Co-written by Z. R. Stein.

"Again!"

Harry breathed deeply, pushing himself up off the ground, the bruises that he'd accumulated throughout the day ignored. He'd been training (officially, anyways) in the mystic arts for three weeks now, and a pattern had emerged.

His mornings began with meditation, during which he was supervised by Steph—Master Strange, he reminded himself. Master Strange had insisted that Harry learn to access his Astral form as soon as possible; when Harry had asked him why the rush, the older man had simply smirked and cryptically replied "It helps with the late nights."

After meditating, he would go to breakfast, where Master Hamir would usually grade his schoolwork from the previous day and ask him how he was feeling. Neither of them had brought up Harry's selfless action to the other, but it was clear that Master Hamir wanted to repay Harry in whatever way he could.

Following breakfast, Harry engaged in the 'meat' of his day: physical training and sparring. When Harry had asked why he was learning how to fight with his fists instead of with his mind, Master Hamir had smiled and responded "Is the mind not also a part of the body? Magic does not spring forth without effort; by pushing the body to its limits, you discipline the mind." Harry, after a moment or two of thought, had agreed.

Taking a quick breath, Harry settled into his stance and struck, lashing out with an open palm at Master Hamir. The elderly man swayed out of the way, seemingly without effort, and stood a short distance away.

"Faster! Your opponents will not wait for you to strike."

Harry grunted and ran towards his opponent, snapping out a kick. In one fluid motion, Master Hamir extended his only hand and caught the incoming foot, twisting it in midair. Harry yelped as his center of balance was thrown off and he found himself smacking into the ground again.

Groaning, Harry slowly sat up, rubbing his head.

"That makes this the twenty seventh time I've lost the sparring match, Master Hamir."

Master Hamir chuckled and said "I have been a Master at Kamar Taj for decades. You arrived not even two months ago. Do not despair, young one, you are still learning. Skill will come with experience. Come now, get up. Again!"

Harry puffed his cheeks out. Frankly, he was about ready to quit. His entire body burned, he was tired, and to top it all off, his ears were ringing from his date with the ground.

But as the man said, quitters never prospered. So with a pained grunt, Harry heaved himself off the ground, knowing deep in his heart that he was soon going to be reacquainted with it.

He was right.

A couple of months later...

The grin on Harry's face stretched from cheek to cheek as he looked down at his transparent, faintly glowing hands.

"Wow. Wicked…"

Next to him, Stephen smiled. Harry's skill in the mystic arts had progressed quickly, and with Wong's blessing, the boy was moving up to higher level magics. He had yet to obtain a relic, but he was already adept at using the Sling Ring (a fact that made Stephen's eye twitch a little whenever he thought about it. It was irritating that an eight year old mastered the Sling Ring in less time than he did, not to mention that Harry did so without needing to be dumped on top of Everest by the Ancient One).

"So, Harry, can you guess why I wanted you to learn how to access your Astral Form as soon as possible?"

Blinking, Harry looked up from his hands and adopted a thinking pose.

"Well...time moves slower in the Astral dimension if you want it to. So...maybe I can use this as a way to study more?"

Stephen chuckled.

"Well, aren't you a little genius. Yes, that is exactly why, though not only because time can move slower in the Astral dimension. You also don't need sleep when in your Astral form. So, while your body rests…"

"My mind can still learn…" finished Harry softly.

"Got it in one, Harry."

Harry nodded, a slow, mischievous smile breaking out onto his face.

"Is this how you became Sorcerer Supreme so quickly?"

Stephen colored slightly, clearing his throat, and said "Well...yes...and I also may have...stolen books from the library using my Sling Ring..."

Harry's eyes widened, to the point that he looked like an owl.

"You stole books from Wong's library!?"

"Yeah...he was not happy about it."

"I am still not happy about it, Strange."

Stephen and Harry yelped in tandem, both of them shooting up in the air a couple of feet. Behind them, Wong raised a single eyebrow at their actions as he floated in place, his Astral form as stoic as his physical one.

"I do hope that you will not follow in Master Strange's footsteps, Mister Potter. Libraries are to be respected, especially one as dangerous as mine."

Harry bowed quickly, his Astral form colouring in embarrassment. Clearing his throat, Stephen said "Is there something you needed, Wong?"

"One of our contacts has spotted Mordo in India."

Stephen nodded, his countenance becoming grim. He turned to Harry and said "Harry, I have to go. Keep practicing, alright?"

Harry nodded as well.

"I will...and good luck, Master Strange."

"Doctor."

Wong and Harry rolled their eyes in tandem.

Six months later…

Harry wandered through the London Sanctum. Stephen had left on a mission more than a week ago and had yet to come back, and Master Hamir had been looking after him in the meantime. The two of them had grown very close since Harry arrived a year ago. The old monk was a veritable fount of knowledge and wise sayings, and he didn't mind helping Harry with any problem he might have.

It was partially because of Master Hamir that Harry was at the London Sanctum in the first place. With Master Hamir's help, Stephen's sometimes awkward guidance, and Wong's stern teaching, Harry had progressed to the point that the three Masters told him he was ready to receive a relic. And so, he was here, wandering around the upper levels of the Sanctum, waiting for something to happen.

Harry trailed his fingers along one of the display cases, looking inside to see an ancient tome entitled The Book of the Vishanti. Scattered around the room were other relics, ancient tomes, and various knick knacks. Set on a table was an old, tattered bag; looking at the plaque, Harry found it to be the Six Demon Bag, a powerful source of elemental magic. The young sorcerer placed his hand hesitantly on the bag, then removed it after it failed to garner a reaction. That was the most infuriating part about relics; they were the ones that chose their master, not the other way around. He'd already wandered around the Hong Kong Sanctum to no avail, and now it was looking like the London Sanctum would be a bust. If the New York Sanctum didn't work out either...well, Harry desperately hoped that that wouldn't be the case.

Moving on, Harry noticed a door behind one of the shelves that was partially open. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he felt that he needed to go through that door. Hesitantly, he maneuvered around the shelf of helmets and walked through the door. He found himself in an armoury of sorts, the walls lined with spears, staves, halberds, and axes. In the center of the room were three pedestals, on which three swords were standing. Harry looked them over, feeling drawn to them. One of these swords would be his relic, he just knew it.

The first sword (which the inscription at the base of the pedestal named The Ebony Blade) was made of a strange black metal that seemed almost purple in the light. Harry could feel it oozing malevolence and eldritch power, and he gave it a wide berth. Even if that sword would accept him, he wasn't sure he wanted something that was so obviously cursed as his relic.

The second sword, the Seraphim according to the pedestal, glowed with radiant light, and the magic pouring off of it was almost suffocating to Harry's senses. Runes that Harry didn't understand ran down its length, and the guard was in the shape of a sunburst. While it didn't hold the same cursed feeling as the Ebony Blade, Harry didn't think that such a noticeable relic was his style.

The last sword was the most unassuming of the three. At first glance, it seemed quite ordinary compared to the other two; the power it held was far more understated, almost like the sword was sleeping. Examining it, Harry found that it wasn't made out of any metal he knew; in fact, the sword seemed to have been created from the bone of some type of animal. The handle was bound with a dark crimson leather, and the guard pointed upwards like a pair of horns. Looking at the pedestal, Harry read the inscription aloud.

"Dragonfang." Harry said, the word echoing quietly around the room. He placed his hand on the handle and immediately felt a rush of power. He felt a sense of approval from the sword before it settled back into its slumber.

Eyes wide, Harry picked up the sword. He had found his relic.

A slow smile broke out onto Harry's face. He couldn't wait to rub Master Strange's face in this.

Two years later…

Stepping out of a Sling Ring portal, Harry took in a deep breath of satisfaction.

He had grown slightly taller in the three years he'd lived at Kamar-Taj. A balanced diet and daily exercise had transformed his once frail, scrawny body into a leaner one, and days of training outdoors in the Nepalese sun had given him a healthy tan. Of course, there was still nothing on earth, magical or not, that could tame his bloody hair.

Harry wore a green tunic belted around the waist by a bright yellow sash, his feet fitted with fur lined boots. He had Dragonfang strapped across his back, the horned sword a constant, if mostly silent, companion in his life since it became his relic. Harry had found that, like all relics, the sword had a mind of its own, though unlike the more active relics (like Stephen's cloak), Dragonfang seldom chose to rouse itself. It woke up when it sensed Harry was in danger, or when he had a question, but for the most part, Dragonfang took long naps on Harry's back. Truly, Harry thought, Dragonfang was the stereotype of a sleeping dragon.

Still, Harry loved his relic. For one, it was his. The sword had chosen him, out of all the sorcerers who had come before. For another, the thing was bloody wicked when it actually woke up and let him use its powers. It could cut through nearly anything, absorb any magical force that touched it, destroy mystical barriers, and even turn invisible.

It still brought a smirk to his face remembering when he'd showed his relic to Master Strange.

"Harry?"

Speaking of…

"Master Strange?"

"Doctor."

"Master."

Stephen suppressed the urge to argue with his eleven year old apprentice (again) about his title, and handed Harry a letter.

"This came for you yesterday. An owl, of all things, delivered it."

Harry raised an eyebrow. How odd was that?

Turning the letter over, Harry looked at the address.

"Harry Potter, Kamar-Taj, Room Twelve? That's...oddly specific."

Stephen nodded and responded "What's even stranger is that it's made out of parchment and has a wax seal. I mean...even sorcerers have printers."

Harry frowned and turned the letter back over to the other side, examining the seal for a moment.

"Do you think it's some sort of trap?"

"Wong and I already went over it. While there is a small amount of residual magic, it isn't harmful."

After a moment's consideration Harry took a deep breath and broke the seal. Pausing, and seeing that nothing happened, Harry removed the letter and began reading.

"What in the name of Chthon is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

Aand that's time! I want to give a massive thanks to Z.R. Stein for writing this chapter. I personally love it and I hope you guys do too. Welcome to team Ryuko, Z!

We decided that at least one chapter of going over the basics of Kamar-Taj was important for the plot, because it shows that Harry is proficient enough in what he does to get by.

What do you guys think of Dragonfang? Because I just want one. If anyone's seen the Ice Age movie with the dinosaurs, I'm picturing a more badass version of Buck's knife.

Anyway guys, don't forget to hop over to Z.R. Stein's account and read his fics, they're just fantastic! See y'all next time, baiii!