The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…
Born to those who have thrice defied him,
Born as the seventh month dies…
And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,
But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…
"My Lord—"
"Get out," Lord Voldemort said softly, calmly, even, but Severus—clever Severus—bowed and slipped from the room without another word. Barty hovered only a moment longer, then bowed himself and shut the door. Lord Voldemort turned the parchment over between long fingers and read it again, even as he reached for Nagini. Her smooth weight wrapped around his arm, and then she was moving up past his elbow to settle around his shoulders.
An observer might have thought she was trying to read the message too though of course she couldn't read. But she could taste the air; with a flick of her tongue, she hissed:
"Unsssettled."
Lord Voldemort hissed back at her, wordless, and she shifted reproachfully.
Truthfully, unsettled was... fair. It was not a way he felt often; Lord Voldemort had both knowledge and power, and used one or both to stay at least three steps ahead—of his own followers, of the Ministry, of the Order, of Dumbledore, of Harry Potter—at any given time. Lord Voldemort was never without a plan, and Lord Voldemort never doubted himself.
But now...
The first three lines of the prophecy were nothing new; Severus had delivered them to him all those years ago. It was oddly fitting that he be the one to do so again now.
Divination was an exceptionally powerful magic, but was one which was built on interpretation rather than rigid magical theories. Despite that, it had its own unique brand of inflexibility; while they might not always manifest as expected, prophecies always came true.
His eyes skimmed the message again, the neat penmanship—so distinctly pureblooded, even if it was more modern than that of most of his other followers.
Mark him.
And he had; Harry Potter wore a scar and a legacy created by Lord Voldemort's own hand.
The Boy Who Lived.
Walpurgis Champion.
Only a few months before, Lord Voldemort had bestowed upon the boy his Mark. If the scar and all the rest had not counted, that would have. Or perhaps it referred to a less tangible mark; perhaps it referred to the fact that, time and time again, Lord Voldemort had marked him for death.
To me, you have always been an equal.
Lord Voldemort's wand sparked, leaving a scorch mark on the wooden floor. It smouldered, and Nagini hissed her displeasure at the smell of burned polish. A painted Crouch ancestor pressed against the canvas to better see the damage, but didn't protest; she'd seen how the portraits who had had fared. Lord Voldemort spun on his heel and paced toward the other side of the room.
He was a prodigy, made powerful by his sharp mind, his cunning and ambition, and, of course, his magical skill. If he were to be assigned an equal, the obvious choice—at least on paper—was Dumbledore. But Dumbledore had never been Lord Voldemort's true equal; Dumbledore was his opposite.
The boy though… he had power, had talent, and had a certain charm to him, a certain type of influence; where Dumbledore had seemed to doubt Lord Voldemort from their first meeting at Wool's, he had never done anything but fawn over Potter. Even the little Malfoy—Lord Voldemort's own spy and servant—liked Potter.
Young as he was—not even a quarter of Lord Voldemort's age—the boy couldn't truly be an equal, but at the same age… Potter at twelve had thwarted his sixteen year old self. There was no denying the potential there, and while some of it was likely natural—the parents had had potential too—there was also no denying that Lord Voldemort himself was to blame for some of it:
I have shaped you, Lord Voldemort had told him. I have challenged you, motivated you, given you opportunities to prove yourself.
What had happened that October night was not due to any skill of Potter's, but rather, oversight on Lord Voldemort's; a toddler could not have killed him, and it was only the mother's interference that stopped Potter from dying with her. Nor could Potter have killed him at eleven when he sought the Stone, or at any other time, at least while the horcruxes were still in play, and certainly not while Potter was one himself. But the Potter at Lord Voldemort's muggle father's house... that Potter could have; Lord Voldemort remembered all too clearly the feel of the killing curse, and the way Potter had looked when he cast it.
And Lord Voldemort had made it so.
Lord Voldemort had not known the entire prophecy—as he did now—and in his ignorance, he had taken actions which further validated it. He had become aware of Potter's potential, and in attempting to remove it, had actualised it.
Lord Voldemort had created his own worst enemy.
The windows in the room exploded, and Nagini twitched and hissed as shards of glass plinked down around them, but Lord Voldemort didn't care. His eyes were once again on the parchment in his hand.
Even marked, equal, and with the power to vanquish him, Lord Voldemort could not fathom that Harry Potter knew magics he himself did not. The boy had not yet sat his O.W.L.s, while Lord Voldemort had graduated with twelve N.E.W.T.s. He had explored Occlumency and Legillimency, and mastered possession of animals and humans alike. He could reanimate the dead, could heal grievous injuries, and had made himself immortal. He had developed a language which he'd gone on to tether to complex magics that he himself had created, and he could not be matched in a duel. Though he much preferred his wand, he did not strictly need it. Politically, he had the money and wands of the most influential magic families, and a name which most still dared not utter.
And yet, it seemed none of that was important enough to merit acknowledgement in the prophecy. The only power that mattered was apparently Potter's, and the only thing significant about it was that he, Lord Voldemort, did not know what that power was.
Or at least, he had not known when the prophecy was made.
But he would. He would find out what it was and how to counter it, and then he would kill Potter.
And it would be him who killed the boy.
Firstly because if he was truly equal to Lord Voldemort, then killing him would be as beyond the abilities of any of his Death Eaters as killing Lord Voldemort himself, even without the horcruxes. Secondly, the boy was a horcrux and could therefore likely only die in certain ways, at least while the horcrux resided in him. And, thirdly, because it was right.
Unless Lord Voldemort did it himself, saw Potter's lifeless body, he could never be sure. Further, Harry Potter's death could not come about at the hand of anyone except Lord Voldemort, else they would remain equals. And that was not acceptable. He would defeat Potter and in doing so prove that he had no equal, that his power was absolute.
It was possible, because the prophecy did not say it was not.
The prophecy did not say how this would all end, did not say which of them would prevail. That meant, theoretically, that either of them could.
But Lord Voldemort was going to ensure it was him. He would leave Potter alone until he was ready. Lord Voldemort would not push him, not provoke him… not directly. They could whittle away at the Order, at Potter's friends and family. And all the while Lord Voldemort would prepare. He would discover Potter's unknown power. Or, he would ensure that he himself was powerful enough to have the upper hand even without knowing what it was.
And he knew where to start; wandlore. Lord Voldemort was so focused—on the memory of a golden thread linking a pair of wands—on his way to the door that he barely noticed the sting of the glass beneath his feet.
"Bottle your brews and leave them on my desk—not you, Potter. Five points from Gryffindor for managing to produce something worse than Longbottom." Neville sank in his chair looking mortified and miserable.
"Should I just vanish it then?" Harry asked tersely. Snape turned, arching an eyebrow. "Sir."
"Don't touch it at all," Snape drawled. "Though I doubt it could be any worse, I'm ill-inclined to see you prove me wrong. I shall deal with you in a moment."
At the next desk over, Ron straightened and opened his mouth, but Harry leaned over to kick him; he had a look on his face that was sure to land them all in detention. Angry as Harry was, the kick was probably harder than it needed to be, but it had the intended result; Ron's shoulders hunched and he scowled, but got to his feet and started filling his own flask without comment.
"Five points from Gryffindor," Snape said. "For, much as I appreciate the desire to kick Weasley—" Hydrus and a handful of other Slytherins sniggered. "—I will not tolerate that sort of boorish violence in my classroom." Ron looked like he was about to kick Snape.
"I'll give him violence," Draco muttered from the desk in front of Harry's, probably too low for anyone except Harry to hear. His back was to Harry as he stoppered his potion and emptied his cauldron, but Harry was almost sure his eyes were burning holes in the side of Snape's head.
Still, he didn't dawdle, and Ron—with a last, furious look at Snape—didn't either. Hermione did though, giving Harry a concerned look from her desk beside Neville. For all the compassion on her face, there was a stubbornness about her too that made him certain she would stay—regardless of the consequences—if she thought he wanted her to.
He shook his head at her and, looking deeply unhappy, she set her flask on Snape's desk and followed the rest of the class out.
"Abysmal," Snape said, once the dungeon was empty. He came to stand over the desk, and looked down his large nose at the lumpy green-grey contents of Harry's cauldron. "Evanesco. Attempting an O.W.L. in my subject is a waste of your time and mine if that—" He nodded at Harry's empty cauldron. "—is the standard at which you intend to perform."
"Guess I'll brace myself for a T," Harry said.
"You'll be disappointed, then," Snape said, lip curling. His dark eyes landed on Harry's left sleeve, on the missing hand which had made ingredient preparation so incredibly difficult, and was therefore to blame for his rather pathetic potion. Or, partly to blame; if Snape had stopped punishing Hermione, Ron, and Draco from trying to help him, he was sure the result would have been much better. "Even trolls are able to use basic tools."
Harry felt his face redden, and it wasn't only from anger. He bit down on his tongue before he could say anything that Snape wouldn't like and shoved to his feet.
"I haven't dismissed you, Potter," Snape drawled, as Harry stalked toward the door.
"I don't give a—"
"It cannot be grown back," Snape said, before Harry could finish. His voice wasn't kind. "By all means, continue to let your disability hamper you and give you a reason to feel sorry for yourself, but I will not allow you to let it distract and endanger students in my classroom."
Several of the bottles on Snape's desk exploded, and Harry curled his fingers into a fist, as if that would help him keep his magic contained.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," Snape said, with a glint in his eye. "For sabotaging your classmates' efforts today more than you already had. Now get out—you've wasted enough of my time."
It was with no small amount of trepidation that Hermione stepped into the Defence classroom after Ancient Runes.
Harry had been livid when he left the Potions classroom and hadn't accompanied them to lunch; he'd stalked off in such a bad mood that even Ron, who was usually the most persistent and thick-skinned of them, had thought it best to give him some time alone. Ron and Draco had headed off to Divination after lunch—laden with a sandwich and apple for Harry—but Hermione didn't like their chances of getting Harry into a better mood; firstly because Snape had been so awful during Potions that Harry's anger was entirely justified, but secondly because both Ron and—more significantly—Draco were just as angry about it as Harry himself was.
As was Hermione, for that matter; not only had it been terrible to watch Snape bully Harry, but she'd lost fifteen house points throughout the lesson for her various attempts to help.
But, she also knew that going into Umbridge's lesson in the mood to hex something was a bad idea, and if she couldn't be sure the boys were going to go into it calmly, then Hermione figured she was going to have to be the voice of reason.
Umbridge had not yet arrived, but about half the class was already there—the boys included. Harry sat alone at a double desk beside the one Draco and Ron shared. He did actually look to be in better spirits—perhaps he'd managed to contact Sirius during lunch—and was doing a very good job at pretending he hadn't noticed Pansy, Daphne, and Nadia, who were almost falling out of their chairs trying to get a look at his left sleeve.
Hermione gave the three of them a withering look and then set about ignoring them herself.
"How was Divination?" Hermione asked as she settled next to Harry.
"We're doing dream interpretation this term," Harry said, eyes on the door. "I'm not sure she knows what she's in for."
"She'll lap it up," Draco said. "You know what Sybill's like." Ron snorted, and a ghost of a smile flickered over Harry's face. "You wait—every dream you have'll somehow be a foretelling of your death, Potter." Harry's expression did something strange and Hermione opened her mouth to ask why—since both Ron and Draco were laughing and didn't seem to have noticed—when he abruptly straightened in the seat next to hers.
Umbridge strode into the room in an outfit—robes, today—that was just as pink as what she'd worn the night before. Her eyes did a rather casual sweep of the room and of the faces of everyone inside it. Hermione saw her note Hydrus rather thoughtfully and then Blaise with a slight frown. Her eyes skimmed the rest of the Slytherins, and most of the Gryffindors, then landed on Draco, and then went back to Hydrus, clearly noting the family resemblance. She considered Ron with another little frown and then her eyes passed over Hermione, as if she wasn't even there, to land on Harry.
Umbridge didn't frown at the sight of him but rather bared her teeth in a smile as she reached the front of the classroom.
"Good afternoon," she said. After a pregnant pause, she clasped her hands together, tsking, and Hermione realised she'd wanted a response. Before she—or anyone else who'd had the same realisation—could do anything about that, Umbridge said, "I would like you to reply when I'm talking to you. Shall we try again: good afternoon, class."
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," Hermione replied, feeling as though she was back at primary school. Harry, Seamus, Blaise, and Tracey Davis all joined her in saying the same; the rest of the class said good afternoon and left it at that.
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," Umbridge corrected. "We'll work on that. But, in the meantime, welcome to my Defence against the Dark Arts classroom."
Was Hermione imagining it, or had she placed a subtle inflection on the word my? A glance at Harry—who despite a perfectly neutral expression, gave the impression that he was scowling—and then at Umbridge who was watching him for a response, made her think she'd heard it exactly right.
"Wands away and quills out, please," Umbridge said. A disappointed murmur passed around the room and Umbridge—seemingly oblivious—turned around to flick her own wand at the blackboard.
Defence against the Dark Arts
A Return to Basic Principles
"This," Umbridge said, "is where we'll be starting, given the rather disjointed education you've had in this subject so far, by teachers—" Again, a subtle emphasis on the word teachers, as if Umbridge didn't think they were worthy of the title. Harry shifted beside Hermione, hand curling into a fist under the table. "—who have not been using a Ministry-endorsed curriculum. I fear your understanding of this topic will not be at all what it should be—"
Hermione raised her hand.
Umbridge blinked, glanced at the ten words on the board, at Hermione, at Harry in the seat beside her, and then back to Hermione. She smiled.
"Do you have a question, Miss…?"
"Granger," Hermione said. "And yes; our last two teachers were Aurors who work for the Ministry, so I'm struggling to understand how their curriculums weren't Ministry-endorsed."
"One was a retired Auror who no longer worked for or represented the Ministry of Magic," Umbridge replied. "The other, while still technically in active service, had no teaching experience, and—as I understand it—struggled to balance his duties as a professor against his other reasons for being at Hogwarts."
"He was just here to babysit Potter, you mean," Hydrus said. Umbridge's smile widened.
"Hardly unreasonable, what with the way last year turned out," Blaise said, folding his arms. Hydrus and several other Slytherins chortled at that, but Hermione thought Blaise was entirely serious.
"Professor Black was a great teacher," Dean said, turning in his chair. "And I think that matters more than his reasons for taking the job."
"If you wish to speak in my class," Umbridge said, "you must raise your hand, Mr…?"
"Thomas," Dean said.
Umbridge nodded:
"Our curriculum this year is a carefully structured, Ministry-approved course on defensive magic and its uses. Our aims are…" She tapped the board again, and read aloud as the words appeared. "One: understanding the principles underlying defensive magic." Umbridge turned to face them. "As Aurors, your two most recent teachers have been extensively trained by the Ministry of Magic in defensive—and sometimes even offensive—magics, which can be used to subdue dark witches and wizards, and magical beasts. While it is necessary for them, it does not make them well suited for the task of teaching children; I expect, when faced with dark arts users or magical beasts your first instinct would be to react as an Auror would—despite your lack of training—to fight back, or try to subdue it. That is dangerous, and unnecessary. As such, our second aim will be…" She tapped the board again with her rather stubby wand. "Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can be used legally. This will—"
Harry's hand shot up into the air.
"Mr Potter?" Umbridge said sweetly.
"If trying to fight back or subdue a Death Eater is unnecessary," he asked bitingly, "what exactly do you think we should be doing?"
"Contacting the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Umbridge said, "or—in the case of a beast—the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, so that they can dispatch someone with the appropriate training to come and help you."
Harry snorted.
"Is something funny, Mr Potter?" Umbridge asked. "I'd have expected—with your family connections being what they are—that you would appreciate the talents of our D.M.L.E. staff."
"Absolutely," Harry said. "They do great work, and everyone here's been taught by Aurors and so know they're good at what they do, but the problem with Aurors is that they're not always there. If we're not taught how to fight back and defend ourselves, we'll be dead before they can be."
"Harry's right," Ron said.
"Hand!" Umbridge snapped at him, and then smiled. "Raise your hand if you wish to speak in my classroom, Mr Weasley."
"Sure," Ron said, even as he stuck his hand in the air. "That better? Look, everyone knows Voldemort's—" The entire class including Umbridge flinched, with the exception of Draco—whose expression merely hardened—Hermione, and Harry. "—back, and everyone knows it. It's not like we can have an Auror each to follow us around and keep us safe, so it seems to me that we'd be better off learning to actually defend ourselves."
"Seems to you," Umbridge repeated. "And are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Mr Weasley? This curriculum has been developed by professionals, and factors in your current level of education, what your competency level and understanding needs to be once you've completed the curriculum, and also takes into consideration the current sociopolitical climate of the wizarding world. And that leads us nicely into our third aim: understanding defensive magic options which are both legal and appropriate."
Parvati's hand lifted into the air:
"Miss Patil, Professor," she said, before Umbridge could call on her. "I'm just wondering… if we're not going to be taught to fight back… what defensive magical options do we have?"
"Your education has been as lacking as I feared," Umbridge sighed.
"Don't let Patil speak for all of us," Draco said, not bothering to raise his own hand. Umbridge did not tell him off for it, either. "I think it's rather obvious—the Ministry obviously wants to make sure we're never put in a position where we'd have to engage with something or someone dangerous, so Professor Umbridge will doubtless be teaching us how to ensure that." Draco sounded reasonable, and a little condescending; Umbridge was nodding along:
"Exactly—"
"I'd expect we'll be learning apparition this year rather than next," Draco continued, and an excited murmur raced around the classroom. Umbridge's smile vanished. "And probably how to create portkeys, so that we're able to remove ourselves from any dangerous situations quickly and safely—"
"Mr Malfoy—"
"—and," Draco continued, with a glint in his eye, "probably some sort of instantaneous communication method, so we can ensure there's an immediate response from trained Ministry staff."
Umbridge was starting to look panicked now:
"Mr—"
"Are we really, Professor?" Lavender asked. Hermione couldn't tell if she was being genuine or had realised what Draco was doing and decided to join in; Umbridge—specifically that she'd made a poor first impression—had featured in their before-bed chat in their dorm last night, and had been a far safer topic Hermione's summer or Harry's hand, which had somehow made it to the Hogwarts rumour mill during dinner. "Learning to apparate early would be amazing."
"And portkeys are dead useful," Seamus said.
"And if we're learning those," Hermione said eagerly, "imagine the rest; some complex countercurses, maybe, so that we know how to take down any anti-apparition charms, or remove any sort of restraints that might be getting in the way of us escaping. It'd tie in so nicely with what we're going to be learning in Ancient Runes this—"
"Maybe some basic wandless summoning and disarming," Ron added, with a grin and lazy lift of his hand.
"Wandless magic?" Blaise drawled.
"Brilliant," Nott breathed.
"That way," Ron continued, "if we're disarmed, we can still get our wands back—"
"Enough!" Umbridge shrieked, and the class fell immediately silent. She took a deep breath in through her nose. "That's quite enough," she said, more calmly. "You're getting carried away." She frowned at Draco. "We will not be covering any of that this year—"
"We're not?" Draco asked, looking crestfallen. He frowned. "Well, if that's the case, I'll have to rescind all of what I said before, and apologise to Patil: I very much struggle to see how you're going to teach us anything even slightly practical or useful." He folded his arms and frowned at her.
Umbridge knew Lucius Malfoy. Hermione was suddenly very sure of that fact, because where she was certain she, or anyone else, would have lost points or earned a detention, Umbridge only stared at Draco.
"Well," she said after a moment, "like Mr Weasley, you, dear, are not a Ministry-trained educator. And like I said, our curriculum has been professionally developed to meet all of your needs as fifth year students, so you're just going to have to trust that I know what I'm doing, and will ensure you're adequately prepared for your O.W.L.s."
Hermione raised her hand.
"Our discussion is over," Umbridge said, without looking at her, "but we can resume it at the end of the lesson if we have time—"
"It's a question, actually," Hermione said. "I was wondering what the format of our O.W.L. is going to be."
"Oh," Umbridge said, and seemed to relax again. "It will be a two-part exam, designed to test both your theoretical understanding and your practical application of defensive magics." It hadn't changed then, but their year's level of preparedness certainly would, compared to last year's fifth years, who'd got to prepare under Sirius. And if that was the case, Hermione couldn't help but think they'd be better off just practising in the Room of Requirement, like they had before the Tournament tasks. "Now, we're going to be doing some quiet reading. Has everyone got their copy of Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert Slinkhard?" There was a murmur of rather disgruntled confirmation. "Wonderful. I should like you to turn to page five, and read the first chapter—basics for beginners. We will discuss it, and can address any further questions at the end of the lesson."
Hermione raised her hand again, not bothering to open her book.
"It is quiet reading time, Miss Granger."
"Sorry," Hermione said, and wasn't at all. She had something bubbling under her skin that she hadn't felt since the day she walked out of Divination. "Just— I was wondering whether O.W.L.s are like N.E.W.T.s? Can they be sat even if a student hasn't formally taken the subject?"
Umbridge smiled.
"Of course they can," she said. "But at Hogwarts, Defence Against the Dark Arts is a core subject and therefore it is a requirement that students attend lessons, at least until their O.W.L.s are complete. Even if that was not incentive enough, we are living—as your classmates have just pointed out—in very dangerous times indeed, and so this is an incredibly important and relevant topic. Now, page five, Miss Granger—"
"I've actually already read it," Hermione said.
"Then you can proceed to the second chapter—"
"I've read that too," Hermione said. "I read the entire thing."
"The entire book?" Umbridge looked dubious, and Hermione couldn't blame her for that; Defensive Magical Theory was so dull and unhelpful that the idea of anyone reading it voluntarily was rather ludicrous.
"Twice," Hermione said grimly, and then smiled. "But if we're going to be reading this lesson, I'm happy to move on to something elsde. If you can recommend any other books for supplementary—"
"My recommendation is Slinkhard's book," Umbridge said primly. "That's why it was on the booklist, dear. Page five—you can have a third readthrough."
"I'm sorry, Professor, but don't think it merits a third read," Hermione said. Ron choked on a laugh, and Draco openly snorted.
"You should have thought of that before you read ahead," Umbridge said. Pansy and Daphne giggled at the back. "Now—"
"Are you actually unhappy that she prepared for your class?" Ron asked incredulously.
"I am unhappy that she's wasting my time," Umbridge said.
"Likewise," Hermione said, before she could stop herself. Several people breathed in sharply. Don't give her reasons to watch you more closely than she already will be. Don't give her reasons to punish you. Hermione heard Sirius' voice and took a deep breath. "I read ahead because I expected the textbook would prepare us for the content we'd cover during the lesson, or provide additional context, not that the textbook would be the lesson. All of our other subjects—"
"This is not your other subjects, Miss Granger. This is Defence against the Dark Arts and since it is your first lesson with me—and arguably your first proper lesson in this subject, ever—you'd do best to set aside your misguided expectations, and stop disrupting the class. Page five."
"Silly me for expecting a professor to teach," Hermione said crossly, as she yanked open her copy of Defensive Magical Theory; she knew a lost cause when she saw one.
"Five points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger," Umbridge said. That made twenty that she'd lost, and it was only their first day back. Her heart sank, though none of the other Gryffindors seemed too bothered; Lavender looked delighted, and Neville was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before. "You are the student, and I am the teacher and it is therefore up to me to decide what and how we will be learning, so—"
"Up to you?" Harry interrupted. "What happened to the curriculum being set by Ministry-trained educational experts?"
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter, for speaking without your hand raised. As a representative for the Ministry of Magic, and a former member of the Department of Management and Control of Magical Children, I am an educational professional. I can understand your confusion—you've not seen a professional educator in this particular classroom in your time at Hogwarts—"
"M— Professor Lupin—" Umbridge curled her lip and muttered something that sounded a lot like half breed. Hermione, who'd been about to kick Harry under the table to derail his anger, decided against it. "—was a brilliant teacher who went on to teach at Beauxbatons," Harry said. "And Fleur Delacour—one of his students—was picked as a Triwizard Champion. Then there's Moody, who might not have taught at schools before, but he's probably had a hand in the training of every Auror in the current D.M.L.E., and his last trainee was accepted into an advanced Auror program. And Sirius is an active Auror, with a lot of experience going up against dark witches and wizards. And— actually, isn't that why he's not teaching this year? Because you all talked and decided he was needed more in the Ministry's fight against Voldemort than he was at Hogwarts?"
"Wait, did she have Black removed so that she could have his job?" Parvati hissed to Lavender, a couple of seats back. "Is that what Harry's implying?" It was exactly what Harry was implying, and Hermione was both surprised and impressed. Maybe Harry was just trying to further make his point, but he'd also been the focus of the Hogwarts rumour mill enough times himself to not realise what the flow on effect of his words would be. This—that Umbridge had not just replaced Sirius but usurped him—would spread like dragonpox and it would not do Umbridge any favours; Sirius had been well-liked.
"Mr—"
Harry smiled and talked over her:
"Lockhart wasn't much of a teacher," he added, "I'll give you that, but at least he tried to pretend he was experienced enough to take the job."
A beat of silence.
"Another ten points from Gryffindor," Umbridge said tightly. "I am not a family member or a friend of yours, Mr Potter. I will not be spoken to that way in my own classroom, by one of my students—"
"I thought you said at dinner you wanted to be friends," Harry said. Several stifled laughs followed that.
Umbridge opened her mouth, closed it again, and then drew herself up. She had a nasty glint in her eye:
"Detention, Mr Potter. We can spend it getting to know each other." Harry's lips curled. "Now come here," she said, "and bring your bag." Hermione—who'd been watching their exchange with rather grim amusement—was no longer amused. The last thing we need is you expelled, Sirius had said, or your wands snapped. Umbridge had leaned over her desk and was now writing something down on a piece of parchment. Harry slung his bag over his shoulder and strode up to meet her, standing as tall and calm as he had in any of last year's tasks. Hermione exchanged nervous looks with Ron and Draco. Umbridge waved her wand and the parchment folded itself over and sealed with a blob of pink wax. "Take this," Umbridge said, handing it to him, "to Professor McGonagall."
"Sure," Harry said. "It's a lesson, this, isn't it—calling for help from someone better trained and more experienced when you're in over your head." The look he gave Umbridge was entirely Sirius. Hermione couldn't decide whether Sirius himself would be impressed, or horrified. She was rather torn between the two. "Like we're supposed to do, whenever we're in trouble with dark wizards, right?"
The entire room seemed to hold its breath, and then Draco spoke:
"Oh, leading by example, Professor," he said, nodding. "Very good." Hermione had to cover her mouth to suppress the giggle that would otherwise have slipped out, and Ron was slowly turning red with what she was sure was barely contained laughter. Dean and Seamus were trying to muffle their amusement with coughs, though not very well, and Blaise's shoulders were shaking, though his face was hidden behind Defensive Magical Theory. Harry didn't bother to hide; he snorted and grinned.
"Quiet, Mr Malfoy," Umbridge snapped, and Draco smirked. "Out, Mr Potter. And the rest of you—page five!"