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Chapter Text

The wind howled against the broken windows of the old hut on the rock, rattling the wooden frame with every gust. Rain lashed the roof, and thunder cracked overhead as if the sky itself was trying to shake the world awake. Inside the miserable little shack, the Dursleys sat huddled together on the lumpy sofa—Vernon gripping a rifle, Petunia clinging to Dudley, who snored through the storm with his thumb jammed in his mouth.

Harry sat alone on the cold floor, drawing patterns absently in the dust with a finger. He wore Dudley's cast-off clothes, several sizes too big, and they hung from his thin frame like a shroud. The storm outside barely bothered him. His eyes, slightly dull and hidden behind broken glasses, were fixed on the clock. It was nearly midnight.

He’d made a game of counting down the seconds to his birthday. It was silly, he knew. But it was his.

Ten… nine… eight… the wind screamed. Seven… six… Dudley stirred in his sleep. Five… four… three… a tremor shuddered through the floor. Two… one—

BOOM!

The door flew open with a crash like a cannon. A huge silhouette filled the frame, lantern in one hand and a battered pink umbrella in the other. His shaggy hair and beard made him look like some wild bear escaped from a storm.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the figure said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him with effort. “Shoulda knocked, but the wind might’ve knocked the whole hut down before it answered.”

He smiled—genuinely—and looked straight at Harry.

“Harry Potter. 'Bout time I got to see yeh.”

The name landed with the weight of something more than identity. Harry blinked up at him. “You know me?”

“Know yeh?” the man chuckled, stomping snow and seawater off his boots. “Course I do. Name’s Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

The word lingered in the air like smoke.

Vernon leapt to his feet, waving the rifle wildly. “I demand you leave at once! You will not—”

Hagrid didn’t bother replying with words. One tap of his umbrella and the rifle bent like rubber. Vernon collapsed back into the couch, white as a sheet.

Harry just stared.

“Hogwarts?” he asked quietly, as if afraid the question itself might vanish.

“Aye,” Hagrid said, his tone warming. “School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Finest place there is for young witches and wizards to learn what they are. You’ve been accepted.”

He dug into his coat and pulled out a slightly crumpled envelope. “Got yeh letter right here. Shoulda been delivered days ago, but we figured yeh hadn’t got it yet. Bit of a mess at the Ministry, like always.”

Harry took the envelope in trembling hands. His name was written in emerald ink, the address specific all the way down to 'The Hut on the Rock.'

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First-year students will require:

Three sets of plain work robes (black)

One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set of glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set of brass scales

Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.

Yours sincerely,
Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus
Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions

He read it—once. Then again. And again. Every word seemed to etch itself into his mind. He didn’t just read it—he absorbed it.

Something flickered behind his eyes. A brief shimmer, like a curtain fluttering in wind. A whisper of thoughts—familiar, yet unreachable—brushed his consciousness. As if a part of his mind long buried was beginning to stir.

He couldn’t explain it, but it felt… natural. Like he was accessing something he'd always had, but never known how to use. A strange sharpness stirred within him.

The Dursleys protested in the background—Petunia shrieking about freaks and Vernon shouting nonsense about reform schools—but Harry wasn’t listening. Not really.

When Hagrid told him about his parents—about James and Lily Potter, who had died not in a car crash, but at the hands of a dark wizard named Voldemort—something inside Harry sparked.

Their names echoed in his mind like distant bells. Familiar. Too familiar. And for just a moment, he felt as if he could almost remember something—laughter, green light, a scream—but it slipped away before he could grasp it.

“I’m… famous?” he whispered.

“Reckon so,” Hagrid said gently. “Whole wizarding world knows yeh. The Boy Who Lived, they call yeh.”

Harry didn’t feel famous. He felt overwhelmed. But more than that… something was shifting. Like a pressure lifting slightly from his chest. A fog he hadn’t known existed starting to clear.

As the night stretched on, Hagrid made a fire, conjured sausages, and filled the room with warmth that clashed with the cold silence Harry had known all his life. He listened to more about Hogwarts, about the magical world, and the things his aunt and uncle had never told him.

He asked question after question—not just because he was curious, but because something in him demanded it. Every answer Hagrid gave slotted into place like pieces in a puzzle he hadn’t known he was solving.

That night, while Hagrid snored loudly in the corner and the Dursleys pretended to sleep, Harry lay awake by the dying fire. The letter clutched in his hand, he stared into the embers.

He felt different. Not just because he was a wizard—but because something inside him was no longer quiet. A pulse in his blood. A crack in a wall he hadn’t known was there. Like knowledge was knocking. Like memory waited, just out of reach.

He didn’t know it yet, but that moment was the beginning. The truth was stirring.

And the door had begun to open.

The next morning, the storm had cleared, leaving a gray, misty calm in its wake. Hagrid wasted no time. With a large hand, he nudged Harry awake and handed him an oversized coat that smelled of damp earth and dragon scales.

“Time ter get yer things, Harry,” he said with a grin. “We’ve got a lot ter do.”

Harry, still groggy, followed him out of the hut, glancing back only once at the Dursleys. None of them had moved from their tight huddle.

The journey to London was a blur of questions and wonder. Hagrid had an odd way of speaking and a gentle, lumbering kindness that Harry instantly liked. For the first time in his life, someone seemed to want him around.

They took a boat back to shore, then caught a train—Hagrid drawing stares wherever they went. By the time they reached the Leaky Cauldron, Harry was sure he had entered another world entirely. The pub was quiet when they entered, but gasps and whispers spread like wildfire.

“Bless my soul—it’s Harry Potter!”

Harry didn’t duck behind Hagrid, though the attention prickled at his skin. Instead, he stood still, eyes sharp, quietly observing every person who approached. Their expressions, their clothing, the reverence in their voices—it all told him something. He didn’t fully understand why, but a part of him needed to take it all in, to remember. Hagrid laughed heartily at the reactions, but Harry remained cautious, alert.

As they made their way through the pub, a man in a strange purple turban stumbled forward to greet them. "P-Potter," he stammered, extending a slightly shaking hand. "C-congratulations on—on making it, my boy. F-fame at such a young age. Remarkable."

Hagrid gave a small grunt. "Professor Quirrell, this here's Harry. He'll be in yer class come September."

Harry didn’t take the offered hand. Something instinctive told him not to. He nodded instead, his tone polite but guarded. The man smelled faintly of garlic, and his eyes kept flicking to Harry’s scar with an intensity that made Harry uneasy.

"A pleasure," Harry said evenly, though something about the man sent a flicker of unease crawling across his skin. He held Quirrell’s gaze for a moment longer than polite. Quirrell coughed and looked away.

"D-don't want to keep you," Quirrell muttered quickly. "Much to do, yes, much to do."

He disappeared back into the shadows of the pub almost as quickly as he'd appeared.

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing. He didn’t trust him. He didn’t know why—but he would remember that feeling.

Through a brick wall and into Diagon Alley, Harry’s senses were overwhelmed. The sights, the sounds, the smell of ink and parchment, the glittering displays of cauldrons, robes, and wands—it was more than he had imagined in his wildest dreams.

Hagrid led him first to Gringotts, the wizarding bank, where they met the goblins. Harry withdrew gold from the Potter family vault—though he had no idea yet just how much more there was to learn. Hagrid also retrieved a mysterious package from a high-security vault, saying little about it.

They continued shopping, picking up robes, books, scales, a cauldron, and other school supplies. Harry lingered at Flourish and Blotts longer than necessary, eyes wide as he ran his fingers along the spines of magical books. There were so many things he didn’t understand—names, customs, history—that pulled at his attention, but he knew he couldn’t carry or afford everything now. He made mental notes of books to come back for, books he needed to read to really understand this world. For now, he focused on the essentials. Hagrid gave him space but didn’t question his quiet study.

Finally, they reached Ollivanders. The experience of finding his wand—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches—was strange and intense. When he held it, warmth bloomed up his arm, and for a brief instant, he felt something snap awake inside him.

“That’s it,” Ollivander said softly. “Curious... very curious.”

Harry didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

Before they parted, Hagrid bought him a snowy owl named Hedwig and gave him his train ticket for September 1st.

“Stay strong, Harry,” Hagrid said, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Yer parents’d be proud.”

Harry nodded, grateful and strangely thoughtful. The world had changed, and so had he. And yet, he felt that this was only the surface—only the beginning.

And deep inside, a door that had once been sealed was slowly opening wider.

Chapter Text

The return to the Dursleys was exactly as Harry expected—cold, quiet, and suffocating. As they walked back from the station, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about Diagon Alley. It was as if his senses had been permanently altered. The sounds, the smells—the feeling of the magic in the air—it all played back in his mind like a dream he didn’t want to wake from. Everything from the dragon-hide gloves to the crackling candles in Ollivander’s shop had felt strange and exhilarating. Even the way people looked at him had left an impression. Not that he liked the attention, but it made him realize: the wizarding world knew his name, even if he didn’t yet know his place in it. They didn’t ask questions about where he’d been. Petunia sneered at his damp clothes, and Vernon muttered something about freakish nonsense, but no one stopped him as he made his way up to his room.

Petunia shot him a suspicious glance when he came through the door, muttering something under her breath about 'ungrateful freaks', but Harry barely registered it. The contrast between Gringotts’ grandeur and this dingy hallway made everything about the Dursleys feel even smaller than usual.

Once he was in his room, Harry sat on the thin mattress and slowly took off his oversized coat. As he set it down, something slid from an inner pocket and clinked against the wooden floor.

A coin.

Harry picked it up, frowning. It was heavier than normal currency and etched with strange runes he couldn’t read. Next to it, a tightly folded scrap of parchment had fallen as well. Unfolding it carefully, he read:

Mr. Potter,

There are urgent matters that require your attention. We request your presence for a private meeting regarding your vaults and magical wellbeing. The enclosed coin is a portkey, keyed specifically to you.

**To activate, speak the phrase: **"May your vaults overflow with gold."

Use on August 1st at 12:00 PM.

- Gringotts

Harry stared at the note for a long moment. Something about the tone felt… different. Not friendly, but not unkind either. Businesslike. Precise.

He examined the coin again and slipped both it and the note into the small box beneath a loose floorboard. Then, still dressed, he lay on the mattress and stared up at the ceiling until sleep finally took him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning was dull and gray, the kind of day that felt more like punishment than weather. Petunia shrieked, waking him by banging a wooden spoon on the room door.

"Up! The hedges aren’t going to trim themselves!"

Harry didn’t argue. He dressed quickly, shoved some dry toast in his mouth, and went about the chores with quiet efficiency. He wasn’t thinking about the Dursleys. Not really. His mind was fixed on the note, the coin, and what would happen at noon.

By mid-morning, he’d finished weeding the garden and cleaning the windows. Petunia was too busy fussing over Dudley to notice when he slipped away, disappearing out the back gate.

He wandered through the neighborhood until he was sure no one was watching. Then he picked a direction and walked with intent—beyond the playground, past the churchyard, and through a narrow stretch of woods.

Eventually, he found it: a half-built warehouse, abandoned mid-construction, with rusted scaffolding and shattered glass. Perfect.

He slipped inside through a warped door and checked every corner. No one. No cameras. No prying eyes.

This could work. It was hidden. Quiet. Safe.

He’d return here after meeting with the goblins.

He found a dry patch of concrete near an old loading bay, and finally reached into his pocket. He pulled out the strange coin.

It wasn’t like the wizarding money he got when he went with Hagrid—it was thicker, darker, and etched with runes he didn’t recognize. But even just holding it made the air feel… heavier. He turned it over, examining the goblin-crafted sigil on one side and the fine scratch of something almost like a signature on the other.

Then he spoke the words that had been written in the note.

"May your vaults overflow with gold."

The world twisted.

A tug behind his navel, hard and sudden, yanked him forward as if a hook had latched onto his belly and pulled him through space. Wind rushed past his ears, colors blurred and spun, and then—with a jolt—he landed.

Not on the ground, but in a chair.

He blinked.

The room around him was unlike anything he’d seen before. Carved stone, dark and polished, framed the circular chamber. The floor beneath his feet shimmered with gold-threaded runes, softly glowing in steady pulses. Torches lined the walls, casting flickering light that danced on metal surfaces and gemstone inlays.

Opposite him stood a goblin, shorter than most adults Harry had met, but with a presence that filled the room. His sharp features gave him a commanding look, and the fine robe he wore shimmered subtly in the torchlight. Harry had no idea what the crest on his chest meant or why he carried a ring of keys, but it was clear this was someone important.

"Mr. Potter," the goblin said with a curt nod. His voice was rough but not unkind. "You arrived precisely on time. Follow me."

Harry stood, his legs steady despite the unexpected journey. He followed the goblin through a short corridor into another chamber, this one smaller but filled with high-backed chairs, ledgers, and documents stacked in impossibly neat piles.

"Please be seated," the goblin instructed, gesturing to a leather chair near the center.

As Harry sat, a second goblin entered, this one looked older, with gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his long nose and scrolls tucked under one arm. The first goblin gave a formal bow.

"This is Griphorn, your account manager."

Griphorn set the scrolls on the table, eyed Harry keenly, and sat across from him. Harry straightened a little under the goblin’s scrutiny. The goblin’s eyes were calculating but not hostile. It felt less like a teacher scolding him, and more like someone trying to weigh the full measure of who he was—what he knew, or perhaps what he didn’t. Harry almost asked a question, but bit his tongue. Better to listen for now, he decided.

"Mr. Potter," he began, tapping his long fingers on the table, "may I ask why you have failed to respond to our previous summons over the years?"

Harry blinked. "What summons? I never got anything. Until yesterday, I didn’t even know magic was real. I’ve lived with the Dursleys—my aunt and uncle—and they never mentioned anything about any summons."

Griphorn’s expression tightened. "I see."

He flipped open a small ledger and ran a clawed finger down a page. "You were meant to receive regular magical wellness checks and at least one couriered account summary by age seven. Our records show several were sent. None were acknowledged."

Harry shook his head, honestly confused. "I’m sorry. I really didn’t know."

The goblin studied him for a long moment, then gave a small grunt and nodded. "Very well. We will investigate that separately. For now, there are matters more urgent."

The first goblin—still standing near the doorway—stepped forward and placed a parchment squarely in front of Harry. It shimmered slightly under the torchlight.

"We request your permission to conduct two tests," Griphorn said. "The first is an inheritance test, to confirm your bloodlines, titles, and holdings. The second is a health diagnostic, to assess your magical and physical condition."

Harry hesitated, then frowned. "I don’t have any money for this. I spent everything I had yesterday when I was shopping for my school supplies with Hagrid."

Both goblins looked at him in faint disbelief.

"Mr. Potter," Griphorn said flatly, "you are the last known member of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter. Even without access to your full accounts, your family has more than enough to cover such tests. Costs will be deducted directly from the vault."

"Oh," Harry said. "Then… alright."

Griphorn gave a nod. "We will begin with the inheritance test. Once that’s complete, and provided you’re still willing, we will move on to the health diagnostic."

Harry nodded in agreement, his curiosity growing stronger than his nerves.

The parchment on the desk glowed faintly. Griphorn drew a small ceremonial dagger from his side and handed it to Harry.

"Seven drops of blood. The spell will activate when the final drop lands."

Harry swallowed but took the dagger. It didn’t hurt much—a small slice across his finger. He let the drops fall one by one. The parchment flared to life on the seventh, and the cut closed immediately.

Lines of glowing text emerged on the page.

Chapter Text

The golden runes on the parchment glowed softly as the seventh drop of Harry’s blood sank into it. The symbols shifted and twisted across the page like ink stirred in water, gradually forming legible text that pulsed with faint magical energy. Harry leaned forward, unable to look away.

Griphorn stood as the magic settled, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. "What you’re about to see, Mr. Potter, is a true magical record of your bloodline, inheritance, and magical status. This document cannot be altered, forged, or misread. It reflects truth only."

Harry nodded, feeling his heart beat faster.

The glowing letters resolved into clear, formal script.

---

**Magical Inheritance Report: Harry James Hagrid Potter**

**Date of Birth:** 31 July, 1980
**Place of Birth:** Godric's Hollow, West Country, England

**Parentage:**

* *Biological Father:* James Fleamont Potter
* *Biological Mother:* Lily Jasmine Potter (née Evans)
* *Blood-Adopted Father:* Sirius Orion Black (confirmed by magical contract)

**Godfather:** Sirius Orion Black
**Godmother:** Alice Fortescue-Longbottom

**Current Magical Guardian (Unofficial):** Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore (not appointed by will or bloodline)
**Magical Guardian (Designated by Will):** Sirius Orion Black (vacated due to imprisonment)
**Legal Guardian (Muggle):** Vernon Dursley (appointed without magical consent or legal authority)

**Confirmed Magical Bloodlines:**

* House of Potter (Paternal line)
* House of Black (Adopted paternal line)
* House of Peverell (through the Potter line)
* House of Ravenclaw (through maternal squib lineage; verified and active)

**Titles and Heirships:**

* Heir to the Noble and Ancient House of Potter
* Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
* Heir to the Noble and Ancient House of Peverell
* Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Ravenclaw

**Vault Access:**

* Potter Trust Vault: Active (school use)
* Potter Family Vault: Locked until magical maturity or Lordship claim
* Potter Heir Vault: Active; limited access granted
* Black Heir Vault: Conditional access (pending Lordship approval)
* Peverell Heir Vault: Active; accessible only by bloodline heir
* Peverell Vault: Hidden; access restricted to bloodline Lord
* Ravenclaw Heir Vault: Inactive; requires magical calibration by heir
* Ravenclaw Vault: Sealed; requires Lord magic and confirmation of inheritance alignment

**Properties Registered to Bloodlines:**

* Potter Estate, Godric’s Hollow (damaged)
* Potter Hunting Lodge, Peak District (currently under stasis)
* Black Family Townhouse, London (Unoccupied)
* Black Villa, Northern Isles (sealed by ancestral magic)
* Small property in Wales (Ravenclaw legacy)
* Ravenclaw Study Tower, Northern Scotland (abandoned; strong wards)
* Hidden property, unnamed, Peverell inheritance (unwarded)
* Peverell Watchtower, coastal Cornwall (collapsed)
* Shopfront and upper apartment, Diagon Alley (joint bloodline inheritance; magically concealed)

**Magical Wills Registered:**

* Will of James Fleamont Potter: Sealed by Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore (unlawfully withheld)
* Will of Lily Jasmine Potter: Sealed by Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore (unlawfully withheld)

---

Harry’s breath caught as the list unfolded. The parchment glowed softly as each section appeared, the room silent except for the faint rustle of magical paper. His name looked… different somehow. Bigger. Sharper.

He read through the entire page twice before looking up. "That can’t be right," he said quietly. "I didn’t know any of this. Sirius adopted me? Why haven’t I ever met him? And I have properties? And… Dumbledore isn’t my guardian?"

Griphorn, who had allowed him time to absorb the results, stepped closer now. "You are correct on all accounts, Mr. Potter. Sirius Black is not only your godfather but your blood-adopted father, as declared in a binding ritual witnessed and sealed by the Dumbledore. This information was not shared with you due to his imprisonment."

Harry’s brows pulled together. "Wait—who is Sirius? I’ve never even heard of him. And who exactly is Dumbledore, aside from the name Hagrid mentioned?"

Griphorn’s gaze remained steady. "Sirius Black was your father’s closest friend, and your godfather. He was imprisoned shortly after your parents’ deaths, under suspicion of betraying them. Albus Dumbledore is the current Headmaster of Hogwarts and Supreme Mugwump—an influential wizard with far-reaching authority."

Harry frowned deeper. "Then why was Dumbledore making decisions about me without being my guardian?"

Griphorn’s expression tightened slightly.

"Because Albus Dumbledore, despite lacking any legal or magical authority over your person, used his political influence and reputation to place you with your mother’s sister. It was not sanctioned by magical law."

Harry felt something deep in his chest twist. Anger, confusion, and a strange sense of violation all welled together. He took a slow breath. "And my mum was from the Ravenclaw line?"

Griphorn gave a nod. "Indeed. A squib child of Rowena Ravenclaw survived in secret during the blood purges centuries ago. Your mother descended from that line. Though distant, your magical signature aligns closely enough with Rowena’s to confirm your inheritance."

Harry looked back at the parchment, reading the list of vaults again. Before he could ask, another detail caught his attention.

"Wills?" he asked. "My parents left wills?"

Griphorn nodded solemnly. "Yes. Both James and Lily Potter registered magical wills prior to their deaths. In them, they likely named Sirius Orion Black as your magical guardian, with instructions for your care and inheritance. However, both wills were sealed and withheld from public review by Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore."

Harry's mouth opened, then shut. The words rang in his ears like a dropped bell.

He shook his head slightly, trying to focus again. "There were a lot of vaults listed. What do they all mean? Are they just for gold, or is there something more?"

Griphorn’s expression turned serious. "Each vault has a different purpose. The Trust Vault is for school expenses and minor purchases. Family and Heir Vaults contain a mixture of gold, heirlooms, records, and enchanted items—some specific to your heritage and history. Access depends on your magical maturity or recognized heirship."

The older goblin beside Griphorn spoke now, his voice lower and more ceremonial. "Some vaults respond only to bloodline magic, Mr. Potter. The Ravenclaw Vault can be opened only by a confirmed heir using Ravenclaw-aligned spells or magical frequency. The Peverell Vault is not located within the main banking system. It resides in a protected location and reveals itself only to the bloodline’s chosen bearer."

Harry’s head swam. "And the properties? Are they mine?"

"They are yours by blood and right," Griphorn said. "Though they may require magical restoration, protection, and formal Lordship recognition before full access can be granted."

Harry took another deep breath and rubbed his temples. The idea that he had actual properties—places that belonged to him—was staggering. He barely had a cupboard before yesterday.

"So what happens now?"

Griphorn picked up a different scroll and unfolded it carefully. "Now, with your permission, we continue with the health diagnostic."

Harry glanced back at the parchment. His parents, Sirius, his godmother Alice—names he didn’t know were tied to him, suddenly alive again on the page. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Let’s do it."

Chapter Text

The moment Harry nodded, Griphorn gave a short, sharp command in Gobbledegook. Another goblin entered the room, holding a new piece of parchment that shimmered faintly with enchantments. Unlike the inheritance scroll, this one had a reddish hue at the edges and bore an intricate pattern of diagnostic glyphs etched in silver.

"This is a health and magical diagnostic chart," Griphorn explained as he cleared the desk. "It functions much like the inheritance parchment, but it is attuned to identify abnormalities, curses, potions, magical suppression, and physical injuries."

Harry swallowed and stepped closer. The nervousness in his chest hadn’t faded from earlier, but the steady curiosity growing inside him pushed him forward. If there was something wrong with him—and he knew, deep down, there was—he wanted to know.

"Same process?" he asked.

"Yes. Seven drops of blood," Griphorn confirmed. He handed Harry the same ceremonial dagger, now wiped clean. "Place them in the center of the parchment. The chart will activate when the last drop is placed."

Harry made a small slice along his fingertip again. The sting barely registered this time. He let the blood drip onto the parchment, watching each drop absorb into the surface like water on thirsty soil. At the seventh drop, the parchment flared a soft amber, then shifted through colors—deep reds, dusky violets, and finally a clean silver tone. Text began to form.

Griphorn moved to Harry’s side, his tone serious. "This may be uncomfortable."

Lines of magical script unfolded section by section. Harry's eyes scanned the growing list, heart pounding.

---

**Health and Magical Diagnostic Report: Harry James Hagrid Potter**

**Physical Health Status:**

* Underweight (significant)
* Malnourished (chronic)
* Multiple bone fractures healed without medical attention (11 identified)
* Head trauma (past) resulting in vision impairment
* Scar tissue above right eyebrow is magical in nature (curse residue dormant)

**Magical Conditions Detected:**

**Magical Blocks:**

* **Parseltongue:** 70% blocked *(Placed by parents to suppress until trained; block remained due to parental death and lack of reversal)*
* **Parselmagic:** 100% blocked *(Placed by Albus Dumbledore)*
* **Magical Core Access:** 30% blocked *(Placed by parents to help adjust to core size; never removed)*
* **Metamorphmagus Ability:** 100% blocked *(Placed by Albus Dumbledore)*
* **Memory Absorption Ability (Ravenclaw Lineage):** 90% initially blocked *(Eroded to 25% due to subconscious magical resistance)*

**Foreign Substances Detected (Potion Residue):**

* **Loyalty Modification Draught** *(Imposes unnatural loyalty toward specific magical signature: Albus Dumbledore)*
* **Appearance Alteration Compound** *(Lightened skin tone, altered eye pigmentation to resemble Lily Potter’s, suppressed natural silver strands in hair)*

---

Harry stared. There it was in stark magical ink. A list of everything that had been done to him, everything that explained the hazy feeling in his mind, the strange fog that had always hovered at the edge of his thoughts.

"I… I knew something was off," he whispered. "I always felt like… like I knew more than I could ever say. That I remembered things but couldn’t reach them."

Griphorn nodded slowly. "Your instincts were correct. The suppression of your memory absorption ability—unique to your Ravenclaw ancestry—has hindered your natural learning and comprehension. With it active, you should have been able to absorb and retain magical information with minimal repetition."

Harry clenched his jaw. "And someone blocked that."

"Yes," Griphorn said gravely. "The diagnostic has confirmed that Albus Dumbledore placed multiple magical blocks on you, as well as administered or orchestrated the administration of potions to alter your behavior and appearance."

Harry felt cold all over. "Why would he do that?"

Griphorn’s tone darkened. "That is a question only he can answer, though I suspect it was to control your development, keep you dependent, and prevent you from accessing your full potential."

The silence that followed was heavy. Griphorn didn’t speak again until Harry slowly looked up.

"Can it be fixed?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter," Griphorn said. "We can begin the process now. However, the magical blocks—particularly those laid long ago and strengthened over time—will need to be removed gradually. Sudden removal could cause magical feedback or destabilize your core."

Harry nodded. "Start whatever you can. Please."

Two goblins he hadn't seen enter the room stepped forward and gestured for Harry to follow them. He was led through a secured corridor into a deeper section of Gringotts—an older, more echoing chamber lined with runic markings and enchanted lighting. At the center lay a low stone table, surrounded by ceremonial circles etched into the floor.

"This is our Ritual Chamber," one of the goblins explained. "Constructed with layers of goblin-forged magic. It stabilizes ambient magic and can safely support high-energy restorations."

"Please lie down, Mr. Potter," another added. "We’ll begin with removing the potion residue, then move on to healing your physical injuries and gently unraveling the magical blocks."

Harry lay on the table, staring up at the ceiling. The stone was cool against his back.

The potion purge began with an incantation spoken in Gobbledegook. A warm sensation rushed over Harry’s skin, like water washing away grime that had never truly been visible. The discomfort was brief but intense—his stomach clenched and his skin tingled violently as layers of unnatural influence were burned away. He gasped as a wave of clarity settled over him. Thoughts that once flickered just beyond his grasp now seemed reachable.

"The potions are fully purged," Griphorn said, examining a diagnostic rune nearby. "Your magical allegiance has been corrected, and your natural magical frequency is no longer corrupted."

They moved to healing next. A goblin with narrow glasses passed his hand slowly over Harry’s ribs, murmuring under his breath as silver light flowed from his fingertips.

"Old fractures—some improperly healed, some not healed at all. Setting and rebonding now. You’ll feel some pressure."

Harry felt a dull ache, then a sudden release—his chest expanding more easily than it ever had. A warm pulse ran up his arm, his left wrist tingling as bone realigned.

"Leg fracture. Calf bone—rebound now."

Each break was treated with precision and quiet efficiency. By the time they reached his head, Harry was feeling drowsy from the warmth flooding his body.

"Vision impairment caused by cranial trauma," one goblin muttered. "Correcting ocular channel alignment and magical nerve link."

A soothing warmth passed through Harry’s eyes. When he blinked again, his vision sharpened like a smudged window being cleaned.

"We will prepare nutritional potions and a meal plan to address your malnutrition and underweight status," Griphorn said from the side. "You will need steady recovery over the next several months, but you are on the right path."

Finally, the block removal process began. Runes encircled the stone slab, glowing in sequence. The goblins invoked several activation chants, causing golden tendrils of magic to weave through the air and settle into Harry’s body.

"We will now unravel layers of magical suppression," one goblin explained calmly. "We begin with the memory absorption ability—this was 100% restricted, but some of it has worn away naturally over time. We are decreasing the block to 25%. You may feel a sudden flood of clarity."

Harry did. Thoughts and moments, buried in years of fog, rose like surfacing bubbles. He remembered phrases from books he barely glanced at, conversations he hadn’t realized he’d memorized.

"Next, the Metamorphmagus ability," the goblin continued. "This is more delicate. Sudden restoration could trigger spontaneous transformations. We’ve reduced suppression to 70%."

Harry’s skin tingled, a strange energy buzzing under the surface. Nothing changed outwardly, but he felt something unfamiliar stir deep within.

"The Parseltongue block remains at 70%, but your core has begun interacting with it. Over time, it will decay. Parselmagic and core access remain at 100% and 30% respectively. They are heavily bound to your magical center. Removing them too quickly could risk backlash. Your magic will now begin the slow natural process of healing those blocks."

Griphorn approached with another document. "We also scanned the magical scar on your forehead. It’s laced with extremely dark magic. With your permission, we’d like to take a magical tissue sample to study its properties. Our aim is to see if we can identify the curse or remove any residual effects."

Harry nodded slowly. "Yes please."

"The extraction will be quick and painless, so no need to worry."

After all the procedures concluded, one goblin handed Harry a mirror.

He stared into it.

His skin had darkened slightly to a healthier hue. His hair was black with faint strands of silver shimmering subtly beneath. And his eyes—green still, but ringed with a soft, deep blue.

He looked… like himself.

For the first time in his life.

Chapter Text

Griphorn ushered Harry back into the original meeting chamber. The ritual room's echoes still hummed in Harry’s head, but the weight he had carried for so long already felt lighter. He couldn’t stop running a hand through his now-dark hair, silver strands catching the light.

Griphorn, as always, got straight to the point. “Now that your diagnostic and initial corrections are complete, we must consider practical matters. Namely, where you will stay.”

Harry blinked. “I… well, I was planning to go back to the Dursleys until school.”

Griphorn gave him a sharp look. “That is not ideal. After what we've discovered, returning to that household would be counterproductive to your healing. You require stability, nourishment, and security.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, gaze falling to the edge of the desk. “I’ll only be there for the night. Just until something else is ready.”

Griphorn did not respond immediately. When he did speak, his voice was lower—more measured, with an unexpected gentleness beneath the usual blunt tone. “Mr. Potter… you have been guarded about your time in that house. I will not demand full disclosure, but I would ask you not to lie. To me, or to yourself.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “They weren’t… they didn’t hit me or anything.”

“That is not the only kind of harm,” Griphorn said evenly. “You were placed there without consent, against the wishes of your parents’ wills. You were denied your heritage, your safety, your very identity.”

Harry looked up, eyes narrowed, but his voice cracked. “They didn’t want me. I don’t think they ever did. I got a cupboard instead of a bedroom until I was nearly ten. They fed me, sure, but… it was always grudging. Like I was something they were stuck with.”

Griphorn’s gaze remained steady, unreadable. “And what of affection? Comfort? Encouragement?”

Harry gave a bitter half-smile. “I had Dudley’s cast-offs and a list of chores. They didn’t care if I was lonely or confused, as long as I stayed quiet. That was all they ever wanted from me.”

Silence stretched for a moment. Then, Griphorn gave a short nod. “Thank you for your honesty.”

He moved to a cabinet and withdrew a fresh folder, tapping it lightly against the desk. “You need not stay there any longer than necessary. One night, while we prepare an alternative. But do not believe for a moment that you owe them anything further.”

Harry didn’t speak, but something in his chest loosened.

Griphorn continued. “Fortunately, you are the heir to multiple properties. Most require restoration or magical clearance—but there is one option that is both discrete and strategically ideal: the Diagon Alley property.”

“It is a shopfront with an upper-level apartment,” the goblin explained. “Magically warded and concealed from the public, but accessible to you through your bloodline. It is not widely known, and would allow you access to supplies, resources, and communication with us while remaining secure.”

“That… that sounds perfect,” Harry said after a pause. “And no one else would know?”

“We would make the arrangements and apply appropriate privacy enchantments,” Griphorn confirmed. “It will serve until such a time you reclaim or restore one of your family’s larger estates.”

Harry let out a breath, the weight of uncertainty easing. “Okay. Let’s do that.”

Griphorn nodded again and made a note on the scroll. “We will begin relocation enchantments this afternoon. In the meantime, I want to offer guidance. You are not yet ready to take full control of your estates or vaults, but you can begin preparing for that eventuality.”

He reached into a side cabinet and retrieved a leather-bound booklet. “This is a curated reading list. It includes foundational wizarding education, customs, legal structure, ancient family law, and relevant magical theory. Additionally, we’ve marked several subjects that may be especially useful to you—both academically and personally.”

Harry took the booklet and flipped through it slowly, scanning the neat list of titles. “This is… a lot.”

“You will find the pace easier now that your memory absorption ability is less restricted,” Griphorn said. “You’re capable of far more than you were led to believe.”

As Harry skimmed further down, one title made him pause: Metamorphmagus Self-Control and Practical Applications.

Griphorn noticed. “That one, in particular, we recommend you prioritize. Even partial access to your Metamorphmagus ability may prove useful—especially if you find yourself needing to appear unchanged. You’ve just undergone healing and exposure to long-hidden truths. Should you need to hide the fact that you know about your appearance alterations—or to match what others expect to see—this ability will be vital.”

Harry nodded slowly. “So… I could look like the version of me they changed me into?”

“Precisely,” Griphorn replied. “And more. As your skill grows, you’ll learn to shift features with intention, adapt expressions, even create magical disguises. But for now, subtle shifts to maintain appearances may be your best defense.”

Harry’s expression darkened slightly, but he nodded. It was a smart suggestion. Better to let others think he was still in the dark.

The goblin’s mouth curved upward slightly. “Good.”

“And one more thing,” Griphorn added. “Because you have no official guardian—magically or legally—we are under no obligation to report your activities to anyone. What you choose to do with your time and knowledge is yours to decide.”

Harry’s brows lifted slightly, but he nodded and gave a small smile. “Thanks.... that’s good to know.”

They spent another hour going over the reading list, with Griphorn explaining which subjects to prioritize. A goblin clerk brought in a few early books for Harry to start with immediately.

Eventually, Harry stood and stretched. “I should probably go back to the Dursleys. At least for the night. I’ll pack up my things, and then come back in the morning?”

Griphorn gave a short nod. “We’ll have the Diagon Alley property fully prepared by then. Return by midday.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was beginning to set by the time Harry stepped through the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive. His feet moved automatically, and no one seemed to notice or care that he’d returned from where they assumed he had vanished to.

He went to his cupboard first—now empty—and then to his room. Slowly, methodically, he packed everything he owned. His schoolbooks, the few clothes that fit, even the broken glasses he’d discarded. He tucked the goblin note and portkey safely in his trunk. Then he went downstairs.

Petunia was in the kitchen, drying dishes.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Harry said calmly.

She didn’t turn. “You can’t. We were told—you have to stay.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Told by who?”

Her lips tightened, but she didn’t answer. He watched her reflection in the window as she gripped the towel like it was her lifeline.

“I’ll tell anyone who asks that I’m still living here,” Harry continued, his voice even. “If necessary, I’ll stop by occasionally. But you won’t have to house me. I won’t cause you any more trouble.”

Still, she said nothing. He waited a moment longer, then quietly left the room.

That night, he didn’t sleep in his small bed. He rested in silence on the floor beside his trunk, wand under his pillow, waiting for the morning to come.

Tomorrow, his life would begin properly.

And this time, it would be on his terms.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely begun to rise when Harry opened his eyes. He didn’t bother to linger, being in the room felt uncomfortable—like he was occupying someone else’s space. In truth, he always had been.

He dressed quietly, checked that everything was packed, and lifted his trunk by the handle. Hedwig’s cage was covered and secured on top. He gave the small room a final glance, its peeling wallpaper and dusty corners holding no sentiment.

As he stepped out into the hallway, Petunia stood in the kitchen doorway. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn’t. Her lips pressed thin, hands clutching the dishcloth she always seemed to have. For a moment, Harry thought she might sneer or scold him like usual. Instead, she said, "They told us you had to stay. That it kept you safe."

Her voice was low. Almost uncertain.

Harry met her eyes and replied calmly, "They were wrong."

Without waiting for a response, he walked past her and out the door. There was no farewell from Vernon or Dudley. No apology. No regret.

Just freedom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The familiar tug of the portkey landed Harry back at Gringotts. Griphorn met him swiftly and, without delay, guided him through a private side corridor.

"Before we head to the property," Harry said, keeping pace beside the goblin, "could I access a bit of gold? I’d like to get started on the book list."

Griphorn nodded. "Your Heir Vault access permits that. We’ll retrieve some on the way."

Moments later, Harry held a small leather pouch, charmed to be weightless and with a hidden expansion charm. He slipped it inside his jacket.

Then came the walk through the internal tunnels—long, vaulted, and humming with ancient magic. At a discreet junction, two armored goblins waited. One held a sealed scroll. "Bloodline heir confirmed," it read. "Property release approved."

They emerged into a small courtyard behind a quiet part of Diagon Alley, shielded from the main foot traffic. A wrought-iron gate stood embedded in the brickwork, overgrown with magical ivy. Griphorn handed Harry a silver key etched with old runes.

The moment Harry touched the lock, the vines shivered and pulled back. The gate creaked open.

The building beyond was narrow and tall, with dark green shutters and a brass sign above the shop window that had long since faded. Inside, the front door opened to a dusty but spacious storefront with a long wooden counter and shelves lining the walls. A spiral staircase rose from the back corner, winding up to the flat above.

They stepped inside, and the air was still, preserved by ancient wards. As soon as Harry crossed the threshold, a hum of magic rippled through the space. The dust swirled briefly, like something old waking up.

The flat upstairs was compact but well-arranged. A small kitchenette, a sitting area with two faded armchairs, and a bedroom tucked into the rear with a slanted ceiling and window facing the alley below. Cobwebs and dust blanketed most surfaces, but the bones of the place were solid. A fireplace sat nestled in the corner, and soft traces of magic still clung to the walls.

Griphorn turned to him. "All bloodline wards are intact. This building was passed through multiple branches before consolidating under your Ravenclaw-Peverell inheritance. It will recognize only you or those you permit."

Harry nodded slowly, taking in the way the light glinted through the narrow hallway. It was old. Worn. But it was his.

"There are enchantments in place for communication with the bank, ward maintenance, and secure entry," Griphorn continued. "Use the silver token on the desk upstairs if you need urgent assistance and the gold tokens if you need to ask me anything that's not urgent."

Harry set down his trunk and Hedwig's cage gently by the window, looking around one last time.

He had never had a space of his own. Even the small cupboard under the stairs had been something borrowed, something grudgingly tolerated.

This was different.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry pulled the hood of his cloak low before stepping into the sunlight. He hadn’t yet attempted his Metamorphmagus exercises, and caution seemed wise. The goblins had done their part. Now it was up to him to remain unseen.

Diagon Alley bustled, though it wasn’t as crowded as when Hagrid had taken him. He avoided eye contact, slipping from storefront to storefront, taking note of where things were and planning what he might visit over the coming days. Every sound, every burst of magical light from a display, seemed a little sharper now—as though he were experiencing the street for the first time.

He passed by the Apothecary, made mental notes outside the Owl Emporium, and eventually paused outside Flourish and Blotts. The bell over the door jingled softly as he stepped inside.

Inside, the familiar smell of ink and parchment washed over him. He produced the list Griphorn had given him and handed it to the clerk, who offered no more than a distracted nod before disappearing among the shelves.

Harry browsed quietly while he waited, fingers running over the spines of titles he hadn’t noticed on his first visit. No one paid him much attention.

He examined sections on magical law, wandlore, and ancient runes, finding comfort in the quiet rustle of pages and the low murmur of other customers. For a brief moment, it felt like the most normal thing in the world.

A short time later, he walked out with a stack of books and a lighter coin pouch. As he made his way back through the alley, he took care to avoid groups and stayed close to the walls. It wasn’t fear—it was strategy. He didn’t know who might be watching.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in his flat, Harry cleared a space on the table. He sat down with Metamorphmagus Self-Control and Practical Applications, flipping to the first chapter.

Most of it read like meditation advice. Feel the shift. Don’t force it. Center your magic. Relax into your own identity and allow your form to respond.

He stared into the mirror on the wall and concentrated. He tried to focus on how his features felt rather than how they looked. The book had said intent mattered—so he pictured his eyes, imagined them turning a deeper green, then blue, then something in between.

Nothing happened.

Again.

A third time, and he caught something—a shimmer in his irises. Flecks of blue overtook green for a heartbeat, then faded.

Harry exhaled sharply and leaned back. His skin tingled faintly, like it wanted to respond. It wasn’t just physical—it was magical, too. The sensation was almost like stretching a muscle he hadn’t realized he’d had.

He tried again, this time focusing on his hair. He didn’t expect it to work—but the tips of a few strands shifted, silver threading through the black before vanishing again.

He grinned.

It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

He returned to the book and found a diagram on magical intent and body mapping. According to the author, every change had to start with a solid self-image. Without understanding what you looked like—or should look like—the magic had nothing to work from. So he took out the hand mirror again and studied his face, noting every angle and shape. It felt strange, but important.

The book also mentioned emotional control. Powerful emotions could trigger involuntary shifts, especially in untrained Metamorphmagi. He jotted that down in a notebook—something to keep in mind.

He practiced again before dinner. This time, he managed to briefly lighten the tone of his eyebrows and shrink his right pinky by a fraction.

Harry sat back, stunned by how much effort such a small change took. Still—he was learning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, Harry lit a single candle and opened one of the blank journals the goblins had given him. He stared at the page for a long time before beginning to write.

*I don’t know if you’ll ever see this. I don’t even know if you’re guilty. But you’re my godfather. My dad wanted you in my life. And Dumbledore kept you away.*

*He kept everything away.*

He paused.

*I’m going to find out the truth. All of it.8

Setting the quill aside, he closed the journal and stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, he’d keep reading. He’d keep practicing.

Tomorrow, he’d take another step.

And maybe, just maybe, the life he was supposed to have would finally begin to unfold.

Chapter Text

The morning air drifting through the window was crisp and cool, ruffling the edges of the parchment Harry had left open on the table. A sliver of sunlight cast soft gold over the still-dusty shelves. Despite everything that had happened, Harry had slept well—for perhaps the first time in his life.

He stretched, blinking at the morning light, and reached for the Metamorphmagus book again. But as his hand touched the cover, he paused.

The apartment was still dusty. Old cobwebs clung to the corners, the floor bore a thin layer of grime, and the kitchen looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. He frowned.

“I should probably clean,” he muttered.

But magic—could he use it? He hadn’t dared try anything beyond the minor Metamorphmagus exercises. Uncertain, he picked up one of the small golden communication tokens Griphorn had pointed out the day before and pressed it to his palm.

A moment later, the silvery voice of a goblin filled the air, distant but clear. “Yes, Mr. Potter?”

“Er—sorry to bother you,” Harry said. “I was wondering… about magic. Am I allowed to use it while I’m here?”

There was a pause. Then the goblin replied, “Technically, you are not yet under the Ministry Trace. That enchantment is applied when students board the Hogwarts Express, not before. This is a well-kept secret. The Ministry prefers that muggleborns and young heirs believe they cannot legally use magic outside school—it prevents early independent practice.”

Harry blinked. “So… I can?”

“Yes. Especially within private, warded property such as this one. Your location is unmonitored by the Ministry. You are free to practice.”

“Thanks!”

The token disappeared, ending the conversation, and Harry grinned. Finally, something straightforward.

He moved to the stack of books he’d bought the day before and dug through them. One slim volume caught his eye—*Practical Household Charms and Maintenance Magic*. Flipping through, he found a section on dust-clearing spells, hovering charms, and basic magical restoration.

He pointed his wand awkwardly at the dusty shelf.

“Scourgify.”

A sputter. A faint spark. Nothing else.

“Scourgify!” he repeated.

This time, a jet of foam burst from the end, splattering his sleeve. The dust remained.

Harry groaned but tried again, adjusting his grip, mimicking the wand motion as described in the diagram. The third time, the foam landed on the shelf and began to fizz. Dust shriveled and disappeared, leaving gleaming wood behind.

“Yes!” he grinned.

Spell by spell, Harry worked through the flat. He cleared cobwebs with “Tergeo,” lifted scattered parchment and tiny debris with “Wingardium Leviosa,” and even managed a wobbly mending charm to fix a cracked leg on the small dining table.

By the time the sun reached its peak, the place felt entirely different. The kitchen gleamed, the floor was clear, and the sitting room no longer looked like it had been sealed for a century.

Harry flopped down in one of the old armchairs, now freshly cleaned, and allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He had done that. With magic.

Later that afternoon, curiosity drew him outside. He slipped on his cloak and pulled the hood low, still wary of being recognized. Though his features had changed subtly—his hair darker, skin healthier—he didn’t want to take any chances.

Diagon Alley bustled with late summer shoppers. Parents herded children between shops, goblins passed in twos and threes, and sales signs waved magically from store windows.

Harry kept to the edges, quietly browsing. He bought an ink set with color-changing charms, a tiny brass clock for the apartment, and restocked a few supplies. He stopped at the Magical Equipment Exchange to examine beginner ward kits and protection charms and browsed shelves at the Apothecary for brewing ingredients he didn’t even know the names of yet.

He visited a stationery shop tucked between two buildings and found enchanted parchment that could resist smudges and a self-inking quill. Though the shopkeepers gave him curious looks, no one recognized him.

Eventually, he found himself back at Flourish and Blotts.

He stepped inside and made his way to one of the sections recommended on his reading list—ancient magical theory. As he turned into the aisle, he collided with someone.

“Sorry—!”

The girl turned, a bushy mess of brown curls framing her face. She blinked at him. “Oh! Hello.”

Harry stared. “Er—hi.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you starting Hogwarts this year too?”

“Yeah,” Harry said slowly. “Just doing some early reading.”

“Same!! I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Harry. Harry Potter.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but instead of gawking or gasping, she just said, “Nice to meet you.”

Harry was quietly grateful for that. He had braced for the wide eyes, the questions, maybe even a request to see his scar. But there was none of that.

They began discussing books. Hermione enthusiastically listed what she’d read from the Hogwarts first-year list and some supplemental texts. Harry found himself admitting that he was working through a few too—mostly ones recommended by Griphorn.

“Oh! That’s one of my favorites so far,” she said, pointing at a title in his hands. “The chapter on wand motion theory is fascinating, especially when you compare it to older European spellcasting styles.”

Harry blinked. “I haven’t gotten to that bit yet.”

“You’ll love it,” she promised. “If you like that one, try *Fundamentals of Magical Focus*. It’s a bit dense, but worth it.”

He nodded, surprised at how natural the conversation felt.

Before leaving, Hermione looked at him with a thoughtful expression. “I’ll probably be back in 3 days. Maybe we’ll see each other again?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And he meant it.

Back in his flat that evening, Harry returned to the Metamorphmagus book and practiced again. This time, the shimmer came faster—his eyes shifted hue slightly, and a single lock of hair lightened. Progress was slow, but real.

He flipped to a more advanced section on fine control. According to the author, Metamorphmagus transformations were not just physical but magical reflections of self-image and emotional balance. Practicing in calm states made success more likely, but Harry couldn’t help testing things emotionally, too—thinking about his parents, about Dumbledore, about the Dursleys.

Each time, the flickers of change were a little stronger. A slightly altered nose shape, longer fingers for a second, a faint narrowing of his jawline that reverted when he lost concentration.

He made careful notes in a small journal: what spells he tried, what emotional states he was in, and what reactions he got. The book had advised it would be slow for those who hadn’t grown up using the ability—but repetition and intention could build control.

He practiced again before dinner. This time, he managed to lighten the tone of his eyebrows and shrink his right and left hand by a fraction.

Harry sat back, stunned by how much effort such a small change took. Still—he was learning.

That night, Harry lit a single candle and opened one of the blank journals the goblins had given him. He stared at the page for a long time before beginning to write.

*Met Hermione Granger today. She’s smart. Confident. Seems nice, too.*

*I don’t think she knew who I was right away. I liked that.*

*The more I learn… the more I realize how much I still don’t know. But I’m getting there.*

*We agreed to meet up again in three days.*

He closed the book, a quiet smile on his face.

Tomorrow, he’d keep going.

Step by step.

Chapter Text

Harry woke early the next morning to the filtered hush of Diagon Alley below. The hum of conversation, faint laughter, and shifting footsteps drifted up through the windows like a distant river. For a few disoriented seconds, he lay still, blinking at the ceiling. There was no shouting. No banging on the door. No cold floorboards underfoot. Just quiet.

He wasn’t used to waking up peacefully. Not yet.

He sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from his back. As he reached for his clothes, he paused, eyeing them critically. They were clean—thanks to his efforts the day before—but still oversized, faded, and threadbare in places. The shirt hung awkwardly on his thin frame, and the trousers bunched at the ankles. He made a mental note to go shopping again soon. He needed clothes that fit. Clothes that were his.

After a simple breakfast, he settled into the small sitting area, a new stack of books spread across the low table. At the top was a title that had caught his eye the day before: *Customs, Courtesies, and Conduct: The Legacy of Magical Houses.*

The book was thick, bound in dark green leather with a heavy golden clasp. As he opened the first page, the enchanted script shimmered into visibility.

> *"To be born of magic is a gift. To inherit a legacy is a responsibility. To carry both with grace is the mark of a true heir."*

Harry exhaled slowly.

He began reading about the formal greetings between wizarding houses, especially those of noble or ancient descent. Heir titles were more than ceremonial; they carried magical weight, often tied to family magic and enchantments. When heirs met, tradition dictated mutual respect, subtle gestures of acknowledgment, and a complex dance of names, lineage, and posture.

Apparently, even how you stood said something.

He flipped to a section on behavior. Heirs and Lords were expected to be composed, educated, and confident. Emotional outbursts were considered a sign of weakness in formal settings, though passion in defense of family or honor was respected. There were diagrams of bowing angles, wand placement etiquette, and how to properly respond when introduced by bloodline or title.

Harry tried a few of the postures in the mirror. Standing straight with his shoulders back felt unnatural at first, but the longer he practiced, the more it began to settle into him like armor.

Later, he jotted down a few notes in his personal journal:

*Being an heir isn’t about being better. It’s about representing everyone who came before. Dignity. Discipline. Pride without arrogance.*

He paused, then added,

*... I think I can do that.*

He set that book aside and reached for another from his pile—one Griphorn had marked for him—*Wizarding Etiquette: Formalities of the Ancient Houses*. He learned how introductions worked at formal gatherings, what was expected when attending court at the Wizengamot, and the subtleties of robes, crests, and rings as symbols of magical standing. It was a strange world, but one that oddly made sense the more he read.

As he flipped through the next chapter, he was struck by the careful balance between pride and duty that wove through every tradition. It wasn’t about posturing—it was about preservation. The strength of legacy.

After lunch, Harry pulled on his hooded cloak and stepped out into Diagon Alley. He kept to the edges of the street, head slightly bowed, avoiding too much attention. Occasionally, he adjusted small features—his nose a little thinner, his jaw a little rounder—practicing subtle Metamorphmagus shifts. Nothing extreme, just enough to pass unnoticed.

He watched the families going about their business—mothers tugging along eager children, older witches haggling over cauldrons, young couples laughing near café stalls. The way people moved here fascinated him. He took note of how wizards greeted each other, the small magical gestures exchanged like second nature, the familiar rhythm of a society he was only just starting to understand.

As he passed Ollivanders, he hesitated. The narrow wand shop seemed quiet, unassuming. Yet something about it gave him pause. He thought again about the wand that had “chosen” him. The echoing twin core. He frowned. Wand loyalty, he’d read, was a powerful thing—but also easily misunderstood. He wondered, briefly, just how much of his life had been guided by things he hadn’t chosen.

He moved on, slipping down a smaller street that branched off the main alley. There, nestled between a broken signpost and a crooked lamp, was a shop he hadn’t noticed before. Its windows were dusty, but behind them were stacks of books bound in faded leather and bits of magical bric-a-brac. The hanging sign read: *Gaveston’s Tomes and Truths: Rare & Historical Magical Works.*

Inside, it smelled of parchment and something faintly floral. The lighting was dim, with long strips of enchanted ribbon casting soft light across the shelves. The ceiling was high and arched, and every surface—from counters to windowsills—was crowded with books or curious magical devices. A floating globe of flickering runes spun slowly in one corner.

The shopkeeper, a quiet older wizard with thick spectacles, gave him a brief nod as he entered. He had a calm presence, and didn’t press Harry with questions or offers.

Harry wandered the cramped aisles, fingers trailing over spines with names like *Arcane Bloodlines of the West* and *Cursed Law: A Study of Forbidden Legacies.* One shelf in the back held magical legal texts, and another an assortment of dusty scrolls sealed in glass tubes. Everything felt worn but well-loved.

As he picked up a slim volume titled *Foundations of Magical Accountability*, the shopkeeper stepped closer.

"That one’s not chosen often," the man said, voice low but kind. "But you’ve got the eyes of someone trying to find the truth. Take it. No charge."

Harry blinked. "Really?"

The man gave a small smile. "Truth has a way of finding those who seek it. Consider it a gift."

Touched, Harry nodded and thanked him before heading out.

He made a quick stop next at a nearby robe and clothing shop, ducking into the back racks to browse without drawing attention. The clerk was helpful but didn't fuss, guiding him to a few sets of well-fitted robes, trousers, and tunics in neutral colors. Harry chose a couple of outfits and paid discreetly from a pouch Griphorn had given him earlier that week before making his way home.

Back at the apartment, Harry dropped his purchases on the table and grabbed the household spells book he’d bought on his first day. Though he’d already tested a few cleaning charms the day before, most of the flat still held a thin veil of dust, particularly in the corners and along the windowsills.

He flipped to the cleaning section again. Scourgify, Abluo, Tergeo. With renewed confidence from his earlier practice the day before, he moved methodically from room to room, casting the spells with steadily improving accuracy. He managed to clean an entire shelf in a single, smooth motion, and the soot-streaked fireplace finally gleamed under his efforts.

It took time, but by mid evening, the flat had transformed. The air smelled fresher, the windows sparkled with sunlight, and every surface was polished and dust-free. For the first time, Harry felt like this was more than just a temporary hideaway—it was his space, his sanctuary, and he’d made it that way through his own efforts.

Encouraged by the success, he decided to try a few other spells from his reading list. He attempted a simple illumination charm, which flickered weakly at first, then brightened to a gentle glow. Encouraged, he tried a basic shielding charm. That one backfired with a loud pop, launching his book across the room.

He laughed, rubbing the sore spot on his shoulder where the book had hit. “Alright,” he muttered, retrieving it, “less power next time.”

Next, he attempted a levitation charm—*Wingardium Leviosa*—and this time the feather he practiced with gave a hesitant wobble before lifting shakily into the air. A grin stretched across his face.

He tried a few more: *Lumos* and *Nox*, both of which worked with growing consistency. His silent casting attempts, however, yielded little success—nothing more than a spark or faint twitch of magic. Still, he noted what worked and what didn’t, marking his journal accordingly. His movements grew more confident, more fluid. Each success, no matter how small, built something in him—something solid.

As golden light filled the sitting room, Harry pulled out his journal again. He turned past the pages of spell notes and Metamorphmagus exercises until he found the entry he’d written a few nights earlier. The one addressed to Sirius.

He reread it once, then began writing beneath it.

*Sirius,*

*I still don’t know what really happened. The goblins told me you’re in Azkaban. They didn’t say why—not exactly—but they confirmed the adoption ritual and the will. If Mum and Dad made you my godfather—my blood-adopted father—then I can’t believe they were wrong about you.*

*They trusted you. So maybe I should too.*

*I’m learning things. A lot of things. Stuff I should have known years ago. About our family. About Dumbledore. About me.*

*If you’re still alive in there… if you can somehow read this one day—I want you to know: I don’t hate you. I don’t know what to believe yet, but I’m trying. I want to know the truth.*

He stared at the page for a long moment, then closed the book gently.

Outside, the last of the sunlight disappeared over the rooftops. The apartment felt quieter now, but not empty.

Harry stood, stretched, and looked around at the room that was slowly becoming a home. One day, he might be Lord Potter, or heir to Ravenclaw or Black or Peverell. But for now, he was just Harry—and that was enough.

Tomorrow, he’d begin practicing how to move, speak, and act like the heir he was becoming.

But tonight, he let himself rest.

Chapter Text

Harry woke early again, the soft sounds of Diagon Alley just beginning to stir outside his window. For a few quiet moments, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, still not used to waking peacefully. No pounding footsteps on the stairs, no shrill voice demanding chores. Just the slow stretch of sunlight against stone walls and the steady rhythm of his own breath.

He pushed back the covers and rose, stretching before moving to the mirror near his wardrobe. Still not used to waking without chaos, he paused for a moment, marvelling at the stillness of the morning. After getting dressed in one of the newer, better-fitting sets of clothes he’d bought—dark blue robes and a lightweight undershirt—he took a moment to look himself over. He really would need to go shopping for more, he thought, eyeing the limited options in his wardrobe.

He padded to the small kitchenette and prepared a light breakfast: toast with pumpkin butter and a sliced apple, along with a warm cup of tea. Sitting at the window, he watched early risers pass by below, their robes fluttering behind them in the breeze. The peacefulness settled into his bones.

When he’d eaten and cleaned up, he retrieved his wand from the bedside table and stood tall, ready to begin the day’s practice.

Today, he’d focus.

He ran through several spells he’d practiced before: *Lumos* and *Nox* came easily now. *Scourgify* worked with precision on a dusty spot near the hearth. He attempted *Alohomora* on the locked drawer of the writing desk, pleased when it gave a quiet click. The shielding charm still flickered unevenly, but no longer exploded—an improvement he noted with some satisfaction.

Harry decided to also go back to the basics. He laid out his wandwork guide and spellbook side-by-side, practicing his stance, grip, and incantation pronunciation. He’d learned that too much wrist movement made spells unstable, so he kept it firm and concise. He began with *Lumos* again, casting repeatedly until the wand-tip lit with a clean, steady glow every time. Then he worked through basic cleaning spells—*Scourgify*, *Tergeo*, and *Evanesco*. Each worked better than the last, and his confidence grew.

When he tried *Protego*, he took more time—reading the theoretical section twice and practicing the wand movement slowly. His first attempt fizzled. The second sparked weakly. On the third, a dome-like shimmer formed and held for three seconds before fading. Harry grinned, chest swelling with pride.

Next, he tried another Metamorphmagus shift. Yesterday, he’d managed to lighten his eye color for a few seconds. Today, he focused on changing the length of his hair. He stood before the mirror, narrowing his eyes and concentrating. His scalp tingled—and slowly, his messy black hair drew upward into a slightly neater, cropped style… before springing back with a quiet snap.

Harry sighed. “Closer.”

Encouraged, he sat down cross-legged and closed his eyes, visualizing his features as described in the control book. He imagined shifting the bridge of his nose, the tone of his skin, even the slight curve of his cheekbones. Fleeting sensations stirred across his face, as if the magic within was testing boundaries—but each time he lost focus, the changes faded.

Still, it was better than before.

As he stepped into the kitchen for a drink, a sharp knock at the window startled him. A sleek, dusky owl with amber eyes perched on the sill, its feathers slightly ruffled from the morning breeze. It looked intelligent and focused, its head tilting ever so slightly as it extended one leg, a small envelope clutched in its talons. Harry opened the window and gently retrieved the letter, murmuring a quiet thank you as the owl gave a dignified hoot and launched back into the sky.

**Mr. Potter,**

*Preliminary scans on the Ravenclaw Property and the Peverell Watchtower have begun. Early signs suggest both hold intact magical protections and long-dormant enchantments that will require careful unraveling. Also the scans show that the Peverell Watchtower has collapsed. We will notify you on any updates as we check them more thoroughly.*

*Additionally, your magical progression is being logged in accordance with heir record-keeping. Continue your studies. Your potential remains considerable.*

—**Griphorn**

Harry smiled faintly and tucked the letter into his journal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that morning, he stepped out again into Diagon Alley. The shops were bustling, the air full of the scent of parchment, pastries, and potion smoke. He wandered for a while, pausing near the bookshops.

In a smaller shop off the main thoroughfare—quieter and less crowded than Flourish & Blotts—he spotted her.

Hermione Granger.

She stood in front of a display of enchanted notebooks, flipping through one with a charmed quill tucked behind her ear. Harry approached more confidently than he might have days ago.

“Found anything good?”

She looked up, blinking once before recognition lit her expression. “Oh, hello! You’re—Harry, right? From the other day?”

“Yeah,” he said, offering a small smile. “Nice to see you again.”

They fell into conversation easily this time. Hermione excitedly described a few of the books she’d finished—*Hogwarts: A History*, *The Basics of Spellcasting*, and a volume on magical theory. Harry listened, genuinely interested, and offered his thoughts on one of the books Griphorn had given him about magical family law.

“You’ve read that already?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Bits of it. Kind of need to,” Harry said with a shrug. “Complicated family stuff.”

She didn’t press. Instead, she brightened and began suggesting a few books he hadn’t yet explored—one on magical ethics and its influence on spellwork, another on foundational runes and how they underpinned enchantments, and even a slim volume of magical debates through history. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Harry found himself genuinely interested in all of them.

They agreed to meet again in two days at the same shop to share notes and maybe study together.

After they parted ways, Harry continued exploring, drifting toward the side alleys off Diagon. One small lane curved between two tall shops and led to a series of stalls tucked beneath iron awnings.

It was there, in a cramped corner, that he saw it.

An old stall, barely lit, with books stacked in chaotic towers and trinkets piled in wooden bins. Tucked among a basket of polished stones and tarnished medallions, Harry’s fingers brushed against a curious object—a small, square journal with a shimmering black cover etched with a faint raven crest.

He picked it up, and a soft hum vibrated through his fingers. When he opened it, the pages refused to reveal any text. A magical seal shimmered faintly across the parchment, shaped like ancient runes spiraling outward from the center.

“You’ve got a good eye,” murmured the stall owner, an elderly witch with cloudy eyes. “That one’s an heirloom. Old Ravenclaw piece, I reckon. Only opens for blood that’s tied to her line.”

Harry blinked. “Ravenclaw?”

She smiled, sly and knowing. “Seems to me it’s waited a long time for someone like you. Take it.”

She waved off his attempts to pay, shaking her head with a mysterious smile and saying, "Some things find their way to the right hands."

He left the little stall behind, the heirloom journal wrapped carefully in parchment and tucked into his satchel. As he stepped out into the brighter part of the alley, the sun had risen high, warming the cobbled stones beneath his boots. With one last look over his shoulder, he turned and made his way home—mind buzzing with thoughts and the weight of the book pressing reassuringly against his side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in his apartment, Harry set the journal aside and returned to his studies. He opened a section of *Oaths and Inheritance Magic*, reading about blood-binding pacts, house rings, and heir obligations. The language was dense and archaic, the sort of text that seemed to loop in on itself with every page. But Harry took his time, underlining key passages and writing down simplified summaries in his notebook, sometimes cross-referencing words with a glossary Griphorn had recommended.

He was particularly intrigued by the section on magical house rings—tokens that carried more than just symbolic weight. They were imbued with enchantments that could recognize loyalty, enforce magical oaths, and even defend their bearer in times of need. Another passage described how some ancient bloodlines used magical vows to bind their heirs to responsibilities and ancestral duties, often reinforced with ritualistic intent. Harry frowned at that. The idea of being magically *compelled* to behave a certain way because of family legacy sat uncomfortably with him.

Still, it was fascinating. With each sentence, Harry felt like he was peeling away the layers of a hidden world that had always been denied to him. Slowly, the knowledge started taking root—building the foundation for something he was just beginning to understand.

Later, he moved to spellwork. His silent casting attempts were still weak—but during a shielding charm attempt, a faint golden shimmer surrounded his hand before fading. His grin returned. Slowly but surely, he was improving.

He decided to push further. He flipped to a section of intermediate spells Griphorn had highlighted. First, he tried a minor summoning charm—*Accio*. It sputtered twice, then tugged a nearby quill an inch before dropping it. Next, a charm to reinforce warded doors. That one fizzled entirely, but he carefully rechecked the movement and made a note to try again tomorrow.

After a quick break, he attempted another round of silent casting. *Lumos* was closest to working—he managed a soft flicker without speaking the word, though holding it required intense concentration. When his focus slipped, the light blinked out like a snuffed candle.

Encouraged, he tried a few additional spells: a levitation charm, which sent a teacup wobbling into the air before flipping over and clattering to the floor, and a water-summoning charm that accidentally soaked his sleeve. He laughed, shook himself off, and jotted down what he’d learned.

Exhausted but pleased, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed at a sore spot in his shoulder. His wand hand ached, but it felt like the ache that came after building something real.

As the sun dipped low, he lit a single candle and returned to his journal.

*Sirius,*

*Another day, another piece of the puzzle. I met a girl—Hermione. She’s smart. Kind. She didn’t look at me like I was strange or broken. I think we might actually be friends.*

*I found something today. A journal I think belonged to someone in my family. It’s sealed by magic. I’m going to look into unlocking it tomorrow.*

*I still think about you. About what you did or didn’t do. I hope I’ll find a way to know the truth.*

He stared at the candlelight for a while, lost in thought.

He didn’t have all the answers yet—but he had time. He had space. He had a chance.

And for the first time in his life, that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight crept gently through the upper windows of Harry's Diagon Alley apartment. He stirred under the soft warmth, blinking sleep from his eyes as the distant sound of shopkeepers preparing for the day filtered in through the stone walls. He still wasn’t entirely used to waking without that sudden jolt of anxiety in his chest—but it no longer felt foreign, just unfamiliar.

For a few quiet moments, he simply lay there, letting the calm settle over him like a warm blanket. It was becoming routine now—waking peacefully, without fear. And though a small part of him still braced for the sound of someone yelling, it was getting easier to believe it wouldn’t come.

Stretching, Harry got up and ran a hand through his tousled hair. The mirror across the room reflected a boy who was starting to look healthier, more awake in his own skin. After selecting a set of comfortable robes in muted grey and deep blue, he paused at the wardrobe.

He made a light breakfast—sliced bread warmed with a toasting charm, buttered and served with an apple and a steaming mug of tea. As he prepared it, he paused to take the latest potion from Gringotts’ regimen—a bitter-tasting blend meant to help correct the worst of his malnutrition. It was the third morning in a row, and he could already feel small changes: less fatigue, steadier focus, a faint but growing sense of physical strength.

He ate near the window, watching Diagon Alley slowly wake, and allowed the calm to settle into his bones. Once his plate was cleared, he set it aside and moved to his desk for his morning spell practice.

Harry began with what had become his warm-up sequence: *Lumos*, *Nox*, *Scourgify*, and *Tergeo*—each one now cast with growing ease. Though not quite silent yet, his casting had become noticeably smoother and more fluid. The light on his wand tip held steady. His cleaning charms glided over surfaces with increasing precision. He tested *Protego* again, forming a more cohesive shield than the day before, though it still flickered around the edges.

Next, he practiced *Alohomora* and *Accio*. He managed to unlock a drawer with only a short delay and summon a book from across the room with a slight wobble in its flight. Small victories, but each one mattered. He added *Reparo* to the mix, fixing a small chip on a quill stand.

Moving to Metamorphmagus practice, Harry stood in front of the mirror and focused. He tried to change his eye color again—this time to a clear blue—but the shift lasted only seconds before flickering back to green. Determined, he concentrated on altering his hair length. A tingling sensation spread across his scalp as his messy black hair shortened into a cropped style for a few solid seconds before bouncing back.

Breathing deeply, he tried again, focusing this time on subtly lightening his skin tone. The change was faint and brief—but it worked. He grinned, noting the minor success. His control was growing, if only in small steps.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Deciding to go talk with Griphorn, Harry retrieved another of the golden tokens Gringotts had given him—its surface shimmered faintly in the morning light. Putting it into his palm, the token glowed lightly.

Griphorns voice came through it a moment later.

"Yes Harry, what is it you need?"

*Would you happen to be free for a quick conversation today? I found something I'd like your help with.*

The reply came nearly instantly.

*Any time you arrive, I will be available.*

After the token disappeared, ending the conversation, Harry made his way to Gringotts with the sealed Ravenclaw journal tucked securely in his satchel. As he approached the great marble steps, he paused and straightened his posture before entering. At the threshold, he gave a respectful bow and spoke clearly in the goblin greeting he had practiced:

"May your vaults overflow with gold, and your blades remain ever sharp."

The goblin guards at the entrance blinked in surprise, one of them raising an eyebrow before nodding back with a faint but approving grunt. "And may your magic bring honor to your name, Heir Potter."

With newfound respect, they ushered him inside. Several passing goblins offered similar approving glances as he was guided through the grand halls. It wasn’t long before he was led to a smaller, more private chamber, where Griphorn was already waiting.

“Mr. Potter,” he greeted.

Harry nodded and set the journal on the table. “I wanted to ask about this. A woman gave it to me—said it’s an heirloom. Ravenclaw.”

Griphorn studied the book with an appraising gaze. “Old magic. Blood-bound. It likely requires either a key phrase, magical attunement, or deeper connection to the bloodline to unlock. If it resonates, it means the legacy runs strong in you.”

“I was able to open it but there was nothing inside.” Harry admitted.

“It may reveal itself, in time. Keep it near. Use your magic freely around it—it will learn your signature.”

Harry hesitated. “And the heir rings? I was reading about them in one of the books you recommended. It said they're important for magical identification and access.”

“We are cataloguing them now. The Potter and Ravenclaw rings will be made available shortly. They will provide minor ancestral access and be recognized by magical institutions. The Black ring is unavailable until the Lord allows it and the Peverell ring hasn't been seen in centuries.”

Harry exhaled, a knot of anticipation loosening in his chest. “Thanks. That’ll help.”

Griphorn tapped his fingers together. “Your training is progressing well. Based on your lineage, I suggest focusing next on runes and wardcraft.”

Harry’s interest sharpened. “I’ve read a little, but only the basics.”

“You’ll find them aligned with Ravenclaw traditions. I'll send over titles and suppliers.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, Harry visited Flourish & Blotts and then ventured deeper into Diagon Alley, searching for something more focused. He eventually discovered a small rune and warding shop tucked between potion stalls. The space smelled of beeswax, old leather, and pine. Crystals and rune stones lined the walls. Scrolls bound in silken thread rested in enchanted display cases.

The shopkeeper, a sharp-eyed witch with ink-stained sleeves, noticed his curiosity. “Beginner’s set, are you? Start with Norse fundamentals and geometric focus patterns. You’ve got the look of someone who listens to magic, not just speaks it.”

Harry browsed the shelves carefully, guided by the shopkeeper’s occasional murmured advice. He selected a beginner’s tracing set with enchanted templates, a well-worn runic translation guide with side-by-side magical dialects, and a book on magical resonance theory that explained how magic interacted with environments. After a moment’s thought, he added an intermediate text on layered ward structures and a slim, advanced primer on sigil logic—just in case he found himself learning faster than expected.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That evening, back in his apartment, he practiced again. His spellwork was steadier. *Lumos*, *Reparo*, and *Scourgify* flowed more naturally now. His silent casting was progressing too—he managed to cast *Lumos* and *Tergeo* both without a word.

He studied the tracing set he’d bought—thin, rune-carved wooden guides and ink that shimmered faintly under wandlight. Carefully, he selected the rune for “protection” and placed the template onto a sheet of fresh parchment. With slow precision, he traced the symbol using a silver-tipped stylus, murmuring the phrase suggested in his beginner’s guide.

The rune glowed faintly, pulsed once, and faded—not quite a success, but a glimmer of potential. He checked the alignment again, noted the pressure of his strokes, and tried to recalibrate the shape. It felt more like coaxing the magic than commanding it. Despite the failure, Harry grinned. He was close—and closer still to understanding something deeper than just spellwork.

He sat down later with the Ravenclaw journal and placed it in the center of a small ritual circle he’d made with chalk and wax. Still sealed. But this time, when he touched it, a hum vibrated through his fingertips. The crest shimmered ever so slightly.

Curious, Harry closed his eyes and let his magic flow gently through his hand into the journal. He didn’t try to force it—just focused on the feeling, letting his power meet the magic bound within the object. It responded, faintly, with a pulse of warmth and a whisper of old air. Something stirred, subtle and strange, just beneath the surface of understanding. He couldn’t name what he felt—only that it felt… right.

Rather than press further, he carefully set the journal in the quiet corner of his practice room, where the light from the window filtered softly through the dust-speckled air. He would leave it there, surrounded by his magic, and return to check on it in a few days.

It felt like the beginning of something.

“Soon,” he whispered.

Then, with a soft breath, he returned to his books and the quiet scratch of ink on parchment, chasing the truths hidden in echoes of magic and memory.

Chapter Text

The quiet mornings no longer felt strange.

Harry woke early again, stretching under the light blanket as the first golden rays spilled across the worn wooden floor of his Diagon Alley apartment. The peaceful rhythm had become familiar now, and the air carried none of the tension that used to wake him at Privet Drive. No shouts. No banging doors. Just soft birdsong from the rooftop eaves and the clink of the occasional cart below.

He sat up, took a steady breath, and glanced to the cage near the window. Hedwig was already awake, preening herself with careful precision. When she noticed his gaze, she gave a soft hoot.

"Morning," Harry murmured, crossing the room.

He refilled her water dish, cleaned out a few scattered feathers, and gently stroked her head through the bars. Hedwig ruffled her feathers in appreciation, giving a contented hoot before hopping to the window ledge. He unlatched the pane and left it open a crack so she could come and go as she pleased. Watching her preen in the morning light, he felt a quiet companionship settle in.

The healer’s potions from Gringotts sat on the nearby shelf, and he took that morning’s dose with a grimace. The bitter taste still made him wince, but he couldn’t deny the results. His appetite had returned, and there was a new steadiness to his limbs—more strength in his steps, more clarity in his thoughts. Even his reflection looked different now: no longer hollow-cheeked and fragile, but steadier. Healthier.

After breakfast, he practiced spells again. The familiar rhythm of *Lumos*, *Nox*, *Scourgify*, and *Tergeo* now flowed effortlessly. For the first time, *Lumos* sparked silently. He grinned and tried again, succeeding twice more.

*Protego* was next. He focused, grounding the spell as Griphorn had explained. This time, a pale-blue shimmer appeared before him—a weak shield, but stable. His heart lifted.

He took a brief moment to relax after the shield spell's success, letting the quiet morning settle around him. A second cup of tea steamed gently on the windowsill beside a half-read book. Then, setting his wand in hand once more, he turned to his notes and attempted a few newer spells from his list.

He began with the revealing charm—*Revelio*. He pointed his wand at the rune-marked parchment he’d used the day before and whispered the incantation. The paper shimmered faintly, one rune glowing slightly brighter than the rest before fading again. Encouraged, he tried it once more. This time, the glow lasted longer, and two runes brightened in sequence.

Harry made a small note in his margin: "Intention and clarity affect spell strength. Try again tomorrow after reviewing wand motion."

Next, he tried *Incendio*, the fire-starting charm. He pointed his wand toward a stub of old candle left near the window. "Incendio," he said, enunciating carefully. A faint spark appeared at the tip of his wand, but nothing more. Harry frowned, trying to recall the wand movement again from memory. On his second attempt, a small flicker of flame burst to life, catching the candle wick before sputtering out. It wasn't steady, but it had worked. He made a quick note in his journal: "Needs more focus on flame intent. Practice when outdoors or fire-safe."

His final attempt was a basic water-conjuring charm, *Aguamenti*. He aimed at a shallow dish on the table and focused hard on the sensation of flowing water. At first, only a weak trickle emerged—barely more than a dripping tap. But with a second attempt, the stream grew steadier, cool and clear as it splashed into the bowl. Harry’s grin widened, heart pounding with satisfaction. The spell wasn’t perfect, but it was progress—and more than that, it was his.

Spellwork, he was learning, was about rhythm, confidence, and understanding—not brute force.

Metamorphmagus practice followed. With focused concentration, Harry shortened his hair by a few inches, holding the change steadily for longer than before. Eye color changes were easier now; he could shift between green and blue with only a moment of focus, and he was starting to keep the new color stable without thinking. He attempted to shift both hair length and eye color simultaneously, but the changes flickered—he could manage one, then the other, but not hold both at once. Shifting his skin tone was still patchy and inconsistent, occasionally creating awkward blotches before settling again. Still, each attempt felt like progress, and he could feel the threads of control strengthening beneath the surface.

After a quick tidy-up, Harry retrieved a token.

*Would now be a good time to speak?*

The reply was quick: *Whenever you arrive, I’ll be available.*

Grabbing his satchel, he tucked the Ravenclaw journal safely inside and made his way to Gringotts. When he reached the great doors, he bowed slightly and offered the greeting he'd memorized from his studies.

"May your vaults overflow with gold, and your blades remain ever sharp."

The goblin guards blinked, their expressions briefly curious before shifting into something almost respectful. One gave a small nod, his voice firm but not unfriendly. "And may your magic bring honor to your name, Heir Potter. It is good to see tradition remembered."

He was escorted through with surprising warmth. When he stepped into Griphorn's private chamber, the goblin was already waiting.

"You’ve settled well," Griphorn observed, motioning for Harry to sit.

"I have. I wanted to ask about the heir rings. And the journal."

Griphorn folded his hands. "The Potter and Ravenclaw heir rings are nearly ready. Their enchantments are undergoing final verification and magical calibration. Once complete, they’ll be attuned to your magical signature—granting you minor ancestral access, formal recognition by magical institutions, and allowing access to certain blood-protected spaces and artifacts."

Harry leaned forward slightly. "How long until they’re ready?"

"Two more days," Griphorn replied. "Their enchantments must harmonize with both your core and your bloodline. We take no chances with legacy items—especially those tied to lines as old as yours."

Harry nodded slowly. "And they'll adjust to me once I wear them?"

"Precisely. The rings will attune to your presence over time. They may also react more strongly as your magical strength and heritage awareness develop."

Harry nodded slowly. "Do I need to declare anything publicly? About being heir or lord?"

"Not unless you wish to exercise political authority. Your titles remain dormant unless you claim your Wizengamot seats, submit official documentation, or challenge a bloodline claim."

Relief flickered in Harry's chest. "Good. I'm not ready for that."

"Few are," Griphorn replied. "But you are preparing wisely."

They discussed vault management in more detail. Griphorn showed Harry an updated inventory of the vaults under his name—Potter, Peverell, and Ravenclaw among them—explaining that while Harry didn’t yet have full control due to his age, he could begin pre-authorization processes. He explained the distinctions between the heir access Harry currently held and full lordship access he would gain at majority. They reviewed protocols for vault visitation, authorization seals, and signature verification to prevent tampering. Griphorn also offered to provide Harry with monthly summaries and spending ledgers to help him learn the practical aspects of vault oversight.

Once that was complete, they moved on to the Ravenclaw journal.

"It feels different now," Harry said. "Like it knows me."

"Good. Magic of that age responds to identity, not just blood. The more time you spend near it—reading beside it, meditating near it—the stronger that bond will become. Let it grow familiar with your presence. It may open when your intent is clear and your magic has harmonized with its wards."

They spoke a little longer, shifting to lighter conversation—Griphorn asked briefly about Harry’s spellwork progress, and Harry mentioned the journal and his early rune efforts. The goblin nodded in approval, offering a few brief warnings about warding mistakes to avoid. When Harry stood to leave, he offered a respectful farewell.

"Thank you again, Griphorn. This has helped a lot."

"May your steps remain sharp, Heir Potter," Griphorn returned with a faint nod.

Harry also nodded politely to the goblin guards on his way out. "May your vaults overflow," he offered again.

One of them gave him a slight smile. "And your path be well protected."

Back at his apartment, Harry resumed practice with his rune set. Today, he tried anchoring a basic protection rune to a stone coaster. His strokes were more confident, and though the rune only pulsed faintly, it held longer than before.

He placed the Ravenclaw journal nearby, let his magic flow toward it—calm and unfocused, just presence. The hum he felt was stronger than ever before. Not open. But nearer.

That evening, he opened his notebook and began a new journal entry.

*I don’t think I need to be a lord. Not yet. But I’m learning what it means to carry a name that matters. Potter. Ravenclaw. Even Peverell.*

*They’re just names until someone gives them meaning. I want mine to mean something different. Stronger. Freer.*

He tapped the page with his quill and smiled faintly.

*I’ll be ready when it matters.*

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed gently through the curtains of Harry’s apartment, painting golden stripes across the wooden floor. He stirred slowly beneath the covers, blinking into the soft light. The gentle chirping of birds drifted in through the open window, accompanied by the muted sounds of shopkeepers setting up for the day below. Mornings were quiet and peaceful in his little corner of diagon alley.

He stretched with a quiet yawn and rolled out of bed, toes brushing the cool wooden floor. After pulling on a clean robe, he paused, eyeing the outfit thoughtfully. It fit perfectly—comfortable, just the right length, and freshly laundered. A simple pleasure, but one he appreciated more each day.

He crossed the room to Hedwig's perch. The snowy owl blinked at him sleepily and offered a soft hoot.

"Morning," he said with a smile. He offered her water and food, stroking her feathers gently. She leaned into his touch for a moment before fluttering to the window and taking off into the brightening sky.

Breakfast was simple but warm—toast with a bit of jam, a slice of preserved apple, and a cup of hot tea. He felt stronger now, more alert. The potions the goblins had given him to help with malnutrition were finally showing results. His energy returned faster, his limbs ached less, and the dark circles under his eyes had faded.

After tidying up the dishes, Harry moved to the center of the room for his morning spell practice. He began with the basics: *Lumos*, *Nox*, *Scourgify*, and *Tergeo* flowed easily, the wand movements and incantations now familiar. Then came *Incendio* to light a candle, *Aguamenti* to douse it, and *Colloportus* to lock a drawer with a soft magical shimmer.

He tried something newer: *Silencio* on the chair that always creaked when he sat. The noise vanished. Reversing the charm took longer, but it worked. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Encouraged, he decided to attempt another spell from his list: *Protego*. He had tried it before, with it only lasting a very short time. This time, he raised his wand, focused on his intent, and murmured the incantation more confidently. A stronger shimmer appeared—a brief, faintly curved barrier of light that hovered before him for a few seconds before fading. Still not a true shield, but it was steadier, brighter. Closer.

He jotted a note in his spell journal, then stepped in front of the mirror for his Metamorphmagus exercises. First his hair changed color, darkening from black to deep brown. He tried altering the length next—with limited success. His bangs grew and then shrunk too far. Then he moved to eye color, shifting from green to grey, holding it for a minute.

Combining changes still proved difficult. When he altered his eyes and then tried to shift his nose, one change would always cancel the other. Still, he could now hold individual transformations for several minutes at a time. It was progress.

After washing up and changing, he tucked his wand into a sleeve loop and decided today would be a proper break. No hard theory or heavy spellwork. Just... a day to enjoy.

The streets of Diagon Alley were already alive. Families bustled about, young witches and wizards pointed excitedly at displays, and the scent of sweets and roasted nuts drifted on the breeze. Harry walked slowly, soaking it all in.

He stopped first at Flourish and Blotts, waving at the familiar clerk. The shop smelled of old parchment and ink, a scent Harry was coming to love. He wandered through the aisles, fingers trailing along the spines of books. In one section, he paused at a display of new Transfiguration texts—*Practical Shifting: Everyday Uses for Everyday Wizards* and *Transfiguration Theory and Control*. Further in, he browsed titles like *The Foundations of Magical Ethics* and *Enchanted Objects Through the Ages*. He didn’t buy anything this time, but he made a mental note of a few he'd return for. Just being there, surrounded by knowledge and possibility, felt good.

Leaving the books behind and wandering deeper into the alley, he discovered a tucked-away shop full of magical oddities, its crooked sign simply reading "Whim & Whistle Curios." The interior was dimly lit with floating lanterns that bobbed in place, casting gentle golden hues over the mismatched furniture and cluttered shelves.

Shelves held whispering books that murmured secrets in hushed tones, bouncing ink bottles that seemed to be chasing each other like excited beetles, and marbles that danced midair, forming brief constellation patterns. One counter was filled with shimmering quills that changed color when touched, and there was a dusty glass dome displaying what looked like a pocketwatch with twelve hands, none of which pointed to numbers.

Harry picked up a brass orb that pulsed faintly with blue light, turning it over in his hands. There were no labels. "A finder’s orb? A ward pulse?" he guessed aloud.

Another shelf held what appeared to be crystal feathers and a chessboard where the pieces argued before each move. Harry wandered slowly, delighted and curious, occasionally asking the quiet, pipe-smoking shopkeeper what something did, only to receive riddles or cryptic hints in return. He spent a long while exploring, enchanted by the whimsy and unpredictability of it all.

At a magical pet shop, he watched puffskeins float like bubbles, their soft fur vibrating gently as they let out contented trills. One hovered near his head and blinked at him with round, cheerful eyes before drifting lazily away. In a corner enclosure, fire toads hopped from perch to perch, each croak releasing a harmless spark that shimmered in the air for a moment before fading. Some had mottled red-and-gold skin, while others glowed faintly when they moved. The warmth of straw, fur, and magical herbs filled the air, reminding Harry sharply of Hagrid and the earthy scent of magical creatures. He lingered for a while, watching a litter of baby kneazles bat at floating feathers and a curious snidget flit through a hanging perch ring, its iridescent wings glinting like stained glass.

Further along the alley, a joke shop buzzed with energy. Enchanted toys, disappearing ink, and color-changing sweets filled the shelves. A mechanical golden snitch zipped past his ear. Children laughed. Harry smiled.

Next came Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop. The smell of caramel and peppermint greeted him as he stepped inside. Glass jars lined the shelves in vivid rainbows, each filled with magical confections—Fizzing Whizbees humming softly, Pepper Imps that sparked in their jars, and Every Flavour Beans sorted by color.

Harry took his time selecting a few treats. He filled a small bag with Ice Mice that squeaked and chilled the tongue, Exploding Bonbons that fizzed and popped lightly in their wrappers, and fizzy citrus drops shaped like tiny cauldrons. He considered a few other sweets—a box of Choco Frogs in golden wrappers and some caramel cauldrons—but decided to save them for another time.

As he approached the counter, the cheerful witch behind it beamed at him. "Lovely choices today, dear. Anything else you'd like to try?"

Harry shook his head, smiling. "Just these, thanks."

She handed him the bag with a wink. "A sweet day to you, then."

He tucked the bag into his satchel with a grin, the sugary rustle promising moments of joy later.

Finally, he made his way to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. The tables outside were sunlit and inviting. He chose a scoop of blackberry and vanilla swirl and sat watching the crowd. The ice cream was cold and creamy, the moment pure contentment.

He wandered a bit more before heading home, arms light but heart full.

Back at the apartment, Harry put away his treats and sank into the couch with a book from his reading list. This one was on magical inventions. He read slowly, marking interesting facts and occasionally sketching diagrams.

Later, he pulled out his rune parchment and traced the shapes he’d studied before. There were the basic protection runes—Algiz for shielding, Tiwaz for focus and direction—and others like Ansuz, linked to communication and wisdom. He didn’t try to activate them yet, just focused on memorizing the flow, the curvature of each stroke, the feeling of magic coiled beneath the surface of the lines.

Dinner was leftover stew reheated with a warming charm. He shared some meat with Hedwig and watched as she cleaned her feathers contentedly.

That night, as shadows stretched long across the walls, Harry opened his journal.

*Today wasn’t about solving mysteries or learning something new. But I still feel like I grew. Maybe progress doesn’t always mean pushing hard. Sometimes, it means letting yourself breathe.*

He tapped the quill against the edge of the book, then added:

*I think I needed today. The world doesn’t feel so heavy tonight. And for once, I feel light.*

He closed the journal, crawled into bed, and fell asleep with ease.

No nightmares. No restlessness.

Just peace.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight crept softly through the windows of Harry's Diagon Alley apartment, filtering over the wooden floorboards and casting warm, golden lines across his bed. He stirred naturally, waking without a jolt or panic. The peaceful quiet of his flat had grown familiar.

Harry stretched, ran a hand through his hair, and slipped out of bed. After a quick wash, he pulled on clean robes—neatly pressed, dark blue with silver trim along the sleeves. They fit perfectly, a recent purchase that reminded him how pleasant it was to wear something chosen for himself. Before stepping out, he paused in front of the mirror and focused. His magic responded, just enough for him to smooth out a few sharp angles in his face and adjust the green-blue tint of his eyes. The practice still tired him slightly, but the control was getting better.

He packed a light satchel with a few books, a fresh notebook, and one of his favorite quills. On impulse, he slipped the Ravenclaw heirloom journal into the bottom of the bag as well, even though he had no plans to show it yet. There was something comforting about its presence.

Flourish and Blotts was already open when he arrived. He spotted Hermione outside the shop, clutching a slim stack of books to her chest. Her brown hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and her expression lit up when she saw him.

"Hi, Harry!" she called with a smile. "I found us a table upstairs. It’s much quieter there."

"Hi, Hermione," Harry greeted warmly in return, offering a small smile. "Thanks for setting it up."

They made their way inside, climbing the narrow stairs to a tucked-away reading nook. The space was cozy and dimly lit, with large windows and worn cushions scattered across the floor and benches.

They quickly settled into their study rhythm. Hermione pulled out a notebook covered in careful, tiny handwriting, and Harry unrolled one of his parchment scrolls.

"I've been reviewing beginner charm theory," Hermione said, flipping to a page. "Some of it makes sense, but the wand movements are really particular."

"Griphorn gave me a few notes about wand posture," Harry offered, demonstrating a basic Lumos with a subtle flick. The wand tip glowed softly.

Hermione beamed. "That's brilliant! I keep flicking mine too much. See?"

She demonstrated, and her wand sparked slightly before going out.

"Try holding your wrist a little looser," Harry suggested. She tried again, and this time, her wand tip glowed for a second.

"It worked! Well, almost. Thank you."

They exchanged a few recommended titles. Hermione praised *A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration*, while Harry suggested *Warding Fundamentals* from the goblin reading list.

Midway through, Hermione attempted a levitation charm that caused her parchment to flutter dramatically into her face. Both burst out laughing.

They continued discussing their current reading—Harry mentioning his growing interest in runes and how complex the structure of even simple enchantments could be. Hermione lit up at the topic and shared that she had been reading up on magical creatures, particularly those found in and around Hogwarts. "I’ve always wanted to see a Hippogriff up close," she said enthusiastically. "They sound so proud, but noble too."

Harry smiled. "I saw a picture of one yesterday. Didn’t know they were real until then. I’ve been focusing mostly on the structure of wards—Griphorn said it might be useful."

Hermione’s eyes widened. "Wards? You’re studying wards already? That’s third-year content, at least!"

Harry gave a modest shrug. "Figured I’d try. Some of the books he recommended are pretty dense, but interesting."

They continued for another hour, swapping study tips and revisiting earlier spells. As the stack of open books between them grew taller, their conversation naturally shifted again, this time to more personal topics.

"Do you have any favorite things outside of magic?" Hermione asked, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

Harry thought for a moment. "I like to draw, actually. Just with pencils and paper—I never had much else. And I used to imagine stories when I was younger, even if I didn’t write them down."

Hermione’s face lit up. "I love stories too! Especially ones with clever mysteries or magical twists. I used to pretend I was solving cases with detectives from my favorite books."

"Let me guess—Sherlock Holmes?" Harry asked, grinning.

She laughed. "Of course! And a bit of Nancy Drew too. What about games?"

Harry shrugged. "I didn’t get to play many, but I liked chess. I used to sneak into the school library and play on the computer there. Never won much, but it was fun."

"I love puzzles and logic games," Hermione said with a thoughtful nod. "There’s something satisfying about figuring them out. I wonder if there’s a magical version."

"We’ll probably find out soon enough," Harry said with a smile. "I read about this one game called Gobstones—apparently it's like marbles, but the stones spit a foul liquid if you lose a point. Sounds messy, but kind of hilarious. Have you read about it before?"

Hermione giggled. "I read about it in one of the Hogwarts guides too. It sounds absolutely awful and wonderful at the same time. I’m not sure I want to get sprayed in the face, but I’m curious to try it at least once."

Their conversation trailed off as the golden afternoon light pooled through the windows, quiet and warm.

"I still can’t believe we’re actually going to Hogwarts soon," Hermione admitted, voice tinged with awe. "I’ve been reading about it since McGonagall told me I was a Witch. It feels like a dream."

Harry nodded. "Me too. Sort of. I didn’t know the details, but I always felt like I didn’t belong where I was. Like there was something more waiting."

Hermione hesitated, then said quietly, "Sometimes I worry I won’t fit in there either. Being Muggleborn, I mean."

Harry met her eyes. "You're already the most prepared person I’ve met. If anyone belongs there, it’s you."

She smiled, a little shyly. "Thanks. You too. You always seem like you know exactly what you’re doing."

Harry gave a soft laugh. "I'm just trying not to trip over my own robes."

They lingered for a while longer, thumbing through spells and laughing softly at their shared excitement. They tried out a few more simple incantations and compared notes on their reading lists, the afternoon sun casting a warm golden hue through the window panes. Occasionally, their shoulders would brush as they reached for the same book or leaned over to share a diagram. When the sun dipped lower in the sky and the shadows began to stretch across the wooden floor, Hermione glanced at the time and sighed.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.

Harry nodded, genuinely pleased. "Absolutely."

She pulled a small bookmark from her bag, decorated with stars and a quote from *Hogwarts: A History*, and handed it to him.

"For luck," she said.

He accepted it with a grin. "Thanks, Hermione."

They parted outside with a wave and promises to meet again.

That evening, back in his apartment, Harry sat at his desk and opened his journal.

*Today was good. Not just because of what I learned, but because it didn’t feel like I was doing it all alone. Hermione’s sharp and curious, and she doesn’t look at me like I’m strange. She just treats me like… me.*

He paused, tapping the quill.

*I think this is the start of something real. Not just knowledge. But friendship.*

Chapter Text

Nearly three weeks had passed since Harry had left Privet Drive behind, and life in Diagon Alley had settled into a rhythm—a peaceful, steady rhythm that Harry had never known before. Each day brought structure and calm: morning practices, spellwork, long afternoons of reading, and frequent meetings with Hermione and Griphorn. For the first time, his life felt full in a way that was truly his own.

Harry had grown notably more confident in his spellcasting over the past few weeks. His wand responded with increasing ease to his intent—cleaning charms, levitation spells, illumination, and even shielding were becoming instinctual. His movements were more fluid, his aim sharper, and his control more refined. He had learned to recognize the feel of magic building and flowing through him, adjusting pressure and focus like a craftsman honing his tools.

Silent casting, while still imperfect, was finally within reach. He could now produce results without uttering the incantation aloud, though it required intense concentration and sometimes only half-worked. It no longer startled him when a spell came together in silence—instead, it brought a small, quiet pride. It was becoming familiar, natural. The kind of magic he had always dreamed of wielding.

And his Metamorphmagus ability? Fully under control. He could now shift his features with ease—altering his hair length and color, adjusting his skin tone, reshaping his nose or jaw subtly. Most importantly, he could recreate the altered appearance that had been forced on him by the potion: lightened skin, brighter green eyes, and a softened bone structure. It felt strange to deliberately imitate the lie, but it was a calculated precaution. In public, it was safer to be seen as the boy people expected.

Runes and wards had quickly become another passion. Harry had devoured book after book, pouring over hand-drawn diagrams and dense footnotes until the symbols became familiar, almost intuitive. He practiced endlessly—tracing protective circles and perimeter wards onto old parchment, sketching rune sets from memory, and comparing the variations across magical cultures. In the corner of his flat, he had set up a designated warding space where he experimented with minor scripts to reinforce privacy, containment, or elemental resistance.

There was something deeply satisfying about the structure of it—the way each rune held meaning, power, history. When his magic met the inked lines and careful sigils, he swore they *responded*. Like they recognized him, remembered him. Some even shimmered faintly, or warmed beneath his fingers, resonating in quiet acknowledgment. It made him wonder just how far back this connection went—and how much of the Ravenclaw legacy lived in him, not just by name, but by instinct.

And through it all, the Ravenclaw journal sat quietly on his desk. Unreadable still, but not untouched. Some days it shimmered faintly when he walked by. Some mornings it pulsed softly with a hum only he could hear. It wasn’t time yet. But it was close.

That morning, Harry woke naturally, the birdsong outside his window weaving through the gentle hush of the flat. He dressed in forest green robes with dark trim, his movements fluid, practiced. Everything he wore now fit perfectly, chosen by him, for him.

Over breakfast—eggs, toast, and one of the potions Griphorn had given him to restore weight and health—he considered the day ahead. He had planned to meet Hermione again, but this time he had something more important in mind.

---

Hermione arrived promptly just after ten, her hair slightly windswept and her eyes bright with curiosity. When Harry invited her inside the apartment, she hesitated just long enough to be polite.

"You really live here?" she asked as she stepped inside, eyes taking in the high shelves of books, the tidy writing desk, and the warm, lived-in feel of the space.

"Yeah," Harry said, a little sheepishly. "It’s a joint bloodline property. The goblins helped me set it up. It’s been… really good here."

Hermione nodded. “It’s wonderful. Quiet. Looks like you’ve done a lot of work on it.”

Harry offered her a seat and some tea, then joined her at the small round table by the window. For a few minutes, they chatted about the books they were reading—Harry was halfway through a dense warding tome, while Hermione had just finished an enchanting guide.

Then, Harry took a quiet breath and leaned back. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Hermione looked up, instantly attentive.

He ran a hand through his hair. “When school starts, I’m going to look… different. Like, how I used to look before some things were fixed.”

“Fixed?” she repeated gently.

He nodded. “I was… changed. Magically. There were potions, blocks. Things that weren’t supposed to be there. The goblins helped undo them. But the way I looked before—that wasn’t the real me.”

Hermione didn’t gasp. Didn’t recoil. Her brows furrowed in concern, but she simply nodded, listening. Harry felt a rush of gratitude.

“I have to keep looking that way though, at least around most people. Just for now. So no one knows what’s changed.”

“I understand,” Hermione said quietly. “It’s like wearing a mask, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Exactly.”

There was a pause, and then Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Do you think… I should get checked too?”

Harry blinked. “You mean—like, the way I did?”

She shrugged. “I probably don’t have anything that serious, but… it would be good to know. Just to make sure everything’s okay.”

Harry smiled. “Let’s go find out.”

---

An hour later, they were seated in a private Gringotts office. Griphorn, ever efficient, had arranged for a diagnostic parchment to be prepared for Hermione the moment they arrived.

Hermione was a bit pale as she pricked her finger and let the seven drops fall onto the parchment. But Harry’s reassuring presence steadied her.

As the parchment glowed and shifted, the results began to appear. Griphorn scanned them with a critical eye, then looked up with an approving nod.

“Miss Granger,” he said, “your health is strong, and your magic is stable. However, there are signs of lineage—specifically Ravenclaw, through a suppressed squib line, a few generations back.”

Hermione gasped softly. "Oh—the same as Harry?"

Griphorn nodded. “You carry magical traits consistent with the Ravenclaw legacy—particularly memory retention and focused spell analysis. It explains your aptitude, but more than that—it suggests a natural alignment with the kind of structured, layered magic often used in runecraft and enchanting. While Harry’s affinity leans toward wards, yours appears more tuned to enchantments—imbuing objects with purpose, magic, and precision. This is not just inherited talent—it’s something that may grow stronger with proper training.”

Hermione flushed with pride. Harry grinned at her. “Told you you were brilliant.”

Griphorn continued, “There are no unnatural blocks or potions in your system, but your magical core is expanding more rapidly than expected. You’ll likely have a significant increase in power during your schooling.”

"Would you also like to do an inheritance test as well?, it may confirm any other details that you may not know off." Griphorn adds.

Hermione blinks, caught off guard, but then nods quickly. "Yes, I would."

Another parchment is brought out and handed to her by Griphorn.

She follows the same procedure as Harry had done, seven drops of blood.

Griphorn leans over to read the results.

"All clear it seems. There is nothing on here that looks to be out of place or new. Just the Ravenclaw heritage, and showing an above-average magical affinity."

Hermione looked stunned but excited. “Thank you. I—thank you both.”

They talked for a bit more before Hermione left to go home for the day.

As their final meeting before the new school year drew to a close, Griphorn motioned to one of the smaller vault drawers built into the side of the office wall. With a quiet command in Gobbledegook, it opened smoothly, revealing a dark velvet-lined case.

"They are ready," Griphorn said, lifting the lid and turning the case toward Harry.

Inside sat three elegant rings, each uniquely crafted yet connected in design. The first bore the sigil of the Potters—a fine gold band inlaid with a deep red stone and a lion motif. The second was ancient-looking and silver, engraved with the symbol of the Peverell family—a vertical line within a circle, intersected by a triangle. The third was shaped in the likeness of an eagle in flight, carved from enchanted steel and set with a pale blue gem—the mark of Ravenclaw.

A fourth slot in the case sat empty.

Harry stared. “They’re… incredible.”

Griphorn inclined his head. “Each is tied to your bloodlines and recognizes your magical signature. Once worn, they will bond to you—adjusting size and becoming keyed to your magical core. They are not just symbols of heritage, but tools of legacy.”

He gestured to the empty slot. “The Black family ring will not be provided at this time. As Sirius Black, your godfather and the last active head of that line, is still alive, approval must come directly from him. Given the… circumstances of his current imprisonment, that is not something Gringotts can bypass.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

Griphorn continued, “You may wear these openly or conceal them with a simple command. Each ring is enchanted with a Notice-Me-Not glamour when desired, rendering it invisible to all but you and goblin-crafted detection spells.”

Harry picked up the Potter ring first. As he slid it onto his finger, it adjusted instantly to fit. A soft warmth spread through his hand as the bond settled. The enchantment activated, and he sensed a subtle hum—like a presence at the edge of his awareness.

“What do they do?” Harry asked quietly.

“The Potter ring,” Griphorn explained, “was designed for vigilance. It can detect the presence of poisons, truth potions, and most common tampering agents when within close proximity. It will warm slightly as a warning.”

He nodded to the Peverell ring. “That one strengthens the bearer’s resistance to mental intrusion—an old enchantment rooted in the family’s ties to secrecy and shadow.”

Harry carefully examined the Peverell ring, putting it on aswell.

“And the Ravenclaw ring?”

“Aiding focus and magical clarity,” Griphorn said. “It slightly enhances mental clarity and reduces magical fatigue from study or casting over time. Some say it hums when its wearer nears forgotten knowledge.”

Harry gave a small smile and slipped that one on as well, beside the Potter ring. Each of the rings shimmered briefly before settling into invisibility.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “For everything.”

Griphorn bowed his head. “The vaults remember true heirs, Harry Potter. It is our duty—and our honor—to see you prepared.”

The two stood in silence for a moment before, with quiet thanks and final goodbyes, Harry departed Gringotts, the future fitting more firmly into place with every step—and the weight of legacy settling, not heavy, but reassuring.

And that evening, as Harry sat with the Ravenclaw journal again, it pulsed beneath his hand—warmer than ever before.

Almost ready.

Chapter Text

The day before boarding the Hogwarts Express had arrived.

Over the past week, Harry and Hermione had continued to meet daily. Their study sessions had grown even more focused, especially after Hermione's test results had revealed her affinity for enchantments. Knowing she would need to master runes to pursue enchanting work, she had thrown herself into it with her usual determination—and Harry had matched her every step. He had progressed rapidly with warding theory and practical runes, building layered protections in his flat and experimenting with rune-based bindings and magical triggers.

Hermione, meanwhile, had grown steadily more confident with basic enchanting sequences, mastering simple charm bindings and learning how to anchor spells to physical objects. She found herself naturally aligned with the precision and logic enchanting required, her innate understanding only deepening as they progressed. Together, she and Harry quizzed each other, experimented with variations, and shared the thrill of discovery when a theory finally clicked or a spell worked just right. Their friendship had deepened into a solid partnership—marked by mutual respect, challenge, and encouragement. The balance between their interests—Harry's growing focus on wardcraft and Hermione's on enchantments—made them an effective team, pushing each other forward in both knowledge and confidence.

On this final day, Harry rose early. He dressed with practiced ease, his outfit fitting comfortably—something he didn’t take for granted after years of oversized hand-me-downs. He gave Hedwig a few affectionate strokes, offering her an owl treat before opening the window to let her stretch her wings. She flapped into the morning light with a proud hoot, the golden sun casting a soft glow across the room. Harry allowed himself a moment of quiet appreciation. He had grown used to these peaceful mornings now—the stillness, the control over his own space, and the simple joy of waking without dread.

After a light breakfast and a short review of his notes, Harry contacted Griphorn using one of the enchanted communication tokens. He spoke his request.

Less than a minute later, the token warmed in his hand. A reply was said *"I am available whenever you arrive. – G"*

Harry made his way to Gringotts, slipping through the early morning crowd of Diagon Alley with quiet confidence, his steps unhurried as he took in the familiar cobblestone paths and bustling shopfronts. The alley buzzed with excitement as parents and young witches and wizards made final purchases for the upcoming term. Harry let himself linger for a moment, breathing in the scent of parchment and polished wood, of sweets and smoke from cauldrons.

As he approached Gringotts, he slowed, lifting his chin with quiet purpose. At the grand marble steps, he gave the formal Goblin greeting he had practiced diligently—a precise bow and the correct Gobbledegook phrase spoken with respectful clarity.

The guards at the door exchanged brief glances—not in surprise, but with a respectful appreciation that lingered in their sharp eyes. One gave a crisp nod, the other a slight incline of the head, and both stepped aside to allow him entry without a word. "Heir Potter," one murmured respectfully, the other echoing the title with a quiet, "Welcome." The formality drew a glance from a nearby witch, who paused in surprise before continuing on. Harry noted the exchange with quiet satisfaction, the gesture solidifying the weight of his new place in the magical world.

Griphorn greeted him promptly and led him once again to the private office. “You’ve come far in a short time, Mr. Potter.”

“I had good motivation,” Harry replied with a half-smile.

Griphorn motioned to the chair. “Before we proceed, we’ll perform one last health and magical diagnostic. A final check before your next stage begins.”

Harry pricked his finger, now well-used to the ritual, and let the blood drops fall onto the prepared parchment. The runes flared to life.

Griphorn examined the results carefully, his eyes scanning the glowing runes with practiced precision. “Your magical core is stable and balanced. The block on your memory retention ability has decreased significantly—now resting at only ten percent. It no longer poses any major interference, though there may still be occasional lapses under stress.”

He tapped another section of the parchment. “Your Metamorphmagus ability has shown excellent development. While it is not yet fully unblocked, you’ve gained control over certain features. Current readings suggest it sits at approximately thirty percent unblocked, which is commendable for your age.”

Harry straightened a little, a flicker of pride crossing his face.

“Nutritional levels have improved substantially,” Griphorn continued. “Your weight and energy indicators are stabilizing. I still recommend one nutritional potion per week during the term for continued progress.”

He gave Harry a rare, approving nod. “You’ve done well. Very well.”

Harry nodded. “I feel stronger. Clearer, even.”

“You are,” Griphorn confirmed. “You’ve taken control of your growth.”

From beneath his desk, Griphorn drew out a polished, rune-inscribed school trunk. Its surface was charmed to resist scratches, with intricate inlays that shimmered faintly beneath the office light.

“This is a gift,” Griphorn said. “A secure trunk, warded against theft, fire, scrying, and basic curses. It contains two hidden compartments. The first—a sliding panel beneath a false bottom—is ideal for books and magical study materials. The second is deeper and sealed with a blood-activated passphrase only you will know.”

Harry's eyes widened slightly, and he reached out to run a hand across the polished surface. The inlaid runes glimmered faintly under his fingers, pulsing with dormant enchantments. “Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter, more sincere. “This means more than I can say. It’s not just a trunk—it’s… security. A place for my things, my work. My life.”

“You’ve earned it. And more.”

Griphorn then handed him a small pouch. Inside were three heavy, rune-stamped coins.

“Emergency communication coins. One connects to me directly. The other two may be bound to others of your choosing in the future. Use them only when truly necessary.”

Harry tucked them away carefully. “I understand.”

Griphorn leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Your vault access and estate records are now in proper order. Once you come of age, you'll be able to begin inheritance proceedings for your full titles. Until then, you're well-prepared to act in your own best interests. Should you need to check on or adjust your vaults, send word, and we will arrange it.”

They continued to speak for a while longer, the conversation shifting into an easier, more personal rhythm. They talked about Hogwarts—Griphorn cautioning Harry about political undercurrents among the staff and naming those who might become useful allies or persistent obstacles. They exchanged thoughts on how wizarding magical theory often overlooked goblin methods and the benefits of blending approaches.

Griphorn’s tone softened, taking on the air of a mentor rather than a formal account manager. He encouraged Harry to trust his instincts, to question what others took for granted, and to never stop seeking deeper knowledge. "Magic bends more easily for those who respect its roots," he said at one point. "Not just those who wield it with confidence."

There was a warmth to his parting thoughts, unspoken but tangible—a silent recognition of Harry’s growth and the choices still ahead.

Eventually, Harry stood and offered a deep, respectful bow. “Thank you for everything.”

“Your path is your own now, Mr. Potter. Walk it with wisdom.”

Harry offered parting words to the guards on the way out—this time more confidently. Their nods were approving, the exchange warm in its formality. One of the guards gave a small, respectful grin and returned the farewell in Gobbledegook, while the other added a sharp nod of appreciation. The mutual respect in their exchange was evident, and a few nearby patrons glanced curiously at the sight of goblins responding so cordially to a young wizard. Harry felt a subtle but powerful sense of belonging grow stronger in his chest.

Back in his flat, Harry unpacked the new trunk and began to transfer his belongings. Every book had a place. His rune sketches, notes, and magical items went into the hidden compartment. It felt efficient, organized, secure—his.

He fed Hedwig again and packed her cage, stroking her feathers gently. She gave an affectionate nip to his fingers and fluffed up proudly, seeming to sense that something important lay ahead.

That night, Harry sat by the window once more, his new trunk beside him, his wand resting in his hand. The stars above Diagon Alley shimmered with promise.

Tomorrow, he would step into a world he was finally ready to face.

And this time, it would be on his terms.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the gentle hush of morning, sunlight spilling softly through the curtains and a chorus of birdsong rising in the distance. Hedwig rustled her feathers in her cage, letting out a soft hoot as she blinked sleepily at him. The quiet peace of the flat wrapped around him like a blanket. Today was significant—the beginning of something entirely new.

He had packed everything the night before. His new trunk sat by the fireplace, neatly closed and protected by its subtle rune-etched locks. After getting dressed and ensuring Hedwig had some water and a treat, Harry took a moment to look around his flat one last time. It had become his refuge, his sanctuary—and leaving it, even temporarily, felt like closing the cover on a beloved book.

With a steadying breath, he stepped into the fireplace, floo powder in hand. “King’s Cross Station!” he called clearly, and with a whirl of green flames, he was off.

The Floo spit Harry out with a lurch, and he stumbled forward, barely catching himself before hitting the polished floor of the Floo station near Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. His robes were dusted in soot, and he coughed slightly as he straightened up—just in time to see Hermione standing nearby, her expression a mix of amusement and concern.

"Morning, Harry!" she called, stepping forward.

"Morning," he replied, managing a sheepish grin as he brushed ash from his sleeves. "Still not quite used to Floo travel."

Hermione chuckled gently. "It does take some practice. You alright?"

"Thanks to you being nearby—probably."

Harry straightened his robes, gave a nod, and returned her smile. “Ready?”

Hermione grinned. “Very.”

Together, they passed through the bustling station crowd, excitement growing with each step. When they finally caught sight of the Hogwarts Express—a gleaming scarlet engine puffing gentle clouds of steam—Harry couldn’t help but stare for a moment, awe lighting up his face.

"It’s even more incredible in person," he murmured.

Hermione smiled. "It really is."

They climbed aboard and found an empty compartment not far from the center of the train. Inside, they stowed their trunks and Hedwig’s cage in the storage rack above. The interior was warm and inviting, polished wood panels gleaming and the cushioned seats freshly cleaned. The Hogwarts Express was already alive with the murmur of students finding their places, the sounds of laughter, chatter, and trunks rolling along the corridor blending into a cozy hum.

Settling in across from each other, Harry took one last glance out the window at the platform before turning his attention to the journey ahead.

As the train prepared to leave, Harry glanced out the window and spotted a large family hurrying across the platform in a swirl of red hair and flustered shouting. He didn’t recognize them—just another wizarding family scrambling to make it in time, he figured.

“I’d hate to be them right now,” he muttered.

Hermione laughed. “They’re going to barely make it.”

The train gave a gentle lurch and began to roll forward, steam trailing past the windows as the platform slowly began to slip away. Their conversation naturally returned to runes and magical theory—Hermione, bright-eyed and eager, asked sharp questions about Old Norse bindings, while Harry shared what he’d been reading about their use in early protective wards. They exchanged thoughts on how the meanings of some runes changed based on their orientation, and Hermione made a mental note to pick up a book Harry mentioned, 'Bindings Through the Ages.' Their discussion was animated, flowing easily as they compared ideas and interpretations, their curiosity feeding off each other’s energy.

A sudden noise interrupted them as the compartment door slammed open. A red-haired boy stood there, slightly out of breath, eyes immediately scanning their foreheads. Harry recognized him as one of the boys from the large, red-haired family that had nearly missed the train. His gaze locked on Harry.

“You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?” he asked bluntly.

Harry blinked. “Yes,” he answered cautiously.

“Why weren’t you at the Muggle entrance? My family looked for you. You should’ve been there—people are supposed to help you get here.”

“I didn’t need help,” Harry said firmly. “I got here just fine on my own.”

The boy frowned. “You’re not supposed to go off on your own. What if you got lost? Or—”

“I’m not a child,” Harry cut in coolly. “And I don’t know you. Why would I expect help from someone I’ve never met?”

The boy went to opened his mouth as if to continue, then added quickly, "I'm Ron Weasley, by the way." But before he could say anything more, the compartment door slid open again. Another boy stepped in with an air of superiority, only to pause at the sight of Ron.

“Still barging into compartments you weren’t invited into, Weasley?” he said with a faint smirk.

Ron scowled. “Malfoy.”

Malfoy turned to Harry, his chin lifting slightly. “I am Draco Malfoy. Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy.”

Harry sat a little straighter in response. “Harry Potter, Heir to the Noble House of Potter.” His voice was calm, composed—just as the books had described such formal introductions. "Nice to meet you," he added politely, offering a small but genuine nod.

Draco’s expression flickered with brief surprise at the proper response, but he recovered quickly and offered a short nod. “I’ll see you around.” He gave Ron a final disdainful look before leaving.

Ron looked scandalized. “How could you be polite to *him*? He’s a Malfoy.”

Harry glanced at him. “So far, he’s been more respectful than you.”

Ron spluttered, but before he could argue further, Two more, clearly Weasleys, appeared behind him.

“Oi, sorry about this one,” One of them said cheerfully. “He gets excitable.”

The other gave a mock-apologetic grin. “We’ll take him off your hands.”

The first grabbed Ron by the shoulder and tugged him out. “C’mon, little brother.”

The other one lingered a second longer, eyes flicking curiously over Harry. “Names George, and that was Fred. Nice to meet you,” he said simply, before following them down the corridor.

The door slid shut. Silence returned.

“Well,” Hermione said dryly, “that was… something.”

Harry exhaled. “Hopefully not a sign of how the rest of the year’s going to go.”

They shared a small laugh and turned back to their discussion.

A short while later, another boy poked his head into the compartment. “Have you seen a toad? His name’s Trevor.”

Harry and Hermione shook their heads, but Harry pulled out his wand. “Let me try something. Accio Trevor!”

A muffled *thud* came from the next compartment, followed by a startled yelp. The boy dashed toward the source of the sound, and a moment later returned triumphantly, cradling a slightly disgruntled Trevor in his hands.

"He was in the lap of some poor second-year," he said breathlessly, his face flushed with embarrassment. "Scared them half to death, I think."

"Anyways, thank you! That was brilliant," he added, cradling Trevor with relief. "I don't know how you did that."

“No problem! Glad it worked,” Harry said.

He gave a grateful grin and scurried off.

As the train neared its destination, Hermione excused herself to change into her school robes. Harry changed as well, donning the crisp new uniform he’d picked up earlier in the summer. By the time they stepped off the train, the chill of the Scottish air had settled into the dusk.

“Firs’ years, over here!”

Harry’s heart lifted at the familiar voice. Hagrid stood waving his lantern, calling them over. Hermione brightened beside him.

They followed the other first years and were soon approached by the boy with the frog, who looked sheepish. "Mind if I join you two?" he mumbled. "I’m Neville Longbottom, by the way. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself before"

"Of course. No worries," Hermione replied with a warm smile, then turned slightly toward him and added kindly, "I’m Hermione Granger, by the way."

A kind-looking girl with strawberry-blonde hair stepped up beside him. "Mind if I join too? I'm Susan. Susan Bones."

Harry smiled and stepped slightly aside, offering a welcoming gesture toward the boat. "Sure, hop in," he said warmly.

Neville gave a shy nod and climbed in, followed by Susan, who offered a polite smile.

"I’m Harry Potter," Harry added, glancing at them both.

Neville’s eyes widened for a brief moment, but he quickly schooled his expression. "Oh—right. Nice to meet you, Harry."

Susan nodded respectfully. "Same here."

Harry caught the quick looks exchanged between the two but appreciated that neither of them commented further. That unspoken understanding settled some of his nerves, and he was grateful for the easy camaraderie forming between them.

Together, the four climbed into one of the small boats. As it glided silently across the still water, they introduced themselves more fully. The majestic silhouette of Hogwarts slowly came into view, glowing against the deepening sky, casting shimmering reflections across the lake.

Harry and Hermione exchanged an excited glance, while Neville and Susan leaned forward to better see the towering castle. The awe was shared between them, an unspoken connection forming as they crossed the lake toward their new lives.

“Wow,” Hermione whispered.

Harry could only nod, eyes wide. It was even more breathtaking than he imagined.

They docked and climbed the path to the castle, led by Hagrid. As they walked, Harry glanced around at the other students, noting their varied expressions—some anxious, some eager, all curious. Neville, cradling Trevor protectively, walked close by, and Harry gave him a friendly reminder, "Be sure to keep a good hold of him this time."

Neville chuckled nervously and nodded. "Yeah, definitely. No more escaping, right Trevor?"

Susan gave a small laugh, and Hermione smiled at the exchange. The warmth of shared company settled over them like a soft blanket.

At the towering doors, Professor McGonagall stood tall and composed, waiting for them. She greeted the group with a firm but welcoming tone and began explaining the Sorting ceremony that would soon determine their Hogwarts houses.

Suddenly, a wave of translucent ghosts swept through the hallway, gliding effortlessly through the gathered students. Their forms shimmered faintly in the torchlight—some clad in medieval armor, others in regal robes, a few appearing young and mischievous. Gasps and nervous laughter rippled through the crowd as the spectral figures passed by, exchanging pleasantries among themselves and occasionally offering cheerful greetings to the first years. Harry watched with wide eyes, captivated by the surreal, otherworldly presence, and felt Hermione shift closer beside him, equally mesmerized.

Finally, they were led into the Great Hall. Candles floated in the air. Four long tables stretched before them, and at the front, the Sorting Hat sat on a stool.

Harry and Hermione gawked at the enchanted ceiling above.

“It looks like the sky,” Hermione murmured.

“It’s beautiful,” Harry agreed. “Wonder how they do it?”

“No idea yet. But I *will* find out,” she said with a determined smile.

The Sorting began. Students were called one by one, their names echoing through the vast hall as each approached the Sorting Hat. Susan and Neville beign sorted into Hufflepuff. When "Granger, Hermione" was called, she stepped forward confidently, her chin held high. As she sat and the hat was lowered onto her head, it paused—debating, considering, humming with thought. A minute passed, then two, and finally, it shouted loud and clear: "RAVENCLAW!"

Hermione beamed and walked briskly to the Ravenclaw table, where applause greeted her and a few students moved aside to make room. She slid into place, cheeks flushed but eyes alight with pride. As she looked back toward the front of the hall, she caught Harry's encouraging smile and returned it with a small nod of excitement.

Harry’s name followed shortly. The moment the hat touched his head, it hummed with curiosity.

"Hmm... Plenty of courage, I see. Yes, a touch of daring, you’d do well in Gryffindor... but no, that’s not quite right. Oh, very cunning too, clever... you'd do very well in Slytherin. But there’s more—intelligence, an eagerness to learn, a thirst to understand not just *how*, but *why*. Yes, yes indeed. You have the mind of a Ravenclaw... and something else. An old bloodline, ancient magic woven deep. You carry the mark of Ravenclaw's legacy, not just in mind, but in name. It has to be... RAVENCLAW!"

Cheers erupted from the Ravenclaw table as Harry stepped down from the stool, heart still pounding slightly from the Sorting Hat’s words. But the sound didn’t stop there—gasps echoed through the hall, whispers rising in surprise. Several students from other houses craned their necks to see, and even a few teachers exchanged looks, clearly not expecting *Harry Potter* to be sorted into Ravenclaw. Professor McGonagall blinked once, her lips pursed in surprise, while Professor Flitwick sat straighter in his chair, eyes twinkling with delight.

He walked toward the table, welcomed by a wave of applause and curious glances. Hermione, seated near the end, beamed at him and shifted to make space.

“You did it,” she said with a bright smile.

Harry returned the grin, feeling a strange but comforting sense of belonging. “So did you.”

As he took his seat beside her, a few Ravenclaws reached out with quiet greetings, nods, and even a handshake or two. The warmth of their welcome wrapped around him, steadying his nerves. For the first time in a long while, Harry felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

They were finally where they belonged.

And their journey was only beginning.

Chapter Text

Dinner began after the Sorting, and the Ravenclaw table filled with chatter and excited whispers. Platters of food appeared with a shimmer, laden with roasted meats, steamed vegetables, golden Yorkshire puddings, and thick gravies. Harry helped himself to roast beef, buttered carrots, crispy roast potatoes, and a heaping spoonful of peas. The flavors exploded in his mouth—rich, savory, and more delicious than anything he had ever tasted.

He paused in delight at the treacle tart, which had him grinning by the second bite, the perfect balance of sweet and buttery. Nearby, someone passed a bowl of minted peas, and another first year offered him a bite of flaky steak and kidney pie. Harry accepted gratefully, relishing every bite.

As he ate, he listened to the conversation flowing around him. Students compared wand woods and core materials, their guesses about which subjects would be the most fun—many saying Charms or Transfiguration—and debated whether flying lessons would be terrifying or thrilling. One girl claimed she couldn’t wait to learn about magical creatures; another was nervously hoping Potions wouldn’t be too hard.

Harry nodded along, quietly taking it all in with growing curiosity and a faint smile. Between bites, he turned to Hermione, who was happily enjoying a thick slice of shepherd’s pie.

"This is amazing," he murmured.

Hermione grinned. "It’s real food magic. I’ve never had anything like the treacle pudding. It’s light, but rich—how do they even *do* that?"

Harry tried it himself, nodding appreciatively. "That’s dangerously good."

Across the table, a third-year boy with spectacles leaned in. "The treacle tart is the best thing here. Don’t miss the sticky toffee pudding either—it vanishes fast."

A girl next to him added, "Try the honey-roasted parsnips too. Professor Flitwick says they're enchanted with a warming charm for cold days."

Harry added a spoonful to his plate and hummed in delight. "They really think of everything, don’t they?"

Hermione nodded. "It’s all enchanting—literally. And I love how everyone seems to talk like they’ve been friends forever."

"Makes it easier to fit in," Harry said. He glanced down the table at groups laughing and sharing food, feeling something in his chest settle—something that had been restless for years.

"So," Hermione said, sipping pumpkin juice, "what class are you most excited for?"

"Charms, probably," Harry answered thoughtfully. "And maybe Runes. I’ve been reading ahead, even though it’s not offered until third year."

Hermione’s eyes lit up. "Runes! I have the book for Ancient Runes in my bag. After dinner, we should compare notes."

"Definitely," Harry agreed with a smile.

Their conversation drifted naturally, from subjects to stories, blending with the surrounding buzz of student chatter and clinking cutlery. For the first time in a long while, Harry felt entirely at ease—well-fed, well-met, and exactly where he was supposed to be.

Curious, Harry looked toward the staff table. Professor Flitwick was chatting animatedly with a stern-looking witch he recognized as Professor McGonagall. A large man with a shaggy beard—clearly Hagrid—was beaming with pride, while another, older wizard with silvery hair and bright robes sat at the center: Dumbledore.

But Harry's attention snagged on a man near the end of the table. Pale, with greasy black hair and robes that clung to him like shadows. He was staring at Harry. Not just watching—staring, with narrowed eyes filled with confusion and what Harry could only describe as restrained anger.

Harry leaned closer to the students across the table. "Who's that?" he asked quietly, nodding subtly toward the pale man at the staff table.

A nearby fourth-year boy looked up from his pudding. "That’s Professor Snape," he replied. "Teaches Potions. He’s also Head of Slytherin House. Bit of a git, honestly. Always looks like he’s smelled something foul."

"He doesn’t seem to like me," Harry muttered.

"Don’t take it personally," the older student said with a shrug. "He doesn’t like most people. But he especially doesn't seem to like Gryffindors or anyone who gets too much attention."

Harry frowned slightly but nodded, his gaze flickering back to the staff table as he absorbed the new information.

Harry looked away quickly. The intensity of that glare had left him uneasy. When he shifted his gaze to another professor, who he recognised as professor Quirell, who looked oddly pale and nervous, his scar suddenly **burned**.

He winced and turned away at once.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Fine," Harry said, though his hand touched his forehead. "Just... a sudden headache."

Before she could press, dessert appeared—a cheerful distraction as platters of sweets shimmered into view. Harry's eyes widened at the spread: chocolate gateau with glossy ganache, warm treacle fudge that melted on the tongue, a strange pink pudding that sparkled when touched with a spoon, lemon meringue tartlets, and even a floating dish of cinnamon-dusted apple fritters.

He tried everything he could reach. The chocolate gateau was rich and dense, the perfect contrast to the airy treacle fudge. The sparkling pudding gave a fizzy sensation on his tongue that made him laugh in surprise. "That’s wild," he said, grinning at Hermione, who was savoring a bite of spiced pumpkin tart. He reached for the lemon meringue and let out a quiet hum of approval. "I think this might be heaven."

Nearby, an older Ravenclaw student chuckled. "Don’t forget the butterscotch éclairs—they vanish in two bites."

Harry tried one and nodded, cheeks full. "That should be illegal."

For someone who had grown up on stale toast and watery soup, the feast was more than just food—it was a revelation. Every bite reminded him how much had changed, and how far he’d come. By the time he set down his fork, he felt warm, full, and quietly joyful.

Eventually, Dumbledore stood and raised his arms. The hall quieted.

"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! A few start-of-term announcements: The Forbidden Forest is strictly off-limits to all students. Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has posted an updated list of banned items—now approaching 500, I believe. And for your own safety, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is strictly forbidden to anyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Nervous laughter rippled through the room. Harry glanced at Hermione, who looked both intrigued and alarmed, then turned to a few of the older Ravenclaws nearby. "Does anyone know why that third-floor corridor is so dangerous?" he asked.

A fifth-year girl with braided dark hair leaned over. "Rumor has it there's something dangerous guarding something even more dangerous," she said cryptically. "No one's ever confirmed it, of course. Just... don’t go near it."

"They say last year someone tried to sneak a peek and ended up in the hospital wing for a week," another older boy added.

Harry raised an eyebrow but nodded slowly. "Noted."

Hermione whispered, "Do you think it’s true? That someone nearly died?"

Harry gave a small shrug. "With the way Dumbledore said it? I wouldn’t be surprised."

"Now," Dumbledore added, "before we send you off to your beds, let us sing the school song!"

Wands rose and a ribbon of golden words formed in the air. Each student chose their own tune and tempo. Fred and George Weasley sang in a deep, slow dirge, arms crossed solemnly over their chests. Harry let out a sudden giggle, unable to help himself at the absurdity of the scene. He quickly clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle it, cheeks flushing as he glanced down the table. His eyes met George’s, who had paused mid-dirge and was now eyeing him with a curious, amused look. Harry quickly looked away, ducking his head, the last of his tension melting into quiet laughter under his breath.

Professor Flitwick stood to lead the Ravenclaws from the hall. They were guided up winding staircases, across breezy corridors, and finally to a spiral staircase that ended in a rounded door with an eagle-shaped knocker. As they walked, Harry listened curiously to the chatter of older students. A third-year girl near the front pointed out portraits that whispered advice to passing students, while another boy mentioned shortcuts that appeared only under certain magical conditions. The castle felt alive with enchantment and history, each turn of the corridor buzzing with quiet mystery.

"To enter," Flitwick said, turning to the gathered first years, "you must answer a riddle. The door only opens for those who reason it out."

He knocked.

"I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?"

There was a pause.

Professor Flitwick turned toward the first years, beaming. "Would anyone like to try?"

Harry hesitated, then slowly raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?" Flitwick prompted gently.

Harry cleared his throat. "An echo," he said softly.

The door swung open at once.

"Excellent, Mr. Potter!" Flitwick said with genuine delight. "Ravenclaw values wit and wisdom, and you’ve demonstrated both. Well done."

The common room was stunning: arched windows looking out onto the night sky, soft blue silks draped across the ceiling like flowing banners, and bookshelves carved with constellations that shimmered faintly under enchanted lighting. A softly glowing chandelier hovered near the center of the room, casting a gentle silver-blue hue across the rich rugs and deep navy furniture arranged for reading and quiet conversation. The air carried a faint scent of parchment and lavender, and the crackling fireplace—framed by carved stone eagles—added a cozy warmth. Tucked into corners were study alcoves with enchanted lanterns that responded to movement, and one wall held a mural that shifted with the phases of the moon.

Hermione let out a quiet gasp beside him. "It's beautiful," she whispered, eyes sweeping over the space.

Harry nodded. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it."

Professor Flitwick stepped forward with a kind smile. "Welcome to Ravenclaw, all of you. I am Professor Flitwick, your Head of House and Charms instructor."

He gestured warmly to the common room behind him. "This will be your home while at Hogwarts. Ravenclaw House prizes intelligence, creativity, and wit. You are encouraged to ask questions, challenge yourselves, and support one another in your learning."

His eyes twinkled. "That said, we do have rules—please treat the common areas with respect, complete your assignments on time, and maintain our proud tradition of excellence. And remember, the door to our common room only opens when you answer its riddle—use your minds, and you'll always find your way in."

He paused, letting the silence settle before smiling once more. "Rest well tonight. Tomorrow begins your true journey. Goodnight, and welcome again."

With that, he turned and exited quietly, leaving the new Ravenclaws to explore and settle into their new home.

A few older Ravenclaws moved toward their respective dorms, offering friendly nods to the newcomers. One mentioned that enchanted star maps in the room shifted to reflect the actual sky every night.

Hermione turned to Harry and gave a tired but warm smile. "We should probably head to our dorms. We can go over Runes another time."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Sleep first, learning second."

"Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

They parted ways at the base of the staircases—hers leading to the girls’ side, his to the boys'. The spiral steps creaked slightly as Harry climbed, warm torchlight guiding the way. He entered the dormitory and found his trunk at the foot of a neatly made bed with soft blue blankets and star-embroidered pillows.

He changed into his nightclothes, pausing by the window to look at the stars. The sky stretched wide and endless above the castle, deep navy and dusted with countless stars that glittered like scattered diamonds. Constellations he barely recognized glimmered steadily, while a faint silver glow from the crescent moon bathed the spires and rooftops in pale light. For a long moment, Harry stood in silence, awed by the beauty and vastness of it all—a view he'd never seen so clearly in his life.

He lingered at the window a moment longer, letting the starlight settle into him, then turned away with a soft breath. The hush of the dormitory embraced him as he padded to his bed, pulling back the soft blue covers and sinking into the welcoming warmth. As his head hit the pillow, he let out a long exhale, feeling the weight of the day drift away like mist in the moonlight.

As he lay down and closed his eyes, the peaceful quiet of the Ravenclaw dorm faded.

He dreamed.

A flash of green light. Cold air pressing against his skin. A voice, high and cruel, laughing. A snake's slit eyes watching him from the shadows. And pain. Pain blooming from his scar like fire.

Harry bolted upright, breathing hard.

The dormitory was still, his roommates fast asleep. He pressed a hand to his forehead.

The pain was gone.

But the chill remained.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke to the soft rustling of bedsheets and the golden glow of morning sunlight streaming through the dormitory windows. For a brief moment, he lay still, trying to shake off the remnants of his dream from the night before. The eerie chill and pain had passed, but the unease lingered faintly in his chest.

After washing up and dressing in his crisp new uniform, Harry descended to the Ravenclaw common room. The enchanted ceiling shimmered with early morning light, and the soft buzz of students preparing for the day filled the air. As he scanned the room, he spotted Hermione near one of the arched windows, already dressed and reviewing a textbook. She looked up and smiled when she saw him approaching.

"Morning," she greeted brightly, closing her book.

"Morning," Harry replied with a smile. "Want to head to breakfast together?"

"Definitely. I’m starving—and I want to see if the ghosts are as chatty as they were yesterday."

They made their way out of the tower and down the moving staircases, walking side by side and chatting quietly. The castle was still waking up around them, filled with echoes of footsteps and the occasional creak of enchanted stone. By the time they entered the Great Hall, it was already filled with warm light and the enticing aroma of breakfast foods.

In the Great Hall, breakfast was already underway. Ghosts floated lazily between the tables, engaging in quiet conversation or simply observing the lively students below. Nearly Headless Nick nodded politely as he drifted past Harry, while a sallow-looking ghost with a ruff collar muttered something about "proper seating etiquette."

Harry and Hermione walked to the Ravenclaw table together, still chatting about the shifting staircases and how strange it felt waking up in a castle. They sat down at the table, and Harry joined Hermione as she buttered her toast and reviewed a folded piece of parchment. "Morning!" one of the older year students greeted. "Flitwick said he’s handing out our schedules today. I hope we have Charms first."

Harry looked around curiously. "So, what’s Charms like?"

One of the older Ravenclaws, a third-year girl with dark braids and an eager smile, leaned in. “Professor Flitwick is brilliant. He’s tiny, but don’t let that fool you—he’s one of the most skilled Charms Masters alive. Class is always fun, and he makes sure we really understand the theory behind everything.”

Hermione, who had been quietly listening, perked up. “Really? That’s wonderful. Do we get to try actual spells right away?”

“Usually, yes,” the girl replied. “You’ll probably start with the Levitation Charm. Basic, but foundational. And Flitwick loves seeing first-years succeed, so don’t be surprised if he cheers you on.”

Harry smiled, his nerves easing slightly. "Sounds like a good start."

Professor Flitwick arrived shortly after, handing out timetables with a cheerful smile. “You’ll find your schedules tailored to house pairings. Ravenclaw first-years will mostly be paired with Hufflepuff this term.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up. "Oh, brilliant! We start with Charms, then Transfiguration. Potions after lunch. And Flying tomorrow!"

Charms was held in a warm, cozy classroom filled with books and fluttering magical diagrams. Professor Flitwick greeted them enthusiastically, demonstrating a perfect Levitation Charm that sent a feather spinning gracefully into the air. When he introduced the charm—"Wingardium Leviosa"—Harry and Hermione exchanged a quick glance. Having already practiced it during their summer studies, they both performed the incantation and wand movement with smooth precision. Their feather rose instantly, hovering and spinning with perfect control.

Flitwick beamed. "Excellent work, Mr. Potter! Miss Granger! Just splendid—five points each to Ravenclaw."

The Hufflepuffs shared the class, and Harry partnered with a shy but friendly boy named Justin Finch-Fletchley. Justin watched Harry's technique with interest and soon managed the charm himself. By the end of class, their feather was floating steadily, and Justin thanked Harry for the helpful tips he’d shared along the way.

Transfiguration was more intense. Professor McGonagall’s stern demeanor commanded attention. She transfigured a desk into a pig and back again with a flick of her wand, leaving many students wide-eyed. Hermione excelled quickly, her matchstick transforming into a perfect, gleaming needle in record time. Harry, who had practiced during his summer study sessions, managed to get it nearly perfect by the end of class—his needle was the correct shape and size, but retained a faint wooden grain along one side. Still, Professor McGonagall gave him an approving nod. "Very promising, Mr. Potter. A touch more precision and you’ll have it down entirely." Harry grinned, pleased with his progress.

Potions was held in the dungeons. The cool, damp room was lined with shelves of strange ingredients, bubbling cauldrons, and aged stone. Professor Snape swept in with a commanding presence. He took roll call slowly, pausing noticeably at Harry’s name.

“You are… aware of your fame, I presume?” he asked, voice low and unreadable.

Harry met his gaze calmly. “Yes, sir.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Fame is a fickle shield. Let’s hope your potion-making proves more substantial.”

Throughout the lesson, Snape was strict, but his remarks toward Harry felt more probing than openly hostile. There was curiosity in his tone—something measured, as if he were searching for inconsistencies. At one point, he fixed Harry with a piercing stare and fired off a series of questions: the properties of horned slugs, the boiling time for snake fangs, the uses of dried nettles. Harry answered each one confidently, citing from memory exact lines and side notes from the potions textbook. "Correct," Snape finally said, clearly surprised but hiding it behind a neutral mask. "Textbook perfect."

Harry added quietly, "I’ve studied all the theory. I didn’t try practical brewing at home—it seemed too risky without supervision."

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly, unreadable, but he said nothing.

Hermione answered several questions flawlessly, and Neville, though nervous, avoided major mistakes with Susan’s help. Their potion was a simple Cure for Boils, and though Harry’s mixture turned the right color and consistency, Snape offered only a curt nod before moving on—though his lingering glance said he was still watching, still evaluating.

The following day brought Flying Lessons. The warm breeze and open sky excited most of the first-years. Madam Hooch demonstrated the basics, then had lift up their brooms. To everyone’s surprise, Harry’s broom rose instantly on command, hovering steadily beneath his hand.

Hermione struggled at first, her broom wobbling. Harry hovered near her and offered gentle advice. “Loosen your grip a little—it’ll stop fighting you so much.” With his help, she steadied, beaming proudly.

They did several laps around the field, weaving through markers and practicing dives. Madam Hooch praised Harry’s natural talent, and a few Hufflepuffs clapped for him after a particularly smooth turn.

As the lesson ended, Harry and Hermione were making their way back when Ron Weasley stepped into their path.

“Flying’s fun, huh?” Ron said with forced casualness. “You’re pretty good, I guess. We could’ve practiced together, y’know. Should’ve stuck with me on the train.”

Harry frowned. “You didn’t exactly give me a reason to.”

Ron shrugged. “Whatever. Did you hear about Longbottom falling off his broom? Hah—looked like a flobberworm trying to fly.”

“That’s not funny,” Hermione snapped, her brow furrowing. “We didn’t even hear about it—was he hurt?”

Before Ron could retort, Draco Malfoy strolled past with Crabbe and Goyle. He paused and glanced at Harry.

“Potter. Nice flying earlier.”

Harry blinked. “Thanks.”

Draco smirked slightly. “Ever think about trying out for Quidditch when you’re old enough?”

Harry tilted his head. “Maybe.”

Malfoy nodded once and moved on. Ron scowled, clearly unhappy with being dismissed so easily.

Draco’s voice carried back over his shoulder as he paused briefly. "Also, he broke his wrist, but Madam Pomfrey sorted it. He’ll be fine." Then, with a sideways glance at Ron, he added, "Some people find it funny when others get hurt. Shows more about them than it does the person who fell."

With that, Draco disappeared down the corridor, leaving Ron glaring after him before stomping off.

Later that week, Harry and Hermione found themselves in the library, reviewing their Transfiguration notes at one of the quieter back tables. The scent of parchment and polished wood filled the air, and sunlight filtered through the enchanted skylights overhead. A few minutes into their session, Neville and Susan arrived together, books and scrolls tucked under their arms.

"Mind if we join you?" Neville asked, his voice a bit shy but friendly.

"Of course," Hermione said with a smile. "We were just going over some of McGonagall’s notes."

"Thanks," Susan added, settling into a chair beside Hermione.

Together, the four students began reviewing their class material. Hermione took the lead in asking questions from their notes, Harry chimed in with additional context from one of the supplementary books he’d read, and Susan pointed out some study tips she’d learned from an older student in Hufflepuff. Neville practiced his wand grip and spell pronunciation while Harry demonstrated, and they gave each other feedback in turn. The quiet companionship was comforting, the room filled with the soft murmur of study and the occasional scratch of quills.

For Harry, it felt natural—sitting with friends, learning together, and slowly beginning to feel like this place, this life, really did belong to him.

The sense of camaraderie warmed Harry. Being part of a group, learning alongside friends—it was a welcome change.

Toward the end of the week, Professor Flitwick met with the first-years individually. When Harry’s turn came, they sat together in a quiet corner of the classroom.

“I hope you’re settling in well, Mr. Potter,” Flitwick said kindly.

“I am, thank you, Professor. It’s been… good. A lot to take in, but good.”

Flitwick nodded. “The first weeks can be overwhelming. I’ve been told you have an existing connection with the goblins?”

Harry hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I met with them before school. They’ve helped me a lot.”

“I thought as much,” Flitwick said, his eyes twinkling. “I am part goblin myself, and I’ve long worked with their scholars. They mentioned you with some interest.”

Harry blinked. “They did?”

“Oh yes,” Flitwick chuckled. “It’s not every day a child heir speaks with the old vault-keepers directly. They’re not easily impressed, but they spoke of you with something close to respect.”

Harry smiled faintly. “That means a lot.”

Flitwick patted his shoulder gently. “You’re doing just fine, Mr. Potter. Keep your mind open and your heart steady. Ravenclaw will suit you well.”

And with that, Harry left the meeting with a new sense of calm, ready to face the coming days at Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

Halloween dawned cool and crisp, the corridors of Hogwarts buzzing with excitement. Students whispered about the grand feast planned for that evening as they hurried to class, robes swishing and voices filled with anticipation. The enchanted ceilings reflected a moody autumn sky, streaked with grey clouds that mirrored the blustery weather outside. Throughout the castle, floating jack-o'-lanterns bobbed through the air, grinning with enchanted flickers of candlelight inside. Suits of armor had been charmed to sing haunting melodies, though some were slightly off-key.

In the Great Hall, the long tables were already partially decorated in preparation for the evening. Towering pumpkins with carved, animated faces grinned at passersby, and garlands of autumn leaves twisted themselves around the banisters. Floating candles were lit early, bathing the entire hall in a warm, flickering glow that danced across the enchanted ceiling above.

Harry’s classes passed in a blur of spells and scribbled notes. In Transfiguration, he managed to complete a partial transformation of a hedgehog into a quill, earning an approving nod from Professor McGonagall. Charms class brought more precision with the Levitation Charm—Harry and Hermione both mastering it early thanks to their prior practice. Harry performed the charm flawlessly, his feather gliding smoothly through the air, earning quiet praise from Professor Flitwick.

Potions remained tense as always, with Snape observing Harry closely and questioning him often. Harry, however, held his own. He answered most of Snape’s theoretical questions with confidence, explaining the properties of ingredients and their interactions in detail. Though his brewing technique still needed refinement, it was clear he had studied extensively—his knowledge of theory was solid, even if his practical skills were still catching up. Snape gave a curt nod at times, seemingly intrigued by the depth of Harry's understanding despite his lack of hands-on experience.

By the time dinner rolled around, the Great Hall was breathtaking. Massive carved pumpkins hovered above the tables, glowing with warm light. Streamers of orange and gold hung from the ceiling, and plates filled themselves with roasted meats, spiced pumpkin dishes, and all manner of autumnal delights.

Harry sat beside Hermione, who was flipping through a book even while nibbling at a bread roll. “You’ll give yourself indigestion reading while eating,” he said, amused.

She rolled her eyes. “Multitasking, Harry. Honestly.”

A little while into the feast, Hermione leaned over and said, "I’ll be right back—I forgot something in the dorm." Harry nodded, not thinking much of it at the time. But as the minutes passed and plates refilled with delicious helpings of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and spiced pumpkin stew, Harry began to glance around. The laughter and hum of conversation at the Ravenclaw table continued, but Hermione hadn’t returned. He craned his neck, scanning the tables and nearby doors, but saw no sign of her.

Then behind him at the Gryffindor table, he overhears Ron Weasley grumbling to Seamus, loud enough for several students to hear. “She ran off to the girls' bathroom. Got upset after I said something about her being a know-it-all. Didn’t mean it that badly.”

Harry’s concern sharpened. He was just about to stand when Professor Quirrell burst into the hall, his turban askew and face pale.

“T-Troll! In the dungeons! Thought you ought to know!”

The hall erupted in panic. Students screamed, plates clattered, and chaos reigned until Dumbledore raised his wand, casting a shower of red sparks into the air with a bang.

“Everyone calm down. Prefects, take your housemates back to your dormitories immediately! Teachers, to the dungeons!”

Harry slipped through the milling students and grabbed the male Ravenclaw prefect’s sleeve. “Hermione Granger’s not here. Ron said she’s in the girls' bathroom.”

The prefect—Callum Steele—stiffened at Harry’s words, his face paling. “I’ll come with you,” he said quickly. “I’ll let the other prefect know to take everyone else back.”

They hurried through the castle, corridors now mostly empty. Reaching the bathroom, they stepped inside and quickly found Hermione near the sinks, startled by their sudden entrance. Harry rushed to explain, "There's a troll loose—Ron said you were here. We had to come get you."

Hermione's face paled. "A troll? Here?"

"We need to leave now," Callum said firmly, stepping toward the door. He cracked it open and began to step through—only to be struck suddenly by a massive club that swung from the shadows.

The blow sent him flying down the hallway with a cry, landing hard against the stone floor. He groaned in pain, clutching his side as the troll’s hulking form stepped fully into view.

Harry and Hermione stood frozen for a split second. “Back!” he hissed, and they dashed further back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind them.

The troll crashed through seconds later.

Thinking fast, Hermione shouted, “Aguamenti!” and water sprayed across the floor. Harry added a charm to reinforce the slippery surface. The troll stepped in, lost traction, and fell with a thunderous crash.

Harry saw the troll beginning to rise and shouted, "Expelliarmus!" aiming at the massive club still clutched in the troll's hand. The force of the spell knocked the weapon free, clattering to the floor just as the creature regained its balance.

Hermione shouted, “The club!”

Understanding instantly, Harry raised his wand. “Wingardium Leviosa!” he cried, matching her shout.

Together, they lifted the troll’s own club into the air, wobbling slightly with its immense weight.

Harry gritted his teeth. “Drop it!”

With a sickening thud, the club smashed down onto the troll’s head. The beast groaned and stilled.

Panting, the two hurried out to the prefect. He was conscious, barely, and clearly hurt—his arm bent at an odd angle and bruises already forming.

Hermione quickly conjured a makeshift stretcher, not perfect but good enough for now. Together, they guided it toward the hospital wing, Hermione and Harry levitating it while kepting watch.

Halfway there, they ran into Professors Snape, McGonagall, and Flitwick.

“The troll—in the girls' bathroom,” Harry gasped. “We think… we think it might be dead.”

McGonagall’s face blanched. “You fought it?", her voice sharp with both disbelief and worry.

Harry nodded, catching his breath. "We had no choice. Callum was hit as we were leaving, and we were trapped."

Hermione added, "We worked together. I made the floor slippery and Harry disarmed the troll. Then we levitated its club and—"

"Dropped it on its head," Harry finished quietly.

Flitwick's eyebrows rose high, clearly impressed. McGonagall still looked stunned but composed herself quickly.

"You acted bravely—and wisely. We will go check to make sure."

Flitwick and McGonagall rushed toward the bathroom, while Snape escorted the students to the hospital wing. Along the way, Harry and Hermione recounted everything in short bursts—how they’d found Hermione, the troll's surprise attack, and how they worked together to bring it down. Snape listened silently, occasionally narrowing his eyes in thought but saying nothing.

At the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey clucked and tutted as she examined the prefect, fussing over his bruises and muttering about irresponsible staff letting trolls near children. She quickly diagnosed a broken arm, a cracked rib, and heavy bruising—nothing life-threatening, but enough to warrant a few days of rest and potions.

Once the prefect was resting, she turned to Harry and Hermione, checking them over thoroughly and insisting they remain overnight as a precaution. "Adrenaline hides all sorts of damage," she said sharply. "You’ll stay here tonight. No arguments."

Later, McGonagall and Flitwick returned.

“You’re both lucky to be alive,” McGonagall said, stern but clearly relieved. “And yes, the troll is dead. An astounding bit of spellwork for first-years.”

Flitwick smiled proudly. “Ten points each to Ravenclaw.”

That night, as the adrenaline faded, Harry and Hermione lay quietly in their hospital beds. The infirmary was dim, lit only by a few enchanted lanterns that hovered in the air, casting soft golden light across the room. The sounds of the castle had quieted to a hush, broken only by the occasional rustle of sheets or the distant hoot of an owl.

Hermione turned slightly in her bed, her voice just above a whisper. "That was terrifying."

Harry nodded from his own bed. "Yeah... but we did it. Together."

She smiled faintly. "Thank you—for coming to find me."

"Of course. I wasn’t going to just sit there."

A few moments of comfortable silence passed before Hermione yawned. "We should try to sleep. Classes tomorrow."

Harry chuckled softly. "Can’t wait. Maybe it’ll be less exciting than tonight."

They exchanged quiet goodnights. As Hermione turned over, already drifting to sleep, Harry lay awake a few moments longer, staring at the ceiling, the events of the day playing in his mind like a whirlwind. Then, finally, with a deep breath, he let his eyes close, the soft rhythm of the night drawing him into sleep.

The next morning, Draco Malfoy appeared briefly at the door. His expression was carefully neutral, but there was a flicker of something else—concern, perhaps, hidden behind his composed facade. "Glad to see you're still breathing, Potter," he said flatly, though his eyes lingered on Harry for a second too long. Just as Fred and George rounded the corner, Fred giving him a pointed look, Draco turned on his heel and walked off without another word.

“What’d you do, Potter? Wrestle the troll yourself?” Fred teased.

George stepped forward, voice more serious. “You two alright?”

Harry nodded. “We’re fine. The prefect took the worst of it.”

George’s gaze lingered on Harry longer than usual, his casual smile not quite reaching his eyes. “You sure you're alright?” he asked, trying to sound offhand, but there was a tightness in his voice.

Harry gave a small shrug. “Just a bit tired. Madam Pomfrey says I’m fine.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Next time try not to pick a fight with something twice your size, yeah?”

“Good advice,” Harry said with a faint smile.

George hesitated, then added quietly, “You did good. That couldn’t have been easy.”

Hermione glanced between them, her expression softening. “We were just lucky.”

Fred and George exchanged a look before Fred grinned. “Well, you two just gave Ravenclaw a proper reputation boost. Not bad for your first Halloween.”

They also apologized for Ron’s earlier comment about Hermione, but she shook her head. “Not your fault. It’s his own.”

Fred and George stayed a bit longer, chatting a while more and making sure Harry and Hermione were truly alright. Eventually, with a few final jokes and parting words, they left the hospital wing.

Shortly after, Madam Pomfrey returned and gave Harry and Hermione a final once-over. “Everything looks stable. You’re free to go, but take it easy today,” she instructed firmly.

Grateful, they made their way out. The corridors felt more alive after the isolation of the hospital wing, and as they returned to their common room to gather their things, the chatter of students filled the air again. Classes resumed as usual, and though there were a few lingering stares and curious whispers, Harry and Hermione slipped back into routine, the weight of the night before slowly giving way to normalcy.

Later that week, the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match drew a large and noisy crowd. The sky above the pitch was a perfect autumn blue, and a brisk wind stirred the house banners that fluttered from the stands. Excitement buzzed in the air as the teams emerged from the changing rooms—Gryffindor in bold scarlet and gold, Slytherin in green and silver. The players mounted their brooms and kicked off, soaring into the sky to wild applause.

Harry sat in the stands beside Hermione, bundled in his school cloak, cheering enthusiastically. He admired the speed and coordination of the players, especially the Chasers weaving through the air and the Beaters striking the Bludgers with impressive force. The game was fast-paced and intense, with Slytherin playing aggressively and Gryffindor pushing back just as hard.

Midway through the match, Harry leaned toward Hermione to comment on a spectacular maneuver when something caught his eye—a Bludger, veering wildly off-course. It wasn't following the normal pattern of seeking out players on the field. Instead, it turned sharply and rocketed straight toward the stands.

Toward him.

"Look out!" Hermione shouted, pulling at his sleeve as she notices it aswell.

Harry ducked just in time, the Bludger whistling past his head. A shimmer rippled across his robe—the faint glow of his rune-etched protection charm flaring to life. The enchanted runes embedded in the bracelet glowed a vivid silver-blue as the Bludger looped around and came at him again. This time, it collided directly with the magical barrier, producing a loud, resonant clang that echoed across the stands. Students nearby gasped, ducking instinctively.

The charm absorbed the blow, but Harry felt a jolt reverberate through his chest—like the air around him had shivered. He caught a glimpse of the Bludger circling again, moving with unnatural focus. The runes on his robes pulsed once more, then dimmed, the light flickering uncertainly.

Hermione grabbed his arm. "It’s going to hit again!" she warned, eyes wide.

Harry barely had time to react before the Bludger surged forward for a third strike—faster this time, more deliberate. He raised his arms in instinct, knowing the charm wouldn’t hold.

But before the Bludger could reach him, a blur of motion swept between them. Professor Flitwick appeared out of nowhere, robes billowing and wand raised high.

"Protego Maxima!" he cried.

A brilliant blue shield exploded into existence, a dome of crackling energy that intercepted the Bludger mid-flight and deflected it sharply away. Gasps turned into cheers of relief, though worry quickly followed.

The air buzzed with lingering magic as Flitwick stepped forward, scanning Harry quickly before turning to inspect the Bludger, now starting to fly back towards them at great speed. Flitwick narrowed his eyes and flicked his wand sharply. "Finite Incantatem Maxima!" he declared. A burst of golden-white light erupted from the tip of his wand and enveloped the Bludger, its chaotic movement immediately ceasing as the spell dispelled whatever enchantment was on it. The Bludger dropped lifelessly to the grass with a faint metallic thunk, no longer resisting the magical grip of gravity.

Whistles blew from the pitch. The game was paused as Madam Hooch flew up and signaled for time.

Flitwick examined the Bludger and frowned. "It was cursed," he said grimly, casting a revealing charm. The magic shimmered red. "Deliberately targeted. Someone tampered with it."

He narrowed his eyes further and raised his wand once more. "Revelio Maledictum Totalis," he intoned. A pale green glow surrounded the Bludger briefly before dissipating with a hiss. Flitwick gave a sharp nod. "That confirms it. A layered hex combined with a homing jinx—this Bludger was designed to target Harry specifically. Powerful and malicious work."

Several teachers exchanged glances, and the tension in the air thickened.

"This wasn't an accident," Flitwick continued. "It was meant to cause serious harm."

Hermione looked at Harry in alarm. "That was aimed at you."

Harry clenched his jaw. "I know."

The match resumed shortly afterward, but the mood in the stands had shifted. Harry remained quiet, processing the near miss and the revelation of the curse. Hermione stayed close, casting frequent glances his way as if expecting the Bludger to return at any moment. The rest of the game blurred past, Slytherin taking the win with a narrow lead, but Harry barely registered the score.

As students filed out of the stands, whispers filled the air—about the cursed Bludger, Flitwick’s spellwork, and the fact that Harry had been targeted. He tried to push it from his mind, but a seed of unease had taken root.

Back in the common room, Hermione urged Harry to rest. He nodded but didn’t speak much, still caught in the whirlwind of thoughts.

That evening, Harry sat at his desk with the Ravenclaw journal in front of him, its worn leather cover a reassuring weight beneath his fingers. The window beside him let in the faintest chill, the dark sky outside scattered with stars that flickered gently through the glass. For a few quiet minutes, he stared out at them, letting his thoughts settle.

Then, with a soft sigh, he pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill. In his neat, coded script, he began a message to Griphorn—carefully detailing the pain he'd felt in his scar during the feast, the troll attack and how he and Hermione had dealt with it, and the Bludger incident, including Professor Flitwick’s revelation that it had been cursed. His hand paused occasionally as he collected his thoughts, each word deliberate and precise.

When he finished, Harry sat back, reading the letter over once before folding it carefully and sealing it with wax. He tucked it into the hidden pocket of his satchel, planning to send it first thing in the morning.

Something was wrong. And he needed answers.

The journal remained in front of him, comforting in its presence. He brushed a hand across the cover, then finally stood, ready to put the day behind him.

Chapter Text

Snow blanketed the Hogwarts grounds in glistening white as the castle quieted for the winter holidays. With most students gone, the hallways echoed softly with the creak of old stone and the crackle of fireplaces. Harry and Hermione were among the few who had chosen to stay behind, finding peace in the stillness and extra time to study.

Christmas morning dawned with gentle flurries and an unexpected pile of gifts at the foot of Harry's bed. Sitting up groggily, he reached for the first one—Hermione's handwriting neat and tidy on the label. Inside was a beautifully bound journal, enchanted to organize notes by subject and date.

"Figured you'd need something to keep track of everything," Hermione said with a smile when he came downstairs. "You’re always making notes or sketching something out, and I thought this might help keep it all together." She looked a little shy about it, but hopeful. Harry beamed and gave her a quick, sincere hug, touched by the thoughtfulness. "Thanks, Hermione. This is perfect."

There were gifts from others, too. Hagrid’s was a hand-carved wooden figure of a hippogriff, simple but full of charm, with his initials carved into the base. Neville sent a small enchanted plant that bloomed in the cold and gave off a faint, calming scent when touched, which Harry placed by the window. Susan included a winter scarf in soft Ravenclaw blue, thick and warm, with a neatly stitched crest on one end. Professor Flitwick’s gift was a delicate, charmed bookmark that whispered memory cues when touched and shimmered faintly with soft magic. McGonagall sent a worn but well-loved book on advanced Transfiguration techniques, personally annotated in her spidery handwriting with sharp insights and the occasional sarcastic comment. Draco's gift—unexpected—was a sleek, silver eagle quill with a note: *To a fellow student who clearly values learning. Use it well.* The quill wrote with an elegant flourish and never needed re-inking, and Harry couldn’t help but admire its craftsmanship.

Fred and George's gift (or more likely George’s, though Fred’s name was attached) was a tiny box of joke sweets, including a card that read: *Only prank people who deserve it. Or who are too serious.* George had signed it with a doodled wink.

One gift, however, arrived in a small black box embossed with the Gringotts crest. Inside was a polished obsidian pendant etched with delicate goblin runes. A small folded card accompanied it: *'For protection and clarity of mind — from Griphorn and the Goblin Nation. May your steps be wise and your path your own.'* Harry held the pendant reverently, slipping it over his head. The magic in it pulsed gently against his skin, a quiet reassurance that he wasn’t as alone in the world as he once thought.

But one gift stood out—a shimmering cloak with a note in unfamiliar handwriting: *Use it wisely.*

Harry recognized it immediately. Invisibility. He tested it with awe, the fabric vanishing over his arm like water.

He had spent the rest of the morning distributing the gifts he had prepared: a pair of sleek, dragonhide-bound notebooks for Hermione and Susan—each enchanted to be self-updating and resistant to spills; a rare seedling he had ordered for Neville that would bloom into a whispering vine; a pair of magically color-shifting scarves for Fred and George; a fine ink set for McGonagall; a book on ancient magical theory for Flitwick; and a polished silver bookmark in the shape of a serpent for Draco—subtle, elegant, and Slytherin-approved.

The rest of Christmas Day passed in a warm blur of laughter and quiet companionship. Harry and Hermione spent the afternoon near the fire in the common room, sipping hot cocoa and testing a few minor charms they'd found in one of Flitwick’s gifted books. Occasionally, one of the other few students remaining would pass through, offering greetings or settling in with a book of their own.

After lunch, they bundled up and took a stroll through the snowy courtyard, chatting about magical theory and exchanging theories on the enchantments that kept the snow from ever becoming slush. Later, they visited the library where Madam Pince—surprisingly lenient in the holiday spirit—let them browse and talk in the library.

Dinner in the Great Hall was smaller but no less festive. The staff had gathered at a single table, and the remaining students shared a few joined ones. Crackers popped with small magical fireworks, and pudding refilled itself with every spoonful. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much.

That night, curiosity itched at him. He didn’t have a destination in mind—just wanted to see how it worked. Cloak over his shoulders, he slipped out into the castle.

The quiet was deep and haunting. Candles flickered in sconces and tapestries whispered with the cold air. Harry padded silently down corridors he didn’t often explore—grand staircases that shifted direction, narrow passageways hidden behind portraits, and high arched windows that looked out on snow-blanketed courtyards.

Occasionally, he paused just to listen to the silence. Hogwarts at night felt ancient, alive, and somehow expectant. He wandered up a seldom-used staircase when he felt it—a tug, not physical, but magical. A gentle pressure guided him, nudging at his senses. He hesitated, then let it lead him.

Before long, he stood before a door he didn’t recognize. It had no label and didn’t appear on the map he had begun sketching of the castle’s layout. Pushing it open, he stepped into a dimly lit room.

There stood an enormous mirror. Its frame was carved with ornate flourishes, and across the top read: *Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.*

Harry stepped forward.

And froze.

In the mirror stood not just himself, but others—reflections of his magical lineage. He saw flashes of James Potter’s confident smile and Lily’s warm eyes—both untouched by death. A regal witch stood at his shoulder, bearing Ravenclaw robes and the same clever tilt of the chin he’d started to adopt. Behind her, a tall man with sharp features—Sirius Black, unmistakably—nodded once in approval, his expression solemn yet proud. A Lord ring gleamed on his finger. Nearby, George stood just slightly behind Harry, smiling in a teasing, open way. And in the shadows of the mirror's frame, a group of goblins stood quietly, Griphorn among them, offering a single respectful bow. The message was clear: they accepted him, acknowledged him, and supported the path he had chosen.

It wasn’t just family—it was *acknowledgment*. Belonging. Power used wisely. Knowledge earned.

He backed away, heart pounding.

Harry slipped the cloak off as he returned to the Ravenclaw dormitory, his thoughts still caught in the mirror’s vision. The halls remained quiet, dimly lit by flickering torches. He moved with purpose, passing through the common room where only a few dying embers glowed in the hearth.

Up the spiral staircase and into the dormitory, he stepped softly, careful not to wake the others. He changed into his pajamas, placing the pendant from Griphorn gently on the nightstand beside his bed. As he settled under the covers, his thoughts churned. The faces in the mirror, the warmth of his gifts, the strange pull he still felt—each image drifted through his mind like snowflakes in the dark.

Outside, the stars blinked silently over the snowy towers of Hogwarts, and within moments, sleep finally claimed him.

The next day, he told Hermione everything. She frowned deeply.

"A mirror that shows something like that... that’s dangerous. You don’t know if it’s real, or just what you *want* to see."

“I know. That’s why I’ve been avoiding it. But…” he hesitated, “I feel like it *calls* me. Like I’m supposed to go back.”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t. We don’t know what kind of magic it uses. It might be cursed.”

But despite his resolve, two nights later he found himself there again, almost without realizing he’d moved. The mirror didn’t change. The same vision. The same sense of aching possibility.

He didn’t notice the quiet footsteps until Dumbledore spoke.

"The Mirror of Erised does not show your future, Harry, nor even necessarily the truth. It shows your heart’s deepest desire."

Harry turned slowly. “Is it dangerous?”

“It can be,” Dumbledore said, folding his hands. “Many have wasted away before it, lost in dreams. That’s why I’m moving it. Soon.”

Harry hesitated. “It showed me… my family. Power. Control. Knowledge.”

“And those are powerful desires,” Dumbledore said gently. “You are not unwise to be wary of them.”

Afterward, Harry returned to his room, troubled but grateful. He pulled out his journal and sent another letter to Griphorn, including what he saw, what he felt, and Dumbledore’s words.

In the days that followed, he visited Hagrid often, enjoying mugs of hot tea and friendly conversation in the cozy, slightly smoky confines of the gamekeeper’s hut.

They spoke about everything from magical creatures to Harry’s classes, and Hagrid proudly shared tales of past Hogwarts adventures. They laughed over stories of misfired spells, mischievous pranks, and the oddball pets students had tried to smuggle in over the years. One conversation took a more thoughtful turn when Hagrid, glancing at the softly glowing fire, mentioned Harry’s parents.

"They were good people, your mum and dad," he said quietly. "Brave, clever… your mum, especially. Could hex a full-grown wizard into next week if she wanted, but never lost her kindness."

Harry, heart swelling with a complicated mix of pride and longing, nodded. "I wish I’d known them."

"Aye," Hagrid rumbled, eyes misty. "They’d be right proud of you, they would. And Sirius—he’d have had a lot to teach you, he would’ve."

"Sirius Black?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Mmm, yeah, your godfather, y’know. Course, lots o’ people don’t talk about him now\..."

They were quiet for a while, the silence only broken by Fang’s soft snores and the bubbling stew. Then, Hagrid leaned back with a proud look. "You ever heard of Fluffy?"

Harry shook his head. "Fluffy?"

"My three-headed dog," Hagrid said, beaming. "Big fellow. Fierce, but loyal. Loves music. Got him from a Greek fellow years ago. Best guardian you could ask for—and that’s what he’s doing now. Guarding at hogwarts, so proud of him."

Harry blinked. "Wait—Fluffy is guarding something? What kind of thing needs a three-headed dog?"

Hagrid's eyes widened. "Ah—I mean—Flamel’s a friend o’ Dumbledore’s, that’s all. Real old, brilliant bloke—does alchemy and whatnot. Helped with… well, things. I shouldn’t’ve said that. Just forget it, alright? Forget I said anything."

But the name Flamel flickered in Harry's memory, stirring a thread of recognition...

Later that evening, Harry and Hermione poured over their notes. “Fluffy, and something being hidden…” Hermione murmured. “And Flamel. That name rings a bell.”

She dashed up to her room and returned with a stack of notes. Flipping through them, she suddenly stopped. “Here—Nicolas Flamel. Alchemist. Creator of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Harry read over her shoulder. “Grants immortality and turns metal to gold.”

They stared at each other.

“D’you think that’s what’s here?” Harry whispered.

Hermione nodded slowly. “Probably. But Dumbledore’s handling it. We don’t need to do anything.”

Still, their Ravenclaw curiosity wouldn’t let the matter rest. They began studying alchemy and defensive enchantments around powerful magical objects—not to interfere, but to understand. Harry became particularly fascinated with the ways ancient protective magics interacted with unstable cores, while Hermione focused on how enchantments could be used to regulate or stabilize magical energy.

They spent hours in the library and the common room, spreading out diagrams, comparing theories, and testing small, controlled spells to simulate ward responses. Sometimes, Hermione would lead with structured note-taking and methodical casting, while Harry explored intuitive runic variants and layering techniques inspired by goblin magic. They argued, brainstormed, and revised each other’s conclusions with a level of comfort only true peers shared. Together, they devoured book after book, letting knowledge light their way, each discovery deepening not only their understanding, but their growing bond of trust, mutual curiosity, and the thrill of shared pursuit.

And in the quiet halls of Hogwarts, amid snow-dusted windows and fire-warmed rooms, Harry Potter felt something new.

A hunger not just for truth.

But for mastery.

Chapter Text

The final days of the winter break passed in a peaceful blur. Harry and Hermione made the most of the quiet castle—spending their days wrapped in a mixture of reading, practicing spells, experimenting with runes and enchantments, and the occasional snowball fight in the courtyard. Harry was especially focused on refining his ward layering and adapting theoretical rune sequences from goblin texts, often surprising even Hermione with his inventive approaches. Hermione, in turn, continued perfecting her charm-anchoring and enchantment layering, often testing her theories on simple objects and exchanging feedback with Harry.

The castle felt less imposing without the usual bustle, and both found themselves growing more comfortable wandering its halls, exchanging theories, and even laughing more freely. Their talents were thriving in the quiet, and they knew it.

Their study sessions were full of experimentation and lively discussion. Hermione carefully structured her notes on magical theory, laying out detailed outlines and diagrams, while Harry tested runic combinations he'd read about in one of the goblin-suggested books, occasionally scrawling alternate glyphs and layering methods in the margins. They took turns debating interpretations, adjusting their techniques, and even setting up small test wards to see how theory played out in real casting. Their bond deepened with every shared discovery and playful disagreement, building not just knowledge, but trust.

Once classes resumed, the rhythm of Hogwarts returned with it. Lessons became more intense and demanding. In Charms, Professor Flitwick introduced more nuanced incantations that required precision in both tone and motion, often expanding upon earlier spells with clever variations. Harry and Hermione, having practiced well beyond their year level, took to them with ease—particularly excelling in silent casting and layering effects.

Transfiguration became more complex, with exercises moving beyond matchsticks and buttons to animate and reconfigure small creatures, requiring precise wandwork and unwavering focus. McGonagall remained ever watchful, always ready with firm correction and rare praise.

Potions, under Snape’s critical eye, delved into more volatile brews with unstable ingredients and carefully timed steps. Though Harry had already mastered much of the theoretical framework, he continued refining his practical application, still working to ensure his hand matched his head. Each subject offered fresh challenges, but Harry and Hermione welcomed them, their bond and shared dedication keeping them ahead of the curve.

Hermione remained a steady anchor beside him, her precision and methodical nature helping smooth out many of the rough edges in his technique. Her grades were already among the best in their year, and Harry was not far behind. Their collaboration during practice sessions became a reliable routine—Hermione offering insight and corrections, Harry pushing boundaries and suggesting creative variations. Both were excelling in their studies and rapidly gaining a quiet reputation among their peers as the pair to watch.

Draco began joining their study group sporadically, his attitude still tinged with guarded aloofness but never hostile. Harry and Hermione, meanwhile, were excelling—Harry especially shining in wards and runes, often building complex theoretical structures that surprised even Hermione. She, in turn, had taken to enchantments with ease, quickly advancing past simple spell anchors into more layered charm-bindings. Their progress was unmistakable, their confidence growing with every session.

Even Neville and Susan joined in more frequently, rounding out the group with thoughtful observations and supportive energy. Neville brought a quiet steadiness and surprising insight into Herbology-linked spells, while Susan proved especially talented in practical charms, often reinforcing Hermione’s points with calm precision.

They visited Hagrid regularly, enjoying the warmth of his hut and the mugs of steaming tea he always prepared. But one evening, something strange happened. When they arrived, Hagrid was fussing over something near the fire, blocking their view with his bulky form. Eventually, he turned with an expression halfway between glee and nervousness.

"Got summat to show you," he said. "But yeh must promise not to tell anyone."

Nestled in a bed of blankets by the fire was a large, black egg, gently steaming.

Hermione gasped. "Is that a dragon egg?"

Hagrid beamed. "Norwegian Ridgeback. Won it in a card game. Isn’t it beautiful?"

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. Hagrid’s joy was unmistakable—but so was the danger.

In the days that followed, they kept a close eye on him. The egg hatched late one evening while Harry and Hermione were visiting. Hagrid had just set out three mugs of tea when the blankets near the hearth began to shift and twitch. With a sharp crack, the shell split and a snorting, squirming dragon emerged—tiny, scaly, and already full of attitude. Its mottled hide shimmered faintly in the firelight, and when it opened its mouth, a puff of smoke hissed out. Hagrid was overjoyed, cradling the creature with surprisingly gentle hands. "Norbert," he announced proudly. "That's what I’ll call him."

Harry stared in wonder, while Hermione wore a mixture of awe and panic. "He's... quite something," she said faintly, watching Norbert snap at a stray ember.

Hagrid chuckled, already feeding it small bits of meat. "Look at 'im. Ain't he a beauty?"

Their growing concern turned to panic when, while leaving the hut, Harry spotted Draco Malfoy nearby, clearly having seen everything. He cursed under his breath and quickly followed.

"Draco! Wait."

Draco turned, face unreadable.

"You saw it, didn’t you?" Harry asked quietly.

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Of course I did. Hagrid’s keeping a *dragon*."

Harry nodded, lowering his voice. "I know. And I’m sorting it. Just give me a bit of time. Please."

Draco frowned. "You think you can actually fix this?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "And if you say something, Hagrid could get into real trouble."

There was a long silence as Draco's expression shifted—hesitation flickering in his eyes. It was clear he was battling with himself, torn between his instinct to report what he'd seen and his understanding of the trouble it would cause. Finally, he looked away with a sharp exhale. "Fine. But if it explodes or bites someone—I told you so."

Relieved, Harry immediately sent a message to Griphorn, explaining the situation and asking if there was anything that could be done. The reply came the next evening.

*Leave it to me. I'll make arrangements. Expect an update soon.*

True to his word, Griphorn messaged again the next night.

*A team will arrive in the Forbidden Forest tomorrow after sunset. They will retrieve the dragon safely. Bill Weasley coordinated the contact—his brother Charlie works with dragons and agreed to help.*

Harry shared the news with Hermione, and later, the twins, who had stumbled across their whispered planning. Fred and George grinned.

"Dragon rescue? Sounds like a laugh. We’ll stand guard, make sure no one goes wandering too close to the forest."

The next evening, everything moved like clockwork. As twilight settled over Hogwarts, Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid met a small team of handlers deep in the forest. Charlie Weasley’s friends were efficient, kind, and clearly experienced.

Norbert was carefully placed in a secure crate, and Hagrid sniffled as he said goodbye, wiping his eyes with a giant handkerchief.

"He’ll be with others of his kind," Hermione said gently. "He’ll be happy."

"I know," Hagrid rumbled, voice thick. "Just hard, yeh know?"

Fred and George, true to their word, had ensured the path remained clear. No one had seen a thing. When Harry thanked them sincerely afterward, George just laughed, brushing it off with a grin. "No problem at all," he said. "Bit of mischief, a bit of rule-breaking—that’s what we do best." Fred gave an exaggerated bow, and the two of them disappeared down the path, their laughter trailing behind them.

As the handlers vanished into the trees with Norbert, Harry let out a long breath.

Crisis averted. For now.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts at night was a different place entirely. The flickering torchlight barely pushed back the shadows that clung to the ancient stone, and every hallway seemed deeper, older, somehow more alive. Wrapped in the hush of slumbering magic, Harry moved through the corridors beneath his Invisibility Cloak, not with a plan, but with the quiet thrill of exploration. He wasn’t looking for anything—he just wanted to wander, to stretch his legs, and escape the mounting pressure of exams and schoolwork.

Along his walk, he passed through familiar areas now cast in a mysterious light—the staircase that sometimes shifted, now resting in place like it slumbered too; portraits murmuring in their sleep or quietly sipping from wine glasses; tapestries that swayed with a breeze that shouldn't exist. The castle’s secrets felt just within reach, whispering to him from behind old doors and forgotten corridors.

He let his hand brush over stone walls and suit-of-armor joints as he walked. Occasionally, the walls would creak softly or the floor would moan underfoot, reminding him just how old Hogwarts was. But instead of fear, he felt awe. Like he was walking through the memories of magic itself.

It was during one such turn down a side hallway on the third floor that he noticed movement up ahead. A lone figure, pale in the moonlight, slipping silently between tapestries.

Draco Malfoy.

Curious, Harry quietly slipped off his Invisibility Cloak and tucked it into his satchel, deciding to approach openly. He padded silently forward until he was close enough to speak. "Malfoy."

Draco jumped slightly, whirling with a hand already half on his wand. But when he saw Harry, his shoulders eased.

"Potter? What are you doing out?"

Harry shrugged. "Could ask you the same thing."

Draco hesitated, then looked away. "Needed to think. Get out of the noise."

"Same."

They stood in silence for a few moments, the tension between them giving way to something quieter. Curiosity. Recognition.

"I didn’t expect you to sneak around at night, Potter," Draco said, glancing sideways.

"Didn’t expect to find company," Harry replied lightly. "Just wanted some air. The castle's different at night."

Draco gave a small nod. "Quieter. Less... demanding."

They began walking side by side, not saying much, just sharing the silence of the empty halls. The moonlight spilled through high windows, casting shifting silver across the flagstones.

"You know," Draco said after a while, "sometimes I wish it wasn’t all about names and Houses. Just… who you are."

Harry looked at him, surprised. "That why you're walking around alone too?"

Draco gave a noncommittal shrug. "Maybe."

"You're not as bad as I thought," Harry admitted.

"Don’t tell anyone," Draco said, almost smiling.

They didn’t walk far before a stern voice echoed through the hall. "Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy."

Professor McGonagall stepped from a shadow, lips pressed tight. Her eyes flicked between them.

McGonagall gave them both a long, assessing look, clearly trying to decide whether to be stern or surprised. "Out after curfew. Together," she finally said, her voice cool. "I must admit, I wasn’t expecting that. Still—rules are rules. Five points each from Ravenclaw and Slytherin. And detention. Tomorrow night, with Hagrid."

Harry opened his mouth, but closed it again. Draco looked like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it.

McGonagall's eyes narrowed slightly. "For what it’s worth, I appreciate that there was no mischief. Just... contemplation. Still, next time, try walking during the day, Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter."

She turned sharply on her heel, her cloak flaring behind her, and disappeared into the shadows with barely a sound. Left alone again, the boys exchanged a glance—half embarrassment, half reluctant amusement.

"Well," Draco said quietly, "that could’ve gone worse."

Harry snorted. "Only five points. We must be charming."

After a few more minutes of quiet walking, Harry and Draco stopped near the stairwell that would lead them to their separate dormitories.

"Well," Draco said, shifting his weight slightly, "thanks for not being a total prat tonight."

Harry smirked. "Likewise."

A beat passed. Then, almost in unison:

"Goodnight."

They turned and headed in opposite directions, their footsteps quiet against the stone. For a moment, the stillness of the castle returned—peaceful, yet alive with magic.

The next morning, Harry explained what had happened the night before to Hermione over breakfast, her eyes widening in disbelief at both the patrol and the unexpected conversation with Draco. She was a bit wary, but agreed it was interesting to see another side to him. They talked it over while reviewing their class schedules and finishing toast.

They went through their day as normal, attending Charms and Transfiguration, both focused but a bit distracted about the coming detention.

That evening, just before curfew, they parted ways, and Harry headed out toward Hagrid's hut for detention. Draco arrived a few minutes later, giving Harry a short nod. They exchanged a glance before Hagrid greeted them, cheery as ever, and handed each a lantern.

"C'mon, lads. We're headin' into the Forest tonight. Got somethin' hurtin' unicorns in there. Bad business. Gotta see what we can find."

The Forbidden Forest was heavy with unease. Thick mist curled around gnarled tree trunks, and shadows seemed to move just beyond the reach of their lanterns. Fang padded along beside them, snorting at unfamiliar scents and staying unusually close to Harry. The air was damp, filled with the scent of moss, earth, and something faintly metallic.

Hagrid trudged ahead, his boots crunching over twigs and leaves, a large crossbow slung over his back. "Stay close, now," he said, voice lower than usual. "Forest's not safe these days. Somethin’s been hurtin’ unicorns. Doesn’t leave a clean mark either. Bad business, that."

Harry, Draco, and Fang moved as a unit, while Hagrid soon veered off onto a narrow side path, waving them to keep going along the main trail. "Jus’ for a bit," he whispered. "Gonna check somethin’ I saw earlier." With that, his figure disappeared into the thick underbrush, his lantern swinging faintly through the trees.

Left mostly on their own, the three proceeded cautiously. The woods were eerily quiet, broken only by rustling leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl. Overhead, the thick canopy blotted out most of the moonlight, making the forest seem even more suffocating. Twisted roots threatened to trip them with every step, and the air grew colder the deeper they walked. Harry kept glancing sideways at Draco, noting the tension in his shoulders and the tight grip he had on his wand. Even Fang, normally bold, stayed close to their legs, ears flicking nervously. Every now and then, Harry paused to look around, his nerves prickling, half-expecting movement in the shadows.

They found a faint, silvery trail of unicorn blood, winding through the underbrush and glistening like stardust in the moonlight. Following it the path twisted between gnarled roots and hanging moss, drawing them deeper into the Forbidden Forest. Every broken branch and crimson-smeared leaf heightened their tension.

As they reached a small clearing shrouded in mist, they froze. Ahead, beneath the pale silver light breaking through the canopy, a figure crouched over a limp, glimmering form—the corpse of a unicorn. The creature was majestic even in death, its silvery blood glistening like liquid starlight.

A dark hooded figure knelt beside it, its face obscured. It lowered its head to the wound and began to drink the blood.

Harry's breath caught. A searing pain lanced across his forehead—his scar igniting like fire. He stumbled back with a gasp, clutching his head, just as Fang yelped and bolted into the trees, tail tucked. The sudden movement startled the creature, which jerked up from the unicorn's body, dark hood falling back just enough to reveal a glint of something pale and grotesque beneath. The air turned colder, heavier, and the scent of blood and death thickened. Harry forced himself to his feet, still clutching his scar, wand raised with trembling fingers as the creature shifted toward them with silent menace.

The figure turned, sensing them. The weight of its gaze settled on him—ancient, unnatural, pressing on his soul like a curse woven through time.

Suddenly, with unnatural speed, the creature lunged toward them, and both Harry and Draco flinched, raising their wands in alarm. But before it could reach them, an arrow thudded into the ground just inches from its path. The dark figure hissed and recoiled, vanishing into the shadows with eerie grace, leaving behind only a few droplets of silvery unicorn blood.

Harry and Draco stared in stunned silence, their hearts pounding. Then came the sound of snapping twigs—a new presence approaching. A centaur burst into the clearing—tall, proud, and stern-eyed—his bow already raised, another arrow notched and ready.

"Back, foul thing!" he shouted into the darkness, though the creature was already gone. He lowered his bow slightly, stepping closer to the boys with a protective posture.

Another centaur stepped forward from the mists, his tone sharp. "The signs were clear. Mars is bright—war brews. This is only the beginning."

The two centaurs began arguing in hushed, intense tones about the stars and omens, while Harry clutched at his scar, still throbbing faintly. Before long, Hagrid came crashing through the underbrush with fang, crossbow raised, eyes scanning wildly.

"Harry! Draco! You alright?"

He froze at the sight of the centaurs, giving them a brief nod. "Did yeh see what it was?"

"It drank the unicorn's blood," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. "It saw us. It tried to attack—but the centaur stopped it."

The centaurs shared a grave look. One stepped closer. "That creature is not meant to walk freely. Beware, young wizard. Dark forces stir."

Hagrid urged them to leave quickly, casting one last look at the fallen unicorn. As they turned to go, Harry stole one last glance at the silvery form lying motionless beneath the trees, his stomach twisting. The air felt colder, heavier, and the night seemed darker than it had before.

They walked in silence at first, their footsteps muffled by the mossy forest floor. Stars twinkled faintly overhead through breaks in the canopy, distant and serene in contrast to the horror they'd just witnessed. Draco kept casting uneasy glances over his shoulder, while Hagrid’s usual cheer was entirely absent. His shoulders were hunched, his hand white-knuckled around the lantern.

"You alright, both of yeh?" Hagrid finally asked, voice rough.

Harry nodded slowly. "It just... it felt wrong. Like something ancient was looking at us."

Draco didn’t speak, but his pale face and tense jaw said enough.

As they emerged from the trees, the castle lights shimmered through the mist like a lighthouse in the night. The weight of what they had seen still clung to them, and even Hogwarts' familiar silhouette offered only a small measure of comfort.

Together, they made their way back to the castle under the weight of silence and stars.

After that, normalcy returned. Or as much as Hogwarts ever offered.

Exams loomed, and Harry and Hermione threw themselves into study with relentless focus. Charms grew more complex, incorporating multiple wand movements and the need for exact pronunciation. Transfiguration demanded mental acuity and deep understanding, forcing them to revise concepts they’d thought they already mastered. Potions became a true test of nerves and fine control; brewing even a simple draught could go wrong if one forgot to stir counter-clockwise after three clockwise turns. Harry, while not yet flawless in application, had made great strides—his grasp of theory, reinforced by obsessive note-taking and Hermione’s quizzing, gave him an edge even when his hand occasionally faltered. Though he still needed more hands-on practice, his brews were no longer hazardous, and Professor Snape grudgingly noted his improvement. With every passing day, their confidence grew, stitched together by hours of work and whispered strategies exchanged during long study nights.

Draco continued attending some study sessions, quieter than usual. His presence was no longer met with tension, and he offered quiet but thoughtful contributions to discussions. Neville and Susan joined frequently, bringing their own insights and forming a comfortable rhythm with Harry and Hermione. The group grew close in their shared goal of mastering the material, often spending long evenings exchanging study tips, notes, and laughter. Yet, even as the sessions became familiar and steady, a faint sense of unease lingered in Harry's chest—an unshakable feeling that something was building beneath the surface, just out of sight.

That feeling crystallized one night as he and Hermione left the library, their bags slung over their shoulders and laughter from a shared joke still lingering in the air. They were halfway back to the Ravenclaw common room, the castle quiet around them, when hurried footsteps echoed from a nearby corridor. Susan Bones came rushing toward them, her face flushed and eyes wide with urgency, clearly out of breath from running.

"Ron. He—he forced Neville into going with him to the third floor. I heard someone say Ron was going on and on about Snape trying to steal something, and Ron basically forced Neville to go with him—he didn’t want to, but Ron wouldn’t let up. I think they’ve already left."

Harry's heart dropped. "What? When?"

"A few minutes ago I think. I tried to tell Professor Quirrell, but he brushed me off. And Dumbledore’s not even here tonight."

Hermione grabbed Harry's arm. "We have to stop them. They have no idea what they're walking into."

"Go find Flitwick or McGonagall," Harry told Susan quickly. "Tell them what's happening. We'll go after Neville and Ron."

Harry’s jaw clenched, and Hermione looked outraged. Susan gave a worried glance in the direction she’d come from. "I'll find Professor Flitwick or McGonagall and tell them what's going on."

She darted off, and Harry and Hermione raced toward the third floor, their hearts pounding with urgency.

The door was ajar. Soft music drifted from within. Harry paused, exchanging a look with Hermione. "The music. Hagrid said Fluffy sleeps to music. Whoever gave him that egg must have used it to get this far."

They slipped in. The three-headed dog was dozing, all three heads snoring softly. The trapdoor at its feet stood open. Holding their breath, they eased forward and dropped through.

They landed in something soft and thick.

"Devil's Snare," Hermione realized immediately, her voice tight with urgency. She quickly muttered an incantation—"Lumos Solem!"—sending a burst of warm, bright light across the entangling vines. The enchanted plant recoiled instantly, writhing away from the heat and illumination. Harry and Hermione dropped to the ground with a thud, gasping for breath as the tendrils withdrew into the shadows above. "That was close," Harry muttered, brushing dust off his robes. They locked eyes for a moment, then scrambled forward toward the next chamber, hearts still pounding.

The next chamber opened into a vast, high-ceilinged room filled with hundreds of glittering, fluttering keys—each with shimmering wings that reflected the dim light in a dazzling kaleidoscope of motion. They zipped through the air like metallic birds, their wings humming softly as they swooped and circled. Along the far wall stood a single heavy wooden door with a large, ornate lock. Suspended just before it was a key that stood out—it was slightly bent, its flight erratic compared to the others, as if it had been manhandled in a previous attempt. The sight of it made Harry narrow his eyes in determination, already searching the room for a broomstick or any means to reach it.

Harry spotted a broom. "That one."

It didn’t take long. He darted through the air, weaving and dipping as the glittering keys swooped around him. A few brushed past his robes, their metal wings humming sharply in his ears. But Harry remained focused, his eyes locked on the damaged key. With a burst of speed, he surged forward, fingers outstretched—and caught it. The key wriggled furiously in his grasp, its wings beating against his wrist, but he tightened his grip and zoomed toward the door. He hovered for a moment, then jammed the key into the lock and twisted. The door clicked open with a satisfying *thunk*, and Harry landed lightly, panting, but triumphant.

The next room was a disaster. Shattered chess pieces lay strewn across the stone floor, remnants of a fierce and chaotic battle. The air still crackled faintly with lingering magic, and several scorched marks marred the floor. At the center, crumpled between two broken pawns, Neville lay still, his robes torn and dusty.

"Neville!" Harry shouted, racing to his side with Hermione close behind.

He knelt beside their friend, heart pounding. Neville was breathing—shallow but steady. His face was pale, and a nasty bump swelled at his temple. Hermione quickly cast a diagnostic charm, her wand glowing a soft blue as she moved it over Neville's form.

"Some bruising, a mild concussion, and possibly a fractured wrist," she reported. "He must have tried to play through the game and got caught in the crossfire."

Harry looked around at the destruction, putting the pieces together. "He must’ve made it this far before Ron… forced him into this. He didn’t stand a chance alone."

Hermione’s jaw tightened. "We need to get him out of here—but if someone’s already ahead of us…"

They shared a look. Harry gently lifted Neville and carried him to the side of the room, settling him behind a toppled rook for protection.

"We’ll come back for him," Hermione said softly, tucking her cloak over him for warmth. "Let’s go."

Harry nodded, and together they stepped through the next door.

The next room was darker, the smell of rot and damp stone hanging heavy in the air. As they stepped inside, they were met with a deep, rhythmic breathing and the foul stench of sweat. A hulking mountain of flesh slumped against the far wall—a troll, unmistakable and enormous, with mottled gray skin and a massive club resting beside its hand.

"Stay quiet," Hermione whispered, her fingers clutching Harry’s arm.

They crept forward cautiously, barely daring to breathe. The troll was asleep, its snores echoing around the room like thunderclaps. A half-eaten carcass of some unfortunate creature lay nearby, adding to the stench. They tiptoed past it, hugging the far wall.

The troll stirred, grunted—but didn’t wake.

Only when they had slipped through the far door did they let out the breaths they hadn’t realized they’d been holding. Hermione glanced back once, eyes wide. "That must've been where the troll from Halloween came from," she whispered. Harry nodded grimly, his expression tight. "Makes sense. Same kind of troll, probably part of the same pair—or a replacement." The realization sat heavy in their stomachs, adding another layer of unease to their already racing hearts as they turned to face the next chamber.

The next room was a narrow chamber lined with bottles, the stone walls slick with condensation and lit by a soft, eerie purple glow emanating from the bottles themselves. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the faint clink of glass as the enchanted flames along the wall flickered. A large stone table stood near the far end of the room, upon which lay a rolled parchment with a carefully penned riddle. The air carried a faint scent of herbs and something acrid—perhaps a potion long evaporated. The chamber felt markedly different from the others—less about physical challenge, more about wit and precision, and it made Harry and Hermione exchange a glance. It was a test of the mind.

"Logic puzzle," Hermione murmured, scanning the riddle etched into the stone.

After a tense few moments, she pointed to a small vial. "Only enough for one. You go," she said firmly. "I'll stay behind, get Neville to the Hospital Wing, and try to find a teacher. If I can't, I'll come back."

Harry hesitated. "Are you sure?"

Hermione gave him a determined look. "Yes. You've come this far. Someone has to stop whoever's behind this. And someone has to make sure Neville is alright."

Harry nodded slowly, his jaw set. "Be careful."

"You too," she replied, offering a tight but encouraging smile.

He took the vial, uncorked it, and drank. The cold liquid slid down his throat like ice. Bracing himself, Harry stepped through the black flames, leaving Hermione behind in the eerie glow of the potion chamber.

Chapter Text

Harry stepped cautiously into the final chamber, heart pounding so loud it felt like thunder in his ears. The room was vast and domed, lit only by flickering torches that cast long, shifting shadows against the ancient stone walls. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint crackle of flames and Harry's own ragged breath. Standing motionless in the center of the room was Professor Quirrell, his back straight, posture poised. Something about him was off—eerily calm.

Near the far side of the chamber, Ron Weasley lay crumpled and unmoving on the floor, his limbs splayed awkwardly, clearly unconscious. A dark bruise was spreading along his temple, and his wand lay discarded nearby.

"Professor?" Harry called out, his voice tense, wand clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

Quirrell turned slowly to face him, and Harry’s stomach dropped. There was no trace of the nervous, stammering man he’d known all year. Instead, the eyes that met his were cold and calculating, gleaming with an unsettling sharpness. The turban was slightly askew, a few strands of sweat-damp hair curling beneath it.

"Ah, Harry Potter," Quirrell said, his voice smooth and too calm. "At last, we meet properly."

The chill that swept over Harry had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. Something in Quirrell’s voice was deeply wrong—it was too steady, too rehearsed, like he was reading from a script memorized long ago.

"Ron—what did you do to him?" Harry demanded.

"He was in the way," Quirrell said simply. "He followed the clues, but had no idea what awaited him here. Pity, really."

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened. "Where’s the Stone?"

Quirrell smiled. "You’ll get it for me. That mirror behind you—it holds the key."

Harry turned slightly. The Mirror of Erised stood against the far wall. It looked different now, almost darker. The surface shimmered with silver mist.

Quirrell gestured impatiently. "Look into it. See what you desire. Bring me the Stone."

Harry stepped toward the mirror slowly, cautiously, every sense on high alert. He didn’t know what would happen—but as he looked into the glass, his reflection stared back with a calm confidence. The reflection reached into its pocket and pulled out the Philosopher’s Stone, holding it up with a small, knowing smile before giving Harry a cheeky wink. At that very moment, Harry felt a sudden, solid weight settle in his real pocket—the Stone was now his.

Quirrell stepped closer. "What do you see?"

Harry kept his expression neutral. "I see myself in the library, getting a commendation for organizing and returning every book to its proper place after exam season."

The voice that answered was no longer Quirrell’s. It was higher. Harsher.

"He lies!" came a hiss.

Quirrell clutched at his head—and suddenly the turban unwound. Beneath it was a face, pale and skeletal, embedded in the back of Quirrell’s skull. Voldemort.

"Give me the Stone, boy," he rasped. "I know you have it."

Harry didn't move. "No."

Quirrell raised his hand, and a pulse of magic slammed into Harry. He managed to shield the worst of it with a hastily raised Protego and one of the goblin-forged amulets he wore, its runes briefly flaring to life.

He countered with a stunning spell and a razor-thin cutting hex. Then, with a quick flick, he conjured a sudden blast of light behind Quirrell to momentarily blind him—an improvised use of Lumos Maxima. He ducked behind a stone pillar, transfiguring a shard of rubble into a mirror to reflect spells and catch sight of Quirrell’s positioning. He used Scourgify on the ground, making the floor slick and forcing Quirrell to adjust his stance. At one point, he redirected a Levitation Charm to knock over a torch bracket, momentarily scattering sparks. The duel intensified—flashes of red, blue, and silver lighting up the chamber. Harry held his ground longer than Quirrell expected, his magical instincts and clever, unorthodox use of spells surprising for a first-year.

But even with his goblin protection necklace absorbing several glancing curses, Harry fought back with remarkable tenacity. He used Scourgify in quick bursts to blind and distract, redirected Lumos into dazzling flashes, and even fired off a well-aimed Colovaria to momentarily shift the color of Quirrell’s robes, throwing off his targeting. A sharp, downward-pointed Wingardium Leviosa lifted a slab of stone just enough to block an incoming hex. Despite all of this, he was still only a first-year, and Quirrell’s relentless assault began to wear him down. Eventually, a powerful blast caught him off guard, bypassing his defenses and knocking his wand from his hand, sending it clattering across the stone floor.

Panting, wandless, Harry stared down Voldemort. The Dark Lord laughed, thinking it was over.

Then Harry charged.

He dove straight at Quirrell, fists clenched, fury and instinct driving him. As soon as his hand connected with Quirrell’s exposed face, a terrible scream erupted from the man. His skin sizzled and smoked beneath Harry's touch. The searing agony in Harry’s scar flared, nearly blinding him with pain, but he grit his teeth and didn’t let go. He forced his other hand onto Quirrell’s head, doubling the contact. The burning intensified, magical fire sparking at his fingertips, and the air filled with the acrid stench of scorched flesh and dark magic unraveling.

Harry’s scream joined Quirrell’s as Voldemort’s face twisted in rage. Quirrell's body convulsed violently, a sickening crack echoing through the chamber. A thick, black mist surged outward—Voldemort’s shade—writhing with malevolent energy. It paused for a heartbeat, its hollow eyes seeming to lock with Harry’s before it lunged forward. The mist slammed into Harry’s chest with the force of a crashing wave, cold and searing all at once. His scar flared with blinding agony as the dark essence surged through him, tearing at something deep inside. Harry gasped, stumbling back as the world tilted, shadows stretching and warping. Voldemort’s wail echoed through the chamber before the shade twisted skyward and moved with speed towards the stone ceiling, with black smoke in its wake.

Agony.

Harry collapsed, vision darkening. Shapes burst into the room—Dumbledore’s robes, Flitwick’s wand glowing, McGonagall’s stern face. Voldemort’s scream echoed as he fled through the ceiling. Then nothing.

---

He woke up in the Hospital Wing.

White sheets. A dull ache in his scar. The smell of potions. Dumbledore sat beside him, eyes twinkling but grave.

They talked. About the Stone. About Voldemort. About how love left a mark that Voldemort could not bear. Dumbledore danced around answers, but Harry asked careful questions and pressed when he noticed the man avoiding something. While Dumbledore avoided naming names, Harry pieced together that the protections on him were older magic, tied to sacrifice and intent. He also questioned why the professors hadn’t arrived sooner. Dumbledore spoke of monitoring charms and ancient safeguards, of how the school itself stirred when something dark crossed its thresholds. Still, Harry wasn’t satisfied. He pressed further—about Quirrell, about the timing, about who had known what. Dumbledore’s smile faltered at times, and Harry noticed every shift. He didn’t trust the man—but he listened carefully. And when he finally asked if Voldemort would return, Dumbledore’s answer was quiet but clear: “He will try.”

Visitors came. Hermione hugged him tightly, scolding him for doing something so reckless but also clearly relieved. She pulled over a chair and insisted on hearing everything, asking rapid-fire questions even as she fussed with his pillow. Neville and Susan both dropped off cards and fruit—Neville shyly handing Harry a small potted plant he’d charmed to glow softly when touched. Flitwick and McGonagall visited next, praising his bravery with warm, proud words. Flitwick, especially, looked deeply pleased and added that the goblins would be hearing of this with interest.

Then came Fred and George, their arms full of jokes, snacks, and wildly exaggerated stories of what they’d heard happened. Fred dropped off a pile of treats and made a dramatic bow, but George lingered longer. He pulled up a chair after Fred wandered off and talked more quietly with Harry—his usual grin softer, eyes scanning Harry’s face carefully. “You alright, really?” he asked, almost too casual. When Harry nodded and smiled back, George seemed to accept it—but his hand rested briefly on Harry’s wrist before he stood to leave, a moment of contact that lingered more than his words.

Classes resumed. Life at Hogwarts carried on. Students whispered about what had happened, but few knew the full truth. Exams were over, summer approached.

At the End-of-Year Feast, the House Cup was announced:

Slytherin: 472
Ravenclaw: 446
Hufflepuff: 352
Gryffindor: 281

Then came the final point awards.

"To Miss Hermione Granger and Mr. Harry Potter," Dumbledore said, "for outstanding bravery and cleverness—fifteen points each."

Ravenclaw jumped to 476.

"To Miss Susan Bones—for her quick thinking and responsibility—fifteen points."

Hufflepuff: 367.

"And to Mr. Ronald Weasley—for endangering his classmates—twenty points from Gryffindor."

The Hall gasped. Gryffindor fell to 261.

Dumbledore raised his arms for quiet, his voice carrying across the Hall. "The final House totals are as follows," he announced, his eyes sweeping over the four long tables.

"Gryffindor: 261. Hufflepuff: 367. Slytherin: 472. And Ravenclaw... 476."

Gasps, murmurs, and then—

Ravenclaw erupted in cheers. For the first time in years, they won the House Cup.

---

The following morning, the exam results were posted on the House boards. Harry and Hermione had both done exceptionally well—Hermione had the top marks in almost every subject, while Harry, thanks to his intense studying and natural aptitude, was not far behind. Flitwick congratulated both of them personally, his pride evident. Neville and Susan had also performed admirably, earning praise from their professors. Draco had done well too, especially in Potions and Charms. There was a shared sense of accomplishment and relief among the students, especially the Ravenclaws, who had worked diligently all year.

As trunks were packed and the train prepared to leave, Harry stood by the gate with Hermione and Neville. George gave him a one-armed hug.

"See you over the summer?"

Harry smiled. "Definitely."

And when he got home—not to the Dursleys, but to his flat in Diagon Alley.

Freedom, safety.

And the quiet strength of a future that finally belonged to him.

Chapter Text

Summer in Diagon Alley was a blend of bustling noise and hidden corners, and Harry was beginning to feel truly at home among its winding streets and ever-curious shops. Two weeks had passed since the end of term, and he and Hermione had settled into a comfortable rhythm of study, exploration, and quiet companionship.

Most mornings were spent in the sitting room of Harry's flat, parchment and books spread across the small table. They began by reviewing all their first-year work, from Charms to Transfiguration. Reparo came easily, both of them able to restore shattered vases and snapped quills with graceful flicks of their wands. Object-to-object transfiguration was nearly perfected, and even the more complex animal-to-object transformations—like turning a mouse into a snuffbox—were consistent, though occasionally the box retained twitching whiskers.

"We're getting there," Hermione said brightly after managing a clean transformation, the mouse-turned-snuffbox now utterly inert.

"Definitely," Harry agreed, watching the snuffbox warily just in case.

In the afternoons, they moved on to second-year topics with renewed energy. Rictusempra, the Tickling Charm, led to several chaotic duels filled with breathless laughter and spells gone awry—more than once, one of them ended up on the floor clutching their sides. Expelliarmus quickly became a favorite, and they practiced disarming each other from across the room until they could do it with speed and precision. Hermione, ever diligent, mastered Finite Incantatem with impressive finesse, using it to clean up after each session and occasionally showing off by canceling multiple minor effects at once.

Depulso required careful control—they accidentally sent a few books flying off shelves before getting the hang of it. Tarantallegra, meanwhile, caused Harry's chair to dance across the floor when Hermione miscast it, and the resulting laughter left them breathless.

Their enchanted object transfiguration exercises added to the chaos—soon their flat was littered with jittery paperweights that squeaked when moved and teacups that hummed softly if left alone too long. Still, every mishap was a lesson, and the steady improvement in their spells left them both pleased with their progress.

Runes became a shared passion. Hermione had taken to enchanting small stones with simple charms, starting with warmth spells and quiet alarms, and soon moving into multi-layered enchantments that glowed faintly when touched. Harry, on the other hand, dove deep into protective runes and warding theory, often spending hours with his nose buried in thick goblin-translated tomes, carefully copying rune sequences onto parchment and experimenting with their combinations. Griphorn's notes had encouraged him to think like a wardcrafter rather than just a student, to question the intent and structure of every line, and to explore the resonance between runes. Harry found the intricate logic of wards both challenging and deeply satisfying—each success felt like unlocking a hidden door within magic itself.

When they weren't studying, Harry explored Diagon Alley with growing confidence. He browsed every bookstore he could find, stocking up on second-year materials and niche texts on rune theory, magical history, and curse-breaking. He purchased new robes that actually fit, extra ink in colors ranging from classic black to shimmering silver, and a collection of magical trinkets—some useful, others simply oddities that intrigued him. The flat slowly transformed from a quiet refuge into a vibrant reflection of his personality, filled with floating candles, softly glowing warding diagrams on the walls, and a curated shelf of enchanted objects.

One of his favorite finds was a magical bonsai tree from a tiny, enchanted plant shop tucked between two potion suppliers. The tree thrummed gently when touched and emitted a low hum when watered, as though singing in gratitude. Inspired, Harry began experimenting with rune-infused plant wards, using it as a test subject for harmless enchantments. It became a sort of mascot for his studies—its slow, steady growth mirroring his own journey into independence and magical mastery.

One of the days, a message arrived.

The scroll was sealed with goblin script and carried a weight of importance. It read:

**Mr. Potter,**
**Griphorn requests your presence at Gringotts at your earliest convenience. Your cooperation and continued discretion are appreciated.**

Harry dressed neatly in deep blue robes and made his way through the familiar marble doors of Gringotts. The goblins at the entrance greeted him with curt nods, their sharp eyes briefly assessing him before returning to their tasks. The grandeur of the goblin-run bank never failed to impress him—cool stone beneath his feet, runes etched subtly into the walls, and chandeliers that glittered with floating crystals instead of candles.

A goblin clerk stepped forward wordlessly and gestured for Harry to follow. They wove through a series of high-ceilinged, torch-lit halls, passing armored guards and doors engraved with old Gobbledegook. A few goblins along the way gave Harry slight nods of recognition, their expressions unreadable but no longer cold.

Finally, they arrived at a heavy black-iron door embossed with warding sigils. The goblin pushed it open, revealing Griphorn’s office—a wide chamber lined with bookshelves, softly glowing runic diagrams, and a long desk strewn with parchment, crystal vials, and a few curious magical items.

"Heir Potter," Griphorn greeted, his voice rough but calm as he stood behind the desk and gestured to a chair across from him.

"Just Harry is fine," he replied, offering a smile as he stepped inside.

"Very well. We have much to discuss."

They began with the past term’s events: the cursed bludger that had nearly struck Harry down during the Quidditch match, the strange increase in his scar’s pain, Quirrell’s betrayal and true allegiance, and ultimately the confrontation in the chamber beyond the traps meant to guard the Philosopher’s Stone. Griphorn listened with quiet intensity, asking sharp, clarifying questions between bouts of rapid note-taking. His clawed quill scratched swiftly across rune-etched parchment, glinting faintly beneath the shifting hues of runelight that pulsed overhead. When Harry spoke of the Mirror of Erised, and the surreal compulsion that had drawn him back to it, Griphorn made a low, thoughtful noise in his throat but said nothing at the time, merely underlining something with a steady hand.

There was a pause as Griphorn set aside his notes, then steepled his fingers. "Now, we should also speak of Albus Dumbledore."

Harry met Griphorn's gaze evenly. "What about him?"

"There have been... inconsistencies," Griphorn said carefully. "He is not merely uninformed—he is complicit. The magical blocks placed upon you should have faded naturally. Instead, they were compounded. The potion traces were subtle, but their nature suggests long-term administration—likely through food or drink while you were still in the Dudleys care."

"He was one of the few who had access to you while you were under guardianship," Griphorn continued. "And he is known to manipulate events for what he considers the 'greater good.' But your autonomy was never his to shape."

Harry swallowed hard. "I'm done letting people control me."

Griphorn inclined his head. "Then we are in agreement. And we will ensure he cannot interfere with your path again."

They sat in silence a moment longer, the light of the runes on the office walls pulsing gently, as if echoing the fire rising behind Harry’s eyes.

"We’ve already begun a full diagnostic of the protections layered on you," Griphorn continued. "As well as a comparative analysis of your magical signature—before and after the incident. There are several anomalies. Shifts in magical resonance that suggest interference beyond what we initially suspected."

Harry leaned forward slightly. "The scar’s been worse since. Not constant, but sharp, and not just when I think about him. Sometimes when I sleep."

Griphorn nodded grimly. "Exactly the sort of instability we’re tracking. This will help us determine if any remnants of his magic were left behind... or worse, tethered."

Harry nodded. "I assumed. The scar—it still burns sometimes."

"Which brings us to him," Griphorn said, and the door opened to reveal a tall, red-haired man.

"Bill Weasley," the man said, stepping in. "Curse Breaker, Gringotts."

Harry stood to shake his hand. "You're one of the twins' older brothers."

"Guilty," Bill grinned. "Griphorn asked me to help examine your scar. The magic's dark. Very old. Possibly necromantic. We're close to understanding it, but it isn’t simple."

They spent nearly an hour poring over magical scans and dissecting layers of dark curse residue, with Bill occasionally sketching complex curse diagrams on enchanted parchment. The conversation shifted from basic dark magic identifiers to more obscure necromantic signs, and Bill seemed genuinely impressed by how well Harry followed along. They debated several ancient case studies, comparing symptoms and magical signatures. Harry shared how his scar would react not only to thoughts of Voldemort, but also to certain wards and magical spaces, which prompted Bill to scribble additional notes with furrowed brows. At last, with a promise to dig deeper into one specific ritual pattern he suspected might be linked, Bill stood. "I'll review some more ancient tomb scans and get back to you both soon," he said, giving Harry a firm handshake before departing with a nod to Griphorn.

Griphorn turned serious. "We also reviewed your health and magical state. Your progress is strong. If you're willing, we would like to conduct another inheritance and health test to measure the changes and ensure your continued healing."

"Yes, please."

Harry repeated the blood ritual, seven drops on parchment. As the inked letters shimmered into place, Griphorn leaned forward to read them aloud:

**Health and Inheritance Update – Heir Harry James Hagrid Potter**

* **Magical Core:** 95% unblocked; stabilization proceeding smoothly.
* **Metamorphmagus Ability:** 85% unblocked; voluntary control emerging.
* **Parseltongue Block:** Removed completely.
* **Parselmagic Block:** Now 30% unblocked; signs of awakening.
* **Potion Effects:** Fully cleared; no remaining effects detected.
* **Physical Health:** Considerable improvement. No active malnourishment; bone healing successful.
* **Dark Magic Traces (Scar):** Detected – significant fluctuation present; continued monitoring required.
* **Memory Ability:** 95% unblocked; absorption capacity increasing with usage and mental clarity.

Griphorn nodded in approval as he reviewed the results. "You are healing," he said firmly. "Faster than expected, and more completely than we dared hope."

Then came the final matter.

"Black," Griphorn said. "Your godfather."

Harry sat forward, eyes sharp.

"We have reason to believe his imprisonment may have been orchestrated without due process. I have contacted Director Amelia Bones of the DMLE. She is investigating and will respond within the week."

Harry felt something shift in his chest—hope, cautious and fierce. "Thank you."

They spoke a while longer, drifting from topics of magical theory to personal ambitions. Harry talked animatedly about his progress in runes, especially in ward crafting, describing how he'd layered defensive sequences around his bonsai tree and successfully triggered conditional responses. Griphorn listened with growing interest, offering suggestions and asking pointed questions that made Harry pause and think more deeply.

They discussed resonance chains and multi-layer glyph alignment, with Harry showing surprising insight for someone so young. Griphorn even brought out an old goblin ward map from a vault security case and let Harry try to analyze the pattern. When Harry correctly identified a flawed node cluster, Griphorn cracked a rare, toothy smile, clearly impressed.

"You think like a wardcrafter," he said gruffly. "Not just a student. That’s rare."

Harry grinned, flushed with pride. "I just want to understand how it all fits together. Every symbol, every line—it’s like its own language."

"Exactly," Griphorn said, tapping a claw on the table. "And you’re learning to speak it."

"One final matter," Harry said as he stood to leave. "Can I safely study potions in my flat? And... is the Trace active on me here?"

Griphorn's smile widened faintly. "The Trace, as enforced by the Ministry, does not function within goblin-protected properties. Your apartment qualifies. As for potions, we can provide safeguards and materials. A tutor can also be arranged if you want."

Harry left with a lighter step, already planning his next study session.

The firelight in his flat flickered warmly that evening, casting runic shadows across the walls. And as the summer rolled on, so too did his resolve.

This was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The rhythm of summer continued to settle around Diagon Alley like a warm charm. Each morning, Harry and Hermione met over tea and toast at the small table in Harry's flat, surrounded by parchment scrolls, ink bottles, rune-carved stones, cauldrons with potion residue, and half-finished enchanted trinkets. The air was filled with the comforting rustle of turning pages, the scratch of quills, and the occasional excited burst of discovery.

Earlier in the summer, Harry had taken the time to set up a safe potion brewing station in a corner of his flat. With Griphorn’s guidance and a few extra wards purchased from reputable shops in Diagon Alley, he had created a warded workspace shielded against minor accidents. Copper cauldrons sat nested atop rune-etched ceramic slabs that absorbed heat, and several protective charms hung over the area to contain fumes and sudden pops. Brewing was a slow but rewarding process, and Harry spent hours perfecting simple first-year potions like Cure for Boils and the Forgetfulness Draught, steadily working up to more complex brews.

During a visit to Gringotts, Harry had also asked Griphorn whether he could study Gobbledegook—the goblin language—and its magical properties. The goblin had looked at him appraisingly, then silently handed over a thick tome bound in dark hide and covered in faintly glowing symbols.

"This,” Griphorn said, “is one of the foundational texts of goblin magical script. Learn it. Understand it. And perhaps one day, you’ll be able to read what your wards are truly saying."

Now, the book sat open beside Harry’s rune texts, its complex runes and layered meanings slowly unraveling as he worked through the chapters. Hermione, fascinated as always, sometimes leaned over to help translate or to compare them with similar ancient human runes.

Their mornings had become rich with overlapping studies—magic, language, alchemy—all woven together in the quiet warmth of Harry’s growing home.

They began each session by reviewing spells from their first and second year studies, dedicating focused time to refine both their wand movements and incantations with near-professional precision. Reparo was now muscle memory to them—delicate glassware, cracked ornaments, and even a shattered mirror restored effortlessly. Hermione’s transfigurations between objects flowed without hesitation; she could shift a quill into a brooch or a teacup into a thimble without a flicker of strain. Harry, quick on the uptake, consistently transfigured insects into identical buttons, toy mice, or tiny decorative carvings in under five seconds.

Their dueling sessions were equal parts discipline and amusement. They practiced disarming each other with Expelliarmus until their reflexes were razor sharp, and counter-curses flew across the room like practiced choreography. Laughter often broke through the focus—especially when Tarantallegra sent Harry twirling uncontrollably into the couch, or when Hermione accidentally Depulso-ed three cushions directly into his face, knocking off his glasses.

They also incorporated their runes into hands-on experiments—Harry etched temporary kinetic-absorbing wards into segments of stone and wood, then hit them with carefully modulated spells to observe impact resistance and dispersion patterns. Hermione enchanted a series of polished tokens that reacted to magical proximity and intent, logging pulse rhythms and glow fluctuations in response to stimuli. They tested rune chains under different magical loads, measuring feedback with borrowed detection crystals from Flourish and Blotts’ experimental section. Each layer of magic became more complex as they refined not just the runes themselves, but their practical application, interlocking intent, and durability. With every test and recalibration, their progress became more sophisticated and impressive, making even minor breakthroughs feel like monumental victories.

But where they truly excelled—where their passion lit the air—was in runes themselves. Together, they pored over ancient scripts and newer experimental theories. Harry had developed a habit of covering every spare inch of parchment with trial wards. His latest creation was a proximity alert glyph matrix etched into the flat’s entrance that flared faintly blue when someone approached. He was also experimenting with rune chains that could absorb kinetic energy from minor spells.

Hermione had enchanted a set of tiny ceramic animals, each with a different reactive charm. One would hum softly when someone nearby was angry, while another levitated when exposed to moonlight. She was now designing a more complex enchantment matrix that could be bound to personal objects—early prototypes for warded storage boxes or self-activating safety charms.

They spent afternoons sprawled in the sitting room, cross-referencing rune dictionaries and magical theory texts. “If we can combine the Thurisaz and Algiz runes with an intent-based trigger rune,” Hermione theorized one day, “we might be able to develop a directional barrier that only activates when someone with hostile intent approaches.”

Harry leaned forward, eyes bright. “We’d need to anchor it to a fixed magical node. Maybe use a charged object as a conduit. What about that obsidian amulet from Knockturn Alley?”

“Perfect,” Hermione said, already reaching for her notes.

Their bond had grown deeper—trust forged through both academic challenges and shared goals. And their circle of friendship expanded as well.

Neville and Susan began visiting frequently, their presence becoming a natural extension of Harry and Hermione’s routine. Neville, growing more confident with each day, arrived with rare plants and seedlings from his grandmother’s renowned greenhouse. These weren’t just for show—Neville had begun experimenting with how magical flora could be used in combination with rune sequences. He demonstrated how certain roots, when layered into containment wards, could reduce instability in ambient magic, and how others, like powdered moonseed, could amplify subtle enchantments when ground and brewed with specific intent. He even created a test rune-circle filled with insulating moss that proved perfect for diffusing overheating cauldrons.

Susan, ever steady and sharp-eyed, brought a keen observational skill that made her invaluable in their work. She double-checked the placement of glyphs, helped adjust angles and distances between rune elements, and kept detailed notes that allowed them to replicate and troubleshoot their results with accuracy. She even devised a rotating feedback chart to track variables like ambient magic levels and rune degradation over time. When Harry and Hermione ran tests on newly enchanted wards or containment fields, Susan would often catch small pronunciation slips or identify inconsistencies in glyph structure before they caused a misfire.

Together, the four of them created a working environment that was both dynamic and productive, filled with practical experiments, magical discussions, and bursts of discovery that deepened their understanding of runes and reinforced the bonds of friendship between them all.

The group’s camaraderie was warm and easy, afternoons slipping by in laughter, shared discoveries, and friendly debates.

Then one morning, an owl tapped at Harry’s window. It carried a letter in unmistakable, looping script:

**Harry,**

**Got time to meet up? We’ve got a plan and it might include ice cream, mischief, and some very creative rule-bending. Let us know.**

**- G\&F**

Harry burst out laughing and passed it to Hermione, who chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Well, we certainly can’t say no to that.”

Harry grinned and grabbed a quill, writing a quick response on a spare piece of parchment:

**George & Fred,**

**Absolutely. We’ve earned a day off, and mischief sounds like just the thing. See you tomorrow.**

**- Harry & Friends**

He tied the note to the owl’s leg and watched it fly off into the fading light. The day ahead promised fun, chaos, and the kind of memories that lasted a lifetime.

They arranged to meet in the Leaky Cauldron the following day. George and Fred were already there, perched on the back of a bench like twin hawks with wicked smiles.

“Finally!” Fred exclaimed. “We thought you'd vanished into a pile of textbooks.”

“We brought rope and a net, just in case we needed to dig you out,” George added, winking.

They spent the entire day together, starting with a visit to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. Harry and Hermione chose enchanted raspberry swirl that shimmered with flecks of starlight and changed flavor slightly with each lick. The twins, naturally, went for absurd creations: Fred requested a triple-scoop tower of chili chocolate, lemon fizz, and peppered caramel, while George added sparkling sprinkles and a syrup that turned his tongue indigo. Their laughter echoed across the parlour as George accidentally hiccuped bubbles that floated around their heads.

They took their time savoring the treats, seated at a cozy corner table shaded by a fluttering umbrella charmed to mimic drifting clouds. Neville arrived with a cautious order of vanilla bean with crushed honey petals, while Susan tried the magically cooling mint that left a frosted trail with each bite. Their banter was light and warm, punctuated by playful teasing and the occasional shriek when one of the twins cast a harmless jinx that turned someone's spoon into a squirming ribbon.

Soon they were wandering the Alley, popping into every eccentric shop they could find. A particularly exciting stop was a novelty spell emporium where they purchased enchanted fireworks that changed shape midair—spiraling into dragons, phoenixes, and glittering serpents—and a charm that temporarily turned your voice into song lyrics when you tried to speak, causing a fit of giggles as Harry accidentally belted out a ballad about cauldron explosions while trying to ask about a rune stencil set. They tried out more oddities like a bouncing inkpot, joke wands that sprouted wings and flew away when touched, and a pair of self-lacing shoes that chased George across the shop until Fred managed to tackle them with a levitation spell.

Fred pulled them into the dusty shell of what would one day become Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. “Behold the kingdom of chaos,” he declared, throwing his arms wide.

The space was still rough and unfinished—floorboards uneven, faint outlines of chalk-marked plans scrawled along the walls, and a few half-built shelves stacked with prototype joke products. Despite the dust and echoes, there was an undeniable energy in the air.

Hermione’s eyes sparkled despite herself as she examined the blueprints pinned to one of the beams. She walked around, tapping sections and labeling enchantments aloud, suggesting better structuring spells or more efficient charm layers for animated product displays. Her analytical mind lit up at the organized chaos of it all.

George jotted a few of her comments down quickly in a dog-eared notebook, then whispered to Fred with a grin, “We need her consulting regularly. She’s basically our efficiency department.”

Fred nodded, mock-saluting Hermione with a conjured quill. “Consider yourself hired, Professor Granger, Head of Practical Mayhem.”

Lunch was eaten on the worn steps of the library courtyard, where magical birds chirped melodiously in the leafy canopy above, occasionally swooping low to perch on the railings. The rich aroma of fresh bread, sizzling sausage rolls, and spiced butterbeer drifted from the nearby food carts, making their mouths water as they unwrapped their lunches. Hermione had packed a small basket with meat pasties, pumpkin biscuits, and slices of apple tart, while Neville contributed a thermos of cool elderflower cordial and Susan brought buttery scones from a stall her aunt recommended.

They sat in a half-circle under the warm sun, letting the hum of Diagon Alley life form a comforting backdrop. Between bites, laughter bubbled up as Fred dramatically reenacted a botched levitation spell involving George, a cake platter, and an unfortunate stack of gobstones. Hermione chuckled at the twins’ chaos while jotting notes about a potential rune experiment inspired by their antics. Neville shyly shared a story about an enchanted vine that had nearly overtaken a greenhouse bench back home, while Susan shared a story about a prank she and her aunt had played on a neighbor involving self-replicating toffee, which had quickly gotten out of hand and filled an entire hallway with sticky, bouncing sweets.

As they ate and joked, the conversation naturally turned to Hogwarts—funny professors, favorite lessons, and what might lie ahead in their second year. Would Flitwick continue layering advanced theory into their Charms lessons? Would Snape ever teach without glaring like someone had insulted his potion shelves? What electives would be offered, and could they convince the school to bring in visiting experts in runic layering?

Theories flew, some serious, some absurd—George suggested the return of an ancient dragon-raising elective, while Fred swore he heard Peeves was being promoted to "Head of Creative Discipline." The group howled with laughter at the thought.

By the time they finished their meal, their stomachs and hearts were full, the bonds between them stronger than ever.

By late afternoon, they ended up at a quiet nook in a lesser-known section of the Alley. Susan conjured a shade charm while Neville passed around snacks, and the conversation turned more thoughtful.

“I used to think I’d never really fit in,” Neville said quietly. “But this—being part of this—it’s the best I’ve ever felt.”

“You do fit,” Hermione said gently. “We all do.”

“We’ve all got something different to bring,” Harry added. “And we’ve got each other.”

George threw an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “You’re all just lucky to bask in the glory that is Fred and George.”

“Oh yes,” Susan deadpanned. “It’s all very humbling.”

They collapsed into laughter again, the kind that made your ribs ache.

That evening, Harry amd Hermione returned home with a heart lighter than it had been in weeks. They reviewed their enchantment notes before bed, both still smiling. As the candlelight flickered across the walls and the runes cast gentle pulses of soft blue and gold, the flat felt more like a sanctuary than ever.

Later, Hermione began packing up her things, her movements quiet but unhurried. "I'll be heading home now, and I won't be back for a few days." she said, looking up with a small smile. "Mum and Dad have been missing me, and I promised I’d help them reorganize their library."

Harry nodded, understanding. “It won’t be the same here without you, but I’m glad you’ll get some time with them. Say hi for me, yeah?”

“I will,” she promised, and the two shared a brief, comfortable hug.

After she left, the flat felt a little quieter, but not empty. Harry walked through the rooms, checking a few runes, tidying a stack of parchment, and thinking over the day. As he finally settled into bed, the silence was peaceful, not lonely. He pulled the covers up and stared at the ceiling, thoughts drifting not just to Hermione, but to Neville, Susan, the twins, and everything they had built together this summer.

He thought about the bonds he’d forged—the friends who stood beside him, the knowledge he’d gained, and the quiet strength growing inside him.

The war that had begun in shadows was still distant, still gathering—but Harry was no longer alone.

And he was ready for whatever came next.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since Hermione had left for her parents' home, and the quiet solitude of the flat had settled over Harry like a soft blanket—strange at first, but not unwelcome. He rose each morning with a routine, diving into his studies with renewed focus. Without the buzz of conversation to distract him, Harry found his concentration sharper. He brewed potions more confidently, his hands steady as he refined ingredients and adjusted brewing times based on results from earlier experiments. The Cure for Boils potion, once finicky, now shimmered with consistency in both color and texture.

His work with runes deepened, no longer just theory but application. He etched patterns onto stone plates and tested their responses to simple spells, eventually managing to link a basic alert ward with a repelling charm. When triggered by movement near the front door, the runes pulsed softly and emitted a light magical push outward—enough to deter but not harm. It wasn’t perfect—sometimes it mistook drifting parchment for an intruder—but it was a start, and one he was determined to build upon.

One evening, as he returned from a supply run, an official-looking owl delivered a letter to his window. Recognizing the wax seal of Gringotts, he quickly broke it open. Inside, the message requested his presence for a meeting the next morning. No details were given, only that it was important and that Griphorn would be present.

The next morning, Harry rose early and dressed neatly in dark green robes, the kind with subtle silver trim that made him look older than his age. He carefully folded and tucked the Gringotts letter into an inner pocket, grabbed a small satchel with a few notes and his wand, and stepped out into the soft, golden light of dawn.

The air was cool and fresh, the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley glistening slightly from an overnight mist. Magical shopkeepers were just beginning to unlock their doors, and the scent of fresh bread and potion herbs wafted from nearby stores. A few witches and wizards offered polite nods or brief smiles, but Harry moved with quiet purpose, barely acknowledging them.

When he arrived at Gringotts, the goblin guards at the entrance gave him respectful nods before allowing him in. One of them gestured silently for him to follow. They passed through the tall, echoing halls and into a deeper, more secure wing Harry had never been in before. The heavy door to a conference room opened, and he stepped inside.

Griphorn was already seated at the table, looking as composed and formidable as ever, his sharp eyes flicking to Harry in greeting. Sitting beside him was a stern, composed woman in deep purple robes, her monocle gleaming in the soft magical light. Her posture exuded command and intelligence, and her wand, resting within reach, gave off a faint hum of protective magic. Harry recognized her immediately from his reading and discussions with Griphorn—Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, known for her fierce sense of justice and unshakable integrity.

She turned to him with a firm nod and offered a hand. "Mr. Potter. Thank you for coming so promptly."

"Of course, Madam Bones," Harry replied, giving her a respectful handshake before taking the seat across from her. Griphorn inclined his head once in approval, his silence only adding weight to the atmosphere in the room.

Amelia wasted no time. "I've spent the past week reviewing the case of Sirius Black. The records were difficult to track down, which was concerning in itself."

Harry leaned forward. "What did you find?"

Amelia glanced at Griphorn before continuing. "There was no trial. No formal questioning. Sirius Black was sent to Azkaban on the basis of one witness statement—without even being given a chance to defend himself."

Harry felt his heart clench. "But that’s—that’s illegal, isn’t it?"

"Extremely," Amelia said with a grim expression. "Not only is it a breach of magical law, it's a complete failure of due process. I've already begun preparing the documentation to have him retrieved from Azkaban for a formal hearing."

Griphorn finally spoke. "This aligns with our suspicions. I commend you, Director Bones. Based on the formal process you've initiated, I suspect the hearing will be scheduled within the next two to three weeks—possibly sooner, given the gravity of the oversight."

"This is only the beginning," Amelia said, nodding toward Griphorn. "If he's innocent—and the evidence suggests he very likely is—we will ensure he is exonerated. Like what Griphorn said, I expect the trial will likely take place within the next two to three weeks, though I’ll do my best to expedite it. I will keep you informed, Mr. Potter."

Harry swallowed hard, a strange mix of hope and anxiety blooming in his chest. "Thank you. Truly."

Amelia stood. "I must return to the Ministry, but I assure you, this will not be buried."

With a final nod to both of them, she swept from the room.

Once they were alone, Harry looked to Griphorn, who had steepled his fingers. "We will keep our eyes on the process," the goblin said. "But for now, I have another message to share. Bill Weasley contacted me late last night. He believes he may have found a clue to the nature of the magic surrounding your scar."

Harry blinked. "Really? What kind of clue?"

"He was vague," Griphorn admitted. "He said the residue matches a highly obscure magical branch linked to necromantic anchoring. He’s following the lead now, and expects to send word within the next week or two."

Harry nodded slowly, his hand drifting to the faint outline of his scar. "Necromantic anchoring... That’s definitely dark magic"

"Very much so," Griphorn confirmed. "But Bill is cautious and thorough. If anyone can identify it properly, it’s him."

There was a brief silence before Harry spoke again. "I’ve been making steady progress on the Gobbledegook primer you gave me. I can recognize about half the glyph roots now, and I’m starting to get a feel for the layered sentence structures."

Griphorn looked mildly impressed. "Most humans struggle to understand even a third of that after a full term of study."

Harry smiled slightly. "I guess it helps that I really enjoy it. The logic behind the structures makes sense to me, like runes, just more... alive."

"Precisely"

Harry nodded, feeling proud and focused. For the first time in a while, things felt like they were building toward something larger. And this time, he wasn’t just surviving the chaos—he was learning to navigate it.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke on the morning of his twelfth birthday to the warm smell of pastries drifting in from the kitchen and golden sunlight pouring through the windows of his flat. Neville’s birthday had been just the day before, and they had decided to hold a joint party to celebrate both days together. For once, Harry’s birthday wasn’t something to be endured or quietly passed over. This year, it was something to be celebrated with friends, laughter, and a sense of belonging he’d never truly known before.

He yawned, stretching contentedly, and shuffled out of bed. On the table in the main room sat a small stack of gifts and a note written in Hermione’s precise handwriting:

*“Happy Birthday, Harry! I’ll be over in an hour to help set up — don’t open anything without us! — H.”*

Harry chuckled and put the kettle on, smiling to himself as he prepared for the day. He made breakfast, set out plates and cups, and even added a few floating candles for atmosphere. As he worked, he thought about how far things had come since last year—back when birthdays were lonely and unnoticed. Now, the flat would be filled with friends, magic, and laughter.

He double-checked the table setup, laid out a few of his favorite snacks, and even charmed the candles to gently hum a festive tune. The scent of cinnamon rolls filled the kitchen as he levitated a tray from the oven, placing them beside a bowl of glittering fruit salad. A soft knock on the door made him glance up—Hermione, likely right on time.

True to her word, Hermione arrived soon after, arms full of enchanted bunting and magically shifting streamers. She gave Harry a quick hug before setting to work on decorating the flat. Not long after, Neville and Susan arrived, both smiling widely. "Happy birthday, Harry!" Neville said cheerfully.

"And happy birthday to you too, Neville," Harry replied with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder.

Susan smiled, holding up a covered dish. "My aunt made a fruit trifle — it’s her favorite recipe. She says happy birthday to both of you."

Neville added a bag of crisps and a few bottles of chilled butterbeer to the kitchen counter, and they all shared a quick laugh over how different this birthday was from last year's more subdued events. Then, with a resounding bang and two identical grins, Fred and George appeared, carrying party favors and enchanted confetti that danced through the air in the shape of birthday candles and lion cubs.

"Happy birthday, lads!" Fred declared.

"And to many more explosions!" George added with a wink.

The party was officially underway. Laughter filled the room, Harry and Neville stood side by side, each grinning from ear to ear.

They exchanged a quick hug, both genuinely pleased to be celebrating with their closest friends.

The flat was soon buzzing with chatter, magical decorations, and the delicious scent of sweets and savory treats. Everyone wished both boys a happy birthday, making sure that Neville felt just as appreciated as Harry. They played enchanted board games, attempted to transfigure balloons into animals with varying success, and shared stories from their first year.

The party wasn’t just for Harry—Neville’s birthday had been the day before, and they’d decided to celebrate together. Everyone made sure Neville felt just as appreciated and celebrated. There were moments of pure silliness, like Fred levitating snacks into people’s mouths, and quiet ones where they all lounged around and talked about their goals for second year.

Harry and Neville were given their gifts amid much laughter and teasing. Fred and George gave them a prank kit labeled *“for educational mischief only.”* Hermione had organized a small library of second-year books, annotated and color-coded. Susan gifted Neville a calming herb pouch and Harry a magical bookmark that could store page references. Neville received a collector’s wand maintenance set, and George gifted Harry a sleek enchanted satchel with multiple compartments and a security charm. From Harry, Neville received a gift—a rare plant sample he had ordered weeks ago after hearing Neville talk about it during one of their study sessions. The rest of the gifts came from others. Draco, surprisingly, had sent both Harry and Neville elegant, handwritten notes of congratulations along with a small but tasteful gift each: a set of beautifully engraved brass bookmarks charmed to always mark the right page, one in deep green for Neville and one in midnight blue for Harry. The gesture, though quiet, was appreciated by both boys.

After lunch, they decided to head into Diagon Alley to wander the shops. The cobbled streets were lively with summer shoppers, the shop windows glowing in the sun. As they stepped out into the sunshine, Harry and Neville grinned at each other.

"Happy birthday again, Neville," Harry said, nudging his friend gently.

"Same to you, Harry," Neville replied. "This is already the best birthday I’ve ever had."

They shared a laugh as the group made their way down the street. Their first stop was Florean Fortescue’s, where they were treated to towering free sundaes—the twins proudly proclaiming it as their birthday gift to the birthday boys. George raised his spoon like a toast. "To aging disgracefully!"

Fred added with a grin, "And to many more sugar-fueled years of mischief."

From there, they poked around in bookshops and stationery stores, and even stopped by a Muggle-inspired novelty shop that Fred and George adored. As they wandered, Draco’s gift came up again—Neville pulling the enchanted bookmark from his pocket to admire the gleam of the engraved vine pattern. "I didn’t expect anything from him," Neville admitted, running his fingers along the etched metal. "But I’m glad he did. It’s really nice."

Harry nodded, pulling his own bookmark from his satchel to show the group. "Yeah, same here. It was a small gesture, but thoughtful."

Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully. "I think Draco’s trying, in his own way."

Fred shrugged. "If he starts sending us all chocolates and poetry, I’m out."

George grinned. "Only if he rhymes ‘Slytherin’ with ‘begin again.’"

It was a day of wonder, laughter, and the kind of magic that didn’t come from wands or spells—just friendship.

But the most unexpected moment came when they passed a magical creature shop.

Harry froze, tilting his head as something faint and serpentine brushed against his senses.

<“Over here... over here... mind I feel... can you hear me?”>

The voice was soft, like wind through grass, but unmistakable. Harry turned toward the shop door, stepping inside.

Within a modest tank near the back lay a green serpent with shifting leafy scales. Its eyes glinted, and when it saw Harry, it uncoiled slightly.

<“You hear? You understand? Please... take me. I am tired of glass. I am not meant for this.”>

Harry blinked as the serpent’s voice echoed again in his head. <“Please, speak again. I can feel your mind… it reaches.”>

He leaned closer to the tank and responded in a soft hiss, <“I hear you. I understand. Are you hurt?”>

<“Not hurt. Just… caged. Dull air. No thoughts. You… you are awake. Bright.”>

Before he could say more, George suddenly stepped in beside him, eyes wide. "Harry," he said lowly. "You’re speaking Parseltongue. Careful. If anyone hears... that could be bad. Really bad."

Harry nodded, mouth dry, and took a step back. But the snake’s gaze never left his.

<“I will be good. I listen. I can help. I do not like cages. You are different. I can feel it.”>

George watched him. "Is it... asking to go with you?"

Harry gave a small nod. "It’s... called a Mindcoil, atleast thats what the tank says. It’s not just a snake. It feels... intelligent. Old."

"Then you’ll need to be even more careful," George murmured. "But... if anyone can handle it, you can."

With a firm voice, Harry asked the shopkeeper about the serpent. The man looked relieved. “It’s been here for years. Acts like it’s smarter than it should be. You really want it?”

Harry nodded. “I do.”

He purchased Mindcoil and all necessary supplies—an enchanted terrarium with climate controls, warming stones, magical food pouches, and a guide to magical reptiles.

The rest of the group waited just outside the shop. Harry gave them the brief version, and they, especially Neville, were fascinated but agreed to keep it quiet.

They spent the remainder of the day enjoying themselves: strolling through the Alley, browsing shops both magical and mundane. They visited Scribbulus for new quills, examined magical parchment that could shimmer with spell traces, and laughed at some of the more eccentric joke items on display outside Zonko’s pop-up stall. Afterward, they popped into a small Muggle café Susan knew on the edge of the magical district — a cozy place with wooden tables and leafy hanging plants. There, they relaxed with tall glasses of chilled lemonade and flaky pastries, their conversation ranging from Hogwarts stories to summer plans and even a few quiet musings on what second year might bring. For a while, the lines between the magical and Muggle worlds seemed to blur into one perfect, sun-drenched afternoon.

That evening, back at the flat, Harry helped the Mindcoil settle into its new habitat. The serpent curled comfortably on a stone warmed by soft magic, its leafy green scales flickering as it shifted.

<“It is warm. Safe. I like this.”>

Harry knelt in front of the terrarium. <“I’m glad. You’re welcome here.”>

<“You speak well. Not many of your kind do. You are different.”>

Harry nodded thoughtfully, placing a gentle hand on the glass. “I have to be careful. People are afraid of what they don’t understand.”

<“Then we shall stay quiet. But not silent.”>

<"You need a name, don’t you?"> Harry asked.

The serpent blinked slowly, then nodded. <"I would like one. Names are... identity. You are Harry. I am... new.">

Harry thought for a moment. <"How about Sylas? It sounds ancient, like you. Calm but strong.">

The snake uncoiled slightly, tongue flickering. <"Sylas. I like this. Yes. I will be Sylas. Thank you, Harry.">

Harry smiled, nodding. "Welcome home, Sylas."

Later that night, with the flat quiet and the stars glowing through the window, Harry sat down to write a letter to Griphorn. He explained the encounter with the Mindcoil, the connection they shared, and asked if he knew of any resources on parselmagic—real training, not myths. If this ability was a part of him, he wanted to understand it properly.

He sealed the letter and set it aside for morning. Then he sat cross-legged on the floor, Sylas resting across his shoulders, humming in low tones.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” he whispered to himself, feeling the quiet comfort of the snake against his skin.

This year, he hadn’t just received gifts—he had found something greater: a companion, a bond, and a path forward he hadn’t seen before.

The whisper of the serpent was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The week after Harry and Neville's birthday party marked a turning point. Gone were the leisurely mornings and carefree afternoons; in their place came rigorous routines and relentless focus. Harry and Hermione had always taken their studies seriously, but now their dedication deepened into something far more intense—fueled not just by ambition, but by purpose.

Each morning began the same way: toast, tea, and parchment lists. As they ate, Hermione read aloud their targets for the day.

“Let’s start with Reparo—focus on speed and precision—then review Expelliarmus and Protego. I want to see if we can maintain Protego under pressure, so prepare for spell volleys,” she said one morning, quill tapping rhythmically against the wood. “After that, dueling. Stupefy and shield charms only. No dodging allowed.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, mid-sip of his tea. “No dodging? That’s cruel.”

“It’s realistic,” Hermione replied matter-of-factly. “Shields must be instinctual.”

“So basically, you’re planning to pelt me until I’m twitchy.”

She smirked. “Only until you’re faster.”

Harry sighed dramatically. “Alright. But if I get hit too hard, I’m hexing your favorite quill.”

Hermione didn’t even glance up. “It’s protected with a ward. Nice try.”

Harry gave a cheeky smile. “Well, wards are kind of my thing now, so that’s not much help to you, is it?”

Hermione huffed but didn’t hide her grin. “Don’t get cocky. You’re still not allowed to hex my quills.”

By the time the dishes were cleared away, the flat was unrecognizable from its morning state. Furniture had been shifted to the walls with casual flicks of their wands, leaving a wide-open space in the center. The rugs were rolled up and replaced by thick cushions stacked strategically to soften any falls. A soft glow lit the corners where wards shimmered faintly—Harry’s own handiwork from a rune set they had experimented with the previous week.

On the mantelpiece sat their enchanted timer, ticking steadily and changing colors to mark the stages of their drills. Harry approached it with his usual flourish, flicking his wand like a sword. “Training mode: activated!” he declared in a booming voice.

Hermione, crouched by a pile of spellbooks, didn’t look up. “You know it doesn’t do anything different when you say that, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a grin. “But it feels cooler.”

She finally glanced up, amused. “You’re impossible.”

“Charming,” he corrected.

Hermione tossed him a rolled-up pair of balls enchanted to mimic flying bludgers. "We’ll see how charming you feel after reflex drills."

He caught them and groaned. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been plotting revenge since yesterday?”

“Because I have,” she said sweetly, and raised her wand.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. "Let the chaos begin."

They began with Reparo, aiming to repair deliberately broken items. “Reparo!” Harry said clearly, pointing his wand at a cracked teacup. The handle fused with a faint shimmer.

“Too slow,” Hermione said, repairing her own teacup instantly. “You hesitated before the incantation.”

“I was picturing it. Magical visualization, remember?”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Visualize faster.”

Harry rolled his eyes but turned back to the cracked teacup, determined. He closed his eyes for a moment, holding the image of the cup whole and perfect in his mind. Then he raised his wand with renewed focus.

“Reparo.”

The cup shimmered as the crack sealed more smoothly than before.

Hermione examined it, nodding approvingly. “Better. Still a beat too long, but that’s proper form.”

Harry gave a small, satisfied smirk. “Told you I could do it.”

She grinned. “Once you stop being dramatic, you’re actually quite good.”

They moved on to Expelliarmus. Dueling dummies held wooden wands, and the goal was to disarm them before they could return fire.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry shouted. The dummy’s wand flew up and clattered to the floor.

“Nice,” Hermione said, stepping forward. “My turn. Expelliarmus!” Her dummy flew backward entirely.

“That was excessive,” Harry noted.

“That was effective,” she replied, flicking her wand at the dummy to reset it.

The sessions grew more intense. Protego was practiced with blunt objects hurled across the room. Hermione would shout, “Incoming!” and Harry would have a split second to shield.

“Protego!” he barked, and a shimmering wall of magic deflected a flying pillow.

“Again!” Hermione threw two this time.

He blocked the first. The second clipped his shoulder.

“Better,” she said, scribbling notes. “But your reflexes dip when you’re tired.”

Harry flopped on the sofa. “So I’ll just make sure all my enemies attack me well-rested.”

They practiced object-to-animal transfiguration with simple household items. A salt shaker turned into a twitchy mouse. A fork became a hopping frog. Animal-to-object was trickier.

“Turn the frog back,” Hermione said, watching Harry sweat.

With a smirk, Harry tapped the creature again. “Reverto.” In a shimmer of light, the frog smoothly transformed back into a fork.

Hermione blinked. “That was flawless.”

Harry looked smug. “Turns out I’m better at turning them back.”

Hermione laughed. “Well, as long as you don’t start turning people into furniture, I’m fine with that.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “No promises.”

Later in the week, they focused on **Revelio**, uncovering hidden messages and objects they’d charmed into concealment. Hermione enchanted a note to disappear completely, muttering the concealment charm under her breath with a flick of her wand. The parchment shimmered briefly and then appeared completely blank.

Harry furrowed his brow and studied it. "Alright, my turn. Let's see if I can get past your enchantment."

He pointed his wand carefully, concentrating on peeling back the layers of concealment. “Revelio!”

The ink shimmered faintly, then rearranged itself into the message: ‘Nice try.’

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Bit cheeky, don’t you think?"

Hermione grinned. "It’s what you deserve for underestimating my charms."

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “Oh, it’s on now.”

He spent the next ten minutes layering illusions over a single object—a book that now appeared to be a plain piece of driftwood. "Revelio this."

Hermione cast the spell, but nothing changed.

"You didn’t—"

“I did,” she muttered, eyes narrowing. "I just… didn’t cast it strongly enough."

She tried again. The illusion flickered but didn’t fall.

Harry looked smug. “Want a hint?”

“Absolutely not. Move. I’m cracking this.”

Eventually, after adjusting her wand motion and intent, the book revealed itself. She smirked as it reappeared.

“I win,” she said.

“You struggled for five full minutes.”

“But I still won.”

They both laughed, the book levitating lazily between them as they prepared the next round of concealments.

Harry squinted. “Revelio!” The ink shimmered, then reappeared: ‘Nice try.’

He grinned. “You’re so smug.”

She beamed. “That’s because I’m better.”

“Protego!” he yelled on impulse, bouncing a small book off his shield. She caught it mid-air and threw it back.

“Stupefy!”

“Protego!”

They laughed breathlessly as the room settled.

The most difficult spell was **Silencio**. Their goal was to cast it wordlessly.

For hours, they sat cross-legged on the floor, focusing on a chattering enchanted bird.

Harry sat cross-legged across from the enchanted bird, its incessant chirping making his temple throb. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating hard on the idea of stillness, of quiet so complete that even thought dared not disturb it.

He lifted his wand, gave it the slightest, sharpest flick—no words, just motion.

The bird went abruptly silent.

Harry blinked in disbelief. “Did… did that work?”

Hermione looked up from her notes, startled. “Did you say it out loud?”

He shook his head slowly. “Nope. Just… thought it.”

She pointed her wand at the bird. “Finite.”

The bird resumed its chattering.

She looked at him, impressed. “Harry… that was wordless.”

He grinned, still a little surprised himself. “Guess I got lucky.”

“Not luck,” Hermione said firmly. “That was control.”

Then she turned to face the bird and closed her eyes. Her lips pressed into a line of determination as she lifted her wand ever so slightly and focused. The bird chirped once, twice—then silenced.

Harry gave a low whistle. “And just like that, we both did it.”

Hermione opened her eyes, smiling. “Told you it would come.”

Their healing training with **Episkey** took a more methodical approach. The enchanted training doll, capable of simulating injuries, gave them steady and varied practice. Each morning, Hermione would adjust the settings to cycle through a series of surface-level injuries—burns, bruises, cuts, and sprains—then gradually increase complexity throughout the day.

"Alright," Hermione said one afternoon, consulting a page of notes, "today we’re focusing on targeted healing. That means not just casting Episkey, but identifying the source and depth of the injury first."

The training doll’s arm shifted, revealing a jagged gash just above the elbow. Hermione knelt beside it, wand held carefully. "Episkey," she said, and golden light flowed smoothly from her wandtip. The wound knit closed, leaving only a faint scar.

Harry nodded appreciatively. "Your precision’s incredible."

"Thanks," she said, stepping back. "Your turn. This time it’ll be a contusion. Try not to over-channel."

The doll shifted again, revealing a dark purple bruise blooming along its forearm. Harry approached, eyes narrowing in concentration. He pressed two fingers gently against the area, then raised his wand.

“Episkey.”

A soft shimmer passed over the injury, and the discoloration faded. Hermione reached out, gently inspecting the spot.

“Perfectly done,” she said. “And you controlled the output really well. You’re getting a feel for magical balance.”

Harry smiled. “Trying to think like Madam Pomfrey—firm but kind, yeah?”

“Maybe you missed your calling,” she teased. "Healer Potter has a nice ring to it."

He rolled his eyes with a grin. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Still can't fix a stubbed toe without jolting the whole foot."

They continued rotating turns, occasionally adding challenges—healing while under minor distraction spells, or attempting to identify unseen injuries by magical signature. It became a dance of focus, intuition, and care, and by the end of the week, they could each cast Episkey reliably, with clean results across nearly every scenario.

It was, in many ways, the quietest part of their training—but also one of the most satisfying.

Together, they had begun to move beyond what first-years were expected to do. Each spell refined, each new skill unlocked, was another sign that they were no longer simply students.

They were becoming powerful.

Together.

Chapter Text

The owl arrived early in the morning, tapping insistently at the glass with a sealed letter in its beak. Harry untied it quickly, recognizing the Gringotts insignia stamped on the parchment. He broke the seal and read the brief note:

*Harry,*

*The trial for Sirius Black is scheduled for tomorrow morning. You are requested to come to Gringotts at eight o’clock sharp. You will not be permitted to attend the trial itself, but you may remain in a secured private chamber until I return with the outcome.*

*—Griphorn*

Harry’s heart pounded. It was happening. After months of questions, research, and waiting, the moment of truth was finally at hand.

---

The next morning, Harry arrived at Gringotts dressed neatly in dark robes, his expression a mixture of nervous energy and cautious hope. His eyes flicked around the marble hall, scanning goblins and witches alike, his thoughts firmly on the man awaiting judgment. Griphorn appeared near the edge of the main floor, his sharp eyes meeting Harry’s immediately.

Without a word, Griphorn approached and gave a curt nod. “You’re on time. Good.”

Harry gave a faint, tense smile. “I barely slept.”

Griphorn grunted. “Understandable.”

He led Harry through winding corridors, past heavy vault doors and torch-lit passageways until they reached a small but comfortable meeting room. There, the flickering sconces cast warm light over the deep mahogany table, a padded chair, and a tray of tea and biscuits.

“You may remain here,” Griphorn said, gesturing toward the chair. “This room is secure and silenced. No one will disturb you, and I will return the moment the trial concludes.”

Harry nodded, gripping the back of the chair. “Do you think… will it go well?”

Griphorn tilted his head thoughtfully. “The evidence is thorough. Amelia Bones is not known for losing battles she prepares. But justice in our world is not always decided by facts alone. Be prepared for any outcome.”

Harry’s throat tightened, but he nodded again. “Thanks… for everything. For helping him. For helping me.”

Griphorn gave him a long look. “You’re not just helping him, Mr. Potter. You’re righting something that never should have happened.”

Harry sat, trying not to fidget. “Right. Thanks for letting me wait here.”

Griphorn nodded, and with that, he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.

---

In the high courtroom of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, tension ran thick through the chamber. The tall, circular room was filled with robed witches and wizards, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, doubt, and quiet judgment. The torches lining the stone walls flickered with a restless energy, casting long shadows over the tribunal.

At the center, under the scrutiny of a hundred gazes, sat Sirius Black—pale, thinner than he had any right to be, but still upright and proud. His hair was long and tangled, the dark strands a stark contrast against the sterile gray of his plain robes. Though his wrists were bound by magical restraints that shimmered faintly with containment runes, there was an unmistakable fire behind his grey eyes—a fire that prison had not extinguished. It burned with pain, with fury, and with hope. He scanned the room slowly, unafraid, as if daring them to meet his gaze.

In that moment, he was no longer a broken prisoner. He was a man demanding to be heard.

Madam Amelia Bones stood before the assembled Wizengamot. “We are gathered to correct a grievous injustice. This hearing concerns Sirius Orion Black, who was imprisoned in 1981 without a formal trial. Evidence brought forward over the past year demands that we reconsider the charges against him.”

The murmuring in the chamber quieted.

“First, let us address the absence of due process. Mr. Black was not offered trial, questioning, or representation. That alone is a violation of our legal foundation. But more than that—new records suggest that he was not the betrayer we once believed.”

Healer Thorne was summoned to speak. “Sirius Black has undergone a full medical and magical evaluation. He shows signs of prolonged exposure to Dementors—malnutrition, magical scarring, weakened core—but no evidence of mental instability or magical corruption. He is sane, lucid, and emotionally consistent.”

Next came Griphorn, stepping forward with purpose. “Gringotts’ records show that Mr. Black continued to pay for security enchantments on the Potter estate up to the very night of their deaths. There is no record of suspicious withdrawals or transactions on his part. In fact, the last activity on his accounts showed a routine payment for defensive wards—hardly the actions of a traitor.”

Amelia followed with evidence from magical law experts and Auror analysts who had reexamined the crime scene. “There is no physical evidence that Sirius Black caused the explosion attributed to him. The magical residue does not match the spell types or magnitude claimed in the initial report. The entire scene—while dramatic—bears the markers of an illusion and distraction, not a targeted attack.”

Several members of the Wizengamot leaned forward, listening more intently now.

Amelia continued, “We have interviewed multiple individuals who had regular contact with Mr. Black before and after the attack. Their testimony under Veritaserum points to consistent behavior—devotion to James and Lily Potter, fear for their safety, and grief following their deaths.”

Sirius was finally asked to speak. He rose slowly, his voice low but steady.

“I loved James and Lily like family. I would have died before betraying them. The night they were killed, I believed it was my fault—I believed I had made a mistake. But I wasn’t the Secret Keeper. I switched with someone I thought was our friend. And I paid the price for that trust. I’ve lost nearly 11 years to a prison cell without even the dignity of being heard. Today, I ask only for the truth to be acknowledged.”

Amelia raised a hand to still the murmurs. "Mr. Black, if you were not the Secret Keeper, who was? Who was responsible for the betrayal of the Potters?"

Sirius's expression darkened. "Peter Pettigrew," he said clearly. "We switched at the last moment. I thought it would keep James and Lily safer—no one would suspect Peter. But I was wrong."

Gasps rippled through the chamber. Several Wizengamot members looked to one another with alarm.

“Mr. Black,” one of the elder witches said from the tribunal, “you are making a serious accusation. Are you prepared to confirm this under Veritaserum?”

Sirius nodded immediately. “Administer it. I have nothing to hide.”

A Ministry official stepped forward and, under Amelia's watchful eye, administered three measured drops of Veritaserum.

Sirius's body stilled. His face relaxed into the passive clarity of magical compulsion.

“State your name,” Amelia instructed.

“Sirius Orion Black,” he replied.

“Were you the Secret Keeper for James and Lily Potter?”

“No."

"Who was the secret keeper then?"

"Peter Pettigrew.”

“Did you betray their location to Lord Voldemort?”

“No.”

“Did you murder twelve Muggles in a street explosion in 1981?”

“No.”

A stunned silence followed. The truth settled like weight across the chamber.

He met the eyes of the tribunal, one by one, as the antidote was administered.

The chamber was silent for nearly a full minute. Then, slowly, the voting began.

When Amelia rose to tally the votes, her voice was calm and clear.

“Sirius Orion Black is found innocent of all charges. He is to be released immediately and transferred to St. Mungo’s for healing and rehabilitation.”

Sirius closed his eyes. He did not smile. He only breathed.

---

Back in Gringotts, Harry leapt to his feet when the door finally opened.

Griphorn entered, his expression composed but weary.

“Well?” Harry asked, heart in his throat.

Griphorn’s tone softened. “He is free.”

Harry let out a breath that turned into a shaky laugh. “They believed him?”

“They did. Unanimously. Amelia’s case was unshakable. Your godfather has been cleared of all charges.”

Harry sat down, overwhelmed. “I—I don’t even know what to say. That’s… that’s incredible.”

Griphorn gave a nod. “He cannot meet you yet. He’s been taken to St. Mungo’s for treatment. The physical toll of Azkaban is only part of it. There are layers to undo—magical and emotional.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Of course. He deserves the time to heal.”

Griphorn handed over a sealed envelope. “He left you this.”

Harry opened the letter with care.

*Harry,*

*I’ve waited years to see you again. But I need more time. I want to meet you when I can stand proud and whole—not as the wreck Azkaban left behind. I’m free now, thanks to you and those who fought for me.*

*You have so much of your father’s spirit. And your mother’s heart. I’m proud of you already. I’ll be in touch soon. Until then, keep growing, keep learning, and never let them dim your light.*

*—Sirius*

Harry held the letter close to his chest, eyes stinging.

For the first time, he felt the warmth of something more than hope—something solid. Family.

And he wasn’t alone anymore.

Chapter Text

Griphorn watched Harry carefully as he folded Sirius’s letter and tucked it into his inner robe pocket. The boy looked different somehow—lighter, steadier. As if something long shadowing his soul had shifted at last.

Griphorn cleared his throat. “There’s something else we must discuss. It concerns your scar.”

Harry blinked, still riding the emotional high from the trial’s outcome. “My scar?”

“Yes. Cursebreaker Weasley believes he’s identified its nature. He contacted me early this morning requesting a private meeting—with both of us.”

The joy in Harry’s chest faltered, replaced by a tight knot of anxiety. “You mean Bill?”

Griphorn gave a single nod. “Yes. And if he’s right, it’s more serious than we hoped. Come. He’s waiting below.”

---

They descended deep beneath the main halls of Gringotts, where only select goblins and magical specialists had clearance. The air grew cooler, the walls lined with ancient runes and flickering blue torches. Finally, they reached a stone chamber protected by layered enchantments and guarded by two armored goblins.

Inside stood Bill Weasley, dressed in dark dragonhide robes, his long hair tied back. He turned as they entered and gave Harry a grim but respectful nod.

“Harry. Griphorn.”

“Bill,” Griphorn said curtly. “Speak.”

Bill gestured toward the table in the center of the room, where several rune-marked documents and magical diagrams were laid out.

“I ran further tests on the residual magic in Harry’s scar, and I cross-referenced the magical signature with dark artifacts we’ve cataloged in Egypt and Eastern Europe. The signature is fragmented but distinct—parasitic magic clinging to the host’s core, feeding on it.”

Griphorn’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

Bill looked at Harry. “It’s a Horcrux.”

The room fell silent.

Harry frowned. “What’s a Horcrux?”

Griphorn stepped back, visibly disturbed. “Darkest of magic,” he muttered. “A Horcrux is created when a wizard splits their soul by committing murder and embeds that fragment into an object. The result is near-immortality—but at the cost of one’s soul.”

Harry paled. “So… part of someone else’s soul is inside me?”

Bill nodded slowly. “From what I can tell, yes. The fragment is dormant but deeply entwined with your magical core. That’s why you sometimes feel pain in your scar—it reacts to proximity or emotion tied to its source.”

“And who made it?” Harry asked, though he already suspected the answer.

“Voldemort,” Griphorn said, voice hard. “Only he had motive, power, and opportunity. It must have happened the night your parents died. The curse that rebounded likely tore a piece of him loose—and it latched onto the only living thing left.”

Harry’s stomach turned. “So how do we get it out?”

Griphorn straightened, his tone dark and measured. “Luckily, goblins have encountered Horcruxes before—though such artifacts are abhorrent to our kind. Rare, yes, but memorable. Each time, they left scars not just on the host, but on the very ground where they were discovered.”

He moved to a nearby shelf and pulled out a small, iron-bound book, flipping to a page of ancient goblin glyphs etched in blood-red ink. “We developed a counter-process over centuries. A ritual designed to extract the soul fragment without harming the host’s core, provided the magic has not spread too far. It involves layers of soul-stabilizing runes drawn in silver and dragonbone ink, combined with shielding wards strong enough to suppress a violent expulsion.”

He looked up, meeting Harry’s eyes gravely. “The fragment will fight us. But if we’re prepared, it can be contained. That’s why we use a specialized vessel—a crystal forged in lunar fire and sealed in goblinsteel. It is both a trap and a cage. Once the fragment is removed, it must never touch living flesh again.”

Bill added, “We’ll prepare everything tonight. The extraction isn’t dangerous if done properly, but it will be uncomfortable. You’ll need to return tomorrow morning. We’ll have the containment orb ready.”

Harry nodded. “I want it gone.”

Griphorn met his eyes. “And it will be.”

---

The next morning, Harry returned to Gringotts before the sun had fully risen. The halls were quiet at this hour, the silence broken only by the distant clicking of goblin claws on stone and the soft hum of ancient enchantments thrumming in the walls.

When he reached the ritual chamber, it was transformed. The chamber was darker than before, lit only by the glow of hundreds of etched runes carved into the stone floor and ceiling, all pulsing with a deep indigo light. The air was heavy with magic, the kind that made your skin prickle and your heart quicken.

At the center stood a low table carved from a single block of obsidian, its surface etched with protective glyphs in silver and inlaid with dragonbone fragments. The edges of the table shimmered faintly, responding to the ambient magic with pulses of light.

Bill stood nearby, checking a carefully laid array of sigils placed at the cardinal points around the table. He looked up when Harry entered, giving a small, tense nod. “Right on time.”

Griphorn was beside him, cradling an orb of translucent crystal veined with threads of gold and midnight blue. It shimmered faintly, the air around it warping ever so slightly as if resisting being seen. Harry felt the weight of it immediately—a subtle pull in his magic, like something recognizing its match.

“This will house the fragment,” Griphorn explained. His voice was lower, more reverent than usual. "Once sealed, it cannot be opened by accident or corrupted from within. It is both prison and anchor. Once the fragment is inside, it will be bound to this plane, unable to return to its source.”

“Once sealed, it cannot escape. We will then enchant the orb to detect other pieces of the same magical signature, but the process will be slow—Horcruxes are designed to hide.”

Harry stepped up to the table. “I’m ready.”

Griphorn handed him a potion vial. “Drink this. It will stabilize your core and dull the pain.”

Harry took it without hesitation.

Bill and Griphorn began the incantations, their voices weaving together in a deep, rhythmic chant that echoed off the runic stone walls like ancient music. The cadence was low and resonant, a sound that seemed to vibrate beneath Harry’s skin. Slowly, the runes around the obsidian table lit in sequence—first a pale blue, then violet, then a fierce, pulsing silver. Each one flared to life with the beat of their chant, forming a spiraling lattice of magic that enclosed Harry in a cocoon of protective light.

Harry felt it then—a tug. Not physical, but a wrenching pressure from deep within, as though a hidden string in his soul had been plucked. Behind his scar, a cold, oily sensation coiled to life. It wasn’t pain, not at first—just wrong. Foreign. Like rot stirring beneath the surface. It writhed with sentience, angry and invasive.

His breath caught in his throat. The scar pulsed once, twice—then burned like acid laced with ice. His knees buckled slightly and he gripped the sides of the table, teeth clenched.

Bill’s voice rose a half-pitch. “Steady. Let it come. Don’t fight—just focus.”

Harry tried to breathe. The sensation behind his scar twisted tighter, clawing, resisting.

He gasped.

“Steady,” Bill said firmly. “Don’t resist it. Just let us draw it out.”

The pain flared—hot, blinding, and then—

A scream echoed, not from Harry, but from something else. A high, inhuman wail that filled the chamber.

The runes blazed with a sudden surge of silver-blue light, casting wild shadows across the chamber walls. From Harry’s scar burst a torrent of shadow—smoky black mist streaked with slashes of crimson and deep violet. It moved like a living thing, writhing and screaming in a high, inhuman wail that pierced through the walls of magic.

The mist twisted violently in mid-air, forming a serpentine coil that thrashed against the containment sigils. Faces flickered within it—twisted, snarling, screaming—brief glimpses of torment and hatred. Harry staggered, gripping the table as cold poured through his veins.

Griphorn stepped forward, voice steady and fierce. He raised the crystal orb with both hands and began chanting in Gobbledegook, his words sharp and ancient, vibrating with authority. The orb responded, pulsing with a bright white light that grew in intensity until it filled the chamber.

The mist screamed again, drawn toward the light like a moth to flame. It clawed at the air, resisted, but Griphorn’s voice did not waver. With a final pulse of power, the mist was sucked into the orb in one blinding flash. The crystal snapped shut with a piercing crack, the glow fading into a dull, pulsing heartbeat within the orb.

Silence fell like a shroud. The runes dimmed, and the chamber stilled as if the very magic was catching its breath.

Silence.

Harry let his head fall back, breathing hard.

“It’s done,” Griphorn said quietly.

Bill knelt beside him. “It’s over. You’re free.”

Harry touched his scar. It still ached faintly—but it was different. Hollow. Quiet.

Griphorn sealed the orb with a final enchantment. “This… this will help us find any others. But it may take years. Horcruxes resist detection. We’ll need time, resources, and caution.”

Harry nodded weakly. “Just tell me what to do next.”

Griphorn looked at him with newfound respect. “For now? Rest. Heal. We’ve taken the first step. And it was the most important one.”

Harry sat in the quiet chamber, the echo of the scream still lingering in the air. A piece of darkness had been torn away—and for the first time, he could feel the space where it had once been.

He was whole. Not entirely healed, but no longer carrying someone else’s evil.

And that, he thought, was a beginning worth everything.

Chapter Text

The days following the ritual passed quietly for Harry. For the first time in what felt like forever, he could breathe freely. The ever-present pressure behind his scar had vanished. It left behind an odd emptiness, but also a calm he’d never known.

He took time to rest, to eat better, and to sleep without nightmares. The change was almost jarring—waking up without pain in his scar or a weight in his chest. But true to his nature, he didn’t let the newfound peace dull his drive.

Each morning began with a routine: a quiet breakfast, a review of his study schedule, and then focused practice. He alternated between wandwork drills and silent casting exercises, pushing himself to extend the duration and complexity of his spells. Runes were still his favorite; he frequently lost track of time experimenting with layering techniques or testing their effects on old household items.

Hermione wrote often, her letters filled with new theories and spell tweaks, and little updates about her parents' reactions to magical life. She scolded him once for forgetting to reply promptly and then sent an annotated checklist for school prep as punishment—though Harry privately appreciated it.

They met up twice more in Diagon Alley: the first time to pick up textbooks and discuss electives over ice cream, and the second time for what Hermione deemed "educational browsing." She eagerly dragged him into a polished stationery shop specializing in enchanted quills that adjusted for mood and intention. In return, he brought her to one of his favorite finds—a dusty secondhand bookstore hidden behind a sweets shop that smelled like parchment and toffee. They spent an hour poring through its cramped shelves, both of them emerging with at least one unexpected treasure.

Between study sessions and preparations, the summer days slipped by.

On the final morning, Harry dressed carefully. His trunk was packed and shrunk, his wand holstered, and his Floo powder was ready. He stood in front of the fireplace, double-checking his list. Everything was accounted for.

He tossed the powder into the grate. “King’s Cross Station!”

With a sudden whoosh, the flames flared—but instead of enveloping him in the familiar rush of motion, there was a loud crack and a forceful blast of air. Harry, who had been facing into the flat with his back to the fireplace, was flung forward violently, landing hard on his stomach near the coffee table, coughing as dust and ash rained down around him.

He sat up, stunned. Nothing was broken, but his robes were covered in soot.

“…What?”

Shaking it off, he tried again. This time, he stood more cautiously, brushed off his sleeves, and repeated the process.

“King’s Cross Station!”

Another whoosh—another burst. Again, he was thrown back, though slightly less forcefully. Still no travel. Just smoke and disorientation.

“Right. That’s not normal.”

With quick spells, he cleaned the mess and then turned his wand on himself, casting a series of grooming and cleansing charms. The soot lifted from his robes and face, his hair re-fluffed to its usual messy state, and he took a deep breath to settle his nerves. Only once he looked mostly presentable did he grab his bag and dash out into Diagon Alley. Gringotts was already open by the time he reached the marble steps, breathing hard.

Inside, he requested Griphorn, who appeared within minutes.

“Mr. Potter. You look… singed.”

Harry exhaled. “My Floo isn’t working. It flared twice and threw me back both times.”

Griphorn’s brow furrowed. “Describe it.”

Harry did, sparing no detail.

After a moment, Griphorn nodded. “It’s likely magical interference. Could be sabotage or a ward disruption. Either way, not your fault.” He turned. “I’ll contact Professor Flitwick. He'll be able to get you to Hogwarts."

Within fifteen minutes, the small Gringotts fireplace flared bright green, and Professor Flitwick stepped through, his tiny figure neat and composed.

“Ah, Mr. Potter! I was told you had a bit of travel trouble.”

Harry stood. “Yes, sir. I think something’s wrong with my flat’s connection.”

“We’ll get it sorted. For now, you’re coming with me.”

Griphorn handed Harry a satchel. “I’ll send a team to inspect the fireplace. We’ll notify you of our findings.”

Harry bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

With a nod from Flitwick, the two stepped into the green flames and disappeared.

---

When they arrived at Hogwarts, the castle was calm and quiet. The early afternoon sun spilled through the windows of Flitwick’s office, where tea and lemon biscuits were already waiting.

Flitwick gestured for Harry to sit. “You’re looking stronger than ever, Mr. Potter. I’ve heard you’ve been working hard.”

Harry smiled modestly. “I’ve had good guidance. And time.”

Flitwick poured tea. “Your performance last year was impressive. I’ve been working on a few advanced charm sequences myself and would be delighted to show them to you if you’re interested. Your natural talent in charms is quite rare, and I believe with focused mentorship, you could truly excel. Professor Ithica, our Ancient Runes professor, also mentioned she overheard you and Miss Granger discussing advanced rune layering in the library last term. She was quite impressed and said she dearly hopes you both choose her subject as an elective this year."

Harry lit up at that. “That sounds brilliant.”

They chatted for another half hour about classes, electives, and magical focus. Flitwick grew especially animated when discussing charms theory, pulling out a small notebook from his robes and sharing diagrams of spell matrices he'd been refining. He asked Harry’s thoughts on layering protective charms over moving targets, and they debated the limitations of silent casting when under pressure.

At one point, Flitwick demonstrated a charm that caused the tea biscuits to dance across the plate in rhythm to an unheard melody, prompting Harry to laugh and ask how it worked. Flitwick grinned and said, "That's something we'll explore together, if you’re up for a few private tutoring sessions this term." Harry, wide-eyed and eager, nodded without hesitation.

Finally, as shadows grew long and the sound of distant footsteps filled the halls, Flitwick rose.

“It seems the students have begun to arrive. Off with you—go find your friends.”

Harry stood, grateful and excited. As he stepped out into the warm corridors of Hogwarts, laughter and chatter echoed ahead.

He was home again.

And this year, he was ready.