C11: Night Tour and the Forbidden Section
"This sword is quite handy," John muttered.
Basil, perched on the windowsill, turned his round owl head slowly, his golden eyes blinking, as if pondering where John had procured such an item.
Ruffling his feathers, Basil gave an indignant screech and slapped Tom's drooling dog away with a sharp beat of his wings before flying out of reach with aristocratic disdain.
John gripped the longsword in both hands. It was a broadsword typically displayed alongside medieval knight armor like those lining the fourth-floor armor gallery at Hogwarts—its steel blade nearly reaching his shoulder.
"Maybe when I grow up, it'll fit just right," he thought.
He heaved it upward with both hands. The blade, steel-forged and palm-width, was brutally heavy. But the weight was exactly what he needed.
Perfect for strength training.
He tied a rope around the sword's hilt and strapped it tightly across his back. With the gleaming weapon secured, he began a rigorous set of push-ups on the cold dormitory floor.
That night's effort bore fruit. By morning:
[Magic: Level 2 (20/500)]
[Spells: Alohomora (Level 3), Wingardium Leviosa (Level 1), Transfiguration Charm (Level 1)]
[Skills: Short Weapon Mastery (Level 7), Greatsword Mastery (Level 3), Hot Weapon Mastery (Level 1)]
[Blessings: Physical Fitness, Quickstrike, Accuracy, Academic Mastery, Pilot, Long-Distance Running]
His weapon proficiencies had shifted: Heavy Weapon Mastery and Polearm Mastery vanished, replaced by Greatsword Mastery.
"This weapon hits both categories—heavy and long-handled," John realized as he observed its craftsmanship under the morning light.
The blend of the two styles—brute force and reach—felt instantly familiar, like reuniting with an old fighting rhythm. With practiced ease, he performed sweeping cuts, precise slashes, and lunging thrusts. It was as if he'd trained for years with it.
Skill levels were structured similarly to spell mastery:
Level 1: Initiate—can mimic basic stances.
Level 2: Foundational—capable of practical application.
Level 3: Intermediate—skilled enough to defeat multiple foes of equal size.
Level 4: Professional—combat-ready, lethal in motion.
Level 5: Instructor—demonstrates mastery with unique style.
Level 6: Expert—personalized combat philosophy.
Level 7: Grandmaster—transcendent technique; can turn even a pencil into a deadly weapon.
John, having reached level 7 in Short Weapon Mastery, could likely kill three flies with a single pencil jab.
The loss of previous proficiencies hadn't dulled his edge. On the contrary, he felt more fluid and complete in combat. Greatsword Mastery was no downgrade, it was an evolution.
Still, he grumbled, "I'm a wizard. What good's this gonna do me?"
For now, his priority hierarchy remained: Blessings first, magic second, spells third, weapons fourth.
Later, after practicing the Transfiguration Charm, John headed to his morning classes.
With the blessing of Academic Mastery, he absorbed magical theory like a sponge—faster than even Hermione, though he'd never admit it aloud.
That afternoon, after another strategic walk through the library with Hermione, John began preparing for his nighttime mission.
---
Hogwarts, Fifth-Floor Corridor — Night
Portraits along the corridor slumbered in silence. Empty suits of armor, long stripped of swords, now held wooden staves like makeshift halberds.
"Lumos," John whispered, igniting his wand's tip.
"Oi! Turn that blasted light off!" groaned a knight in a frame, shielding his painted eyes.
"Bloody inconsiderate!" cried a plump monk two frames down.
John ignored the complaints and padded silently toward the library entrance. By day, Madam Pince ruled the place like a vulture. By night, it was a silent forest of parchment and secrets.
The library had closed at eight sharp. Now it was deserted, except for the occasional poltergeist prank or wandering cat.
The labyrinth of shelves towered above him, casting eerie shadows. Narrow aisles and towering tomes created a hushed reverence.
At the very back was his target: the Restricted Section.
The gate wasn't guarded by magic just an old iron latch. Clearly intended more for honest students than determined thieves.
Snap.
He slid the bolt quietly. The door creaked open.
No Invisibility Cloak like Harry had. No Marauder's Map. Just stealth and dumb luck.
Thanks to his agility training, John stepped inside like a shadow. Rows of chained books lined the dark shelves. Some groaned softly, others shivered or twitched.
These weren't just "advanced" spellbooks. These were dangerous. Some contained information on Horcruxes, blood magic, even necromancy. Many had warnings from Dumbledore himself.
You could access them with a signed professor's note. But that would require a conversation with Snape, and John had no illusions there.
So tonight, he did it his way.
He lit his wand softly and started scanning.
Books bound in dragonhide. Scrolls that pulsed with enchantments. One book had an eye on the cover—it blinked.
He passed by volumes on potions—ones that described Veritaserum and Polyjuice Potion in clinical, revolting detail. The thought of drinking a hair-filled concoction made him gag.
He avoided a black-and-silver tome that radiated subtle malevolence. Best not to poke that bear.
After several minutes, his eyes landed on the prize: a thick volume titled Advanced Charms.
Flipping it open, he scanned for the Disillusionment Charm. Bingo. There it was—alongside spells like Apparition and Silencing Charms.
Satisfied, he shut the book.
Just as he turned to leave, his curiosity betrayed him. His eyes flicked back to the black-and-silver tome.
Against better judgment, he reached for it.
Crack!
A wailing shriek exploded from the book as soon as it opened.
"AH—!"
He slammed it shut, but the damage was done.
From outside, rapid footsteps echoed.
Filch.
The castle's resident caretaker and squib stormed in like a bloodhound, wielding a lantern and muttering darkly.
"I know you're in here!" he shouted. "Come out, you little miscreant!"
Mrs. Norris gave a delighted meow from deeper within the stacks.
John froze. But he wasn't unprepared.
As Filch and his cat patrolled the left side of the library, John ducked right and vanished behind a bookshelf. He timed every step to the rhythm of their patrols.
When Filch turned toward the east aisle, John strolled casually out of the west.
As he passed, he shot a discreet thumbs-up to Mrs. Norris, who was perched like a queen, licking her paw.
A few Knuts' worth of smoked salmon from dinner had clearly paid off.
---
Back in the dormitory, John didn't waste a second.
He practiced the Disillusionment Charm relentlessly, night after night.
By the third sleepless evening, his eyes were as dark as soot, but he'd finally etched the wand movement and incantation into muscle memory.
The charm's first glyph appeared in his system. A breakthrough.
---
The next morning at breakfast, six long-eared barn owls swept into the Great Hall. They carried a slender, wrapped package and a letter from Professor McGonagall.
The package struck Harry Potter's breakfast like a guided missile—his bacon flying dramatically onto the stone floor.
McGonagall tossed the broom like it was hot coals and stalked off, muttering about reckless Gryffindors.
The Nimbus 2000 had arrived.
Quidditch training had begun.
Harry, still dazed from excitement, waved the letter at Ron.
Ron gawked at the broomstick like it was Excalibur. The best he'd touched was Charlie's battered Cleansweep Five now a glorified museum piece.
The boys rushed out to examine it before class.
John sipped pumpkin juice and watched them disappear down the corridor.
Across from him, Hermione glanced at the door for the third time.
John raised an eyebrow. "Still mad?"
"Unless they apologize," she snapped, "I'm not speaking to them."
John nodded sympathetically but wasn't holding his breath. Harry and Ron had the emotional awareness of turnips.
Next to him, Neville fumbled with his Remembrall again.
"Don't forget to wear trousers for Charms class," John said. "This isn't a pajama party."
Neville turned beet red. Hermione rolled her eyes. And John casually returned to his plate, poking suspiciously at the suspiciously hard bacon pie.
"Uncooked rock," he muttered. "10 Galleons says it's a trap."
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