When Dolores Umbridge woke, it was to silence—not the gentle, restorative quiet that followed sleep, but something far heavier. The stillness pressed against her ears, thick and sterile, like a room that had forgotten what it meant to breathe. The faint scent of potions lingered in the air, sharp and medicinal, clinging to the back of her throat.
Her eyelids fluttered open, her vision blurred at first. White. Pale curtains. The familiar outline of the hospital wing ceiling. For a brief, fleeting moment, there was nothing but confusion.
Then memory returned.
Her breath hitched violently in her chest.
"No…"
The word escaped before she could stop it, thin and fragile, breaking the silence that surrounded her.
Her hand moved of its own accord, slow and hesitant, as though some part of her already understood what she would find. Her fingers trembled as she lifted it, turning her wrist inch by inch, dread coiling tighter with every movement.
And then she saw it.
The skin was marred, the surface smooth yet irrevocably altered, as though the flesh itself had been rewritten. Darkened lines cut into it, not like a wound—but like something that had always been there, something that belonged.
The words stood out starkly against her pale skin.
I will respect authority.
Her breath stuttered.
For a long moment, she simply stared.
Then her fingers began to shake.
"No… no, no, no…"
The denial spilled out in a broken whisper, her voice rising with each repetition. A thick layer of salve coated the skin, dulling the pain, but she could feel it beneath—deep, simmering, alive. Like embers buried under ash, waiting for the slightest breath to ignite them again.
Her chest tightened as panic clawed its way upward, her thoughts spiraling uncontrollably.
"You should avoid moving it too much."
The calm, measured voice cut cleanly through her rising panic.
Umbridge's head snapped toward the sound, her movements sharp and sudden. Madam Pomfrey stood beside her bed, arms folded neatly, her expression firm but not without a trace of concern.
"You were in quite a state when they brought you in," the healer continued, her tone practical. "You're fortunate the damage wasn't worse."
Umbridge swallowed hard, forcing her breathing to steady. When she spoke, her voice was tight, strained with the effort of control.
"How… did this happen?"
Pomfrey arched a brow slightly, studying her with quiet scrutiny.
"I was hoping you might tell me that."
Umbridge's gaze flickered away for a fraction of a second.
"I don't know," she said, the lie slipping from her lips as easily as breath. It was polished, instinctive—second nature.
Pomfrey regarded her in silence for a moment longer, then let out a soft sigh.
"Well, whatever caused it… the enchantment is deeply embedded."
Umbridge's eyes snapped back to her immediately.
"What does that mean?"
There was a brief pause, just long enough to suggest hesitation, before Pomfrey answered.
"It means it won't fade."
The words struck harder than any curse.
"It's not a surface injury," Pomfrey continued, her tone unflinching. "The magic is anchored into the tissue itself. I don't believe it can be removed."
Umbridge stared at her, uncomprehending at first, as though the words refused to take hold.
Then, slowly, they did.
"You're telling me…" Her voice trembled despite her effort to keep it steady. "…this will remain?"
Pomfrey did not soften the truth.
"Yes."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then a tremor passed through Umbridge's body—subtle at first, then more pronounced. It was not the tremor of pain or weakness.
It was fury.
Her lips tightened, pulling into a thin, rigid line. Her breath sharpened, each inhale deliberate, each exhale controlled by sheer force of will.
"He did this…"
The words were barely more than a whisper, but they carried a venom that could have withered stone.
Pomfrey frowned faintly. "Who?"
Umbridge did not answer.
She couldn't.
Not without unraveling everything she had so carefully constructed. Not without exposing the truth of what had transpired—the quill, the detention, the method behind her authority. The moment she spoke, the illusion would shatter.
So instead, she drew in a slow breath and forced her expression back into something composed, something respectable.
Pomfrey watched her carefully, clearly unconvinced, but chose not to press further.
"You have a visitor," she said after a moment.
Umbridge's head jerked up.
"Who?"
"Mr. Black."
The name alone was enough to send a sharp, icy tension through her entire body.
Before she could respond, the curtains at the side of her bed shifted softly.
And he stepped through.
Helios Black.
He did not ask permission. He simply entered as though he had every right to be there, his movements smooth, unhurried, entirely at ease.
"Professor," he said, his voice light, touched with just the right amount of concern. "What happened to you?"
Umbridge's fingers curled into the bedsheets beneath the blanket, gripping the fabric tightly.
"You were perfectly fine when I left you last evening," he continued, tilting his head slightly, as though genuinely puzzled. "And now you're in the hospital wing?"
There was a faint pause, almost imperceptible.
"How unfortunate."
Her gaze locked onto him, sharp and unyielding.
"What do you want, Black?"
There was no pretense left in her voice now, no attempt at civility. Only hostility, raw and undisguised.
"Why are you here?"
Helios smiled.
It was a soft expression. Innocent.
"I came to inform you of something."
He reached into his bag with deliberate calm and withdrew a thick bundle of parchment. The stack was heavy, the edges uneven, as though it had been handled repeatedly.
"I believe there has been a small misunderstanding."
He placed it on the table beside her bed.
The sound it made—a dull, weighted thud—echoed far louder than it should have in the quiet room.
Umbridge's eyes flicked toward it.
And then froze.
Line after line filled the pages.
Neat.
Precise.
Written in unmistakable, blood-red ink.
I will respect authority.
Over and over again.
Endless.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her hand twitched involuntarily, the same words burning against her skin as though in response.
Helios continued speaking as though nothing were amiss.
"The quill you gave me was taken by the Headmaster," he said lightly, offering a small, almost apologetic shrug. "So I won't be able to return it to you."
He paused briefly.
"But I didn't want you to think I neglected my punishment."
His gaze shifted to the parchments.
"I completed the assignment."
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with unspoken understanding.
Umbridge stared at him.
At the parchments.
At her own hand.
Then back at him.
Her entire body trembled—not with fear, not with weakness, but with a rage so intense it bordered on something far more dangerous.
She knew.
There was no doubt in her mind.
But knowledge meant nothing without proof.
And she could not accuse him.
Because the moment she did, the truth would surface.
A Ministry official using dark magic on a student.
A Black.
The consequences would be catastrophic.
Her position—gone.
Her authority—stripped away.
Everything she had built—ruined.
Her teeth clenched, the tension in her jaw sharp and unrelenting.
"You can go now, Mr. Black."
Each word was forced through the tight control she clung to.
Helios's smile did not waver.
"I hope you recover quickly, Professor."
Then he turned.
And walked away.
Without a backward glance.
The curtains fell softly back into place behind him, sealing the space once more.
Silence returned to the hospital wing.
But it was no longer empty.
It was heavy.
Umbridge's gaze dropped slowly to the parchments.
Then to her hand.
To the words that refused to disappear.
Her breathing steadied—not calming, but sharpening, focusing into something cold and deliberate.
"You think you've won…" she murmured, her voice low, stripped of all pretense.
Her fingers curled slightly against the sheets.
"Just wait."
Her eyes hardened.
"I will find a way."
Because she always did.
In the far corner of the hospital wing, unseen and unnoticed, another presence lingered.
Albus Dumbledore stood quietly, the shimmer of his invisibility charm fading from around him like mist dissolving in sunlight. His gaze remained fixed on the doorway through which Helios had departed, thoughtful and deeply measured.
He had seen everything.
A soft sigh escaped him, barely audible.
"The Sorting Hat was correct…"
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in understanding.
"Entirely correct."
There was no longer any doubt.
No ambiguity left to consider.
Helios Black was not merely suited for Slytherin.
He embodied it.
Dumbledore turned away at last, his robes whispering softly against the stone floor.
But his thoughts lingered.
Because one truth had become unmistakably clear.
Helios Black was not simply playing the game.
He was already ahead of it.
By the time Helios stepped back into the Slytherin Common Room, the morning had already settled into its usual rhythm. Students moved about in quiet efficiency, gathering books, adjusting their ties, and exchanging low conversations about schedules and assignments.
The green glow of the lake filtered through the tall windows, casting shifting patterns across polished stone and dark wood.
The moment Helios crossed the threshold, something subtle—and immediate—changed.
Whispers replaced speech. Eyes turned, some quickly looking away, others lingering just a second too long. It wasn't the open hostility he had encountered before, nor the blatant curiosity of students eager for spectacle.
Harry had expected resistance—perhaps even confrontation. Someone bold enough to test him, to challenge what had happened the night before. Slytherin did not favor weakness, and it certainly did not ignore disruption.
But instead—
They were watching.
Even the seventh years, gathered in their usual corner like a council of silent judges, did nothing. Marcus Selwyn, who would have normally approached, would have demanded answers or asserted dominance, remained where he stood.
He only watched.
And that, more than anything, told Helios everything he needed to know.
Something has changed.
The thought settled quietly in his mind with interest. Information shifted power. And power, once shifted, rarely returned to its original place.
Before he could examine the situation further, a familiar voice broke through the tension.
"Helios!"
Daphne Greengrass moved toward him quickly, far quicker than her usual composed stride. There was a slight unevenness in her breathing when she stopped in front of him, a crack in the calm control she always maintained.
"What have you done to Professor Umbridge?"
Helios raised an eyebrow, his expression untouched by her urgency.
"What are you talking about?"
"I didn't do anything."
Daphne frowned, clearly not satisfied.
"There's a rumor," she said, lowering her voice instinctively, though it carried just enough for those nearby to hear. "That she was hospitalized."
A pause.
"After your detention."
The students closest to them did not turn openly, did not reveal their attention in any obvious way, but their silence deepened. Their stillness sharpened.
Listening.
Helios blinked once, as if considering her words, then gave a small nod.
"She's in the hospital wing."
The confirmation rippled through the room like a disturbance beneath still water.
Daphne stepped closer.
"What happened?"
Helios shrugged lightly, the gesture almost dismissive.
"I don't know."
A brief pause followed before he added, "In fact, my detention didn't even begin."
That drew more attention than anything else.
Daphne's brows furrowed. "What?"
"Before it started," Helios said calmly, "your father arrived."
"And the Headmaster."
"They took me out."
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady.
"If you doubt it, write to him."
A faint pause lingered, just long enough to let the statement settle.
"Because when I left Professor Umbridge…"
He met Daphne's eyes directly.
"She was perfectly fine."
Helios continued, his tone almost casual.
"But yes, she's in the hospital wing."
"I just came from there."
Daphne blinked, caught off guard.
"You… went to see her?"
He nodded.
"She seems fine now."
The reassurance did nothing to ease the tension. If anything, it deepened the unease. Because now there was a gap—a space between cause and effect that no one could explain.
And Slytherin disliked gaps.
Daphne hesitated, then asked more quietly, "Did my father really come to see you?"
Helios looked at her, his expression unchanged.
"Yes."
Hope flickered across her face, brief but unmistakable.
"Then—" she began, her voice tightening as if she were forcing the question past her own restraint, "are you going to help my sister?"
"No."
Daphne's expression shifted. The slight tightening around her eyes, the faint drop of her shoulders—it was enough.
"Why?" she asked softly.
Helios regarded her for a moment before answering.
"Because it's not my responsibility."
A pause.
"To help a family that tried to hurt mine."
Daphne flinched slightly. "My family didn't—"
"Your father was there," Helios said, cutting her off without raising his voice.
"With Malfoy."
"And his circle."
He stepped closer, his presence not aggressive, but firm—impossible to ignore.
"During Rose's trial."
Daphne's lips parted, but no words came.
"So," Helios continued evenly, "he has no problem standing beside people who would destroy a girl—"
"—a girl the same age as his daughter."
A faint pause.
"But now I'm supposed to help him?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"Don't you find that… hypocritical?"
Daphne lowered her gaze. For a moment, she said nothing. Then, quietly, she spoke.
"You're misunderstanding him."
Helios didn't respond.
So she continued.
"He didn't have a choice."
Daphne lifted her head again. The desperation was still there, but now it was tempered with something steadier—honesty.
"You don't understand how it works," she said. "In our world."
She gestured vaguely, as though the entire structure of pure-blood society could be summed up in a single motion.
"The alliances. The expectations."
"If my father had openly opposed them—"
She shook her head.
"We would have been isolated."
"Weaker."
"Vulnerable."
Her voice tightened slightly.
"And Astoria—"
She stopped, gathering herself before continuing.
"There were talks."
"About a betrothal."
Helios's eyes narrowed faintly.
"Between our family…"
"…and the Malfoys."
A quiet ripple moved through the room. Even those who had tried to remain detached could not ignore that.
"That's why he stayed close to them," Daphne said quickly. "Because—"
Her voice dropped further.
"He needed access."
"To the Black family library."
Helios went still.
"Lucius Malfoy promised him," Daphne continued. "He said—if the alliance went through—"
"We would gain access."
"And there might be something there…"
"…to cure Astoria."
This was no longer politics.
It was desperation.
Calculated, yes—but still desperation.
Daphne stepped closer again, her voice quieter now.
"Please don't misunderstand him."
"He didn't support them."
"He endured them."
"For her."
Helios did not respond immediately.
Because he had not known this.
After a moment, he spoke.
Quietly.
"I see."
Daphne searched his face, hope returning, fragile but growing.
"Then—"
But Helios shook his head slightly.
"Understanding doesn't change the outcome."
The hope faltered.
"But—"
"I've already sent a letter."
That stopped her completely.
"What?"
Helios met her gaze.
"I've contacted someone."
A brief pause.
"For help."
Daphne stared at him, and this time the hope that rose was no longer fragile—it was real.
"Then… you will help her?"
Helios did not answer directly.
"I'm waiting for a reply."
From Albert Hemlock.
Helios turned slightly, already disengaging from the conversation.
But before he left, he added, without looking back—
"Tell your father this."
Daphne straightened instinctively.
"If he truly wants to save her—"
Helios's voice lowered just enough to carry meaning beyond the words.
"He should start choosing better sides."
Silence followed him as he walked away.
Because that was not merely advice.
It was a warning.
Daphne remained where she stood, her hands clenched slightly at her sides, her thoughts racing in tangled threads of hope and fear.
One thing, however, had become clear.
Helios Black was not an enemy.
Not yet.
But he was not an ally either.
He was something else entirely.
Author's Note:
Enjoying the story?
Consider joining my Pat*reon to get early access to more chapters and exclusive fanfictions! Even as a free member you will get one extra chapter and you'll receive early access to chapters before they're posted elsewhere and various other fanfictions.Your support helps me create more content for you to enjoy!
Join here: Patre*on(dot)com(slash)Beuwulf