Harry Potter and The Heir of the Shadow Throne

Zephyr had read about Hogwarts. He had imagined its grand halls, the moving staircases, the enchanted ceilings. But living in it? That was something else entirely.

The castle was alive. Not in the way buildings creaked and settled, but in the way the very stones seemed to breathe magic. The shifting staircases groaned as they moved, suits of armor clanked when no one was near them, and the paintings. He had nearly jumped out of his skin when one greeted him good morning.

"Never seen a talking portrait before?" the plump wizard in the frame asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

Zephyr blinked. "I have. They just don't usually say hello before I've had my morning tea."

The portrait chuckled, tipping his feathered hat. "Welcome to Hogwarts, then."

The hallways were chaotic with students hurrying to their first classes, some struggling with their oversized bags, others still half-asleep. Peeves zoomed past them at one point, cackling as he upended an ink bottle over a pair of unfortunate second-years. Filch was already yelling threats about detention.

As Zephyr walked with Harry, Ron, and Hermione toward their first lesson, he couldn't help but feel a strange sense of surrealism. He was living in the book now.

As they made their way down to the dungeons for their first class, the atmosphere gradually shifted. The bright, lively energy of the upper castle gave way to damp stone walls, flickering torches, and a chill that clung to the air. The deeper they went, the more the walls seemed to close in, the once vast corridors narrowing into something more ominous. By the time they reached the Potions classroom, Zephyr was convinced this place had been designed specifically to make students uncomfortable.

As they stepped inside the dimly lit dungeon, the scent of damp stone and something vaguely acidic filled the air. Shelves lined the walls, packed with glass jars containing things Zephyr would rather not name. The room seemed designed to make students uneasy, a stark contrast to the grand, enchanted halls above.

When they arrived at the potions classroom in the dungeons, the atmosphere shifted. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and something faintly acrid. The shelves were lined with jars of ingredients that looked like they had been pickled before Merlin was even born.

Ron shuddered as he peered at a floating eyeball. "Yeah, that's not going anywhere near me."

Zephyr smirked. "You sure? Might add some flavor to breakfast."

Ron looked green. "I hate you."

They barely had time to settle before the door slammed open and Snape swept in, his black robes billowing behind him. The room went deadly silent.

Snape's gaze immediately landed on Harry, his expression unreadable. He took his time scanning the rest of the class before his cold voice rang out.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."

Zephyr was fascinated. The way Snape spoke was different than in the books, like he was reading a script, more like he was weaving a spell of his own. The class, even the Slytherins, were locked in place under his scrutiny.

He continued, voice softer but no less intense. "I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't a bunch of dunderheads."

Zephyr leaned toward Harry. "Dramatic. I like it."

Snape's head snapped toward them. "Something amusing, Mr. Rid?"

Zephyr straightened. "Not at all, sir. Just appreciating the theatrical performance."

Harry coughed to cover a laugh. Ron looked like he was about to pass out. Hermione looked horrified.

Snape's expression didn't change, but something sharp glinted in his eyes. "Five points from Gryffindor."

Zephyr sighed. "That was faster than ten minutes."

Ron groaned. "You're making it worse."

Snape's lip curled. "Would you like to make it ten, Mr. Rid?"

Zephyr raised his hands in surrender. "I'll behave."

"See that you do."

The rest of the lesson continued with Snape firing off questions, deducting points, and generally making sure Gryffindor started the year with a deficit. Zephyr took notes, but his mind kept drifting back to his wand.

Would it pulse again? Would it whisper something more? Or was it waiting for something?

As he crushed a dried herb into his cauldron, he made up his mind.

If the wand wouldn't give him answers, he'd find them himself.

The moment they stepped out of the dungeons, Zephyr felt like he could breathe again. The crisp morning light filtering through the castle windows was a welcome change from Snape's gloomy lair. The group trudged up the staircase, the chatter of students around them growing louder as they neared their next class. Zephyr could already hear excited murmurs about Professor McGonagall's legendary transformations. He smirked to himself—this, at least, was something he had been looking forward to.

After the grueling experience that was Snape's class, Zephyr was more than ready for something—anything—that didn't involve getting glared at like he personally offended the laws of potion-making. Fortunately, their next lesson was with Professor McGonagall.

The Transfiguration classroom was brighter and far less suffocating than the dungeons, its high windows allowing streams of morning light to filter in. The students whispered excitedly as they took their seats, some eyeing the stacks of books on McGonagall's desk with nervous anticipation.

The students barely had time to settle before the door swung open, and Professor McGonagall strode in, her robes sweeping behind her. She carried herself with the kind of presence that demanded silence, and she got it instantly.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she stated, scanning the room with a sharp eye. "Anyone caught messing around will leave this classroom immediately."

Zephyr had read about her strict nature but seeing her in action made it hit differently. She wasn't just a teacher, she was a force of nature, the kind of presence that could command a battlefield if necessary.

She didn't wait for them to adjust, simply raising her wand and pointing it at her desk. In an instant, the wood shimmered, twisting into a sleek tabby cat with sharp green eyes. The students gasped as the cat stretched lazily, flicking its tail as if mildly inconvenienced by the whole ordeal.

Then, without warning, the cat leapt back onto the desk, and mid-jump, its form shifted again, into a solid, polished statue of a cat, sitting perfectly still where the desk had once been.

The class erupted into whispers. Zephyr blinked, momentarily thrown. He had read about Transfiguration before, but seeing someone chain transformations like that, turning a table into a cat and then into a statue? That was something else.

Then, without so much as a sound, McGonagall stepped out from behind them, her arms crossed, looking perfectly unimpressed.

Ron let out an audible yelp. "She was—wait—what?"

Zephyr whistled under his breath. "Now that's how you make an entrance."

McGonagall arched an eyebrow, the faintest trace of amusement on her face. "I am pleased you approve, Mr. Rid. Now, let us see how you all manage with something simpler. Turn to page twelve. We will begin with matchsticks."

Ron muttered, "Blimey."

Zephyr blinked. "Okay, that was cool."

McGonagall arched an eyebrow, the faintest trace of amusement on her face. "I am pleased you approve, Mr. Rid. Now, let us see how you all manage with something simpler. Turn to page twelve. We will begin with matchsticks."

Ron muttered, "Blimey."

Zephyr whistled under his breath. "Now that's how you make an entrance."

McGonagall's lips twitched slightly, as if suppressing a smile. "Now, let's see how you all do with something simpler. Turn to page 12. We'll begin with matchsticks."

Zephyr stared at the tiny wooden stick in front of him. This was different from anything he had done before. Back when he trained his skills, skills were something learned, calculated, even optimized with time. But this—this was magic. It wasn't about memorization or theory alone; it required something else, something deeper. He could feel the weight of the wand in his hand, like it was waiting for him to act.

Hermione, of course, was already muttering the instructions under her breath, her eyes darting between her book and her matchstick like it had personally insulted her.

Harry frowned. "What are we supposed to do again?"

"Turn it into a needle," Hermione answered promptly. "Haven't you read the book?"

Ron sighed. "Yeah, but reading about it and actually doing it are two different things."

Zephyr barely glanced at the book before flicking his wand. "It's all about control. Watch."

The moment he spoke, a notification pinged in his vision:

New Skill Learned: Basic Transfiguration (Level 1)

The matchstick shimmered and warped instantly, shifting into a perfect silver needle in a fraction of a second. The entire class fell silent. Even Hermione, who had been so focused on her own spell work, looked up in surprise.

Ron gawked. "You—you just did it? Just like that?"

McGonagall's sharp gaze fixed on Zephyr. "Mr. Rid, have you practiced Transfiguration before?"

Zephyr hesitated for the briefest moment before giving a sheepish shrug. "Just... really good at picking things up fast, I guess?"

Where I was back in the cave, it is pretty clear that I could learn everything extremely fast, I did spend my time training all of these shadow skills but never learn actually spell. Why? well let's say that I believe the system will have a better skill, OP skills and if I have ever need to face my enemies, there will be no killing curse, but silent take the opponent down without him even know it. 

Harry looked at him curiously, but before anyone could press further, Hermione's matchstick finally turned silver, though it wasn't quite needle-shaped yet.

"Show-off," Ron muttered, still staring at Zephyr's perfect transformation.

Zephyr smiled but said nothing. He had felt something as the spell took effect his wand had reacted differently than expected. There had been a brief moment of resistance, almost as if his magic had struggled against the wand's own nature before finally complying.

The matchstick had changed. But for that split second, it had wanted to do something else entirely.

His fingers tightened instinctively around his wand. It pulsed faint, expectant.

Was it testing him? Guiding him? Or wait for something more?

Whatever it wanted him to find, it wasn't finished yet.

 ** More stones please, our fellow wizard **