Chapter 147: Buzzing of An Annoying Bug (1/2)
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The link is also in the synopsis.
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[The chapter is edited by my Editor: Alan_Loo/AlanL]
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”I know I'm productive and all, but they can't just foist all of this stuff on me. I'm a busy man for magic's sake,” grumbled Quinn, making his way to the dungeons.
He had just exited charms class when McGonagall cornered him out of the classroom and handed him a task.
”It's my only free break. I'm bloody booked for the rest of the day,” he said, taking a turn. He could finally see his destination.
However, when he had been within an earshot of the room, he heard a voice yelling out in a tone that was as unpleasant as nails scratching against a chalkboard.
”Antidotes! You should all have prepared your recipes by now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then, we will choose someone that will try one...”
Quinn peeked inside from the classroom's door. Snape was looking over his class. His students looked visibly uncomfortable.
'Aha... So that's how everyone looks in Snape's class, huh,' thought Quinn, feeling the vibe oozing out of the room. Quinn never felt it while in class as he was busy brewing potions and doing his homework.
He stood there and enjoyed everyone looking super uncomfortable for a few more seconds before knocking on the dungeon door, shattering the painful silence.
He entered the classroom and made his way to Snape's desk.
”Yes, Mr. West?” said Snape curtly.
”Good afternoon, Professor. I'm supposed to take Mr. Potter upstairs,” said Quinn, smiling, as he turned his face towards the class. Harry was looking at him, with his sister Ivy and Hermione sitting behind him.
He turned back to look up at Snape, who stared down at him. There was no joy on his face or any delight in his eyes. The man looked like he had just come out of Azkaban.
”Potter has another hour of potions to complete,” said Snape coldly. ”He will accompany you when this class is finished.”
”I am aware of that, sir, but he is needed upstairs,” replied Quinn, matching eyes with Potion master, ”All the champions are being summoned up to take photographs for the press release. From what I have been made aware of, Mr. Bagman and Mr. Couch along with the Daily Prophet team, have already arrived, so I think it's of priority that Mr. Potter gets up there.”
Harry, on his seat, looked both glad and uncomfortable. He was more than happy to exit the Potion class, but he wished Quinn wouldn't have told them details. He glanced to his right to look at Ron, who was sitting with Dean Thomas.
”Very well,” Snape snapped. ”Potter, leave your things here. I want you back down here later to test your antidote.”
”Actually, Mr. Potter, bring your things along,” interjected Quinn, directly addressing Harry. ”They want to see you in your school attire, book bag and everything.”
”Very well!” said Snape. ”Potter- take your bag and get out of my sight!”
Quinn ignored Snape's tone and words and moved back to the door. He saw Harry swung his bag over his shoulder, got up, and headed for the door.
”Now that wasn't pleasant, was it, Harry,” chuckled Quinn when they were out of earshot of the classroom. ”His mood was worse than usual. Did something happen?”
”... I don't know,” replied Harry, looking down at the floor as he walked. ”That git is always in a bad mood... ugh, why does he have to be so nasty to everyone.”
”Hmm... I have no idea,” answered Quinn. No way Quinn was going to explain to him that Snape pinned after his mother.
Harry looked up from the ground and turned to glance at Quinn. Out of all the students he had seen interact with Snape, Quinn was the only one who looked comfortable doing so. Other than him, no one wanted to have a prolonged conversation with Snape.
His eyes caught the badge on Quinn's robe as it turned from Krum's name to his.
”You made those.”
”Hmm?” Quinn glanced at Harry and then followed his eyes to the badge on his lapel. ”That I did. You like them?”
”Yeah, I saw the A.I.D. mark on the back,” said Harry, putting his hand into his pocket, feeling his own badge. He looked up and then asked what he wanted to know, ”But Malfoy has been distributing these, why?”
”Mr. Malfoy was the one who came up with the idea,” answered Quinn, ”I suggested some changes and produced them. I offered to take on the distribution, but he wanted to do it on his own. I guess he is doing fine, given that almost all students have a badge.”
”Did Malfoy really come up with this?”
Quinn chuckled in reply, ”I won't lie, Harry. Mr. Malfoy had come in with different motivations, but he had this badge in hand when he left, so we can say that all's well that ends well.”
”If you say so,” said Harry heavily as they climbed up the stairs to the ground floor. ”What do they want photos for again?”
”The information about the Triwizard Tournament is going to be published in the papers and magazines. You and the other champions are going to be interviewed and photographed for the articles.”
”Great,” said Harry dully. ”Exactly what I need. More publicity.”
”Harry, you're already in the tournament. Lamenting your luck and feeling down about it isn't going to do you any good. You're already chosen as a champion, so I would personally suggest that you own it. I'm sure someone must've already told you about this, but you're now representing Hogwarts. To see one of our champions looking down and unenthusiastic all the damn time isn't something you want to show to outsiders... They will look down on you and take advantage of you. I'm assuming you don't want that. If I was in your place, I wouldn't want that.”
”Do you? Would you want to be in my place?” asked Harry, staring at the guy who scored the highest in the entire school, who was undefeated in dueling, who was a Prefect, who owned his own unique thing inside Hogwarts and had saved him from getting kidnapped.
”Hmm,” he thought about the question before answering, ”If the circumstances were different, I probably would have entered my name. I don't care much about the rewards, but I would love to have the range of freedom that a champion gets during the year. Exemption from sitting in the classes is something beneficial to someone like me.”
They reached their destination, so Quinn turned to Harry and gave him one last free piece of advice, ”Move on, Harry. You might not like it, but you're the Boy-Who-Lived; you will be expected to act and perform a certain way. So, pull yourself together because you have a long year in front of you.”
Harry heard what Quinn was talking about, and even though he couldn't wrap his head around it immediately, he nodded.
”Good, let's go in,” said Quinn, opening the door and nudging the boy-champion into the room.
They entered a reasonably small classroom. Most of the desks had been pushed away to the room's back, leaving the room's half empty; three of the desks, however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and were covered in velvet fabric. Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks. Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them, talking to a lady they had never seen before in Hogwarts, who was wearing magenta robes.
Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as usual. He wasn't talking to anyone. Cedric and Fleur were having a conversation. Fleur looked much happier than Quinn had seen her so far; she sometimes moved her head back to let her long silver hair catch the light. A paunchy man, holding a large black camera that was smoking slightly, was watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye.
Bagman suddenly spotted Harry, got up quickly, approaching him.
”Ah, here he is! The fourth champion! Come in, Harry, come in… there's nothing to worry about; it's just a wand weighing ceremony. The rest of the judges will arrive here in a moment—”
”Wand weighing?” Harry repeated nervously, but he seemed much better than before they entered.
”We have to check that your wands are fully functional, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead,” said Bagman. ”The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then, there's going to be a little photoshoot. This is Rita Skeeter,” he added, gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. ”She's going to write a little article about the tournament for the Daily Prophet...”
”Maybe not that little, Ludo,” said Rita Skeeter, her eyes on Harry.
Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her light-jawed face. She wore jeweled spectacles. The thick fingers clutching her crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails, painted crimson.