A tall, well-dressed wizard Apparated right outside the gates of Hogwarts. He had neat brownish-blond hair and light hazel eyes framed by laugh lines. Now, however, he looked angry, his jaw and fists clenched as he strode up the front drive.
His brown traveling cloak billowed out behind him, revealing pressed brown khakis and a button-up blue shirt. The wizard climbed up the front steps and pushed open the tall door. He glanced into the Great Hall, then turned and went up the marble staircase. The man walked with purpose and direction, taking turns confidently and walking with a brisk stride.
He came to Professor Flitwick's classroom and threw open the doors. There was a lesson in progress, and all the students turned to stare at the tall man.
"Papi?" Isabella asked, standing up. Her father saw her and gestured for her to come over.
"Bella, go get you belongings," he ordered. "You're leaving."
"But..."
"Isabella Petrroci O'Reagan," his voice boomed. "Go pack your trunk." Isabella hurried to put her wand, quill, and books into her bookbag. She scrambled to the door, looking up at her father inquiringly. Professor Flitwick ran after them, stopping at the door and turning back towards his other students.
"Keep practicing!" he said in his high voice, before closing the door behind him.
"Bella, show me your hand." Isabella hesitated, then put her left hand in her father's open one. He hissed at the writing etched there in her skin.
"Mr. O'Reagan, what it the meaning of this?" the tiny Professor asked, his voice squeakier than usual.
"Your Headmistress's barbaric methods!" her father shouted, holding up Isabella's hurt hand for Professor Flitwick to see. "I'm not standing for it!"
"Please, Patrick, lower your voice!" Professor Flitwick begged.
"Isabella, go pack," her father said again.
"Where are we going?" she asked timidly, pulling her bookbag onto her shoulder.
"I don't know yet. Just go."
"Perhaps you'd like to see Professor Umbridge?" Professor Flitwick piped as Isabella hurried away to the Ravenclaw Tower. Mr. O'Reagan's eyes flashed dangerously.
"Yes," he decided. "I most certainly would." He followed the dwarf up to Umbridge's office. The Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher sat in her room, sipping tea morosely. She was supposed to be having a lesson, but the entire class had come down with "Umbridge-itis" and left for the hospital wing.
Professor Flitwick knocked politely on the door. When there was no immediate answer, Mr. O'Reagan hammered on the door with his fist. The door swung open sharply and a very dishevelled looking Headmistress stood there.
"Professor Flitwick," she said in her sweetest voice. "Whatever is going on?" Isabella's father towered over her by at least a foot and a half, and every inch of him was seething with rage.
"This is Mr. O'Reagan," Flitwick squeaked. "His daughter is a fourth year in my house. Patrick, this is Headmistress Dolores Umbridge."
"How can I help you?" Professor Umbridge asked in a sugary voice.
"I've come to collect my daughter!" Mr. O'Reagan thundered in reply, causing Professors Flitwick and Umbridge to cower slightly. "I'm taking her away from this barbaric school with its medieval methods!" He pointed a long finger at Umbridge's nose, "Rest assured her grandfather will know about this! Leonardo Petrroci is not a man you wish to cross!"
"Leonardo Petrroci?" Umbridge's eyes were practically bulging. She turned to Flitwick for an explanation.
"Isabella's mother is Antonia Petrroci, the Italian ambassador," the Charms professor said. Umbridge's face drained of color, that came back in purple splotches.
"Oh. Um... yes," she spluttered. "Yes, of course... Professor Flitwick, would you mind escorting Mr. O'Reagan and his daughter down to the Great Hall. Get them some tea. I just need a few moments... to, um, well. Yes." She closed the door in their faces and could be heard on the other side, scrambling and muttering to herself.
"I'd rather not wait," Mr. O'Reagan said stiffly.
"Just for a few moments," Professor Flitwick assured him, patting his elbow. "Besides, I remember a young Hufflepuff who was very fond of our scones."
"But... Bella," the wizard protested feebly.
"I'll send her a note," Professor Flitwick assured him. He waved his wand and a silvery frog hopped away. They went down to the Great Hall together and Professor Flitwick rapped the table sharply with his wand.
"Tea, please," he said. An entire tea popped up; there was a tea pot, cream, sugar, several fruit scones, and whipped cream. Mr. O'Reagan grabbed on of the scones and sat down heavily, spreading whipped cream thickly over it. A tin of biscuits appeared at his elbow and he politely offered one to Professor Flitwick.
Isabella came hurrying down the marble stairs and into the Great Hall. Seeing her father sitting there, washing down his second scone with tea, her face broke into a relieved smile. She sat down next to him and he automatically put an arm around her shoulders. He rapped the table and ordered coffee. Isabella sipped the cup gratefully and leaned into her father.
"Tell me everything," he said firmly, helping himself to a third scone. Isabella took one, too, and nibbled at it.
"Everything?" she asked, picking a raisin from her scone.
"Absolutely everything." Isabella hesitated, then began the story with the DA. She explained about their lessons, the night they had been caught, Fred and George getting banned from Quidditch, Wildfire Whiz-bangs, and then the Portable Swamp. Her father's eyes were rather bright by the end of it and she anxiously awaited his verdict.
"They sound brilliant!" he father chuckled. "You know, Dora Tonks and I used to get into all sorts of trouble... not any as magnificent as your Fred and George, but..."
"You?" Isabella asked, laughing.
"Well, mainly it was nicking stuff from the kitchen," her father admitted.
"I seem to remember an infestation of glumbumbles," Professor Flitwick said dryly. Mr. O'Reagan smiled fondly at the memory.
"Oh yeah," he said. "Tonks and I got hundreds of the little creatures... we wanted to sell anti-hysteria tarts during our fifth year. Everyone who ate them became badly depressed."
"Yes, then they invaded the school beehives and ruined the honey!" Professor Flitwick said.
"I didn't know Hogwarts had beehives," Isabella commented, sipping her coffee.
"Not anymore," Professor Flitwick told her.
Just before dinner, Professor Umbridge came down the stairs. She had obviously just combed her hair and plastered a fake smile onto her face. Isabella saw a little soot on the Headmistress's collar, hinting at a trip by floo powder to the Ministry for Magic.
"I must apologize for this misunderstanding," Umbridge simpered. Isabella's father stood, a thunder cloud on his brow.
"Misunderstanding?" he growled. "My daughter tells me not only have you authorized this black magic for detentions, you are also allowing whippings! I won't stand it! Hogwarts really has gone downhill since I was here..."
"I'm sure you can arrange some changes," Umbridge said sweetly. She gave Isabella a pathetic attempt at a maternal smile.
"We'll that doesn't matter to me, either way," Mr. O'Reagan interrupted. "I'm transferring Isabella to the Academia de Italia. Her uncle Valentino Petrroci teaches there."
"I really don't think that's necessary, Mr. O'Reagan," said Umbridge. "I've just been visiting with Cornelius Fudge himself. We, that is to say, the Minister and myself, agree that things have gotten a little out of hand. Naturally, he'll be recalling the Approval for Whipping..."
"And what about this?" Isabella's father demanded pointing to her cut hand.
"My deepest apologies for that little piece of discipline," she simpered. "But your daughter was caught aiding and abetting two delinquents..."
"Aiding and abetting? Since when is it a crime to hide behind tapestries?" Mr. O'Reagan demanded. Isabella began to suspect he was enjoying himself. "Young people do that all the time with their boyfriends!" Isabella blushed scarlet.
"Her... boyfriends?" Umbridge spluttered, clearly shocked. "Both of them...?"
"Yes, have you got a problem with that?" Isabella's father asked, towering over Umbridge impressively.
"Um, no... not at all," she squeaked.
"Well, then," her father's voice lowered a little. "If this really is all a misunderstanding, I won't be contacting Leonardo Petrroci. But if my daughter sends me one more letter about being mistreated, I will put her in Academia de Italia before you can say Petrroci. I expect her grandfather will want to come pick her up." Umbridge cowered slightly.
"And of course," her father continued, his voice suddenly light and genial. "If she goes to school in Italy, her mother will naturally be recalled from your Ministry."
With that he turned and kissed Isabella's forehead, ruffled her hair, and left.