Umbridge Quotes

Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?" "Yes." "You called her a liar?" "Yes." "You told her He Who Must Not Be Named is back?" "Yes." "Have a biscuit, Potter.

Give her hell from us, Peeves.

I know [Umbridge] by reputation and I'm sure she's no Death Eater—' 'She's foul enough to be one…' 'Yes, but the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters', said Sirius with a wry smile. 'I know she’s a nasty piece of work though'.

We won't be seeing you,' Fred told Professor Umbridge, swinging his leg over his broomstick. 'Yeah, don't bother to keep in touch,' said George, mounting his own. Fred looked around at the assembled students, and at the silent, watchful crowd. 'If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley — Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes,' he said in a loud voice, 'Our new premises!' 'Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they're going to use our products to get rid of this old bat,' added George, pointing at Professor Umbridge. 'STOP THEM!' shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd. 'Give her hell from us, Peeves.' And Peeves, who Harry had never seen take an order from a student before, swept his belled hat from his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the students below and sped out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset.

Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?' 'Yes,' said Harry. 'You called her a liar?' 'Yes.' 'You told her He Who Must Not Be Named is back?' 'Yes.' Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, frowning at Harry. Then she said, 'Have a biscuit, Potter-' 'Have- what?

Yeah, she shows signs of life if you do this," said Ron, and with his tongue he made soft clip-flopping noises. Umbridge sat bolt upright, looking wildly around.

Are you quite sure you wouldn't like a cough drop, Dolores?

I heard from my dear friend Tiberius Ogden, that you can produce a Patronus? For a bonus point...? Harry raised his wand, looked directly at Umbridge, and imagined her being sacked. Expecto Patronum! The silver stag erupted from the end of his wand and cantered the length of the hall.

What exactly are you so happy about?' Harry asked her. 'Oh Harry, don't you see?' Hermione breathed. 'If she could have done one thing to make absolutely sure that every single person in this school will read your interview, it was banning it!

You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?' Professor Umbridge asked Snape. 'Yes,' said Snape quietly. 'But you were unsuccessful?' Snapes lip curled. 'Obviously.

The fireworks continued to burn and spread all over the school that afternoon. Though they caused plenty of disruption, the other teachers did not seem to mind them very much. "Dear, dear," said Professor McGonagall sardonically, as one of the dragons soared around her classroom, emitting loud bangs and exhaling flame. "Miss Brown, would you mind running along to the headmistress and informing her that we have an escaped firework in our classroom?" "Thank you so much, Professor!" said Professor Flitwick in his squeaky little voice. "I could have got rid of the sparklers myself, of course, but I wasn't sure whether I had the authority..." Beaming, he closed the classroom door in Umbridge's snarling face.

Am I the only one getting a god-awful Dolores Umbridge vibe off of her?

The Ministry places a rather higher value on my life than yours, I’m afraid.

Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they’re going to use our products to get rid of this old bat,” added George, pointing at Professor Umbridge.

I should have made my meaning plainer,” said Professor McGonagall, turning at last to look Umbridge directly in the eyes. “He has achieved high marks in all Defense Against the Dark Arts tests set by a competent teacher.” Professor Umbridge’s smile vanished as suddenly as a lightbulb blowing. She

She was wearing her glasses now, at least, along with an enormous pink dressing gown and a pair of equally enormous bunny-ear slippers. The slippers surprised him until he remembered that Chloe used cuteness to disguise her inner evil. Sort of like Professor Umbridge.

You haven’t given me any ink,” he said. “Oh, you won’t need ink,” said Professor Umbridge with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice. Harry placed the point of the quill on the paper and wrote: I must not tell lies. He let out a gasp of pain. The words had appeared on the parchment in what appeared to be shining red ink. At the same time, the words had appeared on the back of Harry’s right hand, cut into his skin as though traced there by a scalpel — yet even as he stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth. Harry looked around at Umbridge. She was watching him, her wide, toadlike mouth stretched in a smile. “Yes?” “Nothing,” said Harry quietly.

Is it true you shouted at Professor Umbridge?' 'Yes,' said Harry. 'You called her a liar?' 'Yes.' 'You told her He Who Must Not Be Named is back?' 'Yes.' Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, watching Harry closely. Then she said, 'Have a biscuit, Potter.

Well?” said Professor McGonagall, rounding on him. “Is this true?” “Is what true?” Harry asked, rather more aggressively than he had intended. “Professor?” he added in an attempt to sound more polite. “Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?” “Yes,” said Harry. “You called her a liar?” “Yes.” “You told her He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back?” “Yes.” Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, frowning at Harry. Then she said, “Have a biscuit, Potter.” “Have — what?” “Have a biscuit,” she repeated impatiently, indicating a tartan tin of cookies lying on top of one of the piles of papers on her desk.

Harry was a hero in the Gryffindor common room that night. Daringly, Fred and George had put an Enlargement Charm on the front cover of The Quibbler and hung it on the wall, so that Harry’s giant head gazed down upon the proceedings, occasionally saying things like ‘THE MINISTRY ARE MORONS’ and ‘EAT DUNG, UMBRIDGE’ in a booming voice.

Harry dreamed he was back in the DA room. Cho was accusing him of luring her there under false pretences; she said he had promised her a hundred and fifty Chocolate Frog Cards if she showed up. Harry protested... Cho shouted, 'Cedric gave me loads of Chocolate Frog Cards, look!' And pulled out fistfuls of Cards from inside her robes and threw them into the air. Then she turned into Hermione, who said, 'You did promise her, you know, Harry... I think you'd better give her something else instead... how about your Firebolt?' And Harry was protesting that he could not give Cho his Firebolt, because Umbridge had it, and anyway the whole thing was ridiculous, he'd only come to the DA room to put up some Christmas baubles shaped like Dobby's head...

There’s already a good chance Umbridge has chucked it away; the thing doesn’t open.” “Unless,” said Ron, “she’s found a way of opening it and she’s now possessed.” “Wouldn’t make any difference to her, she was so evil in the first place,” Harry shrugged.

Is it true you shouted at Professor Umbridge?" "Yes," said Harry. "You called her a liar?" "Yes." "You told her He Who Must Not Be Named is back?" "Yes." Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, watching Harry closely. Then she said, 'Have a biscuit, Potter.

Potter, do something. Tell them I mean no harm. I'm sorry, professor. But I must not tell lies.

Dolores Umbridge may have looked like an iced cupcake, but she was anything but sweet. She was savage, sadistic and remorseless.

Too much twee emotional expression--too many claims like, "Everything is awesome," or "I just never really feel angry or upset," or "If you're just positive, you can turn that frown upside down,"--often masks real pain and hurt. These behaviors are as much red flags as brooding and anger are....Being all light is as dangerous as being all dark, simply because denial of emotion is what feeds the dark.

Potter,' she said in ringing tones, 'I will assist you to become an Auror if it is the last thing I do! If I have to coach you nightly, I will make sure you achieve the required results!' 'The Minister for Magic will never employ Harry Potter!' said Umbridge, her voice rising furiously. 'There may well be a new Minister for Magic by the time Potter is ready to join!' shouted Professor McGonagall. 'Aha!' shrieked Professor Umbridge, pointing a stubby finger at McGonagall. 'Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Of course! That's what you want, isn't it, Minerva McGonagall? You want Cornelius Fudge replace by Albus Dumbledore! You think you'll be where I am, don't you: Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and Headmistress to boot!' 'You are raving,' said Professor McGonagall, superbly disdainful.

Didn’t you listen to Dolores Umbridge’s speech at the start-of-term feast, Potter?” “Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah . . . she said . . . progress will be prohibited or . . . well, it meant that . . . that the Ministry of Magic is trying to interfere at Hogwarts.” Professor McGonagall eyed him for a moment, then sniffed, walked around her desk, and held open the door for him. “Well, I’m glad you listen to Hermione Granger at any rate,” she said, pointing him out of her office.

Professor Umbridge stood up. She was so short that this did not make a great deal of difference, but her fussy, simpering demeanour had given place to a hard fury that made her broad, flabby face look oddly sinister. ‘Potter has no chance whatsoever of becoming an Auror!’ Professor McGonagall got to her feet, too, and in her case this was a much more impressive move; she towered over Professor Umbridge. ‘Potter,’ she said in ringing tones, ‘I will assist you to become an Auror if it is the last thing I do! If I have to coach you nightly, I will make sure you achieve the required results!

Hem, hem.” Professor Umbridge had arrived. She was standing a few feet away from Harry, wearing her green hat and cloak again, her clipboard at the ready. Hagrid, who had never heard Umbridge’s fake cough before, was gazing in some concern at the closest thestral, evidently under the impression that it had made the sound.

I urge you to speak to Dolores Umbridge, a really delightful woman, who I know will be only too happy to advise you.

Have Dolores Umbridge as your mother? or Have Bellatrix Lestrange as your mother?

I should have made my meaning plainer,’ said Professor McGonagall, turning at last to look Umbridge directly in the eyes. ‘He has achieved high marks in all Defence Against the Dark Arts tests set by a competent teacher.

Every witch or wizard with a wand has held in his or her hands more power than we will ever know. With the right spell or potion, they can fabricate love, travel through time, change physical form and even extinguish life. In the wrong hands, power and magic can be dark, lethal, and consuming. Lord Voldemort showed us that; he sought power so viciously that he tore apart the fabric of his soul and lost everything that made him human. He is the ultimate villain, motivated by an ice-cold desire for power and destruction. Obviously few people could match Voldemort in general evil intent (though Bellatrix Lestrange and Dolores Umbridge indeed try), but there are certainly other characters attracted to power.

I’ve got permission!’ she said. ‘To re-form the Quidditch team!’ ‘Excellent!’ said Ron and Harry together. ‘Yeah,’ said Angelina, beaming. ‘I went to McGonagall and I think she might have appealed to Dumbledore. Anyway, Umbridge had to give in. Ha!

Professor Sprout awarded Gryffindor twenty points when Harry passed her a watering can; a beaming Professor Flitwick pressed a box of squeaking sugar mice on him at the end of Charms, said, ‘Shh!’ and hurried away; and Professor Trelawney broke into hysterical sobs during Divination and announced to the startled class, and a very disapproving Umbridge, that Harry was not going to suffer an early death after all, but would live to a ripe old age, become Minister for Magic and have twelve children.

Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?” “Yes,” said Harry. “You called her a liar?” “Yes.” “You told her He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back?” “Yes.” Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, frowning at Harry. Then she said, “Have a biscuit, Potter.

Fred and George had put an Enlargement Charm on the front cover of The Quibbler and hung it on the wall, so that Harry’s giant head gazed down upon the proceedings, occasionally saying things like “The Ministry are morons” and “Eat dung, Umbridge” in a booming voice.

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded. He was not really sure why he was not telling Ron and Hermione exactly what was happening in Umbridge's room: He only knew that he did not want to see their looks of horror; that would make the whole thing seem worse and therefore more difficult to face.

«È vero che hai urlato contro la professoressa Umbridge?» «Sì» rispose Harry. «E le hai dato della bugiarda?» «Sì». «Le hai detto che Colui-Che-Non-Deve-Essere-Nominato è tornato?» «Sì». La professoressa McGranitt si sedette alla sua scrivania e osservò Harry, accigliata. Poi disse: «Prendi un biscotto, Potter».

He’s got Padfoot!” he shouted. “He’s got Padfoot at the place where it’s hidden!” Snape had stopped with his hand on Umbridge’s door handle. “Padfoot?” cried Professor Umbridge, looking eagerly from Harry to Snape. “What is Padfoot? Where what is hidden? What does he mean, Snape?” Snape looked around at Harry. His face was inscrutable. Harry could not tell whether he had understood or not, but he did not dare speak more plainly in front of Umbridge. “I have no idea,” said Snape coldly. “Potter, when I want nonsense shouted at me I shall give you a Babbling Beverage. And Crabbe, loosen your hold a little, if Longbottom suffocates it will mean a lot of tedious paperwork, and I am afraid I shall have to mention it on your reference if ever you apply for a job.” He closed the door behind him with a snap, leaving Harry in a state of worse turmoil than before: Snape had been his very last hope. He looked at Umbridge, who seemed to be

returned wedding gifts and penned endless notes of apology to the givers and to all our would-be-turned-would-not-be wedding guests, and if I say that I felt every word of those notes carve themselves into my skin like in that scary Dolores Umbridge detention scene in the fifth Harry Potter, I’m exaggerating, but only a little.

Umbridge only had to enter her classroom for the students assembled there to faint, vomit, develop dangerous fevers, or else spout blood from both nostrils. Shrieking with rage and frustration she attempted to trace the mysterious symptoms to their source, but the students told her stubbornly they were suffering “Umbridge-itis.

Umbridge. ‘STOP THEM!’ shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd. ‘Give her hell from us, Peeves.’ And

I was just wondering whether Mr. Potter has quite the temperament for an Auror?

I’ve got a query about your course aims,” said Hermione. Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows. “And your name is — ?” “Hermione Granger,” said Hermione. “Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully,” said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness. “Well, I don’t,” said Hermione bluntly. “There’s nothing written up there about using defensive spells.” There was a short silence in which many members of the class turned their heads to frown at the three course aims still written on the blackboard. “Using defensive spells?” Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. “Why, I can’t imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren’t expecting to be attacked during class?

False hope?’ repeated Professor McGonagall, still refusing to look round at Professor Umbridge. ‘He has achieved high marks in all his Defence Against the Dark Arts tests –’ ‘I’m terribly sorry to have to contradict you, Minerva, but as you will see from my note, Harry has been achieving very poor results in his classes with me –’ ‘I should have made my meaning plainer,’ said Professor McGonagall, turning at last to look Umbridge directly in the eyes. ‘He has achieved high marks in all Defence Against the Dark Arts tests set by a competent teacher.

Lovegood had got out The Quibbler again. Meanwhile, at the Hufflepuff table Ernie Macmillan was one of the few still staring at Professor Umbridge, but he was glassy-eyed and Harry was sure he was only pretending to listen in an attempt to live up to the new prefect’s badge gleaming on his chest. Professor Umbridge did not seem to notice the restlessness of her audience. Harry had the impression that a full-scale riot could have broken out under her nose and she would have ploughed on with her speech. The teachers, however, were still listening very attentively, and Hermione seemed to be drinking in every word Umbridge spoke, though, judging by her

feeling the same way; her chest was heaving with rage and frustration. “Very well,” she said, and she pulled out her wand. “Very well . . . I am left with no alternative. . . . This is more than a matter of school discipline. . . . This is an issue of Ministry security. . . . Yes . . . yes . . .” She seemed to be talking herself into something. She was shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot, staring at Harry, beating her wand against her empty palm and breathing heavily. Harry felt horribly powerless without his own wand as he watched her. “You are forcing me, Potter. . . . I do not want to,” said Umbridge, still moving restlessly on the spot,

Shrieking with rage and frustration she attempted to trace the mysterious symptoms to their source, but the students told her stubbornly they were suffering “Umbridge-itis.” After putting four successive classes in detention and failing to discover their secret she was forced to give up and allow the bleeding, swooning, sweating, and vomiting students to leave her classes in droves. But not even the users of the Snackboxes could compete with that master of chaos, Peeves, who seemed to have taken Fred’s parting words deeply to heart. Cackling madly, he soared through the school, upending tables, bursting out of blackboards, and toppling statues and vases.

The teachers were, of course, forbidden from mentioning the interview by Educational Decree Number Twenty-six, but they found ways to express their feelings about it all the same. Professor Sprout awarded Gryffindor twenty points when Harry passed her a watering can; a beaming Professor Flitwick pressed a box of squeaking sugar mice on him at the end of Charms, said “Shh!” and hurried away; and Professor Trelawney broke into hysterical sobs during Divination and announced to the startled class, and a very disapproving Umbridge, that Harry was not going to suffer an early death after all, but would live to a ripe old age, become Minister of Magic, and have twelve children.

Peeves, who seemed to have taken Fred’s parting words deeply to heart. Cackling madly, he soared through the school, upending tables, bursting out of blackboards, toppling statues and vases; twice he shut Mrs Norris inside a suit of armour, from which she was rescued, yowling loudly, by the furious caretaker. Peeves smashed lanterns and snuffed out candles, juggled burning torches over the heads of screaming students, caused neatly stacked piles of parchment to topple into fires or out of windows; flooded the second floor when he pulled off all the taps in the bathrooms, dropped a bag of tarantulas in the middle of the Great Hall during breakfast and, whenever he fancied a break, spent hours at a time floating along after Umbridge and blowing loud raspberries every time she spoke.

I didn’t practice, I didn’t bother, I could’ve stopped myself having those dreams, Hermione kept telling me to do it, if I had he’d never have been able to show me where to go, and — Sirius wouldn’t — Sirius wouldn’t —” Something was erupting inside Harry’s head: a need to justify himself, to explain — “I tried to check he’d really taken Sirius, I went to Umbridge’s office, I spoke to Kreacher in the fire, and he said Sirius wasn’t there, he said he’d gone!” “Kreacher lied,” said Dumbledore calmly. “You are not his master, he could lie to you without even needing to punish himself. Kreacher intended you to go to the Ministry of Magic.” “He — he sent me on purpose?” “Oh yes. Kreacher, I am afraid, has been serving more than one master for months.” “How?” said Harry blankly. “He hasn’t been out of Grimmauld Place for years.” “Kreacher seized his opportunity shortly before Christmas,” said Dumbledore, “when Sirius, apparently, shouted at him to ‘get out.

It was not difficult to find. One floor down, pandemonium reigned. Somebody (and Harry had a very shrewd idea who) had set off what seemed to be an enormous crate of enchanted fireworks. Dragons comprised entirely of green and gold sparks were soaring up and down the corridors, emitting loud fiery blasts and bangs as they went; shocking-pink Catherine wheels five feet in diameter were whizzing lethally through the air like so many flying saucers; rockets with long tails of brilliant silver stars were ricocheting off the walls; sparklers were writing swear words in midair of their own accord; firecrackers were exploding like mines everywhere Harry looked, and instead of burning themselves out, fading from sight or fizzling to a halt, these pyrotechnical miracles seemed to be gaining in energy and momentum the longer he watched. Filch and Umbridge were standing, apparently transfixed in horror, halfway down the stairs. As Harry watched, one of the larger Catherine wheels seemed to decide that what it needed was more room to manoeuvre; it whirled towards Umbridge and Filch with a sinister ‘wheeeeeeeeee’. They both yelled with fright and ducked, and it soared straight out of the window behind them and off across the grounds. Meanwhile, several of the dragons and a large purple bat that was smoking ominously took advantage of the open door at the end of the corridor to escape towards the second floor. ‘Hurry, Filch, hurry!’ shrieked Umbridge, ‘they’ll be all over the school unless we do something – Stupefy!’ A jet of red light shot out of the end of her wand and hit one of the rockets. Instead of freezing in midair, it exploded with such force that it blasted a hole in a painting of a soppy-looking witch in the middle of a meadow; she ran for it just in time, reappearing seconds

Me parece que debería ser más clara —la atajó la profesora McGonagall, y se volvió por fin para mirar a los ojos a la profesora Umbridge—. Ha sacado muy buenas notas siempre que se ha examinado con un profesor competente.

Please, please don’t lose your temper with Umbridge again or she might not let us play anymore!

I thought you said it didn’t matter either way?” said Harry, with a bitter laugh. “Not to you anyway.” “I shouldn’t have said that,” said Scrimgeour quickly. “It was tactless —” “No, it was honest,” said Harry. “One of the only honest things you’ve said to me. You don’t care whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you convince everyone you’re winning the war against Voldemort. I haven’t forgotten, Minister. . . .” He raised his right fist. There, shining white on the back of his cold hand, were the scars which Dolores Umbridge had forced him to carve into his own flesh: I must not tell lies. “I don’t remember you rushing to my defense when I was trying to tell everyone Voldemort was back. The Ministry wasn’t so keen to be pals last year.” They stood in silence as icy as the ground beneath their feet. The gnome had finally managed to extricate his worm and was now sucking on it happily, leaning against the bottommost branches of the rhododendron bush. “What is Dumbledore up to?” said Scrimgeour brusquely. “Where does he go when he is absent from Hogwarts?” “No idea,” said Harry. “And you wouldn’t tell me if you knew,” said Scrimgeour, “would you?” “No, I wouldn’t,” said Harry. “Well, then, I shall have to see whether I can’t find out by other means.” “You can try,” said Harry indifferently. “But you seem cleverer than Fudge, so I’d have thought you’d have learned from his mistakes. He tried interfering at Hogwarts. You might have noticed he’s not Minister anymore, but Dumbledore’s still headmaster. I’d leave Dumbledore alone, if I were you.

Oy!” bellowed Ron, finally losing patience and sticking his head out of the window, “I am a prefect and if one more snowball hits this window — OUCH!” He withdrew his head sharply, his face covered in snow. “It’s Fred and George,” he said bitterly, slamming the window behind him. “Gits . . .” Hermione returned from Hagrid’s just before lunch, shivering slightly, her robes damp to the knees. “So?” said Ron, looking up when she entered. “Got all his lessons planned for him?” “Well, I tried,” she said dully, sinking into a chair beside Harry. She pulled out her wand and gave it a complicated little wave so that hot air streamed out of the tip; she then pointed this at her robes, which began to steam as they dried out. “He wasn’t even there when I arrived, I was knocking for at least half an hour. And then he came stumping out of the forest —” Harry groaned. The Forbidden Forest was teeming with the kind of creatures most likely to get Hagrid the sack. “What’s he keeping in there? Did he say?” asked Harry. “No,” said Hermione miserably. “He says he wants them to be a surprise. I tried to explain about Umbridge, but he just doesn’t get it. He kept saying nobody in their right mind would rather study knarls than chimaeras — oh I don’t think he’s got a chimaera,” she added at the appalled look on Harry and Ron’s faces, “but that’s not for lack of trying from what he said about how hard it is to get eggs. . . .

Mrs. Woods was tougher than Dolores Umbridge, that nasty teacher from Harry Potter.

Over forty kittens were delivered in for a “kitten photo shoot” to be featured on the dishes in Professor Umbridge’s office.

You will give the order to remove Dolores Umbridge from Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore. “You will tell your Aurors to stop searching for my Care of Magical Creatures teacher so that he can return to work. I will give you . . .” Dumbledore pulled a watch with twelve hands from his pocket and glanced at it, “half an hour of my time tonight, in which I think we shall be more than able to cover the important points of what has happened here. After that, I shall need to return to my school. If you need more help from me you are, of course, more than welcome to contact me at Hogwarts. Letters addressed to the headmaster will find me.

STOP THEM!” shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd. “Give her hell from us, Peeves.” And Peeves, whom Harry had never seen take an order from a student before, swept his belled hat from his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the students below and sped out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset.

With the fall of Lord Voldemort, Dolores Umbridge was put on trial for her enthusiastic co-operation with his regime, and convicted of the torture, imprisonment and deaths of several people (some of the innocent Muggle-borns she sentenced to Azkaban did not survive their ordeal).

Shrieking with rage and frustration she attempted to trace the mysterious symptoms to their source, but the students told her stubbornly they were suffering "Umbridge-itis.

DOLORES UMBRIDGE (to Scorpius): I don’t know what game you’re playing but you’re upsetting the dementors and entirely ruining Voldemort Day.

Is it true you shouted at Professor Umbridge?" "Yes," said Harry. "You called her a liar?" "Yes." "You told her He Know Must Not Be Named is back?" "Yes." Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, watching Harry closely. Then she said, 'Have a biscuit, Potter.

our exam?” “I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough —” “And what good’s theory going to be in the real world?” said Harry loudly, his fist in the air again. Professor Umbridge looked up. “This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world,” she said softly. “So we’re not supposed to be prepared for what’s waiting out there?” “There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter.

Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?” she added, staring at Parvati, whose hand had just shot up. “Parvati Patil, and isn’t there a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.? Aren’t we supposed to show that we can actually do the countercurses and things?” “As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions,” said Professor Umbridge dismissively. “Without ever practicing them before?” said Parvati incredulously. “Are you telling us that the first time we’ll get to do the spells will be during

May I offer you a cough drop, Dolores?” Professor McGonagall asked curtly, without looking at Professor Umbridge.

Tut, tut,” said Professor Umbridge. “That won’t do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’ One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!

Harry raised his wand, looked directly at Umbridge, and imagined her being sacked. “Expecto Patronum!

CHAPTER TWELVE PROFESSOR UMBRIDGE

Would You Rather: Be stuck in a painting for 24 hours? or In a room with Dolores Umbridge for 24 hours?

I should have made my meaning plainer,” said Professor McGonagall, turning at last to look Umbridge directly in the eyes. “He has achieved high marks in all Defense Against the Dark Arts tests set by a competent teacher.

Dolores Umbridge lied about her blood status. She said she was pure-blood but was actually half-blood.

Professor Umbridge’s toadlike smile widened.

There was a pause. Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows were still raised. “Right,” she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard once more. “Well, if that’s really the best you can do . . .

Mrs. Umbridge smacked her desk a couple more times – CRACK! CRACK! – to ensure we were paying attention

You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?” Professor Umbridge asked Snape. “Yes,” said Snape quietly. “But you were unsuccessful?” Snape’s lip curled. “Obviously.

D’you mind not offending the only people who believe me?” Harry asked Hermione as they made their way into class. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harry, you can do better than her,” said Hermione. “Ginny’s told me all about her, apparently she’ll only believe in things as long as there’s no proof at all. Well, I wouldn’t expect anything else from someone whose father runs The Quibbler.” Harry thought of the sinister winged horses he had seen on the night he had arrived and how Luna had said she could see them too. His spirits sank slightly. Had she been lying? But before he could devote much more thought to the matter, Ernie Macmillan had stepped up to him. “I want you to know, Potter,” he said in a loud, carrying voice, “that it’s not only weirdos who support you. I personally believe you one hundred percent. My family have always stood firm behind Dumbledore, and so do I.” “Er — thanks very much, Ernie,” said Harry, taken aback but pleased. Ernie might be pompous on occasions like these, but Harry was in a mood to deeply appreciate a vote of confidence from somebody who was not wearing radishes in their ears. Ernie’s words had certainly wiped the smile from Lavender Brown’s face and, as he turned to talk to Ron and Hermione, Harry caught Seamus’s expression, which looked both confused and defiant. To nobody’s surprise, Professor Sprout started their lesson by lecturing them about the importance of O.W.L.s. Harry wished all the teachers would stop doing this; he was starting to get an anxious, twisted feeling in his stomach every time he remembered how much homework he had to do, a feeling that worsened dramatically when Professor Sprout gave them yet another essay at the end of class. Tired and smelling strongly of dragon dung, Professor Sprout’s preferred brand of fertilizer, the Gryffindors trooped back up to the castle, none of them talking very much; it had been another long day. As Harry was starving, and he had his first detention with Umbridge at five o’clock, he headed straight for dinner without dropping off his bag in Gryffindor Tower so that he could bolt something down before facing whatever she had in store for him. He had barely reached the entrance of the Great Hall, however, when a loud and angry voice said, “Oy, Potter!” “What now?” he muttered wearily, turning to face Angelina Johnson, who looked as though she was in a towering temper. “I’ll tell you what now,” she said, marching straight up to him and poking him hard in the chest with her finger. “How come you’ve landed yourself in detention for five o’clock on Friday?

Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?’ ‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘You called her a liar?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You told her He Who Must Not Be Named is back?’ ‘Yes.’ Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, frowning at Harry. Then she said, ‘Have a biscuit, Potter.

Professor Umbridge left Hogwarts the day before the end of term. It seemed that she had crept out of the hospital wing during dinnertime, evidently hoping to depart undetected, but unfortunately for her, she met Peeves on the way, who seized his last chance to do as Fred had instructed and chased her gleefully from the premises, whacking her alternately with a walking stick and a sock full of chalk. Many students ran out into the entrance hall to watch her running away down the path, and the Heads of Houses tried only halfheartedly to restrain their pupils. Indeed, Professor McGonagall sank back into her chair at the staff table after a few feeble remonstrances and was clearly heard to express a regret that she could not run cheering after Umbridge herself, because Peeves had borrowed her walking stick.

induce such fear in Dobby? The elf looked up at him, slightly cross-eyed, and mouthed wordlessly. ‘Umbridge?’ asked Harry, horrified. Dobby nodded, then tried to bang his head on Harry’s knees. Harry held him at arm’s length. ‘What about her? Dobby – she hasn’t found out about this – about us – about the DA?’ He read the answer in the elf’s stricken face. His hands held fast by Harry, Dobby tried to kick himself and sank to his knees. ‘Is she coming?’ Harry asked quietly. Dobby let out a howl. ‘Yes, Harry Potter, yes!’ Harry straightened up and looked around at the motionless, terrified people gazing at the thrashing elf. ‘WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?’ Harry bellowed. ‘RUN!’ They all pelted towards the exit at once, forming a scrum at the door, then people burst through. Harry could hear them sprinting along the corridors and hoped they had the sense not to try and make it all the way to their dormitories. It was only ten to nine; if they just took refuge in the library or the Owlery, which were both nearer – ‘Harry, come on!’ shrieked Hermione from the centre of the knot of people now fighting to get out.

Can we be the Anti-Umbridge League?” said Angelina hopefully. “Or the Ministry of Magic Are Morons Group?” suggested Fred.

heard, from my dear friend Tiberius Ogden, that you can produce a Patronus? For a bonus point … ?’ Harry raised his wand, looked directly at Umbridge and imagined her being sacked. ‘Expecto patronum!’ His silver stag erupted from the end of his wand and cantered the length of the Hall. All of the examiners looked around to watch its progress and when it dissolved into silver mist Professor Tofty clapped his veined and knotted hands enthusiastically.

Eventually, Umbridge was arrested, interrogated, and imprisoned for crimes against Muggle-borns.

Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!” Hermione put up her hand; Professor Umbridge turned away from her.

EAT DUNG, UMBRIDGE

Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?’ asked Professor Umbridge, in her falsely sweet voice. ‘No, but –’ ‘Well then, I’m afraid you are not qualified to decide what the “whole point” of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new programme of study.

Harry looked left. The chestnut-bodied centaur called Magorian was walking towards them out of the circle: his bow, like those of the others, was raised. On Harry’s right, Umbridge was still whimpering, her wand trembling violently as she pointed it at the advancing centaur.

When it comes to actual harm, just as Harry instantly saves Dudley from dementors, Snape goes immediately into protective mode, unlike Umbridge, who pushes Harry “in front of her like a shield” when endangered.

As a teacher, Snape finds Umbridge irrelevant. As an outsider bearing down on the strategy that he and Dumbledore have developed to fight Voldemort, however, he finds her presence nearly intolerable.

Surely even Snape-hating Gryffindors enjoyed the moment Snape turned to face Umbridge. Rowling carefully unites the sentiments of Slytherins, Gryffindors, and the reader behind Snape for this scene: even Umbridge can find no fault with Snape’s academic standards. His classroom manner has indisputably caused damage, but his students have put in the labor. One way or another, together, he and the students have created something unassailable by this intruder.

Either Snape is indeed vulnerable to the lures of the Dark Arts, so unstable that Dumbledore refuses to count his application, or this is a paper trail that he and Dumbledore have laid as part of a strategy. Snape’s supposed vulnerability to the lure of the Dark Arts is part of their cover story, but Snape has never found that lie easy to swallow, and he certainly cannot bear to choke it out in front of Umbridge and his avidly listening students. It was Dumbledore’s idea for Snape to include this ignoble rumor in his cover persona. Let him be the one to perform it for Umbridge.

danger. The Inquisitorial Squad may be hand-picked by Umbridge, but as individuals, they are just as expendable to her as the other students. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix provides young readers with extraordinarily precise insight into the thinking of tyrants.

But in addition, in Dumbledore’s absence, Snape has assumed unofficial duties as deputy headmaster, supporting McGonagall in doing what they can to protect everyone covertly from Umbridge’s rule. Running toward Trelawney’s screams, tending to Montague, training Harry to shut out Voldemort: these all come from the same urge within Snape to defend against the Dark Arts. He goes where he is needed.

Harry gets a painful reminder of his mother’s defense of Snape’s innocence when he witnesses Ministry officials coming stealthily at nighttime, on Umbridge’s order, to remove Hagrid from Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall runs out to intervene, using the same argument and nearly the same words that Lily used.

Now that it’s an emergency, Snape and Harry snap immediately into Legilimency. They know how to do this. For good measure, Snape protects their communication against detection by either Umbridge or Voldemort by presenting an outward show of dislike for Harry while, incidentally, warning everyone else that Umbridge is capable of poisoning students.

So that’s what it takes to get Snape on probation. Not bullying Neville, not favoritism, but refusing to fight Harry Potter. Umbridge expected him to comply; unsurprisingly, Lucius Malfoy seems to have been bribing Umbridge, encouraging her to purge Harry’s allies from the staff, expecting fellow Death Eater Snape to cooperate from the inside.

and Professor Trelawney broke into hysterical sobs during Divination and announced to the startled class, and a very disapproving Umbridge, that Harry was not going to suffer an early death after all, but would live to a ripe old age, become Minister of Magic, and have twelve children.