The castle felt colder these days... Henrietta Potter walked briskly, jaw clenched, hands shoved deep into her robe pockets to hide the shaking. Another detention. Another evening wasted carving lines into her own skin with Umbridge’s cursed quill. The back of her hand still stung, the faint bloodied words I must not tell lies
No one believed her. Not the Ministry, not the Prophet. And slowly, heartbreakingly, even close people, like Ron had begun pulling away—quietly doubting her, as if unsure whether she was still the girl he’d befriended or something else entirely.
Hermione tried, but even her warm, bookish concern felt like it was watching from a safe distance.
Henrietta felt caged. Scrutinized. Punished for telling the truth.
Sometimes she wondered if this was what growing up meant—being alone with your truth, even when it tore you apart.
She hated that she was growing used to it. That the ache in her chest had become something she woke up expecting.
She didn’t know where she was going—only that she had to move. Had to walk off the helplessness. Had to do anything other than stand still and feel it all crashing in again.
What if they never believed her?
What if the world was content to lie to itself?
What if she wasn’t strong enough for what came next?
The pressure twisted in her gut like a blade. She turned a corner too fast—too distracted, too overwhelmed.
And then—
She collided hard into someone.
Henrietta staggered back, startled, breath caught in her throat. She looked up—eyes still glassy with unspent rage—and froze.
A green-and-silver Slytherin tie. A boy. Her age.
Someone she knew only from his face.
Not Malfoy. Not one of the usual shadows. Just... someone.
Her pulse still pounding, she stared at him, not yet speaking—only realizing in that suspended moment how much she’d been holding inside.