Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

To begin with the conclusion, the "Operation Eight Potters" succeeded brilliantly.

The key factor was likely that their plan hadn't been leaked beforehand.

Additionally, the presence of Dumbledore worked in their favor.

The Death Eaters stationed around the Dursley household, upon seeing Dumbledore, deemed the situation beyond their capacity to handle. Instead of immediately pursuing, they waited for Voldemort to arrive.

This delay played into Harry and his companions' hands. By the time Voldemort showed up, they had already reached their respective destinations.

Several days passed.

Harry, until he turned seventeen, was confined due to the "trace" preventing him from making any moves.

In other words, all Order activities had to be entrusted to his allies while he had no choice but to remain in hiding.

Even if he could move, what could he realistically accomplish?

The hunt for Horcruxes, which was supposed to be his mission, had already become moot.

If Dumbledore's hypothesis was correct, Mirabel had already found and destroyed most of them.

However, Mirabel was no longer in Britain, leaving them without any options.

For Harry, it was a restless period filled with frustration as the days slipped away in futility.

But time was merciless, flowing forward regardless of Harry's distress.

And with it, the situation evolved rapidly.

The grim news of Scrimgeour's death and the fall of the Ministry of Magic came just three days later—during Bill and Fleur's wedding.

One month after Voldemort took control of the Ministry of Magic, the British wizarding world had turned into a living nightmare.

A lone man walked through the misty countryside.

His wand was gripped tightly in his hand, his expression tense.

Just a month ago, this town had been the epitome of peace, yet now, it was almost devoid of human life.

The frequent appearance of "kidnappers" in the area had made venturing outside nearly impossible.

Kidnappers—corrupt wizards serving the Dark Lord.

These individuals captured Muggle-borns, handing them over to the Ministry of Magic in exchange for rewards.

What happened to the Muggle-borns thereafter was no mystery. Subjected to sham trials, they were ultimately fed to Dementors.

This young wizard, Alan Morme, 22 years old, was a former Hufflepuff who graduated from Hogwarts four years ago.

Though Alan himself was a half-blood, his beloved wife was Muggle-born—a prime target for the kidnappers.

He had been hiding her in the basement of their home, but even that was becoming increasingly unsafe.

The number of kidnappers in the area had risen significantly, casting an ominous shadow over their safety.

It was time to consider moving elsewhere.

Of course, being a half-blood didn't make him entirely safe either.

Simply being an ally of Dumbledore could make him a target for Death Eaters or others.

But Alan didn't fear his own death.

What he feared most was his beloved wife falling into their hands.

To Alan, his wife was a beacon of hope.

From the moment he met her as a child, he had been drawn to her.

She was strong-willed, kind-hearted, and always there for him.

To Alan, she was like an older sister, a younger sister, and even a mother figure at times.

Born without much confidence, he had been sorted into Hufflepuff. She had always supported and encouraged him, guiding him forward.

When he was bullied by local troublemakers, it was always she who came to his rescue.

Now, it was his turn to protect her.

He would do anything to safeguard her smile—anything at all, no matter the cost to himself.

"Alright, looks like the area is clear for now," Alan murmured with relief as he cautiously headed home.

Always mindful of potential tailing, he used Apparition for his return.

The familiar sensation of being pulled, the scenery blurring, and then—he arrived back at the home he knew so well.

What awaited him, however, was devastation.

The house was in shambles.

Chairs and tables lay overturned, furniture smashed, and the entire place bore signs of having been ransacked.

Alan's heart sank. His wife would never do this, nor had there been any earthquakes.

What had happened here?

Sweat trickled down his face as he grew pale. A terrible premonition gripped him as he rushed forward.

Please, let her still be safe… Please, let them not have found the basement!

He sprinted to the door leading to the basement, only to be greeted by a scene that crushed his hopes.

The door was open—or rather, it had been broken down.

"Damn it! No… No!"

Please, don't let them have touched her!

If it's money they want, I'll give them everything I have!

If they want anything else, they can take it!

Just, please…

Praying desperately, Alan flung open the door to the basement.

What he saw was his beloved wife, bound and restrained by unfamiliar men.

"Heh heh heh, stop squirming already! There's no escaping now!"

"Man, this is some sweet work. All we gotta do is hand over Muggle-borns and we get paid. Gotta love You-Know-Who for that!"

The men snickered, indulging in their own twisted conversation. Without a shred of thought for their victims, they sought only to satisfy their greed. For a meager sum, they were about to take away someone so precious to Alan.

This is no joke, Alan thought, his anger boiling over.

His wife wasn't someone these kidnappers could lay their filthy hands on. She wasn't someone who deserved to be sacrificed for the likes of their petty gains!

"You scum! Let her go right now!"

Alan shouted in rage, casting a stunning spell at one of the men. However, he was vastly outnumbered. The remaining men retaliated, their spells sending him sprawling helplessly across the floor. Another man hit him with a binding curse, leaving Alan immobilized.

With a cruel grin, one of the kidnappers sneered down at him.

"Well, well, lover boy, is this your little wifey? Tough luck. Filthy blood like hers has to go to the Ministry. Orders are orders."

"Yeah, we hate to do it, y'know," another chimed in with mock pity, his expression anything but remorseful.

Alan glared at them, desperate, and pleaded in a trembling voice.

"P-please… spare her. Take anything you want. I'll give you whatever you want… Just don't—"

"Sorry, can't do that," the man interrupted smugly. "This is a special job from the Ministry, see. Gotta purify the magical world by getting rid of all that filthy blood. It's necessary work, really."

His words dripped with malice, and his companions laughed heartily. For scum like them, the current state of the magical world was a golden age. As long as their victims were Muggle-born, they could get away with anything. No one would stop them—not even the law, which now served as their shield.

"Relax," one of the kidnappers jeered. "We'll make sure your wife gets delivered safe and sound to the Ministry."

"And maybe we'll have a little fun with her first, eh?" another added, grinning wickedly.

"Of course! This is the best part of the job, after all."

Their vile laughter echoed through the room. Alan could only tremble in frustration, tears streaming down his face. He cursed his own helplessness, cursed these criminals, cursed the Dark Lord who had unleashed such chaos, and cursed the Ministry for bowing to his rule.

Everything was despicable. If hatred alone could kill, he would have destroyed them all a hundred times over.

"Why don't you go find yourself another witch to marry, one who's not a filthy Muggle-born?" one of the kidnappers taunted.

"Shut up! There's no one else for me but her!" Alan roared, defiant.

"Ugh, enough of that!"

The man drove his boot into Alan's face, cracking his teeth. With a sneer, he grabbed Alan's wife by the hair and yanked her roughly to her feet.

"See ya, lover boy. Curse yourself for picking a filthy Muggle-born."

"Hurry it up! I can't wait any longer!" another said impatiently.

"Calm down, you horny bastard! You're worse than a dog in heat," one retorted with a laugh.

Alan's mind reeled with horror, imagining the unspeakable fate awaiting his wife. He didn't want to understand, but he couldn't help it.

Stop. Please, stop. Not her. Anyone but her.

But his desperate pleas went unheard. The men, after their vile chatter, disappeared with his wife in a flash of Apparition.

There was no one to stop them. The very laws meant to maintain order had become their accomplices. This was the justice of the magical world now.

"Damn it… DAMN IT!"

Alan screamed, tears streaming down his face as he cursed his immobile body. His vision blurred with despair, his entire being overwhelmed by loss and powerlessness.

This… this is justice? This is the law? How could such atrocities be allowed?

"Someone… anyone… anyone at all…"

—Kill them. Kill them all.

But his anguished cries of hatred reached no one. They dissolved into the emptiness, unanswered, leaving him to drown in his despair.

The courtroom inside the Ministry of Magic.

A terrifying scene unfolded there.

In the outer hallway, Dementors cloaked in black hoods swarmed, moving back and forth as though selecting prey.

Within this unsettling atmosphere, the defendants—Muggle-borns who had been brought in—huddled together, trembling. Most of them covered their faces with their arms, as if to shield themselves from the filthy mouths of the Dementors.

Further inside was the courtroom—or rather, calling it a courtroom was far too generous. It was a dungeon, cold and oppressive.

Dementors were present in overwhelming numbers, their presence so heavy that merely entering the room felt like one might lose consciousness.

It was cramped, and at the judge's seat sat Dolores Umbridge, wearing a sickly sweet, triumphant smile.

At her feet, a silver cat paced back and forth, warding off the despair exuded by the Dementors from the people on her side.

Apparently, it was her Patronus. It shone obnoxiously bright, basking in her twisted joy at enforcing her grotesquely unjust laws.

"Mary Elizabeth Cattermole, is it?"

Umbridge's syrupy, smooth voice echoed across the dungeon.

The woman being addressed, Mrs. Cattermole, was seated—no, restrained—in a chair at the center of the room. Chains emerged from the armrests, binding her, rendering her unable to move.

"Wife of Reginald Cattermole, who works in the Magical Maintenance Department?"

"Yes! She's my wife!"

A man in the gallery rose to his feet, shouting in desperation.

But Umbridge gave him only the briefest glance before continuing as though he didn't exist.

"Mother of Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole, correct?"

"M-my children are frightened… They think I won't come home…"

"Oh, oh, oh, you mustn't say such things! As their mother, you must be strong, mustn't you? Hmm?"

Umbridge's tone seemed encouraging, but the words were hollow. After all, it was Umbridge herself who had driven Mrs. Cattermole into this corner, making her feigned empathy utterly unconvincing and dripping with insincerity.

"Mrs. Cattermole, when you arrived at the Ministry today, we confiscated your wand. A 22-centimeter cherry wood wand with a unicorn hair core. Do you recognize this description?"

Mrs. Cattermole nodded faintly.

How could she not? It was the wand she had bought at Ollivander's when she was eleven years old, the wand that had been with her ever since.

But despite how obvious it was, Umbridge spoke as though the truth didn't matter at all.

"Can you tell us which witch or wizard you stole this wand from?"

"Stole…?! No! I didn't steal it from anyone! I bought it… when I was eleven. That wand chose me!"

Wands choose their wizards. Every magical person knew this.

Accused of such a baseless crime, Mrs. Cattermole whimpered. Seeing her break, Umbridge giggled like a little girl, clearly delighted by the sight of her prey's despair.

Leaning forward, she twisted her face into an even more grotesque expression of glee, as if savoring every moment of Mrs. Cattermole's misery.

"No, no, no, Mrs. Cattermole. That can't be true. Wands only choose witches and wizards. And you are not a witch, are you?

Here is the survey you filled out."

Receiving the form from Mafalda, who sat beside her, Umbridge raised her voice unnaturally high as she read aloud:

"Parents' occupation: Greengrocers."

She burst into laughter as though this was the funniest thing she had ever heard.

"Greengrocers? Such a profession doesn't exist in the wizarding world.

Which means you must be a Muggle, Mrs. Cattermole."

"It's true my parents aren't magical! But I…"

"But you what? Are you claiming to be a witch even though your parents are Muggles? Lying won't do you any good. No, no, no! Lying is a terrible thing.

There's no such thing as a witch born to Muggles."

Although Umbridge surely knew full well that Muggle-born witches and wizards existed, she blatantly disregarded that fact.

The truth didn't matter. What mattered to her was tormenting her target, watching their face twist in agony.

Even the frantic shouts of Mrs. Cattermole's husband from the gallery only served to amuse her further.

Umbridge's delighted laughter grew louder, and her Patronus shone brighter.

"Now, Mrs. Cattermole, continuing to lie will only worsen your punishment.

Tell us the truth, quickly."

"I… I am telling the truth…"

"Oh my, are you still lying? A mother who lies is a bad influence on her children. Perhaps we should ask your children instead—shall we?

Let's ask them if their mother is a Muggle."

Her sugary voice carried a venomous threat.

Her twisted grin and insidious tone made her meaning clear: If you don't confess, I'll come for your children next.

"Wa-wait! Please, just spare the children!"

"Oh dear, dear me. You make it sound as if I'd harm children. Do I seem that cruel to you?"

Her face, resembling a toad, twisted with glee, making her look even more frog-like. For a fleeting moment, Mrs. Cattermole imagined a long tongue darting from her mouth to snatch a fly.

"It pains me, you know. But this is all for your benefit. Being a liar does no one any good. That's why I steel my heart and speak these truths for your sake."

The insincerity in her words was obvious to anyone who saw her expression. Perhaps she wasn't even trying to hide it. She stared at the sobbing Mrs. Cattermole as if she were an amusing toy.

"Now, tell me the truth. Whose wand did you steal?"

Of course, Mrs. Cattermole had no answer to that. She had stolen nothing, so there was no answer she could give. Yet, she knew that if she didn't respond, this woman would undoubtedly go after her children.

Driven by a desperate desire to protect them—and her ability to think clearly eroded by the oppressive atmosphere filled with Dementors—Mrs. Cattermole made a terrible mistake. She told a lie she should never have uttered.

"I… I took it from Mr. Ollivander's shop... I took it from him."

"My, my!"

At Mrs. Cattermole's false confession, Umbridge's face broke into a radiant smile as she leaned forward, positively brimming with joy. Her entire being seemed to exude delight, as if this moment were her ultimate triumph.

In contrast, Mr. Cattermole in the audience shouted, "No! Don't!" But his cry didn't reach his wife.

"My, my! So, you admit it? You shamelessly confess to stealing a wand?"

"Y-yes… I admit it. I admit it… Please, just spare my children..."

Umbridge began bouncing on her toes like an overjoyed little girl who had just received a new toy. She was practically glowing with giddiness.

"Of course, of course! It was obvious. You're a Muggle, after all. It was only natural for you to have stolen it. My instincts are never wrong, you see!"

Having finally ensnared her prey, Umbridge spoke in an unusually high-pitched voice, savoring her victory. And to deliver the final blow, she coldly pronounced her sentence.

"Then you leave me no choice but to send you to Azkaban."

"Azkaban?! No…! That punishment is too harsh!"

"No, no, no. What you did is utterly unforgivable. Evil cannot be left unchecked. Proper justice must be served."

A Dementor grasped Mrs. Cattermole's arm. Even without seeing its face beneath the hood, its rattling breath and sheer presence were venomous.

Drained of the will to resist, Mrs. Cattermole was dragged away like a marionette with its strings cut.

Naturally, Mr. Cattermole would not stand idly by. He raised his wand in fury against the Dementor, only to be struck by a Stunning Spell from the judge's bench as if they had anticipated his reaction.

"No… no! Noooooo! Help me! Someone, please! Help! You! I don't want to go to Azkabaaaan!"

Her despairing screams echoed through the chamber, like music to Umbridge's ears. She closed her eyes blissfully and tilted her head, savoring the sound.

Swaying as if keeping time with the wails, she indulged until the screams faded. Then, with a deep, satisfied sigh, she composed herself.

But it wasn't over. There were still plenty more "delicious" prey to savor.

"Next, please."

Her sickly sweet, girlish voice summoned the next victim.

These events, however, were not an extraordinary tragedy. In the wizarding world under Voldemort's rule, such occurrences were all too common—merely one among countless other horrors.

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