Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix Part 6

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The feeling of being unclean intensified. He half-wished he had not obeyed Dumbledore . . . if this was how life was going to be for him in Grimmauld Place from now on, maybe he would be better off in Privet Drive after all.

*

Everybody else spent the following morning putting up Christmas decorations. Harry could not remember Sirius ever being in such a good mood; he was actually singing carols, apparently delighted that he was to have company over Christmas. Harry could hear his voice echoing up through the floor in the cold drawing room where he was sitting alone, watching the sky growing whiter outside the windows, threatening snow, all the time feeling a savage pleasure that he was giving the others the opportunity to keep talking about him, as they were bound to be doing. When he heard Mrs Weasley calling his name softly up the stairs around lunchtime, he retreated further upstairs and ignored her.

    Around six o'clock in the evening the doorbell rang and Mrs Black started screaming again. Assuming that Mundungus or some other Order member had come to call, Harry merely settled himself more comfortably against the wall of Buckbeak's room where he was hiding, trying to ignore how hungry he felt as he fed dead rats to the Hippogriff. It came as a slight shock when somebody hammered hard on the door a few minutes later.

    'I know you're in there,' said Hermione's voice. 'Will you please come out? I want to talk to you.'

    'What are you doing here?' Harry asked her, pulling open the door as Buckbeak resumed his scratching at the straw-strewn floor for any fragments of rat he may have dropped. 'I thought you were skiing with your mum and dad?'

    'Well, to tell the truth, skiing's not really my thing,' said Hermione. 'So, I've come here for Christmas.' There was snow in her hair and her face was pink with cold. 'But don t tell Ron. I told him skiing's really good because he kept laughing so much. Mum and Dad are a bit disappointed, but I've told them that everyone who is serious about the exams is staying at Hogwarts to study. They want me to do well, they'll understand. Anyway,' she said briskly, 'let's go to your bedroom, Ron's mum has lit a fire in there and she's sent up sandwiches.'

    Harry followed her back to the second floor. When he entered the bedroom, he was rather surprised to see both Ron and Ginny waiting for them, sitting on Ron's bed.

    'I came on the Knight Bus,' said Hermione airily, pulling off her jacket before Harry had time to speak. 'Dumbledore told me what had happened first thing this morning, but I had to wait for term to end officially before setting off. Umbridge is already livid that you lot disappeared right under her nose, even though Dumbledore told her Mr Weasley was in St Mungo's and he'd given you all permission to visit. So . . .'

    She sat down next to Ginny, and the two girls and Ron all looked up at Harry.

    'How're you feeling?' asked Hermione.

    'Fine,' said Harry stiffly.

    'Oh, don't lie, Harry,' she said impatiently. 'Ron and Ginny say you've been hiding from everyone since you got back from St Mungo's.'

    They do, do they?' said Harry, glaring at Ron and Ginny. Ron looked down at his feet but Ginny seemed quite unabashed.

    'Well, you have!' she said. 'And you won't look at any of us!'

    'It's you lot who won't look at me!' said Harry angrily.

    'Maybe you're taking it in turns to look, and keep missing each other,' suggested Hermione, the corners of her mouth twitching.

    'Very funny,' snapped Harry, turning away.

    'Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood,' said Hermione sharply. 'Look, the others have told me what you overheard last night on the Extendable Ears - '

    'Yeah?' growled Harry, his hands deep in his pockets as he watched the snow now falling thickly outside. 'All been talking about me, have you? Well, I'm getting used to it.'

    'We wanted to talk to you, Harry' said Ginny, 'but as you've been hiding ever since we got back - '

    'I didn't want anyone to talk to me,' said Harry, who was feeling more and more nettled.

    'Well, that was a bit stupid of you,' said Ginny angrily, 'seeing as you don't know anyone but me who's been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels.'

    Harry remained quite still as the impact of these words hit him. Then he wheeled round.

    'I forgot,' he said.

    'Lucky you,' said Ginny coolly.

    Tin sorry,' Harry said, and he meant it. 'So . . . so, do you think I'm being possessed, then?'

    'Well, can you remember everything you've been doing?' Ginny asked. 'Are there big blank periods where you don't know what you've been up to?'

    Harry racked his brains.

    'No,' he said.

    Then You-Know-Who hasn't ever possessed you,' said Ginny simply. 'When he did it to me, I couldn't remember what I'd been doing for hours at a time. I'd find myself somewhere and not know how I got there.'

    Harry hardly dared believe her, yet his heart was lightening almost in spite of himself.

    'That dream I had about your dad and the snake, though - '

    'Harry, you've had these dreams before,' Hermione said. 'You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year.'

    This was different,' said Harry, shaking his head. T was inside that snake. It was like I was the snake . . . what if Voldemort somehow transported me to London - ?'

    'One day,' said Hermione, sounding thoroughly exasperated, 'you'll read Hogwarts: A History, and perhaps it will remind you that you can't Apparate or Disapparaie inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn't just make you fly out of your dormitory, Harry.'

    'You didn't leave your bed, male,' said Ron. T saw you thrashing around in your sleep for at least a minute before we could wake you up.'

    Harry started pacing up and down the room again, thinking. What they were all saying was not only comforting, it made sense . . . without really thinking, he took a sandwich from the plate on the bed and crammed it hungrily into his mouth.

    I'm not the weapon after all, thought Harry. His heart swelled with happiness and relief, and he felt like joining in as they heard

    Sirius tramping past their door towards Buckbeaks room, singing 'God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs' at the top of his voice.

*

How could he have dreamed of returning to Privet Drive for Christmas? Sirius's delight at having the house full again, and especially at having Harry back, was infectious. He was no longer their sullen host of the summer; now he seemed determined that everyone should enjoy themselves as much, if not more than they would have done at Hogwarts, and he worked tirelessly in the run-up to Christmas Day, cleaning and decorating with their help, so that by the time they all went to bed on Christmas Eve the house was barely recognisable. The tarnished chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets; a great Christmas tree, obtained by Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked Sirius's family tree from view, and even the stuffed elf-heads on the hall wall wore Father Christmas hats and beards.

    Harry awoke on Christmas morning to find a stack of presents at the foot of his bed and Ron already halfway through opening his own, rather larger, pile.

    'Good haul this year,' he informed Harry through a cloud of paper. Thanks for the Broom Compass, it's excellent; beats Hermione's - she got me a homework planner - '

    Harry sorted through his presents and found one with Hermione's handwriting on it. She had given him, too, a book that resembled a diary except that every time he opened a page it said aloud things like: 'Do it today or later you'll pay!'

    Sirius and Lupin had given Harry a set of excellent books entitled Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts, which had superb, moving colour illustrations of all the counter-jinxes and hexes it described. Harry flicked through the first volume eagerly; he could see it was going to be highly useful in his plans for the DA. Hagrid had sent a furry brown wallet that had fangs, which were presumably supposed to be an anti-theft device, but unfortunately prevented Harry putting any money in without getting his fingers ripped off. Tonks's present was a small, working model of a Firebolt, which Harry watched fly around the room, wishing he still had his full-size version; Ron had given him an enormous box of Every-Flavour Beans, Mr and Mrs Weasley the usual hand-knitted jumper and some mince pies, and Dobby a truly dreadful painting that Harry suspected had been done by the elf himself. He had just turned it upside-down to see whether it looked better that way when, with a loud crack, Fred and George Apparated at the foot of his bed.

    'Merry Christmas,' said George. 'Don't go downstairs for a bit.'

    'Why not?' said Ron.

    'Mum's crying again,' said Fred heavily. 'Percy sent back his Christmas jumper.'

    'Without a note,' added George. 'Hasn't asked how Dad is or visited him or anything.'

    'We tried to comfort her,' said Fred, moving around the bed to look at Harry's portrait. Told her Percy's nothing more than a humungous pile of rat droppings.'

    'Didn't work,' said George, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog. 'So Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon.'

    'What's that supposed to be, anyway?' asked Fred, squinting at Dobbys painting. 'Looks like a gibbon with two black eyes.'

    'It's Harry!' said George, pointing at the back of the picture, 'says so on the back!'

    'Good likeness,' said Fred, grinning. Harry threw his new homework diary at him; it hit the wall opposite and fell to the floor where it said happily: 'If you've dotted the "i"s and crossed the "t"s then you may do whatever you please!'

    They got up and dressed. They could hear the various inhabitants of the house calling 'Merry Christmas' to one another. On their way downstairs they met Hermione.

    Thanks for the book, Harry,' she said happily. 'I've been wanting that New Theory of Numerology for ages! And that perfume's really unusual, Ron.'

    'No problem,' said Ron. 'Who's that for, anyway?' he added, nodding at the neatly wrapped present she was carrying.

    'Kreacher,' said Hermione brightly.

    'It had better not be clothes!' Ron warned her. 'You know what Sirius said: Kreacher knows too much, we can't set him free!'

    'It isn't clothes,' said Hermione, 'although if I had my way I'd certainly give him something to wear other than that filthy old rag. No, it's a patchwork quilt, I thought it would brighten up his bedroom.'

    'What bedroom?' said Harry, dropping his voice to a whisper as they were passing the portrait of Sirius's mother.

    'Well, Sirius says it's not so much a bedroom, more a kind of - 'den,' said Hermione. 'Apparently he sleeps under the boiler in that cupboard off the kitchen.'

    Mrs Weasley was the only person in the basement when they arrived there. She was standing at the stove and sounded as though she had a bad head cold as she wished them 'Merry Christmas', and they all averted their eyes.

    'So, is this Kreacher's bedroom?' said Ron, strolling over to a dingy door in the corner opposite the pantry. Harry had never seen it open.

    'Yes,' said Hermione, now sounding a little nervous. 'Er . . . I think we'd better knock.'

    Ron rapped on the door with his knuckles but there was no reply.

    'He must be sneaking around upstairs,' he said, and without further ado pulled open the door. 'Urgh!'

    Harry peered inside. Most of the cupboard was taken up with a very large and old-fashioned boiler, but in the foot of space underneath the pipes Kreacher had made himself something that looked like a nest. A jumble of assorted rags and smelly old blankets were piled on the floor and the small dent in the middle of it showed where Kreacher curled up to sleep every night. Here and there among the material were stale bread crusts and mouldy old bits of cheese. In a far corner glinted small objects and coins that Harry guessed Kreacher had saved, magpie-like, from Sirius's purge of the house, and he had also managed to retrieve the silver-framed family photographs that Sirius had thrown away over the summer. Their glass might be shattered, but still the little black-and-white people inside them peered up at him haughtily, including - he felt a little jolt in his stomach - the dark, heavy-lidded woman whose trial he had witnessed in Dumbledore's Pensieve: Bellatrix Lestrange. By the looks of it, hers was Kreachers favourite photograph; he had placed it to the fore of all the others and had mended the glass clumsily with Spellotape.

    'I think I'll just leave his present here,' said Hermione, laying the package neatly in the middle of the depression in the rags and blankets and closing the door quietly. 'He'll find it later, that'll be fine.'

    'Come to think of it,' said Sirius, emerging from the pantry carrying a large turkey as they closed the cupboard door, 'has anyone actually seen Kreacher lately?'

    'I haven't seen him since the night we came back here,' said Harry. 'You were ordering him out of the kitchen.'

    'Yeah . . .' said Sirius, frowning. 'You know, I think that's the last time I saw him, too . . . he must be hiding upstairs somewhere.'

    'He couldn't have left, could he?' said Harry. 'I mean, when you said "out", maybe he thought you meant get out of the house?'

    'No, no, house-elves can't leave unless they're given clothes. They're tied to their family's house,' said Sirius.

    They can leave the house if they really want to,' Harry contradicted him. 'Dobby did, he left the Malfoy's' to give me warnings two years ago. He had to punish himself afterwards, but he still managed it.'

    Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment, then said, 'I'll look for him later, I expect I'll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother's old bloomers or something. Of course, he might have crawled into the airing cupboard and died . . . but I mustn't get my hopes up.'

    Fred, George and Ron laughed; Hermione, however, looked reproachful.

    Once they had eaten their Christmas lunch, the Weasleys, Harry a:id Hermione were planning to pay Mr Weasley another visit, escorted by Mad-Eye and Lupin. Mundungus turned up in time for Christmas pudding and trifle, having managed to 'borrow' a car for the occasion, as the Underground did not run on Christmas Day. The car, which Harry doubted very much had been taken with the consent of its owner, had been enlarged with a spell like the Weasleys' old Ford Anglia had once been. Although normally proportioned outside, ten people with Mundungus driving were able to fit into it quite comfortably. Mrs Weasley hesitated before getting inside - Harry knew her disapproval of Mundungus was battling with her dislike of travelling without magic - but, finally, the cold outside and her children's pleading triumphed, and she settled herself into the back seat between Fred and Bill with good grace.

    The journey to St Mungo's was quite quick as there was very little traffic on the roads. A small trickle of witches and wizards was creeping furtively up the otherwise deserted street to visit the hospital. Harry and the others got out of the car, and Mundungus drove off around the corner to wait for them. They strolled casually towards the window where the dummy in green nylon stood, then, one by one, stepped through the glass.

    The reception area looked pleasantly festive: the crystal orbs that illuminated St Mungo's had been coloured red and gold to become gigantic, glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every doorway; and shining white Christmas trees covered in magical snow and icicles glittered in every corner, each one topped with a gleaming gold star. It was less crowded than the last time they had been there, although halfway across the room Harry found himself shunted aside by a witch with a satsuma jammed up her left nostril.

    'Family argument, eh?' smirked the blonde witch behind the desk. 'You're the third I've seen today . . . Spell Damage, fourth floor.'

    They found Mr Weasley propped up in bed with the remains of his turkey dinner on a tray on his lap and a rather sheepish expression on his face.

    'Everything all right, Arthur?' asked Mrs Weasley, after they had all greeted Mr Weasley and handed over their presents.

    'Fine, fine,' said Mr Weasley, a little too heartily. 'You - er - 'haven't seen Healer Smethwyck, have you?'

    'No,' said Mrs Weasley suspiciously, 'why?'

    'Nothing, nothing,' said Mr Weasley airily, starting to unwrap his pile of gifts. 'Well, everyone had a good day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh, Harry - this is absolutely wonderful!' For he had just opened Harry's gift of fuse-wire and screwdrivers.

    Mrs Weasley did not seem entirely satisfied with Mr Weasley's answer. As her husband leaned over to shake Harry's hand, she peered at the bandaging under his nightshirt.

    'Arthur,' she said, with a snap in her voice like a mousetrap, 'you've had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, Arthur? They told me they wouldn't need doing until tomorrow.'

    'What?' said Mr Weasley, looking rather frightened and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. 'No, no - it's nothing - it's - 'I - '

    He seemed to deflate under Mrs Weasley's piercing gaze.

    Well - now don't get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea . . . he's the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in . . . um . . . complementary medicine . . . I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies . . . well, they're called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on - on Muggle wounds - '

    Mrs Weasley let out an ominous noise somewhere between a shriek and a snarl. Lupin strolled away from the bed and over to the werewolf, who had no visitors and was looking rather wistfully at the crowd around Mr Weasley; Bill muttered something s.bout getting himself a cup of tea and Fred and George leapt up to accompany him, grinning.

    'Do you mean to tell me,' said Mrs Weasley, her voice growing louder with every word and apparently unaware that her fellow visitors were scurrying for cover, 'that you have been messing about with Muggle remedies?'

    'Not messing about, Molly, dear,' said Mr Weasley imploringly, 'it was just - just something Pye and I thought we'd try - only, most unfortunately - well, with these particular kinds of wounds - it doesn't seem to work as well as we'd hoped - '

    'Meaning?'

    'Well . . . well, I don't know whether you know what - what stitches are?'

    'It sounds as though you've been trying to sew your skin back together,' said Mrs Weasley with a snort of mirthless laughter, 'but even you, Arthur, wouldn't be that stupid - '

    'I fancy a cup of tea, too,' said Harry, jumping to his feet.

    Hermione, Ron and Ginny almost sprinted to the door with him. As it swung closed behind them, they heard Mrs Weasley shriek, 'WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA?'

    'Typical Dad,' said Ginny, shaking her head as they set off up the corridor. 'Stitches . . . I ask you . . .'

    'Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds,' said Hermione fairly. 'I suppose something in that snake's venom dissolves them or something. I wonder where the tearoom is?'

    'Fifth floor,' said Harry, remembering the sign over the welcomewitch's desk.

    They walked along the corridor, through a set of double doors and found a rickety staircase lined with more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As they climbed it, the various Healers called out to them, diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad case of spattergroit.

    'And what's that supposed to be?' he asked angrily, as the Healer pursued him through six more portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way.

    ' 'Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young master, that will leave you pockmarked and more gruesome even than you are now - '

    'Watch who you're calling gruesome!' said Ron, his ears turning red.

    ' - the only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked at the full moon in a barrel of eels' eyes - '

    'I have not got spattergroit!'

    'But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young master - '

    'They're freckles!' said Ron furiously. 'Now get back in your own picture and leave me alone!'

    He rounded on the others, who were all keeping determinedly straight faces.

    'What floor's this?'

    'I think it's the fifth,' said Hermione.

    'Nah, it's the fourth,' said Harry, 'one more -

    But as he stepped on to the landing he came to an abrupt halt, staring at the small window set into the double doors that marked the start of a corridor signposted SPELL DAMAGE. A man was peering out at them all with his nose pressed against the glass. He had wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes and a broad vacant smile that revealed dazzlingly white teeth.

    'Blimey!' said Ron, also staring at the man.

    'Oh, my goodness,' said Hermione suddenly, sounding breathless. 'Professor Lockhart.'

    Their ex-Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher pushed open the doors and moved towards them, wearing a long lilac dressing gown.

    'Well, hello there!' he said. 'I expect you'd like my autograph, would you?'

    'Hasn't changed much, has he?' Harry muttered to Ginny, who grinned.

    'Er - how are you, Professor?' said Ron, sounding slightly guilty. It had been Ron's malfunctioning wand that had damaged Professor Lockhart's memory so badly that he had landed in St Mungo's in the first place, though as Lockhart had been attempting to permanently wipe Harry and Ron's memories at the time, Harry's sympathy was limited.

    'I'm very well indeed, thank you!' said Lockhart exuberantly, palling a rather battered peacock-feather quill from his pocket. 'Mow, how many autographs would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!'

    'Er - we don't want any at the moment, thanks,' said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry, who asked, 'Professor, should you be wandering around the corridors? Shouldn't you be in a ward?'

    The smile faded slowly from Lockhart's face. For a few moments he gazed intently at Harry, then he said, 'Haven't we met?'

    'Er . . . yeah, we have,' said Harry. 'You used to teach us at Hogwarts, remember?'

    Teach?' repeated Lockhart, looking faintly unsettled. 'Me? Did I?'

    And then the smile reappeared upon his face so suddenly it was rather alarming.

    Taught you everything you know, I expect, did I? Well, how about those autographs, then? Shall we say a round dozen, you can give them to all your little friends then and nobody will be left out!'

    But just then a head poked out of a door at the far end of the corridor and a voice called, 'Gilderoy, you naughty boy, where have you wandered off to?'

    A motherly-looking Healer wearing a tinsel wreath in her hair came bustling up the corridor, smiling warmly at Harry and the others.

    'Oh, Gilderoy, you've got visitors! How lovely, and on Christmas Day, too! Do you know, he never gets visitors, poor lamb, and I can't think why, he's such a sweetie, aren't you?'

    'We're doing autographs!' Gilderoy told the Healer with another glittering smile. They want loads of them, won't take no for an answer! I just hope we've got enough photographs!'

    'Listen to him,' said the Healer, taking Lockhart's arm and beaming fondly at him as though he were a precocious two-year-old. 'He was rather well known a few years ago; we very much hope that this liking for giving autographs is a sign that his memory might be starting to come back. Will you step this way? He's in a closed ward, you know, he must have slipped out while I was bringing in the Christmas presents, the door's usually kept locked . . . not that he's dangerous! But,' she lowered her voice to a whisper, 'he's a bit of a danger to himself, bless him . . . doesn't know who he is, you see, wanders off and can't remember how to get back . . . it is nice of you to have come to see him.'

    'Er,' said Ron, gesturing uselessly at the floor above, 'actually, we were just - er -'

    But the Healer was smiling expectantly at them, and Ron's feeble mutter of 'going to have a cup of tea' trailed away into nothingness. They looked at each other helplessly, then followed Lockhart and his Healer along the corridor.

    'Let's not stay long,' Ron said quietly.

    The Healer pointed her wand at the door of the Janus Thickey Ward and muttered, 'Alohomora.' The door swung open and she led the way inside, keeping a firm grasp on Gilderoy's arm until she had settled him into an armchair beside his bed.

    This is our long-term residents' ward,' she informed Harry, Ron,

    Hermione and Ginny in a low voice. 'For permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of luck, we can produce some improvement. Gilderoy does seem to be getting back some sense of himself; and we've seen a real improvement in Mr Bode, he seems to be regaining the power of speech very well, though he isn't speaking any language w: recognise yet. Well, I must finish giving out the Christmas presents, I'll leave you all to chat.'

    Harry looked around. The ward bore unmistakeable signs of being a permanent home to its residents. They had many more personal effects around their beds than in Mr Weasley's ward; the wall around Gilderoy's headboard, for instance, was papered with pictures of himself, all beaming toothily and waving at the new arrivals. He had autographed many of them to himself in disjointed, childish writing. The moment he had been deposited in his chair b> the Healer, Gilderoy pulled a fresh stack of photographs towards him, seized a quill and started signing them all feverishly.

    'You can put them in envelopes,' he said to Ginny, throwing the signed pictures into her lap one by one as he finished them. 'I am not forgotten, you know, no, I still receive a very great deal of fan mail . . . Gladys Gudgeon writes weekly . . . I just wish I knew why . . .' He paused, looking faintly puzzled, then beamed again and returned to his signing with renewed vigour. 'I suspect it is simply my good looks . . .'

    A sallow-skinned, mournful-looking wizard lay in the bed opposite staring at the ceiling; he was mumbling to himself and seemed quite unaware of anything around him. Two beds along was a woman whose entire head was covered in fur; Harry remembered something similar happening to Hermione during their second year, although fortunately the damage, in her case, had not been permanent. At the far end of the ward flowery curtains had been drawn around two beds to give the occupants and their visitors some privacy.

    'Here you are, Agnes,' said the Healer brightly to the furry-faced woman, handing her a small pile of Christmas presents. 'See, not forgotten, are you? And your son's sent an owl to say he's visiting tonight, so that's nice, isn't it?'

    Agnes gave several loud barks.

    'And look, Broderick, you've been sent a pot plant and a lovely calendar with a different fancy Hippogriff for each month; they'll brighten things up, won't they?' said the Healer, bustling along to the mumbling man, setting a rather ugly plant with long, swaying tentacles on the bedside cabinet and fixing the calendar to the wall with her wand. 'And - oh, Mrs Longbottom, are you leaving already?'

    Harry's head span round. The curtains had been drawn back from the two beds at the end of the ward and two visitors were walking back down the aisle between the beds: a formidable-looking old witch wearing a long green dress, a moth-eaten fox fur and a pointed hat decorated with what was unmistakeably a stuffed vulture and, trailing behind her looking thoroughly depressed - Neville.

    With a sudden rush of understanding, Harry realised who the people in the end beds must be. He cast around wildly for some means of distracting the others so that Neville could leave the ward unnoticed and unquestioned, but Ron had also looked up at the sound of the name 'Longbottom', and before Harry could stop him had called out, 'Neville!'

    Neville jumped and cowered as though a bullet had narrowly missed him.

    'It's us, Neville!' said Ron brightly, getting to his feet. 'Have you seen - '? Lockhart's here! Who've you been visiting?'

    'Friends of yours, Neville, dear?' said Neville's grandmother graciously, bearing down upon them all.

    Neville looked as though he would rather be anywhere in the world but here. A dull purple flush was creeping up his plump face and he was not making eye contact with any of them.

    'Ah, yes,' said his grandmother, looking closely at Harry and sticking out a shrivelled, clawlike hand for him to shake. 'Yes, yes, I know who you are, of course. Neville speaks most highly of you.'

    'Er - thanks,' said Harry, shaking hands. Neville did not look at him, but surveyed his own feet, the colour deepening in his face all the while.

    'And you two are clearly Weasleys,' Mrs Longbottom continued, proffering her hand regally to Ron and Ginny in turn. 'Yes, I know your parents - not well, of course - but fine people, fine people . . . and you must be Hermione Granger?'

    Hermione looked rather startled that Mrs Longbottom knew her name, but shook hands all the same.

    'Yes, Neville's told me all about you. Helped him out of a few sticky spots, haven't you? He's a good boy,' she said, casting a sternly appraising look down her rather bony nose at Neville, 'but be hasn't got his father's talent, I'm afraid to say.' And she jerked her head in the direction of the two beds at the end of the ward, so that the stuffed vulture on her hat trembled alarmingly.

    'What?' said Ron, looking amazed. (Harry wanted to stamp on Ron's foot, but that sort of thing is much harder to bring off unnoticed when you're wearing jeans rather than robes.) 'Is that your dad down the end, Neville?'

    'What's this?' said Mrs Longbottom sharply. 'Haven't you told your friends about your parents, Neville?'

    Neville took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. Harry could not remember ever feeling sorrier for anyone, but he could not think of any way of helping Neville out of the situation.

    Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of!' said Mrs Longbottom angrily. 'You should be proud, Neville, proud! They didn't give their health and their sanity so their only son would be ashamed of them, you know!'

    'I'm not ashamed,' said Neville, very faintly, still looking anywhere but at Harry and the others. Ron was now standing on tiptoe to look over at the inhabitants of the two beds.

    Well, you've got a funny way of showing it!' said Mrs Longbottom. 'My son and his wife,' she said, turning haughtily to Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny, 'were tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who's followers.'

    Hermione and Ginny both clapped their hands over their mouths. Ron stopped craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Neville's parents and looked mortified.

    They were Aurors, you know, and very well respected within the wizarding community,' Mrs Longbottom went on. 'Highly gifted, the pair of them. I - yes, Alice dear, what is it?'

    Neville's mother had come edging down the ward in her nightdress. She no longer had the plump, happy-looking face Harry had seen in Moody's old photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix. Her face was thin and worn now, her eyes seemed overlarge and her hair, which had turned white, was wispy and dead-looking. She did not seem to want to speak, or perhaps she was not able to, but she made timid motions towards Neville, holding something in her outstretched hand.

    'Again?' said Mrs Longbottom, sounding slightly weary. 'Very well, Alice dear, very well - Neville, take it, whatever it is.'

    But Neville had already stretched out his hand, into which his mother dropped an empty Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper.

    'Very nice, dear,' said Neville's grandmother in a falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the shoulder.

    But Neville said quietly, Thanks, Mum.'

    His mother tottered away, back up the ward, humming to herself. Neville looked around at the others, his expression defiant, as though daring them to laugh, but Harry did not think he'd ever found anything less funny in his life.

    'Well, we'd better get back,' sighed Mrs Longbottom, drawing on long green gloves. 'Very nice to have met you all. Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must have given you enough of them to paper your bedroom by now.'

    But as they left, Harry was sure he saw Neville slip the sweet wrapper into his pocket.

    The door closed behind them.

    'I never knew,' said Hermione, who looked tearful.

    'Nor did I,' said Ron rather hoarsely.

    'Nor me,' whispered Ginny.

    They all looked at Harry.

    'I did,' he said glumly. 'Dumbledore told me but I promised I wouldn't tell anyone . . . that's what Bellatrix Lestrange got sent to Azkaban for, using the Cruciatus Curse on Neville's parents until they lost their minds.'

    'Bellatrix Lestrange did that?' whispered Hermione, horrified. That woman Kreacher's got a photo of in his den?'

    There was a long silence, broken by Lockhart's angry voice.

    'Look, I didn't learn joined-up writing for nothing, you know!'

Chapter Twenty-four

Occlumency

Kreacher, it transpired, had been lurking in the attic. Sirius said he had found him up there, covered in dust, no doubt looking for more relics of the Black family to hide in his cupboard. Though Sirius seemed satisfied with this story, it made Harry uneasy. Kreacher seemed to be in a better mood on his reappearance, his bitter muttering had subsided somewhat and he submitted to orders more docilely than usual, though once or twice Harry caught the house-elf staring at him avidly, but always looking quickly away whenever he saw that Harry had noticed.

    Harry did not mention his vague suspicions to Sirius, whose cheerfulness was evaporating fast now that Christmas was over. As the date of their departure back to Hogwarts drew nearer, he became more and more prone to what Mrs Weasley called 'fits of the sullens', in which he would become taciturn and grumpy, often withdrawing to Buckbeak's room for hours at a time. His gloom seeped through the house, oozing under doorways like some noxious gas, so that all of them became infected by it.

    Harry didn't want to leave Sirius again with only Kreacher for company; in fact, for the first time in his life, he was not looking forward to returning to Hogwarts. Going back to school would mean placing himself once again under the tyranny of Dolores Umbridge, who had no doubt managed to force through another dozen decrees in their absence; there was no Quidditch to look forward to now that he had been banned, there was every likelihood that their burden of homework would increase as the exams drew even nearer; and Dumbledore remained as remote as ever. In fact, if it hadn't been for the DA, Harry thought he might have begged Sirius to let him leave Hogwarts and remain in Grimmauld Place.

    Then, on the very last day of the holidays, something happened that made Harry positively dread his return to school.

    'Harry, dear,' said Mrs Weasley poking her head into his and Ron's bedroom, where the pair of them were playing wizard chess watched by Hermione, Ginny and Crookshanks, 'could you come down to the kitchen? Professor Snape would like a word with you.'

    Harry did not immediately register what she had said; one of his castles was engaged in a violent tussle with a pawn of Ron's and he was egging it on enthusiastically.

    'Squash him - squash him, he's only a pawn, you idiot. Sorry, Mrs Weasley, what did you say?'

    'Professor Snape, dear. In the kitchen. He'd like a word.'

    Harry's mouth fell open in horror. He looked around at Ron, Hermione and Ginny, all of whom were gaping back at him. Crookshanks, whom Hermione had been restraining with difficulty for the past quarter of an hour, leapt gleefully on to the board and set the pieces running for cover, squealing at the top of their voices.

    'Snape?' said Harry blankly.

    'Professor Snape, dear,' said Mrs Weasley reprovingly. 'Now come on, quickly, he says he can't stay long.'

    'What's he want with you?' said Ron, looking unnerved as Mrs Weasley withdrew from the room. 'You haven't done anything, have you?'

    'No!' said Harry indignantly, racking his brains to think what he could have done that would make Snape pursue him to Grimmauld Place. Had his last piece of homework perhaps earned a 'T'?

    A minute or two later, he pushed open the kitchen door to find Sirius and Snape both seated at the long kitchen table, glaring in opposite directions. The silence between them was heavy with mutual dislike. A letter lay open on the table in front of Sirius.

    'Er,' said Harry, to announce his presence.

    Snape looked around at him, his face framed between curtains of greasy black hair.

    'Sit down, Potter.'

    'You know,' said Sirius loudly, leaning back on his rear chair legs and speaking to the ceiling, 'I think I'd prefer it if you didn't give orders here, Snape. It's my house, you see.'

    An ugly flush suffused Snape's pallid face. Harry sat down in a chair beside Sirius, facing Snape across the table.

    'I was supposed to see you alone, Potter,' said Snape, the familiar sneer curling his mouth, 'but Black - '

    'I'm his godfather,' said Sirius, louder than ever.

    'I am here on Dumbledore's orders.' said Snape, whose voice, by contrast, was becoming more and more quietly waspish, 'but by all means stay, Black, I know you like lo feel . . . involved.'

    'What's that supposed to mean?' said Sirius, letting his chair fall back on to all four legs with a loud bang.

    'Merely that I am sure you must feel - ah - frustrated by the fact that you can do nothing useful,' Snape laid a delicate stress on the word, 'for the Order.'

    It was Sirius's turn to flush. Snape's lip curled in triumph as he turned to Harry.

    The Headmaster has sent me to tell you, Potter, that it is his wish for you to study Occlumency this term.'

    'Study what?' said Harry blankly.

    Snape's sneer became more pronounced.

    'Occlumency, Potter. The magical defence of the mind against external penetration. An obscure branch of magic, but a highly useful one.'

    Harry's heart began to pump very fast indeed. Defence against external penetration? But he was not being possessed, they had all agreed on that . . .

    'Why do I have to study Occlu - thing?' he blurted out.

    'Because the Headmaster thinks it a good idea,' said Snape smoothly. 'You will receive private lessons once a week, but you will not tell anybody what you are doing, least of all Dolores Umbridge. You understand?'

    'Yes,' said Harry. 'Who's going to be teaching me?'

    Snape raised an eyebrow.

    'I am,' he said.

    Harry had the horrible sensation that his insides were melting.

    Extra lessons with Snape - what on earth had he done to deserve this? He looked quickly round at Sirius for support.

    'Why can't Dumbledore teach Harry?' asked Sirius aggressively. 'Why you?'

    'I suppose because it is a headmasters privilege to delegate less enjoyable tasks,' said Snape silkily. 'I assure you I did not beg for the job.' He got to his feet. 'I will expect you at six o'clock on Monday evening, Potter. My office. If anybody asks, you are taking remedial Potions. Nobody who has seen you in my classes could deny you need them.'

    He turned to leave, his black travelling cloak billowing behind him.

    'Wait a moment,' said Sirius, sitting up straighter in his chair.

    Snape turned back to face them, sneering.

    'I am in rather a hurry, Black. Unlike you, I do not have unlimited leisure time.'

    'I'll get to the point, then,' said Sirius, standing up. He was rather taller than Snape who, Harry noticed, balled his fist in the pocket of his cloak over what Harry was sure was the handle of his wand. 'If I hear you're using these Occlumency lessons to give Harry a hard time, you'll have me to answer to.'

    'How touching,' Snape sneered. 'But surely you have noticed that Potter is very like his father?'

    'Yes, I have,' said Sirius proudly.

    'Well then, you'll know he's so arrogant that criticism simply bounces off him,' Snape said sleekly.

    Sirius pushed his chair roughly aside and strode around the table towards Snape, pulling out his wand as he went. Snape whipped out his own. They were squaring up to each other, Sirius looking livid, Snape calculating, his eyes darting from Sirius's wand-tip to his face.

    'Sirius!' said Harry loudly, but Sirius appeared not to hear him.

    'I've warned you, Snivelus,' said Sirius, his face barely a foot from Snape's, 'I don't care if Dumbledore thinks you've reformed, I know better - '

    'Oh, but why don't you tell him so?' whispered Snape. 'Or are you afraid he might not take very seriously the advice of a man who has been hiding inside his mother's house for six months?'

    Tell me, how is Lucius Malfoy these days? I expect he's delighted his lapdog's working at Hogwarts, isn't he?'

    'Speaking of dogs,' said Snape softly, 'did you know that Lucius Malfoy recognised you last time you risked a little jaunt outside? Clever idea, Black, getting yourself seen on a safe station platform . . . gave you a cast-iron excuse not to leave your hidey-hole in future, didn't it?'

    Sirius raised his wand.

    'NO!' Harry yelled, vaulting over the table and trying to get in between them. 'Sirius, don't!'

    'Are you calling me a coward?' roared Sirius, trying to push Harry out of the way, but Harry would not budge.

    'Why, yes, I suppose I am,' said Snape.

    'Harry - get - out - of - it!' snarled Sirius, pushing him aside with his free hand.

    The kitchen door opened and the entire Weasley family, plus Hermione, came inside, all looking very happy, with Mr Weasley walking proudly in their midst dressed in a pair of striped pyjamas covered by a mackintosh.

    'Cured!' he announced brightly to the kitchen at large. 'Completely cured!'

    He and all the other Weasleys froze on the threshold, gazing at the scene in front of them, which was also suspended in mid-action, both Sirius and Snape looking towards the door with their wands pointing into each other's faces and Harry immobile between them, a hand stretched out to each, trying to force them apart.

    'Merlins beard,' said Mr Weasley, the smile sliding off his face, 'what's going on here?'

    Both Sirius and Snape lowered their wands. Harry looked from one to the other. Each wore an expression of utmost contempt, yet the unexpected entrance of so many witnesses seemed to have brought them to their senses. Snape piocketed his wand, turned on his heel and swept back across the kitchen, passing the Weasleys without comment. At the door he looked back.

    'Six o'clock, Monday evening, Potter.'

    And he was gone. Sirius glared after him, his wand at his side.

    'What's been going on?' asked Mr Weasley again.

    'Nothing, Arthur,' said Sirius, who was breathing heavily as though he had just run a long distance. 'Just a friendly little chat between two old school friends.' With what looked like an enormous effort, he smiled. 'So . . . you're cured? That's great news, really great.'

    'Yes, isn't it?' said Mrs Weasley, leading her husband forward to a chair. 'Healer Smethwyck worked his magic in the end, found an antidote to whatever that snake's got in its fangs, and Arthur's learned his lesson about dabbling in Muggle medicine, haven't you, dear?' she added, rather menacingly.

    'Yes, Molly dear,' said Mr Weasley meekly.

    That nights meal should have been a cheerful one, with Mr Weasley back amongst them. Harry could tell Sirius was trying to make it so, yet when his godfather was not forcing himself to laugh loudly at Fred and George's jokes or offering everyone more food, his face fell back into a moody, brooding expression. Harry was separated from him by Mundungus and Mad-Eye, who had dropped in to offer Mr Weasley their congratulations. He wanted to talk to Sirius, to tell him he shouldn't listen to a word Snape said, that Snape was goading him deliberately and that the rest of them didn't think Sirius was a coward for doing as Dumbledore told him and remaining in Grimmauld Place. But he had no opportunity to do so, and, eyeing the ugly look on Sirius's face, Harry wondered occasionally whether he would have dared to mention it even if he had the chance. Instead, he told Ron and Hermione under his voice about having to take Occlumency lessons with Snape.

    'Dumbledore wants to stop you having those dreams about Voldemort,' said Hermione at once. Well, you won't be sorry not to have them any more, will you?'

    'Extra lessons with Snape?' said Ron, sounding aghast. 'I'd rather have the nightmares!'

    They were to return to Hogwarts on the Knight Bus the following day, escorted once again by Tonks and Lupin, both of whom were eating breakfast in the kitchen when Harry, Ron and Hermione came down next morning. The adults seemed to have been mid-

    way through a whispered conversation as Harry opened the door; a I of them looked round hastily and fell silent.

    After a hurried breakfast, they all pulled on jackets and scarves against the chilly grey January morning. Harry had an unpleasant constricted sensation in his chest; he did not want to say goodbye to Sirius. He had a bad feeling about this parting; he didn't know when they would next see each other and he felt it was incumbent upon him to say something to Sirius to stop him doing anything stupid - Harry was worried that Snape's accusation of cowardice had stung Sirius so badly he might even now be planning some foolhardy trip beyond Grimmauld Place. Before he could think of what to say, however, Sirius had beckoned him to his side.

    'I want you to take this,' he said quietly, thrusting a badly wrapped package roughly the size of a paperback book into Harry's hands.

    'What is it?' Harry asked.

    'A way of letting me know if Snape's giving you a hard time. No, don't open it in here!' said Sirius, with a wary look at Mrs Weasley, who was trying to persuade the twins to wear hand-knitted mittens. 'I doubt Molly would approve - but I want you to use it if you need me, all right?'

    'OK,' said Harry, stowing the package away in the inside pocket of his jacket, but he knew he would never use whatever it was. It would not be he, Harry, who lured Sirius from his place of safety, no matter how foully Snape treated him in their forthcoming Occlumency classes.

    'Let's go, then,' said Sirius, clapping Harry on the shoulder and smiling grimly, and before Harry could say anything else, they were heading upstairs, stopping before the heavily chained and bolted front door, surrounded by Weasleys.

    'Goodbye, Harry, take care,' said Mrs Weasley, hugging him.

    'See you, Harry, and keep an eye out for snakes for me!' said Mr Weasley genially, shaking his hand.

    'Right - yeah,' said Harry distractedly; it was his last chance to tell Sirius to be careful; he turned, looked into his godfathers face and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so Sirius was giving him a brief, one-armed hug, and saying gruffly, 'Look after yourself, Harry.' Next moment, Harry found himself being shunted out into the icy winter air, with Tonks (today heavily disguised as a tall, tweedy woman with iron-grey hair) chivvying him down the steps.

    The door of number twelve slammed shut behind them. They followed Lupin down the front steps. As he reached the pavement, Harry looked round. Number twelve was shrinking rapidly as those on either side of it stretched sideways, squeezing it out of sight. One blink later, it had gone.

    'Come on, the quicker we get on the bus the better,' said Tonks, and Harry thought there was nervousness in the glance she threw around the square. Lupin flung out his right arm.

    BANG.

    A violently purple, triple-decker bus had appeared out of thin air in front of them, narrowly avoiding the nearest lamppost, which jumped backwards out of its way.

    A thin, pimply, jug-eared youth in a purple uniform leapt down on to the pavement and said, 'Welcome to the - '

    'Yes, yes, we know, thank you,' said Tonks swiftly. 'On, on, get on - '

    And she shoved Harry forwards towards the steps, past the conductor, who goggled at Harry as he passed.

    "Ere - it's 'Any - '!'

    'If you shout his name I will curse you into oblivion,' muttered Tonks menacingly, now shunting Ginny and Hermione forwards.

    'I've always wanted to go on this thing,' said Ron happily, joining Harry on board and looking around.

    It had been evening the last time Harry had travelled by Knight Bus and its three decks had been full of brass bedsteads. Now, in the early morning, it was crammed with an assortment of mismatched chairs grouped haphazardly around windows. Some of these appeared to have fallen over when the bus stopped abruptly in Grimmauld Place; a few witches and wizards were still getting to their feet, grumbling, and somebody's shopping bag had slid the length of the bus: an unpleasant mixture of frogspawn, cockroaches and custard creams was scattered all over the floor.

    'Looks like we'll have to split up,' said Tonks briskly, looking a.round for empty chairs. 'Fred, George and Ginny, if you just take those seats at the back . . . Remus can stay with you.'

    She, Harry, Ron and Hermione proceeded up to the very top deck, where there were two unoccupied chairs at the very front of the bus and two at the back. Stan Shunpike, the conductor, followed Harry and Ron eagerly to the back. Heads turned as Harry passed and, when he sat down, he saw all the faces flick back to the front again.

    As Harry and Ron handed Stan eleven Sickles each, the bus set off again, swaying ominously. It rumbled around Grimmauld Place, v/eaving on and off the pavement, then, with another tremendous BANG, they were all flung backwards; Ron's chair toppled right over and Pigwidgeon, who had been on his lap, burst out of his cage and flew twittering wildly up to the front of the bus where he fluttered down on to Hermione s shoulder instead. Harry, who had narrowly avoided falling by seizing a candle bracket, looked out of the window: they were now speeding down what appeared to be a motorway.

    'Just outside Birmingham,' said Stan happily, answering Harry's unasked question as Ron struggled up from the floor. 'You keepin' well, then, 'Any? I seen your name in the paper loads over the sammer, but it weren't never nuflink very nice. I said to Ern, I said, 'e didn't seem like a nutter when we met 'im, just goes to siow, dunnit?'

    He handed over their tickets and continued to gaze, enthralled, at Harry. Apparently, Stan did not care how nutty somebody was, if they were famous enough to be in the paper. The Knight Bus swayed alarmingly, overtaking a line of cars on the inside. Looking towards the front of the bus, Harry saw Hermione cover her eyes with her hands, Pigwidgeon swaying happily on her shoulder.

    BANG.

    Chairs slid backwards again as the Knight Bus jumped from the Birmingham motorway to a quiet country lane full of hairpin bends. Hedgerows on either side of the road were leaping out of their way as they mounted the verges. From here they moved to a main street in the middle of a busy town, then to a viaduct surrounded by tall hills, then to a windswept road between high-rise flats, each time with a loud BANG.

    'I've changed my mind,' muttered Ron, picking himself up from the floor for the sixth time, 'I never want to ride on this thing again.'

    'Listen, it's 'Ogwarts stop after this,' said Stan brightly, swaying towards them. That bossy woman up front 'oo got on with you, she's given us a little tip to move you up the queue. We're just gonna let Madam Marsh off first, though - ' there was a retching sound from downstairs, followed by a horrible spattering noise - she's not feeling 'er best.'

    A few minutes later, the Knight Bus screeched to a halt outside a small pub, which squeezed itself out of the way to avoid a collision. They could hear Stan ushering the unfortunate Madam Marsh out of the bus and the relieved murmurings of her fellow passengers on the second deck. The bus moved on again, gathering speed, until - '

    BANG.

    They were rolling through a snowy Hogsmeade. Harry caught a glimpse of the Hog's Head down its side street, the severed boar's head sign creaking in the wintry wind. Flecks of snow hit the large window at the front of the bus. At last they rolled to a halt outside the gates to Hogwarts.

    Lupin and Tonks helped them off the bus with their luggage, then got off to say goodbye. Harry glanced up at the three decks of the Knight Bus and saw all the passengers staring down at them, noses flat against the windows.

    'You'll be safe once you're in the grounds,' said Tonks, casting a careful eye around at the deserted road. 'Have a good term, OK?'

    'Look after yourselves,' said Lupin, shaking hands all round and reaching Harry last. 'And listen . . .' he lowered his voice while the rest of them exchanged last-minute goodbyes with Tonks, 'Harry, I know you don't like Snape, but he is a superb Occlumens and we all - Sirius included - want you to learn to protect yourself, so work hard, all right?'

    'Yeah, all right,' said Harry heavily, looking up into Lupin's prematurely lined face. 'See you, then.'

    The six of them struggled up the slippery drive towards the castle, dragging their trunks. Hermione was already talking about knitting a few elf hats before bedtime. Harry glanced back when they reached the oaken front doors; the Knight Bus had already gone and he half-wished, given what was coming the following evening, that he was still on board.

*

Harry spent most of the next day dreading the evening. His morning double-Potions lesson did nothing to dispel his trepidation, as Snape was as unpleasant as ever. His mood was further lowered by the DA members constantly approaching him in the corridors between classes, asking hopefully if there would be a meeting that night.

    'I'll let you know in the usual way when the next one is,' Harry said over and over again, 'but I can't do it tonight, I've got to go to - er - remedial Potions.'

    'You take remedial Potions?' asked Zacharias Smith superciliously, having cornered Harry in the Entrance Hall after lunch. 'Good Lord, you must be terrible. Snape doesn't usually give extra lessons, does he?'

    As Smith strode away in an annoyingly buoyant fashion, Ron g'.ared after him.

    'Shall I jinx him? I can still get him from here,' he said, raising his wand and taking aim between Smith's shoulder blades.

    'Forget it,' said Harry dismally. 'It's what everyone's going to think, isn't it? That I'm really stup - '

    'Hi, Harry,' said a voice behind him. He turned round and found Cho standing there.

    'Oh,' said Harry as his stomach leapt uncomfortably. 'Hi.'

    'We'll be in the library, Harry,' said Hermione firmly as she seized Ron above the elbow and dragged him off towards the marble staircase.

    'Had a good Christmas?' asked Cho.

    'Yeah, not bad,' said Harry.

    'Mine was pretty quiet,' said Cho. For some reason, she was looking rather embarrassed. 'Erm . . . there's another Hogsmeade trip next month, did you see the notice?'

    'What? Oh, no, I haven't checked the noticeboard since I got back.'

    'Yes, it's on Valentines Day . . .'

    'Right,' said Harry, wondering why she was telling him this. 'Well, I suppose you want to - ?'

    'Only if you do,' she said eagerly.

    Harry stared. He had been about to say, 'I suppose you want to know when the next DA meeting is?' but her response did not seem to fit.

    'I - er - ' he said.

    'Oh, it's OK if you don't,' she said, looking mortified. 'Don't worry. I - I'll see you around.'

    She walked away. Harry stood staring after her, his brain working frantically. Then something clunked into place.

    'Cho! Hey - CHO!'

    He ran after her, catching her halfway up the marble staircase.

    'Er - d'you want to come into Hogsmeade with me on Valentine s Day?'

    'Oooh, yes!' she said, blushing crimson and beaming at him.

    'Right . . . well . . . that's settled then,' said Harry, and feeling that the day was not going to be a complete loss after all, he virtually bounced off to the library to pick up Ron and Hermione before their afternoon lessons.

    By six o'clock that evening, however, even the glow of having successfully asked out Cho Chang could not lighten the ominous feelings that intensified with every step Harry took towards Snape's office.

    He paused outside the door when he reached it, wishing he were almost anywhere else, then, taking a deep breath, he knocked and entered.

    The shadowy room was lined with shelves bearing hundreds of glass jars in which slimy bits of animals and plants were suspended in variously coloured potions. In one corner stood the cupboard full of ingredients that Snape had once accused Harry - not without reason - of robbing. Harry's attention was drawn towards the desk, however, where a shallow stone basin engraved with runes and symbols lay in a pool of candlelight. Harry recognised it at once - it was Dumbledore's Pensieve. Wondering what on earth it was doing there, he jumped when Snape's cold voice came out of the shadows.

    'Shut the door behind you, Potter.'

    Harry did as he was told, with the horrible feeling that he was imprisoning himself. When he turned back into the room, Snape had moved into the light and was pointing silently at the chair opposite his desk. Harry sat down and so did Snape, his cold black eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Harry, dislike etched in every line of his face.

    'Well, Potter, you know why you are here,' he said. 'The Headmaster has asked me to teach you Occlumency. I can only hope that you prove more adept at it than at Potions.'

    'Right,' said Harry tersely.

    This may not be an ordinary class, Potter,' said Snape, his eyes narrowed malevolently, 'but I am still your teacher and you will therefore call me "sir" or "Professor" at all times.'

    'Yes . . . sir,' said Harry.

    Snape continued to survey him through narrowed eyes for a moment, then said, 'Now, Occlumency. As I told you back in your dear godfather's kitchen, this branch of magic seals the mind against magical intrusion and influence.'

    'And why does Professor Dumbledore think I need it, sir?' said Harry looking directly into Snape's eyes and wondering whether Snape would answer.

    Snape looked back at him for a moment and then said contemptuously, 'Surely even you could have worked that out by now, Potter? The Dark Lord is highly skilled at Legilimency - '

    'What's that? Sir?'

    'It is the ability to extract feelings and memories from another person's mind - '

    'He can read minds?' said Harry quickly, his worst fears confirmed.

    'You have no subtlety, Potter,' said Snape, his dark eyes glit-te'ing. 'You do not understand fine distinctions. It is one of the shortcomings that makes you such a lamentable potion-maker.'

    Snape paused for a moment, apparently to savour the pleasure of insulting Harry, before continuing.

    'Only Muggles talk of "mind-reading". The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader, ihe mind is a complex and many-layered thing, Potter - or at least, most minds are.' He smirked. 'It is true, however, that those who have mastered Legilimency are able, under certain conditions, to delve into the minds of their victims and to interpret their findings correctly. The Dark Lord, for instance, almost always knows when somebody is lying to him. Only those skilled at Occlumency are able to shut down those feelings and memories that contradict the lie, and so can utter falsehoods in his presence without detection.'

    Whatever Snape said, Legilimency sounded like mind-reading to Harry, and he didn't like the sound of it at all.

    'So he could know what we're thinking right now? Sir?'

    The Dark Lord is at a considerable distance and the walls and grounds of Hogwarts are guarded by many ancient spells and charms to ensure the bodily and mental safety of those who dwell within them,' said Snape. Time and space matter in magic, Potter. Eye contact is often essential to Legilimency.'

    'Well then, why do I have to learn Occlumency?'

    Snape eyed Harry, tracing his mouth with one long, thin finger as he did so.

    The usual rules do not seem to apply with you, Potter. The curse that failed to kill you seems to have forged some kind of connection between you and the Dark Lord. The evidence suggests that at times, when your mind is most relaxed and vulnerable - when you are asleep, for instance - you are sharing the Dark Lord's thoughts and emotions. The Headmaster thinks it inadvisable for this to continue. He wishes me to teach you how to close your mind to the Dark Lord.'

    Harry's heart was pumping fast again. None of this added up.

    'But why does Professor Dumbledore want to stop it?' he asked abruptly. 'I don't like it much, but it's been useful, hasn't it? I mean . . . I saw that snake attack Mr Weasley and if I hadn't, Professor Dumbledore wouldn't have been able to save him, would he? Sir?'

    Snape stared at Harry for a few moments, still tracing his mouth with his finger. When he spoke again, it was slowly and deliberately, as though he weighed every word.

    'It appears that the Dark Lord has bee a unaware of the connection between you and himself until very recently. Up till now it seems that you have been experiencing his emotions, and sharing his thoughts, without his being any the wiser. However, the vision you had shortly before Christmas - '

    The one with the snake and Mr Weasley?'

    'Do not interrupt me, Potter,' said Snape in a dangerous voice. 'As I was saying, the vision you had shortly before Christmas represented such a powerful incursion upon the Dark Lord's thoughts -

    'I saw inside the snake's head, not his!'

    'I thought I just told you not to interrupt me, Potter?'

    But Harry did not care if Snape was angry; at last he seemed to be getting to the bottom of this business; he had moved forwards in his chair so that, without realising it, he was perched on the very edge, tense as though poised for flight.

    'How come I saw through the snake's eyes if it's Voldemort's thoughts I'm sharing?'

    'Do not say the Dark Lord's name!' spat Snape.

    There was a nasty silence. They glared at each other across the Pensieve.

    'Professor Dumbledore says his name.' said Harry quietly.

    'Dumbledore is an extremely powerful wizard,' Snape muttered. 'While he may feel secure enough to use the name . . . the rest of us . . .' He rubbed his left forearm, apparently unconsciously, on the spot where Harry knew the Dark Mark was burned into his skin.

    'I just wanted to know,' Harry began again, forcing his voice back to politeness, 'why - '

    'You seem to have visited the snake's mind because that was where the Dark Lord was at that particular moment,' snarled Snape. 'He was possessing the snake at the time and so you dreamed you were inside it, too.'

    'And Vol - he - realised I was there?'

    'It seems so,' said Snape coolly.

    'How do you know?' said Harry urgently. 'Is this just Professor Dumbledore guessing, or - ?'

    'I told you,' said Snape, rigid in his chair, his eyes slits, 'to call me "sir".

    'Yes, sir,' said Harry impatiently, 'but how do you know - '?

    'It is enough that we know,' said Snape repressively. The important point is that the Dark Lord is now aware that you are gaining access to his thoughts and feelings. He has also deduced that the process is likely to work in reverse; that is to say, he has realised that he might be able to access your thoughts and feelings in return - '

    'And he might try and make me do things?' asked Harry. 'Sir?' he added hurriedly.

    'He might,' said Snape, sounding cold and unconcerned. 'Which brings us back to Occlumency.'

    Snape pulled out his wand from an inside pocket of his robes and Harry tensed in his chair, but Snape merely raised the wand to his temple and placed its tip into the greasy roots of his hair. When he withdrew it, some silvery substance came away, stretching from temple to wand like a thick gossamer strand, which broke as he pulled the wand away from it and fell gracefully into the Pensieve, where it swirled silvery-white, neither gas nor liquid. Twice more, Snape raised the wand to his temple and deposited the silvery substance into the stone basin, then, without offering any explanation of his behaviour, he picked up the Pensieve carefully, removed it to a shelf out of their way and returned to face Harry with his wand held at the ready.

    'Stand up and take out your wand, Potter.'

    Harry got to his feet, feeling nervous. They faced each other with the desk between them.

    'You may use your wand to attempt to disarm me, or defend yourself in any other way you can think of,' said Snape.

    'And what are you going to do?' Harry asked, eyeing Snape's wand apprehensively.

    'I am about to attempt to break into your mind,' said Snape softly. 'We are going to see how well you resist. I have been told that you have already shown aptitude at resisting the Imperius Curse. You will find that similar powers are needed for this . . . brace yourself, now. Legilimens!'

    Snape had struck before Harry was ready, before he had even begun to summon any force of resistance. The office swam in front of his eyes and vanished; image after image was racing through his mind like a flickering film so vivid it blinded him to his surroundings.

    He was five, watching Dudley riding a new red bicycle, and his heart was bursting with jealousy . . . he was nine, and Ripper the bulldog was chasing him up a tree and the Dursleys were laughing below on the lawn . . . he was sitting under the Sorting Hat, and it was telling him he would do well in Slytherin . . . Hermione was lying in the hospital wing, her face covered with thick black hair . . . a hundred Dementors were closing in on him beside the dark lake . . . Cho Chang was drawing nearer to him under the mistletoe . . .

    No, said a voice inside Harry's head, as the memory of Cho drew nearer, you're not watching that, you're not watching it, it's private - '

    He felt a sharp pain in his knee. Snape's office had come back into view and he realised that he had fallen to the floor; one of his knees had collided painfully with the leg of Snape's desk. He looked up at Snape, who had lowered his wand and was rubbing his wrist. There was an angry weal there, like a scorch mark.

    'Did you mean to produce a Stinging Hex?' asked Snape coolly.

    'No,' said Harry bitterly, getting up from the floor.

    'I thought not,' said Snape, watching him closely. 'You let me get in too far. You lost control.'

    'Did you see everything I saw?' Harry asked, unsure whether he wanted to hear the answer.

    'Flashes of it,' said Snape, his lip curling. To whom did the dog belong?'

    'My Aunt Marge,' Harry muttered, hating Snape.

    'Well, for a first attempt that was not as poor as it might have been,' said Snape, raising his wand once more. 'You managed to stop me eventually, though you wasted time and energy shouting. You must remain focused. Repel me with your brain and you will not need to resort to your wand.'

    'I'm trying,' said Harry angrily, 'but you're not telling me how!'

    'Manners, Potter,' said Snape dangerously. 'Now, I want you to close your eyes.'

    Harry threw him a filthy look before doing as he was told. He did not like the idea of standing there with his eyes shut while Snape faced him, carrying a wand.

    'Clear your mind, Potter,' said Snape's cold voice. 'Let go of all emotion . . .'

    But Harry's anger at Snape continued to pound through his veins like venom. Let go of his anger? He could as easily detach his legs . . .

    'You're not doing it, Potter . . . you will need more discipline than this . . . focus, now . . .'

    Harry tried to empty his mind, tried not to think, or remember, or feel . . .

    'Let's go again . . . on the count of three . . . one - two - three - 'Legilimens!'

    A great black dragon was rearing in front of him . . . his father and mother were waving at him out of an enchanted mirror . . . Cedric Diggory was lying on the ground with blank eyes staring at him . . .

    'NOOOOOOO!'

    Harry was on his knees again, his face buried in his hands, his brain aching as though someone had been trying to pull it from his skull.

    'Get up!' said Snape sharply. 'Get up! You are not trying, you are making no effort. You are allowing me access to memories you fear, handing me weapons!'

    Harry stood up again, his heart thumping wildly as though he had really just seen Cedric dead in the graveyard. Snape looked paler than usual, and angrier, though not nearly as angry as Harry was.

    'I - am - making - an - effort,' he said through clenched teeth.

    'I told you to empty yourself of emotion!'

    'Yeah? Well, I'm finding that hard at the moment,' Harry snarled.

    Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord!' said Snape savagely. 'Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked so easily - weak people, in other words - they stand no chance against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with absurd ease, Potter!'

    'I am not weak,' said Harry in a low voice, fury now pumping through him so that he thought he might attack Snape in a moment.

    'Then prove it! Master yourself!' spat Snape. 'Control your anger, discipline your mind! We shall try again! Get ready, now! Legilimens!'

    He was watching Uncle Vernon hammering the letterbox shut . . . a hundred Dementors were drifting across the lake in the grounds towards him . . . he was running along a windowless passage with Mr Weasley . . . they were drawing nearer to the plain black door at the end of the corridor . . . Harry expected to go through it . . . but Mr Weasley led him off to the left, down a flight of stone steps . . .

    'I KNOW! I KNOW!'

    He was on all fours again on Snape's office floor, his scar was prickling unpleasantly, but the voice that had just issued from his mouth was triumphant. He pushed himself up again to find Snape storing at him, his wand raised. It looked as though, this time, Snape had lifted the spell before Harry had even tried to fight back.

    'What happened then, Potter?' he asked, eyeing Harry intently.

    'I saw - I remembered,' Harry panted. 'I've just realised . . .'

    'Realised what?' asked Snape sharply.

    Harry did not answer at once; he was still savouring the moment of blinding realisation as he rubbed his forehead . . .

    He had been dreaming about a windowless corridor ending in a locked door for months, without once realising that it was a real place. Now, seeing the memory again, he knew that all along he had been dreaming about the corridor down which he had run with Mr Weasley on the twelfth of August as they hurried to the courtrooms in the Ministry; it was the corridor leading to the Department of Mysteries and Mr Weasley had been there the night that he had been attacked by Voldemort's snake.

    He looked up at Snape.

    'What's in the Department of Mysteries?'

    'What did you say?' Snape asked quietly and Harry saw, with deep satisfaction, that Snape was unnerved.

    'I said, what's in the Department of Mysteries, sir?' Harry said.

    'And why,' said Snape slowly, 'would you ask such a thing?'

    'Because,' said Harry, watching Snape's face closely, 'that corridor I've just seen - I've been dreaming about it for montns - I've just recognised it - it leads to the Department of Mysteries . . . and I think Voldemort wants something from - '

    'I have told you not to say the Dark Lord's name!'

    They glared at each other. Harry's scar seared again, but he did not care. Snape looked agitated; but when he spoke again he sounded as though he was trying to appear cool and unconcerned.

    There are many things in the Department of Mysteries, Potter, few of which you would understand and none of which concern you. Do I make myself plain?'

    'Yes,' Harry said, still rubbing his prickling scar, which was becoming more painful.

    'I want you back here same time on Wednesday. We will continue work then.'

    'Fine,' said Harry. He was desperate to get out of Snape's office and find Ron and Hermione.

    'You are to rid your mind of all emotion every night before sleep; empty it, make it blank and calm, you understand?'

    'Yes,' said Harry, who was barely listening.

    'And be warned, Potter . . . I shall know if you have not practised . . .'

    'Right,' Harry mumbled. He picked up his schoolbag, swung it over his shoulder and hurried towards the office door. As he opened it, he glanced back at Snape, who had his back to Harry and was scooping his own thoughts out of the Pensieve with the tip of his wand and replacing them carefully inside his own head. Harry left without another word, closing the door carefully behind him, his scar still throbbing painfully.

    Harry found Ron and Hermione in the library, where they were working on Umbridge's most recent ream of homework. Other students, nearly all of them fifth-years, sat at lamp-lit tables nearby, noses close to books, quills scratching feverishly, while the sky outside the mullioned windows grew steadily blacker. The only other sound was the slight squeaking of one of Madam Pince's shoes, as the librarian prowled the aisles menacingly, breathing down the necks of those touching her precious books.

    Harry felt shivery; his scar was still aching, he felt almost feverish.

    When he sat down opposite Ron and Hermione, he caught sight of himself in the window opposite; he was very white and his scar seemed to be showing up more clearly than usual.

    'How did it go?' Hermione whispered, and then, looking concerned. 'Are you all right, Harry?'

    'Yeah . . . fine . . . I dunno,' said Harry impatiently, wincing as pain shot through his scar again. 'Listen . . . I've just realised something . . .'

    And he told them what he had just seen and deduced.

    'So . . . so are you saying . . .' whispered Ron, as Madam Pince swept past, squeaking slightly 'that the weapon - the thing You-Know-Who's after - is in the Ministry of Magic?'

    'In the Department of Mysteries, it's got to be,' Harry whispered. 'I saw that door when your dad took me down to the courtrooms for my hearing and it's definitely the same one he was guarding when the snake bit him.'

    Hermione let out a long, slow sigh.

    'Of course,' she breathed.

    'Of course what?' said Ron rather impatiently.

    'Ron, think about it. . . Sturgis Podmore was trying to get through a door at the Ministry of Magic . . . it must have been that one, it's too much of a coincidence!'

    'How come Sturgis was trying to break in when he's on our side?' said Ron.

    'Well, I don't know,' Hermione admitted. That is a bit odd . . .'

    'So what's in the Department of Mysteries?' Harry asked Ron. 'Has your dad ever mentioned anything about it?'

    'I know they call the people who work in there "Unspeakables",' said Ron, frowning. 'Because no one really seems to know what they do - weird place to have a weapon.'

    'It's not weird at all, it makes perfect sense,' said Hermione. 'It will be something top secret that the Ministry has been developing, I expect . . . Harry, are you sure you're all right?'

    For Harry had just run both his hands hard over his forehead as though trying to iron it.

    'Yeah . . . fine . . .' he said, lowering his hands, which were trembling. 'I just feel a bit . . . I don't like Occlumency much.'

    I expect anyone would feel snaky if they'd had their mind attacked over and over again,' said Hermione sympathetically. 'Look, let's get back to the common room, we'll be a bit more comfortable there.'

    But the common room was packed and full of shrieks of laughter and excitement; Fred and George were demonstrating their latest bit of joke shop merchandise.

    'Headless Hats!' shouted George, as Fred waved a pointed hat decorated with a fluffy pink feather at the watching students. Two Galleons each, watch Fred, now!'

    Fred swept the hat on to his head, beaming. For a second he merely looked rather stupid; then both hat and head vanished.

    Several girls screamed, but everyone else was roaring with laughter.

    'And off again!' shouted George, and Fred's hand groped for a moment in what seemed to be thin air over his shoulder; then his head reappeared as he swept the pink-feathered hat from it.

    'How do those hats work, then?' said Hermione, distracted from her homework and watching Fred and George closely. 'I mean, obviously it's some kind of Invisibility Spell, but it's rather clever to have extended the field of invisibility beyond the boundaries of the charmed object . . . I'd imagine the charm wouldn't have a very long life though.'

    Harry did not answer; he was feeling ill.

    'I'm going to have to do this tomorrow,' he muttered, pushing the books he had just taken out of his bag back inside it.

    'Well, write it in your homework planner then!' said Hermione encouragingly. 'So you don't forget!'

    Harry and Ron exchanged looks as he reached into his bag, withdrew the planner and opened it tentatively.

    'Don't leave it till later, you big second-rater!' chided the book as Harry scribbled down Umbridge's homework. Hermione beamed at it.

    'I think I'll go to bed,' said Harry, stuffing the homework planner back into his bag and making a mental note to drop it in the fire the first opportunity he got.

    He walked across the common room, dodging George, who tried to put a Headless Hat on him, and reached the peace and cool of the stone staircase to the boys' dormitories. He was feeling sick again, just as he had the night he had had the vision of the snake, but thought that if he could just lie down for a while he would be all right.

    He opened the door of his dormitory and was one step inside it when he experienced pain so severe he thought that someone must have sliced into the top of his head. He did not know where be was, whether he was standing or lying down, he did not even know his own name.

    Maniacal laughter was ringing in his ears . . . he was happier than he had been in a very long time . . . jubilant, ecstatic, triumphant . . . a wonderful, wonderful thing had happened . . .

    'Harry? HARRY!'

    Someone had hit him around the face. The insane laughter was punctuated with a cry of pain. The happiness was draining out of him, but the laughter continued . . .

    He opened his eyes and, as he did so, he became aware that the wild laughter was coming out of his own mouth. The moment he realised this, it died away; Harry lay panting on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, the scar on his forehead throbbing horribly. Ron was bending over him, looking very worried.

    'What happened?' he said.

    'I . . . dunno . . .' Harry gasped, sitting up again. 'He's really happy . . . really happy . . .'

    'You-Know-Who is?'

    'Something good's happened,' mumbled Harry. He was shaking as badly as he had done after seeing the snake attack Mr Weasley and felt very sick. 'Something he's been hoping for.'

    The words came, just as they had back in the Gryffindor changing room, as though a stranger was speaking them through Harry's mouth, yet he knew they were true. He took deep breaths, willing himself not to vomit all over Ron. He was very glad that Dean and Seamus were not here to watch this time.

    'Hermione told me to come and check on you,' said Ron in a low voice, helping Harry to his feet. 'She says your defences will be low at the moment, after Snape's been fiddling around with your mind . . . still, I suppose it'll help in the long run, won't it?' He looked doubtfully at Harry as he helped him towards his bed. Harry nodded without any conviction and slumped back on his pillows, aching all over from having fallen to the floor so often that evening, his scar still prickling painfully. He could not help feeling that his first foray into Occlumency had weakened his mind's resistance rather than strengthening it, and he wondered, with a feeling of great trepidation, what had happened to make Lord Voldemort the happiest he had been in fourteen years.

 Chapter Twenty-five   

The Beetle at Bay

Harry's question was answered the very next morning. When Hermione's Daily Prophet arrived she smoothed it out, gazed for a moment at the front page and gave a yelp that caused everyone in the vicinity to stare at her.

    'What?' said Harry and Ron together.

    For answer she spread the newspaper on the table in front of them and pointed at ten black-and-white photographs that filled the whole of the front page, nine showing wizards' faces and the tenth, a witch's. Some of the people in the photographs were silently jeering; others were tapping their fingers on the frame of their pictures, looking insolent. Each picture was captioned with a name and the crime for which the person had been sent to Azkaban.

    Antonin Dolohov, read the legend beneath a wizard with a long, pale, twisted face who was sneering up at Harry convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett.

    Algernon Rookwood, said the caption beneath a pockmarked man with greasy hair who was leaning against the edge of his picture, looking bored, convicted of leaking Ministry of Magic secrets to He Who Must Not Be Named.

    But Harry's eyes were drawn to the picture of the witch. Her face had leapt out at him the moment he had seen the page. She had long, dark hair that looked unkempt and straggly in the picture, though he had seen it sleek, thick and shining. She glared up at him through heavily lidded eyes, an arrogant, disdainful smile playing around her thin mouth. Like Sirius, she retained vestiges of great good looks, but something - perhaps Azkaban - had taken most of her beauty.

    Bellatrix Lestrange, convicted of the torture and permanent mca-pacitation of Frank and Alice LongbotWm.

    Hermione nudged Harry and pointed at the headline over the pictures, which Harry, concentrating on Bellatrix, had not yet read.

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN

MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS 'RALLYING POINT'

FOR OLD DEATH EATERS

'Black?' said Harry loudly. 'Not - ?'

    'Shhh!' whispered Hermione desperately. 'Not so loud - 'just read it!'

The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban.

    Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, confirmed that ten high-security prisoners escaped in the early hours of yesterday evening and that he has already informed the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of these individuals.

    'We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the same position we were two and a half years ago when the murderer Sirius Black escaped,' said Fudge last night. 'Nor do we think the two breakouts are unrelated. An escape of this magnitude suggests outside help, and we must remember that Black, as the first person ever to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to help others follow in his footsteps. We think it likely that these individuals, who include Black's cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, have rallied around Black as their leader. We are, however, doing all we can to round up the criminals, and we beg the magical community to remain alert and cautious. On no account should any of these individuals be approached.'

There you are, Harry,' said Ron, looking awestruck. That's why he was happy last night.'

    'I don't believe this,' snarled Harry, 'Fudge is blaming the breakout on Sirius?'

    'What other options does he have?' said Hermione bitterly. 'He can hardly say, "Sorry, everyone, Dumbledore warned me this might happen, the Azkaban guards have joined Lord Voldemort" - stop whimpering, Ron - "and now Voldemort's worst supporters have broken out, too." I mean, he's spent a good six months telling everyone you and Dumbledore are liars, hasn't he?'

    Hermione ripped open the newspaper and began to read the report inside while Harry looked around the Great Hall. He could not understand why his fellow students were not looking scared or at least discussing the terrible piece of news on the front page, but very few of them took the newspaper every day like Hermione. There they all were, talking about homework and Quidditch and who knew what other rubbish, when outside these walls ten more Death Eaters had swollen Voldemort's ranks.

    He glanced up at the staff table. It was a different story there: Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were deep in conversation, both looking extremely grave. Professor Sprout had the Prophet propped against a bottle of ketchup and was reading the front page with such concentration that she was not noticing the gentle drip o egg yolk falling into her lap from her stationary spoon. Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Professor Umbridge was tucking into a bowl of porridge. For once her pouchy toad's eyes were not sweeping the Great Hall looking for misbehaving students. She scowled as she gulped down her food and every now and then she shot a malevolent glance up the table to where Dumbledore and McGonagall were talking so intently.

    'Oh my - ' said Hermione wonderingly, still staring at the newspaper.

    'What now?' said Harry quickly; he was feeling jumpy.

    'It's . . . horrible,' said Hermione, looking shaken. She folded back page ten of the newspaper and handed it to Harry and Ron.

TRAGIC DEMISE OF MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER

St Mungo's Hospital promised a full inquiry last night after Ministry of Magic worker Broderich Bode, 49, was discovered dead in his bed, strangled by a pot plant. Healers called to the scene were unable to revive Mr Bode, who had been injured in a workplace accident some weeks prior to his death.

    Healer Miriam Strout, who was in charge of Mr Bodes ward at the time of the incident, has been suspended on full pay and was unavailable for comment yesterday, but a spokeswizard for the hospital said in a statement:

    'St Mungo's deeply regrets the death of Mr Bode, whose health was improving steadily prior to this tragic accident.

    'We have strict guidelines on the decorations permitted on our wards but it appears that Healer Strout, busy over the Christmas period, overlooked the dangers of the plant on Mr Bode's bedside table. As his speech and mobility improved, Healer Strout encouraged Mr Bode to look after the plant himself, unaware that it was not an innocent Flitterbloom, but a cutting of Devil's Snare which, when touched by the convalescent Mr Bode, throttled him instantly.

    'St Mungo's is as vet unable to account for the presence of the plant on the ward and asks any witch or wizard with information to come forward.'

'Bode . . .' said Ron. 'Bode. It rings a bell . . .'

    'We saw him,' Hermione whispered. In St Mungo's, remember? He was in the bed opposite Lockhart's, just lying there, staring at the ceiling. And we saw the Devil's Snare arrive. She - the Healer - said it was a Christmas present.'

    Harry looked back at the story. A feeling of horror was rising like bile in his throat.

    'How come we didn't recognise Devil's Snare? We've seen it before . . . we could've stopped this from happening.'

    'Who expects Devil's Snare to turn up in a hospital disguised as a pot plant?' said Ron sharply. 'It's not our fault, whoever sent it to the bloke is to blame! They must be a real prat, why didn't they check what they were buying?'

    'Oh, come on, Ron!' said Hermione shakily. 'I don't think anyone could put Devil's Snare in a pot and not realise it tries to kill whoever touches it? This - this was murder . . . a clever murder, as well . . . if the plant was sent anonymously, how's anyone ever going to find out who did it?'

    Harry was not thinking about Devil's Snare. He was remembering taking the lift down to the ninth level of the Ministry on the day of his hearing and the sallow-faced man who had got in on the Atrium level.

    'I met Bode,' he said slowly. 'I saw him at the Ministry with your dad.'

    Ron's mouth fell open.

    'I've heard Dad talk about him at home! He was an Unspeakable

    ' - he worked in the Department of Mysteries!'

    They looked at each other for a moment, then Hermione pulled the newspaper back towards her, closed it, glared for a moment at the pictures of the ten escaped Death Eaters on the front, then leapt to her feet.

    'Where are you going?' said Ron, startled.

    To send a letter,' said Hermione, swinging her bag on to her shoulder. 'It . . . well, I don't know whether . . . but it's worth trying . . . and I'm the only one who can.'

    'I hate it when she does that,' grumbled Ron, as he and Harry got up from the table and made their own, slower way out of the Great Hall. 'Would it kill her to tell us what she's up to for once? It'd take her about ten more seconds - hey, Hagrid!'

    Hagrid was standing beside the doors into the Entrance Hall, waiting for a crowd of Ravenclaws to pass. He was still as heavily bruised as he had been on the day he had come back from his mission to the giants and there was a new cut right across the bridge of his nose.

    'All righ', you two?' he said, trying to muster a smile but managing only a kind of pained grimace.

    'Are you OK, Hagrid?' asked Harry, following him as he lumbered after the Ravenclaws.

    'Fine, fine,' said Hagrid with a feeble assumption of airiness; he w aved a hand and narrowly missed concussing a frightened-looking Professor Vector, who was passing. 'Jus' busy, yeh know, usual stuff

    ' - lessons ter prepare - couple o' salamanders got scale rot - an' I'm on probation,' he mumbled.

    'You're on probation?' said Ron very loudly, so that many of the passing students looked around curiously. 'Sorry - I mean - you're on probation?' he whispered.

    'Yeah,' said Hagrid. ' 'S'no more'n I expected, ter tell yen the truth. Yeh migh' not've picked up on it, bu' that inspection didn' go too well, yeh know . . . anyway,' he sighed deeply. 'Bes' go an' rub a bit more chilli powder on them salamanders or their tails'll be hangin' off 'em next. See yeh, Harry . . . Ron . . .'

    He trudged away, out of the front doors and down the stone steps into the damp grounds. Harry watched him go, wondering how much more bad news he could stand.

*

The fact that Hagrid was now on probation became common knowledge within the school over the next few days, but to Harry's indignation, hardly anybody appeared to be upset about it; indeed, some people, Draco Malfoy prominent among them, seemed positively gleeful. As for the freakish death of an obscure Department of Mysteries employee in St Mungo's, Harry, Ron and Hermione seemed to be the only people who knew or cared. There was only one topic of conversation in the corridors now: the ten escaped Death Eaters, whose story had finally filtered through the school from those few people who read the newspapers. Rumours were flying that some of the convicts had been spotted in Hogsmeade, that they were supposed to be hiding out in the Shrieking Shack and that they were going to break into Hogwarts, just as Sirius Black had once done.

    Those who came from wizarding families had grown up hearing the names of these Death Eaters spoken with almost as much fear as Voldemorts; the crimes they had committed during the days of Voldemort's reign of terror were legendary. There were relatives cf their victims among the Hogwarts students, who now found themselves the unwilling objects of a gruesome sort of reflected fame as they walked the corridors: Susan Bones, whose uncle, aunt and cousins had all died at the hands of one of the ten, said miserably during Herbology that she now had a good idea what it felt like to be Harry.

    'And I don't know how you stand it - it's horrible,' she said bluntly, dumping far too much dragon manure on her tray of Screechsnap seedlings, causing them to wriggle and squeak in discomfort.

    It was true that Harry was the subject of much renewed muttering and pointing in the corridors these days, yet he thought he detected a slight difference in the lone of the whisperers' voices. They sounded curious rather than hostile now, and once or twice he was sure he overheard snatches of conversation that, suggested that the speakers were not satisfied with the Prophet's version of how and why ten Death Eaters had managed to break out of the Azkaban fortress. In their confusion and fear, these doubters now seemed to be turning to the only other explanation available to them: the one that Harry and Dumbledore had been expounding since the previous year.

    It was not only the students' mood that had changed. It was now quite common to come across two or three teachers conversing in low, urgent whispers in the corridors, breaking off their conversations the moment they saw students approaching.

    They obviously can't talk freely in the staff room any more,' said Hermione in a low voice, as she, Harry and Ron passed Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Sprout huddled together outside the Charms classroom one day. 'Not with Umbridge there.'

    'Reckon they know anything new?' said Ron, gazing back over his shoulder at the three teachers.

    'If they do, we're not going to hear about it, are we?' said Harry angrily. 'Not after Decree . . . what number are we on now?' For new notices had appeared on the house noticeboards the morning after news of the Azkaban breakout:

BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS

Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any information

that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach.

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree

Number Twenty-six.

Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor

This latest Decree had been the subject of a great number of jokes among the students. Lee Jordan had pointed out to Umbridge that by the terms of the new rule she was not allowed to tell Fred and George off for playing Exploding Snap in the back of the class.

    'Exploding Snap's got nothing to do with Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor! That's not information relating to your subject!'

    When Harry next saw Lee, the back of his hand was bleeding rather badly. Harry recommended essence of Murtlap.

    Harry had thought the breakout from Azkaban might have humbled Umbridge a little, that she might have been abashed at the catastrophe that had occurred right under the nose of her beloved Fudge. It seemed, however, to have only intensified her furious desire to bring every aspect of life at Hogwarts under her personal control. She seemed determined at the very least to achieve a sacking before long, and the only question was whether it would be Professor Trelawney or Hagrid who went first.

    Every single Divination and Care of Magical Creatures lesson was now conducted in the presence of Umbridge and her clipboard. She lurked by the fire in the heavily perfumed tower room, interrupting Professor Trelawney's increasingly hysterical talks with difficult questions about ornithomancy and heptomology, insisting that she predicted students' answers before they gave them and demanding that she demonstrate her skill at the crystal ball, the tea leaves and the rune stones in turn. Harry thought Professor Trelawney might soon crack under the strain. Several times he passed her in the corridors - in itself a very unusual occurrence as she generally remained in her tower room - muttering wildly to herself, wringing her hands and shooting terrified glances over her shoulder, and all the while giving off a powerful smell of cooking sherry. If he had not been so worried about Hagrid, he would have felt sorry for her - but if one of them was to be ousted from their job, there could be only one choice for Harry as to who should remain.

    Unfortunately, Harry could not see that Hagrid was putting up a better show than Trelawney. Though he seemed to be following Hermione's advice and had shown them nothing more frightening than a Crup - a creature indistinguishable from a Jack Russell terrier except for its forked tail - since before Christmas, he too seemed to have lost his nerve. He was oddly distracted and jumpy during lessons, losing the thread of what he was saying to the class, answering questions wrongly, and all the time glancing anxiously at Umbridge. He was also more distant with Harry, Ron and Hermione than he had ever been before, and had expressly forbidden them to visit him after dark.

    'If she catches yeh, it'll be all of our necks on the line,' he told ;:hem flatly, and with no desire to do anything that might jeopardise his job further they abstained from walking down to his hut :.n the evenings.

    It seemed to Harry that Umbridge was steadily depriving him of everything that made his life at Hogwarts worth living: visits to Hagrid's house, letters from Sirius, his Firebolt and Quidditch. He took his revenge the only way he could - by redoubling his efforts for the DA.

    Harry was pleased to see that all of them, even Zacharias Smith, had been spurred on to work harder than ever by the news that ten more Death Eaters were now on the loose, but in nobody was this improvement more pronounced than in Neville. The news of his parents' attackers' escape had wrought a strange and even slightly alarming change in him. He had not once mentioned his meeting with Harry, Ron and Hermione on the closed ward in St Mungo's and, taking their lead from him, they had kept quiet about it too. Nor had he said anything on the subject of Bellatrix and her fellow torturers' escape. In fact, Neville barely spoke during the DA meetings any more, but worked relentlessly on every new jinx and counter-curse Harry taught them, his plump face screwed up in concentration, apparently indifferent to injuries or accidents and working harder than anyone else in the room. He was improving so fast it was quite unnerving and when Harry taught them, the Shield Charm - a means of deflecting minor jinxes so that they rebounded upon the attacker - only Hermione mastered the charm faster than Neville.

    Harry would have given a great deal to be making as much progress at Occlumency as Neville was making during the DA meetings. Harry's sessions with Snape, which had started badly enough, were not improving. On the contrary, Harry felt he was getting \vorse with every lesson.

    Before he had started studying Occlumency, his scar had prickled occasionally, usually during the night, or else following one of those strange flashes of Voldemort's thoughts or mood that he experienced every now and then. Nowadays, however, his scar hardly ever stopped prickling, and he often felt lurches of annoyance or cheerfulness that were unrelated to what was happening to him at the time, which were always accompanied by a particularly painful twinge from his scar. He had the horrible impression that he was slowly turning into a kind of aerial that was tuned in to tiny fluctuations in Voldemort's mood, and he was sure he could date this increased sensitivity firmly from his first Occlumency lesson with Snape. What was more, he was now dreaming about walking down the corridor towards the entrance to the Department of Mysteries almost every night, dreams which always culminated in him standing longingly in front of the plain black door.

    'Maybe it's a bit like an illness,' said Hermione, looking concerned when Harry confided in her and Ron. 'A fever or something. It has to get worse before it gets better.'

    The lessons with Snape are making it worse,' said Harry flatly 'I'm getting sick of my scar hurting and I'm getting bored with walking down that corridor every night.' He rubbed his forehead angrily. 'I just wish the door would open, I'm sick of standing staring at it - '

    That's not funny,' said Hermione sharply. 'Dumbledore doesn't want you to have dreams about that corridor at all, or he wouldn't have asked Snape to teach you Occlumency. You're just going to have to work a bit harder in your lessons.'

    'I am working!' said Harry, nettled. "You try it some time - Snape: trying to get inside your head - it's not a bundle of laughs, you know!'

    'Maybe . . .' said Ron slowly.

    'Maybe what?' said Hermione, rather snappishly.

    'Maybe it's not Harry's fault he can't close his mind,' said Ron darkly.

    'What do you mean?' said Hermione.

    'Well, maybe Snape isn't really trying to help Harry . . .'

    Harry and Hermione stared at him. Ron looked darkly and meaningfully from one to the other.

    'Maybe,' he said again, in a lower voice, 'he's actually trying to open Harry's mind a bit wider . . . make it easier for You-Know-

    'Shut up, Ron,' said Hermione angrily. 'How many times have you suspected Snape, and when have you ever been right? Dumbledore trusts him, he works for the Order, that ought to be enough.'

    'He used to be a Death Eater,' said Ron stubbornly. 'And we've never seen proof that he really swapped sides.'

    'Dumbledore trusts him,' Hermione repeated. 'And if we can't trust Dumbledore, we can't trust anyone.'

*

With so much to worry about and so much to do - startling amounts of homework that frequently kept the fifth-years working until past midnight, secret DA sessions and regular classes with Snape - 'January seemed to be passing alarmingly fast. Before Harry knew it, February had arrived, bringing with it wetter and warmer weather and the prospect of the second Hogsmeade visit of the year. Harry had had very little time to spare for conversations with Cho since they had agreed to visit the village together, but suddenly found himself facing a Valentine's Day spent entirely in her company.

    On the morning of the fourteenth he dressed particularly carefully. He and Ron arrived at breakfast just in time for the arrival of the post owls, Hedwig was not there - not that Harry had expected her - but Hermione was tugging a letter from the beak of an unfamiliar brown owl as they sat down.

    'And about time! If it hadn't come today . . .' she said, eagerly tearing open the envelope and pulling out a small piece of parchment. Her eyes sped from left to right as she read through the message and a grimly pleased expression spread across her face.

    'Listen, Harry,' she said, looking up at him, 'this is really important. Do you think you could meet me in the Three Broomsticks around midday?'

    'Well . . . I dunno,' said Harry uncertainly. 'Cho might be expecting me to spend the whole day with her. We never said what we were going to do.'

    Well, bring her along if you must,' said Hermione urgently. 'But will you come?'

    'Well . . . all right, but why?'

    'I haven't got time to tell you now, I've got to answer this quickly.'

    And she hurried out of the Great Hall, the letter clutched in one hand and a piece of toast in the other.

    'Are you coming?' Harry asked Ron, but he shook his head, looking glum.

    'I can't come into Hogsmeade at all; Angelina wants a full day's training. Like it's going to help; we're the worst team I've ever seen. You should see Sloper and Kirke, they're pathetic, even worse than I am.' He heaved a great sigh. 'I dunno why Angelina won't just let me resign.'

    It's because you're good when you're on form, that's why,' said Harry irritably.

    He found it very hard to be sympathetic to Ron's plight, when he himself would have given almost anything to be playing in the forthcoming match against Hufflepuff. Ron seemed to have noticed Harry's tone, because he did not mention Quidditch again during breakfast, and there was a slight frostiness in the way they said goodbye to each other shortly afterwards. Ron departed for the Quidditch pitch and Harry, after attempting to flatten his hair while staring at his reflection in the back of a teaspoon, proceeded alone to the Entrance Hall to meet Cho, feeling very apprehensive and wondering what on earth they were going to talk about.

    She was waiting for him a little to the side of the oak front doors, looking very pretty with her hair tied back in a long pony-tail. Harry's feet seemed to be too big for his body as he walked towards her and he was suddenly horribly aware of his arms and how stupid they must look swinging at his sides.

    'Hi,' said Cho slightly breathlessly.

    'Hi,' said Harry.

    They stared at each other for a moment, then Harry said, 'Well - er - shall we go, then?'

    'Oh - yes . . .'

    They joined the queue of people being signed out by Filch, occasionally catching each others eye and grinning shiftily, but not talking to each other. Harry was relieved when they reached the fresh air, finding it easier to walk along in silence than just stand about looking awkward. It was a fresh, breezy sort of a day and as they passed the Quidditch stadium Harry glimpsed Ron and

    Ginny skimming along over the stands and felt a horrible pang that he was not up there with them.

    'You really miss it, don't you?' said Cho.

    He looked round and saw her watching him.

    'Yeah,' sighed Harry. 'I do.'

    'Remember the first time we played against each other, in the third year?' she asked him.

    'Yeah,' said Harry, grinning. 'You kept blocking me.'

    'And Wood told you not to be a gentleman and knock me off my broom if you had to,' said Cho, smiling reminiscently. 'I heard he got taken on by Pride of Portree, is that right?'

    'Nah, it was Puddlemere United; I saw him at the World Cup last year.'

    'Oh, I saw you there, too, remember? We were on the same campsite. It was really good, wasn't it?'

    The subject of the Quidditch World Cup carried them all the way down the drive and out through the gates. Harry could hardly believe how easy it was to talk to her - no more difficult, in fact, than talking to Ron and Hermione - and he was just starting to feel confident and cheerful when a large gang of Slytherin girls passed them, including Pansy Parkinson.

    'Potter and Chang!' screeched Pansy, to a chorus of snide giggles. 'Urgh, Chang, I don't think much of your taste . . . at least Diggory was good-looking!'

    The girls sped up, talking and shrieking in a pointed fashion with many exaggerated glances back at Harry and Cho, leaving an embarrassed silence in their wake. Harry could think of nothing else to say about Quidditch, and Cho, slightly flushed, was watching her feet.

    'So . . . where d'you want to go?' Harry asked as they entered Hogsmeade. The High Street was full of students ambling up and down, peering into the shop windows and messing about together on the pavements.

    'Oh . . . I don't mind,' said Cho, shrugging. 'Urn . . . shall we just have a look in the shops or something?'

    They wandered towards Dervish and Banges. A large poster had been stuck up in the window and a few Hogsmeaders were looking at it. They moved aside when Harry and Cho approached and Harry found himself staring once more at the pictures of the ten escaped Death Eaters. The poster, 'By Order of the Ministry of Magic', offered a thousand-Galleon reward to any witch or wizard with information leading to the recapture of any of the convicts pictured.

    It's funny, isn't it,' said Cho in a low voice, gazing up at the pictures of the Death Eaters, 'remember when that Sirius Black escaped, and there were Dementors all over Hogsmeade looking for him? And now ten Death Eaters are on the loose and there are no Dementors anywhere . . .'

    'Yeah,' said Harry, tearing his eyes away from Bellatrix Lestrange's face to glance up and down the High Street. 'Yeah, that is weird.

    He wasn't sorry that there were no Dementors nearby, but now he came to think of it, their absence was highly significant. The) had not only let the Death Eaters escape, they weren't bothering to look for them . . . it looked as though they really were outside Ministry control now.

    The ten escaped Death Eaters were staring out of every shop window he and Cho passed. It started to rain as they passed. Scrivenshaft's; cold, heavy drops of water kept hitting Harry's face and the back of his neck.

    'Um . . . d'you want to get a coffee?' said Cho tentatively, as the rain began to fall more heavily.

    'Yeah, all right,' said Harry, looking around. 'Where?'

    'Oh, there's a really nice place just up here; haven't you ever been to Madam Puddifoot's?' she said brightly, leading him up a side road and into a small teashop that Harry had never noticed before. It was a cramped, steamy little place where everything seemed to have been decorated with frills or bows. Harry was reminded unpleasantly of Umbndge's office.

    'Cute, isn't it?' said Cho happily.

    'Er . . . yeah,' said Harry untruthfully.

    'Look, she's decorated it for Valentine's Day!' said Cho, indicating a number of golden cherubs that were hovering over each of the small, circular tables, occasionally throwing pink confetti over the occupants.

    'Aaah . . .'

    They sat down at the last remaining table, which was over by the steamy window. Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, was sitting about a foot and a half away with a pretty blonde girl. They were holding hands. The sight made Harry feel uncomfortable, particularly when, looking around the teashop, he saw that t was full of nothing but couples, all of them holding hands. Perhaps Cho would expect him to hold her hand.

    'What can I get you, m'dears?' said Madam Puddifoot, a very stout woman with a shiny black bun, squeezing between their table and Roger Davies's with great difficulty.

    Two coffees, please,' said Cho.

    In the time it took for their coffees to arrive, Roger Davies and his girlfriend had started kissing over their sugar bowl. Harry wished they wouldn't; he felt that Davies was setting a standard with which Cho would soon expect him to compete. He felt his face growing hot and tried staring out of the window, but it was so steamed up he couldn't see the street outside. To postpone the moment when he would have to look at Cho, he stared up at the ceiling as though examining the paintwork and received a handful of confetti in the face from their hovering cherub.

    After a few more painful minutes, Cho mentioned Umbridge. Harry seized on the subject with relief and they passed a few happy moments abusing her, but the subject had already been so thoroughly canvassed during DA meetings it did not last very long. Silence fell again. Harry was very conscious of the slurping noises coming from the table next door and cast wildly around for something else to say.

    'Er . . . listen, d'you want to come with me to the Three Broomsticks at lunchtime? I'm meeting Hermione Granger there.'

    Cho raised her eyebrows.

    'You're meeting Hermione Granger? Today?'

    'Yeah. Well, she asked me to, so I thought I would. D'you want to come with me? She said it wouldn't matter if you did.'

    'Oh . . . well . . . that was nice of her.'

    But Cho did not sound as though she thought it was nice at all. On the contrary, her tone was cold and all of a sudden she looked rather forbidding.

    A few more minutes passed in total silence, Harry drinking his coffee so fast that he would soon need a fresh cup. Beside them,

    Roger Davies and his girlfriend seemed glued together at the tips.

    Cho's hand was lying on the table beside her coffee and Harry was feeling a mounting pressure to take hold of it. Just do it, he told himself, as a fount of mingled panic and excitement surged up inside his chest, just reach out and grab it. Amazing, how much more difficult it was to extend his arm twelve inches and touch her hand than it was to snatch a speeding Snitch from midair . . .

    But just as he moved his hand forwards, Cho took hers off the table. She was now watching Roger Davies kissing his girlfriend with a mildly interested expression.

    'He asked me out, you know,' she said in a quiet voice. 'A couple: of weeks ago. Roger. I turned him down, though.'

    Harry, who had grabbed the sugar bowl to excuse his sudden lunging movement across the table, could not think why she was telling him this. If she wished she were sitting at the next table being heartily kissed by Roger Davies, why had she agreed to come: out with him?

    He said nothing. Their cherub threw another handful of confetti over them; some of it landed in the last cold dregs of coffee Harry had been about to drink.

    'I came in here with Cedric last year,' said Cho.

    In the second or so it took for him to take in what she had said, Harry's insides had become glacial. He could not believe she wanted to talk about Cedric now, while kissing couples surrounded them and a cherub floated over their heads.

    Cho's voice was rather higher when she spoke again.

    'I've been meaning to ask you for ages . . . did Cedric - did he - m - m - mention me at all before he died?'

    This was the very last subject on earth Harry wanted to discuss, and least of all with Cho.

    'Well - no - ' he said quietly. There - there wasn't time for him to say anything. Erm . . . so . . . d'you . . . d'you get to see a lot of Quidditch in the holidays? You support the Tornados, right?'

    His voice sounded falsely bright and cheery. To his horror, he saw that her eyes were swimming with tears again, just as they had been after the last DA meeting before Christmas.

    'Look,' he said desperately, leaning in so that nobody else could overhear, let's not talk about Cedric right now . . . let's talk about something else . . .'

    But this, apparently, was quite the wrong thing to say.

    'I thought,' she said, tears spattering down on to the table, 'I thought you'd u - u - understand! I need to talk about it! Surely you n - need to talk about it t - too! I mean, you saw it happen, d - didn't you?'

    Everything was going nightmarishly wrong; Roger Davies's girlfriend had even unglued herself to look round at Cho crying.

    'Well - I have talked about it,' Harry said in a whisper, 'to Ron and Hermione, but - '

    'Oh, you'll talk to Hermione Granger!' she said shrilly, her face now shining with tears. Several more kissing couples broke apart to stare. 'But you won't talk to me! P - perhaps it would be best if we just . . . just p - paid and you went and met up with Hermione G - Granger, like you obviously want to!'

    Harry stared at her, utterly bewildered, as she seized a frilly napkin and dabbed at her shining face with it.

    'Cho?' he said weakly, wishing Roger would seize his girlfriend and start kissing her again to stop her goggling at him and Cho.

    'Go on, leave!' she said, now crying into the napkin. 'I don't know why you asked me out in the first place if you're going to make arrangements to meet other girls right after me . . . how many ere you meeting after Hermione?'

    'It's not like that!' said Harry, and he was so relieved at finally understanding what she was annoyed about that he laughed, which he realised a split second too late was also a mistake.

    Cho sprang to her feet. The whole tearoom was quiet and everybody was watching them now.

    'I'll see you around, Harry,' she said dramatically, and hiccoughing slightly she dashed to the door, wrenched it open and hurried off into the pouring rain.

    'Cho!' Harry called after her, but the door had already swung shut behind her with a tuneful tinkle.

    There was total silence within the teashop. Every eye was on ?larry. He threw a Galleon down on to the table, shook pink confetti out of his hair, and followed Cho out of the door.

    It was raining hard now and she was nowhere to be seen, he simply did not understand what had happened; half an hour ago they had been getting along fine.

    'Women!' he muttered angrily, sloshing down the rain-washed street with his hands in his pockets. 'What did she want to talk about Cedric for, anyway? Why does she always want to drag up a subject that makes her act like a human hosepipe?'

    He turned right and broke into a splashy run, and within minutes he was turning into the doorway of the Three Broomsticks. He knew he was too early to meet Hermione, but he thought it likely there would be someone in here with whom he could spend the intervening time. He shook his wet hair out of his eyes and looked around. Hagrid was sitting alone in a corner, looking morose.

    'Hi, Hagrid!' he said, when he had squeezed through the crammed tables and pulled up a chair beside him.

    Hagrid jumped and looked down at Harry as though he barely recognised him. Harry saw that he had two fresh cuts on his face and several new bruises.

    'Oh, it's yeh, Harry,' said Hagrid. 'Yeh all righ?'

    'Yeah, I'm fine,' lied Harry; but, next to this battered and mournful-looking Hagrid, he felt he didn't really have much to complain about. 'Er - are you OK?'

    'Me?' said Hagrid. 'Oh yeah, I'm grand, Harry, grand.'

    He gazed into the depths of his pewter tankard, which was the size of a large bucket, and sighed. Harry didn't know what to say to him. They sat side by side in silence for a moment. Then Hagrid said abruptly, 'In the same boat, yeh an' me, aren' we, 'Any?'

    'Er - ' said Harry.

    'Yeah . . . I've said it before . . . both outsiders, like,' said Hagrid, nodding wisely. 'An' both orphans. Yeah . . . both orphans.'

    He took a great swig from his tankard.

    'Makes a diff'rence, havin' a decent family,' he said. 'Me dad was decent. An' your mum an' dad were decent. If they'd lived, life woulda bin diff'rent, eh?'

    'Yeah . . . I s'pose,' said Harry cautiously. Hagrid seemed to be in a very strange mood.

    'Family,' said Hagrid gloomily. 'Whatever yeh say, blood's important . . .'

    And he wiped a trickle of it out of his eye.

    'Hagrid,' said Harry, unable to stop himself, 'where are you getting all these injuries?'

    'Eh?' said Hagrid, looking startled. 'Wha' injuries?'

    'All those!' said Harry, pointing at Hagrid's face.

    'Oh . . . tha's jus' normal bumps an' bruises, Harry,' said Hagrid c.ismissively 'I got a rough job.'

    He drained his tankard, set it back on the table and got to his feet.

    'I'll be seein' yeh, Harry . . . take care now.'

    And he lumbered out of the pub looking wretched, and disappeared into the torrential rain. Harry watched him go, feeling miserable. Hagrid was unhappy and he was hiding something, but he seemed determined not to accept help. What was going on? But before Harry could think about it any further, he heard a voice calling his name.

    'Harry! Harry, over here!'

    Hermione was waving at him from the other side of the room. He got up and made his way towards her through the crowded pub. He was still a few tables away when he realised that Hermione was not alone. She was sitting at a table with the unlikeliest pair of drinking mates he could ever have imagined: Luna Lovegood and none other than Rita Skeeter, ex-journalist on the Daily Prophet aid one of Hermione's least favourite people in the world.

    'You're early!' said Hermione, moving along to give him room to sit down. '] thought you were with Cho, I wasn't expecting you for another hour at least!'

    'Cho?' said Rita at once, twisting round in her seat to stare avidly at Harry. 'A girl?'

    She snatched up her crocodile-skin handbag and groped within it.

    'Its none of your business if Harry's been with a hundred girls,' Eermione told Rita coolly. 'So you can put that away right now.'

    Rita had been on the point of withdrawing an acid-green quill from her bag. Looking as though she had been forced to swallow Stinksap, she snapped her bag shut again.

    'What are you up to?' Harry asked, sitting down and staring from Rita to Luna to Hermione.

    'Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you arrived.' said Rita, taking a large slurp of her drink. 'I suppose I'm allowed to talk to him, am I?' she shot at Hermione.

    'Yes, I suppose you are,' said Hermione coldly.

    Unemployment did not suit Rita. The hair that had once been set in elaborate curls now hung lank and unkempt around her face. The scarlet paint on her two-inch talons was chipped and there were a couple of false jewels missing from her winged glasses. She took another great gulp of her drink and said out of the corner of her mouth, 'Pretty girl, is she, Harry?'

    'One more word about Harry's love life and the deal's off and that's a promise,' said Hermione irritably.

    'What deal?' said Rita, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. 'You haven't mentioned a deal yet, Miss Prissy you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days . . .' She took a deep shuddering breath.

    'Yes, yes, one of these days you'll write more horrible stories about Harry and me,' said Hermione indifferently. 'Find someone who cares, why don't you?'

    They've run plenty of horrible stories about Harry this year without my help,' said Rita, shooting a sideways look at him over the top of her glass and adding in a rough whisper, 'How has that made you feel, Harry? Betrayed? Distraught? Misunderstood?'

    'He feels angry, of course,' said Hermione in a hard, clear voice. 'Because he's told the Minister for Magic the truth and the Minister's too much of an idiot to believe him.'

    'So you actually stick to it, do you, that He Who Must Not Be Named is back?' said Rita, lowering her glass and subjecting Harry to a piercing stare while her finger strayed longingly to the clasp of the crocodile bag. 'You stand by all this garbage Dumbledore'5 been telling everybody about You-Know-Who returning and you being the sole witness?'

    'I wasn't the sole witness,' snarled Harry. There were a dozen-odd Death Eaters there as well. Want their names?'

    'I'd love them,' breathed Rita, now fumbling in her bag once more and gazing at him as though he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. 'A great bold headline: "Potter Accuses . . ." A sub-heading, "Harry Potter Names Death Eaters Still Among Us". And then, beneath a nice big photograph of you, "Disturbed teenage survivor of You-Know-Who's attack, Harry Potter, 15, caused outrage yesterday by accusing respectable and prominent members of the wizarding community of being Death Eaters . . ." '

    The Quick-Quotes Quill was actually in her hand and halfway to her mouth when the rapturous expression on her face died.

    'But of course,' she said, lowering the quill and looking daggers at Hermione, 'Little Miss Perfect wouldn't want that story out there, would she?'

    'As a matter of fact,' said Hermione sweetly, 'that's exactly what Little Miss Perfect does want.'

    Rita stared at her. So did Harry. Luna, on the other hand, sang 'Weasley is our King' dreamily under her breath and stirred her drink with a cocktail onion on a stick.

    'You want me to report what he says about He Who Must Not Be Named?' Rita asked Hermione in a hushed voice.

    'Yes, I do,' said Hermione. 'The true story. All the facts. Exactly a; Harry reports them. He'll give you all the details, he'll tell you the names of the undiscovered Death Eaters he saw there, he'll tell you what Voldemort looks like now - oh, get a grip on yourself,' she added contemptuously, throwing a napkin across the table, for, at the sound of Voldemort's name, Rita had jumped so badly she had slopped half her glass of Firewhisky down herself.

    Rita blotted the front of her grubby raincoat, still staring at Hermione. Then she said baldly, The Prophet wouldn't print it. In case you haven't noticed, nobody believes his cock-and-bull story. Everyone thinks he's delusional. Now, if you let me write the story from that angle - '

    'We don't need another story about how Harry's lost his marbles!' said Hermione angrily. 'We've had plenty of those already, thank you! I want him given the opportunity to tell the truth!'

    There's no market for a story like that,' said Rita coldly.

    'You mean the Prophet won't print it because Fudge won't let them,' said Hermione irritably.

    Rita gave Hermione a long, hard look. Then, leaning forwards across the table towards her, she said in a businesslike tone, 'All right, Fudge is leaning on the Prophet, but it comes to the same thing. They won't print a story that shows Harry in a good light. Nobody wants to read it. It's against the public mood. This last Azkaban breakout has got people quite worried enough. People just don't want to believe You-Know-Who's back.'

    'So the Daily Prophet exists to tell people what they want to hear, does it?' said Hermione scathingly.

    Rita sat up straight again, her eyebrows raised, and drained her glass of Firewhisky,

    The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl,' she said coldly

    'My dad thinks it's an awful paper,' said Luna, chipping into the conversation unexpectedly. Sucking on her cocktail onion, she gazed at Rita with her enormous, protuberant, slightly mad eye;. 'He publishes important stories he thinks the public needs to know. He doesn't care about making money.'

    Rita looked disparagingly at Luna.

    'I'm guessing your father runs some stupid little village newsletter?' she said. 'Probably, Twenty-five Ways to Mingle With Muggles and the dates of the next Bring and Fly Sale?'

    'No,' said Luna, dipping her onion back into her Gillywater, 'he's the editor of The Quibbler.'

    Rita snorted so loudly that people at a nearby table looked round in alarm.

    ' "Important stories he thinks the public needs to know", eh?' she said witheringly. 'I could manure my garden with the contends of that rag.'

    'Well, this is your chance to raise the tone of it a bit, isn't it?' said Hermione pleasantly. 'Luna says her father's quite happy to take Harry's interview. That's who'll be publishing it.'

    Rita stared at them both for a moment, then let out a great whoop of laughter.

    'The Quibbler!' she said, cackling. 'You think people will take him seriously if he's published in The Quibbler!'

    'Some people won't,' said Hermione in a level voice. 'But the Daily Prophet's version of the Azkaban breakout had some gaping holes in it. I think a lot of people will be wondering whether there isn't a better explanation of what happened, and if there's an alternative story available, even if it is published in a - ' she glanced sideways at Luna, 'in a - well, an unusual magazine - I think they might be rather keen to read it.'

    Rita didn't say anything for a while, but eyed Hermione shrewdly, her head a little to one side.

    'All right, let's say for a moment I'll do it,' she said abruptly. 'What kind of fee am I going to get?'

    'I don't think Daddy exactly pays people to write for the magazine,' said Luna dreamily. They do it because it's an honour and, of course, to see their names in print.'

    Rita Skeeter looked as though the taste of Stinksap was strong in her mouth again as she rounded on Hermione.

    'I'm supposed to do this for free?'

    'Well, yes,' said Hermione calmly, taking a sip of her drink. 'Otherwise, as you very well know, I will inform the authorities that you are an unregistered Animagus. Of course, the Prophet might give you rather a lot for an insider's account of life in Azkaban.'

    Rita looked as though she would have liked nothing better than to seize the paper umbrella sticking out of Hermione's drink and thrust it up her nose.

    'I don't suppose I've got any choice, have I?' said Rita, her voice shaking slightly. She opened her crocodile bag once more, withdrew a piece of parchment, and raised her Quick-Quotes Quill.

    'Daddy will be pleased,' said Luna brightly. A muscle twitched in Rita's jaw.

    'OK, Harry?' said Hermione, turning to him. 'Ready to tell the public the truth?'

    'I suppose,' said Harry, watching Rita balancing the Quick-Quotes Quill at the ready on the parchment between them.

    'Fire away, then, Rita,' said Hermione serenely, fishing a cherry out from the bottom of her glass.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix Part 10