Winds soared, clouds billowing high as a strew of village rooftops plunged into a late afternoon: the shimmering tarps, aged banners, and plumes of teal smoke nothing but distant backdrop: the air between lay rife with brash laughter, students streaming tenfold toward the castle gates. Inside, more chatter reverberated down those stone halls; sparse groups of ghosts revelled just an inch longer in the emptiness of their lone castle, and a few teachers—their eyes peeled for Peeves—strolled the grounds with hands fastening hats to their heads, battling fiercely at the breath of the wind. In the very centre of the castle, the Grand Staircase groaned and two figures swept through its rungs, together hopping up two, three, maybe even four steps at a time.
They reached the entrance of the Gryffindor common room, arriving red-faced and balancing brown paper bags.
"I can't believe it!" said Ron. He peeled the knitted beany off his head—wisps of his hair slicking upright, clinging on by static—and sprang forward, a slight wheeze on his breath, "Fred and George used to get broom polish for less than a sickle! Why can't I?"
Beside him, Hermione huffed; her bag jingled as she bobbed up and down, following him.
"The owner may be—… sweet… on those two—…"
"Sweet?!" Ron paused for a moment. "Should I ask Mum for my birth certificate next time?"
Hermione let escape a small laugh.
They walked towards a portion of the Gryffindor tower where a few tables scattered near a large bay window, overlooking the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
The window had great silvery panes doused in perpetual mist but when they drew close, the white mist melted in its usual, gentle way, revealing thick redwood trunks and towering pines standing aloft a vibrant sea of fallen of leaves. It was here where Harry sat, staring far out the window, still dressed in the same blue plaid from the morning. His arms rest—clutching a mug of tea—on top of an ancient table made of teakwood, and from beneath, his leg bounced restlessly: the tapping sound of his shoes muffled on carpet and under the oversized cut of his rolled-up jeans.
As the Fat Lady's last trill faded, Ron and Hermione reached his table, quickly hooking their coats onto their chairs and dumping their shopping bags on the table with a great flompf! and clang!
The fireplace roared heartily as Hermione began to organize each bags' contents; she stacked two leather pouches of thickly rolled parchment aside, as well as three handfuls of these circular, tin-like objects, and a bronze-looking cylinder labelled Boadicea's Unblottable Pottles of Ink!
She and Ron then fell into their seats, discussing the new apothecary that had opened just outside of Hogsmeade, as well as spending more time debating 'Talesin's unfair rates, all the while Harry did not say a single word. Still staring out the window, he let the rumble of the fire and their conversation wash over him and when he turned his head, it was only to stare at the white petals swimming inside his cup and to admire the state of his friends' wind-bitten, rosy cheeks.
"Wh… —ry…?"
Harry blinked. Hermione waited for him to reply.
"Sorry?" he asked.
"What do you think?"
"Er, about what… sorry?"
"About broom polish being ten sickles!" Ron exclaimed, still in utter disbelief. "That's basically a galleon!"
"Oh! Y—es," Harry cleared his throat, a little bubble had formed, "yes, well, err…"
"How am I s'posed to cough up for that?!"
"Well, I could—"
"No! No." said Ron right away; he ruffled feverishly through his hair. "Ugh… let's… let's talk about somethin' else…"
Hermione looked toward Harry, who frantically searched around him.
"Err, productive… afternoon?" he nodded at the messy table in front of him; Hermione nodded with enthusiasm.
"I've been saving up for S.P.E.W, but there's a lot to prepare for, now that we've got our study group together…"
"It can't be for homework, can it?" said Ron, suddenly looking even more disheartened.
"I have no idea! Harry'll have to decide," Hermione said matter-of-factly. She pushed the stacked boxes of parchment and the cylinder of ink towards him. "It's for his use, after all."
"Me?"
"Everybody's agreed that you'll be teaching us, yes?" Hermione raised her brow, eager to know, though trying hard at the same time not to show it. "It might be a bit soon to ask, but I do hope that you've got some kind of idea of what to do for the first meeting?"
Harry popped open the bronze cylinder, the green of his eyes illuminated in the reflection of a round bottle of dark ink.
He tried to seem more distracted that he ought to be.
"I might have a few, yeah…" he said, evasive. However, in truth, ever since the first night Ron and Hermione had mentioned it, Harry had found himself drawing up lesson plans in the back of his class notes. Even now, he felt his hand itch towards the pouches of parchment, unbuttoning the leather clasp and running his fingers through to the centre of one such scroll.
"I'll try to use it… properly," he added, setting the bronze cylinder down. Hermione beamed.
"I know you will," she said, and then innocently, "of course, Cedric is free to use it too!"
Harry dropped the lid of the ink container.
"Oh!" Hermione dove underneath the table, producing the lid as she scraped her chair forward again. "Here you are,"
"Thanks," Harry grasped the lid firmly and screwed it onto the bronze cylinder. Ignoring how scratchy his throat had become, he coughed and moved his newly attained things aside.
"Listen, I'm sorry that I wasn't there to help out… you should've told me that you'd be shopping for—"
"Don't fret now, it was only a few things… I do wish you had stayed though; we bumped into Cho and Marietta. It would've been nice if you had been there…"
Marietta? Harry thought back to the red-haired girl, looking upon the Hogs Head and her dirty bottle of Butterbeer with an upturned nose.
"Why's that?" he asked.
"Well," said Hermione, smiling slightly, "she just couldn't keep her eyes off you, could she? Cho, I mean."
"Oh… right." Harry stared at her, hesitantly. "Well…"
He paused and brought the mug to his lips, playing dumb as his friends' eyes bore straight into him. He did not say anything else.
"Right, I just thought… erm—…" Hermione slowly trailed off, and Ron—wiping the tousled hair away from his face—jumped in, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.
"So, were you waiting here long?" he asked suddenly.
"No, I don't think so," said Harry. They heard the Fat Lady trill once more as she swung open, and Harry—throat even scratchier now—finally sipped the tea that he had made for himself though visibly regretting it, as he grimaced.
"Bitter?" Ron asked. A crowd of excited third-years thumped through the room, and Harry shook his head.
It was ice cold.
They spent rest of their weekend, catching up with homework again.
Ron and Harry still had about a weeks' worth of false dreams to conjure up for Trelawny, alongside several inches of essayed parchments and diagrams to scribble down: various potion ingredients, wand positions for Charms, and newly learned routines of burrowing insectoids and mammals sleeping inside hollowed trees. It could hardly be called fun, however, the last burst of autumn sunshine persisted in those two days and was almost irresistible in the way it refracted through the castle's windows.
What could have been two dreary days spent hunched over tables in the common room and library, instead took them outside; the three Gryffindors lounging in the shade of a large beech tree and skipping pebbles against the cool waves, lapping at the edge of the Black Lake. Hermione—who, of course, was up to date with all her work—brought a bundle of wool with her outside, having bewitched her knitting needles so that they flashed and clicked mid-air, producing more hats and scarves as she read through her friends' messy drafts.
A few friendly faces walked occasionally by during the morning: Dean and Neville, somewhat awkwardly bonding as the latter showed off the new encyclopaedia of plants that Ginny had recently gifted him; Hidiyah, whistling as she seemed to whittle a piece of wood in her hands with Luna (who swung around a bright blue, fluffy parasol) and then finally Parvati and Padma; they spoke in a mixed conversation of Bengali and English, laughing prettily as they gave small waves at trio while passing by. Hermione and Ron took it upon themselves to glare at the more frequent and less friendly but when the sun passed its peak, the day dipping into the early afternoon, they soon gave it up and stuffed their jackets in a cluster under a large, unearthed root. At one point—and though they did not wave—Ginny and Michael Corner eventually walked by, holding hands.
Ron glared openly at them from afar, even scrambling near the edge of where the dirt of the forest and the pebbled shore met, in a further attempt to see where they were going.
"Oh, stop! They're both within their rights," Hermione said. Her quill scratched against Harry's Charms essay so harshly, he was afraid the parchment would break.
"Go into the boathouse… I dare you, Corner…" Ron murmured darkly.
"They're taking a stroll!"
Ten minutes later, Evan came by as well, carrying a darkened canvas and easel underneath his arm. He seemed to shake with excitement—they heard his footsteps crashing against the pebbled beach first before taking note of the towering figure that had run toward the edge of the lake. When he looked back, catching sight of the trio, his face broke into that radiant smile, and he raced toward them with vigour, clearly about to shout a very cheerful "Hello!"
Thankfully though—and Harry's stomach jolted—a familiar hand pulled him from behind. Cedric and Evan had a small conversation before they made a slower passage to the other side of the shore. Polite smiles and non-committal head nods exchanged, they passed by uneventfully, though Harry did not miss when one particularly bashful smile flashed in his direction.
"… rry… Harry!"
"Hm?" he looked to see Hermione staring down at his lap, aghast: his quill having blotted a very large ink stain which obscured two and a half paragraphs of his dream journal, as well as leaking through to the denim of his worn jeans.
The dawn of the new week came, and Harry's eyes fluttered open almost immediately, catching the torches and fireplace as they came quietly alive within the room.
Despite an early chill and the usual tantalizing warmth emanating through his blankets, Harry hopped up almost at once. He did not lumber around but dressed and buttoned himself down swiftly, not even minding Seamus—who seemed surprised and made quite the clamour in trying to get away—and waking a groggy Ron himself.
Headed downstairs, Harry and Ron discussed the new strategy that Angelina had devised—aptly called the Sloth Grip Roll—while they each placed a palm on Hermione's shoulder, steering her clear of potential collisions and from falling off flights of unmatched stairs. Unsurprisingly, her nose was stuck in a hardcover book, eyes flitting left to right with great concentration. It was not until they were halfway across the sunlit entrance to the Great Hall, when she noticed a small group of people that had gathered by the large doors, all staring as a wiry figure affixed a large wooden frame along a long line of others to the wall. Hermione pressed the spine of her book in one hand.
"What do you think they're doing?" she asked, folding the corner of her page.
"Being bloody stupid, if he thinks that the torque on his broom will accommodate som… huh—?" Hermione grabbed her friends' chins and angled them toward the crowd— "Oh!"
Seemingly finished, Filch moved through the students with his usual glower, a rusted toolbox rattling by his side as they all pooled past him. Hermione shot forward and Ron and Harry gave chase, losing her in an instant and pushing through the crowd until they could catch those huge, dark letters decorating a parchment within the frame.
── BY THE ORDER OF ──
The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts
All Student Organizations, Societies, Teams, Groups, and Clubs are henceforth disbanded.
An Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club is hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more students.
Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge).
No Student Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club may exist without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor.
Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an Organization, Society, Team, Group or Club that has not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be expelled.
The above is in accordance with
Educational Decree Number Twenty-four
Signed:
Dolores Jane Umbridge
HIGH INQUISITOR
Harry and Ron read the notice over the heads of some anxious looking second-year Slytherins.
"Does this mean they're going to shut down the Gobstones Club?" one asked his friend.
"I reckon you'll be okay with Gobstones," said Ron darkly.
The second-years jumped at his dark tone though seemed relieved at the same time, hurrying away as more people came forward in curiosity. Ron meanwhile, turned toward Harry, knowing that they both bore the same dour faces.
"D'you feel lucky?" he asked.
Harry glanced the notice through again, the stride that had taken him through this morning draining through his chest. He could feel some startling thing kindle again, at the very centre; he felt the anger take root.
"No—" he swallowed, and his hands curled into fists; reality hit at him again, cold, and dashing his hopes in a curdle against the stone floor— "She knows."
Ron nodded, serious. He looked around him and began to pull Harry and himself aside, they walked to the very edge of the crowd, whispering.
"Let's think… there were people listening in that pub and let's face it, we don't know how many of the ones there for us were actually trustworthy…" Harry admitted. "So… any one of them could've easily run off and told Umbridge,"
"Zacharias Smith!" said Ron at once, punching a fist into his hand. "Or… you know, always thought that Michael Corner had a really shifty look about him, too—"
Ron stepped back. A figure tapped beside them.
"That may be a fair point, but I don't think we should point fingers so eagerly,"
"Cedric!" said Ron. "So, you've seen the—... Woah!"
Harry jumped; he turned around so abruptly that he felt his shoulder collide and strike; Cedric coughed once before he crumpled faintly behind them.
Ron jerked forward.
"A-Ah… er!"
Harry felt the heat in his chest let out like to the back of his neck, "S-Sorry…"
"Oi... What happened?
"Dunno, but it's pretty funny, isn't it?"
"Pff—!"
"… I think he's gonna be sick!"
A few third-years—close enough to the outskirts of where they stood—broke into giggling laughter before they speedily turned around, avoiding Harry's fixed and stark glare.
"I'm sorry," he said again, reaching toward Cedric. Ron let go of the hand that held his mouth.
"Blimey, Harry…"
"It was an accident. I didn't hurt you, did I?" he placed his hands onto Cedric's shoulders. "Badly, I mean…"
Cedric gave a weak laugh, eventually standing upright with a loose smile on his face.
"Good hit, but I'm fine, thank you," he said, nursing the apple of his throat. The cloudy sky broke and the morning's radiance flashed through the chamber's lofty windows, coasting in sparse but gentle beams; Cedric seemed drowsy in the sunlight, but he looked down at Harry with ease.
"Good morning, by the way," he added softly.
"Oh…" said Harry, faint. "Morning…"
"So!" with astonishing speed, Ron swiftly pulled both Harry and Cedric further from the crowd, leading to them to entrance of the Grand Staircase. "So… what? You don't think it was Corner or Smith that blabbed?"
Cedric yawned into his knuckles, shaking his head slowly.
"I can't be sure, but I don't think Corner would be so eager to rat us out… you're Ginny's friends and family, after all,"
Ron scoffed.
"And—" Cedric sighed— "as rough… as Zacharias is…"
"Ha!"
"He wouldn't have pulled so much attention to himself if he were going to do this in the first place. He's not thick,"
"Yeah, just foul-mouthed," muttered Ron. "And a little wea—… rat!"
"Ron's right, how could Umbridge know and put up a decree like that if someone like Zacharias didn't tell? What if we'd scared him off during the meeting?" Harry asked. Cedric seemed unconvinced.
"I just don't think we should start suspecting all those people we've allied with…"
"It's not all of them though, is it? We know which ones were less than happy about doing the whole thing!"
At that moment, Harry spotted Hermione squirming out of the crowd that grew beneath the new decree; she stalked toward them with her arms straight and her face set in impenetrable stone.
"We've all seen it then?" she said, joining their circle.
"Yeah! Someone must have blabbed!" Ron said, angrily. Cedric shook his head again.
"Not necessarily!"
"No. They can't have done," Hermione agreed.
"Thank you."
Ron took a deep breath, "Just because you both are all honourable and trustworthy and stuff, doesn't stand for—"
"No, they can't have done because I put a jinx on the piece of parchment that we all signed," said Hermione, grimly. "Believe me, if anyone's run off and told Umbridge, we'd know exactly who they are,"
She folded her arms, staring out to the crowd as Harry, Cedric, and Ron all in turn stared quietly down at her.
"Oh… right then," said Cedric. Ron gaped.
"You HEXED THE—"
Hermione shoved her book against his face, "Volume, Ron!"
"OW!"
Harry slung an arm around Hermione and Ron's necks.
"Alright! Alright! So, it wasn't someone from our study group—" he lowered his voice as a group of sixth-year Hufflepuffs walked by— "there were still loads of people at that pub that could've told, like the man with the bandages, and… the veiled witch! I told you! Any one of them could've—"
"I know," said Hermione, pained. She took the book back into her arms and mumbled as Ron rubbed a red spot between his brow, "Sorry."
"Well, we're not going to find anything out by standing around here," Cedric said. "We should get to the Hall… see what others think,"
"Alright,"
They set off toward the Great Hall, the entrance chamber echoing around them with cries of indignation and dismay. As Harry glanced around, he could see more and more people in their own ways distraught and nervous, in particular, he saw what he assumed to be the captain (captain?) of the Slugs and Bugs Club in deep discussion with their other peers, noting that Professor Sinistra looked quite anxious as she swept past entrance too. There were a number of students that he recognized from the Gobstones, Herbology, Astronomy, and Ancient Runes Club, that looked tensely about themselves in the chamber, and it suddenly seemed plain as day that Umbridge's decree was of great importance, not just for him but the rest of the school. His anger settled a little deeper, then: it dropped in a sensation at the bottom of his throat, similar to metal rakes dragging the ocean floor. Once they crossed the threshold of the doors, Harry felt sensitive to the peculiar intensity about the chatter this morning, alongside the extra measure of movement as people scurried up and down in the Hall, conferring on what they had read. It was also here, where Cedric decided to split off.
"I'll take my leave." he said, "We can't have a bunch of us coming together like every other club right now, so—"
Hermione nodded, "We ought to regroup once we know what's going on…"
"I agree. I'll try and find out as much as I can, but we should focus and figure out details of the meetings soon. It won't get any easier getting everyone together like you did in the weekend…"
"Be careful," said Harry. The nerves that flitted about him earlier had gone, and there stood a graver sense in the light of his eyes that he could not say aloud.
Cedric looked down at him. He understood.
Last time.
"You should be careful too..." he said, his brow curved. "All of you,"
You, especially.
"Thank you, Cedric,"
"Get us a message, soon as something happens!"
"It'll be alright," he smiled, reassuringly. He seemed to look in Harry's direction distinctly when he made the remark, hands held behind his back. "Take care now, I'll be seeing you,"
"Yeah," Harry nodded. "See you,"
They departed then, splitting to the different clusters of tables within the Great Hall. Harry felt a new sensation—more akin now to the buzzing of dragonfly wings—rise up to the top of his chest and wondered whether it was the strange energy in the Hall that affected him, or the notion that this bode only more things afoot in their near horizon.
"At least they aren't talking about you anymore…" Ron mumbled, suddenly. It was true, and his friends almost laughed dryly: the air felt laden with a new noise and murmur and for once, Harry felt certain that he was finally like everybody else amongst the crowd.
"Might want to get used to this,"
They managed to secure a free table in the very middle of the Gryffindor row, having barely taken their seats when Neville, Dean, Fred, George, and Ginny descended upon them.
"Did you see it?" Ginny said, looking slightly peeved off herself.
"D'you reckon she knows?" said Fred and George simultaneously.
"What are we going to do!" Neville wailed. "She's on the verge of shutting down the Herbology Club too!"
They leaned low against the table, all looking toward Harry.
He glanced around, making sure that there were no teachers near them.
"We are going to do it anyway," he said quietly.
"Knew you'd say that!" said George, beaming and thumping Harry on the arm.
"The prefects as well?" said Fred, peering at Ron and Hermione.
"Of course," said Hermione coolly. She whacked Fred with her morning paper as he whistled in disbelief.
"Here comes Ernie and Hannah Abbott," said Ron, looking over his shoulder. "And those Ravenclaw blokes and Smith—… Hermione, what are we supposed to be looking for, if they've betrayed us?"
"Spots,"
"Spots?" said George, quizzically.
"B-Betrayed us?" Neville stammered.
Ron ignored George and gave Neville a heartening expression.
"Don't worry mate. No one looks unusually spotty..." he said.
Hermione gazed up from her paper, alarmed, "Never mind spots, those idiots can't come over here now! It'll look really suspicious if… sit down!" she mouthed to Ernie and Hannah, gesturing frantically to them to rejoin the Hufflepuff table. "Later! We'll—talk—to—you—later—… oh! Cedric's grabbed them."
"I'll go tell Michael," said Ginny impatiently, swinging herself off her bench. "The fool, honestly..."
She hurried off toward the Ravenclaw table, and Harry watched her go, his eyes catching sight of Cho and Marietta who were not too far away from Michael and his friends, though neither group looked particularly spotty.
"I hope this doesn't scare them away…" Hermione said, suddenly. For the first time, Harry heard unease distilled in her quiet voice and he glanced over, following her line of sight until he could make out a hunched over Hannah Abbott, looking doubly more nervous than usual amongst the Hufflepuffs.
"I hope it doesn't either, Hermione," Harry said, but he spoke too soon.
Half an hour later, they heard someone yelling at them as they left the Great Hall and walked toward their History of Magic lesson.
"Harry! Ron!"
Angelina dashed forward, kicking up leaves in the courtyard which stuck to her knee-length socks, as she looked perfectly desperate.
"It's okay," said Harry quietly, when she was near enough to hear him. "We're still going to—"
"You realize she's including Quidditch in this?" Angelina said over him. "We have to go and ask permission to re-form the Gryffindor team!"
"What?"
"No!" said Ron, so appalled, his eyes widened to the size of gobstones.
"You read the sign; it mentions 'teams' too! So, listen, Harry… I'm saying this for the last time... Please, please don't lose your temper with Umbridge again! I'm afraid she might not let us play anymore!"
"Okay, okay," said Harry hastily, for Angelina looked as though she was on the verge of tears. "I'll behave myself..."
At this point, their quidditch captain left, looking like she had not been eased at all. Ron clutched tightly to the strap of his bag.
"Bet Umbridge is in History of Magic," he declared, as they set off for Binns's lesson. "She hasn't inspected Binns yet... bet you anything, that she's there..."
But he was wrong; the only teacher present when they entered their usual class was the ghostly figure of Professor Binns, floating an inch or so above his chair, and preparing to continue his monotonous lecture about the Giant Wars.
During the hour, Harry did not even attempt to follow what Binns said, instead scribbling on a piece of the new parchment that Hermione had given him in an effort to circumvent his new frustrations. He planned out the very first meeting, steeling himself to do it no matter how little people would turn up and ignoring Hermione's frequent glares and nudges, until a particularly painful poke in the ribs made him look up at her angrily.
"What?" he hissed.
She pointed at the window.
Through the tinted panes, Hedwig perched herself on the narrow window ledge, gazing through the thick glass at him. She did a funny dance where she would raise her leg as high as she could before eventually losing balance, and Harry realized that a letter had been tied above her claws. He felt confused; they had just had breakfast, why on earth hadn't she delivered the letter then, as usual? However, he had little time to ponder the question as by now, many of his classmates were pointing out Hedwig to each other too.
"Oh, I've always loved that owl… she's so beautiful," Harry heard Lavender sigh to Parvati.
He glanced around at Professor Binns who continued to read his notes, serenely unaware that the class's attention was even less focused upon him than usual. Harry then slipped quietly off his chair, crouched down, and hurried along the row to the window, where he slid the catch and opened it very slowly. He expected Hedwig to hold out her leg as usual so she could fly off to the Owlery, but the moment the window was open wide enough she hopped inside, hooting dolefully.
Crouched low again, he closed the window with an anxious glance at Professor Binns and sped back to his seat with Hedwig on his shoulder. He regained his seat, transferred Hedwig to his lap, and made to remove the letter tied to her leg. He gasped.
"She's hurt!" Harry whispered, bending his head low over her. Hermione and Ron leaned in closer; Hermione even put down her quill. "Look—there's something wrong with her wing—"
Hedwig quivered with her feathers oddly ruffled; some were bent the wrong way, and she was holding one of her wings at an odd angle. When Harry made to touch the wing, she gave a little jump; all her feathers lifted straight like quills on a porcupine as she inflated, gazing at Harry reproachfully.
"Professor Binns," said Harry suddenly, and everyone in the class turned to look at him. "I'm not feeling well."
Professor Binns raised his eyes from his notes, looking amazed, as always, to find the room in front of him full of people.
"Not feeling well?" he repeated hazily.
"Not at all well," said Harry firmly, getting to his feet while concealing Hedwig behind his back. "I think I'll need to go to the hospital wing."
"Yes," said Professor Binns, clearly caught off-guard. "Yes... yes, hospital wing... well, off you go then, Perkins..."
Harry grabbed his bag and closed the door quietly behind him. Once outside, he cradled Hedwig near his chest and sped up the corridor, pausing to think only when he was out of sight of Binn's door.
Hagrid! Hagrid can…! but, no…
"He isn't here…" he muttered.
Cedric, then! Cedric could heal me, so maybe he could… but he's…
"And I don't know where…"
Harry's mind whirred as he rushed through the corridors, thoughts all blending into one large mess as he murmured under his breath, peering out of a window at how the day turned blustery, tinfoil clouds and shadows of rain overcast on the castle's grounds. Hagrid's cabin caught his eye, empty and devoid of any groups of students or stout figures—Hagrid or no—waving at them. Making his decision then, Harry set off downstairs, Hedwig hooting feebly as the lids of her eyes dipped slowly down.
"Stay awake now, it won't be long til we get you help…" he whispered, pressing his nose to her feathery head. Eventually, they made it to the extraordinarily ordinary wooden staffroom door, where the two stone gargoyles that flanked each side, turned to regard Harry.
As he approached, one of them croaked in a voice that sounded like falling pebbles. "Ye should be in class, lad."
"This is urgent," said Harry, in distress.
"Ooooh, urgent, is it?" said the other gargoyle, his voice rang like the grating of stone. "Well, that's put us in our place now, hasn't it?"
Harry made a frustrated groan and knocked, ignoring them.
He heard footsteps advance before the door opened and found himself face-to-face with Professor McGonagall in her signature emerald robes.
"Don't say we didn't warn ye…" said the first gargoyle, serenely.
"You haven't been given another detention!" she said, her square spectacles flashing alarmingly.
"No, Professor!" said Harry hastily.
"Why then, are you out of class?" said McGonagall, interrupting.
"It's urgent, apparently," said the second gargoyle snidely.
"Hush, Rovias—"
"I'm looking for Professor Grubbly-Plank," Harry explained. "It's my owl; she's injured."
"Injured!" chimed McGonagall.
"She came by my class with Binns looking wounded, I don't know how…"
"That is Professor Binns, Potter—"
"Wounded owl, did you say?" Professor Grubbly-Plank appeared suddenly behind Professor McGonagall's shoulder, smoking a pipe and holding a copy of some magazine.
"Yes," said Harry, lifting Hedwig carefully off his shoulder. "She turned up after the other post owls, and her wing's all funny, look—"
McGonagall stepped aside, allowing Professor Grubbly-Plank—who stuck her pipe firmly between her teeth—to take Hedwig from Harry, while she and Cedric watched from the doorway.
"Hmm," said Professor Grubbly-Plank, her pipe waggling slightly as she talked. "Looks like something's attacked her. Can't think what would have done it, though... Thestrals will sometimes go for birds, of course, but Hagrid's got the Hogwarts thestrals well trained not to touch owls..."
Harry neither knew nor cared what thestrals were, simply wanting to know that Hedwig was going to be all right. Professor McGonagall looked sharply at him.
"Do you know how far this owl has travelled, Potter?"
Harry hesitated.
"From London, I think."
He met her eyes briefly and knew that she understood 'London' to mean 'number twelve, Grimmauld Place' by the way her eyebrows had joined in the middle. Seemingly oblivious, Professor Grubbly-Plank pulled a monocle out of the inside of her robes and screwed it into her eye to examine Hedwig's wing closely.
"I should be able to sort this out if you leave her with me, Potter," she said. "She shouldn't be flying long distances for a few days, in any case."
"Thank you…" said Harry breathlessly—it had just hit him, exactly how long he had been running—just as the bell rang for break.
"No problem," said Professor Grubbly-Plank gruffly, turning back into the staffroom.
"Just a moment, Wilhelmina!" said Professor McGonagall. "Potter's letter!"
"Oh yeah!" said Harry, who had momentarily forgotten the scroll tied to Hedwig's leg. Professor Grubbly-Plank handed it over and then disappeared into the staffroom carrying Hedwig, who stared at Harry as though unable to believe he would give her away like this.
Feeling slightly guilty, he was just about to turn and leave until Professor McGonagall called him to attention, "Potter!"
"Yes, Professor?"
She glanced up and down the corridor; there were students coming from both directions.
"Bear in mind," she said quickly and quietly, her eyes on the scroll in his hand, "that channels of communication in and out of Hogwarts may be being watched, won't you?"
"I—" said Harry, but the flood of students tearing along the corridor were almost upon him. Professor McGonagall only gave him a curt nod and retreated into the staffroom.
Without a moment's notice, the current of bodily traffic swept Harry rapidly along, whirling him through the corridors, pushed on by other students rushing off to class. Escaping the blustery day, he hurried to a sheltered corner of a hallway where Hermione and Ron already stood, waiting; they had turned up their cloak collars against the wind.
"Is everything okay? What happened?" said Hermione, her hair bounced and blew astray by the wind.
"I'll explain soon," said Harry, hastily, "but can you two keep an eye out, first?"
He promptly opened the scroll that had been tied to Hedwig's leg, while Ron and Hermione watched their surroundings. On the scroll were five words, written in Sirius's handwriting:
Today, same time. Same place.
Despite himself, Harry couldn't help a small kick of joy.
"Alright," Harry screwed the parchment inside his pockets, "it says he wants to meet."
Without Ron and Hermione nodded, understanding right away.
"Hedwig's fine. Grubbly-Plank is looking after her," said Harry, watching as Hermione tried to tie up her hair. "And I met McGonagall too, listen..."
He told them what Professor McGonagall had said, and to his surprise, neither of the others looked shocked; on the contrary, they exchanged significant looks.
"What?" said Harry, looking from Ron to Hermione and then back again.
"Well, I was just saying to Ron... what if someone had tried to intercept Hedwig? I mean, she's never been hurt on a flight before, has she? And if there's nothing at Hogwarts that could hurt her..."
"You think Umbridge was the one behind her injury?"
"Don't think anybody else would care about student mail like that," Ron said. Hermione nodded, looking uneasy.
"I just hope nobody else has read it…"
"It was still sealed and everything," said Harry, trying to convince himself as much as her. "Nobody'd understand what it meant if they didn't know where we'd spoken to him before, would they?"
"I'm not sure," said Hermione anxiously, hitching her bag back over her shoulder as the bell rang again. "It wouldn't be exactly difficult to reseal the scroll by magic, and if anyone's watching the Floo Network... but, I don't really see how we can warn him not to come without that being intercepted too!"
Harry shrugged, out of answers. They made their way downstairs towards the dungeons for Potions, all lost in various thought as they trudged down a stairwell into the familiar dim, black-stone corridor. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, they were recalled to themselves by the voice of one Draco Malfoy, who stood just outside Snape's classroom door, waving around an official-looking piece of parchment and talking much louder than necessary so that they could hear every word.
"Yeah, Umbridge gave the Slytherin Quidditch team permission to continue playing straightaway; I went to ask her first thing this morning. It was pretty much automatic, I mean, she knows my father really well—he's always popping in and out of the Ministry—but it'll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor can keep playing, won't it?"
"Don't rise," Hermione whispered imploringly to Harry and Ron, who were both watching Malfoy, faces set and fists clenched. "It's what he wants!"
"I don't think she'll mind if houses if the other houses go on to play, I mean, I doubt a team like Hufflepuff could make much difference anyway… but we all know—" Malfoy paused slightly, as if making sure that they were listening in as he raised his voice a little higher, gray eyes glittering malevolently in their direction— "we all know that if the decree is a question of influence with the Ministry, I don't think they've got much chance anyways… From what my father says, they've been looking for an excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years... and as for Potter and Diggory... my father says it's a matter of time before the Ministry has them carted off to St. Mungo's... apparently they've got a special ward for people whose brains have been addled by magic…"
Malfoy made a grotesque face, his mouth sagging open and his eyes rolling, and Crabbe and Goyle gave their usual grunts of laughter, Pansy Parkinson shrieking with absolute glee. Held back by Hermione—as she had physically seized their wrists—Harry could do nothing but bite down and hope his teeth would break in retaliation; however, something collided hard with his shoulder, knocking him sideways.
A split second later he realized that Neville had just charged past him, heading straight for Malfoy.
"Hey! Neville!"
Harry leapt forward and seized the back of Neville's robes, sending him in a frantic struggle with his fists flailing; he tried desperately to get at Malfoy who looked, for a moment, extremely shocked.
"Help me!" Harry cried.
Ron flung forward, managing to get an arm around Neville's neck as he and Harry managed to drag him backward, away from the Slytherins. Crabbe and Goyle were now flexing their arms, closing in front of Malfoy, ready for the fight. Hermione then hurried forward and seized Neville's arms; together, she, Harry, and Ron succeeded in dragging Neville back into the Gryffindor line. Struggling, Neville's face sunk into a deep scarlet, the pressure that Ron exerted on his throat rendered him quite incomprehensible, but odd sets of words spluttered still from his trembling mouth.
"Not… funny—! Don't... Mungo's… show him—!"
The dungeon door slammed open with Snape standing at the doorway. His dark eyes swept upon the Gryffindor line until he could make out Harry, Ron, and Hermione wrestling with Neville.
"Fighting, Potter, Weasley, Longbottom?" Snape strode through the corridor, long black robes streaking behind him. "Ah, and Miss Granger... ten points from Gryffindor. Release Longbottom now, or it will be detention."
He walked to the front of class, standing in the doorway again, "Inside now, all of you."
As their classmates awkwardly shifted past them, Harry let go of Neville, who stood panting and glaring at him.
"I had to stop you," he said, immediately. "Crabbe and Goyle would've torn you apart!"
Neville's glare held and he continued to say nothing, snatching up his bag and stalking off into the dungeon.
"What in the name of Merlin—" said Ron slowly, as he grabbed his own bag— "was that about?"
Harry did not answer. He knew exactly why the subject of the people in St. Mungo's due to magical damage to their brains was highly distressing to Neville, but he had sworn to Dumbledore that he would not tell anyone Neville's secret.
Even Neville did not know that Harry knew.
"All people have a line," he said, running his fingers through his hair. He made sure to hide his scar.
"Remind me not to cross Neville's then,"
Hermione frowned, "Ron…"
"It was bloody scary! Charging in like that—he came out of nowhere!"
"Leave him alone," Harry said, sternly. "We ought to get to class,"
And without waiting for his friends to follow, he threw his bag behind him and marched heavily through Snape's iron-pewter door.
In that late morning, Harry found his Potions class as eventful as it could be with Umbridge skulking about the room. During the lesson, his attempt at a Strengthening Solution bubbled foully in his cauldron, leading Snape to give him more homework on top of everything else he had set for the week. If it weren't for the one snide exchange Umbridge had with him—Harry would've wholly forgotten that he had woken up rather well that morning.
"You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?" Professor Umbridge asked Snape.
"Yes," said Snape quietly.
"But you were unsuccessful?"
Snape's lip curled.
"Obviously."
"Despite having applied so many times, this doesn't… bother you?"
"I am completely content in my position as Potions Master," said Snape, lying through his teeth.
"Hm..." Umbridge made a very obvious cross on her checkboard.
Half an hour later—despite talking about skiving off Divination to do all his work— Harry took his seat in the hot, over-perfumed atmosphere of the Divination classroom, instantly regretting the fact that Hermione had convinced him to do this; surely, he would be much better employed doing Snape's punishment essay, rather than sitting here trying to find meaning in his (often made-up) dreams. However, it seemed that he was not the only person in the class with a rotten temper.
Sharp footsteps penetrated the north tower's usual serenity, with Professor Trelawney slamming a copy of The Oracle down on the table between Harry and Ron before she swept away, lips pursed; she threw the next copy of the Oracle at Seamus and Dean, narrowly avoiding Seamus's head, and thrust the final one into Neville's chest with such force that he slipped off his pouf.
"Well...? Carry on!" said Professor Trelawney loudly, her voice high pitched and somewhat hysterical. "You know what to do! Or am I such a substandard teacher that you all have never learned how to open a book?!"
The class stared perplexedly at her and then at each other. Harry—in a moment of clarity that felt odd even to himself—thought he knew the heart of the matter, however.
As Professor Trelawney flounced back to the high-backed teacher's chair, her magnified eyes full of angry tears, he leaned his head closer to Ron's and muttered, "I think she's got the results of her inspection back…"
"Professor?" said Parvati Patil in a hushed voice (she and Lavender had always rather admired Professor Trelawney). "Professor, is there anything—er—wrong?"
"Wrong!" cried Professor Trelawney in a voice throbbing with emotion. "Certainly not! I have been insulted, absolutely… Insinuations have been made against me... unfounded accusations levelled… but no, there is nothing wrong, certainly not…"
She took a great shuddering breath and looked away from Parvati, angry tears spilling from under her glasses.
"Sixteen years of devoted service—" she choked— "have passed, apparently, unnoticed... But I shall not be insulted, no, I shall not!"
"Professor, who's insulting you?" asked Lavender timidly.
"The establishment!" said Professor Trelawney in a deep, dramatic, wavering voice. "Yes, those with eyes too clouded by the Mundane to See as I See; to Know as I Know… But of course, we Seers have always been feared, always persecuted… Alas, it is our fate…"
She gulped, dabbed at her wet cheeks with the end of her shawl and then pulled a small, embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve, into which she blew her nose ridiculously hard: it sounded like Peeves when he blew a raspberry. Ron snickered. Lavender shot him a disgusted look.
"Professor," said Parvati, "do you mean... is it something Professor Umbridge—"
"Do not speak to me about that woman!" cried Professor Trelawney, leaping to her feet, her beads rattling and her spectacles flashing. "Kindly continue with your work!"
And she spent the rest of the lesson striding among them, tears still leaking from behind her glasses, muttering what sounded like threats under her breath, "…may well choose to leave… the indignity of it… on probation… we shall see… how she dares…"
"You and Umbridge have got something in common," Harry told Hermione quietly, when they met again in Defense Against the Dark Arts. The day had grown worse, the clouds thickening to darken so much that the castle's torches, candles, and lanterns had ignited before sunset. "She obviously reckons Trelawney's an old fraud too… Looks like she's put her on probation."
Umbridge entered the room as he spoke, wearing a black velvet bow that looked off from the rest of her pink, and an expression of great smugness.
"Good afternoon, class."
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," they chanted drearily.
"Wands away, please…"
But there was no answer of flurrying movement, in fact, there had not been such a thing in a long time.
Nobody had bothered to take out their wands.
"Please turn to page thirty-four of Defensive Magical Theory and read the third chapter, entitled 'The Case for Non-Offensive Responses to Magical Attack.' There will be—"
"—no need to talk," Harry, Ron, and Hermione said together under their breaths.
"No Quidditch practice tonight," said Angelina in hollow tones when Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the common room after dinner.
"But I kept my temper!" said Harry, horrified. "I didn't say anything to her, Angelina, I swear, I—"
"I know, I know," said Angelina miserably. "She just said she needed a bit of time to consider."
"Consider what?" said Ron angrily. "She's given the Slytherins permission, why not us?"
But Harry could imagine how much Umbridge could enjoy holding the threat of no Gryffindor Quidditch team over their heads; it was easy to understand why she would not want to relinquish that weapon over them any time soon.
"Well," said Hermione, "look on the bright side... at least now you'll have time to do Snape's essay!"
"That's a bright side, is it?" Harry retorted, dumping his bag down with such force while Ron stared incredulously at Hermione. "No Quidditch practice and extra Potions?"
"I'm just trying to—"
"I know," he slumped down into a chair, dragged his Potions essay reluctantly from his bag, and set to work as Hermione and Ron also settled down around him.
Harry found it extremely hard to concentrate that evening, for any and all reasons that one could think of. Even though he knew that Sirius was not due in the fire until much later, Harry could not help but glance into the flames every few minutes, just in case. An incredible amount of noise also destroyed any reminiscent of his concentration: Fred and George appeared to have finally perfected one type of the Skiving Snackbox, which they were taking turns to demonstrate in front of a cheering and whooping crowd on the other side of the common room. In their makeshift 'show', the twins took turns biting the orange end of a plastic-looking chew before they would spectacularly vomit into a metal bucket, finally curing themselves by forcing the purple end into their mouth. Off to the side, Lee lazily assisted with the demonstration, casting the Vanishing spell on the bucket but not before the audience could witness its... contents.
With the steady sounds of retching, cheering, as well as Fred and George taking advance orders from the crowd: Harry found it exceptionally difficult to write about the correct method for Strengthening Solutions. Hermione was not helping matters either; the cheers and sound of vomit hitting the bottom of Fred and George's bucket were punctuated by loud and disapproving sniffs that Harry found, if anything, more distracting.
"Just go and stop them!" he said irritably, after crossing out the wrong weight of a powdered griffin claw for the fourth time.
"I can't, they're not technically doing anything wrong," said Hermione through gritted teeth. "They're quite within their rights to eat the foul things themselves, and I can't find a rule that says the other idiots aren't entitled to buy them, not unless they're proven to be dangerous in some way, and it doesn't look as though they are…"
She, Harry, and Ron watched George projectile-vomit into the bucket, gulp down the rest of the chew, and straighten up, beaming with his arms wide to protracted applause.
"They must really know their stuff then," said Harry, watching as Fred, George, and Lee collected gold from the eager crowd.
"Oh, they only know flashy things that's no real use to anyone," said Hermione disparagingly.
"No real use?" said Ron in a strained voice. "Hermione, they've got about twenty-six Galleons already…"
It was a long while before the crowd around the Weasleys dispersed, and then Fred, Lee, and George, sat up counting their takings which took much, much longer. Eventually, Fred closed the doorway to the boys' dormitories behind him, rattling his box of Galleons ostentatiously so that Hermione scowled, and Harry—who made truly little progress with his Potions essay—decided that he would be allowed to give up for the night.
The clock struck well past midnight when Harry, Ron, and Hermione finally had the common room to themselves again. They were all in various of tire and ache and Hermione, who yawned consistently every five minutes, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
"He won't appear faster if you stare into the flames, I think," she said, watching as Harry inched closer to the fireplace for a third time.
"I might hope," Harry replied. He put his books away, shoving them into his bag while his socks lay close enough to catch flame. A dozing Ron gave a muffled grunt in his armchair, waking suddenly, and staring blearily into the fireplace.
"… Sirius?" he asked.
Harry whipped around; with a low rumble and the turning flash of flame, Sirius's untidy and dark head sat upon the fire again.
"Hello again," he said, grinning.
"Sirius!"
"Hello!"
"Good evening,"
Harry, Ron, and Hermione scrambled to the floor, all three kneeling upon the hearthrug. Crookshanks purred loudly and approached the fire, trying, despite the heat, to put his face close to Sirius's.
"How're things?" said Sirius, he seemed to notice Crookshanks and nuzzled toward him, acting as if he were actually there.
"Not that good," said Harry. Hermione pulled Crookshanks back to stop him singeing his whiskers. "The Ministry's forced through another decree, which means we're not allowed to have Quidditch teams—"
"—or secret Defense Against the Dark Arts groups?" Sirius suggested. The three Gryffindors stared back at him in disbelief.
"How did you know about that?" Harry demanded, after a short pause.
"You want to choose your meeting places more carefully," said Sirius, still grinning broadly. "The Hog's Head? Now, of all the places to rebel…"
"Well, it was better than the Three Broomsticks!" said Hermione defensively. "That's always packed with people—"
"—which would mean that you'd have been harder to overhear," said Sirius, patiently. "You've much to learn, Hermione,"
Before she could answer, Harry interjected.
"Who overheard us?"
"Mundungus, of course," said Sirius, and when they all looked puzzled, he laughed. "He was the witch under the veil."
"That was Mundungus?" Harry said, stunned. "What was he doing in the Hog's Head?"
"Keeping an eye on you, obviously,"
Harry sighed, "I'm still being followed?"
"Yes, yes you are," said Sirius, "and just as well, isn't it? If the first thing you're going to do on your weekend off, is organize an illegal defense group,"
But he looked neither angry nor worried; on the contrary, he looked at Harry with the vaguest distinction of pride.
"Why was Dung hiding from us?" asked Ron, sounding disappointed. "We'd've liked to see him."
"He was banned from the Hog's Head twenty years ago," said Sirius, "and that barman's got a long memory. We lost Moody's spare Invisibility Cloak when Sturgis was arrested, so Dung's been dressing as a witch a lot lately... but, to get to more pressing matters... First of all, Ron—I've sworn to pass on a message from your mother."
"Oh yeah?" said Ron, sounding apprehensive.
"She says on no account whatsoever are you to take part in an illegal secret Defense Against the Dark Arts group. She says that you'll be expelled—and I quote—'for sure', and that your future will be ruined. She says there will be plenty of time to learn how to defend yourself later and that you are too young to be worrying about that right now. She also—" and Sirius's eyes turned to the other two— "advises Harry and Hermione not to proceed with the group, though she accepts that she has no authority over either of them and simply begs them to remember that she has your best interests at heart. In any case, she would have written all this to you, but if the owl had been intercepted, you'd all have been in real trouble, and she can't say it for herself because she's on duty tonight."
"On duty doing what?" said Ron briskly.
"Never you mind, just stuff for the Order," said Sirius. "So, it's fallen to me to be the messenger. Make sure you tell her that I passed it all on, because I don't think she trusts me to."
There was another pause in which Crookshanks, mewing, attempted to paw Sirius's head, and Ron fiddled with a hole in the hearthrug.
"So, you want me to say... that I'm not going to take part in the defense group?" he muttered finally.
"Me? Certainly not!" said Sirius, looking surprised. "I think it's an excellent idea!"
"… You do?" said Harry, his heart lifting.
"Of course, I do!" said Sirius. "D'you think your father and I would've lain down and taken orders from an old hag like Umbridge?"
"But… last year all you did was tell me to be careful and not take risks—"
"Last year all the evidence indicated that someone inside Hogwarts was trying to kill you, Harry!" said Sirius impatiently. "This year we know that there's someone outside Hogwarts who'd like to kill us all, so I think learning to defend yourselves properly is a very good idea!"
"And if we do get expelled?" Hermione asked, a quizzical look on her face.
"This whole thing was your idea, Hermione!" said Harry, staring at her.
"I know it is... I just wondered what Sirius thought," she said, shrugging.
"Better expelled and able to defend yourselves than sitting safely in school without a clue," said Sirius.
"That's what Cedric said…"
"Hear, hear," said Ron enthusiastically.
"So," said Sirius, "how are you organizing this group? Where are you meeting?"
"That's a bit of a problem actually," said Harry. "We can't figure out where we're going to be able to go..."
"How about the Shrieking Shack?" suggested Sirius.
"Hey, that's an idea!" said Ron excitedly, but Hermione made a skeptical noise and all three of them looked at her, Sirius's head turning in the flames.
"Well, Sirius, it's just that there were only four of you meeting in the Shrieking Shack when you were at school," said Hermione, "and all of you could transform into animals and I suppose you could all have squeezed under a single Invisibility Cloak if you'd wanted to. But there are twenty-eight of us and none of us is an Animagus, so we wouldn't need so much an Invisibility Cloak as an Invisibility Marquee—"
"Fair point," said Sirius, looking slightly crestfallen. "Well, I'm sure you'll come up with somewhere... There used to be a pretty roomy secret passageway behind that big mirror on the fourth floor, you might have enough space to practice jinxes in there—"
"Fred and George told me it's blocked," said Harry, shaking his head. "Caved in or something."
"Oh…" said Sirius, frowning. "Well, I'll have a think and get back to you, then… ah!"
A thought struck him, and he turned to look at Harry, hair roiling in flame.
"You mentioned Cedric earlier… I hear that he'll be leading from the front alongside you, Harry?"
"Yes, he's teaching the others as well,"
"Wonderful! How is he, if I might ask?"
It was difficult to gage his expression with the embers of the fire sparking upward, and the flame churning in the shape of his face like molten lava... but Harry felt quite certain that there was the vaguest notion of a playful smile on Sirius's face.
"Er… he's fine?"
"Fine, eh?"
Harry brow furrowed, "Yeah… he's doing alright,"
"Well, do send him my regards. I hope that the book I gave him earlier can lend some help toward you all in some—"
He broke off. His face suddenly tensed, alarmed as he turned sideways, looking into the solid brick wall of the fireplace.
"Sirius?" said Harry anxiously. But he had vanished. Harry gaped at the flames for a moment, then turned to look at Ron and Hermione.
"Why did he—?"
Hermione gave a horrified gasp and leapt to her feet, still staring at the fire.
A hand had appeared amongst the flames, groping as though to catch hold of something; a stubby, short-fingered hand covered in ugly, old-fashioned rings...
The three of them ran for it, taking their bags and dragging themselves in rapid, long strides out of the way. At the door of the boys' dormitory, Harry looked back. Umbridge's hand still made snatching movements amongst the flames, the shape of her nails made monstrously sharp by the movement of the fire; she dragged through the coals and ashes, scraping at the brickwork violently.
As though she knew exactly where Sirius's hair had been moments before.
As though she was determined to seize it.
