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Chapter Eleven: Floo Bug
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Harry strode all the way to what should have been the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher's office. Umbridge, in her haste to leave, had left a pot of Floo powder on the mantelpiece. He chucked a handful of it into the fireplace; it burst into green flame.
"Wait, Harry," cried Hermione, grabbing his arm suddenly. "There's an anti-magic field over Azkaban – we won't be able to use our wands!"
"Then neither will they," said Harry. The light of adventure smouldered in his eyes. He fished for his wand in his pocket, raised it and said, "Accio sword."
The air around him began to shimmer. Oh no, he thought, realising what he'd done. He went pale. "DUCK!" he screamed. They did, as a sword came flying, point-first, through the door and stuck quivering in the wall where Harry's hand had been. "Whoops," Harry whispered as they shakily picked themselves up off the floor.
Harry tugged the sword from the wall then hopped right into the fire. "Azkaban prison!" And in a whirl of flame he was gone.
A stunned silence followed his disappearance. Glances flicked from the fireplace to neat hole the sword had made in the wall. "He's mad," said Ron, dismayed. "He'll never get out alive."
"What do you mean, 'he'?" demanded Hermione.
"We can't go! I mean, it's one thing for him – he's Harry Potter. Everything always works out all right for him-"
Hermione slapped him hard across the face. Ron's jaw dropped and for a moment everyone thought he might hit her back.
"What-" he began.
"He doesn't ask for it," said Hermione quietly, her voice shaking as it rose in volume. "He would give anything to have your life. But he goes on, and he does what he thinks he has to do. And you! You're a friend until he does something that might endanger you. You'd let him go on alone, to save your own skin! Who does that remind you of, Ron Weasley? You've changed, and not for the better!"
And with that, she turned on her heel and followed Harry into the fire. "Azkaban prison!" she cried. Fire rose and twisted around her; when it died down she was gone.
The next to go was Neville, then a steady stream of students evaporated through the fire. Ron just stood there. The mark of Hermione's hand went from red to pale and red again as rage and humiliation filled Ron. Soon he was alone at last.
It was bad enough that Hermione had chosen Harry over him, worse that she knew how he felt, and- the way she had spoken to him... he had never heard such contempt in her voice. She'd sounded so betrayed and disgusted, every word she spoke was like another slap, as though he was lower than dirt. And she'd compared him to Wormtail, he knew, even if it had gone right over everyone else's heads.
He took a deep breath and moved into the dying fire.