CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Lion and the Serpent
Harry felt as though he were carrying some kind of talisman inside his chest over the following
two weeks, a glowing secret that supported him through Umbridge’s classes and even made it
possible for him to smile blandly as he looked into her horrible bulging eyes. He and the D.A.
were resisting her under her very nose, doing the very thing she and the Ministry most feared,
and whenever he was supposed to be reading Wilbert Slinkhard’s book during her lessons he
dwelled instead on satisfying memories of their most recent meetings, remembering how Neville
had successfully disarmed Hermione, how Colin Creevey had mastered the Impediment Jinx
after three meetings’ hard effort, how Parvati Patil had produced such a good Reductor Curse
that she had reduced the table carrying all the Sneakoscopes to dust.
He was finding it almost impossible to fix a regular night of the week for the D.A. meetings, as
they had to accommodate three separate team’s Quidditch practices, which were often rearranged
due to bad weather conditions; but Harry was not sorry about this; he had a feeling that it was
probably better to keep the timing of their meetings unpredictable. If anyone was watching them,
it would be hard to make out a pattern.
Hermione soon devised a very clever method of communicating the time and date of the next
meeting to all the members in case they needed to change it at short notice, because it would
look suspicious if people from different Houses were seen crossing the Great Hall to talk to each
other too often. She gave each of the members of the D.A. a fake Galleon (Ron became very
excited when he first saw the basket and was convinced she was actually giving out gold).
“You see the numerals around the edge of the coins?” Hermione said, holding one up for
examination at the end of their fourth meeting. The coin gleamed fat and yellow in the light from
the torches. “On real Galleons that’s just a serial number referring to the goblin who cast the
coin. On these fake coins, though, the numbers will change to reflect the time and date of the
next meeting. The coins will grow hot when the date changes, so if you’re carrying them in a
pocket you’ll be able to feel them. We take one each, and when Harry sets the date of the next
meeting he’ll change the numbers on his coin, and because I’ve put a Protean Charm on them,
they’ll all change to mimic his.”
A blank silence greeted Hermione’s words. She looked around at all the faces upturned to her,
rather disconcerted.
“Well - I thought it was a good idea,” she said uncertainly, “I mean, even if Umbridge asked us to turn out our pockets, there’s nothing fishy about carrying a Galleon, is there? But… well, if you don’t want to use them -”
“You can do a Protean Charm?” said Terry Boot.
“Yes,” said Hermione.
“But that’s… that’s NEWT standard, that is,” he said weakly.
“Oh,” said Hermione, trying to look modest. “Oh… well… yes, I suppose it is.”
“How come you’re not in Ravenclaw?” he demanded, staring at Hermione with something close
to wonder. “With brains like yours?”
“Well, the Sorting Hat did seriously consider putting me in Ravenclaw during my Sorting,” said
Hermione brightly, “but it decided on Gryffindor in the end. So, does that mean we’re using the
Galleons?”
There was a murmur of assent and everybody moved forwards to collect one from the basket.
Harry looked sideways at Hermione.
“You know what these remind me of?”
“No, what’s that?”
“The Death Eaters’ scars. Voldemort touches one of them, and all their scars burn, and they
know they’ve got to join him.”
“Well… yes,” said Hermione quietly, “that is where I got the idea but you’ll notice I decided to
engrave the date on bits of metal rather than on our members’ skin.”
“Yeah… I prefer your way,” said Harry, grinning, as he slipped his Galleon into his pocket. “I
suppose the only danger with these is that we might accidentally spend them.”
“Fat chance,” said Ron, who was examining his own fake Galleon with a slightly mournful air, “I haven’t got any real Galleons to confuse it with.”
As the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, drew nearer, their D.A.
meetings were put on hold because Angelina insisted on almost daily practices. The fact that the
Quidditch Cup had not been held for so long added considerably to the interest and excitement
surrounding the forthcoming game; the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were taking a lively interest
in the outcome, for they, of course, would be playing both teams over the coming year; and the
Heads of House of the competing teams, though they attempted to disguise it under a decent
pretence of sportsmanship, were determined to see their own side victorious. Harry realized how
much Professor McGonagall cared about beating Slytherin when she abstained from giving them
homework in the week leading up to the match.
“I think you’ve got enough to be getting on with at the moment,” she said loftily. Nobody could
quite believe their ears until she looked directly at Harry and Ron and said grimly, “I’ve become
accustomed to seeing the Quidditch Cup in my study, boys, and I really don’t want to have to
hand it over to Professor Snape, so use the extra time to practice, won’t you?”
Snape was no less obviously partisan; he had booked the Quidditch pitch for Slytherin practice
so often that the Gryffindors had difficulty getting on it to play. He was also turning a deaf ear to
the many reports of Slytherin attempts to hex Gryffindor players in the corridors. When Alicia
Spinnet turned up in the hospital wing with her eyebrows growing so thick and fast they
obscured her vision and obstructed her mouth, Snape insisted that she must have attempted a
Hair-thickening Charm on herself and refused to listen to the fourteen eye-witnesses who
insisted they had seen the Slytherin Keeper, Miles Bletchley, hit her from behind with a jinx
while she worked in the library.
Harry felt optimistic about Gryffindor’s chances; they had, after all, never lost to Malfoy’s team.
Admittedly, Ron was still not performing to Wood’s standard, but he was working extremely
hard to improve. His greatest weakness was a tendency to lose confidence after he’d made a
blunder; if he let in one goal he became flustered and was therefore likely to miss more. On the
other hand, Harry had seen Ron make some truly spectacular saves when he was on form; during
one memorable practice he had hung one-handed from his broom and kicked the Quaffle so hard
away from the goal hoop that it soared the length of the pitch and through the center hoop at the
other end; the rest of the team felt this save compared favorably with one made recently by
Barry Ryan, the Irish International Keeper, against Poland’s top Chaser, Ladislaw Zamojski.
Even Fred had said that Ron might yet make him and George proud, and that they were seriously
considering admitting he was related to them, something they assured him they had been trying
to deny for four years.
The only thing really worrying Harry was how much Ron was allowing the tactics of the
Slytherin team to upset him before they even got on to the pitch. Harry, of course, had endured
their snide comments for over four years, so whispers of, “Hey, Potty, I heard Warrington’s
sworn to knock you off your broom on Saturday”, far from chilling his blood, made him laugh.
“Warrington’s aim’s so pathetic I’d be more worried if he was aiming for the person next to me,”
he retorted, which made Ron and Hermione laugh and wiped the smirk off Pansy Parkinsons
face.
But Ron had never endured a relentless campaign of insults, jeers and intimidation. When
Slytherins, some of them seventh-years and considerably larger than he was, muttered as they
passed in the corridors, “Got your bed booked in the hospital wing, Weasley?” he didn’t laugh,
but turned a delicate shade of green. When Draco Malfoy imitated Ron dropping the Quaffle
(which he did whenever they came within sight of each other), Ron’s ears glowed red and his
hands shook so badly that he was likely to drop whatever he was holding at the time, too.
October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrived,
cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy draughts that bit at exposed hands
and faces. The skies and the ceiling of the Great Hall turned a pale, pearly grey, the mountains
around Hogwarts were snowcapped, and the temperature in the castle dropped so low that many
students wore their thick protective dragon skin gloves in the corridors between lessons.
The morning of the match dawned bright and cold. When Harry awoke he looked round at Ron’s
bed and saw him sitting bolt upright, his arms around his knees, staring fixedly into space.
“You all right?” said Harry.
Ron nodded but did not speak. Harry was reminded forcibly of the time Ron had accidentally put
a Slug-vomiting Charm on himself; he looked just as pale and sweaty as he had done then, not to
mention as reluctant to open his mouth.
“You just need some breakfast,” Harry said bracingly. “C’mon.”
The Great Hall was filling up fast when they arrived, the talk louder and the mood more
exuberant than usual. As they passed the Slytherin table there was an upsurge of noise. Harry
looked round and saw that, in addition to the usual green and silver scarves and hats, every one
of them was wearing a silver badge in the shape of what seemed to be a crown. For some reason
many of them waved at Ron, laughing uproariously. Harry tried to see what was written on the
badges as he walked by, but he was too concerned to get Ron past their table quickly to linger
long enough to read them.
They received a rousing welcome at the Gryffindor table, where everyone was wearing red and
gold, but far from raising Ron’s spirits the cheers seemed to sap the last of his morale; he
collapsed on to the nearest bench looking as though he were facing his final meal.
“I must’ve been mental to do this,” he said in a croaky whisper. “Mental.”
“Don’t be thick,” said Harry firmly, passing him a choice of cereals, “you’re going to be fine. It’s normal to be nervous.”
“I’m rubbish,” croaked Ron. “I’m lousy. I can’t play to save my life. What was I thinking?”
“Get a grip,” said Harry sternly. “Look at that save you made with your foot the other day, even
Fred and George said it was brilliant.”
Ron turned a tortured face to Harry.
“That was an accident,” he whispered miserably. “I didn’t mean to do it - I slipped off my broom
when none of you were looking and when I was trying to get back on I kicked the Quaffle by
accident.”
“Well,” said Harry, recovering quickly from this unpleasant surprise, “a few more accidents like
that and the game’s in the bag, isn’t it?”
Hermione and Ginny sat down opposite them wearing red and gold scarves, gloves and rosettes.
“How’re you feeling?” Ginny asked Ron, who was now staring into the dregs of milk at the
bottom of his empty cereal bowl as though seriously considering attempting to drown himself in
them.
“He’s just nervous,” said Harry.
“Well, that’s a good sign, I never feel you perform as well in exams if you’re not a bit nervous,”
said Hermione heartily.
“Hello,” said a vague and dreamy voice from behind them. Harry looked up: Luna Lovegood had
drifted over from the Ravenclaw table. Many people were staring at her and a few were openly
laughing and pointing; she had managed to procure a hat shaped like a life-size lion’s head,
which was perched precariously on her head.
“I’m supporting Gryffindor,” said Luna, pointing un necessarily at her hat. “Look what it does…”
She reached up and tapped the hat with her wand. It opened its mouth wide and gave an
extremely realiztic roar that made everyone in the vicinity jump.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Luna happily. “I wanted to have it chewing up a serpent to represent
Slytherin, you know, but there wasn’t time. Anyway… good luck, Ronald!”
She drifted away. They had not quite recovered from the shock of Luna’s hat before Angelina
came hurrying towards them, accompanied by Katie and Alicia, whose eyebrows had mercifully
been returned to normal by Madam Pomfrey.
“When you’re ready” she said, “we’re going to go straight down to the pitch, check out conditions and change.”
“We’ll be there in a bit,” Harry assured her. “Ron’s just got to have some breakfast.”
It became clear after ten minutes, however, that Ron was not capable of eating anything more
and Harry thought it best to get him down to the changing rooms. As they rose from the table,
Hermione got up, too, and taking Harry’s arm she drew him to one side.
“Don’t let Ron see what’s on those Slytherins’ badges,” she whispered urgently.
Harry looked questioningly at her, but she shook her head warningly; Ron had just ambled over
to them, looking lost and desperate.
“Good luck, Ron,” said Hermione, standing on tiptoe and kissing him on the cheek. “And you,
Harry -”
Ron seemed to come to himself slightly as they walked back across the Great Hall. He touched
the spot on his face where Hermione had kissed him, looking puzzled, as though he was not quite
sure what had just happened. He seemed too distracted to notice much around him, but Harry
cast a curious glance at the crown-shaped badges as they passed the Slytherin table, and this time
he made out the words etched on to them:
Weasley Is Our King
With an unpleasant feeling that this could mean nothing good, he hurried Ron across the
Entrance Hall, down the stone steps and out into the icy air.
The frosty grass crunched under their feet as they hurried down the sloping lawns towards the
stadium. There was no wind at all and the sky was a uniform pearly white, which meant that
visibility would be good without the drawback of direct sunlight in the eyes. Harry pointed out
these encouraging factors to Ron as they walked, but he was not sure that Ron was listening.
Angelina had changed already and was talking to the rest of the team when they entered. Harry
and Ron pulled on their robes (Ron attempted to do his up back-to-front for several minutes
before Alicia took pity on him and went to help), then sat down to listen to the pre-match talk
while the babble of voices outside grew steadily louder as the crowd came pouring out of the
castle towards the pitch.
“Okay, I’ve only just found out the final line-up for Slytherin,” said Angelina, consulting a piece of parchment. “Last year’s Beaters, Derrick and Bole, have left, but it looks as though Montague’s replaced them with the usual gorillas, rather than anyone who can fly particularly well. They’re two blokes called Crabbe and goyle, I don’t know much about them-”
“We do,” said Harry and Ron together.
“Well, they don’t look bright enough to tell one end of a broom from the other,” said Angelina,
pocketing her parchment, “but then I was always surprised Derrick and Bole managed to find
their way on to the pitch without signposts.”
“Crabbe and Goyle are in the same mould,” Harry assured her.
They could hear hundreds of footsteps mounting the banked benches of the spectators’ stands.
Some people were singing, though Harry could not make out the words. He was starting to feel
nervous, but he knew his butterflies were as nothing compared to Ron’s, who was clutching his
stomach and staring straight ahead again, his jaw set and his complexion pale grey.
“It’s time,” said Angelina in a hushed voice, looking at her watch. “C’mon everyone… good
luck.”
The team rose, shouldered their brooms and marched in single file out of the changing room and
into the dazzling sunlight. A roar of sound greeted them in which Harry could still hear singing,
though it was muffled by the cheers and whistles.
The Slytherin team was standing waiting for them. They, too, were wearing those silver crownshaped badges. The new Captain, Montague, was built along the same lines as Dudley Dursley, with massive forearms like hairy hams. Behind him lurked Crabbe and Goyle, almost as large, blinking stupidly in the sunlight, swinging their new Beaters’ bats. Malfoy stood to one side, the sunlight gleaming on his white-blond head. He caught Harry’s eye and smirked, tapping the crown-shaped badge on his chest.
“Captains, shake hands,” ordered the referee Madam Hooch, as Angelina and Montague reached
each other. Harry could tell that Montague was trying to crush Angelina’s fingers, though she did
not wince. “Mount your brooms…”
Madam Hooch placed her whistle in her mouth and blew.
The balls were released and the fourteen players shot upwards. Out of the corner of his eye Harry
saw Ron streak off towards the goal hoops. Harry zoomed higher, dodging a Bludger, and set off
on a wide lap of the pitch, gazing around for a glint of gold; on the other side of the stadium,
Draco Malfoy was doing exactly the same.
“And it’s Johnson - Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is, I’ve been saying it for
years but she still won’t go out with me -”
“JORDAN!” yelled Professor McGonagall.
“- just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest - and she’s ducked Warrington, she’s passed
Montague, she’s — ouch - been hit from behind by a Bludger from Crabbe… Montague catches
the Quaffle, Montague heading back up the pitch and - nice Bludger there from George Weasley,
that’s a Bludger to the head for Montague, he drops the Quaffle, caught by Katie Bell, Katie Bell
of Gryffindor reverse-passes to Alicia Spinnet and Spinnet’s away -”
Lee Jordan’s commentary rang through the stadium and Harry listened as hard as he could
through the wind whistling in his ears and the din of the crowd, all yelling and booing and
singing.
“- dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger - close call, Alicia - and the crowd are loving this, just
listen to them, what’s that they’re singing?”
And as Lee paused to listen, the song rose loud and clear from the sea of green and silver in the
Slytherin section of the stands:
“Weasley cannot save a thing, He cannot block a single ring, That’s why Slytherins all sing:
Weasley is our King.”
“Weasley was born in a bin He always lets the Quaffle in Weasley will make sure we win
Weasley is our King.”
“—and Alicia passes back to Angelina!” Lee shouted, and as Harry swerved, his insides boiling
at what he had just heard, he knew Lee was trying to drown out the words of the song. “Come on
now, Angelina — looks like she’s got just the Keeper to beat! - SHE SHOOTS - SHE - aaaah…”
Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper, had saved the goal; he threw the Quaffle to Warrington who
sped off with it, zig-zagging in between Alicia and Katie; the singing from below grew louder
and louder as he drew nearer and nearer Ron.
“Weasley is our King, Weasley is our King, He always lets the Quaffle in Weasley is our King.”
Harry could not help himself: abandoning his search for the Snitch, he wheeled around to watch
Ron, a lone figure at the far end of the pitch, hovering before the three goal hoops while the
massive Warrington pelted towards him.
“- and it’s Warrington with the Quaffle, Warrington heading for goal, he’s out of Bludger range
with just the Keeper ahead -”
A great swell of song rose from the Slytherin stands below:
“Weasley cannot save a thing, He cannot block a single ring…”
“- so it’s the first test for new Gryffindor Keeper Weasley, brother of Beaters Fred and George,
and a promising new talent on the team - come on, Ron!”
But the scream of delight came from the Slytherins’ end: Ron had dived wildly, his arms wide,
and the Quaffle had soared between them straight through Ron’s central hoop.
“Slytherin score!” came Lee’s voice amid the cheering and booing from the crowds below, “so
that’s ten-nil to Slytherin - bad luck, Ron.”
The Slytherins sang even louder:
“WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN, HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN…”
“- and Gryffindor back in possession and it’s Katie Bell tanking up the pitch -” cried Lee
valiantly, though the singing was now so deafening that he could hardly make himself heard
above it.
“WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN WEASLEY IS OUR KING…”
“Harry, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” screamed Angelina, soaring past him to keep up with
Katie. “GET GOING!”
Harry realized he had been stationary in midair for over a minute, watching the progress of the
match without sparing a thought for the whereabouts of the Snitch; horrified, he went into a dive
and started circling the pitch again, staring around, trying to ignore the chorus now thundering
through the stadium:
“WEASLEY IS OUR KING, WEASLEY IS OUR KING…”
There was no sign of the Snitch anywhere he looked; Malfoy was still circling the stadium just as
he was. They passed one another midway around the pitch, going in opposite directions, and
Harry heard Malfoy singing loudly:
“WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN…”
“—and it’s Warrington again,” bellowed Lee, “who passes to Pucey, Pucey’s off past Spinnet,
come on now, Angelina, you can take him - turns out you can’t - but nice Bludger from Fred
Weasley, I mean, George Weasley, oh, who cares, one of them, anyway, and Warrington drops
the Quaffle and Katie Bell — er - drops it, too - so that’s Montague with the Quaffle, Slytherin
Captain Montague takes the Quaffle and he’s off up the pitch, come on now, Gryffindor, block
him!”
Harry zoomed around the end of the stadium behind the Slytherin goal hoops, willing himself not
to look at what was going on at Ron’s end. As he sped past the Slytherin Keeper, he heard
Bletchley singing along with the crowd below:
“WEASLEY CANNOT SAVE A THING…”
“- and Pucey’s dodged Alicia again and he’s heading straight for goal, stop it, Ron!”
Harry did not have to look to see what had happened: there was a terrible groan from the
Gryffindor end, coupled with fresh screams and applause from the Slytherins. Looking down,
Harry saw the pug-faced Pansy Parkinson right at the front of the stands, her back to the pitch as
she conducted the Slytherin supporters who were roaring:
“THAT’S WHY SLYTHERINS ALL SING WEASLEY ISOUR KING.”
But twenty-nil was nothing, there was still time for Gryffindor to catch up or catch the Snitch. A
few goals and they would be in the lead as usual, Harry assured himself, bobbing and weaving
through the other players in pursuit of something shiny that turned out to be Montague’s
watchstrap.
But Ron let in two more goals. There was an edge of panic in Harry’s desire to find the Snitch
now. If he could just get it soon and finish the game quickly.
“- and Katie Bell of Gryffindor dodges Pucey, ducks Montague, nice swerve, Katie, and she
throws to Johnson, Angelina Johnson takes the Quaffle, she’s past Warrington, she’s heading for
goal, come on now, Angelina - GRYFFINDOR SCORE! It’s forty-ten, forty-ten to Slytherin and
Pucey has the Quaffle”
Harry could hear Luna’s ludicrous lion hat roaring amidst the Gryffindor cheers and felt
heartened; only thirty points in it, that was nothing, they could pull back easily. Harry ducked a
Bludger that Crabbe had sent rocketing in his direction and resumed his frantic scouring of the
pitch for the Snitch, keeping one eye on Malfoy in case he showed signs of having spotted it, but
Malfoy, like him, was continuing to soar around the stadium, searching fruitlessly…
“— Pucey throws to Warrington, Warrington to Montague, Montague back to Pucey -Johnson
intervenes, Johnson takes the Quaffle, Johnson to Bell, this looks good - I mean bad - Bells hit
by a Bludger from Goyle of Slytherin and it’s Pucey in possession”
“WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN, HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN”
“WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN”
But Harry had seen it at last: the tiny fluttering Golden Snitch was hovering feet from the ground
at the Slytherin end of the pitch.
He dived…
In a matter of seconds, Malfoy was streaking out of the sky on Harry’s left, a green and silver
blur lying flat on his broom…
The Snitch skirted the foot of one of the goal hoops and scooted off towards the other side of the
stands; its change of direction suited Malfoy, who was nearer; Harry pulled his Firebolt around,
he and Malfoy were now neck and neck…
Feet from the ground, Harry lifted his right hand from his broom, stretching towards the
Snitch… to his right, Malfoy’s arm extended too, was reaching, groping…
It was over in two breathless, desperate, windswept seconds - Harry’s fingers closed around the
tiny, struggling ball - Malfoy’s fingernails scrabbled the back of Harrys hand hopelessly - Harry
pulled his broom upwards, holding the struggling ball in his hand and the Gryffindor spectators
screamed their approval…
They were saved, it did not matter that Ron had let in those goals, nobody would remember as
long as Gryffindor had won -
WHAM.
A Bludger hit Harry squarely in the small of the back and he flew forwards off his broom.
Luckily he was only five or six feet above the ground, having dived so low to catch the Snitch,
but he was winded all the same as he landed flat on his back on the frozen pitch. He heard
Madam Hooch’s shrill whistle, an uproar in the stands compounded of catcalls, angry yells and
jeering, a thud, then Angelinas frantic voice.
“Are you all right?”
“Course I am,” said Harry grimly, taking her hand and allowing her to pull him to his feet.
Madam Hooch was zooming towards one of the Slytherin players above him, though he could
not see who it was from this angle.
“It was that thug Crabbe,” said Angelina angrily, “he whacked the Bludger at you the moment he saw you’d got the Snitch - but we won, Harry, we won!”
Harry heard a snort from behind him and turned around, still holding the Snitch tightly in his
hand: Draco Malfoy had landed close by. White-faced with fury, he was still managing to sneer.
“Saved Weasley’s neck, haven’t you?” he said to Harry. “I’ve never seen a worse Keeper… but
then he was born in a bin… did you like my lyrics, Potter?”
Harry didn’t answer. He turned away to meet the rest of the team who were now landing one by
one, yelling and punching the air in triumph; all except Ron, who had dismounted from his
broom over by the goalposts and seemed to be making his way slowly back to the changing
rooms alone.
“We wanted to write another couple of verses!” Malfoy called, as Katie and Alicia hugged Harry. “But we couldn’t find rhymes for fat and ugly - we wanted to sing about his mother, see-”
“Talk about sour grapes,” said Angelina, casting Malfoy a disgusted look.
“- we couldn’t fit in useless loser either - for his father, you know -”
Fred and George had realized what Malfoy was talking about. Halfway through shaking Harry’s
hand, they stiffened, looking round at Malfoy.
“Leave it!” said Angelina at once, taking Fred by the arm. “Leave it, Fred, let him yell, he’s just
sore he lost, the jumped-up little -”
“- but you like the Weasleys, don’t you, Potter?” said Malfoy, sneering. “Spend holidays there
and everything, don’t you? Can’t see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you’ve been
dragged up by Muggles, even the Weasleys’ hovel smells okay -”
Harry grabbed hold of George. Meanwhile, it was taking the combined efforts of Angelina,
Alicia and Katie to stop Fred leaping on Malfoy, who was laughing openly. Harry looked around
for Madam Hooch, but she was still berating Crabbe for his illegal Sludger attack.
“Or perhaps,” said Malfoy, leering as he backed away, “you can remember what your mother’s
house stank like, Potter, and Weasleys pigsty reminds you of it —”
Harry was not aware of releasing George, all he knew was that a second later both of them were
sprinting towards Malfoy. He had completely forgotten that all the teachers were watching: all he
wanted to do was cause Malfoy as much pain as possible; with no time to draw out his wand, he
merely drew back the fist clutching the Snitch and sank it as hard as he could into Malfoys
stomach -
“Harry! HARRY! GEORGE! NO”
He could hear girls’ voices screaming, Malfoy yelling, George swearing, a whistle blowing and
the bellowing of the crowd around him, but he did not care. Not until somebody in the vicinity
yelled “Impedimenta!” and he was knocked over backwards by the force of the spell, did he
abandon the attempt to punch every inch of Malfoy he could reach.
“What do you think you’re doing?” screamed Madam Hooch, as Harry leapt to his feet. It seemed to have been her who had hit him with the Impediment Jinx; she was holding her whistle
in one hand and a wand in the other; her broom lay abandoned several feet away. Malfoy was curled up on the ground, whimpering and moaning, his nose bloody; George was sporting a swollen lip; Fred was still being forcibly restrained by the three Chasers, and Crabbe was cackling in the background. “I’ve never seen behavior like it - back up to the castle, both of you, and straight to your Head of House’s office! Go! Now.”
Harry and George turned on their heels and marched off the pitch, both panting, neither saying a
word to the other. The howling and jeering of the crowd grew fainter and fainter until they
reached the Entrance Hall, where they could hear nothing except the sound of their own
footsteps. Harry became aware that something was still struggling in his right hand, the knuckles
of which he had bruised against Malfoy’s jaw. Looking down, he saw the Snitch’s silver wings
protruding from between his fingers, struggling for release.
They had barely reached the door of Professor McGonagall’s office when she came marching
along the corridor behind them. She was wearing a Gryffindor scarf, but tore it from her throat
with shaking hands as she strode towards them, looking livid.
“In!” she said furiously, pointing to the door. Harry and George entered. She strode around
behind her desk and faced them, quivering with rage as she threw the Gryffindor scarf aside on
to the floor.
“Well?” she said. “I have never seen such a disgraceful exhibition. Two on one! Explain
yourselves!”
“Malfoy provoked us,” said Harry stiffly.
“Provoked you?” shouted Professor McGonagall, slamming a fist on to her desk so that her tartan tin slid sideways off it and burst open, littering the floor with Ginger Newts. “He’d just lost, hadn’t he? Of course he wanted to provoke you! But what on earth he can have said that justified what you two —”
“He insulted my parents,” snarled George. “And Harry’s mother.”
“But instead of leaving it to Madam Hooch to sort out, you two decided to give an exhibition of
Muggle dueling, did you?” bellowed Professor McGonagall. “Have you any idea what you’ve -
?”
“Hem, hem.”
Harry and George both wheeled round. Dolores Umbridge was standing in the doorway wrapped
in a green tweed cloak that greatly enhanced her resemblance to a giant toad, and was smiling in
the horrible, sickly, ominous way that Harry had come to associate with imminent misery.
“May I help, Professor McGonagall?” asked Professor Umbridge in her most poisonously sweet
voice.
Blood rushed into Professor McGonagall’s face.
“Help?” she repeated, in a constricted voice. “What do you mean, help?”
Professor Umbridge moved forwards into the office, still smiling her sickly smile.
“Why, I thought you might be grateful for a little extra authority”
Harry would not have been surprised to see sparks fly from Professor McGonagall’s nostrils.
“You thought wrong,” she said, turning her back on Umbridge.
“Now, you two had better listen closely. I do not care what provocation Malfoy offered you, I do
not care if he insulted every family member you possess, your behavior was disgusting and I
am giving each of you a week’s worth of detentions! Do not look at me like that, Potter, you
deserve it! And if either of you ever -”
“Hem, hem.”
Professor McGonagall closed her eyes as though praying for patience as she turned her face
towards Professor Umbridge again.
“Yes?”
“I think they deserve rather more than detentions,” said Umbridge, smiling still more broadly.
Professor McGonagall’s eyes flew open.
“But unfortunately” she said, with an attempt at a reciprocal smile that made her look as though
she had lockjaw, “it is what I think that counts, as they are in my House, Dolores.”
“Well, actually, Minerva,” simpered Professor Umbridge, “I think you’ll find that what I
think does count. Now, where is it? Cornelius just sent it… I mean,” she gave a false little laugh
as she rummaged in her handbag, “the Minister just sent it… ah yes…”
She had pulled out a piece of parchment which she now unfurled, clearing her throat fussily
before starting to read what it said.
“Hem, hem… ‘Educational Decree Number Twenty-five’.”
“Not another one!” exclaimed Professor McGonagall violently.
“Well, yes,” said Umbridge, still smiling. “As a matter of fact, Minerva, it was you who made me see that we needed a further amendment… you remember how you overrode me, when I was
unwilling to allow the Gryffindor Quidditch team to re-form? How you took the case to
Dumbledore, who insisted that the team be allowed to play? Well, now, I couldn’t have that. I
contacted the Minister at once, and he quite agreed with me that the High Inquisitor has to have
the power to strip pupils of privileges, or she - that is to say, I - would have less authority than
common teachers! And you see now, don’t you, Minerva, how right I was in attempting to stop
the Gryffindor team re-forming? Dreadful tempers… anyway, I was reading out our
amendment… hem, hem… ‘High Inquisitor will henceforth have supreme authority over all
punishments, sanctions and removal of privileges pertaining to the students of Hogwarts, and the
power to alter such punishments, sanctions and removals of privileges as may have been ordered
by other staff members. Signed, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, Order of Merlin First
Class, etc., etc.’“
She rolled up the parchment and put it back into her handbag, still smiling.
“So… I really think I will have to ban these two from playing Quidditch ever again,” she said,
looking from Harry to George and back again.
Harry felt the Snitch fluttering madly in his hand.
“Ban us?” he said, and his voice sounded strangely distant. “From playing… ever again?”
“Yes, Mr. Potter, I think a lifelong ban ought to do the trick,” said Umbridge, her smile widening
still further as she watched him struggle to comprehend what she had said. “You and Mr. Weasley here. And I think, to be safe, this young man’s twin ought to be stopped, too - if his teammates had not restrained him, I feel sure he would have attacked young Mr. Malfoy as well. I will want their broomsticks confiscated, of course; I shall keep them safely in my office, to make sure there is no infringement of my ban. But I am not unreasonable, Professor McGonagall,” she continued, turning back to Professor McGonagall who was now standing as still as though carved from ice, staring at her. “The rest of the team can continue playing, I saw no signs of violence from any of them. Well… good afternoon to you.”
And with a look of the utmost satisfaction, Umbridge left the room, leaving a horrified silence in
her wake.
“Banned,” said Angelina in a hollow voice, late that evening in the common room. “Banned. No
Seeker and no Beaters… what on earth are we going to do?”
It did not feel as though they had won the match at all. Everywhere Harry looked there were
disconsolate and angry faces; the team themselves were slumped around the fire, all apart from
Ron, who had not been seen since the end of the match.
“It’s just so unfair,” said Alicia numbly. “I mean, what about Crabbe and that Bludger he hit after the whistle had been blown? Has she banned him?”
“No,” said Ginny miserably; she and Hermione were sitting on either side of Harry. “He just got
lines, I heard Montague laughing about it at dinner.”
“And banning Fred when he didn’t even do anything!” said Alicia furiously, pummeling her
knee with her fist.
“It’s not my fault I didn’t,” said Fred, with a very ugly look on his face, “I would’ve pounded the
little scumbag to a pulp if you three hadn’t been holding me back.”
Harry stared miserably at the dark window. Snow was falling. The Snitch he had caught earlier
was now zooming around and around the common room; people were watching its progress as
though hypnotized and Crookshanks was leaping from chair to chair, trying to catch it.
“I’m going to bed,” said Angelina, getting slowly t o her feet. “Maybe this will all turn out to have been a bad dream… maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and find we haven’t played yet…”
She was soon followed by Alicia and Katie. Fred and George sloped off to bed some time later,
glowering at everyone they passed, and Ginny went not long after that. Only Harry and
Hermione were left beside the fire.
“Have you seen Ron?” Hermione asked in a low voice.
Harry shook his head.
“I think he’s avoiding us,” said Hermione. “Where d o you think he -?”
But at that precise moment, there was a creaking sound behind them as the Fat Lady swung
forwards and Ron came clambering through the portrait hole. He was very pale indeed and there
was snow in his hair. When he saw Harry and Hermione, he stopped dead in his tracks.
“Where have you been?” said Hermione anxiously, springing up.
“Walking,” Ron mumbled. He was still wearing his Quidditch things.
“You look frozen,” said Hermione. “Come and sit down!”
Ron walked to the fireside and sank into the chair furthest from Harry’s, not looking at him. The
stolen Snitch zoomed over their heads.
“I’m sorry,” Ron mumbled, looking at his feet.
“What for?” said Harry.
“For thinking I can play Quidditch,” said Ron. “I’m going to resign first thing tomorrow.”
“If you resign,” said Harry testily, “there’ll only be three players left on the team.” And when Ron looked puzzled, he said, “I’ve been given a lifetime ban. So’ve Fred and George.”
“What?” Ron yelped.
Hermione told him the full story; Harry could not bear to tell it again. When she had finished,
Ron looked more anguished than ever.
“This is all my fault -”
“You didn’t make me punch Malfoy,” said Harry angrily.
“- if I wasn’t so terrible at Quidditch -”
“- it’s got nothing to do with that.”
“- it was that song that wound me up -”
“- it would’ve wound anyone up.”
Hermione got up and walked to the window, away from the argument, watching the snow
swirling down against the pane.
“Look, drop it, will you!” Harry burst out. “It’s bad enough, without you blaming yourself for
everything!”
Ron said nothing but sat gazing miserably at the damp hem of his robes. After a while he said in
a dull voice, “This is the worst I’ve ever felt in my life.”
“Join the club,” said Harry bitterly.
“Well,” said Hermione, her voice trembling slightly. “I can think of one thing that might cheer
you both up.”
“Oh yeah?” said Harry skeptically.
“Yeah,” said Hermione, turning away from the pitch-black, snow-flecked window, a broad smile
spreading across her face. “Hagrids back.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hagrid’s Tale
Harry sprinted up to the boys’ dormitories to fetch the Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder’s
Map from his trunk; he was so quick that he and Ron were ready to leave at least five minutes
before Hermione hurried back down from the girls’ dormitories, wearing scarf, gloves and one of
her own knobbly elf hats.
“Well, it’s cold out there!” she said defensively, as Ron clicked his tongue impatiently.
They crept through the portrait hole and covered themselves hastily in the Cloak - Ron had
grown so much he now needed to crouch to prevent his feet showing - then, moving slowly and
cautiously, they proceeded down the many staircases, pausing at intervals to check on the map
for signs of Filch or Mrs. Norris. They were lucky; they saw nobody but Nearly Headless Nick,
who was gliding along absent-mindedly humming something that sounded horribly like
Weasley is our King. They crept across the Entrance Hall and out into the silent, snowy
grounds. With a great leap of his heart, Harry saw little golden squares of light ahead and smoke
coiling up from Hagrid’s chimney. He set off at a quick march, the other two jostling and
bumping along behind him. They crunched excitedly through the thickening snow until at last
they reached the wooden front door. When Harry raised his fist and knocked three times, a dog
started barking frantically inside.
“Hagrid, its us!” Harry called through the keyhole.
“Shoulda known!” said a gruff voice.
They beamed at each other under the Cloak; they could tell by Hagrid’s voice that he was
pleased. “Bin home three seconds… out the way, Fang… out the way, yeh dozy dog…”
The bolt was drawn back, the door creaked open and Hagrid’s head appeared in the gap.
Hermione screamed.
“Merlin’s beard, keep it down!” said Hagrid hastily, staring wildly over their heads. “Under that
Cloak, are yeh? Well, get in, get in!”
“I’m sorry!” Hermione gasped, as the three of them squeezed past Hagrid into the house and
pulled the Cloak off themselves so he could see them. “I just - oh, Hagrid!”
“It’s nuthin’, it’s nuthin’!” said Hagrid hastily, shutting the door behind them and hurrying to
close all the curtains, but Hermione continued to gaze up at him in horror.
Hagrid’s hair was matted with congealed blood and his left eye had been reduced to a puffy slit
amid a mass of purple and black bruising. There were many cuts on his face and hands, some of
them still bleeding, and he was moving gingerly, which made Harry suspect broken ribs. It was
obvious that he had only just got home; a thick black traveling cloak lay over the back of a chair
and a haversack large enough to carry several small children leaned against the wall inside the
door. Hagrid himself, twice the size of a normal man, was now limping over to the fire and
placing a copper kettle over it.
“What happened to you?” Harry demanded, while Fang danced around them all, trying to lick
their faces.
“Told yeh, nuthin’,” said Hagrid firmly. “Want a cuppa?”
“Come off it,” said Ron, “you’re in a right state!”
“I’m tellin’ yeh, I’m fine,” said Hagrid, straightening up and turning to beam at them all, but
wincing. “Blimey, it’s good ter see yeh three again - had good summers, did yeh?”
“Hagrid, you’ve been attacked!” said Ron.
“Fer the las’ time, it’s nuthin’!” said Hagrid firmly.
“Would you say it was nothing if one of us turned up with a pound of mince instead of a face?”
Ron demanded.
“You ought to go and see Madam Pomfrey, Hagrid,” said Hermione anxiously, “some of those
cuts look nasty.”
“I’m dealin’ with it, all righ’?” said Hagrid repressively.
He walked across to the enormous wooden table that stood in the middle of his cabin and
twitched aside a tea towel that had been lying on it. Underneath was a raw, bloody, green-tinged
steak slightly larger than the average car tire.
“You’re not going to eat that, are you, Hagrid?” said Ron, leaning in for a closer look. “It looks
poisonous.”
“It’s s’posed ter look like that, it’s dragon meat,” Hagrid said. “An’ I didn’ get it ter eat.”
He picked up the steak and slapped it over the left side of his face. Greenish blood trickled down
into his beard as he gave a soft moan of satisfaction.
“Tha’s better. It helps with the stingin’, yeh know.”
“So, are you going to tell us what’s happened to you?” Harry asked.
“Can’t, Harry. Top secret. More’n me job’s worth ter tell yeh that.”
“Did the giants beat you up, Hagrid?” asked Hermione quietly.
Hagrid’s fingers slipped on the dragon steak and it slid squelchily on to his chest.
“Giants?” said Hagrid, catching the steak before it reached his belt and slapping it back over his
face, “who said anythin’ abou’ giants? Who yeh bin talkin’ to? Who’s told yeh what I’ve - who’s
said I’ve bin - eh?”
“We guessed,” said Hermione apologetically.
“Oh, yeh did, did yeh?” said Hagrid, surveying her sternly with the eye that was not hidden by
the steak.
“It was kind of… obvious,” said Ron. Harry nodded.
Hagrid glared at them, then snorted, threw the steak back on to the table and strode over to the
kettle, which was now whistling.
“Never known kids like you three fer knowin’ more’n yeh oughta,” he muttered, splashing
boiling water into three of his bucket-shaped mugs. “An’ I’m not complimentin’ yeh, neither.
Nosy, some’d call it. Interferin’.”
But his beard twitched.
“So you have been to look for giants?” said Harry, grinning as he sat down at the table.
Hagrid set tea in front of each of them, sat down, picked up his steak again and slapped it back
over his face.
“Yeah, all righ’,” he grunted, “I have.”
“And you found them?” said Hermione in a hushed voice.
“Well, they’re not that difficult ter find, ter be honest,” said Hagrid. “Pretty big, see.”
“Where are they?” said Ron.
“Mountains,” said Hagrid unhelpfully.
“So why don’t Muggles -?”
“They do,” said Hagrid darkly. “On’y their deaths are always put down ter mountaineerin’
accidents, aren’ they?”
He adjusted the steak a little so that it covered the worst of the bruising.
“Come on, Hagrid, tell us what you’ve been up to!” said Ron. “Tell us about being attacked by the giants and Harry can tell you about being attacked by the Dementors -”
Hagrid choked in his mug and dropped his steak at the same time; a large quantity of spit, tea and
dragon blood was sprayed over the table as Hagrid coughed and spluttered and the steak slid,
with a soft splat, on to the floor.
“Whadda yeh mean, attacked by Dementors?” growled Hagrid.
“Didn’t you know?” Hermione asked him, wide-eyed.
“I don’ know anythin’ that’s bin happenin’ since I left. I was on a secret mission, wasn’ I, didn’
wan’ owls followin’ me all over the place - ruddy Dementors! Yeh’re not serious?”
“Yeah, I am, they turned up in Little Whinging and attacked my cousin and me, and then the
Ministry of Magic expelled me -”
“WHAT?”
“- and I had to go to a hearing and everything, but tell us about the giants first.”
“You were expelled!”
“Tell us about your summer and I’ll tell you about mine.”
Hagrid glared at him through his one open eye. Harry looked right back, an expression of
innocent determination on his face.
“Oh, all righ’,” Hagrid said in a resigned voice.
He bent down and tugged the dragon steak out of Fang’s mouth.
“Oh, Hagrid, don’t, it’s not hygien—” Hermione began, but Hagrid had already slapped the meat
back over his swollen eye.
He took another fortifying gulp of tea, then said, “Well, we set off righ’ after term ended -”
“Madame Maxime went with you, then?” Hermione interjected.
“Yeah, tha’s righ’,” said Hagrid, and a softened expression appeared on the few inches of face
that were not obscured by beard or green steak. “Yeah, it was jus’ the pair of us. An’ I’ll tell yeh
this, she’s not afraid of roughin’ it, Olympe. Yeh know, she’s a fine, well-dressed woman, an’
knowin’ where we was goin’ I wondered ‘ow she’d feel abou’ clamberin’ over boulders an’
sleepin’ in caves an’ tha’, bu’ she never complained once.”
“You knew where you were going?” Harry repeated. “You knew where the giants were?”
“Well, Dumbledore knew, an’ he told us,” said Hagrid.
“Are they hidden?” asked Ron. “Is it a secret, where they are?”
“Not really” said Hagrid, shaking his shaggy head. “It’s jus’ that mos’ wizards aren’ bothered
where they are,’s long as it’s a good long way away. But where they are’s very difficult ter get
ter, fer humans anyway, so we needed Dumbledore’s instructions. Took us abou’ a month ter get
there -”
“A month?” said Ron, as though he had never heard o f a journey lasting such a ridiculously long
time. “But - why couldn’t you just grab a Portkey or something?”
There was an odd expression in Hagrid’s unobscured eye as he surveyed Ron; it was almost
pitying.
“We’re bein’ watched, Ron,” he said gruffly.
“What d’you mean?”
“Yeh don’ understand,” said Hagrid. “The Ministry’s keepin’ an eye on Dumbledore an’ anyone
they reckon’s in league with ‘im, an’ -”
“We know about that,” said Harry quickly keen to hear the rest of Hagrid’s story, “we know
about the Ministry watching Dumbledore -”
“So you couldn’t use magic to get there?” asked Ron, looking thunderstruck, “you had to act like
Muggles all the way?”
“Well, not exactly all the way” said Hagrid cagily. “We jus’ had ter be careful, ‘cause Olympe an’ me, we stick out a bit —”
Ron made a stifled noise somewhere between a snort and a sniff and hastily took a gulp of tea.
“- so we’re not hard ter follow. We was pretendin’ we was goin’ on holiday together, so we got
inter France an’ we made like we was headin’ fer where Olympes school is, ‘cause we knew we
was bein’ tailed by someone from the Ministry. We had to go slow, ‘cause I’m not really s’posed
ter use magic an’ we knew the Ministry’d be lookin’ fer a reason ter run us in. But we managed
ter give the berk tailin’ us the slip round abou’ Dee-John —”
“Ooooh, Dijon?” said Hermione excitedly. “I’ve been there on holiday, did you see -?”
She fell silent at the look on Ron’s face.
“We chanced a bit o’ magic after that an’ it wasn’ a bad journey. Ran inter a couple o’ mad trolls
on the Polish border an’ I had a sligh’ disagreement with a vampire in a pub in Minsk, bu’ apart
from tha’ couldn’t’a bin smoother.
“An’ then we reached the place, an’ we started trekkin’ up through the mountains, lookin’ fer
signs of ‘em…
“We had ter lay off the magic once we got near ‘em. Partly ‘cause they don’ like wizards an’ we
didn’ want ter put their backs up too soon, an’ partly ‘cause Dumbledore had warned us You-
Know-Who was bound ter be after the giants an’ all. Said it was odds on he’d sent a messenger
off ter them already. Told us ter be very careful of drawin’ attention ter ourselves as we got
nearer in case there was Death Eaters around.”
Hagrid paused for a long draught of tea.
“Go on!” said Harry urgently.
“Found ‘em,” said Hagrid baldly. “Went over a ridge one nigh’ an’ there they was, spread ou’
underneath us. Little fires burnin’ below an’ huge shadows… it was like watchin’ bits o’ the
mountain movin’.”
“How big are they?” asked Ron in a hushed voice.
“Bout twenty feet,” said Hagrid casually. “Some o’ the bigger ones mighta bin twenty-five.”
“And how many were there?” asked Harry.
“I reckon abou’ seventy or eighty,” said Hagrid.
“Is that all?” said Hermione.
“Yep,” said Hagrid sadly, “eighty left, an’ there was loads once, musta bin a hundred diff’rent
tribes from all over the world. Bu’ they’ve bin dyin’ out fer ages. Wizards killed a few, o’
course, bu’ mostly they killed each other, an’ now they’re dyin’ out faster than ever. They’re not
made ter live bunched up together like tha’. Dumbledore says it’s our fault, it was the wizards
who forced ‘em to go an’ made ‘em live a good long way from us an’ they had no choice bu’ ter
stick together fer their own protection.”
“So,” said Harry, “you saw them and then what?”
“Well, we waited till morning, didn’ want ter go sneakin’ up on ‘em in the dark, fer our own
safety,” said Hagrid. “Bout three in the mornin’ they fell asleep jus’ where they was sittin’. We
didn’ dare sleep. Fer one thing, we wanted ter make sure none of ‘em woke up an’ came up
where we were, an’ fer another, the snorin’ was unbelievable. Caused an avalanche near
mornin’.
“Anyway, once it was light we wen’ down ter see ‘em.”
“Just like that?” said Ron, looking awestruck. “You just walked right into a giant camp?”
“Well, Dumbledore’d told us how ter do it,” said Hagrid. “Give the Gurg gifts, show some
respect, yeh know.”
“Give the what gifts?” asked Harry.
“Oh, the Gurg - means the chief.”
“How could you tell which one was the Gurg?” asked Ron.
Hagrid grunted in amusement.
“No problem,” he said. “He was the biggest, the ugliest an’ the laziest. Sittin’ there waitin’ ter be
brought food by the others. Dead goats an’ such like. Name o’ Karkus. I’d put him at twenty-two, twenty-three feet an’ the weight o’ a couple o’ bull elephants. Skin like rhino hide an’ all.”
“And you just walked up to him?” said Hermione breathlessly.
“Well… down ter him, where he was lyin’ in the valley. They was in this dip between four pretty
high mountains, see, beside a mountain lake, an’ Karkus was lyin’ by the lake roarin’ at the
others ter feed him an’ his wife. Olympe an’ I went down the mountainside -”
“But didn’t they try and kill you when they saw you?” asked Ron incredulously.
“It was def’nitely on some o’ their minds,” said Ha grid, shrugging, “but we did what Dumbledore told us ter do, which was ter hold our gift up high an’ keep our eyes on the Gurg an’ ignore the others. So tha’s what we did. An’ the rest of ‘em went quiet an’ watched us pass an’ we got right up ter Karkus’s feet an’ we bowed an’ put our present down in front o’ him.”
“What do you give a giant?” asked Ron eagerly. “Food?”
“Nah, he can get food all righ’ fer himself,” said Hagrid. “We took him magic. Giants like magic, jus’ don’ like us usin’ it against ‘em. Anyway, that firs’ day we gave ‘im a branch o’ Gubraithian fire.”
Hermione said, “Wow!” softly, but Harry and Ron both frowned in puzzlement.
“A branch of -?”
“Everlasting fire,” said Hermione irritably, “you ought to know that by now. Professor Flitwick’s
mentioned it at least twice in class!”
“Well, anyway,” said Hagrid quickly, intervening before Ron could answer back, “Dumbledore’d bewitched this branch to burn fer evermore, which isn’ somethin’ any wizard could do, an’ so I lies it down in the snow by Karkus’s feet and says, ‘A gift to the Gurg of the giants from Albus Dumbledore, who sends his respectful greetings.’”
“And what did Karkus say?” asked Harry eagerly.
“Nothin’,” said Hagrid. “Didn’ speak English.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Didn’ matter,” said Hagrid imperturbably, “Dumbledore had warned us tha’ migh’ happen.
Karkus knew enough to yell fer a couple o’ giants who knew our lingo an’ they translated fer us.”
“And did he like the present?” asked Ron.
“Oh yeah, it went down a storm once they understood what it was,” said Hagrid, turning his
dragon steak over to press the cooler side to his swollen eye. “Very pleased. So then I said,
Dumbledore asks the Gurg to speak with his messenger when he returns tomorrow with another
gift.”
“Why couldn’t you speak to them that day?” asked Hermione.
“Dumbledore wanted us ter take it very slow,” said Hagrid. “Let ‘em see we kept our
promises. We’ll come back tomorrow with another present, an’ then we do come back with
another present - gives a good impression, see? An’ gives them time ter test out the firs’ present
an’ find out it’s a good one, an’ get ‘em eager fer more. In any case, giants like Karkus -
overload ‘em with information an’ they’ll kill yeh jus’ to simplify things. So we bowed outta the
way an’ went off an’ found ourselves a nice little cave ter spend that night in an’ the followin’
mornin’ we went back an’ this time we found Karkus sittin’ up waitin’ fer us lookin’ all eager.”
“And you talked to him?”
“Oh yeah. Firs’ we presented him with a nice battle helmet -goblin-made an’ indestructible, yeh
know - an’ then we sat down an’ we talked.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much,” said Hagrid. “Listened mostly. Bu’ there were good signs. He’d heard o’
Dumbledore, heard he’d argued against the killin’ o’ the last giants in Britain. Karkus seemed ter
be quite int’rested in what Dumbledore had ter say. An’ a few o’ the others, ‘specially the ones
who had some English, they gathered round an’ listened too. We were hopeful when we left that
day. Promised ter come back next mornin’ with another present…
“Bu’ that night it all wen’ wrong.”
“What d’you mean?” said Ron quickly.
“Well, like I say, they’re not meant ter live together, giants,” said Hagrid sadly. “Not in big
groups like that. They can’ help themselves, they half kill each other every few weeks. The men
fight each other an’ the women fight each other; the remnants of the old tribes fight each other,
an’ that’s even without squabbles over food an’ the best fires an’ sleepin’ spots. Yeh’d think,
seein’ as how their whole race is abou’ finished, they’d lay off each other, bu’…”
Hagrid sighed deeply.
“That night a fight broke out, we saw it from the mouth of our cave, lookin’ down on the valley.
Went on fer hours, yeh wouldn’ believe the noise. An’ when the sun came up the snow was
scarlet an’ his head was lyin’ at the bottom o’ the lake.”
“Whose head?” gasped Hermione.
“Karkus’s,” said Hagrid heavily. “There was a new Gurg, Golgomath.” He sighed deeply.
“Well, we hadn’ bargained on a new Gurg two days after we’d made friendly contact with the firs’ one, an’ we had a funny feelin’ Golgomath wouldn’ be so keen ter listen to us, bu’ we had ter try.”
“You went to speak to him?” asked Ron incredulously. “After you’d watched him rip off another
giant’s head?”
“Course we did,” said Hagrid, “we hadn’ gone all that way ter give up after two days! We wen’
down with the next present we’d meant ter give ter Karkus.
“I knew it was no go before I’d opened me mouth. He was sitting there wearin’ Karkus’s helmet,
leerin’ at us as we got nearer. He’s massive, one o’ the biggest ones there. Black hair an’
matchin’ teeth an’ a necklace o’ bones. Human-lookin’ bones, some of ‘em. Well, I gave it a go -
held out a great roll o’ dragon skin - an’ said, ‘gift fer the Gurg of the giants —’ Nex’ thing I
knew, I was hangin’ upside-down in the air by me feet, two of his mates had grabbed me.”
Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth.
“How did you get out of that?” asked Harry.
“Wouldn’ta done if Olympe hadn’ bin there,” said Hagrid. “She pulled out her wand an’ did some o’ the fastes’ spellwork I’ve ever seen. Ruddy marvellous. Hit the two holdin’ me right in the eyes with Conjunctivitus Curses an’ they dropped me straightaway - bu’ we were in trouble then, ‘cause we’d used magic against ‘em, an’ that’s what giants hate abou’ wizards. We had ter leg it an’ we knew there was no way we was going ter be able ter march inter the camp again.”
“Blimey, Hagrid,” said Ron quietly.
“So, how come it’s taken you so long to get home if you were only there for three days?” asked
Hermione.
“We didn’ leave after three days!” said Hagrid, looking outraged. “Dumbledore was relyin’ on
us!”
“But you’ve just said there was no way you could go back!”
“Not by daylight we couldn’, no. We just had ter rethink a bit. Spent a couple o’ days lyin’ low
up in the cave an’ watchin’. An’ wha’ we saw wasn’ good.”
“Did he rip off more heads?” asked Hermione, sounding squeamish.
“No,” said Hagrid, “I wish he had.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean we soon found out he didn’ object ter all wizards - just us.”
“Death Eaters?” said Harry quickly.
“Yep,” said Hagrid darkly. “Couple of ‘em were visitin’ him ev’ry day, bringin’ gifts ter the
Gurg, an’ he wasn’ dangling them upside-down.”
“How d’you know they were Death Eaters?” said Ron.
“Because I recognized one of ‘em,” Hagrid growled. “Macnair, remember him? Bloke they sent
ter kill Buckbeak? Maniac, he is. Likes killin’ as much as Golgomath; no wonder they were
gettin’ on so well.”
“So Macnairs persuaded the giants to join You-Know-Who?” said Hermione desperately.
“Hold yer Hippogriffs, I haven’ finished me story yet!” said Hagrid indignantly, who, considering he had not wanted to tell them anything in the first place, now seemed to be rather enjoying himself. “Me an’ Olympe talked it over an’ we agreed, jus’ ‘cause the Gurg looked like favorin’ You-Know-Who didn’ mean all of ‘em would. We had ter try an’ persuade some o’ the others, the ones who hadn’ wanted Golgomath as Gurg.”
“How could you tell which ones they were?” asked Ron.
“Well, they were the ones bein’ beaten to a pulp, weren’ they?” said Hagrid patiently. “The ones
with any sense were keepin’ outta Golgomath’s way, hidin’ out in caves roun’ the gully jus’ like
we were. So we decided we’d go pokin’ round the caves by night an’ see if we couldn’ persuade
a few o’ them.”
“You went poking around dark caves looking for giants?” said Ron, with awed respect in his
voice.
“Well, it wasn’ the giants who worried us most,” said Hagrid. “We were more concerned abou’
the Death Eaters. Dumbledore had told us before we wen’ not ter tangle with ‘em if we could
avoid it, an’ the trouble was they knew we was around — ‘spect Golgomath told ‘em abou’ us.
At night, when the giants were sleepin’ an’ we wanted ter be creepin’ inter the caves, Macnair
an’ the other one were sneakin’ round the mountains lookin’ fer us. I was hard put to stop
Olympe jumpin’ out at ‘em,” said Hagrid, the corners of his mouth lifting his wild beard, “she
was rarin’ ter attack ‘em… she’s somethin’ when she’s roused, Olympe… fiery, yeh know…
‘spect it’s the French in her…”
Hagrid gazed misty-eyed into the fire. Harry allowed him thirty seconds of reminiscence before
clearing his throat loudly.
“So, what happened? Did you ever get near any of the other giants?”
“What? Oh… oh, yeah, we did. Yeah, on the third night after Karkus was killed we crept outta
the cave we’d bin hidin’ in an’ headed back down inter the gully, keepin’ our eyes skinned fer
the Death Eaters. Got inside a few o’ the caves, no go - then, in abou’ the sixth one, we found
three giants hidin’.”
“Cave must’ve been cramped,” said Ron.
“Wasn’ room ter swing a Kneazle,” said Hagrid.
“Didn’t they attack you when they saw you?” asked Hermione.
“Probably woulda done if they’d bin in any condition,” said Hagrid, “but they was badly hurt, all
three o’ them; Golgomath’s lot had beaten ‘em unconscious; they’d woken up an’ crawled inter
the nearest shelter they could find. Anyway, one o’ them had a bit of English an’ ‘e translated fer
the others, an’ what we had ter say didn’ seem ter go down too badly. So we kep’ goin’ back,
visitin’ the wounded… I reckon we had abou’ six or seven o’ them convinced at one poin’.”
“Six or seven?” said Ron eagerly. “Well that’s not bad - are they going to come over here and
start fighting You-Know-Who with us?”
But Hermione said, “What do you mean ‘one point’, Hagrid?”
Hagrid looked at her sadly.
“Golgomath’s lot raided the caves. The ones tha’ survived didn’ wan’ no more ter to do with us
after that.”
“So… so there aren’t any giants coming?” said Ron, looking disappointed.
“Nope,” said Hagrid, heaving a deep sigh as he turned over his steak and applied the cooler side
to his face, “but we did wha’ we meant ter do, we g ave ‘em Dumbledore’s message an’ some o’
them heard it an’ I spect some o’ them’ll remember it. Jus’ maybe, them that don’ want ter stay
around Golgomath’ll move outta the mountains, an’ there’s gotta be a chance they’ll remember
Dumbledore’s friendly to ‘em… could be they’ll come.”
Snow was filling up the window now. Harry became aware that the knees of his robes were
soaked through: Fang was drooling with his head in Harry’s lap.
“Hagrid?” said Hermione quietly after a while.
“Mmm?”
“Did you… was there any sign of… did you hear anything about your… your… mother while
you were there?”
Hagrid’s unobscured eye rested upon her and Hermione looked rather scared.
“I’m sorry… I… forget it -”
“Dead,” Hagrid grunted. “Died years ago. They told me.”
“Oh… I’m… I’m really sorry” said Hermione in a very small voice. Hagrid shrugged his massive shoulders.
“No need,” he said shortly. “Can’t remember her much. Wasn’ a great mother.”
They were silent again. Hermione glanced nervously at Harry and Ron, plainly wanting them to
speak.
“But you still haven’t explained how you got in this state, Hagrid,” Ron said, gesturing towards
Hagrid’s bloodstained face.
“Or why you’re back so late,” said Harry. “Sirius says Madame Maxime got back ages ago -”
“Who attacked you?” said Ron.
“I haven’ bin attacked!” said Hagrid emphatically. “I -”
But the rest of his words were drowned in a sudden outbreak of rapping on the door. Hermione
gasped; her mug slipped through her fingers and smashed on the floor; Fang yelped. All four of
them stared at the window beside the doorway. The shadow of somebody small and squat rippled
across the thin curtain.
“It’s her!” Ron whispered.
“Get under here!” Harry said quickly; seizing the Invisibility Cloak, he whirled it over himself
and Hermione while Ron tore around the table and dived under the Cloak as well. Huddled
together, they backed away into a corner. Fang was barking madly at the door. Hagrid looked
thoroughly confused.
“Hagrid, hide our mugs!”
Hagrid seized Harry and Ron’s mugs and shoved them under the cushion in Fang’s basket. Fang
was now leaping up at the door; Hagrid pushed him out of the way with his foot and pulled it
open.
Professor Umbridge was standing in the doorway wearing her green tweed cloak and a matching
hat with earflaps. Lips pursed, she leaned back so as to see Hagrid’s face; she barely reached his
navel.
“So,” she said slowly and loudly, as though speaking to somebody deaf. “You’re Hagrid, are
you?”
Without waiting for an answer she strolled into the room, her bulging eyes rolling in every
direction.
“Get away,” she snapped, waving her handbag at Fang, who had bounded up to her and was
attempting to lick her face.
“Er - I don’ want ter be rude,” said Hagrid, staring at her, “but who the ruddy hell are you?”
“My name is Dolores Umbridge.”
Her eyes were sweeping the cabin. Twice they stared directly into the corner where Harry stood,
sandwiched between Ron and Hermione.
“Dolores Umbridge?” Hagrid said, sounding thoroughly confused. “I thought you were one o’
them Ministry - don’ you work with Fudge?”
“I was Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, yes,” said Umbridge, now pacing around the cabin,
taking in every tiny detail within, from the haversack against the wall to the abandoned traveling
cloak. “I am now the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher -”
“Tha’s brave of yeh,” said Hagrid, “there’s not many’d take tha’ job any more.”
“- and Hogwarts High Inquisitor,” said Umbridge, giving no sign that she had heard him.
“Wha’s that?” said Hagrid, frowning.
