Chapter 133: A Traitor's Face
The door to the headmaster's office swung open again. All eyes turned as Dolores Umbridge re-entered, her hand on the shoulder of a cowering, curly-haired girl who kept her face buried in her hands.
"There's no need to be frightened, dear, no need at all," Umbridge cooed, her voice a grotesque parody of kindness. She guided the girl forward with a proprietary air. "You're doing your duty. A very brave, patriotic thing. Your mother at the Ministry will be so proud. The Minister is very grateful."
She looked pointedly at Fudge, who puffed up. "Ah, yes. The daughter of Mrs. Edgecombe in the Floo Network Authority. A fine family. A credit to the Ministry. Come forward, my dear. Let's hear what you have to say."
Fudge's triumphant smile was aimed squarely at Dumbledore. Checkmate, it seemed to say.
The girl, Marietta Edgecombe, shuffled forward, still hiding her face. She passed so close to Harry he could smell her fear, a sour, acrid scent. He felt a confusing rush of anger and pity. She'd betrayed them all, but she looked utterly broken.
"Now then," Fudge said, oozing false benevolence. "Tell us about this secret society. In your own words."
With a shuddering sob, Marietta finally lowered her hands.
Fudge's smile vanished. He recoiled so violently he bumped into the desk behind him, causing a delicate silver instrument to topple over with a clatter.
"Merlin's beard!"
Marietta's face was a horrific sight. From her hairline to her chin, her skin was erupting in a dense, painful-looking rash of purple pustules. And spelled across the inflamed skin, standing out in angry, raised welts, was a single, clear word, repeated over and over like a damning tattoo: SNEAK.
A collective gasp filled the room. Professor McGonagall's hand flew to her mouth. The portraits muttered in shock and disapproval. Harry felt a fierce, grim satisfaction. Hermione's jinx. The magical contract they'd all signed on the parchment. He'd almost forgotten about it in the panic.
Marietta let out another pathetic moan and tried to cover her face again, but the damage was done.
"Never mind that, dear, never mind!" Umbridge said quickly, though her own eyes were wide with horrified fascination. "The marks of a coward's curse, that's all! Tell the Minister what you told me!"
But Marietta just shook her head frantically, fresh tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes.
"Speak up, you foolish girl!" Umbridge snapped, her patience evaporating.
"It would seem," Dumbledore interjected, his voice cool, "that the young lady is prevented from speaking by a rather clever and binding jinx. A common feature of secret societies who value their secrecy, I believe. One cannot simply force the truth without causing the subject significant harm. Your concern for student safety would preclude that, would it not, Professor Umbridge?"
Umbridge's jaw tightened. She was trapped. "It's a nasty, underhanded piece of magic," she hissed. "But it doesn't change the facts she already revealed!"
"What facts are those, precisely?" Professor McGonagall asked sharply. "That she was in a room? So was I, not an hour ago, collecting a book I had mislaid. The Room of Requirement serves many purposes."
Fudge, recovering his composure, waved a dismissive hand. "Enough! She can communicate without words. Miss Edgecombe," he said, leaning forward. "A simple nod or shake of the head. That shouldn't trigger the curse, should it, Dolores?"
"It should not," Umbridge agreed, grabbing Marietta's chin and forcing the weeping girl to look at her. "Now, dear. This group. Has it been meeting regularly for the past six months? Nod for yes."
Everyone stared. Harry's heart hammered. Would the jinx allow it? Was a nod considered 'telling'?
Marietta's whole body trembled. Slowly, hesitantly, she shook her head.
No.
Umbridge's face flushed an ugly puce. "What? No? Don't be absurd! You told me they'd been meeting! You gave me the time and place!"
"Perhaps she misunderstood your question, Dolores," Dumbledore said mildly. "Miss Edgecombe, has there been any organised, secret student gathering for the purpose of learning defensive magic in the last six months?"
Marietta, her eyes squeezed shut, shook her head again.
A sound like a stepped-on bullfrog escaped Umbridge. Fudge stared, nonplussed.
"This is ridiculous!" Umbridge shrieked, losing all control. She shook Marietta by the shoulders. "You lying little brat! You came to me! You said Potter and Thorne were teaching them! You gave me the coin!"
"UNHAND THAT STUDENT!"
Dumbledore's voice was not loud, but it cracked through the office like a whip. He was on his feet, and for the first time that evening, he looked every inch the powerful wizard he was. His aura of gentle eccentricity had vanished, replaced by a cold, towering authority. Umbridge was flung backwards as if by an invisible force, stumbling into one of the Aurors.
The two Aurors leapt forward, wands raised, but they faltered before the sheer, icy fury in Dumbledore's blue eyes.
"You will not manhandle a student in my presence, Professor Umbridge," Dumbledore said, each word precise and frozen. "You will not intimidate or coerce a child into changing her story to fit your narrative. This interview is over."
Fudge found his voice, though it was several octaves higher than usual. "Now see here, Dumbledore! We are conducting a Ministry investigation!"
"You are attempting to bully a cursed and frightened teenager in my office," Dumbledore corrected him. "The evidence you claim to have has just recanted, under a magical compulsion that prevents falsehood. There is no case. There is no army. There is only your profound and wilful desire for there to be one."
He looked at Marietta, who was sobbing quietly, the word 'SNEAK' glaring accusingly from her ruined face. His expression softened, just a fraction. "Professor McGonagall, please take Miss Edgecombe to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey may be able to offer some relief for her… condition."
As Professor McGonagall gently led the shattered girl from the room, a stunned silence descended. Fudge was spluttering, searching for a foothold. Umbridge was white with rage, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. They had overplayed their hand, and Dumbledore had called their bluff in the most devastating way possible.
Harry stood rooted to the spot, caught between dizzying relief and a dawning realisation. They were safe, for now. The DA was protected by Hermione's brilliant, ruthless jinx. But the war in this office was just a skirmish. The real storm was still gathering, out there in the mountains and in the shadows.
And as the tension in the headmaster's office slowly began to deflate into a seething, hostile stalemate, Harry's thoughts, like Dumbledore's had been moments before, flew far away—to a frozen valley where another, very different confrontation was just beginning.
(End of Chapter)
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