Scene: The Start-of-Year Feast and Umbridge's Introduction
The Great Hall glowed warmly, its high ceiling mirroring the storm outside, clouds rolling in silent thunder as the first feast of the year began. Rain streaked down the enchanted sky, caught in bursts of candlelight hovering above the long house tables. The chatter was loud—students calling to friends, catching up on summers spent apart, a thousand separate conversations forming one ever-present hum.
Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, flanked by Ron and Hermione. Ginny leaned in from across the table to share something with her brother that made him snort into his pumpkin juice. Around them, the plates were already piled high with roast chicken, sausages, potatoes, and thick slabs of treacle tart.
He wasn't really listening.
Harry's eyes wandered to the staff table. McGonagall, stern and sharp as ever, was pouring herself a goblet of wine. Hagrid waved cheerfully at a cluster of wide-eyed first-years. But Harry's gaze stopped on the unfamiliar figure seated near the center.
She was dressed entirely in pink—lacey, old-fashioned, and out of place among the somber robes of the others. Her face was wide and set in a simpering smile that didn't reach her small, glinting eyes.
Dolores Umbridge.
Harry didn't know why, but something about her unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. He felt it in his bones—that creeping sense of wrongness. Not loud. Not obvious. Just... off.
As the last crumbs of pudding vanished from the platters, Dumbledore rose from his seat with quiet command.
"Welcome," he said, his voice echoing gently through the Hall. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts."
A wave of applause and whoops rose from the students. Dumbledore waited with patient amusement for it to quiet down before continuing.
"Before we all become too sleepy on full stomachs, I have some start-of-term notices to give you. Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you that magic is not to be used in the corridors between classes—yes, even between classes," he added as a few students chuckled.
Harry half-listened, eyes drifting again to Umbridge.
"And finally," Dumbledore went on, "we are pleased to welcome a new member to our teaching staff this year. Professor Dolores Umbridge has kindly agreed to take the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."
He gestured toward her.
Umbridge stood, gave a delicate little cough—"Hem, hem."
And then she spoke.
"Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words," she began, in a sugary voice that made Harry instinctively want to grit his teeth. "It is wonderful to be back at Hogwarts. And to see so many young, hopeful faces looking up—ready to learn, ready to be guided..."
Harry didn't hear the rest. He caught the expressions on the faces around him instead—Hermione's eyes narrowed with suspicion, Ron already scowling into his dessert. Even some of the teachers looked politely strained.
He wasn't sure what was going to happen this year.
But one thing was certain: it had already started.
The moment the feast ended, the temperature in the Great Hall dipped—not sharply, but just enough to raise goosebumps across arms and the back of necks. The enchanted ceiling, still echoing the soft shimmer of twilight, seemed to darken, clouds roiling faintly above the floating candles.
Then came the silence.
Not a magical hush, not a silencing spell, but a breathless moment where sound itself seemed to falter.
From the far stone walls, through the thick air and candlelight, came the House Ghosts.
All of them.
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, silverly transparent, glided forward with an air of somber purpose. Beside him floated the Fat Friar, unusually quiet, hands folded in front of him. The Bloody Baron came last among the four, silent and foreboding, his expression unreadable beneath the ghostly bloodstains. The Grey Lady drifted through a table without flinching, her gaze distant and cold.
The students didn't know whether to clap, greet them, or recoil.
"Blimey," Ron whispered. "All of them?"
Hermione had stood up halfway from the bench, staring at the spectral procession. "They never appear together. Not like this. Not unless—" She faltered, her voice shrinking into uncertainty.
Harry watched in silence. Something felt off—not in the way danger usually made his scar prickle or his instincts shout. This was different. This was the castle watching them.
"They're not smiling," Ginny said quietly, from further down the table. "They always smile. Why aren't they smiling?"
Even Peeves, who had been tossing buttered crumpets at first-years just minutes earlier, floated high above the tables, staring down with something that suspiciously resembled... respect. Or maybe wariness. He drifted back slowly into the rafters and vanished from view, muttering something about "old winds waking up."
Across the staff table, heads turned in various degrees of confusion and tension. McGonagall's eyes narrowed. Flitwick leaned over to Sprout, whispering tightly. Dumbledore, ever composed, slowly folded his hands on the table, expression unreadable but gaze sharp.
Umbridge let out an impatient little laugh that sounded like a cough. "A foolish display. Attention-seeking. They must think the start of term needs more drama."
No one responded to her.
The ghosts halted in the center of the Great Hall, hovering silently beneath the enchanted ceiling. As if waiting. Watching. Or perhaps… listening.
Harry's fingers curled against the edge of the table. He wasn't sure why, but he felt as though the Great Hall itself had taken a breath—and was now holding it.