The castle bells tolled, their chimes reverberating through the ancient stone corridors of Hogwarts. The morning light streamed through the enchanted windows, casting long golden rays across the Slytherin dormitory.
Harry stirred, his mind groggy, as if waking from a fever dream. He reached up, his fingers grazing the cool metal of the diadem still perched atop his head. The moment he removed it, an eerie fog settled over his mind. It wasn't debilitating—just... disappointing.
He had gone from brilliance to mediocrity in an instant.
The addictive rush of heightened intelligence was something he hadn't anticipated. While wearing Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem, spells, theories, and magical constructs had unraveled before him like an open book. Now, without it, his mind felt constrained—like an artist given dull tools after wielding a divine brush.
With a sigh, he closed the thick tome on Warding Charms—his third book of the night. His fingers traced the embossed title absentmindedly before he stored it in his enchanted pocket space.
Checking the Marauder's Map, he ensured no one was lurking outside the dormitory before slipping out unnoticed. He navigated the dim corridors swiftly, his footsteps silent as a shadow, heading back toward the Slytherin common room.
But as he rounded the last corner—
"Harry!"
He stopped.
Hermione Granger stood in his path, arms crossed, her bushy hair slightly unkempt, a clear indication she had been waiting for him.
Harry's lips twitched in amusement.
"Hermione, fancy meeting you here."
Her narrowed eyes gave away her exasperation. "Where have you been?"
"Why, Hermione, are you worried about me?" he teased, stepping closer.
She huffed. "That's not an answer, Harry. You've been sneaking out again, haven't you?"
Harry leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Maybe. Maybe not. What are you going to do about it?"
Hermione hesitated, clearly conflicted. Harry knew she had a strong sense of right and wrong, but he also knew she was drawn to knowledge—especially when someone else seemed to be ahead of her.
Before she could push further, he smoothly redirected the conversation. "By the way, did I mention how beautiful you look today?"
Hermione turned red instantly.
"W-what?!"
Harry smirked. "Just saying, you have this glow in the morning. It's quite enchanting."
"Flattery won't get you out of this, Potter!" she huffed, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness.
But the damage was done. The topic had shifted.
"Come on, we'll be late for class," Harry said smoothly, taking her hand and leading her toward Transfiguration.
And just like that, she forgot all about her interrogation.
Transfiguration Class – After the Lesson
The class had gone as usual—McGonagall demonstrating a complex transfiguration, and the students fumbling to replicate it.
Harry, of course, had performed it effortlessly.
After dismissing the class, McGonagall noticed Harry lingering behind.
"Professor McGonagall?" Harry called.
McGonagall, who had been sorting through parchment on her desk, looked up with curiosity.
"Ah, Mr. Potter. Come in, come in. Please, take a seat."
There was a warmth in her voice, one that Harry recognized—one that spoke of fondness and nostalgia.
McGonagall had been close to his mother. That much was obvious. Though she never said it outright, her eyes always softened at the mention of Lily Potter. And unlike Dumbledore, her concern for him seemed... genuine.
She had been shocked when he was sorted into Slytherin, but she never treated him any differently. If anything, she seemed even more intrigued by him.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Potter?" she asked.
Harry leaned forward slightly. "I read about a charm in one of my books. It caught my interest."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And which charm would that be?"
"The Gemino Charm."
McGonagall's brow shot up in surprise. "That is a Fourth-Year spell, Mr. Potter. I assume you've had trouble with it?"
Harry smirked. "Not quite, Professor. I already mastered it."
McGonagall blinked.
For a long moment, she simply stared at him, as if trying to gauge whether or not he was joking.
"Forgive me, but may I see you perform it?" she asked, finally.
Harry nodded. With a flick of his wand, the cup on McGonagall's desk shimmered—then split into two identical copies.
McGonagall's lips parted slightly.
He did it.
Not only had he performed a spell far beyond his year, but he had done so without the incantation.
And without the proper wand movements.
That kind of spellwork was not normal.
Even the best students at Hogwarts— even Lily Potter herself— had required years of study to reach that level of control.
This boy…
McGonagall felt an unexpected thrill rush through her. She had taught at Hogwarts for decades, but she had never seen a prodigy of this caliber before.
This needed to be discussed with the staff—and possibly even the Headmaster.
"Professor?" Harry called, shaking her from her stunned silence.
McGonagall cleared her throat. "Yes. Yes. That was... expertly done, Mr. Potter."
Harry smiled. "Thank you, Professor. But I actually came to ask something else."
McGonagall folded her hands. "Go on."
Harry gestured toward the cup. "Right now, the duplicate is just a temporary magical construct. It'll fade eventually. I want to make it permanent."
McGonagall felt another wave of shock.
Permanent conjuration?
That was a Seventh-Year topic. And even then, few managed to truly master it.
"Are you sure, Mr. Potter? Such magic takes time—weeks, if not months, to perfect."
Harry's gaze was unwavering. "I'm sure."
And so, McGonagall began to teach him.
To her astonishment, what should have taken weeks took him mere hours.
By the time the sun began to set, Harry had successfully conjured and stabilized a permanent duplicate.
McGonagall felt breathless.
She had never seen talent like this before.
A genius of unparalleled caliber sat before her. A mind sharper than even Dumbledore's at his age.
And for the first time in years, she felt the same thrill of teaching she once had when she mentored the likes of Dumbledore himself.
But then a thought struck her.
Why had Harry come to her?
Surely, if he wanted to master a charm, Filius Flitwick—the Charms Professor and a literal dueling champion— would have been a better choice?
She hesitated. "Mr. Potter, forgive me for asking, but why come to me? Professor Flitwick is far more experienced in Charms than I."
Harry gave a small, almost bashful smile. His emerald eyes shimmered as he spoke—and his voice was soft, almost vulnerable.
"Because, Professor… you feel like a mother to me."
McGonagall's breath hitched.
Her heart clenched, her throat tightened.
For a brief moment, she saw Lily in those eyes.
Her chest swelled with warmth. She fought the tears that threatened to spill.
"Oh, Mr. Potter…" she whispered.
She wanted to say something—anything—but the words failed her.
She had lost so many students.
She would not lose this one.
And as she wiped her eyes, Harry inwardly smirked.
And also… you're hot, and totally my type of MILF