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Despite Professor McGonagall and Henry's shared wish that the magazine had never been printed, Witch Weekly remained one of the most popular publications among British witches.
Breakfast wasn't even over before four or five more owls joined the morning post delivery, dropping letters directly onto Umbridge's breakfast plate. Filch cursed the filthy birds loudly, while Umbridge, frowning, plucked a jam-smeared envelope from the mess. Her short, thick fingers tore it open roughly. Her eyes scanned the letter.
Her eyebrows climbed higher and higher. Henry's sense of foreboding climbed with them.
Finally, when her brows seemed ready to vanish into her hairline, she set the letter down quietly. She wiped her fingers with great care, then turned to Henry with the sweetest tone he'd ever heard. "Professor Anthony, could I trouble you to pass me that magazine?"
Henry handed her his unread copy of The Daily Prophet.
"The magazine," Umbridge cooed. "Not the newspaper. That magazine."
Henry calmly passed her Witch Weekly.
Lockhart beamed. "Oh, yes, that's the one! Dolores, you really must read that article. I believe I mentioned you! And, you'll never guess…"
Umbridge flipped noisily to the page with the large photograph of her and Lockhart. She glared at the image of herself, which stared blankly back out.
Filch, sitting beside her, was trembling. He stared at the magazine as if it weren't a magazine at all, but Professor McGonagall suddenly taking flight to waltz with Peeves.
"What…" he tried. "How…"
"That's right!" Lockhart said joyfully. "A photograph with yours truly, Dolores! A surprise! Not that I'm admitting I preferred the one with all the little Cupids… but this is the version they printed… and of course, I do adore the angle of my hat in this one! Perfect, just perfect…"
"I am… truly… surprised," Umbridge said slowly.
"I know!" Lockhart flashed his dazzling smile. "It's wonderful, isn't it? So many people wanted photographs with me that for a time, I had to bring my own photographer whenever I went out."
Judging by Professor Flitwick's posture, he was trying to kick Lockhart under the table. His height made the attempt painfully obvious. On Lockhart's other side, Snape watched the scene with an inscrutable expression, sipping his pumpkin juice slowly.
That was when Professor Burbage walked into the Great Hall.
"Morning," she said, sounding rather cross. She pulled out the chair next to Henry. "Seen the paper yet, Henry?"
"Not yet. Why?" Henry glanced at the Daily Prophet beside Umbridge's elbow.
Professor Burbage shot a look in the same direction and lowered her voice. "Education Decree Twenty-Three. That woman now has the power to dock points."
"You're joking."
"Wait and see. Those dungbombs drove her mad. I heard she went to see Fudge last weekend, but I assumed it was just about showing him our lovely collection of P's and A's."
Umbridge's sickly-sweet voice continued to drift down the staff table.
"…the photographer, Mr. Colin Creevey, if I'm not mistaken, is in Gryffindor? Second year, isn't that right, Minerva?"
Professor McGonagall's face was like stone. She didn't answer.
Umbridge looked at her with feigned sympathy. "I'm afraid I must deduct ten points from Gryffindor. For… let's see…" She wrinkled her brow theatrically. "…unauthorized photography and publication of a lady's image. Students must learn basic decorum, don't you agree?"
Henry turned to look at the hourglasses. A handful of rubies soared upwards out of the Gryffindor pile.
"How is that possible?" Henry said, astonished, turning back to Professor Burbage. "The Headmaster hasn't agreed to give her that power, has he?"
"Typically, an Education Decree," Professor Burbage said through gritted teeth, "takes precedence over the Hogwarts Headmaster's authority. It represents the will of the Ministry. And, theoretically, the will of the witches and wizards who allow Fudge to remain in the Minister's office—which is to say, most of them."
"But…"
"The Ministry doesn't usually interfere at Hogwarts. It's been around for over three hundred years. Until last year, it had only issued twenty-one Education Decrees, and three of those were to revise or repeal previous ones. Two decrees in one year…"
She shook her head, shot another glance toward Umbridge, and began sprinkling her fried egg with a thick layer of black pepper.
…
It took Henry less than a morning to understand what Education Decree Twenty-Three truly meant.
Katie Bell lost five points for interrupting Umbridge's conversation with Professor Kettleburn. Kenneth Towler lost five for humming while Umbridge was talking. Ernie Macmillan lost two for colliding with Umbridge while running in the corridor. Kevin Jones lost two for arguing with Filch.
Roger Davies lost five points for selling Roger Snakes on the lawn—though some claimed it was because Roger insisted the faint scar-like pattern on the snake's neck was a "stylish tattoo," while others swore it was because Umbridge caught a whiff of dungbomb from the creature.
Ron Weasley lost ten points for being caught laughing uproariously at a copy of Witch Weekly, reciting, "Her presence sets my heart a-flutter!" Harry Potter lost ten for saying Umbridge's bow looked like "a fly that landed on a toad's head." Hermione Granger nearly escaped, but when Umbridge tried to confiscate her Witch Weekly, she argued loudly that Umbridge had no right. Citing Ministry regulations for seizing suspicious magical items, Umbridge confiscated the magazine and docked Gryffindor another ten points for obstructing the seizure of a suspect object.
By lunchtime, the gem piles at the base of three house hourglasses had noticeably shrunk. Only Slytherin's remained a healthy, smug green. By dinner, Gryffindor was in last place.
"Is Minerva alright?" Henry asked with concern, noting Professor McGonagall's absence from the evening meal.
"I believe so, Professor Anthony," Professor Flitwick told him. "I saw her striding toward the Headmaster's office with considerable purpose."
Whatever Dumbledore said to her, it seemed to settle her. In the days that followed, she miraculously refrained from protesting Umbridge's methods. Only her eyes, when they rested on her students, sometimes held a hidden worry and irritation.
Henry once overheard her warning Lee Jordan sternly: "Don't be foolish, Jordan. Don't rise to it. That's exactly what she wants."
Amid the flood of point deductions, Henry secretly increased how often he awarded points. But compared to the rate at which Umbridge—and Snape—were stripping them away, his efforts felt pitiful.
Professor McGonagall maintained her usual strict, fair system of rewards and penalties. But Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout, like Henry, had begun awarding points for minor efforts and improvements. Professor Kettleburn even went so far as to detach his wooden leg and shove it into a student's hands, then award points for "helpfully assisting an old professor with his left limb."
He declared it perfectly reasonable. "If you can dock points for nonsense, why not award them for nonsense? Hey, you lot! Your Puffskeins are getting away! Excellent, five points each for preventing the loss of teaching materials! You there! What are you doing? Don't feed it daisies… five points to Hufflepuff for considering the Puffskein's dietary needs!"
Even so, few could outmatch Lockhart.
While discussing Wanderings with Werewolves, Lockhart declared Hermione, who had recited an entire passage, his best student. When Hermione, blushing fiercely, reluctantly asked if the promised photo session could be exchanged for a signed solo photograph and house points, he beamed. He awarded Gryffindor twenty points for Hermione's perfect recall of the entire Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Hazardous Beasts series, another twenty for her modest character, and a final ten for Harry's excellent portrayal of a subdued werewolf. He then deducted five points from Slytherin because Malfoy had been snickering contemptuously instead of paying attention.
Umbridge undoubtedly viewed this behavior, along with the Valentine's Day musical Howlers, as pure provocation. Some students took to walking past her with copies of Witch Weekly conspicuously tucked under their arms. Each time Lockhart's gleaming smile beamed up at her from the cover, her expression darkened another shade.
Professor Sprout tried to advise Lockhart not to court trouble. She returned shaking her head. Lockhart had gently reassured her that if she worked hard, she too could one day be famous, and there was no need for jealousy.
"Gilderoy is in for trouble," Professor Sprout said worriedly. "I just don't know what kind."
"I see no need for concern, Pomona," Snape said silkily. "I was under the impression our esteemed adventurer was an expert at escaping perilous situations."
"I just don't know what kind of trouble," Professor Sprout repeated.
The answer arrived two mornings later. It wore a set of acid-yellow robes, carried a crocodile-skin handbag, and had long fingernails painted a vicious red.
"Rita Skeeter!" Professor Burbage said with disgust. "What are you doing here?"
Rita was standing just inside the entrance to Hogwarts, examining the passing students with keen interest. Her eyes lit up visibly when they found the scar on Harry's forehead, but Professor Burbage's question forced her attention away.
"Ah, Charity, how lovely to see you!" she trilled. "I'm here for an interview, of course."
"Who invited you?" Professor Burbage demanded.
"What? No, no one invited me, per se. I've simply longed to report on the daily lives of Hogwarts professors, and Madam Umbridge was kind enough to grant my little request."
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Professor Burbage muttered.
Rita's interested gaze had already landed on Henry.
"You must be Henry," she said, smiling at him like a crocodile spotting prey. "Graduated from outside Hogwarts, currently Professor of Muggle Studies? Ah, mysterious, excellent…" She opened her bag and pulled out a roll of parchment and a long, green quill. She narrowed her eyes and sucked the end of the quill thoughtfully. "What inspired you to teach at Hogwarts? What drew you to Muggle Studies as a calling?"
As she spoke, the quill rose into the air of its own accord, gave a little shake, then hopped onto the parchment and began scratching away.
"A thrilling adventure? A tragic romance?" Rita pressed eagerly. "A secret?"
The quill scratched on. The parchment scroll shifted, its top edge curling over.
Henry glanced at it. "The young professor, Henry Anthony, his handsome face ever-wreathed in smiles. But behind the mask of amiability, his eyes hide secrets unknown…"
"Never mind that," Rita said firmly.
"Leave Henry alone," Professor Burbage said.
"I'd rather not give an interview, Ms. Skeeter," Henry said politely.
The quill paused, then resumed its frantic scratching. Rita glanced at the new words, then toward the staircase entrance. She snatched up both quill and parchment.
"Of course, not a problem, Henry," Rita said hurriedly. "Perhaps at a more opportune time… Gilderoy!"
Henry and Professor Burbage turned. Lockhart was descending the stairs in a radiant glow, surrounded by a group of students asking if he'd sign their copies of Witch Weekly.
"Ordinarily, I limit myself to five signatures a day," Lockhart was saying with a smile. "Otherwise, I'd do nothing else… but I'll make an exception today. And…" His smile became even more dazzling. "…this article will, of course, be featured in my upcoming book. Since you all enjoy it so much, you must be sure to purchase a copy upon release… or it will be sold out immediately. Don't say I didn't warn you."
"Gilderoy!" Rita called.
"While I appreciate the admiration, within the school, I prefer to be addressed as… Oh, Rita?"
Rita pushed through the small crowd, her quill clutched in her hand.
"Might I have a quick word…"
"Apologies, dear Rita," Lockhart said with an impeccable smile. "I don't grant interviews without prior appointment. You understand, it's a necessary precaution for someone of my stature."
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