For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Fifteen: Theory and Practice

"There's a relevant quote by an African witch named Sia Barbara Kamara who specialized in experimental magic.

She said, "The Dark Arts are many, varied, ever-changing and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible."'

Gwen's wide lagoon-colored gaze surveyed the classroom. "Does anyone have a theory on what she means?"

Eyes, wide and trembling, stared back at her. It was clear that no adult had ever broached such a subject with them ever before. Bodies varied between slumped and rigid. Looking out at the pupils from her spot on the desk, the entire class appeared captive, seemingly cornered, entirely uneducated and evidently unwilling to speak. Gwen nearly wanted to scoff at their silence as she patiently awaited a shy arm to rise up and call out a probably false answer.

Anything would be better than nothing.

Indeed, the current population of Hogwarts was not well-versed in the Dark Arts.

How foolish of them to be so unaware of who taught them. Of the beast that lurked underneath the halls. Of the war that raged so close to their castle. Of the one that is brewing now.

These strange thoughts sprang from her as her annoyance bubbled at their apparent lack in theoretical magic.

They didn't even know where magic came from.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, a sheepish looking boy with a cleft chin and sandy blond hair raised his hand. He belonged to Gryffindor.

Gwen titled her head. "Name?" she drawled, holding her wand astutely.

Although doing his best to feign bravery, Gwen could spot the cowardice sneak through. "D-Donovan Sniffridge," he sniffled, eyeing Gwen's languid frame and tight smile atop the desk. Like he wasn't supposed to stare at his teacher.

Gwen smirked and the name Donovan Sniffridge was magically scrawled on the blackboard behind her back.

"Thank you, Mr. Sniffridge. And what are your thoughts?" she implored with a smile that was more of a flash of her pearly white teeth then a genuine pull of her lips.

Donovan hesitated, before brushing his fawn-colored locks out of his eyes. "Well," he began slowly, "the Dark Arts are bad. They're bad and they're hard to control."

Gwen clicked her tongue and moved from her desk. "Indeed, control is a muscle that must be exercised in the Dark Arts, but such a binary as good and bad? It rarely exists."

She had learned that through lived experience.

"Magic is governed by intent and impact, most especially in the Dark Arts. If one does not mean the spell they are casting, the magic will not do their bidding as designed. You see this in as something as simple as cleaning magic all the way to the Cruciatus Curse."

Gwen paused, surveying her class. They all watched her as she paced the front of the room, arms behind her back, her wand tucked neatly between her knuckles in her left hand. It was as though they feared she would suddenly strike them if they didn't notice every twitch of her hand, every quirk of her neck.

"Sia Barbara Kamara had one thing incorrect, however. "Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before." Assuming that the use of them is referring to the Dark Arts, she is wrong in her assertion that the Dark Arts could possibly have an agenda.