Chapter Text
A sunny morning burst through the windows of Hogwarts, promising a perfect day.
But to the castle's inhabitants, this light felt foreign — the school still lived in the suffocating atmosphere of rumors, bullying, and distrust left over from the previous year.
In the Gryffindor dormitory, Ron Weasley scowled at Potter's empty, neatly made bed.
There was no friendly concern in his eyes — only a cold, distrustful, and slightly contemptuous look.
The brand of "liar" and the whispers behind his back that Harry was guilty of Cedric Diggory's death had burned away their former closeness.
Ron was sick of forever living in the shadow of someone else's dark secrets. Proudly raising his head, he pointedly turned away and went to get ready for class.
Hermione was waiting for him in the common room.
When Ron mentioned in passing, "Harry's not in the room," a complicated mix of emotions crossed the girl's face. Her conscience was tormenting her.
They had both clearly seen the cruel bullying Harry had been subjected to lately, but they hadn't intervened. The fear of ending up in his place, of being targeted and becoming outcasts themselves, had paralyzed them.
Hermione looked away, slightly flustered, hiding her shame, then rolled her eyes in her usual way, putting on a mask of indifference:
"Oh, Ron, where's he going to go? He'll come back on his own. Let's get going, no point standing around here."
The Great Hall was gradually filling with students. The four houses buzzed as they discussed the latest gossip, while the teachers at the head table waited for the house-elves to bring breakfast. But the empty golden platters remained untouched — something utterly unthinkable for Hogwarts.
And suddenly, from below, from the direction of the kitchen located near the pantry and the Hufflepuff basement, a terrible, piercing scream rang out. This scream of horror echoed throughout the entire castle.
Dumbledore rose sharply from the table. His face instantly lost its usual calm.
"Everyone stay where you are! Prefects, keep order," he commanded thunderously, then turned to his colleagues: "Professors, follow me!"
Dolores Umbridge immediately jumped up from her chair, scurrying after the departing wizards. Her small eyes glittered feverishly.
"Where are they going without me? What's even happening here?" she thought irritably and suspiciously, her short legs shuffling quickly as she tried to keep up with Dumbledore's wide stride. A plan was already brewing in her mind for how to turn this incident to the Ministry's advantage, since she had no intention of letting her control over Hogwarts slip, not even for a second."
Of course, some of the prefects, overcome by panic and curiosity, quietly followed the teachers as well.
Entering the kitchen, the professors froze. On the vast expanse of the stone floor lay the body of fifteen-year-old Harry Potter. A whole pool of thick, black-red blood was spreading around him. The veins on his arms had been mercilessly opened, and his stomach was completely torn open.
Minerva McGonagall's knees buckled. She wept quietly, convulsively covering her mouth with both hands, trying to wipe away the tears streaming down.
Severus Snape went rigid. Panic, which he never allowed himself, made his eyes dart wildly over the boy's body. In his mind, a single thought hammered like a deafening bell, burning everything inside him: "I couldn't protect Lily's son. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't..."
At that moment, the prefects who had followed came to the doorway and looked in.
"Get out of here at once!" Dolores Umbridge hissed, sickly-sweet yet furious, roughly shoving the teenagers back, not even giving Dumbledore a chance to speak. But the prefects had already managed to see Harry in this horrifying state.
In the ominous silence of the kitchen, Dumbledore slowly sank to his knees before the boy's body. The headmaster's gaze fell on the knife clutched in Harry's stiffened hand — the long, crude blade was completely covered in drying black-red blood. From the nature of the wounds, it became absolutely clear: there had been no outside killer. Harry had done this himself. He had opened his own veins, mercilessly torn open his own stomach, unable to bear the suffocating bullying and loneliness any longer.
At the head of this terrible bloody bed lay a small parchment scroll, neatly tied with a clean ribbon. Dumbledore reached out a trembling hand, took it, and carefully pulled at the edge of the ribbon.
Dolores Umbridge, craning her neck and nearly stepping into the pool of blood, tried to peer over the headmaster's shoulder, her toad-like eyes bulging greedily.
But Dumbledore reacted instantly — with one precise, sharp movement, he hid the scroll deep in the folds of his robe, not letting her read a single word.
He rose heavily and turned to his pale, shocken colleagues.
The headmaster's face seemed carved from stone.
"Please, not a single word about this to anyone, for now," Dumbledore said quietly but with authority. "We cannot allow panic in the school. Find the prefects who managed to see this, and get their strictest word to stay silent."
Having forbidden the professors from disclosing what they'd seen, the headmaster turned his gaze to the house-elves, huddled in the corner and trembling with horror.
"Move Harry's body to the infirmary," he ordered quietly. "Cover him properly and lock the doors. After that, clean up all the blood here thoroughly. And this dagger..." — he pointed at the bloodied weapon — "take it carefully, place it in a separate bag, and do not clean it under any circumstances. Preserve it."
"Yes, sir, we'll do it all, Headmaster Dumbledore, sir..." the house-elves squeaked fearfully, nodding their heads convulsively.
Dumbledore turned back to the teachers and Umbridge:
"Now we can go. We need to return to the Great Hall."
Umbridge was deeply outraged that Potter's suicide note had been kept from her. Her face broke out in crimson blotches, and she breathed heavily and noisily, but in the presence of the grim Snape and the weeping McGonagall, she didn't dare start an open scene, and turning sharply, she stalked off.
Each of the professors headed toward the Great Hall to keep watch over their houses.
The few prefects who had caught a glimpse of the terrible scene huddled fearfully against the walls and stayed silent, gripped by fear and the teachers' strict order.
When the professors and prefects returned to the Great Hall, the students were still sitting in tense anticipation, whispering and glancing at the empty golden tables. Finally, the teachers took their seats, and Dumbledore stepped up to the podium. His face wore its usual, gentle smile, though an icy grief lurked in the depths of his eyes.
"My apologies for the delay, my friends," the headmaster said good-naturedly, his magically amplified voice carrying through the hall. "There was a small 'incident' in the kitchen, but nothing serious. You may calmly begin breakfast, it will appear shortly."
In that same instant, the tables groaned under a mountain of steaming food. Most students sighed with relief, accepted this explanation, and began to eat. However, Luna Lovegood didn't even touch her plate. She thoughtfully shifted her gaze from the teachers' table to the doors, intuitively sensing: something here was very wrong.
Nevertheless, the day began.
Hogwarts' gloomy, false calm swallowed the students: some went to lectures, some headed off to Quidditch practice. The day dragged on as usual, until evening came.
In the Gryffindor common room, Ron and Hermione sat by the fireplace. Ron kept glancing at the portrait hole, and Hermione couldn't focus on her book at all. By evening, both of them had begun to seriously worry — Harry hadn't shown up to a single class, and he was nowhere to be seen in the castle.
"Hey, where's Potter anyway?" came the disdainful voice of Seamus Finnigan nearby, who had overheard their quiet conversation. He smirked and turned to Dean Thomas: "That idiot's probably decided not to show his face at all. Must be tired of getting it from the whole school for his lying mug."
Ron and Hermione stayed silent, feeling a dull anxiety building inside them. Unable to bear the oppressive atmosphere, they gloomily went their separate ways to their dormitories.
Late that night in the Great Hall, behind tightly locked doors, a small circle gathered: the professors and the few prefects who had glimpsed the kitchen that morning. The atmosphere was heavy and grim. The prefects exchanged frightened glances, eager to finally get some answers.
Dolores Umbridge was the first to break the silence. She stepped forward, smiling sickly sweetly, though her eyes burned with malice:
"Headmaster Dumbledore, perhaps you'll finally explain to us what happened? And, if you'd be so kind, show us what was in that scroll you hid so hastily in the kitchen?"
Dumbledore silently reached into his robes and pulled out the parchment. He unrolled it in front of the professors — the scroll was completely, crystal clear empty.
"I checked it with my wand, Dolores, but nothing worked," Dumbledore replied calmly, then turned to the Potions Master. "Severus, take a look. Can you try to reveal hidden ink using potions? Perhaps... perhaps this is some kind of hidden message from Voldemort."
At the mention of that name, Umbridge's face twisted with fury.
"There is no such thing as You-Know-Who!" she shouted furiously, clenching her fists.
She didn't care in the slightest about Harry's death. Deep down, she believed the insufferable boy had deserved such an end, but of course she couldn't say that aloud in front of all the professors. So she only added spitefully: "This is just some foolish nonsense from the boy!"
Severus Snape took the scroll from the headmaster's hands with a sigh.
"Yes, I'll try to find something," he said quietly.
Snape's voice sounded duller than usual. Today's classes had been hard on him — he was thoroughly exhausted, his thoughts kept returning to the bloody mess on the kitchen floor, and his own helplessness echoed in his mind.
"Severus, please, find a way to read it," Minerva McGonagall asked, holding back tears. "Albus, we must inform his friends immediately. And... and the Ministry. We're obligated to formally report Mr. Potter's death."
"Not yet, Minerva," Dumbledore stopped her, gently but firmly. "First we need to sort everything out and examine the scroll. Do you agree with me, Dolores? We should hold off on making this public."
Umbridge narrowed her eyes predatorily, an expression of triumph appearing on her face:
"Oh, I don't mind waiting a few days, Albus. But be warned: if you drag this out and don't report it to the Ministry yourself, I will. And I will absolutely report what you've been up to right under the Ministry's nose. A student died in your school! You won't be able to hide this, Dumbledore — you'll be guaranteed to be removed from your post."
"I understand," Dumbledore replied quietly, lowering his head. "This is my mistake. I allowed a student to die within these walls. You're right, Dolores, I bear full responsibility for this."
"But what will we tell the other students?" McGonagall asked, shifting her gaze from Dumbledore to Snape. "Honestly, Albus, they'll notice for certain that Harry's gone. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger will be the first to raise the alarm."
"We'll say that Mr. Potter has left," the headmaster replied. "We'll say he left school temporarily for urgent family matters, to see his relatives."
Snape arched an eyebrow skeptically:
"And you think, Headmaster, that Weasley and Granger will believe such a cheap lie?"
"We simply have no other choice, Severus," McGonagall sighed sadly.
Dumbledore turned to the frozen prefects.
"And I will ask you to keep your mouths strictly shut. So that the secret remains hidden while we conduct our investigation."
To be absolutely sure, Dumbledore raised his wand and cast a special non-disclosure spell on the prefects. The teenagers felt as though their lips had been bound by an invisible force. Understanding the gravity of the situation, they nodded silently and hurried to leave the Great Hall.
When the doors closed behind them, Dumbledore looked wearily at his colleagues:
"Well, let's call it a day.
We'll see each other tomorrow. Severus, good luck with the scroll."
The next morning began with an official announcement. In the Great Hall, once the students had finally gotten their breakfast, Albus Dumbledore rose from his seat. His voice, amplified by a spell, sounded unusually flat and dry:
"May I have a moment of your attention, please. Yesterday, Mr. Potter temporarily left Hogwarts due to urgent family circumstances. He has gone to stay with his relatives and will miss part of the term. Please refrain from spreading unnecessary rumors and focus on your studies."
A wave of whispers immediately rippled through the hall. Someone at the Slytherin table openly snickered, and Seamus Finnigan, at the Gryffindor table, smirked triumphantly, leaning toward Dean:
"I told you! Ran off with his tail between his legs. Couldn't handle the whole school knowing the truth about his lies about Cedric."
Ron and Hermione exchanged glances. In that first moment, the headmaster's words brought them relief — Harry had simply left, he was alive. But that relief didn't last long.
Another day passed.
Anxiety, like a cold fog, began to fill Hermione's thoughts. That evening in the common room, she snapped her book shut and turned to Ron:
"Ron, this is nonsense. Think about it! Harry hates the Dursleys. He would never, do you hear me, never voluntarily go back to them in the middle of the school year. And the strangest thing... I checked the dormitory. His trunk is still there. His things are still there. Even Hedwig is still in the owlery! Who leaves for 'family matters' and abandons everything?"
Ron went pale, his disbelief giving way to a dull fear. The guilt he'd been suppressing flared up with new force. They had watched Harry be bullied, they had turned away from him, and now he had simply vanished, leaving his things behind.
Unable to bear it any longer, they rushed off to find the headmaster. They managed to intercept Dumbledore in the main corridor as he was returning from the Ministry wing.
"Professor Dumbledore!" Hermione called out, breathing hard, blocking his path. "Please, tell us the truth. Where's Harry? We know he's not at the Dursleys'. His things are still in his room! Are you... are you hiding him? Is it because of Voldemort? Was he hurt?"
Ron stood beside her, fists clenched, searching the headmaster's face with a mix of hope and fear.
Dumbledore stopped. For a moment his face seemed infinitely old and tired, but he quickly restored his mask of calm.
"Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley," he said gently, but coldly.
"Matters of Mr. Potter's safety are the priority right now. I strongly recommend you return to your common room and not indulge in speculation. Everything with your friend is as it should be. Go along now."
He walked past them, leaving them in utter confusion. They had no idea that, at that very moment, a real mystery was being unraveled in the castle's dungeons.
In his private laboratory, Severus Snape locked the doors tightly with several silencing spells.
On his workbench lay the mysterious dagger and that same blank scroll.
Snape picked up the dagger by the hilt.
The weapon was strange, unsettling. Unfamiliar, unusual symbols were carved into the dark blade — not standard Scandinavian runes, and certainly not Ministry markings.
This was ancient, dark magic, one that radiated a ritualistic chill.
Where could a fifteen-year-old boy, watched over by half the school and Umbridge herself, have gotten hold of such an artifact? Had someone smuggled it into the castle? Or had Potter found it in one of the school's hidden caches? The questions remained unanswered.
Sighing with the exhaustion that had settled over him these past two days, Snape turned to the bubbling cauldron. Today's lessons had gone dreadfully — he'd barely restrained himself from snapping at the students, the pool of black-red blood belonging to Lily's son still before his eyes.
He carefully drew up the specially brewed revealing potion into a dropper and approached the blank parchment. A drop of the solution fell onto the clean surface.
The parchment immediately hissed, releasing a thin stream of purple smoke.
Snape held his breath. Where the potion had landed, black, trembling letters slowly, jaggedly began to emerge, written in Harry Potter's uneven handwriting.
Snape had only managed to make out the first line: "You wanted to see a monster and a liar in me. Well then..." when suddenly there came a loud, demanding knock at the laboratory door.
Snape sharply flicked his wand, casting an illusion of a blank sheet, and turned to the door, hiding the dagger beneath his robes. Standing on the threshold, smiling predatorily, was Dolores Umbridge.
She stepped over the threshold of the laboratory, her eyes darting over the shelves and tables, but Snape stood motionless, blocking her view of the cauldron with his body. His face remained an impenetrable mask.
"Professor Snape," she sang sickly-sweetly, adjusting her pink cardigan. "I simply thought I'd check on how your work with the... 'incident' was progressing. The Ministry is quite concerned about this foolish stunt of Potter's."
"I'm working on it, Dolores," Snape cut her off in an icy tone. "But potions require time and quiet. If you hover over me, the process will drag on."
Umbridge pursed her lips in displeasure, but finding nothing to seize on, exhaled sharply with a hiss:
"Very well... I won't presume to interfere. But remember, Albus can't hide the truth forever."
The moment the door shut behind her, Snape immediately sealed it with three powerful spells and returned to the desk. A flick of his wand — and the illusion dissipated. The potion continued to soak into the parchment, and the jagged, sprawling lines breathed such chilling hatred and despair that the professor's breath caught. Harry had written to those who remained in the castle:
"I'm sick of everything. Sick of fighting for those who don't deserve it in the slightest.
You people are so pathetic in your fear and blindness that you're ready to trample anyone who tried to save you.
You choked on your own gossip, accusing me of lying, and I no longer wish to be part of your miserable world.
I'm leaving, and this is my own choice.
But you should know: a few days ago, I already wrote to Voldemort and informed him that I would soon die. I hope he's pleased with my death. Now there's nothing left standing in his way.
Enjoy your triumph, that is, if the Ministry rats and the cowardly herd even believe what I've written here."
Snape reeled back from the desk, breathing heavily. The lines burned his eyes.
The boy the school had hounded over the truth about Cedric hadn't just killed himself — he'd left them a terrifying time bomb. A few days before his suicide, Harry had sent a letter to Voldemort.
This meant the Dark Lord already knew: the Boy Who Lived was no more, Hogwarts was left undefended, and the Ministry was still cowardly burying its head in the sand.
Snape sharply flicked his wand, drying the parchment, and hastily hid it in the inner pocket of his robes. The situation had become a hundred times more dangerous. If Umbridge learned of the existence of this warning, chaos would break out in Dumbledore's camp, and the Ministry would do everything in its power to bury this truth along with Potter's body.
Severus strode swiftly toward the laboratory door. He needed to deliver this news to the headmaster immediately.