[Castling] Chapter 76

Hermione came back just before lights-out, arms full of books, and waved off our questions as she went straight up to her room. She looked a bit preoccupied and was scribbling away in her notebook like she was on a mission. Then, one evening, she came down to the empty common room where Harry and I were finishing up our homework, looking all smug and excited.

“Here,” she said, placing a few sheets of parchment on the table. “I double-checked everything in the school charter. We’ve got every right to practise spells under supervision if we form a Magical Manipulation Club. We’ll gather all the interested students and run the sessions ourselves. I think we should ask Professor McGonagall to oversee it — she can’t stand Umbridge. And once she hears what her lessons are like, I’m sure she’ll agree and give us a few hours a week. Besides, she’s in the Order,” Hermione added, lowering her voice.

“That would be brilliant,” Harry said, brightening up. “Shame we can’t just ditch DADA altogether. With Umbridge, it’s even more useless than when Lockhart taught it.”

“Exactly,” Hermione agreed. “If you’re in, Harry, write your name under mine. I’ll talk to everyone else tomorrow — the more we get, the more likely McGonagall’ll say yes. Ron?”

“Sorry, Hermione, but I’m out,” I said flatly, bracing for the row I knew was coming.

“Why?” Harry asked, genuinely surprised, frozen mid-signature as two blobs of ink dropped onto the fresh sheet.

“What’s the problem now, Ron?” Hermione snapped, clearly annoyed. “Why are you always against things? I think this is a great idea — a sensible solution for all of us.”

“You seriously think Dumbledore and McGonagall don’t know exactly what’s going on in this school?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “What Umbridge is—or isn’t—teaching? But they’re not exactly rushing to step in, are they? Even though they could. You think if you waltz up to McGonagall with a list, she’ll leap at the chance to support your brilliant idea? If she actually cared about it, she’d have done something herself already. She’s got way more options than we do, and she doesn’t have to worry about getting punished. But if the people in charge can’t be bothered, why should I do their job for them and end up getting hexed for my trouble?”

“You’ve turned into a proper cynic, Ron,” Hermione sniffed, sounding all offended. “And a coward. You used to be more helpful when people needed you.”

“Maybe I’ve just grown up,” I shrugged, not rising to it. “Maybe I’ve realised that not everything can be solved by throwing yourself headfirst at the problem like you do. And maybe I’ve learned you can still be useful in small ways, even if they don’t get your name in lights. Just so you know, while you’ve been dashing around with your revolutionary idea, I paired up every first-year with a second-year. They’re already practising first-year spells together in the dorms or in our common room. No rules broken. You want a revolution, Hermione — a fight against injustice and tyranny, not actual Defence Against the Dark Arts. But sure, if McGonagall gives it the go-ahead, I’ll join your official club,” I added, packing up my things, and headed up to bed. I couldn’t be bothered arguing with her.

For the next few days, Hermione and I barely spoke. We only talked when we had to. But one evening, she came back to the common room looking properly upset.

“I went to see the Head of House,” she said, forgetting our standoff. “McGonagall turned me down. Told me not to provoke the Ministry and said it’d be better to drop the idea.”

“Well, that’s perfect,” I said, nodding. “Less hassle. We’ll just learn the spells from books like we always have—”

“You don’t get it, Ron,” Hermione said, near tears, lifting her eyes to mine. “I’ve already got a list — nearly thirty people want to join. They’re expecting us at the Hog’s Head tomorrow. How am I supposed to tell them it’s off?” she added, sounding totally lost.

“We’ll figure something out,” Harry said easily, brushing it off. “It’s not your fault — it’s McGonagall’s.”

“But why did she say no?” Hermione asked miserably. “I checked everything, it’s all above board — it doesn’t break any rules.”

“She must’ve had a good reason not to stick her neck out,” Harry said, surprisingly level-headed. “Come on, let’s get some sleep. We’ll sort it tomorrow.”

Saturday came warm and bright, but Hermione looked like a storm cloud. She trudged behind us like she was being dragged on a leash. Eventually, though, she seemed to shake it off, and that determined glint came back to her eyes.

The Hog’s Head looked like a run-down version of the Leaky Cauldron. Dust and grime covered every surface, and the stone floor was so packed with muck it felt like walking on hard soil. The place stank — like livestock, honestly, as if it used to be a stable. Dim, greasy candles gave off just enough light to make the place feel even dodgier. And that was in broad daylight.

Hermione stood frozen for a moment, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and headed to a table in the back under the wary gazes of a few regulars. Harry and I followed close behind.

“I reckon in this dump they’d sell us Firewhisky even if we were twelve,” Harry whispered, dropping onto a rickety stool and glancing round in amazement.

I gave my stool and the table a once-over with a few quick charms and sat down too, subtly checking out the punters. The crowd was... interesting. A tall woman in head-to-toe black with a heavy veil. A bloke wrapped up in grimy, shredded bandages like he’d escaped from a Muggle hospital ward. Two shady types in hoods that looked like off-brand Dementors. And all of them were already knocking back something strong even though it was barely noon.

“Maybe we should order something?” Hermione muttered, fidgeting on her stool. “We’re drawing attention.”

“Alright, I’ll have a bottle of brandy, then,” I said jokingly, as Harry got up to fetch drinks.

“Ron!” Hermione scolded, clearly unimpressed. “We’re here for business, and you’re underage. They’re not going to serve you strong alcohol.”

“What, Ron?” I snapped back without heat, watching as Harry’s call brought out a scruffy old bloke from the back — ancient, with a beard almost as long as his brother’s and just as intense a stare, if not quite as tidy. “It’s for hygiene, alright? This place is so filthy I can already feel fleas crawling over me. You couldn’t have picked a worse dump for a meeting, Hermione? Or is this the absolute bottom of the barrel?”

“It’s the one place we won’t draw attention,” she shot back in a loud whisper. “Students never come here.”

“No wonder,” I muttered, just as Harry returned looking a bit sheepish, juggling three dusty bottles and a bowl of peanuts.

“Sorry, Ron,” he said, “I didn’t dare ask for brandy. The bloke behind the bar looked like he’d curse me for blinking. So, er… Butterbeer and peanuts.”

“Don’t even think about eating those,” I grimaced. “And that barman? That’s Aberforth — Dumbledore’s brother. So congrats, Hermione, pretty sure the school already knows we’ve sneaked off. Wouldn’t be surprised if the place is packed with tracking charms, considering the clientele.”

“Seriously? His brother?” Harry looked back toward the bar. “Blimey, he does look like him.”

“What a madness…” Hermione added with a meaningful look as she blatantly stared at the old man — who, judging by his smug grin, clearly knew we were talking about him. “Still, doesn’t matter. I checked — students aren’t banned from coming in here.”

“Yeah, sure,” I chuckled. “And when all thirty of us pile in, we’ll just say it’s part of an extracurricular field trip to Hogsmeade’s dodgiest watering holes. Only good thing about this place is we’re allowed to use magic — otherwise we’d be stuck to the century-old grime by our robes.”

Harry and I snorted, wiping down the bottles. I didn’t trust them one bit, so I transfigured my handkerchief into a proper mug and poured my drink into that. It wasn’t half-bad, actually — a bit strong for underage schoolkids, but it had a nice kick.

About fifteen minutes later, the doors swung open and a noisy crowd came pouring into the pub. They spotted our table and quickly swarmed the bar. The old bloke behind the counter looked less than pleased with the sudden rush — probably because his tavern doubled as a front for dodgy dealings, and a bunch of loud teenagers were scaring off the real customers. Every single one of them was glaring at us now, not even bothering to hide it.

Our lot came back over, all laughs and chatter, clutching bottles and bowls of snacks. A few of the lads I knew had brought their mates from other Houses, and they were all gawking at the place like it was a haunted house.

Cho had brought a friend along. Judging by the girl’s pinched look, she wasn’t thrilled to be there, but Cho didn’t seem fussed. She plopped down beside Harry, who immediately forgot the rest of the world existed and was now mumbling answers to her soft questions. Every time she leaned in, a loose strand of hair would brush his cheek, and Harry would turn red and look away, completely smitten.

Neville, bless him, looked like he’d been dragged into a brothel by mistake. He sat next to me, clutching his bottle and looking too terrified to drink from it.

Finally, when everyone had settled and the noise died down, Hermione stood up. With that many eyes on her, she didn’t look quite so confident anymore.

“Er… Right, here’s the thing,” she began. “You all know why we’re here. But, well… Professor McGonagall’s refused to help us,” she finished, scrunching her face in disappointment.

“So you dragged us into this hole for nothing?” Zacharias Smith muttered sourly.

“It’s not her fault,” Dean piped up straight away. “How was she supposed to know McGonagall would say no?”

The group didn’t seem particularly impressed with his support — everyone started grumbling.

“But I’ve had another idea,” Hermione said quickly, voice a little shaky but determined. “We can just do it ourselves.”

“Ourselves?” Neville blurted out in the sudden silence, then flinched like he’d shocked himself.

“Yes, ourselves,” Hermione said more firmly now. “We just need to find a place where we can meet.”

“That’s actually a good shout,” said Michael Corner, sounding intrigued.

“I’m in,” added Anthony Goldstein. “That new teacher’s a joke. We’re never going to pass DADA like this. I want to practise.” Most of the room answered with excited murmurs and nods.

“Then let’s pick two days a week,” Hermione said, looking pleased. “That should be enough.”

“Just keep our practice schedule in mind,” Angelina chimed in.

“And ours,” Cho said, tucking her hair behind her ear and shooting Harry a shy glance.

“Right. Anyone who’s interested, write your name on the parchment,” Hermione said, digging in her bag for the enchanted scroll.

“What for?” Cho’s friend asked, narrowing her eyes.

“This’ll be a secret organisation,” Hermione said shortly. “We could register it officially, but we’d still be breaking Umbridge’s ban on casting spells outside class. The parchment’s charmed — it’ll bind us to secrecy.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Marietta snapped, shooting Cho an accusing glare. Cho quickly looked away, pretending to examine the foam in her butterbeer.

“No one’s forcing you,” Fred said sharply, scrawling his name beneath Harry’s and Hermione’s and passing the quill to George. “You don’t want to learn, don’t bother. Ron?”

“I think I’ll pass,” I said, and the room went weirdly quiet. Everyone probably thought that since I was mates with Harry and Hermione, I’d follow them into anything. But this wasn’t some Philosopher’s Stone nonsense — risking trouble over something daft?

“What d’you mean?” my brother frowned, and Harry tore his eyes away from Cho, now staring at me, confused. Hermione looked like I’d just stabbed her in the back — hurt and angry all at once.

"You see, Fred… I just don’t get why it has to be so complicated. Like, take you, for example — what are you going to learn from us fifth-years if we’re not being taught by McGonagall or another proper professor? The only spell that comes to mind is the Patronus. And honestly, most of our lot who cared to learn it picked it up back in third year. Parvati even taught it to her sister from Ravenclaw. So why take the risk and round up a big group, when you and Angelina could just show us one school-level spell a week in the common room? By the end of the year, we’d know them all. You could split it up too — Ginny and her mates could teach third-years their lot of spells. It wouldn’t even take that long. Hermione’s learnt loads just from reading in the library and practising on her own, and it’s not like the rest of us are thick. If someone can’t be bothered, that’s on them. But why take the risk?"

“What risk?” Hermione snapped, not able to hold it in any longer. “You don’t really think they’ll expel us all, do you?”

“Not all of you. Just the ringleaders,” I said with a smirk. “Like you, for instance.”

“You’re just a coward, Weasley,” Anthony muttered while everyone watched the argument unfold.

“Maybe. But at least I’m not selfish like the rest of you,” I shot back.

“Selfish?” Hermione gasped, looking genuinely offended. “I’m doing this for everyone—!”

“Hermione, half the people in this room have parents working at the Ministry. And Umbridge is the Deputy Minister. What do you think will happen when your little club gets shut down? Think that'll go over well for Percy? Or my dad? Or Madam Bones? Cho’s mum? It’s always easier to risk other people’s necks when it benefits you. I’m not trying to stop you lot, I’m just saying why I’m not joining in. You’re free to do whatever you want.”

“So what do you suggest then?” Angelina asked after a tense silence.

“Already said it,” I shrugged. “Everyone pairs up with someone a year younger — teaches them a bit, learns a bit. We can also list the spells we’ve picked up outside the normal curriculum and swap them around. Two students meeting in an empty classroom for twenty minutes won’t raise suspicion, especially if it’s under the guise of Prefect duties. Loads of us know the Patronus charm. Harry can teach Cho, she can teach her lot. I’ll teach Abbott, Hermione can take Smith, the lads can show Dennis and the younger ones. As for the first-years, we could talk to the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Prefects about it. Best if it comes from the students themselves — Houses handle internal stuff faster on their own. Bet you anything Slytherin’s already learning spells in secret and couldn’t care less what the other Houses or Umbridge think. And Hermione and I’ll pair our younger Gryffindors with older ones — they’ll still learn the school programme. Maybe by the time we’re through, Umbridge’ll have packed up and gone back to the Ministry.”

What followed was a loud and chaotic discussion. My plan got the thumbs-up, but only partly — they went with it for the younger years. The older students dropped out — made sense, really, we didn’t have much to teach them. Anyone with family in the Ministry opted out too. Neville said no, worried he’d let his gran down. Cho and her mate didn’t sign up either. And Harry, rather than pick sides between me and Hermione, chose to stay neutral — said he’d maybe join after Christmas. Truth was, we didn’t have time for extra lessons — between Quidditch practice, homework, and Harry being constantly shoved into detention with Snape, he barely had time to breathe. It felt like Snape was punishing him on purpose, keeping him under supervision to scrub cauldrons instead of going off chasing adventures. Creepy kind of ‘mentorship’, really. But when it came to essays, Harry was totally useless. Hermione and I helped him with research — then he’d rewrite it in his own words.

In the end, about a dozen students went with Hermione and signed up for the club. She promised to find a classroom for the meetings — being a Prefect made it easy enough to enchant one.

Hermione and I settled into a sort of cold truce. Until the next day, when we had a proper row.

“You’re trying to sabotage me on purpose, Ron!” she snapped. “It’s not enough that you’re always criticising me — now you’re mocking my ideas in front of everyone. You’re too small-minded to understand the real reason we fight for truth and fairness. But at least there are people who agree with me!”

“When exactly did I mock your ideas?” I shot back. “You keep biting off more than you can chew. You think you’ve outsmarted Umbridge? Won something? She’s got more power than ever now — and if she didn’t before, Fudge will give her what she needs. If a war starts in school and someone gets hurt, just remember you kicked it off. You could’ve gone about it quietly, worked behind her back for everyone’s benefit, and had a good laugh while she stayed clueless.”

Next day, Hermione went ahead and registered the club — called it The Study of Magical Properties. Big cheers all round in the common room. But they only managed three meetings before The Prophet dropped an article announcing Umbridge’s promotion to High Inquisitor — we got the official announcement over breakfast. Two days later, a new decree went up on the notice board: All clubs, societies, and extracurricular groups must register with the Inquisitorial Office.

“Well done, Hermione,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “You’ve done it. Now we’ll be begging that toad to let the Quidditch team onto the pitch. Cheers.”

“You reckon that includes sports teams too?” Harry asked, exchanging worried looks with the twins. Angelina beat him to it.

“Pretty sure it does, Harry. We’ll have to go to her and get the team roster approved. Please, lads — until we get this sorted, you have to put a stop to the club meetings. Don’t give her another excuse.”

“So… it’s war,” I said as I stood. “Score’s one-all.”