"The school has a 'Anti-Apparition Charm' in place. Only this room is excluded because it's used to teach students teleportation magic," Dumbledore explained.
"Doesn't that mean someone could use this room to enter Hogwarts?" Harry asked.
"Of course not. The room is only accessible during the time it's used for teaching Apparition. After each session, the Anti-Apparition Charm is reinstated. In fact, before we entered the room just now, the charm was still active."
Harry realized he'd been overthinking it. He'd even thought he could exploit this loophole to sneak into the school more easily in the future.
"Now, let's begin learning Apparition."
"There's something important to remember. Apparition is governed by three principles!" Dumbledore said.
"Destination, Determination, Deliberation!"
"First step: focus your consciousness on your target," Dumbledore said. "There's a target up ahead. Now, concentrate on it."
"Second step," Dumbledore continued, "make up your mind—think that you must reach your destination. Let the desire to be there flood your entire body."
"Third step," Dumbledore instructed, "wait for my cue—then turn on the spot, feel your body become insubstantial, and move with composure."
"Apparition relies heavily on mental state. No matter how urgent the situation, you must not panic even slightly, or you'll fail."
Harry remembered that in Book Six, there was a wizard who panicked while trying to Apparate and ended up severing both his legs from his body.
Dumbledore added, "At the start of your training, I recommend only short-range Apparitions."
Taking that advice to heart, Harry began trying out Apparition.
Pop! Harry vanished from his current spot and reappeared a few meters away.
But it wasn't quite where he'd intended—he was still a ways off from the target.
Even though he had kept his eyes fixed on the target while Apparating, in that instant of teleportation, his mind had involuntarily blanked out a bit, causing him to miss the mark by a few meters.
"No wonder Dumbledore emphasized Destination and Determination. That momentary lapse in focus can only be overcome with repeated practice," Harry thought.
And this was just for short-range jumps. If he were aiming for a distant location, he could easily end up hundreds of meters off.
Harry couldn't help but imagine someone ending up stuck in a wall.
He kept practicing nonstop, teleporting all around the room. Shadows of him flickered everywhere as he Apparated again and again.
Eventually, he reached a point where his mind remained clear through the entire Apparition process. Although there was still a slight mental fuzz, it no longer shook his determination or disrupted his focus.
Dumbledore watched silently. As Harry continued to Apparate again and again, the Headmaster grew more and more astonished. Apparition may not require an incantation, but it consumes immense mental energy. Each jump caused a faint tearing sensation in the brain. Doing it repeatedly could be extremely taxing.
Even Dumbledore himself could only manage a dozen jumps before exhaustion set in. But Harry? He'd already done it dozens of times. Aside from looking a little pale and a bit nauseated—like motion sickness—he still seemed perfectly lucid.
"Alright," Harry said, finally stopping. The aftereffects hit him like a wave—his head was spinning, his vision blurred.
He stood still to recover, and only after a moment did the pounding pain begin to subside.
But Harry's face lit up with joy. He had fully mastered Apparition.
During the latter part of his training, he hadn't limited himself to just that room. He had Apparated to the train station outside the school, to unknown villages en route, to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, to London, even to his aunt and uncle's home...
Harry had, in fact, Apparated across half of Britain.
So the actual number of times he had used Apparition far exceeded what Dumbledore had seen.
Suddenly, Dumbledore said, "Harry, although you've mastered Apparition, I'm afraid you still can't use it freely."
"Why not?"
"Because in order to legally Apparate, you need a 'license'—what Muggles would call a driving license. According to the Ministry of Magic, only wizards over seventeen are eligible to take the Apparition test."
Harry had no idea about that. Since Apparition was taught in sixth year, by which time most students were already seventeen, the books didn't bother to mention that rule.
Seeing Harry's interest wane, Dumbledore quickly changed the subject: "Actually, even if you hadn't come to see me, I was planning to send you a letter and ask you to come to the school."
"What for?" Harry looked up.
With a mysterious smile, Dumbledore asked, "Have you heard of the Order of Merlin?"
"Of course I have. Do you know the Ministry of Magic?" Harry replied gruffly, clearly not in the mood.
After all, what wizard hasn't heard of the Order of Merlin?
The Order of Merlin: A magical organization founded by the famed wizard Merlin in the mid-11th century. It was the first such organization in the magical world.
The Ministry of Magic was established later. In fact, if it weren't for the Order's good reputation and the tendency of its members to act like dusty old relics holed up in their studies experimenting with spells and potions, the Order might well have become the precursor to the Ministry itself.
By the late 20th century, the Order of Merlin had become the largest and most prestigious organization of talented wizards, and the only wizarding group not under the Ministry's jurisdiction—while still being officially recognized as an international authority on excellence.
This meant the Order's status wasn't beneath the Ministry—it stood outside it.
That wasn't to say the Order held political power. It didn't.
What's power? The clearest form is legislative authority—and that lay solely with the Ministry of Magic.
The Order of Merlin's influence came from its reputation. Like a famous critic whose review can make or break a film, or like an editorial in the People's Daily—just words on paper, but capable of shaking governments.
Their relationship was like that of the Queen of England and the Prime Minister. All real power lies with the Prime Minister, but the people hold the Queen in reverence.
The Order was a beautiful vase—but one sturdy enough to break heads in a pinch.
So while the Ministry ruled publicly, the Order ruled in the shadows.
When the elders of the Order spoke, even the Minister of Magic had to listen.
Dumbledore gently stroked his beard. "The old fellows at the Order have decided to award you the Order of Merlin, Second Class."
As expected, Harry was stunned.
And with good reason—receiving a Merlin Medal was one of the highest honors in the wizarding world.
It was like being crowned Jordan in basketball, accepted into Harvard as a student, or scoring 29 kills in a round of PUBG. Pure glory.
More than that, this never even happened in the original books.
"What's the reason? Isn't the Medal only given to those who've made significant contributions to the magical world?" Harry racked his brain, trying to remember any good deeds he might've done the past year.
But since arriving at Hogwarts, he couldn't recall even helping an old lady cross the street.
"It's for defeating Voldemort," said Dumbledore. "They were going to award it to you before you even enrolled, but the debate dragged on for a year before they reached a decision."
"What kind of debate?"
"They couldn't agree on what class to give you. Some argued for First Class because your achievement was unprecedented. Others thought that was absurd—that you were too young to understand the weight of a First Class Medal. They pushed for Third Class instead. The entire Order spent the year debating this. You can't blame them. Every award has a strict process. The majority of the Order's members must agree. And a First Class Medal? That kind of honor demands the utmost caution."
"How many First Class recipients are there? I mean currently," Harry asked.
"Four," Dumbledore replied.
"Including you?"
Dumbledore gave him a look that made Harry want to hit him with a shoe. That ridiculous face said it all.
Harry was now convinced the wizards who had nominated him for First Class were insane—along with those who agreed with them.
A First Class Medal was equivalent to being a state senator.
And what had Harry done? All based on a vague prophecy?
Harry didn't buy it. No way all those wizards really believed he was the Chosen One. They probably just wanted to comfort themselves.
But Harry was overthinking it.
He forgot this was a magical world that didn't follow the laws of science.
He was the Chosen One foretold in prophecy. Voldemort couldn't kill him. Voldemort vanished, and only a baby remained in the rubble. These were facts. Wizards believed what they saw.
Dumbledore, who knew the truth, never said a word. Perhaps he believed that Harry's mother's sacrificial magic counted as part of the Chosen One experience.
Harry nodded, signaling he understood.
Wait—wasn't that idiotic professor from Chamber of Secrets always bragging about his Third Class Order of Merlin?
Harry made a decision: if that fool dared approach him again, he'd smash his new medal right into the man's face.
"So, Professor, when do I receive the medal?"
"In half a month."
"Got it."
Harry figured that even if he and Hagrid had to set up those two new shops from scratch—buildings, staff, supplies—it wouldn't take more than ten days.
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