Harry winced in irritation as the sun rose with the same golden indifference as any other day, and he hated it for that.
He sat in the Ravenclaw common room, one leg folded under him, the other stretched stiff across the faded blue carpet. A mug of cold tea rested beside him, long forgotten. The fire crackled quietly, casting long shadows that didn't quite reach him.
The room was half-empty, quiet. A few second-years whispered near the window, unaware that anything had shifted. But they had no idea he was there, not when he was shielded under his notice-me-not charm.
He hadn't had a reason to cast it in years. Not since sneaking out past curfew felt like survival instead of strategy. But that morning, he felt compelled to give himself that extra protection.
A book lay open on his lap—Nicholas' scientific theory, only he hadn't turned the page in twenty minutes. His eyes kept drifting, pulled to the edge of the Map spread flat beside him, tracking every name in the castle.
Where Dolores Umbridge stood starkly alone in the dungeons. Unmoved for hours.
She'd shifted once. Maybe twice. A short path across the room, a loop by the wall—and then nothing. Just a dot. Still. Contained.
Harry's breath caught, slow and uneven.
He had expected confusion. A scramble. Even fury. She should have stumbled out into the halls by now, interrogating portraits or demanding answers from startled students.
Instead... she lingered.
A splinter of unease buried itself deeper with every minute that passed.
The spell wasn't meant to do this. He'd been careful. Just a year or two—that's all he'd tried to erase. Enough to disorient her, enough to reset the pieces. Not erase the board.
Not this.
His eyes stayed locked on the unmoving dot, his body still as stone, but his mind refused to settle. In its place, the silence pressed in from all sides, far from the comforting quiet of early morning study.
His gauntleted hand flexed without permission, silver digits clicking softly against the cup. It hadn't felt like violence. Not when he cast it. It had been clean. Clinical. A flick of magic through steel and stone.
He thought he'd feel more.
No alarms had sounded. No Aurors had arrived. No portraits whispered warnings as he passed.
And maybe that was the worst part. That he'd done something so final, and the world just kept turning.
"You could've just scared her." He found himself saying, "You could've found her weakness and leaked it. Had Fred and George dig deeper. Made her run instead of crawl."
At the time, he'd even felt proud. Not just for acting—but for how precise it had been. No collateral. No scene. Just silence and a spell no one would trace.
He'd thought that was clever.
Now it just felt cold.
Justice—if that's even what this was—shouldn't feel like this. Shouldn't feel like waiting for the other shoe to drop, like hiding behind a teacup and pretending nothing's cracked.
He stared down at the map again. Her name still hadn't moved.
The cleverness, the logic, the certainty—they all tasted wrong in hindsight. Like he'd solved the equation but still failed the class.
Dumbledore had told him to be clever, before everything shifted. Told him that trouble, when properly applied, couldn't be punished if it never broke a rule. Harry had believed that.
But this… this wasn't a clever rebellion. This wasn't a Weasley-style stunt or a skirmish with detentions.
This was something else, something Dumbledore wouldn't smile about.
If it had gone wrong—if she was truly broken—it might take them days to realize. Her quarters were out of the way. The dungeons ran deep, and few went wandering unless they had reason.
He could go back. Just to check. Just to be sure.
Especially when he knew he was likely the only one who knew where she even was. The only one who might know something was happening to her. That made it his responsibility—didn't it?
But the moment he stepped back into that room, he'd be breaking the only thing protecting him.
If she was fine, he'd have no excuse. If she was worse, he'd look guilty just for being there.
And if he was right, if everything had worked as cleanly as he thought, if the spell had done its job and left no trace... then walking back in now would be the most foolish thing he could do.
His fingers tapped lightly against the map. A whisper of thought tried to take shape—Maybe someone else will find her soon.
They'd think it was a curse. Or brain damage. Or dark magic. And maybe they'd be right.
But he was positive they could never prove that it was him, not with the magic at his disposal.
That was the truth of it: he could stay silent. He could protect himself. But every moment he chose not to act, it gnawed at him.
Trying to avoid dwelling on his thoughts, he took one more check, one more glance at that unmoving dot. Still there. Still sitting in the same small, stone-lined room like the world beyond hadn't started turning again.
She really should have moved by now.
A whisper of dread stirred in the back of his throat, followed by something colder. The kind of reasoning that sounded like common sense, but felt like surrender.
"I'll wait until breakfast."
That was fair. That was measured.
Maybe she'd gone back to sleep. Maybe a portrait had already fetched someone. Maybe Snape would find her on the way out of the dungeons.
He'd know by then.
By the time Harry reached the Great Hall, the tension in his shoulders had spread to his knees. He tried to walk with his usual measured ease, but every step felt like it could be his last.
The Hall was already half full, sunlight spilling across rows of enchanted plates and floating toast racks. Conversations bubbled around him—soft, easy, meaningless.
Normal… Too normal.
He slid into a seat at the Ravenclaw table. Someone across from him was reading the Prophet sideways, barely awake. A few second-years further down were trying to swap jam jars without magic.
Harry didn't touch the food.
His eyes flicked upward, toward the staff table.
Umbridge's chair sat empty.
No one seemed to notice.
Not Flitwick. Not Sprout. Not even the Inquisitorial Squad members—one of whom was laughing over a joke Ernie Macmillan had just made.
Harry's throat felt tight.
He reached into his coat and unfolded the Map just far enough to glimpse the dungeons.
She was still there, still unmoving, waiting… or worse.
He glanced sideways, spotted Padma folding a napkin into a swan.
"Umbridge isn't here," he said pointedly, "Strange, isn't it?"
Padma looked up, blinked, and tilted her head. "Not really, she hasn't come to breakfast in days," she said with a shrug. "Too busy fighting with the Prophet, I think. Haven't you noticed?"
Harry didn't answer, he was too busy looking back at the staff table, where her chair remained empty, and unremarked.
He could feel the deadline slipping. Breakfast had come and gone—and still no one knew. No one cared.
He looked down at the Map again, his fingers tapped once on the edge of the parchment.
She's still there.
They'll notice during class. That's when it'll shift. A teacher will check on her. Someone will have to.
That was fair, measured.
Harry sat so straight it hurt. The classroom was too warm, too loud, too normal. His bag was neatly placed at his feet. His hands folded once, then unfolded. His gaze never left the door.
He wasn't alone. A dozen students or so had trickled in with no real urgency. Ron had slouched into the seat beside him, still chewing a bite of toast. Across the room, Seamus was flipping through notes with the kind of lazy energy that assumed nothing important was going to happen.
But Harry sat still, waiting, counting every tick of the second hand.
She should be here by now, the bell had rung, and yet nobody seemed concerned.
Lavender twirled her wand lazily between her fingers. A pair of Hufflepuffs passed a note back and forth. Someone yawned.
Harry's fingers twitched. He reached into his coat and unfurled the edge of the Map just beneath the desk.
Umbridge's name hadn't moved. Still in the dungeons. Still in the same narrow corridor. A single dot, unchanged.
He hadn't expected her to walk in and start teaching. But part of him had hoped—desperately, irrationally—that someone would come to investigate. That a professor would peer in, curious, confused. That a prefect would say something.
Instead, laughter trickled from the back corner. Lavender was painting her nails with a Self-Drying Enchantment. Dean was transfiguring a paperclip into a beetle and back again.
Harry's fingers itched as the seconds slipped away. He reached into his coat, just beginning to crack open the Map— only to flinch as Seamus suddenly leapt to his feet, his chair scraping backward with a sharp screech.
"Well," Seamus said, stretching, "that's five minutes. We waited. She's not coming."
A few scattered chuckles followed.
"She hasn't been showing up much anyway," someone added. "Still dodging the press."
Chairs scraped as students rose, bags slung over shoulders, casual laughter drifting through the open door.
Ron nudged him. "You coming?"
Harry didn't answer right away.
His eyes stayed on the door. Still closed. Still undisturbed.
"I'll catch up," he said eventually, voice low.
Ron hesitated for a second, then shrugged and left with the others.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Harry sat alone in the empty room, the last echo of footsteps fading into silence.
Checking the Map again, he could only sigh when he saw she still hadn't moved.
He exhaled once through his nose and folded the parchment carefully, his fingers stiff.
'They'll find her by lunch,' he told himself. 'Someone has to'.
He'd know by then, and he swore he'd keep his vow, this time.
By the time dinner rolled around, Harry could hardly remember what excuse he'd told himself last.
The Hall was too loud—too full of clinking silverware, chattering students, floating platters and careless, easy laughter. The world had refused to notice anything was wrong.
And Harry hated it for that.
He sat at the Ravenclaw table again, somewhere in the middle. His plate was untouched. He wasn't sure why he came—habit, probably. Going through the motions, pretending like nothing had shifted.
His mind kept chasing explanations—logic, blame, half-formed rationalisations—but none of them led anywhere he could stand on. Nothing to justify it. Nothing to balance the scales.
And worst of all—his grief never sharpened into action. It just sat there. Heavy. Blunt. Waiting for something to push it forward.
He hadn't checked the Map since lunch, not when she still hadn't moved.
Even in his mind, she was still lying there, eyes wide, recognition gone.
He'd said he'd check on her. He'd promised himself. After class. At lunch. Before dinner. And then he didn't.
'Coward.' He thought, clenching his fork tighter.
That's what it came down to. He had no more strategies, nothing planned. It was just self-preservation. Cowardice.
He'd acted without hesitation. And now he was frozen in the aftermath.
He stared at his plate, jaw tight. Maybe he'd check the Map again after dinner. Maybe he wouldn't.
Then the doors boomed open, hard and echoing across the stone.
Dozens of heads turned at once. Harry was among them, his heart kicking once, sharp and low.
A half-dozen Aurors entered first, moving in tight formation. They formed a loose ring around Cornelius Fudge—and a broad-shouldered, stiff-faced man Harry didn't recognise. He walked with a heavy stride and a face like carved stone.
Fudge's eyes swept the room—methodical, pointed—until they landed on Harry, and locked onto him.
Harry didn't look away, but for once he wasn't sure he held all the power.
At the staff table, Professor Flitwick rose slowly to his feet, but Fudge didn't even look at him. Not even an acknowledging nod, just passed him by like he wasn't there.
The Minister walked straight to the podium at the front of the Hall, and took his time adjusting the stand before clearing his throat.
"Good evening, students of Hogwarts."
No one replied, but he didn't seem to care.
"This afternoon, Headmistress Dolores Umbridge was moved to St Mungo's following an attack earlier today."
Gasps rippled down the rows, whispers rising like steam. But Harry didn't react, frozen by expectation.
Tensely, Fudge raised a hand.
"Due to the nature of this incident—and her role within this school—the Ministry has initiated a full investigation."
He paused, just long enough for the silence to settle.
"If anyone knows anything—anything at all—you are instructed to come forward."
Then, deliberately, he looked at Harry again.
"Harry Potter."
Fudge didn't need to raise his voice, as every head now turned to stare at Harry, but he did it anyway.
"Come with me."
For a moment, no one moved.
The silence in the Hall stretched taut, and Harry could feel it pressing against his shoulders. The stares burned. Dozens of them. All waiting to see what he'd do. What he'd say.
But he had no intent of giving them anything.
The Aurors stepped aside to make a path, and Harry walked straight through it, head high, every step echoing louder than it should've.
Fudge turned without waiting and led the way.
The path out of the Great Hall felt longer than it ever had, as his thoughts ran faster than his footsteps.
He could confess right now, before they reached the office, before it turned formal. He could say something. Ask. Admit it wasn't meant to go that far. Ask if she'd spoken. Ask if anyone could tell how deep it had gone.
Part of him wanted to. Not because he was sorry. He couldn't be sorry. To be sorry meant he wouldn't do it again, and he knew he'd never be able to promise that.
But because the not-knowing was eating him alive.
'Maybe they'll understand. Maybe it wasn't as bad as I think.'
But then he saw the door waiting—freshly scrubbed, still smelling faintly of lemon and ash.
And Fudge opened it like he owned the place.
Inside, the space was clean and bare, and already claimed. Just a desk, two chairs, and the man Fudge had brought. Umbridge's replacement, Harry assumed, as the man confidently took a seat behind the desk.
A fresh wooden name plate sat in front of him: Albert Runcorn - Hogwarts Headmaster. He didn't speak, and the only sign of life was the way his eyes followed Harry like a watchtower.
Slamming the door behind them, Fudge didn't wait for Harry to sit.
"How did you do it?" he hissed manically, jabbing a finger from across the room.
Harry felt the words press against the back of his throat. But looking at Fudge's shaking finger—and at how efficiently they'd already replaced Umbridge with another Ministry stooge—he came to a realisation.
He didn't want to get in trouble for attacking Umbridge. He could accept the fact he was probably still in shock over what he'd done, but he wasn't going to let someone like Cornelius Fudge use that to screw him over.
Harry breathed in—quiet, steady. And when he spoke, he made sure his voice remained calm.
"You'll need to be more specific," he said. "I do lots of fantastical things. If you want to know how I did something, I'll first need to know what it is."
Fudge flinched like he'd been struck, then growled—his fists curling tight at his sides.
"Don't play clever with me, boy," Fudge snapped, taking a step forward. "I saw your face. You knew. You knew what we'd find."
"Did it occur to you that my face was a normal reaction to the Minister and Aurors interrupting breakfast?" Harry shot back.
At that, Runcorn stirred—leaning forward over the desk, his voice low and measured.
"Minister, please. If Mr. Potter is a suspect, we do need to proceed by the book."
Fudge turned sharply, lips thin, eyes flashing, but Runcorn didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply waited knowingly, until Fudge gave a curt, sour nod.
"Fine," he muttered. "Fine. Let's do it your way."
Runcorn turned toward Harry. His expression remained unreadable.
"Your wand, please."
"Yeah, pass," Harry scoffed, leaning back. "I don't know about you, but I don't hand over my wand to a random guy and his hyperactive sidekick just because they demand it."
Runcorn didn't blink, but Fudge had reaction enough for both of them, as he nearly exploded.
"How dare you—" he spat, storming forward. "You think this is a joke? You think just because Dumbledore let you run wild that we won't treat this seriously? You're a suspect, Potter! And you'll be treated as one, regardless of how clever you think you are!"
"And what, exactly, am I suspected of? You still haven't said." Harry shot back, refusing to flinch.
Fudge looked like he was about to erupt again, but Runcorn raised a hand.
"Albert Runcorn," he said, tone steady and unbothered. "Senior Investigative Officer, Magical Law Enforcement Department. Headmaster, newly appointed by Ministerial Decree under Clause 7 of the Hogwarts Oversight Charter."
He met Harry's gaze without blinking, but Harry didn't respond.
"We're requesting your cooperation. I am not here as your enemy, Mr. Potter. But I am here with full investigative authority. If you refuse, a formal warrant can be filed. But I'd prefer to avoid wasting time."
Harry stared at him, then let out a breath through his nose. Then, slowly, he drew his wand and laid it on the desk with deliberate care.
"Fine," he muttered.
Runcorn accepted it without comment and touched the tip of his wand to Harry's and muttered, "Priori Incantatem."
From the tip of Harry's wand, ghostly echoes began to rise: the faint silvery swirl of a Notice-Me-Not, a lighting charm, a mild Severing, a cleaning charm.
Nothing else.
No Obliviate.
Runcorn held Harry's wand for a moment longer, then offered it back, grip-first. "It's clean."
Turning slightly toward Fudge, Runcorn rumbled just loud enough to fill the silence.
"See, Minister?" he said, calm and sure. "I told you—no boy could do something like that."
"No!" Fudge snapped, leaping to his feet. "He's guilty! You can see it in his smug little face. Guilty, I say! Guilty!"
Runcorn gave a quiet sigh, almost apologetic. "And yet, his wand came up clean. I fail to see how—"
"He has another wand!" Fudge barked, jabbing a finger at Harry. "His records show that clear as day!"
"Very well." Runcorn sighed, as he turned back to Harry. "Mr. Potter. Do you have another wand?"
"I have two others, technically," Harry said. "One burned out in second year, but I still have it. The other… I lost it. Same night I lost my arm.
Fudge gave a loud, triumphant scoff. "Coincidental."
"Inconvenient," Harry corrected, folding his arms. "But it's true nonetheless."
Runcorn simply nodded again, jotting something down on a small clipboard without fanfare.
"Now, to go back to your earlier question; Madam Umbridge was found late this afternoon by Professor Severus Snape. Upon realizing she was not responding normally, he brought her to the hospital wing. She was shortly thereafter moved to St Mungo's. At that point, we were contacted. At this moment, it is believed she has been cursed by a powerful memory charm."
"Oh, well there you have it," Harry said lightly, too lightly. "I haven't even been to the dungeons today."
He could feel it the moment it slipped, the way his stomach twisted in instant regret.
And just like that, Fudge pounced. "There! You see, Runcorn?! We never mentioned the dungeons. And yet he knew. How very curious!"
Runcorn looked up slowly.
Harry's jaw tensed, but his voice didn't waver.
"Where else would Snape be lurking?" he replied coolly, arching an eyebrow.
Fudge's triumphant expression twisted into expectation—like he was waiting for Runcorn to pounce.
But, Runcorn only looked at Harry for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced, but also unmoved.
Fudge looked ready to explode all over again.
"He knew, Runcorn. He knew where she was! Don't act like that doesn't matter—he slipped! That's evidence!"
"It's speculation," Runcorn said flatly. "I don't believe he's innocent. But I also don't believe you'll convince a court. Not after last time."
Before Fudge could respond, a knock interrupted—sharp, twice.
One of the Aurors leaned in through the door. "Sir—apologies—the Unspeakable has submitted his report. He's waiting outside if the Minister wishes to hear it."
Fudge didn't even hesitate.
"Yes!" he snapped eagerly. "Yes, of course—bring him in."
Runcorn rose more slowly. "What about the boy?"
Fudge waved a hand, distracted. "Hang the boy—I want to see what this Unspeakable makes of her."
Runcorn gave a short nod of acknowledgement and stepped back from the desk.
The door opened fully, and in walked a man who looked like he had accidentally wandered into the wrong meeting.
He was thin, sharply dressed in deep grey robes with a high collar. His spectacles were slightly askew, and a large ledger was clenched tightly under one arm.
He glanced around the room once, gave an awkward half-nod to no one in particular, and immediately made his way to the desk with the nervous energy of someone used to being behind doors, not in front of them.
"We've finished our preliminary scan of the subject." he announced to the parchment more than the room.
Fudge straightened instantly, like a man waiting to be proven right by science.
"And?" he asked, already triumphant.
The Unspeakable adjusted his glasses with one finger, eyes skimming the report without really seeing it.
"Mentally regressed. Memory pattern destabilised. Anchor pathways partially collapsed. Language and identity scaffolding appears to be missing in sections."
He squinted at the parchment as if trying to read between the lines.
"We've never seen anything quite like it," he added, almost to himself.
Fudge frowned. "What does that mean?"
The Unspeakable tilted his head, distracted.
"Well… if we apply the Egyptian model of the soul—ka, ba, ib, and so on—we might say that the ren, the aspect tied to memory and name, has been selectively extracted or dissolved."
He turned another page, lips pursed thoughtfully.
"What's left is a body with a functioning mind but no contextual identity. No usable reference points. It's like someone removed all the ink from a book but left the pages intact."
Runcorn, for the first time, shifted his posture.
"Are you saying this was deliberate?"
The Unspeakable gave a mild shrug. "The traces suggests focus and control. It's not a curse explosion or an accidental backlash. This was layered. Structured."
Fudge leaned forward sharply. "So you're saying it was a person… Perhaps, Mr. Potter?"
"Oh, of course it wasn't a person, Minister." The unspeakable chortled, waving one ink-smudged hand. "Merlin, no. No offense to the young man, of course—but I've never heard of anyone capable of this."
He flipped his ledger closed with a quiet snap.
"Working with the soul at that level? That precisely? It's never been recorded. Not even the Dark Lord Ekrizdis managed anything like this, and his entire mastery was built on soul-manipulation theory."
There was a beat of silence, filled only by the faint ticking of the wall clock.
Then, almost as an afterthought, the Unspeakable added, "Though... there is one possibility we haven't ruled out."
Fudge latched on instantly.
"Go on."
The Unspeakable tapped one finger against his closed ledger, thoughtful.
"The residual magic—it's… cold. Heavily drawn toward negative essence. The kind of soul friction we usually associate with Dementors."
Runcorn's gaze narrowed. "But you said it wasn't a Kiss."
"Correct," the Unspeakable agreed. "It's nothing like the Kiss. The victim is still alive. Functional. Just... blank."
"But the magical residue is similar. It's almost like—" he hesitated, then finished, "—like a Dementor that learned to feed differently."
Fudge blinked. "Are you saying... a new kind?"
"Possibly," the Unspeakable said. "A mutation. A variant. An offshoot. The Department has seen strange magical deviations before. But never with Dementors."
Runcorn spoke softly. "Could it still be here?"
That gave the Unspeakable pause.
"Improbable," he said. But he no longer sounded so self assured, "But not impossible."
Fudge turned sharply to the Auror near the door.
"Double the patrols. Lock down the dungeons. I want every passageway and shadow cleared."
Then he turned to Harry—eyes still narrowed, lip curled.
"Go on then, Potter, run along. And consider yourself lucky, you won't get away every time!"
Word of Umbridge's condition spread rapidly, with ever-increasing dramaticism by the hour—especially after a horde of Aurors descended on the castle and forbade anyone from entering the dungeons, including Snape and the entirety of Slytherin House.
No one seemed to know where the Slytherins were supposed to go. The staff hadn't been told. The Ministry didn't care.
And with the Library still sealed under Umbridge's early-year decree, most ended up scattered—perched in odd corners of unused classrooms, clustered in hallways, or loitering awkwardly near other common rooms.
But not Daphne.
She found Harry in his workshop almost immediately, but when it became clear he wasn't going to do anything exciting, she curled up on his couch and just watched him work.
Daphne watched lazily from her place on the couch, chin propped against one arm, her eyes trailing the slow movements of his hands.
He was seated at his workbench, one of his dragon hide boots laid sideways under a clamp, the top panel already peeled back, seams half-split. A silver-edged blade traced along the edge, parting the next layer of hide with precise, measured cuts.
At the knife's press, she winced in discomfort, dreading what her mother would've said.
"Harry, you do know those boots cost more than some family vaults, right?"
Without looking up, Harry just hummed in acknowledgment, cutting the last seam.
"Mmm."
"So, why are you slicing them open like they owe you money?" She asked reproachfully.
"I'm not just slicing them, Daphne. I'm reinforcing them, so they'd protect me better, and do more for me."
Then, ignoring her squeak, he gripped the toe box and wrenched it away from the sole. He then smoothly slid a thick curved mithril plate beneath the outer hide as a toe cap.
Daphne squinted. "What are you even doing? How is this reinforcing them?"
"The plates are for anchoring runes," Harry muttered, distracted. "The ones Fred and George helped me with."
"In your boots?"
"They were originally just hiding under the sole," he explained, as he tapped an enchanted needle that set about reseaming the boot. "But I realised I can add protection to the toe arc, too. Like Muggle steel toe boots."
He tapped the outer curve with the hilt of his knife, causing a hollow thud sound.
"See, it gives it more surface area. Better force distribution, so my toes won't get crushed if something falls on them."
Daphne blinked, finding herself nodding along, "That's… actually clever."
"It's practical," Harry said flatly, shrugging off her praise. And to her growing concern, he didn't add anything else. There was none of the fixation she'd been expecting, as he just quietly got back to work.
Daphne didn't respond. She watched him in silence, the slow rhythm of his hands, the way he worked with careful pressure—precise, but without interest. Like the boot was just another problem to solve.
When it was clear he wasn't going to say more, she pushed herself upright and gently asked, "When's the last time you made something that wasn't practical?"
To her dismay, he barely reacted, and just kept working, the blade in his hand shifting slightly as he rechecked the line.
She waited, then tried again, slower this time.
"Not a weapon. Not a shield. Not something for someone else. Just… something for fun." She finished weakly, as he finally paused, the toe cap plate still in his hand.
For a moment, he didn't look at her—just at the boot, in a way that told her he was lost in thought.
Then he set the plate down with a quiet clink against the bench.
"I've made lots of things," he said quietly. "Most of them a while ago…"
His voice trailed off. He let out a slow breath, almost like he didn't know what else to say.
"Look, does it matter?"
Daphne watched him for a second longer, struggling to imagine the Harry she used to know saying that.
"Doesn't that concern you?"
Harry blinked, just once.
No frown. No sharp response. Just a shallow breath through his nose.
"Dying concerns me more."
He shrugged—half-hearted, automatic.
"I haven't had much time to make anything, really. Figured it was about time I grew up and started mastering what I've already got."
Daphne let out a long breath, but she had nothing to say to that.
Especially when he just went back to his boots, sliding the final plate into place and pressing the leather down like nothing had changed.
She waited until he started resealing the last seam, the motion steady and repetitive in its own quiet rhythm.
"You know," she said, voice dry, trying to fish for some engagement, "people keep asking Draco if his father set the Dementor on Umbridge."
She glanced at him, watching for a reaction.
"What do you think?"
Harry blinked, confused.
"Why would Lucius even want to do that?"
"Some of the students think she was about to crack. That she was going to start naming names. So… Lord Malfoy silenced her."
She huffed, waving a hand lazily.
"I don't know, Harry. It's just a rumour. But you've got to admit—what happened to her was suspicious. You can understand why people are trying to come up with answers."
"Yeah, well that's not what happened."
Scoffing, Daphne shook her head.
"Obviously. But someone clearly wanted her to shut up. It's not like a Dementor found itself there."
Harry's eyes flicked toward her. "So what do you think then?"
"Maybe You-Know-Who got fed up with her ruining Malfoy's name, I don't know, Harry. But who else could call in a dementor."
She held his stare. "Frankly, I'm shocked you aren't more concerned."
"Whatever attacked her isn't a threat to us." He promised, too calmly.
"So, you do know what happened?" She demanded, caught off guard.
Harry looked at her uncomfortably, before he then turned back to his boots. "No… I don't."
Now, I'm now on my 5th Google Doc for writing this story, where the 4th Doc took up the entirety of year 5, whilst the 2nd Doc starts at year 3… So Fifth year is the biggest year so far, but it is very close to ending, fear not!
Discord: kC3mbSpcsx (Take this link code, and then inside discord go to add server, join a server, and paste it there)