No Turning Back Now.

Calandra and Hedwig were still angry with Harry and I 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 between the eyes, creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had struck. So with one thing and another, I was quite glad to reach the weekend. Harry, Ron, Hermione and I were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning.

However when we all woke up, Harry wasn’t there. The three of us marched over to the Quidditch stadium, where we sat in the stands, after we had stopped at the Great Hall to pick up something to eat. After a while; Harry and the rest of the team walked on to the pitch; stretching and yawning, apart from a very awake Oliver Wood; who was captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” I called incredulously.

“Haven’t even started,” said Harry, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade we had brought from the Great Hall. “Wood’s been teaching us new moves.”

Harry mounted his broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring high up into the air. They all zoomed around on their brooms.

“What’s that funny clicking noise?” Fred said once he, Harry and George had stopped in front of us.

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.

“What’s going on?” said Wood, now approaching us, frowning. “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 programme.”

“He’s a Gryffindor,” Harry said 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 pitch, broomsticks in their hands. I quickly got up out of my seat and ran onto the pitch. By the time I got there, Angelina, Alicia and Katie, the Gryffindor Chasers, had also joined the group.

There were no girls on the Slytherin team – who stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering to a man.

“But I booked the pitch!” said Wood, positively spitting with rage. “I booked it!”

“Ah,” said Marcus Flint; the Slytherin Quidditch Captain, “but I’ve got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practise today on the Quidditch pitch 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 us 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 from next to me, 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 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 our 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 us 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 pitch invasion.”

Ron and Hermione were now crossing the grass to see what was going on. Flint obviously hadn’t noticed me standing among the Gryffindor team.

“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. I stood forward. Draco Malfoy was the only person would I really ever got angry at; everything he said was foul and sarcastic.

“Back off Malfoy,” I hissed, at the same time Hermione sharply said, “At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. 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.

I 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 at 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 Malfoy’s face.

A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron’ wand, hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling backwards on to 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 on to his lap. The Slytherin team were paralysed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging on to 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,” I said to Harry and Hermione, who nodded bravely, and Harry and I 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 us as we left the pitch. 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!” I said angrily. Harry and I supported Ron out of the stadium and across the grounds towards the edge of the forest; Hermione trailing alongside us.

“Nearly there, Ron,” said Hermione, as the gamekeeper’s cabin came into view. “You’ll be all right in a minute... almost there...”

We 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. I quickly followed, unlike Hermione who was somewhat reluctant.

“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, goodbye!” and he strode away towards the castle.

We waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid’s front door. I 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 I supported Ron over the threshold, into the one-roomed 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 Hermione hastily explained as we lowered Ron into a chair.

“Better out than in,” he said cheerfully, plonking a large copper basin in front of him. “Get ‘em all out, 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 us tea. His boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over me.
“What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?” I asked, scratching Fang’s ears.

“Given’ 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 criticise a Hogwarts teacher and I 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 us a plate of treacle fudge, while Ron coughed squelchily into his basin. “An’ I mean the on’y 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 mad,” I said.

“It was bad,” said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the table top 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 was 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-bloods.”

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’t 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, and I patted him on the back. “Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It’s mad. 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 slug hitting the basin. “Bu’ maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. ‘Spect Lucius Malfoy would’ve come marchin’ p ter school if yeh’d cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble.”

I would have pointed out that trouble didn’t come much worse than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but I couldn’t; Hagrid’s treacle toffee had cemented my jaw together.
“Harry,” said Hagrid suddenly, as though struck by a sudden though, “gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I’ve heard you’ve bin givin’ out signed photos. How come I haven’t got one?”

“I have not been giving out signed photos,” Harry said hotly. “If Lockhart’s still putting that about –“

I started laughing along with Hagrid.

“I’m on’y jokin’” he said, patting Harry fenially 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,” I said.

“Don’ think he did,” said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. “An’ then I told him I’d never read one o’ his books an’ he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?” he added, as Ron re-appeared.
“No thanks,” said Ron weakly. “Better not risk it.”

“Come an’ see what I’ve been growin’,” said Hagrid, as Harry, Hermione and I finished the last of our tea.

In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid’s house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins I 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?” I asked, running a hand over the rough surface of one of the pumpkins.

Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that we were alone.

“Well, I’ve bin givin’ them – you know – a bit o’ help.”

“An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?” said Hermione, halfway between disapproval and amusement. “Well, you’ve done a good job on them.”

“That’ what yet 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.

I started laughing, and Ron snorted, spraying the ground with slugs.

“Watch it!” Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his precious pumpkins.

It was nearly lunchtime and we said goodbye to Hagrid before walking back up to the castle. Ron hiccoughed occasionally, but only brought up two, very small slugs. We had barely set foot in the cool Entrance Hall when a voice rang out.

“There you are, Potter, Samuels, Weasley.” Professor McGonagall was walking towards us, looking stern. “You three will be doing your detentions this evening.”

“What are 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, and Samuels, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Oh no – can’t we go and do the trophy room too?” I asked desperately.

“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. “Professor Lockhart requested you two particularly. Eight o’clock sharp, all of you.”

Harry, Ron and I slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest gloom, Hermione behind us, wearing a well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression. I didn’t fancy my shepherd’s pie as much as I’d thought. Both Ron and Harry and I felt we’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 not good at Muggle cleaning.”

“I’d swap any time,” I said hollowly.

“I’ve had loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart’s fan mail... he’ll be a nightmare...” Harry said, agreeing with me.

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and I was dragging my feet along the second floor corridor to Lockhart’s office. Harry and I both gritted out teeth and Harry knocked on the door.

The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at us.

“Ah, here’s the scallyway!” he said. “And his little sidekick. Come in, Harry; Corey, 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 two can address the envelopes!” Lockhart told us, as though this was a huge treat. “This first ones to Gladys Dudgeon, bless her – huge fan of mine.”

The minutes snailed by. I let Lockhart’s voice wash over me, occasionally saying, “Mmm” and “Right” and “Yeah”. Now and then I caught a phrase like, “Fame’s a fickle friend, Harry,” or “Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that, Corey.”

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over many moving faces of Lockhart watching us. I moved my aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley’s address. It must be nearly time to leave, I thought miserably, please let it be nearly time...

Harry suddenly made a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on the envelope he had been writing on.

“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, and I fixed him with a puzzled look. “That voice!”

“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking as puzzled as I felt. “What voice?”

“That – that voice that said – didn’t you hear it?” Harry stumbled over his words.

Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.

“There was no voice, Harry,” I said slowly.

“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! I’d never have believed it – the time’s flown, hasn’t it?”

Harry didn’t answer; instead his face twisted in complete concentration.

“Now, you two,” Lockhart said, “off to bed. And remember; you mustn’t expect a treat like this every time you get a detention.

I grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled him quickly out the door. Neither of us said anything till we were nearly at the common-room.

“What was that about, Harry?” I hissed quietly.

“There was a voice,” he hissed back. “It was like venom. ‘Come to me, let me rip you... let me tear you... let me tear you...’ How didn’t you hear that?”

“I...” I didn’t know what to say.

Harry stared at me; waiting for me to say something.

“It couldn’t have been someone invisible, even they would have to open the door...”

Harry looked at me in shock.

“You – you believe me?” he stuttered.

“Of course I do, Harry.”

We climbed through the portrait hole and found the common room nearly empty. It must’ve been quite late, but Ron wasn’t back yet. Harry and I quickly said goodnight and I bounded up the steps to my dormitory, picturing the divine moment when my head would sink into my pillow.