The Hogwarts grounds were still soaked in morning dew when Harry Potter sprinted across the edge of the Black Lake, his robes left behind, his shoes muddy, and his breath coming sharp and controlled.
It was barely sunrise.
Students still slept.
But not Harry.
Not anymore.
Haraldin Slytherin trained in the dark.
Every morning, he rose before dawn and ran the outer perimeter of the castle—past greenhouses, past the Whomping Willow, across the slope leading toward Hagrid's hut. Each lap made his lungs burn and his muscles ache, but he pushed through the pain.
Because pain was proof.
Most wizards barely walked to class, let alone ran. They floated books. Summoned objects. Relied on levitation, cleaning spells, magical shortcuts.
And they were weak for it.
Harry knew that now.
Salazar Slytherin had told him: "The Force strengthens your body, but only if your body is worth strengthening."
So he trained.
After running, he did push-ups in the dungeons and sit-ups near the Quidditch pitch. He stretched, punched, lifted old stone bricks, and practiced balance by walking the narrow wall near the battlements until Madam Hooch threatened to hex his feet to the floor.
More than once, he heard whispers.
"Harry's gone mad."
"Did you see him running around again?"
"He's not sleeping. I think he's cursed."
But Harry didn't care.
His body was changing. His focus was sharper. His stance was stronger. Even simple movements felt lighter.
And every night, when he finished his schoolwork, he took it even further.
In the Room of Requirement, the air shimmered with energy.
Harry stood in the center of the room, shirt damp with sweat, facing a floating candle he had enchanted to move unpredictably.
With both hands held out, he focused—not on the wand in his pocket, not on the magic within his core—but on the air around him.
The Force.
The candle moved left.
Harry reached, commanded—and the flame froze.
The candle hovered, locked mid-air.
"Good!" Dobby clapped from the corner. "Master is finally learning to feel before trying to control!"
Harry turned, smiling. "You're really good at this, Dobby."
Dobby puffed up proudly. "House-elves do not need wands. We just know magic. We feel it, like breathing. But wizards... they always want tools, sticks, books, instructions. They forget that magic comes from will."
Harry sat down, catching his breath. "That's what I've been thinking. Everyone talks about how hard wandless magic is, but babies use magic all the time without wands. That's how accidental magic happens, right?"
Dobby nodded eagerly. "Exactly, sir! Dobby made the Malfoy plates explode once when Dobby was angry!"
Harry chuckled. "See? That's the thing. If a baby can do it out of fear or emotion, then we can do it with training. It's just… no one wants to put in the work."
He reached for a rock and stared at it.
"Accio." he said softly—without raising his wand.
Nothing happened.
He focused again.
He wanted the stone. He pictured it in his palm. He imagined the magic between him and the rock as a tether, a strand of invisible energy he could pull like string.
"Accio."
The stone quivered.
Then it jumped—straight into his hand.
Harry's eyes widened.
Dobby leapt up. "You did it, sir! You really did it!"
Harry turned the stone over in his hand. It was still warm.
"I didn't feel the magic inside me this time," he said slowly. "It came from around me. Like the room wanted to help."
Dobby nodded. "That is what Master Slytherin wants us to learn."
Over the next few days, Harry combined everything—Force meditation, physical conditioning, and wandless training.
He started to unlock spells without a wand—small things at first. Moving pebbles. Calling objects. Dimming lights. And though the results were inconsistent, they were real.
Even in class, subtle changes were becoming obvious.
When Snape's potion bubbled too violently, Harry calmed it with a glance.
When a quill rolled off his desk, he caught it with an unseen pull.
And when a Slytherin tried to trip him in the hallway, Harry didn't fall—he floated for half a second and landed like a cat.
Students stared.
Even Ron asked, "Are you sure you're not… I dunno, enchanted or something?"
But Harry only smiled. "I'm just learning."
Late one night, after another exhausting session in the Room of Requirement, Harry lay on the floor staring up at the ceiling, chest heaving, arms sore.
Dobby sat beside him, hugging his oversized practice stick.
"Dobby never thought Dobby would learn so much," the elf whispered. "Dobby always thought magic was something Dobby used, not something Dobby could grow."
Harry turned to him, smiling. "You've always had it in you. They just didn't want you to know."
Dobby's eyes shimmered. "Dobby is proud to be your friend, Master Harry."
Harry nodded, feeling something new and firm settle in his chest.
Pride.
Conviction.
He wasn't becoming stronger to be better than others. He was becoming stronger to survive. To protect.
And if wizards couldn't see the potential in wandless magic, in the Force, in discipline—then that was their failure.
He was no longer Harry Potter, the boy who waited for the next disaster.
He was Haraldin Slytherin, and he was preparing to meet destiny on his own terms.
The air inside the Chamber of Secrets was alive.
It hummed with ancient power—no longer from the buried bones of a Basilisk, but from two beings who now stood at the center of the stone floor, surrounded by scattered boulders, levitating weapons, and flickering light.
Haraldin Slytherin stood bare-handed, muscles taut, sweat glistening on his brow. Beside him hovered Dobby, eyes glowing faintly, his stick-like limbs coiled like a spring.
The Holocron floated between them, pulsing crimson.
And then—it spoke.
"You have grown," Salazar Slytherin said, his translucent form emerging once more. "The Force flows through you both. It strengthens your limbs. Sharpens your minds. Your connection is no longer instinct—it is command."
He watched silently as Harry raised both arms.
With a wave of his fingers, a boulder the size of a cauldron rose into the air.
Dobby flicked his hand.
The boulder stopped—froze mid-air—before dropping with a slam beside them.
Neither of them flinched.
Salazar tilted his head, approving.
"You are ready for the Second Form."
From his hands, a ghostly image appeared—two combatants moving in elegant, brutal arcs. Blocks. Swings. Step-turns. Disarming motions. It was more aggressive than the First Form. Faster. Designed not just to deflect, but to dominate.
"Form II: Makashi," he intoned. "Elegant. Economical. Precision over power. A duelist's technique. But with the Force at your back, you need not rely on strength alone."
"Finally," Harry said, cracking his neck. "I'm tired of pretending I can't hit back."
Dobby summoned his practice saber—a long rod of weightless ironwood—into his hand with a snap.
Harry did the same.
And then they moved.
The chamber echoed with the sound of impact. Their sticks clashed with such speed they blurred into arcs of motion. Harry ducked a strike, pivoted, swept Dobby's feet—but the elf floated backward in midair, somersaulting and throwing his saber like a spinning disc.
Harry raised a hand.
Force catch. The weapon stopped inches from his face.
Then—
He hurled it back.
Dobby dropped and rolled, summoning a nearby stone with his mind and lobbing it as a distraction.
They fought like shadows, their footwork graceful and deadly. Their Force control lent them speed far beyond human normal. Every movement flowed—not just from training, but from instinct awakened.
From pain.
"More," Salazar urged. "Faster. You are not just students. You are Sith in training. A Sith does not hesitate. A Sith does not hold back."
The stones began to rise around them now—not by conscious command, but by the sheer pressure of their presence. The air itself bent as they clashed.
Then came the darkness.
Not in the room—but in them.
As the duel pressed on, Harry tapped into something deeper—something cold, something remembered. The loneliness of the cupboard. The years of rejection. The whispers. The betrayal. The fear.
He did not weep for it.
He used it.
Dobby, too, trembled—not with weakness, but with focus. The sharp sting of a thousand punishments from the Malfoys. The insults. The cages. The shame. He let it burn inside, and he channeled it.
Their blades struck with thunder. Dust shook loose from the ancient chamber ceiling. Their bodies blurred in movement, weightless and precise. Every clash echoed with the fury of memory.
Salazar stood motionless, watching the two of them like a sculptor watching stone take shape.
"Yes," he whispered. "There it is. The flame. Not yet a fire… but growing."
"The dark side answers fastest to those who have suffered. It feeds not on cruelty… but on conviction. You have known pain. And that pain makes you powerful."
Harry stood panting, saber raised.
Dobby floated in midair, bruised, but grinning.
The Holocron dimmed slightly, but Salazar's voice lingered.
"You are not Sith yet. You are not ready for the final step. But you are close."
"The galaxy's greatest warriors rose from ash. You will too. In time."
Then his form flickered, vanishing.
Leaving the two students—one wizard, one elf—standing in the dark, surrounded by floating debris and the afterglow of unleashed power.
Dobby floated to the ground, breathless.
"Master Harry…" he whispered, "we flew."
Harry grinned. "And next time… we won't stop."
They turned back toward the passage, the silence behind them now filled not with fear, but purpose.
In the shadows, Darth Bane watched quietly—satisfied.
He did not need to rush them.
They were already walking the path.
And the Force—dark and deep—was waiting for them to claim it.
The Room of Requirement had transformed again.
Gone were the floating orbs and soft mats. Now, it was a training ground forged from fire and will—stone floors cracked from impact, walls lined with floating spell scrolls, enchanted targets, and suspended weights that twisted midair like dancing blades.
Haraldin Slytherin stood at the center, barehanded, wand discarded in the side.
Before him, Dobby hovered three feet above the ground, his stick-saber clutched tightly in both hands.
The two were no longer simply students.
They were combatants.
"Ready?" Haraldin asked, rolling his shoulders.
Dobby grinned. "Always, sir!"
They moved.
Force clashed with magic.
Harry dashed forward, feet barely touching the ground, saber raised high. Dobby spun through the air, using a gust of raw elf magic to twist midair and blast Harry with a compressed wave of energy.
Harry's hand shot out—no wand—and Protego! snapped into being midair, a glowing shield that cracked under the force but held.
They collided.
Saber to saber.
Energy to energy.
And Harry didn't hesitate.
He shot his hand outward, wandless, shouting Expulso!
A burst of concussive force launched Dobby backward, but the elf twisted, blinked, and reappeared behind him—teleporting with the ease of thought.
A kick, a blast of Force, and Harry stumbled forward before catching himself with a glide along the air.
They were no longer just training.
They were fighting—testing everything they had learned.
They cast no Killing Curses, no Cruciatus—but each spell, each swing, carried the weight of a warrior preparing for war.
Because that's what this was.
Preparation.
Not for a duel.
But for survival.
Outside of training, Haraldin's days had changed.
He spent less time at meals, less time in the Gryffindor common room, and no time on the Quidditch pitch.
When the announcement was made that Harry Potter had stepped down from the team, Gryffindor had fallen into stunned silence.
"But… he's our Seeker," Katie Bell whispered.
"He is the team," said Dean Thomas.
Oliver Wood had stormed out of the common room and didn't speak to him for days.
But Harry didn't care.
He had no time to chase a ball through the sky when death stalked his every step.
Sirius Black was out there. And Harry would not meet him as a schoolboy on a broomstick.
He would meet him as a warrior.
Every spare hour was spent in the library.
He scoured shelves by day, hunted footnotes by night. Every tome of dueling, every index of ancient curses, every chapter on shield work and magical theory—he read, marked, memorized.
And when Madam Pince wasn't watching, he used the Invisibility Cloak to slip into the Restricted Section.
There, he found spells he had never seen before—dark jinxes, cursed counters, spells designed to tear through enchanted defenses like knives through silk. He didn't cast them. Not yet.
But he learned them.
Because knowledge was power.
And ignorance had nearly killed him more than once.
"Dobby," he said one night, seated beneath the flickering torches of the Room of Requirement, "I'm teaching you everything I learn. Every spell. Every tactics."
Dobby looked up, surprised. "But why, sir? I am a house elf."
"No." Harry shook his head. "You're not a house elf, you are an elf. You're my equal now. You've trained beside me. You will fight beside me. You're the only one I can trust."
Dobby's eyes shimmered.
"You're my partner," Harry said softly. "My family. When the time comes… I need you with me."
"To the end of the line," Dobby said, whispering the words like a vow.
Harry smiled.
And in that moment, between the floating stones and the flickering flames, two figures stood—one wizard, one elf. No longer slaves to fate. No longer waiting for rescue.
They would fight.
They would survive.
And when the time came, they would stand together, against the darkness, as brothers of the Force and Magic.