From the very next morning, Harry began attending classes properly. He had avoided it the first day, choosing instead to observe quietly from the library, but eventually even he knew that staying away would only attract more suspicion. Hogwarts was, after all, a school. If he was here, people expected him to act like a student.
Still, as he entered the Great Hall for breakfast, the atmosphere shifted instantly. Conversations dimmed. Heads turned. Forks paused mid-air. Fame, Harry reflected, was a curse that never quite faded.
Draco was already seated at the Ravenclaw table beside Hermione. He waved casually.
"Finally decided to join the living?" Draco asked as Harry sat down.
Hermione, however, studied him carefully.
"You slept properly?"
Harry blinked. "Good morning to you too, Hermione."
"I'm serious, Harry," she insisted quietly. "After everything that happened… I just want to be sure."
"I'm fine," he replied, offering a reassuring smile. "Just a normal student now, remember?"
Draco snorted.
"You? Normal? That'll be the day."
Professor Flitwick's classroom was livelier than usual when Harry stepped in. Word of his arrival had already spread through Hogwarts, and although most students tried to pretend nothing was different, their occasional glances toward him gave them away.
Flitwick, however, seemed entirely unfazed. He stood atop his stack of books with his usual enthusiasm, tiny wand raised like a conductor's baton.
"Good morning, class!" he chirped. "Today we will be studying a complex levitation spell — you all mastered levitation charm, I trust."
A few sheepish faces suggested otherwise, but no one spoke.
Flitwick continued, "we shall learn sustained directional levitation. Moving an object through complex paths without losing stability. Very useful in real-world magic — from delicate potion handling to combat spellwork."
That sounded more appropriate for second years.
Hermione already had her quill poised eagerly.
On each desk sat a small crystal sphere. The task was simple in theory: levitate the sphere, guide it through three floating rings arranged in the air, and return it safely to the table.
"Precision, not power," Flitwick reminded them. "Too much force will shatter the crystal."
Students began trying immediately.
A sphere shot upward too fast and hit the ceiling.
Another wobbled violently before falling off the desk.
One poor Ravenclaw accidentally guided his sphere straight into Draco's elbow.
"Oi!" Draco protested. "Watch it!"
Harry stayed still, observing.
Hermione succeeded halfway, guiding the sphere through two rings before it spun out of control.
"Almost!" she whispered, equal parts frustration and excitement.
Flitwick glanced at Harry.
"Mr. Potter, would you care to demonstrate?"
Harry hesitated briefly. He still disliked unnecessary attention, but refusing repeatedly would only make it worse.
He raised his wand.
"Levioso… vecta."
A modified charm — quieter than the standard incantation.
The sphere rose smoothly. It drifted like it belonged in the air.
Harry guided it gently through the first ring, then the second, then the third. The crystal even rotated slowly as it moved, a subtle touch of control rather than flair.
Finally, it settled softly back on the desk.
Silence followed.
Then Flitwick clapped enthusiastically.
Draco muttered under his breath,
"Subtle showing off. Very Potter."
Hermione ignored him, staring at Harry.
"You altered the incantation," she said quietly.
"Yes," Harry replied. "Standard levitation works, but directional stability improves if you anchor the magical vector."
Hermione's eyes lit up immediately.
"That makes so much sense!"
A couple of Ravenclaws began scribbling notes furiously.
Flitwick beamed.
"Exactly! Advanced understanding, Mr. Potter. Ten points — oh, right, you're houseless. Well… moral points then!"
The class laughed softly, tension easing.
Professor McGonagall wasted no time.
"Today, you will transform this teacup into a turtle," she announced crisply. "Visualisation is key."
Groans filled the room.
Hermione dove in enthusiastically. Draco attempted it with visible reluctance. Harry, as usual, waited.
Hermione managed a partial transformation — a turtle-shaped teacup hybrid.
"Almost there!" McGonagall encouraged.
Draco's result looked like porcelain soup.
Then Harry tried.
A quiet incantation. A gentle wand movement.
The teacup shimmered… softened… and became a perfectly normal turtle. It blinked slowly, entirely comfortable in existence.
McGonagall leaned closer.
"Stable magical signature," she murmured. Then, louder:
"Excellent work, Mr. Potter. Twenty points."
Whispers erupted immediately.
Draco leaned toward Hermione.
"I hate him a little right now."
Hermione smiled despite herself.
"You're proud."
"Obviously," Draco admitted.
Potions class was different. The tension was immediate. Snape did not bother hiding his skepticism.
"So," Snape drawled, circling Harry's workstation, "the famous Potter joins us. Let us see whether fame brews potions."
Assignment: a modified Draught of Peace. Not easy.
Harry prepared ingredients slowly, precisely. He adjusted flame height instinctively, crushed herbs to exact consistency, and stirred with controlled rhythm.
Snape hovered longer than usual.
Finally, he spoke.
"Explain why you lowered the flame before adding powdered moonstone."
Harry didn't look up.
"To prevent thermal destabilization. Otherwise the potion crystallizes unevenly."
Snape examined the cauldron. Perfect color. Perfect vapor.
"Acceptable," Snape said curtly — which, for Snape, was practically a standing ovation.
After class, Draco whispered,
"Professor Snape just complimented you without insulting your ancestors. That's historic."
Hermione added softly,
"That was… honestly impressive, Harry."
Harry shrugged.
"I've brewed more complicated things before."
They both stared.
"Of course you have," Draco sighed.
Snape later allowed Harry to sit in on an advanced session. The older students were openly skeptical.
One seventh-year muttered,
"Second-year? Really?"
Harry ignored it.
The assignment involved efficiency optimization. Harry modified stirring patterns slightly — something he had learned through experience rather than textbooks.
Snape watched closely.
"Unorthodox," Snape said.
"But effective," Harry replied calmly.
The potion finished faster… and cleaner… than anyone else's.
Even Snape looked unsettled.
Professor Babbling hesitated when Harry entered the seventh-year runes class.
"You understand this is advanced study, Mr. Potter?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Very well. Sit."
Within minutes, Harry was translating inscriptions fluently.
A student asked,
"How did you learn this stuff?"
Harry answered simply,
"Exposure. And curiosity."
Later, he corrected a minor translation error in the lesson notes.
Babbling blinked.
"That… is correct. Nicely spotted."
Hermione, who occasionally attended advanced lectures, whispered afterward,
"You're ridiculous, Harry."
"Why?"
"You corrected a professor."
"I didn't mean to embarrass her."
"You didn't. You impressed her."
By the end of the week, Hogwarts' perception of Harry shifted noticeably.
Students no longer whispered only about Voldemort or the Boy Who Lived. They talked about his spell control, potion skills, rune knowledge.
Even some older Slytherins nodded respectfully in corridors.
Draco noticed first.
"You realize," he said one evening, "half the school now thinks you're some prodigy."
"I'm not?" Harry replied.
Draco smirked.
"Studied… in Asgard libraries, fought cosmic wars, learned powerful magic… totally normal childhood."
Harry gave him a flat look.
"Don't exaggerate."
Hermione laughed softly.
"Too late for that."
Despite outward calm, Harry never forgot why he was truly at Hogwarts.
The Chamber of Secrets.
The monster.
One evening in the courtyard, Draco lowered his voice.
"Still planning to… collect it?"
Harry hesitated.
"I don't know yet."
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"That's not what you said earlier."
"I said I was curious," Harry corrected.
Draco crossed his arms.
"You're absolutely going to try taming it, aren't you?"
Harry didn't answer.
Which was answer enough.
The biggest change, Harry realized, wasn't academic. It was social.
Students began approaching him not out of curiosity about his past, but interest in his knowledge.
A Hufflepuff asked about potion stabilization.
A Ravenclaw requested rune references.
Even a Slytherin quietly asked for spell control advice.
Harry helped when he could, always modest, never condescending.
One evening, Hermione observed thoughtfully,
"You know what's happening?"
"What?"
"They're seeing you for who you are. Not a legend."
Harry considered that.
"Good," he said finally. "Legends are lonely."
Draco clapped his shoulder.
"Well, you're stuck with us. Legendary or not."
Hogwarts was starting to feel… normal. Familiar. Even safe.
Harry had avoided exactly one subject since arriving at Hogwarts — Defence Against the Dark Arts.
It wasn't fear, nor was it difficulty. The spells themselves were trivial compared to what he already knew. The real reason was far simpler: he had no patience for Gilderoy Lockhart.
From the stories Draco had told — exaggerated poses, endless self-promotion, and a talent for inserting his own name into every conversation — Harry had suspected the man would be exhausting long before he ever stepped into the classroom.
Draco had been particularly vocal about it.
"Trouble?" Hermione had protested when Draco first complained. "He's written twelve books! People don't become that famous for nothing."
"For writing about himself, Granger," Draco replied flatly. "That's not scholarship. That's narcissism with good marketing."
Harry had listened quietly that evening, amused more than anything. But Hermione would not drop the subject. She insisted that skipping a professor's class outright would be rude — suspicious even — and Lockhart, she argued, might take it personally.
"You don't have to like him," she told Harry firmly, "but you should at least attend once. Form your own opinion."
Draco groaned dramatically.
"If I had Potter's privilege to choose classes freely, I would never set foot in that room. Ever."
Harry hesitated. He had no desire to sit through self-aggrandizing lectures masquerading as instruction. Still, Hermione rarely insisted without reason, and he trusted her judgment more often than not.
"Fine," he agreed at last. "One class. That's all."
Draco shook his head with theatrical pity.
"You're going to regret that."
The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was… overwhelming.
Not because of danger, but because of decoration. Portraits of Lockhart covered nearly every inch of wall space — Lockhart smiling heroically, Lockhart signing books, Lockhart posing beside creatures that looked suspiciously staged. It felt less like an academic environment and more like a celebrity museum dedicated to one man.
Harry paused just inside the doorway, taking it all in.
"Is this a classroom," he murmured quietly to Draco, "or a shrine?"
Draco smirked.
"I told you."
Hermione tried valiantly to stay neutral.
"Let's just sit down."
When Lockhart entered, he did so with theatrical timing, robes swishing as though an invisible audience were applauding him. His smile brightened instantly when he spotted Harry.
"Well, well, well. Harry Potter in my classroom. What an honor for us all."
A murmur rippled through the students. Harry inclined his head politely but offered nothing more.
"I do hope you're prepared to learn something today, Harry," Lockhart continued smoothly. "Even legends must refine their technique."
Draco muttered something impolite under his breath. Hermione shot him a warning look.
Harry simply sat.
The "lesson" quickly became a monologue. Lockhart launched into one of his supposed adventures — an encounter with a werewolf in Norway. His narration was dramatic, almost theatrical, but to Harry it rang hollow. The timeline didn't match real transformation cycles. The countermeasures he described were outdated or incorrect. And his understanding of creature behavior was surface-level at best.
Harry listened anyway, analyzing quietly.
Hermione tried to remain attentive. Draco didn't bother hiding his skepticism.
Gradually, the story shifted. Lockhart began comparing fame — subtly at first, then more directly.
"Some individuals," he said, glancing at Harry, "gain renown through fortunate circumstances. Others, of course, earn it through years of dangerous, hands-on experience."
The implication hung in the air.
Harry remained still, though irritation began simmering beneath his calm exterior.
At the end of class, Lockhart clapped enthusiastically.
"Time for a practical demonstration! I shall recreate my heroic Norwegian encounter. Authenticity is important, after all."
Students groaned quietly.
"And for realism," Lockhart added brightly, eyes locking onto Harry again, "Mr. Potter shall assist."
Harry frowned slightly.
"I'd rather not, Professor."
"Oh, nonsense," Lockhart waved dismissively. "You'll play the werewolf. Just crouch… yes… and give us a convincing howl."
The room went very quiet.
Harry stared at him, expression unreadable.
"You want me to howl."
"For educational realism!"
Something cold flickered behind Harry's calm demeanor. He had faced real monsters, real wars, real stakes. Being asked to perform like a stage prop felt… insulting.
He remained motionless for a moment.
Then he raised his wand.
Instead of crouching, he flicked it toward the chair behind Lockhart. The wood shimmered, reshaped itself fluidly, and within seconds a perfectly rendered werewolf stood where the chair had been — fangs bared, claws scraping stone.
The creature snarled convincingly.
Lockhart screamed like a little girl and stumbled backward, tripped over his robes, and bolted for the door.
The classroom erupted into laughter. Even normally reserved students were doubled over. Draco leaned against a desk, wheezing. Hermione tried — unsuccessfully — to maintain composure.
Harry calmly reversed the transfiguration. The werewolf shrank, twisted, and returned to being an ordinary chair.
Silence gradually returned, replaced by a different kind of attention — one tinged with respect.
Later, Hermione cornered him in the corridor.
"You embarrassed him."
"He embarrassed himself," Harry replied evenly.
Draco grinned broadly.
"You should've seen his face."
Harry sighed softly. He hadn't intended public humiliation; he had simply refused to play along with nonsense. But the outcome had been inevitable.
From that day forward, two things became clear.
Harry never attended another Defence Against the Dark Arts class. And Lockhart, noticeably cautious, never again attempted to involve him in demonstrations.
Rumors spread quickly through Hogwarts. Students began reassessing Lockhart's reputation. Some still admired him, but many now remembered the scream.
Lockhart remained popular in certain circles, of course. Charisma had its own momentum. But the unquestioned awe was gone.
Harry, meanwhile, returned to his usual routine. Lockhart became background noise, a distraction rather than a threat.
Still, Harry made a mental note.
Frauds could be dangerous too — especially when they are in power.
And Hogwarts, lately, seemed to have more than its fair share of hidden dangers.
Author's Note:
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