Shadow Monarch in Hogwarts ( Harry Potter & Solo Leveling).

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The first rays of morning sun spilled over the Hogwarts grounds like liquid gold, painting the castle's ancient stone in hues of rose and amber. The Black Lake shimmered, its surface kissed by the light, while the Forbidden Forest remained shrouded in mist, its depths still clinging to the night.

Inside Gryffindor Tower, the common room was silent, bathed in the soft glow of dawn. The tall stained-glass windows—each depicting a roaring lion or a gallant knight—caught the sunlight and fractured it into scattered jewels of ruby, emerald, and sapphire across the worn Persian rugs. The hearth, where the fire had burned low hours ago, now held only embers, their faint orange glow pulsing weakly against the soot-blackened stone. A few last sparks hissed up the chimney, vanishing into the cool morning air.

Two armchairs sat close together near the fireplace, their cushions dented from long use, draped in thick woolen throws that smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke. Nearby, a table was strewn with half-finished essays, ink-stained parchment, and a forgotten goblet of pumpkin juice, long since gone warm. The scent of burnt wax from last night's candles lingered, mixing with the comforting aroma of singed wood.

Up the spiral staircase, the boys' dormitory was a cocoon of warmth and quiet. The rhythmic sound of deep breathing filled the air—Neville's soft snores, Dean's occasional mumbling, Seamus shifting under his blankets.

And then there was Harry Potter.

He lay tangled in his crimson-and-gold bedding, his face pale beneath the mess of black hair stuck to his forehead. His scar—that thin, lightning-shaped mark—burned beneath his skin, a dull, insistent throb that had plagued him all night. His eyelids fluttered rapidly, his fingers twitching against the sheets as if trying to grasp something just out of reach.

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In his dream, he stood in a graveyard.

The air was thick with mist, cold enough to seep into his bones. Tombstones jutted from the earth like broken teeth, their edges slick with dew, names long since weathered away. The ground beneath his feet was uneven, littered with dead leaves that crackled like brittle parchment.

A fire burned in the center of the graveyard—unnatural, green-tinged, its flames licking hungrily at the night. And from its depths, a figure rose.

Voldemort.

Pale as bone, his face stretched into something barely human, his crimson eyes burning like embers in the dark. His cloak swirled around him, and when he lifted his wand, his fingers were long, skeletal, the nails sharp as talons.

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Voldemort:

> "I have returned, Harry Potter…"

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The voice was high, cold, slithering into Harry's ears like poison.

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Voldemort:

> "And this time, there will be nothing you can do."

Harry tried to move, to run, to fight—but his legs wouldn't obey. The graveyard spun around him, the mist thickening into a whirlwind of black and green. His scar burned, the pain so sharp it stole his breath.

Voldemort's laughter echoed, cruel and triumphant.

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> No… this can't be happening…

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Then—movement. A flash of bone-white fingers. The tip of a wand, aimed straight at his heart.

A jet of green light—

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"Harry! Harry—wake up, mate!"

Harry gasped, his body jerking upright so violently he nearly toppled off the bed. His chest heaved, his heart hammering against his ribs as if trying to escape. For a terrifying second, he wasn't sure where he was—the graveyard's mist still clung to his mind, the echo of Voldemort's voice ringing in his ears.

Then his vision cleared.

Gryffindor Tower.

The red canopy above him. The warm sunlight filtering through the curtains. The familiar scent of wool blankets and the faint tang of broom polish.

And Ron, leaning over him, his blue eyes wide with concern, his freckled face creased in a frown.

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Ron:

> "Oi… you were thrashing about again. What was it this time?"

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Harry swallowed, his throat dry. His fingers instinctively rose to his scar, pressing against it as if he could push the pain away.

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Harry:

> "It was… him. Voldemort. He's back, Ron. I saw him. Like he was right there. He was… talking to me."

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Ron's expression tightened. He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his tousled red hair. His gaze flicked toward the other beds—checking if they were still alone—before returning to Harry.

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Ron:

> "Blimey… Mate, you've just been under loads of stress. It's probably another nightmare. You've been having 'em for ages."

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Harry shook his head, his fingers still pressed to his forehead.

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Harry:

> "This felt different. Like he was really there. Like he knew I was watching."

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Ron opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

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Ron:

> "Look… maybe he is back. we will talk with professor Dumbledore about this. But right now, you're safe. You're at Hogwarts. It was just a dream."

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Harry didn't answer. His gaze was distant, fixed on something far beyond the dormitory walls.

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Harry:

> "But what if it's not just a dream? What if he's… planning something?"

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Ron gave Harry's arm an awkward pat, his attempt at reassurance clumsy but sincere.

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Ron:

> "Then we'll deal with it. Together. Like we always do. But you need some breakfast before your brain explodes."

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Harry let out a shaky half-laugh, though the fear still lingered in his eyes.

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Harry:

> "Yeah… together."

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Outside, the castle was waking. Footsteps echoed on the stairs, voices drifted up from the common room, and the distant chime of the morning bell rang through the tower.

Ron clambered off Harry's bed, grabbing his robes from the foot of his own.

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Ron:

> "C'mon, up you get. If we don't hurry, Hermione'll lecture us for being late."

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Harry dragged a hand down his face, then nodded.

And high above his bed, a patch of sunlight glowed crimson against the curtains—like a flicker of distant fire.

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Somewhere else....

At The Slytherin Common Room –

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The Slytherin common room lay in hushed stillness, its usual air of aristocratic chill deepened by the early hour. The only illumination came from the emerald lanterns lining the walls, their eerie green glow flickering across the carved stone arches and heavy black leather furniture. The light reflected off the glass of the underwater windows in wavering patterns, making the entire chamber feel submerged in some ancient, forgotten dream.

Outside those windows, the Black Lake stretched into darkness. Thick tendrils of algae swayed in unseen currents, and occasionally, the shadow of some massive creature—perhaps a grindylow or even the giant squid—drifted past, its form distorted by the rippling water. The effect was hypnotic, like watching ghosts glide through the depths.

At one of the serpent-carved stone tables near the windows, Adam sat hunched over a thick tome, his uniform already neatly donned, though his robe had been tossed carelessly over the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing faint scars along his forearms—remnants of past magical mishaps. His dark hair fell forward, nearly obscuring his eyes as he pored over the book before him.

The title, embossed in peeling silver letters, read:

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> Advanced Magical Theory: Arithmancy and Runic Logic.

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Adam's fingers traced the lines of text with restless energy, his mind absorbing the dense magical equations at a pace that would have made even Hermione Granger raise an eyebrow. The book was a labyrinth of numbers, symbols, and diagrams, each page a puzzle waiting to be unraveled.

His fingertips drummed against the tabletop in a staccato rhythm, matching the rapid-fire calculations unfolding in his head.

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Adam (thinking):

> "So… the algorithm of magical flow can be quantified as a Fibonacci spiral…"

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He paused, brow furrowing.

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Adam (thinking):

> "That makes sense. But…"

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His finger jabbed at a diagram showing wand movements and corresponding magical output.

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Adam (thinking):

> "If wand motion modifies spell power, then the spell output isn't just about magical reserves—it's about precision control."

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He flipped the page, revealing a series of swirling diagrams depicting magical currents. The illustrations showed spells forming at wand tips, the energy spiraling outward in fractal-like patterns.

Adam's mind raced, dissecting each point with ruthless efficiency.

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Adam (thinking):

> "Look at how they show magical resistance building up along the wand tip. Like static electricity. That explains why longer wands sometimes crackle before releasing spells."

> "But they're missing a point. The mental intention of the wizard affects the stability of the spiral. That's why spells sometimes rebound if the caster hesitates."

> "I should test this with Protego later. If I adjust the wand flick angle by five degrees… maybe I can create a smaller shield that uses less energy."

> "And why the hell is nobody factoring emotional states into this model? It's obvious rage fuels raw magical power—but it's unstable. Calm concentration should be more efficient."

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His scowl deepened.

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Adam (thinking):

> "Honestly, even the magical world has terrible textbook authors. They'd make Camus proud of their existential confusion."

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He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head with a sigh. The common room's chill seeped into his bones, but his mind burned with restless energy.

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Adam (softly):

> "The struggle itself… is enough to fill a man's heart."

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Camus' words slipped out, quiet but firm.

Adam smirked, rolling his shoulders as if bracing for battle.

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The System chimed softly in his mind, a familiar, almost comforting presence. With a thought, he summoned his status screen.

A translucent blue rectangle materialized in the air before him, hovering just above the open book.

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[ System Status: User Adam ]

Level: 3

Experience: 5/300

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Attributes:

Strength: 7 (A bit above average, but nothing remarkable.)

Endurance: 8 (Decent, but he'd need more if he planned on surviving the Forbidden Forest.)

Intelligence: 11 (Now that was something to be proud of.)

Magic: 11 (Equal to his Intelligence—good. Balance was key.)

Observation: 8 (Sharp, but not infallible.)

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Unlocked Skills:

Disillusionment Charm (Useful, but still imperfect.)

Lumos Maxima (Handy in dark places.)

Protego (His lifeline in duels.)

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Inventory:

Minor Recovery Elixir (2) (Never enough.)

Beginner's Spellbook Token (1) (Still deciding what to unlock next.)

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Adam tilted his head, studying the numbers with a critical eye.

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Adam (thinking):

> "Huh… eleven in Intelligence and Magic. Not too shabby for a kid everyone calls a 'demon.'"

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He dismissed the screen—only for another alert to immediately take its place.

[ System Notification – New Daily Quests Available ]

→ User Adam – Level 3 Daily Quests .

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[ End of Chapter.]

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If you want to read more about my works or just to support me then here is my patreon:

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