Cornelius Fudge looked around the shattered High Chamber of the Ministry of Magic, and sighed in frustration. Around him were a tiny, bedraggled group of resistance fighters, all that was left of the once-fabled 'Order of the Phoenix'. Barely a dozen people were in the room, and Fudge recognised less than half of them; most of them were not drawn from the ranks of the ministry, and the few that were had not been on familiar terms with the Minster of Magic. Professor Dumbledore was the most well known of the group, closely followed by the young man sitting to his right, Harry Potter, who were talking to each other in muted tones until they noticed the Minister was watching them. Neither one of them smiled at the Minister, but then, none of them did much smiling these days.
There were other people dotted around the table in the centre of the room, poring over what looked like a map of some kind. None of them were familiar to Fudge at all, but a couple had vaguely familiar faces. For their part, they barely seemed to have noticed the Minster, even though it was him that had called this meeting together. They were obviously planning something, which would have to be stopped if his plan was to succeed. But for the moment, the group around the table were just discussing whatever it was in their little group, and not paying any particular attention to the Minster at all. In fact, they seemed to be screening him out, and turning their backs to him, but that was only to be expected. After all, Fudge was an outsider here, and had tried to shut the Order down more than once.
The only other people were over in the corner of the room, Fudge could see a young female Auror, whose face he could never quite match with a name, balanced unsafely on an old armchair with her hands absently playing with her wand. She was talking to a man in the armchair across from her, who looked as if he was about the same age as her, with one arm in a sling, and a mane of bright red hair that seemed to scream the name 'Weasley'. For a moment, he thought the woman's hair was the same colour, but then she bowed her head, and it suddenly seemed to be a quite bright, lurid shade of pink. Whatever she had said though, it must have been funny, because the young man burst out in an all-too-brief spurt of laughter. Shaking his head in confusion, he cleared his throat, and addressed the mismatched group.
"Friends..." he began, "I think the time has come to accept that the war is now lost. You-Know-Who is gaining followers at every turn, and our own forces dwindle at every encounter. Hogsmeade is entirely in his hands, as well as several Muggle cities with a high number of wizarding families. He has achieved more, in less time, than during his first reign. Even the Order has lost many of its key members. As things stand, we cannot expect to defeat He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named. The only option left to us... is to surrender."
Just as he had expected, the entire room burst into a furious, buzzing noise. The people who had once looked at him with a mild disinterest were now giving him their full attention, and a fair display of passion to boot. At first, he couldn't make out what was being said, as each accusation blended into the next, overlapping in a confusing, whirling mess of sound. The general meaning was clear, however; none of them were convinced that surrender was the answer, and few of them were convinced of Fudge's sanity. It was several minutes before the shouting died down to the point where people could start making sense of each other. Finally, one of the angry mob stood up to address the Minister. Inwardly, Fudge sighed. Just as he had expected, it was Harry Potter.
"You can't be serious!" Harry shouted, "We've given everything for the Order! We've spent the last four years fighting him, putting ourselves at risk to try and stop him gaining power! How many people have already given their lives trying to stop Voldemort? How many more have died because of him? After all that, you want to just... give up?"
"Of course not!" screeched Fudge, "But what choice do we have? We've spent four years trying, and can any one of you honestly say that its done one bit of good? Of course people have died! This is war, Potter, not Wizard's Chess! But-"
Suddenly, Fudge was interrupted, as the door to the Ministry Chambers was blown off its hinges, and a dark, shadowy form burst into the room, his robes torn and grimy, and his chest heaving where he was gasping for breath. As he stood there, in front of the assembled Order, nobody was in any doubt that it was Lord Voldemort. His ruined face was completed obscured by a mask, but the glowing, red eyes behind it could have belonged to nobody else. The time they had most feared seemed to have come; the Ministry itself had finally fallen. At first, eyes flicked to the ruined door behind him, expecting Death Eaters to pour through at any moment to support their master. But seconds ticked by, and it soon became clear that the Dark Lord was alone, and outnumbered.
Just as the hands of those present dived into their robes, looking for their wands, Voldemort dived in front of Professor Dumbledore, and dropped to his knees in front of the elderly wizard, desperate sobs emerging from his cold, lipless mouth. Once again, the group of confused wizards dropped into silence, listening to the tearful sounds coming from the man who had caused them so much pain. For several long moments, it seemed Voldemort was only willing to kneel on the floor and sob into Dumbledore's robes, looking for all the world like a broken, shattered man. But before long, Voldemort started speaking, and although it was rambling and chaotic to begin with, his words soon became clear, but they made little sense even then.
"I give up! I surrender!" Voldemort was crying, "Take me away! Give me a nice, quiet cell in Azkaban! Snap my wand! Feed me to a rampaging hippogriff, for pity's sake! Anything! Just get me away from... that woman..."
"What are you talking about?" asked Fudge, after checking that Remus Lupin had taken the opportunity to seize Voldemort's wand. Now that Voldemort had practically delivered himself for justice, Fudge was feeling much more brave, and was even starting to wish he had delayed his speech for a few moments more. But Fudge's words seemed to incense Voldemort, and he rose to his full, intimidating height, stalking towards the frightened Fudge.
"YOU!!!" he bellowed, "YOU did this to me! I may have done some low things in my time... Unleashing the Dementors on the world? That was bad. Killing the Potters? That was downright nasty. Trying to take over the Wizarding World and eliminate all Muggles everywhere? That was truly diabolical! But to unleash that... that... thing onto the world? It's worse than the worst! It's worse than anything any sane mind would devise! You, Cornelius Fudge, are the most monstrous, grotesque, inhuman creature I have ever met! What did you teach her in this Ministry of yours? Do you offer night classes in being a heartless, remorseless bitch? Or is it part of the standard training when becoming your lackey?"
"Now, now, Tom... That's enough of that-" started Dumbledore, before he was cut off by Voldemort's ranting.
"And you!!!" he bawled, "You could have stopped her! Did you have to rescue her from the Centaurs? Couldn't you have dropped the 'I-am-the-great-and-good-Dumbledore' act for five... little... minutes? Just once, couldn't you have turned a blind eye? Is it really that hard for you to just say 'I don't care'? She would have deserved every hoofprint over that ridiculous pink cardigan of hers! But, no... Dumbledore had to save the miserable cow, no matter how many stupid decrees she passed against him..."
"Wait a minute..." gasped McGonagall, horrible realisation finally sinking in, "You don't mean..."
Voldemort turned to McGonagall, and looked the aged, wiry woman straight in the eyes. They both noticed the identical look of steely terror in each other's eyes, and slowly, deliberately, Voldemort nodded his head, never breaking eye contact. For several long minutes, the room fell into a stunned silence, with everyone present looking to someone else for support. Words weren't necessary, as everyone knew exactly what was coming. Finally, the quiet was shattered by the sound of a quiet, distant 'hem, hem'.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" screamed Voldemort, in abject terror, "It's her! Dumbledore! You have to protect me! You have to hide me from her! Please!!!"
"Very well, Tom. I shall. I have no wish to renew my acquaintance with Ms Umbridge..." Dumbledore said hurriedly, before plunging his shaking hand into the folds of his robes, and withdrawing an old, worn sock.
"Everyone grab hold of the sock!" called Dumbledore, and everyone in the room scrambled over each other, trying to grasp some part of the sock, which Dumbledore was in the process of turning into a portkey. Fudge was sure that the Weasley boy elbowed him in the stomach at least once in the melee, and he was equally sure that Voldemort was making a conscious effort to place himself between the portkey and Harry.
"Get off me, Potter!" bellowed Voldemort, frantically pushing Harry away from him in his haste to reach the key.
"Hey! We all want to get away from her, you know!" Harry replied, pushing back at Voldemort, and grabbing the toe end of the sock.
"Some of us have more of a reason than others, you pathetic boy... Now get out of my way!" Voldemort shrieked, batting Harry away with one long, pale arm.
"No!" said Harry, shoving back. Voldemort may be the terror of the wizarding world, but in this state, he was very little threat to anyone.
"Do you have any idea of the indignities that woman has piled on me?" he hissed.
"Plenty, thank you! Did she make you write lines into your own hand?" Harry shot back. At first, Voldemort just stared at Harry, and if his slit-like nostrils could have flared in anger, Harry was sure they would have done.
Then, Voldemort leaned in dangerously close, and showed the back of his hand to his one-time enemy. Harry could see the words 'I must not exist when the Ministry have publicly announced my death' in tiny, copperplate writing, standing out clearly against the back of his leathery, grey-skinned hand. If he hadn't known better, he would have assumed that the words were written in fresh, red ink, but his own memories of such treatment were still quite fresh in his mind. In fact, Harry could feel his own hand twinge briefly in sympathy, before he reminded himself who it was standing in front of him. For another moment or so, Harry stared at the words in silence, before he found himself shoved away from the group again, by Voldemort's other hand. He soon came to his senses, and started pulling at Voldemort's robes, trying to regain a hold on the knitted angora lifeline.
While the Boy-Who-Lived and the Wizard-Who-Hated-Him were bickering over the sock, Fudge was glaring at the door, terrified at the prospect of what might come through those doors. Once, Ms Umbridge had been a trusted Ministry employee, and he had trusted her with the post of High Inquisitor at Hogwarts, when he had needed someone he knew would remain loyal. But towards the end of her tenure there, the once-Professor Umbridge had been subjected to some kind of encounter with the Centaurs of the Forbidden Forest, and the experience had affected her badly. None of those involved were willing to give any details about what happened, but one thing had become clear in the intervening years. Dolores Jane Umbridge had gone from a minor irritant, to become a genuine, incontrovertible menace.
To begin with, her condition didn't seem particularly serious. A somewhat violent reaction to the sound of hoofbeats, and rather too sensitive when it came to discussions of half-breeds in wizarding society, but otherwise, she seemed lucid, with much of her renowned intelligence intact. After a few weeks of rest and monitoring, she returned to her position at the Ministry, working under the Minister of Magic in preparing for the war that everybody now realised was coming. But it was not long before she began to abuse her position, and try to push through rules that seriously contravened the Decree for the Protection of Non-Human Magic Users. For weeks, her efforts were quietly cut short, to the point where orders coming from Fudge's office were checked routinely for such bias.
Then, came the event that finally showed the Ministry how deluded their former favourite had become. One night, after what later emerged to be months of planning, Dolores Umbridge personally led a squad of Hit Wizards into the Forbidden Forest, claiming that the centaurs were in league with Lord Voldemort, and that she had evidence they were about to take a more active role in the war, on the side of the Death Eaters. There was no such evidence, of course - the centaurs would never get involved in such trivial matters as war - but the Hit Wizards had been carefully selected for a predilection to obey first, then shoot, and not to ask questions at any point in the proceedings. Nobody seemed willing to discuss what went on in the forest, but by the time it was all over, very few of the Hit Wizards returned, and Umbridge herself emerged a broken shell of a woman, unable to even communicate with those who found her at the perimeter of the trees.
As you might expect, she was sent to St Mungo's immediately, where she was cared for by the best Healers in the country. At first, she was a quivering wreck, who insisted on clinging to the filthy remains of her utterly ruined pink cardigan, and constantly gibbered under her breath about 'lunatic half-breeds', 'decrepit, senile old men', and 'manipulative, bushy-haired little trollops'. Unfortunately, there was very little that the Healers could do, as they didn't even know what had happened to her in the Forbidden Forest, and Centaurs were hardly willing to offer any assistance in her healing. In fact, Umbridge's attempt on their home had made them even more reticent in their contact with the wizarding world, and not even Dumbledore had been able to get them to cooperate.
But despite all this, she seemed to recover slightly after several months of careful attention, with the unfortunate side effect that her ramblings came out from under her breath, and emerged into full voice. At first, it was a constant stream of profanity, directed at those who she seemed to blame for her condition; Harry and Dumbledore, for defying her, Hermione Granger, who had tricked her into going to the forest that first time, and most surprising of all, Voldemort himself, for having the temerity to defy the Ministry and return, when he had been declared dead and gone for almost a decade and a half. Her carers and fellow patients alike were shocked at the language which often came from her mouth, and the hospital even considered placing Silencing Charms around her bed, to spare the ears of innocent visitors.
But even worse was when she began to recover more of her senses, and was able to move about the wards freely. For some reason, she seemed to have been left with the delirious certainty that she was still in some position of power over those around her, and as soon as she was able, she started to use her fictional powers to make changes to the ward that she was staying in. She started giving orders to the Healers and Mediwitches around her, quoting fictional 'Ministry Medical Decrees' at them and telling them that the Ministry was intent on 'improving the woeful standards in which she was being kept'. Before long, even the other residents of the hospital came under her scrutiny, and found themselves given instructions to 'stop malingering and get out of bed'.
It all finally became too much when Frank Longbottom stopped talking to his prized Mimbulus Mimbletonia long enough to pick up his bedpan, and throw it across the room at the woman, who was screeching about 'disobedient, vicious little troublemakers' at the time. Mr Longbottom was a well-trained Auror before he was sent to St Mungo's, so his throw hit the desired target before anyone else realised what was happening, causing a loud thud as it hit Umbridge square on the side of the head. Immediately, Umbridge stopped in the middle of her diatribe, resulting in an almost deafening silence, which was only ended when Mr Longbottom returned to his conversation, telling his beloved plant about the merits of the Farnborough Falcons over the Beddegelert Bears.
After that, it became obvious that Umbridge had to go. Quite apart from the fact that she was the laughing stock of the entire hospital, she now spent almost the whole of every day glaring across the room at Frank Longbottom, with her lips tightly pressed together into a thin, hate-filled line, and her eyes filled with an intense distaste for his presence. The final straw came about a week after what had come to be described as 'the bedpan incident', as Frank awoke to find his plant had been pulled apart, its leaves and roots strewn across the floor, and the dirt from the plant pot thrown over his bed. Within three days, Dolores Umbridge had been given her release papers, and was leaving St Mungo's.
Perhaps, in hindsight, releasing her to the custody of her sister hadn't been the best idea. At the time, the woman seemed to be more than capable enough for the task, but it should have been obvious that Umbridge was deeply disturbed, and needed professional help. The poor woman tried her best, but it was difficult enough to deal with Dolores Umbridge when she had a scrap of sanity; now, she was intolerable, launching into long-winded speeches at any moment, and lording it over her sister at every opportunity. It even reached the point where Aurors were on constant alert, in case Umbridge became violent, or some of her rantings drove her sister to the same. So, when Umbridge disappeared a few short months later, it came almost as a relief to her long-suffering sister, and caused little concern for anyone else.
For months afterwards, nobody heard a mention of Dolores Jane Umbridge, and almost everyone was quite content to consign her memory to oblivion. Most of those who knew her were glad to forget about the misery she caused, and those few who had considered her a friend or ally soon forgot her. The circles Umbridge usually moved in were not known for an abundance of sentimentality. Even Fudge, who had once considered her trustworthy in the extreme, chose to forget her as swiftly as possible. The memory of what she had done at Hogwarts - largely under his instruction - was still the cause of a rift between himself and Dumbledore, so when she disappeared, he was privately quite glad that her memory faded away so quickly.
Then the attacks started. The first victim was a young boy who had recently been bitten by a werewolf, and was still in the early stages of adapting to his new life. He went missing just after the new moon, while he was still weak from the change. His parents were devastated, of course, but the public's mistrust of werewolves in general kept the story from leading to an outcry. There were sympathetic words for the parents, but little panic; most people were content to just assume the boy had run off, and would live with other werewolves from now on. That was the case until exactly a week later, when his body was found only a few minutes' walk away from his home, with the words 'I am a foul half-breed, and should not be allowed to exist' cut into the back of his hand.
Before long, similar attacks were reported on other half-blooded people, from children to the elderly. The next victim was another known werewolf, who was killed in almost the same manner as the child. He was taken just after the new moon, and found a week later, with an identical phrase on his hand. A fortnight later came another case; in the dead of night, a vampire was found, tied and bound to an East-facing wall. A Ministry Hit Wizard team rescued him before the sun came up, but he reported that others of his kind had not been so fortunate, and he was also found to have an inscription on his hand, denouncing all half-breeds as unfit to live. Although he was asked who had put the mark on his hand, the Ministry had found that his memory had been modified carefully, so the true identity of the person responsible remained a secret.
The Daily Prophet, with their usual lack of journalistic ethics, put it down as the latest in a slew of attacks by Death Eaters, which were becoming an almost daily occurrence by that point. The Death Eaters were known to detest anyone with less than pure blood, so it seemed a logical explanation to many. Occasionally they speculated that the words written into the hands was a device used by one of the Death Eaters to identify their own victims, but that was the sum total of their interest in these killings, compared to the others. By the time anyone realised that the murders were the work of someone else entirely, they were all too worried about the state of the war to notice. Voldemort was taking over everywhere, and nobody wanted to hear about more killings, especially if it meant a new player had entered the game.
So, the story had been shuffled under the carpet, and the Prophet continued to report the war almost exclusively, telling tales of the occasional daring victory, and the all-too-common brave defeat. Only the Ministry seemed to pay any attention to the half-breed killings, and even then, it was a distinctly minor problem, when compared to the war effort. The few that remembered Umbridge and her methods realised that she could be the one responsible, especially in her deranged state, but none of them cared to look into it particularly closely. The Ministry was unpopular enough, without people realising that they were responsible for a dangerous manic being released into their midst. So they too had concentrated on the Death Eater problem, and Umbridge was all but forgotten.
Only in the last few days had the fighting stopped, leaving the Ministry time to assess the damage that had been wrought on them, and ponder what would happen next. Many people in the Ministry were convinced that the break in fighting meant that the Death Eaters were preparing to deliver a final, crushing blow. The phrase 'calm before the storm' may be one of the most over-used cliches in the book, but sometimes you just have to go with what works, and that was precisely what the rumour mill was doing. It seemed like the Ministry was intent on tearing itself apart before Voldemort got to them; the tension of the situation wore down friendships and alliances, leaving the few who remained in the Ministry squabbling between themselves, bickering as their world seemed to collapse around them.
That was why Fudge had called this meeting in the first place. Seeing former friends turn on each other in an orgy of self-destruction was more than he could stand, and he had to find some way to end it, even if it meant giving up on what little hope they had left. Of course, nobody in the Order had been involved in the internal squabbling, but when it came to suggesting a surrender to end the bloodshed, they would be the strongest objectors by far. If they could be persuaded to stop fighting, and let the inevitable happen, then convincing everyone else would be easy by comparison. Until the door had been blasted open a short while ago, it looked as if Fudge's hopes would have been dashed, but in an atmosphere as bizarre as this one, it now seemed as if anything might be possible.
Fudge was broken out of his reverie by another loud 'hem, hem', this time sounding from just outside the chamber. Voldemort kept casting worried glances towards the ruined doors, seeming to wish he had left enough of them to at least slow Umbridge's progress through. It looked as though Dumbledore had forced the two of them to separate, as they were now as far apart as possible, while still holding the sock. Although everyone now seemed to have got a hold of it, Dumbledore seemed to be having trouble casting the charm to turn it into a portkey; all the pushing and shoving had obviously been causing him difficulties, and the cramped scrum around the sock didn't make matters much better now.
Suddenly, another 'hem, hem' came from the doorway, and it was so clear and crisp, it could only mean one thing. Dolores Umbridge had finally returned to the Ministry, and she was standing in the shattered doorway, with the shreds of a cardigan that had once been pink hanging off one shoulder. She looked as if she had walked through a hurricane to get there; her hair was sticking out in every angle imaginable, and every exposed patch of skin was grimy and dirty. Her lips were pursed together, and her cold eyes had a maniacal gleam in them, as she surveyed the little group huddled around the sock. There was almost a tangible twinkle in them, as her eyes fell on Voldemort, who looked more like a petulant child than the feared, all-powerful wizard he was.
"Mr Riddle!" she shrilled, once she had taken in the scene, "How dare you run away from your detention like that?"
"Dumbledore! Hurry!" squeaked Voldemort, in a voice that would have been comical, if it weren't for the dire situation they were all in.
"Oh, don't you go running to them for help... They're in just as much trouble as you are!" she said, in the same high-pitched voice. If anything, Fudge was convinced that her voice had become worse in the months that she had been in hiding; it certainly seemed more annoying that he remembered. She started to walk toward the group around the sock, in what could only be described as a dangerous, predatory stride. Her steps were short and quick, and she seemed in no rush to get to them, but they were given the impression that if they bolted, she would be after them faster than they would expect. As she continued her walk, she opened her mouth and spoke to them again.
"You see, Potter and Dumbledore both have a week of detention to serve, once yours is complete... They won't be of any help to you... You've all been very naughty, and now you have to be punished..." she babbled, delirious and beyond the reach of anything resembling sanity. Suddenly, Voldemort dropped his hold on Dumbledore's sock, and grabbed hold of Harry. For a moment, it looked as if he was going to make sure Harry died before he did, but then he snatched Harry's wand from his hands, and spun around to face Umbridge again.
"Crucio!" he bellowed, casting the full venom of the Cruciatus Curse at the approaching woman. The spell hit her full in the chest, but all it seemed to do was make her stagger a little. She still continued her walk, despite the pain that was showing in her face. Her lips were white from being pressed together so tightly, and the muscle under her left eye had developed a dangerous tic, as if the blood was looking to escape from her face. But the worst thing was her eyes, which seemed to gleam even more brightly than ever, as she looked straight at Voldemort. Meanwhile, Voldemort was locking eye contact on her to maintain the curse, so it was as if some insane battle of wills was taking place, and it looked as if Umbridge was winning it, with every little step she took.
This was immediately obvious to those watching, and soon became obvious to Voldemort, as well. The former Master of the Death Eaters never had much colour in his face, but what little colour remained there was visibly draining away, as Umbridge continued her slow, inhuman march toward him. Under the effects of the curse, she was traveling at little more than a snail's pace, but none of those present felt the need to intervene on behalf of either of them, and contented themselves with watching the horrible scene unfold in from of them. Before she had closed half the distance, Voldemort's eyes were gently - but visibly - bulging, and his wand had started to wobble gently, although nobody was quite sure if it was from fear or exertion. Neither seemed willing to give an inch, but Umbridge seemed the only one to be doing any taking.
Once she had come close enough to be almost within reach of Voldemort's wand, his nerve finally seemed to snap, and he finally broke the gaze that was holding the Cruciatus Curse in place. With a low, guttural moan, Voldemort leapt across the room to where Dumbledore was standing, helplessly waving his wand. No matter how hard he tried, not even the most powerful wizard alive could create a portkey while being constantly jolted and pushed around, as he was in the middle of the group. Slowly, he shook his head at his one-time enemy, indicating that it would still be several minutes until they could make their escape. If it was possible, that pronouncement made the Dark Lord's eyes take on an even more fanatical gleam, as he cast about for some other means of escape.
Just as Umbridge turned her gaze to face him again, Voldemort's eyes narrowed, and a tiny sliver of their former menace seemed to return. Unfortunately, they were not targeted at the person bearing down on him from the middle of the room, but at a certain young man with coal-coloured hair and an unsightly facial blemish. At first, nobody seemed to notice Voldemort's frenzied stare, but it wasn't long before people started to catch on, and turned to follow his gaze, taking their eyes off Umbridge for the first time since her entrance. Finally, it was only the Boy-Who-Lived who was still carefully watching the slow advance of their would-be tormentor, while everyone else was watching him. Nobody ever found out if he would have turned of his own accord, because at that moment Voldemort grabbed Harry from behind, and shoved him forward, right into the clutching arms of the oncoming terror.
"What are you doing?" bellowed Harry, as he frantically tried to disentangle himself from Umbridge's bony grip.
"Survival of the fittest, Potter!" was Voldemort's reply, but he didn't even dignify it with a glance back, as he was already in full flight, desperately trying to make for the door furthest from the struggle between the former Inquisitor and the former saviour of the wizarding world. However, everyone was paying too much attention to Harry's struggles to stop him, and he slipped through the door and out of harm's immediate reach. The sounds of the door locking came almost before the door was closed, but were closely followed by shouts of rage; the adjoining chamber had only one exit, and that was sealed to prevent anyone interrupting the Order's meeting. Voldemort may have sealed himself away from the others in the chamber, but he was every bit as trapped as they were.
None of which made Harry Potter feel any better, as he tried to wriggle his way out of Umbridge's clutches, and away from her altogether. For someone whose limbs seemed so bony and weak, she had surprising strength in her arms, and Harry was having trouble escaping her grip, especially as his left arm was being twisted painfully behind his back. Of course, nobody in the room was exactly rushing to his aid, seeming to be too interested in the outcome to want to take the chance of affecting how it might turn out. It should have been a simple matter for Harry to break Umbridge's grip, but just the sight of her made him feel as if he had never gone beyond the angry adolescent that had tried to defy her in class, and been severely punished for it. Even though he was a full-grown man now, he still felt as though she had some kind of bizarre power over him.
"Ah... Mr Potter!" Umbridge's shrill voice was saying, "How good of you to come so willingly..."
"Willingly?" he spluttered, in disbelief.
"Why, yes..." she said, "Now, my little celebrity... There's something I've been wanting to do, ever since I first laid eyes on you..."
"W-What's that?"
"Just this..." Umbridge replied, before delving into her robes with her free hand, and withdrawing what looked like a perfectly normal, ice-white quill. However, to Harry, it looked eerily familiar, and several of those watching also seemed to have some idea what it was. As Harry watched the approaching point of the quill, he felt Umbridge's clammy hand pull his head back, so he was staring at the ceiling, rather than toward the stunned crowd of spectators. Gradually, she brought the quill to just above his forehead, to the point just between his eyes, where the point seemed to split into two separate images of itself.
"You see..." she continued, "I've always had this little thing for symmetry..."
And with that statement, she touched the quill to Harry's forehead, at a point just above his right eye, at a point parallel to where his scar began over the left eye. As soon as the quill touched flesh, Harry's entire face seemed to become one burning mask of pain, far worse than anything he had experienced from using Umbridge's poison pen quills before; either this was something new, or the effect was much greater when actually writing on the flesh itself. His eyes were tightly shut against the pain, but that didn't stop colours from dancing in his vision, nor did it stop the anguished scream that came from his lips. He wasn't sure how long it had actually been since the slender point had been applied to him, but it already felt like the ordeal would never be over.
Fortunately, it seemed that wouldn't be the case, as both Harry and Umbridge found themselves suddenly bowled over by a violent impact to their right, which knocked them, and whatever ran into them, to the floor, in one large mass of tangled bodies. At first, Harry was sure the roof of the chamber had fallen in on them both, his head was ringing so badly, but as his vision started to clear he realised that he was actually pinned underneath the body of the Minister of Magic, and on top of Dolores Umbridge. It was only another moment or two before his recovering senses told him that it must have been Cornelius Fudge that ran into the side of them a moment ago, knocking them all down to get Harry away from Umbridge and her quill.
Gradually, the weight pinning Harry down started to lift, as Fudge climbed off the pile of bodies, and to his feet, brushing himself down as he rose. Even though he was glad to have the weight off his back, Harry could already feel Umbridge squirming beneath him, trying to lift him off of her, so that she could stand up and retrieve her quill and wand. Despite his best efforts, Harry found it was almost impossible for him to stop her from moving, as his head was still swimming from the after-effects of his ordeal, to say nothing of being at a considerable weight disadvantage. It was only another moment before Umbridge was able to throw Harry off her back completely, tossing him to the floor, where Fudge finally helped him to his feet.
"Thanks..." Harry breathed when he was fully standing, with one hand gingerly touching his brow. There only seemed to be the tiniest of cuts where the quill had been, and surprisingly little blood, but the pain was still there in full bloom. Meanwhile, Umbridge had crawled over to her wand, and was now looking around for the quill she had dropped. For a moment, both Harry and Fudge stood looking at each other in silent panic, but then their attention was called by a shout from behind them, where the others were still assembled, watching events unfold.
"Harry! Minister!" called Charlie, who had never moved from Dumbledore's side. He was waving both Harry and Fudge over to them, which could only mean one thing; the portkey was nearly ready, and they could make their escape. Harry darted to their side at once, followed only slightly later by Fudge, who looked over at where Umbridge was already climbing to her feet. For a moment, he thought that she was going to turn around and come at them once again, but then her eyes fell on the door that Voldemort had dived through, not so long ago. With her wand still clutched in her right hand, she lifted her arm towards the door, and opened her mouth to cast a charm.
"Reducto!" she sang, effortlessly blasting the door, and no small section of the wall, into dust. This left the next room exposed, where Voldemort was backed up against the wall, looking with horror at the place where the door used to be. The door into the next room was obviously locked, and without a wand, he had no chance of breaking down the heavy oaken doors that the Ministry used. Slowly, as the dust settled, Umbridge locked her gaze back on Voldemort, as he tried in vain to push the door open and escape.
"Oops!" she twittered, completely disregarding the debris all around her, "I shouldn't have done that..."
Right then, just as Umbridge started moving forwards once again, Fudge felt the familiar jerk just behind his belly-button, signifying that the Portkey was finally doing its job, and a thought popped into his head, as the vision of Umbridge closing the distance between herself and the former Dark Lord started to blur away. One nightmare may be over, he thought, but it looked as if another one could be just beginning...
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, do you really think I'd be this cruel to them?
Well, this took longer than I wanted it to, for one reason and another... Life has been hectic (and often less than pleasant) of late, which has meant my fic work has dwindled to almost nothing. I've also been trying my hand at some original work. This was meant to be a light-hearted Voldemort vs. Umbridge fic, but I hope some of the little details were entertaining. Let me know what you think, I'm sure you know how by now...
As for my other fics, 'Legacy of Slytherin' still continues, and will shortly awaken from it's long slumber. I also have two other one-shot fics nearing completion, which will hopefully appear in reasonably short order. (Character pieces for Hermione and Neville, for the curious.)
Oh, and as for the bedpan? I'll let you decide if it had been used or not. ;)