Sunday dawned bright and Harry spent the weekend relaxed, doing nothing more interesting than spending time with Fleur, reading, doing a little practice here and there with her, and just generally killing time. It made a difference, he realized, knowing that they were doing something to resist Umbridge and the ministry's idea of teaching and education. That and he realized that he was not alone. Seventy-odd students were not much but it was a start.
When he returned to Hogwarts on Sunday afternoon via the Floo in the residence, he managed to step out of the fireplace instead of falling out and then ascended the stairs before walking what felt like an ice-cold shower, "Myrtle? What are you doing here?"
The Fidelius Charm had worked well, he realized with a start, perhaps a little too well: The castle's ghosts could not find the tunnel or the residence. He made a mental note to talk to the Lady about that. "Umbridge is looking for you," she said, "No idea what for but she's been in and out of your common room and the library at least four times today!"
"Has she checked the grounds?" he asked, "Around the lake, or Hagrid's?"
"No."
He still had his bag slung over one shoulder and was wearing his school robes, "Thanks Myrtle," he said, "Oh yeah, can you pass a message to the Lady for me? I would like to speak to her, as soon as possible." The ghost nodded and floated down through the floor to relay the message. Harry on the other hand pulled his invisibility cloak from his pocket and cast a disillusionment charm on himself before covering himself in the cloak and apparating down to the edge of the lake.
It took him only a few minutes and a few warming charms to set everything up, before stuffing the cloak and lifting the charm. When Umbridge showed up, almost fifteen minutes later, he was genuinely absorbed in the text about Animagus transformations at the base of what was the only tree left on the shores of the Black Lake.
"Mr. Potter," she said sweetly, "I would like a word with you."
He looked at her over the top of his book, raising an eyebrow. This was about to get, interesting, "Something I can do for you?" he gave her just long enough to open her mouth before adding, "Professor?"
"Yes. I want to know where you have been for the last day," she simpered, "I noticed you were not with your friends and…"
He began packing his books away, shoving them carelessly into his back before standing up, bag slung over his shoulder. Incredible that he was fifteen and seemed to have a good eight inches in height over her, "She is actually short enough for somebody to step on her," he thought, wondering if he could convince Hagrid to do it somehow. He shrugged, "None of your business."
"It is my business if you have been leaving the grounds of Hogwarts for an illicit rendezvous somewhere," she replied, "you forget that not only am I a professor but also the High Inquisitor sent by the Minister himself…."
"And you forget," Harry barked, "that I am an emancipated minor, and as such, I am not bound by the regular rules that apply to under-aged students. I can leave the grounds on weekends as and when I please! Where I go is none of your business, what I do is none of your business." He found himself suddenly very… irritated, wanting to do nothing more than hex the toad standing before, but clamped down on the urge, "I will see you in class tomorrow. You are damaging my calm and have ruined my weekend." He turned his back on her, "Go away."
She spluttered incoherently as he stalked away, fuming, "Bitch knows how to ruin a weekend and a good mood." Monday was no better, especially since he faced his worst classes. When he arrived at the Great Hall, there was a cluster of students around a notice board. It was large, covering everything else on it, printed in large black letters and there was a highly official‐looking seal at the bottom beside a neat and curly signature.
BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS
All student organizations, societies, teams, groups, and dubs are henceforth disbanded. An organization, society, team, group, or club is hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more students.
Permission to re‐form may be sought from the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge). No student organization, society, team, group, or club may exist without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor.
Any student found to have formed or to belong to, an organization, society, team, group, or club that has not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be expelled.
The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty‐four.
Signed:
Dolores Jane Umbridge,
High Inquisitor
Harry read the notice over the heads of some anxious‐looking second‐years. "Does this mean they're going to shut down the Gobstones Club?" one of them asked his friend.
"I reckon you'll be OK with Gobstones," Harry said darkly, making the second‐year jump. "I don't think we're going to be as lucky," thought Harry, his insides pulsing with rage. Umbridge was clearly behind this, but more worryingly, there was a leak.
Harry did not turn around when the presence stopped at his shoulder, "This isn't a coincidence," said Neville, "She knows."
"That damn witch in the pub… and let's face it, we don't know how many of the people who turned up we can trust… any of them could have run off and told Umbridge…"
Moreover, he had thought they believed him, perhaps they even admired him.
"Zacharias Smith!" said Neville, "Blondie with a big mouth," he explained, "Or – well, could be Michael Corner…. He looked shifty to me."
Judging by the intensity of the chatter and an extra measure of movement in the Hall as people scurried up and down their tables conferring on what they had read. Harry had barely taken their seats when Colin, Fred, George, and Ginny descended upon them.
"Did you see it?"
"Reckon she knows?"
They were all looking at Harry. He glanced around to make sure there were no teachers near them. "We're going to do it anyway of course," he said quietly.
"Knew you'd say that," said George, beaming and thumping Harry on the arm.
Harry looked around the Great Hall and realized something, something important, everyone he could remember being at the meeting was… actually making eye contact. The questions were clearly written on their faces and several were actually coming towards him, "The idiots can't come over here now, it'll look really suspicious!" thought Harry desperately. He took a moment and sent out his magic. It was tricky, and he was not sure he could do it, not without a wand to channel the magic, "Watched by Umbridge! SIT DOWN!" he screamed in his mind. Ernie and Hannah both stumbled, and went down together in a tangle of limbs, "Talk to you later!" a little less forcefully. He knew he would owe them and a half dozen other people an apology.
But the full repercussions of the sign were not felt until they were leaving the Great Hall for History of Magic."Harry, can I have a word?" It was Angelina and she looked perturbed about something. He eyed the taller Quidditch Captain for a moment, making her feel incredibly uncomfortable. Neville nodded to Harry and kept walking, She hesitated, fidgeted as if she was not sure how to start, "First of, I just… wanted to say thanks you know? You, lending Ginny your Firebolt, it is going to make a difference. And the twins…"
He shrugged. He did not need nor want her thanks, "My property, so I can lend it to whomever I want. What else?" he blinked, "Wait a sec… what about the twins?"
"Well… I just thought that when you quit the Quidditch team, you'd have told the twins and I thought I would be looking for a new Seeker, and Beaters as well as a Keeper…" she sensed he was about to interrupt and pressed on hurriedly, "I also wanted to say thanks as well for not throwing me out on Saturday. I mean, our history is well…"
"Why don't you get it?" he snapped, "You're not my favorite person right now, that's true. But, I won't throw anyone to the wolves. When it happens, it will be harsh, bloody, and violent. People will die, and everyone, even those who don't want to get caught in the middle should be able to defend themselves." He took a dangerously quiet step forward, "And I don't need other people fighting my battles for me. Our differences are settled, as far I'm concerned. Now, I've got to get class."
He walked past when she asked a question, "Would you consider… consider rejoining the Quidditch team?"
"No," he said turning back to face her, "You know that there is nothing but bad blood between Ron and me. That is between him and me. I can't, and won't put myself within striking distance of an enemy, especially when I might have my back to him." There was another question on the tip of Angelina's tongue - at least he thought there was, "Just so you know, if you kick him off the team to get me back, I won't come back."
He progressed towards his next class. It was a wrench, even if he would only admit it to himself. He loved Quidditch and that would have made this year tolerable, bearable even. Flying could still give him that sense of freedom, but without the thrill of the chase, the challenge of a bludger, it was not the same. Not that he really cared - at least that is what he told himself.
History of magic was as boringly pointless as ever, and he was not the only one lying with his head on his arm, eyes glazed, staring almost sightlessly into the near distance. He felt equally dazed when class ended and like everyone, he staggered out of the room
Descending the steps into the dungeons, he snapped out of his stupor by the sound of Draco Malfoy's arrogant tones just outside Snape's classroom, waving around a scrap of parchment. "Yeah, Umbridge gave the Slytherin Quidditch team permission to continue playing straightaway; I went to ask her first thing this morning. Well, it was pretty much automatic, I mean, she knows my father really well, he's always popping in and out of the Ministry… it'll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor is allowed to keep playing, won't it?"
"Don't," said Neville quietly, "It's exactly what he wants."
"I mean," said Malfoy, raising his voice a little more, his grey eyes glittering malevolently in Harry's direction, "No offense Ron, but if ministry influence is needed, they don't have a chance do they? Your father just does not have that kind of influence. But he's never wanted it, which is completely different from not having it."
"It's true," said Ron with a sad sort of smile, "He doesn't like politics, let alone office politics so he just… stays out of it."
"Well don't worry;" said Draco with a laugh, "They'll be carting Potter off to St. Mungos to have that magic addled brain of his examined." Malfoy made a grotesque face, his mouth sagging open and his eyes rolling, Crabbe and Goyle gave their usual grunts of laughter.
Ron drew his wand and poked the slack-faced Draco with it, "It is my humble opinion, that this patient is completely addled!" Pansy Parkinson shrieked with glee.
Something collided hard with Harry's shoulder, knocking him sideways. A split second later, he realized that Neville had just charged past him wand drawn and raised, heading towards Malfoy and Ron. The tip of his wand flared a dangerous blood red. Harry leaped forward, "Neville!"
He managed to grab the back of his friend's robes and drag him back. Harry cast a calming charm but Neville's blood was up, and he succeeded in breaking free of Harry's hold, tearing his robes in near desperation. Harry had no choice as he locked his arm around Neville's throat and began to squeeze Malfoy as his sycophants stared in shock.
Dean was the first to help Harry pull Neville back, "What's gotten into him?" asked Dean as he struggled to keep his grip, half pushing, half pulling them to the back of the line of waiting Gryffindors.
Neville's face was scarlet; the pressure Harry was exerting on his throat rendered him quite incomprehensible, but odd words spluttered from his mouth, "Not… funny… don't… Mungo's… show… him…"
The dungeon door opened. Snape appeared there. His black eyes swept up the Gryffindor line to the point where Harry, Neville, and Dean were a tangle of limbs, "Fighting, Potter, Thomas, Longbottom?" Snape said in his cold, sneering voice. Ten points from Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be detention. Inside. All of you."
Harry let go of Neville, who stood panting and glaring at him. "I had to stop you," Harry said a little short of breath as he picked up his bag, "You hex them into oblivion, and then Snape would have done the same to you!"
Neville said nothing; he merely snatched up his own bag and stalked off into the dungeon. "What in the name of Merlin," asked Dean "was that about?"
Harry did not answer. He knew exactly why the subject of people who were in St Mungo's because of magical damage to their brains was highly distressing to Neville, but he had sworn to keep Neville's secret. Even Neville did not know Harry knew.
Harry took his usual seats at the back as the class around them whispered about what Neville had just done, but when Snape closed the dungeon door with an echoing bang, everybody immediately fell silent. "You will notice," said Snape, in his low, sneering voice, "that we have a guest with us today."
He gestured towards the dim corner of the dungeon and Harry saw Professor Umbridge sitting there, clipboard on her knee. The two teachers he hated most. It was hard to decide which one he wanted to triumph over the other. "We are continuing with our Strengthening Solution today. You will find your mixtures as you left them last lesson; if correctly made they should have matured well over the weekend ‐ instructions ‐" he waved his wand again "‐ on the board. Carry on."
Professor Umbridge spent the first half-hour of the lesson making notes in her corner. Harry was very interested in hearing her question Snape. He stopped working just to watch as Umbridge got to her feet. "Ha," he said softly, as she strode between two lines of desks towards Snape, who was bending over Deans' cauldron.
"Well, the class seems fairly advanced for their level," she said briskly to Snape's back, "Though I would question whether it is advisable to teach them a potion like the Strengthening Solution. I think the Ministry would prefer it if that was removed from the syllabus."
Snape straightened up slowly and turned to look at her, "Now… how long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?" she asked, her quill poised over her clipboard.
"Fourteen years," Snape replied. His expression was unfathomable. Harry, watching him closely, added a few drops to his potion; it hissed menacingly and turned from turquoise to orange.
"You applied first for the Defense against the Dark Arts post, I believe?" Professor Umbridge asked Snape.
"Yes," said Snape quietly.
"But you were unsuccessful?"
Snape's lip curled, "Obviously"
Professor Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard, "And you have applied regularly for the Defense against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the school, I believe?"
"Yes," said Snape quietly, barely moving his lips. He looked very angry.
"Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has consistently refused to appoint you?" asked Umbridge.
"I suggest you ask him," said Snape jerkily.
"Oh, I shall," said Professor Umbridge, with a sweet smile.
"I suppose this is relevant?" Snape asked as his black eyes narrowed.
"Oh yes," said Professor Umbridge, "yes, the Ministry wants a thorough understanding of teachers'… backgrounds."
She turned away, walked over to Pansy Parkinson, and began questioning her about the lessons. Snape looked around at Harry and their eyes met for a second. Harry hastily dropped his gaze to his potion, which was now congealing foully and giving off a strong smell of burned rubber.
"No marks again, then, Potter," said Snape maliciously, emptying Harry's cauldron with a wave of his wand. "You will write me an essay on the correct composition of this potion, indicating how and why you went wrong, to be handed in next lesson, do you understand?"
"Yeah," said Harry, almost indifferent to the extra assignment.
During lunch, Harry actually debated skiving divination. However, he decided not to, just in case. Umbridge showed up for another inspection. Half an hour later, Harry took his seat in the hot, overly perfumed atmosphere of the Divination classroom. Professor Trelawney was yet again handing out copies of The Dream Oracle. Harry knew he would rather get on with the bat gits punishment essay than sitting here trying to find meaning in made‐up dreams.
Professor Trelawney slammed a copy of the Oracle down on the table between Ron and Seamus and swept away, her lips pursed; she threw the next copy at Harry, narrowly avoiding decapitating Seamus before thrusting the final one into Neville's chest with such force that he slipped off his poufs.
"Well, carry on!" said Professor Trelawney loudly, her voice high‐pitched and somewhat hysterical, "you know what to do! Or am I such a sub‐standard teacher that you have never learned how to open a book?"
The class stared perplexedly at her, then at each other. Harry, however, thought he knew what the matter was. As Professor Trelawney flounced back to the high‐backed teacher's chair, her magnified eyes full of angry tears; he leaned his head closer to Neville s and muttered, "I think she's got the results of her inspection back."
"Professor?" said Parvati Patil in a hushed voice - she and Lavender had always rather admired Professor Trelawney, "Professor, is there anything ‐ er ‐ wrong?"
"Wrong!" cried Professor Trelawney in a voice throbbing with emotion. "Certainly not! I have been insulted, certainly… insinuations have been made against me… unfounded accusations leveled… but no, there is nothing wrong, certainly not!"
She took a great shuddering breath and looked away from Parvati, angry tears spilling from under her glasses.
"I say nothing," she choked, "of sixteen years of devoted service… it has passed, apparently, unnoticed… but I shall not be insulted, no, I shall not!"
"But, Professor, who's insulting you?" asked Parvati timidly.
"The Establishment!" said Professor Trelawney, in a deep, dramatic, wavering voice. "Yes, those with eyes too clouded by the mundane to See as I See, to Know as I Know… of course, we Seers have always been feared, always persecuted… it is ‐ alas ‐our fate."
She gulped, dabbed at her wet cheeks with the end of her shawl, and then she pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose very hard with a sound like Peeves blowing a raspberry.
Ron sniggered. Lavender shot him a disgusted look.
"Professor," said Parvati, "do you mean… is it something, Professor Umbridge ‐?"
"Do not speak to me about that woman!" cried Professor Trelawney, leaping to her feet, her beads rattling and her spectacles flashing. "Kindly continue with your work!"
And she spent the rest of the lesson striding among them, tears still leaking from behind her glasses, muttering what sounded like threats under her breath, "… may well choose to leave… the indignity of it… on probation… we shall see… how she dares…"
"You and Umbridge have got something in common," Neville, told Harry when they met again in Defense against the Dark Arts. "She obviously reckons Trelawney's an old fraud, too… looks like she's put her on probation."
Umbridge entered the room as he spoke, wearing her black velvet bow and an expression of great smugness. "Good afternoon, class."
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," they chanted dully.
"Wands away," However, there was no answering flurry of movement this time; nobody had bothered to take out their wands. "Please turn to page thirty‐four of Defensive Magical Theory and read the third chapter, entitled 'The Case for Non‐Offensive Responses to Magical Attack'. There will be ‐"
"‐ no need to talk," Harry along with nearly the entire class echoed under their breath.
Entering the Great Hall for dinner, he overheard Angelina talking to the team, "No Quidditch practice," said Angelina in hollow tones, "She just said she needed a bit of time to consider."
"Consider what?" said Ron angrily. "She's given the Slytherins permission, why not us?" Harry could imagine how much Umbridge was enjoying holding the threat of no Gryffindor Quidditch team and could easily understand why she would not want to relinquish that weapon over them too soon.
He turned and left, unwilling to hear anything about Quidditch. Returning to the residence, he ordered food from his elves and reluctantly dragged his Potions essay from his bag, and set to work. Sometime later, Neville joined him with a grunt at the opposite end of the table before pulling his own potions essay out. But even though Harry made some progress, he could clearly see Neville's mind was gnawing on something. After a half-hour Harry tossed his quill down, "Neville, you alright?"
"St. Mungos," he said quietly, "it's true you know? What Malfoy said about too much magic, and how it can… damage the brain."
Harry met Neville's gaze and recognized that haunted, almost hunted thousand-yard stare. He had worn it himself often enough. Still did when no one was looking. He debated his choices, and made one, "What Malfoy said was true?"
Neville nodded, "Some curses can kill, others cause pain, but… the Cruciatus Curse… that curse… it only ends when the caster wants it to end." They were committed now, one to listen, the other to speak, "My parents… they were Aurors in the war. After Volde-Voldermort fell, a number of his Death Eaters were convinced my parents knew something and were captured and…"
"They died?" he asked quietly. He had only ever seen fragments, bits, and pieces of that trial, with the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Junior, and he assumed that death was as bad as it got.
Neville shook his head, and wiped a single tear away, "If only they had," he said bitterly, "In a way Harry, you're luckier than me. Your parents died, that night and there's… finality to that, closure, sort of, you know?" Harry nodded warily, not sure where this was going, "I-I visit my parents, during the holidays in St. Mungos…they don't recognize me."
Harry cursed to himself. Another bound to him by hate. He was starting to hate that, "You're right," he said at last, "You've got the worst of it." He did not know what else to say. When he had learned of Neville's past the year before, Griphook had advised him to let the past stay buried because when you dig it up, all anyone ever gets is dirty.
He had taken that advice to heart and was not about to go back on his word to keep that secret. "How much-powdered griffin horn does this damn potion need anyway?"