"Brilliant!" Ron and Harry said together.
"How'd you manage it?" Hermione asked.
"Went to Professor McGonagall. Think she appealed to Dumbledore—anyway, Umbridge should be overwhelmed with her own problems right now." Angelina beamed, gesturing subtly toward the staff table. Orli and the others followed her hand—Umbridge's seat was empty, scattered with tiny red paper fragments like Howler remains.
"You missed the show," Fred and George said, squeezing over with their plates.
"This morning, parents sent Umbridge about ten Howlers. Telling her to... er..." Fred began.
"Basically to get the hell out of Hogwarts," George said, rubbing his nose.
Orli figured if both twins wouldn't repeat the words, they must've been spectacularly vulgar.
"Besides Howlers, dozens of anonymous letters. She Vanished them all though," Fred said, looking disappointed.
"Shame Mum and the others can't write now," George said quietly. "You know about the owl inspections?"
"Bet Umbridge hasn't figured out how to intercept instant Howlers yet," Fred said with a shrug.
Orli spotted Dryncorpse circling overhead. She raised her hand—he fluttered down, wings soaked, dampening her robes. His weight made her arm drop suddenly.
"Today's Prophet?" Hermione untied the newspaper from Dryncorpse's talons. Orli examined the fat bird carefully—fortunately, she rarely corresponded with anyone, and her secret dealings with Rita Skeeter went through Dobby, so Dryncorpse looked uninjured.
"Yesterday afternoon's special edition too. Read them together," Fred said, pulling out two old newspapers.
Ron grabbed them eagerly, laying yesterday's paper beside the half-wet new one in Hermione's hands. The headlines read:
'The Pink Lady': Gossip Fiction or Real Person? Parents Question Hogwarts' New Professor
'Pink Lady' Causes Uproar, Cornelius Fudge Vehemently Denies Improper Relations with Female Subordinates
"I thought the Prophet was under Ministry control?" Hermione said, puzzled.
"Seems the Prophet still needs sales figures. Fudge won't pay their salaries, will he?" Fred said.
"Anyway—seven tonight at the pitch, yeah? We need every moment. Three weeks until our first match!" Angelina said, pushing past them.
"Hope the weather clears..." Ron said, watching rain blur the windows. Lightning cracked across the enchanted ceiling—wind howled against glass. Flying broomsticks in this weather might get them struck by lightning.
"Maybe we use Skiving Snackboxes to skip practice?" Fred and George whispered.
"But she'd know... if only we hadn't tried selling her Puking Pastilles yesterday," George said regretfully.
"We could use Fever Fudge—no one's seen that yet..." Fred's voice dropped lower, but Ron sat right beside them, hearing everything.
"Does it work?" Ron asked hopefully.
"Sort of, but your temperature shoots up—" Fred said hesitantly.
"And you break out in pustules," George added.
"We haven't found a way to get rid of them yet."
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