23. The Rogue Bludger
Since the disastrous episode with the pixies, Professor Lockhart had avoided bringing live creatures to class. Instead, he read passages from his books and sometimes re-enacted dramatic moments. More often than not, he picked Harry to assist. So far, Harry had been forced to play a Transylvanian villager cured of a Babbling Curse, a yeti with a head cold, and a vampire who, thanks to Lockhart, could only eat lettuce.
During their next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, Harry found himself dragged to the front of the class once again—this time as a werewolf. If he didn't have a good reason for keeping Lockhart happy, he would have refused.
"Nice loud howl, Harry—exactly! And then, if you'll believe it, I pounced—like this—slammed him to the floor—thus! One hand holding him down, the other with my wand to his throat. I summoned all my strength and performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm. He let out a piteous moan—go on, Harry, higher than that—good! The fur vanished, the fangs shrank, and he turned back into a man. Simple, yet effective! And another village forever remembers me as the hero who saved them from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks."
The bell rang. Lockhart straightened up and beamed.
"Homework: compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical Me to the author of the best one!"
The class began filing out. Harry hurried back to where Hope, Ron, and Hermione were waiting.
"Ready?" he muttered.
"Wait till everyone's gone," Hermione whispered nervously. Once the last student had disappeared, she stepped up to Lockhart's desk, gripping a piece of parchment tightly, the others close behind.
"Professor Lockhart?" she asked, voice slightly unsteady. "I wanted to get this book from the library—for background reading." She held out the parchment. "But it's in the Restricted Section, so I need a teacher's signature. I thought it would help me understand what you wrote in Gadding with Ghouls about slow-acting venoms..."
"Ah, Gadding with Ghouls! Possibly my very favorite book," Lockhart declared, taking the note and beaming at her. "You enjoyed it?"
"Oh, yes!" Hermione gushed. "So clever, the way you trapped that last one with the tea strainer!"
"Well, well! I see no harm in giving the best student in the year a little extra help," Lockhart said warmly, pulling out an enormous peacock-feather quill. "Nice, isn't it?" He misread Ron's revolted expression. "I usually save it for book signings."
With an exaggerated flourish, he scrawled his looping signature and handed the note back.
"So, Harry," he continued as Hermione folded the parchment with trembling fingers, "tomorrow's the first Quidditch match, isn't it? Gryffindor versus Slytherin? I hear you're a decent player. I was a Seeker too. Could've gone pro, but I chose to dedicate my life to the eradication of Dark Forces. Still, if you ever need a little private coaching, don't hesitate to ask! Always happy to pass my expertise on to—less able players."
Hope rolled her eyes. Lockhart was incapable of having a conversation that wasn't about himself. As he droned on, she, Ron, and Hermione edged toward the door—Ron had to tug her arm when her gaze lingered too long on Lockhart. Harry made a strangled noise in his throat and hurried after them.
"I don't believe it," he muttered once they were safely away, examining the note. "He didn't even check what book we wanted."
"That's because he's a brainless git," Ron said. "But who cares? We got what we needed."
"He is not a brainless git!" Hermione snapped as they half-ran toward the library.
Ron smirked. "Just because he said you were the best student in the year..."
"Oh, Ron, it's not that." Hope grinned. "She just likes staring into his bright green eyes."
Hermione shoved her lightly. "They're blue."
"Ah, well. You'd know." Hope's grin widened as Ron and Harry chuckled. Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide her smile.
They lowered their voices as they stepped into the hushed stillness of the library. Madam Pince, the irritable, vulture-like librarian, narrowed her eyes at them.
"Moste Potente Potions?" she repeated suspiciously, reaching for the note. Hermione clutched it tighter.
"I was wondering if I could keep it," she said breathlessly.
"Oh, come on," Ron groaned, snatching it from her grip and thrusting it at Madam Pince. "We'll get you another autograph. Lockhart'll sign anything that stays still long enough."
The librarian held the note up to the light, as if checking for forgery, then stalked off. Minutes later, she returned with a large, moldy-looking book. Hermione tucked it into her bag, and they walked off as casually as they could.
Five minutes later, they were barricaded inside Moaning Myrtle's out-of-order bathroom. Ron had protested, but Hermione pointed out it was the last place anyone would willingly go. Myrtle was crying noisily in her stall, but they ignored each other.
Hermione carefully opened Moste Potente Potions, and the four of them bent over its damp-stained pages. One glance explained why it was in the Restricted Section. Some potions had effects too gruesome to contemplate, accompanied by horrifying illustrations—a man turned inside out, a witch with extra arms sprouting from her head.
"Here it is!" Hermione whispered excitedly, pointing at The Polyjuice Potion. The page featured sketches of people mid-transformation, their faces contorted in pain. Harry hoped the artist had exaggerated.
"This is the most complicated potion I've ever seen," Hermione murmured. "Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, knotgrass—easy enough, those are in the student store cupboard. But powdered bicorn horn? Shredded boomslang skin? And of course... a bit of whoever we want to turn into."
Ron's head snapped up. "Excuse me? What d'you mean, a bit? I'm not drinking anything with Crabbe's toenails in it!"
Hermione pressed on, ignoring him. "We don't need that until the end, anyway..."
Ron turned to Harry and Hope, speechless. But Harry had another concern.
"Hermione, do you realize how much we'd have to steal? Boomslang skin? That's not in the student cupboard. What are we supposed to do—break into Snape's private stores?"
Hermione shut the book with a decisive snap. "If you two want to chicken out, fine." Pink patches appeared on her cheeks, her eyes unusually bright. "I don't like breaking rules either. But threatening Muggle-borns is worse than brewing a potion. If you don't want to find out if it's Malfoy, I'll return the book right now."
Ron exhaled heavily. "I never thought I'd see the day when you'd be convincing us to break the rules. Fine. We'll do it. But no toenails, okay?"
"How long will it take?" Harry asked.
Hermione flipped back to the page. "Well... the fluxweed has to be picked at the full moon, and the lacewings need to stew for twenty-one days... I'd say about a month—if we get all the ingredients."
"A month?" Ron groaned. "Malfoy could've attacked half the Muggle-borns by then!" But Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously again, and he quickly added, "But it's the best plan we've got, so full steam ahead, I say."
While Hermione checked that the coast was clear for them to leave the bathroom, Ron muttered to Harry, "It'll be a lot less hassle if you just knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow."
Hope covered her chuckle.
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Hope woke early on Saturday morning, lying awake and staring at the top of her four-poster bed, her stomach twisting with nerves. This was her first Quidditch game, and of course, it had to be against Slytherin. That only made it worse.
What if they never passed her the Quaffle? Or worse—what if she got it and missed the goal? Not to mention, all seven Slytherin players would be mounted on the fastest racing brooms gold could buy.
After another thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling, feeling increasingly nauseous, the curtains to her bed suddenly flew open. Hermione stood in front of her.
"You have to get up," she said.
Hope groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. "I can't. I'm sick."
"Oh, come on, Hope, it's just nerves." Hermione yanked the blankets off her. Cold air hit her legs, making her groan again.
Finally, she sat up. Hermione gave her a small pat on the shoulder. "You'll be great. Now get dressed."
With a sigh, Hope got up and changed into her Quidditch robes. When she made her way down to the Great Hall, she found the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, nearly empty table. All looking uptight and not speaking much.
As eleven o'clock approached, the whole school started to make its way down to the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of thunder in the air. A restless energy buzzed among the students as they hurried toward the stands, eager for the match to begin.
Hope adjusted her robes, trying to steady her breathing. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve as nervous excitement twisted in her stomach. This was it—her first real game. The weight of it pressed against her ribs, making it difficult to focus on anything else.
She barely had time to dwell on it before Ron and Hermione came hurrying toward her and Harry, both looking eager and slightly out of breath.
"Good luck!" Hermione said brightly, placing a reassuring hand on Hope's arm before turning to Harry. "Both of you!"
Ron grinned. "Yeah, go knock Malfoy off his broom, will you? No one would mind."
"Ron," Hermione scolded, giving him a look.
"What?" He shrugged. "I'm just saying, it'd make things easier."
Hope huffed a small laugh, shaking her head, but before she could respond, another voice called out.
"Hope!"
She turned to see Cedric Diggory approaching, looking as effortlessly put together as always, his Hufflepuff robes crisp despite the humidity.
"Thought I'd wish you luck before the match," he said, his gray eyes warm. "First game's always nerve-wracking, but you'll do great."
"Thanks," Hope said, smiling though she still felt rather nervous.
Oliver Wood and the twins stood nearby but said nothing, simply watching as Cedric gave Hope a final nod before heading off toward the Hufflepuff section, hands tucked casually into his pockets.
The second he was out of earshot, Oliver turned to Hope, arms crossed.
"What did he want?"
Hope blinked. "Uh... just to wish me luck."
Fred and George exchanged looks.
"Bit suspicious, isn't it?" Fred mused.
"Very suspicious," George agreed.
"Why is it suspicious?" Hope asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Because," Fred said, "Diggory's a nice bloke, yeah, but he's also a Quidditch player. Doesn't make a habit of handing out luck to the competition."
"Slytherin's everyone's common enemy. He probably just wants to see them lose as much as we do," Hope shrugged.
Fred and George considered this for a second before nodding.
"Fair point," Fred admitted.
"Still watching him, though," George added, looking at the spot he was once in.
Oliver didn't look entirely convinced but seemed to decide they had more important things to focus on. He turned to give his usual pep talk.
"Slytherin have better brooms than us," he began. "No point denying it. But we've got better people on our brooms. We've trained harder than they have, we've been flying in all weathers—"
"Too true," George muttered. "I haven't been properly dry since August."
"—and we're going to make them rue the day they let that little bit of slime, Malfoy, buy his way onto their team."
Chest heaving with emotion, Wood turned to Harry. "It'll be down to you, Harry, to show them that a Seeker has to have something more than a rich father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy—or die trying—because we've got to win today. We have to."
"So no pressure, Harry," Fred added, winking.
As they made their way to the pitch, Hope let out a deep breath.
Harry nudged her. "Hey, you'll do great," he reassured her. "Can't be any worse than your broom being jinxed." He smirked, thinking back to his first Quidditch game when Professor Quirrell had tried to kill him.
"Yeah, Wood got hit in the head with a Bludger two minutes into his first game," the twins chimed in from behind them.
Hope gave a small nod, still frowning. Their version of reassurance wasn't exactly reassuring.
They stepped onto the pitch, greeted by a deafening roar of noise—mostly cheers, since Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were eager to see Slytherin taken down. But the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and hisses just as loud.
Madam Hooch stood in the center, waiting. She called Flint and Wood forward to shake hands, which they did—gripping harder than necessary.
"On my whistle," Madam Hooch said. "Three... two... one..."
With a roar from the crowd, the fourteen players shot into the sky. Harry climbed higher than the rest, eyes darting around for the Snitch.
Hope Lupin gripped her broom tightly, her gaze locked on the Quaffle as it arced through the air. As a Chaser, her job was simple: score. But with the Slytherin Beaters intent on disrupting Gryffindor's play, it was easier said than done.
Fred and George were too busy shielding Harry from a rogue Bludger to focus on anything else. Hope spotted her chance when Angelina passed her the Quaffle. She caught it, tucked it close, and shot forward, weaving past the Slytherin defense. Just as she neared the scoring area, blinding pain exploded in her shoulder.
A Bludger, with brutal force, slammed into her. The shockwave rattled through her entire arm. She gasped, barely stifling a cry as something cracked. Her fingers went numb, and the Quaffle slipped from her grasp. Before she could react, a Slytherin Chaser swooped in, snatching it mid-air and streaking toward the Gryffindor goalposts.
Lee Jordan's voice boomed over the stadium. "Oof! Nasty hit to Hope Lupin—Bludger straight to the shoulder—Slytherin takes possession—come on, Wood, block it!"
Wood didn't block it. Slytherin scored, and things continued downhill. As the rain began to fall, Fred and George remained preoccupied with Harry, leaving the Gryffindor Chasers to fend for themselves with near misses and lost opportunities.
"And Slytherin takes the Quaffle again—Johnson has a close call with the Bludger—almost took her head off! And—Slytherin scores another point," Lee said, exasperated. "Slytherin leads, sixty points to zero."
Finally, George signaled to Wood, who got the message. As Madam Hooch's whistle rang out, the team dived to the ground.
"What's going on?" Wood demanded as the Gryffindor team huddled together. The Slytherins in the crowd jeered. "We're getting flattened. Fred, George, where were you when that Bludger stopped Hope from scoring?" He gestured toward Hope, who clutched her shoulder.
"We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other Bludger from murdering Harry, Oliver," George said heatedly. "Someone's fixed it—it won't leave Harry alone! It hasn't gone for anyone else all game. The Slytherins must've done something to it."
"But the Bludgers have been locked in Madam Hooch's office since our last practice," Wood said anxiously. "There was nothing wrong with them then..."
Madam Hooch strode toward them. Over her shoulder, the Slytherin team jeered and pointed at Harry.
"Listen," Harry said quickly as she neared. "With you two flying around me all the time, the only way I'm going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal with the rogue one."
"Don't be thick," Fred snapped. "It'll take your head off."
Wood hesitated, glancing from Harry to the Weasleys.
"Oliver, this is mad," Hope gritted out, still clutching her shoulder. "You can't let Harry deal with that thing alone. We should call for an inquiry—"
"If we stop now, we forfeit the match!" Harry shot back. "And we're not losing to Slytherin because of a mad Bludger. Come on, Oliver, tell them to leave me alone!"
"This is all your fault," George muttered at Wood. "'Get the Snitch or die trying'—what a stupid thing to tell him!"
Madam Hooch had reached them. "Ready to resume play?" she asked Wood.
Wood looked at Harry's determined expression and sighed. "All right. Fred, George, you heard him—leave him alone and let him deal with the Bludger."
The rain was falling harder now. At Madam Hooch's whistle, the team kicked off, soaring back into play.
Hope gritted her teeth and gripped her broom tighter, ignoring the throbbing pain in her shoulder. Spying the Quaffle, she snatched it from a Slytherin player and surged forward.
"Lupin dodges one—spins past another—SHE SCORES! TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!" Lee shouted as the stands erupted—cheers from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff, boos from Slytherin.
Adrenaline dulled the pain in Hope's shoulder. Angelina and Katie were weaving through the Slytherin defense with practiced ease. With Fred and George back to their usual roles, the Gryffindor Chasers finally gained ground.
Hope shot forward, locking eyes with Angelina, who tossed the Quaffle her way. She reached out—
WHAM.
The second Bludger struck the exact same spot on her shoulder. This time, she couldn't stop the cry that tore from her throat. White-hot agony seared through her arm. Her fingers slipped, her grip on the broom weakening as she clung on with sheer desperation.
"HOPE LUPIN TAKES ANOTHER BLUDGER TO THE SHOULDER—THAT'S GOT TO HURT—BUT WAIT! JOHNSON HAS THE QUAFFLE! SHE SHOOTS—SHE SCORES! GRYFFINDOR STILL IN THE GAME!"
Hope barely registered Lee's commentary over the roaring pain. But they had the points. That was all that mattered. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself upright, vision swimming.
Just a little longer.
Meanwhile, Harry zig-zagged wildly, dodging the rogue Bludger. Rain speckled his glasses, ran up his nose. Dizzy from the constant evasion, he kept his eyes wide open, searching.
Malfoy's taunt rang out. "Training for the ballet, Potter?"
Harry ignored him—until he spotted it. The Snitch. Hovering inches above Malfoy's left ear. And Malfoy, too busy laughing, hadn't noticed.
For a split second, Harry hung in midair, hesitant to move in case Malfoy saw it too.
WHAM.
The Bludger slammed into his elbow. White-hot pain shot through him. His arm broke.
Dazed, barely gripping his broom, Harry heard the Bludger whistling back for another attack—this time aimed at his face. He swerved, forcing himself forward, one thought pounding in his head: Get to Malfoy.
Through the haze of rain and pain, he dived toward Malfoy's sneering face. Malfoy's eyes widened in fear.
"What the—" Malfoy gasped, jerking away.
Harry let go of his broom with his remaining good hand and lunged.
His fingers closed around the Snitch.
The crowd's yells blurred as he plunged toward the ground, struggling to stay conscious. The last thing he saw before impact was the Snitch, clutched tight in his hand.
"Aha," he said vaguely, "we've won."
And he fainted.
He came around to the sensation of rain on his face, still lying on the pitch, someone leaning over him. A glint of teeth caught his eye.
"Oh no, not you," he moaned.
"Doesn't know what he's saying," Lockhart announced to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. "Not to worry, Harry. I'm about to fix your arm."
"No!" Harry protested. "I'll keep it like this, thanks..."
He tried to sit up, but a sharp jolt of pain stopped him. Nearby, he heard a familiar clicking noise.
"I don't want a photo of this, Colin," he snapped.
"Lie back, Harry," Lockhart said soothingly. "It's a simple charm I've used countless times."
"Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?" Harry ground out through clenched teeth.
"He should really, Professor," said a muddy Wood, grinning despite his Seeker's injury. "Great capture, Harry—really spectacular, your best yet, I'd say."
Through the tangle of legs around him, Harry spotted Fred and George wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight. Nearby, Katie and Angelina were supporting Hope, who looked pale as she groaned, each small movement sending fresh waves of pain through her shoulder.
Wood turned to her. "And that was a great first game if I ever saw one. Those were some brilliant scores, Hope."
Hope attempted a smile, but it came out more as a grimace.
"Stand back," Lockhart ordered, rolling up his jade-green sleeves.
"No—don't—" Harry said weakly, but Lockhart was already twirling his wand. A second later, he directed it straight at Harry's arm.
A strange, unpleasant sensation spread from his shoulder down to his fingertips, like his arm was being deflated. He shut his eyes, turning his face away, unwilling to look. Then gasps erupted around him, and Colin Creevey's camera clicked furiously.
His arm didn't hurt anymore—but it didn't feel like an arm either.
Hope's already pale face turned nearly green at the sight of Harry's now-floppy limb. She wasn't sure if it was the adrenaline wearing off or the horrific sight before her, but either way she was starting to feel nauseous.
"Ah," Lockhart said. "Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That's the thing to bear in mind."
He turned to Hope, noticing her own injury. "Oh, and you took quite the hits, didn't you?" He pulled out his wand. "Very well, why don't I—"
Hope shook her head rapidly, which only made her more nauseous. Angelina and Katie quickly stepped in front of her.
"I don't think it's that bad," Angelina said hurriedly.
"Really, you'd be wasting your time," Katie added.
Lockhart hesitated before nodding. "I suppose she could just toddle up to the Hospital Wing. Why don't you go with her, Harry? Ah—Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort them? Madam Pomfrey will be able to—er—tidy them up a bit."
As Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided. Bracing himself, he looked down at his right side.
What he saw nearly made him pass out again.
Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked like a thick, flesh-colored rubber glove. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened.
Lockhart hadn't mended Harry's bones.
He had removed them.
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Madam Pomfrey wasn't at all pleased.
"You should have come straight to me!" she raged, holding up the sad, limp remainder of what, half an hour before, had been a working arm. "I can mend bones in a second—but growing them back—" She shook her head. It was true, the moment Hope stepped into the hospital wing, a wave of Madam Pomfrey's wand had her shoulder as good as new.
"You will be able to, won't you?" Harry asked desperately.
"I'll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful," Madam Pomfrey said grimly, throwing Harry a pair of pajamas. "You'll have to stay the night..."
Hope and Hermione waited outside the curtain drawn around Harry's bed while Ron helped him into his pajamas. It took a while to stuff the rubbery, boneless arm into a sleeve.
"How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione, eh?" Ron called through the curtain as he pulled Harry's limp fingers through the cuff. "If Harry had wanted de-boning, he would have asked."
"Anyone can make a mistake," Hermione said.
Hope rolled her eyes. "He de-boned him, Hermione," she emphasized.
Hermione ignored her, turning her attention back to Harry. "And it doesn't hurt anymore, does it, Harry?"
"No," Harry said, "but it doesn't do anything else, either." As he swung himself onto the bed, his arm flapped pointlessly. Hope, Hermione, and Madam Pomfrey came around the curtain.
Madam Pomfrey was holding a large bottle labeled 'Skele-Gro.'
"You're in for a rough night," she warned, pouring out a steaming beakerful and handing it to him. "Regrowing bones is a nasty business."
Apparently, so was taking the Skele-Gro. Harry scrunched his face as the liquid burned his mouth and throat, making him cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Hope, Ron, and Hermione to help Harry gulp down some water.
"We won, though," Ron said, a grin breaking across his face. "That was some catch you made. Malfoy's face... he looked ready to kill!"
"You played excellently, Hope," Hermione added, smiling.
"Especially for someone who took two Bludgers to the shoulder," Ron chimed in, nodding.
"Thanks," Hope said gratefully. "Though I want to know how he fixed that Bludger," she added darkly.
"We can add that to the list of questions we'll ask him when we've taken the Polyjuice Potion," Harry muttered, sinking back onto his pillows. "I hope it tastes better than this stuff..."
"If it's got bits of Slytherins in it? You've got to be joking," Ron said.
The door of the hospital wing burst open at that moment. Filthy and soaking wet, the rest of the Gryffindor team had arrived to see Harry.
"Unbelievable flying, Harry," George said. "I've just seen Marcus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about having the Snitch on top of his head and not noticing. Malfoy didn't seem too happy."
George then turned to Hope. "And you were amazing out there, little Lupin!" he said brightly.
Hope smiled up at him. She had received multiple compliments about her playing, but something about hearing it from George made her heart flutter.
"Thanks," she said shyly, looking down, avoiding Hermione's gaze as Hermione raised a brow.
They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice. They gathered around Harry's bed and were just getting started on what promised to be a good party when Madam Pomfrey came storming over, shouting, "This boy needs rest! He's got thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! OUT!"
And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him from the stabbing pains in his limp arm.
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Hope had lost it. She couldn't believe she had lost it.
Her mother's necklace.
She had noticed it was missing just before bed, panic settling in her chest like a heavy weight. But she couldn't search for it right away—not while the castle was still awake, not while teachers and prefects roamed the halls. She had to wait until the dormitory was silent, until the rhythmic breathing of her sleeping housemates told her it was safe to slip out unseen.
She had spent hours scouring the changing rooms near the pitch, shivering as she darted back and forth across the vast, empty Quidditch field. Her sweater and pajama pants did little to keep the cold at bay, but she barely noticed, too consumed by the desperate search. Now, with no other options left, she made her way toward the hospital wing, hoping against hope that it had somehow ended up there.
Her slippered feet moved carefully against the cold stone floor, every creak of the castle making her breath hitch. If she got caught, she had no excuse—just a desperate need to find the one thing she couldn't bear to lose.
As she shuffled as quietly as she could into the hospital wing, Harry's head snapped to her.
"Hope?" he questioned through squinting eyes. "What are you doing here?"
"My necklace—my mother's necklace—I lost it," Hope said worriedly. "I can't believe I didn't take it off before the game! How could I be so stupid? I take it off before every practice. How did I forget this time?" she scolded herself, crawling around the floor and checking under beds, using her wand to illuminate the space.
"Could it be on the pitch?" Harry asked.
Hope shook her head. "I just checked. Spent three hours on the pitch, checking and rechecking. It's not there."
"I'm surprised you haven't got caught," Harry mused.
Hope nodded, standing with a huff. "Yeah, you'd think it would be harder to sneak around, what with all this Chamber business—" At the mention of the Chamber, she heard a sniffle. It was then she realized there was a house-elf on Harry's bed, his big, bulging eyes watering slightly, his ears flapping as he shook.
"Oh," Hope blinked, unsure of what to do. This must be Dobby, the house-elf Harry had mentioned earlier. Smoothing her hands over her sweater, she stepped forward and held out her hand. "Dobby, right? It's nice to meet you."
Dobby's eyes went even wider—if that was possible—and his lip trembled as he stared at Hope's outstretched hand. Then, suddenly, he broke into wails, burying his face in his hands. Hope quickly pulled back, glancing nervously between Harry and Dobby.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly.
"No, no, miss, it's just... no one has ever wanted to shake Dobby's hand... like an equal," Dobby cried, blowing his nose into what looked to be an old ragged pillow case he wore.
Hope's brows furrowed as she looked at him sadly. "Oh... um... I'm sorry about that."
That only made him cry harder.
"Dobby is sorry miss missed the train as well," Dobby sniffled, looking up at her. "But it isn't safe. Harry Potter must go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make—"
"Your Bludger?" Hope asked, tilting her head.
"What d'you mean, your Bludger? You made that Bludger try and kill me?" Harry said, his anger rising once more.
"Not kill you, sir, never kill you!" Dobby said, shocked. "Dobby wants to save Harry Potter's life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain here, sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home!"
"Oh, is that all?" Harry said angrily. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you wanted me sent home in pieces?"
"Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!" Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. "If he knew what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, us dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He Who Must Not Be Named was at the height of his powers, sir! We house-elves were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, sir," he admitted, drying his face. "But mostly, sir, life has improved for my kind since you triumphed over He Who Must Not Be Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the dark days would never end, sir... And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more—"
Dobby froze, horror-struck, then grabbed Harry's water jug and cracked it over his own head, toppling off the bed. Hope's eyes widened as she quickly grabbed the jug, setting it down so he wouldn't hit himself again. A second later, Dobby crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering, "Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby..."
"So there is a Chamber of Secrets?" Harry whispered. "And—did you say it's been opened before? Tell me, Dobby!"
He seized the elf's bony wrist as Dobby's hand inched toward the water jug, while Hope grabbed it again, keeping it away from his grasp.
"But I'm not Muggle-born—how can I be in danger from the Chamber?"
"Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby," stammered the elf, his eyes huge in the dark. "Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter must not be here when they happen. Go home, Harry Potter. Go home. Harry Potter must not meddle in this, sir, 'tis too dangerous—"
"Who is it, Dobby?" Harry asked, keeping a firm hold on Dobby's wrist to stop him from hitting himself again. "Who's opened it? Who opened it last time?"
"Dobby can't, sir, Dobby can't, Dobby mustn't tell!" the elf squealed.
"Dobby, if you told us who it is, then we could stop anyone from getting hurt—including Harry," Hope said gently.
"Oh, miss, Dobby wishes he could," Dobby cried. "Go home, Harry Potter, go home!"
"I'm not going anywhere!" Harry said fiercely. "One of my best friends is Muggle-born. She'll be first in line if the Chamber really has been opened—"
"Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends!" Dobby moaned in a kind of miserable ecstasy. "So noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he must—"
Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry and Hope heard it, too. Footsteps echoed down the passageway outside.
"Dobby must go!" the elf breathed, terrified. There was a loud crack, and Harry's fist was suddenly clenched on thin air. He slumped back into bed, his eyes fixed on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as approaching footsteps echoed closer.
Hope scrambled hurriedly under the empty bed next to Harry's, barely fitting beneath it. Her breath hitched as she pressed herself against the cool floor, heart hammering.
A moment later, Dumbledore backed into the room, clad in a long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap, his expression grave. He carried one end of what appeared to be a statue. Professor McGonagall followed, gripping its feet. Together, they hoisted it onto a bed with great care.
"Get Madam Pomfrey," Dumbledore whispered.
Professor McGonagall swept past the end of Harry's bed, disappearing from view. Harry remained still, feigning sleep, while Hope listened with bated breath from her hiding spot. Urgent voices filled the room, and moments later, Professor McGonagall returned, now accompanied by Madam Pomfrey, who was hastily pulling a cardigan over her nightdress.
A sharp intake of breath.
"What happened?" Madam Pomfrey whispered, bending over the rigid figure on the bed.
"Another attack," Dumbledore said grimly. "Minerva found him on the stairs."
"There was a bunch of grapes next to him," Professor McGonagall added. "We believe he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter."
Hope's face blanched. Another attack—while she had been running frantically through the castle. She hesitated before carefully peeking out, just enough to see the petrified student lying on the bed. A pale beam of moonlight fell across his frozen face.
Colin Creevey.
His wide, staring eyes reflected the dim light, hands still clutching his camera as if he had been trying to snap a picture at the last second.
"Petrified?" Madam Pomfrey whispered.
Professor McGonagall nodded solemnly. "Yes. But I shudder to think... If Albus hadn't been on his way downstairs for hot chocolate, who knows what might have—"
The three of them stared at Colin in heavy silence before Dumbledore leaned forward, gently prying the camera from his rigid grip.
"You don't think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?" Professor McGonagall asked eagerly.
Dumbledore said nothing as he carefully opened the back of the camera.
A sharp hiss filled the air.
Hope scrunched her nose at the acrid scent of burnt plastic.
"Good gracious!" Madam Pomfrey gasped.
Steam billowed from the camera's ruined interior.
"Melted," she murmured in disbelief, turning the device over in her hands. "All melted..."
Professor McGonagall turned to Dumbledore, urgency in her voice. "What does this mean, Albus?"
Dumbledore's expression darkened. "It means," he said gravely, "that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again."
Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand over her mouth.
Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore, her voice barely above a whisper. "But Albus... surely... who?"
Dumbledore's gaze never left Colin's motionless form.
"The question is not who," he said, his voice weighted with meaning. "The question is, how..."
Hope gulped, glancing up again at the flickering shadows cast by the teachers. From what little she could make out of Professor McGonagall's face, it was clear—she understood this no better than Hope did.