"Mafalda, by the beard of Merlin, what in the blazes happened in there?!" Rufus Scrimgeour, a grizzled Auror with a mane of straw-colored hair and a permanent look of tired skepticism, slammed his half-finished firewhisky—a nervous habit—down on the table outside the Director's office. He peered towards the source of the explosive noise, a faint whiff of singed parchment drifting out.
Mafalda Hopkirk, the Director's assistant, a mousy witch perpetually stressed and always dressed in excessively neat robes, quickly shushed him, glancing nervously at the closed oak door.
"A letter, Rufus. Just a letter. And then… the eruption." Mafalda spoke in a hushed, breathless rush, as if the walls might be listening. She genuinely feared the Director, understanding that his incompetence was matched only by his profound spite.
"A letter?" Rufus scoffed, running a hand through his stiff hair. "That man screams if his tea is too cold. What could a mere letter contain that warrants sounding like a Bludger hit him in the face?"
Mafalda could only shake her head, her relief evident that the worst of the tantrum was over. She knew the contents, and she knew the true weight behind the threat.
The Director of the Office for the Improper Use of Magic hadn't been this thoroughly unhinged in years. He felt cornered, not by a Ministry inquiry, but by a chillingly simple threat of public humiliation orchestrated by Hertok Dagworth.
Dagworth himself hadn't even bothered to show up this time. He had simply sent a letter, the magical equivalent of a well-aimed cannonball, delivered directly to the Director's desk. The message was concise and utterly devastating: Apologize now, personally and officially, or I will publish my own apology in The Daily Prophet.
Attached was the meticulously prepared draft of Dagworth's 'apology'—a masterstroke of political assassination. It carefully outlined how Dagworth, in good faith, had asked his esteemed Ministry colleague to correct a known departmental error, only to be met with bureaucratic stonewalling, arrogance, and the subsequent harassment of an innocent minor.
The apology framed Dagworth as the noble victim forced to go public, and the Director as the callous, incompetent guardian of public safety.
The Director knew the consequences instantly. No one would question Dagworth's motives; they would question why the Ministry's mistake had required him, a respected Potions Master, to seek public redress.
The scandal wouldn't stick to Dagworth; it would stick, wet and foul, to the Director. His rivals, the colleagues he'd stepped over to reach his position, would feast on this. His job would be gone before the next edition of the Prophet hit the stands.
The threat wasn't a question of right and wrong; it was a matter of self-preservation. The only viable path, the cheapest solution, as Albert had so eloquently put it, was abject surrender. Apologize, retrieve the Gold Membership Card for Dagworth, and pray the whole rotten mess vanished into the archives.
"Mafalda!" The Director's voice, raw and raspy, finally barked from the inner office.
Mafalda nearly leaped out of her skin. She scurried into the office, where the Director was hunched over his desk, rubbing his temples, surrounded by shredded parchment. He had forgotten the name of the boy who had caused this uproar, but he hadn't forgotten that Mafalda was the one who initially signed the misuse warning.
After a tense, hour-long session where the Director oscillated between incoherent rants and panicked directives, Mafalda was left to draft the humiliating letter.
In truth, the Director wanted to simply sign something already prepared, but Mafalda knew better than to trust the wording of a paper trail that might eventually lead to her. She had to write it herself, walking the impossible tightrope of sounding official but apologetic, formal yet subservient.
How, Mafalda wondered desperately, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood, how can someone who oversees the prohibition of misused magic be so utterly devoid of sense? Just swallow your pride, write the damn letter, and let it pass!
Endure it… endure it… Her thoughts were a loop of frantic self-calming, but the sheer force of her humiliation, writing this groveling piece of bureaucratic fiction, was too much.
The tip of her quill, driven too hard by her trembling hand, finally snapped, bending uselessly against the parchment. The Director merely grunted, too lost in his own despair to notice the broken nib, forcing Mafalda to fetch another one before she could finally finish the torturous task.
It was a drizzly Saturday afternoon. Albert had spent the majority of the day sequestered in the quiet comfort of Professor Smith's office, discussing the nuances of the self-reversal charm.
Rowena, a talented witch in her own right, provided the theoretical feedback that always proved invaluable, elevating his own research. The shared academic passion between the two was a rare luxury that consistently padded his experience bar.
As Albert finally made his way back toward Gryffindor Tower, navigating the less-trafficked corridors, an older boy—a fifth-year he vaguely recognized—called his name and handed him a sealed envelope.
The envelope was remarkably plain, bearing only Albert's name on the front. It lacked a return address, which was immediately suspicious. However, the purple wax seal, though smudged and crudely pressed, bore the unmistakable stylized 'W' of the Ministry of Magic.
Albert didn't need to ask. The timing, the lack of official paperwork, and the clumsy nature of the delivery all pointed to one thing: Hertok Dagworth had made good on his promise. He broke the seal right there in the empty corridor.
He scanned the contents, his eyes flicking over the dense paragraphs of carefully crafted political doublespeak. It was a masterpiece of insincere flattery, filled with flowery language about "unforeseen administrative oversights," "deepest personal regrets," and "the highest assurance of future vigilance."
The so-called apology was merely a collection of hypocritical excuses designed to avoid legal liability while technically fulfilling the request.
Albert had expected nothing less. He hadn't asked for sincerity, merely for the proof of subjugation.
But then his eyes snagged on the signature at the bottom of the page, a name scrawled with a heavy, aggressive hand that had nearly torn through the thick parchment:
Dolores J. Umbridge, Director of the Department for the Improper Use of Magic.
Albert's brow furrowed, his mind instantly locking onto the name. Umbridge. The familiarity was immediate and deeply unpleasant. He slowly mouthed the name, his internal monologue exploding into action.
"Umbridge? That name… I know that name. Ministry of Magic. Umbridge. Hogwarts Professor. Defence Against the Dark Arts. Pink. Frog-like. The… High Inquisitor!"
A cold wave of realization washed over him, fragmenting his future memories into sharp, nasty shards. The woman who terrorized Hogwarts, who tried to silence Harry Potter and the truth of Voldemort's return, who possessed a cruel, institutionalized sadism beneath her sickly sweet facade… that woman was the current Director of the Department that had caused him so much hassle.
The Department for the Improper Use of Magic.
"Ah, so it was her," Albert whispered, a dark amusement coloring his tone.
He immediately understood why Hertok Dagworth—a man of scientific precision and professional pride—had hated her so passionately, resorting to calling her a "disgusting, ugly woman." To be forced to deal with the petulant, pink-clad tyranny of Dolores Umbridge must have been infuriating.
And, suddenly, the apology letter took on a whole new meaning. To force her to write this, to force her to admit fault and grovel, even insincerely, must have been torture. Albert looked back at the parchment, noting the depth of the indentations left by the quill. It was impossible, given her character, that she hadn't written this in a furious, near-apoplectic state.
If I had known the extent of her future malice, Albert thought, folding the letter with great care, I might have demanded more than just an apology. I might have demanded her immediate resignation.
But the current outcome was still deeply satisfying. Knowing that the person he had just politically cornered was none other than one of the great antagonists of the future only solidified his confidence.
He now understood why the problem had been so difficult and why Hertok had suffered so much. And he now understood how Dolores Umbridge, who was currently the head of the department overseeing magical laws, would know exactly how to exploit legal loopholes—like sending Dementors—to silence Harry in the future.
The seeds of future trouble are already being sown, Albert realized. And now, I have a signed apology from the frog.
"What's the crisis, Albert? Whose heavy-handed letter is that?" Lee Jordan's voice cut through Albert's introspection. He and a few other Gryffindors were heading down the stairs, bags slung over their shoulders.
"Ministry business," Albert said, tucking the damning letter securely into his robe pocket. "The previous issue has been resolved. Peace has been declared."
"Finally! That's brilliant. Where are you off to now?"
"The Library. Need to check some obscure sources."
"Perfect, we're heading that way anyway. Group study session?" Lee suggested.
"Lead the way," Albert agreed, joining the small group.
They walked for a moment before Lee leaned in conspiratorially toward Shanna, a highly intelligent Ravenclaw girl who often joined their study groups and who had been walking slightly ahead.
"Shanna, did you know that Albert and Katrina are in the middle of a major, secret competition?" Lee whispered, loud enough for Albert to hear, his voice brimming with uncontainable gossip.
"A competition? What kind?" Shanna asked, looking genuinely surprised and intrigued.
"The Riddle Gauntlet!" Lee exclaimed proudly. "I heard them talking this morning. It's a bet between the two of them—who can correctly solve one hundred obscure, high-difficulty riddles by the end of the month! It's insane! They're already halfway through!"
Shanna's eyes widened, a flicker of excitement and respect lighting her face. One hundred riddles was less about trivia and more about pattern recognition, lateral thinking, and obscure magical history. It was a true test of pure, unadulterated intellect.
"One hundred riddles," Shanna repeated slowly. "It figures. Only those two would turn leisure time into a psychological war game."
"So, who's your money on?" Lee Jordan nudged her playfully.
Shanna didn't hesitate for a second. "Albert, of course. He's a tactical genius; he'll break down the structure of the riddles first, then figure out the obscure references. Katrina is brilliant, but Albert has an edge in finding connections that aren't immediately obvious."
Albert, walking a pace behind, merely smiled, pleased to hear his strategy articulated so precisely. Even among geniuses, reputation mattered, and Shanna's unwavering confidence in his analytical abilities was its own reward.
Now, with a signed threat from a future Dark Arts tyrant tucked safely in his pocket, he could finally return to the serene pursuit of abstract knowledge. The Library awaited.