After the day's classes ended, a day marked by the infuriating presence of Umbridge and Snape, Harry didn't follow his friends back to the Gryffindor common room. Ron and Hermione were off doing their prefect duties, a responsibility that conveniently gave him the perfect opportunity to slip away unnoticed.
His destination?
The Chamber of Secrets.
It wasn't the first time he'd returned. In fact, shortly after coming back to Hogwarts, he had taken the first chance he got to go there and had called Dobby to help clean the place up and furnish it.
The loyal house-elf had been ecstatic, at the idea of helping Harry Potter clean a secret chamber known only to him, his little squeaks of joy echoing through the vast space as he meticulously banished centuries of grime and dark residue.
What had once been a moldy, serpentine tomb, had now become something else entirely. A sanctuary, a hidden haven from the prying eyes of Dumbledore and the Ministry. A personal private training ground where he could truly unleash his power without discovery or consequence, without attracting unwanted attention.
He stepped into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, its grimy tiles, tarnished brass, and broken mirrors a familiar sight. He quickly checked the stalls and the hallway, his enhanced senses sweeping for any lingering magical presences or curious ghosts.
Thankfully, the incessant, mournful sobbing of the resident ghost wasn't present; her dramatic wails and self-pitying monologues would have been annoying to handel at the moment. The silence of the empty bathroom was a welcome relief.
"Open," he hissed in Parseltongue, the sink moved with a low grinding sound, its porcelain basin retracting into the wall, revealing a dark, yawning tunnel. The hidden chamber opened with a rumble that vibrated through the bathroom, a dark, gaping maw leading into the depths of Hogwarts once again. Harry dropped down, landing lightly on the debris-strewn slide, his feet barely registering the impact.
The chamber welcomed him like an old memory—familiar, ominous, and vast. The air, once thick with the stench of decay, and stale water, was now surprisingly fresh and clean, thanks to Dobby's tireless efforts.
Since the house-elf's work, the massive stone walls had been scrubbed clean of residual grime and mold, revealing the intricate, unblemished carvings of serpents that coiled and intertwined along every surface.
The Basilisk's skeletal remains had been removed long ago, moved to a deeper part of the chamber for later use, it had rotted away but the bones were still in good condition and the venom remained so he could get something for it later.
Harry took a deep breath, the clean, cool air filling his lungs, tasting faintly of potent magic. This was where he could finally let loose, where he could experiment, where he could truly understand the terrifying scope of his powers without observation. It was exhilarating.
First Test: His Wand
He drew his wand—the yew, basilisk scale, and a single tail hair from a golden stag concoction from Ollivander's. It felt strange in his hand, a conduit that was both powerful and, he suspected, inherently limiting.
While at Grimmauld, he hadn't had the chance to push his magic to its true limits with it, fearing detection or accidental destruction of Grimmauld Place itself. Now, in this secluded sanctuary, he would. He cast a few spells with deliberate, concentrated intensity, aiming for one of the reinforced stone rings, choosing spells known for their raw, concussive force.
Reducto. Expulso. Bombarda.
Each spell came out with immense force—real, raw, unbridled power that dwarfed anything he'd cast at Hogwarts before, easily surpassing the effects of a dozen fully-trained adult wizards combined.
The Chamber trembled from the amplified energy, the very air vibrating with the unleashed magic, causing tiny pebbles to shake loose from the high ceiling. His wand pulsed violently in his hand, the wood humming like a living conduit struggling desperately to contain a raging, torrential river, its magical output at maximum capacity.
The stone ring groaned under the assault, chipping and cracking, sending small shards flying, but holding, a testament to its own robust enchantments.
But after the fifth test, after a particularly powerful Bombarda that nearly shook the entire chamber, Harry paused.
Something felt off. A subtle, almost imperceptible feedback loop, a grinding resistance that wasn't from the target.
It wasn't the magic—the magical energy itself obeyed his will perfectly, flowing without impediment from his core. It was the wand itself, the physical implement.
The output was simply too much for it to handle, a mere wooden stick attempting to channel divine power. He could feel the immense strain along the shaft like it was on the verge of cracking, the delicate balance of its core materials being pushed beyond their inherent limits, threatening to splinter into irreparable fragments. A tiny, almost invisible fissure appeared near the tip, a hairline fracture hinting at imminent failure.
"It can't handle all of me," he muttered, lowering it. "Not when I'm serious. It's too restrictive, too fragile for my power."
He dismissed the spell he was just about to cast, and the wand's faint light dimmed, its hum dying down, seemingly exhausted, almost a sigh of relief. It was a powerful wand, yes, but it was still a wizard's wand, crafted for magical theory, for mortal spell-casting, not for channeling the raw, cosmic force of a Godslayer. It was a beautiful tool, but ultimately, insufficient.
Second Test: Wandless
He raised his bare palm, discarding the wand as a mere trinket, and focused his intent. This was pure will, unmediated by a magical focus, a raw, unadulterated projection of his inherent Campione power, a direct command to the very fabric of existence.
Bombarda Maxima.
The words were almost an afterthought, a mere mental prompt, a whisper on the wind, unnecessary for the magic to obey. The magical energy erupted from his hand, a compressed, concussive wave of pure force.
The enchanted golem directly ahead of him exploded in a flash of blinding white light and billowing smoke, reduced to nothing more than pulverized dust and scattered fragments of stone.
The shockwave ripped across the massive stone ring, tearing through the air, flattening two nearby constructs with casual ease, sending their fragments scattering like shrapnel across the vast floor, leaving smoking craters in their wake.
His hand buzzed, a faint, pleasant tingle of power, nothing more, a subtle feedback from the immense energy he had just wielded—but the magic obeyed, effortlessly and completely, without a hint of strain or resistance. And unlike the wand, didn't strain, and didn't show any signs of reaching a limit. It simply was a boundless wellspring of destructive potential.
That was just one spell, he thought, a chilling realization settling in his mind, the full implications of his unchecked power dawning on him. One spell, and he could annihilate objects that would withstand multiple curses from a dozen fully-grown wizards.
If he wanted to, if he truly let loose and focused his intent, he could probably level an entire city block in London, reducing buildings to rubble and ash with a casual flick of his wrist, leaving only desolation behind.
Awesome. And terrifying. The sheer scale of his power, unchecked and unrefined, was overwhelming.
Final Focus: The Oneirothrone
Harry stood in the center of the chamber, This was where his true interest lay, in the subtle, reality-bending aspects of his Authorities.
This Authority—the Authority of Dreams Made Real, his gift from Njörun—was his most flexible, his most creatively boundless. With it, he could mold reality itself, bending perception, conjuring objects from pure thought, creating illusions so potent they blurred the line between what was real and what was not.
It was imagination magic in its purest form, an ultimate expression of creative will. But it came at a cost of magical energy, a cost he was determined to reduce through understanding and refinement. He had noticed, while diligently studying The Weave of Reality, that the more one knew about what he was creating, the more intricate his understanding of its underlying principles—its magical structure, its conceptual framework—the less power was needed.
That was the secret, to true mastery of this power, knowledge and imagination combined. This was one of the main reasons he had focused on understanding magic more deeply, beyond just casual interest or the immediate need for defensive spells. It was about fundamental mastery.
He extended a hand, picturing a complex defensive construct from one of his books, It was a basic defence structural sprell.
A silver cube of pure light formed above his palm, shimmering and solidifying with exquisite precision, its edges impossibly sharp. It shifted and flowed like liquid metal, responding to his mental commands, until it became a shimmering, impenetrable shield, its surface rippling faintly like disturbed water, yet solid as diamond.
The form was clean now. Stable. Controlled.
The more he knew… the less raw energy he had to use. It was a profound truth, a revelation that promised endless possibilities for innovation and control. His imagination, fueled by an ever-growing repository of knowledge.
Hours passed in a blur of radiant constructs, He practiced forming shields of pure light, conjuring elaborate, functional tools that appeared from thin air, and even briefly summoning a perfectly rendered, though inanimate, replica of a Nordic longship, complete with intricate carvings and a shimmering mast, only to make it vanish again.
Eventually, fatigue crept into his limbs, the satisfying ache of pushing limits, the mental weariness that came from intense focus and continuous magical output, yet his core remained invigorated, buzzing with latent power, a testament to his divine nature.
He packed up, leaving the Chamber. He carefully rearmed the wards he'd placed at the chamber's entrance to prevent any curious students or teachers from stumbling upon his sanctuary, sealing his secrets away, and then left the chamber, stepping back into the quiet, mundane corridors of Hogwarts, the stark contrast a familiar jolt.
It was past lunch by the time Harry wandered toward the library, his stomach rumbling faintly, reminded of more earthly needs. Maybe Dobby could bring him a snack later, he thought, something sweet to replenish his energy—treacle tart, perhaps, or a cauldron cake.
Then he saw her.
Daphne Greengrass.
Sitting at one of the quieter, secluded corners of the vast library, bathed in the soft light from a tall, arched window that overlooked the Black Lake. She was with another Slytherin girl—Tracy Davis, if his memory served, a bubbly, expressive contrast to Daphne's composed demeanor.
Daphne was writing out something with calm elegance, her quill scratching softly, her posture impeccable, her silvery-blonde hair falling gracefully over her shoulder. Potions homework, by the looks of the bubbling diagram on her parchment, an assignment from Snape, no doubt.
Harry's steps slowed, then subtly shifted direction. He decided to take a chance, an impulsive decision fueled by his newfound confidence and a genuine, burgeoning curiosity. It was unlike him, the old him, to approach a Slytherin, let alone one as aloof as Daphne, but the new Harry was less inhibited by old rivalries.
As he approached, Tracy noticed him first, her eyes widening slightly in surprise before quickly nudging Daphne discreetly, a hint of excitement in her movement. Daphne's quill paused, and her head snapped up just as he arrived at their table.
"Ladies," Harry greeted smoothly, his voice low and confident, a polite smile on his lips, a touch of his acquired charm evident.
Both girls blinked, startled by his unexpected appearance, their expressions a mix of surprise and wary curiosity.
"Hi?" Tracy offered, clearly confused but intrigued, her eyes darting between him and Daphne, sensing the unspoken tension.
"I was hoping to speak to Daphne, if you don't mind," Harry said, his gaze settling directly on the blonde, his smile unwavering, a silent challenge in his eyes.
Tracy's brows rose in amusement, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh? Since when do you and Daphne talk, Potter? Did I miss something scandalous already this term?"
"We met on the train," Daphne said coolly, her voice perfectly level, though her eyes flicking up to meet his held a hint of surprise she quickly suppressed. "Briefly. In passing. A minor collision."
Harry's smile widened, "Felt like we didn't get to finish our conversation, Greengrass. I thought I'd rectify that. I believe we were discussing the merits of empresses versus martyrs?" He leaned slightly on the table, an easy, confident pose.
Tracy gave Daphne a knowing look, barely suppressing a giggle, clearly enjoying the unexpected interaction.
Small talk followed, mostly spearheaded by Tracy, who was bubbly and vibrant, clearly enjoying the unexpected attention and the implied intrigue of Harry Potter seeking out her best friend.
Daphne remained sharp-tongued but polite and precise, her composure unshaken, though Harry noticed a subtle tension in her shoulders, a slight stiffness that indicated she was on guard.
She was clearly still watching him like he might say something stupid, or perhaps, something profoundly unexpected, waiting for him to reveal his true intentions. They conversed about the start of term, the difficulty of Snape's first potions essay, and the general atmosphere of the castle after Umbridge's speech.
Eventually, Harry stood, sensing the opportune moment to withdraw, leaving them wanting more.
"I'll let you get back to your essay," he said, nodding politely. "Just thought I'd say hello. Hopefully, we'll talk more soon, Greengrass. It was nice meeting you too Tracy."
He left with a nod, a faint smirk playing on his lips, and headed for the dorms, the library's hush returning behind him, now filled with a new, excited buzz.
Back at their table, Tracy stared at Daphne with a huge, irrepressible grin, her eyes sparkling with delight. She couldn't contain her excitement.
"Oh my god," Tracy whispered dramatically, leaning across the table, her voice practically vibrating with suppressed glee. "He likes you, Daph. He totally likes you! The Boy-Who-Lived just came all the way over here just to talk to you! You!"
Daphne rolled her eyes, though a faint blush was creeping up her neck, betraying her outward composure and the usual mask of indifference. "Don't be ridiculous, Tracy. He's just… curious. Or bored. Or both. Or perhaps he's trying to recruit me to his Gryffindor fan club." Her voice was sharper than usual.
"I'm not!" Tracy protested, her voice hushed but insistent, completely ignoring Daphne's protests. "He came all the way over here just to talk to you. The Boy-Who-Lived. Hogwarts' golden boy."
Daphne stiffened slightly, her gaze still fixed on her parchment, though her quill had stopped moving, her thoughts far from potions." he's changed."
Tracy gasped dramatically, clapping a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with revelation. "You admit it! Oh, this is delicious! Your dream is coming back!"
"I'm just saying," Daphne muttered, eyes narrowing at her parchment, pretending to re-read a complex instruction, though her mind was racing. "He's... changed. Radically. He is different. And those eyes… there's something new in them. He's not the boy who was constantly bewildered and scowling. He's… brighter."
"You used to have a massive crush on him, remember?" Tracy pressed, her voice lowering conspiratorially, dredging up old childhood secrets. "When we were nine and still believed every ridiculous article in Witch Weekly about the famous Harry Potter, dreaming of marrying him one day?"
Daphne scoffed, a genuine sound of derision, but her voice lacked its usual bite, a subtle defensiveness creeping in. "That died in the first year, Tracy. The reality was a bit… underwhelming." She remembered the small, bewildered, scruffy boy who seemed perpetually angry and terrified, constantly getting into trouble, certainly not the heroic, charming figure of the stories, and certainly not someone who held any appeal to a refined Slytherin heiress.
He was tatty, temperamental, and seemed to actively dislike Slytherin. So that crush, if one could even call it that, had died after the first year, replaced by a polite indifference at best.
"Right. Because he was small and grumpy and hated Slytherin," Tracy supplied, nodding knowingly, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
Daphne didn't answer, merely tracing a pattern on her parchment, her thoughts a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.
Tracy grinned again, a triumphant, knowing expression, sensing her friend's inner turmoil. "But now? Tall, mysterious, looks yummy, That smirk? Ugh. And he's so utterly Ahh.. those eyes. Your dream is coming back, isn't it?"
"It's not," Daphne said flatly, her voice firm, but her gaze flickered towards the doorway Harry had exited through. She really didn't want to get involved with the Boy Who Lived, especially when she and most of Slytherin knew the Dark Lord had actually returned, making everything so much more dangerous. But she couldn't help the feeling growing in her chest.
Tracy leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes gleaming. "He looked at you like you were the only person in the room, Daph."
Daphne shifted in her seat, suddenly restless, her carefully constructed facade wavering, unable to maintain her usual cool composure. She picked up her quill, but her hand trembled slightly. "Shut up, Tracy," she muttered, a desperate attempt to end the conversation.
But her heart beat just a bit faster, a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a feeling she hadn't experienced in years, a resurgence of old, long-buried emotions. The thought of Harry Potter, the changed, dangerous, undeniably captivating Harry Potter, seeing her… it was unsettling, and terrifyingly exciting.
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