Ron-Weasly book 2. part 8

Chapter 8 Going to get a book.

At the beginning of the year, Lockhart staged a fight with Cornish pixies in the classroom, the fight did not end very successfully. Since then, he has been reading excerpts from his own books to us in class or acting out scenes taken from there, which in his opinion are the most impressive. We tried to complain to our dean, but she said that we simply couldn't get rid of this peacock by the end of the year. Damn the contract with the school, it's good that it's not indefinite, but only for a year.

He played himself, the wizard, in class, and Harry usually took on other roles. And Harry, in front of the whole class, portrayed a Transylvanian peasant suffering from a Talkative spell, a cold-stricken snowman, or a vampire who, after meeting Lockhart, could not stand blood and ate only lettuce leaves. It's complete nonsense. I remembered our ghoul. A lesser vampire, though. And it feeds on meat and blood. The farmers are slaughtering the pig and dragging the blood to us. They know what we need. And I like fried blood. Mom knows about this, and that's why she fries half a liter for me in a frying pan.

In another defense against the dark arts lesson, Harry played a werewolf. We could have struck a pose and refused, but we decided to appease the "teacher."

"That's a wonderful howl, Harry, very natural. I rushed at him, knocked him to the ground and put a magic wand to his throat. Summoning the last of his strength, he cast the most difficult Conversion spell, and the werewolf let out a plaintive moan. Shriller! Yeah, that's it. His fur disappeared, his fangs shrank, and he turned into a mere mortal. Shriller! Yeah, that's it. His fur disappeared, his fangs shrank, and he turned into a mere mortal. It's simple, but unforgettable, and for the people of that village, I'm now a hero. I got rid of the werewolf. — Does he even understand what he's talking about? Or was there an animagus wolf gone crazy? McGonagall said that if you stay in your animagus form often and for a long time, you can lose your human self in the beast.

The bell rang and Lockhart got up from his desk.

"Homework: to compose poems about my victory over the werewolf from Wagga Wagga. To the author of the best — an autographed copy of my book "I am a magician"."

The students rushed out into the hallway, and Harry walked to the back of the classroom to me and Hermione.

"So what?" Harry asked quietly.

"Wait until everyone leaves." Hermione was clearly worried. "Now let's go..."

She approached Lockhart, nervously clutching a piece of paper in her hand. Harry and I hurried after her.

"P... Professor Lockhart, I would... uh... like to borrow this book from the library. I wanted to read it," Hermione stammered and handed him the paper with the title with a trembling hand. "But, you see, she's in a Special section, and that's why... uh... the teacher's permission is needed. I wanted to understand the slow-acting poisons that you write about in Fun with Ghouls...."

"Ah, "Fun with ghouls."" Lockhart took the paper and smiled broadly. "This is probably my favorite book. Do you like it?"

"I really like it," said Hermione briskly. "How cleverly you then drained the poison with a tea strainer!"

What did he do? Yes, even I understand that this is nonsense. And how is such a clever witch guided by his books? Or was she just trying to appease him?

"Well, it's my duty to help the best student", Lockhart smiled and took out a huge peacock feather. I shuddered, but Lockhart understood it in his own way: "It's beautiful, isn't it?" He asked. "I keep it for autographs."

He made an intricate flourish and returned the paper to Hermione, who hurriedly folded it and hid it in her backpack.

"Is tomorrow the first match of the season?" Lockhart turned to Harry. "Gryffindor versus Slytherin? They say you're showing great promise. I used to be a hunter, too. I was even invited to join the national team, but I refused and dedicated my life to saving the world from the dark forces. However, I'm still pretty good at playing, and if you want, I'll teach you a few tricks. I am always happy to share my experience with beginners..."

Harry grunted his thanks and hurried after us. We paused in the hallway for a moment.

"Wow," Harry remarked in surprise, looking at the Lockhart painting, "I didn't even look at the book."

We rushed to the library like it was on fire.

"You're a brainless idiot," I said as I walked. "However, it doesn't matter, because we got what we wanted from him."

"He's not a brainless idiot", Hermione intervened.

"Of course, you're his best student...." I said irritably.

In the library, we were allowed to speak only in whispers, and we fell silent. Madame Pince, a nervous, gaunt woman who looked like a hungry vulture, reached for the paper with Lockhart's signature on it, but Hermione wouldn't let go of it.

""Potent potions"?" Madam Pince repeated suspiciously and tried to take the paper from Hermione again.

"Can I keep my permission?" Hermione asked timidly.

That's it. But couldn't she just ask for his autograph? Okay, I'll go up to him for Christmas and tell him to write congratulations to Hermione instead of a gift. I'm generally poor this year. And I'll make Harry a talking postcard. You don't need a wand to enchant there. You just imagine what a postcard should sing when you draw it and it sings.

"Come on." I snatched the paper from her and handed it to Madame Pince. "Get another autograph. Lockhart will sign up for anything, just say a word."

Madame Pince held the paper up to the light, as if she doubted its authenticity, left with it, and returned about five minutes later, holding a large, dilapidated volume in her hands. Hermione carefully hid the book in her backpack, and we slowly left the library with the most innocent look.

Myrtle the Crybaby locked himself in the bathroom. I didn't want to at first, but Hermione reasoned with me: what normal person would think of going there? Therefore, no one will interfere with us. True, Myrtle was crying in her cubicle, as always, but what do we care about her, and anyway, she cares about us. It doesn't flood us with water, and that's fine.

Hermione carefully opened the "Potent Potions" and we bent over the moldy pages. It was no accident that the book was kept in a Special Section: some potions had a truly monstrous effect, and there was nothing to say about illustrations like a man turned inside out and a witch with her hands on top of her head.

"Here it is," said Hermione happily, finding the page under the heading "Polyjuice Potion." The transformation itself was depicted on the page.

I read it and looked at the illustrations. Is she seriously hoping to cook it? In the bathroom?! Okay, but where is she going to get the ingredients?

"What a complex composition!" Hermione remarked, tracing the lines with her finger. "Goldeneye, leeches, algae, knotweed-they're all in the potion ingredients cupboard. And here is the crushed horn of a two-horned one! Where can I get it? Or is there another grated boomslang skin? But what about the parts of the person you want to turn into?"

"What's that?" I grimaced. "What other particles? I'm going to swallow Crabbe's nails!"

"Fortunately, the particles will be needed at the very end." Hermione didn't seem to hear me.

I was hoping for Harry's sympathy, but he didn't seem to care.

"Listen, Hermione, there's so much to steal!" There's no boomslang skin in the school closet, so why break into Snape's personal supplies? That's kind of it....

Hermione couldn't stand it anymore and slammed the book shut.

"Well, whatever you want. If you're a coward, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled," I won't break the rules either. But how else can we save the poor Muggleborns? The potion is the only salvation. But I see you don't care who their enemy is. I'm going to return the book to the library right now...."

"Oh, my God! Hermione herself is trying to persuade us to break the school rules. Okay, so be it, I agree to eat my nails and rob Snape, just keep in mind that if Snape catches me or Harry doing this, we'll be out of school before we can say Quidditch." I waved my hand. "But it would be nice to have no nails after all! Won't your hair do?"

"They'll do."

Phew. Although this is not the most unpleasant thing in the potion. Judging by the pictures, it tastes very nasty.

"Okay, I have goldglasses and seaweed in my potion kit."

Hermione calmed down and opened the book again.

"How long does it take to make this potion?" Harry asked.

"Algae is harvested on a full moon, golden eyes are infused for three weeks. That means about a month, if we get everything we need. Ron, do you have any properly harvested seaweed in your kit?"

"No, I have a new moon gathering. Damn, they also collect them in the lake."

"A month? Malfoy will take out a good half of the Mugglebloods in a month!" I shouted, but Hermione narrowed her eyes in disdain, and Harry had to hurriedly add:

"Okay, we have no other plan, so full speed ahead!"

It seems useless to argue with her, and I want to do something. I'm already tired of my lessons, and they definitely won't send me my uniform until Christmas. Mom wrote that it would be too big for me and she needed to fit it to my size. And they don't have the money for a stick this year. I also have to pay my father's fine to the ministry. Hermione came out of the bathroom to check if anyone was around, and I whispered in Harry's ear:

"Better knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow — less hassle."

* * *

Harry got dressed and went to breakfast. In the Large Hall, the whole team was already sitting at a long table, quiet and on pins and needles. When I got to the great hall, Harry was eating fried eggs and sausages. I pulled the plate of fried eggs and bacon towards me. Hermione was finishing her porridge with her face buried in a Lockhart book.

It was an overcast and heavy day, and a thunderstorm was about to break out. By noon, the whole school had gone to the stadium. Hermione and I ran to the locker room to wish Harry luck...

The audience greeted the Gryffindors with enthusiastic shouts: not only their own people were rooting for them, but also Ravenclaw and Halfpuff. However, the Slytherins did not sit in silence either: they greeted the opponent with boos. The referee, Madame Hooch, invited the team captains to shake hands, and they exchanged too much force and glared at each other.

"On the whistle!" shouted Madam Hooch.... "Three... two... one!"

Driven by the roar of the crowd, the fourteen players soared into the leaden sky. Harry raced ahead of everyone.

"Hey, scarface!" Malfoy shouted and boastfully swept under Harry on a new broom.

Harry didn't answer: a big black ball was flying at him, he barely dodged, even the hair on his head was tousled. Damn, another centimeter and there would have been a broken head.

George rushed past Harry and sent a bludger at Adrian Pusey with a strong blow of the bat, but halfway through the ball turned and headed back towards Harry. He slowed down sharply, and George forcefully sent a bludger at Malfoy, but the ball turned like a boomerang and hit Harry on the head, fortunately not hard. Damn, I hope my friend doesn't lose his last brain like that. Otherwise, you can remain a moron. That's why the goalkeeper always wears a helmet. And professional players wear protective shields and helmets. If they want to, of course. But Pedl carry guns. Especially after the leg injury of the last catcher of the team.

Speeding up, Harry raced to the other end of the field, the ball whistling after him. What's happening? According to the rules, Bludgers do not chase after one person, but knock out as many players as possible.

Fred took the ball at the other end of the field. The twins put their badges on top of their uniforms during the game. Harry ducked, Fred hit the ball with all his might, and Harry walked away from him again.

"Hurrah!" my brother shouted in triumph. It was not there: the restless bludger rushed at Harry again, and he had to run away again.

It started to rain. The school commentator Lee Jordan shouted:

"Sixty-zero, Slytherin is in charge."

No wonder, their brooms are faster, and that ball is chasing Harry like crazy. The twins were circling each other all the time, preventing the crazy blaster from knocking each other to the ground.

The referee's whistle blew, and Harry and the twins, dodging the crazy bludger, rushed to the ground to the deafening boos of the Slytherin fans. Wood gathered the whole team around him.

After about 5 minutes, Madame Hooch hurried across the field to the team. Behind her, the Slytherin players were making faces, laughing, pointing fingers at Harry.

The rain increased. At the referee's whistle, Harry soared into the sky, and immediately the bludger began to whiz through the air behind him. Harry rose higher and higher, threw himself down like a stone, looped, went into a tailspin, took off in a zigzag, described turns. The audience in the stands laughed and clapped — aerobatics! This was the only salvation for Harry, the ball was clearly inferior in maneuverability. My friend was racing over the field, as if on a roller coaster, and watching Adrian Pusey out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to get around Wood and get one of Gryffindor's rings. Holy shit! Now it whistled past his ear, but the ball missed again. Harry raced back, the ball did not lag behind, Harry spun like a top.

"Have you signed up for ballet, Potter?" Malfoy shouted.

Harry raced away, turned around on the fly, looked at Malfoy with disgust and saw a golden snitch a few centimeters above his left ear. Malfoy was dying of laughter and did not see the Snitch.

Harry froze in place. Damn it! Don't slow down, friend!

The ball caught him and broke his right arm. His arm hung limply. He almost slipped off the wet broom. The malevolent ball turned around and aimed at Harry's head. Harry ducked.

Harry ran like an arrow through the murk of the rain towards Malfoy. The grin on his face was replaced by fright: it seemed to him that Harry was going to ram.

"What are you!" Malfoy shouted and flew away.

Harry let go of the broom and reached out with his good hand, grabbing the wet, cold snitch.

Clutching the broom only with his knees, he began to fall rapidly, trying not to lose consciousness. The audience gasped in fright.

Harry fell into the mud, his broken arm twisted unnaturally, and the broom rolled away. There was whistling and shouting in the stands.

"We won," he groaned and fainted.

We immediately rushed to him on the field. Damn, someone get Lockhart out of here! Lockhart bent over Harry, giving him a dazzling smile. My friend finally woke up.