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Chapter 11
Cornelius Fudge paced furiously behind his desk, his face flushed and his fingers gripping the rim of his bowler hat so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The plush office of the Minister of Magic, with its rich red drapes and gold-embellished furniture, did little to calm his growing sense of unease. Across from him, Dolores Umbridge sat primly, her hands folded on her lap, listening with rapt attention as Fudge ranted.
"It's outrageous, Dolores!" Fudge huffed, his voice rising in indignation. "Absolutely outrageous! Dumbledore is using that Potter boy as a pawn to spread these wild claims—claims that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned." He spat the words as though they left a bitter taste in his mouth. "The man was dead! He is dead! And people don't come back from the dead!"
Umbridge's thin lips curled into a tight, knowing smile. "Of course, Cornelius," she simpered, her voice saccharine-sweet. "But what can we expect from Potter? The boy has always sought the spotlight, and Dumbledore—well, Dumbledore has always had a flair for dramatics."
Fudge halted his pacing, turning to face her with wide eyes. "Dramatics? The man is plotting against me, Dolores! Plotting to usurp my position, using that… thatboyto stir up fear and chaos!" He jabbed a finger in the air as though pointing to an invisible adversary. "What better way to sow doubt in the Ministry than to claim that You-Know-Who has returned? It's all part of Dumbledore's plan to make me look weak, to undermine my authority!"
Umbridge's eyes gleamed with malice as she nodded, her voice low and conspiratorial. "You're absolutely right, Cornelius. Dumbledore has always seen himself as a kingmaker—a man who believes he knows what's best for the wizarding world." She let out a soft, derisive laugh. "And Potter? The boy is desperate to remain in the public eye. Why, he even went so far as to infect himself with lycanthropy, just to keep the attention on himself."
Fudge's face twisted with disgust. "Infect himself! The lengths to which that boy will go—Dumbledore's influence over him is stronger than we realized. He's poisoning Potter's mind with all this talk of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's return, encouraging him to believe these lies."
"Precisely," Umbridge murmured, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "But Potter has always been a reckless, attention-seeking child, willing to do anything for the limelight. And Dumbledore—well, he's exploiting that boy's foolishness to further his own agenda."
Fudge let out a heavy sigh, slumping into his chair. "And now this business in Little Whinging," he muttered, his fingers tapping nervously on his desk. "Muggle teenagers attacked by Dementors—kissedby Dementors! It's preposterous!"
His voice was shaking now, and he grabbed a nearby glass of water, taking a long gulp as if trying to wash away his rising panic. "I sent a pair of Unspeakables to investigate, and they came back… confirming it," he continued, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "They said the Muggle authorities have no idea what happened, of course, but that's beside the point."
He set the glass down with a trembling hand, his eyes darting to Umbridge as if seeking reassurance. "Dolores, we have two rogue Dementors out there, who disobeyed the Ministry's authority, attacking Muggles! This is an absolute catastrophe!"
Umbridge straightened, her expression hardening into one of righteous indignation. "It is indeed troubling, Cornelius. But I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation—perhaps the Dementors were misled or confused by… rumors of You-Know-Who's return." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "If the boy is spreading such stories, it could cause instability even among creatures like the Dementors."
Fudge seemed to seize on her words, nodding fervently. "Yes… yes, you're right. If Potter and Dumbledore are spreading these lies, it's bound to create confusion—even among our allies." He rubbed his temples, trying to piece together the fragments of his thoughts. "We need to find those rogue Dementors and bring them under control before more damage is done."
"And there's another issue," he added, his voice tinged with a bitterness that had been building over time. "I have reason to believe that Amelia Bones may very well be siding with Dumbledore. Her actions of late—her insistence on keeping Shacklebolt at Hogwarts, her refusal to align more closely with Ministry directives… It's suspicious. She's undermining me at every turn."
"Amelia Bones is an obstinate woman," Umbridge agreed, her tone laced with disdain. "But her influence over the school governors is troubling. They've been singing praises about theinspired ideato place a senior Auror as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." She smiled tightly. "And worse, Shacklebolt seems to be winning over the students and their parents with his…practical teaching methods."
Fudge huffed, leaning back in his chair as though the weight of his burdens was pressing him down. "The governors, the parents… they're all starting to see him as some sort of hero! And if Shacklebolt continues to endear himself to the public, it'll only add to Dumbledore's influence. We can't afford that, Dolores. We must maintain control!"
"Of course, Cornelius," Umbridge replied, her tone carefully measured. "Perhaps there's a way to…addressboth of these issues. I believe with the right approach, we could remove these obstacles—discreetly, of course."
Fudge looked up sharply, studying her for a moment. His eyes held a flicker of something—fear, uncertainty, or perhaps a trace of desperation—but it vanished quickly. He nodded once, curtly. "I don't need to know the details," he said gruffly. "Just handle it, Dolores. We can't let Dumbledore—or his allies—gain any more ground."
"Leave it to me," Umbridge assured him, her smile widening ever so slightly. "I will take care of everything."
Fudge gave a shaky nod, his paranoia slowly fading into something resembling determination. "Right. First, we find and deal with those rogue Dementors," he said, almost to himself. "And then… then we deal with Dumbledore."
Umbridge's eyes glinted with a dark triumph. "And Potter?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Fudge's expression hardened. "We will deal with him, too. He's become a symbol of rebellion—of defiance against the Ministry. We can't allow that, Dolores. We must remind the public that the Ministry is in control."
As Fudge continued to mumble his plans, Dolores Umbridge remained perfectly still, her smile unwavering. She had always thrived in chaos, in silencing dissent, and now, with Fudge's desperation playing into her hands, she saw her opportunity to reshape the wizarding world according to her vision.
And if it meant crushing Dumbledore, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Amelia Bones, and Harry Potter in the process, all the better.
…
Harry awoke with a start, disoriented and tangled in his bedcovers. For a moment, he couldn't shake the remnants of the dream—the dark corridors stretching endlessly, the sense of being watched, and the ever-present doors that led to nowhere but darkness. As he tried to make sense of it, a dull prickle from his scar made him wince.
He sat up, rubbing his forehead. The dormitory was empty. Sunlight streamed through the window, and judging by the silence in the room, he had overslept. Harry groaned and hurriedly got dressed, knowing he was late for something important.
It had been a week since the last full moon, and the agreement with Madam Pomfrey required weekly check-ins to monitor his condition and ensure he was adjusting to the new potions regimen. He was supposed to meet Neville and Hermione downstairs before heading to the hospital wing.
When he finally made it down to the common room, he found Hermione and Neville waiting by the portrait hole. Hermione had her arms crossed and was tapping her foot impatiently, while Neville gave Harry a sympathetic smile.
"Morning, Harry," Neville said cheerfully. "Ready for your check-up?"
"You're late," Hermione added, a hint of worry creeping into her voice despite her stern expression. "We need to get to Madam Pomfrey before breakfast ends."
"Sorry," Harry muttered, still feeling the lingering unease from his dream. "Had a rough night."
Hermione's expression softened, and she exchanged a quick glance with Neville before nodding. "It's alright," she said gently. "Let's just get going."
The three of them made their way out of the common room and through the corridors toward the hospital wing. Harry tried to shake off the strange feelings from his dream, focusing instead on the rhythmic tapping of their footsteps on the stone floors. He appreciated the quiet support from Neville and Hermione—neither of them pressed him to talk about the dream, knowing that he needed time to process it himself.
When they reached the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey greeted them with a sharp but kind nod. "Right on time," she said briskly, though her eyes lingered on Harry with an expression of motherly concern. "Come along, Mr. Potter. Let's see how you're faring this week."
Harry sat on the edge of a hospital bed as Madam Pomfrey ran through her usual diagnostic spells, checking his heart rate, examining his eyes, and monitoring the effects of the potions he had been taking since the last full moon. Hermione and Neville waited nearby, keeping a respectful distance but staying close enough to offer quiet support.
"Everything seems to be in order," Madam Pomfrey declared after a few moments, her wand tip emitting a soft blue glow as she made a final check. "The calming draught and the Sensory Dulling Elixir are working as intended. Just keep taking them regularly, and if you feel any discomfort, come to see me immediately."
Harry nodded, feeling slightly reassured by her words. "Thanks, Madam Pomfrey."
She gave him a small, approving smile before turning to Neville and Hermione. "And you two—make sure he actually takes his potions and doesn't try to be brave about it. He may not always know what's best for himself."
Neville grinned. "We'll make sure, Madam Pomfrey."
With the check-up complete, the trio made their way down to the Great Hall for a late breakfast. As they entered, Harry could feel the familiar tension in the air, the way conversations seemed to hush as he walked past. He wasn't sure if the other students were afraid of him, suspicious of him, or simply curious, but it made him uneasy all the same.
When they reached the Gryffindor table, Harry was surprised to see Cho already waiting for him. She stood as he approached, her expression a mixture of concern and determination. As soon as he reached her, she took his hand, squeezing it gently before leaning up to kiss his cheek.
"Harry," she murmured softly, "have you seen the Prophet this morning?"
Harry shook his head, feeling a sinking sensation in his stomach. "No. Why?"
Cho hesitated, glancing around at the many pairs of eyes that were still fixed on them, before lowering her voice. "They're trying to discredit you and Professor Dumbledore again. But this time… it's worse."
Hermione, having overheard, leaned in with a grim expression. "What have they said now?"
Cho pulled out a folded copy of theDaily Prophetand handed it to Harry. He opened it quickly, his eyes scanning the bold headline:
DUMBLEDORE'S DELUSION: POTTER'S DESPERATION OR MINISTRY CONSPIRACY?
IS THE WIZARDING WORLD BEING LED ASTRAY BY A DANGEROUS ALLIANCE?
CALLS TO RESTRICT DARK CREATURES AT HOGWARTS GROW STRONGER
Harry's jaw clenched as he read through the article. It was filled with insinuations and veiled accusations, casting doubt on his claims and making him out to be a reckless, attention-seeking boy. But the attacks didn't stop there. The article also went after Dumbledore, portraying him as an unstable and power-hungry figure trying to undermine the Ministry. And then there was a targeted attack on Amelia Bones, questioning her neutrality and loyalty, implying that she might be aiding Dumbledore in a supposed conspiracy to overthrow Minister Fudge.
But the part that made Harry's blood boil came near the end of the article:
Sources within the Ministry have expressed concern over the safety of Hogwarts students, given that a werewolf is now allowed to roam its halls freely. There are calls from certain departments for further legislation against dark creatures, citing Potter's recent infection as an example of the dangers such leniency poses.
Harry's hands shook as he gripped the newspaper. "They're trying to turn everyone against Dumbledore, against me—"
"And against anyone who supports you," Hermione said, her voice trembling with anger. "They're targeting Madam Bones now too. They must know she's not on Fudge's side."
Cho tightened her grip on Harry's hand, her eyes full of concern. "They're scared, Harry," she said softly. "Fudge is scared. He's losing control, and this is how he's trying to keep it."
Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions. He could hear the whispers, the speculative murmurs, and see the speculative looks from students who were reading their own copies of theProphet.
"They want everyone to see me as a threat," Harry said quietly, feeling the weight of the words sink in. "Not just a liar, but a danger."
"You're not a danger," Cho said firmly, looking at him intently. "You're not what they're trying to make you out to be."
"Some people won't care about the truth," Hermione muttered, her arms crossed. "They'll believe what the Prophet tells them because it's easier than facing the reality of what's happening."
Harry let out a frustrated breath. "What are we supposed to do?" he asked, feeling the uncertainty gnaw at him.
Hermione glanced between Neville and Cho, then back at Harry. "We keep going," she said simply. "We keep doing what we know is right. And we make sure they know we won't be silenced."
Cho squeezed his hand again, offering him a determined smile. "We'll get through this, Harry," she said softly. "We'll get through it together."
As the morning sunlight streamed through the high windows of the Great Hall, Harry felt a flicker of hope amidst the anger and confusion. TheDaily Prophetcould twist the truth, and the Ministry could spread lies, but he had people who believed in him—people who were willing to stand by him no matter what.
It wasn't much, but it was enough.
…
The office of Amelia Bones was a stark contrast to the opulence that filled the upper echelons of the Ministry. It was practical, clean, and organized to the last detail, with stacks of reports meticulously arranged on her desk. The air carried the scent of old parchment, ink, and the faintest hint of polish from the wand holster she kept on her belt.
But today, there was a different tension in the room—a quiet, simmering anger that pulsed beneath the surface. Amelia pushed aside a report on proposed budget cuts, barely even reading the words, her fingers tightening around the edges of the parchment. This wasn't what was on her mind.
It was theDaily Prophet.
The article's bold headline—DUMBLEDORE'S DELUSION: POTTER'S DESPERATION OR MINISTRY CONSPIRACY?—had left her livid. The attack on Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore was expected, but the insidious insinuations that she, as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was aiding some sort of insurrection? It was outrageous.
She had read through the rest of the article, feeling her frustration mount as she saw how they were trying to paint Potter as a threat due to his condition. She had fought to uphold the rights of all witches and wizards, regardless of their blood status or condition. And yet now, the press and her superiors were twisting that into an attack against her integrity. What stung even more was that they had questioned the trust she had earned from her Aurors and Hit Wizards.
But instead of the whispers and sideways glances she half-expected when she entered the office this morning, she was met with resolute professionalism and, most importantly, loyalty from her team. No one in her department had wavered, no one had questioned her motives. Instead, the Aurors and Hit Wizards under her command had been supportive—offering respectful nods and words of reassurance in passing. It was a small but powerful show of unity, and it touched her more deeply than she cared to admit.
Amelia sighed heavily, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. She was contemplating her next move when a sudden burst of flames flared into the room, accompanied by a gentle trill of phoenix song. She leapt to her feet, her hand instinctively reaching for her wand. But as the flames faded, she saw a magnificent scarlet and gold phoenix perched on the edge of her desk, regarding her with intelligent eyes.
"Fawkes," she breathed, her heartbeat slowly returning to normal.
The phoenix tilted his head, a soft coo escaping him, before extending one elegant leg. Attached to it was a small rolled parchment, sealed with the distinctive mark of Albus Dumbledore. Amelia retrieved the letter, her hands steady despite the anger still simmering within her. She glanced at Fawkes, who remained still, his gaze fixed on her as though awaiting something.
Unrolling the letter, she read:
Amelia,
There is a matter of extreme importance I wish to discuss with you, one that concerns the safety and stability of the wizarding world. If you are willing, I would ask you to meet me this evening in the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade. Discretion in this matter is of utmost importance.
With my highest regard,
Albus Dumbledore
Amelia read the note twice, her brow furrowing. Dumbledore rarely reached out to her directly, and when he did, it was never for trivial reasons. If he was requesting a meeting in the Hog's Head of all places—a location known for its privacy—it had to be something critical.
As she contemplated the message, she felt the weight of Fawkes's gaze on her. He let out a soft, urgent trill, and when she met his eyes, there was an almost knowing intensity in them, as though the phoenix was gently urging her to hurry.
"I see," Amelia murmured to herself. Phoenixes, she knew, were not only intelligent but also highly intuitive. If Fawkes was waiting for a reply, then Dumbledore needed an answer immediately.
She took a moment to weigh her options, then reached for a piece of parchment and a quill. Dipping the tip in ink, she penned a brief reply:
Albus,
I will meet you tonight.
Respectfully,
Amelia Bones
She rolled the parchment carefully and attached it to Fawkes's leg. "There you go," she said softly, as if addressing a fellow colleague. "Please see that he receives it quickly."
Fawkes gave her a gentle nod, his feathers shimmering slightly in the dim light. With a final trill, he vanished in another burst of flames, leaving the office silent once more. Amelia watched the spot where he had been, her mind racing with the implications of what this urgent meeting might entail.
She had barely returned to her desk when a brisk knock came at her door.
"Enter," she called, her voice carrying the commanding tone of someone who was used to being obeyed.
The door opened to reveal Nymphadora Tonks, her hair a bright shade of turquoise today. She stepped inside with a nervous but determined expression, offering Amelia a small, respectful nod. "Madam Bones, do you have a moment?"
Amelia raised an eyebrow. "Auror Tonks. What brings you here?"
Tonks shut the door behind her, her usual casual demeanor replaced by a rare air of seriousness. "I think I might have a lead on the Sirius Black case."
Amelia's eyes narrowed, and she gestured for Tonks to sit. "Go on."
Tonks took a seat, her fingers tapping restlessly on the arms of the chair. "I know that the Ministry has always considered Sirius Black guilty, and I know the official story inside and out. But there's been… new information. Something that wasn't properly examined at the time."
Amelia remained silent, her sharp gaze fixed on the young Auror as she spoke. Tonks shifted slightly under the weight of that stare but pressed on.
"Black's escape from Azkaban should have been impossible," Tonks continued, her voice steady despite the slight quaver in her hands. "But it happened. And he's had multiple opportunities to harm people since then—Harry Potter in particular. And yet, he hasn't. I've spoken with people who know Black, people who were close to him before everything happened. They don't believe he's guilty. They believe there's more to the story."
Amelia leaned back, her fingers tapping lightly against the armrest of her chair. She studied Tonks with a critical eye. "And what exactly are you suggesting, Auror Tonks?"
Tonks met her gaze with a determined look. "I'm suggesting that we look into the case again. Discreetly, of course. There are questions that were never properly answered—questions about Peter Pettigrew, and the events leading up to that night. I think there's more to this than we've been told."
Amelia considered this for a long moment, her mind racing as she weighed the implications. Officially reopening the case of Sirius Black would be a political minefield, especially with Fudge's current stance on the matter. But the prospect of a wrongful conviction, especially one tied to the murder of the Potters, was not something she could ignore.
"Why bring this to me?" Amelia asked finally, her voice guarded. "Why not take it to your superiors?"
Tonks hesitated, then sighed. "Because I know you care about justice, not just about following the Ministry's line. And because if anyone in the Ministry has the authority and the integrity to handle this properly, it's you."
Amelia's expression softened slightly at the compliment, though her eyes remained sharp. "You've certainly done your homework, Auror Tonks. But you must know that bringing this to me puts both of us in a difficult position."
"I do," Tonks admitted, her voice earnest. "But I wouldn't be here if I didn't think it was worth the risk."
For a moment, Amelia didn't respond. She was weighing the risks, considering the political ramifications, and evaluating whether Tonks's confidence in her judgment was warranted. But in the end, it all came down to one thing—justice. The same thing it always came down to.
"If there is more to this than we know," Amelia said slowly, "then it is my duty to find out. I will take your lead under consideration, but you must be prepared to provide substantial evidence. If this goes forward, it must be handled with the utmost discretion."
Tonks let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, relief washing over her face. "Thank you, Madam Bones. I promise I won't let you down."
"See that you don't," Amelia replied, her voice firm. She leaned forward, her expression resolute. "And Auror Tonks—be careful who you speak to about this. There are those within the Ministry who may not appreciate this line of investigation."
Tonks nodded, her turquoise hair bobbing slightly. "Understood, ma'am."
As Tonks left the office, Amelia stared at the closed door, her mind racing with the implications of what she had just agreed to. A message from Dumbledore, a visit from Tonks, and now a potential reopening of the Sirius Black case. There was more going on beneath the surface of the Ministry than she had realized, and the weight of it was settling heavily on her shoulders.
But if there was even the slightest chance that the Ministry had wrongfully condemned a man to Azkaban—if there was a chance to correct an injustice—then she would pursue it, no matter the consequences.
…
Draco Malfoy was having a very good day.
That morning, he had read theDaily Prophetwith an air of triumph, relishing every line that denounced Dumbledore and Potter. He couldn't suppress the smirk that spread across his face as he imagined the reactions of the Gryffindors, and especially of Potter himself. The article's insinuations of Potter being a threat, not just a liar, played perfectly into his fantasies of Harry being kicked out of Hogwarts for being a "disgusting mongrel hybrid." And to top it all off, there were calls for Dumbledore to be removed from his post for his increasingly erratic behavior and supposed alliance with undesirables. Draco had felt practically euphoric at the thought.
"A Mudblood lover and a filthy werewolf," Draco muttered under his breath, lounging in the Slytherin common room. The air was warm from the crackling fire, and the usual chatter and laughter of Slytherin students filled the room. He was alone at the moment; Crabbe and Goyle were still in the Great Hall, most likely stuffing themselves with second helpings.
Draco leaned back in his chair, feeling the satisfaction of a victory within reach. But just as he allowed himself a moment of smug reflection, an owl swooped into the common room, dropping a letter directly into his lap. It bore the Malfoy family crest, and Draco's smirk vanished the moment he recognized his father's handwriting.
Lucius Malfoy's letters were rarely pleasant.
Draco unfolded the parchment, his face carefully neutral, but as he read the message, his expression darkened. The note was short and to the point—Lucius had no time for unnecessary words:
"Get the boy to attack you."
Draco read it three times, hoping he had misinterpreted it somehow. But no, the meaning was clear. Lucius wanted Draco to provoke Potter—to goad him into attacking in a fit of werewolf rage, preferably in front of witnesses. The implications made Draco's blood run cold. It was a dangerous game, playing with a werewolf's temper. What if Potter really did bite him? The law was clear: any werewolf who bit a wizard would face execution.
The thought alone nearly made Draco wet his robes.
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. Draco understood his father's reasoning. The more Potter could be portrayed as a dangerous beast, the more leverage they would have to discredit Dumbledore and rid the school of Potter once and for all. But it was madness to risk an actual werewolf attack.
Draco crumpled the letter in his fist, his mind racing. Disobeying his father was out of the question. He had learned long ago what happened to those who disappointed Lucius Malfoy. The image of his father's cold, merciless eyes was enough to make him shudder. No, there was no real choice to be made. But he had to be smart about it.
Better to provoke Potter in a crowded space, he reasoned. Somewhere he could make a scene without being at the center of it. If things went horribly wrong, he needed other people there—other students, potential targets—to deflect the blame or the consequences. His stomach twisted at the thought, but he forced himself to steady his breathing and focus. He had a plan now, or the beginning of one.
He stood abruptly, leaving the letter crumpled on the table in his haste to find Crabbe and Goyle. He would need them to back him up, as always. They might not be the brightest, but they could be intimidating in the right situation, and he needed all the muscle he could muster.
Draco hurried out of the common room, his face pale and his thoughts racing.
Across the room, Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis had been quietly watching Draco's mood shift from triumphant to terrified. It was a rare sight to see the usually confident Draco Malfoy lose his composure so completely. And when he stormed out, leaving the crumpled letter behind, their curiosity got the better of them.
Daphne glanced at Tracey, who gave a small nod. The two of them approached the table cautiously, and Daphne picked up the letter. She smoothed it out, her eyes scanning the words quickly, and her face hardened as she understood the implications.
"Oh no," Tracey muttered, peering over Daphne's shoulder. "He can't seriously be planning to provoke Potter into attacking him. That's insane."
Daphne's expression was grim. "It's more than insane—it's suicidal. The law is clear—if Potter bites him, they'll put him to death."
"And Draco knows it," Tracey said, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced sideways at Daphne, studying her closely. Tracey knew exactly why this was hitting her friend so hard—Daphne had always been careful to keep her feelings under wraps, but Tracey wasn't blind. She had seen the way Daphne watched Harry when she thought no one was looking, and how her face softened whenever he was around. Daphne Greengrass was in love with Harry Potter, whether she admitted it or not.
And that changed everything.
Tracey gave Daphne a pointed look. "You're going to warn him, aren't you?"
Daphne's jaw tightened, but she didn't hesitate. "I have to," she said firmly. "I'm not going to let Draco get Potter killed or expelled. This isn't just about Draco or house loyalties. If Potter loses control and bites someone, it won't just be him who suffers the consequences. There'll be new laws, more restrictions on anyone even remotely connected to dark creatures. You've seen what the Prophet's been pushing for."
"Not to mention what it would do to you if something happened to him," Tracey said quietly, her tone softer now. She reached out and placed a hand on Daphne's arm. "Just… be careful, okay?"
Daphne felt her cheeks flush slightly, but she didn't deny it. Not this time. "I will," she said, her voice steady. "But I'm not going to stand by and let this happen."
Tracey sighed, shaking her head with a mixture of resignation and worry. "Alright. Just… don't let Draco see you. And don't let Potter think you're doing this for any other reason than what you said. He's smart, Daphne—he'll know if something else is going on."
Daphne gave a tight nod, slipping the letter into her robe pocket. "Thanks, Trace."
"Anytime," Tracey replied, offering her a half-smile. "Now go. Find him before Draco does something stupid."
With a determined look, Daphne set off to find Harry. Tracey watched her go, anxiety gnawing at her. Whatever happened next, things were bound to get more complicated.