“That Umbridge woman’s foul,” she said in a low voice. “Putting you in detention just because you told the truth about how — how — how he died. Everyone heard about it, it was all over the school. You were really brave standing up to her like that.”
Harry’s insides reinflated so rapidly he felt as though he might actually float a few inches off the dropping-strewn floor. Who cared about a stupid flying horse, Cho thought he had been really brave. . . . For a moment he considered accidentally-on-purpose showing her his cut hand as he helped her tie her parcel onto her owl. . . . But the very instant that this thrilling thought occurred, the Owlery door opened again.
Filch, the caretaker, came wheezing into the room. There were purple patches on his sunken, veined cheeks, his jowls were aquiver and his thin gray hair disheveled; he had obviously run here. Mrs. Norris came trotting at his heels, gazing up at the owls overhead and mewing hungrily. There was a restless shifting of wings from above, and a large brown owl snapped his beak in a menacing fashion.
“Aha!” said Filch, taking a flat-footed step toward Harry, his pouchy cheeks trembling with anger. “I’ve had a tip-off that you are intending to place a massive order for Dungbombs!”
Harry folded his arms and stared at the caretaker.
“Who told you I was ordering Dungbombs?”
Cho was looking from Harry to Filch, also frowning; the barn owl on her arm, tired of standing on one leg, gave an admonitory hoot but she ignored it.
“I have my sources,” said Filch in a self-satisfied hiss. “Now hand over whatever it is you’re sending.”
Feeling immensely thankful that he had not dawdled in posting off the letter, Harry said, “I can’t, it’s gone.”
“Gone?” said Filch, his face contorting with rage.
“Gone,” said Harry calmly.
Filch opened his mouth furiously, mouthed for a few seconds, then raked Harry’s robes with his eyes. “How do I know you haven’t got it in your pocket?”
“Because —”
“I saw him send it,” said Cho angrily.
Filch rounded on her.
“You saw him — ?”
“That’s right, I saw him,” she said fiercely.
There was a moment’s pause in which Filch glared at Cho and Cho glared right back, then the caretaker turned and shuffled back toward the door. He stopped with his hand on the handle and looked back at Harry.
“If I get so much as a whiff of a Dungbomb . . .”
He stumped off down the stairs. Mrs. Norris cast a last longing look at the owls and followed him.
Harry and Cho looked at each other.
“Thanks,” Harry said.
“No problem,” said Cho, finally fixing the parcel to the barn owl’s other leg, her face slightly pink. “You weren’t ordering Dungbombs, were you?”
“No,” said Harry.
“I wonder why he thought you were, then?” she said, as she carried the owl to the window.
Harry shrugged; he was quite as mystified by that as she was, though, oddly, it was not bothering him very much at the moment.
They left the Owlery together. At the entrance of a corridor that led toward the west wing of the castle, Cho said, “I’m going this way. Well, I’ll . . . I’ll see you around, Harry.”
“Yeah . . . see you.”
She smiled at him and departed. He walked on, feeling quietly elated. He had managed to have an entire conversation with her and not embarrassed himself once. . . . You were really brave standing up to her like that. . . . She had called him brave. . . . She did not hate him for being alive. . . .
Of course, she had preferred Cedric, he knew that. . . . Though if he’d only asked her to the ball before Cedric had, things might have turned out differently. . . . She had seemed sincerely sorry that she had to refuse when Harry had asked her. . . .
“Morning,” Harry said brightly to Ron and Hermione, joining them at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.
“What are you looking so pleased about?” said Ron, eyeing Harry in surprise.
“Erm . . . Quidditch later,” said Harry happily, pulling a large platter of bacon and eggs toward him.
“Oh . . . yeah . . .” said Ron. He put down the bit of toast he was eating and took a large swig of pumpkin juice. Then he said, “Listen . . . you don’t fancy going out a bit earlier with me, do you? Just to — er — give me some practice before training? So I can, you know, get my eye in a bit . . .”
“Yeah, okay,” said Harry.
“Look, I don’t think you should,” said Hermione seriously, “you’re both really behind on homework as it —”
But she broke off; the morning post was arriving and, as usual, the Daily Prophet was soaring toward her in the beak of a screech owl, which landed perilously close to the sugar bowl and held out a leg; Hermione pushed a Knut into its leather pouch, took the newspaper, and scanned the front page critically as the owl took off again.
“Anything interesting?” said Ron; Harry smiled — he knew Ron was keen to get her off the subject of homework.
“No,” she sighed, “just some guff about the bass player in the Weird Sisters getting married . . .”
She opened the paper and disappeared behind it. Harry devoted himself to another helping of eggs and bacon; Ron was staring up at the high windows, looking slightly preoccupied.
“Wait a moment,” said Hermione suddenly. “Oh no . . . Sirius!”
“What’s happened?” said Harry, and he snatched at the paper so violently that it ripped down the middle so that he and Hermione were holding half each.
“‘The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer . . . blah blah blah . . . is currently hiding in London!’” Hermione read from her half in an anguished whisper.
“Lucius Malfoy, I’ll bet anything,” said Harry in a low, furious voice. “He did recognize Sirius on the platform . . .”
“What?” said Ron, looking alarmed. “You didn’t say —”