"War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength."— George Orwell, 1984
After her run, Harriet took a quick shower before heading down to the Great Hall, Sakaki Mutsuko trailing behind her like a faithful shadow. The hot water helped wash away the lingering stiffness in her muscles, though her mind was already far ahead, organizing the day, categorizing impressions, preparing for what was to come. Hogwarts had that effect on her—no matter how many times she returned, it never truly felt routine.
By the time they arrived, most students were already seated. The Great Hall buzzed with noise: clinking cutlery, overlapping conversations, laughter that carried too far. Harriet slowed her pace and glanced sideways at Mutsuko.
"You should probably keep your distance from me for now," she said quietly. "Public opinion isn't exactly in my favor, and I don't want you dragged into trouble just because of me."
Mutsuko's shoulders slumped for a brief second, then she straightened up as if this were merely another plot point she had anticipated.
"Oh… right," she said, nodding solemnly. "That makes sense. I haven't had my character development arc yet anyway. It's fine. We'll reunite later."
Before Harriet could respond, Mutsuko turned on her heel and hurried off toward the cluster of first-years, seamlessly blending into their chatter. Harriet watched her go for a moment, then exhaled softly and made her way to the Gryffindor table.
Hermione was already there, of course—eating breakfast with one hand while reviewing her class schedule and notes with the other. Harriet sat down beside her, taking a piece of toast and spreading jam over it.
Hermione immediately launched into a summary of her summer: books she'd read, causes she'd researched, injustices she'd discovered. House-elves were mentioned at least twice. Harriet listened with half an ear, responding with noncommittal murmurs—"Mm," "That makes sense," "Interesting"—while scanning the hall.
People were watching her. Not openly, not blatantly, but enough for her to notice. Quick glances. Whispers cut short. She'd seen the papers; she knew what they said. What bothered her more wasn't the suspicion—it was Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy hadn't approached her once. No sneers, no veiled threats, not even a half-hearted attempt at provocation on the train. He simply watched her from afar, eyes cold and calculating.
That worried her far more than open hostility.
He's planning something, she thought. And whatever it is, it won't be stupid.
After breakfast, the morning classes began.
Their first lesson was Charms, taught by Professor Flitwick. The tiny professor stood atop his usual stack of books, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. Harriet found herself relaxing almost immediately. Charms had always felt… elegant. Precise. Honest.
As Flitwick demonstrated a complex variation of a levitation charm, Harriet felt it again—that strange ease with which new magical concepts settled into her mind. Old theories merged naturally with new frameworks, like puzzle pieces snapping together. Wand movement, intent, resonance—it all made sense to her in a way that bordered on unsettling.
Flitwick noticed.
"Excellent control, Miss—ah—Harriet," he said, peering at her work. "Very refined for your level."
She inclined her head slightly, accepting the praise without comment.
Next came Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall. The atmosphere shifted immediately. Where Charms was fluid, Transfiguration was rigid, unforgiving. McGonagall wasted no time, her sharp gaze sweeping across the room as she outlined the year's expectations.
Harriet appreciated the honesty. Transfiguration was dangerous if done poorly, and McGonagall never pretended otherwise. As they worked, Harriet felt the familiar pressure—magic resisting her will, forcing her to be exact, disciplined. It was frustrating, but in a way she welcomed.
Then came Ancient Runes, her final class of the morning.
Runes always fascinated her. They felt older than Hogwarts, older than the magical systems most wizards took for granted. Symbols carried weight. Meaning. Power layered upon power. Harriet absorbed the lecture with quiet intensity, already seeing connections—patterns that echoed concepts she'd encountered elsewhere, far beyond the Wizarding World.
By the time lunch approached, her mind was buzzing.
The afternoon loomed ahead.
Dolores Umbridge.
Just the thought of it made something sour twist in Harriet's stomach. She knew what was coming—not just from memory, but from instinct. Control masked as order. Authority disguised as righteousness.
She gathered her things slowly, eyes narrowing.
Fine, she thought. Let's see how this year really begins.
The classroom was unnaturally quiet.
Maybe everyone had silently agreed on it, or maybe it was simply the effect of it being the first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson of the year. No one ever quite knew what to expect from that subject anymore. Professors came and went, some incompetent, some dangerous, some outright unhinged. Experience had taught them caution.
Harriet, for her part, leaned back against her desk, posture loose, expression calm. Almost bored.
She didn't need anything this class had to offer. Whatever Dolores Umbridge planned to teach—or rather, not teach—was irrelevant to her. She had no intention of lowering herself to the level of the Pink Toad, nor of engaging in whatever farce this lesson was about to become.
The door creaked open.
Dolores Umbridge minced into the room, wrapped in her aggressively pink cardigan, a wide, tight smile plastered across her face. The air seemed to shrink around her. She surveyed the class slowly, savoring the silence, her gaze lingering on certain students longer than others.
When her eyes landed on Harriet, they stayed there.
Too long.
It felt like being stared down by a particularly malicious amphibian—small, smug, and venomous. The look on Umbridge's face wasn't simple dislike. It was something closer to revulsion, mixed with a need to assert dominance.
She's already decided I'm a problem, Harriet thought calmly. Good.
Umbridge clapped her hands together lightly.
"Good afternoon, children," she trilled.
A few muttered replies echoed back.
"Oh, oh, no," Umbridge said, shaking her head. "That won't do at all. When I say 'good afternoon,' you say 'good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.' Let's try again."
A beat of silence, then:
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," the class chorused, some more enthusiastically than others.
"Much better," she smiled. "Now then… I am Dolores Umbridge, your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. I have been appointed by the Ministry of Magic to ensure that this subject is taught in a… proper manner."
Harriet closed her eyes briefly.
Here we go.
Umbridge launched into her speech, almost word for word as it had been decreed from on high: how previous instruction at Hogwarts had been "sadly lacking," how there had been "dangerously inconsistent teaching methods," how the Ministry would now be taking a more active role in shaping young minds.
"The Ministry feels," Umbridge continued, "that a return to fundamental, theoretical knowledge is the most appropriate way forward. You will not be needing to perform magic in my class."
That last sentence rippled through the room like a stone dropped into still water.
Harriet didn't move.
Of course. Theory only. No wands. No spells. No defense. Just obedience wrapped in bureaucracy.
Umbridge gestured toward the stack of books on her desk. "You will be using Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert Slinkhard. Please turn to page five."
Pages flipped reluctantly.
A hand shot up.
Hermione Granger.
Harriet resisted the urge to sigh.
"Yes?" Umbridge said sweetly, though her eyes were already hard.
"Well," Hermione began carefully, "we were expecting to learn practical defensive spells this year. You know, in case we need to defend ourselves."
Umbridge's smile widened, stretching into something unsettling.
"Defend yourselves from what, dear?"
Hermione hesitated. "Well—dark creatures. Curses. Real situations."
Umbridge let out a soft, tinkling laugh.
"There is nothing to worry about, Miss Granger. The Ministry assures us that you are perfectly safe. There is no reason to burden young minds with unnecessary fear."
Harriet's fingers twitched slightly.
Lies, she thought. Blatant, lazy lies.
Hermione frowned. "But—last year we were attacked. There were dementors. And—"
"That," Umbridge interrupted smoothly, "was an isolated incident. Exaggerated by rumor and sensationalism. You will find that this class is about understanding the principles of defense, not indulging in… dramatics."
Several students shifted uncomfortably.
Hermione's hand remained raised. "So… we're not going to practice spells at all?"
"No," Umbridge said crisply. "You will be learning theory. After all, what use is casting a spell if you do not understand it?"
Harriet opened her eyes and looked directly at Umbridge.
Their gazes met.
For a fraction of a second, something flickered across Umbridge's face—irritation, perhaps, or the instinctive discomfort of being observed rather than obeyed.
Harriet didn't smile. She didn't glare.
She simply watched.
Fine, she thought. Play your little game. I'll learn nothing here—and you'll still lose.
Around her, the class reluctantly turned back to their books, the tension thick and unresolved. Harriet leaned back again, expression unreadable, already categorizing Umbridge as an obstacle rather than a threat.
This wasn't a lesson.
It was a declaration of war.
Of course, Dolores Umbridge would not be Dolores Umbridge if she weren't openly, unapologetically toxic.
Her smile sharpened as her gaze fixed on Harriet once more.
"Miss Potter," she said in that shrill, saccharine voice, "perhaps you are accustomed to your celebrity excusing you from making any effort at all. But this is a classroom, you see. And as a student, you are expected to participate."
A few heads turned. The room went still.
Harriet slowly straightened, resting her chin on her hand, expression calm to the point of indifference.
"I fail to see the point, Professor," she replied evenly. "After all, why learn to defend oneself when we can simply call the Aurors? Isn't that what you just explained to us?"
Umbridge's smile twitched.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm merely following the logic of your lesson," Harriet continued, unbothered. "If danger is exaggerated, if the Ministry guarantees our safety, and if practical defense is unnecessary… then surely effort is equally unnecessary. You are the teacher, after all. I'm just applying what you're teaching."
A murmur rippled through the class.
Umbridge's eyes narrowed, but her voice remained syrupy. "That attitude, Miss Potter, borders on insolence."
Harriet tilted her head. "I'd call it consistency."
For a heartbeat, Umbridge looked as though she might snap. Her fingers tightened around her wand, then relaxed. She was probing, Harriet realized—trying to provoke a reaction, a misstep, anything she could use.
"You seem to think yourself very clever," Umbridge said. "But cleverness does not excuse laziness."
"Of course not," Harriet replied. "Which is why I study what matters."
"And you believe this does not?"
"I believe," Harriet said calmly, "that theory without application is just a bedtime story. Comforting, perhaps—but not particularly useful when something goes wrong."
She paused, as if choosing her words carefully.
"Though I suppose some prefer it that way. Stories where nothing is tested, nothing is risked… and everything works exactly as it should."
Her gaze lifted, steady.
"Reality, unfortunately, has a habit of being less cooperative."
That did it.
Umbridge inhaled sharply, clearly ready to pounce—but stopped herself. Too many witnesses. Too early. Harriet had given her nothing actionable, nothing punishable. Every word had been framed as agreement, not defiance.
"Well," Umbridge said tightly, "we shall see how long that confidence lasts."
Harriet shrugged lightly and leaned back again.
And just like that, the first lesson ended.
Wonderful.
The rest of the day passed without incident—classes blending together in a dull procession. Harriet absorbed information easily, as she always did, new concepts sliding neatly into place alongside old ones. Still, the thought of Umbridge lingered like a bad taste.
As she wandered the corridors later that afternoon, already considering slipping away to a quieter place—the Room of Requirement, the true reason she had chosen to return to Hogwarts rather than flee the country—she nearly collided with a familiar small figure.
Sakaki Mutsuko beamed as soon as she saw her and hurried over.
"I FOUND THE FIRST BOSS!"
Harriet barely had time to react before Mutsuko launched into excited rambling.
"It's Dolores! I'm certain she's an extraterrestrial. Either from another dimension or outer space. That would explain the amphibian resemblance. She's clearly gathering intelligence for an invasion. The Minister must be brainwashed—this could become a world-level threat!"
Harriet blinked once.
"She doesn't look like much," Mutsuko continued cheerfully, "but bosses like that usually drop decent experience, right?"
Harriet stared at her for a second… then sighed internally.
Why not.
"I see," Harriet said solemnly. "You identified her quickly. Perhaps I underestimated you because of your size."
"H-Hey! You're not that tall either!"
"…Average height," Harriet corrected internally.
"Mmm," Harriet continued thoughtfully, adopting a distinctly NPC-like tone, "unfortunately, in this dimension, defeating enemies doesn't yield loot. So let's do it this way."
Mutsuko leaned in, eyes sparkling.
"The moment you deal with the Pink Toad, I'll grant you a reward," Harriet said flatly. "Quest condition: no direct engagement. You're not strong enough yet to attempt a frontal encounter."
Mutsuko froze.
"…So I'm a scout?"
"Exactly," Harriet nodded. "Think of it as reconnaissance. Gather information. Identify patterns. Survive unnoticed."
For a brief moment, Mutsuko looked deeply serious.
Then she straightened proudly.
"A hidden support-class quest… I understand. This is actually very high-tier gameplay."
Harriet exhaled quietly.
That worked better than expected.
"I ACCEPT!"
Harriet added, "Here's a hint: there are two red-haired twins in our dormitory. They'll be your guides once you explain the quest to them."
Her excitement peaked instantly, energy practically vibrating off her. "I'll prepare immediately!" she declared, before sprinting off down the corridor without another word.
Harriet watched her go, shaking her head faintly. That was a disaster in the making—potentially even a funny one, if it ever actually unfolded.
Still… despite her size, Mutsuko didn't strike her as reckless in a self-destructive way. Harriet was fairly certain she knew what she was doing, and wouldn't throw herself into unnecessary danger.
That was… reassuring, in its own strange way.Honestly… Hogwarts could use the correction.
And if that correction came from an underestimated, hyperactive chuuni first-year? All the better.
With that thought, Harriet turned and continued toward the seventh floor—toward the Room of Requirement.