"Students are prohibited from wearing untidy school uniforms during class hours."
"Students are prohibited from decorating, altering the cut, or styling the standard school uniform."
"Students are prohibited from modifying the list of clothing items that make up the school uniform."
"Students are prohibited at any time, day or night, from displaying relationships not established by the current rules of Hogwarts and the directives of the Ministry of Magic."
And the list of such "prohibitions" kept growing and growing. Umbridge personally ensured that everything was strictly enforced. During the first half of October, she went about this with great enthusiasm—separating amorous couples with a wave of her wand, whether they were kissing in the corridor or even just holding hands. Or, for instance, using household charms to instantly correct a student's untidy uniform—tucking in shirts, buttoning top buttons, and neatly tightening ties.
But the "Inquisitor" quickly grew tired of this and started issuing fines and docking points instead. Toward the end of October, an announcement appeared declaring the formation of the Hogwarts Inquisitorial Squad. According to the notice, those who chose to join this wonderful organization under Umbridge's leadership would be awarded extra points. But here was the catch—Umbridge had managed to piss off absolutely everyone, including the Slytherins, by simply shutting down the Dueling Club. True, she hadn't closed that wonderful place personally, but she had forced Flitwick's hand with her decrees. In short, she had zero support within Hogwarts, just as I had asked of many, and this infuriated her. It annoyed her, made her nervous and angry—and it was becoming more obvious by the day in her words and actions.
As for the atmosphere at Hogwarts... Well, what can I say? It was tense, and the tension was mounting—the students were simply not ready to accept such strict discipline and rules, even if not everyone took advantage of various liberties. For example, not everyone loved practical classes—there are always exceptions—but even those exceptions were outraged by their absence. It was a universal sentiment.
Our newly formed club met once or twice a week, and things were going pretty well there. The Weasleys were actively promoting their "Strike" products—walking around the club and, according to Hermione, the Gryffindor common room, lugging boxes and chests back and forth, offering various sweets with a wide array of effects. Naturally, each effect came with a corresponding antidote, and they certainly weren't giving them away for free. For example, Nosebleed Nougats that didn't actually spill real blood, various Puking Pastilles, Swelling Sweets, Ton-Tongue Toffees, Fever Fudge, and other nonsense that allowed one to skip a class or two for whatever reason. These items were popular not only among the Gryffindors, although they made up the bulk of the buyers—that spirit of blatant rebellion, of going "all out," was uniquely theirs. The rest were simply waiting for the scales of Umbridge's transgressions to tip... Whatever was on the other side of the scale, it was going to tip eventually.
School life outside the common rooms had become completely dreary—students pretended to submit, to comply, and followed the decrees, all while growing increasingly angrier. But thanks to this coordinated behavior model, absolutely nothing overt was happening around us. However, my spiders, scattered throughout the castle, allowed me to know who was gathering, in what numbers, where and when, how they were trying to secure their spots for small groups from Umbridge's intrusion, and what they were up to. Nothing reprehensible—mostly, students were doing what they were forbidden to do, or pursuing their club hobbies that hadn't passed the pink toad's "certification."
Anyway, the sessions of our Club of Applied Magic were quite interesting to observe from the sidelines. What I had noticed during the first meeting turned out to be neither a trick nor an illusion—the students gathered here had an incredibly meager understanding of the combat, or quasi-combat, application of magic. But that wasn't really an indicator of anything. I suspect the reason is quite banal: those who do have an understanding of such magic, who practice a bit of DADA and similar disciplines, simply have no need to attend a club like this. Take me, Draco, Daphne, and even Potter himself, for example. Potter, it seems, has gotten pretty good at this discipline for a student over the past year, while he was trying to keep tabs on Karkaroff, simultaneously studying magic for that purpose, including how to protect his own skin. However, Ron had been practicing with him, if their words were to be believed, but things weren't going too well for him.
By November, two fast-progressing candidates had emerged in our CAM club. Actually, make that three. Hermione, Ginny, and the strange blonde girl, Luna Lovegood. Regarding the latter, it's worth noting right away that she excels specifically at defensive magic, but anything that involves attacking, counterattacking, or interacting with other wizards in a harmful way—that's not her forte.
Ginny Weasley—a fiery redhead who, this year, is rapidly growing into a young woman rather than a strange, androgynous creature in a skirt with a pretty face. As one might easily guess from the common trait shared by all Weasleys—quick to act, quick-tempered, and quick to forgive, albeit with a touch of vindictiveness—she effortlessly and casually destroyed everything. The Reductor Curse, learned by the club members, quickly became her favorite spell, and her execution of it was the strongest among all of us, except for Draco, Daphne, and myself, of course. But we weren't showing our maximum potential, always just practicing whatever Potter suggested. Why?
"Don't you want to show off a little?" Malfoy asked once, as we stood by one of the bookcases reading some interesting literature during a club meeting. Daphne was also nearby, studying the nuances of the combat application of potions from books—from direct application as a liquid to something resembling a grenade.
"Why?" I replied, not looking up from my reading, mentally compiling information from the book with the hodgepodge of counter-curses Snape had given me. "Just to brag? Like, 'Look what I can do, and you all suck'?"
"Why not?" Malfoy shrugged with a slight smirk.
"Tell me," Daphne looked up from her reading, glancing at Draco. "Why are you studying all this combat magic? I recall that before Hector started wiping the floor with you on the dueling platform time and again, you didn't really think about it much."
Malfoy clearly had no desire to answer, and I took the opportunity to observe the bunch of students practicing the safe-for-everyone Disarming Charm and Protego in pairs—it was time for that specific training, not the rampant learning of new spells that Hermione preferred.
"Naturally, to show the superiority of purebloods."
"Well, at least some things never change," I smiled. "That's why you're surprised I'm not trying to assert my dominance over people who literally just started intensely studying defensive and offensive magic a month ago, right?"
"I don't get it. Why not show that superiority?"
"There's no point. I didn't study this kind of magic to be superior..."
"Yet you constantly teased me about my lack of skills," Malfoy continued to smirk, though a hint of annoyance showed in his eyes.
"That was a game with a purpose. Here, there would be no purpose. First of all, they're doing everything right so far."
"That's obvious."
"Don't interrupt; think about it. They—all these kids, Potter, Weasley, and even my sister—set a goal for themselves: to learn how to defend themselves, and to do it in the shortest time possible. What do you think is the best way to achieve that?"
"Hard to say right off the bat," Malfoy pondered, or at least pretended to.
"I'll tell you—learn basic spells with the broadest possible range of application, and drill them until they become reflex, with just a touch of underlying understanding. Take Hermione, for example..."
We looked at my sister, who was actively discussing something with a group of girls, demonstrating wand movements.
"She knows a whole bunch of different spells and can cast them. That's great for school, for demonstrations, for exams. But is it good for a fight? When you only have fractions of a second? What's more important—knowing a ton of defensive spells and, when attacked, first having to figure out what's coming at you, then selecting the best spell to block it?"
"Sounds doubtful, honestly. My tutors insisted I practice the same spell a couple of hundred times while they threw all sorts of hexes at me as a stimulus," Draco shuddered slightly.
"And they were right. A non-verbal, wandless spell takes a second at most to reach its target. You can't always tell what's flying at you just by its color and shape. Trying to analyze it and pick the right counter is practically a guaranteed ticket to the grave. Or wherever your enemy wants to put you. You need honed reflexes, so that at the mere hint of a threat, at the very beginning of a spell's formation, you're already throwing up a Protego in one form or another. In most cases, it'll save you, and if the enemy truly wants you dead, they'll just use an unblockable curse anyway. Like the Killing Curse."
"So you think it's right that they just drill one spell over and over, only occasionally mixing it up?"
"Yes. A fight is not a duel. A duel is a battle of wits. A fight is a battle of training, skills, and reflexes. The more spells you just know, the worse off you are in a fight—you start hesitating, choosing. But you shouldn't swing too far the other way either—only knowing one or two drilled spells won't be effective either."
"But you've used a multitude of spells, all very different," he said, surprised by the apparent contradiction between my words and my actions. Daphne simply shook her head, already knowing the answer.
"I can just think very fast. While you're winding up, I can analyze the possible spells you might attack with, come up with a plan for dinner, imagine how the evening in the common room will go, calculate a couple of equations in my head, sketch out a plan for tomorrow, and when the spell finally leaves your wand, completely analyze it, compare it with the information I know, select the necessary defense, and cast it."
"Sigh," Malfoy let out an exaggeratedly sad sigh. "And here I thought your secret, Granger, was countless secret training sessions."
"They play a role too," I smiled. "Not secret, quite open actually, as I said, an hour and a half to two hours a day. But the 'root of the evil' is my brain. Simply put, I don't need to drill spells into my head until they become reflexes. No matter how a situation unfolds, I will almost always have time to understand it and take the necessary measures."
"You're a terrifying enemy, Hector," Daphne smiled. "In a direct confrontation, it's simply impossible to 'overpower' you."
"Only with knowledge. By the way, how are things among the families?"
"Still unclear," the girl shook her head, returning to her book. "Some families have already given the 'go-ahead' through their children. Some are keeping quiet."
"At least," Draco also returned to his reading, "there's no one supporting Umbridge in her endeavors."
And that was a good thing.
The day before the first Quidditch match of the year—a crucial one for Gryffindor and Slytherin, being the eternal, irreconcilable rivals—I received word of the full backing of at least some influential families. Not backing for me, but for a potential case against Umbridge, and therefore against Fudge. Malfoy, as he had suggested, had managed to use his father's connections to get the press involved, specifically Skeeter. Driven by the general parental discontent, that woman was ready to interview Amelia Bones directly about the case and publish the article exactly on the day of the hearing. Furthermore, the management of the Prophet was not opposed—a small "donation" had already found its way there.
Against the backdrop of this information, I called an emergency meeting of the prefects in the empty classroom, which took place on Friday evening right after dinner.
Once again, just like the first time, we stood in an absolutely empty classroom, looking at each other.
"So, gentlemen," I smiled, looking around at everyone present, and even Ron Weasley seemed to have settled into his role as a prefect and had stopped slacking off, at least partially. "I've gathered you all to say that things are finally moving forward."
"Care to elaborate? If it's not too much trouble," Hermione tiredly massaged her temple with a finger.
"The case against Umbridge, which is ready to land on the Wizengamot's desk at any moment, has the full support of significant wizards. You could say that three-quarters of the Wizengamot will vote the right way, and those who prefer to pressure politicians through other means are already lined up outside the Minister's door."
"I don't like this," Hermione shook her head disapprovingly, eliciting smirks from Draco and Pansy.
"I really couldn't care less about her," Malfoy waved it off. "Granger was right—she's more trouble than she's worth. If it weren't for our school-wide agreement, I might have even joined her little Morality Patrol..."
"Inquisitorial Squad," Padma Patil corrected the Slytherin prefect.
"Makes no difference."
"So what now?" Ron didn't quite understand, or maybe he just didn't want to.
"Now..." I paused dramatically. "Now we need the consent of Umbridge's victims to testify under Veritaserum to increase the validity of their claims."
"That won't be easy," Pansy shook her head. "People fear Veritaserum for a reason. A wizard under its influence will answer any question asked. Under certain circumstances, it can lead to brain damage that's difficult to treat. Or psychological disorders."
"Which is why Amelia Bones personally will be compiling the list of questions," I nodded, as Susan had already resolved this issue, almost in passing. "And the testimonies will be given 'behind closed doors,' so to speak."
"Will the Headmaster allow that?" Goldstein was intrigued by a question surprisingly uncharacteristic of his house.
"It can all be done secretly. Folks," I looked at each person present. "Your task is to convince Umbridge's victims to testify under Veritaserum. How many such students has each house racked up?"
"Three for us," Malfoy crossed his arms. "All seventh-years."
"Three here too," Goldstein nodded. "Sixth and seventh years."
"We have four," Hannah seemed to be recalling, checking if she had mixed anything up, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Yes, four. A fourth-year, a sixth-year, and two seventh-years."
Everyone turned to Hermione—there was no hope for Ron. But specifically on this issue, when Hermione had nothing to say, Ron smiled.
"Six. Even here we beat everyone."
"Found something to be proud of," Pansy snorted.
"What?" Ron bristled. "These guys are true heroes—they voluntarily got themselves detentions with Umbridge just to get her to confess. So don't even start."
"Gryffindors got the most detentions," Malfoy openly mocked his redheaded colleague. "Wow, what a surprise?!"
"You're going to talk yourself into trouble, I swear," Ron hunched his shoulders, but quickly got a grip on himself. "Though, they probably won't agree to Veritaserum, that's true."
"Just ask them," I smiled. "'What, you chicken?'"
"We're not cowards!" Ron flared up, and then it hit him, a smile spreading across his face as he scratched his head. "Well, that's actually a pretty good idea, gotta admit."
The outcome of the meeting was that all the prefects agreed to talk to Umbridge's victims, and with that, we dispersed.
The conversation... was simple. It was enough to approach Herbert and his classmates and ask a simple question: "Will you testify under Veritaserum? Will your parents give the go-ahead?" The answer was full consent, albeit expressed in different ways.
And on Saturday morning, at breakfast, when the whole school was buzzing with anticipation for the upcoming match, and some players from the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams couldn't even swallow a bite due to the tension, a major event occurred.
The doors of the Great Hall burst open, revealing a procession of numerous wizards led by Amelia Bones—I had seen this lady in photos and once during the holidays when she picked up Susan from the Finch-Fletchleys'. A few wizards wore the scarlet robes of Aurors, but most were in civilian clothing. Among them, sticking out like a sore thumb despite perfectly matching the "average citizen" look, was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a business suit and a tightly wrapped gray trench coat, wearing an ordinary hat on his head. Looking at him, I pictured a sort of Inspector Gadget on steroids—it felt like if he flexed his muscles, his clothes would burst apart to a suspiciously familiar tune with Arabic nuances: "Ay-yai-yai-ya-a-ai!"
The arrival of such a procession naturally caught the attention of every student in the Great Hall, and some even stood up for a better look. The wizards purposefully made their way toward the staff table, and as soon as they approached, two Aurors in scarlet robes immediately arrested a bewildered Umbridge. Amelia Bones, hidden beneath privacy charms, explained the situation to a solemnly nodding Dumbledore. Interestingly, not a single professor even twitched to defend their "colleague," and Trelawney was actually sporting a bright smile. You could read the Divination professor's lips: "I told you so, you pink bitch."
Casting a Silencing Charm on Umbridge, the Aurors led the sluggishly but fiercely resisting woman away, and a few minutes later, Dumbledore stood up.
"My dear students. Due to unforeseen circumstances, the Quidditch match is postponed until tomorrow," silence was his answer, but the Headmaster wasn't going to wait for the students to process what he'd said. "Those of you whom the esteemed Aurors and DMLE officers ask to come forward to give statements—please follow them. I assure you that you are in no danger, and both your Head of House and a relative, if possible, will be present during the questioning."
The Headmaster sat back down, the Aurors and DMLE officers headed toward the tables of each house, and the hall literally exploded in indignation mixed with confusion. Of course, some had guessed, but right now the kids' thoughts were on Quidditch and the fact that the match wouldn't be until tomorrow.
"Do you think," Justin leaned slightly towards me. "Anything will come of this?"
"We'll see, my friend. We'll see."
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