"You have got to be joking! Dolores Umbridge? Teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts? In our N.E.W.T. year?"
Eleanor Seymour stared at the Head Table in utter disbelief, her usually composed features frozen in horror as Professor Dumbledore introduced the newest addition to the staff. She looked every bit like an overgrown toad in a pink cardigan, with a bow perched on her head like a perky insult.
Over the summer, Eleanor had become far too familiar with the name Umbridge. Her mother, Astraea Fawley, had been increasingly jittery since the Triwizard Tournament had ended in tragedy. The flurry of owls Astraea sent had grown more frequent, more anxious. Occasionally, she would disappear for entire days—never saying where she had gone, always returning with a hardened glint in her eyes.
From whispered conversations half overheard, Eleanor had pieced together enough to know the Ministry was spiralling. Cornelius Fudge was burying his head in the sand, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that the Dark Lord had risen. Eleanor hadn't dared to tell her mother about Berenice's prophecy, though Astraea seemed to sense something was amiss. She had made several fruitless attempts to contact Sirius Black, but the owls had returned empty-handed.
Just before Eleanor had stepped aboard the Hogwarts Express, Astraea had pulled her into a fierce embrace.
"Please, Pleione," she whispered, using Eleanor's birth name. "Watch yourself. Be careful. I'm begging you."
"I'll try, Mother," Eleanor had murmured, though her stomach clenched with the memory of Berenice's vision and the role she might yet play.
On the train, Berenice had scribbled furiously into her enchanted notebook while Eleanor joined Adrian Pucey for a quiet game of Wizard's Chess. She knew better than to interrupt Berenice when she was in the throes of a Vision.
Now, in the Great Hall, Dolores Umbridge rose to her feet and cleared her throat with a little cough that sounded like a cat being sick.
"I thank you for your kind welcome, Headmaster Dumbledore," she simpered, in a voice that dripped with false sugar. "It is such a delight to return to Hogwarts and to see all your sweet, dear faces looking up at me."
Eleanor arched an eyebrow and shared a look with Adrian. Berenice rolled her eyes, though her hand stilled on the notebook.
"The Ministry of Magic has always held a deep interest in the education of young witches and wizards," Umbridge went on, voice sickly sweet. "These rare gifts must be properly nurtured, cultivated under firm guidance. Our ancient and noble traditions must not be diluted. We must preserve the purity of our magical heritage."
Eleanor's focus began to drift. Umbridge's voice had the hypnotic quality of someone explaining magical theory to a Flobberworm. She glanced over at the Gryffindor table, where George Weasley was entertaining a knot of classmates by balancing goblets on their heads with levitation charms.
It wasn't until Dumbledore led a polite smattering of applause that Eleanor returned her attention to the matter at hand.
"What did she actually say?" she whispered to Adrian.
"Exactly what I feared," he muttered darkly. "The Ministry's here to take control of Hogwarts. Umbridge is Fudge's creature, through and through. They want to oust Dumbledore."
"She won't succeed," Berenice murmured. "Not yet. But she's dangerous. We must tread carefully. Drawing her attention would be... unwise."
Unfortunately, that was exactly what Eleanor did on the first day of Defence Against the Dark Arts.
"What do you mean by 'sticking to the book,' Professor?" Eleanor asked, voice calm but challenging. "What about practical Defence? We need to be able to cast Concealment Charms for our N.E.W.T.s. How can we pass if we never practise?"
Umbridge's smile did not reach her eyes. "My dear child, are you questioning my expertise?"
Berenice tugged warningly at Eleanor's sleeve, but Eleanor could feel the heat rising in her ears. She was keenly aware of George Weasley's eyes on her.
"Yes, Professor. I am."
"Well then, Miss Seymour, congratulations. You've earned yourself a detention. Eight o'clock. My office."
Eleanor's eyes blazed. "Can't wait, Professor." And with that, she swept from the classroom.
She stormed up to the Owlery, fuming. Hands trembling, she pulled out parchment and quill, scrawling a letter to the one man who might understand.
"Please, Pegasus," she whispered to her owl as she tied the letter to his leg. "Find him. Please."
But Pegasus returned within the hour, the letter unopened, the seal unbroken.
Eleanor sank to the floor, crushed.
Even her real father didn't want her.
Her lower lip trembled. With shaking hands, she tore the letter into shreds. She trudged back to the dormitory and rifled through her trunk until she found the plastic bag tucked beneath her books—a relic from the Duke of Shrewsbury. 'To loosen up a little,' he'd once said.
She had a feeling she'd need it after a night with Umbridge.
Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor common room, George Weasley was finding it difficult to focus. He was meant to be recording symptoms for their Fainting Fancies trial, but his thoughts kept wandering back to their Defence class.
Eleanor Seymour—no, Eleanor Black. Or was it Pleione? Whatever her name, she had been magnificent. Fierce, unflinching. She'd stared down Umbridge like she was swatting a gnat.
But George had noticed the shadows under her eyes. Something wasn't right, despite whatWitch Weeklyhad said. That rag had recently gushed over Eleanor and Rosier's romantic getaway to Paris. Sirius had bought a copy, just to see her picture.
"George, focus," Fred hissed. "This dose is strong enough."
"It's unethical," Hermione huffed. "You can't test your dangerous sweets on innocent first-years!"
"We're paying them!" Fred said indignantly.
"Barely!" Hermione shot back.
"Relax, Hermione. Look—" George gave each of the woozy first-years the antidote sweet. One by one, they blinked awake.
"How do you feel, love?" he asked a brown-haired girl kindly.
"I think... fine?" she replied, a little dazed.
Before he could jot that down, Hermione snatched his bag of Fainting Fancies and his notes.
"If you keep this up, I'm writing to your mother," she warned. "You've been told." And with that, she stormed off.
Fred whistled. "She can't be serious."
"She's deadly serious," George sighed.
Even after showing their mother their detailed business plan, she remained adamantly against their dream of opening a joke shop. She still clung to the hope they'd pursue respectable Ministry careers, despite all arguments to the contrary.
They'd stopped trying to win her over with logic. Now, they had to show her. Prove it.
"Merlin help us," Fred muttered. "These Skiving Snackboxeshaveto work."
George nodded grimly. "Don't worry. I'll talk to Hermione. Tomorrow." He glanced toward the stairs Hermione had disappeared up. "Once she's stopped breathing fire."