Chapter 10 – Min-Maxing a Monday
"To most, it's just the first day. To Harry, it's the first test."
The soft green light filtering through the underwater dorm window told Harry it was still early — not that he needed the help.
He was already up, dressed, and running the day's path through his head before the first stir of motion came from Theo's bed. First day. Full academic schedule. Four classes, one break, endless observation.
For the rest of the school, it would be chaos.
For him?
Optimization.
He moved with quiet precision, packing deliberately: Charms I, Transfiguration Fundamentals, Basic Hexes & Their Countermeasures, a scroll pre-treated with a quick-notes charm, a backup quill, and his wand holster. Nothing more. Nothing less.
He emerged into the common room without a sound and made his way to the Great Hall, where the morning air still smelled of roasted tomatoes and cinnamon toast.
Breakfast was a low hum — students half-asleep, trying to pretend they weren't already behind. Harry slid into a seat at the Slytherin table, two spots down from Blaise.
"You're up early," Blaise muttered without looking up from his notes.
"You're here too."
"Monitoring the competition."
"Same."
They exchanged no further words.
Charms was first.
The classroom was smaller than expected. Cozier. Polished wood floors, floating chandeliers that gave off a blue-tinged light, and walls lined with levitating examples of past projects — dancing parchment dragons, quills writing in mid-air, and a suspended broom that occasionally twitched like it wanted to fly again.
Professor Flitwick stood on a stack of three enchanted books, robes trailing like a banner behind him. He beamed as they entered, voice high and cheerful, and utterly unbothered by the noise of a dozen confused first-years.
"Welcome, welcome! Today, we begin with one of the most versatile and beloved charms in the wizarding world — the Levitation Charm!"
Students chuckled as he demonstrated with a flourish — "Wingardium Leviosa!" — sending a feather into a graceful spin above his head.
But Harry didn't laugh. He studied.
Flitwick's wrist angle. The timing between syllables. The tiny, nearly imperceptible pause before the "-osa" that seemed to trigger the actual float. Everyone saw magic. Harry saw a formula.
"Your turn!" Flitwick clapped.
Pairs formed. Hermione had already positioned herself near the front with a Ravenclaw. Ron muttered something under his breath about "swishy nonsense." Draco made a show of practicing his wand movement in exaggerated, lazy arcs.
Harry didn't partner. He stood slightly apart and raised his wand.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The feather didn't move.
Good.
He tried again. Focus narrowed.
Third attempt: a twitch. The feather lifted half an inch, spun, and dropped.
Fourth: no lift.
Fifth: rotation only.
Sixth: Up, two seconds, then down.
Perfect.
He wasn't chasing success. He was mapping the response curve.
Flitwick wandered by, offered a cheerful "Excellent progress, Mr. Potter!" and moved on.
Harry didn't respond. He was already trying again.
He left Charms class with no fanfare. No compliments.
But inside, he knew — his spell sync was already 12% ahead of the curve.
Transfiguration came next.
This was different.
McGonagall's classroom was an altar. The kind that didn't welcome mistakes. No posters. No floating mascots. Just rows of desks, clean blackboards, and air tight enough to choke on.
McGonagall entered like she owned the building — and perhaps she did.
Robes pressed. Gaze sharp. Voice crisp.
"Transfiguration is the most dangerous magic you will be taught at Hogwarts."
Not a warning.
A contract.
By the end of her first sentence, half the class sat straighter.
The demonstration came fast — a matchstick to a silver needle, done in one motion without flourish.
"No incantation yet," she said, handing each student a wooden match. "Today, you will attempt. Most of you will fail. That is not an excuse."
She called students up one at a time. Some tried to flick. Some tried to whisper. A few waved too dramatically. Most failed with shaky smiles.
Hermione managed to change the color. Draco turned his match to stone.
Harry waited.
He watched every student — every wand twitch, every grimace, every failure. He didn't cast once.
McGonagall frowned slightly when he was the last one.
"Mr. Potter."
He stepped forward. Match in hand. Wand steady.
He said nothing. No gestures. Just a single, clean arc and a low whisper — only just audible.
His match flashed silver. The end sharpened. Not a full needle — not yet — but no longer wood.
McGonagall paused.
"A delayed attempt," she said.
Harry met her gaze.
"A measured one," he replied.
She let the silence linger.
Then: "See me after class."
There were no murmurs. No eyes met his.
He returned to his seat, expression blank.
At the end of the period, the others filed out.
McGonagall stood still. Hands folded.
"You learn quickly."
Harry didn't speak.
"You do not rush."
He stayed silent.
"That will either save your life," she said finally, "or limit it."
Then she turned away.
Dismissed.
No praise. No scolding. Just observation.
But Harry knew what that meant.
She wasn't watching for mistakes.
She was watching for calculation.
The rest of the day passed in fragments.
Defense class was chaos — Lockhart's absurd smiles, stories of "dark creatures" he'd "barely survived," a pop quiz on himself. Harry didn't engage. He watched.
He noted who laughed. Who took notes. Who asked questions. He memorized seating positions and reaction times.
History of Magic was worse — a ghost droning in monotone, floating through dates while students drifted toward sleep.
Harry wrote nothing.
Instead, he timed the lecture's rhythm, tested small gestures beneath his desk to minimize wand movement, and counted every blink of his peers. Most lasted barely fifteen minutes before glazing over.
He lasted the entire hour.
That evening, in the dorm, Blaise dropped into the armchair beside him.
"No heroics today," Blaise said.
Harry didn't look up. "That's for stories."
"Draco tried to get a second go in Transfiguration."
"He did."
"McGonagall stared at him until he stopped talking."
"She did."
Blaise chuckled under his breath. "You're not a day trader."
Harry looked over, curious.
"You don't chase spikes. You invest."
Harry considered that. Then: "Most of them are overleveled but underbuilt."
Now Blaise was properly amused. "You plan this far ahead for every class?"
Harry closed his book.
"I plan further."
That night, as the others drifted to sleep, Harry reviewed the day.
Charms: High sync potential. Visual mimicry = fast XP. Pair with Light and Float for a stable trio.
Transfiguration: Low early gain, but high ceiling. Practice quietly — don't reveal progress.
Defense: Worthless. Lockhart = noise. Use class for stealth spell iteration.
History: Observation class. Memorization isn't needed when retention methods are visual.
No classes tomorrow that required strength. Good. He could rotate in minor wandwork.
He wasn't ahead in grades. That didn't matter.
Because while others chased spells and points and praise…
He was tracking metrics they didn't even know existed.
He hadn't cast the most spells.
He hadn't answered the most questions.
But he'd gained more than any of them.