The next day, Harry awoke to a sluggish Monday morning shuffle; the kind where he and everyone else within the dorms fumbled through their drawers and dressed, before redressing again, realizing with slow startle that whatever robes had been put on were actually backwards and incorrectly done the first time: their long and boyish limbs struggling to button and clamber upright, eyelids drooped drowsy in the early morning darkness.
With his bare feet pressed against the stone floor, Harry stared out of each of the windows that misted over, dappled in grey light; the air that flowed through open gaps no longer felt refreshing against his skin, it was only cold, and he shivered. Each individual breath felt like a cloud inside his chest and he watched as small puffs of vapour drifted from his lips, and then evaporated mid-air.

There was doubt that winter was coming. It would not be long until the snow and frost arrived, beckoned from the mountainous land lay around them, however, this first etching of the icy cold was always the worst. For all its magic, it didn't seem like Hogwarts had an enchanted weather vane that could warn its denizens of cold awakenings, and—despite the years he had spent here—neither of Harry nor his friends were particularly quick enough to anticipate the turning of the season. Sometimes they could tell when Neville got his runny noses too early, but this year, the fireplace within their dorm was pitch-black and empty of log and ember; the only proof of someone's foresight was in a single candelabra that burned, shedding dim light on top of Seamus's bedside table.

Harry was surprised to find that Seamus had already departed, gone were his books and bag, the only thing left were bunched up curtains tied with a Gryffindor house scarf, and a made bed that Dean had been staring down at.

"He's been heading off rather early," Harry said, offhandedly. With a dull nod, Dean took in a breath that came out a soft sigh.

"Seamus is... he's been eager to get away… even forgot his scarf on a day like this…" he began, his fingers slowly reaching toward the cinch of Seamus's curtains. Harry, who was a little more awake now, did not say anything as he flipped his collar upward and began to fix in his tie— "…at about Ron?"

"Sorry?"

Dean pointed behind him, and repeated it again, "What about Ron?"

Swiftly, Harry turned to the direction Dean had motioned, his eyes coming to rest on the empty bed beside his own.

"Oh," he said.

Downstairs, he, and Hermione scoured the common room before spotting Ron amongst the breadth of sleepy study tables, a scowl deeply embedded onto his freckled face.

He did not seem surprised as the two made their way towards him and only brought out a single, unsealed scroll in his hand which—without a word, and when they were close enough—he thrust toward Harry and Hermione, who then leaned toward each other and began to read:

From the desk of Percival Ignatius Weasley,
Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic

Dear Ron,

I have only just heard (from no less a person than the Minister of Magic himself, who has it from your new teacher, Professor Umbridge) that you have become a Hogwarts prefect. I was most pleasantly surprised when I heard this news and must firstly offer my congratulations. I must admit that I have always been afraid that you would take what we might call the "Fred and George" route, rather than following in my footsteps, so you can imagine my feelings on hearing you have stopped flouting authority and have decided to shoulder some real responsibility.

But I want to give you more than congratulations, Ron, I want to give you some advice, which is why I am sending this at night rather than by the usual morning post. Hopefully, you will be able to read this away from prying eyes and avoid awkward questions.

From something the Minister let slip when telling me you are now a prefect, I gather that you are still seeing a lot of Harry Potter. I must tell you, Ron, that nothing could put you in danger of losing your badge more than continued fraternization with that boy. Yes, I am sure you are surprised to hear this — no doubt you will say that Potter has always been Dumbledore's favourite — but I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who count have a very different — and probably more accurate — view of Potters behaviour. I shall say no more here, but if you look at the Daily Prophet today you will get a good idea of the way the wind is blowing — and see if you can spot yours truly!

Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to your future prospects, and I am talking here about life after school too. As you must be aware, given that our father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot and he did not come out of it looking too good. He got off on a mere technicality if you ask me and many of the people, I've spoken to remain convinced of his guilt.

It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter — I know that he can be unbalanced and, for all I know, violent — but if you have any worries about this, or have spotted anything else in Potter's behaviour that is troubling you, I urge you to speak to Dolores Umbridge, a really delightful woman, who I know will be only too happy to advise you.

This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have hinted above, Dumbledore's regime at Hogwarts may soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should be not to him, but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to hear that so far Professor Umbridge is encountering very little cooperation from staff as she strives to make those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the Ministry so ardently desires (although she should find this easier from now on — again, see the Prophet today!). I shall say only this — a student who shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now may be very well placed for Head Boyship in a couple of years!

I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over the summer. It pains me to criticize our parents, but I am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd around Dumbledore (if you are writing to Mother at any point, you might tell her that a certain Sturgis Podmore, who is a great friend of Dumbledore's, has recently been sent to Azkaban for trespass at the Ministry. Perhaps that will open their eyes to the kind of petty criminals with whom they are currently rubbing shoulders). I count myself very lucky to have escaped the stigma of association with such people — the Minister really could not be more gracious to me — and I do hope, Ron, that you will not allow family ties to blind you to the misguided nature of our parents' beliefs and actions either. I sincerely hope that, in time, they will realize how mistaken they were, and I shall, of course, be ready to accept a full apology when that day comes.

Please think over what I have said most carefully, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, and congratulations again on becoming prefect.

Your brother,

Percy

Harry looked up at Ron.

"Well," he said, trying to sound as though he found the entire thing to be a joke, "if you want to, err—what was it—" he checked Percy's letter— "Oh right, 'sever ties' with me…"

"Don't!"

"I was just going to say… that I swear I won't get violent."

Ron did not laugh. Instead he held out his hand and said, tersely, "Give it back."

Harry and Hermione followed as he strode across the common room, clutching it tightly. When they were only five feet away from the fireplace—the pit in Harry's stomach deepening as he remembered the conversation with Sirius last night—they heard a tremendous tearing noise.

"He is—" Ron said jerkily, tearing Percy's letter in half, "the world's"— and he tore it into quarters — "biggest"— and he tore it into eighths — "git."

And he threw the pieces into the open flames.

Seconds went by and the three of them watched those pieces quickly crumbled to ash, before Ron suddenly and very angrily cried, "I would spit if I knew how to make a big enough loogie!"

At the sound of his outburst, a few Gryffindors woke with a start while many more simply stared at the three of them, mystified, as they passed out to the Grand Staircase. Despite the sinking feeling he had felt reading the letter earlier, now, Harry almost felt like he could burst into laughter—Hermione certainly did.

"C'mon," Ron said, casually, as though nothing had happened at all. He slung his bag over his shoulder, "let's go get breakfast, I'm starving."

The three of them walked down to the Great Hall, where they expected to carefully comb Hermione's Daily Prophet in order to find the article Percy had mentioned in his letter. However, the departing delivery owl had barely cleared the top of the milk jug when Hermione let out a huge gasp and flattened the newspaper to reveal a large photograph of Dolores Umbridge, smiling widely and blinking slowly at them from beneath the headline:

"MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM
DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER "HIGH INQUISITOR"

"High Inquisitor?" said Harry baffled, his half-eaten bit of toast slipping from his fingers. "What does that mean?"

Hermione read aloud: "In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic passed new legislation giving itself an unprecedented level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"'The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-on at Hogwarts for some time,' said Junior Assistant to the Minister, Percy Weasley. 'He is now responding to concerns voiced by anxious parents, who feel the school may be moving in a direction they do not approve.'

"This is not the first time in recent weeks Fudge has used new laws to effect improvements at the Wizarding school. As recently as August 30th Educational Decree Twenty-two was passed, to ensure that, in the event of the current headmaster being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the Ministry should select an appropriate person.

"'That's how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts,' said Weasley last night. 'Dumbledore couldn't find anyone, so the Minister put in Umbridge and of course, she's been an immediate success—'"

"She's been a WHAT?"

"Shh! There's more!"

"'— an immediate success, totally revolutionizing the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts and providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback about what's really happening at Hogwarts.'
"It is this last function that the Ministry has now formalized with the passing of Educational Decree Twenty-three, which creates the new position of 'Hogwarts High Inquisitor.'

"'This is an exciting new phase in the Minister's plan to get to grips with what some are calling the "falling standards" at Hogwarts,' said Weasley. 'The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch. Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post, and we are delighted to say that she has accepted.'

"The Ministry's new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts.
"'I feel much easier in my mind now that I know that Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective evaluation,' said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from his Wiltshire mansion last night. 'Many of us with our children's best interests at heart have been concerned about some of Dumbledore's eccentric decisions in the last few years and will be glad to know that the Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation.'

"Among those 'eccentric decisions' are undoubtedly the controversial staff appointments previously described in this newspaper, which have included the hiring of werewolf Remus Lupin, half giant Rubeus Hagrid, and delusional ex-Auror 'Mad-Eye' Moody.
"Rumours abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore, once Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing the prestigious school of Hogwarts.
"'I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step toward ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in whom we can all repose confidence,' said a Ministry insider last night.

"Wizengamot elders Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have resigned in protest at the introduction of the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts.
"'Hogwarts is a school, not an outpost of Cornelius Fudge's office,' said Madam Marchbanks. 'This is a further disgusting attempt to discredit Albus Dumbledore.' (For a full account of Madam Marchbanks' alleged links to subversive goblin groups, turn to page 17)."

Hermione finished reading and glared at the paper with the same open-mouthed shock that Harry and Ron had been.

"Umbridge is here by Ministry law! First, Fudge passed this 'Educational Decree' and forced her on us, and now he's given her the power to inspect the other teachers!"

"We know 'ermione, you just read it out loud…" Ron mumbled but Hermione was hardly listening. She was breathing fast and her eyes sparked with anger as her fingernails tore into the sides of the paper within her hands, as if to shred it fully, "I can't believe this! It's outrageous..."

Across from her, Harry could only dumbly nod. Many thoughts and emotions swirled around his head, but none seared more than the weight of his right hand, clenched upon the tabletop; the outline of the words that Umbridge had forced him to cut, still faintly visible onto his skin. He only blinked out of his daze when he heard laughter—small and quiet laughter—bubbling from beside him, a grin unfurled as Ron swallowed his breakfast down.

"What?" said Harry and Hermione together, staring at him.

"Oh, I can't wait to see McGonagall inspected," said Ron. He took a bite of a happy bite out of his piece of toast. "Umbrish won't know wha' hit her!"

Morning classes passed quickly with both History and Potions as normal as they had been, the week before. Despite pocketing a graded-D (Dreadful) moonstone essay in his bag from Snape, Harry did not feel worse for wear; he even managed to reign in his temper throughout the entirety of Defence Against the Dark Arts, though, the same could not be said for his own friends.

"What is it this time, Miss Granger?" Professor Umbridge remarked. The class had only been in session for three minutes and yet, Hermione already had her hand raised high above the top of her head. It seemed that Umbridge had worked out a strategy for this inevitability however, and rather than pretending that she had not noticed Hermione like last time, Umbridge instead had gotten to her feet and walked through the rows of desks until she and Hermione were face-to-face; where then she bent down and whispered so that the rest of the class could not hear.

"I've already read chapter two," said Hermione, pointing at the very page that Umbridge had instructed them to read, four minutes ago.

"Well then, proceed to chapter three—"

"I've read that too. I've read the whole book."

Professor Umbridge blinked but recovered her poise almost instantly. "Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counterjinxes in chapter fifteen?"

"He says that counterjinxes are improperly named," said Hermione promptly. "He says 'counterjinx' is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable."

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows, and Harry knew she was impressed against her will.

"But I disagree," Hermione continued. Professor Umbridge's eyebrows rose a little higher and her gaze became distinctly colder.

"You disagree?"

"Yes, I do," said Hermione, who—unlike Umbridge—did not whisper and spoke in a clear, carrying voice that by now had attracted attention. "Mr. Slinkhard doesn't like jinxes, does he? But I think they can be extremely useful as defensive measures."

"Oh, you do, do you?" said Professor Umbridge, forgetting to whisper entirely and straightening up. "Well, I'm afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard's opinion, and not yours, that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger."

"But—" Hermione began.

"That's enough!" said Professor Umbridge, she walked briskly back to the front of the class and stood before them, all the jauntiness that she had shown at the beginning of their lesson gone. "Miss Granger, I am going to take five points from Gryffindor House."

There was an outbreak of muttering at this.

"What for?" said Ron angrily.
He beat Harry to it, who felt inclined to a similar outburst, if it were not for Hermione's quick hand that seized his own.

"For disrupting my class with pointless interruptions," said Professor Umbridge smoothly. "I am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved method that does not include inviting students to give their opinions on matters about which they understand very little. Your previous teachers in this subject may have allowed you more license, but as none of them—with the possible exception of Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects—would have passed a Ministry inspection…" she walked through aisles in between desks, casually rolling the wands that had not been put into bags like she had asked, off the tables and ignoring her students' scowls as she passed by.

Harry waited until she had truly and properly passed them, before turning to his friends and muttering under his breath, "Yeah, Quirrell was a great teacher… if only there wasn't that minor drawback of having Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head!"

"Shh!"

Ron and Hermione looked at him panickily, but Harry only gripped the cover of his book and ignored it, satisfied that their dissent—which had been so vehement the first time—had finally dulled down to only the softest sounds of protest.

When the room settled back into its previous uncomfortable silence, Hermione released the weight of her hand, and trailed her eyes to focus on the textbook in front of her. But Harry had an inkling that she would not read a word of it, as none of them—not him, nor her, nor Ron—turned a single waxen page in the next drone of ten minutes. And then the next ten, and then the next.
The ink may as well have been wet and dewy, swimming on the page in ineligible lines and an illiteracy that criss-crossed and swam around their heads, and still: the three of them would only blankly and outrightly stare, without absorbing a drop.

And they were not alone in this sentiment. Something rustled and shifted tensely in the dead air of the room.

After class, Harry and Ron groggily parted ways with Hermione and ambled toward the northern part of the castle, for another banal hour of Divination lessons.

True to the Prophet and its front-page article, however, the High Inquisitor climbed up the ladder minutes after them and within the velvet-draped room—its thick smell of incense withering under Umbridge's syrupy perfume—she strode around the North Tower with a clipboard, the clack of her heels sending ghosting pains that ran like goosebumps in Harry's right arm.

While the class had been instructed to complete their dream journals, it would have taken nothing less but a solid iron will to concentrate in this hour: Harry felt nearly sick to death of the heavy, humid air and it was only when Umbridge stopped by the front of the class, and began to speak in an insisting tone that he decided to spend a little effort and strain to hear.

"Now—" said Umbridge, she looked up at Professor Trelawney, who scowled at her, shoulders hunched; her arms crossed around her thin body as though wishing to protect herself as much as possible from the indignity of the inspection— "You've been in this post… how long, exactly?"

Harry poked at Ron's side, rousing him from the crook of his elbow while Trelawny spoke in a low and deeply resentful voice, "Nearly sixteen years."

"Quite a period," said Professor Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard. "So it was Professor Dumbledore who appointed you?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore, that's right," said Professor Trelawney shortly.

Professor Umbridge made another note, "And you are a great-great-granddaughter of the celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?"

"… Yes," said Professor Trelawney, holding her head a little higher. Another note on the clipboard.

"But I think—correct me if I am mistaken—that you are the first in your family since Cassandra, to be possessed of second sight?"

"These things often skip—er—three generations," said Professor Trelawney, she began to clutch at one of the many beaded necklaces around her scrawny neck. Professor Umbridge's toadlike smile widened.

"Of course," she said sweetly, making yet another note. "Well, if you could just predict something for me, then?"

She looked up inquiringly, still smiling. Professor Trelawney had stiffened as though unable to believe her ears.

"I don't understand you,"

"I'd like you to make a prediction for me," said Professor Umbridge, very clearly. Harry and Ron were not the only people watching and listening sneakily from behind their books now; most of the class were staring transfixed at Professor Trelawney as she drew herself up to her full height, nearly twice the size of Umbridge's, her beads and bangles jingling and clinking together.

"The Inner Eye does not See upon command!" she said in scandalized tones.

"I see," said Professor Umbridge almost sadly, making yet another note on her clipboard.

"I—but—but… wait!" said Professor Trelawney suddenly. Her voice shifted to her usual ethereal tone, though the mystical effect was somewhat ruined by the way she shook with anger. "I… I think I do see something… something that concerns you… Why, I sense something… something dark… some grave peril…!"

Professor Trelawney pointed a shaking finger at Professor Umbridge who continued to smile blandly at her, eyebrows raised.

"I am afraid… I am afraid that you are in grave danger!" Professor Trelawney finished dramatically. There was a pause. Professor Umbridge's eyebrows were still raised.

"Right," she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard once more. "Well, if that's really the best you can do…"

She turned away, leaving Professor Trelawney rooted to the spot, her chest heaving. Harry caught Ron's eye and figured that he was thinking exactly the same: they both knew that Professor Trelawney was an old fraud, but on the other hand, they loathed Umbridge so much that they felt adamantly on Trelawney's side—that was, of course, until a few seconds later, when she seemed to snap out of her fearful daze and swooped down upon their table.

"Well?" she said, snapping her long fingers under Harry and Ron's nose, uncharacteristically brusque. "Let me see the start you've made on your dream diary, please!"

After she had read out Ron's dreams of dancing knitted-hats and called it 'critically uncultured'… Harry and Ron both came to the silent agreement, that perhaps they did not feel so bad for her sake, after all.

Climbing down the tower's rickety ladder, they made their descent into the castles hallways and managed to catch sight of one Cedric Diggory by the courtyard, apparently unaffected as he blindly navigated through students rushing by, while his head craned downward at a leather-bound book in his left palm.

Without license, Harry felt himself be pulled along as Ron moved off to one of the many arched, stone windows. It was here— and to Harry's immediate regret—that Ron decided to yell out, twice, to catch the boy's attention.

"Cedric!" Ron waved his arms wildly, nearly knocking the glasses on Harry's face askew. "Oi! Hullo!"

When Cedric glanced up, Harry felt something inimitably dense sink in. And when he began walking in their direction, a bright smile on his face, Harry felt the density unravelled further into a familiar tangle of nerves and uncertainty; the type that had bested his composure before.

"Hello!" Cedric said. His robes were loosely tied, almost unscrupulous, but the hems and ends of them swayed graceful by his feet, as he strode along the grass and neared the other side of the window, "Where are you off to?"

"Transfiguration," said Harry quickly, and then—as if to be more helpful—he added, "… with McGonagall."

"Ah! I think I'm familiar..." Cedric scratched the corner of his eye and promptly flashed the book he had just been reading: a copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, its star-embossed cover catching the daylight. Ron gaped.

"You take Transfiguration at N.E.W.T-level?"

"I've half the mind to drop it," smiled Cedric, dryly. "It took me the whole night trying to decipher this thing—"

"… are you alright?" Harry murmured. Almost like it had unwittingly slipped from him.

Cedric looked in mild surprise.

"Pardon?"

"Have you slept?" Harry asked, louder this time.

He looked concerned.

"Oh, I'm… I'm fine! Does it really show that much?" Cedric rubbed at his face and did not meet Harry's eyes.

"Busy?" asked Ron.

"It's only lately that it's been lot, what with Quidditch and N.E.W.T.S and everything… I'm even teaching Hidiyah a lot of her own subjects but—" and Cedric rummaged through his bag— "Actually, that reminds me…"

He brought out a rolled piece of parchment with a Galleon strung around it, sort-of like a pseudo-wax seal, "Could you give this to Hermione? I told her I'd teach her a spell, but I don't know if there's really time for that... I've copied down some instructions to get her started, err…"

He paused momentarily, realizing that Harry and Ron were staring very openly at the coin. "The Galleon's for S.P.E.W.,"

Ron gaped at him, wider.

"For SPEW?!"

"Hang on! The badges are only a Sickle…" said Harry.

"Oh, I'm not joining—" Cedric vaguely gestured to the Quidditch Captain badge, re-pinned onto his robes, "I just thought I could at least support club activities—"

"Club activities?!" Ron sputtered again, nostrils flaring, "Are you absolutely sure that you want to give her this much money?"

"Err, yeah..." Cedric looked at them, confused. "Didn't you?"

"N—… Well—!"

Neither Harry nor Ron wanted to admit that they hadn't paid for anything but those first Sickle-badges last year; and only to—though, unsuccessfully—get Hermione to quieten down.

Cedric stared at them, perplexed, "Have I done something wrong?"

"No! No. It..." Ron tilted his head, made face, but held the scroll and its Galleon carefully all the same, "I'm just... surprised! Right, Harry?"

"Yeah..."

"Look—! Never… never mind! We have class with her next so... she'll get it right away,"

"Fantastic, thanks. Then," Cedric looked to Harry, who made sure he was deliberately and seemingly fascinated at the wall behind him, "well—"

"Cedric!"

A large figure rushed up, with everything from his robes to his uncloaked arms stained with grass, dirt, and what seemed to be paint—it looked as if he had been rolling in sparse puddles of the stuff—and from his broad shoulders, swung a bag that had been stuffed to brim with heavy books and loose papers. Harry swore there was a stack of thick twigs poking out one of the larger pockets, but Cedric didn't seem surprised as he looked up at the person, expectant.

"Painting's done?"

As Evan Wright nodded and patted himself down sheepishly, loosening trapped autumn leaves to float toward the ground, Harry looked harder at the thick twigs sticking out of his bag and realized that they indeed looked like paintbrushes.

"Another successful day of learning!" Evan beamed, seemingly oblivious to their confused expressions as he nodded toward Harry and Ron, "Hello, Harry Potter… Harry Potter's friend,"

"Oh. I'm Ron Weasley,"

"Hello, Ron Weasley!"

"… just Ron's fine…"

Harry nodded as well, "Just 'Harry's fine, Evan,"

Before he could respond, Cedric put his hand out and muttered a few words, sending a rush of air to swirl through Evan's leaf-ridden clothes until they were clean. They admired his fresh uniform for a second before Cedric asked, "Where's Hidiyah?"

"Already waiting for us in the commons, I bet."

"Right, we should go then," Cedric said, nodding at Ron. And then keenly, to Harry, "I'll see you later?"

Harry bobbed his head toward the ground but knew he could not ignore him this time, "See you later,"

He glanced up and caught a glimpse of Cedric's smile, the crinkle at the edge of his eyes looking like they had sunken a little deeper into his skin. Harry then muttered, "We shouldn't be late for class," under his breath and strode off, pulling his friend along.

Ron managed to shout a quick "Bye!", waving back to Evan until they disappeared around the corner. And it was at this point that he let out a big breath, his saddle-bag swaying and hitting his legs as they frantically crossed the courtyard, "Did you see that! He was almost as tall as Hagrid!"

"Yeah, he's quarter-Giant, I think," said Harry, "hey, d'you reckon that Cedric looked a little strange? Just now?"

"Eh?"

"I mean, his uniform was all over the place, right?"

"Oh,"

"And his face—"

"Well, he did say that he'd been trying to study that book all night…" Ron shrugged, "Maybe he's just tired."

"Could be," Harry said, though he did not look convinced.

"C'mon," Ron patted his shoulder as they stepped back into the stone corridors, "we'd better not be late for McGonagall."

A few minutes later, they were seated in their Transfiguration class, having delivered Cedric's scroll and Galleon to Hermione; whose face shone brightly as she read the piece of parchment.

"But what's this Galleon for?" she asked, puzzled.

"Cedric said it's for S.P.E.W."

"Really!"

Again, and almost out of thin air, Hermione whipped out a tin money-box that rattled as she excitedly dropped the Galleon into it.

"Oh, how lovely!" she said, wistful, "I wish people were more like him…"

Ron laughed, "It'd be more bizarre if lots of people supported your club activities—"

"Oh, would you stop it, Ronald."

Ron blinked, straightening at the sudden harshness in Hermione's voice as she looked over to him in irritation.

"Stop what?" he said, cautiously.

"Don't treat the club like it's a waste of space,"

"I didn't say that!"

"You don't even try to pronounce S.P.E.W. properly!" Hermione rolled her eyes. "But, I suppose that's how you've always acted…"

Ron's ears twitched, "Well you're the one who's been insisting to rescue the elves when they don't even need or like you—"

"Well, good thing that it's not about that, it's about having the choice!" Hermione snapped unexpectedly. "It's about showing them that the option is there and giving them those chances!"

She frowned, an intense gaze pouring over them, but especially Harry.

"Don't you like having choices? If you could have it, wouldn't you want a say in your life? In all those things that have or will happen to you?"

Harry conceded, "I suppose…"

"Then, stop treating me like I'm doing something foolish!" Hermione said forcefully. A few people in class turned back to her, but Ron shot them quick, venomous looks, enough to turn them away. "I admit, I've been doing some silly things lately, but don't you dare make me out like I'm some fraud like Rita Skeeter, or Gilderoy Lockhart or, or—!"

"Some other egomaniac?" suggested Harry, quietly.

"Yes! Don't treat me like I'm some other egomaniac!" Hermione put out her palm. "It's my fault for making you two join in the first place, if you don't actually want to be a part of the club, give your badges here then—"

"Oh, I didn't mean—! Look, Hermione, it's not that I'm not sympathetic to the elves—" began Ron.

"Then I think you should start acting like it," Hermione declared, "and stop treating them, S.P.E.W. and me like we're lost causes!"

Ron shut his mouth, stunned; but he did not hand his badge over as Hermione glared at him, with her hand still out. A great tension lay in between them, with neither seeming to back down, and in the middle—sandwiched between his two friends—Harry timidly piped up, "I'm—I'll be keeping mine…" he looked over to Hermione, nervous, "if that's alright…"

Hermione shrugged and then shifted, continuing to read Cedric's notes while facing away. For the next few minutes, Ron and Harry sat in silence; they did not even have time to warn or tell Hermione about their Divination class, when Umbridge suddenly walked in: her sickly sweet perfume hitting the class full-force, though this time, mixed with viscous scent of incense as well.

When the clock hit two, Professor McGonagall marched into the room without giving the slightest indication that she knew Professor Umbridge was there.

"That will do," she said, and silence fell immediately. "Mr. Finnigan, kindly come here and hand back the homework… and Miss Brown, please take this box of mice—don't be silly, girl, they won't hurt you—and hand one to each student—"

"Hem, hem," said Professor Umbridge, employing the same silly little cough she had used to interrupt Dumbledore on the first night of term. Professor McGonagall ignored her. Seamus handed back Harry's essay, which he took without looking at him. Harry sighed in relief. He had managed an A.

"Right then, everyone, listen closely—Dean Thomas, if you do that to the mouse again, I shall put you in detention!—most of you have now successfully vanished your snails and even those who were left with a certain amount of shell have the gist of the spell. Today we shall be—"

"Hem, hem,"

"Yes?" said Professor McGonagall. She turned around with her eyebrows gathered so close together, they seemed to form one long, severe line.

"I was just wondering, Professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec—"

"Obviously, I received it, or else I would have asked what you are doing in my classroom," said Professor McGonagall, turning her back firmly on Professor Umbridge. Many of the students exchanged looks of glee. "Now, as I was saying, today we shall be practicing the altogether more difficult vanishment of mice. Now, the Vanishing Spell—"

"Hem, hem."

"I wonder—!" said Professor McGonagall in cold fury, turning on Professor Umbridge— "How do you expect to gain any idea of my usual teaching methods, if you continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally permit people to talk when I am talking,"

Professor Umbridge looked as though she had just been slapped in the face. The thins of her bottom lip quivered but she did not speak and instead straightened the parchment on her clipboard, scribbling quite furiously onto it.

"As I was saying," Professor McGonagall turned back to board, "the Vanishing Spell becomes more difficult with the complexity of the animal to be vanished. The snail, as an invertebrate, does not present much of a challenge; the mouse, as a mammal, offers a much greater one. This is not, therefore, magic you can accomplish with your mind on your dinner. So—you know the incantation, let me see what you can do..."

As she turned to face the class: Harry, Ron and Hermione fought hard to keep the faint smiles off their faces. Their amusement, however, was short-lived once Care for Magical Creatures rolled around in the mid-afternoon: it felt like an inevitable development when they walked down the lawns toward the forest and found her and her clipboard waiting for them beside Professor Grubbly-Plank.

"You do not usually take this class, is that correct?" Harry heard her ask as they arrived at the trestle table where the group of captive Bowtruckle's were scrambling around for wood lice like so many living twigs.

"Quite correct," said Professor Grubbly-Plank, hands behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I am a substitute teacher standing in for Professor Hagrid."

Harry exchanged uneasy looks with Ron and Hermione. Malfoy was whispering with Crabbe and Goyle; he would surely love this opportunity to tell tales on Hagrid to a member of the Ministry.

"Hmm," said Professor Umbridge, dropping her voice, though Harry could still hear her quite clearly, "I wonder… the headmaster seems strangely reluctant to give me any information on the matter, can you tell me what is causing Professor Hagrid's very extended leave of absence?"

Harry watched as Malfoy looked up eagerly.

"'Fraid I can't," said Professor Grubbly-Plank breezily. "Don't know anything more about it than you do. Got an owl from Dumbledore: 'Would I like a couple of weeks teaching work?', accepted and that's as much as I know. Well... shall I get started then?"

"Yes, please do," said Professor Umbridge, scribbling upon her clipboard. Umbridge took a different tack in this class and wandered among the students, questioning them on magical creatures. Most people were able to answer well and Harry's spirits lifted somewhat; at least the class was not letting Hagrid down.

"Overall," said Professor Umbridge, returning to Professor Grubbly-Plank's side after a lengthy interrogation of Dean Thomas, "how do you, as a temporary member of staff—an objective outsider, I suppose you might say—how do you find Hogwarts? Do you feel you receive enough support from the school management?"

"Oh, yes, Dumbledore's excellent," said Professor Grubbly-Plank heartily. "No, I'm very happy with the way things are run, very happy indeed."

Looking politely incredulous, Umbridge made a tiny note on her clipboard and went on, "And what are you planning to cover with this class this year—assuming, of course, that Professor Hagrid does not return?"

"Oh, I'll take them through the creatures that most often come up in O.W.L.," mused Professor Grubbly-Plank. "Not much left to do—they've studied unicorns and nifflers, so I thought we'd cover porlocks and kneazles… make sure they can recognize crups and knarls; the basics, you know…"

"Well, you seem to know what you're doing, at any rate," said Professor Umbridge, making a very obvious tick on her clipboard. Harry did not like the emphasis she put on "you" and liked it even less when she put her next question to Goyle:

"Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?"

Goyle gave a stupid grin, and Malfoy hastened to answer the question.

"That was me," he said. "I was slashed by a hippogriff."

"A hippogriff?" said Professor Umbridge, now scribbling frantically.

"Only because he was too stupid to listen to what Hagrid told him to do!" said Harry angrily. Both Ron and Hermione groaned. Professor Umbridge turned her head slowly in Harry's direction.

"I think a few days' worth of detentions would do you some good, Mr. Potter," she said softly. "Well, thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank, I think that's all I need here. You will be receiving the results of your inspection within ten days."

"Jolly good," said Professor Grubbly-Plank. Meanwhile Professor Umbridge set off back across the lawn to the castle, with Harry very much left seething in her wake.

"Now, Mr Potter, I know that you feel... well... I suppose it can't be said be said in any other measure—" Harry twitched at the sound of Umbridge's voice, the clink of her teaspoon against porcelain teacup notably sharp after three hours of silence— "I understand that you may feel antagonistic towards me, but you should know that I truly and only have been trying to help this school become the best it can be... I was once a student of Hogwarts, after all."

Harry gritted through the pain searing in his right hand and did not stop writing.

"Perhaps, my ideas of what is best may not equivocate to yours, but as I am the adult of this situ—"

"You're right." Harry said, interjecting. "Unless you can also agree that Professor Lupin was one of the best teachers Hogwarts had, I don't think our ideas of what is 'best' match up."

"Ah, yes," Harry could hear the smile in Umbridge's voice and bit the inside of his mouth. "You were quite close to Remus Lupin, or so I've heard... A shame that he was such a dangerous creature—"

"He was no more dangerous than Quirrell was,"

"Professor Quirrell?" Umbridge giggled, her girlish laugh a grating contrast to the many delicate cat portraits that hung about the room and meowled, "Now how could he—a normal and decent wizard—measure up against a vicious, little half-breed?"

"I couldn't tell you," said Harry, though she couldn't see it, he held a tense gaze as he bent over parchment riddled with identical lines of red ink, "But I suppose that you wouldn't know what it's like, spending a year trying to survive murder attempts from a man like him... I'd say that having Voldemort at the back of his head made Quirrell a lot more threatening in my mind."

Silence. Only the sound of Harry's quill scratched under the stifling weight that statement.
When finally, he forced himself to look up, the pain in his hand felt unbearable and yet he forced himself to put on a guarded face.

Nothing could describe the vindication he felt, looking into the still-shocked eyes of the woman in front of him.

"He's the reason why, you know..." Harry continued, "Because of Voldemort, I hear that a lot of people don't last long in your position, Professor."

Umbridge's voice came out slow, barely above a whisper.

"Is that a threat?"

"No." Harry swallowed, his throat dry and his hand trembling, though you could see the hardness set in his jaw. "It's just something that I've heard."

Umbridge pursed her lips.

"You've stopped your stride, Mr Potter. That won't do. You are to come to my room for detention until Saturday night."

It was nearly midnight when Harry left Umbridge's office, his hand now bleeding so severely that he had kept his robes bunched up around the wound just to keep the blood from dripping onto the stone floors. Contrary to his expectations of returning to an empty common room, Harry felt pleased to see his friends, who once more were doused in the light of the fireplace, dutifully waiting on the dusty common room couch—albeit—sitting further apart than they ever had before.

When he arrived, stumbling through the portrait-hole, however, the severity fixed in their faces softened and they almost immediately jumped to their feet when he revealed his blood-soaked hand.

"Here," Hermione said anxiously, she pushed him to sit onto an armchair and placed a small bowl of yellow liquid toward him. "Soak your hand in that. It's a solution of strained and pickled murtlap tentacles, it should help."

As he settled into the couch, Harry placed his bleeding, aching hand into the bowl and experienced wonderful relief. Crookshanks curled around his legs, purring loudly, and then carefully leapt into his lap and settled down.

"Thanks," he said gratefully, scratching behind Crookshanks's ears with his left hand.

"I still reckon you should complain about this," said Ron in a low voice.

"No," said Harry flatly.

"McGonagall would go nuts if she knew—"

"Yeah, she probably would," Harry admitted. "But how long d'you reckon it'd take Umbridge to pass another Decree saying anyone who complains about the High Inquisitor gets sacked immediately?"

Ron opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out and after a moment he closed it again in a defeated sort of way.

"She's an awful woman," said Hermione in a small voice. "Awful. We've got to do something about her."

"I suggest poison," said Ron grimly.

"No... I mean, something about what a dreadful teacher she is, and how we're not going to learn any defense from her at all," said Hermione.

"That's what you're—… well, what can we do about that?" said Ron, yawning. "'S too late, isn't it? She got the job, she's here to stay and Fudge'll make sure of that."

"Well," said Hermione tentatively. "You know, I was thinking the other day..."

She shot a slightly nervous look at Harry and then plunged on, "I was thinking that… maybe the time's come where we should just… just do it ourselves."

"Do what ourselves?" said Harry suspiciously, still floating his hand in the essence of murtlap tentacles.

"Well, erm… I mean, learn Defense Against the Dark Arts ourselves," said Hermione.

"Come off it," groaned Ron. "You want us to do extra work? Harry and I are barely keeping our heads up on homework and it's only the second week!"

"But this is much more important than homework!" said Hermione. Harry and Ron snapped their heads and gawked at her.

"W-what?"

"I didn't think there was anything in the universe more important than homework," said Ron.

"Don't be silly, of course there is!" said Hermione. Sobering from the pain, Harry recognised that her face was suddenly alight, it was the kind of fervour that S.P.E.W. usually inspired in her.

"It's like Harry said in Umbridge's first lesson… about preparing ourselves for what's waiting out there. It's about making sure we really can defend ourselves. If we don't learn anything for a whole year—"

"But we can't do much by ourselves!" said Ron in a defeated voice. "I mean, all right, we can go and look jinxes up in the library and try and practice them, I suppose—"

"No, I agree, we've gone past the stage where we can just learn things out of books," said Hermione. "We need a teacher, a proper one, who can show us how to use the spells and correct us if we're going wrong."

"If you're talking about Lupin..." Harry began.

"No, no, I'm not talking about Lupin," said Hermione. "He's too busy with the Order anyway, the most we could see him is during Hogsmeade weekends and that's not nearly often enough."

"Who, then?" said Harry, frowning at her. Hermione heaved a very deep sigh.

"Isn't it obvious?" she said. "I'm talking about you, Harry."

A moment's silence. A light night breeze rattled the windowpanes behind Ron and the fire guttered.

"About me what?" said Harry.

"I'm talking about you teaching us Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Harry stared at her. Then he turned to Ron, with the conviction that he must have the same boggled expression on his own face, however to Harry's surprise: Ron did not look exasperated. Instead, it looked like a lightbulb had turned on inside his head.

"That's an idea," he whispered.

"What's an idea?" said Harry.

"You," said Ron. "Teaching us to do it."

"But..." Harry was grinning now, sure the pair of them were pulling his leg. "But I'm not a teacher, I can't—"

"Harry, you're the best in the year at Defense Against the Dark Arts," said Hermione.

"Me? No I'm not, you've beaten me in every test —"

"Actually, I haven't," said Hermione coolly. "You beat me in our third year—the only year we both sat the test and had a teacher who actually knew the subject, but I'm not talking about test results, Harry. Look at what you've done!"

"How d'you mean?"

"You know what, I'm not sure I want someone this stupid teaching me," Ron said to Hermione, smirking slightly. He turned to Harry.

"Let's think," he said, pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. "Uh… first year—you saved the Stone from You-Know-Who."

"But that was luck," said Harry, "that wasn't skill—"

"Second year," Ron interrupted, "you killed the basilisk and destroyed Riddle."

"Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn't turned up I—"

"Third year," said Ron, louder still, "you fought off about a hundred dementors at once—"

"You know that was a fluke, if the Time-Turner hadn't—"

"Last year," Ron said, almost shouting now, "you fought off You-Know-Who again—"

"Listen to me!" said Harry, almost angrily, because Ron and Hermione were both smirking now. "Just listen to me, all right? It sounds great when you say it like that, but all that stuff was luck—I didn't know what I was doing half the time, I didn't plan any of it, I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly always had help—" Ron and Hermione were still smirking and Harry felt his temper rise; he wasn't even sure why he was feeling so bothered.

"Don't sit there, grinning like you know better than I do, I was there, wasn't I!" he said heatedly. "I know what went on, all right? And I didn't get through any of that because I was brilliant at Defense Against the Dark Arts or anything, I got through it all because—because help came at the right time, or because I had guessed right—but mostly I was just blundering through it all and I didn't have a clue what I was doing — STOP LAUGHING!"

The bowl of murtlap essence fell to the floor and smashed. Harry became aware that he was on his feet, though he couldn't remember standing up, and Crookshanks streaked away under a sofa; Ron and Hermione's smiles vanished.

"You don't know what it's like! Neither of you have ever had to face him, or anything like him! You think it's just memorizing a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you're in class or something? No! The whole time you know there's nothing between you and dying except your own—… your own brain or guts or whatever! As if you can think straight when you know you're about a second from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die! They've never taught us that in their classes, what it's like to deal with things like that, and you two sit there acting like I must be some clever little boy to be standing here, alive, and Cedric must've been stupid, like he messed up! Well guess what, it was LUCK THAT SAVED HIM TOO!"

"It wasn't me! It was never going to be me! He's only here because someone, something, decided that it would be that way! Lockhart, that memory of Tom Riddle in that diary, Pettigrew or, or Crouch—! All of those people could've easily taken my life, and it could just as easily have been me that night if only Voldemort hadn't needed my—!"

"We weren't saying anything like that, mate," said Ron, looking aghast. "We weren't having a go at Cedric, we didn't—you've got the wrong end of the—"

He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was stricken.

"Harry," she said timidly, "don't you see? This... this is exactly why we need you... We need to know what it's really, er, really like... facing him... facing V-Voldemort."

It was the first time she had ever said Voldemort's name, and it was this, more than anything else, that calmed Harry. Still breathing hard, he sank back into his chair, becoming aware as he did so that his hand was throbbing horribly again. He wished he had not smashed the bowl of murtlap essence.
Harry could not think of anything to say. Already, he began to feel ashamed of his outburst and simply nodded, hardly aware of what he was agreeing to. It was only when he felt a warm hand on his head—a small one that hesitantly thread through his hair—did he arrive to his immediate senses.

"I don't know what happened that night, but Cedric… Cedric's still alive. And you," Hermione lowered her head, so that both of her wide, brown eyes looked softly in Harry's own, "both of you being alive, it… it isn't proof that you're clever boys with tricks or anything like that at all, it just—! It proves that everyone else has a chance—that, that we might have a chance! Even if the grown-ups don't think we're old enough to know these things."

Harry bit the inside of his lip. "A chance at what?"

"Surviving! Getting through what might pass—"

"—and what if just being alive, just surviving isn't enough?"

Silence. The crackle of fire as Harry's friends let his words thaw and embed into their minds.

"There's only so much that school and even I can teach you, Hermione. I'm not… I can't…"

"I… don't know," Hermione said eventually, and she shook her head. "I can't imagine what you… I… I don't know…" Harry knew it was not a sentence that she said or liked to say often, and he could see that her eyes welled, though she kept her voice soothing and calm.

"I don't think I can answer that, Harry: whether surviving is enough or how you can even begin to have that kind of conversation with other people, but I think that… for now… I think it's enough that you have time to figure out those kinds of things." she paused. "All I'm asking is that you teach us how to make that time too so if you could… if you could think about it… please."

Silence.

"I'll think about it," Harry whispered, eventually. Ron and Hermione let go of a breath.

"Thank you."

"Thanks, Harry,"

Slowly, Hermione stood back up and pressed a single kiss at the top of Harry's head before saying her goodnights, her sorrys, and then walking towards the staircase. For a while, Ron stared after her.

They stood there for a moment, still. Watching as the fire slowly died between them, to a low rumble of flame licking over logs and scrunched up pieces of discarded parchment.

"Are you coming up?" Ron asked, eventually.

"Yeah," sighed Harry. He indicated to the smashed bowl on the floor. "Just... in a minute. I'll clear this up, first,"

"It might not be enough," he said, abruptly.

"What?"

Ron looked at Harry with a solemn face—not unlike the one he had a few days ago, after their first Quidditch practice—but this time it felt more like tender kind of sober.

"Being alive… surviving and all that, it might not be enough, but," he placed his hand on Harry's shoulder. "we'll be here to help you with all the living you'll have to do, afterwards."

"Yeah?"

"Always."

Harry felt his throat choke, "Right,"

Ron nodded and then, seemingly decided to fidget a little, still standing in place. Suddenly, Harry felt an arm around wrap around him: a voice that whispered a hasty "Goodnight mate," before he felt a little peck on his temple.

And then it wasn't long until, Ron too, disappeared upstairs, leaving Harry alone to the fireplace.

He felt tired. Incredibly tired. What little effort he could spend, he spent just hoping that by some small miracle Sirius's head would pop out of the fire, awkward as their last conversation had been. Then, briefly, those hopeful thoughts drifted to what Hermione had said.

She was right. Of course, she was right.

Cedric is alive. Harry himself is still alive.
It must count for something.

"Reparo," he muttered, pointing his wand at the broken pieces of china. They flew back together, good as new, but there was no returning the murtlap essence to the bowl.

If it's enough to scare Voldemort, and enough to scare the Ministry of Magic... it has to mean something, right? Harry thought to himself. I'm alive. I'm… here but for what? For this?

To teach? To arm people against the outside? Against the unknowns?

Harry didn't know—he just felt so tired.

I want to sleep, he thought. It was tempting to sink back into the couch and to rest there for the night, but instead, he got to his feet; knowing that neither his house nor the twins would ever let him live it down—

I want my hand to stop hurting. It was so regretful that anger had taken him, that it had taken the tonic that Hermione had so carefully prepared just for his sake, that it had earned him a few extra nights of extended agony and yet... he just felt so victorious remembering Umbridge's still and shocked face from behind her desk — Ron and Hermione will be furious when they find out. And Cedric... well...

Harry stopped.

Cedric.

I want to see Cedric.

…

I want to see Cedric. I want to—

Harry wondered aloud, a tired exhalation of his breath, "Ha—... what would he think of all this?"

Without answers, he trudged upstairs and fell into his bed with such reckless abandon, that his glasses nearly broke from the sheer impact; he had forgotten to take them off, first. What followed was a restless night of sleep, punctuated once more by dreams of long, dark, corridors and locked doorways. The next day, he awoke only to the cold and to his scar prickling again, but still: no answers.