The morning after the Ministry's latest decree dawned colder than the calendar suggested. Harry could feel it in the way the air hung heavy in the Great Hall, in the rustle of the Daily Prophet pages that sounded sharper than usual. From the teachers' table, Snape's black eyes were unreadable as he scanned the headlines.
Harry didn't need to read the paper to know what it said. He'd seen too many of these issues by now — carefully crafted words that painted Dumbledore as unhinged, Harry as attention-seeking, and the Ministry as the only sane authority left.
Hermione kept glancing between the paper and Harry. "They're doubling down," she murmured. "Every time you speak up, they twist it."
Ron frowned into his porridge. "Maybe you shouldn't give them anything to twist."
Harry stabbed at a piece of toast, unwilling to admit Ron might be right. "And just let them write whatever they want?"
The arrival of Professor Umbridge in her pink cardigan cut the conversation short. She floated through the Great Hall like a sugar-dusted spectre, all smiles that never touched her eyes. Her gaze skimmed over Harry — lingering for the briefest second — before moving on.
From the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy watched her go. His chin rested lightly on his hand, and his usual smirk was absent. When he noticed Harry looking, his eyes narrowed, as if caught in something he hadn't meant to reveal. Then, just as quickly, he turned away, saying something to Pansy that sounded rehearsed.
Classes were worse. The new "Ministry-approved" lessons were stiff and stifling, and even in Potions, Snape's remarks carried an unusual edge — not to Harry, but to anyone who so much as whispered while he worked.
"Focus," Snape hissed when Harry hesitated over the powdered asphodel. But instead of the usual biting insult, he moved to stand between Harry and a group of Ravenclaws who were snickering over the Prophet. The quiet glare he levelled at them was enough to silence their laughter entirely.
After class, as students filtered out, Harry lingered to pack his things. He caught movement in the doorway — Draco again. He wasn't leaving with the rest of the Slytherins. He stood there a second too long, as if weighing something, then muttered, "Watch yourself, Potter," before vanishing down the corridor without another glance.
It wasn't a threat. Not quite. But Harry couldn't figure out what else it was.
That night, lying awake in the Gryffindor dormitory, he thought about the tone in Draco's voice. Detached, but not cruel. Almost… warning. He hated that it unsettled him more than the Ministry's smear campaign.