Under Ryze's subtle yet persistent influence, Hermione began to change.
It wasn't an abrupt shift, nor something she consciously decided overnight. Rather, it was the accumulation of small realizations—moments that forced her to confront the gap between her own approach and Ryze's way of handling things. The turning point, if it could be called that, came during the Malfoy incident.
That episode made her see something she hadn't fully grasped before: intelligence alone wasn't enough. The way knowledge was delivered, the tone, the timing, and even the emotional undercurrent—all of these shaped how others responded.
More importantly, she noticed how differently people treated Ryze compared to herself.
The difference wasn't about competence. Hermione knew, with complete confidence, that she was among the most capable students in their year. Yet, where she met resistance, Ryze encountered cooperation. Where she corrected others bluntly, he guided them almost effortlessly.
That realization lingered.
And slowly, almost unconsciously, Hermione began to imitate him.
At first, the changes were subtle. She softened her tone when speaking to others, especially Ron and Harry. Instead of immediately pointing out mistakes, she tried to frame her corrections as suggestions. She attempted to encourage rather than criticize, mirroring the way Ryze supported Neville.
It felt unnatural.
Hermione had always relied on directness. If something was wrong, she said so. If someone broke the rules, she intervened. Efficiency and correctness were her priorities. This new approach—measured, restrained, almost deliberately indirect—required constant self-control.
She started suppressing her instinct to lecture.
She learned to pause before speaking.
She even practiced maintaining a calm, composed expression, no matter how irritated she felt inside.
The most noticeable change, however, was her smile.
It wasn't a genuine smile—not most of the time. It was controlled, deliberate, and slightly restrained, as though she were holding something back. Her eyes often betrayed her true emotions, revealing traces of dissatisfaction or impatience, but her lips would remain curved in a polite, almost gentle arc.
To outsiders, it looked like maturity.
To those who knew her well, it was something else entirely.
Ron, in particular, found it deeply unsettling.
"She's scarier now," he muttered one evening to Harry, glancing warily at Hermione across the common room. "Honestly, I preferred it when she just shouted at us."
Harry didn't respond immediately. He followed Ron's gaze, observing Hermione as she calmly explained something to a group of first-year students.
They were listening.
Not reluctantly, not defensively—but attentively.
That, more than anything, was the surprising part.
Previously, Hermione's straightforward and often forceful way of speaking had triggered resistance, especially among the more headstrong Gryffindors. Her words might have been correct, but her tone often made others feel challenged or criticized.
Now, things were different.
With that faint, controlled smile and her measured voice, she created an entirely different atmosphere. Even when her eyes hinted at disapproval, the absence of open confrontation made others far more willing to comply.
The younger students, in particular, responded well to this change. They listened, followed her advice, and even sought her help more often than before.
Her relationships hadn't dramatically improved—she still wasn't especially popular—but her influence had undeniably grown.
Even Ron had to admit it worked.
"She reminds me of my mum," he complained quietly. "You know that look she gets? The one where she smiles, but you just know you're about to be in trouble? That's exactly what Hermione's doing now."
Harry let out a small laugh.
But internally, he was thinking about something else.
Unlike Ron, Harry could endure Hermione's new demeanor without much difficulty. In fact, he understood it better than most. After all, he had also been trying to change—trying to follow Ryze's example in his own way.
Every morning, before classes began, Harry joined Neville for a jog around the Black Lake. It wasn't just about physical exercise; he used the time to practice wand movements, repeating spells over and over until they felt natural.
It was exhausting.
After that came classes, note-taking, and constant effort to keep up. Whenever he didn't understand something, he would either ask Ryze—if he was available—or Hermione.
Despite the demanding routine, Harry didn't feel discouraged.
Quidditch helped.
The memory of his first flying lesson still stood out vividly. Thanks to Ryze's encouragement, Neville had managed to avoid his usual disaster. However, Malfoy's provocation had still led to a confrontation—a spontaneous flying duel while the instructor wasn't paying attention.
That moment changed everything.
Harry's natural talent became obvious. He moved through the air with instinctive ease, something even he hadn't fully realized until then. The performance didn't go unnoticed, and soon after, he was recruited into the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
That alone would have made the effort worthwhile.
But Malfoy remained a problem.
During dinner one evening, he issued a formal challenge—a duel. Harry took it seriously, spending the entire night preparing. Hermione even got involved, offering advice and making it clear she expected him to handle it properly.
And then…
Malfoy didn't show up.
The frustration from that was almost worse than losing.
Worse still, the situation escalated unexpectedly. Due to a series of unfortunate events—and some interference from Peeves—they ended up near a forbidden area, where they encountered the three-headed dog guarded by Hagrid.
The experience was terrifying.
Afterward, Harry couldn't stop thinking about it. The creature wasn't just there randomly—it was guarding something. That realization reminded him of the small package Hagrid had retrieved earlier from a vault.
The connection seemed obvious.
Still, Harry didn't pursue it further.
Not yet.
His immediate concern was simpler: making Malfoy pay for his cowardice.
Fortunately, he didn't have to act alone. With help from the Weasley twins, the story spread quickly throughout the school. By the next morning, nearly everyone knew that Malfoy had backed out of the duel.
The effect was immediate.
Malfoy's expression during breakfast—tight, angry, and clearly humiliated—was deeply satisfying. He left the hall early and avoided Harry and his friends for weeks afterward.
For Harry, that was enough.
Of course, not everything went smoothly.
A few days later, during Potions class, he made a small mistake—failing to pay attention at the wrong moment. The result was predictable. Snape seized the opportunity, criticizing him harshly and deducting points.
But by now, Harry understood the situation.
He knew about the history between Snape and his father. He knew the man was biased. Accepting that reality made things easier.
Instead of resisting, he adapted.
He paid closer attention. He followed instructions carefully. He did everything he could to avoid giving Snape an excuse.
In a way, it worked.
During one recent class, thanks to preparation—and Hermione's help—Harry managed to get through the entire lesson without losing a single point.
That felt like a victory.
For both him and Hermione, it was proof of progress.
They were improving.
They were getting closer to Ryze.
The idea became almost motivating.
Harry even considered taking it further—meeting Snape's gaze directly next time, just like Ryze did, leaving no room for criticism.
Meanwhile, Ryze himself was completely unaware of the effect he was having on others.
At that moment, he was dealing with something far more immediate—and far more frustrating.
He stared at the papers in front of him, rubbing his forehead.
Arithmancy.
Or, as he privately thought of it—advanced mathematics in disguise.
The subject's official description sounded impressive: interpreting the nature of reality through numerical patterns, predicting outcomes, and achieving precise results through structured calculation.
In practice, it was dense, abstract, and filled with symbols.
Too many symbols.
Ryze had encountered it while exploring the castle, triggered by a peculiar task that required him to study independently and complete a set of problems.
At first, he underestimated it.
That was a mistake.
After flipping through a few pages, he immediately felt a familiar sense of dread—the kind that came from dealing with complex mathematical systems. The logic was there, but it wasn't presented in a structured way. Instead, it felt fragmented, as though built from layers of loosely connected theories.
Determined to understand it properly, he went to the library.
What he found was… interesting.
Historically, the subject began as a method for predicting astronomical events. Over time, it merged with numerology, assigning symbolic meanings to numbers. Later, more formulas were introduced, expanding its applications.
Now, it had become essential.
Many advanced magical theories relied on it. Deciphering ancient spells, analyzing magical structures—none of it could be done without some level of understanding in this field.
And yet, it remained inconsistent.
The core issue, as Ryze saw it, was a lack of systematic development. Most practitioners approached it intuitively rather than analytically. The results were often accurate, but the reasoning behind them was unclear.
It was like solving equations without fully understanding the underlying principles.
Which, to Ryze, was unacceptable.
Still, he couldn't deny its value.
Even in its current form, Arithmancy was powerful.
And if properly refined…
He paused, staring at the page again.
Then sighed.
This was going to take time.
A lot of time.
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