Umbridge

Unfortunately for James - who had always tried hardest in History of Magic in the vain hope of learning more about his own family's famously world-saving exploits - History of Magic in his father's time was the most boring subject ever devised by wizardkind. Back in his own era, he could at least recognise names and hear tidbits of stories here and there. Today, however, he was treated to three quarters of an hour's droning on the subject of giant wars, from a man who had literally fallen asleep in the staff-room who knows how many decades before and not noticed that he'd died.

While James at least managed to keep his concentration even with the monotonous monotone droning on and on at them, Harry zoned out after the first ten minutes. It occurred to him somewhere in the back of his mind that this subject might have been at least mildly interesting in another teacher's hands, but then his brain disengaged. He spent the remaining thirty-five minutes playing hangman on a corner of his parchment with Ron, while Hermione shot them filthy looks out of the corner of her eye.

"How would it be if I refused to lend you my notes this year?"

To no one's surprise, it was Hermione who'd demanded this of them as they left the classroom.

"We'd fail our O.W.L.," Ron said. He looked at her closely and said nonchalantly, "If you want that on your conscience, Hermione ..."

"Well, you'd deserve it," she snapped. "You don't even try to listen to him, do you?"

"We do try," Ron fired back. "We just haven't got your brains or your memory or your concentration - you're just cleverer than we are - is it nice to rub it in?"

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh, don't give me that rubbish."

Their little argument continued all the way to the courtyard. Predictably, it was an awful day outside. A fine drizzle had set in at some point during Professor Binns' lecture. It wasn't enough to be called rain, but it made the people standing in huddles around the yard look blurry at the edges. Hermione and Ron led their group to a secluded corner under a heavily dripping balcony.

As they approached the duo, James whispered to his father, "Some things never change, hey?"

Harry laughed. "You have no idea."

They turned up the collars of their robes against the chilly September air (they were in Scotland, after all) and were talking about what they could expect in their first potions lesson of the year.

"Oh, Snape'll have something waiting for us, that's for sure," Ron told James with an air of someone who had accepted his fate. "He always gives us something horrible for our first class. Likes to catch us off guard after the holidays, see."

James' eyes went wide. "Wait a minute - Snape. As in Severus Snape?"

Ron and Hermione frowned at him openly.

"Yes?" Hermione asked tentatively, clearly not sure where this was going.

"You're telling me I'm about to have potions class with Severus Snape?" James' face lit up like Christmas had come early. "Oh, Al is going to f-r-e-a-k!"

Harry's best friends looked at him now.

"What?" he said innocently.

"I -" Ron started to say something, but someone walked around the corner toward them and interrupted their conversation.

"Hello, Harry!"

For the second time in as many days, Harry had to stop himself from reacting openly. It was Cho Chang.

"Hi," he said, putting the friendliest smile he could muster on his face.

"So, you got that stuff off, then?"

It took him a moment to realise she was talking about the Stinksap he'd been covered in on the train. "Yeah," he said. He paused for a moment, then said awkwardly, "So, did you ... er ... have a good summer?"

The moment he'd said it he wished he hadn't. It might have been twenty years for him, but in this timeline it had been only a few months since Cho had lost Cedric. He had no idea how long they'd been together, but he had no doubt the memory of his death would have affected her almost as badly as it had affected him.

Stiffly, she said, "Oh. It was alright, you know ..."

Beside him, James was looking from Harry to Cho and back. His father couldn't help but notice a small smile of glee crawling onto his face - but a swift elbow in the ribs put an end to whatever maniacal plan was clearly forming in his head. Harry could have kissed Ron for stepping in in his usual entirely tone deaf way:

"Is that a Tornados badge?" he'd demanded suddenly, pointing to the front of Cho's robes where a sky-blue badge emblazoned with a double gold 'T' was pinned. "You don't support them, do you?"

"Yeah, I do," she said.

"Have you always supported them, or just since they started winning the league?" Ron said accusingly.

"I've supported them since I was six," she told him coolly. "Anyway ... see you, Harry."

Hermione waited until Cho was halfway across the courtyard before she rounded on Ron. "You are so tactless!"

"What? I only asked her if -"

'- Couldn't you tell she wanted to talk to Harry? Alone?"

Ron threw her a look, hissing, "Now, remind me, 'Mione. Is this the same Harry who's married to my sister?"

Hermione floundered for a moment.

"Don't get me wrong, I don't like thinking about it too hard," Ron continued, gesturing to Harry now. "I mean, they've got three kids, Hermione!"

"That - that is completely beside the point, Ronald!"

"Oh, is it now?" he said.

She threw him another of her famous looks. "You're not seriously trying to tell me you attacked her about her Quidditch team to stop her from flirting with your sister's husband?"

"She wasn't flirting," Harry tried to say, but James cut over him with a gleeful, "Oh, she was flirting. That was I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing flirting."

Ron, however, wasn't listening. "I know you don't understand, 'Mione, but when it comes to Quidditch -"

"- Who cares if she supports the Tornados?"

"Oh, come on. Half the people you see wearing those badges only bought them last season -"

"- But what does it matter?"

"It means they're not real fans, they're just jumping on the bandwagon -"

"- We Weasleys take Quidditch very seriously, Aunt Hermione," James told her. "Though we're loyal Harpies fans."

"Oh, no way," Ron said, shaking his head adamantly. "Cannons all the way!"

James doubled over in laughter. "Cannons! Oh, you have got to be kidding me! They haven't won a game since ninety-nine!"

"Uh-huh!" Ron roared. "So they will win a game!"

Hermione looked to Harry exasperatedly, but he just shrugged. He knew these two well enough to know there was no point trying to interrupt them in the middle of a Quidditch conversation; One of James' favourite pastimes was riling Ron up about the Cannons. For the family's troublemaker-in-chief, it would never get old.

"That's the bell," Harry said listlessly ten minutes later.

The moment James stepped out of the conversation, Hermione stepped back in - then, the bickering started up again. It continued all the way down to Snape's dungeon, which gave Harry plenty of time to whisper warnings at his son.

"You need to be careful ... Watch your back ... Don't go making any smart-arse comments ..."

"I've got it, dad," James breathed as they joined the queue lining up outside Snape's classroom door. Thoughtfully, he found himself adding, "So this Cho ..."

"Leave it," Harry said, his tone very clearly indicating finality.

"I'm just saying -"

A single raised eyebrow saw James stopping mid-sentence, and holding his hands up defensively. "Okay. Fair."

Behind him, the ominous sound of Snape's dungeon door creaking open saw Harry's spirits drop. They filed into the classroom behind Ron and Hermione (who were still arguing, though in hushed whispers now) and followed them to the trio's usual table at the back. While James kept glancing at his uncle and aunt, Harry had a lifetime of practice in ignoring the huffy, irritable noises they issued.

"Settle down," Snape said coldly, shutting the door behind him.

There was no need for the call to order. The moment the class heard the door close, quiet fell and all fidgeting stopped. Snape's presence alone was, after all, usually enough to ensure a class' silence.

"Before we begin today's lesson," he said, intimidating as always, "I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an 'Acceptable' in your O.W.L., or suffer my ... displeasure."

His gaze lingered this time on Neville, who gulped.

"After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me. I take only the very best into my N.E.W.T. Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying goodbye."

His eyes rested on Harry and his lip curled. Unlike the first time around, however, Harry did not react. He continued observing his Professor with the same stony face he'd been wearing out in the hallway. James surreptitiously glanced from his father to the Potions master and back, which earned him a glare of his own from the man in question.

"I have a high expectations of students in my class, Mr Prewett," Snape said warningly. "I do hope you are up to standard."

James - who, admittedly, really didn't know how to respond to that - didn't get a chance.

To the room at large, Snape continued on with, "We have another year to go before that happy moment of farewell. So, whether or not you are intending to attempt N.E.W.T, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high pass level I have come to expect from my O.W.L. students."

"Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned: if you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, you you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing." On Harry's left, Hermione sat up a little straighter, her expression one of utmost attention. "The ingredients and method -" Snape flicked his wand "- are on the blackboard. You will find everything you need -" he flicked his wand again "- in the store cupboard. You have an hour and a half ... start."

Just as Ron had predicted, Snape could hardly have set them a more difficult, fiddly potion. Unbeknownst to Snape, of course, this was one potion Harry had become very familiar with over the years. In the aftermath of the War, he had found himself employing several coping mechanisms to get any sleep whatsoever. This was one of them.

He didn't bother so much as looking at the board; He'd had this recipe memorised long ago. The ingredients had to be added to the cauldron in precisely the right order and quantities; the mixture had to be stirred exactly the right number of times, firstly in clockwise, then in anti-clockwise directions; the heat of the flames on which it was simmering had to be lowered to exactly the right level for a specific number of minutes before the final ingredient was added. It was something he had become accustomed to preparing not in a cauldron but in a large pot on their stove, though he found himself adjusting back to this more traditional view of potion making with relative ease.

By the time there was only ten minutes to go and Snape was calling, "A light silver vapour should now be rising from your potion."

James was more worked up then he'd ever been inside this classroom in his entire school career. He was used to the calming, supportive nature of Professor Horace Slughorn, who wanted nothing more than to see all of his students succeed, not the pure intimidation of Snape. He was sweating profusely, looking desperately around the dungeon. His own cauldron was issuing copious amounts of dark grey steam; Ron's was spitting green sparks. Seamus was feverishly prodding the flames at the base of his cauldron with the tip of his wand, as they seemed to be going out. The surface of Hermione's potion - and Harry's, for that matter - were a shimmering mist of silver vapour. As Snape swept by the looked down his hooked nose at both without comment, which meant he could find nothing to criticise.

At James' cauldron, however, Snape stopped, looking down at it with a horrible smirk on his face. "Prewett, what is this supposed to be?"

At the front of the class, Draco Malfoy looked over cautiously. The Slytherins around him were eagerly awaiting what would happen next. Their favourite activity was hearing Snape taunt Harry, but the new kid would do in a pinch.

"The Draught of Peace," James said tensely.

"Tell me, Prewett," Snape said softly - a dangerous sign, Harry knew, but James was none the wiser - "can you read?"

James glanced to Harry, but his father wouldn't meet his eyes. Looking back to Snape, he said, "As a matter of fact, Sir, I can."

"Read the third line of the instructions."

James squinted at the blackboard. It wasn't easy to make out the instructions through the haze of multi-coloured steam now filling the dungeon, and he didn't have the best eyesight in the world. (Though he steadfastly refused to wear the glasses he was supposed to have been wearing since he was six years old).

"Add powdered moonstone, stir three times counter-clockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes then add - oh, crap!"

Harry had his head in his hands while the majority of the class laughed. James was the type to rile up a teacher at the best of times. And this certainly wasn't the best of times.

"Excuse me?" Snape said, taking a shocked step back.

"Uh, sorry about that," James said quickly, doing his best to cover his little faux pas. "I mean - I think I forgot to add the hellebore."

Snape glared at him and said, "I know you did, Prewett, which means that this mess is utterly worthless. Evanesco."

The contents of James' potion vanished. He was left standing beside an empty cauldron, though that didn't seem to phase him.

"Oh well," he said happily. "Live and learn."

Snape took a deep breath and swept away from their table. "Those of you who have managed to read the instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name and bring it up to my desk for testing," he said. "Homework: twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Thursday."

While everyone else placed their potions on Snape's desk, James stuffed his belongings into his backpack and lounged on his seat, observing the chaos around him. On the other side of their table, Ron's potion was giving off a foul odour of bad eggs; At the table beside them, Neville's had achieved the consistency of just-mixed cement. It was almost funny watching him try to gouge it out of his cauldron.

When at long last the bell rang, Harry and James walked side-by-side out of the classroom. Ron and Hermione were still cleaning up their stations, so it gave the father-and-son duo a much needed opportunity to talk.

"I know what you're doing," Harry told him. "And I really wish you wouldn't."

"I'm very sure I don't know what you're talking about," James said, striding confidently into the Great Hall.

Harry sighed again. "James, sabotaging -"

"Hey, Al!" James greeted his brother warmly, dropping into the empty seat beside him at the end of the Gryffindor table. As he reached across his brother for a sandwich, he said, "Your namesake's a jerk."

"I take it you had Potions," Al said, observing his brother closely over what appeared to be a goblet of pumpkin juice.

"Yup," James said, happily popping the 'p'. "Don't think I'll bother going to the next class, though."

"Oh no you don't," Ginny said from Al's other side, giving a silent nod to Harry who sat opposite her. "I will not have you cutting classes here, too."

Beside her, another of the Gryffindor fourth-years laughed. "So you did get chucked out of Ilvermorny, then!"

James laughed aloud. "Is that the rumour?" To Al, he said, "And you didn't think to correct them?"

Al shrugged. "It fits."

James found himself nodding. To the others, he said, "Sure, then. I'm not going to refute that."

By the time Ron and Hermione joined them, lunch was half-over. The other students had started drifting away, which meant they had relative privacy for their own discussions.

"That was really unfair of Snape," Hermione said to James. "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."

James burst out laughing again. "Oh, I wish I'd been there to see that!"

"I did think he might be a bit better this year," Hermione said with a tinge of disappointment. "I mean ... you know ... now that he's in the Order and everything."

"Poisonous toadstools don't change their spots," Ron said through a mouthful of food. He swallowed thickly, then added, "Anyway, I've always thought Dumbledore was cracked to trust Snape. Where's the evidence he ever really stopped working for You-Know-Who?"

"He what?" James and Al said, though nobody answered them.

"I think Dumbledore's probably got plenty of evidence, even if he doesn't share it with you, Ron," Hermione snapped.

"Oh, shut up the pair of you!" Harry said heavily. His words stopped Ron, who had opened his mouth to argue back, right in his tracks. They both froze, looking at Harry with what was clearly offence on their faces. "Look, either go find a broom closet to snog in or just give it a rest. This constant bickering is driving me mad!"

"Here, here," Ginny said, raising a goblet as though she were giving a toast.

Ron spluttered dramatically, while Hermione gave a faint, "Excuse me?"

James and Al sat side-by-side, both grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Harry caught the boys' gaze and sent them his own grin.

"Now," he said, focusing squarely on his wife. "Can I walk you to Transfiguration?"

She faltered for just a moment. Tentatively, she said, "Uh, sure."

They both turned to the boys, who waved a hand at them distractedly. "No way are we missing this fall out," James said, still chowing down on sandwiches.

"We'll catch up with you later," Al echoed, not tearing his eyes away from Ron and Hermione, who were both bright red and currently looking anywhere but at each other.

"Suit yourselves," Harry said, rising from his seat smoothly and falling into step with a slightly-unsure Ginny. It was moments like this that reminded him she was still fourteen years old. She might have memories of their life together, but she just hadn't lived it yet. Not in the way he had.

"So," he said, slightly awkward himself. "This isn't weird, right?"

"This? Weird?" she asked, her voice undeniably higher than normal. "No."

He raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

She couldn't help but laugh. "Look, Harry," she said, holding the tapestry hiding one of the Castle's infamous secret passages aside for him to pass through. "I, uh ..."

Still inside the secret passageway, he stopped. They stood side-by-side for a long moment, secluded from the world around them, while they each collected their thoughts.

"I remember things," she whispered eventually, a small flush creeping up her cheeks. "Things I have no way of knowing. Things that haven't happened."

Her reluctance to look him in the eye told him everything he needed to know. He stepped forward slightly, cupping a hand on her cheek gently. She didn't realise she was doing it, but she found herself leaning into his touch. When she finally opened her eyes, he was looking deeply into her eyes. In them she could see something she definitely hadn't seen before, but that she knew so well. Her hand was on his elbow now, almost as though she were trying to hold his hand there.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. He made to pull his hand away, but her grip on his elbow tightened.

"Please don't," she whispered, closing her eyes again. "Just - stay here a minute, yeah?"

"Okay," he whispered, smiling sadly. "We can stay as long as you want."

In his own head, he found himself adding, How about forever?

They parted ways five minutes later, Ginny heading down the corridor toward Transfiguration and Harry continuing upstairs toward Divination. They'd said no more words after they had their moment in the quiet. There was nothing more to be said, after all; He was a man who just wanted his wife, and she was a teenager with a crush on her brother's best friend. 'Simple' had never been a word they'd used to describe their relationship, but now 'complicated' was barely scratching the surface.

He passed the large picture of Sir Cadogan the knight on a landing; Sir Cadogan drew his sword and brandished it fiercely at Harry, who didn't even register he was there.

"Come back, you scurvy dog! Stand fast and fight!" he yelled in a voice muffled by his visor, but Harry continued on without looking back. When Sir Cadogan attempted to follow him by running into a neighbouring picture, he was rebuffed by its inhabitant, a large and angry-looking wolfhound.

Despite his interlude in the secret passageway, he had another ten minutes to spend sitting alone underneath the trapdoor at the top of the North Tower. Consequently, he found himself lost in his thoughts - love for Ginny, and longing for their relationship; fear for his kids, concern for their safety and wellbeing. Worst of all, he found himself at a total loss to explain how the spell (whatever it even was) seemed to be expanding. There was no way of knowing who would turn up next.

Most unfortunately, he had no excuse to delay ascending the silver ladder that led to Sybill Trelawney's classroom when the bell rang. After Potions, Divination had always been his least favourite class. He had no proclivity whatsoever toward the subject, but it didn't help that his teacher had a really nasty habit of predicting his premature death every few lessons. (He would, however, never admit how right she may have turned out to be). A thin woman, heavily draped in shawls and glittering with strings of beads, she had always reminded him of some kind of insect. It was her glasses - they magnified her eyes to an unsettling degree. Thankfully, she was too busy putting copies of battered leather-bound books on each of the spindly little tables dotted around the room as he entered to notice he was even there.

When Ron showed up five minutes later, her looked around carefully, spotted Harry and weaved his way through the mismatched furniture to get to him. He tripped over an overstuffed pouffe as he arrived at their preferred table in the shadows, but that didn't appear to dampen his resolve.

He sat down beside Harry and whispered, "You are kidding, right?"

"Nope," Harry sighed, observing their classmates as they settled into their own seats.

"Me and -"

"- You know we don't have to do this, right?"

"Oh, we're doing this," Ron said a little louder than he probably should have. Several of their classmates sent them questioning looks, but neither paid them any attention. "Why her?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno, do I?"

"What d'you mean you dunno? You know everything!"

Not for the first time today, Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm not some sort of Seer, Ron. I've just lived it."

Ron frowned. "Nah. You're having us on."

Harry wanted to say something more - probably something about being best man at their wedding, and how that definitely happened - but James' hurried arrival and Professor Trelawney beginning the class served as timely interruptions.

"Good-day," she said in her usual misty, dreamy voice. "And welcome back to Divination. I have, of course, been following your fortunes most carefully over the holidays, and am delighted to see that you have all returned to Hogwarts safely - as, of course, I knew you would. You will find on the tables before you copies of The Dream Oracle, by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretation is a most important means of divining the future and one that may very probably be tested in your O.W.L. Not, of course, that I believe examination passes or failures are of the remotest importance when it comes to the sacred art of divination. If you have the Seeing Eye, certificates and grades matter very little. However, the Headmaster likes you to sit the examination, so ..."

Her voice trailed away delicately, leaving them all in no doubt that Professor Trelawney considered her subject above such sordid matters as examinations.

"Turn, please, to the introduction and read what Imago has to say on the matter of dream interpretation. Then, divide into pairs. Use The Dream Oracle to interpret each other's most recent dreams. Carry on."

The one good thing to be said for this lesson was that it was not a double period. By the time they had all finished reading the introduction of the book, they had barely ten minutes left for dream interpretation. Though they were supposed to be in pairs, James' arrival meant there were now an odd number of students in the class. He shrugged and leaned his elbows on the table, making it very clear that he was not going anywhere. At the table beside them, Dean had paired up with Neville, who immediately embarked on a long-winded explanation of a nightmare involving a pair of giant scissors wearing his grandmother's best hat. James frowned, not able to help listening in on their conversation.

"That Neville's really a messed-up dude, right?"

"Manners," Harry snapped out of habit. James waved a hand at him again, clearly not paying any attention whatsoever to his parenting.

"I never remember my dreams," Ron said. "You say one."

"You must remember one of them," Harry said a little impatiently. He was not about to share his dreams with anyone. He knew perfectly well what his regular nightmares meant, and what they were foreshadowing. (He also had very little desire to share with his brother-in-law the dream he'd had last night featuring his wife and the events of their wedding night...)

James looked from one to the other, then said, "So I dreamed I was in History of Magic last night. We were sitting through a seminar, and Aunt Her -"

"- We are not telling you about the War," Harry said strongly, knowing exactly what his son was trying to do.

"Hey. I sat through five years of that class, okay. I passed the O.W.L. I deserve to have that seminar."

"Be that as it may, James," Harry hissed, "it also hasn't happened yet!"

"You're still you. Mum remembers. Hermione remembers. Why can't you just -"

"- Because I said no, okay!"

Unfortunately for Harry, his voice tended to carry. Several of their classmates looked over at the sound of the raised voices, but they quickly returned to their own conversations. Thankfully, Ron stepped in.

"Well, I dreamed I was playing Quidditch the other night," he said, though a little tentatively. "What d'you reckon that means?"

"Probably that you're going to be eaten by a giant marshmallow or something," Harry said, turning through the pages of The Dream Oracle a little harder than he really needed to.

"Okay," James said, looking from one to the other. "Back here in this reality - not, you know, in a cartoon - maybe that means you want to play Quidditch?"

By the time Divination was over, Harry was totally mentally drained. He'd forgotten how much work school really was, and now he was doing it while trying to outwardly appear like he was the same person he was twenty years ago. Going back to his day job - stressful though it may be - was going to be an absolute walk in the park after this.

"D'you realise how much homework we've got already?" Ron said as they made their way through the halls once again. "Binns set us a foot-and-a-half essay on giant wars, Snape wants a foot on the use of moonstones, and now we've got a month's dream diary from Trelawney! Fred and George weren't wrong about O.W.L. year, were they? That Umbridge woman had better not give us any ..."

When they entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom they found Professor Umbridge already seated at the teacher's desk, wearing the same fluffy pink cardigan she had been wearing the night before and a giant 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. Beside him, James stifled a laugh - apparently, he was on a similar train of thought.

The class was quiet as it entered the room; Professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be. Nobody, that was, except for Harry. As he sat down at his usual desk between Ron and Hermione, he had to force himself to take measured, even breaths. He hadn't realised how traumatising his experience with this woman had been until he'd walked willingly into his classroom. It was sobering, realising that he had more trauma attached to a single, useless teacher than he did in spending his youth fighting the evil dictator that was Lord Voldemort.

"Well, good afternoon!" she said when the class had sat down.

A few people mumbled "good afternoon" in reply, but most shot glances to their friends.

"Tut, tut," said Professor Umbridge. "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!"

Though they were clearly unconvinced, the class obediently chanted, "Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," back at her.

"There, now," said Professor Umbridge sweetly. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."

From his spot on Hermione's other side, James shot his father a very confused look. This was Defence Against the Dark Arts, after all. There was nothing good that could follow the words 'wands away'. Instead of responding, however, Harry pocketed his wand and pulled out a quill, ink and parchment. Over by her own desk, Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand - which was an unusually short one - and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared on the board at once:

Defence Against the Dark Arts
A Return to Basic Principles

"Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?" stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. "The constant changing 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."

Silently, James raised an eyebrow.

"You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please."

At the end of their row, James mouthed, 'theory-centred?'

At the front of the room, Professor Umbridge rapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by the 'Course Aims'.

1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
2. Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.
3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.

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 asked, "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."

Professor Umbridge left the blackboard and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher's desk, observing them all with those pouchy toad's eyes. Harry turned to page five of his copy of Defensive Magical Theory and tried to read. It was desperately dull and, he couldn't help but notice, entirely inaccurate. After only the first page, it was abundantly clear that this Slinkard fellow had never been in a situation calling for defensive magic in the entirety of his life.

He felt his concentration sliding away from him; he had soon read the same line half a dozen time without taking in more than the first few words. Next to him, Ron was absent-mindedly turning his quill over and over in his fingers, staring at the same spot on the page. On Ron's other side, however, James was staring openly at Hermione. When he looked right, Harry received a surprise to shake him out of his own thoughts. Hermione had not even opened her copy of Defensive Magical Theory. She was staring fixedly at Professor Umbridge with her hand in the air.

Harry vaguely remembered this moment fondly. He had never known Hermione ever neglecting to read when instructed to, or indeed resisting the temptation to open any book that came under her nose. He looked at her enquiringly, but she merely shook her head slightly to indicate that she was no about to answer questions, and continued to start at Professor Umbridge, who was looking just as resolutely in another direction.

After several more minutes had passed, however, Harry and James were not the only ones 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 rather than struggle on with 'Basics for Beginners'. When more than half the class were staring at Hermione rather than at their books, Professor Umbridge seemed to decide that she could ignore the situation no longer.

"Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?" she asked Hermione, as though she had only just noticed her.

"Not about the chapter, no," Hermione said.

"Well, we're reading just now," Professor Umbridge said, showing her small pointed teeth. "If you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end fo the class."

"I've got a query about your course aims," Hermione said.

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 through carefully," Professor Umbridge said in a voice of determined sweetness.

"Well, I don't," Hermione said bluntly. "There's nothing written up there about using defensive spells."

There was a short silence in which many members fo the class turned their heads to frown at the three course aims still written on the blackboard. It was almost as though it were just occurring to many of their classmates that Hermione was - as usual - right.

"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?"

"We're not going to use magic?" Ron exclaimed loudly.

"Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr -?"

"Weasley," Ron said, thrusting his hand into the air.

Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned her back on him. Harry, Hermione and James immediately raised their hands too. Professor Umbridge's pouchy eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before she addressed Hermione.

"Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "Surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to practise defensive spells?"

"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" asked Professor Umbridge in her falsely sweet voice.

Hermione and Harry shared a glance. Still looking at Harry, Hermione said, "Technically, no."

"Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the 'whole point' of my class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new programme of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way -"

"What use is that?" Harry said loudly, unable to control himself. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be in a -"

"Hand, Mr Potter!"

Harry thrust his fist in the air. Again, Professor Umbridge promptly turned away from him, but now several other people had their hands up, too.

To James, she said, "And your name is?"

"James Po - uh, Prewett."

"Well, Mr Prewett?"

"Harry's right," James said simply. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk free."

"I repeat," Professor Umbridge said, smiling in a very irritating fashion, "do you expect to be attacked during my classes?"

James glanced over to Harry, as if to ask 'Do I?' Harry shrugged. To Professor Umbridge, James said, "In ninety-five? Yes."

Professor Umbridge observed him closely for a moment. In the end, she turned away from him and addressed the room at large: "I do not wish to criticise the way things have been run in this school, but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed - not to mention extremely dangerous half-breeds."

"If you mean Professor Lupin," Ron jumped in angrily, "he was the best we ever -"

"Hand, Mr Weasley! As I was saying - you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group and potentially lethal. 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!"

Hermione put up her hand. Predictably, Professor Umbridge turned away from her. Addressing the class once more, she continued, "It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you."

"Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn't he?" Dean Thomas said hotly from his place on the other side of the room. "Mind you, we still learned loads."

"Your hand is not up!" trilled Professor Umbridge. She took a moment to settle herself, then said in a tone of force calm, "Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?" she added, staring at Parvati, whose hand just shot up.

"Parvati Patil, and isn't there a practical bit in our Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually do the counter-curses 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," Professor Umbridge said dismissively.

"Without ever practising them beforehand?" 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?" Harry demanded, his first in the air again.

Softly, Professor Umbridge said, "This is school, Mr Potter, not the real world."

"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting for us out there?

"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr Potter."

"Oh, yeah?" said Harry. His temper, which had been bubbling just beneath the surface since he woke up in this God-forsaken nightmare, was reaching boiling point.

"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" enquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honyed voice.

"Hmm, let's think ..." Harry said sarcastically. "I dunno, maybe ... Lord Voldemort?"

Ron gasped; Lavender Brown uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideway off his stool; James' mouth dropped open. 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."

Around them, the classroom was silent and still. Everyone was staring at either Umbridge or Harry.

"Now, let me make a few things quite plain." Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned towards them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk. "You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead -"

"He wasn't dead," Harry said angrily, "but yeah, he's returned!"

"Mr-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-house-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself," Professor Umbridge said in one breath wihtout 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!" Harry yelled. "I saw him, I fought him!"

"Detention, Mr Potter!" said Professor Umbridge triumphantly. "Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office. I repeat, this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. 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. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, 'Basics for Beginners'."

Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk. Harry, however, couldn't help himself. He stood up. Everyone was staring at him; Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated.

"Harry, no!" Hermione whispered in a warning voice, tugging at his sleeve, but Harry jerked his arm out of her reach.

"So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?" 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 Cedric had died. They stared avidly from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and was staring at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face. James' expression, however, quickly went from one of shock to one of pure horror. He had never heard his father speak about this time in his life before. Now that he was hearing it for himself, he was starting to understand why.

"Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident," Professor Umbridge said coldly.

"It was murder," Harry said strongly. "Voldemort killed him and you know it."

Professor Umbridge's face was quite blank. For a moment, Harry thought she was going to scream at him. Then said said, in her softest, most sweetly girlish voice, "Come here, mr Potter, dear."

He kicked his chair aside, strode around the desks and up to the teacher's desk. He could feel the rest of the class holding its breath behind him. In this moment, he was so angry that he genuinely didn't 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, Hermione and James. He slammed the classroom door shut behind him.

Back at the desks, James looked over to Ron and Hermione. Quietly, he said, "... I think I get it now."