The Source of Magic

That NEWT-ed Feeling

Chapter 7 ~ That NEWT-ed Feeling

Harry's head was reeling as he joined Hermione at the Gryffindor table for dinner at the end of their first day of classes. “This is going to be even worse than OWLs,” groaned Harry. “I've already got a week's worth of homework — and it's only the first bloody day. Do you think they're going to give us Time-Turners so we have a hope of getting it all done?” he complained as he loaded his plate with food. The other seventh-year Gryffindors all looked similarly shell-shocked — or NEWT-ed to use the Muggle phrase coined by Dean Thomas.

Hermione looked up briefly from the thick Arithmancy text she was reading. “Well, what did you expect, Harry? They told us last year it would be like this, remember? I read through all our NEWT texts several times during the holidays. I don't suppose you bothered?”

“Well, I wasn't planning on coming back, was I?”

“Listen, Harry,” said Hermione, “forget about homework for now. We have a much bigger problem.”

“What?”

“Ron.”

“Oh, yeah,” sighed Harry. “He's completely ignoring me, and whenever I try talking to him, he just stalks off in a huff.”

“It's the same with me,” said Hermione. “I can't get near him.”

“He sure is angry. I guess that means he must really like you, right?” said Harry with a grin.

Hermione blushed and then said bitterly, “Well, if you mean he likes me as in wanting to be with me, I'm really not so sure. I'm beginning to think that Ron's way of liking me is to become insanely jealous if I so much as look at anyone else. He just takes it for granted that I'll wait around forever while he decides whether he really wants to be with me or not. Quite frankly, Harry, I've just about had enough of the immature git!”

Harry suspected that Hermione might be right about Ron. He just didn't seem to be growing up — at least not when it came to girls. “Then what are we going to do? We need a pretext to split up; otherwise, you'll be in danger.”

“Ginny has already explained all that to Ron. But if he's going to be a total prat and refuse to talk to us, I don't see how we're going to arrange it. We have to think it through properly and plan it carefully; otherwise, it won't be convincing and will ultimately cast suspicion on the main aim of the ruse, which is to convince everyone that you and Ginny are finished. Maybe it would be simpler if I just got myself a boyfriend.”

“You talk as if there are a bunch of guys lined up, just waiting for you to give them the nod,” said Harry with a grin.

“Well, err … as a matter of a fact there are,” said Hermione coyly.

“Really? Who?”

“Well, all the seventh-year Ravenclaw wizards for a start,” she said bashfully.

“What? Terry Boot, Michael Corner, and Anthony Goldstein? They're probably more interested in dragging you off to the library so you can help them with their homework than taking you up to the Astronomy Tower for a snog,” sniggered Harry.

Hermione snorted at Harry's insensitive choice of words. “Well, if you are suggesting that they are only interested in my brains and not my … well, you know … you may just be wrong. Anthony Goldstein, for one, is, I suspect, very keen on a more rounded relationship than that. I think he's been keen on me for quite a while, and now that we are Head Boy and Head Girl, we inevitably spend time together. If Ron really isn't going to help you and me out of our predicament, then I may have to start dating Anthony.”

Harry groaned. This was turning into a nightmare. If Hermione dated Anthony Goldstein, Ron would go ballistic. The last thing Harry needed was for the friendship between the three of them to disintegrate in their final year — a year that was shaping up to be the most crucial and difficult of his life.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

“I thought we might start with something a tad challenging today, just to kick off your NEWT year at a realistic level.” Professor Trolove was dressed like a Hogwarts Professor, but that was where the similarity ended. He was leaning casually back on the chair behind his desk, waving his wand above his head, sending a complex array of ingredients from various cupboards, shelves, jars, and pots into neatly arranged piles on the students' work benches.

“Welcome to NEWT Potions. You have a demanding year ahead of you and a difficult task today, which is why I have saved you the time of assembling your ingredients. Please gather around them in pairs.”

Harry was relived he would not have to work with Ron, and immediately sat next to Hermione, who noticed Harry had a new copy of Advanced Potion-Making.

“For what is Wolfsbane Potion used?” asked Professor Trolove. “Hermione?” he added, without even bothering to see who had put their hand up. He did not need magic to know that hers would be the first one in the air.

“Wolfsbane Potion is used to prevent the extremely dangerous dementia which accompanies the transformation from human into werewolf, at the full moon. While the potion does not cure lycanthropy, it renders the transformed werewolf completely harmless to others. It was invented by Belby Damocles, and is considered one of the most difficult potions to brew … um … it's not actually in Advanced Potion-Making, sir,” said Hermione, scanning the index of her Potions book anxiously as she spoke.

“No,” said Professor Trolove with a smile. “I dare say it's considered too difficult for school students, but then there's nothing like a little challenge to sharpen the mind.” He tapped his wand to his desk and two long sheets of parchment appeared next to each pile of ingredients. “The instructions for preparing Wolfsbane Potion; at the end of class, please fold them and insert them into the back of your Potions books. You will notice that the complete process takes around a fortnight. We shall only be attempting the first stage today.”

Hermione was all concentration and completely absorbed in the preparation of the potion. Harry had little to do but identify and pass her the ingredients and attend to the fire under their caldron. Harry was struck by the difference in style between Professor Trolove and their two former Potions masters. Professor Slughorn used to sit lazily back and let them get on with their work, without taking much interest until the final stages. Snape, on the other hand, often took way too much interest, particularly in Harry's work and that of his fellow Gryffindors, like Neville. He relished intimidating and wrong-footing them, finding fault with their work, and inventing spurious excuses for deducting house points unfairly.

In contrast, Professor Trolove spent his time walking about and helping the students, giving them advice and assistance at particularly crucial moments; even occasionally waving his wand to reverse a mistake. He was particularly attentive to Hermione and seemed genuinely impressed with her work. At the end of the lesson, he asked her to leave their cauldron, rather than emptying and cleaning it. When the bell rang for lunch, he congratulated everyone on a very good effort. As Ron was about to leave, Professor Trolove called him back to help get the classroom cleaned up and ready for the afternoon class. Ron was a little surprised, but he stayed behind as requested.

“Just a pretext,” said Jason once the door was shut. Unused ingredients flew back to the shelves and cupboards as spills and slops disappeared. “I thought we might have a quick chat,” he said, sitting on one of the benches.

“Err … about what?” asked Ron uncertainly, leaning back on a bench.

“Hermione.”

“What about Hermione,” asked Ron guardedly. The last thing he wanted was for Trolove to be privy to his confusion of thoughts and feelings about Hermione, right now. Damn it! He probably already knew it all with the way he could get into your head.

Jason smiled. “No, I have not been intruding on your private thoughts and feelings about Hermione — or anyone else. I make a point of respecting peoples' privacy and do not engage in capricious voyeurism. However, I have picked up on the rather convoluted plot designed to convince everyone that Ginny and Harry are no longer together. I am not sure if it was such a great idea. But now that it's been started, it needs to be completed as planned. I understand its successful conclusion requires your involvement.”

“Yeah, well no one asked me if I wanted to be involved,” snapped Ron moodily. “No one told me anything, they just —”

“Ron, when I was your age, Lily Evans and I had to make a terrible personal sacrifice for the good of others. Whatever your feelings about Hermione, you can do this. Remember … her safety, and that of your sister, might depend upon it. You just have to pretend to be with her, just for a few weeks. Is that such a huge sacrifice?”

“No,” muttered Ron, feeling rather small.

“Good,” said Jason, smiling as he rose from the bench and clapped Ron on the shoulder, and led him to the door. “Put on a good act. You should even get an opportunity to vent your spleen on Harry … enjoy yourself. But please try to keep it verbal.”

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

“What we need,” said Hermione softly, “is something very noisy and very public.” She was sitting in the corner of the Gryffindor common room with Harry's arm draped conspicuously around her shoulder. Ron was sitting opposite them. He had finally spoken to them about getting the last part of Ginny's plan over with. He had not mentioned his conversation with Jason. He was not feeling overly friendly either, not with Harry and Hermione snuggling up like that — even if it was supposed to be an act.

“How about crossed owls?” said Hermione thoughtfully.

“What?” asked Harry and Ron.

“Well, I'm always up way before you two on a Saturday. I like to have an early breakfast and head for the library. By the time you two make it to breakfast, I'm probably onto my second or third assignment. So how about: while you are having breakfast, you each receive an owl, but you are so preoccupied talking about something — I know, Quidditch, obviously — that you open each other's message by mistake.”

“Huh?” said Ron.

“The owls will be from me. The one to you, Harry will say I'm way behind with my Arithmancy assignment, so I won't be able to meet you like we planned. The one to you, Ron, will say to meet me behind greenhouse three at eleven o'clock, but don't let Harry see you. After accidentally reading Ron's message, Harry, you grab yours from Ron's hand, read it, and then start ripping into him.”

Harry snorted. “You should have been in Slytherin, Hermione; that's pretty damn devious.”

Hermione was looking rather pleased with herself, but Ron seemed unhappy. “Hey, Harry's not going to hit me is he?”

“No, of course not!” insisted Hermione. Then sounding every inch the Head Girl, she added, “And please remember: You are a school prefect, Ron. Just some very loud abuse and name calling will be adequate … I am sure you'll think of something suitable to say.”

“Err … and what … err, you know, err, what am I … I mean, err … we, supposed to do after that?” stammered Ron.

“Who, you and Harry, or you and me?” asked Hermione archly.

Ron went red. “Well, you and me….”

Hermione sighed in exasperation. “I was hoping you would remember something from last year … you did get lots of practice with Lavender, as I recall.”

“But … but, that was … different,” spluttered Ron.

“How, exactly?” asked Hermione, raising an eyebrow dangerously.

“Well, I mean … we were, well you know … we were really together. It wasn't just an act or something.”

“Look, Ron, let's try to keep this simple, shall we? Just carry on doing exactly what Harry's been doing all week … just pretend!” she said hastily, getting to her feet and grabbing her book bag. “And try to remember to be at breakfast by ten o'clock tomorrow. Do you think you can manage that?” she asked petulantly, before storming out of the common room, leaving Ron staring open-mouthed in her wake.

“What's a matter with her?” he asked, turning to Harry.

Harry shook his head; it was hopeless. Ron was never going to get it … and there was no way he was going to try to explain — or get involved. Voldemort was more than enough for him to deal with.

“Oh, by the way, I'm officially quitting as captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I'll play Seeker if you want me to, but you're captain.”

It was a measure of just how upset Ron was about Hermione, that Harry's attempt at changing the subject — even to Quidditch, and the prospect of becoming captain — did not immediately succeed. “So you think you can pass on the captaincy when you've finished with it — just like you're passing on Hermione — as if they're both your own personal property, do you?” he demanded angrily.

People were beginning to look at them. “Keep your voice down, Ron. I have too much on this year to do a decent job as captain, and I'm not giving it to you — but I'll be voting for you along with the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, so get used to it … captain.”

“That'll look a bit strange, won't it? You, voting for me after the big fight we're going to have tomorrow morning?”

“No, it won't,” said Harry. “Some things are more important than girls and petty jealousies — like winning the Quidditch Cup for example — right?”

“Right,” said Ron, finally relaxing.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

When Hermione's owls arrived at breakfast the following morning, Ron looked alarmed, mainly because he had only just started eating. “Let's leave them till we've had a decent feed,” he said, piling more eggs and sausages onto his plate and reaching for a couple more slices of toast. Harry nodded. They took the messages from the owls and left them, unopened, on the table. Harry looked up to see Ginny give him a quick, knowing glance from the other end of the table. Fortunately, being a Saturday morning, the tables were not full, and there was no one sitting close to them.

When he had eaten all he could, Harry turned to Ron and whispered, “Ready to roll, mate?”

Ron downed a final piece of toast and nodded reluctantly as he reached for the message with Harry's name on it and began fumbling with the ribbon.

Harry meanwhile, had opened and read Ron's message. He held his breath to make his face go red, and grabbed the other message from Ron before he could finish reading it.

“Huh?” said Ron stupidly, but convincingly. “Why-dya grab —”

“Because that's my message, you bastard!” yelled Harry jumping to his feet, with every eye in the Great Hall now fixed on him. “And this one's for you — they're both from Hermione! Unluckily for the pair of you, I picked up the wrong message, and your dirty little secret is out!” he shouted, waving the other parchment in Ron's face.

“Hey, give it here!” said Ron, jumping up and making a grab for the parchment, which Harry held out of reach.

“Why don't I read it to you? You double-crossing back-stabber! Dear Ron, meet me at the usual place, behind greenhouse three, at eleven. Make sure Harry doesn't see you sneak off. Kisses, Hermione!” yelled Harry. “And this is the one she sent me,” he said, reading from the parchment in his other hand. “Dear Harry, sorry, but I'm way behind with my Arithmancy assignment, so I won't be able to meet you like we planned….”

Ron didn't know which way to look. “Um … are you sure she didn't just write the names the wrong way around on the outside?” asked Ron innocently.

“Nice try, you slimy snake — you should have been in Slytherin — both or you! The same names are also in the messages, and I've never sneaked off to greenhouse three with Hermione, so you can stop playing stupid right now — not that it needs much of an act on your part! How long have the two of you been carrying on behind my back?” demanded Harry, furiously poking Ron hard in the chest.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Ron in a characteristically unconvincing attempt at feigning outraged innocence, as he shoved Harry backwards, against he table. “Why don't you keep you hands to yourself, Potter?”

“I suppose you and Hermione were sneaking about together the whole time we were at the Burrow, were you?”

“And what if we were?” yelled Ron. “It's just typical bloody Harry-up-himself-Potter, the Chosen gift to witches! First you're carrying on with my sister; then you dump her and grab Hermione as if she's your own personal property!”

Ron was putting on a very convincing show, and it didn't require any great acting ability, Harry realised. The feelings behind his words were entirely genuine.

“Well, some friends you two turned out to be after all these years,” countered Harry angrily. “You're nothing but a back-stabbing, lying weasel, and she's a two-timing, cheating, bloody b —”

“Witch!”

Harry and Ron looked up, in surprise. Neither of them had noticed Professor Trolove approaching them from the staff table.

“Witch … is the word I believe you are looking for, Potter,” said Professor Trolove casually. Then gently, but firmly he grabbed them by the shoulders and escorted them towards the door of the Great Hall. “One of things I treasured most in my student days at Hogwarts was a quiet, leisurely Saturday morning breakfast. I was enjoyably reliving that pleasure this morning when it was rudely interrupted by this unseemly fracas. If you could be so good as to sort out the schedule for your sordid little ménage a trois in private, it would be greatly appreciated. And please remember, there are first-year students present. Do try to avoid using language they should not understand,” he said with just the hint of a grin before shunting them out of the Great Hall.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

Harry and Ron's performance was a great success. By dinner time, everyone who had not witnessed it in the Great Hall that morning knew all about it. Harry expected to get plenty of stares, but what he didn't expect was the very obvious and meaningful glances from many of the older witches as he entered the Great Hall. Harry Potter was an enigma to many of them. He was a celebrity whose name most of them had known from childhood … but not someone they might have ever hoped to know — or date. Well, not until now. But, his much talked-about relationships, first with Ginny Weasley and then Hermione Granger, revealed that Harry Potter was no different from any other teenage wizard — and that he was very obviously interested in witches. And, clearly, there were many witches who were very interested in him — especially since he was obviously available, and possibly in need of some tenderness and consolation after the trauma of his recent distressing break-ups. Harry could read it on their faces and groaned to himself as he looked for a seat. Damn it! This was getting difficult. He'd been avoiding Ginny, who, he noticed, was sitting with Neville Longbottom, and he couldn't sit next to Ron and Hermione either. Parvati and Lavender obligingly squeezed up to make room for him, batting their eyelids blatantly. Harry shuddered and found himself a spot amongst the first-years who were struck dumb at finding the famous Harry Potter sitting in their midst.

Harry was just putting some roast potatoes onto his plate when he heard a loud “Hem-hemming” coming from the staff table. Looking up, he saw Umbridge standing behind Professor McGonagall's chair, attempting to read an announcement from a parchment in her hand. It was the first time Umbridge had shown her ugly face in the Great Hall since her humiliation at the Welcoming Feast.

“What on earth do you think you are doing, Madam Umbridge?” McGonagall asked severely, turning her head towards the short, squat witch, without troubling to rise.

“I have an announcement to make, hem hem —”

“I make the announcements here, Madam Umbridge. I may, on occasion, see fit to grant permission to a visitor to address the school,” said McGonagall condescendingly. “But this is not such an occasion — and you do not have my permission. Oh, and should you wish to take your meals in the Great Hall, you may not sit at the staff table; you are not, after all, a member of the Hogwarts staff.”

“But guests are always invited to sit at the staff table,” said Umbridge, moving towards Professor Trelawney's almost permanently empty chair.

“Yes, that is true,” said McGonagall. “But you are not a guest — no one invited you to join us. You are a most unpleasant imposition, forced on us by Fudge, for the rather transparent purpose of spying. Not a single student has put their name down for your seminars. So why, are you still here at Hogwarts, if not as a Ministry mole?”

Umbridge, who had forgotten about her announcement, was determined to salvage some dignity and assert her position by sitting at the staff table. She quickly pulled out the absent Professor Trelawney's chair and sat down with smug grin.

“Hagrid,” said Professor McGonagall casually, “Madam Umbridge appears to be in some confusion regarding the seating arrangements. Please be good enough to escort her to the special table provided for Ministry moles,” she said, indicating a small table with a single chair that had been placed against the wall between the Slytherin table and the staff table.

“Pleasure, Professor McGonagall, ma'am,” said Hagrid, rising from his seat with obvious delight.

“And I would strongly advise you against reaching for your wand, Madam Umbridge,” said McGonagall, pointing her own wand menacingly at the squat little witch. “There might be a competition to see who can hex you first … and worst, among the many of us who witnessed your abuse of power at this school two years ago.”

Umbridge squeaked as she gingerly removed her hand from her robes and looked up fearfully. Hagrid seized her by the scruff of the neck and held her high in the air, kicking and screaming like a naughty child to the delight of both students and staff. As soon as he had deposited her in the chair at her lonely little table, she jumped up and scurried along the wall and out of the hall as quickly as her little legs would carry her. It took several minutes for the laughter in the Great Hall to die down.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

The following evening, the Ministry of Magic upped the ante. As the students sat down to their Sunday evening meal, Umbridge, accompanied by Deputy Minister of Magic Weasley, strode into the Great Hall towards the staff table, with an escort of six Ministry Aurors, their wands drawn.

When they reached the staff table, Professor McGonagall briefly looked up from her meal, fixed Percy with a gimlet eye, and said in the same tone of voice she might have used when he was a little first-year, “Tell them to put their wands away, Weasley.”

Percy bridled at being talked down to by McGonagall. Puffing himself up and attempting to look dignified and important, he replied, “As Deputy Minister of Magic, I am entitled to an armed protection squad wherever I go.”

“For heaven's sake, Weasley, you are in a school — these are school children, not Death Eaters. Stop being absurd!”

“The Ministry of Magic places the utmost importance on security; we consider —”

“You consider nothing but your own security,” said McGonagall, suddenly waving her wand and transfiguring the six Aurors into gerbils, which timidly scurried under the staff table.

“I must protest, in the strongest language —” blustered Percy, shocked.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit? Hurry up, Weasley, and state your business. You have interrupted my evening meal, and I am most displeased,” said McGonagall, glaring at him angrily.

“Now, see here,” said Percy, attempting to assert his authority. “On behalf of the Ministry of Magic I am here to protest at the shameful treatment Madam Umbridge has received at Hogwarts. She is a very senior member of the Ministry —”

“Come, come, Weasley, everyone in this room — even your gerbils — know that the only requirement to rise high in the Ministry these days is the ability to bend low and lick Fudge's boots.”

“How dare —” began Percy, his face completely red.

“And indeed, what better proof could there be than a sycophant, such as yourself, being appointed Deputy Minister of Magic?” While Percy was spluttering incoherently, McGonagall continued. “But since you have raised the subject of Madam Umbridge, perhaps you would care to explain why she is still with us?”

“If you recall,” said Percy officiously, attempting to regain his composure. “The Ministry wishes to have the most important subject of Ministry of Magic Rules, Regulations, and Guide to Good Civic Conduct taught to students by a competent and duly authorised person.”

“Yes, Weasley, I do recall. However, attendance at Madam Umbridge's seminars is strictly voluntary — and as no one has volunteered to attend, there are no seminars. So, I repeat: Why is she still here?”

“Yes, well, the response has been, err … a little disappointing,” mumbled Percy.

“No, Weasley, the response has been non-existent.”

“The Ministry has the right to appoint —”

“Enough of this ridiculous pretence, Weasley; clearly, she is here as a Ministry mole.”

“I deny it … categorically!” exclaimed Percy, turning red. “And, furthermore, I have come to make an announcement … the announcement which she, herself, was so rudely refused permission to make in this hall, yesterday evening: The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, has personally vested in Dolores Jane Umbridge honorary powers of Ministry Auror. As such, she has the power to detain, interrogate, and arrest any student or member of staff, as she sees fit.” Percy was now looking very smug indeed, and Umbridge, still standing beside him, was wearing a superior, self-satisfied grin.

“I think that most unwise, Weasley,” counselled McGonagall forebodingly. “I wish to have it clearly understood that I take no responsibility, whatsoever, for her personal safety,” she added menacingly, wiping the smiles from both their faces.

“Are you threatening a senior member of the Ministry of Magic?” demanded Percy.

“Good heavens! No, never,” replied McGonagall, smiling innocently. “But, you must appreciate that spying is a very dangerous business, especially when people know you are spying on them … and particularly when they loathe and detest you. There are many at this school — staff and students alike — who remember the unprincipled way Madam Umbridge behaved here two years ago. I am, unfortunately, unable to guarantee that there are not those amongst them who may seek revenge. This is not a threat, Weasley … merely an observation on human nature.”

“I deny that Dolores is a spy,” asserted Percy. “The allegation is quite absurd. She is here to … err, to communicate the crucial and vital policies of the Ministry to the students of Hogwarts.”

“And what, precisely, are those policies?” asked McGonagall sarcastically.

“Détente and peaceful coexistence,” said Percy, feeling himself on surer ground now. “And, I might add: Minister Fudge has met with considerable successful in pursuing these initiatives.”

“Utter twaddle!” spat the Headmistress contemptuously. “His only success has been in worming his way back in as Minister of Magic and turning the Ministry into a Cornelius Fudge self-preservation society. His policies are nothing but a transparent ploy at appeasement — so that You-Know-Who does not murder by him like he murdered his predecessor.”

“I must object to this public utterance of libellous and unsubstantiated allegations!” cried Percy. “There is no evidence, whatsoever, that You-Know-Who, or anyone associated with him, was in any way connected with the death of the previous Minister of Magic. Investigations into the circumstances surrounding his death are ongoing and, as yet, inconclusive. We are following several promising lines of enquiry and must not jump to hasty conclusions or give currency to the sort of subversive slander being bandied about by illegal organisations and enemies of the wizarding world. It may very well transpire that the previous Minister died of entirely natural causes. A team of mediwizards is currently reviewing his health records from his birth, onwards, looking for evidence —”

“Unmitigated claptrap!” snorted McGonagall. “Hundreds of witches and wizards saw the Dark Mark hovering over the Ministry of Magic — you must have seen it yourself — what is the point of this ridiculous pretence?”

“Err … détente requires the Ministry to give everyone the benefit of the doubt and, err, encourage all parties to act in good faith … and, as I said before, these policies are verifiably working. There have been no serious incidents —”

“No serious incidents?” exclaimed McGonagall incredulously. “Not two weeks ago, the Hogwarts Express was attacked by a group of Death Eaters accompanied by a giant and several dozen Dementors. What exactly does the Ministry call that, if not a serious incident?”

“An unsubstantiated allegation,” blurted Percy weakly. “The Ministry receives these kinds of unsubstantiated allegations all the time. Unfortunately we do not currently have the resources to investigate —”

“Because all your Aurors are busy protecting Fudge, yourself, and all the other frightened little bunnies at the Ministry!”

“It is grossly irresponsible to make unproven accusations of this kind. It only leads to disharmony and provokes … err, people.”

“Weasley, you see before you several hundred students who were on the Hogwarts Express when it was attacked; who personally witnessed it; who saw the giant, the Death Eaters, and the Dementors. Yet you stand here, claiming that what they saw and heard with their own eyes and ears did not happen because the Ministry has not investigated it, and officially pronounced it to have happened. It is crystal clear that the Ministry will never acknowledge the attack, just as it refuses to acknowledge the murder of Scrimgeour by You-Know-Who, because it might upset him, and, more to the point, cause him to similarly dispose of Fudge. How on earth do you expect the Ministry to carry any credibility when it denies the blatantly obvious?”

Percy um-ed and ah-ed, his face very red, as he shuffled about, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before attempting to reply. “Well, as I understand it, the intention of the attack — err … if indeed there was such an attack — and I would like to state categorically, on the record, that as far as the Ministry is concerned there is no evidence, whatsoever, that such an attack ever occurred. Err … however, if this purported attack, did in fact occur, it was not an act of aggression aimed at the students of this school, but, merely an attempt by a … err, certain political grouping, to, err, engage in dialogue with a particular individual — an antisocial troublemaker — by the name of Harry Potter.”

Percy's pronouncement was greeted by gasps of incredulity and howls of derision, but he carried on quickly, attempting to justify his absurd assertion. “The Minister is of the opinion that much of the bad behaviour attributed to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his political associates is in fact the result of gratuitous provocation by antisocial elements, in general, and Harry Potter, in particular.”

Professor McGonagall snorted in disbelief. “Are you are referring to provocations such as the one Potter gave You-Know-Who when he was one year old … when You-Know-Who murdered his parents and attempted to murder him? And don't bother to waffle on about unsubstantiated allegations and Ministry investigations; the facts are a matter of historical record and are published in a number of authoritative and highly-respected history books. Congratulations, Weasley, you have succeeded in totally demolishing any last smidgen of credibility the Ministry of Magic might have possessed. You may go now; please take your vermin with you,” she said dismissively, resuming her meal.

Percy was speechless. McGonagall had utterly humiliated him and the Ministry. “Come, Dolores,” he said turning his back on Professor McGonagall, attempting to maintain a dignified expression as he strode briskly towards the back of the hall. Umbridge, with her short legs, was forced to run in a most unseemly manner to keep up with him, while attempting to avoid tripping over the gerbils, who were scurrying behind the Deputy Minister. They exited the Great Hall unceremoniously to the sound of raucous laughter.