A day and a half after the drinking party, Harry was back at work in his office. Lesson plans had to be adjusted to squeeze in field trip preparations on top of everything else. It was quite the avalanche of work he'd accidentally set off, one he was about halfway finished with when guests arrived.
"Is now a good time?" Blaise asked.
Harry looked up from the scattered papers in front of him. He capped the pen he had been using, laying it on the desk, and beckoned Blaise in.
He wasn't alone.
In fact, Blaise didn't enter when invited. Rather, he stepped out of the way, sweeping his arm out for somebody else. Daphne walked into Harry's office, looking at the decor but not at Harry himself. Blaise moved backwards into the hallway.
"I'll see you in class, Professor."
Like that, he left.
"...Do you want to take a seat?" Harry invited.
Daphne did so. He noticed that her notebook was under her arm. She was clutching it as if worried someone would grab it from her.
"I heard that Blaise spoke with you. About our work," Daphne said.
"About his work, technically. He told me quite directly that if I wanted to know about yours, I would have to ask you."
"That… sounds like him," Daphne said.
"So? Was there something you needed?"
"You mean how Blaise wanted Muggle stories? No, nothing like that," Daphne said. "I— It—"
She threw her notebook on the table.
Harry looked at it, then back up at her. Daphne had turned her head to stare at the wall.
"You can open it," she said.
Harry waited, giving her a chance to change her mind. Frankly, he couldn't guess what was inside the book, and it was sending his curiosity to the moon. But he could tell that this was hard for Daphne. He waited.
She said nothing, so Harry flipped the cover back.
It was a sketchbook. Although calling them 'sketches' felt like a misnomer. The ink cut across the page, turning two dimensions into three with nothing but detail. After spending thirty seconds on the first page, Harry moved to the second one. Then the third, and the fourth after that…
Daphne was peeking at him from the corner of her eye. "What do you think?"
"Gorgeous," Harry said. Each page was something completely different, from hummingbirds feasting on a garden to towering waves breaking against rough rocks. "I won't pretend I know much about art, but I can tell that you're excellent— Did I just see something move?"
It was a drawing of a knight atop his horse. The trees in the background were beautifully rendered, and the knight's armor had a stunning level of detail. And, unless it was a trick of the light from turning the page, the knight's helmet had just turned toward Harry.
He hadn't seen wrong. It happened again, the knight's head turning side to side. The horse's hooves were moving too, but the motions were strange. They were jerky. The hooves would fall slightly, lift up, and repeat that, never completing a motion.
"Haven't you wondered?" Daphne said. "Portraits are all around us, but how do they actually work? They're paintings, but they can imitate the people they're based on. When you talk to one, it feels as if you're speaking to a person."
Harry cleared his throat, touching his chin. "From what I know, it's done with charms. An artist will paint a person's likeness, then a charms master will enchant it with the right personality."
"It's very difficult," Daphne said. "It takes years to master the right charms. Even someone like Professor Flitwick couldn't create a portrait. There are only a few specialists in all of Britain. Some of them are more skilled than others. The portraits of past headmasters were all made by one family who've been in the business for centuries, like the Olivanders with wands."
"Is that what you want to do?" Harry asked.
"Somewhat." Daphne hesitated. "Portraits rely on knowledge about their subject to make them work. If the creator knows the subject, the charms will imbue much more personality into the work. No one has ever been able to make a portrait of a fictional character. The only subjects that work are real people, with personalities and histories. It's been deemed impossible."
"Impossible. I see." Harry nodded. "So, I assume that's what you want to do?"
"I'm aware that it's foolish," Daphne said. "It's crazy. It's—"
"Ambitious."
Daphne was a Slytherin, and as such, her sensibilities were bound to be a bit skewed. Instead of warm words, there was no better assurance than having the scope of her aspirations acknowledged; the way she would go down in history if successful.
"Yes," Daphne said. "But I'm not doing it for fame. It's a bit difficult to explain. Blaise is the one who specializes in words." Daphne paused, searching for the phrasing. "From a young age, my head has been filled with things I wish to make real."
"I hope you succeed," Harry said.
Daphne stopped. It wasn't a long pause, but for a girl who typically had an answer for everything, any hesitation was noticeable.
"This isn't an advantageous career path," she said. "It's difficult work and it does not pay well. Artisans aren't paid in fame, either. Everyone knows the Ollivanders, but you've probably never heard of the Adcocks, even though they've been making portraits as long as the Ollivanders were fashioning wands."
"So?" Harry said.
"You don't think that it's a waste of time?"
"Wasting time is the best way you can spend it!" Harry said. "Who decides what's wasted? Bringing your dreams to life might not make you rich. It may not get you famous. But it would be your work, making you the first to ever do it, and most importantly it's what you want to do. I'm sure someone else could count that as time wasted. Which is why I say, waste to your heart's content."
Daphne looked at him. She blinked once, twice, and thrice as she took in what he'd said.
"Thank you," she said.
"What for? I'm the one who got to see beautiful drawings."
Harry slid the sketchbook toward her but Daphne didn't take it.
"I didn't come here for anything specific," she said. "Blaise convinced me that an extra opinion would be helpful. There are lots of illustrations you haven't seen yet."
"Okay," Harry said. "Show me."
This time, Daphne was the one to flip the pages. She explained what she had seen, what she had been thinking, and showed off the details she'd added. She described both the art and the magic she worked on it. Harry listened. Page after page, he picked out improvements. The most recent page showed an enormous dinosaur roaring directly at the viewer. Flecks of black ink flew forward like spittle, and the jaw trembled from the force of the bellow. As simple as the movements were, this was the first time Harry had seen Daphne's charms work.
"Congratulations!" he said.
Daphne stared at the drawing. "Yes, I had something of a breakthrough after watching your movie. I still can't manage anything complex—"
"You will. Give it time. You're getting there."
Daphne nodded.
An idea suddenly came to Harry, reminding him of something the wizarding world lacked.
"Have you seen Muggle animations?"
"Before your class, the only impression I had of Muggles were from stories," Daphne said. "They were not the kind you'd appreciate my repeating."
"Fair enough. I'm not knowledgeable enough to give you a technical definition, but you could describe animation as moving pictures."
"How?" Daphne's voice rose. "That's impossible! Without magic, illustrations are static!"
"They draw lots of pictures," Harry explained. "One after another. When you make enough and play them in a row, it looks like they're moving. I could show you, if you wanted."
It would require fixing the VHS machine but that was something he could do. It wouldn't take too much time.
"...No one would know, right?" Daphne asked.
"Not if you don't want them to. You would just be visiting a professor with questions about his class." Harry winked.
"I'll think about it," Daphne said.
She collected her sketchbook, shutting the cover carefully and burying it in her armpit. After rising, she stood for a few seconds.
"Blaise was right," she said. "Thank you, Professor."
"Feel free to come back when you want," Harry said. "My door is open."
Daphne nodded, then left. Harry smiled at her back until, gradually, that smile faded. He sighed, propping his chin on his hand.
She had asked if her dream was a waste of time. That wasn't the kind of thing a girl her age should be worrying about, even a precocious one like Daphne. That was something she had been told.
"Who was it?" Harry wondered. "Your mother?"
It was possible. Anastacia had shown she was willing to overrule her daughter's decisions. But if it was Anastacia's words affecting Daphne, Harry had a feeling he knew why she said them.
"Cygnus Greengrass. What have you been doing, how have you been living?" Harry mused. "I have a feeling that I'm not going to like the answer."
He tapped his fingers on his desk, pondering for a bit longer. Eventually, he returned to the work he'd been doing before Daphne's arrival.
For now, this would have to do. He wouldn't get involved in his student's personal life… until he was asked to.
The memory of a given-away umbrella sprung to mind.
The choice was up to Anastacia now. As soon as she asked, Harry would see what he could do.
O-O-O
At breakfast the following morning, sheets of paper were waiting for the professors. They were dates… and warnings. It specified when the High Inquisitor would be sitting in on their classes and 'assessing their academic method and classroom comportment.'"
Some teachers had two weeks to prepare. Not Harry. He glanced at the copy of today's Prophet to double-check the date.
His inspection was today. The very first one.
"I'll see you after lunch," Umbridge said in her sickly sweet way, looking like an especially smug toad this morning.
"I can't wait," Harry said.
It probably wasn't luck that she chose to watch his fifth year class. Neville was in it. For that alone, there was never any chance of her choosing a different one.
Umbridge was the first to arrive. She set up at a desk all the way in the back, taking out a paper. It looked like she planned on taking notes.
Students gave her strange looks as they entered and saw her huddled in the back of the room, Umbridge's friendly smile not helping to set them at ease. A few, like Hermione, made the connection to the educational decree. She gave Harry a worried look.
"Hello class!" Harry said. "I hope you all did the reading. We'll be discussing Chapter Nineteen: The Mechanisms of the Muggle home. As we begin, were there parts any of you found interesting?"
Five hands went up around the room, but Umbridge cleared her throat. "Ah-hem!"
"Professor Umbridge?" Harry said. "I wasn't aware you read the chapter, but by all means, tell us what stuck out to you!"
"What? No. I'm taking no part in this game of yours." Umbridge giggled. "Don't you think it's ridiculous, letting students guide the class? It's like you don't have a plan at all. Out of kindness, I brought with me the original, Ministry-Approved content your course was supposed to cover. You know, the plan you disregarded at the start of the year—"
"That's kind of you!" Harry said. "If I ever run out of material, I know who to come to. Hermione? You had your hand up before. What did you want to say?"
Umbridge gaped at him, stunned that he would ignore her. She added a furious line to her notes.
"I thought that the author was very accurate when it came to things Muggle homes share with the magical world, like sinks and ovens," Hermione said. "But appliances that are purely Muggle gave them a lot of trouble. Not only did he seem confused about dishwashers, he said that they only half-clean plates, leaving food residue all over them!"
"Why do you think that was?" Harry asked.
Hermione pursed her lips. "I thought about it, and I'm guessing that he used a dishwasher for research purposes, but he didn't know exactly how. It sounds like he didn't wash off the food that was congealed and just threw the plates in without soap."
"Very plausible," Harry said. "Two points for Gryffindor for well-reasoned thinking."
"Awards points for disagreeing with the textbook!" Umbridge dictated, her quill scratching the paper underneath it. Some of the students glared. Harry acted like he hadn't heard her.
"Ernie, you also had your hand raised?"
"That's right, Sir." Ernie cleared his throat. "Is it true that Muggle houses regularly burn down?"
"Well, they do burn from time to time. Electricity can start fires, the author wasn't wrong about that. But he did overstate the frequency quite severely. In my experience, an electrical fire is about as likely as a candle catching things on fire in a wizard's home."
"It sounds to me," Umbridge said, "like you are implying electricity is magic's equal, Professor Potter."
She laughed loudly, urging others to join her.
"That wasn't the message I was trying to send," Harry said. "I was just trying to correct one of the author's misconceptions. Electricity is a Muggle tool that helps them with many things that we accomplish through magic. But of course, magic does many things that Muggles can only daydream about."
"So you agree that magic is obviously superior?"
"I don't really think about comparing them," Harry said. "I generally have more important things to do."
Ron coughed as he poorly disguised his laughter. Harry had said it in a friendly tone, as if he was making a harmless observation. Umbridge's lips formed a very taut line.
"I see," she said. "I wasn't aware that our Muggle Studies professor was such a busy man."
Harry ignored her other than giving a smile, which only made her irritation grow.
Class continued in the same vein for most of the period. Harry tried to initiate a socratic discussion, as he usually did during class, only for Umbridge to routinely interrupt. Her outbursts slowly became harsher, and she started questioning his students directly, instead of just Harry. She almost brought Hannah Abbott to tears when she implied Hannah was a moron for saying how she wished she could own a television.
"I don't think Miss Abbott thinking out loud needed a comment from someone as grand as Hogwarts' High Inquisitor," Harry said.
He subtly moved toward Hannah's desk, standing in between her and Umbridge. He was toeing the line of his usual oblivious act. It was one thing to play with Umbridge when he was her target, but when his students were being picked on instead, it was a different matter. His temper was starting gnash at his gut.
"I think her attitude did need a comment," Umbridge said. "In fact, I think it needs correction. You are not doing your job, Professor Potter. Your students are getting the wrong message, and you seem helpless to stop it."
"I thought I was doing a decent job teaching them about the Muggle world," Harry said. "What is it I've missed?"
"It's not the information. It's that approach," Umbridge informed him. "You're giving them the incorrect impression. Muggles are ignorant. They use a thousand tools to imitate magic without ever getting close to succeeding. Muggle Studies isn't about learning how Muggles act, it is about understanding all the ways we are superior to them. In your ignorance, you've been doing a nasty amount of damage, Professor Potter. Just look!"
Umbridge stood up faster than someone of her shape ought to be able to. Daphne and Blaise were sitting near the back of the room as usual, but today it put them close to Umbridge. Before Daphne saw Umbridge coming, her wrist had been grabbed.
"Look!" Umbridge wrenched Daphne's arm up. "A Slytherin using a Muggle bauble over a proper quill! That would never happen back in my day. You're a poisonous influence, Professor Potter!"
"Miss! My wrist!" Daphne said.
For once, Daphne sounded scared. Umbridge was holding her arm at an awkward angle, threatening her dominant hand— her drawing hand.
"Umbridge. Let go."
Harry's deceptively calm tone got through to her. Umbridge looked at Daphne and released the girl's arm. Even she seemed to realize she had gone too far…
At least in front of so many witnesses.
Harry didn't particularly care that she backed off. He was sick of her. Even when he turned himself into the perfect target, she still went after kids. She needed to see that her actions had consequences.
Harry met Daphne's eyes. She was massaging her wrist. She nodded to show him that she was alright.
Harry smiled at Umbridge. "It's interesting to hear your opinion on those without magic, Professor Umbridge. I never would have expected it!"
"Why not?" Umbridge sniffed proudly. "I make no secret of my love for wizard kind."
"Well, that's true, but I thought you would at least be a bit appreciative of your mother."
The stack of papers Umbridge had been carrying fell from her grasp, scattering across the floor.
"What do you mean, Professor?" Hermione asked.
Harry's smile became a grin. "You didn't know? Professor Umbridge—"
"Don't!" Umbridge shrieked.
"—is the daughter of a Muggle."
Just like that, the genie was out of its bottle.