Harry looked back at the story. A feeling of horror was rising like bile in his throat.

“How come we didn’t recognise Devil’s Snare? We’ve seen it before… we could’ve stopped this from happening.”

“Who expects Devil’s Snare to turn up in a hospital disguised as a pot plant?” said Ron sharply. “It’s not our fault, whoever sent it to the bloke is to blame! They must be a real prat, why didn’t they check what they were buying?”

“Oh, come on, Ron!” said Hermione shakily. “I don’t think anyone could put Devil’s Snare in a pot and not realise it tries to kill whoever touches it? This—this was murder… a clever murder, as well… if the plant was sent anonymously, how’s anyone ever going to find out who did it?”

Harry was not thinking about Devil’s Snare. He was remembering taking the lift down to the ninth level of the Ministry on the day of his hearing and the sallow-faced man who had got in on the Atrium level.

“I met Bode,” he said slowly. “I saw him at the Ministry with your dad.”

Ron’s mouth fell open.

“I’ve heard Dad talk about him at home! He was an Unspeakable—he worked in the Department of Mysteries!”

They looked at each other for a moment, then Hermione pulled the newspaper back towards her, closed it, glared for a moment at the pictures of the ten escaped Death Eaters on the front, then leapt to her feet.

“Where are you going?” said Ron, startled.

“To send a letter,” said Hermione, swinging her bag on to her shoulder. “It… well, I don’t know whether… but it’s worth trying… and I’m the only one who can.”

“I hate it when she does that,” grumbled Ron, as he and Harry got up from the table and made their own, slower way out of the Great Hall. “Would it kill her to tell us what she’s up to for once? It’d take her about ten more seconds—hey, Hagrid!”

Hagrid was standing beside the doors into the Entrance Hall, waiting for a crowd of Ravenclaws to pass. He was still as heavily bruised as he had been on the day he had come back from his mission to the giants and there was a new cut right across the bridge of his nose.

“All righ’, you two?” he said, trying to muster a smile but managing only a kind of pained grimace.

“Are you OK, Hagrid?” asked Harry, following him as he lumbered after the Ravenclaws.

“Fine, fine,” said Hagrid with a feeble assumption of airiness; he waved a hand and narrowly missed concussing a frightened-looking Professor Vector, who was passing. “Jus’ busy, yeh know, usual stuff—lessons ter prepare—couple o’ salamanders got scale rot—an’ I’m on probation,” he mumbled.

“You’re on probation?” said Ron very loudly, so that many of the passing students looked around curiously. “Sorry—I mean—you’re on probation?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” said Hagrid. “S’no more’n I expected, ter tell yeh the truth. Yeh migh’ not’ve picked up on it, bu’ that inspection didn’ go too well, yeh know… anyway,” he sighed deeply. “Bes’ go an’ rub a bit more chilli powder on them salamanders or their tails’ll be hangin’ off ’em next. See yeh, Harry… Ron…”

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THE BEETLE AT BAY	\|	He trudged away, out of the front doors and down the stone steps into the damp grounds. Harry watched him go, wondering how much more bad news he could stand.

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