Morning at Hogwarts had its own rhythm:
bells tolling, chatter echoing through stone halls, the smell of roasted bread and bacon luring half asleep students toward the Great Hall.
I joined the Gryffindor table, slipping between Ron and Dean.
Trays of toast, eggs, porridge, pumpkin juice, and bacon shimmered into existence, and the hall erupted into clattering cutlery.
Ron attacked the food like he'd been starved for years. Seamus was already telling a loud story about his cousin turning a teapot into a donkey.
Neville quietly spread jam on toast, eyes still droopy.
I helped myself to porridge and an apple.
Rule one of survival: don't let food control you. Rule two: never trust castle porridge without tasting first.
Professor McGonagall appeared like a summoned spirit, her emerald robes crisp as ever, arms full of parchment.
"Timetables," she said briskly, handing them out down the line. "Today, double Transfiguration for Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, followed by Charms. Potions with the Slytherins tomorrow."
She reached me, eyes sharp but not unkind. "Mr. Potter. I trust you are prepared to take your studies seriously."
"Yes, Professor," I said smoothly.
Her eyes lingered a fraction longer, like she was testing for cracks, then she moved on.
Ron groaned, reading his parchment. "Double Transfiguration first thing? She's terrifying."
"Or she's the type who respects competence," I said, sipping pumpkin juice. "So maybe don't mess up."
Ron gave me a betrayed look.
Between bites, I scanned the staff table again.
Dumbledore chatted idly with Flitwick, but his eyes twinkled toward the students like he was watching ten chessboards at once.
Snape stared at his porridge as if it had personally wronged him.
Quirrell stuttered through a conversation with Sprout, turban twitching oddly.
Yeah, Voldy. Still see you in there.
Hagrid waved cheerfully when he noticed me watching. I lifted my goblet in return.
The other students only saw professors. I saw pieces. Allies, rivals, obstacles.
As bell rang through the hall, echoing off the high ceiling. Benches scraped, chatter rose, and first-years fumbled with bags and schedules.
Dean groaned. "Here we go. Day one."
I smirked faintly. Day one of classes. Day two of the game.
We filed out of the hall, heading toward our first lesson.
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The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs filed into the Transfiguration classroom, chatter echoing under the high, vaulted ceiling.
Desks were neat rows, sunlight streaming across blackboards filled with diagrams of arrows turning into goblets.
At the front sat a plain desk, unassuming. On it perched a tabby cat, tail twitching lazily.
Ron leaned over. "Brilliant. First lesson and it's… pet day?"
I arched an eyebrow. Patience, Weasley.
The cat's eyes gleamed unnaturally sharp.
I already knew who it was.
Sure enough, the cat leapt gracefully from the desk, and morphed midair into Professor McGonagall. Her robes snapped into place as she straightened, expression cool and proud.
A few students gasped. Someone even clapped.
Ron whispered, "Bloody hell."
"Animagus," I murmured. 'One of the hardest transformations in the book.' I thought.
McGonagall's gaze swept the room. "Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone caught using it for mischief will be leaving this class immediately."
She flicked her wand. "We begin simply. A matchstick."
Little boxes of matchsticks appeared on each desk. "Your task: transform it into a needle. Precision is everything."
Groans rippled through the room. Half the students expected fireworks, not needlecraft.
I twirled the matchstick between my fingers. All right, precision training. Let's see how sharp I can make this without breaking cover.
I whispered the incantation, focused my will, and tapped. The wood shimmered, rippling metallic. Within seconds, a perfect steel needle lay on my desk.
But around me, results were… varied.
Ron's matchstick had sprouted a bent, silver tip.
Neville's caught fire.
Seamus's exploded.
Hermione's was already halfway to success, gleaming dull metal but still faintly wooden.
I leaned back casually, inspecting my flawless needle like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her heels clicked as she walked down the aisles, examining work. She stopped at my desk.
One eyebrow arched. She picked up the needle, turned it in her fingers, then gave me a sharp look. "Mr. Potter… most impressive."
"Thank you, Professor," I said smoothly, keeping my face calm while Ron gawked at me like I'd just pulled gold out of thin air.
McGonagall gave the tiniest nod, then moved on.
Hermione glanced over, eyes wide, then narrowed in determination. Good. Competition fuels progress.
By the end of class, most students had a bent or half-changed object.
My needle remained perfect. I slipped it into my pocket. Souvenir. Proof of control.
As we packed up, Ron muttered, "How'd you do that? First try?"
I smirked. "Trade secret. Maybe I'll start a tutoring business. First lesson's free, second one costs Chocolate Frogs."
Ron groaned. "Unfair."
"Life's unfair," I replied, and walked out into the corridor.
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After Transfiguration, Gryffindors shuffled into Charms. The room was lined with bookshelves stacked with volumes that looked older than the castle itself.
In the center stood Professor Flitwick, tiny, cheerful, with an energy that filled the space like fireworks.
"Good morning!" he squeaked, climbing onto a pile of cushions behind his desk. "Welcome to Charms! This, my young friends, is where you'll learn spells that will change your lives forever. Light, levitation, fire, water, it all begins here."
He raised his wand with theatrical flair. "And we shall start with one of the simplest yet most essential charms. Lumos!"
A warm beam of white light bloomed at his wand tip. Then he flicked it. "Nox!" The light vanished.
We each got a turn.
Ron's wand sparked faintly, then fizzled. "Lumos!" he barked. His wand sputtered like a dying flashlight.
Hermione's hand shot up even before her wand was out. "Professor, I read about channeling magical focus through the wrist—"
Flitwick beamed. "Excellent preparation, Miss Granger. Do try!"
Hermione whispered "Lumos" and her wand glowed faintly, like a candle stub. She beamed.
My turn. I breathed steady, narrowed my focus, and murmured:
"Lumos."
The light flared instantly, not a candle glow, but a clean, sharp beam, bright enough to cast clear shadows across the room. A few students gasped.
I twirled the wand lazily, writing my initials in light against the wall before extinguishing it with a casual "Nox."
Flitwick squeaked so loudly he nearly toppled off his stack of books. "Marvelous, Mr. Potter! Excellent control of focus! Five points to Gryffindor!"
Hermione pursed her lips, already planning to outdo me next round. Ron muttered, "Show-off."
I smirked faintly. "Correction: competent."
By the end of class, most wands glowed faintly. A few (Seamus's, predictably) sparked dangerously.
As we filed out, Dean grinned at me. "You make that look easy."
I shrugged. "Everything's easy when you don't overthink it."
And when you've already mastered wandless light years ago, I added silently.
The bell rang, leading us straight into lunch.
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The Great Hall buzzed at midday, filled with clatter and chatter. Platters of roast chicken, bread rolls, and pumpkin juice shimmered onto the tables.
I slid into my seat between Ron and Seamus, piling some food onto my plate. Conversation was lively.
Seamus describing an uncle's failed broom enchantment, Hermione furiously reading her timetable even as she chewed.
Then the Ferret came.
Draco Malfoy, flanked as always by Crabbe and Goyle, stood smugly at the edge of the Gryffindor table. His chin was high, his smirk freshly polished.
Ferret energy bouncing from him.
"Well, Potter," Draco drawled. "I remember our last little chat. You had your clever words about half-bloods and all that… but you ignored something important. Family magic. Bloodline abilities. Things muggleborns will never have."
He leaned in, pale eyes gleaming. "A Malfoy can trace his line back centuries. We have magics bred into us. Do you really think someone born from nothing can compare?"
The Gryffindors bristled. Ron started to rise again, but I raised a hand, eyes locked on Draco.
"Bloodline abilities," I echoed. "Useful, yes. Impressive, even. But tell me this, Malfoy—"
I set down my fork deliberately. "What happens when the same dozen families intermarry for centuries? What happens when the gene pool shrinks so small it circles the drain?"
Draco's smirk faltered slightly.
"Stagnation. Weakness. The Black family itself is proof. Centuries of inbreeding left them unstable. Brilliant here, mad there. Do you think that's strength? Or rot?"
I let the words hang before continuing, quieter, sharper. "Without new blood, old blood withers. Without fresh air, noble houses suffocate. You can't keep cutting from the same cloth and expect it to stay whole."
A hush fell around us. Gryffindors leaned in. Even some Ravenclaws at the next table glanced over.
Draco opened his mouth, closed it, then forced out: "You don't understand—"
I tilted my head. "I understand perfectly. Tradition matters. Bloodlines matter. But without change, tradition becomes a coffin. You want your house to thrive? Stop looking down on the very people who might save it."
Draco's pale face flushed. He turned sharply, stalking off with Crabbe and Goyle in tow, the echo of my words trailing behind him.
Ron gaped. "that was wicked, mate."
Seamus snorted. "Or a talent for picking fights and winning them."
I calmly speared a piece of roast chicken. "I'm not picking fights. I'm educating."
Hermione muttered, "Educating with insults," but I caught the faintest glimmer of approval in her eyes.
The chatter of the Hall resumed, but glances still flicked toward me from all sides.
Some curious. Some wary. A few… impressed.
Exactly as planned.
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The Gryffindor common room was quieter than usual in the late afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, turning the scarlet drapes gold.
Most first-years were either napping or nervously rereading their schedules.
I sat by the fire with a book from the library, Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling. Not because I needed it, but because the image mattered.
Appear studious, unassuming. Let them underestimate you.
From the corner of my eye, I caught whispers. Seamus, Dean, even a few older Gryffindors sneaking glances at me.
Half awe, half curiosity.
Malfoy's challenge spread faster than fire in dry grass.
Good. Let them talk. Reputation was a currency. Some people spent it recklessly. I intended to invest mine.
Step one: competence in class. Done. Step two: stand your ground against Snakelets. Done. Step three: establish myself as someone who sees the game differently.
I turned a page lazily. So far, so good. Now comes step four: don't get caught underestimating the staff.
Especially Snape.
Because unlike Malfoy, Snape wouldn't just argue with words. He'd use poison, potions, pressure.
And he already hated me on sight.
I closed the book. Time to sharpen the mask.
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A/N:
OKAY OKAY I'LL STOP SPEEDRUNNING CHAPTERS NOW.
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-Nine11P2