Harry Potter and the Gem of Grogonous

“I’ve always believed that dreams are triggered by your subconscious. It knows everything; your past, your present, and your future . . . It gives you hints in the form of dreams or nightmares. Of course, dreams could also be triggered by the clashing of the chocolate milkshake and three beef burritos you had before bed. One never knows . . .”

                                                      -- Jack Handey “Lost Deep Thoughts”

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Chapter 1

Night On The Quidditch Field

            The sun began to set abnormally late that night (exactly 11:32, if you must know). Of course, that evening was quite different from the evening before, or even the evening before the evening before. Tonight was the night when two adolescent students smuggled themselves out of their school and scrambled toward a massive grass pitch on the other end of the campus. One of the renegade students was carrying two broomsticks over his shoulder while talking jauntily with his ‘partner in crime’.

Their shadows stretched the length of the field as the sun’s last rays burst over the horizon. From the dull light, the two students’ appearances could finally be put into context. The taller of the two was a rogue-looking boy his late adolescences. He was wearing a much worn out cloak along with a wide smirk which seemed as if it was plastered on his face. The second renegade was a girl about the same age as her companion. Her frizzy hair stuck out at every possible angle, as if she had just simply rolled out of bed and decided against using a comb that day. The smile on her face was a little more subdued then the boy’s, looking as though she had done this millions of times and had not thought twice about it. The girl’s eyes were the most striking feature about her; the irises were so deep in colour that they seemed to go on forever. Every now and again, when a burst of dying light from the sinking sun hit the pitch, the girl’s eyes would seem to flash brightly, brimming with excitement and a certain intoxication of anticipation.

As soon as they crossed into the middle of the field, the boy politely gave a broomstick to his companion, keeping the other broom for himself. Almost identical smiles spread over the two adolescents’ faces as they both mounted their broomsticks and pushed off. Amazingly, they took off, flying around the grass field like two abnormally large birds of prey.

As the sun fully disappeared under the horizon, the deep night cut the riders’ vision in half. This new blindness lead to both adolescents astray and finally created a head on, broomstick to broomstick collision. With arms, legs, and brooms tangled, the renegades tumbled to earth, landing with a dull ‘thump’ on the dew-ridden grass. On the ground, the two began to chuckle at their overwhelming clumsiness, staring up at the blinking constellations. Still smiling off-handily, the boy shifted to his side, glancing at his female companion’s face with a blank, brainless stare. Then, riding on one of the worst male impulses known to man, he slowly bent down over her, resulting in lips connecting with the edge of a mouth.

The girl, frozen by a mix of utter horror and cool content, did not make any sudden moves, her mouth left slightly agape. Never in her most randomness dreams would she have ever imagine something like this. Oh sure, she’d been kissed before; but not by . . . him.

Sensing that his plan did not go as well as first hoped, the rogue male clumsily got to his feet. A huge goofy grin was stamped on his face, as if he has absolutely no idea what the hell he was doing. His raging hormones numbing all of his senses, all the boy could do was mumble a few non-cohesive words in a sort of pseudo-apology. The girl stood up off the wet grass, apparently excepting her companion’s sorry excuse for an explanation: then, as if redeeming him for his embarrassment, she placed a small kiss on the boy’s forehead.

The redemption sent the boy to cloud nine, his whole body in a state of narcosis. He stumbled once, only to regain his balance and trip again. Laying on the pitch once again, the boy heard his friend above him chuckling at his hormone-driven clumsiness. Then, beneath him, the boy felt a slight rumble making its way through the field. This wave was eventually followed by a second more powerful earth moving quake. Quite suddenly, a sharp rock jetted out from beneath the pitch, coming within centimetres of the boy’s head. Having been thrown from his daze by this quick burst of horrible reality, the boy tried to get to his feet. Another rock sprouted up from beneath him, snapping his forearm like a piece of celery.

The girl screamed to her companion, coming to his side and cradling the snapped arm. Right in front of their eyes, the pitch began to spilt and crumble. Within seconds, the beautiful grass field became a horrible and jagged cannon.

Knowing that the scene in front of them wouldn’t do anything but get worse, the two adolescents struggled to their feet and tried desperately to guide themselves out of the rough terrain. As if on queue, another earthquake ripped through the pitch, giving rise to several new mountainous boulders. Stopping dead in their tracks, the adolescents spun around to face the canyon and watched with wide eyes as a horrendous spectre rose up from the depths of hell. It seemed to be a man draped in a cold, dark cloak which would only be home in a mausoleum. Even though the figure’s face was shrouded in shadow by a limp hood, it’s fiery, demon-like eyes could still be seen glowing threateningly. Slowly, the figure raised a decaying hand, pointing a skeleton-like finger at the two children.

Clutching the girl’s arm with his good hand, the boy stepped in front of his companion. He knew why this demon had come. He knew what it planned to do. It was the boy’s job to make sure it didn’t happen.

Yelling something that was muffled by the figure’s raspy breathe, the boy took another step forward, being a considerable amount braver then he looked or felt. The cloaked demon seemed to over look the boy’s threats, its eyes locked firmly on the girl. As if finally deciding her fate, the figure’s gruesome hand curled, suddenly sending out a deep red flash which hit the girl with brutal force. Her body spasmed, as if she had lost all control, and then became rigid. Slowly she began to rise above the pitch, the horrible red light still swirling around her helpless body. The figure twisted its hand sideways, causing the girl’s body to convulse violently again. The sickening sound of the snapping of bones combined with bloodcurdling screams caused the boy below to close his eyes and ears tight, yelling words of mercy to the cloaked figure. The cries above quickly went from screams of pain and anguish to the pains of the week and dying. Knowing that no benevolence would come from the cloaked figure, the boy knew it was his turn to play hero. He scooped up one of the grounded broomsticks, mounted it, and then strongly pushed off the pitch. Coming quickly to his companion’s side, the boy grabbed the girl with his good arm; breaking the figure’s spell and delivering the unconscious girl safely back down to earth. The roguish boy then spun to face the monstrous, demon-like figure, putting his body in between his enemy and his dying friend, and shouted:

“You’ll need to go through me first!”

Something flashed sadistically in the figure’s fiery eyes, as if welcoming the boy’s pitiful challenge. It slowly raised a hand, once again pointing at the two grounded adolescences with the same skeleton-like finger. Without warning, the pitch was filled with a blinding green light, flooding everything from sight. The light softly faded several minutes later, revealing the disappearances of the rocks, canyons, and cloaked figure. The only things that still lay on the field, underneath the millions of twinkling stars, were two motionless bodies; their blood pointing the grass beneath them dark red.

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Very late one night a loud thump came from the smallest bedroom on the top floor of the house at number four Privet Drive. This loud thump was produced by a very dishevelled looking fifteen year old boy who had ungracefully fallen out of his bed during a vivid nightmare. The boy lay flat on his bedroom floor for a while, muttering cures at his overwhelming stupidity and wondering if he would contract tetanus from falling onto the rusty floorboards. He slowly got to his feet, rubbing the back of his pounding head.

Picking up his glasses from his bedside table and stepping across the room to a small wardrobe, the boy peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. The pale complexion of Harry Potter stared back at him, his chaotic black hair almost hiding his bright green eyes and the red mark on the side of his face (a lovely souvenir from rolling out of bed and onto the hard, wooden floor.) As a habit, Harry lifted his bangs to reveal a thin, lighting bolt scar running down his forehead. It was this line of abnormally formed scar tissue which splinted with pain; which most likely gave Harry the unwanted wake up call. It look normal enough, maybe some sort of battle scar from falling out of a tree or running into a glass door. Of course, as everyone in Harry’s world knew, this was no ordinary scar.

But now was not the time to talk about such things. Tonight was the night for tetanus, falling off the bed, and horrible nightmares.

Yes, the nightmare . . . It had seemed all too real; maybe even somewhat familiar to Harry. Shutting his eyes tight, Harry tried his best to re-picture the dream. It had all been so dark; the two adolescences’ faces had been shadowed very well, hiding their true identity. Harry couldn’t even begin to guess the colour of the male’s hair. Was it black like his? Brown? Or was the boy simply wearing a hat? It could have been red . . . Yes, that could be it . . . Red hair, like the Weasley family. Could the boy in the dream be of Weasley relation?

Harry’s mind shifted to the wild haired girl, whose identity was much more shrouded then her companion’s. her eyes gave away a slight hint, though: “ . . . irises so deep in colour that they seemed to go on forever . . .” there was only one girl who slightly held to that description. A tall seventh year girl named Alexandrea McKay. Harry had only known this girl through the chaotic Weasley twins, who held a notorious relationship with Alexandrea. She had also held a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team ever since Harry’s first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Of course, as far as Harry could remember, the girl in his dream had been quite beautiful; some sort of elf-like quality about her. Alexandrea was pretty, but certainly not drop dead gorgeous. Her hair was always the last thing on her mind; it usually did what ever it pleased, sticking every which way on top of her head. She had a crooked smile, which always showed one of her missing back eye teeth (a souvenir from an unlucky encounter with a renegade bludger). But, through all of her petty flaws, Alexandrea’s deep eyes held their own.

The only thing that still stood firm in Harry’s mind was the massive cloaked figure. Oh, Harry certainly knew that man, if you could even call that monster a human being. With his serpent-like eyes and long, skeleton-like fingers, the Dark Wizard Voldemort would never be lost from Harry’s winding past. The Dark Lord had killed Harry’s parents just as he had killed the two adolescences on the Quidditch pitch; No knives, no guns, no weapons of any sort . . . just a wand and a blinding green light then, ‘poof’ -- dead. Just as easy as blowing out a lit candle.

Simply wanting the memory of the nightmare to disappear along with the overwhelming urge to vomit, Harry slowly walked back to bed, a wave of nausea sweeping through his insides. When he finally placed his glasses besides him and got comfortable in his tangle of blankets, there came a dull ‘ping’ from his bedroom window. Jamming on his glasses again, he glanced up and watched what looked like an oversized, mutant moth throwing itself against the window pane. Harry cautiously stepped out of bed again and lifted the window screen open. The animal, out of either pure excitement or pure stupidity, did not realize that the screen had been opened. It bolted full speed through the unlocked window and crashed into the opposite wall with a loud ‘Thump’.

Thanking his uncle, aunt, and cousin for being extremely heavy sleepers, Harry came to the small animal’s side. He found not a mutant moth but a freakishly small owl; and not just any freakishly small owl: this was Ronald Weasley’s animal.

Harry picked up the dwarf owl, named Pigwidgeon by Ron’s little sister respectfully, and placed it in his own empty animal cage; his own owl, Hedwig, was out tonight, most likely hunting fuzzy woodland creatures for her midnight snack. The dwarf owl gave a pathetic hoot of happiness as Harry untied a letter from the animal’s leg. He walked back to his bed, sat down, and began to read the untidy chicken scratch on the piece of parchment.

Harry - -

                I haven’t seen Hedwig for a while; Mum got worried that the Muggles locked you up again. Fred and George offered to got fetch you, but Mum said I should try to write you first.

                Anyway, my parents are leaving next week for Africa. Charlie’s on a little expedition there and Mum just wants to make sure he doesn’t eaten by a dragon or anything. They’re letting Fred, George, and I go to the old camp grounds outside of Hogsmeade on our own. Lee and Alex are tagging along. It would be great if you could come – I’m sure you wouldn’t miss it for the world. (Hermione, on the other hand, decided a petty family trip was more important. Go figure.)

                We’ll pick you up around two on Friday. Take care of the Muggles, I already told Mum you had their permission.

                                                See you soon!

                                                                Ron

Harry smirked widely, rereading the letter several times before he put it down. A trip to Hogsmeade without adults, responsibility, or sanity . . . this was just what Harry craved for: A break.

Taking out a spare piece of parchment and quill from underneath his mattress, Harry wrote a quick reply:

Don’t worry about the Dursleys, Ron. Just pick me up at two and I’ll have everything taken care of. Thanks, you’ve saved me from a month of hell!

                        - - Harry

Rolling up the parchment, Harry walked over to the owl cage and tied the letter to Pigwidgeon’s leg. The tiny dwarf owl, who had seemed to fully recovered from running beak-first into a wall, squirmed out of Harry’s hand and bolted out the open window; performing several aerial stunts to express his unabridged joy. Sighing contentedly to himself, Harry shut his window and then dove into his bed, rolling up all the blankets around him. It was not long until he had fallen asleep, still thinking about the trip to Hogsmeade; the nightmare that had woken him up an hour before totally flushed out of his mind.

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