Dumbledore's half-blood grand-daughter: Year One

Chapter Twelve: Good Old Nick

I was happy to say that my grandfather 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. He started having nightmares. Over and over again he dreamed about his parents disappearing in a flash of green light, while a high voice cackled with laughter. "You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad," said Ron, when Harry told him about these dreams. I told him it was probably a memory since the killing curse gives off a green light.

Hermione took 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 he hadn't at least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.

We had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a library book, even though Harry was still sure he'd read the name somewhere. We could not find it in the Winx library, but then again we hadn’t come close to searching the whole thing.

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, I was not picking nay sides, but Harry was 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 the 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 the team landed next to George to complain, too, but I stayed silent knowing exactly why he wanted to ref. "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."

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 and I sat down next to him, "I need to concen --" He caught sight of Harry's face. "What's the matter with you. You look terrible." Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, Harry 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. "Pretend to break your leg," Hermione suggested. "Really break your leg," said Ron. "I can't," said Harry. "There isn't a reserve Seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can't play at all." “I will ask my grandfather to come.” “Oh that’s a great idea. Harry, Snape won’t risk curing you when Dumbledore is there.”

At that moment Neville toppled into the common room. How he had managed to climb through the portrait hole was anyone's guess, because his legs had been stuck together with what we recognized at once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor tower.

Everyone fell over laughing except Hermione, who leapt up and performed the countercurse. Neville's legs sprang apart and he got to his feet, trembling. "What happened." Hermione asked him, leading him over to sit with Harry, Ron, and I. "Malfoy," said Neville shakily. "I met him outside the library. He said he'd been looking for someone to practice that on." "Go to Professor McGonagall!" Hermione urged Neville. "Report him!" Neville shook his head.