the downpour of rain became increasingly relentless. So much that the strong winds swept the water into the corridors and students became prune to walking near the walls. Meanwhile, Filch the caretaker's duties only increased tenfold, and as a result, so did his anger.

As if in an act of blessing, the morning of the first weekend of October dawned with bright blue sky, still windy yet luckily with no signs of grey clouds.

However, there certainly was one above Margaret's head when she realised, much to her horror, that she needed a guardian's signature on the Hogsmeade form which they had received a week prior, which she had shoved it in her bag without much thought after the events of the previous weekend.

She proceeded to moodily stare at the ceiling for solid ten minutes before dragging herself out of the bed to the adjoined bathroom sluggishly.

"I don't think I'll be able to come," Margaret mumbles to Harry, Hermione and Ron during breakfast later that morning. The three of them paused whatever they were doing and looked at her in sort of confused surprise.

"Why not?" Hermione asks, disconcerted.

"I don't have a parent or a guardian to sign my form," she tells them dishearteningly, sloshing some milk in her bowl and grabbing the box of Cherry-Owls cereal. "I didn't realise until this morning-"

"Oh, wait, no," Harry interrupts, shifting on the bench to shuffle through the pockets of his trousers. Since it was the weekend, they were all in their casual clothing. He took out two folded parchments and unfolded them. "Aha! Here; Siri- Snuffles signed it for you."

"He did what?!"

Margaret hurriedly grabbed one of the papers, and sure enough, her name was scribbled on the top and a scrawly, barely recognisable signature scribbled on the bottom.

"But- But... How...?"

Harry gave her kind of a sad smile and waved the other parchment. "If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be going either."

"No," she says, shaking her head, "I mean how did he get an extra form?"

"Oh," Harry says, his eyebrows crunching. He hadn't thought about that. "I don't know how he got it actually..."

Hermione perks up suddenly. "I reckon McGonagall may have something to do with it."

Margaret looks up in surprise. "McGonagall? Because she's in the... You-Know-What?"

Ron made a funny sound between a snort and a scoff. "Is that what we're calling it now? You-Know-What?"

"Doesn't matter," Hermione replies to him, "but to say - yes, I'd believe so. Either way, it means you can come with now."

"Yeah," Margaret smiles, looking down at Sirius's signature, feeling a pang in her chest. She couldn't remember the last time someone older, someone like a guardian, had willingly been kind to her. There was a stamp of Hogwarts next to it, showing that her slip had been approved by the Headmaster.

After breakfast, students of the third year and above lined up in front of Filch, who matched their names with the long list of names of the ones who had received the permission from their parents or guardians to visit the village.

When the four of them reached the caretaker, he took a great sniff of Harry before nodding to himself and letting them pass.

"Er- Why was Filch sniffing you?" Ron asks as soon as they set down the wide drive towards the towering metal gates.

"I s'pose he was trying to detect the smell of dungbombs," says Harry with a small laugh. "I forgot to tell you..."

Harry went on to recount his story of writing to Sirius and how Filch had said that he had received a tip-off that Harry was ordering dungbombs and had demanded to send the letter.

Margaret frowned as something occurred to her. She wasn't the only one to have caught on, however, Hermione had too.

"He said he was tipped off that you were ordering dungbombs? Did he say who tipped him off?" Hermione queries.

"I dunno," says Harry. "Maybe Malfoy."

"I don't think it was Malfoy," Margaret mutters under her breath but the three of them hear her.

"I don't think so either," Hermione agrees, frowning.

"What do you mean?" Harry questions, slightly surprised to find them both finding the story highly interesting, much more so than he had himself.

"I think someone wanted to intercept whatever communication you are having with anyone outside of Hogwarts," says Margaret. "The biggest reason they would give is that you don't have someone very close out there to contact."

Harry's face became stony at this, and Ron made a subtle cut-throat motion behind him, telling her to drop it. Margaret's eyes widened.

"Don't get me wrong, Harry; I know you do have Padfoot and Moony," she says urgently. "I'm just saying that is the most plausible reason someone would give and they'd want Filch to confiscate your letter so that all blame falls on him..."

Harry blinked a few times as he processed her words and Margaret let out a small breath of relief as he relaxed slightly. He only spoke up, however, when the four of them made it past the gates and turned left from the tall stone pillars, towards the village of Hogsmeade, which could now be seen past the canopy of trees.

"But who'd do that?"

"Who else?" Hermione asks rhetorically. "Umbridge, of course. She could steal the letter afterwards, or demand to see it. It's not like Filch would ever fight for a student's rights."

It did make sense. Argus Filch was nastily-behaved as it was, there was no way he'd ever decline Umbridge. From what Margaret knew, Filch also liked Umbridge's ways of dealing with children, no matter how cruel.

They trekked silently till the outskirts of Hogsmeade as the wind whipped past their ears.

"Where are we going anyway?" Ron asks as they enter the boundaries of the village. "The Three Broomsticks?"

"Oh, no," Hermione says. "No, it's always packed and very noisy-"

"Won't that mean we wouldn't be overheard?" Margaret questions. "At any rate, we're going to Pig's Face."

Harry and Ron both looked at her quizzically as Hermione huffed in irritation.

"Hog's Head," she hisses as Margaret snickers. "We're going Hog's Head. Y'know? That other pub on the side street? Figured it would be... dodgy... and students don't usually go there, so it means we won't be overheard."

They walked down the main street past Zonko's Joke Shop, and past the post office, from which owls flew in and out at regular intervals, and turned up on a side-street at the top of which stood a small inn. A battered wooden sign creaked on a rusty bracket over the door, with a picture of a wild boar's severed head leaking blood onto the wooden table it was placed on.

Hermione was right, the place did seem shady, and Margaret wasn't sure if she wanted to go in, despite knowing who owned it. She also knew that one would always be overheard at Hog's Head. She wasn't the only one concerned; all four of them hesitated outside the door.

"Well, come on," Hermione says nervously and Harry leads the way inside.

It was not like the Three Broomsticks at all, where the large bar gave a feeling of radiant warmth and cleanliness.

The Hog's Head bar was comprised of one small, filthy, and foul-smelling room. The cranny windows were coated with so much grime that very little daylight seeped into the room, which was lit instead with the stubs of candles sitting on rusted stands encrusted with piling melted wax. The floor, at first glance, seemed to be earthy, though as they stepped onto it they realized that there was stone beneath what seemed to be the filth of centuries.

The smell was equally horrendous - a mixture of damp algae, dirt and goats.

"Lovely spot," Ron comments from behind Hermione, who promptly turned to shoot him a glare.

The place was mostly empty, less for the witch that sat in a shadowy corner with a thick, black veil that fell to her toes. They could just see the tip of her nose because it caused the veil to protrude slightly.

"I don't know about this, Hermione," Harry mutters, as they crossed to the bar. He was looking pointedly at the heavily veiled witch. "Has it occurred to you Umbridge might be under that?"

But Margaret knew very well who was under that veil, and she did not consider it important enough to make a fuss about it; whilst Hermione explained that Umbridge was shorter than that 'woman'. The Order was keeping an eye on Hogsmeade for their protection – even someone as cowardly as Mundungus Fletcher was disguised and skulking.

"And anyway," Hermione continues, "I've triple-checked the school rules. We're not out-of-bounds; I specifically asked Professor Flitwick whether students were allowed to come in the Hog's Head, and he said yes, but he advised strongly to bring our own glasses. I've looked up everything I can think of about study and homework groups, and they're definitely allowed. I just don't think it's a good idea if we... parade what we're doing."

"No," Harry says dryly, "especially since it's not exactly a homework group you're planning, is it?"

The barman creeped towards them out of a backroom. He was a grumpy-looking old man with a great deal of long greying hair and beard. He was tall and thin and looked vaguely familiar.

Margaret recognised him instantly. Alas, it was Aberforth Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore's younger and only brother; well, at least the only one she knew to be alive.

One of his most striking features were his eyes – the same cerulean blue as his brother's. Although their colour was the same, Margaret took immediate notice of the lack of that certain twinkle that Headmaster's eyes always had. Instead, she realised sadly, that even at first glance, the old man's blue eyes looked drained of all hope.

"What?" grunts Aberforth.

"Four butterbeers, please," Hermione says. The man reached beneath the counter and pulled up four very dusty, dirty bottles, and slammed them on the bar.

"Eight Sickles," he grunts once more.

"I'll get them," Harry replies quickly, passing over the silver.

Nevertheless, Aberforth was certainly sharp, as his eyes travelled over to Harry, resting for a fraction of a second on his scar. Then he turned away and deposited Harry's money in an ancient wooden till as its drawer slid open automatically to receive it and gave a burp when closed.

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Margaret retreated to the farthest table from the bar and sat down. Margaret's eyes lingered on Aberforth as he cleaned the bar with a dirty washcloth.

"You know what?" Ron pipes up suddenly, looking over at the barman with enthusiasm. "We could order anything we liked in here, I bet that bloke would sell us anything, he wouldn't care. I've always wanted to try firewhisky-"

"You – are – a – Prefect," Hermione presses sharply.

"Oh," says Ron, deflating. "Yeah..."

Margaret glanced down at the dirty bottle of butterbeer and scrunched up her nose, putting it on the table and wiping her hand on her joggers.

"Alcohol is overrated anyway," she tells Ron, who perks up again.

"You mean," he says breathily, "you've... had it?"

Margaret gave a single nod, ignoring Hermione's look of disapproval. But she wasn't encouraging Ron in any way, quite the contrary actually.

"I've had my wild teenage days," she says rather darkly, causing Ron to frown. "Not that I was legal for it..."

"But-"

"So who did you say is supposed to be meeting us?" Harry asked, successfully cutting Ron off.

"Just a couple of people," Hermione answers, checking her watch and then looking anxiously towards the door, "I told them to be here about now and I'm sure they all know where it is- oh look, this might be them now."

The door of the pub had opened. A thick band of dusty sunlight broke for a moment and then vanished, blocked by the incoming rush of a crowd of people.

First came Neville with Dean, then Lavender followed by Parvati and Padma Patil along with Cho and Marietta Edgecomb. Then Luna Lovegood, who looked so dreamy she might as well have walked in by accident, then Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson, as well as Colin and Dennis Creevey.

Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Hannah Abbott walked in after them, then Susan Bones followed closely by Ginny who had invited three Ravenclaw boys called Michael Corner, Anthony Goldstein, and Terry Boot, followed by Zacharias Smith. Lastly, Fred and George with their friend Lee Jordan strutted in, all three of whom were carrying large paper bags filled with Zonko's products.

Margaret could barely conceal her smirk as poor Harry turned white as a bone at the sight of the large crowd.

"A couple of people?" he turned on Hermione, his voice hoarse. "A couple of people?!"

"The idea was very popular," Margaret replies and Hermione nods, turning to Harry reassuringly.

"Don't worry, Harry, you don't have to talk to them yet. I'll speak first," Hermione tells him.

Aberforth had frozen in his act of wiping a dirty glass with an equally dirty dishcloth. He had probably never seen his pub so full before.

"Hi," greets Fred, who had reached the bar first and quickly counted his companions. "Could we have... twenty-eight butterbeers, please?"

Aberforth glared as if he had been interrupted while doing something of great importance, then threw the dishcloth irately on the bar and started passing up butterbeers from under it.

"Cheers," says Fred, handing the bottles behind him. "Cough up, everyone, I haven't got enough gold for these."

The large chattering group rummaged through their pockets for gold and started passing them to Fred, who gave it to the barman and then collected the change to pass it back. Margaret sat back in her chair watching as Fred then took the only free seat between her and George.

"I'd wipe that bottle first," she tells him, eyeing the dirty bottle.

"What? This?" he asks, looking down at it, then shrugging and withdrawing his wand from his pocket. A split second later the bottle was as clean as new. Fred then pointed his wand at George and Lee's bottles that they had held out, and then lastly at Margaret's bottle on the table between them. "There we go. All clean."

Margaret chuckled, finally picking up her bottle and uncapping it. Why hadn't she thought of that?

"Er - hi," says Hermione, her voice higher in pitch out of nerves. In groups of twos and threes, their schoolmates had settled around them, sipping from their bottles of butterbeers. She continues, "Erm... we all know why we're here - we need a teacher..."

She paused and Margaret glanced up at her. Hermione may be the brightest witch of her age, but she was not much of a public speaker.

"A proper teacher," Margaret adds helpfully.

Hermione nods. "One who's had real experience defending themselves against the Dark Arts."

"Why?" a Hufflepuff boy sitting in near the bar speaks up.

"Why?" Ron repeats incredulously. "Because You-Know-Who's back, you tosspot."

"So he says," the boy counters, shooting a fleeting look at Harry.

"So Dumbledore says," Ron replies.

"So Dumbledore says because he says," the boy points out.

"If Potter could tell us more about the night Cedric Diggory died," suggests Michael Corner, the Ravenclaw boy Ginny was dating. The said girl shot a critical look at Michael but he did not notice, his eyes narrowed on Harry, gauging his reaction.

Harry looked up to finally meet Cho Chang's eyes, sat behind Lee with her friend Marietta, except she had found her shoes to be suddenly very interesting. Before he could say something to Michael, Margaret jumped to her feet, slamming her butterbeer back down on the table.

"If you're here for tittle-tattle of tales, you may as well clear out now," she tells them all in a dangerous voice. No one seemed to move, sort of freezing in shock at her tone, so Margaret continues, "So here's the idea: We study Defense Against the Dark Arts with Harry's help. And I mean really study it. Not swotting up those textbook pages."

"We thought," Hermione speaks up once more, "that we should learn to defend ourselves properly - not just by learning theory but by learning real spells."

Margaret had a feeling, however, that most of them were here to listen to Harry's story firsthand, about what had happened in the last task of Triwizard Tournament last year, and to be the first ones to know it and pass it on. She knew very well the excitement that came to people with good gossip, she herself has been in the centre of attention several times, but as always, it only irritated her further.

"The whole point is to learn how to defend ourselves against..." Margaret grits out, stuffing her hands in her pockets so they would not see how tightly she had fisted them in fear of losing control again, "...well, I know a lot of people aren't particularly fond of his name - but the point is to learn to defend ourselves against Lord Voldemort."

Margaret stared blankly at the predictable reaction. Lavender Brown had uttered a little scream, scaring the goat out of the back door; Marietta Edgecomb spilt her butterbeer down on her sky blue sweater, Neville let out an odd high-pitched cough, Parvati gave a shudder, Terry Boot choked on his own gasp and Michael looked at Ginny disbelievingly who was looking at Margaret almost proudly. Most of them, however, looked at Harry most eagerly.

Mundungus Fletcher under the disguise of the witch with a long veil twitched in his seat.

"Where's the proof You-Know-Who's back?" the Hufflepuff boy from earlier shouts angrily.

"Who are you?" Ron shoots back rudely.

"Zacharias Smith," says the boy, "and I think we've got the right to know why Harry thinks You-Know-Who's back."

"Look," Hermione interrupts swiftly, although she should've seen this coming, "that's really not what this meeting is about-"

"It's okay, Hermione," says Harry, getting to his feet. He was looking Zacharias straight in the face. "What makes me say that You-Know-Who's back? Because I saw him. Dumbledore told the whole school what happened last year. If you didn't believe him, you don't believe me."

"All Dumbledore told us last year was that Cedric Diggory got killed and you bright his body back to Hogwarts," Zacharias says dismissively. "He didn't give us the details, he didn't tell us how exactly Diggory got killed-"

Margaret's eyes shifted to Cho, who was so tensed in her seat that Margaret was sure she was holding her breath. Her eyes were downcast as a single tear trailed down her cheek and she broke her frozen stance to quickly catch it with her glove-clad fingertips before anyone could see.

"...If you've come to hear how exactly Voldemort murders someone, then I can't help you," Harry intervenes bitterly. Then, turning to Hermione he speaks hurriedly in a low tone, "C'mon Hermione, let's go, they're just here thinking I'm some sort of freak."

Hermione grabbed a hold of his sleeve as Harry turned. "Wait-"

"Is it true that you can produce a Patronus Charm?" Luna Lovegood's dreamy voice floats calmly though the dingy pub, but it was enough for Harry to stop.

"Yes," Hermione answers, glancing sideways at Harry, looking half-worried he'd leave and half-proud of the fact she was stating, "I've seen it."

"Blimey, Harry," Dean Thomas perks up, sounding deeply impressed. "Didn't know you could do that."