HP:Rise

Chapter 62: A Cold Resolve



The infirmary doors swung shut behind Harry with a soft, definitive click, but he didn't hear it. The only sound was the furious, roaring tempest in his own mind. He walked, his pace fast and clipped, his back ramrod straight, moving through the empty corridors of Hogwarts without seeing them.

He was angry. A white-hot, furious anger coiled in his gut. You happened, Harry. Ron's words echoed, each one a fresh, stinging lash. How dare he? How dare he stand there, safe within these castle walls, and accuse him?

He reached the deserted Astronomy Tower, the cold night air a welcome shock against his heated skin. He gripped the stone parapet, his knuckles white, and stared out at the dark, sleeping grounds.

But as the initial inferno of his anger began to cool, a colder, heavier feeling settled in its place. He saw the scene again, not through the red haze of his own anger, but with a chilling clarity. He saw Ron's face, not angry, but desperate and grieving. He saw the bed where Hermione lay, exhausted to the point of collapse.

And he knew, with a certainty that was as sharp and painful as a shard of glass, that Ron was right.

It wasn't just a sacrifice. A small, honest part of him admitted that. He wanted this. He craved the power, the feeling of his magic sharpening into a weapon, the intoxicating control that came with every new spell mastered, every physical limit broken. It was a necessity, yes, but it was also a desire. And Ron's words had struck that nerve, exposing the selfish truth beneath the noble justifications.

He had taken their friend away. He had built a wall around himself, not just to protect them from his secrets, but to protect his own ambition from their questions, from their worry, from anything that might slow him down. The stress of it all—the constant training, the secrecy, the hunt for the Horcruxes, and now the guilt—was a crushing weight. The anger he felt at Ron was a shield for the anger he felt at himself.

A small, traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispered that he was a hypocrite. He had started this year with the firm belief that he needed his friends, that their strengths were essential. But that was before Ron's words had felt like a betrayal, before the true, lonely weight of it all had settled in. The anger and the guilt warred within him until all that was left was a cold, lonely resolve. The path he had chosen was the only one there was. He would walk it, even if it meant walking it alone.

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The final weeks of the term passed in a state of cold, silent truce. The trio still sat together in classes, a habit too ingrained to break, but the space between them was a valley of unspoken words. The easy chatter was gone, replaced by a tense, formal politeness that was worse than any argument. Harry would ask to borrow a quill, and Ron would pass it without meeting his eyes. Hermione would offer a perfectly valid point in a Potions discussion, and Harry would agree with a curt, academic nod. They were a constellation of three stars that had drifted too far apart, their gravitational pull on each other weakening with every passing day.

Exams arrived not as a challenge, but as a welcome distraction. For Harry, they were less a test of his knowledge and more a demonstration of the gulf that now separated him from his peers.

In Transfiguration, the task was to turn a teapot into a tortoise. The familiar classroom was filled with the sound of tapping wands and frustrated sighs as students produced tortoises with spouts for heads or porcelain-patterned shells. Hermione, with her usual focused frown, managed a respectable, if slow-moving, specimen. Ron's kept trying to pour tea out of its mouth. Harry, however, simply pictured the transformation in his mind, the complex matrix of magical reconfiguration, and performed the spell with a silent, casual flick of his wrist. A perfect, scaly tortoise with wise, blinking eyes appeared on his desk. Out of sheer boredom, he gave another subtle, wandless push of will. The tortoise rose onto its back legs and performed a slow, perfectly balanced pirouette. He saw Professor McGonagall's lips press into a line so thin it almost vanished, a look of profound, grudging pride.

The Charms practical was to perform a Cheering Charm on a disgruntled-looking garden gnome. While others produced weak charms that made the gnome scowl slightly less, Harry's was a wave of pure, controlled euphoria. The gnome didn't just cheer up; it began to sing a surprisingly well-harmonized sea shanty, its face alight with joy. Professor Flitwick, seeing the gnome singing, let out a sudden, booming laugh that echoed through the classroom before he wiped a tear from his eye and awarded Harry a score that exceeded the maximum possible points.

It was in Defence Against the Dark Arts, however, that the difference became truly stark. The final exam was a practical course, a gauntlet of dark creatures set up in the DADA classroom. When it was Harry's turn, he moved not like a student, but like a person ready to fight. He didn't just repel the Grindylows; he froze the surface of their tank with a burst of cold. He didn't just evade the Red Caps; he transfigured their fallen clubs into grasping vines that bound them. The final obstacle was a Boggart. It shifted into the form of a Dementor, the familiar cold washing over the room. But Harry felt no fear, only a cold, familiar anger.

"Riddikulus," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

The Dementor halted mid-glide—then promptly tripped over its robes and fell face-first with a honking splat, cartoonish green snot bubbling from beneath its hood.

Harry didn't laugh. But he smiled, just a little.

The night of the End-of-Term Feast, the Great Hall was a riot of color and noise. The enchanted ceiling was a perfect, cloudless sky, and the house banners hung in their full glory. When the final points were tallied, all the banners were replaced by a sea of triumphant scarlet and gold.

Gryffindor had won the House Cup.

A roar erupted from their table. Ron and Hermione clapped, a polite, distant echo of their usual boisterous cheers. Harry felt a faint, detached flicker of pride. It felt like a victory from another lifetime.

Dumbledore rose, his voice carrying easily over the din. "Another year, gone! And I must say, a fine one for Gryffindor. I believe congratulations are also in order for their Quidditch team, for a truly spectacular victory in the cup this year!"

Another wave of applause, louder this time. Harry saw Ron manage a small, genuine smile. For a moment, their eyes met across the table, a flicker of shared memory, before Ron looked away.

"And finally," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling as he surveyed the hall, "I have one last piece of exciting news. This summer, for the first time in many years, Hogwarts will have a representative at the International Junior Dueling Circuit, held in France."

A wave of intrigued whispers swept through the hall.

"This prestigious tournament brings together the most promising young duelists from across Europe," Dumbledore continued, his voice swelling with pride. "And the student who will be representing our school, sponsored by our very own Champion Duelist, Professor Flitwick, is none other than Harry Potter."

The hall exploded.

It was a chaotic, deafening roar of shock, awe, and thunderous applause. The Gryffindor table was a frenzy of students patting Harry on the back, shouting his name. Through it all, Harry kept his face a neutral mask, offering a small, polite nod to the hall, his eyes distant.

He chanced a glance at his friends.

Hermione was staring at him, her face pale. The pieces were clicking into place behind her eyes—the training, the secrecy, the dueling club—it was a logical explanation. But her expression wasn't one of simple relief. It was a look of dawning clarity that this was an answer, but not the whole answer. The puzzle was bigger than she had imagined. Her lips parted, as if to speak—but she said nothing.

Ron was completely still for a moment, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Then, as the applause swelled, he forced a smile. It was a brittle, painful thing that didn't reach his eyes, the smile of a stranger congratulating a celebrity. He clapped along with everyone else, but beneath the hurt, a flicker of his old loyalty remained—a genuine wish for his friend to be safe.

Dumbledore's voice cut through the noise one last time. "Let us all wish him the very best of luck!"

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[A/N]And with that, the first volume of this story comes to a close.A huge thank you to everyone who's read, commented, and supported this fic so far—your engagement truly means the world to me.

I'll be taking a short break to plan out the next major arcs for Volume 2, but don't worry—the next chapter should be out within the week.

Thank you again, and See you soon !

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

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