Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Harry’s schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, “All right, Harry?” six or seven times a day and hear, “Hello, Colin,” back, however exasperated Harry sounded when he said it.
So with one thing and another, Harry was quite glad to reach the weekend. He, Hermione, Ron, and Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Harry, however, was shaken awake several hours earlier than he would have liked by Oliver Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Meanwhile, Evangeline was also woken up by a rather groggy Angelina.
“Whassamatter?” said Harry groggily.
“Quidditch practice!” said Wood. “Come on!”
Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now that he was awake, he couldn’t understand how he could have slept through the racket the birds were making.
“Oliver,” Harry croaked. “It’s the crack of dawn.”
“Exactly,” said Wood. He was a tall and burly sixth year and, at the moment, his eyes were gleaming with a crazed enthusiasm. “It’s part of our new training program. Come on, grab your broom, and let’s go,” said Wood heartily. “None of the other teams have started training yet; we’re going to be first off the mark this year —”
Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes.
“Good man,” said Wood. “Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes.”
When he’d found his scarlet team robes and pulled on his cloak for warmth, Harry scribbled a note to Ron explaining where he’d gone and went down the spiral staircase to the common room where he met Evangeline holding on to her Nimbus Two Thousand, his Nimbus Two Thousand and One on his shoulder. He had just reached the portrait hole when there was a clatter behind him and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.
“I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Harry! Look what I’ve got here! I’ve had it developed, I wanted to show you —” Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under his nose.
A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm Harry recognized as his own. He was pleased to see that his photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. As Harry watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, Panting, against the white edge of the picture.
“Will you sign it?” said Colin eagerly.
“No,” said Harry flatly. “Sorry, Colin, we’re in a hurry — Quidditch practice —”
He and Evangeline climbed through the portrait hole.
“Oh, wow! Wait for me! I’ve never watched a Quidditch game before!”
Colin scrambled through the hole after them.
“It’ll be really boring,” Harry said quickly, but Colin ignored him, his face shining with excitement.
“You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren’t you, Harry? Weren’t you?” said Colin, trotting alongside him. “You must be brilliant. I’ve never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is that the best one there is?”
Harry didn’t know how to get rid of him. It was like having an extremely talkative shadow.
“I don’t really understand Quidditch,” said Colin breathlessly. “Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?”
