Harry's eyes fluttered open, and as he took in his surroundings, he quickly realized he was in the Hospital Wing. The sterile scent of potions and antiseptic filled the air, and the soft glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls. He tried to move, but his muscles protested with sharp cramps, a deep exhaustion settling in his bones—a telltale sign of magical depletion.
The creak of a door drew his attention, and he turned his head sluggishly to see Professors Flitwick and Dumbledore entering the room. Their expressions were a mix of curiosity and concern as they approached his bedside. Behind them, Madam Pomfrey stood with her arms crossed, her sharp eyes watching like a hawk, silently warning them that she would not tolerate any unnecessary disturbance of her patient.
"Well, Mister Potter, you gave us quite the scare," Dumbledore began, his usual grandfatherly smile in place. Flitwick gave a small nod in agreement, his keen eyes assessing Harry.
Harry swallowed, his throat dry, and tried to come up with a response that was truthful enough but still guarded. It wasn't that he distrusted them entirely, but he also wasn't about to share everything.
"I did, didn't I?" His voice came out hoarse, and he winced. "How long was I out?"
Flitwick flicked his wand, conjuring a glass of water and levitating it towards him. Harry took it gratefully, offering a small smile before sipping the cool liquid, soothing his parched throat.
"Three days," Dumbledore answered, his gaze twinkling with both curiosity and something unreadable. "Whatever magic you performed was powerful enough to completely drain you. Naturally, we are quite interested in understanding how you ended up unconscious—with a dead mountain troll outside the girls' bathroom on the second floor."
Despite the light tone, there was an unmistakable undercurrent of expectation in the Headmaster's voice. Flitwick, meanwhile, looked intrigued, his sharp mind already working through the possible explanations.
Harry set the now-empty glass down on his bedside table and straightened up as much as his sore body allowed. "That's understandable, Professors," he admitted. "I won't waste your time. I'm a Parselmouth." He paused for a moment, letting that information settle. "My guardians and I are currently researching my family history to understand how I inherited the ability. I'm aware that after Voldemort, Parseltongue carries a certain... stigma. I'd appreciate it if this information wasn't widely shared."
Dumbledore's expression remained composed, showing no signs of surprise, though Flitwick's bushy eyebrows lifted slightly before he gave a thoughtful nod.
"With the Dark Lord being one of the last widely known Parselmouths, I can see why you'd want to be cautious," Flitwick acknowledged. "And I must say, I admire your proactive approach in tracing your lineage. Though," he added with a wry smile, "you may run into some difficulties given the Potters' general reluctance to document magical abilities."
Harry gave a short nod. "Yeah, that's already proving to be a challenge. But right now, our research suggests that I might have inherited it from my mother's side. I've been looking into magical genealogy, and I personally support the theory that there's no such thing as a true Muggleborn—rather, that magic is a resurfacing ancestral trait. That said, I don't have enough empirical data to prove it definitively."
Flitwick's eyes gleamed with approval at his analytical thinking, but Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, considering.
"Or perhaps," the Headmaster mused, "your ability stems from your scar. Curse scars can sometimes lead to... anomalies." His gaze flickered toward the lightning bolt scar on Harry's forehead, his brows furrowing slightly as he noted its faded appearance.
Harry met his gaze steadily. "I understand why you'd think that, sir, but I can assure you, I've had professionals examine my scar. It's been dealt with, and we are certain the Parseltongue ability isn't from an external source." He hesitated for a moment before adding, "Unlike the magical residue from the scar, which did require some specialist intervention."
Madam Pomfrey, who had been listening intently, suddenly stepped forward, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That's enough questioning for now," she declared firmly. "If Mister Potter used magic involving Parseltongue, then snake-related injuries on his adversary are hardly surprising. But my patient is clearly stressed and needs rest. You may speak with him again later."
Harry could have cheered for her intervention. He felt drained—not just physically, but mentally as well. Looking at Madam Pomfrey's no-nonsense expression, he wasn't surprised when both professors gave in, offering him a few final words of encouragement before departing.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Madam Pomfrey pulled the privacy curtains around his bed and gave him one last assessing glance before instructing him to get some sleep. With that, she bustled off, leaving him in peaceful solitude.
Yet, despite his exhaustion, Harry's mind wasn't quite ready to rest. The last thing he remembered before blacking out surfaced in his thoughts, making him glance to the side where his robes had been neatly folded. Summoning his magic, he tested his control—it responded normally, albeit sluggishly. With a quiet murmur, he levitated the garment toward him and reached into the pocket, pulling out a small golden key wrapped in parchment.
Unrolling the parchment, he read.
-
Greetings, Brave One,
If you are reading this, then you have proven yourself worthy of knowing my name and title. You have passed one of my trials, demonstrating courage and resolve. You did not hesitate to act when others were in danger, even when it meant facing certain death. Take this—your first of three keys—with my blessing. I trust you will rise to meet the challenges ahead.
G.G.
As Harry finished reading the final letter, the parchment dissolved before his eyes, vanishing as if it had never existed. He frowned slightly but quickly shook off his curiosity. There would be time to think about it later.
Reaching out with his magic, he silently called for Hedwig. Within minutes, she swooped into the Hospital Wing, gliding on near-silent wings. Her amber eyes gleamed with intelligence as she landed gracefully on his bedframe.
"Got a delivery for you, girl," Harry murmured, passing her the key. She took it gently in her beak, and he ran a hand through her soft feathers. "Put it in the warded room. Keep it safe."
With a soft hoot of acknowledgment, she took off once more, disappearing into the corridors. Harry watched her go, a small smile playing on his lips. Maybe Hogwarts wouldn't be as dull as he had expected. Settling back against the pillows, he closed his eyes, allowing himself to rest once more.
Two hours later, the rhythmic sound of wings and a soft hoot woke him. Blinking groggily, Harry saw Hedwig perched on the table beside him, a letter in her beak. She dropped it neatly in front of him and nuzzled his hand as he absentmindedly stroked her feathers.
"Thanks, girl," he muttered before opening the letter.
The elegant script of Andromeda Tonks greeted him, and his brow furrowed as he read the first paragraph.
Hello Harry,
I have investigated Sirius's case as thoroughly as I could. From what I have uncovered so far, it appears there was never anything resembling a proper trial. Not even a hearing. Unfortunately, I've hit a wall in my inquiries—someone within the Ministry is actively blocking my investigation.
The only silver lining is that, since we've kept our efforts discreet, whoever is obstructing us doesn't know why or who is looking into the matter. But that's also a problem. Without identifying the person behind the obstruction, I can't take direct action.
I reached out to your other "aunt," and she suggested looking into the old laws of the Wizard's Council. I believe she was hinting at your peerage status within the kingdom. If that's the case, it may have something to do with the original Statute of Secrecy agreement between the Sovereign of Great Britain and the magical governing body.
I'll investigate further. In the meantime, I hope your classmates are treating you well. If not—well, you know what to do.
Dora sends her love.
I'll keep you updated.
Andromeda.
Harry exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. It had taken them months to piece together enough to confirm he was a potential heir to the Black family, and even longer to find any documentation that suggested Sirius Black had never received a trial.
Andromeda had agreed to look into it, especially after successfully suing the publisher of The Boy Who Lived: The Adventure Series on his behalf. But even with her resources and network, someone within the Ministry was actively stonewalling her efforts. That was worrying.
Frustratingly, there was little he could do. He was still officially underage in the eyes of the law, and being stuck at Hogwarts severely limited his options. He would have to trust Andromeda to keep pushing forward.
It was Saturday, a full week after the troll incident.
Harry sat cross-legged on a plush velvet rug in an abandoned conference room on the sixth floor, a space he had discovered some time ago. The room was quiet, filled with soft, ambient light filtering through the high, arched windows. His outer robes lay folded beside him as he focused on his meditation, steadying his breathing, feeling the magic pulse within him.
The door creaked slightly as it opened, and he sensed the arrival of two Gryffindors. He didn't need to open his eyes to know who they were. Instead, he remained still, deep in focus, waiting for them to speak.
"What is he doing? I've never read about meditation in any of the recommended books," Hermione whispered to Neville, her voice a mix of curiosity and skepticism.
Neville shrugged, watching Harry with a thoughtful expression. "You could ask him yourself. Just—be polite. I don't think I could've handled a troll on my own."
Before Hermione could respond, Harry opened his eyes. His gaze was sharp but calm, his posture relaxed yet commanding.
"I'm sure you could have, with the right education and training," he said, his tone assured. "Good evening, Miss Granger, Neville." He gestured for them to sit on the thick velvet rug, a clear invitation to join him in a setting more suited for conversation than the rigid formality of the conference table nearby.
Neville took a seat without hesitation, while Hermione adjusted her uniform skirt before following, though she looked as if she were holding back a barrage of questions. Harry's quiet authority kept her from immediately bombarding him, allowing him to open the conversation on his own terms.
"What I was doing," he began smoothly, "is called centralization —a method used by witches and wizards to connect with their inner magic. It's something you'll only find in more esoteric texts, the kind Magical Britain has nearly erased from common knowledge. Which, in my opinion, is a rather foolish oversight—especially for first-generation magicals like yourself, Miss Granger. But I digress."
His emerald gaze met hers, measured and assessing. "I've been looking into what happened on Halloween night—how you ended up in that bathroom, alone. Tell me, am I wrong in assuming that you're struggling to fit in with the Gryffindors?"
Hermione gulped, the words striking too close to home. Something in Harry's tone compelled her to answer truthfully, and after a moment of hesitation, she gave a small nod.
Neville remained silent, letting Harry lead the discussion.
"I see," Harry murmured. "Well, Gryffindors aren't exactly known for their love of books." He cast a brief, amused glance at Neville. "No offense."
Neville grinned good-naturedly. "None taken. Herbology's the only thing I actually study hard for."
Harry turned back to Hermione. "From what I've observed, you excel at memorizing and reciting textbook material, but you struggle with creative application." He raised a hand when she opened her mouth to protest. "Let me finish. I'm not saying that's a flaw—I'm saying it's a result of your circumstances. You come from a non-magical background with no mentor to guide you through this world. Naturally, you turned to books as your only source of knowledge. The problem is that you take everything in them as absolute truth, without questioning or adapting."
Hermione's eyes flashed with indignation. "What do you mean? Without books, I wouldn't have learned anything! And, for the record, I have it on good authority that aside from you, I have the highest academic scores in our year."
Harry sighed, unsurprised by her reaction. "Yes, I know. Ravenclaw has a scoring leaderboard in the common room. Wisdom above all , and all that." He smirked at her expression before continuing. "But tell me—if you traveled to a country you had never visited before, would you walk up to a local and start correcting them on how to do things just because you read about their culture in a guidebook?"
Hermione hesitated, biting her bottom lip in thought before slowly shaking her head.
"Exactly," Harry said approvingly. "So why do you think it was a good idea to do that with our classmates?"
It was as if something inside her cracked. Hermione's eyes widened slightly, realization dawning.
"I—I don't know," she admitted quietly. "It's just…so many things here are outdated! They act like they're stuck in the Victorian era. They're missing out on so much."
Harry nodded in understanding. "That may be true. But for someone who's been in this world for mere months, do you really think you're in a position to judge the reasons behind those traditions?"
Hermione inhaled sharply, the answer rising to her lips, but Harry was faster.
"You're not," he said firmly. "And because of your…forceful approach, your peers have decided to educate you in the way children do—by ignoring you, excluding you, or worse." His tone softened slightly. "Magical Britain has a deep-seated bias against first-generation magicals. It's something I intend to change, but change can't be forced. You can't drag them forward by the collar and expect them to thank you for it."
Hermione's expression shifted, her mind working through his words. She was quick—book smart, yes, but also genuinely intelligent.
"You may have already damaged your first impression among the students here," Harry continued. "But I have an idea that could help. And as the person who saved your life, I hope you'll at least consider it."
He reached into his robes and unrolled a parchment. Neville, upon seeing it, sucked in a sharp breath.
Hermione's eyes flicked between the two boys. "What is it, Neville?"
After a glance at Harry, Neville answered. "It's a sponsorship agreement . These used to be common before the first war with You-Know-Who . Older magical families would sponsor Muggleborns, paying for their education and expenses. In return, the Muggleborn would pledge a period of service to their sponsor's family. Some abused the system, essentially enslaving their wards, but others provided genuine mentorship—some even adopted their sponsors into their family. It was once considered an honor and provided much-needed protection."
Hermione turned to Harry, suspicion flickering in her eyes. "Why would you do this for me? I'm just a bossy know-it-all you barely know."
Good. She was questioning him. That meant she was thinking.
Harry smiled. "First, because I would gain something from it, and second, because I don't want to see your potential wasted simply because you don't have the right guidance. You won't be the only one I extend this offer to, but you are the first where I see mutual benefit."
Hermione looked at him for a long moment before finally nodding, her curiosity outweighing her doubt.
Satisfied, Harry unrolled the parchment further, pointing to the key clauses. "Let's go through the details."
"Let's go over it together," Harry began, his tone even and measured. "Neville can provide an unbiased opinion on everything I explain. First and foremost, the sponsorship will last until you, Miss Granger, achieve your first mastery. During this time, you will receive a stipend of one hundred Galleons per month for personal expenses, separate from any funds allocated for your education, housing, clothing, and meals.
"In addition, every summer, you will be required to attend a specialized course in France focusing on wizarding etiquette and traditions. This will last for three weeks each year until you complete your NEWT-level education. In return, House Potter will earn your loyalty and services for the next twenty-one years. During this period, the word of the Lord of the House is final. However," he added quickly, catching the spark of defiance already forming in her eyes, "House Potter will not enter you into any agreements that extend beyond your time of service—such as a betrothal contract, for example."
He paused for a moment, watching Hermione absorb the information. Her sharp eyes scanned the parchment quickly, but as she reached a particular clause, her face twisted in irritation.
"Why should I transfer to Beauxbatons?" she demanded, her voice tight with indignation.
Neville also frowned, looking to Harry for an explanation.
"Three reasons," Harry stated smoothly. "First, you've made things difficult for yourself here with the way you introduced yourself. You're intelligent, but social standing is just as important in this world as it is in the non-magical one, and your first impression… wasn't great."
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't argue.
"Second," Harry continued, "your parents could visit you more frequently. Or, if they preferred, you could board at Beauxbatons during the week and return home on weekends. Portkeys make travel incredibly convenient."
Hermione looked momentarily surprised at the idea, while Neville nodded, rubbing his stomach absentmindedly as if recalling an unpleasant memory.
"And third," Harry finished, "you'd have a fresh start to make friends in a society that is far more welcoming to first-generation magicals. France doesn't hold the same biases that much of magical Britain does."
Neville, who had been silent up to this point, finally spoke. "He's right, Hermione. The terms of this agreement are very good. And from what I've heard, Beauxbatons is an excellent school. Plus, if you ever decide that this arrangement isn't working for you, the contract allows for early termination by mutual consent or under special circumstances."
Hermione remained quiet for a long moment, clearly thinking hard. Finally, she exhaled sharply and stood.
"I need to think about this," she said firmly, rolling up the parchment. "I'll let you know my decision soon."
Harry nodded, watching as she exited the room, her grip tight on the document. Once the door closed behind her, he turned to Neville.
"What do you think?"
Neville leaned back slightly, considering his answer. "She's headstrong. Stubborn, even. But you made good points. I think the part about her parents will stick with her the most. Imagine being taken away from everything you know, with almost no way to stay connected except through letters. That has to be hard."
Harry hummed in agreement. Another issue to work on—improving magical communication for first-generation students. But that was a problem for future Harry. Right now, there were more immediate concerns.
"By the way, Neville," he said, shifting gears, "did your Gran make House Malfoy pay for the broom incident?"
Neville sighed and shook his head. "Not really. I just got a formal letter of apology for my 'misfortune' and Draco's 'unsightly behavior.'" His tone made it clear what he thought of the so-called apology.
Harry frowned. "That's it? Nothing more?"
Neville shook his head again.
"Well then," Harry said thoughtfully, "I suppose I'll focus my exploration of the castle on the dungeons for a while. If no one teaches that git a lesson, we'll have a much bigger problem on our hands later."
Neville nodded in understanding. Neither of them needed to say it outright—Draco Malfoy was an entitled brat, and if left unchecked, he would only escalate.
As the distant chime of the castle bell rang, signaling ten minutes to curfew, the two boys stood.
"Time to head back," Neville said.
"Agreed," Harry replied. With a flick of his wand, he vanished the rug they had been sitting on, along with the rune beneath Hermione's seat.
Together, they left the room, stepping into the dimly lit corridor, their conversation lingering in the air as the night settled over Hogwarts.
Mid-November, Edge of the Forbidden Forest
Harry soared through the crisp November air, the cold wind biting at his skin as he flew alongside Erebos over a secluded part of the Hogwarts grounds. He wasn't trying to keep his ability to transform into a Drake a secret—it wasn't illegal, after all. At worst, someone might mistake him for an Animagus, but all the detection spells he had researched would come up negative. There was no law against what he was doing, and honestly, he wasn't about to stop enjoying the freedom of flight just to avoid a few raised eyebrows.
Besides, he simply wanted to spend time with his bonded brother. Erebos was incredible—powerful, intelligent, and, most importantly, chill . Unlike the dragons from myths and fairy tales, his companion had a composed nature, though he could be playful when the mood struck him. And right now, that mood was in full swing.
They were engaged in a game of airborne catch, twisting and rolling through the sky, weaving around towering trees as they tossed a conjured ball back and forth. The game had become more challenging with the frigid November air, but that only made it more exhilarating.
Harry had just banked sharply around an old oak tree when Erebos growled a warning. Down below, a large figure was charging across the grounds, followed closely by an older, more composed one. Even from this distance, Harry could recognize Hagrid, whose excited shouts carried faintly on the wind. Professor Dumbledore followed at a more measured pace, his robes billowing slightly as he approached.
Harry and Erebos exchanged a quick glance. With a few growls of communication, they coordinated their descent, choosing an open patch of ground a safe distance away from the frantic half-giant.
With a powerful flap of wings, they landed, the force of Erebos' descent kicking up a swirl of fallen leaves. Harry shifted seamlessly back into his human form, straightening to face the approaching duo.
"Something wrong, Headmaster?" he asked, his tone polite but curious.
Dumbledore turned to him with his ever-present twinkle of amusement. "Not at all, my dear boy. Hagrid is simply rather… excited to see a living Hebridean Black . They got quite rare in the last century."
Hagrid, who had been struggling to catch his breath, nodded enthusiastically, his massive hands practically trembling with excitement. Harry had to smile—leave it to Hagrid to react this way.
"Well," Erebos rumbled in his deep, human-like voice, "it's not as though we're extinct. Just very rare."
The moment those words left his mouth, Hagrid's reaction was so unexpected that even Dumbledore blinked in surprise. The half-giant's eyes rolled back, and with a great thud , he collapsed onto the grass in a dead faint.
Dumbledore arched an eyebrow at the fallen Gamekeeper before sighing lightly and casting an Enervate charm. Hagrid groaned, stirring back to consciousness. Harry noted how the spell seemed to carry more force than usual—perhaps a necessary adjustment for the man's natural resistance.
Hagrid sat up, shaking his head as if clearing it. "Blimey," he muttered, then looked up at Erebos with awe. "Nice meetin' ya, lad. I always said dragons are somethin' special , didn' I, Professor?"
Dumbledore chuckled, giving a nod of agreement, though his gaze flickered between Erebos and Harry with clear intrigue.
A lively discussion followed, with Hagrid firing off question after question about dragons, eager to learn anything Erebos was willing to share. The conversation took an interesting turn when Hagrid enthusiastically suggested introducing them to Newt Scamander , insisting that such firsthand knowledge had to be recorded for future generations.
Harry wasn't entirely convinced that was a good idea. Some information simply wasn't meant for the public, and he wasn't sure how the wizarding world would react to learning about his particular abilities. Still, befriending Hagrid had its perks, and before they parted ways, both Erebos and Harry received permission from the Headmaster and Gamekeeper to explore the Forbidden Forest at will.
Not that many creatures would dare challenge a Drake and a dragon anyway.
Hagrid had only one request—not to antagonize the Acromantulas or the Centaurs.
That, at least, was fair.
Harry, however, couldn't resist asking about the forest's wards regarding controlled breeding. Dumbledore's troubled expression was all the answer he needed. Erebos had apparently taken it upon himself to accidentally regulate the Acromantula population. It turned out that, when properly prepared, spiders could be quite the delicacy—particularly when roasted with dragonfire.
As November gave way to December, Harry found himself seated in the Headmaster's office, accompanied by Professors Flitwick , McGonagall , and Dumbledore .
Outside, Fawkes and Erebos were engaged in a game of flame tag over the Great Lake. Some students had even taken to watching the aerial match, attempting to decipher the chaotic rules. Harry found it amusing—understanding when one was "it" seemed to be more a matter of instinct than logic.
Inside, however, things were far more serious.
"Alright, Mister Potter," Dumbledore began, smiling as he gestured toward the blackboard. "You requested this meeting. I'm quite curious to hear what you have prepared."
Harry stood, his expression calm yet confident. With a flick of his wand, the waiting chalk sprang to life, scrawling out the words:
"The First Year Study Hall – A Pilot Program."
"Thank you, Headmaster." Harry nodded before turning to the other professors. "After watching many of my classmates struggle with the coursework, I began drafting a book—an updated, useful version of the Ministry's so-called Introduction to the Wizarding World pamphlet. To be frank, the current guide is a waste of parchment and only serves to highlight how little the administration values first-generation magicals."
He paused, noting how Professor Flitwick seemed to wholeheartedly agree with that statement.
"My book will take time to complete, so to bridge the gap, I propose establishing a study hall exclusively for first-years. A dedicated space where students can gather, collaborate, and receive guidance. Based on the academic rankings in my common room, I believe I can help most of my peers without it negatively impacting my own progress."
Harry's voice was clear, confident—not arrogant, but assured. "And to be blunt, I'd rather help them improve quickly , so they don't hold me back in group work."
Silence stretched for a beat before Dumbledore beamed, while Flitwick nodded approvingly.
The tiny Charms Master was the first to speak. "I believe I speak for all of us when I say your parents would be immensely proud, Mister Potter. The initiative you are showing is quite remarkable. I would be honored to review your manuscript and offer insights where I can."
Harry inclined his head in gratitude. "I'd appreciate that, Professor. But I've also considered what happens after I advance to second year."
He flicked his wand again, revealing a sketch of a pyramid structure on the blackboard.
"I propose expanding the study halls into a structured system across year groups. Hogwarts has plenty of underused rooms that could be repurposed. First-years could seek guidance from second-years, and eventually, the system would be self-sustaining. If I may be so bold, Professors—wouldn't this also serve as an excellent way to identify potential perfect candidates for Prefect positions?"
Flitwick chuckled, clearly entertained by the idea.
Harry continued, "Over time, this system could reduce the workload on older students while fostering a culture of academic support."
For a long moment, the professors simply stared at him, their expressions varying between shock and admiration.
Dumbledore, grinning like a delighted grandfather, unwrapped a Mars Bar and took a satisfied bite. Flitwick practically beamed, clearly enchanted by the concept.
McGonagall, though also impressed, narrowed her eyes slightly. "A commendable idea, Mister Potter, but how do you plan to enforce discipline? Wouldn't this require constant Prefect supervision?"
Harry smirked, flicking his wand once more. The blackboard filled with complex rune sequences.
"Not necessary, Professor," he said with barely contained pride. "This ward suppresses disruptive intent within a designated space. No supervision needed."
The professors were stunned silent.
Dumbledore, recovering first, stood and strode toward the fireplace. With a flick of his wand, he threw in Floo Powder and called, "Severus! You'll want to see this."
"Bathsheda? Are you free? We could use your expertise."
The flames in the fireplace roared to life, and moments later, a striking witch stepped gracefully out of the green fire. She appeared to be in her late twenties, though her air of confidence and knowledge hinted at far greater experience. Her wavy brown hair rested neatly on her shoulders, and her robes—modern, stylish, and tailored with a corset-lined bodice—gave her a distinctly professional yet elegant presence.
One glance at the blackboard was enough to pique her interest. As Dumbledore waved his wand, conjuring a plush chair for her, she took a seat with an effortless flourish of her robes.
"Headmaster," she began, her keen eyes scanning the runes, "I can't decipher the language, but I can understand why you'd want me here."
Harry, pleased with the turn of events, gave a polite nod. This was perfect—an opportunity to showcase not only his initiative but also his advanced studies. He had a plan to set records in OWLs and NEWTs, and one way to achieve that was by demonstrating his ability to work ahead of his curriculum.
"Professor Babbling, I presume?" he greeted smoothly. "You wouldn't be able to read those runes because they're a hybrid of Dragon and Parselrunes —a combination that, as far as I know, requires fluency in at least one, if not both, to be understood."
For the second time that evening, silence stretched across the room. This time, even Dumbledore looked intrigued. Harry chuckled lightly at their reactions.
"I could translate them into Elder Futhark," he continued with a smirk, "maybe even the entire cluster. But then again, why should I? Broom companies don't share their rune sequences either, do they?"
Babbling arched an eyebrow and cast a skeptical glance at Dumbledore before returning her gaze to Harry. "Forgive me, Mister Potter, but you're asking me to believe that this cluster of runes does exactly what you claim, without giving me the means to decipher them. And—wait—what exactly is this ward supposed to do?"
Before Dumbledore could answer, Harry took three small pebbles from his pocket and arranged them in a triangle around himself.
"I invite you to cast a spell at me," he said confidently, standing within the warded space. He hadn't even drawn his wand.
Professor McGonagall, ever pragmatic, raised hers and cast a Stunner at him. The red jet of light streaked toward him—only to sizzle out of existence as soon as it touched the boundary of the ward. One of the pebbles glowed faintly for a split second before returning to normal.
"Anyone else want to try?" he asked cheekily.
McGonagall, her expression now one of keen interest, conjured a small bird and directed it toward him. The moment it touched the ward, the bird simply vanished.
Babbling narrowed her eyes, lifting her wand and firing a Stinging Hex at the same time that Dumbledore cast another Stunner . Both spells were absorbed effortlessly.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, Dumbledore banished a book toward Harry. The tome, rather than vanishing, simply lost most of its momentum upon touching the ward. Harry caught it easily with a lazy Levitation Charm .
"As you can see," he explained, setting the book down, "the ward suppresses offensive intent but doesn't block neutral objects. It wouldn't prevent students from writing notes or passing books in the study hall, but it would stop most trouble before it started. If additional supervision is needed, perhaps a ghost, a painting, or a house-elf could monitor the room."
With that final point, Harry stepped back, letting Babbling examine the results for herself. After further discussion—during which he provided a high-level explanation of the theory behind the cluster—his proposal received full approval.
The professors would need time to prepare the rooms, but if the trial run was successful, Harry would receive an Award for Special Services to the School. Flitwick, half-joking, even suggested that if he pushed the project through to his fourth year, the Prefect badge would be his.
Harry fully intended to make that happen. Establishing himself as an authority at Hogwarts was merely the first step toward his larger goal—reforming Magical Britain from the inside.
After his success with the study hall initiative, Harry spent his spare time training with his staff, which now resembled a Bo staff in both length and maneuverability. The runes carved into it allowed him to shift its weight dynamically, ensuring that his practice was always a challenge.
During one session, he crossed paths with Sayuri , a reserved yet skilled duelist who had been observing him from a distance. She seemed intrigued but hesitant to interrupt. Eventually, she approached and asked if he'd be open to a sparring match.
Harry agreed instantly. When she produced two wooden sword replicas and demonstrated her fluid, practiced movements, he knew the match would be anything but dull.
Between classes, Quidditch training, and dueling practice, Harry also continued his explorations of the dungeons. He primarily used his Invisibility Cloak near the entrance to the Slytherin common room, carefully mapping the labyrinthine halls and searching for hidden chambers.
He was particularly interested in discovering anything Salazar Slytherin himself may have left behind—preferably something that could only be accessed with Parseltongue. Unfortunately, his search had yielded nothing so far.
That was, until Fate intervened.
As he turned a corner in the dungeons, he found himself face-to-face with three Slytherin first-years .
Draco Malfoy stood at the front, his usual sneer firmly in place, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.
"What are you doing down here, Potter?" Malfoy sneered. "Don't you know little birds should stay in their towers? If they stray too far, they might get eaten by real predators."
Behind him, Crabbe cracked his knuckles while Goyle smirked dumbly.
Harry barely suppressed a yawn. "Malfoy, you do realize that some predators hunt snakes for a living, right?"
Draco blinked, momentarily thrown off, before scowling again. "You're not welcome here. Leave now , before we make you."
Harry chuckled. "You and what army? Seriously, your two trained primates can barely hold their wands the right way."
Crabbe and Goyle both scowled, cracking their knuckles again, but it was Malfoy who acted first, drawing his wand.
That was Harry's cue.
He moved in a blur. Rushing forward, he swung his staff low, sweeping Crabbe and Goyle's legs out from under them before stunning them both mid-fall.
Malfoy barely had time to process what had happened before he fired a cutting curse at Harry.
Harry caught it on a Shield Charm without breaking stride and closed the distance in seconds. He slammed the staff into Malfoy's stomach, forcing the air from his lungs, then grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back hard.
"Listen closely, Malfoy ," Harry said, his voice calm but deadly serious . "You draw your wand on me again , and next time, I end you ."
Malfoy's superior smirk had long since vanished. He was shaking now.
Harry wasn't done.
"I know you like to run crying to Daddy —and yes, I hear how often you say that. Go ahead. Tell him. See what happens."
With a sharp shove, Harry sent Malfoy stumbling backward over his unconscious friends. Then, with a flick of his wand, he cast a simple Hex .
The corridor was instantly filled with the foulest smell imaginable.
Malfoy's face went pale.
"Go change your nappies , Malfoy," Harry quipped. As their eyes met, he slipped into Legilimency , planting a subtle suggestion— telling on me will only make it worse for you.
Satisfied, he turned on his heel and left Malfoy and his lackeys behind.
This was his territory now.
And if the pureblood elite thought they could challenge him, they were sorely mistaken.
Something deep within him rumbled in satisfaction.
The Drake in him was awake.