“She’s got the Ministry behind her,” said Ron. “There’s nothing Dumbledore can do. I reckon the Ministry are so desperate to pretend that everything’s fine they’re trying to say there's no need for anyone to know any defensive magic.”
It was the end of the second week of term and there had so far been no change in Umbridge’s teaching. Every lesson had solely consisted of reading a portion of Defensive Magical Theory in silence, with the only interruptions being occasional repetitions by Umbridge of the official Ministry line that everything was fine and that there were certainly no Dark wizards out there threatening their safety. She always looked pointedly at Neville whenever she made these pronouncements, but Neville had remained silent, unable to bring himself to speak.
“I’ve written to Sirius to ask him if he knows any more about what’s going on,” said Harry. “I should get a reply in the next few days. Hopefully he’ll also let us know more about how, you know,” he glanced about to check no one was listening, “the Order are doing. Everything seems so quiet at the moment. I mean, Voldemort must be up to something.” Everyone else winced slightly; Harry was still the only one of the four comfortable with using Voldemort’s name. He changed the subject quickly. “How are you holding up, Neville? You seem awfully quiet there.”
“I’m fine,” Neville said flatly. Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione, and was about to say more when Fred and George entered the common room and wandered over to the group.
“Hi guys,” said George. “Padfoot, Prongs, we need to have a business meeting. You got a few minutes?”
“Sure,” said Harry, and he and Ron got up and followed Fred and George over to a quiet corner of the common room, where they sat down to chat. The Marauders had gone commercial. Not content with simply cooking up various magical experiments, the Marauders were now offering some of their creations for sale to the other students. They were mostly mischief-making tools: stuff for pranks or to get out of lessons. They were operating on a tight budget, but seemed to be making quite a success.
Hermione disapproved of the whole enterprise, and had pored over the school rules, looking to see if they were breaking any, but had come up with nothing, unless something they sold actually did serious damage, which so far hadn’t happened. Now she watched them suspiciously for a few moments, before turning to Neville and saying, “I’ve got an Arithmancy essay to write, so I’ve got to go. Look, there’s Ginny over there, you should go talk to her. I’ll see you later, okay?”
Neville nodded and Hermione left. Neville looked over to where Ginny was sitting by herself reading a book. He started to get up to over to her, but stopped. He couldn’t think of anything to say to her. He used to find it so easy to talk to her, but now it seemed easier just to let her be. He turned and headed up to the dormitory alone.
* * *
On Monday morning, the students found signs pinned on every noticeboard in Hogwarts. The signs, written in a bold, stark font on thick parchment, read simply:
Dolores Jane Umbridge is hereby appointed to the post of High Inquisitor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
This appointment is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-three, as enacted by the Ministry.
“What the hell does that mean?” asked Ron to Neville, reading the notice. “What on earth is a High Inquisitor?”
Neville shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll ask Hermione if she does.” They went down to breakfast in the Great Hall, where they found Hermione intently studying a copy of the Daily Prophet. “Have you heard...?” Neville began.
“It’s ridiculous,” interrupted Hermione. “They’re completely crazy. Here, look at this.” Ron grabbed the newspaper and began reading, with Harry peering over his shoulder. “Basically, Fudge has given Umbridge free rein to do what she likes at Hogwarts,” Hermione explained to Neville. “She’s going to be inspecting the teachers, and she can probably get them suspended or fired if she wants. That’s all the article says, but I reckon that’s not the extent of what she’ll be allowed to do. The Ministry’s trying to take over Hogwarts, to sideline Dumbledore, and they’re using Umbridge to do it.”
Umbridge was not present inspecting any of the classes Neville took that day, although he later overheard the twins telling Harry that she’d been in their Transfiguration class. “McGonagall treated her like a piece of dirt on the sole of her shoe and still didn’t give her anything to criticise,” said Fred. “It was fantastic.” Neville suspected though that not all the teachers would be able to deal with Umbridge so effectively.
His found his theory put to the test the very next day when he walked into Muggle Studies to find Umbridge sitting at the back of the classroom, a clipboard in her hand. The students nervously took their seats. When Professor Burbage entered, she gave a polite nod towards Umbridge and moved to her customary position at the front of the class to begin the lesson.
“So far this term we have been looking at important events in British Muggle history, and today we shall be discussing the Industrial Revolution, when Muggle ingenuity and endeavour began to overcome some of the limitations due to their lack of magic. The Industrial Revolution began at a time when wizards...”
“Hem, hem,” came a loud cough from the back of the room. Umbridge had stood up. “If I may just interrupt for a moment,” she said, smiling, “what exactly is the purpose of this lesson?”
Burbage looked nonplussed. “As I just said, to study the Industrial Revolution.”
“Yes, I heard you, but why? To what end?”
Burbage was unsure of how to respond for a moment. “It is a significant period of Muggle history. It is important in understanding how modern Muggle society developed.”
Umbridge smiled once more. “You have misunderstood my question. What is the purpose of studying Muggle history at all? Surely it has no relevance to witches and wizards today.”
Burbage stared at Umbridge carefully for several seconds. “On the contrary, I believe it is extremely important. It can lead to a far greater understanding of Muggles, which is after all the purpose of this class.”
“Hmm. Interesting,” said Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard. “You may continue.”
The rest of the lesson passed without interruption, although Neville noticed Burbage keeping a wary eye on Umbridge throughout. At the end, Umbridge approached Burbage. “One final question,” she asked. “You have been in this post for how long now?”
“This is my sixth year teaching here,” Burbage replied. “I took over when my predecessor left for a year on sabbatical, and when he returned he took over the Defence Against the Dark Arts post.”
“Ah yes, the unfortunate Mr Quirrell,” said Umbridge, glancing in Neville’s direction. “Very well, you shall be receiving the results of your inspection in a few days time.”
The next day in Divination, Professor Trelawney was shaking and nervous throughout the whole lesson. Rumours were spreading through the school that Trelawney’s own inspection by Umbridge had not gone well. Neville didn’t rate Trelawney too highly as a teacher, but he had a great deal of sympathy for her.
That afternoon, it was time for Defence Against the Dark Arts once more. “If anyone should be inspected, it should be her,” muttered Harry as they entered the classroom. As always, everyone shuffled to their feet as Umbridge entered, and intoned, “Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.”
“Good afternoon, class,” said Umbridge. “You may be seated. Wands away, and open your books to chapter three, please. You will read the first four pages of the chapter, and then copy out the relevant information onto parchment for the remainder of the lesson. Begin.”
Wearily, Neville opened his book and began to scan the meaningless words on the page. Behind him however, Ron had raised his hand. When Umbridge finally deigned to acknowledge him, he asked, “How are we supposed to know what information is relevant, Professor?”
“All information in the book is relevant, Mr Weasley,” said Umbridge sternly, “otherwise Mr Slinkhard would not have included it. But you may phrase your notes however you see fit, so long as they are comprehensive. Your creativity must be encouraged.” Hermione barely stifled a snort.
“But the first page of this chapter is all about how to talk to people so as not to antagonise them. How is that relevant to Defence Against the Dark Arts?” asked Ron.
“It is extremely important, Mr Weasley. By not provoking others, you prevent confrontations from occurring, thereby protecting oneself without needing to resort to magic. Decorum and civility is of vital importance in dealing with others. Fortunately we live in exceptionally peaceful times, so such learning to do so will be easy for you. The chances of any of you being threatened with violence or facing any danger are utterly insignificant.”
“No,” muttered Neville. It was barely more than a whisper, and he hadn’t meant to say it, it had just slipped out unintentionally. But Umbridge heard him, and rounded on Neville immediately.
“What did you just say?” she snapped, a look of triumph in her eyes. “Did I not say that any interruption or contradiction of me would be severely punished? You will receive detention, Mr Longbottom. See me in my office at eight o’clock this evening. Now continue with your reading, all of you.” Neville just stared at her in shock.
“What a complete monster!” said Hermione in the corridor outside the classroom after the lesson. “There’s no way you deserved detention, Neville, even if what she was saying wasn’t complete rubbish. You barely said anything. It’s not like you’ve been the first person to interrupt or challenge her in the class, and she’s given no one else detention yet. It’s totally vindictive. You’ve got to complain to McGonagall about this.”
“What good will that do?” replied Neville. “She’s High Inquisitor now. Like you said, she can do what she likes.” He was devastated. After three weeks of being too afraid to stand up to Umbridge, he’d now got detention without even actually standing up to her. He didn’t know what to do.
“Come on, let’s head back to the common room before supper,” said Hermione.
“You go on,” said Neville. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll catch up with you later.” He wandered off down the corridor. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular; he just wanted to be alone for a while. He walked aimlessly through Hogwarts, avoiding meeting the eyes of anyone he passed, lost in his own thoughts. Solitude was his one source of relief; it made him feel safer.
Eventually he stopped by a large window that looked out onto the Hogwarts grounds. Neville leaned on the windowsill and stared out of the window. In the distance he could see Hagrid’s hut, still deserted; Hagrid had not returned from wherever he had gone. Beyond lay the wide expanse of the Forbidden Forest, dark and impenetrable.
As Neville watched, something rose up from out of the Forest. It was thin and black and it spread wide wings as it glided in an arc above the trees. Neville realised it was one of the mysterious horses that pulled the Hogwarts carriages. Even hovering against the blue sky it looked out of place.
“Majestic, isn’t it?” said an airy voice behind him. Neville jumped and turned to find himself face to face with Luna Lovegood. She was not even looking at him, but straight past him out of the window as if he wasn’t even there. “Hello, Neville Longbottom. I’ve always loved this view. I like to watch them circling above the Forest. It reminds me of all the wondrous unexplained things there are in the world.”
“Oh, er, right,” said Neville.
Luna now looked straight at him. “I believe you,” she said simply. “I believe that You-Know-Who has returned, and that the Ministry have organised a conspiracy against you and Dumbledore to suppress the truth. They won’t win forever. The truth always comes out in the end. You’ll see.”
“Um, thank you, Luna,” said Neville. It was good to hear that someone at least believed him, though Luna Lovegood was hardly the person he would have picked.
“It was nice talking to you, Neville,” Luna said, and skipped happily off down the corridor. Neville noticed she was wearing mismatched shoes.
When Neville got back to the common room, the Marauders and Hermione were sitting in a corner together and waved him over. “I got a reply from Sirius,” Harry told him. “Here, look.” He took out a letter and placed it on a table in front of Neville. At the top of the letter was written simply:
Dear Harry,
Just like with the map.
Sirius.
The rest of the paper was blank. “Sirius is being careful,” Harry explained. “Watch.” He tapped the letter with his wand and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” Writing appeared on the remainder of the paper. Neville read.
Dear Harry,
Sorry about the security, but we’ve had reports the Ministry has started intercepting owls, so we’re being extra careful with correspondence. Best if you don’t reply to this letter. I’m not surprised Umbridge isn’t teaching you any magic, it fits with what we’ve learnt. Fudge’s paranoia is now so great, he thinks Dumbledore is assembling his own private army to overthrow the Ministry, including recruiting the school. Thankfully he hasn’t found out about the re-formed Order yet, or we’d all be in trouble. Watch your step around Umbridge, she reports directly to Fudge. Sorry, no news of Hagrid yet. He should have been back by now, but don’t worry, he can take care of himself. Keep up the good work of the Marauders,
Sirius.
“So that’s why old toad-face won’t let us learn any magic,” said George. “How much more stupid can the Ministry get?”
Hermione reread the letter carefully. “This can’t go on,” she said, almost to herself. “Something’s got to be done.”
“Yeah, but what can we do?” asked Ron. Hermione didn’t reply, but sat back in her chair with a thoughtful expression on her face.
At eight o’clock, Neville trudged down to Umbridge’s office on the second floor. He knew the way; it had been Moody’s office the year before and Neville had spent a lot of time there training for the Triwizard Tournament. He knocked on the door. “Come in,” he heard Umbridge say. He pushed open the door.
The room was hardly recognisable from the time Moody had occupied it. The various instruments and Dark magic detectors were all gone. The walls were hung with rows upon rows of china plates, each depicting the image of a nauseatingly cute kitten. Every surface was covered in lace or pink cloth, including Umbridge’s desk, which was neatly arranged with stacks of papers in plastic trays. Umbridge was sitting behind the desk, and indicated that Neville should take the seat opposite.
Neville sat down. In front of him had been placed a length of parchment, on top of which lay a thin black sharp-pointed quill. “I hope you understand why you are here, Mr Longbottom,” said Umbridge, smiling broadly. “You must learn respect and deference towards authority and your superiors. You must learn to accept the truth when it is told to you. For too long you have been led astray by others. It is time you were guided back to the right path. Please pick up that quill and write out, oh, let us see, how about I must not tell lies.”
Well, there are worse things she could have made me do than lines, thought Neville. “How many times?” he asked.
“I will tell you when you can stop,” Umbridge replied.
Neville picked up the quill and then realised something. “I don’t have any ink,” he said.
“You won’t need any,” said Umbridge. “Please continue.”
Neville put the quill to the parchment and wrote I must not tell lies for the first time. The words appeared on the parchment in red ink. Neville was about to write the second line when suddenly a shooting pain went through his right hand. He dropped the quill with a cry and cradled his right hand with his left. “Pick up the quill and continue,” said Umbridge, still smiling.
“But my hand...” began Neville.
“Continue,” repeated Umbridge.
Neville took up the quill again and saw that the back of his hand was red. He wrote I must not tell lies again, and again intense pain flared through his hand, making him drop the quill once more. “I will not tolerate these interruptions, Mr Longbottom,” said Umbridge. “We will stay here until I am satisfied you are finished, however long that takes. Pick up the quill.”
Neville looked down at his hand. The redness there was now not spread across the hand, but localised in thin lines like scars. The scars formed letters, and words. They spelled out I must not tell lies.
Neville looked up at Umbridge in horror. Umbridge was still smiling. “You must be taught a lesson, Mr Longbottom,” she said, “and the best lessons are those that are deeply ingrained. Keep writing.”
In disbelief, Neville picked up the quill once more and, with gritted teeth, carried on writing. Each stroke of the quill cut deeper into his hand, and it was all he could do to stop himself from crying out or letting the tears that were welling up in his eyes from pouring down his face. He did not want to show any weakness in front of Umbridge, but all he could wish for was for the pain to stop.
He wrote and he wrote, and Umbridge sat silently across from him, the same fixed smile upon her face. Eventually, after what seemed an age, she reached across and grabbed his hand, removing the quill from it. She examined the hand closely, holding it tight as Neville was shaking. “Well, it is a start,” she said. “I hope you have learned something today, Mr Longbottom. But if there should be any further instances of insubordination in my class, then we shall have to return here and see if we can’t drive home the message a little deeper. You may go.”
Neville got up and left. As soon as he was outside the office, he broke into a run and dashed to the nearest bathroom. He rushed over to a sink and ran cold water from the tap over his hand, trying to dull the pain, but it still ached and throbbed. He sank to the floor, clutching his hand, and the tears which he had held back in Umbridge’s office now flowed unstoppably. What does she want? he thought in between the sobs. She’s torturing me and I haven’t even done anything. What is she trying to do?
When he got back to Gryffindor Tower a while later, he kept his hands in his pockets and said nothing about what had happened to anyone.