Quidditch League, round 7

Falmouth Falcons, Captain

Mandatory: Write a story using "The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor" for inspiration

Note: based on how the Dragon Emperor and his army are trapped before being resurrected and resuming evil plans

Word Count: 2068

June, 1998

She has never been on this end of a trial before, and it's more than a little terrifying. Still, Dolores tries to hold her head high, reminding herself that Shacklebolt is too soft. He's dismissed the Dementors from Azkaban—there are rumors, of course, about where those ghastly things might be now, but it remains a mystery—which makes a prison sentence seem almost laughable. There's no doubt in her mind that she'll be able to lay back for a few years and wait for her pardon. A pardon will come; as far as anyone is concerned, she had only been following orders and should not be punished for such.

"Dolores Jane Umbridge, we have seen the sufficient evidence against you. Your part in the war against Voldemort is crystal clear. We stand for justice here," Shacklebolt says, his dark eyes flashing with anger that contradicts his calm, velvety voice.

She stands with painfully rigid posture as the charges against her are listed. Perhaps she can cry or plead. Dolores has always been able to get her way.

But she won't. It's bad enough she's been disgraced since the Ministry's new regime had taken over—it turns out that keeping Moody's eye hadn't been a wise choice; Shacklebolt had been livid when he'd discovered it and had singled her out for persecution. She will keep her head held high and maintain some dignity while these fools make a mockery of law and order.

She hadn't done anything wrong, but they'll never see it. All she can do is smile her sweetest smile and let things play out.

"Would you like to argue your case?" Shacklebolt concludes, resting his hands on his legs.

"I don't believe so, Minister," she says, lacing the final word with as much venom as she can manage. "This court seems to be terribly biased already."

Shacklebolt nods. "So be it. Let it be known that Dolores Umbridge has refused a defense and will receive no consideration and leniency."

There's a soft, curious murmur that sweeps across the once silent courtroom. Dolores wants to turn and ask then what's so exciting, but she resists the urge. All she can do right now is lay low and wait.

"As you know, Azkaban has been reformed," Shacklebolt continues in that rich, deep voice. "It is only being used to house low-level criminals."

Her posture visibly relaxes at that, and her thin lips twist into a grin so broad that her jaw begins to ache. Low-level. Maybe Shacklebolt is softer than she had thought. Whatever animosity he holds toward her must not have influenced his decision. It takes every ounce of restraint not to laugh.

"In cases like yours, however, we have had to introduce a new method of punishment."

Her hopes are dashed immediately. "Pardon me, Minister," she says in her softest, sweetest tone, "but I'm not sure that I understand what you're saying. It sounds like you're implying that I won't be sent to Azkaban."

His eyes meet hers, and Dolores shivers. She has never found Kingsley Shacklebolt to be a particularly frightening man. Despite his height and solid build, he's always had a tranquil air about him. In that moment, however, Dolores thinks she would rather face a herd of centaurs again than be subjected to the Minister's wrath.

"I'm not implying anything," he says calmly. "You willingly abused your position within the Ministry and committed treason against your fellow witches and wizards. Azkaban is too kind for someone like you."

"And what do you intend to do with me?"

But she isn't sure if she actually wants to know the answer.

…

Dolores doesn't know why she's surprised to find herself being lead into the Department of Mysteries. As long as she can remember, there have always been whispers about the crazy things going on here. It shouldn't be much of a stretch to discover they've created some new punishment with all their bizarre experiments.

The fear doesn't set in until she is lead toward the row of tanks. Different colored liquids fill each glass container, but that isn't the part that makes her blood run cold; it's what floats in the liquid that makes her consider running and taking her chances. Death Eaters and their allies—she recognizes the Lestrange brothers and Alecto Carrow instantly—are in there, floating around like preserved specimens on display.

"What… What's inside?" she asks, her voice small as her throat tightens.

"We aren't sure," the Unspeakable on her left says. "Please remove your shoes."

Numb and without a choice, Dolores obeys. "You don't have to do this," she says softly. "Have mercy…"

"Like you had mercy on my Muggleborn father?" the one on her right growls.

She clenches her jaw, realizing she has no allies here. Still, whimpered protests escape her thin lips as she is forced into her tank. Her thick fingers press against the glass as she peers out, hoping for some sort of miraculous intervention.

Instead, a tube is fed through the top of her tank. A moment later, hot-pink liquid spills through. Dolores recoils, her heart racing as she frantically tries to avoid touching it. It doesn't last long. Within seconds, the pink potion laps against her bare feet. Amazingly, it doesn't cause her any pain; if anything, the sweet fumes that rise from the foamy spray make her body relax.

A smile tugs at her lips as a comfortable warmth washes over her. For a moment, she can't remember why she had been so scared moments ago. There is only peace and serenity, and she thinks she may be floating.

Everything is perfect until the liquid begins to fill her lungs. Somehow, she can still breathe easily enough. She will live, but that's the worst part. The world begins to darken around her, and she is alone.

August, 2003

Edwina Crabbe adjusts her tie, making sure it is as straight as possible. Her fingers are too pudgy—baby fat, her mum calls it, but, at nineteen, she is past the baby stage and has to come to terms with the fact that she is just fat—and it takes several attempts, but she finally manages it. Her dark eyes squint as she studies her robes in the mirror, checking for even the slightest signs of creases.

"I'm so tired, Vince," she sighs, her gaze shifting to the framed photograph that rests on her bedside table.

Vincent Crabbe, her cousin and best friend, immortalized forever in that captured moment, just laughs at something she cannot see and cracks his knuckles. He can't hear her or offer his support, but she knows he would.

Edwina still doesn't know what happened to her cousin the night of the battle, only that Potter and his little minions had been involved. The details don't matter; Vince is still gone.

Edwina stands a little straighter before returning her attention to the mirror. She pulls her golden brown hair back into a tight, perfectly neat bun. It makes her round face look much bigger than it is, but she doesn't have a choice. As an Unspeakable, it's best to look as nondescript as possible.

She will follow the rules. She's done everything right to avoid suspicion until now, and she won't let even the smallest slip up ruin things now.

Everything is falling into place.

…

Edwina fumbles a lot today. She wonders if the other Unspeakables notice at all. It's doubtful; everyone is caught up in their own little jobs. Why would anyone notice one clumsy idiot who can barely seem to hold a quill?

"Headed to lunch, Winnie," Havens says.

Edwina scowls. She's told him hundreds of times not to call her that. "Go on. I'll catch up."

He hesitates. No one is supposed to be alone in the Department of Mysteries. It's rule one from day one. Sure, they may bend other rules, but rule one is meant to be followed without question. "I don't think that's a—"

"Five minutes," Edwina interrupts, holding up the badly stained parchment that's saturated with ink. "Just need to clean up my mess. Important notes."

Her coworker still doesn't look convinced. He folds his arms over his chest, dark eyes narrowing as he studies her. "Five minutes?" he asks.

She doesn't bother to smile at him or try to charm him; she is well aware that she is far too plain to be seductive. Instead, she just nods and grunts her confirmation before walking past him and setting her parchment down and working to clean it up. Several seconds pass, and she finally hears his footsteps retreating. After another brief moment, the door shuts, and she is completely alone.

Edwina quickly abandons her charade, tossing the parchment aside and making her way to the imprisonment chambers. No one actually knows what happens there. Even the ones who had entombed the prisoners in their various potions hadn't known what would actually happen to those within. All anyone had known was that it would keep some of the worst war criminals away from the rest of society.

Her dark eyes flicker over the names; she recognizes so many. Lestrange, Goyle, Carrow. But she doesn't stop until she reaches one tank filled with hot-pink liquid. The woman inside looks more like a toad than a human, but Edwina knows the name immediately.

Dolores J. Umbridge. There's a brief description of her crimes during the war, but Edwina doesn't care. She knows how ruthless the woman is meant to be, and that's exactly what Edwina needs.

Those so-called good people on the right side have taken her beloved cousin from her. Dolores Umbridge can help her avenge Vince.

She waves her wand. "Evanesco!" But the liquid doesn't Vanish.

Again and again, she tries the incantation, but nothing happens. She rolls her eyes, huffing as she walks around the tank, searching for anything that might work. Finding nothing, she settles on brute force. It had been her cousin's specialty, and she doesn't see why it won't work for her.

She grabs a chair, gripping it firmly by the legs before slamming it against the glass. It takes several attempts, but she finally sees a tiny crack form. A laugh bubbles from her throat. They had made sure the tanks could not be tampered with by magical means, but it seems as though they hadn't considered something physical.

Several minutes pass, and she continues slamming the chair against the glass. Even though her arms ache and burn from exhaustion, she keeps at it, nearly manic as she watches the crack grow longer.

The first bit of liquid begins to drip. Edwina strikes it harder, and the pink potion begins to spill rapidly. She takes a step back, admiring her handiwork.

The potion drains quickly enough, and Umbridge collapses against the bottom of the tank. Edwina approaches, wand at the ready. She peers in through the glass, watching the other woman's chest rise and fall steadily. In the back of her mind, she feels like she ought to take notes. After all, this is the first time anyone has been released from their chamber; shouldn't someone document it?

"Hem, hem!"

The sound draws Edwina out of her thoughts. Umbridge peers up at her with confusion in her eyes. She reaches—undoubtedly for her wand—only to have her fingers curl around air. "Where…?" Umbridge winces and rubs her throat. "Where…?"

"Department of Mysteries. Still technically in your imprisonment chamber," Edwina tells her.

The older woman's eyes darken. With a growl, she jumps up, slipping and sliding slightly before resting her palms against the glass. "I demand that you let me out, you little—"

"I'm not your enemy," Edwina assures her. "That was five years ago. I joined the Ministry in hopes of talking to you."

Umbridge stares at her. Silence hangs between them, and Edwina waits. Finally, Umbridge's thin lips tug into a smile. "And what would you like to talk to me about, dear?" she asks.

Edwina grins. "We've both got grudges, and we have an army of imprisoned dark wizards at our disposal," she answers, gesturing at the rest of the tanks. "What the hell? Let's take over the world."

"I like the way you think, dear," Umbridge tells her.

And as Edwina helps the other witch out of her imprisonment chamber and the two of them begin opening the next tank, she can't help but smile. Vince would be so proud.