The Order of the Phoenix Read online

  *

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

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

  Harry Potter

  Great Hall

  Hogwarts School

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Hermione eagerly. ‘Harry, d’you mind if we –?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Harry, feeling slightly bemused.

  Ron and Hermione both started ripping open envelopes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What is going on here?’ said a falsely sweet, girlish voice.

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

  ‘Why have you got all these letters, Mr Potter?’ she asked slowly.

  ‘Is that a crime now?’ said Fred loudly. ‘Getting mail?’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I mean a reporter asked me questions and I answered them,’ said Harry. ‘Here –’

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

  ‘When did you do this?’ she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

  ‘Last Hogsmeade weekend,’ said Harry.

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

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

  She stalked away, clutching The Quibbler to her chest, the eyes of many students following her.

  By mid-morning enormous signs had been put up all over the school, not just on house noticeboards, but in the corridors and classrooms too.

  BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS

  Any student found in possession of the magazine The Quibbler will be expelled.

  The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-seven.

  Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor

  For some reason, every time Hermione caught sight of one of these signs she beamed with pleasure.

  ‘What exactly are you so happy about?’ Harry asked her.

  ‘Oh, Harry, don’t you see?’ Hermione breathed. ‘If she could have done one thing to make absolutely sure that every single person in this school will read your interview, it was banning it!’

  And it seemed that Hermione was quite right. By the end of the day, though Harry had not seen so much as a corner of The Quibbler anywhere in the school, the whole place seemed to be quoting the interview to each other. Harry heard them whispering about it as they queued up outside classes, discussing it over lunch and in the back of lessons, while Hermione even reported that every occupant of the cubicles in the girls’ toilets had been talking about it when she nipped in there before Ancient Runes.

  ‘Then they spotted me, and obviously they know I know you, so they bombarded me with questions,’ Hermione told Harry, her eyes shining, ‘and Harry, I think they believe you, I really do, I think you’ve finally got them convinced!’

  Meanwhile, Professor Umbridge was stalking the school, stopping students at random and demanding that they turn out their books and pockets: Harry knew she was looking for copies of The Quibbler, but the students were several steps ahead of her. The pages carrying Harry’s interview had been bewitched to resemble extracts from textbooks if anyone but themselves read it, or else wiped magically blank until they wanted to peruse it again. Soon it seemed that every single person in the school had read it.

  The teachers were of course forbidden from mentioning the interview by Educational Decree Number Twenty-six, but they found ways to express their feelings about it all the same. Professor Sprout awarded Gryffindor twenty points when Harry passed her a watering can; a beaming Professor Fli
twick pressed a box of squeaking sugar mice on him at the end of Charms, said, ‘Shh!’ and hurried away; and Professor Trelawney broke into hysterical sobs during Divination and announced to the startled class, and a very disapproving Umbridge, that Harry was not going to suffer an early death after all, but would live to a ripe old age, become Minister for Magic and have twelve children.

  But what made Harry happiest was Cho catching up with him as he was hurrying along to Transfiguration the next day. Before he knew what had happened, her hand was in his and she was breathing in his ear, ‘I’m really, really sorry. That interview was so brave … it made me cry.’

  He was sorry to hear she had shed even more tears over it, but very glad they were on speaking terms again, and even more pleased when she gave him a swift kiss on the cheek and hurried off again. And unbelievably, no sooner had he arrived outside Transfiguration than something just as good happened: Seamus stepped out of the queue to face him.

  ‘I just wanted to say,’ he mumbled, squinting at Harry’s left knee, ‘I believe you. And I’ve sent a copy of that magazine to me mam.’

  If anything more was needed to complete Harry’s happiness, it was the reaction he got from Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. He saw them with their heads together later that afternoon in the library; they were with a weedy-looking boy Hermione whispered was called Theodore Nott. They looked round at Harry as he browsed the shelves for the book he needed on Partial Vanishment: Goyle cracked his knuckles threateningly and Malfoy whispered something undoubtedly malevolent to Crabbe. Harry knew perfectly well why they were acting like this: he had named all of their fathers as Death Eaters.

  ‘And the best bit,’ whispered Hermione gleefully, as they left the library, ‘is they can’t contradict you, because they can’t admit they’ve read the article!’

  To cap it all, Luna told him over dinner that no issue of The Quibbler had ever sold out faster.

  ‘Dad’s reprinting!’ she told Harry, her eyes popping excitedly. ‘He can’t believe it, he says people seem even more interested in this than the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks!’

  Harry was a hero in the Gryffindor common room that night. Daringly, Fred and George had put an Enlargement Charm on the front cover of The Quibbler and hung it on the wall, so that Harry’s giant head gazed down upon the proceedings, occasionally saying things like ‘THE MINISTRY ARE MORONS’ and ‘EAT DUNG, UMBRIDGE’ in a booming voice. Hermione did not find this very amusing; she said it interfered with her concentration, and she ended up going to bed early out of irritation. Harry had to admit that the poster was not quite as funny after an hour or two, especially when the talking spell had started to wear off, so that it merely shouted disconnected words like ‘DUNG’ and ‘UMBRIDGE’ at more and more frequent intervals in a progressively higher voice. In fact, it started to make his head ache and his scar began prickling uncomfortably again. To disappointed moans from the many people who were sitting around him, asking him to relive his interview for the umpteenth time, he announced that he too needed an early night.

  The dormitory was empty when he reached it. He rested his forehead for a moment against the cool glass of the window beside his bed; it felt soothing against his scar. Then he undressed and got into bed, wishing his headache would go away. He also felt slightly sick. He rolled over on to his side, closed his eyes, and fell asleep almost at once …

  He was standing in a dark, curtained room lit by a single branch of candles. His hands were clenched on the back of a chair in front of him. They were long-fingered and white as though they had not seen sunlight for years and looked like large, pale spiders against the dark velvet of the chair.

  Beyond the chair, in a pool of light cast upon the floor by the candles, knelt a man in black robes.

  ‘I have been badly advised, it seems,’ said Harry, in a high, cold voice that pulsed with anger.

  ‘Master, I crave your pardon,’ croaked the man kneeling on the floor. The back of his head glimmered in the candlelight. He seemed to be trembling.

  ‘I do not blame you, Rookwood,’ said Harry in that cold, cruel voice.

  He relinquished his grip on the chair and walked around it, closer to the man cowering on the floor, until he stood directly over him in the darkness, looking down from a far greater height than usual.

  ‘You are sure of your facts, Rookwood?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Yes, My Lord, yes … I used to work in the Department after – after all …’

  ‘Avery told me Bode would be able to remove it.’

  ‘Bode could never have taken it, Master … Bode would have known he could not … undoubtedly, that is why he fought so hard against Malfoy’s Imperius Curse …’

  ‘Stand up, Rookwood,’ whispered Harry.

  The kneeling man almost fell over in his haste to obey. His face was pockmarked; the scars were thrown into relief by the candlelight. He remained a little stooped when standing, as though halfway through a bow, and he darted terrified looks up at Harry’s face.

  ‘You have done well to tell me this,’ said Harry. ‘Very well … I have wasted months on fruitless schemes, it seems … but no matter … we begin again, from now. You have Lord Voldemort’s gratitude, Rookwood …’

  ‘My Lord … yes, My Lord,’ gasped Rookwood, his voice hoarse with relief.

  ‘I shall need your help. I shall need all the information you can give me.’

  ‘Of course, My Lord, of course … anything …’

  ‘Very well … you may go. Send Avery to me.’

  Rookwood scurried backwards, bowing, and disappeared through a door.

  Left alone in the dark room, Harry turned towards the wall. A cracked, age-spotted mirror hung on the wall in the shadows. Harry moved towards it. His reflection grew larger and clearer in the darkness … a face whiter than a skull … red eyes with slits for pupils …

  ‘NOOOOOOOOO!’

  ‘What?’ yelled a voice nearby.

  Harry flailed around madly, became entangled in the hangings and fell out of his bed. For a few seconds he did not know where he was; he was convinced he was about to see the white, skull-like face looming at him out of the dark again, then very near to him Ron’s voice spoke.

  ‘Will you stop acting like a maniac so I can get you out of here!’

  Ron wrenched the hangings apart and Harry stared up at him in the moonlight, flat on his back, his scar searing with pain. Ron looked as though he had just been getting ready for bed; one arm was out of his robes.

  ‘Has someone been attacked again?’ asked Ron, pulling Harry roughly to his feet. ‘Is it Dad? Is it that snake?’

  ‘No – everyone’s fine –’ gasped Harry, whose forehead felt as though it were on fire. ‘Well … Avery isn’t … he’s in trouble … he gave him the wrong information … Voldemort’s really angry …’

  Harry groaned and sank, shaking, on to his bed, rubbing his scar.

  ‘But Rookwood’s going to help him now … he’s on the right track again …’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Ron, sounding scared. ‘D’you mean … did you just see You-Know-Who?’

  ‘I was You-Know-Who,’ said Harry, and he stretched out his hands in the darkness and held them up to his face, to check that they were no longer deathly white and long-fingered. ‘He was with Rookwood, he’s one of the Death Eaters who escaped from Azkaban, remember? Rookwood’s just told him Bode couldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Remove something … he said Bode would have known he couldn’t have done it … Bode was under the Imperius Curse … I think he said Malfoy’s dad put it on him.’

  ‘Bode was bewitched to remove something?’ Ron said. ‘But – Harry, that’s got to be –’

  ‘The weapon,’ Harry finished the sentence for him. ‘I know.’

  The dormitory door opened; Dean and Seamus came in. Harry swung his legs back into bed. He did not want to look as though anything odd had just happened, seeing as Seamus had only just stopped thinking Harry
was a nutter.

  ‘Did you say,’ murmured Ron, putting his head close to Harry’s on the pretence of helping himself to water from the jug on his bedside table, ‘that you were You-Know-Who?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Harry quietly.

  Ron took an unnecessarily large gulp of water; Harry saw it spill over his chin on to his chest.

  ‘Harry,’ he said, as Dean and Seamus clattered around noisily, pulling off their robes and talking, ‘you’ve got to tell –’

  ‘I haven’t got to tell anyone,’ said Harry shortly. ‘I wouldn’t have seen it at all if I could do Occlumency. I’m supposed to have learned to shut this stuff out. That’s what they want.’

  By ‘they’ he meant Dumbledore. He got back into bed and rolled over on to his side with his back to Ron and after a while he heard Ron’s mattress creak as he, too, lay back down. Harry’s scar began to burn; he bit hard on his pillow to stop himself making a noise. Somewhere, he knew, Avery was being punished.

  *

  Harry and Ron waited until break next morning to tell Hermione exactly what had happened; they wanted to be absolutely sure they could not be overheard. Standing in their usual corner of the cool and breezy courtyard, Harry told her every detail of the dream he could remember. When he had finished, she said nothing at all for a few moments, but stared with a kind of painful intensity at Fred and George, who were both headless and selling their magical hats from under their cloaks on the other side of the yard.

  ‘So that’s why they killed him,’ she said quietly, withdrawing her gaze from Fred and George at last. ‘When Bode tried to steal this weapon, something funny happened to him. I think there must be defensive spells on it, or around it, to stop people touching it. That’s why he was in St Mungo’s, his brain had gone all funny and he couldn’t talk. But remember what the Healer told us? He was recovering. And they couldn’t risk him getting better, could they? I mean, the shock of whatever happened when he touched that weapon probably made the Imperius Curse lift. Once he’d got his voice back, he’d explain what he’d been doing, wouldn’t he? They would have known he’d been sent to steal the weapon. Of course, it would have been easy for Lucius Malfoy to put the curse on him. Never out of the Ministry, is he?’