Morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the Great Hall, catching on goblets and plates and the bright, restless energy of a new term. Harry sat between Ron and Hermione, absently stirring his porridge while students around them speculated about classes, professors, and the still-rippling changes to the castle.
Neville leaned over from across the table. "Feels… different," he said quietly.
Harry nodded. "Hogwarts is awake."
Ron grinned. "You say that like it's a dragon."
Hermione, however, was watching Harry closely. "You alright?"
Harry smiled faintly. "I will be."
Professor McGonagall's classroom felt sharper than ever, clean lines, ordered desks, and an undercurrent of anticipation. When she entered, robes crisp, posture ramrod straight, the room fell instantly silent.
"Good morning," she said. "I trust you all enjoyed your extended break. We shall not be easing ourselves back into work."
A few groans followed.
McGonagall's gaze flicked briefly to Harry, assessing, thoughtful, before she turned to the board. "This year, we begin with advanced transfigurative theory. Precision, intent, and restraint."
Her wand tapped the desk, transforming it smoothly into a sleek, two-legged raven that flapped once before returning to wood.
Harry watched closely.
He could feel the layers beneath her spell, the discipline, the control. It reminded him sharply of Pandora, of bending earth without forcing it.
McGonagall noticed his focus. "Mr Potter," she said. "Care to explain the difference between Transfiguration and Conjuration?"
Harry answered without hesitation. "Transfiguration changes what already exists by reshaping its identity. Conjuration creates something new. One respects form. The other imposes it."
McGonagall's eyes sharpened, then softened, just slightly. "Correct. Ten points to Gryffindor."
Ron let out a low whistle. "Blimey."
If Transfiguration felt like a blade honed to perfection, Defence felt… wrong.
Dolores Umbridge sat at the teacher's desk, hands folded, lips curved in a wide, saccharine smile that never reached her eyes. Her pink cardigan clashed violently with the dark stone walls.
"Welcome," she trilled. "To a new year of Defence Against the Dark Arts."
Harry felt his jaw tighten.
Umbridge began passing out thin textbooks. "This year, you will be learning theory. Practical application is unnecessary."
Hermione's hand shot up. "Professor, how are we meant to defend ourselves without practice?"
Umbridge smiled more tightly. "There is nothing to defend yourselves against, Miss Granger. The Ministry assures us all is well."
Harry's chair scraped back as he stood.
"That's a lie," he said calmly.
The room froze.
Umbridge's eyes fixed on him. "Excuse me?"
"Voldemort is back," Harry said, voice steady. "Everyone knows it. The Ministry knows it."
A few students nodded. Others looked terrified.
Umbridge's smile vanished. "That," she said coldly, "is a very serious accusation."
"It's the truth."
"In my classroom," Umbridge said softly, "we do not spread dangerous delusions."
Harry met her gaze, something ancient and unyielding behind his eyes. "You can't silence reality."
Umbridge straightened. "Detention. Tonight. My office."
Detention
The room smelled of ink and something metallic.
Umbridge slid a thin, black quill across the desk. "Write," she said sweetly. "I must not tell lies."
Harry picked up the quill.
The first stroke burned.
He did not flinch.
Blood welled where the words formed, etched into the back of his hand, glowing briefly before sinking into skin.
Umbridge watched closely, eyes glittering.
Harry wrote on.
Again.
And again.
The pain was sharp, but distant, nothing compared to war, to loss, to fire and ash. He breathed steadily, expression empty, denying her the reaction she craved.
An hour passed.
"Very well," Umbridge said at last. "You may go."
Harry stood, flexed his fingers, and left without a word.
The stone gargoyle leapt aside the moment Harry approached, sensing the storm beneath his calm.
He climbed the spiral staircase, knocked once, and entered.
Dumbledore looked up at once.
The Heads of House were there, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, Flitwick, mid-conversation. They fell silent as Harry stepped forward.
"What is wrong, my boy?" Dumbledore asked gently.
Harry didn't speak.
He turned his hand over.
The words were still visible.
I must not tell lies.
The room erupted.
McGonagall went white. "She did what?"
Flitwick looked sick. "That quill is illegal!"
Sprout's hands clenched. "Monstrous."
Snape's face was thunderous, dark eyes blazing. "She overstepped."
Dumbledore's expression was calm, but something dangerous glimmered beneath it.
"This," he said softly, "will be addressed."
Harry closed his hand, steady and unbroken.
"Good," he said.