Harry Potter and the Silent Guardian

Breakfast had barely begun in the Great Hall when Dolores Umbridge marched in, her pink cardigan practically vibrating with righteous determination. The hum of student chatter quieted almost instantly, though many faces wore barely concealed grins. Everyone knew what was coming.

"Students," she began, her voice coated in syrupy sweetness, "after yesterday's... unfortunate interruption, I wish to complete my welcoming address—"

RIBBIT.

The sound echoed through the Hall, perfectly timed to drown out her words. Harry, buttering his toast with practiced calm, kept his wand movement subtle under the table. After three days of practice, the charm had become second nature.

Umbridge's face flushed an unpleasant shade of red, but she pressed on. "The Ministry of Magic has always—" CROAK! "—considered the education—" RIBBIT! "—of young witches and wizards—" RRRRRIBBIT!

Professor McGonagall suddenly seemed very interested in her porridge, her shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly. Across the table, Snape's trademark scowl twitched suspiciously close to a smirk.

After five increasingly futile attempts, each met with a louder and more obnoxious amphibian sound, Umbridge finally snapped. Without another word, she stormed out of the Hall, her frilly pink cardigan fluttering behind her, leaving a trail of half-eaten kippers and poorly suppressed laughter in her wake.

"Magnificent," Roger whispered to Harry as the heavy doors closed behind her. "Simply magnificent."

Harry allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as he bit into his toast.

---

The day's classes, however, proved less entertaining. Every professor seemed determined to hammer home the importance of their NEWTs.

"Your OWL results mean nothing now," Professor McGonagall declared during their first Transfiguration class, her sharp gaze sweeping over the students. "NEWTs require a level of dedication, precision, and discipline that many of you have yet to demonstrate."

Even Professor Flitwick, usually cheerful, was uncharacteristically serious. Pulling Harry aside between classes, he said, "As my apprentice, Mr. Potter, I expect nothing short of exemplary performance. You must set an example for your peers."

---

At lunch, murmurs about the fifth-years' first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson filled the Great Hall.

"It's a joke," Charles Potter declared loudly at the Gryffindor table, his face a mix of anger and frustration. "No wand work, no practical application—just reading Slinkhard's rubbish about negotiating with dark wizards!"

Similar complaints rippled through the upper-year students. Cedric, usually optimistic, looked uncharacteristically grim as he leaned across the Hufflepuff table. "We're supposed to be learning advanced protective charms this year. Instead, we're analyzing theoretical responses to hypothetical threats."

The atmosphere darkened further as more students shared their frustrations. The older students, particularly those aiming for careers as Aurors or Healers, exchanged uneasy glances. Everyone knew how critical their Defense Against the Dark Arts grades were, and without proper instruction, their chances of excelling in their NEWTs seemed bleak.

---

Professor Flitwick made a show of examining the Great Hall, casting various detection spells. "Most peculiar," he squeaked, stroking his beard. "The charm appears to have integrated itself with the Hall's ambient magic. Very sophisticated work—quite advanced."

"Minerva?" Umbridge pressed, her voice sharp despite her attempt to sound pleasant.

Professor McGonagall's lips twitched as she replied with mock seriousness, "I'm afraid acoustics-based charm work is not my specialty. You may need a curse breaker for this one."

Harry, meanwhile, had no intention of stopping the spell. He reasoned that if the charm ended, he'd have to endure Umbridge's nonsense speeches, and that was simply unacceptable. Between classes, prefect duties, and private studies, this prank was the highlight of his days, and he wasn't about to let it go.

---

Life at Hogwarts soon settled into a routine—if one could call the chaos Umbridge brought a routine. First-years seemed particularly prone to getting lost this year, while second-years appeared to have collectively decided that testing illegal jinxes in the corridors was the height of entertainment. Harry, as Head Boy, spent much of his time ensuring everyone remained safe.

The true entertainment, however, came from watching Umbridge's increasingly desperate attempts to maintain control. Humiliated and frustrated, she pressured Dumbledore into enacting an Educational Decree banning pranks and unauthorized magical entertainment. Dumbledore, unwilling to waste energy fighting over something so trivial, approved it with barely concealed indifference.

At breakfast the next morning, the Weasley twins' eyes lit up as they read the decree pinned to the notice board.

"Freddie," George said solemnly, "I believe we've been issued a challenge."

"Indeed, Georgie. It would be rude not to accept."

What followed was a masterclass in magical mischief. Portable swamps appeared in hallways, suits of armor serenaded Umbridge with toad-filled love ballads, and her office door routinely transformed into various amphibian species when she tried to open it.

Surprisingly, Charles Potter joined the chaos, channeling his Marauder lineage into increasingly creative pranks. No one was more delighted than Fred and George to have him on their team. Umbridge couldn't walk ten feet without triggering some new form of magical mayhem.

Her attempts to catch the culprits were laughable. Every investigation led to dead ends, every accusation lacked evidence. Harry found himself simultaneously impressed by the twins' and Charles's ingenuity and amused by Umbridge's ineptitude. Of course, as Head Boy, he maintained a façade of disapproval, dutifully documenting the incidents while feigning concern.

What Umbridge didn't know was that Harry had personally taken care of her most sinister tool. On the first day of term, he'd quietly removed every Blood Quill from her office. He'd sworn that no student under his watch would endure that kind of torture.

Harry's own contributions to Umbridge's torment were less flashy but far more insidious. Late into the night, he layered subtle wards around her quarters and office. The enchantments ensured that any letter she sent to the Ministry would arrive as blank parchment, and her Floo connection mysteriously failed every time she tried to use it.

In London, Minister Fudge grew increasingly frustrated by the lack of communication. He'd sent Umbridge to Hogwarts as his eyes and ears, yet days had passed with no updates. Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Umbridge's confusion turned to paranoia. Convinced the Minister had abandoned her, she grew even more erratic.

Harry observed her unraveling with quiet satisfaction. No one who truly knew Umbridge's nature could summon sympathy for her plight. He had seen firsthand, in the books, the depths of her cruelty—the cursed blood quill, the Muggle-born Registration Commission, her delight in inflicting suffering.

Every croaking interruption at meals, every unanswered letter, and every failed Floo attempt pushed her closer to breaking. Harry hoped she'd snap soon, pack her frilly pink wardrobe, and flee Hogwarts. If she did, Dumbledore and the other professors might yet salvage what remained of their students' Defense Against the Dark Arts education.

But for now, the damage was apparent. Her lessons were useless, and discontent was spreading.

"It's a joke," Roger complained at lunch, his voice carrying across the Ravenclaw table. "No wand work, no practical training—just reading books. What kind of Defense class is that?"

Cedric, usually cheerful, looked grim. "NEWTs are life-changing, and this is what we get? How are we supposed to learn anything useful with that woman in charge?"

Elvinia voiced similar concerns during a Head meeting. "She's going to get someone killed," she said, her frustration evident. "The younger students especially—they need practical defense training."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "If it gets worse, I might restart the defense classes like the ones I ran for Patronus training. But not yet. I don't have the time right now, and maybe—just maybe—the pranks will drive her out first."

For now, Harry's vigilante activities were on hold. Between his duties, studies, and efforts to torment Umbridge, there simply wasn't time to hunt Death Eaters. The information he'd gleaned from Macnair's memories would have to wait. He needed to establish a solid routine at Hogwarts first, ensuring that any future absences wouldn't raise suspicion.

---

Late one evening, in the third week of September, Harry was meticulously patrolling the corridors when a sudden magical pulse disrupted his focus. His eyes snapped toward the source of the disturbance.

The alarm wards he had placed around his secret hideout had been triggered—a first.

Harry stilled, his magic sharpening like a blade. He concentrated, sensing the unfamiliar magical signature now radiating through the perimeter. Whoever had dared approach his hidden refuge wasn't just powerful—they were bold. Very bold.

Harry's expression hardened. His quiet evening had just become far more interesting.