THE WITCHING HOUR ➸ h. potter

12 - victories

Dumbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking for the Mirror of Erised again, and for the rest of the Christmas holidays the invisibility cloak stayed folded at the bottom of his trunk. I was definitely relieved, but Harry didn't seem to be having an easy time letting go of what he had seen.

Every morning, he looked tired, grim - he even confessed to me that he had been having nightmares about his parents being killed ever since then, but he hasn't said exactly what had happened in the dreams. And I hadn't pushed him to.

"You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad," said Ron, when Harry finally told him about these dreams.

Hermione, who came back the day before term started, seemed to take a different view of things. She was torn between horror at the idea of Harry being out of bed, roaming the school three nights in a row - "If Filch had caught you!" and disappointment that we hadn't at least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.

I had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a library book, even though Harry still seemed sure he'd read the name somewhere. Once term had started, we were back to skimming through books for ten minutes during our breaks. Harry and I had even less time than the other two, because Quidditch practice had started again.

Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even the endless rain that had replaced the snow couldn't dampen his spirits. The Weasleys complained that Wood was becoming a fanatic, but Harry and I were on Wood's side. If we won our next match, against Hufflepuff, we would overtake Slytherin in the house championship for the first time in seven years.

Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice session, Wood gave our team a bit of bad news. He'd just gotten very angry with the Weasleys, who kept dive-bombing each other and pretending to fall off their brooms.

"Will you stop messing around!" he yelled. "That's exactly the sort of thing that'll lose us the match! Snape's refereeing this time, and he'll be looking for any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!"

George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these words.

"Snape's refereeing?" he spluttered through a mouthful of mud. "When's he ever refereed a Quidditch match? He's not going to be fair if we might overtake Slytherin."

The rest of our team landed next to George to complain, too. Harry and I looked at each other. If he really was the one who was going after the stone, why do this? Why waste time referring a match? Obviously he had some sort of strange plan.

"It's not my fault," said Wood. "We've just got to make sure we play a clean game, so Snape hasn't got an excuse to pick on us."

Which was all very well, I thought, but I had another reason for not wanting Snape near us while we were playing Quidditch. . .

The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another as usual at the end of practice, but Harry and I headed straight back to the Gryffindor common room, where we found Ron and Hermione playing chess. Chess was the only thing Hermione ever lost at, something Harry, Ron and I thought was very good for her.

"Don't talk to me for a moment," said Ron when Harry sat down next to him, "I need to concen -" He caught sight of Harry's face.

"What's the matter with you? You both look terrible."

Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, Harry and I told the other two about Snape's sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee.

"Don't play," said Hermione at once.

"Say you're ill," said Ron.

I frowned. "Both of us? no one would believe that."

"Pretend to break your leg," Hermione suggested to me.