The next morning marked the official start of their fifth year. The Gryffindors and Slytherins filed into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom together, buzzing with anticipation.
Fifth year meant more parctical magic. Everyone expected the curriculum to finally get serious.
After four years of chaotic, unpredictable teachers, students wanted advanced hexes, counter-curses, real practical magic to prepare them for what was coming.
Instead, they walked in to find Professor Umbridge already seated at the desk, wearing another fluffy pink cardigan and a black velvet bow that looked exactly like a fly perched on a toad.
"Good morning, class," she simpered, her breathy voice cutting through the chatter. "Wands away and quills out, please."
Harry exchanged a dark look with Ron as they shoved their wands back into their bags.
Victor claimed a desk near the back, leaning casually in his chair, watching as the rest of the class pulled out their brand-new copies of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard — a thick, dry textbook entirely devoid of practical spells.
"Now, open your books to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners,'" Umbridge said, smiling sweetly. "There will be no need to talk."
The excitement in the room died instantly. Except for one person.
Hermione hadn't even opened her book. She sat perfectly still, hand thrust into the air.
Umbridge ignored her for several minutes, pacing at the front of the room, but Hermione didn't budge. Finally the professor stopped, offering a tight, artificial smile. "Did you have a question about the text, my dear?"
"No," Hermione said firmly. "I have a question about this curriculum. There's no mention in this book about actually casting defensive spells."
Umbridge let out a soft, breathy laugh. "Casting spells? Good heavens. I can't imagine any scenario where you'd need to cast a spell in my classroom. You are here to learn the approved, risk-free theoretical background."
"Theory?" Harry cut in, ignoring the rule about hands. "How's theory going to help us if we actually get attacked in the real world?"
"This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world," Umbridge said, voice sharpening despite the smile. "And who, exactly, do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?"
Harry didn't hesitate. "Maybe Lord Voldemort?"
Several students gasped. Neville flinched hard enough to knock his ink bottle to the floor.
Umbridge's smile vanished. Her eyes narrowed into cold, dark slits. "Let me make this perfectly clear. You have been told a certain dark wizard has returned from the dead. That is a lie."
"It's not a lie!" Harry shot up out of his seat, temper snapping. "I saw him!"
"Detention, Mr. Potter!" Umbridge barked, all sweetness gone. "For spreading vicious, attention-seeking falsehoods!"
Harry opened his mouth to shout again — but a chair leg scraped loudly against the stone floor, cutting through the tension. Every head turned to the back of the room.
Victor had leaned back, arms crossed. "So, just to clarify," he said, voice completely flat. "If a dark wizard — or say, a rogue Dementor in a Muggle alleyway — decides to try and murder one of us, your official Ministry advice is to throw this textbook at them?"
Dead silence. Harry stared at him. Ron looked like he was fighting hard not to laugh.
Umbridge's face flushed a mottled purple. She marched halfway down the aisle, wand twitching in her hand. "Are you questioning Ministry policy, Mr. Malfoy?"
"I'm questioning the aerodynamics of a hardcover book, Professor," Victor replied without missing a beat.
"Another word from you," she hissed, "and you'll be joining Mr. Potter in detention for the rest of the week."
"Who said anything about being scared of detention? I was dead and came back to life," Victor said, dropping the mock politeness entirely.
"So what killed me, if not the Dark Lord? The signs are all there. Lord Voldemort has returned, and the Ministry is choosing to ignore it."
"Mr. Malfoy—" Umbridge's wand hand trembled with rage.
"Do you honestly think theory helps when you're staring down actual danger?" Victor cut her off, picking up the heavy textbook.
"Do you think Ministry bullshit matters when someone throws a lethal hex at your head? How exactly are we supposed to survive? Is there a single usable counter-curse in this entire book?"
He dropped it back onto the desk with a loud, heavy slam.
The whole room stopped breathing. Hermione looked horrified at the language. Harry and Ron stared at Victor in open awe. A few desks away, even Draco looked shocked at his brother's blatant disrespect.
Umbridge was shaking now, the sickly-sweet mask completely shattered, nothing left underneath but a vicious, hateful glare.
"Detention!" she shrieked, breathy voice giving way to a shrill scream. "Every evening this week! My office! Both of you! And fifty points from Slytherin for foul language and gross insubordination!"
Victor just stared at her, completely unbothered. "Fine. But my point stands. The book is useless. We're wizards, not theorists. If you aren't going to teach us, I'd rather not come to class."
"Out!" Umbridge jabbed her wand at the door. "Both of you! To the Headmaster's office, right now!"
Harry didn't hesitate — he grabbed his books and stood. Victor followed a second later, moving at an unhurried, deliberate pace.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet stone corridor.
Harry let out a long breath, glancing over. "I can't believe you just said that to her."
"Someone had to," Victor said simply, straightening his robes. "Though I doubt Dumbledore's going to be thrilled with us."
*****
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