Harry waited until the dormitory had gone silent — until the only sounds were breath and the low groans of the lake against the walls.
Then he reached for the book.
It had no index. No clear structure. No helpful titles. Only phrases scrawled in green-black ink, sometimes sideways, sometimes layered over sketches of runes or circles that looked like they belonged more in ritual sacrifice than Hogwarts.
But one page had caught his eye the first time he flipped through.
They will tell you every spell must be spoken. This is a lie.Magic responds to intent. And intent responds best to pain.
Carve it. Bleed it. Etch it into your will. Then release it.
Harry's hand hovered over the text. He wasn't even sure what spell it was. The incantation was written not in Latin, but in fractured symbols, ancient curves and jagged strokes. Below it, a note:
Use only once. If it obeys you, you are ready. If it doesn't... run.
Early Morning – The Abandoned Corridor
It wasn't bravery that brought Harry there. It was need.
He found an unused corridor on the second floor, beyond the broken statue of Gregory the Smarmy. The torches there were always dim. The walls were cracked. No portraits. No echoes. It was forgotten.
He stood in the center of the dust-choked hallway, book open in one hand, wand in the other.
He didn't speak.
He only thought.
And with every word formed in his mind, he remembered every moment he'd felt powerless.
Vernon's shouting. The cupboard under the stairs. The Sorting Hat's betrayal. Snape's stare. The weight of a house that didn't want him.
The magic rose.
It coiled up his spine, hot and cold all at once, like someone had poured boiling ink into his veins.
His wand hand shook.
He lifted it.
And the air cracked.
A Shadow Takes Form
At first, nothing happened.
Then the shadows moved.
They peeled away from the edges of the corridor, twisting, spinning, until they gathered into a single point — a shimmer in the shape of a man.
Faceless. Smoky. Breathing.
Harry stumbled back.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
The shadow said nothing.
Instead, it tilted its head and reached for him.
Harry jerked his wand upward — too late. The magic he had summoned now pressed in from all sides, folding around him like a storm.
His scar burned.
The figure leaned in closer — and then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it collapsed into nothing. Dissolved into ash.
Harry fell to his knees.
The book in his hand was hot. Smoking.
He closed it.
He didn't open it again that night.
That Afternoon – Slytherin Common Room
Theodore said nothing at first.
Then, without looking up from his parchment, he murmured:"You feel it now, don't you?"
Harry didn't answer.
"You touched it," Theodore said. "Real magic. The kind no one writes about."
Harry looked up, throat dry. "What do you know about it?"
Theodore shrugged. "Just this: it always asks for more."
Then he turned the page of his book like the conversation had never happened.
Elsewhere – The Staff Table
Snape watched from the High Table, eyes narrowed.
He had felt it — the rupture. Somewhere in the castle, something old had stirred. Not enough to break wards. Not enough for Dumbledore to notice.
But enough for him.
He didn't need to check.
He already knew who had done it.