The third morning did not feel new.
That was the first sign progress had begun.
Novelty had faded into structure. The castle no longer pressed against him with constant surprise. It had entered the stage where patterns emerged faster than impressions. He preferred this stage. Wonder fed hunger, but structure fed control.
He woke before the others again.
The dormitory was quiet except for breathing. Pale light crept through the window. He sat on the edge of the bed and ran the daily calibration.
Memory check.
He replayed yesterday in accelerated sequence. No gaps. No blur. Emotional spikes remained tagged but contained. Information stacked cleanly.
The Interface was not fading.
Good.
He added a second test.
He recalled the entire History of Magic lecture and reorganized it by theme instead of timeline. Wars grouped by motive. Laws grouped by effect. Political shifts grouped by beneficiaries.
The memory obeyed.
He did not just store information.
He could restructure it instantly.
Compression confirmed.
That changed his strategy.
He would no longer study by subject.
He would study by power.
Every lesson would be translated into one question:
How does this increase leverage?
He dressed and joined the corridor flow.
Students were louder today. Comfort had replaced awe. Habits formed quickly in young populations. Social gravity pulled groups into fixed clusters. New alliances hardened into routine seating at breakfast. He watched it settle like sediment in water.
Stability meant predictability.
Predictability meant opportunity.
At the Slytherin table, conversation circled around grades and reputation. A boy two seats down bragged about a family connection to the Ministry. Others listened with polite envy. No one challenged him. Social claims went uncontested when verification cost effort.
Information asymmetry.
He stored the name.
Not because the boy mattered.
Because the behavior did.
Status in this world ran on narrative as much as fact. Control the narrative, and you controlled perception. Control perception, and doors opened before you knocked.
He ate slowly and said little.
Silence encouraged others to fill space. People revealed more when they felt unobserved.
Across the hall, Hermione was already reading again. Different book. Same posture. Potter argued loudly about Quidditch. Attention still followed him automatically. The ecosystem was stabilizing into roles.
Good.
Roles could be exploited.
The first class was Charms.
The classroom hummed with low magic. Small objects floated above desks in uneven lines. Students strained to maintain control. The professor moved between them with patient corrections.
He lifted his wand.
The wood felt natural in his grip. Draco's body remembered angles and pressure. He followed the instruction exactly once. No flourish. No experimentation.
The feather rose.
Not wobbling.
Not straining.
It hovered at a clean, steady height.
He held it there and studied the sensation.
Magic was not force.
It was alignment.
A channel opened between intention and effect. The wand focused it. The words stabilized it. But the real variable was mental clarity. Hesitation created turbulence. Doubt bent the current.
The Interface smoothed both.
His mind did not split between action and fear of failure. There was only instruction and execution. The result felt… efficient.
The professor paused beside his desk.
A brief glance. A nod.
Recognition again.
Not praise.
Classification.
Reliable.
That label mattered more than applause. Reliable students were trusted with advanced work. Trusted students received access.
Access was leverage.
He lowered the feather and ended the spell deliberately. Students around him cheered when their own attempts succeeded. He did not join them. He replayed the sensation internally, isolating variables.
Wand angle.
Breath timing.
Mental image.
He repeated the spell silently without moving. The memory held the structure. He could feel where inefficiency would appear before it did.
He had not just performed magic.
He had mapped a portion of it.
The realization sent a quiet thrill through him.
This world had rules.
He could see them.
Lunch was louder than usual. Word spread quickly in closed systems. A few students glanced at him with new curiosity. Nothing dramatic. Just recalibration. Performance adjusted reputation faster than friendship.
He accepted the shift without feeding it.
Attention was useful.
Dependence on attention was weakness.
He spoke when spoken to. Calm. Controlled. Draco's old arrogance softened into measured confidence. The change did not alarm anyone. They read it as maturity after trauma.
People preferred growth narratives.
They required less thinking.
Afternoon lessons passed in steady accumulation. Transfiguration demanded precision. Herbology demanded patience. Each subject reinforced the same principle: magic rewarded discipline more than brilliance.
He felt relief at that.
Discipline scaled.
Talent plateaued.
By evening, a new variable entered the map.
The library.
He stepped inside and stopped.
The smell hit first. Ink. dust. leather. Paper layered with time. Shelves rose higher than any modern building would permit. Knowledge condensed into physical mass.
His chest tightened again.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
This was a weapon vault.
Students whispered between tables. Pages turned in careful rhythm. The librarian watched with hawk precision. Access was allowed, but misuse was punished.
Control through guardianship.
He walked the aisles slowly.
Titles slid past his vision. Advanced charms. potion theory. magical law. forgotten rituals. He did not pull anything yet. Selection required strategy. Reading randomly was indulgence. He needed sequence.
Foundation first.
He chose three books.
Basic magical theory.
Historical spell development.
Cognitive focus in wand work.
He sat and opened the first page.
The text aligned with his earlier observations. Magic responded to mental structure. Training the mind was as important as training the hand. Most students separated the two. The book did not.
Good.
He read for two hours without fatigue. The Interface absorbed every line. He reorganized the information in real time, linking it to classroom experience. Theory merged with practice before memory cooled.
He closed the final book slowly.
The library was not a room.
It was a multiplier.
With it, years could collapse into months.
He stood and returned the books with care. The librarian tracked the motion. Approval registered in her eyes. Respect for tools translated across professions.
Another small door opened.
When he stepped back into the corridor, the castle felt different.
Not larger.
More navigable.
He was no longer wandering inside it.
He was charting it.
The hunger inside him steadied into confidence.
This system could be climbed.
Not by accident.
Not by luck.
By method.
He returned to the dormitory and lay back without sleep. The day replayed once more, compressing into clean sequence. Gains measured. Weak points noted. Tomorrow adjusted accordingly.
The process had begun.
Not survival.
Not adaptation.
Construction.
He was building a version of himself this world had not planned for.
And the castle, ancient and watchful, did not yet understand what it was growing.