After November arrived, the weather turned bitterly cold.
The mountains surrounding the school were cloaked in gray, blanketed with snow and ice, and the lake gleamed as hard and unyielding as tempered steel.
Every morning, the ground was coated in frost.
From the upper windows, you could see Hagrid, bundled head to toe in a long moleskin coat, wearing enormous beaver-fur boots, out on the Quidditch pitch, scraping frost off the flying broomsticks.
Truth be told, he dressed more or less the same in summer.
One thing Harry loved about Hagrid was his vigilance—his skin seemed to have a natural resistance to magic, and he always wore that coat like it was armor. Harry reckoned most curses wouldn't even touch Hagrid.
Harry himself never took off his inner armor either.
The thought that Hogwarts housed a peerless powerhouse like Dumbledore—who might, for all Harry knew, be sitting in his office peering into a crystal ball like some wizard from a fantasy TV show (though that was just Harry's spiteful imagination; Dumbledore wouldn't actually do that)—made Harry crave more security.
Unless Dumbledore somehow ended up on the Legion's roster as an allied hero unit, or until Harry himself grew stronger, he wouldn't feel at ease.
November brought a long-term task: the Quidditch season had begun.
The first match was Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
Harry had only been to the pitch twice, too busy honing his many skills. He'd gone those two times mainly to learn the rules, but with the first match set for Saturday, Captain Wood wasn't worried about him at all.
What a joke—worried? The ones who should be worried were the opponents!
They had the god of Quidditch on their side. Calling him the GOAT didn't even do him justice.
A small aside: almost no one had seen Harry play Quidditch because, well, he hadn't really played much.
Wood had decided to keep Harry's participation under wraps, planning to spring a massive surprise on Slytherin.
But the news that Harry would be playing as Seeker still leaked out.
Harry thought it was only natural. When a secret was known by a bunch of well-connected Gryffindor players, there was a ninety percent chance it wouldn't stay secret for long.
As a result, the entire Gryffindor House was swept up in Quidditch fever.
Victory was assured!
And Harry's popularity in the house was skyrocketing to absurd levels. The leader himself was playing—how could you not go watch?
Were you disloyal to Harry or something?
The story of Harry slaying a troll with a single swing of the Gryffindor sword had already spread, thanks to Ron. At first, some doubted it, wondering if Ron was just exaggerating as usual.
But then they thought, It's Harry.
The kid had done crazier things at one year old. His track record was verifiable, discussed for a decade.
Even Voldemort would have to chime in: "I've been back from the Black Forest, and you lot are still talking about baby Harry leaping out of his pram, punching me to death in three hits, and walking away with just a tiny scar."
That's not a rumor?
I, the one who was there, would know! You think you know better than me?
I was taken out by my own unstoppable Avada Kedavra rebounding!
I killed myself!
Harry Potter didn't leap out and beat me!
It's all fake news!
Ten years later, and it's still faker, faker…
Keep talking like that, and I'll start believing it myself.
Professor Quirrell had been avoiding looking in Harry's direction during lessons lately, almost pretending Harry didn't exist. But Voldemort, ever-present, kept whispering coldly at the back of Quirrell's mind—"Go on! You useless fool! Kill Potter!"
"Don't embarrass me—I've got your back!"
Talk about pressure.
Harry had no idea Voldemort was literally hiding in Quirrell's turban. He'd always thought it was just some powerful magical artifact.
Maybe, like the Sorting Hat, it had been imbued with the ability to think.
Judging by the faint but potent killing intent it exuded—pretty impressive for wizarding standards—it was likely some sort of slaughter-related relic. Harry had a few theories:
The turban could unleash a powerful Avada Kedavra.
The turban could summon an invisible shadow assassin that would leap out shouting, "Potter, I'll kill you!"
The turban could provide a boost to dark magic.
The turban was a disguise, and there was something more mysterious hidden at the back of Quirrell's head.
All of the above.
Those were the possibilities, but Harry was starting to doubt himself after guessing wrong for so long.
With his prodigious intellect, Harry had prepared contingency plans for every scenario. As long as he could prepare and go all out, he was ninety-nine percent sure of victory…
Unless someone got the drop on him with a sneak attack.
Harry knew himself well. Sneaking up on him was no easy feat—cautious, alert, with sharp instincts for detecting killing intent and hostility…
When his kingly aura was active, his luck was impeccable. In top form, his high charisma drew the gaze of all beings and granted him countless blessings.
Surely Voldemort hadn't spent the last ten years studying at some mystical Eastern academy, mastering a technique like Nie Yinniang's legendary blade from Tang Dynasty Tales—a shadowless strike, traceless, undetectable, with no magical ripple, no wind-up, and no killing intent…
…No way, right?
Still, better get some magical steel to craft a neck guard… and a heart protector too!
Just in case Voldemort had undergone some super-evolution in the last decade.
The troll incident had also infuriated Harry, making him briefly consider killing Quirrell outright. But if he let Quirrell slip away, he'd lose his lead on Voldemort.
Another, stealthier spy might infiltrate, and Harry wanted to take Voldemort down for good.
Wizards weren't great at close combat—get in close, unleash a big move, and it could be over in one go.
Harry didn't believe he couldn't kill Voldemort. Unless, of course, the guy had something like a lich's phylactery from fantasy stories…
Hiss, actually, that wasn't impossible…
He'd deal with it when the time came.
On the bright side, Harry now had a more dedicated Hermione working for him.
She'd carved out time from her studies to research Hogwarts' regulations and file reports. Maybe it was Harry's own reliable demeanor that earned her trust, but now he was allowed to carry the Gryffindor sword outside when necessary—even during summer holidays. His freedom had increased significantly.
That sword was still the best for combat.
Hermione also lent him a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry found it surprisingly fun to read—not just for the rules but as a way to unwind.
He learned that Quidditch had seven hundred types of fouls, that Seekers were usually the smallest and fastest players, that matches occasionally ended in player deaths (though rarely), and that referees often went missing.
Also, ever since Harry saved Hermione from that massive troll, she'd become less obsessed with following school rules, which made her even more likable.
She was a true Gryffindor now—everything was permissible, nothing was sacred, as long as you didn't get caught. She'd grown more… flexible about house points.
Sometimes, Harry thought that if she fixed her teeth and tamed her hair, she might turn out to be quite pretty once she grew up.
But her intelligence was what he valued most—it was her greatest asset. Looks were secondary.
On the eighth day after the troll was turned into a trophy…
The trio slipped out to the chilly courtyard during a break between classes. Harry was training Ron and Hermione in hand-to-hand combat.
Sure, his two "strategists" were like external brains, but to keep contributing their wisdom in the future, they needed tougher bodies to survive any risks.
With the Legion's buffs and Harry's training, even a scrawny guy like Tyrion could eventually take down an average knight in a straight fight.
Wizards, Harry believed, had a natural physical advantage over Muggles. If Ron specialized in melee combat, he might one day be slicing through bullets with a blazing sword.
A strong body was far more reliable than any firearm.
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