A hand had appeared amongst the flames, groping as though to catch hold of something; a stubby, short-fingered hand covered in ugly old-fashioned rings. . . .
The three of them ran for it; at the door of the boys’ dormitory Harry looked back. Umbridge’s hand was still making snatching movements amongst the flames, as though she knew exactly where Sirius’s hair had been moments before and was determined to seize it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY
Umbridge has been reading your mail, Harry. There’s no other explanation.”
“You think Umbridge attacked Hedwig?” he said, outraged.
“I’m almost certain of it,” said Hermione grimly. “Watch your frog, it’s escaping.”
Harry pointed his wand at the bullfrog that had been hopping hopefully toward the other side of the table — “Accio!” — and it zoomed gloomily back into his hand.
Charms was always one of the best lessons in which to enjoy a private chat: There was generally so much movement and activity that the danger of being overheard was very slight. Today, with the room full of croaking bullfrogs and cawing ravens, and with a heavy downpour of rain clattering and pounding against the classroom windows, Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s whispered discussion about how Umbridge had nearly caught Sirius went quite unnoticed.
“I’ve been suspecting this ever since Filch accused you of ordering Dungbombs, because it seemed such a stupid lie,” Hermione whispered. “I mean, once your letter had been read, it would have been quite clear you weren’t ordering them, so you wouldn’t have been in trouble at all — it’s a bit of a feeble joke, isn’t it? But then I thought, what if somebody just wanted an excuse to read your mail? Well then, it would be a perfect way for Umbridge to manage it — tip off Filch, let him do the dirty work and confiscate the letter, then either find a way of stealing it from him or else demand to see it — I don’t think Filch would object, when’s he ever stuck up for a student’s rights? Harry, you’re squashing your frog.”
Harry looked down; he was indeed squeezing his bullfrog so tightly its eyes were popping; he replaced it hastily upon the desk.
“It was a very, very close call last night,” said Hermione. “I just wonder if Umbridge knows how close it was. Silencio!”
The bullfrog on which she was practicing her Silencing Charm was struck dumb mid-croak and glared at her reproachfully.
“If she’d caught Snuffles . . .”
Harry finished the sentence for her.
“He’d probably be back in Azkaban this morning.” He waved his wand without really concentrating; his bullfrog swelled like a green balloon and emitted a high-pitched whistle.
“Silencio!” said Hermione hastily, pointing her wand at Harry’s frog, which deflated silently before them. “Well, he mustn’t do it again, that’s all. I just don’t know how we’re going to let him know. We can’t send him an owl.”
“I don’t reckon he’ll risk it again,” said Ron. “He’s not stupid, he knows she nearly got him. Silencio!”
The large and ugly raven in front of him let out a derisive caw.
“Silencio! SILENCIO!”
The raven cawed more loudly.
“It’s the way you’re moving your wand,” said Hermione, watching Ron critically. “You don’t want to wave it, it’s more a sharp jab.”
“Ravens are harder than frogs,” said Ron testily.
“Fine, let’s swap,” said Hermione, seizing Ron’s raven and replacing it with her own fat bullfrog. “Silencio!” The raven continued to open and close its sharp beak, but no sound came out.
“Very good, Miss Granger!” said Professor Flitwick’s squeaky little voice and Harry, Ron, and Hermione all jumped. “Now, let me see you try, Mr. Weasley!”
“Wha — ? Oh — oh, right,” said Ron, very flustered. “Er — Silencio!”
He jabbed at the bullfrog so hard that he poked it in the eye; the frog gave a deafening croak and leapt off the desk.
It came as no surprise to any of them that Harry and Ron were given additional practice of the Silencing Charm for homework.
They were allowed to remain inside over break due to the downpour outside. They found seats in a noisy and overcrowded classroom on the first floor in which Peeves was floating dreamily up near the chandelier, occasionally blowing an ink pellet at the top of somebody’s head. They had barely sat down when Angelina came struggling toward them through the groups of gossiping students.
“I’ve got permission!” she said. “To re-form the Quidditch team!”
“Excellent!” said Ron and Harry together.
“Yeah,” said Angelina, beaming. “I went to McGonagall and I think she might have appealed to Dumbledore — anyway, Umbridge had to give in. Ha! So I want you down at the pitch at seven o’clock tonight, all right, because we’ve got to make up time, you realize we’re only three weeks away from our first match?”
She squeezed away from them, narrowly dodged an ink pellet from Peeves, which hit a nearby first year instead, and vanished from sight.
Ron’s smile slipped slightly as he looked out of the window, which was now opaque with hammering rain.
“Hope this clears up . . . What’s up with you, Hermione?”
She too was gazing at the window, but not as though she really saw it. Her eyes were unfocused and there was a frown on her face.
“Just thinking . . .” she said, still frowning at the rain-washed window.
“About Siri . . . Snuffles?” said Harry.
“No . . . not exactly . . .” said Hermione slowly. “More . . . wondering . . . I suppose we’re doing the right thing . . . I think . . . aren’t we?”
Harry and Ron looked at each other.
“Well, that clears that up,” said Ron. “It would’ve been really annoying if you hadn’t explained yourself properly.”
Hermione looked at him as though she had only just realized he was there.
“I was just wondering,” she said, her voice stronger now, “whether we’re doing the right thing, starting this Defense Against the Dark Arts group.”