Chapter 9 – The First Buff
"The game starts when the rules apply to you, and not the others."
⸻
The common room pulsed with subtle enchantments.
Not loud. Not flashy. But Harry felt it the moment he stepped through the serpent archway that led behind the wall. The air changed. The light changed. Even the sounds of footsteps dulled as if the stones themselves were listening.
Slytherin House.
The walls were carved from dark stone, moss-glossed and slightly damp. Green-glass sconces flickered as they passed, casting aquatic shadows over the high-backed chairs and blackwood tables. The far wall looked out into the lake — a massive window framed with carved serpents — where moonlight filtered through swaying underwater plants.
There weren't many first-years. Not yet. Only a few had arrived before Harry.
"First-years, over here," called a prefect — a tall boy with a lean frame and hollow voice. "Dorm assignments will be posted in your rooms."
Harry moved toward the narrow staircase at the side of the room, followed silently by Blaise and two other boys. The deeper they went, the colder the air became — the chill not unpleasant, but old. Ancient.
The boys' dormitory was set in a round stone chamber with five beds, each a dark oak four-poster with thick emerald curtains. The floor was polished green slate, and the windows curved with the lake, showing slow currents and the occasional shadow of something swimming past.
The door whispered closed behind them.
"I guess left side's mine," Theodore Nott muttered, setting his trunk against the wall. His voice was quiet and dry — like he was stating an objective fact, not inviting commentary.
Harry nodded slightly, choosing the bed opposite Theo's, near the window. Blaise took the one beside his. Gregory Bulstrode — Millicent's cousin, apparently — grunted as he dropped his trunk at the foot of the last bed, then immediately began rearranging his pillows with grumbling precision.
Harry said nothing.
He pulled his curtain halfway, sat on the edge of the bed, and began unpacking in silence. Not for privacy, not out of shyness — but because words carried meaning. He didn't know yet who deserved them.
He retrieved "Charms I" and opened to a dog-eared page. Chapter Two. Basic light control.
"Lumos," he whispered.
A flicker of white. Then darkness again.
He repeated it.
"Lumos."
Another flicker, slightly stronger. He adjusted his grip.
The spell held.
Not long — just a few seconds. But longer than last time.
The light vanished again.
He didn't frown. Didn't sigh. Just turned the page.
He wasn't casting to show off. He was casting to refine.
⸻
Harry woke the next morning at 6:04 a.m.
No alarm. Just his own internal rhythm, honed through trial and practice. The room was silent except for the faintest gurgle of water from behind the glass windows.
He sat up slowly. The stone floor was cold when his feet touched it.
No one else stirred.
He dressed quickly, quietly. Uniform crisp. Wand pocketed.
By the time Blaise emerged from his curtain — smooth, wordless — Harry had already packed a scroll, two textbooks, and his wand holster.
"You're early," Blaise said, brushing a hand through his hair. "Studying before class?"
"Consistency pays off," Harry said simply. "Most people don't notice patterns until they're behind."
Blaise gave him a sideways glance. "You talk like someone who already knows the syllabus."
"I know what works."
That earned him a smirk — not approval exactly, but interest. Harry filed that away.
The two walked in silence through the common room. A few upper-years were leaving, robes pristine, eyes sharp. Harry watched how they moved. Confident. Controlled. The kind of people who noticed power the moment it entered a room.
He said nothing. But he watched everything.
The Great Hall smelled like toast and coffee. Platters hovered mid-air — sausages, eggs, buttered crumpets spinning gently on floating trays. First-years clumped together at the far end of the Slytherin table.
Harry and Blaise sat near the edge, slightly apart.
Blaise retrieved a black-bound notebook from his pocket, flipped it open, and began making quiet notations as he ate.
"What's that?" Harry asked.
"Theory log."
Harry sipped his tea. "You're already building models."
"You're already confirming them," Blaise replied.
Harry almost smiled.
Somewhere, a bell rang.
"First class?" Blaise asked.
Harry checked the parchment schedule.
"Potions."
Blaise sighed. "Joy."
⸻
The dungeons were cold — but not in the way that bothered Harry. It was a thinking cold. A quiet cold.
They walked down a stone corridor that sloped just slightly downward, as if Hogwarts wanted them to know they were leaving the world of warmth and entering something older.
The classroom was already set: long stone benches, worktables set in twos, shelves of bottled reagents sealed behind warded glass. The only light came from green-flamed torches.
Snape arrived without warning.
He moved like a knife — quick, quiet, and entirely unwelcome.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving here," he said, voice sharp as glass, "and no silly incantations."
He didn't pace. He floated.
Snape's gaze cut across the room like a scalpel.
"You are not here to be clever. You are here to be careful."
Then his eyes landed on Harry.
"Ah. Mr. Potter."
Whispers immediately flared — quickly cut short by a sharp glance from Snape.
"Our… celebrity."
Harry met his eyes. Neutral. No smile. No flinch.
Snape stepped forward. "Tell me, Potter. What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry didn't blink.
"A Draught of Living Death. If stirred too early, it destabilizes."
Snape stared.
"And where," he said coolly, "would you find a bezoar?"
"In the stomach of a goat," Harry said. "Though potency varies by diet and age."
Snape looked at him for a long moment.
Then turned.
"Sit."
The room exhaled.
Harry didn't.
He just followed instructions.
⸻
The brewing assignment was simple: a basic restorative potion. But simple didn't mean easy.
One overheat and it curdled. One mistimed stir and it turned caustic.
Harry read the instructions twice. Memorized the steps.
He and Blaise divided tasks cleanly — no wasted words, no interruptions.
Powder. Stir. Flame. Add.
At the last step, Blaise glanced sideways. "Now?"
Harry nodded.
The final root hit the surface.
Steam rose — thin, translucent, clean.
Snape passed behind them. Glanced once at their cauldron.
"Passable."
He didn't stop.
Harry didn't exhale until the next student's mixture erupted in a green, foamy mess.
⸻
They left class in silence.
Harry walked ahead, steps precise. Blaise matched him without needing to be asked.
In the corridor, Harry watched everyone.
Crabbe. Goyle. Parkinson. Greengrass. Daphne moved like someone who trusted her own silence. Parkinson watched everyone like they owed her something. Malfoy—
Malfoy was waiting.
He turned the corner with a practiced smirk and flanked by muscle.
"So. Potter," Draco said, tone just a shade too loud. "Is it true you didn't know you were a wizard until last month?"
Harry didn't blink.
"Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?"
Draco paused.
"You could have opened with a threat," Harry said. "Or a proposition. But instead, you asked for a story."
Draco frowned.
"Noted," Harry said.
And walked on.
Blaise said nothing — but the corner of his mouth twitched.
⸻
That night, the dormitory was silent. Curtains drawn. Lake water rippling dark beyond the glass.
Harry sat cross-legged on the bed.
Wand in hand.
"Lumos," he whispered.
The light flickered. Then held.
He ended it. Then cast it again.
Then again — this time with focus. Then deliberately without it. Then angled. Then slow.
Not because he wanted it to work every time.
But because every failure was worth something.
Not to others.
To the System.
He was learning that the reward wasn't success — it was refinement.
He didn't need teachers. He needed patterns.
By midnight, his arm ached and his head buzzed. He closed his eyes and felt the glow of the System pulsing at the edge of thought — quiet, measured, waiting.
The game hadn't just started.
It had been running all along.
He'd just found the interface.