Dolores Umbridge Arrives

"They crashed a flying car into the Whomping Willow!" one of the students exclaimed.

"Did you know about this?" Hermione asked, exasperated.

"Yes," Sal admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose.

By the time the carriages reached Hogwarts, Harry and Ron had already been dragged into McGonagall's office. Sal figured they'd either get detention or a lecture—most likely both.

He didn't have to wait long for the aftermath.

At breakfast the next morning, just as everyone was tucking into their food, a loud, screeching voice filled the Great Hall.

"RONALD WEASLEY—HOW DARE YOU TAKE THAT CAR?!"

Sal didn't even have to turn around. He already knew it was Molly Weasley's Howler.

The enchanted letter hovered above Ron's head, the voice of Mrs. Weasley practically shaking the windows.

"I AM ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED! YOUR FATHER'S JOB IS HANGING BY A THREAD AND YOU STEAL A CAR?! IF I HEAR ONE MORE WORD ABOUT THIS FROM THE MINISTRY, I WILL COME DOWN TO HOGWARTS AND DRAG YOU HOME MYSELF!"

As if that weren't enough, the voice suddenly softened—only slightly—as she turned her attention to Ginny.

"Ginny, dear, we're so proud you made it into Gryffindor! Do your best and write us soon!"

Then, with a BANG, the letter burst into flames and disintegrated.

Sal tried to keep a straight face, but the Weasley twins were openly howling with laughter.

Ron, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

"That was brutal," Sal muttered to Hermione.

"That was deserved," Hermione corrected.

After breakfast, Sal's first class was Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall.

But there was something different about today's lesson.

Dolores Umbridge was sitting at the back of the classroom, scribbling on a clipboard.

Sal didn't miss the way McGonagall's nostrils flared slightly, though she kept her usual stern demeanor. He could tell she wanted nothing more than to transfigure Umbridge into a goblet and toss her into the trash.

The lesson itself went smoothly, but every so often, Sal noticed Umbridge clearing her throat in that irritating, toad-like way before scribbling furiously.

"Why is she even here?" Hermione whispered to Sal.

"Ministry oversight," Sal murmured. "They don't trust Dumbledore, so they're trying to keep an eye on the school."

As the class ended, Umbridge gave McGonagall a smug little smile and left without a word.

Sal had the sinking feeling that she wouldn't stop there.

If Transfiguration had been tense, Defense Against the Dark Arts was downright unbearable.

Gilderoy Lockhart was the biggest fraud Sal had ever seen, and he hadn't even started talking yet.

As soon as the class stepped into the room, they were met with a nightmare—the entire classroom was plastered wall-to-wall with portraits of Lockhart, each one showing him in some ridiculous heroic pose.

Sal groaned. "I think I'm getting a headache already."

Hermione, however, looked starstruck.

Then Lockhart himself waltzed in, dressed in obnoxiously bright peacock-blue robes, flashing his blindingly white teeth.

"Welcome, welcome, my dear students!" he announced. "Ah, but of course, you all know me, Gilderoy Lockhart—Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award!"

Sal glanced sideways at Ron, who muttered, "Yeah, bet he wrote that himself."

Lockhart continued, clearly enjoying his own voice. "Now, let's start with a little pop quiz! To see how well you know your professor!"

Sal blinked. "Wait, what?"

Sure enough, Lockhart handed out a test—but instead of questions about defense against the Dark Arts, every single question was about him.

Sal flipped through the parchment.

"What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?"

"What is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement?"

"What is Gilderoy Lockhart's ideal birthday present?"

Sal resisted the urge to set the paper on fire.

He skipped the quiz entirely and started flipping through one of Lockhart's books instead—just as he suspected, it was full of exaggerated nonsense.

When Lockhart finally stopped talking about himself, he released a cage full of Cornish Pixies—which immediately began attacking the class.

"See? Simple creatures!" Lockhart said dramatically. "I shall demonstrate how to handle them!"

Lockhart flicked his wand and called, "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"

Nothing happened.

One of the pixies stole his wand and threw it out the window.

Within moments, absolute chaos broke out.

Desks flipped over, books flew through the air, and Neville Longbottom found himself hanging upside down from a chandelier.

Sal sighed heavily and took out his wand.

With a flick, he conjured a shield charm to protect himself. "Alright, enough of this."

He pointed his wand at the pixies and muttered, "Oppugno."

The pixies froze before suddenly turning on each other, chasing each other around the room before flying straight back into their cage.

The moment the last pixie was inside, Sal slammed the cage shut.

Lockhart cleared his throat, dusting off his robes as if he had helped. "Ah! Exactly what I would have done—splendid job, Mr. Cross!"

Sal rubbed his temples. "Professor, do you actually know any useful defense spells?"

"Ah, but of course! I just thought the students could use a little excitement!"

Ron muttered, "Yeah, you nearly excited Neville to death."

As they left the classroom, Hermione looked oddly thoughtful.

"Okay," she admitted. "Maybe Lockhart isn't… the best teacher."

Sal snorted. "That's putting it mildly."

Ron sighed. "That's two useless professors now. Lockhart is a joke, and Umbridge is just here to spy on us."

Sal didn't disagree. "Dumbledore must have had a reason for hiring them."

"Yeah," Ron said. "But whatever it is, we're stuck with them."

Sal nodded. He had the feeling that this year was going to be full of challenges—but if he had learned anything, it was that he had to be ready for whatever came next.

Herbology went smoothly that morning, but as Sal walked toward the dungeons for Potions, he braced himself. He knew that Professor Snape hated two things above all else—being interrupted and having his class disrupted.

And Dolores Umbridge was about to do both.

Sal took his usual spot beside Snape, preparing to assist as always, but today, something was different. Snape barely acknowledged him—his entire focus was locked onto Umbridge like a predator watching prey.

The rest of the class quickly noticed the tension. They sat in silence, waiting for the inevitable clash.

Sal, sensing the storm brewing, quickly spoke up. "Alright, settle down and find your seats." His voice was calm, controlled, the way he had learned to handle tense situations.

Snape, however, had already made up his mind.

He stalked forward, his robes billowing as he turned to address the class, his voice smooth but cold. "Today, we will be brewing a Draught of Peace. The instructions are on the board. Follow them precisely." He gave his usual piercing glare, daring anyone to step out of line.

For a brief moment, it seemed as though the lesson might continue without incident.

But then came the voice.

"Ahem—Professor Snape," Umbridge interrupted, the sugary sweetness of her voice dripping with condescension. "If you wouldn't mind, I have a few… questions regarding your teaching methods."

Sal saw Snape's jaw tighten ever so slightly. That was never a good sign.

"Of course, Madam Umbridge," Snape said coolly. "Do try to make them relevant."

Sal didn't know whether to admire or worry about Snape's restraint.

Umbridge smiled that toad-like smile and tapped her clipboard. "I have noticed you do not call on students unless they are personally selected. Wouldn't you say that limits engagement?"

Snape's eyes flicked to Sal for the briefest second.

Sal got the message.

"I actually assist in this," Sal interjected, keeping his tone neutral. "Students are observed for their progress, and if someone is struggling, we work with them individually. It ensures that students learn at their own pace rather than being forced to answer publicly when unprepared."

Snape tilted his head slightly, the closest thing to approval Sal would likely ever get.

Umbridge, however, pursed her lips, clearly displeased. "Hmm… well, I shall make a note of that," she said, scribbling something on her clipboard.

Sal had no doubt it wasn't complimentary.

The class continued, but the tension remained thick.

If Sal had thought Umbridge's behavior in Potions was bad, Charms was even worse.

It started innocently enough—Professor Flitwick was demonstrating a charm while the students practiced. Sal was going around assisting the younger students when that voice cut through the classroom.

"Ahem! Professor Flitwick," Umbridge said, standing at the back with her ever-present clipboard.

Flitwick turned, his expression pleasant but firm. "Yes, Madam Umbridge?"

"I was just wondering," Umbridge said, smiling in a way that made Sal's blood boil, "given your… stature, do you find it difficult to maintain discipline among the students?"

The entire room fell silent.

Sal's hand twitched toward his wand before he caught himself.

Professor Flitwick, to his credit, remained composed. "Madam, I assure you that I have never had trouble maintaining discipline. I have been teaching for decades, and my qualifications speak for themselves."

Sal could see that Flitwick was barely restraining himself.

Umbridge pretended to consider this, then smiled again. "Oh, of course! I merely meant that—"

Flitwick cut her off. "And, as you are well aware, I am the representative of House Ravenclaw on the Wizengamot. I trust you will take that into account in your report."

There was something sharp in his voice now.

Sal noticed Umbridge's hand tighten slightly around her clipboard.

She had underestimated him.

And she didn't like it.

"Hmm. Yes. I shall note that as well," she said, though her voice lacked the usual smugness.

Flitwick turned back to the class without another word.

Sal exhaled slowly, forcing himself to unclench his fists. He had never been this close to hexing a teacher before.

After class, Hermione caught up to him.

"I've never seen you like that," she said cautiously.

"I've never had to deal with someone like her," Sal admitted. "She's a problem, Hermione."

She nodded in agreement. "And she's not going away anytime soon."

That evening, after dinner, Sal received a message from Dumbledore—he was to report to the headmaster's office.

Sal entered to find Dumbledore waiting for him, hands folded.

"Come in, Sal. Please, have a seat."

Sal sat down. He hadn't realized how tired he was until just now.

"You look exhausted," Dumbledore observed.

Sal sighed, rubbing his temples. "When I came up with this idea, I may have underestimated how loathsome of a person Umbridge is."

Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Yes, I have already had to talk Professor McGonagall down from… drastic measures."

Sal smirked slightly. "I can imagine."

The headmaster leaned back. "You've done remarkably well acting as a buffer for the staff, but I fear even you cannot contain Dolores Umbridge."

"I know hiring Lockhart was necessary," Sal admitted, "but his incompetence isn't doing us any favors. And Umbridge notices. I can only do so much."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "You are correct. I had hoped to keep her preoccupied, but I suspect she will grow bolder."

Sal met his gaze. "What's the next move?"

Dumbledore tapped his fingers together. "For now, we watch. And we prepare."

Sal understood what that meant.

The game wasn't over—it was just beginning.

After his meeting with the headmaster, Sal felt utterly drained. The weight of everything—the constant maneuvering, the endless battles of wit and politics, the frustrating incompetence of Lockhart and the insidious presence of Umbridge—was finally catching up to him.

He needed a break.

Deciding to clear his mind, he headed toward the Room of Requirement—or rather, Sarah's chamber within it—to seek some clarity before retreating to the tower.

What he hadn't expected was to find Tulip waiting for him.

She leaned against the entrance, arms crossed, wearing her trademark smirk. "Took you long enough."

Sal blinked, surprised. "Tulip? What are you doing here?"

She shrugged. "Oh, you know, former best friend duties—checking in on my favorite workaholic genius before he collapses from sheer exhaustion." Then, her expression softened. "But mostly? Given everything that's happened, I thought you might need a friend."

Sal sighed, rubbing his temples. "You thought right."

He stepped inside, and Tulip followed, closing the door behind them. The room adjusted itself to their presence, dim candlelight flickering across the space. A fireplace crackled warmly, casting long shadows on the stone walls, and a plush couch appeared in the center of the room.

Sal collapsed onto the couch, closing his eyes for a moment. "I knew dealing with Lockhart was going to be frustrating, but I didn't expect it to be this bad. And as for Umbridge… I don't think I've ever loathed someone more in my life."

Tulip flopped down beside him, throwing her legs up on the armrest. "Let me guess—Lockhart's still an egotistical fraud, and Umbridge is as insufferable as a doxy infestation?"

Sal let out a dry laugh. "That's an understatement."

Tulip gave him a knowing look. "You're stretched too thin, Sal. You're juggling teaching, politics, school, dealing with Harry's mess, and now this absolute circus of a staff lineup. How long are you planning to do this before you burn out?"

Sal exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling. "I don't know, Tulip. But I don't have a choice."

"Bull," she said immediately. "You always have a choice."

Sal sat up, frowning. "No, I don't. I can't just walk away from this. I have to—"

Tulip poked his forehead. "You have to what? Fix everything? Carry the weight of the wizarding world on your shoulders?" She sat up, folding her arms. "You're not the only one fighting, you know."

Sal opened his mouth, then shut it.

"Look," Tulip continued, more gently this time. "I know you. You're not just some calculating strategist playing political chess. You care. That's why you're doing all this. But if you don't slow down, you're going to break."

Sal stared into the fire for a long moment.

"…Maybe you're right," he admitted quietly.

Tulip grinned. "I'm always right."

Sal chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. "Merlin, I missed you."

She nudged him. "Missed you too, you insufferable genius."

For the first time in days, Sal felt just a little lighter.

As the fire crackled and the room remained comfortably silent, he allowed himself the rare gift of just… existing. No politics. No responsibilities. Just an old friend who knew exactly when to show up.

And for tonight?

That was enough.