Harry felt happier for the rest of the weekend than he had
done all term. He and Ron spent much of Sunday catching up with all their
homework again, and although this could hardly be called fun, the last burst of
autumn sunshine persisted, so rather than sitting hunched over tables in the
common room they took their work outside and lounged in the shade of a large
beech tree on the edge of the lake. Hermione, who of course was up to date with
all her work, brought more wool outside with her and bewitched her knitting
needles so that they flashed and clicked in midair beside her, producing more
hats and scarves.
Knowing they were doing something to resist Umbridge and
the Ministry, and that he was a key part of the rebellion, gave Harry a feeling
of immense satisfaction. He kept reliving Saturday’s meeting in his mind: all
those people, coming to him to learn Defence Against the Dark Arts...and the
looks on their faces as they had heard some of the things he had done...and Cho
praising his performance in the Triwizard Tournament—knowing all those people
did not think him a lying weirdo, but someone to be admired, buoyed him up so
much that he was still cheerful on Monday morning, despite the imminent prospect
of all his least favourite classes.
He and Ron headed downstairs from their
dormitory, discussing Angelina’s idea that they were to work on a new move
called the Sloth Grip Roll during that night's Quidditch practice, and not until
they were halfway across the sunlit common room did they notice the addition to
the room that had already attracted the attention of a small group of
people.
A large sign had been affixed to the Gryffindor noticeboard; so large
it covered everything else on it—the lists of secondhand spellbooks for sale,
the regular reminders of school rules from Argus Filch, the Quidditch team
training timetable, the offers to barter certain Chocolate Frog Cards for
others, the Weasleys’ latest advertisement for testers, the dates of the
Hogsmeade weekends and the lost and found notices. The new sign was printed in
large black letters and there was a highly official-looking seal at the bottom
beside a neat and curly signature.
BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF
HOGWARTS
All student organisations, societies, teams, groups and dubs are
henceforth disbanded.
An organisation, society, team, group or club is hereby
defined as a regular meeting of three or more students.
Permission to re-form
may be sought from the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge).
No student
organisation, society, team, group or club may exist without the knowledge and
approval of the High Inquisitor.
Any student found to have formed, or to
belong to, an organisa-tion, society, team, group or club that has not been
approved by the High Inquisitor will be expelled.
The above is in accordance
with Educational Decree Number Twenty-four.
Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge,
High Inquisitor
Harry and Ron read the notice over the heads of some
anxious-looking second-years.
“Does this mean they're going to shut down the
Gobstones Club?” one of them asked his friend.
“I reckon you'll be OK with
Gobstones,” Ron said darkly, making the second-year jump. “I don't think we're
going to be as lucky, though, do you?” he asked Harry as the second-years
hurried away.
Harry was reading the notice through again. The happiness that
had filled him since Saturday was gone. His insides were pulsing with
rage.
“This isn't a coincidence,” he said, his hands forming fists. “She
knows.”
“She can't,” said Ron at once.
“There were people listening in
that pub. And let's face it, we don't know how many of the people who turned up
we can trust...any of them could have run off and told Umbridge...”
And he
had thought they believed him, thought they even admired him...
“Zacharias
Smith!” said Ron at once, punching a fist into his hand. “Or—I thought that
Michael Corner had a really shifty look, too—”
“I wonder if Hermione's seen
this yet?” Harry said, looking round at the door to the girls’
dormitories.
“Let's go and tell her,” said Ron. He bounded forwards, pulled
open the door and set off up the spiral staircase.
He was on the sixth stair
when there was a loud, wailing, klaxon-like sound and the steps melted together
to make a long, smooth stone slide like a helter-skelter. There was a brief
moment when Ron tried to keep running, arms working madly like windmills, then
he toppled over backwards and shot down the newly created slide, coming to rest
on his back at Harry's feet.
“Er—I don't think we're allowed in the girls”
dormitories,” said Harry, pulling Ron to his feet and trying not to
laugh.
Two fourth-year girls came zooming gleefully down the stone
slide.
“Oooh, who tried to get upstairs?” they giggled happily, leaping to
their feet and ogling Harry and Ron.
“Me,” said Ron, who was still rather
dishevelled. “I didn't realise that would happen. It's not fair!” he added to
Harry, as the girls headed off for the portrait hole, still giggling madly.
“Hermione's allowed in our dormitory, how come we're not allowed -?”
“Well,
it's an old-fashioned rule,” said Hermione, who had just slid neatly on to a rug
in front of them and was now getting to her feet, “but it says in Hogwarts: A
History, that the founders thought boys were less trustworthy than girls.
Anyway, why were you trying to get in there?”
“To see you—look at this!” said
Ron, dragging her over to the noticeboard.
Hermione's eyes slid rapidly down
the notice. Her expression became stony.
“Someone must have blabbed to her!”
Ron said angrily.
“They can't have done,” said Hermione in a low
voice.
“You're so naive,” said Ron, “you think just because you're all
honourable and trustworthy—”
“No, they can't have done, because I put a jinx
on that piece of parchment we all signed,” said Hermione grimly. “Believe me, if
anyone's run off and told Umbridge, we'll know exactly who they are and they
will really regret it.”
“What'll happen to them?” said Ron eagerly.
“Well,
put it this way” said Hermione, “it'll make Eloise Midgeon's acne look like a
couple of cute freckles. Come on, let's get down to breakfast and see what the
others think...I wonder whether this has been put up in all the houses?”
It
was immediately apparent on entering the Great Hall that Umbridge's sign had not
only appeared in Gryffindor Tower. There was a peculiar intensity about the
chatter and an extra measure of movement in the Hall as people scurried up and
down their tables conferring on what they had read. Harry, Ron and Hermione had
barely taken their seats when Neville, Dean, Fred, George and Ginny descended
upon them.
“Did you see it?”
“D'you reckon she knows?”
“What are we
going to do?”
They were all looking at Harry. He glanced around to make sure
there were no teachers near them.
“We're going to do it anyway of course,” he
said quietly.
“Knew you'd say that,” said George, beaming and thumping Harry
on the arm.
“The prefects as well?” said Fred, looking quizzically at Ron and
Hermione.
“Of course,” said Hermione coolly.
“Here come Ernie and Hannah
Abbott,” said Ron, looking over his shoulder. “And those Ravenclaw blokes and
Smith...and no one looks very spotty.”
Hermione looked alarmed.
“Never
mind spots, the idiots can't come over here now, it'll look really
suspicious—sit down!” she mouthed to Ernie and Hannah, gesturing frantically to
them to rejoin the Hufflepuff table. “Later! We'll—talk—to—you—later!”
“Til
tell Michael,” said Ginny impatiently, swinging herself off her bench, “the
fool, honestly...”
She hurried off towards the Ravenclaw table; Harry watched
her go. Cho was sitting not far away, talking to the curly-haired friend she had
brought along to the Hog's Head. Would Umbridge's notice scare her off meeting
them again?
But the full repercussions of the sign were not felt until they
were leaving the Great Hall for History of Magic.
“Harry! Ron!”
It was
Angelina and she was hurrying towards them looking perfectly desperate.
“It's
OK,” said Harry quietly, when she was near enough to hear him. “We're still
going to—”
“You realise she's including Quidditch in this?” Angelina said
over him. “We have to go and ask permission to re-form the Gryffindor
team!”
“What?” said Harry.
“No way,” said Ron, appalled.
“You read the
sign, it mentions teams too! So listen, Harry...I am saying this for the last
time...please, please don't lose your temper with Umbridge again or she might
not let us play any more!”
“OK, OK,” said Harry, for Angelina looked as
though she was on the verge of tears. “Don't worry, I'll behave
myself...”
“Bet Umbridge is in History of Magic,” said Ron grimly, as they
set off for Binns's lesson. “She hasn't inspected Binns yet...bet you anything
she's there...”
But he was wrong; the only teacher present when they entered
was Professor Binns, floating an inch or so above his chair as usual and
preparing to continue his monotonous drone on giant wars. Harry did not even
attempt to follow what he was saying today; he doodled idly on his parchment
ignoring Hermione’s frequent glares and nudges, until a particularly painful
poke in the ribs made him look up angrily.
“What?”
She pointed at the
window. Harry looked round. Hedwig was perched on the narrow window ledge,
gazing through the thick glass at him, a letter tied to her leg. Harry could not
understand it; they had just had breakfast, why on earth hadn't she delivered
the letter then, as usual? Many of his classmates were pointing out Hedwig to
each other, too.
“Oh, I've always loved that owl, she's so beautiful,” Harry
heard Lavender sigh to Parvati.
He glanced round at Professor Binns who
continued to read his notes, serenely unaware that the class's attention was
even less focused upon him than usual. Harry slipped quietly off his chair,
crouched down and hurried along the row to the window, where he slid the catch
and opened it very slowly.
He had expected Hedwig to hold out her leg so that
he could remove the letter and then fly off to the Owlery but the moment the
window was open wide enough she hopped inside, hooting dolefully. He closed the
window with an anxious glance at Professor Binns, crouched low again and sped
back to his seat with Hedwig on his shoulder. He regained his seat, transferred
Hedwig to his lap and made to remove the letter tied to her leg.
Only then
did he realise that Hedwig's feathers were oddly ruffled; some were bent the
wrong way, and she was holding one of her wings at an odd angle.
“She's
hurt!” Harry whispered, bending his head low over her. Hermione and Ron leaned
in closer; Hermione even put down her quill. “Look—there's something wrong with
her wing—”
Hedwig was quivering; when Harry made to touch the wing she gave a
little jump, all her feathers on end as though she was inflating herself, and
gazed at him reproachfully.
“Professor Binns,” said Harry loudly, and
everyone in the class turned to look at him. “I'm not feeling
well.”
Professor Binns raised his eyes from his notes, looking amazed, as
always, to find the room in front of him full of people.
“Not feeling well?”
he repeated hazily.
“Not at all well,” said Harry firmly getting to his feet
with Hedwig concealed behind his back. “I think I need to go to the hospital
wing.”
“Yes,” said Professor Binns, clearly very much wrong-footed.
“Yes...yes, hospital wing...well, off you go, then, Perkins...”
Once outside
the room, Harry returned Hedwig to his shoulder and hurried off up the corridor,
pausing to think only when he was out of sight of Binns's door. His first choice
of somebody to cure Hedwig would have been Hagrid, of course, but as he had no
idea where Hagrid was his only remaining option was to find Professor
Grubbly-Plank and hope she would help.
He peered out of a window at the
blustery, overcast grounds. There was no sign of her anywhere near Hagrid's
cabin; if she was not teaching, she was probably in the staff room. He set off
downstairs, Hedwig hooting feebly as she swayed on his shoulder.
Two stone
gargoyles flanked the staff-room door. As Harry approached, one of them croaked,
“You should be in class, Sonny Jim.”
“This is urgent,” said Harry
curtly.
“Ooooh, urgent, is it?” said the other gargoyle in a high-pitched
voice. “Well, that's put us in our place, hasn't it?”
Harry knocked. He heard
footsteps, then the door opened and he found himself face to face with Professor
McGonagall.
“You haven't been given another detention!” she said at once, her
square spectacles flashing alarmingly.
“No, Professor!” said Harry
hastily.
“Well then, why are you out of class?”
“It's urgent, apparently,”
said the second gargoyle snidery.
“I'm looking for Professor Grubbly-Plank,”
Harry explained. “It's my owl, she's injured.”
“Injured owl, did you
say?”
Professor Grubbly-Plank appeared at Professor McGonagall's shoulder,
smoking a pipe and holding a copy of the Daily Prophet.
“Yes,” said Harry,
lifting Hedwig carefully off his shoulder, “she turned up after the other post
owls and her wing's all funny, look—”
Professor Grubbly-Plank stuck her pipe
firmly between her teeth and took Hedwig from Harry while Professor McGonagall
watched.
“Hmm,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, her pipe waggling slightly as
she talked. “Looks like something's attacked her. Can't think what would have
done it, though. Thestrals will sometimes go for birds, of course, but Hagrid's
got the Hogwarts Thestrals well-trained not to touch owls.”
Harry neither
knew nor cared what Thestrals were; he just wanted to know that Hedwig was going
to be all right. Professor McGonagall, however, looked sharply at Harry and
said, “Do you know how far this owl's travelled, Potter?”
“Er,” said Harry.
“From London, I think.”
He met her eyes briefly and knew, by the way her
eyebrows had joined in the middle, that she understood “London” to mean “number
twelve, Grimmauld Place”.
Professor Grubbly-Plank pulled a monocle out of the
inside of her robes and screwed it into her eye, to examine Hedwig's wing
closely. “I should be able to sort this out if you leave her with me, Potter,”
she said, “she shouldn't be flying long distances for a few days, in any
case.”
“Er—right—thanks,” said Harry, just as the bell rang for break.
“No
problem,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank gruffly, turning back into the staff
room.
“Just a moment, Wilhelmina!” said Professor McGonagall. “Potters
letter!”
“Oh yeah!” said Harry, who had momentarily forgotten the scroll tied
to Hedwig's leg. Professor Grubbly-Plank handed it over and then disappeared
into the staff room carrying Hedwig, who was staring at Harry as though unable
to believe he would give her away like this. Feeling slightly guilty, he turned
to go, but Professor McGonagall called him back.
“Potter!”
“Yes,
Professor?”
She glanced up and down the corridor; there were students coming
from both directions.
“Bear in mind,” she said quickly and quietly, her eyes
on the scroll in his hand, “that channels of communication in and out of
Hogwarts may be being watched, won't you?”
“I—” said Harry, but the flood of
students rolling along the corridor was almost upon him. Professor McGonagall
gave him a curt nod and retreated into the staff room, leaving Harry to be swept
out into the courtyard with the crowd. He spotted Ron and Hermione already
standing in a sheltered corner, their cloak collars turned up against the wind.
Harry slit open the scroll as he hurried towards them and found five words in
Sirius's handwriting:
Today, same time, same place.
“Is Hedwig OK?” asked
Hermione anxiously, the moment he was within earshot.
“Where did you take
her?” asked Ron.
“To Grubbly-Plank,” said Harry. “And I met
McGonagall...listen...”
And he told them what Professor McGonagall had said.
To his surprise, neither of the others looked shocked. On the contrary, they
exchanged significant looks.
“What?” said Harry, looking from Ron to Hermione
and back again.
“Well, I was just saying to Ron...what if someone had tried
to intercept Hedwig? I mean, she's never been hurt on a flight before, has
she?”
“Who's the letter from, anyway?” asked Ron, taking the note from
Harry.
“Snuffles,” said Harry quietly.
“"Same time, same place?" Does he
mean the fire in the common room?”
“Obviously,” said Hermione, also reading
the note. She looked uneasy. “I just hope nobody else has read this...”
“But
it was still sealed and everything,” said Harry, trying to convince himself as
much as her. “And nobody would understand what it meant if they didn't know
where we'd spoken to him before, would they?”
“I don't know,” said Hermione
anxiously, hitching her bag back over her shoulder as the bell rang again, “it
wouldn't be exactly difficult to re-seal the scroll by magic...and if anyone's
watching the Floo Network...but I don't really see how we can warn him not to
come without that being intercepted, too!”
They trudged down the stone steps
to the dungeons for Potions, all three of them lost in thought, but as they
reached the bottom of the steps they were recalled to themselves by the voice of
Draco Malfoy who was standing just outside Snape's classroom door, waving around
an official-looking piece of parchment and talking much louder than was
necessary so that they could hear every word.
“Yeah, Umbridge gave the
Slytherin Quidditch team permission to continue playing straightaway, I went to
ask her first thing this morning. Well, it was pretty much automatic, I mean,
she knows my father really well, he's always popping in and out of the
Ministry...it'll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor are allowed to keep
playing, won't it?”
“Don't rise,” Hermione whispered imploringly to Harry and
Ron, who were both watching Malfoy, faces set and fists clenched. “It's what he
wants.”
“I mean,” said Malfoy, raising his voice a little more, his grey eyes
glittering malevolently in Harry and Ron's direction, “if it's a question of
influence with the Ministry, I don't think they've got much chance...from what
my father says, they've been looking for an excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for
years...and as for Potter...my father says it's a matter of time before the
Ministry has him carted off to St Mungo's...apparently they've got a special
ward for people whose brains have been addled by magic.”
Malfoy made a
grotesque face, his mouth sagging open and his eyes rolling. Crabbe and Goyle
gave their usual grunts of laughter; Pansy Parkinson shrieked with
glee.
Something collided hard with Harry's shoulder, knocking him sideways. A
split second later he realised that Neville had just charged past him, heading
straight for Malfoy.
“Neville, no!”
Harry leapt forward and seized the
back of Neville's robes; Neville struggled frantically, his fists flailing,
trying desperately to get at Malfoy who looked, for a moment, extremely
shocked.
“Help me!” Harry flung at Ron, managing to get an arm around
Neville's neck and dragging him backwards, away from the Slytherins. Crabbe and
Goyle were flexing their arms as they stepped in front of Malfoy, ready for the
fight. Ron seized Neville's arms, and together he and Harry succeeded in
dragging Neville back into the Gryffindor line. Neville's face was scarlet; the
pressure Harry was exerting on his throat rendered him quite incomprehensible,
but odd words spluttered from his
mouth.
“Not...funny...don't...Mungo's...show...him...”
The dungeon door
opened. Snape appeared there. His black eyes swept up the Gryffindor line to the
point where Harry and Ron were wrestling with Neville.
“Fighting, Potter,
Weasley, Longbottom?” Snape said in his cold, sneering voice. “Ten points from
Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be detention. Inside, all of
you.”
Harry let go of Neville, who stood panting and glaring at him.
“I
had to stop you,” Harry gasped, picking up his bag. “Crabbe and Goyle would've
torn you apart.”
Neville said nothing; he merely snatched up his own bag and
stalked off into the dungeon.
“What in the name of Merlin,” said Ron slowly,
as they followed Neville, “was that about?”
Harry did not answer. He knew
exactly why the subject of people who were in St Mungo's because of magical
damage to their brains was highly distressing to Neville, but he had sworn to
Dumbledore that he would not tell anyone Neville's secret. Even Neville did not
know Harry knew.
Harry, Ron and Hermione took their usual seats at the back
of the class, pulled out parchment, quills and their copies of One Thousand
Magical Herbs and Fungi. The class around them was whispering about what Neville
had just done, but when Snape closed the dungeon door with an echoing bang,
everybody immediately fell silent.
“You will notice,” said Snape, in his low,
sneering voice, “that we have a guest with us today.”
He gestured towards the
dim corner of the dungeon and Harry saw Professor Umbridge sitting there,
clipboard on her knee. He glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione, his eyebrows
raised. Snape and Umbridge, the two teachers he hated most. It was hard to
decide which one he wanted to triumph over the other.
“We are continuing with
our Strengthening Solution today. You will find your mixtures as you left them
last lesson; if correctly made they should have matured well over the
weekend—instructions—” he waved his wand again “—on the board. Carry
on.”
Professor Umbridge spent the first half hour of the lesson making notes
in her corner. Harry was very interested in hearing her question Snape; so
interested, that he was becoming careless with his potion again.
“Salamander
blood, Harry!” Hermione moaned, grabbing his wrist to prevent him adding the
wrong ingredient for the third time, “not pomegranate juice!”
“Right,” said
Harry vaguely, putting down the bottle and continuing to watch the corner.
Umbridge had just got to her feet. “Ha,” he said softly, as she strode between
two lines of desks towards Snape, who was bending over Dean Thomas's
cauldron.
“Well, the class seem fairly advanced for their level,” she said
briskly to Snape's back. “Though I would question whether it is advisable to
teach them a potion like the Strengthening Solution. I think the Ministry would
prefer it if that was removed from the syllabus.”
Snape straightened up
slowly and turned to look at her.
“Now...how long have you been teaching at
Hogwarts?” she asked, her quill poised over her clipboard.
“Fourteen years,”
Snape replied. His expression was unfathomable. Harry, watching him closely,
added a few drops to his potion; it hissed menacingly and turned from turquoise
to orange.
“You applied first for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post, I
believe?” Professor Umbridge asked Snape.
“Yes,” said Snape quietly.
“But
you were unsuccessful?”
Snape's lip curled.
“Obviously”
Professor
Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard.
“And you have applied regularly for the
Defence Against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the school, I
believe?”
“Yes,” said Snape quietly, barely moving his lips. He looked very
angry.
“Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has consistently refused to
appoint you?” asked Umbridge.
“I suggest you ask him,” said Snape
jerkily.
“Oh, I shall,” said Professor Umbridge, with a sweet smile.
“I
suppose this is relevant?” Snape asked, his black eyes narrowed.
“Oh yes,”
said Professor Umbridge, “yes, the Ministry wants a thorough understanding of
teachers'—er—backgrounds.”
She turned away, walked over to Pansy Parkinson
and began questioning her about the lessons. Snape looked round at Harry and
their eyes met for a second. Harry hastily dropped his gaze to his potion, which
was now congealing foully and giving off a strong smell of burned rubber.
“No
marks again, then, Potter,” said Snape maliciously, emptying Harry's cauldron
with a wave of his wand. “You will write me an essay on the correct composition
of this potion, indicating how and why you went wrong, to be handed in next
lesson, do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Harry furiously. Snape had already
given them homework and he had Quidditch practice this evening; this would mean
another couple of sleepless nights. It did not seem possible that he had awoken
that morning feeling very happy. All he felt now was a fervent desire for this
day to end.
“Maybe I'll skive off Divination,” he said glumly, as they stood
in the courtyard after lunch, the wind whipping at the hems of robes and brims
of hats. “Til pretend to be ill and do Snape's essay instead, then I won't have
to stay up half the night.”
“You can't skive off Divination,” said Hermione
severely.
“Hark who's talking, you walked out of Divination, you hate
Trelawney!” said Ron indignantly.
“I don't hate her,” said Hermione loftily.
“I just think she's an absolutely appalling teacher and a real old fraud. But
Harry’s already missed History of Magic and I don't think he ought to miss
anything else today!”
There was too much truth in this to ignore, so half an
hour later Harry took his seat in the hot, overperfumed atmosphere of the
Divination classroom, feeling angry at everybody. Professor Trelawney was yet
again handing out copies of The Dream Oracle. Harry thought he'd surely be much
better employed doing Snape's punishment essay than sitting here trying to find
meaning in a lot of made-up dreams.
It seemed, however, that he was not the
only person in Divination who was in a temper. Professor Trelawney slammed a
copy of the Oracle down on the table between Harry and Ron and swept away, her
lips pursed; she threw the next copy of the Oracle at Seamus and Dean, narrowly
avoiding Seamus's head, and thrust the final one into Neville's chest with such
force that he slipped off his pouffe.
“Well, carry on!” said Professor
Trelawney loudly, her voice high-pitched and somewhat hysterical, “you know what
to do! Or am I such a sub-standard teacher that you have never learned how to
open a book?”
The class stared perplexedly at her, then at each other. Harry,
however, thought he knew what was the matter. As Professor Trelawney flounced
back to the high-backed teacher's chair, her magnified eyes full of angry tears,
he leaned his head closer to Ron's and muttered, “I think she's got the results
of her inspection back.”
“Professor?” said Parvati Patil in a hushed voice
(she and Lavender had always rather admired Professor Trelawney). “Professor, is
there anything—er—wrong?”
“Wrong!” cried Professor Trelawney in a voice
throbbing with emotion. “Certainly not! I have been insulted,
certainly...insinuations have been made against me...unfounded accusations
levelled...but no, there is nothing wrong, certainly not!”
She took a great
shuddering breath and looked away from Parvati, angry tears spilling from under
her glasses.
“I say nothing,” she choked, “of sixteen years of devoted
service...it has passed, apparently, unnoticed...but I shall not be insulted,
no, I shall not!”
“But, Professor, who's insulting you?” asked Parvati
timidly.
“The Establishment!” said Professor Trelawney, in a deep, dramatic,
wavering voice. “Yes, those with eyes too clouded by the mundane to See as I
See, to Know as I Know...of course, we Seers have always been feared, always
persecuted...it is—alas -our fate.”
She gulped, dabbed at her wet cheeks with
the end of her shawl, then she pulled a small embroidered handkerchief from her
sleeve, and blew her nose very hard with a sound like Peeves blowing a
raspberry.
Ron sniggered. Lavender shot him a disgusted look.
“Professor,”
said Parvati, “do you mean...is it something Professor Umbridge -?”
“Do not
speak to me about that woman!” cried Professor Trelawney, leaping to her feet,
her beads rattling and her spectacles flashing. “Kindly continue with your
work!”
And she spent the rest of the lesson striding among them, tears still
leaking from behind her glasses, muttering what sounded like threats under her
breath.
“...may well choose to leave...the indignity of it...on
probation...we shall see...how she dares...”
“You and Umbridge have got
something in common,” Harry told Hermione quietly when they met again in Defence
Against the Dark Arts. “She obviously reckons Trelawney's an old fraud,
too...looks like she's put her on probation.”
Umbridge entered the room as he
spoke, wearing her black velvet bow and an expression of great
smugness.
“Good afternoon, class.”
“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,”
they chanted dully.
“Wands away, please.”
But there was no answering
flurry of movement this time; nobody had bothered to take out their
wands.
“Please turn to page thirty-four of Defensive Magical Theory and read
the third chapter, entitled "The Case for Non-Offensive Responses to Magical
Attack". There will be—”
“—no need to talk,” Harry, Ron and Hermione said
together, under their breaths.
***
“No Quidditch practice,” said Angelina
in hollow tones when Harry, Ron and Hermione entered the common room after
dinner that night.
“But I kept my temper!” said Harry, horrified. “I didn't
say anything to her, Angelina, I swear, I—”
“I know, I know,” said Angelina
miserably. “She just said she needed a bit of time to consider.”
“Consider
what?” said Ron angrily. “She's given the Slytherins permission, why not
us?”
But Harry could imagine how much Umbridge was enjoying holding the
threat of no Gryffindor Quidditch team over their heads and could easily
understand why she would not want to relinquish that weapon over them too
soon.
“Well,” said Hermione, “look on the bright side—at least now you'll
have time to do Snape's essay!”
“That's a bright side, is it?” snapped Harry,
while Ron stared incredulously at Hermione. “No Quidditch practice, and extra
Potions?”
Harry slumped down into a chair, dragged his Potions essay
reluctantly from his bag and set to work. It was very hard to concentrate; even
though he knew Sirius was not due in the fire until much later, he could not
help glancing into the flames every few minutes just in case. There was also an
incredible amount of noise in the room: Fred and George appeared finally to have
perfected one type of Skiving Snackbox, which they were taking turns to
demonstrate to a cheering and whooping crowd.
First, Fred would take a bite
out of the orange end of a chew, at which he would vomit spectacularly into a
bucket they had placed in front of them. Then he would force down the purple end
of the chew, at which the vomiting would immediately cease. Lee Jordan, who was
assisting the demonstration, was lazily Vanishing the vomit at regular intervals
with the same Vanishing Spell Snape kept using on Harry’s potions.
What with
the regular sounds of retching, cheering and the sound of Fred and George taking
advance orders from the crowd, Harry was finding it exceptionally difficult to
focus on the correct method for Strengthening Solution. Hermione was not helping
matters; the cheers and the sound of vomit hitting the bottom of Fred and
George's bucket were punctuated by her loud and disapproving sniffs, which Harry
found, if anything, more distracting.
“Just go and stop them, then!” he said
irritably, after crossing out the wrong weight of powdered griffin claw for the
fourth time.
“I can't, they're not technically doing anything wrong,” said
Hermione through gritted teeth. “They're quite within their rights to eat the
foul things themselves and I can't find a rule that says the other idiots aren't
entitled to buy them, not unless they're proven to be dangerous in some way and
it doesn't look as though they are.”
She, Harry and Ron watched George
projectile-vomit into the bucket, gulp down the rest of the chew and straighten
up, beaming with his arms wide to protracted applause.
“You know, I don't get
why Fred and George only got three OWLs each,” said Harry, watching as Fred,
George and Lee collected gold from the eager crowd. “They really know their
stuff.”
“Oh, they only know flashy stuff that's of no real use to anyone,”
said Hermione disparagingly.
“No real use?” said Ron in a strained voice.
“Hermione, they've made about twenty-six Galleons already.”
It was a long
while before the crowd around the Weasley twins dispersed, then Fred, Lee and
George sat up counting their takings even longer, so it was well past midnight
when Harry, Ron and Hermione finally had the common room to themselves. At long
last, Fred had closed the doorway to the boys’ dormitories behind him, rattling
his box of Galleons ostentatiously so that Hermione scowled. Harry, who was
making very little progress with his Potions essay, decided to give it up for
the night. As he put his books away, Ron, who was dozing lightly in an armchair,
gave a muffled grunt, awoke, and looked blearily into the fire.
“Sirius!” he
said.
Harry whipped round. Siriuss untidy dark head was sitting in the fire
again.
“Hi,” he said, grinning.
“Hi,” chorused Harry, Ron and Hermione,
all three kneeling down on the hearthrug. Crookshanks purred loudly and
approached the fire, trying, despite the heat, to put his face close to
Sirius's.
“How're things?” said Sirius.
“Not that good,” said Harry, as
Hermione pulled Crookshanks back to stop him singeing his whiskers. The
Ministry's forced through another decree, which means we're not allowed to have
Quidditch teams—”
“Or secret Defence Against the Dark Arts groups?” said
Sirius.
There was a short pause.
“How did you know about that?” Harry
demanded.
“You want to choose your meeting places more carefully,” said
Sirius, grinning still more broadly. “The Hog's Head, I ask you.”
“Well, it
was better than the Three Broomsticks!” said Hermione defensively. That's always
packed with people—”
“Which means you'd have been harder to overhear,” said
Sirius. “You've got a lot to learn, Hermione.”
“Who overheard us?” Harry
demanded.
“Mundungus, of course,” said Sirius, and when they all looked
puzzled he laughed. “He was the witch under the veil.”
“That was Mundungus?”
Harry said, stunned. “What was he doing in the Hog's Head?”
“What do you
think he was doing?” said Sirius impatiently. “Keeping an eye on you, of
course.”
“I'm still being followed?” asked Harry angrily.
“Yeah, you are,”
said Sirius, “and just as well, isn't it, if the first thing you're going to do
on your weekend off is organise an illegal defence group.”
But he looked
neither angry nor worried. On the contrary, he was looking at Harry with
distinct pride.
“Why was Dung hiding from us?” asked Ron, sounding
disappointed. “We'd've liked to've seen him.”
“He was banned from the Hog's
Head twenty years ago,” said Sirius, “and that barman's got a long memory. We
lost Moody's spare Invisibility Cloak when Sturgis was arrested, so Dung's been
dressing as a witch a lot lately...anyway...first of all, Ron—I've sworn to pass
on a message from your mother.”
“Oh yeah?” said Ron, sounding
apprehensive.
“She says on no account whatsoever are you to take part in an
illegal secret Defence Against the Dark Arts group. She says you'll be expelled
for sure and your future will be ruined. She says there will be plenty of time
to learn how to defend yourself later and that you are too young to be worrying
about that right now. She also” (Sirius's eyes turned to the other two) “advises
Harry and Hermione not to proceed with the group, though she accepts that she
has no authority over either of them and simply begs them to remember that she
has their best interests at heart. She would have written all this to you, but
if the owl had been intercepted you'd all have been in real trouble, and she
can't say it for herself because she's on duty tonight.”
“On duty doing
what?” said Ron quickly.
“Never you mind, just stuff for the Order,” said
Sirius. “So it's fallen to me to be the messenger and make sure you tell her I
passed it all on, because I don't think she trusts me to.”
There was another
pause in which Crookshanks, mewing, attempted to paw Sirius's head, and Ron
fiddled with a hole in the hearthrug.
“So, you want me to say I'm not going
to take part in the Defence group?” he muttered finally.
“Me? Certainly not!”
said Sirius, looking surprised. “I think it's an excellent idea!”
“You do?”
said Harry, his heart lifting.
“Of course I do!” said Sirius. “D'you think
your father and I would've lain down and taken orders from an old hag like
Umbridge?”
“But—last term all you did was tell me to be careful and not take
risks—”
“Last year, all the evidence was that someone inside Hogwarts was
trying to kill you, Harry!” said Sirius impatiently. “This year, we know there's
someone outside Hogwarts who'd like to kill us all, so I think learning to
defend yourselves properly is a very good idea!”
“And if we do get expelled?”
Hermione asked, a quizzical look on her face.
“Hermione, this whole thing was
your idea!” said Harry, staring at her.
“I know it was. I just wondered what
Sirius thought,” she said, shrugging.
“Well, better expelled and able to
defend yourselves than sitting safely in school without a clue,” said
Sirius.
“Hear, hear,” said Harry and Ron enthusiastically.
“So,” said
Sirius, “how are you organising this group? Where are you meeting?”
“Well,
that's a bit of a problem now,” said Harry. “Dunno where we're going to be able
to go.”
“How about the Shrieking Shack?” suggested Sirius.
“Hey, that's an
idea!” said Ron excitedly, but Hermione made a sceptical noise and all three of
them looked at her, Siriuss head turning in the flames.
“Well, Sirius, it's
just that there were only four of you meeting in the Shrieking Shack when you
were at school,” said Hermione, “and all of you could transform into animals and
I suppose you could all have squeezed under a single Invisibility Cloak if you'd
wanted to. But there are twenty-eight of us and none of us is an Animagus, so we
wouldn't need so much an Invisibility Cloak as an Invisibility
Marquee—”
“Fair point,” said Sirius, looking slightly crestfallen. “Well, I'm
sure you'll come up with somewhere. There used to be a pretty roomy secret
passageway behind that big mirror on the fourth floor, you might have enough
space to practise jinxes in there.”
“Fred and George told me it's blocked,”
said Harry, shaking his head. “Caved in or something.”
“Oh...” said Sirius,
frowning. “Well, I'll have a think and get back to—”
He broke off. His face
was suddenly tense, alarmed. He turned sideways, apparently looking into the
solid brick wall of the fireplace.
“Sirius?” said Harry anxiously.
But he
had vanished. Harry gaped at the flames for a moment, then turned to look at Ron
and Hermione.
“Why did he -?”
Hermione gave a horrified gasp and leapt to
her feet, still staring at the fire.
A hand had appeared amongst the flames,
groping as though to catch hold of something; a stubby, short-fingered hand
covered in ugly old-fashioned rings.
The three of them ran for it. At the
door of the boys’ dormitory Harry looked back. Umbridge's hand was still making
snatching movements amongst the flames, as though she knew exactly where Sirius’
hair had been moments before and was determined to seize it.