Greta stood by the window of the common room, her expression unreadable as she watched the way the light caught the edge of her tea cup. Harry felt the prickle of irritation at the back of his neck, a sensation that had become his constant companion since the incident in the Astronomy Tower. He wanted to snap at her, to demand why she was looking at him with that specific brand of pity, but he held his tongue. The secret was out, or at least a version of it was, and the social hierarchy of the house was already shifting in ways he found deeply offensive.
"It is not a matter of being unwell," Harry said, his voice sharper than he intended. He walked toward the hearth, feeling the heat of the fire against his palms. "It is a matter of being inconvenienced."
Greta turned away from the window and walked toward him, her movements fluid and calm. "It is a matter of being seen, Harry. There is a difference."
"I do not care about being seen," he muttered, though the lie tasted bitter in his mouth. He knew he cared about everything regarding his visibility, especially the way he appeared to the rest of the school. He hated the way the whispers seemed to follow him down the corridors, trailing him like a scent.
"You care quite a lot," Greta said, her voice softening as she reached the edge of the rug. "You care about the way the tower looks when the door is closed and the way it looks when it is open."
He wanted to argue the point, to tell her that his fascination with the Astronomy Tower was a matter of privacy rather than public display, but the words died in his throat. He looked away, focusing on the way the embers popped in the grate. The conversation felt too close to the truth, and the truth was a jagged thing that made his chest ache.
"I am going to the tower," Harry announced, standing up from his chair with a sudden, decisive movement. He needed to be there, to escape the weight of their gazales and the suffocating scrutiny of the common room.
Greta tilted her head to the side, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "The tower is currently off-limits, if you haven't noticed the warding charm on the door."
He froze, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp hiss. "What do you mean, off-limits?"
"Professor Flitwick placed a charm on the stairwell door this morning," she explained, as if she were describing the weather. "He said the Astronomy Tower needs a period of rest after the recent... disturbances. It is locked by a specific pedagogical ward. It will not open for anyone without a direct invitation from a faculty member."
Harry felt a surge of heat rise to his cheeks, a flush of genuine, unadulterated fury. To be barred from his own sanctuary was one thing, but to be barred by a charm because of a clumsy, public moment of vulnerability was entirely another. It felt like a calculated insult, a way for the professors to signal that his personal life was a subject of academic concern.
"A pedagological ward," he repeated, the words feeling heavy and ridiculous. "As if the tower cares about the distinction between a student and a professor."
"It is not about the tower, Harry," Greta said, her voice patient and infuriatingly kind. "It is about the order of things."
He marched toward the entrance of the Slytherin dungeon, his boots striking the stone floor with a rhythmic, angry thud. He did not look back to see if she was following him, though he knew she was likely watching his retreating back with that same sympathetic gaze. The descent into the dungeons always felt colder than the rest of the castle, the air damp and smelling of old stone and lake water. He reached the door to the Astronomy Tower stairwell, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts.
The door was solid oak, carved with intricate flourishes that usually felt welcoming. Now, it looked like a barricade. He reached out to grasp the handle, his fingers curling around the cool metal, but as he pushed, the door remained stubbornly still. It was not a physical lock, but a magical one, a shimmering veil of intent that blocked his path.
"Open," he commanded, his voice a low growl. He placed his weight against the wood, leaning his shoulder into the frame, but the door did not even budge a fraction. It was as if the wood itself had become a part of the castle's singular, unyielding will.
He stood there, his forehead pressed against the grain of the door, feeling the sheer frustration of the moment. It was a slight against his family, a slight against his autonomy. To be told where he could and could not go was to be told that he was no longer in control of his own narrative. He felt small in the narrow stairwell, the stone walls closing in on him as the silence of the corridor pressed against his ears.
"It is ridiculous," he whispered to the wood. "It is utterly absurd."
He stayed there for a moment, letting the anger simmer in his gut. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw ached from clenching it so hard. The ward was not just a door; it was a dismissal. It was the school telling him to be quiet, to be still, to be invisible until the scandal had passed.
He straightened his robes, smoothing the fabric with a sharp, aggressive motion. He would not be sidelined by a simple charm. He would not let a professor's attempt at order dictate his movements. He pulled his wand from his sleeve, the hawthorn wood feeling familiar and warm in his grip. He could feel the magic of the ward, a translucent layer of intent that sat heavily upon the wood, a barrier that felt intentional and stubborn.
He cast a dozen different unlocking spells, his movements becoming more frantic as the frustration grew. He tried a standard unlocking charm, then a more complex redirection of energy, but the door remained an immovable object. The magic simply slid off the surface, as if the door were made of oil rather than oak.
"Open, you stubborn piece of wood," he hissed, his voice echoing in the narrow space. He felt a sense of mounting indignance, a feeling that the very castle was conspiring to keep him at bay.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to slow down, to think with more precision. He was not a novice; he was a man who knew the nuances of magic. He looked at the way the light from his wand tip interacted with the invisible barrier. He saw the way the magic pulsed, a faint, rhythmic shimmer that suggested a loop of energy.
He began to work with a more surgical intent, tracing the edges of the charm with the tip of his wand. He moved with a calculated grace, his eyes narrowing as he searched for the seam in the magic. He was not just trying to break it; he was trying to dismantle it, piece by piece, until the structure collapsed under its own weight.
He felt the resistance of the ward, a stubborn resistance that felt almost sentient. It was as if the charm was watching him, waiting for him to tire and give up. He refused to give in to the fatigue. He worked through the tension in his wrist, through the ache in his lungs, and through the sheer, mounting irritation of the task.
He watched the way the light of his spells flickered against the dark wood, noting how the magic reacted to his touch. He was methodical, his wand-work precise and unwavering. He felt the heat of his own magic flowing into the door, a steady stream of intention meant to pierce the veil.
The silence of the stairwell was heavy, but he did not let it dampen his resolve. He focused on the sensation of the magic, the way it felt like a thin, translucent skin stretched over the door. He began to unravel the thread of the spell, pulling at the edges of the enchantment with a delicate, persistent pressure.
He worked through the frustration, turning his anger into a weapon