Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen - The Return of the Beetle
Harry got his answer the following morning. When he, Blaise, and Millie strolled into the Great Hall, they found Hermione waiting for them, looking distraught and clutching the morning edition of the Daily Prophet in her hands. Neville sat next to her, though he was staring vacantly ahead, his fists clenched on the table in front of him.
"We've just heard…" Hermione said fretfully, spreading her paper before them.
Harry gazed at the front page. It was almost completely filled by ten black and white photographs. From nine of the photos, wizards silently jeered or screamed. A few tapped their fingers on the frames of their pictures, looking insolent.
The tenth was the only photo depicting a witch. Her face had jumped out to Harry the moment he'd glanced at the page. Her long, dark hair looked unkempt and straggly, not unlike Sirius when he first escaped Azkaban. And like Sirius, the witch also had vestiges of great good looks, though hers were marred by some trial, either madness or imprisonment.
Beneath each photo was a description of each person's crime. Harry read the caption underneath the witch's photo and realized why he had drawn so many comparisons between the woman and his godfather. It was none other than his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange.
Convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom.
Harry glanced at Neville, suddenly aware of what he must be thinking at that moment. He knew that Neville had been raised by his grandmother, though they never spoke about his parents. If the reason for that was Bellatrix Lestrange…
Hermione nudged Harry, pulling his attention away from Neville and back to the front page of the paper. He had been so struck by the photographs, he had neglected to read the headline:
Mass Breakout from Azkaban - Ministry Fears Pettigrew is Rallying Old Death Eaters
Now it was Harry's turn to clench his fists. He ground his teeth together as he read on:
Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, confirmed that ten high-security prisoners escaped in the early hours of yesterday evening. He has already informed the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of these individuals.
"We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the same position we were two years ago, when Peter Pettigrew, who faked his own death and framed Sirius Black for his murder, was apprehended and sent to Azkaban to await trail for conspiracy in the deaths of James and Lily Potter," said Fudge last night, "Nor do we think the two breakouts are unrelated. An escape of this magnitude suggests outside help. We believe that Pettigrew, who was also an unregistered animagus, used his ability to escape Azkaban. He may have taken similar measures to free his former associates. We think it likely that these individuals have rallied around Pettigrew as their leader. We are, however, doing all we can to round up the criminals and…"
"Well, there you go, Harry," Blaise breathed, having reached the end of the article before him, "Now we know why he was so happy last night…"
Hermione glanced sharply at Blaise and demanded, 'What does that mean?"
"Nothing," Harry said quickly. He didn't want Hermione to know about the connection he shared with Voldemort. If she knew, perhaps she would cancel her date with him. After all, who would want to go out with someone knowing Voldemort could be spying on them at any time?
"I can't believe this…" Millie said, interrupting before Hermione could interrogate him further. She was staring down at the article, her face screwed into a frown as she read Fudge's report a second time. "He actually thinks Pettigrew is leading the Death Eaters?"
Blaise cringed, "Noticed that too, did you? It's like they're making him out to be some kind of criminal mastermind."
Harry nodded his head. He and his friends knew Pettigrew was nothing more than a cowardly rat, in a very literal sense. It was not with Wormtail's help that these prisoner's had escaped, or if it was, it had been done under Voldemort's instruction.
"I'd wager the Dementors have come over to Voldemort's side," he opined, "Hasn't Dumbledore been warning Fudge that something like this could happen?"
"But Fudge would never admit that," Millie commented, "He's still convinced Dumbledore is lying."
Harry began looking around the Great Hall, curious to see how the rest of the school took the news. The vast majority of the students seemed to be acting as usual. At first he wondered how they could be so calm in the face of this calamity, but then he recalled that most students didn't have daily subscriptions to the Prophet, as Hermione did. The news hadn't spread far.
The same could not be said of the staff table. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were deep in conversation, while Professor Sprout had a copy of the Prophet open in front of her, staring intently at the page and neglecting her breakfast. Only Professor Umbridge's appetite did not seem impacted, as she tucked into a bowl of porridge with gusto. Her eyes, however, betrayed a little of her unsettled feelings. Rather than sweeping the Great Hall, searching for rule-breakers, they were fixed on Dumbledore and McGonagall with an expression of malevolence.
Harry's gaze swept over the students again, only this time he caught the eye of Nott, the Gryffindor Seeker. He was looking paler than usual as he stared fixedly at Harry. He seemed to be waiting for this opportunity. With a sort of feeble gesture, he beckoned Harry to him. Harry watched, dumbfounded, as Nott rose from his seat, leaving behind Ron and Draco, who were in a heated debate with Seamus and Dean.
Harry spared a glance at his own friends. Hermione had fallen into a discussion with Millie over another article in the Prophet, while Blaise appeared to be doing his best to comfort Neville. With his friends thus distracted, Harry quietly stood, and proceeded to follow Nott into the passage beyond the Great Hall.
He found Nott leaning against the wall. He was clearly waiting for him, and Harry was relieved that he had not misunderstood his gesture.
"Thanks for coming," Nott said, leaping forward the moment he saw Harry, "I wasn't sure you would…"
"Why the secrecy?" Harry asked, "You could have just come and talked to me."
"With Umbridge looking down her nose at us? No thanks," Nott replied with a harsh, almost hysterical laugh.
He seemed afraid of more than just Umbridge. His eyes kept shifting around, as if fearful of being watched.
"So, what is it?" Harry pressed, "Because if it's about the Marauders…"
"You saw the paper?" Nott interrupted.
"Yeah, I did. But what's that got to do with…" Harry hesitated. He had just remembered Neville and what Bellatrix Lestrange did to his family. What if something similar had happened to Nott? With more caution, Harry continued, "You aren't… I mean, are you related to one of the victims? Of the people who escaped Azkaban?"
"Victims?" Nott repeated, staring wildly at Harry before he gasped, "You don't know who I am, do you?"
Harry stared at him. He knew Nott from Quidditch, of course. And he was a Marauder. Beyond that, he had only ever thought of Nott as another of Ron Weasley's friends. Something about the urgency of his voice made Harry think this wasn't what Nott was referring to.
"I'm Theodore Nott," he said, holding his hand out to Harry as if he wished to be properly introduced. When Harry continued to stare blankly at him, he meekly added, "Junior."
A memory came rushing back to him, as vivid and real as one of Snape's Legilimency attacks. He had been bound to a tomb in the graveyard as Voldemort addressed each of his followers by name. There was Avery, who suffered his wrath, and Draco's father, who Voldemort accused of cowardice. Crabbe and Goyle's fathers were there, as well. And the short, stooping figure who had stood beside them… Voldemort had called him Nott. The boy standing in front of him now must be his son.
Harry scrambled back a few feet, his wand in his hand in an instant. But Nott Junior held his hands up in supplication, saying quickly, "I'm not here to attack you!"
Harry checked his fight or flight response and eyed him with suspicion.
"Then why have you called me out here? Alone?"
"Because I know what you know," Nott explained, "The Dark Lord is back, and this breakout from Azkaban has only given him more followers."
"So you just wanted to gloat?" Harry asked coldly, his wand still raised.
"Just because my father is a Death Eater doesn't make me one!" Nott protested, "I joined the Marauders because I… I heard the stories my father used to tell about the Dark Lord, and when he told me he was back… I got scared!"
A few Ravenclaw students exited the Great Hall. They shot alarmed glances at Harry, who immediately stowed his wand back in the pocket of his robes. He smiled awkwardly at them as they fell to whispering amongst each other. Sighing, he wondered what new rumors would surface next.
He turned back to Nott. Something in his expression reminded Harry of Draco when he first came to Grimmauld Place. Their situations were undoubtedly similar, with one major difference - Nott must still be under his father's care. Perhaps he even had information on what Voldemort was planning next…
"Come on," Harry suggested, "We're too exposed here."
He led Nott down the hallway, toward the massive doors of the castle's main entrance. Nott trailed after him, still nervous, but more easy now that Harry wasn't threatening him at wand-point. Harry kept walking, neither looking at nor speaking to Nott, until they were nearly at the shores of the Black Lake. Sure that they wouldn't be overheard here, Harry finally stopped and turned to face him.
"You wanted to talk. So talk."
Nott stared out over the waters of the Black Lake, gathering his thoughts. Then, with a sigh, he began, "When I first came to Hogwarts, I was every bit my father's son. He'd managed to escape conviction when the Dark Lord fell from power, but he raised me to follow the old ways, or so he called it. Basically, he wanted me to think like him.
"I assumed I'd be sorted into Slytherin. I'm a pureblood, after all. My father was in Slytherin. And his father before him. But when I put on the hat, it felt like… It was mocking me? It's hard to describe now, but I could almost feel it laughing. It said I was destined for more than being stuck under my father's thumb. Then it placed me in Gryffindor."
Harry's heart was pounding. Nott's story was eerily similar to his own. He had begged the Sorting Hat to place him in any other house, but the Hat had ignored his wishes. He suddenly felt a strange kinship with Nott, as if they had each taken the place the other should have held.
"At first I was devastated," Nott continued, "But then I met Ron and Dean and Seamus… And we became friends. And it's because of them… I think it's because I'm in Gryffindor… I know now that my father was wrong about everything. But I don't know how to stand up to him. He's already disappointed in his Gryffindor son, and I'm… I'm still afraid of him."
Harry understood the rest without Nott needing to explain. His fear must have increased when Lord Voldemort returned, and that was why he was coming forward now. It probably also explained why he joined the Marauders.
"I want to join you," Nott admitted, "I want to help you fight the Dark Lord… And my father."
"It's not like I have an army," Harry advised, though he was thinking about the Order of the Phoenix as he did so.
"That's fine!" Nott said, "I just want to help in any way I can! Draco already knows about my dad. He's the one who told me I could trust you."
Harry was shocked. He never expected such a bid of confidence from someone like Draco Malfoy. But if the past year had taught him anything, it was that stranger things could happen.
"Alright," Harry said, offering the hand he had withheld before, "It's not as if I can refuse your help. You're already a Marauder, after all. We're happy to have you, Nott."
He cringed, even as he accepted Harry's handshake, "I don't much like going by my father's name. You understand. Just call me Theo."
Over the next few days, the news of ten escaped Death Eaters made its way through the rest of the school. Rumors were flying that a few had been spotted in Hogsmeade, where they were allegedly hiding out in the Shrieking Shack. Harry was relieved that they had moved their Marauders meetings to the Room of Requirement. Even if unfounded, these rumors might have prompted locals to keep a closer eye on the Shack, and while their defense lessons were more crucial than ever, it was also imperative that they remain secret.
Students like Neville, whose families were affected by the crimes of the convicts, became the objects of macabre curiosity.
"I think I understand now what it must be like for you, Harry," Neville commented miserably during one of their meals. "I don't know how you stand it."
"Simple, he's got me and Blaise to defend him," Millie remarked.
Blaise nodded his head in agreement. "You just stick with me, Neville. If anyone so much as looks at you sideways, I'll hex them."
Harry smiled at his friends. It was true that the mere presence of Blaise and Millie was enough to discourage many impertinent questions, but they couldn't shield him from everything. Harry had been the subject of renewed muttering in the corridors these days, though there was a change in the tone of the whispers. As a Slytherin, he had been used to hostility from the other houses, but now they seemed curious rather than repulsed. It seemed that many students were not satisfied with the Prophet's explanation of events, and were now starting to consider Dumbledore's position more carefully.
Once or twice, Harry even saw a Marauder talking fervently with those outside of their secret club. Although Hermione and Millie had tightened security, new members were still joining their lessons, and it was clear the founding members of the group were vouching for him.
Not every student had the same reaction to the news, however. Crabbe and Goyle had started waltzing about the halls with a new swagger, as if they had anything to do with the breakout of their father's associates. Their behavior was sharply contrasted with Draco and Theo, who seemed to jump at every loud noise, as if they expected their fathers to burst in any moment and demand they brand themselves with the Dark Mark.
Unfortunately, the student body's curiosity was not to be sated by simply asking a teacher. The very morning after news of the escape was announced, a new sign had been posted on the house notice boards.
By Order of the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts
Teachers are hereby banned from giving any students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach.
The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six.
"Technically, this means you're not allowed to teach me Occlumency," Harry remarked to Snape at the start of his second lesson.
"It won't be the first time you've broken a school rule, Potter," Snape said, lifting his wand to his temple to remove the silver strands of thought once more, "Nor, I might add, will it be mine."
Harry thought that the breakout might have humbled Umbridge a little, but he was wrong. The catastrophe that had been allowed to happen under Fudge's nose only intensified her desire to bring every aspect of life at Hogwarts under her personal control. At the very least, she seemed determined to fire a teacher before the end of the term. Only one question remained: who would it be?"
Harry felt his heart sink as he approached Care of Magical Creatures to find Umbridge in attendance once more. She had never been present in another teacher's class since she completed her initial spate of observations, and Harry knew, even before he spoke with Hagrid at the end of the lesson, that he had been placed under probation.
"It's jus' me an' Sibyll," Hagrid explained, referring to Professor Trelawney. Harry, Blaise, and Millie found an excuse to remain after class, and were helping Hagrid kennel the crups that had been the subject of the day's instruction. Hagrid lifted two of the creatures with one arm and gingerly placed them in their pen before he added, "Course, I don' wan' ter see anyone get the sack, but I worry it's only a matter o' time before one of us does, and I'm not keen on it bein' me."
"Don't say that, Hagrid. Your classes have been perfect," said Harry reassuringly. He knew it was a bit of a stretch to say so. He'd liked the crups, which were nearly indistinguishable from a Jack Russell Terrier, but for the forked tail. But it was clear that Hagrid had lost a bit of his nerve. He had been distracted and jumpy throughout their lesson, glancing anxiously at Umbridge all the time.
"Yeah, well… All the same, I think it's best if you three don' come down an' visit fer a while. 'Specially after dark. If she catches yeh, it'll be all of our necks on the line."
Harry hated complying with Umbridge's increasingly restrictive demands, but he didn't want to jeopardize Hagrid's position, either. The only thing left for him and his friends to do was redouble their efforts with the Marauders. Despite his fondness for the Shrieking Shack and the Chamber of Secrets, Harry had to admit that the Room of Requirement suited them better. Not only did they have more space, but the room came equipped with cushions for practicing their stunning spells, books on defensive magic, and devices for detecting the approach of possible intruders. They no longer had to walk across the grounds, and so long as they were not out after hours, they were safe from much scrutiny. If they came across Filch or Mrs. Norris, they could simply turn around and try another route.
Everyone seemed more motivated now that ten Death Eaters were on the loose, but none were more determined than Neville. He had never spoken of his parents or Bellatrix Lestrange to Harry, though he suspected thoughts of them were running through his mind as he studied the new spells Millie taught them. When they practiced the Shield Charm, only Hermione mastered the spell faster than Neville. And when they practiced the Confusion Hex, he used it so effectively against Cedric that it took half an hour for the Head Boy to recall who he was again.
Harry wished he was making as much progress in Occlumency as Neville had shown for Defense Against the Dark Arts. His experience the night of the breakout made him all but forget wandless magic, and he devoted himself to the meditative practice recommended by Snape, but to no avail.
Before he started these secret lessons, his scar would prickle occasionally. Nowadays, his scar hardly ever stopped prickling. Often it was accompanied by flashes of annoyance or elation that had nothing to do with what was going on at the time. Snape began to suspect that he wasn't really trying, but Harry had followed his instructions perfectly. Every night before bed, he tried to clear his mind of all thought and feeling. But this only made matters worse. He was now dreaming of the corridor every night. The corridor he now believed led to the Department of Mysteries.
Between mountains of homework, Marauders meetings, Quidditch practice, and his secret lessons with Snape, January seemed to fly by. Before long, February had arrived, and with it the promise of another Hogsmeade weekend. Harry and Hermione talked just about every day, but they had not discussed their plans for Valentine's Day since Harry had asked her out. It wasn't until the night before, when they parted ways in the library, that she shyly mentioned, "I'm really looking forward to tomorrow."
"Yeah…" Harry said, his heart pounding with a mixture of guilt and excitement. He hadn't planned anything for their date. "Yeah, me too! I'll see you tomorrow!"
Back in his dormitory, sleep was the farthest thing from Harry's mind. Rather than practice his nightly meditation, as Snape had instructed, he pulled all of his clothing out of his wardrobe. Shirts, pants, robes, and cloaks littered the floor as Harry frantically threw everything away from him in disgust.
"What am I going to wear!" he cried piteously.
Blaise sat on the relative safety of his own bed and glanced with pity at the options spread across their dormitory.
"It's not as if you have many options, mate. Maybe you should wear your Weasley jumper, eh?"
Harry was certainly not going to wear the shirt Mrs. Weasley had knit for him, but Blaise had a point. Although Harry's wardrobe had changed since leaving the Dursleys - he had clothes that fit him rather than oversized hand-me-downs - it was far from fashionable. Try as he might, Sirius had never been able to coax his godson into more daring outfits. His tastes ran more along Remus's, preferring comfort and ease to high fashion.
He lamented his choices now. Hermine had already seen him in most of this clothes, and he had nothing in which he could impress her.
"Woah," said Draco, fresh from the library and carrying a stack of books. He nearly slipped on one of Harry's discarded scarves as he entered their room. Gaping around at the mess, he asked, "What… Have we been robbed? Did Crabbe and Goyle do this?"
"No one is bullying Harry but Harry, at the moment," Blaise replied.
Draco eyed Harry as he carefully navigated his way around piles of clothing. Harry could see the curiosity in his gaze, but he had no desire to disclose his worries to him. Draco may have become more tolerable since leaving his father's house, but he was Ron's friend now, not Harry's.
His feelings were betrayed by Blaise, who scoffed loudly as Harry sullenly began picking at his robes anew.
"Oh, just wear the green jumper! It looks nice and goes with your eyes. She is not going to care about what you're wearing!"
Draco eagerly seized on this opening. "Are you trying to find something to wear for your date with Granger?"
Harry glared at him. "Who told you I was going on a date?"
"Ron," Draco replied easily, "But everyone knows about it. Granger said something to Brown who talked to Patil who told her sister… I imagine the whole school knows."
As fascinating as this insight into the workings of the Hogwarts rumor mill was, it did nothing to ease Harry's woes. He felt that he had the expectations of the entire school riding on his shoulders. If he failed to impress Hermione tomorrow, everyone would know about it.
"Wait a moment," Draco said, dumping his books onto his bed and turning toward Harry. He considered him carefully before turning to his own wardrobe and flicking through his rather expensive collection.
"Blaise is right," said Draco, "Wear the green. We're about the same size, so I think you could layer it with… Ah, here it is!"
With little regard for an item that probably cost a small fortune, Draco tossed a smart-looking gray jacket to Harry, who caught it in spite of himself. Much as he didn't want to accept Draco's help, his desperation won out, and he quickly tried the suggested outfit.
"Not bad," said Blaise as Harry admired the final effect in the mirror, "Even I think you look good, and you know what my standards are."
"Thanks," Harry said, ignoring Blaise as he turned to Draco.
Draco shrugged, "No problem. You can keep the jacket. It was a gift from my father."
Harry wanted to decline something that had been purchased by a Death Eater, but when he pictured the look on Lucius Malfoy's face if he ever learned that Harry Potter was wearing something he bought for his son, he reconsidered. Besides, it did look good.
"So, where are you taking her?" asked Draco conversationally.
"I dunno," Harry admitted, "I thought maybe I'd let her pick…"
Draco and Blaise were staring at him, horrified expressions on their faces.
"Harry!" Draco exclaimed, "Didn't you ask her out?"
"I did, but…"
"Everyone knows if you suggested the date, you'd better have a plan!"
Blaise was nodding his head vigorously, "This is Hermione, we're talking about! She who plans every second of her homework schedule! Do you think she'll be impressed if you're not prepared?"
Harry ended up taking a crash course in dating from Blaise. He was exhausted, but grateful. Blaise recommended a café that sounded promising, and Draco offered Harry pointers in etiquette. But even these last-minute preparations couldn't brace him for the flood of butterflies in his stomach when he saw Hermione the next morning.
She had styled her hair in a similar fashion to the way she wore it at the Yule Ball. Harry remembered her complaining about the excessive amount of time it took to style it, and he was flattered by the idea that she went to this trouble for him.
Blaise could criticize all he wanted, but Harry was glad he'd picked his outfit so carefully. He only wished he had also done something about his hair.
After exchanging a friendly greeting, they joined the cue of students being signed out by Filch. Harry didn't speak much. He was dying to hold Hermione's hand, but he questioned whether it was too forward of him. Besides, he felt like there were too many eyes on them as they waited in line.
He didn't grow more comfortable till they were outside of the school grounds, taking in the fresh air. Hermione introduced the subject of their OWLs, a topic she always had much to say about, and they soon fell into rather comfortable conversation. But in the back of Harry's mind, he struggled to think of something to say that didn't involve homework or the other topics they discussed every day.
While Harry searched for an opening to introduce a more romantic topic, a group of Slytherin girls walked past them. Among their number was Pansy Parkinson.
"So the rumors are true!" she shrieked unpleasantly, "Potter and Granger! I don't think much of your taste, Granger… At least Krum could actually play Quidditch!"
"No one asked you, Parkinson," Hermione shot back without missing a beat, "It must be hard, getting dropped by Malfoy like that. Then again, he never seemed to like you much, in the first place."
A few of the girls in Pansy's group giggled. Clearly, Pansy didn't speak for all of them. Without a comeback prepared and sensing that she was losing the favor of their audience, Pansy hurried them along, still talking loudly and directing exaggerated glances at Hermione and Harry over her shoulder.
"Just ignore them," Harry recommended.
"Oh, I'm not worried about them," Hermione said, proudly defiant. She reached for Harry's hand, holding it rather firmly. "I'm not a stranger to bullies. They don't embarrass me one bit."
They held hands all the way into Hogsmeade. Harry, thinking only of this simple contact, had lapsed into a comfortable silence. As they entered the village, however, they both observed the wanted posters stuck in the windows of several stores. The Ministry was now offering a thousand Galleons to anyone with information leading to the recapture of any of the ten convicts pictured.
"When your godfather escaped Azkaban, there were dementors all over the place," Hermione observed, breaking the silence, "Now ten Death Eaters have escaped, and there are none… I think you must be right, Harry. The ministry doesn't control them anymore."
Harry gripped her hand tighter. He felt he could trust Hermione with his suspicions, and he whispered for only her to hear, "I noticed that, too… Do you think they've joined…?"
Hermione nodded her head to show her understanding. "It's the explanation that makes the most sense. That's probably how they all escaped in the first place."
To get their minds off such depressing topics, Harry tentatively suggested, "Do you want to get a coffee? Blaise said… I mean, I heard of a place just down the street from here."
Hermione agreed readily, and Harry led her down the road to the address Blaise had mentioned only the night before.
Madam Puddifoot's turned out to be a tearoom. It was small, cramped, and decorated everywhere with pink, red, and white bows. Harry was horrified when he stepped through the door and into this fresh hell, but Hermine, obviously trying to be polite, said, "Oh, it's… cute."
He was about to suggest another spot, but outside, it had just started to rain. Harry directed Hermione rather reluctantly to the last remaining table, set snugly next to a steamy window.
"They must have decorated for Valentine's Day," said Harry as a golden cherub flew over their heads and tossed a handful of pink confetti. At least, he hoped that was the reason for the garish décor. He hated to think the café was covered in bows and frills all the time.
Wondering how Blaise had heard of this place, he began glancing at the other tables, half-expecting to see Daphne Greengrass holding hands with some new boy over their sugar bowl. Daphne wasn't there, but it was obvious that every other table was populated with couples. Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw quidditch captain, sat nearby with a pretty blonde girl Harry didn't recognize. At the table next to them, Cedric Diggory held hands with Cho Chang.
Harry smiled when he saw his friendly face, and stared for a moment at Cedric, hoping to catch his eye. He wished he hadn't. Cedric's attention was absorbed by his date, and Harry was forced to look away in embarrassment as he leaned forward to kiss Cho. Harry prayed that Hermione hadn't noticed. It might raise expectations that he wasn't sure he was ready to meet.
"What can I get you, m'dears?" asked Madam Puddifoot, a stout woman with her dark hair styled in a bun.
Harry ordered a coffee while Hermione requested tea with cream. Once Madam Puddifoot had bustled away to fill their orders, Harry found himself plunged into an unnatural silence. He made several feeble attempts at conversation while they waited for their drinks to arrive, but although Hermione was eager in her responses, the discussion would soon fizzle into nothing, and they lapsed into silence again.
Harry wondered why this was suddenly so hard. He spoke to Hermione almost every day, and he never felt this awkward around her before. He blamed the café. It served as a reminder that this was supposed to be a date, not another casual outing between two friends.
Their drinks arrived. It was a blessing to have something to do. Harry could now sip his coffee whenever there was a lull in the conversation, as was often the case. Harry was acutely aware that Cedric and Cho were now snogging at their table, and that made matters much worse. Harry liked Cedric, but he had no desire to learn anything about his kissing technique.
Harry was already about to finish his cup, when Hermione suddenly leaned across the table. His mind still on Cedric and Cho, Harry stupidly thought she was going to kiss him, but then she said in a low voice, "Harry, can I make confession?"
The cherub circling above their heads threw another handful of confetti into Harry's hair as he replied, "What is it?"
Hermione smiled guiltily. "I really hate this place."
"Oh, thank god!" Harry cried, jumping out of his chair and digging through his pocket. Several of the couples broke off from flirting to stare at him as he threw down enough silver sickles to cover their drinks and then some. Without pausing, Harry grabbed Hermione's hand and they sprinted out the door into the driving rain.
Outside, they exchanged a glance and promptly burst into laughter.
"What on earth was that?" Hermione asked, tears of mirth mixing with the raindrops on her face, "Was that supposed to be romantic?"
"I swear, I've never been there before today!" Harry said through his giggles, "It was all Blaise's idea!"
Hermione gasped, "You don't think Daphne told him about it, do you?"
"Well, what about Cedric?" said Harry, feeling emboldened now that the Head Boy and his date were behind them, "I can't believe they'd do something like that in public!"
Hermione nodded, "I was surprised, too. Who knew Cedric Diggory could be so shameless? But, well… in some points he might not be entirely wrong…"
"What do you mean?"
Hermione glanced shyly at her feet. Harry could see tiny dew drops on her eyelashes.
"Well, that certainly wouldn't be my choice for a date, but as for kissing…"
Harry was suddenly aware that he was still holding Hermione's hand. They were standing in the middle of the street, but they were alone. Everyone had taken shelter from the weather. Hermione glanced up at him again, and Harry's heart began to race. The rain had done something interesting to her hair. The curls were no longer smooth and sleek, but Harry thought she had never looked more beautiful.
He hardly knew who made the first move. Was it Hermione who first tentatively pressed her lips to his, or had he leaned toward her? It didn't matter. All he knew was that kissing Hermione felt like the most natural thing in the world. He found he could no longer judge Cedric so harshly. Once started, he didn't really feel like stopping.
It was only when a loud clap of thunder rolled overhead that they pulled away from each other. Hermione gazed into Harry's eyes, grinning from ear to ear. He could feel a similar expression on his own face.
"Three Broomsticks?" he suggested.
"Ooh, yes! Let's!" Hermione replied breathlessly.
And the two of them raced down the street, splashing through puddles and still holding one another's hand.
In the shelter of the Three Broomsticks, Harry asked Hermione to find a table for them while he went to the bar to order two butterbeers. He was secretly hoping she'd find something out-of-the-way, so they could continue what had started on the street.
His mind on these pleasant daydreams, he spotted a familiar face at the bar.
"Hi Hagrid!" he cried cheerfully. He was in a mood to be friendly toward everyone. If he met Voldemort himself at the moment, he might have shaken him by the hand.
Hagrid, on the other hand, jumped and looked down at Harry as if he barely recognized him. He had two fresh cuts on his face and several new bruises.
"Oh, it's you, Harry," said Hagrid, "You all right'?"
"Never better!" Harry replied, "I'm here with Hermione Granger."
"Oh, are yeh? That's good… We've all got ter have someone, yeh know…"
Hagrid seemed to be in a funny mood. Harry wondered if he was missing Madam Maxime. But then Hagrid added, "We're social creatures, Harry. That's the fact. An' we're not meant ter be alone. It makes a difference, havin' family. Whatever yeh say, blood's important…"
"Um, sure Hagrid," Harry said. He wasn't sure that he agreed. His Aunt Petunia had been related to him by blood, after all, and she had never cared for him. But it didn't seem like a good time to debate with Hagrid.
He was eager to get back to Hermione, but concern for his friend took precedence. Resting a comforting hand on one of Hagrid's massive forearms, he asked, "Hagrid? Are you alright? These injuries you keep getting… What's causing them?"
"Eh?" said Hagrid, snapping out of his reverie, "Oh, these… Tha's just normal bumps an' bruises. I got a rough job."
He drained his tankard and replaced it on the counter of the bar, then turned back to Harry. "I'll be seein' yeh. Take care now…"
Feeling perturbed by Hagrid's morose behavior, Harry grabbed the drinks Madam Rosmerta had sat before him and turned to find where Hermione was gone. He was delighted to see that she found a corner table, but his delight turned to surprise when he saw that she had fallen into conversation with Millie.
She was not alone, either. Sitting at the table were three of the unlikeliest drinking companions he could ever imagine: Nell Willowby, Luna Lovegood, and Rita Skeeter.
Nell and Millie both hated Skeeter, and for good reason. The last time Harry had seen the reporter, she had been only a beetle trapped in an unbreakable glass jar. He wasn't sure when Nell had freed her from her prison, or why they were meeting now. Curiosity won out, when invited to join them, Harry readily agreed.
"This is a surprise, Harry remarked, glancing pointedly at Skeeter before he turned toward Millie, "I didn't expect to find you here. Where's Blaise?"
"He took Neville to Zonko's," Millie replied with a smirk.
"They're together?" asked Harry. After his success with Hermione, he was inclined to imagine every pair of people a couple, and was actually rather impressed that Neville managed to capture Blaise.
But Millie shook her head, dispelling his expectations as she said, "It's not like that. Blaise just thought Neville could use a laugh."
"He's not the only one…" Hermione whispered, her gaze directed toward Skeeter.
The former reporter didn't seem pleased to see any of them. Her eyes looked darker and more beetle-like than before. Her face was wan and thin. Her blonde hair was no longer set in its elaborate curls and instead hung in limp tendrils around her face. Her nail polish was chipped, and there were a few false gems missing from her winged glasses. Harry wondered if she had been kept in the jar this entire time. Her next words seemed to confirm this suspicion.
"I ought to report you all to the Ministry," she snapped, "Kidnapping, false imprisonment, impeding the press…"
"I've already told you," Nell replied, exasperated, "How was I supposed to know you weren't anything other than a very ugly beetle? It's not like you were registered or anything!"
"You knew, you little witch!" hissed Skeeter, "You think what I wrote was bad before? Wait until you see what I write about you and your friends now…"
"You won't be writing anything," Millie informed her, "Nothing that we don't approve of, anyway."
"Oh? And how will a bunch of brats like you stop me? You won't get me back in that jar again…"
"It's very simple," Millie said, "If you try to punish us, we'll expose you to the Ministry as an unregistered animagus. They won't be too pleased about that, especially after Pettigrew's escape. Criminal charges aside, I wonder how many lawsuits would follow? There are probably dozens of people who would sue you for publishing information you got while committing a crime, wouldn't you say?"
Skeeter's lips twisted into a sneer, but Nell interjected before she could argue, "But if you cooperate with us, we'll give you a story to catapult you back into the spotlight. It'll be as if your hiatus from the Prophet never happened."
Though she was still very angry, Skeeter couldn't resist her own desire for notoriety. She was clearly intrigued by the offer, and looked at each of them with a hungry expression as she said, "Alright, I'm listening."
"We want you to write an article exposing the Ministry's lies," Millie revealed, "You'll inform the public that Lord Voldemort has returned, and that Dumbledore has been telling the truth, and that Fudge is covering it all up to protect his own image."
Silence fell across the table. Skeeter actually looked disappointed.
"Nonsense," she said, "Even if that were true, and Dumbledore isn't simply off his rocker, the Prophet would never print such a story."
"That's why we're not using the Prophet," Nell explained, "We've got ourselves an independent publisher who will take care of distribution. All we need is your article."
Harry suddenly realized why Luna was there. She hardly seemed interested in their conversation, however. She was humming a song under her breath, stirring her drink lazily and seeming miles away.
"Even with a publisher, no one will believe a word without some evidence," insisted Skeeter, "I'm not deaf in my other form, you know. I'm aware that Dumbledore's already spread the word about You-Know-Who. If the public doesn't believe him, why would they believe anything I write?"
"My dad says it doesn't matter what people believe, because often they choose to believe only what's convenient," Luna said abruptly. Harry was surprised. He'd had the impression that Luna wasn't listening to their conversation. Even now, she stirred her drink vacantly, but her eyes were trained on Skeeter with a keen intellect.
"I'm guessing your father runs some stupid little village paper?" Skeeter seethed.
"No," said Luna, her voice still serene, "He's the editor of the Quibbler."
Skeeter snorted so loudly she drew looks from people at a nearby table. "Don't tell me. You plan to publish the article I write in that rag? I thought you wanted people to trust Dumbledore!"
"We do," insisted Millie, "The Prophet's version of Azkaban's breakout is full of holes. Maybe some people will doubt us, but more will be looking for a better explanation for what happened."
"And what sort of fee can I expect for writing this fairytale?" Skeeter asked haughtily.
"I don't think daddy exactly pays people to write for the magazine," Luna said in a dreamlike way, "They do it because it's an honor. And to see their names in print."
Skeeter snorted loudly again.
"How about this?" suggested Millie, "You do what we want, and I won't turn you over to the Ministry?"
"Fine! You can bully and blackmail me all you want, but the fact remains, you don't have a story!"
"How about the names of the uncaptured Death Eaters?" Harry asked, "The ones who were never sent to Azkaban in the first place?"
Skeeter gaped at him, as did the rest of the table. Harry could feel Hermione's gaze on him, but he was staring fixedly at Skeeter. She licked her lips, as if longing for her old Quick Quotes Quill to start writing.
"If you had that… Yes, I can see the headlines now… Potter Accuses… Harry Potter Names Death Eaters Still Among Us…"
"Harry, are you sure?" Hermione asked anxiously. Beneath the table, where Skeeter couldn't observe, she had taken Harry's hand again.
"Yes," said Harry with determination. He wasn't upset with Millie or Nell for arranging this meeting without consulting him. On the contrary, the Marauder's meetings and interference of the Ministry at Hogwarts had him thinking that it was time he came forward publicly.
Hermione smiled at him, proud of his decision. Her hand gripped his even tighter as Harry turned back toward Skeeter.
"Have you got a quill? You're going to want to take notes."