The rest of the day passed in a blur of ink, chalk dust, and the quiet hum of magical theory.
Harry had started the morning with Arithmancy, sharing a desk with Terry Boot in a room that smelled faintly of old parchment and lavender ink. Professor Vector scribbled a sequence of magical equations across the blackboard, her quill tapping with rhythm as she explained how magical intent altered the flow of numerical enchantments.
Harry listened with half his mind, the other half working through the exercise faster than he let on. The moment Vector turned her back, Terry leaned over.
"Still don't know how you manage to get it right without triple-checking," he whispered.
Harry just smiled faintly. "Maybe the numbers like me."
After Arithmancy came Transfiguration with the Hufflepuffs. Professor McGonagall was in fine form today—stern, sharp, and utterly relentless. The lesson focused on animate-to-inanimate transfiguration, and Harry turned a chirping bluebird into a pristine porcelain figurine with only a brief flicker of resistance.
Ernie Macmillan gawked at him from the next desk.
"Honestly, Potter, you make the rest of us look like squibs."
Harry chuckled. "Give it a few more lessons, Ernie. Or use a less stubborn bird."
Care of Magical Creatures was next, paired with the Slytherins. Hagrid had brought out baby Graphorns—grumpy, golden-horned beasts with hide thicker than steel and tempers worse than dragons. Harry held back, observing. Draco Malfoy tried to show off, only to be knocked flat by a sneeze. Harry helped him up, offering no mockery, and Draco eyed him with unease.
By the time Ancient Runes rolled around, Harry was feeling the mental drag. The classroom was dimly lit, the only sounds were the scratch of quills and Professor Babbling's soft commentary as she passed between desks. The lesson focused on binding runes, and Harry found himself absorbed in deciphering a Norse-based array meant to trap kinetic force.
The Slytherins whispered among themselves when they thought no one was listening, but Harry noted—with some private satisfaction—that his rune circle was the first to glow.
When the final bell rang, it was already ten minutes to three, and Harry barely took the time to pack his bag before making his way to the library. The scent of old books wrapped around him like a familiar cloak, and he let himself settle into the comforting silence.
He spotted Hermione first—quill moving at light speed, her brow furrowed over an Ancient Runes translation. Ron was beside her, mostly copying, occasionally scribbling something that looked suspiciously incorrect. Susan Bones waved him over from a nearby table. She was flanked by Ernie Macmillan and a third-year Ravenclaw Harry had dueled with once.
"Homework patrol or social hour?" Harry asked, pulling out a chair with a rare smile.
"A bit of both," Susan grinned. "We're trying to survive Professor Vector's latest torment."
"Speak for yourself," Ernie muttered. "I think I accidentally summoned a number demon. This thing makes no sense."
Harry leaned over, scanned the parchment, and made a few neat corrections. "There. You were trying to reverse the modulus value instead of converting the base function."
Ernie blinked. "You speak snake and numbers now?"
"I've had practice," Harry said dryly. For a little while, things were normal. Jokes were made. Homework was argued over.
Hermione glanced up, bright-eyed. "Did you finish the Runes translation? The one about the elemental lock circle?"
Harry nodded and pulled out his parchment. "Tried adding a compression glyph to the outer ring. It made the locking field more stable."
Hermione blinked, clearly impressed. "That's... actually brilliant."
"Stop making the rest of us look bad, mate," Ron said, grinning and tossing a crumpled bit of parchment at him. Harry caught it mid-air without looking.
"Maybe if you actually read the textbook instead of trying to use it as a pillow," Harry shot back, smirking.
A few of their friends from other houses drifted in—Anthony Goldstein, Hannah Abbott, and even a quiet third-year from Slytherin, who gave Harry a nervous nod before settling nearby. They spent the next hour trading tips, solving charms equations, and passing around sugar quills.
At some point, laughter filled the library's corner as Harry cast a small illusion to make Ron's inkwell burp every time he tried to dip his quill. Ron also joins in by subtly vanishing every other line of Anthony's notes when he wasn't looking.
By the time Madam Pince stalked over with narrowed eyes and a warning glare, they were all breathless from laughing too hard.
As the laughter slowly died down, Harry glanced at the clock above the entrance. His expression shifted — not sharply, but enough for Ron to notice. That quiet withdrawal that had become more and more familiar.
"I've got to head out," Harry said, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "Need to squeeze in some practice."
"Practice?" Ron asked, one eyebrow raised.
Harry shrugged. "Just keeping sharp."
Hermione looked up, concerned. "Don't overdo it."
"I won't." His smile was brief, but genuine. "See you lot later."
He slipped out of the library with the kind of silent grace that Ron had never seen in him before third year. Like the Harry he used to know had been folded into someone older, sharper, and more distant.
[Ron POV]
Ron watched the doors flap shut behind Harry, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Always off somewhere," he muttered under his breath.
Hermione glanced up from her notes. "He's just... focused. Driven."
Ron gave a noncommittal grunt and scratched behind his ear with his quill. "Yeah. I know."
He did know. Harry had changed. Not in a bad way, not really — but the bloke who used to sneak toast from breakfast and spend hours playing wizard chess with him now spent his evenings buried in obscure spellbooks or training in secret rooms that he didn't know about.
And Ron was trying, too. He really was. He'd stopped sleeping through History of Magic (mostly), was keeping pace in Charms, and had actually scored higher than Hermione on a Herbology quiz once — though she insisted it was a fluke. But it still felt like Harry was climbing some staircase he couldn't quite see.
Hermione nudged him gently with her elbow. "You alright?"
He looked at her, surprised by the softness in her voice.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
She offered him a half-smile. "That's dangerous."
He rolled his eyes. "Ha, ha."
They fell into a quiet rhythm, working side by side. His quill scratched in uneven strokes; hers moved with brisk confidence. And yet… it felt natural. Companionable. Different from before.
There was a time not long ago when they could barely go ten minutes without arguing over cauldron thickness or proper essay formatting. But these days, she'd pause to help him without condescension, and he'd catch himself actually listening instead of pretending to.
She passed him a sugar quill she'd smuggled past Madam Pince. Their fingers brushed.
Ron didn't flinch. But he didn't quite breathe either.
Their eyes met for a moment too long — not awkward, not tense — just aware.
He glanced back down at his parchment and cleared his throat. "You reckon we'll ever catch up to Harry?"
Hermione was quiet for a second before answering. "Maybe not. But that doesn't mean we can't walk beside him."
Ron blinked, startled by the answer — not because it was flowery, but because it made something tight in his chest loosen.
He smiled, faintly. "Yeah. I guess that's good enough."
She didn't say anything. But her hand stayed a little closer to his on the table.
[MC POV]
The castle had quieted, dimming with the soft hush of late evening. Harry didn't go to the dormitory or to dinner. He walked the halls with purpose, hood up, eyes thoughtful. No one asked where he was going—not anymore.
The Room of Requirement appeared for him in silence, its door rippling into view like a secret only the castle was allowed to whisper. When he stepped inside, it had become exactly what he needed: a chamber of war and wisdom.
Half of it resembled a dueling ground—flickering runes on the floor, hardened surfaces, animated training dummies. The other half was a study bathed in low candlelight. Heavy books floated between open shelves, parchment maps, and arcane diagrams curled on a transfigured stone desk.
Harry dropped his satchel and pulled out two books.
The first had no official Ministry record. It was bound in emerald-scaled hide, the title written in faded silver ink:
On Basilisks: Origins, Bonding, and Magical Utility
by Salazar Slytherin.
The second was far more personal.
Transfiguration as Art and Weapon: Private Notes
by A. Dumbledore
Harry turned first to the basilisk tome, flipping through thick, stiff parchment pages until he found the one he'd marked last night.
✧ Excerpt from Chapter III – Herpo the Foul and the Original Basilisk
"The Basilisk, the serpent-king of death, was first created by Herpo the Foul through a dark synthesis of magical biology and necromantic enchantment. The core rite involved an egg laid by a serpent and hatched beneath a toad, combined with ancient blood magic, alchemical enhancements, and controlled intent."
"Unlike most magical beasts, the Basilisk is a constructed creature—designed, not born. Its killing gaze is not inherent but magically reinforced through a cursed optic enchantment triggered by focused magical will. Without it, the Basilisk's eyes are no more deadly than a hippogriff's."
"They are born with a nictitating membrane—a secondary eyelid—translucent and magically dense. This veil suppresses the killing gaze by default, allowing the Basilisk to see without killing. Only when commanded, either by a Parselmouth or conditioned instinct, does the veil retract, enabling direct-eye lethal contact."
Harry's eyes lingered on the anatomical sketches. The diagram showed the eyelid in its dormant and activated states. There was even a note—possibly added by Salazar himself—that described how he had refined the breed to allow intelligent restraint, reducing accidental deaths.
He turned the page again.
"Basilisks, if conditioned from hatching by a Parselmouth bonded through a Rite of Linking, may be directed with nuance and taught restraint. Advanced versions of this bonding include the addition of territorial warding, sigil-based responses, and transplanar tethering for concealment."
Harry traced the ink with his fingertip.
A Basilisk did not have to be a mindless killer. It could be a guardian. A partner.
And now… he knew how to make one.
He closed the tome with care and turned to the second.
Transfiguration as Art and Weapon was less organized but more dangerous. This was not the theory-heavy textbook Hogwarts used. It was the real record of Dumbledore's warcraft—notes made during Grindelwald's rise and the first Voldemort war.
The chapter Harry opened now was scrawled with ink blots and margin notes in Latin and Old English.
"Field Transfiguration is not spellwork—it is improvisational sculpture with volatile material. You must control not only the object, but the context."
"Combat transfiguration should be subconscious. Think of your wand as a conductor's baton. Materials around you are your orchestra. Stone, fire, bone, cloth, water—they respond to rhythm. Visualize the outcome, feel the resistance, and force magic to comply."
Harry's own notes had begun crowding the bottom of the pages. Variations of the shield-shard trick. Turning water vapor into obscuring mist barriers. Reforming exploded debris into bludgeoning constructs. Combining battlefield transfiguration with elemental magic—lightning arcs across liquid metal traps.
Tonight, he would practice that.
But first…
He looked back at the Basilisk book, already memorizing the early steps.
Creation.
His own Basilisk would be Loyal. Intelligent. Bound by understanding, not domination.
A creature not of Herpo's legacy…
…but of his own.