The emergency meeting between Cornelius Fudge and Lucius Malfoy took place in the Minister's private office at half past eleven in the evening, when the Ministry of Magic was empty except for a skeleton crew of night security guards who'd been paid handsomely to develop sudden hearing problems and an urgent need to patrol the lower levels of the building.
Fudge paced behind his desk like a caged rhinoceros having an existential crisis about the nature of political survival, his bowler hat slightly askew and his usual pompous confidence replaced by the sweaty desperation of someone whose career was currently being consumed by systematic revelations of corruption and incompetence.
"This is a disaster, Lucius," Fudge said, his voice carrying the high-pitched panic of someone who could hear his political obituary being written in real time. "Complete bloody disaster. Rita Skeeter has destroyed my credibility, the Wizengamot is demanding investigations into everything I've done for the past decade, and apparently half my policies have been influenced by what they're calling 'systematic magical compulsion by private citizens with questionable ethics.'"
Lucius Malfoy sat in the chair across from the Minister's desk with the kind of aristocratic poise that suggested he'd been specifically bred to make other people feel inadequate about their posture, their fashion choices, and their general approach to existing in positions of authority. His platinum hair was arranged with supernatural precision despite the late hour, and his silver-topped walking stick rested against his knee with the casual elegance of someone who'd never doubted his ability to control any situation through superior breeding and adequate financial resources.
"Cornelius," Lucius said, his voice carrying the smooth authority of someone who'd spent years learning to make reasonable suggestions sound like pronouncements from on high, "surely you're overreacting to what amounts to sensationalist journalism designed to sell newspapers rather than address real issues. This will blow over once people realize that Rita Skeeter has built her entire story on the testimony of convicted criminals and children who've been influenced by... questionable forces."
His pale gray eyes held the kind of calculating intelligence that had made the Malfoy family politically formidable for centuries, but tonight they also carried something that might have been concern if he'd allowed himself to feel emotions that weren't related to maintaining power and social position.
"The marriage contract investigation," Lucius continued, his voice maintaining its smooth confidence despite discussing something that could potentially destroy everything he'd built his life around, "is based on misunderstandings about traditional pure-blood family law. These contracts have been standard practice for centuries, Cornelius. Respected families throughout Europe use similar arrangements to ensure proper alignment of family interests and magical bloodlines."
Fudge stopped pacing to stare at Lucius with the expression of someone who'd just been told that systematic human rights violations were actually just traditional business practices that everyone should accept without complaint.
"Magical slavery, Lucius," Fudge said, his voice rising in both pitch and panic, "They're calling it magical slavery. International magical law enforcement is demanding explanations about why Britain has been allowing systematic enslavement of pure-blood women while claiming to uphold civilized legal standards."
"Slavery is such an ugly word," Lucius replied with the dismissive tone of someone who'd spent years convincing himself that systematic abuse was actually sophisticated family management. "These are marriage contracts designed to ensure harmony and proper function within traditional families. No different from any other legal arrangement that defines roles and responsibilities."
"Magical compulsion that makes disobedience literally impossible," Fudge continued, consulting notes that probably required their own security classification and definitely weren't going to improve his sleep quality, "Complete transfer of personal autonomy to spousal control. Legal classification of wives as property that can be loaned to other families for... specialized services."
His voice trailed off as the full implications of what he was reading sank in like lead weights in very deep, very cold water.
"That's not marriage law, Lucius. That's a systematic framework for treating human beings like magical weapons with convenient built-in loyalty compulsions."
Lucius's perfectly composed expression flickered slightly, like a mask that had been adjusted by someone with trembling hands who was beginning to realize that their carefully constructed justifications weren't going to survive contact with people who had functioning moral compasses.
"You're allowing sensationalist reporting to cloud your judgment about traditional practices that have maintained social stability for generations," he said, his voice carrying just a hint of the desperation that came from someone whose entire worldview was being systematically dismantled by inconvenient facts.
"These contracts ensure proper magical bloodline management, maintain family honor, and prevent the kind of social chaos that results when traditional structures are abandoned in favor of modern... sentimentality."
It was at that exact moment—because the universe apparently had impeccable timing when it came to dramatic interventions—that the office windows exploded inward with enough force to rearrange the furniture and probably violate several laws about destruction of government property.
What came through those windows was eight and a half feet of cosmic justice wearing scales that gleamed like liquid midnight shot through with veins of molten gold and crimson. The creature's wings spread wide enough to cast shadows over the entire office, and when it moved, reality seemed to ripple around it like water disturbed by something that operated on frequencies that violated the basic laws of physics.
Drakor had arrived, and he was not in a subtle mood.
The draconic entity landed in the center of the office with the kind of predatory grace that made smart people remember urgent appointments elsewhere, his clawed feet leaving deep gouges in the expensive carpet that had probably been woven by craftsmen who'd never imagined their work would be destroyed by interdimensional justice operations.
When he spoke, his voice carried harmonics that made the remaining windows vibrate and probably registered on seismographs throughout London.
"Lucius Malfoy," Drakor said, his words resonating through multiple dimensions simultaneously, "Cornelius Fudge. How convenient to find you both in the same location, discussing strategies for avoiding accountability for systematic human rights violations and governmental corruption."
Fudge made a sound like a balloon losing air through a very small hole, then appeared to forget how basic motor functions were supposed to work. His legs gave out entirely, and he slumped against his desk like someone whose skeletal system had just filed for workers' compensation due to unreasonable stress conditions.
"What... what are you?" he managed to whisper, his voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just realized that his evening was about to become significantly more complex and probably shorter than he'd planned.
"I am cosmic justice with excellent timing and very strong opinions about people who treat other human beings like property," Drakor replied with the satisfaction of someone who'd just found exactly what he'd been looking for and was really looking forward to the educational experience he was about to provide.
"I am systematic accountability for those who've spent years assuming they were above consequences due to wealth, political influence, and strategic control of government officials through magical compulsion and financial corruption."
His gaze fixed on Lucius with the kind of predatory focus that made the aristocrat's carefully maintained composure begin to crack like ice under pressure.
"I am also," Drakor continued cheerfully, "quite hungry. And I've recently discovered that people who practice systematic oppression have particularly robust flavor profiles. Very complex notes of accumulated evil with hints of entitlement and moral bankruptcy."
Lucius raised his walking stick with the desperate movement of someone who'd just realized that aristocratic poise and expensive accessories weren't adequate protection against cosmic entities with strong opinions about human rights violations.
"Whatever you are," he said, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd spent years learning to make threats sound like reasonable business negotiations, "you are interfering with official Ministry business. I am a respected member of wizarding society with connections throughout the government and international magical community."
"Were," Drakor corrected with cosmic amusement, "Past tense. You were a respected member of society. Now you're dinner."
The impossible mouth opened in Drakor's transformed features, revealing rows upon rows of teeth that operated on principles that made biology textbooks weep and quit their jobs. The jaw structure telescoped outward, creating chambers lined with teeth that hurt to look at directly, while a tongue that seemed to go on for miles unfurled with predatory interest.
"Educational dining experiences for systematic oppressors," Drakor explained conversationally, as if he were discussing the wine pairing for a particularly excellent meal. "Very comprehensive lessons about the consequences of treating people like property and accepting bribes to ignore obvious human rights violations."
Lucius attempted to cast what was probably a very expensive and presumably effective dark curse, but cosmic entities who existed on frequencies beyond conventional magic tended to find such attacks about as threatening as being sneezed on by confused butterflies.
Drakor caught the magical attack mid-air with the casual efficiency of someone swatting a particularly slow and unimaginative fly, then absorbed it along with Lucius in one smooth, cosmic gulp that somehow managed to be both civilized and absolutely terrifying.
The sounds coming from inside that impossible maw were indescribable—part digestion, part cosmic education, part the universe taking very detailed notes about things that probably shouldn't exist but were oddly satisfying to witness. There was crunching that operated on frequencies that made reality question its own structural integrity, followed by what might have been interdimensional belching.
"Mmm," Drakor said, his voice carrying the satisfied tone of someone who'd just enjoyed a particularly excellent meal that had also solved several long-standing problems, "Decades of accumulated corruption, systematic abuse of power, and just the right amount of aristocratic entitlement to provide complexity to the dining experience. Very educational."
Fudge had apparently decided that complete catatonic breakdown was preferable to trying to process what he'd just witnessed, and was now making small sounds that might have been attempts at speech or possibly just his nervous system filing formal complaints about unreasonable working conditions.
"And you, Minister Fudge," Drakor continued, turning his attention to the man who'd spent years accepting bribes and magical compulsion in exchange for ignoring systematic oppression, "have been such a disappointment to the concept of responsible governance."
The cosmic entity's approach to Fudge was more deliberate, like someone who was really looking forward to providing comprehensive educational experiences about proper ethics and the responsibilities that came with holding positions of public trust.
"Years of accepting payment for favorable policy decisions," Drakor said conversationally, his voice carrying the clinical precision of someone discussing a particularly interesting case study in governmental failure. "Magical compulsion to ensure compliance with Malfoy family interests. Strategic blindness to systematic human rights violations in exchange for political support and financial benefits."
"Please," Fudge whispered, his voice barely audible as he apparently attempted to negotiate with something that existed on principles that didn't include mercy for people who'd spent years treating children's welfare as acceptable collateral damage for political convenience.
"Educational experiences are not negotiable," Drakor replied cheerfully, his cosmic voice carrying the authority of someone who'd been dispensing justice since before most civilizations had figured out agriculture. "Though I will say, you're going to learn so much about proper governmental ethics in the next few minutes. Very hands-on educational methodology."
The consumption of Minister Fudge was significantly more dramatic than Lucius had been, possibly because years of systematic corruption had given him a more complex flavor profile that required additional cosmic processing time. The educational components seemed particularly comprehensive, involving sounds that suggested thorough instruction in topics ranging from basic human decency to the long-term consequences of treating public office as an opportunity for personal enrichment.
When the lesson was complete, Drakor settled back with the satisfaction of someone who'd just completed an important educational project and solved several systemic problems through direct action.
"Two down," he said cheerfully, his voice carrying the anticipation of someone who was really looking forward to the rest of his systematic reform campaign, "several more to go. This is turning out to be such an excellent evening for cosmic justice and comprehensive governmental reform."
—
Meanwhile, across magical London at Malfoy Manor, Sirius Black and Bellatrix were discovering that infiltrating the home of systematic oppressors was significantly easier when one of the infiltrators had been written into the property wards back when it served as headquarters for a dark lord with very poor personnel management skills.
"I can't believe Lucius never removed me from the ward structure," Bellatrix said, her voice carrying the kind of professional amusement that came from watching supposedly intelligent people make spectacularly obvious security oversights. "Fifteen years of magical enslavement, nine years in Azkaban, and he couldn't be bothered to update his home security to account for the possibility that I might someday be free and interested in visiting."
She moved through the manor's corridors with the fluid grace of someone who'd grown up in similar environments and understood exactly how pure-blood families designed their homes to intimidate visitors and demonstrate superior breeding through architectural excess.
"Arrogance," Sirius replied, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd had nine years to think about the character flaws that led people to assume their victims would remain helpless forever. "He assumed you'd never be free from the magical compulsion, never be exonerated, never be in a position to cause him any inconvenience."
His storm-gray eyes held the kind of predatory satisfaction that suggested he was looking forward to demonstrating exactly how wrong those assumptions had been.
"Same reason he never bothered to properly investigate whether I was actually guilty of betraying James and Lily. Some people are so convinced of their own superiority that they can't imagine being outsmarted by anyone they consider beneath them."
They'd entered through the manor's extensive gardens, past topiary that had been shaped into fantastic beasts and probably cost more than most wizarding families spent on housing. The building itself was a monument to pure-blood wealth and traditional values that prioritized appearance over actual substance—all soaring towers, elaborate stonework, and enough architectural flourishes to suggest the builders had been paid by the decorative element rather than the square foot.
"Narcissa's magical signature is coming from the family wing," Bellatrix said, her voice carrying the focused precision of someone who'd spent years learning to navigate family homes that had been designed to demonstrate wealth and power rather than provide comfortable living spaces.
"Along with what feels like a child's magic. Draco, presumably. Though there's something odd about both signatures—they feel... muted. Suppressed."
"Magical compulsion," Sirius said grimly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just realized that the systematic abuse had extended beyond just the marriage contracts to include children who'd been magically controlled from birth.
"If Lucius has been using similar magical binding on his own son..."
"Then Draco's been as much a victim as Narcissa," Bellatrix finished, her voice carrying the kind of cold fury that came from recognizing systematic abuse that had been hidden behind aristocratic respectability and traditional family values.
They found Narcissa and her eleven-year-old son in what appeared to be the manor's formal sitting room, engaged in what looked like a perfectly normal evening conversation about Draco's upcoming second year at Hogwarts. But both of them moved with the careful, controlled precision that suggested people who'd learned to monitor their every action to avoid triggering magical compulsions that would cause physical pain for disobedience.
Narcissa Malfoy—though she'd probably prefer to be called Narcissa Black once she was free from the magical enslavement that had defined her adult life—was still beautiful in the sharp-edged way that Black family genes apparently came standard with. Her platinum blonde hair was arranged with supernatural precision, and her pale blue eyes held the kind of careful emptiness that came from years of having her thoughts and emotions systematically suppressed by magical compulsion.
When she saw Bellatrix and Sirius enter the room, her expression went through several interesting changes before settling on something that might have been hope if she'd remembered how to feel emotions that weren't related to avoiding punishment for independent thought.
"Bellatrix," she said carefully, her voice carrying that precise articulation that came from expensive education mixed with years of learning to speak only when it was safe to do so. "Sirius. I... I thought you were both in Azkaban."
"We were," Bellatrix said gently, moving toward her sister with the careful movements of someone approaching someone who'd been systematically traumatized and might not be entirely sure what was real and what was magical compulsion. "We've been exonerated. The marriage contracts have been nullified. We're free, Narcissa. And we're here to free you too."
Draco Malfoy looked exactly like what you'd expect from someone who'd inherited the worst aspects of both the Malfoy and Black family gene pools—platinum blonde hair, pale gray eyes, and the kind of sharp features that would probably make him devastatingly handsome once he grew into them. But his expression held the careful blankness of a child who'd been taught that showing independent thought or emotion was dangerous and could result in punishment that made conventional discipline look gentle.
"Free?" Narcissa repeated, her voice carrying the tone of someone who'd heard the word but couldn't quite remember what it was supposed to mean in practical terms.
It was at that exact moment that they all felt it—a sudden, violent disruption in the magical atmosphere that suggested something very large and very powerful had just eliminated a significant source of magical compulsion from somewhere in central London.
Narcissa gasped as if someone had just removed a weight from her chest that she'd been carrying for so long she'd forgotten what breathing without it felt like. Her blue eyes suddenly blazed with intelligence and fury that had been suppressed for over fifteen years, and her entire posture changed from careful subservience to aristocratic authority backed by decades of accumulated rage.
"Lucius is dead," she said, her voice carrying the kind of satisfaction that came from someone who'd just been freed from systematic enslavement and was looking forward to comprehensive revenge against everyone who'd been complicit in her abuse. "I can feel the contracts dissolving. The compulsions are gone."
Draco's transformation was even more dramatic. The careful emptiness in his expression was replaced by confusion, fear, and what looked like the dawning realization that most of his memories and personality had been systematically suppressed by magical compulsion that had been in place since birth.
"Mother?" he said, his voice carrying the uncertainty of someone who was experiencing independent thought for the first time in his conscious memory and wasn't entirely sure how it was supposed to work. "What... what's happening? I feel... different. Like I've been dreaming and just woke up."
"You have been dreaming, darling," Narcissa said, moving toward her son with the fierce protectiveness of someone who'd just realized that her child had been as much a victim of systematic abuse as she had been. "We both have. But we're awake now, and we're going to make sure this never happens again."
"Drakor found him," Sirius said with satisfaction, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd just watched cosmic justice applied to people who'd spent years thinking themselves above consequences. "Our cosmic ally with the excellent appetite for systematic oppressors. Lucius has been comprehensively educated about the consequences of treating people like property."
"Good," Narcissa said with the kind of cold satisfaction that suggested she'd been planning what she wanted to do to her magical enslaver for fifteen years and was looking forward to not having to worry about him interfering with her plans. "I hope it was educational for him. Very educational."
"Bella," Sirius said, his voice taking on the focused urgency of someone who remembered they had time-sensitive objectives that required immediate attention, "we need to find the diary. According to the intelligence Drakor absorbed, it should be in Lucius's private study, but we need to locate and secure it before anyone else realizes what's happened here."
Bellatrix nodded with the understanding of someone who'd spent years being magically compelled to participate in dark magic operations and had developed excellent knowledge of where dark wizards typically stored their most dangerous artifacts.
"The study is on the second floor," she said, her voice carrying the precision of someone who'd been forced to familiarize herself with every inch of this house during her years of enslavement. "Warded against everyone except family members, but now that the compulsions are broken..."
"I can get you in," Narcissa said with the determined authority of someone who'd just been freed from fifteen years of magical slavery and was really looking forward to systematically destroying everything her abuser had built his power on.
"The diary isn't just hidden in the study—it's the centerpiece of Lucius's collection of dark artifacts. He's been using it to maintain his political influence and ensure loyalty from other Death Eaters who might have considered changing sides after Voldemort's supposed death."
"Using it how?" Draco asked, his voice carrying the curiosity of someone whose suppressed memories were beginning to surface and who was starting to understand that his father's approach to politics had involved considerably more dark magic than conventional wisdom suggested.
"The diary contains a piece of Voldemort's soul," Bellatrix explained, her voice taking on the clinical tone of someone who'd been magically compelled to participate in enough dark magic operations to become an expert on artifacts that shouldn't exist. "It can possess people, influence their thoughts and actions, and provide access to magical knowledge that died with Tom Riddle's original body."
"Lucius has been using it to ensure the loyalty of government officials, eliminate political rivals, and maintain the kind of influence that let him practice systematic slavery while convincing everyone he was a respectable member of society."
Sirius's expression darkened with the kind of controlled fury that came from realizing that the corruption had been even more extensive than anyone had suspected and had involved magical artifacts that posed existential threats to anyone who encountered them.
"How many people has he possessed?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer was going to require comprehensive investigation and probably systematic reform of the entire government.
"Dozens," Narcissa said grimly, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd been forced to witness these operations while being unable to resist or report them. "Government officials, business leaders, rival pure-blood families. Anyone who opposed Malfoy interests or threatened to expose the marriage contract system."
"Including Minister Fudge?" Sirius asked, though the question was more of a confirmation than actual curiosity.
"Especially Minister Fudge," Narcissa confirmed with satisfaction. "The diary's influence has been supplementing the magical compulsions and financial bribes for years. Lucius has been systematically controlling British magical government through multiple methods of coercion and manipulation."
As they made their way toward Lucius's private study, Draco walked with the uncertain movements of someone whose entire worldview had just been fundamentally reconstructed and who was still processing the implications of learning that most of his personality and memories had been artificially suppressed.
"Was any of it real?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying the pain of someone who was beginning to understand that his entire childhood had been a lie constructed by someone who'd valued control over their child's wellbeing. "My thoughts, my opinions about... about everything?"
Narcissa stopped to kneel beside her son, her expression carrying the fierce protectiveness of someone who'd just been freed from systematic enslavement and was determined to ensure her child received the love and support he should have had from birth.
"Your core personality was real," she said gently, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd fought to maintain her true self despite years of magical compulsion. "Your intelligence, your curiosity, your capacity for kindness—all of that was suppressed, not eliminated. The prejudices, the cruelty, the entitlement—those were artificially imposed through magical compulsion."
"You're going to remember who you really are," Bellatrix added with the understanding of someone who'd survived similar magical abuse and understood the recovery process that lay ahead. "And you're going to discover that you're considerably more interesting than the person Lucius tried to force you to become."
The study, when they finally reached it, was exactly what you'd expect from someone who'd built his entire life around systematic oppression and the accumulation of dark magical artifacts. The walls were lined with books that probably required their own hazmat warnings, display cases held objects that radiated malevolent energy, and the entire room felt like stepping into a museum dedicated to the proposition that some people were inherently superior and had the dangerous magical objects to prove it.
At the center of it all, in a place of honor on Lucius's personal desk, sat an unremarkable black diary that radiated the kind of evil that made smart people remember urgent appointments in other countries.
"There it is," Narcissa said, her voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who was about to help destroy one of the tools that had been used to maintain systematic oppression for over a decade. "Tom Marvolo Riddle's diary. The artifact Lucius has been using to supplement his political influence and ensure loyalty from people who might otherwise develop inconvenient moral principles."
"And now," Sirius said with the kind of predatory satisfaction that suggested he was looking forward to watching this particular tool of oppression get dismantled by someone who specialized in cosmic justice, "it's going to meet Drakor, who has very strong opinions about dark wizards who split their souls and use the pieces to maintain political control through possession and magical compulsion."
As they secured the diary and prepared to return to Grimmauld Place, where a cosmic entity was probably finishing his systematic educational experiences with the last of the people responsible for decades of governmental corruption and systematic oppression, they knew that they were one step closer to completing their campaign for comprehensive justice reform.
And if the wizarding world was about to discover exactly what happened when cosmic entities with strong opinions about human rights encountered fragments of dark wizard souls hidden in magical artifacts, well, that was just going to make their systematic reform campaign more efficient and probably more educational for everyone involved.
The revolution was almost complete.
—
Dolores Umbridge arrived at the Minister's private office at precisely eight o'clock in the morning, her usual time for delivering the daily briefing on what she liked to call "administrative efficiency improvements" and what everyone else recognized as systematic bureaucratic sadism disguised as policy reform.
She knocked on the office door with the precise, measured rhythm that she'd perfected over years of turning simple interactions into demonstrations of proper respect for authority and established hierarchical structures. When no response came, she knocked again, her voice taking on the sharp edge that had made her legendary for transforming minor administrative discussions into comprehensive lessons about the importance of following proper protocols.
"Minister Fudge?" she called, her voice carrying that particular tone of barely controlled irritation that suggested someone was about to receive detailed instruction about the consequences of disrupting established schedules and proper administrative procedures.
When the silence continued, Umbridge's expression shifted from professional irritation to the kind of calculating concern that came from someone who'd built her career on identifying opportunities to advance her own position through other people's failures and misfortunes.
She tried the door handle and found it unlocked, which was unusual for someone as paranoid about political security as Cornelius Fudge had become since the morning newspapers had begun systematically destroying his credibility and career prospects.
"Minister?" she called again, pushing the door open with the careful precision of someone who was prepared to discover either a medical emergency that would require immediate damage control, or evidence of political catastrophe that could be turned to personal advantage.
What she found was neither.
The office looked like it had been redecorated by someone with very strong opinions about governmental accountability and a twisted sense of artistic expression. The furniture remained in its proper positions, the official portraits still hung on their walls, and the ceremonial objects that demonstrated ministerial authority were exactly where they'd always been.
But in the center of the room, arranged on the Minister's desk with the kind of meticulous attention to detail that suggested either professional museum curation or really creative intimidation tactics, was a display that made Umbridge's blood run cold in ways that violated several basic principles of circulatory biology.
Cornelius Fudge's bowler hat sat precisely in the center of the desk, positioned with mathematical accuracy and showing no signs of damage or wear. Beside it, arranged with equal precision, was Lucius Malfoy's silver-topped walking stick, its serpent head gleaming in the morning sunlight that streamed through the office windows.
Both objects looked exactly as they had when their owners were alive, which was somehow more unsettling than if they'd shown signs of violence or struggle. They appeared to have been carefully cleaned and polished, then arranged by someone who wanted to make a very specific point about the fate of people who practiced systematic corruption and governmental abuse.
But it was the message attached to the wall behind the desk that made Umbridge's carefully controlled composure begin to crack like ice under pressure.
Written in elegant script on parchment that looked like it had been crafted by someone with access to the finest writing materials and possibly supernatural calligraphy skills, the message read:
*"To Whom It May Concern:*
*The previous occupants of these positions have completed comprehensive educational experiences regarding the consequences of systematic governmental corruption, accepting bribes for policy decisions, and ignoring obvious human rights violations for personal political convenience.*
*Their educational outcomes were quite satisfactory, though the lessons involved permanent lifestyle changes that precluded continuation in public service.*
*Future occupants of governmental positions are advised that cosmic justice operates according to principles that prioritize actual ethical behavior over bureaucratic convenience, social respectability, or traditional pure-blood family influence.*
*Educational experiences are available for anyone who requires additional instruction in proper governmental ethics, appropriate treatment of citizens (especially children), and why accepting magical compulsion from families who practice systematic slavery represents poor career choices with significant long-term consequences.*
*Very comprehensive educational experiences. The kind that really stick with you.*
*Permanently.*
*Signed,*
*Drakor*
*Cosmic Entity, Educational Specialist, and Advocate for Systematic Justice Reform*
*P.S. - The previous Minister's chocolate digestives were quite good. Please ensure future office occupants maintain similar quality standards for snack management, as cosmic entities require proper nutrition during extended governmental reform campaigns."*
Umbridge read the message three times before her brain managed to process the implications of what she was seeing, and even then, her political survival instincts were having difficulty determining whether this was a prank, a threat, or evidence of something that required immediate evacuation of the building and possibly the country.
The handwriting was beautiful—the kind of penmanship that suggested expensive education, careful breeding, and possibly supernatural enhancement of fine motor control. The parchment itself was clearly the highest quality, with what appeared to be subtle magical enhancements that made the text seem to shimmer slightly in the changing light.
But the content was the kind of thing that made career bureaucrats consider immediate retirement to locations with better climates and significantly less political complexity.
"Cosmic entity," Umbridge whispered, her voice carrying the tone of someone whose worldview was being systematically reconstructed by information that definitely wasn't covered in any administrative manual she'd ever read.
"Educational specialist," she continued, staring at the carefully arranged artifacts that had presumably belonged to people who were no longer available for consultation about their recent educational experiences.
It was the postscript about chocolate digestives that really drove home the surreal nature of her situation. In her experience, people who made threats about permanent educational consequences didn't usually include friendly advice about snack management for future office occupants.
Unless, of course, they were the kind of entity that viewed governmental reform as an ongoing project requiring sustainable nutrition and proper administrative support for continued operations.
Umbridge's political survival instincts—which had been finely honed over years of navigating bureaucratic power struggles and identifying opportunities for personal advancement—were screaming that this was either the most elaborate practical joke in Ministry history, or evidence that the entire structure of magical government had just been fundamentally altered by forces that operated outside conventional political frameworks.
Either way, her immediate priority was clear: get out of the building before whatever had happened to Fudge and Malfoy decided that senior undersecretaries also required comprehensive educational experiences about proper administrative ethics.
She backed toward the door with the careful movements of someone who'd just realized they were in a museum exhibit about the consequences of poor career choices and really didn't want to become part of the permanent collection.
But as she reached for the door handle, she heard something that made her blood freeze in ways that probably required immediate medical attention: the sound of large wings beating outside the office windows, accompanied by what might have been humming in frequencies that suggested whoever was producing it existed on principles that didn't include mercy for people who'd built careers on systematic bureaucratic cruelty.
Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic and architect of numerous policies that had made thousands of lives more difficult than strictly necessary, suddenly found herself facing the possibility that someone with very strong opinions about governmental ethics was about to provide her with the kind of educational experience that would be both comprehensive and permanent.
She really, really hoped they appreciated proper administrative documentation, because she had a feeling her personnel file was about to become significantly more interesting than standard bureaucratic records typically warranted.
The wings were getting closer.
---
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