A Potter Secret

Slugs

"Papa," Isabella calls. "I'll be back soon, alright? I'm just going to the library to help Hermione. We're meeting in the courtyard, then heading over."

"Be back by dinner," Severus instructs. "I'll be in the Great Hall, meet me there, alright?" Isabella nods, transforming and running off.

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The Gryffindor Quidditch team, Harry, Fred, George, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, and Angelina Johnson, trail Oliver Wood through the courtyard, toward the distant Quidditch pitch. Several students are outside, studying. "I spent the summer devising a whole new Quidditch program. We're going to train earlier, harder, and longer!" Wood explains. "What the, I don't believe it!"

Crossing the courtyard from the other side are seven boys in green robes, also carrying broomsticks. At their lead is Marcus Flint, trollish Slytherin Captain. Ron, sitting at a table with Hermione, looks up. "Uh-oh. I smell trouble," Ron mutters.

A kitten paws at Hermione's leg and she opens her bag, setting her books and the kitten inside. "Clear out, Flint! I booked the pitch for Gryffindor today," Wood replies.

"Easy, Wood. I've got a note," Flint assures.

As Wood snatches the parchment from Flint's hand, Ron and Hermione come up to join the others. "'I, Professor Severus Snape, do hereby give the Slytherin team permission to practice today, owing to the need to train their new Seeker'," Wood reads. He looks up. "You've got a new Seeker? Who?" A pasty-faced boy pushes to the front. It's Malfoy.

"Draco?" Harry realizes.

"That's right. And that's not all that's new this year-" Draco replies. As one, the seven Slytherins hold out seven brand-new gleaming broomsticks. The Gryffindors look stunned.

"Those are Nimbus Two Thousand Ones," Ron gasps.

"A generous gift from Draco's father," Flint replies.

"That's right, Weasley. You see, unlike some, my father can afford to buy the best," Draco boasts.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent," Hermione replies.

"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," Draco spits. Everyone reacts as if Malfoy has said something horrific-- everyone save Harry, who looks puzzled. Instantly, Fred and George fly for Draco's throat. Oliver Wood holds them back.

"Save it for the match," Wood says.

"You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" Ron shouts as he whips out his wand. "Eat slugs!"

Ron points his cracked wand at Malfoy. Pfft!, a bolt of green light scissors out the wrong end, hitting Ron himself in the stomach. As he drops to the grass, Hermione runs to him. "Ron! Say something!" Hermione pleads.

Ron opens his mouth and, belches. Hermione draws back, and watches a trio of slugs dribble out his mouth. The Slytherins crow with laughter. Angrily, Ron rises, only to belch again. Fascinated, Colin Creevey runs up with his camera. "Wow! Can you hold him still, Harry?!" Colin asks.

"Get out of the way, Colin!" Harry shouts, turning to Hermione. "Let's take him to Hagrid. He'll know what to do."

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Hagrid rummages about, looking for something. "Got jus' the thing. Set 'im down on that chair o'er there," Hagrid says. As Ron sits, Hagrid pitches a bucket between his knees. Harry and Hermione glance up questioningly. Hagrid shrugs. "Better out than in. Who was he tryin' ter curse anyway?"

"Malfoy. He called Hermione, well, I don't know exactly what it means-" Harry trails off. Isabella crawls out of the bag and walks over to Hermione, holding her hand in comfort.

"He called me a Mudblood," Hermione reveals.

"He didn'!" Hagrid yelps, shocked. Harry looks confused. Hermione glances at him, then away, obviously pained by this.

"It means dirty blood. Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who was Muggle-born. Someone with non-magic parents. Someone, like me. It's not a term one usually hears in civilized conversation," Hermione replies.

"Yeh see, Harry. There are some wizards, like Malfoy's family, who think they're better than everyone else 'cause they're what people call pureblood" Hagrid says.

"That's horrible," Harry mutters.

"It's disgusting!" Ron says, belching out a slug.

"An' it's codswallop ter boot. Dirty blood. There's 'ardly a wizard today that's not half-blood or less. If we 'adn't married Muggles we'd've died out long ago. Besides, they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can't do," Hagrid reminds, taking her shoulder. "Don' you think on it, Hermione. Don' you think on it fer a minute."

"You're the top of your class!" Isabella reminds. "I don't think that someone like Malfoy, someone raised in the wizarding world, should talk like that if they aren't magically gifted like you are." Hermione smiles and hugs her.

Harry sighs. "I've got to go," Harry says, standing. "Detention with Lockhart. Isabella, want me to take you back on the way?"

Isabella nods. "I'll go with you. Just let me out when we get to dinner."

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The walls of Lockhart's office are lined with framed photographs of, Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry and Lockhart work by candlelight at an ornate desk. Bleary- eyed, Harry addresses envelopes, while a cheery Lockhart puts his signature to the stack of glossy photos bearing his image. "Harry, Harry, Harry, Can you possibly imagine a better way to serve detention than by helping me answer my fan mail?" Lockhart asks. Harry forces a smile. "Fame's a fickle friend, Harry. Celebrity is as celebrity does. Remember that."

Harry nods, glancing gloomily at the towering stack of envelopes that remain. Dipping his quill, he starts to write, when, a chilly voice fills the room. "Come, come to me-" a voice hisses.

"What?" Harry asks.

"I was saying, six solid months at the top of the bestseller list! Broke all records!" Lockhart brags.

"No, not you, that voice," Harry replies.

"Voice?" Lockhart asks.

"That, voice. Didn't you hear it?" Harry asks.

"What are you talking about, Harry? I think we're getting a bit drowsy. Great Scott, and no wonder, look at the time! We've been here nearly four hours! Dinner's nearly done! If you hurry you might make pudding. Spooky how the time flies when one's having fun!"

"Spooky."

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