"Is there any chance something else could have been done to him, Severus?" The words penetrated the darkness, slowly drawing Harry up as though he were swimming to the surface of a very deep lake.

"What are his symptoms?"

"High fever—it took two potions to bring it down this far. Confusion, delirium, and muscle pain. He's been incoherent for over a day."

"His scar's hurting him too, Professor."

"Granger, Weasley, move. And why aren't you in class?" There was a shuffling near Harry, the sense that someone was bending over him, but he couldn't find the strength to open his eyes.

"It's full moon tomorrow, sir. Professor Lupin assigned a library project."

A hand landed on Harry's forehead, then moved to feel around his neck. "Then why aren't you in the library?"

"We'll have it done, sir. No need to concern yourself for Professor Lupin's class."

"Miss Granger, I—"

"—What do you think, Severus?"

There was a long silence as Harry struggled to figure out where he was. These voices, this place, they were so familiar. And then, "At first glance, it seems merely a side effect of being revived from the Draught of Living Death too quickly. But he should have responded better to your treatments."

"Then what can we do?"

"I've no idea, Professor McGonagall, as I am no longer privy to the Dark Lord's plans."

That sarcastic remark finally triggered Harry's faulty memory, and he groaned. "Harry! He's awake! Harry!"

"For God's sake, Weasley, contain yourself. Now, if there's nothing else…"

"So you can't think of any other problem we might be able to treat? A poison or a curse You-Know-Who might have used?"

"As I said, Madam Pomfrey, I no longer have access to that information."

Heels thunked on the floor as Harry forced his eyes open. Ron and Hermione were on either side of the bed, watching the exchange intently, and Professor McGonagall was catching Professor Snape by the shoulder. "An educated guess, then, Severus?"

Snape sighed heavily, then saw Harry looking at him and scowled. "The Dark Lord implied that the green flame torch would bind the boy to him in a new way, using their blood. It may have allowed him to either curse or poison Potter somehow from a distance. You might speak to the Headmaster."

Professor McGonagall looked over her shoulder and saw Harry awake. "Thank you, Severus." Snape left in a hurry.

"Harry," Ron waved a hand slowly in front of Harry's face. "You know us, mate?"

"Yeah," Harry croaked weakly. "How long…out?"

"You got sick after class Monday afternoon and now it's Tuesday night," said Ron, sitting on the edge of the bed. He leaned toward Harry, "I thought Madam Pomfrey was going to strangle you!"

"And you're not out of the woods yet, Mr. Potter, from this illness or from me!" snapped Madam Pomfrey, stalking over to the bed. Harry cringed as she thrust a beaker of potion at him. "Drink it all. This time, you will leave when I am satisfied that you're well—not before."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry muttered and swallowed the fever-reducing potion. Ron and Hermione elbowed each other and grinned. "What?"

"She told Professor McGonagall she's putting a memorial plaque over this bed after your seventh year," Hermione giggled. "And Professor McGonagall said maybe they should just move you in here permanently."

They both sounded a little hysterical, so Harry chuckled along with them. "Not off to a very good start this year, am I?" Ron and Hermione shook their heads at him. "What classes did I miss?"

"Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Curse Defense," said Ron. "Hermione's copying all her notes for you. Figured you wouldn't want mine."

"What's wrong with yours?" asked Harry innocently. He wiped his sweaty face on the back of his hand. "I don't know why I feel cold," he muttered.

"You're still feverish," said Hermione. "Harry, by the way, the Daily Prophet is going mad. They were jumping to get at you when you first got back, then when word got out that you were sick…I'm not even sure how long I can hold Rita Skeeter down."

"Oh, bloody hell, that's all we need," Harry groaned.

Ron pulled a face. "It gets worse. Fudge and about half the wizards at the Ministry are hopping to see you too."

Harry rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. "Never mind, in that case bring on Rita Skeeter."

"We thought you'd think so," sighed Hermione. "But Professor Dumbledore said we may have to talk to them. Otherwise they'll start reporting you're on your deathbed or something."

Harry groaned louder. "When?"

"When you're feeling better, I assume."

"Any chance I can feel bad the rest of my life?"

"You're well on your way to that already, Potter—lie down!" barked Madam Pomfrey, coming back over with another potion and propping more pillows under him. "Drink all of this. It's a restorative. You're skin and bones; what did you do to yourself?"

Harry blinked at her as Professor McGonagall came back. "I was asleep for two months!"

Madam Pomfrey took the cup back and stalked off, tutting. "Try again. The Draught of Living Death has no effect on the body. You lost all that weight before you were kidnapped."

Professor McGonagall stopped in her tracks. Ron and Hermione stared at Harry. He looked at his hands and muttered, "Didn't have much appetite after…"

His friends winced, and each put a hand on his shoulder. Professor McGonagall came to the bedside and pulled up a chair. Harry looked awkwardly at the wall. "Mr. Potter," she said quietly. "I know how painful these last months have been for you. These last years," she corrected herself. Harry stared hard at the bedcovers. "But you must realize how essential it is, now more than ever, that none of us allows our resolve to be broken—you, least of all."

Harry looked up in surprise. He'd caught the meaning in her last words, even if Ron and Hermione hadn't. He swallowed thickly. "I…I didn't realize you knew."

Professor McGonagall nodded. "Professor Dumbledore made certain of it, in case anything should ever happen to him." Ron made an odd noise, clearly startled by that thought. "But I am the only one he has ever told, apart from you."

"What about Snape?" Harry asked, ignoring the baffled looks from his friends.

"Professor Snape, Potter, and no, he has not been told, although after the charade that he took part in with You-Know-Who, he may well have guessed it."

Relief made Harry's stomach churn, and he sank bank into the pillow for several moments. On one hand, he was immensely glad that Snape didn't know the prophecy, though he couldn't say precisely why. And on the other hand, realizing that Professor McGonagall knew made him feel a little less alone in the world.

"Harry? Harry, are you all right?" asked Hermione.

He opened his eyes and muttered, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right. But I've…" he looked at Professor McGonagall. "There's something I—I have to tell you…"

Professor McGonagall looked from Ron and Hermione to Harry. "I will not prevent you from speaking to your friends, Potter. But you must be aware of the very great danger to anyone in whose hands you place that information."

Slowly, Harry nodded, and Professor McGonagall reached out and gave his hand a little squeeze, then rose and left the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey had gone to her office, and the door swung closed with an echoing thump.

Ron and Hermione were staring. "What information, Harry?" Hermione asked.

He swallowed again and pulled himself up a little on the bed. Both of them scooted closer. "You can tell us," said Ron. "We don't care how dangerous it is."

"Professor McGonagall's right," Harry warned. "Voldemort would come after both of you if he found out you knew. He'd kill you. Or your families."

Ron and Hermione looked at each other. Then Ron lifted his chin. "You're part of my family, mate. My parents'll do anything to help you. So will I."

As Harry quickly looked away, Hermione added, "And my parents are Muggles. They may not really understand all this, but they and I are targets already. And I choose you." She lightly ruffled his hair as he looked down at the bedcovers again. "So whatever it is, we'll help all we can."

Harry rolled onto his side and rested his head on his arm, facing Ron. The mattress squeaked as Hermione sat down on the other side behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Tell us, mate," said Ron softly.

Harry swallowed hard. "It's the prophecy," he gasped out. "Dumbledore told me what is said, right after we got back from the Department of Mysteries." Hermione's grip on his shoulder tightened, and Ron scooted his chair closer. "It says…I'm the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. That he'd mark me as his equal." He touched the scar on his forehead. "And…either I have to kill Voldemort…or he'll kill me. 'Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.'"

The hospital wing was quiet for a long time. Harry closed his eyes, hearing nothing but slightly hitched breaths. Then Hermione bent over and put her head against his shoulder, pulling him into a lopsided hug, and Ron leaned over to put his arms around both her and Harry. Neither of them said a word, but Harry didn't mind—after all, what could be said? And what could be done? This was nothing Ron and Hermione could help with. Harry would kill, or Harry would die. It was as simple—as hideously simple—as that.

When Madam Pomfrey came in around ten o'clock, she found the three of them still like that, and turned around and left them alone. Harry had no idea when she finally insisted that Ron and Hermione go to bed, because they were still with him when he fell asleep.

For his "complete lack of sense in trying to do to much too soon" Harry was sentenced to the rest of the week in the hospital wing. It wasn't so bad; Ron and Hermione came every day with his class notes, and Madam Pomfrey even allowed them to have dinner with Harry. Many of their other friends stopped by regularly as well to tell Harry about how classes were going, talk about the news (most of it grim) in the Daily Prophet, and bring him sweets.

The Weasley twins sent a box of experimental Wheezes via Ron and Ginny (which Madam Pomfrey forbade opening in the hospital wing) and a note promising they'd be round to visit on Sunday with Bill, Charlie, and their parents. And, of course, there was a steady stream of visitors from the D.A., all wanting to know if they'd still be working together this year.

As frustrating as it was to be missing his first week of school, Harry had to admit he wasn't in much of a state for any activity. His fever didn't go up again, but it also didn't break until Friday afternoon, which left him bedridden all week long. On Wednesday, Harry and Ron were playing chess in the hospital wing when Hermione got back from Potions. "How bad is it?" Ron asked, seeing her scowl all the way across the hospital wing when she came in.

"Insufferable!" Hermione huffed, flinging herself into the chair next to Harry's bed. "That man is like a Dementor, sucking the happiness out of people! We're at war; one would think he could be a little decent to us!"

"That'd mean he'd have to have a heart," said Ron.

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "After what happened this summer…the things he did…I really thought he'd be…different. I mean, not necessarily nice, but at least…somewhat decent."

"What did he do?" Harry asked.

She made a face at him. "Well, first he told us that we were in class because we'd all made an 'O' on our Potions O.W.L.s, then he looked right at me and informed us that our past marks meant absolutely nothing."

Ron snorted. "Figures."

"And, in addition to our regular assignments, we're also going to be getting 'Special Defense,' where we'll be learning certain types of potions that the Ministry and Professor Dumbledore think might be useful to us in the war," Hermione went on. "He also said that anyone who doesn't get good marks on those lessons will be restricted to campus and have other privileges revoked for their own personal safety." She glowered. "You should have seen his face then."

"Gleeful?"

"Elated. Probably because that's the closest to teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts he'll ever get," said Hermione. She looked thoughtfully at Harry. "He had a few choices remarks for me, but he didn't mention you at all. I'd wondered if he would, since everyone knows he rescued you from Voldemort."

Ron leaned toward her. "Is it true the Slytherins are rebelling?"

"I imagine some of them are. Malfoy, almost certainly—what, Harry?"

Harry's memory of the escape from Voldemort's lair was sketchy at best, but the mention of Malfoy had brought part of it rushing back so fast it made him gasp. Ron and Hermione jumped. "What's the matter?" Ron exclaimed.

With an effort, Harry got his breathing under control. "Just…something I remembered. About Lucius Malfoy and Snape, the night he got me out."

"What happened?" Hermione breathed.

"Voldemort…he knew somehow, as soon as Snape woke me. They got back before we could escape, and Snape fought Lucius Malfoy. He used the Imperius Curse on him. It worked. I think that's how we made it." Harry's heart was pounding just from remembering it.

Ron, sitting Indian-style on the foot of Harry's bed, propped his elbow on his knee and rested his chin in his hand. "Was Voldemort there too?"

Harry frowned. "He might have been. I remember hearing him, but not when it was. Might have been the night they took me. Why?"

His chin still in his hand, Ron shook his head. "I wonder if any of us will ever understand Snape."

"That may not be humanly possible," muttered Hermione.

On Saturday, Professor Dumbledore went off to Headquarters for a meeting with the Order members who were Aurors, and Professor Lupin—convinced that Voldemort's people would choose this moment to attack Hogwarts—spent nearly the whole morning in the hospital wing with them. Ostensibly it was to give Harry a little tutoring to prevent him from falling behind in any of his assorted Defense classes, and to their credit, they did get quite a bit of real work done. But in other ways, Lupin's visit that morning was the best one Harry got, because somewhere in between watching Ron and Hermione demonstrating curse blocks and listening to stories about some of his father's more memorable Marauder antics, Harry felt the burning, throbbing hole inside him beginning to heal a little, as if the agony of Sirius's absence was eased by the presence of the last living member of that group of old friends.

Throughout the morning, a number of Harry's friends stopped by, and many stayed, especially members of the D.A. Madam Pomfrey was amazingly tolerant of their noisy presence—probably because Harry was the only one who'd managed to land in the hospital wing so early in the term.

And so it was that Harry, Ron, Hermione, Professor Lupin, Neville, Ginny, Luna Lovegood, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, Parvati and Padma Patil, Cho Chang, Terry Boot, Susan Bones, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Ernie MacMillian all wound up in the hospital wing eating a sumptuous "picnic" lunch provided enthusiastically by the house elves when Professor McGonagall arrived—in a hurry, looking most agitated.

The Gryffindor Head of House clapped her hands loudly. "May I have everyone's attention, please?" she called, a little breathlessly.

The cheerful chatter died down. "Bloody hell, I knew it was too good to last," muttered Ron. Harry braced himself.

Professor Lupin got up. "Problem, Minerva?"

"Not exactly, Remus," said Professor McGonagall dryly, and to a confirming groan from the students, her eyes sought out Harry in the group. "Mr. Potter has some rather distinguished visitors who insist on seeing him now."

"Oh no," Harry groaned, closing his eyes.

Professor McGonagall smiled in understanding. "I'm afraid so, Potter. And he has several reporters from the Daily Prophet with him." Harry dropped his forehead onto his knees. "I'll give you a few minutes to make yourself presentable, then I will bring them in. As for your classmates," she added, looking at the D.A. thoughtfully, "I see no reason why they may not stay."

As she went back out the doors, Harry muttered a rude word and shook out the wrinkles in his robes, accepting a hand up from Lupin. "Five galleons says one of them's that Skeeter female," growled Ginny.

"I'm not taking that wager," Harry replied.

The doors flew open with a loud bang, and with yelps of surprise and annoyance, everyone sprang away. But it was Peeves who came sweeping through the door. "She's back! She's back! Who let her back in! Was it you, Potty? Always causing trouble, only for you would she come back! Leave you to her!" He swept out again.

Harry and his friends exchanged baffled looks. "What's Peeves got against Rita Skeeter?" wondered Hermione.

"I don't remember anything from the Triwizard Tournament," mused Ron.

Harry shrugged helplessly, but then Ginny's hands went slowly to her face. "Oh…bloody…hell. He didn't mean Rita Skeeter."

"Huh? What do you…" It dawned on Harry in a rush of sheer outrage that made him start to tremble. "They wouldn't. They would not. They wouldn't dare bring her here again!"

"No…" growled Hermione.

Neville, by that time, had run to the doors and was peeking out. His jaw dropped in combined horror and indignation, and he looked over at them. "It is!"

"I don't believe it," was all Harry had time to say before the doors opened again to admit Professor McGonagall (wearing a distinctly sour expression), trailed by Cornelius Fudge, Rita Skeeter, her photographer, and another Daily Prophet reporter, and without doubt the most hated D.A.D.A. Professor in all Hogwarts history.

Dolores Umbridge, it seemed, did have some good sense, or at least she would have to have been deaf and blind not to sense the ire directed toward her from every single person in the room. But her presence, trailing behind Fudge and in front of none other than Percy Weasley, was simply too much to be borne.

Fudge, for his part, did appear completely oblivious, and strode pompously toward Harry with his arms open. "My dear boy, it's such a relief to see you recovered at last. We've lots to talk about!"

It gave Harry the perfect opportunity. Stepping back from the Minister of Magic's offered handshake, he said coldly, "Not with her in the room."

Percy and the reporters gasped, Umbridge's toadlike face sagged, and Fudge blinked, glancing over his shoulder at her. "Er…I don't understand…"

From behind the others, Professor McGonagall made a little motion with her hand at Harry, clearly indicating for him to remain calm, so he took a deep breath, and said in a steady voice, "I would be happy to talk to you, Minister, but not to the person who deliberately sabotaged our Defense Against the Dark Arts Classes, spied on us, and tried to control our every thought."

For the first time in his life, he was pleased to see Rita Skeeter scribbling away like mad. It distracted him from fantasizing about wrapping his hands around Umbridge's neck and shaking vigorously.

"Oh, and don't forget, Harry," said Hermione's voice lightly from behind him, "the little matter of the blatant abuse of the students under her care, particularly yourself!"

Fudge's jaw dropped, and Rita actually stopped writing. Percy had appeared at the Minister's shoulder, and they exchanged glances before looking back at Umbridge, who was slowly retreating toward the door. "Er…what abuses are you referring to, Miss…"

"Hermione Granger, Minister," she said, extending her hand with great decorum. As he shook it, she remarked, "Harry, perhaps you should give the Minister your hand after all." She looked meaningfully at him. "The right hand."

Ah. Harry nodded and stepped toward them, and Hermione beckoned Rita forward, pointing discreetly at the photographer. Harry held out his hand slowly, then took great pleasure in slowly turning it over to reveal the white scarring on the skin, still spelling out clearly, I must not tell lies.

Fudge and Percy both gasped, and Rita's photographer's camera began clicking away. "She…she…Professor Umbridge did that?" breathed Percy.

Harry nodded.

"Monstrous," murmured the other reporter as he and Rita resumed scribbling.

"Harry got that punishment for telling people that Lord Voldemort had returned," said Ginny. "Many times throughout the school year. Of course, he wasn't telling lies, was he, Minister?"

"Er…"

"Umbridge also gave Caretaker Filch permission to whip students—my brothers had to flee the school." Ginny was speaking directly to two reporters while Fudge dithered. Professor McGonagall stood off to one side, giving a helpless little shrug every time Umbridge or Fudge looked in her direction. "And she confessed to sending the two Dementors to Little Whinging that nearly kissed Harry's cousin and forced him to do a Patronus in front of Muggles—the same Patronus he nearly got expelled for."

The rest of Harry's friends were pushing forward. "She opened our mail!"

"She sabotaged other teachers!"

"She got students to spy on each other!"

"She tried to Crucio Harry!"

"She should never be allowed in here again!"

Umbridge, who had begun to resemble a sheep who'd walked into a pack of wolves, began to venture forward. "Minister, Minister, this is all just a misunderstanding…" she simpered, raising a placating hand toward Harry.

"Harder to misunderstand a Killing Curse," said someone.

Harry stepped quickly backwards; his friends crowded around him. "Keep away from me."

"Professor McGonagall," said Rita. "Why was nothing done by the other Hogwarts teachers to stop these abuses?"

"You will find," said Professor McGonagall quietly, "that the Educational Decrees passed by the Ministry gave Madam Umbridge unlimited power to dictate school policy as she saw fit, and prevented any other members of the Hogwarts staff from interfering, on threat of immediate dismissal."

"Well…er…we never imagined those Decrees would be abused…" Fudge whined, wringing his hands. He had turned an impressive shade of purple, his eyes darting accusingly from Umbridge to Harry as if neither had the right to embarrass him this way. In desperation, he finally blurted, "In any case, we…these allegations will be investigated fully…terrible thought, abuse of students…Madam Umbridge, I think you'd better go on back to the Ministry!" he added as Umbridge started to protest again. The toad-faced woman blinked stupidly as Fudge motioned vigorously at the door. Finally, she went.

More than one student in the room sighed in relief, then they all had to stifle giggles when they heard Peeves swooping down, shrieking like a banshee, and Umbridge's frantic sprinting for the exit. "If I never see that creature again, it will be too soon," growled Hermione.

With Umbridge gone, Harry felt the knot in his insides loosen ever so slightly. Fudge, still wringing his hands, turned back to him, in a far less congenial manner. "Now…er, we do need to speak with you, Mr. Potter, about You-Know-Who. For the war effort and all."

Harry shrugged. "Mind if I sit down?" Just talking about Umbridge had left him frustratingly tired.

Madam Pomfrey summoned several chairs, and Harry and Fudge sat, with the reporters eagerly on either side of them, and Percy standing beside Fudge's chair. "Well…I…glad to see you're recovering," said Fudge, his tone rather forced.

"Thanks." Harry replied, contemplating his knees. Then someone hissed, and he looked over to see Rita's Quick Quotes Quill writing, His haunted green eyes seldom look up as he shivers from the lingering trauma of… "I am not shivering!"

"Calm down, Harry dear," Rita cooed, "it's just a bit of creative—"

"Oh, Miss Skeeter, I think Harry has had enough of your 'creativity' to deal with, don't you?" asked Hermione. Her voice was cloying, but her eyes were hard. Rita scowled and flicked the quill so it scratched out the worst embellishments.

Fudge cleared his throat. "Well. Now, Mr. Potter, what can you tell me about this stronghold you were taken to?"

Harry's irritation gave way to a surge of nausea, but he managed to keep his voice steady as he replied, "Not much. It was all underground, but very big. There were lots of tunnels and a big chamber where Voldemort—" Fudge and his entourage flinched, "—and the Death Eaters all assembled." Harry wasn't shivering, but by the time he finished describing Voldemort's lair and activities as best he could remember, nearly everyone else was. Professor Lupin's hand on Harry's shoulder made it easier to tell, though it reminded him of the night of the Third Task, and Harry felt a pang of guilt for wishing he would turn around and see someone else sitting behind him.

When he'd finished his account, Fudge and Percy exchanged glances. "So there's nothing else? Nothing useful?"

"What'd you expect, that I'd get a grand tour?" Harry demanded hotly. "I don't think the Death Eaters intended me to learn anything 'useful' about their hideout. And I was a little distracted—by the Cruciatus Curse, among other things." He took vindictive satisfaction in seeing them flinch again.

"No offense intended," Fudge muttered, turning red.

Rita chose that moment to stir things up. Her eyes had been fixed on Lupin—and his hand on Harry's shoulder—for the last few moments of Harry's account of his imprisonment, and her writing had slowed down.

Finally, she evidently couldn't restrain herself a moment longer. "So what is it like being taught Defense Against the Dark Arts by a dark creature, Harry?"

She undoubtedly intended to get a rise out of Harry. However, what she obviously did not expect was the outraged reaction of every student in the room. So it happened that when Harry shot to his feet and began shouting, so did all the others. "He is not a dark creature!" Harry roared. "You—" the various names he called Rita were fortunately drowned out by the shouts of his classmates.

"You take that back, lady!" Seamus cried.

"Don't you talk about Professor Lupin like that!" Neville shouted.

"He's the best Defense Professor we've ever had!"

"Why you low-down, dirty, slandering—"

"Lupin's a sight more human than you are!"

Professor Lupin was as startled as Rita by the mass tirade, but eventually he stood up and shouted over the furious denials, insults, and threats, "All right! That's enough of that! All of you, sit down and calm down!" Harry quieted along with the others, still seething, as Lupin politely addressed Rita. "Miss Skeeter, would you rather I left?"

"Ah…" Rita glanced apprehensively at the furious faces and muttered, "No, that's all right, Mr. Lupin."

"Professor Lupin, if you please," said Hermione, glaring daggers at Rita.

Harry slowly sat down again. "Professor Lupin is the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher any of us have ever had. And he's never put any of us in danger," he informed Rita curtly.

Keeping her eyes on her parchment, Rita said, "There was a rumor that he…gotlooseduringhislasttenure."

"That…was different," said Harry, looking quickly at Hermione and wondering what to say.

Professor Lupin said smoothly, "That was a regrettable incident, Miss Skeeter. Like most people with Lycanthropy, I use Wolfsbane Potion to control the transformation, but the accident occurred the night Sirius Black was almost apprehended. Harry and his friends went missing, and out of concern for their safety I went outside searching for them and forgot the potion."

"Hm," was all Rita said, and she went on writing. Harry was relieved that everyone was too focused on Lupin to see his face just then.

Fudge cleared his throat. "Never got a chance to ask you before…eyewitnesses say Sirius Black was with the Death Eaters at the Department of Mysteries last spring. Did you see him by any chance?"

"I say, are you all right!" exclaimed the other reporter.

Harry's vision had tunneled, and his heartbeat was thundering in his ears. "Fine," he muttered, bending forward and resting his head in his hands.

Over the concerned whispers of his friends, he heard Madam Pomfrey say, "Just some lingering effect of the Draught of Living Death, Minister. He'll be better in time."

"How soon is he to be released?"

"Probably tomorrow, provided he doesn't overexert himself," Madam Pomfrey growled, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at Harry.

Ron reached out and ruffled Harry's hair. "Most of the Death Eaters at the Ministry that night had masks, sir. And it was rather chaotic." Harry shot him a grateful glance, and Ron glared at Rita, who was watching them a little too closely.

"Mm." Fudge didn't look entirely satisfied, but he slowly stood up. "Well…questions needed to be asked, you understand." Harry nodded. "I'll, er, be in touch. And I trust Headmaster Dumbledore will notify me if there are any…developments?" he asked Professor McGonagall.

Harry and Ron rolled their eyes at each other. For all he'd been forced to admit Harry and Dumbledore were right, Fudge obviously was still nursing a grudge against the Hogwarts Headmaster. As the Minister shuffled out with Percy and the reporters, Harry turned to his friends and the D.A. members. "Thanks."

"For what?" asked Ernie MacMillian.

"For…you know…sticking by me—us," said Harry awkwardly, indicating himself, Professor Lupin, and the others.

Ron folded his arms and grinned at the rest of them. "It's not just you old Voldemort's got to deal with anymore, Harry. We're all in this together."