Flocks of owls swooped in, startling Umbridge as envelopes rained down like hailstones. Having completed their delivery, the postal owls departed contentedly.
Only then did Umbridge dare approach the letters. Initially assuming urgent Ministry business, her heart sank upon recognising professors' signatures on the envelopes.
As she opened each letter, her expression contorted violently, fingers trembling with the urge to shred them all. Not a single missive contained pleasantries—just requisition forms with identical notes:
"Please sign and return the list if approved. If denied, return both explanation and list."
Seeing Professor Sprout's request for merely two shovels, Umbridge saw stars, nearly fainting on the spot. This was blatant mockery!
Yet she couldn't devise immediate retaliation. As McGonagall had pointed out, this was her own system—her precious Educational Decree Number One. These applications demanded processing.
Imagining the professors' smug grins upon approval, Umbridge's resentment hardened.
'Not even two shovels! I'll reject requests for handfuls of dirt if I must!'
Seething, she hunched over her desk, composing refusals. For days, she devoted every waking moment to inventing rejection letters, even conducting classes as silent reading sessions to avoid interrupting her, which further alienated the students.
'If you hate teaching, quit! We actually want to learn magic!'
Students fumed, though Umbridge never glanced up to see their glares.
Her stubbornness held—days of hand-cramping rejections without approving a single request. The professors remained unfazed, engaged in a state of endurance warfare.
Madam Hooch escalated by separately requesting every broomstick maintenance tool down to individual bristles. Those lacking needs assisted colleagues.
But Wayne deemed this insufficient. Come Thursday's Daily Prophet delivery, drowsy students became wide-eyed gossips upon seeing the headline. Fred and George theatrically read aloud for non-subscribers:
"Hogwarts Funds Overseer Embezzling? Students Forced to Supply Own Equipment."
"Sources reveal Hogwarts' educational standards deteriorating under the First Financial Overseer's policies."
"Oh?"
"Despite substantial Ministry and Board annual donations ensuring smooth operations—"
"Really?"
"—students now share three-to-a-broomstick during flying lessons post-audit implementation."
"Wow~!"
Fred's voice grew louder, with George playing the perfect straight man beside him. Not just the Gryffindor students—the entire Great Hall could hear them clearly, except perhaps for the most distant Slytherins.
Including the professors at the High Table.
The teachers had stopped their conversations too, listening to Fred read the newspaper with amused smiles, occasionally admiring Umbridge's increasingly thunderous expression.
The article's language grew ever more scathing, laying all blame squarely at Umbridge's feet.
Vast sums of money were under her control, yet she refused to spend it on education, raising questions about whether she'd embezzled the funds.
"Stop reading!" Umbridge finally exploded, shrieking.
Fred heard her, exchanged a grin with his brother, and continued reading the article to its conclusion.
"Fifty points from Gryffindor! I told you to stop reading—are you deaf?"
"I've never heard of points being deducted for reading newspapers," Professor McGonagall retorted sharply.
Though she didn't return the points.
Truth be told, she couldn't find a proper justification to award the twins points now, resolving to make it up through other students later.
Umbridge stormed out, knowing she couldn't stop the rumours spreading through the school, and could only retreat to write letters to Fudge.
Before leaving, she shot Wayne a long, penetrating look.
Anyone with any standing knew about the connections between the Daily Prophet and the Greengrass family. She refused to believe Lawrence hadn't orchestrated this.
Wayne seemed to sense her gaze, turning to meet Umbridge's venomous stare with a polite smile.
'So what if you know?'
'What exactly can you do about it?'
Wayne mouthed a few words that Umbridge clearly understood.
"Take a good long look, why don't you?"
...
Soon, everyone was aware of Umbridge's embezzlement of school funds.
All day, people looked at her strangely.
Outwardly respectful, but once she'd passed, students would huddle together whispering about what she might have spent all that money on.
Umbridge seethed with impotent rage.
She couldn't possibly punish every student who muttered behind her back.
Thus, the day dragged on until the final afternoon lesson.
At last, she found her outlet.
The lesson was as dull and tedious as ever, but just before dismissal, Umbridge reiterated the importance of theory.
Harry couldn't hold back.
"What use is theory in the real world?" Harry raised his fist and demanded loudly.
Umbridge looked pleased rather than angry—she'd been waiting for Harry to take the bait. "This is school, not the real world, Mr Potter."
"But we need to be prepared to face the enemy waiting out there!"
"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr Potter. Has someone been telling you stories?" Umbridge said with heavy implication, watching Harry expectantly, willing him to name names.
"No one told me anything. I saw it with my own eyes," Harry said coldly. "Voldemort's back. I saw it. Fudge saw it. Wayne was the one who rescued me."
Ron gasped. Lavender Brown let out a small scream. Neville nearly fell off his stool.
In the entire room, only Hermione remained unfazed.
Umbridge showed no fear either, her face twisting into a vicious expression of satisfaction.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter."
"Only ten?" Harry sneered, having reached the point of reckless defiance.
Umbridge ignored him, resting her pudgy hands on the lectern as she leaned forward slightly, her beady eyes sweeping the classroom with ominous intensity.
"Listen carefully, boys and girls," she said. "Someone has been telling you that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead."
"He never died," Harry said coldly, meeting her gaze. "But yes, he's back."
"You just want to hear me say his name, don't you? Keep dreaming. Everything I've said comes from what I witnessed myself—no one's put me up to this."
"Delusional, Mr Potter," Umbridge replied as the bell rang. She continued, "Detention, Mr Potter. Tomorrow evening at five o'clock in my office."
"Let me reiterate—the Ministry of Magic guarantees you will face no danger from Dark wizards."
With that, she gathered her books and left, her steps noticeably lighter.
The class remained silent for a moment before students began filing out, most deliberately avoiding Harry.
Seamus and Dean patted his shoulder. "Harry, we believe you. You wouldn't lie to us about something like this."
Harry felt a surge of warmth.
'This makes it all worth it, ' he thought.
Back in the Common Room, a conspicuous empty space formed around Harry and Ron, but Harry didn't care.
'There'll always be ignorant people,' he mused. 'Can't blame them really—it's the Ministry's propaganda that's at fault.'
'Fewer people means more peace and quiet.'
"Ron, what if I just skip detention?" Harry asked.
He'd been inspired by Wayne's approach—if he stopped caring, Umbridge would have no hold over him.
Ron was slotting his newly bought card pack into his game console. His face fell when he saw mostly common cards with just one rare purple one before answering:
"Gryffindor would lose two hundred points. If Professor McGonagall's in a good mood, you'd get beaten half to death. If she's in a bad mood... well, mate, you're in for a treat."
Harry couldn't suppress a shudder.
Umbridge didn't scare him, but Professor McGonagall...
Better go ask the professor first.
Acting on impulse, Harry immediately left the Common Room to find Professor McGonagall. Ten minutes later, he was unceremoniously ejected from her office, looking thoroughly chastened.
As expected, while Professor McGonagall clearly disapproved of Umbridge's punishment, she upheld the authority of the professor.
"Not everyone has Wayne's privileges," she'd said. "If students start copying Wayne's behaviour, how are we supposed to maintain discipline?"
Even after leaving, something still felt off to Harry.
Umbridge had looked almost excited at the end, not angry at being defied—as if she'd been waiting to give him detention.
After four years of being screwed over by Defence Against the Dark Arts professors, Harry had developed keen instincts. After some thought, instead of heading upstairs, he went downstairs to seek Wayne's help.
...
Meanwhile, on a beach along England's eastern coast.
Voldemort Disapparated onto a large rock formation, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed up at the nearby cliffs, his expression inscrutable.
Though lying low recently, Voldemort hadn't been idle. He first secretly gathered his remaining followers who were still at large, then began courting the Dementors of Azkaban.
If successful, he would not only gain an army of Dementors but also free his most capable subordinates.
Among the Death Eaters of old, those most loyal to him had either died or been imprisoned in Azkaban. Those remaining outside were either fence-sitters or peripheral figures—the true elite were locked away.
Only after making preliminary progress did Voldemort find time to attend to personal matters.
Horcruxes.
Upon learning that Tom had resurrected himself using a Horcrux, Voldemort felt not only rage but also panic.
If a soul fragment from the diary could return to life, what about the others?
Part of why he'd delayed this long was his reluctance to confront this possibility.
But it was inevitable. So Voldemort prepared to inspect the state of his Horcruxes.
Transforming into a swirl of black mist, he flew straight down the cliff face, plunging into the water until he reached a smooth rock wall. He exhaled inwardly in relief.
The trap remained intact.
Without hesitation, he sliced open his arm, letting blood drip onto the stone until the passageway activated. Only then did the wound begin to heal.
Voldemort pressed onward, but upon entering the cavern, his expression darkened.
The meticulously arranged lake of Inferi had been replaced by seawater. The Inferi, the boat, even the anti-flight runes—all were gone!
With mounting fury and dread, Voldemort flew to the island at the lake's centre.
The stone basin still held the green potion he'd brewed—a concoction that poisoned drinkers and roused the Inferi below. His face twisted. He needed to check the Horcrux, but he'd designed this magic to be unbreakable—even by himself.
Now, he couldn't simply retrieve Slytherin's Locket to sense its soul fragment.
After wavering, Voldemort drank the potion.
With no Inferi left and his body enhanced through dark rituals, he'd survive—though weakened.
Clearly, someone had discovered this place and attempted to steal his Horcrux. He had to relocate the locket to a safer place.
Agony seared his throat as he drained the basin. His magical power felt on the verge of dissipating. Gritting his teeth, he grasped the locket—and froze.
A fake. No trace of a Horcrux remained.
Click!
The locket sprang open, releasing a note that floated before him:
"Surprise, motherfucker~! —from Lawrence"
A pea-sized orb detonated, engulfing Voldemort in green smoke.
"Lawrence, you fucking—... retch!"