Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

“Weasley is our King,
Weasley is our King,
He didn’t let the Quaffle in,
Weasley is our King…”

“And I wish they’d stop singing that stupid song,” said Hermione miserably, “haven’t they gloated enough?”

A great tide of students was moving up the sloping lawns from the pitch.

“Oh, let’s get in before we have to meet the Slytherins,” said Hermione.

“Weasley can save anything,
He never leaves a single ring,
That’s why Gryffindors all sing:
Weasley is our King.”

“Hermione…” said Harry slowly.

The song was growing louder, but it was issuing not from a crowd of green-and-silver-clad Slytherins, but from a mass of red and gold moving slowly towards the castle, bearing a solitary figure upon its many shoulders.

“Weasley is our King,
Weasley is our King,
He didn’t let the Quaffle in,
Weasley is our King…”

“No?” said Hermione in a hushed voice.

“YES!” said Harry loudly.

“HARRY! HERMIONE!” yelled Ron, waving the silver Quidditch cup in the air and looking quite beside himself. “WE DID IT! WE WON!”

They beamed up at him as he passed. There was a scrum at the door of the castle and Ron’s head got rather badly bumped on the lintel, but nobody seemed to want to put him down. Still singing, the crowd squeezed itself into the Entrance Hall and out of sight. Harry and Hermione watched them go, beaming, until the last echoing strains of ‘Weasley is our King’ died away. Then they turned to each other, their smiles fading.

“We’ll save our news till tomorrow, shall we?” said Harry.

“Yes, all right,” said Hermione wearily. “I’m not in any hurry.”

They climbed the steps together. At the front doors both instinctively looked back at the Forbidden Forest. Harry was not sure whether or not it was his imagination, but he rather thought he saw a small cloud of birds erupting into the air over the tree tops in the distance, almost as though the tree in which they had been nesting had just been pulled up by the roots.

31. O.W.L.s

Ron’s euphoria at helping Gryffindor scrape the Quidditch cup was such that he couldn’t settle to anything next day. All he wanted to do was talk over the match, so Harry and Hermione found it very difficult to find an opening in which to mention Grawp. Not that either of them tried very hard; neither was keen to be the one to bring Ron back to reality in quite such a brutal fashion. As it was another fine, warm day, they persuaded him to join them in revising under the beech tree at the edge of the lake, where they had less chance of being overheard than in the common room. Ron was not particularly keen on this idea at first—he was thoroughly enjoying being patted on the back by every Gryffindor who walked past his chair, not to mention the occasional outbursts of ‘Weasley is our King’—but after a while he agreed that some fresh air might do him good.

They spread their books out in the shade of the beech tree and sat down while Ron talked them through his first save of the match for what felt like the dozenth time.

“Well, I mean, I’d already let in that one of Davies’s, so I wasn’t feeling all that confident, but I dunno, when Bradley came towards me, just out of nowhere, I thought—you can do this! And I had about a second to decide which way to fly, you know, because he looked like he was aiming for the right goalhoop—my right, obviously, his left—but I had a funny feeling that he was feinting, and so I took the chance and flew left—his right, I mean—and—well—you saw what happened,” he concluded modestly, sweeping his hair back quite unnecessarily so that it looked interestingly windswept and glancing around to see whether the people nearest to them—a bunch of gossiping third-year Hufflepuffs—had heard him. “And then, when Chambers came at me about five minutes later—What?” Ron asked, having stopped mid-sentence at the look on Harry’s face. “Why are you grinning?”

“I’m not,” said Harry quickly, and looked down at his Transfiguration notes, attempting to straighten his face. The truth was that Ron had just reminded Harry forcibly of another Gryffindor Quidditch player who had once sat rumpling his hair under this very tree. “I’m just glad we won, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” said Ron slowly, savouring the words, “we won. Did you see the look on Chang’s face when Ginny got the Snitch right out from under her nose?”

“I suppose she cried, did she?” said Harry bitterly.

“Well, yeah—more out of temper than anything, though…” Ron frowned slightly. “But you saw her chuck her broom away when she got back to the ground, didn’t you?”

“Er—” said Harry.