Despite Ron's increasingly desperate protests to Professor McGonagall that his snail looked "definitely more transparent," by the final bell neither he nor Harry had managed complete vanishment. Both earned the dubious honor of additional homework.
Lunchtime became a frantic juggling act—Harry and Ron cramming bread into their mouths while frantically scribbling notes about moonstone powder properties for Snape's looming essay deadline. Orli raced through her own assignment on the Giant Wars, quill scratching furiously across parchment. Hagrid's chair at the High Table remained ominously vacant, like a missing tooth in an otherwise complete smile.
September had surrendered to autumn's chill, scattered raindrops kissing their faces as they trudged toward the greenhouses. The door swung open, releasing a stream of fourth-years with Ginny at their head.
"Hi there!" she called with characteristic brightness, her red hair catching what little sunlight pierced the gray clouds. She swept past with easy confidence, already deep in animated conversation with her housemates.
Moments later, Luna Lovegood drifted out like a ghost following in their wake—dirt smudged across her upturned nose, silvery hair twisted into an impossible knot atop her head. The instant her protuberant eyes found Harry, they widened with unmistakable recognition. She glided toward them with the serene determination of a sleepwalker, completely oblivious to the growing crowd of curious onlookers.
Without preamble—not even a basic greeting—she announced in her dreamy, matter-of-fact voice:
"I heard what you said in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I believe You-Know-Who has returned, and I believe you've encountered Death Eaters."
Her pale gaze lingered meaningfully on Orli's face, and Orli found herself smiling despite the awkwardness of the moment.
"Er—right. Thanks," Harry managed, clearly caught off-guard by such direct support.
"You really ought to subscribe to The Quibbler," Luna continued, holding up a magazine that she was reading upside-down with perfect seriousness. "You'll discover many truths that others prefer to ignore."
Her carrot-shaped earrings—actual carved vegetables, by the look of them—swayed gently as she spoke. Parvati and Lavender had noticed them too, pointing and dissolving into fits of barely-suppressed giggles.
"You mean that rubbish publication?" someone called from the crowd. "Last year they claimed Sirius Black was actually that washed-up singer Stubby Boardman!"
Low chuckles rippled through the assembled students, but Luna remained utterly unperturbed.
"Laugh if you must," she said with ethereal calm, her voice carrying an odd note of pity. "The Heliopaths have already begun circling, but you're all too blind to see them."
She drifted away after the departing fourth-years, her ridiculous earrings bouncing with increased vigor. Orli watched her retreating figure with growing fascination, a brilliant idea for dealing with Umbridge suddenly crystallizing in her mind. She was just beginning to explore this promising train of thought when another voice interrupted.
"Potter, I want you to know," Ernie Macmillan declared in a voice pitched to carry across half the courtyard, "that decent people support you completely. I believe every word you've said, one hundred percent. My entire family stands with Dumbledore, and so do I."
The Hufflepuff prefect's chest puffed out with righteous conviction, his round face flushed with earnest sincerity.
"Er—that's really good of you, Ernie," Harry replied, taking a small step backward while maintaining a grateful smile. He shot a pointed look at Seamus, who immediately found something fascinating to study on his shoes. Even Parvati and Lavender stopped their giggling, suddenly looking rather ashamed.
Professor Sprout's lesson began with the now-familiar litany about O.W.L. examinations—a speech that made Orli want to hex something. She desperately wished the professors would stop mentioning those bloody tests. Her unfinished essay pile was already threatening to topple over and crush someone.
Fred and George had never seemed this overwhelmed during their fifth year. Even Percy had found time to patrol the corridors, drunk on prefect power and self-importance. What cosmic force had decided to make their year group suffer so spectacularly?
After an hour of wrestling with dragon dung fertilizer that left their hands reeking like a troll's armpit, and memorizing the properties of some ghastly new plant food, Professor Sprout cheerfully assigned yet another essay. Walking back toward the castle through the drizzle, Orli mentally catalogued her mounting academic disasters: Herbology essay, Potions essay, History of Magic essay, McGonagall's spell practice, Flitwick's charm work, Bowtruckle anatomical diagrams, and fabricated dream journals for Trelawney's ridiculous class.
Two days. They'd been back at school for exactly two days, and she was already drowning in parchment.