The Diary of Harry Pooter: Go on, make my house point

The Diary of Harry Pooter

October 16. Ronald and I discussed the forthcoming game of Quidditch. This is a most interesting sport, and by-the-by I have been selected to play for the Gryffindor team. My motto is, A new broomstick sweeps clean, as I told Ronald. Following the exertions of flying, there will be a great feast, according to Madame Hooch.

"After the match," I told her, "we will be lighter." I could not help roaring at this joke, which I explained at length to Ronald. Hermione was rather testy when I repeated it to her. She looked at me, and suggested that, whilst they were drinking the winners' health out of goblets, I had better raise my glasses. I confess that I did not see what was so amusing. Short-sightedness is not worthy of jest. Feeling rather ed my trunk into a lizard, which was so small that I promptly fell over it.

October 17. Spent the afternoon learning about Charms, with Professor Flitwick. It is a capital subject. While the others were levitating feathers, I endeavoured to make my shoelaces tie themselves. Wizardry is extraordinarily useful for such a skill, and I fancy it will be immensely impressive once I have taught them not to tie themselves together. Received a severe bump on my nose.

October 18. In the hall, Draco Malfoy most impudently accosted me at breakfast. "Pooter," he said, "you are a scarface". I affected not to hear him, although afterwards thought of a splendid retort. "If that is a cutting remark, then I heard what you zed." Consoled myself by teaching my owl some spells. To my horror, it turned itself into a hatstand.

Harry Pinter and the

Philosopher's Pause

I remember Hogwart's. Yes. I remember the stairs. Always on the move, those stairs. You'd take a left turn, a right turn, keep tight hold of your wand. They had more flights than a bumble-bee at Bognor. And Quidditch. There was a game. I mean, don't talk to me about Bludgers. I seen them coming, mate. I seen them. (Pause) And there was this snitch, a golden one, real gold. It was a golden snitch, all right. You'd get up on your broomstick, the fresh air whistling past your ears, and you'd beat off those bludgers with a bat. Marvellous. And then they would come out of the sun, dodging and ducking, looking for the quaffle. My father used to... play. Used to. He was a top-class Quidditch player. Never without a sniff of a snitch. A sniff. (Pause) Yes, Hogwart's was all right. There were dragons, and ghosts. I'm not saying there weren't dragons and ghosts. You had to have a curse. Or a charm. You had to have the best. Never without a good charm, in case of Volde... (Pause) I know his dark arts, dark as they come, very dark. (Pause) I don't look like a wizard in daylight, do I?

Dirty Harry Potter

Harry looked down at the snivelling troll. He was the kind of punk against which Dumbledore had been warning him. A mean one. The creature was quivering with silent intent, and a horrible slime flowed slowly from his jaws across the coffee-splashed linoleum.

Harry's face was a frozen mask. The lines on his face looked as if they had been etched by an expert, and the quiff above his forehead was as still as an old potion. This troll wouldn't even have been accepted in Slytherin. He wasn't worth a cheese Quaffle. But he was terribly dangerous.

He let the scowl hang on his lip. His face looked faintly bemused, as if Snape had let him off a detention. The patches on his Hogwarts blazer were dulled and worn.

"Well, look," said Harry, "I know exactly what you're thinking. How many spells did he cast today? Was it six charms or only five? I've lost count myself. But being as this is a holly wand with a phoenix feather, eleven inches long, the most powerful wizard's wand in Hogwart's, and would turn you into a dumpling, you've got to ask yourself one question: "'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do you, punk?"

The troll made a tiny motion.

"Go ahead," said Harry coolly, his expression unshifting. "Make my house point."