Dreams Are Falling Short

Umbridge was not inspecting our History of Magic lesson (as she had just been appointed High Inquisitor), which was just as dull as the previous Monday, nor was she in Snape’s dungeon when we arrived for double Potions, where my moonstone essay was handed back to me with a large, spiky black ‘A’ scrawled in an upper corner.

“I have awarded you the grades you would have received if you presented this work in your OWL,” said Snape with a smirk, as he swept among us, passing back our homework. “This should give you a realistic idea of what to expect in the examination.”

Snape reached the front of the class and turned on his heel to face us.

“The general standard of this homework was abysmal. Most of you would have failed had this been your examination. I expect to see a great deal more effort for this week’s essay on the carious varieties of venom antidotes, or I shall have to start handing out detentions to those dunces who get a ‘D’.”

He smirked as Malfoy sniggered and said in a carrying whisper, “Some people got a ‘D’? Ha!”

“Well, that wasn’t as bad as last week, was it?” said Hermione, as we climbed the steps out of the dungeon and made our way across the Entrance Hall towards lunch. “And the homework didn’t go too badly, either, did it?”

“Not at all,” I put in half-heartedly.

When neither Ron nor Harry answered, Hermione pressed on, “I mean, all right, I didn’t expect the top grade, not if he’s marking to OWL standard, but a pass is quite encouraging at this stage, wouldn’t you say?”

Harry made a non-committal noise in his throat.

“Of course, a lot can happen between now and the exam, we’ve got plenty of time to improve, but the grades we’re getting now are a sort of baseline, aren’t they? Something we can build on...”

We sat down together at the Gryffindor table.

“Obviously, I’d have been thrilled if I’d got an ‘O’ –“

“Hermione,” said Ron sharply, “if you want to know what grades we got, ask.”

“I don’t – I didn’t mean – well, if you want to tell me –“

“I got a ‘P’,” said Ron, ladling soup into his bowl. “Happy?”

“Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Fred, who had just arrived at the table with George and Lee, and gave me a quick peck on the lips (“Do you two have to?” Ron complained). I gave Fred a confused look (he’d never done that before) but shrugged it off, remembering to talk about it with him later. “Nothing wrong with a good healthy ‘P’.”

“But,” said Hermione, “doesn’t ‘P’ stand for...”

“’Poor’, yeah,” said Lee. “Still, better than ‘D’, isn’t it? ‘Dreadful’?”

Harry started to have a small coughing fit so I patted him on the back a couple of times. “You alright, Harry?”

“Fine.”

“So top grade’s ‘O’ for ‘Outstanding’,” Hermione was saying, “and then there’s ‘A’ –“

“No, ‘E’,” George corrected her, “’E’ for ‘Exceeds Expectations’.”

“I’ve always thought Fred and George should’ve got ‘E’ in everything, because they exceeded expectations just by turning up for the exams.”

“Watch it, Samuels,” George said, raising his eyebrows and pointing a threatening finger at me.

Everyone laughed except Hermione, who ploughed on, “So, after ‘E’ it’s ‘A’ for ‘Acceptable’, and that’s the last pass grade, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” said Fred, dunking an entire roll in his soup, transferring it to his mouth and swallowing it whole.

“Then you get ‘P’ for ‘Poor’ –“ Ron raised both his arms in mock celebration – “And ‘D’ for ‘Dreadful’.”

“And then ‘T’,” George reminded him.

“’T’?” asked Hermione, looking appalled. “Even lower than a ‘D’? What on earth does ‘T’ stand for?”

“’Troll’,” said George promptly.

I laughed, knowing that George was most probably not kidding – probably from personal experience.

“You lot had an inspected lesson yet” Fred asked us.

“No,” said Hermione at once. “Have you?”

“Just now, before lunch,” said George. “Charms.”

“What was it like?” Harry and Hermione asked together.

Fred shrugged.

“Not that bad. Umbridge just lurked in the corner making notes on a clipboard. You know what Flitwick’s like, he treated her like a guest, didn’t seem to bother him at all. She didn’t say much. Asked Alicia a couple of questions about what the classes are normally like, Alicia told her they were really good, that was it.”

“I can’t see old Flitwick getting marked down,” said George, “he usually gets everyone through their exams all right.”

“Who’ve you got this afternoon?” Fred asked me.

“Trelawney –“

“A ‘T’ if ever I saw one.”

“ – and Umbridge herself.”

“Well, be a good girl –“ Fred winked at me – “and Harry, you be a good boy and keep your temper with Umbridge today,” said Fred.

“Angelina’ll do her nut if you miss any more Quidditch practices,” said George.

We didn’t have to wait for Defence Against the Dark Arts to meet Umbridge. We were pulling out our dream diaries in a seat at the very back of the shadowy Divination room when I elbowed Harry in the ribs, indication towards Umbridge, who had just emerged through the trapdoor in the floor. The class, which had been talking cheerily, fell silent at once. The abrupt fall in the noise level made Trelawney, who had been wafting about handing out copies of The Dream Oracle, look round.

“Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney,” said Umbridge with her wide smile. “You received my note, I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?”

-

It was nearly midnight when Harry finally came back into the common room from yet another detention which he had gotten from Umbridge today in class, with his hand bleeding so severely that it was staining the scarf he had wrapped around it.

“Here,” Hermione 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 hand into the bowl, and Crookshanks curled around his legs, purring loudly, then leapt into his lap and settled down.

“Thanks,” Harry said gratefully, scratching behind Crookshanks’ 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 a horrible cow,” I said, with fire in my voice.

“Awful,” Hermione said in a small voice. “You know, I was just saying to Ron and Corey when you came in... we’ve got to do something about her.”

“I suggested poison,” I said smirking.

“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. “’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 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 realised 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 stayed quiet for a moment, thinking.

“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 I saw that her face was suddenly alight with the kind of fervour that SPEW 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 –“

“I agree with Hermione,” I said. “But we can’t do much by ourselves. I mean, all right, we can go and look up 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 really 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. I felt my mouth fall open in realisation. A light night breeze rattled the windowpanes behind Ron, 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 – who was frowning slightly, apparently thinking – who said, “That’s and idea.”

“What’s an idea?”

“You,” said Ron. “Teaching us to do it.”

“But...”

He was grinning now, probably thinking we 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,” I said.

“Me?” said Harry, now grinning more broadly than ever. “No I’m not, you’ve beaten me and Hermione has 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,” I said. “Think about 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 and I, 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,” I 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 –“

“Last year,” Ron said, almost shouting now, “you fought off You-Know-Who again –“

“Listen to me!” said Harry, almost angrily, while Ron, Hermione and I smirked. “Just listen to me, all right? It sounds great when you say it like that, but all that stuff was luck – I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, I didn’t plan any of it, I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly always had help –“

We were still smirking, and Harry lost his temper.

“Don’t sit there grinning like you know better than I do, I was there, wasn’t I?” he said heatedly. “I know what went on, all right? And I didn’t get through any of that because I was brilliant at Defence Against the Dark Arts, I got through it because – because help came at the right time, or because I guessed right – but I just blundered through it all, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing – STOP LAUGHING!”

The bowl of Murtlap essence fell to the floor and smashed. Harry was on his feet, and Crookshanks streaked away under a sofa. Our smiles had vanished.