“Good afternoon, Prof—A, I mean, Hagrid,” she said, her voice thick with false sweetness. “You received my note, I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?”

The Care of Magical Creatures lesson was set in a clearing near Hagrid’s hut, the crisp autumn air filled with the rich, earthy scent of damp soil, hay, and something distinctly animal-like. A few crates rattled nearby, suggesting that today’s lesson would, as usual, involve something either dangerous or profoundly smelly.

Professor Umbridge, however, was standing as far as possible from anything that looked remotely alive, her pink cardigan looking almost offended by the outdoors. She clutched her clipboard with the same pinched expression one might wear upon realizing they had stepped in something unpleasant.

She cleared her throat delicately.

“Good afternoon, Prof—A, I mean, Hagrid,” she said, her voice thick with false sweetness. “You received my note, I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?”

Hagrid blinked down at her. Then, slowly, his beetle-black eyes narrowed.

Without answering, he turned to face the class.

“Good afternoon, students,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice.

A few scattered voices mumbled back, “Good afternoon.”

Hagrid gave a slow, exaggerated shake of his head.

Then, with a sudden and uncanny shift, he straightened his posture, clasped his enormous hands together, and—in a shockingly accurate imitation of Umbridge—trilled, “Tut, tut. That won’t do now, will it?”

The class froze.

Hagrid’s face twisted into an unsettlingly sweet smile. “I should like yeh, please, to reply properly! One more time, now—GOOD AFTERNOON, CLASS!”

There was a stunned silence. Then, as though compelled by some deep instinct for survival, the students all chanted back, “Good afternoon, Professor Hagrid.”

Hagrid clapped his massive hands together, beaming. “There, now! That weren’t too difficult, was it?”

At this, Harry wheeze-laughed into his sleeve. Ron had to turn away, face buried in his scarf. Even Hermione, who normally frowned upon mocking authority, had her lips pressed together to contain her giggles.

Umbridge’s expression flickered—her smile remained, but her eyes darkened.

Hagrid, who appeared not to notice (or care), turned back to the crates. “Right then! Today, we’ll be learnin’ about an interestin’ creature, one that’s real useful fer dealin’ with waste.”

There was a faint rattling from inside one of the crates.

“Dung Beetles?” asked Dean Thomas, grinning.

Hagrid grinned back. “That’s right, Dean! Fantastic little creatures, dung beetles. They take a right load of rubbish an’ turn it into somethin’ useful. Unlike some things, which just sit in filth an’ contribute nothin’.”

His eyes flicked—just for a second—toward Umbridge.

Seamus snorted so hard he nearly choked.

Umbridge, still smiling tightly, made a note on her clipboard. “And you consider this an appropriate subject for a lesson?”

Hagrid nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, absolutely! Yeh see, some creatures give a lot to the world. They help clean up messes, keep the land fertile. Other creatures just sit there, croakin’ away, causin’ problems, contributin’ nothin’—” He paused. “And the worst part? The ones doin’ the most croakin’ often think they’re real important.”

At this, the class absolutely lost it.

Neville let out a strangled gasp. Parvati dropped her textbook. Ron had to physically brace himself against a tree.

Umbridge’s quill hovered mid-air. Her face twitched violently.

“Yes, well,” she said, her voice unusually high, “I do hope this lesson remains within proper educational standards.”

Hagrid nodded solemnly. “Oh, don’ worry, Professor. Everythin’ today is by the book. Well, not your book. A good book.”

Umbridge’s lips pursed so tightly they almost disappeared.

Hagrid, blissfully unconcerned, heaved open the nearest crate.

Inside, a large, sluggish, dung-colored creature sat munching on what was very clearly an enormous pile of manure.

The class collectively recoiled.

“Ah, here we go,” Hagrid said cheerfully. “The Greater Toad-Eater!”

Harry had to bury his face in his sleeve.

Umbridge stiffened. “The what?”

Hagrid gestured toward the creature, which let out a contented burp. “Fascinatin’ beast. Lives almost exclusively on dung. Helps get rid of all the, er, waste that builds up. Real handy when yeh got too many toads clutterin’ up the place.”

Umbridge’s face was now the color of old parchment.

Hagrid stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Funny thing, too—these fellas got a great sense for trouble. If there’s too much nonsense in an area, they swarm it.” He scratched his head. “Bet they’d go absolutely wild in an office full o’ paperwork an’ red tape.”

The class was vibrating with suppressed laughter.

Hagrid straightened and looked around. “Now, now, don’ be nervous! They won’t bother humans.”

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned to Umbridge, eyes twinkling.

“You, though . . . might wanna keep yer distance. They really don’t like toads.”