Waiting was how problems matured.
The castle slept—or pretended to. Hogwarts never truly slept. Its stones breathed softly, ancient wards humming beneath torchlight, staircases shifting like joints easing into unfamiliar positions. The school was old enough to remember wars, and wise enough to hide its scars.
Harry moved through it like a thought given form.
He had chosen the hour deliberately. Past curfew. After the prefect rounds. Before exhaustion dulled awareness. His wand stayed hidden, his footsteps silent, his breathing shallow and controlled.
This was reconnaissance.
He slipped through a narrow passage behind a tapestry depicting a wizard losing a duel he clearly should have won. Harry paused there, listening.
No footsteps.
Good.
He marked the location mentally. That tapestry hid a passage that bypassed two major corridors and exited near a stairwell that professors favored. Useful.
Phase Two had begun the moment he stepped into Slytherin.
Phase One had been survival and placement.
Phase Two was preparation.
He reached the small unused classroom he'd selected earlier—a forgotten space with cracked windows and a single long table scarred by decades of neglect. The door creaked slightly as he opened it.
Harry winced internally and adjusted the hinges with a careful touch of magic. The sound faded.
Good. Learn. Adapt.
He set his bag down and exhaled slowly.
He wasn't alone for long.
A soft knock came at the door. Not loud. Not hesitant.
Harry opened it.
Ron Weasley stood there, hair slightly damp from nerves, eyes darting.
"You said," Ron whispered, "if I wanted answers… I should come."
Harry nodded. "You're early."
Ron swallowed. "I didn't want to be late."
That, Harry thought, mattered.
Moments later, another knock—brisk, controlled.
Hermione Granger stepped in, arms crossed, expression alert.
"This is highly against the rules," she said immediately.
Harry gestured to the room. "So is surviving a war."
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again.
She stepped inside.
Harry shut the door and warded it lightly—not a full seal, just enough to alert him to intrusion.
Ron stared. "You can do that already?"
Harry met his gaze. "I can do enough."
They stood there awkwardly for a moment, three first-years in an empty classroom past midnight.
Harry broke the silence.
"You both know something is wrong," he said calmly. "You've felt it. The school pretends everything is safe. It isn't."
Hermione frowned. "That's a serious accusation."
"It's an observation," Harry replied. "One backed by evidence."
Ron shifted his weight. "What kind of evidence?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. He watched them—how Ron leaned forward despite fear, how Hermione's eyes sharpened instead of widening.
Good.
"Year One," Harry said. "There is a hostile presence in this school. It's active. It's hiding behind a teacher. And it's after something valuable."
Hermione stiffened. "That's—how could you possibly know that?"
Harry's voice stayed level. "Because it reacts when I'm near it."
Ron's face went pale. "Your scar."
"Yes."
Hermione shook her head. "That's not proof."
"No," Harry agreed. "It's early warning."
He stepped closer to the table and rested his hands on it.
"I don't need you to believe me," he continued. "I need you to decide if you want to be ready."
Ron didn't hesitate. "Ready for what?"
Harry looked at him. "For things going wrong."
Ron nodded once. "Alright."
Hermione hesitated longer. Then she asked the right question.
"What do you want us to do?"
Harry exhaled quietly.
"I want to train you," he said.
Ron blinked. "Train?"
"Yes."
Hermione stared. "In what? Dueling?"
Harry shook his head. "Survival."
Silence filled the room.
Hermione recovered first. "This is ridiculous. We're eleven."
Harry's gaze didn't soften. "So were soldiers in other wars. So were messengers. So were victims."
Ron swallowed.
Harry continued, tone steady. "I'm not asking you to fight dark wizards. I'm asking you to learn awareness. Movement. Decision-making. How to leave a situation before it kills you."
Hermione's fingers curled slightly.
"And if you're wrong?" she asked.
Harry met her eyes. "Then you'll be better prepared students. Nothing lost."
Ron looked between them. "I'm in."
Hermione inhaled sharply. "Ron—"
"I'm in," Ron repeated. "Because Harry doesn't talk like he's guessing."
Hermione closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them, there was resolve there.
"Fine," she said. "But if we do this, we do it properly. With structure. And notes."
Harry allowed himself a small internal nod.
Team assembled.
The first lesson was simple.
"Stand," Harry said.
They did.
"Close your eyes."
Ron hesitated. Hermione complied instantly.
Harry waited until both sets of eyelids were shut.
"Listen," he said. "Not with magic. With your body."
He moved.
Soft steps. Shifting weight. A chair sliding an inch.
Ron flinched.
Hermione frowned.
"Tell me where I am," Harry said.
Ron pointed left. Wrong.
Hermione pointed right. Also wrong.
Harry stopped behind them.
"Again," he said.
They repeated the exercise. Again. And again.
Ron improved through instinct. Hermione through analysis.
Harry adjusted their posture, corrected breathing, taught them how tension betrayed position.
This was not Hogwarts curriculum.
This was battlefield literacy.
After an hour, Ron collapsed into a chair. "I feel like my brain's melting."
Hermione wiped her brow. "This is… surprisingly effective."
Harry nodded. "Awareness saves lives."
He was about to dismiss them when his scar pulsed—sharp, sudden.
He froze.
Ron noticed immediately. "Harry?"
Harry raised a hand. "Quiet."
The air changed.
Pressure crept into the room like a fog you couldn't see but felt in your lungs.
Harry turned slowly toward the door.
Someone was close.
Too close.
He moved instantly—wand out, body positioned between the door and the others.
A shadow passed beneath the crack.
Then a voice, trembling.
"P-Professor Snape?" Quirrell stammered outside. "I—I thought I heard—"
Harry's pulse stayed steady.
Quirrell was lying.
Harry gestured silently to Ron and Hermione—don't move.
He opened the door halfway.
Quirrell stood there, face pale, turban askew, eyes darting.
"Oh!" Quirrell said. "H-Harry Potter. I—I was just—"
"Lost," Harry finished.
Quirrell laughed nervously. "Y-Yes. Lost."
Harry studied him closely. The man's heartbeat was visible in his throat. His hands trembled—but not from fear alone.
Something else moved behind his eyes.
"You shouldn't be wandering," Harry said evenly. "It's late."
Quirrell nodded rapidly. "Q-Quite right. I-I'll be going."
He turned too quickly.
Harry felt it then—the cold spike at his scar, sharper than before. Rage. Hunger. Recognition.
The thing behind Quirrell had noticed him.
Harry stepped forward, just enough to block the corridor.
Quirrell froze.
"You're sweating," Harry observed calmly.
Quirrell swallowed. "I—I always do."
Harry tilted his head slightly. "You should see Madam Pomfrey."
For a moment, the air thickened dangerously.
Then Quirrell laughed—a brittle sound—and sidestepped Harry, hurrying away down the corridor.
Harry watched until he vanished around the corner.
Only then did he close the door.
Ron's voice shook. "What—what was that?"
Harry didn't answer immediately.
He looked at Hermione.
Her face was pale. "He was afraid of you."
Harry nodded. "Good."
Ron stared. "Good?!"
"Yes," Harry said quietly. "Because fear makes people careless."
Hermione hugged her arms. "Harry… that wasn't supposed to happen this early, was it?"
Harry met her gaze.
"No," he said. "It wasn't."
The timeline had shifted.
Quirrell was probing already. The enemy had sensed resistance.
That meant things would escalate.
Soon.
Harry straightened. "We're ending tonight's session."
Ron looked relieved. Hermione looked conflicted.
As they slipped back toward their dormitories separately, Harry remained behind for a moment, alone in the classroom.
He let the tension drain from his shoulders.
This was the danger of interference.
When you struck early, you drew attention early.
But the alternative was worse.
Harry stared at his wand, the wood warm in his grip.
In the original timeline, the troll would attack in a few weeks.
In this timeline—
Harry's scar pulsed again, faint but unmistakable.
In this timeline, the enemy was already moving.
He whispered to the empty room, voice low and resolute.
"Alright," he said. "Then we'll move faster."
Phase Two was no longer preparation.
It was engagement.
And Harry Potter—soldier reborn, wizard rearmed—had no intention of letting the castle bleed for the sake of tradition.