Young Celestial Wizard [Celestial Grimoire, Harry Potter]

Chapter 52: The Grand Exhibition Begins



--- A Few Weeks Later. July 15th, 1988 ---

Harry stared at the Daily Prophet spread across his desk, watching Charlotte's hands shift between scarred and unscarred in the magical photographs. The headline screamed in bold letters: "BOY-WHO-LIVED PERFORMS MIRACLE HEALING." Beneath, a detailed account told that Harry Potter had achieved what St. Mungo's finest healers could not - removing dark magic scars that should have been permanent.

"I shouldn't have discussed it so openly," Charlotte had told him weeks ago, guilt clear in her voice. "Someone must have overheard Tonks and me talking in hall. I'm so sorry, Harry."

His finger traced the edge of the newspaper, remembering how the news had spread through Hogwarts like Fiendfyre just before summer began. Now the entire wizarding Britain buzzed with speculation about his healing magic. Letters had already started arriving – pleading, heartbreaking missives from families with cursed relatives, all hoping for a miracle. He sighed deeply as he leaned back in his chair to stare at the ceiling, lost in thought.

A soft meow drew his attention. Chrysa sat in the doorway, tail swishing with impatience.

"Coming, girl." Harry stood, straightening his formal robes. They were Perenelle's doing, of course – a set of deep blue silk robes, the silver threading within them shifting like starlight on water. They felt unnecessarily fancy, like he was dressing up for a play he didn't want to be a part of, but apparently the Grand Exhibition demanded a certain standard of presentation.

Downstairs, Nicolas and Perenelle waited in the cottage's living room. Chrysa sprang past Harry to curl around Perenelle's legs while Nicolas held up what appeared to be an ordinary brass key.

"The portkey will activate in two minutes," Nicolas said, his expression unusually serious. "Perenelle and I will need to keep our distance once we arrive. The Philosopher's Stone tends to attract... unfortunate attention."

"We'll be watching though," Perenelle added warmly. "Just from a safe distance."

A crack of apparition announced the arrival of Albus Dumbledore, resplendent in robes of deep purple decorated with silver stars. Beside him stood Minerva McGonagall, wearing elegant green tartan.

"Ready for your debut, Harry?" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he straightened Harry's collar with a gentle hand.

"Almost," Harry smiled, trying to push down the nervous butterflies that had taken up residence in his stomach. "Though I wish you two could stay closer." He glanced at Nicolas and Perenelle, feeling a pang of loneliness despite their reassurances.

"We'll find ways to check on you," Perenelle promised. "Now gather round, the portkey activates in thirty seconds."

They formed a circle around Nicolas, each touching the brass key. Harry felt Chrysa press against his legs just as the familiar hook caught behind his navel. Colors blurred past until his feet slammed into soft grass.

Harry blinked, taking in the Exhibition grounds. Four massive white marble platforms hovered a few feet in the air, each the size of a Quidditch pitch. Thousands of seats surrounded them in sweeping arcs, some already filled with chattering spectators. Banners snapped in the wind - some advertising magical art supplies, others displaying past Exhibition winners.

"The registration building is this way," McGonagall said, guiding Harry forward. Nicolas and Perenelle had already slipped away into the crowd.

Vendors called out from colorful stalls lining the path. One offered self-stirring paint that mixed new shades based on the artist's mood. Another displayed crystals that captured sounds to use in magical music. Harry even spotted someone selling what looked like dancing shoes that taught proper form through gentle nudges.

"Ah, Madame Delacour!" Dumbledore called out, waving to an elegant witch. She stood near the registration building's entrance with Fleur at her side.

"Harry!" Fleur rushed forward. "You must see the practice rooms they have prepared. They're magnificent! And the instruments they provide for everyone to use! And- oh! You have to see it all!"

Before Harry could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air.

"Surely this is some sort of joke?"

A tall wizard with a meticulously trimmed silver beard stepped forward. "This competition has existed for over three centuries. Are we now allowing children to participate?" He paused, glancing at Harry with open disdain, a sneer playing at the corners of his lips.

Harry recognized the voice - Maurice Moreau, winner of the last Exhibition. The man's paintings hung in magical museums across Europe.

"I assure you, Monsieur Moreau," Madame Delacour spoke with practiced diplomacy, "every participant has earned their place through demonstrated merit."

"Merit?" Moreau scoffed. "I spent thirty years mastering the subtleties of color-changing charms alone. What could this boy possibly-"

A flash of blue flame sparked between Harry's fingers, forming a miniature phoenix. Lightning intertwined through the construct, making each feather shine with life. The flame bird soared upward, trailing sparks of blue fire that morphed into a constellation of falling stars.

Moreau's face reddened. He opened his mouth, closed it, then spun on his heel with a muttered "We'll see who impresses the judges." Several onlookers snickered as he stormed off.

"Well handled," McGonagall said quietly as they walked toward the registration building. "Though perhaps we should hurry before anyone else decides to question your presence."

"Indeed," Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I believe the registration desk awaits."

They crossed the courtyard, passing beneath hanging gardens where magical flowers changed colors in time with music. Inside the building, dozens of artists filled out forms while officials examined wands. A witch with bright purple hair conducted singing paintbrushes through the air. Near her, an ancient wizard coaxed marble blocks into flowing shapes.

"That was quite the entrance," Fleur whispered as they joined the registration line. "Maurice Moreau does not often walk away speechless."

"Fame isn't everything," Harry murmured, remembering what Aunt Min always said about staying humble. The line moved quickly as officials processed each artist's registration.

"Potter, Harry," called a bored-looking wizard. "Wand registration?"

"I don't use one for my art," Harry explained.

The official looked up sharply. "Everyone uses a wand for-"

The official's eyes widened as his cheeks became flame-red. "Mr. Potter! I- of course, how foolish of me. You're only seven..." He quickly shuffled papers on his desk, avoiding eye contact as he frantically searched for the right form. "We'll need a different form for wandless participants. Just a moment..."

"Here," Madame Delacour placed a blue parchment on the desk. "I took the liberty of preparing one."

"Thank you," Harry said as she handed him a silver quill.

The form asked basic questions about his artistic methods. Harry paused at "Primary Medium of Expression," wondering how to explain Soul Resonance Mist without revealing too much. He settled for "Elemental manipulation (fire/lightning) combined with emotional resonance techniques."

A commotion near the entrance drew attention. Two elderly witches argued about proper crystal preservation methods while a rather harried-looking judge tried to mediate. Behind them, several artists practiced last-minute adjustments to their entry pieces.

"Platform assignments will be posted in one hour," the official announced, stamping Harry's form. "The opening ceremony begins at noon."

"Perfect timing for lunch then," Dumbledore smiled. "I heard the café here serves excellent treacle tart."

"Actually," Fleur grabbed Harry's arm, "I want to show him the practice rooms first. You don't mind, do you Sir?"

"Of course not," Dumbledore chuckled. "We'll save you both some tart."

Fleur led Harry through a side door into a long hallway lined with practice rooms. Each space measured roughly twenty feet square, with walls enchanted to make them unbreakable. Some doors stood open, revealing artists at work.

"Look," Fleur whispered, pointing to a room where an old witch conducted glowing paints through the air like an orchestra. "She won third place last time with a piece about La Révolution Magique."

In another room, a wizard Harry recognized from art magazines was casting spells on a red-wood sculpture. The man noticed them watching and quickly shut the door.

"Everyone's so secretive," Harry noted as they passed more closed doors.

"Yes. Some spend years preparing special techniques." Fleur grinned. "But wait until they see what you can do with lightning."

They found an empty room near the end of the hall. Harry stepped inside, closing the door once Fleur walked in.

"Show me what you've been practicing," Fleur said, settling onto a bench against the wall.

Harry closed his eyes, clearing his mind utterly. Soul Resonance Mist began flowing from his fingertips, carrying waves of tranquility through the air.

The light blue mist swirled gently through the air, barely visible except where light caught the edges. Fleur blinked slowly.

"Harry..." she breathed. "What is this? I feel so... calm."

"Soul Resonance Mist," Harry smiled, keeping the flow gentle. "It carries emotions directly to whoever sees it."

"Harry..." Fleur's voice was a hushed whisper, her eyes wide as she watched the mist. She reached out a hand, hesitating as if she was unsure whether to touch the intangible fog. A slight tremor ran through her fingers, a gentle shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. She drew her hand back quickly. "It's like… I can feel what you felt." She sat up straight, and then seemed to slowly melt back into the bench. "I can feel it."

Harry guided the mist into simple shapes - clouds, waves, falling leaves. Each movement amplified the sense of tranquility.

"This is just one emotion, right?" Fleur asked, eyes slowly getting brighter with excitement, the initial calming effects of the mist wearing off as her enthusiasm took over. "You can do others?"

"Watch." Harry shifted his focus slightly, adding a thin stream of silver mist that carried wonder. The two shades merged in the air, creating entirely new feelings.

"Incredible!" Fleur jumped up. "With your lightning and fire too..." She paced the room, seemingly immune to the calming effects now that she was worked up. "The judges will never expect something like this. Most competitors rely on external enchantments, but you're affecting the participants directly!"

"I'm saving the stronger effects for later rounds," Harry explained. "Don't want to show everything at once."

A bell chimed somewhere in the building.

"Platform assignments!" Fleur grabbed Harry's hand. "Come on, let's see where they put you."

They rushed back through the hallway, joining the crowd gathering around a massive floating scroll in the main hall. Names appeared in golden letters, sorting themselves into four columns beneath platform numbers.

"Look!" Fleur pointed. "You're on Platform Two for the morning session. Right after..." She frowned. "Oh. Right after Maurice Moreau."

Harry scanned the assignments. He'd present twice today - once for Enchanted Painting, once for Living Sculpture. The morning slot seemed perfect for showing his fire techniques without revealing too much about the Soul Resonance Mist.

"At least you won't have to wait long," Dumbledore said, appearing beside them with a plate of treacle tart. "Second presenter means less time for nerves."

McGonagall joined them, carrying what looked like a program schedule. "The judges seem quite interested in your application, Harry. They've never had someone enter both painting and sculpture categories at your age."

"Or any age," muttered a nearby witch with detailed purple robes. "Some of us spend decades mastering one discipline..."

"Then perhaps you should have spent those decades more efficiently," Fleur said sweetly, steering Harry away before the witch could respond. Harry noticed that her smile seemed a little sharper, and she had a look of pride as she defended him, which made him smile in turn.

The crowd began moving toward the platforms. Harry spotted Nicolas and Perenelle in their usual disguise watching from a balcony, carefully distant but still present. Chrysa had somehow found her way up there too, sprawled regally across a cushioned chair.

"Ready?" Fleur squeezed his shoulder. "Show them what real magic looks like."

A gong sounded across the grounds. The audience settled into seats while Moreau took his place on Platform Two. He raised an ornate wand crafted from white oak, summoning streams of enchanted paint from nearby buckets that formed scenes from magical history.

Dragons swooped through painted skies while famous duels played out below. Each figure seemed picture-perfect, enhanced by spells that made the colors shift and glow. When a painted phoenix burst into flames, actual warmth radiated through the air.

The crowd applauded appreciatively. Moreau bowed, shooting Harry a pointed look as he descended the platform steps.

"Next presenter," announced a magically amplified voice, "Harry Potter."

Whispers spread through the audience. Harry walked up the steps, remembering what Perenelle had taught him about commanding attention. Stand straight, move with purpose, show no hesitation.

The platform extended before him, smooth white marble reflecting the morning sunlight. Five judges sat at a raised table, quills poised over parchment.

Harry raised both hands. Azure flames bloomed from his fingertips, forming the base of a mountain range. Lightning sparked between peaks, illuminating valleys where thin streams of dark-grey Soul Resonance Mist began to flow.

"Wandless magic at his age..." Harry heard one of the support staff gasp.

A village emerged in the misty valley, small azure flames shaping homes and people going about daily life. The 3D painting covered a large enough portion of the marble platform that each detail was clearly visible to the thousands watching. Then an orange dragon swooped down from between mountain peaks, bringing destruction in waves of flame.

The audience gasped as one - not just at the spectacle, but at the faint, chilling echo of terror that permeated the dark-grey mist. It wasn't just a representation of fear; it was the fear, drawn from Harry's perfect recall of that desperate battle in Delphi. He could feel the clammy sweat on his palms, the icy grip in his chest, the sharp intake of breath as those monstrous snakes had surrounded him.

He replayed the memory in his mind, focusing on the moment where half his arm was turned to marble, the fear filling the back of his mind again, then filtering it, carefully dialing down the intensity so that the emitted emotion was just enough to make hearts beat faster, without overwhelming anyone too much.

From the burning village rose a lone wizard, azure flames forming determined stance and raised wand. New streams of silver-tinted mist began to flow, not just any mist, but the defiance he had felt when facing the dead snakes again after reversing the petrification. They flowed along crackling lightning as the wizard faced the dragon. The lightning bolt summoned by the wizard struck true, and the orange dragon plummeted into the valley below.

Triumph radiated softly from the bright-yellow mist surrounding the fallen dragon. It wasn't just a representation of victory, but the actual feeling of triumph he had experienced in the moment after killing the serpents. The wizard stood atop a mountain peak, azure flames reforming the village around him as lightning struck between clouds overhead.

"Absolutely extraordinary," breathed one of the judges, breaking the silence that had fallen over the crowd.

The audience erupted in applause. Harry noticed several people wiping away tears or touching hands to racing hearts - even these weak echoes of emotion had affected some deeply.

Moreau's lips pressed tighter, a flicker of surprise in his eyes as they tracked the fading mist. A near-imperceptible nod betrayed a reluctant respect. Meanwhile, Fleur clapped enthusiastically, and Chrysa's proud meow echoed from the balcony.

Harry let the scene fade gradually, azure flames dimming to nothing while the last traces of mist dissipated into morning air. He bowed to the judges and walked down the platform steps, legs slightly shaky from maintaining such precise control.

"That was amazing!" Fleur rushed forward. "Did you see Moreau's face? He looked like someone had hit him with a Stunning Spell!"

"Indeed," Dumbledore smiled, offering Harry a glass of water. "You did very well, Harry."

The next presenter climbed onto the platform - a witch from Spain who specialized in moving portraits. Harry barely noticed, too focused on catching his breath. Even holding back the emotions he had felt back then to low levels had demanded some concentration.

"Seven years old," muttered a passing wizard. "Wandless magic at that scale..."

"Forget the wandless magic," said another. "Did you feel those emotions? Like watching real memories..."

McGonagall patted Harry's shoulder. "Perhaps we should find somewhere quieter for lunch? You'll need energy for the sculpture presentation this afternoon."

"Good idea," Harry agreed, noticing more people turning to stare. Some held copies of the Le Oracle, glancing between him and the photographs of Charlotte's hands. The news had spread all the way to France already…?

"This way," Fleur grabbed his arm. "I know a perfect spot behind the practice rooms where nobody will bother you. And maybe, just maybe, you can relax for a moment."

Fleur led them to a small garden tucked away behind the practice building. A willow tree spread branches over stone benches, while enchanted flowers played quiet melodies whenever butterflies landed on the petals.

"The competitors rarely come here," Fleur explained, pulling sandwiches from a basket McGonagall conjured and filled. "They're too busy practicing or watching others perform, too busy trying to get a competitive edge, that they forget to take a break. And frankly, it's all a bit overwhelming for them."

Harry bit into a sandwich, realizing how hungry maintaining everything at once had made him. Or it was the fact he hadn't eaten in four days… Chrysa appeared from somewhere and curled up by his feet, accepting bits of chicken from his plate.

"Your afternoon piece," Dumbledore said between bites of treacle tart, "will that be the two fighting lightning sculptures you mentioned?"

"Yes. Though I might add something new." Harry glanced at the Le Oracle someone had left on a nearby bench. The moving photographs of Charlotte's hands seemed to mock him.

"Don't let it distract you," McGonagall said firmly, vanishing the newspaper with a flick of her wand. "Focus on the Exhibition. The rest can wait."

A bell chimed in the distance - lunch break ending. Harry stood, brushing crumbs from his robes.

"Ready for round two?" Fleur grinned.


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