“You know what?” said Seamus heatedly, casting Harry a venomous look. “He’s right, I don’t want to share a dormitory with him any more, he’s mad.”
“That’s out of order, Seamus,” said Ron, whose ears were starting to glow red—always a danger sign.
“Out of order, am I?” shouted Seamus, who in contrast with Ron was going pale. “You believe all the rubbish he’s come out with about You-Know-Who, do you, you reckon he’s telling the truth?”
“Yeah, I do!” said Ron angrily.
“Then you’re mad, too,” said Seamus in disgust.
“Yeah? Well, unfortunately for you, pal, I’m also a prefect!” said Ron, jabbing himself in the chest with a finger. “So unless you want detention, watch your mouth!”
Seamus looked for a few seconds as though detention would be a reasonable price to pay to say what was going through his mind; but with a noise of contempt he turned on his heel, vaulted into bed and pulled the hangings shut with such violence that they were ripped from the bed and fell in a dusty pile to the floor. Ron glared at Seamus, then looked at Dean and Neville.
“Anyone else’s parents got a problem with Harry?” he said aggressively.
“My parents are Muggles, mate,” said Dean, shrugging. “They don’t know nothing about no deaths at Hogwarts, because I’m not stupid enough to tell them.”
“You don’t know my mother, she’d weasel anything out of anyone!” Seamus snapped at him. “Anyway your parents don’t get the Daily Prophet. They don’t know our Headmaster’s been sacked from the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards because he’s losing his marbles—”
“My gran says that’s rubbish,” piped up Neville. “She says it’s the Daily Prophet that’s going downhill, not Dumbledore. She’s cancelled our subscription. We believe Harry,” said Neville simply. He climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, looking owlishly over them at Seamus. “My gran’s always said You-Know-Who would come back one day. She says if Dumbledore says he’s back, he’s back.”
Harry felt a rush of gratitude towards Neville. Nobody else said anything. Seamus got out his wand, repaired the bed hangings and vanished behind them. Dean got into bed, rolled over and fell silent. Neville, who appeared to have nothing more to say either, was gazing fondly at his moonlit cactus.
Harry lay back on his pillows while Ron bustled around the next bed, putting his things away. He felt shaken by the argument with Seamus, whom he had always liked very much. How many more people were going to suggest that he was lying, or unhinged?
Had Dumbledore suffered like this all summer, as first the Wizengamot, then the International Confederation of Wizards had thrown him from their ranks? Was it anger at Harry, perhaps, that had stopped Dumbledore getting in touch with him for months? The two of them were in this together, after all; Dumbledore had believed Harry, announced his version of events to the whole school and then to the wider wizarding community. Anyone who thought Harry was a liar had to think that Dumbledore was, too, or else that Dumbledore had been hoodwinked…
They’ll know we’re right in the end, thought Harry miserably, as Ron got into bed and extinguished the last candle in the dormitory. But he wondered how many more attacks like Seamus’s he would have to endure before that time came.
12. PROFESSOR UMBRIDGE
Seamus dressed at top speed next morning and left the dormitory before Harry had even put on his socks.
“Does he think he’ll turn into a nutter if he stays in a room with me too long?” asked Harry loudly, as the hem of Seamus’s robes whipped out of sight.
“Don’t worry about it, Harry,” Dean muttered, hoisting his schoolbag on to his shoulder, “he’s just…”
But apparently he was unable to say exactly what Seamus was, and after a slightly awkward pause followed him out of the room.
Neville and Ron both gave Harry an it’s-his-problem-not-yours look, but Harry was not much consoled. How much more of this would he have to take?
“What’s the matter?” asked Hermione five minutes later, catching up with Harry and Ron halfway across the common room as they all headed towards breakfast. “You look absolutely—Oh for heaven’s sake.”
She was staring at the common-room noticeboard, where a large new sign had been put up.
GALLONS OF GALLEONS.
Pocket money failing to keep pace with your outgoings?
Like to earn a little extra gold? Contact Fred and George Weasley, Gryffindor common room, for simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs. (We regret that all work is undertaken at applicant’s own risk.)
“They are the limit,” said Hermione grimly, taking down the sign, which Fred and George had pinned up over a poster giving the date of the first Hogsmeade weekend, which was to be in October. “We’ll have to talk to them, Ron.”
Ron looked positively alarmed.
“Why?”
“Because we’re prefects!” said Hermione, as they climbed out through the portrait hole. “It’s up to us to stop this kind of thing!”
Ron said nothing; Harry could tell from his glum expression that the prospect of stopping Fred and George doing exactly what they liked was not one he found inviting.
“Anyway, what’s up, Harry?” Hermione continued, as they walked down a flight of stairs lined with portraits of old witches and wizards, all of whom ignored them, being engrossed in their own conversation. “You look really angry about something.”
“Seamus reckons Harry’s lying about You-Know-Who,” said Ron succinctly, when Harry did not respond.
Hermione, who Harry had expected to react angrily on his behalf, sighed.
“Yes, Lavender thinks so too,” she said gloomily.
“Been having a nice little chat with her about whether or not I’m a lying, attention-seeking prat, have you?” Harry said loudly.
“No,” said Hermione calmly. “I told her to keep her big fat mouth shut about you, actually. And it would be quite nice if you stopped jumping down our throats, Harry, because in case you haven’t noticed, Ron and I are on your side.”
There was a short pause.
“Sorry,” said Harry in a low voice.
“That’s quite all right,” said Hermione with dignity. Then she shook her head. “Don’t you remember what Dumbledore said at the last end-of-term feast?”
Harry and Ron both looked at her blankly and Hermione sighed again.
“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?” asked Ron, looking at her in admiration.
“I listen, Ron,” said Hermione, with a touch of asperity.
“So do I, but I still couldn’t tell you exactly what—”
“The point,” Hermione pressed 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 already started fighting among ourselves. And the Sorting Hat’s warning was the same: stand together, be united—”
“And Harry got it right last night,” retorted Ron. “If that means we’re supposed to get matey with the Slytherins—fat chance.”
“Well, I think it’s a pity we’re not trying for a bit of inter-house unity,” said Hermione crossly.
They had reached the foot of the marble staircase. A line of fourth-year Ravenclaws was crossing the Entrance Hall; they caught sight of Harry and hurried to form a tighter group, as though frightened he might attack stragglers.
“Yeah, we really ought to be trying to make friends with people like that,” said Harry sarcastically.