Halloween morning brought with it a chill that crept into every corner of Hogwarts, a cold that seemed to sink deep into my bones. I woke up later than usual, my mind clouded by a familiar melancholy. Memories of that night—the night my parents had died—tugged at the edges of my thoughts.
Even though I wasn't exactly the same Harry anymore, the emotions I felt for James and Lily Potter remained as raw and tangled as the original Harry's. The bond between us ran deeper than blood now, forged by the merging of my mind with his and all the memories that came with it.
I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on my tasks: I completed my morning exercises—a routine assigned by the system to strengthen my body and sharpen my reflexes—and then moved on to reviewing my notes on Transfiguration. I followed that with a few simple elemental exercises to steady my magic, determined not to let my emotions get the better of me.
When I entered the Great Hall, the sight of floating jack-o-lanterns and flickering candles brought a small smile to my face. Hogwarts always knew how to put on a show. I spotted Hermione hunched over a stack of parchment, her quill scribbling furiously. She looked utterly worn out, with dark circles beneath her eyes, and her hair even frizzier than usual.
"Morning," I said, sliding into the seat beside her. "Rough night?"
She barely looked up, her eyes bloodshot. "Just… busy," she muttered, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
I regarded her for a moment, studying the tension in her shoulders and the slight tremor in her hand. "Hermione," I said, my voice low but firm, "you're using the Time Turner too much."
Her head snapped up, panic flickering in her eyes. "What—how do you know about that?" she demanded, her voice tight and wary.
"It doesn't matter how I know," I interrupted, keeping my tone even. "You're pushing yourself too hard. It's not sustainable."
She bit her lip, her resolve wavering. "I just don't want to fall behind," she admitted quietly. "Not now, not when—"
"You don't need to prove anything," I said. "You're the best witch I know. But if you burn out, you'll help no one."
She hesitated, then nodded, her shoulders relaxing a fraction. "Alright. I'll try."
"Good," I said simply.
Before I could say more, Ron and Ginny approached, each balancing a plate piled high with toast and eggs. Ron dropped into the seat across from us, Ginny beside him, eyeing Hermione with concern.
"Blimey, Hermione," Ron muttered, his brows knitting together. "You look like you've been hit by a herd of hippogriffs."
Ginny elbowed him, shooting him a glare. "Ron! Honestly," she scolded before turning to Hermione. "You do look tired, though. Everything okay?"
Hermione managed a small smile. "Just a bit too much on my plate lately," she said.
Ron shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. "Yeah, well, you know you don't have to do everything, right?" he said between bites. "Rest is important, too."
Hermione's shoulders eased even more, some tension leaving her face. "Alright," she sighed. "I'll try."
"Good," Ron said with a grin. "Now pass the pumpkin juice before I die of thirst."
I let out a small chuckle. It was moments like these—simple and messy and real—that reminded me of what it meant to be part of something bigger than myself. Even on a day like Halloween, with the chill in the air and memories close to the surface, there was comfort in knowing I wasn't alone.
After breakfast, we made our way to the dungeons for Potions class. Professor Snape loomed at the front of the room, his dark eyes sharp and assessing as he swept the classroom with a disdainful glare.
"Today," he began, his voice as cold as the dungeon walls, "we will be brewing the Girding Potion—a tonic designed to grant stamina and endurance." His eyes darted to me briefly, his lip curling. "Even those who are naturally inclined toward… idleness may find this brew useful."
Ignoring the jab, I read over the recipe on the board:
1. Add one set of fairy wings.
2 .Heat until the potion turns turquoise.
3. Add one measure of doxy eggs.
4. Heat until the potion turns pink.
5. Add toasted dragonfly thoraxes until the potion turns orange.
6. Add one flying seahorse.
7. Heat the potion until it turns turquoise.
8. Add toasted dragonfly thoraxes until the potion turns purple.
9. Heat the potion until it turns red.
10. Add three measures of doxy eggs.
11. Add toasted dragonfly thoraxes until the potion turns blue.
12. Add three flying seahorses.
13. Heat until the potion turns green.
It was a complicated brew, and I could practically feel Snape's anticipation for us to fail. But I wasn't in the mood to give him the satisfaction.
As I worked through the steps, I realized a few could be optimized. Instead of heating to turquoise three separate times, I carefully adjusted the flame's intensity and stirred in a counterclockwise motion, accelerating the reaction and merging two steps without compromising the potion's integrity. When I added the doxy eggs, I whisked them in with a precise rhythm that created a more even consistency, skipping the extra heating cycle. The potion shimmered orange before shifting smoothly to green.
Snape loomed over my shoulder, his eyes narrowing. "Potter," he drawled, "I see you've decided to take creative liberties with the recipe. One might almost call that… reckless."
I met his gaze evenly. "Efficiency, sir," I said calmly. "The potion's composition is stable, and the color is correct."
He sniffed, his expression sour, but he couldn't find fault. "Adequate," he sneered. "But don't let your arrogance get to your head, Potter."
At the next table, Malfoy leaned back in his chair, his drawl dripping with mockery. "Honestly, Potter," he sneered, "it's almost impressive how you can manage not to blow up your cauldron for once."
I ignored him, wandlessly lifting a single toasted dragonfly thorax and letting it drift—slowly and purposefully—toward his cauldron. It plopped in with a soft hiss, sending a small puff of pink smoke into the air. Malfoy's eyes widened in horror as his potion sputtered and began to curdle.
Snape's head snapped around, his eyes darting between us. "Potter," he snapped, his tone sharp as a blade, "I'd advise you to focus on your own cauldron unless you'd like a detention."
I gave him a placid smile. "Of course, sir."
Snape's eyes glinted as he moved on, his gaze landing on Malfoy's cauldron, which was now emitting a noxious pink smoke. "Mr. Malfoy," he drawled, his tone laced with sarcasm, "is it truly so difficult to follow a simple set of instructions? Or do you fancy yourself an potions master now?"
Malfoy's face flushed with embarrassment, and he stammered, "I—I—"
Snape sneered. "Pathetic," he spat, moving on to the next table.
Ron let out a low whistle and shook his head. "Blimey, Malfoy's never gonna learn, is he?" He glanced over at me, admiration clear in his eyes. If only I could keep up with him... but no, this time was different. Instead of feeling jealous, I could see Ron squaring his shoulders, a quiet determination settling over his usually chaotic expression.
He leaned over his cauldron, stirring with more care than usual. "Alright, Ron," he muttered under his breath, "focus. No explosions today."
I caught Hermione's eye across the table. She gave him a quick smile, and I could tell Ron noticed.
Then Ron glanced back at me with a grin and added under his breath, "Watch out, Harry. Soon I'll be the one making potions without setting the dungeon on fire."
I let out a small chuckle. "I'll believe it when I see it."
After Potions, everyone made way to lunch, where the Great Hall buzzed with chatter and the clinking of cutlery. I felt lighter than I had all day, glad that at least one class was behind me. We found our usual seats, and I let the comforting routine of lunch wash over me.
Once we'd eaten our fill, we made our way through the corridors toward Ancient Runes. The quiet hush of the castle seemed to settle around us like a cloak, and I felt a familiar anticipation rise in my chest.