The Knight Bus lurched to a stop so violently that Harry’s teeth snapped together with an audible click.
He gripped the edge of the seat in front of him, jaw tight, as Stan Shunpike helped a grey-faced Madam Marsh down the steps.
The woman looked one good jolt away from vomiting on the pavement.
The doors slammed shut behind her like a coffin lid, and the triple-decker purple beast roared forward again before Harry could even shift his weight.
Pain flared behind his scar.
Not the usual dull throb — this one cut sharp, like a hot wire being pulled through bone.
Harry pressed his forehead to the cool window glass and breathed through it.
He knew what it meant.
Somewhere out there, Voldemort was feeling something.
Anger.
Hunger.
Triumph.
The scar had been waking up more often since the graveyard.
He could feel the other passengers watching him.
Not the old stares — the ones full of pity or morbid curiosity.
These were different.
Heavier.
A few rows back, a witch in a green hat kept glancing at him over the top of her Daily Prophet, then looking quickly away when he caught her eye.
A wizard two seats ahead had his hand resting on his wand holster like he expected Harry to start throwing curses at any second.
Harry turned his face back to the window.
Let them stare.
He was used to it by now.
The bus hit another pothole and the whole frame shuddered.
Harry’s back protested.
He hadn’t slept properly in weeks — not since the end of term, not since Cedric’s body had hit the ground and the Dark Mark had burned black against the sky.
One month.
One entire month of silence .
No letters from Ron.
No letters from Hermione.
No letters from Sirius.
Not even from Dumbledore.
He had sent Hedwig three times.
After the third, she hadn’t come back.
Harry closed his eyes and let the memories rise, sharp and ugly.
The Triwizard Cup had been a Portkey.
He and Cedric had landed in a graveyard that stank of wet earth and rotting flowers.
Wormtail had killed Cedric without hesitation — Avada Kedavra — and then dragged Harry to the cauldron.
Flesh.
Bone.
Blood.
Voldemort had risen, pale and snake-like, and the Death Eaters had Apparated in to kneel at his feet.
Harry had escaped by the skin of his teeth.
He had warned Dumbledore.
Dumbledore had believed him.
Fudge had not.
The Minister had called it a tragic accident.
A schoolboy’s hysteria.
He had refused to even consider the possibility that the Dark Lord was back.
So Dumbledore had done what he always did when the Ministry stuck its head in the sand — he had started gathering people in secret.
The Order of the Phoenix, reborn.
And then the school year had ended on the third of July, and Harry had been sent back to Privet Drive like nothing had changed.
A whole month.
The Dursleys had been worse than usual.
The heatwave had turned Number Four into an oven, and Vernon’s temper had boiled over daily.
Dudley had grown even fatter and meaner, spending his days tormenting Harry for sport.
Petunia had watched it all with that tight, satisfied little smile she wore whenever Harry was suffering.
He had tried to keep his head down.
He really had.
Then, two nights ago — the second of August — Dudley had cornered him in the alley behind Magnolia Crescent.
Words had turned into shoves.
Dudley had raised a fist the size of a ham.
And Harry, pushed past the point of caring, had pulled his wand.
That was when the Dementors came.
Two of them.
Tall, cloaked, gliding horrors that sucked the warmth out of the air and dragged every good memory into the dark.
Harry had felt his soul being peeled open.
He had raised his wand with shaking hands and screamed the only spell that could save him.
“Expecto Patronum!” The silver stag had burst from his wand like a comet, driving the creatures back into the night.
Dudley had collapsed, whimpering and drooling, his massive body shaking like a child’ s.
Harry had half-carried, half-dragged him home.
Mrs Figg had appeared out of nowhere — batty old Arabella Figg from Wisteria Walk, the one who smelled of cabbage and cat food.
Except she wasn’t just a Squib.
She was one of Dumbledore’s watchers.
She had been keeping an eye on him all summer.
Fat lot of good that did, Harry thought bitterly.
A Squib with a handbag had been the best protection the great Albus Dumbledore could spare for the Boy Who Lived after he had faced Voldemort and lived.
The Dursleys had taken one look at Dudley’s slack face and decided Harry had finally gone too far.
Vernon had been reaching for the door to throw him out when the owl arrived from the Ministry.
You are hereby expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry… Your wand will be snapped… Harry had been ready to run.
Right then.
Wand in hand, trunk half-packed in his mind.
He didn ‘t care where.
Anywhere but Privet Drive.
Then three more owls had arrived in quick succession.
One from Mr Weasley.
One from Sirius.
One from the Ministry itself.
The messages had been short, almost curt.
Harry was not expelled.
Not yet.
He was required to attend a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic on the twelfth of August.
Nine o’clock in the morning.
Courtroom Ten.
That was all.
No instructions on how to get there.
No offer to collect him.
No word on whether anyone would be waiting.
Just a date, a time, and a room number.
So here he was.
On the Knight Bus.
Because no one else had bothered to tell him how the hell he was supposed to reach the Ministry of Magic when he had never been there in his life.
The scar gave another vicious throb.
Harry hissed and pressed harder against the glass.
They had left him to rot for a month.
After everything.
After Cedric.
After Voldemort.
After he had warned them.
And now they wanted him to walk into the Ministry like a good little boy and let them decide whether he got to keep his wand.
The bus lurched again.
Outside, the countryside was blurring past in streaks of green and gold.
London was getting closer.
Harry could feel it in his bones — the weight of the city, the weight of what was waiting for him there.
He didn’t know what the hearing would bring.
Expulsion.
Wand snapped.
Maybe worse.
Fudge wanted him discredited.
The Prophet had already started the work.
And Dumbledore ‘s people… they had watched him all summer through a Squib and done nothing when two Dementors tried to suck out his soul.
Harry’s fingers tightened around the wand hidden in his sleeve.
He was done being their pawn.
The Knight Bus gave one final, bone-rattling lurch and began to slow.
Through the window, Harry could see the first grey sprawl of London buildings rising against the horizon.
He sat up straighter, scar still burning, and waited for whatever came next.