So with one thing and another, Everyone was quite glad to reach the weekend. Taylor, Harry, Grace, Ron, and Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Harry and Taylor, however, were shaken awake several hours earlier than they would have liked by Charlie Weasley, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
Harry: Whassamatter?
Charlie: Quidditch practice! Come on!
Harry: Charlie, it's the crack of dawn.
Charlie: Exactly. It's part of our new training program. Come on, grab your broom; your sister is already up, let's go. None of the other teams have started training yet; we're going to be first off the mark this year…Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes.
Harry went down the spiral staircase to the common room and met Taylor, his Nimbus Two Thousand on his shoulder and her Nimbus Two Thousand on her shoulder. They had just reached the portrait hole when there was a clatter behind them and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.
Colin: I heard someone saying your name on the stairs! Look what I've got here! I've had it developed, I wanted to show you…
Harry and Taylor looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under their noses. A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on two arms Harry and Taylor recognized as their own. They were pleased to see that their photographic selves were putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. As they watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.
Colin: Will you sign it?
Taylor: No, sorry, Colin, we're in a hurry — Quidditch practice.
They climbed through the portrait hole.
Colin: Oh, wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a Quidditch game before!
Colin scrambled through the hole after them.
Harry: It'll be really boring.
Colin: You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren't you, Harry? Weren't you? You must be brilliant. I've never flown. Is it easy? Are those your own brooms? Are they the best ones there are? I don't really understand Quidditch. Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?
Taylor: Yes. 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.
Colin: And what are the other balls for?
Harry: Well, the Quaffle—that's the biggish red one—is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goal posts at the end of the pitch — they're three long poles with hoops on the end. And the fourth ball is the Golden Snitch, 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.
Colin: And you're the Gryffindor Seeker, aren't you Harry? And you're one of the Gryffindor chasers aren't you Taylor?
Taylor: Yes, and there's the Keeper, too. He guards the goal posts. That's it, really.
But Colin didn't stop questioning them all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and they only shook him off when they reached the changing rooms; Colin called after them in a piping voice
Colin: I'll go and get a good seat!
He then hurried off to the stands. The rest of the Gryffindor team was already in the changing room. Charlie was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred Weasley was sitting, puffy-eyed and touslehaired, next to third year Angelina Johnson, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind her. Her fellow Chaser, Katie Bell was yawning opposite them. Taylor went to sit next to George Weasley. While Harry went to sit next to Katie.
Charlie: There you are, you two, what kept you? Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent part of the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference.
Charlie was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and crosses in different colored inks. He took out his wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Charlie launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred Weasley's head drooped right onto Angelina Johnson's shoulder and he began to snore. Taylor and George were leaning on each other's shoulders and were sleeping and snoring. The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, and a third under that one. Harry sank into a stupor as Charlie droned on and on.
Charlie: So, is that clear? Any questions?
Taylor, George, and Fred had woken u courtesy of Angelina and Harry. Taylor and George shot dirty looks at Harry. Then George asked a question.
George: I've got a question, Charlie. Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?
Charlie wasn't pleased.
Charlie: Now, listen here, you lot. We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately — owing to circumstances beyond our control.
Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.
Charlie: So this year, we train harder than ever before. Okay, let's go and put our new theories into practice!"
Everyone seized their broomsticks and he lead the way out of the locker rooms. Stiff legged and still yawning, his team followed. They 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 Harry and Taylor walked onto the field, they saw Grace, Ron, and Hermione sitting in the stands.
Ron: Aren't you finished yet?
Taylor: Haven't even started. Charlie's been teaching us new moves.
She mounted her broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air whipped her face. It felt wonderful to be on the Quidditch field. She soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Harry, Fred, and George.
Fred: What's that funny clicking noise?
He asked as they hurtled around the corner. Taylor 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.
Colin: Look this way, Taylor and Harry! This way!
Fred: Who's that?
Taylor: No idea.
She put on a spurt of speed that took her as far away as possible from Colin.
Charlie: What's going on? 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.
Harry: He's in Gryffindor.
George: And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Charlie,
Charlie: What makes you say that?
Taylor: Because they're here in person.
She pointed at the ground. Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.
Charlie: I don't believe it! I booked the field for today! We'll see about this!
Charlie shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. Taylor, Harry, Fred, and George followed.
Charlie: Flint! This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!
Flint: Plenty of room for all of us, Charlie.
Angelina and Katie had come over, too.
Charlie: But I booked the field! I booked it!
Flint: Ah, 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.'
Charlie: You've got a new Seeker? 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.
Fred: Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?
Flint: Funny you should mention Draco's father. 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.
Flint: Very latest model. Only came out last month. I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps it sweeps the board with them.
None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly his cold eyes were reduced to slits.
Flint: Oh, look, a field invasion.
Grace, Ron, and Hermione were crossing the grass to see what was going on.
Ron: What's happening? Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?
Draco: I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley. Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our team.
Ron gaped, openmouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him.
Draco: Good, aren't they? 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.
Hermione: At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent.
The smug look on Draco's face flickered.
Draco: No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood.
Harry knew at once that Malfoy had said something really bad because there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Taylor, Charlie, Fred, and George jumping on him and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand,
Ron: You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!
He pointed it furiously under Flint's arm at Malfoy's 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 backward onto the grass.
Grace: Ron! Ron! Are you all right?
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 paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new broomstick for support. Draco was on all fours, banging the ground with his fist. The Gryffindors were gathered around Ron, who kept belching large, glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch him.
Harry: We'd better get him to Hagrid's, it's nearest
Taylor, Grace, and Hermione nodded bravely, and Taylor and Harry pulled Ron up by the arms.
Colin: What happened? 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.
Colin: Oooh. Can you hold him still?
Taylor: Get out of the way, Colin!
Taylor and Harry supported Ron out of the stadium and across the grounds toward the edge of the forest.
Hermione: Nearly there, Ron. You'll be all right in a minute — almost there…
They were within twenty feet of Hagrid's house when the front door opened, but it wasn't Hagrid who emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of palest mauve today, came striding out.
Harry: Quick, behind here
Taylor and Harry dragged Ron behind a nearby bush. Hermione and Grace followed, somewhat reluctantly.
Lockhart: It's a simple matter if you know what you're doing! 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, good-bye!
And he strode away toward the castle. Taylor and Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid's front door. Grace and Hermione followed. They knocked urgently. Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression brightened when he saw who it was.
Hagrid: Bin wonderin' when you'd come ter see me — come in, come in — thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again.
Harry and Taylor supported 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.
Hagrid: Better out than in. Get 'em all up, Ron.
Grace: I don't think there's anything to do except wait for it to stop. That's a difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand…
Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Harry.
Harry: What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?
Hagrid: Givin' me advice on gettin' kelpies out of a well. 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 criticize a Hogwarts teacher, and Taylor and Harry looked at him in surprise.
Grace: I think you're being a bit unfair. Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job.
Hagrid: He was the on'y man for the job. 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, who was Ron tryin' ter curse?
Harry: Malfoy called Hermione something — it must've been really bad, because everyone went wild.
Taylor: It was bad. Malfoy called her 'Mudblood,' Hagrid. Ron dived out of sight as a fresh wave of slugs made their appearance. Hagrid looked outraged.
Hagrid: He didn'!
Hermione: He did, but I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course —
Ron: It's about the most insulting thing he could think of.
Taylor: 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. 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.
Hagrid: An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do.
Ron: It's a disgusting thing to call someone. 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.
Hagrid: I don' blame yeh fer tryin' ter curse him, Ron. 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.
Hagrid was quiet for a moment and then he spoke.
Hagrid: Taylor and Harry, gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I've heard you've bin givin' out signed photos. How come I haven't got one?
Taylor: We have not been giving out signed photos. If Lockhart's still spreading that around…
But then they saw that Hagrid was laughing.
Hagrid: I'm on'y jokin'. I knew yeh hadn't really. I told Lockhart yeh didn' need teh. Yer more famous than him without tryin'.
Harry: Bet he didn't like that,
Hagrid: Don' think he did. An' then I told him I'd never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?
Ron: No thanks. Better not risk it.
Hagrid: Come an' see what I've bin growin'.
Taylor, Grace, Harry, and Hermione finished the last of their tea. In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid's house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins they had ever seen. Each was the size of a large boulder.
Hagrid: Gettin' on well, aren't they? Fer the Halloween feast… should be big enough by then.
Harry: What've you been feeding them?
Hagrid: Well, I've bin givin' them — you know — a bit o' help.
Grace noticed Hagrid's flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall of the cabin. Grace had had reason to believe before now that this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, she 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 Grace 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.
Hermione: An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?
Ron: Well, you've done a good job on them.
Hagrid: That's what yer little sister said. Met her jus' yesterday. She came and visited with Amy. Said she was jus' lookin' round the grounds, but I reckon she was hopin' she might run inter someone else at my house. If yeh ask me, she wouldn' say no ter a signed…
Harry: Oh, shut up. Besides she has Amy for her best friend.
It was nearly lunchtime and as Taylor and Harry had only had one bit of treacle toffee since dawn, they were keen to go back to school to eat. They said good-bye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs. They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out.
McGonagall: There you are, Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley. You will both do your detentions this evening.
Ron: What're we doing, Professor?
McGonagall: You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch. And no magic, Weasley—elbow grease.
Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student in the school.
McGonagall: And you, Mr. Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail.
Harry: Oh n — Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?
McGonagall: Certainly not. 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.
Taylor: Maybe I should be glad I wasn't in the car.
Grace and Hermione were behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression. Harry didn't enjoy his shepherd's pie as much as he'd thought. Both he and Ron felt they'd got the worse deal.
Ron: Filch'll have me there all night. No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I'm no good at Muggle cleaning.
Harry: I'd swap anytime. 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, it was five minutes to eight, and Harry was dragging his feet along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart's office. He gritted his teeth and knocked. The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at him.
Lockhart: Ah, here's the scalawag! Come in, Harry, come in.
Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another large pile lay on his desk.
Lockhart: You can address the envelopes! This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her — huge fan of mine…
The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart's voice wash over him. The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching him. Harry moved his aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley's address. It must be nearly time to leave, Harry thought miserably, please let it be nearly time. And then he heard something — something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart's prattle about his fans. It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom. Voice: Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me kill you…
Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley's street.
Harry: What?
Lockhart: I know! Six solid months at the top of the best-seller list! Broke all records!
Harry: No! That voice!
Lockhart: Sorry? What voice?
Harry: That — that voice that said — didn't you hear it? Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.
Lockhart: What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you're getting a little drowsy? Great Scott — look at the time! We've been here nearly four hours! I'd never have believed it — the time's flown, hasn't it?
Harry didn't answer. He was straining his ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling him he mustn't expect a treat like this every time he got detention. Feeling dazed, Harry left. It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was almost empty. Harry went straight up to the dormitory. Ron wasn't back yet. Harry pulled on his pajamas, got into bed, and waited. Half an hour later, Ron arrived, nursing his right arm and bringing a strong smell of polish into the darkened room.
Ron: My muscles have all seized up. Fourteen times he made me buff up that Quidditch Cup before he was satisfied. And then I had another slug attack all over a Special Award for Services to the School. Took ages to get the slime off. . . . How was it with Lockhart?
Keeping his voice low so as not to wake Neville, Dean, and Seamus, Harry told Ron exactly what he had heard.
Ron: And Lockhart said he couldn't hear it? D'you think he was lying? But I don't get it — even someone invisible would've had to open the door.
Harry: I know. I don't get it either.