Chapter 8
The days that followed Harry’s near-complete possession by Voldemort were slow and filled with tension, but they also brought a new kind of clarity.
Snape, the man he once distrusted more than anyone, had become his mentor and, strangely, a companion of sorts. Their shared purpose—the protection of Harry’s mind and the defeat of Voldemort—created a bond that surprised them both.
It had been a week since Harry had returned to his normal school life, though “normal” now meant an even busier schedule than before.
Snape had insisted on having daily Occlumency lessons now, along with sessions on advanced warding techniques. He kept Harry quite busy outside of his usual classes, and there was little room for the casual dinners he had once shared with his friends in the Great Hall.
He noticed Snape had grown more protective since the incident, and he checked on Harry more throughout the day, as did the other professors, and Harry didn't know if he was more irritated or appreciative of it.
As for the rest of Hogwarts, things were far from peaceful. Professor Umbridge, who had insisted since the beginning of the year that Voldemort had not returned, was now more adamant than ever.
The Ministry had been unwillingly pulled deeper into the situation, with officials finally being prompted to investigate after rumors of Voldemort’s possession had reached them. Umbridge, of course, denied everything, arguing that Harry’s “incident” in Defense Against the Dark Arts class was nothing more than his imagination run wild.
The controversy followed Harry wherever he went, and he was quickly becoming aggravated by the raspy whispers of students that trailed as he passed.
Again they began asking him, almost constantly, if Voldemort had truly returned.
The constant assault of queries grated on Harry’s nerves, and he found himself with a much shorter fuse than usual. Every time someone asked him about that day, the memories of Voldemort's voice in his head returned, sending a chill down his spine. He hated being the center of attention like this, hated being seen as either a liar or the “Chosen One” all over again. Even Ron and Hermione noticed his foul attitude had returned, though they tried to be understanding.
On his first day back in Defense Against the Dark Arts, the pressure was palpable. Harry walked into the classroom with his shoulders tight, and his classmates fell silent when they saw him, their eyes wide and filled with curiosity. He heard whispers, saw sidelong glances, and tried to ignore them though he could already sense the questions coming.
Sure enough, within minutes of sitting down, Seamus Finnigan leaned over. “Harry, is it true?” he whispered. “Did You-Know-Who really—?”
“Yes,” Harry cut him off, more sharply than he intended. He didn't need Seamus to finish to know what he was asking.
His voice was filled with barely suppressed anger, and he sighed, drained by it all, adding, “Yes. Voldemort is back.”
A few gasps echoed around the room as Harry’s bold statement settled in. Many of his classmates had never heard the name spoken aloud before, and they looked at him with a mixture of awe and fear.
They had all heard rumors, of course, and the school year had been filled with debates of the very fact, but hearing Harry say it in that frustrated, oh so weary voice - and to Seamus Finnigan of all people, a staunch believer against Voldemort’s return - the admission felt real in a way it hadn’t been before.
Seamus looked into Harry's dark, tired eyes, and he knew. This time it was clear; Harry was telling the truth.
But before anyone could say more, Umbridge swept into the room, her smile cold and fake as ever. She had heard him. “Mr. Potter,” she said in that sweet, simpering voice that made Harry’s skin crawl, “you will not spread such dangerous lies in my classroom.”
Harry’s exhaustion was forgotten in an instant as his eyes flashed with anger. “They’re not lies,” he shot back, standing up from his desk. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Voldemort is back, even if you don’t want to admit it.”
The classroom fell into a stunned silence, and numerous people flinched at the second mentioning of the Dark Lord’s name.
Umbridge’s smile widened, but her eyes were cold. “Detention, Mr. Potter,” she said, her voice sickeningly sweet.
Harry glared at her, his anger boiling over. He knew what she was doing—trying to silence him, trying to make him look like a fool in front of his classmates. But he wouldn’t back down. “I am telling the truth,” he said, his voice shaking with fury. “You’re just too much of a coward to face it.”
“Enough!” Umbridge screeched, her cheerful façade falling out from underneath her like a shattered glass bridge.
Everyone in the room stared at the two of them, like a pair of territorial dragons squaring up for a fight.
“Tonight.” she said, smoothing out a wrinkle on her pink jacket. “ My office.”
Harry didn’t say anything more. He simply grabbed his bag and stormed out of the classroom, his frustration bubbling up to the surface.
As he made his way down the corridor, his mind racing, he realized with more awareness what he had just done. It was out of character for him, but, in the moment, it had felt liberating.
He hoped he wouldn’t come to regret his actions.