Harry's Dilemma
Chapter One
Ron Weasley leant
slowly over the Gryffindor Common Room table with his head in his hands and
sighed in utter defeat and frustration as the jeering voices faded away down
the corridor. Presently, he looked up
and met the sympathetic gaze of Neville Longbottom.
"You'd think," began
Neville, tentatively, "That Malfoy would be positively encouraging her
behaviour, rather than slagging you off for not keeping her under control. After all, it is Harry who's her main target
– Malfoy ought to be cheering her on!"
"He's probably doing
just that on the quiet," responded Ron, wearily closing his books and preparing
to go down to supper, "He's probably feeding her all sorts of nasty little
tricks she can play on Harry, and then coming straight down to me to whine
about the standards of behaviour of the Gryffindor fifth-years. I may be her brother, but there are some
tasks that are beyond even the wit of Godric Gryffindor himself, and this, I
might add, is one of them."
"You've got to admit
it though, Ron, she's becoming unbearable; really over the top." Seamus Finnegan pushed his recently vacated
chair under the table with a scraping sound, "Yesterday, Harry not only found
his Quidditch robes were bright green with yellow and blue spots (for the third
time this term) but when challenged with the deed, she turned his hair the same
colours! Not that Harry isn't capable
of reversing the spells, but it takes time. He was late for Quidditch practice again and had five points deducted
from Gryffindor – and it wasn't even his fault!" Ron, who had been about to leave the table, sank down again into
his chair with a heartfelt groan.
"I take it no one told
you about that last one until now." The
voice was Hermione Granger's. Ron
looked up as she moved over to him. The
girl's face was serious, but her eyes twinkled slightly and her voice betrayed
traces of amusement. Neville, Dean and
Seamus finished putting away their books and sauntered out of the Common Room
to go down to supper. Hermione waited,
a slight smile on her lips.
"I have to say, Ron,
she certainly has talent – that hair colouring looked extremely detailed and
very effective – but why does she hate Harry so much? And, more to the point, how are we going to stop her tricks?" Ron shrugged wearily.
"The best I can get
out of her is that she had a silly, childish crush on Harry the Hero when we
first got to be friends. Now she's
grown out of it, she feels thoroughly embarrassed and blames Harry. Illogical, I know, but when was Ginny ever
anything else?"
"Hmm." Hermione frowned, "It's gone on for rather a
long time, hasn't it? All through last
summer, and the term before that. In
fact, I think she started making his life a misery just after Christmas last
year, didn't she?" Ron gestured
helplessly.
"Oh, come on, 'Mione,"
he protested weakly, "All she did then was refuse to speak to him and play the
occasional prank. It was really during
the summer term that she started getting – well …"
"Spiteful?" suggested
Hermione, innocently. Ron shook his
head.
"No, no!" he declared,
loyally, "Just – concentrated. Goodness, if you considered what happened last term was bad, you should
have been staying with us during the holidays! I think Harry even considered writing to his uncle, he was so hacked off
– imagine Ginny driving him to run back to the Dursleys!" Hermione smiled.
"I with I'd been
there." she replied, wistfully, "I regret the fact that my parents decided to
say in Australia for another two weeks even more now you've told me that. I was so disappointed when I had to cry off
visiting you, Ron." He grinned.
"Aw, don't worry,
'Mione." He put out a hand and patted her arm, lowering his voice unnecessarily
as they were by now quite alone, "You'll get plenty of chances to bat your eyelashes
at Harry now we're back at school, I'll make sure of that. After all, we're together again – the Dream
Team! Should be a piece of cake." Hermione blushed and her expression
stiffened.
"I've told you before,
Ron, I really have no feelings for Harry, beyond friendship." Unfortunately, her flushed cheeks and
generally flustered demeanour appeared to give the lie to this simple
statement. Ron's grin widened.
"Sure you don't,
'Mione, sure. After all, you never
blush or get embarrassed when he's around, do you? Come on, we're old friends, you can tell me. I don't understand why you haven't given him
some clue as to how you … Oh, for goodness sake, we've been through this before
and I just can't see why you keep denying it. This is me – Ron! I'm not
going to laugh at you. You'd make a
great couple … Oh, I give up: come on: let's go and get some supper." He rose from the table decisively and strode
from the room, hands in his pockets, whistling. Hermione stared after him, a bleak expression on her face.
"I keep denying it,
Ron, because it just isn't true." She
murmured then, shrugging her shoulders, she followed him out of the Common
Room.
********************************
"Really, I'm not
getting at you Ron, I'm just completely baffled as to why I'm getting so much
grief from her!" Harry was making a
mountain out of his mashed potato only to hack it down again roughly with his
fork, as though his current difficulties could be solved by similar tactics: he
was too preoccupied to eat. Ron looked
at him sorrowfully.
"This is the Quidditch
robes and hair thing yesterday, is it? I'm sorry Harry, why didn't you tell me? I only heard about it third-hand this evening."
"I didn't want to seem
as though I was nagging you. You've
been getting enough aggravation from the likes of Malfoy, the last thing you
need is for me to join in." Harry
frowned, pushing stiffened fingers through his thick, wayward black hair.
"It's not the fact
that she's obviously trying to make fun of me – I like a good joke as well as
the next person – it's the consequences. I had five points deducted from Gryffindor because I was late for
Quidditch practice. Now, I admit I'd
been late twice on the trot, and this was the third time – but she was
responsible for all of them!" Ron could
only gaze mournfully at his friend and rue the day his parents had decided to
have just one more little Weasley.
"Harry," he said
pointedly, "Are you going to eat that mashed potato, or transform it into
something more palatable? It must be
cold by now." Hermione, her face in a
set expression, removed the fork from Harry's hand and set it firmly on his
plate.
"I'll get pudding – my
treat." She said quietly, and muttered
a brief incantation. Instantly the
plates, cold mashed potato and dirty cutlery disappeared from the table, to be
replaced with steaming bowls of fruit crumble with creamy custard. Students at Hogwarts were not strictly
permitted to supplement the meals provided, but many saw creating a more
palatable alternative to that offered by the kitchens as something of a
challenge, and a number of the staff viewed it as good, harmless practice. Hermione was particularly good at
puddings. Ginny's misdemeanours temporarily
forgotten, the boys sniffed eagerly before piling into the hot sticky
confection.
"I gotta hand it to
you, 'Mione," commented Ron indistinctly, his mouth dripping berry juice, "You
really know how to conjure puddings – this is first-rate!" Harry added a muffled agreement before
scraping his bowl so meticulously that Neville accused him of trying to eat the
glazed pattern. With an effort,
Hermione managed to throw aside her abstracted mood to smile broadly and
genuinely at the boys' sincere, if woolly, compliments.
"One day I might just
make it for you the muggle way." She announced, fixing them both with a
piercing gaze. "It's your turn to come
and stay with me over the summer – I'll teach you to cook!" Ron choked over his last mouthful, and Harry
stopped scraping long enough to stare at her in horror.
"Now, steady on, Hermione."
He began, in genuine anguish, "My Aunt Petunia's a muggle, as you know, and she
makes food in the muggle manner. Frankly, if that's "cooking", I want no part of it!" Ron, having recovered from his coughing fit,
made urgent noises of agreement.
"I'll second that – it
sounds terrifying." Hermione frowned mightily, although her eyes still
twinkled.
"Are you telling me
that you two – my very best friends, partners in crime, fellow members of The
Dream Team, and, I might add, frequent beneficiaries of my meticulous studies
with regard to homework," here the two boys squirmed uncomfortably, "You mean
to say that you doubt my ability in muggle cookery?"
"Well," began Ron,
nervously nudging Harry.
"Well," repeated
Harry, without the faintest idea how to reply, "I – er – I can't imagine you
being, er, unsuccessful at, well, anything you wanted to learn, Hermione."
"Except for muggle
cookery?"
"Oh, 'Mione, it's not you
I've got worries about!" exploded Ron, frowning in irritation at Harry's clumsy
attempts to pacify her, "It's the whole idea of producing food without
magic. My dear, sweet, beautiful,
clever, intelligent, capable Hermione – how could you fail at anything you set
out to achieve? It's not the artist
that I doubt, it's the process!" Hermione's cheeks had flushed a bright pink at this fulsome praise. She quickly lowered her eyes and began the
incantation to clear the dishes. Abruptly, a large yellow blancmange materialised in the middle of the
table with an audible thump.
"Yeuch!" announced the
two boys, in unison. Blushing even more
furiously, Hermione rounded on them.
"Oh, for goodness
sake: you two are enough to make any serious witch give up magic completely!"
she exploded, "Now look what you've made me do?" Ron's expression was full of wounded innocence and hurt. He quickly dug out his wand to assist, but
so angry was Hermione's expression that he backed off quickly.
"And do you think I'm
incapable of clearing up after my own mistakes?" she hissed, indignantly. Just at that moment, Fred and George passed
the table on their way out from supper.
"Hey, look: a
blancmange!" yelled Fred, alerting his twin, "I wonder if it's as good as
mother's." Without bothering to reply,
George seized a spoon and started cramming the yellow, gelatinous mass into his
mouth. A split second later, Fred did
likewise. There was a short pause, then
both boys coughed, gagged and sprayed the table. Fred continued spitting, covering chairs, floor and fellow
students alike with yellow slime, while George shouted indignantly.
"Ach! Yellow blancmange is supposed to taste of
banana – not mustard!" By this time, a
crowd had gathered around their table, and Fred and George wasted no time in
playing to their audience. Hermione bit
her lip, observing the imminent approach of any one of a number of teachers,
and got out her wand, intending to put the damage right before any more trouble
could result, but unfortunately Ron beat her to it. Urgency made Ron slide and slither over the working of an
admittedly complex charm and as he tapped the table with his wand, the whole
thing rose several feet in the air and burst into bloom like some enormous
floating garden.
"Can't you even get it
right on the second try?" sneered George, hastily pulling pansies out of his
hair and ears. Hermione flushed crimson
to the roots of her hair and glared furiously at Ron, who was by now patting
Fred on the back as he coughed up daisies, petunias and an interesting variety
of crocuses. An open-mouthed Harry was
physically trying to drag the table back down to earth by one of its legs.
"That is enough! Who is responsible for this outrage?" Professor McGonnagle was not amused in the
least. She tapped the legs of the floating
table twice with her wand, and it floated gently to the floor, while the array
of flowering plants transformed themselves back into dirty crockery and
cutlery. She then fixed each of the
major participants with a piercing gaze while most of the onlookers melted away
like snow.
"Mr. Fred Weasley, Mr.
George Weasley." She rapped out sharply, "I dislike pranks, particularly when
they are as public as this. Report to
me for detention at 7.30 sharp this evening." Fred and George looked anything but repentant, however they bowed their
heads in acceptance.
"Miss Granger, Mr. Ron
Weasley," McGonnagle continued, swinging her glance around to land on them,
"You will report to Madame Pomfrey for your detention, also at 7.30 sharp. Mr. Potter," Harry's jaw dropped and a
derisive giggle was heard from one of the remaining onlookers. Professor McGonnagle wheeled sharply and
homed in without missing a beat, "And Miss Ginny Weasley," There was a
collective gasp at such rough justice. "Will report to Madame Pince in the
library at the same time. Perhaps such
heavy sentences will make you think twice before creating such a spectacle at
mealtimes in future. You are
dismissed."
**************************
Harry was totally and
utterly fed up. Here they were, a mere
half way through the winter term, and already he had lost ten points for Gryffindor,
all of which were due to Ginny's ceaseless harassment, and now he had a
detention for something of which he was totally innocent, a mere
spectator. To add insult to injury, he
would probably be lectured into mind-numbing boredom for several hours tonight
– Madame Pince's detentions could be unbearably dull, and those who dozed off
were invariably given a further punishment the following evening – alongside
the very
person who was
responsible for a good deal of his misery. What on earth had possessed McGonnagle to pair him up with Ginny, of all
people? Or Ron with Hermione even. Although detentions were not supposed to be
pleasant, Harry figured a very real threat to the foundations of Hogwarts
itself would have been lessened had Ron been kept away from Hermione (in his
opinion, those two were the most combustible pair in the school) and he himself
prevented from strangling Ginny. Harry
could not concentrate during Charms, History of Magic was a complete blur, and
Divination – well, he might just as well have been staring into a milk bottle
for all the … Wait a minute. Harry
tensed suddenly and huddled over his crystal in astonishment. Professor Trelawney raised her head at the
sudden movement.
"Potter, do you see
something?" She moved away from Seamus
Finnegan, who was trying to persuade her that he could see a dinosaur in his
crystal, and approached Harry's table. Harry was shaking his head slowly – no, that was ridiculous. Professor Trelawney looked at him
encouragingly.
"What is it Potter?"
but Harry had wrenched his eyes away from the beguiling depths of the stone and
was pretending to search for something among his papers.
"No, it was nothing."
He muttered, "I'm sorry, Professor, I must have been mistaken." Trelawney glanced at him with an unusual
spark in her eyes, and he felt himself redden.
"Divination is not an
exact science, Harry, " she said in her irritating sing-song voice, "What is
seen by those with only a moderate gift for divination is rarely explicit. However, if other more focussed minds can
interpret the images, much useful information can be gathered." Harry nodded.
"Yes, Professor, but I
really didn't see anything I can readily put into words." This was entirely true. Harry would rather have died than admit,
even to himself, the image now etched into his brain from the depths of the
bright scrying stone. He hid the memory
carefully at the back of his mind where, he hoped, it would become buried in
his subconscious, never to emerge into the light of day. He shook his head: this Divination was scary
stuff, he'd never treat it so lightly again!
"Hey, what was the
problem with Trelawney?" asked Ron, lightly as they trooped down to
supper. Harry looked at his friend and
shivered. Ron was the last person to
whom he could confide this little piece of mystery. He managed to shrug carelessly.
"She thought I'd seen
something in the stone."
"Hadn't you? It certainly seemed as though you had from
where I was sitting." Harry shook his
head rather too firmly.
"I saw nothing at all
– why all this interest in my divination skills? I've never shown any great aptitude before, so why would I
change?" Ron held his hands up in
surrender.
"Okay, okay." He said,
in puzzlement, "No hassle. No need to
tear out your hair or pull out our nails – unless you're using them for one of
Snape's brews. Which reminds me –
double potions first thing tomorrow. Eek!" Ron drew the edge of his
hand expressively over his throat with an appropriate sound effect. Harry smiled. Recently, he had been getting quite good at the meticulous mixing
and combining needed for really successful potions. Snape was still as disagreeable and his dungeon still as damp and
cold as ever, but the man was an impressive teacher and really knew his
craft. Harry was grateful for the
lessons, but not nearly as grateful as he was to the present Defence Against
the Dark Arts Professor, a most eminent witch by the name of Rosamund de
Rochard. With such a seductive-sounding
name, Ron had been convinced that the new professor would be young, blond,
long-legged and beautiful and, of most importance, available to her
students. On the morning of their first
class, he had combed his hair four times, changed his clothes twice, and even
borrowed Seamus's aftershave in preparation. Harry chuckled quietly at the recollection: Ron's reaction on being
confronted with Madame Rosamund herself – small, wiry, in her late fifties,
with a leathery, wrinkled face full of laughter lines – was a sight to
behold. Harry, however, had been delighted
with the plain-speaking, unflappable, highly skilled manner of his new teacher,
and had learned more from her in this scant half-term than from any other
member of staff. Which was just as
well, really, as Harry could not afford any complacence with regard to
Voldemort's regular assaults. Oddly
enough, Ginny Weasley was also proving to be a formidable student of DADA; in
fact, Harry vaguely recalled Ron telling him that she might well prove the most
formidable of his whole family – including his parents.