Chapter 14: Rogue Bludger
November 3, 1992 – Tuesday
Defense of the Dark Arts Classroom
Since the calamitous incident involving the pixies, Professor Lockhart had refrained from bringing live creatures into his classes. Instead, he had taken to reading passages from his own books, his voice taking on a dramatic tone as he recounted his supposed adventures. To add a touch of excitement, he would occasionally reenact the most theatrical segments of his tales, often with Harry and Buffy as his unwitting accomplices. They had been cast in roles as simple Transylvanian villagers who had been miraculously cured of a Babbling Curse, and as yetis suffering from a head cold. Each role was more absurd than the last, leaving the students both bewildered and entertained.
However, when Lockhart reached the chapter, in his Voyages with Vampires, about a vampire that supposedly could only consume lettuce, Buffy's patience finally snapped. She interrupted the lesson, her tone resolute and her expression one of barely contained frustration as she informed him that was a lie. "I think not, Miss Potter," Lockhart retorted, his brow furrowing deeply. The creases on his forehead deepened, a clear sign of his annoyance at being called out for fabricating stories.
Buffy stood firm; her eyes locked with Lockhart's as she addressed the class. "Do you remember what Giles and I told you, Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Filch, and Snape on Halloween?" she said, her voice steady and assertive. "While vampires can eat solid foods, they can't survive on them. They require blood."
The classroom fell into a charged silence. Students exchanged glances, their eyes darting between the indignant Buffy and the flustered Lockhart. The tension was palpable as the two figures faced off, the weight of Buffy's revelation hanging heavily in the air.
Lockhart's face flushed with a mixture of indignation and defiance. He straightened his posture, his attempt at regaining control of the situation apparent. "Miss Potter, while I appreciate your enthusiasm for the subject," he said with an air of patronizing calm, "it is clear that you do not yet grasp the finer points of magical lore."
He glanced around the room, searching for support among the students. Finding none, he turned back to Buffy, his expression resolute. "Since you have seen fit to publicly challenge the validity of my published work, I have no choice but to address this disruption accordingly." He cleared his throat, his tone taking on the sharp edge of authority. "You will serve detention in my office this Friday evening. I trust that this time will be used to reflect on the importance of respecting the expertise of your professors."
A murmur of surprise rippled through the class. Harry and Dawn, who had been observing with growing concern, exchanged a worried glance with Willow, Hermione and Ron. They, too, were unsettled by Lockhart's seemingly unjust punishment.
Buffy's face flushed with a mix of disbelief and fury. "Detention? For what? Pointing out inaccuracies?" she protested, but Lockhart raised a hand, signaling her to stop.
"Indeed," Lockhart replied coolly. "Your challenge to my authority is a serious matter."
November 6, 1992 – Friday
Buffy sat at a small wooden desk in the dimly lit corner of Lockhart's cluttered office, the hum of flickering candles casting shadows across the room. The once grand space, now filled with an overwhelming number of glossy photos and stacks of unopened envelopes, seemed to close in around her. Lockhart, seated comfortably behind his desk, appeared almost invigorated by the task at hand. His smile, wide and disingenuous, never wavered as he shuffled through his fan mail, adding personal flourishes to his autographs.
The steady scratch of Buffy's quill on parchment was a stark contrast to Lockhart's jovial chatter. She glanced sideways at him, her irritation barely masked as she forced herself to maintain a polite expression. "Isabella, Isabella, Isabella… Can you possibly imagine a better way to serve detention than by helping me answer my fan mail?" Lockhart's voice, melodious and dripping with self-satisfaction, seemed to fill every corner of the room. He didn't seem to notice, or perhaps didn't care, that his words fell on ears too weary to appreciate the sentiment.
Buffy's eyes flickered over the immense pile of envelopes awaiting her attention. Each envelope was meticulously addressed to Lockhart, but she knew that only the most enthusiastic of fans would ever receive a personal reply. The tedium of the task weighed heavily on her. She took a deep breath and dipped her quill into the inkwell, her movements mechanical as she began to address yet another envelope.
Lockhart, oblivious to her mounting frustration, continued to wax poetic about the nature of fame. "Fame's a fickle friend, Isabella. Celebrity is as celebrity does. Remember that." His words were meant to inspire, but to Buffy, they felt like hollow platitudes, echoing in the stifling air of the office.
As Lockhart signed another photo with flourish, his eyes bright with the excitement of his own reflection, Buffy could not help but cast a disdainful glance at the seemingly endless stack of envelopes that towered beside her. The effort to keep her expression neutral was nearly as exhausting as the task itself.
Each envelope she addressed felt like a small victory, a step closer to finishing this tedious chore. The weight of her irritation was compounded by the sense of injustice, the feeling that she was being punished not for any real wrongdoing but for speaking the truth about Lockhart's inflated claims. With a sigh, Buffy dipped her quill once more, determined to finish the task despite her growing resentment.
As the hours dragged on, the once clear distinction between her feelings and the mundane task at hand began to blur. Buffy's resolve was tested with each envelope she addressed, her patience wearing thin under the relentless pressure of Lockhart's insipid chatter. Yet, with every completed envelope, she held onto the hope that this detestable task would soon be behind her.
November 7, 1992 – Saturday
Gryffindor Girls' Dormitory
Buffy woke early the next morning, her senses still clouded with the remnants of sleep. The faintest streaks of dawn peeked through the curtains, painting the room in gentle hues of gray and gold. The quiet of the early hour seemed to amplify the whirl of thoughts in her mind. She lay in bed for a while, her thoughts consumed by the Quidditch match that loomed on the horizon. The flutter of anxiety in her stomach was palpable, each beat of her heart syncing with the unease she felt about the day ahead. This was to be her first match, and with every passing moment, the weight of the expectation seemed to grow heavier.
As she stared up at the ceiling, her insides churned with apprehension. The prospect of letting down her teammates was a constant, nagging thought. She tried to push these worries aside, but they kept creeping back in, relentless in their persistence. The clock on the bedside table ticked away, each second a reminder of the time slipping away before she would have to face the stadium and her place on the team.
After what felt like an eternity of lying there, battling with her nerves, Buffy finally decided to rise. She pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her feet meeting the cool floor. The chill of the morning air brushed against her skin as she got dressed.
Great Hall
When Buffy arrived in the Great Hall, the usual buzz of morning conversation and clinking of cutlery was noticeably absent. The room, typically filled with the lively chatter of students starting their day, seemed unusually quiet. The Gryffindor table was sparsely populated, with only a few early risers scattered about, their faces drawn and weary from the long night before.
She quickly spotted the Gryffindor Quidditch team huddled together at the far end of the long table. The sight of them, gathered in a tight-knit group, made the air around them feel heavy with tension. Each player seemed lost in their own thoughts, their eyes distant and their movements subdued. The excitement that usually accompanied game day was replaced by a palpable sense of nervous anticipation.
Buffy's gaze fell on Harry, who was sitting slightly apart from the rest of the team. He looked up and caught her eye, a small, reassuring smile spreading across his face. Despite the undercurrent of tension, his gesture was enough to lift her spirits just a little. She felt a flicker of reassurance at seeing a familiar, friendly face amidst the sea of anxiety.
With a determined stride, Buffy made her way over to the table, the sound of her footsteps echoing softly in the cavernous hall. As she approached, the team's collective gaze turned toward her, their expressions a mix of relief and apprehension. She took a seat next to Harry, the warmth of his smile offering a small comfort in the midst of the pre-game nerves.
Quidditch Pitch
As eleven o'clock approached, the entire school seemed to buzz with anticipation, making its way down the winding path to the Quidditch stadium. The air was heavy with humidity, a thick blanket of mugginess settling over the grounds. A distant rumble of thunder added an ominous touch to the day, promising a storm that could make the match even more unpredictable.
Dawn, Willow, Ron, and Hermione, their faces flushed with excitement and concern, hurried over to the entrance of the locker rooms. They exchanged quick but heartfelt words of encouragement with Harry and Buffy, their voices almost lost in the clamor of the crowd and the roar of the distant thunder. The Gryffindor team, their nerves palpable, shuffled into the locker rooms, where the ritual of donning their scarlet robes began.
Inside the locker room, the atmosphere was tense yet charged with an undercurrent of camaraderie. The team members pulled on their robes with a mix of eagerness and anxiety, the rich red fabric a stark contrast to the darkening sky outside. They gathered around Wood, who was about to deliver his customary pre-match pep talk.
"Right, listen up," Wood began, his voice ringing with determination as he stood in front of the team. "Slytherin has better brooms than us," he admitted candidly, the acknowledgment of their disadvantage hanging heavily in the air. "No point denying it. But we've got better people on our brooms. We've trained harder than they have, we've been flying in all weathers—"
"Too true," George Weasley interjected, his tone laced with dry humor. "I haven't been properly dry since August."
Wood continued, undeterred. "—and we're going to make them rue the day they let that little bit of slime, Malfoy, buy his way onto their team."
His eyes burned with fiery passion as he turned to face Harry and Buffy. "It'll be down to you, Harry, to show them that a Seeker has to have something more than a rich father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying, Harry, because we've got to win today, we've got to. And Isabella, do what you've been doing in practice and we will be sure to win."
Fred Weasley, ever the source of levity, added with a grin, "So, no pressure, Harry… Buffy."
The Gryffindor team, feeling the weight of Wood's impassioned words, shuffled out onto the Quidditch pitch. As they emerged, the roar from the crowd was almost deafening. The cheers were enthusiastic, especially from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff supporters eager to see Slytherin defeated. Yet, the Slytherin fans made their displeasure known with a cacophony of boos and hisses, creating a dissonant chorus that filled the stadium.
Madam Hooch, ever the professional, approached Flint and Wood to ensure they shook hands. The handshake was a formality, but the way they gripped each other's hands with a hint of malice and the cold, unspoken challenge in their eyes spoke volumes. The two captains stared each other down, their competitive spirits as evident as the dark clouds gathering overhead.
"On my whistle," Madam Hooch announced, her voice cutting through the tumultuous noise. "Three… two… one…"
With her signal, the players shot upward into the air, propelled by the roar of the crowd and the anticipation of the game. The fourteen figures, clad in their respective team colors, ascended against the backdrop of the foreboding sky.
Buffy's gaze tracked Harry as he soared above the rest, her heightened senses picking up Malfoy's taunting shout. "All right there, Scarhead?" Malfoy's voice was sharp and derisive as he streaked beneath Harry, clearly showing off the speed of his broom.
As Buffy turned her focus to the game, she saw the play unfolding before her. Moments later, she was heading towards the goal with the Quaffle when she noticed a Bludger hurtling toward Harry with alarming speed. Without hesitation, she called out, her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd, "Harry, watch out."
Harry had no chance to respond to Buffy's warning as he narrowly avoided the Bludger, feeling the rush of air as it whisked past, so close that it ruffled his hair. His heart pounded as the Bludger's aggressive pursuit left him little room to maneuver.
"Close one, Harry!" George Weasley's voice rang out as he zoomed past, his grip tight on his club. George swung the club with precision, connecting with the Bludger and sending it hurtling toward Adrian Pucey, a Slytherin player. But, in a surprising twist of fate, the Bludger seemed to defy expectations, changing direction mid-air and homing in on Harry once more.
Harry, caught off guard by the Bludger's relentless pursuit, dropped swiftly, narrowly avoiding a direct hit. The Bludger's trajectory was altered by George's powerful strike, but it immediately corrected course and resumed its chase. This relentless pattern continued as the Bludger pursued Harry with a near-magnetic determination, seeming almost sentient in its targeting.
Desperation drove Harry to push his broom to its limits, accelerating toward the far end of the field. He streaked past Buffy, her eyes following him with a mix of concern and confusion. Buffy's sharp instincts were telling her that something was off; Bludgers typically sought to unseat as many players as possible, not focus obsessively on a single target.
At the other end of the field, Fred Weasley was ready, positioning himself to intercept the Bludger. As Harry drew near, Fred swung his club with all his strength, making contact and altering the Bludger's path. "Gotcha!" Fred shouted triumphantly, but his victory was short-lived. The Bludger seemed inexplicably drawn back to Harry, as though it were bound by some unseen force. It pursued him again, leaving Harry no choice but to veer away at full speed, trying to shake off the relentless threat.
As the game progressed, the rain began to fall heavily, turning the pitch into a slick, treacherous expanse. Buffy felt the stinging droplets on her face, blurring her vision and making it increasingly difficult to keep track of Harry's movements. The rain added an extra layer of challenge to an already intense match.
Buffy's worry for Harry grew as she realized that Slytherin had gained a significant lead, the score standing at sixty points to ten. The only goal Gryffindor had managed was Buffy's own. Frustration and urgency compelled her to signal for a time-out, her arms flailing as she tried to catch Wood's attention amidst the chaotic scene.
"Wood… we need a time out!" Buffy's voice was strained with urgency as she gestured desperately.
"I have to agree with Buffy," George shouted as he tried to signal Wood as well, all while keeping a vigilant eye on the Bludger to prevent it from breaking Harry's nose.
Wood had clearly understood the urgency of the situation. Madam Hooch's whistle cut through the clamor of the crowd, piercing the tension of the game and signaling a much-needed respite. As the players on both teams dropped down to the ground, Harry, Buffy, Fred, and George regrouped in a tight circle, their breaths coming in heavy, misty clouds in the damp, chilly air. The Bludger's relentless pursuit had left them all on edge, their faces etched with frustration and worry.
"What's going on?" Wood's voice was tinged with a mixture of irritation and concern as he addressed the Gryffindor team. The jeering Slytherins in the stands added to the cacophony, their mocking shouts and pointed fingers amplifying the sense of hostility. "We're being flattened. Fred, George, where were you when that Bludger stopped Angelina from scoring? Buffy, where were you also?"
"We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other Bludger from murdering Harry, Oliver," George retorted angrily. His face was flushed, not just from the exertion but from the mounting frustration of seeing their efforts thwarted. "Someone's fixed it — it won't leave Harry alone. It hasn't gone for anyone else all game. The Slytherins must have done something to it."
Buffy's expression was one of deep concern as she added, "I was watching Harry, watching as that Bludger headed for him time after time. I was worried about him, that's my only excuse for not scoring anymore. Somehow, that Bludger has been tampered with."
"But the Bludgers have been locked in Madam Hooch's office since our last practice," Wood replied anxiously, his mind racing to piece together the puzzle. "There was nothing wrong with them then…"
At that moment, Madam Hooch approached them, her stern face set in a determined expression. Over her shoulder, Buffy could see the Slytherin team, their faces illuminated with malicious glee as they pointed and laughed, clearly enjoying the spectacle of Gryffindor's struggle.
"Listen," Harry said, his voice firm despite the strain, as Madam Hooch drew nearer. "With you two flying around me all the time, the only way I'm going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal with the rogue one."
"Don't be thick," Fred countered, his voice laced with concern. "It'll take your head off."
Buffy shook her head decisively, her gaze unwavering as she spoke. "Harry, no. Hand me a Bludger. I will keep it off Harry."
Harry looked at his twin with a mixture of frustration and resignation. "No, Bells. Between you and Angelina, you're one of our best chances of scoring." His eyes pleaded with her to let him handle this.
Wood's gaze shifted from Harry to Buffy, and then to the Weasleys, his face a canvas of conflict and concern. The gravity of their predicament hung palpably in the damp air, mingling with the scent of rain and sweat.
"Oliver, this is insane," Katie Bell's voice cut through the tension, her frustration evident. Her eyes flashed with defiant determination as she stood with her broom in hand, the droplets of rain streaking down her face. "You can't let Harry deal with that thing on his own. Let's ask for an inquiry—"
"If we stop now, we'll have to forfeit the match!" Harry interjected fiercely, his voice brimming with resolve. He looked around at his teammates, his face set with a determined expression despite the peril. "And we're not losing to Slytherin just because of a crazy Bludger! Come on, Oliver, tell them to leave me alone!"
"This is all your fault," George's voice was laced with frustration as he directed his anger towards Wood. "'Get the Snitch or die trying,' what a stupid thing to tell him—"
Buffy, her face etched with worry, stepped in to defuse the situation. "Don't blame this on Wood. Blame it on whoever tampered with that Bludger." Her voice was calm, though her concern for Harry was palpable.
Madam Hooch, having approached them with a determined stride, broke into their heated discussion. "Ready to resume play?" she asked Wood, her voice carrying the authority of the match referee.
Wood, his eyes meeting Harry's steadfast gaze, saw the resolve burning in his eyes. "All right," he said decisively. "Fred, George, Buffy, you heard Harry — leave him alone and let him deal with the Bludger on his own. Buffy, a moment…" he added, motioning for her to stay behind as the rest of the team began to ascend back into the sky. "Do you think you can do this? He is your brother after all, I know you're going to be worrying about him."
Buffy, her brow furrowed with a mixture of worry and determination, nodded. "Yeah, I think I can do it," she replied, her voice steady despite the tumultuous emotions roiling inside her. Wood gave her a reassuring nod before he, too, flew up to rejoin the rest of the team.
As Buffy watched the others take off, she turned her attention back to the field. The Bludger, still on its relentless pursuit, zoomed past Harry's ear, a near miss that only heightened the tension. Buffy muttered quietly to herself, her words barely audible over the roar of the crowd and the storm's growing intensity. "I hope," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, as she fixed her gaze on Harry, her heart aching with the weight of her concern.
Buffy mounted her broom with practiced ease, her muscles tensing as she ascended into the stormy sky, her senses on high alert. Above her, Harry was executing a desperate midair twirl, narrowly avoiding the Bludger that had been hounding him relentlessly. The sneer in Malfoy's voice cut through the air as he taunted Harry, "Training for the ballet, Potter?" The smugness in his tone was unmistakable.
Harry shot off, the malevolent Bludger trailing him like a shadow, just a few feet behind. As he glanced back at Malfoy, his eyes flared with intense hatred—then he saw it. The Golden Snitch was there, glinting in the dull light, hovering tantalizingly close to Malfoy's left ear. Malfoy, too busy laughing at Harry's supposed misfortune, remained blissfully unaware of the prize so close at hand.
For a torturous heartbeat, Harry hesitated in midair, his body poised like a coiled spring. He couldn't risk charging for the Snitch too soon, fearing that Malfoy might notice and snatch it away at the last moment.
Then, WHAM.
A jarring pain exploded in Harry's arm as the Bludger found its mark. The force of the impact was so brutal that he barely registered the sharp crack of bone before the searing agony overwhelmed him. His arm dangled uselessly, and the world spun with a dizzying combination of pain and adrenaline.
Buffy's Slayer instincts screamed at her, a sharp alarm that cut through the chaos. Her eyes immediately found Harry, his face contorted in pain, his arm clearly injured. "Dang," she muttered under her breath, her heart lurching in her chest. Without hesitation, she angled her broom sharply and sped toward him, her mind racing with worry. "You okay?" she called out; her voice tinged with urgency as she drew near.
Harry, his face pale but determined, nodded through the pain. "Get back down there. The quicker we win this, the better. I'm okay, Bells, I swear," he insisted, his voice strained but resolute. Even in the midst of his pain, his focus was unwavering.
Buffy's gaze lingered on him, her heart heavy with concern, but she knew better than to argue with him now. "You die, I'm telling," she warned, her tone a mix of exasperation and affection as she reluctantly veered back down toward the action below. She couldn't shake the gnawing worry, but she forced herself to focus on the game.
Through the curtain of rain and the throbbing pain in his arm, Harry's vision zeroed in on the Snitch once more. It shimmered just beyond the sneering face of Malfoy, who was blissfully unaware of the danger speeding toward him. Harry's resolve hardened, and he dived with all the strength he could muster, his one good arm gripping his broom tightly.
Malfoy's smug expression morphed into shock as he caught sight of Harry bearing down on him, his eyes widening in fear and confusion. He thought Harry was attacking him, and panic overtook him. "What the—" Malfoy gasped, jerking his broom out of Harry's path, his earlier bravado crumbling in an instant.
Harry, gritting his teeth against the pain, took a deep breath and let go of his broom with his one good hand. In a desperate, almost instinctual motion, he made a wild snatch at the air. His fingers closed around the cold, fluttering Snitch just as he lost his balance. With his legs the only thing keeping him on the broom, he was helpless as gravity took over. The crowd's roar of excitement turned to gasps of horror as Harry spiraled toward the ground, struggling to stay conscious as the world blurred around him.
The impact was bone-jarring. Harry hit the muddy pitch with a sickening splatter, rolling off his broom in a tangle of limbs. Pain shot through his body, his arm hanging at an unnatural angle, the pain so intense that it drowned out the noise around him. He could barely process the cacophony of whistles and shouts from the stands, but one sound cut through the fog in his mind: the frenzied yell of Lee Jordan announcing, "Harry Potter has caught the Snitch… Gryffindor Wins!"
Buffy's heart pounded as she heard Lee's announcement. Without hesitation, she dove towards Harry, pushing her broom to its limit. The moment her feet touched the ground, she jumped off, not even bothering to land properly. She sprinted across the pitch, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts, to where Harry lay crumpled in the mud. The sight of him unconscious, his face pale and slick with rain and sweat, sent a jolt of fear through her.
Hermione, Ron, Willow, and Dawn came running onto the pitch, their faces etched with concern. Hermione, with her usual quick thinking, raised her wand toward the rogue Bludger that had caused so much chaos. "Finite incantatem!" she commanded, her voice firm. The Bludger exploded in midair, shattering into harmless pieces that rained down on the field.
Harry's eyes fluttered open, his vision swimming as he took in the sight of Buffy and Dawn kneeling protectively beside him. Relief flooded through him, but it was short-lived as he noticed Lockhart rushing toward them, his robes billowing dramatically, his face set in a mask of exaggerated concern. "Bells! Dawn!" Harry managed to gasp out, his voice weak.
Buffy's eyes narrowed as she followed Harry's gaze, immediately catching sight of Lockhart. She and Dawn quickly stood up, moving as one to block Lockhart's path. Buffy's glare could have frozen fire as she planted herself firmly in front of the approaching professor. "Where do you think you're going?" she demanded, her voice low and dangerous, her protective instincts flaring up.
Lockhart, momentarily taken aback by the fierce look in Buffy's eyes, hesitated, but before he could respond, Hermione knelt beside Harry, her face a mask of worry. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly as she looked at his twisted arm.
Harry shook his head weakly, his face contorting in pain. "No," he croaked, his breath hitching. "I think my—I think my arm's broken." The words came out in a strained whisper, his pain evident in every syllable.
Lockhart's smile faltered for only a moment as he looked past Buffy and Dawn, his eyes narrowing with determination. With a self-assured grin, he attempted to sidestep them, his focus solely on Harry. "Not to worry, Harry," he said, his voice dripping with false bravado. "I will fix that arm of yours straight away."
Buffy, however, stood her ground, her expression hardening as she shook her head firmly. "I don't think so, Professor. You will leave my brother alone."
Lockhart's confidence wavered slightly, but he quickly recovered, his tone condescending as he addressed Buffy. "Dear girl, do not forget why you had detention last night. I am a professor and know how to do this sort of thing." He gave her a dismissive wave, as if her concerns were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Buffy's eyes darkened, her frown deepening into something far more dangerous. "I don't give a rat's rear about what you want," she replied, her voice low and steady, laced with the power of someone who had faced far greater threats than an egotistical professor. "I am a Slayer, remember? You will leave my brother alone, or you'll end up next to him in the hospital wing." Her stance was unwavering, her eyes fixed on Lockhart with a warning that was impossible to ignore.
Lockhart hesitated, his bravado finally cracking under the weight of Buffy's resolve, but before he could respond, a calm and authoritative voice cut through the tension. "That will be enough, Miss Potter," Dumbledore said, stepping up beside Buffy, his presence immediately commanding respect. His gaze, though gentle, left no room for argument. "Madam Pomfrey is here now and will take Harry to the hospital wing. Why don't you and Dawn accompany him?"
Buffy's shoulders relaxed slightly, and she nodded, her fierce protectiveness giving way to a sense of relief. She shot one last glare at Lockhart before turning her attention back to Harry. With a subtle motion, she signaled to Dawn, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes.
Dawn quickly moved to her sister's side as they, along with Madam Pomfrey, gently helped Harry up. Buffy's hand remained steady on Harry's good arm, her touch reassuring as they began the walk back toward the castle. The rain continued to fall in heavy droplets, mingling with the muddy ground beneath their feet, but Buffy hardly noticed. Her mind was focused on getting Harry to safety, her thoughts only for her brother as they made their way toward the hospital wing.
Hospital Wing
Buffy and Dawn sat closely by Harry's side, their eyes filled with concern as they watched Madam Pomfrey carefully administer the bone-mending potion. The smell was sharp, almost medicinal, as she poured the thick, viscous liquid into a small goblet and handed it to Harry. The liquid shimmered slightly in the dim light of the hospital wing, promising both pain and healing.
"I'm keeping you in here all night, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey said with a no-nonsense tone, her expression stern but not unkind. "To make sure that the bones mend properly."
Harry, feeling the ache in his arm slowly begin to fade, nodded in understanding. Despite the discomfort, he managed a small, hopeful smile as he glanced at his sisters. "Can Bells and Dawn stay with me tonight, please?"
Madam Pomfrey sighed, the weight of Harry's request evident in her expression. She turned to Dumbledore, who had been silently observing from the foot of the bed, his eyes twinkling with that familiar mix of wisdom and understanding. After a brief, thoughtful pause, Dumbledore gave a single, slow nod. "Yes, Harry, they can," he replied softly. "I doubt they would reluctantly leave you anyways." His gaze shifted kindly to Buffy and Dawn, acknowledging the fierce loyalty that bound the three siblings together. "I will have dinner sent up for the three of you."
As the tension in the room eased, Buffy couldn't hold back her thoughts any longer. Her voice, though soft, carried a weight of worry and frustration. "Harry, why did you do that? We should have forfeited." There was a tremor in her tone, a reflection of the fear she had felt watching him hurtling toward the ground with a rogue Bludger on his tail.
Dawn, her voice equally filled with concern, added, "No matter how you spin it, Harry. Your life is worth more to me, Buffy, and Mom than winning Quidditch is." She reached out to gently squeeze Harry's good hand, her grip firm, as if to anchor him to the reality of their bond. Buffy nodded in agreement, her eyes reflecting the unspoken promise that they would always put his safety first.
Harry sighed, the weight of their words sinking in as he looked between his two sisters. The adrenaline from the match had long since faded, leaving him with a heavy sense of guilt for the worry he had caused them. "Sorry, Bells, Dawnie," he said quietly, his voice tinged with regret. "I guess I wasn't thinking at the time."
Buffy and Dawn exchanged a look, their concern evident but softened by the relief that he was safe now. Buffy reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Harry's forehead, her touch light and soothing. "Just promise us you'll think next time," she murmured, her voice carrying the depth of her love and the silent plea for him to be more careful in the future.
As Ron, Willow, and Hermione entered the hospital wing, the tension in the room began to lift, replaced by the warmth of their familiar faces. They moved quickly across the room, their footsteps echoing softly on the cold stone floor as they approached the trio at Harry's bedside. Ron, unable to contain his excitement, broke into a wide grin. "Congrats, mate," he said, clapping Harry gently on the shoulder. "That was some catch you made. Malfoy's face…he looked ready to kill…"
Harry couldn't help but smile at the thought, a flicker of satisfaction lighting up his tired features. But the mood shifted quickly as Hermione's expression darkened with suspicion. "I want to know how he fixed that Bludger," she said, her voice low and serious, her mind already racing with possibilities. Since Halloween they had heard Malfoy talking about what had been written on the wall when Buffy and Giles had found Mrs. Norris petrified. They thought he might know something about the attack.
"We can add that to the list of questions we'll ask him when we've taken the Polyjuice Potion," Harry replied, sinking back onto his pillows with a weary sigh. The mere thought of the potion made his stomach turn, especially after the bitter taste of the bone-mending draught he had just swallowed. "I hope it tastes better than this stuff…" he added, grimacing as the aftertaste lingered on his tongue.
Ron, ever the joker, couldn't resist a quip. "If it's got bits of Slytherins in it? You've got to be joking," he said, pulling a face that made Willow and Hermione stifle their laughter. But beneath the humor, there was a shared understanding of the risks they were about to take.
Buffy, who had been quietly listening, shook her head thoughtfully. "Have we decided who's going?" she asked, her voice laced with concern. "Six Slytherins showing up all at once is going to be suspicious."
Hermione sighed; the weight of their plan heavy on her shoulders. "Well, Harry should go, of course," she said, her tone decisive. "Buffy, maybe you should as well. And maybe myself, since I'm brewing the potion?"
Buffy nodded, her expression firm but tinged with worry. "Sounds like a plan," she agreed, her gaze flicking between Harry and Hermione. There was an unspoken understanding between them — this plan was dangerous, but it was necessary.
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Hours later, Harry jolted awake, his body tense with sudden pain as his arm throbbed with discomfort, still not fully mended. The room was cloaked in thick darkness, save for the faint outlines of the figures beside him. Buffy and Dawn stirred in their beds, their eyes snapping open, instantly alert to their brother's distress. The quiet was pierced by a soft sound—something, or rather someone, was sponging Harry's forehead in the darkness.
"Get off!" Harry said loudly, instinctively pushing away the unknown presence. Then, as his vision adjusted to the dim light, he gasped, "Dobby!"
The large, tennis ball-sized eyes of the house elf gleamed in the darkness, filled with a mix of sorrow and guilt. A single tear traced its way down Dobby's long, pointed nose, glistening in the faint moonlight that filtered through the window.
"The Potter family came back to school," Dobby whispered, his voice thick with misery. "Dobby warned and warned Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter. Ah, why didn't you all heed Dobby? Why didn't Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter go back home when they missed the train?"
Harry, grimacing from the lingering pain in his arm, pushed himself up on his pillows, brushing Dobby's sponge away with a sense of urgency. "What're you doing here?" he demanded, confusion and frustration lacing his tone. "And how did you know we missed the train?"
A tremor passed through Dobby's lower lip, and the house elf's entire demeanor seemed to crumple under the weight of his emotions. Harry exchanged a quick glance with Dawn and Buffy, and a chilling realization began to dawn on them.
"It was you!" Dawn said slowly, her voice filled with disbelief. "You stopped the barrier from letting us through!"
Buffy let out a low, menacing growl. "You could have gotten us expelled if not for Mom being there and her quick thinking," she said, her tone edged with anger.
"Indeed yes," Dobby nodded vigorously, his large ears flapping with the motion. His bandaged fingers twitched as he wrung his hands, the evidence of his self-inflicted punishment for his actions. "Dobby hid and watched for the Potter family and sealed the gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward"—he extended his hands, revealing the long, bandaged fingers—"but Dobby didn't care, for he thought Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter were safe, and never did Dobby dream that they would get to school another way!" His voice cracked as he rocked back and forth, shaking his head in despair. "Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter were back at Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had…"
"You nearly got us expelled," Buffy repeated, her voice thick with barely restrained fury. Her eyes bore into Dobby, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. The thought of everything they had risked, all the dangers they had faced, only to be nearly undone by this house-elf's misguided attempts to protect them, made her blood boil.
Harry, though still in pain, leaned forward slightly, his tone dark with a threat that he was almost too tired to make good on. "You'd better get lost before my bones finish mending, Dobby, or I might strangle you."
Dobby looked up at Harry with a weak, trembling smile that seemed more sad than fearful. "Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them five times a day at home." He sniffled loudly and blew his nose on the grimy corner of the pillowcase he wore, the fabric stained and worn from years of neglect. The pitiful sight of the creature, despite the anger he stirred, tugged at a corner of Dawn's heart.
"Why do you wear that thing, Dobby?" Dawn asked, her voice softening as her curiosity mingled with a pang of sympathy. The house-elf, in all his misguided efforts, was clearly suffering in his own right.
Dobby looked down at the pillowcase, his fingers gently plucking at the frayed edges as if it were both his greatest burden and his most precious possession. "This, miss?" he repeated, his voice tinged with a resigned sadness. "'Tis a mark of the house-elf's enslavement, miss. Dobby can only be freed if his masters present him with clothes, miss. The family is careful not to pass Dobby even a sock for then he would be free to leave their house forever."
As Dobby wiped at his bulging eyes, Buffy felt a flicker of something other than anger—a deep, aching pity for the small creature who was bound by such cruel rules. But before she could dwell on it, Dobby's expression shifted, urgency returning to his voice.
"Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter must go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make—"
"Your Bludger?" Buffy interrupted, her anger flaring up once more. The very idea that this elf had put her brother's life in danger made her hands clench into fists at her sides. "What d'you mean, your Bludger? You made that Bludger try and kill Harry? You better get out of here if you know what's good for you."
Dobby recoiled slightly, his large eyes widening in horror at her words. "Not kill, miss, never kill!" he said quickly, his voice trembling with sincerity. "Dobby wants to save Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter's lives! Better sent home than remain here, miss! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough so the three of you could be sent home!"
"Oh, is that all?" Harry said angrily, the frustration of the entire situation finally boiling over. "I don't suppose you're going to tell us why you wanted us sent home and me in pieces?" His tone was sharp, but beneath the anger was an undercurrent of exhaustion, the weight of the day's events pressing down on him.
"Ah, if Harry and Isabella Potter only knew!" Dobby groaned, his voice heavy with despair, as more tears spilled onto his ragged pillowcase, soaking the worn fabric. Each tear seemed to carry the weight of his anguish, the sorrow of a creature burdened by secrets too dark to share. "If you both knew what you mean to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world!"
His large, mournful eyes gazed up at Harry and Buffy, shimmering with a mixture of reverence and desperation. The room seemed to close in around them, the air thick with the gravity of Dobby's words. Even in their pain and confusion, the twins could feel the profound sense of importance that the elf placed on them—a significance that went far beyond their own understanding.
"Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, sir!" Dobby continued, his voice trembling with the memory of unspeakable horrors. "We house elves were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, sir," he admitted, his face contorting with a mix of shame and resignation as he wiped his wet cheeks on the threadbare pillowcase. "But mostly, sir, life has improved for my kind since the Potter Twins triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
His words hung in the air, a haunting reminder of the dark days that had once plagued the magical world. Buffy and Harry exchanged a glance, the weight of Dobby's revelations pressing down on them like a physical force. Dobby's trembling voice continued, weaving a tale of hope and fear.
"Harry and Isabella Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and Harry and Isabella Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end, sir…" Dobby's voice cracked, his reverence for them as palpable as his fear for what was to come. "And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more."
As the last words left his lips, Dobby froze, his entire body stiffening in horror as if the very mention of the Chamber had broken some unspoken law. His eyes widened in panic, realizing he had said too much, and in a frantic attempt to punish himself, he seized Harry's water jug from the bedside table. With a sickening crack, he smashed it over his own head, the sound echoing in the stillness of the infirmary.
Buffy and Harry flinched at the violence of the act, watching in shock as Dobby toppled out of sight, the jug rolling away, shards of glass scattered across the floor. A second later, he crawled back onto the bed, his eyes crossed and unfocused, muttering in a dazed voice, "Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby…"
"So, there is a Chamber of Secrets?" Buffy whispered, her voice barely audible, laced with both fear and determination. The dim light of the infirmary seemed to darken further as the weight of her words hung in the air. Her grip tightened on Dobby's bony wrist, her Slayer instincts kicking in as she sensed the gravity of the situation. "And did you say it's been opened before? Tell us, Dobby!" She leaned closer, her eyes boring into the elf's wide, terrified ones. As his hand inched toward the water jug again, Buffy held him firmly, preventing any more self-inflicted punishment. "But none of us are Muggle-born—how can we be in danger from the Chamber?"
Dobby trembled under her gaze, his eyes so wide they seemed to take up half his face, glowing with a haunted look in the dark room. "Ah, miss, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby," he stammered, his voice quaking with fear. "Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter must not be here when they happen—go home, go home. Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter must not meddle in this. 'Tis too dangerous even for a Slayer!"
"Who is it, Dobby?" Harry pressed, his voice tense, while Buffy kept a firm grip on the elf's wrist, preventing him from reaching for the jug again. The tension between them was palpable, each breath heavy with anticipation. "Who's opened it? Who opened it last time?"
Dobby's entire body convulsed with the effort to keep the secrets he had been sworn to protect. "Dobby can't, sir, Dobby can't, Dobby mustn't tell!" he squealed, his voice reaching a pitch of desperation that sent a shiver down Buffy's spine. "Go home, go home!"
"We're not going anywhere!" Harry declared fiercely, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and resolve. His voice cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and unyielding. "One of our best friends is Muggle-born; she'll be first in line if the Chamber really has been opened—"
Dobby looked at them with something close to worship in his wide, watery eyes, his voice trembling as he spoke, "Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter risk their own lives for their friends and family!" His words were thick with a kind of miserable ecstasy, as if he were both awed and tormented by their bravery. "So noble! So valiant! But they must save themselves and their family, they must, Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter must not—"
But then, Dobby suddenly froze, his bat-like ears quivering with alarm. Buffy's heightened Slayer senses picked up the sound, too—footsteps echoing down the passageway outside, growing louder with each passing second.
"Dobby must go!" the elf breathed, his voice filled with terror. With a loud crack, he vanished into thin air, leaving Buffy's fist clenched around nothing. The sudden emptiness where Dobby had been left a cold chill in the air, as if the very walls of the infirmary had absorbed the fear he had left behind.
The three of them slumped back into their beds, their hearts pounding in unison as they stared at the darkened doorway of the hospital wing. The footsteps drew nearer, echoing ominously in the silence, each step a reminder of the unknown dangers lurking within the castle.
The next moment, the tall, familiar figure of Dumbledore backed into the dormitory, his long woolly dressing gown and nightcap making him look every bit the wise, old wizard he was. He was carrying one end of what looked like a statue, his expression grim and weary. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, her face pale and serious as she carried the feet. Together, they heaved the statue onto a bed with a soft thud.
"Get Madam Pomfrey," whispered Dumbledore, his voice low but urgent, as Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry, Buffy, and Dawn's beds and out of sight. The trio lay quite still, their breaths shallow, pretending to be asleep as their minds raced with questions and fears.
They heard the murmur of urgent voices, filled with concern and something darker, more foreboding. Then, Professor McGonagall swept back into view, her movements quick and purposeful, closely followed by Madam Pomfrey, who was hastily pulling a cardigan on over her nightdress.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Madam Pomfrey as she bent over the statue on the bed, her eyes wide with shock. "What happened?" she whispered to Dumbledore, her voice tinged with a mix of horror and disbelief as she examined the figure before her.
"Another attack," said Dumbledore, his voice heavy with the weight of the words, each syllable resonating with the gravity of the situation. His normally calm demeanor was shadowed by concern as he continued, "Minerva found him on the stairs."
"There was a bunch of grapes next to him," added Professor McGonagall, her voice tinged with sorrow and frustration. "We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit the Potters." Her usually stern face was softened with worry, her eyes flickering between the bed and Dumbledore, seeking some reassurance that she herself couldn't offer.
Buffy, who had been lying still in her bed, frowned as her gaze shifted to Harry. The familiar sense of dread that had been gnawing at her since the Chamber was first mentioned began to claw at her insides. Without saying a word, she slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, her movements deliberate and steady. The room seemed to grow colder as she made her way toward the professors, her presence almost ghostly in the dim light.
As she approached, she saw Colin Creevey lying on the bed, his small form rigid and unnatural. His eyes were wide open, frozen in terror, and his hands were suspended in mid-air, still clutching his camera as if it were a lifeline. The sight of him, a boy so full of life and enthusiasm, now reduced to this petrified state, sent a chill down Buffy's spine.
"Petrified?" whispered Madam Pomfrey, her voice barely audible, as if saying the word aloud might somehow make it worse. Her eyes were filled with a mix of horror and pity as she looked at the boy's frozen figure.
"Yes," confirmed Professor McGonagall, her voice trembling slightly, a rare crack in her otherwise unshakable demeanor. "But I shudder to think… If Albus hadn't been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate—who knows what might have—" She broke off, her voice thick with unspoken fears.
"Miss Potter?" Dumbledore's voice broke through the tension, his tone both gentle and commanding as he finally noticed Buffy's presence beside him.
Buffy looked up at him, her expression firm despite the turmoil churning inside her. "I'm a Slayer, remember, Professor," she replied, her voice steady and resolute. "I had to see for myself." Her words carried the weight of her responsibility, the innate drive to confront whatever darkness threatened her loved ones.
"I understand," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of understanding and caution. He knew all too well the burdens she carried, but there was a gravity in his voice as he added, "That said, I must ask that you not go looking for whatever is doing this."
"I understand," Buffy repeated, though her tone hinted at the internal struggle between her duty as a Slayer and Dumbledore's order.
Dumbledore nodded, sensing her inner conflict but trusting in her judgment. He then turned his attention back to Colin, leaning forward and carefully wrenching the camera from the boy's rigid grip. The action seemed almost symbolic, as if he was trying to pry the truth from the darkness that surrounded them.
"You don't think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?" asked Professor McGonagall eagerly, her voice filled with a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a clue in that camera, something that could help them stop these attacks before it was too late.
Dumbledore remained silent, his face a mask of deep concentration as he carefully opened the back of Colin Creevey's camera. The faint click of the camera's hinges seemed to echo in the tense atmosphere of the hospital wing.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Madam Pomfrey, her voice barely containing her shock.
A jet of steam hissed out from the camera with an almost sinister hiss, curling into the dim air of the room like a wisp of smoke from a dark spell. Buffy recoiled slightly at the sudden burst of acrid, burnt plastic that assailed her nostrils. The smell was sharp and unpleasant, a stinging reminder of the damage that had been done.
"Melted," said Madam Pomfrey in a voice tinged with both disbelief and sorrow, her eyes widening as she examined the ruined remains of the camera. "All melted…" The camera, once a symbol of Colin's enthusiasm and curiosity, was now a twisted, blackened shell, its once-precise mechanisms utterly destroyed.
"What does this mean, Albus?" Professor McGonagall asked urgently, her normally composed demeanor cracking under the weight of the revelation. Her eyes flickered between the remains of the camera and Dumbledore, seeking answers in the midst of the chaos.
"It means," Dumbledore said, his voice grave and measured, "that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again." His gaze remained fixed on Colin's petrified form, as if searching for further clues in the boy's unmoving face. The words hung heavily in the air, the implications of the Chamber's reopening settling like a dark cloud over everyone present.
Madam Pomfrey's hand flew to her mouth in shock, her eyes wide with the gravity of the situation. Her usual calm and professionalism were momentarily overshadowed by the horror of what had just been revealed.
Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore, her expression a mixture of disbelief and fear. "But, Albus… surely… who?" she stammered, her voice trailing off as the enormity of the situation sank in. The question of who could be behind this dark resurgence seemed almost too vast and terrifying to contemplate.
"The question is not who," Dumbledore replied, his eyes still on Colin, as if the answers might be hidden within the boy's petrified state. "The question is, how…"
November 8, 1992 – Sunday
Hospital Wing
Buffy woke to find the hospital dormitory bathed in the crisp, golden light of winter sunlight, the warmth of the rays starkly contrasting with the cold air of the room. She sat up quickly, the sudden movement jarring her from a deep sleep. Her eyes darted towards Colin's bed, but the sight was obstructed by high, billowing curtains that created a barrier between her and the rest of the ward. The swathes of fabric were a muted grey, their texture soft but impenetrable, keeping out any hint of the morning commotion from Colin's side of the room.
As Buffy glanced around, she noticed that both Harry and Dawn were awake as well. Their sleepy eyes met hers, and just then, Madam Pomfrey bustled over, her efficient movements a sharp contrast to the otherwise stillness of the ward. She carried a breakfast tray, laden with three plates of steaming food. The aroma of porridge, freshly baked bread, and a hint of bacon filled the air, mingling with the clean, sterile scent of the hospital wing.
Without missing a beat, Madam Pomfrey began her meticulous work, bending and stretching Harry's injured arm and fingers. Her hands were gentle but firm, her face set in a mask of concentrated care. "All in order," she announced briskly as Harry, his face contorted in a mixture of concentration and discomfort, clumsily fed himself porridge with his left hand.
"When you've finished eating, all three of you may leave," Madam Pomfrey said, her voice carrying the faintest hint of a promise for freedom, though her eyes remained vigilant.
Once Madam Pomfrey had walked away to attend to other patients, Buffy turned to her siblings. "I think I'd better go see Giles about this," she said, her voice resolute but tinged with concern. "I would then ask Dumbledore if he'd let me patrol. But given what he said last night, I don't think he would. So, I may use my necklace and do it invisibly."
Harry nodded, his expression a mix of worry and trust. "Be careful, Bells… please," he implored, his voice laced with genuine concern for his sister's safety.
Buffy offered a reassuring smile, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "You know, I think I should get Mom to change my name to Bells since you call me that so much anyways," she teased, the light-hearted comment serving as a balm to the tension in the room.
Harry and Dawn both laughed, the sound a welcome relief from the gravity of their recent experiences. The warmth of their shared laughter filled the space, momentarily lifting the veil of worry that had settled over them.
Gryffindor Common Room
In the Gryffindor common room, Voldemort's lips curved into a sinister smile. The flickering firelight cast long shadows across the room, dancing on the walls and illuminating his pale, serpentine features. His eyes gleamed with a malevolent satisfaction, for everything was unfolding precisely as he had orchestrated. His plan was moving forward seamlessly. Ginny Weasley, the unwitting pawn in his grand scheme, would eventually fall victim to his machinations, paving the way for his return to full power.
The dark, brooding space was filled with an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire. A heavy sense of anticipation hung in the air, thick with the promise of impending doom. The thought of reclaiming his lost body and escaping the confines of the teenage girl's form brought a twisted sense of triumph to his heart. He had been patient, biding his time within this vessel, but soon the opportunity for rebirth would be within his grasp.
Nearby, a mirror stood incongruously amidst the comfortable clutter of the Gryffindor common room, its ornate frame gleaming softly in the fire's light. As Voldemort's gaze shifted to the reflective surface, he saw a distorted version of himself staring back. The reflection, however, was not his own—within the polished glass, Willow Weasley's image met his eyes. The sight was both startling and intriguing. Her usually warm and bright demeanor was now overshadowed by the cold, calculating presence of the Dark Lord that had taken hold of her.