Dark child

28

The storm had blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall was still gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter gray swirled overhead as Draco and Elara examined their new course schedules at breakfast.
"Today's terrible... outside all morning," moaned Draco, who was running his finger down the Monday column of his schedule. "Herbology with the Ravenclaws and bloody Care of Magical Creatures with the Gryffindors."

"And double Divination this afternoon," Elara groaned, looking down. Divination was her least favorite subject. She wanted to give it up at the end of last year and take Arithmancy instead, but Severus suggested her to take all subjects presented at the school. Of course, she wasn't able to fit all of them in her schedule, so she took as many as she can and for the ones she can't fit in her time table, which are Muggle Studies, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, she would attend the exams only. Surely she could have used a time turner to be able to attend all of her classes, but she didn't like that kind of rush and exhaustion; besides, she was sure the ministry of magic wouldn't let Voldemort's daughter use a time turner.

There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows carrying the morning mail. An eagle owl landed on Draco's shoulder, carrying his usual supply of sweets and cakes from home. Elara looked up and didn't find Hazelnut among the arrived owls. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment in her stomach, Elara returned to her porridge. Was it possible that something had happened to her owl, and that Sirius hadn't even got her letter?

Her preoccupation lasted all the way across the sodden vegetable patch until they arrived in greenhouse three, but here she was distracted by Professor Sprout showing the class the ugliest plants Elara had ever seen. Indeed, they looked less like plants than thick, black, giant slugs, protruding vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly and had a number of large, shiny swellings upon it, which appeared to be full of liquid.

"Bubotubers," Professor Sprout told them briskly. "They need squeezing. You will collect the pus —"
"The what?" said Blaze Zabini, sounding revolted.
"Pus, Zabini, pus," said Professor Sprout, "and it's extremely valuable, so don't waste it. You will collect the pus, I say, in these bottles. Wear your dragon-hide gloves; it can do funny things to the skin when undiluted, bubotuber pus."

Squeezing the bubotubers was disgusting, but oddly satisfying. As each swelling was popped, a large amount of thick yellowishgreen liquid burst forth, which smelled strongly of petrol. They caught it in the bottles as Professor Sprout had indicated, and by the end of the lesson had collected several pints.

"This'll keep Madam Pomfrey happy," said Professor Sprout, stoppering the last bottle with a cork. "An excellent remedy for the more stubborn forms of acne, bubotuber pus. Should stop students resorting to desperate measures to rid themselves of pimples."

A booming bell echoed from the castle across the wet grounds, signaling the end of the lesson, and the class separated; the Ravenclaws climbing the stone steps for Transfiguration, and the Slytherins heading in the other direction, down the sloping lawn toward Hagrid's small wooden cabin, which stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Hagrid was standing outside his hut, one hand on the collar of his enormous black boarhound, Fang. There were several open wooden crates on the ground at his feet, and Fang was whimpering and straining at his collar, apparently keen to investigate the contents more closely. As they drew nearer, an odd rattling noise reached their ears, punctuated by what sounded like minor explosions.

"Mornin'!" Hagrid said, grinning at Them. "Be'er wait fer the Gryffindors, they won' want ter miss this — Blast-Ended Skrewts!"
"Come again?" said Elara.
Hagrid pointed down into the crates.
"Eurgh!" squealed Pansy Parkinson, jumping backward.