Lamp was empty, most cursed candidate on Hand, Dolores Umbridge

Professor Dolores Umbridge sat primly at her desk in her office on the third floor of Hogwarts Castle, the air thick with the scent of dried flowers and a cloying sweetness that matched her saccharine demeanour. It was September 3, 1995, and the evening light filtered softly through the lace-curtained windows, casting a rosy glow over the room's overwhelmingly frilly decor.

Every surface was adorned with lacy covers and cloths, doilies supporting vases of brittle, faded blooms. The walls were lined with ornamental plates, each featuring a large, technicolor kitten adorned with a different bow around its neck, their painted eyes staring out with an unnerving, perpetual cuteness that seemed to follow one's every move.

Umbridge herself blended seamlessly into this kitsch tableau, her luridly flowered robes harmonizing with the tablecloth draped over her desk. She hummed softly to herself—a tuneless, high-pitched melody—as she arranged a stack of parchments, her toad-like face set in a wide, satisfied smile. The detentions were her favourite part of the day; a chance to instil proper discipline in these wayward children, starting with that troublesome Potter boy.

He was due any moment now, at five o'clock sharp, to begin his well-deserved punishment for his insolent outbursts and those ridiculous tales about You-Know-Who. She had prepared everything meticulously: the blank parchment on the small lace-draped table beside a straight-backed chair, and her special quill waiting in its case, ready to teach a lesson that would quite literally sink in.

As she straightened a doily with her stubby fingers, her bulging eyes caught a glint of something unfamiliar on the corner of her desk. There, nestled inexplicably among her neatly organized quills and inkwells, sat a peculiar golden lamp. It was ornate, with swirling engravings that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light, as if holding a subtle glow of its own.

Umbridge tilted her head slightly, her smile faltering for just a fraction of a second into a quizzical frown. "Hem, hem," she cleared her throat delicately, as if to chide the object itself.

How had it gotten there?

She certainly hadn't placed it; her office was immaculate, every item in its proper place. It looked... exotic, perhaps a relic from some foreign wizarding tradition, or maybe a misguided gift from one of her Ministry admirers. Curiosity piqued, she reached out with her thick, ring-adorned fingers and picked it up, giving it a cursory polish against her fuzzy pink cardigan—unwittingly rubbing its surface in the process.

In an instant, a thick pinkish mist erupted from the lamp's spout, swirling outward like a living thing, filling the air with a faint, exotic scent that mingled oddly with the room's cloying floral aroma. Umbridge's eyes widened in alarm, and she dropped the lamp back onto the desk with a clatter, her hand darting instinctively to her wand tucked in the pocket of her green tweed skirt.

"What in Merlin's name—?" she gasped in her high-pitched, girlish voice, drawing the wand with a flourish and pointing it at the coiling mist. "Finite Incantatem!" she barked, her toad-like face contorting in suspicion as she scanned for curses or dark magic.

But her detection spells revealed nothing—no malevolent enchantment, no hidden threat. The mist seemed... harmless, almost inviting, pulsing gently in the air like a soft, rosy cloud. She lowered her wand slightly, her wide mouth slackening in confusion. "Well, that's... peculiar," she murmured, her voice regaining its sugary lilt, though a hint of unease lingered.

Before she could ponder further, a strange warmth began to spread through the room, and Umbridge's gaze dropped in horror to her own body. Her clothes—the frilly pink cardigan, the matching tweed outfit—were dissolving, threads unravelling and fading into wisps that merged with the pinkish mist.

"No! Stop this at once!" she shrieked, her voice cracking as she swatted futilely at the fabric, her stubby fingers clawing at the air.

The dissolution accelerated, her garments vanishing entirely, leaving her squat, flabby form exposed.

The mist enveloped her, seeping into her skin like a voracious fog, absorbing her essence. She staggered back, her broad, pale toad-like face flushing with indignation. "This is outrageous! I am a Senior Undersecretary—release me!" But the mist ignored her protests, tightening around her like a cocoon, pulling at her very being.

Panic surged through her as the reshaping began. Her body tingled, then burned with an unnatural heat, and she fought against it, thrashing her arms and stamping her feet. "I won't allow this! Hem, hem—get off!" she demanded, her simpering tone turning shrill. But the changes were relentless.

Her stubby fingers elongated, slimming into elegant, delicate digits, free of their gaudy rings which clattered to the floor. Her arms followed, shedding their flabbiness to become lithe and graceful, while her legs trembled, slimming down as well—until, with a surreal twist, her lower half dissolved into a trailing plume of ethereal mist, coiling upward from her waist like a genie's tail, anchoring her to the lamp.

"No, no, this can't be happening!" she wailed, trying to kick at nothing, her pouchy eyes bulging wider in denial.

The mist deepened to a reddish hue as it worked upward, widening her hips into a curvaceous flare that accentuated her new form. Her breasts swelled, becoming sightly and sizable, the skin smoothing and sensitizing until even the brush of the air sent unwelcome shivers through her.

"Stop! I command you!" she cried, clutching at her chest, but the fight was waning as mental whispers crept in—subtle at first, like poisoned honey in her thoughts. A strange allure bloomed in her mind: the idea of service, of granting desires, felt... intriguing. No, more than that—enticing.

Her flabby, toad-like face softened, the broad features refining into something beautiful: high cheekbones, full lips, and bright, alluring eyes that sparkled with an otherworldly gleam. Her mousy brown hair cascaded longer, lustrous now, adorned not with a velvet bow but a shimmering veil.

As the reddish mist coalesced around her, it wove new attire—a revealing Middle Eastern harem outfit in silks of deep crimson and gold, with translucent veils that draped her enhanced curves, a cropped top that barely contained her sensitive breasts, and flowing pants that merged seamlessly into her misty lower half.

Umbridge—or what was left of her former self—hovered there, the struggle fading from her expression. The mental shifts deepened: resistance melted into acceptance, then eagerness.

Being a genie... it felt right.

Natural.

The power to fulfill wishes, especially those of a sexual nature, stirred a thrilling hunger within her. She wanted a master—needed one—to command her, to let her channel that immense, desire-fuelled magic. Her wide, toad-like smile transformed into a seductive curve, her voice now a breathy purr laced with that same girlish simper but infused with sultry promise.

Just as the transformation completed, a knock sounded at the door, precisely on time. Now she needed only await her knew Master’s arrival.