I felt as though I was carrying some kind of talisman inside my chest over the following two weeks, a glowing secret that supported me through Umbridge's classes and even made it possible for me to smile blandly as I looked into her horrible bulging eyes. Harry, I and the D.A. were resisting her under her very nose, doing the very thing that she and the Ministry most feared, and whenever I was supposed to be reading Wilbert Slinkhard's book during her lessons I dwelled instead on satisfying memories of our most recent meetings, remembering how Neville had successfully disarmed Hermione, how Colin Creevey had mastered the Impediment Jinx after three meetings' hard effort, how Parvati Patil had produced such a good Reductor Curse that she had reduced the table carrying all the Sneakoscopes to dust.
Harry and I were finding it almost impossible to fix a regular night of the week for D.A. meetings, as we had to accommodate three separate Quidditch teams' practices, which were often rearranged depending on the weather conditions; but we were not sorry about this, we had a feeling that it was probably better to keep the timing of our meetings unpredictable. If anyone was watching us, it would be hard to make out a pattern.
Hermione and Lucy soon devised a very clever method of communicating the time and date of the next meeting to all the members in case we needed to change it at short notice, because it would look so suspicious if people from different Houses were seen crossing the Great Hall to talk to each other too often.
They gave each of the members of the D.A. a fake Galleon (Ron became very excited when he saw the basket at first, convinced that they were actually giving out gold).
"You see the numerals around the edge of the coins?" Lucy said, holding one up for examination at the end of our fourth meeting. The coin gleamed fat and yellow in the light from the torches. "On real Galleons that's just a serial number referring to the goblin who cast the coin. On these fake coins, though, the numbers will change to reflect the time and date of the next meeting. The coins will grow hot when the date changes, so if you're carrying them in a pocket you'll be able to feel them. We take one each, and when Harry and Liana set the date of the next meeting they'll change the numbers on their coins, and because I've put a Protean Charm on them, they'll all change to mimic theirs."
A blank silence greeted Lucy's words. She and Hermione looked around at all the faces upturned to them, rather disconcerted.
"Well — we thought it was a good idea," Hermione said uncertainly, "I mean, even if Umbridge asked us to turn out our pockets, there's nothing fishy about carrying a Galleon, is there? But... well, if you don't want to use them..."
"You can do a Protean Charm?" said Rowan, impressed.
"Yes," said Hermione and Lucy.
"But that's... that's N.E.W.T. standard, that is," he said weakly.
Oh," said Hermione, trying to look modest. "Oh... well... yes, I suppose it is..." But I noticed Rowan wasn't looking at Hermione; he was staring at Lucy, looking very impressed. Lucy blushed.
"So does that mean we're using the Galleons?" I asked quickly.
There was a murmur of assent and everybody moved forward to collect one from the basket.
Harry looked sideways at Hermione and Lucy. "You know what these remind me of?"
"No, what's that?" Hermione asked.
"The Death Eaters' scars. Voldemort touches one of them, and all their scars burn, and they know they've got to join him."
"Well... yes," said Hermione quietly. "That is where we got the idea... but you'll notice we decided to engrave the date on bits of metal
rather than on our members' skin..."
"Yeah... I prefer your way," I said, grinning, as I slipped my Galleon into my pocket. "I suppose the only danger with these is that we might accidentally spend them."
"Fat chance," said Ron, who was examining his own fake Galleon with a slightly mournful air. "I haven't got any real Galleons to confuse it with."
As the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, drew nearer, our D.A. meetings were put on hold because Angelina insisted on almost daily practices.
The fact that the Quidditch Cup had not been held for so long added considerably to the interest and excitement surrounding the forthcoming game. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were taking a lively interest in the outcome, for they, of course, would be playing both teams over the coming year; and the Heads of House of the competing teams, though they attempted to disguise it under a decent pretense of sportsmanship, were determined to see their side's victory. I realised how much Professor McGonagall cared about beating Slytherin when she abstained from giving us homework in the week leading up to the match.
"I think you've got enough to be getting on with at the moment," she said loftily. Nobody could quite believe their ears until she looked directly at Harry, Ron and me and said grimly, "I've become accustomed to seeing the Quidditch Cup in my study, you three, and I really don't want to have to hand it over to Professor Snape, so use the extra time to practise, won't you?"
Professor Snape was no less obviously partisan: He had booked the Quidditch pitch for Slytherin practice so often that the Gryffindors had difficulty getting on it to play. He was also turning a deaf ear to the many reports of Slytherin attempts to hex Gryffindor players in the corridors. When Katie Bell turned up in the hospital wing with her eyebrows growing so thick and fast that they obscured her vision and obstructed her mouth, Snape insisted that she must have attempted a Hair-Thickening Charm on herself and refused to listen to the fourteen eyewitnesses who insisted that they had seen the Slytherin Keeper, Miles Bletchley, hit her from behind with a jinx while she worked in the library.
I felt optimistic about Gryffindor's chances; we had, after all, never lost to Malfoy's team. Admittedly Ron was still not performing to Wood's standard, but he was working extremely hard to improve. His greatest weakness was a tendency to lose confidence when he made a blunder; if he let in one goal he became flustered and was therefore likely to miss more. On the other hand, I had seen Ron make some truly spectacular saves when he was on form: During one memorable practice, he had hung one-handed from his broom and kicked the Quaffle so hard away from the goal hoop that it soared the length of the pitch and through the center hoop at the other end. The rest of the team felt this save compared favourably with one made recently by Barry Ryan, the Irish International Keeper, against Poland's top Chaser, Ladislaw Zamojski. Even Fred had said that Ron might yet make him and George proud, and that they were seriously considering admitting that he was related to them, something he assured Ron they had been trying to deny for four years.
The only thing really worrying me was how much Ron was allowing the tactics of the Slytherin team to upset him before we even got onto the pitch. Harry and I, of course, had endured their snide comments for more than four years, so whispers of, "Hey, Pottys, I heard Warrington's sworn to knock you off your brooms on Saturday," far from chilling our blood, made us laugh. "Warrington's aim's so pathetic I'd be more worried if he was aiming for the person next to me," I retorted, which made Ron, Harry, Rowan, Lucy and Hermione laugh and wiped the smirk off Pansy Parkinson's face.
But Ron had never endured a relentless campaign of insults, jeers, and intimidation. When Slytherins, some of them seventh years and considerably larger than he was, muttered as they passed in the corridors, "Got your bed booked in the hospital wing, Weasley?" he did not laugh, but turned a delicate shade of green. When Draco Malfoy imitated Ron dropping the Quaffle (which he did whenever they were within sight of each other), Ron's ears glowed red and his hands shook so badly that he was likely to drop whatever he was holding at the time too.
October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces. The skies and the ceiling of the Great Hall turned a pale, pearly gray, the mountains around Hogwarts became snowcapped, and the temperature in the castle dropped so far that many students wore their thick protective dragon skin gloves in the corridors between lessons.
The morning of the match dawned bright and cold. The Great Hall was filling up fast when Hermione, Ron, Harry, Rowna and I arrived, the talk louder and the mood more exuberant than usual. As we passed the Slytherin table there was an upsurge of noise; I looked around and saw that nearly everyone there was wearing, in addition to the usual green-and-silver scarves and hats, silver badges in the shape of what seemed to be crowns. For some reason many of them waved at Ron, laughing uproariously. I tried to see what was written on the badges as I walked by, but I was too concerned to get Ron past their table quickly to linger long enough to read them.
We received a rousing welcome at the Gryffindor table, where everyone was wearing red and gold, but far from raising Ron's spirits the cheers seemed to sap the last of his morale; he collapsed onto the nearest bench looking as though he were facing his final meal.
"I must've been mental to do this," he said in a croaky whisper. "Mental."
"Don't be thick," said Harry firmly, passing him a choice of cereals. "You're going to be fine. It's normal to be nervous."
"I'm rubbish," croaked Ron. "I'm lousy. I can't play to save my life. What was I thinking?"
"Get a grip," I said sternly. "Look at that save you made with your foot the other day, even Fred and George said it was brilliant —"
Ron turned a tortured face to me.
"That was an accident," he whispered miserably. "I didn't mean to do it — I slipped off my broom when none of you were looking and I was trying to get back on and I kicked the Quaffle by accident."
"Well," said Harry, recovering quickly from this unpleasant surprise, "a few more accidents like that and the game's in the bag, isn't it?"
Hermione, Rowan and Ginny sat down opposite them wearing red-and- gold scarves, gloves, and rosettes. I had, as with every Gryffindor match, turned my hair scarlet with golden highlights.
"How're you feeling?" Ginny asked Ron, who was now staring into the dregs of milk at the bottom of his empty cereal bowl as though seriously considering attempting to drown himself in them.
"He's just nervous," said Harry.
"Well, that's a good sign, I never feel you perform as well in exams if you're not a bit nervous," said Hermione heartily.
"Hello," said a vague and dreamy voice from behind them. I looked up: Luna Lovegood had drifted over from the Ravenclaw table. Many people were staring at her and a few openly laughing and pointing; she had managed to procure a hat shaped like a life-size lion's head, which was perched precariously on her head.
"I'm supporting Gryffindor," said Luna, pointing unnecessarily at her hat. "Look what it does..."
She reached up and tapped the hat with her wand. It opened its mouth wide and gave an extremely realistic roar that made everyone in the vicinity jump.
"It's good, isn't it?" said Luna happily. "I wanted to have it chewing up a serpent to represent Slytherin, you know, but there wasn't time. Anyway... good luck, Ronald!"
She drifted away. We had not quite recovered from the shock of Luna's hat before Angelina came hurrying toward them, accompanied by Katie, whose eyebrows had mercifully been returned to normal by Madam Pomfrey.
"When you're ready," she said, "we're going to go straight down to the pitch, check out conditions and change."
"We'll be there in a bit," Harry assured her. "Ron's just got to have some breakfast."
It became clear after ten minutes, however, that Ron was not capable of eating anything more and Harry and I thought it best to get him down to the changing rooms. As we rose from the table, Hermione got up too, and taking Harry's arm and my arm, she drew us to one side.
"Don't let Ron see what's on those Slytherins' badges," she whispered urgently.
Harry and I looked questioningly at her, but she shook her head warningly; Ron had just ambled over to us, looking lost and desperate.
"Good luck, Ron," said Hermione, standing on tiptoe and kissing him on the cheek. "And you, Harry and Liana —"
Ron seemed to come to himself slightly as we walked back across the Great Hall. He touched the spot on his face where Hermione had kissed him, looking puzzled, as though he was not quite sure what had just happened. He seemed too distracted to notice much around him, but Harry and I cast a curious glance at the crown-shaped badges as we passed the Slytherin table, and this time we made out the words etched onto them:
WEASLEY IS OUR KING
With an unpleasant feeling that this could mean nothing good, Harry and I hurried Ron across the entrance hall, down the stone steps, and out into the icy air.
The frosty grass crunched under our feet as they hurried down the sloping lawns toward the stadium. There was no wind at all and the sky was a uniform pearly white, which meant that visibility would be good without the drawback of direct sunlight in the eyes. Harry and I pointed out these encouraging factors to Ron as we walked, but I was not sure that Ron was listening.
Angelina had changed already and was talking to the rest of the team when we entered. Harry, Ron and I pulled on our robes (Ron attempted to do his up back-to-front for several minutes before I took pity on him and went to help) and then sat down to listen to the pre-match talk while the babble of voices outside grew steadily louder as the crowd came pouring out of the castle toward the pitch.
"Okay, I've only just found out the final lineup for Slytherin," said Angelina, consulting a piece of parchment. "Last year's Beaters, Derrick and Bole, have left now, but it looks as though Montague's replaced them with the usual gorillas, rather than anyone who can fly particularly well. They're two blokes called Crabbe and Goyle, I don't know much about them —"
"We do," said Harry, Ron and I together.
"Well, they don't look bright enough to tell one end of a broom from another," said Angelina, pocketing her parchment, "but then I was always surprised Derrick and Bole managed to find their way onto the pitch without signposts."
"Crabbe and Goyle are in the same mold," Harry assured her.
We could hear hundreds of footsteps mounting the banked benches of the spectators' stands now. Some people were singing, though I could not make out the words. I was starting to feel nervous, but I knew my butterflies were as nothing to Ron's, who was clutching his stomach and staring straight ahead again, his jaw set and his complexion pale gray.
"It's time," said Angelina in a hushed voice, looking at her watch. "C'mon everyone... good luck."
The team rose, shouldered their brooms, and marched in single file out of the changing room and into the dazzling sunlight. A roar of sound greeted us in which I could still hear singing, though it was muffled by the cheers and whistles.
The Slytherin team were standing waiting for us. They too were wearing those silver crown-shaped badges. The new captain, Montague, was built along the same lines as Dudley, with massive forearms like hairy hams. Behind him lurked Crabbe and Goyle, almost as large, blinking stupidly in the sunlight, swinging their new Beaters' bats. Malfoy stood to one side, the sunlight gleaming on his white- blond head. He caught my eye and smirked, tapping the crown- shaped badge on his chest.
"Captains shake hands," ordered the umpire, Madam Hooch, as Angelina and Montague reached each other. I could tell that Montague was trying to crush Angelina's fingers, though she did not wince. "Mount your brooms..."
Madam Hooch placed her whistle in her mouth and blew.
The balls were released and the fourteen players shot upward; out of the corner of my eye I saw Ron streak off toward the goal hoops.
Angelina got the Quaffle and was speeding toward the Slytherin goal posts, Katie and I following her.
Angelina ducked Warrington, passed Montague and got hit from behind by a Bludger from Crabbe. She dropped the Quaffle and Montague caught it. He rushed toward the Gryffindor goal posts, avoiding me and Katie, but got hit by a Bludger. I looked around me and saw George cheering triumphantly.
Katie caught the Quaffle, which Montague had dropped. I sped after her, flying beside her and she threw the Quaffle to me.
"Katie Bell of Gryffindor reverse passes to Liana Potter and Potter's away —" Lee Jordan commentated. "— dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger — close call, Liana — and the crowd are loving this, just listen to them, what's that they're singing?"
And as Lee paused to listen the song rose loud and clear from the sea of green and silver in the Slytherin section of the stands:
Weasley cannot save a thing, He cannot block a single ring, That's why Slytherins all sing: Weasley is our King.
Weasley was born in a bin,
He always lets the Quaffle in, Weasley will make sure we win, Weasley is our King.
My blood was boiling so heavily that I decided to pass the Quaffle to Angelina before I would drop it out of anger.
Angelina sped toward the goal and threw the Quaffle at it, but Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper, had saved the goal; he threw the Quaffle to Warrington who sped off with it, zigzagging in between Katie and me; the singing from below grew louder and louder as he drew nearer and nearer Ron —
Weasley is our King,
Weasley is our King,
He always lets the Quaffle in, Weasley is our King.
I turned toward Ron, a lone figure at the far end of the pitch, hovering before the three goal hoops while the massive Warrington pelted toward him...
"— and it's Warrington with the Quaffle, Warrington heading for goal, he's out of Bludger range with just the Keeper ahead —"
A great swell of song rose from the Slytherin stands below:
Weasley cannot save a thing,
He cannot block a single ring...
"— so it's the first test for new Gryffindor Keeper, Weasley, brother of Beaters, Fred and George, and a promising new talent on the team — come on, Ron!"
But the scream of delight came from the Slytherin end: Ron had dived wildly, his arms wide, and the Quaffle had soared between them, straight through Ron's central hoop.
"Slytherin score!" came Lee's voice amid the cheering and booing from the crowds below. "So that's ten-nil to Slytherin — bad luck, Ron..."
The Slytherins sang even louder:
WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,
HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN...
Ignoring their chants, I followed Katie, who was in possession of the Quaffle.
"— and Gryffindor back in possession and it's Katie Bell tanking up the pitch —" cried Lee valiantly, though the singing was now so deafening that he could hardly make himself heard above it.
WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN, WEASLEY IS OUR KING...
"Harry, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I heard Angelina scream. "GET GOING!"
I looked up and saw Harry hovering high above me, watching the match instead of searching for the Snitch.
"— and it's Warrington again," bellowed Lee, "who passes to Pucey, Pucey's off past Potter, come on now Angelina, you can take him — turns out you can't — but nice Bludger from Fred Weasley, I mean, George Weasley, oh who cares, one of them anyway, and Warrington drops the Quaffle and Katie Bell — er — drops it too — so that's Montague with the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Montague takes the Quaffle, and he's off up the pitch, come on now Gryffindor, block him!"
I dashed after Montague, who was now heading toward the Gryffindor goal.
WEASLEY CANNOT SAVE A THING...
"— and Pucey's dodged Alicia again, and he's heading straight for goal, stop it, Ron!"
There was a terrible groan from the Gryffindor
end, coupled with fresh screams and applause from the Slytherins as Ron missed again and Pucey scored.
But the groans from the Gryffindors soon turned into loud screams. I turned around and saw Harry and Malfoy dive neck to neck to the Golden Snitch.
Feet from the ground, Harry lifted his right hand from his broom, stretching toward the Snitch... to his right, Malfoy's arm extended too, reaching, groping...
It was over in two breathless, desperate, windswept seconds — Harry's fingers closed around the tiny, struggling ball — Malfoy's fingernails scrabbled the back of Harry's hand hopelessly — Harry pulled his broom upward, holding the struggling ball in his hand and the Gryffindor spectators screamed their approval...
They were saved, it did not matter that Ron had let in those goals, nobody would remember as long as Gryffindor had won —
"HARRY!"
WHAM!
My warning hadn't been in time; a Bludger hit Harry squarely in the small of the back and he flew forward off his broom; luckily he was only five or six feet above the ground, having dived so low to catch the Snitch, but he was winded all the same as he landed flat on his back on the frozen pitch. Iheard Madam Hooch's shrill whistle, an uproar in the stands compounded of catcalls, angry yells and jeering, as I sped toward my brother.
"Are you all right?" I asked him as I landed next to him.
" 'Course I am," said Harry grimly, taking my hand and allowing me to pull him to his feet.
Madam Hooch was zooming toward one of the Slytherin players above us, though I could not see who it was at this angle.
"It was that thug, Crabbe," said Angelina, who had landed next to me, angrily. "He whacked the Bludger at you the moment he saw you'd got the Snitch — but we won, Harry, we won!"
I heard a snort from behind us and turned around: Draco Malfoy had landed close by; white-faced with fury, he was still managing to sneer.
"Saved Weasley's neck, haven't you?" he said to Harry. "I've never seen a worse Keeper... but then he was born in a bin... Did you like my lyrics, Potter?"
Harry did not answer; he turned away to meet the rest of the team who were now landing one by one, yelling and punching the air in triumph, all except Ron, who had dismounted from his broom over by the goalposts and was making his way slowly back to the changing rooms alone.
"We wanted to write another couple of verses!" Malfoy called, as Katie and I hugged Harry. "But we couldn't find rhymes for fat and ugly — we wanted to sing about his mother, see —"
"Talk about sour grapes," said Angelina, casting Malfoy a disgusted look.
"— we couldn't fit in useless loser either — for his father, you know —"
Fred and George had realised what Malfoy was talking about. Halfway through shaking Harry's hand they stiffened, looking around at Malfoy.
"Leave it," said Angelina at once, taking Fred by the arm. "Leave it, Fred, let him yell, he's just sore he lost, the jumped-up little —"
"George..." I said warningly, grabbing his hand.
"— but you like the Weasleys, don't you, Potter?" said Malfoy, sneering. "Spend holidays there and everything, don't you? Can't see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you've been dragged up by Muggles even the Weasleys' hovel smells okay —"
I grabbed hold of George; meanwhile it was taking the combined efforts of Angelina, Harry and Katie to stop Fred leaping on Malfoy, who was laughing openly. I looked around for Madam Hooch, but she was still berating Crabbe for his illegal Bludger attack.
"Or perhaps," said Malfoy, leering as he backed away, "you can remember what your mother's house stank like, Potters, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it —"
I was not aware of releasing George, all I knew was that a second later both of us were sprinting at Malfoy. I had completely forgotten the fact that all the teachers were watching: All I wanted to do was cause Malfoy as much pain as possible. With no time to draw out my wand, I merely drew back my fist and sank it as hard as I could into Malfoy's stomach —
"Liana! LIANA! GEORGE! NO !"
I could hear girls' voices screaming, Malfoy yelling, George swearing, a whistle blowing, and the bellowing of the crowd around me, but I did not care, not until somebody in the vicinity yelled "IMPEDIMENTA!" and only when I was knocked over backward by the force of the spell did I abandon the attempt to punch every inch of Malfoy I could reach...
"What do you think you're doing?" screamed Madam Hooch, as I leapt to my feet again; it was she who had hit me with the Impediment Jinx. She was holding her whistle in one hand and a wand in the other, her broom lay abandoned several feet away. Malfoy was curled up on the ground, whimpering and moaning, his nose bloody; George was sporting a swollen lip; Fred was still being forcibly restrained by the two Chasers and Harry had to be restrained now, too.
"I've never seen behaviour like it — back up to the castle, both of you, and straight to your Head of House's office! Go! Now!"
George and I marched off the pitch, both panting.
"That stupid git," I muttered.
"Tell me about it," George growled. He looked at me and maybe he could see that I was very pissed or maybe it was to calm himself down, but he grabbed my hand and squeezed it reasurringly.
The howling and jeering of the crowd grew fainter and fainter until we reached the entrance hall, where we could hear nothing except the sound of our own footsteps.
We had barely reached the door of Professor McGonagall's office when she came marching along the corridor behind us. She was wearing a Gryffindor scarf, but tore it from her throat with shaking hands as she strode toward us, looking livid.
"In!" she said furiously, pointing to the door. George and I entered, letting go of each other's hand.
Professor McGonagall strode around behind her desk and faced us, quivering with rage as she threw the Gryffindor scarf aside onto the floor.
"Well?" she said. "I have never seen such a disgraceful exhibition. Two onto one! Explain yourselves!"
"Malfoy provoked us," I said stiffly.
"Provoked you?" shouted Professor McGonagall, slamming a fist onto her desk so that her tartan biscuit tin slid sideways off it and burst open, littering the floor with Ginger Newts. "He'd just lost, hadn't he, of course he wanted to provoke you! But what on earth he can have said that justified what you two —"
"He insulted my parents," snarled George. "And Liana's mother."
"But instead of leaving it to Madam Hooch to sort out, you two decided to give an exhibition of Muggle dueling, did you?" bellowed Professor McGonagall. "Have you any idea what you've — ?"
"Hem, hem."
George and I both spun around. Dolores Umbridge was standing in the doorway wrapped in a green tweed cloak that greatly enhanced her resemblance to a giant toad, and smiling in the horribly sickly, ominous way that I had come to associate with imminent misery.
"May I help, Professor McGonagall?" asked Professor Umbridge in her most poisonously sweet voice.
Blood rushed into Professor McGonagall's face.
"Help?" she repeated in a constricted voice. "What do you mean, 'help'?"
Professor Umbridge moved forward into the office, still smiling her sickly smile.
"Why, I thought you might be grateful for a little extra authority."
I would not have been surprised to see sparks fly from Professor McGonagall's nostrils.
"You thought wrong," she said, turning her back on Umbridge. "Now, you two had better listen closely. I do not care what provocation Malfoy offered you, I do not care if he insulted every family member you possess, your behaviour was disgusting and I am giving each of you a week's worth of detention! Do not look at me like that, Potter, you deserve it! And if either of you ever —"
"Hem, hem."
Professor McGonagall closed her eyes as though praying for patience as she turned her face toward Professor Umbridge again.
"Yes?"
"I think they deserve rather more than detentions," said Umbridge, smiling still more broadly.
Professor McGonagall's eyes flew open.
"But unfortunately," she said, with an attempt at a reciprocal smile that made her look as though she had lockjaw, "it is what I think that counts, as they are in my House, Dolores."
"Well, actually, Minerva," simpered Umbridge, "I think you'll find that what I think does count. Now, where is it? Cornelius just sent it... I mean," she gave a little false laugh as she rummaged in her handbag, "the Minister just sent it... Ah yes..."
She had pulled out a piece of parchment that she now unfurled, clearing her throat fussily before starting to read what it said.
"Hem, hem... 'Educational Decree Number Twenty-five...' "
"Not another one!" exclaimed Professor McGonagall violently.
"Well, yes," said Umbridge, still smiling. "As a matter of fact, Minerva, it was you who made me see that we needed a further amendment... You remember how you overrode me, when I was unwilling to allow the Gryffindor Quidditch team to re-form? How you took the case to Dumbledore, who insisted that the team be allowed to play? Well, now, I couldn't have that. I contacted the Minister at once, and he quite agreed with me that the High Inquisitor has to have the power to strip pupils of privileges, or she — that is to say, I — would have less authority than common teachers! And you see now, don't you, Minerva, how right I was in attempting to stop the Gryffindor team re-forming? Dreadful tempers... Anyway, I was reading out our amendment... hem, hem... 'The High Inquisitor will henceforth have supreme authority over all punishments, sanctions, and removal of privileges pertaining to the students of Hogwarts, and the power to alter such punishments, sanctions, and removals of privileges as may have been ordered by other staff members. Signed, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, Order of Merlin First Class, etc., etc. . . .' "
She rolled up the parchment and put it back into her handbag, still smiling.
"So... I really think I will have to ban these two from playing Quidditch ever again," she said, looking from me to George and back again.
"Ban us?" I said, and my voice sounded strangely distant. "From playing... ever again?"
"Yes, Mrs. Potter, I think a lifelong ban ought to do the trick," said Umbridge, her smile widening still further as she watched me struggle to comprehend what she had said. "You and Mr. Weasley here. And I think, to be safe, this both your twins ought to be stopped too — if their teammates had not restrained them, I feel sure they would have attacked young Mr. Malfoy as well. I will want their broomsticks confiscated, of course; I shall keep them safely in my office, to make sure there is no infringement of my ban. But I am not unreasonable, Professor McGonagall," she continued, turning back to Professor McGonagall who was now standing as still as though carved from ice, staring at her. "The rest of the team can continue playing, I saw no signs of violence from any of them. Well... good afternoon to you."
And with a look of the utmost satisfaction Umbridge left the room, leaving a horrified silence in her wake.
"Banned," said Angelina in a hollow voice, late that evening in the common room. "Banned. No Seeker, one Chaser down and no Beaters... What on earth are we going to do?"
It did not feel as though we had won the match at all. Everywhere I looked there were disconsolate and angry faces; the team themselves were slumped around the fire, all apart from Ron, who had not been seen since the end of the match.
"It's just so unfair," I said numbly, leaning against George, who looked just as defeated as I felt. "I mean, what about Crabbe and that Bludger he hit after the whistle had been blown? Has she banned him?"
"No," said Ginny miserably; she and Hermione were sitting on either side of Harry. "He just got lines, I heard Montague laughing about it at dinner."
"And banning Fred and Harry when they didn't even do anything!" I said furiously, pummeling my knee with my fist.
"It's not my fault I didn't," said Fred, with a very ugly look on his face. "I would've pounded the little scumbag to a pulp if you three hadn't been holding me back." Harry nodded agreeingly, staring miserably at the dark window. The Snitch he had caught earlier was now zooming around and around the common room; people were watching its progress as though hypnotised and Crookshanks and Nymeria were leaping from chair to chair, trying to catch it.
"I'm going to bed," said Angelina, getting slowly to her feet. "Maybe this will all turn out to have been a bad dream... Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and find we haven't played yet..."
She was soon followed by Katie. Fred and George sloped off to bed some time later, glowering at everyone they passed, and Ginny went not long after that. Only Harry, Rowan, Hermione and I were left beside the fire.
"Have you seen Ron?" Rowan asked in a low voice. Harry and I shook our heads.
"I think he's avoiding us," said Hermione. "Where do you think he — ?"
But at that precise moment, there was a creaking sound behind us as the Fat Lady swung forward and Ron came clambering through the portrait hole. He was very pale indeed and there was snow in his hair. When he saw Harry, Rowan, Hermione and me he stopped dead in his tracks.
"Where have you been?" said Hermione anxiously, springing up.
"Walking," Ron mumbled. He was still wearing his Quidditch things.
"You look frozen," said Hermione. "Come and sit down!"
Ron walked to the fireside and sank into the chair farthest from Harry's and mine, not looking at either of us. The stolen Snitch zoomed over our heads.
"I'm sorry," Ron mumbled, looking at his feet.
"What for?" said Harry.
"For thinking I can play Quidditch," said Ron. "I'm going to resign first thing tomorrow."
"If you resign," I said testily, "there'll only be two players left on the team."
And when Ron looked puzzled, I said, "Harry and I've been given a lifetime ban. So've Fred and George."
"What?" Ron yelped.
Hermione and Rowan told him the full story; Harry and I could not bear to tell it again. When they had finished, Ron looked more anguished than ever.
"This is all my fault —"
"You didn't make me punch Malfoy," I said angrily.
"— if I wasn't so lousy at Quidditch —"
"— it's got nothing to do with that —" Harry said.
"— it was that song that wound me up —"
"— it would've wound anyone up —" I told him.
Hermione got up and walked to the window, away from the argument, watching the snow swirling down against the pane.
"Look, drop it, will you!" I burst out. "It's bad enough without you blaming yourself for everything!"
Ron said nothing but sat gazing miserably at the damp hem of his robes. After a while he said in a dull voice, "This is the worst I've ever felt in my life."
"Join the club," said Harry and I bitterly.
"Well," said Hermione, her voice trembling slightly. "I can think of one thing that might cheer you both up."
"Oh yeah?" said Harry skeptically.
"Yeah," said Hermione, turning away from the pitch-black, snow-flecked window, a broad smile spreading across her face. "Hagrid's back."