CHAPTER ELEVEN: OBSERVATION

Harry hated hospitals. Too clean. Too white. Too quiet. The room they’d given him wasn’t locked, not officially, but he could feel the eyes

Harry hated hospitals. He hated this one especially. 

The room they’d given him wasn’t locked, though it was kept closed always for ‘privacy reasons’, yet he could feel the eyes on him all the same. Cameras blinked down from the corners, and a discreet microphone embedded in the ceiling had caught every rustle, and every breath (before his magic destroyed it during his sleep). The nurse who came in to check his vitals lingered a fraction too long, cautious and watchful.

He didn’t blame them, though he certainly didn't like it.

The bed was too soft for his liking, but clean and comfortable, at least. The sheets smelled faintly of bleach and something vaguely herbal: lavender, maybe, or something flowery meant to calm the nerves. There was a window, though the view was just another concrete wall of the facility across the way. 

In some ways, it wasn't any better than Coil’s underground lair.

Harry sat on the edge of the mattress, legs bare, and a hospital bracelet snug around his wrist. In his fingers, he turned over a single gummy bear, his newest obsession. One of the few comforts they allowed him as they’d asked questions, though not the usual kind.

A woman in a pressed blouse and mild smile had sat across from him with a notepad in hand. She hadn’t blinked when he’d said he was a child soldier. And hadn't even flinched at Voldemort’s name, though that might have been because of a lack of context. Instead, she’d asked when he’d started fighting. How long he’d been fighting for. How many people he’d lost. If he still had nightmares. If he still felt guilty over deaths he felt he could have prevented.

He hadn’t answered most of those.

He didn’t need Legilimency to know they didn’t trust him. Their guards were always up, even when their faces were exposed and calm. Everyone he met in this place, even the ones who tried to be friendly, watched him like he might go off at any time.

He supposed that wasn’t unfair.

A soft knock came at the door. Not quite tentative, but not quite demanding either.

“Enter,” he said.

Miss Militia stepped inside. She was dressed in her usual fatigues, neatly pressed, and her face was partially obscured by a stylized scarf. Her eyes, green and intense, studied him with professional interest, but not suspicion.

She sent a nod his way. “Mr. Potter.”

Harry offered a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still calling me that, then?”

“Until you tell us otherwise.”

He nodded. Fair enough.

She set down a folder on the table by the bed, thicker than before. Briefing materials, he assumed. She didn’t open it and he didn't reach for it. 

“Today’s observation is being extended,” she said. “There’ll be more interviews and some basic testing, but nothing invasive. Please comply.”

“You say that like I haven’t already been complying.”

“We want to understand how you work,” she continued undeterred. “What you can do. What you can’t. Our world doesn’t run on your kind of… rules.”

“Neither did mine,” Harry said quietly.

That made her pause, though just for a second.

He looked away, down to the gummy bear in his hand. “What happens if you decide I’m too dangerous?”

“That’s not the question we’re asking,” Miss Militia said. “Not yet.”

Harry snorted softly. “Right. Because that makes it so much better.”

In lieu of arguing, she straightened. “You saved people. That counts for something here.”

He didn’t respond.

After a moment, she turned toward the door.

“Someone will be here in twenty minutes,” she said at the threshold. “Try to eat something. And if you’re willing, we’d like to see what your spells can do.”

Then she was gone.

Harry stared at the closed door for a long moment. Then, finally, he popped the gummy bear into his mouth.

Apple flavored. Yum. 

. . . . .

The testing room wasn’t just clean; it was sterile. It was also windowless, with white walls, a smooth floor, and the faint smell of ozone and steel filled the air. Cameras watched from every corner, and a wide pane of one-way glass stretched across the far wall. Two PRT guards flanked the entrance, rifles slung but not raised, while Miss Militia stood off to the side with Armsmaster, murmuring quietly over the tablet in hand.

Harry stood in the center of a painted white circle.

“Begin when ready,” Armsmaster said without looking up.

Harry raised a brow. “That’s it? No countdown? No dramatic music?”

Miss Militia gave him a patient look. “Consider this a proof of concept. You said you can perform magic at will, so we want a basic, non-destructive demonstration.”

“Define non-destructive.”

“No explosions, no combustion, and no structural damage to the room.”

Harry sighed. “You lot really take the fun out of things.”

He lifted his hand from the folds of the borrowed hospital-issue sweatshirt. He still didn't have a wand, so he made do with just his fingers, callused and pale. The guards tensed anyway. One even flinched.

Armsmaster didn’t. His eyes were still locked on the tablet.

“All right,” Harry muttered. “Something small.”

He extended his hand toward the far wall and traced a lazy figure-eight in the air with two fingers. “Lumos Maxima.”

A sudden burst of white light flared into being, raw magic coalescing into a glowing orb that floated toward the ceiling and hung there like a miniature sun, pulsing softly.

Instantly, the room responded. 

One of the sensors spiked. Monitors beeped, the low whine of machinery rose in pitch, and the overhead lights flickered once, twice, then stabilized. Armsmaster muttered something under his breath and tapped rapidly at his tablet.

Miss Militia’s gaze flicked to the ceiling, then back to Harry. “That was... more than we expected.”

“You said non-destructive,” Harry said, and with a thought, the orb vanished, plunging the room into brief darkness before the fluorescents buzzed back to life.

Armsmaster was already speaking into his mic. “EM field disruption confirmed. Power surge consistent with Class-B energy displacement with no known parahuman equivalent, and readings spiked across multiple spectra.”

Harry gave them a flat look. “It’s a light spell.”

“Your light spell shorted half our sensors,” Armsmaster replied dryly.

Harry shrugged. “Magic is very good at that.”

Miss Militia stepped forward. “Something else. Something… interactive.”

“Interactive?”

“With the environment. You said you could repair things.”

Harry blinked, then nodded. He knelt and ran a hand along the edge of the baseboard. A cracked tile, probably kicked loose during some earlier test, sat slightly out of place.

He pointed a finger. “Reparo.”

The tile lifted, spun once in the air, and clicked into place like it had never been damaged.

No lights flickered this time, but there was a quiet gasp from the observation window.

Armsmaster tilted his head. “The spell repaired material integrity at the molecular, yet there isn't any heat signature, electromagnetic residue, or observable energy exchange.”

“I told you,” Harry muttered. “It’s not a power. It’s magic.”

One of the guards shifted. The other made a quick gesture, almost a warding sign, before catching himself and returning to stillness.

Miss Militia stepped closer, voice calm. “Can you do more?”

Harry met her eyes. “Yes.”

Armsmaster didn’t look up from his tablet. “That’s the problem.”