[A/N] - It's official—Fleur has won! She will be the Female Lead of this story.
As for her faceclaim… I've got someone in mind, but I'd love to hear your thoughts.
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The last vestiges of winter clung to the castle stones, but the cold no longer bothered Harry. The 5 a.m. runs through the grounds had become a ritual, a quiet meditation before dawn. The ache in his muscles was a familiar, grounding presence; the rhythmic pound of his feet on the frozen earth was a sound he had come to enjoy. February blurred into March, and the sunrise began to come earlier, but the discipline didn't waver.
The Room of Requirement had become his hideaway. One evening, it was a cavern of obsidian, where he practiced a new kind of control. Fire manipulation felt like a childish trick now. A sheet of fire shimmered in midair, held there by nothing but sheer focus, curling and flaring with the rise and fall of his breath. Then smaller—smaller still—until the fire was compressed into a pulsing sphere the size of a Snitch, white-hot, the stone at his feet glowing with the heat. It took immense concentration, a stillness of mind that left him drenched in sweat, but the control was intoxicating.
-- Elemental Magic(Fire) was raised--
--Elemental Magic(Fire): 23 %-> 40%--
Lightning was a different story entirely. It was not an element to be controlled, but a force to be guided, and it resisted him at every turn. His first attempts filled the room with the sharp crackle of ozone, wild, untamed sparks sizzling from his wand and scorching the walls. It was dangerous, volatile, and a stark reminder of how much he still had to learn.
-- Elemental Magic(Lightning) was raised--
--Elemental Magic(Lightning): 1 %-> 6%--
His study of the Dark Arts was quieter, more academic. In a replica of the Slytherin Study, he dissected the Black family tomes to study his enemy's tactics. He learned the theory behind compulsion curses, memory-altering charms, and blood-purity rituals that were both ingenious and sickening. He used Occlumency to carefully separate what he needed from the corrupting intent behind the magic.
His progress was not confined to the solitude of the Room. During a dueling session, Professor Flitwick sent a volley of stinging hexes toward him. Instead of merely shielding, Harry acted on instinct, his wand carving a complex arc. The incoming hex unraveled mid-air, its crimson energy transfigured into a flock of silver birds that swarmed the Charms Master.
Flitwick gave a surprised laugh, dispelling the birds with a flick of his wand. "Brilliant, Harry! Utterly brilliant! This is a tricky bit of magic—even seasoned wizards struggle with it. It relies heavily on one's innate talent and attunement to their magic."
Later that night, long after the common room fire had died down, Harry sat on the cold floor of the Room of Requirement. The echoes of his training still hummed in the air. Flitwick's praise had been gratifying, but it had also stirred the question that now lived constantly at the back of his mind.
Who are you, Harry Potter, when you raise your wand?
He closed his eyes and let the memories Flitwick had shown him surface. He saw Voldemort again—the inhuman poise, the casual, contemptuous flick of his wrist that unraveled life. It was power as a hammer: brutal, absolute, and final. It was undeniably effective.
Then he saw Dumbledore in Hogsmeade. The effortless grace, the magic that was a shield, a net, a guiding hand. He admired the skill, the mastery, the refusal to break what could be mended. But a cold, pragmatic part of him, the part that had seen his parents die, the part that knew what Voldemort was capable of, whispered a hard truth. That won't be enough.
Dumbledore's path was one of preservation. It could hold the line. It could protect. But it couldn't win the war. It couldn't end Voldemort for good. To do that, you couldn't just disarm or incapacitate. You had to be willing to strike, to overwhelm, to finish the fight.
His own path, he was realizing, couldn't be Dumbledore's, nor could it be Voldemort's. It had to be something else.
Voldemort's magic was a hammer, meant only to crush. Dumbledore's was a shield, meant only to protect. Harry's needed to be a sword.
A sword was not merely a tool for killing. In a master's hand, it could parry and protect, turning an enemy's strength against them—that was the path of Dumbledore. But a sword was nothing if it could not strike. It had to be decisive, sharp, and overwhelming when the moment demanded it—the path of Voldemort, stripped of cruelty and rage.
His path was to become the master of that sword. To know when to block, and when to thrust. Not the reckless abandon of a berserker, but the focused calm of a duelist who wielded overwhelming force with absolute control. To possess the defensive finesse of a master Charm-worker, and the lethal, storm-born power to end a battle in a breath.
And as he sat there in the silence, he knew—with grim certainty—that this path was his.
It was this newfound resolve that bled into his classes. In Transfiguration, while others struggled to animate a simple goblet, Harry gave a casual, non-verbal flick of his wand. His teacup sprouted legs and marched neatly across his desk. He saw Professor McGonagall's lips press into a thin line of impressed approval. Across the aisle, Hermione watched him, her expression a familiar, complicated knot of pride warring with a deep, unspoken concern.
The weeks rolled on, and the power settled deeper into his bones, feeling less like a tool he wielded and more like a part of himself.
[Status Update]
-Status-
-Name: Harry Potter-
-Stats (Free Stat Points: 2)-
--Body: 11--
--Magic: 15--
--Mind: 13--
----Occlumency(Apprentice): 10----
----Legilimency(Apprentice): 7----
----Obliviate(Journeyman): 3----
-Skills (Free Skill Points:0; Free Experience Points:0)-
--Transfiguration(Journeyman): 1--
--Charms(Journeyman): 2--
--Defense Against the Dark Arts(Journeyman): 6--
--Healing(Novice): 3--
--Divination(Novice): 0--
--Astronomy(Apprentice): 3--
--Alchemy(Novice): 0--
--Potions(Apprentice): 5--
--Herbology(Apprentice): 3--
--Magizoology (Care of Magical Creatures)(Novice): 10--
--Runes(Apprentice): 5--
--Arithmancy(Apprentice): 5--
--Flying[Broom](Expert): 10--
--Wandlore(Novice): 5--
--Illusion Magic(Novice): 0--
--Appartion(Novice): 10--
--Wandless Magic(Apprentice): 6--
--Silent Spellcasting(Apprentice): 8--
--Parseltongue(Adept): 1--
--Dark Arts(Journeyman): 5--
--Ritual(Journeyman): 1--
--Elemental Magic: --
----Fire: 40%----
----Water: 2%----
----Earth: 1%----
----Wind: 3%----
----Lightning: 6%----
Ron's POV
The rain lashed against the windows of Gryffindor Tower, turning the common room into a cozy, fire-lit haven. It was a lazy Saturday afternoon in April, the kind that used to mean hours of Exploding Snap or wizard's chess. Ron scanned the room, a hopeful grin on his face as he clutched his battered chessboard.
He finally spotted Harry, but his grin faltered. Harry wasn't with the group by the fire. He was alone, tucked into a secluded armchair, a thick, leather-bound book with no title open in his lap. He wasn't just reading; he was studying, his expression as intense and distant as a professor's.
Ron took a breath and walked over, trying to keep his tone light. "Fancy a game of chess, mate? Reckon you might finally challenge me back."
Harry looked up, and for a split second, his eyes seemed… older. The easy-going light Ron was used to seeing was gone, replaced by a focused, calculating depth. Then it softened into a small, apologetic smile.
"Sorry, Ron. I can't," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I've really got to get through this. It's… research for Flitwick."
The excuse was perfect. Unquestionable. But it felt like a door being politely shut in his face.
"Oh," Ron said, the single word feeling hollow in his own ears. "Right. 'Course."
He lowered the chessboard, the familiar weight of it suddenly feeling foreign. He looked at his best friend—who somehow seemed taller, his shoulders broader, his entire presence more solid than it had been at Christmas—and a cold, unwelcome thought slithered into his mind: I don't know him anymore.
Ron retreated without another word, slumping into a chair near the fireplace. His gaze drifted across the room and met Hermione's. She was watching them, her own book forgotten in her lap. She offered no words of comfort, just a small, sad shake of her head.
It was a look of shared understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the chasm that was widening between them and the boy they thought they knew. And in the comfortable warmth of the common room, Ron had never felt colder.