Harry Potter and the Brotherhood of the Besotted

Chapter 6: His Mind Was Not On the Game of Quidditch

Ron found Harry back in their dormitory, parchment scrolls strewn all around him as he sat on his bed scribbling intently. "Still busy I see," Ron said, trying his best to sound cheery.

Harry looked up and ran a hand through his messy black hair. "I've written some more verse," he responded in the same silly voice he had used that morning. "I've been inspired by a muse, Ron, a wondrous, gorgeous muse. With such inspiration, what could I do but pursue the literary and visual arts?"

Ron had no idea what he was talking about. Luckily, Harry had resumed his doodling, so at least he wasn't expecting Ron to reply. Neville's heather was sitting in a large vase on the mantelpiece. Ron felt his nose itch, then succumbed to a barrage of sneezes which sent Harry's parchments flying to the floor. Bending to pick them up, Ron noticed to his annoyance that the trunk at the foot of his bed had been opened and its contents strewn about. Harry's trunk was also a mess.

"Here, Harry," said Ron, "if you want to borrow something from my trunk, at least put everything back when you're done."

Harry replied, without stopping his work, "Oh, that must have been Hermione."

"Hermione? In here?" asked Ron. Ron was surprised that she would flout a school rule by visiting the boys' dormitory. He wondered what her reason might be. "When was she here?"

"A while ago," Harry muttered, erasing something on his page.

"Well, what did she want?" Ron wanted desperately to know.

"Not sure, maybe a book. A Transfiguration textbook, what could be more perfect?" Harry said vaguely.

Ron hoped that was true. Ron hoped that somewhere in Hogwarts castle, Hermione Granger was directing all her concentration towards her schoolwork. That would be normal; that would be safe. Then Ron remembered Hermione's wild speeches in the library that morning. While he wanted to believe with all his heart that Hermione was holed up somewhere studying, a nagging doubt still lingered in Ron's mind that his friend was lurking in one of Hogwarts many hiding places, hatching some evil plot. Why she had needed to rummage through Harry and Ron's trunks first was a complete mystery.

Ron handed the parchments back to Harry and tried to catch a glimpse of the scroll he was scribbling on. Harry put his hands over his work possessively and said, "This isn't finished yet. But please, listen to the poems if you like. I've enchanted my voice on my favourite ones."

Ron slowly unfurled what he hoped would be the shortest scroll, and was treated to Harry's recitation of the worst love poem in the history of time. The poet, whose plaintive whisper emanated from the parchment, had likened his lover to the Golden Snitch. There were many strained Quidditch analogies, some of which Ron thought sounded unintentionally rude. The poet had rhymed "Snitch" with "witch" too often to count, but the low point came when Harry rhymed the word "McGonagall" to the words "toboggan fall." Still, the sporting theme of the poem reminded Ron of something.

"Leave off, Harry," Ron said. "You've got to get ready for Quidditch practice."

"I can't stop, I'm not finished. Please don't ask me to deny my heart's desire," Harry implored.

"Well finish fast. Angelina will have your guts for garters," said Ron, as he unrolled another short scroll. This one contained a limerick that began, "There was a fair witch from West Glasgow." The poem was so ribald it made Ron blush. Harry shouldn't write things like that about Hogwarts' acting headmistress, should he?

"There, done!" Harry announced, holding up his parchment. "What do you think? Of course, it's just for my own amusement. The finest portrait painter in the world couldn't truly do her justice."

"Er, nice," Ron said uncertainly. Harry had drawn a picture of a shapely witch with wire-rimmed spectacles, riding a broom. Her green robes were split at the thigh to reveal one of her legs. Behind her stood three Quidditch hoops and above her Harry had written in flowery handwriting "Tis Thee I Seek."

"But is it a good likeness?" Harry asked earnestly.

Ron didn't know how to reply to this. He said honestly, "I like the legs. They look a bit like Fleur Delacour's."

"Fleur Delacour is a hag!" scolded Harry "Don't talk to me about her again! How could you compare a common drab like Fleur Delacour to a blooming highland rose like Minerva?"

"We don't have time for this, Harry," Ron grumbled. "Practice will be starting any minute. Slytherin's booked the pitch after us, and you don't want them skulking around while you go through your set moves."

"But it's not quite right, not quite right," Harry murmured absently, as he dipped his quill again.

Harry became engrossed in his drawing once more, while Ron packed his scattered belongings back into his trunk, sneezing all the while. He noticed that Harry's Sneakoscope was buried in the mess, wrapped in a pair of old socks. As he put it back in his friend's trunk, he could feel it whirring.

Ron's patience was now exhausted. Practice would be well underway by the time they got to the pitch. Angelina would be furious. In a flash of inspiration, Ron tried another tactic.

"You know Harry, I overheard McGonagall talking to Flitwick about the game against Hufflepuff. She's really looking forward to a Gryffindor win." This wasn't strictly true, but Ron figured it was the sort of thing that Gryffindor's Housemistress would probably say. In any case, the lie had the desired effect, because Harry stopped drawing immediately and grabbed his broom.

"Quick, Ron, let's get down there!" he shouted as he bolted out the door.

Quidditch practice was half over when Ron and Harry reached the pitch. At one end of the field, two of the Chasers, Alicia Spinnett and Katie Bell, were practicing scoring. The Weasley twins were alternately aiming Bludgers at the Chasers' heads or Keeping. Ron had never noticed before how viciously Katie Bell charged to the hoops when George Weasley was supposed to be blocking her. At the other end of the field, Angelina Johnson was putting the new Keeper through his paces.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team had been unstoppable that year, thanks mainly to their maverick Seeker, Harry Potter. It seemed a certainty that they would be taking the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup without being beaten, a fact which Angelina Johnson couldn't help telling most people whenever she met them. The only weakness in the Gryffindor side was its defence. Since the glory days of Oliver Wood, (who, having tired of his obscurity as a reserve in the Puddlemere United team, now was Keeper for the Chudley Cannons), Gryffindor had been unable to recruit a decent Keeper. Three had been injured too horribly to play again, Angelina had sacked one for being "as useful as a bag of Porlock's poo," and one had simply lost his nerve in the middle of the game and flown weeping from the pitch. It showed how desperate Angelina had become to find a player that she was now demonstrating the finer points of Keeping to Colin Creevey.

"Eyes front, Colin!" she shouted, as Colin wobbled on his broom in front of the three hoops. His mousy brown hair blew about in the stiffening breeze and his puny arms trembled visibly. Then, Angelina put down her head and charged like a raging bull, her black ponytail streaming behind her. She threw the Quaffle so hard that it knocked Colin off his broom and ricocheted though the left hoop. As Colin fell onto a feather bed that mercifully appeared on the grass, Angelina called encouragingly, "Nice try, Colin, I think you nearly caught that one."

Looking down, Angelina spied Harry. "Potter, you miserable Skrewt!" she yelled. "What time to you call this? Get up here or I'll transfigure you into Filch's chamber pot!"

Harry was quickly on his Firebolt and up in the air. "Here you go," Angelina said angrily, releasing a dozen practice Snitches from a box in her pocket. "I want all those caught before the hour's up."

Ron sat on the grass and watched his friend in action. His flying was brilliant. If anything, even though Harry was renowned for the risks he took on the Quidditch pitch, he seemed to be Seeking more daringly than usual. He flew upside down, he soared into the sun and at one point he executed a Wronsky Feint with only one hand on the broom. Ron gasped as Harry pulled his Firebolt up just centimetres from the ground. But Ron couldn't understand why Harry was being so reckless - this was only supposed to be a practice. Then Ron noticed what happened each time his friend caught a Snitch. Harry would hold the Snitch up, and look back to the bell tower of Hogwarts Castle. After one particularly extravagant catch, he even blew a kiss in the castle's direction. Harry had never Sought any better in his life, but it was now obvious that his mind was not on the game of Quidditch.

Seven of the practice Snitches had been caught, and twelve minutes of Gryffindor's training session remained, when the Slytherin team came down from the castle. "What are you ghouls looking at?" Angelina shouted. She was thoroughly sick of the Slytherins turning up to practice early and spying on her. The Slytherin captain said something unrepeatable back to Angelina, and the rest of his team, including his Beaters, Crabbe and Goyle, snickered.

Ron rose to his feet in anger, reaching for the wand in his pocket, but his annoyance quickly turned to amusement when he saw how ridiculously the Slytherin Beaters were dressed. As well as the kilts and sporrans they had sported at lunchtime, Crabbe and Goyle were now wearing feather bonnets. Crabbe was carrying his musical instrument again, but Goyle had a pair of Omnioculars, which he trained on the Bell Tower of the castle.

Draco Malfoy was the only fifth year Slytherin in the group who was dressed and acting normally. It suddenly occurred to Ron that Malfoy had been acting like his superior, contemptuous, vindictive self all day. Ron had seen no evidence in Malfoy of the madness that seemed to have gripped the rest of his peers. In fact, Ron and Malfoy appeared to be the only ones not affected by the love potion. This deeply depressed Ron. The only thing worse than having to repeat Potions classes next year would be repeating them with Malfoy.

Goyle's Omnioculars had never left his eyes since arriving at the field. Crabbe kept asking him what he could see, and trying to take the Omnioculars from him, but Goyle just punched his housemate and growled. Then, to everyone's shock, Goyle let out an almighty howl, "SHE'S IN HER OFFICE!"

"Where, where, let me see!" screamed Vincent Crabbe, pushing Gregory Goyle to the ground and attempting to strangle him with the Omnioculars' strap. Their Slytherin team-mates tried to break up the fight, the Gryffindor Chasers and Beaters hovered overhead laughing, and in the confusion nobody noticed a green eyed, bespectacled, black haired Seeker flying swiftly back to the castle.

Minerva McGonagall, sitting at her desk, looked out of her office window in Hogwarts' Bell Tower to see something she had never seen before. Harry Potter was standing on the bristles of his broom, pulling a parchment scroll from his robes. He put his wand to his throat and said "Sonorus." Then his voice rang clearly through the window, through the castle and even back to Ron Weasley on the Quidditch pitch. Ron cried, "Bloody hell!" then broke into a sprint back to the castle, while Harry read several of his poems, concluding with Your Dainty Paw.

By the time Harry had finished the last poem, a crowd had gathered on the lawn below him. Many of the fourth year students who were coming back from Hogsmeade hooted and booed. Harry didn't seem to care; apparently he needed to get his true love's attention. It was as though Harry wanted her to open the window so that he could scoop her up and carry her away forever. Harry stood silently for a moment, looking like he was desperately trying to conjure up a more romantic gesture in his mind and then, taking his wand out once more, he waved it like a conductor's baton and said "Orchestratus Franc Sinatrus." To the merriment of the crowd below, and to the acute embarrassment of a frantically running Ron Weasley, Hogwarts' grounds rang with the music of an invisible swing orchestra as Harry began to sing:

Those fingers in my hair,

That sly come hither stare,

That strips my conscience bare, it's witchcraft.

And I've got no defence for it,

The heat is too intense for it,

What good would common sense for it dooooo?

Coz it's Witchcraft. Wicked witchcraft.

And although I know its strictly taboooo,

When you arouse the need in me,

My heart says, " Yes indeed," in me,

Proceed with what you're leading me to.

It's such an ancient pitch,

But one I wouldn't switch,

Coz there's no nicer witch than you.

Harry clicked his fingers and tapped his toes as he sang, in the way he had seen Aunt Petunia's screen idols do in those terrible old videos she used to watch. He sang awfully, his voice missing notes and wavering between octaves. However, he really believed that his song was having the desired effect, because his beloved Minerva did indeed look up. Harry couldn't understand why the expression on her face was so startled, until he heard Gregory Goyle's voice yelling, "She's mine Potter, you get away from her!" Harry looked over his shoulder just in time to see a burly thug in a feather bonnet hurtling towards him on a very fast broom. Deftly, Harry moved his Firebolt two meters to the left, allowing Goyle to fly headlong into McGonagall's window.

Goyle sprawled over the acting headmistress's desk, unconscious and covered in broken glass. Rising from her chair with utmost composure, Minerva McGonagall assumed her Animagus form and slipped through the cat-flap in her locked office door.

Ron had now run, and his brothers had flown, to join the crowd underneath Harry.

"For goodness sake, get him down," Ron pleaded with Fred and George.

"Why? This is supercool!" chuckled Fred.

"Priceless!" agreed George. "Hey, Harry, know any more love songs?"

Harry looked alarmingly like he might be tempted to sing another verse, when Angelina Johnson flew up and, grabbing him around the waist, carried him roughly down to the Weasleys.

"Get this stupid pile of Bubotuber pus into a cold shower right now!" she ordered. "And hold his head under the water until he stops singing!"

Harry Potter was a slight and wiry youth, but surprisingly strong for his size. The three Weasley brothers had to exert a great deal of effort to carry him down to the Quidditch change rooms and force him under a shower. The task was not made any easier by the fact that Harry, thanks to his Aunt Petunia's excruciating taste in music, knew an alarmingly large number of show tunes and love ballads. Harry was singing them all now, not to gain his dear one's attention, not for his audience assembled on the lawn, but solely to give expression to his rapturous joy in being in love. Thankfully, George Weasley eventually wrenched Harry's wand away from him and turned down the volume, or the whole school would have been treated to the sound of Harry's rendition of What's New Pussycat? while he gyrated his hips and danced beneath the jets of water.

* * * * *

The mayhem of the shower block contrasted starkly with the scene playing out in the trophy room down the hall. In an alcove of that quiet room, hidden from view to anyone passing by in the corridor, stood four life-size statues of the founders of Hogwarts. Godric Gryffindor, his sword aloft in his right hand, had been rendered in gold. Rowena Ravenclaw stood slender and serene in burnished bronze. The statue of Helga Hufflepuff, a matronly figure in a wimple, had been carved from oak. The final founder of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy, Salazar Slytherin, was represented by a statue of a tall thin wizard with a snake writhing at his feet. Slytherin's statue had been cast in silver, but the metal was so tarnished that the figure had taken on a murky, dark green hue.

The statue of Slytherin had been the subject of a long running joke between Harry and Ron. The resemblance that Salazar Slytherin bore to their much detested Potions Master was uncanny, from his gaunt physique to the eagle like nose and the limp shoulder length hair. The friends had occasionally wondered whether anybody would notice if they petrified Snape and popped him on the plinth instead.

However, today the plinth was occupied, not only by Slytherin and his snake, but also by a young brown haired witch who was using it as a seat. Her cauldron bubbled on the ground at her feet, brewing a potion that smelt truly foul. Her brown eyes were closed as though in a dreamless sleep, but her lips moved continuously, as she whispered an ancient incantation. Her hands also did not stop moving, rhythmically stroking an object which lay on her lap. If you had passed the witch in a hurry, you might have guessed that she was talking to and patting her familiar. However, the witch's large orange cat was not on her lap, but circling her as though it was stalking some unseen prey. In fact, on her lap the witch held what appeared to be an old, tightly rolled, maroon velvet blanket.