"Filius, I still think you were too impulsive," said Professor Sprout, frowning with concern inside the headmaster's office. "You shouldn't have killed the Dementor—you could've just driven it off."
"Sorry, I was just so angry," Professor Flitwick replied, his eyes still clouded with lingering fear. "Those creatures actually crept in through a window and made it all the way into the common room!"
"When I heard the screams and ran in, the Dementor was already preparing to feast. Those damned—" Flitwick's voice rose as he launched into a string of curses, growing harsher by the second.
None of the other professors stopped him.
Truth be told, if any of them had been in his position, they likely would've done the same.
Once Flitwick had vented enough, Professor Sprout continued, "Even though the Ministry people didn't say anything, we all know Fudge won't let this go. He's always treated the Dementors like the Ministry's private property."
"You can drop the euphemism," Snape said slowly from the side. "More accurately—his personal property."
"And I doubt that even if we'd treated the Dementors kindly, our dear Minister would be any more generous toward Hogwarts."
"He's been dissatisfied with the school for a while," Snape continued. "Ever since last year, when we refused his request for the Basilisk's corpse. And of course…" Snape gave Dumbledore a not-so-subtle glance. "That photo of Black appearing in The Daily Prophet."
Sirius Black appearing inside Hogwarts—right under the Dementors' watch—had caused a stir almost as great as his original escape from Azkaban.
Now, everyone knew the truth: the Dementors couldn't catch Black. And the Ministry's earlier promises printed in the newspapers? All a joke now.
"This whole so-called 'castle search' was nothing more than petty retaliation," Snape said coldly. "A missing Dementor? Laughable. Whoever thought up that excuse probably has less sense than Neville Longbottom."
"Severus!" Professor Sprout gasped. "You can't say that—Mr. Longbottom is a very bright child. Hardworking and kind. Don't you think you're being a little too biased?"
"Neville, bright?" Snape's tone shifted as if someone had just told him Christmas was canceled.
But the words had come from Professor Sprout, and for once, Snape couldn't argue.
After all, Neville's disastrous grades only had one shining exception: Herbology. He'd gotten top marks in her class every year.
"Enough," said Professor McGonagall. "Let's get back to the matter at hand. This isn't about Neville Longbottom's grades."
After all, Neville was in Gryffindor—and as Head of House, McGonagall had no interest in letting Snape continue using him as a punchline.
"If it's just this one incident, I don't think we need to worry too much," Dumbledore finally said, speaking for the first time. "The Ministry is not ruled by Cornelius alone. There are others there—reasonable ones—who can rein him in if he tries something foolish."
The message was clear: I have people in the Ministry. And if Fudge tries anything, they'll stop him.
The atmosphere in the office relaxed immediately.
Sprout stopped frowning, and Flitwick lifted his head, cheerfully starting a conversation with Professor Sinistra about heading to the Three Broomsticks later for a celebratory drink.
No matter what had happened, when Dumbledore said it was under control, they believed him.
"I'll go inform the ghosts so they can notify the students," said McGonagall, turning to leave the office.
"Oh, and Minerva," Dumbledore called after her. "Perhaps swing by the kitchens as well. A grand feast might help everyone feel a little less on edge."
"No problem," McGonagall nodded.
…
Ten minutes later, Nearly Headless Nick floated into the Gryffindor common room and delivered the good news with a grin.
Upon hearing that the Dementors had been driven out of the castle ahead of schedule, the students erupted in cheers.
Granted, it was Professor Flitwick who had slain the Dementor. If it had been McGonagall, they would've been even prouder.
Still, that didn't stop the celebration. Their cheers carried all the way upstairs.
Harold came down just as Fred caught sight of him.
"We were just about to come get you!" Fred waved. "Good news—the Dementors are gone!"
"I heard," Harold said, descending the stairs.
"Did you finish your wand-making?" George asked.
"Almost."
"Well, forget about it for now," George grinned. "Nick just told us—the school's throwing a feast at lunch!"
"And more importantly, the Quidditch match this afternoon!" Oliver Wood burst in, brimming with excitement. "I can't believe it—the game's only been delayed to this afternoon! I thought we'd have to wait till next week!"
"I can believe it," Fred muttered, glancing out the window at the pouring rain. "Why couldn't they have postponed it?"
Soon, everyone poured out of the common room and into the corridor.
There was no lingering chill—no trace of the icy dread they had braced for. In fact, the castle looked just as it had yesterday, only now it was much cleaner. The suits of armor gleamed like mirrors, and only a few portraits grumbled softly to themselves:
"Those layers of dust were there for a reason! They protected the frame!"
Lunch was grand—so grand it felt like Christmas had come early.
Whole roast chickens, piles of seared steaks stacked like mountains.
There were chocolate syrup tarts (a first), chocolate cookies, puddings—every dessert item seemed to be infused with chocolate.
Even some of the savory food wasn't safe.
"Is this a chocolate feast or what?" Ron asked, biting into a sandwich—only to find, as expected, a layer of chocolate spread inside.
"I think it's because of the Dementors," Harry said. "Remember on the train, after I fainted? Professor Lupin gave me chocolate and said it would help.
"I told Madam Pomfrey about it later, and she said this was the first time Hogwarts had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who actually knew what he was doing."
"Really?" Ron said. "Why didn't you mention that before?"
"I forgot," Harry admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
Ron said nothing in reply. Instead, he slathered an extra thick layer of chocolate spread onto his sandwich, making Harold wince.
Roast beef and chocolate… Was that even edible?
…
(End of Chapter)