Being back felt weird.
The dynamic of the house had changed. That was obvious to anyone watching.
They no longer bugged him.
Really, they avoided him entirely, and Harry didn't care one bit.
Honestly he hardly even saw them, for once he could going anywhere, roam aound and hang out without them bothering him.
Best part, he had an entire organisation that obeyed his every whim. He found that he liked that very much.
Anything he wanted, one word, and BAM, it was done.
There was one thing he had asked of them before he left.
That was to put a restriction on the information on who it was that was the Seventh Campione. Especially on the Winx.
He didn't expect it to truly last forever, but he wanted to limit that knowledge for now until he dealt with Voldemort.
He didn't want the No nose, Snake like bastard to learn of that just yet, while he had enough power to kill the fool, it wouldn't do to let him find out and start looking into things that might give him a chance or something foolish like summoning a Hectic god to either kill him or to try to become a Campione himself.
You never know with villains like him.
The request was taken easily enough, apparently, while it may be hard on the mage's side for the Winx who love to look down on others, it wasn't hard to keep them ignorant.
Now, while his days were relaxing enough, he now had to deal with this. He looked at the letters in his hand.
The letters arrived days after he returned to England.
The flood of owls descended upon him, each carrying urgent messages, their seals unmistakable.
One bore the Hogwarts crest. Dumbledore's
Others were handwritten in urgency and came from his friends.
He sat at the desk in his room at Number 4 Privet Drive, the moonlight casting long shadows across the floor. The house was silent—Vernon and Petunia had taken to avoiding him altogether, and Dudley, while still wary, seemed too unsettled to provoke him.
Harry stared at the letters for a long moment before finally breaking the seals.
---
Dumbledore's Letter
Harry,
I hope this letter finds you well. I must express my grave concern at your actions. Leaving the protection of Privet Drive was a reckless decision, one that has had dire consequences. Dementors have appeared in Surrey, and I regret to inform you that Muggle casualties have been reported.
This is a troubling development, one that I fear is linked to your absence. The protections placed upon your relatives' home were meant to keep you safe and to keep others safe as well. Without you there, those wards weakened. I need you to understand, Harry—your actions carry weight far beyond yourself. You must remain where it is safe.
Please respond immediately.&x20;
Albus Dumbledore
Harry read the letter twice, then a third time, his fingers tightening around the parchment.
Dementors? Muggle deaths? And somehow… it was his fault?
A sharp, humorless chuckle left his lips. Unbelievable.
For weeks, after Cedric's death, after the nightmare of the Triwizard Tournament, they had left him alone. Not a word. Not a single visit. He had been tossed aside, expected to sit quietly in a house that had never been his home, drowning in his own grief.
But now? Now they were concerned?
Now that things had gone wrong, it was suddenly his responsibility?
His jaw clenched, anger simmering beneath the surface. He set Dumbledore's letter aside, moving on to the next.
---
Hermione's Letter
Harry!
Where have you been?! You just disappeared, and we had no idea where you were! It's not safe out there, Harry! You-Know-Who is back, and we're supposed to be together, not running off on our own!
Something awful has happened—there were Dementors in Surrey! People died, Harry! Dumbledore thinks it might have happened because the protections around Privet Drive were weakened when you left! You have to stay where it's safe! We were worried sick!
Please, please write back the moment you get this!
Love,
Hermione
Harry exhaled sharply. The protections were weakened? That's their excuse?
Dementors didn't just wander into the Muggle world. Someone had sent them there. Someone with power, with intent. But instead of asking why they had appeared, the blame had been shifted onto him.
His fingers curled around the parchment, heat rising in his chest. The hypocrisy was suffocating.
When he had been isolated, mourning Cedric, no one had written.
When he had been stuck at the Dursleys, his only company his own thoughts, no one had come for him.
But the moment something went wrong—
Now, it was his fault.
His hands shook slightly as he opened Ron's letter.
---
Ron's Letter
Mate, where the hell are you?!
We just heard about what happened with the Dementors. Bloody hell, Harry, you need to come back now! Things are getting bad, and you not being around is just making things worse. Everyone are over the place trying to clean this up, and everyone's saying it's because you left!
Look, I get it—you probably wanted some space, but you shouldn't have just taken off. Dumbledore will be able to explain things when you get back. Just come back before something else happens!
Ron
Harry laughed. He actually laughed.
Not a laugh of amusement—one of pure disbelief.
So that was it? He needed space? As if he had thrown a tantrum and left, as if he hadn't been abandoned first?
And now the Order was cleaning up a mess that wasn't even his fault, and somehow, he was the problem?
He set Ron's letter down, rubbing his temples.
This was pathetic. All of it.
They had left him alone in grief and loneliness. He had seen a friend die and his greatest enemy resurrected and then shipped off without so much as a 'Harry, are you okay?'
And yet, here they were, blaming him for things he had no part in.
He had half a mind to respond—to write back and ask why, when he had been alone and grieving, none of them had reached out. To ask how they could possibly justify their concern now when they hadn't before.
But then he stopped himself.
Because, really, what was the point?
They didn't want an answer. They wanted someone to blame.
Or rather Dumbledore wanted to keep him in line, make it look like all these deaths were his fault.
Make no mistake, he was angry at both his friends too but that didn't mean they didn't care, he knew them well enough to know that they truly did.
But Harry had no interest in playing their scapegoat.
Instead, he grabbed the letters, crumpled them, and tossed them into the bin. He didn't need to explain himself to them.&x20;
The next time they saw him, the next time they spoke to him—
They would realize the truth.
Harry Potter was not theirs to control.
Not Dumbledore's. Not the Order. Not anyone's.
And he would walk his own path.
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