Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince hp-6

by J. K. Rowling

  “Of course, Coote isn’t really the usual build for a Beater,” said Zacharias loftily, “they’ve generally got a bit more muscle—”

  “Hit a Bludger at him!” Harry called to Coote as he zoomed past, but Coote, grinning broadly, chose to aim the next Bludger at Harper instead, who was just passing Harry in the opposite direction. Harry was pleased to hear the dull thunk that meant the Bludger had found its mark.

  It seemed as though Gryffindor could do no wrong. Again and again they scored, and again and again, at the other end of the pitch, Ron saved goals with apparent ease. He was actually smiling now, and when the crowd greeted a particularly good save with a rousing chorus of the old favorite “Weasley Is Our King,” he pretended to conduct them from on high.

  “Thinks he’s something special today, doesn’t he?” said a snide voice, and Harry was nearly knocked off his broom as Harper collided with him hard and deliberately. “Your blood-traitor pal…” Madam Hooch’s back was turned, and though Gryffindors below shouted in anger, by the time she looked around, Harper had already sped off. His shoulder aching, Harry raced after him, determined to ram him back…

  “And I think Harper of Slytherin’s seen the Snitch!” said Zacharias Smith through his megaphone. “Yes, he’s certainly seen something Potter hasn’t!”

  Smith really was an idiot, thought Harry, hadn’t he noticed them collide? But next moment, his stomach seemed to drop out of the, sky—Smith was right and Harry was wrong: Harper had not sped upward at random; he had spotted what Harry had not: The Snitch was speeding along high above them, glinting brightly against the clear blue sky.

  Harry accelerated; the wind was whistling in his ears so that it drowned all sound of Smith’s commentary or the crowd, but Harper was still ahead of him, and Gryffindor was only a hundred points up; if Harper got there first Gryffindor had lost… and now Harper was feet from it, his hand outstretched…

  “Oi, Harper!” yelled Harry in desperation. “How much did Malfoy pay you to come on instead of him?”

  He did not know what made him say it, but Harper did a double-take; he fumbled the Snitch, let it slip through his fingers, and shot right past it. Harry made a great swipe for the tiny, fluttering ball and caught it.

  “YES!” Harry yelled. Wheeling around, he hurtled back toward the ground, the Snitch held high in his hand. As the crowd realized what had happened, a great shout went up that almost drowned the sound of the whistle that signaled the end of the game.

  “Ginny, where’re you going?” yelled Harry, who had found himself trapped in the midst of a mass midair hug with the rest of the team, but Ginny sped right on past them until, with an almighty crash, she collided with the commentator’s podium. As the crowd shrieked and laughed, the Gryffindor team landed beside the wreckage of wood under which Zacharias was feebly stirring; Harry heard Ginny saying blithely to an irate Professor McGonagall, “Forgot to brake, Professor, sorry.”

  Laughing, Harry broke free of the rest of the team and hugged Ginny, but let go very quickly. Avoiding her gaze, he clapped cheering Ron on the back instead as, all enmity forgotten, the Gryffindor team left the pitch arm in arm, punching the air ami waving to their supporters.

  The atmosphere in the changing room was jubilant. “Party up in the common room, Seamus said!” yelled Dean exuberantly. “C’mon, Ginny, Demelza!”

  Ron and Harry were the last two in the changing room. They were just about to leave when Hermione entered. She was twisting her Gryffindor scarf in her hands and looked upset but determined.

  “I want a word with you, Harry.” She took a deep breath. “You shouldn’t have done it. You heard Slughorn, it’s illegal.”

  “What are you going to do, turn us in?” demanded Ron.

  “What are you two talking about?” asked Harry, turning away to hang up his robes so that neither of them would see him grinning.

  “You know perfectly well what we’re talking about!” said Hermione shrilly. “You spiked Ron’s juice with lucky potion at breakfast! Felix Felicis!”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Harry, turning back to face them both.

  “Yes you did, Harry, and that’s why everything went right, there were Slytherin players missing and Ron saved everything!”

  “I didn’t put it in!” said Harry, grinning broadly. He slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and drew out the tiny bottle that Hermione had seen in his hand that morning. It was full of golden potion and the cork was still tightly sealed with wax. “I wanted Ron to think I’d done it, so I faked it when I knew you were looking.” He looked at Ron. “You saved everything because you felt lucky. You did it all yourself.”

  He pocketed the potion again.

  “There really wasn’t anything in my pumpkin juice?” Ron said, astounded. “But the weather’s good… and Vaisey couldn’t play… I honestly haven’t been given lucky potion?”

  Harry shook his head. Ron gaped at him for a moment, then rounded on Hermione, imitating her voice.

  “You added Felix Felicis to Ron’s juice this morning, that’s why he saved everything! See! I can save goals without help, Hermione!”

  “I never said you couldn’t—Ron, you thought you’d been given it too!”

  But Ron had already strode past her out of the door with his broomstick over his shoulder.

  “Er,” said Harry into the sudden silence; he had not expected his plan to backfire like this, “shall… shall we go up to the party, then?”

  “You go!” said Hermione, blinking back tears. “I’m sick of Ron at the moment, I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done…”

  And she stormed out of the changing room too.

  Harry walked slowly back up the grounds toward the castle through the crowd, many of whom shouted congratulations at him, but he felt a great sense of letdown; he had been sure that if Ron won the match, he and Hermione would be friends again immediately. He did not see how he could possibly explain to Hermione that what she had done to offend Ron was kiss Viktor Krum, not when the offense had occurred so long ago.

  Harry could not see Hermione at the Gryffindor celebration party, which was in full swing when he arrived. Renewed cheers and clapping greeted his appearance, and he was soon surrounded by a mob of people congratulating him. What with trying to shake off the Creevey brothers, who wanted a blow-by-blow match analysis, and the large group of girls that encircled him, laughing at his least amusing comments and batting their eyelids, it was some time before he could try and find Ron. At last, he extricated himself from Romilda Vane, who was hinting heavily that she would like to go to Slughorn’s Christmas party with him. As he was ducking toward the drinks table, he walked straight into Ginny, Arnold the Pygmy Puff riding on her shoulder and Crookshanks mewing hopefully at her heels.

  “Looking for Ron?” she asked, smirking. “He’s over there, the filthy hypocrite.”

  Harry looked into the corner she was indicating. There, in full view of the whole room, stood Ron wrapped so closely around Lavender Brown it was hard to tell whose hands were whose.

  “It looks like he’s eating her face, doesn’t it?” said Ginny dispassionately. “But I suppose he’s got to refine his technique somehow. Good game, Harry.”

  She patted him on the arm; Harry felt a swooping sensation in his stomach, but then she walked off to help herself to more butterbeer. Crookshanks trotted after her, his yellow eyes fixed upon Arnold.

  Harry turned away from Ron, who did not look like he would be surfacing soon, just as the portrait hole was closing. With a sinking feeling, he thought he saw a mane of bushy brown hair whipping out of sight.

  He darted forward, sidestepped Romilda Vane again, and pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady. The corridor outside, seemed to be deserted.

  “Hermione?”

  He found her in the first unlocked classroom he tried. She was sitting on the teacher’s desk, alone except for a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her head, which she had clearly just conjured out of mida
ir. Harry could not help admiring her spell-work at a time like this.

  “Oh, hello, Harry,” she said in a brittle voice. “I was just practicing.”

  “Yeah… they’re—er—really good…” said Harry.

  He had no idea what to say to her. He was just wondering whether there was any chance that she had not noticed Ron, that she had merely left the room because the party was a little too rowdy, when she said, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, “Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations.”

  “Er… does he?” said Harry.

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t see him,” said Hermione. “He wasn’t exactly hiding it, was—?”

  The door behind them burst open. To Harry’s horror, Ron came in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand.

  “Oh,” he said, drawing up short at the sight of Harry and Hermione.

  “Oops!” said Lavender, and she backed out of the room, giggling. The door swung shut behind her.

  There was a horrible, swelling, billowing silence. Hermione was staring at Ron, who refused to look at her, but said with an odd mixture of bravado and awkwardness, “Hi, Harry! Wondered where you’d got to!”

  Hermione slid off the desk. The little flock of golden birds continued to twitter in circles around her head so that she looked like a strange, feathery model of the solar system.

  “You shouldn’t leave Lavender waiting outside,” she said quietly. “She’ll wonder where you’ve gone.”

  She walked very slowly and erectly toward the door. Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking relieved that nothing worse had happened.

  “Oppugno!” came a shriek from the doorway.

  Harry spun around to see Hermione pointing her wand at Ron, her expression wild: The little flock of birds was speeding like a hail of fat golden bullets toward Ron, who yelped and covered his face with his hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at every bit of flesh they could reach.

  “Gerremoffme!” he yelled, but with one last look of vindictive fury, Hermione wrenched open the door and disappeared through it. Harry thought he heard a sob before it slammed.

  15. THE UNBREAKABLE VOW

  Snow was swirling against the icy windows once more; Christmas was approaching fast. Hagrid had already singlehandedly delivered the usual twelve Christmas trees to the Great Hall; garlands of holly and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of the stairs; everlasting candles glowed from inside the helmets of suits of armor and great bunches of mistletoe had been hung at intervals along the corridors. Large groups of girls tended to converge underneath the mistletoe bunches every time Harry went past, which caused blockages in the corridors; fortunately, however, Harry’s frequent nighttime wanderings had given him an unusually good knowledge of the castle’s secret passageways, so that he was often, without too much difficulty, to navigate mistletoe-free routes between classes.

  Ron, who might once have found the necessity of these detours excuse for jealousy rather than hilarity, simply roared with laughter about it all. Although Harry much preferred this new laughing, joking Ron to the moody, aggressive model he had been enduring for the last few weeks, the improved Ron came at a heavy price. Firstly, Harry had to put up with the frequent presence of Lavender Brown, who seemed to regard any moment that she was not kissing Ron as a moment wasted; and secondly, Harry found himself once more the best friend of two people who seemed unlikely ever to speak to each other again.

  Ron, whose hands and forearms still bore scratches and cuts from Hermione’s bird attack, was taking a defensive and resentful tone.

  “She can’t complain,” he told Harry. “She snogged Krum. So she’s found out someone wants to snog me too. Well, it’s a free country. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed in the book they were supposed to have read before Charms next morning (Quintessence: A Quest). Determined as he was to remain friends with both Ron and Hermione, he was spending a lot of time with his mouth shut tight.

  “I never promised Hermione anything,” Ron mumbled. “I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn’s Christmas party with her, but she never said… just as friends… I’m a free agent…”

  Harry turned a page of Quintessence, aware that Ron was watching him. Ron’s voice trailed away in mutters, barely audible over the loud crackling of the fire, though Harry thought he caught the words “Krum” and “Can’t complain” again.

  Hermione’s schedule was so full that Harry could only talk to her properly in the evenings, when Ron was, in any case, so tightly wrapped around Lavender that he did not notice what Harry was doing. Hermione refused to sit in the common room while Ron was there, so Harry generally joined her in the library, which meant that their conversations were held in whispers.

  “He’s at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes,” said Hermione, while the librarian, Madam Pince, prowled the shelves behind them. “I really couldn’t care less.”

  She raised her quill and dotted an ‘i’ so ferociously that she punctured a hole in her parchment. Harry said nothing. He thought his voice might soon vanish from the lack of use. He bent a little lower over Advanced Potion-Making and continued to make notes on Everlasting Elixirs, occasionally pausing to decipher the prince’s useful additions to Libatius Borage’s text.

  “And incidentally,” said Hermione, after a few moments, “you need to be careful.”

  “For the last time,” said Harry, speaking in a slightly hoarse tone after three-quarters of an hour of silence, “I am not giving back this book. I’ve learned more from the Half-blood prince than Snape or Slughorn have taught me in—”

  “I’m not talking about your stupid so-called prince,” said Hermione, giving his book a nasty look as though it had been rude to her. “I’m talking about earlier. I went into the girl’s bathroom just before I came in here and there were about a dozen girls in there, including that Romilda Vane, trying to decide how to slip you a love potion. They’re all hoping they’re going to get you to take them to Slughorn’s party, and thay all seem to have bought Fred and George’s love potions, which I’m afraid to say probably work—”

  “Why didn’t you confiscate them then?” demanded Harry, it seemed extraordinary that Hermione’s mania for upholding the rules could have abandoned her at this crucial juncture.

  “They didn’t have the potions with them in the bathroom,” said Hermione scornfully, “They were just discussing tactics. As I doubt the Half-Blood Prince,” she gave the book another scornful look, “could dream up an antidote for a dozen different love potions at once, I’d just invite someone to go with you, that’ll stop all the others thinking they’ve still got a chance. It’s tomorrow night, they’re getting desperate.”

  “There isn’t anyone I want to invite,” mumbled Harry, who was still not trying to think about Ginny any more than he could help, despite the fact that she kept cropping up in his dreams in ways that made him devoutly thankful that Ron could not perform Legilimency.

  “Well, just be careful what you drink, because Romilda Vane looked like she meant business,” said Hermione grimly.

  She hitched up the long roll of parchment on which she was writing her Arithmancy essay and continued to scratch away with her quill. Harry watched her with his mind a long way away.

  “Hang on a moment,” he said slowly. “I thought Filch had banned anything bought at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes?”

  “And when has anyone ever paid attention to what Filch has banned?” asked Hermione, still concentrating on her essay.

  “But I thought all the owls were being searched. So how come these girls are able to bring love potions into the school?”

  “Fred and George send them disguised as perfumes and cough potions,” said Hermione. “It’s part of their Owl order service.”

  “You know a lot about it.”

  Hermione gave him the kind of nasty look she had just given his copy of Advanced Potion-Making.

  “It was all on the b
ack of the bottles they showed Ginny and me in the summer,” she said coldly, “I don’t go around putting potions in people’s drinks… or pretending too either, which is just as bad…”

  “Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Harry quickly. “The point is, Filch is being fooled, isn’t he? These girls are getting stuff into the school disguised as something else! So why couldn’t Malfoy have brought the necklace into the school—?”

  “Oh, Harry… not that again…”

  “Come on, why not?” demanded Harry.

  “Look,” sighed Hermione, “Secrecy Sensors detect jinxes, curses, and concealment charms, don’t they? They’re used to find dark magic and dark objects. They’d have picked up a powerful curse, like the one in the necklace, within seconds. But something that’s just been put in the wrong bottle wouldn’t register—anyway Love potions aren’t dark or dangerous—”

  “Easy for you to say,” muttered Harry, thinking of Romilda Vane.

  “—so it would be down to Filch to realise it wasn’t a cough potion, and he’s not a very good wizard, I doubt he can tell one potion from—”

  Hermione stopped dead; Harry had heard it too. Somebody had moved close behind them among the dark bookshelves. They waited, and a moment later the vulturelike countenance of Madam Pince appeared around the corner, her sunken cheeks, her skin like parchment, and her long hooked nose illuminated unflatteringly by the lamp she was carrying.

  “The library is now closed,” she said, “Mind you return anything you have borrowed to the correct—what have you been doing to that book, you depraved boy?”

  “It isn’t the library’s, it’s mine!” said Harry hastily, snatching his copy of Advanced Potion-Making off the table as she lunged at it with a clawlike hand.

  “Spoiled!” she hissed. “Desecrated, befouled!”

  “It’s just a book that’s been written on!” said Harry, tugging it out of her grip.