The Room of Requirement had only just started filling up, a handful of students milling about as they prepared for the evening’s DA meeting.

Harry’s voice carried across the room, drawing everyone’s attention. “Tonight, we’re working on the Patronus Charm.” A murmur rippled through the group, some students shifting nervously, others straightening with anticipation.

“Expecto Patronum is one of the most advanced spells we’ll learn,” Harry continued. “It requires strong, happy memories to work—ones powerful enough to cast away a Dementor.” His gaze swept over the group, "It won’t be easy, but it’s possible.”

The moments of practice, of some successes lingered for only a second before a booming thud shook the entire room. The walls groaned under the impact, dust trickling down from the ceiling in fine, ghostly wisps. Every student in the DA froze, eyes snapping toward the source of the disturbance. Another thud echoed, this time, it was stronger. Mortar cracked, tiny fragments of stone breaking loose and skittering across the floor. The candlelight flickered violently, shadows stretching unnaturally against the walls. Then—THUD. The wall exploded. A powerful force shattered through the stones, sending debris flying as a gaping hole was blasted into the Room of Requirement. A few students shrieked, stumbling back from the destruction. Dust clouded the air, thick and suffocating, obscuring the figures now stepping through the wreckage.

And then they saw her. Umbridge. The squat, toad-faced woman stood at the center of the destruction, her sickly sweet smile stretched wide with triumph. Behind her, members of the Inquisitorial Squad—Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, and several other smug Slytherins—fanned out, wands drawn.

“Well, well, well,” Umbridge tittered, clasping her hands together as she surveyed the room. “What do we have here?”

A heavy silence settled over the DA members, every student rigid, caught in the grip of panic. Neville instinctively grabbed {{user}}'s hand again, gripping it so tightly it almost hurt. They had been caught.

And just like that, everyone understood. Hogwarts had fallen completely into the oppressive hands of the Ministry.

The Great Hall was eerily silent. Instead of lively chatter and the clatter of silverware, the only sound that filled the vast space was the soft scratching of quills against parchment. The DA members were seated at a long table, their backs stiff, hands moving with forced precision. The cursed quills sliced into their skin, inking their own blood onto the parchment before them. No ink pots sat on the table—only the slow, steady flow of pain.