Chapter 18 — Hermione's Well-Meant Words, Cold to the Crowd
Picking up from last time: Harry suddenly bowed. Snape stared, then pulled a nasty face, like seeing a troll in a tutu or a goblin playing cute.
He sneered, "Aha! So our famous Mr. Potter does know the word 'respect.'"
Had Harry heard that in Potions, he'd have fought three hundred rounds. But after the visit to Hagrid's and learning the past, he couldn't flare up now.
Blood ties are thick, yet right and wrong are clear: first loves as children, a later love cutting in. Love curdled to spite; cruel words followed.
Harry said, "I was rash in class today. I beg the professor's indulgence."
The more deferential he was, the more Snape disliked it. "Enough, Potter! I didn't come to hear apologies—don't posture to disgust me!"
Seeing him blown off his hinges, Harry felt a pang of pity; even barbs couldn't rile him.
Dumbledore coughed. "Severus, Harry is still a child."
Harry bowed again. "No need, Headmaster. My father wronged the professor; a son inherits the debt. I have no complaint."
"Stop, Potter! What's with that look! Who are you pitying?"
Harry ignored him and left. The door shut; Snape swung on Dumbledore. "What did you tell him?"
"My dear Severus, I told him nothing of the past," Dumbledore said. "He must've heard elsewhere."
Snape ground his teeth. "Best not let me find the blabbermouth. I'll pour a hundred bottles of Tongue-Fattening Draught down their throat."
To the point: Harry left the office and headed for the Great Hall. Halfway there he found it dark and turned back to the common room.
He gave the Fat Lady the password; the door swung wide—and Fred and George burst from both sides, hoisting Harry onto their shoulders.
"Cheer! Our lion-king returns!"
With them leading, Gryffindors whooped, piping whistles, donning pointy hats, hanging banners, decking the room like a centenarian's birthday feast.
Perched on two shoulders, Harry puzzled: not his birthday—what's with the fuss?
"Hail, great savior!"
"Brilliant, Harry! I've not seen Snape eat crow in years."
"One small step for Harry, one giant leap for Gryffindor!"
"The cub bagged the serpent's head!"
He pieced it together: the celebration was for humiliating Snape in Potions. Slytherin had taken the House Cup six years straight; Gryffindors bowed their heads in the corridors. To see their Head of House eat humble pie—ecstasy.
Fred and George set Harry by the fireplace; students of every year crowded in, offering congratulations and asking the secret of swearing at Snape without losing points.
Harry thought: this is grownups' business—their elders' entanglement. How could he tell them?
As the questions mounted, a voice called from the edge: "I say, let's drop it. If everyone pokes Snape and he blows his top, that won't end well."
Heads turned; the speaker's red hair showed though his face did not—clearly Ron.
Students nodded. Hermione added, "We should think about how to earn points from other professors, not provoke Professor Snape."
Golden words at the wrong time—like dousing coals with water, raising smoke and sending people drifting away.
Ignored, Hermione twisted her robe hem, at a loss.
Nearly Headless Nick hummed a verse and floated off:
Gryffindor, flushed with triumph, strong;
Into the serpent's den they throng.
Granger counsels prudence—right—
Cold water cools the hall tonight.
When the others dispersed, Harry bowed. "Thanks for the save, Big Sister, Brother."
"No problem—we're friends, aren't we?"
Ron spoke while busy with his hands. From his robe bundle he unwrapped roast chicken, rashers, hard bread—goodies.
"Harry, you haven't eaten."
The smells curled into his nose; Harry beamed. "Good brother! I'd have gone hungry without you."
Cross-legged, he ate and told them what Dumbledore had said—skipping the Unbreakable Vow.
Hermione frowned. "The Headmaster doesn't want you in danger, but won't tell you about a villain who might already be in the school?
"Isn't that contradictory?"
Ron thought long and came up empty. "There's a big conspiracy in there somewhere."
"Step by step," Harry said around a mouthful. "Once my weapon's forged, even a strongman won't scare me."
Another quiet week passed—Hogwarts calm as a millpond. Harry wasn't a frog in warm water; he pressed Flitwick again and again to make the goblins stoke the fires and finish the blade.
Half a month later, Flying class began—first-years cheered.
Flying was beloved in the wizarding world; there was even a sport—Quidditch—like Muggles' football: no one didn't know it or love it.
Harry's heart itched; he thought of riding a sword like an immortal. At the pitch he learned it was brooms.
"All right," Madam Hooch called, "everyone stand by a broom. Move!"
Harry picked a straight, sturdy one.
"Good. Now place your hand over your broom and shout. Any questions?"
She'd barely finished when Harry said, "I have one!
"We weigh scores of pounds. Can a broom bear that?
"And won't it… hurt the crotch?"
A first-year's classmates only yearned to fly; only the scarred lad spoke to the point. Would brooms bruise the boy's… point? To know, hear next time.
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