Harry had spent countless hours in the Room of Requirement that term, surrounded by ancient tomes and stacks of parchment. Though he'd dipped into various branches of magic—defensive charms, dueling tactics, even the basics of Occlumency and Legilimency—his mind always drifted back to one spell: Obliviate.
He'd known from the start that it wouldn't be simple. Memory charms were notoriously delicate—powerful but easy to misuse. A single miscast, a poorly aimed flick of intent, could scramble a mind or leave a person an empty shell. The thought made him queasy, but he couldn't let that stop him.
His plan—still only half-formed but steadily growing in the back of his mind—depended on mastering the spell. He'd started cautiously, reading every line he could find about its theory and application: how it was used by Obliviators to protect the Statute of Secrecy, how it required not brute force but precision—a surgeon's touch for memories.
In between lessons and late at night, he'd practiced. At first on conjured creatures—charmed mice that the Room of Requirement supplied. He'd watched their whiskers twitch, seen the way their bright eyes darted about, and then, with a quiet Obliviate, watched them pause, confused for a heartbeat, before carrying on as though nothing had happened.
Each attempt taught him something. Too much force, and they'd freeze or cower. Too little, and the spell would fizzle out, leaving the memory intact. It was a balancing act—intent, power, and control all working together. He'd learned to aim small, to focus on erasing only seconds rather than entire thoughts.
Cross-referencing what he'd learned in Occlumency and Legilimency—especially the idea of shielding or manipulating memories—helped him refine his technique. Occlumency taught him that the mind wasn't a fortress but a maze, and sometimes misdirection worked better than brute force. Legilimency, even at his novice level, taught him to sense the shape of thoughts and memories—where they clustered, where they felt most vulnerable.
Though Occlumency, Legilimency, and Obliviate had occupied much of his theoretical research, Harry's mind often wandered to something more primal—elemental magic. It lacked the structure of wand spells, demanding instead a direct connection with the elements themselves.
Fire intrigued him the most. Not just a weapon, but a living force—capable of creation and destruction in equal measure. Unlike traditional spells, elemental fire had no incantation, no rigid structure. It was all about feeling, will, and focus.
Tonight, he experimented with a technique he'd been refining. Rather than simply hurling a blast of flame at a dummy, he envisioned the fire as something alive—something he could shape. With a deep breath, he summoned the spark in his chest and let it grow, feeling the heat build beneath his skin. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he shaped the flame into a coiling serpent.
But it wasn't just any serpent—it was a basilisk, twisting and writhing in midair, its blazing eyes staring back at him with unblinking, searing heat. He guided it, its fiery body coiling around the practice dummy, the flickering tail crackling like a whip. The flame hissed and roared, its sinuous form glowing white-hot at the core.
Pushing himself further, Harry tried to make the fire hotter, more intense. He focused on the core of the basilisk's head, willing the heat to climb. The white-hot blaze radiated waves of searing heat that made sweat bead on his forehead. But with that heat came a new challenge—the flame fought him, its body lashing and flickering dangerously near the walls.
The hotter the fire grew, the harder it was to control. It demanded every ounce of focus—his mind stretched to its limit as he wrestled with the living flame. One slip, and it could burst free, devouring everything in its path.
With a deep, steadying breath, Harry forced the fire to collapse inward, shrinking the basilisk's head first, then its body, until it was no more than a glowing ember in his palm.
Exhaling shakily, Harry wiped his brow. Fire was powerful, but if he was going to master it, he had to respect its wildness—and learn to control it.
A tired Harry made his way back to the kitchens, his body still trembling from the exertion of controlling that living flame. Every muscle felt tight, his mind buzzing with the lessons he'd learned and the risks he'd taken. His stomach gave a low, hungry growl—he'd missed dinner in the Great Hall, too absorbed in his training to even notice the time slipping by.
The castle felt different at night: quieter, with shadows stretching across the stone corridors like watchful sentinels. Harry's steps echoed faintly, each one a reminder of just how alone he was in his struggle—no teachers to guide him through memory charms, no one to caution him against the dangers of elemental magic. It was all on him.
He found the painting of the fruit bowl near the Hufflepuff common room and tickled the pear until it giggled and swung open. Warm, comforting smells wafted from the kitchen, making his stomach clench. Inside, house-elves bustled about, preparing for the next day's meals and cleaning up after the feast he'd missed. One of them—a small elf with a clean white tea towel wrapped around its head—spotted him immediately.
"Harry Potter, sir!" the elf squeaked, bowing low. "What can I get for you, sir?"
Harry managed a weary smile. "Just something to eat, please. I missed dinner."
The elf beamed, its large ears wiggling slightly. "Of course, sir! Right away!" It vanished with a pop, returning moments later with a tray piled high: roast chicken, mashed potatoes, treacle tart, and a tall goblet of pumpkin juice.
Harry's mouth watered, and he sank gratefully onto a low stool near the fireplace. As he dug in, the warmth of the food seeped into his tired bones, a reminder that he wasn't entirely alone in the castle after all. The elves bustled about, making sure he had enough, one even slipping him an extra slice of tart.
Between bites, Harry's mind drifted back to the fire and the basilisk he'd conjured, the memory of its searing heat still vivid. He couldn't deny the thrill of wielding that kind of power—or the danger that came with it. But if he was going to stand a chance against what lay ahead, he couldn't afford to shy away from it.
He finished the meal and wiped his mouth, nodding his thanks to the elf who'd served him. "Thank you," he said softly, meaning it.
The elf's eyes shone. "It is an honor to serve, sir," it squeaked.
Harry rose, feeling the comforting weight of a full stomach. He still had a long way to go—countless hours of practice, endless spells to master.
As Harry made his way through the dimly lit corridors toward Gryffindor Tower, his steps felt lighter after the comforting meal. But that peace was short-lived. He was barely halfway up the main staircase when hurried footsteps and urgent voices echoed from above.
"Where is he? Has anyone seen Potter?"
Harry paused, his brow furrowing. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were descending the stairs, worry etched deep into their faces. McGonagall's tartan dressing gown billowed behind her, and Flitwick's wand glowed faintly in the gloom.
"Harry!" McGonagall exclaimed, relief and frustration mingling in her voice. "There you are! Where have you been? We've been searching the castle for you!"
"I—um—was in the kitchens," Harry said calmly, though inside, his mind was already working.
McGonagall's lips thinned, but concern won out. "The kitchens? This is hardly the time for wandering the castle, Potter. There's been an incident."
Flitwick's squeaky voice trembled with urgency. "Sirius Black attempted to enter the Gryffindor common room during dinner. The Fat Lady's portrait was slashed, and she's refusing to return until it's repaired."
Harry's heart beat steadily. Sirius Black—his godfather, the man who'd been framed and imprisoned—had tried to enter Gryffindor Tower. Of course, Harry knew Sirius was innocent, but no one else did.
"He tried to get in?" Harry repeated, sounding appropriately concerned.
McGonagall gave a sharp nod. "Yes, and the entire tower has been evacuated to the Great Hall for safety. We were about to send Aurors out to search the grounds for you. You can't just disappear like this, Potter."
Harry let out a slow breath. "Sorry, Professor," he said evenly. "I just—needed some air. I didn't realize—"
McGonagall's stern expression softened, but only slightly. "No harm done, Potter. But from now on, you're to remain in your dormitory after dinner unless given explicit permission. Is that clear?"
"Crystal," Harry said, his mind already working on his next move. He needed to find a way to speak to Sirius—really speak to him—and figure out how to clear his name once and for all.
Flitwick gave him a small, sympathetic smile. "Come along now, Harry. We'll escort you to the Great Hall with the others. It's safer there tonight."
Harry nodded, feigning worry, but inside he felt that familiar spark of determination—the same cold, calculating resolve. Sirius Black had risked everything to break into the castle, but Harry knew that wasn't just to see him—Sirius was after Peter Pettigrew, the traitor who had betrayed his parents.
But Harry wasn't the same as before. He wouldn't simply trust Sirius on reputation or sentimentality. He had his own judgment, his own standards. He needed to look Black in the eye, measure his words and actions, and decide for himself whether Sirius was truly the man his parents had called a friend—or just another dangerous loose end.