The castle is quiet.

Not just empty — silent. Summer still has its grip on Hogwarts. No students running through the corridors. No professors bustling. No broomsticks sweeping overhead or owls hooting through open windows. Just stillness, stretching down the stone halls like fog that forgot how to lift.

It's so quiet I can hear my own breath.

Apep shifts on my shoulders, coils flexing with sleepy irritation. His head rises just enough to flick his tongue near my jaw before settling back down.

"Thisss hallway isss boring," he complains. "Too cold. Too much ssstone. No sssmell of food or warmth or anything living."

"You're not wrong," I murmur. "But if thissss worksss, it won't ssssstay boring."

I've paced the seventh floor twice already, making sure I had the right tapestry—Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls ballet. One of the trolls is currently holding a gnome like a club while the music resets. It's as ridiculous as I remember from the books, which is reassuring in a weird way.

Across from the tapestry is a blank stretch of wall. No markings. No indication that it's anything more than what it looks like. But it is.

The Room of Requirement. A room that becomes what you want. As long as you ask the right way.

Apep coils tighter, tucking his head beneath the collar of my shirt like he's burrowing in. "It'sss too early for failure," he mutters. "Try the door trick already."

"Yeah, yeah." I roll my shoulders back. "Let's give it a go."

I take three slow steps along the wall, keeping my mind focused.

"I want a room," I say softly, "where time flows inside but not outside. Where I can train for as long as I want, and no one will notice I was gone."

I stop.

Turn.

Stare at the wall.

Nothing.

Just stone. Old and uncaring. The same it's always been.

I wait a beat longer, as if it might suddenly change its mind and reveal a doorway. It doesn't.

I sigh. "Alright, fine. Too much to ask."

Apep makes a snorting sound — his version of "told you so." "You tried to outsssmart magic. Magic doesn't like that."

"I figured it was worth a shot," I mutter. "Would've been neat. Come out a hundred years later, fully trained, magic practically leaking out of my pores."

"Or you'd come out dissssolved into disssappointment and bone."

"Also fair."

I press a hand to the wall, just to feel it. Solid. Cold. Utterly mundane.

It was a long shot. A cheat-code idea. But I had to try. If I'm going to survive here, I need every advantage I can get — and if there's a room that plays with time? That's not just an advantage. That's a power fantasy waiting to happen.

But no. Unlike what some fanfiction had it wasn't going to be this easy.

I pull back and think briefly about The Room of Hidden Things. That place is canon. Real. Tangled in history and secrets. It's a dragon's hoard of discarded magic, and I will get to it.

Eventually.

But not today. That's a room you raid after preparation, not on a whim. There could be anything in there — cursed artifacts, possessed armor, and most importantly the horcrux. I'd be a moron to walk in with nothing but curiosity and a wand I can barely use.

I roll my neck, shake out my arms, and try again.

"Alright," I say, stepping back into place. "Let's get what I actually need."

Apep slides his head out again, curious. "Training?"

"Training."

I start pacing again..

"I want a room to practice swordplay."

Three passes.

When I turn this time, the wall is gone.

In its place is a tall silver door, etched with golden scrollwork, two swords crossed in the center like a crest. The air hums with that subtle magical vibration I'm starting to recognize — not sound, but sensation. Like pressure behind the eyes or a low note in the chest.

I grin.

Apep flicks his tongue, interested now. "Thisss one isss different."

"Yeah," I say. "This one's real."

I step closer and run a hand over the door. It's warm. Smooth, but not perfectly — there's a texture to the engravings. Like it's been handled before. Used. Not ancient, not new. Just… alive.

I glance at Apep. "You ready?"

He curls into a tighter coil. "Isss it dangerous?"

"Hopefully not."

He flicks his tail, annoyed and satisfied at once.

I rest my hand on the handle and take a breath. This is what I came for. Not spectacle. Not shortcuts.

A space to train.

The door opens without a sound.

Warm light spills out—amber and gold, glowing like sunset on polished stone. I take one step inside and stop cold.

The floor is black marble, veined with gold, catching the light like molten threads. It's smooth underfoot, flawless. The walls are dark stone, inlaid with silver runes that pulse gently as I pass. Everything gleams. Everything breathes quiet power.

The ceiling arches high overhead, ribbed like cathedral vaulting. Floating sconces cast a steady, golden light—no torches, no smoke. Just warmth, soft and rich, the kind that makes shadows pool in the corners like velvet.

Apep slides out from my collar and coils loosely around my shoulders again, tongue flicking. "Ooh," he hisses. "You didn't sssay it would be pretty."

"I didn't know it would be," I murmur.

Because it is. It's beautiful. Regal. Built not just for function, but for style—my style. The Room didn't just give me what I asked for. It gave me what I would've designed.

To the left, a wall of gleaming weapons—all lined with obsessive care. Pristine. Immaculate. Each one rests in a custom mount carved from dark wood and brass, labeled with thin gold script. I spot a rapier with a knuckle bow polished to a mirror sheen. A shamshir with a blood-groove inlaid with gold. A Viking-style sword — Carolingian era — in a scabbard embossed with celtic knotwork.

Past that, a sunken sparring circle edged in white stone, surrounded by floating wooden rings of varying sizes—each ring trimmed in silver, hovering weightless in gentle rotation.

On the far side of the room, a row of humanoid training dummies stands poised, arms extended, expressions blank. They're carved from a deep wood I don't recognize—lacquered black with gilded joints. Even the practice targets look expensive.

And in the corner—just waiting—two golems. Not looming or hostile. Patient. Sculpted from the same black marble as the floor, but matte, as if they're unfinished. Incomplete until called upon.

I breathe out slowly, turning in place.

Every surface glows. Every piece was chosen. This room didn't just listen. It understood me.

"Thisss place isss ridiculousss," Apep hisses, but there's approval in it.

"It's perfect," I say.

And it is.

I let the silence linger, soaking in the grandeur. Everything gleams, but nothing feels fake. The air hums gently—not with danger, but potential. The kind of stillness just before motion. A room that breathes with you, but doesn't speak unless spoken to.

I walk toward the sword rack first. Each weapon would have been worth thousands of dollars. The materials—dark steel, silver,shimmering gems—gleam under the ambient light. One saber has a grip wrapped in deep green leather, embossed with serpents. Another, a spatha, its hilt crowned with black opal.

I don't touch anything yet. Not because I'm afraid to—because I want to savor it.

Apep slithers looser around my shoulders and lifts his head toward the sconces. "Could usssse more warmth."

"Hold on," I say, distracted as I eye a gilded estoc.

But the moment hangs, and I glance sideways at an empty alcove. "Give him something, too," I say absently. "Something warm. And dramatic."

The stone trembles—just slightly.

Then, as if exhaling, the wall reshapes.

A raised platform slides up near the far corner, black volcanic stone veined with glowing red. A heating enchantment pulses beneath the surface, gentle and steady. Above it, a soft shaft of artificial sunlight opens in the ceiling, casting golden warmth like a focused spotlight.

At the base of the platform, a snow white mouse darts out of a small silver burrow, its tail twitching like a dare.

Apep makes a pleased noise deep in his chest. "Yessss. That'll do." He slithers down my back with a smooth drop and hits the marble floor with barely a sound. In an instant, he's off—chasing the mouse with an almost lazy elegance, like a prince indulging sport.

I watch him go, then turn back to the rack.

"Move the swords closer to the sparring circle," I say, half-expecting nothing.

The sword rack slides to the right. Not jerky. Not mechanical. Like it wanted to be there.

My eyebrows lift.

"Expand the training circle," I try.

The white marble boundary glides outward by a foot, seamlessly integrating with the floor. The floating rings widen their orbit to match.

I grin.

I run my fingers along the rack until I stop at a Viking-style sword. 32 inch blade. Straight guard with celtic knotwork on the side. I draw it from the scabbard in one smooth motion.

It doesn't feel heavy, even in Harry's untrained body.

Because it isn't.

People think swords weigh ten pounds and require brute strength. In reality, this one's barely two pounds—balanced, elegant and it sits in my hand like it belongs there.

I grin.

The sword hums whistles faintly as I test its balance with several slow cuts.

I look toward the training circle, rings spinning slowly like the room's waiting to see what I'll do next.

Apep's still lounging in his corner, smug and victorious, his quarry twitching helplessly in his coils.

I roll my shoulders.

"Alright," I mutter. "Let's work off that aggression."

I step into the circle.

The moment I step into the circle, the Room responds.

The floating rings begin to rise. Dozens of them, all different sizes. They hover at different heights — some waist-level, others at eye height, a few just above the floor. At first they hang in place like waiting birds. Then they move. Slowly at first. Then faster.

I grip the sword tighter.

Step forward.

Lunge.

Miss.

The ring I aimed for — wide, slow-moving, basically a freebie — zips past the tip of the blade like it's mocking me.

I try again.

Miss.

Third swing. Off balance. The blade drags through the air like I'm swinging a log instead of two pounds of sharpened steel.

Apep, curled smugly on his lava-rock throne, watches from across the room. "Isss this part of the training, or are you jusssst flailing?"

"Shut up," I mutter.

Fourth lunge— I catch a ring with the edge of the blade, but it just spins, untouched. No bite. No force. Nothing that would've mattered in a real fight.

This body is smaller than I'm used to. Lighter. Everything feels off. The grip's too big for my palm. My arms don't have the reach I expect. My legs are too short. Every step, every pivot, every movement is wrong.

It's like trying to play piano on a keyboard that shrinks every time you touch a key.

The rings speed up.

I keep going.

Miss. Miss. Stumble. Blade hits marble — rings fly past. I'm breathing heavier than I should be for how little I've accomplished. Sweat prickles under my shirt. My forearms already ache from gripping too tight.

I pace in a circle, reset. Try again.

Strike. Too wide. I overcompensate. The blade pulls me forward. I have to stumble to avoid falling on my face.

Apep hisses something that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

I ignore him.

I switch targets. Go for one near my chest. I feint right, then adjust mid-swing. I clip the ring — barely. It wobbles and spins off-axis.

Technically a hit. But it doesn't feel like a win.

I grit my teeth.

Time passes in a blur.

I swing. I sweat. I fail.

The rings never stop moving. Sometimes they pause. Reset. Then change directions. Sometimes they shrink, mid-flight. Sometimes they split into pairs that loop together like figure eights.

I lose track of how many times I miss.

My hands start to blister — first at the base of my fingers, then across my palm. The sword's slick with sweat. I regrip too often. That just makes it worse. My grip gets weaker. My swings sloppier.

My legs start to cramp.

At one point, I swing too high, stumble, and land flat on my back.

Apep slithers to the edge of the circle and peers down at me.

"You dead?"

I stare up at the ceiling.

"No," I say. "Worse. I'm bad."

"You're sssoft," he corrects. "Not bad. Jussst sssoft."

"Thanks."

He turns and slithers back to his rock without another word.

I sit up slowly. Arms shaking. Muscles burning.

Then I stand again.

Because there's nothing else to do.

Because no one's coming to fix it for me.

The rings keep moving.

And so do I.

I've spent hours in this circle.

My shirt is soaked through. My back is on fire. My arms feel like someone filled them with gravel. My hands are blistered from a grip I know should be right — but this body doesn't have the conditioning to keep up.

I swing.

The cut is clean. Form, angle, follow-through — perfect.

But the ring passes just outside the arc. Half an inch short.

Too small. Arms too short. Reach misjudged by a body that isn't mine.

I adjust. I know how to adjust. Shift the back foot. Open the hips. The next strike should hit.

It doesn't.

The blade whistles — not with speed, but from effort. I'm overcompensating. Trying to force power. I know that's not what I should be doing. I know better. But the body betrays the knowledge and I am so frustrated.

Apep hasn't said anything in a while. He just watches. Quiet now. Maybe even respectful.

I keep moving.

Cut. Reset. Cut again. Mandritto, riverso, fendente. I know them all. I know the angles, the tempo, the flow. I see every miss coming a second before it happens — and I can't stop it. Like trying to pilot a racecar with no steering wheel.

My breath's been ragged for a while. My legs have started to cramp. The marble's too slick for tired feet. I've slipped twice already — no falls, but close.

This body isn't built for fighting, it's a child's body.

Another cut. Off by a fraction. Again.

I stop. Just for a second.

The sword rests against my leg, blade angled down. My hand's shaking.

That pisses me off more than anything.

So I keep going.

Because eventually, the body will fall in line.

Eventually, the muscles will remember what the mind already knows.

Eventually, this won't feel like dragging myself uphill with a rope in my teeth.

Eventually.

My arms are dead weight now. I keep moving anyway. No power behind the strikes. No fluidity. Just form. Just repetition. The blade sings occasionally — not triumphantly. Just honestly.

The Room hasn't stopped the rings.

Which means I haven't earned a break yet.

I swing again.

This time, the tip brushes the smallest ring dead center. Just a tap. But it counts.

Another hour goes by — maybe more.

No technique breakthroughs. No dramatic moment.

But my body… begins to comply.

Not entirely. Not even well. But I feel it starting to listen.

My stance stabilizes. My follow-through shortens. The wasted motion shrinks. I don't need to recalibrate every movement. Only every few.

Eventually the Room — without a word, without a cue — dims the rings. They slow. They settle.

I stand in the middle, shaking, sword loose in my hand, heart pounding in my throat.

Apep slithers over, tongue flicking. "You're not dead," he observes.

"Not yet."

"You're not better."

"No."

"But you're not assss bad as a house elf anymore."

I nod once, curtly.

He curls around the edge of the circle and settles there. Close now. Watching.

I stand a little longer.

I let the sword fall through numb fingers.

I just let it slip from my fingers and clatter to the marble, blade ringing once before going still.

I walk over and slump down against the nearest wall and slide to the floor like my bones have given up. Every part of me hurts. My palms are raw. My calves are twitching involuntarily. I can feel sweat trickling down the backs of my knees.

Apep slithers over without a word and coils beside me, smug in that way only reptiles and cats seem to master. He rests his head on my thigh like I'm a glorified heat source.

"You sssmell like a dead rat," he offers helpfully.

"Thanks," I rasp.

I lean my head back against the cool stone, eyes fluttering shut. My breath is uneven, chest still working too hard for how little I've done in the last ten minutes.

I lift a hand and run it through my hair.

It's short.

Annoyingly short. I scowl faintly. "I need to order a hair growth potion immediately."

Apep flicks his tongue. "You need a resst."

"Can't I have both?"

He doesn't answer. Just hisses faintly like he's deeply tired of me.

My hands rest on my knees, still trembling faintly. From exhaustion. But under the soreness, something else hums. A quiet satisfaction. I didn't conquer anything. Didn't master the sword. Hell, I barely managed to stop embarrassing myself.

But I pushed this body until it started to listen.

Until it stopped arguing quite so much.

It's a start.

A painful, sweaty, humbling start.

I stretch my legs out slowly, wincing as the ache settles into something that feels permanent. My body's a wreck — trembling, soaked in sweat, a couple blisters on my palms. But my mind's finally calm.

Focused.

I stare at the sword where it rests, gleaming just outside the circle.

Eventually, I'm going to swing one into someone's throat.

And they won't be ready for it.

Wizards don't fight like that. They duel — long-range, spell-based, maybe some do, but in canon at least it had been all medium to long range except for a select few instances. They think of violence as something shaped by words and wands.

They won't know what to do when I'm already in their face.

I run a hand through my hair again, irritated by how short it is. It's offensive.

Hair growth potion. Priority one.

I close my eyes and breathe out slowly, thoughts forming sharper than any cut I made today.

The sword won't replace my wand obviously. It's a companion to it..

Maybe that smoke-movement thing from the movies exists in this world. If it does? Flash into smoke — dart inside their guard — sword already in motion.

If it doesn't?

Combat apparition will do. No one expects the guy who just vanished to reappear in melee.

And against muggles?

A grin curls across my face before I can stop it.

A man expecting a gunfight isn't going to survive me closing 100 meters in a blink and introducing his guts to open air.

I can picture it: distant targets, I'm hurling lightning, wand in one hand, sword in the other. They try to return fire — but they can't. I'm already in the middle of their squad, cutting down their allies like I'm dancing, every movement fueling another burst of magic.

Brutal. Beautiful. Untouchable.

I open my eyes again and glance around the room — marble gleaming, gold catching the light, the blade still resting like it's waiting for me.

This is where it starts. Not with a spell. Not with a prophecy. It starts with blood in my mouth from where I bit my tongue and fire in my lungs and a sword in my hand.

And I will make that beautiful.

.

.

.

What feels like hours later, I push off the wall with a groan, legs aching like I've just climbed a mountain wearing ankle weights. My limbs are stiff, sweat sticking my shirt to my spine, but there's a calm under it all now. The kind that only comes after you've bled the frustration out of yourself through sheer effort.

I glance once at the door.

For a second, I consider leaving. Prefect's bathroom would be nice. Massive tub, stained glass, bubbles and taps that do way more than hot and cold. Dumbledore had given me access for the summer.

Then I look back at the Room.

Back at the sword, resting where I dropped it.

Back at the sunlamp where Apep is sprawled like a spoiled deity.

And I smirk.

"Why leave," I murmur, "when I have the Room?"

The moment I speak, the air shifts — like the room's been waiting.

The lights dim. The gold softens. A cool breeze ghosts across the marble. I stay perfectly still as the Room begins to move.

The weapons vanish first — not blinked away, not shoved aside — but dissolved, piece by piece, in quiet glimmers of silver light. Like stars melting. The bookcases follow, sinking silently into the floor, their shelves rippling away as if they'd never been full of war manuals and old treatises.

The marble beneath me trembles. Then it lowers.

Slowly, smoothly, the entire floor depresses like a stone mouth opening. A wide, carved basin forms — vast and deep, easily the size of a swimming pool, but elegant. Like a Roman bath.

The light fades to nothing.

Then sconces lining the walls erupt to life, each one igniting with cold silver fire. The flames flicker gently, casting pale reflections across the dark stone like moonlight on glass.

Then comes the water.

I don't know where it starts. It's just suddenly there — pouring in from all sides, silent and gleaming. A hundred golden faucets rise from the far end of the tub, each one shaped differently: dragons, gryphons, eagles, serpents. They arc water into the pool in perfect harmony — steaming, crystal-clear, fragrant with something sharp and herbal and expensive.

The whole thing shines.

I can feel the heat from here.

Apep lifts his head, tongue flicking from his undisturbed bed. "Acceptable."

I grin.

"Perfect."

AN

Sorry it's so short, I promise we got good shit coming up xD, is at the school year, don't worry we don't have 50 chapters before that.

I do have a dirty P word that is 1 free chapter and 5 paid chapters ahead under the name MandTeKad

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