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February arrived, and the last remnants of snow and floating ice melted away. Though the cold wind still seeped into every crack, damp and insistent, more and more people were taking walks by the Black Lake. The air was heavy with moisture, and the sodden banks gleamed dully in the weak sunlight. The giant squid drifted lazily in the water, snatching up the bread students tossed down.
These days, it wasn't just the professors. The students' patience with Umbridge was wearing dangerously thin. She kept showing up in classes, trying to prove they weren't learning anything useful, then blaming the professors for not sticking to the Ministry-approved curriculum.
In a seventh-year Muggle Studies class, she'd said right in front of the students, "Really, Charity, you of all people should understand. If I recall correctly, dear, it wasn't so long ago you were complaining that Hogwarts students haven't a clue what they're learning, nor do they give it any thought. 'Professors should sit the exams with the students, so they know what they're actually teaching.' You said that, didn't you?"
Professor Burbage was furious. After class, she asked Professor Kettleburn if, when he threw a Jarvey into Umbridge's office, he could toss a few real hedgehogs in for good measure.
"I don't mind sitting the exams with the students," she said coldly. "What I mind is someone waving an exam syllabus in my face, telling me how to teach Muggle Studies. For Merlin's sake, I helped write that syllabus! Frankly, I question how much she even knows about Muggles. Probably just enough to spell the word correctly…"
Professor Kettleburn cut in. "Saw her clipboard. She spelled 'Quintaped' wrong."
Anthony offered, "She criticized me too, for not following the syllabus. Especially the field trips. I think she sees them as a challenge to the Statute of Secrecy."
"Wait, when did she inspect you?" asked Professor Burbage.
"The day before yesterday. You were at the Wizengamot," Anthony said. "Fourth-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. She didn't ask many questions—maybe, like you said, she doesn't know Muggle Studies well enough to know what to ask. Mostly just what we'd covered and the teaching plan." He shrugged. "I think I passed, at least."
"Sounds almost civil," Professor Burbage said suspiciously.
"It was," Anthony agreed. "I expected her to be more aggressive. Besides asking Mr. Davis if he'd be willing to visit her office after class to discuss his Dark Magic injury, she didn't ask anything outside the curriculum."
"Nothing more… personal?" Professor Burbage pressed. "Like how long you've taught, why you chose to teach at Hogwarts?"
"Oh, she asked," Anthony said.
But after Anthony pointed out she ought to know why he became a professor, she'd skipped those questions irritably. The students listening seemed curious, but then Umbridge started quizzing them on the difference between a 'subway' and a 'train' using the syllabus. All those furtive glances vanished. Nearly everyone stared at their textbooks, maintaining a tense silence, trying desperately not to be noticed.
Anthony recalled, "She also asked the students what they thought of my class. Everyone said it was great—really, what else could they say? I thought those sorts of questions should at least be asked with me out of the room. And anonymously."
Professor Kettleburn said, "They could say it was awful, they understood nothing, and it was very dangerous." He scratched absently at the junction of his prosthetic and thigh with his good hand. "Direct quote, from fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins in Care of Magical Creatures. We were covering Bowtruckles and woodlice, by the way."
"Truth be told," Anthony said, "I think my students resisted more than I did. She must have overstayed her welcome with them lately."
"No Slytherins," Professor Kettleburn said with a hint of pride. "So I'll bet my rating is lower than both of yours." He sounded like it was a badge of honor.
"Hard to argue," Anthony said. "But I haven't received my rating yet, so I'm holding onto a sliver of hope."
Professor Burbage finally smiled, shaking her head.
"A very thin sliver," she said. "And I'll bet mine is lower than yours, Henry."
…
A week later, they all received their evaluation results. Anthony and Professor Burbage both got 'E's. Another rolled parchment shot out of Professor Kettleburn's fireplace.
Professor Trelawney, who had already received two 'P's in a row, was deeply offended. She spent a class denouncing those "blinded by worldly power" who couldn't grasp the "subtle omens of the future," claiming her Inner Eye saw "terrible misfortune" striking those who "insult Divination with utilitarian assessments." Her prophecy earned her a 'D'.
Umbridge had now inspected every subject, even Astronomy. Everyone was waiting to see what she'd do next. Anthony overheard a few students in the corridor hopefully guessing she might finally return to the Ministry.
"And I don't want to work at the Ministry anymore," one student told her friend. "I told Percy yesterday, if he mentions us joining the Ministry together after graduation one more time, I'm breaking up with him."
Anthony glanced over, surprised. It was Penelope Clearwater, the fifth-year Ravenclaw. He never knew she was dating Percy, and he suspected Mr. and Mrs. Weasley didn't either.
Anyway, aside from Filch and a portion of the Slytherins, you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone in the castle who welcomed Umbridge's presence.
Though Umbridge couldn't take house points, she did have the authority to demand other professors assign detentions. And she used that authority without hesitation.
Most professors maintained a frosty politeness, but apart from Lockhart, no one invited Umbridge for a "little chat." When she was around, the atmosphere tended to be subdued and prickly. She seemed very pleased with the effect.
In contrast, some people actively disliked this deadened mood.
"Listen! The long winter is over!" Lockhart's opening line jolted Anthony from his contemplation of breakfast bacon.
It was Saturday. The Great Hall was emptier than usual. For a moment, all low conversation stopped, leaving only Lockhart's voice echoing under the enchanted ceiling.
"People should be cheerful!" Lockhart proclaimed. "The ice melts, the air warms, yet look at you all—glum faces—"
Several students gave him precisely such glum looks, yawning. Before Lockhart stood up, they'd been complaining about the merpeople only surfacing at dawn for language practice.
"Tut-tut, that's no good. I can see what you're thinking." Lockhart beamed at everyone. "You're thinking, 'That Gilderoy Lockhart, five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award, it's easy for him to talk. He could smile at a Bandon Banshee, of course he doesn't understand what a normal winter does to a person.'
"And of course, I know. Not everyone has an adventurer's fortitude, to stay optimistic in the face of countless perils. But fear not! I have a solution. A wonderful way to shake off the winter's gloom and melancholy!
"But I won't tell you what it is just yet. You may guess, but it will be a surprise. So, be cheerful! Infuse this new term with a little vitality!"
He sat down.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, the Hall erupted into buzzing conversation far louder than before. Students were asking each other what Lockhart was planning. Anthony glanced at Professor McGonagall. Her tightly drawn expression made it clear that, whatever Lockhart's plan was, he hadn't discussed it with the school.
"I wonder what his 'solution' is," Anthony whispered to Professor Burbage, careful not to let Lockhart overhear.
Professor Burbage said disinterestedly, "Perhaps a book signing exclusive to Hogwarts."
"Or a two-hour lecture," Anthony suggested.
…
They soon discovered they were both wrong.
On February 14th, the Great Hall was transformed. Pink flowers adorned every corner. Heart shapes made of petals were stuck to the walls, framing the four House tables and the staff seating.
Heart-shaped confetti in every color imaginable drifted down like enchanted snow, mingled with gold dust and more petals. Pink satin bows were tied around every table leg, with huge floral arrangements nestled between them. The air was thick with a cloying, floral scent that made one want to sneeze.
Snape sat beside a radiant Lockhart, looking like he'd swallowed a live flobberworm. Professor McGonagall, at the other end, had a muscle twitching in her cheek, as if grinding her back teeth. Professor Flitwick was seated lower than usual, nearly disappearing behind the table.
"I don't think I need to ask what's happening," Anthony said quietly, pulling out his chair next to Professor Sprout.
"No," Professor Sprout agreed. She seemed to have accepted the decorations and was meticulously picking confetti and petals from her porridge.
Anthony took two pieces of fried egg, squinted to see if the sheen was grease or gold dust, and decided not to care. He ate slowly, watching the students. Almost everyone entering the Hall froze for a second before reacting—most falling into two clear camps: deeply scowling, or grinning foolishly.
When the tables were full, Lockhart stood. He wore vivid pink robes today, standing out starkly against the pastel petal hearts behind him.
"Everyone, Happy Valentine's Day!" he boomed. "I see you've discovered my little surprise! Indeed, to celebrate this delightful day, I took the liberty of making a few… minor adjustments to the castle's décor…"
Confetti kept falling. Anthony brushed it off his eggs. He glanced sideways and saw Professor Sprout had a small saucer floating over her porridge as a shield. He quickly levitated a saucer over his own plate and started awkwardly eating his eggs left-handed.
"But decorations are not all! I have more surprises! What Valentine's Day is complete without roses? And what better Valentine's Day is complete without Cupids—"
He clapped his hands. Twelve surly-looking dwarfs trudged into the Hall.
They carried little harps and had tiny golden wings strapped to their backs. Quivers of arrows—with the tips replaced by red hearts—hung at their hips. They lined up in front of Lockhart, glowering down at the students as if their weapons were real and they'd sworn an oath to shoot someone today. Beside them, Snape sat utterly still, looking even more murderous.
"Don't tell me those are Cupids," Anthony muttered.
Just then, Umbridge entered the Hall. People only noticed because she stormed up to the staff table. Her pink robes blended perfectly with the décor.
"What is this?" she demanded shrilly, standing behind Lockhart and Snape, a stubby finger pointed at the gloomy Cupids. One of them glared back.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Dolores!" Lockhart said cheerily. "I was just getting to that! My little Cupids here will be delighted to help you deliver your messages! Just hand them your cards, and they will ensure that special someone receives your sweet, heartfelt note! Furthermore, these friendly, charming fellows can also deliver verbal messages. Tell a Cupid what you're too shy to say in person, and they'll relay it! Enjoy this sweet, romantic day!"
Umbridge's mouth opened and closed like a fish on a riverbank. Nothing came out. She just stared at the dwarfs with pure disgust, her chest heaving as if she were a neat-freak who'd found a family of rats in her kitchen.
Lockhart clapped his hands merrily. "Don't hesitate! Get writing! Prepare your messages—there's only one Valentine's Day a year, and it should be lively and romantic!"
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