Hermione's face was hot. Her heart was beating violently in her chest and waves of nausea were churning in her stomach. She felt like she couldn't breathe. Well used to this feeling — failure — her hand moved automatically to the tap. She heard the squeak, the rush of water, and then felt the cold liquid hitting the hot tears on her face. She closed her eyes, letting the cold wash over her, water dripping down her face and onto her robes.

She forced herself to think of nothing but the frigid feeling on her skin. At the very least, air was getting into her lungs again.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror — red rimmed eyes, hair askew — but didn't much care. She turned off the tap, found her way to a stall, and slid down the wall, sitting beside the toilet, knees bent and arms folded across them.

Well, she'd made an utter mess of things, hadn't she?

Drip, drip, drip.

She hadn't turned the tap all the way off, but she was too tired to get up and fix it. As it turned out, when she tried to fix things, they just blew up in her face. Her wand lay unthought-of in her pocket.

She'd only wanted to help. She'd been so sure that going to the Board of Governors about Professor Snape had been the right thing to do. She wasn't someone who did anything lightly — she thought of all the angles, weighed all the options, tried to find the path that was best for everyone, the path that was ethical and righteous. And then she dove in, no regrets, no apologies. And because she did take so much care with her decisions, she knew with utmost clarity that she was right.

Her choices very rarely went so wrong, but they'd done so spectacularly this time, hadn't they?

She'd given Fudge an opening, a way to get his lackey inside Hogwarts. Now, Fudge had a way to hurt Professor Dumbledore, a way to hurt the Order, a way to hurt Sirius, and she didn't doubt that he would try to hurt Harry, too.

It was all her fault.

She leaned her head against the stall, looked up at the ceiling, and felt the tears come again.

It was all her fault.

She wasn't even sure how she'd gotten to the bathroom. One moment she was in the Great Hall, hands shaking, her trembling voice reading the Daily Prophet article to Harry and Neville, and then everything felt hot and small and overwhelming, and then she was here.

It's what she always did, wasn't it? When there was some failure she couldn't face, she ran off — to the bathroom, to her dorm, to some dark, dusky corner of the library, to anywhere her friends couldn't or wouldn't follow. She hated failure more than anything, and she had colossally failed. She'd invited Dolores Umbridge into Hogwarts with open arms.

All she ever wanted to do was a little bit of good, and now she'd mucked it up royally.

Her face was wet once again, and she buried herself in her arms.

Drip, drip, drip.

She could still hear the faucet over her sniffles and sobs, each drip an accusation against her. You did this, you screwed it all up, you hurt everyone.

How long would it take Umbridge to sack Sirius? Would she go after Professor McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout, too, just for being loyal to Professor Dumbledore? Did she have the power to sack him? Hermione might have questions about Professor Dumbledore's loyalty to Professor Snape and why he kept secrets from Harry, but she knew with absolute certainty that they were all safer with him here at Hogwarts.

And what about Harry? Umbridge would get a rise out of him — Hermione knew that with certainty, too. Harry didn't do well with authority figures he didn't respect.

She had only wanted to make things better for him — for everyone.

She heard the door creak open and for a second she was afraid it was Moaning Myrtle (which was stupid, really, because ghosts didn't open doors), and then footfalls as whomever it was entered. More than one person, actually. Made sense. For some reason, other girls went to the bathroom in groups. It was one of those rituals of female friendship that Hermione had never been invited to take part in.

Hermione held her breath, tried to hold in her sniffles, tried to be completely invisible, wished for whomever it was to just go about their business and leave her in solitude.

"Hermione?"

Drat.

A part of her leapt at the sound of Harry's voice, but the bigger part was annoyed — she just wanted to be left alone, to wallow, to self-flagellate as she went over her mistakes in her mind over and over again, trying to work out where her misstep had been.

An unwanted sniffle escaped and she mentally berated herself again.

"Hermione?" Harry asked hesitantly, his voice closer now, just on the other side of the door. He sounded strained and unsure, like he thought he was intruding and unwanted.

He was intruding, but he wasn't unwanted. Still, she'd really rather they just go.

"Hermione, will you come out?" he asked. "Or at least let us know that it's really you, and I'm not trying to coax out some third year?"

Now, he sounded self-conscious.

"It's me," she murmured.

"Will you come out?"

"I'm fine," she said, swiping the tears away from her eyes, willing them to stop. "I'm fine, really. You should go along now to class, I'll be there soon, I promise. Just, you know…"

"You don't sound fine," Harry cut through her excuses.

"Well, I am!" she insisted. Honestly, why couldn't he just take her word for it?

"Hermione," Neville interrupted — of course he was here, too — "you just ran out of the Great Hall after declaring everything was your fault. You're obviously not fine."

Hermione didn't really have a rebuttal to that. "This is the girls' bathroom," she said stiffly. "You shouldn't even be in here."

Someone snickered. It didn't sound like Harry or Neville.

"Right, because we've never spent any time in a girls' bathroom with you before," Ron retorted. "If Percy could see me now…"

Hermione blinked, her mouth half open. Ron hadn't even been in the Great Hall when she'd read the Daily Prophet. When had he joined them? Just how long had she been in here?

"Would you just come out?" Neville pleaded.

She'd have to eventually. And she knew Harry was stubborn enough to wait her out — they all were, really.

She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, trying to make herself look presentable, but from the looks on the boys' faces when she opened the stall door, she hadn't done a very good job.

Harry was next to the door, entirely too close. Neville was a bit behind him, and Ron was leaning against the dripping sink, arms crossed. She exited the stall, and took a step back from all of them. She crossed her arms, too, like a shield against their comfort.

Drip, drip, drip.

Harry spoke first.

"It's not your fault," he said. Hermione nearly snorted. That was rich, coming from him. How many times had someone had to repeat those words to him? How many times had she?

"Then whose fault is it?" she asked defiantly.

"Fudge," Harry said matter-of-factly.

Of course he'd see it that simply, that black and white. Of course, Fudge was responsible — he was the idiot who refused to see that You-Know-Who was back, preferring to dig his head in the sand — but she was the one who failed to account for the potential consequences of her actions.

"And whose the one who gave Fudge the ammunition he needed?" Hermione asked.

But Harry's face didn't waver, his demeanor unmoved by her question. "Dumbledore," he answered.

It was sweet, really, the way he tried to protect her, tried to make things right, even when the task was impossible. She knew Harry was upset with Professor Dumbledore — he kept things from Harry about the Triwizard Tournament and Harry was still insecure about the conversation he overheard about Dumbledore's choice for Gryffindor prefect — but whatever Dumbledore did or didn't do, it didn't absolve her of her own actions.

"He's the one who hired Snape in the first place, isn't he?" Harry continued.

"But he didn't force me to do anything!" Hermione insisted. She could hear her tone, how irrational she sounded, but the pit of guilt in her stomach wouldn't allow anything else.

"So you were just supposed to be okay with Snape teaching us?" Harry challenged.

"He's evil," Ron added.

"It would be better than dealing with Umbridge, wouldn't it?" Hermione asked hotly. "And just because Harry's mad at Professor Dumbledore —"

"Is that what you think this is about?" Harry asked incredulously, though there was a sharp undercurrent to his tone.

Hermione's gaze shot to his, and she saw his eyes were tight and hard — just for a fraction of a second — before they softened.

"Look," Harry said, "Dumbledore could have ended all of this by just sacking Snape. Professor Slughorn could have taught all of the Potions classes himself — he's done it before. When you wrote to the Board of Governors, Voldemort wasn't even back yet. But he was back when the inquiry into Snape was going on and Dumbledore knew Fudge was looking for a way into Hogwarts."

"Sirius told us as much, remember?" Neville prodded, his voice soft, as if he didn't want Hermione's anger turned on him. "That's why he took the Defense job — because of the educational decree."

"You had no idea this could happen when you tried to get rid of Snape, but Dumbledore definitely knew it could when he chose to protect Snape," Harry finished. "So if anyone is to blame, it's him — not you."

Hermione was speechless. She couldn't argue with their logic, exactly, but… well, it still felt like her fault.

Harry shrugged. "I mean, I don't really think Professor Dumbledore is to blame either, but he deserves blame more than you do. And Fudge is the one who really started all of this, anyway."

"None of it would have mattered— the inquiry, Snape, any of it," Neville declared. "Gran thinks Fudge would have found some way to install someone here at Hogwarts. She told me she reckoned he'd find a way after Sirius thwarted him last time. If it wasn't this, it would have been something else."

"Like what?" Hermione asked miserably, her tone matching how she felt, even if she desperately wanted to believe them.

"Oh, I don't know," Harry replied dryly, "like a Death Eater kidnapping a professor, posing as him, and almost getting us all killed?"

"Or the one who tried to obliviate me and Harry and wanted to leave my sister to die in the Chamber of Secrets?" Ron added.

"Don't forget the one who had Lord Voldemort living in the back of his head," Harry said.

"It's honestly surprising it's taken this long for there to even be an inquiry," Neville added in a terrified whisper.

"See?" Harry said, looking directly at her. "If we can come up with all of this, surely Fudge could, too."

"At least now we don't have to deal with Umbridge and Snape," Ron mused. "Though it probably would've been brilliant to watch her observe his class. Think she'll sack him?"

If anything good came from this whole mess, it would be that.

"Who do you even root for in that situation?" Neville asked earnestly.

Silence fell over the group as they all contemplated the prospect. Professor Snape was a miserable, vindictive man, but… well, Dolores Umbridge wasn't any better.

"For a giant snake to rise up from the bowels of Hogwarts and swallow them both whole," Ron finally answered, his tone entirely serious. He turned to Harry. "You really screwed that bit up for us, mate."

Harry laughed. "Saving your sister seemed a bit important at the time," he said. "You've only got the one."

"Fair point," Ron agreed, a wide grin plastered on his face, but for a second — almost imperceptibly — his expression was uncharacteristically serious, his eyes sad, as he remembered what had almost happened to Ginny.

"I bet Hagrid's got something in his monster menagerie that could do them in," Neville pointed out. While he looked miserable at the very idea — Neville didn't usually fare well in Hagrid's Care of Magical Creature classes — Harry and Ron's eyes lit up.

"Six-headed lion with the tail of a Hungarian Horntail," Harry predicted.

"No, half nundu, half griffin that goes by the name of Esmeralda," Ron offered.

"An acromantula wearing tap shoes because Hagrid's been teaching it to dance," Neville said.

"An acromantula that's been cross-bred with a blast-ended skrewt," Harry countered.

Ron, who seemingly wanted to get off the subject of acromantulas, predicted, "Centaurs."

Hermione looked around at the three of them, her misery partly giving way to astonishment. Here she was, wallowing in what she had wrought, and they were so sure in their conviction that she had nothing to feel guilty about, so okay with the situation at hand that they were making jokes.

She wasn't sure she agreed with them; she certainly still felt guilty, and she wasn't sure any amount of comfort would change that (though she appreciated how much they were trying), but she no longer wanted to wallow in the bathroom.

Umbridge was coming for Professor Dumbledore. She was coming for Sirius. And she was coming for Harry.

And they had to be ready.

While Hermione was ready to transform her internalized guilt into action, no one else seemed nearly as worried as she was.

When she'd stressed the importance of not intentionally antagonizing Umbridge to Sirius, he'd been dismissive.

"I'm merely teaching, Hermione," he said mildly, as they all sat around the breakfast table in his quarters.

"Yes, but you regularly mention You-Know-Who in class," she pointed out. "You give Harry points for saying…"

"Voldemort?" Harry offered, reaching for the butter.

"Five points to Gryffindor," Sirius murmured, sipping his tea.

"Yes, that!" Hermione cried. "Umbridge will find some way to twist that around on you."

Sirius shrugged. "Shall I pretend I'm teaching you all to fight butterflies, then?" he asked.

He was being intentionally obtuse, and it was beyond vexing. And, apparently, he found her just as frustrating.

"I get enough of this from Minerva, you know," Sirius told her irritably. Hermione was glad someone else was looking out for his interests.

"What advice has she given you then?" Hermione asked.

"To do the exact opposite of what I want to do and to leave Dolores to her."

It sounded like good advice to Hermione's ears.

"What about Professor Dumbledore?" Harry asked, trying not to look too eager at knowing what Dumbledore thought. "Has he had anything to say?"

Sirius shrugged. "He's had plenty to say, yet also, he's said nothing at all," he replied. "Though his approach to Cornelius Fudge and anyone who sides with him is generally to be what Albus calls 'pleasantly irritating.'"

Harry eyed Sirius. "You could probably manage half of that," he mused, earning a hearty laugh from his godfather.

Harry was no better than Sirius.

"It's not like I'm going to hex her, Hermione," he said, when she brought up the topic of Umbridge with him. His expression was unmistakably one of hurt that she thought he would be that stupid. But she wasn't worried about Harry hexing Umbridge. His words could be just as cutting as his curses, and while Hermione knew he'd never be so impulsive as to hex Umbridge (unless she hexed him first), he was hotheaded enough to insult her.

And that wouldn't be good for anyone.

Hermione was just glad that Hagrid was still out of the country. At least she didn't have him to worry about.

Before Hermione knew it, Dolores Umbridge had arrived in a flurry of pink robes, fake smiles, and a waft of sickly sweet perfume following in her wake. She strode in to Hogwarts on Monday morning, taking up residence at the head table with an obnoxious secret smile like she knew something no one else did.

Dumbledore allowed her to make a speech — a self-congratulatory, passive-aggressive missive that the headmaster showed absolutely no signs he was angered by. If Hermione didn't know better, she'd think he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open.

Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, did react — as much as she reacted to anything — her lips set in a line so painfully thin Hermione was certain they disappeared.

Professor Snape, predictably, scowled, while Professor Slughorn looked mildly interested in what Dolores Umbridge had to say, yet more interested in his breakfast. Hermione knew Professor Slughorn liked making powerful friends — she had no idea what he would do now that the Minister's power struggle with Professor Dumbledore had made its way to Hogwarts.

Sirius had adopted a cool, haughty look — the one he used anytime they went someplace public and people stared at him — but she had a feeling he might have had something to do with Peeves interrupting Umbridge's big speech by dropping balloons filled with lime green paint on her head.

That shut her up for a minute. She sputtered, and Hermione couldn't tell whether Umbridge wanted to hex Peeves or lecture him on proper etiquette.

Dumbledore, it turned out, was awake. "I much preferred the way you redecorated the suits of armor on the third floor corridor," he told Peeves, referencing the way they now resembled a Jackson Pollock painting after one of Peeves' "jokes." He was completely unbothered by the display, and with a slight wave of his wand, the paint was gone.

Unfortunately, they couldn't get rid of Dolores Umbridge so easily. She was meant to be checking in on all of the classes, seeing the professors work with students of all ages and houses, but throughout that first week it became apparent that she had Harry's schedule memorized.

Umbridge showed up in Professor Flitwick's class — he was courteous and pleasant, treating her as a guest — and quizzed Lavender Brown on what charms she knew. Umbridge showed up in their Transfiguration class and was thoroughly ignored by an indifferent Professor McGonagall. According to Neville, she'd followed Professor Trelawney around, demanding an on-the-spot prediction. (Trelawney, of course, could do nothing but stammer about imminent death.) In Care of Magical Creatures, Umbridge seemed more interested in interrogating Professor Grubbly-Plank about Hagrid than anything creature related.

And then there was Defense Against the Dark Arts. Sirius had split Harry and Hermione off from the rest of the group as he often did, instructing them to transfigure pebbles into tennis balls, while everyone else worked on a spell that forced an opponent's fingers to splay impossibly wide so that they could no longer hold a wand. All they could really do is clap their hands together awkwardly.

"Hem-hem," Professor Umbridge interrupted.

Sirius stilled, but didn't show any signs of a reaction. Lavender, Parvati, Dean, and Seamus, on the other hand, all looked like they had been awaiting this particular showdown ever since it became clear that Umbridge was following Harry (and, by extension, the fifth year Gryffindors) around.

Harry, Hermione noticed, was watching Sirius intently. Her boyfriend's body was tense the way it usually was right before they dueled with Sirius in Wiggentree Manor. He was on guard, expecting the worst. He was scared for Sirius.

"Yes?" Sirius asked pleasantly.

"Isn't this jinx a bit juvenile for the classroom?" Dolores Umbridge asked.

Sirius blinked. Whatever attack he had been expecting, it hadn't been that. Still, Sirius was ready.

"Well, Ethel Cooke didn't think so," he said, referencing the famed auror that Slughorn had told them about in his first class. "She wrote specifically about this spell in An Auror's Defense, which is a book I believe the Ministry still uses in training aurors, is it not?"

"Cooke also wrote that a stunning spell would be more effective," Umbridge replied.

"She wrote that it would be more effective for a well-trained auror," Sirius corrected Umbridge. "I don't see any of those about. There are loads of witches and wizards who can't pull off a powerful enough stunning spell to last very long. But everyone — even teenagers — can learn this spell. And if your opponent can't use their hands, they can't use their wand — so it effectively does the same thing."

He was treating her like a student — he'd adopted the sort of condescending tone so many of Hermione's schoolteachers had over the years. Dolores Umbridge had a placid smile plastered to her face, but Hermione knew that response had infuriated her more than any other could have.

"And is there a reason why you're not teaching it to the whole class?" she asked, with a pointed look at Harry and Hermione.

"I believe in individualized attention," Sirius answered. "Harry and Hermione have already learned this spell, so they've moved on to other topics."

"Really?" Umbridge asked skeptically. "Or do you, like Albus Dumbledore, afford this boy special privileges because of his unfortunate circumstances?"

Hermione heard Lavender's gasp, saw Neville's and Ron's matching scowls, but Harry didn't react at all. He was too busy watching Sirius.

Sirius' gaze didn't move from Umbridge's. "I suppose you need a demonstration, then," Sirius murmured. "Harry?"

For a split second, Hermione feared Harry would aim the spell at Umbridge, but as he stepped out from behind the desk, his eyes still on his godfather, she knew she had nothing to worry about. Sirius was the one Umbridge was attacking here, and Harry wasn't about to give her any ammunition.

In a flash, Harry demonstrated Sirius' point, aiming the spell at Seamus. Seamus' wand clattered to the ground as his fingers spread out in an absurd manner.

"See?" Sirius grinned broadly. "Harry performs the spell perfectly."

Seamus didn't look too happy about the situation — Umbridge didn't either — but the rest of the class snickered. Harry shot Hermione a pointed glance — he hadn't risen to Umbridge's bait and hexed her.

Instead, he'd hexed the one Gryffindor who had told Harry plainly that he didn't believe Harry about You-Know-Who.

"Five points to Gryffindor for a perfect execution. Class, did you see Harry's wand movement? Sharp and precise, like you're wielding a blade. That's what you need for this particular spell," Sirius said, turning away from Umbridge. With a wave of his wand, he released Seamus from Harry's spell and floated Seamus' wand up to him.

Umbridge narrowed her eyes, and began scribbling furiously.

"How long have you been teaching this class, Mr. Black?"

"A month," Sirius replied.

"And do you have any prior teaching credentials?"

"You know that I don't."

"Any prior work experience at all?"

"None."

"Has anyone guided you on how to be an educator then?" she asked.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Meaning?"

"Meaning do you truly think it wise to teach children how to attack each other?" Umbridge asked.

"Well, this class is Defense Against the Dark Arts. What would you prefer they learn here — knitting?" Sirius asked.

"It's the Ministry's belief that when it comes to a magical education, magical theory would suffice. As long as you understand the principles underlying defensive magic, any competent witch or wizard could produce a proper spell without needing to practice on other students, potentially harming them," Umbridge retorted.

Sirius crossed his arms. "Right," he said skeptically. "That's why we never have students practice transfiguring objects in Transfiguration or charms in Charms — because understanding the underlying principles is always enough."

Umbridge stiffened. "Are you comparing transfiguring a feather to using a spell on a child?" she sneered.

"This is how we've always been taught Defense Against the Dark Arts," Harry interjected. "At least when we've had competent teachers."

Umbridge smiled patronizingly. "You, unfortunately, haven't had a competent teacher in this classroom in quite a long time. Instead, you've been subjected to irresponsible wizards and," she laughed nastily, "extremely dangerous half-breeds."

Dean Thomas glowered at her. "If you mean Professor Lupin, he was one of the best we ever —"

"He was one of a long line of professors here that manipulated you into expecting a lethal attack around every corner," Umbridge interrupted, her voice dripping with condescension. "School is a controlled setting — one where you should learn about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way, not taught to use them at the hands of a" — she shot a contemptuous glare at Sirius — "deranged lunatic who was half mad before he went to Azkaban."

Hermione closed her eyes, praying Harry wouldn't get involved.

Sirius smiled dangerously at her. "Gee," he deadpanned, "and I was so sure my observation would go so well."

"What's the point in even having these observations if they're all just going to be rigged, anyway?" Ron asked, clearly angry.

"That's entirely the point, Ron," Hermione snapped. "The Ministry cares more about the appearance of doing the right thing than actually doing the right thing."

Dolores Umbridge stared intently at Hermione. "The Ministry cares about the quality of education at Hogwarts, Ms. Granger. I was under the impression you did, too. Did you not begin your little crusade because you felt students were not getting the proper theoretical education?"

She smiled at Hermione, as if they were co-conspirators. Hermione wanted to retch.

"This has got nothing to do with the investigation into Snape and you know it," Harry shouted angrily.

Umbridge turned her attention to him. Hermione willed him to stop.

"And what, exactly, do you think this is all about, Mr. Potter?"

Harry narrowed his eyes at Umbridge and started to answer, but was interrupted by Sirius' booming voice.

"As I understand it, you're here to observe, Dolores," he said, "and as the professor, I'm meant to be asking the students questions."

"Go ahead and ask me," Harry muttered.

Sirius did not look at him. The rest of the class watched with rapt attention.

But Sirius did not ask Harry anything.

"Mr. Longbottom," Sirius finally said, "as I understand it, you spent a bit of time last year in the hospital wing, did you not?"

"I-I did," Neville answered, clearly somewhat confused why Sirius called on him in particular, but willing to go with it.

"What happened?"

"I was attacked — Harry, Hermione, and I all were."

"Here at school?" Sirius asked incredulously, adopting a mock scandalized tone. "Whomever would do such a thing?"

With a quick glance at a scowling Umbridge, Neville answered, "Barty Crouch, Jr."

Even as he said the name, his voice shook. Hermione could see the pain in his eyes. He couldn't think of Crouch without thinking of his parents.

Now, Sirius had a faux confused look on his face. "Didn't he get sent to Azkaban years ago? I could swear I remember seeing him there."

"He escaped," Neville answered icily.

"I see," Sirius murmured, pacing back and forth, stroking his chin.

Umbridge had clearly had enough. "I hardly see what —"

"Mr. Weasley, you spent some time in the hospital wing your third year, did you not?"

"Yeah," Ron nodded. "I also got attacked by some bloke who escaped Azkaban."

"Surely, it must have been the same Azkaban escapee that attacked your friends," Sirius commented. "There can't be that many Azkaban escapees, can there?"

"No, it was a different man," Ron said sadly, his tone as insincere as Sirius.' Hermione could tell he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

"And do you know what the worst part is?" Harry asked loudly, not waiting for an answer. "The man who escaped Azkaban didn't even commit the crime he went there for. The Ministry just let the real murderer go free."

Sirius and Harry exchanged a look — Harry might be letting Sirius take the lead when it came to Umbridge but he wasn't about to sit silently while everyone else fought his battles.

"Well, surely the Ministry caught the murderer after that?" Sirius asked softly.

"Oh, no. He's in Azkaban now, but the Ministry didn't catch him," Harry answered. "I had to."

Sirius shot a dangerous glance at Umbridge. "Well, it seems to me that until the Ministry figures out how to put the right wizards in Azkaban — and keep them there — we've got to be teaching students how to defend themselves against attacks. At least until the Ministry stops depending on schoolchildren like Harry to do their jobs for them."

"Maybe someone should be making an inquiry into how well the Ministry does their jobs," Harry questioned loudly, earning a few snickers. If looks could kill, Umbridge would have murdered him.

"Now," Sirius said affably enough, even though his eyes bore grimly into Umbridge, "may I go back to teaching class or do you have any other pointless interruptions?"

So much for leaving her to McGonagall.