Light filtered in through the high windows as George tightened the strap across his back, the bulky bag shifting slightly with the motion. The corridor outside their hidden stash hummed with distant footsteps—students already trickling toward the Great Hall. They were cutting it close.
Fred didn't seem concerned. He adjusted the strap on his own bag, then gave George a grin that was far too calm for what they were about to do.
"We are go for launch," he whispered, excitedly.
They moved like they'd rehearsed it, which they had—four times in their heads, once for real, and once just to make Filch chase his own cat in circles.
At the corner leading to the Grand Staircase, Fred slowed and leaned just far enough around the bend. George followed his gaze. There she was, waddling into the Great Hall with that smug little huff in her step, surrounded by her inquisitorial squad, who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else.
"Target's confirmed," Fred murmured. "Our dear pink toad is breaking her fast."
"Perfect," George said, though his stomach twisted.
Their footsteps quickened as they turned sharply down the eastern wing. The office wasn't far now.
George broke the silence first, voice low. "Are we really doing this?"
Fred didn't look back. "We're not just doing it. We're making sure she remembers it every time she sees a bloody teacup."
That earned a reluctant smirk. "You and your dramatic flair."
"Runs in the family," Fred shot back.
Once they reached the office, George knelt beside it and started sticking his runestones to the door. Once they were all in place, their combined protean runes began to merge with the wards, opening an indetectable hole.
There, Fred cut a hole in the door itself, now nothing grander than simple wood, revealing the same nauseating décor, pink walls, and delicate lace doilies. Cat plates lining the room like silent sentries, their enchanted eyes blinking slowly in the torchlight.
Fred stepped inside and made a gagging sound. "If hell had interior decorators…"
George didn't laugh. His eyes drifted to the wall behind her desk, where their confiscated brooms stood under a heavy chain. He moved fast, yanked at the chain, and nearly sighed in relief as they pulled away easy enough. The cleansweeps were scorched, a bit dusty, but still theirs.
Behind him, Fred had already pulled the firework from his bag and set it on the centre rug. This one was far more intricate than their usual designs, and without any of their safety features.
"Give me the word," George said, though hesitation crept into the back of his throat.
Fred didn't turn around as he lit the fuse. "Like Harry says, no more warnings. No more fear."
Clambering back through the hole in the door, they ran as far as they could, before taking covering around the corner.
Then came the boom.
It wasn't just loud—it rippled through the stone, a crack of thunder that sent dust cascading from the ceiling and birds shrieking from the eaves. The corridor lit up with orange light as a plume of smoke barrelled down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of something very large and wooden being forcibly removed from its hinges.
What was left of the door sailed past and splintered against the far wall, cracked nearly in two. Behind it came the smell of scorched parchment, burning sugar, and shattered ceramic, and the noise of a dragon destroying everything it could touch.
George turned just in time to see the glimmer of a painted cat plate roll out from the smoke and shatter at his feet.
Somewhere down the next corridor, a second-year dropped his bag and ran the other way.
Fred laughed first, short and sharp. Then they both broke into a run.
They tore through the corridor like their lives depended on it—not from fear, but from the thrill still pounding in their ears. Fred's bag swung wildly behind him, the brooms clutched under George's arm threatening to trip them both as they hurtled down the last flight of stairs.
The entrance hall was already crowded.
Dozens of students had spilled out from the Great Hall, drawn by the blast. Some were peering up at the ceiling. Others pressed toward the corridor behind the twins, trying to glimpse what had happened. All chatter died the moment Fred and George skidded into view—soot-streaked, wide-eyed, and grinning like devils.
Someone gasped. Someone else laughed. Then a few began to cheer.
Fred didn't hesitate. He leapt up three steps on the grand marble staircase, spun on his heel, and raised both arms like a conductor before a choir.
"Attention, Hogwarts!" he called, his voice magically amplified with a flick of his wand. "If you heard the boom—good news! That was us."
George dropped the brooms and stepped beside him, a folded banner in hand. With a snap of his wrist, it unfurled—deep purple with gold lettering:
WEASLEYS' WIZARD WHEEZES — NOW OPEN
Pranks, Potions, and Pink-Punishing Pyrotechnics!
Laughter rippled through the hall, growing louder by the second.
"Tell your friends!" George shouted over the crowd. "Tell your parents! Tell Umbridge—wait, no need, she's heard already!"
Fred pointed back toward the corridor behind them, where smoke still curled lazily upward. "Special on fireproof underpants and anti-toad accessories. Owl-order forms available next week!"
A roar of laughter met that one, joined by scattered applause. Students were now flooding the base of the stairs, blocking the hallway, clapping them on the back, hooting, cheering.
Near the edge of the gathering, Percy stood half a step apart, stiff-backed in his slightly-too-formal robes. He wasn't shouting. He wasn't smiling. Just staring, eyes wide.
Even as Umbridge's voice screeched somewhere behind the crowd, Percy didn't call for order. Didn't draw his wand. Didn't raise a finger.
He just met Fred's gaze for the briefest moment, who offered him a wink, and Percy… looked away. And behind that crowd, somewhere near the entrance to the Great Hall, a shrill voice tried—and failed—to rise above the din.
"Stop them! Stop those boys!"
Too late.
Fred tossed a salute, George grabbed his broom, and they both mounted in one smooth motion. With a burst of wind and a spray of glittering sparks from Fred's wand, the twins launched through the open entrance hall doors, soaring up and out into the cold spring morning like the fireworks they finally let loose.
Dolores marched through the corridor with clipped steps, wand in hand, fury simmering just beneath the surface. Behind her, the inquisitorial squad trailed at an uneven pace, whispering among themselves. Percy Weasley kept up, silent, still adjusting the robes he hadn't had time to straighten.
Smoke lingered in the air. Dust clung to the walls. The stone underfoot still vibrated faintly with the aftershock of the blast.
She didn't slow.
"They are expelled," she said flatly, not bothering to look back. "They've used restricted explosives, destroyed school property, interfered with official records, and fled the premises without permission. That qualifies as grounds for legal action under Clause Forty-Eight."
No one responded.
She turned the final corner—and stopped.
Her office door was gone. Not broken. Not ajar. Simply gone. In its place, the frame had been blackened and warped. Cracks ran through the surrounding stone. A wave of heat rolled out into the corridor, heavy and immediate.
Inside, her office was still burning.
Stacks of parchment were already gone. Books, shelves, and files had collapsed into smouldering debris. The rug was mostly ash. Her desk—blackened and cracked. Her personal record book, her tracking sheets, her disciplinary logs—all of it—was either already destroyed or currently under flame.
And the plates.
Dozens of them. Shattered, melted, fallen from the walls. The remaining ones twitched unnaturally, their charms broken mid-animation.
"No," she whispered. "No, this is... this is an attack. They've used advanced spellcraft. Who—who taught them this?"
Behind her, no one answered.
Even the inquisitorial squad had gone silent, eyes wide as they stared into the inferno. Percy, standing slightly apart, adjusted his sash with trembling fingers and said nothing.
Dolores didn't turn around. Couldn't.
She was too busy watching her kingdom burn.
"Get me a full roster of the students in the hallway," she finally barked sharply. "Every witness. Every name. I want a list in my hand before the end of breakfast. Weasley, call the Aurors!"
But, instead of jumping to obey, Percy hesitated. "Ma'am... are you certain you want to involve the Aurors over... fireworks?"
Dolores turned to face him fully, the heat still at her back. His voice was careful—too careful. That alone was telling.
"No," she said slowly. "Perhaps not… Not for them."
She couldn't spin this to her advantage. Not yet. Not without leverage. Folding her arms, she stared back at the burning ruin of her office, jaw tight.
"They didn't enchant that fire themselves," she decided eventually, gesturing back toward the smouldering office. "Not without help. That sort of spell layering requires access—materials, instruction. Whoever helped them knew what they were doing."
Percy didn't reply. He just kept his gaze fixed on the burning room, careful not to speak too soon.
"And who," she continued, voice rising slightly, "has a long-standing relationship with those boys, a known disregard for proper procedure, and access to all kinds of banned materials?"
Percy frowned. "You're not suggesting—"
"I am, Mr. Weasley! Rubeus Hagrid."
Her eyes narrowed as she turned away again, already walking.
"Summon the Aurors. I want him detained for questioning before lunch. He's had free rein of this school for far too long."
'And if Potter thinks this was a victory—he'll learn what happens when truces are broken.'
Having made the most of the final match of the Quidditch season between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, to help Hagrid out with Grawp, Harry seriously wished he sometimes had far more traditional problems.
The castle was just coming into view beyond the trees when Harry shifted the Sirocco Sceptre under his arm, using it like a walking stick as he limped over a root-strewn path. Every step sent a dull throb through his side, a reminder of the moment Grawp had panicked and flung him into a tree.
The scent of moss and the damp weight of the forest floor clung to everything. Birds overhead chirped lazily, oblivious to the tension pulling at Harry's chest the closer they got to the edge of the woods.
"Yeh sure yeh don't want me carryin' yeh?" Hagrid asked for the third time, hovering just behind with his massive hand half-extended. "Wasn't right, what Grawp did, even if he didn't mean it."
"Seriously, I'm fine Hagrid," Harry reassured, brushing some sweat from his brow. The sceptre shifted under his grip again as he adjusted to avoid putting weight on his ankle. "Just a little bruised, I'll be fine tomorrow."
Hagrid gave a long sigh, equal parts guilt and admiration. "Still can't believe how far he's come, though," he said, glancing back toward the trees. "You remember what he was like, Harry. Last year he wouldn't let me within ten feet without swingin'. Now he's followin' basic instructions, even recognisin' faces... He knows us."
"Well, he's certainly learning something." Harry partially agreed lightly.
"Aye," Hagrid admitted sheepishly, then added, "But still, there is progress."
Harry didn't argue. He just kept walking, eyes scanning the tree line. The closer they got to the castle, the more he noticed the stillness.
No birdsong now. No wind. That was the first real warning sign.
Hagrid, oblivious, kept talking. "Think once he gets used to bein' treated right, he'll settle down more. Might even learn a few words, you never know. Could build him a real shelter out past the Forest. Get a routine goin'—"
Harry raised a hand, stopping him mid-thought.
Something wasn't right.
Then a pale shape moved between the trunks ahead, silent and strange.
Hagrid squinted, then took an uncertain step forward. "Firenze?" he called.
The figure emerged from the shadows—half-man, half-horse, his coat a pale dappled silver, his hair long and bright as moonlight. He moved with a quiet, fluid grace, his hooves silent even against the forest floor.
"Hagrid," Firenze said, his voice calm and measured. His eyes settled on Harry immediately. "You shouldn't return to the castle, Harry Potter."
Harry shifted slightly, not quite raising his sceptre, but gripping it a little tighter. "What?"
Firenze stepped closer. The filtered light of the forest canopy caught in his silver mane, but his expression remained unreadable.
"Fate bends around you, Harry Potter," he said softly. "Not in defiance—but in anticipation."
Harry frowned. "That's supposed to mean something?"
"It means your path is somehow unwritten," Firenze replied carefully. "But it watches you as you walk it. It waits for your next step. But your destiny is clear—for this moment."
Something cold coiled in Harry's chest. "If you know something's about to happen, say it plainly."
Sighing, Firenze kicked at the ground, deep in thought. When he finally looked up, there was something mournful in his eyes. "Return now, and you will lose something you cannot replace."
Harry felt a chill run through him. "Where else am I meant to go? How long do I need to stay away?"
To his annoyance, the centaur took his time looking past Harry to the edge of the trees, where the castle's towers stood high above the grounds.
"Your destiny is clear, but only for this moment. I have no answers to your questions."
"Well, if you can't tell me any more, we need to get back. I can't just camp out in the forest." Harry pointed out, grumpily.
Firenze looked past Harry to the half-giant, then back again. His expression did not change, but his voice softened.
"Then go. But do not mistake movement for safety."
Then, without another word, he turned and vanished into the brush, leaving no sound in his wake.
Harry stood frozen for a beat longer, eyes narrowed, thoughts racing.
"…Alright," Hagrid muttered finally. "Let's keep movin'."
They walked in silence after that.
The trees began to thin, and the slope of the land evened out. The castle loomed in the near distance, dark against the afternoon light—but Harry's attention caught on something closer.
The front door of Hagrid's cabin hung open at an awkward angle, one hinge twisted and splintered. The garden had been trampled and covered in footprints. Even Fang's empty dish had been overturned and kicked into the mud.
At least half a dozen Aurors stood around the cabin. One knelt by the garden fence, wand scanning the earth. Another stood back by the pumpkin patch, arms crossed, face stony. Two more paced along the path, speaking quietly.
But it was the voice that caught Harry's attention.
Shrill. Furious.
"—I don't care if you've checked the edge of the Forest! He's a half-giant, he doesn't just vanish! Unless he's learned to Disapparate behind my back, he must still be here—"
Umbridge stood in the middle of the scene with her pink robes scuffed with soot, a deep scratch across one cheek, her hair half-uncurled and frazzled with static. She was waving her wand and gesturing wildly at the Aurors, as though sheer rage could make Hagrid materialise out of thin air.
"If he'd run," she snapped, "he wouldn't have left that mutt behind! I want every inch of this grounds swept again!"
Hagrid stopped walking. Planted like his boots had rooted themselves to the earth.
"…Harry," he murmured, voice low. "You got yer cloak?"
"I do," Harry replied, staring ahead, but his grip on the sceptre tightened. "But I'm not going to disappear when they're probably here to arrest you."
"This ain't the time for bravery."
"No," Harry said, eyes flashing. "It's the time for justice. You haven't done anything wrong."
"Justice's got nothin' to do with this," Hagrid replied quietly. "Yeh think they're here with a warrant? She's been wantin' me gone fer ages. I reckon today's jus' when she finally found the excuse."
Harry turned to face him. "And you're just going to let them take you?"
"I'm not lettin' anyone take me," Hagrid said, with a firmness that hadn't been there a moment ago. "But I am makin' sure they don't take you too."
His eyes, usually so gentle, were steady now. Tired, but determined.
"You've got more important things to do than fight my battles."
Harry stared at him, unwilling to move, unwilling to yield. From the far end of the clearing, one of the Aurors suddenly straightened.
"I've got movement in the forest!"
"Yehr cloak, Harry!" Hagrid urged.
Against his better judgement, Harry growled in annoyance, but willed the Invisibility Cloak to draw itself over him, the fabric shifting on its own to vanish him from sight, as Hagrid marched ahead to meet the rapidly approaching Aurors.
A dozen wands snapped upward the moment Hagrid stepped into view.
"Rubeus Hagrid," one of the lead Aurors barked, wand steady. "By order of the Ministry of Magic, you're wanted for questioning regarding the destruction of protected property and suspected conspiracy with known offenders."
Hagrid didn't flinch. He didn't slow.
"Funny," he growled, boots crunching on gravel as he kept walking, "last time yeh lot came to question me, I ended up in Azkaban without a single charge proven."
There was a ripple of hesitation among the Aurors—but the man in front didn't lower his wand.
"That was years ago. This is a separate matter—"
"Oh, I'm sure it is," Hagrid muttered. He finally stopped at the edge of the garden, his massive hands at his sides. "Let me guess, yeh jus' want me to come peacefully, jus' want me to sit in a cell until yeh find evidence. Just want me to come quietly."
"Ideally, yes." The lead Auror replied, his voice carefully light. "You are not under arrest at this time, but we do require your cooperation."
"Like hell I will," Hagrid said, voice low and dangerous. "Yeh have no rights to any o' this, an I am not goin' quietly. Not again."
From behind the garden gate, Umbridge's shriek tore through the air.
"There he is! I told you he wouldn't get far!" She stormed forward, wand clenched in one hand, a sheaf of official parchment fluttering in the other.
"Detain him! I want him under full magical containment before he tries anything!"
The Auror in front winced, just slightly, at Umbridge's screeching command. He kept his wand up, but took half a step forward, voice low and professional.
"Madam Umbridge—if he's not resisting, we don't need full containment."
She rounded on him immediately. "He is a half-giant! He doesn't need to resist—just move and someone could die. We do this properly, or we don't do it at all!"
The Auror didn't answer. He looked back at Hagrid, then slowly lowered his wand a few degrees—not dropped, but not ready to fire either.
Hagrid watched all this in silence, his jaw clenched. Then, slowly, his eyes swept past the Aurors… to his cabin. The open door. The trampled garden.
His voice came low and dangerous.
"Where's Fang?"
The Auror blinked. "What?"
"My dog," Hagrid growled, stepping forward just slightly. "Big black boarhound. Curled up by the hearth most nights. If I've been 'missin', like she says, then someone would've found him inside."
The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably.
One of the other Aurors shifted awkwardly, glancing toward the hut. Another looked away.
No one answered.
Hagrid's voice dropped another octave.
"If anything's happened to that dog—" he began, but didn't finish. He didn't have to. The air seemed to tighten around him.
Then a woman's voice, calm but firm, broke through it.
"He's fine, Hagrid. Just stunned. Inside the hut."
Hagrid turned to her slowly. The anger in his eyes didn't soften, but he gave her a nod—sharp, silent. Then he marched forward.
"Mr. Hagrid—stop—" the lead Auror began, raising his wand again.
Hagrid didn't stop, forcing the man to rapidly back out of his way.
"Sir, we need you to remain where—"
"I said, he's fine—" the woman started, but her voice faltered as Hagrid pushed straight past her like she wasn't even there.
Harry, still hidden beneath the cloak, followed at a careful distance. Every muscle in his body coiled tight.
The cabin door creaked as Hagrid stepped inside. The air within was smoky and thick, the hearth blackened, some of the furniture overturned. And near the fireplace, crumpled on the floor with his chest faintly rising and falling, was Fang.
Hagrid dropped to his knees beside him, massive hands trembling as he checked for injuries. The boarhound gave a soft, dazed whimper, but seemed fine enough.
"That's it, boy," Hagrid murmured, voice cracking. "I got yeh. It's alright now. Yeh did nothin' wrong."
Outside, the Aurors exchanged glances, as Umbridge's voice was already rising again. "There, you see! He resisted arrest! He assaulted an officer."
"Ma'am, it's not exactly—" the female Auror began, only for Umbridge to jab a trembling finger right in her face.
"Are you denying the fact that he pushed you, Rowntree! Are you denying my direct orders?"
The now named Rowntree didn't respond, instead just gaining a haunted look, as another Auror muttered under his breath, "This is going to blow up in our faces."
"Hold your ground," came the lead Auror's voice—quiet but firm, the weight of command laced through every word. "We are not escalating unless given direct cause."
"That was cause," Umbridge snapped, turning toward him. "He entered a crime scene against orders. He assaulted an officer. He—"
She stopped mid-rant as the cabin door creaked open, and Hagrid stepped out, his massive frame filling the doorway.
One shoulder bore a worn rucksack, the leather dark and patched. Slung over the other arm, cradled gently but firmly, was Fang—his head lolling in sleep, tongue half out, tail twitching faintly.
In Hagrid's free hand, his pink umbrella rested like a staff.
The lead Auror let out a slow breath, then stepped forward. "Hagrid," he said, voice respectful, almost quiet. "We really do have to place you under arrest. Please don't make this any harder than it needs to be."
Hagrid looked at the man, then at the other Aurors still holding their wands like they weren't sure they'd work.
"This won't be hard," he said dangerously. "Not fer me. But I don' want to hurt anyone tha' I don' have to."
"Enough! Stupefy!" Umbridge yelled, jabbing her wand out from behind the Aurors. The red light slammed into Hagrid's chest—and fizzled out like a spark hitting stone.
Hagrid flinched, more in surprise than pain. His expression darkened as he slowly turned his head toward her.
Then he roared. "Yeh bloody little toad!"
The Aurors staggered back, several throwing up shield spells on instinct.
"Hold fire—" the leader Auror tried, only to curse as Hagrid charged at them, his eyes locked on Umbridge.
But she was already moving.
To Harry's surprise, Umbridge dodged. She slipped sideways between two Aurors with surprising speed—her wand already snapping up—
"Stupefy!"
The red bolt hit Hagrid square in the back. He stumbled forward with a grunt, caught off balance—and that's when the other Aurors panicked.
"Take him down!" someone shouted.
Spells exploded in all directions. Stunning spells, binders, shields—half-formed, half-aimed. One cracked against the garden wall, another scorched the grass.
Hagrid roared again—more in pain this time—as a stunner hit him full in the side.
He twisted, raised his umbrella like a club, and smashed one spell out of the air. Another struck his shoulder and fizzled, but a third burst near his legs, sending him staggering.
"Stop!" Rowntree shouted from the back. "You're going to hurt someone!"
"He's resisting!" another Auror barked. "He's charging! Do something!"
"Enough!" A new voice rang out, sharp as a whip crack. "Leave him alone! Alone, I say!"
Professor McGonagall was sprinting across the lawn, her Gryffindor scarf twisted around one shoulder, robes swept to one side, her wand already raised.
"What in Merlin's name is going on here?!"
But, as one, the Aurors and Umbridge raised their wands and no fewer than four Stunners shot towards Professor McGonagall. The red beams collided with her halfway between the cabin and the Quidditch stands, stopping her in her tracks.
For a moment she looked luminous, illuminated by an eerie red glow, then was lifted right off her feet, landed hard on her back, and moved no more.
"Oh gods!" Rowntree moaned in distress, dropping her wand in terror.
Harry, still under the Cloak, surged forward. His legs moved before his mind could catch up.
McGonagall wasn't moving. He had to reach her, he had to—
But then, Hagrid turned, swinging wildly, roaring at the top of his lungs.
"COWARDS!"
A massive elbow caught Harry full in the ribs, lifting him off the ground and hurling him backwards. He hit the earth hard, the Cloak mercifully staying wrapped around him, the breath torn from his lungs in a rush of air.
Somewhere ahead, Hagrid was still shouting, as Harry rolled to his side, gasping, trying to push himself upright.
"COWARDS—ALL OF YOU!"
He caught sight of the others: Aurors stepping back, Umbridge yelling something he couldn't hear, Rowntree pale as milk and still on her knees.
And then Hagrid ran, Fang slung limp over his shoulder, boots pounding toward the edge of the grounds. A last Stunner hissed past his arm—but no one followed.
Not this time.
"Fuck…" the lead Auror muttered. "Right—we need to go. Now. That includes you, Rowntree."
She didn't move, just looked up at him, numbly. "But—Vane, she needs help—we can't just—"
He grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up with a sharp, practiced motion. "Now, Rowntree."
Umbridge stormed forward, waving a parchment again. "You will stay right where you are! I am invoking Clause Seven of the Ministry Emergency Containment Statute—!"
But Vane didn't even glance at her. He turned his back and kept walking, dragging Rowntree with him.
The rest followed, heads down, wands holstered, with Umbridge rushing after them.
No one looked back to see Harry remove the cloak and kneel beside the barely breathing McGonagall.
Her chest was rising—barely. Her glasses were gone, her hat had rolled somewhere into the mud, and her lips were tinged slightly grey.
"Professor?" he whispered, but she didn't stir.
He didn't know what to do.
A flicker of panic surged in his chest. He didn't know the spells, didn't have the potions. All his knowledge, all his preparation—and in this moment, it meant nothing.
Then he heard the voices, footsteps. Shouting.
He looked up at the crowd rushing from the Quidditch stands. And at the head of them, sprinting with surprising speed, was Madam Pomfrey, her satchel flapping at her side.
Harry didn't need to think further. He slipped his arms beneath McGonagall's shoulders and legs, lifting her as gently as he could, and ran to meet the matron.
He didn't have to run far.
Pomfrey met him halfway, wand already out, hair flying, her eyes laser-focused on McGonagall.
"Set her down!" she barked, not missing a step. A stretcher appeared mid-air beside her with a sharp snap of magic.
Harry obeyed, lowering McGonagall carefully onto the conjured frame. Pomfrey was already casting diagnostics, her hands steady even as her face paled.
A tight knot of students had gathered near the edge of the lawn—Gryffindors mostly, but a few Ravenclaws too. Wide-eyed. Whispering. Frozen.
Harry turned on them.
"Back up!" he snapped. "Make room!"
They scattered immediately, parting like a tide under a storm. Some stepped back in silence. Others hurried forward to help clear a path toward the castle steps.
Pomfrey didn't even look up. "Send them away, Potter," she muttered, mostly to herself, as she summoned supplies from her satchel.
Harry took a step forward, turning back to the students still hovering near the edge of the grass.
"Go," he said sharply. "You don't need to be here. You're just in the way."
Some backed off immediately. Others hesitated, uncertain, their eyes darting between McGonagall and the castle, as though waiting for someone to tell them it wasn't as bad as it looked.
It was.
A broomstick skidded to a halt nearby, and Ron landed hard, nearly stumbling as he dismounted. He was still in his Keeper pads, helmet lopsided, one glove missing.
"What happened?" he asked, breathless. "Harry—what the hell's going on?"
Only to freeze as his eyes found McGonagall, still pale and motionless on the stretcher.
Snapping his fingers, Harry got Ron's attention back on him, "Ron, get these kids out of here. They don't need to see this."
"Oh… Er, right, yeah. I can do that." Ron swallowed, before straightening and turning. "Right, as Harry said, clear off! McGonagall will be fine, but not if you lot keep crowding around us."
Then, when nobody obeyed, he flushed, "I am a prefect! Move!"
It was late afternoon by the time they left the hospital wing in silence, the echo of Pomfrey's final "Out. Both of you," still ringing in their ears.
The door swung shut behind them with a sharp click.
Ron exhaled, slow and low. "Well… that was the worst match ending ever."
Harry gave him a look.
"No—I mean, I didn't know what was happening. No one did," Ron said quickly, raising his hands. "One second Lee was asking where McGonagall was going, and the next he's shouting she just got stunned. Over the speaker."
He winced at the memory. "Everything stopped. Literally no one moved… Well, except Ginny, but she was too focused on the Snitch."
Harry hummed, uncaringly, but willing to let Ron fill the silence.
"Like, Cho was right there. I mean, literally right there! Looked like she was about to cry. Pretty sure half the crowd did." Ron finished sardonically, before wincing.
Ron was quiet for a beat, the echo of his last words hanging awkwardly between them.
Then he scratched at the side of his helmet, looking anywhere but at Harry.
"I was actually doing alright, you know," he muttered. "Kept three goals out. Might've been four. Even felt... proud of it, for once."
His voice trailed off, the words turning sour in his mouth.
"Not that it matters now. Doubt anyone'll remember."
"Do you think anyone would miss her… Umbridge?" Harry asked suddenly, cutting across Ron's thought.
Ron blinked at him. "I mean… someone probably would."
He hesitated, then more carefully pressed on, "Why?"
Harry didn't answer at first. Just stared down the corridor ahead, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, jaw tight.
Ron watched him a moment longer, then lowered his voice. "Harry… you wouldn't— I mean, you're not planning anything, right?"
"Does she not deserve some karma?" Harry asked, bitterly.
Ron shifted uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck.
"She probably does," he admitted. "But… I don't think you should be the one to balance the scales. Not like that. Nothing drastic."
Harry let out a low sigh, eyes still fixed ahead. "Yeah… Maybe you're right," he murmured.
But in the quiet that followed, another thought curled in the back of his mind.
It won't be drastic.
It had taken him a while to even find what room she was sleeping in. Apparently the twins had firebombed her room that morning, and she'd quietly relocated what little she now owed to a more protected location within the dungeons.
But that didn't hide her from the Marauder's Map. The wards on her door were impressive, a mix of layered enchantments, and some frankly powerful threshold charms, the type that defined an owned boundary.
If he wasn't so determined, it would've been enough for him to reconsider. Instead, he just placed his Gauntleted hand upon the magic, the Dementor's Soul Gem instantly beginning to greedily leach the magic out of the air, as the wood slowly rotted and froze.
Only when the wards had fully withered did he move, pulling his trench coat tighter around him.
He'd never fully tested how much the Dementor's Cloak could do, not since he took it at the end of his third year, not even when he'd used it against the Horntail, and merged its magic with his own coat.
But he knew the theory, and had seen the Gauntlet use the dementor's power enough.
So, letting out a deep breath, he immersed his magic with the frail aura of a dementor, and calmly stepped through the wood, phasing through with barely a tickle.
The room was dim, carved from damp stone and wrapped in silence. A faint enchantment kept the torches low, casting long shadows across a battered desk, a suitcase half-unpacked, a teacup long gone cold.
Harry moved like a whisper—his boots riding a thin buffer of air, just enough to keep him above the ground. No footsteps. No sound.
Across the room, curled on a narrow cot tucked against the far wall, Umbridge slept with her mouth slightly open. Her snores rasped in shallow bursts, like a kettle refusing to boil.
She looked smaller somehow. Greyer. Harry stood there for a moment, watching. Not quite breathing. But she had been determined to play her role, right from the start. And so it fell to him to play his part just as well.
Holding his left arm up, he let his mithril fingers play in the light for a moment, again struck by just how little he felt from them. Before he gave in, and let a little spark of red from the Philosopher's Stone dance between them.
A spark he let fall onto Umbridge, temporarily transfiguring her immobile. At its touch, her eyes snapped open with a soft gasp, quickly replaced with clear panic as she tried to move.
"Hello, Madam Umbridge." He announced softly, letting her gaze snap to his. It was fascinating, to see her eyes go from panic, to anger, and then into a deeper fear. "I tried to talk, I want you to remember that. I tried to reach out, I tried to understand you but I think you understood me perfectly. I think you just don't care."
At his words, her face paled drastically, and she struggled hard enough her immobile body managed to tremble slightly. But he kept on, speaking to himself far more than for her.
"I don't know what you really sought by coming here and replacing Dumbledore. I don't suppose it really matters now. You were the monster of this story. That was the part you chose to play… So now you've forced me to play my part."
He could see she was desperate to talk, and for a moment he considered letting her. But he had no wish to hear her beg, nor did he want to sit through threats.
"You see, your power has always sat with the Ministry. Their might, behind your sadism. Anyone could've attacked you, but you knew the Ministry would retaliate for you. Tell me, Dolores, do you see the Ministry here now?"
He reached out, fingers tipped with silver and red, and touched her temple.
"You don't get to keep your victories. I've never really tried this spell before, but funnily enough I learnt it from a previous Defence professor. I'm hoping it won't kill you, just remove a year or two… But you are someone too dangerous to keep around. Goodbye, Professor Umbridge."
'Obliviate.' With a thought, he fed the spell through the Gauntlet, and into her head. The Philosopher's Stone made it permanent, making the charm intertwine itself with her mind. The Soul Gem made it deeper, erasing her memories at a soul deep level.
And in the space of a breath, her eyes lost their hatred, her terror, even her recognition. She blinked like a child waking in a strange room, looking around in surprise. But he had already faded from sight, leaving the room with barely a whisper.
Literally half a year ago, I asked what I should do about Umbridge, and the result was to deal with her sometime before her canon moment… A month early in-universe is technically "Sometime before"!
Things I think need explaining:
- Firenze: Dumbledore never approached him to teach, so the herd never exiled him.
- The Gauntlet: For those that need a refresher, since it has been a while, it currently has Flamel's Philosopher's Stone, the transmuted Dementor into the Soul Gem, and the Eidolon core control crystal.
Discord: kC3mbSpcsx (Take this link code, and then inside discord go to add server, join a server, and paste it there)