The Werewolf' s Daughter A Vampire( Remus Lupin Daughter )

Detention with Umbitch

Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk again. Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at him; Seamus looked half-
scared, half-fascinated.
“Harry, no!” I whispered in a warning voice, tugging at
his sleeve, but Harry jerked his arm out of my reach.
“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?” Harry asked, his voice shaking.
There was a collective intake of breath from the class, for none of them, apart from Ron and Hermione, had ever heard me or Harry talk about what had happened on the night that Cedric had died. They stared avidly from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and was staring at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face.
“Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accident,” she said coldly. “It was murder,” said Harry. He could feel himself shaking.
hardly talked to anyone about this, least of all thirty eagerly listening
classmates. “Voldemort killed him, and you know it.”
Professor Umbridge’s face was quite blank. For a moment he
thought she was going to scream at him. Then she said, in her softest,
most sweetly girlish voice, “Come here, Mr. Potter and Ms. Lupin, dear.”
He kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and Hermione and
up to the teacher’s desk. He could feel the rest of the class holding its
breath. I felt so angry I did not care what happened next.
Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of
her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bot-
tle of ink, and started scribbling, hunched over so that Harry could
not see what she was writing. Nobody spoke. After a minute or so she
rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand; it sealed itself
seamlessly so that he could not open it.
“Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,” said Professor Um-
bridge, holding out the note to me.
He took it from her without saying a word and left the room, not
even looking back at Ron and Hermione, and slamming the class-
room door shut behind him. He walked very fast along the corridor,
the note to McGonagall clutched tight in his hand, and turning a cor-
ner walked slap into Peeves the Poltergeist, a wide-faced little man
floating on his back in midair, juggling several inkwells.
“Why, it’s Potty Wee Potter and Baby Lupin” cackled Peeves, allowing two of the
inkwells to fall to the ground where they smashed and spattered the
walls with ink; Harry jumped backward out of the way with a snarl.
“Get out of it, Peeves.”
“Oooh, Crackpot’s feeling cranky,” said Peeves, pursuing Harry
along the corridor, leering as he zoomed along above him. “What is it
this time, my fine Potty friend? Hearing voices? Seeing visions? Speak-
ing in” — Peeves blew a gigantic raspberry — “tongues?”
“I said, leave me ALONE!” I shouted, running down the nearest stairs.
A door to his left flew open and Professor McGonagall emerged
from her office looking grim and slightly harassed.
“What on earth are you shouting about, Ms.Lupin ?” she snapped, as
Peeves cackled gleefully and zoomed out of sight. “Why aren’t you in
class?”
“we've been sent to see you,” said Harry stiffly.
“Sent? What do you mean, sent?”
He held out the note from Professor Umbridge. Professor McGonagall took it from him, frowning, slit it open with a tap of her wand,
stretched it out, and began to read. Her eyes zoomed from side to side
behind their square spectacles as she read what Umbridge had written,
and with each line they became narrower.
“Come in here, Potter and Lupin.”
He followed her inside her study. The door closed automatically
behind him.
“Well?” said Professor McGonagall, rounding on him. “Is this
true?”
“Is what true?” Harry asked, rather more aggressively than he had
intended. “Professor?” he added in an attempt to sound more polite.
“Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?”

“Yes,” I said
“You called her a liar?”
“Yes.”
" You called her a fat ugly  pink toad"
"Yes"
“You told her He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back?”
“Yes.”
Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, frowning at Harry.
Then she said, “Have a biscuit, you two.”
“Have — what?”
“Have a biscuit,” she repeated impatiently, indicating a tartan tin of cookies lying on top of one of the piles of papers on her desk. “And sit
down.”
There had been a previous occasion when Harry, expecting to be
caned by Professor McGonagall, had instead been appointed by her to
the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He sank into a chair opposite her and
helped himself to a Ginger Newt, feeling just as confused and wrong-
footed as he had done on that occasion.
Professor McGonagall set down Professor Umbridge’s note and
looked very seriously at Harry.
“Potter, you need to be careful.”
Harry swallowed his mouthful of Ginger Newt and stared at her.
Her tone of voice was not at all what he was used to; it was not brisk,
crisp, and stern; it was low and anxious and somehow much more hu-
man than usual.
“Misbehavior in Dolores Umbridge’s class could cost you much
more than House points and a detention.”
“What do you — ?”
“Potter, use your common sense,” snapped Professor McGonagall, with an abrupt return to her usual manner. “You know where she
comes from, you must know to whom she is reporting.”
The bell rang for the end of the lesson. Overhead and all around
came the elephantine sounds of hundreds of students on the move.
“It says here she’s given you detention every evening this week,
starting tomorrow,” Professor McGonagall said, looking down at Umbridge note again
“Every evening this week!” Harry and I repeated, horrified( I am chaser at gryffindor quidditch team) for. “But, Profes-
sor, couldn’t you — ?”
“No, I couldn’t,” said Professor McGonagall flatly.
“But —”
“She is your teacher and has every right to give you detention. You
will go to her room at five o’clock tomorrow for the first one. Just remember: Tread carefully around Dolores Umbridge.”
“But I was telling the truth!” said Harry, outraged. “Voldemort’s
back, you know he is, Professor Dumbledore knows he is —”
“For heaven’s sake, Potter!” said Professor McGonagall, straighten-
ing her glasses angrily (she had winced horribly when he had used
Voldemort’s name). “Do you really think this is about truth or lies? It’s about keeping your head down and your temper under control!”
She stood up, nostrils wide and mouth very thin, and he stood too.
“Have another biscuit,” she said irritably, thrusting the tin at him.
“No, thanks,” said Harry coldly.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.
He and I  took one.
“Thanks,” he said grudgingly.
“Didn’t you listen to Dolores Umbridge’s speech at the start-of-
term feast, Potter?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah . . . she said . . . progress will be prohib-
ited or . . . well, it meant that . . . that the Ministry of Magic is trying
to interfere at Hogwarts.”
Professor McGonagall eyed him for a moment, then sniffed,
walked around her desk, and held open the door for him.
“Well, I’m glad you listen to Hermione Granger at any rate,” she said, pointing him out of her office.
Dinner in the Great Hall that night was not a pleasant experience for Harry. The news about his shouting match with
Umbridge seemed to have traveled exceptionally fast even by Hog-
warts standards. He heard whispers all around him as he sat eating
between Ron and Hermione. The funny thing was that none of the
whisperers seemed to mind him overhearing what they were saying
about him — on the contrary, it was as though they were hoping he
would get angry and start shouting again, so that they could hear his
story firsthand.
“He says he saw Cedric Diggory murdered. . . .”
“He reckons he dueled with You-Know-Who. . . .”
“Come off it. . . .”
“Who does he think he’s kidding?”
“Pur-lease . . .”
“What I don’t get,” said Harry in a shaking voice, laying down his
knife and fork (his hands were trembling too much to hold them steady), “is why they all believed the story two months ago when Dumbledore told them. . .
“The thing is, Harry, I’m not sure they did,” said Hermione grimly. “Oh, let’s get out of here.”
She slammed down her own knife and fork; Ron looked sadly at his half-finished apple pie but followed suit. People stared at them all the way out of the Hall.
“What d’you mean, you’re not sure they believed Dumbledore?” Harry asked Hermione when they reached the first-floor landing.
“Look, you don’t understand what it was like after it happened,” Said Hermione quietly. “You and Ellie arrived back in the middle of the lawn
clutching Cedric’s dead body. . . . None of us saw what happened in the maze. . . . We just had Dumbledore’s word for it that You-Know-
Who had come back and killed Cedric and fought you two.”
“Which is the truth!” said Harry loudly.
“I know it is, Harry, so will you please stop biting my head off?”
said Hermione wearily. “It’s just that before the truth could sink in,
everyone went home for the summer, where they spent two months
reading about how you’re a nutcase and Dumbledore’s going senile!”
Rain pounded on the windowpanes as they strode along the empty
corridors back to Gryffindor Tower. Harry felt as though his first day
had lasted a week, but he still had a mountain of homework to do be-
fore bed. A dull pounding pain was developing over his right eye. He
glanced out of a rain-washed window at the dark grounds as they turned
into the Fat Lady’s corridor. There was still no light in Hagrid’s cabin.
“Mimbulus mimbletonia,” said Hermione, before the Fat Lady could ask. The portrait swung open to reveal the hole behind and the Four of them scrambled back through it.
The common room was almost empty; nearly everyone was still down at dinner. Crookshanks uncoiled himself from an armchair and trotted to meet them, purring loudly, and when Harry, Ron, and
Hermione took their three favorite chairs at the fireside he leapt
lightly into Hermione’s lap and curled up there like a furry ginger
cushion. Harry gazed into the flames, feeling drained and exhausted.
I sat beside Harry and felt his warm breath over my forehead and he kissed my forehead and I drifted off to sleep.