Harry is informed of the Yule Ball and is less than pleased. The Potter universe and it's characters are the property of J. K. Rowling, who graciously allows us to play in her sandbox; thank you, ma'am.
Hogwarts Horserace
"… attendance is, of course, mandatory for all champions."
"Yes, yes, I'm sure you'll all have a wonderful …" Bagman went on, Harry's attention dropped. Harry was not a happy camper, student, competitor – he refused to be a 'Champion' — person. He'd gone from blazing fury to cold, dispassionate anger. He had a List, and didn't give a damn if anyone on it would be missed. Dead worked just fine for Harry.
— • —
"Potter, are you aware you will need a date for the Yule Ball?" McGonagall asked Harry.
"No."
"Potter, the champions and their dates open the ball with the first dance."
"I'm not a champion, first. Second, I'm not dating anyone."
"Well, you'll just have to ask someone, Potter."
"Fine. Will you open the ball with me, Professor?"
McGonagall was stunned. Her mouth opened and closed several times, finally she recovered the power of speech. "Absolutely not, Potter."
"Then I won't be there."
"You have to be there, Potter."
"Is this the Deputy Headmistress, the head of Gryffindor House, or the Headmaster vice Deputy Headmistress speaking?" Harry asked.
"I … I … the Headmaster, Potter."
"Then inform him that one, I won't be there; two, in the race for the top of Potter's Shitlist he's coming around the clubhouse bend and in the lead by three lengths. Voldemoron is behind him, Malfoy fils and Malfoy pere are tied for third, followed closely by His Fudgeness. If he has questions, tell him to look up Iron Feliks. Nine grammes of lead solves so very many problems." Harry turned on his heel and left the room. McGonagall just stood there, stunned.
— • —
"Dumbledore, you have a problem." McGonagall had just stormed into the headmaster's office, un-announced and likely after that, un-welcome. Dumbledore noted her speech pattern. No 'Albus,' no 'headmaster.' This didn't bode well.
"Have a lemon drop and tell me about it," he said in what was supposed to be a soothing tone.
"Stop blathering and pay attention," McGonagall snarled. "Go get that pensieve. Now." Deciding that he didn't want to spend time as a hamster, caged in her classroom; Dumbledore rose and got the pensieve, placing it on the middle of his desk. McGonagall drew forth a silvery thread of memory and deposited it in the pensieve. "Look at it carefully," she ordered him. "There's one part I don't understand. We'll talk about it afterward."
Several minutes later, Dumbledore came out of the memory device. "Other than Harry's rather adamant statement of not attending, I don't understand it," he told his deputy. "What part didn't you understand?"
McGonagall began cursing, first in Gaelic, then Latin. The Latin was quite disturbing, Dumbledore thought. A couple of minutes later, she ran down. Dumbledore brightened, that didn't last long.
"Ye're a daft moron, Dumbledore, an' ignorant to boot. Sassenach." The last word was almost hissed. "Potter described a horse race, you're in the lead by …" she paused. "By a good bit," the witch finished. "You're ahead of Voldemort. AND the Malfoys." Another pause. "The prize is first place on Potter's Shitlist. That's not good.
"The parts I don't understand are the references to 'Iron Feliks' and 'nine grammes of lead.' Who is this Feliks person, and how does a lead weight solve problems?"
— • —
Filius Flitwick removed his left hand from Dumbledore's pensieve. "Oh, dear, you do have a problem, Albus."
By now, Dumbledore's mood had fairly well soured. "And what is it, Filius?" he asked in what was a barely-polite tone.
"You're wondering about Iron Feliks and the lead?" Flitwick asked.
"Yes," Dumbledore responded.
"Feliks Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky was the first chief of the Soviet secret police," Flitwick told them. "His nickname was 'Iron Feliks.' He shot 'enemies of the state' in the back of the head with a nine millimetre pistol; presumably the bullet weighs nine grammes, I'd have to look that up."
— 30 —