Chapter 145: The Fall of the Pink Toad
Filch arrived at Umbridge's side like a man walking into a war zone, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping. The corridor was a maelstrom of colour and sound—dragons of emerald fire swooping between floating candles, rockets screaming past at head height, wheels of spinning light ricocheting off walls and ceilings.
"What—what is this?" Filch stammered.
"Don't just stand there, you idiot! Do something!" Umbridge shrieked, her wand waving wildly. A jet of red light shot from its tip, striking a low-flying rocket. Instead of extinguishing it, the spell caused the rocket to detonate prematurely, the explosion rattling windows and sending a shower of sparks directly onto a portrait of a sleeping wizard. The wizard yelped and fled to the next frame, his robes smoking.
"FILCH!"
But Filch, for all his eagerness to please, was a Squib. He grabbed a broom from a nearby niche and began swinging it wildly at passing fireworks, managing only to set the broom itself ablaze within seconds. He dropped it with a yelp, stamping on the smouldering remains.
Students poured from every doorway, laughing, shouting, chasing the fireworks with delighted abandon. The oppressive grey that had settled over Hogwarts since Umbridge's ascension had vanished, replaced by a riot of colour and joy.
"Get back to your classrooms!" Umbridge screamed, but no one listened. They were too busy celebrating, too busy revelling in the first moment of genuine happiness they'd felt in weeks.
At the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, Ron watched the chaos unfold through the open doors, his expression a mixture of pride and worry. "Mum's going to kill them. Literally kill them. I'll be an only child."
Harry laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "They're heroes, Ron. Look at everyone. Look at—" He gestured at the corridor, where a group of Ravenclaws were attempting to catch a spinning firework with a bedsheet. "No one's been this happy since... since ever."
Hermione spotted Elian standing near the entrance to the Great Hall, watching the chaos with an expression of quiet amusement. She made her way to him, weaving through students and dodging low-flying sparks.
"Fred and George?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Elian nodded. "They wanted to make an exit." A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "I'd say they succeeded."
Hermione laughed—a bright, free sound that seemed to surprise even her. "It's wonderful. Look at everyone. Look at her." She nodded toward Umbridge, who was now chasing a particularly aggressive firework dragon down the corridor, her wand waving uselessly.
The dragon, as if sensing its pursuer, turned and faced Umbridge directly. It was magnificent—ten feet of swirling emerald flame, with wings that trailed gold and eyes like burning coals. It opened its mouth and roared, a sound like cracking thunder.
Umbridge screamed and ran.
The dragon gave chase.
It followed her through corridors, up staircases, past portraits that cheered its every pass. It cornered her in an alcove, opened its jaws wide, and swallowed her—not literally, but close enough. The explosion that followed left Umbridge sprawled on the floor, her robes smoking, her hair a tangled mess, her face blackened with soot.
Students howled with laughter. Even some of the professors—those who'd gathered to watch the spectacle—had to hide their smiles behind their hands.
The afternoon became a blur of chaos.
Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom was invaded by a flock of firework phoenixes. She stood at her desk, watching them wheel and dive with an expression of studied neutrality.
"Oh dear," she said mildly, turning to her class. "Would someone be so kind as to fetch the Headmistress? It seems we have a situation that requires her... unique expertise."
She didn't raise her wand. She didn't attempt to banish the fireworks. She simply waited, a tiny smile flickering at the corner of her mouth.
Similar scenes played out across the castle. Professor Flitwick's Charms classroom. Professor Sprout's Greenhouses. Even Professor Snape's dungeons, though his fireworks were quickly extinguished with a single, irritated wave of his wand—but not before they'd managed to dye his robes a particularly vibrant shade of pink.
Students were dispatched to find Umbridge, to summon her to deal with each new outbreak. And Umbridge, poor, doomed Umbridge, ran from one disaster to the next, her wand waving, her voice growing hoarser, her dignity crumbling with every passing hour.
By the time the final bell rang, she was a wreck. Her perfect pink cardigan was scorched and torn. Her hair stood out in wild directions. Her face was smeared with soot and sweat. She limped toward her office, dreaming only of a hot bath and a change of clothes and perhaps a small glass of something strong.
It was over. Finally, mercifully over.
And then—
WHOOSH.
Two broomsticks shot past her head, so close she felt the wind of their passing. Fred and George Weasley, still laughing, still grinning, still trailing fireworks behind them.
"Miss us?" Fred called.
"Didn't think so!" George added.
They circled back, swooping low over the crowd of students that had gathered to witness the finale. More fireworks—bigger, brighter, louder—rained down from their brooms. Dragons and phoenixes and great purple bats filled the air once more.
"For Diagon Alley!" Fred shouted.
"For Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes!" George echoed.
"And for every student who ever wanted to tell the pink toad exactly where she could stick her Educational Decrees!"
The students roared. They cheered. They threw their hats in the air.
Umbridge's wand slipped from her fingers. It clattered to the stone floor, and she made no move to pick it up. She simply stared, hollow-eyed, at the two figures disappearing into the distance, at the massive W-shaped firework blooming against the twilight sky, at the words that hung in the air long after the twins had gone:
WEASLEYS' WIZARD WHEEZES
DIAGON ALLEY
FOR A BRIGHTER, FUNNIER FUTURE
The fireworks continued for another hour. No one tried to stop them. No one wanted to.
And in the wreckage of her office—where two confiscated broomsticks had broken free and smashed through her door, where her precious kitten plates lay shattered on the floor, where the portrait of Fudge (newly installed) stared at her with something like pity—Dolores Umbridge sat alone, her head in her hands, and wept.
She had won. She was Headmistress. She had driven out Dumbledore.
But as the laughter of students echoed through the corridors, as the last fireworks faded into the night, she understood a terrible truth:
She had lost. Completely. Utterly. Forever.
The Weasley twins had given Hogwarts back its soul. And no decree, no punishment, no amount of pink cardigans could ever take that away.
(End of Chapter)
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