by
Catherine King
Much later, the whole team was still outside screaming in fright and screeching with laughter. The Sippi triplets had learned a trick over holiday: stand upright on their broomsticks while flying. Surprisingly, they all managed to catch players who were off guard and still managed to catch the Quaffle.
“Yes, it’s Sippi #2 tearing the field in style, rather well-known for his knowledge on the subject of flirtology,” was Lawrence’s idea of commentating about him. “Slytherin Keeper No One dives - pathetically misses - Gryffindor scores, making it a bazillion to zero!” Lawrence jumped onto his broomstick and whooped loudly.
“Ha-ha!” laughed Whitney.
They played for a few more minutes in silence. The Quaffle had fallen to the ground, so Harry had to throw it back up again. When Harry came back up, a sudden pain to his forehead caused him to yell.
“Hey, Captain, what’s wrong? Don’t tell us you think our playing stinks,” came Helen’s voice to his right.
“Oh no, no, no, you play fine, it’s just that-“
“Harry?” said Ron’s voice far above him. “What is that shadow doing there?”
Everyone turned to where Ron was pointing.
A large, dark shadow had crept to the top of the bleachers. It simply couldn’t be a cloud shadow, because the starry sky was clear and cool.
But while everyone stared at it, the shadow did something no shadow could do - it lifted itself off the ground and headed straight for the team.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Everyone jumped higher, especially Harry, the pain in his forehead unnaturally sharp.
They all flew higher and higher, faster and faster; the shadow kept on going higher, following them, until…
“Okay, I think that that thing reached its height limit.”
The whole team flew down to the opposite end of the bleachers from where the shadow had come, watching it slink to the other side. Harry frowned.
“This is bad,” he said. “We’d best get to Hagrid’s. You all know Hagrid, right?”
The Sippi triplets said “Yeah…” in muffled voices. Helen said, “What’s the rush, Harry?”
“My scar hurt.”
“Go to Madam Pomfrey,” said Whitney. (Madam Pomfrey: a. k. a. the nurse)
Ron turned to her. “If his scar is hurting, You-Know-Who might be nearby.”
And Harry immediately saw, behind those screens of gray, blue, and hazel, was nothing but fear.
“Yer talkin’ codswallop.”
Harry, Ron, and the rest of the Quidditch team had just told Hagrid what had happened. He was shaking his head.
“Dunno what’s gotten in ter ya. Yeh’ve been in the sun too long, that’s what.”
“Then how come my scar hurt?” demanded Harry furiously.
Hagird shrugged. “Coincidence.”
Just then Charles called out, “Hey, look!”
Harry looked. Tearing to the small hut was a person Harry had never seen before. As the person came nearer, Harry realized that it was a woman wearing beige robes and an anxious expression.
She burst in and gasped for breath.
“Sorry to break in, Rubeus, I -”
“Sit down, Arla, sit down.”
“Thanks.”
Harry noticed at once that this woman was a professor (and a pretty one, too). Her shoulder-length hair was light brown and fell straight down. Her eyes were like chocolate (mmm…), her skin was Asian, and her arm, which she put up to smooth her hair, was like a birch tree.
Ron poked Harry in the ribs and whispered, “That’s Professor Gradison!”
“Anyway,” Professor Gradison went on, “Professor Dumbledore sent me to tell you that - that He-Who-Mustn’t-Be-Named has been seen around the area.”
