Perhaps.
Dumbledore had helped them to recreate the blood wards. But…
Harry shook it off, forcing his mind to go to more recent events – the final week of the break, which his guardian had permitted him to spend at The Burrow. That was where things had gotten colourful.
So a house elf shows up in your bedroom and tells me not to come back here. We can't get through to platform 9, we almost get killed by a tree," he recounted. "Not to mention that run in with Malfoy and his stupid father at Flourish and Blotts! It's bad. Cleary somebody doesn't want me here this year."
Ron shrugged. "Maybe you should tell him."
Before Harry could disagree, the two of them were stopped in their tracks by another figure, who had appeared at the top of the stairwell.
"Well, take a good look lads. This night might well be the last you spend in this castle," Filch told them, a nasty smirk on his face. "Oh dear, we are in trouble. Follow me."
"Something tells me he already knows," Harry muttered, as the two of them made after the caretaker.
Sure enough, Filch led them to the dungeons where, several minutes later, the two Gryffindors found themselves standing in front of the Slytherin Head of House.
"You were seen by no less than seven muggles," Snape told them, brandishing a newspaper. "Do you have any idea how serious this is? You have risked the exposure of our world! Not to mention the damage you have inflicted on a whomping willow that's been on these grounds since before you were born."
Ron gulped. "Honestly Professor Snape, I think it did more damage to us."
"Silence!" Snape warned him, moving around the desk to stand in front of them.
Ron backed off slightly, all bravery forgotten.
"I assure you that were you in Slytherin house–" the potions master began.