Chapter 20: king of curses

Draco Malfoy had died.

The thought lingered in his mind like a haunting melody, the rhythm of his heartbeat no longer matching the unspoken tempo of the world around him. How could it be? How could he, Draco Malfoy—pure-blood wizard of noble lineage, heir to the ancient and powerful houses of Black and Malfoy—have met his end like a common Muggle? Crushed beneath the weight of inevitability, the crushing blow delivered by that monstrous entity—the white demon his teacher had called Mahoraga— that had brought him to his knees. He had perished, crushed against the ground like a squashed bug, the magic coursing through his veins proving to be utterly worthless in the face of such overwhelming power. And yet, here he was.

He was alive.

It made no sense.

His eyes darted about the room, the Slytherin common room, its dim light casting a green hue across the stone walls. Everything looked the same, unchanged, as if the world had forgotten that he had died. The whispers of his fellow Slytherins, the hushed conversations, the laughter—none of it felt different. Hogwarts itself remained indifferent to his demise, as if the castle had swallowed the memory of his death whole, with not a ripple to disturb the surface of its ancient magic. Yesterday, he had sat in class, taking notes in Transfiguration, staring blankly at runes in the morning, then attending Potions and Herbology in the afternoon. Just another day, just another normal day at Hogwarts.

But it wasn’t normal. None of it was. Draco clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. He had died. The Killing Curse had been on his lips, the green flash of light tearing through the air with deadly intent, but Mahoraga had swept it aside like it was nothing. The most unforgivable curse in existence, the death spell feared by wizards and witches across the world, since centuries of not more—and it had done nothing. His magic, his bloodline, the nobleness of his heritage—none of it had saved him from that fate.

And what of his parents? His father, Lucius Malfoy, always so composed, so in control of every aspect of their lives. His mother, Narcissa, with her cold grace and unyielding devotion. They would never stand for this if he told them, if they knew what had happened . Draco knew that his parents would try something, they would challenge this new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, this Rias, who had summoned Mahoraga as though it were a mere trinket at her disposal. But it would be useless. They would fail, just as he had. Because no amount of money, no amount of influence, no amount of cunning could stand against the sheer, incomprehensible power she wielded. He didn’t want this for his parents. He loved them too much to allow his suffering to be the cause of their fall.

Draco shuddered at the thought. He had seen it—felt it. Rias hadn’t so much as blinked while Mahoraga tore through them. She had watched, her cold blue-green eyes gleaming with detached indifference, as if their lives were insignificant, less than the dust that clung to her muggle-looking clothes. No matter what his parents tried, they would meet the same fate he had, if not worse. Perhaps death itself would not be a mercy, a fleeting escape from her terrifying abilities if she was displeased, angered. Because, after all, she could bring the dead back to life, as she had with him, in a way he knew even wizards of legends like the Flamels, Morgana, Merlin, Voldemort wouldn’t be able to.

The thought twisted Draco’s insides, a sickness rising in his throat. He was alive only because she had allowed it. Life and death—mere playthings in the hands of the professor. He was alive, yes, but he had still died. He had felt the pain, the horror of his bones breaking under the pressure of Mahoraga’s palm, the fleeting moment where the world slipped away into nothingness, where mind braking pain was replaced by nothing.

Draco exhaled, trying to steady himself. There was a class today—Defense Against the Dark Arts. He would see her again. He would sit in her class, face the woman who had so casually let them all die, who had been the cause of their death and wonder if today would be the day she decided to do it again. What would she unleash this time? Another monster? Something worse? The dread curled within him like an ever-present spectre looming over his every thought.

It was like dealing with the Dark Lord all over again—no, worse. Much worse. The Dark Lord, as terrifying as he had been, had limits. Voldemort was feared because he was powerful, because he was ruthless, but at the end of the day, he was still a wizard. A wizard who, like Dumbledore, had risen through magic and will. But this… this was different. Rias wasn’t simply powerful—she was beyond what Draco had ever known. Her magic was something out of legend, out of myth. The kind of magic that should have died with the likes of Morgana. Voldemort, Dumbledore—compared to her, they were nothing more than children playing with wands.

Draco bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. His parents would try, but they would die. They didn’t stand a chance, and he knew it. He had seen it, felt it in his bones. His family, the noble Malfoy line, would be snuffed out if they crossed her.

And yet, the wizarding world continued as if nothing had changed. It was the unspoken truth—deep down, everyone knew that only magic truly mattered. It was the sole currency of power. The Sacred Twenty-Eight families—the pure-bloods who shaped wizarding Britain—had held their sway because their magic was formidable. They had made the laws, decided what was right or wrong, because no one could stand against them. Dumbledore was respected because of his magic, just as the Dark Lord was feared for his power. It was how the world worked, and it always had.

But the new professor with her godlike magic, her sinful figure, her perfect face, her haunting eyes? She was an anomaly, something the wizarding world had never encountered before. She wasn’t, couldn’t be a part of their world, their rules. And that made her terrifying. The thought gnawed at Draco’s mind as he stood from his chair, feeling the weight of the day ahead pressing down on his shoulders. He had to go to class, he had to face her again. What was the point of trying to resist? What was the point of trying to challenge her?

But there was one thought, one slim hope, that flickered in the back of his mind like a dying candle. She would teach them. That was her job, wasn’t it? To make them stronger. To give them power. If he could survive, if he could make it through this—he could become stronger. Stronger than he had ever imagined. Strong enough to surpass them all.

Draco’s mind whirled with the possibilities. If he could survive her lessons, if he could withstand the horrors she brought to bear, then he could rise. He could become greater than all his forefathers, make his parents proud, greater than the Dark Lord. He could lift the Malfoy name to heights never dreamed of. He would be able to crush the Dark Lord, destroy him for lying to his family, for dragging them deeper into his false speeches, lies and promises.

But more than that—he would prove to everyone that Draco Malfoy was not someone to be dismissed. He was not a footnote in history. He was not someone who would simply fade into the background. No, he would be remembered. His name would be etched into the annals of wizarding Britain, greater than Dumbledore, greater than Grindlevald, greater than Harry Potter. He would do his utmost to survive. He would do his utmost to thrive. Nothing else was acceptable.

Draco Malfoy was not dead. He had died, but he had come back. And now, he would rise stronger than ever before. Only power mattered, and he would seize it, no matter the cost.

He purposely ignored his shaking hand and the fear gripping at his heart, the part of him that recognised all of his thoughts as the bravado of a scared boy.

*scene*

Sitting lazily on my throne, legs draped over one armrest, I watched my students shuffle into the classroom. The crimson chair I had summoned into existence shimmered, rubies glinting like the first blush of sunrise, the pink diamonds glowing softly as if cradling the essence of a distant nebula. With a simple thought, this opulent throne had come into existence. My gaze slid to the room itself, no longer the mundane classroom of Hogwarts, but something almost like a dreamscape made real, a universe painted on walls, stars flickering and shifting in a dark sky. The ground below gleamed like obsidian and white diamonds intermingled, and the heavy chandeliers above held flames of sapphire blue that burned quietly, casting shadows that danced like phantoms.

My students entered slowly, their movements cautious, their faces pale and filled with fear. I could almost taste their unease, thick in the air like an overripe fruit. Even now, the memory of their deaths against Mahoraga lingered. I had read their minds, each and every one of them. The agony they had endured, the feeling of absolute powerlessness, it had left its mark. I saw it in their eyes, in the way they flinched when they looked at me. Yes, maybe I had gone overboard. Perhaps summoning Mahoraga, even a weakened version, had been too much for them. Perhaps forcing them to fight him to the death—painful, brutal deaths—wasn’t the most conventional teaching method.

I shrugged inwardly. What was done, was done. There was no need after all in worrying about broken eggs.

More than that, what mattered was that It hadn’t been unproductive. No, far from it. Their deaths had achieved what mere words and lectures never could. Their arrogance, their pettiness, their superiority—they had all been stripped away. How could Draco Malfoy continue doubtlessly to cling to his ridiculous notions of pureblood pride when his precious lineage hadn’t saved him? When Mahoraga had squashed him down like a bug, crushing his body into a bloody pulp with a single, indifferent palm? How could Pansy Parkinson still believe in her inherent superiority over Muggle-borns when it had been Hermione, the same Muggle-born she had despised, who had held her hand through their shared terror, who had stayed with her until the end, both of them vaporized by the giant sphere of green light, of magic akin to the killing curse of Mahoraga?

They had all tasted the same fear. The same death. Blaise Zabini, so composed, so smug in his own quiet superiority, had followed the lead of a half-blood—Harry Potter—when it came down to it. They had fought together, side by side, until death claimed them. They had died together. And in death, in the face of something like Mahoraga, there were no houses, no blood statuses. Just children, fragile and terrified, clinging to life until it was torn from them. They were bonded all together in a way most would never be able to be. Dying and coming back together after death was after all a singular experience.

I glanced around the room. Those who had survived long enough to help bring Mahoraga down—Harry, Neville, Hermione, Ron, Daphne, Blaise, Seamus, Dean, Tracey, and Pansy—they sat now, scattered across the room, subdued, their eyes darting to me and then away just as quickly. How could they still think in terms of binaries, of Slytherins versus Gryffindors, of purebloods versus Muggle-borns, when none of it had mattered? They had all died the same.

Of course, it wasn’t as if they were completely changed, as if they’d now hold hands and sing songs of unity, sing Kumbaya around a fire. But there was a difference, a closeness born from shared suffering, from shared death. They would treat each other better now, regardless of house or blood. I had literally traumatised the bigotry out of them. I couldn’t stop the smirk that I felt bloom on my face at the thought, my dark humour bubbling to the surface. Who said suffering didn’t build character? Who said death didn't build character? Clearly, they were wrong.

This whole ordeal had been a test, proof that they could become stronger. That I could make them stronger. They had potential, even if they couldn’t see it yet. With the right guidance, with the right amount of pressure—well, life-threatening situations had a way of forcing growth, of stripping away weakness. And if they died again? I would simply bring them back, the same way I had after Mahoraga crushed them.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that they were terrified of me. I could see it, feel it—through their minds, through their souls, open books laid bare before me. The fear, the dread, the anger, the hatred—it flowed through their hearts like a dark river. To a lesser devil, such emotions would be intoxicating, akin to the smell of a perfectly cooked steak. But to me?

They were whatever I guess.

I watched them carefully as they settled into their seats. The dark wood of their desks, polished and smooth. The walls, with their ever-shifting stars, made the room feel less like a place of learning and more like something out of a dream—or perhaps a nightmare. I guess It would depend on who you ask. But there was a beauty to it, a beauty that only a being like myself could create, that only a supernatural creature, something inherently better than humans, something beyond the human imagination. It was a little wonderland, my little wonderland and they were the unsuspecting players.

"Today’s lesson will be… less physically intensive," I said, trying to make my voice soft, almost gentle. I saw them relax instantly, some of the tension draining from their shoulders. Their forms became less rigid, their breaths less shallow. Their thoughts, once a chaotic mess of fear and anxiety, filled with relief. They thought I was sparing them.

The poor fools.

I smiled, a slow, deliberate curl of my lips. "There will be no battle today. No opponents for you to fight."

I felt their collective sigh of relief, their minds flooded with hope. Foolish children.

"Instead," I continued, "I will be giving you a gift. An ability unknown to wizard kind, an energy that will make you stronger." I paused, letting the weight of my words sink in. "This energy was what powered Mahoraga, what allowed him to adapt to the killing curse, to your magic. It made him stronger the longer he fought you. And now, I will give it to you.

“Who knows what you’ll be able to do it?" I shrugged.

The room, once filled with relief, shifted again. Fear crept back in, slow and insidious. They didn't trust me which was fair with what previously happened but more than that, I could see desire, greed rise in their hearts. They remembered Mahoraga, the unstoppable force that had killed them all. And now, they would wield the same power I could hear some of them think.

I rose from my throne, letting the scarlet haze of my magic bloom around me. The air thickened, and the ground trembled slightly beneath my feet as reality itself bent to my will. A sound like the tolling of distant church bells rang through the room, a low, melodic hum that resonated in their bones.

With a single snap of my fingers, I rewrote the world.

A dark aura erupted from the skin of each student, curse energy, raw and untamed, flooding their bodies. Their eyes widened in shock, fear contorting their faces as they looked down at their hands, at the blackened tendrils of energy swirling around them.

"You now possess the power that allowed Mahoraga to slaughter you. Congratulations," I told them. My eyes were focused on their souls, able to see in them, into the blooming curse techniques. It could be better but it would do I guess.

"And with this power, you will grow. You will become stronger."

I let the silence hang, the weight of what I had given them sinking in, the fact that I had changed them without their consent in an instant, the feeling of curse energy, of its inherent malignancy and disgustingness setting in their bodies.

"But that is not all," I added, my voice cutting through their stunned silence. "There is something else you need to see."

With another snap of my fingers, the room shimmered, and a high-definition hologram appeared before them, massive and detailed, like a window into another world.

"This is a hologram. You will watch what a powerful user of this energy can do. You will see the fight between Mahoraga and Sukuna, the King of Curses, the Japanese equivalent of the dark lord in Shibuya, Japan. You will see what Mahoraga is able to do when not restricted, against what you should be prepared for if y’all want to survive your final exam."

They stared at the hologram, the images of Sukuna and Mahoraga appearing on it.

"Welcome to the Shibuya Incident," I whispered.

And the scene began.

*scene*

Ron Weasley stared at the hologram—a massive projection hanging in mid-air, shimmering like the enchanted paintings back at Hogwarts, yet far more detailed, more visceral. The scene displayed wasn’t some peaceful countryside or a quiet afternoon at the Burrow; it was probably Shibuya, the place where Mahoraga would be fighting the suck nut whatever dark lord.

It was a place Ron barely recognized. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, had mentioned it was a part of Japan, but that was about as much as he or any of the other students knew. They were witnessing a battle like nothing they could have imagined, nothing they could have possibly been prepared for.

It was carnage incarnate. The city was being torn apart, buildings collapsing like card houses, streets cracked open, and the sky itself seemed to shake under the weight of the conflict. In the center of it all were two monstrous figures. One, a demon-looking man with red eyes, pink air and in muggle clothes—Rias had called him Sukuna, a dark lord—moved with an ease that belied his overwhelming power. Sukuna didn't move like a wizard. The way he fought was simply other.

The other, Mahoraga, a creature Ron would never forget, was the thing that had killed them all once before.

The sight of Mahoraga was enough to send shivers down his spine. It moved like a nightmare come to life, a towering white beast that somehow seemed even more terrifying now than it had when they faced it before. He swallowed hard, his palms clammy. The last time he’d seen that creature, it had torn through the other students with ease. It had played with them. Even the fact that they had been able to bring him down was most likely luck. It had been their deaths, all of them, until Rias brought them back. He felt his heart thud in his chest, his stomach tightening into a knot.

“This is mental,” Seamus muttered from beside him, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ron couldn’t disagree. Mahoraga leapt through the air, its movements impossibly fast for something so big, and landed behind Sukuna, swinging one of its massive arms in a brutal arc. Sukuna barely shifted, his lips curled into a mocking grin as if this was all a game. Ron’s mind raced, trying to make sense of the sheer destruction unfolding before them. Sukuna dodged the attack with such speed that it seemed like he’d blinked out of existence for a moment, only to reappear a second later, slashing through Mahoraga’s appendages with an invisible force.

“What is that?” Neville asked, his voice tight with wariness and wonder. “How’s he doing that?”

The professor, leaning casually against the wall as if she were watching a simple Quidditch match, spoke up, her tone as nonchalant as ever. “It’s called Dismantle. It’s a cursed technique. See it as a specialized spell only able to be used by people of his bloodline or him that slices through anything with cursed energy. And Mahoraga... well, it’s adapting. I'm sure you're all familiar with it.”

Adapting? Ron thought. His mind flicked to chess, the way you had to constantly shift strategies, always thinking two, three moves ahead. But this—this was on a whole different level. Mahoraga wasn’t just adapting to a strategy, it was changing itself, reacting to every blow. Each time Sukuna attacked, Mahoraga’s wheel turned, healing its injuries, growing stronger, faster. The wheel on the head of the divine general hadn’t been that fast when they fought it. It made Ron’s stomach churn. How do you beat something that could learn from your every move?

Sukuna wasn’t fazed though. His movements were almost... playful. He dodged Mahoraga’s attacks with the kind of grace Ron had only seen in professional Quidditch players. But instead of a broom, Sukuna wielded something unseen, an invisible force that cut through the air. Ron could see it in the way Mahoraga staggered after every attack, its body sliced apart again and again, only to heal moments later.

“He’s... toying with it,” Hermione whispered from behind Ron, in realization her face pale. “He’s not even taking this seriously.”

Ron could hear the disbelief in her voice, and he shared it. Sukuna was fighting a creature that had killed them, a creature that could probably destroy Hogwarts and kill all of its inhabitants by itself, and he was treating it like a practice match. At one point, Sukuna even disappeared into a shop, emerging moments later with a drink and popcorn. He took a bite, then spat it out in disgust, tossing the food aside with a sneer.

"Unreal," Dean muttered, shaking his head.

Sukuna’s casual dismissal of the destruction around him made Ron’s skin crawl. It was like watching someone tear apart the world, piece by piece, without a care. But Mahoraga wasn’t done. The creature charged at Sukuna, its movements blurring as it seemed to swim through the very concrete itself, its body twisting in ways that defied logic. It was a blur of motion, of raw power, yet Sukuna met it with an almost bored expression.

“He’s doing it again,” Harry said, his voice interrupting Ron’s thoughts.

“He's actually Feinting,” Harry said his voice full of disbelief.”

“Five points to Gryffindor the teacher spoke. You're right Mr Potter,’ she spoke. “He's messing with Mahoraga’s head. Right now, Mahoraga thinks it’s reacting to attacks, but Sukuna isn’t even striking.”

Ron watched Sukuna dodge what seemed to be a punch only for him to roll on the path of one because Mahoraga had copied him. Mahoraga had also used a feint. The white Beast had acted intelligently.

He watched the punch connect. He watched Sukuna smile. “He's smiling,” the teacher, spoke “because he succeeded in making a divine being, a being supposed to be perfect lie.”

The words sent a shiver to his bones. Voldemort was nothing compared to Sukuna. He never thought he would think such but he was glad they had Voldemort instead of Sukuna.

Ron watched as Mahoraga flailed, blocking imaginary blows, its massive arms swinging at nothing. For something so terrifying, so powerful, it looked almost... foolish. But even as it floundered, there was something terrifying about its persistence. Mahoraga adapted, adjusted, learned from every move Sukuna made, no matter how insignificant.

And then, the wheel turned again.

Ron felt the air grow heavier, the tension in the room thickening as Mahoraga’s injuries vanished once more. Sukuna’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light.

“It’s learned how to block Dismantle,” Rias explained, her tone still maddeningly calm. “Mahoraga’s power lets it adapt to anything, even cursed techniques.”

“That’s impossible,” Draco muttered, his voice hoarse. “It’s like fighting someone who can never lose.”

Ron bit his lip. Malfoy was right. How could you beat something that could adapt to anything? Even Sukuna, with all his power, seemed to be taking Mahoraga more seriously now. The two clashed again, the force of their blows shaking the very air. Sukuna, quick as a flash, slashed at Mahoraga, only to be thrown across the city by a powerful strike. Mahoraga didn’t stop, following after him with a speed that something with a such massive size shouldn’t have.

They crashed through building after building, each impact sending shockwaves through the streets. It was as if the city itself was being torn apart by the sheer force of their battle. Sukuna, always grinning, always mocking, flipped through the air, avoiding a lethal strike from Mahoraga’s sword.

“The sword is called the sword of extermination,” the professor said. Ron could remember how the blade had been lit up with the light of the killing curse. The name couldn’t be more fitting in his opinion. It crackled with some strange energy, something even Sukuna seemed wary of.

Ron’s eyes widened as Sukuna unleashed another attack, this time cutting the entire building in half with a single slash. Mahoraga was sent flying, crashing into the ground hundreds of meters away. But even that didn’t stop it. As Ron watched, Mahoraga’s wheel turned again, and its body healed itself once more.

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered, his voice barely audible. He’d seen powerful spells before, seen destruction in battle, but this... this was something else. The sheer scale of it, the raw power—it was like a nightmare brought to life.

Rias’ voice cut through the tense silence, explaining Sukuna’s next move. “That’s his Domain Expansion. Malevolent Shrine. It’s the highest level of cursed energy manipulation.”

Ron watched as the air around Sukuna seemed to warp, the entire city bending to his will. It was as if the very fabric of reality had shifted, and in that moment, Ron understood the scale of what they were seeing. Sukuna wasn’t just powerful; he was something else entirely, something beyond what they could comprehend. Sukuna reminded him of the teacher. The domain expanded, reaching out, tearing through everything in its path. Buildings crumbled, streets were ripped apart, and anything with and without cursed energy was cut down instantly. Ron watched Muggles, innocent muggles be reduced to red mist.

Mahoraga staggered under the relentless barrage of slashes, but it didn’t fall. Even now, even after all that, it stood, its wheel turning one last time.

Ron’s heart pounded in his chest. How do you stop something that won’t die? How do you fight against something like that?

He watched an arrow bloom between the hands of the Japanese dark lord, one made of flames. Sukuna didn’t hesitate. He raised a hand, and with a single gesture, unleashed the massive fire arrow that streaked toward Mahoraga. The explosion lit up the hologram, filling the room with a fiery glow. When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left of Mahoraga.

Ron let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The fight was over. But the devastation remained. Shibuya was in ruins.

“This... this is insane,” Ron muttered, his voice shaky. He looked around at his friends, their faces pale, their eyes wide with disbelief. They had faced Mahoraga once, and it had killed them. Watching it now, seeing the destruction it had caused when unrestricted, non weakened, only to be brought down by something even more terrifying—it was almost too much to comprehend. What made it worse was that according to the teacher, they would have to face a stronger version.

Rias’ voice, still calm and collected, brought them back to reality. “This is the world you’ve stepped into. Get used to it. I expect all of you to be better, to be stronger, so much so that what I just showed you.”

Her cold eyes turned toward them and Ron felt his heart stop “You will either succeed or die. Those are all your choices. I expect to not be disappointed.”

It made Ron wish to be dealing with Voldemort instead of her. It made him wonder when his life had turned into a living nightmare.