the lucky one

thirteen minutes

Dumbledore is gone. Umbridge is reigning bitch. The notices have gone up all over the school overnight, but they do not explain how every single person within the castle seems to know that Dumbledore had overcome two Aurors, the High Inquisitor, the Minister of Magic, and his Junior Assistant to escape. No matter where Miranda goes within the castle in the following days, the sole topic of conversation is Dumbledore's flight, and though some of the details may have gone awry in the retelling (Harry and her had overheard one second-year girl assuring another that Fudge was now lying in St. Mungo's with a pumpkin for a head), it is surprising how accurate the rest of their information is. Everybody seems aware, for instance, that Harry and Marietta are the only students to have witnessed the scene in Dumbledore's office, and as Marietta is now in the hospital wing, Harry is besieged with daily requests to give a firsthand account wherever he went.

    The Inquisitorial Squad roams the halls, all puffed up and power mad, handing out detentions and docking points right and left. Miranda had very nearly rammed Pansy Parkinson's face into her fist the other day when she took ten points from both her and Hermione for "disrespectful rhetoric". Ron had to physically restrain her, carrying her away from the sneering Slytherin over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. With the added stress of O.W.L.S. Miranda hasn't had a moment's peace. And she thinks she might hex Ernie Macmillan if he doesn't stop asking her how many hours a day she's studying.

    To put it simply, life is downright miserable. Her sentiment is shared by many. One late night, Miranda's eyes strained in the candlelight and tired from poring over massive study guides, Harry bursts into the common room, expression blazing.

    "I'm done," he declares, very loudly. He is agitated, pacing back and forth angrily. Whatever he's muttering Miranda can't make out.

    Miranda glances up frothier work, her and Hermione sharing an equal look of concern. "Harry, what's the matter?" asks Miranda. "Did something happen during Occlumency?"

    "I won't be going to Occlumency anymore," he replies, very offhandedly. He is still pacing, forehead deeply furrowed.

    "You've quit too?" says Hermione, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Harry it's really important that you—"

    Harry shakes his head, words clipped, "Didn't quit. Kicked me out."

    "Snape threw you out?" presses Miranda, astonished. She didn't think he was allowed to do that. "Bastard." Harry is still pacing, and his franticness is making her anxious. She scoot over on the sofa, "Come on, sit down. Tell us what happened." Harry sighs, plopping down beside her. Miranda can feel that his entire body is tense, and his jaw is clenched so tightly it looks a though he may pop one of his veins out. She gently strokes the span of his arms, easing the tension out of his shoulders.

    "I think you're better off without them, aren't you?" notes Ron. "I mean— they made you ill most times."

    "Don't get me wrong," Harry says, slightly calming at Miranda's touch. "I'm thrilled to be shot of them—"

    Hermione looks rather disapproving, "Harry you really ought to continue them. Dumbledore, Sirius, Lupin, they all says how important—"

    "He's kicked me out, Hermione," he retorts hotly. "There's nothing I can do about that. I won't grovel. I hated those lessons. And I hate him."

    "Hey," Miranda pacifies, reaching her hand up running her fingers through his hair soothingly. "Relax. Don't jump down on our throats."

    "I know," he shuts his eyes tiredly. "Sorry— I know. It's just— I saw something. The reason he kicked me out. I saw—"