Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (45 page)

Neville said nothing; he merely snatched up his own bag and stalked off into the dungeon.

‘What in the name of Merlin,’ said Ron slowly, as they followed Neville, ‘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 Dumbledore that he would not tell anyone Neville’s secret. Even Neville did not know Harry knew.

Harry, Ron and Hermione took their usual seats at the back of the class, pulled out parchment, quills and their copies of
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.
The class around them was whispering 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. He glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione, his eyebrows raised. Snape and Umbridge, 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; so interested, that he was becoming careless with his potion again.

‘Salamander blood, Harry!’ Hermione moaned, grabbing his wrist to prevent him adding the wrong ingredient for the third time, ‘not pomegranate juice!’

‘Right,’ said Harry vaguely, putting down the bottle and continuing to watch the corner. Umbridge had just got to her feet. ‘Ha,’ he said softly, as she strode between two lines of desks towards Snape, who was bending over Dean Thomas’s cauldron.

‘Well, the class seem 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. His eyes on Snape, Harry added a few drops to his potion; it hissed menacingly and turned from turquoise to orange.

‘You applied first for the Defence 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 Defence 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, his black eyes narrowed.

‘Oh yes,’ said Professor Umbridge, ‘yes, the Ministry wants a thorough understanding of teachers’ – er – backgrounds.’

She turned away, walked over to Pansy Parkinson and began questioning her about the lessons. Snape looked round 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?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry furiously. Snape had already given them homework and he had Quidditch practice this evening; this would mean another couple of sleepless nights. It did not seem possible that he had awoken that morning feeling very happy. All he felt now was a fervent desire for this day to end.

‘Maybe I’ll skive off Divination,’ he said glumly, as they stood in the courtyard after lunch, the wind whipping at the hems of robes and brims of hats. ‘I’ll pretend to be ill and do Snape’s essay instead, then I won’t have to stay up half the night.’

‘You can’t skive off Divination,’ said Hermione severely.

‘Hark who’s talking, you walked out of Divination, you hate Trelawney!’ said Ron indignantly.

‘I don’t
hate
her,’ said Hermione loftily. ‘I just think she’s an absolutely appalling teacher and a real old fraud. But Harry’s already missed History of Magic and I don’t think he ought to miss anything else today!’

There was too much truth in this to ignore, so half an hour later Harry took his seat in the hot, overperfumed atmosphere of the Divination classroom, feeling angry at everybody. Professor Trelawney was yet again handing out copies of
The Dream Oracle
. Harry thought he’d surely be much better employed doing Snape’s punishment essay than sitting here trying to find meaning in a lot of made-up dreams.

It seemed, however, that he was not the only person in Divination who was in a temper. Professor Trelawney slammed a copy of the
Oracle
down on the table between Harry and Ron and swept away, her lips pursed; she threw the next copy of the
Oracle
at Seamus and Dean, narrowly avoiding Seamus’s head, and thrust the final one into Neville’s chest with such force that he slipped off his pouffe.

‘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 was the matter. 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 Ron’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 levelled … 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, then she pulled a small 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,’ Harry told Hermione quietly when they met again in Defence 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 drearily.

‘Wands away, please.’

But 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, Ron and Hermione said together, under their breaths.

*

‘
No
Quidditch practice,’ said Angelina in hollow tones when Harry, Ron and Hermione entered the common room after dinner that night. ‘But I kept my temper!’ said Harry, horrified. ‘I didn’t say anything to her, Angelina, I swear, I –’

‘I know, I know,’ said Angelina miserably. ‘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?’

But Harry could imagine how much Umbridge was enjoying holding the threat of no Gryffindor Quidditch team over their heads and could easily understand why she would not want to relinquish that weapon over them too soon.

‘Well,’ said Hermione, ‘look on the bright side – at least now you’ll have time to do Snape’s essay!’

‘That’s a bright side, is it?’ snapped Harry, while Ron stared incredulously at Hermione. ‘No Quidditch practice, and extra Potions?’

Harry slumped down into a chair, dragged his Potions essay reluctantly from his bag and set to work. It was very hard to concentrate; even though he knew Sirius was not due in the fire until much later, he could not help glancing into the flames every few minutes just in case. There was also an incredible amount of noise in the room: Fred and George appeared finally to have perfected one type of Skiving Snackbox, which they were taking turns to demonstrate to a cheering and whooping crowd.

First, Fred would take a bite out of the orange end of a chew, at which he would vomit spectacularly into a bucket they had placed in front of them. Then he would force down the purple end of the chew, at which the vomiting would immediately cease. Lee Jordan, who was assisting the demonstration, was lazily Vanishing the vomit at regular intervals with the same Vanishing Spell Snape kept using on Harry’s potions.

What with the regular sounds of retching, cheering and the sound of Fred and George taking advance orders from the crowd, Harry was finding it exceptionally difficult to focus on the correct method for Strengthening Solution. Hermione was not helping matters; the cheers and the sound of vomit hitting the bottom of Fred and George’s bucket were punctuated by her loud and disapproving sniffs, which Harry found, if anything, more distracting.

‘Just go and stop them, then!’ he said irritably, after crossing out the wrong weight of powdered griffin claw for the fourth time.

‘I can’t, they’re not
technically
doing anything wrong,’ said Hermione through gritted teeth. ‘They’re quite within their rights to eat the foul things themselves and I can’t find a rule that says the other idiots aren’t entitled to buy them, not unless they’re proven to be dangerous in some way and it doesn’t look as though they are.’

She, Harry and Ron watched George projectile-vomit into the bucket, gulp down the rest of the chew and straighten up, beaming with his arms wide to protracted applause.

‘You know, I don’t get why Fred and George only got three O.W.L.s each,’ said Harry, watching as Fred, George and Lee collected gold from the eager crowd. ‘They really know their stuff.’

‘Oh, they only know flashy stuff that’s of no real use to anyone,’ said Hermione disparagingly.

‘No real use?’ said Ron in a strained voice. ‘Hermione, they’ve made about twenty-six Galleons already.’

It was a long while before the crowd around the Weasley twins dispersed, then Fred, Lee and George sat up counting their takings even longer, so it was well past midnight when Harry, Ron and Hermione finally had the common room to themselves. At long last, Fred had closed the doorway to the boys’ dormitories behind him, rattling his box of Galleons ostentatiously so that Hermione scowled. Harry, who was making very little progress with his Potions essay, decided to give it up for the night. As he put his books away, Ron, who was dozing lightly in an armchair, gave a muffled grunt, awoke, and looked blearily into the fire.

‘Sirius!’ he said.

Harry whipped round. Sirius’s untidy dark head was sitting in the fire again.

‘Hi,’ he said, grinning.

‘Hi,’ chorused Harry, Ron and Hermione, all three kneeling down on the hearthrug. Crookshanks purred loudly and approached the fire, trying, despite the heat, to put his face close to Sirius’s.

‘How’re things?’ said Sirius.

‘Not that good,’ said Harry, as Hermione pulled Crookshanks back to stop him singeing his whiskers. ‘The Ministry’s forced through another decree, which means we’re not allowed to have Quidditch teams –’

‘Or secret Defence Against the Dark Arts groups?’ said Sirius.

There was a short pause.

‘How did you know about that?’ Harry demanded.

‘You want to choose your meeting places more carefully,’ said Sirius, grinning still more broadly. ‘The Hog’s Head, I ask you.’

‘Well, it was better than the Three Broomsticks!’ said Hermione defensively. ‘That’s always packed with people –’

‘Which means you’d have been harder to overhear,’ said Sirius. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, Hermione.’

‘Who overheard us?’ Harry demanded.

‘Mundungus, of course,’ said Sirius, and when they all looked puzzled he laughed. ‘He was the witch under the veil.’