Trapped in Silence
Chapter 1: Trapped in Silence
The summer heat hung heavily over Privet Drive, but for Harry Potter, it was just another day in his prison. His room in the Dursleys' house was cramped, stuffy, and miserable—he hadn’t left it in weeks. He wasn't even sure whether it had been just days or already months, as time had dissolved into a dull rhythm of hunger, exhaustion, and silence.
But none of that compared to what had happened on his birthday.
It had started with pain—unbearable, burning pain that tore through his limbs as if his own body was ripping itself apart. He had screamed so loudly that he was surprised the Dursleys hadn’t called the police. But they had probably just covered their ears, like they always did.
His bones had shifted, his body had reshaped itself into something new—and when the pain had finally subsided, he was no longer the same.
A wolf.
Not just any wolf—a small, slender, snow-white wolf whose green eyes had gleamed in the darkness of his room. His heart had pounded, his breathing had been shallow, and it had felt… wrong. Wrong and yet somehow right.
He had managed to reverse the transformation, but his wolf form had left him with an undeniable change—his once jet-black hair was now white, shimmering faintly silver in the light of his alarm clock. But that wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Deep inside, he could feel something foreign, something animalistic—the instincts of a wolf.
Instincts that were slowly driving him mad.
He wanted to create a safe hiding place, somewhere he could curl up, warm and protected. But his room was cold and unfamiliar, with not a single spot where he felt safe.
He wanted… affection. Warmth. Closeness.
But he was alone.
His friends hadn’t written to him. Not a single letter, no owl, not even a short "How are you, Harry?" The Dursleys ignored him, aside from leaving meager meals at his door. His wolf whimpered for a family—for a pack—but there was no one.
And so, night after night, he lay on his mattress, pressing his snout into the pillow to stifle his howls.
He was alone.
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The days stretched into an endless void until, at last, the long-awaited moment arrived—the departure to Hogwarts.
Harry had never felt such relief as when he finally stepped onto Platform 9¾. For the first time in weeks, he could breathe freely.
But his wolf was not at ease.
His senses were too sharp, his instincts screamed at him to be cautious.
The people around him were too loud, the smells too strong, the colors too bright. Everything was too much.
When he entered a train compartment, he immediately closed the door and cast a protection spell, preventing anyone with ill intentions from coming inside.
And then came the moment he had dreaded.
Ron. Hermione. Ginny. Fred and George.
His friends.
They tried to reach him—but they couldn't. The spell wouldn’t let them through.
Harry watched out of the corner of his eye as they stood confused in front of the door, unable to open it. He heard Hermione’s voice, concerned and analytical.
"What kind of spell is this? Why can’t we get in?"
"Maybe it’s a mistake?" Ron sounded uncertain.
"Or he doesn’t want to see us." Ginny. Her voice was quiet, but there was a bitter note in it.
No one contradicted her.
Harry closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He didn’t want to hear them, didn’t want to feel. But a single tear escaped and fell onto his sleeve.
His friends were not his friends.
He was alone.
And he would have to learn to live with that.
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Hogwarts. Finally.
Harry took a deep breath as he stepped out of the carriage, staring up at the majestic castle towering in the darkness. The familiar towers, the glowing windows—it should have felt like coming home.
But it didn’t.
He was alone.
The September evening’s chill crept beneath his cloak, beneath the hood he had pulled over his altered hair, but that wasn’t what sent a shiver down his spine. It was the knowledge that he had arrived here alone. That no one was waiting for him.
His wolf shook itself internally, uneasy from all the smells and sounds around him. The carriages, the students, the excited voices—it was too much. His instinct urged him to find shelter, a safe place away from the chaos.
So that’s exactly what he did.
As the students poured into the Great Hall, he stayed at the edge of the crowd, pulling the hood of his cloak even lower over his face. His heart pounded in an uncomfortable rhythm, and he fought the urge to curl up somewhere and hide.
But he was here. He would not and could not hide.
As he stepped into the hall, the sheer amount of sensations nearly overwhelmed him. The smell of food, of warm wax and old parchment, the voices, the lights—it was suffocating.
And then he saw the Gryffindor table.
Ron and Hermione sat side by side, Ginny across from them. They were laughing. Chatting. They looked… happy.
Without him.
His throat tightened, his wolf growled softly inside him. He let his gaze drift over the table and began walking—not toward them, but all the way to the end. Away from everything.
But he didn’t get far.
"Mr. Potter!"
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Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through the room like a knife. Instantly, silence fell. Hundreds of eyes turned to him.
His wolf froze.
Slowly, he turned around, muscles tensed. The elderly professor stood before him, her gaze sharp, hands hidden in the folds of her robes.
"Follow me, please," she said and was already turning toward the doors of the hall.
Harry’s heart began to race.
Not now. Not in front of everyone.
He could feel the stares. The confusion, the curiosity. Whispers began to spread.
Something was wrong.
Forcing himself to stay in control, he followed the professor with quick, silent steps. At the front of the hall, where the first years awaited their turn with the Sorting Hat, she came to a stop.
And then he saw it.
The old, tattered hat sitting atop a wooden stool.
Confusion spread through him, a strange discomfort tightening in his chest. What is this? The first years were still being sorted—what was he doing here?
"Sit down, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said calmly, though there was a serious note in her voice.
A strange tingling sensation ran down his spine. He could feel all the eyes on him again, the hushed whispers rippling through the hall.
"Why?" he asked quietly.
"There is an issue with your house placement," she said curtly. "The Sorting Hat wishes to see you again."
Harry’s stomach clenched.
His wolf reacted instantly. Alarm. Danger. He wanted to run. But there was no escape.
His throat was dry as he slowly lowered himself onto the stool. A tremor ran through his hands as McGonagall lifted the hat and placed it upon his head.
Then, everything went black.
And a familiar voice echoed in his mind.
"Ahhh… Harry Potter. At last, we speak again."
He swallowed. "What’s happening?"
"Well, my boy… you have changed." The hat sounded amused, yet thoughtful. "I sensed it the moment you stepped into the hall. Your magic is different. There is something new within you… a creature I have not encountered before."
A shudder ran down Harry’s spine.
"And what does that mean?" he whispered in his mind.
"It means I made a mistake." The hat’s voice grew more serious. "I had my doubts—you surely remember. Slytherin would have made you great. But your heart… it was undecided. You didn’t want to go there. So, I placed you in Gryffindor."
Harry felt his fingers dig into the arms of the chair.
"But now… you are no longer the same boy I sorted back then." The hat paused. "Now, I will do what I should have done from the start."
Panic surged through Harry’s veins. "No," he thought instinctively. "No, I don’t belong in Slytherin!"
The hat chuckled softly.
"Oh, my dear boy… you belong nowhere anymore—and that is precisely why you are perfect for Slytherin."
Harry wanted to protest, but it was too late.
Loud and clear, for the entire hall to hear, the hat declared:
"I AM RE-SORTING YOU! YOUR NEW HOUSE IS SLYTHERIN!"
The world stood still.
A murmur swept through the Great Hall, followed by shocked exclamations. The Gryffindors stared at him in horror, Ron jumping up as if burned.
The Slytherins? They whispered among themselves, exchanging skeptical glances.
Harry’s stomach twisted.
No. No. No.
McGonagall looked as if she had seen a ghost. "This… is highly unusual," she said slowly.
Dumbledore? He remained silent. His eyes, glinting behind the half-moon glasses, revealed nothing.
Harry wanted to stand up. To leave. To flee.
But his feet were frozen in place.
McGonagall cleared her throat and turned toward the Slytherin table. "Welcome to Slytherin, Mr. Potter," she said softly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Draco Malfoy’s triumphant smirk.
He was no longer a Gryffindor.
He belonged to the snakes now.