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Anthony had just left the Hospital Wing when he remembered the greeting card waiting for him. He passed students trickling out of the Great Hall, hesitated at the foot of the stairs, and ultimately decided to take the long way around, steering clear of Lockhart's office.
The library was nearly empty. Most students were absorbed in the novel Valentine's festivities. Only a handful remained, hunched over alarmingly thick books, scratching away at their essays with an air of frantic, irritable anxiety. They glanced up as Anthony passed, then looked back down, unconcerned.
Anthony found a seat in the Restricted Section, pulled the card from his bag, sighed deeply, and opened it.
Inside the folded parchment envelope was a simple card: white cardstock, multicolored Happy Valentine's Day lettering, a few heart shapes. The kind you'd find on a magazine rack next to a supermarket checkout. No perfume. Excellent. Anthony felt a small wave of relief.
He turned it over. A solid block of dense, familiar-looking handwriting stared back. He flipped the attached parchment addendum and checked the signature.
The card was from Seona Sangster, a fifth-year Gryffindor. Anthony had to admit, he didn't remember her all that well. A quiet, focused student, if he recalled. And she always seemed to do well on his tests.
Professor Anthony, she began, I'm writing this… I don't know what I'm writing. This is stupid. But I'm writing it anyway.
I was supposed to be writing my Potions essay, but Professor Snape—'Professor' was squeezed in later, long and narrow between the lines—besides the essay on Pepperup Potions, also wants eleven uses for rat tails and an explanation on why you can't substitute a lizard tail in the potion. I don't know.
Professor McGonagall gave us a mountain of homework. I still don't get the Vanishing Spell. Last week, I vanished my raven, but this week, no matter how hard I try, it refuses to turn into nothing. Or everything. Maybe it just wants to be itself.
Charms is better. Herbology, too. I don't know what they'll test in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but I'm pretty sure I know how to catch a ghoul with a tea strainer now. I can write some iambic pentameter. I also know how to make air smell nice. But that's Charms. I've mastered the spelling of 'Vatican Vampire-Veela Van', and I've learned Impedimenta Maxima. Overall, I think I'm a DADA master.
Everyone keeps saying how important O.W.L.s are. I wonder sometimes, what if I don't get a single certificate? What happens then? What if I oversleep and miss an exam? What if my anti-cheating quill breaks and thinks everything I write is cheating? What if my scores aren't good enough to take the same NEWT classes as my friends?
I know this all sounds ridiculous, but I'm really worried about it. Muggle Studies is probably the one I worry about least, but sometimes I think they'll ask about the exact thing I don't know. I still can't remember the difference between AC and DC current. We will have revision classes, right?
After a few paragraphs on her O.W.L. anxieties and other tangents, her mood seemed to lighten. She started writing about how much she liked Anthony.
It wasn't so much a love letter, though. More like a regular letter.
She wrote that Muggle Studies days were something she looked forward to. She mentioned how she'd feel lucky and happy when she ran into him in the corridors, especially when he said hello. She went to the library more now because she often saw him near the entrance. She talked about how much she loved her adopted cat (even when it jumped on her bed at midnight), described her holiday plans to visit the Muggle world, and swore she'd get an O on her exam and keep taking his class next year.
At the end, she wrote: Anyway, Happy Valentine's Day, Professor Anthony. Thank you for reading this. Sincerely, Seona.
P.S. I bought this card with the pounds from our practical session, at a Muggle discount shop. Do I get extra credit for that?
Anthony couldn't help but smile.
He slid the card back into its envelope, stuffed it in his bag, and left. He passed a student angrily flipping pages, a portrait rolling its eyes at a couple, and caught a Fanged Frisbee. No one claimed it, so he pocketed it. He was thinking about how to reply to Miss Sangster when he ran into Moaning Myrtle, sobbing as she rushed down the corridor. Peeves was hot on her heels, cackling, zooming past the waterlogged floor and singing, "Her voice makes me want to faint!"
On the soggy second-floor corridor, a large crowd had gathered. Lockhart had his arm around a student's shoulder, beaming, shifting angles for Colin's camera. The student beside him had flushed cheeks and a dreamy look in their eyes.
They would have gone on longer if Peeves hadn't shrieked, dive-bombed the camera with a grotesque face, and sent Colin tumbling to the floor, clutching his camera. Colin clearly needed to change his robes and trousers.
Anthony waited until Lockhart retreated to his office and the chattering crowd dispersed before wading through the water to the bathroom door. The bathroom was empty, as usual. No one bothered lighting the lamps in this near-abandoned toilet, so everything was dark. Light from the corridor shimmered on the rippling water.
Myrtle's wails echoed off the tiles, but she was nowhere in sight. Anthony guessed she was in her favorite stall.
He knocked, then entered. Water gurgled from the toilet Myrtle occupied. Myrtle let out a particularly loud sob. A geyser of water erupted from the bowl. Anthony ducked behind the door, listening to it splash against wood and tile.
"What's wrong, Myrtle?" he called.
Myrtle's crying hitched. "Who is it?" she asked, her voice thick and muffled.
Anthony lit the lamps. Myrtle floated up from the toilet. "Oh. Professor Anthony."
"Good evening, Myrtle," Anthony said. "What happened?" He surveyed the thoroughly soaked bathroom. Water was everywhere—floor, walls, even the ceiling.
"What happened?" Myrtle moaned. "No, nothing. Nothing happened. Everything's the same as always. People won't leave me alone! Talking behind my back! Laughing at ugly, pathetic Myrtle—it's all the same! I'm tormented, and no one cares!"
She shot up into the air. More water surged from the toilet.
Anthony said quickly, "I'm always willing to listen if you want to talk. Who was laughing at you?"
"Everyone!" Myrtle wailed. "Everyone laughs at me! Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Let's take bets—will anyone give her a Valentine? You say no? You say no too?" She swelled with each question. "You think not? Oh, still no!"
"No one was taking bets on you, Myrtle," Anthony said.
"Ah, yes! Ha! Looks like they couldn't make that bet because no one would pick the impossible option! But I have ears! I know what they say! I know they stand outside with their horrible giggles, talking about Valentine's, wanting me to hear—"
"Professor Lockhart was holding a small fan meet-and-greet outside your door just now," Anthony said calmly. "I believe that's what you heard. He was taking a photo with the person who gave him his hundredth in-school Valentine's card."
Myrtle went quiet for a second.
"A hundred!" she shrieked. "A hundred!"
She plunged into the toilet with a tremendous splash and vanished. Anthony waited. The water level didn't seem to be dropping.
He was about to leave when Myrtle's head drifted up through the toilet seat.
"A hundred?" she asked. "He really got a hundred?"
"Er… I believe so," Anthony said. He hadn't counted.
Myrtle propped her pimply chin on the toilet rim, looking pensive. The water slowly receded.
"Maybe I should go back to that Lock-Your-Heart Club," she sniffled. "What do you think, Professor Anthony? Nick said he found it very helpful."
Anthony chose his words carefully. "I wouldn't know. I didn't attend."
"Oh…" Myrtle said despondently, still leaning on the rim. "I don't think it would help. No one likes short, fat Myrtle! No one likes four-eyed Myrtle! They just like making fun of me!" The water threatened to rise again.
"Ignore them," Anthony said. "You have friends, Myrtle. Nick and the Fat Friar care about you."
Myrtle mumbled, "Mm, yes, I suppose. They're alright." She seemed to remember something and began to sob again. "But Peeves—Peeves—"
"Peeves is an agent of chaos," Anthony said firmly. "He's not known for telling the truth, Myrtle. You know that better than I do."
"But he's right!" Myrtle screamed. "I'm mopey and miserable and weepy and annoying! I'm ugly!"
"Ignore him," Anthony said simply.
"And he—and he—" She burst into fresh tears. "Made up a horrible song about me!"
"What song?" Anthony asked.
Myrtle sang in a choked, weepy voice, "Her face makes my heart pound and race, her voice makes me want to faint!" She shot up from the toilet, tears streaming. "Oh, it's like finding—finding a bogey-flavored Bertie Bott's bean, I can't help but shriek!"
"Well… actually…" Anthony began.
"Oh, you think it's fitting too, don't you?" Myrtle snapped furiously and dove headfirst into the plumbing. The toilet made a series of glugging, flushing sounds.
"Myrtle? Myrtle?" Anthony called into the toilet. No answer. She had probably gone to vent in another bathroom.
At least the water had stopped rising. Anthony straightened up, ready to head back to his office. He hoped Myrtle would discover elsewhere in the castle who that Valentine's message was actually for. He wasn't sure if she'd still want to receive a valentine if she knew it was that one.
Just then, the bathroom door creaked open again. As if drawn by Myrtle's singing, Dolores Umbridge's face appeared around it.
She drifted into the bathroom, her clipboard absent. Her expression was odd. Almost dreamy, distant. She stepped right into a puddle, nearly slipping.
"Watch your step, Madam Umbridge!" Anthony warned.
His voice seemed to startle her. She turned, her gaze landing on him. For a brief moment, her face was utterly blank. The next instant, that saccharine smile was plastered back on.
She looked around, taking in the cracked ceiling, the dilapidated sinks, and the wet floor. Then her eyes, full of suspicion, slid back to Anthony.
"What are you doing here, Professor Anthony?" Umbridge asked, her voice cloyingly sweet. "I mean to say, this is a girls' bathroom. Your office is that way, I believe."
Her hand reached for her side, expecting a clipboard, but closed on empty air. She folded her arms instead, tilting her head with a smile.
Anthony hesitated. "Plumbing repairs."
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