Dolores Umbridge was, of course, aware of the rumors outside. People were saying that she had spanked the handsome Harry Potter, fondled his
Dolores Umbridge was, of course, aware of the rumors outside. People were saying that she had spanked the handsome Harry Potter, fondled his bottom, and even done many unspeakable things to it.
At that time, Dolores Umbridge had already wanted to deal with the students spreading such rumors.
But there were far too many of them. Just as she was about to punish a group of students here, more rumors would flare up somewhere else.
As the saying goes, "A single mouth can spread rumors faster than legs can chase them."
What made it worse was that she didn't yet know what her little master thought about it. She had only just left the Headmaster's office after discussing how to handle the matter, when she immediately ran into Peeves spreading the rumors again—and this time, the gossip had escalated!
Harry Potter was supposedly planning to marry Dolores Umbridge after graduation, and rumor had it the Headmaster himself had already agreed.
"Headmaster! Congratulations on finally getting what you wished for."
Peeves congratulated the people at the office door while drifting backward.
"Stop right there!"
Furious, Dolores Umbridge pulled out her wand, her hand trembling as she pointed it at Peeves. But the sly mischief-maker quickly hid behind a few Gryffindor students.
"Best wishes for your future children! I'll take my leave now."
Peeves dove straight into the ground, disappearing as easily as ever.
Unable to catch Peeves, Dolores Umbridge naturally turned all her wrath on the students. They didn't have the ability to slip through walls, so not one of them could escape.
"Listen carefully. Forget the rumor you just heard. And for believing it, you'll all be punished—one week of labor service."
The moment she pronounced the punishment, the young lions' faces fell.
They regretted ever stopping to listen to Peeves' nonsense. Now they were stuck with a week of labor service. It seemed they would be carving words into their arms again.
Seeing their dejected faces lifted both Dolores Umbridge's and the handsome Harry Potter's spirits.
Indeed, her happiness was built on the suffering of others. With smug satisfaction, Dolores Umbridge left. There were still countless errors waiting for her to correct throughout Hogwarts, and she intended to bring the entire school under absolute order.
The little Gryffindors shivered as they watched the great demon—or rather, the great toad—swagger away in triumph.
"Potter! What do we do? We didn't say a thing! It was Peeves who blocked us."
A younger boy, near tears, clutched Harry Potter's robes and asked.
"Sorry. I can't help you either."
The handsome Harry Potter rolled up his sleeves, revealing words carved into both arms.
Everywhere, blood-red letters displayed grim warnings, a chilling testament to what labor service entailed.
In truth, Harry had only one real phrase etched into his arm. The other inscriptions were illusions conjured when he rolled up his sleeves, but the effect was overwhelming for the younger students.
The sight was enough to frighten one of them into fainting on the spot.
"Cruciatus!""Cruciatus!"
Meanwhile, in Number Four, Privet Drive, Death Eaters were feasting on Aunt Petunia's food while torturing Vernon and Dudley Dursley.
A simple Legilimency spell revealed how the Dursleys had treated Harry over the years.
From childhood he had served them like a house-elf, been bullied mercilessly by Dudley, beaten and used as a punching bag by Vernon, forced to live in the cramped cupboard under the stairs, and fed scraps. They had even intercepted his Hogwarts acceptance letters.
If all this had only been Harry's misfortune, the Death Eaters might not have cared.
But now the situation was different—Voldemort and Harry shared the same body. Everything Harry had suffered was now Voldemort's personal experience. Considering how Voldemort had treated his own family, it was clear how much he hated the Dursleys.
Under the Imperius Curse, Aunt Petunia trembled as she cooked for them, listening to the cries of her husband and son being tortured. Without the curse, she would have been paralyzed with terror.
For more than a decade, the Dursleys had discriminated against and abused Harry as much as they could without breaking the law. They had wrung every ounce of misery from him. Even now, with Voldemort sharing Harry's body, he could not forget those humiliations.
Retribution had finally arrived. The only witch in the house who might have stopped it was the one forced to make it possible.
Aunt Petunia wanted to cry but had no tears. Her hands moved automatically as she worked.
Apart from the obese father and son rolling on the floor, there was one outsider present: Mr. Ollivander.
The Death Eaters had forced him to watch, making him stand there as they tortured others.
The experience was unbearable. With screams echoing before him, Ollivander could only pray for it to end quickly.
The Ministry of Magic was nearly in chaos. This was the second Dark Mark to appear after the Quidditch incident.
The first could be brushed off as the work of an escaped Death Eater—or even dismissed as mischief.
But the second? How could the Ministry explain it now? It happened right after the Death Eater prison break and the attack on Azkaban.
And they still tried to deceive the public by claiming Dementors had devoured the Death Eaters, leaving not even bodies behind. Who would believe that? If they were all dead, then who attacked Ollivander's wand shop? More "mischief"?
Public skepticism toward the Ministry grew stronger. This was only the beginning of Death Eater activity. If it became routine, it would mark the arrival of another dark era. Only decisive action now could stop the situation from worsening.
But the crux of the problem lay in the Ministry's attitude. A proactive Ministry could solve almost anything. Yet Minister Fudge's mind was addled; he obsessively believed everything was an Order of the Phoenix conspiracy to steal his position.
Fudge devoted all his energy to spying on the Order and blocking their efforts.
As the saying goes, "You need not fear an enemy like Voldemort—what you should fear is an ally like Fudge." He was a master of dragging everyone down.
Another cold, lonely night fell. Britain slept while a shadow drifted across the skies, searching for a target.
"This is it. Nothing but outsiders. Trash of society. The cancer of Britain."
The handsome Harry Potter had found a settlement. It was a camp where the government kept thousands of illegal immigrants, all crammed into tents in squalor. There was no happiness there, no freedom—only endless waiting for immigration approvals.
Harry descended and released all the Dementors he carried. They needed feeding. Starved for too long, they would weaken.
Even pets needed care. How much more so for these magical creatures?
"Go! Feast on them as you please. Revel to your heart's content!"
From Voldemort's perspective as a pure-blood supremacist, these immigrants were even more detestable than Muggles. They would never integrate into British society, but instead carve out their own insular enclaves.
They were like cancer in the body. In its benign stage, it consumed resources. In its malignant stage, it killed.
And removing cancer was costly. Surgery might excise it, but metastasis would spread its toxic ideas, leaving hidden poison throughout the body. Cut away one tumor, and another would form elsewhere.
For those below—perhaps "innocent" people—the best fate was to wither slowly, just like now.
The handsome Harry Potter felt no guilt. In his mind, whether it was Voldemort or Harry, both personas embraced this choice without hesitation.
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