If Dumbledore was bothered by Umbridge's presence beside him, he gave no indication of it, though McGonagall—seated further down the table—kept shooting sharp glances toward Umbridge, and had pursed her lips through the entire Sorting Ceremony.
Harry found himself oddly indignant on McGonagall's behalf, but, then, if stealing McGonagall's seat was the worst Umbridge was going to do on her first day, they'd probably got off lucky.
"I don't know the Hat gave warnings," Hermione said, as they tucked into dinner. "Usually it's just about the traits of the Houses."
"Fird earit did," Ron said around a chicken wing.
"Want to try that again?" Hermione asked, looking disapproving. "Mashed potato, Harry?" Harry nodded, grateful; some of the dishes on the table were easy enough to serve or eat with one hand, but there were a lot that weren't. He found himself very much feeling Kreacher's absence.
"Third year it did," Ron repeated. "It did the one about how we're all gits." Ron bit into a second chicken wing with a happy sound. He chewed and swallowed, giving Hermione a very pointed look all the while. Harry's eyes drifted back to the pink figure at the staff table; she was eating her dinner without attempting to make conversation with the other teachers. "After the Chamber, remember?"
"It didn't— that was to promote acceptance and open-mindedness," Hermione said.
"No," Harry said, dragging his eyes away from Umbridge. He reached for one of the wings from the plate beside Ron. "No, I'm pretty sure Ron's right—"
Hermione rolled her eyes:
"Regardless, that was still a far cry from telling us to unite or crumble." She chewed her lip.
"Do you think it knows something we don't?" Draco asked.
"Doubt it," Ron said. "It's a hat."
"A hat which lives in Dumbledore's office," Draco pointed out.
"Yeah," Ron said, and then leaned forward, voice lowering, "but between Headquarters and trips to the Ministry, I don't reckon Dumbleodre's spent much time there lately." He made a good point, in Harry's opinion. "We'd know as much as it would; doesn't take a genius to figure out who it meant when it said external, deadly foes, does it?"
"Yeah, but uniting from within's not likely either, is it?" Harry said. "Umbridge is out to get Dumbledore, and we know Death Eaters have kids here—"
"They do?" Draco said, putting a hand to his mouth in exaggerated surprise. Ron snorted into his goblet.
"—and obviously the Order do too," Harry said, making a face at Draco, who smirked. "Seems like a recipe for disaster if you ask me."
"And the Hat agrees," Hermione said, looking worried.
"So she'll fret about a hat's predictions, but not about a Seer's," Ron said to the ceiling.
"Because the Hat's sounds reasonable," Hermione said, cheeks turning pink.
"Wish we could discount unreasonable-sounding prophecies," Harry said. Hermione looked stricken, and Harry grinned. "Relax, Hermione, I'm joking." Draco and Ron both looked a little uncomfortable too, and Harry glanced further down the table to where Ginny was sitting; she would have seen the humour in it. Harry sighed. "Can one of you pass the sausages?"
Once dinner was finished and their plates had vanished, Dumbledore got to his feet. He started with the usual—the forest was out of bounds and magic was not allowed in the corridors (and nor was anything on Filch's lengthy list of banned items).
"And," Dumbledore said. "I must announce two changes to staffing this year; firstly, we are pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be our Care of Magical Creatures professor—"
"Hagrid's not back yet?" Hermione whispered, looking at Harry and Ron. They'd noticed he wasn't at the staff table when they arrived, of course—Hagrid was hard to miss—but it was one thing for him to be absent and another entirely for him to not be teaching.
"Dumbledore didn't say anything last meeting," Ron muttered back, glancing at Harry.
"Must still be with the giants," Harry said. He wasn't sure if that boded well or poorly.
"—welcome Professor Umbridge, our new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher."
A smattering of polite applause followed, and then Dumbledore continued,
"Try-outs for the house Quidditch teams will—"
"Hem hem," Umbridge said, and Harry straightened. Dumbledore fell silent.
"What?" Hermione asked.
"Umbridge wants Dumbledore's attention," Draco said, eyes on the teacher's table. He looked briefly at Harry. "Right? Is she saying something?" Harry started to nod, just as a second, more audible—at least to those who didn't have animagus hearing—hem hem was spoken into the confused silence.
Dumbledore sat immediately, hands clasped on the table and eyes on Umbridge; he was the very picture of polite attentiveness, though there were some looks exchanged by others at the staff table, and murmurs racing around the house tables.
Umbridge got to her feet. Standing, she was not that much taller than Dumbledore, but there was no denying she held the attention of everyone in the room; it wasn't often someone interrupted Dumbledore.
"Thank you very much, Headmaster," she said sweetly, "for those kind words of welcome." She cleared her throat again. "And may I say it is truly a delight to be back at Hogwarts, and to see all of your little faces looking up at me." Discontent and skepticism followed that statement; Harry could smell it. "I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you, and I'm sure we'll all be very good friends."
"That's likely," Harry heard Fred whisper, and George, Angelina, Lee, Katie, and Alicia broke into muffled laughter.
Further down, Lavender whispered to Parvati and Seamus, "As her friend, would it be appropriate to tell her she needs to update her wardrobe?"
Similar conversations were happening all around the hall, and Harry ducked his head so Umbridge wouldn't see him smiling if she happened to look over.
"Further," Umbridge continued, apparently oblivious to the jokes at her expense, "I look forward to the opportunity to contribute to your education. Magic gives us power. It is what elevates us from muggles—" Hermione made a small sound in her throat. "—and squibs. And, our ability to control and direct it meaningfully and purposefully through a wand sets us apart from magical beasts."
Harry stared, too shocked to be properly angry, as Umbridge adjusted a small, Ministry pin on her lapel, and continued:
"As such, the Ministry of Magic considers the education of young witches and wizards like yourselves to be of the utmost importance. You are all here because you were born with this power, and with it comes the responsibility to learn to use it so that, once you have completed your formal education, you can properly contribute to our magical community."
"Our magical community which apparently excludes squibs and magical creatures," Hermione hissed, so angrily that it could almost have been mistaken for parseltongue.
Draco shushed her, but put a hand on her arm to show it wasn't because he disagreed; Harry could smell the intensity of his focus.
"And that is why I'm here," Umbridge said. "As a representative of the Ministry of Magic—and of the Minister himself—I am extremely familiar with the pathways many of you will pursue once you graduate. I will be able to guide you based on your skills and interests, and provide you with connections that will serve you both now and into the future, and help instil in you the attitudes which shall lead to success." She smiled. To Harry it looked like a baring of teeth. "Of course, some of you may not join the Ministry, which is perfectly acceptable. There will still be a place for you in our world, a way that you can contribute to the progress of our society, and it is what you learn now, in these formative years, which will determine just how you will shape the world later on."
Around them, other students were growing restless; McLaggen and his friends were taking turns flicking a pea (clearly missed by the house elves' magical cleaning) between two finger goalposts. Most of the newly Sorted first years were watching, and letting out giggles or hushed cheers and groans as the pea did or didn't score. Harry barely spared them a glance, however:
Umbridge smiled again, apparently oblivious to or unconcerned by the rapidly dwindling attention of her audience:
"Hogwarts is a school of impressive history and tradition, and has, in the time it has been running, produced witches and wizards of unparalleled talent; our current Minister of Magic himself once sat right here in this hall, dressed in the same robes as you yourself wear." Umbridge giggled. "In its time, Hogwarts has undergone a great many evolutions, changing to suit the world outside it, and, of course, changing based on the people within it. Each of Hogwarts' headmasters and headmistresses have had their own approach to governing the school, and I think you would all agree that, on the whole Hogwarts has progressed positively."
At that, she inclined her head—almost mockingly—at Dumbledore, who simply smiled back as if that was the greatest compliment she could have given him. Umbridge's smile became rather fixed.
"But," she said, her voice almost cloyingly sweet, "unchecked progress can result in regression to a place we have long since surpassed, and need never revisit. Or, it could result in misalignment, which is perhaps a greater challenge. The experiences students have at school are what prepare them for life beyond it, and if these experiences are compromised through misalignment with the curriculum and values, then the students' ability to succeed will in turn be compromised. And so we must take the time to reflect and recalibrate, and let Hogwarts evolve again. Let us work together to preserve this school's traditions and history, perfect what can be perfected, and prune away those practices which are outdated, inappropriate, or will otherwise detract from the school's role in preparing its students to graduate."
With that, she sat down again.
"Thank you, Professor Umbridge," Dumbledore said, getting back to his feet. "That was most enlightening, and it is wonderful to see you share the same desire as I and the rest of our teachers here at Hogwarts—to see the students appropriately prepared for what awaits them beyond the castle's walls." Dumbledore's voice remained light but Harry knew him well enough to hear the polite edge in it, and apparently Umbridge did too; her smile, while wide, turned sharp. "Now, returning to my previous notice: Quidditch trials will be held—"
"Well," Hermione said grimly, "message received."
"Good," Ron said fervently, "because I didn't get a thing from that, except maybe that she's going to use smiles and long, boring talks to make everyone think she's just some well-intentioned Ministry witch."
Hermione, who'd rolled her eyes and opened her mouth when Ron started to speak, paused:
"That's… actually very astute, Ron," she said. "That's exactly what she was doing, I think, at least for the students. But the teachers and anyone actually listening would have heard the warnings loud and clear."
"Hogwarts has to fall into line," Harry added. "Everyone who does is fast-tracked to the Ministry, and anyone who doesn't'll struggle to graduate." He glanced at Hermione to make sure he'd interpreted it properly, and no contradictions were forthcoming.
"She was far more open than I was expecting," Draco said.
"Probably because she didn't expect anyone to listen past the bit about us all being good friends," Harry muttered.
"She certainly got away with saying wizards are better than muggles, squibs, and magical creatures," Hermione said scathingly. "The reason magical creatures can't use wands is because the Ministry won't let them. It has nothing to do with a lack of control—look at house elves!"
"Just beastly, that whole wandless thing…" Ron said, lifting a finger to make his own wand float into the air. "Absolutely inhuman." Draco snorted and Hermione smiled despite herself.
"—dnight!" Dumbledore said, and the Hall burst into sound; the scraping of benches, the chatter of students, and Prefects calling for first years:
"Oi! You lot!" Ron shouted, and a number of heads swivelled towards them—some not even from Gryffindor. The eyes attached to those heads skipped almost immediately over Ron and Hermione, and landed on Harry.
"The password is Mimbulus mimbletonia," Hermione said to Harry and Draco, and then stood. "First years, you're with me and Ron—" She pointed to herself and then him, and strode into the bustle.
"See you upstairs," Ron said. "Unless you want to tag along?"
"Not really," Harry said, uncomfortably aware of the first years' stares; a frustrated Hermione seemed to be trying to corral them, but they were too busy gaping at him to pay her much attention.
"Nor should you," Draco said. "Weasley's just trying to make his own life simple; he won't have to lead them upstairs if they're trailing after you like ducklings."
Ron snorted and went to help Hermione.
"Aren't you glad that isn't us," Draco said, glancing at Harry.
"Incredibly," Harry said, with a small smile; Ron and Hermione had managed to get the first years' attention, but now seemed to be on the receiving end of attitude from a particularly tiny girl in pigtails.
Draco huffed a laugh and then glanced up at the staff table:
"I was hoping to talk to Severus tonight—" His voice was cautious, almost gentle, which was unusual for Draco. "—but if you don't want to walk up alone—"
"No, that's fine," Harry said. "I need to talk to Dumbledore."
"Oh?" Draco asked, arching a pale eyebrow.
"Yeah," Harry said. "About what Quirrell's looking into with the door."
He hadn't wanted to lie to his friends after Quirrell's last visit to Grimmauld, but there was no way they could know the full truth either. And so, he'd told them Quirrell had found out more about the door—it had been put there when Harry was a baby, likely as a result of the failed killing curse, and because of the length of time it has been there, Harry's mind no longer recognised it as foreign which was why they'd struggled to find it in the past. He'd told them Quirrell thought it might be possible to actually remove the connection, but didn't know how to do that without causing serious harm to Harry, and so he was going to explore some options. It was all true, technically, even if it wasn't the whole truth.
"I figure maybe Dumbledore'll have some ideas," Harry said.
"I could—" Draco paused for just a moment, seeming to rethink what he'd been about to say (Harry was sure it involved Snape). "—see that that's a possibility, yes," he finished, rather airily. Harry snorted and one corner of Draco's mouth tugged up.
"I'll see you upstairs, then?"
"Assuming you're not waylaid by admirers or some sort of heroic duty," Draco said.
They parted ways, Harry with a roll of his eyes, and Draco with a snigger, though he smelled oddly guilty.
"Enter," Dumbledore said, before Harry's hand could touch the wood of his office door.
His omniscience—or rather the illusion of it—shattered the moment Harry actually pushed the door open and stepped inside:
"Harry," Dumbledore said, and couldn't keep the surprise from his voice. He was standing beside a familiar pensieve, and Harry got a brief glimpse of a memory-Umbridge sinking into its surface. Fawkes, looking particularly scruffy over on his perch, warbled a greeting.
"Hi," Harry said to them both. "I—er… have you got a few minutes to talk?"
"Of course," Dumbledore said, recovering; he seemed curious but not alarmed or worried. He gestured for Harry to take the seat in front of his desk, and moved the pensieve aside so the desk was clear between them. "What do you wish to speak about?"
Harry had spent the walk here—and a not insignificant amount of time since speaking to Quirrell—trying to decide how best to broach the topic with Dumbledore. At first he'd had no intention of telling anyone else, but then he'd realised he ought to, and that Dumbledore was the best candidate; for one, Dumbledore might be able to help them find a way to remove the horcrux without killing Harry. Harry still wasn't convinced it was possible, but if anyone could, it'd be Dumbledore, and at the very least, Harry wanted to survive enough to ask. And if not… well, then Dumbledore could help Quirrell explain to Padfoot and Harry's friends.
"The door in my head—" Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, cautious now but still not concerned. Harry felt bad for what he was about to say next. "—it's there because I'm a horcrux."
Dumbledore's hands—previously clasped on the desk—dropped to the edge and gripped the wood like a lifeline. Otherwise, no part of him moved, but Harry could smell his horror.
"I see," he said, sounding oddly choked, and not at all like himself. "And this— you've come to believe this because…?"
And so Harry told him. Told him what Quirrell had said and what Harry had pieced together himself as a result, told him about the allusions Voldemort himself had made over the years.
It was… easier than he'd expected. Much easier than he thought it would have been to tell Padfoot, or Ron, or Hermione, or Draco, or Ginny. Harry's voice stayed steady through it, and only faltered when he reached the promise he'd made Quirrell, about what he'd do if there was no way to remove it safely. Even then, he didn't falter of his own accord, but because the emotion coming from Dumbledore was so strong it clouded his nose and throat and made it physically hard to speak.
There was muted denial there, overridden by a swell of comprehension—an oddly light scent—but both of those were buried by sickly guilt and the salty heaviness of grief. Harry had seen Dumbledore sad before, and worried and sorry, and even afraid and angry, but he'd never seen him properly upset.
"We have always wondered at the nature of your connection," Dumbledore said heavily, after several long, quiet minutes. His eyes were very bright, and very sad, but he looked composed. "And now, it would seem, we know… Sirius does not." It wasn't a question.
Harry shook his head: "You, me, Quirrell, and Voldemort." Dumbledore nodded slowly, then leaned back in his chair.
"A horcrux," Dumbledore murmured, seemingly to himself. "And an accidental one at that, for there can be no doubt he did not intend you to survive. But for a soul to be so unstable…"
"Quirrell said I've been possessing it. Since I was a baby, but…" Harry too trailed off, helpless where Dumbledore had been thoughtful.
"That, I believe I can shed light on," Dumbledore said. Harry stared. "I am certain that you did, indeed, possess it, and have unknowingly been doing so since. But to do so so completely and without slipping up, especially when you were so young…"
"Shouldn't have been possible, right?" Harry asked.
"For anyone else, probably not," Dumbledore said. "You, however, were carrying—" He cut off, lifting a hand to his mouth, and his scent flickered so suddenly with so many emotions that Harry couldn't place any specific ones. Before Harry needed to prompt him to continue, Dumbledore did. "—your mother's protection." His voice was faint, distracted. "It would have kept the horcrux's effects at bay when it became too much for your young mind, allowed you a chance to recuperate, and learn." Dumbledore hesitated, and then said, "Voldemort took your mother's protection into himself when he took your blood in the graveyard."
"What?" Harry said, blankly, though he'd heard perfectly well. Dumbledore said no more on the matter, seemingly content to let Harry process that. Once he had: "But… does that mean there's more chance now of it taking over? We don't know how much Mum's protection's doing and how much is actually me—"
"We do not," Dumbledore said. "And so yes, the horcrux may grow more… unsettled, or the connection more unstable. But," Dumbledore said, perhaps noticing the building panic on Harry's face, "I do not believe it will be able to seize control the way it may once have been at risk of doing. For one, it is only a fraction of a soul. I cannot pretend to know how much of a soul is used when a horcrux is created—much less if that creation is accidental—but before the piece in you came—at minimum—the diary and the locket, and, of course, there is still the piece which resides in Voldemort himself. You, on the other hand, have a whole soul. For another, should you feel yourself slipping, you are not without people who can step in to help and give you the reprieve that your mother's protection would previously have handled. Quirinus, for example."
"Yeah," Harry said relaxing. "Right, okay." Then he frowned. "Wait—at minimum?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore murmured. "You believe Voldemort knows, and based on what you've told me, and what I observed myself in the pensieve, I'm inclined to agree. And yet, after his attempt to recruit you backfired, he was perfectly willing to kill you. Why?"
"Because it wouldn't have mattered," Harry said, thinking aloud. "He knows I have the power to vanquish him, or whatever, but not that either must die at the hand of the other. He wouldn't be willing to give up his immortality to get rid of me, not when he could have left me alive as a prisoner—" Harry certainly hadn't been in any state to fight, injured and wandless as he'd been. "—until he had another horcrux as insurance. So if he didn't need to…"
Mouth set in a grim line, Dumbledore inclined his head.
"That is the conclusion I had just reached. It is possible Voldemort does not know of the destruction of the locket, and simply assumed—"
"He knows about the diary, though," Harry said. "So he would have checked. And either he was fooled by Regulus' fake locket—but I doubt it—or there's another one, one that he knows is still out there and that isn't me..."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "Unfortunately, I doubt discovering it and destroying it will not be so straightforward—"
"It's the ring," Harry said. "The Resurrection Stone."
"Pardon?" Dumbledore asked, raising his eyebrows.
"We know he has it—Ginny told me in third year and we came to see you about it, remember? And Regulus had circled the picture of it at home, in with all the stuff about the locket. It's got to be." Dumbledore was sitting very still. "You went to ask his uncle about it, didn't you? After Ginny and I told you—"
"I did," Dumbledore said. "Very little of Morfin Gaunt's mind was intact by the time I spoke with him—an unfortunate but not unexpected side effect of spending so much of his life in Azkaban. He did, however, recall the ring—indeed, he was incredibly distressed to be without it even all these years later."
"Oh," Harry said, a little disappointed. Dumbledore smiled slightly:
"I was, however, with some very careful but also very strong Legillimency, able to find the memory of the last time he could recall having the ring in his possession. You will doubtless be as unsurprised as I was to learn a young Tom Riddle featured in it, which lends significant credence to Miss Weaslery's recollection that the diary version of Tom wore such a ring. Not that that was ever in doubt," Dumbledore added.
"He doesn't wear it now, though," Harry said. "Wormtail gave him his wand back, but not the ring, which means he wasn't wearing it the night he killed my parents."
"I daresay he will have tucked it away somewhere safe—either with one of his followers, as the diary was, or in a secret location like the cave which held the locket. Exactly where shall require some investigation, and I fear it shall not be a quick process, nor one which can get immediately underway."
"Why not?" Harry asked, frowning. "Shouldn't we—"
"Put simply, I am torn this year," Dumbledore said. "I have a duty to the school and those within it—" He flicked his wand, and Umbridge rose out of the pensieve to say take the time to reflect and recalibrate before sinking back into its liquid mirror surface. "—which I suspect will require my presence more than it ever has. And, of course, I have a duty to you, to this looming war against Voldemort, and my ability to adequately fulfil that will be hampered if it is carried out wholly from behind this desk." Dumbledore smoothed his hand over the wood with a sigh.
"Sure," Harry said, "but… er… isn't that what the Order's for?"