Sunday dawned over Hogwarts Castle beneath a pale light that slipped through the tall arched windows and stretched across the stone corridors in long, silent beams. The castle, though never truly still, carried a different kind of energy that morning—one filled with anticipation rather than routine. It was Hogsmeade day, and that alone was enough to stir excitement in nearly every student within those ancient walls.
For them, it meant escape. A few precious hours away from rules, lessons, and watchful eyes. Laughter would soon fill the narrow streets of the village, butterbeer would flow, and worries would be forgotten—if only temporarily.
But for Dolores Umbridge, the morning held a very different meaning.
She woke earlier than usual, her eyes opening slowly as though she were savoring the moment before it fully began. For a few seconds, she remained perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling of her quarters. Then, almost gradually, a smile spread across her face. It was the kind of smile that came from plans unfolding exactly as intended.
"Oh, today will be productive," she murmured softly, her voice carrying a note of quiet delight.
The past three days had exceeded even her own expectations. She had entered Hogwarts with a purpose, and she had wasted no time in asserting it. Hesitation had never suited her; control required decisiveness, and she had acted accordingly. Rules had been introduced swiftly, each one carefully crafted to tighten her grip over the school without appearing overtly oppressive. Restrictions layered upon restrictions, all justified under the guise of order and discipline.
Her title—High Inquisitor—was no longer a mere formality printed on parchment. It had become something she could wield. Authority had taken shape in her hands, and she had every intention of using it fully.
She had made her presence impossible to ignore. Classrooms had become her domain, her stage. She entered without warning, interrupting lessons mid-flow, her soft, deliberate footsteps enough to silence even the most confident professors. Corrections were delivered publicly, often in the middle of lectures, her tone polite yet unmistakably condescending. It was not loud defiance that unsettled them, but the quiet certainty behind her words.
Fear, she knew, did not always need to be shouted.
The professors had grown cautious. Their words were measured, their movements deliberate. Even Severus Snape, a man known for his sharp tongue and unyielding demeanor, had chosen not to openly oppose her. His silence spoke volume because he understood the cost of defiance, and for now, he chose restraint.
The students, however, were far simpler to manage.
A cutting remark here, a carefully placed threat there, and always that sweet, smiling expression that suggested consequences far worse than anything she needed to say aloud. Most of them bent quickly under the pressure. They always did.
Except for a few.
Her smile faltered, though only slightly, as a single name surfaced in her thoughts.
"Miss Potter."
Rose Potter had proven… problematic.
Not because she was disruptive or defiant, but because she was not. Umbridge had attempted, on multiple occasions, to provoke her. The methods had been varied, carefully designed to draw out a reaction.
"Miss Potter, are you suggesting the Ministry is incompetent?"
Silence.
"Miss Potter, surely you don't believe those… rumors about a Dark Lord?"
Silence.
"Miss Potter, I do hope you're not encouraging panic among your fellow students."
Still nothing.
The girl had remained perfectly composed, offering no argument, no visible emotion, nothing for Umbridge to seize upon. It was not ignorance or fear that drove that silence—it was control of her own mind.
Umbridge's fingers tapped sharply against her bedside table as her expression tightened slightly. "She's learning," she muttered, her voice losing its sugary tone.
She knew exactly where that discipline came from.
"Helios Black."
Even in his absence, his influence lingered. It showed in the way Rose carried herself, in the steady calm of her gaze, in the refusal to be baited. It was not natural for a girl her age. It had been taught.
Umbridge's lips curled faintly, though the smile quickly returned. "No matter."
If Rose Potter would not react, then she would find another way. There were always other methods, other angles to exploit.
Her thoughts shifted smoothly to Hermione Granger. Bright, sharp, and usually incapable of remaining silent when she believed herself to be correct. Umbridge had tested her as well, weaving subtle insults into her lessons, questioning her intelligence under the guise of academic scrutiny.
But Hermione, too, had remained silent.
She endured it.
Refused to respond.
"They are learning restraint," Umbridge said softly, though there was a hint of displeasure beneath her words.
It complicated matters, but it did not ruin them.
Because there was always someone who would react.
Her expression brightened slightly as she considered the final name.
"Ron Weasley."
Now there was a boy she understood perfectly. Emotional, impulsive, and painfully easy to provoke. It had taken very little effort—just a few well-placed insults, a few pointed remarks about his family—and he had done exactly what she expected.
He had lost control.
Now he was in detention, scrubbing bathrooms by hand, his punishment as humiliating as it was exhausting. The image brought a quiet sense of satisfaction to her.
"Yes," she murmured. "That one will break first."
Rising from her bed, she smoothed her robes with practiced precision, her expression settling back into its usual pleasant mask. Everything was progressing exactly as it should. Step by step, she was dismantling Dumbledore's control over the school.
The professors felt it, even if they refused to acknowledge it openly.
Soon, everyone would.
"And now…" she said quietly as she moved toward the mirror, adjusting her collar with care. Her reflection stared back at her, composed and perfectly controlled.
"Today."
Today mattered.
Because today, the students would leave the castle. Supervision would loosen, movement would increase, and with that came opportunity. Disorder, even in small amounts, always led to mistakes.
And mistakes could be used.
She reached for a parchment resting neatly on her desk and scanned it briefly. It was a list—names of students permitted to visit Hogsmeade. Her finger traced down the page until it stopped.
Rose Potter.
Umbridge's smile sharpened, something colder settling beneath it.
"Oh, no," she said softly.
She set the parchment down with deliberate care. "You won't be going anywhere today."
Permission did not matter.
Rules did not matter.
What mattered was control.
And control, to be effective, had to be seen.
She would deny the girl entry to Hogsmeade in front of the other students. It would not matter that Rose had permission. It would not matter what the rules stated.
What mattered was the message.
No one was beyond her authority.
Not even the so-called Girl Who Lived.
And then—
The fireplace flared.
A sudden burst of vivid green flames surged upward, crackling sharply as they filled the room with unnatural light. The quiet composure of the space fractured instantly, and Umbridge turned with a sharp, irritated motion, her smile vanishing for the briefest moment.
Interruptions were unacceptable.
Especially today.
From within the swirling flames, a face began to form, features sharpening rapidly until they became unmistakable.
Cornelius Fudge.
The Minister for Magic did not look as he usually did when addressing her. His face was flushed, his expression tight, and his eyes burned with something far less controlled.
He was furious.
"Dolores," he snapped, his voice carrying through the flames with sharp intensity. "I need to see you. Now."
Umbridge blinked once, the moment of surprise already slipping behind a carefully restored composure. When she spoke, her voice was smooth again, controlled, each word placed with deliberate care.
"Minister, I was just on my way to attend to some… pressing matters at Hogwarts. I can—"
"I don't care."
The interruption was immediate, cutting through her words without hesitation. Fudge leaned closer into the fire, his face enlarging within the emerald glow until it dominated her vision.
"I want you here. Immediately."
Her smile faltered again—just a fraction, barely noticeable, but real.
"Minister, if you would allow me to finish—"
"I said now, Dolores!"
The flames roared higher with the force of his anger, casting flickering shadows across the walls. His voice dropped then, quieter, but no less dangerous.
"Whatever you have planned… do it later." His gaze hardened. "This cannot wait."
Silence followed.
It settled heavily in the room, thick and uncomfortable, pressing against the edges of Umbridge's carefully maintained control.
She straightened slowly, her posture stiffening as her mind raced.
Fudge was angry.
That much was undeniable.
And when Cornelius Fudge was angry, he was not predictable. His temper had a way of overriding caution, of pushing him toward decisions that could not easily be undone.
More importantly—
He was her foundation.
Everything she had gained within the Ministry and Hogwarts, every ounce of authority she now wielded, had been granted—directly or indirectly—by him. Her title, her power, her ability to reshape the school in accordance with Ministry interests… all of it traced back to his support.
And power, once tasted, was not something she intended to relinquish.
"…Of course, Minister," she said at last, inclining her head slightly. Her voice softened once more, slipping easily back into obedience. "I will come at once."
The flames dimmed.
Fudge's face dissolved into nothingness.
Umbridge remained where she stood for a moment longer, her hands tightening faintly at her sides. The interruption lingered, sour and unwelcome.
Her plans—
Disrupted.
Her smile returned, but it was no longer the same. It had sharpened, thinned into something colder, more brittle.
"Very well…" she murmured quietly.
Without another pause, she turned and swept out of her quarters.
The corridors of Hogwarts were already beginning to stir as she moved through them. Students emerged from dormitories in small clusters, their voices filled with excitement, laughter echoing off the high stone walls. The prospect of Hogsmeade hung in the air, lightening moods, loosening discipline.
Umbridge ignored them entirely.
Her heels struck the stone floor in sharp, rhythmic clicks, her pace did not slow, her gaze did not wander. The students might as well have been invisible.
There was only one destination that mattered now.
The Headmaster's office.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she ascended the corridors, irritation flickering beneath her composed exterior.
It was an inconvenience she had never grown accustomed to.
Every fireplace within Hogwarts was connected to the Floo Network, but only internally. Communication and travel were restricted within the castle itself. To leave the grounds—to reach the Ministry—required access to a private connection.
And that connection belonged to one person.
Albus Dumbledore.
The thought alone caused her expression to tighten almost imperceptibly.
Every time she needed to leave, she was forced to rely on him. Forced to step into his domain, to use what was his.
A safeguard, no doubt. Installed by some cautious predecessor who believed such limitations necessary.
"Inconvenient," she muttered under her breath.
But not permanent.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as the thought formed.
"That will change…"
If she intended to reshape Hogwarts fully—if she intended to bring it entirely under Ministry authority—then she would need more than titles and decrees.
She would need everything.
Including that office.
She reached the stone gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase and did not hesitate.
She already knew the password.
"Fizzing Whizzbee."
The statue sprang aside at once, revealing the concealed entrance. Without pause, Umbridge stepped onto the moving staircase, allowing it to carry her upward. Her expression had settled once again into perfect composure, every trace of irritation buried beneath that practiced calm.
The door to the Headmaster's office opened before she had the chance to knock.
Albus Dumbledore stood within, framed by the soft light of the room. His robes, a deep shade of violet, fell neatly about him, his posture relaxed yet unmistakably aware. There was an air of readiness about him, as though he, too, had been on the verge of departure.
Perhaps to Hogsmeade.
Perhaps elsewhere.
He inclined his head slightly.
"Dolores."
His tone was measured, carrying that familiar gentleness that never quite concealed the sharpness beneath.
"Headmaster," she replied, her voice clipped, wasting no time on pleasantries.
"I need to go to the Ministry. Immediately."
Dumbledore studied her for a brief moment, his blue eyes clear behind his half-moon spectacles. There was no surprise in his expression.
"I see," he said after a pause. "Urgent, I assume."
"Very."
He gestured lightly toward the fireplace, his movement calm and unhurried.
"By all means."
Umbridge did not thank him.
She stepped forward, reaching for the jar of Floo powder without asking permission, her fingers dipping into it with practiced familiarity. With a swift motion, she cast the powder into the fire.
The flames leapt instantly, turning a vivid emerald green.
"Minister's Office, Ministry of Magic."
The fire roared upward, enveloping her in a whirl of light and motion.
And in the next moment—
She was gone.
Dolores Umbridge stepped forward out of the hearth, her footing momentarily unsteady from the abrupt transition. For the briefest instant, she faltered.
Then, just as quickly, she recovered.
Her spine straightened. Her robes were smoothed with practiced precision. Her expression settled back into its usual composed, as though nothing had disturbed her at all.
Only then did she properly take in her surroundings.
The Minister's office was not empty.
Standing near Cornelius Fudge's desk was Lucius Malfoy, his presence as striking as ever. Tall, immaculately dressed, and carrying that quiet, aristocratic authority that seemed to cling to him like a second skin, he looked entirely at ease. His pale eyes flicked toward Umbridge as she entered, assessing her in a single, measured glance before he inclined his head slightly.
"Dolores."
"Lord Malfoy," she replied smoothly, returning the greeting with polite civility.
Beside him stood another man—someone she did not recognize. He was equally well-dressed, though less ostentatious, his posture straight, his expression unreadable. He said nothing, merely observing, his silence making his presence all the more unsettling.
All three men turned their attention toward her.
And in that moment, Umbridge felt it.
The air in the room carried a tension that did not belong to ordinary political discourse. It was heavier, sharper—something closer to fear.
Her gaze shifted to Cornelius Fudge.
And she saw it clearly.
He was shaken.
Lucius Malfoy stood without another word, he turned smoothly, as though whatever business had brought him here had already reached its conclusion.
"I believe we have said all that needs to be said, Minister," he said calmly.
Fudge nodded too quickly, almost eagerly. "Yes—yes, quite."
Lucius gave Umbridge one final glance before moving toward the door. The unknown man followed him in silence, his footsteps soft against the polished floor.
The door closed behind them.
And with it, the room fell into a suffocating quiet.
Umbridge stepped forward, her movements controlled, deliberate. "What happened, Minister?" she asked, her voice calm but edged with quiet intent.
Fudge did not answer immediately. He turned away from her, running a hand through his hair as he began to pace. His movements were restless, lacking the composure he so often attempted to project.
"Everything is falling apart…" he muttered under his breath.
"Minister?" Umbridge's tone sharpened slightly, pressing for clarity.
He stopped abruptly and turned to face her. His face was pale, his eyes wide with something dangerously close to panic.
"Greengrass."
Umbridge blinked once. "…Lord Greengrass?"
"Yes!" Fudge snapped, the sudden burst of energy almost desperate. "He filed a motion yesterday."
There was a pause, heavy with implication.
"He's demanding the freedom of a death eater."
Umbridge frowned slightly, her mind already beginning to move. "For whom?"
Fudge stared at her, as though the answer should have been obvious.
"For Sirius Black."
Umbridge's eyes narrowed. "…On what grounds?"
Fudge let out a harsh breath, his composure unraveling further. "He came to know that Sirius Black was never given a trial."
Silence stretched between them.
"He says the imprisonment was unlawful," Fudge continued, his voice beginning to tremble. "He's citing Wizengamot procedure—custodial law—everything."
Umbridge's expression hardened, her fingers curling slightly at her sides.
"He's arguing that if Black was never tried—" Fudge swallowed. "—then his imprisonment in Azkaban was illegal."
"And if that's the case…" Fudge's voice dropped to a whisper. "Then escaping Azkaban isn't a crime."
Umbridge went completely still.
The implications unfolded rapidly in her mind, each one worse than the last.
"He's pushing for immediate release," Fudge said, his voice brittle now. "And a public apology."
A public apology.
To Sirius Black.
The thought itself was almost absurd—and yet, under the circumstances, it was not impossible.
"That… is a bold claim," Umbridge said slowly, choosing her words with care. "But why are you so concerned, Minister?" She tilted her head slightly, her tone almost curious. "This was not done under your administration."
Fudge froze.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
"Not my administration?" he repeated, staring at her with wide, almost desperate eyes.
"I was there."
Umbridge's expression shifted, though only slightly.
"I was part of the team that apprehended him," Fudge continued, his voice tightening. "I was the lead Obliviator."
That changed everything.
"And?" Umbridge pressed carefully, sensing the shift beneath his words.
Fudge's hands began to tremble. "I… removed the witnesses."
Silence fell instantly.
"The Muggle witnesses," he clarified, swallowing hard. "I erased their memories."
Umbridge stared at him, her mind processing the implications with cold precision. "…Why?"
"Because I was quite panicked." Fudge snapped, his voice rising sharply.
His breathing quickened, his composure slipping further.
"And then?" she prompted.
"We closed the case."
The words fell like a verdict.
"He would have walked free!"
Understanding settled in, slow and heavy.
"He was a pure-blood," Fudge continued, his tone almost pleading now.
"You know how it works."
She did.
Without evidence, without witnesses, a case like that would collapse before it even began.
"We made it look like he had a trial."
Umbridge's fingers tightened.
"So there wasn't one," she said, her voice low.
Fudge shook his head.
"No."
Silence filled the office once more.
Twelve years in Azkaban—
Without a trial.
"And now…" Fudge whispered, his voice breaking. "If this comes out—"
He looked at her, desperation plain in his eyes.
"I'm finished."
More than that.
"I'll be imprisoned."
Because this was no minor political error. It was unlawful imprisonment, abuse of authority, the fabrication of legal process on a scale that could not be ignored.
And now, Sirius Black was not merely a fugitive.
He was a wronged pure-blood lord.
Which made everything far worse.
"Greengrass is pushing this through the Wizengamot," Fudge continued. "He wants it public. He wants a ruling."
Umbridge's mind was already moving, faster now, calculating possibilities, outcomes, risks.
"And if the Wizengamot agrees…" she said.
Fudge let out another hollow laugh. "Then Sirius Black walks free."
"And I go to Azkaban."
The silence that followed was heavy, unavoidable.
Author's Note:
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