Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince hp-6 Read online

  Harry had no reason to regret his choice once he saw Dean fly that evening; he worked well with Ginny and Demelza. The Beaters, Peakes and Coote, were getting better all the time. The only problem was Ron.

  Harry had known all along that Ron was an inconsistent player who suffered from nerves and a lack of confidence, and unfortunately, the looming prospect of the opening game of the season seemed to have brought out all his old insecurities. After letting in half a dozen goals, most of them scored by Ginny, his technique became wilder and wilder, until he finally punched an oncoming Demelza Robins in the mouth.

  “It was an accident, I’m sorry, Demelza, really sorry!” Ron shouted after her as she zigzagged back to the ground, dripping blood everywhere. “I just—”

  “Panicked,” Ginny said angrily, landing next to Demelza and examining her fat lip. “You prat, Ron, look at the state of her!”

  “I can fix that,” said Harry, landing beside the two girls, pointing his wand at Demelza’s mouth, and saying “Episkey.” “And Ginny, don’t call Ron a prat, you’re not the Captain of this team—”

  “Well, you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I thought someone should—”

  Harry forced himself not to laugh.

  “In the air, everyone, let’s go…”

  Overall it was one of the worst practices they had had all term, though Harry did not feel that honesty was the best policy when they were this close to the match.

  “Good work, everyone, I think we’ll flatten Slytherin,” he said bracingly, and the Chasers and Beaters left the changing room looking reasonably happy with themselves.

  “I played like a sack of dragon dung,” said Ron in a hollow voice when the door had swung shut behind Ginny.

  “No, you didn’t,” said Harry firmly. “You’re the best Keeper I tried out, Ron. Your only problem is nerves.”

  He kept up a relentless flow of encouragement all the way back to the castle, and by the time they reached the second floor, Ron was looking marginally more cheerful. When Harry pushed open the tapestry to take their usual shortcut up to Gryffindor Tower, however, they found themselves looking at Dean and Ginny, who were locked in a close embrace and kissing fiercely as though glued together.

  It was as though something large and scaly erupted into life in Harry’s stomach, clawing at his insides: Hot blood seemed to flood his brain, so that all thought was extinguished, replaced by a savage urge to jinx Dean into a jelly. Wrestling with this sudden madness, he heard Ron’s voice as though from a great distance away.

  “Oi!”

  Dean and Ginny broke apart and looked around. “What?” said Ginny.

  “I don’t want to find my own sister snogging people in public!”

  “This was a deserted corridor till you came butting in!” said Ginny.

  Dean was looking embarrassed. He gave Harry a shifty grin that Harry did not return, as the newborn monster inside him was roaring for Dean’s instant dismissal from the team.

  “Er… c’mon, Ginny,” said Dean, “let’s go back to the common room…”

  “You go!” said Ginny. “I want a word with my dear brother!”

  Dean left, looking as though he was not sorry to depart the scene.

  “Right,” said Ginny, tossing her long red hair out of her face and glaring at Ron, “let’s get this straight once and for all. It is none of your business who I go out with or what I do with them, Ron—”

  “Yeah, it is!” said Ron, just as angrily. “D’you think I want people saying my sister’s a—”

  “A what?” shouted Ginny, drawing her wand. “A what, exactly?”

  “He doesn’t mean anything, Ginny—” said Harry automatically, though the monster was roaring its approval of Ron’s words.

  “Oh yes he does!” she said, flaring up at Harry. “Just because he’s never snogged anyone in his life, just because the best kiss he’s ever had is from our Auntie Muriel—”

  “Shut your mouth!” bellowed Ron, bypassing red and turning maroon.

  “No, I will not!” yelled Ginny, beside herself. “I’ve seen you with Phlegm, hoping she’ll kiss you on the cheek every time you see her, it’s pathetic! If you went out and got a bit of snogging done yourself, you wouldn’t mind so much that everyone else does it!”

  Ron had pulled out his wand too; Harry stepped swiftly between them.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ron roared, trying to get a clear shot at Ginny around Harry, who was now standing in front of her with his arms outstretched. “Just because I don’t do it in public—!”

  Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push Harry out of the way.

  “Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow? You—”

  A streak of orange light flew under Harry’s left arm and missed Ginny by inches; Harry pushed Ron up against the wall.

  “Don’t be stupid—”

  “Harry’s snogged Cho Chang!” shouted Ginny, who sounded close to tears now. “And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum, it’s only you who acts like it’s something disgusting, Ron, and that’s because you’ve got about as much experience as a twelve-year-old!”

  And with that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They both stood there, breathing heavily, until Mrs. Norris, Rich’s cat, appeared around the corner, which broke the tension.

  “C’mon,” said Harry, as the sound of Filch’s shuffling feet reached their ears.

  They hurried up the stairs and along a seventh-floor corridor. “Oi, out of the way!” Ron barked at a small girl who jumped in fright and dropped a bottle of toadspawn.

  Harry hardly noticed the sound of shattering glass; he felt disoriented, dizzy; being struck by a lightning bolt must be something like this. It’s just because she’s Ron’s sister, he told himself. You just didn’t like seeing her kissing Dean because she’s Ron’s sister…

  But unbidden into his mind came an image of that same deserted corridor with himself kissing Ginny instead… The monster in his chest purred… but then he saw Ron ripping open the tapestry curtain and drawing his wand on Harry, shouting things like “betrayal of trust”… “supposed to be my friend”…

  “D’you think Hermione did snog Krum?” Ron asked abruptly, as they approached the Fat Lady. Harry gave a guilty start and wrenched his imagination away from a corridor in which no Ron intruded, in which he and Ginny were quite alone—“What?” he said confusedly. “Oh… er…” The honest answer was “yes,” but he did not want to give it. However, Ron seemed to gather the worst from the look on Harry’s face.

  “Dilligrout,” he said darkly to the Fat Lady, and they climbed through the portrait hole into the common room.

  Neither of them mentioned Ginny or Hermione again; indeed, they barely spoke to each other that evening and got into bed in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

  Harry lay awake for a long time, looking up at the canopy of his four-poster and trying to convince himself that his feelings for Ginny were entirely elder-brotherly. They had lived, had they not, like brother and sister all summer, playing Quidditch, teasing Ron, and having a laugh about Bill and Phlegm? He had known Ginny for years now… It was natural that he should feel protective… natural that he should want to look out for her… want to rip Dean limb from limb for kissing her… No… he would have to control that particular brotherly feeling…

  Ron gave a great grunting snore.

  She’s Ron’s sister, Harry told himself firmly. Ron’s sister. She’s out-of-bounds. He would not risk his friendship with Ron for anything. He punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and waited for sleep to come, trying his utmost not to allow his thoughts to stray anywhere near Ginny.

  Harry awoke next morning feeling slightly dazed and confused by a series of dreams in which Ron had chased him with a Beater’s bat, but by midday he would have happily exchanged the dream Ron for the real one, who was not onl
y cold-shouldering Ginny and Dean, but also treating a hurt and bewildered Hermione with an icy, sneering indifference. What was more, Ron seemed to have become, overnight, as touchy and ready to lash out as the average Blast-Ended Skrewt. Harry spent the day attempting to keep the peace between Ron and Hermione with no success; finally, Hermione departed for bed in high dudgeon, and Ron stalked off to the boys’ dormitory after swearing angrily at several frightened first years for looking at him.

  To Harry’s dismay, Ron’s new aggression did not wear off over the next few days. Worse still, it coincided with an even deeper dip in his Keeping skills, which made him still more aggressive, so that during the final Quidditch practice before Saturday’s match, he failed to save every single goal the Chasers aimed at him, but bellowed at everybody so much that he reduced Demelza Robins to tears.

  “You shut up and leave her alone!” shouted Peakes, who was about two-thirds Ron’s height, though admittedly carrying a heavy bat.

  “ENOUGH!” bellowed Harry, who had seen Ginny glowering in Ron’s direction and, remembering her reputation as an accomplished caster of the Bat-Bogey Hex, soared over to intervene before things got out of hand. “Peakes, go and pack up the Bludgers. Demelza, pull yourself together, you played really well today. Ron…” he waited until the rest of the team were out of earshot before saying it, “you’re my best mate, but carry on treating the rest of them like this and I’m going to kick you off the team.”

  He really thought for a moment that Ron might hit him, but then something much worse happened: Ron seemed to sag on his broom. All the fight went out of him and he said, “I resign. I’m pathetic.”

  “You’re not pathetic and you’re not resigning!” said Harry fiercely, seizing Ron by the front of his robes. “You can save anything when you’re on form, it’s a mental problem you’ve got!”

  “You calling me mental?”

  “Yeah, maybe I am!”

  They glared at each other for a moment, then Ron shook his head wearily. “I know you haven’t got any time to find another Keeper, so I’ll play tomorrow, but if we lose, and we will, I’m taking myself off the team.”

  Nothing Harry said made any difference. He tried boosting Ron’s confidence all through dinner, but Ron was too busy being grumpy and surly with Hermione to notice. Harry persisted in the common room that evening, but his assertion that the whole team would be devastated if Ron left was somewhat undermined by the fact that the rest of the team was sitting in a huddle in a distant corner, clearly muttering about Ron and casting him nasty looks. Finally Harry tried getting angry again in the hope of provoking Ron into a defiant, and hopefully goal-saving, attitude, but this strategy did not appear to work any better than encouragement; Ron went to bed as dejected and hopeless as ever.

  Harry lay awake for a very long time in the darkness. He did not want to lose the upcoming match; not only was it his first as Captain, but he was determined to beat Draco Malfoy at Quidditch even if he could not yet prove his suspicions about him. Yet if Ron played as he had done in the last few practices, their chances of winning were very slim…

  If only there was something he could do to make Ron pull himself together… make him play at the top of his form… something that would ensure that Ron had a really good day…

  And the answer came to Harry in one, sudden, glorious stroke of inspiration.

  Breakfast was the usual excitable affair next morning; the Slytherins hissed and booed loudly as every member of the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall. Harry glanced at the ceiling and saw a clear, pale blue sky: a good omen.

  The Gryffindor table, a solid mass of red and gold, cheered as Harry and Ron approached. Harry grinned and waved; Ron grimaced weakly and shook his head.

  “Cheer up, Ron!” called Lavender. “I know you’ll be brilliant!”

  Ron ignored her.

  “Tea?” Harry asked him. “Coffee? Pumpkin juice?”

  “Anything,” said Ron glumly, taking a moody bite of toast.

  A few minutes later Hermione, who had become so tired of Ron’s recent unpleasant behavior that she had not come down to breakfast with them, paused on her way up the table.

  “How are you both feeling?” she asked tentatively, her eyes on the back of Ron’s head.

  “Fine,” said Harry, who was concentrating on handing Ron a glass of pumpkin juice. “There you go, Ron. Drink up.”

  Ron had just raised the glass to his lips when Hermione spoke sharply.

  “Don’t drink that, Ron!”

  Both Harry and Ron looked up at her.

  “Why not?” said Ron.

  Hermione was now staring at Harry as though she could not believe her eyes.

  “You just put something in that drink.”

  “Excuse me?” said Harry.

  “You heard me. I saw you. You just tipped something into Ron’s drink. You’ve got the bottle in your hand right now!”

  “I dont know what you’re talking about,” said Harry, stowing the little bottle hastily in his pocket.

  “Ron, I warn you, don’t drink it!” Hermione said again, alarmed, but Ron picked up the glass, drained it in one gulp, and said, “Stop bossing me around, Hermione.”

  She looked scandalized. Bending low so that only Harry could hear her, she hissed, “You should be expelled for that. I’d never have believed it of you, Harry!”

  “Look who’s talking,” he whispered back. “Confunded anyone lately?”

  She stormed up the table away from them. Harry watched her go without regret. Hermione had never really understood what a serious business Quidditch was. He then looked around at Ron, who was smacking his lips.

  “Nearly time,” said Harry blithely.

  The frosty grass crunched underfoot as they strode down to the stadium.

  “Pretty lucky the weather’s this good, eh?” Harry asked Ron.

  “Yeah,” said Ron, who was pale and sick-looking.

  Ginny and Demelza were already wearing their Quidditch robes and waiting in the changing room.

  “Conditions look ideal,” said Ginny, ignoring Ron. “And guess what? That Slytherin Chaser Vaisey—he took a Bludger in the head yesterday during their practice, and he’s too sore to play! And even better than that—Malfoy’s gone off sick too!”

  “What?” said Harry, wheeling around to stare at her. “He’s ill? What’s wrong with him?”

  “No idea, but it’s great for us,” said Ginny brightly. “They’re playing Harper instead; he’s in my year and he’s an idiot.”

  Harry smiled back vaguely, but as he pulled on his scarlet robes his mind was far from Quidditch. Malfoy had once before claimed he could not play due to injury, but on that occasion he had made sure the whole match was rescheduled for a time that suited the Slytherins better. Why was he now happy to let a substitute go on? Was he really ill, or was he faking?

  “Fishy, isn’t it?” he said in an undertone to Ron. “Malfoy not playing?”

  “Lucky, I call it,” said Ron, looking slightly more animated. “And Vaisey off too, he’s their best goal scorer, I didn’t fancy—hey!” he said suddenly, freezing halfway through pulling on his Keeper’s gloves and staring at Harry.

  “What?”

  “I… you…” Ron had dropped his voice, he looked both scared and excited. “My drink… my pumpkin juice… you didn’t…?”

  Harry raised his eyebrows, but said nothing except, “We’ll be starting in about five minutes, you’d better get your boots on.”

  They walked out onto the pitch to tumultuous roars and boos. One end of the stadium was solid red and gold; the other, a sea of green and silver. Many Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had taken sides too: Amidst all the yelling and clapping Harry could distinctly hear the roar of Luna Lovegood’s famous lion-topped hat.

  Harry stepped up to Madam Hooch, the referee, who was standing ready to release the balls from the crate.

  “Captains shake hands,” she said, and Harry had his hand crushed by the new Slytherin Capt
ain, Urquhart. “Mount your brooms. On the whistle… three… two… one…”

  The whistle sounded, Harry and the others kicked off hard from the frozen ground, and they were away.

  Harry soared around the perimeter of the grounds, looking around for the Snitch and keeping one eye on Harper, who was zigzagging far below him. Then a voice that was jarringly different to the usual commentator’s started up.

  “Well, there they go, and I think we’re all surprised to see the team that Potter’s put together this year. Many thought, given Ronald Weasley’s patchy performance as Keeper last year, that he might be off the team, but of course, a close personal friendship with the Captain does help…”

  These words were greeted with jeers and applause from the Slytherin end of the pitch. Harry craned around on his broom to look toward the commentator’s podium. A call, skinny blond boy with an upturned nose was standing there, talking into the magical megaphone that had once been Lee Jordan’s; Harry recognized Zacharias Smith, a Hufflepuff player whom he heartily disliked.

  “Oh, and here comes Slytherin’s first attempt on goal, it’s Urquhart streaking down the pitch and—”

  Harry’s stomach turned over.

  “—Weasley saves it, well, he’s bound to get lucky sometimes, I suppose…”

  “That’s right, Smith, he is,” muttered Harry, grinning to himself, as he dived amongst the Chasers with his eyes searching all around for some hint of the elusive Snitch.

  With half an hour of the game gone, Gryffindor were leading sixty points to zero, Ron having made some truly spectacular saves, some by the very tips of his gloves, and Ginny having scored four of Gryffindor’s six goals. This effectively stopped Zacharias wondering loudly whether the two Weasleys were only there because Harry liked them, and he started on Peakes and Coote instead.