Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (Ch. Ten)

 

CHAPTER TEN

Halloween

 

Malfoy couldn’t believe his eyes the next morning when he saw that Harry and Ron were still at Hogwarts the next day, looking tired but perfectly cheerful. Indeed, by the next morning Harry and Ron thought that meeting the three-headed dog had been an excellent adventure, and they were quite keen to have another one. In the meantime, Harry filled Ron in about the package that seemed to have been moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spent a lot of time wondering what could possibly need such heavy protection.

“It’s either really valuable or really dangerous,” said Ron.

“Or both,” said Harry. But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious object was that it was about two inches long, they didn’t have much chance of guessing what it was without further clues.

Neither Neville nor Hermione showed the slightest interest in what lay underneath the dog and the trapdoor. All Neville cared about was never going near the dog again. Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and Ron, but she was such a bossy know-it-all that they saw this as an added bonus. All they really wanted now was a way of getting back at Malfoy, and to their great delight, just such a thing arrived in the mail about a week later.

As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual, everyone’s attention was caught at once by a long, thin package carried by six large screech owls. Harry was just as interested as everyone else to see what was in this large parcel and was amazed when the owls soared down and dropped it right in front of him, knocking his bacon to the floor. They had hardly fluttered out of the way when another owl dropped a letter on top of the parcel. Harry ripped open the letter first, which was lucky, because it said:

DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE. It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don’t want everybody knowing you’ve got a broomstick, or they’ll all want one. Marcus Flint will meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven o’clock for your first training session. Please thank Lucious Malfoy for paying for your broomstick.

Professor McGonagall

Harry had difficulty hiding his glee as he handed the note to Ron to read. “A Nimbus Two Thousand!” Ron moaned enviously. “I’ve never even touched one.”

“Lucious Malfoy paid for it.” Harry murmured

“Yeah, that’s Draco Malfoy’s dad.” Ron said through a mouthful of bacon. “I wonder why he did that.”

They left the hall quickly, wanting to unwrap the broomstick in private before their first class, but halfway across the entrance hall they found the way upstairs barred by Crabbe and Goyle.

Malfoy seized the package from Harry and felt it. “That’s a broomstick,” he said, throwing it back to Harry with a mixture of jealousy and spite on his face. “You’ll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren’t allowed them.”

Ron couldn’t resist it. “It’s not any old broomstick,” he said, “it’s a Nimbus Two Thousand. What did you say you’ve got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?” Ron grinned at Harry. “Comets look flashy, but they’re not in the same league as the Nimbus.”

“What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn’t afford half the handle,” Malfoy snapped back. “I suppose you and your brothers have to save up twig by twig.”

“Yes, well,” Harry stepped forward. “Please thank your father for paying for it.”

Malfoy looked horrified. “My father…”

Before Harry could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared at Malfoy’s elbow. “Not arguing, I hope, boys?” he squeaked.

“Potter’s been sent a broomstick, Professor,” said Malfoy quickly, regaining his composure, though still looking shaken.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry. “Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?”

“A Nimbus Two Thousand, it is,” said Harry, fighting not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy’s face. “And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it,” he added.

Harry and Ron headed upstairs, smothering their laughter at Malfoy’s obvious rage and confusion. “Well, it’s true,” Harry chortled as they reached the top of the marble staircase, “If he hadn’t stolen Neville’s Remembrall I wouldn’t be on the team…”

“So, I suppose you think that’s a reward for breaking rules?” came an angry voice from just behind them. Hermione was stomping up the stairs, looking disapprovingly at the package in Harry’s hand.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to us?” said Harry.

“Yes, don’t stop now,” said Ron, “it’s doing us so much good.”

Hermione marched away with her nose in the air. Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his lessons that day. It kept wandering up to the dormitory where his new broomstick was lying under his bed or straying off to the Quidditch field where he’d be learning to play that night. He bolted his dinner that evening without noticing what he was eating, and then rushed to the Slytherin common room then back to the library with Ron to unwrap the Nimbus Two Thousand at last.

“Wow,” Ron sighed, as the broomstick rolled onto a table.

Even Harry, who knew nothing about the different brooms, thought it looked wonderful. Sleek and shiny, with a mahogany handle, it had a long tail of neat, straight twigs and Nimbus Two Thousand written in gold near the top.

As seven o’clock drew nearer, Harry left the castle and set off in the dusk toward the Quidditch field. Held never been inside the stadium before. Hundreds of seats were raised in stands around the field so that the spectators were high enough to see what was going on. At either end of the field were three golden poles with hoops on the end. They reminded Harry of the little plastic sticks Muggle children blew bubbles through, except that they were fifty feet high. Too eager to fly again to wait for Flint, Harry mounted his broomstick and kicked off from the ground. What a feeling — he swooped in and out of the goal posts and then sped up and down the field. The Nimbus Two Thousand turned wherever he wanted at his lightest touch.

“Hey, Potter, come down!” Marcus Flint had arrived. He was carrying a large wooden crate under his arm.

Harry landed next to him.

“Very nice,” said Flint, his eyes glinting. “I see what McGonagall meant… you really are a natural. I’m just going to teach you the rules this evening, then you’ll be joining team practice three times a week.” He opened the crate. Inside were four different-sized balls. “Right,” said Flint. “Now, Quidditch is easy enough to understand, even if it’s not too easy to play. There are seven players on each side. Three of them are called Chasers.”

“Three Chasers,” Harry repeated, as Flint took out a bright red ball about the size of a soccer ball.

“This ball’s called the Quaffle,” said Flint. “The Chasers throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through one of the hoops to score a goal. Ten points every time the Quaffle goes through one of the hoops. Follow me?”

“The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through the hoops to score,” Harry recited. “So — that’s sort of like basketball on broomsticks with six hoops, isn’t it?”

“What’s basketball?” said Flint with a slight sneer.

“Never mind,” said Harry quickly.

“Now, there’s another player on each side who’s called the Keeper — I’m Keeper for Slytherin. I have to fly around our hoops and stop the other team from scoring.”

“Three Chasers, one Keeper,” said Harry, who was determined to remember it all. “And they play with the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are they for?” He pointed at the three balls left inside the box.

“I’ll show you now,” said Flint. “Take this.” He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short baseball bat. “I’m going to show you what the Bludgers do,” Flint said. “These two are the Bludgers.” He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed that they seemed to be straining to escape the straps holding them inside the box. “Stand back,” Flint warned Harry. He bent down and freed one of the Bludgers. At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted straight at Harry’s face. Harry swung at it with the bat to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it zigzagging away into the air — it zoomed around their heads and then shot at Flint, who dived on top of it and managed to pin it to the ground. “See?” Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the crate and strapping it down safely. “The Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock players off their brooms. That’s why you have two Beaters on each team — the Weasley twins are ours — it’s their job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and knock them toward the other team. So — think you’ve got all that?”

“Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the Keeper guards the goal posts; the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team,” Harry reeled off.

“Very good,” said Flint.

“Er — have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?” Harry asked, hoping he sounded offhand.

“Never at Hogwarts. We’ve had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that. Now, the last member of the team is the Seeker. That’s you. And you don’t have to worry about the Quaffle or the Bludgers —”

“— unless they crack my head open.”

“Don’t worry.” Flint reached into the crate and took out the fourth and last ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large walnut. It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver wings. “This,” said Flint, “is the Golden Snitch, and it’s the most important ball of the lot. It’s very hard to catch because it’s so fast and difficult to see. It’s the Seeker’s job to catch it. I used to be Slytherin Seeker, but you’ll be much better at it. You’ve got to weave in and out of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get it before the other team’s Seeker, because whichever Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra hundred and fifty points, so they nearly always win. That’s why Seekers get fouled so much. A game of Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it can go on for ages — I think the record is three months, they had to keep bringing on substitutes so the players could get some sleep. “Well, that’s it any questions?” Harry shook his head. He understood what he had to do all right, it was doing it that was going to be the problem. “We won’t practice with the Snitch yet,” said Flint, carefully shutting it back inside the crate, “it’s too dark, we might lose it. Let’s try you out with a few of these.” He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket and a few minutes later, he and Harry were up in the air, Flint throwing the golf balls as hard as he could in every direction for Harry to catch. Harry didn’t miss a single one, and Flint was delighted. After half an hour, night had really fallen and they couldn’t carry on.

“That Quidditch Cup will have our name on it this year,” said Flint happily as they trudged back up to the castle. “Though it has had our name on it for the past few years.”

Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what with Quidditch practice three evenings a week on top of all his homework, but Harry could hardly believe it when he realized that he’d already been at Hogwarts two months. The castle felt more like home than Privet Drive ever had. His lessons, too, were becoming more and more interesting now that they had mastered the basics.

 

On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the corridors. Even better, Professor Flitwick announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly, something they had all been dying to try since they’d seen him make a quill zoom around the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the class into pairs to practice. Harry’s partner was (to Harry’s dismay) Draco Malfoy.

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve been practicing!” squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his pile of books as usual. “Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too — never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest.”

It was very difficult. Harry and Malfoy swished and flicked so much they forgot to be foul to each other, but the feather they were supposed to be sending skyward just lay on the desktop.

Goyle, at the next table, wasn’t having much more luck. “Wingerdum Levsa!” he shouted.

“You’re saying it wrong,” Malfoy snapped from their table. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

“You do it then.” Harry said, he sat back, exasperated.

He had meant it as a means of seeing it done, forgetting in his annoyance with the feather that he was supposed to hate Malfoy. But Malfoy clearly took it as a challenge.

He glared at Harry. “Fine!” he spat. He glared at his feather. “Wingardium Leviosa!” he said with a swish and flick of his wand.

Harry stared in amazement as their feather rose off the table before coming to a stop a foot above their heads, slowly revolving in mid-air.

“Oh, well done!” Professor Flitwick cried. “See here! Mr. Malfoy had done it!”

Malfoy shot Harry a smug look.

Later at lunch, Harry recounted the story with Ron, who had also had charms that morning. Ron in turn told how Hermione had criticized his pronunciation, and then done the charm before their eyes.

 “It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” he said to Harry as they pushed their way into the crowded corridor after lunch, “she’s a nightmare, honestly.”

Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her face — and was startled to see that she was in tears.

“I think she heard you.”

“So?” said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. “She must’ve noticed she’s got no friends.”

Later Ron said that Hermione hadn’t turned up for the next class and wasn’t seen all afternoon.

On their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, Harry and Ron overheard Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Hermione was crying in the girls’ bathroom and wanted to be left alone. Ron looked still more awkward at this, but a moment later they had entered the Great Hall, where the Halloween decorations put Hermione out of their minds.

A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term banquet.

Harry was just helping himself to a baked potato when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore’s chair, slumped against the table, and gasped, “Troll — in the dungeons — thought you ought to know.” He then sank to the floor in a dead faint. There was an uproar. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor Dumbledore’s wand to bring silence.

“Prefects,” he rumbled, “lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!”

Percy was in his element. “Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear the troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind me, now. Make way, first years coming through! Excuse me, I’m a prefect!”

“Bye, Ron!” Harry called as he followed his own prefect.

They walked down the corridor nervously. It didn’t help that Malfoy would make a grunting sound at every turn to scare the others.

Pounding feet met their ears.

“Malfoy, stop.” Harry snapped at Draco, who he found next to him.

But Malfoy’s face was paler than ever. “Not me.” He croaked.

And around the corner came a twelve-foot mountain troll, roaring with rage. It pounded down the corridor towards them. Everybody screamed. Malfoy fainted.

Harry pointed a shaking wand at the troll, trying to remember any spells that might help.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” he yelled. The troll’s club, still in the troll’s hand, rose a feeble foot then dropped. The troll just stared dumbly at it.

“Stupefy!” came Snape’s voice. The troll flopped onto the ground.

Snape paced into the corridor. Everyone was back up against the wall, except for Harry and Malfoy, the former still with wand raised, the latter lying on the ground.

“Potter.” Snape spat. “Thought you’d try an act hero, didn’t you?”

“I-I- I was just trying to stop the troll.” Harry stammered. “I didn’t think a-about heroism, or fame.”

Snape sniffed. “Likely story.” He nudged Malfoy with his foot. “Up!”

Malfoy jerked awake and glanced wildly around. He got to his feet and marched to the scary old man.

“Snakeskin.” He said, his voice hoarse.  

The picture swung open, and he climbed in. The rest of the Slytherin’s followed suit.

Harry clambered into bed, still shaking, as the lights flickered out.