At the head of the hall, the staff table was a row of familiar faces — Dumbledore in his silver beard, McGonagall sharp-eyed and straight-backed, Snape a shadow in the corner.

And there, at the center, sat Professor Umbridge.

She smiled as she cut her roast potato into neat, precise squares. Her pink cardigan was buttoned to the throat, a black velvet bow pinned just beneath her collar. Her stubby fingers gripped the knife and fork with practiced delicacy.

Her gaze drifted across the hall, slow and deliberate, like a cat surveying a garden full of birds.

It landed on you.