For nearly five years the thought of his father had been a source of comfort, of inspiration. Whenever someone had told him he was like James, he had glowed with pride inside. And now… now he felt cold and miserable at the thought of him.

  The weather grew breezier, brighter and warmer as the Easter holidays passed, but Harry, along with the rest of the fifth- and seventh-years, was trapped inside, revising, traipsing back and forth to the library. Harry pretended his bad mood had no other cause but the approaching exams, and as his fellow Gryffindors were sick of studying themselves, his excuse went unchallenged.

  “Harry, I’m talking to you, can you hear me?”

  “Huh?”

  He looked round. Ginny Weasley, looking very windswept, had joined him at the library table where he had been sitting alone. It was late on Sunday evening: Hermione had gone back to Gryffindor Tower to revise Ancient Runes, and Ron had Quidditch practice.

  “Oh, hi,” said Harry, pulling his books towards him. “How come you’re not at practice?”

  “It’s over,” said Ginny. “Ron had to take Jack Sloper up to the hospital wing.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, we’re not sure, but we think he knocked himself out with his own bat.” She sighed heavily. “Anyway… a package just arrived, it’s only just got through Umbridge’s new screening process.”

  She hoisted a box wrapped in brown paper on to the table; it had clearly been unwrapped and carelessly re-wrapped. There was a scribbled note across it in red ink, reading: Inspected and Passed by the Hogwarts High Inquisitor.

  “It’s Easter eggs from Mum,” said Ginny. “There’s one for you… there you go.”

  She handed him a handsome chocolate egg decorated with small, iced Snitches and, according to the packaging, containing a bag of Fizzing Whizzbees. Harry looked at it for a moment, then, to his horror, felt a lump rise in his throat.

  “Are you OK, Harry?” Ginny asked quietly.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” said Harry gruffly. The lump in his throat was painful. He did not understand why an Easter egg should have made him feel like this.

  “You seem really down lately,” Ginny persisted. “You know, I’m sure if you just talked to Cho…”

  “It’s not Cho I want to talk to,” said Harry brusquely.

  “Who is it, then?” asked Ginny, watching him closely.

  “I…”

  He glanced around to make quite sure nobody was listening. Madam Pince was several shelves away, stamping out a pile of books for a frantic-looking Hannah Abbott.

  “I wish I could talk to Sirius,” he muttered. “But I know I can’t.”

  Ginny continued to watch him thoughtfully. More to give himself something to do than because he really wanted any, Harry unwrapped his Easter egg, broke off a large bit and put it into his mouth.

  “Well,” said Ginny slowly, helping herself to a bit of egg, too, “if you really want to talk to Sirius, I expect we could think of a way to do it.”

  “Come on,” said Harry dully. “With Umbridge policing the fires and reading all our mail?”

  “The thing about growing up with Fred and George,” said Ginny thoughtfully, “is that you sort of start thinking anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.”

  Harry looked at her. Perhaps it was the effect of the chocolate—Lupin had always advised eating some after encounters with Dementors—or simply because he had finally spoken aloud the wish that had been burning inside him for a week, but he felt a bit more hopeful.

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”

  “Oh damn,” whispered Ginny, jumping to her feet. “I forgot—” Madam Pince was swooping down on them, her shrivelled face contorted with rage.

  “Chocolate in the library!” she screamed. “Out—out—OUT!” And whipping out her wand, she caused Harry’s books, bag and ink bottle to chase him and Ginny from the library, whacking them repeatedly over the head as they ran.

  * * *

  As though to underline the importance of their upcoming examinations, a batch of pamphlets, leaflets and notices concerning various wizarding careers appeared on the tables in Gryffindor Tower shortly before the end of the holidays, along with yet another notice on the board, which read:

  CAREERS ADVICE

  All fifth-years are required to attend a short meeting with their Head of House during the first week of the summer term to discuss their future careers. Times of individual appointments are listed below.

  Harry looked down the list and found that he was expected in Professor McGonagall’s office at half past two on Monday, which would mean missing most of Divination. He and the other fifth-years spent a considerable part of the final weekend of the Easter break reading all the careers information that had been left there for their perusal.

  “Well, I don’t fancy Healing,” said Ron on the last evening of the holidays. He was immersed in a leaflet that carried the crossed bone-and-wand emblem of St. Mungo’s on its front. “It says here you need at least “E” at N.E.W.T. level in Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts. I mean… blimey… don’t want much, do they?”

  “Well, it’s a very responsible job, isn’t it?” said Hermione absently.

  She was poring over a bright pink and orange leaflet that was headed, “SO YOU THINK YOU’D LIKE TO WORK IN MUGGLE RELATIONS?”

  “You don’t seem to need many qualifications to liaise with Muggles; all they want is an O.W.L. in Muggle Studies: Much more important is your enthusiasm, patience and a good sense of fun!”

  “You’d need more than a good sense of fun to liaise with my uncle,” said Harry darkly. “Good sense of when to duck, more like.” He was halfway through a pamphlet on wizard banking. “Listen to this: Are you seeking a challenging career involving travel, adventure and substantial, danger-related treasure bonuses? Then consider a position with Gringotts Wizarding Bank, who are currently recruiting Curse-Breakers for thrilling opportunities abroad… They want Arithmancy, though; you could do it, Hermione!”

  “I don’t much fancy banking,” said Hermione vaguely, now immersed in: “HAVE YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES TO TRAIN SECURITY TROLLS?”

  “Hey,” said a voice in Harry’s ear. He looked round; Fred and George had come to join them. “Ginny’s had a word with us about you,” said Fred, stretching out his legs on the table in front of them and causing several booklets on careers with the Ministry of Magic to slide off on to the floor. “She says you need to talk to Sirius?”

  “What?” said Hermione sharply, freezing with her hand halfway towards picking up “MAKE A BANG AT THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL ACCIDENTS AND CATASTROPHES.”

  “Yeah…” said Harry, trying to sound casual, “yeah, I thought I’d like—”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous,” said Hermione, straightening up and looking at him as though she could not believe her eyes. “With Umbridge groping around in the fires and frisking all the owls?”

  “Well, we think we can find a way around that,” said George, stretching and smiling. “It’s a simple matter of causing a diversion. Now, you might have noticed that we have been rather quiet on the mayhem front during the Easter holidays?”

  “What was the point, we asked ourselves, of disrupting leisure time?” continued Fred. “No point at all, we answered ourselves. And of course, we’d have messed up people’s revision, too, which would be the very last thing we’d want to do.”

  He gave Hermione a sanctimonious little nod. She looked rather taken aback by this thoughtfulness.

  “But it’s business as usual from tomorrow,” Fred continued briskly. “And if we’re going to be causing a bit of uproar, why not do it so that Harry can have his chat with Sirius?”

  “Yes, but still,” said Hermione, with an air of explaining something very simple to somebody very obtuse, “even if you do cause a diversion, how is Harry supposed to talk to him?”

  “Umbridge’s office,” said Harry quietly.

  He had been thinking about it for a fortnight and could come up with no alternative. Umbridge herself had told him that the only fire that was not being watched was her own.

  “Are—you—insane?” said Hermione in a hushed voice.

  Ron had lowered his leaflet on jobs in the Cultivated Fungus Trade and was watching the conversation warily.

  “I don’t think so,” said Harry, shrugging.

  “And how are you going to get in there in the first place?”

  Harry was ready for this question.

  “Sirius’s knife,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Christmas before last Sirius gave me a knife that’ll open any lock,” said Harry. “So even if she’s bewitched the door so Alohomora won’t work, which I bet she has—”

  “What do you think about this?” Hermione demanded of Ron, and Harry was reminded irresistibly of Mrs. Weasley appealing to her husband during Harry’s first dinner in Grimmauld Place.

  “I dunno,” said Ron, looking alarmed at being asked to give an opinion. “If Harry wants to do it, it’s up to him, isn’t it?”

  “Spoken like a true friend and Weasley,” said Fred, clapping Ron hard on the back. “Right, then. We’re thinking of doing it tomorrow, just after lessons, because it should cause maximum impact if everybody’s in the corridors—Harry, we’ll set it off in the east wing somewhere, draw her right away from her own office—I reckon we should be able to guarantee you, what, twenty minutes?” he said, looking at George.

  “Easy,” said George.

  “What sort of diversion is it?” asked Ron.

  “You’ll see, little bro’,” said Fred, as he and George got up again. “At least, you will if you trot along to Gregory the Smarmy’s corridor round about five o’clock tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Harry awoke very early the next day, feeling almost as anxious as he had done on the morning of his disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic. It was not only the prospect of breaking into Umbridge’s office and using her fire to speak to Sirius that was making him feel nervous, though that was certainly bad enough; today also happened to be the first time Harry would be in close proximity to Snape since Snape had thrown him out of his office.

  After lying in bed for a while thinking about the day ahead, Harry got up very quietly and moved across to the window beside Neville’s bed, and stared out on a truly glorious morning. The sky was a clear, misty, opalescent blue. Directly ahead of him, Harry could see the towering beech tree below which his father had once tormented Snape. He was not sure what Sirius could possibly say to him that would make up for what he had seen in the Pensieve, but he was desperate to hear Sirius’s own account of what had happened, to know of any mitigating factors there might have been, any excuse at all for his father’s behaviour…

  Something caught Harry’s attention: movement on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Harry squinted into the sun and saw Hagrid emerging from between the trees. He seemed to be limping. As Harry watched, Hagrid staggered to the door of his cabin and disappeared inside it. Harry watched the cabin for several minutes. Hagrid did not emerge again, but smoke furled from the chimney, so Hagrid could not be so badly injured that he was unequal to stoking the fire.

  Harry turned away from the window, headed back to his trunk and started to dress.

  With the prospect of forcing entry into Umbridge’s office ahead, Harry had never expected the day to be a restful one, but he had not reckoned on Hermione’s almost continual attempts to dissuade him from what he was planning to do at five o’clock. For the first time ever, she was at least as inattentive to Professor Binns in History of Magic as Harry and Ron were, keeping up a stream of whispered admonitions that Harry tried very hard to ignore.

  “…and if she does catch you there, apart from being expelled, she’ll be able to guess you’ve been talking to Snuffles and this time I expect she’ll force you to drink Veritaserum and answer her questions…”

  “Hermione,” said Ron in a low and indignant voice, “are you going to stop telling Harry off and listen to Binns, or am I going to have to take my own notes?”

  “You take notes for a change, it won’t kill you!”

  By the time they reached the dungeons, neither Harry nor Ron was speaking to Hermione. Undeterred, she took advantage of their silence to maintain an uninterrupted flow of dire warnings, all uttered under her breath in a vehement hiss that caused Seamus to waste five whole minutes checking his cauldron for leaks.

  Snape, meanwhile, seemed to have decided to act as though Harry were invisible. Harry was, of course, well-used to this tactic, as it was one of Uncle Vernon’s favourites, and on the whole was grateful he had to suffer nothing worse. In fact, compared to what he usually had to endure from Snape in the way of taunts and snide remarks, he found the new approach something of an improvement, and was pleased to find that when left well alone, he was able to concoct an Invigoration Draught quite easily. At the end of the lesson he scooped some of the potion into a flask, corked it and took it up to Snape’s desk for marking, feeling that he might at last have scraped an “E.”

  He had just turned away when he heard a smashing noise. Malfoy gave a gleeful yell of laughter. Harry whipped around. His potion sample lay in pieces on the floor and Snape was surveying him with a look of gloating pleasure.

  “Whoops,” he said softly. “Another zero, then, Potter.”

  Harry was too incensed to speak. He strode back to his cauldron, intending to fill another flask and force Snape to mark it, but saw to his horror that the rest of the contents had vanished.

  “I’m sorry!” said Hermione, with her hands over her mouth. “I’m really sorry, Harry. I thought you’d finished, so I cleared up!”

  Harry could not bring himself to answer. When the bell rang, he hurried out of the dungeon without a backwards glance, and made sure that he found himself a seat between Neville and Seamus for lunch so that Hermione could not start nagging him again about using Umbridge’s office.

  He was in such a bad mood by the time he got to Divination that he had quite forgotten his careers appointment with Professor McGonagall, remembering it only when Ron asked him why he wasn’t in her office. He hurtled back upstairs and arrived out of breath, only a few minutes late.

  “Sorry, Professor,” he panted, as he closed the door. “I forgot.”

  “No matter, Potter,” she said briskly, but as she spoke, somebody else sniffed from the corner. Harry looked round.

  Professor Umbridge was sitting there, a clipboard on her knee, a fussy little pie-frill around her neck and a small, horribly smug smile on her face.

  “Sit down, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall tersely. Her hands shook slightly as she shuffled the many pamphlets littering her desk.

  Harry sat down with his back to Umbridge and did his best to pretend he could not hear the scratching of her quill on her clipboard.

  “Well, Potter, this meeting is to talk over any career ideas you might have, and to help you decide which subjects you should continue into the sixth and seventh years,” said Professor McGonagall. “Have you had any thoughts about what you would like to do after you leave Hogwarts?”

  “Er—” said Harry.

  He was finding the scratching noise from behind him very distracting.

  “Yes?” Professor McGonagall prompted Harry.

  “Well, I thought of, maybe, being an Auror,” Harry mumbled.

  “You’d need top grades for that,” said Professor McGonagall, extracting a small, dark leaflet from under the mass on her desk and opening it. “They ask for a minimum of five N.E.W.T.s, and nothing under ‘Exceeds Expectations’ grade, I see. Then you would be required to undergo a stringent series of character and aptitude tests at the Auror office. It’s a difficult career path, Potter, they only take the best. In fact, I don’t think anybody has been taken on in the last three years.”

  At this moment, Professor Umbridge gave a very tiny cough, as though she was trying to see how quietly she could do it. Professor McGonagall ignored her.

  “You’ll want to know which subjects you ought to take, I suppose?” she went on, talking a little louder than before.

  “Yes,” said Harry. “Defence Against the Dark Arts, I suppose?”

  “Naturally,” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “I would also advise—”

  Professor Umbridge gave another cough, a little more audible this time. Professor McGonagall closed her eyes for a moment, opened them again, and continued as though nothing had happened.

  “I would also advise Transfiguration, because Aurors frequently need to Transfigure or Untransfigure in their work. And I ought to tell you now, Potter, that I do not accept students into my N.E.W.T. classes unless they have achieved ‘Exceeds Expectations’ or higher at Ordinary Wizarding Level. I’d say you’re averaging ‘Acceptable’ at the moment, so you’ll need to put in some good hard work before the exams to stand a chance of continuing. Then you ought to do Charms, always useful, and Potions. Yes, Potter, Potions,” she added, with the merest flicker of a smile. “Poisons and antidotes are essential study for Aurors. And I must tell you that Professor Snape absolutely refuses to take students who get anything other than ‘Outstanding’ in their O.W.L.s, so—”

  Professor Umbridge gave her most pronounced cough yet.

  “May I offer you a cough drop, Dolores?” Professor McGonagall asked curtly, without looking at Professor Umbridge.

  “Oh, no, thank you very much,” said Umbridge, with that simpering laugh Harry hated so much. “I just wondered whether I could make the teensiest interruption, Minerva?”

  “I daresay you’ll find you can,” said Professor McGonagall through tightly gritted teeth.

  “I was just wondering whether Mr. Potter has quite the temperament for an Auror?” said Professor Umbridge sweetly.

  “Were you?” said Professor McGonagall haughtily. “Well, Potter,” she continued, as though there had been no interruption, “if you are serious in this ambition, I would advise you to concentrate hard on bringing your Transfiguration and Potions up to scratch. I see Professor Flitwick has graded you between ‘Acceptable’ and ‘Exceeds Expectations’ for the last two years, so your Charmwork seems satisfactory. As for Defence Against the Dark Arts, your marks have been generally high, Professor Lupin in particular thought you—are you quite sure you wouldn’t like a cough drop, Dolores—”