Chapter 61

That evening in the common room Harry and his friends lounged about in front of the fire, discussing recent events. Hermione, with her gift of almost perfect recall, narrated the story she alone had heard in its entirety from Draco's own lips. The Muffliato charm ensured that a group of third years seated in the far corner and working on a History essay would hear nothing. Ginny and Ron listened with rapt attention as the tale unfolded, the teens drinking the last of the butterbeers purchased on a Hogsmeade trip. Imogen and Harry too listened with interest, for neither had been present in the infirmary for the whole of Draco's narrative.

"I just didn't see this coming," said Imogen when Hermione concluded. "And I ought to have seen it coming. After all, Draco is supposed to be the father of Voldemort's heir, and he is one of the persons whom my sense of mission dictated must be changed. But I had no idea what was going on with him."

"Me, neither," said Harry, "and I've known him far longer than you have. If anything, he he seemed worse this year than in any of the previous years. There I was, convinced he was up to no good. We wasted so much effort over the last few months trying to find out what he was up to, trying to follow him. How stupid. And yet, looking back, I don't think I missed any signs."

"Yeah, I think you did," said Ron. "We all did. We all noticed that he'd become quite the teacher's pet. Hagrid likes him. Even McGonagall likes him. And his marks shot through the roof this term. That's not the Draco we knew. That's someone all together different."

"And what about the fact he gave up Quidditch?" added Ginny. "We were too quick to think of suspicious reasons for his quitting, because of what Imogen told us was in the 'books'. We knew that in an unaltered future, Draco was to quit the team in sixth year to focus on doing Voldemort's work. And we just assumed that this was the same reason he quit the team in fifth year. Did anyone ask him in the infirmary today why he quit the team?'

"I did," said Hermione. "His answer was that he loves the game, but he got his position on the team because of his father's money. He was glad to quit."

"If only we'd been able to follow him properly," said Harry. "If only Dobby had been willing to help us find out what was going on, we would have known much earlier." Harry sat back on the couch, and unsheathed the dagger Hermione had given him for Christmas, enjoying the feel of the weapon. He flipped it idly from hand to hand.

"That reminds me!" said Hermione, almost jumping out of her seat with excitement. "I realize now why we couldn't follow him on the map!"

Everyone turned to Hermione, eager to hear her explanation.

"As Draco said, when his father disowned him, legally he lost both his surname and his first name. Technically, he has no name now, and will have none until proper application is made to the Ministry. So what will the map show when Draco is on Hogwarts' grounds? I'll bet is doesn't show his name. I suspect that when Draco moves about the school, the only sign of his presence will be a tiny dot with no name above it."

"Let's check that out right now," said Harry, running for the stairs. In less than a minute he was back from the dormitory with the map. Harry looked over at the third years, but they didn't take the hint. Ron sauntered over to them.

"Bugger off."

The third years scattered, and Harry and his friends had the common room to themselves. Harry placed the map on the coffee table before them.

"We know he's still in the infirmary. He won't be discharged for a couple of days, according to Pomfrey."

They all stared at the map.

"I don't believe it!" said Imogen, "look who's in the infirmary: 'Dee Malfoy'. When Marietta said she'd seen 'Dee Malfoy' on the map, I thought she meant 'D. Malfoy'. She never spelled out the first name. That was Draco's wife that she spotted, not Draco."

"But how could Dee have Draco's last name?" asked Ron. "He's lost his name. How can Dee keep a name her husband has lost?"

Hermione shook her head in disagreement.

"It must be because she acquired the name legally before Draco was disowned. So he's lost his name, but she hasn't lost hers." Hermione thrust out a hand, her finger pointing at place on the map. "And if you look very carefully, you'll see a very small dot only a few feet from Dee. That must be Draco himself. They must both be asleep, with Dee sleeping under Harry's invisibility cloak on another one of the infirmary beds."

"I wonder how many more mistakes have we made," said Ginny. "We never thought that Draco's disownment would have the slightest effect our ability to trace him. We were all totally ignorant of a very important fact. And that makes me question yet again something I've been worrying about. Imogen, are you sure we're correct to leave the penultimate - Ron, that means 'next to last, ' - Horcrux so late? It's bad enough that we have to leave the death of Nagini to the last minute. Are we not taking a chance in delaying the destruction of the locket until tomorrow? I'm tempted to break into Umbridge's office right now and destroy it."

Months earlier, during the Christmas holidays at the Burrow, Imogen had given all of her friends a detailed explanation of all the Horcruxes, including the locket, stolen by Regulus Black, left at the Black family residence, stolen again Mundungus Fletcher, and then finally making its way into the possession of Dolores Umbridge. That the same sequence of events as set out in the 'books' had unfolded was confirmed as far as humanly possible by Harry and his friends.

Imogen, sitting cross-legged near the warm common room fire, put down her cup of tea. The room was lit only by the fireplace, and the random lapping of the flames caused shadows to play, giving in the semi-light the illusion that expressions were flitting back and forth on the faces of Harry and his friend. Perhaps it was Imogen's imagination that Harry at one instant looked impassive, and at the next, disapproving. She felt the collective weight of her friend's gaze, adding significantly to the already heavy burden of responsibility that she bore.

"I may have been wrong. I was afraid this might happen, and I said as much, but that doesn't change the fact that I was completely, totally wrong. We should have been focused totally on the Horcruxes. But I was distracted by Draco and the knowledge that he was to be the father of Voldemort's heir. I was convinced, and I convinced all of you, that Draco was in the Dark Lord's service. As a result, for almost five months we've been focused on him, instead of taking Umbridge's Horcrux like we should've. I'm sorry I've let you all down, but looking back, I just can't see where I went wrong or what I should have done differently."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," said Harry, "it's not like we completely ignored Umbridge. Hermione searched Umbridge's office at least twice for the locket."

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, "and I'm sure she doesn't keep it in her office."

"Maybe she keeps it in her rooms in the teacher's quarters," said Ron.

"I hope not," said Harry. "None of us can go in there. Besides, I don't think for a minute that Umbridge keeps her locket anywhere than other on her own person."

"I think you're right, Harry," said Hermione. "You can always see that she's wearing a gold chain, but whatever is on the chain is always under her jacket or a sweater. It could be just a necklace, but a safer bet is that it's the locket Horcrux.

"But how are we going to get it from her, without causing a ruckus?" asked Ron.

Imogen spoke somewhat hesitantly, cut herself off and then started again.

"I'm not sure I'm right, not especially when I was so wrong about Draco before, but I don't think taking the locket from Umbridge is going to be that difficult."

"Really!" There was a clatter as Harry dropped his dagger. Embarassed, he picked it up and sheathed it.

"Yes," continued Imogen, "you know that in an unaltered future, Umbridge would have captured all of you in a few days as you came out of the Room of Requirement following a meeting of the Defense Against the Dark Arts Club. This would have set off a series of events leading to a trip with Umbridge to the Forbidden Forest."

"But none of that is going to happen now," said Hermione, frowning, "too much has changed."

"True," said Imogen "but on the other hand, the fact that an event was to have happened in an unaltered future demonstrates, I think, the potential for a similar event to happen, if we want to make it happen. It's simply a question of creating the right conditions. And I've been laying the groundwork."

"That letter to Magorian you were working on recently?" asked Harry.

"Exactly," replied Imogen. "I've arranged with Magorian that he'll have some of his centaurs waiting for us in the forest. In two days, in fact. All that's required is to give Umbridge reason to take us there. Once we have her alone in the forest, we shouldn't have too much trouble either taking the locket from her, or finding out where she keeps it."

"But where do the Centaurs come in?" Hermione, Imogen and Ginny exchanged secret smiles as Ron's naivete.

Dolores Umbridge sat at her office desk and considered the anonymous note that she had found slipped under her door. Things had been dull of late, and the note was a welcome development.

Her second semester at Hogwarts had not been as nearly enjoyable as the first. During the first semester, Umbridge's star had been on the ascendant, rising higher and higher with the passing of each educational decree. She had enjoyed placing a few of the professors on probation. Some professors responded to this with open contempt (Snape and Hagrid), but in at least one case (Trelawney) the victim's fearful reaction was food for Umbridge's soul. That the entire staff hated her meant nothing to Umbridge. She was High Inquisitor, and had the backing of Fudge himself, who, in his dual capacity as Minister and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, enjoyed a power in the wizarding world that was almost without precedent. Yes, the first term had been great fun for Umbridge.

But then everything had gone wrong. Umbridge could even fix a precise date: December 24th, the day that Fudge managed to get himself removed as Chief Warlock. When he had held both offices, there had been no check to his power as Minister, no counter weight to resist any moves he wished to make. But as of December 24th, Dumbledore had been restored to the position of Chief Warlock, and from that instant everything had changed. Fudge had made that clear enough in his interview with Umbridge at the end of the Christmas holidays, urging her to watch her step and to issue no more decrees. The deep sleep that overtook Dumbledore after his mishap early in second term changed nothing, Fudge had explained. Chaim Goldstein had taken over as acting leader of the Wizengamot, and since then he had been busy using his powers to blunt the force of ministerial decrees. Time and time again Fudge issued this or that new ministerial order, to great fanfare and publication in the Daily Prophet, only to find that when the Ministry attempted to enforce its latest directive, that the Wizengamot would find a loophole, and another enemy of the Ministry would walk free. So hampered was Fudge that he was not even able to arrange for Umbridge to take over as headmistress of Hogwarts, and so for months Umbridge had chafed under the rule of Minerva McGonagall. At least Dumbledore had maintained a veneer of politeness; McGonagall saw no need for such niceties, and snubbed Umbridge at every turn.

And so for five months, Umbridge had reigned uneasily as High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, uncertain of her authority and fearful for her position. Fudge himself had deprived her of one of the few pleasures that would have still remained to her, that of using her nasty quill as an instrument of punishment during detentions. But the dark object lay unused on a shelf behind Umbridge's desk, not having tasted a student's blood in many months. Umbridge had inherited the quill, an ironic gift from her grandmother who had taken great pleasure in using it on the young Dolores. Both Dolores' mother and grandmother were most unmaternal creatures, and when Dolores was younger, she had sometimes wondered how her ancestors had ever managed to reproduce. Unfortunately for Dolores, while she inherited her mother's wicked personality, she had not acquired her looks. Her mother had been a tall, statuesque blond; Umbridge was a short, squat creature whose ugly face reflected her contorted personality. Although technically not quite past the child bearing years, Umbridge, incapable of attracting a mate, had long before resigned herself to a childless state.

Umbridge opened the anonymous note, and considered its contents once more. According to the note's author, Imogen and Hermione had formed an illegal club which had been meeting regularly in the Forbidden Forest. If Professor Umbridge were to attend at the forest the following day at noon (and here the note included a rough sketch indicating where in the Forbidden Forest Umbridge should go), the High Inquisitor would doubtless catch Hermione, Imogen and others in the act.

Had the note hit Umbridge's desk the previous December, she would not have hesitated to act on it. But the Dolores Umbridge who held the note in her hands was rather diminished, unsure of herself and afraid that she might be the victim of yet another one of the many cruel pranks that it had been her lot to bear for the last few months. The second term was drawing to a close and exams were underway. There was no way for her to know whether her tenure would be extended another year. Should she not be content to simply serve out her remaining time, and move on to some other position in the ministry? It was tempting to ignore the note, yet it did say that the illegal activity was in the Forbidden Forest, and Imogen had disappeared in that forest the previous January, staying out all night and throwing the whole school into a panic. Perhaps there was more to the business than Umbridge had first thought. She idly toyed with the chain about her neck, from which hung the locket she lifted from Mundungus Fletcher some months earlier. She made up her mind. Yes, she would look into the matter.

The next morning, not long before lunch, Umbridge lurched her squat, ugly form through the halls of Hogwarts, headed in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. The halls were almost deserted, most of the students in class, and those with spares knowing better than to spend it wandering idly about the school. It was a gorgeous June day outside, and no one would want to be indoors, unless that person was Dolores Umbridge on a mission. The High Inquisitor approached the Fat Lady's portrait.

"Mimbilus Mimbletonia".

The portrait door remained closed and the Fat Lady motionless, staring out of the picture rigidly as if she were the subject of a Muggle portrait. Umbridge repeated the password, louder this time.

"It doesn't matter how loudly you say it, if you're going to mispronounce it," said the Fat Lady.

Umbridge stifled an oath, and pronounced the password again.

"That's better. Much better." The portrait swung open obligingly. Umbridge stepped through and into the common room. As she expected, the room was deserted. There were two sets of stairs, one leading to the boys' quarters and the other to the girls'. Umbridge chose one entrance at random and ascended five floors and into a dormitory. There was no doubt that it was a girl's dormitory, and she quickly and thoroughly searched each trunk that she found in the room. She knew she'd found Imogen's when she saw inside it a number of first year texts; no other Gryffindor fifth year would have any reason to have beginner's books. Umbridge found nothing untoward. No contraband. Short of time now, she moved down the staircase into the common room, and then up the stairs to the boy's' fifth year dorm with as much speed as her pear-shaped body could manage on its stubby legs. Entering the boy's dormitory, out of breath, she was struck dumb by the complicated arrangement of shelves, cauldrons, and piping next to Neville's bed, each cauldron with a stirrer in it. As Umbridge stared, a stirring stick in one of the cauldrons suddenly sprang to life, whirled nineteen times, and then became motionless once more.