CHAPTER 6: THE SOUL'S OMEN

Gazing into the mirror, Fleur admired her high, exquisitely defined cheekbones, gracefully slender brows, and the radiant clarity of her sapphire-blue eyes. Full, inviting lips were accentuated by the cascade of her silver hair. As always, perfection met her gaze, and she pushed the small mirror aside with the delicate touch of her fingertip.

On the other side of the Venetian blind, the imposing silhouette of Madame Maxime loomed, engaged in conversation with Hogwarts' dedicated gamekeeper. Fleur discerned the familiar expression on the burly man's face, a look she knew all too well.

She gently let the blind fall and silently slipped out of her room, her magical essence tightly contained within. Fleur couldn't afford the wrath of Madame Maxime or to be caught in an encounter with a group of adolescent boys. Her brows furrowed in frustration as she descended into the lush, overgrown grass.

A brisk chill seeped into her shoes and enveloped her in a fine, cold mist that hung in the air, leaving her draped in glistening water droplets.

"Mon dieu," Fleur muttered, shivering as she gazed up at the imposing, slate-gray battlements of Hogwarts. "Does this wretched place ever bask in the warmth of the sun?"

She mused, "Perhaps they must fortify these thick, unsightly walls to shield against the relentless cold and ceaseless rain."

With purpose, she entered the Great Hall. Above her, a twilight sky glistened with stars, and a faint, ethereal halo of magic enveloped the goblet's stand. Its undulating blue flames cast delicate, dancing shadows upon the flagstones. Fleur took her first step across the age line.

The magic flared brilliantly, akin to the brilliance of a full moon, and then gradually subsided into a subdued glow.

Passing through completely, she withdrew a folded piece of parchment from her pocket, its delicate script illuminated by the goblet's azure light. It read "Fleur Delacour." She dropped the parchment into the flames, which transitioned from blue to fiery red and then back to their original azure hue. As always, she was accepted.

Turning sharply, a shadow moved across the hall's entrance.

"Mon dieu," Fleur whispered under her breath. "If it's Madame Maxime, I'm surely in trouble."

A Hogwarts student, with a disheveled mop of dark hair, traced along the wall to her right. He appeared to be around Gabrielle's age, and Fleur mused, "He might grow into his looks with time, perhaps be quite handsome. If only an English lad could learn a bit of elegance."

The young boy continued to follow the wall, his head tilted curiously. In the glow of the goblet's flames, his face was illuminated, and Fleur caught a glimpse of his sharp, emerald eyes.

"Merde," Fleur cursed as the young wizard noticed her. She held her breath, expecting him to approach and pester her. However, to her surprise, one of his eyebrows quirked, and he simply continued on his way.

Fleur couldn't help but be intrigued. "That's the same boy who ignored me before. How interesting." With a subtle release of her magical allure, she let her natural charm swell to its usual level, and she emphatically stomped her foot. She wanted to see if he would take notice this time.

The young wizard paused a few steps from the end of the hall, casting her a second glance. He incanted, "Tempus," and silver numbers appeared, then he disappeared into the corridors beyond the hall.

Fleur smirked to herself. "Good thing none of the other girls witnessed that. I wonder if he could resist my charms if I put them to the test."

She silently slipped back out into the drizzle and descended the uneven, steep, and slippery steps.

"Where've you been, Fleur?" Caroline's round face stretched into a sickly smile as the petite girl emerged from the shadows at the end of the corridor.

"Yeah, Fleur," Emilie's gangly figure crept out from behind Caroline. "Have you been sneaking up to Hogwarts to ensnare little boys again, have you?"

Fleur retorted, "I don't ensnare anyone. If you're both still upset that your boyfriends are so easily beguiled by my charms, perhaps you should discuss it with them. Better yet, consider why they might be looking elsewhere when they have you."

She concealed a small smile, thinking, "We're not best friends anymore. You both stayed behind while I pursued the boys. And now, your boyfriends leave you to chase me. Fair's fair."

"Our boyfriends were perfectly fine until you used your veela magic to enthrall them and lead them astray," Emilie hissed, her voice dripping with accusation. "At least we now have confirmation that the rumors about you are true. Why else would you be sneaking out in the middle of the night?"

Fleur snapped back, "It's barely early evening. Your time-telling skills are as inadequate as your dueling, Emilie. Shall I remind you who holds the title of the school's dueling champion?"

Caroline chimed in, haughtily saying, "Madame would bar you from competing. You wouldn't dare."

Emilie retorted, "It hardly matters. She's probably too exhausted after her little escapade. How many were there, Fleur? Did you ensnare enough to satisfy your cravings?"

Fleur responded with a smirk, "Brave words from the desperate girl who threw herself at any boy in sight. The whole school knows you lost your innocence to a middle-aged janitor in a bathroom stall. No wonder you can't keep a boyfriend long enough to keep you from returning to irritate me."

Emilie's fists clenched, her anger rising. "You started that rumor and pinned your escapades on me."

Fleur scoffed, "Even Caroline doesn't believe that, and she's gullible enough to fall for it every time a boy says 'I love you' before trying to undress her."

Caroline interjected, "Oh no, you're not shifting the blame this time. Madame Maxime explicitly forbade us from going out after curfew."

"I hope you've collected enough to keep your desires at bay for a while, as Madame Maxime won't permit you to sneak out again," Emilie sneered, her lip curling in disdain. "Or perhaps the other rumors hold some truth? Maybe, for all your unnatural charm, poor little Fleur has never so much as experienced a kiss."

Fleur lifted her chin dismissively and fixed her gaze on a point just above Caroline's head. "As if I care about what you or your rumors say. You both fall short in every aspect — less attractive, less powerful, less significant. Go ahead and attempt to fill your empty lives by whispering about me; it won't elevate you, and it won't work."

Caroline gasped, and Emilie reached for her wand, but Fleur swiftly caught her wrist. She continued, "Why even bother? Charms, dueling, enchantments... I surpass you in every facet of magic. We're not children anymore, Emilie. You can't parade your first boyfriends and early kisses in my face and expect me to be affected. Return to your room, and take Caroline with you before I decide to truly remove someone you hold dear."

The two of them scurried away like startled mice. Fleur caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window, her perfect facade momentarily marred. "Merde," she muttered, taking several deep breaths. She watched as her reflection's eyes reverted from black to light blue, and feathers retracted beneath her skin along her spine. "I shouldn't allow those two to get under my skin. I've shed enough tears for them in the past. I've moved beyond them now."

As she slipped back into her room, she whispered, "I should write to Gabby and ensure she's doing well. She must be feeling lonely now that I've left, and I promised her I'd write. But I'll need to borrow a school owl, if possible."

Overhead, the Great Hall's lofty ceiling was adorned with looming storm clouds. Lightning painted the sky in brilliant streaks above Harry's place at the Gryffindor Table. The resulting thunder resonated through the hall, resembling waves cascading across a dark, turbulent sea.

Harry propped up his book, strategically positioning it between Ron and the tempting array of toast. In between devouring bites, he turned the pages with eager anticipation. It was shaping up to be a rather promising day.

At the far end of the hall, the Goblet of Fire radiated a warm, cheerful glow. The blue flames danced in Harry's peripheral vision, casting reflections onto the lenses of his glasses.

Seamus couldn't resist a wager, leaning in to mutter, "I'll bet ten sickles that it's Angelina."

Dean, on the other hand, shot a cautious glance in Hermione's direction before replying, "You're on, but my money's on Diggory or that conceited Ravenclaw."

Ron gulped down a massive mouthful of bacon and chimed in, "Don't count on Seamus to pay up, though. He still owes me from that house-elf bet."

Dean shuddered at the memory. "And let's not forget to keep it down; Hermione hasn't tried to pawn those badges off on us today. We should savor the peace while it lasts."

Harry looked up from his book, curiosity piqued. "Badges?"

Seamus glared and explained, "It's your fault, mate. That nonsense you told her about house-elves at Hogwarts sent her on a quest to locate the kitchens, and now she's gone and initiated a campaign for the rights of magically enslaved people."

Harry chuckled, "I just wanted to put a stop to her attempts to overfeed me."

Dean chimed in, "Well, it worked, but we're all bearing the consequences."

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "She hasn't tried to sell me a badge."

Ron grumbled, "You haven't been around much, mate. We're living on the edge."

Dean added with a wry grin, "Indeed, any more refusals, and she might catch on that we don't share her views."

Seamus playfully suggested, "Or, worse yet, we might end up like Neville."

Harry raised an inquisitive eyebrow, eager to learn more about what they meant.

'Hermione's already sold him about ten badges, but he conveniently forgets to wear them. She's convinced he's doing it on purpose and now hounds him about donning them every time she lays eyes on him.'

Dean chimed in with a sly grin, 'Well, it's a good thing it's Neville bearing the brunt of it and not us.'

Ron agreed heartily, his gaze drifting down the table to where Hermione's unruly hair peeked out from behind a massive textbook. 'She lost it on Lavender when she declined to wear one because it clashed with her lip gloss.'

Seamus couldn't help but laugh. 'That's the best refusal so far. Hermione was absolutely incensed that lip gloss could be considered as important as her anti-slavery campaign.'

Ron grumbled, 'Someone really needs to enlighten her about the stark differences between house-elves and actual slavery. This whole thing has gone far beyond a joke.'

Their collective attention turned toward Harry, who offered a suggestion, 'I'm not entirely sure myself. Have any of you tried leaving books discussing the topic around her? She's bound to notice them, read them, and perhaps reconsider her stance. Hermione despises being wrong; she might eventually let this go.'

Seamus praised the idea, 'That's a clever one, mate. Crafty. It might even be worth a trip to the library.'

Ron shifted his gaze towards the Goblet of Fire and wondered aloud, 'Do you think they'll announce the champions today?'

Dean nodded, 'Dumbledore did mention that he would.'

Meanwhile, Harry sought solace in the pages of Salazar's crumbling, ancient charms book, sifting through smudged, illegible text until he stumbled upon a section with legible content. He was contemplating the utility of the Water Conjuring Charm. It could prove quite handy, he thought.

Harry reached over and took Ron's goblet, directing the tip of his wand into it. 'Aguamenti,' he incanted.

A meager stream of water slowly filled the bottom of the goblet. 'Simple enough,' he thought, 'just needs more practice.' He turned the page, finding another section with decipherable text. It discussed the intricacies of the Shield Charm, explaining that it relied heavily on the caster's intent and had evolved from basic hex deflection into a practical defense. Only spells cast with intense intent and focus could break through this shield. The prime example being the Killing Curse, which held such a potent level of intent that it remained impenetrable by conventional shielding spells.

Harry cast a critical look at the tattered book, still unable to discern the title or author. 'It's surprisingly informative,' he mumbled, a touch of admiration in his voice.

He continued to delve into the few remaining legible pages, munching on his toast while practicing the precise wand movements for the Stunning Spell. As he concentrated on his studies, an odd prickling sensation crawled down his neck and along his spine.

Harry tried to dismiss the feeling, redirecting his attention to the book, but the eerie sensation persisted. Eventually, he couldn't resist looking up, searching for the source of his unease.

In the Great Hall, every set of eyes bore into Harry, and his stomach seemed to plummet. I've missed something crucial, he realized, a sense of dread enveloping him. When everyone looks at me like that, it usually means something has gone disastrously wrong.

"Enjoying the book, Harry?" Professor Dumbledore's voice cut through the silence, breaking the tension.

Harry nodded, forcing a weak smile, though it was met with a ripple of hushed laughter that coursed through the hall. The knot in his gut only tightened. What on earth is going on?

Professor Dumbledore motioned toward the small door at the end of the hall. "Would you mind joining the others, Harry?"

Well, it can't be worse than being the center of attention here, Harry thought, and he rose from his seat. As he made his way toward the exit, the faces of his friends were etched with grimaces and scowls. Pinched lips, dark glares, and muttered insults followed him down the hall.

Suddenly, Professor Dumbledore crumpled a piece of parchment with burnt edges in his hand. A chilling realization struck Harry. Oh no, this can't be seriously happening, can it? He turned to say something to Professor Dumbledore but was silenced by the headmaster's stern expression. I never even wanted to watch the tournament, let alone participate in the bloody thing.

With a cold, resentful glare at the Goblet of Fire, Harry entered the antechamber. Inside, Cedric Diggory stood alongside a silver-haired French girl, while Victor Krum paced back and forth like a caged tiger.

Cedric Diggory was the first to speak, asking, 'What is it, Harry? Do they want us to go back?'

Harry blinked, puzzled. Why am I even here if he's the champion? Nevertheless, he managed to muster a faint smile. Seamus owes Dean ten sickles.

Ludo Bagman, his voice booming, strode into the room. 'A fourth champion,' he exclaimed, the astonishment evident in his tone.

The silver-haired girl, slightly disdainful, inquired, 'He is going to compete? Vraiment?'

Mr. Crouch's voice, dry and exhausted, echoed from a corner of the room, 'He has to. Entering your name in the Goblet represents the creation of a magically binding contract.'

Of course it does, Harry thought, gritting his teeth and simmering with frustration. Every year. Every single year. There's always something. I shouldn't even be surprised.

He sighed and wondered aloud, 'What if you didn't put your name in and found yourself here anyway?'

Professor Dumbledore, accompanied by Professor McGonagall, Professor Moody, and Snape, swept into the center of the room. 'Are you suggesting that you did not enter your name, Mr. Potter?' Dumbledore inquired.

Harry responded, 'I wasn't suggesting it, sir. I can say with complete certainty that I didn't consciously do so, nor did I get another student to do it.'

The French girl wasn't convinced, stating, 'He's lying. How else did his name come out?'

'It does seem unlikely, Harry,' Dumbledore admitted, his tone tinged with skepticism.

Harry shrugged, thinking, Whatever, then. I'm stuck in this mess either way.

Beauxbatons' imposing headmistress insisted, 'We would like an extra champion. Hogwarts cannot have two when we only have one.'

'Hogwarts has only one champion,' Harry declared firmly. 'Diggory put his name in and was chosen. He's the representative of the school.'

Cedric Diggory, looking slightly puzzled, frowned in response.

'You have to compete,' Mr. Crouch interjected, 'else you'll likely lose your magic.'

'I know,' Harry scowled. 'I don't have to belong to a school, though. I'll participate, but I won't be earning any extra points for Hogwarts when I never even wanted to compete in the first place.'

'If that is what you wish, Harry,' Professor Dumbledore said, his eyes losing their characteristic twinkle.

It's your fault, you old coot! Harry seethed inwardly. Your Age Line was supposed to prevent situations like this. But just like last year and the two years before that, I'm the one who gets caught in the middle of all your mess!

Mr. Crouch turned to the other champions, asking, 'Is that acceptable?'

The French witch dismissed Harry with a cold comment, 'It's not like he will earn any points anyway.'

Victor Krum and Cedric Diggory both nodded in agreement.

'Well, it's settled then,' Ludo Bagman declared. 'We'll come and fetch you before the wand-weighing ceremony at the start of the tournament.'

With that, the other champions filed out of the room, Beauxbatons' representative casting a final disdainful glance in Harry's direction, her silver hair cascading around her.

'I don't think she likes me,' Harry mumbled, casting a glance in the direction of Beauxbatons' champion.

'Stay here, please, Harry,' Professor Dumbledore instructed.

Professor McGonagall closed the door firmly, and Snape couldn't resist a sneer. Professor Moody's magical eye focused intently on a point right between Harry's ears.

'I didn't expect this from you, my boy,' Professor Dumbledore sighed, shaking his head. 'I won't pretend to understand why you entered, but now you have to take part, and you're at a significant disadvantage. The tasks were designed for sixth and seventh-year students, not fourth years.'

Harry was growing increasingly frustrated. 'I didn't enter my name.'

'I see,' Professor Dumbledore murmured, his expression thoughtful.

This is ridiculous, Harry thought, suppressing a surge of cold fury. What do I have to do for people to trust me? Defeat a couple of basilisks? Whoever put my name in this ridiculous tournament is going to regret it.

Harry turned and flung the door open, storming around the corner toward the Gryffindor common room. Whispers and biting comments followed him like shadows.

At least my friends will believe me once I tell them, he thought, clinging to a glimmer of hope.

However, when Harry entered the Gryffindor Common Room, a stark silence settled over the room. Ron erupted from his seat, his anger palpable. 'I can't believe you, Harry. You swore you wouldn't enter your name! You promised to watch with us!'

Hot, accusing gazes bore into him from every direction.

Seamus, his voice laden with resentment, added, 'You could have at least shared how you managed it so we could all have a chance. Seems like your word doesn't mean much, does it?'

As Harry attempted to explain, they turned their backs on him. Even Hermione averted her gaze and crossed her arms.

The little icy point in Harry's chest clenched like a vise. Why won't they listen?

Desperation led him to turn to the trio of chasers. 'You girls believe me, right?'

Angelina, her voice edged with frustration, retorted, 'You told us you weren't going to enter, but your name came out, didn't it?'

Harry scanned the room filled with cold, unforgiving faces. So that's how it is, he thought, his fists clenched. So much for house loyalty. With a final, bitter sigh, he pivoted and stormed toward the Chamber of Secrets. Salazar was right. I should've chosen my friends more wisely.

He stormed past Myrtle's cubicle and descended the stairs, his wand drawn and his rage unleashed through every violent spell he knew. Red, purple, and white magic hissed through the air, shattering serpent effigies, sending dust and sharp stone fragments flying across the chamber. A jagged piece of stone sliced a fiery line across his cheek, and a hot droplet trickled down his chin and neck.

Why? he seethed as he poured his magic into the basilisk's impenetrable hide. Why? Why? Why? Eventually, he slumped against the wall, his anger transmuting into a pounding ache. Why do I never get to keep anything?

'Stupid, bloody idiots,' he muttered, picking fragments of stone from his hand and tossing them away, smearing blood across his robes. The little point of ice in his chest melted, leaving behind a hollow emptiness. 'They should know better. When have I ever wanted to be involved in something like this?'

After repairing the damage he'd wrought on the walls and vanishing the blood from his robes, Harry crossed into the study where Salazar waited.

'What were you doing?' Salazar inquired.

'Venting,' Harry replied.

Salazar's brows furrowed. 'What happened?'

'My name was chosen for the Triwizard Tournament,' Harry began, his frustration palpable. 'I never entered, but nobody will listen to me, let alone believe me. My housemates and friends, especially, don't.'

'I do,' Salazar assured him.

Harry's eyes blazed with a mix of anger and disappointment. 'What does it say about my friends that the only one who trusts me is a thousand-year-old portrait?'

'It says Godric and Helga would both be very disappointed. Tell me about the tournament,' Salazar urged.

Harry complied, explaining, 'It has three tasks. There's a champion from each of Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons, and then there's me.'

'Is it dangerous?' Salazar inquired.

'It was canceled because the contestants kept dying,' Harry replied.

'Well, then, something worth winning,' Salazar commented, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

'I'm competing against much older students; the best in their schools,' Harry said, his voice tinged with doubt.

'You're my heir. A prodigy in transfiguration, proficient in dueling, and powerful in your own right. You can win. You will win,' Salazar assured him.

Harry sighed in exasperation. 'Why would I even want to win? It's a stupid, bloody idea. Let's put a bunch of children in a death trap and see what happens. Sounds like great fun, doesn't it?'

'The hat nearly placed you in Slytherin, yes?' Salazar questioned.

'Yes,' Harry affirmed.

'Then use some of that ambition that must be lurking inside you and prove yourself better,' Salazar encouraged. 'Silence your doubters and your former friends by winning the damn thing. They'll come back to you afterward, I guarantee it.'

Harry considered, 'What if I don't want them back?'

'Find better allies, then,' Salazar retorted, his wand sending a burst of green and silver sparks. 'You wanted to become stronger. Achieve it. Winning this tournament will prove that you've genuinely improved.'

Harry swallowed a longing pang. I've watched too many desires slip through my fingers. How many can there be left now?

'What should I do?' he asked. 'How can I win?'

'Be cunning,' Salazar advised. 'They'll underestimate you and focus on the other champions. Ignore your pride and use theirs against them. A serpent strikes from hiding.' Salazar affectionately stroked the snake draped over his shoulders. 'Complete the rituals. The first one carries more risk if done before adulthood, but the rewards are greater. The second is nearly risk-free. It will encourage your body to improve itself more rapidly, although that's a rather simplistic explanation. Neither will grant you incredible power, but they will help narrow the gap between you and the other champions. Tom Riddle derived great benefit from these, although he carried them further on his own afterward.'

Harry scowled at the painting, a nagging doubt surfacing. 'And look what happened to Tom Riddle. He became more monster than man.'

Salazar's eyes bore into Harry's. 'Intent is the most crucial aspect of magic. There's no such thing as light or dark; it all hinges on the intent with which power is wielded. You might not like it, but Albus Dumbledore isn't famous and admired because he's well-intentioned. He's celebrated because he aspired to achieve great things and possessed the power to make them happen.'

Damn right I don't like it, Harry thought, his jaw clenched, searching for a response. But he's right. Professor Dumbledore could probably do anything Riddle's done; he just chooses not to.

With a deep breath, Harry finally conceded, 'Fine, I'll do it.'

Salazar nodded in approval. 'A man who's not afraid to open his mind to things he doesn't like will always go further than one who covers his ears and refuses to listen.'

Faint footprints marred the ladder leading up to the books about rituals, but they were too large to belong to Ginny. Harry found them suspiciously close to his own size, which sent a shiver down his spine. He quickly scuffed the marks away with his feet.

'First two in the book,' Salazar directed. 'They're not very complex, just dangerous if you make a mistake.'

Harry dropped two battered books on top of a dusty copy of "Secrets of the Darkest Arts" and clambered down the ladder. Sheaves of parchment jutted from the pages of the large, black tome.

Tom Riddle's homework, no doubt, Harry mused as he picked up his books.

Turning to the painting, he asked, 'Am I likely to mess things up?'

'Not with me here,' Salazar reassured him. 'Now, take me out into the chamber. You're not drawing runes all over my tidy study.'

Ugh, I hate carrying this painting, Harry thought, wrestling with the cumbersome frame. Whoever cast the anti-levitating charm on it was a sadist of the highest order. Probably Salazar himself.

'Use the Flagrate spell,' Salazar instructed, as he sketched green and silver runes in the air using his wand. 'Like that. It's best to have nothing but your own magic involved in the ritual.'

Harry tapped the tip of his wand against his palm and peered at the green flames in the cracked paint. Flagrate's just conjured fire. I wonder if I can change the color.

With a mental image of purple flames in mind, he flicked his wand through the air, and indigo fire followed suit. Harry couldn't help but grin at his accomplishment.

'What's wrong with green?' Salazar asked, crossing his arms. 'Green is the best color.'

'I prefer purple,' Harry replied, undeterred. He etched the runes from the book onto the floor until he crouched within a seven-pointed star and triangle of violet runes.

Salazar, however, jabbed his wand at the last runes. 'Do that part again,' he instructed, cocking his head. 'In fact, the first part and the runes by your left foot need to be more like the book as well.'

Harry scrutinized them carefully but couldn't discern any difference. He redid them, thinking, Whatever, just in case.

'A few drops of blood at each of the points of the star and triangle,' Salazar directed. 'If you were some half-rate wizard instead of my descendant, we'd have to be careful and do these separately, or even use a triangle instead of the star.'

Harry drew his wand tip across his palm, breaking the skin and causing a thin line of red to well up and trickle into his cupped palm. He allowed a few drops to fall onto each of the points. 'What happens now?'

'You stand exactly at the center,' Salazar explained, pointing his wand at the middle of the star, his snake mirroring the motion with its tail. 'Then you channel a little magic. The ritual will help you access your magic more easily when you cast, as well as slightly increasing your power.'

Harry folded his arms.

Salazar sighed. 'Fine, let me elaborate. Think of your magic as a bubble. When you're born, it's a tiny bubble, but like all magical creatures, you have the innate ability to absorb magic and utilize it in various ways. As you grow toward maturity, the bubble gradually expands, absorbing magic from the world. However, you can also actively increase the size of your magical bubble by pushing it to its limits during your formative years. But this is a risky endeavor, as too much strain and stress can potentially warp how you use magic, or worse, strip you of control altogether. This ritual, to put it in simple terms that don't require extensive study to grasp, slightly alters the structure of the bubble. It makes drawing magic in or out more efficient, which, in turn, makes spellcasting more precise, reduces the risk of strain, and provides a minor boost in your overall power.'

'And if something goes wrong?' Harry inquired cautiously.

Salazar reassured him, 'Your runes are perfect, so unless you're interrupted, nothing will go wrong.'

'Humor me?' Harry requested, a hint of doubt lingering.

Salazar explained, 'If your bubble were to change excessively, it could lead to something rather intriguing. It's an extremely improbable outcome, though, and I've double-checked your runes.'

Harry probed further, 'And what about the other ritual? Any nasty surprises associated with that one?'

Salazar reassured him, 'If you happen to draw the triangle incorrectly or unevenly, the effects might be limited to specific parts of your body or certain aspects of improvement. In such a case, you can easily redo it to make corrections.'

Harry toyed with his glasses and pondered, 'Will it fix my eyesight?'

Salazar shook his head. 'No. This ritual enhances your body's ability to utilize its inherent attributes efficiently but won't rectify any pre-existing issues with your anatomy. It's more likely to give you the body of a fit fourteen-year-old and perhaps expedite your puberty.'

Harry grimaced. That's a shame. They're always falling off or fogging up. It's a miracle it hasn't happened at a more inconvenient time, like when facing something highly dangerous.

His frown deepened as he asked, 'I don't have to be naked for this, do I? It's quite chilly down here, and I'm pretty sure we're right beneath the lake.'

The snake buried its head in Salazar's robes.

Salazar reassured him, 'Only a highly precise and advanced ritual would be affected by clothing like yours. Fortunately, these two are not. You should probably leave your wand outside the star, just in case.'

Harry placed his holly and phoenix feather wand outside the edge of the runic star. 'I guess I'd better get started.' Determination shone in his eyes as the runes began to glow, and he steeled himself for what lay ahead. I won't turn back, he resolved. I won't even look back.

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