The road into Hogsmeade Village had long since filled with anticipation of the first Hogsmeade visit. It was the kind of day most of the villagers looked forward to.
At the far edge of the village, two figures moved more slowly. They kept to the edges of the road, their pace measured, their eyes watchful in a way that did not match the carefree energy around them.
David Miles adjusted the worn collar of his cloak, his expression set in quiet tension. Beside him, Melissa kept her hood low, her gaze flicking from one passerby to another without ever lingering too long.
"Still think this is a good idea?" she muttered.
David let out a slow breath. "No."
He paused, then added, "But we came anyway."
Melissa gave a quiet snort. "Because of him."
David nodded once.
Remus Lupin.
The name alone carried weight—more than trust, more than coin. Lupin did not make requests lightly, and he did not waste what little influence he had on things that didn't matter.
"He wouldn't send us into something we couldn't handle," David said.
Melissa glanced at him sideways. "He also wouldn't usually involve us in something dangerous."
That was true—and that was what made the situation feel wrong.
They had done dangerous work before. Illegal work. Desperate work. That was the reality of their lives. Being werewolves meant doors were closed before they could even knock, and the few that opened rarely led to anything respectable.
So they took what they could.
They survived how they could.
But this…
"This feels different," Melissa said quietly.
David didn't argue. He couldn't.
The pay alone had been enough to raise suspicion. Enough gold to live comfortably for a year—maybe more. No one paid like that for something simple.
They stopped before the crooked, weathered sign of the Hog's Head Inn. The wood creaked faintly in the wind, the building beneath it leaning just enough to make it seem like it might collapse if pushed too hard.
David hesitated.
"You're sure about this?"
Melissa looked at him, then sighed. "We already took the job."
That settled it.
The meeting had been brief.
The inn had been nearly empty, its usual dim lighting and stale smell making it easy to disappear into shadow. And their employer—
Had been a boy.
Fifteen.
Maybe sixteen.
At first glance, it had felt almost absurd.
Until he spoke.
There had been no hesitation in his voice. He had spoken to them the way experienced men spoke to each other—with clarity, precision, and complete control of the situation.
That was when they knew.
This wasn't a child.
And now, as they walked away from the village, that realization lingered like a weight neither of them could ignore.
"He knew what he was doing," David muttered.
They left the main road, cutting across the outskirts toward a place most people avoided without question.
The Shrieking Shack.
Even in daylight, it looked wrong. The wood was rotting, the windows broken, the structure leaning in a way that suggested it had no interest in remaining standing. There was something about it—something that clung to the air around it—that made most people instinctively keep their distance.
Melissa shivered as they approached. "I hate this place."
"Good thing we're not staying," David replied.
He pushed the door open, the hinges protesting with a long, drawn-out creak. They stepped inside.
Dust. Silence. Decay.
Perfect.
David set the bag down carefully on the floor, his movements deliberate. "Let's see what he gave us."
Melissa knelt beside him and opened it slowly.
The first thing they saw was gold.
A pouch stamped with the mark of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, heavy and unmistakably full. Even before touching it, they could tell there was more than promised.
Melissa inhaled sharply. "That's…"
"…more than we agreed on," David finished.
David reached further into the bag.
Clothes. Neatly folded. Clean. Precise.
Then—
Two small vials.
He picked them up carefully, reading the labels.
Male.
Female.
Melissa leaned closer, her expression tightening.
"…Polyjuice."
Silence settled between them for a moment.
There was no turning back now.
They moved quickly.
Clothes were discarded and hidden in the least filthy corner they could find. The replacements were put on carefully, each piece adjusted exactly as instructed. Nothing was left to chance.
Then came the potions.
Melissa hesitated only for a second before uncorking hers and drinking. David followed immediately after.
The transformation was instant—and brutal.
Bones shifted with sharp, cracking sounds. Muscles twisted and reshaped beneath their skin. Their features warped, stretched, and reformed into something entirely different.
Melissa gasped as her voice changed, becoming higher, smoother, carrying a tone of authority she had never possessed before.
David staggered once, then forced himself upright.
He caught sight of his reflection in a cracked piece of glass.
Staring back at him was Cornelius Fudge.
Beside him, Melissa blinked as she adjusted the bright pink robes now wrapped around her form.
"Well…" she said, her new voice dripping with unnatural sweetness. "…this is unsettling."
She glanced down at herself, then smirked faintly.
Dolores Umbridge.
David rolled his shoulders, settling into the posture, the presence, the authority that came with the identity.
"Stay focused," he said.
They finished dressing, every detail checked and corrected until nothing seemed out of place. When they stepped back outside, the change was immediate.
Heads turned.
Conversations faltered.
Because the Minister of Magic had just walked into Hogsmeade.
And his High Inquisitor stood beside him.
A witch hurried toward them, eyes wide with surprise. "Minister! I didn't expect—"
David raised a hand sharply, cutting her off.
"Not now."
The tone was perfect. Dismissive.
The witch stopped mid-step, apologized quickly, and backed away without question.
Melissa leaned slightly toward him, her voice low. "…Convincing."
David didn't respond.
They walked on.
Speaking quietly when necessary, but mostly silent. Every step was measured. Every glance controlled. Anyone who approached was dismissed with a gesture, a look, or a single word.
Because no one questioned authority.
And as they moved deeper into Hogsmeade, the illusion held perfectly.
The The Three Broomsticks Inn was louder than usual.
Students filled nearly every table, their voices overlapping in bursts of laughter and half-finished stories. Butterbeer flowed freely, mugs clinking against one another as the hum of the room built into something lively and constant. It was the kind of chaos Hogsmeade thrived on—a temporary freedom carved out between classes, rules, and responsibilities.
But not everyone there had come to relax.
Near the window, where she could watch both the entrance and the street beyond, sat Rita Skeeter. Her quill hovered just above parchment, tapping lightly in a rhythm that betrayed her impatience. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, moved constantly across the room, measuring every face, every movement, every possibility.
Beside her stood a nervous wizard clutching a modified camera. It was small, discreet, and far too sophisticated for something meant to be legal. The enchantments placed upon it ensured silence, no flash, no trace—exactly the kind of tool that would get both of them in trouble if anyone looked too closely.
"They're late," Rita said, her voice edged with irritation.
"They're students," the cameraman replied uncertainly. "They're probably just—"
Rita leaned forward, her lips curling into something faintly amused. "No. They're avoiding."
She reached into her handbag and pulled out the letter again, smoothing it against the table. She had already read it more times than she cared to admit, memorizing every word, every implication.
There will be a story.
Helios Black. Rose Potter.
Bring your camera.
No flash. No sound.
Rita's smile returned, thin and knowing.
"Oh, there will be a story…"
Her gaze swept the room once more, slower this time, more deliberate. Every table. Every corner. Every cluster of students.
No Rose Potter.
No Helios Black.
Her irritation sharpened.
"Useless," she muttered under her breath.
With a decisive motion, she stood. "Come on."
The cameraman barely had time to react before she swept past him, already moving toward the door. He scrambled after her, clutching the camera tightly as they stepped out into the street.
Hogsmeade was alive.
Shops were crowded, laughter spilling out into the open air, voices rising and falling in overlapping conversations. It was chaos—but predictable chaos, the kind that could be read if one knew what to look for.
Rita's eyes moved constantly.
Searching.
"Where would they be…" she murmured.
Then she stopped.
Her gaze locked onto two figures walking side by side through the crowd.
Her eyes widened, just slightly.
"Is that—"
"Yes," she whispered, her voice sharpening with interest.
Cornelius Fudge.
And beside him—
Dolores Umbridge.
For a brief moment, confusion flickered across Rita's face.
"What are they doing here?"
The Minister of Magic, in Hogsmeade, without announcement? Without escort? Without even the illusion of formality?
That alone was strange.
But it wasn't what held her attention.
It was how they moved.
She narrowed her eyes, her mind shifting gears instantly.
"They're… avoiding people."
The cameraman blinked. "What?"
"Look," Rita said, her tone sharp.
Ahead of them, Fudge raised a hand as a witch approached. The gesture was abrupt, dismissive, cutting her off mid-sentence without even a pause. He didn't stop. Didn't acknowledge her beyond that.
Umbridge stayed close.
Too close.
"They're not acting like officials," Rita murmured.
Something clicked into place.
She turned, her decision made in an instant.
"Forget the kids."
"What?" the cameraman whispered.
"This is better," she said, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Much better."
Her voice dropped lower, more controlled. "Follow them."
They moved carefully, keeping just enough distance to avoid attention while staying close enough not to lose sight. Rita blended into the crowd with practiced ease, her presence fading into the background even as her mind raced ahead.
The Ministry.
The Prophet.
The articles.
She had fun writing articles what the Ministry demanded for months—carefully crafted narratives, softened truths, outright distortions when necessary. And when public opinion turned—when Rose Potter humiliated the ministry in front of everyone—Fudge had retreated.
Denied involvement.
Left the Daily Prophet to carry the consequences.
Rita smiled coldly.
"Oh, Minister…"
"Let's see how clean your hands really are."
Ahead, the two figures turned off the main road, slipping into a quieter alley tucked behind a closed shop. The noise of the village faded quickly there, replaced by stillness and shadow.
Rita slowed immediately, raising a hand to signal the cameraman.
"Ready."
He nodded, adjusting the lens with shaking hands.
They edged forward, silent, hidden by the angle of the alley and the dim light.
"…oh."
Her lips parted slightly, her expression shifting from curiosity to something far more delighted.
"Well…"
In the shadows, the Minister and his High Inquisitor stood close.
A hand lingered where it shouldn't.
A glance that said too much.
And then—
They kissed.
The cameraman reacted instantly.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Rita's smile widened, sharp and predatory.
"Well, well…"
She leaned slightly closer, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"So that's how it works."
Her mind raced, assembling the pieces with frightening speed.
"How does a nobody rise so quickly?"
"How does someone without influence gain power overnight?"
Her eyes gleamed with triumph.
"Now we know."
The cameraman lowered the camera slightly, his voice tight. "…we should go."
Rita didn't move immediately. She watched a moment longer, committing every detail to memory.
Then she turned.
"Yes," she said lightly. "We should."
As they walked away, she tucked her quill behind her ear, already planning, already writing the story in her mind before ink ever touched parchment.
Because this—
This was bigger than any school scandal.
Bigger than Rose Potter.
This was the fall of a Minister.
The exposure of a secret.
Rita let out a soft, satisfied laugh.
"Oh, they'll love this…"
The Daily Prophet had been cornered, starved of leverage, forced to bend.
Now—
It had teeth again.
And Rita Skeeter—
Was about to make sure—
They used them.
The owls came in a storm.
They always did, especially at breakfast, but that morning carried something different—an edge, a kind of urgency that rippled through the Great Hall before anyone even understood why. Wings beat against the high rafters in a chaotic flurry, feathers drifting down as bundles of newspapers were dropped across long tables.
Students reached instinctively. Hands snatched copies mid-air. Papers were unfolded, shared, pulled closer.
And then—
Silence.
Table by table, row by row, like a wave breaking against stone. Conversations faltered. Laughter died mid-breath. Heads bent over pages, eyes widening, expressions shifting.
At the Gryffindor table, Hermione caught her copy of the Daily Prophet just before it hit the table. She unfolded it quickly, expecting nothing more than the usual carefully managed headlines.
Her eyes widened instantly.
"Rose… you need to see this."
Rose leaned closer, curiosity turning to focus in an instant. Ron and Neville followed without needing to be asked.
The front page filled the entire spread.
There was no headline large enough to compete with it.
A photograph.
Moving.
Impossible to mistake.
Cornelius Fudge—
Dolores Umbridge.
Kissing.
Ron choked on his breath. "Bloody—"
He grabbed the paper closer, staring as if it might change under scrutiny.
"That's real?!"
Neville blinked rapidly, leaning in. "I… I think it is."
Hermione had already moved past the image. Her eyes raced across the article beneath it, scanning with precision, picking apart every line.
"It's not just the photograph," she said quietly.
Rose followed her gaze, reading the text.
It detailed Umbridge's past—her time at Hogwarts, her examination results, the barely acceptable marks she had received, the absence of proper NEWT-level qualifications.
"How did she even get that position?" Ron muttered, still staring at the page.
Hermione didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
The article answered for her.
"…rapid advancement through Ministry ranks…"
"…direct patronage…"
"…unusual favoritism…"
And then—
"…a relationship with the Minister of Magic…"
Neville inhaled sharply. Ron let out a low whistle, leaning back slightly.
"Well," he said, almost impressed in a grim way, "that explains a lot."
Hermione turned the page.
There was more.
A second article, this one focused entirely on Fudge. It didn't hold back either.
"…a married man…"
"…abuse of office…"
"…improper influence…"
Around them, the hall erupted.
Students stood from their seats, leaning over tables, calling out to one another.
"Let me see—"
"Is that really—"
"No way—"
Voices overlapped, rising into a chaotic buzz that filled the hall. Even the other houses had abandoned their usual separations.
At the Slytherin table, papers were being passed rapidly, whispers spreading just as fast. At Ravenclaw, students were already debating the implications in low but intense tones. At Hufflepuff, shock gave way to murmurs of anger and disbelief.
And at the High Table—
Stillness.
Dolores Umbridge sat exactly where she always did. Pink, precise, composed down to the smallest detail.
For a moment, she didn't understand what was happening.
Then she noticed the noise.
The way students were looking at her.
"What is going on?"
No one answered.
She turned sharply to a nearby prefect. "You—bring me a copy of that paper. Immediately."
The prefect hesitated only for a second before obeying, hurrying through the chaos to retrieve one.
The walk back felt longer than it should have. Every second stretched as the noise grew louder, the whispers sharper, the attention more focused.
Until finally, the paper was placed in front of her.
Umbridge picked it up.
And saw.
The photograph.
Her hands trembled.
"No…"
Her voice was faint, almost unrecognizable.
"No, that's not—"
Her eyes raced across the article, scanning faster, searching for something—anything—that would undo what she was seeing.
Each line was another blow.
Her past.
Her qualifications.
Her rise.
Everything laid bare for anyone to read.
Her face drained of color.
"That's not me!"
The words came out louder now, sharper, edged with panic.
"This is false—this is fabricated!"
But no one believed her.
Because everyone could see it.
Everyone could read it.
And more importantly—
Everyone had already decided.
Around the hall, whispers grew louder, no longer hidden.
"So that's how she got the job…"
"Of course it is…"
"Explains everything…"
Even some of the professors exchanged glances—subtle, quiet, but unmistakable.
Umbridge stood abruptly, her chair scraping harshly against the stone floor.
"This is slander!"
Her voice echoed across the hall.
"No one is to discuss this!"
But that only made it worse.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron leaned back, shaking his head slowly.
"Well…"
He glanced at Rose, then Hermione.
"…that's one way to lose authority."
Hermione didn't smile. She was still reading, still thinking, her mind already moving ahead of the moment.
"This changes things," she said quietly.
Authority was never just about power.
It was about perception.
And today—
That perception had shattered.
At the High Table, Umbridge stood frozen, the newspaper crumpling slightly in her grip, her eyes burning with a mixture of fury and something dangerously close to fear.
Because she understood now.
It was a calculated strike.
Somewhere, someone had planned this—timed it, executed it, and made sure it would land where it hurt most.
Her fingers tightened further, creasing the page.
"This isn't over…"
Author's Note:
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