𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 ! || harry potter x reader

60. Fingers Crossed For Another Death!

"I'll tell you later," said Harry curtly as Y/N dipped a clean portion of her napkin in a goblet of water and continued to wipe his face.

"But—" said Hermione.

"Not now, Hermione," said Harry, in a darkly significant voice. Y/N rolled her eyes.

"You're such a faker," she muttered and wiped the last spot of blood. "'Not now, Hermione'—"

"Dear?"

"Yes, love?"

"Shut up."

"You've missed the Sorting, anyways," said Hermione, as the food vanished to be replaced with pudding. Ron dived for a large chocolate gateau.

"Hat say anything interesting?" asked Harry, taking a piece of treacle tart.

"More of the same, really . . . advising us all to unite in the face of our enemies, you know," Y/N said boredly, lazily eating a bowl of ice cream.

"Dumbledore mention Voldemort at all?"

"Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the feast, doesn't he? It can't be long now."

"Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast—"

"You've seen Snape? How come?" said Ron between frenzied mouthfuls of gateau.

"Bumped into him," said Harry evasively. Ridiculous twat thinks he's so important, Y/N thought.

"Hagrid was only a few minutes late," said Hermione. "Look, he's waving at you, Harry."

Indeed, Hagrid was waving to Harry next to Professor McGonagall, who was looking disapprovingly at the enthusiastic greeting.

"So what did Professor Slughorn want?" Hermione asked.

"To know what really happened at the Ministry," said Harry.

"Him and everyone else here," sniffed Hermione. "People were interrogating us about it on the train, weren't they, Ron?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "All wanting to know if you really are 'the Chosen One'—"

"There has been much talk on that very subject even amongst the ghosts," interrupted Nearly Headless Nick, inclining his barely connected head toward them so that it wobbled dangerously on its ruff. "I am considered something of a Potter authority; it is widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the spirit community that I will not pester you for information, however. 'Harry Potter knows that he can confide in me with complete confidence,' I told them. 'I would rather die than betray his trust.'"

"That's not saying much, seeing as you're already dead," Ron observed.

"Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe," said Nearly Headless Nick in affronted tones, and he rose into the air and glided back toward the far end of the Gryffindor table just as Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table. The talk and laughter echoing around the Hall died away almost instantly.

"The very best of evenings to you!" he said, smiling broadly, his arms opened wide as though to embrace the whole room.

"What happened to his hand?" gasped Hermione.

She was not the only one who had noticed. Dumbledore's right hand was as blackened and dead-looking as a burnt potato. Whispers swept the room; Dumbledore, interpreting them correctly, merely smiled and shook his purple-and-gold sleeve over his injury.

"Nothing to worry about," he said airily. "Now . . . to our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you . . ."