Harry Potter: From Little Wizard to White Lord

Harry's Occlumency training was still ongoing, though ever since Vaughn cast the Dream Charm on him, his attitude had become noticeably more enthusiastic.

Unfortunately, his dormmates weren't exactly thrilled.

Nearly every night, just as they were slipping into deep, peaceful sleep, they'd be jolted awake by Harry's sudden, unexplained bursts of laughter. It was like sharing a room with a madman.

"Alright, spill it," Ron finally snapped one morning, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What on earth are you dreaming about that has you giggling like a lunatic at midnight?"

Harry mumbled something about being too tired and not remembering. Which was half true. He was exhausted. Between daytime classes, nighttime Occlumency practice, and now Quidditch training ramping up again, he could barely keep his eyes open. Wood had completely lost it once the season started, jacking training up to four nights a week, two of which, of course, ate up the entire weekend.

The one small mercy in all of this madness was Hermione.

Ever since their last little brush with danger, she'd begun allowing Harry and Ron to copy her homework. She still tried to make them do it themselves, nagging them with saintly persistence, but every time the boys played dumb, her patience snapped and she'd blurt out the answers in frustration.

That is, until they tried to copy her entire essay.

"You absolute trolls," she snapped. "What do you think the professor will say if three essays are exactly the same?"

Suitably chastised, the boys slunk off to the library and stared mournfully at the four-foot-long essay assignment like it was a death sentence.

They often bumped into Vaughn there. He had become something of a minor legend among the first-years. Admired, even envied. Not only had he taken down a full-grown troll, but he also seemed to have transcended the laws of homework. Professors let him read whatever he pleased during lessons and never so much as batted an eye.

Harry, for one, was very jealous of that.

He also noticed Vaughn had stopped showing up to most of Slytherin's Quidditch practices. The moment Harry mentioned this to Oliver Wood, the team captain lit up like someone had just told him the Chudley Cannons had won the league.

"That's the spirit, Harry!" Wood boomed, clapping him so hard on the shoulder it nearly dislocated. "We play Slytherin on Saturday. Let's make sure we crush them!"

Yes, that's right. The legendary Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match was happening this Saturday.

Time is funny like that. Say something's happening "mid-month" or on a specific date and it feels distant. Say it's happening "this week" and suddenly the pressure caves your chest in.

The day before the match, Harry was a mess.

He loitered in the dormitory until the walls started to feel like they were closing in. Grabbing Ron and Hermione, he dragged them outside for some fresh air. The wind was icy, so Hermione conjured a jar of magical fire for them to warm their hands before running off to study with Vaughn.

Harry and Ron sat in the courtyard, cradling the jar of fire like a treasure, both lost in their own thoughts.

"You know," Ron said after a while, "I think you've actually got an edge over Vaughn."

Harry looked at him, skeptical.

"No, really," Ron insisted. "All the great Seekers are built like you, small and lean. It makes them faster and more nimble. Vaughn's taller. Broader. He's more like a Beater."

He paused, then added, "But it does mean Seekers get knocked around a lot. Last year, England's Seeker got hit so hard he snapped his arm. I heard the bone actually--"

"Okay, stop," Harry said, scrunching his nose. "Why did I let you talk again?"

He had seen the Slytherin players. They were built like trolls in green capes.

The rest of the day, his imagination assaulted him with visions of being smashed mid-air, bludgeoned by Beaters, and tumbling in slow-motion to his doom.

So that night, he cornered Vaughn with an urgent request.

"Make it strong this time," Harry whispered. "Really strong. I need a good dream tonight."

Vaughn raised an eyebrow. "Harry, Dream Charms don't help you sleep. They just make your dreams nice. That's it."

Harry didn't care. He wasn't chasing rest. He was chasing peace of mind.

Despite the fact that they were about to face off in a high-stakes Quidditch match, Harry's trust in Vaughn hadn't wavered. Before they went their separate ways that evening, he clapped Vaughn on the shoulder.

"Good luck tomorrow. May the best man win. But, uh, you know… friendship first. Game second."

"You too," Vaughn replied with a smile.

The whole interaction gave Harry the strange, smug sense that he was very mature now. Like some wise diplomat. Calm. Balanced. Emotionally evolved.

Then he failed to sleep a single wink.

Apparently, he did want to win.

He wanted to beat Vaughn. Just once. To prove to himself that he wasn't always second-best. That he could come out on top, even against someone who seemed untouchable.

Also, he now had definitive proof: the Dream Charm was rubbish for insomnia.

He stared at the ceiling until sunrise.

The next morning, Hogwarts was blessed with crisp skies and bright winter sun. Perfect Quidditch weather.

Harry, however, felt like a puddle of doom.

"You should eat something," Hermione coaxed. "You look like you've been cursed."

"I can't," Harry mumbled, pushing his plate away.

"At least a bite. You can't fly on an empty stomach!"

That only made things worse. His face went a shade paler, and the sight of eggs made his stomach churn.

Around him, the Great Hall buzzed with excitement. The air practically crackled with anticipation. Gryffindor versus Slytherin was always a heated match, but with Harry and Vaughn as Seekers, the stakes had never felt higher.

Dozens of students stopped to wish Harry luck.

Fred and George even slipped him a biscuit with matching grins. He tucked it away without much thought.

When Ron arrived, Harry handed the biscuit to him.

"You'll need this more than I do."

Ron took a bite mid-sentence. "Hmm. Not bad. Where'd you get it?"

"Fred and George gave it to me."

Ron froze.

Two seconds later, a loud pop echoed through the Hall.

Ron had transformed into a massive canary.

Feathers everywhere.

Students screamed. Fred and George cheered.

"Magnificent craftsmanship, Fred!"

"Flawless execution, George! Introducing: Weasleys' Canary Creams!"

The enormous bird glared at them with beady golden eyes as feathers rained down like confetti. A moment later, the transformation reversed, and Ron returned to human form, still glaring.

"You traitors!" he howled. "You knew he wouldn't eat it!"

"Exactly, dear Ron. Which is why we gave it to him," Fred said, bowing.

"And knew you'd end up with it," George added.

"Flawless strategy," they chimed together, high-fiving.

Inappropriate as it was, watching Ron get pranked did lift Harry's spirits. He even managed to down a bowl of pumpkin juice and half a meat pie before heading to the locker room.

As he laced up his boots and pulled on his red Quidditch robes, he caught Ron peeking in from the hallway, staring at him with envy.

"Uh… where's Hermione?" Harry asked, slightly weirded out.

"She went to cheer for Vaughn," Ron grumbled. "She's a traitor too."

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin changing room…

The Slytherin team stood tall in their sleek, emerald-green robes trimmed with silver, their house emblem, an embroidered serpent, gleaming on their chests.

Vaughn personally thought the color was hideous, but the design itself? Pretty sharp.

Hermione, clutching a book to her chest, bounced excitedly in front of him.

"You've got this, Vaughn! Do your best!"

"Thanks, Hermione," Vaughn said, gently ruffling her hair.

She blushed and scampered off.

He turned to find the entire Slytherin team quickly averting their gazes, pretending they hadn't seen a thing.

"What are you lot gawking at? Time to move. Let's win this."

"Yes, Captain!"