Ron and Hermione both started ripping open envelopes.
“This one’s from a bloke who thinks you’re off your rocker,” said Ron, glancing down his letter. “Ah well…”
“This woman recommends you try a good course of Shock Spells at St. Mungo’s,” said Hermione, looking disappointed and crumpling up a second.
“This one looks OK, though,” said Harry slowly, scanning a long letter from a witch in Paisley. “Hey, she says she believes me!”
“This one’s in two minds,” said Fred, who had joined in the letter-opening with enthusiasm. “Says you don’t come across as a mad person, but he really doesn’t want to believe You-Know-Who’s back so he doesn’t know what to think now. Blimey, what a waste of parchment.”
“Here’s another one you’ve convinced, Harry!” said Hermione excitedly. “Having read your side of the story, I am forced to the conclusion that the Daily Prophet has treated you very unfairly… little though I want to think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned, I am forced to accept that you are telling the truth… Oh, this is wonderful!”
“Another one who thinks you’re barking,” said Ron, throwing a crumpled letter over his shoulder “…but this one says you’ve got her converted and she now thinks you’re a real hero—she’s put in a photograph, too—wow!”
“What is going on here?” said a falsely sweet, girlish voice.
Harry looked up with his hands full of envelopes. Professor Umbridge was standing behind Fred and Luna, her bulging toad’s eyes scanning the mess of owls and letters on the table in front of Harry. Behind her he saw many of the students watching them avidly.
“Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?” she asked slowly.
“Is that a crime now?” said Fred loudly. “Getting mail?”
“Be careful, Mr. Weasley, or I shall have to put you in detention,” said Umbridge. “Well, Mr. Potter?”
Harry hesitated, but he did not see how he could keep what he had done quiet; it was surely only a matter of time before a copy of The Quibbler came to Umbridge’s attention.
“People have written to me because I gave an interview,” said Harry. “About what happened to me last June.”
For some reason he glanced up at the staff table as he said this. Harry had the strangest feeling that Dumbledore had been watching him a second before, but when he looked towards the Headmaster he seemed to be absorbed in conversation with Professor Flitwick.
“An interview?” repeated Umbridge, her voice thinner and higher than ever. “What do you mean?”
“I mean a reporter asked me questions and I answered them,” said Harry. “Here—”
And he threw the copy of The Quibbler to her. She caught it and stared down at the cover. Her pale, doughy face turned an ugly, patchy violet.
“When did you do this?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.