The Unexpected Task

CHAPTER FIVE

The Unexpected Task

Terry and I spent Saturday morning in the library finishing our homework. We were rather late for lunch when we finally put our scrolls back in our bags. The only other person left in the library was Viktor Krum, who seemed to like sitting there without opening a single book.

"Let's get out," I said to Terry, "before Krum's wretched fan club breaks the place apart with their giggling."

"Pity, my heart always melts like wax before I can ask for his autograph," Terry commented.

Sure enough, the crowd of giggling girls swept past us as we moved out, avidly speculating on which of them Krum would invite to the ball. Even the boys in the corridors were talking about the ball. An Irish voice from just around the corner was saying:

"I was never so scared in me life as when I asked her. But at least she accepted, so I don't have to worry any more. What about you; have you asked anyone yet?"

"Two people actually," his Cockney friend replied. "Just this mornin'. And the first said no, but the second said yes. It took a lot of courage to ask that second one, I can tell you..."

"So who said no to your dashing personality and noble character?" asked the Irishman playfully. "No, it's all right; you don't have to tell me – "

"I don't really mind tellin'; it was Ginny Weasley. Perhaps I'm too tall for her..."

The voices faded before I could hear who had accepted the Cockney. I looked at Terry. "Have you asked anyone yet?"

"No, I've been in fear and trembling with cowardice."

"You could ask Morag. I could ask Padma to fix it up if you don't want to ask her directly."

"Not Morag." Terry stood still for a moment. "I mean, I know she's your girlfriend's best friend, and she's all right. It's just that ... to be honest, there's another girl I like better."

"Ah. But you haven't asked her yet?"

"It's a matter of finding the courage, you see."

The Great Hall was almost empty by the time we finally arrived to help ourselves to tepid soup and half-stale bread rolls. In one corner of the Hufflepuff table, a small girl was weeping quietly into her mug. I recognised her as the same girl to whom Zabini had spoken twenty-four hours earlier.

"She might prefer to be left alone outside the camp," said Terry as I moved over towards her.

"I think I know what her problem is," I said. "It's – " Suddenly I began to cough and choke. I clutched the table-edge so as not to overbalance and found that tears were streaming from my eyes. Terry thumped my back, and by the time I had recovered, the tearful girl was staring up at me with interest.

Terry still did not want to interfere with the girl's business, but I sat down next to her. "Can I help you with anything?" I asked.

The girl startled and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve. "No," she said. "It's nothing."

"No, it isn't," I said. "You look as if someone has played a rotten trick on you, and you have every right to cry."

"How did you know that?" she choked. "Does everyone know about it?"

"No, no-one," I reassured her. But I could not meet her eye. "I mean ... no, I'm only guessing. But if it's anything to do with Blaise Zabini, he has his own reasons to want to keep quiet."

The first-year's eyes widened in speechless horror.

"So tell us the rest," I said. "Did that all-time stinker Blaise Zabini invite you to the Yule Ball?"

The girl nodded. "He seemed so kind yesterday. He said – he said I had a noble face and that he couldn't believe I didn't have a dancing partner already. And when I explained that I'm only in first year, he acted all surprised and said he wouldn't have guessed, I seemed so mature, and would I like to be his partner anyway? I was stupid to let myself be flattered."

"No, you're very intelligent to understand so quickly how you were fooled," I contradicted. "Some people take years to work out their own weaknesses." I'd read that line in a book somewhere, and I was glad it had come in useful. "He'd asked you to the ball, so why shouldn't you believe he really wanted to take you?"

"Because he's so good-looking. He's like a Renaissance painting. I should have known that a boy like that didn't need to resort to inviting first-years. At least, that's what he told me."

"What!" I was astounded. "He told you that he considers himself a painting?"

A ghost of a smile hovered around the girl's face. "No. Yesterday he only said he was honoured to have won my company so easily. It was like a fairy tale. I thought he was like a painting. I spend a lot of my school holidays in the art gallery, you see. Anyway, today I overheard him inviting a girl in Ravenclaw to be his partner. I was so shocked, I just sat there, watching him every second, until he'd finished his lunch."

"Did you discuss it with the Ravenclaw girl?"

She was slightly surprised. "No, I didn't think of that. Maybe I should do. She ought to know that she wasn't his first choice, oughtn't she? But I'm afraid I don't know her name. ... Anyway, I followed him out of the hall and asked, very sweetly and politely, if he still wanted to take me to the ball. And he said ... he said ..." She dissolved into tears again.

I pushed my handkerchief into her hand, pulled her own soaked cloth ball off her, shook it out, and performed a Scourgify charm on it. The name Laura Madley was clearly monogrammed in one corner.

The girl wiped her eyes again, took a deep breath, and recited: "He said: 'Take you? You're imagining things! Do you really think a man like me needs to resort to inviting a first-year to be his partner?' I said, 'But you asked me! Three of my friends heard you!' And he stopped laughing, and turned quite cold, and said, 'No, I did not,' and walked off."

"A liar and a promise-breaker," I intoned solemnly. "And malicious too."

"And how am I going to tell my friends that it's all off?" she asked, still sniffing a little.

I had a moment of inspiration. "You say that you changed your mind, of course. That you chucked him because you found out that he was a liar. Because you don't want to mess around with boys like that, do you?"

She nodded, as if this option might allow her a slight face-saver. "So I suppose I won't be going to the ball after all," she said in a small voice.

For a second I almost wondered if I should try to fix her up with Kevin or Anthony. That would give her the last laugh on Zabini, all right. But then I came to my senses. Professor Dumbledore wouldn't want an eleven-year-old girl to be drinking mulled mead at a late-night party surrounded by ravening Slytherin boys.

"Laura," I said, as kindly as I could, "I really think your best option would be to step onto the Hogwarts Express next Saturday and spend Christmas with your family. They'll enjoy a fortnight of having you at home far more than you'll enjoy a few hours of a teenagers' party."

She nodded, not happy with my advice, but apparently recognising that I was right. Suddenly she swapped the handkerchiefs back and sprang to her feet. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for showing me that not all boys are like Blaise Zabini."

As we chewed through the stale bread (the soup was now too cold to be considered), Terry asked, "What was her problem?"

Before I had even opened my mouth, I swallowed my bread the wrong way, and Terry had to thump my back again.

"Is the little girl going to be all right?" Terry asked.

I was about to launch into an explanation of Malfoy's bet with Zabini when suddenly my tongue felt stiff and dry. I found I couldn't speak.

Terry frowned. "What is going on, Michael? Has someone hexed you into dark and silence?"

This was a very perceptive question, and I almost wondered if it were the truth. "I don't think so," I said. "I'm speaking now after all. But, look, what I'm trying to tell you is – " And, on cue, I began choking again.

Terry told me that I needed to see Madam Pomfrey.

"I think it must be some kind of spell," I said. "But I don't get it. No-one has waved a wand at me. And there doesn't seem to be any general curse that strikes me dumb all the time. But when I try to talk about – um – certain things – well, how could such a specific spell be cast behind my back?"

"If it's an object you find you can't speak about," said Terry sagely, "that's probably because it's the object that's charmed so that no-one can speak about it. Don't you remember Flitwick telling us about that kind of stuff last year?"

"Yes, but it's not an object; it's – well, not an object. I don't see how anyone could put that kind of spell on something – uh – intangible. Which is what this is."

"Well, never mind. Do you need to talk about it?"

I was about to say that I did when I remembered that I had had no trouble at all discussing it with Laura Madley. So perhaps there wasn't a spell after all.

The food vanished off the tables while we were still swallowing our final mouthfuls. Some invisible spell from downstairs obliterated the scraps of food from the surfaces, and suddenly the bare table in front of us was gleaming, as if an invisible cloth full of polish had swept down its length. Terry and I pushed back our benches just in time to escape being drawn into the spell that was dragging the tables away towards the walls, leaving the centre of the hall empty. The clock was showing five minutes to two, and Madam Hooch was leading a crowd of students through the doorway, ready for the promised dancing lesson.