Chapter 17—That Magical Word
Ryan slipped into Defence a second after the bell rang, skidding to a halt in front of her desk and tripping over herself trying to get seated. She noticed gratefully that her bag was sitting there, neatly packed and ready for her. The neatness denoted Fi's handiwork; Ben or Finn would have doubtless just shoved everything in haphazardly.
"Ah, young Miss Lapitske! Tardiness is not an attractive habit! I should know," added Professor Lockhart, winking roguishly. Ryan felt herself blushing dully.
"S—Sorry, Professor," she stuttered, somewhat out of breath, "but—but I had to run all the back from the hospital wing—maybe Professor Flitwick told you?"
"Hospital wing? Feeling poorly? Maybe I can help! I've performed countless little spells and charms, saved many peoples' lives, you know…"
"No, no, it wasn't me," she said hastily, eyeing the wand he was brandishing with a bit of trepidation, trying to recall if she had ever seen him use it. She realized that she hadn't. "It was a classmate. I was escorting her there. I'm sorry I'm late…" He sighed and put his wand away, looking highly disappointed.
"Well, you're really a bit young for heroics, however good you think your little deeds make you look. But never let it be said that Gilderoy Lockhart is not an understanding gentleman! Only five points from Ravenclaw." She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, flabbergasted. He thought she took Amena to the hospital wing for…appearances? Brownie points? She could eventually think of nothing to say that would help the situation and pretended to be absorbed in finding a quill pen.
Ben snorted with laughter behind her. Suspicious, she turned to look at him, and then realized that he wasn't laughing at her; he was laughing at the professor. She smiled a bit at him, and received a smile in return.
Just like that, she knew, Ben was back to his old self—however much of an improvement that might have been. She turned back around, lest Professor Lockhart catch her attention wandering, and watched as poor Fi had to play-act as a young girl who he cured of speaking only in a series of high-pitched whistling noises, presumably the work of some obscure spell cast upon her at birth.
"…but I knew exactly what it was—recognized it instantly, you know, if you'll read the seventh chapter, you'll see the symptoms. Simple, really, for a wizard of my calibre to wave my wand—perform the counter-charm—" He waved his wand in a haphazard way, and the next second, every desk in the front row vanished, their occupants smacking against the floor an instant later.
Over cries of surprise and pain (Elise Duffy's copy of Holiday with Hags landed square on her chest, knocking the wind right out of her), Professor Lockhart tried to retain order and conjure the desks again. He succeeded in neither. Fi tried to lean over and help Elise; Ryan braced herself for the inevitable slew of insults, but was pleasantly surprised: even Elise, it seemed, knew when to accept help.
"Thank you," she said stiffly, as if the words were a foreign language she hadn't quite gotten the grasp of. Fi nodded uneasily.
"You're welcome…are you all right? I'm sure Professor Lockhart could fix—"
"No, he can't!" burst Elise. "What's the point of this stupid class? I'm not learning how to defend myself against anything, and I doubt the monster in the Chamber is a whistling three-year-old!"
At the mention of the Chamber, there was a lull in the room. Elise looked around, wide-eyed, then turned to the professor.
"Sir? What's in there, do you think? You're the one who's the expert on all these monsters…what's the beast of Slytherin?" Everyone was listening avidly now, as they always did when the subject of Slytherin's monster arose. He looked about, quite nonplussed at the sudden show of interest, at the intensity of everyone's focus being directed at him, not to adore and admire him, but waiting for him to impart some knowledge.
"Er, well, clearly it's…it's a…it doesn't exist," he said finally, firmly. "It's all a superstition...there's absolutely nothing to be worried about, children; clearly the culprit is human, and if I knew who he or she was…" he struck a brave pose, "Well, let's just say I'd have plenty of fodder for another book." Another wink. The class looked far from at ease.
"If it's a person, why haven't we caught them yet? Surely Dumbledore—" began Ben, but everyone started speaking on top of him, soon disintegrating into bickering and arguments.
"Yeah, can't Dumbledore catch them?"
"What if it is a monster?"
"What's the spell used to petrify someone?"
"Why can't they be un-petrified?"
"Stupid, yes they can, didn't you hear Madame Pomfrey—"
"Oi, watch who you call stupid—"
"Watching you right now, aren't I?"
"But Dumbledore—"
"The monster—"
"Slytherin—"
"SILENCE!" Everyone jumped at Lockhart's roar, Ryan included. Watching the fighting like a spectator at a match, she had forgotten he was even there. "Children! Enough worrying yourselves about something that will never be a danger!"
"But Mrs. Norris—"
"Kindly do not interrupt me, Mr. Coley! Listen to me: the danger is not real. The Chamber is just a fairy tale, of sorts, and nothing for you to worry your little heads over. Do I make myself clear? Besides, if there is any danger, which is unlikely, you are quite safe. With myself and Dumbledore at the helm, the creature will never dare to show its face again."
"Again?" said Elise icily, "then you admit it's shown itself once already?" The bell rang, and Professor Lockhart ushered them all out before slamming the classroom doors loudly behind them. Ryan jogged ahead a bit and caught up with Elise.
"Elise…are you worried? About the monster, I mean?" Elise gave her a withering glare, but it didn't contain the usual amount of spite.
"Don't be stupid, Lapitske; I'm not a Muggleborn."
"Neither was the cat," Ryan pointed out. "I was just wondering, is all. I think we're all worried, there's no shame in it."
"I am safe," snapped Elise. "I have no need to worry, now get out of my way." Ryan nodded to herself as Elise dashed away, a bit of panic in her eyes. Fi popped up next to her.
"Are we getting through to the ice princess?" she quipped, shifting her bag to the other shoulder.
"I think we are," said Ryan quietly. "Oh, by the way, thanks for getting my bag after Charms. Load off my mind." Fi smiled.
"Wasn't me."
"What?"
"I didn't get your bag; Ben did. Practically tore it out of my hands when I tried. I think that's his way of apologizing, silly boy. Ryan smiled, a genuine, care-free smile. It felt good.
"I always knew he wasn't so bad," she whispered. Fi shrugged dubiously.
"If you say so. I guess he has his moments, like that. Come on, lunch time, and I'm starved. I hope they have chips, I've been craving them for days…"
There were, indeed, chips. Fi gave a sigh of contentment and set to marinating them in ketchup and salt; Ryan preferred hers straight, while Finn and Ben coated theirs with salt and pepper. The fish and pasties were snubbed. Over delicious crispy-fried potatoes, the beginning of the day faded, and the conversation turned to lighter, happier things…like the upcoming Quidditch game. Ben was entirely enthusiastic, to the point where he was even polite to Fi.
"You have to come see it, everyone will be there! It's the most amazing sport, I swear, you'll be hooked after one game. Come on, Clearwater, be a sport, yeah? Even you can't hate it!" Well, polite after a fashion.
Ryan has already sworn she would go, buckling under the pressure of both Ben and Finn's pleading. She wasn't a sports kind of girl, but in this new world, who knew? Maybe it would be more interesting than those rubbish football games her mum sometimes watched when Ireland was playing. She still wasn't quite following it; the red ball did what now? And how on earth did a small black ball hit people on its own? And what kind of stupid name was a 'Snitch'? Every time she asked, Ben would wave it off, saying only that she'd 'get it' when she saw it.
Quidditch fever didn't only affect her housemates. Colin was going mad as well, though at least his house was actually playing; the match was Gryffindor and Slytherin, but her house was still going bonkers over it. In fact, that seemed to be the only topic people were capable of talking about: Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch.
"You're going, right, Ryan? Right? I've heard it's going to be amazing! Harry Potter's playing!" It always came back to Harry Potter, eventually. "He's the youngest seeker in a hundred years, he must be really good, you should see him at the practices, it's fantastic! As soon as I get these pictures developed, you'll see!"
She hoped that this stupid sport was all it was cracked up to be. If the game ended and she didn't see someone die or a pink dancing elephant juggling rabid baboons, she was going to be sorely disappointed.