The library was as peaceful as ever, its shelves lined with the weight of centuries-old books, filled with knowledge both mundane and magical. Harry liked the quiet here. It gave him a chance to think, to strategize, away from the constant chatter of students still buzzing over the Troll incident. He had spent enough time around Gellert to know that laying low after a public display of power was always the wisest move.
Today, Harry was idly browsing through a selection of older tomes on magical theory. Some of the books here were archaic, barely relevant to the cutting-edge techniques he'd been trained in, but he knew better than to dismiss them entirely. There were always useful nuggets of information, hidden where no one else thought to look.
As he flipped through a particularly dusty book on Charms, he felt a presence behind him. He glanced up to see Hermione Granger standing awkwardly in the aisle, clutching a stack of books to her chest, her face a mixture of determination and hesitation.
"Potter," she started, her voice a little shaky, "I just... wanted to thank you. For saving me—and Ron, and Neville—from the troll."
Harry turned to face her, setting the book aside. He studied her for a moment, noting the nervous energy in her posture, the way she fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. She was clearly uncomfortable, but there was something about her that intrigued him. Hermione was sharp—brilliant even, judging by the way she'd handled herself in classes so far.
And yet, she was inexperienced. Easily swayed. Harry had already decided that she could be useful. Whether as an ally or a follower, he hadn't quite worked out yet.
"There's no need to thank me, Hermione," Harry said smoothly, offering her a warm smile. "Anyone would have done the same."
Hermione flushed, clearly not expecting his graciousness. "No, I mean... it was incredible what you did. I—I don't know how you did it, but—" She stopped, looking embarrassed, her eyes wide as if she had just realized she was babbling. "You really are something else," she mumbled quickly, trying to correct herself.
Harry chuckled softly, allowing just enough charm to soften the moment. "I've had a... unique upbringing," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But it was nothing, really. I'm just glad you're all safe. You handled yourself well too. Most would have frozen in a situation like that." She had, in truth, frozen—but Harry didn't see that fact as relevant to his goals.
Hermione blinked, surprised at the compliment. "I... didn't really do much," she said, looking down, her cheeks flushed pink.
"But you kept your composure," Harry added, keeping his tone light. "That's more important than you think. It's a quality I admire."
Hermione glanced up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "You—admire me?"
Harry gave a small nod, maintaining his composed demeanor. "Of course. You're one of the brightest students in our year. You have potential, Hermione. Great potential."
The words were chosen deliberately, and they had the desired effect. Hermione's face turned an even deeper shade of red, her posture stiffening slightly as she processed his words. It was clear she wasn't used to this kind of attention, least of all from someone like him.
"I—I don't know what to say," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You don't have to say anything," Harry replied smoothly. "Just... keep being yourself."
Hermione blinked at him, clearly flustered. She opened her mouth to say something else, but then thought better of it. With a quick nod and a flustered, "Thank you!" she turned on her heel and hurried off down the aisle, her books nearly toppling over in her rush to leave.
Harry watched her go, a small smirk playing on his lips. She was exactly as he had expected—sharp, eager to please, and easily flustered. She would make an excellent ally if guided properly. Or perhaps a follower, should the situation call for it.
Either way, she was a piece he could move. And he was always thinking several moves ahead.
That evening, the Great Hall was buzzing with its usual dinner chatter, but Harry could feel the weight of curious eyes on him from all corners of the room. The story of the Troll had spread like wildfire, and though no one had been brave enough to outright ask him for details, the students were clearly waiting for some kind of explanation.
Harry wasn't in a rush to give it to them. He preferred to let rumors circulate for a bit, to see where the winds of gossip blew. But apparently, Neville and Ron had other plans.
Harry had barely taken a bite of his food when Neville Longbottom, with Ron Weasley trailing behind him, approached the Ravenclaw table, both looking sheepish and eager at the same time.
"Harry!" Neville called out, loud enough to turn heads from nearby tables. "We wanted to—uh—thank you again. Properly, this time."
Ron nodded quickly, standing beside Neville. "Yeah, mate. You saved all our skins back there."
The sudden attention from nearby students caused the hum of the Great Hall to shift, conversations dropping off as more and more people turned to watch the scene unfold. Harry's gaze swept across the hall. Practically everyone was watching now—Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and even a few curious glances from the Slytherin and Hufflepuff tables. The time had come, it seemed, to address the elephant in the room.
Rather than shy away from the spotlight, Harry decided to embrace it.
He offered Neville and Ron a gracious nod and stood up slowly from his seat. "No need to thank me, Neville," he said, his voice carrying just the right balance of modesty and confidence. He did not need to project, the Hall had fallen silent—everyone would hear.
"You and Ron did your part too."
Neville's eyes widened, and Ron looked surprised but pleased by the acknowledgment. The rest of the hall was now watching intently, the room growing quieter by the second.
Realizing he had the attention of the entire school, Harry decided this was as good a time as any to address the growing curiosity surrounding the incident. He had known that this day would come—better to control the narrative himself than let wild speculation run rampant.
"Since I know many of you are wondering about what happened with the troll," Harry began, raising his voice slightly so it could carry through the hall, "I figured I might as well explain it myself."
The room fell into a hush, students leaning in, eager to hear his story.
"I have studied telekinesis since I was seven," Harry said simply, shrugging as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "It was... well, where I grew up, there weren't exactly a lot of adventure novels or even Muggle televisions to keep me entertained."
He let the comment sit for a moment, allowing the students to absorb that strange tidbit about his past. The Ravenclaws, in particular, exchanged curious glances. They had never heard of a seven-year-old mastering telekinesis, but Harry's tone made it sound almost casual.
"So, I practiced telekinesis instead," Harry continued. "It's something I picked up because it was fun and challenging. I didn't think it would ever come in handy for something like... well, a Troll." He chuckled softly, his tone light, as if he hadn't been cornering a monstrous creature with ease mere days ago.
He could see the wide-eyed stares from the younger students and the whispered exchanges from some of the older ones. Harry took note of their reactions, the awe in some, the intrigue in others.
"But it's not as impressive as it sounds," Harry added, downplaying his ability while keeping just the right amount of mystique. "Telekinesis is all about focus and control. Anyone can do it with enough practice." He glanced over at the Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy was sitting with a hard expression. Harry caught his eye for a brief second before turning back to his fellow Ravenclaws and Gryffindors. "It's just a skill. That's all."
A murmur went through the hall as Harry finished his explanation, and he could tell the gears were turning in their minds. By downplaying his abilities, Harry had made it clear that while his skills were unique, he didn't consider himself better than anyone else. But at the same time, he had piqued their curiosity even more. How many other surprises did the Boy Who Lived have up his sleeve?
He sat back down, the attention still lingering on him but now mixed with admiration and respect. Ron and Neville, still standing beside him, looked like they were unsure of what to say.
"Thanks again," Neville mumbled, still looking slightly in awe of Harry.
Ron, on the other hand, just grinned. "Blimey, Harry. You make it sound easy."
Harry smiled back, though his mind was already elsewhere. This little moment of attention would serve its purpose for now. He had other plans, bigger moves to make.
In the days following his impromptu explanation at dinner, Harry couldn't help but be amused by how quickly his housemates—and many other students—latched onto the idea of telekinesis. By the end of the week, it seemed that every corner of the school had students furrowing their brows in intense concentration, clutching pebbles or marbles as they tried to move them without a wand.
The library, the common rooms, even History of Magic—everywhere Harry went, he saw students, mostly first and second years, focusing all their energy on making a pebble twitch. And to his quiet satisfaction, some of them were succeeding. He'd caught a few tiny stones quivering in midair when the students thought no one was watching. It was small progress, of course, but that didn't matter. Harry knew the power of encouragement.
Whenever he observed a pebble move, even a fraction, he made a point to offer praise. A quick "Well done!" or "Keep practicing—you're on the right track!" was all it took. And each time, the students beamed, their confidence bolstered by the Boy Who Lived himself. It was a simple way to build trust, and social capital came cheap when all it took was a few kind words. He was, after all, laying the groundwork for future allies, followers, or simply those who might owe him a favor someday.
—
The next flying lesson had arrived, and this time, he was determined not to have a repeat of the chaos with the rogue broom. Madam Hooch, with her usual no-nonsense demeanor, quickly lined them up, reminding the class of the basic rules.
The lesson started off smoothly enough. Everyone mounted their brooms, kicked off the ground, and began practicing basic maneuvers in the air. Harry, for the most part, kept himself under control. At first.
But soon, the thrill of flying—something he hadn't fully appreciated until now—took over. The freedom, the wind in his hair, the feeling of weightlessness... it was intoxicating. Before long, he found himself pushing the broom faster, testing its limits. He began weaving between his classmates, executing sharp turns and diving through the air with a fluidity that felt more natural than he'd anticipated.
He started to try a few simple acrobatic moves. He didn't even realize he was doing it at first—a quick barrel roll here, a sudden loop there—until he noticed the startled looks on the faces of his classmates below.
"Potter!" Madam Hooch's sharp voice cut through the air like a whip. "What do you think you're doing?"
Harry slowed down, hovering in place as Hooch approached, her face stern.
"That's enough showing off!" she snapped. "You might have saved Finch-Fletchley last time, but that doesn't mean you can go pulling stunts in my class."
Harry offered her a sheepish grin, though inwardly, he was still riding the high of the flight. "Sorry, Madam Hooch. Got carried away."
Hooch narrowed her eyes but, to Harry's surprise, didn't seem truly angry. "I'm letting you off with a warning this time. But if I see anything like that again, you'll be in detention."
Harry nodded, still grinning as he landed smoothly on the ground. "Understood."
As the lesson wrapped up and the students began dismounting their brooms, Harry lingered for a moment, still riding the thrill of his earlier stunts. Flying was... freeing. He hadn't expected to enjoy it so much. Before this, he'd always dismissed Quidditch and broom sports as frivolous distractions—nothing more than a waste of time when compared to real power, to mastering magic. And yet, now that he had tasted the exhilaration of acrobatics in the sky, he found himself rethinking that stance.
As he walked toward the broom shed, he overheard his housemates still chattering excitedly.
"With moves like that, Harry would crush it in Quidditch," one of the boys whispered, glancing over at him.
"Yeah, imagine him as Seeker! There's no way anyone else could catch the Snitch before him," another added, eyes wide.
Harry gave a small, bemused smile but didn't join in their conversation. His initial impression of Quidditch hadn't changed entirely—it was still a distraction, a game that had little to do with what truly mattered in the grander schemes of power and control. Yet, the thought lingered: It might be... fun.
Fun hadn't been high on his list of priorities for a long time. Gellert had always emphasized discipline, strategy, and purpose above all else. But perhaps the occasional distraction wouldn't hurt. And the social benefits of being on the team, of course, could be worth more than he'd initially considered.
As Harry secured his broom, he mentally filed the idea away. He wouldn't commit to anything yet—there was too much to study, too much to learn. But maybe... just maybe, he'd see what Quidditch had to offer.
For now, he reminded himself, there's no need to rush.