The Inquistor of Inquistors

Prologue

Black Hearted Retribution

On a clean, crisp night in mid-July, as crickets chirped and toads croaked, Dolores Umbridge set out into the night. She was carrying nothing but her sleek black handbag, and the craving for bittersweet revenge...

She had been thwarted; her dreams shattered, goals leveled to the ground, she was nothing but a lowly, unemployed unknown. She had been well on her way to becoming the next Minister of Magic, and then she would have had the power to make it all come true.

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It had started for her as a child. Everyday she dreaded going to school, because she was constantly ridiculed. She was short, fat, and cared for nothing but flourishing flowers and knitting. Others saw her as another item to ridicule. As her first few years past, she collected a single, solitary friend; a small, bespecled girl named Myrtle.

Although Myrtle was only a first year, she had come from nearly the same background as Dolores. Both were muggle-born and shared a love for a burly, attractive fifth year by the name of Tom Riddle. But both of them were far to fearful of approaching him, for both knew he only associated with a small group of pureblood Slytherins. So, Dolores simply watched from afar. In fact, it became such an obsession for her that she etched his name into the back of her hand using her favorite pen.

They told one another their secrets and aspirations and their friendship was truly something beautiful in light of the darkness that had overcome their home. That year, attacks were happening nearly every week, and no culprit had been caught. It was widely rumored that if nothing happened the school would be closed. If so, Dolores would have been damned to a life in the world of muggles; the world of the ignorant and the world she had grown to hate.

At the end of her fourth year at Hogwarts, the darkness engulfed her.

It was her first true sensation of pain; a pain so unfathomable that it twisted her heart into something wretched and decaying. It was an agony greater than any other before. It was greater than any other pain that could scrape, scratch, burn, tear, or demolish the human flesh, a pain that twisted the heart, and destroyed the soul. One of the few things that made her life worth living had been ruthlessly destroyed. Her only friend Myrtle had been killed.

And as she lie crying in her bed that night, no one comforted her, or opted to support her. She was all alone in this living hell that some cruel, cruel had thrown her in, and there was no escaping. It felt like a wound that could never heal.

As her abnormal face loomed in the dying candlelight that night as Myrtle's dead body slowly passed by, she made a solemn promise; she would kill the one who took away her best friend, if it was the last thing she did.