Earlier that day...
–Why in Merlin’s name,†Charity asked, folding her arms, –would a painting want a bottle of firewhiskey?â€
–It tingles,†explained the painting of Bacchus, lounging among grapevines and the inert bodies of his passed-out-drunk maenads. –Old Pringle used to use it to clean my canvas, when he was in a good mood. Filch won’t do it. Says it’ll dissolve my paint.†Bacchus scoffed. –What in Jupiter’s name do they teach in Muggle school?â€
–Oddly enough, they don’t cover talking paintings,†said Charity. –All right, fine. One firewhiskey bath for the drunken painting. But you’ll say exactly what I told you, no ad-libbing, and it might help if you wake them up.†She gestured at the snoring, barely clad nymphs.
–Are you sure?†Bacchus said, eyeing them warily. –It might be more convincing if I just talk to myself. The ladies aren’t exactly right in the head.â€
–I know,†said Charity grimly, who had happened to walk by on one of the rare occasions when the maenads were actually awake. There used to be a doe grazing in the background of the painting; she had not seen it since, though she fancied she could still see bloodstains on those rumpled togas. –It might help if you keep them sober for more than three seconds.â€
–Hello,†said Bacchus, –I’m the god of getting wasted.†But she stared him down, and finally he sighed. –I’ll do it. But I expect the whole bottle, not just one measly splash.â€
–You’ll dissolve your paint,†said Charity, –or your liver.†But that was really not her problem. Bacchus was only slightly less annoying than Sir Cadogan (who had refused bribery, because it went against his code of honor - as did deception). As long as he performed according to plan, he could drink himself into a coma for all she cared.
–I’m a god,†said the painting. –I’m not worried. The whole bottle, and you’ve got yourself a deal.â€
–Fine,†Charity said. –Deal.â€
The hard part done, she went off to accomplish the easy part of the plan: manipulating the students.
–I’ll hang you by your thumbs for this!†Argus roared. His coat flared out behind him and caught on a suit of armor as he pursued the fleeing miscreants. It was a mystery how Fred and George Weasley managed to smuggle a seemingly endless supply of Dungbombs onto school grounds, and Argus would have to have more eyes than his mythological namesake to predict when and where they would detonate them.
By the time Argus freed his coat from the suit of armor (which laughed hollowly at him the whole time), the twins were long gone. Mrs. Norris, late to the scene, set off after them, but by the time she caught up they would probably be sitting innocently in study hall.
Sighing, Argus pulled out another incident report form, and flattened it against the wall while rummaging in his pocket for the pencil stub he used in lieu of a quill.
–Love?â€
–Oh my!â€
–Love!â€
Argus huffed. The paintings were talking again. It was that stupid wine god and his harem. He was surprised the women could actually form coherent words; most of the time, when they were awake, they either danced around wildly or ripped things to shreds. Sometimes both at once.
–It’s true,†the wine god said smugly, sounding as though he thoroughly enjoyed the adoring attentions of his fan club. –You know that painting of Daedalus that hangs in her office? He heard it with his own ears. She sits there reading love sonnets and crying his name, so tragically… Argus! Oh! Argus!â€
Argus froze.
–But why doesn’t she tell him?â€
–Yes!â€
–Why?â€
–I’ll tell you why,†said the wine god. –Aside from the obvious - that hair, and never washing his clothes, and let’s not even mention the unhealthy obsession with his cat - Argus Filch is a mean old grouch. He’d just laugh at her. Poor lady. She’s a bit prudish for my taste, but no one deserves that boring librarian’s life.â€
The librarian? Pince? What rubbish. Argus shook his head, tried to block out the voices, and began to fill out the incident report form.
–We should give her some wine,†suggested one of the nymphs.
–Wine!â€
–Yes, wine!â€
–Don’t think I didn’t suggest it,†said the wine god. –The old girl could do with fewer inhibitions.â€
Argus’s pencil needed sharpening. Also, he seemed to have forgotten what he was writing. Weasleys… Dungbomb… love sonnets? That painting must be drunk as a skunk. Not too far out of character, after all.
–Pity she can’t be nicer to him,†the wine god was saying ruminatively. –I suppose snapping at him all the time is her way of hiding her true feelings. Ah well. Ladies, who’s up for some heavy drinking and an orgy?â€
–Me!â€
–Me!â€
–Me!â€
Argus backed away from the painting’s alcove, slightly horrified by what he had just heard. Irma Pince was in love with him? All these years, he had thought she hated him. Or maybe hate was too strong a word - cordial dislike was more Irma’s style.
He’d tried to like Mansfield Park, he really had, but that Fanny Price character had driven him mad. Always quiet and sweet and always doing the right thing. A real woman would yell at people once in awhile, and do stupid stuff like marry a man she didn’t love, then cheat on him with the man she did love. Like Maria Bertram! In fact, the book might have improved if Maria Bertram were the main character.
Argus could see why Irma liked it, though. She had been born a Fanny Price, he thought: gentle and shy and unoriginal. But she had a great capacity for being Maria Bertram - he’d seen the hexes she used on the students who drew in library books. No Fanny Price would invent a Wedgie Hex.
He had intended to start a friendly argument on the subject, but his people skills were rather stunted, and instead he had ended up offending her. She’d snapped at him every time they spoke for the next thirty-five years. And until now, he had resigned himself to the fact that the most interesting woman in the entire school thought of him in the same way she thought of slugs, or people who dog-eared pages instead of using a bookmark.
Hell with it. Argus crumpled the incident report form and shoved it into his pocket. He could punish the Weasley twins later. Right now, he had to go and see if Irma would consider giving him a second chance.
–I think that went well,†Charity said smugly. –The suit of armor tripping him was a nice touch - well done, Minerva.â€
McGonagall tried unsuccessfully to hide a smirk. –That almost made up for the ordeal of teaching the Gryffindors to waltz,†she said. –Though now I will have to live down the shame of having asked the Weasley twins to set off a Dungbomb outside the Charms classroom.â€
–They were practicing the Bubble-Head Charm, anyway,†said Charity. –This will only give Flitwick’s students an incentive to excel.â€
–I fear our days of encouraging misbehavior are not over,†Minerva said. –We still have to set a similar trap for Irma.â€
–First let’s watch him make a prat of himself,†Charity grinned, setting off toward the library. –Then we’ll see about her.â€