HP: Ashborn

With Jasmine currently occupied with her mum, I decided it was the perfect time to visit what I considered the most important room in all of Hogwarts—the Room of Requirement.

Wasting no time, I made my way to the seventh floor, where the infamous tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy resided, depicting his less-than-successful attempt to train trolls in ballet. A quick glance at the Marauder's Map confirmed that the corridor was empty—no nosy professors, no sneaky students—just me and my soon-to-be secret haven.

I strode in front of the wall three times, focusing intently on my request: I need a room to practice spells. And just like that, the door materialized.

Inside, the room had an almost medieval grandeur, furnished with golden accents and lined with torches that flickered with an otherworldly glow. A plush sofa and a set of chairs surrounded a sturdy table, perfect for breaks between training. More importantly, mannequins stood in neat rows, just waiting to be blasted with a good old-fashioned Expelliarmus—or something a little less friendly.

But before I got carried away, there was one major thing to check. I flicked my wand and muttered, Tempus.

3:38 PM.

Grinning, I reached into my robes and pulled out my prized possession: the Time-Turner. Carefully, I rotated it exactly twelve times. The moment the twelfth turn was complete, the device spun wildly in my hands, the air around me shimmering as time twisted and unraveled.

When the world finally stilled, I quickly cast Tempus again.

3:38 AM.

I pumped my fist into the air and practically shouted, "YES! Twelve whole hours to do whatever I want baby!"

But first—safety measures.

Turning to the room, I firmly requested, "Please do not let any being, living or non-living, enter while I'm inside."

The walls pulsed slightly, as if the room itself acknowledged my command with an affirmative hum.

Now, with time on my side and no interruptions, it was time to have some real fun.

The first item on my To-Do List for Today (which totally existed in my head) was to learn how to cast the Disarming Jinx. Naturally, I turned to my ever-helpful host—the Room of Requirement.

"Give me a book to help me learn the Disarming Jinx," I requested.

Right on cue, a book appeared on a table, already flipped open to the exact page detailing the spell. Honestly, if this room ever decided to start charging for its services, I'd be bankrupt.

I spent the next hour absorbing every bit of information—studying the spell's mechanics, analyzing the intent behind it, and, of course, familiarizing myself with the wand movement, which was… weird, to say the least. Seriously, who designed this flick? A ballet instructor?

After thorough analysis, I broke the spell down into four crucial elements:

Intent: The primary goal is to strip the opponent of their ability to attack. If their wand is their weapon, the spell must make them lose it. Simple, effective, and mildly humiliating for the victim.

Thought Process: The caster must focus entirely on their opponent's wand (or weapon), visualizing it soaring from their grasp. Advanced users could not only disarm but immediately seize the wand mid-air. So, rather than just picturing it flying away, I made sure to imagine it coming to me. Efficiency, after all, is key.

Emotion: The spell thrives on resolve. A half-hearted attempt would be about as effective as a chocolate teapot. Hesitation or doubt weakens the spell, so confidence was a must.

Now, theory was all well and good, but magic demanded action. I planted my feet, tightened my grip on my wand, and channeled everything I had into a single, decisive movement.

"Expelliarmus!"

A red bolt of light shot from my wand, hitting the mannequin square in the chest. The wand-like object it was holding flew out of its grasp, arcing neatly through the air before landing right in front of me.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

I checked the time. Three seconds.

Okay… maybe slightly bad. In a duel, that was enough time for an opponent to hex me into next Tuesday. But hey—progress is progress.

Now, all I had to do was shave off those extra seconds. Say whatever you want, but three seconds was enough time for an opponent to rearrange my face and send me off on my next great adventure—permanently.

But a great man once said, "Skill comes from consistent and deliberate practice." Another, equally wise, followed up with, "Sweat more in practice, bleed less in battle."

I had taken both sayings to heart.

So, with unwavering determination (and maybe a little stubbornness), I planted my feet and relentlessly fired the spell at the dummy. Again. And again. And again.

Four hours later, I lay sprawled on the floor, completely drained of magic, my limbs feeling like overcooked noodles. And yet—my eyes gleamed with triumph.

I had done it.

My casting time had dropped from four seconds to a consistent one second, with my fastest attempt clocking in at 0.8 seconds. In total, I had fired the Disarming Jinx 70 to 80 times, and my last 20 attempts averaged exactly one second.

Satisfied with my progress, I turned to the Room once more.

"Alright, let's switch things up. Give me a study space."

And, as if eager to please, the Room transformed. The practice dummies vanished, replaced by the perfect study haven—comfy chairs, an oak desk, softly glowing lamps, and towering bookshelves stocked with everything I could possibly need. For the third time in five hours, I found myself offering silent gratitude to whoever created this magical masterpiece.

With my magic completely spent, I shifted focus. If I couldn't cast spells, I could at least plan how to master them.

For the next two hours, I meticulously crafted a training schedule, prioritizing spells I needed to learn while balancing my limited magical reserves. Once that was done, I went a step further and designed a structured timetable that included my Hogwarts classes, personal study sessions, and, of course, extra training time courtesy of my Time-Turner.

By the time I finished, Tempus revealed that it was 7:51 AM.

I had been working for the past seven hours straight.

That called for a reward.

Rummaging through my bag, I pulled out a snack I had wisely packed earlier—a decision that earned past me a sincere thank you. Hunger gnawed at me, and I dug in without hesitation.

As I munched, I turned to the Room once more.

"Bring me some books on the workings of the Room of Requirement."

Because, really, it was about time I understood the magic behind my favourite Hogwarts secret.

As I bit into my chocolate cake, savouring the rich, spiced flavour, my eyes skimmed over the book—and immediately almost popped out of their sockets.

I had expected to find something interesting, but this? This was next-level insanity.

Apparently, the Room of Requirement was the brainchild of Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw.

And why did they create this absolute masterpiece of magic?

Pure, unfiltered pettiness.

As it turns out, they were incredibly annoyed that they couldn't locate Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets—so, in an expert-level flex, they built their own secret room, one so ridiculously powerful and versatile that it would forever outshine whatever Salazar had hidden away.

They basically looked Salazar in the eye and said, "Oh, you have a secret chamber? Cute. We made one that can be literally anything. Enjoy that damp underground lair of yours, mate."

I found myself snickering. This was pure gold.

Diving deeper into the text, I discovered that the Room's magic was a combination of Transfiguration and Illusion-based enchantments.

Godric Gryffindor handled the Transfiguration aspect, allowing the Room to morph into anything within the castle. Rowena Ravenclaw focused on illusions and enchantments, ensuring the Room could provide perfect replicas of whatever a person needed.

And here I was, thanking Salazar Slytherin for creating his Chamber of Secrets in the first place. Because if he hadn't? This absolute masterpiece of a room might never have existed.

The book also made one thing abundantly clear—the other three founders absolutely knew about the Chamber of Secrets.

And they let Salazar keep it.

Which meant the whole Salazar was an evil, snake-loving villain story might have been a little exaggerated.

I'm not saying the guy wasn't at least a little evil—but maybe he wasn't completely evil. Maybe he was just… necessary-evil.

Anyways, with my cake now gone and leisure time officially over, it was time to get back to work. My magical reserves were still running on fumes, so instead of spell practice, I turned to something equally exciting:

Fire Magic.

I requested the Room to provide me with books on the subject, and, in true dramatic fashion, it delivered.

A single ancient tome appeared before me. It looked so old and fragile that I half-wondered if breathing on it too hard might turn it to dust.

With utmost reverence, I carefully flipped through its pages—until I reached the section where the author's name should have been.

It was burned away.

My eyes twitched.

Not this again.

I leaned closer, hoping to make something out of the charred remains.

And then it hit me.

Damn it! This was exactly like my Transfiguration book.

I let out a long, exaggerated sigh. Why do all the best books refuse to tell me who wrote them?

Whoever this mysterious author was, they clearly had a flair for the dramatic.

And, I had to admit, I respected it.

As with its predecessor, this book began with the foundational Level Zero, a passage that demanded my full attention:

Fire is more than an element—it is the heart of both creation and destruction, a force that warms the soul yet consumes without mercy.

To the untrained, fire is a mere flicker, a source of light and warmth, easily summoned and just as easily extinguished. But to those who wield the Flame Arts, it is a living entity, a force of power and precision, capable of shaping the world or reducing it to cinders.

The uninitiated see only its surface—the crackling embers, the dancing tongues of flame. But fire is far more than a simple tool. It is hunger. It is wrath. It is an untamed spirit that refuses to be caged.

Mastery of fire is not about summoning flames at will; it is about understanding the balance between control and chaos, between creation and ruin.

I paused, absorbing the weight of these words. This was not a book for dabblers. It spoke of fire not as an instrument, but as a force that demanded both reverence and understanding. To mistake it as a mere tool was the folly of the ignorant—the kind of mistake that ended in ruin.

The passage continued:

To those who dare tread this path, fire is not a weapon—it is an extension of the self.

The first and most crucial lesson of the Flame Arts is humility. Fire is an unforgiving teacher; it does not abide arrogance, hesitation, or weakness. A novice who seeks to wield it without respect will find themselves burned—their magic consumed, their will broken beneath the unchecked fury of the inferno.

Unlike mere spells of conjuration, which summon fire for temporary purpose, true pyromancy is a communion. It is not the summoning of flame, but the forging of an understanding between wizard and fire itself.

The most skilled practitioners do not simply hurl fire—they command it, shape it, will it into existence. Their flames are not wild and unrestrained but honed and deliberate. They craft fire into weapons, shields, creatures of living flame that prowl at their bidding. Their magic is the crack of superheated air, the roar of an advancing blaze, the heat of a sun brought too close to the earth.

There was no room for frivolity or weakness in these words—only the raw truth of an ancient power.

Fire was not a plaything. It was not a trick to be conjured for amusement.

It was a force of will, destruction, and mastery—a power that belonged only to those willing to endure its trials.

And I intended to be one of them. But the words,

Speaking to fire. Commanding it at will.

The very thought sent a thrill through me. This—this was exactly what I had felt when casting fire-related spells in the rented room at the Leaky Cauldron. There had been moments, fleeting but undeniable, when the fire had seemed… alive.

Living flame.

The words echoed in my mind, igniting a newfound hunger for understanding. And so, I read on.

But where there is majesty, there is danger.

Fire does not forgive mistakes. A poorly cast Incendio may light a candle, but a lapse in control at higher levels can reduce entire halls to cinders in seconds. The difference between a master and a fool is measured in the whisper of control—the fine line between summoning a warm ember and unleashing an unstoppable inferno.

Some flames, once birthed, cannot be unmade.

The dreaded Fiendfyre, a cursed flame that devours all in its path, is the perfect example of this. It does not stop. It does not yield. It does not reason.

Those who summon it without mastery quickly find themselves consumed alongside their enemies.

I felt the weight of those words.

Because I knew them to be true.

The memory resurfaced—flames spreading wildly in my room at the Leaky Cauldron, the sheer panic as I fought to extinguish them. Had it not been for desperation bordering on miracle, I would not have been able to put them out.

That moment had been a warning. A lesson.

And yet—fire was not merely a force of ruin. The book did not allow me to forget that.

Yet, for all its destruction, fire is also the ultimate force of renewal.

It is the light in darkness, the hearth that keeps away the cold, the spark that forges steel into swords. Just as it burns away weakness, it purifies, refines, and rebirths.

The phoenix, an eternal symbol of resurrection, does not fear fire—it embraces it, knowing that through the flames, it shall rise anew.

So too must those who seek to master the Flame Arts be willing to let fire shape them, not just in power, but in spirit.

The greatest pyromancers are not those who burn everything in their path, but those who understand the responsibility that comes with wielding such an untamed force.

The phoenix. The creature that had embraced fire, not as a tool, but as a part of its very being. It was the only creature in existence that did not fear the flames—because through them, it was reborn.

And those who wielded fire?

They carried that same burden. The responsibility of power.

To master the Flame Arts is to dance upon the edge of oblivion, to hold in one's hands the power of both ruin and rebirth.

It is to speak the language of the stars, for what is the sun but a boundless, roaring flame suspended in the void?

It is to understand that fire, for all its wildness, is neither good nor evil—it simply is.

And those who would call themselves its masters must be willing to accept the weight of that truth, lest they be swallowed whole by the very inferno they sought to command.

There were no empty words here. No illusions. No false promises of invincibility.

This was not a path for the reckless.

This was a path for those willing to burn away their weakness—and rise from the ashes stronger than before.

The last paragraph spoke of the morality of fire, making one thing abundantly clear—fire burns. And what it burns? That depends entirely on the intent of the caster.

I found myself rereading the introduction to the Flame Arts over and over again. If I truly wanted to master this craft, I couldn't simply skim through its teachings. I needed to understand its essence. Its true meaning.

Lost in my studies, I barely noticed time slipping away. A mistake.

On instinct, I flicked my wand and cast, "Tempus."

3:29 PM.

Bloody hell.

In my joy of discovering the secrets of fire, I had completely forgotten to check the time. I silently thanked whatever divine entity had given me the sudden urge to do so now—because as soon as I glanced at the Marauder's Map, my stomach dropped.

Fucking hell.

My counterpart—the version of me from the past—was on the first floor, rapidly climbing the stairs.

For the first time in my life, I cursed myself for walking so damn fast.

No evidence. No proof. That was the priority.

"Room, return to your original state before my arrival."

The room hummed in response, shifting around me as if nothing had ever existed inside. No books. No scorch marks. No signs that I had been there at all.

One last problem—getting back to Gryffindor Tower unseen.

"Room, create a passage to the Gryffindor common room."

Without hesitation, a doorway appeared before me. Bless this magical masterpiece.

I dashed through the passage, heart pounding, barely breaking my stride as I emerged right in front of the Fat Lady's portrait. With a final flick of my wand, I cast Tempus once more.

3:34 PM.

Perfect. I had made it.

Facing the portrait, I said, "Grata Domum."

(Author's Note: Grata Domum has a meaning similar to Welcome Home.)

The Fat Lady beamed. "Yes, yes, welcome home, dear," she cooed, swinging open to grant me passage.

I stumbled through the common room, exhaustion finally catching up with me. Somehow, I managed to secure my most valuable possession—the Marauder's Map—inside my most protected trunk, layered with locking enchantments only I could open.

Only then did I collapse onto my bed.

As exhaustion wrapped its arms around me, I surrendered without a fight—diving headfirst into Morpheus' realm, where even fire could not follow.

It couldn't right?