## Six Weeks Later - The Final Day at Liber Institute
The morning sun streamed through the tall Gothic windows of the Liber Institute's advanced practice room like liquid gold, painting the polished mahogany floors in warm amber light. The space had transformed dramatically over six weeks—what had once been a simple training hall with floating feathers and nervous first attempts at levitation had evolved into something resembling a cross between Stark Industries and Merlin's workshop. Practice tables cluttered with precisely organized spell components stretched across the room, enchanted targets floated at various heights like magical pinatas, and multiple chalkboards displayed complex diagrams that looked like Einstein, Tesla, and Dumbledore had collaborated on a group project after too much coffee.
The air itself seemed to hum with barely contained magical energy, crackling with the kind of anticipation that only came before something monumentally important. Six weeks ago, five nervous kids had walked into this room with sweaty palms and racing hearts. Now? They practically radiated confidence—the kind of assured presence that came from repeatedly accomplishing the impossible and making it look easy.
---
Peter Parker stood at his designated practice station, his posture dramatically improved from the slouching teenager who'd first walked through these doors. His shoulders were straight, his stance balanced, and his wand grip had evolved from desperate white-knuckling to the firm, confident hold of someone who'd finally figured out that magic responded better to partnership than domination. His perpetually unruly brown hair still defied all known laws of physics and several unknown ones, sticking up in directions that seemed to mock both gravity and styling gel, but his movements had become precise, deliberate, almost surgical in their execution.
"Alright, Parker," he muttered under his breath, unconsciously channeling his Aunt May's New York accent as he bit his lower lip in concentration. The habit had become his pre-spell ritual, a moment of focus that helped center the chaotic brilliance of his teenage mind. "Let's show them what six weeks of obsessive practice and approximately zero sleep can accomplish."
He raised his wand with theatrical flair, because Peter Parker had never met a moment he couldn't make just slightly more dramatic. "Lumos Maxima! Wingardium Leviosa! Coloris Mutare!"
The response was immediate and spectacular. Brilliant white light erupted from his wand tip like a miniature supernova, illuminating every corner of the practice room and casting dancing shadows that seemed to applaud. Three practice objects—a brass sphere, a crystal pyramid, and what appeared to be an enchanted rubber duck—rose smoothly into the air with the grace of professional dancers, hovering at precisely calibrated heights. Then, because Peter Parker's brain operated on the principle that if something was worth doing, it was worth doing with unnecessary complexity, the objects began shifting through colors in perfect synchronization: ruby red, sapphire blue, emerald green, brilliant gold, deep purple, creating a rainbow light show that would have made Pink Floyd weep with envy.
The entire sequence, from initial spell to final color transition, lasted exactly twenty-eight seconds—Peter had timed it obsessively.
Professor Marshall, observing from her position near the windows with the kind of warm smile that had guided thousands of young witches and wizards, jotted notes on her clipboard with obvious approval. Her auburn hair caught the morning light, and her eyes sparkled with the particular satisfaction that came from watching a student not just meet expectations but obliterate them entirely.
"Textbook execution, Peter," she said, her voice carrying the refined authority of someone who'd spent decades perfecting the art of magical education. "Although I suspect your execution might actually be better than most textbooks. Six weeks ago, you nearly dislocated your wrist attempting to levitate a single feather for more than ten seconds."
Peter's grin could have powered half of Queens, his cheeks flushing pink with a combination of pride and residual embarrassment. "Yeah, but to be fair, I also gave a killer twenty-minute lecture on the aerodynamic properties of feather levitation and why the standard charm parameters were suboptimal for objects with irregular density distribution."
From across the room, Ned Leeds let out an exaggerated groan that seemed to emerge from the very depths of his soul. "Bro, you gave a twenty-minute lecture on why literally everything floats wrong. You turned feather levitation into a graduate-level physics dissertation. I'm pretty sure you could give a TED Talk titled 'Everything You Know About Floating Is Wrong: A Comprehensive Analysis of Gravitational Magic.'"
"Don't tempt me," Peter shot back, eyes sparkling with mischief and genuine academic enthusiasm. "I've actually got slides prepared. Color-coded charts, three-dimensional models, statistical analysis of optimal wand angles based on atmospheric pressure and lunar cycles. I call it 'Advanced Theoretical Applications in Basic Levitation Magic: A Post-Newtonian Approach.'"
Harry Osborn, perched in the observation section with a leather-bound tome roughly the size of a small automobile balanced on his nine-year-old lap, didn't even bother looking up as he delivered his perfectly timed deadpan: "Peter, you turned homework into a dissertation defense. That's not normal human behavior."
"Says the nine-year-old reading 'Advanced Transfiguration Theory: A Historical Perspective,'" Peter retorted, gesturing at Harry's choice of light reading material.
Harry finally glanced up, emerald eyes gleaming with the kind of sharp intelligence that made adults forget he was still in elementary school. "Fair point. But I'm not presenting a PowerPoint about it."
Professor Marshall cleared her throat gently, though her smile had widened considerably. "Gentlemen, while I appreciate academic enthusiasm, perhaps we should focus on today's practical examinations?"
---
Mary Jane Watson barely acknowledged the commotion around her, maintaining the kind of focused concentration that had made her the unofficial leader of their group's more creative magical applications. Her practice station looked like a artist's studio had collided with a chemistry lab and somehow achieved perfect harmony—spell components arranged with aesthetic precision, practice objects positioned like a still life painting, and her wand movements flowing with the fluid grace of someone conducting an invisible symphony.
"Incendio Artisticus," she intoned smoothly, her voice carrying just enough dramatic flair to make the spell feel like performance art.
The response was breathtaking. Flames danced into existence above her palm, but these weren't ordinary magical fires—they spiraled upward in complex helixes, shifting and molding into intricate shapes that defied both logic and several fundamental laws of thermodynamics. A blooming rose unfurled from the flames, each petal perfectly detailed and flickering with inner light. The rose dissolved into a fluttering phoenix, its wings beating slowly as it circled her head. The phoenix transformed into something that looked suspiciously like an Academy Award trophy, complete with tiny engravings that seemed to shift and change as they watched.
Professor Marshall tilted her head, clearly impressed and possibly calculating how many graduate students would kill to achieve this level of creative spell-work. "Remarkable, Mary Jane. You've developed a unique approach to practical magic that seamlessly blends artistic vision with technical precision. It's... frankly extraordinary. Most advanced students struggle to maintain shape consistency for more than a few seconds. You're creating entire narrative sequences."
MJ let the fiery Oscar trophy wink out of existence in a final burst of golden sparks that spelled out "THE END" in cursive letters. She tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear with practiced casual elegance, offering a smile that suggested she was well aware of her own talent and perfectly comfortable with that knowledge.
"Everything's better with style," she said with a slight shrug, as if creating impossible beauty from thin air was just something people did on Tuesday mornings. "Even homework. Especially homework, actually. If you're going to spend hours mastering a spell, you might as well make it worth looking at."
Harry, still balanced with his massive textbook, delivered another perfectly timed observation: "So basically, Hogwarts is going to become your personal art gallery. Got it."
MJ shot him a mock-glare that could have melted steel, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the fond smile tugging at her lips. "Laugh all you want, Smallville. When I'm the one getting featured articles in Witch Weekly and having my spell-work displayed in the Ministry of Magic's cultural exhibitions, we'll see who's laughing."
Peter, who had been carefully lowering his still-color-changing practice objects, suddenly perked up with the kind of expression that suggested his brain had just made several connections simultaneously. "Wait, hold up. Witch Weekly? There's seriously a wizard version of People Magazine? What do they cover? 'Ten Potions That Will Change Your Life'? 'This Season's Hottest Cauldron Styles'? 'Celebrity Quidditch Players: They're Just Like Us'?"
Gwen Stacy, already scribbling notes in a leather-bound journal with the focused intensity of an investigative reporter, glanced up with the kind of smile that suggested she'd been waiting for exactly this question. "According to my research, Witch Weekly covers fashion, celebrity gossip, lifestyle tips, magical home improvement, relationship advice, and something called 'Quidditch Quarterly Predictions.' There's also 'The Daily Prophet' for actual news, 'Transfiguration Today' for academic articles, and apparently a magazine called 'Which Broomstick?' that's exactly what it sounds like."
"There's a whole magical media ecosystem," Ned added, Felix the color-changing fluffball perched proudly on his shoulder and cycling through excited neon colors. "It's like discovering there's an entire civilization that's been operating parallel to everything we thought we knew about the world."
Felicia Hardy, lounging at her station with the kind of effortless cool that suggested she'd been born knowing secrets the rest of them were still figuring out, smirked. "Wait until you discover magical social media. Apparently wizards have their own version of everything, just with more explosions and significantly less privacy protection."
Professor Marshall raised an eyebrow. "Where exactly are you getting this information, Miss Hardy?"
Felicia's smile was pure innocence, if innocence could be weaponized. "Oh, you know. Around. Places. Sources. I have very well-connected friends."
From the observation area, Walter Hardy's gruff voice carried across the room: "Kitten, we've discussed your 'information gathering' methods."
"And I've listened very carefully, Daddy," Felicia replied sweetly. "I've taken all your advice under consideration."
"That's not the same as following it."
"Details."
---
Ned Leeds took a steadying breath, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his stance with the kind of careful preparation that had become his signature approach to complex magic. Felix, his beloved color-changing companion, perched proudly on his shoulder like a tiny, fluffy copilot, cycling through anticipatory shades of bright yellow and electric blue that somehow perfectly captured Ned's mixture of nerves and excitement.
"Okay, here we go," Ned muttered, more to Felix than to the room at large. "Remember our practice sessions. Steady hands, clear intentions, emotional resonance over raw power. We've got this."
Felix squeaked what sounded suspiciously like encouragement, shifting to a confident shade of deep purple.
Ned raised his wand with the deliberate precision of someone who'd spent countless hours perfecting not just the movements, but the entire philosophy behind his magical approach. "Proteus Totalus. Chromatic Resonance. Empathic Amplification."
The effect was immediate and utterly unique. The practice objects scattered across his desk—crystals, metal spheres, enchanted stones, and what appeared to be a collection of charmed buttons—began to shimmer and glow with soft, responsive light. But this wasn't ordinary magical illumination. The objects pulsed and shifted in direct response to the emotional states of everyone in the room, creating a kind of magical mood ring installation that somehow made perfect sense.
When Peter's excitement spiked at watching the spell take effect, the objects flared brighter, their surfaces dancing with quick, energetic patterns. When Gwen's analytical focus deepened as she took notes, the glow became sharper, more defined, with precise geometric patterns that seemed to reflect the structure of her thoughts. When MJ smiled at the beauty of the display, everything turned golden, warm and rich like honey in sunlight.
Professor Marshall blinked several times, clearly processing what she was witnessing with the kind of academic fascination reserved for genuinely unprecedented magical phenomena. "Extraordinary. Empathic spell-work at your level is... well, it's virtually unheard of. Most adult wizards struggle with basic emotional resonance charms. You've created magical objects that respond to the emotional environment itself, creating a real-time empathic feedback system. This is graduate-level theoretical magic."
Ned practically glowed with pride, his cheeks flushing as Felix shifted to a smug shade of royal purple and somehow managed to look incredibly pleased with himself despite being a small fuzzy ball without visible facial features.
"Felix and I make a pretty good team," Ned said, reaching up to gently scratch behind Felix's tiny ears. "He's like my... emotional Wi-Fi router? He helps me understand what everyone's feeling, and then I can channel that into the spell-work. It's like having a magical empathy amplifier."
Peter, still watching the color-changing display with obvious fascination, snorted with amusement. "Yeah, except when Wi-Fi dies, you don't start glowing pink and demanding snacks every twenty minutes."
"Don't give him ideas," Ned warned, though he was clearly fighting back laughter. "Felix already has very strong opinions about meal timing and snack quality. I don't need him developing a magical tantrum protocol."
Felix squeaked indignantly, shifting to offended orange for exactly three seconds before cycling back to contented purple, apparently deciding that being scratched behind the ears was worth forgiving the snack comment.
Harry, still reading but clearly paying attention to everything happening around him, observed without looking up: "So basically, you've invented magical emotional intelligence. That's... actually incredibly useful. Most wizards spend years learning to read social situations and emotional undercurrents. You've weaponized empathy."
"Weaponized is a strong word," Ned protested. "I prefer 'magically enhanced emotional awareness for the betterment of interpersonal understanding and social harmony.'"
"That's a very long way to say 'weaponized empathy,'" Gwen noted, still scribbling observations.
"Accurate, though," MJ added. "Ned's basically going to be the world's most magically gifted therapist."
Felix squeaked what sounded like agreement, cycling through supportive rainbow colors.
---
Gwen Stacy's practice station looked like the love child of a CSI crime lab and a magical research facility, organized with the kind of methodical precision that suggested she approached magic the same way she approached everything else—as a problem to be solved, analyzed, and thoroughly understood. Her spell components were arranged in perfect rows, labeled with tiny cards written in her neat handwriting, and her practice objects were positioned with geometric accuracy that would have impressed a mathematician.
She raised her wand with movements that were sharp, efficient, and utterly without wasted energy—every gesture calculated for maximum effectiveness rather than theatrical flair.
"Detectus Comprehensus. Reveal Veritas. Temporal Trace Analysis."
The spells layered together with seamless integration, each one building upon the previous in a cascading series of revelations that transformed her practice area into something resembling a magical forensics display. Glowing patterns appeared across her desk, revealing the ghostly imprints of every spell that had been cast in the vicinity over the past several hours. The traces appeared as delicate, luminescent threads in various colors, creating a complex three-dimensional map of magical activity that looked like someone had made a hologram from pure light and mathematical precision.
Professor Marshall leaned forward, genuinely fascinated by the display and clearly calculating the academic implications of what she was witnessing. "Graduate-level investigative magic. The spell layering alone requires extraordinary control, and the temporal trace analysis is something most Auror trainees don't master until their third year of specialized training. Your precision is... impeccable."
Gwen allowed herself a small, satisfied smile—the kind of expression that suggested she was well aware of her capabilities but wasn't particularly interested in showing off about them. "I'm thinking Magical Law Enforcement after Hogwarts. Detective work, investigation, maybe eventually Auror training. There's something appealing about using magic to solve problems and find truth."
From the observation area, Captain George Stacy's gruff voice carried across the room with unmistakable paternal pride: "That's my girl. Always knew she'd end up keeping people honest and catching the bad guys."
Peter glanced over at Harry, lowering his voice to what he probably thought was a whisper but was actually clearly audible to everyone in the room: "Do you think she's going to end up interrogating us someday when we inevitably screw up something spectacular at Hogwarts?"
Harry, still balanced with his enormous textbook, didn't even bother looking up as he delivered his response with perfect deadpan timing: "Peter, she already interrogates you on a regular basis. You just haven't noticed because you're usually too busy talking to pay attention to the questions she's asking."
Gwen smirked without turning around, her attention still focused on the magical trace patterns floating above her desk. "Correct. Also, Peter, when you inevitably screw up something spectacular at Hogwarts—and we all know it's 'when,' not 'if'—I'll be ready with a full investigative workup, documented evidence, and probably a detailed report on exactly how you managed to defy both magical law and common sense simultaneously."
"That's... surprisingly comforting, actually," Peter admitted. "It's nice to know someone will at least document my disasters professionally."
Ned, still gently scratching Felix behind the ears, chimed in: "Plus, if Gwen's doing the investigation, at least we know it'll be thorough and fair. She won't just assume we were being idiots."
"Oh no, I'll definitely assume you were being idiots," Gwen corrected cheerfully. "But I'll gather evidence to support that assumption before filing my final report."
Felix squeaked what sounded suspiciously like laughter, cycling through amused shades of green and gold.
---
Felicia Hardy occupied her practice station with the kind of effortless grace that made everything look easy, even when it definitely wasn't. She lounged rather than stood, her wand spinning lazily between her fingers like a baton in the hands of a master twirler, and somehow managed to project an aura of casual competence that suggested magic was just another skill she'd picked up along the way, like riding a bicycle or picking locks.
"Fortuna Favoris. Lucky Multiplicandi. Serendipitas Maximus."
The spells rolled off her tongue with conversational ease, as if she were ordering coffee rather than manipulating the fundamental forces of probability and chance. The effects were immediate, subtle, and absolutely impossible to ignore. Reality seemed to bend gently around her, as if the universe itself had decided that Felicia Hardy deserved preferential treatment.
Coins materialized in her pocket—not conjured, but apparently discovered from places they had somehow always been. A practice feather that had been floating randomly around the room drifted down with perfect timing to land directly in her bag, somehow folding itself neatly among her other supplies. Her quill, which had been taking notes automatically, finished writing a complete summary of the day's lessons at precisely the moment she completed her spell sequence, the ink still wet but perfectly legible.
Professor Marshall blinked several times, clearly struggling to find an appropriate academic framework for what she'd just witnessed. "I... honestly have no established pedagogical methodology for this. You're not just casting luck charms—you're actually bending probability itself. This is theoretical magic that most researchers spend decades trying to understand, and you're treating it like a parlor trick."
Felicia offered a smile that somehow managed to be both innocent and utterly knowing, tucking the mysteriously appeared coins into her pocket with casual grace. "It's not really luck if you understand how to work with it properly. The universe has patterns, rhythms, preferences. Once you figure out what it likes, it tends to be cooperative. The universe likes me."
"Or it's absolutely terrified of you," MJ muttered, though her tone suggested grudging admiration rather than actual concern.
Felicia's smile widened, taking on a distinctly mischievous edge. "Why not both? Fear and affection can be surprisingly similar emotions, depending on the context."
From the observation area, Walter Hardy's voice carried the kind of resigned exasperation that suggested this was a familiar conversation: "Felicia, sweetheart, don't let it get to your head. Overconfidence has been the downfall of more talented people than you can count."
Felicia tossed her silver-blonde hair with practiced theatrical flair. "Too late, Daddy. Besides, it's not overconfidence when you can consistently prove your point. That's just accurate self-assessment."
Harry, still reading his massive tome but clearly following every word of the conversation, observed quietly: "There's a fine line between confidence and hubris. Most people who think they've figured out how to manipulate luck end up discovering they were actually just postponing their comeuppance."
Felicia turned to look at him with genuine interest, recognizing the kind of sharp intelligence that most people missed because they got distracted by his age. "Wise words from someone who hasn't even started magical education yet. Tell me, Harry—do you think luck exists, or is it just probability that people don't understand well enough to predict?"
Harry finally looked up from his book, emerald eyes gleaming with the kind of focused attention that made adults nervous. "I think luck is what people call it when they don't understand all the variables involved in a complex system. But I also think some people are naturally better at reading those variables, which makes them appear luckier than they actually are."
"Interesting theory," Felicia mused. "Care to test it?"
"Maybe later," Harry replied, returning his attention to his book. "I'm still working on understanding the theoretical framework behind advanced magical probability manipulation. I'd prefer to know what I'm dealing with before I start experimenting."
Professor Marshall cleared her throat gently. "Perhaps we should save the advanced theoretical discussions for after we've completed today's practical examinations?"
---
And then there was Harry Osborn. Nine years old, small enough that his feet didn't quite touch the floor when he sat in the observation chairs, but possessed of an intellectual presence that made most adults forget about his age entirely. He was currently balanced with a leather-bound tome that was easily twice the size of most college textbooks, flipping through pages covered in dense magical theory with the kind of focused attention most people reserved for their favorite television shows.
The book's title, embossed in faded gold lettering, read "Advanced Transfiguration Theory: A Comprehensive Historical Analysis of Structural Magic and Its Applications in Modern Wizarding Society." It was not, by any reasonable definition, light reading material for an elementary school student.
"Professor Marshall," Harry said suddenly, his voice carrying across the room with the kind of casual authority that made everyone automatically pay attention. He didn't look up from his book, but somehow his question felt directed at the entire room. "Patronus magic—emotional resonance is more fundamentally important than raw magical power, correct? But crisis casting scenarios require both emotional stability and significant energy output simultaneously. How do advanced practitioners balance those competing requirements without compromising the spell's effectiveness or risking magical exhaustion?"
The practice room fell completely silent. Even the magical trace patterns from Gwen's station seemed to pause in their gentle glowing, as if the universe itself was waiting for an answer to a question that most adult wizards never thought to ask.
Professor Marshall blinked several times, clearly processing not just the question but the casual expertise with which it had been delivered by someone who was technically still in elementary school. She set down her clipboard and gave Harry her full attention, the kind of focused consideration she usually reserved for graduate student thesis defenses.
"That's... seventh-year theoretical material, Harry. Advanced defensive magic theory. Your analysis is absolutely correct—Patronus casting does require both emotional resonance and substantial magical energy, and the balance is one of the most challenging aspects of the spell. Most practitioners spend years developing the emotional stability necessary to maintain the required positive memories while under duress, and even longer learning to channel sufficient power without letting fear or desperation corrupt the spell's foundation."
Harry nodded thoughtfully, finally looking up from his book with emerald eyes that seemed to hold far more knowledge than should have been possible for someone his age. His lips curved into a small smile that somehow managed to be both innocent and distinctly knowing.
"Good to know," he said with casual satisfaction. "That gives me approximately two years to practice the emotional stability components before I start formal magical education. Should be sufficient time to develop a reliable casting methodology."
Peter, who had been listening with growing amazement, let out a slightly strangled laugh. "Harry, you're nine years old and you're planning magical training schedules that most Hogwarts graduates would find intimidating. That's not normal human behavior."
"Normal is subjective," Harry replied with a slight shrug, returning his attention to his massive textbook. "Besides, if I'm going to be starting magical education two years behind the rest of you, I should probably make sure I'm prepared to catch up quickly. I don't intend to be the weak link in our group dynamic."
Gwen, still monitoring her magical trace displays, glanced over with obvious approval. "Academic preparation is always wise. Though I suspect you're not going to have any trouble keeping up with us. Your theoretical knowledge is already more advanced than most of ours."
"Theory is important," Harry acknowledged. "But practical application is what matters. I can read about spell-casting all day, but until I can actually hold a wand and channel magic properly, I'm just a very well-informed observer."
Ned, with Felix perched contentedly on his shoulder, offered encouragingly: "Two years isn't that long. And we'll all be at Hogwarts together eventually. We can help each other figure things out."
Harry's smile widened slightly, taking on a warmth that transformed his entire expression from intellectually intimidating to genuinely fond. "I'm counting on it. We make a good team, even with the age difference."
Felicia, still lounging at her station with casual elegance, smirked. "Plus, by the time you get to Hogwarts, we'll have two years of experience making spectacular mistakes for you to learn from. Consider us your advance scouting party."
"That's... actually quite helpful," Harry admitted. "Though knowing this group, your mistakes will probably be legendary enough to still be talked about by the time I arrive."
Peter grinned sheepishly. "We'll try to make them educational mistakes."
"The best kind," Professor Marshall interjected with fond amusement. "Learning from failure is often more valuable than learning from success."
---
By the time they'd completed their individual practical examinations, the five students had transformed from a collection of talented individuals into something that looked remarkably like a cohesive team. They moved around each other with easy familiarity, offered assistance without being asked, and had developed the kind of supportive banter that came from weeks of shared challenges and mutual encouragement.
The practice room itself seemed to reflect their progress—where six weeks ago it had felt like a formal classroom space, it now hummed with the comfortable energy of a place where real learning had happened. The magical residue from their spell-work created subtle aurora patterns in the air, and even the floating practice targets seemed to bob with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary.
Professor Marshall set her clipboard aside and surveyed her students with obvious satisfaction, her expression warm with the kind of professional pride that came from watching young people exceed every reasonable expectation.
"You'll all be entering Hogwarts significantly ahead of your peer group," she said, her voice carrying both congratulation and gentle warning. "Your skill levels are genuinely exceptional, and your understanding of magical theory is remarkably sophisticated. But remember—advanced ability comes with increased responsibility. You'll need to balance confidence with humility, knowledge with patience, and talent with genuine leadership."
MJ, who had been absently creating small flame sculptures while listening, let her current creation—a tiny phoenix that was performing aerial acrobatics—wink out of existence as she translated with characteristic directness: "In other words, be helpful without being insufferable jerks about how much better we are than everyone else."
Professor Marshall's smile widened. "That's... actually a remarkably accurate translation, Mary Jane."
Harry, still balanced with his enormous textbook, added thoughtfully: "Or as Felicia would probably phrase it—be impressively competent, but not obnoxiously superior about it."
Felicia, who had been examining the coins that had mysteriously appeared in her pocket, looked up with mock offense. "I prefer the term 'charmingly confident,' thank you very much. There's an art to being superior without being insufferable. It takes genuine talent."
"Which you definitely have," Gwen observed, though her tone suggested this might not be entirely a compliment.
"Why, thank you," Felicia replied sweetly, apparently choosing to take it as one anyway.
Ned, with Felix cycling through contented pastel colors on his shoulder, pumped his fist with enthusiasm that seemed to energize the entire room. "I don't care how we phrase it—we're ready for Hogwarts! Six weeks ago I couldn't levitate a feather without Felix changing colors so fast he looked like a disco ball. Now look at us!"
Felix squeaked proudly, shifting to brilliant gold as if to emphasize the point.
"Two years," Harry reminded them quietly, though his voice carried the kind of determination that suggested he viewed this as a temporary inconvenience rather than a real obstacle. "Then I join you, and we can really see what this team can accomplish together."
Peter, who had been grinning with barely contained excitement throughout the entire conversation, practically bounced on his toes. "Two years of us getting into increasingly spectacular trouble and learning how to get out of it, followed by Harry arriving with enough theoretical knowledge to probably teach some of the classes himself. Hogwarts isn't going to know what hit them."
"Neither will we, probably," Gwen added with dry amusement. "But that's half the fun."
---
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