(Harry's POV*)
Months had passed since my talk with Dumbledore.
Months since I had walked out of that office grinning like a cat who'd swallowed a secret.
The world, for now, was calm.
Quidditch practice, homework, and Lockhart's glitter-filled brainrot lectures , business as usual.
No basilisk, no creeping terror in the halls.
Just the dull hum of Hogwarts life.
But calm, for me, was never simple.
It was a break, a thin layer of normality stretched over a brain constantly stuffed with runes, theory, and the faint thrill of creation.
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"Mate, you look like you haven't slept," Ron said through a mouthful of toast.
I absently stirred my French toast with my fork, hovering mid air, pretending the syrup was a liquid conductor for my thoughts. "Sleep's a social construct invented by wizards who couldn't transfigure their own exhaustion."
Hermione snorted, rolling her eyes so hard I could almost hear them. "You're quoting your own nonsense now."
"Self-citation," I said, giving her a sly look. "Makes it sound smarter."
She huffed, trying not to smile, Ron, of course, snorted pumpkin juice through his nose, nearly choking on the sugar rush.
Across the Hall, Fred and George were reenacting a slow motion Bludger strike on Lee Jordan, complete with theatrical screams and wind up gestures.
I flicked my fork casually, it clinked against George's plate with perfect comedic timing.
Fred froze mid scream. "Oi, Potter! Ever thought of joining us professionally?"
I shrugged, grinning. "Can't. Ministry regulations I am too powerful, too humble."
"Too humble?" Hermione shot me a look that could level walls.
What? humble is my second name.
"Self-aware modesty," I explained. "It's an advanced magical discipline. Requires years of practice. You wouldn't understand."
Fred blinked. "Right… advanced modesty. Sure, mate."
I winked, leaning back. "Exactly. It's a dangerous skill. Might accidentally turn the world into a polite utopia if mastered."
Ron groaned, shaking his head. "You're impossible."
"Thank you," I said with mock gravitas, stabbing a bite of French toast. "I try."
Hermione groaned, muttering something about needing a suger drink, and I caught Ron trying not to laugh as syrup dripped onto the table.
Normal Hogwarts chaos, but somehow, perfect.
Oh I am gonna miss these days.
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Days blurred into an oddly peaceful pattern, not boring, just disciplined.
Our daily schedule was packed: Transfiguration before lunch, Charms after, Potions at the end, and then DADA club at night.
Somewhere in between, the Room of Requirement became our private gym for magic, a place where I could push limits no one suspected.
McGonagall had us practicing the Softening Charm and Avifors again. Everyone groaned, except me, I was bored enough to turn my quill into a phoenix feather mid lesson and back.
"Show-off," Ron muttered under his breath, eyeing me like I'd just cursed his breakfast.
"Efficiency," I corrected, grinning. "Transfiguration's like cooking. Get the recipe right, and the plating's the fun part."
McGonagall arched an eyebrow but said nothing. The corners of her mouth twitched.
I swear, if she smiled any harder, she'd break her own sternness record.
kitty, kitty, kittyyy.
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Flitwick's lecture on Shrinking Charms ended with Hermione accidentally shrinking Ron's bag. He shot her a glare that could strip wallpaper.
I, of course, enlarged it again, wandlessly, because why not.
"Perfect reversal, Mr. Potter," Flitwick squeaked, sounding half alarmed, half delighted.
"Practice," I said, shrugging. "And a healthy dose of curiosity. Never underestimate curiosity."
Hermione muttered something about reckless lunacy, and Ron just groaned, shaking his head.
"Reckless?" I said, wagging a finger. "I prefer… experimental."
Ron snorted. "Yeah, experimental till the ceiling falls on us."
My lip twitched.
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In our makeshift DADA club, our little group had grown. Dean, Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, the Patil twins, Luna, Terry Boot, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Blaise Zabini, Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott, about sixteen strong now.
They gathered in flickering candlelight while I stood at the front, not as The Boy Who Lived, but as… well, as someone who actually knew what they were doing.
"Werewolves, Yetis, Imps, textbook stuff," I said, levitating three illustrated cutouts lazily. "Let's talk real defense, reaction time, mental control, and intent."
Luna's hand floated up like it had a mind of its own. "What about spectral entities driven by emotional imbalance?"
I grinned. "You mean my classmates before exams?"
The room chuckled.
Even Daphne cracked a smile though Tracey elbowed her for it.
Susan piped up next. "Harry, is there a way to block them without a wand?", Susan with her usual shield questions.
Amelia would be proud.
I waved my hand, and a faint shimmer of protective light surrounded the nearest practice dummy. "See? It's not about pointing your wand. It's about feeling the magic, directing it before you even think."
"Magic's a muscle," I told them, circling the room. "You don't command it, you train it. If you force it, you break it. But train it, and it moves with you."
"Does it grow if I feed it spinach?" Seamus muttered, grinning.
"Only if you also do ten pushups per hex," I said, not even slowing my pace. "Magical muscles respond to discipline, not shortcuts."
Hermione frowned slightly. "Don't show off too much, Harry. Remember, some of us can't just… bend magic to our will like that."
I shrugged. "Fine. But you can feel it. Watch the intention, not the wand. That's all I'm doing."
Dean piped up. "So you're saying I could actually fight a werewolf with my mind?"
I winked. "Maybe. But if your mind's too busy thinking about chocolate frogs, probably not."
Ron snorted, snickering, while Lavender and Parvati whispered behind their hands.
By the end of the night, I was adjusting stances, fine-tuning incantations, showing them how to listen to magic, not shout at it.
I passed from group to group, nudging shoulders, tilting wands, demonstrating without effort.
And every once in a while, I'd glance at the way they watched, wide-eyed, awed, trying to hide it.
Half of them had already seen me do magic without moving my wand. The other half were about to.
"Ready for one more round of counter-spells?" I asked, twirling my wand lazily for show.
"Yes!" they chorused.
"Excellent," I said, smiling to myself. "And remember… magic's a muscle. You train it, or it trains you."
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The dungeon smelled of boiled nettles and old stone, that familiar mix that always made me feel like I was on the edge of something unpleasant.
Snape drifted past like an oily bat, robes matching vampire fashion. "Hair-Raising Potion, class," he announced, voice sharp enough to slice through egos.
"Ingredients listed. I expect competence. Though, honestly, I won't be surprised if most of you fail miserably."
I smirked and got to work, stirring slowly, deliberately, letting the potion thrum under my wandless guidance.
Hermione matched me stir for stir, whispering corrections here and there, though I could tell she was trying not to look impressed.
When Snape stopped by, I felt his gaze press like cold steel. He peered into my cauldron and paused.
The potion shimmered a faint, perfect blue instead of the dull gray that plagued the others.
"Curious," he murmured, voice soft but sharp enough to make my spine straighten. "Since this year, you've… been improving recipes?"
I kept my eyes level with his, tilting my head slightly. "Just noting efficiency, sir. Better to spend less magic for more effect."
His eyes flicked to the side pocket at my hip, the black notebook bound in dragonhide, scribbled with runes, formulas, and little tweaks to everything we brewed.
"I see," he said slowly, like he was tasting something sour yet fascinating. "A diary of refinement. How...nostalgic."
I shrugged casually. "We all learn from someone, sir. Even… old masters like you."
He didn't respond right away. For a fraction of a second, his lip twitched, not quite anger, not quite pride, more like… recognition.
Then he swept away, disappearing into the shadows with a soft swish of his robes.
I whispered to Hermione, leaning close. "I think he's impressed. Or plotting my death. Hard to tell."
She rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
"Me? Never. I'm just… exceptionally efficient." I grinned, tapping the side of my cauldron. "And saving magic while looking good doing it."
Hermione snorted, muttering something about "show-offs and their endless arrogance." I pretended not to hear, already plotting how to refine the next potion even further.
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Nightly, we trained in the RoR.
The floor shimmered like polished obsidian, and the candles floating around us, syncing in rhythm with our breathing.
I watched Ron struggle to levitate a quill, the thing spinning like it had a vendetta against him.
"Focus on pull, not push," I said, trying to keep my tone patient. "You're forcing magic out not letting it breathe through you."
He groaned and muttered, "Mate, it's breathing through me, and it wants me dead."
Hermione, of course, managed a perfect shield without touching her wand.
I grinned. "Not bad. You'll be terrifying in a month. Or at least mildly intimidating."
Ron flopped against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Mate, I already am terrifying. To my muscles."
I raised an eyebrow. "Sure, terrifying enough to scare small furniture."
Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "You're doing fine, Ron. At least you're not blowing up half the room this time."
I sat down cross legged, folding my hands over my knees. "Don't mock the furniture. It died bravely. Stood there, absorbing magical backlash like a champ."
Ron snorted. "Yeah, yeah, brave little coffee table. May it haunt you in the night."
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. "Honestly, Harry, sometimes I think you enjoy watching us struggle just to lecture us."
I tilted my head, feigning innocence. "Me? Never. I'm just… providing morally sound guidance. Plus, it's funny watching Ron fight a quill like it's a Hungarian Horntail."
He growled. "I'll get you back for that."
I smirked. "I'm counting on it. Makes training more… lively."
And so we continued, the RoR pulsing with our attempts, mistakes, and laughter.
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By the end of October, Quidditch season was in full swing.
Gryffindor v/s Slytherin.
I hovered midair on my Nimbus 2000, feeling the wind in my face and the adrenaline in my veins.
Malfoy was smirking across the pitch, perfectly poised in his Nimbus 2001 broom like a smug peacock.
"Try not to fall off your outdated broom, Potter," he called, voice dripping with malice.
I smirked back. "Try not to cry when I lap you."
Minutes later, the bewitched Bludger came screaming toward me.
I didn't dodge deliberately.
"Harry, no!" Ron shouted from the stands.
"HARRY!" Hermione screamed, her voice cracking.
Impact hit hard.
My arm *cracked* cleanly, and I felt the bone shift like a snapping twig.
I tumbled midair but, in that same chaotic moment, I caught the Snitch.
My body slammed into the ground, but I grinned through the pain anyway.
Your plan worked Dobby, now you have no choice but to visit me.
Madam Hooch blew the whistle. "Potter caught the Snitch! Gryffindor wins!"
Hermione came sprinting down the stands, eyes wide with horror. "Harry! You—your arm—"
I waved my good hand lazily. "All part of the plan.", I joked.
though she didn't know it wasn't.
"Plan?!" she sputtered. "Your bone's broken!"
I just winked. "Exactly."
Before I could breathe, Lockhart swooped down from the stands, hair gleaming in the sunlight. "Ah, Harry, my boy! Nothing a simple spell can't fix—"
He raised his wand dramatically, clearly imagining a cinematic flourish.
I sidestepped, wagging a finger. "Not this time, Lockhart."
"Wha—" He blinked, unsure.
I shouted, "Hooch!"
Madam Hooch swooped in like a hawk, glaring at Lockhart. "Step aside, Gilderoy. Potter, move."
I let her guide me to the edge of the pitch. "Thank you, Hooch. And do tell him, please, that broomstick heroics aren't an invitation for wandless first aid."
Lockhart trailed behind, pouting like a wounded peacock. "I could have fixed it, you know. Instantly."
I shot him a pointed look. "You could've made it worse, and honestly… I like my bones where they are."
Hermione wrapped her arm around my shoulders, steadying me. "Honestly, you're impossible."
I grinned, ignoring the throbbing in my arm. "But lovable."
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That night, after Madam Pomfrey had fussed over my arm and practically glued it back together with a lecture on reckless behavior, I feigned sleep until the ward went quiet.
Then I whispered, "Come on out."
A pair of tennis ball eyes peeked through the curtain, wide and terrified.
"Harry Potter, sir… Dobby is ashamed—!"
I raised a hand gently. "Relax. I know it was you. I also know why."
Dobby's ears drooped so low I thought they might touch the floor. "Dobby only wanted to keep Harry Potter safe! Dobby's plans— they failed—"
I shook my head. "They worked." My voice softened. "The basilisk is gone. Hogwarts is safe."
He froze, trembling like a leaf in a storm. "It— it is?"
I nodded. "I ended it. But there's something you can do for me now."
Dobby blinked, unsure. "Anything, sir!"
"Keep watching me," I said, leaning closer. "Quietly. Learn. Your freedom's coming soon ."
His little eyes shimmered, like he caught a hint of something bigger than he could understand. "Dobby… can he—can he truly be free?"
I smirked faintly. "Depends on if you're willing to take a few risks for it."
Dobby's ears twitched nervously. "Dobby will try, sir!"
I reached out and rested a hand on his head. "When it happens, I'll make sure you never serve anyone again… unless you choose to."
The elf burst into happy tears, sniffling like a human who just realized they'd won the lottery.
I leaned back against the bed, glancing at the moonlight filtering through the infirmary windows. "Magic," I whispered to the quiet room, "starts with choice."
Dobby peeked at me through wet lashes. "Harry Potter is clever, sir… and kind."
I chuckled. "Don't let it go to your head, Dobby. You're not allowed to tell everyone that, or I'll deny it."
He giggled, a small, joyful sound. "Dobby never tell, sir!"
I grinned faintly, letting the calm wash over me.
Even in a world full of snakes, basilisk bones, and dangerous spells, I realized something:
some magic, the real magic, was simple.
Choice. Trust. Freedom.
...I sound like fuckin dumbledore now.
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