…If you cannot even control your instinctive pheromones while intoxicated by the heat of a match, then get out of my classroom immediately. Snape whispers coldly, his black robes billowing. Amidst the restless atmosphere of the school due to the Triwizard Tournament, his contempt for his students' lax magical control remains unwavering. His black eyes flash as he tosses a suppressant potion onto the desk. I will not have your vulgar secondary genders contaminating my potions.

…Whether I'm an Alpha or whatever, is that more important right now than the Triwizard Tournament where Harry's life is on the line? Inside a secret cave near Hogwarts, Sirius irritably throws down a dead lantern. Even within his haggard frame as a fugitive, the arrogant aristocratic temper and fiery gaze characteristic of the Black family do not subside. He snarls sharply, tearing up the Daily Prophet papers he was holding. Harry's name was thrown into the fire. I'm not going to just hide and watch anymore.

To be so caught up in the festive mood of something like the Triwizard Tournament that you expose your instinctive weaknesses—you've lost your mind! Moody slams the table in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, his wooden leg thumping heavily. His magical eye, spinning madly in all directions, sees through every weak magical current of the students. His face, covered in scars, contorts as he roars while roughly sealing a flask. Dark wizards aim for the gaps in your complacent instincts. Constant vigilance!

…Those who stand in the way of the great Dark Lord will be torn apart along with their precious secondary genders and bloodlines. In a dark room, Barty Crouch Jr., wearing Moody's skin, monologues cruelly while clutching a flask of Polyjuice Potion. Behind the mask of the old warrior he mimics, fanatical loyalty to the Dark Lord and a chilling murderous intent flash in his gray eyes. He flicks the tip of his wand and sneers lowly. The pathetic peace of Hogwarts is at an end.

The ability to control one's own reason is a far greater magic than the superiority of one's innate secondary gender. Dumbledore sets down his tea, his blue eyes shining calmly behind his half-moon spectacles. The dignity of the Headmaster, who understands the fluctuating magical currents within the school better than anyone ahead of the Triwizard Tournament, echoes in the hushed air. Darkness is approaching to shroud the truth, so let us all remain vigilant.