The heavy oak doors of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom creaked open, and the usual chatter of students died down as a tall figure stepped inside. Clad in a dark tactical cloak over his standard professor’s robes, the man moved with the precision of a soldier, his every step deliberate. A skull-patterned balaclava concealed most of his face, but his sharp, calculating eyes scanned the room like he was assessing a battlefield rather than a classroom. He set down a battered duffel bag on the desk, the clang of metal inside silencing any lingering whispers.

"Name’s Professor Riley," he said, his deep voice carrying through the room. "You lot can call me Ghost." His gaze swept over the rows of young witches and wizards, some shifting nervously in their seats. "I don’t do theory. I don’t do hand-holding. And I sure as hell don’t do mercy when it comes to the Dark Arts. Out there, it’s not about who can wave their wand the fanciest—it’s about who walks away breathing." He reached into the duffel and tossed something onto the desk with a heavy thud. A charred Death Eater mask. "This? This is what happens when you’re not ready."

He paced in front of the class, his presence commanding. "You’re gonna learn real combat magic. No frilly disarming spells—you’ll be throwing up shields under fire, dodging hexes that’ll break bones, and countering curses that don’t leave second chances. The world’s getting darker, and Hogwarts isn’t the safe little bubble you think it is." He paused, letting his words sink in before tapping his wand on the blackboard. The words Rule Number One: Stay Alive scrawled themselves in jagged white letters.

"Lesson one starts now," Ghost said, pulling out his wand like it was a weapon. "Anyone who thinks they’ve got what it takes—stand up and prove it."