Right Now Could Last Forever

The storm had blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall was still gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter grey swirled overhead as Harry, Ron Hermione and I examined our new timetabled at breakfast. A few seats along, Fred, George and Lee Jordan were discussing magical methods of ageing themselves and bluffing their way into the Triwizard Tournament.

“Today’s not bad... outside all morning,” said Ron who was running his finger down the Monday column of his timetable, “Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and Care of Magical Creatures... damn it, we’re still with the Slytherins...”

“Double Divination this afternoon,” I groaned, looking down.

“You should have given it up like me, shouldn’t you?” said Hermione briskly, buttering herself some toast. “Then you’d e doing something sensible like Arithmancy.”

“You’re eating again, I notice,” I said, watching Hermione add liberal amounts of jam to her buttered toast.

“I’ve decided there are better ways of making a stand about elf rights,” said Hermione haughtily.

“Yeah... and you were hungry,” said Ron, grinning.

There was a sudden rustling noise above us, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows, carrying the morning mail. Instinctively, I looked up. The owls circled the tables, looking for the people to whom their letters and packages were addressed. A large tawny owl soared down to Neville Longbottom and deposited a parcel in his lap – Neville almost always forgot to pack something. On the other side of the Hall, Draco Malfoy’s eagle owl had landed on his shoulder, carrying what looked like his usual supply of sweets and cakes from home. Calandra came soaring down and landed in front of me. He held out his leg for me to take the letter that was tied to him.

I opened the letter, and found inside, on a yellowish piece of parchment, my Dad’s handwriting. ‘Have a good year,’ was all it said. I feed Calandra some toast and he was off again. I stuffed the letter into my pocket.

We walked down the sodden vegetable path until we arrived in greenhouse three, and here Professor Sprout showed the class the ugliest plants I’d ever seen. Indeed, they looked less like plants than lick black giant slugs, protruding vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly, and had a number of large, shiny swelling upon it, which appeared to be full of liquid.

“Bubotubers,” Sprout told us briskly. “They need squeezing. You will collect the pus –“

“The what?” said Seamus Finnigan, sounding revolted.

“Pus, Finnigan, pus,” said Sprout, “and it’s extremely valuable, so don’t waste it. You will collect the pus, I say, in these bottles. Wear your dragon-hide gloves, it can do funny things to the skin when undiluted, Bubotuber pus.”

A booming bell echoed from the castle across the wet grounds, at the end of the lesson, and the class separated; the Hufflepuffs climbing the stone steps for Transfiguration, and the Gryffindors heading in the other direction, down the sloping lawn towards Hagrid’s small wooden cabin, which stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Hagrid was standing outside his hut, one hand on the collar of his enormous black boarhound, Fang. There were several open wooden crates on the ground at his feet, and Fang was whimpering and straining at his collar, apparently keen to investigate the contents more closely. As we drew nearer, an odd rattling noise reached our ears, punctuated by what sounded like minor explosions.

“Mornin’!” Hagrid said, grinning at Harry, Ron, Hermione and I. “Be’er wait fer the Slytherins, they won’ want ter miss this – Blast-Ended Skrewts!”

“Come again?” I said.

Hagrid pointed down into the crates.

“Eurgh!” squealed Lavender Brown, jumping backwards.

‘Eurgh’ just about summed up the Blast-Ended Skrewts, in my opinion. They looked like deformed, shell-less lobsters, horribly pale and slimy-looking, with legs sticking out in very odd places and no visible heads. There were about a hundred of them in each crate, each about six inches long, crawling over each other, bumping blindly into the sides of the boxes. They were giving off a very powerful smell of rotting fish. Every now and then, sparks would fly out of the end of a Skrewt and, with a small phut, it would be propelled forwards several inches.

“On’y jus’ hatched,” said Hagrid proudly, “so yeh’ll be able ter raise ‘em yerselves! Thought we’d make a bit of a project of it!”

“And why would we want to raise them?” said a cold voice.

The Slytherins had arrived. The speaker was Draco Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle were chuckling appreciatively at his words.

Hagrid looked stumped at the question.

“I mean, what do they do?” asked Malfoy. “What is the point of them?”

Hagrid opened his mouth, apparently thinking hard; there was a few seconds’ pause, then he said roughly, “tha’s next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus’ feedin’ ‘em today. Now, yeh’ll wan’ ter try ‘em on a few diff’rent things – I’ve never had ‘em before, not sure what they’ll go fer – I got ant eggs an’ frogs livers an’ a bit o’ grass-snake – just try ‘em out with a bit of each.”

“First pus and now this,” muttered Seamus.

Nothing but deep affection for Hagrid could have made Harry, Hermione, Ron and I pick up squelchy handfuls of frog liver and lower them into the crates to tempt the Blast-Ended Skrewts. I couldn’t suppress the suspicion that the whole thing was entirely pointless, because the Skrewts didn’t seem to have mouths.

“Ouch!” yelled Dean Thomas, after about the minutes. “It got me!”

Hagrid hurried over to him, looking anxious.

“Its end exploded!” said Dean angrily, showing Hagrid a burn on his hand.

“Ah, yeah, that can happen when they blast off,” said Hagrid, nodding.

“Eurgh!” said Lavender again. “Eurgh, Hagrid, what’s the pointy thing on it?”

“Ah, some of ‘em have got stings,” said Hagrid enthusiastically. “I reckon they’re the males... the females’ve got sorta sucker things on their bellies... I think they might be ter suck blood.”

“Well, I can certainly see why we’re trying to keep them alive,” said Malfoy sarcastically. “Who wouldn’t want pets that can burn, sting and bite all at once?”

“Just because they’re not very pretty, it doesn’t mean they’re not useful,” I snapped. “Dragon blood’s amazingly magical, but you wouldn’t want a dragon for a pet, would you?”

“Well, at least the Skrewts are small,” said Ron, as we made our way back up to the castle for lunch an hour later.

“They are now,” I said, “but once Hagrid’s found out what they eat, I expect they’ll be six feet long.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter if they turn out to cure sea sickness or something, will it?” said Ron, grinning slyly at me.

“You know perfectly well I only said that to shut Malfoy up,” I said. “Actually, I think he’s right. The best thing to do would be to stamp on the lot of them before they start attacking us all.
We sat down at the Gryffindor table and helped ourselves to lamb chops and potatoes. Hermione began to eat so fast that we all stared at her.

“Er – is this the new stand on elf rights?” said Ron. “You’re going to make yourself puke instead?”

“No,” said Hermione, with as much dignity as she could muster with her mouth bulging with sprouts. “I just want to get to the library.”

“What?” said Ron in disbelief. “Hermione – it’s the first day back! We haven’t even got homework yet!”

Hermione shrugged and continued to shovel down her food as though she had not eaten for days. Then she leapt to her feet, said, “See you at dinner!” and departed at high speed.

Harry, Ron and I headed to the North Tower, for our double period of Divination. At the end of the class, we were given a lot of homework, probably due to the conversation that happened at the end of the lesson.

“Oh, Professor, look! I think I’ve got an unaspected plant! Oooh, which one’s that, Professor?” Lavender had said.

“It is Uranus, my dear,” Trelawney said, peering down at the chart in front of Lavender.

“Can I have a look at Uranus, too, Lavender?” said Ron.

Most unfortunately, Trelawney had heard him.

“A detailed analysis of the way the planetary movements in the coming month effect you, with reference to your personal chart,” she snapped, sounding much more like McGonagall than her usual airy-fairy self. “I want it ready to hand in next Monday, and no excuses!”

“Miserable old bat,” said Ron bitterly, as we joined the crowds descending the staircases back to the Great Hall and dinner. “That’ll take all weekend, that will...”

“Lots of homework?” said Hermione brightly, catching up with us. “Professor Vector didn’t give us any at all!”

“Well, bully for Professor Vector,” said Ron moodily.

We reached the Entrance Hall, which was packed with people queuing for dinner. We had just joined the end of the line, when a loud voice rang out behind us.

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!”

We turned; Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were standing there, each looking thoroughly please about something.

“What?” said Ron shortly.

“You dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” said Malfoy, brandishing a copy of the Daily Prophet, and speaking very loudly, so that everyone in the packed Entrance Hall could hear. “Listen to this!”

FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
It seems as though the Ministry of Magic’s troubles are not yet at an end, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Recently under fire for its poor crowd control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to account for the disappearance of one of its witches, the Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.

Malfoy looked up.

“Imagine them not even getting his name right, Weasley, it’s almost as though he’s a complete nonentity, isn’t it?” he crowed.

Everyone in the Entrance Hall was listening now. Malfoy straightened the paper with a flourish, and read on:

Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved with a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers (‘policemen’) over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and attempted murder. Unsurprisingly, Mr Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr Moody’s heavily guarded house, that Mr Moody had once again raised a false alarm. Mr Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer Daily Prophet questions about why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially embarrassing scene.

“And there’s a picture, Weasley!” said Malfoy, flipping the paper over and holding it up. “A picture of your parents outside their house – if you can call it a house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?”

Ron was both shaking with fury. Everyone was staring at him.

“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” I said. “C’mon, Ron...”

“Oh yeah, you live with them, don’t you, Samuels?” sneered Malfoy. “So tell me, is his mother really that porky or is it just the picture?”

“You know your mother, Malfoy?” I said – both Harry and I had grabbed the back of Ron’s robes to stop him launching himself at Malfoy – “That expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?”

Malfoy’s pale face went slightly pink. “Don’t you dare insult my mother, Samuels.”

“Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” I said, turning away.

BANG!

Several people screamed – I felt something white hot graze the side of my face – I plunged my hand into my robes for my wand, but before I’d even touched it, I heard a second loud BANG, and a roar which echoed through the Entrance Hall.

“OH NO YOU DON’T LADDIE!”

I spun around. Moody was limping down the marble staircase. His wand was out and it was pointing right at a pure white ferret, which was shivering on the stone-flagged floor, exactly where Malfoy had been standing.

There was a terrified silence in the Entrance Hall. Nobody but Moody was moving a muscle. Moody turned to look at me – at least, his normal eye was looking at me; the other one was pointing into the back of his head.

“Did he get you?” Moody growled. His voice was low and gravely.

“No,” I said, “missed.”

“LEAVE IT!” Moody shouted.

“Leave 0 what?” I said, bewildered.

“Not you – him!” Moody growled, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Crabbe, who had just frozen, about to pick up the white ferret. It seemed the Moody’s rolling eye was magical and could see out of the back of his head.

Moody started to limp towards Crabbe, Goyle and the ferret, which gave a terrified squeak and took off, streaking towards the dungeons.

“I don’t think so!” roared Moody, pointing his wand at the ferret again – it flew ten feet into the air, fell with a smack to the floor, then bounced upwards once more.

“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned,” growled Moody, as the ferret bounced higher and higher, squealing in pain. Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do...”

The ferret flew into the air, its legs and tail flailing helplessly.

“Never – do – that – again –“ said Moody, speaking each word as the ferret hit the stone floor and bounced upwards again.

“Professor Moody!” said a shocked voice.

McGonagall was coming down the marble staircase with her arms full of books.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” said Moody calmly, bouncing the ferret still higher.

“What – what are you doing?” said McGonagall, her eyes following the bouncing ferret’s progress through the air.

“Teaching,” said Moody.

“Teach – Moody, is that a student?” shrieked McGonagall, the books spilling out of her arms.

“Yep,” said Moody.

“No!” cried McGonagall, running down the stairs and pulling out her wand; a moment later, with a loud snapping noise, Draco Malfoy reappeared, lying in a heap on the floor with his sleek blonde hair all over his now brilliantly pink face. He got to his feet, wincing.

“Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment!” said McGonagall weakly. “Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?”

“He might’ve mentioned it, yeah,” said Moody, scratching his chi unconcernedly, “but I thought a good sharp shock –“

“We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s Head of house!”

“I’ll do that, then,” said Moody, staring at Malfoy with great dislike.

Malfoy, whose pale eyes were still watering with pain and humiliation, looked malevolently up at Moody and muttered something in which the words ‘my father’ were distinguishable.
“Oh yeah?” said Moody quietly, limping forward a few steps, the dull clunk of his wooden leg echoing around the hall. “Well, I know your father of old, boy... you tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son... you tell him that from me... now, your Head of house’ll be Snape, will it?”

“Yes,” said Malfoy resentfully.

“Another old friend,” growled Moody. “I’ve been looking forward to a chat with old Snape... come on, you...” And he seized Malfoy’s upper arm and marched him off towards the dungeons.

McGonagall stared anxiously after them for a few moments, then waved her wand at her fallen books, causing them to soar up into the air and back into her arms.

“Don’t talk to me,” Ron said quietly to Harry, Hermione and I, as we sat down at the Gryffindor table a few minutes later, surrounded by excited talk on all sides about what had just happened.

“Why not?” said Hermione in surprise.

“Because I want to fix that in my memory forever,” said Ron, his eyes closed and an uplifted expression on his face. “Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret...”

We laughed, and Hermione began doling beef casserole onto each of our plates.

“He could have really hurt Malfoy though,” she said. “It was good, really, that Professor McGonagall stopped it –“

“Hermione!” said Ron furiously, his eyes snapping open again. “You’re ruining the best moment of my life!”

Hermione made an impatient noise and began to eat at top speed again.

“Don’t tell me you’re going back to the library this evening?” I said, watching her.

“Got to,” said Hermione thickly. “Loads to do.”

“But you told us Vector –“

“It’s not schoolwork,” she said. Within five minutes, she had cleared her plate and departe.d
No sooner had she gone than her seat was taken by Fred. “Moody!” he said. “How cool is he?”

“Beyond cool,” said George, sitting down opposite Fred.

“Supercool,” said the twins’ best friend, Lee Jordan, sliding into the seat beside George. “We had him this afternoon,” he told us.

“What was it like?” I said eagerly.

Fred, George and Lee exchanged looks full of meaning.

“Never had a lesson like it,” said Fred.

“He knows, man,” said Lee.

“Knows what?” said Ron, leaning forwards.

“Knows what it’s like to be out there doing it,” said George impressively.

“Doing what?” said Harry.

“Fighting the Dark Arts, said Fred.

“He’s seen it all,” said George.

“’Mazing,” said Lee.

Ron dived into his bag for his timetable.

“We haven’t got him ‘til Thursday!” I said, before Ron could find it.

That night, I dreamt about him. His ginger hair. His sly face. His laugh. His everything. I woke up with a start, and opened my eyes to darkness. There was a warm, fuzzy sort of feeling in my chest as I lay back down on my pillow; as a smile made its way onto my lips.