‘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 eyes. ‘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 contents 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.
— CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX —
Seen and Unforeseen
Luna said vaguely that she did not know how soon Rita’s interview with Harry would appear in The Quibbler, that her father was expecting a lovely long article on recent sightings of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, ‘– and of course, that’ll be a very important story, so Harry’s might have to wait for the following issue,’ said Luna.
Harry had not found it an easy experience to talk about the night when Voldemort had returned. Rita had pressed him for every little detail and he had given her everything he could remember, knowing that this was his one big opportunity to tell the world the truth. He wondered how people would react to the story. He guessed that it would confirm a lot of people in the view that he was completely insane, not least because his story would be appearing alongside utter rubbish about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. But the breakout of Bellatrix Lestrange and her fellow Death Eaters had given Harry a burning desire to do something, whether or not it worked …
‘Can’t wait to see what Umbridge thinks of you going public,’ said Dean, sounding awestruck at dinner on Monday night. Seamus was shovelling down large amounts of chicken and ham pie on Dean’s other side, but Harry knew he was listening.
‘It’s the right thing to do, Harry,’ said Neville, who was sitting opposite him. He was rather pale, but went on in a low voice, ‘It must have been … tough … talking about it … was it?’
‘Yeah,’ mumbled Harry, ‘but people have got to know what Voldemort’s capable of, haven’t they?’
‘That’s right,’ said Neville, nodding, ‘and his Death Eaters, too … people should know …’
Neville left his sentence hanging and returned to his baked potato. Seamus looked up, but when he caught Harry’s eye he looked quickly back at his plate again. After a while, Dean, Seamus and Neville departed for the common room, leaving Harry and Hermione at the table waiting for Ron, who had not yet had dinner because of Quidditch practice.
Cho Chang walked into the Hall with her friend Marietta. Harry’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, but she did not look over at the Gryffindor table, and sat down with her back to him.
‘Oh, I forgot to ask you,’ said Hermione brightly, glancing over at the Ravenclaw table, ‘what happened on your date with Cho? How come you were back so early?’
‘Er … well, it was …’ said Harry, pulling a dish of rhubarb crumble towards him and helping himself to seconds, ‘a complete fiasco, now you mention it.’
And he told her what had happened in Madam Puddifoot’s teashop.
‘… so then,’ he finished several minutes later, as the final bit of crumble disappeared, ‘she jumps up, right, and says, “I’ll see you around, Harry,” and runs out of the place!’ He put down his spoon and looked at Hermione. ‘I mean, what was all that about? What was going on?’
Hermione glanced over at the back of Cho’s head and sighed.
‘Oh, Harry,’ she said sadly. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but you were a bit tactless.’
‘Me, tactless?’ said Harry, outraged. ‘One minute we were getting on fine, next minute she was telling me that Roger Davies asked her out and how she used to go and snog Cedric in that stupid teashop – how was I supposed to feel about that?’
‘Well, you see,’ said Hermione, with the patient air of someone explaining that one plus one equals two to an over-emotional toddler, ‘you shouldn’t have told her that you wanted to meet me halfway through your date.’
‘But, but,’ spluttered Harry, ‘but – you told me to meet you at twelve and to bring her along, how was I supposed
to do that without telling her?’
‘You should have told her differently,’ said Hermione, still with that maddeningly patient air. ‘You should have said it was really annoying, but I’d made you promise to come along to the Three Broomsticks, and you really didn’t want to go, you’d much rather spend the whole day with her, but unfortunately you thought you really ought to meet me and would she please, please come along with you and hopefully you’d be able to get away more quickly. And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am, too,’ Hermione added as an afterthought.
‘But I don’t think you’re ugly,’ said Harry, bemused.
Hermione laughed.
‘Harry, you’re worse than Ron … well, no, you’re not,’ she sighed, as Ron himself came stumping into the Hall splattered with mud and looking grumpy. ‘Look – you upset Cho when you said you were going to meet me, so she tried to make you jealous. It was her way of trying to find out how much you liked her.’
‘Is that what she was doing?’ said Harry, as Ron dropped on to the bench opposite them and pulled every dish within reach towards him. ‘Well, wouldn’t it have been easier if she’d just asked me whether I liked her better than you?’
‘Girls don’t often ask questions like that,’ said Hermione.
‘Well, they should!’ said Harry forcefully. ‘Then I could’ve just told her I fancy her, and she wouldn’t have had to get herself all worked up again about Cedric dying!’
‘I’m not saying what she did was sensible,’ said Hermione, as Ginny joined them, just as muddy as Ron and looking equally disgruntled. ‘I’m just trying to make you see how she was feeling at the time.’
‘You should write a book,’ Ron told Hermione as he cut up his potatoes, ‘translating mad things girls do so boys can understand them.’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry fervently, looking over at the Ravenclaw table. Cho had just got up, and, still not looking at him, she left the Great Hall. Feeling rather depressed, he looked back at Ron and Ginny. ‘So, how was Quidditch practice?’
‘It was a nightmare,’ said Ron in a surly voice.
‘Oh come on,’ said Hermione, looking at Ginny, ‘I’m sure it wasn’t that –’
‘Yes, it was,’ said Ginny. ‘It was appalling. Angelina was nearly in tears by the end of it.’
Ron and Ginny went off for baths after dinner; Harry and Hermione returned to the busy Gryffindor common room and their usual pile of homework. Harry had been struggling with a new star-chart for Astronomy for half an hour when Fred and George turned up.
‘Ron and Ginny not here?’ asked Fred, looking around as he pulled up a chair, and when Harry shook his head, he said, ‘Good. We were watching their practice. They’re going to be slaughtered. They’re complete rubbish without us.’
‘Come on, Ginny’s not bad,’ said George fairly, sitting down next to Fred. ‘Actually, I dunno how she got so good, seeing how we never let her play with us.’
‘She’s been breaking into your broom shed in the garden since the age of six and taking each of your brooms out in turn when you weren’t looking,’ said Hermione from behind her tottering pile of Ancient Rune books.
‘Oh,’ said George, looking mildly impressed. ‘Well – that’d explain it.’
‘Has Ron saved a goal yet?’ asked Hermione, peering over the top of Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms.
‘Well, he can do it if he doesn’t think anyone’s watching him,’ said Fred, rolling his eyes. ‘So all we have to do is ask the crowd to turn their backs and talk among themselves every time the Quaffle goes up his end on Saturday.’
He got up again and moved restlessly to the window, staring out across the dark grounds.
‘You know, Quidditch was about the only thing in this place worth staying for.’
Hermione cast him a stern look.
‘You’ve got exams coming!’
‘Told you already, we’re not fussed about N.E.W.T.,’ said Fred. ‘The Snackboxes are ready to roll, we found out how to get rid of those boils, just a couple of drops of Murtlap essence sorts them, Lee put us on to it.’
George yawned widely and looked out disconsolately at the cloudy night sky.
‘I dunno if I even want to watch this match. If Zacharias Smith beats us I might have to kill myself.’
‘Kill him, more like,’ said Fred firmly.
‘That’s the trouble with Quidditch,’ said Hermione absent-mindedly, once again bent over her Runes translation, ‘it creates all this bad feeling and tension between the houses.’
She looked up to find her copy of Spellman’s Syllabary, and caught Fred, George and Harry all staring at her with expressions of mingled disgust and incredulity on their faces.
‘Well, it does!’ she said impatiently. ‘It’s only a game, isn’t it?’
‘Hermione,’ said Harry, shaking his head, ‘you’re good on feelings and stuff, but you just don’t understand about Quidditch.’
‘Maybe not,’ she said darkly, returning to her translation, ‘but at least my happiness doesn’t depend on Ron’s goalkeeping ability.’
And though Harry would rather have jumped off the Astronomy Tower than admit it to her, by the time he had watched the game the following Saturday he would have given any number of Galleons not to care about Quidditch either.
The very best thing you could say about the match was that it was short; the Gryffindor spectators had to endure only twenty-two minutes of agony. It was hard to say what the worst thing was: Harry thought it was a close-run contest between Ron’s fourteenth failed save, Sloper missing the Bludger but hitting Angelina in the mouth with his bat, and Kirke shrieking and falling backwards off his broom when Zacharias Smith zoomed at him carrying the Quaffle. The miracle was that Gryffindor only lost by ten points: Ginny managed to snatch the Snitch from right under Hufflepuff Seeker Summerby’s nose, so that the final score was two hundred and forty versus two hundred and thirty.
‘Good catch,’ Harry told Ginny back in the common room, where the atmosphere resembled that of a particularly dismal funeral.
‘I was lucky,’ she shrugged. ‘It wasn’t a very fast Snitch and Summerby’s got a cold, he sneezed and closed his eyes at exactly the wrong moment. Anyway, once you’re back on the team –’
‘Ginny, I’ve got a lifelong ban.’
‘You’re banned as long as Umbridge is in the school,’ Ginny corrected him. ‘There’s a difference. Anyway, once you’re back, I think I’ll try out for Chaser. Angelina and Alicia are both leaving next year and I prefer goal-scoring to Seeking anyway.’
Harry looked over at Ron, who was hunched in a corner, staring at his knees, a bottle of Butterbeer clutched in his hand.
‘Angelina still won’t let him resign,’ Ginny said, as though reading Harry’s mind. ‘She says she knows he’s got it in him.’
Harry liked Angelina for the faith she was showing in Ron, but at the same time thought it would really be kinder to let him leave the team. Ron had left the pitch to another booming chorus of ‘Weasley is our King’ sung with great gusto by the Slytherins, who were now favourites to win the Quidditch Cup.
Fred and George wandered over.
‘I haven’t even got the heart to take the mickey out of him,’ said Fred, looking over at Ron’s crumpled figure. ‘Mind you … when he missed the fourteenth –’
He made wild motions with his arms as though doing an upright doggy-paddle.
‘– well, I’ll save it for parties, eh?’
Ron dragged himself up to bed shortly after this. Out of respect for his feelings, Harry waited a while before going up to the dormitory himself, so that Ron could pretend to be asleep if he wanted to. Sure enough, when Harry finally entered the room Ron was snoring a little too loudly to be entirely plausible.
Harry got into bed, thinking about the match. It had been immensely frustrating watching from the sidelines. He was quite impressed by Ginny’s performance but he knew if he had been playing he could have caught the Sni
tch sooner … there had been a moment when it had been fluttering near Kirke’s ankle; if Ginny hadn’t hesitated, she might have been able to scrape a win for Gryffindor.
Umbridge had been sitting a few rows below Harry and Hermione. Once or twice she had turned squatly in her seat to look at him, her wide toad’s mouth stretched in what he thought had been a gloating smile. The memory of it made him feel hot with anger as he lay there in the dark. After a few minutes, however, he remembered that he was supposed to be emptying his mind of all emotion before he slept, as Snape kept instructing him at the end of every Occlumency lesson.
He tried for a moment or two, but the thought of Snape on top of memories of Umbridge merely increased his sense of grumbling resentment and he found himself focusing instead on how much he loathed the pair of them. Slowly, Ron’s snores died away, to be replaced by the sound of deep, slow breathing. It took Harry much longer to get to sleep; his body was tired, but it took his brain a long time to close down.
He dreamed that Neville and Professor Sprout were waltzing around the Room of Requirement while Professor McGonagall played the bagpipes. He watched them happily for a while, then decided to go and find the other members of the DA.
But when he left the room he found himself facing, not the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, but a torch burning in its bracket on a stone wall. He turned his head slowly to the left. There, at the far end of the windowless passage, was a plain, black door.
He walked towards it with a sense of mounting excitement. He had the strangest feeling that this time he was going to get lucky at last, and find the way to open it … he was feet from it, and saw with a leap of excitement that there was a glowing strip of faint blue light down the right-hand side … the door was ajar … he stretched out his hand to push it wide and –
Ron gave a loud, rasping, genuine snore and Harry awoke abruptly with his right hand stretched in front of him in the darkness, to open a door that was hundreds of miles away. He let it fall with a feeling of mingled disappointment and guilt. He knew he should not have seen the door, but at the same time felt so consumed with curiosity about what was behind it that he could not help feeling annoyed with Ron … if only he could have saved his snore for just another minute.
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