Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews! Enjoy the story!


Chapter 11- Percy and Padfoot

Saturday morning I decided that the best thing to do was sleep in. I think that I deserved it after all the pain and sleepless nights I went through. So indeed I only came out of my covers after Hermione said that it was breakfast time, and that'd she would drag me out of bed if I did not get up and come down with her.

I sleepily followed her through the halls, trying not to think about the lingering pain that was still in my left hand. Thankfully it had stopped bleeding so now there is only the obvious redness that I have to try and cover up. Once I sit down across from Ron at the table though, I'm distracted by all the food laid out.

It isn't for a few more minutes until Harry makes his way into the Great Hall and there is a new look on his face— one that is particularly dopey looking. He sits down next to me with a sigh across from Ron and Hermione.

"Morning." Harry greets us all brightly. Frankly I'm shocked. I was not expecting him to look or act this happy today at all. Something huge must have happened. Maybe Umbridge was sacked— or she decided that she missed the Ministry so much that she decided to go back.

"What are you looking so pleased about?" says Ron, eyeing Harry in surprise.

"Erm . . . Quidditch later," says Harry happily, pulling a large platter of bacon and eggs towards him. I sigh; I guess it was too much to ask for from the universe.

"Oh . . . yeah . . ." says Ron. He puts down the bit of toast he is eating and takes a large swig of pumpkin juice. Then he says, "Listen . . . you don't fancy going out a bit earlier with me, do you? Just to — er — give me some practice before training? So I can, you know, get my eye in a bit . . ."

"Yeah, okay," says Harry.

"I'm always up for a little flying." I say tentatively still worried a little about my hand.

"Look, I don't think you should," says Hermione seriously, "Jamie is the only one out of the three of you who is the most caught up on her homework —"

But she breaks off; the morning post is arriving and, as usual, the Daily Prophet is soaring towards her in the beak of a screech owl, which lands perilously close to the sugar bowl and holds out a leg; Hermione pushes a Knut into its leather pouch, takes the newspaper, and scans the front page critically as the owl takes off again.

"Anything interesting?" says Ron; I smile — I know Ron is keen to get her off the subject of homework.

"No," she sighs, "just some guff about the bass player in the Weird Sisters getting married . . ."

She opens the paper and disappears behind it. Harry devotes himself to another helping of eggs and bacon; Ron is staring up at the high windows, looking slightly preoccupied, and I finish off the last of my toast.

"Wait a moment," says Hermione suddenly. "Oh no . . . Sirius!"

"What's happened?" says Harry, and he snatches at the paper so violently that it rips down the middle so that he and Hermione are holding half each.

"'The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer . . . blah blah blah . . . is currently hiding in London!'" Hermione reads from her half in an anguished whisper.

"Lucius Malfoy, I'll bet anything," says Harry in a low, furious voice. "He did recognize Sirius on the platform . . ."

"What?" says Ron, looking alarmed. "You didn't say —"

"Shh!" we all hush him.

". . . 'Ministry warns Wizarding community that Black is very dangerous . . . killed thirteen people . . . broke out of Azkaban . . .' the usual rubbish," Hermione concludes, laying down her half of the paper and looking fearfully at Harry, Ron, and me. "Well, he just won't be able to leave the house again, that's all," she whispers. "Dumbledore did warn him not to."

Harry looks down glumly at the bit of the Prophet he had torn off.

"Hey!" he says, flattening his side it down so we can all see it. "Look at this!"

"I've got all the robes I want," says Ron.

"No," says Harry, "look . . . this little piece here . . ."

Ron, Hermione, and I bend closer to read it; the item is barely an inch long and placed right at the bottom of a column. It is headlined:

TRESPASS AT MINISTRY

Sturgis Podmore, 38, of number two, Laburnum Gardens, Clapham, has appeared in front of the Wizengamot charged with trespass and attempted robbery at the Ministry of Magic on 31st August. Podmore was arrested by Ministry of Magic watchwizard Eric Munch, who found him attempting to force his way through a top-security door at one o'clock in the morning. Podmore, who refused to speak in his own defense, was convicted on both charges and sentenced to six months in Azkaban.

"Sturgis Podmore?" says Ron slowly, "but he's that bloke who looks like his head's been thatched, isn't he? He's one of the Ord —"

"Ron, shh!" says Hermione, casting a terrified look around us.

"The Ministry means business." I whisper slightly terrified of the system that my family had helped put in place.

"Six months in Azkaban!" whispers Harry, shocked. "Just for trying to get through a door!"

"Don't be silly, it wasn't just for trying to get through a door — what on earth was he doing at the Ministry of Magic at one o'clock in the morning?" breathes Hermione.

"D'you reckon he was doing something for the Order?" Ron mutters.

"What else could it be for?" I reason.

"Wait a moment . . ." says Harry slowly. "Sturgis was supposed to come and see us off, remember?"

We turn our gazes to Harry.

"Yeah, he was supposed to be part of our guard going to King's Cross, remember? And Moody was all annoyed because he didn't turn up, so that doesn't seem like he was supposed to be on a job for them, does it?"

"Well, maybe they didn't expect him to get caught," says Hermione.

"It could be a frame-up!" Ron exclaims excitedly. "No — listen!" he goes on, dropping his voice dramatically at the threatening look on Hermione's face. "The Ministry suspects he's one of Dumbledore's lot so — I dunno — they lured him to the Ministry, and he wasn't trying to get through a door at all! Maybe they've just made something up to get him!"

There is a pause while we consider this. I'm not so sure if that's plausible; Hermione, on the other hand, looks rather impressed and says, "Do you know, I wouldn't be at all surprised if that were true."

She folds up her half of the newspaper thoughtfully. When Harry lays down his knife and fork she seems to come out of a reverie.

"Right, well, I think we should tackle that essay for Sprout on Self-Fertilizing Shrubs first, and if we're lucky we'll be able to start McGonagall's Inanimatus Conjurus before lunch . . ."

I grimace at the thought of tackling more homework so soon. I'm still not recovered from all the stuff I did yesterday.

"I mean, we can do it tonight," says Ron, as he, Harry, and I walk down the sloping lawns towards the Quidditch pitch, our broomsticks over our shoulders, Hermione's dire warnings that we will fail all our O.W.L.s still ringing in our ears. I only reckon that I have to get four O.W.L.s to please Molly since the twins got three between the pair of them. "And we've got tomorrow. She gets too worked up about work, that's her trouble . . ." There is a pause and he adds, in a slightly more anxious tone, "D'you think she meant it when she said we weren't copying from her?"

"Yeah, I do," says Harry. "Still, this is important too, we've got to practice if we want to stay on the Quidditch team . . ."

"Yeah and you still have some of my work. I've got most of it cleared out, except for the stuff assigned on Friday." I add in.

"Yeah, that's right," says Ron in a heartened tone. "And we have got plenty of time to do it all . . ."

I glance over to my right as we approach the Quidditch pitch, to where the trees of the Forbidden Forest are swaying darkly.

We collect balls from the cupboard in the changing room and set to work, Ron guarding the three tall goalposts, Harry and I playing Chaser and trying to get the Quaffle past Ron.

Harry thinks Ron is pretty good and I agree; he blocks three-quarters of the goals I attempt to put past him and plays better the longer we practice. After a couple of hours we return to the school, where we eat lunch, during which Hermione makes it quite clear that she thinks we are irresponsible, then return to the Quidditch pitch for the real training session. All our teammates but Angelina are already in the changing room when we enter.

"All right, Ron?" says George, winking at him.

"Yeah," says Ron, who has become quieter and quieter all the way down to the pitch.

"You'll be fine Ron. We practiced a lot today and you did okay." I tell him rotating my left arm, the muscles sore from all the work that they have already done. Katie shoots me an anxious look.

"Don't tell me you're injured already Pendragon?" She says coming over and helping me stretch out my arm and shoulder. I shake my head at her and turn back into the conversation going on around us.

"Ready to show us all up, Ickle Prefect?" says Fred, emerging tousle-haired from the neck of his Quidditch robes, a slightly malicious grin on his face.

"Shut up," says Ron, stony-faced, pulling on his own team robes for the first time. They fit him well considering they had been Oliver Wood's, who is rather broader in the shoulder.

"Okay everyone," says Angelina, entering from the Captain's office, already changed. "Let's get to it; Katie and Fred, if you can just bring the ball crate out for us. Oh, and there are a couple of people out there watching but I want you to just ignore them, all right?"

Oh I really don't like the sound of that. Something in her would-be casual voice makes me think I might know who the uninvited spectators are, and sure enough, when we leave the changing room for the bright sunlight of the pitch it is to a storm of catcalls and jeers from the Slytherin Quidditch team and assorted hangers-on, who are grouped halfway up the empty stands and whose voices echo loudly around the stadium.

"What's that Weasley's riding?" Malfoy calls in his sneering drawl. "Why would anyone put a Flying Charm on a moldy old log like that?"

Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson guffaws and shrieks with laughter. Ron mounts his broom and kicks off from the ground and Harry, and I follow him, watching his ears turn red from behind.

"Ignore them," Harry says, accelerating to catch up with Ron. "We'll see who's laughing after we play them . . ."

"If only Malfoy was flying then I'd knock him off…" I mutter darkly.

"Exactly the attitude I want, Harry," says Angelina approvingly ignoring my mutter, soaring around us with the Quaffle under her arm and slowing to hover on the spot in front of her airborne team. "Okay everyone, we're going to start with some passes just to warm up, the whole team please —"

"Hey, Johnson, what's with that hairstyle anyway?" shrieks Pansy Parkinson from below. "Why would anyone want to look like they've got worms coming out of their head?"

Angelina sweeps her long braided hair out of her face and says calmly, "Spread out, then, and let's see what we can do . . ."

I reverse away from the others to the far side of the pitch. Ron falls back towards the opposite goal, and Harry to the other side. Angelina raises the Quaffle with one hand and throws it hard to Fred, who passes to George, who passes to me, who passes to Harry, who passes to Ron, who drops it.

The Slytherins, led by Malfoy, roar and scream with laughter. Ron, who pelts toward the ground to catch the Quaffle before it lands, pulls out of the dive untidily, so that he slips sideways on his broom, and returns to playing height, blushing. I see Fred and George exchange looks, but uncharacteristically neither of them say anything, for which I am grateful.

"Pass it on, Ron," calls Angelina, as though nothing has happened. I smile approvingly for her approach.

Ron throws the Quaffle to Alicia, who passes back to Harry, who passes to George. . . .

"Hey, Potter, how's your scar feeling?" calls Malfoy. "Sure you don't need a lie-down? It must be, what, a whole week since you were in the hospital wing, that's a record for you, isn't it?"

Fred passes to me; I reverse pass to Harry, who was not expecting it, but catches it in the very tips of his fingers and passes it quickly to Ron, who lunges for it and misses by inches.

"Come on now, Ron," says Angelina crossly, as Ron dives for the ground again, chasing the Quaffle. "Pay attention." This isn't going so well, and the Slytherins definitely aren't helping.

It would be hard to say whether Ron's face or the Quaffle is a deeper scarlet when he returns again to playing height. Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin team are howling with laughter.

On his third attempt, Ron catches the Quaffle; perhaps out of relief he passes it on so enthusiastically that it soars straight through Katie's outstretched hands and hits her hard in the face.

"Sorry!" Ron groans, zooming forward to see whether he has done any damage.

"Get back in position, she's fine!" barks Angelina. "But as you're passing to a teammate, do try not to knock her off her broom, won't you? We've got Bludgers for that!"

Katie's nose is bleeding. Down below the Slytherins are stamping their feet and jeering. Fred and George converge on Katie.

"Here, take this," Fred tells her, handing her something small and purple from out of his pocket. "It'll clear it up in no time."

"All right," calls Angelina, "Fred, George, go and get your bats and a Bludger; Ron, get up to the goalposts, Harry, release the Snitch when I say so. We're going to aim for Ron's goal, obviously."

I circle over to Katie to make sure that her nose has stopped bleeding, and also to help clean her face of the blood that was on it with one of my Quidditch rags. "Thanks Jame. Ron is blundering a lot out here. I know he's your friend and all but…" She trails off. I sigh and shake my head at her.

"Its just nerves. Ron gets nervous easily." I say softly finishing up.

"Well the Quidditch pitch is not a place to be nervous." She tells me. I look down at the boisterous Slytherins and nod my head knowingly.

Harry, Fred, and George return with a Bludger and the Snitch. They return to the air. When Angelina blows her whistle, Harry releases the Snitch and Fred and George let fly the Bludger. Angelina immediately rifles the Quaffle to Katie, and I speed off towards the goal posts, juking around an unseen opponent, and dodging the bludger.

I get the quaffle in my hands back from Angelina and fire at the corner right pole. Ron dives for the Quaffle but it soars through, past his fingertips. I don't need to see Angelina's face to know that she isn't happy. I didn't even try all that hard on that one.

A little while later the whistle sounds to halt play. I come to a stop barely breathing hard at all, and more than a little disheartened.

"Stop — stop — STOP!" screams Angelina. "Ron — you're not covering your middle post!"

I look around at Ron, who is hovering in front of the left-hand hoop, leaving the other two completely unprotected.

"Oh . . . sorry . . ."

"You keep shifting around while you're watching the Chasers!" says Angelina. "Either stay in center position until you have to move to defend a hoop, or else circle the hoops, but don't drift vaguely off to one side, that's how you let in the last three goals!"

"Sorry . . ." Ron repeats, his red face shining like a beacon against the bright blue sky.

"And Katie, can't you do something about that nosebleed?" I glance over at her worriedly thinking that it had stopped but it's the exact opposite in fact.

"It's just getting worse!" says Katie thickly, attempting to stem the flow with her sleeve.

I glanced around at Fred, who is looking anxious and checking his pockets. I see Fred pull out something purple, examine it for a second, and then look around at Katie, evidently horrorstruck. Oh Merlin please tell me he didn't…

"Well, let's try again," says Angelina. She is ignoring the Slytherins, who have now set up a chant of "Gryffindor are losers, Gryffindor are losers," but there is a certain rigidity about her seat on the broom nevertheless.

This time we have been flying for barely three minutes when Angelina's whistle sounds. This is beginning to get aggravating.

"What now?" Harry says impatiently to Alicia, who is nearest.

"Katie," she says shortly. Angelina, Fred, and George, and I are all flying as fast as we can towards Katie, Harry right behind me. It is plain that Angelina has stopped training just in time; Katie is now chalk-white and covered in blood.

"She needs the hospital wing," says Angelina.

"We'll take her," says Fred. "She — er — might have swallowed a Blood Blisterpod by mistake —"

"Well, there's no point continuing with no Beaters and a Chaser gone," says Angelina glumly, as Fred and George zoom off towards the castle supporting Katie between them. "Come on, let's go and get changed."

Well this has definitely been a let down of a practice.

The Slytherins continue to chant as we trail back into the changing rooms.

"How was practice?" asks Hermione rather coolly half an hour later, as Harry, Ron, and I climb through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room.

"It was —" Harry begins.

"Completely lousy," says Ron in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair beside Hermione. She looks up at Ron and her frostiness seems to melt.

"Well, it was only your first one," she says consolingly, "it's bound to take time to —"

"Who said it was me who made it lousy?" snaps Ron.

Oh great here we go again. I'm not cut out for another Hermione and Ron bash at the moment.

"No one," says Hermione, looking taken aback, "I thought —"

"You thought I was bound to be rubbish?"

"No, of course I didn't! Look, you said it was lousy so I just —"

"I'm going to get started on some homework," says Ron angrily and stomps off to the staircase to the boys' dormitories and vanishes from sight. Hermione turns to Harry and me.

"Was he lousy?"

"No," says Harry loyally. I shrug my shoulders still a little upset that I didn't get more flying and actual practice in.

Hermione raises her eyebrows.

"Well, I suppose he could've played better," Harry mutters, "but it was only the first training session, like you said . . ."

"He just let his nerves get to him." I say simply.

When we work on homework that night Harry and Ron are both distracted, so they don't actually get much done. Hermione keeps pestering me to stay on task so I actually end up getting some of my work done, which in the long run is a good thing.

We spend the whole of Sunday in the common room, buried in our books while the room around us fill up, then empty: It is another clear, fine day and most of our fellow Gryffindors spend the day out in the grounds, enjoying what might well be some of the last sunshine this year. I wish that I could have been out there as well. By the evening I feel as though somebody has been beating my brain against the inside of my skull.

"You know, we probably should try and get more homework done during the week," Harry mutters to Ron, and me as we finally lay aside Professor McGonagall's long essay on the Inanimatus Conjurus spells and turn miserably to Professor Sinistra's equally long and difficult essay about Jupiter's moons. At least I was able to get some of the work done before hand.

"Yeah," says Ron, rubbing slightly bloodshot eyes and throwing his fifth spoiled bit of parchment into the fire beside us. "Listen . . . shall we just ask Hermione if we can have a look at what she's done?"

Harry and I glance over at her; she is sitting with Crookshanks on her lap and chatting merrily to Ginny as a pair of knitting needles flash in midair in front of her, now knitting a pair of shapeless elf socks.

"No," Harry says heavily, "you know she won't let us."

"I'm almost done with mine. I can help you out some." I say putting some more sentences on my last paragraph.

And so we work on while the sky outside the windows becomes steadily darker; slowly, the crowd in the common room begins to thin again. I finished at nine, and messed around with my sketchbook. At half-past eleven, Hermione wanders over to us, yawning.

"Nearly done?"

"No," says Ron shortly.

"Jupiter's biggest moon is Ganymede, not Callisto," she says, pointing over Ron's shoulder at a line in his Astronomy essay, "and it's Io that's got the volcanos."

"Thanks," snarls Ron, scratching out the offending sentences.

"Sorry, I only —"

"Yeah, well, if you've just come over here to criticize —"

"Ron —"

"I haven't got time to listen to a sermon, all right, Hermione, I'm up to my neck in it here —"

"No — look!"

Hermione is pointing to the nearest window. We look over. A handsome screech owl is standing on the windowsill, gazing into the room at Ron.

"Isn't that Hermes?" says Hermione, sounding amazed. I grimace not looking forward to what his letter may say.

"Blimey, it is!" says Ron quietly, throwing down his quill and getting to his feet. "What's Percy writing to me for?"

He crosses to the window and opens it; Hermes flies inside, lands upon Ron's essay, and holds out a leg to which a letter is attached. Ron takes it off and the owl departs at once, leaving inky footprints across Ron's drawing of the moon Io.

"That's definitely Percy's handwriting," says Ron, sinking back into his chair and staring at the words on the outside of the scroll: To Ronald Weasley, Gryffindor House, Hogwarts. He looks up at the rest of us. "What d'you reckon?"

"Open it!" says Hermione eagerly. Harry nods.

"Maybe he's finally realized what a giant prat he is." I mutter crossly.

Ron unrolls the scroll and begins to read. The farther down the parchment his eyes travel, the more pronounced his scowl becomes. When he has finished reading, he looks disgusted. He thrust the letter at me, and Harry and Hermione crowd around to read it together:

Dear Ron,

I have only just heard (from no less a person than the Minister of Magic himself, who has it from your new teacher, Professor Umbridge) that you have become a Hogwarts prefect.

I was most pleasantly surprised when I heard this news and must firstly offer my congratulations. I must admit that I have always been afraid that you would take what we might call the "Fred and George" route, rather than following in my footsteps, so you can imagine my feelings on hearing you have stopped flouting authority and have decided to shoulder some real responsibility.

But I want to give you more than congratulations, Ron, I want to give you some advice, which is why I am sending this at night rather than by the usual morning post. Hopefully you will be able to read this away from prying eyes and avoid awkward questions.

From something the Minister let slip when telling me you are now a prefect, I gather that you are still seeing a lot of Harry Potter. I must tell you, Ron, that nothing could put you in danger of losing your badge more than continued fraternization with that boy. Yes, I am sure you are surprised to hear this — no doubt you will say that Potter has always been Dumbledore's favorite — but I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who count have a very different — and probably more accurate — view of Potter's behavior. I shall say no more here, but if you look at the Daily Prophet tomorrow you will get a good idea of the way the wind is blowing — and see if you can spot yours truly!

Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to your future prospects, and I am talking here about life after school too. As you must be aware, given that our father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot and he did not come out of it looking too good. He got off on a mere technicality if you ask me and many of the people I've spoken to remain convinced of his guilt.

It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter — I know that he can be unbalanced and, for all I know, violent — but if you have any worries about this, or have spotted anything else in Potter's behavior that is troubling you, I urge you to speak to Dolores Umbridge, a really delightful woman, who I know will be only too happy to advise you. (I have to stop from vomiting there.)

This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have hinted above, Dumbledore's regime at Hogwarts may soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should be not to him, but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to hear that so far Professor Umbridge is encountering very little cooperation from staff as she strives to make those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the Ministry so ardently desires (although she should find this easier from next week — again, see the Prophet tomorrow!). I shall say only this — a student who shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now may be very well placed for Head Boyship in a couple of years!

I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over the summer. It pains me to criticize our parents, but I am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd around Dumbledore (if you are writing to Mother at any point, you might tell her that a certain Sturgis Podmore, who is a great friend of Dumbledore's, has recently been sent to Azkaban for trespass at the Ministry. Perhaps that will open their eyes to the kind of petty criminals with whom they are currently rubbing shoulders).

I count myself very lucky to have escaped the stigma of association with such people — the Minister really could not be more gracious to me — and I do hope, Ron, that you will not allow family ties to blind you to the misguided nature of our parents' beliefs and actions either. I sincerely hope that, in time, they will realize how mistaken they were and I shall, of course, be ready to accept a full apology when that day comes.

Please think over what I have said most carefully, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, and congratulations again on becoming prefect.

Your brother,

Percy

There are no words to describe how upset I am with that man. I know that he didn't use to be all bad but this is just taking it too far. Hermione sucks in a breath of air fro beside me.

"Jamie can you kindly start you exercises?" She asks me calmly. I look down not at all startled to see that the blue flames have started up in my hands again. I give her the best apologetic face that I can and start trying to calm myself down.

Harry looks up at Ron.

"Well," he says, trying to sound as though he finds the whole thing a joke, "if you want to — er — what is it?" (He checks Percy's letter.) "Oh yeah — 'sever ties' with me, I swear I won't get violent."

"Give it back," says Ron, holding out his hand. "He is —" Ron says jerkily, tearing Percy's letter in half, "the world's" — he tears it into quarters — "biggest" — he tears it into eighths — "git."

I can't say that I disagree with him there. Ron throws the pieces into the fire.

"Come on, we've got to get this finished some time before dawn," he says briskly to Harry, pulling Professor Sinistra's essay back towards him.

Hermione is looking at Ron with an odd expression on her face. "Oh, give them here," she says abruptly.

"What?" says Ron.

"Give them to me, I'll look through them and correct them," she says.

"Are you serious? Ah, Hermione, you're a lifesaver," says Ron, "what can I — ?"

"What you can say is, 'We promise we'll never leave our homework this late again,'" she says, holding out both hands for their essays, but she looks slightly amused all the same.

"Thanks a million, Hermione," says Harry weakly, passing over his essay and sinking back into his armchair, rubbing his eyes.

It is now past midnight and the common room is deserted but for the four of us and Crookshanks. The only sound is that of Hermione's quill scratching out sentences here and there on our essays and the ruffle of pages as she checks various facts in the reference books strewn across the table.

I have managed to get out three good charcoal drawing of my friends faces. I liked the challenges that the muted lighting gave me on the planes and shadows of their faces. It was a good way to calm down today, and now I'm fighting back a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Okay, write that down," Hermione says to Ron, pushing his essay and a sheet covered in her own writing back to Ron, "and then copy out this conclusion that I've written for you."

"Hermione, you are honestly the most wonderful person I've ever met," says Ron weakly, "and if I'm ever rude to you again —"

"— I'll know you're back to normal," says Hermione. "Harry, yours is okay except for this bit at the end, I think you must have misheard Professor Sinistra, Europa's covered in ice, not mice — Harry?"

Harry has slid off his chair onto his knees and is now crouching on the singed and threadbare hearthrug, gazing into the flames.

"Er — Harry?" says Ron uncertainly. "Why are you down there?"

"Because I've just seen Sirius's head in the fire," says Harry. I make a face at that.

"I think its time for bed Harry, you're starting to see things." I say worriedly.

"Sirius's head?" Hermione repeats. "You mean like when he wanted to talk to you during the Triwizard Tournament? But he wouldn't do that now, it would be too — Sirius!"

She gasps, gazing at the fire; Ron drops his quill. There in the middle of the dancing flames sits Sirius's head, long dark hair falling around his grinning face.

"I was starting to think you'd go to bed before everyone else had disappeared," he says. "I've been checking every hour."

"You've been popping into the fire every hour?" Harry says, half laughing.

"Just for a few seconds to check if the coast was clear yet."

"But what if you'd been seen?" says Hermione anxiously.

"That would have been fun to explain to McGonagall, why yes professor while staying u late to do homework we started seeing visions of mass murders in the hearth." I giggle, more than a little sleep deprived.

"Well, I think a girl — first year by the look of her — might've got a glimpse of me earlier, but don't worry," Sirius says hastily, as Hermione claps a hand to her mouth. "I was gone the moment she looked back at me and I'll bet she just thought I was an oddly shaped log or something."

"But Sirius, this is taking an awful risk —" Hermione begins.

"You sound like Molly," says Sirius. "This was the only way I could come up with of answering Harry's letter without resorting to a code — and codes are breakable."

At the mention of Harry's letter, Hermione, Ron, and I had turn to stare at him.

"You didn't say you'd written to Sirius!" said Hermione accusingly.

"I forgot," says Harry, but that same idiotic smile comes to his face, so obviously there was a certain girl named Cho involved. "Don't look at me like that, Hermione, there was no way anyone would have got secret information out of it, was there, Sirius?"

"No, it was very good," says Sirius, smiling. "Anyway, we'd better be quick, just in case we're disturbed — your scar."

"What about — ?" Ron begins, but Hermione says quickly, "We'll tell you afterward, go on, Sirius."

"Well, I know it can't be fun when it hurts, but we don't think it's anything to really worry about. It kept aching all last year, didn't it?"

"Yeah, and Dumbledore said it happened whenever Voldemort was feeling a powerful emotion," sayw Harry, ignoring, as usual, Ron and Hermione's winces. "So maybe he was just, I dunno, really angry or something the night I had that detention."

"Well, now he's back it's bound to hurt more often," says Sirius.

"So you don't think it had anything to do with Umbridge touching me when I was in detention with her?" Harry asks. I wince thinking back at the detentions, it is not one of my favorite memories I will tell you that much.

"I doubt it," says Sirius. "I know her by reputation and I'm sure she's no Death Eater —"

"She's foul enough to be one," says Harry darkly and Ron, Hermione, and I nodd vigorously in agreement.

"Yes, but the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters," says Sirius with a wry smile. "I know she's a nasty piece of work, though — you should hear Remus talk about her."

"Does Lupin know her?" asks Harry quickly. I remember Umbridge's comments about dangerous half-breeds during her first lesson.

"No," says Sirius, "but she drafted a bit of anti-werewolf legislation two years ago that makes it almost impossible for him to get a job."

I remember how much shabbier Lupin looks these days and my dislike of Umbridge deepens even further.

"What's she got against werewolves?" says Hermione angrily.

"Scared of them, I expect," says Sirius, smiling at her indignation. "Apparently she loathes part-humans; she campaigned to have merpeople rounded up and tagged last year too. Imagine wasting your time and energy persecuting merpeople when there are little toerags like Kreacher on the loose —"

Ron laughs but Hermione looked upset.

"Sirius!" she says reproachfully. "Honestly, if you made a bit of an effort with Kreacher I'm sure he'd respond, after all, you are the only member of his family he's got left, and Professor Dumbledore said —"

"So what are Umbridge's lessons like?" Sirius interrupts. "Is she training you all to kill half-breeds?"

"At least we'd be learning magic if that was so." I mumble spinning my wand around my fingers.

"No," says Harry, ignoring Hermione's affronted look at being cut off in her defense of Kreacher. "She's not letting us use magic at all!"

"All we do is read the stupid textbook," says Ron.

"Ah, well, that figures," says Sirius. "Our information from inside the Ministry is that Fudge doesn't want you trained in combat."

"Trained in combat?" repeats Harry incredulously. "What does he think we're doing here, forming some sort of wizard army?"

"Though that does sound really cool." I say with a slight grin.

"That's exactly what he thinks you're doing," says Sirius, "or rather, that's exactly what he's afraid Dumbledore's doing — forming his own private army, with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of Magic."

There is a pause at this, then Ron says, "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, including all the stuff that Luna Lovegood comes out with."

"So we're being prevented from learning Defense Against the Dark Arts because Fudge is scared we'll use spells against the Ministry?" says Hermione, looking furious.

"Yep," says Sirius. "Fudge thinks Dumbledore will stop at nothing to seize power. He's getting more paranoid about Dumbledore by the day. It's a matter of time before he has Dumbledore arrested on some trumped-up charge."

"D'you know if there's going to be anything about Dumbledore in the Daily Prophet tomorrow? Only Ron's brother Percy reckons there will be —"

"I don't know," says Sirius, "I haven't seen anyone from the Order all weekend, they're all busy. It's just been Kreacher and me here . . ."

There is a definite note of bitterness in Sirius's voice.

"So you haven't had any news about Hagrid, either?" I ask.

"Ah . . ." says Sirius, "well, he was supposed to be back by now, no one's sure what's happened to him." Then, seeing our stricken faces, he adds quickly, "But Dumbledore's not worried, so don't you three get yourselves in a state; I'm sure Hagrid's fine."

"But if he was supposed to be back by now . . ." says Hermione in a small, worried voice.

"Madame Maxime was with him, we've been in touch with her and she says they got separated on the journey home — but there's nothing to suggest he's hurt or — well, nothing to suggest he's not perfectly okay."

Unconvinced, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I exchange worried looks.

"Listen, don't go asking too many questions about Hagrid," says Sirius hastily, "it'll just draw even more attention to the fact that he's not back, and I know Dumbledore doesn't want that. Hagrid's tough, he'll be okay." And when we do not appear cheered by this, Sirius adds, "When's your next Hogsmeade weekend anyway? I was thinking, we got away with the dog disguise at the station, didn't we? I thought I could —"

"NO!" say Harry and Hermione together, very loudly.

"Sirius, didn't you see the Daily Prophet?" says Hermione anxiously.

"Oh that," says Sirius, grinning, "they're always guessing where I am, they haven't really got a clue —"

"Yeah, but we think this time they have," says Harry. "Something Malfoy said on the train made us think he knew it was you, and his father was on the platform, Sirius — you know, Lucius Malfoy — so don't come up here, whatever you do, if Malfoy recognizes you again —"

"All right, all right, I've got the point," says Sirius. He looks most displeased. "Just an idea, thought you might like to get together —"

"I would, I just don't want you chucked back in Azkaban!" says Harry. There is a pause in which Sirius looks out of the fire at Harry, a crease between his sunken eyes.

"You're less like your father than I thought," he says finally, a definite coolness in his voice. "The risk would've been what made it fun for James."

"That's because Harry is not James Sirius. He's his own person." I say calmly hoping to help both of them out.

Maybe all this advice from Ariana is starting to pay off.

"Look —"

"Well, I'd better get going, I can hear Kreacher coming down the stairs," says Sirius, but I'm sure he is lying. "I'll write to tell you a time I can make it back into the fire, then, shall I? If you can stand to risk it?"

There is a tiny pop, and the place where Sirius's head was is flickering flame once more. We're silent for a few moments before Harry heaves a heavy sigh.

"Well that was perfect. Now the only family that I have is angry at me." He growls. We clamber to our feet, just in time to see Harry gather his stuff and storm up to his dormitory.

"I think I'm going to turn in too. Looks like tomorrow is going to be long." I say exhaustedly. Little did I know how right I'd be…