Chapter- 12 : A Dementor's Kiss and Quidditch Bliss

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I was concerned about my Horcruxes. If a Weasley was capable of stealing one of them, then they weren't nearly as safe as I had presumed. My first instinct was to gather up my poor soul pieces and never again let them out of my sight. Unfortunately, after many hours of deliberation, I decided that I couldn't risk hiding five Dark artifacts under my bed, at least not with Dumbledore's keen eyes always upon me. Watching.

Yet, after destroying Diary, I was left with only four Horcruxes, two less than I'd originally intended. For my own peace of mind, I would have to create a new one. Now, I just needed to find someone I wanted to kill.

That shouldn't be too hard. Used to happen all the time.

I skimmed the Prophet, whose title proclaimed the escape of Sirius Black.

"My right hand man, hm. You think I'd remember something like that."

I shrugged. I'd certainly forgotten more important things over the past twelve years. Besides, the Blacks were a Dark family, so of course he was one of mine.

It was a pity to lose him. After all, not every minion could escape from Azkaban. That's the sort of talent that can conquer a nation.

I almost regretted abandoning my previous activities. But not quite.

"Dementors!" I ranted. "What could possibly convince Dumbledore to bring dementors into the school?"

Hermione said, "It's just to keep us safe from Sirius Black, Harry."

"Right, right, of course it is. They're protecting us from an emaciated, wandless convict who might want to kill some of us by hiring a hundred Dark creatures that definitely want to eat all of our souls. However did I forget?"

Dementors are terrifying. I might have cut up and scattered my soul, but I assure you, I'm quite attached to it.

I really needed to make that Horcrux. Surely no one would miss a Weasley or two?

"The grim!" Trelawney cried, skeletal hands fluttering around her mouth. "You're in grave danger, Mr. Potter. Very grave danger."

"I'm always in grave danger," I said. It wasn't like I sought out these things, precisely. It's more that getting what I want often involves dangerous situations, and I happen to be immortal.

"You could die," she insisted.

One of the Gryffindor girls, probably Lavender, shrieked.

I snorted. "Not likely."

"I've heard you do this every year," Hermione snapped. "Tell some poor student they're going to die and scare them. But they never do."

"Come to think of it," I mumbled. "Why don't you ever predict the deaths that actually occur? Like the Perks girl."

Hermione sighed. "Harry, Sally-Anne moved."

"Yes, that's what they told us," I said, patting her reassuringly on the arm. "Of course, most of those deaths are First or Second Years, who naturally wouldn't have your class. I imagine you wouldn't even see them except in the Great Hall…Wait, is that why you never come to meals?"

"I…" Trelawney was taken aback at my insight. "Yes, I'm afraid that's true. A prophecy, once spoken, can never be averted you know. And it's such a terrible thing to see those poor, doomed children. Now, back to your teacups, everyone. I can sense your third eyes fluttering shut!"

"We don't have Dark Magic!" Ron yelped.

I suppressed an exasperated sigh. "Ron, all pure-blood families have Dark Magic. If you don't know about yours, it's because your family doesn't trust you."

Horror filled his Weasley eyes. "Why wouldn't they trust me?"

"You're the sixth son, Ron. That's easily three more sons than they need. They won't tell you a thing until you've proven yourself worthy."

He leaned forward, desperate to learn more. "How do I do that?"

I thought for a moment. "Have you tried asking? That would show that you're smart enough to know about these things."

Ron grinned, clapping me on the back. "Thanks, mate. You're the best."

A Howler chased Ron out of the Great Hall, spitting smoke and screeching.

"HOW DARE YOU ASK US ABOUT DARK MAGIC! JUST WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU DOING IN THAT SCHOOL, RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY? WHY, I SHOULD…"

I bit into a piece of bacon, contemplating the very public response. A brilliant ploy. The Weasley matriarch was cunning, indeed.

"Can we go back inside, now?" I whined.

"No," Ron said.

He had forced me to attend a Quidditch match because I owed him for the Howler incident. The intricacies of maintaining a friendship never ceased to baffle me. I'd usually not bother with such things. However, the boy's loyalty depended upon his delusion that he was my "best mate," and it would take months to break in a new Weasley.

I groaned. "But it's pouring rain!"

"So what? You're not even wet."

Hermione asked, "Why is that, anyway?"

"I'm Harry Potter," I said.

"That doesn't mean any-"

"Oh, look, the game's starting."

Hermione fell into a disgruntled but obedient silence while the players zipped about in the rain.

Quidditch, such a ridiculous game. It's entirely reliant upon the skill of the seeker, unless one team is ridiculously outmatched, in which case the seeker is superfluous.

Furthermore, the Quidditch games' points are far too tied into the House Cup, which irked me greatly during my first time as a student. There I was answering questions, acing tests, charming professors, and earning loads of points, only for one clumsy seeker to ruin our chances of winning.

I do not lose.

Therefore, I convinced the Ravenclaw and Slytherin seekers to sit on the field for a week while their chasers racked up so many points that one of our Houses would win even if the teachers blatantly cheated in favor of the others. That was the first year I won the House Cup for Slytherin and the reason that Hogwarts games are no longer allowed to last more than three days.

Pleased at my victory over foolishness, I'd cheerfully gone back to ignoring the sport.

"This is boring," I said.

Ron's face wrinkled with the effort of thinking. "What do you mean? Didn't you see that dive by Spinnet?"

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