The days after Harry's encounter with the hidden chamber passed in a blur of restless energy.
It wasn't just that he felt stronger — it was that he could feel everything.
The walls hummed faintly when he passed them. Candles flickered differently depending on his mood. Quills and parchment twitched when he concentrated too long.
Magic didn't sit quietly in his wand anymore.
It wanted to move.
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Harry started practicing at night.
Not proper spells — not yet.
Just… testing.
He'd close his eyes and focus on small things — a scrap of parchment, a drop of ink, a flickering flame.
Sometimes nothing happened.
Sometimes too much happened.
On Wednesday, he nearly set his curtains on fire trying to make his candle brighter.
On Thursday, his ink bottle exploded mid-scribble, splattering Ron's homework.
By Friday, half of Gryffindor Tower had started calling him Sparks Potter.
"Mate, you've got to stop setting things on fire," Ron groaned as he wiped soot off his essay. "McGonagall's going to have kittens."
Harry laughed sheepishly. "It's not fire, it's—well, okay, it's mostly fire. But it's progress!"
"Progress toward detention," Hermione muttered from across the table, quill scratching furiously. "Honestly, Harry, you can't just experiment without proper safety wards."
"I tried safety wards. They caught fire too."
Hermione looked up, scandalized. "How—?"
"Don't ask," said Ron, cutting her off before another lecture could begin. "You'll only encourage him."
But beneath the teasing and smoke, Harry felt something new stirring.
Each failure taught him — not about control, exactly, but about resonance.
Magic answered emotion.
Anger sharpened it, excitement made it wild, calm focused it.
The more he noticed that rhythm, the more he understood: power wasn't about forcing magic.
It was about matching it.
⸻
One night, Fred and George decided to test his control.
"Oi, Potter!" called Fred, holding up a stolen candle from the corridor. "Bet you can't light this without your wand."
Harry arched a brow. "Bet I can."
"Bet you can't do it without blowing up the table," George added cheerfully.
Hermione sighed from her armchair. "This is ridiculous."
"It's science," Fred said.
Harry grinned and held out his hand. He remembered the pulse — the rhythm beneath things — and focused on warmth, not force.
A spark jumped from his palm to the candlewick.
The flame lit — steady, golden, perfectly contained.
The twins stared.
"Well," said Fred, impressed. "That's new."
"Reckon we should hire him for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes early," George said. "Human torch and all."
Ron whooped. "Blimey, Harry! You didn't even burn anything this time!"
"Progress," Hermione muttered, but she couldn't quite hide her smile.
Neville, sitting quietly by the fire, leaned forward. "How'd you do that?"
Harry shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I didn't. It sort of… wanted to happen."
Neville blinked. "Magic wanted to?"
Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah. You ever get that feeling? Like when a plant leans toward sunlight before you notice it?"
Neville thought about it, brow furrowed. "Yeah. All the time."
Harry grinned. "Then you get it."
For the first time, Neville smiled back — small, shy, but genuine.
Hermione looked between them, thoughtful now instead of disapproving.
"Magic responding to emotion," she murmured. "That's not in The Standard Book of Spells."
"No," said Harry softly. "But it should be."
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A few nights later, Hermione showed up in the common room carrying three books, two rolls of parchment, and an air of determined chaos.
"We're doing this properly," she announced, setting everything down with a thump.
"Doing what properly?" Ron asked warily.
"Harry's experiments," Hermione said, pulling up a chair. "If he's going to keep breaking the rules of magical energy transfer, we're at least going to record the results."
Harry grinned. "You mean you want to study with me."
She glared. "I mean I want to stop you from blowing your eyebrows off."
That's how they ended up in a quiet corner of the library with a levitation charm and a stack of quills.
Harry raised a quill, focused — and the air shifted around it.
He felt that rhythm again — the pulse under his skin — and the quill rose smoothly into the air.
Hermione watched closely. "You're not even saying the words."
"I don't need to," Harry said, concentrating. "The charm remembers them."
"What?"
"Like… the room knows what I mean. I just have to mean it clearly."
She frowned, scribbling furiously. "That's not how spellcraft works, Harry. That's—well, that's—"
"Working?" he offered.
The quill suddenly shot upward, slamming into the ceiling.
They both yelped.
"Okay, maybe working too well," he said sheepishly.
"Put it down!" Hermione hissed.
"I'm trying!"
They scrambled, knocking over books and shushing each other until the quill finally drifted back down, landing neatly in Hermione's inkpot.
She gave him a long look.
"I'm writing this in the notes," she said flatly.
Harry grinned. "Make sure you mention the excellent landing."
Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now too.
⸻
The next week, Harry ran into Draco Malfoy by the courtyard steps.
The Slytherin smirked. "Potter. Still setting things on fire?"
Harry stopped. "Only when I'm bored."
Crabbe and Goyle snickered. Draco folded his arms. "You're not fooling anyone, you know. That show-off duel? Everyone's talking. Bit reckless, isn't it?"
Harry tilted his head. "Reckless works for me."
Draco frowned — not insulted, just… intrigued. "You really don't care what people think?"
"Not anymore."
That gave Draco pause. "Must be nice," he muttered.
Before Harry could reply, Draco's foot caught on a trick stair — the step vanished beneath him, and he dropped with a yelp.
Harry grabbed his arm on instinct, hauling him up before the stair snapped shut.
For a second, they just stared at each other — both breathing hard.
"Thanks," Draco said grudgingly.
Harry grinned. "Don't mention it. Wouldn't want to lose my favorite critic."
Draco snorted, brushing off his sleeve. "You're insufferable."
"Yeah," Harry said, "but you didn't let go."
For once, Draco didn't have a comeback.
⸻
That night, Harry woke to a sound.
Not footsteps. Not wind.
A hiss.
Low. Slow.
Words that weren't words — curling through the dark like smoke.
He sat up, heart hammering.
"…sooooon… awaken… blood… return…"
The sound came from the wall.
The same one that had warmed under his hand days ago.
He whispered, "Hello?"
The voice stopped.
Then, faintly:
"…Heir…"
Harry went still.
Every hair on his arms rose.
He knew that sound. Knew it in his bones, in the scar that still ached when he remembered dying.
Parseltongue.
The basilisk.
Not yet freed. Not yet roused. But awake enough to dream.
He whispered back, low and measured, in the same language:
"Sleep. I know you. And I won't let him wake you again."
The wall pulsed once — a faint, uncertain ripple of heat — and then the whisper died.
Harry exhaled shakily. This wasn't supposed to happen yet.
In the original timeline, the basilisk wouldn't stir for another year.
Something in the castle's rhythm — maybe his own wild magic — had changed the sequence.
He sat back against the bedpost, mind racing.
If Hogwarts itself was responding to him, it might be loosening the barriers that kept old magic sealed.
And if that was true…
Then he wasn't just reliving history.
He was rewriting it.
⸻
End of Chapter 17 – "The Serpent in the Shadows."
⸻