The sixth year.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry seemed to bear an unsurprising tightening of security, after the incident with the Ministry of Magic last year. The doors were, once again, taught by Professor Flitwick to keep anyone that's not faculty or student out. The students were told that they go nowhere alone. Not even for an afternoon pee. Filch the caretaker was given a special weapon, the Muggle police use it. It's called a baton. Basically, instead of magic to protect himself, (and the students, but the faculty wouldn't put it past him to neglect that) Filch can just whack- attack the intruder.
Even the school pets were trained. Owls were taught to dive-bomb. Cats were skilled at sinking their razor-sharp claws into a prowler's feet. Lizards and rats were able to trip one up if they needed to. It seemed as though everyone was safe. Everyone was aware of the danger...
But, no. The Minister of Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge, still did not believe that Lord Voldemort was, in fact, back. Perhaps it was fear? Perhaps it was stubbornness? Perhaps he was just being the sore-loser that he always has been. Either way, he didn't believe. The Daily Prophet had been having fun days with this. Rumors of all sorts ("You-Know-Who is reincarnated as Muggle American, Opera Winfrey!") and all colours ("He-Who- Must-Not-Be-Named is back! Beware the man who wears bright blue trousers and a lime green overcoat!") were sprouting up all over Britain. Some even reached as far as Bulgaria, India and France!
Although, with all of the doubt, there were still those who know what they saw. Who are hurt by it... Who are haunted by it... Who are scarred by it.
In the Dursley house –
"Um... No, Aunt Petunia. I don't know how to make eggs over easy," Harry lied to get out of cooking again. "You most certainly do to!" cried Aunt Petunia back. She had personally taught him.
The atmosphere was much the same as always in the Dursley home. Uncle Vernon was gardening, Aunt Petunia was yelling, Dudley was eating, and Harry was being miserable. It was possibly the worst summer he'd ever spent with the Dursleys yet. He had to live with the prospect of coming to live with Sirius being ripped out of him by death.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry seemed to bear an unsurprising tightening of security, after the incident with the Ministry of Magic last year. The doors were, once again, taught by Professor Flitwick to keep anyone that's not faculty or student out. The students were told that they go nowhere alone. Not even for an afternoon pee. Filch the caretaker was given a special weapon, the Muggle police use it. It's called a baton. Basically, instead of magic to protect himself, (and the students, but the faculty wouldn't put it past him to neglect that) Filch can just whack- attack the intruder.
Even the school pets were trained. Owls were taught to dive-bomb. Cats were skilled at sinking their razor-sharp claws into a prowler's feet. Lizards and rats were able to trip one up if they needed to. It seemed as though everyone was safe. Everyone was aware of the danger...
But, no. The Minister of Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge, still did not believe that Lord Voldemort was, in fact, back. Perhaps it was fear? Perhaps it was stubbornness? Perhaps he was just being the sore-loser that he always has been. Either way, he didn't believe. The Daily Prophet had been having fun days with this. Rumors of all sorts ("You-Know-Who is reincarnated as Muggle American, Opera Winfrey!") and all colours ("He-Who- Must-Not-Be-Named is back! Beware the man who wears bright blue trousers and a lime green overcoat!") were sprouting up all over Britain. Some even reached as far as Bulgaria, India and France!
Although, with all of the doubt, there were still those who know what they saw. Who are hurt by it... Who are haunted by it... Who are scarred by it.
In the Dursley house –
"Um... No, Aunt Petunia. I don't know how to make eggs over easy," Harry lied to get out of cooking again. "You most certainly do to!" cried Aunt Petunia back. She had personally taught him.
The atmosphere was much the same as always in the Dursley home. Uncle Vernon was gardening, Aunt Petunia was yelling, Dudley was eating, and Harry was being miserable. It was possibly the worst summer he'd ever spent with the Dursleys yet. He had to live with the prospect of coming to live with Sirius being ripped out of him by death.