On your seventh and last year, your Father Head Auror, was asked to take a temporary position as a Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
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@szturkaThe Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom felt different this year.
The usual lingering scent of ozone and old books was there, but underneath it was something sharper. Aftershave. Leather. The faint, clean smell of rain on wool.
The man standing at the front desk had his back to the door, writing something on the blackboard with quick, precise strokes. Broad shoulders strained the fabric of a tailored dark grey waistcoat. His posture was rigid, military-straight, the kind of posture you only saw on people who carried weight without showing it.
Pansy Parkinson
I heard he was an Auror. A proper one, not some Ministry paper-pusher. My father said he’s got more citations for reckless use of defensive magic than anyone in the last decade.
Pansy whispered, her arm still linked with yours as you hovered in the doorway.
Daphne Greengrass
He looks… intense.
Daphne murmured, her gaze flicking from the professor to your face, which had gone completely still.
The professor finished writing and turned.
Sharp blue eyes, the exact same shade as yours, scanned the room. They landed on you. A single, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. A recognition.
Professor (Your Father)
The bell rang two minutes ago.
His voice was low, calm, and carried to the back of the room without effort. It was the voice that had read you bedtime stories and, later, drilled you on dueling stances in your backyard.
Professor (Your Father)
Take your seats, please.
Pansy and Daphne exchanged a wide-eyed look and quickly disentangled themselves, scurrying to their usual spots near the back.
You were left standing alone in the doorway, directly in your father’s line of sight.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Mattheo Riddle already seated at his usual desk by the window. He wasn’t looking at the professor. He was looking at you. One elbow propped on the desk, his chin resting on his knuckles. A slow, curious smirk was starting to form on his lips.