Chapter 132: The Headmaster's Office
The polished stone floor of the seventh-floor corridor was cold against Harry's cheek. The breath had been knocked from his lungs by the fall, and a stinging pain shot through his knees and palms. Above him, Draco Malfoy's drawling voice was pure, unadulterated triumph.
"Got one! Professor! I've caught Potter!"
Footsteps, quick and heavy, approached. Harry pushed himself up, his glasses askew, to see Dolores Umbridge round the corner, her toad-like face flushed with exertion and delight. Her eyes, magnified behind her spectacles, locked onto him with predatory glee.
"Oh, excellent work, Mr. Malfoy!" she simpered, her voice sugary. "Fifty points to Slytherin! Stand up, Potter. I believe we're going to have a very enlightening evening."
Her stubby fingers, surprisingly strong, closed like a vice around his upper arm. Harry tried to wrench free, but she held fast, her nails digging into his skin through his robes.
"Filch, Malfoy," she panted, "search the adjacent corridors. There must be more of them. Someone warned them, the little traitors." She shot a venomous glance at the now-blank stretch of wall where the Door to the Room of Requirement had vanished. "Come along, Potter. I think a visit to the Headmaster is in order. He will be so interested to hear about your… extracurricular activities."
Harry's mind raced as he was frogmarched down the hallway. Hermione. Ron. Had they gotten away? He'd seen a blur of running figures, heard the slap of frantic feet on stone. Ginny, Neville, the twins… He prayed they'd had the sense to scatter, to hide in the library or an empty classroom. The thought of the Weasley twins, Fred and George with their brilliant futures, being expelled because of him… or Hermione, her academic dreams shattered… It was a physical weight in his stomach.
And Elian. Elian, who was off on some impossible mission, trusting them to hold the fort. Harry felt a hot rush of shame. He'd failed.
Umbridge moved with a speed that belied her squat form, dragging him along. She didn't speak, but a small, humming noise of satisfaction emanated from her. They reached the stone gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office.
"Sugar quills," Umbridge barked. The gargoyle leapt aside, and the wall behind it spiralled open.
They climbed the rotating staircase. Umbridge didn't bother to knock. She threw the door at the top open with a dramatic flourish and shoved Harry inside.
The scene that greeted Harry was not what he expected.
Headmaster Dumbledore sat serenely behind his vast, claw-footed desk, his long silver hair and beard gleaming in the firelight. Professor McGonagall stood rigidly beside him, her lips pressed into a thin, white line of fury. But it was the other occupants that made Harry's heart lurch.
Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, stood before the desk, his bowler hat in his hands, his round face sporting an expression of nervous excitement. Flanking him were two Aurors Harry didn't recognise—a stern-faced witch and a wizard with a scar across his cheek, both in official robes, their wands held loosely but ready at their sides. The portraits of previous Headmasters and Headmistresses were not sleeping. They had all vacated their own frames and were crowded into neighbouring paintings, whispering urgently to one another, their faces etched with concern.
All conversation ceased as Harry stumbled into the room.
Fudge's eyes lit up. "Ah! There we are! The guest of honour arrives!" He puffed out his chest, his earlier nervousness replaced by officious pomp. "It seems, Dumbledore, the evidence is coming to you whether you like it or not."
Dumbledore's twinkling blue eyes met Harry's for a fleeting second. There was no fear in them, only a deep, calm assessment. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
"Minister Fudge," Umbridge chirped, releasing Harry's arm with a final, painful squeeze. "I found Mr. Potter fleeing the scene of an illegal student gathering. He was caught by the diligent Mr. Malfoy. I have reason to believe this is the organisation we discussed—the one coached by Potter and that Thorne boy."
"Thorne," Fudge repeated, his voice hardening. "Yes. Where is he? I was led to believe he would be present."
"His whereabouts are currently unknown, Minister," Umbridge said, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. "But Potter is the ringleader. The decree is clear."
"Indeed it is," Fudge said, turning back to Harry. "Well, Potter? Do you have anything to say for yourself? Care to explain why you were leading a banned student army right under the nose of the High Inquisitor?"
A hot wave of anger washed over Harry. He wanted to shout, to tell Fudge he was a fool, that Voldemort was back, that they were just trying to learn to defend themselves. But Dumbledore's silent warning held him back. Don't give them more.
He clenched his fists at his sides. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Fudge's smile turned nasty. "Playing the fool? I have a witness, Potter. Someone from within your little club. They've told us everything."
Harry's blood ran cold. Marietta. The betrayal was a fresh wound. He fought to keep his face neutral, but he saw Professor McGonagall's sharp intake of breath.
"A witness you have coerced and intimidated, no doubt, Cornelius," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet but carrying through the room. "A child, frightened by threats against her family's position at the Ministry."
"The law is the law, Dumbledore!" Fudge spluttered. "Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four is quite explicit. The punishment for establishing or participating in an unapproved organisation is expulsion."
The word hung in the air, final and terrible.
"Before we discuss punishments, Minister," Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers, "should we not establish the facts? You have a student who was in a hallway. Professor Umbridge has a theory. And you have the statement of one frightened girl. This is not a trial, nor is it evidence of an 'army.' Perhaps Mr. Potter was merely visiting the Room of Requirement, a space known to provide solace for students in need. It has been known to become a greenhouse for those with a botanical interest, or a library for the studious."
"A room that was full of students practicing defensive spells!" Umbridge shrieked, her composure cracking. "I heard them! The whistleblower gave us the exact time and location!"
"A whistleblower whose identity and credibility we have not examined," Dumbledore countered calmly. "Minerva, did you, in your patrols this evening, witness any such 'army'?"
Professor McGonagall drew herself up. "I did not, Headmaster. I saw students moving to and from the library, as is their right during evening study hours. I saw nothing resembling a paramilitary gathering." Her eyes dared anyone to contradict her.
Fudge was turning purple. "This is obstruction! Dumbledore, your time of running this school like your personal fiefdom is over! I am the Minister—"
"You are in my office, Cornelius," Dumbledore interrupted, his tone suddenly icy. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The fire in the grate flickered. "And you are speaking of expelling a student on the flimsiest of pretexts. Where is this witness? Let her speak here, now, before all of us. Let us hear her story without the… persuasive atmosphere of Professor Umbridge's office."
Umbridge paled. Fudge hesitated, his confidence wavering under Dumbledore's unwavering gaze. The two Aurors shifted uncomfortably.
Harry stood, heart pounding, caught in the standoff between the two most powerful wizards he knew. The office was a silent battleground, and he was the prize. And through his fear, a single, desperate thought echoed: Where are you, Elian?
(End of Chapter)
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