By early October, Hogwarts had learned a new way to breathe.
It was quieter now—not in the sense of silence, but in restraint. Voices lowered instinctively when conversations drifted too close to anything that mattered. Laughter cut off a second too early. Students glanced over their shoulders before finishing sentences that, only weeks earlier, would have been harmless.
Everyone noticed the watching.
Prefects lingered longer in corridors, leaning against walls with an air of manufactured casualness that fooled no one. They asked questions they already knew the answers to. They took notes no one could see. In the Great Hall, they paced the aisles between tables, eyes flicking from face to face, tallying reactions rather than infractions.
Slytherins felt it most keenly.
They were used to scrutiny, to be sure—but this was different. This was not suspicion born of rivalry or reputation. This was institutional. Deliberate. Eyes lingered on green-and-silver ties a fraction longer. Conversations near the dungeons were interrupted more often. Doors closed more quietly.
Even professors had changed.
Lessons paused when Dolores Umbridge entered a room, not because she demanded attention, but because her presence rewrote the atmosphere. She no longer needed to interrupt. A single hem, hem—or worse, a patient smile—was enough to derail momentum entirely. Professors who had once lectured with confidence now hesitated mid-sentence, adjusting phrasing, trimming examples, abandoning discussions that strayed even slightly beyond the approved syllabus.
No one challenged her openly.
They did not need to.
Umbridge had been High Inquisitor for nearly a month now, and Hogwarts had begun to accept her the way one accepted bad weather—resentfully, but with the weary understanding that outrage accomplished nothing. She inspected classes at will, clipboard always in hand, her wide, self-satisfied smile never fading even as students stared back at her with open hostility.
In Defense Against the Dark Arts, she taught nothing of use.
Students sat rigid in their seats while she droned on about theory stripped of application, insisting that knowledge alone was sufficient, that practice was dangerous, that experience invited recklessness. Glares followed her every movement. Pens scratched angrily across parchment. No one raised their hand unless forced.
She noticed.
She always noticed.
And she smiled.
Her authority had become ambient now—no longer announced, no longer contested. It existed in the way doors closed behind her, in the way staff meetings ran shorter, in the way students learned which topics dissolved conversations instantly.
Certain words, especially.
Alden's name was one of them.
No one said it aloud anymore.
Instead, students spoke in euphemisms, voices lowered instinctively: that incident. The duel.What happened in the Hall? Even those who had watched it with their own eyes seemed reluctant to claim the memory outright, as though naming it gave it weight.
Erasure, Hogwarts was learning, was quieter than punishment.
And far more effective.
By the time breakfast ended and students filtered toward their next classes, the castle had settled into its new rhythm—measured, cautious, obedient in ways it had never been before.
Whatever space Alden Dreyse had once occupied had not remained empty.
It had been filled.
And Hogwarts, for all its ancient walls and moving staircases, was adapting with alarming speed.
The Slytherin common room no longer sounded like itself.
It was quieter, yes—but more than that, it was calculated. Conversations no longer overlapped naturally. They began and ended in deliberate intervals, voices dropping when someone unfamiliar drifted too close, laughter replaced by thin smiles that never reached anyone's eyes.
Theo noticed it immediately.
Groups had begun to form—not by year, not by friendship, but by advantage. Fourth-years sat with seventh-years who had never spared them a glance before. Fifth-years trained together in corners, wands moving in controlled, silent arcs, spells practiced not for mastery but for demonstration. Even the furniture seemed to have been rearranged subtly, chairs pulled into clusters that suggested alliances rather than comfort.
Everyone was watching everyone else.
Some Slytherins leaned into it, angling for favor with the careful precision of those who sensed opportunity. They spoke more loudly when the prefects passed. They offered opinions they thought Umbridge-approved. They made a point of being seen.
Others withdrew.
They sat closer to the windows overlooking the lake, backs turned to the room, conversations held in murmurs meant for only one or two ears. Old friendships fractured quietly, replaced by something more transactional.
It was not chaos.
It was worse.
Theo watched a pair of seventh-years spar near the fireplace, their movements sharp, aggressive, designed to impress. Younger students lingered nearby, pretending not to stare while cataloging strengths and weaknesses. This was not training. This was an audition.
Without Alden, there was no center.
No quiet authority to temper ambition, no steady presence to absorb the pressure before it turned predatory. Alden had never claimed leadership outright—never needed to. He had listened, advised, and redirected. Disagreements had ended when he spoke, not because he demanded obedience, but because he made sense.
Now, sense had given way to hunger.
Daphne Greengrass sat apart from it all.
She occupied a single chair near the far wall, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. The space around her was conspicuously empty. No one approached her without a reason, and no one lingered long when they did. She spoke rarely, and when she did, it was with quiet finality that left no room for argument.
Controlled. Untouchable.
Theo felt the absence like a physical thing.
Across the room, Draco Malfoy laughed at something Pansy said—too quickly, too brightly. Theo noticed the way eyes tracked him now, the subtle recalibration of attention. Where once people had looked to Alden for cues, they now watched Draco, measuring, weighing, assessing.
That, Theo realized, was new.
Pressure had not vanished with Alden's departure.
It had merely been redistributed.
Badly.
Theo leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, and took it all in—the alliances forming, the ambition sharpening, the quiet erosion of what little unity the house had once maintained. Slytherin had always been competitive, always political, but this was something else entirely.
This was a vacuum.
And the house was tearing itself apart trying to fill it.
The notice appeared overnight.
Students noticed it first at breakfast, when a cluster began to form beneath the announcement board near the entrance of the Great Hall. Heads leaned in. Murmurs rippled outward. A few people laughed, short and disbelieving, before the reality of the words settled in.
The parchment was new, the ink still dark.
It bore the Ministry seal.
By order of the Hogwarts High Inquisitor, all student organizations, clubs, teams, societies, and gatherings of three or more students for non-curricular purposes were hereby disbanded, effective immediately. This measure was enacted in the interest of student safety and institutional order.
There was no signature.
It did not need one.
A hush spread through the hall as students read and reread the notice, as though repetition might change its meaning. It did not. There was no mention of appeals. No clause suggesting review. No end date.
Just effective immediately.
Breakfast continued around the notice in uneasy silence. Forks scraped against plates. Teacups were lifted and set down untouched. At several tables, students stared at nothing at all.
Clubs dissolved before the first bell rang.
A Ravenclaw study group met for the last time in the corridor outside the library, disbanding with awkward nods and half-promises to "meet later" that everyone knew were empty. A Hufflepuff music society packed away its instruments without playing a note. Flyers were pulled down from notice boards, parchment curling as they were torn free.
The mood of the castle darkened by degrees.
Resistance did not erupt.
It withdrew.
Quidditch survived—but only just. Angelina Johnson emerged from a meeting with Professor McGonagall pale but determined, permission granted through a narrow loophole that defined team practice as "physical education." Even then, training was supervised more closely than ever, the pitch watched from the stands by unfamiliar faces.
Everything else went underground.
Students began meeting in twos instead of groups. Conversations resumed in stairwells and empty classrooms, broken off at the sound of approaching footsteps. Laughter became rarer. Trust narrowed.
And in the quiet that followed, it became clear that the notice had accomplished exactly what it was meant to.
Hogwarts was smaller now.
Safer, perhaps—if one believed silence equated to security.
And as the parchment remained pinned in place, edges curling slightly with the damp of the hall, the castle adjusted once again—learning how to exist under rules that were never meant to be temporary.
The door of the Hog's Head closed behind them with a dull thud, cutting off the low murmur of voices still lingering inside.
Hermione and Ron were already several paces ahead, boots crunching against the dirt of the lane as they walked quickly toward the village proper. Hermione was talking in a rush, hands moving as she outlined plans Harry had only half-followed—names, times, contingencies—while Ron nodded along, occasionally interrupting with a question or suggestion of his own.
Harry lagged.
The night air was cold and sharp, carrying the smell of damp earth and smoke from nearby chimneys. Lamps cast shallow pools of light along the road, leaving the spaces between them darker than seemed necessary. Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets and let his steps slow, the conversation ahead fading into a background hum.
The meeting had gone well. Better than he'd expected, actually. People had shown up. They'd listened. They'd believed him.
That alone felt strange.
A month ago, he thought, this would have looked different.
He imagined Alden standing somewhere near the back of the room—not speaking unless asked, not posturing, just there. The thought came unbidden, and Harry frowned slightly, unsure why it lingered.
Absence changed rooms, he realized.
Not just by leaving space behind, but by altering how everyone else moved within it. The Hog's Head had been crowded tonight, tense and expectant, but there had been a strange edge to it all—as though something unspoken hovered just outside the circle of candlelight.
Harry had felt it then. He felt it now.
Hogwarts had grown miserable in the weeks since Umbridge's notice appeared. Lessons were hollow. Corridors were watched. Students spoke less, laughed less. Even Quidditch practice felt strained, joy replaced by something more defensive.
They were forming Dumbledore's Army because they had to.
Because there were things they weren't being taught. Because silence wasn't safety. Because doing nothing felt worse than the risk of doing something wrong.
Harry wondered—not for the first time—what Alden would have made of it.
He thought of the graveyard, of standing side by side, fear clawing at his chest while Voldemort rose from the cauldron. Alden hadn't hesitated then. Hadn't run. Hadn't left him.
People were calling Alden dangerous now. Reckless. A monster, in some versions of the story.
Harry scowled at the ground.
They were wrong.
He quickened his pace slightly, catching up just enough to hear Hermione say his name sharply.
"—Harry, are you listening?"
"Yeah," he said automatically, though his thoughts were still elsewhere.
As they turned the corner toward the edge of the village, Harry glanced back once, toward the Hog's Head, its windows dim and unremarkable against the night.
The meeting was over.
The plans were set.
And yet, as Hogwarts loomed dark and watchful in the distance, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something important was missing—not just from the room they'd left behind, but from the castle they were all returning to.
He wondered how much longer it could hold together without it.
Harry nearly didn't recognize them at first.
The street was narrow and uneven, the lamplight thin and yellow, barely strong enough to push back the cold that clung to the stones. His thoughts were still tangled up in plans and names and what came next—meetings, spells, rules they were already breaking—when two figures emerged from the dim ahead.
He heard the voices before he saw their faces.
"A month," someone said quietly.
Harry slowed without meaning to.
"Not a single letter," came the reply.
Theo Nott and Daphne Greengrass were walking toward him, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed, their pace unhurried, their conversation clearly not meant to be overheard. Harry caught only fragments, but they were enough to make his chest tighten.
Daphne spoke again, her voice flat, precise.
"He hates us. Definitely Theo. I know it."
Harry stopped.
They hadn't seen him yet. For half a second, he considered stepping aside, letting them pass, pretending he hadn't heard anything at all. The words felt private in a way that didn't invite interruption.
Then Theo glanced up.
The moment stretched.
Theo and Daphne stopped. Harry hesitated a beat too long, suddenly aware that he was standing in their path, not the other way around. The lamplight caught Theo's face first—cool, assessing—then Daphne's, pale and unreadable.
"Potter," Theo said. Not unfriendly. Not warm. Simply acknowledging a fact.
"Theo," Harry replied, then, after a fraction's pause, "Daphne."
Daphne inclined her head once. She did not speak.
The silence that followed did not feel like an opening.
Harry cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "Have you… have you heard from Alden?"
Theo didn't answer immediately.
He studied Harry with an expression that made it clear this question was being weighed, not welcomed. Daphne looked past Harry, down the street, as though the answer had already been decided.
"No," Theo said at last.
Nothing more.
Harry nodded, heat rising awkwardly in his face. "Right. I just—"
Theo shifted his weight slightly, a subtle signal that the conversation was already ending.
They stepped forward to pass him.
Harry spoke before he could stop himself.
"For what it's worth," he said, low and steady, "I don't believe what they're saying about him. Alden's not a monster. Or a Dark Lord."
Theo stopped.
Daphne did not.
Harry swallowed and went on, words coming more quietly now. "People forget things. But I'm only here because of him. In the graveyard. He didn't leave me."
That finally made Daphne pause.
She did not turn. She did not look at Harry. But she stopped walking.
Theo turned slowly.
Up close, his expression was calm—too calm. Not anger. Not hostility. Something colder, sharper, as though Harry had just stepped into a space he didn't fully understand.
"Best you remember that, Harry Potter," Theo said softly.
Harry held his ground, though he wasn't sure why.
"I don't believe Alden will be gone forever," Theo continued. His voice did not rise. It did not threaten. It is simply stated.
Then, after a moment, he added—quieter still:
"And if someone who spent an entire year telling Moody that Unforgivables are for cowards nearly used one on a Ministry official…"
Theo let the thought hang.
"…then I doubt he'll come back the way they expect."
Daphne started walking again.
Theo followed without another word.
They passed Harry without looking at him, their footsteps fading quickly into the dark, leaving behind nothing but cold air and the faint hum of the lamplight overhead.
Harry remained where he was.
He wasn't sure what he had expected—gratitude, perhaps, or agreement—but instead he was left with something heavier. A sense that he had glimpsed the edge of a future he didn't like, and couldn't quite see around.
It wasn't a threat.
It was worse.
It was certain.
Draco Malfoy stood outside the High Inquisitor's office for longer than was strictly necessary.
The corridor was empty, save for the faint hum of enchanted torches and the distant sound of footsteps somewhere above. The door before him was closed, its pink-painted surface immaculate, the brass plate polished to a dull shine. Dolores Umbridge, High Inquisitor, it read, in neat, officious lettering.
Draco adjusted his cuffs.
He told himself this was nothing. A conversation. A formality. His name had been appearing on lists more often lately—prefects, committees, "promising students." This was what influence looked like.
Still, his stomach tightened.
The door opened before he could knock.
"Ah, Mr. Malfoy," said Professor Umbridge, her voice warm and pleased. "Do come in."
Her office was exactly as he remembered it—pink walls, lace-trimmed cushions, plates of decorative kittens gazing down benignly from every surface. A small fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth. Nothing about the room suggested discipline or authority, and yet Draco felt as though he had stepped into something carefully contained.
Umbridge gestured to the chair opposite her desk. "Sit, dear."
Draco did.
She did not waste time with pleasantries.
"I've been watching you," Umbridge said lightly, folding her hands atop a stack of parchment. "You've handled yourself very well this term. Especially given… recent disruptions."
Draco's jaw tightened.
She noticed.
"I can't imagine how difficult it must be," she continued, tilting her head sympathetically, "to watch someone you admired make such unfortunate choices."
Alden's name was not spoken.
It did not need to be.
Draco stared at the edge of her desk. "He didn't—"
Umbridge lifted a hand, gentle, reassuring. "Oh, no, no, my dear. I'm not here to assign blame. Quite the opposite." She smiled at him, eyes bright. "You understand difficult loyalties, don't you, Draco?"
The use of his first name felt deliberate.
"You understand what it means to care for someone… even when their actions place them in opposition to order. To stability."
Draco swallowed.
He thought of Selwyn's voice. Someone told us about the boy.
He thought of his father's questions. His own answers.
"I think," Umbridge went on smoothly, "that you are precisely the sort of student Hogwarts needs right now. Someone responsible. Someone discerning. Someone who understands the importance of preventing… misunderstandings."
She slid a parchment across the desk.
Draco did not touch it.
"This," Umbridge said, "is an opportunity. A chance to help ensure that what happened before does not happen again."
He glanced down.
Junior Inquisitor.
The title sat there, deceptively simple.
"There will be others, of course," Umbridge added casually. "Crabbe. Goyle. A few promising students from other years. But leadership"—she smiled again—"requires someone with your… perspective."
Draco hesitated.
"I don't know if I'm—"
"Oh, I think you do," Umbridge said softly. "And if not you, then someone else. Someone less considerate. Less inclined to temper their enthusiasm."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering.
"You wouldn't want the wrong sort of student wielding that authority, would you?"
Draco pictured it instantly: Pansy, eager and sharp. Someone louder. Someone crueler. Someone who wouldn't hesitate.
"And think of it this way," Umbridge continued, her tone almost kind. "You'd be protecting your house. Your classmates. Ensuring no one else is led down such a… regrettable path."
Alden's face rose unbidden in Draco's mind—calm, precise, infuriatingly principled.
If Alden had been there—
But Alden wasn't.
Someone else would take the role.
Someone else would shape what came next.
Draco felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders, heavy and unavoidable.
"I'll do it," he said finally.
The words tasted wrong.
Umbridge's smile widened, satisfied.
"I knew you would," she said, already reaching for her clipboard. "Such a good boy."
Draco stood a moment later, the parchment folded neatly in his pocket, his steps steady as he left the office. The corridor looked the same as it always had, torches flickering softly against stone.
But something had shifted.
He told himself he had done the sensible thing.
That he could limit the damage.
That this was temporary.
Draco Malfoy did not yet understand that he had not been given power.
He had been given responsibility.
And the castle, like Dolores Umbridge, would never let him forget it.
The Slytherin common room was loud again.
Theo noticed it the moment he stepped inside—the rise in volume, the laughter that carried a little too far, the way conversations overlapped instead of ending abruptly. It was the sort of noise the room had not made since Alden had left, and for a fleeting, foolish second, Theo almost mistook it for relief.
Then he saw why.
Draco Malfoy stood near the fireplace, shoulders squared, a loose, confident smile playing at his mouth. Students clustered around him in easy proximity—too easy. Fourth-years who had once kept their distance now leaned in eagerly. Sixth- and seventh-years clapped him on the shoulder, voices warm with congratulations, with approval.
"About time," someone said loudly.
"Knew they'd pick you," said another.
Draco laughed, a bright, practiced sound, and Theo felt something twist unpleasantly in his chest. He watched Draco gesture as he spoke, recounting just enough of the meeting to make it sound important without sounding restrained. He didn't mention Umbridge's office. Didn't mention the way the decision had been shaped for him.
Names were being exchanged now.
Crabbe and Goyle, of course. A few others—students Theo recognized as ambitious, sharp-edged, already angling for relevance in the new order Umbridge was building. Draco nodded along, basking in it, enjoying the attention in a way that made Theo's jaw tighten.
Power always looked like this at first.
Across the room, Tracey Davis sat with Daphne Greengrass, their chairs angled away from the noise. Daphne's posture was immaculate, her expression cool, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere beyond the crowd. She did not look at Draco. Not once.
Theo joined them, dropping into the seat beside Tracey with more force than necessary.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, barely audible, "He's such an idiot."
Tracey snorted softly into her sleeve.
Daphne spoke without turning her head. "He is," she said, voice sharp and precise. "And honestly, I don't know why Alden ever became friends with him. He's a weasel."
Theo exhaled slowly.
The laughter near the fireplace swelled as someone else volunteered their name, eager, hopeful. Draco accepted it with a grin, already thinking in terms of lists and roles and proximity to authority.
Theo watched him for a long moment, cataloguing the way the room bent subtly around him, the way eyes tracked his movements now. This wasn't leadership. It wasn't influence earned through respect or restraint.
It was positioning.
And Draco, for all his confidence, was already compromised.
The common room buzzed on, livelier than it had been in weeks, voices rising and falling around Draco Malfoy as though he were the axis of something new and dangerous.
Theo leaned back in his chair, arms folded, and listened.
Slytherin had found its noise again.
And it was going to cost them far more than they realized.