The Slytherin common room was bathed in its usual eerie green light, the flickering flames in the fireplace casting long shadows on the stone walls. The serpentine décor, combined with the low lighting, gave the room an atmosphere of cold, calculated control. It was the kind of place where secrets thrived and alliances were made and broken without a word.

Harry sat at his usual spot near the corner, his fingers tracing the pages of the book in front of him, though his mind was elsewhere. His wand lay across his lap, Stheno coiled loosely around his wrist, occasionally shifting as if sensing the tension in the air. Even though Harry couldn't see the curious glances being thrown his way by other students, he could feel them. Ever since he'd mastered the reading spell, whispers had started to spread through Slytherin. The Potter name was becoming a topic of discussion in hushed tones—his sudden rise in academic standing and growing reputation as a "prodigy" was gaining attention from all corners of the house.

The spell had become more and more proficient with time. In fact, it had reached the point where Harry was able to read at speeds upwards of 500 words per minute, something he hadn't thought possible. The sensation of knowledge flooding into his mind with such efficiency was exhilarating. Because of this, Harry had begun consuming books at a pace no one else could match. Whether in the Slytherin common room, in classes, or in the library, he was always reading, absorbing information at an astonishing rate.

He had already read through all the class material in all his subjects multiple times. While he hadn't comprehended everything perfectly, it was all there, filed away in his mind. Now, he was working to piece it all together, making connections that others might have taken years to understand. His growing intellect and constant studying weren't going unnoticed, especially in a house like Slytherin, where power and knowledge were prized above all else. The more Harry learned, the more eyes turned toward him, watching his every move.

Harry was no fool. He knew Slytherin was a world of politics, power, and manipulation. To many, he was still an outsider, despite being sorted into the house. But over the past few months, he had begun to understand the house's dynamics more clearly. He wasn't going to play the role of a passive observer anymore. His last encounter with Draco had shown him the importance of asserting himself—making it clear that he wasn't to be underestimated.

It was late evening, and the common room was filled with small clusters of students. Some were studying, others quietly conversing or playing wizard's chess. The older students, sitting near the fireplace, were discussing their upcoming OWLs, but Harry had noticed more than a few of them shooting him furtive glances.

Among them was a boy who had been watching him for weeks now—Terrence Mulciber, a 5th-year Slytherin from a no-name wizarding family. Harry had heard his name whispered here and there, mostly in connection to minor scuffles and incidents of bullying. Mulciber was not particularly influential in Slytherin's upper echelons, but he had a reputation for causing trouble, and he seemed to have taken a particular interest in Harry.

Tonight, Mulciber had decided to make his move.

As Harry turned a page in his book, trying to ignore the eyes he could feel on him, he heard the distinct sound of footsteps approaching. Mulciber's heavy boots clacked on the stone floor, and Harry could feel the shift in the atmosphere before the older boy even spoke. The background noise of the common room seemed to fade as Mulciber came to stand in front of him, his presence casting a shadow over Harry's seated form.

"Well, well," Mulciber drawled, his voice laced with mockery. "If it isn't our resident celebrity. The famous Harry Potter, hiding away in the corner like a good little Slytherin."

Harry didn't respond immediately. He kept his fingers on the Braille book in front of him, the texture of the raised dots grounding him as he listened to the sneer in Mulciber's voice. The book wasn't just any text; it was the Potter family accounts, a dense collection of financial records and assets that Harry had been working through for months. Unfortunately, the spell that allowed him to read printed books didn't work on Braille. It was a limitation he hadn't anticipated, and now he was waiting on the Goblins at Gringotts to send him the non-Braille version so he could continue reading the full extent of his family's legacy.

In the meantime, the Braille version served as a reminder of his past, his inheritance, and the responsibilities that came with being the last Potter. The weight of it all was almost as heavy as the tension growing in the common room. He could feel the eyes of other students turning toward them now, sensing the conflict brewing. Draco, no doubt lurking somewhere nearby, would be watching this exchange with keen interest.

When Harry finally spoke, his voice was calm, collected. "I didn't know sitting quietly was such an offense."

Mulciber's chuckle was low and cruel. "Oh, you've been quiet, Potter. But everyone knows it's only a matter of time before you start stirring up trouble. People like you always do. You think just because you've got a famous name, you're untouchable?"

Harry tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral, but inside he felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with confrontation. He knew what Mulciber was trying to do—provoke him, humiliate him in front of the others. But Harry wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait.

"That's ironic coming from you, but do tell what exactly it is you think I'm going to do, Mulciber?" Harry asked, his tone laced with mild curiosity. "Turn the common room into a battlefield? Declare myself the next Merlin?"

Mulciber smirked, his confidence bolstered by the snickers he heard from some of the students around him. "I wouldn't put it past you. Gryffindor blood runs through your veins, after all. Potters don't belong in Slytherin. You're just biding your time, waiting to make your move."

Harry felt Stheno shift on his wrist, her coils tightening slightly, as if sensing the growing tension. He reached down to rest his hand gently on her, calming the familiar as much as himself. He wasn't going to let Mulciber get under his skin.

"If that's all you've got, Mulciber," Harry said, his tone sharper now, but with a hint of amusement, "I'm disappointed. I thought this was Slytherin, the house of cunning, ambition, and strategy. But it seems more like a childish playground with your antics. Where's the cunning we Slytherins pride ourselves on?"

Harry tilted his head slightly, a smirk forming on his lips as he added, "As far as I can see, Mulciber, you don't have a cunning bone in your body. And that's saying something, considering I can't see."

A few students stifled laughs, and Mulciber's sneer faltered, momentarily thrown off by Harry's unexpected confidence and the way he turned the insult back on him.

He crossed his arms over his chest, looming over Harry with the confidence of someone who thought they had the upper hand. "You think you're special, don't you? Just because of your family name and fame. You think that makes you better than the rest of us?"

Harry stood up slowly, rising to his full height. He wasn't as tall as Mulciber, but he didn't need to be. The air in the room shifted as Harry straightened his back, his face composed, his expression unreadable. The murmurs in the common room died down, and all eyes were now on the confrontation.

Unknown to Harry, his usually dull, lifeless eyes—without a spark in them—began to swirl with a sickly emerald green, radiating the magic pulsing inside of him. The faint glow gave him an imposing figure, adding an eerie intensity to his calm demeanor. The atmosphere in the room grew heavy as the students around them sensed the raw magical energy Harry was unknowingly exuding, making him seem more formidable than ever before.

"Better than you?" Harry's voice was soft but filled with authority. "No. But I do think you're making a mistake by assuming that my name means nothing."

There was a beat of silence. Mulciber's eyes narrowed, but Harry pressed on, his voice growing colder.

"The Potter name is older and more respected than most families in this room. If you think I'm just another student to be pushed around, you're sorely mistaken. You might come from a no-name family, Mulciber, but the Potters are one of the oldest and wealthiest wizarding families in Britain. You want to cross me? Fine. But don't expect there won't be consequences."

Mulciber shifted, clearly taken aback by Harry's calm but cutting words. He hadn't expected Harry to respond with such confidence, nor had he anticipated that Harry would leverage his family's power so effectively.

Harry stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, but it was loud enough for Mulciber and those watching to hear. "Do you really want to be the one to start a feud with the Potter family? Because I can guarantee you, it won't end well for you."

The room was utterly silent now. Harry's words hung in the air like a warning bell, and even Mulciber, for all his bravado, seemed to hesitate. He glanced around the room, as if looking for support, but no one came to his aid. The Slytherins were watching, waiting to see how this would play out. Mulciber's confidence wavered as he realized that he had underestimated Harry.

The older boy gritted his teeth, his fists clenched at his sides. "You think you can scare me, Potter?"

"I don't need to scare you," Harry replied smoothly, his expression still calm. "I just need you to understand that you're playing a dangerous game. And right now, you're losing."

Mulciber glared at him, clearly torn between wanting to retaliate and knowing that Harry had already won. The room felt heavier with each passing second, but the outcome was clear.

Without another word, Mulciber turned on his heel and stalked back to his seat by the fireplace, his defeat evident in his stiff posture. The murmurs in the common room resumed, but this time they were filled with curiosity and a newfound respect for Harry.

Harry didn't sit back down. He remained standing for a moment, feeling the weight of the eyes still on him. His heart was racing, but outwardly, he remained composed. Stheno, sensing his calm, uncoiled from his wrist and slithered up his arm, her presence a reassuring weight.

Draco, who had been watching from a distance, said nothing, but Harry could feel his resentment simmering in the background. This was far from over.

As Harry finally sat back down, he allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He had stood his ground, and more importantly, he had sent a message. He wasn't going to be intimidated by the older students, nor would he allow anyone to push him around simply because he was the "outsider" in Slytherin.

He knew that this wouldn't be the last time he faced opposition, but for now, he had made his mark. The Potter name still carried weight, and Harry intended to use it to his advantage—whenever necessary.

Unknown to Harry, Daphne sat nearby, watching the entire exchange with an admiring stare. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she observed Harry's calm confidence and how he effortlessly turned the confrontation in his favor. There was a subtle shift in her gaze, a mix of respect and something else she wasn't ready to acknowledge just yet. But one thing was clear—Harry Potter was far more than she had first expected.

(Scene Break)

Daphne sat on her bed, her dorm room lit by the soft evening glow filtering through the window. The Greengrass family crest stared back at her from the seal of a freshly arrived letter, resting in her hands. She recognized the elegant, bold handwriting immediately—it was from her father. Her heart gave a slight jolt as she turned the envelope over in her hands. A month and a half had passed since she had written to him, explaining her situation as Harry Potter's guide. She hadn't marked the letter as urgent, knowing full well her father was a very busy man. And so, the response had taken its time in arriving.

Unknown to Harry, Daphne had already been dealing with the consequences of her role as his guide. Over the past weeks, pure-blooded snobs and influential families had begun to take notice of how much time she was spending with him. Their whispers, laden with thinly veiled disapproval, had reached her ears. Some openly questioned her loyalties, while others expressed their disdain for her association with a half-blood who, despite his famous name, was not a part of their inner circle. The pressure was growing, and although she was no longer Harry's official guide, the stigma from that time still lingered.

For weeks, Daphne had wondered what her father would say. Would he be displeased with her decisions? Concerned that she had exposed herself too much? She had wrestled with the burden of guiding Harry for months, feeling the ever-growing pressure of Slytherin politics and the precarious position she now found herself in. Associating with Harry had made her a potential target too. It was the reason she had written to her father in the first place, hoping for some advice on how to navigate the increasingly dangerous situation.

Even now, she wasn't sure if the arrival of this letter would bring her relief or more complications.

But now, as she held the letter, a part of her wasn't sure she wanted to know her father's opinion. There was something about the formal tone of the envelope, the weight of the letter, that felt heavy, as though it would carry more than just words of reassurance.

Taking a deep breath, she cracked the seal, carefully opening the letter. She pulled the parchment out and unfolded it, her eyes skimming over the words.

At first, her expression remained neutral, her well-practiced control over her emotions giving nothing away. But then, a small, almost bitter chuckle escaped her lips, and her brow furrowed slightly. The corners of her mouth tugged up in a smirk, though it was more in irony than amusement.

Her father had known. He had known all along. He was a part of it.

Daphne lowered the letter, her mind whirling with realization. The whole time she had been worrying about becoming a target, about whether getting too close to Harry would jeopardize her standing in Slytherin, her father had been aware of the arrangement. Dumbledore had reached out to him before the school year had even begun. The entire thing—her role as Harry's guide, the proximity to the Potter family heir—had been orchestrated.

Her father hadn't been concerned about her position in Slytherin at all. On the contrary, this was exactly what he had wanted. It wasn't just about guiding Harry for practical reasons—it was about positioning the Greengrass family strategically, aligning them with the Potters, one of the most powerful and respected families in the wizarding world. It was an opportunity they couldn't afford to pass up.

Daphne laughed again, softly, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all. The whole time, she had been wrestling with her growing closeness to Harry, trying to balance her own feelings and her place in Slytherin politics, only to find that her father had been quietly encouraging her to get close to him all along.

The irony wasn't lost on her. She had spent the last few months convincing herself that she needed to maintain a certain distance, telling herself that she couldn't afford to let her emotions get too involved. But now... now she felt something else entirely.

Her father's words echoed in her mind: this was a chance to align the Greengrass family with both Dumbledore and the Potters. A powerful connection for the future.

A part of Daphne felt relieved—relieved that she didn't have to worry about her family's backlash over her decision to be friends with Harry Potter. Her father wasn't angry or disappointed, and that lifted a weight off her chest. But that relief was quickly buried under a wave of fury that boiled beneath her calm exterior. She was royally pissed off.

Her and Harry had been played with like pawns by her father and Dumbledore alike. Daphne wasn't dumb—she knew exactly what this was. The intentions of both sides didn't escape her sharp mind. The Greengrass family gained two powerful allies—one in the legendary Potter family, and the other in the great Albus Dumbledore. Meanwhile, Dumbledore had secured another family to back him in the Wizengamot. That's all they were. Pawns in a larger political game.

And that thought made her blood boil. She was his daughter, for Merlin's sake! And he treated her like a tool to do his bidding, playing her like any other piece on the chessboard. On top of that, he hadn't even had the decency to tell her. He could have at least warned her before she ever came to Hogwarts. Instead, for months, she had struggled with the situation, conflicted about what to do, torn between her duties and her own feelings.

Only now did she realize the bitter truth—she never had a choice in the matter from the very beginning.

Her hands shook as she folded the letter and placed it back on her bedside table. The betrayal, the manipulation... it was almost too much to process. For months, she had been grappling with the consequences of her growing closeness to Harry, wrestling with what it might mean for her standing in Slytherin, her family, and herself. And now, to find out that all along, she had been following a plan set in motion by her father and Dumbledore? It infuriated her.

Daphne took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside her, but it was no use. She felt trapped—her family's ambitions and Dumbledore's schemes tightening around her like a noose. For the first time in her life, she felt utterly powerless, despite being caught in the middle of two of the most powerful forces in the wizarding world.

She stood up abruptly from the bed, pacing back and forth in front of the window, her mind racing. The grounds of Hogwarts, peaceful in the dim light, only served to heighten her agitation. Her father had played her. Dumbledore had played her. They had all acted like she was nothing more than a cog in their grand plans.

But now, more than ever, Daphne was determined. She wouldn't just be their pawn. She would find her own way through this, her own path. If she had to play the game, then fine—she'd play. But she would do it on her terms, not theirs.

With a final glance at the letter, Daphne felt her anger harden into resolve. They thought they could control her, but they had another thing coming.

(Scene Break)

The library was quiet in the late evening, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and ink. The flicker of candlelight danced across the high shelves, casting long shadows on the rows of ancient books that lined the walls. Harry sat at a table tucked away in a secluded corner, far from prying eyes. He had been spending more time here than anywhere else lately, diving into the depths of magical theory, pushing himself further than any of his classmates.

Tonight, Harry was focused on something specific: magic that could enhance or alter one's senses.

He had been fascinated by this idea ever since he'd begun using the spell to read. Now, he wanted to see how far magic could go in compensating for his blindness—or even beyond that, in enhancing his natural abilities. But so far, what he had found was... lacking.

Harry leaned over the open book in front of him, "Advanced Theories in Charms and Hexes." He had spent the last few weeks pouring over volumes like this one, learning everything he could about sensory magic. There were plenty of spells that could enhance hearing or touch temporarily, but they weren't permanent solutions. Many of them were unstable, too short-lived to be of much use, or far too advanced to be practical for someone still in his first year.

Still, it didn't stop Harry from trying to understand the theory behind them.

Magic is the manifestation of will, he thought, tracing the words on the page with his wand. Intent and focus are the keys to shaping it.

He remembered Dumbledore and Nicholas' explanation during one of their lessons—how magic was alive, how it responded to the strength of one's imagination and willpower. Being blind, Harry had always relied on his imagination, perhaps more than anyone else. He had to imagine the world around him, picture things he had never seen. It was no wonder his magic had always felt... different than others.

That was something else Harry had learned in his readings. Magic wasn't a static force; it was dynamic, shaped by the caster's intent and, more importantly, their emotional state. His recent lessons had delved deeper into the nature of magic as a living force, how it reacts not just to words or wand movements but to the very will of the wizard.

In "The Principles of Sensory Spells," a passage he had recently read stuck with him: The sensory systems of a wizard can be amplified, but only in short bursts due to the body's inability to sustain heightened perception for long periods. Most spells in this branch of magic function as temporary enhancements, as the body must eventually return to its natural equilibrium.

That was the limitation Harry kept encountering. Even with powerful charms like Sonorus to amplify sound, or the touch-based spells that could enhance tactile sensitivity, they all faded after a time. They weren't sustainable. But what if there was a way to make those effects last longer, or to find a permanent solution?

The more he read, the more he realized there was so much more to magic than he had ever known. Charms weren't just simple spells to make objects fly or light up a room. The deeper mechanics of spellcraft involved an understanding of magical energy flows, how magic interacted with the physical world, and how those interactions could be manipulated. Harry had been fascinated to learn about how intent and visualization played into this—how the strength of one's belief could enhance a spell's effectiveness.

But it also made him wonder: Could there be spells that went beyond just temporary sensory boosts? Could magic actually help him see—or at least perceive the world in a way that would compensate for his blindness in the long term?

As he flipped through another page, Harry's thoughts lingered on one specific theory he had recently come across—the idea that magic could be used to connect a wizard's mind to their surroundings. This was beyond the standard sensory-enhancing spells. The theory suggested that if a wizard's magical core was strong enough, they could extend their awareness beyond the limitations of their physical senses, allowing them to "see" in a way that didn't rely on sight.

The book he had found it in was ancient and filled with speculative theories, but the concept intrigued him. What if he could use his magic to tap into the world around him in a way no one else could? Not through sight, but through pure magical awareness?

He had been experimenting with this idea in secret, practicing in the empty classrooms late at night. So far, he hadn't been able to get it to work, but he could feel that he was on the edge of something—something powerful. Every time he tried to tap into the ambient magic around him, he could feel the faintest tingling in his senses, as though the magic was responding to his will, but it wasn't enough. Not yet.

Harry leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep breath. He had been pushing himself hard these last few months, but he wasn't discouraged. The potential was there—he just had to figure out how to harness it. Maybe he needed to approach it from a different angle, or perhaps his magic simply wasn't strong enough yet. Either way, he wasn't going to give up.

His fingers brushed the cover of another book on the table, one he had yet to dive into: "Wizards Beyond Sight: An Exploration of Non-Visual Perception." It was the next in a long line of texts he had requested, searching for any hint of magic that could help him. He would read it cover to cover, just as he had with the others, and if there was even the slightest glimmer of a new idea, he would pursue it relentlessly.

In the back of his mind, Harry knew that this journey was just beginning. The more he learned, the more possibilities opened up to him. Magic was so much more than the practical, surface-level spells they were taught in class. It was deeper, more intricate—a reflection of the wizard who wielded it.

And Harry was determined to shape his magic into something that could give him the freedom he craved. He wouldn't just rely on the spells of others. If the magic he needed didn't exist, he would find a way to create it.

With that thought in mind, Harry pulled the book toward him, placed his wand against its cover, and whispered the incantation that would allow him to dive into yet another world of knowledge. The soft purple glow of his wand illuminated the page, and the words began to flow into his mind.

However, just like many of the others before it, this book was useless. Harry's heart sank as the words flowed into his mind, page after page, yet none of them offered anything remotely close to what he was searching for. The most useful spell detailed in the book was one that could temporarily enhance one's sense of smell to something more akin to a bloodhound. Interesting, but not what he needed. It was just another short-lived enhancement, fleeting and impractical for his greater goal.

He closed the book with a sigh, frustration building inside him. Despite the mountain of knowledge he had absorbed, it all felt inadequate. All this reading, all the endless hours in the library, had led him to one sour conclusion: the days of wizards and witches were fading.

The realization gnawed at him, heavy and bitter. With every book he read, Harry felt it more acutely—the undeniable truth that wizards and witches had grown weaker with each passing generation. The frustration had been growing as he sifted through texts from various eras of magical history, and now it was all too clear.

Unlike the Muggles, Harry thought darkly, who evolved with each generation, advancing with new technology, new ideas, wizards were stagnating. Muggles built machines that pushed the boundaries of what was possible, constantly innovating, improving. Meanwhile, the magical world was slowly withering, clinging to old traditions and ancient bloodlines that no longer held the same strength they once did. Families that had once held immense power were now long gone, and with them, their secrets, their knowledge, and their spells had vanished too.

The irony wasn't lost on him—the wizarding world was so obsessed with maintaining their power and prestige that they were actually losing it. And yet, no one seemed to notice. The pure-blood families, the Ministry, even some of the professors at Hogwarts—all of them were blind to the slow decline of their own society. They reveled in old glories and past accomplishments, failing to see that the magic they prized was fading with every passing year.

He thought of Merlin, Morgan le Fay, and the Hogwarts founders—figures who, in their time, wielded magic so powerful that today's witches and wizards would barely comprehend it. They were legends, their magical prowess nearly godlike, far beyond anything that wizards like Dumbledore or Voldemort could muster. And yet, they had lived centuries ago. Shouldn't modern wizards, with all their accumulated knowledge, be stronger, more advanced? But it was the opposite.

What happened to us? Harry wondered bitterly. How had they fallen so far?

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. The wizarding world had the potential to be extraordinary, yet it was wasting away. Its inhabitants were too busy with petty politics, family feuds, and outdated traditions to realize that they were losing something far more important: their future.

Harry clenched his fists, feeling a slow burn of determination in his chest. He wasn't going to accept this. He refused to be part of a world that was content with stagnation. There had to be a way to change things—to bring back the strength and innovation that once defined magic. And if no one else could see it, then maybe it was up to him. Maybe one day, he could change that.

He thought about the books he'd read, the secrets hidden in ancient texts, the spells that had been lost to time. There had to be more out there. There had to be something that could unlock the potential he knew magic still held. Maybe it wasn't about finding the answers in these dusty old books, but about creating something new. If the world of wizards and witches had grown weak, then maybe it was time to break the cycle and forge a new path.

The weight of his frustration began to shift into something else—determination. Harry knew he was still young, still learning, but the fire inside him was undeniable. He had seen what magic could do, what it should be able to do, and he wasn't going to stop until he found a way to reach that power.

He would change things. He had to.

With that thought, Harry placed the book back on the pile and leaned back in his chair, the gears in his mind turning. He wasn't just looking to compensate for his blindness anymore. He was looking for something bigger—something that could revive the strength of the wizarding world and propel it into the future. He hoped that one day, he could be the one to lead that change.

For now, though, there was still so much more to learn, and Harry wasn't about to stop searching.

(Scene Break)

The Slytherin dungeons were cold and dim, lit only by flickering green torches that cast long shadows on the ancient stone walls. The air was thick with secrecy, and the quiet murmur of voices echoed softly off the vaulted ceilings. It was late, well past curfew, but for those gathered in this secluded corner of the dungeons, the rules didn't matter. The gathering was small but significant—only the most influential and elitist of the Slytherin families had been summoned.

Draco Malfoy stood at the head of the group, his pale features illuminated by the cold fire of the torches. His expression was sharp, calculating, his posture rigid with the arrogance that came from generations of pure-blood privilege. Around him sat the heirs of old wizarding families: Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and a few other older students from the influential dark and pure-blood families. Each of them bore the same haughty, superior expression, but there was an undercurrent of tension in the room, one that Draco intended to stoke.

He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the room, and began.

"We have a problem," Draco said, his voice low and venomous. "And it's a problem that could grow into something far more dangerous if we don't address it now."

The others shifted slightly, some glancing at one another, curious. Draco's gaze hardened as he continued.

"I'm talking about Harry Potter."

At the mention of Harry's name, a few sneers and murmurs rippled through the group, but Draco pressed on, his tone becoming more fervent.

"I don't care if he's blind, or if he walks around here like he's just another student," Draco said, his voice dripping with disdain. "He's not. And you all know it. He's a half-blood, but he's also the last heir of the Potter family—a family that's been allied with the Light for decades. And whether you like it or not, that makes him dangerous."

Pansy Parkinson raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a smirk. "Dangerous? Potter?" she scoffed. "He's just a half-blood. His mother was a Mudblood, Draco. How can someone like him be a threat to us?"

Draco's gaze snapped to her, icy and cold. "Don't be stupid, Pansy. Half-blood or not, he's already gaining influence. Have you seen how the others talk about him? He's at the top of our year, mastering spells faster than anyone else, and people are starting to respect him for it. Even here in Slytherin."

The group quieted at that, uncomfortable glances exchanged among them. It was true. Despite his status as a half-blood, Harry's rapid rise in Slytherin was becoming harder and harder to ignore. His academic prowess, his unique mastery of magic, and his ability to stand up to older students like Mulciber had earned him more respect than any of them were willing to admit.

Draco continued, his voice now laced with venom. "If we allow him to grow unchecked, what do you think happens next? He disrupts everything we stand for. He's already gaining influence, not just here, but in the broader wizarding world. And when he grows up, when he comes into his own—he'll become a force in the Wizengamot too."

The mention of the Wizengamot brought an uncomfortable silence over the room. The ancient political body, where the pure-blood families held considerable sway, was at the heart of their power. Draco's argument was clear: Harry, despite being a half-blood, had the potential to upend the balance of power they had worked so hard to maintain.

Theodore Nott, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke, his voice steady but thoughtful. "You think he's aiming for that kind of power? He doesn't seem interested in politics. Not yet, anyway."

Draco's eyes flashed with frustration. "That's the point, Theo. Not yet. But he will be. He's the last of the Potter line. His family is old and powerful. Don't forget that his father fought against the Dark Lord and his Grandfather against Grindlewald. And what do you think will happen when Potter becomes more than just a student? When he grows into his full potential? Do you really think he'll just sit back and let the rest of us maintain our influence?"

The room grew tense. Draco's words struck a chord. The idea of a half-blood—Harry Potter, no less—gaining influence and power within the wizarding world was unsettling. Not because Harry had shown any overt ambition, but because of the potential he carried. The last Potter, allied with the light side, and far more capable than they had initially given him credit for.

Blaise Zabini leaned forward, his dark eyes calculating. "You make it sound like he's going to march into the Wizengamot tomorrow, Draco. We have time. He's still just a student."

Draco shook his head, his frustration mounting. "You're missing the point. If we wait too long, it'll be too late. Every day we let him grow stronger, he becomes more of a threat. He's already studying magic most of us haven't even heard of. And what happens when he starts making alliances outside of Slytherin? Do you think Dumbledore will just sit back and watch?"

The group shifted uncomfortably again. Dumbledore's influence was not something to be underestimated, especially in the political sphere. The idea of Harry becoming an ally to Dumbledore and upsetting the delicate balance of power in the Wizengamot was enough to make even the most confident of them uneasy.

Draco, seeing the effect his words had on the room, pressed on. His voice dropped lower, but it carried the weight of cold conviction. "Remember this, all of you: right now, Hogwarts is our playground, our training ground. It's where we learn, test ourselves, and prepare for the future. But one day soon, the Wizengamot will be our real playground—and that one lasts for the rest of our lives. What we do here is just a rehearsal for what's to come, and the stakes will be much higher.

"Harry Potter may seem like nothing right now—just a blind half-blood," Draco sneered, his lip curling in disdain. "But he is still the last Potter, and that name means something. One day, not maybe or if, but when he joins the Wizengamot, his family name will hold power. And if we're not careful, he'll use that power to disrupt everything we've been raised to protect. Do you really want to wait until then to deal with him?"

A hush fell over the group. The reminder that their future wasn't confined to the walls of Hogwarts, but to the political and social battleground that was the Wizengamot, hit home. Hogwarts might have been a playground, but the power they sought extended far beyond the classroom. Draco's words painted a picture of the future—one where Harry Potter, with his ancient family name and undeniable magical potential, could challenge everything they stood for.

Pansy, who had been quiet for a moment, spoke up again, her voice more measured now. "So what do you suggest, Draco? You've convinced us he's a threat, but how do we deal with him? He's got Dumbledore's protection, and he's not exactly someone we can just... get rid of."

Draco's expression darkened, and for a moment, his frustration was palpable. "We can't attack him outright, not yet. But we can't let him keep growing, either. We need to clip his wings before he learns to fly."

The phrase hung in the air, thick with malice. But there was no immediate answer. No one knew exactly how to go about "clipping" Harry's wings, not when he was growing stronger by the day and had powerful allies at his back.

Nott frowned, his tone cautious. "It's risky, Draco. He's not the kind of enemy you want to make lightly. If we move against him too soon, it could backfire. And if Dumbledore finds out... it's not just Potter we'll have to worry about."

Draco's hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he nodded reluctantly. He knew they were right. Moving too quickly would draw unwanted attention, but waiting too long would give Harry the advantage. It was a delicate balance, one that required patience and subtlety.

"We'll keep an eye on him," Draco said finally, his voice cold and calculating. "We'll watch him closely, see if we can find a weakness. But mark my words: if we do nothing, Potter will become a far bigger problem than any of you realize."

The room was silent, the weight of Draco's words settling over them like a heavy fog. They knew he was right. Harry Potter wasn't just another student. He was a half-blood, yes, but he was also the last heir of a powerful family, a symbol of everything they had worked to control in the wizarding world.

The gathering ended in an uneasy silence, the pure-blood heirs retreating to their own thoughts, each considering how best to protect their own families' legacies. But for Draco, the meeting had solidified one thing in his mind: Harry Potter was a threat, and no matter what it took, he would find a way to stop him.

As the others left, Draco remained behind, his mind already working through the possibilities. He would watch, he would wait, but when the time came, he would be ready.

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