HARRY POTTER STORY: Lions in snake den

Part 36

Two weeks had passed since the Malfoy party, though to Harry and Hermione it felt more like a blur of constant work and preparation than the quiet passage of days. The echo of that night's events—the whispers in the ballroom, the confrontation with Pansy and Marcus, Daphne's kiss—lingered like shadows in their minds, but neither sibling had the luxury of dwelling on them. There was too much to be done.
At Potter Manor, the once dormant training halls were alive again, their wards thrumming as if rejoicing in being used for their true purpose. The Potters of old had always balanced magic, politics, and physical discipline, and now, centuries later, the traditions had been revived in the young Lord and Lady Potter.

Harry had taken to the physical regimen with ruthless determination. Every morning began at dawn with stretches, conditioning, and sparring drills against enchanted dummies that moved with dangerous precision. His body was sore most nights, but he welcomed the ache—it was proof that he was pushing himself beyond his limits. Sirius often hovered nearby, barking encouragement like a drill sergeant one moment and cracking a joke the next, though even he had been forced to admit Harry's progress was "bloody terrifying."
But it wasn't only his body Harry honed. Under the guidance of the Manor's tomes and a few carefully trusted tutors, he immersed himself in battle magic. Not the crude blasting curses most Aurors favored, but advanced, nuanced spells meant for efficiency, speed, and lethality when required. Ancient Slytherin dueling techniques, elemental manipulation, layered shields, and even experimental fusion spells became his daily bread. The old magic of the Potter family answered him more readily now, especially when paired with the serpentine precision inherited from his Slytherin lineage.

By the end of the first week, he could summon shields of green flame that absorbed curses before dissipating harmlessly into the air. By the second, his wandless control had sharpened to the point he could disarm Sirius in a spar without lifting his holly wand. The pride in his Godfather's eyes had been impossible to miss. Hermione, meanwhile, had chosen a different path, one that suited her perfectly. While she trained in etiquette and parliamentary procedure during the day—learning to wield her tongue and wit like the sharpest of blades—her nights were spent immersed in elemental studies. Water called to her in ways fire or air never could.

Perhaps it was her sharp mind, ever flowing and adaptable, or her steady nature that lent itself to the cool and unyielding nature of the element.

Within two weeks, she could conjure streams of water that obeyed her like extensions of her own body. At first, she had struggled to hold the form beyond a few seconds, but her persistence paid off. Now, she could weave water into solid walls, razor-sharp whips, and even ethereal shapes that danced in the air before dispersing into mist. On one particularly stormy night, she had stood in the Manor's courtyard and coaxed the rain into a protective dome around herself and Harry, the droplets glistening like diamonds under the lightning sky.

Harry had been awestruck, though he only smirked and remarked that at least one of them could "look pretty while showing off." Hermione had smacked him for it, but her laughter echoed longer than her scolding.
Their studies in politics were just as rigorous. The Wizengamot was no place for hesitation or naivety. Under the portraits of their ancestors, Harry and Hermione practiced the cadence of formal speech, the art of weaving threats into politeness, and the subtle game of alliances. Every clause, every bow of the head, every flicker of the eyes mattered in that chamber.

Where Harry focused on strategy, listening intently as Remus drilled him on history and precedent, Hermione mastered rhetoric and poise, learning how to dismantle an opponent's position without ever raising her voice. She devoured records of past trials and debates, studying which families held grudges, which leaned toward Dumbledore, and which whispered of the Dark Lord in their drawing rooms.