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The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had undergone a transformation since Professor Quirrell's departure. Where once the room had featured practical displays of defensive artifacts and dark creature specimens, the walls now bore framed portraits of Gilderoy Lockhart—smiling, winking, and occasionally flashing his award-winning teeth at the students filing into the classroom.
Harry took a seat beside Sebastian, with Daphne and Anna settling into the desk behind them. The Slytherin and Gryffindor second-years shared this class, creating the usual invisible boundary down the center of the room—green-trimmed robes to the left, red to the right, with few exceptions.
Near the front of the Gryffindor section, Draco Malfoy had positioned himself strategically to flick small balls of parchment at Ronald Weasley's head. Each time Ron turned around, face reddening to match his hair, Draco and his cronies affected expressions of perfect innocence.
"Honestly," Daphne murmured from behind Harry, "could he be any more obvious? If you're going to torment someone, at least show some subtlety."
"That would require intelligence," Sebastian replied under his breath, "which Malfoy outsources to Crabbe and Goyle, with predictably poor returns on investment."
Harry snorted just as Hermione Granger approached their desk, her arms laden with Lockhart's complete bibliography. She had managed to secure a spot in the front row, but apparently couldn't resist checking in with Harry before class began.
"Excited for Professor Lockhart's first lesson?" she asked brightly, her eyes darting occasionally to the classroom door in anticipation. "I've prepared a list of follow-up questions based on scenarios from his books. Did you know he's developed his own classification system for dark creatures? It's not Ministry-approved yet, but it's quite comprehensive."
Harry exchanged a brief look with Sebastian before answering. "It'll be a miracle if the man is actually legit, Hermione."
Her smile faltered. "What do you mean? His accomplishments are well-documented."
"Do you remember what I told you on the Hogwarts Express last year?" Harry asked patiently. "When you mentioned those adventure books about me?"
Hermione's cheeks colored slightly. "That's completely different. Those were clearly children's fiction. Lockhart's books are academic texts!"
"Academic texts where he's the dashing hero of every story," Harry pointed out. "Remember how shocked you were when I told you I hadn't slain a dragon at age four? How I explained I didn't even know magic existed until I was eight? Just because something is written in a book—"
"—doesn't automatically make it true," Hermione finished reluctantly. "But still, these are published by Obscurus Books! They have editorial standards."
"We'll see," Harry replied, neither agreeing nor arguing further. Experience had taught him that Hermione needed to discover things for herself to truly accept them.
Before Hermione could respond, the classroom door burst open dramatically. Gilderoy Lockhart strode in, resplendent in robes of forget-me-not blue that matched his eyes perfectly. His golden hair was arranged in artful waves, and his smile seemed impossibly white against his artificially tanned skin.
"Allow me to introduce you," he announced grandly, gesturing to a portrait of himself that winked roguishly, "to your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher... me! Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award."
He paused, clearly expecting applause. When only a smattering of appreciation came (mostly from the female students), Lockhart continued undeterred.
"But I don't talk about those achievements too often. After all, I didn't defeat the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"
He laughed heartily at his own joke. Harry caught Sebastian mimicking a gagging motion beside him.
"Now!" Lockhart clapped his hands together. "I thought we'd start with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about—just to check how well you've read my books, how much you've taken in."
He began distributing parchments around the classroom. Harry glanced down at his copy as it landed on his desk.
What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color? When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday? What would be Gilderoy Lockhart's ideal gift?
The questions continued in this vein for three full pages. Harry stared incredulously at the parchment, then at Lockhart, who had returned to the front of the class with an expectant smile.
"You have thirty minutes. Start—now!"
The scratching of quills filled the room as students began writing. Behind Harry, Daphne made a noise of utter disdain.
"Why exactly," she whispered, loud enough for nearby students to hear, "is Lockhart's favorite flavor of tea relevant to defending ourselves against the Dark Arts? Will the knowledge of his secret ambition to market his own range of hair-care potions somehow protect us from a rogue curse?"
Harry bit back a laugh and bent over his quiz, deciding that if Lockhart wanted answers, he'd provide them—just not the ones expected.
For "What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?" Harry wrote: "Whatever color is currently fashionable among people whose opinion he's trying to buy."
For "What would be Gilderoy Lockhart's ideal gift?" he answered: "A mirror enchanted to tell him he's the greatest wizard who ever lived, thus saving the rest of us from having to listen to him say it."
By the time Harry reached question twenty-three ("Which of Gilderoy Lockhart's achievements does he consider most impressive?"), he was thoroughly enjoying himself. His answer: "Successfully convincing Dumbledore to hire him despite having no apparent qualifications beyond a winning smile and hair that defies both gravity and good taste."
When the time was up, Lockhart collected the papers, rifling through them with occasional tutting sounds and head shakes.
"Tsk, tsk... hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I clearly state it in Year with the Yeti. And Miss Brown, while I appreciate your enthusiasm, my birthday is not 'every day we're blessed with your presence'—though that's very sweet." He winked at Lavender, who giggled uncontrollably.
As Lockhart continued reviewing the quizzes, his expression suddenly darkened. "Who," he demanded, holding up a parchment, "is responsible for these answers?"
The classroom fell silent. Harry maintained a perfectly neutral expression.
"These are... well, they're simply unacceptable." Lockhart scanned the room, his eyes eventually landing on Harry. "Mr. Potter. I should have known."
"Is there a problem, Professor?" Harry asked innocently. "I simply provided my honest interpretation of the material."
"Your 'honest interpretation'?" Lockhart's voice rose an octave. "You wrote that my secret ambition is—" he glanced down at the parchment, looking scandalized, "—'to convince the wizarding world that hair products are a substitute for magical talent'!"
Sebastian choked on a barely suppressed laugh. Even some of the Gryffindors were struggling to maintain straight faces.
"Apologies, Professor," Harry replied, not sounding remotely apologetic. "I assumed this quiz was testing our critical analysis skills, not our ability to memorize trivial personal details unrelated to defensive magic."
Lockhart's face reddened slightly, but his professional smile quickly reasserted itself. "Always the comedian, eh, Potter? I appreciate a good sense of humor—in fact, I once used a particularly clever joke to distract a pack of Norwegian Ridge-Backed Wyverns while trapped in an ice cave." He cleared his throat. "But let's move on to some practical defense, shall we?"
He strode to his desk where a large covered cage sat rattling ominously. The class straightened in their seats, finally interested.
"Now—be warned!" Lockhart announced, placing one hand dramatically on the cage cover. "It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. But know that no harm can befall you whilst I am here."
The cage shook violently. Several students leaned forward in anticipation.
"I must ask you not to scream," Lockhart said in a low voice. "It might provoke them!" He whipped off the cover with a flourish. "Yes! Freshly caught Cornish pixies!"
Seamus Finnigan couldn't control himself. He let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn't mistake for a scream of terror.
"Yes?" Lockhart smiled at Seamus.
"Well, they're not—they're not very dangerous, are they?" Seamus choked.
"Don't be so sure!" Lockhart waggled a finger annoyingly at Seamus. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be! I've encountered them numerous times in my travels. Their intelligence is vastly underestimated by most magizoologists."
Harry narrowed his eyes, recalling what Newt had taught him about pixies during their time in France. While mischievous, Cornish pixies were primarily considered pests, not dangerous magical creatures warranting study in a Defense class.
"Right then," Lockhart declared loudly. "Let's see what you make of them!" And he opened the cage.
It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several went straight for the windows, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, upended the waste basket, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed windows.
Within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks while Neville swung from the iron chandelier.
"Come on now, round them up, round them up, they're only pixies!" Lockhart shouted. He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"
This had absolutely no effect. One of the pixies seized Lockhart's wand and threw it out the window too. Lockhart gulped visibly and dived under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being hit by Neville, who fell a second later as the chandelier gave way.
"Well, I'll ask you four to just nip the rest of them back into their cage." He swept past them and shut the door quickly behind him.
"Can you believe him?" roared Sebastian, as one of the remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear.
"He's just giving us some hands-on experience," Hermione insisted, though she looked considerably less certain than before.
"Hands-on?" Daphne repeated incredulously, swatting away a pixie pulling at her immaculate braid. "Granger, the man has no idea what he's doing. That wasn't a spell he cast—it was nonsense syllables."
Harry had had enough. He pulled out his wand and his talisman simultaneously. The talisman was already glowing faintly, having absorbed several small magical discharges from the pixies.
"Listen up," he said to his companions. "Pixies have a hierarchical social structure. If you can capture or calm the alpha—usually the largest one with the brightest blue coloring—the others become much more manageable."
He pointed to a particularly vibrant pixie that was directing others to create maximum chaos. "There—that's our target."
"How do you know all this?" Hermione asked, dodging a flying book.
"Newt Scamander taught me," Harry replied, carefully tracking the alpha pixie's movements. "Cornish pixies respond to three things: loud, sudden noises, which startle them into stillness; sweet scents, which calm them; or a display of dominance from a larger predator."
Harry raised his wand and cast a quick, precise charm. A sound like a thunderclap echoed through the room. The pixies froze momentarily.
"Now, Immobulus!" Harry commanded, directing his spell at the alpha pixie.
The creature slowed to a near halt, its wings beating sluggishly. Immediately, the other pixies' behavior changed, becoming less coordinated and more erratic. Harry held his talisman forward and said clearly, "Release!"
A flash of golden light pulsed from the talisman—not the full blinding burst it could produce when fully charged, but enough to disorient the remaining pixies. Their wings shimmered as they were caught in the light, making them easier to spot and target.
"Immobulus!" Daphne and Sebastian cast in unison, catching several more pixies.
"The proper handling method," Harry continued as they worked, "according to Scamander's research, is to create a controlled environment with appropriate stimuli. These creatures aren't naturally destructive—they're responding to stress and confusion."
Within minutes, they had rounded up all the pixies back into their cage. Harry secured the lock with an additional charm, just as the classroom door opened to reveal Lockhart peering cautiously inside.
"Ah, excellent work! Excellent!" he declared, striding in as though he'd never fled. "Yes, just as I expected. A practical demonstration of proper pixie management techniques!"
"Proper management?" Harry couldn't help himself. "Professor, you used a made-up incantation that accomplished nothing, then abandoned your students to handle potentially harmful magical creatures without instruction."
Lockhart waved a dismissive hand. "A test, my dear boy! I wanted to see how you'd respond under pressure. Teaching method I developed while training junior wizard rangers in Mozambique."
"Really?" Harry said coolly. "Because according to Newt Scamander's published research, the proper handling of Cornish pixies involves gradual acclimation to human presence, the use of diluted honey-water as a calming agent, and never releasing an entire colony in an enclosed space with inexperienced handlers. He explicitly warns against using sudden light or sound-based spells unless as a last resort, as they can cause pixies to develop long-term erratic behavior patterns."
The classroom had gone very quiet. Lockhart's smile remained fixed, but something flickered behind his eyes.
"Well, Scamander has his methods, I have mine," Lockhart said stiffly. "Though I respect the man's work, of course. We've corresponded several times about my innovative approaches."
"Have you?" Harry asked, knowing full well that Newt had never mentioned Lockhart in any capacity other than to question how his books had passed editorial review. "Perhaps you could share some of that correspondence for our next lesson. I'm sure it would be illuminating."
A tense silence followed. Lockhart broke it with an overly jovial laugh. "Always the enthusiast! Five points to Slytherin for your impressive creature knowledge, Potter. Now, off you go—I believe you have other classes to attend!"
As they gathered their things and headed for the door, Hermione lingered, looking crestfallen. "I don't understand," she said quietly. "His books were so detailed, so specific..."
"Perhaps you should compare them to other sources," Daphne suggested, surprising everyone by addressing Hermione directly. "Cross-reference his timeline with established historical records. See if his miraculous cures and solutions actually exist outside his own publications."
Hermione frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose that would be the scholarly approach..."
"Why would Dumbledore hire someone like this?" she suddenly burst out, loud enough that Lockhart, still arranging his hair in a small hand mirror, glanced over with a frown.
"That," Daphne replied, "is the first sensible question I've heard regarding this class. You know, you could always lodge a formal complaint with your Head of House."
"A complaint?" Hermione looked startled. "Is that... allowed?"
"Of course it is," Daphne said with a touch of condescension. "This is an educational institution, not a dictatorship. If enough students document legitimate concerns about the quality of instruction, the Board of Governors can review the appointment."
Hermione seemed to be processing this new information as they exited the classroom and headed down the corridor.
"I never thought of complaining," she admitted. "It seems... disrespectful to the professors."
"What's disrespectful," Daphne replied coolly, "is a teacher endangering students through incompetence. Some of us have enough problems without adding 'mauled by improperly managed magical creatures' to the list."
There was something in her tone that caught Harry's attention—a hint of personal concern. As they reached the point where their paths would diverge for their next classes, Harry caught Daphne's eye questioningly.
She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, but Harry noticed her gaze flick briefly toward a group of first-years passing by, among them Astoria Greengrass.
"We should go," Daphne said abruptly, turning away. "Transfiguration next, and you know how Professor McGonagall feels about tardiness."
The third-floor corridor was oddly quiet as Harry made his way to Transfiguration Class, having taken a shortcut behind a tapestry that Nymphadora had shown him last year. Most students were still finishing lunch in the Great Hall, but Harry had eaten quickly, hoping to review his notes before class. The corridor's high windows cast rectangular pools of autumn sunlight across the stone floor, dust motes dancing in the golden beams.
He rounded a corner and paused, spotting a familiar figure standing motionless in the middle of the hallway. Luna Lovegood stood with her head tilted back, silver-blonde hair cascading down her back, gazing upward with an expression of intense concentration. Following her line of sight, Harry saw the Grey Lady, Ravenclaw's ghost, hovering near the vaulted ceiling.
What struck Harry as odd wasn't Luna's interest in the ghost—many first-years were fascinated by Hogwarts' spectral residents—but her peculiar stance. She had one arm extended, fingers spread as though tracing something in the air that Harry couldn't see. Her other hand clutched her wand, though she wasn't casting any spell Harry recognized.
For a moment, he considered continuing on his way without disturbing her, but curiosity won out. He approached quietly, not wanting to startle her.
"Luna? What are you looking at?"
Luna didn't flinch or show any surprise at his voice, though she'd given no indication she'd noticed his arrival. Without lowering her gaze from the Grey Lady, she replied in her dreamy voice, "Hello, Harry. I'm watching the cord."
Harry glanced up again at the Grey Lady, who was now regarding Luna with what appeared to be discomfort. "The cord?"
"Yes. The one connecting her to the east wing." Luna finally lowered her arm and turned to Harry, her protuberant silver eyes meeting his. "All the Hogwarts ghosts have them. Shimmering silver threads that anchor them to specific parts of the castle. The Grey Lady's connects to a room on the fifth floor behind a bookcase. I suspect that's where she died, though she doesn't like when I mention it."
Harry blinked, looking from Luna to the ghost and back again. He saw nothing but the translucent figure of the Grey Lady, who was now drifting away with unusual haste. "I don't see any cord."
"Most people don't," Luna replied matter-of-factly. "It's like seeing Wrackspurts or recognizing a disguised cat. You need different eyes." She tapped beside her own silvery eyes with a slender finger.
The casual reference to Itisa made Harry glance around quickly, but the corridor remained empty save for the two of them. "Is this part of how you... see through illusions?" he asked quietly.
Luna nodded, tucking her wand behind her ear. "Mother called it the Lovegood Lens. Said our family has always been able to see the in-between things—the connections and bindings that hold magic to the physical world." A shadow briefly crossed her usually serene face at the mention of her mother.
"So these cords... they're like anchors?" he asked, steering back to the original subject.
Luna brightened. "Exactly! Each ghost is tethered to a location that holds particular significance to them. Nearly Headless Nick's cord connects to the spot in the Great Hall where he attended his final feast. The Bloody Baron's links to a stone in the dungeon wall that I'm quite certain conceals something unpleasant. Moaning Martyl has a cord that connects her to the center of the bathroom, but I'm not sure why."
Harry found himself fascinated despite his initial skepticism. Luna might express her ideas in unusual ways, but he'd already witnessed her ability to see through Itisa's disguise—an enchantment that had fooled even experienced wizards. "What else can you see with this... Lovegood Lens?"
"Oh, all sorts of things," Luna replied, beginning to walk alongside Harry as he resumed his journey to Charms. "I can see the binding spells in the castle walls—they look like golden seams running through the stone. And I can spot magical concealments. A certain part in the sixth floor has illusion magic around a wall, but I'm not quite sure what's there yet."
Luna drifted away from Harry as though carried by an invisible current. "I should go. I have Herbology with the Hufflepuffs, and they say Professor Mirabel is very kind to everyone, so I want to met her."
She paused briefly to glance back at him, her radish earrings swinging. "You know, Harry, the walls of Hogwarts have memories. That's why the ghosts stay—they're part of the memories. But some memories should remain forgotten, I think." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Watch out for the cords. Sometimes they can tangle around unwary feet."
With that cryptic warning, she disappeared around the corner, leaving Harry standing alone in the corridor, his thoughts swirling with questions about ghost cords, hidden rooms, and illusion walls. He wondered how many secrets this school had.
As he continued toward the Transfiguration classroom, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that Luna Lovegood might understand more about the dangers lurking in Hogwarts than anyone—precisely because she saw what others couldn't.
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The Slytherin common room took on a different atmosphere after midnight. The green-tinged light from the lake above cast shifting patterns across the stone walls, and the fire burned low in the ornate hearth, its emerald flames creating more shadows than illumination. Most students had long since retreated to their dormitories, leaving the space in a peaceful silence broken only by the occasional bubbling sound from the dark waters visible through the windows.
Harry sat cross-legged on the floor before the fire, a small array of tools spread out on a black velvet cloth before him. His latest talisman prototype lay in the center—a more complex design than his standard model, featuring a spiral pattern of interlocking runes rather than the usual triangular configuration. Beside it sat several reference books, including an ancient tome on Italian runic patterns that Professor Flitwick had helped him acquire from the Restricted Section.
For the past two hours, Harry had been attempting to incorporate a new sequence of power-enhancement runes into the design. The Italian Ministry's requirements were more demanding than the British Aurors', particularly regarding sustained shield strength and recovery time after discharge.
"Coniungo," Harry murmured, touching his wand to the newest rune he'd carefully etched into the silver base. The talisman glowed briefly, the runes illuminating in sequence—until they reached the new addition. Then, as had happened in his previous six attempts, the light simply extinguished, as though someone had abruptly cut the power supply.
Harry sighed in frustration, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "What am I missing?"
"Perhaps the problem isn't what you're adding, but where you're placing it."
Harry looked up to find Sebastian Sallow standing at the bottom of the boys' dormitory stairs, wrapped in a dark green dressing gown. His sandy hair was tousled from sleep, but his eyes were alert and curious.
"Couldn't sleep either?" Harry asked, gesturing to the empty armchair beside him.
Sebastian shook his head as he settled into the chair. "Too many thoughts. I saw the light and figured you'd be working on your Italian commission." He leaned forward to examine the talisman. "The spiral configuration is elegant. Norse origin?"
"Norse foundation with Celtic binding elements," Harry explained, impressed by Sebastian's observation. Most people couldn't distinguish runic systems at a glance. "The Italians want something that can withstand ancient curses, particularly those found in their historical sites. The problem is integrating this Etruscan power-enhancement rune without disrupting the existing matrix."
Sebastian studied the pattern thoughtfully. "The Etruscan magical system viewed power differently than Norse traditions. They believed magic flowed like water rather than radiating like light. You're trying to place a 'river' in the middle of a 'sun.'"
Harry blinked in surprise. "How do you know about Etruscan magical theory? It's not covered until N.E.W.T. level Ancient Runes."
"My uncle collects obscure magical texts. I spent part of the summer at his estate and had access to his library."
"An interesting summer reading choice," Harry remarked, returning his attention to the talisman.
"Speaking of my uncle's library," Sebastian continued after a moment, his tone deliberately light, "I found some books that might actually help Anna."
Harry looked up, genuine interest replacing his frustration. "Really? What kind of magic?"
"It's not mainstream healing magic—more like ancient restorative practices." Sebastian's words came faster now, as though he'd been waiting for an opportunity to share this information. "There are rituals that can strengthen a person's magical core, making them more resistant to curse damage. Some of these techniques were used centuries ago to treat magical maladies that St. Mungo's now considers 'manageable but incurable.'"
"Like whatever is affecting Anna?" Harry asked.
Sebastian nodded. "The Healers have never been entirely clear about what's wrong with her. They use phrases like 'magical atrophy' and 'core destabilization,' but their treatments only slow the progression." His voice hardened slightly. "They're not trying to cure her—just make her comfortable while she weakens."
Harry could hear the bitterness and fear beneath his friend's carefully controlled explanation.
"What kind of rituals are these?" Harry asked.
"Mostly old Celtic and Germanic practices involving natural magic. Alignment with lunar cycles, harvesting ingredients at specific magical convergence points, preparation of potions that have to simmer for months..." Sebastian gestured vaguely. "Complex but not inherently... problematic."
The slight hesitation made Harry wonder if there was more to these rituals than Sebastian was revealing, but the premise itself didn't raise immediate concerns. After all, hadn't he used unconventional magic himself to create his talismans?
"Your uncle sounds knowledgeable," Harry commented, observing Sebastian's reaction. "What's he like?"
A flicker of something dark passed behind Sebastian's eyes. "Uncle Alaric is... intense. Brilliant, but obsessive about magical theory, when we were younger, I once heard him curse my father's name when I was young. We don't really have anywhere else to go, and Uncle has not said anything else bad about dad since then."
Harry nodded, a brief memory of Vernon Dursley's purple face surfacing in his mind. "I understand complicated family relationships. Haven't seen my uncle in almost four years, and I'm quite happy to keep it that way."
"At least your uncle was merely unpleasant rather than—" Sebastian stopped himself abruptly. "Well, suffice it to say, I'm not a fan of Uncle Alaric's... methods. But his knowledge could save Anna, so I'm willing to tolerate his eccentricities."
"I hope it helps," Harry said sincerely. "Anna deserves better than what the conventional Healers are offering."
Sebastian's expression softened with genuine gratitude. "That means a lot, Harry. Most people just repeat the St. Mungo's line about 'accepting limitations' and 'managing expectations.'"
"Most people haven't seen what happens when you push beyond conventional magical boundaries," Harry replied, thinking of his talismans and the underwater magic he'd helped Crystal-Harmony develop. "Sometimes the established wisdom is just... insufficient."
Their conversation was interrupted by a small figure emerging from the girls' dormitory entrance. Astoria Greengrass stood hesitantly at the edge of the common room, wearing silver-gray pajamas and clutching what appeared to be a stuffed dragon toy. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, making her pale face seem even more wan in the firelight.
"Can't sleep?" Harry asked kindly, noticing the shadows beneath her eyes seemed more pronounced than they had been earlier.
Astoria shook her head, taking a tentative step closer. "I keep having strange dreams about the castle. It feels like the walls are... whispering." She hugged her stuffed dragon tighter. "Silly, I know."
"Not silly at all," Harry assured her. "Hogwarts is ancient and filled with magic. It affects different people in different ways, especially when you're first adjusting to it."
Astoria's eyes fell on the talisman components spread before Harry. "Are you making one of your special protection charms?" she asked, curiosity momentarily brightening her tired features.
"Trying to," Harry admitted with a rueful smile. "Not having much success tonight, though."
Astoria leaned forward to examine the talisman with genuine interest. As she did, Harry noticed a faint tremor in her hands.
"Are you feeling alright, Astoria?" he asked, concern overriding politeness. "You look a bit—"
"Astoria!" Daphne's voice cut through the common room like a whip crack. She stood in the entrance to the girls' dormitories, her usually perfect blonde hair hastily braided and her expression a mixture of alarm and anger. "What are you doing out of bed?"
"I couldn't sleep," Astoria replied defensively. "The dreams came back, and—"
"You know you're supposed to take your potion if that happens," Daphne interrupted, striding forward and taking her sister firmly by the arm.
"I'm fine, Daph," Astoria protested weakly, though she allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. "I was just talking to Harry about his talismans."
"Which you can do at a proper hour, after you've had your proper rest," Daphne insisted, her voice brooking no argument. She glanced at Harry and Sebastian, her expression carefully composed, but her eyes showing fear. "Excuse us. My sister needs her medication."
Without waiting for a response, Daphne guided—or rather, marched—Astoria back toward the girls' dormitories.
"What was that about?" Harry asked once they'd disappeared, genuinely puzzled by the intensity of Daphne's reaction.
Sebastian was silent for a long moment, staring into the emerald flames with an unreadable expression. Finally, he said quietly, "Some family magic comes with a price, Harry."
"What do you mean?"
Sebastian's eyes met his briefly before looking away, his jaw tightening. "It's not my place to say more." He gathered his notes. "If you want to know more, then Daphne can tell you, but do me a favor, and don't ask her, unless she tells you herself."
He disappeared up the staircase, leaving Harry alone with his half-assembled talisman.
A soft padding sound drew his attention to the common room entrance where Itisa had appeared, somehow having bypassed the password protection as she often did. The disguised Nundu approached silently, her golden eyes reflecting the firelight as she settled beside him, a warm presence against his leg.
Harry absently stroked her fur, his mind still churning with questions. What was affecting Astoria Greengrass? Was it something like Anna Sallow's condition, a magical malady that conventional healing couldn't touch?
Itisa made a low rumbling sound, as if sensing his troubled thoughts. Her golden eyes fixed on him with that unnervingly perceptive gaze that sometimes made Harry wonder who was looking after whom.
"I'm really happy that you are here, Itisa." Harry said, picking her up, and hugging her close to his chest.
Eventually, exhaustion settled over Harry like a heavy cloak as he trudged up the spiral staircase to the Slytherin boys' dormitory. The day had been a whirlwind of revelations—from Lockhart's incompetence to Luna's ghost cords. All he wanted now was the oblivion of sleep, a few hours' respite from the questions swirling through his mind.
The dormitory was quiet, his roommates already lost to dreams. Sebastian's bed curtains were drawn tight, and soft snores emanated from Blaise Zabini's four-poster. Harry moved quietly to his own bed, setting his bag down beside the nightstand before beginning his evening routine.
As he placed his glasses on the bedside table, a strange glow caught his eye. It was coming from his schoolbag—a faint golden shimmer seeping through the canvas fabric. Frowning, Harry reached for the bag and carefully opened the top flap.
Inside, nestled among his textbooks and parchment, lay Newt Scamander's gift—the walking staff crafted from a branch of a rare Sentinel Tree. The wood was alive with light, pulsing softly with a golden radiance that made the natural silver grain of the wood seem to flow like liquid metal.
Harry carefully lifted the staff, marveling at how it thrummed with energy against his palm. Newt had explained that the wood was sensitive to magical creatures, its luminescence intensifying in proportion to both the creature's power and proximity. Harry had assumed the reaction was simply detecting Itisa, who usually remained close by.
"Is that why you're glowing?" Harry whispered to the staff, running his fingers along its smooth surface. "Because there's a Nundu in the castle?"
As if in response, the golden glow pulsed brighter for a moment, then stabilized. Harry frowned, remembering Newt's words: "It will help you identify magical creatures that might otherwise remain hidden. Particularly useful for someone with your... unique companion."
But Itisa wasn't in the dormitory at the moment. She often roamed the castle at night, somehow bypassing the enchantments meant to keep intruders out of the Slytherin quarters. So why was the staff reacting now?
As Harry contemplated this mystery, a strange sound reached his ears—a faint, slithering noise that seemed to emanate from the stone wall beside his bed. It was barely audible, like something large dragging itself along the other side of the masonry.
The staff's glow diminished slightly, as though whatever creature it was detecting had moved farther away. Harry pressed his ear against the cool stone, but the sound had already faded, leaving him wondering if he'd imagined it.
"What is happening?" Harry wondered when he heard a voice in his head.
"All Speaker..."
.
.
"Harry!" He opened his eyes, and before him was Loretta Emrys. Except he wasn't in the dream world; instead, she stood before him. "You have done well, Harry."
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