“Oh, yes, Dumbledore’s excellent,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank heartily. “Yes, I’m very happy with the way things are run, very happy indeed.”
Looking politely incredulous, Umbridge made a tiny note on her clipboard and went on, “And what are you planning to cover with this class this year—assuming, of course, that Professor Hagrid does not return?”
“Oh, I’ll take them through the creatures that most often come up in O.W.L.,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank. “Not much left to do—they’ve studied unicorns and Nifflers, I thought we’d cover Porlocks and Kneazles, make sure they can recognise Crups and Knarls, you know…”
“Well, you seem to know what you’re doing, at any rate,” said Professor Umbridge, making a very obvious tick on her clipboard. Harry did not like the emphasis she put on ‘you’ and liked it even less when she put her next question to Goyle. “Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?”
Goyle gave a stupid grin. Malfoy hastened to answer the question.
“That was me,” he said. “I was slashed by a Hippogriff.”
“A Hippogriff?” said Professor Umbridge, now scribbling frantically.
“Only because he was too stupid to listen to what Hagrid told him to do,” said Harry angrily.
Both Ron and Hermione groaned. Professor Umbridge turned her head slowly in Harry’s direction.
“Another night’s detention, I think,” she said softly. “Well, thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank, I think that’s all I need here. You will be receiving the results of your inspection within ten days.”
“Jolly good,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and Professor Umbridge set off back across the lawn to the castle.
It was nearly midnight when Harry left Umbridge’s office that night, his hand now bleeding so severely that it was staining the scarf he had wrapped around it. He expected the common room to be empty when he returned, but Ron and Hermione had sat up waiting for him. He was pleased to see them, especially as Hermione was disposed to be sympathetic rather than critical.
“Here,” she said anxiously, pushing a small bowl of yellow liquid towards him, “soak your hand in that, it’s a solution of strained and pickled Murtlap tentacles, it should help.”
Harry placed his bleeding, aching hand into the bowl and experienced a wonderful feeling of relief. Crookshanks curled around his legs, purring loudly, then leapt into his lap and settled down.
“Thanks,” he said gratefully, scratching behind Crookshanks’s ears with his left hand.
“I still reckon you should complain about this,” said Ron in a low voice.
“No,” said Harry flatly.
“McGonagall would go nuts if she knew—”
“Yeah, she probably would,” said Harry dully. “And how long do you reckon it’d take Umbridge to pass another decree saying anyone who complains about the High Inquisitor gets sacked immediately?”
Ron opened his mouth to retort but nothing came out and, after a moment, he closed it again, defeated.
“She’s an awful woman,” said Hermione in a small voice. “Awful. You know, I was just saying to Ron when you came in… we’ve got to do something about her.”
“I suggested poison,” said Ron grimly.
“No… I mean, something about what a dreadful teacher she is, and how we’re not going to learn any Defence from her at all,” said Hermione.
“Well, what can we do about that?” said Ron, yawning. “It’s too late, isn’t it? She’s got the job, she’s here to stay. Fudge’ll make sure of that.”
“Well,” said Hermione tentatively. “You know, I was thinking today…” she shot a slightly nervous look at Harry and then plunged on, “I was thinking that—maybe the time’s come when we should just—just do it ourselves.”
“Do what ourselves?” said Harry suspiciously, still floating his hand in the essence of Murtlap tentacles.
“Well—learn Defence Against the Dark Arts ourselves,” said Hermione.
“Come off it,” groaned Ron. “You want us to do extra work? D’you realise Harry and I are behind on homework again and it’s only the second week?”
“But this is much more important than homework!” said Hermione.
Harry and Ron goggled at her.
“I didn’t think there was anything in the universe more important than homework!” said Ron.
“Don’t be silly, of course there is,” said Hermione, and Harry saw, with an ominous feeling, that her face was suddenly alight with the kind of fervour that S.P.E.W. usually inspired in her. “It’s about preparing ourselves, like Harry said in Umbridge’s first lesson, for what’s waiting for us out there. It’s about making sure we really can defend ourselves. If we don’t learn anything for a whole year—”
“We can’t do much by ourselves,” said Ron in a defeated voice. “I mean, all right, we can go and look jinxes up in the library and try and practise them, I suppose—”
“No, I agree, we’ve gone past the stage where we can just learn things out of books,” said Hermione. “We need a teacher, a proper one, who can show us how to use the spells and correct us if we’re going wrong.”
“If you’re talking about Lupin…” Harry began.
“No, no, I’m not talking about Lupin,” said Hermione. “He’s too busy with the Order and, anyway, the most we could see him is during Hogsmeade weekends and that’s not nearly often enough.”
“Who, then?” said Harry, frowning at her.
Hermione heaved a very deep sigh.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said. “I’m talking about you, Harry.”
There was a moment’s silence. A light night breeze rattled the windowpanes behind Ron, and the fire guttered.
“About me what?” said Harry.
“I’m talking about you teaching us Defence Against the Dark Arts.”
Harry stared at her. Then he turned to Ron, ready to exchange the exasperated looks they sometimes shared when Hermione elaborated on far-fetched schemes like S.P.E.W. To Harry’s consternation, however, Ron did not look exasperated.
He was frowning slightly, apparently thinking. Then he said, “That’s an idea.”
“What’s an idea?” said Harry.
“You,” said Ron. “Teaching us to do it.”
“But…”
Harry was grinning now, sure the pair of them were pulling his leg.
“But I’m not a teacher, I can’t—”
“Harry, you’re the best in the year at Defence Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione.
“Me?” said Harry, now grinning more broadly than ever. “No I’m not, you’ve beaten me in every test—”
“Actually, I haven’t,” said Hermione coolly. “You beat me in our third year—the only year we both sat the test and had a teacher who actually knew the subject. But I’m not talking about test results, Harry. Think what you’ve done!”
“How d’you mean?”
“You know what, I’m not sure I want someone this stupid teaching me,” Ron said to Hermione, smirking slightly. He turned to Harry.
“Let’s think,” he said, pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. “Uh… first year—you saved the Philosopher’s Stone from You-Know-Who.”
“But that was luck,” said Harry, “it wasn’t skill—”
“Second year,” Ron interrupted, “you killed the Basilisk and destroyed Riddle.”
“Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn’t turned up, I—”
“Third year,” said Ron, louder still, “you fought off about a hundred Dementors at once—”
“You know that was a fluke, if the Time-Turner hadn’t—”