It was a bright and bewildering day at the Forbidden Forest Clearing Chapel—a charming little spot with only a mild risk of Acromantula attacks and an 87% chance of someone getting cursed before dessert.

The guests were seated on mismatched chairs (most stolen from Hogwarts' staff room), and a banner flapped proudly above the altar reading: "Congratulations Dobby & Dolores! May Your Love Be as Eternal as a Horcrux!"

Yes. That Dobby. And that Umbridge.

"I is ready for love!" squeaked Dobby, tugging at the sleeves of his white tuxedo made entirely of recycled pillowcases and one unfortunate Weasley jumper. He beamed, his enormous green eyes shimmering with joy and mild terror.

Peter Pettigrew, sweating profusely in his rat-sized tux and polishing a wedding ring with his tongue, clapped Dobby on the back. "You're doing the right thing, mate. She's… erm… well, she's not trying to kill you. So that's good!"

Cue a swell of music—a duet of kazoo and accordion, played by a very confused pair of Centaurs who had lost a bet.

Down the aisle floated Luna Lovegood, dressed as a cloud, dropping flower petals and radishes with equal grace. "Marriage is like a Crumple-Horned Snorkack," she whispered dreamily to a passing squirrel. "Mysterious. Potentially venomous."

At the altar stood Sirius Black, looking mildly hungover and wholly confused. "Alright," he muttered, thumbing through a crumpled dog-eared wedding book titled Love in the Time of Inferi. "Let's get this insanity rolling."

Then came the bride.

Dolores Umbridge emerged, riding an animatronic Thestral side-saddle, draped in pink lace, puffed sleeves, and a veil made of confiscated student essays. The veil hissed—there were rumors she enchanted it to cry out "Detention!" if anyone tried to peek.

She batted her eyes at Dobby. It was unclear if she was smiling or had just smelled something oddly pleasant.

"Oh Dobby-wobby, I do love a subservient husband."

"Dobby has no regrets!" Dobby declared with the frantic enthusiasm of someone who's already stepped off the ledge and thinks maybe it's fine.

Suddenly, there was a crash.

"Am I late?" gasped Harry Potter, half-dressed, hair smoking, and clutching a flask that clearly didn't belong to him. He looked around. "...What the hell is happening."

"Wedding," Sirius replied. "Yours if you don't shut up. Keep moving."

At that moment, a slurred voice piped up from the audience.

"I'LL TELL YOU WHAT THIS IS!" bellowed Severus Snape, wearing half a tux and one bunny slipper. "IT'S A SHAM! A FARCE! A VIOLATION OF ALL POTIONS ETHICS!"

He tried to stand, tripped over a sleeping house-elf, and collapsed into the wedding cake—an impressive seven-layer monstrosity shaped like the Ministry of Magic with icing Dementors on top.

Just as Sirius tried to power through the vows ("Do you, Dobby, take this toad-woman as your lawfully wedded chaos monster—"), a dramatic whoosh interrupted them.

"I OBJECT!" screamed Draco Malfoy, flinging himself onto the aisle like a Victorian damsel. He was shirtless, sparkly, and wearing what looked suspiciously like a Gryffindor scarf as a sash. "Dobby deserves better!"

The crowd gasped. Well, some gasped. Luna offered him a radish. Pettigrew tried to eat it.

Umbridge's eyes narrowed.

"You dare object to my perfect union?" she snarled.

"YES! This is an affront to the sacred institution of emotionally repressed, socially strategic pureblood marriage!"

"Dobby is very confused," said Dobby, looking back and forth between the parties, ears twitching like antennae in a wind tunnel.

Sirius, sensing imminent doom, clapped his hands.

"Right! By the power vested in me by absolutely no one, I now pronounce you... not married. Everyone, run!"

Explosions. Sparks. Screaming mandrakes.

A Hippogriff flew away with the bouquet. Snape passed out in the custard. Luna danced with a pinecone. And Lucius Malfoy, somewhere far away, turned off his magical mirror, muttering, "Nope."

In the end, Dobby and Draco ran off together to start a vegan sock café in Diagon Alley.

And Umbridge?

Well, she's still riding that Thestral. Screaming.

THE END