Harry Potter and the Silent Guardian

At nearly the same hour that Voldemort and his alliance were plotting to free Grindelwald, Harry Potter trudged into Hogwarts through a seldom-used side entrance. The door yielded easily to the discrete password override he'd engineered months ago. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, both physically and mentally, but beneath the fatigue was a faint, satisfying hum of victory. Winning, it seemed, had a way of dulling the sting of bruises and the toll of adrenaline.

His head throbbed, his eyelids heavy, but the castle's wards greeted him like an old friend, wrapping him in their familiar warmth the moment he stepped inside. The early light of dawn filtered through the tall windows, bathing the stone corridor in muted gold. Harry sighed, his footsteps echoing softly as he made his way to the Head Boy room.

Once inside, he kicked off his boots and all but collapsed onto his bed, too tired to even bother with undressing. A few hours of sleep would have to do before classes began. But as soon as he closed his eyes, the battlefield surged into his mind: the deadly dance of Fiendfyre, the guttural hiss of dying vampires, and the pained roars of wounded werewolves. His rest was shallow, haunted, and far from peaceful.

When he finally woke, the sun was already well above the horizon. He glanced at the clock—he'd managed perhaps two hours of sleep. It would have to suffice.

"Another morning," he muttered to himself. "Another day at Hogwarts."

Rolling out of bed, Harry rummaged through his trunk and pulled out two vials: an Invigoration Draught and a mild Focus Serum. He downed them quickly, feeling their effects ripple through him, sharpening his mind and steadying his body. With a deep breath, he cast a refreshing charm to clear any lingering traces of fatigue. The spell worked as intended; outwardly, he looked as though he'd slept like a baby. No one would suspect a thing.

Harry straightened his robes, grabbed his school bag, and stepped into the bustling castle halls, the weight of his dual life neatly hidden behind an air of practiced nonchalance.

---

The day's lessons passed in a blur. Harry found himself uncharacteristically irritable, snapping at a second-year Ravenclaw who had timidly asked for help in Transfiguration. Though he muttered a curt apology afterward, the incident gnawed at him. Skipping the rest of his classes, he resolved to find out why he'd lost control so easily. Meditation and Occlumency seemed like the best way to uncover the cause.

He retreated to a quiet alcove in a seldom-used tower corridor, settling onto a cold stone bench. The distant murmur of the castle seemed muffled here, as though the space itself held its breath. Harry closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. Meditation came first, the familiar rhythm of his breathing calming the frayed edges of his nerves. Then came the practiced mental exercises of Occlumency, each one forcing him to confront the source of his frustration.

The truth was obvious, even before the exercises had begun. It wasn't lack of sleep or the stress of classes. The haunting weight of what he had done the night before—killing so many foes—hung heavily in his mind. Vampires, werewolves, and other dark creatures, all falling by his hand. Rationalizing the situation ("They attacked me; I had no choice") did little to quiet the horror of it. Nightmares had already begun to take hold, replaying the faces and screams of his enemies.

I'm not used to this, he thought grimly, his mind drifting through each vivid memory. He'd fought before, and he'd killed before, but never like this. Never so many, and never with such calculated precision. Inferi and Acromantula had been easier to distance himself from—they weren't truly alive, not like this. But last night, he had been a warrior on a battlefield, not a defender fending off mindless monsters.

The aftermath was clear now: his fuse was shorter, his frustrations bubbling over into interactions that once wouldn't have bothered him. A simple question from a young student had been enough to tip him into irritation, and he hated how easily he had snapped.

The solution, if there was one, lay in more meditation, more Occlumency—a mental regimen he'd honed to withstand outside intrusion. But cleansing emotional scars was far more difficult than blocking unwanted thoughts. He let out a weary sigh, realizing it would take days, perhaps weeks, to regain balance. Until then, he would need to keep his distance from others. He couldn't afford to lash out again, or worse, hurt someone out of reflex.

"So I keep my distance," he murmured to himself, eyes still closed. It was a temporary measure, he told himself, a necessary step to regain control. With time and discipline, he would find his equilibrium again.

For now, he just had to endure.

---

Days blurred into a haze of half-drowsy classes and forced politeness. Things were not progressing well. Several times, friends or professors tried to engage him, but Harry deflected them with excuses—extra Head Boy duties, urgent library research, private study. In truth, he just needed distance, a safe buffer from the weight of his thoughts.

When the pressure threatened to break him, Harry sought solace in the one place that brought him peace: Fleur Delacour. That night, as curfew descended, he slipped away to France to see her.

"Mon Dieu, 'Arry," she whispered during the first of his nightly visits, her fingers brushing back his unruly hair to reveal the dark circles beneath his eyes. "You look exhausted. What has happened?"

At first, he resisted, giving vague reassurances. But her gaze grew stern, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Eventually, he relented, recounting a compressed version of the confrontation at his mountain sanctuary: the vampire hordes, the werewolves, the illusions, the savage chaos. He spared her the grisliest details—the screams silenced by conjured flames, the clash of steel against flesh—but it was enough.

"You… alone?!" Fleur gasped, her accent tightening with alarm. "C'est insensé! You could have died!"

Harry shrugged, though guilt weighed heavily on him. "I made sure I was prepared. I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

Her grip on his hand tightened, her blue eyes swimming with a fierce mix of worry and anger.

"This is not about whether you were prepared, mon amour. You are…" She exhaled sharply. "Oh, 'Arry, you are too reckless. You must let me know next time. Even if I cannot fight your battles, I can call for help if it goes badly!"

"I'd never endanger you," he murmured, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes, inhaling the soft, floral scent of her hair, grounding himself in her presence.

Fleur pulled back slightly, her tone half-scolding, half-affectionate. "I am not so fragile, mon amour. At the very least, let me be informed. The not knowing… c'est pire. It is worse."

He nodded, though uncertainty lingered in his heart. His protective instinct rebelled at the idea of involving her in the life-and-death struggles that defined his days. Yet he couldn't deny how her presence eased the storm in his mind. In her company, he felt a fleeting calm, a fragile peace that dulled the sharp edges of his burdens.

They spent the evening talking softly, sipping tea, or strolling under the moonlight. The quiet moments steadied him, the warmth of her presence melting the tension that coiled in his chest. Each night, as he prepared to leave, he felt fractionally better, the weight on his heart lighter. It wasn't a cure, but it gave him just enough strength to face the next day.

---

Meanwhile, as Harry fought his mental battles, the atmosphere at Hogwarts grew increasingly strained under the oppressive weight of High Inquisitor Dolores Umbridge. More Educational Decrees sprouted on the notice boards daily, stripping students of their few remaining freedoms. Quidditch teams were disbanded, student groups banned, and the once-vibrant castle was plunged into a bleak, joyless routine. A pervasive gloom hung over the halls, suffocating any spark of happiness.

The castle's lively energy dulled into silence. Students trudged from class to class, avoiding eye contact with the pink-robed figure who glided through the corridors like a vulture circling its prey. In the Great Hall, conversations dropped to whispers whenever she passed, her saccharine smile as chilling as a Dementor's presence.

Adding to the misery, Umbridge's newly formed Inquisitorial Squad prowled the halls, eager to hand out detentions for the smallest perceived infraction. The Weasley twins—once unstoppable pranksters—were frequent targets, their mischief stifled under the squad's relentless watch. Detentions piled up for them and others, though thankfully Harry had intervened early to remove the blood quills. Instead of enduring that cruel torture, students were now simply made to write lines with normal quills—boring, but harmless.

Harry felt a stab of frustration every time he saw Umbridge impose her humiliating rules unchecked. Under different circumstances, he would have relished the chance to undermine her at every turn. But in his current state, physically and mentally drained, he avoided confrontation. His self-control felt fragile, and he feared that if he tried anything now, he might not be able to accurately control the power, leading to much worse consequences. Therefore, for now, she had free rein to spread her misery.

Defense Against the Dark Arts devolved into a farce, little more than silent reading sessions. No spells, no demonstrations. For the older students, the tension reached a breaking point. OWLs and NEWTs loomed ahead, and they needed real defensive training.

It was Charles Potter, along with Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, who seized the opportunity. With a tip from Dobby, Charles discovered the Room of Requirement—a hidden space perfect for secret practice. They began inviting trusted friends, slowly building a group to teach and learn proper defensive magic. They named their secret group Dumbledore's Army, quietly defying Umbridge's oppressive decrees.

Harry learned of their plan by accident, overhearing a whisper from a Ravenclaw friend. He found himself impressed that the DA in the canon was still formed however he was annoyed about the discovery of Room of Requirements. That place been his secret spot. But the castle was large, and secrets rarely stayed hidden forever. He'd already moved anything truly important out of that place anyway, especially the Vanishing Cabinet (which he had relocated to his sanctuary for secure travel between his home and the Black Castle).

He sighed, resigned to their use of the space. "Let them have their fun," he mused. "If they can learn to defend themselves, that's a good thing. I'll keep watch from the shadows."

By the end of the week, Harry felt marginally better. Potions, short naps, and Fleur's unwavering support had soothed the worst of his mental strain. The nightmares receded, though they didn't vanish entirely. Time, and Fleur's calming presence, helped him compartmentalize the horrors of the mountain battle.

As he regained his balance, Harry began noticing the strain on his friends. The Weasley twins, though often in trouble, seemed subdued, their pranks all but forgotten. Roger, Cedric, and the Quidditch teams were frustrated at losing practice time in their final year. Fifth and seventh years, desperate to prepare for their exams, whispered openly about their frustration. Though rumors of Charles Potter's secret group spread, not everyone trusted Charles—or wanted to join his circle.

Some lamented that Harry, the Head Boy and the Hogwarts Champion, appeared indifferent to their plight.

Harry knew he could no longer remain idle. If he let Umbridge's reign go unchallenged, the morale at Hogwarts might fracture beyond repair. And while he wasn't ready for direct, violent confrontation, there were other ways to fight. Subtle sabotage, clever pranks—methods that wouldn't compromise his fragile control.

He smirked faintly, recalling the humiliating toad-croaking curse he'd once cast on her. Perhaps it was time for a repeat performance—or something equally devious.

"Yes," he murmured to himself, rising with renewed determination. "I'll act."

His friends had pleaded for him to do something, anything, to restore some semblance of hope and dignity. If the students needed preparation for their NEWTs, and the twins needed inspiration to return to mischief, he had a reputation to uphold—and plenty of ideas to unleash.