A/N: Written for the Ultimate Battle Competition 2.

It had been a very good day. Caretaker Argus Filch A.K.A. Assistant to the High Inquisitor (A.K.A. Senior Undersecretary to the Ministry of Magic) was in a wonderful mood, which was very uncharacteristic of him, as any student at Hogwarts could tell you. He was in a good mood for the following reasons:

1. No one had tracked mud into the castle.

2. Despite this fact, he had given detention to no less than thirteen of those no-good, high-and-mighty students.

3. (Incidentally, thirteen was his lucky number)

He was in such a good mood that it was ridiculous to think that his day could get any better – yet, with any luck, it was about to get much, much better.

"Filch!"

The barked word startled him and nearly made him drop the honking daffodil bouquet he was clutching tightly in his right fist. She was striding across the hallway toward her office, outside which he had been waiting for the better part of an hour.

"Ah, Professor Umbridge," he said delightedly, bowing low to her. "I, er, I brought you these."

He thrust the bouquet out to her as she closed the distance between them. She sniffed the flowers suspiciously and then plucked the bouquet out of his hand. "Thank you, Filch," she said in an approving voice. "These will do just fine."

"Er – sorry, miss?"

She sighed irritably, as if he had said something very stupid. "If I can charm these to recognize the breaking of any educational decree, they may be able to honk and alert me of the crime," she explained, with the air of trying to get a three-year-old to understand that one and one is two. "I'm quite certain I told you of this plan last week."

"Yes, miss!" said Filch hastily. "Of course, miss! I was listening, I was!"

She sniffed disdainfully. "Yes, well, is there anything else you need, Filch?"

"Yes, miss," said Filch again, and she sighed, clearly seeing him as a waste of her time. "Well, you see, miss, I think you and I have a lot in common, miss. Both of us hate those wretched students, both of us want to see old Dumbledore given the boot –"

"What is your point, Filch?" Umbridge snapped impatiently.

"Well, I was wondering, miss – if maybe you wouldn't want to go for a pint in the Three Broomsticks sometime?"

"Hmm…" She considered this proposition for a moment. "Yes, that would be a good idea."

"Really?" Filch gasped in delight. "Dolores, I –"

She appeared to not have heard him, for she went on: "It's the perfect place to have a conversation without being overheard. Very good thinking, Filch. I may have underestimated you." She patted him on the arm, causing his stomach to swoop as if he had just fallen five stories, and then sidestepped him and unlocked her office door.

"Good day, Filch," she said with a smile stretched like a toad's, and then she shut the door in his face.

He sighed and leaned against it, his legs seemingly turned to jelly. They were going on a date! He had asked her out and she had said yes…

Well, sort of. He could work out the details of the event later. The point was, he was going to the Three Broomsticks with Dolores Umbridge! Who wouldn't envy him?

Humming to himself (another startlingly out-of-character action), he traipsed down the hallway to the caretaker's office. It was only when he was reaching for his key ring to unlock the door that he noticed the dark brown smudges across the opposite hall.

He let out a howl of anguish, snatched up his mop, and stalked away after the muddy footprints, snarling to himself.

Well, it was still going to be a good day. He was sure of it.