Seven long weeks had passed since the new Ministry of Magic took office. During this time, neither the Death Eaters nor the Dark Lord had made a single public appearance, as if they had vanished from the face of the earth. At Hogwarts, students carried on with their lives in this fleeting calm—some immersed in the tense hustle of academic pursuits, others enjoying leisurely moments, occasionally "slacking off" when they could.
On the sunlit lawns, by the Black Lake, on the Quidditch pitch, and in Hogsmeade village, accessible only on designated Saturdays, students left trails of joy and youthful energy. In their hearts, Hogwarts was the safest haven, a feeling that grew even stronger under the leadership of the great Albus Dumbledore.
Yet, beneath the serene surface of this lake of tranquility, dark currents were silently stirring. In mid-November, a new Ministry decree, Educational Edict Number Twenty-Eight, detonated like a bomb, shattering the hard-won peace.
"To hell with Educational Edict Number Twenty-Eight! Albus, you absolutely cannot let them drive you out of the school at this critical moment when he has returned! I won't allow it!" In the Headmaster's office, Minerva McGonagall, usually so composed, was uncharacteristically furious with Dumbledore. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes blazed with anxiety and anger, her fists clenched tightly, and her body trembled with emotion. "Haven't you seen the state of the Ministry? It's practically a puppet of the Dark Lord! They're dismantling our defenses step by step!"
"I'm well aware of the Ministry's current situation, Minerva," replied Dumbledore, who had been stripped of all his titles and positions but remained calmly seated in his old, cozy armchair. His eyes held an enigmatic depth, and he regarded the fuming Deputy Headmistress with a faint, amused smile. "They've only removed me from the position of Headmaster, not banned me from setting foot in Hogwarts altogether. Besides, we can fully trust Severus. I'm confident that even in my absence, he will protect the students admirably."
"But! No one else can stand against the Dark Lord's advance!" McGonagall said, her voice heavy with worry, her brow furrowed and her eyes filled with concern. "Even if you've brought him in, Gellert Grindelwald is old and frail now…"
"We still have Harry, don't we?" Dumbledore's lips curved into a confident, mysterious smile, his eyes sparkling with hope as he looked at McGonagall. "I can't say for certain whether Harry, teamed with Gellert, would overpower Tom, but at the very least, they can hold the line until I return to support them… Besides, there's another question I need to investigate." He paused, then added, "Ah, it seems my escort has arrived."
No sooner had Dumbledore spoken than the heavy door to the Headmaster's office was blasted open. Dolores Umbridge, who had fled Hogwarts in disgrace two months prior, now strutted in with a smug grin, flanked by several grim-faced Aurors in their official uniforms. Her bulky frame moved clumsily, her face twisted in a triumphant sneer, her eyes glinting with satisfied malice.
"Ah, a pleasure to see you, Minister Umbridge," Dumbledore said, maintaining his elegant smile as he gave her a slight nod.
"Regrettably, we meet under such circumstances, Headmaster Dumbledore… oh, my apologies, you're no longer Headmaster of Hogwarts, are you?" Umbridge's shrill, grating voice echoed through the office. Her gaze swept the room as if reveling in her "victory." "Would you be so kind as to summon Professor Snape? We're rather pressed for time, you see~"
"Of course, of course," Dumbledore replied calmly. He gestured to McGonagall, who had been glaring daggers at Umbridge since her entrance. "Minerva, would you mind fetching Severus? Oh, and please ask Harry to lend me that item." With a gentle wave of his hand, a faint shimmer of light appeared, and several chairs materialized in the center of the office. "Since it'll take a moment for Severus to arrive, why don't we sit and rest in the meantime?"
At seven in the morning, Albus Dumbledore quietly left Hogwarts with his phoenix and a single suitcase. Meanwhile, owls delivered their usual packages and letters to the students.
Then, a headline in The Daily Prophet spread like wildfire among the student body:
By order of the Ministry of Magic, Severus Snape shall replace Albus Dumbledore as Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in accordance with Educational Edict Number Twenty-Eight.
The first to protest were George and Fred Weasley, their outrage igniting a tidal wave of dissent that swept through Gryffindor House. Soon, save for most of Slytherin, students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw joined the growing rebellion.
"Headmaster, isn't it getting a bit noisy out there?" In the Headmaster's office, Dolores Umbridge's sickeningly sweet smile oozed insincerity as she addressed Snape. "Of course, if you find it difficult to discipline your dear students, we understand… but the Dark Lord…"
"Umbridge," Snape interrupted, his black robes billowing, his face so dark it seemed to drip with shadow. His piercing black eyes fixed on her, his voice low and icy. "I don't need your veiled reminders. I have my own plans for the school. The Dark Lord's orders to you are complete. You may take your people and leave."
Umbridge's eyes narrowed, her false smile fading into a scowl of resentment. She shot Snape a venomous glare, then turned on her heel and stormed out of the office with her entourage.
Once certain they were gone, Snape collapsed into the chair behind the desk, as if all his strength had been sapped. He raised his head slowly, his hollow gaze fixed on the newly hung portrait of Dumbledore. With a long, despairing sigh, he murmured to himself, his voice heavy with hopelessness.
He still couldn't believe what he had witnessed three days ago at Malfoy Manor. When those seven pairs of crimson eyes turned to him, for the first time since Lily's death, he felt despair again.
In Hogwarts' grand and solemn Great Hall, the atmosphere was as oppressive as the calm before a storm. The students' discontent surged like floodwaters ready to burst, finally erupting into waves of protest. Some shouted slogans, their faces flushed with anger, fists raised. Others frowned deeply, their voices rising in unison, echoing off the hall's vaulted ceiling as if to shatter the heavy gloom.
At that moment, sixteen figures in black robes glided into the hall like specters. Their cloaks swayed faintly in the dim light, bringing with them an aura of darkness and dread. Leading them was the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange. She raised her wand, its tip glowing with an eerie light, like a venomous snake poised to strike. Her shrill, piercing voice cut through the clamor like a blade.
"Crucio!"
With her venomous incantation, a sickly green light shot from her wand, striking a student who had been standing on a table, passionately protesting. The student's body contorted in agony, muscles twitching violently, eyes bulging, mouth open in a blood-curdling scream. Then, like a marionette with its strings cut, they collapsed from the table, crashing to the floor and kicking up a cloud of dust.
The sudden horror silenced the protests, as if a candle had been snuffed out by a cold wind. The students' anger and fervor were replaced by fear and panic. They turned, eyes wide, staring at the sixteen cloaked figures, their bodies trembling involuntarily. Some stepped back, huddling together as if seeking safety in numbers.
"Now, be quiet and listen!" Bellatrix seemed delighted by their reaction, her lips curling into a twisted, cruel smile. Her shrill voice rang out again. "From this moment, this school belongs to the Dark Lord! You will obey Snape—or me, Bellatrix Lestrange—without question!"
A figure suddenly darted from the trembling crowd, wand raised. Tables lifted into the air, hurtling toward the cloaked figures with a deafening whoosh.
Bellatrix barely flicked her wand, and a Bombarda shattered the incoming tables into splinters. In response, fifteen curses flew toward the defiant student.
But in the next moment, the table fragments reassembled into a sturdy wooden shield, blocking the onslaught of spells. Then, the shield dissolved, transforming into a flurry of daggers gleaming in the air.
"Harry! Leave Bellatrix to me! Her head is mine!" Neville Longbottom shouted, summoning a longsword and charging forward.
Harry, prepared, focused intently, muttering an incantation. The table fragments, as if summoned by an unseen force, swiftly formed a solid wooden shield before him, absorbing the cloaked figures' attacks. The shield then disintegrated, morphing into a swarm of sharp daggers, poised to strike.
"Harry! Leave Bellatrix to me! Her head is mine!" Neville's voice roared from the crowd. His face was flushed, veins bulging on his forehead, as he gripped the Sword of Gryffindor, drawn from the Sorting Hat. With a furious cry, he charged at Bellatrix, his eyes blazing with vengeful resolve.
"Got it!" Harry shouted back. He waved his wand, and the hundreds of daggers vanished, reappearing as streaks of light that bombarded the cloaked figures' hastily conjured shields. One by one, the shields shattered with sharp cracks, blood seeping from the figures' wounds. Their faces twisted in pain and fear before they crumpled to the ground, motionless.
As for Bellatrix, her hood was torn by a dagger that grazed her, revealing her gaunt, skeletal face. She looked like a walking corpse, exuding a nauseating aura.
"You filthy half-blood! You dare defy me?!" Bellatrix shrieked, her wand flashing as she hurled curses at Neville—red, blue, and occasional streaks of green light.
But no matter what she threw at him, none of her spells could touch the boy charging toward her with his sword. Finally, in a brief lull between her curses, Neville seized his chance. He lunged forward, raising the sword with all his fury and hatred, and brought it down with a fierce swing. The blade sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, striking Bellatrix's neck. Blood sprayed as her head flew, and her headless body collapsed with a dull thud.
Neville, leaning on his sword, sank to one knee, panting heavily. Sweat and blood mingled on his face, dripping down his cheeks. His body trembled from exhaustion and adrenaline, but his eyes shone with relief and satisfaction. As the crowd stirred, still reeling from the shocking scene, and as Harry stepped forward to comfort Neville, a greenish-gray, ghostly figure rose from Bellatrix's headless corpse.
Then, the specter of Bellatrix spoke.
"What a pity someone chose to resist," it said, its voice chilling. "But the Dark Lord is merciful. He offers you a chance to live. Within seven days, kill either of these two rebels, and you shall be spared. Of course, you may refuse his generosity… and I truly hope you do."
The specter let out a piercing, hellish cackle that sent shivers down everyone's spines. Then, under their horrified gazes, it passed through the wall and vanished without a trace.
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