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Chapter 28: The First Casualty
Confronted with Umbridge's aggressive demand, Professor Trelawney could only stare, speechless. A prophecy? On command? It didn't work like that. The true prophecies she'd made—the ones that mattered—had come upon her unbidden, in trances she never remembered. She couldn't simply conjure one to order like a party trick.
Umbridge was in no hurry. She waited, that small, cruel smile fixed on her face. Her confidence had swelled since the Daily Prophet announcement. She was no longer just a disliked professor; she was the High Inquisitor, a role created by Minister Fudge's new Educational Decree Number Twenty-Three. Its power was terrifyingly broad: she could evaluate and, if she deemed it necessary, dismiss any Hogwarts staff member. Dumbledore could protest, but he could not overrule her. The trap for the headmaster was tightening, and she held the leash.
"Pitiful," Umbridge finally sighed, scribbling a note on her clipboard. She turned to leave.
Panicked, Professor Trelawney lurched forward, her hands waving. "Wait! I… I see something! Darkness! Yes, a deep darkness… you are walking into a trap!" She strained to make her voice sound hollow and prophetic, but it came out as a desperate, theatrical rasp. It was no different from her usual classroom dramatics.
"Fascinating. Hem, hem," Umbridge tittered, not even looking back as she swept from the room.
Watching from his cushion, Elian felt a stab of sympathy. Umbridge hadn't wanted a prophecy; she'd wanted a pretext. And poor, frazzled Professor Trelawney had handed it to her.
The first blow fell that very afternoon.
By the time Elian reached the Entrance Hall, a crowd had already gathered—students from all houses and years, their faces a mix of shock and anger. In the centre of the throng stood four figures.
Professor McGonagall had her arm tightly around a weeping Professor Trelawney, who was clutching a moth-eaten shawl around her shoulders. Facing them, looking unbearably smug, stood Dolores Umbridge. Beside her, quivering with excitement, was Argus Filch, the caretaker. Behind them were several battered trunks, presumably containing all of Professor Trelawney's worldly possessions, hauled down from her tower by the gleeful Filch.
Umbridge had wielded her new power. Professor Trelawney had been declared 'incompetent' and summarily dismissed.
Filch, seeing his moment of reflected glory, kept prodding the air near Professor Trelawney. "Come along, now! No dawdling! The carriage is waiting!" He had found his patron in Umbridge, and he was revelling in it. For the first time in decades, he felt powerful.
The students around them looked on, horrified and helpless. However much they'd mocked Trelawney's lessons, she was their professor. But who would dare challenge the High Inquisitor and, by extension, the Minister of Magic?
Then, a door beside Elian banged open.
Albus Dumbledore strode into the hall, his presence seeming to make the very torches burn brighter. He moved with a calm, unstoppable authority directly toward Umbridge. "Professor McGonagall," he said, his voice carrying easily, "would you be so kind as to escort Sybil back to her quarters?"
Relief flooded McGonagall's face. She began steering the sobbing divination professor back towards the marble staircase.
"Headmaster Dumbledore!" Umbridge's voice was a sharp, sugary dagger. "I must remind you of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Three, properly enacted by the Ministry. The power to dismiss failing teachers now rests with the High Inquisitor."
"You have the power to dismiss, Dolores," Dumbledore replied, his blue eyes icy. "You do not have the power to evict. That authority remains with the headmaster of this school. Professor Trelawney's rooms are her home until she chooses to leave."
The standoff was electric. The entire hall held its breath.
But then, a sudden, strangled gasp broke the silence.
Professor Trelawney, halfway up the first step, went rigid in McGonagall's arms. Her eyes, magnified behind her glasses, rolled back until only the whites showed. Her voice, when it came, was not her own—it was deep, harsh, and echoing, as if spoken from the bottom of a well.
"It… approaches…" she croaked. "The serpent coils… around the heart of the school… The fool… plays with fire… and will be… consumed…"
She sagged, the strange voice gone, and would have collapsed entirely if not for McGonagall's firm grip.
"Sybil! Sybil, what is it?" McGonagall cried, looking desperately at Dumbledore. "Headmaster, I think… I think she's had a vision!"
The colour drained from Umbridge's face. The smugness vanished, replaced by something colder: fear. She had demanded a prophecy, and against all odds, she had gotten one. And it sounded nothing like a fake.
(End of Chapter)
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