A/N: Hello all! Its Blaze for once! Im so happy to be posting again! we love getting your reviews and writing to you. So keep it all coming! unfortunately our parents did get back from scotland on monday and we're now restricted as to how "merry" we can get. but we still manage to steal the occasional bottle from our father's cellar. This is definately not my favourite chapter, but every chapter is funny, it even makes us laugh even though we've read them all 10 billion times! but hope you enjoy it! Until next week!
B.S Froste
-CHAPTER FOURTEEN-
Stupid Old Men, IN TIGHTS!…Just Kidding…
In February, the snow that had begun the previous month had turned into a blizzard so thick that the first Herbology lesson of term was cancelled. All Christmas break Harry had been waiting for this lesson opportunity to talk to Justin Finch-Fletchley about what had happened at the Dueling Club those few months ago, but now with no lesson, what would he do? Harry fretted about this next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, while Ron and Hermione used their lesson off to play a game of wizards' chess.
"For heaven's sake, Harry," said Hermione who was getting pissed at Harry just sitting there. "Go and find Justin if it's so important to you."
So Harry got up and left through the portrait hole, wondering where Justin might be.
The castle was darker than it usually was in the daytime, because of the thick, swirling grey snow at every window. Shivering, Harry walked past classrooms where lessons were taking place, thinking that Justin might be using his free lesson to catch up on some work, he decided to check the library first.
A group of Hufflepuffs who should have been in Herbology were indeed sitting at the back of the library, but they didn't seem to be working. Between the long lines of high bookshelves, Harry could see their heads were close together and they were having what looked like an absorbing conversation. He couldn't see whether Justin was among them. He was walking towards them when something of what they were saying met his ears and he paused to listen, hidden behind a shelf.
"So anyway," a stout boy was saying, "I told Justin to hide up in our dorm. I mean to say, if Potter's marked him down as his next victim, it's best he keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin's been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let it slip to Potter he was muggle-born. Justin actually told him he was down for Eton. That's not the kind of thing you start a conversation with when Slytherin's heir's on the loose, is it?"
"You definitely think it is Potter then, Ernie?" said a girl with blonde pigtails, anxiously. "I mean he always seems so nice and well, he's the one who made You-Know-Who disappear. He can't be all bad, can he?"
Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs bent close, and Harry edged nearer so that he could catch Ernie's words.
"No one knows how he survived the attack by You-Know-Who. I mean to say, he was only a baby when it happened. He should have been blasted to smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark Wizard could have survived a curse like that." He dropped his voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and said, "That's probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first place. Didn't want another Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers Potter's been hiding?"
Harry couldn't take anymore. Clearing his throat loudly, he stepped out from behind the bookshelves. If he hadn't been feeling so angry, he would have found the sight that greeted him quite funny: everyone of the Hufflepuffs looked like they'd been
petrified by the sight of him, and the colour was draining out of Ernie's face.
"Hello," said Harry. "I'm looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley." He smiled sweetly at them but had a manic glint in his eyes.
The Hufflepuffs' worst fears had been confirmed, they all looked fearfully at Ernie.
"What do you want with him?" said Ernie in a quavering voice.
"I want to kill him and rape his body while it's still warm," said Harry grinning psychopathically. Ernie's mouth fell open and the blonde girl looked like she was about to cry.
"God! What do you think!" spat Harry, rolling his eyes at their stupidity. "I wanted to tell him what really happened with that snake at the Dueling Club."
Ernie bit his white lips and then, taking a deep breath, said, "We were all there. We saw what happened."
"Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?" said Harry.
"All I saw," said Ernie stubbornly, though he was still trembling as he spoke, "was you speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake after Justin."
"I didn't chase it at him!" Harry said, his voice shaking with anger. "It didn't even touch him!"
"It was a very near miss and incase you're getting ideas," he added hastily, "I might tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks and my blood's as pure as anyone's, so-"
"I don't care what sort of blood you've got!" said Harry fiercely, "Why would I want to attack muggle-borns?"
"I've heard you hate those muggles you live with," said Ernie swiftly.
Without realizing what he was doing, a deafening crack sounded around the room as Harry's palm connected with Ernie's face. Ernie drew back whimpering.
"It's not possible to live with the Dursleys and not hate them," said Harry coldly, "I'd like to see you try."
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the library.
Harry blundered up the corridor, barely noticing where he was going, he was in a fury. He stamped up the stairs and turned along another corridor, which was particularly dark; the torches had been extinguished by a strong icy draught, which was blowing through a loose windowpane. He was halfway down the passageway when he tripped headlong over something lying on the floor.
He turned and squinted at what he'd fallen over, and felt as though his stomach had dissolved.
Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid and cold, a look of shock frozen on his face, his eyes were staring blankly at the ceiling and that wasn't all. Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight Harry had ever seen.
It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly white and transparent but black and smoky, floating immobile six inches off the floor. His head was half off and he wore an expression of shock identical to Justin's.
Harry crawled over to Justin's frozen body.
"Shit…" he breathed. He brushed his fingertips over Justin's once smooth and warm lips- they were stiff and cold. Harry got to his feet, his breathing fast and shallow, his heart doing a kind of drum roll against his ribs. He looked wildly up and down the deserted corridor. He could run, and no one would ever know he had been there. But he couldn't leave Justin's stiff beautiful body just lying there. He had to get help. Would anyone believe he hadn't had anything to do with this?
As he stood there, panicking, a door next to him opened.
"HA! I've got you this time Potter!" Filch's voice echoed around the passageway.
"N-no! Mr Filch, you don't understand!" called Harry but Filch had already slouched off. He returned with Professor McGonagall following him. She gasped at what she saw.
"There, I told ya!" said Filch. "It's him who's done it! Just like he did to my cat!"
"That will do, Mr Filch," said Professor McGonagall.
"Professor," said Harry at once, " I swear I didn't-"
"This is out of my hands Potter, please follow me."
They marched in silence around a corner and she stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle.
"Sherbet lemon!" she said. The gargoyle sprang to life and hopped aside as the wall behind it split in two. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase, which was moving smoothly upwards like an escalator. Professor McGonagall motioned for Harry to step on and Harry was shocked when she did not follow. The wall closed behind him with a thud and he rose upwards. Harry could see a gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffon.
He knew where he had been taken. This must be where Dumbledore lived.
He stepped off the staircase at the top and silently walked up to the door. He reached up to knock but before he could the door opened silently. Harry entered and looked around. One thing was certain: of all the teachers' offices Harry had visited so far this year, Dumbledore's was by far the most interesting, it was also the second to have a pile of black wrapped magazines half concealed on a small cane table.
It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and mistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. Harry noticed one in particular which reminded him of Uncle Vernon, it sat in a throne-like velvet armchair and was scratching absentmindedly at its crotch whilst sleeping. Harry looked around again, there was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a tattered leopard skin print G-string- the Sorting G.
Harry hesitated: He cast a wary eye around the sleeping witches and wizards on the walls. Surely it couldn't hurt if he took the underwear down and tried it on again? Just to see…just to make sure it had put him in the right house.
He lifted the G-string from its shelf and quickly removed his own pants and underwear. He slowly pulled on the G-string. It was much too small for him and clung painfully to his genitals just as it had done the last time he'd put it on. He sat down on the floor and waited. The underwear began to squirm and a small voice from between his legs said, "Bee in your bonnet, Harry Potter?"
"Er, yes," Harry muttered. "Er- sorry to bother you- I wanted to ask-"
"You've been wondering whether I put you in the right house." The G-string said smartly. "Yes…you were particularly difficult to place. But I stand by what I said before-" Harry's heart leapt "-you would have done well in Slytherin."
Harry's stomach plummeted. He grabbed the sides of the G and pulled it off. It hung limply in his hand, grubby and faded. Harry chucked it back on the shelf, feeling sick. He pulled his own pants back on and said loudly to the still and silent underwear, "You're wrong." It didn't move. Harry backed away, watching it. Then a strange, gagging noise behind him made him wheel round.
He wasn't alone after all. Leaning against a pole on a small stand was a decrepit-looking woman. She was old and half her hair had fallen out, she was around twenty centimetres tall and had small golden-red wings growing from her back. Harry could tell they were growing right from her skin because she wore no clothing. Her skin was saggy and wrinkled, especially her breasts. In her hand she clutched a small wand. Harry stared at her and she stared miserably back, making her gagging noise again. Harry thought she looked very ill. Her eyes were dull and her skin grey and sweaty, and even as Harry watched, another chunk of her white wispy hair fell from her head.
Harry was just thinking that all he needed was for Dumbledore's pet fairy thing- whatever it was- to die while he was alone in the office with it, when suddenly the woman burst into flames.
Harry yelled in shock and backed into the desk. He looked feverishly around in case there was a glass of water somewhere, but couldn't see one. The woman, meanwhile, had become a fireball; she began to shriek and the next second there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash on the floor.
The office door opened. Dumbledore came in looking very sombre.
"Professor," Harry gasped, "your fairy thing- I couldn't do anything- she just caught fire-"
To Harry's astonishment, Dumbledore smiled. "About time, too," he said. "She's been looking dreadful for days, I've been telling her to get a move on with the burning process."
Was this some kind of sick twisted idea of Dumbledore's…? He chuckled at the stunned look on Harry's face.
"Fawkes is a rare breed of fairy, she's half phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes, thus so do phoenix fairies. Watch her…"
Harry looked down in time to see a small young girl with perfect smooth skin, climb from the ashes. She had flaming red hair, the same golden wings and again was completely naked. It was a pleasant change from the old one.
"It's a shame you had to see her on a Burning Day," said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk, "She's really quite beautiful when she reaches mid-life, wonderful bouncing bosoms. Fascinating creatures phoenix fairies, they have all the attributes of the phoenix bird. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their piss has healing powers and they make highly enjoyable pets."
They both turned and watched the fairy shake, sending ash flying. Her wings began to flutter and she flew from the ash pile back to her platform.
She grabbed onto the pole in the center with her right hand and swung herself around it. Harry watched in shock as she began to rub her body up and down the pole whilst snaking around it with her limbs. If he didn't know better, he could've sworn she was…pole dancing. He swallowed and looked back at Dumbledore.
"Is it arousing you too?" asked Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling.
Harry stared, startled at his headmaster.
Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm only joking, lad, don't worry. Besides I know your eye isn't exactly with the ladies at the moment. But not to worry. So Harry, Professor McGonagall tells me there's been another attack. What do you make of it?"
Dumbledore's face was sombre again; he fixed Harry with his kind but penetrating gaze.
"It wasn't me Professor, I swear, if that's what you're thinking. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Again?"
"Yes," sighed Harry glumly. It seemed Dumbledore didn't believe him.
"I do not think it is you Harry, who attacked these people."
"You don't think it was me, Professor?" Harry repeated hopefully.
"No, Harry, I don't," said Dumbledore thoughtfully, "but I still want to talk to you."
Harry waited nervously while Dumbledore considered him, the tips of his long fingers together.
"I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything you'd like to tell me," he said gently, "anything at all."
Harry didn't know what to say. He thought of the disembodied voice, the one only he could hear. He thought then about what everyone was saying about him, and his growing dread that he was somehow connected with Salazar Slytherin, that he could possibly be the heir himself without knowing… He thought, too, of his detention with Professor Lockhart and the uneasy feeling he had been having whenever he caught sight of his teacher.
"No," said Harry quietly, "there isn't anything, Professor.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Not even anything about your fights with Ron? Or your new found relationship with young Mr Malfoy?"
Harry gaped, as once again Dumbledore astonished him by somehow knowing everything already.
Harry opened his mouth to speak when his headmaster suddenly looked at him in a peculiar way.
"Hello Harry, it's good to see you. Have you seen my phoenix fairy?" Dumbledore said in a cheery voice.
"Ah, Professor?" asked Harry frowning.
"Yes," said Dumbledore smiling.
"I've been here the past half-hour, don't you remember?"
"Have you?" asked Dumbledore sounding flabbergasted. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah…" said Harry slowly, slightly worried as to what was going on.
Dumbledore's brow wrinkled and he stared at the top of his desk, resting his head in his hands. "And why are you here again?" he glanced up at Harry, his eyes looked concerned.
"Actually, I was just, ah, going," Harry walked towards the door nervously.
"Oh, of course you were," said Dumbledore shaking his head, "How silly of me. Well, let me show you out." He rose from his chair.
"Oh, don't bother, sir," said Harry pulling the door open and standing in the entrance, "I'm fine."
He closed the door softly. From inside the office he heard Dumbledore's voice. He pressed his ear to the door.
"…getting on in my years, aren't I, Fawkes? I can't understand this blasted Alzheimer's. Memory blank in front of a student. My word, I hope Harry's not effected by it all. I really…"
Harry stood back from the door. Poor Dumbledore, he really was getting on in years.
The Quidditch training session had run late as usual and Harry was found late one night heading back to Gryffindor tower. At the second floor, Harry turned the corner to find a great flood of water stretched over half the corridor outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. He could hear Myrtle's wails coming from inside the bathroom.
Wondering what was up, Harry pulled his robes up above his ankles and stepped through the great wash of water and entered.
Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible louder and harder than ever before. She seemed to be hiding in her usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom, because the candles had been extinguished in the great wash of water that had left both walls and floor soaking wet.
"What's wrong Myrtle?" asked Harry kindly, as he neared her toilet.
"Who's that?" glugged Myrtle miserably, "Come to throw something else at me?"
"Why would a throw something at you?" said Harry gently.
Myrtle stuck her head out of the toilet, "Oh! Hello Harry," she said shyly.
Harry smiled warmly at her
"Well, here I am minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me…"
"But it can't hurt if someone throws something at you," said Harry reasonably. "I mean, it'd just go right through you, wouldn't it?"
"Well, yes…" said Myrtle fully emerging from the toilet. "But it's the principle Harry. Even if I am dead, I don't appreciate people throwing shit at me!" She smiled back at Harry.
"Oh, I see what you mean," he said, "Well, do you know who threw it? I mean, if you tell me, I can go and give them a piece of my mind. 'Cause no one, not even the dead, deserve to have shit thrown at them."
"You'd do that for me, Harry?" asked Myrtle, her transparent cheeks turning pearly.
"Sure," said Harry. "So, do you know who it was?"
"No," said Myrtle glumly. "I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell through my…ah…well, the point is I was hit."
"Oh," said Harry sympathetically. "Are you ok now?"
Myrtle smiled sheepishly, "I am now that you're here, Harry."
She flew slowly up to him, their faces only millimetres apart. Harry's breathing became shallow.
"M-Myrtle," he said cautiously.
"Yes, Harry?" she said sweetly. She puckered her lips and leant towards him, closing her eyes. Harry couldn't move, it was all so strange. Myrtle was almost on him; their lips were almost touching- then-
"Shit, that's COLD!" screamed Harry as Myrtle fell through him. It was the most horrible feeling, like suddenly being pushed into a bath of ice.
Myrtle squealed and landed on the floor behind him.
"Oh dear," she said glumly, getting to her feet. "Sorry."
Harry grinned at her, amazed that he could actually attract the opposite sex.
"Oh Myrtle," he said kindly, "You should know it would never work between us."
"I know," sighed Myrtle, looking disappointed. "But you can't blame me for trying."
Harry laughed, his eyes lit with mischief. "Well, you're still the cutest ghost I know. But just don't try and touch me again. But I'd love it if you could." His eyes flashed evilly, but he suddenly felt guilty. He shrugged it off. He was allowed to have a little fun by himself, wasn't he?
"Um, well, I've gotta be off Myrtle, it was good to see you again." Harry waded towards the door.
"Oh Harry! So soon?" Myrtle looked desperately around for something to bring him back. "OH! That book they threw at me's over there if you wanna take a look at it."
Harry turned back and smiled, "Yeah ok, if you want me to Myrtle."
He walked over to the sinks with Myrtle close behind.
"HARRY!" It was Ron. Harry and Myrtle spun round. He waded out from a toilet cubicle, doing up his fly.
"Ron?" asked Harry, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing in a girls bathroom?"
"I was going to the toilet for your information, Harry."
Harry frowned and decided to leave it at that.
"Where's the book?" asked Ron looking around the room.
"Over there."
Harry and Ron looked under the sink, where Myrtle was pointing. A small, thin book lay there. It had a peach leather cover with gold trimming and was as wet as everything else in the bathroom.
Harry stepped forward to pick it up, but Ron suddenly flung out an arm to hold him back.
"What?" said Harry.
"Are you mad?" said Ron. "It could be dangerous!"
"Dangerous?" said Harry laughing, "Come off it. How could it be dangerous?"
"You'd be surprised," said Ron, who was looking apprehensively at the book. "Some of the books the Ministry's confiscated- Dad's told me- there was one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who read Sonnets of a Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the rest of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a book that you could never stop reading! And-"
"Alright, I've got the point," said Harry.
The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and soggy.
"Well, we won't find out unless we look at it." Harry grinned evilly at Ron, ducked round him and picked it off the floor.
"God Harry, you're turning into Malfoy. You only did that 'cause I told you not to," said Ron.
"Yeah I know," laughed Harry wickedly. "But nothing happened, I'm not dead or anything am I?"
Ron looked at him miserably. "I was only looking out for you," he said softly.
"Aww," said Harry. "Well thanks mate."
He patted Ron on the cheek, Ron's ears instantly turned pink.
Harry looked down at the book in his hand and saw at once it was a diary, and the faded year on the cover told him it was fifty years old. He opened it eagerly. On the first page he could just make out the name T.M. Riddle in smudged ink. Harry peeled the wet pages apart. They were all completely blank.
"He never wrote in it," he said disappointed. He turned back to the cover of the book and saw the printed name of a newsagent in Vauxhall Road, London.
"He must have been muggle-born," Harry said thoughtfully, "to have bought a diary in Vauxhall Road."
"Well, it's not much use to you," said Ron.
Harry, however, pocketed it.
Ron muttered, "Are you determined to do the opposite of everything I say?"
"Oh Ron, you love it," said Harry hitting Ron teasingly on the arse. He didn't know why, but he was in an incredibly playful mood.
"Harry!" said Ron shocked.
Harry flashed his eyes at him. "See you, Myrtle," he called over his shoulder as they left.
