[Part 8] "Harry Potter and Order of Phoenix" by Rowling J.K.

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CHAPTER XV. THE HOGWARTS HIGH INQUISITOR

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They had expected to have to comb Hermione’s Daily Prophet carefully next morning to find the article Percy had mentioned in his letter.

However, the departing delivery owl had barely cleared the top of the milk jug when Hermione let out a huge gasp and flattened the newspaper to reveal a large photograph of Dolores Umbridge, smiling widely and blinking slowly at them from beneath the headline:

MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER “HIGH INQUISITOR.”

“‘High Inquisitor’?” said Harry darkly, his half-eaten bit of toast slipping from his fingers.

“What does that mean?”

Hermione read aloud:

“In a surprise move last night, the Ministry of Magic passed new legislation giving itself an unprecedented level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“‘The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-on at Hogwarts for some time,’ said Junior Assistant to the Minister, Percy Weasley.”

“‘He is now responding to concerns voiced by anxious parents, who feel the school may be moving in a direction they do not approve.’”

“This is not the first time in recent weeks Fudge has used new laws to effect improvements at the Wizarding school.”

“As recently as August 30th, Educational Decree Twenty-two was passed, to ensure that, in the event of the current headmaster being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the Ministry should select an appropriate person.”

“‘That’s how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts,’ said Weasley last night.”

“‘Dumbledore couldn’t find anyone, so the Minister put in Umbridge and of course, she’s been an immediate success —’”

“She’s been a WHAT?” said Harry loudly.

“Wait, there’s more,” said Hermione grimly.

“‘— an immediate success, totally revolutionizing the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts and providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback about what’s really happening at Hogwarts.’”

“It is this last function that the Ministry has now formalized with the passing of Educational Decree Twenty-three, which creates the new position of ‘Hogwarts High Inquisitor.’”

“‘This is an exciting new phase in the Minister’s plan to get to grips with what some are calling the “falling standards” at Hogwarts,’ said Weasley.”

“‘The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch.’”

“‘Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post, and we are delighted to say that she has accepted.’”

“The Ministry’s new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts.”

“‘I feel much easier in my mind now that I know that Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective evaluation,’ said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from his Wiltshire mansion last night.”

“‘Many of us with our children’s best interests at heart have been concerned about some of Dumbledore’s eccentric decisions in the last few years and will be glad to know that the Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation.’”

“Among those ‘eccentric decisions’ are undoubtedly the controversial staff appointments previously described in this newspaper, which have included the hiring of werewolf Remus Lupin, half-giant Rubeus Hagrid, and delusional ex-Auror ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody.”

“Rumors abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore, once Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing the prestigious school of Hogwarts.”

“‘I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step toward ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in whom we can all repose confidence,’ said a Ministry insider last night.”

“Wizengamot elders Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have resigned in protest at the introduction of the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts.”

“‘Hogwarts is a school, not an outpost of Cornelius Fudge’s office,’ said Madam Marchbanks.”

“‘This is a further disgusting attempt to discredit Albus Dumbledore.’”

“(For a full account of Madam Marchbanks’ alleged links to subversive goblin groups, turn to page 17.)”

Hermione finished reading and looked across the table at the other two.

“So now we know how we ended up with Umbridge!”

“Fudge passed this ‘Educational Decree’ and forced her on us!”

“And now he’s given her the power to inspect other teachers!”

Hermione was breathing fast and her eyes were very bright.

“I can’t believe this. It’s outrageous . . . ”

“I know it is,” said Harry.

He looked down at his right hand, clenched upon the tabletop, and saw the faint white outline of the words Umbridge had forced him to cut into his skin.

But a grin was unfurling on Ron’s face.

“What?” said Harry and Hermione together, staring at him.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see McGonagall inspected,” said Ron happily.

“Umbridge won’t know what’s hit her.”

“Well, come on,” said Hermione, jumping up, “we’d better get going, if she’s inspecting Binns’s class we don’t want to be late . . . ”

But Professor Umbridge was not inspecting their History of Magic lesson, which was just as dull as the previous Monday.

Nor was she in Snape’s dungeon when they arrived for double Potions, where Harry’s moonstone essay was handed back to him with a large, spiky black D scrawled in an upper corner.

“I have awarded you the grades you would have received if you presented this work in your O.W.L.,” said Snape with a smirk, as he swept among them, passing back their homework.

“This should give you a realistic idea of what to expect in your examination.”

Snape reached the front of the class and turned to face them.

“The general standard of this homework was abysmal.”

“Most of you would have failed had this been your examination.”

“I expect to see a great deal more effort for this week’s essay on the various varieties of venom antidotes, or I shall have to start handing out detentions to those dunces who get D’s.”

He smirked as Malfoy sniggered and said in a carrying whisper, “Some people got D’s? Ha!”

Harry realized that Hermione was looking sideways to see what grade he had received.

He slid his moonstone essay back into his bag as quickly as possible, feeling that he would rather keep that information private.

Determined not to give Snape an excuse to fail him this lesson, Harry read and reread every line of the instructions on the blackboard at least three times before acting on them.

His Strengthening Solution was not precisely the clear turquoise shade of Hermione’s but it was at least blue rather than pink, like Neville’s, and he delivered a flask of it to Snape’s desk at the end of the lesson with a feeling of mingled defiance and relief.

“Well, that wasn’t as bad as last week, was it?” said Hermione, as they climbed the steps out of the dungeon and made their way across the entrance hall toward lunch.

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“And the homework didn’t go too badly either, did it?”

When neither Ron nor Harry answered, she pressed on, “I mean, all right, I didn’t expect the top grade, not if he’s marking to O.W.L. standard, but a pass is quite encouraging at this stage, wouldn’t you say?”

Harry made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

“Of course, a lot can happen between now and the exam, we’ve got plenty of time to improve, but the grades we’re getting now are a sort of baseline, aren’t they?”

“Something we can build on . . . ”

They sat down together at the Gryffindor table.

“Obviously, I’d have been thrilled if I’d gotten an O —”

“Hermione,” said Ron sharply, “if you want to know what grades we got, ask.”

“I don’t — I didn’t mean — well, if you want to tell me —”

“I got a P,” said Ron, ladling soup into his bowl.

“Happy?”

“Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Fred, who had just arrived at the table with George and Lee Jordan and was sitting down on Harry’s right.

“Nothing wrong with a good healthy P.”

“But,” said Hermione, “doesn’t P stand for . . .”

“‘Poor,’ yeah,” said Lee Jordan.

“Still, better than D, isn’t it? ‘Dreadful’?”

Harry felt his face grow warm and faked a small coughing fit over his roll.

When he emerged from this he was sorry to find that Hermione was still in full flow about O.W.L. grades.

“So top grade’s O for ‘Outstanding,’” she was saying, “and then there’s A —”

“No, E,” George corrected her, “E for ‘Exceeds Expectations.’”

“And I’ve always thought Fred and I should’ve got E in everything, because we exceeded expectations just by turning up for the exams.”

They all laughed except Hermione, who plowed on, “So after E, it’s A for ‘Acceptable,’ and that’s the last pass grade, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” said Fred, dunking an entire roll in his soup, transferring it to his mouth, and swallowing it whole.

“Then you get P for ‘Poor,’” — Ron raised both his arms in mock celebration — “and D for ‘Dreadful.’”

“And then T,” George reminded him.

“T?” asked Hermione, looking appalled. “Even lower than a D? What on earth does that stand for?”

“‘Troll,’” said George promptly.

Harry laughed again, though he was not sure whether or not George was joking.

He imagined trying to conceal from Hermione that he had received T’s in all his O.W.L.s and immediately resolved to work harder from now on.

“You lot had an inspected lesson yet?” Fred asked them.

“No,” said Hermione at once, “have you?”

“Just now, before lunch,” said George. “Charms.”

“What was it like?” Harry and Hermione asked together.

Fred shrugged.

“Not that bad. Umbridge just lurked in the corner making notes on a clipboard.”

“You know what Flitwick’s like, he treated her like a guest, didn’t seem to bother him at all.”

“She didn’t say much. Asked Alicia a couple of questions about what the classes are normally like, Alicia told her they were really good, that was it.”

“I can’t see old Flitwick getting marked down,” said George, “he usually gets everyone through their exams all right.”

“Who’ve you got this afternoon?” Fred asked Harry.

“Trelawney —”

“A T if ever I saw one —”

“— and Umbridge herself.”

“Well, be a good boy and keep your temper with Umbridge today,” said George.

“Angelina’ll do her nut if you miss any more Quidditch practices.”

But Harry did not have to wait for Defense Against the Dark Arts to meet Professor Umbridge.

He was pulling out his dream diary in a seat at the very back of the shadowy Divination room when Ron elbowed him in the ribs.

Looking round, he saw Professor Umbridge emerging through the trapdoor in the floor.

The class, which had been talking cheerily, fell silent at once.

The abrupt fall in the noise level made Professor Trelawney, who had been wafting about handing out Dream Oracles, look round.

“Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney,” said Professor Umbridge with her wide smile.

“You received my note, I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?”

Professor Trelawney nodded curtly and, looking very disgruntled, turned her back on Professor Umbridge and continued to give out books.

Still smiling, Professor Umbridge grasped the back of the nearest armchair and pulled it to the front of the class so that it was a few inches behind Professor Trelawney’s seat.

She then sat down, took her clipboard from her flowery bag, and looked up expectantly, waiting for the class to begin.

Professor Trelawney pulled her shawls tight about her with slightly trembling hands and surveyed the class through her hugely magnifying lenses.

“We shall be continuing our study of prophetic dreams today,” she said in a brave attempt at her usual mystic tones, though her voice shook slightly.

“Divide into pairs, please, and interpret each other’s latest nighttime visions with the aid of the Oracle.”

She made as though to sweep back to her seat, saw Professor Umbridge sitting right beside it, and immediately veered left toward Parvati and Lavender, who were already deep in discussion about Parvati’s most recent dream.

Harry opened his copy of The Dream Oracle, watching Umbridge covertly.

She was making notes on her clipboard now.

After a few minutes she got to her feet and began to pace the room in Trelawney’s wake, listening to her conversations with students and posing questions here and there.

Harry bent his head hurriedly over his book.

“Think of a dream, quick,” he told Ron, “in case the old toad comes our way.”

“I did it last time,” Ron protested, “it’s your turn, you tell me one.”

“Oh, I dunno . . .” said Harry desperately, who could not remember dreaming anything at all over the last few days.

“Let’s say I dreamed I was . . . drowning Snape in my cauldron. Yeah, that’ll do . . .”

Ron chortled as he opened his Dream Oracle.

“Okay, we’ve got to add your age to the date you had the dream, the number of letters in the subject . . . would that be ‘drowning’ or ‘cauldron’ or ‘Snape’?”

“It doesn’t matter, pick any of them,” said Harry, chancing a glance behind him.

Professor Umbridge was now standing at Professor Trelawney’s shoulder making notes while the Divination teacher questioned Neville about his dream diary.

“What night did you dream this again?” Ron said, immersed in calculations.

“I dunno, last night, whenever you like,” Harry told him, trying to listen to what Umbridge was saying to Professor Trelawney.

They were only a table away from him and Ron now.

Professor Umbridge was making another note on her clipboard and Professor Trelawney was looking extremely put out.

“Now,” said Umbridge, looking up at Trelawney, “you’ve been in this post how long, exactly?”

Professor Trelawney scowled at her, arms crossed and shoulders hunched as though wishing to protect herself as much as possible from the indignity of the inspection.

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After a slight pause in which she seemed to decide that the question was not so offensive that she could reasonably ignore it, she said in a deeply resentful tone, “Nearly sixteen years.”

“Quite a period,” said Professor Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard.

“So it was Professor Dumbledore who appointed you?”

“That’s right,” said Professor Trelawney shortly.

Professor Umbridge made another note.

“And you are a great-great-granddaughter of the celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?”

“Yes,” said Professor Trelawney, holding her head a little higher.

Another note on the clipboard.

“But I think — correct me if I am mistaken — that you are the first in your family since Cassandra to be possessed of second sight?”

“These things often skip — er — three generations,” said Professor Trelawney.

Professor Umbridge’s toadlike smile widened.

“Of course,” she said sweetly, making yet another note.

“Well, if you could just predict something for me, then?”

She looked up inquiringly, still smiling.

Professor Trelawney had stiffened as though unable to believe her ears.

“I don’t understand you,” said Professor Trelawney, clutching convulsively at the shawl around her scrawny neck.

“I’d like you to make a prediction for me,” said Professor Umbridge very clearly.

Harry and Ron were not the only people watching and listening sneakily from behind their books now; most of the class were staring transfixed at Professor Trelawney as she drew herself up to her full height, her beads and bangles clinking.

“The Inner Eye does not See upon command!” she said in scandalized tones.

“I see,” said Professor Umbridge softly, making yet another note on her clipboard.

“I — but — but . . . wait!” said Professor Trelawney suddenly, in an attempt at her usual ethereal voice, though the mystical effect was ruined somewhat by the way it was shaking with anger.

“I . . . I think I do see something . . . something that concerns you. . . . Why, I sense something . . . something dark . . . some grave peril . . .”

Professor Trelawney pointed a shaking finger at Professor Umbridge, who continued to smile blandly at her, eyebrows raised.

“I am afraid . . . I am afraid that you are in grave danger!” Professor Trelawney finished dramatically.

There was a pause.

Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows were still raised.

“Right,” she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard once more.

“Well, if that’s really the best you can do . . .”

She turned away, leaving Professor Trelawney standing rooted to the spot, her chest heaving.

Harry caught Ron’s eye and knew that Ron was thinking exactly the same as he was.

They both knew that Professor Trelawney was an old fraud, but on the other hand, they loathed Umbridge so much that they felt very much on Trelawney’s side — until she swooped down on them a few seconds later, that was.

“Well?” she said, snapping her long fingers under Harry’s nose, uncharacteristically brisk.

“Let me see the start you’ve made on your dream diary, please.”

And by the time she had interpreted Harry’s dreams at the top of her voice (all of which, even the ones that involved eating porridge, apparently foretold a gruesome and early death), he was feeling much less sympathetic toward her.

All the while, Professor Umbridge stood a few feet away, making notes on that clipboard, and when the bell rang she descended the silver ladder first.

She was waiting for them all when they reached their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson ten minutes later.

She was humming and smiling to herself when they entered the room.

Harry and Ron told Hermione, who had been in Arithmancy, exactly what had happened in Divination while they all took out their copies of Defensive Magical Theory.

Before Hermione could ask any questions, Professor Umbridge had called them all to order and silence fell.

“Wands away,” she instructed them all smilingly, and those people who had been hopeful enough to take them out sadly returned them to their bags.

“As we finished chapter one last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page nineteen today and commence chapter two, ‘Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation.’

There will be no need to talk.”

Still smiling her wide, self-satisfied smile, she sat down at her desk.

The class gave an audible sigh as it turned, as one, to page nineteen.

Harry wondered dully whether there were enough chapters in the book to keep them reading through all this year’s lessons and was on the point of checking the contents when he noticed that Hermione had her hand in the air again.

Professor Umbridge had noticed too, and what was more, she seemed to have worked out a strategy for just such an eventuality.

Instead of trying to pretend she had not noticed Hermione, she got to her feet and walked around the front row of desks until they were face-to-face, then she bent down and whispered, so that the rest of the class could not hear, “What is it this time, Miss Granger?”

“I’ve already read chapter two,” said Hermione.

“Well then, proceed to chapter three.”

“I’ve read that too. I’ve read the whole book.”

Professor Umbridge blinked but recovered her poise almost instantly.

“Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counterjinxes in chapter fifteen.”

“He says that counterjinxes are improperly named,” said Hermione promptly.

“He says ‘counterjinx’ is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable.”

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows, and Harry knew she was impressed against her will.

“But I disagree,” Hermione continued.

Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows rose a little higher and her gaze became distinctly colder.

“You disagree?”

“Yes, I do,” said Hermione, who, unlike Umbridge, was not whispering, but speaking in a clear, carrying voice that had by now attracted the rest of the class’s attention.

“Mr. Slinkhard doesn’t like jinxes, does he? But I think they can be very useful when they’re used defensively.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” said Professor Umbridge, forgetting to whisper and straightening up.

“Well, I’m afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard’s opinion, and not yours, that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger.”

“But —” Hermione began.

“That is enough,” said Professor Umbridge.

She walked back to the front of the class and stood before them, all the jauntiness she had shown at the beginning of the lesson gone.

“Miss Granger, I am going to take five points from Gryffindor House.”

There was an outbreak of muttering at this.

“What for?” said Harry angrily.

“Don’t you get involved!” Hermione whispered urgently to him.

“For disrupting my class with pointless interruptions,” said Professor Umbridge smoothly.

“I am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved method that does not include inviting students to give their opinions on matters about which they understand very little.”

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“Your previous teachers in this subject may have allowed you more license, but as none of them — with the possible exception of Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects — would have passed a Ministry inspection —”

“Yeah, Quirrell was a great teacher,” said Harry loudly, “there was just that minor drawback of him having Lord Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head.”

This pronouncement was followed by one of the loudest silences Harry had ever heard.

Then — “I think another week’s detentions would do you some good, Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge sleekly.

The cut on the back of Harry’s hand had barely healed and by the following morning, it was bleeding again.

He did not complain during the evening’s detention; he was determined not to give Umbridge the satisfaction; over and over again he wrote I must not tell lies and not a sound escaped his lips, though the cut deepened with every letter.

The very worst part of this second week’s worth of detentions was, just as George had predicted, Angelina’s reaction.

She cornered him just as he arrived at the Gryffindor table for breakfast on Tuesday and shouted so loudly that Professor McGonagall came sweeping down upon the pair of them from the staff table.

“Miss Johnson, how dare you make such a racket in the Great Hall! Five points from Gryffindor!”

“But Professor — he’s gone and landed himself in detention again —”

“What’s this, Potter?” said Professor McGonagall sharply, rounding on Harry.

“Detention? From whom?”

“From Professor Umbridge,” muttered Harry, not meeting Professor McGonagall’s beady, square-framed eyes.

“Are you telling me,” she said, lowering her voice so that the group of curious Ravenclaws behind them could not hear, “that after the warning I gave you last Monday you lost your temper in Professor Umbridge’s class again?”

“Yes,” Harry muttered, speaking to the floor.

“Potter, you must get a grip on yourself! You are heading for serious trouble! Another five points from Gryffindor!”

“But — what? Professor, no!” Harry said, furious at this injustice.

“I’m already being punished by her, why do you have to take points as well?”

“Because detentions do not appear to have any effect on you whatsoever!” said Professor McGonagall tartly.

“No, not another word of complaint, Potter!”

“And as for you, Miss Johnson, you will confine your shouting matches to the Quidditch pitch in future or risk losing the team Captaincy!”

She strode back toward the staff table.

Angelina gave Harry a look of deepest disgust and stalked away, upon which Harry flung himself onto the bench beside Ron, fuming.

“She’s taken points off Gryffindor because I’m having my hand sliced open every night! How is that fair, how?”

“I know, mate,” said Ron sympathetically, tipping bacon onto Harry’s plate, “she’s bang out of order.”

Hermione, however, merely rustled the pages of her Daily Prophet and said nothing.

“You think McGonagall was right, do you?” said Harry angrily to the picture of Cornelius Fudge obscuring Hermione’s face.

“I wish she hadn’t taken points from you, but I think she’s right to warn you not to lose your temper with Umbridge,” said Hermione’s voice, while Fudge gesticulated forcefully from the front page, clearly giving some kind of speech.

Harry did not speak to Hermione all through Charms, but when they entered Transfiguration he forgot his anger; Professor Umbridge and her clipboard were sitting in a corner and the sight of her drove the memory of breakfast right out of his head.

“Excellent,” whispered Ron, as they sat down in their usual seats.

“Let’s see Umbridge get what she deserves.”

Professor McGonagall marched into the room without giving the slightest indication that she knew Professor Umbridge was there.

“That will do,” she said and silence fell immediately.

“Mr. Finnigan, kindly come here and hand back the homework — Miss Brown, please take this box of mice — don’t be silly, girl, they won’t hurt you — and hand one to each student —”

“Hem, hem,” said Professor Umbridge, employing the same silly little cough she had used to interrupt Dumbledore on the first night of term.

Professor McGonagall ignored her.

Seamus handed back Harry’s essay; Harry took it without looking at him and saw, to his relief, that he had managed an A.

“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,” said Professor Umbridge.

“Yes?” said Professor McGonagall, turning round, her eyebrows so close together they seemed to form one long, severe line.

“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, turning her back firmly on Professor Umbridge.

Many of the students exchanged looks of glee.

“As I was saying, today we shall be practicing the altogether more difficult vanishment of mice.

Now, the Vanishing Spell —”

“Hem, hem.”

“I wonder,” said Professor McGonagall in cold fury, turning on Professor Umbridge, “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.”

Professor Umbridge looked as though she had just been slapped in the face.

She did not speak, but straightened the parchment on her clipboard and began scribbling furiously.

Looking supremely unconcerned, Professor McGonagall addressed the class once more.

“As I was saying, the Vanishing Spell becomes more difficult with the complexity of the animal to be vanished.

The snail, as an invertebrate, does not present much of a challenge; the mouse, as a mammal, offers a much greater one.

This is not, therefore, magic you can accomplish with your mind on your dinner.

So — you know the incantation, let me see what you can do . . .”

“How she can lecture me about not losing my temper with Umbridge!”

Harry said to Ron under his voice, but he was grinning; his anger with Professor McGonagall had quite evaporated.

Professor Umbridge did not follow Professor McGonagall around the class as she had followed Professor Trelawney; perhaps she thought that Professor McGonagall would not permit it.

She did, however, take many more notes while she sat in her corner, and when Professor McGonagall finally told them all to pack away, rose with a grim expression on her face.

“Well, it’s a start,” said Ron, holding up a long, wriggling mouse tail and dropping it back into the box Lavender was passing around.

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As they filed out of the classroom, Harry saw Professor Umbridge approach the teacher’s desk; he nudged Ron, who nudged Hermione in turn, and the three of them deliberately fell back to eavesdrop.

“How long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?” Professor Umbridge asked.

“Thirty-nine years this December,” said Professor McGonagall brusquely, snapping her bag shut.

Professor Umbridge made a note.

“Very well,” she said, “you will receive the results of your inspection in ten days’ time.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Professor McGonagall in a coldly indifferent voice, and she strode off toward the door.

“Hurry up, you three,” she added, sweeping Harry, Ron, and Hermione before her.

Harry could not help giving her a faint smile and could have sworn he received one in return.

He had thought that the next time he would see Umbridge would be in his detention that evening, but he was wrong.

When they walked down the lawns toward the forest for Care of Magical Creatures, they found her and her clipboard waiting for them beside Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“You do not usually take this class, is that correct?” Harry heard her ask as they arrived at the trestle table where the group of captive bowtruckles were scrabbling around for wood lice like so many living twigs.

“Quite correct,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, hands behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“I am a substitute teacher standing in for Professor Hagrid.”

Harry exchanged uneasy looks with Ron and Hermione.

Malfoy was whispering with Crabbe and Goyle; he would surely love this opportunity to tell tales on Hagrid to a member of the Ministry.

“Hmm,” said Professor Umbridge, dropping her voice, though Harry could still hear her quite clearly, “I wonder — the headmaster seems strangely reluctant to give me any information on the matter — can you tell me what is causing Professor Hagrid’s very extended leave of absence?”

Harry saw Malfoy look up eagerly.

“’Fraid I can’t,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank breezily.

“Don’t know anything more about it than you do. Got an owl from Dumbledore, would I like a couple of weeks teaching work, accepted — that’s as much as I know. Well . . . shall I get started then?”

“Yes, please do,” said Professor Umbridge, scribbling upon her clipboard.

Umbridge took a different tack in this class and wandered among the students, questioning them on magical creatures.

Most people were able to answer well and Harry’s spirits lifted somewhat; at least the class was not letting Hagrid down.

“Overall,” said Professor Umbridge, returning to Professor Grubbly-Plank’s side after a lengthy interrogation of Dean Thomas, “how do you, as a temporary member of staff — an objective outsider, I suppose you might say — how do you find Hogwarts? Do you feel you receive enough support from the school management?”

“Oh, yes, Dumbledore’s excellent,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank heartily.

“No, I’m very happy with the way things are run, very happy indeed.”

Looking politely incredulous, Umbridge made a tiny note on her clipboard and went on, “And what are you planning to cover with this class this year — assuming, of course, that Professor Hagrid does not return?”

“Oh, I’ll take them through the creatures that most often come up in O.W.L.,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“Not much left to do — they’ve studied unicorns and nifflers, I thought we’d cover porlocks and kneazles, make sure they can recognize crups and knarls, you know . . .”

“Well, you seem to know what you’re doing, at any rate,” said Professor Umbridge, making a very obvious tick on her clipboard.

Harry did not like the emphasis she put on “you” and liked it even less when she put her next question to Goyle.

“Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?”

Goyle gave a stupid grin.

Malfoy hastened to answer the question.

“That was me,” he said.

“I was slashed by a hippogriff.”

“A hippogriff?” said Professor Umbridge, now scribbling frantically.

“Only because he was too stupid to listen to what Hagrid told him to do,” said Harry angrily.

Both Ron and Hermione groaned.

Professor Umbridge turned her head slowly in Harry’s direction.

“Another night’s detention, I think,” she said softly.

“Well, thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank, I think that’s all I need here. You will be receiving the results of your inspection within ten days.”

“Jolly good,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and Professor Umbridge set off back across the lawn to the castle.

It was nearly midnight when Harry left Umbridge’s office that night, his hand now bleeding so severely that it was staining the scarf he had wrapped around it.

He expected the common room to be empty when he returned, but Ron and Hermione had sat up waiting for him.

He was pleased to see them, especially as Hermione was disposed to be sympathetic rather than critical.

“Here,” she said anxiously, pushing a small bowl of yellow liquid toward him, “soak your hand in that, it’s a solution of strained and pickled murtlap tentacles, it should help.”

Harry placed his bleeding, aching hand into the bowl and experienced a wonderful feeling of relief.

Crookshanks curled around his legs, purring loudly, and then leapt into his lap and settled down.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully, scratching behind Crookshanks’s ears with his left hand.

“I still reckon you should complain about this,” said Ron in a low voice.

“No,” said Harry flatly.

“McGonagall would go nuts if she knew —”

“Yeah, she probably would,” said Harry.

“And how long d’you reckon it’d take Umbridge to pass another Decree saying anyone who complains about the High Inquisitor gets sacked immediately?”

Ron opened his mouth to retort but nothing came out and after a moment he closed it again in a defeated sort of way.

“She’s an awful woman,” said Hermione in a small voice.

“Awful. You know, I was just saying to Ron when you came in . . . we’ve got to do something about her.”

“I suggested poison,” said Ron grimly.

“No . . . I mean, something about what a dreadful teacher she is, and how we’re not going to learn any defense from her at all,” said Hermione.

“Well, what can we do about that?” said Ron, yawning.

“’S too late, isn’t it? She got the job, she’s here to stay, Fudge’ll make sure of that.”

“Well,” said Hermione tentatively.

“You know, I was thinking today . . .”

She shot a slightly nervous look at Harry and then plunged on.

“I was thinking that — maybe the time’s come when we should just — just do it ourselves.”

“Do what ourselves?” said Harry suspiciously, still floating his hand in the essence of murtlap tentacles.

“Well — learn Defense Against the Dark Arts ourselves,” said Hermione.

“Come off it,” groaned Ron.

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“You want us to do extra work? D’you realize Harry and I are behind on homework again and it’s only the second week?”

“But this is much more important than homework!” said Hermione.

Harry and Ron goggled at her.

“I didn’t think there was anything in the universe more important than homework,” said Ron.

“Don’t be silly, of course there is!” said Hermione, and Harry saw, with an ominous feeling, that her face was suddenly alight with the kind of fervor that S.P.E.W. usually inspired in her.

“It’s about preparing ourselves, like Harry said in Umbridge’s first lesson, for what’s waiting out there. It’s about making sure we really can defend ourselves. If we don’t learn anything for a whole year —”

“We can’t do much by ourselves,” said Ron in a defeated voice.

“I mean, all right, we can go and look jinxes up in the library and try and practice them, I suppose —”

“No, I agree, we’ve gone past the stage where we can just learn things out of books,” said Hermione.

“We need a teacher, a proper one, who can show us how to use the spells and correct us if we’re going wrong.”

“If you’re talking about Lupin . . .” Harry began.

“No, no, I’m not talking about Lupin,” said Hermione.

“He’s too busy with the Order and anyway, the most we could see him is during Hogsmeade weekends and that’s not nearly often enough.”

“Who, then?” said Harry, frowning at her.

Hermione heaved a very deep sigh.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said.

“I’m talking about you, Harry.”

There was a moment’s silence.

A light night breeze rattled the windowpanes behind Ron and the fire guttered.

“About me what?” said Harry.

“I’m talking about you teaching us Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Harry stared at her.

Then he turned to Ron, ready to exchange the exasperated looks they sometimes shared when Hermione elaborated on far-fetched schemes like S.P.E.W.

To Harry’s consternation, however, Ron did not look exasperated.

He was frowning slightly, apparently thinking.

Then he said, “That’s an idea.”

“What’s an idea?” said Harry.

“You,” said Ron. “Teaching us to do it.”

“But . . .”

Harry was grinning now, sure the pair of them were pulling his leg.

“But I’m not a teacher, I can’t —”

“Harry, you’re the best in the year at Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione.

“Me?” said Harry, now grinning more broadly than ever. “No I’m not, you’ve beaten me in every test —”

“Actually, I haven’t,” said Hermione coolly. “You beat me in our third year — the only year we both sat the test and had a teacher who actually knew the subject. But I’m not talking about test results, Harry. Look what you’ve done!”

“How d’you mean?”

“You know what, I’m not sure I want someone this stupid teaching me,” Ron said to Hermione, smirking slightly. He turned to Harry. “Let’s think,” he said, pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. “Uh . . . first year — you saved the Stone from You-Know-Who.”

“But that was luck,” said Harry, “that wasn’t skill —”

“Second year,” Ron interrupted, “you killed the basilisk and destroyed Riddle.”

“Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn’t turned up I —”

“Third year,” said Ron, louder still, “you fought off about a hundred dementors at once —”

“You know that was a fluke, if the Time-Turner hadn’t —”

“Last year,” Ron said, almost shouting now, “you fought off You-Know-Who again —”

“Listen to me!” said Harry, almost angrily, because Ron and Hermione were both smirking now. “Just listen to me, all right? It sounds great when you say it like that, but all that stuff was luck — I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, I didn’t plan any of it, I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly always had help —”

Ron and Hermione were still smirking and Harry felt his temper rise; he wasn’t even sure why he was feeling so angry.

“Don’t sit there grinning like you know better than I do, I was there, wasn’t I?” he said heatedly. “I know what went on, all right? And I didn’t get through any of that because I was brilliant at Defense Against the Dark Arts, I got through it all because — because help came at the right time, or because I guessed right — but I just blundered through it all, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing — STOP LAUGHING!”

The bowl of murtlap essence fell to the floor and smashed. He became aware that he was on his feet, though he couldn’t remember standing up.

Crookshanks streaked away under a sofa; Ron and Hermione’s smiles had vanished.

“You don’t know what it’s like! You — neither of you — you’ve never had to face him, have you? You think it’s just memorizing a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you’re in class or something? The whole time you know there’s nothing between you and dying except your own — your own brain or guts or whatever — like you can think straight when you know you’re about a second from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die — they’ve never taught us that in their classes, what it’s like to deal with things like that — and you two sit there acting like I’m a clever little boy to be standing here, alive, like Diggory was stupid, like he messed up — you just don’t get it, that could just as easily have been me, it would have been if Voldemort hadn’t needed me —”

“We weren’t saying anything like that, mate,” said Ron, looking aghast. “We weren’t having a go at Diggory, we didn’t — you’ve got the wrong end of the —”

He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was stricken.

“Harry,” she said timidly, “don’t you see? This . . . this is exactly why we need you. . . . We need to know what it’s r-really like . . . facing him . . . facing V-Voldemort.”

It was the first time she had ever said Voldemort’s name, and it was this, more than anything else, that calmed Harry.

Still breathing hard, he sank back into his chair, becoming aware as he did so that his hand was throbbing horribly again.

He wished he had not smashed the bowl of murtlap essence.

“Well . . . think about it,” said Hermione quietly. “Please?”

Harry could not think of anything to say. He was feeling ashamed of his outburst already.

He nodded, hardly aware of what he was agreeing to.

Hermione stood up.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” she said in a voice that was clearly as natural as she could make it. “Erm . . . ’night.”

Ron had gotten to his feet too.

“Coming?” he said awkwardly to Harry.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “In . . . in a minute. I’ll just clear this up.”

He indicated the smashed bowl on the floor.

Ron nodded and left.

“Reparo,” Harry muttered, pointing his wand at the broken pieces of china.

They flew back together, good as new, but there was no returning the murtlap essence to the bowl.

He was suddenly so tired that he was tempted to sink back into his armchair and sleep there, but instead he got to his feet and followed Ron upstairs.

His restless night was punctuated once more by dreams of long corridors and locked doors, and he awoke next day with his scar prickling again.

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CHAPTER XVI. IN THE HOG’S HEAD

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Hermione made no mention of Harry giving Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons for two whole weeks after her original suggestion.

Harry’s detentions with Umbridge were finally over (he doubted whether the words now etched on the back of his hand would ever fade entirely).

Ron had had four more Quidditch practices and not been shouted at during the last two.

All three of them had managed to vanish their mice in Transfiguration (Hermione had actually progressed to vanishing kittens).

The subject was broached again on a wild, blustery evening at the end of September.

The three of them were sitting in the library, looking up potion ingredients for Snape.

“I was wondering,” Hermione said suddenly, “whether you’d thought any more about Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry.”

“’Course I have,” said Harry grumpily. “Can’t forget it, can we, with that hag teaching us —”

“I meant the idea Ron and I had” — Ron cast her an alarmed, threatening kind of look.

She frowned at him — “oh, all right, the idea I had, then — about you teaching us.”

Harry did not answer at once.

He pretended to be perusing a page of Asiatic Anti-Venoms, because he did not want to say what was in his mind.

The fact was that he had given the matter a great deal of thought over the past fortnight.

Sometimes it seemed an insane idea, just as it had on the night Hermione had proposed it.

At other times, he had found himself thinking about the spells that had served him best in his various encounters with Dark creatures and Death Eaters.

He found himself, in fact, subconsciously planning lessons. . . .

“Well,” he said slowly, when he could not pretend to find Asiatic antivenoms interesting much longer, “yeah, I — I’ve thought about it a bit.”

“And?” said Hermione eagerly.

“I dunno,” said Harry, playing for time.

He looked up at Ron.

“I thought it was a good idea from the start,” said Ron, who seemed keener to join in this conversation now that he was sure that Harry was not going to start shouting again.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“You did listen to what I said about a load of it being luck, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Harry,” said Hermione gently, “but all the same, there’s no point pretending that you’re not good at Defense Against the Dark Arts, because you are.”

“You were the only person last year who could throw off the Imperius Curse completely.”

“You can produce a Patronus.”

“You can do all sorts of stuff that full-grown wizards can’t, Viktor always said —”

Ron looked around at her so fast he appeared to crick his neck.

Rubbing it, he said, “Yeah? What did Vicky say?”

“Ho ho,” said Hermione in a bored voice.

“He said Harry knew how to do stuff even he didn’t, and he was in the final year at Durmstrang.”

Ron was looking at Hermione suspiciously.

“You’re not still in contact with him, are you?”

“So what if I am?” said Hermione coolly, though her face was a little pink.

“I can have a pen pal if I —”

“He didn’t only want to be your pen pal,” said Ron accusingly.

Hermione shook her head exasperatedly and, ignoring Ron, said to Harry, “Well, what do you think? Will you teach us?”

“Just you and Ron, yeah?”

“Well,” said Hermione, now looking a mite anxious again.

“Well . . . now, don’t fly off the handle again, Harry, please. . . .”

“But I really think you ought to teach anyone who wants to learn.”

“I mean, we’re talking about defending ourselves against V-Voldemort — oh, don’t be pathetic, Ron — it doesn’t seem fair if we don’t offer the chance to other people.”

Harry considered this for a moment.

Then he said, “Yeah, but I doubt anyone except you two would want to be taught by me.”

“I’m a nutter, remember?”

“Well, I think you might be surprised how many people would be interested in hearing what you’ve got to say,” said Hermione seriously.

“Look,” she leaned toward him.

Ron, who was still watching her with a frown on his face, leaned forward to listen too.

“You know the first weekend in October’s a Hogsmeade weekend?”

“How would it be if we tell anyone who’s interested to meet us in the village and we can talk it over?”

“Why do we have to do it outside school?” said Ron.

“Because,” said Hermione, returning to the diagram of the Chinese Chomping Cabbage she was copying.

“I don’t think Umbridge would be very happy if she found out what we were up to.”

Harry had been looking forward to the weekend trip into Hogsmeade, but there was one thing worrying him.

Sirius had maintained a stony silence since he had appeared in the fire at the beginning of September.

Harry knew they had made him angry by saying that they did not want him to come.

But he still worried from time to time that Sirius might throw caution to the winds and turn up anyway.

What were they going to do if the great black dog came bounding up the street toward them in Hogsmeade, perhaps under the nose of Draco Malfoy?

“Well, you can’t blame him for wanting to get out and about,” said Ron, when Harry discussed his fears with him and Hermione.

“I mean, he’s been on the run for over two years, hasn’t he, and I know that can’t have been a laugh, but at least he was free, wasn’t he?”

“And now he’s just shut up all the time with that lunatic elf.”

Hermione scowled at Ron, but otherwise ignored the slight on Kreacher.

“The trouble is,” she said to Harry, “until V-Voldemort — oh for heaven’s sake, Ron — comes out into the open, Sirius is going to have to stay hidden, isn’t he?”

“I mean, the stupid Ministry isn’t going to realize Sirius is innocent until they accept that Dumbledore’s been telling the truth about him all along.”

“And once the fools start catching real Death Eaters again it’ll be obvious Sirius isn’t one . . . I mean, he hasn’t got the Mark, for one thing.”

“I don’t reckon he’d be stupid enough to turn up,” said Ron bracingly.

“Dumbledore’d go mad if he did and Sirius listens to Dumbledore even if he doesn’t like what he hears.”

When Harry continued to look worried, Hermione said, “Listen, Ron and I have been sounding out people who we thought might want to learn some proper Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“There are a couple who seem interested.”

“We’ve told them to meet us in Hogsmeade.”

“Right,” said Harry vaguely, his mind still on Sirius.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Hermione said quietly.

“You’ve got enough on your plate without Sirius too.”

She was quite right, of course.

He was barely keeping up with his homework, though he was doing much better now that he was no longer spending every evening in detention with Umbridge.

Ron was even further behind with his work than Harry, because while they both had Quidditch practices twice a week, Ron also had prefect duties.

However, Hermione, who was taking more subjects than either of them, had not only finished all her homework but was also finding time to knit more elf clothes.

Harry had to admit that she was getting better.

It was now almost always possible to distinguish between the hats and the socks.

The morning of the Hogsmeade visit dawned bright but windy.

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After breakfast they queued up in front of Filch, who matched their names to the long list of students who had permission from their parents or guardian to visit the village.

With a slight pang, Harry remembered that if it hadn’t been for Sirius, he would not have been going at all.

When Harry reached Filch, the caretaker gave a great sniff as though trying to detect a whiff of something from Harry.

Then he gave a curt nod that set his jowls aquiver again and Harry walked on, out onto the stone steps and the cold, sunlit day.

“Er — why was Filch sniffing you?” asked Ron, as he, Harry, and Hermione set off at a brisk pace down the wide drive to the gates.

“I suppose he was checking for the smell of Dungbombs,” said Harry with a small laugh.

“I forgot to tell you . . .”

And he recounted the story of sending his letter to Sirius and Filch bursting in seconds later, demanding to see the letter.

To his slight surprise, Hermione found this story highly interesting, much more, indeed, than he did himself.

“He said he was tipped off you were ordering Dungbombs?”

“But who had tipped him off?”

“I dunno,” said Harry, shrugging.

“Maybe Malfoy, he’d think it was a laugh.”

They walked between the tall stone pillars topped with winged boars and turned left onto the road into the village.

The wind whipped their hair into their eyes.

“Malfoy?” said Hermione, very skeptically.

“Well . . . yes . . . maybe . . .”

She remained deep in thought all the way into the outskirts of Hogsmeade.

“Where are we going anyway?” Harry asked.

“The Three Broomsticks?”

“Oh — no,” said Hermione, coming out of her reverie.

“No, it’s always packed and really noisy.”

“I’ve told the others to meet us in the Hog’s Head, that other pub, you know the one, it’s not on the main road.”

“I think it’s a bit . . . you know . . . dodgy . . . but students don’t normally go in there, so I don’t think we’ll be overheard.”

They walked down the main street past Zonko’s Joke Shop, where they were unsurprised to see Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, past the post office, from which owls issued at regular intervals, and turned up a side street at the top of which stood a small inn.

A battered wooden sign hung from a rusty bracket over the door, with a picture upon it of a wild boar’s severed head leaking blood onto the white cloth around it.

The sign creaked in the wind as they approached.

All three of them hesitated outside the door.

“Well, come on,” said Hermione slightly nervously.

Harry led the way inside.

It was not at all like the Three Broomsticks, whose large bar gave an impression of gleaming warmth and cleanliness.

The Hog’s Head bar comprised one small, dingy, and very dirty room that smelled strongly of something that might have been goats.

The bay windows were so encrusted with grime that very little daylight could permeate the room, which was lit instead with the stubs of candles sitting on rough wooden tables.

The floor seemed at first glance to be earthy, though as Harry stepped onto it he realized that there was stone beneath what seemed to be the accumulated filth of centuries.

Harry remembered Hagrid mentioning this pub in his first year: “Yeh get a lot o’ funny folk in the Hog’s Head,” he had said, explaining how he had won a dragon’s egg from a hooded stranger there.

At the time Harry had wondered why Hagrid had not found it odd that the stranger kept his face hidden throughout their encounter; now he saw that keeping your face hidden was something of a fashion in the Hog’s Head.

There was a man at the bar whose whole head was wrapped in dirty gray bandages, though he was still managing to gulp endless glasses of some smoking, fiery substance through a slit over his mouth.

Two figures shrouded in hoods sat at a table in one of the windows; Harry might have thought them dementors if they had not been talking in strong Yorkshire accents.

In a shadowy corner beside the fireplace sat a witch with a thick, black veil that fell to her toes.

They could just see the tip of her nose because it caused the veil to protrude slightly.

“I don’t know about this, Hermione,” Harry muttered, as they crossed to the bar.

He was looking particularly at the heavily veiled witch.

“Has it occurred to you Umbridge might be under that?”

Hermione cast an appraising eye at the veiled figure.

“Umbridge is shorter than that woman,” she said quietly.

“And anyway, even if Umbridge does come in here there’s nothing she can do to stop us, Harry, because I’ve double- and triple-checked the school rules.”

“We’re not out-of-bounds; I specifically asked Professor Flitwick whether students were allowed to come in the Hog’s Head, and he said yes, but he advised me strongly to bring our own glasses.”

“And I’ve looked up everything I can think of about study groups and homework groups and they’re definitely allowed.”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea if we parade what we’re doing.”

“No,” said Harry dryly, “especially as it’s not exactly a homework group you’re planning, is it?”

The barman sidled toward them out of a back room.

He was a grumpy-looking old man with a great deal of long gray hair and beard.

He was tall and thin and looked vaguely familiar to Harry.

“What?” he grunted.

“Three butterbeers, please,” said Hermione.

The man reached beneath the counter and pulled up three very dusty, very dirty bottles, which he slammed on the bar.

“Six Sickles,” he said.

“I’ll get them,” said Harry quickly, passing over the silver.

The barman’s eyes traveled over Harry, resting for a fraction of a second on his scar.

Then he turned away and deposited Harry’s money in an ancient wooden till whose drawer slid open automatically to receive it.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione retreated to the farthest table from the bar and sat down, looking around, while the man in the dirty gray bandages rapped the counter with his knuckles and received another smoking drink from the barman.

“You know what?” Ron murmured, looking over at the bar with enthusiasm.

“We could order anything we liked in here, I bet that bloke would sell us anything, he wouldn’t care.”

“I’ve always wanted to try firewhisky —”

“You — are — a — prefect,” snarled Hermione.

“Oh,” said Ron, the smile fading from his face.

“Yeah . . .”

“So who did you say is supposed to be meeting us?” Harry asked, wrenching open the rusty top of his butterbeer and taking a swig.

“Just a couple of people,” Hermione repeated, checking her watch and then looking anxiously toward the door.

“I told them to be here about now and I’m sure they all know where it is — oh look, this might be them now —”

The door of the pub had opened.

A thick band of dusty sunlight split the room in two for a moment and then vanished, blocked by the incoming rush of a crowd of people.

First came Neville with Dean and Lavender, who were closely followed by Parvati and Padma Patil with (Harry’s stomach did a back flip) Cho and one of her usually giggling girlfriends.

Then (on her own and looking so dreamy that she might have walked in by accident) Luna Lovegood.

Then Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson, Colin and Dennis Creevey, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, and a Hufflepuff girl with a long plait down her back whose name Harry did not know.

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Three Ravenclaw boys he was pretty sure were called Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Terry Boot.

Ginny, followed by a tall skinny blond boy with an upturned nose whom Harry recognized vaguely as being a member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team.

And bringing up the rear, Fred and George Weasley with their friend Lee Jordan, all three of whom were carrying large paper bags crammed with Zonko’s merchandise.

“A couple of people?” said Harry hoarsely to Hermione.

“A couple of people?”

“Yes, well, the idea seemed quite popular,” said Hermione happily.

“Ron, do you want to pull up some more chairs?”

The barman had frozen in the act of wiping out a glass with a rag so filthy it looked as though it had never been washed.

Possibly he had never seen his pub so full.

“Hi,” said Fred, reaching the bar first and counting his companions quickly.

“Could we have . . . twenty-five butterbeers, please?”

The barman glared at him for a moment, then, throwing down his rag irritably as though he had been interrupted in something very important, he started passing up dusty butterbeers from under the bar.

“Cheers,” said Fred, handing them out.

“Cough up, everyone, I haven’t got enough gold for all of these . . .”

Harry watched numbly as the large chattering group took their beers from Fred and rummaged in their robes to find coins.

He could not imagine what all these people had turned up for until the horrible thought occurred to him that they might be expecting some kind of speech, at which he rounded on Hermione.

“What have you been telling people?” he said in a low voice.

“What are they expecting?”

“I’ve told you, they just want to hear what you’ve got to say,” said Hermione soothingly.

But Harry continued to look at her so furiously that she added quickly, “You don’t have to do anything yet, I’ll speak to them first.”

“Hi, Harry,” said Neville, beaming and taking a seat opposite Harry.

Harry tried to smile back, but did not speak; his mouth was exceptionally dry.

Cho had just smiled at him and sat down on Ron’s right.

Her friend, who had curly reddish-blonde hair, did not smile, but gave Harry a thoroughly mistrustful look that told Harry plainly that, given her way, she would not be here at all.

In twos and threes the new arrivals settled around Harry, Ron, and Hermione, some looking rather excited, others curious, Luna Lovegood gazing dreamily into space.

When everybody had pulled up a chair, the chatter died out.

Every eye was upon Harry.

“Er,” said Hermione, her voice slightly higher than usual out of nerves.

“Well — er — hi.”

The group focused its attention on her instead, though eyes continued to dart back regularly to Harry.

“Well . . . erm . . . well, you know why you’re here.

Erm . . . well, Harry here had the idea — I mean” — Harry had thrown her a sharp look — “I had the idea — that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defense Against the Dark Arts — and I mean, really study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us” — (Hermione’s voice became suddenly much stronger and more confident) — “because nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts” — “Hear, hear,” said Anthony Goldstein, and Hermione looked heartened — “well, I thought it would be good if we, well, took matters into our own hands.”

She paused, looked sideways at Harry, and went on, “And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just theory but the real spells —”

“You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. too though, I bet?” said Michael Corner.

“Of course I do,” said Hermione at once.

“But I want more than that, I want to be properly trained in Defense because . . . because . . .”

She took a great breath and finished, “Because Lord Voldemort’s back.”

The reaction was immediate and predictable.

Cho’s friend shrieked and slopped butterbeer down herself.

Terry Boot gave a kind of involuntary twitch.

Padma Patil shuddered.

Neville gave an odd yelp that he managed to turn into a cough.

All of them, however, looked fixedly, even eagerly, at Harry.

“Well . . . that’s the plan anyway,” said Hermione.

“If you want to join us, we need to decide how we’re going to —”

“Where’s the proof You-Know-Who’s back?” said the blond Hufflepuff player in a rather aggressive voice.

“Well, Dumbledore believes it —” Hermione began.

“You mean, Dumbledore believes him,” said the blond boy, nodding at Harry.

“Who are you?” said Ron rather rudely.

“Zacharias Smith,” said the boy.

“And I think we’ve got the right to know exactly what makes him say You-Know-Who’s back.”

“Look,” said Hermione, intervening swiftly, “that’s really not what this meeting was supposed to be about —”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” said Harry.

It had just dawned upon him why there were so many people there.

He felt that Hermione should have seen this coming.

Some of these people — maybe even most of them — had turned up in the hope of hearing Harry’s story firsthand.

“What makes me say You-Know-Who’s back?” he asked, looking Zacharias straight in the face.

“I saw him.

But Dumbledore told the whole school what happened last year, and if you didn’t believe him, you don’t believe me, and I’m not wasting an afternoon trying to convince anyone.”

The whole group seemed to have held its breath while Harry spoke.

Harry had the impression that even the barman was listening in.

He was wiping the same glass with the filthy rag; it was becoming steadily dirtier.

Zacharias said dismissively, “All Dumbledore told us last year was that Cedric Diggory got killed by You-Know-Who and that you brought Diggory’s body back to Hogwarts.

He didn’t give us details, he didn’t tell us exactly how Diggory got murdered, I think we’d all like to know —”

“If you’ve come to hear exactly what it looks like when Voldemort murders someone I can’t help you,” Harry said.

His temper, always so close to the surface these days, was rising again.

He did not take his eyes from Zacharias Smith’s aggressive face, determined not to look at Cho.

“I don’t want to talk about Cedric Diggory, all right?

So if that’s what you’re here for, you might as well clear out.”

He cast an angry look in Hermione’s direction.

This was, he felt, all her fault; she had decided to display him like some sort of freak and of course they had all turned up to see just how wild his story was. . . .

But none of them left their seats, not even Zacharias Smith, though he continued to gaze intently at Harry.

“So,” said Hermione, her voice very high-pitched again.

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“So . . . like I was saying . . . if you want to learn some defense, then we need to work out how we’re going to do it, how often we’re going to meet, and where we’re going to —”

“Is it true,” interrupted the girl with the long plait down her back, looking at Harry, “that you can produce a Patronus?”

There was a murmur of interest around the group at this.

“Yeah,” said Harry slightly defensively.

“A corporeal Patronus?”

The phrase stirred something in Harry’s memory.

“Er — you don’t know Madam Bones, do you?” he asked.

The girl smiled.

“She’s my auntie,” she said.

“I’m Susan Bones.

She told me about your hearing.

So — is it really true?

You make a stag Patronus?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Blimey, Harry!” said Lee, looking deeply impressed.

“I never knew that!”

“Mum told Ron not to spread it around,” said Fred, grinning at Harry.

“She said you got enough attention as it was.”

“She’s not wrong,” mumbled Harry and a couple of people laughed.

The veiled witch sitting alone shifted very slightly in her seat.

“And did you kill a basilisk with that sword in Dumbledore’s office?” demanded Terry Boot.

“That’s what one of the portraits on the wall told me when I was in there last year . . .”

“Er — yeah, I did, yeah,” said Harry.

Justin Finch-Fletchley whistled, the Creevey brothers exchanged awestruck looks, and Lavender Brown said “wow” softly.

Harry was feeling slightly hot around the collar now; he was determinedly looking anywhere but at Cho.

“And in our first year,” said Neville to the group at large, “he saved that Sorcerous Stone —”

“Sorcerer’s,” hissed Hermione.

“Yes, that, from You-Know-Who,” finished Neville.

Hannah Abbott’s eyes were as round as Galleons.

“And that’s not to mention,” said Cho (Harry’s eyes snapped onto her, she was looking at him, smiling; his stomach did another somersault), “all the tasks he had to get through in the Triwizard Tournament last year — getting past dragons and merpeople and acromantulas and things . . .”

There was a murmur of impressed agreement around the table.

Harry’s insides were squirming.

He was trying to arrange his face so that he did not look too pleased with himself.

The fact that Cho had just praised him made it much, much harder for him to say the thing he had sworn to himself he would tell them.

“Look,” he said and everyone fell silent at once, “I . . . I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to be modest or anything, but . . . I had a lot of help with all that stuff . . .”

“Not with the dragon, you didn’t,” said Michael Corner at once.

“That was a seriously cool bit of flying . . .”

“Yeah, well —” said Harry, feeling it would be churlish to disagree.

“And nobody helped you get rid of those dementors this summer,” said Susan Bones.

“No,” said Harry.

“No, okay, I know I did bits of it without help, but the point I’m trying to make is —”

“Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of this stuff?” said Zacharias Smith.

“Here’s an idea,” said Ron loudly, before Harry could speak.

“Why don’t you shut your mouth?”

Perhaps the word “weasel” had affected Ron particularly strongly; in any case, he was now looking at Zacharias as though he would like nothing better than to thump him.

Zacharias flushed.

“Well, we’ve all turned up to learn from him, and now he’s telling us he can’t really do any of it,” he said.

“That’s not what he said,” snarled Fred Weasley.

“Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?” inquired George, pulling a long and lethal-looking metal instrument from inside one of the Zonko’s bags.

“Or any part of your body, really, we’re not fussy where we stick this,” said Fred.

“Yes, well,” said Hermione hastily.

“Moving on . . .

the point is, are we agreed we want to take lessons from Harry?”

There was a murmur of general agreement.

Zacharias folded his arms and said nothing, though perhaps this was because he was too busy keeping an eye on the instrument in George’s hand.

“Right,” said Hermione, looking relieved that something had at last been settled.

“Well, then, the next question is how often we do it.

I really don’t think there’s any point in meeting less than once a week —”

“Hang on,” said Angelina.

“We need to make sure this doesn’t clash with our Quidditch practice.”

“No,” said Cho.

“Nor with ours.”

“Nor ours,” added Zacharias Smith.

“I’m sure we can find a night that suits everyone,” said Hermione, slightly impatiently.

“But you know, this is rather important, we’re talking about learning to defend ourselves against V-Voldemort’s Death Eaters —”

“Well said!” barked Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry had been expecting to speak long before this.

“Personally I think this is really important, possibly more important than anything else we’ll do this year, even with our O.W.L.s coming up!”

He looked around impressively, as though waiting for people to cry, “Surely not!”

When nobody spoke, he went on.

“I, personally, am at a loss to see why the Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher upon us at this critical period.

Obviously they are in denial about the return of You-Know-Who, but to give us a teacher who is trying to actively prevent us from using defensive spells —”

“We think the reason Umbridge doesn’t want us trained in Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione, “is that she’s got some . . .

some mad idea that Dumbledore could use the students in the school as a kind of private army.

She thinks he’d mobilize us against the Ministry.”

Nearly everybody looked stunned at this news; everybody except Luna Lovegood, who piped up, “Well, that makes sense.

After all, Cornelius Fudge has got his own private army.”

“What?” said Harry, completely thrown by this unexpected piece of information.

“Yes, he’s got an army of heliopaths,” said Luna solemnly.

“No, he hasn’t,” snapped Hermione.

“Yes, he has,” said Luna.

“What are heliopaths?” asked Neville, looking blank.

“They’re spirits of fire,” said Luna, her protuberant eyes widening so that she looked madder than ever.

“Great tall flaming creatures that gallop across the ground burning everything in front of —”

“They don’t exist, Neville,” said Hermione tartly.

“Oh yes they do!” said Luna angrily.

“I’m sorry, but where’s the proof of that?” snapped Hermione.

“There are plenty of eyewitness accounts, just because you’re so narrow-minded you need to have everything shoved under your nose before you —”

“Hem, hem,” said Ginny in such a good imitation of Professor Umbridge that several people looked around in alarm and then laughed.

“Weren’t we trying to decide how often we’re going to meet and get Defense lessons?”

“Yes,” said Hermione at once.

“Yes, we were, you’re right . . .”

“Well, once a week sounds cool,” said Lee Jordan.

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“As long as —” began Angelina.

“Yes, yes, we know about the Quidditch,” said Hermione in a tense voice.

“Well, the other thing to decide is where we’re going to meet . . .”

This was rather more difficult; the whole group fell silent.

“Library?” suggested Katie Bell after a few moments.

“I can’t see Madam Pince being too chuffed with us doing jinxes in the library,” said Harry.

“Maybe an unused classroom?” said Dean.

“Yeah,” said Ron, “McGonagall might let us have hers, she did when Harry was practicing for the Triwizard . . .”

But Harry was pretty certain that McGonagall would not be so accommodating this time.

For all that Hermione had said about study and homework groups being allowed, he had the distinct feeling this one might be considered a lot more rebellious.

“Right, well, we’ll try to find somewhere,” said Hermione.

“We’ll send a message round to everybody when we’ve got a time and a place for the first meeting.”

She rummaged in her bag and produced parchment and a quill, then hesitated, rather as though she was steeling herself to say something.

“I-I think everybody should write their name down, just so we know who was here.”

“But I also think,” she took a deep breath, “that we all ought to agree not to shout about what we’re doing.”

“So if you sign, you’re agreeing not to tell Umbridge — or anybody else — what we’re up to.”

Fred reached out for the parchment and cheerfully put down his signature.

But Harry noticed at once that several people looked less than happy at the prospect of putting their names on the list.

“Er . . .” said Zacharias slowly, not taking the parchment that George was trying to pass him.

“Well . . . I’m sure Ernie will tell me when the meeting is.”

But Ernie was looking rather hesitant about signing too.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.

“I — well, we are prefects,” Ernie burst out.

“And if this list was found . . . well, I mean to say . . . you said yourself, if Umbridge finds out . . .”

“You just said this group was the most important thing you’d do this year,” Harry reminded him.

“I — yes,” said Ernie, “yes, I do believe that, it’s just . . .”

“Ernie, do you really think I’d leave that list lying around?” said Hermione testily.

“No. No, of course not,” said Ernie, looking slightly less anxious.

“I — yes, of course I’ll sign.”

Nobody raised objections after Ernie, though Harry saw Cho’s friend give her a rather reproachful look before adding her name.

When the last person — Zacharias — had signed, Hermione took the parchment back and slipped it carefully into her bag.

There was an odd feeling in the group now.

It was as though they had just signed some kind of contract.

“Well, time’s ticking on,” said Fred briskly, getting to his feet.

“George, Lee, and I have got items of a sensitive nature to purchase, we’ll be seeing you all later.”

In twos and threes the rest of the group took their leave too.

Cho made rather a business of fastening the catch on her bag before leaving, her long dark curtain of hair swinging forward to hide her face.

But her friend stood beside her, arms folded, clicking her tongue, so that Cho had little choice but to leave with her.

As her friend ushered her through the door, Cho looked back and waved at Harry.

“Well, I think that went quite well,” said Hermione happily, as she, Harry, and Ron walked out of the Hog’s Head into the bright sunlight a few moments later.

Harry and Ron still clutching their bottles of butterbeer.

“That Zacharias bloke’s a wart,” said Ron, who was glowering after the figure of Smith just discernible in the distance.

“I don’t like him much either,” admitted Hermione.

“But he overheard me talking to Ernie and Hannah at the Hufflepuff table and he seemed really interested in coming, so what could I say?”

“But the more people the better really — I mean, Michael Corner and his friends wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t been going out with Ginny —”

Ron, who had been draining the last few drops from his butterbeer bottle, gagged and sprayed butterbeer down his front.

“He’s WHAT?” said Ron, outraged, his ears now resembling curls of raw beef.

“She’s going out with — my sister’s going — what d’you mean, Michael Corner?”

“Well, that’s why he and his friends came, I think — well, they’re obviously interested in learning Defense, but if Ginny hadn’t told Michael what was going on —”

“When did this — when did she — ?”

“They met at the Yule Ball and they got together at the end of last year,” said Hermione composedly.

They had turned into the High Street and she paused outside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop, where there was a handsome display of pheasant-feather quills in the window.

“Hmm . . . I could do with a new quill.”

She turned into the shop.

Harry and Ron followed her.

“Which one was Michael Corner?” Ron demanded furiously.

“The dark one,” said Hermione.

“I didn’t like him,” said Ron at once.

“Big surprise,” said Hermione under her breath.

“But,” said Ron, following Hermione along a row of quills in copper pots, “I thought Ginny fancied Harry!”

Hermione looked at him rather pityingly and shook her head.

“Ginny used to fancy Harry, but she gave up on him months ago.”

“Not that she doesn’t like you, of course,” she added kindly to Harry while she examined a long black-and-gold quill.

Harry, whose head was still full of Cho’s parting wave, did not find this subject quite as interesting as Ron, who was positively quivering with indignation.

But it did bring something home to him that until now he had not really registered.

“So that’s why she talks now?” he asked Hermione.

“She never used to talk in front of me.”

“Exactly,” said Hermione.

“Yes, I think I’ll have this one . . .”

She went up to the counter and handed over fifteen Sickles and two Knuts, Ron still breathing down her neck.

“Ron,” she said severely as she turned and trod on his feet, “this is exactly why Ginny hasn’t told you she’s seeing Michael, she knew you’d take it badly.”

“So don’t harp on about it, for heaven’s sake.”

“What d’you mean, who’s taking anything badly?”

“I’m not going to harp on about anything . . .”

Ron continued to chunter under his breath all the way down the street.

Hermione rolled her eyes at Harry and then said in an undertone, while Ron was muttering imprecations about Michael Corner, “And talking about Michael and Ginny . . . what about Cho and you?”

“What d’you mean?” said Harry quickly.

It was as though boiling water was rising rapidly inside him.

A burning sensation that was causing his face to smart in the cold — had he been that obvious?

“Well,” said Hermione, smiling slightly, “she just couldn’t keep her eyes off you, could she?”

Harry had never before appreciated just how beautiful the village of Hogsmeade was.