A week into the fair, the city had settled.
Not calmed down. Settled.
The first two days had been chaos in the way only Hogwarts students could manage. Stalls appeared overnight. Disappeared. Reappeared bigger. Someone tried to open a dragon-themed barbecue on the third terrace and nearly got shut down by McGonagall before lunch. By day three, the rhythms had formed.
By day seven, it felt lived in.
The commercial districts were alive from morning to well past what would have been curfew outside. Potion labs glowed softly behind reinforced glass. Enchanted cafés competed over ambience charms. Workshops rang with hammer strikes, spell-testing wards, and excited arguments about margins, foot traffic, and whether advertising via animated illusions was "cheating."
Students weren't pretending anymore.
They were running businesses.
Harry observed most of it from a distance.
He slept. A lot.
His body still demanded rest after what he'd done weeks earlier, and for once, he listened. He woke late, drifted through the city without urgency, ate wherever smelled good, and vanished again when the crowds grew thick.
Sometimes he stopped by a stall and paid like everyone else. Sometimes the stall owners refused to take his money and shoved food at him anyway. He didn't argue much.
Most days, though, he cooked.
His building became… known.
Not advertised. Not official. Just known.
People would knock. Or show up unannounced. Or be "coincidentally passing by" around mealtimes. Harry never really turned anyone away. If he had ingredients, he cooked. If he didn't, he improvised.
It was rarely small.
Fifteen people was normal.
His core group came often. Draco, Pansy, Daphne, Astoria, Ginny, Hermione, Ron. The twins treated his place like a recurring appointment. Luna showed up unpredictably and stayed for hours. Abigail sometimes brought notes or books and left with leftovers.
Quidditch players wandered in occasionally, drawn by the rumor that Potter cooked like he was feeding an army. Sixth and seventh years came too, less starstruck than curious, staying for quiet conversations and better-than-hall food.
Harry didn't mind.
Cooking was… grounding.
He hadn't done much of it in this life. Not properly. Not the way he used to. Here, with no rush and no consequences, he found the rhythm again. Knife work. Heat control. Timing. Adjusting flavors instinctively rather than by recipe.
It felt like remembering himself.
When he wasn't cooking or sleeping, he was gone.
Not outside the dimension. Just beyond the city.
The land there was raw. Untouched. An endless stretch of possibility that hadn't yet decided what it wanted to be. Harry spent hours walking it, boots crunching over stone and soil that hadn't known weather yet.
He didn't build.
Not really.
He planned.
He stood at high points and imagined water. Traced the future shoreline with his eyes. Walked the ridgelines of mountains that didn't exist yet, mapping elevation changes in his head. Sometimes he knelt and drew lines into the ground with his fingers, carving the skeleton of valleys and slopes.
A lake. Massive. Inland. Deep enough to hold real life.
Mountains around it. Not decorative. Structural. Weather-shaping.
He worked it all out in silence.
How the water would circulate. Where the melt would come from. Which slopes would catch wind. Where forests could grow without choking the watershed. Where rivers would eventually spill outward, even if they wouldn't exist for years yet.
No magic flared. No spectacle.
Just intention.
He wasn't ready to start.
Not yet.
Back in the city, the fair thrived without him.
Which was exactly how he wanted it.
But today was different.
Harry stood at the edge of what would one day be water and let out a slow breath.
The lake was not there yet. No shimmer. No reflection. No life.
But the shape of it was.
A vast basin carved into the land, its curves deliberate rather than dramatic. Shelves where shallow waters would one day warm. A deep central hollow where cold would linger and currents could form. The surrounding terrain rose naturally, not jagged, not ornamental, but purposeful. Mountains that would guide wind. Valleys that would feed runoff. Stone that would hold.
It was the skeleton of a sea-sized lake.
And it was done.
Harry rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar ache settle into his bones. Building land was different from conjuring structures. It asked for intent, patience, and restraint. He had poured hours into shaping it, walking the perimeter again and again, correcting slopes by instinct rather than calculation.
Only when it felt right did he stop.
Now, as he turned back toward the city, he realized something else.
It was night.
He frowned faintly as he walked.
There was no sun here. No planet. No axial rotation. And yet the sky above the city was darkened into a velvet gradient, stars scattered in patterns that did not correspond to anything real. A breeze passed through the streets, cool and steady, carrying the scent of food and spellwork.
Wind. Night. Time.
None of it should exist.
And yet it did.
Harry shook his head once. He would think about that later. Preferably when it was not midnight and his legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
The city welcomed him back with soft light and low sound. Shops still open. Music drifting between terraces. Laughter echoing faintly through streets designed to bend noise without trapping it.
And then he saw them.
All of them.
Every professor.
McGonagall walked briskly but not hurried, tartan robes exchanged for something looser and practical. Flitwick hovered slightly off the ground, animatedly gesturing at a stall display. Remus had a skewer in one hand and a cup in the other, listening to Thorne with an expression that suggested he was enjoying himself far more than he would ever admit.
Snape stood near the back, arms folded, expression neutral, but Harry noticed the empty plate in his hand and the faintest hint of resignation in his posture.
Burbage was laughing.
And Dumbledore—
Dumbledore was eating.
Actively.
Enthusiastically.
Harry slowed, then chuckled under his breath as he angled toward them.
They were gathered in front of one of the brightest storefronts in the district. Warm light spilled out over the stone, illuminating a sign hand-painted with cheerful precision. Steam drifted from the open counter.
Bao & More.
The girls' shop.
Abigail leaned over the counter, handing over a paper-wrapped bundle. Ginny moved between stations with practiced ease. Daphne and Astoria worked the register together, murmuring quick calculations. Pansy oversaw plating with sharp-eyed efficiency. Luna hummed softly as she adjusted the charm that kept the buns perfectly warm without drying them.
Dumbledore accepted his order and handed out the money with visible delight.
"These," he said, peering into the wrapping, "are remarkable."
Harry stopped just behind the group. "You are actually human..."
Dumbledore did not turn around, but chuckled. "I have been accused of worse."
McGonagall accepted her meat pancake with a nod and placed the coins on the counter herself, pointedly ignoring Dumbledore's attempt to pay for her.
"It smells… alarmingly good," she admitted, which for Minerva McGonagall counted as high praise.
Flitwick had already claimed a seat, legs swinging slightly as he peered into a steaming bowl of ramen with scholarly fascination. Remus sat across from him, sleeves rolled up, looking far more relaxed than Harry was used to seeing. Thorne dropped into the seat beside them with the satisfied air of a man who fully intended to eat in silence.
Snape hesitated exactly half a second before sitting.
Exactly half.
He accepted his bowl without comment, removed his gloves, and began eating as though this were not, in fact, a student-run stall serving noodle soup inside a pocket dimension.
Burbage opted for dumplings. Vector took a meat pancake and looked faintly offended by how good it was. Sinistra stood nearby with a bao in one hand, staring up at the artificial night sky as though she were cataloguing stars that should not exist.
Dumbledore, chewing thoughtfully, hummed. "I should have the elves learn these recipes. A bit of variety would do wonders for morale."
Abigail beamed. Pansy looked vindicated. Ginny elbowed Daphne, who mouthed told you.
Harry watched the whole scene with quiet amusement.
This was what got him every time. Not the magic. Not the impossible architecture. Not even the fact that they were standing inside a city that technically should not exist.
It was this.
Professors eating student food. Laughing. Sitting. Existing as people rather than institutions.
McGonagall wasn't in her usual severe robes. She wore something practical, comfortable, almost… normal. It was strange, yes. But it was also right.
Harry smiled to himself.
"Happy hunting," he said lightly, lifting two fingers in farewell.
Dumbledore raised his bao in salute. "Do try not to destabilize reality while you're gone."
"No promises," Harry replied, already walking away.
He headed toward the lower terraces, where the lighting dimmed and the noise softened. The bar was impossible to miss.
Two floors, warm amber light spilling from tall windows. Laughter and clinking glass upstairs. Quiet murmur below.
He took the stairs down.
The lower level was calm in a way few places were. Shelves of books lined the walls, some enchanted to update themselves, others stubbornly physical. Soft music hummed from nowhere in particular. The bar itself was polished dark wood, worn just enough to feel welcoming.
"Evening, Potter," the bartender said.
Seventh year Ravenclaw. Sharp eyes. Calm demeanor. One of the girls from Gryffindor was reorganizing glassware behind him. The Slytherin was already mixing something at the far end, movements smooth and confident. A Hufflepuff leaned against the counter, checking inventory with a satisfied nod.
Harry took his usual seat. Same stool. Same spot. Elbow resting on the bar.
"My regular please," he said. "On the rocks."
The Slytherin glanced over, smirked faintly, and went to work.
Harry exhaled as the glass was set in front of him. Amber liquid. Clear ice. No flair. No tricks.
Perfect.
He took a slow sip and let the warmth settle.
The bar had been controversial.
At least, it should have been.
When the fair proposals were first reviewed, several students had waited for the inevitable line. Alcohol is prohibited.This will be supervised.Absolutely not.
It never came.
The professors had looked at the application, exchanged a glance, and quietly approved it.
No speeches. No warnings. No moral lectures.
Just approval.
And something strange had happened because of that.
Because it was allowed, it stopped being forbidden. Because it wasn't hidden, it wasn't tempting in the reckless way secrets always were. Students drank, yes—but they did so slowly, socially, and with intent. No one pushed limits just to see where they were. No one tried to prove anything.
If someone had too much, they were guided upstairs, given water, and laughed at gently the next day.
Responsibility had emerged not from restriction, but from trust.
Power, when acknowledged instead of suppressed, had a way of teaching restraint on its own and the professors had noticed it too. Which is why they had left it alone. Because for once, they meant what they had said. No interference. They wouldn't interfere until it was something serious.
Harry didn't stay long at the bar.
Just three drinks. Enough to take the edge off the ache still lingering in his bones. The main reason was because the Slytherin bartender came up with unique drinks everyday and Harry loved to try them. When the glass was empty, he nodded to the bartender, slid a few galleons across the counter, and stood.
His room waited.
The walk back took him through quieter streets, the city easing into its nocturnal rhythm. Lights dimmed where shops closed. Others stayed open, humming softly. Somewhere above, laughter drifted across terraces like misplaced starlight.
Harry walked into his building and took the lift up, channeling just enough magic to make it obey. It hummed compliantly and carried him home.
He shrugged off his long robes the moment he stepped inside. They cleaned up mid-air and then travelled straight to the closet. He slipped of the rest of his clothes as well, dressed only in his jeans.
Then he paused.
"... Of course," he murmured with a sigh.
He could feel them already. Familiar signature of a group of more than 15 people headed towards his building.
He sighed, rolled his shoulders once, and turned toward the kitchen.
"Guess I'm cooking."
By the time the knock came, the kitchen was already halfway to war footing.
Ingredients lay arranged with quiet precision across the counters—vegetables washed and cut, meats portioned and resting, bowls of spices hovering in neat clusters with labels written in Harry's sharp, slanted hand. A cauldron-sized pot simmered lazily on the back burner, doing absolutely nothing yet and somehow still feeling important. Dough rested beneath a stasis charm, perfectly paused mid-rise. Knives hung in the air at measured distances, waiting.
Harry was at the central counter, bare from the waist up, skin still faintly warm from exertion. He was grinding spices by hand, because some things refused to be rushed, when the knock came.
Not a polite knock.
A coordinated one.
He didn't bother pulling on a shirt. Just wiped his hands, flicked his wrist, and the door opened.
The professors poured in.
Dumbledore entered first, as if he'd always intended to. The rest followed in a loose, conversational wave that abruptly stalled the moment they actually saw Harry.
There was a beat.
Then another.
Thorne's gaze flicked over Harry's shoulders, arms, posture—assessing rather than staring. He nodded once, approvingly.Remus's eyes lingered just long enough to recognize discipline and routine, then politely moved away.Snape's lips twitched. Not a smile. Something closer to professional acknowledgement.
"…Hmph," Snape muttered. "At least someone understands maintenance."
Burbage outright laughed. "Well. Someone's been busy."
Vector raised an eyebrow. Sinistra tilted her head thoughtfully. One of the younger professors—Charms adjunct, Harry thought—offered an easy, appreciative smile.
"You look healthy," she said, simply.
McGonagall, of course, crossed her arms. "Mr. Potter. Clothing."
Harry grinned, entirely unbothered. "Kitchen gets hot, Professor."
Dumbledore's eyes sparkled behind his spectacles. "Quite understandable. We appear to have arrived… early?"
"Perfect timing," Harry replied. "I'm still prepping. Sit. Drink. Don't touch anything that's floating unless I tell you it won't explode."
That earned him several looks.
With a wave of his hand, chairs slid out. Glasses floated in from the cabinet, setting themselves down in front of each professor.
"What would you like?" Harry asked casually, already moving again. "Tea, wine, juice, something stronger, something non-alcoholic, something that technically shouldn't exist—"
"Tea," McGonagall said immediately.
"Wine," Burbage added.
"Whiskey," Thorne and Snape said at the same time.
Remus smiled. "Whatever you recommend."
Harry nodded, split his attention cleanly into lanes.
Liquids poured themselves. Ice formed and cracked precisely. A kettle heated without flame. All of it happened while Harry resumed work, hands moving faster now.
Cooking, for him, was not separate from magic.
It was magic.
A pan heated to exactly the right temperature, not a degree more. Oil shimmered, then accepted ingredients without protest. Another pot slowed time around itself, its contents aging hours in minutes while the outside world barely noticed. The oven hummed as internal space folded, allowing three different heat profiles to coexist.
Flitwick watched with rapt attention, feet dangling. "That timing charm—oh that's clever. You're isolating entropy rather than accelerating it."
Harry nodded. "Keeps the flavors honest."
"You are insane," Vector said faintly. "In the best possible way."
As he worked, he talked.
"Went beyond the city today," he said, stirring without looking. "The land past the eastern rise. I've been scouting it for a while."
Dumbledore's attention sharpened. "And?"
"The lake's planned," Harry replied easily. "Actually—planned is underselling it. Skeleton's done. Basin, shelves, depth gradients. Mountains positioned for terrains and runoff. It's… big. Sea-sized, give or take."
There was silence.
Then Remus spoke carefully. "You've already carved it?"
Harry shrugged, flipping something that sizzled approvingly. "Yeah. I'm not adding water yet. I want to layer it properly. Thermoclines, ecosystems, migration paths. Introduce life gradually so nothing collapses."
Snape stared at him. "You are constructing an entire biosphere."
"Eventually," Harry agreed. "No rush."
McGonagall sat very still. "You did this alone."
"Mostly," Harry said. "I talked it through with myself a lot."
That earned a soft snort from Thorne.
Harry set a dish aside, waved a hand, and the kitchen reconfigured itself smoothly, opening space where it was needed, closing it where it wasn't. He never stopped moving, never lost the thread of conversation, never missed a cue.
"If you want," he added lightly, "I can sketch Hogwarts too. The castle at the head of the city—nice, but temporary. I could rework the terrain, give you something closer to the real thing. Or something better."
Dumbledore chuckled, "You must have already studied Hogwarts in and out to claim something like that..."
Harry snorted softly, not even glancing up as he slid a tray into the oven and adjusted three different heat profiles with a flick of his fingers.
"I didn't claim it," he said. "I verified it."
That earned a pause.
He reached for a pan, added aromatics, and let them bloom. Only then did he continue, tone easy, almost conversational.
"I studied Hogwarts during first year. All of it."
Several professors went very still.
"I mean," Harry went on, flipping something with practiced ease, "what else was I supposed to do? I'd already finished the syllabus before I came to Hogwarts. The entire year was… repetitive."
Dumbledore's smile didn't falter, but there was a sharpness behind his eyes now. "You studied the entire castle?"
"Mm-hm."
Harry salted, tasted, adjusted.
"The wards first," he said. "Layered defensive matrices, mostly pre-Industrial magical logic. Elegant, actually. Redundant in places. Fragile in others. The outer perimeter wards are excellent against external threats, but the internal segmentation relies too heavily on trust-based enchantments."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "You're saying the castle can be breached from within."
"It already has been," Harry replied mildly. "Several times. History just pretends otherwise."
He moved to another station, time slipping around a pot as its contents darkened and deepened far faster than physics allowed.
"I mapped how magic flows through the stone," he continued. "Where it pools. Where it thins. Why certain corridors shift and others don't. The staircases aren't random—they're compensating for stress points in the foundation."
Flitwick made a small, fascinated noise.
"I checked the plumbing too," Harry added, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. "Enchanted gravity-fed system tied into older Roman-style layouts. It's clever, but inefficient. You lose pressure on the west wing every third Tuesday because one of the runes under the third-floor lavatory is misaligned."
McGonagall inhaled sharply. "That is… absurdly specific."
Harry shrugged, finally glancing over his shoulder. "Well you asked."
He went back to stirring.
"I know every spell woven into the walls," he said. "Every charm maintaining the Great Hall ceiling. Every concealment layered over the moving portraits. I know where the magic fails during thunderstorms, why the Astronomy Tower resonates differently at dawn, and which corridor on the fifth floor is technically outside the castle's jurisdiction."
The silence in the kitchen thickened.
Harry felt it then—the looks. The weight of them. The unspoken since when.
He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and spoke without turning.
"Don't look at me like that," he said calmly. "I didn't have anything else to do."
That landed harder than anything else he'd said.
Remus swallowed. Thorne stared at the ceiling like he was re-evaluating several life choices. Snape's expression was unreadable, which for him was a tell all its own.
Dumbledore broke the silence gently.
"How," he asked, voice mild but intent, "did you manage all of that in a single year?"
Harry paused in his work. Not because he didn't have an answer, but because he couldn't believe the professors were actually asking that question.
"I used magical energy?" he commented slowly as if he wasn't sure if that was the answer the professors were looking for.
Vectar leaned forward, "What do you mean by that, Harry?"
"You all can already manipulate your magical energy, right?" Harry asked as everyone nodded, "then have you never tried... just letting it... loose?"
McGonagall frowned. "Let it loose, how?"
"Thin," Harry replied. "You just spread out your magical energy around you like a sheet of paper."
"Have you truly never tried that?" He asked in disbelief, because he thought the professors who were now fluent in wandless magic, would certainly would have done so by now.
For a moment, no one answered him.
That, more than anything, unsettled the room.
They were witches and wizards who had spent decades shaping magic to their will. Wandless casting. Silent casting. Conceptual spellwork. Entire branches of theory bore their names. And yet that simple act had never crossed their minds.
"How," Vector said slowly, almost to herself, "did we never think of that?"
"It doesn't even require intent," Flitwick murmured, brows knitting as the implication sank in. "No structure. No trigger. Just… extension."
"We're trained to contain," McGonagall said, realization dawning with visible discomfort. "From the first year onward. Focus. Control. Channel. Never diffuse."
Snape's lip curled faintly. "Because diffusion is associated with loss," he said. "Inefficiency. Waste."
Harry shrugged. "Only if you're leaking it. This isn't leaking. It's… resting."
There was a pause.
Then Dumbledore straightened.
"Ah," he said softly.
And then quite uncharacteristically he jerked. Not violently. Not dramatically. But enough that the chair scraped back an inch and several professors startled.
"Albus?" McGonagall snapped. "What...?"
He didn't answer.
Couldn't, apparently.
His eyes were wide. Not alarmed. Not frightened.
Amazed.
He lifted one trembling hand, fingers splayed slightly, as though afraid the sensation might vanish if he moved too quickly.
"…extraordinary," he breathed.
"Headmaster?" Remus pressed.
Dumbledore swallowed, then laughed—a soft, incredulous sound that carried something dangerously close to glee.
"Do it," he said, voice thick with wonder. "All of you. Spread your magic. Slowly. Close your eyes."
They hesitated only a second.
Then they obeyed.
Magic shifted in the room—not flaring, not spiking, but unfolding.
McGonagall went still first. Her spine straightened, breath catching sharply as though she'd stepped into cold water.
"Oh," she whispered.
Flitwick actually sat down.
Remus's hand flew to the counter, knuckles whitening as his senses recalibrated. Thorne swore under his breath, voice barely audible. Burbage pressed her lips together, eyes shut tight, tears prickling at the corners without quite forming.
Snape...
He inhaled slowly.
And then very, very carefully exhaled.
The kitchen ceased to be a room.
With their eyes closed, the world expanded.
They could feel the counters. The walls. The air currents curling lazily around heat sources. They could sense the precise location of every object, not as shape but as presence.
And beneath it all—
Magic.
They could actually see the magic. Threads upon threads, layered and interwoven. Charms nested inside other charms. Reinforcement spells anchored into stone by elegant runic logic. Time dilation wrapped around cookware in careful spirals. Spatial folds breathing gently as they expanded and contracted.
They could see how it worked.
Not just that it did.
Flitwick let out a shaky laugh. "The anchoring points," he whispered. "They're not fixed. They breathe."
"The wards aren't stacked," Vector said, awestruck. "They're braided."
McGonagall's voice was tight. "Merlin help us… the failure points. I can see why they form. It's not decay. It's tension imbalance."
Remus opened his eyes slowly, as though afraid the vision might shatter.
"This is what you've been seeing," he said to Harry. Not accusing. Just… stunned.
Harry nodded, slow and a little puzzled, as if he were trying to work out what exactly had shocked them so badly.
"Yes," he said simply. "This is what I've been seeing."
He stirred the pot again, flicked his wrist, and a ribbon of heat slid precisely where it was needed. He didn't look back at them.
"I'm… actually confused," he admitted after a moment. "How did you all think I knew spells after seeing them once?"
That landed like a dropped plate.
That landed like a dropped plate.
Flitwick blinked. "We thought you understood them."
"I do," Harry said, glancing over his shoulder. "But not from books. I see the structure. The intent. How the magic is braided together. Once you see that, copying it isn't memorization—it's reconstruction."
Silence.
A different kind this time. Not shock. Recalibration.
Remus rubbed a hand over his face. "Merlin. We've been calling you an unparalleled prodigy because you could replicate magic instantly."
Snape interrupted. "He still is... Just because we see the structure of spells and how they work, doesn't mean that we can cast that spell after taking one look, like him. But I see, how he seems to know everything."
"Have you always perceived magic this way?" he asked.
Harry nodded. "As far as I remember. I did. It started as a fun experiment, but I noticed it's benefits so I never stopped."
He turned back to the stove, then paused.
Actually paused.
"…Which reminds me," he said, looking over his shoulder at Dumbledore now. "How did you not think of this?"
Dumbledore looked up.
Harry tilted his head. "First day. Hogwarts. Before I even stepped inside. You cut off my magical output because you thought I was probing the wards."
The room went very, very still.
"I wanted to look," Harry continued calmly. "At the castle. The magic. That's how I see new places."
Dumbledore stared at him. Slowly, something dawned on his face. Not guilt, not defensiveness, but profound disbelief.
"... Of course," he whispered.
Thorne frowned. "What?"
Dumbledore shook his head, a soft, incredulous laugh escaping him. "It makes perfect sense. And yet… it never once occurred to me."
He looked genuinely shaken by that realization.
"I have studied magic for over a century," he continued quietly. "And I have always directed it. Never thought to simply… let it be."
Harry shrugged as he went back to cooking, "I guess you all did train differently, so it wouldn't have occurred to you."
Thorne folded his arms, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Do you keep your magic spread out all the time?"
Harry nodded as he started setting up the table. "Most of the time. Probably ninety-nine percent of the time."
Several professors inhaled sharply.
"And the range?" McGonagall asked.
Harry answered without hesitation. "Right now? The entire city."