My question was answered the very next morning. When Hermione's Daily Prophet arrived she smoothed it out, gazed for a moment at the front page, and gave a yelp that caused everyone in the vicinity to stare at her.

"What?" Harry and I said together.

For answer she spread the newspaper on the table in front of us and pointed at ten black-and-white photographs that filled the whole of the front page, nine showing wizards' faces and the tenth, a witch's. Some of the people in the photographs were silently jeering; others were tapping their fingers on the frame of their pictures, looking insolent. Each picture was captioned with a name and the crime for which the person had been sent to Azkaban.

Antonin Dolohov, read the legend beneath a wizard with a long, pale, twisted face who was sneering up at me, convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett.

Algernon Rookwood, said the caption beneath a pockmarked man with greasy hair who was leaning against the edge of his picture, looking bored, convicted of leaking Ministry of Magic secrets to He Who Must Not Be Named.

But my eyes were drawn to the picture of the witch. Her face had leapt out at me the moment I had seen the page. She had long, dark hair that looked unkempt and straggly. She glared up at me through heavily lidded eyes, an arrogant, disdainful smile playing around her thin mouth. Like Sirius, she retained vestiges of great good looks, but something - perhaps Azkaban - had taken most of her beauty. Honestly, I would've been attracted to her if she hadn't been a psycho. 

Bellatrix Lestrange, convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom, read the Prophet. 

Hermione nudged me and pointed at the headline over the pictures, which I, concentrating on Bellatrix, had not yet read.

'MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN

MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS 'RALLYING POINT' FOR OLD DEATH EATERS'

"There you are, Softpaw." Fred said, looking awestruck. "That's why he was happy last night." 

"I don't believe this absolute shit." I snarled. "Fudge is blaming the breakout on Sirius?" 

"Of course he is. He's a wankbag." Terry said. 

I glanced up at the staff table. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were deep in conversation, both looking extremely grave. Professor Sprout had the Prophet propped against a bottle and was reading the front page with such concentration that she was not noticing the gentle drip of egg yolk falling into her lap from her stationary spoon. Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Umbridge was tucking into a bowl of porridge. For once her pouchy toad's eyes were not sweeping the Great Hall looking for misbehaving students. She scowled as she gulped down her food and every now and then she shot a malevolent glance up the table to where Dumbledore and McGonagall were talking so intently.

There was only one topic of conversation in the corridors now: the ten escaped Death Eaters, whose story had finally filtered through the school from those few people who read the newspapers. Rumours were flying that some of the convicts had been spotted in Hogsmeade, that they were supposed to be hiding out in the Shrieking Shack and that they were going to break into Hogwarts, just as Sirius had once done.

Those who came from wizarding families had grown up hearing the names of these Death Eaters spoken with almost as much fear as Voldemort's; the crimes they had committed during the days of Voldemort's reign of terror were legendary. There were relatives of their victims among the Hogwarts students, who now found themselves the unwilling objects of a gruesome sort of reflected fame as they walked the corridors: Susan Bones, whose uncle, aunt, and cousins had all died at the hands of one of the ten, said miserably during Herbology that she now had a good idea what it felt like to be me.

"And I don't know how you stand it - it's horrible." She said bluntly, dumping far too much dragon manure on her tray of Screechsnap seedlings, causing them to wriggle and squeak in discomfort.

Students in the corridors were even more curious now about my version of events, and once or twice I was sure I overheard snatches of conversation that suggested that the speakers were not satisfied with the Prophet's version of how and why ten Death Eaters had managed to break out of the Azkaban fortress. In their confusion and fear, the few doubters now seemed to be turning to the other explanation available to them: the one that Dumbledore, Harry, Fred, George, Terry, Cedric, and I had been expounding since the previous year.

It was not only the students' mood that had changed. It was now quite common to come across two or three teachers conversing in low, urgent whispers in the corridors, breaking off their conversations the moment they saw students approaching.

"They obviously can't talk freely in the staff room any more." Suzanne said in a low voice, as she, Shannon, and I passed Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout huddled together outside the Charms classroom one day. "Not with the toad there." 

"Reckon they know anything new?" Shannon said, gazing back over her shoulder at the three teachers.

"If they do, we're not going to hear about it, are we?" I said angrily. "Not after Decree... what fuckin' number are we on now?" For new notices had appeared on the house noticeboards the morning after news of the Azkaban breakout:

'BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS

Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach.

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-six.

Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor' 

This latest Decree had been the subject of a great number of jokes among the students. Lee had pointed out to Umbridge that by the terms of the new rule she was not allowed to tell Fred and George off for playing Exploding Snap in the back of the class.

"Exploding Snap's got nothing to do with Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor! That's not information relating to your subject!" 

When I next saw Lee, he was sharing my first detention of the term. I was eager to see what she would make him write (turned out to be the same 'I must not break rules' as everyone else but me had gotten) and what new phrase she was going to make me write since she caught me and Fred making out in her office. 

It turned out to be 'I must not act like a harlot.' 

Yep. Umbitch had called me a whore and forced me to write it on my skin underneath my 'Bad girls deserve to be punished.' Harry, Fred, and Kylie were not very happy about that, and Umbridge was soon the target of a Mega-Stinkbomb explosion in her office, with most of her personal belongings destroyed in the stink. 

I had thought the breakout from Azkaban might have humbled Umbridge a little, that she might have been abashed at the catastrophe that had occurred right under the nose of her beloved Fudge. It seemed, however, to have only intensified her furious desire to bring every aspect of life at Hogwarts under her personal control. She seemed determined at the very least to achieve a sacking before long, and the only question was whether it would be Professor Trelawney or Hagrid who went first.

I took my revenge by upping my pranking game and redoubling my efforts for the DA.

I was pleased to see that all of them, even Zacharias Smith, had been spurred on to work harder than ever by the news that ten more Death Eaters were now on the loose, but in nobody was this improvement more pronounced than in Neville. The news of his parents' attackers' escape had wrought a strange and even slightly alarming change in him. Neville barely spoke during the DA meetings any more, but worked relentlessly on every new jinx and counter-curse Harry and I taught them, his plump face screwed up in concentration, apparently indifferent to injuries or accidents and working harder than anyone else in the room. He was improving so fast it was quite unnerving and when my brother and I taught them the Shield Charm - a means of deflecting minor jinxes so that they rebounded upon the attacker - only Hermione and Terry mastered the charm faster than Neville.

I would have given a great deal to be making as much progress at Occlumency as Neville was making during the DA meetings. The sessions with Snape, which had started badly enough, were not improving. On the contrary, I felt I was getting worse with every lesson.

Before I had started studying Occlumency, my scar had prickled occasionally, usually during the night, or else following one of those strange flashes of Voldemort's thoughts or mood that I experienced every now and then. Nowadays, however, my scar hardly ever stopped prickling, and I often felt lurches of annoyance or cheerfulness that were unrelated to what was happening to me at the time, which were always accompanied by a particularly painful twinge from my scar. Harry wasn't experiencing what I was; he wasn't improving with Occlumency, but he wasn't as bad as me either. I had the horrible impression that I was slowly turning into a kind of aerial that was tuned in to tiny fluctuations in Voldemort's mood, and I was sure I could date this increased sensitivity firmly from my first Occlumency lesson with Snape. What was more, I was now dreaming about walking down the corridor towards the entrance to the Department of Mysteries almost every night, dreams which always culminated in me standing longingly in front of the plain black door.

With so much to worry about and so much to do - startling amounts of homework that frequently kept the fifth-years working until past midnight, pranking schedules with the Insurgents, selling merchandise with the twins, secret DA sessions, and regular classes with Snape - January seemed to be passing alarmingly fast. Before I knew it, February had arrived, bringing with it wetter and warmer weather and the prospect of the second Hogsmeade visit of the year. I had had very little time to spare for intimate time with Kylie since we had agreed to go on a date, but suddenly found myself facing a Valentine's Day which I had not prepared for. 

I had to call Lavender, Parvati, Hermione, and Ginny over for a wardrobe emergency, and they picked out a short, pastel pink dress with a sweetheart neckline for me, with matching flats with little bows on them. 

Harry and I arrived at breakfast just in time for the arrival of the post owls, and Hermione was tugging a letter from the beak of an unfamiliar brown owl as we sat down.

"And about time! If it hadn't come today..." She said, eagerly tearing open the envelope and pulling out a small piece of parchment. Her eyes sped from left to right as she read through the message and a grimly pleased expression spread across her face.

"Listen, Daisy." She said, looking up at me. "This is really important. Do you think you could meet me in the Three Broomsticks around midday?" 

"Well... I dunno." I said uncertainly. "Kylie might be expecting me to spend the whole day with her. We never said what we were going to do." 

"Well, bring her along if you must." Hermione said urgently. "But will you come?" 

"If I'm not getting fucked in one of the inn rooms, sure. But why?" 

Hermione made a disgusted little noise, then said, "I haven't got time to tell you now, I've got to answer this quickly." 

And she hurried out of the Great Hall, the letter clutched in one hand and a piece of toast in the other.

I relayed this information to Fred, George, and Terry, and they agreed to meet us at the Three Broomsticks too, all grinning, wanting to see what Hermione's surprise was. Angelina also harassed me for a Quidditch practice later, which I grudgingly agreed to pass along to Kylie, Louis, Ginny, and Ron when I saw them. 

I met Kylie in the Entrance Hall and walked into Hogsmeade with her, chatting about Umbitch, the escaped convicts, and flirting heavily. Apparently she was VERY attracted to me in this low cut, short dress that showed off my skin. 

And I was very attracted to her in her black button-up shirt, with suspenders pinned to her trousers. Her hair was gelled up all sexy again, and I was dying to capture those smirking lips with mine. 

"Madam Puddifoot's is a bit cheesy, but it's the only halfway-nice date place in this village." Kylie told me brightly, leading me up a side road and into a small teashop that I had only been a few times to, with Terry and Draco (separately). It was a cramped, steamy little place where everything seemed to have been decorated with frills or bows. 

"It's cute." I sniggered.

"Look, she's decorated it for Valentine's Day." Kylie said, indicating a number of golden cherubs that were hovering over each of the small, circular tables, occasionally throwing pink confetti over the occupants.

"That's kinda cringe though, not gonna lie." 

"True." 

We sat down at the last remaining table, which was over by the steamy window. Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, was sitting about a foot and a half away with a pretty blonde girl. They were holding hands. Looking around the teashop, I saw that it was full of nothing but couples, all of them holding hands. I spotted Louis Barnock in the corner with a beautiful Gryffindor from the year below me, and leapt up, hurrying over to him. 

"Lou," I hissed, "Angelina's hounding us for practice later. You wanna go?" 

"Yeah, alright." Louis grinned. The girl beside him propped her chin on her hand, gazing at him, practically with hearts popping out of her eyes. "Will you and Kylie be there too?" 

"I guess we have to. I don't know why she has to on Valentine's Day, though." I groaned. "Usually Quidditch is my top priority, but today is all about looooove. Have fun, you two." I winked at Louis as I went back to my table, and the messy-haired blond boy blushed. 

"Was just telling the Barnock about practice later." I told my girlfriend. 

"It'll be fun." Kylie grinned. "You'll get to see my spectacular biceps at work." 

"Mmm." I purred, scooting closer to her. "I definitely want to see that..." 

"What can I get you, m'dears?" Madam Puddifoot, a very stout woman with a shiny black bun, said, squeezing between our table and Roger Davies's with great difficulty.

"Two coffees, please." Kylie said. 

In the time it took for our coffees to arrive, Roger Davies and his girlfriend had started kissing over their sugar bowl. I rolled my eyes and stared up at the ceiling as though examining the paintwork to look away from them, and received a handful of confetti in the face from our hovering cherub.

"Unlucky." Kylie said. 

I shook my head, turning back to her. "So, have the reporters been bothering you as much as me?" 

Kylie smirked. "I get letters literally every day and I'm harassed on social media constantly. They're so fucking nosey." 

"Every single edition of Witch Weekly has a weekly update on our relationship." I said. 

"People have started a fandom of our relationship online." Kylie said. 

We both looked at each other, then laughed. 

"My bodyguard is bouncing a paparazzo as we speak, that's how dire it is." Kylie chuckled, pointing at the door. I turned, sniggering as I watched her bodyguard shoving a woman with a large camera away from the door outside. 

"You're just so desirable, baby." I said without thinking, then blushed. 

Kylie noticed the pink creeping up my cheeks, her lips fading into a small smirk, stirring her coffee slowly. "As are you. Who wouldn't desire you in that dress..." 

I shuffled just a bit closer. Kylie put her hand on my bare thigh. The steam on the window seemed to become more dense. Was it just me or was it getting hot in here? 

"Are you saying you desire me, Kylie Ford?" 

Kylie's sapphire eyes darkened ever so slightly. "I do. Every day. But even more so when you're showing off your best assets like this." 

"Oh? What are my best assets?" I said softly. 

Kylie's eyes dropped to my chest and then to my bare legs. She took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes still on my body, then looked up at me, licking her lips as she set the cup back on the table, her eyes not moving from mine. 

I felt a shiver run through me. 

~~~ 

"Daisy! Daisy, over here!" 

Hermione was waving at me from the other side of the room in the Three Broomsticks. Kylie and I had just been talking to Ginny, telling her about practice later and telling her to pass it on to Ron. I got up with my girlfriend and we made our way towards her through the crowded pub. We were still a few tables away when I realised that Hermione was not alone. She was sitting at a table with the unlikeliest pair of drinking mates I could ever have imagined: Loony Lovegood and none other than Rita Skeeter, ex-journalist on the Daily Prophet and one of Hermione's least favourite people in the world. Fred, George, and Terry were sitting at the table behind them, and when they spotted me, they leapt up, grinning, and took seats at Hermione's table. 

"You're a bit late." Hermione said, moving along to give me and Kylie room to sit down. "What were you two doing on your date?" 

I blushed. 

~ 

"Is someone in there? Is the bathroom closed? I need to pee!" 

Kylie and I ignored the knocks on the door of the tiny bathroom at the teashop, me sitting on the sink, Kylie in between my legs, tongues meeting in my mouth as her hand moved underneath my dress, making me feel so good, filling me, drenching her hand in - 

~

"Date?" Rita said at once, twisting round in her seat to stare avidly at me. "And it went on for longer than you expected?" 

She snatched up her crocodile-skin handbag and groped within it as my face felt like it was on fire. I looked at my hands as I felt Kylie's smirk boring into me from my right, and Fred's sullen glare from my left. 

'I definitely know what they've been doing; their faces just give it away completely. And now she's taken my Beater position on the team as well. AND she got me with that jinx. I hate her.'  

I blinked. Fred's thoughts had just wandered into my brain yet again. 

Kylie got him with a jinx? She never mentioned that. Was he the hider in the bush the night of the wedding? 

"It's none of your business what Daisy and Kylie've been doing." Hermione told Rita coolly. "So you can put that away right now." 

Rita had been on the point of withdrawing an acid-green quill from her bag. Looking as though she had been forced to swallow Stinksap, she snapped her bag shut again.

"What are you up to?" I asked, sitting down and staring from Rita to Luna to Hermione.

"Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you arrived." Rita said, taking a large slurp of her drink. "I suppose I'm allowed to talk to her, am I?" She shot at Hermione.

"Yes, I suppose you are." Hermione said coldly.

Unemployment did not suit Rita. The hair that had once been set in elaborate curls now hung lank and unkempt around her face. There were a couple of false jewels missing from her winged glasses. She took another great gulp of her drink and said out of the corner of her mouth, "Hot date, was it, Daisy?" 

"One more word about Daisy's love life and the deal's off and that's a promise." Hermione said irritably as I eagerly opened my mouth to reply.

"What deal?" Rita said, as I slumped back in my chair, disappointed. "You haven't mentioned a deal yet, Miss Prissy, you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days..." She took a deep shuddering breath.

"Yes, yes, one of these days you'll write more horrible stories about me." Hermione said indifferently. "Find someone who cares, why don't you?" 

"So you actually stick to it, do you, that He Who Must Not Be Named is back?" Rita said, lowering her glass and subjecting me to a piercing stare while her finger strayed longingly to the clasp of the crocodile bag. "You stand by all this garbage Dumbledore's been telling everybody about You-Know-Who returning and you and a few students being the sole witnesses?" 

"We weren't the sole witnesses." I snarled. "There were a fuck-ton of Death Eaters there as well. Want their names?" 

"I'd love them." Rita breathed, now fumbling in her bag once more and gazing at me as though I was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. "A great bold headline: 'Potter Accuses...' A sub-heading, 'Daisy Potter Names Death Eaters Still Among Us.' And then, beneath a nice big photograph of you, 'Disturbed teenage survivor of You-Know-Who's attack, Daisy Potter, 15, caused outrage yesterday by accusing respectable and prominent members of the wizarding community of being Death Eaters...'" 

The Quick-Quotes Quill was actually in her hand and halfway to her mouth when the rapturous expression on her face died.

"But of course," She said, lowering the quill and looking daggers at Hermione, "Little Miss Perfect wouldn't want that story out there, would she?" 

"As a matter of fact," said Hermione sweetly, "that's exactly what Little Miss Perfect does want." 

Rita stared at her. So did the twins, Terry, Kylie, and I. Luna, on the other hand, sang 'Weasley is our King' dreamily under her breath and stirred her drink with a cocktail onion on a stick.

"You want me to report what she says about He Who Must Not Be Named?" Rita asked Hermione in a hushed voice.

"Yes, I do." Hermione said. "The true story. All the facts. Exactly as Daisy reports them. She'll give you all the details, she'll tell you the names of the undiscovered Death Eaters she saw there, she'll tell you what Voldemort looks like now - oh, get a grip on yourself." She added contemptuously, throwing a napkin across the table, for, at the sound of Voldemort's name, Rita had jumped so badly she had slopped half her glass of Firewhisky down herself.

Rita blotted the front of her grubby raincoat, still staring at Hermione. Then she said baldly, "The Prophet wouldn't print it. In case you haven't noticed, no adult believes her little story. Everyone thinks she's delusional. Now, if you let me write the story from that angle -"

"We don't need another story about how Daisy's lost her marbles!" Hermione said angrily. "We've had plenty of those already, thank you! I want her given the opportunity to tell the truth!" 

"There's no market for a story like that." Rita said coldly.

"You mean the Prophet won't print it because Fudge won't let them." Hermione said irritably.

Rita gave Hermione a long, hard look. Then, leaning forwards across the table towards her, she said in a businesslike tone, "All right, Fudge is leaning on the Prophet, but it comes to the same thing. They won't print a story that shows Dumbledore in a good light. Nobody wants to read it. It's against the public mood. This last Azkaban breakout has got people quite worried enough. People just don't want to believe You-Know-Who's back." 

"So the Daily Prophet exists to tell people what they want to hear, does it?" Hermione said scathingly.

Rita sat up straight again, her eyebrows raised, and drained her glass of Firewhisky. 

"The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl." She said coldly.

"My dad thinks it's an awful paper." Luna said, chipping into the conversation unexpectedly. Sucking on her cocktail onion, she gazed at Rita with her enormous, protuberant, slightly mad eyes. "He publishes important stories he thinks the public needs to know. He doesn't care about making money." 

Rita looked disparagingly at Luna.

"I'm guessing your father runs some stupid little village newsletter?" She said. "Probably, Twenty-five Ways to Mingle With Muggles and the dates of the next Bring and Fly Sale?" 

"No," said Luna, dipping her onion back into her Gillywater, "he's the editor of The Quibbler." 

Rita snorted so loudly that people at a nearby table looked round in alarm.

"'Important stories he thinks the public needs to know,' eh?" She said witheringly. "I could manure my garden with the contents of that rag." 

"That's a bit rude." Terry said. 

"Yeah, after all, we've used your articles as toilet paper in the past." Fred said. 

George snorted as Rita looked at them scathingly. 

"Well, this is your chance to raise the tone of The Quibbler a bit, isn't it?" Hermione said pleasantly. "Luna says her father's quite happy to take Daisy's interview. That's who'll be publishing it." 

Rita stared at them both for a moment, then let out a great whoop of laughter.

"The Quibbler!" She said, cackling. "You think people will take her seriously if she's published in The Quibbler!" 

"Some people won't." Hermione said in a level voice. "But the Daily Prophet's version of the Azkaban breakout had some gaping holes in it. I think a lot of people will be wondering whether there isn't a better explanation of what happened, and if there's an alternative story available, even if it is published in a -" she glanced sideways at Luna, "in a - well, an unusual magazine - I think they might be rather keen to read it." 

Rita didn't say anything for a while, but eyed Hermione shrewdly, her head a little to one side.

"All right, let's say for a moment I'll do it." She said abruptly. "What kind of fee am I going to get?" 

"I don't think Daddy exactly pays people to write for the magazine." Luna said dreamily. "They do it because it's an honour and, of course, to see their names in print." 

Rita Skeeter looked as though the taste of Stinksap was strong in her mouth again as she rounded on Hermione.

"I'm supposed to do this for free?" 

"Well, yes." Hermione said calmly, taking a sip of her drink. "Otherwise, as you very well know, I will inform the authorities that you are an unregistered Animagus. Of course, the Prophet might give you rather a lot for an insider's account of life in Azkaban." 

The reason for Rita's unemployment, Hermione finding out that she was a beetle Animagus to snoop on people for stories and threatening to tell the Ministry if she ever wrote another bullshit article about any of our friends again, had been a topic of humour with the Insurgents many times - well, really every time we saw a beetle - and my three friends sniggered beside me. 

Rita looked as though she would have liked nothing better than to seize the paper umbrella sticking out of Hermione's drink and thrust it up her nose.

"I don't suppose I've got any choice, have I?" Rita said, her voice shaking slightly. She opened her crocodile bag once more, withdrew a piece of parchment, and raised her Quick-Quotes Quill.

"Daddy will be pleased." Luna said brightly. A muscle twitched in Rita's jaw.

"OK, Daisy?" Hermione said, turning to me. "Ready to tell the public the truth?" 

"I guess." I said, watching Rita balancing the Quick-Quotes Quill at the ready on the parchment between us. 

"Fire away, then, Rita." Hermione said serenely, fishing a cherry out from the bottom of her glass.

~~~ 

Luna said vaguely that she did not know how soon Rita's interview with me would appear in The Quibbler, that her father was expecting a lovely long article on recent sightings of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, "- And of course, that'll be a very important story, so Daisy's might have to wait for the following issue." Luna said.

I had not found it an easy experience to talk about the night when Voldemort had returned. Rita had pressed me for every little detail and I had given her everything I could remember, knowing that this was my one big opportunity to tell the world the truth. I wondered how people would react to the story. 

"Can't wait to see what Umbridge thinks of you going public." Dean said, sounding awestruck at dinner. 

"It's the right thing to do, Daze." Ron said, who was sitting opposite me. He was rather pale, but went on in a low voice, "It must have been... tough... talking about it... was it?" 

"Yeah," I said, "but people have got to know what Voldemort's capable of, haven't they?" 

"That's right." Neville said, nodding. "And his Death Eaters, too... people should know..." 

Neville left his sentence hanging and returned to his baked potato. 

After dinner we had practice; we weren't as good as we would have been with Harry, Fred, and George, but we were still quite good with the exception of Ron, who fucked up most goals thrown his way. Ginny was really good at flying, and Louis had good aim. Kylie, of course, used her huge muscles to her advantage when beating Bludgers away from us. 

When we returned to the busy Gryffindor common room, Kylie left me with a long, lingering kiss, then went off to join Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I was putting my finger up to my lips, shutting my eyes briefly, when Fred and George turned up.

"Ron not nearby?" Fred asked, looking around as he pulled up a chair, and when I shook my head, he said, "Good. We were watching your practice. You're going to be slaughtered. The team is good, but not as good without us." 

"Ron's really not the best at saving goals, bless him." I said, taking a seat beside him, George collapsing on the other side of me. 

"Well, he can do it if he doesn't think anyone's watching him." Fred said, rolling his eyes. "So all we have to do is ask the crowd to turn their backs and talk among themselves every time the Quaffle goes up his end on Saturday." 

He got up again and moved restlessly to the window, staring out across the dark grounds.

"You know, Quidditch was about the only thing in this place worth staying for." 

"What about me?" I said, outraged. 

"Well, you too, I guess. And Hopper." Fred shrugged. 

"And fuck the exams." I said, sniggering. 

"We're absolutely not fussed about NEWTs." Fred said. "The Snackboxes are ready to roll, we found out how to get rid of those boils, just a couple of drops of Murtlap essence sorts them." 

George yawned widely and looked out disconsolately at the cloudy night sky.

"I dunno if I even want to watch this match. If Zacharias Smith beats us I might have to kill myself." 

"Kill him, more like." Fred said firmly.

"That's the trouble with Quidditch." Hermione said as she passed us. "It creates all this bad feeling and tension between the houses."

She looked up from her phone, and caught Fred, George, and me all staring at her with expressions of mingled disgust and incredulity on our faces.

"Well, it does!" She said impatiently. "It's only a game, isn't it?" 

"Hermione," I said, shaking my head, "you're good on books and stuff, but you just don't understand about Quidditch." 

"Maybe not." She said darkly, returning to her phone. "But at least my happiness doesn't depend on Ron's goalkeeping ability." 

And though I would rather have jumped off the Astronomy Tower than admit it to her, by the time I had played the game the following Saturday I would have given any number of Galleons not to care about Quidditch either.

The very best thing you could say about the match was that it was short; the Gryffindor spectators had to endure only twenty-two minutes of stress. The miracle was that Gryffindor won by ten points: I managed to snatch the Snitch from right under Cedric's nose, so that the final score was two hundred and forty versus two hundred and thirty.

In the common room, it was a more relaxed party than other post-match parties - probably due to the fact that we only won by ten points. I looked over at Ron, who was hunched in a corner, staring at his knees, a bottle of Butterbeer clutched in his hand.

"Angelina still won't let him resign." Ginny said, as though reading my mind. "She says she knows he's got it in him." 

I liked Angelina for the faith she was showing in Ron, but at the same time it would really be kinder to let him leave the team. Ron had left the pitch to another booming chorus of 'Weasley is our King' sung with great gusto by the Slytherins, who were now favourites to win the Quidditch Cup.

Fred and George wandered over.

"I haven't even got the heart to take the mickey out of him." Fred said, looking over at Ron's crumpled figure. "Mind you... when he missed the fourteenth -" 

He made wild motions with his arms as though doing an upright doggy-paddle.

"- Well, I'll save it for parties, eh?" 

Later in the dormitory, I fell asleep quicker than usual. I dreamed that Neville and Professor Sprout were waltzing around the Room of Requirement while Professor McGonagall played the bagpipes. I watched them happily for a while, then decided to go and find the other members of the DA.

But when I left the room I found myself facing, not the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, but a torch burning in its bracket on a stone wall. I turned my head slowly to the left. There, at the far end of the windowless passage, was a plain, black door.

I walked towards it with a sense of mounting excitement. I had the strangest feeling that this time I was going to get lucky at last, and find the way to open it... I was feet from it, and saw with a leap of excitement that there was a glowing strip of faint blue light down the right-hand side... the door was ajar... I stretched out my hand to push it wide and - 

George gave a loud, rasping snore, and I awoke abruptly with my right hand stretched in front of me in the darkness, to open a door that was hundreds of miles away. I let it fall with a feeling of mingled disappointment and guilt. I knew I should not have seen the door, but at the same time felt so consumed with curiosity about what was behind it that I could not help feeling slightly annoyed with George... if only he could have saved his snore for just another minute.