Professor Umbridge gave her most pronounced cough yet.

'May I offer you a cough drop, Dolores?' Professor McGonagall asked curtly, without looking at Professor Umbridge.

'Oh, no, thank you very much,' said Umbridge, with that simpering laugh Harry hated so much. 'I just wondered whether I could make the teensiest interruption, Minerva?'

'I daresay you'll find you can,' said Professor McGonagall through tightly gritted teeth.

'I was just wondering whether Mr Potter has quite the temperament for an Auror?' said Professor Umbridge sweetly.

'Were you?' said Professor McGonagall haughtily. 'Well, Potter,' she continued, as though there had been no interruption, 'if you are serious in this ambition, I would advise you to concentrate hard on bringing your Transfiguration and Potions up to scratch. I see Professor Flitwick has graded you between "Acceptable" and "Exceeds Expectations" for the last two years, so your Charmwork seems satisfactory. As for Defence Against the Dark Arts, your marks have been generally high, Professor Lupin in particular thought you — are you quite sure you wouldn 't like a cough drop, Dolores? '

'Oh, no need, thank you, Minerva,' simpered Professor Umbridge, who had just coughed her loudest yet. 'I was just concerned that you might not have Harry's most recent Defence Against the Dark Arts marks in front of you. I'm quite sure I slipped in a note.'

'What, this thing?' said Professor McGonagall in a tone of revulsion, as she pulled a sheet of pink parchment from between the leaves of Harry's folder. She glanced down it, her eyebrows slightly raised, then placed it back into the folder without comment.

'Yes, as I was saying, Potter, Professor Lupin thought you showed a pronounced aptitude for the subject, and obviously for an Auror — '

'Did you not understand my note, Minerva?' asked Professor Umbndge in honeyed tones, quite forgetting to cough.

'Of course I understood it,' said Professor McGonagall, her teeth clenched so tightly the words came out a little muffled.

'Well, then, I am confused . . . I'm afraid I don't quite understand how you can give Mr Potter false hope that — '

'False hope?' repeated Professor McGonagall, still refusing to look round at Professor Umbridge. 'He has achieved high marks in all his Defence Against the Dark Arts tests — '

'I'm terribly sorry to have to contradict you, Minerva, but as you will see from my note, Harry has been achieving very poor results in his classes with me — '

'I should have made my meaning plainer,' said Professor McGonagall, turning at last to look Umbridge directly in the eyes. 'He has achieved high marks in all Defence Against the Dark Arts tests set by a competent teacher.'

Professor Umbridge's smile vanished as suddenly as a light bulb blowing. She sat back in her chair, turned a sheet on her clipboard and began scribbling very fast indeed, her bulging eyes rolling from side to side. Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry, her thin nostrils flared, her eyes burning.

'Any questions, Potter?'

'Yes,' said Harry. 'What sort of character and aptitude tests do the Ministry do on you, if you get enough NEWTs?'

'Well, you'll need to demonstrate the ability to react well to pressure and so forth,' said Professor McGonagall, 'perseverance and dedication, because Auror training takes a further three years, not to mention very high skills in practical Defence. It will mean a lot more study even after you've left school, so unless you're prepared to — '

'I think you'll also find,' said Umbridge, her voice very cold now, 'that the Ministry looks into the records of those applying to be Aurors. Their criminal records.'

'— unless you're prepared to take even more exams after Hogwarts, you should really look at another — '

'Which means that this boy has as much chance of becoming an Auror as Dumbledore has of ever returning to this school.'

'A very good chance, then,' said Professor McGonagall.

'Potter has a criminal record,' said Umbridge loudly.

'Potter has been cleared of all charges,' said McGonagall, even more loudly.

Professor Umbridge stood up. She was so short that this did not make a great deal of difference, but her fussy, simpering demeanour had given place to a hard fury that made her broad, flabby face look oddly sinister.

'Potter has no chance whatsoever of becoming an Auror!'

Professor McGonagall got to her feet, too, and in her case this was a much more impressive move: she towered over Professor Umbridge.

'Potter,' she said in ringing tones, 'I will assist you to become an Auror if it is the last thing I do! If I have to coach you nightly, I will make sure you achieve the required results!'

'The Minister for Magic will never employ Harry Potter!' said Umbridge, her voice rising furiously.

'There may well be a new Minister for Magic by the time Potter is ready to join!' shouted Professor McGonagall.

'Aha! shrieked Professor Umbridge, pointing a stubby linger at McGonagall. 'Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Of course! That's what you want, isn't it, Minerva McGonagall? You want Cornelius Fudge replaced by Albus Dumbledore! You think you'll be where I am, don't you: Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and Headmistress to boot!'

'You are raving,' said Professor McGonagall, superbly disdainful. 'Potter, that concludes our careers consultation.'

Harry swung his bag over his shoulder and hurried out of the room, not daring to look at Professor Umbridge. He could hear her and Professor McGonagall continuing to shout at each other all the way back along the corridor.

Professor Umbridge was still breathing as though she had just run a race when she strode into their Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson that afternoon.

'I hope you've thought better of what you were planning to do, Harry,' Hermione whispered, the moment they had opened their books to 'Chapter Thirty-four, Non-Retaliation and Negotiation'. 'Umbridge looks like she's in a really bad mood already . . .'

Every now and then Umbridge shot glowering looks at Harry, who kept his head down, staring at Defensive Magical Theory, his eyes unfocused, thinking . . .

He could just imagine Professor McGonagall's reaction if he was caught trespassing in Professor Umbridge's office mere hours after she had vouched for him . . . there was nothing to stop him simply going back to Gryffindor Tower and hoping that some time during the next summer holidays he would have a chance to ask Sirius about the scene he had witnessed in the Pensieve . . . nothing, except that the thought of taking this sensible course of action made him feel as though a lead weight had dropped into his stomach . . . and then there was the matter of Fred and George, whose diversion was already planned, not to mention the knife Sirius had given him, which was currently residing in his schoolbag along with his father's old Invisibility Cloak.

But the fact remained that if he was caught . . .

'Dumbledore sacrificed himself to keep you in school, Harry!' whispered Hermione, raising her book to hide her face from Umbridge. 'And if you get thrown out today it will all have been for nothing!'

He could abandon the plan and simply learn to live with the memory of what his father had done on a summer's day more than twenty years ago . . .

And then he remembered Sirius in the fire upstairs in the Gryffindor common room . . .

You 're less like your father than I thought . . . the risk would 've been what made it fun for James . . .

But did he want to be like his father any more?

'Harry, don't do it, please don't do it!' Hermione said in anguished tones as the bell rang at the end of the class.

He did not answer; he did not know what to do.

Ron seemed determined to give neither his opinion nor his advice; he would not look at Harry, though when Hermione opened her mouth to try dissuading Harry some more, he said in a low voice, 'Give it a rest, OK? He can make up his own mind.'

Harry's heart beat very fast as he left the classroom. He was halfway along the corridor outside when he heard the unmistakeable sounds of a diversion going off in the distance. There were screams and yells reverberating from somewhere above them; people exiting the classrooms all around Harry were stopping in their tracks and looking up at the ceiling fearfully —

Umbridge came pelting out of her classroom as fast as her short legs would carry her. Pulling out her wand, she hurried off in the opposite direction: it was now or never.

'Harry — please!' Hermione pleaded weakly.

But he had made up his mind; hitching his bag more securely on to his shoulder, he set off at a run, weaving in and out of students now hurrying in the opposite direction to see what all the fuss was about in the east wing.

Harry reached the corridor to Umbridge's office and found it deserted. Dashing behind a large suit of armour whose helmet creaked around to watch him, he pulled open his bag, seized Sirius's knife and donned the Invisibility Cloak. He then crept slowly and carefully back out from behind the suit of armour and along the corridor until he reached Umbridge's door.

He inserted the blade of the magical knife into the crack around it and moved it gently up and down, then withdrew it. There was a tiny click, and the door swung open. He ducked inside the office, closed the door quickly behind him and looked around.

Nothing was moving except the horrible kittens that were still frolicking on the wall plates above the confiscated broomsticks.

Harry pulled off his Cloak and, striding over to the fireplace, found what he was looking for within seconds: a small box containing glittering Floo powder.

He crouched down in front of the empty grate, his hands shaking. He had never done this before, though he thought he knew how it must work. Sticking his head into the fireplace, he took a large pinch of powder and dropped it on to the logs stacked neatly beneath him. They exploded at once into emerald green flames.

'Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!' Harry said loudly and clearly.

It was one of the most curious sensations he had ever experienced. He had travelled by Floo powder before, of course, but then it had been his entire body that had spun around and around in the flames through the network of wizarding fireplaces that stretched over the country. This time, his knees remained firm upon the cold floor of Umbridge's office, and only his head hurtled through the emerald fire . . .

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the spinning stopped. Feeling rather sick and as though he were wearing an exceptionally hot muffler around his head, Harry opened his eyes to find that he was looking up out of the kitchen fireplace at the long, wooden table, where a man sat poring over a piece of parchment.