he next morning, Ron shook Harry awake.
Sunlight seeped through their dormitory's open window and around him the others were already shuffling, sifting through their drawers for socks and red and yellow ties or, stuffing extra parchment into the pockets of their book bags. Groggily, Harry sat up just in time to see Seamus don on his robes and open the door of the dormitory in rapid pace.
"Are you nutter too if you stay in a room with me too long?" he asked loudly, bleary eyes catching the hem of Seamus's robes whipping out of sight.
"Don't worry about it, Harry," Dean muttered, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. "He's just…er—" but apparently he was unable to say exactly what Seamus was, and after a slightly awkward pause gave a farewell and followed his friend out of the room.
"C'mon mate, it's not your problem," Ron said, muffled by the sweater he was half-done putting on, "Let's just get ready."
Five minutes later they descended down the stairwell and entered the common room, just in time to meet Hermione, who was staring at the House notice-board. Her eyes widened when she noticed them.
"Oh, Harry—!" she said. Harry leant down a little as Hermione stuck her fingers through his hair, "Your hair is a mess!"
"Sirius said it's in my genes," he said, flinching as Hermione tried to tame the stick-ups and the sides that wouldn't stick to the side.
"Your father?"
"No, my mum," Harry said. "He said she was a 'wild ginger,'"
Hermione eventually loosened her fingers and narrowed her eyes, "Speaking of wild gingers—" she pointed to a particularly colorful notice the board— "They're at the limit,"
GALLONS OF GALLEONS!
Pocket money failing to keep pace with your outgoings?
Like to earn a little extra gold?
— ◐ —
Contact Fred and George Weasley,
Gryffindor common room,
for simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs
(WE REGRET THAT ALL WORK IS UNDERTAKEN AT APPLICANT'S OWN RISK)
"We'll have to talk to them, Ron," said Hermione, grimly taking down the sign.
Ron looked positively alarmed, "Why?"
"Because we're prefects!" said Hermione. Harry could tell from the glum expression that the prospect of stopping Fred and George doing exactly what they liked was not one that Ron found inviting, but he said nothing as they climbed out through the portrait hole. Hermione stifled a yawn behind her palm.
"Tired already?" Harry asked.
"I was up knitting last night,"
"Knitting? I thought you went to bed early," said Ron, aghast, "Don't tell me Fred and George actually got into your head about the O.W.L's this year…"
"I was knitting," she said, walking ahead. Following behind her, Ron mouthed a "Yeah right," before he too stepped onto the landing.
"Anyway, what's wrong with you two?" Hermione continued, as they walked down a flight of stairs lined with portraits of old witches and wizards, all of whom ignored them, being engrossed in their own conversation, "You look really angry about something."
"Seamus reckons Harry's lying about You-Know-Who," said Ron succinctly, when Harry did not respond. Hermione, whom Harry had expected to react angrily on his behalf, only sighed.
"Lavender thinks so too," she said gloomily.
"Did she say that I'm a lying, attention-seeking prat or a big-headed troll with a god complex?" Harry asked in feigned innocence.
"Didn't really get the details after I told her to keep her big fat mouth shut," Hermione said in a low voice. Surprising himself, Harry gave a short bark of laughter that echoed down the Grand Staircase.
"Unexpectedly last night, our own Mr Weasley did the exact same thing—"
"Of course!" they both cried, interrupting him. Ron turned in swift indignance, "If you haven't noticed, we both are on your side."
"Sorry. Sorry!"
"Besides, don't you remember what Dumbledore said at the end-of-term feast last year?" Hermione said. Harry and Ron both looked at her blankly, and she sighed again.
"About You-Know-Who. He said, 'His gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust—' "
"How do you remember stuff like that?" asked Ron, looking at her in admiration.
"I listen, Ron," said Hermione, though she was unable to hide how the corner of her mouth quirked—"Anyways, the point is that he was right. You-Know-Who's only been back two months and we've started fighting among ourselves. The Sorting Hat's warning was the same too—stand together, be united—"
They reached the foot of the marble staircase where a line of fourth-year Ravenclaws crossed the entrance hall. When they caught sight of Harry, they hurried to form a tighter group as though frightened he might attack stragglers.
"Yeah, we really ought to be trying to make friends with people like that," said Harry sarcastically.
"You'd think we're Hogwarts own personal brand of bogeyman," someone said above his ear. They all jumped around whirled around the tall boy that suddenly appeared behind, his hands stuffed inside his pockets while he smiled at them.
"Cedric!" Ron spluttered, "Bloody hell! Where'd you come from?"
"Violet's portrait," Cedric said, waving to a small chamber behind him because of course, he knew the passages.
"Well-pf! You scared us!"
"Speak for yourself, Ron," Hermione said, and Harry eyed her with mild confusion because she was acting as though she hadn't jumped as high as the rest of them. But Cedric didn't seem to notice as he laughed.
"On guard already? It's only the first day," he said, amused.
"It's like you haven't spent the entire second-half of summer in the murder home!" Ron shot back and they continued to walk towards the Great Hall, with Cedric cheerfully jaunting beside them.
"How are you?" he said, asking Harry in a smaller voice.
"Yeah… good," Harry muttered, shaking his head slightly, "How about you? Something nice happened?"
He couldn't help but notice a slight change, Cedric somehow looked… fresher, than the last time. There was a skip to his walk, and he looked like he had gotten a full night's rest—
"Had a chat with my friends when I hit the commons last night," Cedric said, looking at the floor almost shyly. "It was a long chat, surprised I even woke up this early…"
"Was it—er—a good? chat?"
Cedric nodded.
"Very good. I sort of spilled everything—though nothing about the summer or any details obviously—but, erm—" he smiled fondly. "They believe us! So, win-win for all this time round. I should introduce them to you all at some point,"
Harry began to smile, "I'm so glad for you."
"Mhm," Cedric looked at him, "But tell me really, how was your end? You don't look all that 'good',"
Harry scrunched his face in a way that could only be described as the puckered face of a mandrake, which made Cedric laugh out loud, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, it's serious, I know—" he said, trying to maintain composure.
"It's alright," said Harry shaking his head again. He felt almost thankful that at least something good came out of last night's situation, "One of my mates—or I guess that's not really the correct term now—one of them guys at my dorm said some things about... me.. and I got a little flared up."
Cedric frowned.
"Oh! He didn't hurt me or anything,"
"Did you hurt him?"
"No! But.. I think I may have, erm—" Harry swallowed, as they reached the giant doorway to the Great Hall, a sudden spike of dread shot through Harry's stomach. "I feel like I've hurt other people though,"
He felt deeply uncomfortable, and like last night, already could see and feel the heads turned their way.
"Like who?" asked Cedric quizzically. Harry bit the inside of his lip but before he could even start, a tall black girl with long, braided hair marched beside them.
"Oh hi Angelina,"
"Hi Diggory!" she said briskly, "good summer?" And without waiting for an answer, "Sorry could I borrow Harry for the moment?"
"Er, sure." said Harry, jumping in. It took Cedric aback, "We can talk later,"
"Oh, right well—"
"Later," Harry, mouthing it like a promise. He'd promising 'later' a lot recently.
"Okay."
"Bye Diggory!" Angelina said, and Cedric gave a little wave before he turned to leave. As soon as he walked out of earshot, she adopted that brisk tone again and said, "Listen, I've been made Gryffindor Quidditch Captain."
"Nice one!" said Harry, grinning at her; he suspected that Angelina was very much trying to mask both her anxiety and excitement, though her fidgeting fingers betrayed the business-like tone of her voice.
"We need a new Keeper now that Oliver's left, and I want the whole team to be at the try-outs, alright? So we can see how the new person'll fit in,"
"Cool," said Harry. Angelina patted his shoulder and walked with him to the part of the Gryffindor table where he could spot Hermione and Ron's heads, and only listening about forty percent or thereabouts as she rambled about her goals for the season. The remainder of his attention channeled in glances toward the Hufflepuff table, and as he and Angelina stopped and stood behind his seated friends, another sprout of gladness blossomed within him as he watched Cedric and a boy with curly hair greet each other with warm laughter.
"Good," he sighed.
"Great! Then, I'll have you test out the Keeper candidates then!" said Angelina, eagerly. Ron's head perked upward while Harry turned to her, startled.
"Sorry, what?"
"Thanks Harry! I'll see you on Friday, five o'clock, for the try-outs, yeah?" Angelina bounced away, leaving Harry to rummage through his pocket and stare at his very crammed, very ominous timetable.
Shit.
"—can't understand where they got the Galleons! And what's more-! Wait… Are you still listening?"
Harry straightened up, "I am, sorry," and he continued to try and absorb the information from the Quidditch book he had borrowed. "Er, something about… galleons?"
"Yeah Fred and George got me new dress robes the other week! And they've been talking about dropping out of Hogwarts—I think they may actually have found funding for their joke shop!"
"Oh well erm—speaking of—d 'you know what you want to do after Hogwarts?" Harry asked, deciding that it was time to steer the conversation out of these dangerous waters.
"Not really," said Ron slowly. "Except... well..."
He looked slightly sheepish.
"What?" Harry urged him.
"Well, it'd be cool to be an Auror," said Ron in an offhand voice.
"Yeah, it would," said Harry thoughtfully.
"But they're, like, the elite," said Ron. "You've got to be really good. What about you, Hermione?"
"I don't know," said Hermione. "I think I'd really like to do something worthwhile."
"An Auror's worthwhile!"
"Yes, it is, but it's not the only worthwhile thing," said Hermione. "I mean, if I could take S.P.E.W. further..."
Harry and Ron carefully avoided looking at each other.
They had occupied their usual table in the library, but Harry had unfortunately noticed a dramatic increase of paper and books and spare quills they've buried themselves in, compared to last year's first day; it might even be the first time he's ever used a lunch period to do work, but the sheer amount study they'd been assigned so far felt daunting otherwise; Snape and Professor Binns, Flitwick and McGonagall all required some sort of essay or writing that spanned parchment inches in double-digits or at the very least, some intense hours spent practicing spells after class.
"How, in Merlin's pants, are we supposed to get this all done before Friday?!" Harry groaned.
"Still fuming about our Potions lesson?" Ron said.
"That was really unfair," said Hermione consolingly, sitting down next to Harry. "Your potion wasn't nearly as bad as Goyle's, when he put it in his flagon the whole thing shattered and set his robes on fire."
"You'd think he'd be better this year, considering he's in the Order,"
"Yeah, well," said Harry, glowering at Potions book, "Since when has Snape ever been fair to me?"
Neither of the others answered; all three of them knew that Snape and Harry's mutual enmity had been absolute from the moment Harry had set foot in Hogwarts. He could feel his head throbbing, a headache now of all times!
"Poisonous toadstools don't change their spots," said Ron sagely. "Anyway, I've always thought Dumbledore was cracked trusting Snape, where's the evidence he ever really stopped working for YouKnow-Who?"
"I think Dumbledore's probably got plenty of evidence, even if he doesn't share it with you, Ron," snapped Hermione.
"Oh, shut up, the pair of you," said Harry heavily, as Ron opened his mouth to argue back. Hermione and Ron both froze, looking angry and offended.
"Can't you give it a rest?" he said. "You're always having a go at each other, it's driving me mad." And sweeping all his things into his arm, he swung his schoolbag back over his shoulder and left them sitting there.
He walked past many students hurrying toward the Great Hall, who did not help by shying away from him or acting dramatically when he walked past, like it was the first time they'd ever seen him. The anger that had just flared so unexpectedly still blazed inside him, and the vision of Ron and Hermione's shocked faces afforded him a sense of deep satisfaction.
Serve them right, he thought. Why can't they give it a rest?
Bickering all the time… it felt enough to drive anyone up the wall; already he was beginning to feel overwhelmed, and with the thought of having to face that Umbridge woman later this afternoon… it was as though everything and everyone was scraping at a very impatient part of him.
Harry spent the rest of the lunch hour sitting alone underneath the trapdoor at the top of North Tower, and consequently he was the first to ascend the silver ladder that led to Sibyll Trelawney's classroom when the bell rang.
Ron emerged from the trapdoor, looked around carefully, spotted Harry and made directly for him, or as directly as he could while having to wend his way between tables, chairs, and overstuffed poufs.
"Hermione and me have stopped arguing," he said, sitting down beside Harry.
"Good," grunted Harry.
"But Hermione says she thinks it would be nice if you stopped taking out your temper on us," said Ron.
"I'm not—"
"I'm just passing on the message," said Ron, talking over him. "But I reckon she's right. It's not our fault how Seamus and Snape treat you."
"I never said it—"
"Good day," said Professor Trelawney in her usual misty, dreamy voice, and Harry broke off, feeling both annoyed and slightly ashamed of himself again.
Later in the day, when they entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom for their last class, Professor Umbridge was already seated at the teacher's desk, wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow on top of her head. Harry was again reminded forcibly of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even larger toad.
"Well, good afternoon!" she said when finally the whole class had sat down. A few people mumbled a low "Good afternoon," in reply.
Professor Umbridge's smile did not disappear but there was something eerie about the way she blinked at them when she said, "That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.' One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!"
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," they chanted back at her, while looking at each other mildly bewildered.
"There, now," said Professor Umbridge sweetly. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."
As they shoved their wands back inside their bags, many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; they had already suffered through Binn's droning voice in first period—the order "wands away" had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting.
And true to expectation, Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared on the board at once:
Defense Against the Dark Arts
A Return to Basic Principles.
"Your teaching in this subject has been rather disruptive and fragmented, hasn't it?" stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. "The constant change of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year."
She rapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by:
Course aims:
Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.
Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.
"We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy these aims down, please," and for a couple of minutes the room was full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. When everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge's three course aims she said, "Has everybody got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?"
There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.
"I think we'll try that again," said Professor Umbridge. "When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply 'Yes, Professor Umbridge,' or 'No, Professor Umbridge.' So—has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?"
"Yes, Professor Umbridge," rang through the room.
"Good," said Professor Umbridge. "I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners'. There will be no need to talk."
She then left the blackboard and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher's desk, observing them all with those pouchy toad's eyes.
However, less than ten minutes passed before Harry felt his concentration sliding away from him when—and to his immense surprise, enough to shake him out of his torpor—he turned to see that Hermione had not even opened her copy of Defensive Magical Theory.
Rather, she was staring quite fixatedly at Professor Umbridge with her hand in the air.
Harry looked at her with his brows knitted together, but she merely shook her head slightly, not about to answer questions as she continued to stare at Professor Umbridge, who looked just as resolutely in another direction. After several more minutes had passed, Harry found that he was not the only one watching Hermione.
The chapter they had been instructed to read was so tedious that more and more people were choosing to watch Hermione's mute attempt to catch Professor Umbridge's eye than to struggle on with Basics for Beginners. When more than half the class were staring at Hermione rather than at their books, then Professor Umbridge decided to look at her as though she had only just noticed.
"Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?" she asked Hermione.
"Not about the chapter, no,"
"Well, we're reading just now," said Professor Umbridge, showing her small, pointed teeth. "If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class."
"No, actually I've got a query about your course aims," said Hermione.
Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows, "And your name is—?"
"Hermione Granger."
"Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them carefully," said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness.
"But they don't, Professor," said Hermione bluntly. "There's nothing written up there about actually using defensive spells."
Harry's head snapped to to the blackboard, where many others also frowned at the three course aims still written in chalk.
"Using… defensive spells?" Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. "Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?"
"Wait, we're not going to use magic?" Ron interjected, loudly.
"Students must raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr. — ?"
"Weasley," said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air. Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned her back on him, but Harry and Hermione immediately raised their hands too.
Her pouchy eyes lingered on him for a moment before she chose to address Hermione.
"Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"
"Yes," said Hermione. "Surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?"
"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" asked Professor Umbridge in her falsely sweet voice.
"No, but—"
"Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the 'whole point' of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—"
"What use is that?" said Harry loudly. "If we're going to be attacked it won't be in a—"
"Hand, Mr. Potter!" sang Professor Umbridge. Harry thrust his fist in the air. Professor Umbridge promptly turned away from him again, but now several other people had their hands up too.
"And your name is?" Professor Umbridge said to Dean.
"Dean Thomas."
"Well, Mr. Thomas?"
"Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?" said Dean. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk-free—"
"I repeat," said Professor Umbridge, smiling in a very irritating fashion at Dean, "do you expect to be attacked during my classes?"
"But it isn't about expecting an attack, isn't it—"
"I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school," she said, talking over him with an unconvincing smile that stretched her wide mouth, "But you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention," she gave a nasty little laugh, "Extremely dangerous half-breeds."
"If you mean Professor Lupin," piped up Harry angrily, among the other small noises of irritation within the class, "He was the best we ever—"
"Hand, Mr. Potter! As I was saying—you have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—"
"No we haven't," Hermione said, "we just—"
"Your hand is not up! Miss Granger!" Looking determined as ever, Hermione put up her hand while Professor Umbridge turned away from her, "It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you but he actually performed them on you—"
"Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn't he?" said Seamus suddenly and hotly. "Mind you, we still learned loads more than you're planni—"
"Your hand is not UP!" trilled Professor Umbridge, not even bothering to ask for his name. "Now, it is the view of the Ministry that theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. Yes?" she added, staring at Parvati, whose hand had just shot up.
"Parvati Patil—" she said quickly— "But isn't there a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually do the countercurses and things?"
"As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions," said Professor Umbridge dismissively.
"Without ever practicing them before?" said Parvati incredulously. "Are you telling us that the first time we'll get to do the spells will be during our exam?"
"I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough—"
"And what good is theory going to be in the real world?" said Harry loudly, his fist in the air and not willing to be ignored again. Professor Umbridge looked up.
"This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world," she said softly.
"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting out there?"
"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter."
"Oh yeah?" said Harry. His temper, which seemed to have been bubbling just beneath the surface all day, was reaching boiling point.
"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" inquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.
"Hmm, let's think…" said Harry in a mock thoughtful voice, "maybe Lord Voldemort?"
Ron gasped while behind him Lavender Brown uttered a little scream and Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Professor Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter," she said quite simply. The classroom was silent and still, now. All the hands that had been raised just as quickly shot down and everyone was staring at either Umbridge or Harry.
"Now, let me make a few things quite plain." Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned toward them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk.
"You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead—"
"He was never dead," said Harry angrily, "but yeah! He's returned!"
"Mr.-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-House-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself," said Professor Umbridge in one breath without looking at him. "As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again… This is a lie—"
"It is NOT a lie!" said Harry. "I saw him, I fought him!"
"Detention, Mr. Potter!" said Professor Umbridge triumphantly. "Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office."
She whirled to address the class once more, "I repeat, this is a lie—the Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard and if you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it because I am here to help and I am your friend," she simpered, flashing a dangerous smile. As she continued, Harry could not keep himself from breathing harder and harder, maddened by the eeriness of her smile and her eyes—... how she seemed like she wholeheartedly believed in everything she was saying. There was no play, there was no hesitation.
The Ministry sent propaganda, indoctrination! Not a spy.
As Umbridge sat down behind her desk once more, Harry slowly stood up, catching the eye of everyone who promptly gaped at him; Seamus looking half-scared, half-fascinated.
"Harry, no!" Hermione whispered in a warning voice. She reached to tug at his sleeve but Harry jerked his arm out of her reach.
"So, according to you, Cedric Diggory and I came out of that maze, bruised and battered because of a lie? He was unconscious for nothing—?" Harry asked, his voice shaking. There was a collective intake of breath from the class, for none of them, apart from Ron and Hermione, had ever heard Harry talk about what had happened on the night where Cedric had been dead for three minutes. Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and stared at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face.
"Sit down, Mr Potter, there was no one with you to witness anything," she said coldly. "It is likely than less terrible and more logical things could have happened than what you and your friend suggest—"
"Pardon?"
"Perhaps one of his spells went wrong! Or you knocked him yourself—there is nothing to prove that any of what you're saying is true, sit down, Mr Potter—"
"SO! You think I did that to him?!" Harry bellowed, relishing in the fact that he was talking over her, "You THINK that we did this to OURSELVES?!"
"ENOUGH! Sit down, Mr Potter!" Umbridge snarled, momentarily dropping her facade as Harry could feel himself shaking and sick; just sick.
Why the absolute fuck was he here, right now? And for what reason did this woman come here besides to taunt and prod them, to make him the circus spectacle outside the tent; it had felt like he had screamed it enough times inside his head that perhaps some god had to take into account but—
I DIDN'T WANT THIS.
I DIDN'T ASK FOR IT.
Was he not enough of a broken gramophone? A marionette whose strings had dulled through the many hands that have handled and played with him in routine? It felt as though every year, some outside force had come up with something new; something to break his spirit and it was damning to realize that there was something broken inside him—that there was something barbed poking at him with the saw-edged end, spurring on his blood til it become so dark that he did not want it spilling out,
Not here.
He didn't want to talk to anyone but Cedric about it—couldn't talk to anyone but Cedric about it—but he could feel all of the thirty-something eagerly, listening classmates ogling at him; their eyes burning into all his body like bullet-holes, Umbridge's shitty voice and intonations snaking and breathing down his neck—
Just say it, say it.
Fine.
"VOLDEMORT WAS THERE—!" he said summoning something rough and unfamiliar in his voice, raw as he shouted that it made even his friends flinch— "AND YOU KNOW IT."
Silence befell the class, but this time it mixed with Harry's heavy breath while Professor Umbridge's face remained, quite blank. For a moment he thought she was going to scream back at him. But then, in her softest, most sickenly sweet girlish voice, "Come here, Mr. Potter, dear," she said.
He kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and Hermione and up to the teacher's desk. He could feel the rest of the class holding its breath, but he felt so enraged he did not care what happened next.
Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink, and started scribbling, hunched over so that Harry could not see what she was writing.
Nobody spoke.
After a minute or so she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he could not open it.
"Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear," said Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him. He took it from her without saying a word and left the room, not even looking back at Ron and Hermione, and slamming the classroom door shut behind him.
Harry could never really visualize Muggle metaphors when he read them, but in this instance he felt that he was very close to the one about seeing red.
He walked fast along the corridor, the note to McGonagall clutched tight in his hand. Even when he slapped right into Peeves, Harry did not even spare him a second glance when he followed, singing a rude song—and simply continued stomping through the empty hallways, and swearing inside his head, over and over and over and over and over and over again—I didn't want this! I didn't ask for this! When would they figure that out? When would someone find or re-discover, in this vast world pit against him, a magic out?
Before Harry could reach McGonagall's office door, he faltered at the last corner and collapsed to his knees; unable to cry, or wail though he felt something seize inside, he only wanted, with every inch of his arms and legs, to disappear and leave his uniform in a heap on the stone floor.
There was nothing inside him but a heart that throbbed with suffocating rage. A fury that clogged each artery so much so that Harry felt like the lid of some cheap boiling pot, that threatened to explode.
Merlin, it was only the first day.