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The Starlord - Chapter - 73
🕑 Added 2025-12-11 19:18:58 +0000 UTCThe Great Hall glittered with floating candles and the reflected glow of enchanted ceiling-stars, but despite the familiar beauty, a thick tension curled through the air like smoke.
Conversation dimmed as students took their places. The Sorting Hat waited on its stool. First-years whispered nervously.
But Harry’s attention never left the Head Table.
Dolores Umbridge sat unnaturally straight, hands folded neatly, a nauseatingly sweet smile fixed on her face. Her pink cardigan almost glowed under the candlelight—so bright, so cheerful, so utterly wrong against the dark sea of staff robes.
Her eyes flicked to Harry.
And lingered.
Harry smiled back.
It wasn’t friendly.
Hermione felt the air around him shift and whispered urgently, “Harry… please don’t do anything reckless. She’s dangerous—politically dangerous. You know how the Ministry works.”
Harry didn’t look at her.
“I’m not bothered,” he murmured. “She’ll get what’s coming.”
Hermione paled. “Harry—”
Neville leaned across the table. “Mate… just be careful.”
Harry finally tore his gaze from Umbridge and shrugged casually.
“When the opportunity comes,” he said softly, “she’ll die. And everyone will believe it was an accident.”
Hermione nearly choked on her pumpkin juice. “Harry!”
Neville went rigid.
Harry didn’t elaborate.
He didn’t need to.
The Sorting Hat sang an unusually grim song—about unity, vigilance, past wars, and shadows gathering.
Hermione sat rigid, absorbing every word.
Neville shifted uncomfortably.
Harry barely listened. His senses were focused on Umbridge—her pulse, her breathing, her emotions hiding behind layers of arrogance and sickly sweetness.
She was not afraid.
Not yet.
The feast began, and for a while, plates filled, chatter rose, and the Hall regained its usual warmth. But the moment Professor Dumbledore rose, silence fell.
He welcomed them back. Announced the new subjects, the rules, the returning staff.
But before he could finish—
Ehem.
The small, deliberate cough sliced through the Hall.
Dumbledore’s smile froze politely.
All eyes turned to Umbridge.
She stood.
Smoothly.
Cheerfully.
And horribly out of place.
“Thank you, Headmaster,” she simpered, dipping her head. “But I simply must have a few words.”
Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm under the table. “Oh no. Harry, this is bad. This is really, really bad.”
Neville groaned quietly. “Mum warned me about her speeches…”
Harry leaned back and folded his arms, utterly calm.
“This should be entertaining.”
Umbridge began speaking in a girlish, syrupy voice that grated immediately.
“Progress,” she said, smiling at the room, “must be carefully managed. And sometimes, old ways must return. Tradition is important. Control is important. And we must protect our young witches and wizards from harmful influences.”
Harry’s fingers twitched.
Harmful influences.
He knew exactly whom she meant.
Hermione muttered under her breath, “She’s going to regulate everything. Magic. Free thought. Everything.”
Neville nodded miserably. “My dad said she loved power more than Voldemort did.”
“Oh, she does,” Harry murmured. “And she’ll choke on it.”
Umbridge continued, her voice climbing in pitch.
“The Ministry will be working closely with Hogwarts this year. Safety—discipline—obedience… these will be our guiding principles.”
A few students shifted nervously. Even some professors looked uncomfortable.
Umbridge placed a hand over her heart as though bestowing a blessing.
“I look forward,” she cooed, “to building a brighter, more orderly future together.”
When she finished, the silence was heavy. Not admiration—unease.
Dumbledore resumed speaking, but even he looked tense.
Harry whispered, “She’s made a mistake.”
Hermione blinked. “What mistake?”
“She thinks Hogwarts is safe for her.”
Hermione grabbed his wrist. “Harry—stop. You’re scaring me.”
Neville whispered, “And me.”
Harry exhaled slowly, letting his anger settle into something cold and sharp.
“She came to this school,” he said softly. “After she tried to hurt Hermione.”
His eyes flicked to the Head Table again.
“I’m not bothered by her. I’m excited.”
Hermione stared at him as though seeing a stranger.
Harry’s smile was small and terrifying.
“Because someday soon, Umbridge will walk into the wrong corridor at the wrong time.”
He tapped the table once.
“And she won’t walk out.”
Harry woke the next morning with an unusual spring in his step.
Hermione noticed immediately. “Harry… why do you look happy?”
He grinned—an expression far too sharp for morning.
“Because we have Defense Against the Dark Arts first thing.”
Hermione froze mid-buttoning her robes. “Harry, no. You are not going to start trouble. You promised—well, you didn’t promise, but you should have!”
Neville, tying his tie wrong for the third time, added nervously, “Maybe just… avoid eye contact?”
Harry smirked. “I’m not planning to start trouble.”
Hermione groaned. “You’re planning something big, aren't you?.”
Harry only shrugged.
“Harry,” she whispered, “Umbridge is working for the Ministry. The Ministry, Harry. You can’t antagonize her. She has political power. Influence. She could—”
“Try,” Harry said simply.
Hermione rubbed her temples. “I’m going to die before OWLs. I just know it.”
The Defense classroom smelled faintly of dust and lavender—an unpleasant combination—and every desk had a brand-new copy of Defensive Magical Theory placed neatly on top.
Hermione took one look at the book and whispered, horrified,
“This is… this is basically a safety pamphlet. This isn’t even a real textbook.”
Harry didn’t bother sitting until the last moment.
Then she arrived.
Dolores Umbridge waddled into the room with her usual sickly-sweet smile, clad in brighter pink than yesterday. Her voice was syrupy, grating, and unbearably fake.
“Good morning, class.”
A few students muttered polite replies. Most didn’t.
“Tut-tut!” Umbridge wagged a finger. “That simply will not do. Let’s try again—GOOD MORNING, class.”
Silence.
Then Harry said clearly, “Good morning.”
Umbridge beamed. “Why, thank you, Mr. Potter. At least someone still has manners.”
Harry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I make exceptions for special occasions.”
Neville nearly choked.
Hermione kicked Harry under the desk.
Umbridge began passing out rolls of parchment, prim and pleased.
“This year,” she announced, “we will be focusing on theory. The Ministry believes that practical magic is unnecessary for passing OWLs. A strong theoretical understanding is all a student requires.”
Harry raised his hand.
Hermione whispered in horror, “Harry—please—”
Umbridge’s eyes glinted. “Yes, Mr. Potter?”
Harry rested his chin on his hand. “If all we’re doing is reading books… then why are you here?”
The class went silent.
Umbridge blinked, smile twitching. “Excuse me?”
“Well,” Harry continued, perfectly polite, “if the book teaches everything, then Hogwarts doesn’t need a professor. We could just study alone. So I’m wondering—why were you hired?”
Hermione sank down in her seat.
Dean covered his mouth to hide a grin.
Umbridge’s cheeks turned a blotchy, angry pink. “Mr. Potter, that is not an appropriate question—”
“It’s perfectly appropriate,” Harry said calmly. “Hogwarts is known as the best magical school in Europe. Shouldn’t a core subject like Defense be taught by someone competent? Especially in OWL year?”
Neville whispered, “Oh no… oh no, he’s doing it…”
Umbridge’s smile cracked.
“I assure you,” she said, voice tightening, “the Ministry would never send someone unqualified—”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Then you must have done extraordinarily well on your N.E.W.T.s in Defense. What were your scores?”
Hermione gasped.
The class held its breath.
Umbridge’s wand trembled slightly.
“That,” she hissed through her teeth, “is quite enough. Detention, Mr. Potter.”
Harry shrugged. “Expected.”
The students stared at him—half impressed, half terrified.
Hermione whispered sharply, “You promised you wouldn’t start anything!”
“I didn’t,” Harry murmured back. “She did.”
“Detention tonight,” Umbridge said stiffly. “My office. Six o’clock.”
Harry nodded once and leaned back in his chair as though he’d just won a game of chess.
Hermione pressed her hands over her face. “This is going to be the worst year of my life.”
Neville muttered, “Or Umbridge’s.”
Harry smirked.
“Definitely hers.”
The rest of the day slipped by with uneasy smoothness.
After Defense, Harry, Hermione, and Neville moved from class to class without incident. Professors taught as usual, lessons proceeded without interruption, and for a brief moment—even Hermione dared to hope that Umbridge’s wrath would not descend upon them immediately.
But Hermione’s hope lasted only until lunchtime.
All through Transfiguration, Charms, and Herbology, Hermione kept glancing at Harry as though expecting him to explode—or worse, disappear on some reckless mission. Neville was just as anxious, though he tried to hide it by burying himself in his notes.
It didn’t help.
By the time the afternoon lessons ended at four o’clock, Hermione was practically vibrating with tension.
She cornered Harry the instant they stepped out of Charms.
“Harry—you need behave well in detention.” Her voice was sharp with fear. “You cannot make Umbridge your enemy on the first day. You don’t know what she can do.”
Harry stretched lazily, as if detention was a mild inconvenience rather than a threat.
“Oh, Hermione… but you’re misunderstanding something.”
“What am I misunderstanding?” Hermione demanded.
Neville looked between them nervously. “Harry… Umbridge is dangerous…”
“I know,” Harry replied simply. “But you truly don’t need to worry.”
Hermione grabbed his arm. “Harry, listen to me. You have to behave—otherwise she’ll double the punishment! Or put you in chains! Or—”
“Hermione,” Harry said gently, removing her hand from his sleeve, “I’m not going to attack Umbridge.”
She exhaled in relief.
Harry smiled faintly.
“Because I’m not planning to go to detention.”
Hermione’s mouth fell open. “WHAT?”
Neville squeaked, “Harry, you can’t just skip—she’ll go mad!”
“That’s the point,” Harry said. “Let her go mad.”
Hermione’s eyes were huge. “Harry James Potter, skipping a Ministry-backed professor’s detention is not rebellion—it’s suicide!”
Harry shrugged. “I told you. I don’t plan to go.”
“But—why?” Neville asked.
Harry’s gaze turned sharp, calculated. “Because going to detention gives her control over the situation. Not going reminds her she has none.”
Hermione stared at him, horrified. “Umbridge will report you!”
“Let her,” Harry said calmly. “I’m a Swedish citizen. The British Ministry has no authority to discipline me. And if she tries anything… well, you know what happens.”
Hermione did know. And that was precisely what terrified her.
At six o’clock, instead of walking toward Umbridge’s office, Harry walked with Hermione and Neville toward the Great Hall for dinner.
Hermione kept expecting Umbridge to come storming out from behind a column, screeching like a deranged bat. But nothing happened.
Not yet.
Neville whispered, “Maybe she didn’t notice?”
Harry laughed quietly. “She noticed.”
When dinner was nearly over, a shrill voice echoed through the Great Hall.
“Mr. Potter.”
Every student froze.
Umbridge stood at the entrance, her smile stretched so thin it looked painful. Her eyes glinted a poisonous shade of pink.
“You missed your detention.”
Harry turned in his seat. “Did I?”
Gasps rippled across the tables.
Umbridge’s smile didn’t move. “We shall discuss this. In my office. Immediately.”
Harry stood slowly. Hermione’s hand shot out, gripping his sleeve tightly, begging him not to go.
Harry patted her hand.
“Relax,” he whispered. “I’m not going.”
And before anyone could process what was happening, Harry walked right out of the Great Hall—in the opposite direction of Umbridge’s office.
Students erupted in shocked whispers.
Umbridge went purple.
“POTTER!” she shrieked.
Harry raised a hand without looking back. “File a complaint, Professor. I’m busy.”
The entire hall fell silent.
Dumbledore watched from the High Table, eyes narrowed—not angry, not disapproving… but thoughtful.
Very thoughtful.
Umbridge sputtered helplessly as Harry disappeared around a corner.
Hermione buried her face in her hands.
“Oh Merlin, this is how Hogwarts burns down.”
Neville nodded weakly.
“At least we know who lights the match.”
In the silence of Gryffindor Tower, Hermione kept pacing back and forth.
“Harry, what are you going to do now? She’ll set the entire Ministry on you!”
Harry was lying on the sofa, relaxed as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“No, she’ll try to set the Ministry on me,” Harry corrected. “Doesn’t mean they’ll succeed.”
“But—Harry—”
“Hermione,” he said, sitting up slightly, voice low and dangerous, “Umbridge attacked you without ever meeting you. She wanted you punished. She wanted you expelled. Do you really think I’m going to let a creature like that dictate when I show up somewhere?”
Hermione stopped pacing.
Neville watched quietly.
Harry’s eyes glinted with cold certainty.
“I’m not done with her,” he said. “Not even close.”
