Was Umbridge an idiot?
Of course she wasn't.
The old girl was a Slytherin graduate. Any wizard who got into Slytherin House had to have some brains, whether they were genuinely clever or merely cunning.
Could she really not read Fudge's mood?
If she lacked that ability, how could she have become Fudge's confidante? Flattery alone would never have gotten her promoted to a senior position in the Ministry of Magic.
She had no choice, because their original plan had been to "persuade Isaac Waldore to leave."
That was the task Fudge had assigned her. Even if he now looked ready to treat Isaac as his own son, Umbridge still had to step forward and play the villain unless Fudge explicitly canceled the plan.
There was nothing wrong with playing the villain, either.
Umbridge knew perfectly well that all her power came from Fudge. She could play the villain, or she could play the fool.
The one thing she could not do was fail to carry out his orders.
Besides, her attempt to persuade Isaac to leave had room for maneuver built into it. That room for maneuver was the minister himself.
If Umbridge played the villain, then naturally Minister Fudge would get to play the good guy.
In short, everything bad or disastrous that happened at the Ministry of Magic was the work of Umbridge, a subordinate who had taken it upon herself to interpret her superior's wishes.
Every good thing came from Minister Fudge setting matters right.
It didn't matter if Umbridge looked like a fool, as long as Minister Fudge looked wise and mighty.
That was the plan, anyway, but events had veered slightly off course.
Umbridge hadn't expected Professor McGonagall to suddenly step forward and defend her charge.
Now things were awkward.
Professor McGonagall was representing Hogwarts by stepping forward. And who stood behind Hogwarts?
Albus Dumbledore.
Fudge's current "main quest" was to reduce Dumbledore's influence over the Ministry of Magic.
Completely eliminating that influence was unrealistic.
The largest faction within the Ministry wasn't the pure-blood wizards or the half-blood wizards.
It was the Hogwarts faction—most of Britain's wizards had graduated from Hogwarts.
And Dumbledore was that faction's biggest boss.
Thus, Fudge could only reduce Dumbledore's influence over the Ministry. Fortunately, Dumbledore rarely interfered with its administration.
Once Professor McGonagall stepped forward to oppose Umbridge, Fudge could no longer play the good guy.
Doing so would go against his political principles.
Even if he hated Umbridge's guts right now, even if this entire political performance went to waste and fell apart halfway through, he still had to stand firmly behind the Pink Toad who served him.
There was no helping it. Fudge could weather a political crisis or two, but he could not accept the Ministry of Magic being publicly overshadowed by Hogwarts.
Accepting that would mean throwing away all his past efforts at the Ministry.
So our Minister Fudge now needed a graceful way out.
"Minister, Professor McGonagall, may I say something?" Isaac poked his head out from behind Professor McGonagall's robes, raising a hand like a schoolboy asking to speak in class.
"Of course, of course you may. My dear little Isaac, what would you like to say?"
At the sound of Isaac's voice, the sternness on Fudge's tense face melted like snow.
Given Isaac's performance today, he was eagerly anticipating what the boy would say next.
"Well, Professor Dumbledore mentioned yesterday that I could write up the magic I used against the Death Eaters as a paper and publish it in an academic journal.
But I've never written anything like that before. Perhaps I could stay at Hogwarts and ask the professors for some guidance?
Oh, and Minister, perhaps you could give me some guidance on my magic as well?"
Well, well, well!
Look at that! What a perfectly timed way out!
Fudge was delighted. He hadn't expected Isaac to have another surprise waiting for him.
Was the point of Isaac's remark to ask Fudge for magical instruction? Of course not.
Professor McGonagall would have laughed at the very idea.
Fudge could certainly teach Isaac how to be a politician, but teach him magic... was this some kind of joke?
The important part was Dumbledore's suggestion.
He had suggested that Isaac organize his magic into a paper and submit it to an academic journal in the wizarding world.
Fudge could question Dumbledore's political views, or accuse him of building a personal power base at Hogwarts.
But he could not question Dumbledore's ability or judgment.
And if that wasn't enough, there were the rumors in Diagon Alley—the ones claiming Isaac might be Dumbledore's distant relative, or his illegitimate son.
Hogwarts had Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick. To put it bluntly, even if Isaac's paper was utter rubbish, those two could prop it up enough to get it into one of the wizarding world's top journals.
And wasn't Dumbledore there as well?
Fudge realized that Isaac hadn't offered him a step down, but a staircase up, one that could raise his prestige even further.
Having figured all this out in a flash, Fudge hurried to speak, afraid that if he waited any longer, that woman Umbridge would say something unpleasant again.
"When it comes to teaching, I certainly can't compare with the professors at Hogwarts. But since you've asked, Isaac, I can hardly refuse.
Why don't you show me the spell you invented?"
"My pleasure."
Isaac walked into an open space in the Great Hall, drew his wand, and swept it forcefully through the air without any preamble.
"Protego Ignita! Protego Fiendfyre!"
Rings of crimson-gold flames sprang up, then surged outward under Isaac's control through Transfiguration.
Once the flames reached a certain intensity, the scattered fire began gathering in midair, finally taking the shape of a phoenix soaring overhead.
The same kind of phoenix as Dumbledore's.
Inside the Great Hall, the flames reflected off both lenses of Dumbledore's glasses, hiding his eyes from view.
Professor McGonagall, meanwhile, frowned slightly at Isaac's spell, seemingly lost in thought.
Once she dredged up a memory from years ago, she whipped her gaze toward Dumbledore.
Wasn't this spell, this very form it took, the signature magic of Grindelwald, her old bestie Dumbledore's former lover?
Back then, Grindelwald had unleashed a great fire in Paris. If Nicolas Flamel and Newt Scamander hadn't led others in stopping it, the whole city would probably have been burned to the ground.
Now Professor McGonagall was looking at Dumbledore in a very different way.
Fine, Isaac looked like Grindelwald. Fine, he had the same gift for prophecy as Grindelwald.
But now he was using Grindelwald's signature magic, too!
Everyone out there was practically calling Isaac your illegitimate son, Dumbledore—but looking at this, was he really your son, or Grindelwald's?
Well, well, well. Secretly raising your old lover's child without telling your best friend, were you?