Chapter Text
The morning sun filtered gently through the high windows of the Hufflepuff dormitory, casting warm light across the wooden floorboards. Harry stirred later than he meant to, groggy from another night of poor sleep.
He dressed quietly, rubbing his still-aching hands as he made his way out of the dorm. The castle was already humming with life, students heading down to breakfast or hurrying to early classes.
As he walked the familiar path toward the Great Hall, his thoughts drifted absently to Ron and Hermione. He hadn’t seen them in days—not properly—and that silence felt heavier than any insult whispered in the corridors. Maybe he’d catch them today. Maybe not.
His fingers twitched, the dull ache creeping back in. Perhaps Kreacher would know something. Something from the old Black family books. He made a mental note to write again—
"Potter."
Harry stopped at the sharp tone. Zacharias Smith stood at the foot of the stairs, arms folded, clearly waiting.
Harry sighed. "What is it?"
Zacharias gave him a once-over, his expression unreadable but edged with disdain. “Look, I’m not going to go around slagging you off like half this school does. I’m not stupid. You lived through something.”
Harry blinked, caught off guard.
“But let’s get one thing straight,” Zach continued, stepping closer. “You’re not a Hufflepuff. Not really. And you’re definitely not him.”
There was no need to ask who “him” was.
“I know,” Harry said quietly, and meant it. “I don’t know why I was put here either. But I’m not trying to be Cedric.”
Zach scoffed. “Good. Because no one can replace him.”
Harry nodded once, unsure what else to say. Zach didn’t wait for a reply before brushing past him and heading down the stairs.
The words didn’t sting in the way insults usually did. They didn’t even feel unfair. But they settled in his chest like a weight, dragging his already low mood even further.
He didn’t feel like eating. He turned and retraced his steps, heading for the owlery instead.
The crisp morning air stung his skin as he climbed the spiraling stairs. The owlery was still and quiet, the scent of straw and feathers familiar. Hedwig hooted softly and fluttered down to him before he could even call for her.
He gave her a gentle stroke and pressed a short note into her beak.
Kreacher,
My hands are still shaking. Do you know anything that might help? I miss the library. Hope you’re well. Thank you for the biscuits.
—H
Hedwig nipped his finger affectionately before taking flight through the open window.
Harry stood there for a long while, watching her disappear into the clouds.
After leaving the owlery, Harry made his way toward the Charms corridor at a slow, wandering pace. He wasn’t in a rush. Class wasn’t for another fifteen minutes, and the last thing he wanted was to be stuck waiting awkwardly outside the room while students stared and whispered.
The quiet walk gave his thoughts too much room to wander.
Why hadn’t Dumbledore spoken to him yet? Not a word since the Sorting. Not a private meeting. Not even a passing nod in the corridors. It was like Harry didn’t exist to him.
The last time Dumbledore had kept his distance, it had been for Harry’s protection. That’s what they’d all said. Hermione and Ron too, swearing up and down that it wasn’t personal. That Dumbledore had his reasons.
Was this the same? Was that why Ron and Hermione hadn’t come to find him?
Had Dumbledore told them to leave him alone again?
Harry clenched his jaw, shoving his hands into his robe pockets. The trembling in his fingers was still there, barely noticeable now, but the pressure in his chest was harder to ignore.
Maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe Ron had just overslept. Maybe Hermione was just busy. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But the doubts had already settled into his bones like cold rain, and no amount of logic could chase them away.
By the time he reached the Charms classroom, a few students were already milling about outside. Harry leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to catch anyone’s eye. He just waited.
The classroom was bright, filled with the early morning light pouring through the tall windows. Students were filing in steadily now, the gentle hum of conversation echoing off the stone walls.
Harry took his usual seat near the middle, dropping his bag to the floor with a soft thud. He was still feeling the weight of Zacharias’s words from earlier, and his chest hadn’t fully loosened since.
Susan sat beside him without hesitation, her expression open and kind.
“Missed you at breakfast,” she said simply, adjusting her robes.
Harry kept his eyes on his desk. “Had to send a letter.”
Not a lie. But it felt like one anyway.
She didn’t pry, just gave a small hum of understanding and busied herself with her quill. The lack of pressure made Harry feel both grateful and vaguely guilty.
Professor Flitwick entered moments later, buoyant as ever, with a bright greeting and an enthusiastic wave of his wand that sent the chalk skittering across the board in neat loops.
“Today we’re focusing on refining Orbis Lumen! Precision, focus, and stability—let’s see who can manage the steadiest cast.”
The Ravenclaws perked up immediately. Hufflepuffs followed with quiet enthusiasm. Harry just wanted to get through it.
He performed the wand movement slowly, his orb taking shape in the air, hovering with a gentle glow. It wasn’t the brightest in the room, but it was solid. Controlled.
Flitwick floated through the rows, giving pointers and encouragement. When he reached Harry, he paused but didn’t speak.
His eyes scanned the orb, then Harry’s posture, then—briefly—his hands. His brow furrowed ever so slightly before smoothing over again.
Harry felt his shoulders tense. It was barely a second, but it was enough. Flitwick moved on without comment, praising a Ravenclaw two desks away for her symmetry.
Harry’s orb flickered once before he caught it.
He could feel Susan glance his way, maybe out of curiosity, maybe concern, but he didn’t look back. His knuckles were white where he gripped his wand.
He hated this. Hated how even the quiet moments made him feel like he was under a microscope. He wasn’t doing anything wrong—he was just existing—but it felt like every breath, every glance, every flicker of light was being measured.
By the time class ended, Harry’s jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it. He was glad Flitwick hadn’t said anything aloud. But somehow, the silence said more.
Care of Magical Creatures had always been a class Harry looked forward to, even when the creatures were borderline lethal. But as he made his way down to the outskirts of the castle where the class was held, there was no sign of Hagrid’s familiar bulk waiting by the paddock.
Instead, Professor Grubbly-Plank stood at the front with her usual stiff posture, clipboard in hand and a neat stack of notes fluttering at her side. No blast-ended screwts. No over-enthusiastic greetings. No Hagrid.
Harry slowed, his stomach twisting. Not just with disappointment, but with something like worry. Hagrid wouldn’t have missed class without a reason. Had he even been at the Welcome Feast?
He frowned, distracted by a pair of voices up ahead.
“I’m just saying,” Seamus said, louder than necessary, “it’s not like we didn’t all see this coming. After last year? He completely lost it. And now this resorting thing? The Hat finally gave up trying to pretend he’s still brave.”
Dean said nothing, which somehow made it worse. He just gave a noncommittal shrug, letting Seamus keep going.
“He’s not even a Hufflepuff, not really. And he’s definitely not Cedric. That lot only put up with him because they’re too polite to kick him out.”
Harry froze mid-step. The words slammed into him, knocking the breath from his chest. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
Before he could say a word, a flash of red hair moved past him.
“Why don’t you shut it, Finnigan?” Ron snapped, his ears turning red.
Hermione was right behind him, expression like ice. “You sound like a Ministry mouthpiece. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Seamus blinked, taken aback by their sudden appearance. “Well, it’s not like I’m the only one saying it.”
“No,” Ron said flatly. “You’re just the loudest about it.”
Grubbly-Plank called the class to order, saving Seamus from replying. He muttered something under his breath and stalked off with Dean close behind.
Ron turned to Harry, the usual awkward concern etched across his face, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He just nodded once and walked past them toward the paddock.
It was strange, standing near the Gryffindors again. Familiar, but distant. Like something from a different life.
Class passed in a blur. Professor Grubbly-Plank introduced the bowtruckles—nervous little creatures with twiggy limbs and fierce tempers—but Harry barely heard her. He kept glancing toward the edge of the forest, hoping, foolishly, for a familiar figure to appear.
He didn’t.
Afterward, Hermione fell into step beside him, her brow furrowed.
“I’ve been in the library,” she said in a low voice. “Trying to find anything on resorting. It’s incredibly rare, but it’s not unheard of. The castle sort of… rewrites its own records when a student is removed. If you’re re-enrolled, it treats you like someone new.”
Harry didn’t respond.
“It doesn’t mean anything about you,” she went on. “It’s not about who you are. The Sorting Hat would never—”
“I know,” Harry said quietly. “It’s fine.”
Hermione hesitated, then nodded. Ron trailed behind, watching both of them as if unsure what to say.
They reached the Great Hall for lunch, and for the first time since arriving, they sat together. Hermione and Ron fell into their usual rhythm—arguing lightly over Prefect duties and the twins’ new line of joke products—but Harry barely listened. He sat between them, staring into a cup of lukewarm tea.
He didn’t eat. He didn’t speak. And when he caught the whispers again from further down the table, he didn’t react. He just sat there, letting it all pass through him like fog.
Defense Against the Dark Arts had always been a mixed bag. But never had Harry felt dread the way he did now, standing in front of the door with her name on the plaque.
Professor Dolores Umbridge.
The classroom was unusually sterile. Gone were the dark creatures of Lupin’s era, the dueling dummies from Moody. Everything that had once made the subject feel real. Instead, pink frilly curtains had been drawn over the windows, and the scent of sugar-sweet tea clung to the air like perfume.
The students filed in quietly, warily. Slytherins to one side. Hufflepuffs to the other. Harry took a seat toward the middle, already tense. He could feel eyes on him. Again.
The door creaked open.
Professor Umbridge entered with her usual tight smile, her squat frame wrapped in fluffy pink and lace. The bow perched on top of her head looked like it had been glued in place.
“Good morning, class,” she said in her falsely sweet tone. “Wands away, books out, and please open to Chapter One of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard.”
Her voice scraped against Harry’s nerves like sandpaper.
No one moved to speak, until she did.
“I must express how troubling it is that your previous education has been so… chaotic.” She clicked her tongue as if she were disappointed in a group of misbehaving toddlers. “No structure. No examination of theory. No regard for safety.”
Harry narrowed his eyes.
“I assure you,” she continued, “you will find this year’s course both rigorous and orderly. As you are all preparing for your O.W.L. examinations, our goal is not reckless spell-slinging but mastering the written understanding of defensive theory.”
There was a silence before Blaise Zabini raised his hand lazily, looking half-bored.
“Yes, Mr. Zabini?” she called, her voice sugary.
“What about the practical part of our O.W.L.s?” Blaise asked, bluntly. “We still have to cast spells to pass, don’t we?”
Umbridge’s smile did not falter, but her eyes flashed. “The Ministry is confident that reading about defensive magic will be sufficient. There is no need to perform the spells in class.”
Murmurs rippled through the room. Blaise tilted his head in vague amusement but said nothing further.
Then, Draco Malfoy of all people lifted his hand.
Harry watched, suspicious.
“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”
Draco spoke smoothly. “So if we’re not practicing in class, where exactly are we expected to learn the spells for the exam? Or are we meant to fail?”
Umbridge’s smile tightened, but she replied with her usual saccharine tone. “I expect you will all find that careful study will prepare you adequately. There is no reason to expose young minds to dangerous wandwork when it’s not strictly necessary.”
That was it. The last thread in Harry’s fraying composure snapped.
He sat up straighter, his voice cutting through the growing unrest.
“What about defending ourselves?” he asked flatly. “What about real situations? Like if someone attacks you?”
Umbridge’s eyes slid toward him, expression unreadable. “And who, dear, would want to attack children like yourselves?”
Harry stared at her. “I don’t know. Lord Voldemort, maybe.”
The classroom froze. Even the portraits on the walls seemed to still.
Umbridge’s smile vanished. “You have been told, Mr. Potter,” she said, voice now ice-cold, “that spreading lies will not be tolerated at this school.”
“It’s not a lie,” Harry said, standing now, chest rising and falling. “He’s back. Cedric Diggory is dead and Voldemort killed him. I was there.”
Gasps. Whispers. Chairs scraping. Someone dropped a quill.
“He was a good person. Talented. He didn’t drop dead of his own accord. He didn’t deserve what happened to him,” Harry continued, voice loud now, firm, hands trembling. “And pretending it didn’t happen doesn’t make it go away. Doing nothing only make HIM stronger!”
Umbridge moved slowly toward him, her heels clicking against the floor.
“ENOUGH! You will not speak again in this class,” she said tightly. “And you will serve detention with me this evening, Mr. Potter. That kind of attention-seeking behavior will not be rewarded here.”
Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stood there, every inch of him vibrating with fury, while the rest of the class stared.
When he finally sat down, his heart was hammering in his chest. He didn’t even remember drawing breath.
From across the aisle, Blaise cast him a look. Still perfectly bored but his eyes were intrigued.
Draco was harder to gauge. His face was unreadable, arms folded, his eyes not entirely hostile, but watching.
The rest of the lesson passed in agonizing silence. No one asked another question.
The corridor outside the Defense classroom was buzzing. Half-whispers, stolen glances, and students hurrying to their next lesson, eager to retell the explosion they’d just witnessed.
Harry kept his head down, gripping the strap of his bag so tightly his knuckles turned white. He just needed to get away. Away from the stares. The silence. The pressure.
He was halfway down the corridor when someone stepped directly into his path.
Draco Malfoy.
Arms crossed, expression unreadable, he looked for once like he hadn’t prepared a speech. His eyes raked over Harry — the slight shake in his hands, the taut set of his jaw, the way he refused to meet anyone’s gaze.
“So,” Draco said coolly, “that was… dramatic.”
Harry didn’t stop walking. “Not now, Malfoy.”
Draco followed, just a step behind. “It’s not like you to pass up a chance to yell at someone. Must be serious if you’re not even flinging insults.”
Harry turned a corner, jaw clenched. “I said, not now.”
“You’re not even going to defend yourself?” Draco’s voice had an edge now. “What happened to Saint Potter? Thought you loved a good spotlight.”
Harry stopped walking but didn’t turn to face him. “I’m tired.”
Draco blinked.
“That’s it?” he said after a beat, clearly thrown off. “You’re tired?”
Harry finally looked over his shoulder, eyes dull with exhaustion. “Think what you want. I really don’t care.”
And with that, he turned and walked away again.
Draco didn’t follow this time.
He just stood there, staring after him, brows drawn together in a mix of confusion and something close to anger. Not at what Harry said, but at what he didn’t.
Whatever game Draco had been playing, it wasn’t fun anymore. Not when Harry refused to play back.
Dinner in the Great Hall passed in a haze.
Harry sat near the end of the Hufflepuff table, picking at a roll he never actually bit into. He sipped some water. Nibbled at a corner of roasted carrot. Everything tasted like paper.
Conversation buzzed around him, but none of it touched him.
Across the room, he felt it again — that itch at the back of his neck.
He looked up, almost without meaning to, and his eyes met Draco Malfoy’s.
Draco didn’t look away. He sat surrounded by Slytherins, the picture of ease, but he was clearly watching him. His expression was unreadable — not mocking, not cruel, but focused.
Harry dropped his gaze and pushed his untouched plate away.
He wasn’t hungry anyway.
The corridor outside Umbridge’s office was cold. Too cold.
He stood there for a moment, debating walking away. Running, maybe. He didn’t want to go in. Every instinct screamed at him not to. But what good would that do?
He knocked.
“Come in, Mr. Potter,” came the syrupy voice from within.
The office was just as awful as the main classroom. Floral wallpaper. Neatly stacked quills. Dozens of meowing cat plates on the walls.
Umbridge sat behind her desk, quill already poised beside a single sheet of parchment.
“Please, sit,” she said with a too-wide smile. “We’re going to be doing some lines.”
Harry sat stiffly.
“You’ll be writing, I must not tell lies,” she said sweetly, passing the quill to him.
He picked it up.
“No ink?” he asked, already feeling the pit drop in his stomach.
“Oh no,” she said, smile growing. “You won’t be needing any.”
He looked down at the parchment. Blank.
He pressed the tip of the quill to it and began to write.
I must not tell lies.
The quill bit into his skin as if it were carving the words there, and pain flared across the back of his hand.
He gasped quietly and looked. The words had appeared in his own blood, carved into his skin — then faded, leaving only the sting behind.
He looked up, face pale. “How many times?” he asked.
“Let’s say... until the message sinks in.”