Chapter 31

Fudge continued to maintain that Voldemort had not returned, with the same fervour of a ten-year old who persists in believing that Christmas gifts do not come from mother and father: an increasingly difficult exercise, requiring him to explain away mounting evidence to the contrary. While Voldemort's power increased daily, the Ministry's ability to defend itself was much diminished, Fudge having dismissed or even imprisoned on various pretexts the higher-ranking Ministry officials whose views did not fall in line with his own. The only advisers he now possessed were those willing to mirror his own irrational beliefs, thus giving Fudge the illusion of support, when in fact he was almost on his own.

Just before the end of the holidays, Fudge met with one of his most steadfast followers, the loyal Delores Umbridge. They were in the Minister's office, sharing a pot of Earl Gray tea. Until recently the walls had been lined with portraits of previous ministers. But Fudge had tired of their admonitions and criticism, and without exception the portraits had been banished to a broom closet. The portraits were replaced by paintings more to Fudge's taste, his most recent acquisition a large work showing a group of Hippogriffs playing poker.

"Things are a bit different, now," Fudge explained to Umbridge. "At least until I'm Chief Warlock once more, you'll have to tread carefully."

Umbridge simpered and smiled.

"I'm always careful," she replied. "But still, I'm at Hogwarts under Ministry orders. My presence there is entirely legal. What could anyone do to me?"

"Your presence is, but that little quill of yours is not. Yes, I know about that quill," continued Fudge, observing Umbridge's surprise. "The Department of Prosecutions is directly under Dumbledore's control once more. He's moved very quickly over the last couple of weeks. He has removed everyone I appointed to Prosecutions, restoring those who were there before. Any who weren't loyal to Dumbledore before are loyal now. My sources of information in that department are all gone, and until I can get someone in under Dumbledore's nose, I'll be entirely in the dark about investigations."

Umbridge calmly sipped her tea.

"But we can't be prosecuted, surely. We're in the middle of a crises - Dumbledore's forces are trying to take over the Ministry. And you issued a decree not long ago, saying that in the event of an emergency, you are authorized to override laws and ancient customs, without requiring the prior consent of the Wizengamot. You are immune, and so am I, working as I am under your direction."

"Yes," said Fudge. "Ministerial Decree 87. One of the most important I issued. And that was fine, when I was Chief Warlock. But now it won't be my Wizengamot that tests whether Decree 87 is valid - Dumbledore's interpretation is the one that matters at present."

But Umbridge persisted. "Decree 87 is very clear - you can break the law if you deem it to be in the public interest."

"Delores, it doesn't matter how clear the law is. Ultimately the law is what the Wizengamot determines it to be. I can issue all the decrees I like, but there is almost no law I can pass that Dumbledore can't find a loophole in, if he chooses. And if he can't come up with a way around the law, he can always invalidate it, if he can carry enough Members with him in the Wizengamot. I don't think he has quite that level of support. Not yet. But we can't afford to take chances at present, and that is why I started by saying that things are a bit different now. In September, we had carte blanche. Now we do not. So put away your quill, and watch your step."

Fudge had had a number of similar, one-on-one discussions with his inner circle over the last couple of weeks. A small army of his flunkies were busy locating and destroying all copies of internal memoranda issued from Fudge's office. Another group was carefully scouring the Ministry's archives and library, burning anything the slightest bit incriminating. Fudge had ordered that henceforth no notes were to be taken of any meetings. No records were to be kept. For now Fudge would focus all his resources on ousting Dumbledore from his office as Chief Warlock. Until this was achieved, he could afford no distractions nor take any risks.

Today's meeting with Umbridge was of particular importance, for it was essential that the woman get the message from Fudge himself. Fudge could not afford any errors by her, not when he had placed her in Hogwarts: the very centre of the conspiracy against him. She was there to spy on Fudge's behalf, but of course that meant that Dumbledore could spy on her, and Fudge could not allow her to give the game away.

Fudge took another sip of his tea, and looked over Umbridge, wondering what was going on inside her mind. Was she really as thick as she seemed to be? Fudge hoped he had read the woman correctly, for Umbridge's deep stupidity had been one reason that Fudge had chosen her for Hogwarts: no sensible witch would walk into the school with the settled intention of irritating the most powerful wizard in living memory. It had been only barely feasible to insert Umbridge into Hogwarts, Decree 87 then being adequate protection when Fudge controlled the Wizengamot But all was different now and Umbridge had no protection. If she were prosecuted, there was much she could reveal if she was prepared to betray Fudge to save herself. Not sure the woman had got the message, Fudge worked to drive his point home.

"At present, you have no protection inside the walls of Hogwarts. I would pull you out if I could, but I cannot - it would be far too damaging to the Ministry. You must remain. But if you continue in the same manner as you did in first term, I think it is a good bet that your tenure there will end in your prosecution. Your mission there must therefore change. Yes, I need you still as my ears in Hogwarts - that was always the most important part of your assignment, after all. Observe, record and report - but only verbally, to me directly, and thereafter destroy any notes. Do not attempt to institute any more reforms. For appearance's sake, you must issue decrees from time to time, for if you sit idle, Dumbledore might suspect your weakness. But we will not be continuing with our plans, at least not for a time. We will not be removing any professors to create vacancies for our people - that will have to wait until we are on surer ground. Instead, focus on those professors you placed under probation. These weak ones can perhaps be flipped so that they support the Ministry instead of Dumbledore. Focus your efforts on them."

It was thus a rather diminished Delores Umbridge that watched her fifth-year students arrive for their first Defence class of the second term. One by one the students filed through the door, taking their accustomed seats in the class. This was the last class of the day for everyone, and in early January the days were very short. The sun was already hidden by the low mountains to the west, and if it had not yet set, it would do so shortly. The large windows passed almost no light into the classroom, the gloom relieved by the numerous candles burning in the huge chandelier dominating the room. Umbridge noted that Potter kept his head down as he entered the class, his face in shadow and unknowable. Harry was one of the last to arrive, and shortly after he was seated, the door to the classroom closed.

"Good afternoon," said Umbridge. The false, cloying sweetness absent at breakfast was now back.

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," replied the class dutifully, Imogen only mouthing the words and making no sound. She did not trust herself to speak, for simply hearing the professor's voice filled her with a rage every bit as great as the one which consumed her when Malfoy insulted her, or when Filch had grabbed her.

"I hope you all had a good rest," said Umbridge. "But at least one of you was rather busy." At this all the students looked up, except Harry.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, I am referring to you," continued Umbridge. "What you do outside of school on vacation is your affair, but I can assure you that if you tell any more lies to that criminal Rita Skeeter or anyone else while you are under the school's authority, punishment will be swift and severe. Do I make myself understood?"

"Yes, Professor," said Harry, not a little confused to have avoided a week's detention with Umbridge's nasty quill.

"Good. Now everyone pull out your textbooks. You will have no need of your wands."

Imogen put up her hand.

"Yes, Ms. Iorworth?"

"I was just wondering. Are we going to learn how to defend ourselves against Centaurs this year?"

"Oh goodness me!" tittered Umbridge. "Why would any of you need to learn that?"

"I don't know," said Imogen. "I was just curious." Her rage was gone now, and instead Imogen struggled not to laugh.

"Don't worry yourself about Centaurs. They're no threat to those of us with wands. Now get reading all of you - there's a lot of material to cover!"

Dinner was a cheerful affair, the students at each table talking about their holidays. Neville gave them a detailed account of his Belgian vacation, filling in everyone with tales of his adventures in that exciting land. His friends listened with a reasonable appearance of interest, and when he'd finished, he turned to Imogen.

"And what did you do on your vacation, Imogen?" he asked.

"I accidentally broke your bottle of Asturias potion at the beginning."

Neville's face fell, his sadness obvious.

"At the end of vacation, I made a replacement batch."

Neville's face brightened.

"And in between, I killed Filch's mother with a stunning spell."

A large volume of pumpkin juice sprayed from Neville's mouth as he erupted with laughter.

"Sorry," he said, wiping his mouth. "I hope I didn't get anyone. Did you kill Filch too? Is that why he's not here?" Neville laughed at his little joke, but stopped when he noticed no one else so much as smiled.

"Imogen's not joking," said Hermione. "Filch's mother is quite dead." At Hermione's bidding, Imogen gave a brief account of the incident in which Mrs. Filch met her demise. Imogen was not sure she would ever tire of telling the tale. Almost everyone present had heard the story before and more than once, but it would be a long time before they would tire of hearing it.

Neville was a good listener, asking no questions and absorbing every bit of Imogen's narrative. A child of the Voldemort era, Neville was rather enured to mayhem, and the violent death of a nasty witch touched him not at all. At the end of the story, his only observation was that at the next DA meeting, he would not be partnering with Imogen, not if stunning spells were being practiced.

"The DA's as dead as Mrs. Filch," said Harry. "But we can't talk about that here. I'll fill you in tonight after I see Snape for occlumency."

No formal announcement of Filch's departure was made by Dumbledore, and it was only gradually during the first day back at school that the students noticed the absence of the unpopular caretaker. There was no need for an announcement, because Dumbledore had no plans to replace the squib. Indeed, Filch's presence at the school had been quite superfluous: his position could easily be filled by house elf.

Only Imogen had any inkling of what had become of Filch, as a result of some discussions she'd had with the headmaster during the holidays, before she had been invited to the Burrow and while she was still staying at the Order's headquarters at 12 Grimmauld Place. At Dumbledore's request, she'd had a one-on-one meeting with him in the library, which doubled as the headmaster's office when he was present. Imogen had assumed that the discussion would be about her studies, but she quickly learned otherwise.

"I need your advice," said Dumbledore.

Over the holidays she had been getting a handle on the headmaster's deadpan sense of humour. But rather than wait for the inevitable punch line, Imogen pretended to take the question seriously.

"Don't put strange rings on your finger. Don't go to that cavern where you thought Voldemort hid a Horcrux, because it's not there. Also - " Imogen silenced herself when Dumbledore raised his hand.

"I'm quite serious," he said. "Now unlike the rest of the school, you spent fifteen years in the Muggle world before you joined us. You have no memory of your life prior to joining the school, but despite this, you seem to possess a great deal of Muggle common knowledge. At least that is my understanding."

"Yes, Professor," Imogen replied. "I don't have any recollection of my parents or what I did before I appeared at King's Cross Station, but on the other hand, if you were to ask me general questions about the Muggle world, chances are I'd be able to help."

"Exactly. That is why I need to speak with you. It's about Mr. Filch. I will not allow him to return to Hogwarts, not because of anything he did, but for the simple reason that I think it would unfair to him, and to you, to force him to clean up after someone who killed his mother. At Hogwarts he would eventually learn how his mother met her end, and it would be unnatural if he did not hate you. He cannot remain. And yet where to put him? He is a squib, and has no real place in our world. He ought to have done what other squibs do, and joined the Muggle world. But he is over forty, and if I simple release him in London to wander about, he will be even more helpless and useless than he was at Hogwarts. I need your advice about where I could possibly put him."

Imogen considered this for a moment before replying.

"You have known him far longer than I. What would you say are his qualifications?"

"None. Indeed, his only talent that I know of is the ability to appear like he is working hard, when really he is doing next to nothing."

"I know just the thing for him," said Imogen.

"The post office?" said Harry incredulously in the common room later that evening.

"Filch is a postal worker?" asked Hermione, not sure she had heard correctly.

"Yes," said Imogen. "He's working at a post office in Toronto, not delivering, but sorting. It's perfect, really. No education required. Unionized, of course, and well-paid, all things considered. He probably won't do more than four hours' work in an eight hour shift, and only that much if there's a supervisor around. I think he'll be just fine."