But terror and the promise of violence can do many things to otherwise mature people…because he was not the only one.
By the time Dumbledore and several other level-headed persons were able to calm them all down, thirteen other individuals had attempted to apparate and five of them had splinched different parts of themselves. All Ministry personnel except for the one—Heather Whistle—who'd always had the unfortunate tendency to do the worst thing possible when faced with impossible odds, or seemingly impossible odds, or just extremely nervous. In this case, it was to try a very stupid thing when she should have known better.
They should have all known better.
And while everyone else had been going crazy—some immediately heading for the exits, others being as still and quiet as they could, as if they doing so would leave them unnoticed—Evans and Weasley simply stood there, watching and sharing thoroughly amused glances.
Dumbledore pursed his lips and though he was definitely glad that this 'party' was over and done with, he did not appreciate having to play counselor and comforter to these people anymore than he suspected the visitors would. If they even had the patience for such things. But he thought they did—they wouldn't have been able to rebuild or do anything constructive otherwise—which meant that they just didn't care to use that patience when dealing with the Ministry.
Something he should have realized right away when they said the only reason they didn't include a failsafe with Ministry in The Book of Names was because they were sure that incompetence or corruption, or both, would stand in the way of actually helping the children.
At last they were done; the guests had left, except for those few hardcore Ministry personnel who weren't stupid enough to try and apparate, the decorations were cleared, the room returned to its original size, more or less, because there were still more of the visiting party yet to arrive—something Dumbledore should have seen right away when he considered the size of the school that the Remnant had been using as their home—and was left to face Evans and Weasley, without any Ministry official getting in the way and making thing worse.
"Eh-hem."
This time, he let his wand-hand fall to the Elder wand, which was demanding he satisfy his annoyance with Umbridge in a thoroughly bloody manner. And this time, he felt the answering echo from the wand held by Evans across from him.
He met and held the eyes coolly looking back at him, letting Evans know that they would have a talk about that. He was answered with a roll of the eyes. Dumbledore felt his eyes twitch.
'Impertinent brat. Even if I pity him or empathize, that's no excuse for being disrespectful.'
His eyes twitched even more violently when Evans added a contemptuous little sneer.
'Is this how Minerva feels when she had to discipline an unruly student with a simple loss of points rather than transfiguring them into a toad, as she's claimed countless times she's been tempted to do?'
"Mister Evans," Umbridge started, emphasizing the 'mister', as if the lack of a title would matter at all to Evans. "Was it really necessary to frighten the guests away? They had come here with hope and good cheer in their hearts and you answer them with threats and violence? I am not so sure now that the Ministry's desires to form a friendship with your group are so necessary if this is the way you treat all potential partners."
She paused for several moments, raising her eyebrows and trying to convey some sort of hidden message with her fluttering lashes and pursing lips; Dumbledore realized that she was expecting the silence to be filled with apologies or something equally as unlikely. He felt her impatience when neither were forthcoming from Evans.
"Well?" She snapped out, not used to being refused at all or for long—not with the weight of the Minister behind her demands.
Were it anyone but the ones before them, perhaps they would have succumbed to her unspoken command but they were not anyone she had power over. The sooner she realized that, the sooner she would understand that nothing she could say or do would ever force Evans or Weasley or any of the others who had appeared with them, looking her up and down with disgust, to do anything they didn't want to do.
Evans took one long, hard look at her and then, quite unexpectedly, smiled a sweet, charming smile. Had Dumbledore been a muggle, he might have said an angel stood before them. As it was, being raised in a muggle-wizarding village and knowing enough about muggle customs and traditions to make remarks that left many a pureblood confused, he might have said it anyways.
"Madame Umbridge." She preened as she always did whenever someone referred to her by her title—and gloated. "Madam Umbridge," he began again, speaking over her gloating, "I would like, more than anything to apologize to you for the violent manner in which I have, so far, acted towards you and the respectable Institution you represent."
He nodded cordially to her, though Dumbledore noticed that it was not an inch more than what you greeted one's underling by. How quickly did she forget his snide remarks against her, spoken but hours ago.
She smiled encouragingly, nodding along as if she was watching a particularly captivating show on the telly—not that she would know what one was with her ridiculous prejudice against all thing muggle.
"However, I am merely sharing responsibilities as Head Officer of Security with my companion. I am not the leader of the Remnant or in any position of high authority. I am merely the best representative they have to offer at the moment, still in the middle of preparations as we are, same as you are Madame—as you are the best the Ministry has to offer?"
Dumbledore watched, not quite surprised but still wondering how someone as politically knowledgeable as Umbridge didn't even realize she was being manipulated by someone she should not have believed even about the most truthful of statements. But he, himself, had used much the same tactics as Evans—flattering, cajoling, crooning words of encouragement and praise—to be that surprised it had worked.
He knew from experience that the only way to deal with someone like Umbridge was to make them think that whatever you suggested or advised against was their idea in the first place; not as hard you'd think, especially with people who thought themselves to be so clever and powerful.
He also didn't think she heard the mocking emphasis Evans had placed when he stated she was the best the Ministry had to offer; she most likely took it for the compliment it was meant to be, but the Headmaster noted the shades of scorn and loathing Evans couldn't quite keep out of his voice. It was so slight, however, that he doubted anyone but he had noticed it.
Weasley's raised eyebrow proved him wrong. Ah. So it had been noticed. But they said nothing. Why? The ruthlessly suppressed smiles said it all; it amused them all to see Evans manipulate the Undersecretary in this way and perhaps they thought that if she didn't even have the skills to notice she was being manipulated, she didn't deserve to be 'saved'.
What was it that Evans had said?
'Politics'…is nothing more than another word for 'people too stupid to know they've been manipulated'.
In this case, it was nothing more than truth.
"I see. Well. Well, yes, of course, you don't have the authority to apologize on behalf of your entire people—the Remnant, did you call it?—but I think I will be satisfied with a simple apology, comrade to comrade."
The "charming" smile on Evans' face froze.
His companions shifted nervously and muttered among themselves. "Comrade?" he repeated, sounding dazed—as if she honored him by labeling him thus—to those who did not know him well or was too stupid to see that there was something going on—as if he had not heard her say so—some dark emotion stirring behind his eyes.
Umbridge, still foolishly believing she had won him over so easily, did not bother to look further than the brittle smile on Evans' face and said, "Yes. You and I are comrades, now—why, we're both representing our respective leaders and what they represent—I could only hope to dismiss all of this as a simple misunderstanding."
Evans gave a long, slow blink.
"Misunderstanding," he repeated.
And this time Umbridge looked a bit annoyed.
Dumbledore was not sure exactly of what was going to happen; only that it wouldn't be pretty or any kind of good, political move at all. He observed the smile fading right away, as if it had never been there and thought, 'I don't think he really cares. He was just playing with her and now he's done.' Dumbledore glanced at Umbridge. 'But she still doesn't understand what's going on.'
With a move too quick to see, much less counter—though to give credit, the Aurors guarding Umbridge weren't too far behind in speed—she was bound in ropes that writhed and tightened the more she struggled. The guards were knocked out instantly by some dark shadow that struck from below them and tightened around their necks until their eyes rolled in their heads and they fell to the ground.
Dumbledore didn't realize until he got closer, in an effort to step between them so as to prevent further harm, that it wasn't rope that bound her but snakes. He was mystified. Who used snakes as ropes? But he had no more time to wonder at that as his attention was captured by Evans, at the sibilant hisses that he spoke.
'A parseltongue? Was I wrong—is Evans some long-lost descended of Slytherin, not a Potter? Only those descended of Slytherin blood could speak the serpent tongue. Only Dark wizards.'
He tried to banish his uncharitable thoughts, especially the last, but as he stood there staring into the face of the man before him, he found it—difficult—to do so. There was no apology, no explanation, and no attempt to sooth concerns. In fact, Evans wasn't concerning himself with Dumbledore at all—he was focused entirely on the woman behind him, who was screaming hysterically and shouting threats simultaneously.
Evans laughed.
Well, more like chuckled but the meaning was clear; this was nothing more than an amusement to him. A game. Her suffering meant nothing—or perhaps, her suffering was the game? Gellert often tortured his enemies for the sake of it, not for information or as an example or anything like that—because he liked it.
Was Evans the same? Was he a wizard who would plunge Dumbledore's world into the chaos of war that only a true Dark Lord could achieve, if Dumbledore allowed them through? Was the Remnant actually his army and Granger and Malfoy were simply decoys? Was this all an elaborate ruse to conquer a new world in his boredom or—
Dumbledore clamped down on his thoughts—hard—and took deep breaths, ignoring all else, even Umbridge's screams, though it was difficult because he could tell it was born of hysteria not pain.
No, he would not fall victim to his prejudice once again. He would not allow his doubts and worries to so consume his thoughts as to allow his bias unchecked, dismissing the well-founded concerns of a young wizard in need of his help and cause a wizard to turn to the Dark Arts for validation instead. Not again.
He had refused to allow his grudge against Slytherins to persist with Severus—after his prejudice had almost cost the poor boy his life. He had almost allowed his naivety concerning Riddle's upbringing in the orphanage and the lessons he had learned there—to be as cruel as the ones who harassed him, as cunning as the ones who wished for him to fail—to lead him to a Dark path, intervening and fostering the good in him by introducing him to the Diggorys. He couldn't allow his unfounded suspicions to rule his mind and actions here and now.
Hadn't he learned his lesson yet—the hard way?
He would observe Evans—and Weasley and Granger and Malfoy, and all the others—and make his decisions based on fact, not his speculations. Doubt does not mean that the reason for the doubt exists, only that there is fear…fear of what might possibly lie behind that doubt.
Evans was a parseltongue. That was fact. He was not a Dark wizard—not until he actually hurt someone. And Dumbledore must remind himself that these are the survivors of a horrific war, of which was not the most horrible thing they faced and overcame in their world—no, the 'Aftermath' took care of that. Hardened the edges already sharpened by war and kept them ready to be wielded at a moment's notice. That was fact.
Labeling Evans a Dark wizard, or a potential Dark Lord, was not a fact.
"Listen well, you utter fool, because I will not repeat myself again. I don't care about your precious Ministry. In fact, I'd very much like to see it burn and I'm not picky on if there happens to be anyone inside. You think our remarks about what we did to the politicians in our world were mere fiction?"
Evans walked forward, not bothering to request Dumbledore move aside, simply going around him and crouched in front of the still-hysterical woman.
"They are not. We skinned alive and burned to bits the man who called himself Minister Fudge; we gave as slops to the feral hounds that guarded our eastern borders in the Forest, those low-level clerks who betrayed the Ministry and would have happily betrayed us in return, were they able to get their hands on some decent information within our camps; and you…." Evans breathed her name in one long, harsh whisper that nonetheless carried the all the corners of the Great Hall.
Those few who had decided to stay, some staff and determined partygoers alike, shivered—both dreading and anticipating his next words—as they were no fan of Umbridge either but still felt some pity for her when they looked at the man who held her in his thrall.
"You, Umbridge, we handed over to the Centaurs to do with as they liked. You see, our Umbridge was a real, nasty woman, despising muggleborns and magical creatures alike—passing unfair laws and throwing them into Azkaban, or stripping them of their magic—and had angered them—and us—previously. So we thought it'd only fair to give them the chance to enact their vengeance. Seeing as how you—oh, I'm sorry, that's not quite right is it?—my Umbridge had had them hunted down and stuffed. Displayed like some kind of ridiculous piece of art."
He smiled a smile full of blades and thorns.
"You can probably guess that the Herds weren't very happy about that. But how happy they were, to finally have you in their grasp—to see close-up the face of the woman who had killed their children and mates—and how happy we were when they promised us all the protection and use of the Forest, as much as we liked, just for you…there was quite a celebration when they told us their price for their help." His hand snapped forward and thrust her to face him by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "You. On a silver platter." She whimpered piteously. "We had no problem with that."
And then she burst into tears, begging him not to kill her, offering all her gold and Ministry secrets and pleading— please don't kill me, please don't kill me, please don't kill me…! Evans looked fairly disgusted by her antics and let her go with a sneering expression, wiping off his hands on his pants, as if touching her had somehow dirtied him. From the same looks of glee from his companions, Dumbledore suspected that Evans had simply been the first to attack her—not the only one wanting to do so—and that no objection from them would be forthcoming. He glanced at Weasley, hoping that as his family was notoriously Light, despite being from another world, that he would put a stop to this. Or just say something.
But he didn't. Well. He did. But what he said was, "Can you just kill her already, if you're going to do it? We have work to do and her screaming's giving me a headache—if you don't shut her up, I will. And I don't have your precision or creativity. I'd just chop her head off and that'd be no fun for anyone would it?" Weasley made an impatient gesture. "Kill her or don't, but Granger's gonna have someone in front of the Council tonight and it's not gonna be me. Not this time, mate."
So, no, Weasley wasn't going to be any help.
Before Dumbledore could interfere or demand that Evans stop torturing the woman already—he was old, not deaf and Weasley wasn't the only one who was bothered by her screams—Evans let her go. He made a shoo-ing gesture with his hand and the snakes disappeared, though not without a brief conversation between them. Umbridge, shaken, was helped up by her bodyguards—who had suddenly woken up at that very moment—and escorted her out the Great Hall.
Though Umbridge being Umbridge, she did not go without a lot of scorn and promises of retribution, already forgetting that she had been cowering and begging for her life only moments before.
Evans did not allow himself the satisfaction of having scared her away to appear on his face for even a moment, though he must have been satisfied for his dislike of her was made quite clear, before focusing back on the Headmaster, as stern and coolly assessing as ever.
"Shall we have a quick word, Headmaster? There are a few things that need to be discussed before the rest of the party arrives. Time is running out."
And that's when the house elves appeared.