Back to Hogwarts
As the days passed, Harry remained either by Snape’s side, or in his room. It was odd, having what amounted to a mini shadow trail after him, silent and observing. When he went into his potions room or office however, Harry could apparently sense that his presence would be unwanted and break away from him, slipping into his own room. What he did in there, Snape had no clue, but he didn’t exactly care anyways. As long as the boy was quiet.
Once in a while, he requested something. More books, mostly. Every evening after dinner he asked to go outside. Snape let him. There wasn’t any danger outside anyways and he doubted the boy even had the ability to get lost.
——
Glancing behind him, Harry ducked into the large, oval clearing with the hoops, shucking off his jacket. It was a particularly cold evening, but in a minute he’d be warmed up enough.
The most important part of training was stretching. The demigods had taught him that, and so had Dauntless. Tight muscles meant slow reflexes, and when you had the ability to hop between dimensions that had the potential to kill you, the faster you were, the better.
Wednesday had taught him how to be stealthier, how to hide in plain sight. He had adapted her way of fighting into his own, striking out like a cobra and slinking around like a cat. His sword and knives were merely extensions of his own arm. He had total control.
Strength building was highly encouraged by almost everyone he met. Crowley and Aziraphale had recognized that 6 year old him had a lot of pent up energy and had enrolled him in a year long parkour class. Miss P had encouraged him because between him and Jacob, the chances of Hollowghasts getting to the peculiars dropped significantly.
“What are doing, Harry?” he paused mid lunge, one his knives still sailing through the air and landing in the grass. He turned to see a woman he’d never seen before, one with yellow, hawk like eyes and grey hair. It looked cool, paired together, and he couldn’t stop staring at her even as he snapped out a “Training, ma’am,” out of habit, he stood at a loose attention, hands by his side. The woman raised an eyebrow. “Training? For what?”
He shrugged. “If I run into danger, ma’am,”
The woman looked impressed as she started to walk around. “Wish Quidditch players trained like you,” she grumbled. “We’d get less Beater accidents then,” she picked up his thrown knife, the metal glittering in the sunlight. With a sudden motion, she threw the knife at him, and he ducked, his hands shooting out and grabbing the hilt in midair. She smirked. “Good reflexes. You’d do good as a Seeker. Come see me here tomorrow, I’ll show you something,”