Clara Black. Harry Potter's Cousin

Chapter 11

The rest of the holidays were miserable. Mr. Davis was in some sort of depression, and not even Vil could get him to do anything. It was like he shut down the minute his wife died. 

Vil ignored my attempts to cheer her up and snapped at anyone who said, "I'm sorry about your mom."

"You don't have a damn fucking clue what this feels like!" She'd yell. "It's like fucking hell! It hurts! I want do be dead  if ends the pain caused by that goddamn disease!" Then she'd start crying. 

The funeral only made it worse. 

I came back to Hogwarts the day before term started, miserable. 

Harry had an interesting break. He spent three nights  in a row wandering around the school, something that Hermione greatly disproved of ("If Filch had caught you!"), but both of us were disappointed that he hadn't found out who Nicolas Flamel was.

I told them about Vil and none of them had any idea what to do. Hermione said, "I think she just needs time."

"Doesn't mean I'm going to stop worrying about her!" I snapped. Then I sighed. "I'm sorry, Hermione, I'm just stressed out."

"It's quite all right, Clara." 

We've pretty much given up hope of finding Flamel in a book, but Harry was still certain he'd read the name somewhere. Once term started, we went back to skimming books for ten minutes during breaks. Harry had even less time than us because of Quidditch practices. If they won the next match, against Hufflepuff, the Gryffindor team would overtake Slytherin in the House Championship for the first time in seven years.

One evening while Harry was at practice, I was watching Ron and Hermione play chess. Chess is the only thing Hermione ever loses at, something very good for her. 

"Don't talk for a moment," Ron said, when Harry, who'd just entered the room, sat down next to him. "I need to concen-" Ron cut off when he noticed Harry's expression.

"What's the matter, Harry?" I asked, beating Ron to it. "You look like hell."

Speaking quietly so nobody else would hear, Harry told us about Snape's sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee. 

"Don't play," Hermione said at once. 

"Play," I told him.

"Say you're ill," said Ron.

"Pretend to break your leg," Hermione suggests.

"Tough up and bear it," I tell him

"Really break your leg," Ron says.

"I can't," said Harry. "There isn't a reserve seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can't play at all."

"All the more reason to take my advice; play! Tough up and play! Don't let it bother you!" I said, standing. "Don't be scared! Prove he can't scare you! Fight back!"

Just then Neville toppled into the Common Room. What the mystery is how he managed to climb through the portrait hole, because his legs were stuck together with the Leg-Locker curse. He would've had to bunny hop all the way to Gryffindor Tower. Respect.

Everyone fell over laughing except Hermione and I. Being faster than Hermione, I cast the counter curse on Neville.

I couldn't help but chuckle for a second as Neville's legs sprang apart. I held out my hand to help him up. Neville took it.

I pulled him over to the table where, Ron, Hermione, and Harry were at. 

"Who did it to you?" I asked.