five ; hogsmeade and hufflepuffs

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Aurora Areli

IN NO TIME AT all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had become most people's favourite class. Only Malfoy and his gang of Slytherins had anything to say about Uncle Remus.

"Look at the state of his robes," Malfoy would say in a loud whisper as Uncle Remus passed. "He dresses like our old house-elf."

Nobody else cared that Uncle Remus' robes were patched and frayed, though. His next few lessons were just as interesting as the first. After Boggarts, we studied Red Caps, nasty little goblin-like creatures that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed, such as dungeons or deserted battlefields, waiting to bludgeon those who had got lost. From Red Caps we moved onto Kappas, creepy water-dwellers that looked like scaly monkeys, with webbed hands itching to strangle unwitting waders in their ponds.

I wished I could say the same about our other classes. Worst of all was Potions. Snape was in a particularly vindictive mood, since the story of the Boggart assuming Snape's shape and had been dressed in Neville's grandmother's clothes had travelled through the school like wildfire. Snape didn't find it funny at all, and turned to sneering any time Uncle Remus was mentioned, and he was bullying Neville worse than ever.

Professor Trelawney's Divination lessons weren't terrible, aside from the fact that her classroom was always stiflingly hot and that she gave Harry strange, teary-eyed looks all the time.

Nobody really liked Care of Magical Creatures, which, after the action-packed first class, had become extremely dull. Hagrid seemed to have lost his confidence, and we were in turn stuck spending lesson after lesson learning how to care for Flobberworms, which had to be some of the most boring creatures in existence.

On a happier note, the start of October marked the approach of the Quidditch season. Oliver, who was in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, called a meeting one Thursday evening to discuss tactics for the new season. There was a quiet sort of desperation in his voice as he addressed the team in the chilly changing rooms on the edge of the darkening Quidditch pitch.

"This is our last chance — my last chance — to win the Quidditch Cup," he told us, striding up and down in front of us. "I'll be leaving at the end of this year. I'll never get another shot at it.

"Gryffindor haven't won for seven years now. Okay, so we've had the worst luck in the world — injuries — then the tournament getting called off last year . . ." Oliver swallowed, as though the memory still brought a lump to his throat. "But we also know we've got the best ruddy team in the school," he said, punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic glint back in his eye.

"We've got three superb Chasers."

Oliver pointed at Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell and me, to which we grinned.

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐄𝐋 ; h.potterWhere stories live. Discover now