Snape remembered very clearly—he still had a Disillusionment Charm cast on himself.
At this moment, pretending to be air was the only reasonable, non-foolish, and most appropriate choice.
"Stop hiding," Harry raised his wand. "I can smell your greasy hair all the way from Gryffindor Tower."
Snape's face darkened.
That wasn't part of the plan.
Wasn't it supposed to be the smell of potion ingredients?
"Finite Incantatem," Harry murmured.
Snape clutched the wand beneath his robes, channeling his magic to resist Harry's spell.
But it dissolved like ice under a midday sun—the magic of the Disillusionment Charm peeled away bit by bit.
Like an eraser rubbing on paper, Harry's spell scrubbed Snape back into visibility.
Emotionally, Snape crumbled like that melting magic.
Three years ago, in the summer, Harry didn't have such tremendous magical power. But now, he had surpassed Snape. The Potions Master was dazed—one blink, literally just one blink, and Potter was already sixteen. Half a year from adulthood—seventeen in the wizarding world.
Magically, seventeen marked a wizard's maturity.
Mentally, it was the end of adolescence, the beginning of true understanding of oneself and the world.
Lily had been married two years older than this…
Lost in thought, the Disillusionment Charm completely faded.
"Professor Snape." Harry masked his curiosity with a cold tone. "With your magic, that spell shouldn't have broken so easily."
"Potter, I believe it's past curfew," Snape said stiffly. "Another Gryffindor sneaking around at night. That's ten points from Gryffindor for rule-breaking."
"Before you deduct points, I'd like to know why you're here," Harry pressed, tone icy. "As far as I know, the seventh and eighth floors, including Gryffindor Tower, are currently restricted—only Gryffindor students and Professor McGonagall are allowed."
"You shouldn't be here, Professor."
Snape said nothing.
Harry peered behind him. "And this door—what's that about?"
Snape took a deep breath. "I heard rumors from Slytherin students about a hidden room on the eighth floor, so I came to investigate."
"Really? Then why didn't you just inform Professor Dumbledore?" Harry asked, stepping forward.
"I needed to verify the truth first," Snape answered coolly. "Slytherins don't exactly frequent Gryffindor Tower."
Harry walked past him, gazing at the door's handle on the wall. It was fading, due to the waning clarity of Snape's intent.
"Seems the rumor was true," Harry said. "No need for this sneaking around, Professor."
Snape stayed silent.
"So how do you open the door? Walk back and forth a few times?" Harry muttered as the door vanished. He ran his hand over the smooth wall. "That can't be it. This is a busy corridor near the Tower. If it were that simple, someone would have found it by now."
"A spell?"
"No, Professor Snape didn't speak just now."
Despite Snape standing right there, Harry showed no intent to ask for help.
"Let me think..."
"Magic is of the mind."
He began pacing, focusing on a single desire.
A door slowly emerged from the wall.
"As expected," Harry murmured, turning to Snape. "Professor, please go and inform Professor Dumbledore."
Snape nodded. "Understood."
He cast a long glance at the door before turning and walking away.
Harry waved his wand.
Protego Maxima, Protego Totalum, Disillusionment Charm—and finally summoned his Patronus, a large glowing figure enveloping him like a shield.
With all defenses in place, he reached out and turned the doorknob. With a click, he stepped inside.
"I need a place to hide something."
That was the thought Harry held as the Room of Requirement responded, revealing a door in the wall.
He didn't try thinking of "the room where Barty Crouch Jr. hides things" or "the room Barty often visited." After all, Crouch's magical bond to Hogwarts had already been severed by Dumbledore and Harry—he was effectively nonexistent to the castle.
Besides, mass-use magic often lacked such precision.
Regardless of who created this room—Slytherin, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff—it definitely wasn't Gryffindor. When asked, Godric Gryffindor admitted he knew no more about the Room than an average first-year.
Undetectable Extension Charm.
Harry immediately picked up the magical signature.
The space was immense—larger than the Great Hall. The ceiling stretched so high it vanished into darkness, only lit by moonlight streaming through stained-glass windows. Harry felt like he'd stepped into a miniature city.
Over centuries, many students—and more likely house-elves—had stashed items here.
He smelled traces of house-elves on countless discarded items: old furniture, desks, crates, cleaning tools—piled like wobbly mountains, magically stabilized.
There were heaps of books—mostly old textbooks, scribbled notebooks.
There were even dried corpses of dead pets: owls, frogs, toads, wedged in corners.
Even stranger things…
Dried dragon hatchlings, Quintapeds, Erumpents—some goblins clad in armor. Harry sighed at the loss—once magical materials, now just ordinary husks.
He pressed on.
Hogwarts must've had a wild past: steel swords, axes, shields, full suits of human armor—even some ancient cannons and half a train car.
Then, at a crossroads, Harry stopped.
He caught the scent of Dark Magic—recent, no older than a month.
He didn't hesitate. Reinforcing his protective spells, he strode toward it.
A grotesque statue of an old wizard loomed into view.
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Powerstones?
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