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The Starlord - Chapter - 78
🕑 Added 2025-12-25 17:53:48 +0000 UTCHarry came back to Hogwarts like nothing had happened.
Even though the air still clung to his clothes and the damp smell of the Forbidden Forest followed him like a second cloak. He slipped through the Entrance Hall with the same steady pace he used when walking to breakfast—as if being trailed into the forest by a Ministry tyrant and her little army was just another inconvenience, like a late homework assignment.
The corridors were quiet. Too quiet.
It was almost past curfew, and Hogwarts had the particular silence of a castle pretending it was asleep while still listening through its walls. Harry kept his expression bored and his posture loose, as if the world could do nothing to him.
He reached the portrait of the Fat Lady without incident.
“Password?” she asked, squinting at him suspiciously.
Harry didn’t even pause. “Fortune favors the bold.”
The Fat Lady snorted. “That’s not very Gryffindor of you, dear. Sounds like something a Ravenclaw would say.”
Harry’s mouth twitched. “Are you letting me in or not?”
She sniffed, swung open, and the warm light of the common room spilled out. The familiar hum of murmurs, crackling fire, and rustling parchment greeted him.
Harry stepped inside and felt the tension in his shoulders loosen for the first time since he’d started walking into the trees.
He had done it.
He had led them away from the meeting.
And a cold part of him—sharp and satisfied—thought: I finally ended her.
Not with a duel. Not with a magic. Not even with the Force.
Just by letting her arrogance guide her into the one place Hogwarts itself seemed to warn people away from.
Harry dropped into an armchair near the fire and stared into the flames.
He still had no idea how a giant had appeared in the Forbidden Forest.
That was the part that kept circling in his mind like a vulture.
Giants weren’t subtle creatures. They weren’t meant to be. Every book Harry had ever read described them as mountains of flesh and bone—towering things that shook the ground when they moved. But the one he’d seen…
Small.
Small compared to the books. Still enormous, still terrifying in presence, but not the titanic creature described in old texts. It had been lanky, hunched, almost… half-formed. As if it didn’t belong with the stories Harry had grown up reading.
Which raised the question Harry didn’t like asking.
Where did it come from?
A creature like that didn’t simply wander into the forest unnoticed. Not when Hogwarts was crawling with patrols and wards and the centaurs treating the trees like sacred territory.
Draco Malfoy and his little pack would have panicked the second the silhouette rose out of the dark. They would have run. They would have screamed. They would have alerted every professor they could find.
And Umbridge…
Harry’s eyes narrowed at the fire.
Umbridge wasn’t competent. She wasn’t a duelist. She wasn’t a warrior. She wasn’t even a passable Defense instructor.
If she had tried to stand her ground in front of something like that—if she had attempted to enforce her authority with that fake smile and that Ministry voice—Harry doubted she would have lasted ten seconds.
Which meant she was dead…
He leaned back, forcing his face into neutrality as a pair of second-years wandered past, whispering and glancing at him like he was a dangerous statue that might move if they breathed too loudly.
Harry ignored them.
He was too busy wondering why Hogwarts had produced a giant out of its shadows like an answer to Umbridge’s arrogance.
Hermione and Neville returned close to midnight.
Harry heard them before he saw them—quick footsteps, a hushed argument, then the portrait swinging open.
Hermione stepped in first, cheeks flushed from the cold and adrenaline. Neville followed, hair slightly disheveled, eyes bright in that way they only were when he felt useful. Both looked tired, but it was the exhausted satisfaction of people who had won something.
They spotted Harry instantly.
Hermione froze.
Neville’s shoulders loosened with relief.
Hermione walked toward him slowly, searching his face with anxious intensity. “You said you’d arrive late. You said—” Her voice dropped further. “—you said that loud enough for Malfoy to hear.”
“I did,” Harry said simply.
Neville exhaled. “You misdirection worked.”
Harry nodded once. “Did your meeting went alright?”
Hermione’s eyes flicked to Neville, and something like pride flashed across her face. “Yes.”
Neville couldn’t hold it in. He smiled. “It was full. Completely full.”
Harry gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit. Tell me.”
Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around herself and spoke first, voice low and fast. “We did it exactly like we planned. After you led them away, Neville and I guided everyone in small groups. And with the Marauder’s Map…” She glanced at Harry, genuine gratitude in her eyes. “That helped more than anything. We saw patrols before they saw us.”
Neville nodded eagerly. “We timed the corridors. We waited when Perfects doubled back. We even saw Filch near the fourth-floor landing—he was muttering to himself, carrying a bucket like he was looking for trouble.”
Harry’s lips quirked. “Filch always looks for trouble.”
Hermione continued, “And the Room of Requirement… it responded perfectly. It became what we needed.” Her voice softened, awed even now. “A practice hall. Padded walls. Training dummies. A cabinet full of old defensive texts. Even a fountain for water—like it anticipated someone would get hexed.”
Harry watched her carefully.
She was excited. More focused and alive.
Umbridge’s cruelty had done something strange.
It had not broken Hermione. It had sharpened her.
Neville leaned forward. “We named it,” he said.
Harry’s eyebrow rose. “Already?”
Hermione nodded. “Not officially. But everyone agreed quickly.” She took a breath, then said with quiet pride, “Defense Association.”
Harry let the name sit in the air.
It wasn’t as dramatic as some might want. It wasn’t a banner waving in the wind. It sounded almost harmless.
That was good.
Harmless names survived longer.
“And what did you actually do?” Harry asked.
Hermione’s hands moved as she spoke, as if she still held the rhythm of teaching in her fingers. “We started with Protego. Same as last time. But this time we made it structured. Cedric took one group, Fred and George took another, Neville and I handled the younger ones. We rotated.”
Neville added quickly, “Even the first-years tried it. Some couldn’t get the shield at all, but—Harry, you should’ve seen their faces when it worked even for a second. Like… like they’d found hope.”
Hermione nodded sharply. “Exactly. That’s what Umbridge doesn’t understand. When people stop feeling helpless, they stop obeying.”
Harry’s gaze flicked briefly to her hands, remembering the healing salve he’d seen her applying before.
“We paired them up again,” Hermione went on. “One casts a mild hex, the other shields. The stinging hex—safe enough to practice, painful enough to motivate. And we stressed control. No one escalates. No anger. No showing off.”
Harry almost laughed at that.
Hermione spoke about anger like it was a bad habit to be corrected, not a weapon to be sharpened.
“And did it work?” Harry asked.
Neville grinned. “Some of them got it. Not everyone. But some of them broke the hex completely. The shield flared and the sting bounced off.”
Hermione’s eyes gleamed. “Cho managed it. Cedric did as well—obviously. Fred and George were… infuriatingly good at it. They kept making their shields flicker in weird shapes like they were putting on a show.”
Hermione studied his face again, as if trying to find the story he wasn’t telling. “And you?”
Harry met her gaze calmly. “I did what I said I would do.”
Neville hesitated. “Malfoy’s squad… did they follow you?”
Harry nodded once.
Hermione’s eyes widened. “And Umbridge?”
Harry’s expression didn’t change. “She followed.”
A heavy silence fell.
Neville swallowed. “And you lost them?”
Harry stared into the fire. “They won’t bother you tonight.”
Hermione’s voice lowered. “Harry… what did you do?”
Harry looked at her—really looked—and Hermione, for the first time in weeks, didn’t flinch away from the darkness in his eyes.
“I didn’t do anything,” Harry said softly. “I just walked.”
Neville frowned. “Walked where?”
Harry’s gaze flicked up, sharp as a knife. “Far enough.”
Hermione’s breath caught—but she didn’t press. Not now. Not when Harry’s voice carried the quiet warning of someone who could become dangerous in a heartbeat.
Instead, she nodded once. “All right.”
Neville looked unsettled, but he followed Hermione’s lead.
“We kept it disciplined,” Hermione said after a moment, forcing the conversation back to safer ground. “And we ended early. No gossiping in groups. Everyone left in pairs.”
Harry nodded approvingly. “Then you’re learning to survive.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like you didn’t want to be there.”
“I didn’t,” Harry said bluntly. “But I approve.”
Neville’s ears reddened slightly. “People were excited… more than excited. It’s like it isn’t about studying anymore.”
Harry’s gaze sharpened. “It isn’t.”
Hermione’s voice was quiet. “It’s protest.”
Harry’s smile was thin. “And protest becomes war if they push hard enough.”
Hermione didn’t deny it.
She only said, “Then we’ll be ready.”
Harry watched them both—Hermione, now silent where she once argued; Neville, standing taller than he used to; both of them building something beneath Umbridge’s nose.
He still lamented that his plan hadn’t worked the way he expected.
He had wanted Umbridge gone—cleanly, decisively, permanently.
Instead, the castle had shifted into a different kind of battle.
Harry stood.
“I’m going to bed,” he said.
Hermione blinked. “Just like that?”
Harry’s eyes flashed briefly, and Hermione saw the truth behind them: exhaustion, calculation, and something else—something he refused to name.
“Yes,” Harry said. “Because tomorrow we act normal.”
Neville nodded. “Like nothing happened.”
Harry looked at them both, voice low. “Exactly. And you will not tell anyone about my role in today's meeting.”
Hermione stiffened slightly. “We didn’t even ask—”
“I know,” Harry cut in. “Keep it that way.”
He turned and walked toward the stairs.
Behind him, Hermione and Neville sat in the firelight with the weight of their secret organization settling on their shoulders like armor.
Harry arrived at the Great Hall with the same unhurried stride he had worn since first year, as though nothing in the world could surprise him anymore.
Sunlight poured through the enchanted ceiling, painting the long tables in soft gold, and the usual clatter of breakfast echoed through the vast chamber—plates clinking, owls swooping in with the post, students arguing over toast and marmalade.
And yet, something was different.
The High Table was missing a splash of pink.
Dolores Umbridge was not there.
At first, it felt unreal, like noticing the absence of a headache only after it was gone. For weeks—months, it felt like—Umbridge had made the High Table her stage. She had always sat there with her stiff posture and simpering smile, hands folded primly, eyes scanning the hall as though Hogwarts itself were a thing she owned. She never missed a meal. She never missed an opportunity to remind students that she was watching.
Now her chair sat empty.
Harry glanced down the table. Hermione had noticed it too; her brow was furrowed, her teacup paused halfway to her lips. Neville kept glancing up nervously, as though expecting Umbridge to materialize in a puff of pink smoke and start handing out detentions for improper chewing.
“Is she late?” someone muttered nearby.
“She’s never late,” another whispered.
Harry leaned back slightly, letting his eyes drift over the professors instead. McGonagall sat stiff-backed and composed, though there was something sharp and alert in her gaze that hadn’t been there yesterday. Flitwick looked subdued, whispering to Sprout. Snape, as ever, looked faintly displeased with the existence of everyone around him—but Harry noticed that his usual sneer held a trace of satisfaction.
And then there was Dumbledore.
The Headmaster sat calmly at the center of the High Table, fingers steepled, blue eyes thoughtful behind his half-moon spectacles. He looked neither surprised nor concerned—only contemplative, as though he were waiting for the right moment to speak.
The murmuring grew louder as more students realized Umbridge was missing. Even the Slytherins seemed uneasy; Malfoy, seated near the middle of his table, kept glancing toward the staff with a tight, uncertain expression. The Inquisitorial Squad, usually smug and self-satisfied, looked lost without their leader.
Harry took a slow bite of toast.
So it’s begun, he thought.
The scrape of a chair echoed through the hall.
Dumbledore stood.
The Great Hall fell silent with remarkable speed. Even the owls seemed to pause mid-flight, perching along the rafters as if listening.
“My dear students,” Dumbledore said gently, his voice carrying without effort. “I hope you all slept well.”
A ripple of unease passed through the hall. No one interrupted him. No one dared.
“I am sure many of you have already noticed,” Dumbledore continued, “that Professor Umbridge is not present with us this morning.”
Harry watched faces tighten. Some students leaned forward. Others shrank back.
“Last day,” Dumbledore said, his tone calm but grave, “Professor Umbridge suffered an unfortunate incident in the Forbidden Forest.”
The reaction was immediate.
Gasps erupted from every table. A Ravenclaw dropped her fork. Someone at the Hufflepuff table let out a startled yelp.
Hermione’s eyes flicked to Harry.
Harry did not react.
“She was attacked,” Dumbledore continued, “by a dangerous creature.”
The hall erupted into whispers.
“What creature?”
“How did she get into the Forest?”
“Is she—?”
Dumbledore raised a hand, and the noise died down again.
“I will not be going into details,” he said. “Suffice it to say that Professor Umbridge was fortunate.”
Harry’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Professor Hagrid,” Dumbledore went on, inclining his head toward the far end of the High Table, “was responsible for bringing her back safely.”
All eyes turned.
Hagrid sat awkwardly in his chair, looking more uncomfortable than Harry had ever seen him. His massive hands were folded in his lap, and his beard twitched as though he wanted to disappear into it.
“She will make a full recovery,” Dumbledore said. “Healers from St. Mungo’s are quite confident of that. However, she will remain in the hospital wing for approximately two weeks.”
The tension in the room shifted.
Relief—sharp, guilty relief—washed through many of the students. Some looked horrified at themselves for feeling it. Others did not bother hiding it.
“And until Professor Umbridge is well enough to resume her duties,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling faintly, “I will personally be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then the hall exploded.
“What?!”
“Dumbledore teaching DADA?”
“Is that allowed?”
“Does that mean—”
Harry felt Hermione’s hand clamp around his sleeve.
“Harry,” she whispered urgently, “do you realize what this means?”
“Yes,” Harry said quietly. “It means peace. Temporarily.”
Neville looked pale but hopeful. “Do you… do you know what happened to her?”
Harry did not answer.
Dumbledore waited for the noise to subside.
“I expect,” he said mildly, “that you will all conduct yourselves as students of Hogwarts should. Classes will proceed as normal. Breakfast, of course, may continue.”
He sat back down.
Just like that, it was over.
The Great Hall slowly returned to life—but it was different now. Conversations buzzed with nervous excitement. Some students laughed too loudly. Others whispered as though afraid Umbridge might hear them from the infirmary.
Harry finished his breakfast in silence.
Hermione leaned close. “You didn’t do this, did you?”
Harry met her eyes calmly. “I didn’t touch her.”
That was true.
Neville swallowed. “But did you take her to the forest.”
Harry’s gaze hardened for just a moment. “Some things are not meant to be discussed at breakfast.”
They left the Great Hall together, the stone corridors humming with speculation. Portraits whispered to one another. Ghosts drifted by with unusually animated expressions.
By the time they reached their first class, the truth—whatever version of it people believed—had already begun to mutate.
Some said Umbridge had been cursed by centaurs. Others claimed a giant spider had dragged her halfway to their lair. A few insisted she had been attacked by dark magic gone wrong.
