Harry's 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 then gave a yelp that caused everyone in the vicinity to stare at her.

"What?" said Harry and Ron together.

For an answer she spread the newspaper on the table in front of them 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 Harry, convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett. 

Augustus 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 Harry's eyes were drawn to the picture of the witch. Her face had leapt out at him the moment he had seen the page. She had long, dark hair that looked unkempt and straggly in the picture, though he had seen it sleek, thick, and shining. She glared up at him 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.

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

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

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN

MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS "RALLYING POINT"

FOR OLD DEATH EATERS

"Black?" said Harry loudly. "Not — ?"

"Shhh!" whispered Hermione desperately. "Not so loud —just read it!"

The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban.

Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, confirmed that ten high-security prisoners escaped in the early hours of yesterday evening, and that he has already informed the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of these individuals.

"We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the same position we were two and a half years ago when the murderer Sirius Black escaped," said Fudge last night. "Nor do we think the two breakouts are unrelated. An escape of this magnitude suggests outside help, and we must remember that Black, as the first person ever to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to help others follow in his footsteps. We think it likely that these individuals, who include Black's cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, have rallied around Black as their leader. We are, however, doing all we can to round up the criminals and beg the magical community to remain alert and cautious. On no account should any of these individuals be approached."

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

"I don't believe this," snarled Harry, "Fudge is blaming the breakout on Sirius?"

"What other options does he have?" said Hermione bitterly. "He can hardly say, 'Sorry everyone, Dumbledore warned me this might happen, the Azkaban guards have joined Lord Voldemort' — stop whimpering, Ron — 'and now Voldemort's worst supporters have broken out too.' I mean, he's spent a good six months telling everyone you and Dumbledore are liars, hasn't he?" 

Hermione ripped open the newspaper and began to read the report inside while Harry looked around the Great Hall.He could not understand why his fellow students were not looking scared or at least discussing the terrible piece of news on the front page, but very few of them took the newspaper every day like Hermione. There they all were, talking about homework and Quidditch and who knew what other rubbish, and outside these walls ten more Death Eaters had swollen Voldemort's ranks. ...

He glanced up at the staff table. It was a different story here: Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were deep in conversation, both looking extremely grave. Professor Sprout had the Prophet propped against a bottle of ketchup 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, Professor 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.

"Oh my —" said Hermione wonderingly, still staring at the newspaper.

"What now?" said Harry quickly; he was feeling jumpy.

"It's ... horrible," said Hermione, looking shaken. She folded back page ten of the newspaper and handed it back to Harry and Ron. 

TRAGIC DEMISE OF

MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER

St. Mungo's Hospital promised a full inquiry last night after Ministry of Magic worker Broderick Bode, 49, was discovered dead in his bed, strangled by a potted-plant. Healers called to the scene were unable to revive Mr. Bode, who had been injured in a workplace accident some weeks prior to his death.

Healer Miriam Strout, who was in charge of Mr. Bode's ward at the time of the incident, has been suspended on full pay and was unavailable for comment yesterday, but a spokeswizard for the hospital said in a statement, "St. Mungo's deeply regrets the death of Mr. Bode, whose health was improving steadily prior to this tragic accident.

"We have strict guidelines on the decorations permitted on our wards but it appears that Healer Strout, busy over the Christmas period, overlooked the dangers of the plant on Mr. Bode's bedside table. As his speech and mobility improved, Healer Strout encouraged Mr. Bode to look after the plant himself, unaware that it was not an innocent Flitterbloom, but a cutting of Devil's Snare, which, when touched by the convalescent Mr. Bode, throttled him instantly.

"St. Mungo's is as yet unable to account for the presence of the plant on the ward and asks any witch or wizard with information to come forward."

"Bode ..." said Ron. "Bode. It rings a bell. ..."

"We saw him," Hermione whispered. "In St. Mungo's, remember? He was in the bed opposite Lockhart's, just lying there, staring at the ceiling. And we saw the Devil's Snare arrive. She — the Healer — said it was a Christmas present. ..."

Harry looked back at the story. A feeling of horror was rising like bile in his throat.

"How come we didn't recognize Devil's Snare ... ? We've seen it before ... we could've stopped this from happening..."

"Who expects Devil's Snare to turn up in a hospital disguised as a potted plant?" said Ron sharply. "It's not our fault, whoever sent it to the bloke is to blame! They must be a real prat, why didn't they check what they were buying?"

"Oh come on, Ron!" said Hermione shakily, "I don't thinkanyone could put Devil's Snare in a pot and not realize ittries to kill whoever touches it? This — this was murder. ...A clever murder, as well. ... If the plant was sentanonymously, how's anyone ever going to find out who didit?"

Harry was not thinking about Devil's Snare. He wasremembering taking the lift down to the ninth level of theMinistry on the day of his hearing, and the sallow-facedman who had got in on the Atrium level. 

"I met Bode," he said slowly. "I saw him at the Ministry with your dad ..."

Ron's mouth fell open.

"I've heard Dad talk about him at home! He was an Unspeakable — he worked in the Department of Mysteries!"

They looked at one another for a moment, then Hermione pulled the newspaper back toward her, closed it, glared for a moment at the pictures of the ten escaped Death Eaters on the front, then leapt to her feet.

"Where are you going?" said Ron, startled.

"To send a letter," said Hermione, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. "It ... well, I don't know whether ... but it's worth trying ... and I'm the only one who can ..."

"I hate it when she does that," grumbled Ron as he and Harry got up from the table and made their own, slower way out of the Great Hall. "Would it kill her to tell us whats he's up to for once? It'd take her about ten more seconds— hey, Hagrid!"

Hagrid was standing beside the doors into the entrance hall, waiting for a crowd of Ravenclaws to pass. He was still as heavily bruised as he had been on the day he had come back from his mission to the giants and there was a new cut right across the bridge of his nose.

"All righ', you two?" he said, trying to muster a smile but managing only a kind of pained grimace.

"Are you okay, Hagrid?" asked Harry, following him as he lumbered after the Ravenclaws.

"Fine, fine," said Hagrid with a feeble assumption of airiness; he waved a hand and narrowly missed concussing a frightened-looking Professor Vector, who was passing. "Jus' busy, yeh know, usual stuff — lessons ter prepare —couple o' salamanders got scale rot — an' I'm on probation," he mumbled. 

"You're on probation?" said Ron very loudly, so that many students passing looked around curiously. "Sorry — I mean— you're on probation?" he whispered.

"Yeah," said Hagrid. " 'S'no more'n I expected, ter tell yeh the truth. Yeh migh' not've picked up on it, bu' that inspection didn' go too well, yeh know ... anyway," he sighed deeply. "Bes' go an rub a bit more chili powder on them salamanders or their tails'll be hangin' off 'em next. See yeh, Harry ... Ron ..."

He trudged away, out the front doors and down the stone steps into the damp grounds. Harry watched him go, wondering how much more bad news he could stand.

The fact that Hagrid was now on probation became common knowledge within the school over the next few days, but to Harry's indignation, hardly anybody appeared to be upset about it; indeed, some people, Draco Malfoy prominent among them, seemed positively gleeful. As for the freakish death of an obscure Department of Mysteries employee in St. Mungo's, Harry, Ron, and Hermione seemed to be the only people who knew or cared. 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. Rumors 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 Black had 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, who had an uncle, aunt, and cousins who 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 Harry.

"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.

It was true that Harry was the subject of much renewed muttering and pointing in the corridors these days, yet he thought he detected a slight difference in the tone of the whisperers' voices. They sounded curious rather than hostile now, and once or twice he was sure he 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 Azkaban fortress. In their confusion and fear, these doubters now seemed to be turning to the only other explanation available to them, the one that Harry and Dumbledore 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 staffroom anymore," said Hermione in a low voice, as she, Harry, and Ron passed Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout huddled together outside the Charms classroom one day. "Not with Umbridge there."

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

"If they do, we're not going to hear about it, are we?" said Harry angrily. "Not after Decree ... What number are we on now?"

For new signs had appeared on the house notice boards 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 Jordan 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 Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor! That's not information relating to your subject!"

When Harry next saw Lee, the back of his hand was bleeding rather badly. Harry recommended essence of murtlap.

Harry had thought that the breakout from Azkaban might have humbled Umbridge a little, that she might have been abashed at the catastrophe that had occurred right under her beloved Fudge's nose. 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.

Every single Divination and Care of Magical Creatures lesson was now conducted in the presence of Umbridge and her clipboard. She lurked by the fire in the heavily perfumed tower room, interrupting Professor Trelawney's increasingly hysterical talks with difficult questions about Ornithomancy and Heptomology, insisting that she predict students' answers before they gave them and demanding that she demonstrate her skill at the crystal ball, the tea leaves, and the rune stones in turn. Harry thought that Professor Trelawney might soon crack under the strain; several times he passed her in the corridors (in itself a very unusual occurrence as she generally remained in her tower room), muttering wildly to herself, wringing her hands, and shooting terrified glances over her shoulder, all the time giving off a powerful smell of cooking sherry. If he had not been so worried about Hagrid, he would have felt sorry for her — but if one of them was to be ousted out of a job, there could be only one choice for Harry as to who should remain.

Unfortunately, Harry could not see that Hagrid was putting up a better show than Trelawney. Though he seemed to be following Hermione's advice and had shown them nothing more frightening than a crup, a creature indistinguishable from a Jack Russell terrier except for its forked tail, since before Christmas, he also seemed to have lost his nerve. He was oddly distracted and jumpy in lessons, losing the thread of what he was saying while talking to the class, answering questions wrongly and glancing anxiously at Umbridge all the time. He was also more distant with Harry, Ron, and Hermione than he had ever been before, expressly forbidding them to visit him after dark.

"If she catches yeh, it'll be all of our necks on the line," he told them flatly, and with no desire to do anything that jeopardized his job further, they abstained from walking down to his hut in the evenings. It seemed to Harry that Umbridge was steadily depriving him of everything that made his life at Hogwarts worth living: visits to Hagrid's house, letters from Sirius, his Firebolt, and Quidditch. He took his revenge the only way he had: redoubling his efforts for the D.A.

Harry was pleased to see that all of them, even Zacharias Smith, had been spurred 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' attacker's escape had wrought a strange and even slightly alarming change in him. He had not once mentioned his meeting with Harry, Ron, and Hermione on the closed ward in St. Mungo's, and taking their lead from him, they had kept quiet about it too. Nor had he said anything on the subject of Bellatrix and her fellow torturers' escape; in fact, he barely spoke during D.A. meetings anymore, but worked relentlessly on every new jinx and countercurse Harry taught them, his plump face screwed up in concentration, apparently indifferent to injuries or accidents, working harder than anyone else in the room. He was improving so fast it was quite unnerving and when Harry taught them the Shield Charm, a means of deflecting minor jinxes so that they rebounded upon the attacker, only Hermione mastered the charm faster than Neville. 

In fact Harry would have given a great deal to be making as much progress at Occlumency as Neville was making during D.A. meetings. Harry's sessions with Snape, which had started badly enough, were not improving; on the contrary, Harry felt he was getting worse with every lesson.

Before he had started studying Occlumency, his scar had prickled occasionally, usually during the night, or else following one of those strange flashes of Voldemort's thoughts or moods that he experienced every now and then. Nowadays, however, his scar hardly ever stopped prickling, and he often felt lurches of annoyance or cheerfulness that were unrelated to what was happening to him at the time, which were always accompanied by a particularly painful twinge from his scar. He had the horrible impression that he was slowly turning into a kind of aerial that was tuned in to tiny fluctuations in Voldemort's mood, and he was sure he could date this increased sensitivity firmly from his first Occlumency lesson with Snape. What was more, he was now dreaming about walking down the corridor toward the entrance to the Department of Mysteries almost every night, dreams that always culminated in him standing longingly in front of the plain black door.

"Maybe it's a bit like an illness," said Hermione, looking concerned when Harry confided in her and Ron. "A fever or something. It has to get worse before it gets better."

"It's lessons with Snape that are making it worse," said Harry flatly. "I'm getting sick of my scar hurting, and I'm getting bored walking down that corridor every night." He rubbed his forehead angrily. "I just wish the door would open, I'm sick of standing staring at it —"

"That's not funny," said Hermione sharply. "Dumbledore doesn't want you to have dreams about that corridor at all, or he wouldn't have asked Snape to teach you Occlumency. You're just going to have to work a bit harder in your lessons."

"I am working!" said Harry, nettled. "You try it sometime,Snape trying to get inside your head, it's not a bundle oflaughs, you know!"

"Maybe ..." said Ron slowly. 

"Maybe what?" said Hermione rather snappishly.

"Maybe it's not Harry's fault he can't close his mind," saidRon darkly.

"What do you mean?" said Hermione.

"Well, maybe Snape isn't really trying to help Harry. ..."

Harry and Hermione stared at him. Ron looked darkly andmeaningfully from one to the other.

"Maybe," he said again in a lower voice, "he's actuallytrying to open Harry's mind a bit wider ... make it easier forYou-Know —"

"Shut up, Ron," said Hermione angrily. "How many timeshave you suspected Snape, and when have you ever beenright? Dumbledore trusts him, he works for the Order, thatought to be enough."

"He used to be a Death Eater," said Ron stubbornly. "Andwe've never seen proof that he really swapped sides. ..."

"Dumbledore trusts him," Hermione repeated. "And if wecan't trust Dumbledore, we can't trust anyone."

With so much to worry about and so much to do —startling amounts of homework that frequently kept thefifth years working until past midnight, secret D.A.meetings, and regular classes with Snape — Januaryseemed to be passing alarmingly fast. Before Harry knew it,February had arrived, bringing with it wetter and warmerweather and the prospect of the second Hogsmeade visit ofthe year. Harry had had very little time to spare onconversations with Cho since they had agreed to visit thevillage together, but suddenly found himself facing aValentine's Day spent entirely in her company.

On the morning of the fourteenth he dressed particularlycarefully. He and Ron arrived at breakfast just in time forthe arrival of the post owls. Hedwig was not there — notthat he had expected her — but Hermione was tugging aletter from the beak of an unfamiliar brown owl as they satdown.

"And about time! If it hadn't come today ..." she saideagerly, tearing open the envelope and pulling out a smallpiece of parchment. Her eyes sped from left to right as sheread through the message and a grimly pleased expressionspread across her face.

"Listen, Harry," she said, looking up at him. "This is reallyimportant. ... Do you think you could meet me in the ThreeBroomsticks around midday?"

"Well ... I dunno," said Harry dubiously. "Cho might beexpecting me to spend the whole day with her. We neversaid what we were going to do."

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

"Well ... all right, but why?"

"I haven't got time to tell you now, I've got to answer thisquickly —"

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

"Are you coming?" Harry asked Ron, but he shook hishead, looking glum.

"I can't come into Hogsmeade at all, Angelina wants a fullday's training. Like it's going to help — we're the worstteam I've ever seen. You should see Sloper and Kirke,they're pathetic, even worse than I am." He heaved a greatsigh. "I dunno why Angelina won't just let me resign. ..."

"It's because you're good when you're on form, that'swhy," said Harry irritably. 

He found it very hard to be sympathetic to Ron's plightwhen he himself would have given almost anything to beplaying in the forthcoming match against Hufflepuff. Ronseemed to notice Harry's tone, because he did not mentionQuidditch again during breakfast, and there was a slightfrostiness in the way they said good-bye to each othershortly afterward. Ron departed for the Quidditch pitch andHarry, after attempting to flatten his hair while staring athis reflection in the back of a teaspoon, proceeded alone tothe entrance hall to meet Cho, feeling very apprehensiveand wondering what on earth they were going to talkabout.

She was waiting for him a little to the side of the oak frontdoors, looking very pretty with her hair tied back in a longponytail. Harry's feet seemed to be too big for his body ashe walked toward her, and he was suddenly horribly awareof his arms and how stupid they looked swinging at hissides.

"Hi," said Cho slightly breathlessly.

"Hi," said Harry. 

They stared at each other for a moment, then Harry said,"Well — er — shall we go, then?"

"Oh — yes ..."

They joined the queue of people being signed out by Filch,occasionally catching each other's eye and grinning shiftily,but not talking to each other. Harry was relieved when theyreached the fresh air, finding it easier to walk along insilence than just stand there looking awkward. It was afresh, breezy sort of day and as they passed the Quidditchstadium, Harry glimpsed Ron and Ginny skimming over thestands and felt a horrible pang that he was not up therewith them. ...

"You really miss it, don't you?" said Cho. 

He looked around and saw her watching him.

"Yeah," sighed Harry. "I do."

"Remember the first time we played against each other, inthe third year?" she asked him.

"Yeah," said Harry, grinning. "You kept blocking me."

"And Wood told you not to be a gentleman and knock meoff my broom if you had to," said Cho, smiling reminiscently."I heard he got taken on by Pride of Portree, is that right?"

"Nah, it was Puddlemere United, I saw him at the WorldCup last year."

"Oh, I saw you there too, remember? We were on thesame campsite. It was really good, wasn't it?" 

The subject of the Quidditch World Cup carried them allthe way down the drive and out through the gates. Harrycould hardly believe how easy it was to talk to her, no moredifficult, in fact, than talking to Ron and Hermione, and hewas just starting to feel confident and cheerful when a largegang of Slytherin girls passed them, including PansyParkinson.

"Potter and Chang!" screeched Pansy to a chorus of snidegiggles. "Urgh, Chang, I don't think much of your taste. ...At least Diggory was good-looking!"

They sped up, talking and shrieking in a pointed fashionwith many exaggerated glances back at Harry and Cho,leaving an embarrassed silence in their wake. Harry couldthink of nothing else to say about Quidditch, and Cho,slightly flushed, was watching her feet.

"So ... where d'you want to go?" Harry asked as theyentered Hogsmeade. The High Street was full of studentsambling up and down, peering into the shop windows andmessing about together on the pavements. 

"Oh ... I don't mind," said Cho, shrugging. "Um ... shall wejust have a look in the shops or something?"

They wandered toward Dervish and Banges. A largeposter had been stuck up in the window and a fewHogsmeaders were looking at it. They moved aside whenHarry and Cho approached and Harry found himself staringonce more at the ten pictures of the escaped Death Eaters.The poster ("By Order of the Ministry of Magic") offered athousand-Galleon reward to any witch or wizard withinformation relating to the recapture of any of the convictspictured.

"It's funny, isn't it," said Cho in a low voice, also gazing upat the pictures of the Death Eaters. "Remember when thatSirius Black escaped, and there were dementors all overHogsmeade looking for him? And now ten Death Eaters areon the loose and there aren't dementors anywhere. ..."

"Yeah," said Harry, tearing his eyes away from BellatrixLestrange's face to glance up and down the High Street."Yeah, it is weird. ..." 

He was not sorry that there were no dementors nearby,but now he came to think of it, their absence was highlysignificant. They had not only let the Death Eaters escape,they were not bothering to look for them. ... It looked asthough they really were outside Ministry control now.

The ten escaped Death Eaters were staring out of everyshop window he and Cho passed. It started to rain as theypassed Scrivenshaft's; cold, heavy drops of water kepthitting Harry's face and the back of his neck.

"Um ... d'you want to get a coffee?" said Cho tentatively,as the rain began to fall more heavily.

"Yeah, all right," said Harry, looking around. "Where — ?"

"Oh, there's a really nice place just up here, haven't youever been to Madam Puddifoot's?" she said brightly, andshe led him up a side road and into a small tea shop thatHarry had never noticed before. It was a cramped, steamylittle place where everything seemed to have beendecorated with frills or bows. Harry was remindedunpleasantly of Umbridge's office. 

"Cute, isn't it?" said Cho happily.

"Er ... yeah," said Harry untruthfully.

"Look, she's decorated it for Valentine's Day!" said Cho,indicating a number of golden cherubs that were hoveringover each of the small, circular tables, occasionallythrowing pink confetti over the occupants.

"Aaah ..." 

They sat down at the last remaining table, which wassituated in the steamy window. Roger Davies, theRavenclaw Quidditch Captain, was sitting about a foot and ahalf away with a pretty blonde girl. They were holdinghands. The sight made Harry feel uncomfortable,particularly when, looking around the tea shop, he saw thatit was full of nothing but couples, all of them holding hands.Perhaps Cho would expect him to hold her hand.

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

"Two coffees, please," said Cho.

In the time it took for their coffees to arrive, Roger Daviesand his girlfriend started kissing over their sugar bowl.Harry wished they wouldn't; he felt that Davies was settinga standard with which Cho would soon expect him tocompete. He felt his face growing hot and tried staring outof the window, but it was so steamed up he could not seethe street outside. To postpone the moment when he had tolook at Cho he stared up at the ceiling as though examiningthe paintwork and received a handful of confetti in the facefrom their hovering cherub.

After a few more painful minutes Cho mentionedUmbridge; Harry seized on the subject with relief and theypassed a few happy moments abusing her, but the subjecthad already been so thoroughly canvassed during D.A.meetings it did not last very long. Silence fell again. Harrywas very conscious of the slurping noises coming from thetable next door and cast wildly around for something else tosay. 

"Er ... listen, d'you want to come with me to the ThreeBroomsticks at lunchtime? I'm meeting Hermione Grangerthere."

Cho raised her eyebrows.

"You're meeting Hermione Granger? Today?"

"Yeah. Well, she asked me to, so I thought I would. D'youwant to come with me? She said it wouldn't matter if youdid."

"Oh ... well ... that was nice of her."

But Cho did not sound as though she thought it was niceat all; on the contrary, her tone was cold and all of a suddenshe looked rather forbidding.

A few more minutes passed in total silence, Harrydrinking his coffee so fast that he would soon need a freshcup. Next door, Roger Davies and his girlfriend seemedglued together by the lips.

Cho's hand was lying on the table beside her coffee, andHarry was feeling a mounting pressure to take hold of it.Just do it, he told himself, as a fount of mingled panic andexcitement surged up inside his chest. Just reach out andgrab it. ... Amazing how much more difficult it was toextend his arm twelve inches and touch her hand than tosnatch a speeding Snitch from midair ...

But just as he moved his hand forward, Cho took hers offthe table. She was now watching Roger Davies kissing hisgirlfriend with a mildly interested expression. 

"He asked me out, you know," she said in a quiet voice. "Acouple of weeks ago. Roger. I turned him down, though."

Harry, who had grabbed the sugar bowl to excuse hissudden lunging movement across the table, could not thinkwhy she was telling him this. If she wished she were sittingat the table next door being heartily kissed by RogerDavies, why had she agreed to come out with him?

He said nothing. Their cherub threw another handful ofconfetti over them; some of it landed in the last cold dregsof coffee Harry had been about to drink.

"I came in here with Cedric last year," said Cho. 

In the second or so it took for him to take in what she hadsaid, Harry's insides had become glacial. He could notbelieve she wanted to talk about Cedric now, while kissingcouples surrounded them and a cherub floated over theirheads.

Cho's voice was rather higher when she spoke again.

"I've been meaning to ask you for ages. ... Did Cedric —did he m-m-mention me at all before he died?"

This was the very last subject on earth Harry wanted todiscuss, and least of all with Cho. 

"Well — no —" he said quietly. "There — there wasn't timefor him to say anything. Erm ... so ... d'you ... d'you get tosee a lot of Quidditch in the holidays? You support theTornados, right?"

His voice sounded falsely bright and cheery. To his horror,he saw that her eyes were swimming with tears again, justas they had been after the last D.A. meeting beforeChristmas.

"Look," he said desperately, leaning in so that nobody elsecould overhear, "let's not talk about Cedric right now. ...Let's talk about something else. ..."

But this, apparently, was quite the wrong thing to say. 

"I thought," she said, tears spattering down onto thetable. "I thought you'd u-u-understand! I need to talk aboutit! Surely you n-need to talk about it t-too! I mean, you sawit happen, d-didn't you?"

Everything was going nightmarishly wrong; Roger Davies'girlfriend had even unglued herself to look around at Chocrying.

"Well — I have talked about it," Harry said in a whisper,"to Ron and Hermione, but —"

"Oh, you'll talk to Hermione Granger!" she said shrilly,her face now shining with tears, and several more kissingcouples broke apart to stare. "But you won't talk to me! Pperhaps it would be best if we just ... just p-paid and youwent and met up with Hermione G-Granger, like youobviously want to!"

Harry stared at her, utterly bewildered, as she seized afrilly napkin and dabbed at her shining face with it.

"Cho?" he said weakly, wishing Roger would seize hisgirlfriend and start kissing her again to stop her goggling athim and Cho.

"Go on, leave!" she said, now crying into the napkin. "Idon't know why you asked me out in the first place if you'regoing to make arrangements to meet other girls right afterme. ... How many are you meeting after Hermione?"

"It's not like that!" said Harry, and he was so relieved atfinally understanding what she was annoyed about that helaughed, which he realized a split second too late was amistake. 

Cho sprang to her feet. The whole tearoom was quiet, andeverybody was watching them now.

"I'll see you around, Harry," she said dramatically, andhiccuping slightly she dashed to the door, wrenched it open,and hurried off into the pouring rain.

"Cho!" Harry called after her, but the door had alreadyswung shut behind her with a tuneful tinkle.

There was total silence within the tea shop. Every eye wasupon Harry. He threw a Galleon down onto the table, shookpink confetti out of his eyes, and followed Cho out of thedoor. 

It was raining hard now, and she was nowhere to be seen.He simply did not understand what had happened; half anhour ago they had been getting along fine.

"Women!" he muttered angrily, sloshing down the rainwashed street with his hands in his pockets. "What did shewant to talk about Cedric for anyway? Why does she alwayswant to drag up a subject that makes her act like a humanhosepipe?"

He turned right and broke into a splashy run, and withinminutes he was turning into the doorway of the ThreeBroomsticks. He knew he was too early to meet Hermione,but he thought it likely there would be someone in herewith whom he could spend the intervening time. He shookhis wet hair out of his eyes and looked around. Hagrid wassitting alone in a corner, looking morose.

"Hi, Hagrid!" he said, when he had squeezed through thecrammed tables and pulled up a chair beside him.

Hagrid jumped and looked down at Harry as though hebarely recognized him. Harry saw that he had two freshcuts on his face and several new bruises.

"Oh, it's you, Harry," said Hagrid. "You all righ'?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," lied Harry; in fact, next to this batteredand mournful-looking Hagrid, he felt he did not have muchto complain about. "Er — are you okay?"

"Me?" said Hagrid. "Oh yeah, I'm grand, Harry, grand. ..."

He gazed into the depths of his pewter tankard, whichwas the size of a large bucket, and sighed. Harry did notknow what to say to him. They sat side by side in silence fora moment. Then Hagrid said abruptly, "In the same boat,you an' me, aren' we, Harry?"

"Er —" said Harry.

"Yeah ... I've said it before. ... Both outsiders, like," saidHagrid, nodding wisely. "An' both orphans. Yeah ... bothorphans."

He took a great swig from his tankard.

"Makes a diff'rence, havin' a decent family," he said. "Medad was decent. An' your mum an' dad were decent. Ifthey'd lived, life woulda bin diff'rent, eh?"

"Yeah ... I s'pose," said Harry cautiously. Hagrid seemedto be in a very strange mood.

"Family," said Hagrid gloomily. "Whatever yeh say, blood'simportant. ..."

And he wiped a trickle of it out of his eye. 

"Hagrid," said Harry, unable to stop himself, "where areyou getting all these injuries?"

"Eh?" said Hagrid, looking startled. "Wha' injuries?"

"All those!" said Harry, pointing at Hagrid's face.

"Oh ... tha's jus' normal bumps an' bruises, Harry," saidHagrid dismissively. "I got a rough job."

He drained his tankard, set it back upon the table, andgot to his feet.

"I'll be seein' yeh, Harry. ... Take care now. ..."

And he lumbered out of the pub looking wretched andthen disappeared into the torrential rain. Harry watchedhim go, feeling miserable. Hagrid was unhappy and he washiding something, but he seemed determined not to accepthelp. What was going on? But before Harry could thinkabout the matter any further, he heard a voice calling hisname.

"Harry! Harry, over here!"

Hermione was waving at him from the other side of theroom. He got up and made his way toward her through thecrowded pub. He was still a few tables away when herealized that Hermione was not alone; she was sitting at atable with the unlikeliest pair of drinking mates he couldever have imagined: Luna Lovegood and none other thanRita Skeeter, ex-journalist on the Daily Prophet and one ofHermione's least favorite people in the world.

"You're early!" said Hermione, moving along to give himroom to sit down. "I thought you were with Cho, I wasn'texpecting you for another hour at least!"

"Cho?" said Rita at once, twisting around in her seat tostare avidly at Harry. "A girl?"

She snatched up her crocodile-skin handbag and gropedwithin it. 

"It's none of your business if Harry's been with a hundredgirls," Hermione told Rita coolly. "So you can put that awayright now."

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

"What are you up to?" Harry asked, sitting down andstaring from Rita to Luna to Hermione.

"Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when youarrived," said Rita, taking a large slurp of her drink. "Isuppose I'm allowed to talk to him, am I?" she shot atHermione. 

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

Unemployment did not suit Rita. The hair that had oncebeen set in elaborate curls now hung lank and unkemptaround her face. The scarlet paint on her two-inch talonswas chipped and there were a couple of false jewels missingfrom her winged glasses. She took another great gulp ofher drink and said out of the corner of her mouth, "Prettygirl, is she, Harry?"

"One more word about Harry's love life and the deal's offand that's a promise," said Hermione irritably.

"What deal?" said Rita, wiping her mouth on the back ofher hand. "You haven't mentioned a deal yet, Miss Prissy,you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days ..." Shetook a deep shuddering breath. 

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

"They've run plenty of horrible stories about Harry thisyear without my help," said Rita, shooting a sideways lookat him over the top of her glass and adding in a roughwhisper, "How has that made you feel, Harry? Betrayed?Distraught? Misunderstood?"

"He feels angry, of course," said Hermione in a hard, clearvoice. "Because he's told the Minister of Magic the truthand the Minister's too much of an idiot to believe him."

"So you actually stick to it, do you, that He-Who-MustNot-Be-Named is back?" said Rita, lowering her glass andsubjecting Harry to a piercing stare while her fingerstrayed longingly to the clasp of the crocodile bag. "Youstand by all this garbage Dumbledore's been tellingeverybody about You-Know-Who returning and you beingthe sole witness — ?"

"I wasn't the sole witness," snarled Harry. "There were adozen-odd Death Eaters there as well. Want their names?"

"I'd love them," breathed Rita, now fumbling in her bagonce more and gazing at him as though he was the mostbeautiful thing she had ever seen. "A great bold headline:'Potter Accuses ...' A subheading: 'Harry Potter NamesDeath Eaters Still Among Us.' And then, beneath a nice bigphotograph of you: 'Disturbed teenage survivor of YouKnow-Who's attack, Harry Potter, 15, caused outrageyesterday by accusing respectable and prominent membersof the Wizarding community of being Death Eaters. ...' "

The Quick-Quotes Quill was actually in her hand andhalfway to her mouth when the rapturous expression diedout of her face.

"But of course," she said, lowering the quill and lookingdaggers at Hermione, "Little Miss Perfect wouldn't wantthat story out there, would she?"

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

Rita stared at her. So did Harry. Luna, on the other hand,sang, "Weasley Is Our King" dreamily under her breath andstirred her drink with a cocktail onion on a stick.

"You want me to report what he says about He-Who-MustNot-Be-Named?" Rita asked Hermione in a hushed voice.

"Yes, I do," said Hermione. "The true story. All the facts.Exactly as Harry reports them. He'll give you all the details,he'll tell you the names of the undiscovered Death Eatershe saw there, he'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 ofVoldemort's name, Rita had jumped so badly that she hadslopped half her glass of firewhisky down herself.

Rita blotted the front of her grubby raincoat, still staringat Hermione. Then she said baldly, "The Prophet wouldn'tprint it. In case you haven't noticed, nobody believes hiscock-and-bull story. Everyone thinks he's delusional. Now, ifyou let me write the story from that angle —"

"We don't need another story about how Harry's lost hismarbles!" said Hermione angrily. "We've had plenty of thosealready, thank you! I want him given the opportunity to tellthe truth!"

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

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

Rita gave Hermione a long, hard look. Then, leaningforward across the table toward her, she said in abusinesslike tone, "All right, Fudge is leaning on theProphet, but it comes to the same thing. They won't print astory that shows Harry in a good light. Nobody wants toread it. It's against the public mood. This last Azkabanbreakout has got people quite worried enough. People justdon't want to believe You-Know-Who's back."

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

Rita sat up straight again, her eyebrows raised, anddrained her glass of firewhisky. 

"The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl," she saidcoldly.

"My dad thinks it's an awful paper," said Luna, chippinginto the conversation unexpectedly. Sucking on her cocktailonion, she gazed at Rita with her enormous, protuberant,slightly mad eyes. "He publishes important stories that hethinks the public needs to know. He doesn't care aboutmaking money."

Rita looked disparagingly at Luna.

"I'm guessing your father runs some stupid little villagenewsletter?" she said. " 'Twenty-five Ways to Mingle withMuggles' and the dates of the next Bring-and-Fly Sale?"

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

Rita snorted so loudly that people at a nearby tablelooked around in alarm.

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

"Well, this is your chance to raise the tone of it a bit, isn'tit?" said Hermione pleasantly. "Luna says her father's quitehappy to take Harry's interview. That's who'll be publishingit."

Rita stared at them both for a moment and then let out agreat whoop of laughter. 

"The Quibbler!" she said, cackling. "You think people willtake him seriously if he's published in The Quibbler?"

"Some people won't," said Hermione in a level voice. "Butthe Daily Prophet's version of the Azkaban breakout hadsome gaping holes in it. I think a lot of people will bewondering whether there isn't a better explanation of whathappened, and if there's an alternative story available, evenif it is published in a" — she glanced sideways at Luna, "in a— well, an unusual magazine — I think they might be ratherkeen to read it."

Rita did not say anything for a while, but eyed Hermioneshrewdly, her head a little to one side.

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

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

Rita Skeeter looked as though the taste of Stinksap wasstrong in her mouth again as she rounded on Hermione."I'm supposed to do this for free?"

"Well, yes," said Hermione calmly, taking a sip of herdrink. "Otherwise, as you very well know, I will inform theauthorities that you are an unregistered Animagus. Ofcourse, the Prophet might give you rather a lot for aninsider's account of life in Azkaban. ..."

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

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

"Daddy will be pleased," said Luna brightly. A muscletwitched in Rita's jaw.

"Okay, Harry?" said Hermione, turning to him. "Ready totell the public the truth?"

"I suppose," said Harry, watching Rita balancing theQuick-Quotes Quill at the ready on the parchment betweenthem.

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