Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. The Five Rings quotes from this chapter were from the first website that popped up after I Google searched "Miyamoto Musashi Book of Five Rings full text". Unfortunately, this website will not let me provide a direct link.
Housekeeping: Yes, I am still planning to get back to The Banquet of Life. I'd also like to apologize in advance for the way in which the characters will misinterpret said The Book of Five Rings. Alas, they are not scholars of Japanese history, and neither am I.
Trigger warning for bullying/torture, because Umbridge.
THE MIGHTY FIST OF HEAVEN
Chapter 1: The Way
"In the Earth book, I give an overall picture of the art of fighting and my own approach. It is difficult to know the true Way through swordsmanship alone. From large places one knows small places, from the shallows one goes to the depths. Because a straight road is made by leveling the earth and hardening it with gravel, I call the first volume Earth, as if it were a straight road mapped out on the ground."
— Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of the Five Rings
We need a place to train. A place where they can't find us.
Harry paced down the corridor, passing the spot indicated by Dobby. As much as he liked these late-night adventures with Ron and Hermione, he would rather not be here. He didn't like risking Umbridge's further wrath (the back of his hand itched at the thought). He was furious with Dumbledore for letting Umbridge happen to the school in the first place. Actually, scratch that—he was furious with Dumbledore for far more than just Umbridge. Hell, he was furious with everyone: mostly for keeping him out of the loop, but Ron's and Hermione's behavior warranted some extra fury on the side. And then, for good measure, a dishonorable mention for that pissant Zacharias Smith.
There must be a God, because otherwise who was the cruel bastard who threw Zacharias Smith on top of the dungheap of vengeance that was Umbridge's Hogwarts? Oh, right, that was Dumbledore. Never mind.
Harry executed an about-face on the balls of his feet, Cloak swishing invisibly around his robes as he stormed back the way he came. Had they been under the Cloak with him, Ron and Hermione would have found themselves exposed in the middle of the corridor. But Hermione had shot a snippy snark at Ron on the way here—or maybe it was the other way around—anyways, Harry had informed them that they had lost their invisibility privileges, so they were standing in a corner, engaging in their second favorite pastime after Driving Harry Up The Wall, which was Exchanging Eye Rolls At Harry's Obviously Groundless Emotional Instability. Ron and Hermione were very good at finding ways to pass the time when Harry was around.
Okay, fine, so Harry was losing his temper with the pests of—er, the pair of them. He was being uncharitable. It's not like a paragon of sadistic evil had returned from beyond the pale to turn Harry's already ridiculous life into a soap opera from hell. Oh, wait, he did? Damn.
We need a place that'll help us show up that Umbridge bitch when Voldemort comes knocking.
And whose bright idea was it to make Harry into Wizard Jesus, anyways? Dumbledore was the real Dark Wizard slayer in the Wizarding world. Does your Dark Wizard slayer speak in riddles? Does he have a bloody great beard? Did he train for a century before entering a magical duel that people whisper legends of to this day? Then he's in the Gandalf Leagues and you may worship him. Now, is your Dark Wizard slayer a romantically-challenged teenager? At the time of his feat, was he incapable of speaking in full sentences or disposing of his own fecal matter? Is his main source of everyday emotional turmoil a cat lady alternately obsessed with the Ministry of Magic and the color pink? Then go bug the geezer instead!
Harry tried the same about-face maneuver he'd done on the other side of the door, but he poured too much of his frustration into it and he almost fell over. He stood still, attempting to steady himself physically and emotionally—a task he accomplished and failed to accomplish, respectively. He took a deep breath, surely eliciting more of the eye-rolls, and strode with purpose for the final pass.
If we're going to beat Voldemort, we need the kind of help that we're not going to get anyway else in this castle. Or in the Wizarding world, for that matter.
Something felt a little different inside him. When he turned to look at the spot Dobby had told him about, the wall had become a door.
"Are you finished, Harry?" Hermione asked in her See How Non-Confrontational I'm Being? voice.
"Yep," Harry replied.
"You sure?" came Ron's attempt at being non-confrontational.
"Yes. I'm sure."
"It's—just that," Hermione said slowly, then spat out "I don't see a door" as if saying the words faster would somehow make Harry less likely to notice them and get offended.
"Are you blind? The door's right there!"
Beat.
"Oh," said Ron. "Don't know how we missed that."
"Harry!" Hermione almost shouted in her sudden excitement. "It must be under Fidelius! That makes you—"
"Secret Keeper," he sighed. "Great. I needed more chances to get blamed for something."
"You're teaching the group anyways, so you might as well be the Secret Keeper," said Hermione.
"Aren't you guys even curious about what's in there?" Ron interjected.
"Damn. Yeah, let's check it out," said Harry.
For a tense moment, full of possibility, they stood in front of the door. The door was completely nondescript, but who knew how many strengthening enchantments were laid on it. They shared a look between the three of them, and Harry reached out and pushed the door inward.
"Try the handle, Harry."
"I knew that."
"Blimey," Ron gasped, speaking the general vein of thought on everyone's mind. The first thing Harry noticed was the large amount of wood, a sharp contrast to the primarily stone decor of the rest of the castle. The floor in particular looked as if it had a dedicated team of House-Elves whose job entailed nothing more than polishing it to a fine degree of dull shine. Harry glanced around near the doorway, and saw a mat and a sign. The sign read, in a delicate script apparently made by a master calligraphist using a thick brush and exquisite black paint, "Shoes."
"Ron, Hermione," Harry called. When they turned to look, he indicated the sign and the mat. Hermione immediately turned red and removed her shoes before walking back to the doorway. Ron shrugged and followed suit.
Countless weapons hung along the walls above waist-high shelves. Harry had never seen such a staggering array of weaponry, and he lived in a castle with a higher population of empty suits of armor than actual students. Some of the shelves contained stacks of what looked like wooden practice swords, while others contained scrolls (Hermione made a beeline for these) or other objects Harry couldn't make out from a distance.
At the far end of the room, there lay a shrine containing a suit of armor in a style Harry had never seen before, its lacquered plates shaped into angles that seemed odd to Harry's Hogwarts-honed sense of medieval aesthetics. Two curved swords hung from its left hip. Illuminated by a light source Harry could not find, the shrine was topped by vertical writing in an alphabet Harry had never seen before. "Hermione, what's that language?" he asked. "Japanese," she replied, moving to inspect the shrine closer. "Guys, look, there's a book on this shrine."
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance.
"Cool?" Harry ventured.
"It's in the middle of the room and it looks important," she snapped.
"You're in charge of reading it, then," Harry said. She huffed, but sat down with the book and began to read.
"I reckon you could've handled that better," Ron whispered to Harry.
"Right," Harry whispered back, "since your contributions were invaluable in defusing that tense situation." Ron rolled his eyes (Harry would find a way to put an end to the plague of eye-rolling, once and for all) and moved on to a different topic.
"What do you think these weapons are for?" Ron asked.
"Cutting, mostly," said Harry. "But some of them are probably for stabbing. And that one," he added, indicating a nasty-looking two-handed warhammer, "is definitely of the bludgeoning variety."
"Ha ha," said Ron. "Seriously, though, do you think this stuff going to help us learn Defense Against the Dark Arts?"
There was a short gasp from Hermione. "Harry, what exactly did you ask for when you were pacing?"
"Dunno," Harry replied. "Something about helping us learn Defense so we could beat Voldemort."
"We can use this on Voldemort?" Ron asked, hefting an axe that was taller than him. "Hell yeah!"
"Put it back, Ron!" Hermione said. "Harry, the book on the shrine is the only known work of Miyamoto Musashi, titled 'The Book of Five Rings.' Listen to this."
"Go for it."
Hermione began to read.
"From youth my heart has been inclined toward the Way of strategy. My first duel was when I was thirteen: I struck down a strategist of the Shinto school, one Arima Kihei. When I was sixteen I struck down an able strategist, Tadashima Akiyama. When I was twenty-one I went up to the capital and met all manner of strategists, never once failing to win in many contests.
"After that I went from province to province dueling with strategists of various schools, and not once failed to win even though I had as many as sixty encounters."
Ron whistled. "This guy never lost once?"
"He's considered the best swordsman ever to have lived," Hermione replied.
"Damn," said Harry. "Swords aren't going to help against Voldemort, are they?"
"Open your eyes, Harry," Hermione sighed. "If the Room of Requirement thinks this book is going to help beat Voldemort, then it's going to help beat Voldemort."
"She's got a point," said Ron.
"Maybe the actual thing that's going to help us with Voldemort is those rods over there," Harry said, indicating one of the shelves.
"Harry! The book is right in the middle of the room! In the most obvious place!" Hermione insisted.
"I'm with her on this one, mate," Ron said.
"Fine," said Harry. "Hermione, you're in charge of reading the book. Ron, wanna try out the practice swords?"
"Sure, sounds—" Ron began, but Hermione interrupted with an evil grin.
"You're in charge of teaching the class, right?" asked Hermione.
"Yeah?" Harry felt his hopes and dreams sliding out through his stomach like egg yolk from an open shell.
"Then shouldn't it be your job to read the book?" Hermione asked innocently.
"Well, I was just thinking we could review basic spells like Expelliarmus and Stupefy," Harry began, but trailed off as Hermione tilted her head questioningly, a slight smile hovering around her lips.
Hermione sauntered up to him, offering him the book. Harry shied away from it, glancing around the room for something that would help him. Hermione gave the book a little shake for emphasis. He looked up at her, then back at the book. She cleared her throat. He sighed, then traded her for his bamboo sword.
"Damn," he concluded.
"There's some practice armor over there," Hermione said to Ron, and Harry sat down to read.
He skimmed through the section that Hermione had read to them and started the first section, called the Book of Earth. He found it to be needlessly confusing, especially since Musashi kept assuming Harry knew what he, Musashi, meant when he referenced things about Japanese culture. It did not help matters that the constant clacking of the wooden swords kept distracting him.
He set the book aside and watched Ron and Hermione duel. Both seemed reluctant to hit the other—Ron because he was against Hermione, and Hermione because she was Hermione. They held their swords in both hands, attacking from as far away as possible from fear that it would bring them in range of the other's sword. Hermione moved more minimalistically, turning aside Ron's wild swings by angling her sword just so. Then, when their swords collided, Ron's would careen off in a random direction while Hermione would almost lose her grip on hers. Harry realized that Ron's more active, brother-filled life probably left him with more arm strength than Miss My-Only-Exercise-Comes-From-Carrying-Too-Many-Books-For-My-Own-Good.
All told, they looked like a pair of inebriated dancers whose only knowledge of sword-fighting came from cult classic B movies. Harry glanced back at the page he had left off reading. "The word for carpenter is written as 'great skill' or 'master plan,' and the Way of Strategy is similar in that requires great skill and masterful planning," it read. Well, that was it. They were doomed.
He flipped into the Water book, then stopped as a passage caught his eye. "Hey, Hermione," he called. Ron and Hermione stopped their duel. "Listen to this: 'If you think only of catching, blocking, striking, or tying up the enemy, you will not be able to actually kill him. More than anything, you must be thinking of carrying your every movement through to the kill. You must thoroughly research this.'"
"How's that supposed to work?" said Hermione, her flush of exasperation partially hidden behind the training mask. "I can't hit him if I'm blocking all the time!"
"Try shouting 'Die, Ron!' every time you block," Harry offered. Hermione looked like she wanted to argue, but the advice had come from a book.
"Die, Ron!" Hermione tried, swinging at Ron, who yelped and jumped out of the way as the wooden blade swished past his face. Ron swung back, to be met with a parry and another cry of "Die, Ron!" "Die, Hermione!" he yelled, but shortened it to just "Die!" with the next attack, as Hermione's name made a poor war cry. Harry sighed and looked back at the book, now further distracted by the cries of "Die!" on top of the clacking. He looked back at his friends, who were evidently enjoying themselves (maybe a bit too much). At least it'd be a good way to let off steam. He set the book down, donned some practice armor, and leapt into the melee with a shout of "Die!"
Neville moved hesitantly through the corridors, checking over his shoulder every so often. He wasn't sure what to expect. In fact, he was too worried about Umbridge jumping around every corner with a triumphant, girlish smile on her face to really expect anything. But if asked about his expectations, he probably would have fallen back on memories of Professor Lockhart's dueling club and other such extracurriculars.
This is what he was not expecting: an empty corridor, with a door he didn't remember across from the picture of the trolls in tutus, which, when opened, revealed an airborne, armored Hermione Granger sailing towards him with an upraised weapon and a scream of "Die!"
There exists an inverse relationship between a person's level of terror and the speed at which time passes. Time slowed as Neville watched Hermione's eyes widen; she tried to re-orient herself mid-leap, throwing herself off-balance, her sword flailing dangerously. It was at this point that Neville noticed Harry Potter, who stepped in front of Neville and tried to block Hermione's sword before it brained him. He did this clumsily, clipping Hermione's foot and disrupting her landing. Upon reunion with the ground, she rolled her ankle and tripped, slamming into Harry with a cry of pain. As he stumbled back, he lost his grip on his sword, which whipped backwards and thwacked Neville right above the eye. Neville crumpled, yelling and falling into Harry, who tripped and fell onto Neville, Hermione collapsing on both of them.
"Hi, Neville," Harry groaned.
"Nice class," winced Neville.
"It's a"—he let out an oof as Hermione pushed herself off him—"work in progress."
Harry stood up shakily, offering a hand to Neville.
"What happened to Ron?" Neville asked, nearly pulling Harry over as he stood up.
"Harry stabbed him in the back," Hermione said casually, leaning on the backstabber's shoulder as she limped towards the back of the room. "We think the armor is enchanted to knock you out when you take a fatal wound."
"And you didn't wake him up?" Neville asked.
"We were busy," Harry grimaced.
Harry helped Hermione kneel down next to Ron's snoring body. "Ennervate," Hermione muttered. Ron stirred and groaned. "Ow. My back."
"You'll live," said Hermione. "Neville, you're bleeding."
"Oh." Neville felt his head wound. "So I am." With all the adrenaline still in his system, he hadn't noticed the throbbing.
"Madam Pomfrey's going to have a fit," Harry sighed.
"No one has to go to the hospital wing," said Hermione, shaking as she tried to stand up. Harry offered her his hand, rolling his eyes.
Hermione tapped her wand to Neville's head and he felt a weird tingling sensation as the wound closed. She conjured a handkerchief with a flick of her wand, wiped Neville's blood off the end of the wand, and Vanished the handkerchief.
"Do you know if any of the others are coming?" Harry asked Neville.
"Ginny was right behind me," Neville said, frowning. "We figured it was best to spread out."
"Good idea," said Harry. "Well, do you want to start practicing?"
"Practicing what?" Neville asked, which Harry answered by offering the handle of his sword. Neville took a half step back, waving his hands as if to ward it off. "Uh, if you don't mind, uh, I'd rather—"
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Ron roared, causing Neville to squeak and jump.
"Ron," Hermione snapped. "Don't worry, Neville, we just found the room like this. We're not sure whether the swords have anything to do with Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"You didn't read the book, Hermione," Harry said chidingly. "They have everything to do with the Darks Arts."
"You mean Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Neville asked.
"Sure," said Harry. Hermione rolled her eyes; Harry scowled at her.
"Wait, what do you mean by—" Neville began, but was cut off by the sound of the door slamming open.
"Nice look, Harry," said George.
"It'll be all the rage on the Wizarding fashion circuit," said Fred.
"Fred. George." Harry nodded to them, not particularly indicating either twin with a specific name.
"He mixed us up again," Fred said to George.
"Don't you know us by now?" George said in an injured tone of voice. "I'm Fred. He's George."
"I didn't mix you up!" Harry insisted. "That's who I thought you were!"
"Well, I was kidding," George replied. "I'm actually George."
Harry was certain he could have summoned a devastatingly witty reply, but he was interrupted by the entrance of Dean, Seamus, and the Creevey brothers.
"Excuse me," he said, and made a tactical retreat to greet the newcomers.
Before long, all the people (and Zacharias Smith) on the list had made their way to the Room of Requirement. Harry directed them to a pile of mats and sat cross-legged in front of the shrine.
"I was thinking we should elect a leader before we start," Hermione said hesitantly, eliciting funny looks from most of the group.
"Isn't Harry already the leader?" came the inevitable question.
"If we vote on it, then it's official," Hermione said.
"Alright, hands up if you came to learn from me but want Ernie to be the leader," Harry said. "Not you, Ernie, that's called conflict of interest. No one else? Fine, hands up for me. Great! Let's get started."
"Not yet!" Hermione interrupted. "We also need a name for the group."
"Dumbledore's Army," said Luna Lovegood, less like a suggestion than the sort of reminder you give to someone who hasn't read the script.
"Defense Club," Harry countered. Hermione and Ron did the eye-rolling thing. He'd made his feelings about Dumbledore explicitly clear on the way over. Emphasis on explicit.
"I don't like Defense Club. Too boring," said Ron.
Harry gave Ron a look that said I thought you were on my side. Then, in case the look hadn't said it loud enough, he said it out loud.
"It's what she fears most, right?" asked Ginny. "Dumbledore forming an army?"
From the appreciative murmurs sweeping the crowd, Harry knew he'd lost this round. Perhaps it was for the best; it was probably better to act from hate for Umbridge than hate for Dumbledore.
"Then it is decided," he said in his best Elrond voice. "Henceforth forsooth we shalleth be known as—"
His dramatic moment was interrupted by snickering from Hermione.
"You know what? Fine. We're Dumbledore's Army. Happy now?"
"This is the only known book by Miyamoto Musashi, the greatest swordsman who ever lived," Harry said, waving The Book of Five Rings at the group. Hermione had found a shelf full of mats, and so they were sitting in neat rows in front of Harry. Harry would have liked it to be "in front of Harry, Ron, and Hermione," or maybe just "Hermione," but they'd insisted and now he was alone.
"Books about swords!" said a heckler in the back. "You-Know-Who's as good as dead!"
Ye gods. It was Zacharias Smith.
No, "ye gods" wasn't good enough. Merlin's beard! Harry thought with vehemence. It sounded hackneyed. Fire and water! That one had a nice wizardly vibe to it, but wouldn't work for a teenager. Toadstools? Okay, this was getting ridiculous. Maybe something that didn't sound like it came from a fantasy novel?
Everyone else just saw Harry fix Zacharias Smith with a disgusted stare. Smith smirked back at him at first, but as the stare continued the smirk slid off his face and went to hide in a corner.
"Uh, Harry?" he said.
Harry remained staring at him. The famously decorated forehead creased slightly, as if Harry was coming to a conclusion. Those next to Zacharias Smith edged away imperceptibly. But Zacharias Smith remained unfazed until Harry broke into a bright smile.
"Balls!" Harry said cheerfully. "That's it! Balls! Mr. Smith, if you need to be convinced about the effectiveness of swords, please come up for a demonstration."
In actuality, there wasn't a single, clear train of thought running through Harry's sentences, but Zacharias Smith didn't know that. He hurriedly backed down, and several members of the newly-christened DA looked at Harry with slightly more respect.
"This book is not about swords," Harry said. "It's larger than that. It's about technique. It's about strategy. And I haven't read it yet, so for today we're just gonna hit each other with fake swords." He scanned the rows of blank faces. "Huh. Tough crowd."
"Why are we doing this?" Neville asked eventually.
"Thanks for volunteering, Neville!" Harry said. "Get suited up. Hermione will help you out."
She did, after shooting Harry a meaningful glare. He wasn't sure what the meaning was, but it was certainly there.
"Here's how this is going to work," Harry said, trying to project the confident peace of an ancient Zen warrior. "I hold my sword up like so. You swing down at me and I block it before it hits my head. Then you bring your sword up, I strike down at you and it's your turn to block. Then back to me. Get it?"
Neville nodded hesitantly.
"It helps if you scream 'Die!' when you attack," Harry said. "Go!"
It would have been dishonest to describe Neville's limp swing as an attack. When Harry blocked it, he bellowed "Die!" and caused Neville to take a few steps back. The more uncharitable kids in the group chuckled lightly. Despite having caused Neville's humiliation, Harry bristled at them. He thought briefly about how to handle the situation, then met the eyes of the Weasley twins. They nodded. Dumbledore's Army would take care of its own.
"Let's try again, Neville," Harry said, flashing him a grin. "We'll go slowly, okay? No shouting."
"O-okay," said Neville. Harry touched his sword to Neville's, then brought it up to meet the timid down swing. A few more quiet clacks, and they began picking up speed. Harry kept up the grin. Neville watched him timidly, but kept up the pattern. The tempo increased; Harry started putting more weight behind his swings and felt Neville doing the same.
"Die!" Harry shouted, and this time Neville didn't step back. "Die! Die! Die! Die!"
"Die!" Neville said, as if he were trying to shout without being heard.
Harry held up a hand. They stopped.
"Can anyone tell me what lesson Neville learned today?" Harry asked the spectators.
"Never ask questions?" Fred suggested.
"Because otherwise you'll make an example of us?" George added.
"Very funny, you two," Harry snapped. "Everyone suit up. Same drill. We'll come back to the question at the end. Neville, you're still with me."
Hermione passed them, giving Harry a calculating glance. Harry guessed she wouldn't be satisfied until she came up with the answer on her own.
"Um, Harry?" Neville asked as they fell back into the rhythm.
"Yes?"
"What, er…what did I learn?"
"Hell if I know," Harry said cheerfully. "We've got five minutes to come up with something."
"Oh. Right."
The remainder of the exercise was filled with sharp clacks and shouts of "Die!" It seemed there were silencing charms in place—Harry didn't know for sure, of course, but it was a safe assumption that repeated shouts of "die!" wouldn't go without investigation in Britain's foremost school of magic. Well, maybe it was just a good assumption.
Eventually the practice began to wind down, and Harry turned to the others and clapped a hand on Neville's shoulder.
"Tell them what you learned, Neville."
"Do, or do not," Neville recited with pride. "There is no why."
Hermione stiffened. "Harry! That makes no sense!"
"Does it truly make no sense," Harry said in his best cryptic voice, "or does it not make sense…to you?"
There were thoughtful nods around the group. Hermione made a noise that Harry thought might be spluttering.
"That's all the time we have for today," Harry said. "We'll have a real lesson next week. Everyone get out of here before Umbitch comes knocking. Ron and Hermione, you will help me clean up."
that night, Harry dreams
of the night sky,
watches
the stars blink out
one by one
He jerked awake, the screams still ringing in his ears. That crazy dream again. But that was okay—Hogwarts was a strange and wondrous place, which naturally meant that its students occasionally had strange and awful dreams. The kind of dreams that would make them seek an interpretation. It was fortunate, then, that Hogwarts had a competent Divination teacher.
Harry rolled out of bed, adjusting his glasses. There was always the chance that Filch would catch him, of course, and the consequences would be dire, but Professor Trelawney had let it be known that her door was always open for students with bad dreams. It was always something to the effect of "The Headmaster would not appreciate it if I told you this, so I won't."
The Invisibility Cloak was brought out from under the bed, the dust shaken free.
"Where are you going?"
Harry tried to discern the source of the whisper and failed.
"Trelawney," he whispered back.
"Rough dream?" It sounded like Neville.
"Yeah. No worries."
"She'll work it out."
"Hope so," said Harry, and left.
There was no one in the Common Room—typical for three in the morning. But Harry had never been on good terms with Murphy's Law, so he didn't take off the Cloak before checking the Marauder's Map. Filch was patrolling near the Slytherin dungeons at the moment; Harry should have a clean shot to Trelawney's office. "Should" being the operative word. He rubbed his eyes and tried to kick his brain into gear. He was forgetting something…right, Mrs. Norris, hiding…right on the path he would have taken. He smirked; something was obliged to go wrong on any post-curfew excursion, but this time he was prepared.
He was out into the castle without the Fat Lady so much as shifting in her sleep. His footfalls made no sound, courtesy of a Quietus. The air seemed warmer than than it usually did during the day, which was odd for the winter. Then again, this was Hogwarts—Harry didn't want to think about what a non-Euclidean building did to the local thermodynamics. He slipped through several hallways, finding himself at the top of a staircase that stretched over a tiled floor eight stories below. Harry was on the fifth floor of the castle, and if he descended this staircase, he'd find himself on the ninth. Once again, he realized the Marauder's Map had taken far more effort than it seemed at first glance. Bloody Hogwarts.
The sound of voices made him stop, halfway down the stairs. These stairs were seldom used even during the daytime. That was partly why he'd detoured here to dodge Mrs. Norris. Still, if Harry could have that thought, then so could someone else…
Wait, it sounded like one of the voices had said "Potter." Please, let him be hearing things. Please, Murphy, he begged. I'm sorry for dodging Mrs. Norris. I'll let the disaster happen next time. Just let me go.
He turned and knelt on the stairs, facing the way he'd come from. On the one hand, he'd never heard of a successful prayer to Murphy's Law. On the other hand, if this worked, he was never going to tell anyone.
"Shoes, Potter," came a sneering voice from behind. Harry realized two things: one, his impromptu act of devotion had exposed his trainers; two, Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy were standing at the bottom of the stairs with their wands trained on him.
"Damn you, Murphy," he hissed, then lunged to the side as two stunners impacted where he'd been kneeling a second before. He had little room to dodge. Backing up the stairs was a recipe for disaster, and he couldn't defend himself if he turned his back on the two.
"We know it's you," Malfoy said. "No one else in the school owns an invisibility cloak."
Harry didn't respond. Sure, the cloak was technically damning evidence, but all they'd have tomorrow (fingers crossed) would be a confusing tale of rogue shoes. Stranger things happened in Hogwarts every ten minutes. All he had to do was shut up.
As far as he could tell, the only flaw in that plan was that he probably couldn't cast Protego in a whisper. Yeah, this was gonna be great.
Snape fired another stunner, which missed without much effort on Harry's part. He started backing up, keeping his wand up under the cloak. Holding it out raised the hem of the Cloak slightly; Snape and Malfoy would be getting a good look at his shoes. He'd have to get rid of them after he got out of this. If he got out of this.
"Potter! Stop!" Malfoy fired another spell. Harry leapt again, but Malfoy had anticipated the motion, and the Leg-Locking Jinx hit him square on. He caught the railing with his left hand, shakily hauling himself upright. Snape and Malfoy were getting closer, which pretty much meant he was screwed.
Time for a third option. He heaved himself at the railing. His immobilized legs complicated the process, but he levered himself over the edge as another stunner missed his legs.
"What are you doing?" shouted Snape, about the same time Malfoy shouted "Petrificus Totalis!"
Harry heaved himself off the staircase. "Wingardium Leviosa!" he whispered. His spell slowed his descent, but it wasn't keeping him upright. His glasses flew off his head as he spun. Eight stories to impact, give or take, and he didn't know if he was slowing down fast enough. Maybe Hermione could've done the calculation in her head on the way down, but he was Harry, so he only had time to wonder if Hermione could do the calculation in her head before Malfoy's second Body Bind clipped his shoulder.
Typical, really—now that he wanted to scream, he couldn't. He managed an "mmph" of panic, though.
There was a jerk, and he slowed significantly. He hit the floor—impact was painful but not fatal, which, Harry decided, was an acceptable compromise—followed by another stunner from above, with his drifting cloak arriving last. It settled on top of his immobile body, as if to say "screw you."
Harry had just enough time to appreciate how insane he had just been before another tug jerked him across the floor. It was tile, thank God; some of the floors around here were wood, and you always wore shoes if you didn't want splinters the size of a fork tine. This floor felt like ceramic, so all he had to deal with was the friction burns on his left elbow and the way his head bumped the cracks between tiles.
The Body Bind was lifted and his glasses were shoved onto his face; he stared up into blue eyes as big as his fist.
"Bloody hell." He shivered.
"Now do you understand why I wear contacts?" asked Professor Trelawney.
"My inner eye's been on strike this week, I swear." Trelawney pushed open the door to her office, then swept a beaded blanket off the reclining couch in the corner. "I didn't know you wanted cocoa until right before I left, and the house elves always use too much milk." Harry realized that he did, in fact, want cocoa. Meanwhile, the blanket pulled itself taut, floor to ceiling, then folded in successive halves and tucked itself under the couch.
There was a window to the outside above Trelawney's desk, despite presumable outrage from the laws of physics. Trelawney had thrown out the chair that came with the desk, preferring a reclining armchair complete with extendable footrest. A delicate golden telescope took up half of the desk; the rest was cluttered with students' homework. Trelawney's courses were popular with the general student body, which partially explained the mess; as for the rest of the explanation, Trelawney was famously disorganized. Her constant lateness was a running joke throughout the school.
"Thanks for saving me," said Harry. "Again."
"Seems like the day you stop falling from lethal heights is the day I retire." Trelawney chuckled. "Mind you, either could cause the other."
"Yeah, yeah," said Harry, sipping his cocoa. "You've been there when it counts."
"We need to talk about that." Trelawney kicked the armchair until it faced toward Harry, then floomphed into it. "You just jumped off a Hogwarts staircase."
"I ran into Snape and Malfoy," said Harry. "I have no idea what they were doing there."
"Professor Snape, Harry. And I told them you'd be there."
Harry paused mid-sip, then spat the cocoa in his mouth back into the cup.
"Why would you do something like that?" He wasn't going to throw anything. Yet.
"My inner eye told me where you'd be going," said Trelawney. "I saw an opportunity, made an educated guess, and guess what? The Boy-Who-Lived threw himself off a staircase at the first opportunity."
Harry's grip tightened on the mug. "But now Snape and Malfoy know I was out here."
"Of course they do. Draco was in here before you. Two-thirds of the school has been in here."
"Snape's going to make trouble!" Harry pounded the couch with his left hand. The stuffing didn't put up much resistance, which only made him feel angrier.
"Right now, our biggest problem is your attitude," said Trelawney. "That was a two-hundred foot drop, Harry. You could have died."
"But you caught me."
"That was Snape, actually," said Trelawney. "He agreed that you need to learn restraint."
Harry blinked.
"I can't rely on my inner eye all the time. We've been lucky so far, but luck runs out."
He avoided eye contact. The silence stretched for a few interminable moments before Harry slung his mug of cocoa at the wall.
"Harry—"
"See you tomorrow, Professor." He walked to the door, but it wouldn't open. He turned around expectantly.
Trelawney looked tired. "Harry, please sit down."
"Harry Harry Harry," he grumbled.
"For God's sake, they don't pay me to deal with your tantrums!"
That shut him up. He slouched back to the couch, then collapsed into some parody of a sitting position. Neither spoke.
"It was a rough dream, wasn't it?" Trelawney asked eventually.
"Yeah."
"And it's not the first time you've had a vision like this."
"No," said Harry.
"But this wasn't like the visions you've had before."
"Sort of," said Harry. "It was like I was there, but this time I wasn't seeing it from Voldemort's perspective."
"That's right," Trelawney leaned forward, peering at him with her magnified eyes. "You've taken on a lot of responsibility. Recently."
"Well, I started a club."
Trelawney raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, fine, the club is slightly illegal."
"But it's worth it to get back at Professor Umbridge." Trelawney smiled and sipped her cocoa.
"Slander and lies," Harry replied immediately, a grin creeping across his face.
"Of course." She winked. "But that's not the only reason, is it? You're concerned about the other students, especially now that You-Know-Who's back."
"Wouldn't you be?"
"Of course I am. But I'm not having dreams about it. That's why you're here, isn't it?"
"You think that's what my dream was about?"
"You dreamt of a great tragedy?
"The stars were going out," said Harry. "Everyone was screaming."
"I don't think your club will do that." A pause. "Or Voldemort, for that matter."
"I wasn't worried about that," said Harry.
"Maybe not consciously. But your subconscious might be trying to tell you something." At this, she waved at the bookshelf to her left, and a book titled Die Traumdeutung swooped into her hand. She scanned a few pages, then muttered something that sounded like, "ooh, probably not that" and sent it back.
"Herr Freud isn't always useful at times like these," she said. "Unless you and Miss Chang are much, er, friendlier than you appear in class."
"Not fair! Not fair!"
"Oh, that wasn't mystical knowledge. Anyone could see it if they looked."
Harry blushed.
"Don't be embarrassed. It's part of growing up. I'd wait until she's over Cedric, though."
"Is that what the dream's about?" asked Harry, trying to escape into the couch.
"I'm just handing out free romantic advice." Trelawney winked again. "But listen, Harry. It's called a rebound, and it never works out."
"I know what a rebound is," Harry muttered.
"Then stop making the googly eyes, Don Juan." Trelawney poked him in the chest. "Don't think she doesn't notice."
"Let's change the subject," Harry said quickly.
"Stairs."
Harry sighed. "You magnificent bastard."
Trelawney smiled. "Glad you're feeling better. Ready to talk about it now?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure it's safe to say anything."
"How about you promise not to jump off anything if you can't help it, and in return I let you go?"
"Deal," said Harry, pulling himself upright. It seemed like Murphy had let him off easy.
Trelawney yawned. "Oh, and Snape said to tell you that he's giving you detention this Thursday."
Dammit.
The only thing worse than waking up in the morning was having to go to Umbridge's class afterwards. He found himself the center of attention as he barged into the room. Not one to pass up an opportunity, he clapped his hands together.
"Alright, everyone, here's the news," Harry said. "First of all, Voldemort's not back. I know because the Ministry told me I didn't see him, and that's good enough for me. The second piece of news is that you shouldn't listen to anything I say, because I'm crazy." He waggled his fingers next to his ears. "Craaaaaazy."
Professor Umbridge smiled. "Detention, Mr. Potter."
"Harry, shut up and sit down!"
Professor Umbridge tutted. "Miss Granger, five points from Gryffindor for talking out of turn."
Harry sat down; the other students let out a relieved sigh. The Gryffindors used to give Hermione dirty looks about this routine, but then she'd done some calculations—mathematically, it was better to take to the hit for shutting Harry down before he started on one of his tirades.
"Hem-hem. Thank you, Mr. Potter. I shall see you tomorrow evening, at six. I know you enjoy your little games, but the other students don't deserve to have their learning environment disrupted for your personal amusement."
"Takes one to know one," Harry said.
"Ten points from Gryffindor."
Harry's mouth mouthed, but no sound came out. Hermione pocketed her wand. When he turned around to glare at her, she gave him an innocent shrug.
"Miss Granger, another five points for casting spells in my classroom. In fact, since the two of you have used so much of today's class time, I'll be seeing you tomorrow evening as well. You are both educational hazards. I trust that you're finished making trouble for today?"
Hermione nodded, ashen-faced. Harry shrugged. There wasn't much he could do while silenced.
"Before we begin," said Professor Umbridge, turning her attention to the rest of the class, "I wish to remind all of you of Educational Decree Twenty-Four. Organized groups larger than three people are banned, unless they have been approved by me. Anyone caught participating in an illegal group will be expelled immediately." Her eyes meandered across the room, pausing significantly on Harry and his friends. "There is a grace period until the end of the week. If you have not yet come to me to approve your club, you may do so without penalty if you see me before Friday."
Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione. Umbridge would never approve their club, but one of their weak-willed members might give them up. Hermione nodded; Harry felt his DA galleon warm as Hermione declared a meeting.
"Now, if you will all turn to chapter 23 of Defensive Magical Theory, we can try to make up for lost time…"
"You okay, Hermione?" asked Ron. Hermione crossed her arms and didn't answer.
"How come you didn't ask about me?" said Harry.
Ron shot an uncomfortable look at Harry, who was seething on his other side.
Hermione sighed. "Harry, you're never okay."
Harry stuck his tongue out at her, but she was staring blankly ahead. "Welcome to my world," he said. "Pointless persecution! All day, every day!"
"At least she's not hogging all the attention," said Ron.
Harry made an exasperated gesture. "It's not like I want everything to be about me!"
"You kind of do, mate."
Hermione nodded, still staring straight ahead. "You don't have to make a scene every Defense class."
"That's Umbridge's call."
"She wants you to make a scene so she can punish you," said Ron. "Like, if you two played chess, she'd be putting you in check every turn."
"Take that back!"
Hermione whirled on him. "Harry! Shut up!"
He did, if only because he noticed she was crying. They stood there for a moment, Harry staring at Hermione, Hermione glaring at Harry, and Ron watching both of them like someone might watch a Bludger zip towards their face in slow motion. And much like someone watching a bludger heading for their face, Ron eventually decided he needed to do something about it.
"Look, Harry, Hermione just got attacked for doing damage control," he said. "You're not helping."
"This is not my fault," said Harry.
"Of course it is!" Then, after a moment, "I've had it with this." She turned and walked away.
Ron gave Harry an apologetic look, then followed her.
"Great," Harry said to no one in particular. "This again."
When Harry arrived at the Divination classroom, he was not surprised to see Hermione already sipping hot cocoa and whispering conspiratorially with Professor Trelawney. As he entered Hermione dabbed her eyes and gave Professor Trelawney a bright smile. Trelawney gave her a hug, then turned to Harry.
"It will be best if you sit over there today, Mr. Potter," she said, indicating a table in the back corner.
"Come on, you're taking her side?"
"Yes, dear—but the main reason is that Professor Umbridge is doing another surprise inspection."
"She's following me," he hissed.
"Today she's after me, I'm afraid," said Professor Trelawney with a chuckle. "But I need you in the corner so you're out of her line of sight."
Harry scrunched up his face and dragged his book bag to the corner table. Then he leaned back to enjoy the show.
"Good morning, my little seers," said Professor Trelawney. "I'm afraid we won't get much done today, but since we have a few minutes before Professor Umbridge's surprise visit, I'd like you to continue practicing with Tarot cards. I'll hover around to make sure you know what you're doing."
The statement was met with nervous laughter from the class, who didn't really know what they were doing.
Harry turned to his partner and found himself looking at Luna Lovegood. He blinked—several times, even—but she was still there.
"Hello, Harry," she said.
"Uh, hi," he said. "I didn't know you were in this class."
"It's the table," she said. "I think Professor Trelawney might be the only one who knows I'm here."
"What, is it infested with nargles or something?"
"No, it's just out of sight," said Luna. "Nargles just take things. That's why I wear this." She held up the butterbeer cork necklace.
"Ah," said Harry. "Shouldn't you be in the fourth-years' Divination class?"
"Professor Trelawney let me skip a grade," said Luna.
Harry nodded and picked up the Tarot deck that was sitting on the table.
"Alright, Luna, let's learn your fortune," he said. "Let's see…we've got The Chariot. That's supposed to be victory, right?"
"It is."
"We've got The Devil. Which is fate. And then The Moon. So…deception? Except your name is Luna, so maybe it's just making sure we know it's about you."
"My name is fated to win?" asked Luna.
"Sure. We'll go with that. Professor, help!"
"Sorry, Harry," Trelawney replied. "Professor Umbridge is here."
Professor Trelawney was making her way to the door. Upon reaching it, she winked at the class, then yanked it open, revealing a surprised Umbridge on the other side of the door.
"Good morning, Professor Umbridge. Is it time for another visit already?"
Umbridge had already recovered from the ambush. "Now, Sybil, I am merely being diligent in executing my Ministry-appointed task."
"Of course," said Professor Trelawney. "And yes, you may sit there."
Umbridge clamped down on whatever question she was about to ask. "You didn't know where I was going to sit."
"The Inner Eye is often mysterious, but not in this case."
"What's the next thing I'm going to say, then?"
"You're going to say, 'Ha! That's not what I—'"
"Ha! That's not what I…" she trailed off as she realized what she was saying.
"See?"
Umbridge had her back to Harry, so he wasn't able to glory in her facial expression.
"Fine," Umbridge snapped, shoving her hands behind her back. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three," replied Professor Trelawney. "One. Four. One. Six. Two. Professor, that gesture is usually considered rude."
"My mistake," said Umbridge, and Harry felt like he had spontaneously developed cavities just by hearing her.
"Does that satisfy you?" asked Trelawney. "I ask because it's almost becoming an educational hazard."
From Umbridge's shift in posture, she recognized her words from less than an hour before. Harry looked over at Ron and Hermione's table. His best description of Hermione's expression was diabolic glee.
Which was unfortunate, because Umbridge saw it too.
"Are you ready?" asked Hermione.
Harry shrugged, putting down The Book of Five Rings. "What happens if we just don't show up?"
"Harry…" It sounded like it was supposed to be a warning, but her heart clearly wasn't in it.
"Just don't do anything stupid," said Ron.
"Aww," said Harry. "I didn't know you cared."
"Who do you think takes the blame if you run off into the Forbidden Forest or something like that?"
"I never considered it that way," said Harry.
Ron snorted.
"Come on, Harry," said Hermione, packing up her things. "I don't want to be late. She'll make things worse."
They exited past the Fat Lady and turned left. Harry took a deep breath. Hogwarts air—you couldn't fake it. Take the smell of a crazy building, which might or might not be open to the outdoors—a kind of Schrodinger's ventilation—and toss in a trace of parchment, ink, and dusty tomes; sometimes you'd smell the cloying residue of armor oil; you might get all sorts of strange whiffs from the dungeons, whether you were supposed to near them or not; and of course, everywhere you went, there was a faint touch of spell-smoke, like the New Year's firecrackers had just finished going off.
Umbridge or not, this was his home.
"Let's not let her get to us," said Hermione, who seemed to be thinking along the same lines.
"We could always set her on fire," said Harry.
"You know, sometimes I think you actually mean that."
"You mean you didn't before?"
Hermione laughed nervously. "What's it like? With the quill, I mean."
"It hurts."
Hermione nodded sadly.
Harry felt something twisting behind his solar plexus. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this."
"Apology accepted," she said automatically, avoiding eye contact.
"She might just use the quill on me," he said.
"I don't think so."
"There's a chance."
"Of course," she said. "There's a chance we both drop dead before we get there."
"Still."
"I'm not going to hope for it. You're not hoping for it."
"I've got lots of hope," said Harry.
"Really?"
"Well, if things don't go my way, there's always the fire option."
"Heh." Hermione crossed her arms and shivered.
"Come on, let's think about something else. I've been reading The Book of Five Rings for the DA meeting tonight."
"How is it?"
"Really confusing, but there's been a couple passages that seemed like you could shout them over a training montage."
"Maybe I should give it a shot when you're done."
"Oh thank god."
Hermione laughed. "How about you knock."
They had arrived. "We've got this," said Harry. He knocked on Umbridge's door. After a moment, she opened it and smiled at them.
"I think I'll see Miss Granger first. Mister Potter, please wait out here."
Hermione made eye contact with Harry, then followed Umbridge inside. The door shut behind her.
"Please sit down, Miss Granger."
She did.
"Do you know why you're here?"
Harry would have had some sort of quippy response to that, but he also had a borderline case of Oppositional Defiant Disorder. Hermione wasn't feeling up to the task of Defying Authority, so she said, in a small voice, "No, Professor."
Umbridge's smiled widened. "It is because, Miss Granger, you have been a naughty girl." She reached into a desk drawer—Hermione's stomach fell—and retrieved a wicked-looking black quill.
"I know what that does," Hermione mumbled.
"What was that? You'll have to speak up, girl."
It felt like Hermione's last comment had drained her reserves of courage.
"Nothing," she said.
"Now, your friend Mr. Potter has been incredibly disruptive this year," said Umbridge.
"I've tried to stop him," Hermione protested, eyeing the quill.
Umbridge shook her head. "You have allowed him to avoid the consequences of his actions." She handed Hermione the quill. "Good girls let their friends learn from their mistakes."
Hermione remained silent.
"I want you to write, 'I will be a good girl.'"
"Until the message sinks in, right?"
Umbridge nodded, evidently pleased.
Hermione stared at the quill in her hand. All she had to do was snap it in half, and she wouldn't need to go through with this.
"Is something wrong, Miss Granger?"
"N-no, Professor." She pressed the tip to the page, sucking a breath through her teeth when she felt the prick against her hand.
"Go on, girl."
She wrote the sentence, unable to stop all the tears. She sobbed as the wounds healed themselves.
"Good. Again."
She did, trying to block out the pain.
"Good job! I'm sure we'll get there in no time."
The twisted part was that it seemed to get easier each time.
Hermione Granger had always respected Authority. It was usually a sign of maturity, she knew. You had people like Dumbledore there so that they could handle problems when they occurred. And sure, no authority figure was perfect. She knew that.
But at that moment, on some level, she decided that Umbridge was evil.
It wasn't a moment of resolve. She certainly didn't feel as cool as she would have liked to. She dropped the black quill from shaking fingers, then drew her wand.
"Incendio."
The quill burst into flames with an odd whistling sound. Umbridge jumped back and went for her own wand; Hermione fired off an Expelliarmus, but missed. A jet of purple light hit the back of her chair as she dove for the ground.
"Miss Granger!" Umbridge shrieked. "I'll have you expelled for this! Two hundred points from Gryffindor!"
"Incarcerous," Hermione replied. The spell went under the desk and tagged Umbridge's foot. Umbridge yelled incoherently as magical chains bound her.
Hermione sprang for the door, which wouldn't open. She slammed on it a few times, then stood back and aimed her wand at the handle.
"Reducto!"
The door handle pinged off the corridor wall right next to Harry's head.
"Miss Granger! You will release me this instant!"
"Reducto!" One of the hinges shattered. There was a thud on the other side of the door as Harry blasted another one. The door creaked under the strain.
Hermione was aiming at the last hinge when she heard Umbridge moving. She must have dispelled the chains.
"You. Will. Regret. This."
Umbridge stood up, her wand pointing at Hermione's heart.
There was a moment of stillness, and then the door fell on Hermione. Harry stood in the doorway, wand out, looking—somewhat embarrassed—at Hermione's feet protruding from under the door. As he met Umbridge's eyes, his own eyes widened.
Harry threw himself at the ground as Umbridge's Cutting Curse flew over his head.
"Hermione! Are you okay?"
"Fine. Lift on three," she replied. "One. Two."
With a scream of rage, Umbridge flicked her wand, and the door flipped backward. Harry's head was in the way; his head snapped back from impact and he collapsed in the corridor.
Hermione had just enough time to pull herself to her feet before Umbridge fired another hex at her. She blocked it with a Protego and slipped behind the door before Umbridge's next attack.
Harry was unconscious in the hallway. Hermione levitated him.
The scraping noise behind her indicated that Umbridge had gotten the door out of the way. It was time to run.
Hermione set off for the Room of Requirement.
"Ennervate."
Harry's left eye opened slowly. The other one was squeezed shut from the swelling on the right side of his face. Some of the blood had trickled down across his face, making him look like a second-string television character after taking a mortal injury in a season finale.
"Thanks," he said, then groaned.
"Let me get the blood," said Hermione.
"No," he said, trying to wave her away. Since he had no depth perception, she had to lean back to avoid getting poked in the eye.
"Sorry," he said. "But I want to look like this when the others come in."
"That's disgusting, Harry."
"But effective," he said, trying, and eventually succeeding, to sit up. "Where are we? I don't recognize this place."
"The Room of Requirement. It added a side wing when I got here."
Harry examined the room. It looked like his room in the Gryffindor dorm, only smaller and without the other beds.
"Mine looked like the dorms as well," said Hermione. "There's a bathroom down the hall. I think we're going to be here for a while."
"Did it add anything else?" asked Harry, rolling out of the bed. He swayed for a moment, then seemed to find his balance.
"I know our trunks aren't here," said Hermione.
"I wouldn't put it past Umbridge to grab our stuff, either," said Harry. "But I don't have the Marauder's Map or my cloak."
"Umbridge will be watching the Fat Lady," said Hermione. "I'm sorry, Harry. We'll just have to hope that Ron thinks to hide them."
"Dobby!" Harry called.
Hermione sighed. "Or we could do that."
The house elf appeared with a crack. "Yes, Master Harry?"
For some reason, Dobby had taken to wearing tinted goggles and a tiny white lab coat. Hermione's questioning had only yielded answers to the effect of "Mua ha ha!"
Harry leaned down and gave Dobby a high five. "Dobby, we need our possessions. Can you bring those here?"
"Dobby will make Master Harry proud!"
With another crack, he was gone. Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.
"What?"
"Nothing. I just think we shouldn't encourage him."
Dobby reappeared, balancing Harry's trunk over his head. It crashed to the ground, spilling some clothes that Dobby had picked up and thrown on top of it.
"Dobby will be back with Her Majesty's trunk!"
Harry snickered.
"I can't believe you told him to call me that," Hermione said.
"Dobby's a free elf," said Harry. "He can say what he wants."
Hermione groaned. A crash from the next room announced that Dobby had returned with Hermione's trunk.
"Let's go make sure he hasn't injured himself," said Hermione.
They found his legs sticking out of a mound of clothing. Hermione's trunk was open nearby.
"Dobby, did you accidentally dump out Hermione's trunk?" Harry yanked the elf from the pile.
"Master Harry's friend Ron gave Dobby a letter, but it fell in the trunk!"
"There are worse problems," said Hermione. She waved her wand. Her clothes folded themselves and jumped into her trunk. Lying on the floor was a scrap of parchment.
"Where are you guys?" read Hermione. "They won't let us leave the dormitory. The teachers are all looking for you."
"That explains why no one showed up to the meeting," said Harry. "You write Ron; I'll write Dumbledore. Dobby can take the letters when we're done."
Hermione and Dobby agreed, so Harry left.
Thankfully, Dobby hadn't spilled his inkpot.
Dumbledore, he wrote.
I can't tell you where we are, but we're safe now. No thanks to you. I'm pretty sure Umbridge was trying to kill us back there. You can reach me via Dobby.
Signed, Harry Potter.
He folded the letter and walked back to Hermione's room. He found her sitting at her desk, staring at the quill in her hand.
"Do you need me to write it for you?" asked Harry.
She shot him a glare, then scribbled out a few lines.
"Take this one to Ron," she said.
Dobby saluted and disappeared.
"Do you need to talk about it?" asked Harry.
"No."
"Sure?"
Dobby reappeared. Harry absentmindedly handed him the letter for Dumbledore and waved goodbye.
"I'll feel better later," said Hermione. "For the moment, we need to make plans."
"Strategy requires masterful planning. Let's do this."
Dumbledore's Army watched Harry pace back and forth in front of them. They had heard him angry before, but this was something different. It was like his anger had starting browbeating his other emotions into forming an emotional pyramid just so his anger could stand on the top and deliver a speech about how Umbridge needed to be defeated.
Ron and Hermione, in full practice armor, were standing behind him with their arms crossed. The effect was more intimidating than they would readily admit.
"As of this moment, Dumbledore's Army will live up to its name," said Harry. "We will take down Dumbledore's enemies. And we will do this with the Way of Strategy."
He stopped pacing and turned to face them.
"Our war has begun! And war is a lot like having a boyfriend. Once your enemy does something offensive…"
He slammed The Book of Five Rings onto the podium.
"You must strike him as swiftly as possible!"
Next update: July 2015.
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