The Quidditch Player
Chapter 2
Saturday, 15 July 2006
Hermione hated Saturdays with a passion, finding it absolutely ridiculous people were unable to tolerate an extra day of work. Honestly, couldn't they bite the bullet and endure another eight hours? It wasn't much. An efficient-enough work could get plenty done in that amount of time. But she knew merely suggesting they allocate half the weekend to anything other than recreational activities would earn her a one-way ticket to St Mungo's Janus Thickey Ward. That was why Hermione worked late during the week, staying until the candles on her desk disappeared amidst a messy residue of wax around them. Thus, she usually missed the dinnertime window. If she was hungry, she would Apparate to the nearest chip shop. Her grandad used to work the fish docks at Grimsby and told her how to spot a good chippy from a bad one.
So, when Hermione woke up and realised it was another dreaded Saturday, she groaned aloud. Mr Bagman reprimanded her from sneaking into the office her first week on the job, worried Magical Maintenance would find her dead body come early Monday morning from working too hard.
The paperwork! he exclaimed, hand over his heart.
Unfortunately, Hermione's plans were void of any excitement whatsoever. Of course, if she didn't have a list of appointments to keep, she was inclined to happily march into the Department of Magical Games and Sports like she was part of the Queen's Guard. Mr Bagman would be none the wiser about it at his home in Berwick-upon-Tweed.
Shifting onto her side, Hermione was greeted with a rather ghastly sight. Snuggles, her Siamese cat, had his smelly arse pointed directly at her face. He did the same bloody thing every morning as if it was a favourite pastime of his. His large belly was splayed out on either side of him and prevented the necessary cleaning duties cats were inclined to provide themselves with. It wouldn't be so bad if not for Snuggles leaving his hair all over the place. They were like floating magnets, sticking to the first surface they came into contact with. If she wasn't able to use magic to get rid of the excess fur, it was guaranteed she would go mad. But Snuggles was the cutest stray she ever laid eyes on. She found the poor thing wandering just outside of Le Corbeau Mystique, a pet shop in Place Cachée. When Snuggles noticed she was awake, he turned his considerable bulk around and allowed her to reach up and scratch the side of his neck. He leaned into her, purring loudly like the rumbling of a motorbike.
"You want some breakfast, don't you?" she asked. Snuggles touched her arm with one of his paws. "Come on, let's go then." Pulling the covers off her, Hermione stretched her arms high overhead and got up, following Snuggles into the kitchen. Unfortunately, his tail was sticking straight up in the air, giving her a fantastic view of his arsehole.
Not so smelly, is it? he seemed to ask.
Waving her wand, a can of wet food spun out of the cupboard. Its top was peeled off and a plate of grilled chicken was set on the counter. Snuggles struggled to jump atop it but finally managed, devouring the food as if he hadn't eaten in days.
As Hermione got the coffee started, she looked out the window above the sink. A wonderful view of Godric's Hollow greeted her, small bubbles of light zippy in the parts of the village that were already roused from sleep. She lived just above the post office, renting the flat from the owner downstairs upon learning that he moved to Birling Gap on the Seven Sisters in East Sussex to be closer to the Channel. Her gaze drifted, guessing Harry lived in the assortment of cottages near the wood where tall trees reared over the roofs. Since meeting him on Monday, Hermione hadn't seen him again. For some unexplainable reason, this bothered her. He was surely fit, most likely making a number of women swoon as he walked by them. However, what surprised her most was his personality. Perhaps she was a bit ignorant when she assumed all Quidditch players were somewhat worthless, save for their occasional good looks. And not all Quidditch players had their fans frothing at the mouths like rabid animals. A few did, but most didn't. Harry, despite being fairly dense in aspects involving regulations established by the Ministry of Magic, showed his intelligence in the draft he helped propose for the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex. It was flawless with diagrams and drawings, figures and statistics, and a mountain of personal request letters from players that comprised hundreds of pages. Funding was the only remaining problem.
To be honest, Hermione expected to at least run into Harry somewhere in Godric's Hollow. She felt a little foolish to feel her heart flutter when she went to the village square last night to do her weekly food shop. It was disappointing to notice his absence. Then again, she wouldn't be surprised if Harry had a girlfriend to keep his time off the Quidditch pitch occupied. Harry's romantic interludes were his own business, but her stomach churned sickly just thinking about it. Sighing, she cast a final look out the window and turned away from it.
Pouring a cup of coffee, Hermione took a sip and moved her hand down Snuggles so that his back arched upwards. She went into the loo and grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. It was as if she took ill from Cerebrumous Spattergroit, finding it a small miracle the glass didn't break. Once she finished her shower, she drained the rest of her coffee whilst getting dressed. Today, her plans consisted of venturing out to London. She was less than thrilled by this because such plans were created on a whim, something she was neither accustomed to nor much appreciated.
"I'll be off now," Hermione said to Snuggles half an hour later. He wasn't paying her the slightest bit of attention, instead licking his paws and wiping them over his large jowls. "Try not to make a mess of the litter, will you? Magic or no magic, it's a pain to clean."
Hermione arrived in a skinny alleyway before locating a grubby pub on Charing Cross Road, the Leaky Cauldron. It was squished between a book shop on one side and a record shop on the other, unseen by the Muggles who scurried past the nondescript exterior the same way rats scurried in the gutter. The inside was dark and shabby, cramped with patrons, including a hag who had a large plate of raw liver in front of her. She cackled evilly, slipping the jelly-like texture down her throat. Hermione made a wide berth around the crone, doing the same the brooding goblins that lingered in one of the many available nooks, the candles nearby looping their inky black eyes like an eclipse. Smoke puffing from their pipes closely resembled the smokestacks that preyed over Great Britain during the Industrial Revolution. Navigating the maze of wobbly furniture, she rolled her eyes as a group of young men with spots on their faces wolf-whistled at her.
"Look at the jubblies on that bird there," the stockiest of them exclaimed, much to the delight of the idiots around him.
"You've got a bloody cheek," she muttered quietly, barely refraining from the hexing the tosser in the groin.
Out the back was a walled courtyard, complete with a dustbin and a few weeds. She tapped the brick that was three up and two across from the dustbin with her wand, stepping through the archway that appeared with amusement. It was a superior entrance than Place Cachée, which could be accessed via a moving statue, an exact replica of Pythia at Palais Garnier, located at the juncture of Rue Girardon and Rue Richer.
A cobblestone street ran crazy and crooked through the zoo of dilapidated shops there. Weaving through the many people trying to go about their Saturday business, it was like helming the tube station during rush hour. She passed by a stack of cauldrons that populated the doorway of Potage's Cauldron Shop, while across from it, children stuck their heads in wooden barrels that bundled racing broomsticks together in front of the aptly named Broomstix.
"Magumba, get your head out of there, you silly child!" scolded one mother.
A pair of teenagers were swapping spit in the dinky passageway between Magical Menagerie and Rosa Lee Teabag, as a father and daughter enjoyed ice cream at one of the umbrella-covered tables outside of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. Hermione spotted a large purple building adjacent to this. Through the windows, she saw a fireworks display malfunctioning in the hands of belligerent siblings. Seconds later, the chimney pots atop the building ejected a rainbow of sparks into the air.
But Hermione's smile died a quick death when she was suddenly knocked completely off her feet. The sensation was similar to being tackled in a game of rugby, not that her lithe form would be found anywhere near a pitch where barbarism reigned supreme. She grunted when she hit the ground. Shaking her head, she tried to make sense of the garbled voices around her.
"Hermione?" someone asked.
She paused as the voice sounded vaguely familiar. Looking over her shoulder, Hermione saw him.
"Harry?"
"Are you okay?" he asked, kneeling down so he could scan her over.
"I'm fine," she assured him, a little embarrassed. Wiping her hands down her jeans, she noticed a red smear across them. Looking at her palms, blood was oozing from a particularly nasty gash on her left.
"Here," Harry said, unwinding a yellow tape measure he wore around his neck like one would a scarf. He transfigured the tape measure into a plaster with his wand, securing it over the wound. Helping her to her feet, he continued, "The Apothecary will have something for that. Come on."
When he pushed his way past a small crowd gathered around them, a woman shrieked, "Mr Potter, you bring that tape measure back this instant!"
"I'll return it shortly!" he called over his shoulder. "Have to tend to a bit of an emergency here!"
Aware one of his hands was on the small of her back, Harry led Hermione past several more shops. Amongst them were Amanuensis Quills, Owl Emporium, and Flourish and Blotts, the last of which made her do a double take.
"Is that a bookshop?" she asked, blind to where Harry was leading her.
"Flourish and Blotts? We got our Hogwarts books from there," he said, looking sideways at her. "Why? Fancy a visit?"
Hermione shrugged, "I already told you I like to read. There was another book shop on Charing Cross, actually."
"Charing Cross?" Harry repeated. "What were you doing shopping in Muggle London for?"
"Nothing," she answered. "I was given instructions on how to access Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron on Charing Cross."
"Who told you that?"
"You probably know her," Hermione said. "She's a Quidditch player, too."
"What team?"
"The Holyhead Harpies," she replied. Glancing over at him, Harry appeared to be mentally running through the Holyhead Harpies' sisterhood to see who the most likely candidate was.
"How about Gwenog Jones, the team captain?"
"No," Hermione shook her head. "It was Ginny Weasley."
Harry suddenly stopped, making Hermione do the same. She saw that behind his glasses, his eyes had grown considerably.
"You're barking," he said, surprised.
"Excuse you, but I am not a dog," she scowled. Hermione was more than affronted Harry would even think of comparing her to those pea-brained animals.
"No, it's not that," he tried to amend.
"What is it then?" Hermione sniffed, nose in the air.
Before he could reply, a group of girls approached them meticulously.
"Mr Potter," the girl at the front started, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. "Oh, I mean Harry," she giggled. The others giggled as well, covering their mouths with their hands. Hermione thought they sounded like a pack of hyenas. "Would it be possible if we could have your autograph?" She quickly added, "If you don't mind, that is?"
"Er, it's no problem at all," Harry said, his cheeks bright red. "Does one of you have a quill?"
At the back, a girl shaped like a pumpkin stuck her fat hand into her bag and clamoured, "Me! I got one right here!" She bustled forward, her impressive weight shoving several of her friends violently out of the way. One of them disappeared through the open door of Sugarplum's Sweets Shop. A loud crashing sound was heard from somewhere within. Harry quickly signed the Quidditch poster she practically shoved in his face, doing the same with the rest. Hermione sneered when she saw the girls batting their eyelashes at him. One had the audacity to stick out her chest so her breasts jiggled up and down. They paid zero attention to Hermione, pretending she was a statue of all things.
When Harry finished, he stepped away with a sheepish smile and said, "Here," handing the quill back to the pumpkin-shaped girl. She took it, though brushed her finger against his in a not-so-subtle manner.
"Thank you!" they all babbled. "Thank you very much!"
Harry gently took Hermione by the arm and said, "Let's go."
As they turned away, one of the girls shouted, "Will you marry me?!"
Harry ducked his head when they giggled again.
"I think you have some avid admirers," Hermione said.
Rolling his eyes, he responded, "How flattering."
They passed by parents with their two children, a brother and sister fighting over which name to choose for their new owl.
"Oxy!"
"Saucy!"
"Oxy!"
"Saucy!"
The argument over Oxy or Saucy was finished when their father interrupted, "You two had better cool it or else we'll return this owl right back!" The cage he carried swung precariously from side to side, along with the poor owl inside it.
"Does that always happen to you?" Hermione asked.
"You mean people asking for autographs? Kind of," he nodded. "It's happening more often now though."
"Because of the Quidditch World Cup?" she guessed.
"Only a month away," Harry confirmed.
"But England hasn't won anything yet."
"Slacking off work, are you?" he grinned.
"I do no such thing!"
"Then you should know England won the International Quidditch Tournament which helped us qualify for the Quidditch World Cup."
"You don't think it was due to your status?"
"And what exactly is my status?" he asked.
"Don't be so thick," Hermione said. "You're one of the most famous wizards in England because of the war."
"Not so much in France?"
She thought about this for a second and said, "Some people know of you, but most don't. I imagine there's a good number that haven't a clue. Voldemort was treated as England's problem, not so much for the rest of the Continent."
"That's mad," Harry frowned.
"I agree, but it was the same with Gellert Grindelwald, wasn't it? The only time England stepped in was when Albus Dumbledore defeated him. Prior to that, they didn't help any."
"That's due to the Ministry of Magic's incompetency. Muppets, the whole lot of them."
"The Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France is the same," Hermione sighed.
"Their attempts to run the community is why I refuse to work for them."
"You considered doing so?"
"I was offered a spot in the Auror Training Programme," Harry said. "I would've been exempted from taking my N.E.W.T.s."
"N.E.W.T.s?" Hermione asked.
"Stands for Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests. We take them seventh year," he explained. "It's meant to help with the careers we choose after leaving Hogwarts."
"Beauxbatons has something like that," she said. "Only it's not called N.E.W.T.s, and we don't take them seventh year. Instead, we take what is known as the Suite D'Examens des Dryade, or the Wood Nymph Suite Examinations. It's conducted after six years of study."
"Bit of a strange name, isn't it?" Harry said.
"Maybe to you," Hermione shrugged. "It's custom for wood nymphs to sing during mealtimes at Beauxbatons. They go through an entire list of songs that's supposed to encourage us to do well during our examinations. It was terribly distracting."
"They didn't leave you alone to study?"
"Definitely not," she scoffed. "They followed me to the dormitory, library, and even the toilet, congregating on the handle! I spent hours thinking of the most painful ways to maim those bloody creatures."
"You didn't threaten them, did you?"
"How else was I supposed to concentrate?"
"Ever try the Silencing Charm?" Harry asked. "It's simple but effective," opening the door of the Apothecary for her to enter through first.
"I did," Hermione replied. "When one stops singing, a dozen more compensate for its absence."
"Guess that can get quite irritating."
Fangs and knotted claws hung from inside the Apothecary, several of them throwing punches at one another. Wooden shelves were filled with glass jars of bright powders, dried roots, and herbs. The most concerning was that the air that reeked of bad eggs and cabbages. The smell was putrid.
At the counter, Harry said, "Excuse me," drawing the attention of a skeletal man who was so thin Hermione was sure he would blow away come the next gust of wind. "Do you have any dittany?" While he handed over the necessary money, Hermione's attention was drawn to a nearby barrel. Green slime was swirling around like a whirlpool. And just behind this was a glass case where a small hill of glittery-black beetle eyes slept.
"Cheers," Harry said, taking the bottle of dittany and turning to Hermione. "This should help with your hand."
"How do you know about dittany?"
"I did go to Hogwarts, you know."
"And passed all your classes?"
"More or less," he said, exiting the Apothecary. "But Divination and History of Magic weren't anything noteworthy."
"Divination is absolute rubbish," Hermione replied, scornful of the subject matter. "Only a numpty would be able to pass a class like that. At least History of Magic was interesting."
"You should meet Trelawney," Harry said, leading Hermione to a nearby bench.
"Who's that?"
"The Divination professor at Hogwarts."
"And why should I meet with her?" Hermione huffed.
"I think you would get along smashingly over tea and biscuits," he said, taking the plaster from Hermione's hand.
"Besides Divination and History of Magic, I haven't any doubt you failed at humour too."
"No class for that," Harry replied, tipping the bottle of dittany so that three drops of brown liquid bulleted her wound. The cut on her palm sizzled, followed by a greenish smoke that ballooned away from it. "You okay?" he asked. She only muttered as a searing pain shot up the length of her arm. "It should go away in a minute or so," putting the stopper back on and pocketing the bottle.
"Thanks for doing this," she said.
Harry nodded his head at her, watching as a pair of boys walked by them. They were carrying a hefty stack of Chocolate Frog Cards, one trying to entice the other to give up a specific card he wanted.
"You just got about enough of Harry Potter already!"
"Kids these days," Harry said, shaking his head. He pointed his wand at the plaster, transfiguring it back into the tape measure minus any red markings that would otherwise have someone with a blood phobia faint at the horrifying sight.
"Are you going to tell me why you have that?" Hermione pointed.
"This?" he asked, holding up the tape measure. "I was getting fitted."
"For what?"
"A wedding," Harry said.
So perhaps he hadn't a girlfriend to keep his time off the Quidditch pitch occupied but a fiancé instead.
"Who's the lucky lady?" Hermione asked. Though the ache in her arm since subsided, her feelings were another matter entirely.
"Lavender Brown," he answered, leaning back against the bench and winding the tape measure around his finger like a ring. That was when Hermione noticed he wasn't wearing one. She supposed he'd put it on during the ceremony. "Actually, I left my best mate back at Madam Malkin's."
"Is that the shop you barged out of?" she asked.
"Barged out of," Harry derided playfully. "Trying to blame me for your accident?"
"It was your fault. You weren't looking where you were going."
"And you were?"
"I was distracted-,"
"Which means you admit you weren't looking where you were going either," Harry finished for her, wearing a proud smile.
"Did you happen to see a Golden Snitch fly around Diagon Alley? Why else would you rush out of Madam Malkin's like a raving lunatic?"
"I saw Oliver Wood with the missus. They wanted to take me for a pint at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street."
"Are you late?" Hermione asked.
Harry glanced at his watch and said, "I still have a bit of time. It's just that getting fitted is terribly boring."
"Aren't you excited about the wedding?"
"Why would I be?" he questioned, curious.
Hermione was flabbergasted as she said, "I thought it'd be obvious! You're getting married!"
Harry threw his head back and laughed riotously. She watched him dully as he did this, wondering what was so funny. In fact, she thought about leaving him there so he could trouble the next poor soul who happened upon the famous Harry Potter laughing all by himself on a bench in Diagon Alley.
"I'm not getting married," he finally managed, hiccupping.
"What about Lavender Brown?" Hermione asked, feeling her spirits soar towards the heavens, her own laughter threatening to spill right out of her.
"Lavender is getting married to Ron. He's the poor sod at Madam Malkin's," Harry said. "I'm his best man so I needed to get my dress robes checked."
"Ron?" she repeated slowly even though his name was extremely short. "As in Ron Weasley?"
"You know him?" Harry asked.
"No, but I'm also attending his wedding," Hermione said.
"Hang on, you're going to a wedding of someone you don't know?"
"I was invited by his sister, Ginny."
"Right, you were telling me before she was the one who gave you instructions on how to access Diagon Alley from Charing Cross."
"She stopped by the Department of Magical Games and Sports not even a week after I started. When Mr Bagman introduced us, we chatted for a bit."
"And Ginny just happened to invite you to her brother's wedding at the end of that conversation?" he asked, unconvinced.
"She thought it'd be a good opportunity to meet new people. I don't know many in England. We have plans to meet at Madam Malkin's around noon."
"Dresses?" When Hermione nodded, he continued, "Do you want to head back now?"
"Is it time yet?"
"No," he said. "How about we stop by Flourish and Blotts? We can look around there for a little."
"I don't want to bother you. You can go back to Madam Malkin's. I'll find my way over later."
"Two things," Harry countered. Holding up the first finger, he said, "One, I already told you I'm bored to tears getting fitted." He added a second finger and continued, "Two, you don't have a watch."
"So?" she asked, trying to fight down a smile that was trying its best to cross her face.
"You don't want to be late meeting Ginny, do you?"
"I'm positive you'll be just as bored at Flourish and Blotts."
"I don't think so," Harry shook his head.
"Why not?"
"Might be the company. But if you don't want me to come-,"
"No," Hermione said a little too quickly and inwardly cursed. "You can come if you want to." She thought it was perfectly in her rights to keep Harry all to herself being that he wasn't already taken. Surely he would've told her if he was seeing anyone, right?
Together, they went down Diagon Alley, passing by many people who gawked at Harry as if he was some sort of exotic zoo animal. He ignored them, something Hermione admired. She could only wonder how much more Harry's popularity would surge if England won the Quidditch World Cup. The community might elect him as the new Minister for Magic for all his troubles, no matter if his name was on the ballot paper or not. The public loved their celebrities.
"You good friends with Ginny then?" he asked, hands in his pockets.
"I wouldn't put it like that," Hermione responded. "It was the one time we met."
"But you hit it off well?"
"Pretty much," she nodded. "We talked about the usual, families and work."
"And that's how you got around to Ron's wedding?"
"I told her my mum liked to garden as a hobby. Ginny said she wished her mum, Molly, I think her name was, would do something similar instead of being in a right state about the wedding. I asked her whose wedding she was on about and Ginny told me it was Ron's. It was nice enough for her to invite me at all."
"You'll meet some good people there," Harry said. "Most will be from Hogwarts, but they're alright. Of course, the Weasleys will be present and are as close to a family I have right now." He fell quiet but soon added, "You'll have a Beauxbatons companion, by the way."
"Who?"
"Fleur Delacour," he replied. "Actually, she's now a Weasley after marrying Ginny's oldest brother, Bill."
"I don't know if I'd call Fleur a companion," Hermione said. "She was older than me, so we didn't interact much at Beauxbatons. Come to think of it, we didn't speak one word to each other."
"What's she to you?"
"Another girl from school," she said, nonchalant, and Harry laughed.
They went inside Flourish and Blotts, Hermione smiling at the number of books that populated the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Here she felt at ease. Truthfully, she always felt more comfortable with books than people, a sentiment her parents found worrying. But she couldn't help it. Books were like awaiting portals to another world, one in which characters greeted her like an old friend. It was a form of escape Hermione utilised a lot when she was younger, especially when her peers shunned her from their small group of friends. She didn't mind because the characters of the books she frequented were part of a much larger list of friends than anyone else her age had.
Hermione waltzed through the aisles, Harry dutifully following close behind. He was quiet, something she was grateful for. One of her biggest peeves was when people talked inside a book shop as they would at a Weird Sisters concert. Those types of inbreds were the foulest for they pretended their voices were much more important than the voices contained in the books around them. She tilted her head sideways to read the spines, not looking for anything in particular. Hermione would pull out a book at random, leaf through its pages, and return it. All the while, Harry was beside her like a bodyguard, occasionally browsing through a book here and there. But he was bluffing. A dead giveaway was when he pulled down a book from a high shelf and held it upside down.
"I told you it would be boring to come with me," Hermione whispered to him.
"Much better than at Madam Malkin's," he said gently.
"What about Ron?" she asked. "Isn't he wondering where you've gone?"
"He'll manage," Harry replied, as if he didn't care one way or another.
Hermione came upon a section of published works by Gilderoy Lockhart. She showed it to Harry who grinned.
"Don't tell me you're interested in that rubbish!"
"You know who this is?" she asked.
"He taught Defense Against the Dark Arts second year," Harry said. "But he's nothing more than a fraud."
Hermione silently agreed after reading such crackpot titles: Break with a Banshee, Gadding with Ghouls, Holidays with Hags, Marauding with Monsters, Travels with Trolls, Voyages with Vampires, Wanderings with Werewolves, and Year with the Yeti. However, the most interesting of Lockhart's biographical work was a book called Who Am I?
"Why is he in a straitjacket on the cover of this one?" Hermione asked.
"Long story short, Lockhart used a defective wand to cast a Memory Charm. Because it backfired, he now resides in St Mungo's for permanent spell damage under the care of Healers."
"That's horrible!" Hermione gasped.
"It wasn't his brightest moment," Harry agreed. "Did you want to get it?"
"Think I'll pass," she said, eyes drifting to the side. "What about this?" and indicated a book named Harry Potter's Heaven or Hell: The Untold Truth of the Famed Wizard's Preference of Isolation. It was by someone named Rita Skeeter.
"That's the fourth book she's done on me," he said.
"Fourth?"
"There's supposed to be seven altogether."
"Who is this Rita Skeeter woman?" Hermione asked. "A famous author?"
"She's a touch famous but not much of an author, making up a lot of things as she goes along and exaggerating stories she would otherwise find trivial. She started off as a contributor to the Daily Prophet and has since taken to writing about public figures. She did one on Dumbledore not too long ago."
"How was it?"
"Not a fan."
"Maybe she'll redeem herself."
Harry laughed, "Believe me, she won't."
They left Flourish and Blotts in a comfortable silence, disregarding the whispers scattered around them, unpleasant as it was. She saw Ginny waving up ahead and the same pack of girls from before out of the corner of her eye. They were stalking an unsuspecting Harry, the pumpkin-shaped girl leading the charge.
"I didn't know you met already," Ginny smiled. "How wonderful!"
"This past Monday," Harry replied amiably.
"Did you tell him you're coming to the wedding?" she asked Hermione.
"He knows," Hermione said, catching Harry's smile.
"And you're getting on well enough, are you?"
Before they could answer, the front door of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions burst open. The knob hit the pumpkin-shaped girl in the stomach. She stumbled backwards, arms like pinwheels, bowling over her friends who were buried under her. No doubt some of them were crushed in the process too.
"Mr Potter!" Madam Malkin bellowed, hands on her meaty hips. "What have you done with my tape measure, you depraved boy?!"
A/N: I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading.
