CHAPTER 56: THE CLASSROOM OF ECCENTRICITIES
As twilight descended upon Hogwarts, the castle's corridors were shrouded in an eerie stillness, broken only by the faint footsteps of diligent prefects making their nightly rounds.
Harry navigated through the dimly lit halls, his destination set firmly on the dungeons where Professor Snape's office lay nestled just a stone's throw from the entrance to the Slytherin common room. The past two days had left him feeling drained, courtesy of Professor McGonagall's rigorous tutelage in the art of self-transfiguration. Though taxing, Harry understood the importance of mastering such a versatile branch of magic. After all, the ability to transfigure could potentially prove life-saving in the face of danger.
However, the hours spent honing his skills had taken their toll, leaving Harry with a throbbing headache that seemed to intensify with each passing day. McGonagall's lessons had thus far been limited to minor transformations—like altering the length of his fingernails or changing the color of his hair. While these tasks were relatively simple, they required meticulous precision and unwavering focus.
Despite his initial enthusiasm for the subject, Harry found himself grappling with the intricacies of transfiguration. Spells such as Avirfors, which offered a shortcut to specific transformations, felt like mere crutches compared to the mastery required for more complex spells like Vera Verto. The latter demanded a deep understanding of magical principles and precise control over the desired outcome, making it a daunting challenge for even the most adept students.
As he approached Snape's office, Harry couldn't shake the sense of apprehension that lingered within him. The prospect of facing the formidable Potions Master filled him with a mix of dread and determination. He knew that Snape's expectations were high, and any lapse in his performance would undoubtedly be met with scathing criticism.
Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, Harry raised his hand to knock on the door, preparing himself for another grueling session of magical instruction. Little did he know that tonight's lesson would push him to the limits of his abilities, unveiling secrets of transfiguration that would forever alter the course of his magical journey.
The reason behind Voldemort's fear of Albus Dumbledore became clearer with each passing day. While the Dark Arts relied on twisted magic as a tool of destruction, Transfiguration harnessed the very essence of the world itself, turning it into a formidable weapon against darkness.
Despite the profound nature of this realization, Harry found little solace in it as he continued to grapple with the complexities of self-transfiguration under Professor McGonagall's relentless tutelage. Each attempt to transform his fingernails into the claws of different creatures using nothing but Vera Verto tested his patience and resolve to their limits.
On the brighter side, Harry's revised schedule seemed to align more seamlessly with his priorities. By cutting Divination from his curriculum and arranging for private lessons in Runes and Arithmancy with Professor Babbling, he had freed up valuable time for himself. Skipping classes like Astronomy and Care of Magical Creatures, which offered little in terms of new material, further contributed to his newfound flexibility. However, he couldn't bring himself to skip History of Magic, partly out of curiosity about the new professor and partly due to the daunting task set before him by McGonagall.
As he trudged wearily through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, Harry retrieved the Marauder's Map from his pocket, unfurling it with practiced ease. With a sense of familiarity tinged with mischief, he tapped the parchment with his wand and spoke the solemn words, "I solemnly swear I'm up to no good."
The map sprang to life, revealing the intricate layout of the castle and the moving dots representing its inhabitants. Harry's eyes scanned the parchment, searching for any signs of movement or unusual activity, his mind already buzzing with thoughts of what mischief he could get into under the cover of night.
As Harry tapped his wand against the Marauder's Map, lines began to weave and crawl across the parchment, resembling the movements of industrious spiders. With each delicate stroke, the map unfolded, revealing the intricate web of Hogwarts and its inhabitants.
His gaze drifted toward the Gryffindor dormitory, but to his surprise, neither Ron nor Hermione appeared to be within its confines. A quick scan of the fifth floor unveiled Hermione's whereabouts, accompanied by Anthony Goldstein, the diligent fifth-year Ravenclaw prefect. Meanwhile, Ron was spotted patrolling the second floor, his unlikely companion none other than Draco Malfoy.
A grimace twisted Harry's features as he considered the implications of such an ill-fated pairing. He could only hope that their patrol concluded without any undue incidents, though the thought lingered uncomfortably in his mind. Whoever had orchestrated this particular patrol arrangement was either remarkably foolish or entirely oblivious to the simmering tensions between the two groups.
Despite his concerns, Harry found solace in the Map's unique capabilities, a feature Sirius had once regaled him with tales of. According to his godfather, the Map possessed an array of enchantments designed to anticipate the user's desires, guiding them to the information they sought.
With a sense of curiosity tinged with apprehension, Harry redirected his attention to Daphne's location in the Slytherin dungeons. He noted with interest that both she and her sister Astoria shared a room, a testament to the peculiar dynamics within Slytherin House. Unlike other houses, Slytherin seemed to prioritize external affiliations and political alliances over internal rivalries.
A flicker of intrigue sparked within Harry as he observed another unexpected encounter on the map. Fleur Delacour's dot remained stationary in her room, while Blaise Zabini's erratic movements caught his attention. The sight piqued Harry's curiosity, prompting him to narrow his eyes in contemplation. What could possibly bring the elegant French witch and the enigmatic Slytherin into such close proximity, and why did Zabini appear so agitated? The mystery lingered in the air, beckoning Harry to delve deeper into the intricate tapestry of Hogwarts' secrets.
Turning the corner of the corridor, Harry found himself face to face with Snape's office. He carefully folded the Marauder's Map and slipped it back into his pocket, then tapped lightly against the door, which swung open noiselessly. Stepping inside, Harry couldn't help but reflect on how far he had come since his first visit to this eerie chamber. The sight of the countless specimens suspended in jars no longer sent shivers down his spine; instead, he regarded them with a sense of familiarity.
"Come in," Snape's smooth voice beckoned from the depths of the room as Harry entered, the door closing behind him with a soft click. Several candles flickered to life, casting a warm glow that illuminated the space.
"I'm going to assume that despite your summer spent with that man-child, you've managed to peruse the book I provided," Snape remarked, wasting no time with pleasantries as he approached Harry. "If you haven't, I suggest you leave immediately and return only once you've fulfilled that obligation."
Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at Snape's thinly veiled insult directed at Sirius, Harry nodded solemnly. He knew that if he wished to glean any knowledge from Snape, he would need to endure far worse barbs than this. Even Sirius, despite his vehement dislike for Snape, had begrudgingly acknowledged the Potions Master's expertise in the darker aspects of magic—a fact he was now actively attempting to rectify since assuming the mantle of Lord Black.
"I have, sir," Harry replied evenly, meeting Snape's piercing gaze with determination.
Snape's scrutinizing gaze bore into Harry, as if probing the sincerity of his response. After what felt like an eternity, Snape finally nodded, his expression unreadable.
"Fine. Let us get started," he declared curtly, his voice devoid of its usual derision.
With a flick of his wand, Snape conjured an illusion in the air before them. Two large, circular targets materialized, their concentric rings reminiscent of a dartboard. Despite their imposing size, the targets floated effortlessly in the limited space of Snape's office, weaving intricate patterns as if dancing to an unseen rhythm.
Snape's next incantation caused the very floor beneath them to shift and expand, transforming the cramped chamber into a makeshift arena. Where once stood a cluttered array of animal specimens, now stretched an open expanse resembling a miniature sports court, with Harry and Snape positioned at its center.
"These targets are typically utilized in Auror training, Potter," Snape explained, his usual sneer absent from his tone. "Naturally, the Dark Lord employed them for the instruction of his Death Eaters. Each ring represents a level of proficiency, with the innermost red ring signifying a perfect shot. Members of the Inner Circle were expected to hit the red circle at least eight times out of ten."
Harry couldn't help but snort at the irony of Snape offering him Death Eater-style instruction. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him.
Snape gestured with his wand, conjuring a small circle around Harry's feet.
"You will remain within that circle, Potter," Snape instructed sharply. "Your objective is to hit the target from this position. Each ring will illuminate in a different color, indicating the level of accuracy."
"So, I've got to hit the bullseye, then," Harry affirmed, his determination flickering like the flame of a candle in the dimly lit room.
Snape's lips curled into a smirk as he observed Harry, his tone laced with skepticism. "Yes, but I wouldn't hold my breath for impressive results from you. These targets are enchanted to meticulously track every spell cast upon them, measuring both frequency and accuracy. The circle surrounding you will tally the number of spells you cast until the end of your training. Are you familiar with the Projectile Jinx?"
Harry nodded, recalling Lupin's demonstration of the spell during their third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
"Very well. Let us begin," Snape declared, his voice dripping with thinly veiled disdain. "While I attend to brewing fluxweed potion, you will demonstrate your aptitude. Should you manage to remain standing until my return in fifty minutes, we shall revisit the spells you practiced over the summer."
With that, Snape strode purposefully towards the potions table, leaving Harry to his task. Harry couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief. Snape's unexpected leniency caught him off guard. As for the challenge of enduring fifty minutes of relentless spellcasting, well, only time would tell.
Bracing himself, Harry narrowed his eyes and assumed a familiar stance. With a determined flick of his wand, he cast the Waddiwasi spell, his focus honed on the target before him.
"Waddiwasi!" Harry called out, his wand aimed with precision. The spell shot forth, striking the target with a satisfying thud. The outermost ring glowed green, indicating a hit, but not quite at the center.
He took a deep breath and steadied himself. Fifty minutes of continuous spellcasting was a daunting task, but Harry was determined to prove Snape wrong.
"Waddiwasi!" he cast again, his wand flicking with more confidence. This time, the spell hit closer to the red center, and the ring glowed blue. Harry allowed himself a small smile, feeling a flicker of hope.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Snape glancing over as he prepared the ingredients for his potion. Harry knew he couldn't afford to be distracted. He had to stay focused.
"Waddiwasi!" he repeated, sending another spell hurtling towards the target. The blue ring glowed once more, confirming his growing accuracy. He could feel the magic coursing through him, the rhythm of casting becoming almost meditative.
Minutes ticked by, marked by the steady rhythm of his spells. Each incantation honed his skill further, his focus sharpening with every hit. The targets moved erratically, challenging his precision, but Harry adapted, adjusting his aim with each movement.
As he cast, Harry found his mind drifting to his summer studies. The intense training sessions, the countless hours spent mastering spells and techniques under Sirius's watchful eye. The determination that had fueled him then surged anew, driving him to push beyond his limits.
"Waddiwasi!" he cast again, and this time the spell hit the red center. The ring glowed a vibrant crimson, signifying a perfect shot. Harry felt a surge of triumph but quickly tamped it down. There was still a long way to go.
The targets continued their erratic dance, and Harry's spells followed, striking with increasing precision. Green, blue, pink, and occasionally red, the rings glowed in a steady sequence. Harry's arm grew tired, his wrist aching from the continuous casting, but he pressed on, refusing to yield.
"Impressive, Potter," Snape's voice cut through the silence, startling Harry out of his trance-like focus. Snape stood at his potions table, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable expression. "But do not lose your concentration now."
Harry nodded, swallowing his fatigue. He tightened his grip on his wand, and resumed casting. Each spell felt heavier, the effort mounting, but Harry's determination only grew stronger.
"Waddiwasi! Waddiwasi! Waddiwasi!" The incantations flew from his lips, each spell a testament to his endurance and willpower. The targets responded, the rings glowing in a spectrum of colors, charting his progress.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Snape's voice interrupted once more. "Time's up, Potter."
Harry lowered his wand, panting slightly, his arm trembling from the exertion. The room seemed to spin for a moment before settling. He looked at the targets, their surfaces pocked with marks of his spells.
Snape approached, his expression unreadable. "You lasted the entire duration," he acknowledged, a hint of reluctant approval in his tone. "And with a reasonable degree of accuracy."
Harry nodded, too exhausted to speak. He felt a mix of relief and pride. He had endured, and he had shown Snape what he was capable of.
"Very well," Snape continued, his voice returning to its usual coolness. "We shall now review the spells you studied over the summer. Prepare yourself, Potter. This is only the beginning."
Harry straightened, feeling a renewed sense of determination. He was ready for whatever Snape had in store next. The path ahead was arduous, but he was more resolved than ever to master it.
As Harry stepped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, he couldn't shake the feeling that this year would be unlike any other.
The expansive room stretched before him, its size rivaling that of the Great Hall itself, albeit without the grandeur of the high table or neatly arranged rows of benches. Located on the fifth floor, the classroom's sheer magnitude left Harry questioning the very laws of Hogwarts' architectural design. But then again, he had long since learned that Hogwarts operated on its own set of rules, ones that defied conventional geometry and spatial logic. It was a place of connections, not directions.
In the past, each Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had left their mark on the classroom in their own unique way. Remus Lupin had eschewed traditional desks and benches in favor of utilizing the space for practical spellcasting. Moody had transformed the room into a veritable battlefield, striking a balance between classroom instruction and combat training. But Dolores Umbridge, it seemed, had opted for a different approach altogether.
Gone were the desks and benches, replaced by a sea of empty space that seemed to stretch endlessly. In stark contrast, a towering teacher's desk and chair occupied an elevated pedestal on the opposite end of the room, overlooking the students like a monarch surveying their subjects. It was a display of theatricality that bordered on the absurd.
Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes at the dramatic spectacle before him. Umbridge's penchant for grandiosity was no secret, but this took it to a whole new level. As he found his seat among the sea of empty space, he couldn't help but wonder what other surprises awaited him in this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
As students began to fill the classroom, Harry's attention was drawn to Dolores Umbridge, perched upon her elevated throne-like chair, her gaze fixed on the two hovering blackboards flanking her desk. With a cup in hand, she seemed entirely absorbed in her own world, sipping nonchalantly as if oblivious to the bustling activity around her.
Harry couldn't help but notice the incongruous sight of Umbridge clad in a fluffy pink cardigan and a black velvet bow atop her head. The image brought to mind a large fly perched precariously atop an even larger toad—a comparison that elicited a suppressed snicker from Harry.
His eyes flickered toward Hermione, who stood nearby, her expression one of confusion as she clutched her Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. Ron, on the other hand, appeared oblivious to Umbridge's eccentricities, engrossed in animated conversation with Seamus.
Caught between the urge to join his friends and a sense of duty to remain vigilant, Harry hesitated. Before he could make a decision, a familiar voice called out to him from behind.
"Planning to join your friends?" Daphne's voice cut through the air, prompting Harry to turn and meet her gaze.
Harry offered her a wry smile. "Are you going to start with that every time?"
Daphne shrugged nonchalantly. "Depends. Is it working?"
"Maybe," Harry conceded with a shrug. "Or maybe this is just your subtle way of ensuring I don't ditch our dinner plans."
Daphne raised an eyebrow, her expression curious. "Were you planning to?"
Harry's mind raced as he considered the events of the past few days. The sight of Blaise Zabini in Fleur's room had stirred a sense of unease within him. While he didn't inherently distrust Fleur, there was something about Zabini that set off alarm bells in Harry's mind. Unlike Malfoy, Zabini operated in the shadows, his presence barely registering on the radar of most students.
He was the kind of person who could pose a potential threat, lurking unnoticed while exerting subtle influence behind the scenes.
It was entirely possible that Zabini's meeting with Fleur was innocuous, given their shared familial ties. But if he appeared again tonight, Harry resolved to investigate further, even if it meant donning his invisibility cloak to uncover the truth.
Harry couldn't ignore the flicker of disappointment in Daphne's eyes as she questioned him about his plans. He realized he had been unfairly dismissive of her efforts to connect with him, and a pang of guilt tugged at his conscience. Ron had been right all along—he had been acting like a jerk.
"You're right," Harry admitted, his tone softened. "I did have some plans. Well, I still do. But maybe… maybe you'd like to join me?"
Daphne's demeanor shifted, a mix of curiosity and amusement playing across her features. "I might be handfasted with you, Potter. But that doesn't mean I share your penchant for trouble."
Harry couldn't help but grin at her response. "No, you're more into stalking me from afar."
Daphne rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of amusement in her expression. "What do you have in mind?"
Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, you know. A bit of this. A bit of that."
She scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "I'm not interested in a midnight exploration of the castle, Potter. I've had enough of getting lost back in our first year."
Harry's grin widened. "It's exploration, alright, but not anywhere you've been before."
Daphne narrowed her eyes, her curiosity piqued. "Where?"
"You'll see. It's… a place not many people have entered."
As Daphne pondered Harry's proposition, her expression shifted from uncertainty to excitement. The realization dawned on her, and her eyes sparkled with newfound enthusiasm.
"You're serious? No, wait, don't answer that!" she exclaimed, catching herself mid-sentence as she realized the unintended pun. Harry couldn't help but chuckle at her reaction.
Before Daphne could respond, Draco Malfoy's voice cut through the air like a knife, his tone dripping with disdain.
"Potter!" Draco spat, his sneer evident even from behind. "What are you Gryffindors doing here?"
Harry raised an eyebrow, unfazed by Draco's hostility. "Having a joint class, apparently," he replied casually. The mere sight of Draco used to incense him, but now it was just a familiar dance of adversarial banter mixed with a hint of nostalgia. "Our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher seems to want all four Houses together."
Daphne glanced at the Ravenclaws standing beside the Gryffindors, her lips twisting into a wry smirk. "All four Houses together. Either she's very confident, or a crackpot."
Harry cast a sideways glance at Umbridge perched obliviously on her high chair. "I have a feeling it's both."
Draco's attention then turned to Daphne, his voice dripping with disdain. "Greengrass! What are you doing fraternizing with the enemy in public? Did you learn nothing from Professor Snape's words?"
Harry couldn't help but mutter under his breath, "I'm surprised you even know what 'fraternizing' means."
"Shut your trap, Potter," Draco snapped, his silver eyes flashing with malice. "You've got some nerve standing among your betters. Go run to the mudblood and the blood traitor. This place is already stinking from your half-blood stench."
Daphne arched an eyebrow, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "The enemy? Whatever do you mean, Malfoy? Potter and I are to be wed."
The declaration hung in the air, silencing Draco as he sputtered for a response. Harry couldn't help but smirk at the bewildered expression on Draco's face, his amusement at the unexpected turn of events outweighing any lingering tension between them.
Draco's eyes narrowed, searching for confirmation in Daphne's gaze. "So it's true. Pansy wasn't lying."
Daphne's smirk widened. "You should learn to trust your would-be a little more, Malfoy. Just so you know, I'm still going to be Lady Black." With a subtle movement, she entwined her arm with Harry's. "So you see, I'm not fraternizing. I'm being intimate."
Draco bristled, his retort cut off by the sound of the clock striking two-fifty. The doors swung shut behind him, sealing the classroom with all its occupants inside. Harry noticed Susan giving him curious looks from across the room, her gaze flicking between him and Daphne when she thought he wasn't looking.
Without further ado, Harry and Daphne took seats together, while Ron and Hermione settled on the other side of the room. However, their attempts to sit together were swiftly thwarted by Umbridge's stern voice.
"Tut-tut!" Umbridge tutted disapprovingly. "That won't do. Sit according to your House. Those seats are there for a reason. We wouldn't want you... mingling with the wrong crowd, now would we?"
Harry's jaw clenched at the implication, but he reluctantly acquiesced, shooting Daphne an apologetic glance before making his way across the room to join Ron and Hermione. The rest of the class followed suit, shuffling to their respective benches until the room was arranged according to House lines.
"What do you reckon that's about?" Hermione whispered as she slid into the seat beside Harry.
"Nothing good," Harry muttered, pulling out his textbook. He had lost all faith in the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher the moment he had glanced through the recommended reading for their OWL year. Slinkhard's approach seemed either woefully uninspired or hopelessly out of touch with the realities of spellcasting. It was clear he had little faith in the abilities of fifteen-year-olds.
"Well then," announced Umbridge brightly once the class had settled, "good afternoon."
A few half-hearted responses murmured through the room.
"Tut, tut!" Umbridge tutted disapprovingly. "That won't do now, will it? I would like you to reply, 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge'. One more time, please. Good afternoon, class."
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," the students echoed dully. Harry couldn't help but wonder if Umbridge had previously taught kindergarten.
"There now," Umbridge cooed, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. "That wasn't difficult now, was it? Wands away and quills out, please!"
Many of the students exchanged gloomy looks, the order to put away their wands feeling completely out of place in a Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Harry half-expected Moody to burst in from a corner, yelling "Constant Vigilance!" and throwing a stray spell at the students.
But then he remembered that Moody, the veteran Auror, had been found dead inside his own trunk, and he sighed. The loss of Moody, with his constant vigilance and practical approach to defense, left a palpable void in the classroom.
His irritation spiked as he watched Umbridge pull her own wand—an unusually short one—from her handbag and flick it at the blackboards. Words began to appear as if by magic.
Defence Against the Dark Arts A return to the basic principles
"As you will know," Umbridge began, her voice dripping with condescension, "the Ministry has made some grave changes to the OWL syllabi this year. It recognizes that your education in this subject has been rather... disrupted and fragmented, no doubt due to poor hiring, constant turnover of teachers, and a failure to adhere to the Ministry-approved curriculum."
She paused, casting a disdainful glance around the room. "A stuttering fool, a dark creature, and a crackpot Auror," she continued, shaking her head in disapproval. "The only proper professor you've had was the charming and formidable Gilderoy Lockhart, before he met with unfortunate circumstances and lost his memory."
Her eyes lingered on Harry for a moment, and he resisted the urge to scowl back at her.
"However," Umbridge continued, her tone falsely cheery, "you'll be pleased to know that we'll be rectifying those issues this year. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic. Copy down the following, please."
If Harry had been on the fence about dropping this class before, he had now firmly made up his mind. Doodling away would undoubtedly be a better use of his time than enduring another minute in this hag's classroom. Meanwhile, more words continued to materialize on the blackboard.
Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.
Placing the use of defensive magic in a practical context.
"Well now, has everyone here gotten a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?" Umbridge inquired, her voice sickeningly sweet.
There was a general murmur of assent throughout the classroom.
"I think we'll try that again," Umbridge interjected, her tone growing more assertive. "When I ask you a question, you'll answer, 'Yes, Professor Umbridge', or, 'No, Professor Umbridge'. Let's try to get it right this time. Has everyone here gotten a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?"
"Yes, Professor Umbridge," the students chorused obediently, their voices ringing across the room.
Harry glanced over at the Slytherin benches and spotted Daphne seated next to Parkinson and Tracey, diligently taking notes. Despite Umbridge's obvious favoritism towards him, he doubted that the pureblood students would be receptive to studying this nonsense instead of practicing actual spells. Curiously, none of them spoke a word, though several exchanged strange glances in Malfoy's direction. Malfoy himself looked oddly flushed, a sight that piqued Harry's curiosity even further.
"Good," Umbridge announced, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I would like you to turn to page five and start reading. Chapter 1: Basics for beginners. There will be no need to talk."
"More like no need to think," Harry muttered under his breath, shooting a glance at Umbridge as she settled herself in her chair, quietly sipping her tea and observing them all with her pouchy toad-like eyes. Ordinarily, he would have been the first to object to such stupidity, but Sirius had taught him not to waste his breath on the ungrateful. Besides, he wasn't the only student facing this issue. If the others weren't going to speak up against this farce, he couldn't care any less.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Yes, that was the correct thing to do. Dumbledore had instructed him to keep his head down, and so he would. After all, this was just one class. All he had to do was sit still and—
Hermione's hand shot up into the air.
Fine.
After what felt like an eternity of Hermione staring at Umbridge with her hand raised, and Umbridge pointedly ignoring her, the rest of the class became less interested in reading the text and more focused on the impending confrontation.
Finally, Umbridge decided to acknowledge Hermione's persistent hand-raising.
"Yes, Miss...?" Umbridge prompted, her tone falsely polite.
"Granger," Hermione replied, her voice unwavering.
Umbridge's lips twisted into a momentary scowl before she plastered on a fake sweetness. "Do you wish to ask something, dear?"
"Not about the chapter, no," Hermione replied evenly.
"Well then," Umbridge's lips twisted even further, and Harry wondered if her face might tear in half. "Please stop interrupting the class and continue reading."
"I've got a query about the course aims," Hermione persisted, undeterred.
"I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them carefully," Umbridge retorted with determined sweetness.
"Well, I don't," Hermione stated firmly. "There is nothing but using defensive spells."
Every single student in the classroom was now staring at Hermione, including the Slytherins. Regardless of how this confrontation ended, it promised to be infinitely more interesting than reading that dull book.
"Using defensive spells?" Umbridge repeated with a little, girlish laugh. "Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in this classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell. Surely you aren't expecting to be attacked during class, are you?"
"We're not going to be using magic?" Ron interjected heatedly.
"Raise your hand before you speak, Mr.—" Umbridge began, but Ron cut her off.
"Weasley!" Ron exclaimed, thrusting his hand into the air as he stood up. However, before he could voice his thoughts, someone else beat him to it.
"If we don't practice our spells, how are we supposed to perform them in our OWLs?" Susan challenged, her voice carrying across the room.
"Hand!" Umbridge interjected sharply, but Susan ignored the command and stood up anyway. "My aunt's the Head of the DMLE, Professor Umbridge, in case you don't know," she continued boldly. "Maybe I should just ask her how we're supposed to become Aurors and Hit-wizards with just the theory."
Umbridge's lips twisted into a disdainful sneer. "People more learned than you have devised this curriculum, Miss Bones. Unless you qualify as a Ministry-certified professional, your opinion is unneeded."
"But—" Susan began to protest.
"Enough!" Umbridge cut her off, her tone harsh and final, as several other hands remained raised in the air. "I will say this once. So long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there should be no problem in performing them during your exams—"
"And how are we gonna protect ourselves from what's out there?" demanded Ron, his frustration boiling over.
Harry clenched his fists, feeling a surge of anger rising within him. He knew what was about to happen. This—this was exactly what Dumbledore had warned him against.
"Oh?" Umbridge's lips curled into a wicked smile. "Like what, Mr. Weasley?"
"Oh, I dunno," Ron retorted sarcastically, his frustration evident. "Like You-Know-Who!"
Harry shut his eyes, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He could practically hear Dumbledore's voice echoing in his mind, warning him against drawing unnecessary attention to himself, against provoking Umbridge and the Ministry's interference. But in that moment, he couldn't help but feel a surge of pride for Ron's boldness, even if it meant trouble.
Umbridge's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she regained her composure, her toad-like eyes narrowing as she assessed Ron.
"You-Know-Who?" she repeated, her voice dangerously quiet. "Surely, Mr. Weasley, you don't believe that the Dark Lord is a threat to Hogwarts? Dumbledore has assured us that the school is perfectly safe."
Ron's expression hardened. "With all due respect, Professor, Dumbledore's been wrong before. You can't expect us to just sit back and trust everything he says blindly."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the classroom, and Harry felt a swell of pride at Ron's courage.
Umbridge's eyes flashed with irritation, but she maintained her sickly sweet facade. "Dumbledore may have his flaws, but he is the headmaster of this school, and his word carries weight. Now, unless anyone else has any pressing concerns about the curriculum, I suggest we return to our studies."
The classroom fell into a tense silence as Umbridge's gaze swept over the students, daring anyone else to speak up. Harry knew that pushing further would only invite trouble, but he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the air.
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