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The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was unusually tense that afternoon. The Gryffindor fourth years had filed in with nervous energy, whispering about Moody’s reputation, and the Slytherins had arrived with a more subdued watchfulness. The desks were arranged in familiar rows, but the man at the front made the room feel foreign.

Professor Moody — or at least, the grizzled, scarred wizard who had been introduced as Moody — stumped up to the front with his wooden leg clunking against the floor. His magical eye spun in its socket, occasionally whirring to fix upon a student who immediately sat straighter.

Everyone knew today was going to be different. The whole school had been buzzing about the Unforgivable Curses — the whispers that this lesson would be the one where he demonstrated them. Some students were excited; others, terrified.

Moody wasted no time with introductions. He slammed a jar down on his desk, revealing three twitching spiders inside.

“Today,” he growled, “you’re going to learn about the curses that every dark wizard worth the name keeps close to their heart. The Unforgivables.”

A hush fell over the classroom. Even the usual mutterers — Seamus and Dean — were silent.

Moody tapped his wand against the jar, and the first spider skittered forward.

“The Imperius Curse,” he barked. He flicked his wand, and suddenly the spider was dancing like a puppet on invisible strings, performing little hops across the tabletop. “Control. Total control. Make them do anything you like — dance, jump, throw themselves out of windows if you’ve a mind. The Ministry calls it ‘unforgivable’ because it takes away free will.”

Several students winced. Neville had gone pale. Parvati gave a small gasp when the spider flung itself recklessly in the air before landing with a hard smack.

Moody lowered it back gently. “Nasty business. Very nasty. And very difficult to fight.”

He went on, withdrawing the second spider. “The Cruciatus Curse,” he said in a low voice. His wand twitched. The spider twisted, writhed, and emitted a faint, awful squealing noise. Its legs curled, its body spasmed.

Students recoiled. Lavender put a hand over her mouth. Even the Slytherins looked uneasy, though Pansy Parkinson leaned forward, grim curiosity in her eyes.

“Causes pain,” Moody spat. “Agonizing pain. You could keep someone under it for hours — days — without leaving a mark.” He ended the curse, and the spider collapsed, twitching weakly.

“Finally,” Moody growled, pulling out the largest spider. His wand slashed downward.

“Avada Kedavra!”

A flash of green light. The spider dropped lifeless. Not a sound. Not a mark.

The silence afterward was suffocating.

Moody lowered his wand. “No counter-curse. No block. Just death. That’s why it’s Unforgivable.”

Students shifted, muttering uneasily. Ron Weasley, who had been leaning lazily in his chair, gave a small roll of his eyes. It was a subtle motion, but Moody’s spinning eye caught it instantly.

“Something to share, Weasley?” Moody barked, his real eye narrowing.

Ron stiffened, realizing he’d been caught. “Er — no, sir. Just… well, it’s not like they’re hard to cast, are they? They’re just illegal.”

A ripple of whispers broke out. Hermione whipped her head toward him, scandalized. Harry glanced between Moody and Ron, bracing for the explosion.

Moody, however, did not explode. He tilted his head, scarred mouth curving in something like a grin.

“Not difficult, eh?” he said softly. “And you’d know this… how?”

Ron shrugged, awkward but stubborn. “Anyone who’s read enough can see it. The mechanics aren’t complicated. The Imperius — it’s control, same as any strong charm. The Cruciatus — it’s power of sensation, channeled nasty. And the Killing Curse — well, it’s just focused intent with the right words. Doesn’t mean anyone should use them. Just means the spells themselves aren’t impossible. They’re banned, that’s the thing.”

The class was frozen, every eye fixed on Ron.

Moody gave a low chuckle. “So you think you’ve got a better explanation than me?”

Ron frowned. “No, sir. Just saying they’re not… mystical. People act like they’re unspeakably complicated, but they’re not. They’re just… wrong.”

Moody leaned on his staff, his magical eye spinning. Then, unexpectedly, he jabbed the staff toward the front of the room.

“Up here,” he barked. “If you think you can do better, Weasley, why don’t you enlighten the rest of the class?”

Ron blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” Moody growled.

The classroom was buzzing now, half in disbelief, half in anticipation.

Ron hesitated. His ears went red. “If I do… it’ll take the whole lesson.”

Moody’s scarred grin widened. “Then take it. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

For a long moment, Ron remained frozen in his seat. Harry gave him an incredulous look. Hermione was gaping in open horror. The Slytherins were already sniggering — except for a few; Daphne Greengrass looked genuinely curious, as did, surprisingly, Pansy Parkinson.

Finally, Ron pushed his chair back. He walked down the aisle, a little stiffly at first, then squared his shoulders as he approached the front.

The room fell quiet.

He turned, facing the sea of expectant faces. For a moment, he looked almost uncertain. Then, surprisingly steady, he began.

“In order to defend yourself against something,” Ron said slowly, “you need to understand it. And in order to understand it, you need to study it. So if we’re going to defend ourselves against the Dark Arts… we’ve got to study them first.”

There was a stir among the Gryffindors. Lavender and Parvati exchanged uneasy looks. Even Harry shifted slightly in his seat. The words sounded wrong in a Gryffindor mouth — too close to Slytherin logic.

But across the aisle, several Slytherins were leaning forward. Blaise Zabini’s eyebrows rose with interest. Parkinson rested her chin on her hand, watching intently. Only Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes, muttering something to Crabbe and Goyle.

Ron continued, more confident now.

“Everyone hears about the Unforgivables as if they just… sprang out of nowhere. Dark magic for the sake of being dark. But they weren’t invented that way. They started out different. They were healer’s spells, once.”

This drew genuine gasps. Hermione’s hand shot up instinctively. “That’s not—” she began, but Moody raised a hand to silence her, his grin widening as he gestured for Ron to go on.

“The Imperius Curse,” Ron said, pacing a little like he’d seen professors do. “It was created so healers could force patients to take potions or treatments they resisted. Someone thrashing in fever — someone unconscious — you could guide them, make them swallow, make them move. It was control, yes, but used to save lives.”

Some students nodded hesitantly, as though the idea made sense once spoken aloud. Others looked disturbed.

Ron pressed on.

“The Killing Curse — it wasn’t made for murder. It was made as euthanasia. When someone was suffering so much there was no hope, when death would be kinder than life, it was used to bring peace. Quick, painless.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Some students shifted uncomfortably; others looked thoughtful despite themselves.

Ron let the pause sit before continuing.

“And the Cruciatus,” he said quietly. “That one started as a diagnostic charm. Healers could send jolts of sensation through the body, testing responses, finding damaged nerves, identifying illness. It wasn’t supposed to cause agony. But one wizard — a healer — went insane. He twisted it. Pushed it further. Found out how to make it pain. And once he did, others followed. That’s when it turned into torture.”

A low murmur filled the classroom — fascination mixed with revulsion.

For the first time, Ron allowed himself a small, grim smile.

“See, these curses weren’t born as Dark. They were made Dark. Twisted. That’s why we need to study them — to know what they are, where they come from, and why they’re dangerous. Because if you don’t understand how they work, you can’t really defend against them.”

The air in the classroom was taut, a balance between shock and curiosity. Ron Weasley stood at the front, no longer looking like the lanky boy who’d just been caught rolling his eyes, but rather like someone who had found himself in the middle of a duel and refused to back down.

Moody had leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, both eyes fixed on Ron — one whirring and clicking, the other narrowed with clear interest. He wasn’t interfering, and that, more than anything, convinced the students that this was actually happening.

Ron cleared his throat. “Let’s take them one at a time. The Imperius, first.”

He turned to face the rows of students, his gaze brushing across them as though daring someone to interrupt. “You’ve all heard it described as total control — making people dance, jump, even throw themselves off cliffs. And that’s true. But before it became a weapon, it was used by healers.”

He paced, awkwardly at first, but it gave him rhythm. “Picture it: someone delirious with fever, fighting off treatment. Or someone who can’t swallow a potion but must for aid to be administered. Healers had to find ways to get around that. And remember, this was in a time before they had developed a spell to bypass being swallowed. They needed control spells, gentle ones. At some point, someone discovered they could weave intention into a charm that overrode resistance. The Imperius was born.”

Seamus raised his hand, grinning despite the tension. “So you’re saying a healer invented the most dangerous mind-control curse in history because they wanted to get patients to drink their medicine?”

A few students laughed nervously.

Ron gave a small shrug. “That’s usually how it works, isn’t it? Magic starts simple. Useful. Then someone realizes it can be twisted. The Imperius worked for good, until someone thought: if you can make a patient take a potion, why not make an enemy throw down their wand? Or make them hand over their secrets? It’s not the spell itself — it’s how people used it.”

This time, the laughter didn’t come. The idea was too sobering.

Ron pressed forward. “Now, the Cruciatus. Everyone reacts to that one with horror, and for good reason. It’s torture, plain and simple, the way it’s used now. But it didn’t start there.”

He paused, watching the room. Hermione was gripping her quill so tightly her knuckles were white, itching to interject. Blaise Zabini leaned back in his chair, inscrutable. Pansy Parkinson, to Ron’s faint surprise, still looked intent, not mocking.

Ron continued. “Once upon a time, healers needed ways to understand what was happening inside the body. Potions could treat symptoms, but diagnosis was harder. They made a charm that sent small shocks — just enough to test reflexes, to see if nerves and magical channels were intact. If you twitched here but not there, they knew where damage lay. It was a diagnostic tool.”

He let that hang for a moment, then added, voice quieter: “But then one healer lost his mind. Why, I will freely admit, I do not know. But he pushed the magic further, far beyond what it was intended for. He found out he could amplify the sensation into pain. Terrible pain. And once that was known, others started experimenting. That’s how it twisted from medicine into torture.”

A shiver ran through the classroom. Neville had gone pale, staring at his desk. Dean was chewing the end of his quill, eyebrows furrowed. Even Draco wasn’t smirking — just frowning, as though he didn’t quite know what to make of this new perspective.

Daphne Greengrass raised her hand again, slower this time. “You’re saying we should… what? Be less horrified? That it’s all just misunderstood healer’s work?”

Ron shook his head firmly. “No. I’m saying context matters. These curses weren’t born evil. But they became evil because of how people used them. That’s the point. If you want to defend against Dark magic, you need to understand where it came from, why it changed, and how it can be twisted. Otherwise, you’re just scared of shadows.”

Daphne lowered her hand but didn’t look away. She seemed to be thinking it over seriously.

Hermione couldn’t hold back any longer. Her hand shot up, but she didn’t wait to be called. “Ron, that’s completely irresponsible! You’re acting like you’re giving a history lesson, but you’re practically excusing the worst curses in existence! These are banned spells, classified as Unforgivable for a reason — you shouldn’t even be talking about how they started.”

Ron’s ears reddened. He glanced at Moody, who still wasn’t stopping him. Then he turned back to Hermione, choosing his words carefully.

“I’m not excusing them,” he said. “I’m explaining them. You can’t defend yourself if all you know is ‘these are scary, don’t touch.’ Knowledge isn’t the same as approval.”

Pansy Parkinson raised her hand, surprising everyone. “Actually,” she said, her voice sharper than usual but without its normal sneer, “he’s right. I’ve read old records too. Some of this — not all, but some — matches things I’ve seen. The Cruciatus didn’t always mean what it does now.”

Hermione turned to her, indignant. “You can’t seriously be siding with him—”

But Pansy cut her off, unusual steel in her tone. “I’m siding with facts. Don’t act like you’re the only one who reads.”

A murmur ran through the Slytherins. Millicent Bulstrode nodded faintly. Even Blaise tilted his head, intrigued.

Ron gave a tiny, reluctant nod toward Pansy. “Thanks.”

She didn’t smirk back, just folded her arms and leaned on her desk, eyes still fixed on him.

The Gryffindors shifted uncomfortably. Parvati whispered something to Lavender. Harry was watching Ron with an odd look — part surprise, part reluctant admiration.

Ron pressed on, sensing he couldn’t let the discussion slip.

“And then there’s the Killing Curse,” he said, voice dropping lower. “That one’s the hardest to swallow. But it wasn’t made for murder either.”

Students leaned in instinctively.

“It was created for mercy,” Ron said. “Euthanasia. When there was no chance, no healing, only endless suffering. It was the cleanest, quickest way to give peace.”

The reaction was immediate. Gasps, murmurs, half-raised hands. Lavender clapped a hand over her mouth.

Daphne spoke again, carefully: “And you think that’s acceptable?”

Ron didn’t flinch. “I’m asking you if you’re certain there’s never a time when death is a mercy. Think about someone who’s cursed, whose body is rotting from the inside, who can’t be healed, who screams every waking hour. Are you so sure that keeping them alive is the kinder choice?”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Hermione looked horrified. “That’s monstrous,” she whispered.

But across the aisle, Pansy leaned forward, eyes sharp. “That’s not monstrous. That’s practical. Cold, maybe, but… it makes sense.”

Blaise Zabini finally spoke, voice smooth. “And who gets to decide, then, Weasley? Who decides whether life is worth living or whether it’s time for mercy? Healers? Family? The Ministry? That sounds dangerous too.”

Ron nodded slowly. “Exactly. That’s part of why it became illegal. Because once people saw how it could be abused, there was no safe way to keep it. Better to ban it completely than risk it being misused.”

The room was divided now. Gryffindors looked unsettled, many whispering nervously. The Slytherins were split — some intrigued, some skeptical. The air hummed with argument and unease.

Moody’s scarred grin widened from the corner. He hadn’t said a word, but his magical eye whirled faster, clearly savoring the scene.

“Now—most of you have probably heard it said that the Killing Curse can’t be blocked. That’s technically true in practice, but not entirely the whole story.

There is, at least in theory, one shield that might hold against it. I say might because no one alive has ever seen it done, and very few wizards could even dream of casting it. The magical demand is staggering—so high that most who know about it don’t even bother trying. Those who could be strong enough don’t waste that strength on experiments; if they use the Killing Curse Shield at all, it would likely be as intimidation.

And then there’s the practical side. Even if a wizard could summon that level of shield, it’s hardly sensible in a duel. Far simpler, and far more effective, is to put something between yourself and the curse—summon stone, conjure a barrier, dive for cover. The time it takes to will such a shield into being would likely cost you your life.

For reference, this same theoretical charm is said to block dragon fire. Dragon fire. Think about that for a moment—the raw heat and force of a creature bred to destroy, bottled and spat in a torrent. If it could stand against that, perhaps it could stand against Avada Kedavra. But again—it’s a theory. A dangerous one to rely on.”

A murmur swept the room at his words.

“Dragon fire?” Seamus whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Parvati frowned, arms crossed. “So it’s impossible, then. Why even bring it up?”

“Because impossible isn’t the same as improbable,” Dean answered, eyes still fixed on Ron.

From the Slytherin side, Blaise tilted his head. “Or perhaps because knowing the limits is as important as knowing the spells themselves.”

Neville said nothing, but his gaze didn’t waver, steady as stone.

For the first time, Theodore Nott raised his hand, to which Ron gestured at him to ask his question.

“What is the spell then?”

Dean looked at him across the room, mystified, and asked “Didn’t he just say that most people can’t even attempt to cast it?”

Nott raised an eyebrow at the muggleborn, and retorted “Just because we cant cast it, doesn’t mean its not interesting to know. That is of course, assuming he does know.” He said, glancing at the redhead at the front of the room.

Ron nodded and said “He’s right just because you can’t cast it doesn’t mean the information is useless. And I do in fact know the spell, but I of course have never attempted to cast it. The spell is babestu herensugetik.”

They were silence in the room before Hermione scoffed. “That’s not Latin.”

Ronald stared at her deadpan before answering. “You are correct. It is not Latin; not every spell is in Latin. Do you think the Indians or the Chinese cast spells in Latin, or ones in their native tongue? Latin is an old language, but it’s not that old. The houses of Black and Greengrass both predate the language of Latin. The language that this spell is in is called Basque. It is one of the founding languages in the area that is currently known as Spain.”

Hermione hmphed and pursed her lips in disapproval, but still proceeded to write something on the parchment in front of her.

Passive aggressiveness it is then, Ron thought.

Ron took a breath, steadying himself. He was surprised to find his nerves fading. Once he started explaining, the words just… came. He’d been storing these ideas for years, picked up from scraps of overheard conversations, obscure mentions in books, things he’d puzzled out late at night. He never thought he’d speak them aloud. And now he had the whole class listening.

Draco Malfoy finally broke his silence. He leaned back, sneering. “So let me get this straight. You’re saying the Unforgivables are just misunderstood little charms, and we’ve all been lied to? What rubbish. Weasley, you wouldn’t know high magic if it bit you.”

Ron looked at him, surprisingly calm. “I never said they were harmless. I said they were twisted. There’s a difference.”

Draco sneered. “Sounds like something a Dark wizard would say.”

Before Ron could reply, Pansy shot Draco an irritated glance. “Oh, shut it, Draco. He’s not wrong. Not everything is about calling someone Dark or Light. Sometimes it’s just… complicated.”

That silenced Draco more effectively than Ron could have. Crabbe and Goyle shifted, confused.

Ron blinked, caught off guard by Pansy’s defence, but chose not to comment. Instead, he addressed the class again.

“Look — I’m not saying you should go out and cast these spells. I’m saying you need to understand them. Where they came from, why they were banned. Otherwise, you’re just repeating words without meaning. And when you face someone who does understand, you’ll be unprepared.”

The room fell quiet again. A a few Gryffindors looked uneasy, not at Ron, but at the idea that he might have a point.

The classroom’s silence was thick. Even Moody hadn’t broken it, and that was saying something. Ron could feel the weight of every stare pressing against him. For once in his life, no one was laughing at him.

He took a breath, deciding it was time to push further.

“You want to know why the Killing Curse is really banned?” he asked quietly. “It’s not just because it kills. Plenty of spells can kill if you use them wrong. The reason Avada Kedavra is unforgivable is because of what it does to the soul.”

A ripple of unease ran through the room.

Ron paced slowly. “When you cast it, it doesn’t just stop a heart or destroy a brain. It rips the soul out of the body. Clean. Gone. That’s why there’s no pain, no mark. The body just… empties.”

Several students shifted, uncomfortable. Lavender actually whimpered. Harry, stiff in his seat, clenched his fists — the memory of green light flashing before his eyes was too sharp.

Ron’s voice dropped lower, steady but grim. “And that’s why it was outlawed. Not just for murder. But because of necromancy.”

The class reacted as if he’d dropped a stink pellet. Gasps, mutters, even a few outright exclamations.

“Necromancy?” Seamus blurted. “That’s just stories!”

“Not stories,” Ron said, meeting his eyes. “Old practice. Banned now, yes, but it was once common in other countries, and even here, centuries ago. Necromancy works by tethering the remnants of a soul back to its body. You reanimate the flesh by pulling on what’s left of the spirit.”

Dean shuddered visibly. Neville looked sick. Even some of the Slytherins were paling.

Ron went on relentlessly. “But here’s the thing: if a body was killed by Avada Kedavra, the soul is gone. It is ripped from the body, and in the process, it cannot be grafted back into the host. Now, the vast majority of the time, it means very little. Until you get a necromancer involved. See, a necromancer will usually wait for the subject to die, then have whatever malady that killed them fixed; for some reason that we still don’t fully understand, a corpse is no longer considered human in a magical sense, so charms, potions and transfiguration work differently. As such, it is far easier to heal a dead man than a live one. In this regard, the patient would die, the healers would fix whatever it was that needed to be fixed, and then the necromancer would call the soul back and put it back in the host. That is how it is supposed to work anyway.”

Ron swallowed to relieve the dryness of his throat before he continued. “It goes wrong, however, the second a killing curse is involved. Of course, the first few times, they didn’t know the risk. When necromancers tried to reanimate those who were killed like this, they did not put the soul back in its place, they just reanimated the physical body. And in doing so, created the first inferni.”

The classroom was utterly still. Everyone was staring at the revelation of this information; even Professor Moody did not know this. For perhaps the first time in a decade at Hogwarts, a whole class was completely invested in what the “teacher” was lecturing about. Ron continued his lecture.

“They were hollow. Shells. Things without even the faint echo of a person. Mindless husks driven only by hunger for life-force. That’s how the first true abominations were made. And that’s why the Killing Curse is so dangerous. It doesn’t just take life. It destroys what connects life to magic.”

The words settled over the students like a fog.

Hermione’s hand was trembling as she raised it. Her voice was brittle. “Ron, do you even hear yourself? You’re repeating… Dark wizard propaganda! Necromancy is illegal for a reason — it’s evil!”

Ron faced her, jaw tightening. “I at no point said that necromancy was evil. The vast majority of the time it was not. You need to learn to separate what evil people do with magic, and what evil magic is. I said that understanding it explains why Avada Kedavra is worse than a sword through the heart. If you don’t know the history, you don’t know the danger.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned red. She opened her mouth, but Moody shifted on the wall, and for once she fell silent, furious but unwilling to challenge his silence.

Across the aisle, Pansy Parkinson broke the tension. Her voice was steady, sharp with interest. “He’s not wrong. Inferi are documented. Everyone knows the Ministry admits they exist, even if they never say how. I’ve heard the stories about abominations too.”

She looked straight at Ron. “So necromancy only fails with Avada victims?”

Ron nodded. “Provided there was nothing else wrong with them, yes. Because there’s nothing left to call back.”

Blaise Zabini leaned forward, his voice smooth but skeptical. “So what? You’re telling us necromancy is only useful if you’re patching up corpses that weren’t killed cleanly? That hardly makes it less… revolting.”

Ron shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Necromancy was never meant just for puppets or soldiers. Sometimes, it was used as a kind of last resort healing. Not for curses, though.”

He paused, letting his words sink in before explaining.

“There’s a difference between curse damage and damage caused by a curse. They’re not the same thing. If a curse damages your magic — like Fiendfyre — that’s curse damage. No necromancer could help you. But if a curse does nothing more than slice you open, leaving a wound like Diffindo does — that’s just physical damage caused by a curse. A fatal diffindo could be fixed by a Necromancer, in theory. Re-anchor what’s left of you to the body while healers worked.”

Students exchanged uneasy glances.

“So yes,” Ron said, “it’s illegal. It’s dangerous. But it’s also not as simple as just calling it evil. There are shades of grey. It’s why people kept using it for so long, until it was outlawed here.”

Dean raised his hand uncertainly. “You’re saying it was… useful?”

Ron met his gaze, voice firm. “I’m saying it could be. Sometimes, in specific circumstances. But that doesn’t mean it was safe.”

Neville spoke suddenly, voice shaking. “But… bringing people back. That’s wrong. My parents—” He broke off, swallowing hard.

Ron’s tone softened. “I know, Neville. Necromancy can’t fix minds. It can’t undo curse damage. It can only re-anchor what’s left of a person to a broken body. It’s not resurrection. It’s not real healing. It’s… patchwork.”

Neville nodded tightly, staring at his desk.

The Slytherins were murmuring now, some thoughtful, some disturbed. The Gryffindors looked rattled, some even a little betrayed that Ron — Ron — was the one dragging this out of the shadows.

Draco Malfoy slammed his hand on his desk, his face twisted in disdain. “This is rubbish. You sound like some knockoff scholar trying to impress us. Do you even realize what you’re saying, Weasley? You’re practically advocating for the Dark Arts.”

Ron turned toward him, calm but sharp. “No. I’m saying the Dark Arts didn’t start as Dark. That’s the difference. If you can’t see that, then you’re not thinking — you’re just repeating what you’ve been told.”

Draco sneered. “And what makes you the expert? You’re not a scholar. You’re not even clever. You’re just—”

“Draco,” Pansy cut across smoothly, her tone carrying more weight than usual. “Shut up.”

The whole class blinked. Draco gaped at her.

Pansy didn’t look at him, her eyes still on Ron. “He’s giving us information we don’t get in textbooks. You don’t have to like it, but don’t act like it’s worthless.”

Even Blaise raised an eyebrow at her uncharacteristic defence.

Ron’s ears went pink, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he pressed forward, seizing the momentum.

“Here’s the truth,” he said. “You can hate the Dark Arts all you want. You can refuse to use them. But if you don’t understand them, you’ll always be one step behind the ones who do. And the ones who do? They won’t hesitate to use that advantage against you.”

The classroom was silent, caught in the weight of the words.

Harry sat rigid, watching Ron with a mix of astonishment and unease. He’d never heard Ron speak like this. He’d never imagined Ron could.

Hermione scribbled furiously in her notes, as if writing down every word would prove it wrong.

Moody shifted against the wall, scarred mouth curling into a grin that was half-approval, half-something darker.

The room buzzed faintly with nervous energy. Students exchanged glances, quills scratching hastily to keep up with what was being said, though half of them didn’t know why they were writing any of this down.

Ron adjusted his stance at the front, unconsciously echoing the posture of professors who’d stood there before him. He’d been nervous at first, but now something had shifted. He wasn’t just answering questions anymore — he was commanding the room.

Blaise Zabini raised a hand. “So you’re saying necromancy’s just… glorified first aid for bad injuries?”

Ron shook his head. “Not glorified. Risky. It wasn’t used casually. But in ancient times, in battlefields, yes — some healers used it that way. They’d tether a soul to a body long enough for proper treatment. Crude, dangerous, but sometimes it worked.”

Hermione slammed her quill down. “That’s revolting! You make it sound like a tool, when it’s clearly foul. Twisting a person’s soul like that—”

“Better twisted than lost entirely,” Ron shot back before he could stop himself.

The class froze. Hermione’s face went crimson.

But before she could retort, Tracey Davis raised her hand. “What about magical creatures?” she asked quietly. “Could necromancy stabilise them too, or is it human-only?”

The room turned toward her.

Ron blinked. He hadn’t expected that one. “Creatures with souls, yes. But it didn’t work well. Centaurs, for example — far too magically complex. Goblins resisted it outright. But smaller animals, or simpler ones… yes.”

Tracey nodded, satisfied.

Dean raised his hand hesitantly. “So what about something like… the Blasting Curse? It’s not Fiendfyre, but it can blow someone apart. Curse damage or damage caused by a curse?”

Ron considered. “Depends how it lands. If the blast burns with lingering magical residue, curse damage. If it just tears flesh like an explosion, that’s physical damage. You’d need a skilled eye to tell the difference. That’s why it’s dangerous — because in the middle of a fight, you don’t always know what you’re looking at.”

Neville, still pale but listening closely, spoke up. “So how do you defend against curse damage if you can’t heal it?”

Ron met his gaze. “You don’t. You avoid it. That’s the point. Knowing which spells leave permanent marks tells you which ones to dodge first. That’s defence.”

The logic was harsh, but undeniable.

A slow clap echoed from the wall.

Students whipped their heads around. Moody was pushing himself off the stones, his wooden leg thudding as he took a few steps forward.

“Well, well,” he growled. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Weasley.” His magical eye spun once before fixing on the class. “He’s right. Distinction between curse damage and caused damage is something most Aurors don’t learn until they’ve already been burned.”

Some students flinched at his phrasing.

Moody gestured at Ron with his scarred hand. “Go on, lad. Show them you’re not just spouting bedtime stories.”

Ron flushed but gave a sharp nod.

Seamus, emboldened, raised his hand. “What about the Bone-Breaking Curse? Bones snap like twigs. Curse damage or caused damage?”

Ron answered immediately. “Caused damage. A broken bone is still a bone. Healers can mend it with Episkey or Skelegro. The curse itself doesn’t linger — it just does the breaking.”

Hermione muttered under her breath, “That doesn’t make it not evil.”

Blaise leaned forward. “And what about Petrificus Totalus? Full Body-Bind. No physical damage, no wound, but it locks you stiff. Curse damage?”

Ron thought. “Technically, yes. It interferes with magical and physical pathways. But it’s temporary, so it doesn’t scar the soul. Once lifted, you’re fine.”

Blaise smirked faintly. “So not all curse damage is permanent.”

“Exactly,” Ron said, almost relieved at the correct conclusion.

Parvati finally spoke, voice sharp. “So what about Dementors? They’re not curses, but they destroy, don’t they? That’s worse than curse damage.”

Ron hesitated. “That’s not a spell. That’s a creature. Different rules. And technically, they don’t kill you; they just remove the soul without shutting the body down as well, so a necromancer would be useless; there has been no documented evidence anywhere that a necromancer could bring a soul back from a dementor.”

Moody’s voice rasped from the back. “But the principle’s the same. Magic that touches the soul leaves scars nothing can heal.”

The students shifted, uneasy. Harry looked down, shivering faintly.

The discussion grew louder now, students leaning toward each other, debating in whispers that weren’t always whispers.

Parvati was the first to speak, turning slightly to her friend, Lavender, her voice low, but pitched with outrage. “Honestly, this is too dark. Far too dark. We’re students, not Aurors.” She shot Ron a sharp look, her bracelets clinking as she gestured emphatically. “Some of us would like to sleep tonight without imagining ourselves writhing under a Cruciatus Curse.”

Lavender nodded with fervent agreement. “Exactly! It’s supposed to be school, not some kind of torture seminar. He didn’t just describe it— he made it sound like we were there.” Her tone quivered, half-accusation, half-fear.

Seamus leaned across the table, his jaw set. “Better to know now than when it’s too late. He’s right—people out there won’t hesitate to use these curses. Pretending it’s all just dusty textbook stuff won’t save you when it’s real.”

Dean backed him up immediately, his voice steady but firm. “We’re not children anymore. We’ve seen too much already to play at being sheltered. Ron did us a favour by speaking plainly.”

Parvati huffed, folding her arms. “There’s plain, and then there’s brutal.”

From her own table, Pansy Parkinson clapped her hands together once, startlingly genuine. “Finally, a lecture worth attending! I almost wish you were teaching Defence, Weasley—at least you don’t drone on like the rest.” Her grin was unsettling not because it was cruel, but because she looked as though she had simply enjoyed herself. She lounged back in her seat, eyes alight, as though a part of her relished the idea of danger simply because it broke through the monotony.

Several Gryffindors bristled at her words, but she only smirked, twirling a lock of hair.

Meanwhile, Neville hadn’t spoken at all. His hands were clasped together on the table, knuckles white, but he didn’t look away. His eyes were fixed on Ron, not wide with fear, not averted in discomfort, but taut with something harder. His lips were pressed thin, his jaw set. He looked as though every word had lodged somewhere deep inside him and was being weighed against memories too heavy for most to imagine.

The room buzzed around him—Parvati’s protests, Seamus’s arguments, Pansy’s satisfaction—but Neville remained still, silent, his determination written in the lines of his face.

And Ron, catching that expression, felt more shaken than by any of the words spoken aloud.

Hermione, though, looked furious. She was scribbling notes so violently that her quill threatened to tear the parchment.

Ron, catching sight of her, swallowed his retort. He could practically feel her disapproval burning into him. But he pressed on anyway, voice firmer now.

“Look — none of this means you should try these curses. They’re banned for a reason. But if you don’t know what they do, what they leave behind, and how they were twisted, then you’ll never be ready to face them. Ignorance isn’t protection.”

The classroom clock ticked toward the end of the period. Students were restless, but not bored. They were shaken, unsettled — but hooked.

Ron could feel his throat drying. He’d said more in this hour than in most of his classes combined. But when he looked out at the rows of faces, even the sceptical ones, he realised something startling: they were listening. Not just politely. Truly listening.

He let the silence stretch, then finished simply:

“That’s the truth about the Unforgivables. They weren’t always what they are now. But that’s what makes them dangerous. Because if something can be twisted once, it can be twisted again. And if you don’t know that — then you’ll never see it coming.”

The bell rang.

The ringing faded, but nobody moved at first. The usual scraping of chairs and rush toward the door didn’t happen. Instead, students sat in a kind of stunned hush, the words of the last hour still hanging in the air like smoke after a firework.

Ron shifted awkwardly at the front, his ears going pink. “Er… that’s it, then,” he muttered. He glanced at Moody for permission to sit back down.

Moody gave a short grunt. “Lesson’s over. Off with you.”

But still, no one rose.

It was Daphne Greengrass who broke the silence. She packed her quill slowly, then looked Ron in the eye. “You were right,” she said evenly, “about death sometimes being mercy. Healers knew it. We forget it now, but… I think you’re right.”

Ron blinked at her. Compliments from Slytherins weren’t something he had much practice with.

Pansy Parkinson leaned forward, chin in hand. “Not bad, Weasley. I thought you were just going to stammer, but you actually knew things. More than some of the professors we’ve had.”

A ripple of surprise spread across the Gryffindor side. Pansy, complimenting Ron?

Ron, utterly flustered, just mumbled, “Thanks, I guess.”

From the back, Blaise smirked faintly. “Don’t let it go to your head. But… useful distinctions. Curse damage versus caused damage. Never thought about it that way.”

Dean gave him a thump on the shoulder as he passed. “Blimey, mate. You sounded like you’d swallowed the entire Restricted Section.”

“Yeah,” Seamus added, half-grinning. “Terrifying, but… in a good way.”

Even Neville, pale as parchment, muttered, “I’ll… I’ll remember what you said. About avoiding what you can’t heal.”

Moody limped back toward the front, his magical eye fixed on Ron. “Weasley,” he barked.

Ron stiffened. “Y-yes, Professor?”

The old Auror gave a crooked grin. “You might make a mess of half your essays, but you’ve got a head for seeing through lies. That’ll take you farther than memorising any number of counter-curses.”

Ron blinked, unsure if that was praise or insult. Possibly both.

Moody turned to the class. “Lesson learned, brats? Defence starts with knowing what you’re up against. Doesn’t matter if you like it, doesn’t matter if it makes your stomach churn. You don’t study the Dark, you don’t survive the Dark. That’s the truth.”

His scarred hand slammed the desk with a loud crack. Students jumped. “Now get out.”

That did it. The room erupted into motion, chairs scraping, bags snapping shut, quills rolling. But the buzz of whispered conversations lingered as clusters of students left in twos and threes, arguing softly about what they’d heard.

Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle left in a huff, Draco muttering about “showing off” — but several others, including Theodore Nott, gave Ron a thoughtful nod before slipping out.

It was the strangest thing Ron had ever experienced: Slytherins and Gryffindors, for once, murmuring agreement on something. Not total agreement, maybe — but at least acknowledgment.

The corridor outside was still humming with talk. Ron found himself the subject of far more glances than he liked. Normally, attention in class went to Harry — the Boy Who Lived, the Seeker, the hero. But now eyes lingered on Ron instead, curious, appraising, even impressed.

“Good one, Ron,” Seamus said again, falling into step beside him. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Neither did I,” Ron muttered, ears pink.

Dean grinned. “You’ll have to give us more secret lessons if Moody lets you.”

Ron shook his head. “Not likely. That was a one-off. Honest.”

But then Daphne Greengrass brushed past, giving him a subtle nod — not mocking, not sly, just acknowledgment. Pansy followed a moment later, and though she didn’t speak, she gave him a strange little half-smile before heading down the stairs with the other Slytherins.

Harry clapped him on the back. “That was brilliant, mate. You had them hanging on your every word.”

Ron shrugged. “I just… said what I knew.”

Hermione, however, had been silent since they left the classroom. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, lips pressed into a thin line.

They hadn’t gone ten steps before Hermione exploded.

“Ronald Weasley!” she hissed, spinning on him. “What were you thinking? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

“No, don’t you dare roll your eyes at me,” she snapped, cheeks flushed. “You stood there and told an entire classroom that necromancy could be useful! Useful, Ron! That’s the Darkest of Dark Arts, and you practically advertised it as battlefield medicine!”

Several students passing by slowed to listen. Ron felt his temper spark but forced himself to keep his voice even.

“I didn’t advertise it. I explained it. There’s a difference.”

Hermione stamped her foot. “That’s not the point! Knowledge like that doesn’t belong in Hogwarts classrooms. There’s a reason it’s banned, a reason entire shelves are sealed off in the Restricted Section—”

“There’s a reason, yeah,” Ron cut in, sharper now. “Because people don’t want to admit the world isn’t neat and tidy. But the Dark Arts don’t care about tidy, Hermione. They don’t care about what you think ought to be allowed in a classroom. They exist. And if you don’t understand them, you’ll never stop them.”

Her eyes blazed. “That’s Moody’s job, not yours! You’re not an Auror, you’re not a professor, you’re a fourth-year! What if someone in that class takes what you said and tries it? What if they hurt someone?”

Ron felt the words rising to his lips — the bitter thoughts he usually swallowed back. That Hermione didn’t know everything. That she was so certain rules were the same as truth. That she acted like the only clever one in the room, when she didn’t even see half the world outside her books.

But Harry was standing right there, looking between them anxiously, and Ron bit it back. He wouldn’t say it. Not today.

Instead, he settled for a mutter. “Maybe they’ll live through it instead.”

Hermione gasped, as if he’d struck her.

Harry quickly intervened. “Come on, you two. Let’s just… get to dinner. Yeah?”

Hermione huffed, furious, but stalked ahead toward the Great Hall.

Ron trudged beside Harry, shoving his hands in his pockets. He didn’t look at her back. He didn’t trust himself to.

As they turned the corner, Ron caught snippets of whispers still passing between other students. Gryffindors and Slytherins both, murmuring his name alongside words like “interesting,” “mad,” and even “brilliant.”

For once, it wasn’t Harry they were whispering about.

Ron wasn’t sure if that felt good… or terrifying.

But either way, he knew one thing: he’d never forget that lecture. And, judging by the looks on the faces of his classmates, neither would they.