CHAPTER SEVEN
MUDBLOODS AND
MURMURS
Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out
of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to
avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Harry's schedule. Nothing
seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, “All right, Harry?” six or
seven times a day and hear, “Hello, Colin,” back, however exasperated Harry
sounded when he said it.
Hedwig was still angry with Harry about the
disastrous car journey and Ron's wand was still malfunctioning, surpassing
itself on Friday morning by shooting out of Ron's hand in Charms and hitting
tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large,
throbbing green boil where it had struck. So with one thing and another, Harry
was quite glad to reach the weekend. He, Ron, and Hermione were planning to
visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Harry, however, was shaken awake several hours
earlier than he would have liked by Oliver Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor
Quidditch team.
“Whassamatter?” said Harry groggily.
“Quidditch practice!”
said Wood. “Come on!”
Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist
hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now that he was awake, he couldn't
understand how he could have slept through the racket the birds were
making.
“Oliver,” Harry croaked. “It's the crack of dawn.”
“Exactly,” said
Wood. He was a tall and burly sixth year and, at the moment, his eyes were
gleaming with a crazed enthusiasm. “It's part of our new training program. Come
on, grab your broom, and let's go,” said Wood heartily. “None of the other teams
have started training yet; we're going to be first off the mark this
year—”
Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of bed and tried to
find his Quidditch robes.
“Good man,” said Wood. “Meet you on the field in
fifteen minutes.
When he'd found his scarlet team robes and pulled on his
cloak for warmth, Harry scribbled a note to Ron explaining where he'd gone and
went down the spiral staircase to the common room, his Nimbus Two Thousand on
his shoulder. He had just reached the portrait hole when there was a clatter
behind him and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera
swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.
“I heard
someone saying your name on the stairs, Harry! Look what I've got here! I've had
it developed, I wanted to show you—”
Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph
Colin was brandishing under his nose.
A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was
tugging hard on an arm Harry recognized as his own. He was pleased to see that
his photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged
into view. As Harry watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the
white edge of the picture.
“Will you sign it?” said Colin eagerly.
“No,”
said Harry flatly, glancing around to check that the room was really deserted.
“Sorry, Colin, I'm in a hurry—Quidditch practice—”
He climbed through the
portrait hole.
“Oh, wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a Quidditch game
before!”
Colin scrambled through the hole after him.
“It'll be really
boring,” Harry said quickly, but Colin ignored him, his face shining with
excitement.
“You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren't
you, Harry? Weren't you?” said Colin, trotting alongside him. “You must be
brilliant. I've never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is that the
best one there is?”
Harry didn't know how to get rid of him. It was like
having an extremely talkative shadow.
“I don't really understand Quidditch,”
said Colin breathlessly. “Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly
around trying to knock people off their brooms?”
“Yes,” said Harry heavily,
resigned to explaining the complicated rules of Quidditch. “They're called
Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the
Bludgers away from their side. Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor
Beaters.”
“And what are the other balls for?” Colin asked, tripping down a
couple of steps because he was gazing open-mouthed at Harry.
“Well, the
Quaffle—that's the biggish red one—is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers
on each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goal
posts at the end of the pitch—they're three long poles with hoops on the
end.”
“And the fourth ball—”
“is the Golden Snitch,” said Harry, “and it's
very small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that's what the Seeker's got
to do, because a game of Quidditch doesn't end until the Snitch has been caught.
And whichever team's Seeker gets the Snitch earns his team an extra hundred and
fifty points.”
“And you're the Gryffindor Seeker, aren't you?” said Colin in
awe.
“Yes,” said Harry as they left the castle and started across the
dewdrenched grass. “And there's the Keeper, too. He guards the goal posts.
That's it, really.”
But Colin didn't stop questioning Harry all the way down
the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and Harry only shook him off when he
reached the changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping voice, “I'll go
and get a good seat, Harry!” and hurried off to the stands.
The rest of the
Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who
looked truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and
tousle-haired, next to fourth year Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off
against the wall behind her. Her fellow Chasers, Katie Bell and Angelina
Johnson, were yawning side by side opposite them.
“There you are, Harry, what
kept you?” said Wood briskly. “Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we
actually get onto the field, because I spent the summer devising a whole new
training program, which I really think will make all the difference...”
Wood
was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were drawn many
lines, arrows, and crosses in different-coloured inks. He took out his wand,
tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like
caterpillars. As Wood launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred
Weasley's head drooped right onto Alicia Spinnet's shoulder and he began to
snore.
The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was
another board under that, and a third under that one. Harry sank into a stupor
as Wood droned on and on.
“So,” said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a
wistful fantasy about what he could be eating for breakfast at this very moment
up at the castle. “Is that clear? Any questions?”
“I've got a question,
Oliver,” said George, who had woken with a start. “Why couldn't you have told us
all this yesterday when we were awake?”
Wood wasn't pleased.
“Now, listen
here, you lot,” he said, glowering at them all. “We should have won the
Quidditch cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately -owing to
circumstances beyond our control—”
Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had
been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year,
meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst
defeat in three hundred years.
Wood took a moment to regain control of
himself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him.
“So this year, we
train harder than ever before... Okay, let's go and put our new theories into
practice!” Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the
locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still yawning, his team followed.
They had
been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although
remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry walked onto the
field, he saw Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands.
“Aren't you finished
yet?” called Ron incredulously.
“Haven't even started,” said Harry, looking
jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the
Great Hall. “Wood's been teaching us new moves.”
He mounted his broomstick
and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air whipped
his face, waking him far more effectively than Wood's long talk. It felt
wonderful to be back on the Quidditch field. He soared right around the stadium
at full speed, racing Fred and George.
“What's that funny clicking noise?”
called Fred as they hurtled around the corner.
Harry looked into the stands.
Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture
after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.
“Look
this way, Harry! This way!” he cried shrilly.
“Who's that?” said Fred.
“No
idea,” Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took him as far away as
possible from Colin.
“What's going on?” said Wood, frowning, as he skimmed
through the air toward them. “Why's that first year taking pictures? I don't
like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training
program.”
“He's in Gryffindor,” said Harry quickly.
“And the Slytherins
don't need a spy, Oliver,” said George.
“What makes you say that?” said Wood
testily.
“Because they're here in person,” said George, pointing.
Several
people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their
hands.
“I don't believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage. “I booked the field for
today! We'll see about this!”
Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather
harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted.
Harry, Fred, and George followed.
“Flint!” Wood bellowed at the Slytherin
Captain. “This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off
now!”
Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of trollish
cunning on his face as he replied, “Plenty of room for all of us,
Wood.”
Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too. There were no girls on
the Slytherin team, who stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors,
leering to a man.
“But I booked the field!” said Wood, positively spitting
with rage. “I booked it!”
“Ah,” said Flint. “But I've got a specially signed
note here from Professor Snape. `I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team
permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train
their new Seeker. "'
“You've got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted.
“Where?”
And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh,
smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco
Malfoy.
“Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?” said Fred, looking at Malfoy with
dislike.
“Funny you should mention Draco's father,” said Flint as the whole
Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. “Let me show you the generous gift
he's made to the Slytherin team.”
All seven of them held out their
broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine
gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the
Gryffindors' noses in the early morning sun.
“Very latest model. Only came
out last month,” said Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of
his own. “I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable
amount. As for the old Cleansweeps”—he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who
were both clutching Cleansweep Fives—”sweeps the board with them.”
None of
the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Malfoy was
smirking so broadly his cold eyes were reduced to slits.
“Oh, look,” said
Flint. “A field invasion.”
Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see
what was going on.
“What's happening?” Ron asked Harry. “Why aren't you
playing? And what's he doing here?”
He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his
Slytherin Quidditch robes.
“I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,” said
Malfoy, smugly. “Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our
team.
Ron gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of
him.
“Good, aren't they?” said Malfoy smoothly. “But perhaps the Gryffindor
team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle
off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them.”
The
Slytherin team howled with laughter.
“At least no one on the Gryffindor team
had to buy their way in,” said Hermione sharply. “They got in on pure
talent.”
The smug look on Malfoy's face flickered.
“No one asked your
opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,” he spat.
Harry knew at once that Malfoy
had said something really bad because there was an instant uproar at his words.
Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George jumping on him,
Alicia shrieked, “How dare you!”; and Ron plunged his hand into his robes,
pulled out his wand, yelling, “You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!” and pointed it
furiously under Flint's arm at Malfoys face.
A loud bang echoed around the
stadium and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron's wand,
hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling backward onto the
grass.
“Ron! Ron! Are you all right?” squealed Hermione.
Ron opened his
mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and
several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap.
The Slytherin team were
paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new broomstick
for support. Malfoy was on all fours, banging the ground with his fist. The
Gryffindors were gathered around Ron, who kept belching large, glistening slugs.
Nobody seemed to want to touch him.
“We'd better get him to Hagrid's, it's
nearest,” said Harry to Hermione, who nodded bravely, and the pair of them
pulled Ron up by the arms.
“What happened, Harry? What happened? Is he ill?
But you can cure him, can't you?” Colin had run down from his seat and was now
dancing alongside them as they left the field. Ron gave a huge heave and more
slugs dribbled down his front.
“Oooh,” said Colin, fascinated and raising his
camera. “Can you hold him still, Harry?”
“Get out of the way, Colin!” said
Harry angrily. He and Hermione supported Ron out of the stadium and across the
grounds toward the edge of the forest.
“Nearly there, Ron,” said Hermione as
the gamekeeper's cabin came into view. “You'll be all right in a minute—almost
there—”
They were within twenty feet of Hagrid's house when the front door
opened, but it wasn't Hagrid who emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of
palest mauve today, came striding out.
“Quick, behind here,” Harry hissed,
dragging Ron behind a nearby bush. Hermione followed, somewhat
reluctantly.
“It's a simple matter if you know what you're doing!” Lockhart
was saying loudly to Hagrid. “If you need help, you know where I am! I'll let
you have a copy of my book. I'm surprised you haven't already got one—I'll sign
one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!” And he strode away toward the
castle.
Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of
the bush and up to Hagrid's front door. They knocked urgently.
Hagrid
appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression brightened when he saw
who it was.
“Bin wonderin' when you'd come ter see me—come in, come
in—thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again—”
Harry and Hermione
supported Ron over the threshold into the oneroomed cabin, which had an enormous
bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily in the other. Hagrid didn't seem
perturbed by Ron's slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he lowered Ron
into a chair.
“Better out than in,” he said cheerfully, plunking a large
copper basin in front of him. “Get 'em all up, Ron.”
“I don't think there's
anything to do except wait for it to stop,” said Hermione anxiously, watching
Ron bend over the basin. “That's a difficult curse to work at the best of times,
but with a broken wand—”
Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His
boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Harry.
“What did Lockhart want with you,
Hagrid?” Harry asked, scratching Fang's ears.
“Givin' me advice on gettin'
kelpies out of a well,” growled Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his
scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. “Like I don' know. An' bangin' on
about some banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I'll eat my
kettle.”
It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts' teacher, and
Harry looked at him in surprise. Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat
higher than usual, “I think you're being a bit unfair. Professor Dumbledore
obviously thought he was the best man for the job—”
“He was the on'y man for
the job,” said Hagrid, offering them a plate of treacle fudge, while Ron coughed
squelchily into his basin. “An' I mean the on' one. Gettin' very difficult ter
find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren't too keen ter take it on, see.
They're startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer a while now. So
tell me,” said Hagrid, jerking his head at Ron. “Who was he tryin' ter
curse?”
“Malfoy called Hermione something—it must've been really bad, because
everyone went wild.”
“It was bad,” said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the
tabletop looking pale and sweaty. “Malfoy called her `Mudblood,' Hagrid—”
Ron
dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs made their appearance. Hagrid
looked outraged.
“He didn'!” he growled at Hermione.
“He did,” she said.
“But I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of
course—”
“It's about the most insulting thing he could think of,” gasped Ron,
coming back up. “Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is
Muggle-born—you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards—like Malfoy's
family—who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people
call pure-blood.” He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his
outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin and continued, “I mean, the rest
of us know it doesn't make any difference at all. Look at Neville
Longbottom—he's pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way
up.”
“An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do,” said Hagrid
proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.
“It's a disgusting
thing to call someone,” said Ron, wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand.
“Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It's ridiculous. Most wizards these days are
half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles we'd've died out.”
He retched
and ducked out of sight again.
“Well, I don' blame yeh fer tryin' ter curse
him, Ron,” said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin.
“Bu' maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. 'Spect Lucius Malfoy would've
come marchin' up ter school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least yer not in
trouble.”
Harry would have pointed out that trouble didn't come much worse
than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but he couldn't; Hagrid's treacle
fudge had cemented his jaws together.
“Harry,” said Hagrid abruptly as though
struck by a sudden thought. “Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I've heard you've bin
givin' out signed photos. How come I haven't got one?”
Furious, Harry
wrenched his teeth apart.
“I have not been giving out signed photos,” he said
hotly. “If Lockhart's still spreading that around—”
But then he saw that
Hagrid was laughing.
“I'm on'y jokin',” he said, patting Harry genially on
the back and sending him face first into the table. “I knew yeh hadn't really. I
told Lockhart yeh didn' need teh. Yer more famous than him without
tryin'.”
“Bet he didn't like that,” said Harry, sitting up and rubbing his
chin.
“Don' think he did,” said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. “An' then I told
him Id never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle fudge, Ron?”
he added as Ron reappeared.
“No thanks,” said Ron weakly. “Better not risk
it.”
“Come an' see what I've bin growin',” said Hagrid as Harry and Hermione
finished the last of their tea.
In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid's
house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins Harry had ever seen. Each was the
size of a large boulder.
“Gettin' on well, aren't they?” said Hagrid happily.
“Fer the Halloween feast... should be big enough by then.”
“What've you been
feeding them?” said Harry.
Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they
were alone.
“Well, I've bin givin' them—you know—a bit o' help—”
Harry
noticed Hagrid's flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall of the
cabin. Harry had had reason to believe before now that this umbrella was not all
it looked; in fact, he had the strong impression that Hagrid's old school wand
was concealed inside it. Hagrid wasn't supposed to use magic. He had been
expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Harry had never found out why -any
mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and become
mysteriously deaf until the subject was changed.
“An Engorgement Charm, I
suppose?” said Hermione, halfway between disapproval and amusement. “Well,
you've done a good job on them.”
“That's what yer little sister said,” said
Hagrid, nodding at Ron. “Met her jus' yesterday.” Hagrid looked sideways at
Harry, his beard twitching. “Said she was jus' lookin' round the grounds, but I
reckon she was hopin' she might run inter someone else at my house.” He winked
at Harry. “If yeh ask me, she wouldn' say no ter a signed—”
“Oh, shut up,”
said Harry. Ron snorted with laughter and the ground was sprayed with
slugs.
“Watch it!” Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his precious
pumpkins.
It was nearly lunchtime and as Harry had only had one bit of
treacle fudge since dawn, he was keen to go back to school to eat. They said
good-bye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing
occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs.
They had barely set
foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out, “There you are,
Potter—Weasley.” Professor McGonagall was walking toward them, looking stern.
“You will both do your detentions this evening.”
“What're we doing,
Professor?” said Ron, nervously suppressing a burp.
“You will be polishing
the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch,” said Professor McGonagall. “And
no magic, Weasley—elbow grease.”
Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was
loathed by every student in the school.
“And you, Potter, will be helping
Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall.
“Oh
no—Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?” said Harry
desperately.
“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising her
eyebrows. “Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o'clock sharp,
both of you.”
Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest
gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-schoolrules sort of
expression. Harry didn't enjoy his shepherd's pie as much as he'd thought. Both
he and Ron felt they'd got the worse deal.
“Filch'll have me there all
night,” said Ron heavily. “No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that
room. I'm no good at Muggle cleaning.”
“I'd swap anytime,” said Harry
hollowly. “I've had loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart's
fan mail... he'll be a nightmare...”
Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away,
and in what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and Harry was
dragging his feet along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart's office. He
gritted his teeth and knocked.
The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed
down at him.
“Ah, here's the scallywag!” he said. “Come in, Harry, come
in.”
Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were
countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them.
Another large pile lay on his desk.
“You can address the envelopes!” Lockhart
told Harry, as though this was a huge treat. “This first one's to Gladys
Gudgeon, bless her—huge fan of mine—”
The minutes snailed by. Harry let
Lockhart's voice wash over him, occasionally saying, “Mmm” and “Right” and
“Yeah.” Now and then he caught a phrase like, “Fame's a fickle friend, Harry,”
or “Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that.”
The candles burned lower
and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart
watching him. Harry moved his aching hand over what felt like the thousandth
envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley's address. It must be nearly time to
leave, Harry thought miserably, please let it be nearly time...
And then he
heard something—something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and
Lockhart's prattle about his fans.
It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone
marrow, a voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom.
“Come... come to me... let
me rip you .. let me tear you... let me kill you...”
Harry gave a huge jump
and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley's street.
“What?” he
said loudly.
“I know!” said Lockhart. “Six solid months at the top of the
bestseller list! Broke all records!”
“No,” said Harry frantically. “That
voice!”
“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking puzzled. “What voice?”
“That—that
voice that said—didn't you hear it?”
Lockhart was looking at Harry in high
astonishment.
“What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you're getting a
little drowsy? Great Scott—look at the time! We've been here nearly four hours!
Id never have believed it—the time's flown, hasn't it?”
Harry didn't answer.
He was straining his ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now
except for Lockhart telling him he mustn't expect a treat like this every time
he got detention. Feeling dazed, Harry left.
It was so late that the
Gryffindor common room was almost empty. Harry went straight up to the
dormitory. Ron wasn't back yet. Harry pulled on his pajamas, got into bed, and
waited. Half an hour later, Ron arrived, nursing his right arm and bringing a
strong smell of polish into the darkened room.
“My muscles have all seized
up,” he groaned, sinking on his bed. “Fourteen times he made me buff up that
Quidditch cup before he was satisfied. And then I had another slug attack all
over a Special Award for Services to the School. Took ages to get the slime
off... How was it with Lockhart?”
Keeping his voice low so as not to wake
Neville, Dean, and Seamus, Harry told Ron exactly what he had heard.
“And
Lockhart said he couldn't hear it?” said Ron. Harry could see him frowning in
the moonlight. “D'you think he was lying? But I don't get it—even someone
invisible would've had to open the door.”
“I know,” said Harry, lying back in
his four-poster and staring at the canopy above him. “I don't get it
either.”
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