Chapter 31
certher
Virgin Destroyer
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Harry rubbed his tense neck, letting out a frustrated sigh. "All right, let's just avoid any more…explosions, okay?"
Daphne tried not to grin, giving him a sideways glance. "What, like it's the first time?"
He laughed, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. "Okay, smartass, buffer then. Something gentle. How about moonflower?"
She raised a brow, shaking her head slightly. "Bit too hyped up for me. More like magical coffee. Lavender's boring, sure, but at least it won't backstab us."
Harry reached out to grasp the vial, holding it up to the dim light coming from the runes. The lavender essence gleamed softly in response, deceptively calm. "Alright, then three drops?"
"Exactly three," Daphne replied, fixing him with a serious gaze. "Four, and we'd have stardust all over the ceiling."
He smirked, carefully tilting the bottle. One by one, three drops fell, each creating tiny ripples that quickly smoothed out into the bronze surface.
Both of them held their breath, anticipation making their pulses race, half-expecting the potion to suddenly boil over or spit something purple at them, but it stayed quiet and obedient, swirling ever so gently in the cauldron, its bronze color remaining steady.
"It's…stable?" Harry murmured, eyes narrowing.
Daphne nodded, leaning forward. She glanced at the rune-clock bobbing softly next to them. "Gotta drop the stimulant in forty more seconds. Any earlier, it's goodbye, Boomtown. Any later, we're making pumpkin juice."
Harry sighed, tapping his fingers nervously on the table's edge. "Got it. So let's just not mess this up, alright?"
Daphne's eyes darted between the runes and the vial in Harry's hand, her voice taut but steady. "Ten seconds. Remember - a steady drip, not a pour. Merlin, don't you dare pour."
Harry let out a nervous laugh, despite himself. "Give me some credit. Even I'm not that reckless."
"Could've fooled me," Daphne muttered, but her lips twitched into a small smile. "Five," she said, quieter now, leaning closer.
Harry angled the stimulant carefully, counting internally. At zero, he let the first drop fall, watching it hang for a moment before sinking into the bronze liquid. The potion shifted immediately - violet veins spreading sharply from the center.
Daphne cursed softly, her wand jerking up in reflex. Harry could feel his heartbeat in his throat as he adjusted the Crucible's runic dial. "Come on," he murmured under his breath, "hold it together."
Daphne whispered a sharp stabilization charm, her wand tracing tight spirals above the cauldron. They watched as the aggressive purple lines shuddered and started to recede, slowly melting back into the deep metallic bronze.
"Holy shit," Harry breathed, cautiously easing back from the edge of disaster. He glanced sideways, catching Daphne's tense, exhilarated expression. "Did we actually just pull that off?"
She exhaled sharply, setting down her wand with a faint tremble in her fingers. "We might have." Her voice was quiet, a little amazed. "And without blowing up. What's next, solving Arithmancy equations blindfolded?"
Harry laughed softly, the rush of relief making him light-headed. "Yeah, I think we'll save that for next year."
They both leaned over, studying the smooth, shimmering surface. Daphne's quill flew across the parchment, capturing details with rapid precision. Harry found himself smiling - he couldn't help it. All their near-disasters and late nights were finally paying off.
She glanced up at him briefly. "So, ready to see if this actually works?"
Harry gave a brief nod, reaching for the row of microvials they had prepared earlier, each labeled meticulously by Daphne. "Shall we start with nightshade?" he queried.
Daphne scrutinized the parchment, her brow furrowed. "A bit too mundane. Let's try banshee salt instead. If our theory holds true, this will demonstrate whether the stimulant can handle sympathetic interference."
Harry couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Last time we even opened that vial, it melted through your quill. Are you certain?"
Her lips curved into a wry smile. "That's why we're using a glass spoon and not breathing nearby. Here, let me get it." She handed him a small sterilized silver spoon they had prepped twice.
He carefully pricked the seal on the banshee salt vial, which released a faint hiss as though reminiscing about its former form. With great care, he scooped barely a grain of the crystalline substance and dropped it in.
For a heartbeat, the potion seemed to flinch. Its surface cracked like ice yielding under pressure, creating jagged fissures of violet light. But then, surprisingly, it integrated the foreign element seamlessly, smoothing back into its previous state.
Daphne's fingers paused mid-air.
"Well, that… wasn't supposed to happen quite so smoothly."
Leaning in closer, Harry studied the fluid's behavior.
"It seems the salt's magic has been assimilated into the cycle rather than disrupting it."
She squinted at the brew before jotting down a note in the margins. "This could mean basilisk venom might survive within it. An entirely new level of potency."
Harry met her gaze. "I think I know exactly what our next test should be."
After a momentary pause, Daphne replied, "Aconite, then."
-----
There it was - the culmination of countless sleepless nights, heated debates, and close calls. After weeks of dancing around catastrophic reactions, charting hypotheses in the margins, and haggling over what constituted 'volatile', they had finally managed to create something functional. It wasn't just passable; it excelled.
Dragon blood hadn't annihilated it. Toxic inputs hadn't destabilized it. Even banshee salt and aconite hadn't toppled it. Instead, the potion had absorbed each challenge, adapting and evolving with every test thrown at it. Daphne described its behavior as 'digesting' the toxic elements, which initially sounded grotesque, but upon reflection encapsulated their intent perfectly. They had achieved the impossible. Their theoretical framework had transformed into tangible reality.
All the pent-up tension, all the nerve-wracking near-disasters and painstaking corrections - they were history now. History and a distant memory. For once, they had succeeded where others might have faltered. Yet, success came with its own unique flavor of frustration. The potion stood prepared, eager, and unwaveringly stable. But there was nothing they could do.
Because tucked away behind layers of goblin protocol and cursed vault restrictions was the final piece of the puzzle - basilisk venom. And Harry was the key to unlocking it. He was the sole negotiator with the banking empire of Gringotts. Until he navigated the labyrinth of bureaucratic red tape, their project remained suspended in limbo. Ready or not, they would have to wait.
Harry's finger traced the worn groove along the spine of Duelling: Art and Precision, feeling the comforting warmth of the leather. Stuck on the same page for a solid twenty minutes now, the chapter titled "Reactive Footwork and Spell Economy" seemed to have been penned in the heat of an argument with a thesaurus. But despite the convoluted phrasing, Harry could extract the gist - 'minimize exposure through forward lean', but never at the expense of posture or reach.
"Duelists who sprawl, fall," he murmured to himself, testing the phrase on his tongue. A snatch of another tome, Practical Defensive Charms, floated into his mind uninvited, but most welcome - "A caster who controls rhythm controls outcome." There was a certain weight to that notion. Harry could almost see the duels unfolding differently - less about frenzied blocks and wild hexes, more about tempo, angle, breath.
These books, he mused, weren't about teaching how to win. Not outright, anyway. They showed how to endure, how to read before reacting. And tonight, as he lay in bed, cocooned in soft candlelight and surrounded by pages brimming with intricate diagrams, Harry found himself stubbornly resolved to learn.
He rubbed his gritty eyes, the strain of hours spent poring over parchment finally catching up to him. He sighed, pulling off his glasses and wiping them on the sleeve of his jumper. His neck cracked satisfyingly as he rolled it, the day's exhaustion settling in.
He'd spent the morning in training, the afternoon brewing potions, and now was trying to absorb footwork theory as if his brain wasn't already halfway to dreamland. He sank deeper into the pillow, setting the book on the nightstand with a soft thud. For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting.
Then, of course, the specter of the Tournament rose to haunt him. If it weren't for that looming specter, he might've actually had time - to study properly, to help Daphne more, to breathe. Was this what being constantly busy felt like? The relentless motion, the unyielding pressure? It was strange, but in a way, it felt good. Like he was finally doing something that mattered.
But still. Right now, he'd rather be Ron. Eating, thinking about eating, probably dreaming of a steak pie the size of his head.
-----
Chalk scraped rhythmically against the blackboard, sketching the intricate arc of a wand movement that curved like an eel and ended in a sharp point.
Professor McGonagall stood beside the diagram, her robes crisp, her expression sharper than her spectacles.
"The shift from non-magical to magical properties demands precision," she said, tapping the final curve. "Especially when dealing with volatile materials, such as charmed silver or enchanted ink. Wand control is non-negotiable."
Harry sat up straighter, scribbling notes that made sense now but might be gibberish in an hour. Next to him, Ron was half-slumped, wand in one hand, parchment in the other, and an impressive smudge of ink on his nose.
"For those considering careers in spellcraft, alchemy, or the Department of Mysteries," McGonagall continued, "this is foundational. If your transformations are unstable, the consequences can be…"
She waved her wand. The inkwell on her desk tried to sprout legs. It exploded instead, splattering her desk in glossy black.
"…dramatic."
A few students snorted, but she wasn't smiling.
"That will be on your exams next year," she added. "The practical portion. I suggest you begin practicing now if you wish to perform well on your OWLs."
Hermione's hand shot up so fast her chair squeaked.
"Professor, if I start revising the advanced material now, will it reflect in our end-of-year marks? Or should we wait until next term to focus on OWL structure?"
McGonagall gave her a nod that was about as close to a gold star as anyone ever got. "A sensible question, Miss Granger. While the OWLs are still a year away, the foundations for every major transfiguration are being taught now. So yes, early preparation will absolutely give you an advantage."
There was a quiet hum of parchment being unrolled, more quills scratching faster. Even Harry felt a little more alert.
"Well, that rules out Potter, doesn't it?" The words hung in the air, sharp as a knife, echoing off the stone walls.
Silence stretched, thick as molasses, broken only by the soft rustle of parchment. Harry didn't turn around. He felt the smirk gnawing at the corners of Malfoy's lips, aimed squarely at his back.
"Can't imagine career planning's much of a priority," Malfoy drawled, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, "when you've got…what, weeks left to live? What's the point of OWL prep if you're going to get shredded by some wild animal? I say let him skip the exams. Might save us all the spectacle."
Gasps ricocheted around the room, bouncing off the wooden benches and stone walls. Ron sat up straighter, wand clenched in his fist. Hermione's face turned scarlet, her eyes flashing with indignation.
Leaning forward, Malfoy rested his chin on his hand, offering a 'helpful' suggestion. "Honestly, Professor. Maybe we should all just enjoy Potter while he's still breathing. I give it until the third challenge, tops. Wouldn't that be poetic?"
He tapped his badge, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. The words 'Potter Stinks' glowed beneath the light, as though they'd been waiting for their moment to shine.
But that was the last straw.
"Fifty points from Slytherin," McGonagall barked, her voice slicing through the classroom. "And detention, Mr. Malfoy. Today. With Mr. Filch. Maybe a few hours polishing chains in the dungeon would remind you how to speak like a civilized human being."
Malfoy's smirk faltered just for a moment. He opened his mouth to retaliate, thought better of it, and shut it again.
The bell rang with a sharp clang that jolted half the class. McGonagall snapped her textbook shut and dismissed them with a curt nod, but Harry barely heard it. His chair scraped back too fast, legs catching against the stone floor, and he was already halfway to the door before Ron and Hermione scrambled after him.
"Harry, wait!" Hermione called out, but he didn't slow down. His heart pounded in his chest as he marched through the corridor towards freedom from those cruel eyes and whispers. The walls seemed to echo with every taunt hurled his way - POTTER STINKS plastered on enchanted badges like an infectious disease spreading across chest after chest. It was childish, yes, but it stung nonetheless.
He refused to give them the satisfaction of reacting to their jeers or even acknowledging their presence beyond striding past them without breaking stride. Ron growled under his breath while Hermione clenched her fists tightly enough to turn her knuckles white; both were ready to hex anyone who dared cross their path right now. But Harry wasn't looking for confrontation tonight; he simply wanted to escape this hall of mirrors reflecting his worst fears back at him in neon lights.
Then he saw her leaning nonchalantly against the wall near a bizarre tapestry depicting Merlin dancing with trolls (he wondered if that was supposed to be funny), arms crossed over her chest in casual defiance of whatever insults were being flung around her: Daphne Greengrass. Her blonde hair fell neatly behind one ear framing her face in soft shadows while her blue eyes scanned the scene with detached amusement as though observing some absurd play rather than witnessing actual human cruelty unfolding before her very eyes.
Unlike everyone else's blinking, mocking badges, hers remained silent and dignified - 'Support Cedric Diggory'. A simple statement devoid of any malice or sarcasm that somehow managed to make its point louder than any other badge could hope for. Their eyes locked briefly; hers held no pity nor performance but offered quiet understanding instead - an unexpected oasis amidst this desert storm of ridicule and humiliation.
It wasn't much, but it felt like enough for now. A small nod from her world into his chaos saying 'I see you', 'You matter', 'This isn't about you'. So, without another word exchanged between them, Harry nodded slightly back at her acknowledgment and continued forward into the relative safety of unknown territory beyond these halls filled with familiar faces hiding behind masks of disdainful laughter.
His eyes wandered to Ron and Hermione.
"Alright," he murmured, brushing a stray lock out of his sight. "So, next…?"
Ron's brows shot up as he retrieved the schedule. "We've got lunch, then a bit of a break before Magical Creatures class."
Hermione made a disparaging noise, the syllable more air than actual sound. "I believe that's supposed to be study hall. Not merely leisure."
Harry tilted his head, one corner of his lips twitching. "You mean…we use that 'study' period to… practice spells?"
At his words, Ron perked right up, anticipation sparkling in his eyes. "Finally!"
Hermione offered a terse reply, the tone more pliant now. "As long as I don't become the guinea pig this time."
"No promises."
-----
The air crackled as spells ricocheted against the containment wards, lighting up the chamber with neon flares. It was like being trapped in the heart of a firework factory - the energy was palpable and intense.
Sirius whipped his wand around, barely evading a fiery streak that would've seared his shoulder raw. The blast thwacked against the shield protecting them, hissing into oblivion. Another curse came his way, this time slower and calculated.
He dodged it just in time, panting heavily as his dark eyes darted around the circular, barren platform. There was no cover, nowhere to hide. Just raw power and skill colliding, testing their limits in this sterile arena. He was feeling it in his lungs, his knees, every twitch of muscle. He needed a rhythm, something predictable - but all he could see was the flash of his opponent's wand.
"Son of a bitch," he growled, narrowly avoiding another barrage of spells.
Sirius spun on his heel, throwing up a shield even as his wand blazed with two spells. Stunning charm met hex-fire in mid-air - a clash of energies that should have caused a ripple, but only dissipated into thin air. His opponent seemed to be gliding effortlessly through the dance of combat, every spell striking true like an expert archer.
Sirius lunged forward, his ankle rolling painfully, threatening to send him sprawling. Instead, he managed a desperate twist that sent him skidding sideways, landing on one knee, gasping for air.
A beam of golden light slammed into his chest from nowhere, slamming the wind from his lungs.
Sirius gasped, staring upwards. "Stop laughing, Moony."
The face materialized above him - Lupin, still holding his wand grinned.
"You make it far too easy." he said reaching to help Sirius stand up.
SSirius let out a dramatic groan but didn't resist as Remus hauled him up, grunting, "Ugh, my everything hurts." He rubbed at his ribs, wincing. "Alright, explain to me why I'm this bloody weak."
Remus tucked his wand into his sleeve, his expression shifting to thoughtful. "You've started eating again. You've been seeing that mind-healer Andromeda introduced you to. You sleep more. You don't scream when the kettle whistles anymore." He locked eyes with Sirius, serious now. "For someone who spent ten years in Azkaban, you're doing quite well."
Sirius snorted and turned away, brushing dust off his sleeve. "Well isn't enough. I need to be in optimal condition. Especially now. With Harry in that damned Tournament…"
"Harry is fine," Remus interrupted. "You focus on you. If you don't get better, you won't help anyone. You understand that, right?"
Sirius stopped, nodding once. "Yeah. I get it."
Remus studied him for a moment, then switched gears with his trademark ease. "When I was traveling through Sweden, years ago, I met a wizard named Alrik Holmsen. Absolute maniac. Never slept, drank like a centaur. But he wrote this book: 'Resonant Flow: Magic, Motion, and the Physical Core.' It was brilliant."
Sirius arched an eyebrow. "Catchy title."
Remus ignored him. "It was all about how magical output ties directly to body energy. The way you treat your muscles, your lungs, even your joints. You burn brighter, cast sharper, react faster when your physical form's in tune with your magical one."
Sirius squinted. "That sounds fake."
"It's not," Remus said cheerfully. "So, when was the last time you actually exercised, Sirius? I mean running, push-ups, squats that don't involve falling over in the kitchen?"
"I move plenty in duels."
"You wheeze plenty in duels."
"Oi!"
"No," Remus said diplomatically. "You're out of practice. Which is worse. Your reflexes are still quick, but the way you move.. it's inconsistent. You're flaring magic to cover for weakness. That'll only get you so far."
Sirius folded his arms. "So what, you want me to start doing jumping jacks?"
"I want you to train. You told Harry to eat more protein. Do you eat protein?"
"…Sometimes."
Remus gave him a look.
Sirius groaned. "Alright, alright. I'll try harder."
"Giving advice is easy," Remus said, pulling his wand back out and twirling it absently. "Sticking to it? Much harder. Now, you have five minutes of rest and then we go again."
"Only five?!"
---
Ron slouched against the low bench, his wand resting languidly on his thighs. "Well, that's two down," he drawled, a hint of surprise coloring his voice. "Arenafors and Lapidorus. One keeps things at bay, the other builds a fortress. Not bad for three days."
Hermione, her legs folded beneath her, was already scribbling away in her charmed planner. "Technically, Lapidorus is more than a fortress - it's adaptive transfiguration. In theory, you could use it to manipulate the terrain to your advantage. Create high ground. Block corridors. Even redirect water if you cast it into a channel. And Arenafors gives you a buffer zone when you're cornered. That's not just 'not bad.' That's impressive."
Ron smirked, nudging her with his elbow. "You're just saying that because you didn't get flung across the room today."
She scowled, not looking up. "I marked the casting radius this time, which someone should have done in the first place."
For a moment, the only sounds were the scratch of quill against parchment and the faint hum of the Room shifting around them. Harry, who'd been quiet since they'd sat down, finally broke the silence.
"They're good," he said, eyes downcast. "But they're not enough."
Hermione paused her writing. "What?"
"They help you survive," Harry said, still looking at the floor. "But they don't help you win."
She blinked, eyebrows drawing together. "That's… not entirely true. Winning's about strategy. These spells are tools. Lapidorus gives you control over space. Arenafors gives you breathing room. Used right, they can be decisive."
Harry looked up at her, his expression serious. "Yeah. If the whole thing is a textbook duel. But it won't be. It'll be chaos. Creatures. Traps. Things that don't care about breathing room or neatly transfigured barriers."
Ron remained silent but he seemed to understand what Harry wanted to say.
Harry's voice dropped to a rumble, but his conviction was clear. "Those spells - they're smart. Handy. But they're defensive. They keep me alive. I want more."
Hermione furrowed her brow. "So you want something flashier?"
"I want something stronger," he said. "Something that shifts the momentum. Right now we've got spells that help me not lose. I need something that helps me win."
Hermione leaned back, staring at her notes as though they'd betrayed her. "Alright," she said slowly, "then I guess we find something that packs a punch."
Ron whistled low. "You're not planning on coming second, are you?"
Harry hesitated before answering.
"No, not exactly," he said finally. "I want to know more than my enemies. Not just spells that can hit hard - I want spells that give me options."
Hermione arched an eyebrow, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "Like what?"
Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Like conjuring mist. Not just for showy classroom effects. Real concealment. Something thick enough to block vision, stay in place, move if I want it to. Can I anchor it to a point? Shape it with intent?"
Ron blinked, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. "You mean weaponize weather?"
"No," Harry said quickly, "I want to disappear when I need to. Or make sure they can't see where I'm moving next."
Hermione's quill began to dance again. "That sounds like a layered charm with environmental manipulation. You'd need sustained magical output or something reactive, like a proximity-linked cloud."
"Exactly," Harry confirmed, his eyes brightening. "Or how about conjuring something to spy for me? Like birds. Or mice. Something that can move where I can't and bring back information. Not just eyes, but direction. Reaction."
Hermione paused her writing, her mind whirring. "That's not beginner-level Transfiguration."
"Flitwick said it once - most magic is just creativity pushed through enough control."
Ron scratched the back of his neck, a thoughtful frown on his face. "But… are we talking real birds here or, like, ghost animals?"
"Doesn't matter," Harry said, shaking his head. "As long as they listen and get the job done. Could be smoke, could be thread, could be stone. Whatever works."
Hermione straightened up, suddenly focused. "Actually, Animata Lumen might be something to look into. It's an old spell. Uses light and motion magic to create temporary animal constructs. Not solid, but visible. Used mostly for distraction, but it's a start."
Harry nodded slowly, his mind whirring. "Yeah. Okay. That's the kind of thing I want."
He looked between them now, his eyes serious. "I know this sounds weird. Or intense. But this isn't just about scoring points. I need to know how to handle things before they happen. If I'm caught reacting, it means I've already lost control. And once control's gone… so is the fight."
Ron furrowed his brow. "You mean the task?"
"I mean everything."
Hermione went still. Harry continued, his voice quieter now. "I don't think I get to live a normal life. Not unless I fight for it. Not unless I become someone who doesn't just survive chaos, but defines it. I can't afford to just be good at magic. I need to understand it. I need to understand everything. Because Voldemort - he's not going to stop until I'm dead."
Ron looked winded. Hermione had turned pale.
"I don't say that for sympathy," Harry said, his voice firm. "I say it because it's real. I'm not strong enough yet. I don't know enough. And I want to."
He glanced towards the window. "I want to know everything. I want to know all the magic." he said "Because if I don't, I won't last long enough to live the kind of life I want."
Hermione's voice was soft when she finally spoke. "Okay. Then let's figure it out. One spell at a time."
---
The man sat stiff in the old chair, back ramrod straight against the worn wood, eyes locked on the boy who stood like a statue carved just a hair too perfectly in place. The room was cold despite the flickering fire, its orange glow dancing across marble floors and the boy's polished shoes but never quite reaching the man's face. Silence stretched tight between them, tense as a bowstring, but the boy didn't budge. He never did. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his uniform unblemished, not a single thread out of place. The man studied him like gazing into a murky pond - familiar, skewed, out of reach.
Every answer the boy offered was sharp, calculated, rehearsed. His voice didn't waver, didn't rise. School was fine. His grades were perfect. He had connections, influence, order. Just the right amount. No more, no less. The man wanted to feel pride. He wanted to see himself reflected in that blank face, that sculpted control - but all he saw was the void. Of emotion. Of warmth. Of anything human. The boy was a success in every way that mattered. Sharp, obedient, cold. He remembered everything he'd been taught. Every correction. Every punishment. Every rule. And still, the man couldn't grasp him. Couldn't reach him. When dismissed, the boy turned and left without a second thought, the door clicking shut like a soft exhale.
The man didn't move until the silence smothered him whole.
He needed to do something. To shake off the unease. He stood and made his way downstairs to the basement. The basement was an enigma. Full of cells, but only one was occupied. Two young women lay there, bruised and naked, their bodies betraying the pain they'd endured. The man smiled, a twitch of his lips. Out of habit, he raised his left hand, but then remembered - it was gone. With a curse under his breath, he gripped the wand with his remaining hand. There were so many ways to indulge in the world of magic. But this one… this one was something special. Adrian Selwyn licked his lips, and in his eyes, the shadows of madness danced. Soon, Potter. Soon, you will pay for this.
"Crucio!"
Daphne tried not to grin, giving him a sideways glance. "What, like it's the first time?"
He laughed, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. "Okay, smartass, buffer then. Something gentle. How about moonflower?"
She raised a brow, shaking her head slightly. "Bit too hyped up for me. More like magical coffee. Lavender's boring, sure, but at least it won't backstab us."
Harry reached out to grasp the vial, holding it up to the dim light coming from the runes. The lavender essence gleamed softly in response, deceptively calm. "Alright, then three drops?"
"Exactly three," Daphne replied, fixing him with a serious gaze. "Four, and we'd have stardust all over the ceiling."
He smirked, carefully tilting the bottle. One by one, three drops fell, each creating tiny ripples that quickly smoothed out into the bronze surface.
Both of them held their breath, anticipation making their pulses race, half-expecting the potion to suddenly boil over or spit something purple at them, but it stayed quiet and obedient, swirling ever so gently in the cauldron, its bronze color remaining steady.
"It's…stable?" Harry murmured, eyes narrowing.
Daphne nodded, leaning forward. She glanced at the rune-clock bobbing softly next to them. "Gotta drop the stimulant in forty more seconds. Any earlier, it's goodbye, Boomtown. Any later, we're making pumpkin juice."
Harry sighed, tapping his fingers nervously on the table's edge. "Got it. So let's just not mess this up, alright?"
Daphne's eyes darted between the runes and the vial in Harry's hand, her voice taut but steady. "Ten seconds. Remember - a steady drip, not a pour. Merlin, don't you dare pour."
Harry let out a nervous laugh, despite himself. "Give me some credit. Even I'm not that reckless."
"Could've fooled me," Daphne muttered, but her lips twitched into a small smile. "Five," she said, quieter now, leaning closer.
Harry angled the stimulant carefully, counting internally. At zero, he let the first drop fall, watching it hang for a moment before sinking into the bronze liquid. The potion shifted immediately - violet veins spreading sharply from the center.
Daphne cursed softly, her wand jerking up in reflex. Harry could feel his heartbeat in his throat as he adjusted the Crucible's runic dial. "Come on," he murmured under his breath, "hold it together."
Daphne whispered a sharp stabilization charm, her wand tracing tight spirals above the cauldron. They watched as the aggressive purple lines shuddered and started to recede, slowly melting back into the deep metallic bronze.
"Holy shit," Harry breathed, cautiously easing back from the edge of disaster. He glanced sideways, catching Daphne's tense, exhilarated expression. "Did we actually just pull that off?"
She exhaled sharply, setting down her wand with a faint tremble in her fingers. "We might have." Her voice was quiet, a little amazed. "And without blowing up. What's next, solving Arithmancy equations blindfolded?"
Harry laughed softly, the rush of relief making him light-headed. "Yeah, I think we'll save that for next year."
They both leaned over, studying the smooth, shimmering surface. Daphne's quill flew across the parchment, capturing details with rapid precision. Harry found himself smiling - he couldn't help it. All their near-disasters and late nights were finally paying off.
She glanced up at him briefly. "So, ready to see if this actually works?"
Harry gave a brief nod, reaching for the row of microvials they had prepared earlier, each labeled meticulously by Daphne. "Shall we start with nightshade?" he queried.
Daphne scrutinized the parchment, her brow furrowed. "A bit too mundane. Let's try banshee salt instead. If our theory holds true, this will demonstrate whether the stimulant can handle sympathetic interference."
Harry couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Last time we even opened that vial, it melted through your quill. Are you certain?"
Her lips curved into a wry smile. "That's why we're using a glass spoon and not breathing nearby. Here, let me get it." She handed him a small sterilized silver spoon they had prepped twice.
He carefully pricked the seal on the banshee salt vial, which released a faint hiss as though reminiscing about its former form. With great care, he scooped barely a grain of the crystalline substance and dropped it in.
For a heartbeat, the potion seemed to flinch. Its surface cracked like ice yielding under pressure, creating jagged fissures of violet light. But then, surprisingly, it integrated the foreign element seamlessly, smoothing back into its previous state.
Daphne's fingers paused mid-air.
"Well, that… wasn't supposed to happen quite so smoothly."
Leaning in closer, Harry studied the fluid's behavior.
"It seems the salt's magic has been assimilated into the cycle rather than disrupting it."
She squinted at the brew before jotting down a note in the margins. "This could mean basilisk venom might survive within it. An entirely new level of potency."
Harry met her gaze. "I think I know exactly what our next test should be."
After a momentary pause, Daphne replied, "Aconite, then."
-----
There it was - the culmination of countless sleepless nights, heated debates, and close calls. After weeks of dancing around catastrophic reactions, charting hypotheses in the margins, and haggling over what constituted 'volatile', they had finally managed to create something functional. It wasn't just passable; it excelled.
Dragon blood hadn't annihilated it. Toxic inputs hadn't destabilized it. Even banshee salt and aconite hadn't toppled it. Instead, the potion had absorbed each challenge, adapting and evolving with every test thrown at it. Daphne described its behavior as 'digesting' the toxic elements, which initially sounded grotesque, but upon reflection encapsulated their intent perfectly. They had achieved the impossible. Their theoretical framework had transformed into tangible reality.
All the pent-up tension, all the nerve-wracking near-disasters and painstaking corrections - they were history now. History and a distant memory. For once, they had succeeded where others might have faltered. Yet, success came with its own unique flavor of frustration. The potion stood prepared, eager, and unwaveringly stable. But there was nothing they could do.
Because tucked away behind layers of goblin protocol and cursed vault restrictions was the final piece of the puzzle - basilisk venom. And Harry was the key to unlocking it. He was the sole negotiator with the banking empire of Gringotts. Until he navigated the labyrinth of bureaucratic red tape, their project remained suspended in limbo. Ready or not, they would have to wait.
Harry's finger traced the worn groove along the spine of Duelling: Art and Precision, feeling the comforting warmth of the leather. Stuck on the same page for a solid twenty minutes now, the chapter titled "Reactive Footwork and Spell Economy" seemed to have been penned in the heat of an argument with a thesaurus. But despite the convoluted phrasing, Harry could extract the gist - 'minimize exposure through forward lean', but never at the expense of posture or reach.
"Duelists who sprawl, fall," he murmured to himself, testing the phrase on his tongue. A snatch of another tome, Practical Defensive Charms, floated into his mind uninvited, but most welcome - "A caster who controls rhythm controls outcome." There was a certain weight to that notion. Harry could almost see the duels unfolding differently - less about frenzied blocks and wild hexes, more about tempo, angle, breath.
These books, he mused, weren't about teaching how to win. Not outright, anyway. They showed how to endure, how to read before reacting. And tonight, as he lay in bed, cocooned in soft candlelight and surrounded by pages brimming with intricate diagrams, Harry found himself stubbornly resolved to learn.
He rubbed his gritty eyes, the strain of hours spent poring over parchment finally catching up to him. He sighed, pulling off his glasses and wiping them on the sleeve of his jumper. His neck cracked satisfyingly as he rolled it, the day's exhaustion settling in.
He'd spent the morning in training, the afternoon brewing potions, and now was trying to absorb footwork theory as if his brain wasn't already halfway to dreamland. He sank deeper into the pillow, setting the book on the nightstand with a soft thud. For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting.
Then, of course, the specter of the Tournament rose to haunt him. If it weren't for that looming specter, he might've actually had time - to study properly, to help Daphne more, to breathe. Was this what being constantly busy felt like? The relentless motion, the unyielding pressure? It was strange, but in a way, it felt good. Like he was finally doing something that mattered.
But still. Right now, he'd rather be Ron. Eating, thinking about eating, probably dreaming of a steak pie the size of his head.
-----
Chalk scraped rhythmically against the blackboard, sketching the intricate arc of a wand movement that curved like an eel and ended in a sharp point.
Professor McGonagall stood beside the diagram, her robes crisp, her expression sharper than her spectacles.
"The shift from non-magical to magical properties demands precision," she said, tapping the final curve. "Especially when dealing with volatile materials, such as charmed silver or enchanted ink. Wand control is non-negotiable."
Harry sat up straighter, scribbling notes that made sense now but might be gibberish in an hour. Next to him, Ron was half-slumped, wand in one hand, parchment in the other, and an impressive smudge of ink on his nose.
"For those considering careers in spellcraft, alchemy, or the Department of Mysteries," McGonagall continued, "this is foundational. If your transformations are unstable, the consequences can be…"
She waved her wand. The inkwell on her desk tried to sprout legs. It exploded instead, splattering her desk in glossy black.
"…dramatic."
A few students snorted, but she wasn't smiling.
"That will be on your exams next year," she added. "The practical portion. I suggest you begin practicing now if you wish to perform well on your OWLs."
Hermione's hand shot up so fast her chair squeaked.
"Professor, if I start revising the advanced material now, will it reflect in our end-of-year marks? Or should we wait until next term to focus on OWL structure?"
McGonagall gave her a nod that was about as close to a gold star as anyone ever got. "A sensible question, Miss Granger. While the OWLs are still a year away, the foundations for every major transfiguration are being taught now. So yes, early preparation will absolutely give you an advantage."
There was a quiet hum of parchment being unrolled, more quills scratching faster. Even Harry felt a little more alert.
"Well, that rules out Potter, doesn't it?" The words hung in the air, sharp as a knife, echoing off the stone walls.
Silence stretched, thick as molasses, broken only by the soft rustle of parchment. Harry didn't turn around. He felt the smirk gnawing at the corners of Malfoy's lips, aimed squarely at his back.
"Can't imagine career planning's much of a priority," Malfoy drawled, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, "when you've got…what, weeks left to live? What's the point of OWL prep if you're going to get shredded by some wild animal? I say let him skip the exams. Might save us all the spectacle."
Gasps ricocheted around the room, bouncing off the wooden benches and stone walls. Ron sat up straighter, wand clenched in his fist. Hermione's face turned scarlet, her eyes flashing with indignation.
Leaning forward, Malfoy rested his chin on his hand, offering a 'helpful' suggestion. "Honestly, Professor. Maybe we should all just enjoy Potter while he's still breathing. I give it until the third challenge, tops. Wouldn't that be poetic?"
He tapped his badge, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. The words 'Potter Stinks' glowed beneath the light, as though they'd been waiting for their moment to shine.
But that was the last straw.
"Fifty points from Slytherin," McGonagall barked, her voice slicing through the classroom. "And detention, Mr. Malfoy. Today. With Mr. Filch. Maybe a few hours polishing chains in the dungeon would remind you how to speak like a civilized human being."
Malfoy's smirk faltered just for a moment. He opened his mouth to retaliate, thought better of it, and shut it again.
The bell rang with a sharp clang that jolted half the class. McGonagall snapped her textbook shut and dismissed them with a curt nod, but Harry barely heard it. His chair scraped back too fast, legs catching against the stone floor, and he was already halfway to the door before Ron and Hermione scrambled after him.
"Harry, wait!" Hermione called out, but he didn't slow down. His heart pounded in his chest as he marched through the corridor towards freedom from those cruel eyes and whispers. The walls seemed to echo with every taunt hurled his way - POTTER STINKS plastered on enchanted badges like an infectious disease spreading across chest after chest. It was childish, yes, but it stung nonetheless.
He refused to give them the satisfaction of reacting to their jeers or even acknowledging their presence beyond striding past them without breaking stride. Ron growled under his breath while Hermione clenched her fists tightly enough to turn her knuckles white; both were ready to hex anyone who dared cross their path right now. But Harry wasn't looking for confrontation tonight; he simply wanted to escape this hall of mirrors reflecting his worst fears back at him in neon lights.
Then he saw her leaning nonchalantly against the wall near a bizarre tapestry depicting Merlin dancing with trolls (he wondered if that was supposed to be funny), arms crossed over her chest in casual defiance of whatever insults were being flung around her: Daphne Greengrass. Her blonde hair fell neatly behind one ear framing her face in soft shadows while her blue eyes scanned the scene with detached amusement as though observing some absurd play rather than witnessing actual human cruelty unfolding before her very eyes.
Unlike everyone else's blinking, mocking badges, hers remained silent and dignified - 'Support Cedric Diggory'. A simple statement devoid of any malice or sarcasm that somehow managed to make its point louder than any other badge could hope for. Their eyes locked briefly; hers held no pity nor performance but offered quiet understanding instead - an unexpected oasis amidst this desert storm of ridicule and humiliation.
It wasn't much, but it felt like enough for now. A small nod from her world into his chaos saying 'I see you', 'You matter', 'This isn't about you'. So, without another word exchanged between them, Harry nodded slightly back at her acknowledgment and continued forward into the relative safety of unknown territory beyond these halls filled with familiar faces hiding behind masks of disdainful laughter.
His eyes wandered to Ron and Hermione.
"Alright," he murmured, brushing a stray lock out of his sight. "So, next…?"
Ron's brows shot up as he retrieved the schedule. "We've got lunch, then a bit of a break before Magical Creatures class."
Hermione made a disparaging noise, the syllable more air than actual sound. "I believe that's supposed to be study hall. Not merely leisure."
Harry tilted his head, one corner of his lips twitching. "You mean…we use that 'study' period to… practice spells?"
At his words, Ron perked right up, anticipation sparkling in his eyes. "Finally!"
Hermione offered a terse reply, the tone more pliant now. "As long as I don't become the guinea pig this time."
"No promises."
-----
The air crackled as spells ricocheted against the containment wards, lighting up the chamber with neon flares. It was like being trapped in the heart of a firework factory - the energy was palpable and intense.
Sirius whipped his wand around, barely evading a fiery streak that would've seared his shoulder raw. The blast thwacked against the shield protecting them, hissing into oblivion. Another curse came his way, this time slower and calculated.
He dodged it just in time, panting heavily as his dark eyes darted around the circular, barren platform. There was no cover, nowhere to hide. Just raw power and skill colliding, testing their limits in this sterile arena. He was feeling it in his lungs, his knees, every twitch of muscle. He needed a rhythm, something predictable - but all he could see was the flash of his opponent's wand.
"Son of a bitch," he growled, narrowly avoiding another barrage of spells.
Sirius spun on his heel, throwing up a shield even as his wand blazed with two spells. Stunning charm met hex-fire in mid-air - a clash of energies that should have caused a ripple, but only dissipated into thin air. His opponent seemed to be gliding effortlessly through the dance of combat, every spell striking true like an expert archer.
Sirius lunged forward, his ankle rolling painfully, threatening to send him sprawling. Instead, he managed a desperate twist that sent him skidding sideways, landing on one knee, gasping for air.
A beam of golden light slammed into his chest from nowhere, slamming the wind from his lungs.
Sirius gasped, staring upwards. "Stop laughing, Moony."
The face materialized above him - Lupin, still holding his wand grinned.
"You make it far too easy." he said reaching to help Sirius stand up.
SSirius let out a dramatic groan but didn't resist as Remus hauled him up, grunting, "Ugh, my everything hurts." He rubbed at his ribs, wincing. "Alright, explain to me why I'm this bloody weak."
Remus tucked his wand into his sleeve, his expression shifting to thoughtful. "You've started eating again. You've been seeing that mind-healer Andromeda introduced you to. You sleep more. You don't scream when the kettle whistles anymore." He locked eyes with Sirius, serious now. "For someone who spent ten years in Azkaban, you're doing quite well."
Sirius snorted and turned away, brushing dust off his sleeve. "Well isn't enough. I need to be in optimal condition. Especially now. With Harry in that damned Tournament…"
"Harry is fine," Remus interrupted. "You focus on you. If you don't get better, you won't help anyone. You understand that, right?"
Sirius stopped, nodding once. "Yeah. I get it."
Remus studied him for a moment, then switched gears with his trademark ease. "When I was traveling through Sweden, years ago, I met a wizard named Alrik Holmsen. Absolute maniac. Never slept, drank like a centaur. But he wrote this book: 'Resonant Flow: Magic, Motion, and the Physical Core.' It was brilliant."
Sirius arched an eyebrow. "Catchy title."
Remus ignored him. "It was all about how magical output ties directly to body energy. The way you treat your muscles, your lungs, even your joints. You burn brighter, cast sharper, react faster when your physical form's in tune with your magical one."
Sirius squinted. "That sounds fake."
"It's not," Remus said cheerfully. "So, when was the last time you actually exercised, Sirius? I mean running, push-ups, squats that don't involve falling over in the kitchen?"
"I move plenty in duels."
"You wheeze plenty in duels."
"Oi!"
"No," Remus said diplomatically. "You're out of practice. Which is worse. Your reflexes are still quick, but the way you move.. it's inconsistent. You're flaring magic to cover for weakness. That'll only get you so far."
Sirius folded his arms. "So what, you want me to start doing jumping jacks?"
"I want you to train. You told Harry to eat more protein. Do you eat protein?"
"…Sometimes."
Remus gave him a look.
Sirius groaned. "Alright, alright. I'll try harder."
"Giving advice is easy," Remus said, pulling his wand back out and twirling it absently. "Sticking to it? Much harder. Now, you have five minutes of rest and then we go again."
"Only five?!"
---
Ron slouched against the low bench, his wand resting languidly on his thighs. "Well, that's two down," he drawled, a hint of surprise coloring his voice. "Arenafors and Lapidorus. One keeps things at bay, the other builds a fortress. Not bad for three days."
Hermione, her legs folded beneath her, was already scribbling away in her charmed planner. "Technically, Lapidorus is more than a fortress - it's adaptive transfiguration. In theory, you could use it to manipulate the terrain to your advantage. Create high ground. Block corridors. Even redirect water if you cast it into a channel. And Arenafors gives you a buffer zone when you're cornered. That's not just 'not bad.' That's impressive."
Ron smirked, nudging her with his elbow. "You're just saying that because you didn't get flung across the room today."
She scowled, not looking up. "I marked the casting radius this time, which someone should have done in the first place."
For a moment, the only sounds were the scratch of quill against parchment and the faint hum of the Room shifting around them. Harry, who'd been quiet since they'd sat down, finally broke the silence.
"They're good," he said, eyes downcast. "But they're not enough."
Hermione paused her writing. "What?"
"They help you survive," Harry said, still looking at the floor. "But they don't help you win."
She blinked, eyebrows drawing together. "That's… not entirely true. Winning's about strategy. These spells are tools. Lapidorus gives you control over space. Arenafors gives you breathing room. Used right, they can be decisive."
Harry looked up at her, his expression serious. "Yeah. If the whole thing is a textbook duel. But it won't be. It'll be chaos. Creatures. Traps. Things that don't care about breathing room or neatly transfigured barriers."
Ron remained silent but he seemed to understand what Harry wanted to say.
Harry's voice dropped to a rumble, but his conviction was clear. "Those spells - they're smart. Handy. But they're defensive. They keep me alive. I want more."
Hermione furrowed her brow. "So you want something flashier?"
"I want something stronger," he said. "Something that shifts the momentum. Right now we've got spells that help me not lose. I need something that helps me win."
Hermione leaned back, staring at her notes as though they'd betrayed her. "Alright," she said slowly, "then I guess we find something that packs a punch."
Ron whistled low. "You're not planning on coming second, are you?"
Harry hesitated before answering.
"No, not exactly," he said finally. "I want to know more than my enemies. Not just spells that can hit hard - I want spells that give me options."
Hermione arched an eyebrow, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "Like what?"
Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Like conjuring mist. Not just for showy classroom effects. Real concealment. Something thick enough to block vision, stay in place, move if I want it to. Can I anchor it to a point? Shape it with intent?"
Ron blinked, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. "You mean weaponize weather?"
"No," Harry said quickly, "I want to disappear when I need to. Or make sure they can't see where I'm moving next."
Hermione's quill began to dance again. "That sounds like a layered charm with environmental manipulation. You'd need sustained magical output or something reactive, like a proximity-linked cloud."
"Exactly," Harry confirmed, his eyes brightening. "Or how about conjuring something to spy for me? Like birds. Or mice. Something that can move where I can't and bring back information. Not just eyes, but direction. Reaction."
Hermione paused her writing, her mind whirring. "That's not beginner-level Transfiguration."
"Flitwick said it once - most magic is just creativity pushed through enough control."
Ron scratched the back of his neck, a thoughtful frown on his face. "But… are we talking real birds here or, like, ghost animals?"
"Doesn't matter," Harry said, shaking his head. "As long as they listen and get the job done. Could be smoke, could be thread, could be stone. Whatever works."
Hermione straightened up, suddenly focused. "Actually, Animata Lumen might be something to look into. It's an old spell. Uses light and motion magic to create temporary animal constructs. Not solid, but visible. Used mostly for distraction, but it's a start."
Harry nodded slowly, his mind whirring. "Yeah. Okay. That's the kind of thing I want."
He looked between them now, his eyes serious. "I know this sounds weird. Or intense. But this isn't just about scoring points. I need to know how to handle things before they happen. If I'm caught reacting, it means I've already lost control. And once control's gone… so is the fight."
Ron furrowed his brow. "You mean the task?"
"I mean everything."
Hermione went still. Harry continued, his voice quieter now. "I don't think I get to live a normal life. Not unless I fight for it. Not unless I become someone who doesn't just survive chaos, but defines it. I can't afford to just be good at magic. I need to understand it. I need to understand everything. Because Voldemort - he's not going to stop until I'm dead."
Ron looked winded. Hermione had turned pale.
"I don't say that for sympathy," Harry said, his voice firm. "I say it because it's real. I'm not strong enough yet. I don't know enough. And I want to."
He glanced towards the window. "I want to know everything. I want to know all the magic." he said "Because if I don't, I won't last long enough to live the kind of life I want."
Hermione's voice was soft when she finally spoke. "Okay. Then let's figure it out. One spell at a time."
---
The man sat stiff in the old chair, back ramrod straight against the worn wood, eyes locked on the boy who stood like a statue carved just a hair too perfectly in place. The room was cold despite the flickering fire, its orange glow dancing across marble floors and the boy's polished shoes but never quite reaching the man's face. Silence stretched tight between them, tense as a bowstring, but the boy didn't budge. He never did. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his uniform unblemished, not a single thread out of place. The man studied him like gazing into a murky pond - familiar, skewed, out of reach.
Every answer the boy offered was sharp, calculated, rehearsed. His voice didn't waver, didn't rise. School was fine. His grades were perfect. He had connections, influence, order. Just the right amount. No more, no less. The man wanted to feel pride. He wanted to see himself reflected in that blank face, that sculpted control - but all he saw was the void. Of emotion. Of warmth. Of anything human. The boy was a success in every way that mattered. Sharp, obedient, cold. He remembered everything he'd been taught. Every correction. Every punishment. Every rule. And still, the man couldn't grasp him. Couldn't reach him. When dismissed, the boy turned and left without a second thought, the door clicking shut like a soft exhale.
The man didn't move until the silence smothered him whole.
He needed to do something. To shake off the unease. He stood and made his way downstairs to the basement. The basement was an enigma. Full of cells, but only one was occupied. Two young women lay there, bruised and naked, their bodies betraying the pain they'd endured. The man smiled, a twitch of his lips. Out of habit, he raised his left hand, but then remembered - it was gone. With a curse under his breath, he gripped the wand with his remaining hand. There were so many ways to indulge in the world of magic. But this one… this one was something special. Adrian Selwyn licked his lips, and in his eyes, the shadows of madness danced. Soon, Potter. Soon, you will pay for this.
"Crucio!"