Stomp, stomp, CLAP!
Stomp, stomp, CLAP!
"Weasley is our KING!
Weasley is our KING!
He always lets the Quaffle in,
Weasley is our KING!"
Stomp, stomp, CLAP!
Stomp, stomp, CLAP!
Harry paused in his relentless and tiresome scrubbing to cock an ear to the wind. He could hear…singing? Stomping? The wind picked up, sweeping the sound away a bit, but not even the muffled yet booming voice of Lee Jordan could stifle the many voices that Harry was sure belonged to the entirety of the Slytherin crowd.
Stomp, stomp, CLAP!
"And its Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is!" Jordan was saying. Harry's scrubbing slowed to a crawl as he strained to hear. "I've been saying it for years but she still won't go out with me, she'd rather shack up with Harry Potter, but that's okay—sorry, Professor McGonagall, just a fun fact, adds a bit of interest—and she's ducked Warrington…passes…oh, but she's hit from behind by a Bludger from Crabbe and it's Montague that catches the Quaffle…"
Despite feeling embarrassed at being called out by Lee, Harry cursed loudly.
Snape, who had been standing at one of the open passageways facing the pitch in the distance, turned around sharply and glared at him. Harry quickly sped up again to keep from glaring right back. They were at the top of the tower that housed the Owlery, where the school kept both the owls belonging to the students and a supply of their own for general use. Harry had been scrubbing owl droppings from the hard, crusted surfaces of the space for hours. Snape had given him some weird-tasting potion to keep the contaminants in the droppings from making him sick. It did nothing, however, to help the smell. Even the rather crisp and damp air could not sweep away the sharp smell from making his nostrils twitch and burn. In fact, the dampness of the air made it worse.
He scrubbed at a particularly tough spot on one of the owl perches and pretended to be concentrating hard on removing the white crust.
"Doesn't seem as if Miss Johnson is fairing too well, Potter…" Snape spoke, his back to the boy as he peered out over the landscape. He shook his head and clicked his tongue when another cheer of triumph from the Slytherin stands was carried to them on the wind. "No indeed not. Pity."
Harry knew he was smirking. He scrubbed harder and faster out of anger. The evil bastard brought me up here to torture me, he thought venomously. When the hell was the last time anyone cleaned this place? And without magic at that? No, he just wanted me to hear my team losing the match.
"We haven't lost yet," Harry found himself saying aloud. Again Snape turned to stare at him contemptuously. "Ginny will probably catch the Snitch before they score again."
"Ah yes," Snape sneered. "Clinging to what little shred of hope you have, eh, Potter? Fine. Ignore the fact that your lanky friend has yet to block a goal and his mousy sister is half Draco's size with even less skill-"
"She's better than Malfoy wishes he was!" Harry snapped, before he could stop himself.
Snape growled: "Get back to work. Not another word. Root for your hopeless teammates if you will, but do it silently, and scrub!"
Harry stiffly resumed his scourging of owl droppings, but followed Snape's advice and silently prayed that Ginny would catch the Snitch and end the game. He knew that Ron's confidence usually plummeted when he became distracted, and one had to admit that the relentless singing was indeed a distraction. Poor Ron. Harry could only imagine how embarrassed and angry he must've been feeling right then.
Stomp, stomp, CLAP!
"-that's funny, Katie Bell and Warrington seem to be doing the same move…but it's Warrington with the Quaffle now, Warrington heading for the goal…he's out of Bludger range with just the Keeper, Ron Weasley ahead…"
"Weasley cannot save a thing,
He cannot block a single ring!
That's why we Slytherins all sing:
Weasley is our KING!"
Harry heard Snape chuckle softly as the white dust of owl muck stuck itself to his glasses and in his hair. He gritted his teeth and scrubbed, listening intently to Lee Jordan's echoing commentary: "So it's the first test for new Gryffindor Keeper, Weasley, brother of banned players Fred and George—GO RON!"
Harry couldn't help himself from looking up into the distance that Snape was watching, his heart beating fast as he squinted for some glimpse of action. He could hardly see anything, of course, save the blurry edge of one of the goal rings and a few tiny dots that he knew were players. Come on, Ron…he prayed, not caring if Snape caught him or not. He gripped the clean end of the owl perch tightly. You can do it. Just concentrate. Block them out and focus!
There was an agonizing pause that to Harry took forever, and then a gigantic rise of cheers and stomps. His hopeful shoulders fell when he heard Lee announce: "SLYTHERIN SCORES! Went straight through the central goal, despite the Gryffindor Keeper's efforts—bad luck, Ron…so it's thirty/nil for Slytherin."
And like clockwork:
"WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN!
HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN!
HE'LL MAKE SURE THAT WE WIN!
WEASLEY IS OUT KIIIINNNGGG!"
STOMP, STOMP, CLAP!
Thinking that he would like nothing more than to push Snape, who even with his back turned managed to look smug and self-congratulatory, out of the open space where the owls soared through, Harry reached down to dip his filthy scrubber into the even filthier water and continued with his detention.
This time he tried to block out what was happening. Though he still had hope that Ginny would clench it for them or Angelina would be able to score, he decided that all listening was doing was making him angry. It was distracting him from his work, and he still had so much more to go. He'd be there all night if he kept stalling. It's only thirty points in, he reasoned. They'll catch up.
He moved away from Snape, abandoning the perch he was working on, and went to the far wall on the opposite side of the space. The large square opening there faced the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Harry stared out at the net of dark green, one hand moving up and down the wall mechanically, the other hanging lax at his side. He was getting cold; his fingers were numb from being soaked with the cooling water and scrubbing so much. Most of the owls were trying to sleep, though they shifted and flapped their wings in irritation occasionally when he disturbed them by moving around. One or two even dropped fresh buds for him to clean up, hooting as if out of amusement.
He heard another swell of cheers and ignored it, not wishing to guess which side it belonged to.
He thought of Cho. It had been on the steps leading up to the Owlery that he had finally gotten up the nerve to ask her to the Yule Ball. Her sweet face smiling at him regretfully was a far cry from the stony silence she had delivered to him at the D.A. meeting they held Thursday night. It had been a complete transformation. She stayed close to Marietta, not looking at him the whole time they were in pairs, practicing the Impediment Jinx. She flung her wand a little too viciously at him once when he asked her to demonstrate for him and he found himself hitting the opposite wall with so much force that it knocked him out for a few seconds. When he came to, Zacharius Smith looked positively beside himself with amusement and the twins were stifling laughter of their own. "Er…good job…" he had managed to say to her, limping over to observe Neville and Luna Lovegood. Luna blinked at him airily and said: "She's mad at you."
Harry didn't understand at first what he had done to make Cho angry with him, but Hermione told him later that night that she'd overheard Marietta and Cho talking in one of the girls' lavatories.
"I think she didn't really believe the rumors about you and Angelina at first," Hermione had said. "She mentioned seeing the two of you kiss or something. She clammed up when she noticed I was there, mind you, but I'm certain it has something to do with that."
Harry didn't need for Hermione to have heard any more. He realized that Cho had probably been angered by the fact that he had almost let her kiss him, when he was already with Angelina. Well what was he supposed to have done? She basically cornered him in the D.A. room and before he knew it she was leaning in…at least that was what he told himself. He didn't acknowledge the fact that if she hadn't compared him to Cedric he probably would have let her lips touch his. Just to see what it was like…he'd daydreamed about it for so long last year…
"Johnson and Montague are neck-and-neck!" Lee's voice carried to him, even from across the room. "They're both doing an impressive move, but…oh! And Johnson gets the upper hand!" Harry grinned at the lump of dark gray owl poop at his feet. "Angelina scores!"
All they needed was thirty more points and they would have passed Slytherin. Harry made a mental note to give Angelina a big, tight embrace when next he saw her. She had been worried. With good reason. Even though things had been strained between them because of what happened, he felt that if they won this match, despite the enemy's best efforts to sabotage them, everything would be okay again.
Tuesday night, after what Ron described as a rather long and grueling practice drill, Angelina had returned to the common room perhaps an hour after everyone else had gone up to bed. Harry had been waiting for her, though truthfully he didn't really know what he had planned to do. Just talk, really. But, upon greeting her, Harry immediately noticed that something was off. She looked pale, even with her skin tone, and withdrawn.
"What's wrong?" he'd asked, seriously.
Angelina merely shook her head. "Nothing…"
"Yes there is," Harry stood close to her and tried to force her to look at him. "What is it? Ron said practice was okay. He said you worked on a lot of good stuff…you don't think it went well?"
"It went well."
Harry frowned, a little put off by her vague answers. She would not look at him. He noticed then that she was kind of dirty. He supposed that being the kind of person she was, Angelina put her whole body and heart into Quidditch, so the fact that she had gotten dirty during a practice drill should not have come as a surprise. But, as he observed her sitting down tiredly on the chaise lounge with her head leaned back and her eyes closed, he saw that her knees were soiled. Her Quidditch robes had a tear in them at the shoulder, and the palm of her right hand was red as if it had been pushing hard against something. Harry's eyes moved from her hand to her hair, his chest becoming thick with a sense of foreboding, and he noticed that she had dried dirt and dead leaves tangled within the delicate ebony locks.
"What happened?" he said sharply.
Angelina jumped, startled at his harsh voice, and her eyes opened. She looked at him finally. He waited. She said clearly: "Nothing..."
Harry didn't know all of her faces yet. This one was blank, unblinking, and matter-of-fact. He could not sense any emotion behind it, and when he looked into her eyes all he saw was weariness.
"Why did it take you so long to get back?" he asked, gently this time.
"I was thinking. Just thinking."
"'Bout what?" Harry couldn't help the questions—she was acting oddly and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. He sat next to her, reaching out to take her hand. She watched him, her eyes on his, as he laced his fingers with hers and rubbed the back of her thumb softly.
"About the match, of course," came her quiet reply. "I'm not sure if Ron is ready."
"He said the practice went well…"
"It did, he's improving, but he still gets nervous and loses focus."
"Well what about the plays you came up with? Those'll help you guys keep the upper-hand, scoring-wise right?"
"They should…" Angelina's eyes narrowed and she turned to stare into the fireplace. Harry was struggling with his desire to ask her more questions. Whatever she had been thinking about while she'd been away had upset her; that was plain to see. He suspected that there was something else behind it, but he couldn't guess what. This frustrated him, but he didn't want to push her. He turned and looked into the fire with her. They sat close to each other on the couch for a while until she slipped her hand from his and stood up. "I need a shower."
She left his side without saying anything else and went upstairs. Harry wanted to wait, but he knew she wouldn't come back down. Feeling a little rejected, he went up to bed. He guessed that girls went through these things sometimes…nothing for it but to be patient. She was under a lot of stress; he could definitely understand that.
The next couple of days passed and Angelina's mood got a little better, but not much. They hardly saw each other between classes, and when they did they just sat and talked, though Harry did most of that. He even asked Fred before dinner the night of the D.A. meeting if this was something that happened to Angelina a lot. Fred had shrugged at him. "You know girls, mate. There's always something up their arses."
Harry had rolled his eyes impatiently. "Yeah, but something is really wrong with her. She's not herself."
Taking a serious tone, Fred nodded his agreement. "Yeah. I know what you mean. I've tried to cheer her up but she's been a bit meaner with me and George lately than she usually is."
"D'you think it's just the match, then? All the stress with Umbridge and training new players?" He had asked Hermione.
"Probably. But don't push her, Harry. Let her work it out on her own."
And the next day, during their free period, Angelina had burst into the common room near tears, her face flushed with angry panic and her chest heaving. "SOMEONE'S STOLEN MY PLAYBOOK!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, nearly hyperventilating from the emotion coursing through her.
Harry had jumped up from his chair, his fists clenched as if ready to strike at some phantom attacker. "What?"
The lot of them (Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Dean, and Neville) gaped at her, gobsmacked by the force of her declaration. She stood wide-eyed and shaking, her eyes flying from one stunned face to the next, before they landing on Harry and she burst into tears. This time Hermione stood up as Harry took hold of his girlfriend and pressed her warmly to himself, truly at a loss for what to say.
"Who do you think would have…?" Hermione asked him, but he glared at her as if it should be obvious. Malfoy…he mouthed to her as Angelina sobbed in his arms.
When she had calmed down, she told them that she'd gone to fetch it from her locker in the changing rooms so she could make a few notes and found it missing. Her lock had been blasted open by someone's wand and the door to the locker was barely on its hinges.
"It's gone! It's all gone! All my plays, my notes, everything!" Harry felt her squeeze him very hard, her hands clinging to his shirt, though she didn't cry. She was angry. And he was right along with her. "What are we going to do? The match is tomorrow!"
"It was Malfoy that done it, and we're gonna clobber him!" George had angrily declared when retold the story by Ron and Harry. They had left Angelina with Hermione and Ginny, who were doing their best to console her. Harry's ribs ached a little from her vise-like hold on him. He didn't care, though; he wanted nothing more than to go and beat the snot out of Malfoy.
"How d'you know it was him?" Katie Bell had asked.
"Are you mad?" Ron shouted. "Of course it was!"
"Yes but do you have proof?"
Harry never fancied the idea of hitting girls, but Katie was asking for a good slap. He blinked at her impatiently. "I don't need any bloody proof, I know he's got it and he's fucking going to give it back or I'll kill him!"
They all gasped—it was maybe the first time he had said such a foul curse word where anyone could hear. Fred and George grinned, impressed. Ron gave a small huff of laughter and Katie just looked offended.
"Fine," she snapped, crossing her arms indignantly. "Go and get yourself expelled if you want. But I'm telling you no one will take you seriously if you can't prove it was Malfoy who stole our playbook." He breathed angrily through his nostrils at her for several seconds before he realized that she was right. "Her locker is jinxed so that whoever tampers with it gets long-term crossed eyes." Katie said evenly, ignoring Harry's angry expression.
"Okay. So we look for the bloke with crossed eyes." Ron suggested.
Harry shook his head. "Draco's eyes are fine. We saw him on our way to Divination, remember?"
"Well there you go." Katie said as if the matter was settled.
"That doesn't mean anything!" Harry snapped. "He could've gone to the hospital wing to get them fixed."
"So, why don't we go to the damned hospital wing and ask Madame Pomfrey?" Fred cut in, becoming annoyed with Katie and Harry's stand-off. They all trooped down to the wing, Harry leading the way. Madame Pomfrey seemed extremely put-upon and annoyed by their virtual attack of questions and she hushed them into silence.
"What in Merlin's name is the matter with you lot?" she asked, exasperated, looking at each of them in turn.
"We were just wondering…" Harry asked, trying to make his voice innocently curious. "Did anyone come to you in the last couple of days to uncross their eyes?"
She frowned at him. "That's an odd question, Potter."
"Have they?"
Still looking at him as if he were up to something, she nodded slowly. "Yes. Beefy young man. One of those gloomy Slytherin boys. He said his friend jinxed him in a fight. Well he seemed like the fighting type so I gave him a good stern talking to and fixed him right up." She sighed pleasantly, then. "Sometimes I find it's better to scold them myself, rather than reporting them. It's almost always an accident, poor things, and with the questionable methods going on in this place now-days, I don't hesitate to offer students my support."
Satisfied that she had been talking about either Crabbe or Goyle, Harry turned to Katie triumphantly when Pomfrey went back to her duties. Katie scowled at him but relented that he was right to suspect Malfoy. As they were making their way out, Harry was called back.
"Yes M'am?" Harry watched Pomfrey approach him, thinking that maybe she had forgotten to give him some detail about his inquiry. Instead she produced a tiny vial of clear liquid and a handful of cotton balls.
"The Headmaster mentioned that you had a little…eh…thing." Her eyes swept across his neck. He frowned. "It looks like it's gone, now, but this is for…future use. A little dab provides instant removal. There you go; nothing to be embarrassed about." She stuffed the vial and cotton balls into his hands and smiled. "I was once a young lady myself, you know."
Harry thanked her a bit awkwardly and shoved the things into his pockets; eyeing Fred, George, Ron, and Katie threateningly; just daring them to say a word.
Now, thinking back on it, Harry realized he ought to have known that this bit of information they obtained would do little good. Hermione had put that to bed almost instantly. "Harry, that's just not enough to go off accusing anybody."
"But what other 'beefy, gloomy' Slytherin kids who're the 'fighting type' do you know Hermione?"
"That's not the point and you know it. Umbridge—who is the deciding voice on any and all punishments I'd like to remind you—will make out that there are loads of people that fit that description, or else dismiss it as simply not enough evidence to suggest wrong-doing."
"So let me get this straight." Harry's shoulders stiffened as he narrowed his eyes, gesturing with his hand at nothing in particular. "You're telling me that even though someone stole all of the plays Angelina came up with right out of her locker, there is nothing we can do about it? We're just going to have to wait and see which team uses the stuff she wrote?"
"I'm afraid so…" Hermione said in a small voice, adding hastily when Harry opened his mouth to retort: "I know it's terribly unfair, but Harry you shouldn't attack Malfoy and get yourself thrown out over this!"
"Hermione is right," Angelina spoke from her position curled up on his bed. Harry turned his gaze to her, his demeanor softening. She had been like that for an hour after dinner, just laying there on his bed with her knees dawn up and his small quilt that Molly Weasley had knitted for him last winter wrapped tightly around herself. She sat up now, the quilt sliding from her shoulders. "There isn't anything we can do about it."
Harry wanted to protest some more. "That's ridiculous-!" but she raised a hand to silence him.
"Harry just drop it!" she snapped, her pretty face quivering with tears she was forcing back. "We can't go to Umbridge and we can't go after Malfoy, so just leave it alone. I'll have to deal with it." He watched her hop off his bed and smooth down her skirt, smiling at him sadly before stepping past him towards the door. "I came up with those plays and my team is going to use them. We'll see what happens."
With that, she left them.
Harry regretted that he hadn't been able to see her this morning: he'd been here, in this damned shite-covered Owlery, scrubbing for Snape's sick amusement.
"I don't see how you can hope to finish if you keep scrubbing the life out of the same patch of wall, Potter," Snape spoke, almost on cue. Harry rose up from his thoughts and saw that he had been cleaning the same spot the whole time. Sighing, he turned and found another spot; his arm was mid-scrub when he heard Lee Jordan yelling. Harry stopped and his head flew up at Snape, who abruptly abandoned his glowering at Harry to turn towards the noise, too. The man's obvious zeal for the game would have been comical to Harry if he weren't covered in dried-foulness.
"Looks like she's almost got it! Malfoy is giving her a run for it! OH, don't take that, Ginny, there you go! And…and…and…" Please, please, get it, Ginny! Harry screamed at her with his mind, trying to drive his hope at her like a paper airplane in the wind. "YES! GINNY WEASLEY CAUGHT THE SNITCH AND GRYFFINDOR WINS!"
Harry jumped up and gave a whoop of triumph, causing Snape to turn around sharply to rebuke him. The wizard was pleasantly surprised, however, to find that the owls Harry had disturbed were flapping all around him, hooting angrily. Not attempting to suppress his smile, Snape watched as the owls cuffed the boy about the head with their huge wings for a minute or two before lazily telling him to get back to work.