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Exams were over. The fifth and seventh-years could finally breathe.
In the days waiting for their results and the summer break, they idled away the hours. Chess and chatter in the common rooms. Trips down to Hogsmeade. Or just lying on the sun-dappled grass, a newspaper or magazine draped over their faces, ignoring the lazy buzz of insects. On clear, bright days, if the Quidditch pitch wasn't booked, you'd find students pulling brooms from the shed. They'd swoop between the goalposts, tossing mint humbugs the size of Quaffles and Transfigured teapots that served as makeshift Bludgers.
Meanwhile, everyone else was grinding for their end-of-year exams. Anthony had lost count of how many times he'd heard younger students complaining in class, green with envy at the upper-years with nothing to do.
"I've received some of your final exam tickets already," Anthony announced at the start of a fourth-year lesson. "A reminder for anyone who might have forgotten: the objective is to obtain a ticket, by Muggle means. Coupons don't count as 'tickets'. Those who have already submitted theirs may decide whether to attend the remaining revision classes or if they'd like to submit a new ticket before term's end."
He hadn't even finished before a low buzz filled the room. Everyone was whispering, trying to figure out who had finished their exam early—and how they'd managed to sneak out of school—hoping for tips.
"You'll receive your Application to Leave School Grounds for Muggle Studies this week," Anthony said, raising his voice slightly. "Get them signed by your guardian and Head of House. A reminder: having someone else buy a ticket for you, or buying one for someone else, is considered cheating—"
"What?" Fred Weasley protested. "That's not fair!"
"You should've told us before we handed ours in, Professor!" George chimed in.
Angelina Johnson spun around. "You two already got tickets?"
"Obviously," Fred said, puffing his chest out.
"Roger and Emmerich, too," George added. "For a modest fee, we could—"
Anthony held up a hand for quiet. "Who bought tickets for whom, gentlemen?" he asked. "I did notice you gave me tickets for the same day and train."
"Well…"
"We're not sure."
The twins looked up, wearing identical expressions of innocent confusion under Anthony's gaze.
"You didn't use a Confundus Charm?"
"No," they chorused. "We just stood on the side of the road. Looking very pitiful. Very polite."
"A gentleman asked us what was wrong."
"We told him we wanted to get on a train but had no money."
Anthony sighed. "Please tell me you didn't…" The last thing he needed was to hear his students had become con artists, beggars, or vagrants by the end of term.
"The gentleman told us to find 'tight tea'," George said. "Then he walked off."
"Police," Anthony corrected, along with another Muggle-born student.
"Right. Police. Muggle Hit-Wizards and Aurors. Then this old lady came by. She asked if we needed help."
"We told her we'd made a bet," Fred cut in. "To see if anyone would help us buy train tickets. We didn't care where the next train was going, so long as we got four tickets."
Anthony blinked. "Oh."
"She gave us a lecture about not making silly bets," George said. "Then she took us to the station. Bought the tickets for us."
"That shouldn't count as cheating, Professor!" Fred said quickly, his earlier triumphant smirk fading as he caught Anthony's expression. "We gave her something! We told her how nice her hat and earrings were. We carried her shopping bags. Gave her some toffee and peanut brittle."
"And she was happy," his brother added.
Anthony thought for a moment, then smiled and shook his head. "Alright. You've convinced me. No magic used, no conflict, you interacted with a Muggle, and you got tickets. Well done."
Fred grinned and bumped shoulders with George in celebration.
"However," Anthony continued, turning to address the whole class, "I must point out that you succeeded because you met a kind person who trusted you." His gaze swept over them. "We all know trust isn't something to play with. So I credit the Weasleys' success—the real success of getting those tickets—to their sincerity and friendliness. Anyone considering copying them, remember that."
He glanced at a student in the front row who was looking a little too eager. The boy gave an embarrassed smile and nodded.
"Also," Anthony said, "Mr. Filch has asked me to remind everyone that leaving school grounds without permission is against the rules. Gentlemen, Professors McGonagall and Flitwick will arrange your detentions."
…
For the entire lesson, whenever Anthony's eyes drifted towards the Weasley twins, he saw their red heads bent together, whispering. The moment the bell rang, they snatched up their bags and slipped out the door.
Anthony watched them go, shrugged, and began packing his things, returning the goodbyes from departing students. A sudden, scuffling noise made him look up. The classroom window was yanked open, and the heads of the Weasley twins appeared, one after the other.
"Professor Anthony," Fred said, slightly breathless as he clung to the windowsill. "We passed the final exam, right?"
"Of course."
"Brilliant."
The two heads of red hair vanished. Anthony shrugged again, finished packing his bag, and handed a slightly crumpled bag of Chocolate Frogs to a passing student. He overheard Angelina discussing the twins—"They should've saved that trick for later"—and the consequences of detention—"Wood'll murder them if it's during practice time."
"Unless the detention is cleaning a bathroom," her friend said.
"That's Filch's favourite," another student chimed in. "But how did they even get out of Hogwarts? That Umbridge and her Inquisitorial Squad have been prowling around…"
Anthony looked up. "If any of you are planning to get tickets from Muggles, remember to get that application signed."
Several students jumped, exchanging looks before dissolving into sheepish, silent laughter.
"Most of the tickets I've received are from the Christmas holidays," Anthony said, not mentioning how many of those were admission tickets to Christmas markets—some looking suspiciously picked up off the ground. "I'll admit, I didn't fully consider how difficult it would be for you to get off the grounds."
"What did you think we'd do, Professor?" Angelina asked. "Just walk up to a Muggle?"
Anthony nodded. "Walk up to a Muggle. I suppose… I hoped… after last year's practical lessons, people would see that Muggles and wizards aren't so different. Not so different that we can't talk to each other."
"But the Statute of Secrecy—"
"You have my trust. And I thought you'd ask your Muggle-born friends for advice." A sudden curiosity struck him. He turned to a student who still looked worried. "You mentioned your roommate is from a Muggle family, didn't you?"
"Yeah, Richard—but I never see him anymore," the boy replied, sounding aggrieved. "Umbridge gave him a month of detentions! Just for dropping a toad in her teacup! And Filch and Snape, they either make him scrub corridors without magic or pick beetle eyes all night."
"He has detentions three times a week?" Anthony clarified.
"Four. Twice with Umbridge, once with Filch, once with Snape."
Another student whistled. "A living hell."
"We've been helping him with his essays, but I think Professor McGonagall is getting suspicious… Oh." The speaker looked up at Anthony, suddenly regretful. "You won't tell her, Professor Anthony? Richard can't handle more detentions."
"What?" Anthony said mildly. "Could you repeat that? I'm afraid I was too focused on packing my things to hear."
The class laughed. Anthony smiled, nodded his goodbyes, and left.
Most students were heading to the Great Hall for lunch. Anthony wasn't hungry. He wandered slowly down the empty corridors, lost in thought.
O.W.L.s were over, but he hadn't heard anything about the results. Professor Burbage was busier than ever, something about louder opposition to the Muggle Protection Act within the Ministry. Arthur Weasley's latest letter hadn't mentioned politics at all, instead enthusiastically asking about the principles of the Underground…
"Eat, drink, and be merry, that thy stomach be hearty and thy frame hale!" a portrait bellowed at him, waving a goblet.
"By your command, Your Majesty," Anthony replied absently.
He thought about Scrimgeour's visit, wondering privately if the Ministry had ever found Voldemort's wand. There'd been nothing in the papers, no discussion among the staff. It sounded like Umbridge had directed those men to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom… for what purpose?
Perhaps thinking of Myrtle made him imagine it. A faint, familiar sound of crying.
He remembered his last conversation with Umbridge, her implication that he was too interested in that bathroom. But he hadn't seen much of Myrtle lately. Since joining Nick for Gilderoy Lockhart's club meetings, she'd taken to sitting on toilet lids, reading Lockhart's adventure series. She'd only thrown one spectacular tantrum when Peeves stole her book…
The crying didn't fade. It grew clearer, mixed with hiccupping, childish mumbles. Anthony snapped back to the present. It was real.
He didn't hesitate. He quieted his steps, moved back and forth to pinpoint the direction, then walked briskly towards the sound—a loud, wet sniffle helped immensely. Soon, he found a small figure hunched on a secluded staircase, crying and muttering words like "old hag."
"Mr. Creevey?" he asked gently.
Colin Creevey jerked his head up. His hair was a mess. His nose was red and shiny. Tears streaked his face. He grabbed the hem of his robes and scrubbed at his eyes. "Sorry, Professor. I'll go to class."
"Class hasn't started," Anthony said, still standing at the foot of the stairs. "Have you eaten, Colin?"
Colin sniffled and shook his head.
"You should go to lunch, then," Anthony said, climbing the steps. He stopped beside Colin. "I heard it's sausage and mash, but I suspect the sausages are long gone by now. Just mash and peas left. Do you like mash with peas?"
Colin thought for a moment. "No," he mumbled.
"Pity." Anthony sat down beside him. "What happened?"
"I—it's Umbridge!" Colin's voice, which had been calming, shot up again in indignation. "She always schedules my detentions at lunch or dinner! Making me polish the floor in her office or clean her stupid cat plates!"
"What?"
"I shouted at her today. I was hungry. Smashed a few plates, too." Colin's boyish, high-pitched voice echoed in the stairwell. He sounded a little proud. "She went purple! I would've smashed more, but Fred and George showed up."
"Fred and George?"
"Ron's brothers—Ron's Harry's friend. They threw a firework under her office door! Almost set her hair on fire! Umbridge said she'd give them detention, and they said Professor McGonagall already was, and then they ran off. Umbridge started writing to McGonagall, but then she turned back to me."
Colin sniffed again. Anthony asked softly, "What did she say?"
"She said I'm always following Harry around, but Harry's sick of me. Said Harry'd probably thank her because now I can't bother him… She said taking pictures all the time is rude. Said my whole family are ignorant Muggles, so it's no surprise… That I'd be expelled from Hogwarts one day…" Colin's voice grew small. "Don't know why, but I just started crying." He pressed his lips together, embarrassed, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
"She's not very polite," Anthony said, searching his pockets. He pulled out a sweet wrapper, Transfigured it into a handkerchief, and handed it over. "Here, Colin. It's all nonsense, but I understand why you're upset."
Colin took the handkerchief, clutching it tightly. After a long moment, he said in a wobbly voice, "But… but I think she's right!" He broke down into fresh sobs.
"Then don't think that," Anthony suggested.
Colin cried for a few more seconds before confusion cut through the misery. "What?"
"Don't think that," Anthony repeated. "Ask Mr. Potter what he thinks. Ask the people you're taking pictures of. If they don't like it, find a different way until you're both happy. But none of it means you're a bad person. And it has nothing to do with you being from a Muggle family."
"Really?"
"Truly rude people, Mr. Creevey, don't worry about being a nuisance," Anthony said, standing up. "Oh, and you won't be expelled. But if we don't leave now, there really won't be any lunch left."
Colin gave a small, watery smile. He scrubbed his face with the now-crumpled handkerchief, hauled himself up using the railing, and nodded at Anthony.
"You said Professor Umbridge often schedules your detentions during meals?" Anthony asked as they walked down the stairs together. "Does Professor McGonagall know?"
"Haven't told her," Colin said, his spirits visibly lifting. He started hopping down steps. "It's not a big deal. I only started crying during detentions recently—I'm not usually like this, Professor Anthony! And there are way worse detentions. I heard Richard, in fourth-year, is there until midnight. And the fifth-years, Melinda and Gregory, they always look spaced out for days after, don't want to talk…"
As Colin listed name after name of students serving detention with Umbridge, Anthony began to grasp the sheer scale of it. It was… odd. Most professors saw detention as a more time-consuming punishment than point deductions, reserved for serious offenses or moments of particular anger. But Umbridge seemed to be running a near-constant detention factory.
He mentally ticked through the names. A strange pattern emerged.
No Weasley twins. No Roger Davies. No Emmerich. No Harry Potter. Even from the years he knew best—third through fifth—Colin had only mentioned students Anthony barely recognized.
From his own class, three types of students were absent: those in the wrong year, those with pure-blood leanings… and those from Muggle families.
"Mr. Creevey," Anthony said quietly. "These students… are they all from Muggle families?"
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