Chapter Text
The desks in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had multiplied like fungus. Cramped, creaky things shoved together in uneven rows to accommodate the ridiculous number of students forced into detention. Every Gryffindor who’d so much as glanced toward the Quidditch pitch during tryouts had been summoned, and Umbridge, smiling sweetly, had insisted it was a matter of discipline .
Hermione sat stiff-backed near the middle, flanked by Lavender on one side and Ron on the other. Every Initiate had shown up as instructed. Every Initiate had been warned.
“Just pretend to write,” Hermione had whispered as they filed in, her voice like silk over steel. “The spell’s already active. Let her bleed for it.”
The dreaded black quills had been neatly laid out on each desk. No ink wells, of course. No need.
Umbridge stood at the front of the room like a toad on a throne, her pudgy hands folded neatly, her lips stretched into that saccharine sneer that made Hermione’s stomach twist. The moment everyone was seated, she began:
“You will write: I must not disrupt the integrity of Hogwarts tradition. One hundred times. Neatly. Silently. And without complaint.”
She paused, then turned her beady gaze on Harry.
“Mr. Potter,” she said, her voice thick with sugar and venom, “you may continue with your usual lines.”
Harry's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He picked up the quill.
Around the room, a few students exchanged glances. Michael Corner had already started, his face pale and strained.
Hermione picked up her own quill and pressed it to the parchment—hovering, not moving. Around her, the other Initiates followed her lead, quills scratching the air in feigned motion. Ron’s quill was upside down. Lavender’s hand trembled slightly, but she nodded once when Hermione glanced her way.
From the front of the room came a sharp, involuntary gasp.
Umbridge clutched her hand suddenly, eyes wide.
The words had begun to bloom across the back of her skin. Deep crimson scratches spelling out her own cruel command:
I must not disrupt the integrity of Hogwarts tradition.
She stumbled back, knocking over her chair.
“Stop that! STOP WRITING!” she shrieked, her voice cracking.
No one moved.
The only sound was the quiet scratching of false strokes and the soft, sick sound of flesh tearing itself open.
The first scream came as the students realized what was happening.
It echoed down the corridor like a snapped violin string. Sharp, high, and gut-piercing.
Students paused mid-conversation, turning toward the sound. A few first-years dropped their books.
Hermione didn’t flinch. She sat quietly with a look of mock horror on her face.
Harry’s eyes darted across the room to Hermione.
She didn’t speak, didn’t dare with Umbridge still standing there bleeding and wild-eyed, but she caught Harry’s gaze and gave a subtle nod of her head. Later , it said. I’ll explain everything later.
But there was something behind her eyes. Fire. Defiance. And Harry understood.
He glanced back at Umbridge.
She was on her feet now, unsteady, swaying like a porcelain doll about to crack. The students near the front gasped and leaned away as they caught sight of her hands, bloodied and scrawled with jagged script, as though the words had been carved into her skin by an invisible knife.
I must not disrupt the integrity of Hogwarts tradition.
Over and over again.
Her mouth opened to speak, but no sound came. Just a rattling breath, the kind that made the hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end.
The room had gone completely still. No one was pretending to write anymore.
Harry sat at the far end, his parchment still in front of him. He picked up the black quill with deliberate slowness, held it to the paper, and then, as casually as if he were signing his name, pressed it to his forehead.
He didn’t flinch.
The words appeared instantly. Bright, thick, gleaming like fresh blood across Umbridge’s face.
I Must Not Tell Lies
Gasps rippled across the room. A few students stifled yelps. Even Ron sat back in his seat, blinking in open disbelief.
Umbridge clawed at her forehead with a guttural shriek, stumbling backward into the desk behind her. Her eyes were wide, darting from student to student, desperate for control, but no one moved to help her.
No one moved at all.
Hermione watched with a terrifying calm.
Umbridge had wanted obedience.
She got a lesson instead.
The silence shattered as the heavy oak doors of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom slammed open.
Professor Dumbledore swept in first, his robes billowing behind him like a thundercloud, followed closely by Professor McGonagall, whose usually composed face was twisted into a storm of fury. The moment their eyes landed on Umbridge, clutching her forehead, hands stained with fresh blood, the air in the room seemed to shift, thick with crackling power and outrage.
“What in Merlin’s name is going on here?” McGonagall’s voice cracked like a whip through the stunned silence. Her gaze flew over the classroom: the extra desks, the terrified students, the quills clutched like weapons. Then to the writing on Umbridge’s hands. And finally, the unmistakable red letters now branded across Umbridge’s forehead:
I Must Not Tell Lies.
McGonagall’s nostrils flared. “Albus.”
Dumbledore moved slowly, almost too calmly. “Dolores,” he said softly, “would you care to explain this?”
Umbridge tried to compose herself, straightening her pink cardigan as if that could restore any sense of control. But her trembling fingers betrayed her. “These students,” she croaked, “have been insubordinate. Defiant. They needed to be reminded…”
McGonagall rounded on her. “With Blood Quills?” she hissed, voice sharp with disgust. “Are you mad?!”
“They were disrespecting authority!” Umbridge shrieked. “Their behavior was dangerous, rebellious…”
“They are children,” McGonagall snapped, striding toward her with barely restrained fury. “And you carved into their skin?”
A few of the students shifted uncomfortably. Hermione’s hands clenched tightly in her lap. Ron was frozen, and Lavender was quietly sobbing beside him. Only Harry remained still, quill in hand, staring down Umbridge like he was daring her to say one more word.
Dumbledore raised a hand to McGonagall, not to stop her, but to steady the room.
“I think,” he said quietly, “it would be wise to clear the room.”
McGonagall gave a curt nod and turned toward the students. “Everyone out. Now.”
The students didn’t need to be told twice. Chairs scraped across the floor and parchment was left behind in piles as they filed quickly out of the room, some still casting glances back at the pink-clad figure who now seemed much smaller than before.
As they passed through the door, Hermione felt Harry press a note into her hand. She looked down at it briefly. Just two words.
“Thank you.”
She didn’t say anything back. Not yet.
But she didn’t let go of the note.
***
The next morning, the Great Hall was unusually quiet for a Thursday. Conversations were hushed, eyes darted toward the staff table with uneasy anticipation, and not a single student had dared to complain about the slightly dry porridge.
Umbridge sat rigid in her seat, a fork clutched in her hand like a dagger, her face frozen in a mask of tight-lipped fury. Her usual pink robes seemed almost to vibrate with suppressed rage, and the garish bow in her hair drooped slightly, as though it too was afraid.
A soft pink hue still clung to her skin, faint, but noticeable. The words I Must Not Tell Lies , once carved into her flesh by the very quills she’d used on the students, had been hastily healed, likely with the most powerful Ministry-grade magic available. But magic or not, her skin hadn’t fully recovered. It blushed an angry, unnatural pink across her hands, neck, and even faintly on her forehead.
Her eyes scanned the student body like a predator trying to find its prey. Somewhere among them, she knew, was the student, or students, who had jinxed the Blood Quills. She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t eaten. She had only burned with one thought:
Find them. Crush them. Make an example.
But just as she reached for her tea, the ceiling above the High Table opened with a violent whoosh, and the air filled with a deafening roar.
Howlers.
Dozens of them.
More than thirty red envelopes dropped like flaming bombs onto her plate, clattering across her tea saucer, her eggs, her lap. A few even hit her in the face.
There was a beat of stunned silence.
“YOU SICK WOMAN!”
“MY SON HAS BLOOD ON HIS HANDS—FROM SCHOOL!”
“WHAT KIND OF TEACHER USES DARK OBJECTS ON CHILDREN?!”
“YOU SHOULD BE IN AZKABAN!”
“MONSTER!”
“I’M PULLING MY DAUGHTER FROM HOGWARTS IMMEDIATELY—”
The howlers screamed over one another, voices echoing through the rafters. Students stared, wide-eyed, half-horrified and half-enthralled as Umbridge frantically tried to bat the letters away, but every time she silenced one, three more took its place.
Smoke curled from the corners of the envelopes.
The enchanted howlers shook the very air around her.
And seated beside her, Minerva McGonagall sipped her tea with elegance and steel in her gaze.
She leaned slightly toward Umbridge, eyes cool and voice calm.
“I took the liberty of notifying the parents of every student you harmed,” she said. “Since, as I suspected, the Ministry has done nothing.”
Dumbledore said nothing but glanced over the rim of his goblet, his expression unreadable. But his twinkling eyes… they told another story entirely.
Umbridge’s fists trembled as the last howler exploded into confetti-like ash.
The Hall held its breath.
She stood up, every eye on her, trembling with rage and humiliation, and stomped out of the Great Hall.
As the doors slammed shut behind her, a slow ripple of laughter broke across the Gryffindor table, then Hufflepuff, and finally Ravenclaw.
Harry turned to Hermione, smirking. “Well, someone’s not having a very magical morning.”
Hermione smiled, but didn’t answer.
The spell had done its work.
Silence settled over the Great Hall like fog. Even the usual clink of cutlery was absent, as if the entire student body was collectively holding its breath.
Dumbledore rose slowly from his seat, his long, plum-colored robes trailing slightly behind him. His expression remained calm, but the corners of his eyes were sharper than usual. Less twinkle, more steel.
“Thank you, everyone,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind, echoing through the stillness. “Breakfast is now concluded. I believe it is time we all made our way to our morning lessons.”
There was a murmur of movement, chairs scraping and bags rustling as students stood. No one dared speak loudly, not after what they’d just witnessed. A few students glanced back toward the staff table as they filed out, half-expecting Umbridge to storm back in like a pink hurricane. She didn’t.
As Hermione stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder, she caught McGonagall’s eye. The older witch gave the faintest of nods o fapproval.
Pansy leaned closer, lips barely moving. “I don’t know what you did, Granger... but I wish I’d done it first.”
Hermione gave her a tight, satisfied smile. “Don’t thank me yet.”
They followed the current of students toward the doors, where Harry was waiting in the crowd. He gave Hermione a long, loaded look, one brow raised. She shook her head slightly, a silent promise: Later.
Ron and Lavender trailed behind, Ron looking distinctly unnerved while Lavender cast nervous glances toward the staff table. She leaned into Ron as they exited.
“Do you think it was Hermione?”
Ron grimaced. “Does it matter?”
As the Great Hall emptied, Dumbledore stood at the top of the dais, watching the students file out with a thoughtful expression. His hands clasped behind his back, his gaze swept across the hall, lingering a moment on the pile of scorched envelopes at Umbridge’s place.
When the last student was gone, he turned toward McGonagall.
“She’s not going to take this lying down,” he said quietly.
“No,” McGonagall agreed. “But it’s about time she learned. Neither will we.”
By the end of the day, four new proclamations had been nailed to the ever-growing wall of decrees just outside the Great Hall. Filch looked almost gleeful as he hammered each one into place, his nails crooked and splinters flying with every swing. The students gathered around the noticeboard, murmuring uneasily.
Educational Decree Number Thirty-one
Staff may not contact the families of students without the express consent of the Ministry and the High Inquisitor.
Educational Decree Number Thirty-two
Any student or staff found to have performed magic on the High Inquisitor shall be subject to immediate expulsion and legal prosecution.
Educational Decree Number Thirty-three
Only spells taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry are authorized to be used by staff and students. List of approved spells and charms can be found in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Educational Decree Number Thirty-four
The Inquisitorial Squad has been formally instated. Students interested in applying should submit their names directly to Professor Umbridge in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
A smaller parchment pinned beneath the final decree read in frilly, over-enthusiastic script:
“Perks include: House Points, authority over peers, and the honor of upholding order at Hogwarts.”
Hermione scoffed audibly. “House points? Really?”
“Perks, my arse,” Pansy muttered beside her. “It’s just a recruitment flyer for snitches and bootlickers.”
Ron, who had been uncharacteristically quiet all day, narrowed his eyes at the sign. “She’s trying to build her own army.”
“She’s just furious she can’t touch us without bleeding for it now,” Harry said, voice low. “And she’s desperate. This... this is retaliation.”
Hermione nodded, her jaw tight. “She’s not going to stop here. The Inquisitorial Squad is going to be her eyes and ears. She’s trying to root out dissent.”
“And she’s starting with anyone who was in that detention room,” Pansy added, her voice clipped with frustration. “I already heard some Slytherins whispering about volunteering. Zabini shut them down, but it won’t take long before someone bites.”
Lavender and Ron exchanged uneasy looks, and even Dean, standing a little ways off, looked grim.
Hermione pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and turned from the decrees. “We need to meet tonight. Brotherhood only. Before extra lessons tonight. We’ll use the Den.”
Harry’s gaze flicked toward her. “You think she suspects someone from the Brotherhood?”
“I think she suspects everyone,” Hermione said. “And that makes her dangerous. We need to stay three steps ahead of her.”
As they walked away from the decrees, shoes clicking against the cold stone floor, Hermione glanced over her shoulder, eyes scanning for eavesdroppers. Once she was sure the coast was clear, she leaned closer to the group.
“We should consider putting someone on the inside,” she said quietly. “Someone who can keep an eye on what the Inquisitorial Squad is doing. And what Umbridge is planning.”
Ron immediately recoiled. “You mean one of us join her little Ministry cheerleading squad?”
“I didn’t say one of you ,” Hermione replied pointedly, raising an eyebrow at him. “I said someone.”
Pansy smirked. “You mean Draco.”
Hermione nodded. “He’s perfect for it. He’s a pureblood, already in her good graces just by breathing. And she’s far too prejudiced to suspect he’d be spying for us.”
Ron looked like he had bit into something sour. “You think she’d actually trust Malfoy?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ron, she practically drools when she sees a pureblood pedigree. She probably keeps a scrapbook of bloodlines under her pillow.”
Harry let out a laugh, despite himself. “She’d probably knight him with one of her kitten plates.”
Pansy chuckled darkly. “And here I thought the only thing she salivated over was Minister Fudge’s approval.”
“Or burning books that dare mention Muggle authors,” Hermione added under her breath.
“Alright, alright,” Harry muttered. “So Draco joins the Inquisitorial Squad and plays spy. That still means he has to play nice with people like Warrington and Montague.”
“He can handle it,” Hermione said confidently. “And if anyone can feed Umbridge exactly what she wants to hear while twisting it to our advantage, it’s him.”
Harry glanced over at her. “You already talked to him about this, didn’t you?”
Hermione gave him a sly smile. “Not officially. But I will.”
They turned down the corridor toward their classroom, the tension in their group not fully gone, but replaced by something more focused. Hermione’s plan was risky, but if it worked, they’d have eyes where no one else could see.
And with Umbridge tightening her grip around the castle, that was exactly what they needed.
***
The flickering green flames of the Den of Knowledge cast shifting patterns across the floor as the initiates gathered in a loose circle. Books and scrolls hovered lazily in the air, untouched for once, as the air was thick with curiosity and tension.
Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Neville had arrived first, waiting near the central hearth. Their expressions relaxed, clearly untouched by the events of the previous night. The rest of the initiates filed in, still carrying the weight of detention and the echoes of Umbridge’s screams.
Hermione stood near the center, arms crossed, her tone measured but brisk.
“I figured we should all be on the same page,” she began, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “Especially those of you who weren’t in detention last night.”
Draco leaned against a carved oak pillar, brow arched. “Judging by the faces of the rest of you, I’m guessing it wasn’t just lines and hand cramps?”
Lavender gave a dry laugh. “Hand cramps would’ve been merciful. ”
Pansy crossed her arms and gestured for Hermione to continue. “Go on, Granger. Tell them.”
Draco’s face went ashen at her words, and he leapt to his feet. “A blood quill?” he gasped, eyes darting over Hermione’s arms and back.
Theo and Blaise exchanged horrified glances. Theo ran a hand through his hair, voice tight. “Those things carve words into your skin. Are you… hurt?”
Blaise stepped forward, concern etched on his features. “Show us, Hermione.”
Hermione gave a small, wry smile and gently eased Draco’s hand away from her arm. “Really, I’m fine,” she said softly, brushing the edge of her sleeve back into place.
Her words, calm and steady, were enough to ease the immediate panic in their eyes. Draco exhaled, running a hand through his hair, while Theo produced a flask of soothing salve. Blaise rested a reassuring hand on Hermione’s shoulder
Hermione sat up straighter, meeting their worried gazes with calm resolve. “I really am fine,” she said, voice steady. She paused, then offered them a small, confident smile. “And in case she tries to physically punish anyone again…”
She held up her wand with a flourish. “I quietly hexed Umbridge any physical pain she attempts to inflict on students now simply rebounds onto her instead.”
“She started bleeding,” Harry cut in, trying to contain the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not just a little. Anything we wrote started showing up on her. In our handwriting. In her skin.”
Draco’s jaw dropped. Theo let out a low whistle. Blaise stared at her, wide-eyed.
Hermione tucked her wand away. “So if she ever tries to reach for a quill again, she’ll end up writing lines in her own blood.” She leaned back, unshaken. “Trust me,I’ve got it covered.”
Draco let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s poetic.”
Theo snorted. “Are you telling me her own torture methods turned on her?”
“I mean, thats kind of hilarious,” Blaise admitted, his eyes glinting with dark amusement.
“It wasn’t hilarious,” Lavender interjected, her tone sharp and unexpected. “It was terrifying. We were all so confused. No one knew what was happening, and then Harry…he just… branded her across the forehead like a madman.”
“I was making a point,” Harry mumbled, trying not to grin.
Hermione stepped in before the conversation derailed completely. “The point is, she doesn’t know who or what caused it, and we need to keep it that way. She’s already issued three new decrees, one of which formed her personal little regime: the Inquisitorial Squad.”
She let that hang in the air for a moment before adding, “Which is why I think Draco should volunteer.”
A collective pause.
Draco blinked. “You want me to what now?”
“I know it sounds insane,” Hermione admitted. “But you’re the best person for it. She trusts purebloods implicitly. Especially ones with the right name. You can get close to her. Hear what she’s planning. Report back to us.”
Before Draco could respond, Blaise walked over with a wolfish grin.
“Well, well,” he said, hands in his pockets. “Whoring Draco out to Umbridge. Didn’t think we’d sink this low so soon, but I respect the hustle.”
Draco turned to glare at him. “It’s espionage.”
“It’s prostitution with extra Latin,” Blaise deadpanned.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “He’s not seducing her.”
Blaise made a thoughtful face. “Yet.”
Draco muttered something about smothering Blaise in his sleep, but the corners of his mouth betrayed the start of a reluctant smirk.
Theo leaned forward, intrigued. “You’d have access to the detentions, the patrol schedules, her classroom when we’re not around... It’s actually brilliant.”
Draco glanced at the others, clearly weighing the idea. “You think she’d actually believe I buy into her Ministry propaganda?”
Hermione gave him a wry look. “You could write 'Mudbloods Out' in glitter ink and she’d probably give you a medal.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “She’ll practically offer you a seat on her lap.”
Lavender gagged. “Merlin, please don’t joke about that.”
Draco ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Alright. I’ll do it. But I want a title. Something dramatic. Like ‘Pureblood Liaison to the Deranged.’”
Everyone chuckled, except Hermione, who looked deadly serious.
“Thank you,” she said. “We need this. She’s growing bolder, and we have to stay five steps ahead.”
Blaise clapped Draco on the back. “Spy work. Just like we always wanted.”
Theo raised a brow. “Let’s hope you’re better at it than you were at lying to Snape.”
As the laughter rippled through the room, Hermione allowed herself a brief smile, but deep down, she knew the stakes were rising. And this was just the beginning.