Love at First Sight (Harry Potter)

Mad-Eye Moody

|ALEXANDRIA WEASLEY'S P.O.V|

The storm had died out by the morning. However, the grounds outside of the window still looked dreary, grey, and wet and the Great Hall ceiling was still gloomy. Heavy clouds swirled over our heads as Harry, Ron, Hermione and I examined 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. I had been glaring over at Fred and George, my own course schedule forgotten on the table beside my bowl of porridge. "Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and Care of Magical Creatures . . . damn it, we're still with the Slytherins. . . ."

"Double Divination this afternoon," Harry groaned, causing for me to finally look away from the twins.

"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."

"You're eating again, I notice," said Ron in a bored tone, watching Hermione add liberal amounts of jam to her toast.

"I've decided there are better ways of making a stand about elf rights," said Hermione haughtily, her held held high.

"Yeah . . . and you were hungry," said Ron, grinning. She merely glanced at him, chomping down onto the slice of toast.

There was a sudden rustling noise above us. A hundred owls came soaring through the open windows and enchanted grey clouds, carrying the morning mail. They circled the tables, looking for the people to whom their letters and packages were addressed.

A large tawny owl soared down to Neville 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 sweets and cakes. Others around us received their mail as Harry suddenly let out a deep, horrible sigh.

He returned to his own porridge, sifting through it with his spoon.

He was disappointed to have not yet received a reply from Sirius, his godfather.

I remember frowning at the sight of him.

His preoccupation lasted all the way across the sodden vegetable patch until we had arrived in greenhouse three, but here he was distracted by Professor Sprout showing our class the ugliest plants that we had ever seen. They resembled 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 us with a clap of her hands. "They need squeezing. You will collect the pus —"

"The what?" said Seamus loudly, sounding as revolted as I felt.

"Pus, Finnigan, pus," said Professor Sprout with disappointment, "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 disgusting. We caught it in glass bottles as Professor Sprout had indicated, and by the end of the lesson had collected several pints.