. Recommended by the school.”
She took a breath, then promptly stuffed her book back into her bag like it had personally betrayed her.
Ron stared at his quiz sheet, singed around the edges courtesy of his misbehaving wand.
“Well, at least the replacement rocks.” he said with enthusiasm. “That was someone who has seen things.”
Hermione’s brow suddenly lightened up.
“Yes! Did you see the perfect execution of hexes while he dismantled that pixie swarm in under thirty seconds? And how he layered the wards around the cabinets? That ice enchantment was fascinating.”
“You’re excited about the ice?” Ron asked, incredulous. “He gave us a question with 'troll, high ground, coffee' in it!”
“And my answer was right,” said Dean proudly, catching up with them. “Always go with food and high ground.”
Seamus looked slightly frazzled, his hair gently smouldering.
“I panicked and cast Lumos. On a quiz.”
Neville held his own sheet with caution, not trusting it not to disappear under his eyes.
“He said my answer wasn’t wrong, just… ‘ambitiously optimistic in the presence of hostile fauna’.”
“That sounds like a compliment,” Parvati said brightly from behind, clearly listening in.
“Was it?” Neville looked unsure.
Ron gasped and stopped walking. He turned on the spot, facing Harry and Hermione.
“Blimey! Now I remember! He’s The Man Who Survives!”
The students nearby looked at the boy, puzzled.
“Wait, who?” said Dean, frowning. “Never heard of him.”
“Exactly!” Ron said, wide-eyed. “You’re not meant to know. Dad’s mentioned him once, when Mum wasn’t around. Says he's some kind of ultra-classified super auror commander. Did all sorts of missions during the war, stuff the Ministry won’t even admit happened. One of those people they send in when everybody’s ready to throw the towel.”
“A super auror commander? Then why did he use that net thing?” asked Seamus. “That wasn’t even magical!”
“Yeah,” Ron nodded. “Dad says he uses Muggle weapons sometimes, actual ones. Keeps stuff in his coat, like some sort of metal wand, only louder. My old man ails him as the next Merlin or something.”
Dean intervened, still skeptical:
“He literally told us rule one of Defense was ‘know your cover and check which idiots you ended up with’. That’s not in any of the books.”
“But it should be,” Hermione muttered, almost to herself.
Parvati walked past, clutching Cain’s The Idiot's Guide to Survival like a holy text.
“He smells like peppermint and danger.”
Lavender nodded dreamily.
“I’m sure even his place of birth is classified.”
“You can bet,” added Ron. “I wish I had asked for his autograph.”
They turned the corner and found themselves in the courtyard, students spilling out into the sun in small groups, most of them still talking about the lesson.
Harry didn’t say anything for a while. He kept thinking about the way Cain had looked at him when calling his name, not awestruck, not curious, just… sizing him up.
Like a soldier. Like someone preparing for war.
“He doesn’t care about fame," Harry finally said. “Or who I am.”
Ron gave a low whistle.
“Well. That’s new. Honestly, I’m not sure whether to feel safe… or terrified.”