HP: A Magical Journey

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EDUCATIONAL DECREE -> NO. TWENTY-FIVE

———– By Order Of ———–

The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts

Broomsticks may not be flown on unless during AUTHORISED Quidditch practice.

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty- Five.

Signed:

Dolores Jane Umbridge

High Inquisitor

———– Ministry of Magic ———–

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“What does this woman. . . toady-bitch(!) think she’s doing?!” exclaimed Eddie along with the rest of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, standing in the Ravenclaw common room with their housemates also reading the notice posted on the Ravenclaw house bulletin board.

The one line on the Decree-notice spoke many things.

First was obvious in the face interpretation that brooms were banned outside of Quidditch practices, which meant that anyone outside of Quidditch players wasn’t allowed to fly a broom. Not being on the Quidditch team didn’t mean that people didn’t enjoy flying brooms; in fact, a large majority of Hogwarts had their personal brooms and flew them regularly with their friends playing casual-versions of Quidditch or even flew solo to spend some time alone in the sky. And many people who wanted to be on Quidditch teams practiced on their own time to get better so they could pass the try-outs.

The second interpretation was to the Quidditch teams. As the sentence stated, brooms were only allowed during Authorized Practices, which meant that teams could only fly their brooms when practicing in the stadium and not anywhere else. This was a tremendous detrimental as teams practiced as much if not more outside the stadium than inside the stadium. The stadium and the pitch were shared between four teams, and none thought that their time during Authorized Practice was enough. There were even some Quidditch team members (picture Eddie Carmichael) who practiced alone out of team practice.

“The bitch and Snape are clearly in bed together,” said Eddie scathingly.

The Slytherin Quidditch team had by far the most Authorized Practice time because of Snape abusing his power and assigning them the Slytherin Quidditch team the pitch.

“Eww. . .” said Cho making a disgusted face. “Don’t say that; I just imagined what it would be like.” That triggered many people’s imaginations, and they too made disgusted expressions and groans while glaring at Eddie.

That’s when Quinn came down the dormitory stairs into the common room to see the crowd gathered around in front of the bulletin board.

“What is it? What happened?” asked Quinn as he walked to the front with his eyes on his pocket watch to see if he was running late.

“Umbitch did something stupid again,” said Terry Boot, not holding back the hatred in his voice.

Quinn finally looked up and saw the Decree-notice on the bulletin board. The realization dawned on him.

“Ah, Umbridge’s being petty,” he said, “we got Quidditch back before she would’ve lacked — she prematurely lost one of the leverages to power — so she does this, huh. . . but I would’ve to say, that’s a good petty-jab she got in — Quidditch still goes on, but she restricted broom-time, and because Ministry isn’t happy about the Hogwarts’ academic performance, we can’t complain about,” he smiled, “a move well played.”

“Why in Morgana’s saggy tits are you smiling,” said Eddie, frustrated, “this isn’t good, not good at all; you do understand that, right?”

Quinn shrugged his shoulders, “There’s nothing we can do about this, you know? She, as the High Inquisitor, does have that authority. . . If you do want this to be fair — fairer — then find a way to convince Professor Flitwick, McGonagall, and Sprout to do something about Snape’s scheduling tyranny — that’s the only way you’ll get your deserved practice time.”

Quinn was obviously Pro-Umbridge-opposition, but he couldn’t hold their hands on every problem they encountered. He neither had time nor motivation for moving against Umbridge on every little move she made. He was only going to move against significant actions that were a bit too much.

“I would suggest that you grab Marcus and have him plan something involving Potter, Diggory, the other captains, and Eddie if you can keep your mouth clean to lobby the Professors to stop Snape from abusing his authority,” said Quinn and then look around, “where is Marcus?”

“He went down to Great Hall with Luna to eat,” said Eddie.

“Get him good things to eat. . . you know, butter him up to provide him some incentive; that’ll get him moving,” said Quinn, patting Eddie on his shoulder before leaving the common room leaving the gathered Ravenclaw crowd behind.

Eddie turned to the said crowd and spoke, all of them looking back at him. “Well, you heard what he said. . . now, dish out some money; we’ll need a lot of food.”

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– (Scene Break) –

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December arrived, and it was yet another dull and inane Defense Against the Dark Arts lecture with “Professor” Umbridge “teaching” to the best of her ability, trying to impart “crucial” knowledge to the future of the British Isle’s magical community by silently sitting and ordering her students to read an impractical book with pointless “ethical” jargon.

Umbridge looked up from her teacup filled with tea poured from a pink bottle-gourd-shaped flask; she smiled pleasantly at the silent class with only the sound of pages turning and notes being scribbled from her class of fifth-year Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.

“Memorize well, children,” she said with a thin smile curling up, “I’ll be taking a surprise test next week of all the things I have taught you till now.”

” “Yes, Professor Umbridge,” ” said the students in unison like a group trained in synchronicity.

Harry Potter sat at the backbench of the classroom (a popular seat in Umbridge’s classes), as far away from the pink menace as it was physically possible(the fat cow never got up from her chair), glaring at Umbridge with intense hate in his eyes. He was feeling very much resentful towards Umbridge, greater than he had ever felt towards the woman. This year, he enjoyed only two things at Hogwarts — DA and Quidditch — the woman, had sucked out all that made Hogwarts and left it feeling like a prison.

If someone beat him half to death, Harry would give partial credit to Umbridge for the inception of DA. The other thing being Quidditch — Umbridge had tried her best to take that away, and even though they were able to wrestle it back, she had imposed the petty Educational Decree Number Twenty- Five and threw a Bombarda into what seemed to be turning out to be a good season.

His temper had been on an all-time high at the start of the year and had subsided for a while was now back in full force, nay it was stronger than before.

And so he raised his hand.

Umbridge caught the raised hand and spoke with her “honey” dripping voice, “Yes, dear. What is it?”

“Are we going to be tested in our casting ability in this test,” asked Harry plainly, hiding all his true behind a facade.

In the middle of the classroom, Hermione and Ivy were looking back towards the back seat at Harry with baffled expressions, wondering what Harry, who had not said a word in Umbridge’s classes for three months, had raised his hand now.

Hermione hurriedly grabbed Ivy’s sleeve and tugged it hard.

“Cast. . . cast a Cheering charm or something, hurry, quick, do it, do it, do it now before he does something stupid,” she said.

But it was too late.

Umbridge’s smile got wider as she said in reply, “No dear, as I’ve been saying, there’s no need for all of you to be casting spells and charms, so why would you need to be tested in your ability—”

“Peter Pettigrew,” said Harry.

The quiet classroom somehow became more quieter than it was before as the entire class of thirty held their breath.

“What?” asked Umbridge.

“Peter Pettigrew, a trusted Death Eater of Voldemort,” everyone in the room showed varied reactions, “that man escaped his prison and is now on the run. . . the Ministry tried to find him, but they were unsuccessful. . . what if Peter Pettigrew came after me, how would you expect me to defend myself if I can’t cast spells?”

All eyes turned to Umbridge, who stood up and leaned toward them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk.

“Why would he come after you—”

“Because he originally came after me. That day Voldemort killed my grandparents; they were after me,” then he paused, “and I am the Boy-Who-Lived, the one defeated Voldemort—”

“Don’t say that name!” said Umbridge, hissing.

Harry stood up. Everyone was staring at him; Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated.

“Harry mate, no!” Ron whispered in a warning voice, tugging at his sleeve, but Harry jerked his arm out of her reach.

“Voldemort is dead, according to the Ministry. What if Peter Pettigrew, a deranged Death Eater, who had been in the presence of dementors, decides to take revenge and come after me, the Boy-Who-Lived, who killed his master Voldemort, tried to kill me,” said Harry with force.

“The Ministry will take care of—”

“Ministry hasn’t been able to take ‘care’ of him for two years now; how am I supposed to feel safe after such a long time of ineptitude. How would I feel safe when a high-ranking Ministry employee such as yourself shivers at the name of a supposedly dead man.”

“Detention, Mr. Potter!” said Umbridge; she was so furious that her entire face had turned red. “Tomorrow evening. Five o’clock. My office. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means, come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about escaped Dark Wizard, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading.”

Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk again, and so did Harry; both were fuming in their chairs, red down to their necks. But after a while, Umbridge’s face went blank. Then she said, in her softest, most sweetly girlish voice, “Come here, Mr. Potter, dear.”

Harry kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and up to the teacher’s desk. He could feel the rest of the class holding its breath. He felt so angry he did not care what happened next.

Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink, and started scribbling, hunched over so that Harry could not see what she was writing. Nobody spoke. After a minute or so, she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he could not open it.

“Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,” said Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him.

He took it from her without saying a word and left the room, not even looking back at Ron and Hermione, and slamming the classroom door shut behind him. He walked very fast along the corridor, the note to McGonagall clutched tight in his hand. When he reached her office, he rapped the door more aggressively than politely.

The door flew open, and McGonagall emerged from her office, looking grim and slightly harassed.

“What on earth was that rapping, Potter?” she snapped. “Why aren’t you in class?”

“I’ve been sent to see you.”

“Sent? What do you mean, sent?”

He held out the note from Umbridge. McGonagall took it from him, frowning, slit it open with a tap of her wand, stretched it out, and began to read. Her eyes zoomed from side to side behind their square spectacles as she read what Umbridge had written, and with each line, they became narrower.

“Come in here, Potter.”

He followed her inside her study. The door closed automatically behind him. ρꪖꪕᦔꪖꪕꪫꪣꫀ​ꪶ​

“Well?” said Professor McGonagall, rounding on him. “Is this true?”

“Is what true?” Harry asked, rather more aggressively than he had intended. “Professor?” he added in an attempt to sound more polite.

“Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?”

“Yes.”

“You called the Ministry inept.”

“Yes.”

“You told her that Peter Pettigrew might come to kill you.”

“Yes.”

McGonagall sat down behind her desk, frowning at Harry. Then she said, “Have a biscuit, Potter.”

“Have — what?”

Have a biscuit,” she repeated impatiently, indicating a tartan tin of cookies lying on top of one of the piles of papers on her desk. “And sit down.”

There had been a previous occasion when Harry, expecting to be caned by McGonagall, had instead been appointed by her to the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He sank into a chair opposite her and helped himself to a Ginger Newt, feeling just as confused and wrong-footed as he had done on that occasion.

Professor McGonagall set down Professor Umbridge’s note and looked very seriously at Harry.

“You had been very good, Potter. You had been good for more time than I thought you’d be,” she said with a sigh, “I won’t lie by saying that I didn’t see this day coming.”

Harry swallowed his mouthful of Ginger Newt and stared at her. Her tone of voice was not at all what he was used to; it was not brisk, crisp, and stern; it was low and somehow much more human than usual.

“What do you — ?”

“Potter, use your common sense,” snapped McGonagall, with an

abrupt return to her usual manner. “You know where she comes from; you

must know to whom she is reporting.”

The bell rang for the end of the lesson. Overhead and all-around came the elephantine sounds of hundreds of students on the move.

“It says here she’s given you detention every evening this week, starting

tomorrow,” Professor McGonagall said, looking down at Umbridge’s note

again.”

“Every evening this week!” Harry repeated, horrified. “But, Professor, couldn’t you — ?”

“No, I couldn’t,” said Professor McGonagall flatly.

“But —”

“She is your teacher and has every right to give you detention. This happened inside her classroom, so I can’t even cancel it. You will go to her room at five o’clock tomorrow for the first one. Just remember: Tread carefully around Dolores Umbridge.”

“But I was telling the truth!” said Harry, outraged. “Wormtail could come after me; he was there that night, you know it, Professor Dumbledore knows it—”

“For heaven’s sake, Potter!” said Professor McGonagall, straightening her glasses angrily (she had winced horribly when he had used Voldemort’s name). “Do you really think this is about truth or lies? It’s about keeping your head down and your temper under control!”

She stood up, nostrils wide and mouth very thin, and he stood too.

“Have another biscuit,” she said irritably, thrusting the tin at him.

“No, thanks,” said Harry coldly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

He took one.

Thanks,” he said grudgingly.

“Didn’t you listen to Dolores Umbridge’s speech at the start-of-term feast,

Potter?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah. . . she said. . . progress will be prohibited or. . . well, it meant that . . . that the Ministry of Magic is trying to interfere at Hogwarts.”

Professor McGonagall eyed him for a moment, then sniffed, walked around her desk, and held open the door for him.

“Well, I’m glad you at least listened,” she said, pointing him out of her office.

Harry got up with the biscuit in hand and headed towards the door.

“Oh, and Potter.”

He turned back to McGonagall, “Yes?”

“She also you banned from Quidditch.”

“WHAT?!”

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– (Scene Break) –

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Quinn sat in the Architect’s vault, near a part of the wall. Above his hands floated a small replication of a portion of lock mechanism inside the vault’s walls.

It turned out that when one could see the lock mechanism from the inside with every single piece visible, it got so much easier to figure out how things worked and moving which parts would get the mechanism to open up. In this case, Quinn could see everything as such; he had no problem replicating a miniature version of the lock mechanism inside into one of the models in his hands.

He then practiced on miniature hundreds of times to find the correct combination of moves he needed to make the first stone disc below the pedestal split and move to allow the pedestal to fall one level.

“Rinse and repeat for the remaining discs, and this will be over in a zilch,” said Quinn with a smirk on his face and laugh in his voice, “Architect must not have thought that someone would go this deep into earth sensation, hehehe, I’m indeed one good challenger. . . Now, let’s do this.”

Quinn looked down at the miniature, and immediately, multiple parts started to move at once. Shafts moved, gears spun, links locked together, others snapped open, deadbolts snapped out of places — every piece served a purpose, and Quinn knew every single one of them.

“Click, clack, and another tick, tack,” Quinn smiled as he did some fancy jazz hands, and with every small solve, two pullies with stone-linked chains pulled on the two sides of the miniature disc and pulled them apart.

“Voila~! That’s how it’s done!”

He twirled on the spot to celebrate and did the running man before transmuting the miniature back into a block of stone(he had the layout and dimensions memorized by heart) and threw the stone block into his pockets.

“Now, let me show you how it’s done.”

He placed his hands on the wall, exhaled deeply. His breath touched the wall as he closed his eyes and extended his magic into the stone. There was the usual fuzziness, but as Quinn adjusted his magic, his senses became clearer and clearer until he had the ‘look’ of precisely the same thing as the miniature.

“Time for some magic.”

With the phrase, the magic began its charm. The grand pieces started to shift. The map in his mind shifted at the same time the actual gears inside the walls. The room vibrated, shook, trembled as the heavy stone pieces moved under the effects of Quinn’s magic.

After a long series of shifts, turns, twists, pulls, pushes, and a wide range of motions, Quinn opened his eyes and moved away from the wall. He looked down the floor as a tremor moved from the wall inwards to the pedestal until everything stopped, and with a huge boom, the pedestal sunk in one level. Quinn immediately looked to another part of the wall and saw an archway portion retreat inside a few inches, setting of dust as more tremors settled inside the room.

“That’s too many tremors, damn it,” said Quinn after everything was over.

He smiled as he ran towards the newly revealed archway, but before he could even take a few steps, the teal ring on his hand abruptly glowed, making him stop in his track.

“What, what?”

Before he could form another thought, a stronger teal glowed from his back. Quinn’s breath skipped a beat as he realized where the light was coming from. He immediately turned to see the murky-teal entrance to the vault shrinking on its self, and within mere seconds, the teal had vanished, leaving behind the same simple wall just like those everywhere in the vault.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

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Quinn West – MC – Not cool. Locked rooms are not cool!

Harry Potter – Boy-Who-Lived – The inheritor of the Potter temper.

Dolores Umbridge – Hem, Hem – Educational Decree, Detention, Ban. . .

Eddie Carmichael – Potty mouth – That day, he whispered tales of toads and snakes in many ears.

Marcus Belby – Food lover – What, what is this?! Why’re you giving me all of this food?!

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