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 I joined Harry, Ron, and Hermione, examining our new course schedules at breakfast.
A few seats along, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were discussing magical methods of aging themselves and bluffing their way into the Triwizard Tournament.
"Today's not bad . . . outside all morning," said Ron, who was running his finger down the Monday column of his schedule. "Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures"
"Double Divination this afternoon," Harry groaned, looking down.
"You should have given it up like me, shouldn't you?" said Hermione briskly, buttering herself some toast. "Then you'd be doing something sensible like Arithmancy."
"Yeah looking at numbers what could be more fun than that." I sneered at her.
There was a sudden rustling noise above us, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows carrying the morning mail.
A large tawny owl soared down to Neville Longbottom and deposited a parcel into his lap — Neville almost always forgot to pack something. On the other side of the Hall Draco Malfoy's eagle owl had landed on his shoulder, carrying what looked like his usual supply of sweets and cakes from home.
Next to me Harry was looking particularly disappointed, and he continued to look like this while we made our way down to the greenhouses, where we was finally pulled out of his thoughts as Sprout showed the class the ugliest plants I 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," Sprout told us briskly. "They need squeezing. You will collect the pus —"
"The what?" said Seamus Finnigan, sounding revolted.
"Pus, Finnigan, pus," said 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 yellowish-green liquid burst forth, which smelled strongly of petrol.
We caught it in the bottles as Sprout had indicated, and by the end of the lesson had collected several pints.
"This'll keep Madam Pomfrey happy," said 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."
"Like poor Eloise Midgen," said Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff, in a hushed voice. "She tried to curse hers off."
"Silly girl," said Sprout, shaking her head. "But Madam Pomfrey fixed her nose back on in the end."
A booming bell echoed from the castle across the wet grounds, signaling the end of the lesson, and the class separated; I followed Harry, Ron, and Hermione 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 con- tents more closely. As we drew nearer, an odd rattling noise reached their ears, punctuated by what sounded like minor explosions.
YOU ARE READING
The Weasley of Slytherin: The Goblet of Fire
Fanfiction(Y/n) Weasley, starting to feel disconnected from his family, is staring his fourth year at Hogwarts, and with that brings new adventures, new threats, and new feelings.
