Harry Potter: The Soldier of Hogwarts

The sky outside the castle was still a pale wash of pre-dawn grey when Ryan left the Slytherin common room, his wand tucked securely inside the sleeve of his robes. The halls of Hogwarts were nearly silent—no students laughing, no ghosts drifting through walls. Just the occasional flicker of torchlight and the soft scuff of his own footsteps against ancient stone.

He liked it this way. Quiet. Empty. Like the castle itself was waiting for him.

When he pushed open the doors to the Great Hall, it was nearly deserted. Sunlight hadn't yet reached through the enchanted ceiling, which mirrored the sky outside in its faint, sleepy shimmer. Only a handful of candles floated above the long tables, their flames small and still.

To his mild surprise, someone was already there.

Lyra Black sat alone at the Gryffindor table, a steaming mug cupped in both hands, her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid over one shoulder. A book lay open beside her plate, untouched toast going cold. She looked up the moment he entered and blinked in surprise.

"Ryan?"

He offered a small nod and made his way over not to the Slytherin table, but straight toward her.

"You're up early," she said, half-smiling. "I thought I was the only one cursed with insomnia."

"Didn't sleep much," Ryan replied, glancing briefly at the high windows before taking a seat across from her. "Needed to clear my head."

Lyra tilted her head slightly, studying him. "You're… surprisingly chipper for someone sorted into Slytherin last night. I expected you to throw the table over and duel Malfoy on sight."

Ryan gave a faint snort. "Tempting. But I figured day one was a little early to start building a criminal record."

Lyra smirked at that, taking a sip of her drink—probably tea, judging by the scent. "Sensible. Though after what Malfoy said last night, I wouldn't blame you."

His expression cooled slightly. "He tried to provoke me. He won't get the satisfaction."

"Still." She leaned back. "I've never seen the table react like that to a Muggle-born being sorted into Slytherin. They were more confused than anything."

"So? Tried any new spells yet?" She ask.

"Nope." Ryan's lips twitched slightly. "I'm still stuck in Lumos. But i manage to make it bright now."

"Really? That's pretty impressive," she said, clearly surprised. "Most people need half a dozen tries."

"Beginner's luck." He paused. "Or maybe stubbornness."

"I vote stubbornness."

They shared a quiet laugh.

The warmth of it settled in Ryan's chest—strange, that a small, casual moment like this could feel more real than anything he'd experienced since arriving. 

"Question," he said after a beat.

She blinked. "Alright."

"What's your perspective on magic?"

Lyra frowned slightly. "That's... specific."

"I mean it." He leaned forward, arms folded on the table. "Not the theory, not the textbook stuff. I want to know how you see it. When you cast a spell, what does it feel like? What's your intent, your focus?"

Lyra blinked, clearly caught off guard. "No one's ever asked me that."

"Humor me."

She tapped a finger against her mug, thinking. "Alright... it's like this: for me, magic is a language. Not just the words you say, but the feeling behind them. It's like music—you don't just play notes; you play meaning. Magic responds to emotion, to clarity of thought. If I'm panicking, my spells fizzle. If I'm confident? They flow."

Ryan nodded slowly. That tracked with what he'd felt that morning. The spell hadn't worked until he had both the shape and the will behind it.

Lyra continued, her voice thoughtful. "Some people see magic as power. Others see it as art. Me? I think it's both. But it only answers when you're honest with it."

Ryan sat with that for a moment.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Lyra arched a brow. "You planning on interviewing everyone in the castle?"

"Maybe." He didn't smile, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone. "I want to learn fast. Real fast. Not just spells, but the logic behind it. The behavior of magic."

Lyra studied him for a moment, and this time her smile was softer. "Well... I guess if anyone could brute-force their way through wizard school with sheer grit and curiosity, it'd be you."

"Grit, curiosity… and maybe a little paranoia," Ryan added.

At that, she laughed for real. "Well, that's very Slytherin of you."

Lyra's laughter tapered off, but the mischievous spark in her eyes remained. She took another sip of tea, then glanced down at her wand, which had been lying next to her open book. With the subtlety of a seasoned troublemaker, she slid it into her hand.

"You know," she said casually, swirling her tea with the tip of her wand, "if you're so determined to learn fast, maybe I should give you some real-world experience."

Ryan narrowed his eyes slightly. "Real-world experience?"

Lyra's tone remained innocent. "Mm-hm. Like field tests. Surprise duels. Creative problem-solving under pressure."

"That sounds like code for 'mess with the new kid.'"

"Only a little."

Ryan gave her a flat look. "You're not going to hex me, are you?"

She raised her hand, mock-offended. "Me? Hex a fellow student? In the Great Hall? Under Headmaster D's enchanted ceiling and at this ungodly hour?"

"…Yes."

"Fair."

But even as she spoke, her wand flicked under the table. Silently, with the practiced grace of someone who'd definitely been caught before and learned to make it count, she whispered the incantation, "Tinctura Mustachio."

A faint shimmer of magic danced through the air like heat over stone, and Ryan, deep in thought, missed it entirely.

He leaned forward again, fingers threading through his hair as he stared down at the table. "So, magic responds to intent, emotion, and will. That's the working theory so far. But does that mean you can overpower a spell just by feeling strongly enough about it? Or do you still need to understand its structure?"

Lyra nodded along, thoughtfully. "Both, probably. Intent gives shape, emotion gives force, and structure gives precision. If you just scream at a violin, it won't make music—same with magic. You can't just feel something and expect it to work."

Ryan absorbed that in silence.

Then he reached for a piece of toast. Lyra bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as he took a bite—completely unaware that a thin black mustache now adorned his upper lip. It curled at the ends like something out of an old silent film, a perfect inky twist of absurdity that danced every time he chewed.

"Something funny?" he asked, noticing the tremble in her shoulders.

Lyra shook her head, eyes watery with suppressed laughter. "Nope. Nothing at all. Please continue with your very serious research monologue, Professor Ryan."

Ryan frowned. "You're mocking me."

"Never," she said, struggling to keep her tone even. "I'm merely appreciating your intensity."

Ryan narrowed his eyes. Something was definitely off. Lyra was barely holding it together, her lips twitching with suppressed laughter, her shoulders shaking just slightly. He was about to press her when the heavy doors at the far end of the Great Hall creaked open with a soft, resonant groan.

The air shifted.

Both students turned their heads as the unmistakable figure of Albus Dumbledore entered, his long, star-speckled robes trailing behind him like a piece of the night sky. His silver beard glimmered faintly in the candlelight, and his bright blue eyes—twinkling even at this early hour—swept calmly across the room.

He offered a slight, knowing smile as he approached the staff table, clearly not surprised to see two students up before sunrise. Ryan instinctively sat up straighter, wiping his fingers on a napkin and brushing away imaginary crumbs, though he still had no idea about the elegant, curling mustache on his upper lip.

Lyra immediately averted her eyes, fighting back a new wave of laughter.

"Headmaster," Ryan said, giving a respectful nod as Dumbledore passed nearby.

"Mr. Ryan," Dumbledore said warmly, pausing near their table, "Miss Black. I see curiosity is already stirring so early in the day. Or is it simply mischief?"

"A bit of both, sir," Lyra replied, offering a grin that tried to play innocent and failed spectacularly.

"I'd expect nothing less from a Black," he replied with a chuckle, then turned his attention to Ryan. "You seem contemplative, Mr. Ryan. Is there something on your mind?"

Ryan hesitated only for a breath. "Yes, actually. Do you… have time for a question, sir? About magic."

Dumbledore's eyes lit with genuine interest. "Always."

Ryan stood and crossed the short distance to him, wand still tucked in his sleeve. He lowered his voice slightly, unsure why, but the question felt personal—intimate, even.

"Everyone talks about how magic is energy, or a tool, or something you control with your will," Ryan said carefully. "But I was wondering what you think it is. Not just how it works… but what it is. What is magic, from your point of view?"

Dumbledore considered him quietly for a long moment.

"I could give you many answers," the headmaster said eventually, "and none of them would be wrong. Magic is will. Magic is nature. Magic is knowledge. It is emotion, and it is intent. It is, in many ways, an extension of the soul. But if you are asking what I believe, personally…"

Ryan nodded.

Dumbledore smiled, eyes softening. "To me, magic is a conversation."

Ryan blinked. "A conversation?"

"Yes." The old wizard clasped his hands behind his back and turned his gaze upward, as though seeing beyond the enchanted ceiling. "Between you and the world around you. Between your thoughts and the hidden forces of the universe. Every spell we cast is not simply an order—it's a request. A dialogue. And the more clearly you understand yourself, the better that conversation becomes."

Ryan absorbed that in silence, stunned not by the complexity of the answer, but by its simplicity.

"So it's not just about power," he said slowly.

"Power is merely the volume of your voice," Dumbledore replied. "But comprehension…. You may shout and be ignored. Or whisper and be heard."

Lyra, who had been listening from the table, added softly, "That's why intent matters so much."

Dumbledore gave a small nod. "Precisely. Magic reveals truth—whether we like it or not."

Ryan looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers. "I've felt it. Like it's… aware. As if the wand isn't just a tool, but a key. Something that opens that conversation you're talking about."

"Very astute," Dumbledore said with a pleased smile. "A wand channels your intent, yes. But the true power lies within you. The wand merely helps you listen."

Ryan looked up, eyes clear. "Then I want to learn how to listen better. Not just perform spells. I want to understand magic—its behavior, its source. Not like a textbook. Like it's a second part of me."

Dumbledore studied him quietly, the amused twinkle returning to his gaze. "Then you must remain curious. And humble. Magic does not offer up its secrets to those who demand them. It teaches those who earn them."

Ryan nodded slowly. "Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore gave a slight bow of the head. "Now then, I must see to the elves in the kitchens. They take great pride in their breakfast spreads, and I must make sure they haven't snuck chocolate frogs into the porridge again."

With a final amused glance—lingering just a second longer than expected on Ryan's upper lip—Dumbledore turned and strolled away.

Ryan returned to the table, mind buzzing. "That was… actually helpful."

"Oh, definitely," Lyra said, still smiling as she sipped her tea