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She stormed up the table away from them. Harry watched her go without regret. Hermione had never really understood what a serious business Quidditch was. He then looked around at Ron, who was smacking his lips.
"I dunno," said Harry. "They were at Slughorn's party together, but I don't think it went that well."
"Hi, Harry!" said Romilda Vane, the moment he had climbed through the portrait hole. "Fancy a gillywater?"
"Now , Severus," said Slughorn, hiccuping again, "it's Christ mas, do n't be too hard —"
Slowly, Slughorn moved around the room, examining the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task, although Hermione was trying to cram a few more ingredients into her bottle before Slughorn reached her. Ron had given up com-pletely, and was merely trying to avoid breathing in the putrid fumes issuing from his cauldron. Harry stood there waiting, the bezoar clutched in a slightly sweaty hand.
"You made me do that!" said Ron angrily, sucking his cut thumb. "You wait, when I'm seventeen —"
"Er," said Harry into the sudden silence; he had not expected his plan to backfire like this, "shall. . . shall we go up to the party, then?"
The new term started next morning with a pleasant surprise for the sixth years: a large sign had been pinned to the common room notice boards overnight.
"I told him I was."
"Yes, I speak it," said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful admiration for Voldemort's complete lack of fear. His race merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment.
"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."
And turning his back on the Minister of Magic, he strode back toward the house.
"Rufus Scrimgeour?" asked Luna.
"Of course, Coote isn't really the usual build for a Beater," said Zacharias loftily, "they've generally got a bit more muscle —"
"Yeah, we've discussed it."