Harry Potter and the Sticking Broom

Chapter 6: Seeing Red

The following week was not a happy one for Harry. Daily Quidditch practice in the heat, with an increasingly dysfunctional team, was becoming unbearable. Even George, normally unflappable and cheerful, had reached his limit. He had absented himself from training early that afternoon, complaining, "Squinting into the blasted sun is making me cross eyed." Harry was also beginning to physically suffer from the summer sun. His nose and cheeks glowed bright red with sunburn.

Luckily, Harry's lessons had not been demanding that week. Most of the teachers were as excited as the students about the upcoming tournament, and were already taking a summer holidays approach to class work and homework. However, Harry had been continually pestered and teased by the Slytherins ever since the bell tower flag announced the Sticking Broom. Queenie Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson thought it was the epitome of wit to pretend to sweep whenever Harry was near, and Draco Malfoy could not resist any opportunity to belittle Harry and Ron.

"Figured out your sticky little problem yet, Potter?" Malfoy had sneered before Potions class the previous Tuesday.

"You know where you can stick it," Ron had growled.

"Ah yes, Weasley," Malfoy had drawled nastily, "you should be able to point your friend in the right direction on this one. Isn't your mother working as a charwoman nowadays? Reckon she'd be needing to push a broom around to make end meets, what with what your father earns."

Both Harry and Hermione had grabbed the sleeves of Ron's robes, thankfully restraining him. The door to the Potions dungeon had opened just at that moment. Professor Snape was not one of the teachers taking a relaxed approach to lessons as the school year drew to a close, and his attitude toward Harry, Ron and Hermione had not improved since their recent meeting in the library.

The most galling thing of all for Harry was that, after a week of irritation, he was no closer to understanding what the message on the flag had meant. So, as he passed through the portrait hole to the Gryffindor common room, his Firebolt still in his hand, his mood was far from joyful. He didn't even respond to the Fat Lady, who was cooling herself with a pink lacy fan, when she chirruped, "Lovely weather we've been having, isn't it?"

The common room was unusually crowded, especially considering very few students had homework to do. The Weasleys were all in a corner, grouped in a redheaded bunch. George was sitting in one of the armchairs with his head tilted back, while Fred stood over him, peering into his eyes. Ron was shining the tip of his wand close to George's face so that Fred could see clearly. Ginny was standing behind Fred, trying to look over his shoulder.

"Don't bump me, Ginny. Honestly, George, I can't see anything," Fred was saying. "You're being a bit of a baby about this, you know."

"But I'm telling you, it really hurts," George complained. "It's like a Billywig sting. Well, without the levitating, but it still hurts. Are you sure there isn't a bit of dust or an eyelash stuck in there?"

"No, just a ruddy, great, red eyeball," said Fred. "Your eyes are so bloodshot it looks like you've had a rough night with a barrel of strong ale. Shame too, you used to be such a handsome fellow."

Ron looked up to see his best friend. "Hey there, Harry!" he exclaimed. "Your nose is as red as George's eyes are!"

"Eurggh," grunted George. Ron had accidentally poked his wand up his brother's nose. "That's it, I'm going to the hospital wing," George said with a sigh.

"No, don't go now," said Ginny, tossing a couple of Sickles from hand to hand. "Lee said he'd be down any minute. You want to get your bet placed before he shortens the odds."

"Spoken like a gambling professional, my sorcerer's apprentice," said Fred with pride, as he patted his little sister on the back.

"And Harry," Ginny said with a smile, "you'd better get up to your room and fetch your bag of Galleons, too. Gosh, that nose is glowing like a Clabbert!"

Harry tentatively touched his throbbing nose. "What's Lee running a book on now?" he wanted to know. The school had placed a ban on Flobberworm racing after many complaints from disgruntled gamblers. However, Lee Jordan was always ready, willing and able to devise new schemes to allow the students of Hogwarts to part with their pocket money.

Harry's question was answered at once by the appearance of Lee. He had always been one of the most easily recognised boys at Hogwarts, because he alone wore his hair in dreadlocks. Lately Lee had also taken to wearing a pair of gold-rimmed aviator's sunglasses with purple lenses, both outdoors and indoors. It was a mark of the lax approach Hogwarts' teachers had adopted in the last couple of weeks that nobody had asked Lee to remove his eyewear. As Lee came down the boy's dormitory stairs, Harry noticed that he was carrying a small, black, leather case, not unlike a doctor's bag. He stood in front of the common room's empty fireplace and placed his bag on the cold hearthstones. Everybody assembled in the common room seemed to have been expecting Lee, as they all crowded around him. Even Harry moved a bit closer.

From his bag, Lee pulled a battered trilby hat, which he perched on top of his hair. He also pulled out a large chalkboard, which stood about as high as he did. He leaned the top of the chalkboard against the mantelpiece, found a couple of pieces of white chalk in his pocket and, cupping the chalk in his right hand whispered, "Periculum Calcula." The chalk flew out of his hands and darted across the chalkboard, producing tiny clouds of dust as it drew up columns of numbers and words. While the chalk was busy, Lee reached into his bag one last time and found a booklet of tickets and a quill.

"It looks like we all know why we're here," Lee observed cheerfully. "I'm listing the odds for most of the stuff you'll want to bet on here on the chalkboard. So step on up, boys and girls, and make your wagers. Jordan's betting shop is open for business." He said the last words with a flourish of his brown hands and was immediately mobbed by an eager group of students. Ron and Ginny had been able to push their way to the front of the pack, and were soon emerging from the scrum. Ginny had a betting slip in her hands.

"Righto, Harry," she said, "I've put twelve Sickles on you at 7 to 2 odds. I'm counting on you to catch the Snitch in game one in less than twenty-five minutes." She then ran off to show her betting slip to her fourth year friends.

"And if you can spare half a Galleon," added Ron, "you'll be able to get goods odds on the teachers beating the points spread in game three. Lee's giving the teachers a three hundred point start in that one. But you'll have to hurry."

"Oh no you don't!" a loud and aggressive voice threatened, as Angelina Johnson stepped through the portrait hole. "Harry Potter, don't even think about it. It's completely unsporting, betting against your team. You know they take a pretty dim view of that sort of thing in professional Quidditch."

"It's just for a lark," argued Ron. "Anyway, George's already bet a Galleon that Avery will drop the Quaffle ten times in game one."

"He did WHAT?" Angelina shouted, her face reddening with anger. She pushed her way through the crowd to the corner where the older Weasleys were sitting and checking their betting slips. George was holding his slips inches from his nose and squinting, his bloodshot eye still giving him no end of trouble. Harry and Ron followed in Angelina's wake and arrived in time to see the Hogwarts All School Team's captain unleash the full force of her wrath on her Beater.

"What do you think you're doing, George Weasley, you foul blob of Bubotuber pus?" Angelina roared like a wounded chimera. "Running off from training early so you can bet against your own side! Merlin's beard, where's your team loyalty?" The common room hubbub subsided immediately. All the young Gryffindors fell silent in expectation of yet another explosive scene from their star athlete.

"It's all in good fun," George replied nervously. "Just a little wager, makes things more interesting, you see?"

Fred had risen to his feet. He pulled himself up to his full height, which was still half a head shorter than Angelina's, and confronted her. "Now see here," he said. "George is as true a team player as you're going to get. I don't know why we can't have a bit of fun."

"I'm not taking any more of your 'fun', Fred," Angelina responded, for a moment sounding more hurt than angry. "This is Quidditch. It's serious."

"But it's just a tiny joke at the Slytherins' expense," Fred reasoned. "They're the real weak link in your side, you know."

"My team has no weak links," Angelina snarled. "I got rid of the dead wood when I dumped you, Fred Weasley!"

An ominous silence followed, while Fred flexed and unflexed his fingers and wondered whether he would be justified in placing them around Angelina's throat. Fred Weasley was a reasonable young man, who always preferred to laugh than fight, but even reasonable young men have their limits. Angelina had spurned him, Angelina had humiliated him and now Angelina had got him seeing red.

Fred laughed bitterly. "Hey, Lee!" he shouted across the room. "Here's a tip for you. I think this All School Team's about as likely to win the tournament as a mountain troll could win Miss Witch Weekly. The captain's a bad tempered Doxy. I reckon the team should show her as much respect as Snape in his Grandma's bloomers."

Lee looked very unhappy to have been dragged into the fight, but he was reluctant to let any opportunity for a safe bet pass him by. "OK, man," he said, "if you'd like to put your money where your mouth is."

Fred was already turning out his pockets, scattering Dungbombs, Chocolate Frog cards, fireworks, Fizzing Whizbees, Exploding Snap cards and Canary Creams over the common room floor. He found a single, lint encrusted Sickle and held it aloft. "This says that Angelina Johnson cannot lead the student team to victory in the tournament," he announced.

Lee obliged Fred with a betting slip. For the sake of his friendship with Fred, and in the hope of not provoking Angelina any further, Lee gave Fred a two thousand to one chance of winning. Even so, Lee believed that this was the safest one Sickle he had ever taken and only wished that the wager had been larger. Angelina merely snorted, "Weasleys! Merlin knows, they're all fools with money!" She turned and marched haughtily off to the girls' dormitory.

The happy atmosphere of the common room was thus quashed, so that only a few students lingered around Jordan's betting shop to finalise their wagers. Even the twins (George looking a little embarrassed and Fred still mightily indignant) decided they would rather calculate their potential winnings in the privacy of their dormitory. Ron and Harry remained by the common room fireplace, since Ron was still hopeful he could persuade Harry to wager some money. They were so busy arguing about whether or not Harry should have a flutter that they didn't notice Hermione returning from the library. She headed straight for Ron with a frown on her face.

"Just guess what your delinquent brothers have gone and done now," she demanded of Ron.

"They've just made Angelina hit the roof," Ron informed her. "Anything else?"

"I can't get into the Restricted Section anymore," Hermione complained, throwing her satchel onto the nearest table with a vicious thump. The bag let out a tiny moan. "Madam Pince says that they'll be closing it for the rest of the year. It seems that some students have found a way to sneak in there without permission and have been littering, so the teachers decided at the last staff meeting to lock it up!"

"So?" Ron began defensively. "That doesn't mean it was -"

"I know it was them!" Hermione said accusingly, pointing her index finger into Ron's chest. "I've seen them in there. How am I supposed to finish my contest essay now?"

"Why are you still working on that silly thing? It's taking ages," Ron argued. "And you keep saying you're not going to win. Why make yourself so miserable if you're not going to have anything to show for it, anyway?"

"Because it's the sort of thing I need to do," Hermione said with a desperate tone in her voice. "Has it never occurred to you, Ron Weasley, that some of us don't have a big, well connected wizard family waiting to take care of us when we leave this school? Some of us don't have two ex-Head Boys for brothers, or parents in the Ministry." She shot an accusing glance at Harry as well. "Some of us don't have fame or a vast wizard fortune, either. Some of us have to work hard, because we're not going to be noticed by the school, or the Ministry, or Gringotts or whoever unless we do work hard."

Ron looked flummoxed. This was hardly the sort of reply he was expecting and clearly Hermione was making no sense to him. "Not going to be noticed?" he asked, his voice wavering between octaves. It tended to do this of late whenever Ron was surprised or stressed. "Who's going to dare not notice you, when you got more marks in your O.W.L.s than Harry and me put together? Come on, Hermione, the year's nearly over. Chuck the essay in and have some fun."

"Fun?" Hermione sounded highly doubtful. "Doing what?"

"Well, you can tell us who you think we should bet on in the Quidditch for a start." Harry volunteered, trying to smooth things over a little. "Do you reckon the teachers can lose the last game by less than three hundred points?"

"So that's all you think I need to worry about, is it?" Hermione replied, her voice quiet and affronted. "Well, I'll tell you something, Harry Potter. I'm sick of Quidditch. Quidditch is violent, thuggish, moronic and a total waste of school time." Warming to her theme, Hermione's voice began to get louder. "I'm sick of hearing about Quidditch. I'm sick of talking about Quidditch. Quidditch is the worst excuse for a sport I've ever come across. Quidditch is just so -- well, it's - it's stupider than cricket!"

Harry and Ron stood in quiet confusion as yet another Gryffindor girl turned and marched angrily up her dormitory stairway.

"Stupider than a cricket?" Ron asked his Muggle-raised, best friend.

"No," Harry replied. "Come with me while I put my broom away. I'll explain."