september 1st, 1995

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"It's been great meeting all of you," Tonks hugs Hermione and Miranda goodbye. "We'll see you soon, I expect."

    A warning whistle sounds, "Quick, quick," Mrs. Weasley rushes distractedly, hugging them at random. "Write. . . . Be good. . . . If you've for- gotten anything we'll send it on. . . . Onto the train, now, hurry. . . ."

"Goodbye!" They all call out of the open window as the train began to move. The figures of Tonks, Lupin, Moody, and the Weasleys shrink rapidly.        The train is gathering still more speed, so that the houses outside the window flash past and they sway where they stand.

"Shall we go and find a compartment, then?" Harry questions.             Ron and Hermione exchange looks.

"Er," Ron blinks.

"We're — well — Ron and I are supposed to go into the prefect carriage," Hermione says awkwardly, looking to Miranda pleadingly for help. Ron isn't looking at either her or Harry; he seems to have become intensely interested in the fingernails on his left hand.

"Oh," Harry's jaw tenses. "Right. Fine."

"I don't think we'll have to stay there all journey," Hermione adds quickly. "Our letters said we just get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then patrol the corridors from time to time."

Gently, Miranda tugs on Harry's arm, "Let's go, Potter, we'll see our prefects later." She teases, "They're far too important to share a compartment with us ordinary people anyhow."

"Definitely," Ron chuckles lightly, casting a shifty, anxious look at Harry, who grins reassuredly. But as Hermione and Ron drag their trunks, Crookshanks, and a caged Pigwidgeon off toward the engine end of the train, Miranda sees something like loss pass over Harry.   

She squeezes his hand, leading him in the opposite direction, "Come on," Miranda tells him, "if we get a move on we'll be able to save them places."   

"Right," Harry picks up Hedwig's cage in one hand and the handle of his trunk in the other. They struggle off down the corridor, peering through the glass-paneled doors into the compartments they pass, which were already full. Miranda cannot help noticing that a lot of people stare back with great interest and several of them nudge their neighbors and point. She sincerely hopes that they do not believe anything the Daily Prophet prints, for Harry's sake. In the very last carriage they meet Neville Longbottom, his round face shining with the effort of pulling his trunk along and maintaining a one-handed grip on his struggling toad, Trevor.

"Hi, Harry," he pants. "Hi, Miranda . . . Everywhere's full. . . . I can't find a seat. . . ."

"What are you talking about?" Miranda squeezes past Neville to peer into the compartment behind him. "There's room in this one, there's only Luna Lovegood in here —"                     She slides the door open and pulls her trunk inside it. Harry and Neville follow. "Hi, Luna," Miranda waves. "Is it okay if we take these seats?"

     The girl beside the window looks up. She has waist-length, dirty-blond hair, very pale eyebrows, and protuberant eyes that give her a permanently surprised expression. Her wand is stuck behind her left ear for safekeeping, she is wearing a necklace of butterbeer caps, and she is reading a magazine upside down. Without blinking, she nods.   

"Thanks," Miranda sidles into the compartment, smiling at her. Behind her, Harry and Neville file in with much trepidation, followed by Ginny who had spotted them from across the car.                    Harry and Neville stow the three trunks and Hedwig's cage in the luggage rack and sit down. Luna peers at them over her upside-down magazine, which is called The Quibbler. She stares and stares at Harry, who has taken the seat opposite her and from what Miranda could discern, is wishing he hadn't.   

"Have a good summer, Luna?" Ginny asks, plopping down between her and Miranda.   

"Yes," says Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. "Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You're Harry Potter," she adds.

"I know I am," Harry replies, flicking his gaze to Miranda in confusion.

     Neville chuckles. Luna turns her pale eyes upon him instead, "And I don't know who you are."

"I'm nobody," Neville ducks his head hurriedly.

"No you're not," Ginny disagrees sharply, frowning. "Neville Longbottom — Luna Lovegood. Luna's in my year, but in Ravenclaw."

"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure,"  Luna sings airily. She raises her upside-down magazine high enough to hide her face and falls silent. Harry and Neville look at each other with their eye- brows raised. Ginny and Miranda suppress a giggle.

The train rattles onward, speeding them out into open country. It is an odd, unsettled sort of day; one moment the carriage is full of sunlight and the next they are passing beneath ominously gray clouds.   

"Guess what I got for my birthday?" Neville says.

"Another Remembrall?" Harry muses. And Miranda has a vivid memory of a story Draco once told her. Long ago, way back in her first year at Ilvermorny. He'd sent her a very detailed and impassioned letter about a Quidditch incident in which some , as Draco described it, 'vagrant' had gotten rewarded for disobeying orders, while he'd gotten punished for helping a classmate in need. She realizes now that that vagrant must've been Harry, who she cannot picture being a 'dastardly villain'. She'd had a feeling she'd gotten a skewed version of the story. Miranda laughs to herself.                    Harry, distracted from his conversation with Neville by her unprovoked laughter, wrinkles his brow, "What?"   

Miranda smiles, shaking her head, "Oh— nothing...I just— nothing..." She turns her attention back to Neville and what appears to be a small gray cactus in a pot, except that it is covered with what looks like boils rather than spines. Miranda stares at the thing, mildly revolted. It was pulsating slightly, giving it the rather sinister look of some diseased internal organ.

"It's really, really rare," explains Neville, beaming. "I don't know if there's one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, even. I can't wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My great-uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I'm going to see if I can breed from it."

"Does it — er — do anything?" Harry inquires, looking greenish.

"Loads of stuff!" Neville exclaims proudly. "It's got an amazing defensive mechanism — hold Trevor for me. . . ."                     He dumps the toad into Harry's lap and takes a quill from his schoolbag. Neville holds the Mimbulus mimbletonia up to his eyes, and gives the plant a sharp prod with the tip of his quill.                         Liquid squirts from every boil on the plant, thick, stinking, dark- green jets of it; they hit the ceiling, the windows, and spatter Luna Lovegood's magazine.

Miranda and Ginny fling their arms over their faces just in time, the slimy, green goop isolated to their shoes and hands, but Harry receives a face full. Miranda tries her best not to laugh at the sight of him. The entire car begins to smell like rancid manure.                             Neville, whose face and torso are also drenched, shakes his head to get the worst out of his eyes. "S-sorry," he gasps. "I haven't tried that before. . . . Didn't realize it would be quite so . . . Don't worry, though, Stinksap's not poisonous," he adds nervously, as Harry spits a mouthful onto the floor.

At this precise moment the door of their compartment slides open. "Oh . . . hello, Harry," a nervous, lilting voice says. "Um . . . bad time?"

Miranda, dripping with goo, glances up to find a very pretty girl with long, shiny black hair standing in the doorway smiling at Harry: Cho Chang, the Seeker on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team.                             "Oh . . . hi," Harry says politely, wiping the lenses of his glasses.

    "Um . . ." Cho fidgets, shyly batting her long eyelashes. "Well . . . just thought I'd say hello . . . 'bye then." She closes the door again, rather pink in the face, and departs.

Miranda feels something curdle in her stomach as she watches Cho leave, and slumps back in her seat, internally groaning. She wants to shrivel up and die. She would have liked Cho to discover her sitting next to Harry, making him laugh. Not opposite from him, with her hair coated in Stinksap and smelling like rotten eggs. Miranda does not like the way Cho looks at Harry, and she does not like how strikingly pretty she is. Did she imagine Harry's eyes lingering on her figure as she left?

With a sigh, Miranda gathers her hair in a ponytail, still glowering at the spot where Cho had been. Ginny coughs pointedly at her, arching a red brow, and Miranda's scowl deepens, "Oh, shut up, Gin."   

"What?" Harry looks between the two girls, baffled.   

"Never mind," Ginny says, biting back a smile. Miranda glares at her. "Look, we can get rid of all this easily." She pulls out her wand. "Scourgify!" The Stinksap vanishes.

     "Sorry," Neville apologizes repeatedly, in a small voice.

Ron and Hermione do not turn up for nearly an hour. In fact, Miranda is just arising from a short catnap when the compartment door slides open and they walk in, accompanied by Crookshanks and a shrilly hooting Pigwidgeon in his cage.                                         "I'm starving," Ron announces, stowing Pigwidgeon next to Hedwig, grabbing a Chocolate Frog from Harry and throwing himself into the seat next to him. He rips open the wrapper, and leans back with his eyes closed as though he has had a very ex- hausting morning.

"Well, there are two fifth-year prefects from each House," Hermione informs them, looking thoroughly disgruntled as she squeezes into her seat next to Miranda. "Boy and girl from each."

"And guess who's a Slytherin prefect?" Ron mutters, still with his eyes closed.

"Draco," Miranda says immediately, at the exact time Harry replies, "Malfoy." In a tone that suggests his worst fear has been confirmed. The sentiment behind each of their answers is very different to say the least.            Secretly, Miranda is proud of her best friend. She knows that it's something that's always been important to him. Not that she'd ever tell Harry that, of course. She'll have to congratulate him later, away from prying eyes. She's dying to see him, she really missed him over the summer, and she feels horribly that she hasn't been able to contact him. Another thing she will not be mentioning to Harry.   

" 'Course," Ron confirms bitterly, stuffing the rest of the Frog into his mouth and taking another.

"And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson," Hermione snipes viciously. "How she got to be a prefect when she's thicker than a concussed troll . . ."

This is actually a matter Miranda and Hermione agree on. Miranda has never liked Pansy, that bloodsucking leech. The first time Miranda had met her she'd called Miranda a halfbreed and purposefully stepped on her cloak. She didn't like any of Draco's friends at Hogwarts really, well—Blaise Zabini was sometimes alright. She refused to tolerate them. It was a point of great contention between her and Draco. But to be fair, he didn't like her friends either, and they weren't even vindictively evil, spoiled, pureblood brats.

"Who's Hufflepuff?" Harry asks

     "Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott," Ron responds thickly.

"And Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw," Hermione adds, picking at fuzz on her sweater.                             "

We're supposed to patrol the corridors every so often," he tells Harry and Miranda, "and we can give out punishments if people are misbehaving. I can't wait to get Crabbe and Goyle for something. . . ."   

"You're not supposed to abuse your position, Ron!" Hermione chastises.                                     "Yeah, right, because Malfoy won't abuse it at all," Ron fires back.   

Miranda frowns, "Weasley!"   

"What?" Ron throws his hands up, pointing a Sugar Quill at her. "I still don't know why you're friends with that rat, he's such a—"   

"Hey!" Miranda snaps her fingers.   

"Whatever," Harry growls in a gruff voice, avoiding eye contact with her. "You know he will."

"See," Ron gestures emphatically, "Harry knows I'm right."   

Hermione crosses her arms, "So you're going to descend to his level?"   

"No, I'm just going to make sure I get his mates before he gets mine."   

"For heaven's sake, Ron —"

"I'll make Goyle do lines, it'll kill him, he hates writing," Ron claps his hands happily. He lowers his voice to Goyle's low grunt and, screwing up his face in a look of pained concentration, mimes writing in midair. "I . . . must . . . not . . . look . . . like . . . a . . . baboon's . . . backside. . . ."

Miranda snorts under her breath, and Hermione gives her a look. "What?" Miranda defends, "I'm friends with Draco, not the oafs he hangs with."

The train pulls in to the Hogwarts station with a resounding clank. The students file out slowly, hopping into carriages. People are whispering left and right as they pass. Miranda knows that some people are unsure about Voldemort's return, and The Ministry certainly wasn't helping, but she is surprised at the amount of people who are so cold to Harry, and by association, her, Hermione, and Ron. Finally, they arrive at Hogwarts.

The entrance hall is ablaze with torches and echoing with foot- steps as the students cross the flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right, leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast.                             The four long House tables in the Great Hall are filling up under the starless black ceiling, which is just like the sky they can glimpse through the high windows. Candles float in midair all along the tables, illuminating the silvery ghosts who dot the Hall.   

Hermione is intensely absorbed by something at the front of the room. "Who's that?" she asks sharply, pointing toward the middle of the staff table.         Miranda's eyes follow hers. They light first upon Professor Dumbledore, sitting in his high-backed golden chair at the center of the long staff table. Dumbledore's head is inclined toward the woman sitting next to him, who is talking into his ear. The woman is squat, with short, curly, mouse-brown hair and a positively dreadful fluffy pink cardigan over her robes. She has a pallid, toadlike face and a pair of promi- nent, pouchy eyes.

"It's that Umbridge woman!" Harry exclaims suddenly.

     "Who?" Miranda's brow furrows.

     "She was at my hearing, she works for Fudge!"

     "Nice cardigan," Ron snickers into his goblet of pumpkin juice.

     "She works for Fudge?" Hermione's eyes narrow in evident suspicion. "What on earth's she doing here, then?"

     "Dunno . . ."

     Hermione scans the staff table. "No," she mutters, "no, surely not . . ." Miranda can see the wheels turning in her best friend's mind, and she silently wonders what Hermione is figuring out.   

When all the students have finished eating and the noise level in the hall starts to creep upward again, Dumbledore gets to his feet once more. Talking ceased immediately as all turned to face the head- master.            "Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices," says Dumbledore. "We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Profes- sor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." Dumbledore continues, "Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the —" He breaks off, looking inquiringly at Professor Umbridge.

She clears her throat, "Hem, hem," and it becomes clear that she is intending to make a speech.                                         No new teacher has ever interrupted Dumbledore before. Many of the students are smirking; this woman obviously does not know how things are done at Hogwarts. "Thank you, Headmaster," Professor Umbridge simpers, "for those kind words of welcome." Her voice is high-pitched, breathy, and little-girlish and again, and Miranda feels a powerful rush of dislike that she cannot explain. "Well, hem hem, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!" She smiles, revealing very pointed teeth. "And to see such happy little faces looking back at me! I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I'm sure we'll be very good friends!"                         They are all rather taken aback at being addressed like small children. Professor Umbridge clears her throat yet again, "Hem, hem, hem, the Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching."                Professor Umbridge pauses here and makes a little bow to her fellow staff members, none of whom bow back. Miranda's aunt's dark eyebrows are so contracted she looks positively hawklike.                         "Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress's sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation . . ."

    Miranda begins to nod off, eyes glazing over. Her mind drifts to other things, like Harry's eyes and the way his mouth moves as he licks his lips. The other students are unfocused as well. The teachers, however, were still listening very attentively, and Hermione seemed to be drinking in every word Umbridge spoke, though judging by her expression, they were not at all to her taste.

    It seems to be over though, because she sits down. Dumbledore stands up again, "Thank you, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating."

    "Yes, it certainly was illuminating," Hermione murmurs.

    "You're not telling me you enjoyed it?" Ron turns incredulously to her.

    "I said illuminating, not enjoyable," Hermione corrects primly. "It explained a lot."

    "Well, what does that mean?" Ron urges impatiently.

    Hermione whispers to them, "Don't you see what's happening?" They all look to her, puzzled. "The Ministry is interfering with Hogwarts this year," she says expectantly.

    Understanding washes over Miranda, anger too, "Of course, the bastards."

    Ron and Harry are still in the dark, "What in Merlin's beard are you talking about?"

    "Oh honestly, I don't know how you two make it through the day. The Ministry is still trying to keep a lid on the whole Voldemort business, so they're putting her here to make sure we're under control," Hermione says exasperatedly. "It's abominable."

    There is a great clattering and banging all around them; Dumb- ledore has obviously just dismissed the school, because everyone is standing up ready to leave the Hall. Hermione jumps up, looking flustered, "Ron, we're supposed to show the first years where to go!"

    Miranda rises early the next day, not at all eager to begin the first day of classes. Fifth year was notorious for its insurmountable workload. And with everything else going on, it's a lot to handle. Hermione and her dress quickly, ignoring the hostile whispers and looks from Parvati and Lavender.

    At breakfast, Harry is in a distinctly foul mood, cutting his sausage with such ferocity that Miranda is afraid he'll shatter the plate.

    "What's the matter?" Miranda asks five minutes later, fed up with the clinking of his silverware. "You look absolutely — oh for heaven's sake." A small slip of paper smacks the back of her neck. Discreetly, she unfolds the parchment.

    Tree at 3.

        - D

    Harry frowns, craning his neck over the table to see. Quickly, Miranda crumples the paper in her hand, not wanting to upset Harry any further.

    Breakfast continues in relative silence.

    "Anyway, what's up, Harry?" Miranda prompts again, as they walk

down a flight of stairs lined with portraits of old witches and wizards. Hermione had split off from them ages ago for Runes, and the three of them were on their way to History of Magic for second period. "You look really angry about something."

    "Seamus reckons Harry's lying about You-Know-Who," Ron says succinctly, when Harry does not respond.

    Miranda sighs, she'd been expecting something along those lines. "Yes, Lavender thinks so too," she tells them gloomily.

    "Been having a nice little chat with her about whether or not I'm a lying, attention-seeking prat, have you?" Harry bursts out loudly.

    Miranda recoils, biting her tongue. He doesn't mean it. He doesn't mean it. He doesn't mean it.

"No," Miranda states calmly, "I nearly jumped her, actually. Had my wand drawn and everything until Hermione held me back. Then we both told her to keep her big, fat mouth shut." Harry looks taken aback, and Miranda sniffs, "And it would be quite nice if you stopped jumping down my—our throats, Harry, because if you haven't noticed, we're on your side." There is a short pause.

     "Sorry," Harry murmurs sheepishly, voice low. "I didn't mean—"

     "It's fine," Miranda lifts her chin with dignity.

    After a moment, Harry glances up and smirks at her mischievously, "Did you really almost attack Lavender?"

    Miranda bites back a small smile, "I was prepared to."

    "She certainly was," Hermione appears by Miranda's side, clucking her tongue. "It's lucky I was there or Lavender would be in the hospital wing right about now, and Miranda would be in detention."

    "Aw, why you'd stop her, Hermione?" Ron whines, "Obviously, she needed to be put in her place about it."

    Hermione shakes her head. "Don't you remember what Dumbledore said at the end-of-term feast last year?" Harry, Miranda and Ron stare at her blankly, and Hermione exhales tiredly, "About You-Know-Who. He said, 'His gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust —' "

    "How do you remember stuff like that?" asks Ron, looking at her in admiration.

     "The point," Hermione presses on loudly, "is that this sort of thing is exactly what Dumbledore was talking about. You-Know-Who's only been back two months, and we've started fighting among our- selves. And the Sorting Hat's warning was the same — stand together, be united —"

    "If that means we're supposed to get matey with the Slytherins, fat chance," Ron retorts.

    "Well, I think it's a pity we're not trying for a bit of inter-House unity," Hermione says crossly.

    Miranda nods resolutely, "I agree, Hermione. Divided we are much weaker. If you could just put aside your differences—"

    "Defending your darling Draco again?" Harry snaps, jaw tight.

    "Harry!" Hermione exclaims in reprimand.

    Miranda swallows, trying to keep her temper in check, "He's not my— all I'm saying is that if you give people a chance they might surprise you."

    "And do what exactly?" Harry fires back. "Plunge a knife in my back the second I'm not looking? That the sort of surprise you were referring to?"

    "Draco wouldn't—" Her argument falls to deaf ears, as there is a commotion in the corridor adjacent to them. The thugs, Crabbe and Goyle, are busy bullying a Hufflepuff first year, Pansy and Montague cheering them on. 

    "Yeah, we really ought to be trying to make friends with people like that," Harry rolls his eyes.

    History of Magic is by common consent the most boring subject ever devised by Wizard-kind. Professor Binns, has a wheezy, droning voice that is almost guaranteed to cause severe drowsiness within ten minutes, five in warm weather. He never varies the form of their lessons, but lectures them without pausing while they take notes.                                    Today they suffer through three quarters of an hour's droning on the subject of giant wars. Miranda has plenty of time to ponder the increased hostility between the Slytherins and Gryffindor, Draco and Harry in particular.

    A fine misty drizzle is falling. Harry, Ron, Miranda and Hermione choose a secluded corner under a heavily dripping balcony, turning up the collars of their robes against the chilly September air and talking about what Snape was likely to set them in the first lesson of the year. They have got as far as agreeing that it is likely to be something extremely difficult, just to catch them off guard after a two-month holiday, when someone walks around the corner toward them.

    "Hello, Harry!"                                        It is, of course, Cho Chang, and what is more, she is on her own again. This is most unusual, and Miranda does not like it one bit. Doesn't she have her own friends?

    "Hi," Harry greets.

    "Hey," Hermione, Ron, and Miranda say hello as well, not to be rude. Though Miranda's voice is far from enthusiastic. Not that Cho would care had she  noticed. It is clear that she has only come here to see Harry.

    "You got that stuff off, then?" Cho indicates her head at Miranda.

    "Yes," Miranda forces a smile, trying not to bring up that mortifying memory of their last encounter.

    "So did you . . . er . . . have a good summer?" Cho turns her focus back to Harry, beaming at him.

    Harry blinked, something inside him seeming to tauten, "Oh, it was all right, you know. . . ." He searches for something else to say but comes up empty.

    Cho flutters her fingers at Harry, "Anyway . . . good to see you, Harry." She floats away.                                             Ron waits until Cho is halfway across the courtyard before clapping Harry on the back, "Look at you go, mate!"

    Harry cocks his head, "What?"

    "You absolute dog, Harry," Ron continues proudly. "Why didn't you tell me Cho Chang was into you? She's one of the most attractive in our year! How did you do it?"

    Miranda's hands curl into fists, digging her fingernails into the skin of her palms. Only Hermione notices this as Ron blusters on, "When are you asking her out, mate? There's bound to be a Hogsmeade trip soon—"

    Harry scratches his head, still mildly bewildered, "Er— I—"

    There is a sour feeling in Miranda's abdomen, and she interrupts before she can hear Harry's response, or anymore of Ron singing Cho Chang's praises. "I think I'll use the restroom before class." Abruptly, she walks briskly away, hair whipping behind her.

    Hermione doesn't wait a minute before she sets in on Ron, swatting him across his shoulder, "You are so tactless!"

     "What? I only asked him if —"

     "Ugh!" Hermione throws her hands helplessly up into the air, "Idiots, the both of you!" Turning on her heel, she rushes after Miranda.

    Harry, utterly lost, calls after her, "What did I do?"

    The bathroom door swings open, and Miranda looks up from the sink to find Hermione.

    "Are you alright?" Hermione asks pityingly. Damn her and her whip like intuition.

    Miranda dries her hands off airily, "Why ever wouldn't I be?"

    Hermione decidedly ignores her, "Cho is perfectly lovely, but she doesn't hold a candle to you, Miranda. Harry knows that just as well as I do, you haven't a thing to worry about."

    "Not this again, Hermione," Miranda inhales.

    "Not this again, " her friends replies, pointing at her.

    "I don't—"

    "And I don't believe you," Hermione cuts her off, smiling. "You can't tell me you don't care for him at least a little bit.  And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Harry cares for you. A great deal, in fact." Miranda opens her mouth to protest, but Hermione gushes on, "I mean— have you seen the way he looks at you—"

    "Harry doesn't look at me any sort of way," Miranda argues, but Hermione's words had causes a flurry of butterflies to ignite in her abdomen. "It's just the same as he looks at you!" Hermione groans.

    "It is not," Hermione insists plaintively, "and you know it." She wags her finger at Miranda, "Don't try to argue with me, Miranda. Not about this. You'll lose."

    "Damn you, Hermione Granger," Miranda is grinning.

    "You love me," Hermione kisses her on the cheek as a sound echoes through the bathroom. "That's the bell." The girls link arms and waltz to Potions.

    Miranda tries to shake off her worries about Cho. Yet, she thinks, as they rejoin the boys at the queue lining up outside Snape's classroom door, she had chosen to come and talk to Harry, hadn't she? And that made the second time in two days . . . and at this thought, Miranda's spirits sink. The ominous sound of Snape's dungeon door creaking open did nothing to dissuade the feeling. She files into the classroom with Hermione behind Ron and Harry and follows them to their usual table at the back.

    "Before we begin today's lesson," Snape sweeps over to his desk and stares around at them all, "I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an 'Acceptable' in your O.W.L., or suffer my . . . displeasure." His gaze lingers this time upon Neville, who gulps. "After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me," Snape goes on. "I take only the very best into my N.E.W.T. Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying good-bye." His eyes rest on Harry and his lip curls. "But we have another year to go before that happy moment of farewell, so whether you are intending to attempt N.E.W.T. or not, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high-pass level I have come to expect from my O.W.L. students." He waves his wand at the cauldron in front of him, "Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. You will need to pay close attention to what you are doing."

    Miranda sits up slightly straighter. Not to toot her own horn or anything, but Potions is undoubtedly her best subject. It is one she excels in, much like Defense Against the Dark Arts, which is a close second. However, Potions remains her favorite, despite her dislike of the professor.                    

    Just as they had predicted, Snape could hardly have set them a more difficult, fiddly potion. The ingredients have to be added to the cauldron in precisely the right order and quantities; the mixture has to be stirred exactly the right number of times, firstly in clockwise, then in counterclockwise directions; the heat of the flames on which it is simmering have to be lowered to exactly the right level for a specific number of minutes before the final ingredient is added.

    "A light silver vapor should now be rising from your potion," calls Snape, with ten minutes left.

    Harry, beside her is sweating profusely, looking desperately around the dungeon. His cauldron is issuing copious amounts of dark gray steam; Ron's is spitting green sparks. Seamus is feverishly prod- ding the flames at the base of his cauldron with the tip of his wand, as they had gone out. The surface of Miranda's potion, however, is a shimmering mist of silver vapor, and as Snape sweeps by he looks down his hooked nose at it without comment, meaning that he can find nothing to criticize. He proceeds to act the same with Hermione's.             At Harry's cauldron, however, Snape stops to smirk, "Potter, what is this supposed to be?" The Slytherins at the front of the class all look up eagerly; they love hearing Snape taunt Harry. Miranda tenses in her seat, she recognizes the expression on Snape's face. He means trouble.

    "The Draught of Peace," Harry replies tightly.

     "Tell me, Potter," Snape sneers softly, "can you read?"

Draco Malfoy laughs, and Miranda shoots him a look, mouthing, "Don't."  He doesn't even have the decency to look guilty.

     "Yes, I can,"  Harry's fingers clench tightly around his wand and Miranda prays he will keep his cool.

     "Read the third line of the instructions for me, Potter."

    " 'Add powdered moonstone, stir three times counterclockwise, al- low to simmer for seven minutes, then add two drops of syrup of hellebore.' "

Miranda takes one look at Harry's potion, and knows in an instant that he forgot to add the syrup.                                         "Did you do everything on the third line, Potter?"

     "No," Harry mutters. "I forgot the hellebore. . . ."

     "I know you did, Potter, which means that this mess is utterly worthless. Evanesco." The contents of Harry's potion vanish, leaving him standing foolishly beside an empty cauldron. "Those of you who have managed to read the instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name, and bring it up to my desk for testing," Snape orders. "Homework: twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Thursday."

    After lunch, they had Divination which was just as dull as Miranda had remembered. By now, she is so overwhelmed with the amount of work teachers have assigned just in one day she can barely think straight. Her back aches, and a splitting headache persists for hours.

    "Blimey," Ron grouches, "are they trying to kill us? Because one more assignment and I might just let the Whomping Willow finish me off."

    "What do we got next?" Harry joins them.

    "Defense Against the Dark Arts," Hermione says, consulting her well organized schedule.

    "That Umbridge woman better not assign anything," Ron says lowly.

    When they enter the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom they see Professor Umbridge already seated at the teacher's desk, wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before and the black vel- vet bow on top of her head.

    The class is quiet. Professor Umbridge is, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knows yet how strict a disciplinarian she is likely to be.

    "Well, good afternoon!" she exclaims falsely

    A few people mumbled "Good afternoon," in reply.

    "Tut, tut," Professor Umbridge clucks her tongue reprovingly. "That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply 'Good afternoon, Professor Um- bridge.' One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!"

    "Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," they chant back at her.

    "There, now," her voice is so saccharine Miranda's teeth hurt just listening to it. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."

    Many of the class exchange gloomy looks; the order "wands away" has never yet been followed by a lesson they have found interesting. Miranda pulls out her quill, ink, and parchment. Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand, which was an unusually short one, and taps the blackboard sharply with it, "Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?"  Her hands clasp neatly in front of her, "The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year." She staes, "You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory- centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Has everybody got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?"  There is a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.

    "I think we'll try that again," Professor Umbridge says. "When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply 'Yes, Professor Um- bridge,' or 'No, Professor Umbridge.' So, has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

    "Yes, Professor Umbridge," rings through the room.

    "Good," Professor Umbridge cheers. "I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners.' There will be no need to talk."

    Miranda scans through the desperately dull book aimlessly. It is quite as bad as listening to Professor Binns. Several silent minutes pass. Next to her, to Miranda's great astonishment, Hermione has not even opened her copy of Defensive Magical Theory. She is staring fixedly at Professor Um- bridge with her hand in the air. Miranda looks at her questioningly, but Hermione's focused state does not waver, and neither does her hand. When Professor Umbridge decides that she can ignore the situation no longer, she asks, as though she had only just noticed her, "Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?"

    "Not about the chapter, no," Hermione replies in a blunt manner that is very unlike her. "There's nothing written about using defensive spells." There is a short silence.

    "Using defensive spells?" Professor Umbridge repeats with a little laugh. "Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?"

    "We're not going to use magic?" Ron questions loudly.

    "Students raise their hands when they wish to speak, Mr. — ?"

    "Weasley," Ron thrusts his hand into the air.

    Professor Umbridge, smiling more widely if possible, turns her back on him. Harry, Miranda and Hermione immediately raise their hands too. Professor Umbridge's pouchy eyes linger on Harry before she addresses Miranda.

    "Yes, Miss—?"

    "McGonagall," Miranda clarifies. "Surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?"

"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss McGonagall" asks Professor Umbridge in her falsely sweet voice.

    "No, but —"

    "Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the 'whole point' of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way —"

    "What use is that?" Harry interjects rather loudly. "If we're going to be attacked it won't be in a —"

    "Hand, Mr. Potter!" sings Professor Umbridge. Harry shoots his fist in the air, but Professor Umbridge promptly turns away from him again. Now several other people had their hands up too.

    "And your name is?" Professor Umbridge says to Dean.

    "Dean Thomas."
     "Well, Mr. Thomas?"
     "Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?" Dean nods. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk-free —"

     "I repeat," Professor Umbridge smiles in a very irritating fashion at Dean, "do you expect to be attacked during my classes?"

    "No, but —"
     Professor Umbridge talks over him, "I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school, but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed — not to mention," she gives a nasty little laugh, "extremely dangerous half-breeds."

    Miranda feels anger roar through her, the instinct to defend Remus unbearable, "Remus Lupin is an excellent—!"

    "Hand, Miss McGonagall. As I was saying — you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group, and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day —"

    "No we haven't," Miranda argues, "we just —"
     "Your hand is not up, Miss McGonagall!" Miranda puts up her hand; Professor Umbridge turns away from her. Miranda is practically trembling with fury at the nerve of this horrific woman. She wants to jump up and claw her eyes out this very second.

    "Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about."

    "And what good's theory going to be in the real world?" Harry interrogates, his fist in the air again.

    "This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world," her tone is dangerously soft. "Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?"
     "Hmm, let's think . . ." Harry taps his chin mockingly with an air of false thoughtfulness, "maybe Lord Voldemort?" Miranda winces, shutting her eyes in defeat, begging him to stay silent. Crap.

    Professor Umbridge licks her lips, a grimly satisfied expression on her face, "Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter."

    The classroom is silent and still, everyone staring at either Umbridge or Harry. "Now, let me make a few things quite plain." Professor Umbridge stands and leans toward them, her stubby- fingered hands splayed on her desk.

"You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead. This is a lie."

    "It is NOT a lie!" Harry leaps up to his feet, eyes blazing with defiance. "I saw him, I fought him!"

    "Twenty points, Mr. Potter!" Professor Umbridge proclaims triumphantly. "I repeat, this is a lie." Her beady eyes zero in on Harry, words sharp, "Sit down, Mr. Potter." Harry doesn't move, his fists shaking.

    Miranda looks imploringly up at him, "Harry, sit down." In a very quiet voice she whispers, "Please."

    Finally, Harry lowers himself back down to his desk. Professor Umbridge sits down behind her desk too, instructing them all to read from their books once more. Harry, however, rises up from his seat again.

    "Harry, no!" Miranda hisses in a warning voice, tugging at his sleeve.

    "So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?" Harry asks, steely. Miranda takes a sharp intake of breath.

    "Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident," Umbridge states coldly.

    Now this— this is too much for Miranda to handle. "It was not!" she cries out, pushing away from her own desk.

    Professor Umbridge's attention flicks to her, a cruel smile of delight curling on her lips, "You have something you'd like to add, Miss McGonagall?

    "Miranda," Harry murmurs, "you don't have to—"
     "It was murder," Miranda says, voice hoarse. She can feel her entire body trembling. An image of Cedric's bloodied face conjures itself in her mind, and her heart pounds in her ears. How dare she call his death an accident? "Voldemort killed him, and you know it," Miranda spits, breathing heavily.

    Professor Umbridge's face contorts with venom, and then suddenly goes quite blank. Her eyes bore holes into Miranda, as she says, sweetly as ever, "Detention, Miss McGonagall. My office, 5 'o clock."

    Miranda does not utter a word for the rest of class. When the bell finally rings, Harry stalks out of the classroom in a huff, Ron, Hermione and Miranda following closely at his heels.

    Harry whirls around once they are safely in the courtyard, "No one believes me! I know I saw him— I saw him kill—" He breaks off, kicking the ground angrily.

    "We believe you," Miranda tells him, still reeling from class. "That— that woman is dreadful. She's sick."

    "She treated us like kids," Ron echoes, shuddering. "What a creep."

    Hermione, deep in thought, observes, "And the way she talked about Hogwarts, like we were all deranged madmen plotting against the Ministry. They're terrified Dumbledore has a secret plan to overthrow them." Hermione's now talking to herself more than anyone. "Wouldn't that be brilliant?" she laughs to herself.

    "Do you think we need to pour cold water on her on her or something?" Ron mutters anxiously, eyes wide.

    "Really, don't you think it would be brilliant?" Hermione repeats.

    "Is she asking us?" Ron's brows draw together. He nudges Harry and Miranda, "I think she's finally lost it."                            "I have not lost it, Ronald," Hermione purse her lips, "I was just thinking that maybe we could prove her right."

    "How do you mean?" Miranda, intrigued, leans in.

    "Form an army. Not an army in terms of the word, but a group of us, silently rebelling against her and the Ministry. We've got to learn somehow, and she's evidently not going to teach us." Hermione sighs, "He's back, and we need to be prepared."

    "Who would teach us?" Harry questions, frowning. "You don't think Lupin will—"

    "Well," Hermione pauses, wary, "I was going to suggest you."

    "Me?"

    "You have the most experience out of any of us by a mile."

    "She has a point," Miranda encourages, in full support of Hermione.

    "But the whole school thinks I'm a fraud."

    "It was just an idea," says Hermione, a bit regretful.

    "It's worth trying, I s'pose," slowly, Harry is warming to the notion.  Miranda can tell. The four of them walk to their dorms with purpose, they have an army to assemble.