Harry and Ron were living fulfilling lives now—or to be more precise, they were exhausted but incredibly happy.
The Room of Requirement was a magical place. So magical, in fact, that neither of them could find the words to describe it properly.
Well, aside from the initial discomfort of seeing other members of the League of Mages summon terrifying creatures and then defeat them like it was nothing, everything else had been fine.
"If only there weren't so many books to memorize, it'd be perfect," Ron often grumbled to Harry. But despite the complaints, neither of them slacked off. On the contrary, they were more motivated than ever.
As for their progress? While it wasn't quite up to Noah's standards, it was undeniable—they were far better than before.
They studied endlessly, poring over stacks of books that often made their heads spin. Still, they persisted, doing their best to adapt.
But their favorite part, without a doubt, was standing on the dueling stage—facing off against summoned monsters or simulated opponents conjured by the Room itself.
For any wizard, being able to use the magic they'd learned—to apply it in real combat—was a dream. And the Room of Requirement was turning that dream into a reality. Although they'd been timid at first—especially when facing someone like Draco Malfoy—they gradually grew more confident.
Watching newcomers like Kenn, Hannah, and Justin perform with such skill lit a fire under them. They didn't want to be seen as weak or useless.
Over time, they fell in love with the feeling of standing on that stage, of casting spells until they were completely drained, of walking away victorious.
What shocked them even more was how much their magical power had grown in just a few months.
They'd never imagined such improvement was possible. Even Ron was showing obvious progress—something that would've been unthinkable not long ago.
It was almost surreal. They could feel both their magical and mental capacities expanding rapidly—and that confused them.
"What's there to be confused about?" Noah raised an eyebrow at their concern. "Shouldn't you be happy?"
"But... shouldn't magical and mental strength increase slowly, based on bloodline power?" Ron asked. Despite his family's financial troubles, he was a pure-blood wizard, after all.
"You're not wrong," Noah said. "That is the traditional way. But what you're experiencing now is something new—something I've discovered. It's part of the reason we allowed you to join."
"So constant combat and mana depletion... it makes your magic stronger?" Harry asked, wide-eyed.
"Exactly. Plus, it builds real combat experience. But don't get carried away," Noah warned. "And don't forget the rules of the Mage Alliance."
"Don't worry," Ron said quickly. "We won't tell anyone."
The Mage Alliance had only three core rules, and Harry and Ron had them memorized so thoroughly that not even in their dreams would they leak a word.
They'd even sworn to Merlin himself that the secrets would remain safe.
In truth, they agreed with the rules—especially the second: All wizards are equal. And the third: Members must support each other.
These rules gave them a sense of belonging and safety they'd never felt before.
"No wonder Hermione joined them," Harry murmured once. "No wonder they helped her without hesitation—even when they had to face the whole Slytherin Quidditch team."
"Yeah. I really envy them, Harry. But now that we've joined too... we can't embarrass ourselves!"
In their spare time, Harry and Noah often had deep conversations, and both Harry and Ron found themselves growing more and more attached to the Alliance.
Their daily routine changed drastically. Like Hermione, they rarely visited Gryffindor Tower anymore. After every class, they would rush to the Room of Requirement without delay.
Their improvements in class soon became obvious—surprising even their classmates. But because everyone knew they were associating with Noah and the others, people remained calm and curious rather than jealous.
That said, Quidditch was still a headache for Harry. Thanks to Noah and his crew, his views on the sport had started to shift. He wasn't sure he loved it the way he once did.
But quitting wasn't an option. Deep down, he wasn't ready to give it up—especially after learning that Draco Malfoy was now Slytherin's Seeker.
He clenched his fists and swore silently to give Draco a lesson on the pitch—for Hermione's sake.
And so, time passed. Three months flew by, and November rolled in.
November was busy—not just because of the usual festivals, but because a much-anticipated Quidditch match was approaching.
To make things worse, Professor Lockhart had developed a habit of asking Harry to help him reply to fan mail—a task Harry absolutely loathed.
He complained often, but it never made a difference.
"Even if we all hate the guy, he is a professor," Ron said once. "Just like with Snape—no matter how much you can't stand him, you can't really disobey him."
"Ugh. He's disgusting," Harry muttered, rubbing his forehead in frustration.
He really couldn't stand Lockhart. Especially after overhearing Evan and Kenn talking about their parents' opinions of him—it was clear that nobody who knew magic respected Gilderoy Lockhart.
Harry even started wondering if Professor Dumbledore had finally made a mistake appointing him.
But he had no choice. He had to sacrifice his training time to help this fraud answer letters from adoring fans.
Just how famous was this guy? Why did he get so many letters?
"I'd rather get detention with Snape again—even if he beats me up!" Harry groaned one evening after hours of writing.
Ironically, he once accidentally did summon Snape through a botched spell, and he was beaten up for it.
"What's that, Harry?" Lockhart asked, eyeing him curiously.
"Nothing. How many more letters are left?"
"What's the matter, Harry? Would you rather be in detention? Isn't this much more pleasant than scrubbing cauldrons?"
"I suppose it is…" Harry mumbled, not bothering to argue.
Lockhart always had a reason to assign him work. It didn't help that Harry and Ron had broken school rules by flying a bewitched car into the Whomping Willow at the start of the year.
Harry sighed deeply. He didn't have the energy to argue with Lockhart anymore.
Just as he picked up his quill again, ready to reply to yet another ridiculous fan letter—
He suddenly heard it.
A chilling whisper.
It was hoarse, sharp, and so close it felt like it was right beside his ear.
"Kill... kill… time to kill…"
Harry froze.
His blood ran cold.
"Who's there?" he whispered, eyes darting around the room.
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