Chapter 99: It'll Stop Once He's Done Vomiting

Harold hadn't expected Harry to actually march up to Madam Pince and seriously request to "temporarily reside in the library." Naturally, that was a nonstarter. Madam Pince rejected him without a second thought—and even recommended he visit the hospital wing. After all, what sane person would abandon a perfectly comfortable dormitory to go sleep in the drafty, dusty library? Harry could only sigh. If Colin Creevey hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor and didn't always hang around the common room, he never would've even thought of such a thing. "If it gets that bad, just talk to Hagrid," Harold said. "Make it sound dramatic. He might agree to set up a spare bed in his hut." "Forget it. I was joking." Harry shook his head. The truth was, playing the role of a monster in class was exhausting—and Malfoy's endless teasing had worn him down. The second he saw Colin again, he'd impulsively blurted that whole "Can I live in the library?" line. "I almost wish Lockhart would teach me how to handle adoring fans," Harry said with a dry laugh. "Maybe then I could convince Colin to stop photographing me every single day." "That just proves you don't understand Lockhart at all," Harold said. "He lives for that. He even spends at least five hours a day answering fan mail." "Every day?" Harry's voice jumped an octave. "Five hours?" "At least five," Harold confirmed. "That's what he says, anyway." Harry almost felt a little admiration. Spending five hours a day writing letters? He'd go mad. Compared to that, maybe Colin wasn't so bad. And playing a werewolf didn't sound quite as miserable anymore... Well, it might be more tolerable—if Hermione would pick a different spell. His robes had literally faded a shade. "Harry, there you are!" Hermione came running up from the far end of the corridor, clearly flustered. As soon as she caught her breath, she blurted out in a rush: "Ron told me you were upset—are you okay? I'm so sorry!" "I'm fine, Hermione." Harry gave her a tired smile. "Really?" she asked softly. "I got carried away... I didn't think those spells would bother you." "They didn't," Harry said with a small laugh. "Thanks to you, I haven't had to do laundry all week." Seeing that he could still joke, Hermione finally relaxed. Ron soon joined them, and the three headed to the Great Hall for dinner. To Harry's relief, they ran into neither Lockhart nor Colin Creevey. ... The next morning, Saturday, Harold had planned to visit Hagrid with the others. But from a distance, he heard three distinct barks. Three different barks. Unless Fang had developed three separate vocal tones overnight, there was only one explanation: the dog had three heads. "Uh... you guys go ahead," Harold said quickly. "Just remembered I've got something else to do." Before the others could react, he turned and hurried back into the castle. Last time, the three-headed dog might've chased him due to residual dark magic... or maybe it really just wanted to chase him. Better not risk it. He'd visit Hagrid another time. Back inside, Harold returned to his familiar sanctuary—the library. He read from morning until noon, grabbed a quick bite, then stayed put until the afternoon. As usual, he marked down anything he didn't understand to ask Professor McGonagall later. By the time he left her office, the sky outside was already dark. Another productive day. Stretching lazily, Harold headed toward the Great Hall. On the way, he passed the sullen-looking ghost of Gryffindor House and decided to offer a few comforting words. "Nick, it's really not your fault. Those Headless Hunters have awful taste." Judging by Nearly Headless Nick's expression, Harold didn't even have to guess—clearly, the ghost had once again been rejected by the Headless Hunt. It was practically a Hogwarts tradition by now. "You think so too, right?" Nick said eagerly. "I mean, come on—just a little flap of skin and cartilage still connecting my head. That's no reason to reject me forty-nine times!" Harold suspected it had been even more than that. The Hunt was centuries old, and Nick clearly hadn't let this go... probably just lost count at forty-nine. Harold reached out to pat his arm. The sensation was like dipping your hand into a bucket of ice water. "Don't give up. I believe you'll get in someday." "Thank you! Bless your kind heart," Nick said. "Oh! Speaking of—just remembered—I saw some Gryffindor students brawling down by the lake. Might want to check it out—oh, and blast, I had something else to do—yes, I was supposed to find Minerva... Stupid Patrick Delaney and his letter!" Before Harold could say a word, Nick let out a dramatic wail and vanished straight through the nearest wall. A second later, Harold was already heading down the stairs. He'd barely reached the second floor when a silver tabby cat leapt onto the railing beside him, then bounded down to the first floor with ease. That could only be Professor McGonagall in Animagus form. No wonder Nick said she was right nearby—her office was next to where they'd been talking. Being a cat was incredibly convenient. She'd basically treated the castle like a jungle gym, scaling floors in a blink. By the time Harold reached the lakeside, he saw the scene from a distance. There were two groups. Snape was the most conspicuous—his expression dark as thunder. Malfoy stood beside him, shoulders twitching oddly, head lowered. His thuggish bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, were off to the side—one holding his head, the other his arm, both groaning. On the other side stood Harry, Ron, and Hermione—joined just in time by McGonagall, who had already shifted back into human form and was storming toward the group. "What happened here?!" she barked. "It was him, Professor!" Ron was red-faced, pointing furiously at Malfoy. "He insulted Hermione! Called her a—" "A Mudblood," Hermione said calmly. "I'm not sure what it means. But I could tell it was very offensive." "Offensive?" Ron spat. "That's the worst thing he could've said!" "Mudblood..." McGonagall's face went rigid with fury as she snapped her gaze toward Malfoy. And then— "BLEURGH!" Malfoy's shoulders jerked again. Several fat, slimy slugs shot from his mouth and splattered to the ground. McGonagall opened her mouth to speak—then closed it again. The words never came. Her eyes flicked over the group. Crabbe and Goyle looked roughed up—whether by fists or spells, she wasn't sure. Judging by the size difference, probably spells. On her own side, all three Gryffindors were intact—though Ron's robes were smeared with dirt. "Thirty points from Gryffindor," McGonagall announced. "All three of you—detention." "But Professor, he started it!" Ron protested. "Ten points from Slytherin," she added, eyes narrowing. "Mr. Malfoy, I hope you understand—some words have no place at this school. A true wizard knows better." "Bluh—bluh—BLERGH!" Another slug rocketed out of Malfoy's mouth, cutting off whatever he meant to say. McGonagall turned to Snape with a look of tight-lipped inquiry. "I'll handle the detentions," Snape said. "Fine." "I hope... you all learn from this experience." Snape's voice oozed menace. Then he turned to leave. "Wait—Professor!" Crabbe called after him. "Draco's still puking up slugs..." "I see that, Mr. Crabbe," Snape said coldly. "Don't worry. It'll stop... once he's done." ... (End of Chapter)