"So, I've made some progress on Chimera's Grace," Draco began, unfolding a small roll of parchment filled with precise notes and scribbled margins. "I've narrowed down a few key ingredients. Leeches—to draw and channel the magical essence of the creature I want to bond with. Powdered Bicorn Horn, symbolizing duality—because this is about merging two forms, two identities. And knotgrass, to serve as the binding agent between the two essences."

He tapped the parchment thoughtfully. "I've been trying to find other ingredients that would complement the fusion process, but I've hit a bit of a wall. The brewing timeline, the specific magical catalysts needed to stabilize the mixture... it's all still hazy."

Dumbledore, seated comfortably behind his desk with Fawkes watching from his perch, raised one silvery eyebrow. "Oh? You've already devised the ritual component? That's rather unusual. Most witches and wizards struggle with the ritual far more than the potion. Rituals are deceptively simple yet deeply magical acts—far older, and often far more dangerous, than simple potion-making. Tell me, Draco—what have you come up with?"

Draco blinked in surprise but nodded. "Right. Well, the ritual is designed to symbolize rebirth and transformation. The wizard has to prepare a quiet, protected space—one they feel safe in. The potion must be consumed exactly at dawn, to mark the beginning of a new identity, a new life. The participant must be… physically bare—free of clothing and artifice—to represent vulnerability and acceptance."

He paused for a moment, then added, "Sand from their homeland must be gathered. The user has to be buried in it by someone they trust—symbolizing a return to origin, and rebirth. While buried, the user should experience a vision—something deeply symbolic and tied to the creature they're bonding with. It's supposed to reflect the merging of consciousness."

Draco's voice became quieter, more contemplative. "After the vision ends, the subject rises from the sand transformed—still themselves, but with the creature's magic now flowing through them. Physical changes would be subtle but permanent. Skin texture, eye color, perhaps even their internal organs—it should all shift to reflect the hybrid nature."

Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his chair, stroking his beard as his eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Fascinating. Truly, fascinating."

There was no trace of patronizing praise in his voice—only genuine interest.

"Your ritual is thoughtful," Dumbledore said, peering at Draco over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, his voice quiet but laced with something that made Draco's spine straighten. "Layered with both symbolic and magical logic. While still theoretical, it demonstrates a remarkable understanding of magical philosophy. If the accompanying potion proves compatible, I daresay this may become one of the more elegant hybridization rituals I've encountered."

Draco let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Coming from Dumbledore—that wasn't a compliment to be taken lightly.

The old wizard's eyes twinkled as he steepled his fingers. "As for the potion itself, I believe we can refine the base with a few key components that align with the ritual's purpose."

He gestured lazily toward the parchment, but his tone had taken on the focused cadence of a master professor.

"Powdered Chimera claw, for example. The Chimera, as you know, is a fusion of multiple creatures—lion, goat, serpent—brought together in a single body. Its very biology embodies the essence of hybridization. Adding its claw, a seat of magical potency, could symbolize and enhance the merging of two essences—human and magical creature. It would serve as both a literal and metaphysical anchor."

Draco nodded, scribbling a note.

"Next, moonstone dust," Dumbledore continued. "Long associated with transformation, intuition, and balance. Moonstone is often used in potions of metamorphosis and rebirth. Its presence may ease the body's acceptance of the transformation, stabilizing the magic as it takes root in the cells. Particularly important, if you're hoping for long-term success rather than temporary mutation."

Malfoy blinked, impressed despite himself. "And what else?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Ah yes. Wolfsbane root—traditionally used in regulating the werewolf's transformation. While your ritual doesn't deal with lycanthropy, the concept is adjacent: managing a profound change to the body and mind. Wolfsbane could temper the psychological stress of the fusion, helping to prevent the hybrid form from destabilizing the user's consciousness. In other words, it may prevent the subject from losing themselves in the new identity."

Draco stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. "You just… had all of that off the top of your head?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with that ever-familiar mischief, and a wry smile curled at the corners of his lips. "Well, Mr. Malfoy, if you'll pardon the expression… I do like to think I'm rather hip when it comes to the arcane."

Draco recoiled like he'd been hit with a jelly-legs jinx. "Merlin's beard. Please never say that again. That hurt me—like, spiritually. I think my soul just flinched."

Dumbledore gave a theatrical sigh, clasping his hands behind his back. "Alas, yet another failed attempt to connect with the younger generation. It appears my 'street cred' is slipping."

Rolling his eyes, Draco leaned back in his chair with a dramatic groan. "That assumes you had any to begin with. Anyway—bad slang aside—we've got new ingredients. Where do we start?"

Dumbledore's smile returned, broader this time, his eyes lighting with an enthusiasm that reminded Draco of a child about to unwrap a present.

"Ah, young Draco," he said with a gleam in his eye, "now this is where the fun begins."

Draco raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're calling potion experimentation fun?"

"Of course!" Dumbledore exclaimed, the excitement in his voice rising. "This is uncharted territory. We're not brewing a known draft from some textbook—we're crafting something new. Something unprecedented. A potion never before completed. We have ingredients we believe will form the foundation of Chimera's Grace, but the real joy lies in discovery. What order must we add them in? What quantities are safe—or dangerous? What needs to be sliced, powdered, or finely minced? What metal should the cauldron be made from? Pewter, silver, dragonsteel?"

He began to pace as he spoke, his gestures becoming animated.

"What level of heat must we apply? Should the potion simmer or seethe, boil or bubble gently? How many stirs clockwise, how many counter-clockwise? Should it be stewed overnight or consumed immediately after brewing? Can it be bottled? Does it age like firewhisky or go sour like pumpkin juice left in the sun?"

Dumbledore turned back to Draco, eyes gleaming with energy, his voice breathless with anticipation.

"The sheer number of variables! The paths we might take! The mistakes we could make that lead to entirely new discoveries! Why, the alchemy of it all—it's simply exhilarating!"

Draco blinked.

If you just listened to the words, the list of factors and unknowns sounded like an absolute nightmare—academic chaos masquerading as scientific method. But the way Dumbledore said it, the fevered excitement, the sparkle in his eyes, the crooked smile on his face—it was clear that he loved this. Every maddening, meticulous step of it.

"You're… a lot more excited about this than I am," Draco said dryly, folding his arms and eyeing the headmaster with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant amusement.

Dumbledore beamed, his blue eyes twinkling like a man half his age. "It's been so long since anyone's brought something truly new to Britain," he said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Everyone's become far too comfortable with the way things are—recycling the same spells, brewing the same potions, clinging to traditions like flobberworms to a damp sock. Even I'm guilty of it! Though I suppose I can hide behind the excuse of being well over a century old."

Draco arched an eyebrow. "You make stagnation sound like a lifestyle choice."

"Everything must be shaken from time to time, dear boy," Dumbledore said with cheerful insistence. "That's how society grows. Progress rarely comes from comfort. Did you know I discovered the twelve uses of dragon's blood while attempting to create the world's most succulent lemon drop?"

Draco blinked. "...How exactly does dragon's blood connect to confectionery?"

Dumbledore's expression turned wistful, like a man reminiscing on a long-lost love. "Ah, well, the culinary arts require daring, Mr. Malfoy. One must experiment! Licorice and peppermint? Far too conventional. But fairy dust and shredded pixie wings? Now those add a delightful kick! Spicy, with a hint of woodland melancholy."

Draco made a sound somewhere between a cough and a gag.

"Of course, once I added dragon's blood to the mixture, it opened entirely new avenues of experimentation. I began testing its magical properties more broadly—seeing what else it could do. Alas, when I presented my thirteenth use—an edible spell-infused lemon drop with mild truth-serum properties—the Ministry banned it outright." Dumbledore gave a theatrical sigh. "Too 'unorthodox,' they claimed. 'Unfit for consumption,' they said. One of the great tragedies of my career."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "Merlin help me. I hope if I live to be your age, I don't end up half as mental."

Dumbledore gave him a conspiratorial wink, the kind that made Draco feel like he was being let in on a secret only half of him wanted to know.
"Ah, but what is madness, Mr. Malfoy, if not courage without a leash?"

Draco blinked, then muttered under his breath, "That sounds like something an insane person would say..."
And yet, despite himself, he couldn't stop the faint twitch of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

He shook his head. "Still, it could take us years to figure all of this out. I suppose I was too ambitious to think we'd have it wrapped up by the time summer rolled around."

"Oh no, I don't believe this summer is viable," Dumbledore replied, sounding perfectly unbothered. "However, I rather think we might finish in the final week of August. If we pace ourselves."

Draco stared at him. "Wait—how? That's impossible. We'd need to test every batch with every potential variation. I haven't done the exact math, but I'm certain we'd be looking at hundreds of permutations. At least. That should take years."

"Indeed it would," Dumbledore said mildly, folding his hands behind his back. "If you were the only one involved in the endeavor."

Draco raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "Professor, I know you volunteered your assistance with the potion, but even with you working on it, that only cuts down our time in half, does it not?"

"Oh, not just myself," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "You'll also have the benefit of Professor Snape—one of Britain's finest minds in the art of potion-making, despite his temperament. And then, of course, you'll have me—an alchemist of some repute, if I may be so bold—and someone rather well-versed in ancient and obscure branches of magic. Lastly, we have two other invaluable resources."

Draco frowned. "Who?"

"The Flamel portraits," Dumbledore said with a small smile.

"The Flamels?" Draco blinked. "As in Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel?"

"The very same," Dumbledore replied, eyes dancing. "They may have passed on—quite peacefully, I might add, sometime during your third year—but their wisdom remains intact. I am among the fortunate few with access to their enchanted portraits. And let me assure you, neither of them had any intention of fading quietly into history. They were far too fond of meddling for that."

Draco's eyes widened. "That's brilliant. I mean—I'd forgotten you even knew them."

"Not merely acquaintances, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "Nicholas and I shared over a century of collaboration—punctuated, of course, by our many games of chess, long afternoons of tea, and spirited debates on the ethical dilemmas of transmutation." He smiled, fondness briefly softening his expression. "Perenelle always won those arguments, by the way."

Excitement flickered across Draco's features, bright and raw. He practically vibrated with energy, his earlier coolness replaced by something far more unguarded. "This… this is brilliant! I mean, really brilliant. If we can finalize the framework by sixth year—Merlin, that'll make everything after so much easier! We might actually pull this off."

"In addition," Dumbledore continued, folding his hands in front of him, "the timing described in your ritual notes is both symbolic and precise. Having you ingest the potion on the first of September will mark the beginning of your transformation with the turning of the season. As summer fades, so too shall your old self. It's not as optimal as a solstice alignment, but still—powerful."

Draco nodded slowly, reverence creeping into his voice. "September... I could have it all by September."

Dumbledore cleared his throat gently. "Mr. Malfoy, I trust you've not forgotten the terms of our agreement."

The boy blinked, his focus snapping back to the present. "Of course, Professor. I haven't forgotten. I'm not the type to renege on a deal—especially not one this important."

"Good," Dumbledore said, smiling in earnest now. "You know, it truly is remarkable. I can still see traces of your mother's poise and your father's sharpness in you—even echoes of your earlier self. But you've… evolved. Become something beyond your origin. It's a rare thing, Mr. Malfoy. To see someone raised in darkness deliberately turn toward the light. Sometimes, I wonder if we sort too soon."

Draco chuckled, the sound low and thoughtful. "You might be wrong about that one, Headmaster."

"Oh?"

A smirk curled at the edges of his lips. "Slytherin has taught me lessons I never would've learned anywhere else. My ambition, my cunning—my hunger—that all came from the house's culture. You say we sort too soon, that perhaps I was meant for another house. But I say this: Slytherin needed someone like me. And I needed Slytherin to understand the world I was born into. To challenge it."

Dumbledore regarded him quietly, letting the silence stretch.

"I wouldn't have changed," Draco continued, "if I hadn't seen what I saw last summer. The horror, the cost of blind loyalty. Yes, I've grown. But not in spite of Slytherin—in many ways, because of it. My greed, my pride—they fueled the conviction I have now. They were the fire that forged something better. I don't want to escape my house. I want to reform it. Make it something worth being proud of again."

Dumbledore smiled—not the twinkling, amused kind, but something deeper. Proud. "Then I look forward to seeing what kind of legacy you'll leave behind, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps one day, others will say the same of you that they once said of your house's founder."

The little silver I-shaped badge pinned to her chest weighed more heavily than it had any right to. It was barely the size of a Sickleslot, feather-light in the palm—but on her robes, it might as well have been made of stone.

The Inquisitorial Squad.

Officially, they were supposed to be the Ministry's eyes and ears at Hogwarts—Umbridge's private network of student enforcers, handpicked to ensure compliance with her new policies, keep the other Houses in line, and report any hint of rebellion.

Unofficially? They were a loaded wand waiting to go off.

When Draco Malfoy had approached her and Ernie with the offer to join, Susan's first instinct had been to say no. Flatly, firmly, no. Even with Draco's so-called 'redemption arc,' as some were calling it, she hadn't forgotten the boy he used to be. She was still close to Hannah Abbott, and Hannah loathed Draco with a quiet, long-burning intensity that didn't seem to be fading anytime soon.

But then Ernie had spoken.

"If anyone's going to abuse this kind of power," he'd said, "don't you think we should be in the room to stop it?"

That argument had stuck with her. In the end, she'd agreed—not out of trust, but out of responsibility. If Draco was putting on a show, it was on them to see through it. And if he had changed… well, wasn't that something they should know too?

To her surprise, Draco hadn't stacked the Squad with just Slytherins. Each House had some representation, even Gryffindor. She and Ernie stood in for Hufflepuff, bringing a quiet sort of integrity to the table. Ravenclaw was covered by Terry Boot and Morag MacDougal—both sharp, observant types who didn't miss much.

And Gryffindor? Seamus Finnigan and Lavender Brown. That had raised a few eyebrows, but then again, Seamus had a bit of a reckless streak, and Lavender had always cared more about being where the drama was than where the line was.

Of course, Slytherin still had the lion's share of members.

Draco was the designated leader, flanked closely by Pansy Parkinson as his second. Then there were the rest: Vincent Crabbe—still a blunt instrument in human form, Theodore Nott with his unsettling silence, the Greengrass sisters Astoria and Daphne, and Blaise Zabini, aloof and unreadable as ever.

Most of them were purebloods. All except Seamus, who was the lone half-blood in the group. Not a single Muggleborn in sight. It was hard not to draw conclusions from that. Malfoy, even with his supposed reformation, might still be playing the same game—just with better cards.

But then came the first meeting.

She'd expected pomp. Arrogance. Draco posturing in front of his peers. But what she got instead was something entirely different.

A structured agenda. Clearly defined roles. Rules of engagement laid out with the precision of a seasoned strategist. Assignments carefully delegated by House, each paired with cross-House partners to keep ambitions and egos in check. And at the center of it all—Draco Malfoy, standing at the front of the old Transfiguration classroom they'd quietly claimed for their meetings, addressing the room with a clarity and calm that left little room for argument.

"You do not report to Professor Umbridge first," he said, voice cool and commanding. "You report to me."

Even with Pansy Parkinson clinging to him like a decorative shawl, her fingers threading lazily through his hair in open defiance of the formality of the moment, Draco didn't so much as flinch. His presence cut through the room like a wand through fog—sharp, focused, unmistakably in control.

"The Inquisitorial Squad puts Hogwarts first. Not the Ministry. Not our parents. Not your House loyalties. We've been given real authority here—enough to make a difference—and I expect you to use it responsibly."

He stepped forward, folding his hands behind his back as he continued, eyes scanning the small crowd before him. "Because of Professor Umbridge's new responsibilities, she's delegated a great deal of her authority to me. And in turn, I'm delegating it to all of you. We are to inspect the faculty. Discreetly. We write reports—measured, impartial, and thorough. Be fair, but don't be naive. We are here to uphold standards, not to go on power trips."

He paused, allowing that to sink in.

"You may deduct points—even from prefects if it's warranted—but I expect restraint. Discipline. We don't need to provoke unnecessary enemies."

He gestured to a stack of folders on the table beside him. "We've also been granted limited oversight of incoming and outgoing post. That does not mean you're to read private letters, tamper with packages, or pilfer student belongings like common thieves. Instead, you'll use approved Dark Detectors and high-grade Sneakoscopes to flag anything dangerous or cursed. You'll log suspicious items and report them—through me."

Several students exchanged wary looks. Draco let the silence linger before speaking again, more softly now, but with no less force.

"When Umbridge asks for updates, I will be the one presenting them. That keeps our message unified and avoids anyone putting their foot in their mouth."

He offered a thin, knowing smile.

"Follow the rules I've laid out, and this squad could be more than just a Ministry stunt—it could be the first real step in your careers. A commendation here might land you a fast-track apprenticeship, a favorable posting at the Ministry… or a recommendation from someone who actually matters."

His tone darkened just slightly.

"But if you cross me—if you abuse your position, embarrass the squad, or try to undermine what I'm building—I will make your life quietly, persistently miserable. No theatrics. No hexes in the hallway. Just an endless stream of small, calculated inconveniences until you remember where your loyalties should lie."

He let that hang in the air for a long beat.

"This squad was created to weaken the Headmaster's influence," he said plainly. "But that doesn't mean it has to be a joke. If we work together instead of stepping on each other, we can actually improve Hogwarts—make it safer, stronger, and more disciplined."

Draco's gaze swept the room one final time, steady and unyielding.

"Now. Collect your assignments and pair off with your partners. We begin tomorrow. Dismissed."

Being part of the Inquisitorial Squad hadn't really changed her daily life as a student all that much.

Sure, she had to write up the occasional report on teachers, but no one gave her grief about it—most of the professors barely noticed her, and the students just seemed relieved it wasn't them being targeted. Yes, she was technically supposed to go through students' mail, but there were so few actual Dark artifacts floating around that it amounted to little more than an hour or two of waving packages near the extremely overpriced Sneakoscope and jabbing the occasional suspicious envelope with a Probity Probe. It was dull work, honestly. She hadn't had to take points from anyone yet, and—thankfully—Draco had made it clear from the start that patrolling the halls at night was strictly the responsibility of the Prefects.

And if she was being honest with herself… she actually didn't mind the people in the Inquisitorial Squad.

Even the Slytherins.

Yes, some of them were sharp-tongued—Pansy Parkinson in particular had a wit that could cut through steel—but most of them were surprisingly easy to get along with. They were clever, quick, and despite the snide remarks, genuinely amusing company. To her surprise, they also took their duties somewhat seriously. Blaise Zabini, of course, put in the bare minimum effort required in every task, but Draco had eventually solved that problem by permanently pairing him with Seamus—ensuring that neither of them could slack off without dragging the other into trouble.

And Draco… he was different than she'd expected.

He took the responsibilities of the Inquisitorial Squad very seriously. He expected professionalism, precision, and absolute transparency from the other members. No one used their authority to settle petty grudges or torment classmates. There were no cruel tricks, no abuse of power. Every report was thorough. Every infraction was documented. And everything went through Draco first, before being passed on to Professor Umbridge.

Most days, Draco delivered the reports to Umbridge on his own. But tonight… tonight, she'd summoned the entire Squad to her office.

That was new. And intriguing.

She found herself wondering what she thought of the group Draco had assembled. Whether she approved of how they ran things. Whether this was praise—or punishment—in the making.

And most of all, she wondered why, after all these months, Dolores Umbridge had finally decided to speak to them directly.

"You look absolutely exhausted, Madame Umbridge," Pansy said softly, stepping forward to take the woman's heavy overcoat with the careful grace of a perfect hostess. "Please, sit down. We'll make you some tea."

Umbridge gave a weary, appreciative nod, her toadlike features crumpling with fatigue as she waddled over to her desk. "Thank you, Miss Parkinson," she said, her voice thin and scratchy.

"My father sent over some chocolate biscuits from Belgium," Draco added smoothly, pushing a porcelain plate toward her. "Harlequin au Chocolat. A rare treat, but we thought you might enjoy them after a long day."

The gratitude in Umbridge's eyes was unmistakable as she reached for one. "Thank you as well, Mr. Malfoy. That's… very kind of you."

She looked terrible, and even that was putting it kindly. Her skin was sallow, the color of sour milk, and her usually manicured hair was in disarray. The whites of her eyes were rimmed in red, and the deep, dark hollows beneath them spoke of many sleepless nights. Her hands shook ever so slightly as she took the teacup from Pansy, sipping with trembling fingers.

A soft hum escaped her lips as she bit into the biscuit. "Mmm. It's been… quite some time since I've indulged like this," she murmured, her voice thick with weariness. "So much to do. So many people demanding my attention. It's exhausting, really."

"We can't imagine the kind of stress you're under," Pansy said, tilting her head with a look of sympathetic concern. "I've heard such dreadful things about that forest. All that darkness and danger… It must be absolutely horrid to deal with."

One of the first things Pansy's mother had taught her was that important people loved to complain. Especially the vain and self-important ones. Feed their ego, listen attentively, and act like their burdens were the weight of the world—and they'd start to talk. Not just ramble. They revealed things.

And Dolores Umbridge was exactly the type to fall for it.

"My dear girl," Umbridge exclaimed with a sudden burst of indignation, "you would not believe the utter nonsense I've had to endure lately!"

Just like that, the floodgates opened.

"It's as if they've given me every last incompetent member of both the Hit Wizard and Auror divisions," she fumed between bites of biscuit and sips of tea. "They can't tell their left from their right without a bloody flowchart. I have to poke and prod them into the simplest actions, and Merlin forbid they go more than two steps without getting into some absurd shouting match over which 'protocol' they should follow."

She took another sip, her voice rising now with exasperation.

"As if the next move shouldn't be exactly what I tell them to do in the first place!"

Draco exchanged a quick glance with Pansy, concealing a smirk behind the rim of his own teacup.

Oh yes. The woman was speaking now.

And every single member of the Inquisitorial Squad was listening very, very closely.

They leaned in, nodding in sympathetic unison, their faces the perfect picture of concern and attentiveness. After all, this wasn't just idle gossip—this was Dolores Umbridge giving them the inside scoop on the ongoing war against the Forbidden Forest.

"And that disgusting forest," Umbridge began, her upper lip curling with distaste, "honestly, it should be razed to the last blade of grass."

She popped an entire biscuit into her mouth and swallowed it without chewing.

Pansy privately wondered how she hadn't choked.

"As soon as we stepped in, everything tried to kill us," Umbridge said, gesturing emphatically with her teacup. "Those revolting centaurs, those filthy little bowtruckles, horrendous Dugbogs, and don't even get me started on those ghastly Acromantula. If I had it my way, everything in that wretched place would be reduced to ash."

"The centaurs," she continued, nose wrinkling, "have the audacity to claim the forest as theirs. Can you believe that? As if they own it! They actually had the nerve to say we weren't allowed to set foot on it without their permission."

She let out an indignant snort, taking a long sip of tea before slamming her cup down harder than necessary.

"As if the only reason they have a home at all isn't because the Ministry generously allows them to remain on Hogwarts grounds. Honestly! And of course, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures insists we can't just kill them outright—soft-hearted fools. But don't worry, we made sure to teach them a very permanent lesson."

A smile stretched thin across her face.

"That loudmouth, Bane—he won't be so quick to run his mouth again."

Across the table, Pansy saw Draco's jaw twitch ever so slightly, but he smoothed it over quickly and refilled her teacup with a polite nod.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Malfoy," Umbridge cooed. "Honestly, you have no idea what a relief it is to be among such reasonable company. We've managed to eliminate about half of the Acromantula nest, but the rest have scattered and gone to ground. And that oaf Hagrid still insists we can 'come to an accord.'"

She rolled her eyes dramatically.

"He's already on thin ice, and he failed to report that not only had the Acromantula from his third year survived, but it had found a mate and bred! We're now tracking them down one by one, but it's tedious and exhausting work."

She dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief, the very picture of bureaucratic martyrdom.

"And as if that weren't bad enough," she went on, her tone lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "everything in the forest is terrified of something…else. Something we can't identify."

She glanced around, as if to make sure no one else was listening. Well, aside from the thirteen students in her office.

"They say it can uproot entire copses of trees—literally rip them from the ground—and hurl them like spears. Seven trolls have died from it so far. Seven! The Acromantula call it 'The Monster,' and the centaurs—those cowards—refuse to speak of it at all."

She shook her head, visibly frustrated.

"It's fast. It's smart. It hides well. And of course, Dumbledore claims to have no idea what it is. Honestly, does anyone even know what lives in that forest anymore? It seems like anything can just wander in and take up residence without his knowledge."

She clucked her tongue and folded her arms.

"If I were running Hogwarts," Umbridge sniffed, adjusting the frilly collar of her cardigan with a self-satisfied huff, "I would know the name of every single fairy, pixie, and garden gnome within a hundred yards of the grounds. Mark my words."

Draco barely managed to contain his eye-roll, while Umbdrige—finally tearing her attention away from the window—turned to face the assembled members of the Inquisitorial Squad. Her lips pursed in what she no doubt thought was an expression of careful scrutiny.

"So," she said, eyes narrowing slightly, "this is your team, Mr. Malfoy?"

Her gaze swept over them one by one—judging, weighing, already mentally calculating how each could be useful to her goals. A faint nod accompanied her glance at Pansy. A curled lip met Seamus. Her eyes lingered on Blaise for a second too long before moving on, and Theodore Nott was barely acknowledged at all.

For a half-blood, Pansy thought with no small amount of disdain, she certainly liked to act like a pureblood. The hypocrisy of it all grated at her nerves. She'd written her mother the moment Umbdrige had started throwing her weight around and gotten the confirmation she'd expected: Dolores Umbridge was indeed a half-blood, born to a Muggle mother and a wizard father. Of course, she'd denounced her Muggle heritage long ago, weaving herself into the pureblood social circles and pretending she belonged. No one openly challenged her on it, but it was an open secret among the old blood families—a dirty joke told over wine and firewhisky in drawing rooms.

"I'm pleased to see," Umbridge continued, her saccharine tone barely hiding the venom beneath, "that you've managed to choose mostly respectable students from each house to form this squad. Though," her eyes slid back to Seamus, sharp as a dagger, "I do wonder if you were scraping the bottom of the barrel with certain selections."

Seamus bristled, his fingers twitching slightly, but before he could say anything foolish, Draco spoke up.

"Every member of my squad," he said smoothly, "has been chosen with meticulous care. Not only are they competent, but they're loyal. Each of them understands the importance of maintaining order—and upholding the Ministry's vision."

In other words: they'll do what I say, when I say it. Pansy didn't have to look at him to know Draco was smirking inwardly.

"Well," Umbridge said, with a gracious nod, "I appreciate your dedication. I, too, have had to work with limited resources. The burden of leadership is heavy, isn't it?" She gave a faux-sympathetic smile. "But we do the best we can."

With that, she folded her hands neatly in front of her and sat up straighter, attempting an air of command. The effort might have worked better if her chair didn't squeak awkwardly beneath her.

"Now, I called this meeting for a reason, and I won't waste your time." Her voice took on a weighty tone, the kind she probably practiced in front of a mirror. "Thanks to your dutiful reports and my own diligent observations, I have made a difficult—but necessary—decision regarding the future of this school."

Pansy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Umbridge lived for these dramatic announcements.

"Effective immediately," she said, clearly savoring every word, "I will be removing three individuals from their positions as educators at Hogwarts. These individuals have demonstrated a flagrant disregard for the Ministry's Educational Decrees, and have failed to provide even the bare minimum level of competent instruction."

There was a pause as she let the moment settle, like she was delivering a death sentence.

"The first three to be dismissed are: Professor Cuthbert Binns, whose lectures are little more than ghostly droning; Professor Sybill Trelawney, whose 'predictions' have proven to be nothing more than theatrical nonsense; and—" she smiled then, a vicious sort of glee lighting her face "—Rubeus Hagrid."

Pansy didn't miss the way she lingered on that name.

It wasn't about his teaching style. It wasn't about his methods, his lesson plans, or even his effectiveness in the classroom.

It was personal.

"I will, of course, handle their dismissals discreetly," Umbridge trilled, her saccharine voice dripping with barely-concealed malice. "But rest assured, they shall be replaced promptly with properly vetted Ministry-appointed instructors. You've all done wonderfully, truly. I'm proud of the progress we're making together as we usher in a new era at Hogwarts."

She beamed as if expecting applause.

Around her, the members of the Inquisitorial Squad—each one wearing a false smile like a badge of honor—lifted their teacups with almost choreographed precision.

"To the Ministry," Umbridge said, raising her own delicate porcelain cup with a simpering smile.

"To the Ministry," they echoed solemnly.

To the Ministry indeed. The first place we're gonna tear down when all of this is said and done.

Bellatrix Lestrange awoke in a bed—an actual bed—for the first time in years.

The sensation was so alien that for a brief, disoriented moment, she thought she was dreaming. The soft give of the mattress beneath her back, the feather-stuffed duvet that draped over her like a gentle embrace, the weightless cloud of a pillow beneath her head—it was all too luxurious to be real.

She lay there, eyes still closed, just breathing. Clean, warm air filled her lungs. Her hair no longer felt like knotted rope clinging to her scalp, and her skin was free of grime for the first time since Azkaban.

The house-elves had done well. Pain still lingered in her abdomen, dull and insistent, but she didn't care. Not now.

Then she heard it.

"Bellatrix," said a voice she would recognize even in the deepest pit of madness. Smooth, sibilant. Familiar. "You've finally awakened."

Her heart stuttered. The voice—his voice—wrapped around her like silk soaked in poison. She sat up with a gasp, ignoring the sharp protest from her battered body, and turned her gaze toward the figure standing by her bedside.

There he was. Her Lord. Her glorious Lord.

Tall, deathly pale, robes flowing like smoke in the dim candlelight.

Alive. Returned. Real.

"You came," she whispered, voice raw, trembling with adoration. "You came back. I knew you would. I never doubted it."

A low chuckle escaped him, smooth and decadent, like melted chocolate sliding over her tongue. It sent a shudder through her, pleasure and reverence mixing in her veins.

"My dear Bella," he murmured, stepping closer. "It is… wonderful to see you again. I have missed you."

The words struck her like a spell. Her breath caught, her eyes welled with tears.

He had missed her.

"And I you, my Lord," she choked out, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. "So much. Every moment in that wretched place, I dreamed of your return."

He inclined his head slightly, and for a fleeting moment, his expression softened. "Thank you, Bella. Your loyalty is a balm in a world of betrayal."

They let the silence stretch between them, not awkward but intimate. She drank in the moment, basking in the presence she had yearned for more deeply than breath itself.

Then, he spoke again.

"Bella," he said, his tone growing thoughtful. "I have asked many things of you in the past. Sacrifices. Pain. Devotion. And I am afraid… I must ask for another favor. So soon after your incarceration."

"You needn't ask, my Lord," she replied immediately, her voice firm despite the rasp. "Command me. I will obey. Gladly."

A smile touched his lips—thin, elegant, almost tender. But there was something darker in it this time. Something twisted at the edges.

"Oh, Bella," he said softly. "You have no idea how deeply your words please me."

He stepped around the bed, his hands clasped behind his back. His voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper, though it filled the room like thunder.

"I have a plan. You will infiltrate the Ministry of Magic soon. Quietly. Precisely. And while you do that… I will create a distraction."

Her brow furrowed. "A distraction, my Lord?"

The smile grew. And this time, it was not beautiful. It was terrible.

"I am going to orchestrate the most devastating act of terror that both Wizarding and Muggle Britain has seen in over a century," he said, his voice tinged with wicked delight. "While they scream and panic and bleed, you, my faithful Bellatrix, will retrieve the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries."

Bellatrix's heart raced, her breath hitching. Violence. Chaos. Fear. A gift from her Lord, wrapped in fire and screams.

She smiled back at him, her eyes alight with madness and devotion.

"It will be my honor."