As September first had fallen on a Friday this year, Harry and his friends had two whole days to relax and just enjoy being back at Hogwarts before they'd have to dive back into their classes. Mother Nature, however, seemed to have other ideas – the storm they'd arrived in continued to pound the castle with no signs of retreat in sight, and the friends spent nearly the entire weekend in the Room of Requirement as a result. Nobody seemed to mind, though, and Dobby brought them delicious treats from the kitchens and entertained them with tales of his summer – in spite of their obvious penchant for hard work, it seemed that some of the house-elves did indeed like to have fun once in a while. When they got bored of talking or rifling through their school books, they sparred in their training room – Harry, Draco, and Hermione left their knives out of these duels as a courtesy to their friends, who weren't used to the additional weapons, but all other rules quickly went out the window as they practiced both their spell casting and their hand-to-hand combat. After a particularly grueling session on Sunday afternoon, Harry collapsed on his back in the middle of the room, a satisfied goofy grin on his face, and suggested that they might try dueling on brooms in the future – it would definitely provide an added challenge, and the room was more than big enough.
"Can't we get back into the swing of things before you start throwing extra stuff in?" Ginny groaned. "Merlin, I'm out of shape." The sparring, while fun, was intense, and they hadn't really had the time or space to practice at Grimmauld Place.
"Wimp," Harry replied with a grin, laughing heartily when Ginny smacked his arm in reply. "Alright, alright, we can wait." Ginny glared at him again, but Harry could tell she wasn't really mad.
Truth be told, Harry was throwing his all into their dueling sessions in an attempt to take his mind off the tense atmosphere in the castle. He hadn't really kept up with the Daily Prophet over the summer, and now he wished he had – it seemed that not everyone had believed what Dumbledore had told them about Cedric Diggory's death at the end of last term, and the paper had done its best to discredit the story. Whether the Ministry was merely trying to pretend that Voldemort hadn't returned or whether there were other motives at work, Harry wasn't sure, but he'd gotten a number of funny looks and had a handful of not-so-friendly remarks directed his way since they'd come back to Hogwarts. As the only people who knew the truth were either Order members or allies and the perpetrator was long gone, he knew that getting people to believe them would be extremely difficult.
Monday morning brought another unpleasant surprise as Professor McGonagall passed out their timetables.
"Binns, Snape, Trelawney, and Umbridge all in one day?" Ron moaned as he stared at his Monday schedule. "What the bloody hell were they thinking?" Harry continued buttering his toast as he nodded in agreement – that didn't sound like a fun day.
Not only did it not sound like a fun day, it wasn't a fun day. If they'd had a different teacher, the goblin wars they started with in History of Magic might actually have been interesting, but the only interesting thing Professor Binns did was drift through the blackboard at the start of class – and as he'd done that at the beginning of every History lesson since first year, even that wasn't remotely exciting. Their only respite was the material itself – while they would be expected to analyze and comprehend massive amounts of information at a much more sophisticated level, it wasn't like the events themselves could change their level of difficulty. Harry vaguely recalled tutoring sessions in which his mother had mentioned that he and Draco would have studied certain historical events again had they attended a Muggle secondary school, and it was the same in the Wizarding world – history was history, and it was only how in-depth you went with it that distinguished a fifth-year class from a first-year one.
Double Potions with Snape gave them no such reassuring feelings. After a lecture on the importance of their O.W.L.s and his expectations of a high success rate, Snape set them to work on the Draught of Peace, an absurdly finicky potion that required their undivided attention. The ingredients, some of which were volatile enough on their own, had to be added in extremely precise quantities in an equally precise order – it was quite ironic that a potion meant to induce peace could so easily explode if brewed just a few degrees too hot, and indeed, Goyle managed to set his robes aflame midway through the period. Snape scowled heavily as he doused the fire with his wand and gave Goyle detention, and he glared at the rest of the class and threatened to dock points from everyone if they didn't get back to work immediately. Needless to say, they were more than relieved when the lunch bell finally rang.
By the time Defense Against the Dark Arts rolled around, Harry was in a miserable mood. Divination had been absolute rubbish, as always – why he hadn't dropped the subject after third year like Hermione had was beyond him – and Trelawney had set them more than twice as much homework as she ever had before. He slumped into a seat next to Hermione, who had just come from Arithmancy, and sighed.
"That bad, huh?" Hermione asked sympathetically.
"You have no idea," Harry groaned as he pulled out his textbook and some parchment. "I swear Trelawney gets battier every year."
"Well, I think it's safe to say that unless something huge happens, you'll be done with Divination after this year, so that's something, at least," Hermione said, smiling slightly.
"Thank Merlin," Harry replied. "All it is is more homework that I don't have time to do." Hermione wasn't able to respond, however, as the door opened and Professor Umbridge walked in.
Their newest Defense teacher wasted no time, striding purposefully to the front of the room before turning to face her students. She wore the same fluffy cardigan and hair bow she'd sported at the start of term feast, and up close, they could see a number of large, ugly rings adorning her stubby fingers. Schooling her features into what she must've thought was a charming smile, she said, "Good afternoon, class!"
A few students mumbled in reply, but most remained quiet.
"Oh, no, no, no," Professor Umbridge chastised, "that won't do, not at all! I would like you to respond, 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,' if you please. Now, let's try that again, shall we? Good afternoon, class!"
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," they replied automatically. Many of them exchanged exasperated glances afterwards – what were they, five?
"Oh, much better," Umbridge simpered. "Now, please copy these down" – she tapped a very short wand to the blackboard, where an equally short list of course objectives appeared – "and when you have finished with that, please open your textbooks and read chapter one. There will be no need to talk."
Harry barely suppressed a groan as he loaded his quill with ink and began to copy the list from the board. It was only the first day of classes, and he could already tell that this year's Monday schedule was quickly stacking up to be his worst lineup ever. He quickly scribbled down Umbridge's course aims: understanding principles…learning to recognize…context for… Harry frowned as he read what he'd just written – he couldn't pinpoint what, but something very important seemed to be missing.
As he screwed the cap back on his ink bottle, Harry noticed that while Hermione had long finished copying the course objectives, she hadn't so much as touched her book – instead, she was sitting with her hand in the air, her gaze firmly fixed on Professor Umbridge. Professor Umbridge, for her part, was actively ignoring Hermione's raised hand, but when several minutes had gone by and more than half the class had abandoned their books in favor of staring curiously at Hermione, she seemed to give up.
"Did you have a question about the reading, my dear?" she asked.
"Not the reading, no," Hermione replied. "It's a question about your course objectives." Professor Umbridge turned to look at the list in question.
"I do believe the objectives need no explanation, Miss…"
"Granger," Hermione said, "Hermione Granger. And with all due respect, I think they do – there's nothing in them about using defensive spells." The class now had Hermione's full attention, and many frowned when they took a second look at the board and realized that she was right.
"Using defensive spells?" Umbridge repeated, sounding positively flabbergasted. "Miss Granger, why on earth would you ever need to use defensive spells?"
"Why would we not?" Hermione replied, looking equally confused. "Isn't the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts learning how to protect yourself? How can you protect yourself if you're not learning the spells to do so?"
"Good gracious, what an active imagination!" Professor Umbridge said, her voice sickeningly sweet. "You've no need to protect yourself, my dear! Why, saying you need protection would suggest that there was a threat to begin with!"
"Are you saying there isn't?" Ron interrupted. "After a student was-"
"Tut, tut, students raise their hands when in my class!" Umbridge cut in. Ron immediately thrust his hand into the air, but Umbridge ignored him in favor of Dean Thomas.
"Professor, a student died right here at Hogwarts just last term," he said. "I think we'd all feel more comfortable knowing how to defend ourselves, especially if-"
"Nonsense," Umbridge said smoothly. "A tragic accident does not mean-"
"A tragic accident?" Harry exclaimed. "Cedric Diggory was murdered!"
"Mr. Potter!" Umbridge gasped. "How dare you suggest such a thing?"
"Since I know it's the truth!" Harry retorted. "Tragic accidents don't leave handwritten notes! Cedric was murdered by Voldemort!"
"Enough!" Umbridge snapped. "I will not tolerate such lies in my classroom – detention, and fifteen points from Gryffindor!" The class sat in stunned silence at this proclamation, Harry trying his best not to explode again. Eventually, Dean broke the moment and raised his hand again.
"Professor," he said once Umbridge had called on him, "how do you expect us to pass our O.W.L.s if we haven't had any practice with the spells?"
"If you have studied the theory enough, you will be able to perform the spells just fine," Umbridge said briskly. The Gryffindors immediately began to protest. Was this woman mad? Would they really not be doing any spells at all until the exam itself?
"Silence!" Umbridge demanded. "None of you are qualified educators, and as such, none of you have the right to question or criticize the running of this class. The Ministry devised and approved this curriculum in an attempt to rectify the utterly embarrassing state of your previous education in this subject, and we shall be doing as they see fit. Now, back to your reading, at once!"
The rest of the double period dragged by so slowly that the Gryffindors thought time might be going backwards – and as they were in the Wizarding world, they actually couldn't rule out such a possibility. When the bell finally rang, they had to refrain from flat-out running from the room, and Harry had to try his hardest to keep his cool while he hung back to arrange the details of his detention.
"Tonight at eight," he muttered to Hermione, who had waited for him outside the classroom. "Perfect end to this sodding day…"
"At least tomorrow will be better," Hermione said in an attempt to console him. Harry sighed.
"I sure hope so…c'mon, let's see what's for dinner."
Angelina Johnson waved to Harry as soon as she caught sight of him in the Great Hall.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" she asked, taking the empty seat next to him. Harry shrugged.
"Sure. What's up?"
"So, listen – I know I told you I wanted the whole team there on Friday to see how the new Keeper fits in, but now you have to be there," Angelina said.
"Um…I thought that was pretty much what you said the first time around," Harry said as he cut into his chicken.
"Not nearly." Angelina frowned. "Have you had Defense yet?"
"Yeah," Harry said darkly. "I've got detention tonight, too."
"Harry, you cannot get yourself detention on Friday," she said, sounding almost desperate.
"Ang, my detention is for tonight, not Friday," Harry replied, his annoyance obvious in his tone.
"No, really," Angelina interrupted. "If you're not there on Friday, you won't be able to play! That Umbridge woman is making everyone who wants to play try out again!"
"What?" Harry spluttered, coughing violently as he choked on his chicken. He hastily downed several large gulps of water and coughed again, finally able to speak properly. "What the hell do you mean?"
"I mean exactly what I said," Angelina said grimly. "Umbridge declared this morning that everyone has to try out again – spouted some bullshit about fairness or something like that. It was all Madam Hooch could do to convince her that the captains didn't need to try out."
"Since when does she have control over Quidditch?" Harry growled.
"Since she's here on the Minister's orders, and even though she doesn't have an official leg up on the rest of the staff, they all seem to know that anything they do will be reported back to Fudge. Anyway, I think her little declaration was her attempt to control who's on each Quidditch team – Quidditch is a pretty rough sport, you know, and I think her thought was that she doesn't want the 'wrong sort' of student getting any ideas." Angelina rolled her eyes. "Thing is, though, she might be making us all try out again, but she can't control who actually makes the team, now can she?" She sighed then, absentmindedly rolling her peas around her plate with her fork. "Just…keep your head down for the rest of the week, yeah? I had Defense this morning, and I have a feeling that that woman will stop at nothing to have things her way. I won't lose the best Seeker Gryffindor's had in centuries because of some stupid Ministry interference. I believe your story about what happened at the end of last year, but until we can figure out a way to get around Umbridge, we're going to have to be very careful."
"I will, Ang," Harry promised. The news was shocking, no doubt about it, and the threat of no Quidditch had humbled him somewhat. He'd get through the detention as best he could, then he would worry about what to do about Umbridge.
Wanting to leave no reason for Umbridge to give him any more detentions, Harry arrived at her office promptly at eight o'clock. The office had changed décor yet again – instead of the Dark detectors Krum alias Moody had kept, the room's surfaces were now covered in lace doilies. Large collectible plates, each featuring the image of a sickeningly cute kitten, hung on the wall behind the desk, where Umbridge herself sat reading what Harry recognized to be the Daily Prophet. Fighting the urge to say something scathing about the paper, Harry strode forward and took a seat.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," Umbridge said, her voice just as nauseating as it had been in class. "Right on time, good boy. Now, you'll be doing some lines this evening."
"Lines? That's not so bad," Harry thought as he reached into his bag for a quill.
"Oh, no, dear," Umbridge said. "You won't be needing that. You'll be using a rather special quill of mine." She handed him a jet-black quill, the point razor sharp, and a sheet of parchment.
"'I must not tell lies'," Umbridge said. "I will let you know when you have finished. Off you go." She settled back down at her desk and resumed reading.
Harry stared at her for a long moment. Didn't he need ink? Or perhaps this was one of those self-inking quills? Yes, that must be it, he decided. He picked up the quill and began to write.
I must not…
He barely held back a gasp as a sharp pain shot through his hand. He slowly turned his hand and was horrified to see that the exact same words he'd just written had cut themselves into his flesh. After a moment, the cuts sealed themselves, the skin looking a bit redder than usual but otherwise unharmed.
"Is something wrong, dear?" Umbridge asked sweetly.
"I…no," Harry said firmly. Umbridge must've known exactly what was going to happen when she gave him this quill, and he was not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she'd unnerved him. He resolutely tugged his parchment closer and resumed writing, ignoring the pain in his hand as the message was carved in again and again. The 'ink' coming from the quill's tip was a deep scarlet color, and Harry had the horrible suspicion that it was actually his own blood.
After what felt like days, Professor Umbridge finally called Harry up to her desk. His hand was hurting something awful, but he refused to show pain as she pulled his hand close and examined it. She tutted for a moment as if in disapproval, but she finally gave Harry permission to leave, and he hurried back to Gryffindor Tower without a word. It was late enough that his friends would all be in their common rooms now, and he wasn't about to risk another detention by loitering.
Harry kept his promise to Angelina as best he could – their second Defense class later that week was just as bad as the first, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. The rest of his time was filled with homework – the professors were relentless in the amount of work they dumped on the fifth-years, and Harry knew that if he didn't attempt to get at least some of it done ahead of time, he'd never make it through the term. He and his friends were thankful for the upper years' later curfew – if this week's workload was anything to go by, they'd need every extra minute they could get. As he slogged through a deadly dull Defense essay on Thursday night, Harry made a second promise, this one to himself:
Umbridge is not going to get away with this.
A/N: Oh, how I loathe that woman...I can only hope that I can eventually give her what she deserves.
Thank you for all the follows/faves/reviews, & for reading! Hope you're enjoying so far.
JKR owns all things Potter, I just play. Please R&R, & enjoy! :)