Fred Weasley woke with his cheek stuck to a worktable and his spine protesting loudly.
He blinked once, then again, vision swimming as the workshop slowly came back into focus. Their Room of Requirement workshop had settled into its familiar configuration. Long benches. Enchantment arrays burned faintly into the floor. Cooling runes hummed with the last dregs of magic.
Behind them sat the basket.
Not a basket, really. More like a reinforced containment cradle, layered with stabilization charms and anti-feedback wards. It was full to the brim.
Fred pushed himself upright, joints popping, and squinted at it.
"…George," he croaked.
George was already sitting up on the other side of the room, hair sticking out at angles that suggested he had slept approximately never. He rubbed at his eyes, leaving faint smudges of enchantment residue on his fingers.
"Yeah?"
"How in the actual hell," Fred said, gesturing vaguely at the basket, "did we finish all of those in two weeks?"
George followed his gaze.
Three thousand one hundred and forty-six spell-storing rings sat neatly stacked inside. Identical at first glance, each built with care for the smallest detail.
George stared at them for a long moment.
"…No idea," he said honestly.
Fred let his head fall back with a soft thunk against the table. "Right. Thought so."
They sat there in silence for a bit, letting the exhaustion catch up to them properly. Both had dark circles under their eyes, the kind that came from sleeping in snatches and waking up mid-enchantment because a rune felt wrong.
Fred yawned, wide and unashamed. "So. Now what?"
George didn't answer immediately.
Fred cracked an eye open just in time to see the exact moment George's expression changed. His eyes sharpened. His posture straightened. The look.
"Oh no," Fred muttered. "I recognize that look."
George snapped his fingers. "You know what Hogwarts needs?"
Fred considered it blearily. "A therapist?"
George ignored that. "A party."
Fred frowned, then slowly sat up properly. "Define party."
George grinned. "A big one."
Fred stared at him. Then his eyes widened as understanding clicked into place.
"…Oh."
George's grin widened to match it.
Fred pushed himself fully upright now, fatigue momentarily forgotten. "You mean—"
"In that dimension," George said.
"The one Harry opened," Fred finished.
They looked at each other.
Then, in perfect unison, they said, "We can host it there."
The idea settled between them, dangerous and brilliant.
Fred let out a low whistle. "No curfew."
"No professors," George added.
"No time pressure," Fred continued. "You could party for hours and come back before breakfast."
George's eyes gleamed. "Days, Fred. You could party for days."
Fred was the first one to stop smiling.
It happened mid-thought, mid-grin, like someone had quietly flipped a switch behind his eyes.
George noticed immediately.
"…What?" he asked warily.
Fred didn't answer right away. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the basket of rings like it had personally offended him.
"What if," Fred said slowly, "it's not just a party."
George squinted. "You've lost me. Elaborate before I panic."
Fred straightened and looked at him properly now, eyes bright in that dangerous, familiar way. "What if we don't just throw a party."
George tilted his head. "Uh-huh."
"What if," Fred continued, warming to it, "we throw a fair."
George blinked.
"A Hogwarts fair," Fred clarified. "In the dimension."
The silence that followed was not confusion.
It was calculation.
George's gaze unfocused slightly as the idea spread, multiplied, mutated. "A fair," he repeated. "With stalls."
"With shops," Fred said.
"With students running them," George added slowly.
Fred snapped his fingers. "Exactly."
George's posture shifted completely now, exhaustion giving way to momentum. "They'd have to make their own products."
"And manage their own stalls," Fred said.
"And sell the stuff themselves," George finished.
They stared at each other.
"…Fred," George said carefully, "that's not a party."
Fred grinned. "No."
"That's business experience."
Fred's grin turned feral. "That's education."
George let out a low laugh. "Can you imagine it? Real money. Real customers. No professors holding their hands."
"People who actually want to be there," Fred added. "Anyone interested in trade, crafting, potions, enchantments, art. They'd jump at the chance."
George's eyes lit up. "We could have sections. Food. Enchantments. Experimental nonsense."
"Illegal-adjacent curiosities," Fred said fondly.
George nodded approvingly. "Obviously."
The idea kept growing, feeding on itself. They were hyped to think that there was a chance at doing something that could be more thrilling than a party and the quidditch final combined.
"But wait," George said, suddenly frowning. "If it's more than a day…"
Fred's grin widened again. "They'll need places to stay."
George inhaled sharply. "Shops. Lodging. Streets."
"A whole setup," Fred said. "Not tents. Proper buildings."
George leaned back, staring at the ceiling now. "You'd need infrastructure. Roads. Wards. Storage."
Fred followed the thought easily. "A city."
George turned to him slowly. "Harry would need to build a city."
Fred shrugged. "He's bored."
George snorted. "He'll do it."
They both knew it. Not hope. Not speculation. Fact.
Fred drummed his fingers against the table. "It wouldn't even need to be permanent. Just stable enough. But knowing Harry, he might just make it a real city..."
"And then spend a week at the hospital for drained magical core." George scoffed.
Fred pushed himself up with a groan and stretched until something in his back popped alarmingly.
"Right," he said, resolve snapping neatly into place. "First thing we do is send the rings to the Ministry before we get distracted and accidentally invent capitalism again."
George nodded, already standing. "Agreed. Future us will be grateful. Possibly rich."
They both paused.
Then, almost in sync, their heads turned toward the clock mounted crookedly above the main workbench.
February 17th.1:09 AM.
They stared at it.
Fred exhaled slowly. "Well. That explains the hallucinations."
George rubbed his face. "And the ringing in my ears."
They stood there for a moment longer, letting the weight of it sink in. Not just the hour. The fact that they had actually done it. Their first truly massive order. Thousands of precision enchantments. No catastrophic feedback. No explosions. No accidental sentience.
Fred glanced back at the basket. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "this is technically our second largest order."
George nodded. "Floating Fizzbees still win."
"Quiver," Fred corrected automatically.
George smiled faintly. "Still can't believe we convinced Spudmore that miniaturized indoor-safe Quidditch balls were a sensible idea."
"They are sensible," Fred said. "They just happen to also be fun."
"And profitable," George added.
Fred shrugged. "Mostly profitable."
George chuckled. "And we've got six months before Firebolt rolls out."
"Plenty of time," Fred said. "We've already made a thousand. Might as well keep going."
"Considering we have no idea what demand will look like," George agreed. "Better to drown in stock than scramble."
Fred flicked his wrist casually.
The chaos of the workshop obeyed.
Loose parchment stacked itself. Books snapped shut and slid into alignment. Spare clothes folded themselves down to perfect rectangles. Tools disassembled and nested. Everything flowed smoothly into a compact subspace pouch that clicked shut with a satisfied little hum.
George mirrored the motion with the containment cradle. The basket shrank, wards compressing inward as the rings folded into spatial layers far larger on the inside than the outside. He slung the pouch over his shoulder.
"One ring pouch," George said. "One everything-else pouch."
Fred nodded. "Minimalism."
They left the Room of Requirement quietly, the door melting back into stone behind them as if they had never been there at all.
The corridors were dim and hushed, Hogwarts deep in its night-cycle. Their footsteps echoed softly as they walked, fatigue finally settling back into their limbs now that the work was done.
They rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into Percy.
He looked immaculate as ever, even at this hour. Clipboard tucked under one arm, wand in hand, eyes sharp with the self-importance of someone doing a nightly round very seriously. But the twins knew that was a farce and the guy was just sneaking around to meet Penelope.
He stopped short. "Fred. George."
"Percy," they chorused.
He frowned. "It's past one. Where have you two been?"
George gestured vaguely behind them. "Finishing the rings."
Percy blinked. "The rings."
Fred nodded. "All of them."
There was a pause.
Then Percy's shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. "Good. Very good." He cleared his throat. "You should get some sleep. There's no rush. You can deliver them by the weekend."
Fred glanced at George. George glanced back.
They both nodded obediently.
"Sleep sounds wonderful," Fred said sincerely.
Percy eyed them one last time, suspicion warring with relief, then moved on.
The walk to Gryffindor Tower was slower. Quieter. The kind of quiet that came with being truly, bone-deep tired.
When they stepped into the common room, the fire had burned low, embers glowing softly.
Someone was sprawled across the couch.
Fred squinted. "Is that…"
"Harry," George confirmed.
Harry was asleep in a way that suggested he had simply shut down mid-thought. One arm draped over the side of the couch. Hair sticking up in several directions. A book lay open on his chest, having slipped upward to cover half his face.
Fred smiled faintly. "Of course he is."
They exchanged a look.
"We should tell him," George said quietly.
"We really shouldn't," Fred replied just as softly.
They took a step toward the dormitories.
The book slid off Harry's face and thumped onto the floor.
Harry's eyes opened immediately.
He sat up halfway, hair thoroughly disheveled, blinking at the room like he was still negotiating with reality. "You two are loud," he muttered.
Fred winced. "Sorry."
Harry rubbed at his eyes, then focused on them properly. "What were you doing up?"
George gestured vaguely. "Workshop."
Fred nodded. "Finished the rings."
Harry's expression cleared instantly. "All of them?"
"All of them," Fred confirmed.
Harry nodded once, satisfied, then yawned so widely it looked like it might unhinge his jaw. He glanced toward the clock.
His posture shifted.
"…Right," he said slowly. "It's the sixteenth."
Fred tilted his head. "Yes?"
Harry blinked again. "That means today is Pansy's birthday"
George straightened. "Ah."
Fred nodded solemnly. "That would have been bad to forget."
"Very bad," George agreed.
Harry waved a hand vaguely. "Just… keep it in mind." He yawned again, eyes watering slightly.
Fred hesitated. "Actually… we were thinking about something."
Harry looked at them, interest flickering despite the exhaustion. "Thinking usually means trouble."
George grinned. "Productive trouble."
They explained.
The dimension. The fair. The stalls. The students. The time dilation. The idea spilling out in pieces, overlapping, feeding off Harry's attention as he listened.
Harry didn't interrupt.
He didn't even look tired anymore.
By the time they finished, he was sitting forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes bright with that unmistakable spark.
"…That," Harry said quietly, "is an excellent idea."
Fred smiled. "We thought so."
George added, "You don't have to decide now."
Harry nodded absently. "I've already decided. We are definitely making it happen."
Fred laughed. "Of course you are."
George checked the clock again and winced. "We are going to fall over."
Fred nodded emphatically. "We should stop before he starts sketching city layouts."
Harry blinked. "I wasn't going to sketch."
Both twins stared at him.
"…Yet," Fred amended.
Harry nodded, "Touché" He got up, "But I'd rather make some shopping done for Pansy's birthday."
Fred deadpanned, "It's about 2 am mate... no shops is going to be open."
Harry's face showed that he just realized that and was somehow angry with himself for forgetting. "Yeah.. that makes sense. Guess I'll just sleep."
The twins nodded as the three of them made their way towards the dormitories.
Harry woke at 6:30 on the dot.
Not with a jolt. Not with panic. Just awareness snapping cleanly into place, like a switch being flipped. He stared at the canopy above his bed for a second, cataloguing aches, fatigue, and the faint echo of dreams that refused to become memories.
"…Right," he murmured, swinging his legs over the side.
Shower first.
He moved through the castle on autopilot, corridors still half-asleep, portraits yawning and muttering as he passed. The prefect bathroom greeted him with steam and quiet luxury. Percy had handed over access weeks ago with a conspiratorial cough and a muttered comment about "administrative efficiency." Since then, Percy had been bending rules with alarming ease. The twins approved immensely.
By the time Harry stepped back out around 7:30, hair damp and mind clearer, the castle had properly woken. Breakfast smells drifted upward. Footsteps echoed. Life resumed.
Harry did not go to the Great Hall.
He had work to do.
He turned without hesitation and headed straight for the Headmaster's office.
The gargoyle moved aside at his approach. Harry didn't bother with ceremony. He stepped onto the spiral staircase and let it carry him upward.
He had a list in his head.
First, tell Dumbledore about the twins' idea. It was genuinely good. Educational. Economic. Ridiculous in exactly the right way.
Second, today mattered.
It was Pansy's birthday, yes. That would be handled later.
But more importantly, today was the day he started the resurrection. Bringing Lumos back.
Harry reached the office door and pushed it open without knocking, as he'd been explicitly told he could.
And froze.
Dumbledore was there.
Not seated behind his desk. Not surrounded by instruments or portraits or inscrutable calm.
He was in striped blue pajamas.
He was brushing his teeth.
And stretching.
Harry stared.
Dumbledore glanced at him through the mirror, toothbrush still in his mouth, foam gathering unceremoniously at the corners. He raised a hand in greeting and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Morning."
Harry's brain stalled.
This... this was wrong.
This was deeply, cosmically wrong.
Not incorrect. Not impossible. Just fundamentally incompatible with the internal category labeled Dumbledore.
The Headmaster spat neatly into a basin, rinsed his mouth with a quick wandless charm, and turned around, still stretching his shoulders.
"You're up early," Dumbledore said cheerfully.
Harry blinked. "You're… human."
Dumbledore laughed outright. "I have been accused of worse things."
Harry stared for another second, then forcibly realigned his worldview. "Right. Apologies. I forgot you exist outside… whatever it is you normally do."
"Conspire?" Dumbledore suggested mildly.
"Brood," Harry corrected.
Dumbledore blinked, then laughed outright. "Ah. Yes. A common misconception. I assure you, even Headmasters require dental hygiene."
Harry nodded faintly. "I'll… revise my internal model."
Dumbledore smiled, already moving toward his desk. "Now then. What brings you here so early?"
Harry refocused. This he could handle.
"The twins had an idea," he said. "A good one."
Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted with interest as he settled into his chair. "Oh?"
Harry explained.
The dimension. The fair. The stalls. The educational value disguised as chaos. He kept it clean, practical, grounded. He did not mention cities yet, though the thought hovered insistently at the back of his mind.
Dumbledore listened intently, fingers steepled, eyes brightening with every sentence.
When Harry finished, there was a pause.
"That," Dumbledore said slowly, "is a remarkable concept."
Harry inclined his head. "I thought so."
"It combines applied magic, entrepreneurship, responsibility, and controlled freedom," Dumbledore continued. "All in a setting where mistakes can be made safely." He smiled. "Minerva will pretend to hate it."
Harry almost smiled.
"And," Dumbledore added thoughtfully, "a makeshift settlement inside the dimension would indeed be necessary."
Harry's gaze sharpened. "You were thinking it too."
Dumbledore chuckled. "I was merely trying to think like you."
They shared a look. An unspoken understanding.
This would happen.
Harry broke the silence first.
"Can we start now?"
Dumbledore's smile turned just a little sharper. "Immediately?"
"Yes."
The Headmaster leaned back in his chair, eyes glinting. "Well. I suppose we could… if you believe you can keep up."
Harry's mouth curved faintly. "That's an odd concern to have, Professor. I was under the impression that old age affected knees before confidence."
Dumbledore laughed, outright delighted. "Ah. Insolent. I see you're well-rested."
"Relatively," Harry replied. "Enough for this."
Dumbledore rose, already reaching for his wand. "Very well. Let us see whose internal model needs revising."
They moved together toward the concealed passage behind the office, banter light and dangerously familiar, the sort that made Minerva McGonagall's left eye twitch whenever she witnessed it. When these two got started, titles dissolved quickly. Headmaster. Student. Quintessential Master. None of it survived first contact with shared curiosity and a mutual fondness for doing what should not work.
The doorway yielded.
And the world shifted.
They stepped into the dimension.
The castle dominated the landscape, exactly as it had before. Pale stone catching light that didn't come from a sun, towers rising into a sky that felt deliberate rather than natural. The air was clean, lightly charged, magic resting everywhere like a held breath.
Harry paused, taking it in with fresh eyes.
Dumbledore watched him. "I built it after you adjusted the dilation," he said. "One to twenty changes… everything. It gave us time. Real time."
Harry nodded slowly. He could feel it. The difference wasn't subtle.
"This is where the professors spend their extended hours," Dumbledore continued. "Research. Experimentation. Interests that never quite fit into a school timetable." His voice softened. "It turns out most of us have been quietly starving for that."
Harry glanced at him. "You didn't tell me."
Dumbledore smiled. "You were busy rewriting the boundaries of magic."
Fair.
Before Harry could respond, the great doors of the castle opened.
They didn't burst outward. They simply… decided to be open.
The professors emerged in loose clusters, conversation trailing behind them like residual magic.
McGonagall was first, posture immaculate as ever, tartan robes crisp despite the environment. Her eyes narrowed the moment she spotted Harry and Dumbledore together.
"Oh no," she said flatly.
Flitwick followed, hovering slightly off the ground, excitement already bubbling. "Is this a working session?"
"Because if it is," Vector added briskly, parchment already in hand, "I have several equations that—"
"—will absolutely destabilize something," Snape cut in smoothly from behind them, black robes sweeping like a warning.
Thorne emerged next, hands in his pockets, expression sharp and curious. "I knew it," he muttered. "I felt the magic shift."
Remus followed more slowly, looking relaxed in a way that suggested he'd already been here far longer than anyone suspected. "Morning, Harry," he said pleasantly. "You look… awake."
Burbage stepped out beside him, brushing dust from her sleeve, eyes flicking immediately to Snape.
There was a pause.
Not dramatic. Not loud.
Just enough.
Snape's gaze met hers, cool and unreadable. Burbage's chin lifted a fraction, defiant without knowing why. The air tightened briefly, like two incompatible theories forced into the same space.
Harry noticed.
Dumbledore definitely noticed.
Nothing was said.
"Albus," McGonagall said tightly, turning her attention back where it belonged, "why do I get the distinct feeling that this is about to escalate?"
Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back. "Because it is, my dear Minerva."
Harry stepped forward. "We're thinking of expanding the dimension."
McGonagall closed her eyes for half a second.
"Define expand," she said.
"A fair," Harry replied calmly.
Her eyes opened. "Of course it is."
He continued anyway. "Student-run. Trade, crafting, experimental work. Real consequences, controlled environment."
Flitwick gasped softly. "Oh that's brilliant."
Vector was already scribbling. "We'd need zoning. Anchors. Stabilized wards for commerce—"
"—absolutely not without oversight," McGonagall snapped.
Snape's lip curled faintly. "And you intend to let children loose with commerce and magic unsupervised?"
"Supervised," Harry corrected. "Just not smothered."
Remus smiled. "It sounds like something Hogwarts has needed for a long time."
Thorne nodded slowly. "Applied learning. Real stakes. I like it."
Burbage glanced around. "It would encourage cultural exchange too. Art. Literature. Performance."
Snape snorted. "And chaos."
Harry met his eyes. "Yes."
The admission caught Snape off guard.
Dumbledore laughed quietly. "Order grows stronger when tested against chaos, Severus. You taught me that once."
Snape looked away, irritated.
McGonagall sighed. "I hate both of you when you do this."
Harry smiled faintly.
Dumbledore turned back to him. "Shall we begin sketching the foundations?"
Harry's eyes lit with focused interest. "I already have a few anchoring concepts."
McGonagall pointed at them sharply. "No."
They ignored her in perfect unison.
It started, as most disasters did, with a perfectly reasonable suggestion.
"We should probably divide the workload," McGonagall said, already tired. "If we're doing this at all."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "An excellent idea."
Harry tilted his head. "Vertically or horizontally?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Horizontally feels fair."
McGonagall frowned. "Why does that feel ominous?"
Neither of them answered.
They stepped forward together, wands already in hand, magic gathering so quietly and densely that the air itself seemed to hold still. What followed should not have been possible. Not by any accepted theory. Not by any model taught in any institution that still claimed to be sane.
The ground trembled.
Not violently. Deliberately.
Stone flowed upward from nothing, not summoned so much as instructed. Foundations sketched themselves into existence, invisible lines becoming streets, plazas, courtyards. The raw substrate of the dimension responded like clay under expert hands.
Flitwick stopped breathing.
Vector's parchment slipped from her fingers and drifted to the ground, forgotten.
McGonagall's lips parted despite herself. "They're not… conjuring," she whispered. "They're… establishing."
Snape's expression darkened. "They are rewriting the environmental constants."
Remus watched, transfixed. "They're treating the dimension like a draft."
And then it split.
An invisible line ran through the center of the emerging city, not marked by barriers but by intent alone. The space on either side immediately began to diverge, responding to two very different philosophies of beauty.
On Dumbledore's side, the world bloomed.
Trees unfurled from bare air, roots threading into nothing and finding purchase anyway. Cherry blossoms burst into soft existence, petals drifting lazily through streets that curved gently, organically. Elegant manors rose in warm stone and dark wood, balconies draped in flowering vines. Inns appeared with wide hearths and open courtyards, their windows glowing with the promise of rest and laughter.
Bridges arched over slow-moving canals, water catching light like liquid glass. Lanterns floated into place, not powered by spells so much as atmosphere, illuminating paths that invited wandering rather than directing it.
It was beautiful.
Painfully so.
"It looks like a storybook," Burbage breathed. "A place people would write poems about."
Dumbledore smiled, hands moving in smooth, confident arcs. "A city should want to be lived in," he said mildly.
On Harry's side, reality lost its nerve.
Buildings did not rise so much as assemble, segments locking into place midair before deciding whether gravity applied to them at all. Towers floated, slow and deliberate, connected by luminous bridges that reconfigured themselves as people moved across them.
Streets were translucent, layered with softly pulsing runes beneath the surface. Platforms glided past one another at different heights, creating vertical traffic without chaos. Light came from everywhere and nowhere, ambient and intelligent, adjusting itself automatically.
Flitwick made a noise that might have been awe or terror.
Vector stared openly now. "Those structures don't obey any known load-bearing principle."
Harry didn't look away from his work. "They don't need to."
Energy flowed visibly through the city, not leaking, not flaring, but circulating in elegant loops. Power generation was embedded into the architecture itself, self-sustaining, self-correcting. Even the air felt… optimized.
Snape's eyes narrowed sharply. "That's not spellwork. That's system design."
Harry glanced at him. "Yes."
Dumbledore paused, taking in Harry's side with open interest. "Oh my," he said. "You've abandoned aesthetics entirely."
Harry snorted softly. "Function is aesthetic."
Dumbledore laughed. "A tragic philosophy."
"Yours is inefficient," Harry shot back. "Your city will choke on its own charm within a decade."
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed. "And yours will forget why people live in cities at all."
The air between them crackled.
McGonagall groaned. "They're competing."
"They're competing," Remus confirmed, sounding almost fond.
"What madness produces a headmaster and a twelve-year-old who argue by building entire cities," Thorne muttered.
The moment it became clear this was no longer collaboration but competition, McGonagall knew the morning was lost.
"Albus," she said sharply, "this is not—"
"Oh hush, Minerva," Dumbledore replied pleasantly, not even looking at her. "We are merely… exploring options."
Harry snorted. "You're compensating."
Dumbledore's eyebrow arched. "For what, my boy?"
"For the fact that your buildings need apologies to stand up."
That did it.
A ripple of magic tore outward as Dumbledore flicked his wand, and an entire avenue restructured itself in response. Stone façades smoothed, roofs steepened elegantly, and a line of trees burst into bloom all at once, petals cascading like applause.
"My buildings," Dumbledore said calmly, "stand because they wish to."
Harry laughed, actually laughed, and then snapped his fingers.
Half a dozen of his towers rotated in midair, reconfiguring themselves seamlessly into a new arrangement. One of them inverted entirely, hanging upside-down without the slightest tremor.
"They stand," Harry said, "because gravity is a suggestion."
Flitwick squeaked.
"That's not a rebuttal," McGonagall snapped. "That's vandalism of physics."
Dumbledore gestured grandly, and a massive glass-roofed conservatory unfurled near the city's center, sunlight refracting into rainbows that spilled across nearby streets.
"People will feel something when they walk here," Dumbledore said. "Beauty. Peace. Wonder."
Harry waved a hand dismissively, and the lighting across his entire district adjusted instantly, colors softening, angles recalibrating.
"They'll feel lost in yours," Harry shot back. "Mine has adaptive navigation. Emotional feedback loops. Crowd-flow correction."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Ah yes. A city that tells you where to go. How comforting."
"At least it won't trap them in a scenic dead-end because you thought a vine-covered archway looked poetic."
"Oh, forgive me," Dumbledore said lightly, "for believing cities should invite wandering."
"And forgive me," Harry said, teeth flashing, "for believing they shouldn't inconvenience it."
The magic surged again.
A river cut through Dumbledore's half, water shimmering with enchantments that sang softly as it flowed. Harry responded by lifting an entire transport hub into the air, platforms sliding into place like a living machine.
"This is absurd," Snape muttered. "They're arguing like siblings."
"They are arguing like siblings," Remus corrected. "Dangerously gifted siblings."
Burbage pinched the bridge of her nose. "I have a first-year class at 9."
Thorne folded his arms. "If one more building starts glowing, I'm leaving."
Right on cue, Dumbledore caused a row of lanterns to ignite, their light warm and inviting.
Harry retaliated by making his streets briefly transparent, revealing the elegant lattice of runes and power beneath.
"Oh come on," McGonagall barked. "You're not even pretending this is for the students anymore!"
Dumbledore smiled serenely. "Minerva, this is for the students."
Harry nodded. "They'll learn from whichever side survives."
Snape turned on his heel. "I refuse to witness this before breakfast."
"I second that," Vector said briskly. "My brain is not awake enough to process spatial heresy."
Flitwick looked torn, then sighed. "I love them both, but I need tea."
Remus laughed softly. "Same."
McGonagall gave the city one last, long look—at the impossible skyline, the clashing philosophies made stone and light—and then threw her hands up.
"Fine," she said. "Let them exhaust themselves."
She pointed at Dumbledore without turning back. "If Hogwarts collapses because you forgot to eat, Albus, I will haunt you."
Dumbledore waved cheerfully. "Duly noted."
Harry didn't even notice them leaving. He was too busy countering another aesthetic flourish with a futuristic optimization.
As the professors filed back toward the gateway, muttering about madness, geniuses, and the sheer audacity of both of them, the sounds of argument followed.
"You're overengineering."
"You're underthinking."
"That fountain is unnecessary."
"That bridge is inefficient."
The professors exited through the gateway and made their way towards the Great Hall.
Breakfast awaited.
And behind them, in a dimension bent to two stubborn wills, the headmaster of Hogwarts and a twelve-year-old prodigy continued fighting tooth and nail—by building a city.