Dawn Rivera

Gilderoy Lockhart

Later today, Harry barely grins once considering the good mood he was in yesterday. Things start to go downhill for him from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long house tables are laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling. Harry and Ron sit down at the Gryffindor table next to me and Hermione, who have our copies of Voyages with Vampires open against a milk jug. There is a slight stiffness in the way we say "Morning" which I hope tells Harry and Ron that we are still disapproving of the way they arrived. Neville Longbottom, on the other hand, greets them cheerfully. Neville is a round-faced and accident-prone boy with the worst memory of anyone I've ever met. He tried to get me alone before me and Hermione came down, but Hermione managed to get me away. It's only a matter of time, though.

"Post's due any minute - I think Gran's sending on a few things I forgot."

Harry has only just started on his porridge when, sure enough, there is a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls stream in, circling the Hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd. A big, lumpy parcel bounces off Neville's head, and a second later, something large and grey falls into mine and Hermione's jug, spraying us all with milk and feathers.

"Errol!" says Ron, pulling the bedraggled owl out by the feet. Errol slumps, unconscious, onto the table, his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his beak.

"Oh no-" Ron gasps.

"It's all right, he's still alive," says Hermione, prodding Errol gently with the tip of her finger.

"It's not that - it's that."

Ron is pointing at the red envelope. It looks quite ordinary to me, but Ron and Neville are looking at it as though they expect it to explode.

"What's the matter?" says Harry.

"She's - she's sent me a Howler," says Ron faintly. Of course! I've heard about them, but I've really seen one.

"You'd better open it, Ron," says Neville, in a timid whisper. "It'll be worse if you don't. My Gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and-" he gulps, "it was horrible."

Harry looks from their petrified faces to the red envelope.

"What's a Howler?" he says.

But Ron's whole attention is fixed on the letter, which has begun to smoke at the corners.

"Open it," Neville urges. "I'll be over in a few minutes..."

Ron stretches out a shaking hand, eases the envelope from Errol's beak and slits it open. Neville stuffs his fingers in his ears. A split second later, I know why. I think for a moment it has exploded; a roar of sound fills the huge Hall, shaking dust from the ceiling.

"...STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT HAD GONE..."

Mrs Weasley's yells, a hundred times louder than usual, makes the plates and spoons rattle on the table, and echoes deafeningly off the stone walls. People throughout the hall are swivelling around to see who has received the Howler and Ron sinks so low in his chair that only his crimson forehead can be seen.

"...LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN'T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED..."

I have been wondering when his name is going to crop up. I see him try very hard to look as though he can't hear the voice that is making my eardrums throb.