Harry's POV*
October mornings in Scotland weren't kind.
The wind cut like knives as I trudged onto the pitch with my Firebolt under my arm.
Oliver Wood was already there, vibrating with that unhealthy mix of Quidditch obsession and caffeine.
God damn, Its a relief I am British otherwise I would have folded under this much cold.
"Right then!" he barked the moment I got within earshot. "Formations today, practice dodges, and oh, wait, what's this?"
The "what's this" turned out to be the Slytherin team strutting onto the pitch, all in smug unison.
And there was our resident ferret, grinning like someone had finally found his missing brain cell.
"Sorry, Wood," Flint drawled, waving a piece of parchment. "Special permission from Professor Snape. We've got practice."
Wood's jaw worked furiously. "You can't just—"
"Oh, but we can," Malfoy cut in, drawing out every word.
He swung a brand new Nimbus 2001 in his hand like it was a sword. Behind him, the entire Slytherin team showed off theirs.
Ron's mouth dropped open. "Blimey. Those are… those are the best brooms money can buy."
"Exactly," Malfoy smirked. "My father bought them for the whole team. We couldn't have the inferior equipment holding us back."
He looked right at me, eyes glittering. "I suppose some people have to make do with hand me downs and charity cases."
I was about to retort when he pivoted toward Hermione, his lip curling.
"And speaking of charity… I don't know how you lot put up with a filthy little Mud—"
"Careful." My voice cut across the pitch like a blade.
The entire Gryffindor team turned toward me. Malfoy sneered, but I didn't raise my wand.
I don't need to.
I just stepped closer, casual as anything.
"You know what's funny, Malfoy?" I said, tilting my head. "You spend all this energy insulting Hermione, but deep down you're jealous. Every last one of you."
Flint scoffed. "Jealous? Of her?"
"Yes," I said calmly. "Because no matter how much gold your daddies dump into your laps, not one of you could catch up to her in class if you tried. She's smarter than your whole team combined, and you can't stand it. So you call her names."
I leaned in slightly, keeping my voice low but clear enough for everyone to hear.
"Pathetic, really. Imagine admitting out loud that the only way you can compete with her is by buying your way out."
The Gryffindor team choked on their laughter. Even Fred and George were bent double.
Hermione went scarlet, but her chin lifted, pride shining in her eyes.
Malfoy's smirk cracked. "You—shut up, Potter!"
That's when the wands came out. Slytherins, all at once, raising their arms.
"Really?" I said, deadpan. "All of you, against one second year? Not very sporting."
And then, green and red light blazed toward me.
How foolish, wait I sound like snape rn.
I didn't even bother with my wand.
Just raised a hand. Some dominance will teach them.
The spells froze mid air, suspended like fireflies in a jar.
For a moment, the whole pitch was silent except for the wind.
Then I flicked my wrist.
Every single spell shot back at its caster. Flint howled as boils erupted on his face. Pucey staggered, petrified from the knees down.
One poor seventh year blasted himself backward into the mud.
The screams and crashes echoed across the stadium.
Half the Slytherin team scrambled to crawl off the field.
I let my hand drop casually. "Self-sabotage," I said dryly. "Bold strategy."
The Gryffindor team broke into wild laughter, doubled over at the sight of Slytherins dragging themselves toward the castle.
Even Wood laughed, though his eyes were still wide in shock.
"Merlin's beard, Potter," he wheezed. "They're going to be in hospital for days. You—you thrashed them, and you didn't even draw your wand."
Fred and George actually fell over each other, tears streaming down their faces.
"Best thing—"
"—we've ever seen—"
"—and it wasn't even a prank!"
Ron clapped me on the back so hard I nearly dropped my broom.
"Mate, I'm both terrified of you and ridiculously proud."
I shrugged, grinning faintly. "Good practice, I'd say."
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Hermione's POV
I was still frozen where I stood. My cheeks burned, not from embarrassment this time, but something else.
He'd defended me. Not with fists, or even just a spell, but with words sharp enough to slice Malfoy's smugness to ribbons.
And then, he had made the entire Slytherin team look like fools.
I shouldn't have been surprised. This was Harry. Always throwing himself into danger, always standing up for others. But there had been something different this time.
The way he'd spoken, calm and razor sharp, like he'd seen straight through Malfoy's mask.
And when the spells had frozen in mid air, when he'd just… stopped them with a hand, my breath had caught.
No wand. No incantation. Just Harry, standing there as if magic itself bent to him.
I knew I shouldn't feel it, but… a flutter stirred in my chest.
I shoved it down quickly. No. Focus. He'd only done it to save my reputation.
To shut Malfoy up. Nothing more.
Still… as the Gryffindor team laughed and cheered around us, my eyes lingered on him a little longer than they should have.
And for the first time, I wondered if maybe… just maybe… Harry Potter wasn't only my best friend.
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"POTTER!"
I'd barely made it to the locker room before Professor McGonagall's voice sliced through the air like a curse.
She stood in the doorway, tartan robes billowing like a storm cloud, lips pressed into a line so thin it could cut glass.
Behind her trailed Madam Hooch and two terrified Slytherins half levitating Flint toward the Hospital Wing.
"I can explain," I began.
"I highly doubt that," she snapped, marching me down the corridor so fast my feet barely touched the floor. "Seventeen stunners, five hexes, and, Merlin help me, one unidentified curse rebounding back onto the entire Slytherin Quidditch team! What on earth possessed you?"
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Uh… self defense?"
McGonagall stopped dead, turned, and fixed me with that classic deadpan glare.
"Without. A. Wand."
"…Yes." looks like i overdid a little, still no regrets.
Her nostrils flared, though her says another story. "'Detention', Potter. And you will write a 'three foot essay on proper dueling etiquette'."
"Yes, Professor." I knew it, detention is just a facade.
She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Honestly, sometimes I think you're determined to give me gray hair."
"It suits you, Professor."
The faintest twitch crossed her lips, as though she was fighting a smile. "Detention extended."
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McGonagall after she gave detention, said the headmaster has summoned me.
"Enter," came the calm voice from beyond the phoenix carved door.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, half buried in paperwork, Fawkes perched nearby humming softly.
When I stepped in, his eyes sparkled with that maddening mix of amusement and ancient concern.
"Ah, Harry," he said mildly. "It seems you've given the school quite a show."
I shrugged. "Malfoy started it."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "And yet, somehow, it was you who finished it by reflecting seventeen spells at once, wandlessly, without apparent effort."
I shifted under his gaze. "Lucky reflexes?"
He chuckled softly. "If that is luck, my boy, then I suspect Lady Luck herself has taken up permanent residence in your pocket."
Silence hung for a moment, broken only by Fawkes' gentle chirp.
Then Dumbledore leaned back, eyes thoughtful.
"Harry… you do realize what you did was extraordinary. Few wizards could even hope to accomplish it."
I nodded. "I know. I'll try to… tone it down."
He smiled faintly. "You remind me of your parents in the best, and most exasperating ways."
When I turned to leave, he added quietly, "Harry, whatever path you are walking… do not lose your kindness along the way, and try not to show off too much."
I met his eyes and smiled. "Don't worry, Professor. It's kind of my favorite part."
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By dinner, the whole school knew. By dessert, it had evolved into legend.
The Gryffindor common room exploded that night. Fred and George had charmed a banner that read:
"Slytherins Stunned by Second Year!"
Ron was reenacting my hand wave dramatically by the fire. "And then he goes—whoosh!—and boom! Instant chaos! Malfoy screaming like a toddler!"
"Oi," I said from the armchair, "you're making me sound cool. Don't ruin my humble image."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, you're so humble, Mister I-Deflect-Seventeen-Spells-With-A-Hand."
I grinned. "Jealous?"
"Of what exactly?" she retorted, crossing her arms.
"Of my impeccable hair under pressure."
Ron choked on his butterbeer. "It looked like a bird's nest!"
Fred popped in, tossing a chocolate frog. "Doesn't matter, mate Potter's hair now officially has its own fan club."
I groaned. "Please don't start that."
Too late. George already had a quill out, scribbling on a parchment titled 'Official Hair Appreciation Society of Harry James Potter'.
Even Hermione was laughing now, despite herself. For once, the night felt light. Easy.
No shadows. Just warmth, laughter, and the crackle of the fire.
-----------------------------------------
Days After*
The week that followed slid by in a comfortable rhythm.
Classes, laughter, pranks, studying in the library with Hermione threatening to hex Ron's doodles.
Professor Sprout had us pruning Puffapods, Ron nearly fainted when one exploded in his face.
Flitwick demonstrated silent Freezing Charms, mine didn't even flicker when I freeze a book.
"Show off," Hermione muttered, though her smile said otherwise.
During History of Magic, I practiced Legilimency subtly while Binns droned about goblin rebellions.
It was an exercise in control, listening without truly listening.
At lunch, Dean Thomas tried to trade a Chocolate Frog card for a story about the Quidditch incident.
I told him I'd only do interviews for The Quibbler now.
That night, The castle slept.
I didn't.
The seventh floor corridor was silent, moonlight cutting silver lines across the stone floor.
As I passed the blank stretch of wall, I focused my will:
A place to train. A place to release everything I hold back.
The door appeared tall, carved, waiting. I stepped through.
Tonight, the Room was… vast. A dome of black stone under a false sky that shimmered with pale aurora light.
Runes pulsed faintly along the walls, feeding a hum of power that wasn't the Room's usual magic, it was mine, echoing back at me.
Each movement felt cleaner, sharper. Magic wasn't something I did anymore, it was me.
I closed my eyes.
Breathed.
Felt.
The air thickened with the weight of my magic. It pulsed, alive, around my skin. I raised my hand, palm open.
A spark ignited, golden, pure.
It bloomed outward, twisting into flame.
I wasn't casting. I was creating.
The fire coiled like a serpent, alive and obedient. When I thought of destruction, it grew hotter, turning blue white. When I thought of peace, it dimmed to a warm ember.
Then I willed, "Fiendfyre."
The incarnation wasn't even necessary.
The fire understood.
It exploded into a monstrous storm, dragons and serpents of pure flame howling through the air, devouring the Room.
The heat should have been unbearable, but it wasn't. The flames bent around me like wind around a rock, never touching, never harming.
The sound was deafening. Beautiful. Terrifying.
I lifted my hand again, and everything stopped.
The world froze mid burn. Then, with a single thought, it all folded back into a single, tiny spark floating in my palm.
It winked out.
The Room went silent again, and I could hear my heartbeat.
"…I really should not try that outside," I muttered, half smiling.
I tried others, water from air (Aguamenti Maxima), (ventus or known as tempest jinx) lightning from strom clouds, (aeris spell) to generate wind from stillness.
Each time, the magic came easier. Each time, the world itself seemed to breathe with me.
Not channeling magic, being it.
That's when I noticed something strange.
I wasn't tired. Not even slightly.
Magic didn't drain me anymore. It circulated, like air, like thought.
Infinite, as long as I stayed aware.
It wasn't power. It was truth.
After a while, I sat cross-legged on the floor, watching the faint traces of my magic ripple across the stone.
The air smelled like ozone and ancient smoke. I realized the Room could barely contain what I was doing anymore, it was starting to warp under the force of my practice.
And that gave me an idea.
Somewhere beneath my feet, there was another chamber.
Vast. Empty. Hidden from all eyes.
A place where no one would interrupt me, and where power like mine wouldn't draw questions.
The Chamber of Secrets.
I smiled faintly. "A place for secrets and serpents," I murmured to myself. "Perfect."
The torches flickered, as though the castle itself agreed.
Tomorrow night, I'd find the entrance.
And if the basilisk was still alive… maybe it was time the ancient guardian met a wizard who didn't fear it.
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