𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓡𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓟𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼: ǟ ʀɛǟʟɨȶʏ ֆɦɨʄȶɨռɢ ȶǟʟɛ ✤ ֆɛʋɛʀʊʂ ҳ օƈ

𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚂𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝

First-day classes ran as expected: Neville explaining the evolution of a special plant-fungus---an organism defying Muggle biological laws because it was neither plant nor fungus---in Herbology. Ron and Felicity dozing off in History of Magic---with Felicity wishing Luna was in her year to spice up the class with quirky historical facts.

In Muggle Studies, Hermione and Felicity took top notes without even fully investing themselves in it. Hermione had practical Muggle experience as a Muggleborn, and for Felicity, well . . . visions, and she just knew things. Such that fifth-year arithmancy equated to Muggle Pre-Calculus, which meant Hermione would likely already be in all Muggle Honors courses by now.

Which is why Felicity thanked her uncharted knowledge---it stopped her pursuit in Arithmancy in the first place.

In Potions, as usual, Hermione and Felicity revived the new annual Gryffindor-Ravenclaw house rivalry, both competing to take the most complicated, accurate notes. Neat, organized tables and labels comprised Hermione's notes, whereas Felicity's intuitive scribbles in various fonts popped here and there, such as "𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑠ℎ 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑒𝑑𝑢𝑟𝑒," after observing Snape at one point.

At the end of the day, Felicity and Hermione got along great. But Potions compelled their competitive sides.

The second day, Defense Against the Dark Arts began. And with it, the new professor. No students needed Quantum Jumping experience or even Legilimency to detect something was off with the woman---before she even spoke.

"Well, good afternoon!" She exposed her pristine, but white-toothed grin at the class.

Students responded with mumbled groans ranging from "a'ternoon," to "evenin'". Those were the students who probably stayed up in the dorms doing Merlin knows what.

"Tut, tut" clicked Umbridge. "I should like you to reply, please," she said sweetly, "Good afternoon Professor Umbridge. One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!"

Felicity bit her wrist, suppressing the urge to giggle. The stout woman before them grinned innocently like a Muggle kindergarten teacher sounding out the alphabet to five-year-olds. Ron's cheeks puffed in a green tint, as if Draco conjured before him, reviving the slug-vomiting curse from 2nd year.

"Good afternoon Professor Umbridge," everyone said in monotone unison.

"Why the jest, dear?" The voice shook Felicity to spin around right to Umbridge's dollish face a mere meter away.

She thought about an epic excuse. No. Pulling a Ravenclaw comeback on Umbridge equals detention, equals Legilimency, which equals soul dissection. "Nothing."

"Well, given as you're so eager to learn," she picked up a clipboard on her desk, dipping the quill in ink multiple times, "I shall start role-call with you. Miss . . ?"

Dean muttered from the Gryffindor end, "Ministry's way of data-mining."

"Felicity."

Umbridge hugged the clipboard to her chest with that giddy reaction. "Well, I'm flattered you find yourself so felicity in my classroom today, but I very much need your real name, please. First and last."

"Just Felicity, Professor Umbridge. I have no surname."

"Who is your guardian?"

"What?"

Professor Umbridge cleared her throat, then tapped at her clipboard. "Your disciplinarian. Who signs your Hogsmeade release forms?"

"No one," Felicity stated smoothly. After all, the truth always wins.

Umbridge's eyes narrowed upon Felicity. How dare you, the professor seemed to convey.

"Dear me . . ."

Felicity lifted her head ever so slightly to read what Umbridge filled in on the clipboard. Wild Child.

Free Spirit, Felicity corrected internally.

Umbridge set her clipboard down on her desk, then politicized her grin. "Well, until you decide your clever games come to an end---that is," she emphasized, clasping her fingers in an authoritative fashion, "when you reveal your surname and guardian, you're to tame that nerve in my office. Detention. 4:30pm."

Well if you manifest a wild child, I'll give you a wild child.

"Now," Umbridge recomposed herself, "wands away. Please copy down the three ministry-approved, carefully structured objectives for this course. This will more than suffice for your O.W.Ls."

A hand shot in the air with that familiar desperateness after a few minutes of silent writing. Umbridge strolled over to the Gryffindors. "Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?"

"Actually I've got a query on the course aims," replied Hermione.

"And your name is . . .?"

"Hermione Granger."

"If you read carefully, the course aims are quite clear on the board."

"Forgive me, Professor Umbridge," Hermione blinked as if to clear her impatience, "they aren't. The book references nothing to defensive spells."

"Surely you don't expect to be attacked during class Miss Granger?" But Umbridge now focused on Felicity as she finished her question.

Her eyes pierced Felicity's. Professor Snape's voice echoed in her mind. First Lesson in Defense Against the Dark Arts: The Dark Lord. Does Not. Care.

Nor does Umbridge.

She gripped her wand tightly in her sleeve, concealed but on the ready. Mental moat activated. Bet on your frilly kittens, woman. I expect to be attacked. Any time, Professor Umbridge.

And so dreadful class finished with Harry challenging Umbridge, and like Felicity spoke the truth---Voldemort's returned, and he received detention after Felicity's.

The remainder of the classes flew by in a blur. Peers might classify the dazed look in her eyes as deriving from a vision, or something of her mental condition. No, and no: Since Luna was a year younger, Felicity had not seen her since Snape pulled her away following the Welcoming Feast. Not even exchanged a single word. Without the same classes except for choir practice, they'd meet alone, undisturbed well into the evening, and then, it's curfew all over again.

That, and practical Occlumency. During transfiguration, during charms, Felicity sought stars as she practiced, which backfired when McGonagall had asked, "Felicity! Have you gone deaf?!"

Getting to Professor Snape's level---subconscious Occlumency---to observe the world at the same time, that took great skill.

Once the clock tower struck, Felicity headed towards Umbridge's office. After a knock, the door opened, smothering Felicity in concentrated perfume. Ugh. The scent seemed like a solid, tickling coughs through her throat. Pink and purple hues laced the atmosphere in a doll-house interior design, with shiny porcelain plates featuring vintage, exaggerated cute kittens battling yarn.

"Good afternoon, again, Miss," Umbridge sat behind her desk in a velvet armchair, sipping her tea modestly. "Felicity, isn't it? The colors?" The professor admired her own decor. "Just like you."

She ignored the sarcastic remark. I'm felicity to Luna. To Snape. To my companions and Dumbledore. But never Felicity to you. "Good afternoon."

The professor rose from her seat, and gestured the student to sit at a pink-placematted desk bearing blank parchment and a quill.

"I want you to write, I--must--not--tell--lies," Umbride slowed down the phrase, as if concerned Felicity really was deaf. Even a deaf patient would understand the woman's exaggeration.

She picked up the quill, and absentmindedly dipped it into . . . wood. "Professor, I haven't ink."

"Unnecessary, at this point, I think," she mused out loud, "just write and see for yourself."

Felicity bit her lip, angling the point in preparation. "How many times?"

That malevolent grin unnerved her. "As long as it takes to sink in, dear."