“Yeah,” mumbled Harry, “but people have got to know what Voldemort’s capable of, haven’t they?”

  “That’s right,” said Neville, nodding, “and his Death Eaters, too… people should know…”

  Neville left his sentence hanging and returned to his baked potato. Seamus looked up, but when he caught Harry’s eye he looked quickly back at his plate again. After a while, Dean, Seamus and Neville departed for the common room, leaving Harry and Hermione at the table waiting for Ron, who had not yet had dinner because of Quidditch practice.

  Cho Chang walked into the Hall with her friend Marietta. Harry’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, but she did not look over at the Gryffindor table, and sat down with her back to him.

  “Oh, I forgot to ask you,” said Hermione brightly, glancing over at the Ravenclaw table, “what happened on your date with Cho? How come you were back so early?”

  “Er… well, it was…” said Harry, pulling a dish of rhubarb crumble towards him and helping himself to seconds, “a complete fiasco, now you mention it.”

  And he told her what had happened in Madam Puddifoot’s teashop.

  “…so then,” he finished several minutes later, as the final bit of crumble disappeared, “she jumps up, right, and says, ‘I’ll see you around, Harry,’ and runs out of the place!” He put down his spoon and looked at Hermione. “I mean, what was all that about? What was going on?”

  Hermione glanced over at the back of Cho’s head and sighed.

  “Oh, Harry,” she said sadly. “Well, I’m sorry, but you were a bit tactless.”

  “Me, tactless?” said Harry, outraged. “One minute we were getting on fine, next minute she was telling me that Roger Davies asked her out and how she used to go and snog Cedric in that stupid teashop—how was I supposed to feel about that?”

  “Well, you see,” said Hermione, with the patient air of someone explaining that one plus one equals two to an over-emotional toddler, “you shouldn’t have told her that you wanted to meet me halfway through your date.”

  “But, but,” spluttered Harry, “but—you told me to meet you at twelve and to bring her along, how was I supposed to do that without telling her?”

  “You should have told her differently,” said Hermione, still with that maddeningly patient air. “You should have said it was really annoying, but I’d made you promise to come along to the Three Broomsticks, and you really didn’t want to go, you’d much rather spend the whole day with her, but unfortunately you thought you really ought to meet me and would she please, please come along with you and hopefully you’d be able to get away more quickly. And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am, too,” Hermione added as an afterthought.

  “But I don’t think you’re ugly,” said Harry, bemused.

  Hermione laughed.

  “Harry, you’re worse than Ron… well, no, you’re not,” she sighed, as Ron himself came stumping into the Hall splattered with mud and looking grumpy. “Look—you upset Cho when you said you were going to meet me, so she tried to make you jealous. It was her way of trying to find out how much you liked her.”

  “Is that what she was doing?” said Harry, as Ron dropped on to the bench opposite them and pulled every dish within reach towards him. “Well, wouldn’t it have been easier if she’d just asked me whether I liked her better than you?”

  “Girls don’t often ask questions like that,” said Hermione.

  “Well, they should!” said Harry forcefully. “Then I could’ve just told her I fancy her, and she wouldn’t have had to get herself all worked up again about Cedric dying!”

  “I’m not saying what she did was sensible,” said Hermione, as Ginny joined them, just as muddy as Ron and looking equally disgruntled. “I’m just trying to make you see how she was feeling at the time.”

  “You should write a book,” Ron told Hermione as he cut up his potatoes, “translating mad things girls do so boys can understand them.”

  “Yeah,” said Harry fervently, looking over at the Ravenclaw table. Cho had just got up, and, still not looking at him, she left the Great Hall. Feeling rather depressed, he looked back at Ron and Ginny. “So, how was Quidditch practice?”

  “It was a nightmare,” said Ron in a surly voice.

  “Oh come on,” said Hermione, looking at Ginny, “I’m sure it wasn’t that—”

  “Yes, it was,” said Ginny. “It was appalling. Angelina was nearly in tears by the end of it.”

  Ron and Ginny went off for baths after dinner; Harry and Hermione returned to the busy Gryffindor common room and their usual pile of homework. Harry had been struggling with a new star-chart for Astronomy for half an hour when Fred and George turned up.

  “Ron and Ginny not here?” asked Fred, looking around as he pulled up a chair, and when Harry shook his head, he said, “Good. We were watching their practice. They’re going to be slaughtered. They’re complete rubbish without us.”

  “Come on, Ginny’s not bad,” said George fairly, sitting down next to Fred. “Actually, I dunno how she got so good, seeing how we never let her play with us.”

  “She’s been breaking into your broom shed in the garden since the age of six and taking each of your brooms out in turn when you weren’t looking,” said Hermione from behind her tottering pile of Ancient Rune books.

  “Oh,” said George, looking mildly impressed. “Well—that’d explain it.”

  “Has Ron saved a goal yet?” asked Hermione, peering over the top of Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms.

  “Well, he can do it if he doesn’t think anyone’s watching him,” said Fred, rolling his eyes. “So all we have to do is ask the crowd to turn their backs and talk among themselves every time the Quaffle goes up his end on Saturday.”

  He got up again and moved restlessly to the window, staring out across the dark grounds.

  “You know, Quidditch was about the only thing in this place worth staying for.”

  Hermione cast him a stern look.

  “You’ve got exams coming!”

  “Told you already, we’re not fussed about N.E.W.T.s,” said Fred. “The Snackboxes are ready to roll, we found out how to get rid of those boils, just a couple of drops of Murtlap essence sorts them, Lee put us on to it.”

  George yawned widely and looked out disconsolately at the cloudy night sky.

  “I dunno if I even want to watch this match. If Zacharias Smith beats us I might have to kill myself.”

  “Kill him, more like,” said Fred firmly.

  “That’s the trouble with Quidditch,” said Hermione absent-mindedly, once again bent over her Runes translation, “it creates all this bad feeling and tension between the houses.”

  She looked up to find her copy of Spellman’s Syllabary, and caught Fred, George and Harry all staring at her with expressions of mingled disgust and incredulity on their faces.

  “Well, it does!” she said impatiently. “It’s only a game, isn’t it?”

  “Hermione,” said Harry, shaking his head, “you’re good on feelings and stuff, but you just don’t understand about Quidditch.”

  “Maybe not,” she said darkly, returning to her translation, “but at least my happiness doesn’t depend on Ron’s goalkeeping ability.”

  And though Harry would rather have jumped off the Astronomy Tower than admit it to her, by the time he had watched the game the following Saturday he would have given any number of Galleons not to care about Quidditch either.

  The very best thing you could say about the match was that it was short; the Gryffindor spectators had to endure only twenty-two minutes of agony. It was hard to say what the worst thing was: Harry thought it was a close-run contest between Ron’s fourteenth failed save, Sloper missing the Bludger but hitting Angelina in the mouth with his bat, and Kirke shrieking and falling backwards off his broom when Zacharias Smith zoomed at him carrying the Quaffle. The miracle was that Gryffindor only lost by ten points: Ginny managed to snatch the Snitch from right under Hufflepuff Seeker Summerby’s nose, so that the final score was two hundred and forty versus two hundred and thirty.

  “Good catch,” Harry told Ginny back in the common room, where the atmosphere resembled that of a particularly dismal funeral.

  “I was lucky,” she shrugged. “It wasn’t a very fast Snitch and Summerby’s got a cold, he sneezed and closed his eyes at exactly the wrong moment. Anyway, once you’re back on the team—”

  “Ginny, I’ve got a lifelong ban.”

  “You’re banned as long as Umbridge is in the school,” Ginny corrected him. There’s a difference. Anyway, once you’re back, I think I’ll try out for Chaser. Angelina and Alicia are both leaving next year and I prefer goal-scoring to Seeking anyway.”

  Harry looked over at Ron, who was hunched in a corner, staring at his knees, a bottle of Butterbeer clutched in his hand.

  “Angelina still won’t let him resign,” Ginny said, as though reading Harry’s mind. “She says she knows he’s got it in him.”

  Harry liked Angelina for the faith she was showing in Ron, but at the same time thought it would really be kinder to let him leave the team. Ron had left the pitch to another booming chorus of “Weasley is our King” sung with great gusto by the Slytherins, who were now favourites to win the Quidditch Cup.

  Fred and George wandered over.

  “I haven’t even got the heart to take the mickey out of him,” said Fred, looking over at Ron’s crumpled figure. “Mind you… when he missed the fourteenth—”

  He made wild motions with his arms as though doing an upright doggy-paddle.

  “—well, I’ll save it for parties, eh?”

  Ron dragged himself up to bed shortly after this. Out of respect for his feelings, Harry waited a while before going up to the dormitory himself, so that Ron could pretend to be asleep if he wanted to. Sure enough, when Harry finally entered the room Ron was snoring a little too loudly to be entirely plausible.

  Harry got into bed, thinking about the match. It had been immensely frustrating watching from the sidelines. He was quite impressed by Ginny’s performance but he knew if he had been playing he could have caught the Snitch sooner… there had been a moment when it had been fluttering near Kirke’s ankle; if Ginny hadn’t hesitated, she might have been able to scrape a win for Gryffindor.

  Umbridge had been sitting a few rows below Harry and Hermione. Once or twice she had turned squatly in her seat to look at him, her wide toad’s mouth stretched in what he thought had been a gloating smile. The memory of it made him feel hot with anger as he lay there in the dark. After a few minutes, however, he remembered that he was supposed to be emptying his mind of all emotion before he slept, as Snape kept instructing him at the end of every Occlumency lesson.

  He tried for a moment or two, but the thought of Snape on top of memories of Umbridge merely increased his sense of grumbling resentment and he found himself focusing instead on how much he loathed the pair of them. Slowly, Ron’s snores died away, to be replaced by the sound of deep, slow breathing. It took Harry much longer to get to sleep; his body was tired, but it took his brain a long time to close down.

  He dreamed that Neville and Professor Sprout were waltzing around the Room of Requirement while Professor McGonagall played the bagpipes. He watched them happily for a while, then decided to go and find the other members of the D.A.

  But when he left the room he found himself facing not the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, but a torch burning in its bracket on a stone wall. He turned his head slowly to the left. There, at the far end of the windowless passage, was a plain, black door.

  He walked towards it with a sense of mounting excitement. He had the strangest feeling that this time he was going to get lucky at last, and find the way to open it… he was feet from it, and saw with a leap of excitement that there was a glowing strip of faint blue light down the right-hand side… the door was ajar… he stretched out his hand to push it wide and—

  Ron gave a loud, rasping, genuine snore and Harry awoke abruptly with his right hand stretched in front of him in the darkness, to open a door that was hundreds of miles away. He let it fall with a feeling of mingled disappointment and guilt. He knew he should not have seen the door, but at the same time felt so consumed with curiosity about what was behind it that he could not help feeling annoyed with Ron… if only he could have saved his snore for just another minute.

  * * *

  They entered the Great Hall for breakfast at exactly the same moment as the post owls on Monday morning. Hermione was not the only person eagerly awaiting her Daily Prophet: nearly everyone was eager for more news about the escaped Death Eaters, who, despite many reported sightings, had still not been caught. She gave the delivery owl a Knut and unfolded the newspaper eagerly while Harry helped himself to orange juice; as he had only received one note during the entire year, he was sure, when the first owl landed with a thud in front of him, that it had made a mistake.

  “Who’re you after?” he asked it, languidly removing his orange juice from underneath its beak and leaning forwards to see the recipient’s name and address:

  Harry Potter

  Great Hall

  Hogwarts School

  Frowning, he made to take the letter from the owl, but before he could do so, three, four, five more owls had fluttered down beside it and were jockeying for position, treading in the butter and knocking over the salt as each one attempted to give him their letter first.

  “What’s going on?” Ron asked in amazement, as the whole of Gryffindor table leaned forwards to watch and another seven owls landed amongst the first ones, screeching, hooting and flapping their wings.

  “Harry!” said Hermione breathlessly, plunging her hands into the feathery mass and pulling out a screech owl bearing a long, cylindrical package. “I think I know what this means—open this one first!”

  Harry ripped off the brown packaging. Out rolled a tightly furled copy of the March edition of The Quibbler. He unrolled it to see his own face grinning sheepishly at him from the front cover. In large red letters across this picture were the words:

  HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST: THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” said Luna, who had drifted over to the Gryffindor table and now squeezed herself on to the bench between Fred and Ron. “It came out yesterday, I asked Dad to send you a free copy. I expect all these,” she waved a hand at the assembled owls still scrabbling around on the table in front of Harry, “are letters from readers.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Hermione eagerly. “Harry, d’you mind if we—?”

  “Help yourself,” said Harry, feeling slightly bemused.

  Ron and Hermione both started ripping open envelopes.

  “This one’s from a bloke who thinks you’re off your rocker,” said Ron, glancing down his letter. “Ah well…”

  “This woman recommends you try a good course of Shock Spells at St. Mungo’s,” said Hermione, looking disappointed and crumpling up a second.

  “This one looks OK, though,” said Harry slowly, scanning a long letter from a witch in Paisley. “Hey, she says she believes me!”

  “This one’s in two minds,” said Fred, who had joined in the letter-opening with enthusiasm. “Says you don’t come across as a mad person, but he really doesn’t want to believe You-Know-Who’s back so he doesn’t know what to think now. Blimey, what a waste of parchment.”

  “Here’s another one you’ve convinced, Harry!” said Hermione excitedly. “Having read your side of the story, I am forced to the conclusion that the Daily Prophet has treated you very unfairly… little though I want to think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned, I am forced to accept that you are telling the truth… Oh, this is wonderful!”

  “Another one who thinks you’re barking,” said Ron, throwing a crumpled letter over his shoulder “…but this one says you’ve got her converted and she now thinks you’re a real hero—she’s put in a photograph, too—wow!”

  “What is going on here?” said a falsely sweet, girlish voice.

  Harry looked up with his hands full of envelopes. Professor Umbridge was standing behind Fred and Luna, her bulging toad’s eyes scanning the mess of owls and letters on the table in front of Harry. Behind her he saw many of the students watching them avidly.

  “Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?” she asked slowly.

  “Is that a crime now?” said Fred loudly. “Getting mail?”

  “Be careful, Mr. Weasley, or I shall have to put you in detention,” said Umbridge. “Well, Mr. Potter?”

  Harry hesitated, but he did not see how he could keep what he had done quiet; it was surely only a matter of time before a copy of The Quibbler came to Umbridge’s attention.

  “People have written to me because I gave an interview,” said Harry. “About what happened to me last June.”

  For some reason he glanced up at the staff table as he said this. Harry had the strangest feeling that Dumbledore had been watching him a second before, but when he looked towards the Headmaster he seemed to be absorbed in conversation with Professor Flitwick.

  “An interview?” repeated Umbridge, her voice thinner and higher than ever. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean a reporter asked me questions and I answered them,” said Harry. “Here—”

  And he threw the copy of The Quibbler to her. She caught it and stared down at the cover. Her pale, doughy face turned an ugly, patchy violet.

  “When did you do this?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

  “Last Hogsmeade weekend,” said Harry.

  She looked up at him, incandescent with rage, the magazine shaking in her stubby fingers.

  “There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr. Potter,” she whispered. “How you dare… how you could…” She took a deep breath. “I have tried again and again to teach you not to tell lies. The message, apparently, has still not sunk in. Fifty points from Gryffindor and another week’s worth of detentions.”