Harry Potter and the Sticking Broom

Chapter 12: Lavish Pre-Match Entertainment

Harry flew back to the castle quickly and alighted from his Firebolt near the front entrance. He was eager to tell Ron and Hermione the good news that Hagrid was back. He wondered how he should break the more disturbing news that he had located Sirius and Lupin. And he knew that he had precious little time to spread any sort of news, since it was nearly time for him to get ready for Quidditch.

Going up the front steps, Harry could not help but notice all the activity. Eager spectators had already started to stream through the school gates. Most of them were making their way directly to the Quidditch pitch. A few were stopping at a large red and white striped marquee that had been erected on the lawn. On the top of the tent was a garish sign that read, "Brews-U-Like Free Samples."

A bit closer to the castle, a gentleman wearing a green bowler hat, a pinstriped cape and a sash that declared he was a Lupine Warden, was grumbling to himself. "It's pure madness to be doing this right after full moon," he complained. "Half of 'em aren't even properly transformed." While he muttered, he was building an enclosure with a roll of chicken wire and a succession of Imperturbable Charms. Next to the Lupine Warden, a truck was parked which, at first glance, looked like the sort of thing a farmer might use to transport livestock.

It was a battered and ancient vehicle, which hardly seemed worthy of the Ministry of Magic crest painted on its bonnet. The back of the truck was enclosed by rough, widely spaced, wooden slats. However, the truck was not carting animals. From his position on the top step, Harry was able to peer into the truck and view its cargo. Several chintz armchairs and small tables with lace tablecloths were arranged in groups, as though somebody had thought the back of a dirty, old truck was the perfect place to open a tearoom. Strangely, the tearoom appeared to be well frequented. A middle-aged witch occupied nearly every chair. Some were drinking tea. Some were doing embroidery. One of the witches was knitting, not with knitting needles, but with two of the long claws that extended from her gnarled fingers. Another witch was giving her friend a quick shave.

As Harry watched, a hairy witch reached through the slats and tied a banner to the side of the truck. It read, "We are the Women Who Run With The Wolves." A few seconds later, the banner flashed a second message, "WWRWtW Love Severus Snape!" Harry thought that he had definitely seen enough.

Locating Ron was easy. As soon as Harry walked into the Entrance Hall, Ron came out of the doors from the Great Hall. Apparently, he had been enjoying a late breakfast. He had also been making a mess of himself. Several splodges of porridge ran down the front of his robes. Ron seemed as keen to talk to Harry, as Harry had been to talk to him.

"There you are," Ron said, in a voice that suggested something was really annoying him. "Did that weirdo from the library find you too?"

"No," Harry replied, not sure what on earth Ron meant. "But I've got news for you."

"Well, so long as you don't chuck porridge at me to get my attention," Ron said darkly. "Nearly choked with the shock. One minute I'm having my breakfast, the next a bloody house-elf's sitting in my bowl pelting me with goo."

That didn't sound like the sort of thing Hogwarts' house-elves would do, Harry thought. They were all such a subservient lot. Even Dobby, who took pride in his freedom, was courteous to Harry and his friends. "Which elf?" Harry asked.

"Madam Pince's resident lunatic. Bunty." Ron said the name as though it was a term of abuse. "Told me I was supposed to get you and come straight to the library. Said Hermione was waiting in its office." He said the last word with a cynical drawl. "It reckons Hermione needs to see us both urgently."

While they hurried to Hermione, Harry told Ron that Hagrid was back. He thought he would wait until they were with Hermione to also explain about Sirius. That news was too disturbing to have to relate it all twice. Ron was keen to see Hagrid again.

"I'll grab Hermione," Ron decided, when the boys reached the library. "I'll clean this muck off me and we'll both have time to see Hagrid before the match."

They walked through the library door and Harry looked around for Hermione. She was not in her usual chair. It occurred to Harry that, if Hermione was waiting in Bunty's office, Harry had no idea where that might be. The problem was solved by Bunty's immediate appearance on top of Madam Pince's desk.

Bunty pointed at Ron and squeaked with indignation. "Mister Wheezy is a grubby wizard! Students must not be coming in here with sticky globs on them, or the naughty students might be messing up Madam Irma Pince's splendid books." She waggled her finger furiously and, with a crackling sound, caused the porridge on Ron's robes to vanish. Ron, in the meantime, had turned red to the tips of his ears. He looked like he was ready to resign his long neglected position as treasurer of S.P.E.W. in an instant, and lash out in an unbridled display of elf throttling.

Harry thought it best to speak before Ron did. "We're here to see Hermione, Bunty," he said.

"Bunty is knowing this, Harry Potter. Miss Hermione Granger, noble, wise and gracious witch, is waiting in Bunty's office," the elf said. Her pointed nose lifted in the air in a condescending way. Bunty's behaviour was unlike that of any house-elf Harry had ever met.

"Er, where exactly is that?" Harry asked.

"It's completely bloody mental," said Ron through gritted teeth. "It doesn't have an office. It lives in the bottom drawer of Madam Pince's desk. Lets go, Hermione's not -"

Before Ron had a chance to finish, Bunty raised her spindly arms. Harry heard a loud crack. He felt his stomach flip-flop as his feet lifted from the ground. The sensation was like holding a Portkey, especially when Harry's feet returned to earth. He was no longer standing near the library's doorway.

The boys were in a room with walls and a ceiling made entirely of wood. The ceiling was so low that Ron bumped his head on it. The Elf Rights Charter, which Hermione had developed in the hey-day of her S.P.E.W. crusade, hung on one of the walls in a plain wooden frame. The floor of the room appeared to be covered with cream coloured cardboard, until Harry realised that they were in fact standing on an enormous manila folder. A couple of quills, which were over three metres long, had been rolled against one of the walls, next to four gigantic bottles of ink. Hermione was sitting in front of them, nursing on her lap a large, vellum bound manuscript bearing a Restricted Section stamp. Hermione's school bag was at her feet. She was perched on the edge of the biggest roll of Spellotape Harry had ever seen.

"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed, rubbing his head. "Where are we?"

"Mister Wheezy is a big feeted ning nong," Bunty derided. "We is all in Bunty's office." Looking around, Harry realised everything suggested that they had indeed been shrunk to fit into Madam Pince's bottom desk drawer. Bunty continued to scold Ron, "Now, you be listening to Miss Hermione Granger, or I can be making the ceiling even more lowly."

"Now, Bunty," Hermione said calmly. Her expression was most serious. "I think Ron'll be able to listen much better if he can stand up properly."

Bunty pouted, but raised her arms again. With a rush of wind, the room expanded.

"How're you doing that?" Ron asked, in a voice that varied pitch alarmingly.

"Mister Clever-wizard is not seeing elf magic before? Mister Wheezy is doubting Bunty's elfin powers?" Bunty was jumping up and down excitedly, on an eraser the size of an ottoman, as she harangued Ron. "Bunty's grandmother's grandmother's grandmothers was helping to place the wards around this castle, back when Mister Wheezy's family was still farming the stinky pigs. Elfs was helping put all the beauteous enchantments of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in place. Elfs has powers, Mister Wheezy!"

"That's enough, Bunty," Hermione said, in a worried voice. To Harry and Ron, she added, "I needed to bring you in here, because I didn't want anybody else to see what I'm about to show you. I've found something horrible." She lifted up the book she was holding, to show an illumination on the cover of a witch in a wimple. The witch was bent over double, clutching her stomach.

"My pains are great!" the small figure on the cover of the book wailed. "The black haired fiend hath harmed me most grievously."

"Isn't that just one of your library books?" Ron asked.

"No," Hermione answered. "I was returning my books this morning. I needed to clean out my bag." She paused, and the nervous look in her eyes reminded Harry of the reason Hermione had been compelled to empty her satchel before ten o'clock that morning. "But, I never borrowed this book. And yet, there it was, down the bottom of my satchel."

"So?" Ron asked, unsympathetically. "The library's got it back now. No harm done, right? Unless this little loony wants to fine you, or something?" He scowled at Bunty, who shook her miniscule fist at him.

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Hermione said as she shook her head. The witch in the wimple moaned pitifully and fell to her knees. Hermione continued, "I found this inside."

She opened the book on her lap. Harry, now very curious, looked hard to see what Hermione had regarded as so horrible. The page showed a woodcut illustration. A pale wizard with an insufferably sanctimonious look on his face was being lowered into a vat of ravenous Murtlaps by a group of Goblins. Leaning over the book, Harry read the caption to the illustration, which indicated that it depicted the martyrdom of Gregory the Smarmy in 1436. Somebody had placed a sheaf of closely written parchments inside the volume, which began to slip out as Hermione held the book up.

Harry caught the loose pages before they fell to the floor. As he did, the wimpled witch said with a sigh, "Most sweet relief!" She then became immobile and silent.

The parchments smelt old and musty, but were nowhere near as arcane as the rest of the book. Harry supposed that a past student had been taking notes on the text, but had absentmindedly left these pages inside when they returned the book to the library. However, the writing on the parchment indicated otherwise. The pages began with the heading, "N.E.W.T. Level Advanced Potions, Extra Credit Essay." The next line gave the author of the essay's name as Severus Snape.

"It's one of Snape's old essays," Harry observed.

Hermione's lips trembled as she replied. "I know. It's dreadful."

"Why? What's so bad about it?" Ron asked.

"Well," Hermione explained, "the essay topic for a start." Harry quickly read the topic at the top of the page aloud. It seemed to be all about pain inducing potions. Hermione went on, "It's exactly the same topic as my contest essay."

"Weird," was Harry's only response. He still couldn't see why Hermione was getting so upset.

"And that evil git wanted you to find it, didn't he?" Ron said quickly. "I'll bet he put it in the book deliberately, and then put the book in your bag. And he's practically told you where it was - "

"Gregory the Smarmy. 1436." Hermione agreed. "I'm sure Professor Snape wanted me to find it. Maybe he even suggested they close the Restricted Section, so I'd have to use this book."

"Well, I'm betting the essay's a load of bollocks, and Snape wants you to copy it and look like a fool," Ron concluded. "Just put it back in the book and pretend you never saw it."

"But that's the oddest thing," Hermione said. "I read through the essay this morning. It's brilliant. It makes mine look like rubbish." Ron gave a dismissive snort, but Hermione continued. "Really Ron, you can say what you like about Professor Snape's foul personality, or even his ghastly teeth and hair, but the man has a formidable mind."

"So, he just wants you to copy it so he can expose you as a cheat," Ron responded.

"Maybe not," Harry said uncertainly. In his experience, the wizarding world had a far more lax attitude to cheating than the Muggle one. During the Triwizard Tournament, cheating seemed to have not only been tolerated, but to have been actively encouraged. In addition, Harry didn't believe that Snape would risk damaging the school's reputation, or his own, by naming Hermione as a cheat. Harry added, "He can hardly expose her. Hermione can prove that Snape more or less gave the essay to her."

"Well," Ron said in exasperation, "maybe you should copy the bloody thing."

Hermione looked as though he had slapped her. "Is that what you really think?" she asked in a small, hurt voice.

Ron's turned pink again. "No, of course not," he said quietly. "Everyone knows you'd never cheat. You're better than that."

"Everyone knows I don't cheat," Hermione repeated in a whisper, closing the textbook and laying it beside her. "Professor Snape knows I won't copy the essay."

"So why did he give it to you?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"To show me how worthless my own work was." Hermione answered, in a wavering voice. "To convince me that I shouldn't even try. He told me as much that day in the library, remember?" She drew an untidy scroll from her bag, her own Potions essay, and began to crumple it between her hands angrily. Bunty jumped onto the Spellotape beside her, and began to soothingly pat Hermione on the head.

"And do you know why your essay's rubbish?" Ron spoke out, in a voice that was not angry, but was rather loud. Hermione looked back at him, confused. This was hardly the sort of support she expected from her best friend.

Ron met Hermione's gaze with determination and continued. "The reason your essay's rubbish and Snape's isn't is because only a vicious, sadistic piece of scum could write that essay properly. Since when have you ever even wanted to learn about potions that cripple, or harm, or cause pain? Since when were you interested in telling a dodgy mob like Brews-U-Like what they wanted to hear?"

Hermione's cheeks coloured and she bowed her head. "You're right, of course. I hated every minute of writing that stupid essay. I mean, what's the point of learning magic if it's not to make things better in the world? Potions like these - " she dropped her squashed parchment scroll to her feet, " -and companies like Brew-U-Like -" she kicked the parchment across the floor, "- are just contemptible!"

"So," asked Harry, hesitantly, "maybe Snape's done you a favour if you pull out of the contest?"

Ron shook his head furiously. "No! That's what he wants. So that is not what she's going to do. Let's show the oily creep what sort of essay Hermione can write, when she wants to." Hermione's essay had landed next to Ron's feet. He stomped on it with one of his large boots, and then looked up at Hermione with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "All the things you've told me - about badly made, mass produced potions, and hideous side effects. That's what you should put in your essay. And you should make sure your mate the beetle gets a copy, and puts the word about."

Hermione looked stunned for a moment, but then the corners of her mouth twitched into a smile. "Oh, I'd love to," she said. "But, it's not that simple. Everybody knows Brews-U-Like's potions are harmful. But I'd need evidence. Doctors' studies, or medical records, at least. And, there's less than four days till the essay's due."

Bunty, who had been growling as though she wanted to leap at Ron's throat a moment beforehand, was now dancing about joyfully. "Bunty knows where the proofs is! Bunty knows! Bunty's brother, Bilby, is working at St. Mungo's!" The little creature puffed out her chest importantly. "All Bunty's family is record keeping elfs."

"Do it!" Ron urged. "You said that you wanted to be noticed. Force them to notice you. The real you. The you that's - scary - and mad - and completely bloody brilliant!"

Hermione stared at Ron as though she was seeing him for the first time. Harry noticed that Ron was looking back just as intently. "All right, then," Hermione said, in a businesslike tone. "Would he help us, Bunty?" Bunty nodded so vigorously that her whole body bobbed up and down.

Hermione's mind was obviously now working very fast. "But, we'll need a way to get the files. There's a Floo in the staff room. Things will be deserted when the Quidditch matches are on. Harry, can I borrow your Invisibility Cloak?"

"Sure," Harry said, amazed at how quickly Hermione could hatch a plot.

"I'll come with you. You'll need help fetching and carrying," Ron volunteered. "Lucky I'm not too tall for those dress robes you fixed for me." He gave Hermione an impish grin.

Hermione's eyes twinkled with joy. "And of course," she added happily, "we should all remember that what we're proposing is quite against the rules."

* * * * * * *

Harry was ejected from Bunty's office just as dramatically as he had entered it. He was alarmed, when he checked his watch, to discover that Angelina would already be waiting for him in the change rooms. But he was pleased to also note that Professor Snape had been kept waiting by Hermione for more than half an hour - and that Hermione had no intention of keeping that appointment.

Harry needed to run to his dormitory to change into the Hogwarts All School Team Quidditch robes. These had been donated by Mordred Avery's wealthy parents and were black with a large school crest on the back. They were a bit too funereal for Harry's tastes, but he was relieved that they were not green and silver, nor were they emblazoned with snakes. He galloped with his Firebolt down the Gryffindor Tower staircase and even hopped on the broom and flew along a corridor, causing the portraits hanging there to chastise him for such a flagrant breach of school rules. Despite all this, Harry was still running lamentably late. The Quidditch change rooms were on the lower ground floor of Hogwarts Castle. He decided to take a shortcut, through the trophy room, to the next stairway he needed.

He found his way blocked by an odd gathering. Sitting on the floor, in the middle of a winding, narrow passageway, were four children. The oldest, a boy of about nine, was doling out the contents of a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans to the other three.

"Give them a good sniff," he ordered. Harry guessed from his commanding tone that he was probably the big brother of the group. "Tell me what you've got."

"Pyew!" the smallest boy exclaimed. The littlest girl grabbed his hand and took a sniff as well. Then she held her nose and fell about giggling.

A girl, who Harry supposed was the big sister, fished a bean out of the little boy's hand. As she sniffed it, she grimaced and said, "This'll do. Let's give it to Rommie." The others all laughed in agreement.

The children stood up, and Harry tried to get past them. But everybody stopped still at the sound of a shrill voice, calling from around a corner in the passageway. "Lycastra! Beowulf! Lupercalia! Wolfgang!" a woman was calling.

The owner of the voice appeared from around the corner and blocked Harry's path yet again. She was a short, bespectacled witch with grizzled hair and an aggressively bristling moustache. Harry recognised her at once - it was Euphemia Peebles. Mrs. Peebles was balancing a toddler, another boy, on her hip. The littlest boy was wearing the frilliest dress robes Harry had ever seen. "There you are!" she scolded. "Didn't I tell you not to wander? Stay where I can see you, I said. Come with me, right now. I swear, if you make me get my wand out, it'll be petrificus totalis for the lot of you!"

The hairy witch herded her offspring back in the direction of the trophy room and Harry followed. He noticed the bigger girl handing the offensive Bertie Bott's bean to the toddler. The smallest child put it in his mouth and immediately spat it out, squealing, "Yuk, taste like poop dogs!"

Mrs. Peebles was just about to discipline her daughter, when a familiar voice rang out behind Harry. "Euphemia, darling!" Rita Skeeter's husky tones echoed in the hallway. "There you are! We're still looking for the Professor, I'm afraid. But if we all rejoin the party, I'm sure he won't be too long."

Instinctively, Harry put the bristles of his broom in front of his face, as a somewhat inadequate disguise. Without looking behind him, he pushed past the Peebles family and darted into the trophy room. The last thing he needed was to be dragged into a broom cupboard for an involuntary interview with Rita Skeeter.

Lowering his broom, Harry realised he had made a grave mistake. The trophy room, normally a quiet, reverent shrine to the achievements of long gone Hogwarts students, was being used as the venue for an extravagant party. The area was jammed with guests, all talking loudly and drinking freely. Hovering near the rafters, a ghostly string quartet was playing a jaunty fugue. A surly looking dwarf, in a red tunic with a white bow tie, accosted Harry to offer him a turquoise drink in a tall glass with a tiny paper umbrella in it.

Declining the beverage, Harry tried to move forward, but found that he could not. Rita Skeeter, sans the Peebles family, was now alongside him. But Skeeter appeared not to notice Harry as her mannish hands reached over his shoulder to grab a cocktail from the passing dwarf. Harry noticed that her fingernails were painted the same lurid orange as her robes. She began to talk to a small, tanned wizard with slicked-back hair. The short man was holding a large, black wizard camera.

"Pappy, you're such a worry wart," she scoffed, and then took a slurp of her drink. "The diva and her hairy toy boy aren't even in here. La Warbeck doesn't eat or drink in public."

"But - if he is coming -" the photographer said nervously, his eyes darting around the crowded room. "If he is coming in, Rita, then I am bye bye."

"Well, let's find the potions boy and get our photo," Skeeter said briskly. She added in a spiteful stage whisper, "I don't think I can bear Mrs. Peebles company much longer. Gah! The woman smells like a zoo animal."

Harry elbowed his way into the crowd, desperate to put some distance between himself and the journalists. He had energetically shoved his way to the centre of the room when he saw something that made him freeze.

In front of him was a fat wizard whose bald head gleamed like a waxed apple. He was telling a joke about centaurs, in a boisterous way, to a circle of well-dressed people. In Harry's opinion the joke was tasteless, but everyone else laughed sycophantically. The wizard's shiny robes, brash mannerisms and trans-Atlantic accent contrasted sharply with the understated gentility of the ladies and gentlemen surrounding him.

Then, from the circle of the bald wizard's audience, a mellifluous voice enquired, "Declan, might I have a short word in private? Excuse me, everyone, but we do have a small business matter to attend to." The speaker was a tall, blonde wizard with grey, cold eyes. Lucius Malfoy.

Harry's mind raced. He needed to get out of the room - quickly. But he also knew too well the sort of "small business matters" Lucius Malfoy regularly involved himself in. If Lucius Malfoy, a Death Eater, was at Hogwarts, then the whole school could be in danger. Harry recognised his duty. He had to find out what Mr. Malfoy was up to.

Malfoy jostled the fat man into a corner, where the dwarfs had set up a long table of hors d'oeuvres. The table stood in front of an alcove holding four life-sized statues of Hogwarts' founders, and Malfoy picked at the food closest to the statue of Godric Gryffindor. Harry, using his broom to poke his way through the party guests, followed Malfoy. Then, he ducked under the far end of the table of appetisers and crawled along the narrow space behind the statues, until he was crouching behind Godric Gryffindor's golden plinth. Harry's hiding spot was perfect for concealment, but not ideal for eavesdropping. Luckily, the bald, fat wizard had a loud voice.

"You know, I thought it was kinda ironic," he said. "You guys - doing Cruciatus curse research?"

Lucius Malfoy's response was not nearly as audible. Harry detected a silky laugh, and a short reply that ended with, "and, with your help, there might be a way to ensure some of the sleepers never awaken."

"You want a favour, huh?" the loud wizard mumbled, as though his mouth was full as food. "I mighta known there'd be a sting."

"A mutual arrangement," Malfoy replied smoothly. "The Healer doing our research is clearly being hampered by St. Mungo's archaic facilities. Naturally, as a board member of St. Mungo's, I would like to see this fellow continue his work - but in a way that's economical to the hospital. If he were to be seconded to Brews-U-Like, for a short period - "

"And I guess you want him to have an accident while he's there?"

"I don't think we need to be so obvious," Malfoy calmly responded. "A lapse of memory is all we really require. I dare say somebody at Brews-U-Like could whip up a nice Confusing Concoction. Something undetectable. Let's just make the troublesome little man forget Cruciatus for a while."

The bald wizard laughed loudly and thumped the table. Composing himself, he said, "OK. I'm interested. But what's in it for me?"

"Well, as we both know, the hospital staff have been practically run off their feet attending to your, er, less fortunate customers," Malfoy whispered.

"There's no proof," the other man snarled.

"On the contrary, Declan, the evidence is mounting. Our medical records department is full of it. Shareholders of Brews-U-Like, such as my good self, would be right to be concerned, if the situation came to light." Malfoy paused, and then dropped his voice so that Harry could barely hear. He thought that Malfoy said, "I might be able to arrange a spring clean of the records office. Maybe, a fire?"

Before the other wizard had a chance to answer, a dwarf standing near the main doors of the trophy room dropped the glasses on his tray with a loud crash. Harry poked his head up to see first the tray, and then the dwarf, being thrown across the room, in the direction of Rita Skeeter and her photographer. The thrower was a hirsute figure, dressed head to toe in black leather, towering on platform boots. The crowd parted and he strode into the room, his artfully ripped cape fluttering behind him.

"PAPPILON RATZI! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" yelled Kirley McCormack.

Harry had no desire to witness the Weird Sister making his threat good. But, the diversion McCormack created was useful, as it enabled Harry to escape from the trophy room at last.

* * * * * * *

The atmosphere in the Quidditch change room was tense. Angelina sat in a corner, clipping the bristles of her broom. Harry recognised this as one of his captain's pre-match rituals, which included wearing mismatched socks and eating four pieces of toast for breakfast. The twigs of Angelina's Cleansweep lay in rows, as glossy and straight as her braided hair. She scowled at Harry when he entered the room but then silently resumed her work.

George moved along a bench, clearing a spot for Harry to sit. "Ginny's been looking for you," George said quietly. "She was in here just a minute ago."

"Did she say why?" Harry asked. But in truth, he wasn't sure he cared any more if Ginny needed to talk about Quidditch or the Sticking Broom. It seemed inconsequential compared to the many unsettling things he had learnt that morning. Harry didn't even feel like going through the motions of playing a match.

"No," George answered. "Probably just wants to nag you to catch the Snitch in twenty-five minutes. She's been going on about that silly bet to Fred and me for ages. Says she'll buy a broom when she wins. Good thing too, if it means she'll stop borrowing ours."

"I'd forgotten all about that," Harry said.

"Well, she hasn't." George chuckled. "Mind you, I'd prefer it if Fred wins his bet instead. He'll be able to buy us all new brooms with his winnings."

Angelina glared at George, who immediately began to inspect his Beaters' bat closely.

It was actually a relief when Oliver Wood visited the change room to give the team some reminders of the tournament's rules. While Oliver spoke, as earnestly and repetitively as ever, Cho put her scroll of strategic notes aside and batted her eyelashes frenetically. Oliver reminded them all that they would be playing without reserves or substitutions for the whole three games, a fact which Angelina had made known at their very first practice session. He also made a point of emphasising, and then re-emphasising, that the games were being played to the Britain and Ireland Quidditch League rules, not school rules. This seemed a pointless distinction to Harry, who wasn't aware of any difference.

Oliver departed and the time arrived to walk down to the pitch. Angelina closed her broom servicing kit, patted it three times with her left hand, and stood up. "Let's go," she said gruffly.

Merlin Rhys-Jones, who had been softly talking to Cho and the Slytherins for most of the time, asked, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

"Like what?" Angelina was clearly in no mood for talk.

"I, er, well normally," Merlin stammered. "Normally - I mean, when I'm captain at least - don't you want to say something, inspirational?"

Harry nearly laughed out loud, but Merlin's seriousness prevented him. Angelina was a captain who had always inspired Gryffindor's Quidditch team by brave example. Sometimes, she had even inspired Gryffindor by ferocious threats. But she had never been one for speeches. Today was no exception.

She looked slowly from one team member to the next, her dark eyes sizing up each person's strengths and failings. She drew a long breath and gravely advised, "Don't do anything stupid." Then she turned and led her team out of the castle.

As they approached the stadium, Harry was surprised to hear raucous music coming from within. Then, he recollected that there was a whole programme of lavish pre-match entertainment. The Singing Sorceress' voice was soaring above the sound of a distorted guitar. Harry supposed that Kirley McCormack must have taken time out from murdering photographers to perform.

The Hogwarts All School Team had reached the players' entrance to the stadium, when Harry heard a distant voice calling his name. Turning, he saw Ginny running from the castle, waving a letter. Angelina saw this too and grabbed Harry by the shoulder. "Time for autographs later, Potter," she snapped as she dragged Harry into the tunnel under the stands.

Then they were all standing in the dim light of the tunnel, waiting for Celestina Warback to finish her show. The teachers' team was out of sight, about to enter from another tunnel on the opposite side of the pitch. Harry was not nervous, nor was he excited. He could not recall ever being so disinterested in the result of a Quidditch match. What right did he have to play games, when brave men like Sirius were risking their lives? Or when clever men, like that Healer at St. Mungo's, risked losing their minds?

The crowd began to sing along with Warbeck's final song. Harry knew it well. It was a patriotic tune, used to rally the wizard forces during the Goblin Uprising of 1434. Professor Binns had taught it to him in first year. Everybody sang:

Oh say, can you see by the crescent moon light,

Those fleeing foul goblins who cursed us at midnight?

To the beat of our drums and our Blodger balls' hums,

We sent them all packing with a boot up their bums!

Now on broomsticks we fly,

And we hold our heads high,

And we shout ourselves hoarse with our victory cry:

Let the Crescent Moon Banner of Merlin yet wave,

While our wands are all drawn and our hearts are still brave.

Unfortunately, because it was a wizard song, every person in the stand chose a different tune to sing. The overall result was cacophony. But the thought of so many good people, standing with hands on hearts, remembering battles past and pledging loyalty for the future, made Harry feel very solemn.