Victor knew Fudge, despite his paranoia, wouldn't just send Aurors to arrest the High Inquisitor based on an anonymous letter.
He'd need a catalyst — he'd need to see Umbridge acting erratic, aggressive, out of control.
Victor had the right tool for the job.
Hidden under Harry's borrowed Invisibility Cloak, he slipped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.
The room was pink lace, floral patterns, and the sickly scent of dried flowers. Along the walls, dozens of plates displayed kittens in bows, all meowing silently.
Victor ignored them, crossed the thick carpet to Umbridge's desk, and pulled a heavy cloth pouch from his robes — kept locked away since he'd gotten it as a random reward. He tipped it over the desk.
A perfectly smooth, unnaturally heavy band of solid gold slipped out, gleaming in the dim light. The second it hit the air, a chorus of whispers echoed inside Victor's mind, speaking the dark tongue of Mordor.
The One Ring.
Yeah, this ring is still dangerous, Victor thought, blank-faced, as the whispers failed to latch onto him.
As a weapon of psychological destruction, Sauron's masterwork was flawless.
The Ring preyed on ambition, paranoia, and a desire for control — traits Umbridge had in abundance. It would amplify her worst instincts until she snapped, convinced she alone had the right to rule the Ministry.
Victor threaded a gold chain through the ring, making it look like antique jewelry, and draped it over her daily planner, where she couldn't miss it.
He wasn't worried about her discovering its secondary power.
Even if she slipped it on and turned invisible, it wouldn't matter — his eyes of the dead pierced through any illusion or concealment, including the shadow-world of the Ringwraiths. To him, the ring and whoever wore it would always be obvious.
He pulled the cloak tight around his shoulders, eyes lingering on the gold band as the whispering continued to thrum in the quiet office.
"Let's hope you become tempted by this, Dolores," Victor murmured. "Try not to go full Gollum before the Aurors arrive."
He slipped out into the dark corridor, trap set.
***
Miles away, deep in the Ministry, Cornelius Fudge rubbed his bloodshot eyes. His office was a disaster of half-read reports, angry Howlers, and cold teacups.
A plain, unmarked envelope sat on his desk — delivered through standard internal mail, untraceable, unsigned.
He read the letter again. His first instinct was to throw it in the fire. Someone at Hogwarts orchestrating the Gringotts attack and plotting a coup against him seemed preposterous.
But Fudge ran on paranoia.
His eyes kept flicking to the postscript. Audit the Ministry's Floo Network registry.
"Utter rubbish," he muttered.
But he couldn't stop himself. Out of pure suspicion, he tapped his wand to summon a clerk from the Department of Magical Transportation.
"Bring me the Floo Network logs for Hogwarts," Fudge ordered. "For the night of the Gringotts incident. Specifically the registry for the High Inquisitor's private grate."
Ten minutes later, alone again, he unrolled a stamped scroll, trailing a finger down the list of monitored flames. Most of the castle's grates were sealed, no activity.
Then there it was.
Fireplace Origin: Dolores Jane Umbridge – Defense Against the Dark Arts Office.
Fudge stared at the ink. The exact night of the Gringotts breach. The departure time matched the hour the goblins' alarms had triggered.
A cold sweat broke out on his neck.
Umbridge was his most loyal supporter. She was also ambitious, ruthless, hungry for authority.
Fudge sat back in his chair, looking from the log to the letter. Doubt took root. He was suddenly very suspicious of his High Inquisitor.
***
Morning light filtered through the lace curtains of the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. Umbridge hummed as she unlocked her door, straightened her cardigan, and stepped inside.
She stopped.
Her bulging eyes locked onto the center of her desk, where a heavy golden ring on a chain rested atop her daily planner.
She frowned, fingers tightening on her handbag. She hadn't left that there. She marched toward the desk, heels clicking, intending to confiscate whatever contraband a student had dared leave in her office.
As she reached for it, a sound echoed in the room. Not a voice — a feeling, a heavy, sibilant whisper sliding into her mind, speaking a tongue she didn't know but somehow understood.
Power.
Her hand froze inches from the band.
Order. Control. They do not respect you. Dumbledore mocks you. The half-breeds infect your world. Fudge uses you — but he is weak. You are the only one who possesses the will to do what must be done.
Her breath hitched. The sweet smile melted off her face, replaced by hungry calculation. The ring gleamed, looking impossibly heavy. Flawless.
Take it. Break them. Punish them all. Rule.
"Yes," Umbridge whispered. Her girlish voice was gone, replaced by a raw, guttural rasp. "They are all so... unruly. They need absolute discipline. The Minister is too soft to see it."
Her fingers closed around the cold gold of the One Ring.
*****
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