Chapter 34: The Lion and the Serpent
November 2, 2002 – Saturday
Great Hall
October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain, each gust and droplet hammering against the castle walls with a fury that heralded the end of autumn's fleeting warmth. November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning that turned the ground into a brittle, crystalline landscape and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces with a relentless sharpness. The skies and the ceiling of the Great Hall turned a pale, pearly gray, casting a muted, ghostly light over the students. The mountains around Hogwarts became snowcapped, their white peaks stark against the somber sky, and the temperature in the castle plummeted so far that many students resorted to wearing their thick protective dragon skin gloves in the corridors between lessons, their breath visible in the chilly air.
The morning of the first Quidditch match dawned bright and cold, the sunlight cutting through the crisp air with an almost painful clarity. The Great Hall was filling up fast when Harry and Ron arrived, the usual chatter amplified to a near-deafening roar, the mood more exuberant than usual. As they passed the Slytherin table, a sudden upsurge of noise caught Harry's attention; nearly everyone there was adorned with silver badges in the shape of crowns in addition to their customary green-and-silver scarves and hats. For some reason, many of them waved at Ron, their laughter ringing out in mocking waves. Harry tried to see what was written on the badges as he walked by, but his concern to get Ron past their table quickly prevented him from lingering long enough to read them.
They received a rousing welcome at the Gryffindor table, where everyone was wearing red and gold, but far from raising Ron's spirits, the cheers seemed to sap the last of his morale. He collapsed onto the nearest bench, looking as though he were facing his final meal, his face pale and strained.
"I must've been mental to do this," Ron said in a croaky whisper, his voice barely audible over the din. "Mental."
"Don't be thick," said Harry firmly, passing him a choice of cereals. "You're going to be fine. It's normal to be nervous."
"I'm rubbish," croaked Ron, his eyes dull and unfocused. "I'm lousy. I can't play to save my life. What was I thinking?"
"Get a grip," said Harry sternly. "Look at that save you made with your foot the other day, even Fred and George said it was brilliant—"
Ron turned a tortured face to Harry. "That was an accident," he whispered miserably. "I didn't mean to do it—I slipped off my broom when none of you were looking and I was trying to get back on and I kicked the Quaffle by accident."
"Well," said Harry, recovering quickly from this unpleasant surprise, "a few more accidents like that and the game's in the bag, isn't it?"
Dawn, Hermione, and Ginny sat down opposite them, their faces flushed with excitement, wearing red-and-gold scarves, gloves, and rosettes. The colors stood out vividly against the drab surroundings, a visual rallying cry of support.
"How're you feeling?" Dawn asked Ron, who was now staring into the dregs of milk at the bottom of his empty cereal bowl as though seriously considering attempting to drown himself in them.
"He's just nervous," said Harry, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
"Well, that's a good sign," said Hermione heartily, her voice a bit louder as if trying to infuse her own confidence into Ron. "I never feel you perform as well in exams if you're not a bit nervous."
"Hello," said a vague and dreamy voice from behind them. Harry and Dawn looked up: Luna Lovegood had drifted over from the Ravenclaw table. Her ethereal presence was like a soft breeze, drawing attention without effort. Many people were staring at her, some openly laughing and pointing. She had managed to procure a hat shaped like a life-size lion's head, which was perched precariously on her head, the mane looking as though it might spring to life at any moment.
"I'm supporting Gryffindor," said Luna, pointing unnecessarily at her hat, her eyes wide with innocent enthusiasm. "Look what it does…" She reached up and tapped the hat with her wand. It opened its mouth wide and gave an extremely realistic roar that made everyone in the vicinity jump, their laughter turning into gasps of surprise. "It's good, isn't it?" said Luna happily, her smile broad and genuine. "I wanted to have it chewing up a serpent to represent Slytherin, you know, but there wasn't time. Anyway… good luck, Ronald!"
She drifted away, her hat bobbing with each step. They had not quite recovered from the shock of Luna's hat before Angelina came hurrying toward them, her expression a mix of determination and urgency, accompanied by Katie and Alicia. The latter's eyebrows had mercifully been returned to normal by Madam Pomfrey, though they still bore traces of the morning's chaos.
"When you're ready," Angelina said, her voice brisk, "we're going to go straight down to the pitch, check out conditions, and change."
"We'll be there in a bit," Harry assured her, glancing at Ron, whose pallor had not improved. "Ron's just got to have some breakfast."
It became clear after ten minutes, however, that Ron was not capable of eating anything more. His attempts to force food down only made him look queasier, and Harry thought it best to get him down to the changing rooms. As they rose from the table, Hermione and Dawn got up too, and taking Harry's arm, they drew him to one side.
"Don't let Ron see what's on those Slytherins' badges," Hermione whispered urgently, her eyes darting nervously towards the Slytherin table.
Harry looked questioningly at the sisters, but they shook their heads warningly; Ron had just ambled over to them, looking lost and desperate, his steps slow and heavy.
"Good luck, Ron," said Hermione, standing on tiptoe and kissing him on the cheek, her gesture filled with sisterly affection and hope.
"And you, Harry—" Dawn said, her eyes locking with his for a brief moment before she too stood on tiptoe, kissing him on the cheek.
Quidditch Stadium
The frosty grass crunched under their feet as Dawn and Hermione hurried down the sloping lawns toward the stadium along with the rest of the student body. Each step released tiny plumes of mist as the frozen blades shattered beneath their weight. There was no wind at all, and the sky was a uniform pearly white, casting an even, diffused light over the grounds, which meant that visibility would be good without the drawback of direct sunlight in the eyes. They mounted the banked benches of the spectators' stands now, the cold metal biting through their cloaks as they found seats among the throngs of excited students.
The Gryffindor team marched in single file out of the changing room and into the dazzling sunlight. The bright light made their red and gold robes shimmer as though they were aflame. A roar of sound greeted them, in which Dawn and Hermione could hear singing, though it was muffled by the overwhelming cheers and whistles that filled the air, a cacophony of support and excitement.
The Slytherin team was standing and waiting for them, their green robes stark against the wintry backdrop. They too were wearing those silver crown-shaped badges, which glinted menacingly in the light.
"Captains shake hands," ordered the umpire, Madam Hooch, her voice carrying with authority across the pitch as Angelina and Montague reached each other. Dawn could tell that Montague was trying to crush Angelina's fingers, his grip tight and unyielding, though she did not wince, her face a mask of calm determination.
"Mount your brooms…" Madam Hooch placed her whistle in her mouth and blew, the sharp sound piercing the cold air.
The balls were released, and the fourteen players shot upward, a burst of color and motion against the pale sky; the sisters saw Ron streak off toward the goal hoops, his form a blur of scarlet and gold. They then noticed that Harry zoomed higher, dodging a Bludger with a skillful twist, and set off on a wide lap of the pitch, while Draco Malfoy mirrored his movements, both Seekers scanning the field for the elusive Snitch.
"And it's Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is, I've been saying it for years but she still won't go out with me—"
"JORDAN!" yelled Professor McGonagall, her voice a mix of exasperation and bemusement.
"Just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest—and she's ducked Warrington, she's passed Montague, she's—ouch—been hit from behind by a Bludger from Crabbe… Montague catches the Quaffle, Montague heading back up the pitch and—nice Bludger there from George Weasley, that's a Bludger to the head for Montague, he drops the Quaffle, caught by Katie Bell, Katie Bell of Gryffindor reverse passes to Alicia Spinnet and Spinnet's away—" Lee Jordan's commentary rang through the stadium, his voice filled with infectious enthusiasm. "—dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger—close call, Alicia—and the crowd are loving this, just listen to them, what's that they're singing?"
And as Lee paused, the song rose loud and clear from the sea of green and silver in the Slytherin section of the stands, the words carried by a collective voice full of mocking glee::
Weasley cannot save a thing,
He cannot block a single ring,
That's why Slytherins all sing:
Weasley is our King.
Weasley was born in a bin,
He always lets the Quaffle in,
Weasley will make sure we win,
Weasley is our King.
"—and Alicia passes back to Angelina!" Lee shouted, trying to drown out the sound of the singing. His voice strained against the rising tide of the chant. "Come on now, Angelina—looks like she's got just the Keeper to beat!—SHE SHOOTS—SHE—aaaah…"
Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper, had saved the goal; his swift, decisive movement sent the Quaffle flying to Warrington, who sped off with it, zigzagging in between Alicia and Katie with a speed and agility that made the crowd gasp. The singing from below grew louder and louder as he drew nearer and nearer Ron, the taunting words seeming to amplify with every passing second:
Weasley is our King,
Weasley is our King,
He always lets the Quaffle in,
Weasley is our King.
Dawn and Hermione watched, hearts pounding in their chests, as Harry abandoned his search for the Snitch. He turned his Firebolt toward Ron, a lone figure at the far end of the pitch, hovering before the three goal hoops while the massive Warrington pelted toward him, his eyes fixed on the target, his path clear.
"—and it's Warrington with the Quaffle, Warrington heading for goal, he's out of Bludger range with just the Keeper ahead—" Lee's voice rose to a fever pitch as the tension in the stadium became palpable, every eye fixed on the impending showdown between the Slytherin Chaser and the beleaguered Gryffindor Keeper.
A great swell of song rose from the Slytherin stands below, their voices joining in a relentless chant that seemed to vibrate through the very air around them:
Weasley cannot save a thing,
He cannot block a single ring…
"—so it's the first test for new Gryffindor Keeper, Weasley, brother of Beaters, Fred and George, and a promising new talent on the team—come on, Ron!" Lee's voice rang out with forced optimism, straining to inspire confidence amidst the mounting tension.
But the scream of delight came from the Slytherin end: Ron had dived wildly, his arms wide in a desperate attempt to block the shot, and the Quaffle had soared effortlessly between them, straight through Ron's central hoop. The Slytherin supporters erupted in raucous celebration, their cheers blending into a single, triumphant roar.
"Slytherin score!" came Lee's voice, tinged with disappointment, amid the mixed cacophony of cheering and booing from the crowds below. "So that's ten-nil to Slytherin—bad luck, Ron…"
The Slytherins sang even louder, their taunting chorus rising to a near-deafening volume::
WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,
HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN…
"—and Gryffindor back in possession and it's Katie Bell tanking up the pitch—" cried Lee valiantly, his voice struggling to rise above the overpowering din of the Slytherin chant. The relentless singing seemed to permeate every corner of the stadium, but Katie Bell surged forward with determination, her eyes fixed on the goal ahead.
WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN,
WEASLEY IS OUR KING…
Dawn and Hermione noticed that Harry had been stationary in midair for more than a minute, his eyes fixed intently on the progress of the match, seemingly oblivious to the whereabouts of the Snitch. They weren't the only ones who had noticed his inattention.
"Harry, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" screamed Angelina, soaring past him in a blur of red and gold to keep up with Katie. "GET GOING!"
Startled and horrified at his lapse, Harry went into a dive and started circling the pitch again, his eyes scanning the surroundings with renewed urgency. He tried to block out the thunderous chorus that now echoed through the stadium, each line a mocking reminder of Ron's struggle:
WEASLEY IS OUR KING,
WEASLEY IS OUR KING…
There was no sign of the Snitch anywhere Harry looked; Malfoy was still circling the stadium just like Harry, his movements methodical and calculating. As they passed Dawn and Hermione midway around the pitch, going in opposite directions, the sisters heard Malfoy singing loudly, his voice dripping with sarcasm and derision:
WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN…
"—and it's Warrington again," bellowed Lee, his voice straining to compete with the roaring crowd, "who passes to Pucey, Pucey's off past Spinnet, come on now Angelina, you can take him—turns out you can't—but nice Bludger from Fred Weasley, I mean, George Weasley, oh who cares, one of them anyway, and Warrington drops the Quaffle and Katie Bell—er—drops it too—so that's Montague with the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Montague takes the Quaffle, and he's off up the pitch, come on now Gryffindor, block him!"
Harry zoomed around the end of the stadium behind the Slytherin goal hoops; as he sped past the Slytherin Keeper, he heard Bletchley singing along with the crowd below, his voice blending seamlessly with the taunting chorus:
WEASLEY CANNOT SAVE A THING…
"—and Pucey's dodged Alicia again, and he's heading straight for goal, stop it, Ron!" Lee's voice cut through the din, filled with urgency.
Dawn and Hermione did not have to look to see what had happened: a terrible groan erupted from their fellow Gryffindors, coupled with fresh screams and applause from the Slytherins. Looking across the stadium, Dawn saw the pug-faced Pansy Parkinson right at the front of the stands, her back to the pitch as she conducted the Slytherin supporters who were roaring with malicious glee:
THAT'S WHY SLYTHERINS ALL SING:
WEASLEY IS OUR KING.
The situation worsened as Ron let in two more goals. The Slytherins' chants grew louder, their confidence swelling with every point:
"—and Katie Bell of Gryffindor dodges Pucey, ducks Montague, nice swerve, Katie, and she throws to Johnson, Angelina Johnson takes the Quaffle, she's past Warrington, she's heading for goal, come on now Angelina—GRYFFINDOR SCORE! It's forty-ten, forty-ten to Slytherin and Pucey has the Quaffle..." Lee's voice rang with renewed hope.
Dawn and Hermione could hear Luna's ludicrous lion hat roaring amidst the Gryffindor cheers and felt heartened; only thirty points in it, that was nothing, they could pull back easily. The lion's roar was a bizarre yet comforting sound amid the chaos.
Harry ducked a Bludger that Crabbe had sent rocketing in his direction and resumed his frantic scouring of the pitch for the Snitch, keeping one eye on Malfoy in case he showed signs of having spotted it. Malfoy, like him, continued to soar around the stadium, his eyes sharp and alert but equally fruitless in the search. The atmosphere was electric, every player's movement charged with intensity, the outcome hanging precariously in the balance.
"—Pucey throws to Warrington, Warrington to Montague, Montague back to Pucey—Johnson intervenes, Johnson takes the Quaffle, Johnson to Bell, this looks good—I mean bad—Bell's hit by a Bludger from Goyle of Slytherin and it's Pucey in possession again..."
The relentless chant continued to echo through the stadium:
WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,
HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN,
WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN—
Dawn noticed that Harry had seen it at last: the tiny, fluttering Golden Snitch, hovering tantalizingly just feet from the ground at the Slytherin end of the pitch. Her heart leaped as she nudged Hermione, and together they watched, breath held, as Harry dived.
In a matter of seconds, Malfoy was streaking out of the sky on Harry's left, a green-and-silver blur lying flat on his broom, determination etched on his face.
The Snitch skirted the foot of one of the goal hoops and scooted off toward the other side of the stands; its change of direction favored Malfoy, who was nearer. Harry yanked his Firebolt around, his muscles straining with the effort, and he and Malfoy were now neck and neck, racing against time and each other.
Feet from the ground, Harry lifted his right hand from his broom, his fingers stretching desperately toward the Snitch. To his right, Malfoy's arm extended too, their hands reaching, groping...
It was over in two breathless, desperate, windswept seconds—Harry's fingers closed around the tiny, struggling ball. Malfoy's fingernails scrabbled the back of Harry's hand hopelessly, a moment too late. Harry pulled his broom upward triumphantly, the Snitch secure in his grip, and the Gryffindor spectators exploded with joy, their screams of approval shaking the stands.
They were saved. It did not matter that Ron had let in those goals. Nobody would remember as long as Gryffindor had won—their victory assured by Harry's skill and determination, the chorus of cheers drowning out the mocking Slytherin chants as red and gold flags waved triumphantly in the air.
WHAM!
A Bludger hit Harry squarely in the small of the back, sending him flying forward off his broom. Luckily, he was only five or six feet above the ground, having dived so low to catch the Snitch, but he was winded all the same as he landed flat on his back on the frozen pitch. The impact left him gasping for breath, the cold seeping through his robes. He heard Madam Hooch's shrill whistle, an uproar in the stands compounded of catcalls, angry yells, and jeering. A thud echoed nearby, followed by Angelina's frantic voice cutting through the chaos.
"Are you all right?" Angelina asked, her face a mask of concern as she knelt beside him.
"'Course I am," said Harry grimly, taking her hand and allowing her to pull him to his feet. He winced slightly, his back aching from the blow. Madam Hooch was zooming toward one of the Slytherin players above him, though he could not see who it was at this angle.
"It was that thug, Crabbe," said Angelina angrily. "He whacked the Bludger at you the moment he saw you'd got the Snitch—but we won, Harry, we won!" Her eyes sparkled with triumphant joy, a stark contrast to the lingering pain Harry felt.
Harry heard a snort from behind him and turned around, still holding the Snitch tightly in his hand. Draco Malfoy had landed close by; white-faced with fury, he was still managing to sneer, his eyes flashing with bitter resentment.
"Saved Weasley's neck, haven't you?" Malfoy said to Harry, his voice dripping with venom. "I've never seen a worse Keeper… but then he was born in a bin… Did you like my lyrics, Potter?"
Harry did not answer; he turned away, dismissing Malfoy's taunts, and walked over to meet the rest of the team who were now landing one by one, yelling and punching the air in triumph. The exhilaration was contagious, their faces alight with victory. All except Ron, who had dismounted from his broom over by the goalposts and was making his way slowly back to the changing rooms alone, his head hanging low.
"We wanted to write another couple of verses!" Malfoy called, as Katie and Alicia hugged Harry, their laughter and cheers ringing in his ears. "But we couldn't find rhymes for fat and ugly—we wanted to sing about his mother, see—"
"Talk about sour grapes," said Angelina, casting Malfoy a disgusted look, her eyes narrowing with contempt.
"—we couldn't fit in useless loser either—for his father, you know—" Malfoy continued, his voice a sneering drawl.
Fred and George had realized what Malfoy was talking about. Halfway through shaking Harry's hand, they stiffened, their eyes narrowing as they turned to face Malfoy. The atmosphere around them grew tense, the earlier triumph threatening to dissolve into chaos.
"Leave it," said Angelina at once, taking Fred by the arm with a firm grip. "Leave it, Fred, let him yell, he's just sore he lost, the jumped-up little—"
"—but you like the Weasleys, don't you, Potter?" said Malfoy, sneering, his voice dripping with malice. "Spend holidays there and everything, don't you? Can't see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you've been dragged up by Muggles even the Weasleys' hovel smells okay—"
Harry grabbed hold of George's arm, feeling the taut muscles straining under his grip. Meanwhile, it took the combined efforts of Angelina, Alicia, and Katie to stop Fred from leaping on Malfoy, who was laughing openly, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight. Harry looked around desperately for Madam Hooch, but she was still berating Crabbe for his illegal Bludger attack, her back turned to the unfolding confrontation.
"Or perhaps," said Malfoy, leering as he backed away, his voice carrying across the pitch, "you can remember what your mother's house stank like, Potter, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it—"
The words hit Harry like a physical blow, and he felt a surge of white-hot anger flood through him. He was not aware of releasing George; all he knew was that a second later both of them were sprinting at Malfoy, driven by an overpowering need to wipe the smirk off his face. The fact that all the teachers were watching, or that they were still on the Quidditch pitch, did not even register in Harry's mind. All he wanted to do was cause Malfoy as much pain as possible.
With no time to draw out his wand, Harry merely drew back the fist clutching the Snitch, feeling the tiny wings fluttering against his knuckles, and sank it as hard as he could into Malfoy's stomach. The impact was satisfying, a dull thud that reverberated through his arm as Malfoy doubled over, his sneer replaced by a look of shock and pain.
Gryffindor Common Room
"Banned," said Angelina in a hollow voice, late that evening in the common room. "Banned. No Seeker and no Beaters… What on earth are we going to do?"
It did not feel as though they had won the match at all. Everywhere Dawn looked, there were disconsolate and angry faces; the team themselves were slumped around the fire, all apart from Ron, who had not been seen since the end of the match. The usual warmth and camaraderie of the common room had been replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence.
"It's just so unfair," said Alicia numbly, her voice tinged with disbelief. "I mean, what about Crabbe and that Bludger he hit after the whistle had been blown? Has she banned him?"
"No," said Ginny miserably; she, Dawn, and Hermione were sitting beside Harry. "He just got lines. I heard Montague laughing about it at dinner."
"And banning Fred when he didn't even do anything!" said Alicia furiously, pummeling her knee with her fist. The frustration in the room was palpable, a living, breathing entity that seemed to weigh down on everyone.
"It's not my fault I didn't," said Fred, with a very ugly look on his face. "I would've pounded the little scumbag to a pulp if you three hadn't been holding me back."
Dawn noticed that Harry stared miserably at the dark window. Snow was falling in thick, silent flakes, the only sound in the room the soft patter of snow against the glass. The Snitch he had caught earlier was now zooming around and around the common room; people were watching its progress as though hypnotized. Crookshanks was leaping from chair to chair, trying to catch it, his ginger fur standing out starkly against the dark wood.
"I'm going to bed," said Angelina, getting slowly to her feet. Her movements were sluggish, weighed down by the events of the day. "Maybe this will all turn out to have been a bad dream… Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and find we haven't played yet…"
She was soon followed by Alicia and Katie, their faces drawn and weary. Fred and George sloped off to bed some time later, glowering at everyone they passed, their usual mischievous energy completely sapped. Ginny went not long after that, her head hanging low.
Only Harry, Dawn, and Hermione were left beside the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows on their somber faces. The silence between them was thick with unspoken worries and frustrations.
"Have you seen Ron?" Hermione asked in a low voice, her concern for their absent friend evident.
Harry shook his head, his expression heavy with worry.
"I think he's avoiding us," said Dawn. "Where do you think he—?"
But at that precise moment, there was a creaking sound behind them as the Fat Lady swung forward and Ron came clambering through the portrait hole. He was very pale indeed, his face almost as white as the snow that clung to his hair and shoulders. When he saw Harry, Dawn, and Hermione, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in surprise.
"Where have you been?" said Hermione anxiously, springing up from her seat with a look of intense concern etched on her face.
"Walking," Ron mumbled. He was still wearing his Quidditch things, and his breath was visible in the chill air. His robes were damp and his cheeks ruddy from the cold.
"You look frozen," said Dawn, her voice gentle. "Come and sit down!"
Ron walked to the fireside and sank into the chair farthest from Harry's, not looking at him. The fire crackled warmly, casting a soft, flickering light over the room. The stolen Snitch zoomed over their heads, its delicate wings a blur of gold.
"I'm sorry," Ron mumbled, staring intently at his feet, his voice barely audible over the crackling fire.
"What for?" said Harry, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"For thinking I can play Quidditch," said Ron, his voice breaking with self-recrimination. "I'm going to resign first thing tomorrow."
"If you resign," said Harry testily, his frustration bubbling to the surface, "there'll only be three players left on the team." And when Ron looked puzzled, he added, "I've been given a lifetime ban. So've Fred and George."
"What?" Ron yelped, his face contorted in shock and disbelief.
Dawn and Hermione stepped in to tell Ron the full story; Harry could not bear to recount the ordeal again. Dawn's voice was soft yet steady as she detailed the events, while Hermione's tone was more urgent, laden with the injustice of it all.
When the sisters had finished, Ron looked more anguished than ever. His eyes were filled with self-reproach, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of guilt. "This is all my fault—"
"You didn't make me punch Malfoy," said Harry angrily, his frustration barely contained.
"—if I wasn't so lousy at Quidditch—" Ron said, his voice cracking.
"—it's got nothing to do with that—" Harry interjected, his anger giving way to desperation.
"—it was that song that wound me up—" Ron continued, his eyes pleading for understanding.
"—it would've wound anyone up—" Harry countered, his tone softening slightly.
Hermione and Dawn, sensing the escalating tension, got up and walked to the window. They watched the snow swirling down against the pane, the silent, graceful dance of the flakes offering a stark contrast to the turmoil inside the room. The firelight flickered across their faces, reflecting their shared concern.
"Look, drop it, will you!" Harry burst out, his voice echoing with a mix of exasperation and helplessness. "It's bad enough without you blaming yourself for everything!"
Ron said nothing, his gaze fixed miserably on the damp hem of his robes, which were still wet from his solitary walk in the snow. The room seemed to close in around him, the warmth of the fire doing little to thaw the chill of his despondency. After a while, he spoke in a dull voice, each word heavy with sorrow, "This is the worst I've ever felt in my life."
"Join the club," said Harry bitterly, his tone echoing Ron's misery as he stared into the fire, its flames casting restless shadows on the walls.
"Well," said Hermione, her voice trembling slightly with a mix of hesitation and hope. "I can think of one thing that might cheer you both up."
"Oh yeah?" said Harry skeptically, his eyebrows knitting together as he turned to look at her.
"Yeah," said Dawn, having spotted what Hermione had, turning away from the pitch-black, snow-flecked window, a broad smile spreading across her face. The light from the fire caught the glint in her eyes as she spoke. "Hagrid's back."
