THE DUELING CLUB
Harry lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap in the cur-
tains around his four-poster he watched snow starting to drift past
the tower window and wondered . . .
Could he be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin? He didn’t know
anything about his father’s family, after all. The Dursleys had al-
ways forbidden questions about his wizarding relatives.
Quietly, Harry tried to say something in Parseltongue. The
words wouldn’t come. It seemed he had to be face-to-face with a
snake to do it.
But I’m in Gryffindor, Harry thought. The Sorting Hat wouldn’t
have put me in here if I had Slytherin blood. . . .
Ah, said a nasty little voice in his brain, but the Sorting Hat
wanted to put you in Slytherin, don’t you remember?
Harry turned over. He’d see Justin the next day in Herbology
and he’d explain that he’d been calling the snake off, not egging it
on, which (he thought angrily, pummeling his pillow) any fool
should have realized.
By next morning, however, the snow that had begun in the night
had turned into a blizzard so thick that the last Herbology lesson of
the term was canceled: Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and
scarves on the Mandrakes, a tricky operation she would entrust to
no one else, now that it was so important for the Mandrakes to
grow quickly and revive Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey.
Harry fretted about this next to the fire in the Gryffindor com-
mon room, while Ron and Hermione used their time off to play a
game of wizard chess.
“For heaven’s sake, Harry,” said Hermione, exasperated, as one
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