The night before exams is, without question, a jangling sort of night.
At least it was in the Gryffindor common room.
Fifth- and seventh-years were all on edge, staring down O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. Ginny Weasley, a fifth-year, held her wand and practised under her breath, a copy of the Daily Prophet jittering on her knee. Colin Creevey, also a fifth-year, gazed out at the moon and muttered to himself. Katie Bell, a seventh-year, flipped through her Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6 at a speed that left her eyes glazed.
Harry Potter, by contrast, sat easy beside Ginny. He had exams too in a few days, but nothing like the pressure pressing on Ginny or Katie.
Staring up at the ceiling, his mind slipped back a year—to Dolores Umbridge's reign, to trying to sit O.W.L.s under her thumb, to dozing off during his History of Magic paper and feeling Voldemort slip into his head.
The tower clock struck ten.
"I'd better turn in," Ginny said, stowing her wand. She set the Prophet on the table, leaned in, and kissed him.
"Good luck tomorrow," Harry murmured.
On the other side, Ron Weasley deliberately turned his head away, making a show of not seeing. He had never been thrilled about Harry and Ginny. Still, there was friendship to be minded and nothing he could actually do about it, so Ron had chosen an ostrich's approach—pretend it wasn't there, pretend he didn't know.
Watching Ginny go, Harry skimmed the Prophet she'd left behind.
He was just about to head for the dorm when a curious wash of golden fire burst out of the fireplace.
Talk broke off at once. In the glow, flames drew together into a proud, splendid crimson bird.
"Fawkes," Harry said at once: the phoenix that had belonged to Albus Dumbledore.
At the "white funeral" a little over a month ago, the phoenix had taken wing and left Hogwarts, vanishing from sight.
And yet here it was again. Something like hope stirred in him.
Fawkes swept to Harry's side. A single feather drifted down before him. Then the phoenix was gone.
"Merlin—what was that? What a gorgeous creature!" Seamus Finnigan breathed, pointing.
The common room erupted into excited chatter. Ron kept his head down.
Harry picked up the feather. What reached his ears was not Dumbledore's mild, kind voice—of course not; Dumbledore was gone—but one he knew nearly as well. Headmaster Jon Hart.
So Fawkes answered to Jon as well—
"Dear Harry,
If you're free, I'd like to ask a small favour. In a quarter of an hour, I'll be waiting outside a disused girls' bathroom on the second floor of the castle.
You can bring your friends, if you like.
Yours sincerely, Jon Hart."
A disused girls' bathroom on the second floor. The words sent a cold thread down his spine. Second year rose up at once, all those terrible things he'd rather not remember.
Bring friends?
He glanced at Ron, who still had his head averted, prickly over Ginny and in no mood for company. Hermione was nowhere to be seen; she'd grown more elusive these past few months.
"Forget it. I'll go alone," he muttered.
After a quick word to Seamus about the phoenix, Harry threw on his robes, clambered through the Fat Lady's portrait, and slipped out into the corridors.
By night, the castle took on a faintly sinister air. Every statue in the shadows looked ready to move. The thin wind whispering through the stone made the hairs on the back of the neck stir.
Harry was used to it.
At the landing by the eighth-floor stairs, he spotted Mrs Norris lurking under the steps. Her yellow eyes gleamed as she fixed him, and she let out a warning miaow.
On another night, Harry might have bolted. Not tonight. He was abroad at the Headmaster's order.
Thwarted, Mrs Norris streaked away. She'd gone for Filch. With his knowledge of the castle's passages, he'd be on Harry in minutes.
Sure enough. Harry had barely reached the fourth floor when a voice barked from above, "Stop!"
Argus Filch. Harry heard the quick, clattering steps growing closer, heard the breath coming fast with anger.
"You again, Potter… well, I've got you this time!"
Filch came into view in a blink, Mrs Norris at his heels—scrawny, grey, and glaring. Her bulbous eyes were a perfect match for her master's. Both fixed on Harry.
"Roaming the school in the middle of the night… breaking curfew…" Filch raked him up and down. "Dumbledore isn't Headmaster now. Let's see who gets you off this time."
Harry spread his hands a little. "The Headmaster—Headmaster Hart asked me to meet him."
"Don't lie," Filch said, grinning to show a mouthful of yellow teeth. "A clumsy story. The Headmaster's office is on the eighth floor. Why are you headed down? I'll take you to Professor McGonagall."
"No, Argus!" A steady voice floated up from below. "Sorry to interrupt your work, but Mr Potter isn't lying. I'm the one looking for him."