I'm gonna get so much hate for this chapter, I just know it. But, trust me, Tim has a plan, and he may do some weird things while executing said plan.
Okay, okay, enough of me apologizing for my creative decisions. Read on, dear reader.
When Tim walked into Transfiguration the next day to see Umbridge sitting in a corner with her little clipboard, he bit his lip to stop himself from smiling. She looked no different than she had every other time he had seen her, but Tim knew that it was impossible for her not to have seen his little message on the window. Oh, how he wished he could have been there when she walked into her office this morning.
He sat with Aruna and Purdie again, right behind Harry, who, along with Hermione and Ron, looked transfixed as they watched McGonagall walk into the classroom.
McGonagall jumped right into her lesson despite the presence of the High Inquisitor in her classroom. Seamus handed back their papers while Lavender handed out mice, looking very much like she was wishing she had Seamus's job.
"Hem, hem," Umbridge cut in as McGonagall was giving instructions to the class.
McGonagall plowed right through this interruption and cemented her place in Tim's 'teachers-I-and-or-Dick-would-want-to-have-a-beer-with' list. "Right then, everyone, listen closely—Dean Thomas, if you do that to the mouse again, I shall put you in detention—most of you have now successfully vanished your snails and even those who were left with a certain amount of shell have the gist of the spell. Today we shall be—"
"Hem, hem," Umbridge attempted once more.
McGonagall turned around to face her (what a power move, Tim thought). "Yes?" Her voice was terse, as if to remind everyone in the room that there was important work that needed to be done.
"I was just wondering, Professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec—"
"Obviously, I received it, or I would have asked you what you are doing in my classroom," said Professor McGonagall and turned around again, effectively ending the conversation. "As I was saying, today we shall be practicing the altogether more difficult vanishment of mice. Now, the Vanishing Spell —"
"Hem, hem." Tim was shocked at Umbridge's boldness to come back after that shut-down. If nothing else, the woman was dauntless.
McGonagall turned around again, staring Umbridge down like she was a misbehaving student. "I wonder," she started, "how you expect to gain an idea of my usual teaching methods if you continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally permit people to talk when I am talking."
Tim coughed quietly. All around him, students were looking at McGonagall with unadulterated admiration. What an idol.
That lunch period, Tim was alone in the dormitory, laying on his bed with a notebook in front of him and pen in hand. He stared down at the current page, which bore a long string of numbers, and then back at Constantine's letter, which lay on the notebook's left. It had taken him a bit longer than he had expected, but Tim had converted the numbers back to their original values. Now, it was just a matter of converting this new set into letters. Tim and Constantine had practiced this code a couple times over the summer, and while it still took them both a while to write it all out, Tim and Constantine had both managed to memorize their respective encoding/decoding tables, cutting down on a lot of that time.
Taking a bite out of the sandwich he had tossed together earlier, Tim clicked his pen and got to work. Honestly, Tim enjoyed cryptography, he'd enjoyed it ever since he gotten a decoder ring in a cereal box in second grade. Being able to make jumbled letters into coherent thoughts felt like some kind of secret superpower. This was also around the time that Tim learned Morse Code and managed to drive his parents crazy by tapping on any hard surface for hours at a time. What could he say? He liked mysteries.
Okay, but seriously, this code is crazy, you're mad, it began, and Tim rolled his eyes, laughing a little as he imagined Constantine's frustrated face as he puffed on his cigarette.
Draco Malfoy's father is a Death Eater. Well, that was certainly important news. Sure, Draco seemed like the type to agree with some of Voldemort's ideologies, namely the supremacy of wizards above all else, but to have become a Death Eater not only meant that Lucius Malfoy was willing to kill for Voldemort, but also that he was trusted enough to be in the Dark Lord's inner circle, something Constantine was trying desperately to infiltrate. That was worth being aware of. Maybe it was time to reconsider befriending Draco.
—and so are Vincent Crabbe's and Gregory Goyle's. Huh. That certainly explained why someone as obviously intelligent as Draco kept those two close.
Hee wants dementors. Read up on them.
"Hee." That was their codeword for Voldemort. Even with all these codes, they were still worried about a less-than-desirable party discovering how deep their investigation was going.
Now, what was this about dementors? Those were the creatures that guarded Azkaban. The ones that fed off of misery and despair and took their victims' souls with a kiss. They weren't exactly a creature that Tim ever hoped to cross paths with, given that he estimated he had enough misery and despair in him to feed an entire football stadium of dementors. If these creatures were in the hands of the enemy… Tim needed to make sure there was a way to take them out of the equation.
Department of Mysteries is important, the message ended.
Okay…?
Well, that was…something. A very unexpected, vague something. Constantine must have only heard it in passing, else he would have included more context to that. "Department of Mysteries" sounded like it was a part of some bigger organization. And it was thrown out in conversation without context, so it was something of which your average witch or wizard would be aware.
Tim took another bite out of his sandwich. Well, he certainly had his work cut out for him. He'd have to collect some more information before he could give Constantine a suitable reply.
With the last minutes he had before his afternoon classes, Tim jogged up to the Owlery to send his replies to Dick and Steph. At least he could reply to them without having to research anything. It took almost a week for a letter to get from Gotham to London, so Tim was eager to get a letter out to them as quickly as possible, just so that he could hear back from them in a fortnight. It was not a desirable system, not by any means, but any word from Gotham was welcome. Any word from his family was welcome. He longed for it. He craved it. All of this was just to say that Tim may or may not have almost thrown one of the school's owls out the tower's window in the hopes that his letters could reach home even a couple minutes faster.
Finding Professor Flitwick in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was not what Tim expected this afternoon to look like. He and the other students filed in, whispering to one another and taking their seats. Tim looked over at Purdie, who shrugged back. The clock chimed one, and all at once, the Ravenclaws turned around to face Flitwick, who climbed onto Umbridge's stool so that they could see him properly.
"Hello!" he waved enthusiastically. Aruna was the only one to wave back. "As you can see, Professor Umbridge is not able to be here for the first hour of class today. She has very important duties now as the 'High Inquisitor,' meaning I'll be sitting in on all of you today." He rummaged through his coat pocket and procured a crumpled paper, which he unraveled carefully. "Now, it says here that you all completed chapter one of Defensive Magical Theory last week. Is that correct?" They nodded. "Today, she wants you to start reading chapter two, 'Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation.'"
There was a collective groan that was only allowable because of how close the Ravenclaws were with Flitwick. Tim was pretty sure that it would have gotten everyone an automatic detention with any other teacher.
"Now, now," Flitwick smiled. "It's not so bad."
"But I'm already done," Cordelia moaned.
"Well then, how about you get a head start on chapter three?" he suggested politely.
"I'm done with that one, too. I've read the whole book. Twice."
Flitwick nodded, looking very proud. "I suppose I'll have to find something else for you to do, then. Is anyone else done with the book?" he asked, looking around the classroom. Tim and Isobel MacDougal both raised their hands.
"Very impressive!" he exclaimed. "Then, how about you three share your thoughts with the others so that we can all learn together?"
"Yeah, it's a great ideal, but sometimes, the best defense is a solid offense."
Flitwick nodded. "Excellent point, Mr. Boot." He pointed at Mandy, who lowered her hand. "And, Miss Brocklehurst, you look like you have something to say."
"Yes, I wanted to point out that there isn't really a line between an offensive and a defensive spell when you're out in the real world."
"Interesting. Yes, Miss Patil?"
"But not all spells are created equal. If we treated the effects of offensive and defensive spells the same, who's to say that the Killing Curse isn't just an offensive spell used to protect other people?"
"Indeed, Miss Patil. Mr. Drake-Wayne?"
"Related to what Padma was saying, what's the difference between using the Killing Curse and using Ascendio to let someone fall to their death? You're killing them either way. Why is only one of them Unforgivable? Does that make the other one forgivable?"
"Very interesting argument. What about you, Miss Li?" The bell chimed two, but no one paid it any heed. This conversation was more informative than any textbook.
"Well, I would say that some spells are inherently meant to hurt. That's why we call them 'curses.' Something like Ascendio isn't inherently good or evil, but there aren't any positive outcomes from using the Cruciatus Curse."
A shrill voice cried out, "What is this, Professor Flitwick?" And that was the end of anything actually educational, because Umbridge was standing in the doorway looking absolutely disgusted by the display in front of her.
Flitwick hopped down from the stool. "Ah, hello, Dolores! We were just discussing some of the concepts outlined in their textbook. I must say, these students all have very interesting and complex ideas about the real-world implications of Defense Against the Dark Arts!" The Ravenclaws looked around at each other, practically beaming. Such direct praise was rare, coming from a teacher.
"Unfortunately," Umbridge said without any disappointment in her voice, "this is not a class taught by teenagers. It is taught by a Ministry-trained expert." She walked up to the front of the classroom, pushing Flitwick to the side like he was a small cat. The Ravenclaws all immediately tensed up at this demeaning treatment of the head of their house. Anthony gripped his quill so tightly that it snapped in two.
"Their opinions are useless and unnecessary," she declared. "Now, run along, Professor. I have a class to be teaching."
Flitwick looked up at Umbridge with possibly the driest expression anyone had ever seen on him. Then, he turned around to the class, winked, and scurried out of the classroom. All eyes turned to Umbridge, nary a smile to be found among their faces.
"Hem, hem," she smiled, attempting to command their attention. "I apologize for my absence. I've gained many responsibilities in a very short amount of time, so I have lots to do. Please turn to page nineteen and read chapter two, 'Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation.' There will be no need to talk."
After Umbridge had dismissed the class, Tim stayed behind to execute his new 'stop corporal punishment' plan. It didn't take long; the students were practically racing to leave the classroom behind. Tim didn't blame them. The only reason he was standing within ten feet of Umbridge was the knowledge that he was protecting others from getting hurt.
"Mr. Drake?" she said, as though she had just noticed that he was there. "Is there something you need? You don't want to be late for your next class, do you?"
"This is important, Professor," he said, taking a step forward. The only thing dividing the two was her desk, and he was planning on keeping it that way.
"Is it now?" She definitely did not believe that he had anything important to say to her.
"Yes, ma'am." He bowed his head down. "I wanted to apologize for my outrageous behavior last Tuesday." He kept his head down, but he could still hear the way Umbridge caught her breath.
"Yes?" she said slowly.
"I was a major distraction, and I wasted valuable class time, ma'am. I was disrespectful towards you and spoke to you in a manner wholly inappropriate in regard to our respective roles as teacher and student." Tim had planned this whole speech out during the second half of Defense Against the Dark Arts, so he was able to add the proper inflections and pauses to imply complete and total submission. "It is not my place to correct you, and my insistence that you pronounce my name in a certain way was unnecessary and time-consuming. I wasted important class time telling stories about myself, which was incredibly selfish of me and demonstrates a level of hubris that is shameful and unacceptable. I was trying to take attention away from the topic at hand and direct it towards myself.
"And, finally, I need to apologize for my incessant line of questioning. In my zeal to learn and my false assumptions that I understood the material better than my superior, I twisted your words to support my arguments and did not stop when told to. Not only that, but I pressured others into showing further disrespect towards you, ma'am.
"I assume all blame for these actions, and I wish I could give you a better explanation than the fact that I am an emotionally unstable teenage boy, but that is the only justification, if it could even be called that, for my actions that day. I humbly beg your forgiveness and a second chance to prove myself to you as a faithful student."
It was a top-notch apology, in Tim's opinion. The art of sucking up to people and apologizing for things he didn't need to apologize for was a special talent of his. It was very useful in his line of work.
"Mr. Drake-Wayne," she started, and Tim slowly lifted his head to meet her gaze. She was practically glowing, smiling like she had just seen a vision of the Christ. She had called him 'Drake-Wayne.' That was a promising start.
"My dear, there is no need to ask for my forgiveness."
Oh, I'm pretty sure there was, or else I'd never get you to trust me.
She continued, "No one is perfect, not even me." Tim made sure to look appropriately shocked at this revelation that Umbridge could be anything but sinless. "You can't help the occasional slip-up, you're just a child. You haven't grown fully. But coming and talking to me like this shows a level of maturity unlike anyone your age. It takes a lot of courage to admit to your own shortcomings."
Yeah, I'd love to see you do that sometime. That would show a level of maturity you clearly do not possess.
Umbridge nodded approvingly at him. "I will give you a second chance and a third chance and so on. That's my job as a teacher. Thank you so much for coming to me for this. Let me write you a note to excuse your lateness for your next class." She conjured up a slip of paper and a quill, which began to scribble down something on its own.
"And, Timothy, dear?" First name?
"Yes, ma'am?" He perked up at her addressing him. That she, a teacher, would talk to him, a stupid child, was the most generous thing he had ever witnessed!
"Anytime you want to chat, my doors are open," she told him.
Bingo. Tim bowed his head again. "Thank you, ma'am." His face was obscured enough that she would not be able to see the smile stretching across his face.
Tim didn't want Harry to have to endure another night of Umbridge's torture, but there wasn't anything he could do. Well, nothing he could do without blowing his cover and/or landing Harry in even more trouble. He could easily pull another marker-on-the-window prank, but it would be only that—a prank. What he needed was a solution.
Given his success with Umbridge earlier, there was a very good chance that, if he came knocking on her door, Umbridge would oblige. But then what? There was no way to get Harry out that would not get both of them in serious trouble. No, he needed to get in there and destroy those quills along with whatever other enchanted torture devices she had on-hand. Just stealing them wouldn't be enough, she could probably summon them back to herself just as easily.
To add to that, Tim had only done a precursory sweep of the classroom last night. He hadn't observed any sort of security systems save for her locked door, but Tim was not well-versed in wizard security measures. He had been reading up on a lot of spatial charms during his research on how to get internet access (which was not going great), so he understood that there was a plethora of specialized spells to detect different things. He wasn't sure how paranoid Umbridge was right now, but after his first prank, she was certain to up security, so he'd have to accomplish as much as he could in one go.
Just hang on a little longer, Harry, Tim thought. I'll get you out of there.
Breaking in through the window was a non-starter, being both reinforced and definitely the most conspicuous option. And there were no ventilation shafts of which Tim was aware, so he'd have to use the front door. Timing would also be a problem; he had no clue when Umbridge went to bed, but she didn't seem like the type to stay up late every night. On the other hand, she had just been promoted to a new administrative position over the entire school, which meant that she had lots of work to be done. Her staying up late was not entirely out of the question.
There were a lot of uncontrollable variables in this plan. Failing it would mean ruining his new rapport with Umbridge and possible blowing his whole cover. It wasn't a risk that was worth taking.
Unfortunately, Red Robin was a champion of justice and a defender of the weak first and foremost. If being exposed was the price he had to pay for protecting someone, he would take the punishment, though he would try his best to ensure that that remained a last resort.
It was odd, Tim thought as he entered the abandoned office of the High Inquisitor, that doors in Hogwarts still had locks on them, even though one spell could easily unlock them. What even was the point?
Also, what was the point of all of the doilies? He wasn't even sure he knew any place where someone could legally acquire the number of doilies present in this single room. And the pink! Tim was normally a fan of the color, but this room looked like someone had grabbed every paint can in the 'pink' section of the Home Depot and gone to town. None of them matched at all. It irked him more than it should have. She irked him more than she should have.
But now was not the time to be criticizing her decorating choices and smashing all the stupid cat plates on the wall (okay, some of them were kind of cute). Another day, perhaps.
He started with the china cabinet against the wall, opening drawers and peeking inside. There were a lot of spare doilies. Tim wondered what company was willing to give her such a discount. Luckily, he did not have to search for long; Umbridge appeared to be very organized, so he didn't have to rummage around. It was in the third drawer that he found what looked to be an ornate wooden jewelry box with a small lock on it.
Again, what was the point of locks?
It opened up to reveal about a dozen black quills, each with their own well-sharpened tip. The one at the top of the pile still had fresh blood clinging to it. It was revolting. Now…what to do with it…
Five minutes later, Tim left the fireplace to burn its new fuel and went to look through the desk's drawers. It was in the same style as the cabinet—dark, glossy rosewood with a distinctly 19th century flair—and was draped with the same amount of lace. The drawers opened easily, no locks to be found. For a woman who secretly tortured students on the daily, she was pretty naïve to think intruders unlikely. Either that, or she had some magical way of knowing who broke into her office, in which case Tim was royally screwed. But Tim wasn't planning on backing down any time soon. He crouched down and placed one of his modified listening devices in a small crevice that was hidden out of sight.
The first drawer he opened held a stack of small pink slips of paper with elaborate borders alongside a selection of inks and quills (all non-torturous models, thankfully). The second contained various beauty products: perfumes, lotions, a small makeup kit, a couple tubes of lipstick, and a small, corked bottle filled with water. Nothing particularly of note. It was the slightly bigger drawer at the bottom that held anything worth mentioning. It was a filing cabinet, for starters, and it was packed.
Tim grinned and started flipping through documents, scanning for anything noteworthy. A lot of it was the kind of documentation you would find in any normal adult's files: tax forms, medical records, and the like. There were several stacks of paper with specific wizarding legislation written down, mostly a bunch of racist laws concerning "lesser" magical creatures alongside laws concerning those with Muggle ancestry, but there were also some educational bills that were pending review, most notably one that would forbid British wizarding schools to assign non-Ministry-approved material to their students. He proceeded to skim through a handful of Umbridge's teacher evaluations (it looked like Professor Trelawny had her work cut out for her). The next stack of paper he grabbed made him let out an audible growl. There were over a dozen pieces of parchment filled with the repetitive scrawl of 'I must not tell lies' in red. Tim could only assume that Umbridge kept them to look at whenever her inferiority complex was distracting her. He desperately wanted to throw them in the fire as well, but that would link back directly to Harry, and Tim didn't need the boy becoming Umbridge's main suspect.
Well, there wasn't much more he could do, so Tim stood up and stretched before deciding to call it a night. He made sure to lock the door behind him, allowing the fireplace to stay lit until it burned itself out.
ah, Umbridge, the enemy of Socratic seminar...
Fun fact, though-in high school, we would learn Literature and Math through Socratic seminar, meaning that, instead of the teacher lecturing to us about what we read, we got to just talk with each other about the book or mathematical concept, and whenever someone was confused about something, another classmate could jump in and explain things to them. Honestly, I think most subjects in school could benefit from being taught like that.