"ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀɴ ɪɴꜱɪᴅɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴘᴏɪꜱᴏɴᴏᴜꜱ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ꜰᴇɪɢɴᴇᴅ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ."
― ɢʀᴇɢᴏʀʏ ꜱᴋᴏᴠᴏʀᴏᴅᴀ
Chapter Fifteen: For Whom The Bell Tolls
Work was a nightmare.
More than usual, at least. Mafalda felt sick to her stomach, and she had ever since Dennis Creevey's death. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the Dark Mark glittering in the sky on that terrible night, seared under her eyelids.
Worst of all, Mafalda feared for her own life. She'd picked a side, and the Death Eaters knew it. Even worse, Bellatrix Lestrange knew it.
She could only hope she was near the bottom of the hit list.
Better to focus on this report on Anti-Dementor Cloaks, the latest invention by entrepreneurs capitalising on the... situation.
Lowlifes, she fumed. Of course, people needed to make a living and keep a roof over their heads and food on their plates, but this was ridiculous; it was getting people killed, sentencing to a punishment once only doled out to the worst criminals in the wizarding world.
The office was quiet, only the buzz of whispering voices and the scratching of quills emanating from the cubicles next to her. Too quiet.
Mafalda was loath to admit it, but she missed Hassan Shafiq, of all people. Yes, his departure made her team lead now, but she was also stuck here, fiddling around with paperwork, while he (a Death Eater operative) was in Auror training.
With my Squib parentage, good luck with getting promoted any further, she thought sourly.
It was a truly absurd situation.
On top of everything, Minister Fudge was holding a Ministry-wide assembly today, which Mafalda was most definitely not looking forward to. The time seemed to pass too quickly.
Everyone around her began to stir, rising from their chairs, yawning, and stretching. The rustling of robes and parchment filled the once-quiet office, and Mafalda, too, reluctantly got to her feet and gathered her belongings. She was the last to reach the door, which Uncle Arthur closed behind them and locked.
Mafalda raised an eyebrow.
"You can never be too careful," Uncle Arthur pointed out uneasily. "Oh, I'm sure you've heard."
That the other side is in our midst? In fact, I've seen it.
But she couldn't say that, not right here when the walls had eyes and ears, so she just simply nodded her head and followed him down the hallway. Employees were beginning to flood out of their offices, filling the corridor with a sea of colourfully-robed witches and wizards, like a stream of migrating birds, making their way to the Atrium.
As they entered the large, gleaming hall, its peacock-blue ceiling recalling that of the Hogwarts Great Hall, Mafalda noticed a petite, scarlet-robed figure making her way through the crowd.
A few seconds later, Mafalda realised the figure was making its way towards her, pushing back a long sheet of tomato-red hair that made her look like she could have been one of Mafalda's cousins. The figure waved, grinning impishly, and then Mafalda realised who it was.
"Wotcher, Mafalda!"
"Hello." Mafalda put her hands into the pockets of her robes. "Not to sound ungrateful for the company, but shouldn't you be with the other Aurors?"
"Shh," said Tonks with a conspiratorial wink. "I'm hiding."
"Won't they notice you're gone when nothing gets knocked over or tripped on for a full five minutes?"
Tonks elbowed her gently in the ribs. "Very funny, never heard that one before."
Despite herself and her terrible mood, Mafalda felt the beginnings of a smile forming on her face.
Someone on the stage tapped a microphone, and the chatter around them died down. On stage stood Umbridge and Crouch, the former's pink, disarmingly childish attire a sharp contrast to the latter's austere black. Mafalda spied Narcissa in the front row, dressed in high-collared robes, like a cleric.
Narcissa Malfoy is Tonks's aunt, thought Mafalda. How strange. They're nothing alike.
She didn't think the two witches knew each other at all. Then again, she was as different from Molly Weasley as night and day.
The lights in the Atrium began to dim, and Mafalda rolled her shoulders back to relax them before taking a seat. I wonder what Fudge will have to say. Will he admit that he's selling out to Voldemort?
And then, she realised that he was strangely absent: Where's Fudge?
Offstage, perhaps, to make a dramatic entrance.
Umbridge stepped forward to meet the podium, her kitten heels tapping loudly on the stage.
"Welcome, all," she said, and the sugar in her voice made Mafalda itch with irritation. Around her, the crowd seemed to stir uneasily, too.
Glancing down coquettishly at her notes, the pince-nez shimmering on her nose in the stage lights, Umbridge went on: "As Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, it falls to me announce the motion just yesterday put forward in the Wizengamot... a vote of no confidence."
Instantly, an uproar went up.
So that explained why Fudge was absent; he probably couldn't bear the humiliation of showing his face today and was probably holed up in his office, clearing his desk and licking his wounds.
"But that's good, isn't it?" asked Tonks, taking in Mafalda's worried expression. "We have a chance to get someone reasonable for Minister."
Mafalda slowly shook her head, unable to keep her eyes off Umbridge, who was surveying the clamouring crowd with a triumphant expression. She could only think of the negotiation she and Hassan had spied on, of Umbridge and Fudge, haggling with the Death Eaters.
"No," said Mafalda. "It's not good at all."
"Questions?" asked Umbridge sweetly.
I have one. Did Narcissa put her up to this, or did she come up with it all on her own?
Unsurprisingly, Rita Skeeter's hand, adorned with her ostentatious lime-green quill, was the first to hit the air from her front-row seat in the press section.
"This is the first motion of no confidence that's been put forward for the Minister for Magic since Eugenia Jenkins in 1975," Skeeter rattled off breathlessly. Mafalda had to admit she was grudgingly impressed by Rita's history knowledge; but then again, she'd probably brushed up on Ministry history before the press release. But wouldn't that imply she had some kind of prior knowledge of the motion?
"With only two years left in Minister Fudge's term," Skeeter continued on, "why now?"
I loathe that woman, thought Mafalda, but she does make a good point. Why now? Fudge and Umbridge seemed to be collaborating. Did she just get power-hungry? Tired of being the voice behind the throne?
Umbridge was smiling whilst Skeeter spoke, and when the journalist sat down, her smile only grew wider.
"Well, thank you for your question, Miss Skeeter," said Umbridge, and Mafalda had the impression of being in an infant school classroom. "As you all know, there has been the terrible and harrowing experience of the Dementors."
She paused, surveying a slight shudder go through the crowd. It didn't take much to put everyone on edge, not when the very real possibility of having your soul gobbled up by a Dementor on the way to work was hanging over your head. It happened recently to some poor office worker in the Department of Accidents and Catastrophes (what a cruel irony!)
On the other side of Mafalda, Tonks was biting her thumbnail, her hair slowly turning black from the root.
I wonder if she's doing that on purpose, Mafalda wondered. She remembered Tonks getting into no end of trouble while she was at Hogwarts, even though Mafalda had been a few years below her she clearly recalled her transforming into professors to cause havoc.
Umbridge waved her wand, projecting two magical images behind her, slightly reminiscent of a Muggle slideshow.
"Here, on the left, we have the estimated number of Dementors in Britain over time." She indicated a wiggling black line, winding its way up from roughly the bottom left corner to the top right. "On the right, we have the number of Dementor-related deaths." The graph looked much the same.
"And here —" Umbridge waved her hand once more "—we have Minister Fudge's points of intervention, which have not affected the steady increase in these two most pressing issues."
Little arrows appeared, littered somewhat evenly along the graphs. Indeed, both continued steadily increasing, regardless of the intervention.
"As you can see, Miss Skeeter," said Umbridge, smiling widely, "that is the reason why we have put forward the motion."
Another reporter got to his feet, a canary-robed wizard in a floppy beret of the same colour. "Undersecretary, may I ask whom the prospective successor is, should Minister Fudge be ousted? Robert Anderson, for the Sunday Owl."
This time, Umbridge had difficulty suppressing her smile. "Well, we are not quite sure, Mr. Anderson, but whoever we choose will certainly be well-qualified for the position."
A witch in lavender robes got to her feet next, self-consciously running her hand through her short, curly hair.
"Thank you for holding this conference, Undersecretary. As the reporter from the Daily Prophet mentioned, the last successful motion of no confidence occurred during the tenure of Minister Jenkins in the seventies due to her failure to respond to the rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Can you speak to the similarities of these two eras? Sophia Macmillan, for the Phoenix Times."
"Thank you for the question, Miss Macmillan," said Umbridge with great relish. "What an apt comparison, if I do say so myself. Whilst Minister Fudge has done admirably to shepherd us through the peaceful years of the start of his tenure, as we did then, we now require a stronger hand to guide us. This shows most in tragic incidents such as the recent and untimely death of that poor child, Dennis Creevey."
Mafalda's breath stopped. She could still see the Dark Mark in her mind's eye, Dennis's scared eyes looking up at her, blindly trusting that she would protect him, Bellatrix appearing behind them, throwing her dark hair back behind her shoulders, laughing triumphantly. "It is done!"
My fault.
"Xenophilius Lovegood, for The Quibbler." A softly-spoken, slight wizard in a shade of neon yellow-green Mafalda had only before seen in a gel highlighter pen got to his feet, swaying slightly. "Would it be correct to assume that the powers that be have conspired to place you in power, Dolores?"
He sat back down again without fanfare, and another shudder went through the crowd. Umbridge gripped the podium so hard that her knuckles paled, and for the first time, Crouch stopped standing like a statue and glowered threateningly at Xenophilius.
Tonks leaned forward, her eyes wide and interested and her hair shrinking back to its usual length. Crouch stalked towards the front of the stage, his black cane tapping ominously.
Right before he reached the edge, he stopped, staring out at the crowd.
"Is Crouch on her side, too?" Mafalda murmured, too low for anyone but Tonks to hear.
Tonks turned away from the stage, seeming to look right through Mafalda with that piercing gaze that her mother and Bellatrix had; she shuddered involuntarily.
"No, can't be. No one came down harder on the Death Eaters than Crouch. He even sent his own son to Azkaban. He's cold, that one, right down to his bones. I think we'd been alright if we had him."
Tonks didn't finish her sentence, but Mafalda felt the words fall into place in her mind nonetheless.
So they'll find a way to get rid of Crouch.
"What are we going to do about it?"
Tonks turned to Mafalda again, this time with the same brilliant smile that never seemed to change, regardless of what guise she took. "Well, I think you should find out if he needs an assistant."
Mafalda leaned back in her chair, tapping a finger to her chin. Officially, Barty Crouch was only the head of the Department of International Co-operation, but during the war, he'd been head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he'd never stopped being outspoken.
Assistant to Crouch has a nice ring to it. But how am I going to swing that?
Alone in the drawing room, Voldemort listened to the door shut from down the long hallway of Malfoy Manor. He had seen Narcissa Malfoy, solemn in her pale robes, like an angel of death, coming down the long drive from out of the large, diamond-paned windows that flanked the pipe organ.
It really is a beautiful home, Voldemort thought to himself. For the first time in a while, he actually felt something nearing contentment.
Finally, success. Once Dolores Umbridge had ascended to the ministerial seat, Dementor presence would be reduced; reduced, not eliminated, of course. The public should feel vindicated and grateful but still remain somewhat afraid.
Now, all that remains is to reel Hogwarts back in.
Now, he heard Narcissa's slow, measured footsteps pace down the hallway, the rugs on the stone floor slightly muffling her steps.
"My Lord!"
Narcissa was standing in the hallway, cold and austere, so very much like her sister and also unlike Bellatrix. A look of surprise was upon her face.
"I- I did not expect to see you here, My Lord."
True. He preferred the vantage point of the highest floor of the manor.
"I wished to speak with you, Narcissa." He gestured at the chair opposite him, almost as if he were the host.
Surmising that he might not like to be overheard, Narcissa closed the door behind her and crossed the room, back straight, the stiff fabric of her robes rustling, and took a seat, studiously looking just above his eyes, close enough to make her gaze look like eye contact, but far enough to make Legilimency more than trivial.
"Dolores' conference?" asked Voldemort.
Narcissa cast her eyes aside, then pressed her lips together.
"I believe it went over well, for the most part. Aside from Xenophilius Lovegood."
"Hmm. The Quibbler editor and publisher. What did he have to say for himself?"
Surprise crossed Narcissa's face; Voldemort wondered why. After all, he was not able to spend time in public unless he was in disguise, which he loathed, so he spent a good deal of time these days reading newspapers and magazines to amuse himself, even the ones that weren't worth the paper they were printed on.
Narcissa's expression grew even more stern. "Something to the effect of Umbridge appointing herself the next Minister."
Voldemort allowed himself a short laugh. "Well, he is not wrong. Another Benjamin Goldstein?"
"Worse, My Lord," said Narcissa. "Benjamin Goldstein does not have a newspaper."
"In the meantime, have someone keep an eye on him. Find out his price. In times of crisis, the public often turns to conspiracy. He may be useful to us."
"Hassan Shafiq—"
"—Is infiltrating the Auror Department."
"I could have him reassigned, My Lord," Narcissa suggested, sitting forward slightly.
"No, we cannot lose our eyes in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We may need him to take care of Bartemius Crouch should he foolishly refuse to come to heel."
Something dark passed over Narcissa's face, but it was nothing to Bellatrix's intensity.
"My Lord... You believe he will refuse?"
Voldemort considered this. Crouch Senior was an admirable wizard in many ways; a fellow Slytherin, ambitious, serious, dedicated, and embodying the House ethos — Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends. It would be a shame to kill him, a waste, but if he could not be swayed or subdued, someone would have to take care of him. He was, after, all, the one person who could stop the Ministry from crumbling, or, at least, delay its inevitable fall.
"Ask Dolores Umbridge to assign him a personal guard," said Voldemort. "Make sure Shafiq is among them. That way, he shall be ready at any moment to dispose of him."
Almost imperceptibly, Narcissa flushed. "But his Auror training is not complete..." She trailed off.
Voldemort lifted one of the ornaments on the table, a crystal jackrabbit, turning it over in his hands, exploring the cold planes and edges of its surface.
"You are the Special Advisor to the Minister for Magic, Narcissa," he said, studying the jackrabbit. "I am sure you are capable of pulling a few strings."
Narcissa, he knew, was clever enough to understand that was an order.
"Yes, My Lord," she murmured, standing up from the table, inclining her head, and leaving as quickly as she came.
To confide in Lucius, wondered Voldemort, or Bella?
The drawing room, he realised, was eerily quiet. The silence allowed his ambient frustration to bubble to the top of his mind. Voldemort forced himself to think of the situation logically.
Hogwarts will be in chaos soon. Albus Dumbledore thinks he can evade me, but he will be forced to play my game. It is all going as planned.
Then why do I feel this constant... unsettlement?
The Horcruxes.
The diary, which he'd written off as a failure from the start (and was why he'd entrusted it to slippery Lucius in the first place), was imprisoned in Hogwarts. It was not until after he'd spoken to Slughorn that he'd learnt where he went wrong the first time.
He'd made a mistake with the locket by involving Regulus Black in the security measures on the Cave. He had killed Regulus and dealt with that issue, but now, the locket was gone, in the boy's hands.
They can still prove useful as weapons. Besides, there is little chance anyone will be able to destroy them. Dumbledore would not risk unleashing Fiendfyre or the basilisk in Hogwarts.
All the same, perhaps his other Horcruxes needed stronger protections. Two on the loose was more than enough.
There was a knock on the door. Voldemort schooled his expression back into impassiveness and then called, "Come in."
So it was Bellatrix whom Narcissa had confided in, for that was who was now standing in the doorway. Voldemort let out a quiet sigh of relief; he was dreading Lucius' appearance, or, worse yet, Rodolphous's. He much preferred the Black sisters to their tiresome husbands.
So remarkably unlike her sister.
"I wanted to congratulate you, My Lord," Bellatrix began. "I understand that your plans for the Ministry are coming together."
"With some wrinkles," Voldemort admitted, this time gesturing to the chair beside him.
Unlike Narcissa, Bellatrix did not avoid his gaze as she moved to sit beside him, instead gazing steadily at him as if transfixed. Voldemort remembered a similar expression after she had first requested to study with him, the only Death Eater who had the unique combination of intellectual curiosity and what little of his trust was on offer.
"And if your associate at Hogwarts is able to flush out Albus Dumbledore..."
Yes. Yes, that was what he had told them all this bother at Hogwarts was about, downplaying the need to deal with Harry Potter as virtually a side quest of middling concern, a thorn in his side instead of an Achilles' heel. No one must know of the prophecy, no one must know of the true events of Halloween 1981. After all, hadn't he risen from the dead, as only a god could?
He must project the image of confidence.
"Then it will be one in the hand, and one in the bush, ready to be snatched up."
Voldemort paused, suddenly hesitant of the thing he had been sure of just a moment ago. Should he ask her, or would it only draw suspicion?
"I entrusted you with something long ago. It was something that belonged to one of the Founders..."
"The cup of Helga Hufflepuff." Bellatrix sat up straight, her eyes glittering with interest. "I have kept it safe in my vault, My Lord. Anyone who tries to retrieve it without the proper authorisation will die in the attempt."
At that, acid stung the back of his mouth. Not having come from a magical family, he had never had a vault; not that he had known about it, but the Gaunts had probably lost access to theirs at least a century ago, after withdrawing completely from the rest of wizarding society to slowly fester and die off in Little Hangleton. He had watched Hogwarts students go up and down the Gringotts steps, returning with pouches filled to bursting with gold. With security. In fact, he was still, really, without a penny to his name, living off the charity of his followers.
"Nowhere is safer than Gringotts, after all." I cannot afford to lose another one.
A strange, wavering smile had begun to spread across Bellatrix's face. A laugh escaped her, as if tremendous pressure had held it back, resounding loudly through the room and making the pipe organ ring.
Voldemort looked askance at her, and she divulged the source of her merriment:
"I cannot wait to see the old fool's face when he realises he's been outsmarted!"
The day of the spring Quidditch match was rainy, and, Harry thought, very cold for April.
Well, as long as no one falls ill of mysterious causes this time. He tugged on his gloves, picked up his broom, and slung it over his shoulder. With one last glance back at the changing room behind him, he followed George out onto the pitch.
Good luck, Harry!" said the Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang, flicking her long black ponytail behind her shoulder.
Harry stared back at her, dumbstruck for a second, and then he fumbled out, his mouth feeling strangely numb and brain oddly empty: "Yeah, er, good luck!"
"Try not to do that when you've got to catch the Snitch," muttered George, snickering under his breath.
"Oh, shut up," said Harry, shifting the weight of his broom in his hands.
Madam Hooch blew the whistle, and everyone kicked off. Instantly, the six Chasers headed after the Quaffle, a furious storm of crimson and royal blue. Harry did his best to get out of the way, soaring high above the ground so he could get a better vantage point and start looking for the Snitch. As he squinted, looking for a speck of gold somewhere on the pitch, his gaze fell on the fourth-year Slytherins. Harry could just make out Nott, who been avoiding him since the dungeons incident a few weeks ago.
Forcibly, Harry tore himself away and continued searching. He finally spotted the Snitch over by the Ravenclaw hoops, which were currently being swarmed by Chasers.
"Oh, I hate when it does that," he said, and dove after the Snitch, pressing his body flat against his broom to avoid an incoming Bludger.
"Potter's spotted the Snitch!" Lee Jordan was saying, his voice carrying across the pitch. Harry banked sharply to the side to avoid flying headfirst into one of the Ravenclaw Chasers, and his fingertips almost brushed the Snitch before it darted away. Burning with frustration, he glowered at the Chaser.
The Chaser, he realised, was not a Chaser, but Cho. She sped off after the Snitch, Harry following her into a nosedive. She reached out for it, but again, it darted away, spinning merrily down the pitch.
Harry narrowly missed another Bludger careening at him; Fred sent another one hurtling away.
The golden twinkle was far away now, heading in the direction of the group of fourth-year Slytherins Harry had spotted earlier. The Snitch shot past the stands, close enough to ruffle the Slytherins' clothes, and Cho and Harry followed. Streaking past them, Harry accidentally locked eyes with Theodore Nott, whose gaze had a strange reddish sheen. Harry, who was looking out for gold, thought he saw something glinting around his neck.
The Snitch! Focus!
Cho was a very good flyer, and fast. He couldn't afford to be sloppy and distracted, both of which he was being right now.
Perhaps thankfully, the Snitch had disappeared again. Harry pulled up to avoid a stray Bludger and then rose higher, looking out for the speck of gold again. From here, he had a better view of the pitch than anyone else; he could see blue blurs swarming the Gryffindor hoops. In fact, it didn't look to be going so well for Gryffindor.
All the more reason to find the Snitch, and end this fast. Cho, too, had flown above the chaos of the pitch.
Then, suddenly, she dove.
Without thinking, Harry followed her, the wind battering at his face as he hurtled down through the sky, and in the next moment, she was gone.
Huh? Harry pulled up, looking over his shoulder, to where a blue streak was racing towards his previous position, and what he realised was the Golden Snitch, fluttering tauntingly.
Just as Cho reached it, the Snitch shot upwards with the force of a bullet. Gritting his teeth, Harry forced his broom into a steep climb, his robes snapping in the wind and his hair blowing painfully against his face.
Again, as if taunting the Seekers, the Snitch switched directions in midair and sped off to the right and down. Gritting his teeth, Harry managed to rotate himself and his broom and pursue the tiny spot of gold, narrowly avoiding the swarm of Chasers as he flew past them, a Bludger sailing just inches over his head.
The Snitch had stopped again, fluttering just in front of Nott's face. A swooping sound behind him told Harry that Cho was close behind. He flattened himself against his broom again, gliding the last few feet and snatching the Snitch out of the air.
The sounds of the pitch, which he must have been tuning out, burst into life all around him, cheers ringing out as Lee's magnified voice announced the end of the game. All Harry could focus on, however, was Nott's look of shock. Harry supposed that was to be expected, what with him flying directly towards Nott at high speed and literally snatching the Snitch out of his face.
But, as Harry stared, he realised something seemed off about Nott. There was a strange, reddish glint to his pale eyes. Had he seen that somewhere before? The question was like an itch in the back of Harry's brain, one he couldn't quite scratch.
It had been a while ago, Harry thought. Maybe it was in a dream?
Just then, his scar stung, and he winced.
"Harry." That was Ruby, pushing past Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass. "Your team's on the ground."
He followed her pointed finger to a loose cluster of red spots stark against the weakly green spring grass. It would look odd to everyone if he stood here staring at Nott, so Harry went into a gentle dive, dismounting when he got a few feet above the ground.
Surprisingly, the Gryffindor team looked morose, Ginny, Angelina, and Katie in particular.
"What's wrong?"
Angelina, who was still breathing heavily, pushed some of her braids away from her face.
"We underestimated the Ravenclaw Chasers, that's what. They've gotten craftier."
"In other words," said Ginny irritably, "we lost."
The feeling of the Snitch fluttering in his hand did not feel so triumphant anymore. There was little chance of Gryffindor winning the Cup now.
"There's always next year," said Angelina, injecting a note of false cheeriness into her voice.
The team began to shuffle off the pitch, eager to have this disaster of a game behind them. As they did so, Harry noticed the Ravenclaw team heading off, too, in much higher spirits.
Harry watched Cedric wrap an arm around Cho's shoulders. His stomach squeezed, and his lungs felt strangely airless.
"Congrats on the Snitch!" said Cho, smiling brightly. Harry followed her gaze to the winged ball still clutched in his hand, which felt like little more than an afterthought now.
"Yeah, er, thanks. Your Chasers did a very good job, too."
Was that backhanded? Did that sound backhanded? Maybe it didn't matter because they had both stopped paying attention to Harry. In fact, he wasn't sure if they had even heard him. Cedric and Cho were smiling at each other, perfect, even smiles. Harry watched numbly as Cedric tucked a strand of Cho's hair that had escaped her shiny ponytail behind her ear.
They were a perfect couple, really. Cho was one of the most beautiful and smartest girls in school, and great at Quidditch. Cedric was also great at Quidditch, definitely next year's Head Boy, and he had that perfect handsome face and kind, even-handed disposition that made it very hard to hate him.
Harry, for his part, was great at Quidditch, too, but a complete disaster otherwise. Being around either Cho or Cedric, in particular, made him feel either stupid or childish, and being around them both, he was discovering, led to a ghastly amalgamation of the two that was somehow even worse.
Spurred suddenly to escape that discomforting feeling, Harry shouldered his broom and headed straight towards the changing rooms. He just wanted to take a shower and forget all about today.
After showering and getting dressed for dinner, Harry went down to the Great Hall with the rest of the team. Ginny tried to start a conversation with him, but after a few one-word answers, she ceased the attempt.
As they drew closer, Harry noticed two familiar figures standing by the entrance — Ruby and Nott. Nott had his hand on Ruby's shoulder in a way that might have looked friendly if he didn't know the animosity between them.
"Don't wait for me, I'll catch up," Harry muttered to Ginny, and then instead of walking into the Great Hall, he went up to Nott, startling both Slytherins.
Ruby took the opportunity to shrug off Nott's hand, looking disgusted.
"About time you showed up," she said, flicking an evaluative gaze over Harry.
Harry glowered at Nott, but he wasn't paying attention to Harry, instead checking his watch with a leisurely air.
"What's he doing?" he asked Ruby.
She crossed her arms; Harry thought she looked more annoyed than usual. "Oh, the usual, making empty threats. Says he's got evidence that I've been poisoning people."
"Like hell you do," snarled Harry.
Nott, to Harry's immense irritation, looked up, smiled, and said: "Congratulations on the Snitch, Harry. Excellent catch."
For some reason, the praise only served to further enrage him. I wish the Snitch had flown straight through Nott's head.
"Thanks," he said tightly. "You do know Dumbledore won't expel her, don't you, Nott?"
Again, Nott smiled. "Of course I do. Albus Dumbledore shouldn't even be Headmaster; everyone knows he can't see past his favouritism, even when his current favourites are a monster and a murderer. Just like with your parents, actually, I hear he was also very fond of your blood-traitor father and Mudblood moth―"
Red swam before Harry's eyes, and before he realised it, his fist had shot out and made contact with Nott's nose. Nott stumbled back with a loud groan, cupping his hand to his swollen nose, eyes wide as he leaned back against the wall.
"You'll get in trouble," Nott managed to wheeze out.
"Yeah, the thing is, I'm already in a bad mood, and I really don't care."
"We should just fix him before we go so we don't get in trouble," Ruby pointed out. Though Harry hated to admit it, she was right. The last thing he needed now was more detention with Snape.
Oh yeah, what was that spell George used on Hermione's nose?
Harry tapped his wand to Nott's nose. "Episkey."
With barely another glance at him, the Potters left the hallway and entered the Great Hall. Harry realised that his shoes were making a strange sound, and then he looked down and saw blue and bronze confetti blanketing the floor, shimmering in the bright candlelight.
"The Ravenclaws must have been pretty confident that they'd win," said Ruby.
"Something like that." Harry kicked a loose pile of confetti. "See you tomorrow."
He started off towards the Gryffindor table, slipping into the seat between Hermione and Neville, who were both sweeping stray confetti onto the floor.
"Oh, Harry, you missed it!" said Hermione.
"Missed what?"
"Someone enchanted loads of paper ravens to sing and rain confetti," Ron explained, dusting some of the aforementioned confetti that had gotten caught in Hermione's hair.
That did sound like the Ravenclaws were confident about winning. At least, Harry reflected, this disastrous defeat hadn't happened during Oliver Wood's tenure as captain. He'd've probably shaved his head in shame.
"Something wrong?" asked Ron, after watching Harry passive-aggressively push around the food on his plate in silence for ten minutes.
"No." He didn't want to talk about Nott.
"He's just upset about the game, Ron," said Hermione.
Harry's bad mood persisted through and after dinner. Seamus and Dean even noticed enough to invite him to play Gobstones, but he declined as politely as he could and instead headed upstairs to get ready for bed.
Maybe, if he just closed his eyes and went to sleep, he wouldn't have nightmares about Voldemort, and Nott would choke to death on a chicken bone.
With that last, comforting thought, Harry drifted off into warm, dreamless darkness.