Harry stood on the roof as the sky remained a hazy gray above.
The leaden clouds hung low, their edges pierced by a faint sliver of pale moonlight.
Before him sat a shallow, wide-mouthed clay jar.
Its rim was worn white, and inside lay a thin layer of salt grains—it looked completely ordinary.
Before dawn had even broken, Snape had called him up to the roof to retrieve this jar of moonlit salt after it had been left out to air.
“Potter, remember what I told you? Sense it—sense it first! Draw your wand!”
Snape stood by the low door leading to the roof, the hem of his black robes fluttering softly in the wind.
One hand was tucked into his sleeve while the other pointed sharply with his wand.
“Yes, Professor, I understand,” Harry replied helplessly, drawing his wand.
Not to cast magic.
Although he had been living here for half a month, he still abided by their agreement and had not cast a single spell outside of school.
However, what a wand brought to a wizard was not limited to spellcasting.
Holding the wand, he extended its tip into the clay jar, burying it within the grains of moonlit salt.
Harry could feel the magic within his body extending through the wand, sinking deep into these seemingly mundane grains of salt.
The white particles, which originally looked like ordinary sea salt, seemed to emit a subtle luminescence under his perception—though it might have just been an illusion.
Yet when he extended his other hand and tried to touch them, Harry felt a sudden chill.
Though it was salt, it carried a texture akin to snow.
This was moonlit salt.
A very common ingredient, it possessed certain calming and soothing properties.
It was frequently used in soothing and mind-calming potions, but could occasionally be applied to preservative brews as well.
And, of course, in eyewash solutions meant to relieve eye fatigue.
In short, it was quite ordinary and served primarily as a secondary ingredient, but it possessed many uses.
“The Muggle world and the wizarding world are entirely distinct, Potter. To Muggles, rats, spiders, dew… those are all inanimate objects. But to us, they possess color; they possess meaning. You should be grateful you were born capable of seeing it.”
Noticing that Harry had sensed something, Snape spoke at the appropriate moment.
“If you possess even a shred of talent in Transfiguration, you may eventually learn the sort of trick your father and his pack of good-for-nothing friends were capable of. That requires dew—pure, untainted dew capable of reflecting your inner self, helping you discover the animal that suits you.”
“Is that Animagus, Professor?”
Harry pulled himself out of his sensory focus, withdrew his wand from the moonlit salt, picked up the clay jar, and stepped up to Snape.
“I read about it in Transfiguration Today—an extremely advanced form of Transfiguration that allows a person to turn into an animal, or even a magical creature.”
“Enough. That is material for upper years; you will learn of it sooner or later. Or, if you prove worthy, you might join McGonagall’s club ahead of time. Naturally, I consider that highly unlikely, though I hope you can prove me wrong.”
He continued as he walked: “Yes, perceiving magic—perceiving it. That is something very few wizards are born with; most must rely on practice. It appears you are merely an ordinary wizard, Potter, so early on, you must rely on your wand. A wand is a tool to help you perceive the world…”
Having been forced awake, Harry didn’t bother returning to his warm bed for more sleep after the brief lesson.
In any case, ever since coming to Snape’s house, he had gotten more than enough sleep.
Thus, Harry decided to start his daily routine early.
Namely, exercise.
“Do not forget your potion,” Snape reminded him before pushing aside the bookshelf to step inside.
Harry replied, “Of course, Professor. I always remember your generosity.”
A valuable bottle of potion and a silver spoon lay inside the small pouch Dumbledore had given him, serving as part of his precious inventory.
Pushing open the front door, his figure merged into the thick fog enveloping the neighborhood, gradually fading into the distance.
Spinner’s End was a run-down neighborhood—essentially a slum.
Harry ran along the street, which was lined on both sides with dilapidated brick houses.
Their windows looked dark and lifeless in the night.
The streetlights were broken, the pavement overgrown with weeds and littered with piles of trash.
In the corners, vagrants could occasionally be seen lying around.
Overcast skies were the default here.
For a ten-year-old child to run freely through a neighborhood like this before dawn might have been somewhat dangerous.
Yet Harry felt no fear.
He was certain that someone was secretly protecting him from the shadows.
Although he had never seen them and had no concrete evidence to prove it, the fact that Snape hadn’t forbidden him from going out the very first time he left the house proved as much.
Harry even suspected that back at the Dursleys’, someone had been secretly guarding him as well.
Of course, that protection was strictly limited to keeping him alive.
They did not interfere with his upbringing, including the things he had endured at the Dursleys’.
So long as his life wasn’t threatened, they would never show themselves.
The cold wind rushed against his face, sweeping away the heat his body radiated as he ran.
His lungs began to tighten, his steady breathing turning labored.
His knees and ankles absorbed the impact of every step landing on the ground, his muscles gradually growing sore and swollen.
His pace slowed from a run to a power walk, then to a leisurely stride.
By the time he turned back into the alley leading to Snape’s house, the sky had brightened considerably. New chapters come out on g.com first.
A few more pedestrians walked the streets, though none greeted one another.
Everyone huddled inside their coats with eyes cast downward, as if bound by a silent agreement not to make eye contact.
The people in this neighborhood were cold and distant.
Although he had lived here for half a month, Harry hadn’t made any acquaintances.
He knew only one person: Professor Snape.
Furthermore, there seemed to be no other wizards here—only Muggles.
Or perhaps they simply concealed themselves exceptionally well.
Nor did any of them appear to be Snape’s friends.
Over the past half-month, Harry hadn’t seen a single visitor step foot into Snape’s home.
The man was a recluse.
Professor Snape’s solitary nature might have been due to his living environment.
Then again, it was also possible his friends stopped visiting because Harry had moved in.
Harry occasionally speculated as much.
After all, his identity was quite sensitive.
He was the Savior—and a celebrity.
Harry felt increasingly aware of his special status.
Even though he had been living here quietly for half a month, the wizarding newspapers still repeatedly brought up his affairs, hashing them out over and over.
Indeed, it was the attention triggered when he went to Diagon Alley with Dumbledore half a month ago.
Even though so much time had passed, they still constantly brought up the missing mark on his forehead, his identity, Parseltongue…
There were clearly plenty of major events happening in the world, yet their focus remained stubbornly fixed on him.
Returning to Snape’s house, Harry completed his daily routine: showering, changing clothes, eating a meal, and then sitting down at his desk to read his textbooks.
Today’s stack of newspapers was already piled to the side.
Before reading, however, Harry needed to clear the fatigue brought on by his morning exercise.
He was truly on the verge of exhaustion.
Running was cardio; in the afternoon, he would move on to strength training.
His daily training load was steadily increasing.
Harry retrieved the slender glass bottle of potion from his small pouch, pulled out the silver spoon, and poured a bit of the liquid out until it filled roughly a third of the spoon.
Snape had given this to him a week ago after he began teaching him Potions.
Two bottles in total.
Taking a third of a spoonful after every workout helped him recover his physical strength much faster.