Chapter Forty-Six – Werewolves and Rainstorms

Harry was dismayed upon entering the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom the next day and seeing not Professor Lupin, but Snape, seated behind the desk. The suspicion he had felt toward the black potion was now justified, and Harry was intensely concerned for the missing professor's well-being.

"Where's Professor Lupin?" he demanded before class had even begun.

"Sit down, Potter," Snape said curtly. As usual, he was staring at the air slightly above Harry's head, rather than be forced to look at him directly.

"Where is Professor Lupin?" Harry said again, conscious that the other Slytherin students were watching him, and that Millie was tugging at his sleeve, trying to get him to sit down.

Snape's lip curled, and Harry was certain his next word was going to be "detention." But instead, the Potions Master deemed it prudent to speak to the entire class regarding the disappearance of their usual instructor.

"Professor Lupin has had to take a leave-of-absence for his health. Until he returns, I will be filling-in for him. Now take – your – seat."

Snape may have shared the information to indulge them all, but the final command was for Harry alone, as the only student who remained standing.

Harry slumped into a chair next to Millie. Two seats in front of him, he could hear Draco whispering to Goyle, "For his health, he says... Merlin knows the poor bloke needs it. Have you seen the state of his robes?"

Harry hated him, but Snape was alert to his movements, so immediate retaliation was impossible. Everyone knew that Draco was a favorite of the professor, who already favored his own house above the others. Harry was the only Slytherin student who seemed to provoke his contempt.

Harry decided it would be best for his classmates if he kept as quiet and inconspicuous as possible. They had a better chance of earning points that way, and he wasn't as likely to get detention. The class progressed smoothly thanks to Harry's prudence, thought Snape made a few changes to their curriculum.

"We'll be studying werewolves today," Snape said, "Turn to page three-hundred and ninety-four."

A few of the students exchanged curious glances. They weren't due to start nocturnal beasts for weeks. But Slytherins knew better than to question their Head-of-House, and accordingly, they turned to the correct page in their textbooks.

Harry stared down at an illustration of a man in the middle of transforming into some kind of hairy monster. The artist had outdone themselves, and the expression on the man's face was one of perfect agony. Harry could certainly see why the chapter was titled, "The Werewolf's Curse."

He turned in his chair as Professor Snape swept his wand over the chalkboard, writing out some additional information for the class. He wanted to see what Blaise, who sat just behind him, thought of the illustration, but the expression on his friend's face was stony and rigid. Harry realized with a start that he hadn't opened his textbook.

"Can anyone tell me the difference between an animagus and a werewolf?" Snape said slowly, a signal for Harry to turn back around.

Harry felt like an idiot for forgetting his best friend's worst fear. He had seen the boggart transform into a werewolf when confronting Blaise, but Harry had been reeling from the shock of seeing it take the form of Sirius Black only seconds before that. He had been too preoccupied to ask Blaise anything after the fact. Now he worried that Blaise would be too terrified to sit through the rest of class, but to his surprise, Snape called out his name.

"Yes, Mr. Zabini?"

"An animagus is a person who can transform at will," Blaise stated calmly, "A werewolf has no choice."

"Correct Mr. Zabini. And unlike animagi, who have the potential to transform into any kind of animal, a werewolf, as one can surmise from the name, denotes only one kind of beast."

Snape droned on about werewolves for some minutes, occasionally asking a question about spotting the difference between a natural wolf and a werewolf, the stages of their transformation, connection to the lunar cycle, and so on... And each time a question was asked, it seemed Blaise's hand was the first in the air, ready to answer, and always correct.

If it had been Harry, there was no doubt that Professor Snape would have deducted points for being a "know-it-all." But the tarnish of Blaise's friendship with Harry did not impact Snape's desire to commend a member of his house, and Slytherin earned quite a few points due to Blaise's expertise as the class began to draw to a close.

Snape had one final question for the class before their dismissal, "Can anyone tell me how to kill a werewolf? Mr. Zabini, you've proven yourself quite knowledgeable in all other respects. Perhaps you would care to enlighten the class?"

But here, Blaise hesitated. Harry chanced a glance backward at him, seeing a slight frown on Blaise's face, almost as if he wasn't sure how to answer.

"Muggles believed you could kill a werewolf with silver..." Blaise said slowly, "But that's rubbish. I mean, muggles also believed you could ward of witches with iron."

There was some snickering among the Slytherin students, among whom only Blaise had volunteered to take Muggle Studies. It was obvious they had no idea about this bit of muggle-based trivia. But Blaise wasn't laughing, he appeared to be thinking about something.

"Correct again, Mr. Zabini. A silver bullet has no more impact on a werewolf than it does you or I."

"What's a bullet?" Harry heard Daphne Greengrass whisper to Hertha Runcorn.

The question went unnoticed by Professor Snape, who after pressing Blaise for an answer to his former question, and still receiving no response, instead turned to their assignment.

"I will want an essay from all of you by the end of the week. At least three pages of parchment, detailing how to identify a werewolf, and how one can be killed. Class dismissed."

Under normal circumstances, the students might have complained about an essay assigned by a substitute teacher. But this was only to be expected, and the Slytherin students didn't anticipate that Professor Snape would grade them too harshly. All the same, Harry thought it would be best to divide up their homework, as usual.

"Write the essay for me?" Harry asked Blaise. He felt another tug at this sleeve, and saw Millie looking at him intently. Understanding her meaning, he added, "Millie's too?"

Blaise didn't answer him right away. He was staring at the floor as he marched down the hall, the frown still on his face. Harry wondered if he was being insensitive. Blaise was afraid of werewolves, that was indisputable. But Harry thought, since he seemed to know so much about them, that his phobia may not be as intense has he had assumed.

"Blaise?" Harry asked again when it was clear his friend didn't appear to hear him.

"What?" Blaise said, seeming to snap out of a reverie.

"The essay?" Harry said again.

Blaise stared at him, then replied, "Oh, right. Sure, I can write them. You just have to do my Herbology assignment in exchange."

Whatever had been bothering Blaise seemed to have resolved itself by the end of the week. He was in fighting spirit when Saturday arrived, and with it, the first Quidditch match of the year. He proudly demonstrated the silver and green banner he and Millie had been working on, made from Draco's sheets, as was tradition. Harry appreciated the support, as he was going to need all the help he could get.

He had been disappointed that morning when he mounted the stairs to the Great Hall for breakfast,and noted the sheets of rain lashing at the tall windows. A thunderstorm raged at full-force, and Harry's first official match did not promise to be an easy one.

"Wood seems confident," Marcus Flint commented as he sat down with the rest of his team for a group breakfast, "I hate it when he's like that. Eat up, Harry. You could use some more meat on your bones."

Harry's nerves killed his appetite. Each raindrop helped to erode away whatever confidence he felt in his flying skills. Private drills with his six teammates were one thing, but an official match in front of the entire school with the inter-house cup on the line? That was something else, entirely.

He stammered out an excuse about already eating with his friends. Flint looked as if he would press the issue, until Montague, who was helping himself to another stack of waffles, spoke up.

"He'll be fine, Marcus. Potter's never failed to catch the snitch in practices, has he?"

Harry almost thanked him for this vote of confidence, until Montague glanced out one of the windows just in time to see a flash of lightning illuminate the dark gray clouds outside.

"Never practiced in anything as bad as this, though," he added, "Potter may get blown clear off his broom at this rate. Maybe we ought to weigh his pockets down with some stones?"

Flint scrutinized Harry, taking in his small stature and obviously considering Montague's suggestion.

"I'll be fine!" Harry protested, grabbing a plate full of sausage and tucking in before Flint and the others could start loading him up with rocks.

Flint laughed at Harry's sudden enthusiasm for food, and for good measure added some scrambled eggs to his plate before taking another glance out the window.

"Well, that rain isn't stopping any time soon," said Flint. He turned back toward Harry and asked, "You need those glasses to see?"

"No, I just like having them on my face at all times," Harry said, his mouth once again acting faster than his brain.

Flint grinned at him, "Your friend – Zabini – I hear he's a good one for charms, yeah?"

Harry agreed, privately wondering where this conversation was going. He got his answer almost instantly. Flint called to where Blaise and Millie were seated, not too far from the Quidditch team. Blaise came over, his face now painted green and silver to match their banner.

"What do you think?" he asked the team.

"I think the rain will wash that paint away," said Harry.

Blaise offered him a smug smile, drew his wand, and pointed it directly at his face.

"We'll see about that. Impervious."

Harry saw no noticeable change, but Blaise smiled broadly and said, "There. You see? Now it won't smudge."

"Works for me," said Flint, "Think you can do the same to Potter's glasses?"

It wasn't a bad idea, though if Flint had made the request of anyone other than Blaise, Harry would have protested. He couldn't risk having his glasses broken by an erroneous spell right before the match. But Blaise appeared unharmed, and Harry trusted his skills, for the most part. Still being cautious, Harry removed his glasses and allowed Blaise to perform the charm while they rested on the table in front of him.

Blaise's charm proved to be perfect. They were all soaked to the bone waking down to the pitch, and yet Harry's glasses remained spectacularly clear and dry.

There were plenty of other students heading down early to get the best seats, preferably under some shelter. Among them, Harry spotted Draco Malfoy, huddled under an umbrella held by one of his goons.

"Good luck today, Potter!" He called before mounting the stairs into the stands, "No hard feelings, eh? Rather see you get struck by lightning than me!"

He knew Draco was only bitter about Harry playing his position in this match, and he tried not to let the taunt get to him. He had bigger problems at hand. It was time to begin.

The two team captains met in the middle of the field, sealing the start of the game with a handshake. Harry stood nervously by Warrington's side, trying to listen to the short speech Madame Hooch gave the player, though it was difficult to hear over the rain, the distant roar of the spectators, and the tumultuous beating of his won heart. He was so distracted, he nearly missed the signal to mount his broom with the others, and was the last to push off the ground after the snitch was released.

Harry took to the air and tried to clear his mind by sticking to the strategy he'd devised with Flint for this game. He flew low, trying to use the stands and the towers to block as much wind from pushing him about as possible. Meanwhile, he gazed upward, searching the skies for the tiny golden snitch. Given the extreme conditions, Harry was pleased at how well he was flying. The speed of his broom and Blaise's spell had certainly assisted him with his current strategy. Although he was looking upward most of the time, the falling drops of rain didn't strike his glasses at all. He could almost imagine them curving away from the surface, falling harmlessly into his hair before they could make contact with the glass.

Above him, the Slytherin team was using the advantage of their size and superior brooms to rack up points against the Gryffindors. But the red and gold team was holding their own. Oliver Wood was right to feel confident in his team's abilities this year. Slytherin was in the lead, but only by a narrow margin.

Harry wanted to end this quickly. He continued to scan the skies, searching for the snitch. All at once, he saw it. It was flitting around one of the towers, it's golden surface shimmering against the dark gray clouds overhead as it seemed to dodge around the falling raindrops.

Please be dry, Harry prayed as he directed his broom upward, as if the snitch were truly fast enough to avoid the rainwater. But a dry snitch would be easier to catch, and he needed a bit of luck in this, his first match on the team.

Luck did appear to be on his side. He spied the snitch before the Gryffindor seeker, another third-year, like Harry, who had joined the rival team at the start of the term. Harry had a head-start, and his Nimbus 2000 was handling spectacularly in the rain. His hand had already left his broom, and he was straining forward, imagining the snitch flying directly into his palm...

He was so focused on the snitch, he didn't realize that the background roar of the stadium had fallen away. Then a greater hush fell over everything. Even the thunder and lightning had stopped, and all at once a horrible, freezing sensation overcame him. Harry, only a few yards away from the snitch, glanced at the faraway ground, and froze in midair.

Terror. Pure terror swept through him and left him numb. About a hundred dementors flooded the pitch directly beneath him. They seemed to be staring at Harry, the black, impenetrable faces of their hoods pointed upward. Distantly, Harry heard a wail he thought came from the spectators, until he recognized the sound. It was the woman from the train. She was screaming again, and as soon as he recognized her voice, it seemed to swell louder in his ears, forming words he could understand...

Not Harry, please not Harry! Take me instead...

There was another voice, high and cold, speaking to the woman, telling her to step aside, that she need not die for him...

Harry's vision swam before him, and the sky was growing darker. So dark, it was impossible to see. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was his own hand, slipping off his broomstick as he tilted forward...

It was the second time in Harry's life that he awoke in the hospital wing, believing he was dead. The first had been when he blacked out in the forbidden corridor, right after facing Quirrell and...

Harry covered his face with his arm, attempting to hold back the tears that threatened to roll down his face. He remembered the voice. He knew who had been talking to the woman... his mother... Now, for the second time, he was waking in the hospital wing after hearing that high, horrible voice...

"Harry... are you alright?"

He turned his head. He wasn't alone. It was Blaise who spoke, and Millie was just beside him, sitting next to Harry's beside and looking deeply concerned. To Harry's surprise, the rest of his team were there, all looking at him with curiosity, if not sympathy.

"Alright there, Potter?" asked Warrington, and not unkindly, Harry thought.

"Yeah..." Harry said slowly, once he was confident that his voice wouldn't crack. Seeing his team reminded him. He'd been in the middle of a game, hadn't he?

"The match?" he asked, "Did we...?"

"Don't worry about it, Potter," said Flint brusquely, "I've argued it out with Madame Hooch, and Snape had a few words with McGonagall and Dumbledore. We'll have a rematch after Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff play."

"A rematch," Harry repeated. He felt horrible, losing the game for them on his first attempt, but at least his failure wasn't going to permanently hold them back. He settled back against his pillows and said, "I see..."

Flint nodded and said, "Whatever's going on with you and those dementors, get it sorted out. I'm not giving you a third chance if you faint again."

His words of comfort thus bestowed, Flint departed the hospital wing without further condolences. Montague and Bletchley followed him, but Warrington and the two beaters remained a few minutes more, watching Flint retreat with cringing faces.

"Don't let him get to you, Harry," said Derrick, "He's always like that."

Bole nodded his head in agreement, "Yeah, remember that year I broke my leg after taking a hit from the bludger? Flint told me I didn't need my legs to fly. Good thing Madame Pomfrey is so good at mending broken bones, otherwise I might have been using my broomstick as a splint if it got me airborne!"

"All he cares about is crushing Wood's face into the dirt," Warrington agreed with a heavy sigh, "Anyway, the others are right, Harry. Everyone knows you'd have caught the snitch if it hadn't been for the dementors. No one blames you."

"Thanks..." Harry said. He appreciated their kindness, but at the same time it only humiliated him more. He wished they would tease him or call him names, like they sometimes did in practice. Now they were treating him with pity, like some fragile, broken thing. He was less The Boy Who Lived, and more The Boy Who Passed Out in Front of the Whole School.

"It's true, Harry," Blaise said, reading the emotions on his face, "It wasn't your fault. Those dementors weren't supposed to be on school grounds, let alone on the field like that. Dumbledore was furious, I've never seen anything like it! He came out onto the field and shot some sort of silvery light at the dementors, like the one Lupin used on the train..."

"A patronus charm," Harry said, thinking back to his conversation with Professor Lupin, "And that killed them?"

He never wanted something to be dead as badly as he wanted to hear that the dementors were gone.

To his disappointment, Blaise said, "No, just sort of shooed them away. But Dumbledore was absolutely livid. I wouldn't be surprised if he contacted Fudge and had them all shipped out tomorrow."

"Good," said Harry, closing his eyes against the memory of those dozens of horrible, black faces, as if shutting his eyes could block the images from his mind. "I hate those things."

A thought suddenly occurred to him, and his eyes snapped back open.

"And my broom?" he asked, "I remember I fell off and... Where is my broom?"

Warrington laughed a little at his expense, but he made up for it when he placed Harry's Nimbus at the foot of his bed.

"Lucky for you that I thought to grab this while Bole stopped you from slamming into the ground," he said, "I swear, your broom looked like it was headed straight for the Whomping Willow."

Harry had no idea what he was talking about, but he knew he should be grateful when Bole added, "Yeah, if not for Warrington here, we might have brought you a pile of toothpicks instead of a broom."

Derrick chose that moment to speak up, "Your glasses fell off, but they didn't break either. That spell you used must have been top-notch, Zabini."

Blaise cringed and ran one of his fingers down his cheek. His face was still painted silver and green, but when he pulled his finger away, it was clean.

"Yeah, about that... How long do you think Madame Pomfrey will keep you here, Harry? Because I might be joining you if she can't help me get this stuff off."