[Castling] Chapter 75

The morning was a disaster right from the off—loud, chaotic, and all over the place. Hermione had just discovered the twins’ notice on the bulletin board about offering odd jobs to anyone interested, and she laid into them like a Howler in full swing.

“Ron, tell them,” she demanded, breathless from accusing them of moral depravity. While she was busy arguing with the twins, I took a proper look at the notice. Honestly, there wasn’t anything that outrageous in it—plenty of students offered small jobs, and even more were eager to earn a few Sickles. But what got me was the note at the bottom that said all health risks were the responsibility of the workers themselves. It gave me flashbacks to that bloody dodgy fizzy drink incident.

“I’m with Hermione. You’re not testing stuff on students, even if they say it’s fine,” I said flatly, catching a glimpse of Harry coming down the stairs and freezing awkwardly at the sight of the argument.

“Oi, would you look at that—our little Ronnie’s grown up and turned into Percy,” Fred drawled, full of mockery. “Give him a Prefect badge and he turns into a right bore.”

“But Ron’s right,” Hermione jumped back in. “And as a Prefect, I won’t let you carry on doing Merlin-knows-what with no responsibility!”

“We test everything on ourselves first,” Fred tried to reason, holding up his hands. “Hermione, we’re planning to open a joke shop someday—we’ve got to test the market and set up supply lines while we’re still at school.”

“Not my problem,” Hermione shot back firmly, tossing me a look that all but screamed back me up here.

“I completely agree with Hermione, Fred. Say what you like, but you’ll be testing your potions on yourselves, same as always. Otherwise, I’ll—”

“Otherwise what?” George cut in with a mocking edge.

“Otherwise I’ll write to Mum,” I said flatly.

“Oh, will you now?” George narrowed his eyes and stepped toward me, fists clenched.

“I haven’t forgotten Mungo’s, George,” I said coldly, stepping forward myself. “And if writing to Mum and getting you both chucked out of Hogwarts is what it takes to stop you, I will. No hesitation.”

We stared each other down for a long, tense minute, neither of us blinking. Then Fred, avoiding my gaze, quietly dragged his furious brother out of the common room. Harry joined us soon after.

“Thanks, Ron,” Hermione said, collapsing into a chair with a tired smile. “Honestly… I didn’t expect you to stand up to your brothers like that. What was that about Mungo’s?”

“Old news, Hermione. Don’t worry about it. Better call the first-years or we’ll be late for breakfast.”

Later, just after lunch on the way to Potions, Cho Chang rounded the corner. We had to slow down.

“Hi, Harry,” she said sweetly, flashing a smile. “Weasley… Granger.”

Harry turned scarlet and mumbled something, sneaking embarrassed glances at us. Yep—clearly intruding.

“Oh, you support the Tornados?” I asked, nodding at her badge to break the awkward silence. “Congrats. They topped the league last season.”

“You follow them too, Weasley?” she asked, perking up.

“Afraid not. I’m not really a fan, but I keep an eye on the standings. Heard about them from Harry,” I said with a grin. “Anyway, do excuse us—Hermione and I have Prefect business.”

I took Hermione’s arm and guided her off down the corridor.

“What?” I asked once we’d turned the corner. She hadn’t pulled away or said anything—just kept watching me with this odd, thoughtful look.

“I’m just surprised, Ron,” she said slowly, finally stepping back. “I thought I’d have to drag you off before you said something daft and embarrassed Harry. That was… very tactful.”

“I’m nearly sixteen, Hermione,” I snorted. “You’re not the only one growing up and reading clever books. Still, nice to know you have such faith in me,” I added cheekily, and she blushed in annoyance. Just then, Harry caught up, looking pretty pleased with himself, and the Potions classroom door creaked open ominously.

“Settle down,” came the bone-chilling voice of the dungeon’s resident bat, and all our minor school drama vanished like smoke.

We got a full-on threat-laced lecture about the importance of OWLs, plenty of nerve-wracking warnings, and the usual share of sarcasm. Business as usual. Then we brewed Calming Draught. Mine, according to the textbook, was worth a solid four out of five—but knowing Snape, I’d be lucky to get a three. Still, I wasn’t planning on taking Advanced Potions next year, even if I did have a soft spot for the bloke. The thought that soon I’d be free of half these pointless subjects did lift my spirits.

“Harry,” I remembered, as we headed to Defence Against the Dark Arts. “No matter what rot Umbridge spouts, don’t argue with her. You too, Hermione.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Harry said, a bit baffled. Hermione, on the other hand, looked like she was analysing my words, waiting for me to explain myself.

“Umbridge is the Minister’s undersecretary. Think about it—why’s she here? She’s clearly not here just to teach. Until we know more, we’ve got to keep our heads down.”

“The Ministry wants to interfere with how Hogwarts is run,” Hermione said suddenly, snapping to attention. “You both heard her welcome speech—‘progress for progress’ sake,’ and all that. I’m not sure what her real aim is yet, though.”

“Exactly,” I nodded. “We lay low for now. Otherwise, we could end up making things worse for Dumbledore. The Prophet’s already dropping hints that he’s losing it. I reckon they’re getting ready to boot him from one of his posts and laying the groundwork for it.”

“What?” I snapped at Hermione, who was giving me yet another one of her unreadable stares. “Yeah, Hermione, I’ve got more than just a bit of tact—I’ve also got a brain. Shocking, isn’t it?”

“Rude,” Hermione snapped, then stormed past me and Harry, charging straight toward the classroom.

“Yeah, doll, and also a hooligan and a brawler,” I called after her with a snort of laughter.

When we stepped into Defence class, taking in the surroundings with curiosity, Umbridge was already perched behind the teacher’s desk, beaming sweetly and nodding at every student who entered.

Everyone filed in quietly, taking their seats and throwing expectant looks toward the front. Judging by the glances Lavender and her friend were exchanging, they were silently critiquing the professor’s outfit—she was wearing the exact same fluffy pink cardigan as yesterday, like she’d just slept in it.

What followed was a speech on classroom etiquette and how she expected us to behave. All delivered in a sickly sweet, syrupy voice with annoying little giggles here and there, like she found the whole thing utterly charming. Her tone was grating, sure, but more irritating than anything.

Then came the big announcement: we were to open our textbooks and quietly read. The only difference from the version in the book was that, though Hermione looked confused and kept glancing at us, she never once raised her hand or asked a question. That honour went to Dean.

Clearly bored of reading, he asked to speak and stood up:

“Excuse me, Professor. Dean Thomas… Am I right in thinking we’re not going to have any practical lessons at all?”

Every head swivelled toward him and Umbridge. Safe to say we were all curious about the answer.

“You are quite right, Mr. Thomas,” she said with a little chuckle. “Yes, Mister…?”

“Finnegan, ma’am. Are you saying we’re not going to use any magic at all? Isn’t the point of Defence Against the Dark Arts to actually use defensive spells?”

“The new curriculum was created by witches and wizards whose qualifications are beyond question,” she replied, that syrupy tone still intact. “You’ll learn about defensive spells in a safe, structured way… under the supervision of a qualified instructor. I wouldn’t wish to criticise the previous teaching methods, but it’s clear that former Defence teachers lacked the proper credentials. Let alone those dangerous half-bloods who have no business being in a school environment. And, as I understand it, my predecessor was demonstrating spells banned by the Ministry. The Ministry believes a strong theoretical foundation is more than sufficient for any of you to pass your exams. Your name, dear?”

“Parvati Patil. So… there won’t be anything practical on the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam? Just theory?”

“With a solid grasp of theory, you’ll have no trouble demonstrating it practically,” Umbridge said in her most condescendingly cheerful voice, clearly closing the discussion. Everyone traded uneasy glances and buried their noses in their books. Thankfully, no detentions were handed out—but the look in Hermione’s eyes was anything but reassuring.

“How could Dumbledore allow this?” she fumed once we were back in the common room. “How could he approve someone like her as our teacher in a year we’ve got OWLs? She’s not teaching us anything! How are we meant to pass the exam?”

“Like that’s ever stopped you,” I snorted, pulling out my essay on moonstone properties. “Ten spells, tops—you could teach those to a flobberworm. Worst case, you cast a Patronus—bit of fancy magic, guaranteed extra marks. Let’s just get on with our homework. We’ve got first-year assignments to mark.”

Classes dragged. It was like the teachers had all made a pact to drown us in work. And big thanks to Hermione, who kept digging up extra reading so we didn’t have to fight each other for space in the library.

The lads joined in with our study group again. We split the subjects between us—whoever was best at what took the lead—and helped each other out. Then we each rewrote the group notes in our own words. Hermione grumbled that it was basically cheating, but we were learning, weren’t we? And it gave us a bit of breathing room. No shame in picking up a few used essays either.

Using my Prefect privileges, I commandeered an unused classroom and set it up as a training room—well, calling it a “room” was generous, but it had a window at least. To my surprise, the lads actually joined in… for a couple of weeks. Then they all buggered off, claiming they had better things to do—except Neville. He stuck with it, puffing and sweating, pedalling away and lifting weights. There was a bit of grit in him, I’ll give him that. I even showed him a few basic moves as a bonus. We weren’t killing ourselves with it—just doing what I remembered from our old footie coach back in the day.

Malfoy was insufferable. Nearly drove Harry into a fit in Care of Magical Creatures with one of his digs at Hagrid. Made Hermione cry once, and was docking points from Gryffindors left and right—mostly picking on the younger ones. Didn’t think twice about using threats, either. Spotted me heading back from training with my broom and decided to have a go.

“What’s this, Weasley? Training hard to make the team?” he sneered. “Really? You’re as slow as a troll and thick as one too. But I suppose that’s in the family. Saw in the Prophet your dad’s department cocked up again—had to call in the Obliviators. My father says it’s high time someone questioned whether certain Ministry employees are up to the job.”

“Oh yeah?” I smirked. “Your dad still wandering the Ministry like some nosy old auntie, gossiping in every corridor? Can’t stand staying home, poor bloke?”

“Don’t you talk about my father like that,” he bristled, right on cue.

“You’re the one who keeps bringing up daddies, Malfoy,” I grinned. “What’s next, comparing todgers? Bet mine’s bigger—even if it is freckled.”

“Piss off,” he snapped, just as expected, and stormed off. I had a laugh and carried on. But yeah… everyone was way more on edge this year. I tried to take the Prefect stuff in stride, but Hermione? She was one frayed nerve away from snapping.

I made up with the twins, by the way. Caught them alone one evening and said:

“Alright. I know someone who could lend you the cash for your shop, so you won’t have to mess with the goblins. It’ll be a fair deal, percentage of the profits. But I’ve got two conditions.”

“And what are the conditions?” the twins asked, exchanging intrigued glances.

“First—don’t tell Mum and Dad who helped you.”

“Deal,” Fred promised quickly.

“And don’t cause any more trouble at school. I’ve heard you’ve been testing your pranks on third-years behind everyone’s back. Hermione’s losing her mind trying to keep up with you two.”

“We’re not touching the first-years, though,” my brother jumped in, trying to defend himself.

“Don’t care,” I shot back. “Test your new stuff on the fourth-years if you want, but only if you’ve got a bezoar kit and antidote on hand.”

“You’re off your rocker, Ron,” George grumbled. “That costs ten galleons, and two more for each bezoar.”

“Well, you lot claim your products are safe,” I countered.

“Fine,” they muttered, clearly not happy.

“I’ll be expecting the budget plan,” I said, wrapping it up and leaving the room. Honestly, I never doubted they’d agree.

On Friday, Angelina—who’d been made team captain—held tryouts. I wasn’t particularly stressed: if I made it, brilliant. If not, I’d try again next year. But I got in. There were definitely a couple of flyers better than me, but I didn’t let a single ball past me. So now I’m Keeper.

Felt great having the gang—Luna, Hermione, and Harry—show up to cheer me on. I took the congratulations, then instead of joining the party the twins were throwing in the common room, I legged it to find Percy and sent off a letter with his owl—I needed a proper Keeper’s kit. And, to be honest, for the first time, I didn’t care how Dad would afford it if he’d lost his bonus. Guess I’m turning into a bit of an egoist. But if a family’s meant to be one whole, then it’s only fair I get something new and nice for once too.

Training went great, even though Malfoy showed up with his little gang and kept trying to wind us up. First he pestered Harry, then me, and Parkinson had a go at the girls. But we ignored them, and eventually he slunk off. When I caught every single ball and gave him a big friendly smile, he practically legged it. Best part? Magic actually helped me block the shots. Every time the players launched the ball, I saw this sort of magical trail showing me exactly where it was going—like its flight path.

Flitwick was surprised when he found out, after a few initial tests, that I could see the Path. Said that in the magical world, seeing magic wasn’t unheard of, but usually it took years of training. It’s how curse-breakers see enchantments, how potion masters spot magical residue in ingredients, or how enchanters see links in artefacts. Everyone sees their own thing.

My version? Not much use here, really—doesn’t make me a good brewer or artefact expert. But when I told him I wanted to be a dragonologist, he looked pleased. Said I’d be better suited to working as a tracker. My ability was geared toward finding things—and apparently, among professionals, that kind of skill’s rare. Most wizards aren’t exactly outdoorsy. They’d rather stay somewhere warm and let the money come to them, instead of trekking through woods for a few Sickles. Honestly? That path sounds way more fun.

On Monday evening, our owl showed up with a letter. I opened it and, to my surprise, a second envelope slipped out—for Potter.

“Ah, sorry, Ron—I meant to tell you,” said Harry sheepishly. “Sirius and I agreed to write through your mum. They probably won’t check letters coming from your house. Poor bloke’s bored out of his mind. He even suggested sneaking into Hogsmeade on weekends—disguised as a dog, of course. When I said no, he got all stroppy and said maybe I wasn’t as much like James as he’d thought.”

“No worries. Write all you want,” I shrugged, getting back to my homework.

“Oi, check this out,” Harry said, waving us over and lowering his voice. “He says we should be careful around Umbridge and not draw attention. Apparently she’s reporting straight to the Minister and doing her best to make sure we don’t learn anything useful we could use against the Ministry. Absolute rubbish. Fudge has properly lost the plot.”

“Mad or not, Black’s got a point,” Hermione chimed in. “We shouldn’t provoke her—but no one said we couldn’t work around her. Be right back, I’m off to the library to check the school charter.”

And with that, she dashed off. Looks like the D.A.’s officially happening.