Chapter 6
The library was cloaked in a sacred stillness, the kind that demanded quiet reverence from those who dared enter its domain. Shadows writhed across the vaulted ceilings, cast by the steady, warm glow of floating candles, their movements akin to silent sentinels guarding centuries of secrets. Harry sat at one of the long, polished tables, a dense, leather-bound tome open before him. The pages were yellowed with age, their Latin script curling with an artistry that hinted at the weight of knowledge contained within. He turned the pages carefully, his fingers lingering on the parchment as though touching a relic.
Far across the room, the Restricted Section loomed, its faint hum of enchantments a siren call that pulled at him relentlessly. The magical wards shrouding its entrance seemed almost alive, as though aware of his growing desire to breach their defenses.
This was where Harry belonged—not in the cacophony of the Great Hall or even the relative peace of the Slytherin common room, but here, in the company of ancient wisdom. The scent of parchment and ink wrapped around him like a comforting shroud, grounding him in a way no conversation or camaraderie ever could.
Yet tonight, he was not alone.
Adrian Pucey, Miles Bletchley, and Gemma Farley sat in the chairs surrounding him, their presence a calculated intrusion rather than an accident. Over the past week, they had become near-constant fixtures in his life. At first, their interest in him had been subtle—Adrian offering a critique of his wandwork during a Defense class, Miles dropping a wry remark about Quidditch plays, and Gemma lingering a moment too long during a passing conversation. But now, their intent was unmistakable.
The trio hovered around him like moths drawn to a flame, their movements careful, their words measured. Their behavior was far too deliberate to be mistaken for anything but an attempt to ingratiate themselves with him—or perhaps to assess him.
It was Adrian who broke the silence, his voice low and deferential. “Potter, you’ve been unusually focused lately. Researching anything specific?”
Harry didn’t look up. His emerald eyes remained fixed on the text before him, his finger tracing a faded Latin phrase as he replied with a calm neutrality. “Preparation is always wise. You’d agree, wouldn’t you?”
Adrian chuckled softly, though the sound lacked true mirth. “Naturally. In Slytherin, being unprepared is a mistake one rarely survives.”
Miles leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table as though sharing a confidant’s secret. “Especially when you’ve made enemies. And let’s face it, Potter—you’ve certainly made a few.”
Gemma’s smile was faint but no less pointed. “Speaking of enemies,” she said, her voice light yet laced with purpose, “you’d be surprised how much the Gryffindors let slip in their common room. They’re not as… disciplined as we are.”
At that, Harry finally looked up, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “Is that so?”
Her confidence flickered, just for a moment, before she smoothed her expression into one of studied ease. “I thought it might interest you.”
The faintest smile tugged at Harry’s lips. It was a game—a clumsy, if not amusing one. Their attempt to curry favor was almost transparent, a reaction to the power shift that had occurred after the incident in the dungeons. It wasn’t loyalty that motivated them now; it was fear, carefully masked as camaraderie.
“Interesting,” Harry murmured, closing his book with a deliberate thud. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the trio with a detached curiosity. “And what do you expect in return for this… information?”
Adrian’s smile tightened, but he masked his unease with a casual shrug. “Nothing, really. Just thought we’d look out for each other. Slytherins stick together, after all.”
Harry let the silence stretch, the weight of his gaze pressing down on them like a physical force. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a sharp edge. “Let’s not pretend this is about solidarity. You want something from me.”
Gemma hesitated, her carefully maintained composure cracking just enough to reveal a sliver of vulnerability. “We’re not asking for anything,” she said softly, her tone conciliatory. “We’re just considering the benefits of staying… aligned.”
Harry smirked faintly, the expression more predatory than friendly. “A wise choice.”
The trio exchanged uncertain glances, but they said no more. Over the next several days, their intentions became increasingly obvious. Adrian and Miles made a point of sitting near Harry at meals, their conversations always steering toward useful gossip—rumors about professors, tensions between other houses, whispers of Gryffindor unrest. Gemma, ever the tactician, provided insights into Slytherin’s shifting social dynamics, pointing out alliances, rivalries, and potential threats with an almost clinical precision.
Harry listened, but he gave little in return. He allowed them to orbit him, their eagerness to earn his favor both amusing and convenient. For now, their fear-driven loyalty served his purposes well enough.
Late one evening, as Harry pored over a particularly dense text on magical theory, Gemma approached him in the library, slipping into the seat beside him without waiting for an invitation. She placed a thick envelope on the table, her expression neutral but her intent clear.
“What’s this?” Harry asked, his tone devoid of curiosity.
“Schedules,” Gemma replied smoothly.
“Not just ours—everyone’s. I thought you might find them useful.”
Harry unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the meticulously organized timetable. It detailed not only class schedules but also extracurricular activities, patrol routes, and even the times when the library was least occupied. It was, as Gemma had said, useful.
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble,” Harry remarked, his tone carefully measured.
Gemma’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”
Harry’s response was equally restrained. “Goodwill. Of course.”
But Harry’s world was not defined solely by his new “allies.” Even as he accepted their offerings, he continued to forge his own path, delving deeper into the mysteries of Hogwarts and the secrets it held. The Restricted Section remained a constant in his thoughts, its forbidden knowledge calling to him with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He knew the answers he sought lay beyond its wards, and he was already formulating a plan to claim them.
Power, Harry understood, was not simply a matter of strength or influence. It was about control—over others, over circumstances, and most importantly, over oneself. The path he had chosen was treacherous, but he would navigate it with the precision of a predator stalking its prey. The shadows of Hogwarts were deepening, and Harry intended to master them.
The Restricted Section loomed like an unspoken promise, its enchanted barriers a challenge rather than a deterrent. Harry spent days preparing, pulling from the fragments of his past life and the constraints of this one to craft a solution. Blood magic would be key—primitive, direct, and beyond the comprehension of most wizards bound by the Ministry's restrictive dogma.
Late one night, cloaked in silence, Harry made his move. The library was deserted, its usual stillness now heavy with expectation. He approached the door to the Restricted Section, the ancient sigils carved into the wood pulsing faintly as if alive.
In his past life, magic had not been bound by wands and words. It had demanded blood and willpower, and Harry—then known as Kaeloth Dravain—had mastered it. As the Red Scholar, he had been an archmage who ruled over power with neither mercy nor limit. Kingdoms had fallen at his word, their rulers bled dry to fuel his spells. Blood had been the currency of his magic—brutal, raw, and primal. He had reshaped the world with it, bending storms to his will, raising cities, and obliterating his enemies.
But there had been a price, always. Blood magic tied itself to the lifeblood of its world, and when Kaeloth had overreached, even his strength had not been enough to withstand the consequences. His enemies had struck at the foundation of his power, severing his connection to the magic that had sustained him. His death had been agonizing, the cost of his ambition laid bare.
In this life, Harry Potter, reborn into a different world, had lost much of that raw power. Magic here was bound by wands, incantations, and a rigid system that felt stiflingly simplistic. But echoes of Kaeloth remained: whispers in his blood, fragments of ancient knowledge clawing at the edges of his mind. He could no longer summon storms or raze cities, but blood still held power. Even in this constrained world, Harry knew he could manipulate the threads of magic if he was careful.
And tonight, Kaeloth’s legacy would serve him once more.
Harry withdrew a blackened iron blade, its edge crude but effective. He had fashioned it weeks prior, imbuing it with latent magical energy tied to his blood.
The incantation came easily, the language slipping from his lips with the familiarity of a forgotten melody: ancient words that resonated in the air like a physical force.
He rolled up his sleeve, exposing his pale skin, and made a shallow cut across his palm. The blood welled immediately, dark and rich, carrying with it the faint hum of magic long buried within him. He pressed his palm to the door, and the sigils flared to life, their glow shifting from silver to crimson.
“Lumen tenebris eviscro,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.
The air shifted. The wards flared violently, their resistance sharp and defiant, but Harry held firm. The blood seeped into the sigils, their glow shifting from silver to crimson before fading entirely. The door creaked open, and the hum of magic dissipated into silence. It opened with a low groan, revealing shelves upon shelves of forbidden knowledge. The air inside was thick with the weight of centuries, the musty scent of decayed parchment mingling with the faint, metallic tang of magic. Harry stepped inside, his movements deliberate as his eyes scanned the titles.
He found it quickly: a small, black-bound tome titled Mortem Manipulare. The embossed letters glinted faintly in the dim light, and as Harry opened the book, he felt a familiar tug deep within his chest. This was not ordinary magic. It was old, primal, and dangerous. Familiar.
The text spoke of spells that balanced on the knife’s edge between life and death—magic that could halt a mortal wound, delay the spread of poison, or even reverse death itself, though always at a cost. Blood, as always, was the price. The spells required not just sacrifice, but unwavering resolve. Weakness would render them useless; hesitation could result in catastrophic failure.
Harry’s pulse quickened as he turned the pages. The knowledge contained within was exactly what he needed: potent, adaptable, and utterly forbidden.
But his triumph was short-lived. Footsteps echoed faintly in the distance, the uneven cadence unmistakably belonging to Argus Filch.
Harry extinguished his wandlight, his mind racing. He slipped the tome into his bag and crouched low behind one of the shelves. The flickering glow of Filch’s lantern grew brighter, its light casting erratic shadows across the walls.
“Who’s there?” Filch rasped, his voice a venomous whisper.
Harry remained perfectly still, his breath shallow. As Filch’s steps drew closer, Harry reached into his bag and retrieved a small pouch of shimmering dust—an artifact he had crafted earlier in the term. Whispering a soft incantation, he scattered the dust across the floor.
A faint, ghostly figure materialized at the far end of the Restricted Section, its translucent form gliding toward the exit.
“There you are!” Filch barked, his lantern swinging toward the apparition. He gave chase, his muttered threats fading as he pursued the illusion.
Harry exhaled slowly, emerging from his hiding spot. He reactivated the sigils on the door before slipping out of the library, his steps as silent as the shadows that clung to him.
Back in the Slytherin common room, Harry sat by the fire, the black tome resting on his lap. His hand still tingled from the blood magic he had used, a stark reminder of how much weaker it was in this world compared to his past life. Yet, it was enough.
The flames cast flickering light across the room, their warmth doing little to dispel the chill that had settled over him. He opened the book again, his eyes devouring its contents. Each spell was a tool, a means to an end. He made meticulous notes in his mind, committing the most promising incantations and rituals to memory.
As Harry delved deeper into the book, he felt the faint whispers of Kaeloth’s voice rise in the back of his mind. His former self would have scoffed at the limitations of this world, but Harry was no longer Kaeloth. He had learned the value of patience, the strength in subtlety. This time, he would not overreach. This time, he would win.
Power wasn’t something given. It was seized, earned, and shaped by those willing to take risks others feared. Harry intended to take every risk necessary.