Harry's first day in Slytherin had been long, very long. The relentless looks the students gave him, as if he were a circus animal, were even more insistent than usual; even the teachers found it difficult to maintain their composure and professional demeanor in front of him. And yet, he was not the only student to have changed houses; Lavender was on the verge of tears throughout Herbology class in her new yellow uniform. But unfortunately for Harry, no one drew as much attention as he did; even the four former Slytherin students went almost unnoticed because of him. When he thought about it, he couldn't really blame them. Harry Potter in a Slytherin uniform was quite an ironic situation, as even he had to admit.

Professor McGonagall was the teacher who seemed the most disconcerted by his change of house; she couldn't get used to seeing him among Slytherin classmates instead of his usual friends; the golden trio, who had always been inseparable. Harry felt the same way; he had never felt as lonely as on a school day without his best friends. He missed having Ron by his side to occupy the most boring readings; he missed not hearing Hermione's always exact and precise answers; and he even missed the chatter between Seamus and Dean, which usually didn't interest him that much. Instead, he was subjected to taunts and bad-taste jokes from his new classmates, who were discreet enough not to lose any points for their house.

He was sure his life at Hogwarts was going to get worse than his life at the Dursleys. In the summer, he only had to deal with one hopeless case—sometimes accompanied by his gang, but he always found a way to avoid them. Here, it was like dealing with ten Dudleys, and though it was surprising to admit it, they were more cruel and stupid than his cousin. Malfoy's smirks, accompanied by the silly laughter of his watchdogs, irritated him to no end. The blond teenager also kept testing Harry's patience, knocking over his inkpot, knocking over his books, and shoving him around when the teachers weren't looking at them. Harry would have preferred to be able to sit next to his Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff classmates; it would have allowed him to have a break during class, but when Padma suggested he join their Herbology group or when Justin showed him an empty chair during History of Magic, he was called to order by Umbridge.

Indeed, The new headmistress, who continued to embed herself during lessons to impose new rules and make sure to enforce them, had decided this morning that students should only sit and work with their housemates, including at mealtimes. This rule had no logical explanation; everyone knew that. And Harry knew she'd made that decision the second she'd seen Hermione and Ron sit down at the Slytherin table the night before.

So he spent the day sitting next to Malfoy or Theodore, an endless torture that made classes pass two- to three-times slower than usual. Unfortunately for him, the end of the day did not bring much-needed rest. He still had to endure the new nights of detention with Umbridge, which at least gave him another excuse to avoid dinner in the Great Hall. He preferred waiting for detention time in the owlery with Hedwig, despite the absence of letters for him. Since the Ministry had full power over the school, it had become impossible for him to communicate with Sirius without putting him in danger. Not hearing from his godfather was another form of torture, on top of his already very lonely fifth year. He couldn't help wondering how Sirius was doing in his huge, dismal house and whether he didn't feel too lonely or bored. And now, he wondered what Sirius would think of him—he who had stood out from all his family by being a Gryffindor, he who kept telling him how much he looked like his father... Did he still look like James, dressed in green? Was he still worthy of being Sirius' godson?

Harry reluctantly knocked on the door of Umbridge's office. The latter now had two offices: Dumbledore's office, and her usual Defense Against the Dark Arts' one, which she seemed to keep only for detentions. Her shrill, irritating voice invited him in, and with a deep sigh, he opened the gates of hell. He sat down without a word at his usual table, facing her desk, under her amused but contemptuous gaze.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter."

"Good Evening…" Harry paused, "professor Umbridge"

"Headmistress," she corrected him with a smile.

Harry looked up at her with a skeptical frown. He had never called professor Dumbledore "Headmaster." It sounded weird.

"Good evening, headmistress." He muttered.

Umbridge rose from her chair and walked around her large desk.

"How was your first day in your new house?"

He hadn't expected an interrogation. His hand was already ready to receive his usual torture, but he had no desire to speak.

"Good."

She nodded, continuing her walk around the office.

"You know, Mr. Potter, I think the high pressure you've been under since childhood—being an orphan, having to make your late parents proud, having to be like them in everyone's eyes—has done you no favors."

He bit his cheek; his fists were clenched under the small wooden table. Did she really dare talk about his parents in front of him?

"I think, on the contrary, that it gave you a tendency to be overconfident, sometimes arrogant, reckless, and thoughtless." "Am I not right?"

Her mischievous gaze quickly made him understand that she was only waiting for one answer: yes.

Harry shrugged, which didn't please Umbridge.

"Answer when I ask you a question." She ordered in a dry tone but still with a smile.

"Yes, I guess... headmistress."

"Alright. So I hope to see a change from you now that you are in a house that really suits you: getting back on the right track and more focus from an academic point of view."

She sat down again at her desk under the dumbfounded eyes of her student. He stared at her for several seconds with his mouth half-open, before stammering:

"So it was you?" "You managed to get me into Slytherin...?"

"What are you insinuating, Mr. Potter?" "It was the hat that made the decision, not me," she answered calmly.

Harry frowned. "But..."

"Stop." She cut him off. "You've come here for your detention; if you don't want another week of writing lines, I recommend you stop making things up."

She grabbed the pink teapot from her desk and poured herself a steaming cup of tea, before continuing.

"For this detention, you will write: I should not try to be the center of attention. Until the message sinks in properly."

Harry sighed quietly and looked down at the empty parchment in front of him. He had no choice but to obey if he wanted to get out of this office as soon as possible. He grabbed the quill he so hated in his right hand and then began to write this long, grotesque phrase on the parchment, his left fist clammy and clenched in anticipation of the pain. However, the pain did not come. At least, it did not arrive where he expected. A warm, then intense, burning sensation formed inside his left forearm. He jerked his wrist back toward him and noticed with horror that his shirt was turning red. He quickly rolled up his sleeve and read the words that were slowly etching themselves into his skin, between his elbow and his wrist. He looked up and gaped at Umbridge, who was drinking her tea as if nothing had happened. She finally put her cup down, then smiled at him.

"What's the matter, Mr. Potter?" She then asked him, "It's not the same sentence; it would be a shame to mix up the messages on your skin so that you can't even read them again in the future."

Harry couldn't believe it; her cruelty had truly no limit.

"This sentence is far too long for your hand anyway, my dear; it needed a more suitable place for it to be readable."

It was hard to concentrate on what she was saying. It was actually hard to concentrate on anything. The skin on his forearm was so thin and his veins were easily visible that the pain was already very intense after just one line, especially around his wrist. He took a deep, shaky breath and slowly got back to work. Every word, every letter, was torture. His blood ran down his arm to the table; his arm started shaking slightly, and it was impossible for him to control it. It took relatively few lines for him to start feeling dizzy; his blood loss and lack of sugar made him feel like he was about to pass out. He bitterly regretted missing dinner that night.

Umbridge stopped the detention half an hour earlier when she realized that the message had "impregnated" much faster than for his hand, which was the only positive point of this new punishment. When Harry stood up, the office went blurry. He had to hold his right hand against the back of his chair for a moment before he could head for the exit.

"I hope the message was pretty clear, Mr. Potter, and that I won't hear you pronounce the dark lord's name ever again."

The dark lord? She sounded so much like a Death Eater.

"I'll see you tomorrow evening, then. Have a good night." She said with a squeaky voice when he nodded.

He was exhausted, angry, frustrated, and in pain. All he wanted was a shower and a cozy bed. He opened the door and walked out without a word or a look. He almost slammed the door with all his might, but his survival instincts reminded him to contain himself. One thing was certain: He would not be able to empty his mind tonight. He took three steps forward before coming face-to-face with Fred and George, both examining the door in a strange way.

"What are you doing here...?" Harry stammered in a whisper.

"Hi Harry," Fred and George said, smiling.

"We were just doing some scouting," George explained, taking Harry by the shoulder to lead him away from the door.

"And Hermione reminded us that you had detention tonight, so we brought some pain relief," added Fred, who was walking on the other side of Harry.

"Oh, thank you." Harry replied, still looking dumbfounded and curious about their "scouting" in front of Umbridge's door.

George patted him on the shoulder and said, "Of course, Harry, we'd do anything for our little brother."

"And our biggest investor." Fred winked.

The twins laughed, managing to draw a smile on Harry's face. The three of them sat on a stone bench, a couple of corridors away, and Fred withdrew a vial from his pocket.

"Here, you can put a few drops on your cut; it burns a little, but it's quite effective."

Harry took the vial, thanking him, but kept it in his hand, too ashamed to roll up his sleeve in front of them.

"Green suits you pretty well," George says to lighten the mood.

"It's true; it suits your skin tone," Fred replied.
Harry didn't react. He felt embarrassed, and the pain in his arm was not subsiding.

"How are things going so far?" George asked more seriously, followed by his brother: "Are you holding up?"

He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the vial of essence in his hands. "It could be worse; they're holding back a lot for fear of losing points, I guess."

"And you? Just you, how are you feeling?"

Harry was not really used to having serious and especially personal conversations with the twins; he had never imagined that they would have one one day. It was not unpleasant; on the contrary, he felt like he had big brothers, a totally unique feeling different from the brotherly bond he had developed with Ron.

"It's okay; it's a bit difficult to understand and accept, but I don't really have a choice," he replied sincerely.

Both brothers sighed almost simultaneously.

"No year seems to spare you at Hogwarts," Fred began,

"You're probably getting used to it," George finished.

Harry chuckled lightly. They were totally right; his life was so against him that he almost became jaded. He had to face the facts; he would never be at peace.

"Do you think it could be a setup from the Ministry?" Harry asked, genuinely curious about their opinion.

"You mean the house sorting or you being in Slytherin?" Fred asked.

"Both, I guess..."

They took some time to come up with an answer, both staring at the wall facing them, then George replied:

"Umbridge's speech and explanations were bullshit, that's for sure. But the real goal? I don't know what they're aiming for by doing this."

"And for you being sorted into Slytherin, I don't know; what do you think? Do you think you deserve to be in this uniform? Do you feel like you match the house's values?" Fred asked with a nonjudgmental tone.

Harry shrugged; he actually didn't know if he matched Syltherin's values. He first thought he didn't, but the sorting hat's words from four years ago had always stayed in a corner of his head. "I don't know anymore…" he murmured.

"I think you don't, Harry." Fred said, while George nodded. "There is nobody more Gryffindor than you! You, your attitude, your values, your saving people syndrome—everything screams Gryffindor."

"So if you ask whether it's a trap or not, yes, it must be; it looks pretty obvious." George sighed, "But what can we do about it? I don't know. What I know is that the order is aware of the situation now because of this stupid article, and there's no way they won't put their noses into this."

"Especially Sirius," added Fred,

"And mom." George scoffed.

Harry slowly nodded. It was reassuring in a way to hear that from them. Hermione's words weren't meaningless, but she was always trying to make him feel better, to the point where he couldn't tell if she was being truthful or just trying to please him. "Thanks guys."

His wound was stinging him under his uniform; he felt blood pooling on his shirt sleeve, and the wet, warm feeling was beyond unpleasant.

"Don't you heal your cuts?" Fred asked, as if reading his mind.

Harry shook his head and held up the back of his hand. "I didn't get anything tonight, but thanks; I'll save it for next time. I doubt she's just planning conversations for every detention," he said, a slight smile appearing on his face. He had no desire to show them the horror Umbridge had inflicted on him this time. It was no use, and he didn't want Ron and Hermione to know.

"Alright. Your friends are very concerned about you, you know," Fred began.

"That's why Hermione gave us the list of passwords to access Gryffindor Tower; take it,"

George took out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to him.

"You just have to say, "I want to go home," and the passwords of the day will appear; it will update every day."

Harry's mouth was half open as he stared at the piece of paper. The mere thought of being able to enter the Gryffindor common room whenever he felt like it made him feel better. He folded it back in half and slipped it into his robe's pocket, thanking them.

"I think they would like to see you tonight, if you have your invisibility cloak with you," Fred suggested with a wink.

But he didn't have the heart to see them tonight. He was exhausted and ashamed of what had just happened with Umbridge. Besides, quidditch tryouts were tomorrow morning before class, and even though he didn't care about the outcome, he wanted to be in shape to finally fly on a broomstick again.

"No, I'm going to bed, but that's nice of them; thank them for the passwords."

They nodded in understanding and watched him rise from the bench.

"Good luck for tomorrow; humiliate Malfoy for us, please."

Harry turned his attention to Fred and frowned, which made the two twins laugh.

"Come on, Harry, did you really think this event would stay between Slytherins? Everyone knows!" George laughed.

"Oh no…"

"No one is judging you, Harry, at least not your friends; the rest, I can't say the same." Fred stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. "We just want you to show them how bad they are; can you do that for us?"

"Yes, avenge us, and above all, have fun," added George, who got up in turn.

Harry smiled awkwardly as he ran his hands through his tousled hair. "Thank you; I'll ask if they can lift your ban as well."

"Oh no, don't bother," Fred said quickly.

"Don't worry about us; we have other plans for the end of the year," his twin added.

A mischievous and particularly proud look was visible on the two identical faces. Harry nodded and thanked them one last time for the essence and the passwords.

"Come on, go to sleep, and tell us if the idiots around you are causing you trouble," Fred insisted. They took turns patting Harry on the shoulder again and walked away from him, resuming their initial low-pitched discussion. Harry watched them go, wondering what the two of them were secretly planning, then he headed in the opposite direction, toward the Slytherin tower.

(***)

He shuffled to the common room, and trudged up the stairs to his dorm. The room was quiet, too quiet. Everyone seemed to be already in bed, with their curtains closed and in the dark. Only the moonlight through the narrow windows dimly lit the room. He walked over to his bed to put his bag on it when he noticed something strange. He approached, squinting, trying to see despite the darkness, and finally understood what was moving on his bed. Hundreds of photos of him, duplicated from the Daily Prophet's article, were strewn all over his bed, curtains, and nightstand. Countless copies of his fourteen-year-old face stared at him with worried eyes, while his Gryffindor sign changed to a snake in a domino effect. He sighed. It was a joke worthy of elementary school children. Was he really going to have to put up with this kind of immaturity until he finished his school years? He let go of his bag and went to the bathroom. He'd remove the photos later, hoping to remember a spell to help him.

After taking a quick and particularly painful shower and then smearing a few drops of essence that burned him so much he had to stop himself from screaming, Harry spent about ten minutes removing all the pictures from his bed. He was exhausted and didn't even have the strength to get his roommates out of bed to start an argument. Getting halfway through his bed, he finally remembered the spell to make an object disappear, which made him both relieved and exasperated; if he had Hermione's intelligence, he'd be in bed by now. He finally got rid of all those papers and slipped under his blanket, sighing. Finally.

He was dying to fall asleep, to have a full night's rest before quidditch tryouts, and to finally be able to rest fully and recover from his accumulated fatigue. But he also knew that he was filled with emotions; he was upset, angry, full of resentment, and that succeeding in shutting down his mind after being tortured wantonly by Umbridge and humiliated all day by his classmates was as easy as reconciling Ron with Aragog.

He drew his curtains around him, revealing only a few inches of his head on the side facing Malfoy's bed. He was never too careful; he felt safer when he could see his enemy. He turned on his side, his injured arm outstretched under his still-cool sheet, and he struggled to keep his eyes open, concentrating on various details of Malfoy's curtains, or at least what he could make out in the dim light. He told himself that analyzing the embroidery on the fabric might succeed in relaxing him and calming him down, but his heart kept beating too fast. He felt his pulse in his newly scarred wrist, the cuts itching and stinging every ten seconds. It was nearly impossible to clear his head of dark thoughts. Perhaps it was better not to sleep tonight; perhaps it was more reasonable. He took a deep breath and focused on the long curtains, then his arm. It was painful, and the words were already engraved in such a way that he knew they would never disappear. He'd have to carry these humiliating sentences on his hand and arm for the rest of his life, remembering who did it every time his eyes would rest on his own body—like a mark, an imprint she'd never let him forget. He shoved his arm back under the sheet, as if hiding it would help him relax a little.

His eyes stung; his eyelids were heavy, very heavy. Maybe he could close his eyes for a few seconds to rewet them, a few moments to relax... He yawned and stretched lazily, then closed his eyes. Just a few seconds.

Just a little, then he will open them again…

Just a moment...

Then nothing.