The following morning, Echo awoke with a jolt, not to the usual gentle stirrings of the castle, but to an internal maelstrom. A potent, unshakeable sense of anger and disgust coiled in his gut, a noxious cloud that clung to his every thought. His black hair, usually a vibrant barometer of his emotions, remained a dull, agitated grey, simmering with an oppressive, unseen force. He tried to shake it off, to dismiss it as a bad dream, but the feeling lingered, thick and unpleasant, coating his tongue with a metallic bitterness. He dressed in silence, the unfamiliar rage making him clumsy, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Shimmer, usually a curious silver ripple around him, kept its distance, a faint, nervous chitter occasionally escaping its ethereal form. Sniffles, tucked deep in Echo's pocket, remained resolutely hidden, a tiny, trembling lump. Even they seemed to sense the poisonous shift in his aura.
At breakfast, the Great Hall's usual cheerful din grated on his nerves. The clatter of cutlery sounded like nails on a chalkboard, and the animated chatter was a cacophony of meaningless noise. He pushed a piece of toast around his plate, the sight of it, the smell of the marmalade, stirring a fresh wave of revulsion. His grey hair pulsed with an almost visible wave of disgust. His friends, gathered around their usual table at the back of the Great Hall, quickly noticed his unusual demeanor. Lily, ever observant, leaned forward, her green eyes filled with concern.
"Echo, are you alright?" she asked, her voice soft. "You look… well, you look like you've swallowed a particularly sour lemon."
Amos, always less subtle, snorted. "More like a whole bag of them, if you ask me. What's up, mate? You look ready to punch a house-elf."
Even Severus, usually oblivious to anything beyond his own brooding thoughts, glanced at Echo, a faint, questioning frown creasing his brow.
Echo let out a low, guttural growl, a sound that startled even himself. His grey hair flared, briefly sparking with agitated crimson. "I… I don't know," he admitted, his voice strained, raw with a frustration he couldn't place. "I woke up like this. It's like… like a Dementor is nearby, but instead of dread and sadness, it's just pure, unadulterated anger and disgust." He ran a hand through his hair, still unable to settle the turbulent emotions within him.
Just as a concerned silence fell over the table, the massive oak doors of the Great Hall swung open with an exaggerated flourish. All conversation ceased. Every head in the hall turned. And there, framed in the doorway, waltzed a woman in a perfectly tailored, saccharine pink suit, complete with a frilly blouse and a simpering smile that didn't quite reach her cold, beady eyes. Her short, mousey brown hair was adorned with a pink bow, and she carried a small, equally pink handbag. She walked with an air of smug self-importance, as if she owned every inch of the ancient castle, her every step radiating an almost tangible aura of cloying sweetness and oppressive authority. Echo stared, utterly aghast, as a wave of anger and disgust surged within him with terrifying intensity. His grey hair blazed with a furious, indignant crimson.
"Severus," Echo rasped, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes still fixed on the pink-clad figure. "Have we been hanging our faces over the cauldron for too long, or did a pink thing on legs just walk in here like it owned the place?"
For once, Severus looked genuinely stunned, a rare flicker of something akin to horror in his dark eyes. He merely shook his head, his face pale.
Frank, however, was quick to confirm. "Nope! Totally sober, Echo! I see it too! The giant pink toad just waltzed in like it's queen of the castle!"
As if drawn by an invisible thread, the woman in pink glided purposefully towards the High Table, her eyes scanning the sea of student faces with an unsettling, self-satisfied smirk. Dumbledore, who had been observing her with a faint, unreadable expression, rose to his feet as she approached, his usual twinkling eyes now holding a hint of weariness. He cleared his throat, and the last whispers of conversation died down, leaving the Great Hall in an almost unnerving silence.
"Students," Dumbledore's calm and clear voice resonated. I have an announcement. We are honored today by the presence of a representative from the Ministry of Magic. Dolores Umbridge has graciously agreed to join us this morning to deliver an important message on behalf of the Ministry."
Dolores Umbridge, her pink suit radiating an almost sickening cheerfulness in the somber hall, stepped forward, a wide, artificial smile plastered on her face. She smoothed her frilly blouse, adjusted her pink bow, and then, with a delicate, simpering cough, began to speak. Her voice, sweet and cloying like honey, yet with an underlying steel, carried clearly to every corner of the hall.
"Good morning, my dears," she trilled, her eyes sweeping over the students, lingering for a fraction too long on the more unkempt or visibly discomfited among them. "My name is Dolores Umbridge, and I have come to Hogwarts on behalf of the Ministry of Magic. As you may be aware, an overwhelming number of rather unfortunate problems have come to our attention lately. Persistent issues, shall we say." She paused, her smile tightening, and her gaze seemed to prickle the very air. "Dementors within the castle grounds," she continued, her voice gaining a sharp, pointed edge, "unauthorized outings into the Forbidden Forest, and even… fraternizing with the more untamed beasts of the lake and woods. And, indeed, much else besides." She gave a little, dismissive shrug, as if these were mere trifles, yet her eyes glinted with barely concealed disapproval. "I have come to ensure that things are as they should be, run as they should be, and above all, to make sure that everyone and everything is precisely where they are supposed to go. Away from our schools, and certainly, away from decent wizarding folk."
Echo's black hair, which had been simmering with quiet rage, now erupted into a violent, agitated crimson. His hands clenched beneath the table, his knuckles white. He understood her meaning perfectly, knew it with a sickening certainty that went deeper than words. She didn't want them to treat the other residents of their world – the Merpeople, the Centaurs, the House-Elves, the very creatures he considered friends and family – as equals. She wanted them to treat them as inferiors, to push them away, to enforce an unnatural hierarchy that boiled his blood and twisted his gut with a cold, righteous fury.
"The audacity!" Lily whispered, her green eyes blazing with a similar anger. "She can't honestly think that's an acceptable way to speak about magical creatures, let alone the Centaurs or Merpeople!"
Amos snorted. "Oh, she thinks it, alright. You can practically taste the prejudice in the air." His tone was bitter, and his own black hair was beginning to spark with frustration.
Severus, however, remained silent, his dark eyes fixed on Umbridge, a calculating expression on his face that Echo couldn't quite decipher.
Echo, his crimson hair blazing, felt a powerful urge to stand up, to shout, to unleash the fury coiling within him. But he held back, his body trembling with the effort. He would get rid of her and her meddling ways, and he would do it today.
Echo immediately got up, his chair scraping loudly across the stone floor. The sudden, sharp sound echoed in the unnerving silence and drew every eye in the Great Hall. His crimson hair blazed, a fiery halo of indignation.
"You may as well cut the niceties, Miss Umbridge," Echo's voice boomed, clear and defiant, easily cutting through the remaining tension. "Anyone here with half a brain can tell you want us to abide by the strict and nonsensical rules of the Ministry—rules that not even they follow. And yet we're expected to adhere to them like this: Durmstrang Institute." He paused, letting his words hang in the air, then continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "And you may as well stop the walk-around language and just say that you don't want anyone treating non-human creatures or cursed individuals as equals. Who knows, maybe some of the sheep here will listen and agree mindlessly."
Lily, her face pale with alarm, reached out and grabbed his arm, whispering urgently, "Echo, stop! This isn't another student, this is a Ministry official! It's the big leagues!"
Echo shrugged off her hand, his crimson hair flaring even brighter. "I don't care, Lily," he hissed back, his eyes fixed on Umbridge. "I'm cutting the cancer before it spreads."
With that, Echo marched directly towards Dolores Umbridge, his steps firm and resolute, and stopped boldly before her, his furious crimson hair a stark contrast to her saccharine pink.
Dolores, for all the fury coiling in her saccharine pink exterior, found a flicker of grudging admiration for the boy's brazen defiance. Her beady eyes narrowed, catching sight of the Slytherin emblem emblazoned on his chest. "A sharp tongue, indeed," she purred, her voice still sickly sweet, "just as any fellow Slytherin does."
Echo grumbled under his breath, a low growl escaping him, "Of course she's a Slytherin."
Dolores's smile tightened, her gaze piercing. "Did you have something to say, Mr. Echo? Then speak up."
Echo met her gaze, his crimson hair still blazing. "Indeed, Miss Umbridge. Your last name is quite… unusual. And not, I daresay, entirely fitting for you." He paused, a wicked glint entering his hollow eyes. "Considering your… striking resemblance to a certain mythical creature, perhaps you should consider changing it. How about 'Under the Bridge' instead of 'Umbridge'? Dolores Under the Bridge. It has a rather nice ring to it, don't you think?"
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the Great Hall, quickly stifled by the stern glares of the teachers. Dolores, however, merely blinked, her face briefly a mask of bewildered fury before her saccharine smile returned, stretched taut and menacing. "I assure you, Mr. Echo, my name is perfectly suitable. And as a Ministry official, my rules state that—"
Before she could finish, a silver ripple, almost invisible, darted from Echo's shoulder. Shimmer, who had been an ethereal blur throughout the confrontation, swiftly snatched the clipboard from Dolores's grasp. With a silent flourish, the Demiguise began to scribble furiously on the blank surface. Echo glanced at the board, a slow, malicious grin spreading across his face.
"Well, would you look at that, Miss Under the Bridge?" Echo drawled, his voice laced with mock innocence. It seems these rules are full of all the damns things I hate about them."
Shimmer flipped the clipboard around with impeccable timing, revealing boldly scrawled words: I DON'T CARE.
A fresh wave of laughter, louder and less restrained this time, erupted from the student tables. Dumbledore, though a faint twinkle of amusement now danced in his eyes, cleared his throat with a more authoritative tone. "Mr. Echo," he said, his voice firm but not entirely devoid of a hint of suppressed mirth, "please be respectful and take your seat."
Echo turned, his crimson hair still blazing, but now with a touch of defiant righteousness. "With all due respect, Headmaster Dumbledore," he declared, his voice unwavering, "I don't respect terrorists."
With a swift, almost imperceptible flick, Shimmer hurled the clipboard into one of the brazier fires that lined the Great Hall. It instantly burst into a plume of shimmering, enchanted smoke before dissolving into ash.
Dolores Umbridge, her face a ghastly shade of puce, practically shrieked. "Who do you think you are, boy?!"
Echo merely smiled, a slow, predatory grin that promised retribution. His crimson hair flared, and his hollow eyes gleamed with a cold, unsettling light.
"My name is Echo," he announced, his voice carrying clearly through the stunned silence of the Great Hall, his crimson hair blazing with defiant power. He slowly opened his left hand, and from his palm, with a triumphant buzz, a Doxy flew out, its gossamer wings a blur. It immediately began to circle Dolores Umbridge's face, its tiny, needle-sharp teeth bared in a surprisingly aggressive display. "Second-year student at Hogwarts, and a friend to all magical creatures. Intelligent, dumb, great, small, non-human, and everything in-between, including cursed individuals."
Dolores shrieked, swatting wildly at the buzzing insectoid, her meticulously coiffed pink bow askew. "Get away from me, you vile beast!"
The Doxy, with a final defiant buzz, zipped back to Echo, settling comfortably on his earlobe like a mischievous, living earring. Echo smirked, his eyes glinting with cold amusement. "And I don't particularly like your kind, Miss Under the Bridge."
Dolores, sputtering with rage, lunged for her wand, her hand diving into her pink handbag. Her eyes widened in shock as her fingers met only empty air. She frantically patted her robes, her face contorting with a mixture of disbelief and growing panic. "My… my wand! Where is my wand?"
Echo, still smirking, held up a small, intricately carved wand, twirling it idly between his fingers. It was distinctly pink and glittery. "Are you looking for this, perhaps?" he asked, his voice dripping with false concern. He then tilted his head slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible murmur escaping his lips as he addressed his pocket. "Sniffles, you naughty, naughty Niffler. Honestly, stealing a Ministry official's wand. Whatever will I do with you?" The tone, however, was one of pure, unadulterated pride. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the pink wand back to Dolores, who snatched it out of the air as if it were a venomous snake.
Dolores, her face contorted in a mask of apoplectic fury, shrieked, "How dare you, you insolent boy! I'll have you expelled! I'll have you thrown out of this school and into Azkaban for insubordination and endangering a Ministry official!"
Echo merely wagged a finger at her, his crimson hair still blazing with defiance. "Tsk, tsk, Miss Under the Bridge. You shouldn't raise your voice at a hissing snake."
Dolores scoffed, her beady eyes narrowing. "I hear no hissing, boy! Only your impertinence!"
Echo's grin widened, a cold, predatory glint in his hollow eyes. "Oh, how silly of me," he drawled. With a languid wave and a precise flick of his wand, his crimson hair pulsed with a deep, concentrated blue. From beneath the folds of his robes, a ripple of movement began. First, a three-headed Runespoor, its scales shimmering a dull brown and orange, slithered upwards, coiling majestically above and behind Echo's head, its three sets of eyes fixing on Dolores. To his right, a vibrant, serpentine Occamy materialized, its iridescent scales catching the light, its large, intelligent eyes narrowed in a territorial gaze. And to his left, a young Horned Serpent, its emerald green scales glinting, its tiny horns barely visible, emerged, its tongue flicking menacingly. All three creatures let out a synchronized, low hiss, a sound that reverberated through the stunned silence of the Great Hall.
Dolores Umbridge, for a single, heart-stopping moment, froze. Her face, which had been a ghastly shade of puce, paled slightly. Her eyes, usually so cold and self-assured, flickered with a genuine, unadulterated shock. But then, with a visible effort, she regained her composure, her chin rising defiantly. Her saccharine smile returned, though it was now strained and thin. "Do you truly think," she purred, her voice dripping with scorn, "that I am scared, boy? Of a few… overgrown garden snakes?"
Echo almost looked hurt by her reaction. "Not enough for you?" he said, his voice a low challenge. "Don't worry, I have something much bigger."
Lily and Severus exchanged anxious glances, silently praying he wouldn't summon Wick. James and the other Marauders, however, leaned forward in their seats, eyes alight with a mischievous hope. Instead, Echo de-summoned the three snakes with a wave of his hand, and with a resounding thump that vibrated through the Great Hall, Gorick the griffin materialized beside him. The majestic beast, its golden feathers shimmering, fixed its piercing gaze on Dolores, a low, territorial rumble vibrating in its chest.
Dolores Umbridge remained remarkably unperturbed despite the colossal griffin now standing beside Echo. Her saccharine smile, though now a fraction wider, held a cold, dismissive edge. "Really, Mr. Echo?" she purred, her voice dripping with condescension. Do you truly believe a surprisingly well-crafted illusion from a second-year student would be enough to put off a Ministry official? It will take a bit more than a fancy parlor trick to intimidate me.
Echo merely stared at her, his crimson hair flickering with a bemused yellow. "Illusion?" he repeated, a dangerous glint entering his hollow eyes. "What illusion, Miss Under the Bridge?"
With a confident, almost triumphant smirk, Dolores reached out a hand, intending to casually brush aside what she presumed was an elaborate magical construct. Her fingers made contact with Gorick's golden feathers.
The griffin, with a speed that belied its size, snapped its powerful beak, narrowly missing her outstretched fingers. A sharp, piercing scream of pure fright tore from Dolores's throat as she snatched her hand back, clutching it to her chest as if she'd been burned. Her face, for the first time, was utterly devoid of its simpering smile, replaced by genuine, unadulterated terror.
Gorick let out a low, guttural growl, a predatory sound that vibrated through the Great Hall. The majestic beast began to circle Dolores, its golden eyes fixed on her like hawks on their prey, each deliberate step a silent promise of teeth and claws.
Dolores stumbled backward, her pink suit suddenly seeming less formidable, her meticulously coiffed hair now slightly disheveled with her frantic movement. She spun to face Echo, her eyes narrowed dangerously, a venomous edge to her voice. "You insolent child!" she hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fury. "You have no idea what kind of power you are playing with when it comes to threatening me!"
Echo's eyes narrowed, hardening to chips of glacial ice. His crimson hair blazed, and a chilling smile, devoid of all warmth, stretched across his face. "Power?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, deadly serious murmur that cut through the silence. "Let me enlighten you on power, Miss Under the Bridge. I may not know many things as a second-year student, but if there's one thing I, and any other true Slytherin, know about, it's power. And what I know is this: there are two different kinds of people with power. Those who have it, and those who don't. And let me make it perfectly clear that you, Dolores Umbridge, have no power."
His gaze swept over her, dissecting her with a cold, contemptuous scrutiny. "You sit upon a throne of lies. The 'power' you currently hold isn't even yours; it's delegated, borrowed, a flimsy façade. You don't truly sit at the top, just at the feet of those who do. You're not a force of power for or within the Ministry; you're only another cog in the machine. A cog," he concluded, his voice laced with venom, "that I find can be easily replaced."
Dolores Umbridge's face contorted with outrage, a horrifying shade of purple replacing her earlier pallor. Her hand instinctively tightened on her wand, and she opened her mouth, a declaration of war trembling on her lips. "You insufferable—"
But Echo cut her off, his expression softening into a fake, sickly sweet sadness. "What's wrong, Under the Bridge?" he asked, tilting his head. "You want to spank me?"
Before she could explode, Echo de-summoned Gorick with a flick of his wrist. The majestic griffin vanished with a soft poof, leaving a bewildered silence in its wake. In its place, with a quiet plop, a plump Diricawl materialized. Echo immediately connected with it, projecting his intent. With a soft pop, he and the Diricawl vanished, reappearing an instant later at the massive entry doors of the Great Hall.
He de-summoned the Diricawl and Shimmer, who had been a silver ripple on his shoulder, solidified, and became fully visible. The Demiguise blew a defiant raspberry at the now apoplectic Dolores Umbridge.
"Then come and catch me," Echo called out, his voice echoing playfully through the hall.
With a final, mischievous grin, Echo linked with Shimmer. The air around them shimmered, distorting for a fraction of a second. Then they were gone, leaving only the sound of Echo's seemingly haunting giggles trailing off behind him as the great hall doors swung open and the sound of his receding footsteps faded into the distance.
Dolores Umbridge, her face a mask of purple fury, shrieked, "I'll show you the meaning of power, you insufferable, half-blood ruffian! You haven't seen the last of Dolores Umbridge!" With a guttural cry, she scrambled from the High Table, her pink robes flapping as she burst through the Great Hall doors, a furious, indignant whirlwind.
The entire Great Hall remained in stunned silence, a tableau of frozen expressions. Students and teachers alike watched the scene unfold with a mixture of shock and awe. Some looked horrified, their mouths agape, while others, particularly those from Gryffindor, had expressions of barely suppressed delight. A few, like the marauders, were visibly shaking with silent laughter, their faces beetroot red. Dumbledore, though his eyes twinkled with a renewed, almost mischievous light, quickly cleared his throat, attempting to restore some semblance of order.
Meanwhile, Dolores Umbridge, a pink blur of rage, stormed through the castle corridors, her high-pitched shrieks echoing off the ancient stone walls. "Echo! Come out, you wretched boy! You cannot hide from the Ministry!" She darted around corners, peering into empty classrooms and alcoves, her wand clutched in her hand, her eyes blazing. She passed a tall, shimmering vase, its surface reflecting the flickering torchlight. Just as she swept past it, Echo, hitherto invisible, shimmered into view from behind it, a wide, triumphant grin on his face. His black hair blazed with a satisfied yellow.
"Step one complete!" he whispered to himself, a victorious glint in his hollow eyes. "Now for step two."
He turned to the empty air beside him. "Peeves!" he called out, his voice loud and clear. "My good man, I require your assistance!"
With a mischievous POP! and a cascade of discarded quills, the infamous poltergeist materialized, hovering upside down in front of Echo, his eyes gleaming with delight. "Ooh, a fresh bit of trouble, is it, Echo, my boy?" Peeves cackled, his head swiveling to look in the direction Umbridge had just vanished. "And a right nasty bit of pinkness that was! What d'ya think of Miss Under the Bridge, eh? A bit of a fuddy-duddy, if you ask me!"
Echo grinned, his yellow hair flickering with amusement. "Precisely, Peeves. A fuddy-duddy, indeed. Tell me, would you be interested in helping me… encourage her departure? Non-violently, of course." He winked.
Peeves cackled again, righting himself with a dizzying spin. "Oh, Echo, my boy, you know I'm always game for a bit of mischief, especially when it involves riling up the stuffy types! What's the plan? A bucket of Flobberworm Mucus on her head? Or perhaps a swarm of Nifflers in her office?" He rubbed his hands together with gleeful anticipation.
Echo's yellow hair settled into a serious, resolute black. "Better than that, Peeves. Much, much better. But there's a catch."
Peeves tilted his head, his beady eyes narrowing. "A catch, you say? What kind of catch, my young troublemaker?"
"Whatever I do," Echo began, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper, "whatever I pull out as the… coup de grâce… You can't tell anyone about it. Not a single soul. Ever."
Peeves pondered this for a moment, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Ooh, a secret. Another one of your grand secrets, the kind I can use to drive people absolutely bonkers with curiosity?"
Echo gave him a knowing smirk. "Precisely. Imagine the possibilities, Peeves. The endless speculation. The frantic searching. The utter bewilderment. They'll never know."
Peeves let out a high-pitched, delighted shriek, twirling in the air. "I'm in, Echo, my boy! Oh, this is going to be magnificent! What's first?"
Peeves, true to his word, led Dolores Umbridge on a grand, infuriating chase. He zipped ahead, a phantom guide, his high-pitched cackles echoing through the corridors. "This way, Miss Under the Bridge! He just went down this corridor!" he'd shriek, hovering excitedly by a tapestry depicting a hunt. Dolores, her pink robes flapping, would round the corner just in time to see the tail end of Echo's black hair disappearing around another bend, followed by a faint, taunting giggle that seemed to bounce off the ancient stones.
"He's in the library now, the scoundrel! Trying to hide among the dusty old books, no doubt!" Peeves would exclaim, materializing with a flourish by a stained-glass window. Dolores would storm into the library, scattering startled students, only to find the room empty save for the echoing whisper of Echo's laughter. This infuriating pattern continued for what felt like an eternity – a blur of pink fury and spectral mischief. Dolores would dash into classrooms, up grand staircases, and down winding passages, always just a second too late. Each time, she would hear the phantom giggle, a sound that grated on her nerves like a rusty knife, and glimpse a flash of black hair before it vanished.
Finally, panting and disheveled, her meticulous pink bow askew, Dolores skidded to a halt in a deserted corridor. Her face was flushed, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The furious, indignant purple had drained from her face, replaced by a weary, suspicious pallor. She ran a hand through her mousey brown hair, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow.
"Peeves!" she snapped, her voice hoarse, her beady eyes narrowing suspiciously at the poltergeist, who was now gleefully bouncing a suit of armor's helmet off the ceiling. "Are you actually helping me, or are you just making me run around in circles?"
Peeves caught the helmet with a flourish, his eyes gleaming with unholy delight. "Why, Miss Under the Bridge," he cackled, righting himself with a dizzying spin, "why not both? A chase is ever so much fun! And you could do it by burning a few extra calories, eh? All that pinkness could use a bit of exercise!"
Dolores bristled, but before she could retort, a flash of black caught her eye at the far end of the corridor. Echo! He was just turning the corner, his black hair unmistakable. Without a moment's hesitation, Dolores raised her wand. "Stupefy!" she shrieked, a powerful jet of red light streaking down the corridor.
A distinct and unmistakable yelp of pain echoed from around the corner, followed by a heavy thud. Dolores heard a muffled cry, a whimper of agony. A triumphant, cruel smile spread across her face. Finally! She had him.
She practically skipped around the corner, her heart pounding with malicious glee. There, on the cold stone floor, was a small, black, crumpled ball, letting out soft, whimpering cries. "Well, well, Mr. Echo," she purred, her voice dripping with venom, as she approached the pathetic figure. "Looks like your little game is over. And now, we'll see just what the Ministry thinks of your insubordination. Azkaban, perhaps? Or perhaps a little something more… educational?"
She raised her wand, her smile widening as she imagined the delightful punishments awaiting him. She was mere feet away now, basking in her victory. But as she drew closer, the black ball on the floor began to stir. It slowly rose, unfolding from its crumpled position. As it turned out, a chilling wave of despair, cold and suffocating, washed over Dolores. The black, tattered cloak, the skeletal hand emerging from its folds, the rasping, rattling breath – it was not Echo.
It was a Dementor.
Dolores Umbridge stood frozen, her blood-red lipstick a stark contrast to her ashen face. Her mind, usually a fortress of self-importance and rigid rules, was reeling. Another trick! she thought frantically, trying to dismiss the towering, cloaked figure before her. "I… I won't be fooled, boy!" she stammered, her voice a reedy squeak, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably. "This is merely another one of your elaborate… illusions!"
The Dementor, however, offered no witty retort, no taunting giggle. Instead, it slowly, inexorably drifted closer, its tattered robes fluttering with an unseen wind. A profound, soul-crushing cold emanated from its form, seeping into Dolores and chilling her to the bone. The air grew heavy, thick with despair, and for the first time in her life, Dolores Umbridge felt a terrifying emptiness bloom within her. Her carefully constructed façade of cheerfulness, her smug satisfaction, her very sense of self-worth – it all began to drain away, replaced by a suffocating wave of utter bleakness. Memories, once bright and cherished, now felt distant, faded, devoid of all joy. A whimper escaped her lips, a sound of genuine, unadulterated terror.
Finally, with a desperate, guttural shriek that tore through the sudden, oppressive silence of the corridor, Dolores found her legs. She spun around, her pink handbag flying, and bolted. "Dementor! Dementor!" she screamed, her voice shrill and panicked. A frantic, undignified scramble replaced her usually dignified movements. The Dementor, silent and relentless, glided after her, its cold, lifeless presence a chilling shadow at her heels.
As Dolores fled, a pink blur of terror, the castle around her reacted in a frenzy. The living portraits on the walls shuttered themselves, their painted inhabitants cowering behind their canvases. Suits of armor, usually standing sentinel, curled into metallic balls with a pathetic clang, their visors drawn in fright. Even the enchanted staircases, usually eager to shift and confound, flattened themselves against the walls, creating clear, unobstructed paths for the fleeing woman. Her screams, echoing through the hallowed halls, finally caught the faculty's attention.
Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick, and Jobel Cleen, wands drawn and expressions grim, burst into the corridor, their faces etched with alarm.
"Albus!" Dolores shrieked, skidding to a halt before Dumbledore, panting and disheveled, her pink bow completely askew. "There's a Dementor! A real Dementor, in the castle! It almost… it almost kissed me!" She pointed a trembling finger down the corridor.
The professors immediately fanned out, wands raised, their gazes sweeping the now-empty corridor, ready for a confrontation. The silence was thick with tension.
Then, with a triumphant POP! Peeves materialized directly behind Dolores Umbridge, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. He was draped in a hastily fashioned, flimsy black sheet, a crude, skeletal mask covering his face. He flapped his sheet-clad arms wildly and let out a series of exaggerated, spooky wails. "Oooooh! I'm a Dementor! I'm going to suck out all your happiness, little girl! Woo-ooo-ooo!"
The professors, wands still raised, slowly turned their heads. Their eyes, one by one, fixed on Dolores, who stood there, trembling and disheveled, pointing a quivering finger at the now-cackling poltergeist. Minerva McGonagall slowly lowered her wand, her expression shifting from alarm to utter, withering contempt.
"Are you quite mad, Dolores?" Minerva drawled, her voice cutting through the silence like a sharp blade. "A Dementor? In the castle? And you thought to announce its presence by screaming like a banshee and then pointing at a poltergeist in a bedsheet? Good heavens, woman, have you entirely lost your wits? Or has that preposterous pink attire finally constricted your brain to the point of utter delusion?"
Dolores Umbridge looked utterly baffled, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "But—but it was a Dementor!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with indignation. She pointed a trembling finger at Peeves, who was still floating nearby, pulling on his sheet and making exaggerated spooky faces. "He's lying! And it was that boy, Echo! He summoned it! He's in league with dark forces, I tell you! He threatened a Ministry official!"
Dumbledore, however, merely sighed, his gaze softening as he looked at the frantic woman. "Dolores," he said, his voice gentle but firm, "while Mr. Echo's… spectacle in the Great Hall was certainly uncalled for and remarkably rude, it is the prerogative of the Hogwarts staff, and only the staff, to determine and administer punishment for such transgressions within these walls, not the Ministry." He paused, his blue eyes twinkling. "Rest assured, once we locate Mr. Echo, we will ensure he understands the gravity of his actions." Yet, the corners of his lips twitched, and his eyes betrayed a distinct lack of genuine intent to chastise the boy. Minerva McGonagall, her severe expression momentarily replaced by a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, looked as if she might, in fact, treat Echo to a plate of treacle tart rather than a detention. Even Jobel Cleen, who usually regarded Echo with a wary, side-eyed suspicion, wore an expression that bordered on grudging admiration.
As the professors turned and walked away, leaving Dolores alone in the corridor, she called after them frantically. "But it's true! I tell you! There was a Dementor!" Her voice grew shrill with desperation, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.
Once the sound of their retreating footsteps faded, Dolores whirled around, her pink robes flapping, to confront the cackling poltergeist. "Peeves!" she snapped, her voice trembling with barely contained fury. "Stop this instant! The joke is over!"
But instead of the poorly draped, sheet-clad Peeves making silly faces, a towering, black-robed figure sat silently on the floor where the poltergeist had been moments before. Its skeletal hand slowly emerged from its tattered cloak, and a chilling wave of despair washed over Dolores, confirming her worst fears.
It was the Dementor.
A guttural shriek tore from Dolores's throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror. She spun on her heel and bolted, her pink handbag flying behind her as she scrambled down the corridor, her frantic cries echoing through the castle. She reached the massive, oaken front doors of Hogwarts, slamming into them with a desperate force. They were seemingly locked, unyielding. "Let me out!" she shrieked, banging furiously on the heavy wood, her voice shrill with panic. "Let me out, I say!"
A cold, playful giggle echoed through the entrance hall, a sound that twisted Dolores's blood. She spun around, her back slamming against the unyielding oak doors, her eyes wide and frantic. A few yards away, Echo stood, his face illuminated by the faint, eerie glow of his hair and eyes—a sickly, evil green that sent a shiver down her spine. In his hands, he held the Dementor's hooded head, stroking it gently, almost affectionately, as one would a favored pet.
He smiled, a slow, predatory baring of teeth. Then he raised a finger to his lips, shushing, and whispered, his voice a sibilant hiss that seemed to snake directly into her mind: "No one will believe you."
Just as the words faded, the massive front doors of Hogwarts swung open with a creaking groan. Without another thought, Dolores Umbridge scrambled through the opening, her pink robes a blur of terror as she fled across the grounds. She didn't stop until she was well clear of the castle, then, with a desperate, ear-splitting CRACK, apparated away, vanishing from sight.
Echo watched her go, a satisfied, almost languid smile on his face. His green hair flickered, then settled back into its usual black, his hollow eyes losing their chilling gleam. "Well," he murmured, patting the Dementor's head one last time, "that takes care of that nuisance." He looked at the cloaked figure, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze. "You did a good job, my minion. You may return to wherever it is you go." With a casual flick of his wrist, he de-summoned the Dementor, and it dissolved into a wisp of cold air, leaving the entrance hall silent once more.
With a triumphant POP! Peeves materialized beside Echo, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and pure, unadulterated delight. "So that was your big secret, eh, my boy?" he cackled, bouncing excitedly in the air. "A tamed Dementor! Oh, the sheer brilliance! How in the name of all that is chaotic did you manage that, Echo?"
Echo sighed, running a hand through his now calm, black hair. "It's a long story, Peeves," he said, a faint, distant look in his hollow eyes. "I figured it out when I was... well, when I was all emotionless."
Peeves, for once, seemed to lose a little of his mischievous energy, hovering a bit more still. "But… will you be alright, Echo, my boy?" he asked, a hint of genuine concern in his voice. "I like a good bit of chaos, you know, but if they take you away, all our fun will go too!"
Echo chuckled, his black hair flickering with a confident yellow. "It'll be fine, Peeves. I meant what I said: no one will believe her. Honestly, what's she going to say?" Echo then put on a simpering, high-pitched voice, mimicking Dolores Umbridge. "'A second-year student threatened me with snakes and a griffin and then chased me around with a Dementor that he controls!'" He paused, returning to his normal voice, a wide grin spreading across his face. "She'll get laughed out of the Ministry, Peeves. Absolutely laughed out."
Peeves let out a delighted shriek of laughter, clapping his translucent hands together. "Oh, I wish I could be there for that conversation, Echo, my boy! The looks on their stuffy old faces! It would be glorious!"
Echo nodded, his yellow hair blazing with shared amusement. "You and me both, Peeves. You and me both."