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Umbridge's mask of syrupy sweetness finally shattered, and what replaced it was a twisted contortion of shock and blazing fury.
She looked like a pink salamander whose tail had just been stepped on, storming forward with a rush of anger until she was standing nose-to-nose with Sargeras. Her stubby fingers, thick and clumsy, jabbed so close that they nearly poked at the bridge of his nose.
"You! What have you done?!" Her shrill, piercing voice climbed higher and sharper under the weight of her rage.
With her hands pressed tightly against her hips, she brandished one finger at Sargeras, the force of her indignation making it tremble ever so slightly.
"You dare to openly destroy Ministry property?! This is contempt, this is outright defiance against the authority of the Ministry of Magic! I demand that you immediately—"
Shhhk!
A razor-edged Severing Charm cut across the air, quick as lightning. Umbridge felt nothing more than the brush of a cold draft against her hand. Then, a sudden chill bloomed at the very tip of her finger.
PLINK!
The finger she had been wagging so arrogantly, the very one painted with its glossy layer of pink nail polish, snapped clean off and tumbled onto the icy stone floor. It bounced twice, rolling awkwardly before finally coming to rest.
Umbridge froze where she stood. For a heartbeat she seemed unable to comprehend what had happened. Then, slowly, she drew her hand back to examine it, as though hoping her eyes were playing a trick on her.
"—Ahhh!"
The scream that burst from her throat was raw and guttural, an ugly, hog-like shriek that tore through the air.
Yet it lasted no longer than half a heartbeat.
With almost languid grace, Nightingale flicked her wand, sending a nonverbal Silencing Charm gliding through the air. It struck Umbridge with flawless precision, and the ear-splitting howl was cut short at once, swallowed back into the throat of the pink toad before it could echo again.
"Always remember to remain elegant, madam," Nightingale said evenly. Her face was unruffled, and her tone as calm as still water.
Umbridge's eyes darted wildly from one professor to the next, terror clouding her round face. Instinctively she raised her hand, meaning to point, to accuse, to declare her outrage before witnesses. But halfway through the motion her arm froze stiff. Only then did the realization strike her with crushing clarity. Her most familiar weapon, the finger she had used day after day to jab, to scold, and to condemn, was gone forever.
The six professors stood silent. Their gazes were cold, detached. Not one of them stepped forward. Not one uttered a word of caution. Even Professor Flitwick, whose kindly face was usually the softest presence in the staff, only pressed his lips into a thin line and turned his eyes away.
It was a tacit consent, a silent agreement that none dared to voice aloud.
Sargeras lowered his eyelids, his expression as unchanged and unreadable as ever. His face bore no hint of triumph, no flicker of anger, nothing beyond that same calm indifference.
With another casual lift of his wand, he tapped its tip toward the stone floor. The severed finger trembled, then rose slowly into the air, drifting weightlessly until it hovered before Umbridge's tear-streaked face.
"How careless of you, Madam Umbridge…" Sargeras murmured, his voice quiet and devoid of feeling, as though remarking on some trivial mishap that had nothing to do with him. "It seems you have dropped something rather precious."
The sight plunged the hall into a suffocating silence. The atmosphere grew so heavy that even the Durmstrang students, hardened as they were by years of brutal dueling, found themselves holding their breath.
The Hogwarts students stared wide-eyed, horror carved across their faces. A chill crept up their spines, icy fingers running along every vertebra. Sargeras' ruthlessness had gone far beyond anything they could have imagined.
The Ministry officials who had accompanied Umbridge were struck dumb with shock.
None of them had ever dreamed that in Hogwarts itself, the school they believed represented the very pinnacle of British magical tradition, before so many witnesses, someone would dare attack a high-ranking official of the Ministry of Magic so brazenly!
Several of them felt their knees go weak. By reflex their hands twitched toward their wands, but the moment Sargeras' cold, glacial gaze swept across them, their courage froze solid. They stiffened in place, not daring to move an inch.
"Sargeras!" Karkaroff was the first to find his voice. For an instant a shadow of hidden delight flickered across his thin, gaunt features, vanishing almost as quickly as it appeared. He then barked out in sharp rebuke, his tone harsh and condemning. "You are far too reckless! How could you treat an official of the Ministry with such… such disrespect!"
Madame Maxime gave a soft gasp, quickly raising her handkerchief to cover her mouth. Yet in the depths of her eyes, beyond the veil of shock, there was something else, a faint indifference toward Umbridge's humiliation, as though she regarded it only as the natural consequence of the woman's own arrogance.
Beauxbatons prided itself on elegance, but that elegance did not extend to pitying a petty power-abusing clown who had engineered her own downfall.
"Enough!"
Dumbledore finally spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it fell over the hall like a heavy curtain, silencing the whispers at once and cutting clean through the taut tension that gripped the air.
His piercing blue eyes turned first upon Sargeras, holding him in a look of stern censure, before shifting to the trembling, half-fainting Umbridge.
"Madam Pomfrey…" Dumbledore said in a tone that allowed no argument, "please escort Dolores to the hospital wing at once. Do everything within your power to treat her injury."
Madam Pomfrey pressed her lips tightly together and strode forward. With a single sweep of her wand, a soft hemostatic spell spread over Umbridge's bleeding hand, stemming the flow of blood for the moment.
She made no move to touch the severed finger that still floated in the air. Instead, with the precision of her wand, she guided it along to follow behind. Half supporting and half dragging the limp, silently sobbing Umbridge, Pomfrey swept quickly out of the hall.
The terrified Ministry officials stirred as if waking from a nightmare. Stumbling over their own feet, they hurried after her, tripping in their haste to leave.
Dumbledore turned back to Sargeras. His voice had settled into calm once more, but beneath that calmness lay a weight of solemn authority. "Professor Greengrass, your actions have crossed a very dangerous line. For a Ministry of Magic official to be attacked while on duty is an extremely serious matter. After the competition, you will be required to give the Ministry a full and proper explanation."
Sargeras inclined his head ever so slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment. "That is fine." His voice was even, devoid of any trace of remorse. Cold indifference lingered across his face as he added, "If they truly require it, I will provide them with a 'reasonable' explanation."
Dumbledore remained silent for a moment, his eyes sweeping across Madame Maxime and Karkaroff, who each wore very different expressions, before he finally turned to address the gathered students and staff.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said in a resonant voice, "the Ministry's concerns for safety are not without reason. Yet the manner in which those concerns have been carried out has clearly led to unnecessary friction… and to a most unfortunate outcome."
With a deft turn of phrase, he redefined what had just occurred as nothing more than an "accident." The words fell lightly, almost weightless, smoothing the jagged edges of the incident and quietly setting it aside.
The professors and the two visiting headmasters looked momentarily taken aback. Surprise flashed across their features, but it was quickly smothered, concealed beneath composed expressions.
"The Triwizard Dueling Tournament," Dumbledore continued, "was created with the purpose of exchange, of learning, and of fostering both passion for and respect toward the art of the duel. No cumbersome procedure, no heavy-handed restriction, should ever stand in the way of that. Therefore, the exhibition match will proceed exactly as planned. For our first demonstration, Professor Severus Snape and Professor Filius Flitwick shall present to us the finest, truest display of magical combat! Now, let us clear the arena and prepare to welcome a true feast of magic!"
The moment his words fell, the heavy hush that had lingered broke apart. A thunderous cheer erupted from the stands, crashing over the hall like a tidal wave.
The Hogwarts students clapped until their palms stung, stamping their feet against the floor, whistling and shouting, as though desperate to drive away the lingering terror that had only just gripped them. Their jubilation poured out, washing over the silence and smothering the memory of Umbridge's shriek.
The students of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, caught in the wave of energy, joined in as well, applauding and cheering with spirited cries of their own.
Though the air still carried faint traces of blood and tension, the shadow Umbridge had cast, the gloom of her presence and the memory of her laughable "Absolute Protective Shield," was swept away completely by the roar of voices and the pounding rhythm of applause.
Every gaze turned once more to the dueling platform. There, Severus Snape, his figure draped in black robes, and the diminutive Professor Flitwick had already stepped forward to take their places in the center of the stage.
The towering Dueling Stone tablet at the edge of the platform glimmered with shifting light. The two professors raised their wands almost simultaneously and cast their choice: Random Terrain.
The stone's surface rippled with a kaleidoscope of light, flashing through landscapes with dizzying speed until it froze at last upon the words: "Ruined Low Walls."
With a low, earth-shaking rumble, the massive stone monument sank into the ground, disappearing as the chosen scene took form.
In its place, vines coiled upward and burst apart, rocks cracked and splintered, rubble tumbled and piled in chaotic heaps. Within moments, the once-polished dueling platform was transformed into the weathered remains of a battlefield: broken columns jutted askew from the ground, jagged fragments of stone wall rose waist-high in crumbling rows, and shattered bricks littered the floor in uneven patches.
All around, the ruins offered cover, pitfalls, and shadows, perfect traps and hidden vantage points. The stage was set, the battlefield had taken shape, and the duel was about to begin!
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[Chapter End's]
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