Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures

Chapter 995: The Game Begins

At the same time, Snape was no less obviously partisan: He had booked the Quidditch pitch for Slytherin practice so often that the Gryffindors had difficulty getting on it to play.

He was also turning a deaf ear to the many reports of Slytherin attempts to hex Gryffindor players in the corridors. When Alicia Spinnet turned up in the hospital wing with her eyebrows growing so thick and fast that they obscured her vision and obstructed her mouth, Snape insisted that she must have attempted a Hair-Thickening Charm on herself and refused to listen to the fourteen eyewitnesses who insisted that they had seen the Slytherin Keeper, Miles Bletchley, hit her from behind with a jinx while she worked in the library.

So much so that Dumbledore’s Army’s first external activity was to protect the members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Gryffindor was getting better and better, and they had never lost to Slytherin since Harry joined the team.

They were full of confidence and believed that they would definitely win this forthcoming game.

The only change and weakness this term was probably Ron, but he had improved a lot compared to before. During one memorable practice, he had hung one-handed from his broom and kicked the Quaffle so hard away from the goal hoop that it soared the length of the pitch and through the center hoop at the other end.

Everyone who saw this scene thought that this save compared favorably with one made recently by Barry Ryan, the Irish International Keeper, against Poland’s top Chaser, Ladislaw Zamojski. It was a world-class level, the most exciting save at Hogwarts in recent years, a classic and dreamlike move.

Even Fred had said that Ron might yet make him and George proud, and that they were seriously considering admitting that he was related to them, something he assured Ron they had been trying to deny for over a decade.

But Ron had one problem: he was too easily nervous and cared too much about what others thought.

His greatest weakness was a tendency to lose confidence when he made a blunder; if he let in one goal he became flustered and was therefore likely to miss more.

The Slytherins quickly noticed this. After they could no longer attack the Gryffindor players at will, they changed their tactics and resorted to verbal attacks. In reality, this tactic had no effect on the older players.

Harry, for example, had endured their snide comments for more than four years, so whispers of, “Hey, Potty, I heard Warrington’s sworn to knock you off your broom on Saturday,” far from chilling his blood, made him laugh.

And, he would reply, “Warrington’s aim’s so pathetic I’d be more worried if he was aiming for the person next to me.”

And, he would laugh back loudly, to the displeasure of the person who was threatening him.

But Ron had never endured a relentless campaign of insults, jeers, and intimidation. When Slytherins, some of them seventh years and considerably larger than he was, muttered as they passed in the corridors, “Got your bed booked in the hospital wing, Weasley?” he did not laugh, but turned a delicate shade of green.

When Draco Malfoy and others imitated Ron’s previous mishandling of the Quaffle, direct collisions with the ground, and his poor performances from the past, Ron’s ears glowed red and his hands shook so badly that he was likely to drop whatever he was holding at the time too.

In summary, October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces.

The skies and the ceiling of the Great Hall turned a pale, pearly gray, the mountains around Hogwarts became snowcapped.

The temperature in the castle dropped so far that many students wore their thick protective dragon skin gloves in the corridors between lessons.

The morning of the match dawned bright and cold; and Ron entered his most nervous stage.

That morning, Ron had been sitting bolt upright on his bed, staring fixedly into space, looking pale, and sweaty; just like when he had accidentally put a slug-vomiting charm on himself a long time ago, except that he didn’t actually spit out slugs.

Facing the encouragement from Evan, Harry, Hermione and others, he just kept nodding numbly.

“Ron, you all right?”

Ron nodded but did not speak.

“Don’t be too nervous. Just show your performance during training.”

Ron nodded again and stared at the Starcatcher in his hand.

“You just need some breakfast!”

Ron nodded, stood up stiffly, and followed them outside.

They exchanged glances. This state wouldn’t do. They could only hope that he would perform better once on the pitch.

The Great Hall was filling up fast when they arrived, the talk louder and the mood more exuberant than usual.

As they passed the Slytherin table, there was an upsurge of noise.

Nearly everyone there was wearing, in addition to the usual green-and-silver scarves and hats, silver badges in the shape of what seemed to be crowns.

“What’s written on those badges?” Harry asked in confusion.

“I don’t know, can’t see. Probably imitating what we did before. Come on, let’s not stand here,” said Hermione.

In the previous year, during the decisive match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, Evan, Hermione and Sirius made nearly a thousand badges and slogans for free and distributed them to Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw students, as well as the hot air balloons and promotional posters floating outside the stadium. They turned the entire pitch into Gryffindor’s home ground, leaving a lasting impression.

In terms of momentum, the Slytherin team had already lost at that time.

They received a rousing welcome at the Gryffindor table, where everyone was wearing red and gold scarves and hats.

Angelina asked them to place the Firebolt and the Starcatchers in the center of the long table, where everyone could clearly see the three broomsticks.

This undoubtedly put a lot of pressure on Slytherin, but far from raising Ron’s spirits the cheers seemed to sap the last of his morale.

He collapsed onto the nearest bench looking as though he were facing his final meal.

“I must’ve been mental to do this,” he said in a croaky whisper. “Mental!”

“Don’t be thick,” said Harry firmly, passing him a choice of cereals. “You’re going to be fine. It’s normal to be nervous.”

“I’m rubbish,” croaked Ron. “I’m lousy. I can’t play to save my life. What was I thinking?”

“Get a grip,” said Harry sternly. “Look at that save you made with your foot the other day, even Fred and George said it was brilliant…”

Ron turned a tortured face to Harry, and then turned to the cheering people.

“That was an accident,” he whispered miserably, speaking his mind and the actual situation.  “I didn’t mean to do it — I slipped off my broom when none of you were looking and I was trying to get back on and I kicked the Quaffle by accident.”

“Well,” said Harry, recovering quickly from this unpleasant surprise, “a few more accidents like that and the game’s in the bag, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, Ron, you can do it, you have no technical problems!”

Evan, Hermione and Ginny sat down opposite them, wearing gold and red scarves and gloves.

And Hermione and Ginny had rosettes on their clothes.

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