Despite what he'd told McGonagall, he had meant to keep his head down for a few days. Only to get called to Umbridge's office barely an hour later.

The office was unchanged from his many detentions—same lace doilies, same cat-covered plates purring softly from the walls. But now, a large wooden block sat on the desk, polished to gleaming perfection, its golden lettering bold and overlarge.

HEADMISTRESS.

Like that would make anyone take her seriously.

Behind the desk, Umbridge was scribbling on pink parchment, her quill scratching away in neat, methodical strokes. She didn't look up at once, feigning indifference.

Then, she set the quill down with deliberate care and smiled. "Ah, Mr. Potter. How wonderful of you to come."

"Well, I thought I'd see what you wanted." Harry shrugged, taking a seat uninvited and kicking his boots up onto her desk.

He took some delight in seeing her eye twitch already, before forcing a smile. "I suspect you know why you are here."

"Actually, would you believe me if I said I didn't, for once? I haven't had time to plan anything yet." He frowned, tilting his head slightly as he studied her.

Umbridge let out a light, tinkling giggle, her fingers lacing together on the desk. "Oh, but of course you know, Mr. Potter."

She tilted her head, her smile stretching wider. "I am Headmistress now. Which means that your prior… misbehaviours simply won't fly anymore."

Then, to his astonishment, her expression softened, as if she thought that would make her next words more palatable.

"But, dear boy, I am not unreasonable. Dumbledore is gone now, and with him, his dangerous influence. You needn't cling to his falsehoods any longer.

"If you're willing to see reason —to correct the lies that have been spread— then we can consider your… prior unruliness as nothing more than water under the bridge."

Harry let the words settle, watching her carefully. Then, with deliberate ease, he straightened, swinging his boots off the desk and planting them firmly on the floor.

For the briefest moment, he let it look as if he were taking her seriously. "That's very generous of you, Madam Umbridge."

Then, his lips curled slightly, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "But you see, I have nothing to retract—because unlike you, I don't blind myself to the truth."

For a fleeting moment, Umbridge simply stared at him, her face frozen in tight, controlled neutrality. Then—her nostrils flared, her shoulders puffing up as anger took hold.

Whatever scathing retort she had prepared, however, was drowned out by a sudden, thunderous explosion that shook the walls.

The delicate china on her shelves rattled violently, a few plates tumbling to the floor and shattering on impact.

Umbridge gasped, shooting to her feet. "Explosives, Mr. Potter?" she shrieked. "Is that your game!?"

Harry gave an idle glance toward the ceiling, as if considering. Then, with an almost lazy stretch, he rose to his feet.

"Sadly not. If I were going to set off an explosive, I would've done it here. Guess you should be grateful I've been feeling patient."

Umbridge's smile twitched, her fingers flexing like she was seconds away from hexing him. But even as she opened her mouth, another explosion rocked the castle, this one closer—so close that the very walls of her office shuddered with the impact.

From outside the door, a distant, riotous cheer rang through the corridors.

Her expression contorted, torn between rage at Harry and the immediate chaos beyond her office.

"Do not think for a second that I am intimidated by you, Potter," she spat, her voice trembling not with fear, but fury.

"Your empty bravado will not protect you forever. And if this is some attempt to defy me—"

She was cut off once more as a series of loud, shrill bangs rattled the very windows of her office, a brilliant flash of red and gold flickering from beneath the doorframe.

Harry tilted his head, blinking at the light show. "That's actually quite impressive," he remarked idly, before flashing her a mocking grin. "You sure you don't want to stay here and yell at me some more? Because it sounds like things are getting fun out there."

Umbridge's face flushed dark, the vein in her forehead twitching.

Then, with one final glare, she snatched up her wand and stormed toward the door, her heels clicking furiously against the floor.

"I will deal with you later, Potter," she snapped over her shoulder. "And when I do, you'll regret ever setting foot in this school."

Having already stepped aside to let her pass, Harry merely grinned, then trailed after her.

The moment they reached the next floor, a golden dragon of fire roared past, forcing Harry to sidestep as its flaming tail carved a blackened trail across the ceiling.

Beyond it, the corridor was a chaotic inferno. Silver rockets shot skyward, detonating into brilliant, swirling galaxies, while a crackling emerald serpent coiled around a pillar, spewing showers of sparks with every snap of its jaws.

Ahead of him, Umbridge bolted toward Filch, who looked ready to faint. His hands clamped around an empty bucket, shoulders hunched like he could somehow shield himself from the madness.

Harry, on the other hand, simply tilted his head, watching the mayhem unfold with growing amusement, as a whistling red comet zipped by his ear, close enough for him to feel the heat on his cheek.

Umbridge's shriek cut through the chaos.

"Hurry, Filch, hurry! They'll be all over the school unless we do something—Stupefy!"

A jet of red light shot from her wand, striking one of the silver rockets dead on. Instead of freezing in place, it exploded with a deafening bang, sending golden sparks cascading over the corridor.

A painting on the far wall burst open, and its occupant yelped as she dived for cover, squeezing into a neighbouring frame where a group of wizards playing cards hastily stood to make room for her.

Harry snorted. "Brilliant strategy, Professor."

Umbridge ignored him, whirling toward Filch, her expression thunderous.

"Don't Stun them, Filch!" she snapped, for all the world as though it had been his idea.

Filch, who had flinched slightly from the explosion, gave a wheezing nod, his face twitching between irritation and resignation.

"Right you are, Headmistress," he muttered, reaching into his coat. With a rough motion, he pulled out his wand—thicker than most, its gnarled hawthorn surface looking almost too heavy in his grip.

He pointed it at a cluster of fireworks screeching past overhead and cleared his throat.

"Glacius."

A thin jet of frost shot from the tip, crackling through the air before catching the tail of a whizzing comet. For a split second, it seemed to work—the fire dimmed, the sparks lessened—

Then, with a snap, the entire thing exploded into a shower of icy embers, sending a dozen new fiery tendrils spiralling off in different directions.

One of them shot straight for Filch's head.

Swearing loudly, he ducked, his hat catching fire as he frantically batted at it with his free hand.

"Buggering—bloody—things!" he wheezed, stumbling backward.

Umbridge, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with rage, her face a violent shade of puce. "Stop standing there and put them out, you blithering fool!"

Filch scowled, straightening himself with a huff. "I'll follow your lead, ma'am."

Harry had seen enough, barely containing his laughter with Umbridge already frothing at the mouth, barking orders that weren't being followed. But as he turned to go, something pricked at his senses—something just outside his immediate vision.

With casual ease, he ducked low and slipped through the hidden door just beyond the tapestry at the corridor's end, emerging into the narrow space behind it— where Fred and George were waiting, nearly doubled over in silent laughter.

"Nice of you to join us," Fred whispered, still grinning. "We were starting to think you'd rather be out there."

"Give me some credit," Harry murmured, crossing his arms. "If I wanted to drive her mad, I wouldn't need fireworks."

George snorted. "Now that's a challenge if I've ever heard one."

Joining them against the wall, Harry tilted his head. "So, how'd you get them to burn through her spells like that?"

"Trade secret, that." George asserted cheerfully, dusting imaginary soot from his sleeve.

"Is it?" Harry drawled. "Or do you just want to keep it from me in case I improve on it?"

Fred let out a mock gasp. "Accusing us of withholding knowledge? The betrayal."

"Fine, fine," George snorted, waving a hand. "If you must know, the powder's got Fire Salamander scales ground in. Gives the flames animation and longevity."

Harry hummed, nodding. "So that's why they move like they're alive."

"Exactly," Fred confirmed, eyes gleaming. "We tried using standard combustibles at first, but the results were far too tame. The salamander scales add that extra bite. Harder to extinguish, too—burns longer the more magic you throw at it."

Fred grinned. "Not bad, eh? A fitting send-off for dear old Dumbledore's army."

Harry let out a short breath, tilting his head. "You realize you didn't need to go this far, right?"

George blinked. "Oh?"

"I was never planning on stopping my own sessions." Harry smirked. "You just made a big show over losing yours."

For a moment, neither twin spoke. Then, Fred let out a long, slow whistle. "Well, well. So the Lantern Keepers never burned out."

"I'm mildly offended you thought I'd stop. I was just going to make sure Umbridge couldn't find us."

"Well, that's a bit embarrassing," Fred admitted. "All this effort, all these grand explosions…" He gestured vaguely at the crackling fire still raging in the distance. "And here we thought we were avenging your legacy."

Harry shrugged. "I mean, I do appreciate the spectacle. I imagine Umbridge will have a fit trying to put it out."

George grinned. "Well, if that's the case, we'd hate to stop here."

Fred nodded solemnly. "Would be a waste to let her feel too in control."

Harry rolled his eyes, but his smirk lingered. "Just don't get yourselves expelled too soon."

Fred clapped him on the back. "Ah, Potter, you wound me. Would we ever be so reckless?"

George snorted. "Absolutely."

They laughed, and in the distance, another firework screeched overhead, taking the form of a bright pink toad before exploding into a thousand burning stars.

By the time morning came, the castle still bore the marks of the previous day's chaos. Scorched ceilings, singed banners, and a faint, lingering scent of brimstone clung to the corridors—evidence of the fireworks that had kept Umbridge running herself ragged for hours.

If she had thought her first day as Headmistress would be a day of celebration and discipline, she had sorely miscalculated.

Harry smirked to himself at the memory of her frantic attempts to put out fires—only to come to an abrupt halt as Draco Malfoy stepped into his path.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, with deliberate ease, Draco lifted his arm, and tapped a gleaming silver badge pinned to his chest.

"Guess what, Potter? I'm part of the Headmistress' new Inquisitorial Squad," he said smoothly, watching Harry's reaction closely.

Harry arched a brow. "Catchy. Do you get anything for that, apart from a badge?"

"It has its perks." He answered, smirking. "For example… ten points from Ravenclaw."

Harry barely reacted as he felt the castle's magic shift in recognition of the deduction. "What for?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

Draco grinned. "Because I can."

A brief silence stretched between them. Then, Harry hummed. "Neat trick."

Draco's gaze sharpened. "Try not to lose too many points, Potter." Then, his voice dropped, just quiet enough that only Harry could hear. "Wouldn't want to get yourself expelled."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Harry standing in place, nodding appreciatively.

Harry watched Draco disappear down the corridor before exhaling through his nose. So, that was her next move. He'd already assumed Umbridge would be looking for ways to tighten her grip, but the Inquisitorial Squad? That was an interesting choice.

Shaking his head, he continued toward the Great Hall, sliding onto the Ravenclaw bench. A fresh plate of eggs and toast appeared before him, and he wasted no time digging in.

With Umbridge in charge, Harry suspected peaceful breakfasts would become a rare luxury. It was better therefore to eat quickly, so he could better enjoy the festivities.

He'd almost finished when Luna slid into the space beside him. Without missing a beat, he gestured to her usual breakfast he'd already prepared— hot chocolate, porridge, and the assortment of fresh and bizarre fruits she liked.

Luna hummed softly in appreciation, before casting a glance up at the head table, where her eyes rested briefly on Dumbledore's empty chair.

"Do you think we'll have a quiet day today?" she mused softly, "Those fireworks were lovely, but they were terribly loud up close."

She frowned slightly, as though deep in thought, before looking back at Harry.

"I have it on good authority that there will be no more fireworks." Harry reassured her, "But Umbridge has given her stooges more power, apparently placing them above Prefects. And she'll need to reveal the new Divination professor, since I've got divination first thing today."

Harry leaned back in his seat, watching with a certain amount of detached amusement as the students filtered into the Great Hall for breakfast. Umbridge, as expected, didn't show up, which seemed to suit the students just fine. Without her looming presence, the hall felt quieter, less tense.

Luna, seemingly unaware of his thoughts, hummed softly as she casually picked at her porridge. Harry grinned slightly, his gaze flicking over to her before he followed her lead and shovelled the last of his eggs down.

When Luna was finished, she stood up and started making her way toward the door with that dreamy, unhurried pace of hers. "I'll see you later," she called over her shoulder, offering a small wave.

"Take care," Harry said absently, knowing that his day was unlikely to be as peaceful. He lingered a moment longer, watching the empty chair at the head table where Dumbledore should've been, and the absence weighed on him just a bit more.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up and followed Luna out, making his way through the corridors. After two years of Divination, he made the journey quickly enough, and given Umbridge's new hold on the school, he half expected her to drop in at any moment to oversee the lesson.

Sinking into his seat beside Neville, Harry felt it was a nice change to enter the classroom when it wasn't filled with smoke and incense. Overall, the room was quiet, aside from the soft rustle of papers and the occasional scribbling of quills as students absentmindedly jotted down notes in their Divination textbooks.

"Do you think we even have a teacher yet?" Neville asked, leaned over with a puzzled frown.

Glancing round at the mostly cleared room, where the usual teacups and crystal balls were suspiciously absent, Harry could only shrug in response.

The soft sound of footsteps climbing the ladder broke his reverie. Harry turned expectedly, only to relax as the flash of familiar red hair emerged at the top of the ladder.

He was surprised that Ron was still struggling to make it to his lessons on time, especially with the looming exams. Only for the figure to rise higher, revealing he was wearing a crisp Ministry suit, much too formal for the casual dress of a Hogwarts student.

Harry blinked, his mind working to process the sight, trying to work out why Ron had chosen such an outfit. Only, as he turned, Harry realized with some surprise that it wasn't Ron at all.

It was Percy Weasley.

A sleek black suitcase floated just behind him as he made his way to the front of the room. The suitcase looked nearly as stiff and formal as Percy himself, who looked more dishevelled than usual, his robes slightly askew as he straightened his glasses and surveyed the class.

"Morning, everyone," Percy said, his voice a little too loud in the otherwise silent room. "I apologise for the delay," he added, casting a hurried glance around the room. "Had a... a meeting with the Headmistress."

Harry exchanged a glance with Neville, who raised his eyebrows in confusion. "Percy?" Neville whispered, but Harry could only shrug again, equally as confused.

Straightening as he reached the front of the room, Percy placed the suitcase on the desk with what Harry felt was an air of unnecessary formality. "For those of you unaware, I am Percy- Professor Weasley. I'm sure you'll recognize me as a former Gryffindor Prefect, and later Head Boy, but rest assured, I won't let that influence my teaching."

Percy chuckled dryly, but the class remained silent. No one seemed particularly interested in his self-introduction, and he quickly cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable.

"Right, well… Your former professor was unfortunately very lax in providing any notes on your progress, and I haven't yet had time to look into your prior marks… But I'll first start with a roll call, and we'll go from there, alright?"

Amazed, Harry couldn't help wondering just how much Percy had already forgotten his time as a student. They hadn't had a roll call since first year, when the Professors were still trying to impress a sense of routine, which was quickly dropped the moment they knew their students.

Harry couldn't even remember Trelawney ever calling a roll call, which meant Percy was already leaving a bad impression.

However, just as Percy started rummaging through the desk looking for the register, Ron burst into the room, breathless, and immediately started muttering an apology. "Sorry, Professor Trelawney, I—"

Only for him to skid to a stop as his eyes landed on the front of the room. His gaze flicked from Percy to the desk, the suitcase, and back to Percy's formal stance. His mouth opened slightly, eyes wide with disbelief

"What are you doing here, Perce?" Ron managed, his voice rising in astonishment.

Clearly giving up on searching the desk, Percy straightened only for his glasses to slide down his nose as he gave Ron a tight smile. "I'm Professor Weasley now, Ronald."

Ron blinked a few times, "But... you're teaching? What happened to Trelawney?"

"She was… removed yesterday," Percy said stiffly, glancing at the class, clearly uncomfortable. "As of today, I'm your new Divination professor."

Ron just stared at him, incredulity written across his face. "Bloody hell, mate, this is... this is mental."

"Yes, quite," Percy said, voice suddenly stern, his posture straightening. "Now, would you sit down before you disrupt our class any longer?" He pointed to the nearest empty seat, beside Lavender Brown.

With Ron sheepishly taking the seat, Percy glanced around the room, eyes scanning the students with the faintest hint of uncertainty. "Is everyone here? Anyone else missing?"

Daphne, sitting near the front, raised her hand with a small smile. "Nope, all present and accounted for."

Percy blinked, clearly unsettled by the calm response, and then nodded stiffly. "Right, then. Well, let's get started."

He reached into his briefcase, pulling out a stack of parchment and the syllabus. As he unrolled it, his eyes flicked over the first few lines. The confident façade he'd been holding onto began to crack as his gaze lingered on the paper. His shoulders tensed, and for a moment, it seemed like he might crumple the syllabus in frustration.

"Well, this is… um…" Percy cleared his throat, eyes darting nervously between the class. "The syllabus. Yes. Ahem. Right."

He glanced back at the paper again, his face flushing slightly as he read. It was clear now that the reality of his new position was beginning to sink in. "Ahem… it's... well, it's a bit more detailed than I expected…"

A small, barely perceptible sigh escaped him as he placed the syllabus down in front of him.

"Right," he said, taking a deep breath. "Well, let's dive in. Would anyone like to recap what you were last covering?" He asked, hopefully.

"Dream interpretations, professor." Lavender supplied, already looking frustrated at Percy's lack of competence.

"Ah, dream interpretations!" Percy latched onto the topic cheerfully, like a lifeline. "Right, excellent. I trust you all have your dream journals?"

There was a pause. Then, everyone started retrieving their dream diaries, as Percy tried to sort out the papers upon his desk.

Finally, he nodded, and reached for Ron's book first, his fingers trembling slightly as he flipped through it. His eyes narrowed, and his lips parted as if about to say something, but he stopped. Then, with a barely controlled exhale, he looked at Ron in surprise.

"Mr. Weasley, there's... almost no detail here. These dreams," he said, tapping the page, "are very vague. Have you been taking this seriously?" His voice had an edge of disbelief, though it was clearly an attempt at authority.

Ron's face reddened. "Er, yeah, well, they're dreams. Not much to go on, is there?"

Percy, still slightly shocked, flipped the book closed and handed it back to him without another word. He was clearly relieved when his eyes then fell on Daphne, who had her dream journal tucked neatly on her desk, a more official-looking one compared to the others.

Taking her book before she could stop him, he started flipping through the pages, only for his face to suddenly flush. He looked briefly at Harry, before quickly snapping the book shut and handing it back to Daphne.

"Er—thank you, Miss. Greengrass," he stammered, awkwardly adjusting his glasses. "Your dreams are... very well documented. Very impressive." He cleared his throat, the redness on his face not quite fading. "I—uh—will be sure to review these and... uh... move on to the next step."

"I'd rather you didn't." She protested, clearly embarrassed.

"Perhaps that would be for the best… Um, but did Professor Trelawney not teach you how to write your dreams down?" He asked the class, "It is more than just writing down what happened, you must also track the emotions behind it, the atmosphere."

Turning to the black board, he began writing down a template for a dream diary entry, seemingly entirely from memory.

"Now, dream interpretation is a delicate art," Percy said, straightening as he turned back to the class. "It's not just about what you see—it's about what lies behind the images. The ancient art of oneiromancy dates back centuries, and has been independently discovered by multiple cultures."

He glanced at the class, seeing a few puzzled faces. "But, perhaps we'll go into more detail next time. For now, know that it's essential to understand the layers beneath the surface of a dream. You may just be dreaming about catching a Quaffle," He said, gesturing at Ron, who sank in his seat, "But what can we infer from that?"

Turning back to the board, Percy started writing down the template for Ron's apparent dream. "There's the obvious answer that Ron wants to work on his keeper skills, but dreams are far deeper than that," he continued, glancing back at the class. "The key to unlocking them is to look beyond the surface. Perhaps you dream of a Quaffle, but that is merely a metaphor for another desire?"

The class slowly began to take notes, as they tried to make sense of what little they understood about the subject, while Percy focused intently on the board. Harry, still leaning back slightly, found himself nodding along with Percy's observations.

It was clear the young man was very knowledgeable, even if he was awkward at transferring that knowledge. And, he wasn't openly insulting his class, so he was still a better teacher than some Harry could name.

The corridors were unusually quiet as Harry and Daphne made their way through the Seventh Floor, as his basic enchantments proved their worth in keeping Umbridge and her supporters blithely ignorant.

Rounding the corner, the low hum of distant conversations from the students waiting for him echoed against the stone walls. He had to push his way through the crowd to reach Cedric, who was standing with arms crossed, glaring at him with barely concealed frustration.

"You're late," Cedric said, his tone sharp and not at all amused. "We agreed to duel yesterday, Potter. You've kept us waiting."

Harry grinned, completely unbothered, his hands in his pockets. "Someone decided to set off fireworks," he explained casually, though his eyes flicked over to Fred and George in the crowd. "Got a bit distracted. You know how it is."

"You know, given it was you who challenged me to a duel, I'd have thought you'd make more of an effort." Cedric said impatiently, "Are you quite ready to begin?"

"Believe me, this won't take long." Harry replied, subtly pacing in front of the Room of Requirement to create the duelling pit he wanted.

The wall behind him rippled, stone shifting and reshaping as the Room obeyed his silent request. But instead of the wide, well-lit space where he usually trained, the chamber that materialized was stark and ominous—shadowed torches flickering dimly against dark, polished stone.

And in the centre, was a deep pit, forming a large and open duelling arena for them. Upon seeing the design, Cedric hesitated, glancing around the chamber before stepping inside.

"Let's get started, shall we?" Harry asked, as he handed his coat off to Daphne, and selected his weapons.

He watched as Cedric stepped forward, slow and deliberate, eyes sweeping over the pit in a way that wasn't just assessing—it was adjusting. Not quite what he expected, then.

The hesitation was slight, but Harry caught it. The way Cedric's fingers tapped once against his wand, the way his gaze flicked up towards the torches as if seeing them for the first time. A subtle shift in his stance, as if the ground didn't feel as steady as it should.

"You've put some thought into this," Cedric said, tone even, but there was something just a shade off—not uncertainty, exactly. A recalibration.

Harry spun his wand between his fingers in an idle motion, testing the weight, but not bothering to raise it. "Well, this is a duel."

Cedric exhaled sharply through his nose—a sound almost like amusement, but not quite. He adjusted his footing, squared his shoulders. He was settling himself, but that brief pause told Harry something important.

He hadn't expected to need to.

In an attempt to mask his grin, Harry adjusted how his weapons sat upon him, before slipping his wand into its holster. No ceremony, no flourish—just quiet efficiency as he laid them out.

He watched as Cedric's gaze flicked down, scanning him properly for the first time. The sword of course caught his attention first, held by a basic loop of leather on his belt.

The faint mist still curled around its blade, as the crystal in the pummel still radiated the subtle but inescapable frost of Winter. Harry turned just enough to let the torches catch on the deep etchings of ancient, interwoven runes down the length of the blade. Cedric frowned slightly—just for a fraction of a second—but Harry noticed.

Then came the sceptre, shrunken and seemingly magnetised upon the belt, mirroring the sword. But despite his distance, Cedric's eyes lingered, tracking the way the shifting golden sands moved unnaturally through the carved ivory.

But whilst he could see them, Cedric couldn't truly know what these weapons were, what they could do, or why Harry carried them. No understanding of the histories bound into them, of the otherworldly magic layered beneath their surfaces.

Harry let the silence linger, allowing Cedric to see the danger, then tilted his head slightly. "Still sure you want this to be no holds barred?"

At his slight goading, Cedric's fingers tightened around his wand, the only weapon he'd thought to bring. But, to his credit, despite his hesitation, he took a measured breath, before his eyes flicked back up to meet Harry's.

"I'm fine."

Of course he was.

Harry studied him for a beat longer, then reached for the chain around his neck. The gemstone felt cool against his fingertips, waiting for his command. A simple touch was all it took.

The mithril breastplate shimmered into existence, snapping into place in a single fluid motion. Thin, unyielding, seamless.

Harry rolled his shoulders once, settling into the familiar weight. No words, no reaction. He had nothing to prove.

And then, without hesitation, he leapt into the pit. The stone beneath him was cold—unnaturally smooth. There was nothing natural about this place.

Above, Cedric stood on the edge of the pit, wand in hand, his stance still firm. But Harry caught it—a flicker of hesitation, brief but present. Not uncertainty. Assessment.

His eyes flicked downward, toward the ground. Not the usual scan of an opponent, but of the battlefield itself.

Harry nearly smirked. Good. He understood.

The pit wasn't just a duelling ground—it was a space without natural terrain. No soil to shape. No rock to manipulate. No advantage.

Cedric's jaw tightened. A moment later, he adjusted his grip on his wand—then he leapt down.

His landing was solid, controlled, but the way he settled his weight gave him away. He didn't like the feel of the floor.

Tapping his fingers once against the pommel of still sheathed his sword, Harry considered Cedric. "Now, seeing as we probably won't be able to go to Madam Pomfrey and keep it a secret from Umbridge, I was thinking our ground rules would be no maiming, no broken bones, and obviously no killing. What do you think?"

Cedric raised his wand, stance already set. "I was only thinking about Stunning, honestly."

Rolling his eyes, Harry lifted own wand accommodatingly, humouring Cedric's limitations. "And that is exactly the problem with you. But so be it, let us begin."

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