𝐋𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐑𝐞𝐝 {𝐇. 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫}

38

In no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had become most people's favorite class. Only Draco and his gang of Slytherins had anything bad to say about Professor Lupin.

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

But no one else cared that Professor Lupin's robes were patched and frayed. His next few lessons were just as interesting as the first. After Boggarts, they studied Red Caps, nasty little goblin-like creatures that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed: in the dungeons of castles and the potholes of deserted battlefields, waiting to bludgeon those who had gotten lost. From Red Caps they moved on to Kappas, creepy. water-dwellers that looked like scaly monkeys, with webbed hands itching to strangle unwitting waders in their ponds.

Johnny dreaded the hours he spent in Professor Trelawney's stifling tower room, deciphering lopsided shapes and symbols, trying to ignore the way Professor Trelawney's enormous eyes filled with tears every time she looked at Harry. He couldn't like Professor Trelawney, even though she was treated with respect bordering on reverence by many of the class. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown had taken to haunting Professor Trelawney's tower room at lunch times, and always returned with annoyingly superior looks on their faces, as though they knew things the others didn't. They had also started using hushed voices whenever they spoke to Harry, as though he were on his deathbed.

Nobody really seemed to like Care of Magical Creatures, which, after the action-packed first class, had become extremely dull. Hagrid seemed to have lost his confidence. They were now spending lesson after lesson learning how to look after flobberworms, which had to be some of the most boring creatures in existence. Johnny was still incredibly fond of it though.

"Why would anyone bother looking after them?" said Ron, after yet another hour of poking shredded lettuce down the flobberworms' throats.

At the start of October, however, Harry and Johnny had something else to occupy thrm, something so enjoyable it more than made up for theunsatisfactory classes. The Quidditch season was approaching, and Marcus Flint called a meeting on Thursday evening to discuss tactics for the new season.

Flint was a burly seventeen-year-old, now in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts. There was a quiet sort of desperation in his voice as he addressed his six fellow team members in the chilly locker rooms on the edge of the darkening Quidditch field.

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

"Slytherin has won it for seven years now. Okay, so we've had the worst luck in the world -- injuries -- then the tournament getting called off last year." Flint swallowed. "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."

Flint pointed at Johnny, Graham Montague, and himself.

"We've got two unbeatable Beaters."

"Stop it, Marcus, you're embarrassing us," said Gregory and Roderick Blackwood together, pretending to blush.

"And we've got a Seeker who has his moments!" Flint rumbled, glaring at Draco.

"The point is," went on, resuming his pacing, "the Quidditch Cup should have had our name on it again..."

"Marcus, this year's our year, again," said Johnny.

"We'll do it, Marcus!" said Graham.

"Definitely," said Draco.