Dawn Rivera

Mudbloods and Murmers

Harry spends a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever he sees Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder for him to avoid is Colin Creevey, who seems to have memorised Harry's timetable. Nothing seems to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, "All right, Harry?" six or seven times a day and hear, "Hullo, Colin," back, however exasperated Harry sounds when he says it.

Hedwig is still angry with Harry about the disastrous car journey and Ron's wand is still malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning by shooting out of Ron's hand in Charms and hitting tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large, throbbing green boil where it struck. So, with one thing and another, Harry seems quite glad to reach the weekend. He, Ron, Hermione and me are planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning.

****************************

As Harry walks onto the pitch, he seems to spot Ron, Hermione and me in the stands - me and Ron holding hands, of course.

"Aren't you finished yet?" calls Ron incredulously.

"Haven't even started," says Harry, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron, Hermione and me have brought out of the Great Hall. "Wood's been teaching us new moves."

He mounts his broomstick and kicks at the ground, soaring up into the air. He soars right around the stadium at full speed, racing Fred and George.

I see Harry look into the stands. Colin is sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.

Harry puts on an extra spurt of speed that takes him as far away as possible from Colin.

Wood frowns as he skims through the air towards them.

Several people in green robes are walking onto the pitch, broomsticks in their hands.

Wood shoots towards the ground, landing rather harder than he means to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounts. Harry, Fred and George follow.

Wood bellows something at the Slytherin captain.

Marcus Flint is even larger than Wood. He has a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replies with words I cannot hear.

Angelina, Alicia and Katie have gone over too. There are no girls on the Slytherin team - who stand, shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering to a man.

Wood says something and I can see that he is positively spitting with rage.

Flint says something back.

Wood says something else, looking distracted.

And from behind the six large figures before them comes a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It is Draco Malfoy.

Fred looks at Malfoy with dislike.

Flint says something as the whole Slytherin team smile more broadly.

All seven of them hold out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering that I can't read from such a distance.

Flint says something carelessly, flicking what must be a fleck of dust from the end of his broom.

None of the Gryffindor team seem to think of anything to say for a moment. Malfoy is smirking so broadly his cold eyes are reduced to slits.

I see Flint say something.

Ron, Hermione and me are crossing the grass to see what is going on. When Malfoy spots me and Ron hand-in-hand, his smirk falters.