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The Starlord - Chapter - 72
🕑 Added 2025-12-09 16:28:11 +0000 UTCThe Hogwarts Express let out a long, familiar whistle before grinding to a halt at Hogsmeade Station. Steam billowed into the night air, curling around lantern light and silhouetted figures as the doors were thrown open one by one.
Students poured out in a noisy rush, laughter and chatter spilling into the cool Highland air. After hours packed into compartments, most of them were desperate to stretch their legs, breathe freely, and feel that unmistakable tingle of magic that always clung to Hogsmeade.
Harry stayed seated.
Hermione noticed and didn’t comment, merely closing her book with a quiet snap. Neville glanced toward the door, then back at them, grateful not to be swept along in the chaos.
“Let them go,” Harry said calmly. “No point getting trampled.”
Hermione smiled faintly. “Besides, the castle isn’t going anywhere.”
The crowd gradually thinned, voices fading into the night. Only then did Harry rise, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Hermione and Neville followed as they stepped down onto the platform.
The night was clear. Cold. Alive.
Harry had always suspected the timing of their arrival was deliberate. Hogwarts at night was something else entirely—towering silhouettes, glowing windows, and beyond the station, the dark outline of the lake where first-years would soon cross, wide-eyed and silent, staring at a castle that felt more like a legend than a school.
It left an impression.
But Harry’s attention snapped elsewhere.
Near the far end of the platform stood Arthur Weasley.
Harry slowed without realizing it.
Arthur wasn’t chatting or smiling the way he usually did. His shoulders were tense, posture alert, eyes scanning the station and the dark treeline beyond as though expecting something to leap out at any moment.
Standing beside him was a wizard Harry didn’t recognize—tall, sharp-featured, hand never far from his wand, eyes constantly moving.
“They look like Aurors,” Neville murmured.
“They’re acting like it,” Hermione added quietly.
Harry frowned.
He distinctly remembered seeing Arthur at King’s Cross that morning. Which meant Arthur hadn’t come with the train.
He apparated here.
That wasn’t done without reason.
They’re expecting trouble, Harry realized. Or afraid of it.
Arthur’s gaze flicked toward the last of the students disembarking. When he spotted Harry, relief flashed briefly across his face before professionalism slid back into place.
Before Harry could approach, movement on the opposite side of the platform caught his eye.
Alastor Moody stood beneath one of the lamps, magical eye rotating slowly, clicking as it scanned through coats, trunks, and the dark corners of the station. His wooden leg thumped softly against the stone as he shifted his weight.
Constant vigilance, even now.
Harry angled toward him without hesitation.
Moody spotted him instantly. The magical eye whirred and locked onto Harry’s face, then stilled.
A rare grin cracked across Moody’s scarred features.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Moody rasped. “If it isn’t the lad himself.”
Harry stopped a few steps away. “Good to see you vertical, Professor.”
Moody snorted. “Don’t call me professor. Never liked the sound of it.”
Then, quieter, more serious: “You got me out alive. Don’t forget that.”
Moody studied him for a long moment—one eye sharp, the other unnatural and piercing.
“You’ve changed,” Moody said.
Hermione stiffened slightly at Harry’s side. Neville looked between them, uneasy.
Harry didn’t deny it. “Times are changing.”
Moody’s jaw tightened. “That they are.”
“I am glad the ministry is concerned about the student's wellbeing,” Harry .
Moody’s grin faded into something more serious. He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“This isn’t the Ministry,” Moody said quietly. “This is us.”
Harry’s eyes sharpened. “Us?”
“The Order of the Phoenix,” Moody said.
The name settled between them like a drawn blade.
“Dumbledore’s been calling in old favors,” Moody continued. “People who fought last time. People who remember. We’re back on the board.”
Hermione stiffened slightly at Harry’s side. Neville sucked in a quiet breath.
“We’re not just watching,” Moody went on. “We’re protecting. Muggles. Muggle-borns. Anyone the Dark Lord’s lot would go after first. When Death Eaters strike, we answer. When they sniff around neighborhoods, we move them on.”
Harry glanced toward Arthur Weasley again.
“Mr. Weasley is part of your Order,” he said.
“Aye,” Moody confirmed. “Been risking his neck without telling half the family. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Harry said nothing, but understanding clicked into place. This was why Arthur had been at King’s Cross and here.
Moody’s magical eye rotated once more.
“We asked Sirius,” Moody said casually. “Thought Grimmauld Place might serve as headquarters.”
Harry’s jaw tightened.
“And?”
Moody snorted. “Sirius told us—very politely—to get stuffed. Said there was someone else living there now and it wasn’t up for discussion.”
Moody’s normal eye flicked briefly to Harry. Just once.
Didn’t need saying.
“I figured,” Moody muttered. “Didn’t ask twice.”
“So where are you gathering?” Harry asked.
“The Burrow,” Moody said. “Weasley place. Wards are good, family’s stubborn, and Molly’ll hex anyone who complains.”
Despite himself, Harry felt a flicker of respect.
Moody straightened, voice hardening. “You, however—stay out of trouble.”
Harry lifted an eyebrow. “That’s optimistic.”
Moody gave a rough chuckle. “Thought so. Still had to say it. Dumbledore asked me to.”
Hermione stepped closer, tugging lightly at Harry’s sleeve.
“Harry,” she said urgently, nodding toward the end of the platform.
Carriages drawn by Thestrals were already lining up, dark shapes shifting restlessly in the torchlight. Older students were climbing aboard, laughter echoing as drivers called for the remaining stragglers.
“If we don’t go now, we’ll be walking,” Hermione added.
Harry glanced back at Moody.
“Be careful,” Moody said gruffly. “Both sides are moving now. That’s when mistakes happen.”
Harry met his gaze, calm and unreadable. “Mistakes are usually someone else’s problem.”
Moody huffed. “Merlin help us.”
Harry settled back against the wooden bench, Hermione beside him, Neville opposite. A moment later, the door swung open again and Ginny Weasley climbed in, cheeks flushed from the cold night air.
“Oh—good,” she said, smiling briefly. “I was hoping to find you lot.”
The carriage door closed with a hollow thump, and the Thestrals snorted softly as they began to move. The castle lights glimmered ahead, growing larger with every rattling turn of the wheels.
The carriage lurched forward, leaving the station behind.
For a minute, no one spoke. The rhythm of hooves and wheels filled the silence.
Then Neville broke it.
“So… you heard about the Order?” he asked quietly, eyes fixed on his hands.
Harry glanced at him. Hermione stiffened slightly.
Neville swallowed. “My mum and dad rejoined.”
The words came out flat. Heavy.
Hermoine turned to him in surprise. “They did?”
Neville nodded, jaw tightening. “As soon as they could. Uncle Algie tried to talk them out of it, but—” His voice wavered. “They said they wouldn’t hide this time. Not again.”
Harry felt something sharp twist in his chest.
“They were tortured,” Neville went on, anger finally breaking through. “Thirteen years in St. Mungo’s. And now they’re walking straight back into the same war.”
His fists clenched. “And for what? So it can happen again?”
Ginny frowned. “Neville, that’s not fair. The Order’s protecting people. Muggles. Muggle-borns. They’re stopping attacks before they happen.”
“And if it fails?” Neville snapped. “Who pays for it then?”
Ginny opened her mouth, then closed it. Her expression softened. “It is dangerous. I know that. But it’s still the right thing to do. If no one stands up, then the Death Eaters just… win.”
Harry stayed silent, listening.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Neville said bitterly. “Not unless you’ve watched it happen to your family.”
Ginny hesitated.
“I do understand,” she said quietly. “More than you think.”
Neville looked up, startled.
“My mum’s in the Order. My dad too,” she continued. “And so is Bill. And Charlie. Every time Mum leaves the house, I wonder if she’ll come back. But I’d rather live with that fear than live knowing we did nothing.”
The carriage rolled on, lantern light flickering across their faces.
Hermione finally spoke. “You’re both right. It is noble. And it is terrifying. Those things don’t cancel each other out.”
Neville stared out the small window, teeth grinding. “They’ve been meeting all summer.”
Harry turned to him. “Your parents took you to the meetings?”
Neville nodded slowly. “Yeah. Dad said he didn’t want to lie to me. Mum said I deserved to know what they were fighting for.”
Ginny added, “It was quite nice when you have lot's of visitors at your house. That’s when Neville and I—” She gestured between them. “We talked. A lot.”
Harry absorbed that without comment.
The Thestrals slowed as the castle gates came into view, immense and ancient.
“So,” Ginny said, looking at Harry now, curiosity sharp in her eyes, “what do you think?”
Harry met her gaze.
“I think,” he said carefully, “people should fight fire with fire.”
Neville looked hopeful.
“But,” Harry continued, voice colder, “romanticizing it is how people get killed.”
The carriage fell silent.
Harry stared ahead at Hogwarts rising above them, ancient and indifferent.
“I don’t know the Order well enough to judge,” he finished. “But I know one thing—any group that walks into a war needs to be prepared to finish it. Or it becomes a slaughterhouse.”
Ginny studied him, unsettled.
Neville said nothing.
The carriage ground to a halt.
The gates opened.
The moment Harry stepped onto the stone path leading toward Hogwarts, he felt it.
Not magic.
Eyes.
They followed him from every direction—angry, suspicious, resentful. Whispers curled through the night air like smoke, thin but sharp.
Some students didn’t bother lowering their voices.
“He shouldn’t have left Britain.”
“Ran off the moment things got hard.”
“Bet he thinks he’s too good for us now.”
Harry kept walking.
Someone near the Ravenclaw crowd scoffed loudly. “If he cared so much about this country, he wouldn’t have abandoned it.”
Harry stopped.
The silence around him spread slowly, like ripples in dark water.
He turned, eyes calm but unyielding.
“It is my choice,” Harry said clearly, his voice carrying across the path, “to decide where I live. No one else has any right to tell me where I belong.”
The boy looked away first.
No one challenged him.
As the crowd shifted uneasily, Dean Thomas’s voice cut through, edged with frustration.
“So what—if Voldemort really is back, you’re just going to ignore it?”
Harry turned fully this time.
“I don’t give anything about Voldemort.”
The bluntness of it stunned them.
Dean frowned. “You can’t mean that.”
Harry stepped closer, his expression unreadable, his tone dangerously level.
“If you’re not willing to fight Voldemort yourself,” he said, “why do you think I should?”
Dean swallowed. “Because he killed your parents.”
Harry didn’t flinch.
“Voldemort killed a lot of people’s parents,” he replied flatly. “Mine weren’t the only ones.”
That froze them.
His voice lowered, carrying a weight that made even the air feel heavier.
“And if you keep waiting for someone else to fight your battles,” Harry added, “he might kill your parents too. After that, you can go and kill him yourself.”
No one spoke.
They didn’t argue.
They moved away from him instead—instinctively, the way prey does when it realizes it has misjudged the predator standing among them.
Harry turned and walked on.
The doors of the Great Hall opened, spilling light and noise into the night.
Floating candles illuminated the House tables, laughter and tension weaving together in equal measure. The school looked the same as ever—familiar, welcoming, unchanged.
But Harry knew better.
His gaze lifted automatically to the Head Table.
Most of the professors wore dark, muted robes, their expressions guarded, watchful. The mood was cautious, restrained.
And then—
There it was.
A splash of pink.
Soft. Frilled. Deliberate.
Harry recognized her immediately.
Dolores Umbridge.
She sat smiling sweetly among the staff, hands folded, posture prim, as though she belonged in that ancient hall more than anyone else.
Their eyes met.
Her smile widened—just a fraction.
Harry felt it again, the same poisonous hatred he had sensed in the Wizengamot, sharper now, closer, crawling beneath the surface.
Salazar Slytherin’s voice whispered in his memory, cold and precise.
Do not forgive those who delight in cruelty.
They mistake mercy for weakness.
Harry broke eye contact first.
Not out of fear.
But because the decision had already been made.
Dolores Umbridge had brought herself into Hogwarts.
And Hogwarts was about to become a very dangerous place for her.
