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Dolores Umbridge's office was a symphony of frills. Every piece of furniture wore lace antimacassars. The chandelier dripped with decorative tassels and velvet bows. A collection of ornamental plates adorned the walls, each depicting a cat so corpulent it could have blocked three Mrs. Norrises. The spot where the three-headed dog had once sprawled was now occupied by a desk draped in a violently bright red tablecloth.
"Good afternoon, Professor Anthony," Umbridge said, her voice thick with syrup.
Anthony closed the door behind him. "Good afternoon, Madam Umbridge. I received your note."
"Indeed. Do sit, do sit." She gestured with her chin to the chair opposite her desk. "I thought a face-to-face, frank conversation would do us both some good, don't you agree?"
"Of course," Anthony said cautiously. He had reviewed his inspection reports. Nothing below an 'A'. He couldn't fathom what she wanted to talk about.
Umbridge watched him sit. A smug little smile played on her lips.
"Tea, Professor Anthony?" she simpered, tapping a thick finger against a pot on a nearby stand.
Her desk offered little free space, buried under parchments and letters. A small stack of books teetered on one corner. Anthony caught a glimpse of titles: Quick-Start Guide to Legilimency, A Directory of Pure-Blood Lineages. Umbridge noticed his glance. She slid a pile of parchments over them, then placed a worn, black-bound book on top, completely blocking his view.
"Not just now, thank you," Anthony said. "Thank you for inviting me to talk, Madam Umbridge. To avoid wasting your valuable time, perhaps we should begin?"
"Of course, Professor Anthony," Umbridge said. "The conversation has begun, in fact. I'm so pleased you arrived on time. Punctuality is an admirable habit, I find… At any rate, I assume you've received your inspection reports?"
"Yes."
"Then you will have noticed that while not all results are… ideal, they are considerably more favorable than your actual performance warranted." Umbridge leaned forward slightly. "I trust you are aware of this leniency. Yet, I regret to say I have seen little sign of improvement. Consider this chat a friendly warning, Professor Anthony."
"What kind of improvement are you hoping to see, Madam Umbridge?" Anthony asked.
"Oh, you have your own ideas," she said airily. "We must all do our part to help Hogwarts become a better school."
"Right… of course," Anthony said, his tone noncommittal.
Umbridge stared at him with her bulging, toad-like eyes. A beat of silence passed. Then she spoke again, her voice dropping its sugary pretense. "You are aware you are receiving special treatment, Professor Anthony. Let me be perfectly clear: I know you are… planning something. That is your own business. Were I in your position, I would be very careful not to antagonize a Senior Undersecretary from the Ministry. Think about that."
"I'm planning something?" Anthony repeated.
Umbridge's smile widened, revealing small, pointed teeth. "Oh, Professor Anthony… Let's not pretend. I know what you are. I know your… background." She leaned back, the chair creaking. "Though, of course, you already know your little… companions are long gone, relics of the past."
Anthony hadn't expected her to mention his practice of Necromancy so directly. He studied her face, more confused than ever about the purpose of this conversation. A painted, garishly large cat gazed down at him from the wall behind her.
"There is a reason for that, Anthony. There certainly is. Some might mythologize what those wizards could do—that's fine, people like the sound of the words: the most powerful wizard, the greatest Headmaster—but you, of all people, must know what holds the real power?"
"I…"
Umbridge didn't wait for an answer. "The Ministry. Let me remind you, the only reason you are sitting here having this polite chat is because the Ministry has decided, for now, not to pursue your past… errors." She narrowed her eyes, the smile still plastered on her face. "It is an act of immense generosity, Professor Anthony. I suggest you show some respect. Believe me, neither of us wants the editor of the Daily Prophet troubling himself over a Muggle Studies professor's little secrets."
Suddenly, Anthony thought he understood. Like Professor McGonagall had said, the Ministry—or Fudge—saw Pettigrew's death as a threat from Dumbledore. And he, the one who helped Dumbledore break into and out of Azkaban, directly leading to that death, would naturally be viewed with suspicion.
He felt he needed to say something. "You're mistaken, Madam Umbridge. I'm not planning anything, and I've made no attempt to… provoke the Ministry. As for the matter with Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew… that was unfortunate. Perhaps there could have been a better way. I don't know. But the situation was urgent. Everything happened at once. I'm sure Mr. Scrimgeour has filed the relevant reports."
Umbridge seemed about to interrupt, so Anthony quickly finished his thought. "All I want," he said, searching for the right words, "is to… live my life."
"Of course, Anthony," Umbridge said, her tone dripping with disbelief. "A well-prepared defense… However, I was not referring to the Pettigrew case."
"You weren't?"
"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about, Professor Anthony."
"No, Madam Umbridge," Anthony said, utterly bewildered. He was now completely, entirely lost. She couldn't be talking about his Necromancy practice. Surely not his research into flesh magic either.
This entire conversation couldn't possibly be about him lending Roger the Snake a Muggle tape recorder for inspiration… could it?
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