The trial of Dolores Jane Umbridge was the most sensational Ministry event since the exoneration of Sirius Black. The Wizengamot convened in the largest courtroom, Courtroom Ten, and it was packed to the rafters with reporters, ministry officials, and curious members of the wizarding public. Fudge, looking pale and sweating profusely, was forced to preside over the trial of his own Senior Undersecretary, a political nightmare of his own making.
Ariana, citing a need to "observe the practical application of wizarding law for educational purposes," was granted leave to attend by a quietly approving Dumbledore. She did not sit with the Headmaster or with the other witnesses. She chose a simple, unobtrusive seat in the public gallery, flanked by a grimly fascinated Hermione and a coolly observant Daphne, both girls also granted leave of their own. To anyone looking, she was just another interested student. But her presence was a quiet, powerful statement. She was the architect of this downfall, and she had come to watch her work reach its logical conclusion.
The case against Umbridge was, on the surface, straightforward. Amelia Bones presented the evidence with brutal efficiency: the Blood Quill itself, the magically preserved images of Harry's wounded hand, and the sworn testimony of Albus Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey.
Umbridge, her pink robes looking absurdly cheerful in the grim stone courtroom, tried to defend herself with a mixture of simpering denial and blustering appeals to her authority. "I was merely implementing necessary disciplinary measures! The boy is a known liar and troublemaker! My methods were approved by the Minister's office!"
This was Fudge's chance to stand by his loyal subordinate. But as he looked out at the sea of grim, unforgiving faces in the Wizengamot and the furiously scribbling quills of the press, he knew his career was on the line. He chose self-preservation.
"I approved no such thing!" Fudge declared, his voice trembling with a faux outrage. "The use of such a dark, illegal object is abhorrent! I am as shocked and appalled as everyone else!"
The betrayal was total. Umbridge's face contorted in a mask of pure, venomous rage.
But this was only the beginning. With the primary charge proven, Amelia Bones, a shark who had smelled blood in the water, moved for the application of Veritaserum to investigate the full extent of Umbridge's crimes. Fudge, politically cornered, had no choice but to agree.
What followed was not a trial; it was a public autopsy of a corrupt and cruel career.
Under the influence of the truth serum, her sickly sweet voice now a flat, emotionless monotone, Umbridge confessed to everything. The Blood Quill was just the tip of the iceberg. She admitted to extorting money from Ministry employees, to illegally spying on her colleagues, to fabricating evidence to ruin the careers of her political rivals.
Then came the darker revelations. She confessed to drafting the anti-werewolf legislation not out of public safety concerns, but out of a deep-seated personal prejudice, deliberately designed to make their lives impossible. She admitted to taking bribes to look the other way on cases of creature abuse.
The final blow came when a crusty old wizard from the back benches asked about a cold case from years ago—the mysterious death of a Muggle-born wizard who had been a vocal opponent of Umbridge's early career. Under the potion's unyielding power, Umbridge calmly admitted to having arranged the "accident" that had silenced him.
A collective gasp of horror went through the courtroom. She was not just a corrupt bureaucrat; she was a murderer.
The verdict was swift and unanimous. Guilty on all counts. As the members of the Wizengamot called for a life sentence, Fudge, his face the colour of ash, had no choice but to bang his gavel.
"Dolores Jane Umbridge," he pronounced, his voice shaking, "you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban, with your wand snapped and your name stricken from all Ministry records."
As the Aurors moved in to haul the now-screaming, struggling Umbridge away, her composure finally shattered, Ariana caught the Minister's eye from across the courtroom.
Fudge looked at this serene, fifteen-year-old girl sitting calmly in the public gallery. He remembered her at Harry's hearing, her legal arguments dismantling his entire case.
And now this. He suddenly realized, with a wave of cold, sickening dread, that all of his recent political nightmares, all of these public humiliations, had one, quiet, brilliant person at their center.
As his gaze met hers, Ariana allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to touch her lips. It was not a smile of triumph or joy. It was a smile of pure, cold, analytical satisfaction. It was the smile of a grandmaster who has just moved a pawn and, in doing so, has checkmated a king five moves down the line.
The smile sent a chill down Cornelius Fudge's spine that had nothing to do with the Dementors of Azkaban. He suddenly felt like a very small, very stupid man who had stumbled into a game far beyond his comprehension, playing against an opponent whose intelligence was as vast, and as terrifying, as the open sea. He didn't know how or why, but he knew, with an absolute certainty, that he had just made a very, very powerful enemy.
Ariana stood up, her work here done. She had not raised her voice. She had not cast a single spell in public. She had simply observed, analyzed, and presented the truth to the right people at the right time. And with that, she had brought down one of the most powerful and cruel figures in the Ministry. It was a quiet, brutal, and utterly satisfying victory. As she walked out of the courtroom with her friends, she was already thinking ahead, her mind already calculating the next move in the much larger game that was still to come.