Quidditch practice on the Monday after Valentines, to put it lightly, was a disaster. It was raining very heavily throughout, and I've talked plenty before about how those have gone. This one was no exception, in fact, it was probably the worst one we've ever had, and that's really saying something! I don't think Angelina, Katie and I managed to make a single successful pass at all, Amy and Andrew, even though they did well in the good weather sessions, were very wild with their bludger hits in this one. Eventually, we had to call it off when Andrew struck one straight into Tina's, well, that area, if you know what I mean, and she fell to the ground. We took her to the hospital wing before heading into the great hall for dinner, muddy as fuck.

Reserve practice beforehand had been no better, and Ron had been even worse than in the last match, which I didn't think was possible. I stopped Hermione outside the changing rooms afterwards, and she quietly told me how she and Luna had arranged for Rita Skeeter to publish an interview with Harry in the Quibbler, where he told the full story about Voldemort's return. Bloody hell, Hermione and Luna, you gotta love them don't you?

The first team arrived at the Gryffindor table just as Ron was saying ""You should write a book translating mad things girls do so boys can understand them" to Hermione.

"Yeah," said Harry fervently, looking over at the Ravenclaw table. This seemed to indicate that his date with Cho had not gone well, but I didn't know this for certain, so I forced my happy feelings down.

"Ron says his practice was a nightmare, was yours any better?" Harry asked

"No" I said, shaking my head. "Fucking terrible"

"Hufflepuff are gonna annialate us!" Andrew moaned

"If it's in good conditions, you guys at least will have a chance, and so will we if Ron can just keep his head in the game!" said Hermione passionately

"There's a better chance of us successfully robbing Gringotts" Ron replied

Hermione bit her lip and was silent.

That evening, I asked Hermione, and she confirmed that Harry's date with Cho had indeed gone terribly, and that they were unlikely to continue seeing each other. I was very happy about this, though I wasn't sure why, as I didn't think it was likely Harry and I would get back together either.

When matchday came around, it turned out that Ron was sadly right. He had an abysmal performance in goal as the reserves were absolutely battered, this time not even being able to preserve some dignity with a snitch catch. We were now out of the running for the reserve cup. Hermione had scored all of Gryffindor's 5 goals, and beaters Sloper and Kirke were barely able to connect with the bludgers. Therefore, Gryffindor had ended that game with only two chasers and no seeker, though thankfully Jack and Alicia weren't seriously injured. The first team game ended in a narrow defeat, with Hufflepuff seeker Summerby just about beating Sloper Vince to the snitch, despite having a cold.

The atmosphere in the common room that evening resembled a particularly dismal funeral. Harry looked over at Ron, who was hunched in a corner, staring at his knees, a bottle of butterbeer clutched in his hand.

"Alicia still won't let him resign," I said "She says she knows he's got it in him, and I agree, if he could just get into the right frame of mind."

Ron had left the pitch to another booming chorus of "Weasley Is Our King" sung with great gusto by the Slytherins, who were now favorites to win both Quidditch Cups.

Fred and George wandered over.

"I haven't got the heart to take the mickey out of him, even," said Fred, looking over at Ron's crumpled figure. "Mind you … when he missed the fourteenth …"

He made wild motions with his arms as though doing an upright doggy-paddle.

"Well, I'll save it for parties, eh?"

I couldn't decide how I felt about this. Mocking Ron was usually fun, but as his performances were directly contributing to Gryffindor losing, it didn't seem like the most appropriate thing to do in this moment.

"Maybe save it for some different context" I said

"Merlin, we were unbelievably bad today" said Demelza, as she and Amy sat down next to me "myself especially"

"We've had some poor performances before but the reserves today were on another level of poor. Our game wasn't good either, not the first team debut I was hoping for, far from it" added Amy

"Just a shit situation all round" I said

The next morning, when the post arrived, many people looked up eagerly, most in anticipation of an update on the escaped Death Eaters. Despite many sightings, none of them had yet been caught. However, several owls landed in front of Harry, to his utter bewilderment, as he'd had next to no post all year.

"What's going on?" Ron asked in amazement, as the whole of Gryffindor table leaned forward to watch as another seven owls landed amongst the first ones, screeching, hooting, and flapping their wings.

"Harry!" said Hermione breathlessly, plunging her hands into the feathery mass and pulling out a screech owl bearing a long, cylindrical package. "I think I know what this means — open this one first!" Harry ripped off the brown packaging. Out rolled a tightly furled copy of March's edition of The Quibbler.

"That's it!" I said brightly, beaming at Hermione, as a large picture of Harry's face stared out from the front cover!

In large red letters across his picture were the words: HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST: THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN

"It's good, isn't it?" said Luna, who had drifted over to the Gryffindor table and now squeezed herself onto the bench between Fred and Ron. "It came out yesterday, I asked Dad to send you a free copy. I expect all these," she waved a hand at the assembled owls still scrabbling around on the table in front of Harry, "are letters from readers.

"Fingers crossed it's more believers than doubters" said Demelza, who was literally crossing her fingers.

"Harry, d'you mind if we — ?" said Hermione

"Help yourself" Harry said

We started ripping open envelopes.

"This one's from a bloke who thinks you're off your rocker," said Ron, glancing down his letter. "Ah well …"

"This woman recommends you try a good course of Shock Spells at St. Mungo's," said Hermione, looking disappointed and crumpling up a second.

"This one looks okay, though," said Harry slowly, scanning a long letter from a witch in Paisley. "Hey, she says she believes me!"

"This one recommends you join the Spell Damage Ward, because you've clearly got a long lasting Confundus Charm on you. Those don't even fucking exist!" I said "Confundus Charms are short term only!"

"This one's in two minds," said Fred, who had joined in the letter-opening with enthusiasm. "Says you don't come across as a mad person, but he really doesn't want to believe You-Know-Who's back so he doesn't know what to think now. … Blimey, what a waste of parchment …"

"Here's another one you've convinced, Harry!" said Hermione excitedly. " 'Having read your side of the story I am forced to the conclusion that the Daily Prophet has treated you very unfairly. … Little though I want to think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned, I am forced to accept that you are telling the truth. …' Oh this is wonderful!"

"Same here, this one thinks you ought to be commended for speaking out against the establishment!" said Demelza

"And here!" added Amy "this one thinks she's falling in love with you now... well that's a bit over the top"

"Another one who thinks you're barking," said Ron, throwing a crumpled letter over his shoulder, "but this one says you've got her converted, and she now thinks you're a real hero — she's put in a photograph too — wow —"

"What is going on here?" said a falsely sweet, girlish voice. Harry looked up with his hands full of envelopes. Professor Umbridge was standing behind Fred and Luna, her bulging toad's eyes scanning the mess of owls and letters on the table in front of Harry. Behind her he saw many of the students watching them avidly. "Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?" she asked slowly.

"Is that a crime now?" said Fred loudly. "Getting post?" "

Be careful, Mr. Weasley, or I shall have to put you in detention," said Umbridge.

"Well, Mr. Potter?"

"People have written to me because I gave an interview," said Harry. "About what happened to me last June." For some reason he glanced up at the staff table as he said this.

"An interview?" repeated Umbridge, her voice thinner and higher than ever. "What do you mean?"

"I mean a reporter asked me questions and I answered them," said Harry. "Here —"

And he threw the copy of The Quibbler at her. She caught it and stared down at the cover. Her pale, doughy face turned an ugly, patchy violet.

"When did you do this?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Last Hogsmeade weekend," said Harry.

She looked up at him, incandescent with rage, the magazine shaking in her stubby fingers. "There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr. Potter," she whispered. "How you dare … how you could …"

She took a deep breath.

"I have tried again and again to teach you not to tell lies. The message, apparently, has still not sunk in. Fifty points from Gryffindor and another week's worth of detentions."

She stalked away, clutching The Quibbler to her chest, the eyes of many students following her.