Harry Potter and the Sticking Broom

Chapter 11: Yer Biggest Fan

The second last Friday of the term marked the end of schoolwork at Hogwarts for the current school year. The Quidditch tournament would be taking up the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of the last school week. The last Thursday of each year typically required students to do nothing more than pack their trunks, return their library books, commiserate with their friends over examination results and prepare for the Leaving Feast. A week from now, on the last Friday morning, Harry and his classmates would be boarding the Hogwarts Express.

So, Harry was justifiably gloomy on his way to his last Transfigurations class for the year. He was now barely more than a week away from a reunion with the odious Dursleys. However, Professor McGonagall's lesson proved to be diverting and instructive in a number of ways. She provided each desk with a selection of randomly chosen objects and animals. Harry and Ron were given a coalscuttle, a porcelain figurine of a griffin, a potted begonia and a worried looking field mouse obsessively cleaning its whiskers. McGonagall directed her class to transform each item into a Quaffle, by using the appropriate declension of the incantation Spheromorphia.

As students selected the appropriate spell, Quaffles appeared in all corners of the room and took flight towards the teacher's desk. Minerva McGonagall deftly caught the balls and threw them into a crate that was sitting at the back of the room. Harry and Ron were so distracted by her quick reflexes that they were unable to recall the proper spell to transform the field mouse, which remained fidgeting in its cage at the end of the lesson.

"Brilliant lesson," said Ron cheerfully, as the trio descended a stairway to the Potions dungeon. "It's really put me in the mood for next Monday."

"Well, I suppose it was a worthwhile revision exercise," Hermione agreed, although her tone was somewhat reproachful. "You can never get too much practice at animate and inanimate object declensions. But we really ought to have been aiming for animate and inanimate transformations as well. If we were making Quaffles and snails, for instance - that's the sort of thing we'll need for N.E.W.Ts."

"But how's she supposed to practice Quidditch with a snail?" scoffed Ron.

Professor Snape, on the other hand, had commenced teaching the N.E.W.T curriculum with relentless dedication. He took spiteful pleasure in reminding his class, at the beginning of each lesson, that only those students who he deemed worthy would be continuing Potions in sixth year. But despite this, Snape had already required the whole class to learn about eight of the twelve uses of dragons' blood.

Harry and Ron had entered the dungeon in a particularly good mood, hopeful that this was to be their last Potions class ever. As they took their seats, the words Ninth Use of Dragons' Blood predictably appeared on the blackboard.

"Too bad we'll never find out about the tenth, eleventh and twelfth," Ron observed under his breath. His voice was just loud enough to be heard by Seamus and Lavender in the desk behind Harry and Ron. Seamus' soft laughter showed that he too was counting on being deemed unworthy to continue the study of Potions.

"The ninth use of dragon's blood," Professor Snape began, in a bored monotone, "as those of you who have deigned to undertake preparatory reading for this lesson would already know -" He looked down his hooked nose at Hermione, who appeared to be keen to volunteer an answer. Ignoring her raised hand, he continued, " - is as a salve to cauterise mortal wounds. The method for preparing the salve is on the blackboard." The words duly appeared. "You will form an orderly line to select a bezoar from the supplies cabinet and then, working in pairs, commence brewing in silence."

The Slytherin students, who always sat at the front of the room, were first to reach the cabinet. They walked away with bezoars that were the size of grapefruits, perfectly rounded and smooth. By the time Harry and Ron arrived at the front of the line, the only stones left resembled mouldy prunes. Harry did not hold out much hope for concocting an adequate salve, and was relieved that no mortally wounded person would ever be relying on him to do so.

Harry and Ron placed their sadly deficient bezoar in Harry's cauldron and did the best they could. The methodology on the blackboard, extracted from Moste Potente Potions, was surprisingly simple. It appeared that, once a, "Goat's stone goode and true," had been located, all that was required was for the potion maker to take one cup of Hebridean Black's blood and heat it in a cauldron with the bezoar until, "The brewe to chartreuse transformes and the heat it giveth off may melte a wax taper."

Within a few minutes, the class settled down to the silent, boring task of watching cauldrons boil. Gregory Goyle raised his hand to ask a question. He could not remember whether chartreuse was green or pink. "No, no, you're thinking of cerise," Pansy Parkinson interrupted, which caused Queenie Greengrass to quibble that Pansy must have been talking about cyan. Millicent Bulstrode said, rather forcefully, that she thought cyan was blue. Professor Snape swept down from his desk to the Slytherin tables, to calm his charges and adjust the temperatures of their cauldrons. While he was doing this, Harry felt something prod him between the shoulder blades.

"Psst, Harry," whispered Seamus. "Look at this."

Seamus passed him Lavender's copy of the latest edition of Witch Weekly. It was open at a page titled Hot Hexers, which seemed to be full of gossip and absurdities supplied by Rita Skeeter. There was a short article on The Hobgoblins' lead singer, Stubby Boardman, who had once again secretly admitted himself to St. Mungo's to battle his Firewhisky dependency. Another column fanned the rumour that Oliver Wood was about to become engaged to Meaghan McCormack from the Pride of Portree Quidditch team. The lower half of the page bore the headline Howling For Her Hero. There was a photo of a short witch with greying, unkempt hair and thick black-rimmed glasses, who was named in the photo's caption as, "Mrs. Euphemia Peebles, thirty-nine year old mother of five and werewolf." A bawling, grubby toddler was clutching the skirt of the witch's unfashionably floral robes. The most striking thing about Mrs. Peebles was her moustache, which Harry thought was even more impressive than his Aunt Marge's. The other unexpected thing about her was that she was clasping a scowling picture of Professor Snape to her heart.

The article explained that, thanks to the generosity of the Brews-U-Like Corporation and Witch Weekly, Mrs. Peebles' whole family would be traveling to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry where they all would have V.I.P. seating at the imminent Quidditch tournament. "I've been howling with excitement ever since I got the news!" Mrs. Peebles was quoted as saying. "I don't know if he's playing or not. But at least he'll be there. To think, in just a few days, I'm going to meet that gorgeous, kind, clever man!" Several paragraphs of implausible praise for Severus Snape followed.

Ron and Harry tried not to snigger as they read the magazine under the desk. Professor Snape had by this time finished offering his assistance to the Slytherins, and had begun to slowly move from table to table, stopping only to sniff disdainfully at any pupil's effort that he decided was sufficiently unworthy. Harry stowed the Witch Weekly well out of sight, just before his teacher peered into the brownish potion in Harry's cauldron and snorted.

Snape looked as though he was about criticise Harry and Ron's brew when Neville exclaimed to Hermione, "Oh, that's chartreuse!"

This caused the Potions Master to sweep across the room to the desk where Hermione and Neville had been working. Hermione was attentively prodding the bubbling cauldron with her wand when the dark shadow of Professor Snape fell over her.

"The hue could be improved," Snape muttered, "but, for the purposes of a demonstration, it may suffice." He picked up the taper Hermione had placed by the cauldron, and held it over the steam until wax droplets began to fall into the potion.

"Yes, quite adequate," Snape quietly observed. In a louder voice he added, "Mr. Longbottom, roll up your sleeve."

The students at the front of the room turned to Neville and smiled meanly. Harry and his friends were aghast. Neville merely stammered, "Do - Do what sir?"

"Your sleeve," Professor Snape replied with irritation. "Roll it up. The veins on the wrist should be easiest to sever." He produced a small switchblade from his pocket and Neville, who had still not moved, turned a shade paler.

Harry felt his heart pounding with fury. He rose to his feet and called out, "I'll do it! You can use me to test it."

Snape's mouth twisted into an evil snarl. "You're very confident Potter," he drawled maliciously. "But, as usual, your confidence is unwarranted. I have no intention of using your pathetic concoction in my class demonstration. If I did so, we would all end up witnessing nothing more than a gory end to your ill-timed heroics."

Harry reached in his pocket for his knife, determined to use it on himself. Ron started to tug urgently on Harry's robes. Harry looked down to see that his friend was pointing at their potion, which had now cooled and congealed. It looked like nothing more than a bowl of lazily bubbling mud. Ron was shaking his head, as if to say that they shouldn't trust their potion to heal a pimple, let alone a mortal wound.

Professor Snape continued sarcastically, "We couldn't have you injured, could we Potter? Surely, we owe it to your legion of fans to see you are not harmed. How disappointed they'd be, if they converged on the castle on Monday, and found that the great Harry Potter was unfit to play!"

Ron was furtively writing something on a piece of parchment, which he placed on the desk in front of Harry. Glancing down, Harry noticed that it said, "SO??? Your fans won't have to shave their palms!!!!!"

A small voice from the table beside Snape caused Harry to look up again. "I'm ready now, Professor," said Neville. He was still deathly white, but had rolled up his sleeve. He rose uncertainly to his feet.

As Snape took Neville's arm and examined his wrist, Hermione began to wave her hand wildly in the air. The Potions Master ignored her. Hermione decided to speak out regardless. "Professor, sir, please wait. I have a question."

"You usually do, Miss Granger," said Snape, his eyes still fixed on Neville's wrist. "I do not wish to hear it."

"But, sir, it's important!" Hermione protested frantically.

"I doubt it," was Snape's icy reply, as he prepared to cut.

Hermione reached up and pushed Neville's arm down to his side. Her words rushed out in a torrent of protest. "But it doesn't make any sense, does it? I mean - you've got a fatally wounded person. Wouldn't you just fetch a medi-wizard? And if you can't find a medi-wizard, what are the odds that you'd have a bezoar, a cauldron, a wax taper and a cup of dragons' blood? Honestly, I can't see the point in even learning how to make a potion like this. I can't think of any practical use for it. There's no logic -"

During Hermione's tirade, Professor Snape's sallow complexion had turned the colour of sour milk. Pointing at Hermione with the gleaming blade of his knife, he snapped. "Logic? Miss Granger, even in the limited number of years that you have been acquainted with the practice of magic, has it never occurred to you that logic and sorcery do not coexist?"

Draco Malfoy was grinning with sadistic pleasure at this remark. His fellow Slytherins were snickering. Their favourite teacher had just reminded Hermione that she was Muggle-born. Harry imagined Malfoy repeating the story in the Slytherin common room to all his snotty pureblood friends for years to come. The hand in Harry's pocket gripped tightly around his knife.

Professor Snape continued scolding Hermione, his expression still most ill-natured. "And, if you can think of no practical use for this potion, then you have merely betrayed how feebly you can think at all." This remark caused Goyle to guffaw. Snape went on, in a voice that dripped venom. "I would have thought it was obvious that this potion is not to be prepared for its curative properties. A competent witch would have no problem in recollecting appropriate staunching charms, if healing was all that one required. But, sometimes, one does not wish to heal. Sometimes, when a victim of torture is bleeding profusely, one merely wishes to prevent an inconvenient lapse into unconsciousness. One can hardly interrogate somebody when they've passed out. So, for practical uses of this potion, one needs to look no further than the martyrdom of Gregory the Smarmy."

"It works on tortured Muggles, too," Malfoy glibly informed the class.

Professor Snape halted momentarily. Harry couldn't believe that a Hogwarts teacher could sanction Malfoy's remark. But Snape calmly stated, "Five points to Slytherin, Mr. Malfoy. It's refreshing to see that somebody can envisage pragmatic uses for the study of Potions."

Hermione's face had flushed during Snape's humiliating speech, but she continued to hold Neville's arm fast by his side. Harry's heart was still hammering and, looking down, he saw the knuckles of Ron's clenched fists turning white.

Suddenly, Ron rose to his feet and began to cross the dungeon in long strides. However, before he reached the Potions Master, and before Snape had a chance to use his knife, Neville Longbottom swayed and collapsed to the floor in a faint. In falling, Neville knocked Hermione's bag from the back of her seat. The Lug-eezy Satchel's vast contents exploded over the dungeon floor, blocking Ron's progress and creating a carpet of books, parchment scrolls, quills and dark, oozing rivulets from broken bottles of ink.

"Miss Granger," Professor Snape hissed. "When was the last time that you cleaned out that bag?"

"Er, oh my, I -" Hermione was close to tears as she saw her possessions continuously spewing forth. "I haven't ever cleaned it out. I didn't think I needed to." The students at the front of the class were laughing heartily at her misfortune.

Harry stumbled over to where Ron was now on his knees, trying to push objects back into the bag. When Harry stooped to help, he was certain he heard the satchel moaning. But this time, he also heard a far-away woman's voice, bitterly wailing, "The fiend! The black haired fiend!"

Snape glared at the three of them with intense anger, his skeletal hand visibly shaking as it held his knife. Then, he slowly put the blade back in his pocket. He flicked his wand to levitate Neville out of the wreckage. "Well, ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for interrupting my lesson," Professor Snape announced, in a tone that conveyed his belief that had all Gryffindors were beneath his contempt. "And twenty more points for being a slattern." He floated Neville's limp body to the doorway. The teacher stepped briskly over the mess to the dungeon's exit, before turning to fix a look of pure loathing on Hermione, Harry and Ron. "As a detention, the three of you can clean up this mess, including scouring your classmates' cauldrons. The rest of you are dismissed. And, Miss Granger, I want to see you in my office at ten on Monday morning, with that bag cleaned out."

Two hours and three bottles of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical-Mess Remover later, Hermione reminded Harry that it was nearly time for Quidditch practice.

"We'll finish the rest, go and play Quidditch," she said wearily as she walked from cauldron to cauldron, casting Vanishing Spells over their gluggy contents. "Mind," she continued, "for your sake, I hope Professor Snape won't be playing in the tournament next Monday. It's going to be hard enough staying on guard for the Sticking Broom, let alone watching out for - "

"Well, I hope Snape is playing," Ron interrupted. He was savagely scrubbing an ink stain on a chair leg. Ron began to rub the stain so hard that Harry thought he would snap the wooden leg in two. Ron seethed, "And I hope the Sticking Broom's a Quidditch move, and the mean git mucks it up and he falls out of the sky and he breaks his bony neck."

As Harry left the Potions dungeon for what he expected to be the last time, he sincerely hoped that Ron was right.

* * * * * * *

Harry was running down a corridor when Ginny saw him rush past. "Oi, Harry!" she yelled. "Slow down, I need to see you for a minute!"

Panting, Harry came to a halt. "So long as it's just for a minute," he said. "I'm late for Quidditch."

"So I see," Ginny observed, grinning. "Dean told me about the detention. Luckily, I've got something which might cheer you up." Ginny was holding three large, leather-bound volumes of Hogwarts Quidditch records. "I managed to get 1977, 1976 and 1975. But I haven't looked in them yet," she said, while testing the door handles on the rooms leading off the corridor. When the third handle she tried turned, she beckoned Harry to follow her into the empty classroom.

They dumped the books on the nearest desk with a dusty thud and began to rapidly turn pages. Ginny kept talking all the while. "I didn't think I had a chance of getting them. I tried every way of blowing up the door I knew. So next, I thought I'd ride a broom through Hooch's window, but Fred wouldn't lend me his. He's been in a foul mood since that row with Angelina. Oh look, there's my auntie Beryl." Ginny had found a picture of an addled old witch, who had apparently taught flying at Hogwarts twenty years earlier. The teacher recognised Ginny too, and gave a cheery wave.

"So, anyway," Ginny continued, "I stopped attempting to break-in and went for a bit of trickery instead." They had reached the end of the book for 1977, with no mention of Snape. Harry impatiently grabbed the 1976 volume and flicked through its pages, hardly paying attention to what Ginny was saying. "I told Madam Hooch," Ginny said, "that I was thinking of getting a new broom and needed some advice. Imagine, a Weasley on a new broom!" She paused and gave a small self-deprecating laugh. "And, while she was hunting up catalogues and price lists in her files for me - well, the books were all over Hooch's desk, so I just shoved these in my bag. Mind you, Katie Bell looked quite shocked when I did."

"Katie Bell?" Harry asked. "Why was she there?"

"Dunno," Ginny's said, her brow furrowing. "She's always with Madam Hooch nowadays. But, I think it's OK 'cause Katie just gave me a wink after I took them. I don't think she'll tell."

The volume for 1976 did not contain a single reference to Severus Snape. Harry held out little hope of 1975 yielding any information. If Snape had been a proficient Quidditch player, it would have made no sense for him to play up until fourth year, but not afterwards. The pair turned the pages more slowly this time. But, in the end, the book for 1975 revealed nothing.

Ginny looked bitterly disappointed. "You tried your best," Harry consoled her.

"Yes, but if Hooch realises these three books are missing, there's no way I'll be able to get the rest."

"I don't think you should bother," Harry said. "Snape must have learnt to play Quidditch somewhere else. Not at school."

"So, how do we find the Sticking Broom now?" Ginny said, the frustration welling up in her voice.

"I guess all I can do is keep my eyes open next week," Harry said. And then, suddenly remembering that he was now extremely late for Quidditch practice, Harry said a hurried goodbye and left the room to continue his run down the hallway.

* * * * * * *

Angelina Johnson was so annoyed by Harry's lateness that she made him stay after his teammates had finished, to perfect his Wronski Feint technique. The extra hour of soaring and diving meant that Harry's stomach was still lurching by the time he returned to the castle, so he skipped dinner.

On Saturday, the captain of the All School Team scheduled practice from dawn to dusk. This was because Angelina had been informed that the Quidditch pitch would be unavailable for training on Sunday. The school had hired tradesman and artisans to magically expand the seating capacity of the Quidditch stadium, so there was a risk that players using the pitch on Sunday could be hit by a stray Engorgement Charm. Angelina had asked for permission to practice on the Quidditch pitch in Hogsmeade instead, but Professor McGonagall insisted that no student was to set foot in the village that weekend. When Angelina glumly retold this news to her team, Harry was inwardly pleased. He guessed that the teacher's team would be practicing all weekend in Hogsmeade. Harry did not blame McGonagall for keeping her less able team members out of the public eye as long as possible.

The All School Team finished practicing so late on Saturday that they flew back to the castle, in a weary Hawkshead formation, by the light of the full moon. As they flew, Cho, Avery and Crabbe arranged to meet in the library the next day so that Cho could give them one last strategic briefing. Merlin Rhys-Jones idly admired the manicured lawns and well tended flowerbeds below. And George Weasley infuriated Angelina, who brought up the rear, with his total inability to fly with precision.

"Merlin's armpits, George!" Angelina complained. "Your altitude's way out. There's a gap big enough to fly a twelve-seater carpet between you and Harry. You need to keep your eyes fixed on the player in front."

"Er, sorry," George mumbled. He made an attempt to close the gap, but overcorrected and bumped into the bristles of Harry's broom, sending both boys into a sideways skid.

Ordinarily, Harry would have dismissed this sort of behaviour as just another of George's attempts to get on Angelina's nerves. The Weasley twins had never been the most respectful members of Gryffindor's Quidditch team, even when they shared an easy friendship with the captain. Now that relations between Angelina and the Weasleys were acrimonious, Harry would not have been surprised if some prank was being planned at Angelina's expense. But George's behaviour lately had gone well beyond merely teasing the captain. His playing had been uncharacteristically atrocious for days. Harry was sick of being bruised by the many Bludgers that George had failed to block.

Harry was also worried that George's recent ineptitude, together with Avery's inability to hold a pass, Cho's punctilious dithering and Crabbe's general dimwittedness, were going to lead to an uninspiring display of Quidditch on Monday. This would do nothing for Angelina's reputation as a rising Quidditch star. At times, Harry didn't blame Angelina for having the temperament of a Manticore with a sore head.

On Sunday, Harry slept late and enjoyed his first aimless, lazy day in weeks. He played wizard chess with Ron, he argued about Quidditch teams with Seamus and he watched Hermione spend the entire afternoon writing industriously on a scroll of parchment. By dinnertime, Hermione's essay was over two metres in length and Ron had to set up a barricade of chairs to stop the other young Gryffindors in the common room from tripping on it. Even so, Hermione seemed entirely dissatisfied with what she had written. The lengthy scroll was covered in corrections. In some parts, she had scratched out her work so furiously that her quill had made holes in the parchment.

Harry flew down to the transformed Quidditch stadium at six on Monday morning, for the All Scool Team's final training session. As he lined up to practice passing, Harry thought despondently that nothing had improved in the four exhausting weeks the team had been together. Angelina seemed to have, belatedly, acknowledged this too. When breakfast time arrived, she called an end to the practice session. With almost tearful resignation, she said, "I guess this is as good as we're going to get. Be in the change rooms at ten thirty."

Straying behind the others on his way back to the castle, Harry watched a small herd of unicorns cantering at the fringe of the Forbidden Forest, the summer sunshine glinting on their silvery horns and hooves. He envied their freedom. He was just dipping lower to get a closer look, when he noticed Hagrid's hut on the edge of the woods. Something was not right.

Harry had seen smoke coming from the chimney of Hagrid's home from time to time during the year, even though he knew that Hagrid had been continuously absent. It was common knowledge that some of the older students kept their romantic trysts in the hut. But this morning, smoke was coming from the chimney and billowing from the open windows as well. Immediately, Harry directed his Firebolt back to the burning building.

Harry leapt from his broom and rushed through Hagrid's door. As he did, he was engulfed in smoke. Coughing, Harry tripped over an enormous black boarhound, which was ripping apart the front end of a ferret. "Fang!" said Harry, in surprise.

"All righ' there, Harry?" a familiar voice asked, as two massive hands picked Harry up from the floor and sat him on a chair. Hagrid's black beetle eyes glimmered through the smoke haze as he continued. "Shoulda known yeh'd come an' see me firs' thing. Only got back las' night - " Something exploded behind Hagrid on the fire.

"I've jus' gotta keep me eye on this," Hagrid explained, as he turned to his fireplace. A frying pan was smoking alarmingly above the hearth. "Pour yerself a cuppa an' we'll have a chat. Stay fer breakfast if yeh like. Yeh can tell me the Hogwarts news an' all."

Harry lifted Hagrid's huge teapot with both hands and poured tea into one of the mugs on the table. He wondered if Hagrid's tea things had been sitting gathering dust on the table all year and decided, given Hagrid's general lack of domesticity, that they had. However, looking at Hagrid's profile as he cooked breakfast, Harry had to admit that his friend's personal appearance was much less rustic than usual.

Hagrid was twice as tall as an ordinary man and his great, shaggy head normally seemed two or three times as large. However, this morning Hagrid's wild hair appeared to have been trimmed and tamed, so that more of his friendly face was visible. He still wore a full beard, but this was also neater than before. His clothes bore none of the customary stains, scorches or rips. Harry thought that, for a man who had disappeared to spend a year in the company of vicious giants, Hagrid looked surprisingly well cared for.

"Well," Harry began hesitantly, "Professor Grubbly-Plank's been teaching us about magical creatures all year."

"An' how's that bin?" Hagrid asked.

Care of Magical Creatures classes had been completely free of incident during Harry's fifth year. Nobody had been bitten, or stung or trampled. This was because the most dangerous creature Professor Grubbly-Plank had allowed them to handle had been a Knarl. Harry's class had been well taught and well prepared for their examinations, but at the end of the day, Harry's verdict on her teaching was, "Boring."

Hagrid beamed. "Well, then," he responded with a chortle, "here's hopin' I'm back nex' year ter liven things up." Hagrid placed a plate of charred food in front of Harry and sat down at the table. "Eat up."

Harry was confused. "But, aren't you back now?" he asked.

"Temporarily," Hagrid replied with a smile. "Special project." He tucked into his own black and smoking breakfast with gusto.

"Er, Hagrid," Harry asked, looking warily at his plate, "what is this?"

"A continental delicacy, Harry," said Hagrid. "Crepes Ermine. A bit more well done than usual, I'll admit. Olympe's normally the one fer cookin' me breakfast."

Harry's mind immediately formed a mental picture of Hagrid and Madam Maxime enjoying breakfast in bed, sharing the Sunday supplements to the Daily Prophet and a plate of crepes. So, that was why Hagrid looked so well groomed. Hagrid noticed Harry's grin and immediately blushed scarlet.

"I shouldn'ta told yeh that," Hagrid blurted out. "Forget I said it. Olympe's a fine, dignified woman an' she likes her privacy."

"It's all right, Hagrid," Harry said, trying his best to keep a straight face. "I won't tell anybody. So," he tried to think of a way to change the subject. "Have you been talking with the French giants all year?"

"Giants?" Hagrid's guard was now well and truly up. "Who told yeh I was talkin' ter giants?"

"I was in the room," Harry reminded him. "When Dumbledore sent for you."

Hagrid regained his composure. "Of course yeh were. Don't mind me forgettin'. It's jus', we've had such a year full o' negotiatin' an' some things still need ter be kept secret."

Hagrid leaned back in his chair and told Harry all about his year. He had successfully made contact with the scattered giant tribes in the Pyrenees, with the help of the wonderful and diplomatic Madame Maxime. She had also helped Hagrid to search for his family, although without success. Together, they had shared bloodthirsty encounters with the most savage warlords and won over nearly every faction to Dumbledore's side. But, in the spring, a complication arose.

"Only one of 'em couldn' see reason in the end. Big, gruff fellow name o' Bloodnut. Didn' see how wizards could be trusted, after all they'd put the giants through in the past."

"So?" Harry asked eagerly. "How did you bring him over to our side?"

"We couldn'," Hagrid said darkly. "An' soon it became obvious that he'd made his own allegiances."

"Who with?"

"Dementors," Hagrid said in an ominous tone. "Or, which is worse, with someone who could supply him with Dementors. He nearly ruined all our work, scarin' the other tribes with those gruesome things. Giants aren't a sanguine lot. They don' fare that well against Dementors."

Harry felt sick in his stomach, even though his crepes remained untouched. If Dementors were working outside the Ministry of Magic's control in Europe, there were no prizes for guessing whose cause they were serving. And to think all Harry had been worrying about that morning was Quidditch. "What did you do?" Harry wanted to know.

"Well, job's not finished yet, but Dumbledore's got the problem well in hand." Hagrid said reassuringly. "Sent us two o' the best Dementor exterminators ever. Don' think I've seen a wizard as good at conjurin' a Patronus as Professor Lupin. An' Sirius Black - well, nobody else's ever escaped from Azkaban, have they?"

Harry nearly jumped out of his seat. "Sirius?" he exclaimed. "In France? Where Hagrid? You need to tell me."

Hagrid's mouth opened in shock. He realised he had said too much. "Blimey, Harry, even if I could tell yeh that, you know I shouldn'. Forget I said anythin'. Their safer if we leave 'em alone. An', anyway, it's time fer yeh to be getting' back ter the castle." Hagrid pulled out Harry's chair and gently pushed him towards the door.

As he was being escorted out, one final question occurred to Harry. "Hagrid," he asked, "when you were in France, did Professor Snape send you an owl?"

"Professor Snape?" Hagrid wondered. "Why would the Professor send me an owl? Only one who's bin writin' ter me lately is poor old Sybill, complainin' 'bout her trances."

When Hagrid waved goodbye at the doorway, a strange smile lit up his face. "I'll be seein' yeh at the Quidditch today then, Harry," Hagrid said. "An' remember, no matter what happens out there, I'll always be yer biggest fan."

Harry flew back to the castle, his mind full of all of Hagrid's news. Playing Quidditch seemed a pointless way to spend the next three days, when Sirius and Professor Lupin were out there somewhere, fighting a war.