Hey guys, sorry the update wasn't sooner, but I hope you enjoy this.
Disclaimer/ I don't own anything
Chapter 7
Harry and I spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever we saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid though was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorised our schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, "All right, Harry? Isobel?" six or seven times a day and hear, "Hello, Colin," back, however exasperated Harry or I sounded when we said it.
Hedwig was still angry with Harry about the disastrous car journey, preferring to stay by my side, and Ron's wand was still malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning by shooting out of Ron's hand in Charms and hitting Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had struck. So with one thing and another, I was quite glad to reach the weekend. The four of us were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. I was shaken awake several hours earlier than I would have liked by Angelina Johnson, my fellow Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
"Whassamatter?" I asked groggily.
"Quidditch practise!" said Johnson tiredly. "Come on!"
I squinted out the window. There was a thin mist hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now that I was awake, I couldn't understand how I could have slept through the racket the birds were making.
"Angelina," I groaned. "It's the crack of dawn."
"You don't think I know that?" Johnson grumbled. "It's part of our new training program. Come on, grab your broom, and let's go," she said. "Wood said none of the other teams have started training yet; we're going to be first off the mark this year–"
Yawning and shivering slightly, I climbed out of bed and tried to find my Quidditch robes.
"Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes," Angelina gave me a sympathetic smile before leaving.
When I'd found my scarlet team robes and pulled on my cloak for warmth, I scribbled a note to Hermione explaining where I'd gone and went down the spiral staircase to the common room, my Nimbus Two Thousand on my shoulder. I saw Harry yawning next to the portrait hole and went to greet him when there was a clatter behind me, and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.
"I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Isobel! Look what I've got here, both of you! I've had it developed. I wanted to show you–"
Harry and I looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under our noses.
A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm I recognised as Harry's. His photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view while I did the same on the other side. As we watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.
"Will you sign it?" said Colin eagerly.
"No," said Harry flatly, and I glared at him as he glanced around. "Sorry, Colin, we're in a hurry – Quidditch practice–"
"Sorry, Colin," I said as we climbed through the portrait hole.
"Oh, wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a Quidditch game before!"
Colin scrambled through the hole after me.
"It'll be really boring," Harry said quickly, but Colin ignored him, his face shining with excitement.
"You were the youngest House players in a hundred years, weren't you? And Isobel Professor McGonagall convinced you to play for Gryffindor, didn't she? Weren't you?" said Colin, trotting alongside us. "You two must be brilliant. I've never flown. Is it easy? Are those your own brooms? Are they the best one there is?"
It was like having an extremely talkative shadow, and I could tell Harry was getting annoyed, but I just smirked. I didn't mind Colin too much. He was annoying sometimes, sure, but tolerable.
"I don't really understand Quidditch," said Colin breathlessly. "Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?"
"Yes," said Harry heavily, glancing over at me. "They're called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters."
"And what are the other balls for?" Colin asked, tripping down a couple of steps because he was gazing open-mouthed at Harry.
"Well, the Quaffle – that's the biggish red one – is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers – that's Isobel, and another two - on each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goalposts at the end of the pitch – they're three long poles with hoops on the end."
"And the fourth ball–"
"- is the Golden Snitch," said Harry, "and it's very small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that's what the Seeker's got to do because a game of Quidditch doesn't end until the Snitch has been caught. And whichever team's Seeker gets the Snitch earns his team an extra hundred and fifty points."
"And you're the Gryffindor Seeker, aren't you?" said Colin in awe.
"Yes," said Harry as we left the castle and started across the dew-drenched grass. "And there's the Keeper, too. He guards the goalposts. That's it, really."
But Colin didn't stop questioning Harry all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field as I watched in amusement, and we only shook him off when we reached the changing rooms; Colin called after us in a piping voice, "I'll go and get a good seat!" and hurried off to the stands.
The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and George were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to Katie and Angelina, who were yawning side by side opposite them.
"There you are, Harry, Isobel, what kept you?" said Wood briskly. "Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference…"
Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and crosses in different coloured inks. He took out his wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred's head drooped right onto Angelina's shoulder, and he began to snore.
The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, and a third under that one. I had to blink to keep my eyes open as Wood droned on and on.
"So," said Wood, at long last, jerking me out of my doze. "Is that clear? Any questions?"
"I've got a question, Oliver," said George, who had woken with a start. "Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?"/span/p
p class="MsoNormal"span style="color: black;"Wood wasn't pleased.
"Now, listen here, you lot," he said, glowering at us all. "We should have won the Quidditch cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately – owing to circumstances beyond our control–"
I saw Harry shift in his seat and felt similarly. Harry had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning I had stepped in and consequently we had suffered our worst defeat in three hundred years.
Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Our last defeat was clearly still torturing him.
"So this year, we train harder than ever before… Okay, let's go and put our new theories into practice!" Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still yawning, the team followed.
We had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As we walked onto the field, I saw Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands.
"Aren't you finished yet?" called Ron incredulously.
"Haven't even started," said Harry, while I looked jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall. "Wood's been teaching us new moves."
He mounted his broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. I joined him moments later. The cool morning air whipped my face, waking me far more effectively than Wood's long talk. I tied my long hair back and brushed a few loose strands out of my face. It felt wonderful to be back on the Quidditch field. I soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Fred and George and Harry.
"What's that funny clicking noise?" called Fred as we hurtled around the corner.
I looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.
"Look this way, Isobel! Harry! This way!" he cried shrilly.
"Who's that?" said Fred.
"No idea," Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took him as far away as possible from Colin.
"Fanboy," I told the twins before speeding up as well.
"What's going on?" said Wood, frowning, as he skimmed through the air toward us. "Why's that first year taking pictures? I don't like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program."
"He's in Gryffindor," I said quickly.
"And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Oliver," said George.
"What makes you say that?" said Wood testily.
"Because they're here in person," said George, pointing.
Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.
"I don't believe it!" Wood hissed in outrage. "I booked the field for today! We'll see about this!"
Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. Harry, Fred, and George and I followed.
"Flint!" Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain. "This is our practice time! We got up, especially! You can clear off now!"
Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied, "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."
Angelina and Katie had come over, too. There were no girls on the Slytherin team, who stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering to a man.
"But I booked the field!" said Wood, positively spitting with rage. "I booked it!"
"Ah," said Flint. "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker'."
"You've got a new Seeker?" said Wood, distracted. "Where?"
And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.
"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" said Fred, looking at Malfoy with dislike.
"Funny you should mention Draco's father," said Flint as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. "Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team."
All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors' noses in the early morning sun.
"Very latest model. Only came out last month," said Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. "I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps" – he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives -" sweeps the board with them."
None of our team could think of anything to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly his cold eyes were reduced to slits.
"Oh, look," said Flint. "A field invasion."
Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see what was going on.
"What's happening?" Ron asked Harry. "Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?"
He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes.
"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley," said Malfoy, smugly. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our team."
Ron gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him.
"Good, aren't they?" said Malfoy smoothly. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them."
The Slytherin team howled with laughter.
"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," said Hermione sharply. "They got in on pure talent."
The smug look on Malfoy's face flickered.
"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat.
I knew at once that Malfoy had said something bad because there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George jumping on him, Katie shrieked, "How dare you!" and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" and pointed it furiously under Flint's arm at Malfoys face.
A loud bang echoed around the stadium, and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron's wand, hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling backwards onto the grass.
"Ron! Ron! Are you all right?" squealed Hermione.
Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he gave an almighty belch, and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap.
The Slytherin team were paralysed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new broomstick for support. Malfoy was on all fours, banging the ground with his fist. We gathered around Ron, who kept belching large, glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch him.
"We'd better get him to Hagrid's, it's nearest," said Harry to Hermione, who nodded bravely, and the pair of them pulled Ron up by the arms.
"What happened, Isobel? What happened? Is he ill? But you can cure him, can't you?" Colin had run down from his seat and was now dancing alongside them as they left the field. Ron gave a huge heave, and more slugs dribbled down his front.
"Oooh," said Colin, fascinated and raising his camera. "Can you hold him still, Harry?"
"Get out of the way, Colin!" I said angrily.
Harry and Hermione supported Ron out of the stadium while I raced ahead toward the edge of the forest. When Hagrid's house came into view, I ran straight up to it, hand poised to knock when I suddenly heard familiar voices. I recognised Lockhart talking merrily while Hagrid rumbled about something. I dashed behind a bush just as the front door opened, gesturing for the other three to do the same as they came into sight./
"It's a simple matter if you know what you're doing!" Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid. "If you need help, you know where I am! I'll let you have a copy of my book. I'm surprised you haven't already got one – I'll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, goodbye!" And he strode away toward the castle.
Once he was out of view, I knocked on Hagrid's door. He appeared at once, looking grumpy, but his expression brightened when he saw me.
"Bin wonderin' when you'd come ter see me – come in, come in – thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again–"
I helped Harry and Hermione get Ron over the threshold into the one-roomed cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily in the other. Hagrid didn't seem perturbed by Ron's slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he lowered Ron into a chair.
"Better out than in," he said cheerfully, plunking a large copper basin in front of him. "Get em all up, Ron."
"I don't think there's anything to do except wait for it to stop," said Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend over the basin. "That's a difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand–"
Hagrid was bustling around, making us tea. His boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Harry.
"What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?" Harry asked, scratching Fang's ears.
"Givin' me advice on gettin' kelpies out of a well," growled Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. "Like I don' know. An' bangin' on about some banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I'll eat my kettle."
It was most unlike Hagrid to criticise a Hogwarts teacher, and I looked at him in surprise. Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat higher than usual, "I think you're being a bit unfair. Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job–"
"He was the on'y man for the job," said Hagrid, offering us a plate of treacle fudge, while Ron coughed squelchily into his basin. "An' I mean the on'y one. Gettin' very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren't too keen ter take it on, see. They're startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer a while now. So tell me," said Hagrid, jerking his head at Ron. "Who was he tryin' ter curse?"
"Malfoy called Hermione something – it must've been really bad because everyone went wild," Harry said.
"It was bad," said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the tabletop looking pale and sweaty. "Malfoy called her Mudblood, Hagrid–"
Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs made their appearance. Hagrid looked outraged.
"He didn'!" he growled at Hermione.
"He did," she said. "But I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course–"
"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," gasped Ron, coming back up. "Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born – you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards – like Malfoy's family – who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood." He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin and continued, "I mean, the rest of us know it doesn't make any difference at all. Look at Neville Longbottom – he's pure-blood, and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up.
"An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do," said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.
"It's a disgusting thing to call someone," said Ron, wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand. "Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It's ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles, we'd've died out."
He retched and ducked out of sight again.
"Well, I don' blame yeh fer tryin' ter curse him, Ron," said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin. "Bu' maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. Spect Lucius Malfoy would've come marchin' up ter school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble."
I would have pointed out that trouble didn't come much worse than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but I couldn't; Hagrid's treacle fudge had cemented my jaws together.
"Harry," said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a sudden thought. "Isobel. Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I've heard you've bin givin' out signed photos. How come I haven't got one?"
Furious, I wrenched my teeth apart.
"We have not been giving out signed photos," Harry said hotly, however, before I could get a word in. "If Lockhart's still spreading that around–"
But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing.
"I'm on'y jokin'," he said, patting Harry genially on the back and sending him face-first into the table. "I knew yeh hadn't really. I told Lockhart yeh didn' need teh. Yer more famous than him without tryin'."
"Bet he didn't like that," I said as Harry sat up, rubbing his chin.
"Don' think he did," said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. "An' then I told him I'd never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle fudge, Ron?" he added as Ron reappeared.
"No thanks," said Ron weakly. "Better not risk it."
"Come an' see what I've bin growin'," said Hagrid as Harry, Hermione and I finished the last of our tea.
In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid's house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins I had ever seen. Each was the size of a large boulder.
"Gettin' on well, aren't they?" said Hagrid happily. "Fer the Halloween feast… should be big enough by then."
"What've you been feeding them?" asked Harry.
Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they were alone.
"Well, I've bin givin' them – you know – a bit o' help–"
I noticed Hagrid's flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall of the cabin. I had reason to believe before now that this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, I had the strong impression that Hagrid's old school wand was concealed inside it. Hagrid wasn't supposed to use magic. He had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but we had never found out why – any mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and become mysteriously deaf until the subject was changed.
"An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?" said Hermione, halfway between disapproval and amusement. "Well, you've done a good job on them."
"That's what yer little sister said," said Hagrid, nodding at Ron. "Met her jus' yesterday." Hagrid looked sideways at Harry, his beard twitching. "Said she was jus' lookin' round the grounds, but I reckon she was hopin' she might run inter someone else at my house." He winked at Harry. "If yeh ask me, she wouldn' say no ter a signed–"
"Oh, shut up," said Harry. I chuckled, and Ron snorted with laughter, and the ground was sprayed with slugs.
"Watch it!" Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his precious pumpkins.
It was nearly lunchtime, and as Harry and I had only had one bit of treacle fudge since dawn, we were keen to go back to school to eat. We said goodbye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs.
We had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out, "There you are, Potter – Weasley." Professor McGonagall was walking toward Harry and Ron, looking stern. "You will both do your detentions this evening."
"What're we doing, Professor?" said Ron, nervously suppressing a burp.
"You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr Filch," said Professor McGonagall. "And no magic, Weasley – elbow grease."
Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student in the school.
"And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail," said Professor McGonagall.
"Oh n- Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?" said Harry desperately.
"Certainly not," said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. "Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o'clock sharp, both of you."
Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest gloom, Hermione and I behind them, wearing well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expressions. Both Harry and Ron felt they'd got the worse deal.
"Filch'll have me there all night," said Ron heavily. "No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I'm no good at Muggle cleaning."
"I'd swap anytime," said Harry hollowly. "I've had loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart's fan mail… he'll be a nightmare…"
Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time, the boys were bidding us goodbye. Hermione and I stayed in the Common Room, doing some homework. We waited a while for the boys, but eventually decided they wouldn't be back until much later. We headed up to our dormitory and got ready for bed. I slid under my maroon covers and lay staring at the ceiling until I dozed off. It didn't seem much later, though when I was suddenly woken up by something.
It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom.
"Come… come to me… Let me rip you… Let me tear you… Let me kill you…"
I jolted out of bed, looking around the room in fear.
"What?" I gasped.
Hermione, in the bed next to me, groaned.
"What is it, Isobel?" she asked.
"Did you hear that?" I asked, not bothering to be quiet.
"Hear what?" She sat up, looking at me in confusion.
"That – that voice that said – didn't you hear it?" I asked.
Hermione was looking at me in high astonishment.
"What are you talking about, Isobel? You're probably tired. Go back to sleep."
I didn't answer. I was straining my ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for the occasional snores from the girls. I wanted to go out and find Harry or Ron or someone, but I knew they would say I was crazy. But the voice seemed so real. I sighed and hopped back into bed, pulling the covers up tightly around myself. My heart was pounding as I thought about the words, but eventually, sleep brought me under.
Soooo, I promise there's a good reason for Isobel also being a Parselmouth. I also realise I haven't really explained Isobel's involvement in the night James and Lily died, and for that, I'm sorry. But in case you hadn't already guessed, she wasn't targeted by Voldemort specifically, and so she doesn't have a scar or anything from a backfired curse - she didn't get hit in the first place. I know you might have more questions, but they will be explained at a later point:) For now, please leave a review with your thoughts and comments.