The Order of the Phoenix Read online

  ‘So,’ said Snape, gripping Harry’s arm so tightly Harry’s hand was starting to feel numb. ‘So … been enjoying yourself, Potter?’

  ‘N-no,’ said Harry, trying to free his arm.

  It was scary: Snape’s lips were shaking, his face was white, his teeth were bared.

  ‘Amusing man, your father, wasn’t he?’ said Snape, shaking Harry so hard his glasses slipped down his nose.

  ‘I – didn’t –’

  Snape threw Harry from him with all his might. Harry fell hard on to the dungeon floor.

  ‘You will not tell anybody what you saw!’ Snape bellowed.

  ‘No,’ said Harry, getting to his feet as far from Snape as he could. ‘No, of course I w––’

  ‘Get out, get out, I don’t want to see you in this office ever again!’

  And as Harry hurtled towards the door, a jar of dead cockroaches exploded over his head. He wrenched the door open and flew along the corridor, stopping only when he had put three floors between himself and Snape. There he leaned against the wall, panting, and rubbing his bruised arm.

  He had no desire at all to return to Gryffindor Tower so early, nor to tell Ron and Hermione what he had just seen. What was making Harry feel so horrified and unhappy was not being shouted at or having jars thrown at him; it was that he knew how it felt to be humiliated in the middle of a circle of onlookers, knew exactly how Snape had felt as his father had taunted him, and that judging from what he had just seen, his father had been every bit as arrogant as Snape had always told him.

  — CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE —

  Careers Advice

  ‘But why haven’t you got Occlumency lessons any more?’ said Hermione, frowning.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Harry muttered. ‘Snape reckons I can carry on by myself now I’ve got the basics.’

  ‘So you’ve stopped having funny dreams?’ said Hermione sceptically.

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Harry, not looking at her.

  ‘Well, I don’t think Snape should stop until you’re absolutely sure you can control them!’ said Hermione indignantly. ‘Harry, I think you should go back to him and ask –’

  ‘No,’ said Harry forcefully. ‘Just drop it, Hermione, OK?’

  It was the first day of the Easter holidays and Hermione, as was her custom, had spent a large part of the day drawing up revision timetables for the three of them. Harry and Ron had let her do it; it was easier than arguing with her and, in any case, they might come in useful.

  Ron had been startled to discover there were only six weeks left until their exams.

  ‘How can that come as a shock?’ Hermione demanded, as she tapped each little square on Ron’s timetable with her wand so that it flashed a different colour according to its subject.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Ron, ‘there’s been a lot going on.’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ she said, handing him his timetable, ‘if you follow that you should do fine.’

  Ron looked down it gloomily, but then brightened.

  ‘You’ve given me an evening off every week!’

  ‘That’s for Quidditch practice,’ said Hermione.

  The smile faded from Ron’s face.

  ‘What’s the point?’ he said. ‘We’ve got about as much chance of winning the Quidditch Cup this year as Dad’s got of becoming Minister for Magic.’

  Hermione said nothing; she was looking at Harry, who was staring blankly at the opposite wall of the common room while Crookshanks pawed at his hand, trying to get his ears scratched.

  ‘What’s wrong, Harry?’

  ‘What?’ he said quickly. ‘Nothing.’

  He seized his copy of Defensive Magical Theory and pretended to be looking something up in the index. Crookshanks gave him up as a bad job and slunk away under Hermione’s chair.

  ‘I saw Cho earlier,’ said Hermione tentatively. ‘She looked really miserable, too … have you two had a row again?’

  ‘Wha— oh, yeah, we have,’ said Harry, seizing gratefully on the excuse.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘That sneak friend of hers, Marietta,’ said Harry.

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t blame you!’ said Ron angrily, setting down his revision timetable. ‘If it hadn’t been for her …’

  Ron went into a rant about Marietta Edgecombe, which Harry found helpful; all he had to do was look angry, nod and say ‘Yeah’ and ‘That’s right’ whenever Ron drew breath, leaving his mind free to dwell, ever more miserably, on what he had seen in the Pensieve.

  He felt as though the memory of it was eating him from inside. He had been so sure his parents were wonderful people that he had never had the slightest difficulty in disbelieving the aspersions Snape cast on his father’s character. Hadn’t people like Hagrid and Sirius told Harry how wonderful his father had been? (Yeah, well, look what Sirius was like himself, said a nagging voice inside Harry’s head … he was as bad, wasn’t he?) Yes, he had once overheard Professor McGonagall saying that his father and Sirius had been troublemakers at school, but she had described them as forerunners of the Weasley twins, and Harry could not imagine Fred and George dangling someone upside-down for the fun of it … not unless they really loathed them … perhaps Malfoy, or somebody who really deserved it …

  Harry tried to make a case for Snape having deserved what he had suffered at James’s hands: but hadn’t Lily asked, ‘What’s he done to you?’ And hadn’t James replied, ‘It’s more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean.’ Hadn’t James started it all simply because Sirius had said he was bored? Harry remembered Lupin saying back in Grimmauld Place that Dumbledore had made him prefect in the hope that he would be able to exercise some control over James and Sirius … but in the Pensieve, he had sat there and let it all happen …

  Harry kept reminding himself that Lily had intervened; his mother had been decent. Yet, the memory of the look on her face as she had shouted at James disturbed him quite as much as anything else; she had clearly loathed James, and Harry simply could not understand how they could have ended up married. Once or twice he even wondered whether James had forced her into it …

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

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

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

  ‘Huh?’

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

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

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

  ‘Why?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Are you OK, Harry?’ Ginny asked quietly.

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

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

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

  ‘Who is it, then?’ asked Ginny.

  ‘I …’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Come on,’ said Harry hopelessly. ‘With Umbridge policing the fires and reading all our mail?’

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

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

  ‘WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?’

  ‘Oh damn,’ whispered Ginny, jumping to her feet. ‘I forgot –’

  Madam Pince was swooping down on them, her shrivelled face contorted with rage.

  ‘Chocolate in the library!’ she screamed. ‘Out – out – OUT!’

  And whipping out her wand, she caused Harry’s books, bag and ink bottle to chase him and Ginny from the library, whacking them repeatedly over the head as they ran.

  *

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

  CAREERS ADVICE

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

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

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

  ‘Well, it’s a very responsible job, isn’t it?’ said Hermione absently. She was poring over a bright pink and orange leaflet that was headed, ‘SO YOU THINK YOU’D LIKE TO WORK IN MUGGLE RELATIONS? You don’t seem to need many qualifications to liaise with Muggles; all they want is an O.W.L. in Muggle Studies: Much more important is your enthusiasm, patience and a good sense of fun!’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Yeah …’ said Harry, trying to sound casual, ‘yeah, I thought I’d like –’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Umbridge’s office,’ said Harry quietly.

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

  ‘Are – you – insane?’ said Hermione in a hushed voice.

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

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Harry, shrugging.

  ‘And how are you going to get in there in the first place?’

  Harry was ready for this question.

  ‘Sirius’s knife,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Easy,’ said George.

  ‘What sort of diversion is it?’ asked Ron.

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

  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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