HP : The Chronicles

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"Goblins' gold!" The green eyed wizard exclaimed as he picked up his, now falling apart, Charms textbook to cast a quick Reparo spell on it. "Last year it was Quirrell, now this!" He looked around him, taking in the mess that was once their Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom; the windows where shuttered, the iron chandelier was on the floor, desks lay broken around and bits of paper that used to be books and essays were slowly being gathered by the students. The pixies at least were still unconscious. "Has Dumbledore ever heard of the word competency?"

Harry lay on his bed reading a bit on a book he had been meaning to start at the beginning of term; it was a book on basic Gobbledegook, the language of goblins. It was a book he had asked Severus to provide him with, right after he had made that first broomstick fly. For it was a given fact that, if you wanted to even have a chance at marketing a product in the wizards' community and making profit out of it -and Harry couldn't help but think about doing just that- you would have to take it through the goblins first. It was also a given that goblins generally disliked wizards; learning their language and their mannerisms was a great step towards any semblance of a friendly business relationship. Severus, who had actually learned the basics of the language while training to be a potions master, had decided to resume his studies himself.

The green eyed boy read the pronunciation of a particularly difficult verb slowly. The problem with Gobbledegook, Harry surmised, was the fact that, while vowels did exist, they were pronounced in clipped sounds, making the rest of the word sometimes sound like a growl.

"Kahrâgur." Harry repeated; it was apparently goblin speech for the word provide. He proceeded like that, writing down whatever he wanted to ask Severus later. The potions master had insisted that Harry had an aptitude for foreign languages, taking in French swiftly for his young age since he had started teaching him when he was eight. Harry simply insisted Severus was a great teacher; and the weekends in France had admittedly helped. He closed the book after a good half an hour of more studying and tried to sleep; the events of the day before flew back to his mind the moment he shut his eyes.

Oliver Wood had entered the second-years dormitory at the crack of dawn, waking him, gladly informing him that he had booked the Quidditch field for an early training session. Harry got dressed observing the still pink-and-gold sky outside his window and wondering -neither for the first, nor for the last time- if Oliver was completely sane and envying his brother for sleeping; Adrian had made it as a back-up chaser for the team on the try-outs and thus had the luxury of sleep. He kept them in the changing rooms for hours, showing them new moves used from Quiddditch teams around the world during the summer, insisting that, now they had the Cup, it was their job to secure it. The boards with schematics and new strategies kept coming and soon half the team was asleep. Harry's stomach rumbled and thus his joy was undeniable when his brother entered the room, bringing him some toast for breakfast.

"You're a life saver, Adrian." Harry stated as he munched on his toast.

"Don't mention it."

"Aren't you finished yet?" Ron asked confused when the team made it out of the changing room. He and Hermione were sitting at the stands, waiting for the team.

"Haven't even started."

But apparently, it wasn't just Oliver that had had the idea of an early practice. Once they finally reached the field, they found the Slytherin team was already there, claiming they had booked the pit first. And Draco was with them as the new Seeker, bringing with him seven brand-new broomsticks; Harry could clearly read Nimbus Two Thousand and One. As Marcus Flint, the Captain of the Slytherin Team, stated, they had a written permit to use the grounds do they could test their new Seeker. Harry wondered if Severus was aware how Malfoy got into the team; well, of course he would be, but what could he do? He was the feared Head of Slytherin, the big bad bat from the dungeons; he had an image to uphold.

And then Malfoy had to go and call Hermione a Mudblood and Ron had to curse him with his, broken from crashing on the Whomping Willow, wand. The poor boy had been coughing out slugs the whole morning. Hagrid had explained to Hermione what all the commotion over the expletive Draco called her was about as Harry brewed a swift draught for Ron's stomach. Harry still couldn't decide what had been worse; watching slugs pouring out of Ron's mouth, or tasting the treacle toffee Ahgrid had offered him that seemed to have cement like properties. He sighed and stood up; there was no way he could sleep; his mind was filled with Quidditch tactics, transformation incantations, a new sigil he was trying out, words in Gobbledegook and thoughts of whether he should switch to ash wood in his broom making.

Adrian was serving his detention -helping Lockhart with his fan mail- Harry realised. Maybe he should sneak out and wait for him outside Lockhart's office; they could make a quick stop at the kitchens afterwards…

His mind made up, he silently pulled out the invisibility cloak, draped it over his shoulders, grabbed the notebook he used to jot down his thoughts on the broomstick he was designing and a pencil, just in case he would have to wait. Ron -who had detention with Filch- was still out himself but the rest of the year was sleeping. The green eyed wizard slid out the common room, walking down dark corridors and moving towards the Defence professor's office. When he did arrive, he wasn't surprised to find the door closed. He simply sat down on the floor and started going over his notes; he was in the process of writing down a part of an arithmancy formula designed for improving the standard breaking charm often used on broomsticks, making it unbreakable. It was a prospect worth the effort, Harry believed.

He kept reading and writing his thoughts down for what seemed to be over an hour until he was finally starting to get sleepy. He was slowly regretting coming so early; he should have known Lockhart would have piles upon piles of fan mail waiting to be answered. His eyelids were getting heavy and he was doing his best not to fall asleep in the corridor when he heard something that chased all tiredness from his mind.

"Come… come to me… Let me rip you… Let me tear you…Let me kill you…" What was that? Harry stood up in a swift movement, looking around frantically. He had heard a voice, he was sure; it wasn't exactly disembodied, not like one of the numerous spectres in the school. It was coming right out of the walls. Harry looked around him frantically. The corridor was dark, but Harry's night sight was good enough to see it was also empty. And his hearing, which had been gradually improving since his animagus transformation, had definitely caught the voice reverberating through the stone walls. He had heard a voice and it wanted to kill.

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