Of Constellations → 𝘥. 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘧𝘰𝘺

xiv. the pink plague

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chapter fourteen

the pink plague

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Professor Dolores Umbridge was impossible to ignore. She was a pink blinking neon sign with a voice that sounded like she had a permanent head cold, hell-bent on making everyone's lives miserable.

The corners of her mouth were always twitching, as though she was constantly keeping a girlish giggle behind her teeth. And she could hardly go five minutes without hem-hemming to interrupt a lesson.

Dad knew her from the Ministry, and he warned me about her, but nothing could have prepared me for just how bad she was.

Fourth years didn't have their first class with her until Friday, so by the time I found myself waiting outside the Defense classroom, I knew exactly what to expect.

Usually, there would be a din of conversation in the corridors before we were let into class but this time it was mostly silence punctuated by an occasional whispered comment. When Umbridge opened the doors, a soft peal of laughter behind me dried up and vanished.

So far, all of my Defense professors had personalized their classroom—Lockhart had decorated it with paintings and photographs of himself, Lupin with esoteric magical contraptions, and Imposter Moody with Dark Arts accouterments—but Umbridge's classroom was completely empty aside from a blackboard at the front of the classroom.

Luna and I glanced at each other as we went to find seats. I could read in her expression that she did not like this woman.

Umbridge sauntered her way to the blackboard, giving us a sickly sweet smile while she surveyed the room. Still grinning, she folded her hands and said, "Good morning, class!"

Most of us already knew how to play her game and parroted back a sycophantic "Good morning, Professor Umbridge."

Not everyone knew what to do, so she made us try again. A few students were turning around in their seats to look at classmates' faces, as though they couldn't believe what was happening.

"Now, wands away and quills out, please," Umbridge said and faced the blackboard. After she tapped it with the tip of her wand, words began to scrawl across it in tiny, girlish handwriting.

Defense Against the Dark Arts; A Return to Basic Principles

For class, we read our textbooks in silence. I knew it would happen this way, but I was still infuriated. The book was at a first-year level, perhaps even simpler than that. It was equivalent to having us, a bunch of fourteen-year-olds, read The Very Hungry Caterpillar in an English class.

But this was no class and Umbridge was no teacher. This was a statement from the Ministry: You have no need to know how to defend yourselves, so we won't teach you.

Instead of reading, I was ruminating. If Umbridge wasn't going to teach me, then perhaps I should teach myself.

I was formulating a plan: I'd find other Defense books in the library—proper books. I would use empty classrooms to practice spells. And, over the holidays, I reckoned my dad would let me practice at home.

I was used to this from my first year. The Ministry insisted on giving me a useless teacher? Fine. I'd teach myself.

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