The Fall Of The Dark Lord

The Fall of the Dark Lord

Chapter 3: The Battle of the Classes

 

Everyone went down to breakfast around seven. Things were actually rather lively. Much better than they had been for the past two years—almost the way they were Harry’s first year. It was because Dumbledore had invited the entire school to the graduation banquet that night. It was the first time in twenty years that students other than Seventh Years were invited. It was his good-natured way of trying to cheer everyone up. The idea seemed to be working.

Lessons had been canceled for that day, and instead they were going to hold a competition, the "Battle of the Classes." The professors had devised a series of games and activities for the seven levels of students to compete against each other, each class making up a team. Sign up scrolls were posted on all the walls in the great hall during breakfast. Games such as "Wizard Tug-of-War," in which the two teams not only competed against each other but also a live rope, were planned for the afternoon. That was a popular one and filled up quickly. Ron dragged Harry over and made him sign up for the Seventh Year team along with him. Another popular one was "Toss the Gnome," and also "Dunk the Monk." How anyone was going to win that one was a mystery, since the monk happened to be Nearly Headless Nick. There was one game everyone was afraid to sign up for—something called the "Ameba Race." They were convinced that they would be turned into amebas and have to race across the lens of a microscope, so it filled up the slowest.

Hermione also got the better of Harry and signed him up with her under a Muggle Studies Quiz match, which was a take off of an American muggle game show called "Jeopardy."

"It’ll be fun," she said, dragging him along by his arm, "Besides, we were both raised by muggles, we should do great!"

"But…" was all Harry got out before his name had been written down right under hers.

Harry had been unwittingly entered into two competitions without any real consent, but he did manage to get into one game he actually wanted to be in: the broomstick relay. It of course excluded First Years, but they were compensated for the exclusion in another game. The members of the Quidditch teams were automatically put on the teams, and any other students were allowed to fill in the extra spaces for their classes.

It was going to be an exciting day. For the first time all year, the fear of the Dark Lord had been removed from everyone’s mind.

 

Breakfast lasted for an extra hour that day so that everyone could sign up for the different activities. At nine o’clock everyone was released to the Quidditch field where the competition would take place, for once separating into their separate classes instead of their separate houses on their way. The stands had been sectioned off for the seven groups, and each class took their seats excited about what was about to happen. Ron, Harry and Hermione sat directly in front, with Neville Longbottom right behind them.

The stands were truly alive, even more so than they had been for the Quidditch games, most likely because everyone could participate. Soon Professor Dumbledore was seen walking onto the field floating a rather large case along with him. It was bouncing about in the air as if it had twenty loose Bludgers in it. Dumbledore stopped at the middle of the field so that everyone could see him. He waved and smiled then pointed his wand at his throat.

"Good morning everyone!" his voice boomed across the stands, "I trust you are all excited about our little field day?"

He was answered by a huge roar from all the classes.

"I thought so! As you saw at breakfast we have a series of games that will span from now until four o’clock. Each class will have their class mates on a team, and the winners of each activity will win their class seven points, second place will be six points, then five and so on. At the end of the day we will announce the winner of ‘The Battle of the Classes’ to see who comes out on top! The winners will all receive coupons for a free butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade."

Again he was answered with cheers.

"Well, then, shall we get on with the competition?" Dumbledore commanded the floating crate to sit. "Our first competition will be the Wizard Tug-Of-War."

Ron jumped to his feet, "Harry that’s us!"

Harry groaned.

"Come on!"

They made their way down to the field along with almost two dozen other Seventh Years.

 

The teams met in a circle around Dumbledore. The case, although on the ground now, was still jumping about wildly. Dumbledore pointed his wand at it, "Open." The case burst open and a rope flew out. It was alive, like two hyperactive snakes tied together by their tails. Both ends seemed to have a mind of their own because they kept gawking about wildly and sniffing members of the teams. There were several squeals as the rope wound around people or managed to slither up their robe. At one point the rope spied something it wished to investigate and bounded off to check it out. Unfortunately each end had chosen a different object in opposite directions so that their opposite velocities canceled each other out and they twanged to a dead halt before falling to the ground. The two ends met in the middle and started squabbling, occasionally striking the other with their head in the silly fight.

"Okay, that’s enough. Bob, still," Dumbledore said, addressing the rope. The two ends directed their attention to him and seemed to beg like a pair of starving puppies. Dumbledore lowered his gaze in a half-glare. The two ends gave up and fell in two wide arcs in a mock-dramatic Shakespearean death scene.

"All right everyone, stretch Bob out so that he’s lying straight." Several students did so and "Bob" stretched out to about sixty feet in length. It was then that they noticed three bands around him, one at his middle, and two others each about six feet from the middle.

"If you don’t know the rules, this is how the game works," Dumbledore began, "Teams of twenty people take places at each end of Bob. When I sound the start of the competition, each team will pull until one of the outer marks passes the middle, which I will mark now." Dumbledore pointed his wand and a hot pink flash colored the grass across where the middle mark was on Bob. "Whichever team pulls the opposite mark across here will win. The trick is, that all the while Bob will be attempting to get away from you because he is very ticklish."

Dumbledore then turned and waved his wand about in the air. A tournament schedule for the tug-of-war match appeared in his hand writing in the same bright pink light that was marking Bob’s middle. 

"As you can see," Dumbledore began again, "the First Years have been given a bye because of their exclusion from the Broomstick Relay. This is your chance guys!" he said to the First Years, "This is about the only time you can get a jump on everybody. The first teams to compete will be the Seventh and Sixth Years. If you would all take your places, and everyone else, please back up toward the bleachers. You don’t want to be too close if Bob gets loose."

The other teams retreated about thirty yards away as the seventh and Sixth Years lined up. Dumbledore stood at the center where he had marked the starting line, while Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape refereed the opposite sides of Bob.

Harry and Ron tried to keep from twitching as they passed Professor Snape, who not-surprisingly was on the Seventh Years’ side: Malfoy was on the team, along with Crabbe and Goyle.

"You know," Ron whispered to Harry taking a place in the middle of the line, "This is one time I’m glad those Slytherin lunk heads are here. With a pair of oxes like that there’s no way we can loose!" They both had to silence their laughter as they received a suspicious glare from Snape.

"Now that everyone’s in place, please pick up Bob."

The teams did so, and the rope shuddered like someone trying to hold in giggles. Dumbledore checked to see that Bob was positioned exactly as he should be. "OK…"

Harry dug his feet into the ground ready to pull with all his might.

"GO!"

The rope was pulled tight as the two teams started the war. But Bob was unmoving.

"Hey," Harry began to ask Ron though gritted teeth as he pulled. The teams were momentarily deadlocked, "I thought the rope was supposed to be ali—"

"OK BOB!" Dumbledore happily roared, and there was a great jerk in the rope. Harry nearly lost his hold on it as it squirmed and flailed about in his arms. There was a great hullabaloo surging though both teams, and the rest of the school was screaming with excitement as the rope bucked about, casting a member of the Sixth Years off.

The Seventh Years held strong, simply for the fact that they had Crabbe and Goyle on the very end, the wildest part of the rope. Pretty soon the oxen put in their share of the work and the whipping Bob along with the sixth year team was drug across the first mark.

"First game to Seventh Years!" Snape shouted. Suddenly their team was written in the pink lettering on the next line of the winners’ bracket. Grinning, Harry and Ron went with the rest of the team over to the sidelines".

The next teams to play were the Fifth Years and the Fourth Years. Similar problems that had happened to the Sixth Years happened to both teams. Members were getting flung off right and left. Harry was intently watching a skinny boy holding onto the end of Bob for dear life—trying very hard not to laugh since the boy reminded him of himself—being waved about a full five feet off the ground, when Ron started talking to him.

"Harry, what do you think about Hermione?"

Harry’s stomach flopped but he tried to remain cool, "Uh…what do you mean?"

"I mean what do you think of her? You know, as a, well, girl."

"Uh…I don’t know, why do you ask?" Ah, guilt, Harry thought, How I have missed you. Wow! It’s been all of five minutes since I’ve seen you last, hasn’t it?

"Well, I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while about it, and, well we’ve only got two days left so I better not put it off too much longer. I want to know how you feel about her so I can tell you how she feels about you."

"What?" Harry asked, raising one eyebrow as he looked at Ron.

"When you were out last month, I have never seen her so worried in all the years I’ve known her. All she could talk about was you. Always asking herself what she was going to do if you didn’t pull out of it. Of course she hasn’t actually told me anything about how she feels, but I’m not as dumb as I look. She cares for you a lot more than just as a friend, Harry."

"Yeah, I know."

"You know? Well, then how do you feel?"

"Pretty much the same. I just never approached the idea because I figured that you two would—"

Ron howled with laughter before Harry could even finish, "You thought that…" he laughed even harder, "Harry, we can barely stand each other!" Ron fell back onto the grass, laughing so hard that tears were streaming from his eyes. "Good God no! Geeze, you’ve been holding off because of me?" He stopped laughing and sat up wiping his eyes, "Go after her Harry! I think she wants you to."

Harry smirked, "I already did."

"Huh?"

"I kissed her this morning."

Ron was dumb-struck, but then recovered, "Well OK then!"

By then the Fourth years had been crushed by the Fifth Years.

"Game two to Fifth Years!" McGonagall called out. "Next game Third Years verses Second Years."

During the entire next round Ron tormented Harry with his thoughts about him and Hermione, including first dates, good places for proposal, and even how weird their kids would look. No matter what Harry did he couldn’t shut Ron up. His face was irreparably red when, after a very close game that lasted some ten minutes, the Third Years were drug across the line by the Second Years.

"Game three to Second Years!" McGonagall shouted again, "Game four: Seventh Years versus Fifth Years."

The match was short and sweet. The Fifth Years may have put the Fourth Years through the ringer, but with Crabbe and Goyle on the team nobody was going to beat the Seventh Years. The match was over in under a minute as several Fifth Years were thrown off of Bob and the two gargantuan Slytherins lead the teams across the middle mark.

"Game four to Seventh Years! Game five, Second Years versus First Years."

Back to the side lines they went. Before Ron had a chance to pester Harry again Malfoy and his sweaty beasts of burden came over to torment him. His feeble little mind must have forgotten about he and Harry’s confrontation the previous morning.

"Potter, what’s this I hear, you’re going out with Granger?"

Harry glared at Ron. Malfoy had heard every bloody word of Ron’s wonderful goading during the third round. And it wasn’t true—yet. Hermione would probably be pretty mad if rumors were floating about like that again before he had a chance to make them true.

"No, I’m not," Harry glared up at Malfoy, "And what if I was?"

Malfoy laughed, "Typical. You know Potter, yesterday I thought I saw some hope for you, but you’ve dashed that all to hell. Why are you two out here anyway? We don’t need muggle-lovers on our team."

Harry and Ron stood up fast, fully ready for a bloody free-for-all…

"Game five to First Years! Game six: Seventh Years versus First Years."

"Come on Draco," Crabbe said.

"Yeah. We can finish this later Potter. You two might as well sit this out. We don’t need two skinny runts slowing us down."

Skinny runts? Who was he trying to kid? Malfoy was practically a midget compared to Harry and Ron. They had both shot up nearly a foot over Malfoy’s head in the last several years.

"Think we could get him turned into a ferret again?" Ron asked as the Slytherins walked onto the field.

"That would be sweet."

Harry and Ron joined the rest of the team. Unfortunately the only spaces left on the rope were just in front of Malfoy Crabbe and Goyle who were heading up the rear as they had done on their first two games.

"I thought I told you to get lost, Potter!" Malfoy snarled to Harry who was right in front of him.

"Ferret," Ron muttered.

"Ferret," Harry agreed.

"What?" Malfoy barked.

"GO!" Shouted Dumbledore.

The two teams pulled in an absolute deadlock. Crabbe and Goyle had several family members among the First Years. This was going to be interesting. They stayed in that equilibrium for nearly five minutes, neither side gaining any ground, neither side loosing any teammates from Bob’s bucking. If fact, he was pulled so tight that Bob couldn’t have bucked if he wanted to.

Then Malfoy got too sick of looking at the back of Harry’s head. In order to display his disgust for him he kicked one of Harry’s feet out from under him.

It was not pretty…

Harry fell back on Malfoy...

Malfoy fell back on Crabbe...

Crabbe fell back on Goyle…

Bob got loose…

And with the great and sudden loss of the two anchors the entire seventh year team was slung on top of the first year team in a great pile of flailing arms and legs with a psychotic rope turning circles in the grass in order to scratch all of his tickled sides.

It was not pretty at all.

In fact, both Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall were too shocked by the rumpled mess of the match to call out the winner.

"Potter, you idiot! You cost us the match!" Malfoy yelled from under Harry.

"I cost us the match!?!" Harry bellowed back, jumping up, "You tripped me you jerk!"

"Don’t blame me for your clumsiness!"

"My clumsiness!?!YOU TRIPPED ME!! This is your fault!"

"POTTER!" Snape screamed. Harry froze just as he was about to deck Malfoy. "Ten points from Gryffindor for instigating a fight."

Harry twitched several times before turning his back on the three laughing Slytherins and retreated back to the sidelines along with those that had managed to untangle themselves from the carnage.

"Game six to First Years…" McGonagall yelled, pausing to untangle a couple of students, "Game seven: Sixth Years versus Fourth years!"

The teams hobbled off the field as the Seventh Years were put up onto the Losers’ Bracket. They didn’t play again for four games. In the end they were back on the field facing the Fifth Years. Harry and Ron took the front of the rope to make sure not to be near Malfoy again.

They ground the Fifth Years into the dust totally and unmercifully.

"Game 11 to Seventh Years! Game 12: Seventh Years versus First Years!"

They waited as the defeated Fifth Years retreated off the field and the First Years came back up. Harry and Ron rolled their eyes as the Slytherins made snide comments to the opposite team, particularly to Crabbe and Goyle’s relatives. Despite the Slytherin’s bravado the team was determined to win. The teams picked up Bob, who again shivered at their touch.

"GO!" Dumbledore shouted.

There they were again, at total equilibrium. Like before the two teams matched each other for force because of the multiple Crabbes and Goyles. There was no movement for a full five minutes, until several First Years lost their footing.

There was two feet.

The First Years couldn’t gain back their footing.

There were two more feet.

Then finally they fell down completely.

The loss of the first three people on the First Years side gave the seventh year Crabbe and Goyle enough leeway to pull them just inches across the mark.

"Game 12 to Seventh Years! Game 13: tie-breaker for fifth place!"

The two teams were given a minute to stretch while the Third and Fourth Years held match before their own tie-breaker for first place. The classes in the stands were going wild. Harry and Ron saw Hermione whooping in the stands. Harry said she’d look perfect if she just had one of those giant Styrofoam hands, to which Ron gave him a very strange look. "Never mind," Harry said.

"Game 13 to Second Years! Game 14: tie-breaker for first place!"

Then they were in the line up again. They were going to win this. Harry hadn’t had this much fun in a long time, although it didn’t really compare to Quidditch, and he was forced to be on the same team as Malfoy. In any case it was fun.

"GO!"

And they were off—sort of.

Deadlock.

But the First Years had lost their confidence—too bad for them. This time several people in the middle lost their footing, creating a domino effect like what had happened on the seventh year team, luckily the anchors weren’t taken out, and there were no students sling-shoted across the field this time.

The Seventh Years were merciless.

Over the line the First Years went.

"Seventh place to Sixth Years!" McGonagall cried.

"Sixth place to Third Years!" Snape shouted.

"Fifth place to Second Years!"

"Fourth place to Fourth years!"

"Third place to Fifth Years!"

"Second place to the First Years!"

"First place to the Seventh Years!"

"WOO-HOO!" Ron shouted, leaping off the ground, then dancing around in circles with some of the other Seventh Years before all the teams returned to the bleachers.

There were several more games before lunch, including "Dunk the Monk," and the "Bertie Bott’s Bean Bowl." "Dunk the Monk" had been won by the First Years, simply because a cute little First Year girl had hit the target and then asked ever so nicely if Nearly-Headless-Nick would float into the water. The Seventh Years took fourth place in that competition. The Bean Bowl had been hilarious. There was one member of each class who was sat down in front of a huge bowl of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavored Beans. The first person to eat every bean was the winner. The Seventh Years were doing good until Justin Finch-Fletchley passed out after eating a combination of a toe jam flavored bean and a naval lint flavored bean. The Third Years took first in that competition—iron lined stomachs.

There was a big cook out at noon and the students were allowed to eat about on the grounds. They were called back at one for the rest of the competition. The first game they held after lunch was the muggle studies Jeopardy match. Hermione squealed with excitement when it was announced. Harry groaned as he was grabbed by his robe and drug back onto the field.

It was pathetic really.

Hermione answered everything. The only time the other teams got any points was when she forgot to answer in the form of a question. Exasperated, Harry just sat with his forehead on the table in front of him. If he knew an answer he started to raise his wand to signal Professor Poncilian, but before he even got his wand an inch off the table Hermione had already answered the question.

The "Ameba Race" came next. The ten people from each class inched down to the field fearing the worst. No one saw any microscopes so they thought that they might be safe. Several markers had been set up on the field. Finally the game was revealed to them. Ten people from each team would stand bunched into a clump with a rope tied around the entire group so that they were like one animal with twenty feet, thus the "ameba" part of the title, and then had to run the course of the race. The fastest time would win. The Fifth Years took first in the game, being the one team that didn’t fall into a heap as they were running around the markers. The Seventh Years came in second, having only fallen once.

Harry was on the edge of his seat. It had to be about time for the broomstick relay. The course of the race had been set up during lunch. There was a great maze of tunnels and markers floating high above the Quidditch field. He was about to fall out of his seat as Dumbledore began to announce the next competition.

"Our next match, will be a competition of skill and accuracy."

Harry rubbed his hands together. He had been dying to get out on his Firebolt all day. It was the first time in months that he’d even wanted to. He sat bouncing his knees waiting for the competition to be called.

"However, no one signed up for this match, so we will be pulling the competitors from the stands."

"What?" Harry, Hermione, and Ron all chimed at once.

"I thought they were all filled," Harry said.

"What one was up there that no one would enter?" Hermione added

"Who knows…" Ron answered.

Dumbledore continued, "Since this is his competition, I’m going to let Professor Snape explain it."

"Does that answer your question?" Ron sneered.

"Great," Harry groaned. "You know he’s going to pull me for the Seventh Years and make me take a potion to grow scales or something."

"In that case don’t worry," Hermione said, mussing his hair, "You look good in green."

"Funny…"

Serverus Snape stepped out onto the field. He waved his wand in the air and suddenly seven potion stations rose out of the grass, complete with cauldrons, dragon hide gloves, fires and all the like. A master table appeared directly in front of Snape, hundreds of herbs and mixings lying across the table, and a small cauldron. Snape pointed his wand to his throat and began to speak.

"Here is how this is going to work," his magnified whisper echoed through the suddenly silent stands, "I am going to pull the competitors from the stands for my competition since all of you felt too inferior to enter it. I will choose seven different potions, one for each class. The first class to finish with the most accurate results will win. Understand?"

Silence.

"I thought so. I will start with the First Years."

Snape tapped his wand on the cauldron in front of him. Steam rose out of the inside and eerie green letters formed above it in his handwriting.

Purputa

"The First Years will brew this pungent dye."

"Dye!?! He’s kidding right?" Ron gasped, "Anyone can make dye! If that’s what we’ll have to make even I’ll go down. I don’t think you have to worry Harry."

Of course it wasn’t that easy. The potions got harder as the years progressed. There was a mixture in the complexity of the potions, all though nothing as easy as purputa. They quickly noticed that Snape chose Slytherins for the easy potions and Gryffindors for the hard potions. The other potions included the cure for boils, a shrinking potion, a potion for growing gills, a cure for poison ivy, and a hair growth potion.

Then Snape had come to the Seventh Years.

Harry had his fingers crossed biting his bottom lip as he waited. He mumbled under his breath, "Let be easy…let it be easy…let him choose a Slytherin…don’t choose me…"

"Don’t worry Harry," Hermione said, "You can handle anything he throws at you."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you aced his final."

"WHAT!?!"

"Yep. Heard him complaining about it as I was passing his door. He’s really mad about it too. So don’t worry. He’s not going to get you. Besides, I want to win this tournament, so I’ll volunteer. That way he won’t choose you."

They stopped talking as Snape tapped his cauldron.

"Besides, it can’t be that hard can it?"

The steam oozed from the mouth and formed one word.

Veritaserum

The jaws of every single Seventh year in the stands hit the ground.

"He can’t be serious!!!" Hermione growled. "Most graduated wizards and witches can’t even brew that!"

"We are so totally screwed." Ron muttered.

Harry merely shrunk lower in his seat.

"Now," Snape whispered, a smile curling on his lips, "whom shall we pull from the graduating class?" His eyes shot straight to Harry, who shrunk even lower in his chair so that all that was visible of him were the wild locks of hair sticking up over the seat in front of him.

"He’s looking right at me, isn’t he?" Harry whispered to Ron.

"Bang on."

"Crap!"

Hermione jumped out of her seat to volunteer…

"HARRY POTTER!"

…but it was too late.

Harry sat up and started pounding his forehead with the heel of his hand.

"Harry stop it!" Hermione hissed. "You’ll do fine, just remember that this is unfair. Don’t worry if you screw up. Just remember not to add any Francium to water*."

"What?"

Hermione shook her head, "Never mind—it’s chemistry."

Harry looked at her through his parted fingers slack-jawed. "I can’t believe that you’re taking muggle courses on your free time."

Hermione shrugged, "I’m trying to be well-rounded."

"POTTER!" Snape shrieked. Harry cringed, "We’re waiting!"

Harry groaned as he pulled himself up to go face inevitable doom. He passed Malfoy, who sneered as he went by.

 

On the field Harry glared as Snape handed him the scroll with the recipe on it. He moved to the furthest potion table.

"Now that we have our competitors, you may begin."

Harry unrolled his scroll and stood dumbfounded. He had never seen any of these ingredients. He’d read about them of course, but had never actually seen them. How was he supposed to make a potion if he didn’t even know what he was supposed to use? Crushed Grimmble fangs…Loache poison…and…salt?…There was salt in truth serum? This was not going to be fun. Harry would be lucky if he didn’t blow himself up. He immediately saw two ingredients that would explode if placed together. What was Snape thinking? Noticing that Snape had abandoned the other students to come and watch Harry made the answer apparent. He was pissed that someone besides Hermione had gotten an "A" on his final. What made it worse was that person was Harry. Well, he wouldn’t have to be mad much longer if Harry accidentally blew up the school.

Harry moved to the master table that had all the ingredients laid out. OK, he thought to himself, the only ingredient that you know here is salt…so…Grimmble fangs…Grimmble fangs are black and look like shark’s teeth…He scanned the contents of the table. Of course nothing was labeled. Snape was trying to destroy the school. Especially if Pansy Parkinson’s little brother, who happened to be the Slytherin Snape picked for the First Years, got a hold of the wrong materials. He’d already managed to boil his cauldron over, extinguish his fire and had dyed his entire left side chartreuse. How can he mess up making dye!?! Harry asked himself.

There! Grimmble fangs! He saw them, half hidden behind a great jar of pickled gleats. Harry gently fingered the fangs out of the jar and looked for the other ingredients. OK…two down…salt and fangs…now we need Loache poison…that’s a dark blue…makes pink bubbles if you shake it…he looked through about fifteen bottles of blue fluid until he found the right one.

Harry saw Snape frowning out of the corner of his eye. Obviously Snape hadn’t thought Harry would find any of the ingredients. His face distorted more as Harry managed to find all ten ingredients.

Harry returned to his station and started crushing his fangs and gave a great sigh of relief as Snape’s piercing gaze left him. Parkinson had added a pickled gleat to his cauldron and blew up his station. Snape went over to clean up the mess.

While Snape was gone Harry managed to follow all the directions and got all of the ingredients into the pot and was stirring happily for there hadn’t been any explosion when he added the Creploid sap to the Cremmwell root. If the root was heated and the sap was cooled they gave no reaction. Unfortunately as Harry was stirring his potion he couldn’t help up feel disheartened. Veritaserum was clear and flowing. What Harry had right now was black gloop as thick as tar.

OK, he said to himself again, how do I make this crap clear…I’ve followed all the directions, but it still isn’t right… He scratched his head as he looked over the scroll again. The last step was to heat thoroughly. He glanced at his fire. It was rather pitiful. Maybe it isn’t hot enough… He pushed his glasses up and ran his studies in potions that year through his head, Let’s see…the stuff got black when I added the Grimmble fangs, and globby when I added the Creploid and Cremmwell. The reaction between those two caused that…and made the potion cool. If I heat it more it should thin out. But that will make the Loache poison make the fangs even darker… He looked at the scroll. After heat thoroughly it said to cool immediately. I suppose if I practically freeze it when I first pour it out that will cause the Kite blood in the Loache poison to escape…yeah…I think this is going to work…I can’t wait to see Snape’s face…Harry sniggered to himself.

He backed away from his stand, first taking out his wand. He tapped it on the table and pointed it at the fire. "Fervorous." The small fire flared up and engulfed his cauldron. He heard screams in the stands. He glanced over at Snape, whose face was even more contorted than it had been before. This is great! Harry thought.

After about a minute he moved his wand in a cut it off like an orchestra conductor. The fire returned to normal. He rushed up to the cauldron. Taking his tongs he quickly poured the now fluid ebony liquid into a beaker. He took out his wand again, pointing it at the beaker, "Glacia." The beaker was hit with a blue-white light and was encrusted in a thick layer of ice. Dark steam was let out of the mouth of the beaker as the potion on the inside cooled. Harry looked into the beaker as the fumes subsided.

Crystal clear.

Harry felt a wide grin cross his face.

He sat his wand down on the table.

"Professor Snape," Harry called, "I’m finished."

There was a great round of applause from the stands. He was the first one done.

The look on Snape’s face was classic.

He strode over to Harry’s station. Harry took his tongs and poured the potion into a vile, his smirk still clinging to his lips. He noticed Snape had an irritated twitch in his eye as he looked at the potion. He picked up the vile and held at eye level.

Despite his irritation he managed to keep his stern and unyielding tone as he spoke, "Do you take me for a fool, Potter? And just how do I know that this isn’t just water?"

"If you don’t believe me then test it."

Snape’s eyes narrowed, "Test it yourself."

"What proof will you have if I test it. I can just pretend to answer truthfully. You have no idea whether my answers are accurate or not. If you test it then you’ll know that it works."

Snape scowled, but Harry just stared defiantly. He was hitting Snape right where it hurt—his pride. He lifted the vile and held it under his nose. It didn’t have any scent. He shook his head, "It’s just water. Ten points from Gryffindor for cheating." Snape sat the vile back in its holder and turned on his heel to walk away.

"You’re afraid, aren’t you?" Harry asked after him.

Snape jerked to a stop and turned, "What was that!?!"

"Yeah. You’re afraid to admit that I did it. You don’t want to admit that I’ve come further than you had when you graduated."

"That’s five more points for your cheek Mr. Potter," Snape strode back, lifting the vile, then pointing his wand at his throat, "Sonorus." Snape turned to the school, "I have caught Mr. Potter cheating. He has tried to pass off ordinary water for the truth potion, Veritaserum. He denies that he has cheated, therefore, I will test this potion as proof.

Harry’s eyes widened. Snape was actually going to do it! This was worth the 15 points from Gryffindor! He knew full well that his potion was correct…which meant he could ask Snape anything, and Snape would have to answer. Ooooo! Somebody up there likes me! Harry cheered in his head as Snape downed the vile.

Harry saw Snape wince at the taste—Snape knew he was in trouble now, but he acted otherwise. "I knew it. Just ordinary fresh water. Do you take me for a fool Potter?" Despite Snape’s bravado Harry noticed the slight pucker in his lips at the aftertaste.

Harry smirked before picking up his wand, "Sonorus." Harry took a deep breath, "Professor Snape, did that really taste like water?"

"Of course it didn’t!" He snarled back before he could stop himself. Snape’s hand shot up to cover his mouth. The students tried very hard not to laugh, especially when Snape cursed before his hand went up.

"Professor Snape, did you hand pick that potion specifically for me so that I’d make a fool out of myself?"

"Of course I did, Potter!" Snape cursed again, trying to keep his mouth shut.

"Professor Snape, have you indeed taken the truth potion, Veritaserum?"

"Yes you moron!" Again he cursed. The crowd was going wild with laughter.

"Professor Snape, you really should control your language!" Harry smiled, trying desperately not to break out into laughter himself. Before Harry could ask another question there came a voice from the audience. Harry recognized it as Neville Longbottom.

"Professor Snape, is it true that you wear underwear with little red hearts on them and sleep with a teddy bear?"

Hopefully Snape didn’t recognize Neville’s voice so that he could torment him later. Neville was finally able to get revenge on the seven years of hell Snape put him through…

"YES!!!" Snape bellowed at the crowd, which by now was an ocean of students shaking uncontrollably with laughter.

A defeated Snape stormed over to the remaining stations of the competition, snarling, "First place to Seventh Years," through clenched teeth as he went.

 

Harry returned to the stands triumphantly and was met with great applause. He immediately noticed Neville sitting in his seat, and for the first and probably only time in life looking smug with satisfaction.

"That was you wasn’t it?" Harry asked as he sat down.

Neville only smiled broader and nodded his head.

"Oh my God!" Ron roared, "I am never going to forget the look on Snape’s face!" He wiped at his eyes, "That moment when he answered Neville was the pinnacle of my school career!"

"How did you manage it Harry?" Hermione asked.

"Just reasoned through it."

He beamed.

Harry was in his seat for only a few seconds before…

"The Broomstick Relay!" Dumbledore called, "All participants please report to the field.

Harry bounded up and made his way down to the field again.

"Think you’re pretty smart, huh Potter?"

Harry’s eye twitched uncontrollably just like Snape’s had.

"Jealous Malfoy?"

"Why would I ever be jealous of a runt like you?"

There he goes with the runt crap again! Is he blind or something!?!

Harry quickened his pace to get away from Malfoy.

"You know, it isn’t going to last."

"What?" Harry stopped and turned.

"You know exactly what I mean." Malfoy sneered, "He’s been inactive for a while, but it’s just the calm before the storm." Malfoy laughed, "He’s going to get you Potty."

"Are you threatening me, Malfoy?"

"Not at all," he rammed his shoulder into Harry as he passed, "just saying what every one already knows. I’m taking this competition, Potty."

He’s trying to freak me out. Harry said to himself, Guess the moron keeps forgetting we’re on the same team.

Still, for the first time that day, Harry became aware of the all-too-familiar sting in his scar.

 

The course consisted of multiple laps dives and turns, including going through several floating tunnels. The race itself would only take about five minutes, and there were seven people on a team who were positioned all across the field. Harry was placed at the final lap, where he waited some 75 feet in the air, 25 feet in front of a great curving tunnel. He would have to fly though the narrow space and then beat it back to the finish line, first going into a spiral around a tall pole. At the bottom he had had to switch the blue baton he was handed for a red one floating at the bottom of the pole about two feet from the ground.

Each player had the same kind of course, and at some point they had to trade batons as proof that they completed their section of the race. The only rules were that the batons must be switched, and if anyone in the course of the race dropped their baton and it hit the ground, the team would automatically be put into last place. If more than one team dropped their baton then they would be racing against each other for the last places. For instance, if both the second and Third Years both dropped their batons, then they would be vying for fifth and sixth place. If a team dropped a baton more than once a similar process would be put into progress.

In any case, Harry didn’t care what the rules were, or what he had to do. He was just happy to be in the air. He hadn’t been flying since the last Quidditch match and thoroughly missed it.

Then Dumbledore gave the signal and the six teams were off. Harry couldn’t help but feel sorry for the Second Years. They only had two Quidditch members on their team, and therefore their flyers weren’t as trained as the other five teams. In any case, the Second Year’s first player dropped their yellow baton before he was even ten feet from the starting line. Later on someone on the Second Year team fell off their broom in one of their tunnels, the broom continuing out of the other end with no rider. They finished dead last.

Harry flew back and forth in this spot waiting for his turn to let loose. There went the green baton from one of the Ravenclaw beaters, handing it to the Hufflepuff seeker. The seeker did an upward loop-the-loop up to a floating purple baton and traded it off, and into a tunnel she went. Seconds later she came out of the other end and passed the purple baton on to—Oh no—Malfoy. Great, Harry thought, He has to hand the blue one off to me. Harry shook his head in disgust and got into position. He knew Malfoy was going to give him trouble.

Here he comes…Malfoy shot out of his tunnel, holding the blue baton in his right hand. Harry held his left hand out to catch the baton as Malfoy passed. He clasped onto it and started to take off.

"Potter, what the hell do you think you’re doing?" Harry stopped moving to look at Malfoy who was trying to pull the baton out of his hand. "I said that I was going to take this competition."

Harry yanked back on the baton, "Are you trying to get us disqualified?"

"Not at all!" Malfoy snarled and pulled again, this time the baton flying out of both their hands and down toward the ground.

"Nice going you idiot!" Harry snarled.

Malfoy opened his mouth to retort, but Harry didn’t stick around to listen. He could catch that thing before it hit the ground easy. He pulled his Firebolt up and did a backward dive after the baton. He heard terrified shrieks from the stands as he plummeted toward the ground at a 90-degree angle. He didn’t know why they screamed. He went into dives like this all the time after the Golden Snitch. It wasn’t anything new.

The baton was falling fast, but Harry was accelerating even faster.

60 feet…

55 feet…

45 feet…

30feet…

10 feet…

Harry caught the baton at scarcely five feet from the ground and pulled up from the dive barely scraping his knees on the grass. He let down one foot and pushed off the ground shooting back towards Malfoy. He saw the Third and Sixth Years enter the last tunnel. Harry gripped the handle of the Firebolt even tighter and bulldozed into Malfoy, ramming him in the shoulder the same way he had in the stands and then vanished into his tunnel. He mumbled about how big a jerk Malfoy was as he went though the dark curving tunnel, barely missing the walls on turns as he picked up speed. He came out of the tunnel like a bullet before spiraling down the long post to the bottom where the red baton awaited. He saw the Sixth and Third Years on the final stretch to the finish line. He was determined to win this just so he could throw it in Malfoy’s face.

He didn’t slow as he spiraled down the pole. He wasn’t even going to pause for the red baton. He fixed the blue baton between his ring and little fingers, and would grab the red one with the rest of his hand.

ZOOM!

There he went past the bottom of the pole, the red baton now in his hand and the blue baton swirling in circles where the red baton had been floating. There were more screams at this upward turn and also at his speed. Harry didn’t know how fast he was going, but the wind was whistling so loud in his ears that he could barely hear the people in the stands.

He zipped onto the final stretch of the race, the Third Year player and the Sixth Year player well ahead of him.

He came up fast, in less than ten seconds, so that all three were neck and neck as they crossed the finish line.

Harry shot passed it. In his rush to catch up to the other two players he’d forgotten one simple thing about speeding up so much.

HOW ON EARTH WAS HE GOING TO STOP!?!

He sped toward the fence circling the stadium. Oh crap… Harry thought. Well, if I crash, at least I’m not going to go into the stands again like I did in the first game this year.

He tried with all his might to slow the Firebolt, but it was no use. Finally when he was barely two feet from the fence he made a sharp right turn and found himself in a fast inward spiral. After about 15 rounds he slowed to the point where he could safely jump off of his broom. He did so and dizzily fell first to his rear and then to his back, watching what he swore were little miniature Malfoys buzzing around his head on broomsticks.

Within seconds he saw Professor McGonagall’s stern face looking down on him, "My Lord, Harry, are you all right?"

Harry squinted at her before mumbling, "I’d be great if you’d stop pacing around me..."

"I’m standing still, Mr. Potter."

"Oh…"

"In all my years at Hogwarts I have never seen such reckless flying. You had to of been going almost 90 miles per hour! Were you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Uh…no?" he mumbled as he tried to grab one of the imaginary Malfoys.

Professor McGonagall let out an exasperated sigh before helping Harry to his feet and walked him back to the finish line.

It was a photo finish, taken by Professor Flitwick. The picture showed the three students going across the finish line over and over again. He gave the picture to Dumbledore, who tapped his wand on it as the three of them crossed and froze them in place.

He held the picture up. "Sixth place to the Second Years, Fifth Place to the Fourth Years, Fourth Place to the Fifth Years, Third Place to…" he looked very closely at the picture, "the Sixth Years," he paused again to build suspense, "Second Place to the," he again scrutinized the photo, "Third Years, and First Place to the Seventh Years!"

The Seventh Years in the stands went wild, and the Seventh Year team came and nearly attacked Harry with pats on the back, all accept Malfoy who sulked several feet away, before lifting him up off the ground.

Harry, who was still rather mixed up from his complicated stop, was barely able to mumble, "Wha…did we win?"

"Yeah, didn’t you hear Dumbledore just say that?" someone said.

"Oh…WOO-HOO!" Harry jumped above the people holding him up. They lost their hold on him and dropped him on his head.

 

Harry woke up in the hospital wing with a nagging lump on his skull. Ron and Hermione were sitting beside him.

"You never cease to amaze me, Harry," Hermione said, "You can come out of two 75 foot dives without a scratch on you, but you practically give yourself a concussion from a little four foot fall!"

"Oh my God, Harry, that was the COOLEST thing I’ve ever seen!"

"What, me cracking my skull?"

"No you idiot, that dive! You were going faster than…than anyone I ever saw fly before in my life!"

"How long have I been out?"

"Only about ten minutes."

"Did they say who won over-all?"

"No, Dumbledore’s going to tell us at the banquet."

Madame Pomfrey came through the curtain, "Oh, good you’re awake. Here take this, it will help with the swelling," she handed Harry a vile of green liquid that tasted like feet, "And you can be free to go. You took a bad conk on the head, but it isn’t so serious that I have to hold you over."

They left the hospital wing, Harry rubbing the back of his head as they went. Hermione was jabbering on about her figures and the exact number of points that each team managed to earn, and Ron was babbling about the look on Malfoy’s face when Harry rammed him. They returned to the Gryffindor quarters both to kill time and to get ready for the Seventh Year banquet that was to take place in about four hours.