THE SECOND WAR BEGINS

“There you are, Harry, I knew they’d drag you into it somehow,” said Hermione, looking over the top of the paper at him.

They were in the hospital wing. Harry was sitting on the end of Ron’s bed and they were both listening to Hermione read the front page of the Sunday Prophet. Ginny, whose ankle had been mended in a trice by Madam Pomfrey, was curled up at the foot of Hermione’s bed; Neville, whose nose had likewise been returned to its normal size and shape, was in a chair between the two beds; and Luna, who had dropped in to visit, clutching the latest edition of The Quibbler, was reading the magazine upside-down and apparently not taking in a word Hermione was saying.

“He’s the ‘Boy Who Lived’ again now, though, isn’t he?” said Ron darkly. “Not such a deluded show-off any more, eh?”

He helped himself to a handful of Chocolate Frogs from the immense pile on his bedside cabinet, threw a few to Harry, Ginny and Neville and ripped off the wrapper of his own with his teeth. There were still deep welts on his forearms where the brain’s tentacles had wrapped around him. According to Madam Pomfrey, thoughts could leave deeper scarring than almost anything else, though since she had started applying copious amounts of Dr. Ubbly’s Oblivious Unction there seemed to have been some improvement.

“Yes, they’re very complimentary about you now, Harry,” said Hermione, scanning down the article. “‘A lone voice of truth… perceived as unbalanced, yet never wavered in his story… forced to bear ridicule and slander…’ Hmmm,” she said, frowning, “I notice they don’t mention the fact that it was them doing all the ridiculing and slandering in the Prophet…”

She winced slightly and put a hand to her ribs. The curse Dolohov had used on her, though less effective than it would have been had he been able to say the incantation aloud, had nevertheless caused, in Madam Pomfrey’s words, “quite enough damage to be going on with.” Hermione was having to take ten different types of potion every day, was improving greatly, and was already bored with the hospital wing.

“You-Know-Who’s Last Attempt to Take Over, pages two to four, What the Ministry Should Have Told Us, page five, Why Nobody Listened to Albus Dumbledore, pages six to eight, Exclusive Interview with Harry Potter, page nine… Well,” said Hermione, folding up the newspaper and throwing it aside, “it’s certainly given them lots to write about. And that interview with Harry isn’t exclusive, it’s the one that was in The Quibbler months ago…”

“Daddy sold it to them,” said Luna vaguely, turning a page of The Quibbler. “He got a very good price for it, too, so we’re going to go on an expedition to Sweden this summer to see if we can catch a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”

Hermione seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, then said, “That sounds lovely.”

Ginny caught Harry’s eye and looked away quickly, grinning.

“So, anyway,” said Hermione, sitting up a little straighter and wincing again, “what’s going on in school?”

“Well, Flitwick’s got rid of Fred and George’s swamp,” said Ginny, “he did it in about three seconds. But he left a tiny patch under the window and he’s roped it off—”

“Why?” said Hermione, looking startled.

“Oh, he just says it was a really good bit of magic,” said Ginny, shrugging.

“I think he left it as a monument to Fred and George,” said Ron, through a mouthful of chocolate. “They sent me all these, you know,” he told Harry, pointing at the small mountain of Frogs beside him. “Must be doing all right out of that joke shop, eh?”

Hermione looked rather disapproving and asked, “So has all the trouble stopped now Dumbledore’s back?”

“Yes,” said Neville, “everything’s settled right back to normal.”

“I ’s’pose Filch is happy, is he?” asked Ron, propping a Chocolate Frog Card featuring Dumbledore against his water jug.

“Not at all,” said Ginny “He’s really, really miserable, actually…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He keeps saying Umbridge was the best thing that ever happened to Hogwarts…”

All six of them looked around. Professor Umbridge was lying in a bed opposite them, gazing up at the ceiling. Dumbledore had strode alone into the Forest to rescue her from the centaurs; how he had done it—how he had emerged from the trees supporting Professor Umbridge without so much as a scratch on him—nobody knew, and Umbridge was certainly not telling. Since she had returned to the castle she had not, as far as any of them knew, uttered a single word. Nobody really knew what was wrong with her, either. Her usually neat mousy hair was very untidy and there were still bits of twigs and leaves in it, but otherwise she seemed to be quite unscathed.

“Madam Pomfrey says she’s just in shock,” whispered Hermione.

“Sulking, more like,” said Ginny.

“Yeah, she shows signs of life if you do this,” said Ron, and with his tongue he made soft clip-clopping noises. Umbridge sat bolt upright, looking around wildly.

“Anything wrong, Professor?” called Madam Pomfrey, poking her head around her office door.

“No… no…” said Umbridge, sinking back into her pillows. “No, I must have been dreaming…”

Hermione and Ginny muffled their laughter in the bedclothes.

“Speaking of centaurs,” said Hermione, when she had recovered a little, “who’s Divination teacher now? Is Firenze staying?”

“He’s got to,” said Harry, “the other centaurs won’t take him back, will they?”

“It looks like he and Trelawney are both going to teach,” said Ginny.

“Bet Dumbledore wishes he could’ve got rid of Trelawney for good,” said Ron, now munching on his fourteenth Frog. “Mind you, the whole subject’s useless if you ask me, Firenze isn’t a lot better…”

“How can you say that?” Hermione demanded. “After we’ve just found out that there are real prophecies?”

Harry’s heart began to race. He had not told Ron, Hermione or anyone else what the prophecy had contained. Neville had told them it had smashed while Harry was pulling him up the steps in the Death Room and Harry had not yet corrected this impression. He was not ready to see their expressions when he told them that he must be either murderer or victim, there was no other way…

“It is a pity it broke,” said Hermione quietly, shaking her head.

“Yeah, it is,” said Ron. “Still, at least You-Know-Who never found out what was in it either—where are you going?” he added, looking both surprised and disappointed as Harry stood up.

“Er—Hagrid’s,” said Harry. “You know, he just got back and I promised I’d go down and see him and tell him how you two are.”

“Oh, all right then,” said Ron grumpily, looking out of the dormitory window at the patch of bright blue sky beyond. “Wish we could come.”

“Say hello to him fir us!” called Hermione, as Harry proceeded down the ward. “And ask him what’s happening about… about his little friend!”

Harry gave a wave of his hand to show he had heard and understood as he left the dormitory.

The castle seemed very quiet even for a Sunday. Everybody was clearly out in the sunny grounds, enjoying the end of their exams and the prospect of a last few days of term unhampered by revision or homework. Harry walked slowly along the deserted corridor, peering out of windows as he went; he could see people messing around in the air over the Quidditch pitch and a couple of students swimming in the lake, accompanied by the giant squid.

He was finding it hard to decide whether he wanted to be with people or not; whenever he was in company he wanted to get away and whenever he was alone he wanted company. He thought he might really go and visit Hagrid, though, as he had not talked to him properly since he’d returned…

Harry had just descended the last marble step into the Entrance Hall when Malloy, Crabbe and Goyle emerged from a door on the right that Harry knew led down to the Slytherin common room. Harry stopped dead; so did Malfoy and the others. The only sounds were the shouts, laughter and splashes drifting into the Hall from the grounds through the open front doors.

Malfoy glanced around—Harry knew he was checking for signs of teachers—then he looked back at Harry and said in a low voice, “You’re dead, Potter.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Funny,” he said, “you’d think I’d have stopped walking around…”

Malloy looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him; he felt a kind of detached satisfaction at the sight of his pale, pointed face contorted with rage.

“You’re going to pay,” said Malloy in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “I’m going to make you pay for what you’ve done to my father…”

“Well, I’m terrified now,” said Harry sarcastically. “I ’s’pose Lord Voldemort’s just a warm-up act compared to you three—what’s the matter?” he added, for Malfoy Crabbe and Goyle had all looked stricken at the sound of the name. “He’s a mate of your dad, isn’t he? Not scared of him, are you?”

“You think you’re such a big man, Potter,” said Malfoy, advancing now, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. “You wait. I’ll have you. You can’t land my father in prison—”

“I thought I just had,” said Harry.

“The Dementors have left Azkaban,” said Malfoy quietly. “Dad and the others’ll be out in no time…”

“Yeah, I expect they will,” said Harry. “Still, at least everyone knows what scumbags they are now—”

Malfoy’s hand flew towards his wand, but Harry was too quick for him; he had drawn his own wand before Malfoy’s fingers had even entered the pocket of his robes.

“Potter!”

The voice rang across the Entrance Hall. Snape had emerged from the staircase leading down to his office and at the sight of him Harry felt a great rush of hatred beyond anything he felt towards Malloy… whatever Dumbledore said, he would never forgive Snape… never…

“What are you doing, Potter?” said Snape, as coldly as ever, as he strode over to the four of them.

“I’m trying to decide what curse to use on Malloy, sir,” said Harry fiercely.

Snape stared at him.

“Put that wand away at once,” he said curtly. “Ten points from Gryff—”

Snape looked towards the giant hour-glasses on the walls and gave a sneering smile.

“Ah. I see there are no longer any points left in the Gryffindor hour-glass to take away. In that case, Potter, we will simply have to—”

“Add some more?”

Professor McGonagall had just stumped up the stone steps into the castle; she was carrying a tartan carpetbag in one hand and leaning heavily on a walking stick with her other, but otherwise looked quite well.

“Professor McGonagall!” said Snape, striding forwards. “Out of St. Mungo’s, I see!”

“Yes, Professor Snape,” said Professor McGonagall, shrugging off her travelling cloak, “I’m quite as good as new. You two—Crabbe—Goyle—”

She beckoned them forwards imperiously and they came, shuffling their large feet and looking awkward.

“Here,” said Professor McGonagall, thrusting her carpetbag into Crabbe’s chest and her cloak into Goyle’s; “take these up to my office for me.”

They turned and stumped away up the marble staircase.

“Right then,” said Professor McGonagall, looking up at the hourglasses on the wall. “Well, I think Potter and his friends ought to have fifty points apiece for alerting the world to the return of You-Know-Who! What say you, Professor Snape?”

“What?” snapped Snape, though Harry knew he had heard perfectly well. “Oh—well—I suppose…”

“So that’s fifty each for Potter, the two Weasleys, Longbottom and Miss Granger,” said Professor McGanagall, and a shower of rubies fell down into the bottom bulb of Gryffindor’s hour-glass as she spoke. “Oh—and fifty for Miss Lovegood, I suppose,” she added, and a number of sapphires fell into Ravenclaw’s glass. “Now, you wanted to take ten from Mr. Potter, I think, Professor Snape—so there we are…”

A few rubies retreated into the upper bulb, leaving a respectable amount below nevertheless.

“Well, Potter, Malfoy—I think you ought to be outside on a glorious day like this,” Professor McGonagall continued briskly.

Harry did not need telling twice—he thrust his wand back inside his robes and headed straight for the front doors without another glance at Snape and Malfoy.

The hot sun hit him with a blast as he walked across the lawns towards Hagrid’s cabin. Students lying around on the grass sunbathing, talking, reading the SundayProphet and eating sweets, looked up at him as he passed; some called out to him, or else waved, clearly eager to show that they, like the Prophet, had decided he was something of a hero. Harry said nothing to any of them. He had no idea how much they knew of what had happened three days ago, but he had so far avoided being questioned and preferred to keep it that way.

He thought at first when he knocked on Hagrid’s cabin door that he was out, but then Fang came charging around the corner and almost bowled him over with the enthusiasm of his welcome. Hagrid, it transpired, was picking runner beans in his back garden.

“All righ’, Harry!” he said, beaming, when Harry approached the fence. “Come in, come in, we’ll have a cup o’ dandelion juice…”

“How’s things?” Hagrid asked him, as they settled down at his wooden table with a glass apiece of iced juice. “Yeh—er—feelin’ all righ’, are yeh?”

Harry knew from the look of concern on Hagrid’s face that he was not referring to Harry’s physical well-being.

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, because he could not bear to discuss the thing that he knew was in Hagrid’s mind. “So, where’re you been?”

“Bin hidin’ out in the mountains,” said Hagrid. “Up in a cave, like Sirius did when he…”

Hagrid broke off, cleared his throat gruffly, looked at Harry, and took a long draught of juice.

“Anyway, back now,” he said feebly.

“You—you look better,” said Harry, who was determined to keep the conversation moving away from Sirius.

“Wha’?” said Hagrid, raising a massive hand and feeling his face. “Oh—oh yeah. Well, Grawpy’s loads better behaved now, loads. Seemed right pleased ter see me when I got back, ter tell yeh the truth. He’s a good lad, really… I’ve bin thinkin’ abou’ tryin’ ter find him a lady friend, actually…”

Harry would normally have tried to persuade Hagrid out of this idea at once; the prospect of a second giant taking up residence in the Forest, possibly even wilder and more brutal than Grawp, was positively alarming, but somehow Harry could not muster the energy necessary to argue the point. He was starting to wish he was alone again, and with the idea of hastening his departure he took several large gulps of his dandelion juice, half-emptying his glass.

“Ev’ryone knows yeh’ve bin tellin’ the truth now, Harry,” said Hagrid softly and unexpectedly. He was watching Harry closely. “Tha’s gotta be better, hasn’ it?”

Harry shrugged.

“Look…” Hagrid leaned towards him across the table, “I knew Sirius longer ’n yeh did… he died in battle, an’ tha’s the way he’d’ve wanted ter go—”

“He didn’t want to go at all!” said Harry angrily.

Hagrid bowed his great shaggy head…

“Nah, I don’ reckon he did,” he said quietly. “But still, Harry… he was never one ter sit aroun’ at home an’ let other people do the fightin’. He couldn’ve lived with himself if he hadn’ gone ter help—”

Harry leapt up.

“I’ve got to go and visit Ron and Hermione in the hospital wing,” he said mechanically.

“Oh,” said Hagrid, looking rather upset. “Oh… all righ’ then, Harry… take care o’ yerself then, an’ drop back in if yeh’ve got a mo—”

“Yeah… right…”

Harry crossed to the door as fast as he could and pulled it open; he was out in the sunshine again before Hagrid had finished saying goodbye, and walking away across the lawn. Once again, people called out to him as he passed. He closed his eyes for a few moments, wishing they would all vanish, that he could open his eyes and find himself alone in the grounds…

A few days ago, before his exams had finished and he had seen the vision Voldemort had planted in his mind, he would have given almost anything for the wizarding world to know he had been telling the truth, for them to believe that Voldemort was back, and to know that he was neither a liar nor mad. Now, however…

He walked a short way around the lake, sat down on its bank, sheltered from the gaze of passers-by behind a tangle of shrubs, and stared out over the gleaming water, thinking…

Perhaps the reason he wanted to be alone was because he had felt isolated from everybody since his talk with Dumbledore. An invisible barrier separated him from the rest of the world. He was—he had always been—a marked man. It was just that he had never really understood what that meant…

And yet sitting here on the edge of the lake, with the terriblc weight of grief dragging at him, with the loss of Sirius so raw and fresh inside, he could not muster any great sense of fear. It was sunny, and the grounds around him were full of laughing people, and even though he felt as distant from them as though he belonged to a different race, it was still very hard to believe as he sat here that his life must include, or end in, murder…

He sat there for a long time, gazing out at the water, trying not to think about his godfather or to remember that it was directly across from here, on the opposite bank, that Sirius had once collapsed trying to fend off a hundred Dementors…

The sun had set before he realised he was cold. He got up and returned to the castle, wiping his face on his sleeve as he went.