[Part 3] "Harry Potter and Prisoner of Azkaban" by Rowling J.K.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘

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In no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had become most people’s favorite class.

Only Draco Malfoy and his gang of Slytherins had anything bad to say about Professor Lupin.

“Look at the state of his robes,” Malfoy would say in a loud whisper as Professor Lupin passed.

“He dresses like our old house-elf.”

But no one else cared that Professor Lupin’s robes were patched and frayed.

His next few lessons were just as interesting as the first.

After boggarts, they studied Red Caps, nasty little goblinlike creatures that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed: in the dungeons of castles and the potholes of deserted battlefields, waiting to bludgeon those who had gotten lost.

From Red Caps they moved on to kappas, creepy water-dwellers that looked like scaly monkeys, with webbed hands itching to strangle unwitting waders in their ponds.

Harry only wished he was as happy with some of his other classes.

Worst of all was Potions.

Snape was in a particularly vindictive mood these days, and no one was in any doubt why.

The story of the boggart assuming Snape’s shape, and the way that Neville had dressed it in his grandmother’s clothes, had traveled through the school like wildfire.

Snape didn’t seem to find it funny.

His eyes flashed menacingly at the very mention of Professor Lupin’s name, and he was bullying Neville worse than ever.

Harry was also growing to dread the hours he spent in Professor Trelawney’s stifling tower room, deciphering lopsided shapes and symbols, trying to ignore the way Professor Trelawney’s enormous eyes filled with tears every time she looked at him.

He couldn't like Professor Trelawney, even though she was treated with respect bordering on reverence by many of the class.

Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown had taken to haunting Professor Trelawney’s tower room at lunchtimes, and always returned with annoyingly superior looks on their faces, as though they knew things the others didn’t.

They had also started using hushed voices whenever they spoke to Harry, as though he were on his deathbed.

Nobody really liked Care of Magical Creatures, which, after the actionpacked first class, had become extremely dull.

Hagrid seemed to have lost his confidence.

They were now spending lesson after lesson learning how to look after flobberworms, which had to be some of the most boring creatures in existence.

“Why would anyone bother looking after them?” said Ron, after yet another hour of poking shredded lettuce down the flobberworms’ slimy throats.

At the start of October, however, Harry had something else to occupy him, something so enjoyable it more than made up for his unsatisfactory classes.

The Quidditch season was approaching, and Oliver Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor team, called a meeting one Thursday evening to discuss tactics for the new season.

There were seven people on a Quidditch team: three Chasers, whose job it was to score goals by putting the Quaffle (a red, soccer-sized ball) through one of the fifty-foot-high hoops at each end of the field; two Beaters, who were equipped with heavy bats to repel the Bludgers (two heavy black balls that zoomed around trying to attack the players); a Keeper, who defended the goalposts, and the Seeker, who had the hardest job of all, that of catching the Golden Snitch, a tiny, winged, walnut-sized ball, whose capture ended the game and earned the Seeker’s team an extra one hundred and fifty points.

Oliver Wood was a burly seventeen-year-old, now in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts.

There was a quiet sort of desperation in his voice as he addressed his six fellow team members in the chilly locker rooms on the edge of the darkening Quidditch field.

“This is our last chance — my last chance — to win the Quidditch Cup,” he told them, striding up and down in front of them.

“I’ll be leaving at the end of this year.

I’ll never get another shot at it.

“Gryffindor hasn’t won for seven years now.

Okay, so we’ve had the worst luck in the world — injuries — then the tournament getting called off last year. . . .” Wood swallowed, as though the memory still brought a lump to his throat.

“But we also know we’ve got the best — ruddy — team — in — the — school,” he said, punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic glint back in his eye.

“We’ve got three superb Chasers.”

Wood pointed at Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell.

“We’ve got two unbeatable Beaters.”

“Stop it, Oliver, you’re embarrassing us,” said Fred and George Weasley together, pretending to blush.

“And we’ve got a Seeker who has never failed to win us a match!” Wood rumbled, glaring at Harry with a kind of furious pride.

“And me,” he added as an afterthought.

“We think you’re very good too, Oliver,” said George.

“Spanking good Keeper,” said Fred.

“The point is,” Wood went on, resuming his pacing, “the Quidditch Cup should have had our name on it these last two years.

Ever since Harry joined the team, I’ve thought the thing was in the bag.

But we haven’t got it, and this year’s the last chance we’ll get to finally see our name on the thing. . . .”

Wood spoke so dejectedly that even Fred and George looked sympathetic.

“Oliver, this year’s our year,” said Fred.

“We’ll do it, Oliver!” said Angelina.

“Definitely,” said Harry.

Full of determination, the team started training sessions, three evenings a week.

The weather was getting colder and wetter, the nights darker, but no amount of mud, wind, or rain could tarnish Harry’s wonderful vision of finally winning the huge, silver Quidditch Cup.

Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room one evening after training, cold and stiff but pleased with the way practice had gone, to find the room buzzing excitedly.

“What’s happened?” he asked Ron and Hermione, who were sitting in two of the best chairs by the fireside and completing some star charts for Astronomy.

“First Hogsmeade weekend,” said Ron, pointing at a notice that had appeared on the battered old bulletin board.

“End of October.

Halloween.”

“Excellent,” said Fred, who had followed Harry through the portrait hole.

“I need to visit Zonko’s.

I’m nearly out of Stink Pellets.”

Harry threw himself into a chair beside Ron, his high spirits ebbing away.

Hermione seemed to read his mind.

“Harry, I’m sure you’ll be able to go next time,” she said.

“They’re bound to catch Black soon.

He’s been sighted once already.”

“Black’s not fool enough to try anything in Hogsmeade,” said Ron.

“Ask McGonagall if you can go this time, Harry.

The next one might not be for ages —”

“Ron!” said Hermione.

“Harry’s supposed to stay in school —”

“He can’t be the only third year left behind,” said Ron.

“Ask McGonagall, go on, Harry —”

“Yeah, I think I will,” said Harry, making up his mind.

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but at that moment Crookshanks leapt lightly onto her lap.

A large, dead spider was dangling from his mouth.

“Does he have to eat that in front of us?” said Ron, scowling.

“Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by yourself?” said Hermione.

Crookshanks slowly chewed up the spider, his yellow eyes fixed insolently on Ron.

“Just keep him over there, that’s all,” said Ron irritably, turning back to his star chart.

“I’ve got Scabbers asleep in my bag.”

Harry yawned.

He really wanted to go to bed, but he still had his own star chart to complete.

He pulled his bag toward him, took out parchment, ink, and quill, and started work.

“You can copy mine, if you like,” said Ron, labeling his last star with a flourish and shoving the chart toward Harry.

Hermione, who disapproved of copying, pursed her lips but didn’t say anything.

Crookshanks was still staring unblinkingly at Ron, flicking the end of his bushy tail.

Then, without warning, he pounced.

“OY!” Ron roared, seizing his bag as Crookshanks sank four sets of claws deeply into it and began tearing ferociously.

“GET OFF, YOU STUPID ANIMAL!”

Ron tried to pull the bag away from Crookshanks, but Crookshanks clung on, spitting and slashing.

“Ron, don’t hurt him!” squealed Hermione; the whole common room was watching; Ron whirled the bag around, Crookshanks still clinging to it, and Scabbers came flying out of the top —

“CATCH THAT CAT!” Ron yelled as Crookshanks freed himself from the remnants of the bag, sprang over the table, and chased after the terrified Scabbers.

George Weasley made a lunge for Crookshanks but missed; Scabbers streaked through twenty pairs of legs and shot beneath an old chest of drawers.

Crookshanks skidded to a halt, crouched low on his bandy legs, and started making furious swipes beneath it with his front paw.

Ron and Hermione hurried over; Hermione grabbed Crookshanks around the middle and heaved him away; Ron threw himself onto his stomach and, with great difficulty, pulled Scabbers out by the tail.

“Look at him!” he said furiously to Hermione, dangling Scabbers in front of her.

“He’s skin and bone! You keep that cat away from him!”

“Crookshanks doesn’t understand it’s wrong!” said Hermione, her voice shaking.

“All cats chase rats, Ron!”

“There’s something funny about that animal!” said Ron, who was trying to persuade a frantically wiggling Scabbers back into his pocket.

“It heard me say that Scabbers was in my bag!”

“Oh, what rubbish,” said Hermione impatiently.

“Crookshanks could smell him, Ron, how else d’you think —”

“That cat’s got it in for Scabbers!” said Ron, ignoring the people around him, who were starting to giggle.

“And Scabbers was here first, and he’s ill!”

Ron marched through the common room and out of sight up the stairs to the boys’ dormitories.

Ron was still in a bad mood with Hermione next day.

He barely talked to her all through Herbology, even though he, Harry, and Hermione were working together on the same puffapod.

“How’s Scabbers?” Hermione asked timidly as they stripped fat pink pods from the plants and emptied the shining beans into a wooden pail.

“He’s hiding at the bottom of my bed, shaking,” said Ron angrily, missing the pail and scattering beans over the greenhouse floor.

“Careful, Weasley, careful!” cried Professor Sprout as the beans burst into bloom before their very eyes.

They had Transfiguration next.

Harry, who had resolved to ask Professor McGonagall after the lesson whether he could go into Hogsmeade with the rest, joined the line outside the class trying to decide how he was going to argue his case.

He was distracted, however, by a disturbance at the front of the line.

Lavender Brown seemed to be crying.

Parvati had her arm around her and was explaining something to Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were looking very serious.

“What’s the matter, Lavender?” said Hermione anxiously as she, Harry, and Ron went to join the group.

“She got a letter from home this morning,” Parvati whispered.

“It’s her rabbit, Binky.

He’s been killed by a fox.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, “I’m sorry, Lavender.”

“I should have known!” said Lavender tragically.

“You know what day it is?”

“Er —”

“The sixteenth of October! ‘That thing you’re dreading, it will happen on the sixteenth of October!’ Remember? She was right, she was right!”

The whole class was gathered around Lavender now.

Seamus shook his head seriously.

Hermione hesitated; then she said, “You — you were dreading Binky being killed by a fox?”

“Well, not necessarily by a fox,” said Lavender, looking up at Hermione with streaming eyes, “but I was obviously dreading him dying, wasn’t I?”

“Oh,” said Hermione.

She paused again.

Then — “Was Binky an old rabbit?”

“N-no!” sobbed Lavender.

“H-he was only a baby!”

Parvati tightened her arm around Lavender’s shoulders.

“But then, why would you dread him dying?” said Hermione.

Parvati glared at her.

“Well, look at it logically,” said Hermione, turning to the rest of the group.

“I mean, Binky didn’t even die today, did he?

Lavender just got the news today” — Lavender wailed loudly — “and she can’t have been dreading it, because it’s come as a real shock —”

“Don’t mind Hermione, Lavender,” said Ron loudly, “she doesn’t think other people’s pets matter very much.”

Professor McGonagall opened the classroom door at that moment, which was perhaps lucky; Hermione and Ron were looking daggers at each other, and when they got into class, they seated themselves on either side of Harry and didn’t talk to each other for the whole class.

Harry still hadn’t decided what he was going to say to Professor McGonagall when the bell rang at the end of the lesson, but it was she who brought up the subject of Hogsmeade first.

“One moment, please!” she called as the class made to leave.

“As you’re all in my House, you should hand Hogsmeade permission forms to me before Halloween.

No form, no visiting the village, so don't forget!”

Neville put up his hand.

“Please, Professor, I — I think I’ve lost —”

“Your grandmother sent yours to me directly, Longbottom,” said Professor McGonagall.

“She seemed to think it was safer.

Well, that’s all, you may leave.”

“Ask her now,” Ron hissed at Harry.

“Oh, but —” Hermione began.

“Go for it, Harry,” said Ron stubbornly.

Harry waited for the rest of the class to disappear, then headed nervously for Professor McGonagall’s desk.

“Yes, Potter?”

Harry took a deep breath.

“Professor, my aunt and uncle — er — forgot to sign my form,” he said.

Professor McGonagall looked over her square spectacles at him but didn’t say anything.

“So — er — d’you think it would be all right — I mean, will it be okay if I — if I go to Hogsmeade?”

Professor McGonagall looked down and began shuffling papers on her desk.

“I’m afraid not, Potter,” she said.

“You heard what I said.

No form, no visiting the village.

That’s the rule.”

“But — Professor, my aunt and uncle — you know, they’re Muggles, they don’t really understand about — about Hogwarts forms and stuff,” Harry said, while Ron egged him on with vigorous nods.

“If you said I could go —”

“But I don’t say so,” said Professor McGonagall, standing up and piling her papers neatly into a drawer.

“The form clearly states that the parent or guardian must give permission.”

She turned to look at him, with an odd expression on her face.

Was it pity?

“I’m sorry, Potter, but that’s my final word.

You had better hurry, or you’ll be late for your next lesson.”

There was nothing to be done.

Ron called Professor McGonagall a lot of names that greatly annoyed Hermione; Hermione assumed an “all-for-thebest” expression that made Ron even angrier, and Harry had to endure everyone in the class talking loudly and happily about what they were going to do first, once they got into Hogsmeade.

“There’s always the feast,” said Ron, in an effort to cheer Harry up.

“You know, the Halloween feast, in the evening.”

“Yeah,” said Harry gloomily, “great.”

The Halloween feast was always good, but it would taste a lot better if he was coming to it after a day in Hogsmeade with everyone else.

Nothing anyone said made him feel any better about being left behind.

Dean Thomas, who was good with a quill, had offered to forge Uncle Vernon’s signature on the form, but as Harry had already told Professor McGonagall he hadn’t had it signed, that was no good.

Ron halfheartedly suggested the Invisibility Cloak, but Hermione stamped on that one, reminding Ron what Dumbledore had told them about the dementors being able to see through them.

Percy had what were possibly the least helpful words of comfort.

“They make a fuss about Hogsmeade, but I assure you, Harry, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he said seriously.

“All right, the sweetshop’s rather good, and Zonko’s Joke Shop’s frankly dangerous, and yes, the Shrieking Shack’s always worth a visit, but really, Harry, apart from that, you’re not missing anything.”

On Halloween morning, Harry awoke with the rest and went down to breakfast, feeling thoroughly depressed, though doing his best to act normally.

“We’ll bring you lots of sweets back from Honeydukes,” said Hermione, looking desperately sorry for him.

“Yeah, loads,” said Ron.

He and Hermione had finally forgotten their squabble about Crookshanks in the face of Harry’s disappointment.

“Don’t worry about me,” said Harry, in what he hoped was an offhand voice, “I’ll see you at the feast.

Have a good time.”

He accompanied them to the entrance hall, where Filch, the caretaker, was standing inside the front doors, checking off names against a long list, peering suspiciously into every face, and making sure that no one was sneaking out who shouldn’t be going.

“Staying here, Potter?” shouted Malfoy, who was standing in line with Crabbe and Goyle.

“Scared of passing the dementors?”

Harry ignored him and made his solitary way up the marble staircase, through the deserted corridors, and back to Gryffindor Tower.

“Password?” said the Fat Lady, jerking out of a doze.

“Fortuna Major,” said Harry listlessly.

The portrait swung open and he climbed through the hole into the common room.

It was full of chattering first and second years, and a few older students, who had obviously visited Hogsmeade so often the novelty had worn off.

“Harry! Harry! Hi, Harry!”

It was Colin Creevey, a second year who was deeply in awe of Harry and never missed an opportunity to speak to him.

“Aren’t you going to Hogsmeade, Harry?

Why not?

Hey” — Colin looked eagerly around at his friends — “you can come and sit with us, if you like, Harry!”

“Er — no, thanks, Colin,” said Harry, who wasn't in the mood to have a lot of people staring avidly at the scar on his forehead.

“I — I’ve got to go to the library, got to get some work done.”

After that, he had no choice but to turn right around and head back out of the portrait hole again.

“What was the point waking me up?” the Fat Lady called grumpily after him as he walked away.

Harry wandered dispiritedly toward the library, but halfway there he changed his mind; he didn’t feel like working.

He turned around and came face-to-face with Filch, who had obviously just seen off the last of the Hogsmeade visitors.

“What are you doing?” Filch snarled suspiciously.

“Nothing,” said Harry truthfully.

“Nothing!” spat Filch, his jowls quivering unpleasantly.

“A likely story!

Sneaking around on your own — why aren’t you in Hogsmeade buying Stink Pellets and Belch Powder and Whizzing Worms like the rest of your nasty little friends?”

Harry shrugged.

“Well, get back to your common room where you belong!” snapped Filch, and he stood glaring until Harry had passed out of sight.

But Harry didn’t go back to the common room; he climbed a staircase, thinking vaguely of visiting the Owlery to see Hedwig, and was walking along another corridor when a voice from inside one of the rooms said, “Harry?”

Harry doubled back to see who had spoken and met Professor Lupin, looking around his office door.

“What are you doing?” said Lupin, though in a very different voice from Filch.

“Where are Ron and Hermione?”

“Hogsmeade,” said Harry, in a would-be casual voice.

“Ah,” said Lupin.

He considered Harry for a moment.

“Why don’t you come in?

I’ve just taken delivery of a grindylow for our next lesson.”

“A what?” said Harry.

He followed Lupin into his office.

In the corner stood a very large tank of water.

A sickly green creature with sharp little horns had its face pressed against the glass, pulling faces and flexing its long, spindly fingers.

“Water demon,” said Lupin, surveying the grindylow thoughtfully.

“We shouldn’t have much difficulty with him, not after the kappas.

The trick is to break his grip.

You notice the abnormally long fingers?

Strong, but very brittle.”

The grindylow bared its green teeth and then buried itself in a tangle of weeds in a corner.

“Cup of tea?” Lupin said, looking around for his kettle.

“I was just thinking of making one.”

“All right,” said Harry awkwardly.

Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of steam issued suddenly from the spout.

“Sit down,” said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin.

“I’ve only got teabags, I’m afraid — but I daresay you’ve had enough of tea leaves?”

Harry looked at him.

Lupin’s eyes were twinkling.

“How did you know about that?” Harry asked.

“Professor McGonagall told me,” said Lupin, passing Harry a chipped mug of tea.

“You’re not worried, are you?”

“No,” said Harry.

He thought for a moment of telling Lupin about the dog he’d seen in Magnolia Crescent but decided not to.

He didn’t want Lupin to think he was a coward, especially since Lupin already seemed to think he couldn’t cope with a boggart.

Something of Harry’s thoughts seemed to have shown on his face, because Lupin said, “Anything worrying you, Harry?”

“No,” Harry lied.

He drank a bit of tea and watched the grindylow brandishing a fist at him.

“Yes,” he said suddenly, putting his tea down on Lupin’s desk.

“You know that day we fought the boggart?”

“Yes,” said Lupin slowly.

“Why didn’t you let me fight it?” said Harry abruptly.

Lupin raised his eyebrows.

“I would have thought that was obvious, Harry,” he said, sounding surprised.

Harry, who had expected Lupin to deny that he’d done any such thing, was taken aback.

“Why?” he said again.

“Well,” said Lupin, frowning slightly, “I assumed that if the boggart faced you, it would assume the shape of Lord Voldemort.”

Harry stared.

Not only was this the last answer he’d expected, but Lupin had said Voldemort’s name.

The only person Harry had ever heard say the name aloud (apart from himself) was Professor Dumbledore.

“Clearly, I was wrong,” said Lupin, still frowning at Harry.

“But I didn’t think it a good idea for Lord Voldemort to materialize in the staffroom.

I imagined that people would panic.”

“But then,” said Harry honestly.

“I — I remembered those dementors.”

“I see,” said Lupin thoughtfully.

“Well, well . . . I’m impressed.”

He smiled slightly at the look of surprise on Harry’s face.

“That suggests that what you fear most of all is — fear.

Very wise, Harry.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he drank some more tea.

“So you’ve been thinking that I didn’t believe you capable of fighting the boggart?” said Lupin shrewdly.

“Well . . . yeah,” said Harry.

He was suddenly feeling a lot happier.

“Professor Lupin, you know the dementors —”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” called Lupin.

The door opened, and in came Snape.

He was carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly, and stopped at the sight of Harry, his black eyes narrowing.

“Ah, Severus,” said Lupin, smiling.

“Thanks very much.

Could you leave it here on the desk for me?”

Snape set down the smoking goblet, his eyes wandering between Harry and Lupin.

“I was just showing Harry my grindylow,” said Lupin pleasantly, pointing at the tank.

“Fascinating,” said Snape, without looking at it.

“You should drink that directly, Lupin.”

“Yes, yes, I will,” said Lupin.

“I made an entire cauldronful,” Snape continued.

“If you need more.”

“I should probably take some again tomorrow.

Thanks very much, Severus.”

“Not at all,” said Snape, but there was a look in his eye Harry didn’t like.

He backed out of the room, unsmiling and watchful.

Harry looked curiously at the goblet.

Lupin smiled.

“Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me,” he said.

“I have never been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex.”

He picked up the goblet and sniffed it.

“Pity sugar makes it useless,” he added, taking a sip and shuddering.

“Why — ?” Harry began.

Lupin looked at him and answered the unfinished question.

“I’ve been feeling a bit off-color,” he said.

“This potion is the only thing that helps.

I am very lucky to be working alongside Professor Snape; there aren’t many wizards who are up to making it.”

Professor Lupin took another sip and Harry had a crazy urge to knock the goblet out of his hands.

“Professor Snape’s very interested in the Dark Arts,” he blurted out.

“Really?” said Lupin, looking only mildly interested as he took another gulp of potion.

“Some people reckon —” Harry hesitated, then plunged recklessly on, “some people reckon he’d do anything to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job.”

Lupin drained the goblet and pulled a face.

“Disgusting,” he said.

“Well, Harry, I’d better get back to work.

I’ll see you at the feast later.”

“Right,” said Harry, putting down his empty teacup.

The empty goblet was still smoking.

“There you go,” said Ron.

“We got as much as we could carry.”

A shower of brilliantly colored sweets fell into Harry’s lap.

It was dusk, and Ron and Hermione had just turned up in the common room, pink-faced from the cold wind and looking as though they’d had the time of their lives.

“Thanks,” said Harry, picking up a packet of tiny black Pepper Imps.

“What’s Hogsmeade like?

Where did you go?”

By the sound of it — everywhere.

Dervish and Banges, the wizarding equipment shop, Zonko’s Joke Shop, into the Three Broomsticks for foaming mugs of hot butterbeer, and many places besides.

“The post office, Harry!

About two hundred owls, all sitting on shelves, all color-coded depending on how fast you want your letter to get there!”

“Honeydukes has got a new kind of fudge; they were giving out free samples, there’s a bit, look —”

“We think we saw an ogre, honestly, they get all sorts at the Three Broomsticks —”

“Wish we could have brought you some butterbeer, really warms you up —”

“What did you do?” said Hermione, looking anxious.

“Did you get any work done?”

“No,” said Harry.

“Lupin made me a cup of tea in his office.

And then Snape came in. . . .”

He told them all about the goblet.

Ron’s mouth fell open.

“Lupin drank it?” he gasped.

“Is he mad?”

Hermione checked her watch.

“We’d better go down, you know, the feast’ll be starting in five minutes. . . .”

They hurried through the portrait hole and into the crowd, still discussing Snape.

“But if he — you know” — Hermione dropped her voice, glancing nervously around — “if he was trying to — to poison Lupin — he wouldn’t have done it in front of Harry.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Harry as they reached the entrance hall and crossed into the Great Hall.

It had been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of candle-filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats, and many flaming orange streamers, which were swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant water snakes.

The food was delicious; even Hermione and Ron, who were full to bursting with Honeydukes sweets, managed second helpings of everything.

Harry kept glancing at the staff table.

Professor Lupin looked cheerful and as well as he ever did; he was talking animatedly to tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher.

Harry moved his eyes along the table, to the place where Snape sat.

Was he imagining it, or were Snape’s eyes flickering toward Lupin more often than was natural?

The feast finished with an entertainment provided by the Hogwarts ghosts.

They popped out of the walls and tables to do a bit of formation gliding; Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had a great success with a reenactment of his own botched beheading.

It had been such a pleasant evening that Harry’s good mood couldn't even be spoiled by Malfoy, who shouted through the crowd as they all left the hall, “The dementors send their love, Potter!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed the rest of the Gryffindors along the usual path to Gryffindor Tower, but when they reached the corridor that ended with the portrait of the Fat Lady, they found it jammed with students.

“Why isn’t anyone going in?” said Ron curiously.

Harry peered over the heads in front of him.

The portrait seemed to be closed.

“Let me through, please,” came Percy’s voice, and he came bustling importantly through the crowd.

“What’s the holdup here?

You can’t all have forgotten the password — excuse me, I’m Head Boy —”

And then a silence fell over the crowd, from the front first, so that a chill seemed to spread down the corridor.

They heard Percy say, in a suddenly sharp voice, “Somebody get Professor Dumbledore. Quick.”

People’s heads turned; those at the back were standing on tiptoe.

“What’s going on?” said Ginny, who had just arrived.

A moment later, Professor Dumbledore was there, sweeping toward the portrait; the Gryffindors squeezed together to let him through, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved closer to see what the trouble was.

“Oh, my —” Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm.

The Fat Lady had vanished from her portrait, which had been slashed so viciously that strips of canvas littered the floor; great chunks of it had been torn away completely.

Dumbledore took one quick look at the ruined painting and turned, his eyes somber, to see Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape hurrying toward him.

“We need to find her,” said Dumbledore.

“Professor McGonagall, please go to Mr. Filch at once and tell him to search every painting in the castle for the Fat Lady.”

“You’ll be lucky!” said a cackling voice.

It was Peeves the Poltergeist, bobbing over the crowd and looking delighted, as he always did, at the sight of wreckage or worry.

“What do you mean, Peeves?” said Dumbledore calmly, and Peeves’s grin faded a little.

He didn’t dare taunt Dumbledore.

Instead he adopted an oily voice that was no better than his cackle.

“Ashamed, Your Headship, sir.

Doesn’t want to be seen.

She’s a horrible mess.

Saw her running through the landscape up on the fourth floor, sir, dodging between the trees.

Crying something dreadful,” he said happily.

“Poor thing,” he added unconvincingly.

“Did she say who did it?” said Dumbledore quietly.

“Oh yes, Professorhead,” said Peeves, with the air of one cradling a large bombshell in his arms.

“He got very angry when she wouldn’t let him in, you see.”

Peeves flipped over and grinned at Dumbledore from between his own legs.

“Nasty temper he’s got, that Sirius Black.”

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐗. 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐌 𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓

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Professor Dumbledore sent all the Gryffindors back to the Great Hall, where they were joined ten minutes later by the students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, who all looked extremely confused.

“The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle,” Professor Dumbledore told them as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all doors into the hall.

“I’m afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here.

I want the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge.

Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately,” he added to Percy, who was looking immensely proud and important.

“Send word with one of the ghosts.”

Professor Dumbledore paused, about to leave the hall, and said, “Oh, yes, you’ll be needing . . .”

One casual wave of his wand and the long tables flew to the edges of the hall and stood themselves against the walls; another wave, and the floor was covered with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags.

“Sleep well,” said Professor Dumbledore, closing the door behind him.

The hall immediately began to buzz excitedly; the Gryffindors were telling the rest of the school what had just happened.

“Everyone into their sleeping bags!” shouted Percy.

“Come on, now, no more talking!

Lights out in ten minutes!”

“C’mon,” Ron said to Harry and Hermione; they seized three sleeping bags and dragged them into a corner.

“Do you think Black’s still in the castle?” Hermione whispered anxiously.

“Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be,” said Ron.

“It’s very lucky he picked tonight, you know,” said Hermione as they climbed fully dressed into their sleeping bags and propped themselves on their elbows to talk.

“The one night we weren’t in the tower. . . .”

“I reckon he’s lost track of time, being on the run,” said Ron.

“Didn’t realize it was Halloween.

Otherwise he’d have come bursting in here.”

Hermione shuddered.

All around them, people were asking one another the same question: “How did he get in?”

“Maybe he knows how to Apparate,” said a Ravenclaw a few feet away.

“Just appear out of thin air, you know.”

“Disguised himself, probably,” said a Hufflepuff fifth year.

“He could’ve flown in,” suggested Dean Thomas.

“Honestly, am I the only person who’s ever bothered to read Hogwarts: A History?” said Hermione crossly to Harry and Ron.

“Probably,” said Ron.

“Why?”

“Because the castle’s protected by more than walls, you know,” said Hermione.

“There are all sorts of enchantments on it, to stop people entering by stealth.

You can’t just Apparate in here.

And I’d like to see the disguise that could fool those dementors.

They’re guarding every single entrance to the grounds.

They’d have seen him fly in too.

And Filch knows all the secret passages, they’ll have them covered. . . .”

“The lights are going out now!” Percy shouted.

“I want everyone in their sleeping bags and no more talking!”

The candles all went out at once.

The only light now came from the silvery ghosts, who were drifting about talking seriously to the prefects, and the enchanted ceiling, which, like the sky outside, was scattered with stars.

What with that, and the whispering that still filled the hall, Harry felt as though he were sleeping outdoors in a light wind.

Once every hour, a teacher would reappear in the hall to check that everything was quiet.

Around three in the morning, when many students had finally fallen asleep, Professor Dumbledore came in.

Harry watched him looking around for Percy, who had been prowling between the sleeping bags, telling people off for talking.

Percy was only a short way away from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who quickly pretended to be asleep as Dumbledore’s footsteps drew nearer.

“Any sign of him, Professor?” asked Percy in a whisper.

“No.

All well here?”

“Everything under control, sir.”

“Good.

There’s no point moving them all now.

I’ve found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor portrait hole.

You’ll be able to move them back in tomorrow.”

“And the Fat Lady, sir?”

“Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor.

Apparently she refused to let Black in without the password, so he attacked.

She’s still very distressed, but once she’s calmed down, I’ll have Mr. Filch restore her.”

Harry heard the door of the hall creak open again, and more footsteps.

“Headmaster?” It was Snape.

Harry kept quite still, listening hard.

“The whole of the third floor has been searched.

He’s not there.

And Filch has done the dungeons; nothing there either.”

“What about the Astronomy Tower?

Professor Trelawney’s room?

The Owlery?”

“All searched . . .”

“Very well, Severus.

I didn’t really expect Black to linger.”

“Have you any theory as to how he got in, Professor?” asked Snape.

Harry raised his head very slightly off his arms to free his other ear.

“Many, Severus, each of them as unlikely as the next.”

Harry opened his eyes a fraction and squinted up to where they stood; Dumbledore’s back was to him, but he could see Percy’s face, rapt with attention, and Snape’s profile, which looked angry.

“You remember the conversation we had, Headmaster, just before — ah — the start of term?” said Snape, who was barely opening his lips, as though trying to block Percy out of the conversation.

“I do, Severus,” said Dumbledore, and there was something like warning in his voice.

“It seems — almost impossible — that Black could have entered the school without inside help.

I did express my concerns when you appointed —”

“I do not believe a single person inside this castle would have helped Black enter it,” said Dumbledore, and his tone made it so clear that the subject was closed that Snape didn’t reply.

“I must go down to the dementors,” said Dumbledore.

“I said I would inform them when our search was complete.”

“Didn’t they want to help, sir?” said Percy.

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore coldly.

“But I’m afraid no dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am headmaster.”

Percy looked slightly abashed.

Dumbledore left the hall, walking quickly and quietly.

Snape stood for a moment, watching the headmaster with an expression of deep resentment on his face; then he too left.

Harry glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione.

Both of them had their eyes open too, reflecting the starry ceiling.

“What was all that about?” Ron mouthed.

The school talked of nothing but Sirius Black for the next few days.

The theories about how he had entered the castle became wilder and wilder; Hannah Abbott, from Hufflepuff, spent much of their next Herbology class telling anyone who’d listen that Black could turn into a flowering shrub.

The Fat Lady’s ripped canvas had been taken off the wall and replaced with the portrait of Sir Cadogan and his fat gray pony.

Nobody was very happy about this.

Sir Cadogan spent half his time challenging people to duels, and the rest thinking up ridiculously complicated passwords, which he changed at least twice a day.

“He’s a complete lunatic,” said Seamus Finnigan angrily to Percy.

“Can’t we get anyone else?”

“None of the other pictures wanted the job,” said Percy.

“Frightened of what happened to the Fat Lady.

Sir Cadogan was the only one brave enough to volunteer.”

Sir Cadogan, however, was the least of Harry’s worries.

He was now being closely watched.

Teachers found excuses to walk along corridors with him, and Percy Weasley (acting, Harry suspected, on his mother’s orders) was tailing him everywhere like an extremely pompous guard dog.

To cap it all, Professor McGonagall summoned Harry into her office, with such a somber expression on her face Harry thought someone must have died.

“There’s no point hiding it from you any longer, Potter,” she said in a very serious voice.

“I know this will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black —”

“I know he’s after me,” said Harry wearily.

“I heard Ron’s dad telling his mum.

Mr. Weasley works for the Ministry of Magic.”

Professor McGonagall seemed very taken aback.

She stared at Harry for a moment or two, then said, “I see!

Well, in that case, Potter, you’ll understand why I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be practicing Quidditch in the evenings.

Out on the field with only your team members, it’s very exposed, Potter —”

“We’ve got our first match on Saturday!” said Harry, outraged.

“I’ve got to train, Professor!”

Professor McGonagall considered him intently.

Harry knew she was deeply interested in the Gryffindor team’s prospects; it had been she, after all, who’d suggested him as Seeker in the first place.

He waited, holding his breath.

“Hmm . . .” Professor McGonagall stood up and stared out of the window at the Quidditch field, just visible through the rain.

“Well . . . goodness knows, I’d like to see us win the Cup at last . . . but all the same, Potter . . . I’d be happier if a teacher were present.

I’ll ask Madam Hooch to oversee your training sessions.”

The weather worsened steadily as the first Quidditch match drew nearer.

Undaunted, the Gryffindor team was training harder than ever under the eye of Madam Hooch.

Then, at their final training session before Saturday’s match, Oliver Wood gave his team some unwelcome news.

“We’re not playing Slytherin!” he told them, looking very angry.

“Flint’s just been to see me.

We’re playing Hufflepuff instead.”

“Why?” chorused the rest of the team.

“Flint’s excuse is that their Seeker’s arm’s still injured,” said Wood, grinding his teeth furiously.

“But it’s obvious why they’re doing it.

Don’t want to play in this weather.

Think it’ll damage their chances. . . .”

There had been strong winds and heavy rain all day, and as Wood spoke, they heard a distant rumble of thunder.

“There’s nothing wrong with Malfoy’s arm!” said Harry furiously.

“He’s faking it!”

“I know that, but we can’t prove it,” said Wood bitterly.

“And we’ve been practicing all those moves assuming we’re playing Slytherin, and instead it’s Hufflepuff, and their style’s quite different.

They’ve got a new Captain and Seeker, Cedric Diggory —”

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie suddenly giggled.

“What?” said Wood, frowning at this lighthearted behavior.

“He’s that tall, good-looking one, isn’t he?” said Angelina.

“Strong and silent,” said Katie, and they started to giggle again.

“He’s only silent because he’s too thick to string two words together,” said Fred impatiently.

“I don’t know why you’re worried, Oliver, Hufflepuff is a pushover.

Last time we played them, Harry caught the Snitch in about five minutes, remember?”

“We were playing in completely different conditions!” Wood shouted, his eyes bulging slightly.

“Diggory’s put a very strong side together!

He’s an excellent Seeker!

I was afraid you’d take it like this!

We mustn’t relax!

We must keep our focus!

Slytherin is trying to wrong-foot us!

We must win!”

“Oliver, calm down!” said Fred, looking slightly alarmed.

“We’re taking Hufflepuff very seriously.

Seriously.”

The day before the match, the winds reached howling point and the rain fell harder than ever.

It was so dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra torches and lanterns were lit.

The Slytherin team was looking very smug indeed, and none more so than Malfoy.

“Ah, if only my arm was feeling a bit better!” he sighed as the gale outside pounded the windows.

Harry had no room in his head to worry about anything except the match tomorrow.

Oliver Wood kept hurrying up to him between classes and giving him tips.

The third time this happened, Wood talked for so long that Harry suddenly realized he was ten minutes late for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and set off at a run with Wood shouting after him, “Diggory’s got a very fast swerve, Harry, so you might want to try looping him —”

Harry skidded to a halt outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, pulled the door open, and dashed inside.

“Sorry I’m late, Professor Lupin, I —”

But it wasn’t Professor Lupin who looked up at him from the teacher’s desk; it was Snape.

“This lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter, so I think we’ll make it ten points from Gryffindor.

Sit down.”

But Harry didn’t move.

“Where’s Professor Lupin?” he said.

“He says he is feeling too ill to teach today,” said Snape with a twisted smile.

“I believe I told you to sit down?”

But Harry stayed where he was.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Snape’s black eyes glittered.

“Nothing life-threatening,” he said, looking as though he wished it were.

“Five more points from Gryffindor, and if I have to ask you to sit down again, it will be fifty.”

Harry walked slowly to his seat and sat down.

Snape looked around at the class.

“As I was saying before Potter interrupted, Professor Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have covered so far —”

“Please, sir, we’ve done boggarts, Red Caps, kappas, and grindylows,” said Hermione quickly, “and we’re just about to start —”

“Be quiet,” said Snape coldly.

“I did not ask for information.

I was merely commenting on Professor Lupin’s lack of organization.”

“He’s the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we’ve ever had,” said Dean Thomas boldly, and there was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the class.

Snape looked more menacing than ever.

“You are easily satisfied.

Lupin is hardly overtaxing you — I would expect first years to be able to deal with Red Caps and grindylows.

Today we shall discuss —”

Harry watched him flick through the textbook, to the very back chapter, which he must know they hadn’t covered.

“— werewolves,” said Snape.

“But, sir,” said Hermione, seemingly unable to restrain herself, “we’re not supposed to do werewolves yet, we’re due to start hinkypunks —”

“Miss Granger,” said Snape in a voice of deadly calm, “I was under the impression that I am teaching this lesson, not you.

And I am telling you all to turn to page 394.”

He glanced around again.

“All of you! Now!”

With many bitter sidelong looks and some sullen muttering, the class opened their books.

“Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf?” said Snape.

Everyone sat in motionless silence; everyone except Hermione, whose hand, as it so often did, had shot straight into the air.

“Anyone?” Snape said, ignoring Hermione.

His twisted smile was back.

“Are you telling me that Professor Lupin hasn’t even taught you the basic distinction between —”

“We told you,” said Parvati suddenly, “we haven’t got as far as werewolves yet, we’re still on —”

“Silence!” snarled Snape.

“Well, well, well, I never thought I’d meet a third-year class who wouldn’t even recognize a werewolf when they saw one.

I shall make a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very behind you all are. . . .”

“Please, sir,” said Hermione, whose hand was still in the air, “the werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways.

The snout of the werewolf —”

“That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger,” said Snape coolly.

“Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all.”

Hermione went very red, put down her hand, and stared at the floor with her eyes full of tears.

It was a mark of how much the class loathed Snape that they were all glaring at him, because every one of them had called Hermione a know-it-all at least once, and Ron, who told Hermione she was a know-it-all at least twice a week, said loudly, “You asked us a question and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don’t want to be told?”

The class knew instantly he’d gone too far.

Snape advanced on Ron slowly, and the room held its breath.

“Detention, Weasley,” Snape said silkily, his face very close to Ron’s.

“And if I ever hear you criticize the way I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed.”

No one made a sound throughout the rest of the lesson.

They sat and made notes on werewolves from the textbook, while Snape prowled up and down the rows of desks, examining the work they had been doing with Professor Lupin.

“Very poorly explained . . . That is incorrect, the kappa is more commonly found in Mongolia. . . . Professor Lupin gave this eight out of ten? I wouldn’t have given it three. . . .”

When the bell rang at last, Snape held them back.

“You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me, on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves.

I want two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want them by Monday morning.

It is time somebody took this class in hand.

Weasley, stay behind, we need to arrange your detention.”

Harry and Hermione left the room with the rest of the class, who waited until they were well out of earshot, then burst into a furious tirade about Snape.

“Snape’s never been like this with any of our other Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, even if he did want the job,” Harry said to Hermione.

“Why’s he got it in for Lupin?

D’you think this is all because of the boggart?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione pensively.

“But I really hope Professor Lupin gets better soon. . . .”

Ron caught up with them five minutes later, in a towering rage.

“D’you know what that” — (he called Snape something that made Hermione say “Ron!”) — “is making me do?

I’ve got to scrub out the bedpans in the hospital wing.

Without magic!”

He was breathing deeply, his fists clenched.

“Why couldn’t Black have hidden in Snape’s office, eh?

He could have finished him off for us!”

Harry woke extremely early the next morning; so early that it was still dark.

For a moment he thought the roaring of the wind had woken him.

Then he felt a cold breeze on the back of his neck and sat bolt upright — Peeves the Poltergeist had been floating next to him, blowing hard in his ear.

“What did you do that for?” said Harry furiously.

Peeves puffed out his cheeks, blew hard, and zoomed backward out of the room, cackling.

Harry fumbled for his alarm clock and looked at it.

It was half past four.

Cursing Peeves, he rolled over and tried to get back to sleep, but it was very difficult, now that he was awake, to ignore the sounds of the thunder rumbling overhead, the pounding of the wind against the castle walls, and the distant creaking of the trees in the Forbidden Forest.

In a few hours he would be out on the Quidditch field, battling through that gale.

Finally, he gave up any thought of more sleep, got up, dressed, picked up his Nimbus Two Thousand, and walked quietly out of the dormitory.

As Harry opened the door, something brushed against his leg.

He bent down just in time to grab Crookshanks by the end of his bushy tail and drag him outside.

“You know, I reckon Ron was right about you,” Harry told Crookshanks suspiciously.

“There are plenty of mice around this place — go and chase them.

Go on,” he added, nudging Crookshanks down the spiral staircase with his foot.

“Leave Scabbers alone.”

The noise of the storm was even louder in the common room.

Harry knew better than to think the match would be canceled; Quidditch matches weren’t called off for trifles like thunderstorms.

Nevertheless, he was starting to feel very apprehensive.

Wood had pointed out Cedric Diggory to him in the corridor; Diggory was a fifth year and a lot bigger than Harry.

Seekers were usually light and speedy, but Diggory’s weight would be an advantage in this weather because he was less likely to be blown off course.

Harry whiled away the hours until dawn in front of the fire, getting up every now and then to stop Crookshanks from sneaking up the boys’ staircase again.

At long last Harry thought it must be time for breakfast, so he headed through the portrait hole alone.

“Stand and fight, you mangy cur!” yelled Sir Cadogan.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry yawned.

He revived a bit over a large bowl of porridge, and by the time he’d started on toast, the rest of the team had turned up.

“It’s going to be a tough one,” said Wood, who wasn’t eating anything.

“Stop worrying, Oliver,” said Alicia soothingly, “we don’t mind a bit of rain.”

But it was considerably more than a bit of rain.

Such was the popularity of Quidditch that the whole school turned out to watch the match as usual, but they ran down the lawns toward the Quidditch field, heads bowed against the ferocious wind, umbrellas being whipped out of their hands as they went.

Just before he entered the locker room, Harry saw Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, laughing and pointing at him from under an enormous umbrella on their way to the stadium.

The team changed into their scarlet robes and waited for Wood’s usual prematch pep talk, but it didn’t come.

He tried to speak several times, made an odd gulping noise, then shook his head hopelessly and beckoned them to follow him.

The wind was so strong that they staggered sideways as they walked out onto the field.

If the crowd was cheering, they couldn’t hear it over the fresh rolls of thunder.

Rain was splattering over Harry’s glasses.

How on earth was he going to see the Snitch in this?

The Hufflepuffs were approaching from the opposite side of the field, wearing canary-yellow robes.

The Captains walked up to each other and shook hands; Diggory smiled at Wood but Wood now looked as though he had lockjaw and merely nodded.

Harry saw Madam Hooch’s mouth form the words, “Mount your brooms.”

He pulled his right foot out of the mud with a squelch and swung it over his Nimbus Two Thousand.

Madam Hooch put her whistle to her lips and gave it a blast that sounded shrill and distant — they were off.

Harry rose fast, but his Nimbus was swerving slightly with the wind.

He held it as steady as he could and turned, squinting into the rain.

Within five minutes Harry was soaked to his skin and frozen, hardly able to see his teammates, let alone the tiny Snitch.

He flew backward and forward across the field past blurred red and yellow shapes, with no idea of what was happening in the rest of the game.

He couldn’t hear the commentary over the wind.

The crowd was hidden beneath a sea of cloaks and battered umbrellas.

Twice Harry came very close to being unseated by a Bludger; his vision was so clouded by the rain on his glasses he hadn’t seen them coming.

He lost track of time.

It was getting harder and harder to hold his broom straight.

The sky was getting darker, as though night had decided to come early.

Twice Harry nearly hit another player, without knowing whether it was a teammate or opponent; everyone was now so wet, and the rain so thick, he could hardly tell them apart. . . .

With the first flash of lightning came the sound of Madam Hooch’s whistle; Harry could just see the outline of Wood through the thick rain, gesturing him to the ground.

The whole team splashed down into the mud.

“I called for time-out!” Wood roared at his team.

“Come on, under here —”

They huddled at the edge of the field under a large umbrella; Harry took off his glasses and wiped them hurriedly on his robes.

“What’s the score?”

“We’re fifty points up,” said Wood, “but unless we get the Snitch soon, we’ll be playing into the night.”

“I’ve got no chance with these on,” Harry said exasperatedly, waving his glasses.

At that very moment, Hermione appeared at his shoulder; she was holding her cloak over her head and was, inexplicably, beaming.

“I’ve had an idea, Harry!

Give me your glasses, quick!”

He handed them to her, and as the team watched in amazement, Hermione tapped them with her wand and said, “Impervius!”

“There!” she said, handing them back to Harry.

“They’ll repel water!”

Wood looked as though he could have kissed her.

“Brilliant!” he called hoarsely after her as she disappeared into the crowd.

“Okay, team, let’s go for it!”

Hermione’s spell had done the trick.

Harry was still numb with cold, still wetter than he’d ever been in his life, but he could see.

Full of fresh determination, he urged his broom through the turbulent air, staring in every direction for the Snitch, avoiding a Bludger, ducking beneath Diggory, who was streaking in the opposite direction. . . .

There was another clap of thunder, followed immediately by forked lightning.

This was getting more and more dangerous.

Harry needed to get the Snitch quickly — He turned, intending to head back toward the middle of the field, but at that moment, another flash of lightning illuminated the stands, and Harry saw something that distracted him completely — the silhouette of an enormous shaggy black dog, clearly imprinted against the sky, motionless in the topmost, empty row of seats.

Harry’s numb hands slipped on the broom handle and his Nimbus dropped a few feet.

Shaking his sodden bangs out of his eyes, he squinted back into the stands.

The dog had vanished.

“Harry!” came Wood’s anguished yell from the Gryffindor goalposts.

“Harry, behind you!”

Harry looked wildly around.

Cedric Diggory was pelting up the field, and a tiny speck of gold was shimmering in the rain-filled air between them — With a jolt of panic, Harry threw himself flat to the broom-handle and zoomed toward the Snitch.

“Come on!” he growled at his Nimbus as the rain whipped his face.

“Faster!”

But something odd was happening.

An eerie silence was falling across the stadium.

The wind, though as strong as ever, was forgetting to roar.

It was as though someone had turned off the sound, as though Harry had gone suddenly deaf — what was going on?

And then a horribly familiar wave of cold swept over him, inside him, just as he became aware of something moving on the field below. . . .

Before he’d had time to think, Harry had taken his eyes off the Snitch and looked down.

At least a hundred dementors, their hidden faces pointing up at him, were standing beneath him.

It was as though freezing water were rising in his chest, cutting at his insides.

And then he heard it again. . . . Someone was screaming, screaming inside his head . . . a woman . . .

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

“Stand aside, you silly girl . . . stand aside, now. . . .”

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead —”

Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Harry’s brain. . . . What was he doing?

Why was he flying?

He needed to help her. . . . She was going to die. . . .

She was going to be murdered. . . .

He was falling, falling through the icy mist.

“Not Harry! Please . . . have mercy . . . have mercy. . . .”

A shrill voice was laughing, the woman was screaming, and Harry knew no more.

“Lucky the ground was so soft.”

“I thought he was dead for sure.”

“But he didn’t even break his glasses.”

Harry could hear the voices whispering, but they made no sense whatsoever.

He didn’t have a clue where he was, or how he’d got there, or what he’d been doing before he got there.

All he knew was that every inch of him was aching as though it had been beaten.

“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Scariest . . . the scariest thing . . . hooded black figures . . . cold . . . screaming . . .

Harry’s eyes snapped open.

He was lying in the hospital wing.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team, spattered with mud from head to foot, was gathered around his bed.

Ron and Hermione were also there, looking as though they’d just climbed out of a swimming pool.

“Harry!” said Fred, who looked extremely white underneath the mud.

“How’re you feeling?”

It was as though Harry’s memory was on fast forward.

The lightning — the Grim — the Snitch — and the dementors . . .

“What happened?” he said, sitting up so suddenly they all gasped.

“You fell off,” said Fred.

“Must’ve been — what — fifty feet?”

“We thought you’d died,” said Alicia, who was shaking.

Hermione made a small, squeaky noise.

Her eyes were extremely bloodshot.

“But the match,” said Harry.

“What happened?

Are we doing a replay?”

No one said anything.

The horrible truth sank into Harry like a stone.

“We didn’t — lose?”

“Diggory got the Snitch,” said George.

“Just after you fell.

He didn’t realize what had happened.

When he looked back and saw you on the ground, he tried to call it off.

Wanted a rematch.

But they won fair and square . . . even Wood admits it.”

“Where is Wood?” said Harry, suddenly realizing he wasn’t there.

“Still in the showers,” said Fred.

“We think he’s trying to drown himself.”

Harry put his face to his knees, his hands gripping his hair.

Fred grabbed his shoulder and shook it roughly.

“C’mon, Harry, you’ve never missed the Snitch before.”

“There had to be one time you didn’t get it,” said George.

“It’s not over yet,” said Fred.

“We lost by a hundred points, right?

So if Hufflepuff loses to Ravenclaw and we beat Ravenclaw and Slytherin . . .”

“Hufflepuff’ll have to lose by at least two hundred points,” said George.

“But if they beat Ravenclaw . . .”

“No way, Ravenclaw is too good.

But if Slytherin loses against Hufflepuff . . .”

“It all depends on the points — a margin of a hundred either way —”

Harry lay there, not saying a word.

They had lost . . . for the first time ever, he had lost a Quidditch match.

After ten minutes or so, Madam Pomfrey came over to tell the team to leave him in peace.

“We’ll come and see you later,” Fred told him.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Harry, you’re still the best Seeker we’ve ever had.”

The team trooped out, trailing mud behind them.

Madam Pomfrey shut the door behind them, looking disapproving.

Ron and Hermione moved nearer to Harry’s bed.

“Dumbledore was really angry,” Hermione said in a quaking voice.

“I’ve never seen him like that before.

He ran onto the field as you fell, waved his wand, and you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground.

Then he whirled his wand at the dementors.

Shot silver stuff at them.

They left the stadium right away. . . . He was furious they’d come onto the grounds.

We heard him —”

“Then he magicked you onto a stretcher,” said Ron.

“And walked up to school with you floating on it.

Everyone thought you were . . .”

His voice faded, but Harry hardly noticed.

He was thinking about what the dementors had done to him . . . about the screaming voice.

He looked up and saw Ron and Hermione looking at him so anxiously that he quickly cast around for something matter-of-fact to say.

“Did someone get my Nimbus?”

Ron and Hermione looked quickly at each other.

“Er —”

“What?” said Harry, looking from one to the other.

“Well . . . when you fell off, it got blown away,” said Hermione hesitantly.

“And?”

“And it hit — it hit — oh, Harry — it hit the Whomping Willow.”

Harry’s insides lurched.

The Whomping Willow was a very violent tree that stood alone in the middle of the grounds.

“And?” he said, dreading the answer.

“Well, you know the Whomping Willow,” said Ron.

“It — it doesn’t like being hit.”

“Professor Flitwick brought it back just before you came around,” said Hermione in a very small voice.

Slowly, she reached down for a bag at her feet, turned it upside down, and tipped a dozen bits of splintered wood and twig onto the bed, the only remains of Harry’s faithful, finally beaten broomstick.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐏

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Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping Harry in the hospital wing for the rest of the weekend.

He didn’t argue or complain, but he wouldn’t let her throw away the shattered remnants of his Nimbus Two Thousand.

He knew he was being stupid, knew that the Nimbus was beyond repair, but Harry couldn’t help it; he felt as though he’d lost one of his best friends.

He had a stream of visitors, all intent on cheering him up.

Hagrid sent him a bunch of earwiggy flowers that looked like yellow cabbages, and Ginny Weasley, blushing furiously, turned up with a get-well card she had made herself, which sang shrilly unless Harry kept it shut under his bowl of fruit.

The Gryffindor team visited again on Sunday morning, this time accompanied by Wood, who told Harry (in a hollow, dead sort of voice) that he didn’t blame him in the slightest.

Ron and Hermione left Harry’s bedside only at night.

But nothing anyone said or did could make Harry feel any better, because they knew only half of what was troubling him.

He hadn’t told anyone about the Grim, not even Ron and Hermione, because he knew Ron would panic and Hermione would scoff.

The fact remained, however, that it had now appeared twice, and both appearances had been followed by near-fatal accidents; the first time, he had nearly been run over by the Knight Bus; the second, fallen fifty feet from his broomstick.

Was the Grim going to haunt him until he actually died?

Was he going to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the beast?

And then there were the dementors.

Harry felt sick and humiliated every time he thought of them.

Everyone said the dementors were horrible, but no one else collapsed every time they went near one.

No one else heard echoes in their head of their dying parents.

Because Harry knew who that screaming voice belonged to now.

He had heard her words, heard them over and over again during the night hours in the hospital wing while he lay awake, staring at the strips of moonlight on the ceiling.

When the dementors approached him, he heard the last moments of his mother’s life, her attempts to protect him, Harry, from Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort’s laughter before he murdered her. . . .

Harry dozed fitfully, sinking into dreams full of clammy, rotted hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell again on his mother’s voice.

It was a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the main school on Monday, where he was forced to think about other things, even if he had to endure Draco Malfoy’s taunting.

Malfoy was almost beside himself with glee at Gryffindor’s defeat.

He had finally taken off his bandages, and celebrated having the full use of both arms again by doing spirited imitations of Harry falling off his broom.

Malfoy spent much of their next Potions class doing dementor imitations across the dungeon; Ron finally cracked and flung a large, slippery crocodile heart at Malfoy, which hit him in the face and caused Snape to take fifty points from Gryffindor.

“If Snape’s teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts again, I’m skiving off,” said Ron as they headed toward Lupin’s classroom after lunch.

“Check who’s in there, Hermione.”

Hermione peered around the classroom door.

“It’s okay!”

Professor Lupin was back at work.

It certainly looked as though he had been ill.

His old robes were hanging more loosely on him and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiled at the class as they took their seats, and they burst at once into an explosion of complaints about Snape’s behavior while Lupin had been ill.

“It’s not fair, he was only filling in, why should he give us homework?”

“We don’t know anything about werewolves —”

“— two rolls of parchment!”

“Did you tell Professor Snape we haven’t covered them yet?” Lupin asked, frowning slightly.

The babble broke out again.

“Yes, but he said we were really behind —”

“— he wouldn’t listen —”

“— two rolls of parchment!”

Professor Lupin smiled at the look of indignation on every face.

“Don’t worry. I’ll speak to Professor Snape. You don’t have to do the essay.”

“Oh no,” said Hermione, looking very disappointed. “I’ve already finished it!”

They had a very enjoyable lesson.

Professor Lupin had brought along a glass box containing a hinkypunk, a little one-legged creature who looked as though he were made of wisps of smoke, rather frail and harmless-looking.

“Lures travelers into bogs,” said Professor Lupin as they took notes.

“You notice the lantern dangling from his hand? Hops ahead — people follow the light — then —”

The hinkypunk made a horrible squelching noise against the glass.

When the bell rang, everyone gathered up their things and headed for the door, Harry among them, but —

“Wait a moment, Harry,” Lupin called. “I’d like a word.”

Harry doubled back and watched Professor Lupin covering the hinkypunk’s box with a cloth.

“I heard about the match,” said Lupin, turning back to his desk and starting to pile books into his briefcase, “and I’m sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?”

“No,” said Harry. “The tree smashed it to bits.”

Lupin sighed.

“They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No broomstick would have a chance.”

“Did you hear about the dementors too?” said Harry with difficulty.

Lupin looked at him quickly.

“Yes, I did. I don’t think any of us have seen Professor Dumbledore that angry. They have been growing restless for some time . . . furious at his refusal to let them inside the grounds. . . . I suppose they were the reason you fell?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

He hesitated, and then the question he had to ask burst from him before he could stop himself.

“Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I just — ?”

“It has nothing to do with weakness,” said Professor Lupin sharply, as though he had read Harry’s mind.

“The dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don’t have.”

A ray of wintery sunlight fell across the classroom, illuminating Lupin’s gray hairs and the lines on his young face.

“Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can’t see them. Get too near a dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself . . . soulless and evil. You’ll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life. And the worst that happened to you, Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”

“When they get near me —” Harry stared at Lupin’s desk, his throat tight. “I can hear Voldemort murdering my mum.”

Lupin made a sudden motion with his arm as though to grip Harry’s shoulder, but thought better of it.

There was a moment’s silence, then —

“Why did they have to come to the match?” said Harry bitterly.

“They’re getting hungry,” said Lupin coolly, shutting his briefcase with a snap.

“Dumbledore won’t let them into the school, so their supply of human prey has dried up. . . . I don’t think they could resist the large crowd around the Quidditch field. All that excitement . . . emotions running high . . . it was their idea of a feast.”

“Azkaban must be terrible,” Harry muttered.

Lupin nodded grimly.

“The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea, but they don’t need walls and water to keep the prisoners in, not when they’re all trapped inside their own heads, incapable of a single cheerful thought. Most of them go mad within weeks.”

“But Sirius Black escaped from them,” Harry said slowly. “He got away. . . .”

Lupin’s briefcase slipped from the desk; he had to stoop quickly to catch it.

“Yes,” he said, straightening up, “Black must have found a way to fight them. I wouldn’t have believed it possible. . . . Dementors are supposed to drain a wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long. . . .”

“You made that dementor on the train back off,” said Harry suddenly.

“There are — certain defenses one can use,” said Lupin. “But there was only one dementor on the train. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist.”

“What defenses?” said Harry at once. “Can you teach me?”

“I don’t pretend to be an expert at fighting dementors, Harry . . . quite the contrary. . . .”

“But if the dementors come to another Quidditch match, I need to be able to fight them —”

Lupin looked into Harry’s determined face, hesitated, then said, “Well . . . all right. I’ll try and help. But it’ll have to wait until next term, I’m afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient time to fall ill.”

What with the promise of anti-dementor lessons from Lupin, the thought that he might never have to hear his mother’s death again, and the fact that Ravenclaw flattened Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the end of November, Harry’s mood took a definite upturn.

Gryffindor were not out of the running after all, although they could not afford to lose another match.

Wood became repossessed of his manic energy, and worked his team as hard as ever in the chilly haze of rain that persisted into December.

Harry saw no hint of a dementor within the grounds.

Dumbledore’s anger seemed to be keeping them at their stations at the entrances.

Two weeks before the end of the term, the sky lightened suddenly to a dazzling, opaline white and the muddy grounds were revealed one morning covered in glittering frost.

Inside the castle, there was a buzz of Christmas in the air.

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, had already decorated his classroom with shimmering lights that turned out to be real, fluttering fairies.

The students were all happily discussing their plans for the holidays.

Both Ron and Hermione had decided to remain at Hogwarts, and though Ron said it was because he couldn’t stand two weeks with Percy, and Hermione insisted she needed to use the library, Harry wasn’t fooled; they were doing it to keep him company, and he was very grateful.

To everyone’s delight except Harry’s, there was to be another Hogsmeade trip on the very last weekend of the term.

“We can do all our Christmas shopping there!” said Hermione. “Mum and Dad would really love those Toothflossing Stringmints from Honeydukes!”

Resigned to the fact that he would be the only third year staying behind again, Harry borrowed a copy of Which Broomstick from Wood, and decided to spend the day reading up on the different makes.

He had been riding one of the school brooms at team practice, an ancient Shooting Star, which was very slow and jerky; he definitely needed a new broom of his own.

On the Saturday morning of the Hogsmeade trip, Harry bid good-bye to Ron and Hermione, who were wrapped in cloaks and scarves, then turned up the marble staircase alone, and headed back toward Gryffindor Tower.

Snow had started to fall outside the windows, and the castle was very still and quiet.

“Psst — Harry!”

He turned, halfway along the third-floor corridor, to see Fred and George peering out at him from behind a statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch.

“What are you doing?” said Harry curiously. “How come you’re not going to Hogsmeade?”

“We’ve come to give you a bit of festive cheer before we go,” said Fred, with a mysterious wink. “Come in here. . . .”

He nodded toward an empty classroom to the left of the one-eyed statue.

Harry followed Fred and George inside.

George closed the door quietly and then turned, beaming, to look at Harry.

“Early Christmas present for you, Harry,” he said.

Fred pulled something from inside his cloak with a flourish and laid it on one of the desks.

It was a large, square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it.

Harry, suspecting one of Fred and George’s jokes, stared at it.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“This, Harry, is the secret of our success,” said George, patting the parchment fondly.

“It’s a wrench, giving it to you,” said Fred, “but we decided last night, your need’s greater than ours.”

“Anyway, we know it by heart,” said George. “We bequeath it to you. We don’t really need it anymore.”

“And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?” said Harry.

“A bit of old parchment!” said Fred, closing his eyes with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended him. “Explain, George.”

“Well . . . when we were in our first year, Harry — young, carefree, and innocent —”

Harry snorted.

He doubted whether Fred and George had ever been innocent.

“— well, more innocent than we are now — we got into a spot of bother with Filch.”

“We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset him for some reason —”

“So he hauled us off to his office and started threatening us with the usual —”

“— detention —”

“— disembowelment —”

“— and we couldn’t help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly Dangerous.”

“Don’t tell me —” said Harry, starting to grin.

“Well, what would you’ve done?” said Fred. “George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I whipped the drawer open and grabbed — this.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know,” said George. “We don’t reckon Filch ever found out how to work it. He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn’t have confiscated it.”

“And you know how to work it?”

“Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This little beauty’s taught us more than all the teachers in this school.”

“You’re winding me up,” said Harry, looking at the ragged old bit of parchment.

“Oh, are we?” said George.

He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a spider’s web from the point that George’s wand had touched.

They joined each other, they crisscrossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed: Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present THE MARAUDER’S MAP

It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds.

But the truly remarkable thing were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled with a name in minuscule writing.

Astounded, Harry bent over it.

A labeled dot in the top left corner showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his study; the caretaker’s cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was currently bouncing around the trophy room.

And as Harry’s eyes traveled up and down the familiar corridors, he noticed something else.

This map showed a set of passages he had never entered.

And many of them seemed to lead —

“Right into Hogsmeade,” said Fred, tracing one of them with his finger.

“There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four” — he pointed them out — “but we’re sure we’re the only ones who know about these. Don’t bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last winter, but it’s caved in — completely blocked. And we don’t reckon anyone’s ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow’s planted right over the entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We’ve used it loads of times. And as you might’ve noticed, the entrance is right outside this room, through that one-eyed old crone’s hump.”

“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” sighed George, patting the heading of the map. “We owe them so much.”

“Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers,” said Fred solemnly.

“Right,” said George briskly. “Don’t forget to wipe it after you’ve used it —”

“— or anyone can read it,” Fred said warningly.

“Just tap it again and say, ‘Mischief managed!’ And it’ll go blank.”

“So, young Harry,” said Fred, in an uncanny impersonation of Percy, “mind you behave yourself.”

“See you in Honeydukes,” said George, winking.

They left the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of way.

Harry stood there, gazing at the miraculous map.

He watched the tiny ink Mrs. Norris turn left and pause to sniff at something on the floor.

If Filch really didn’t know . . . he wouldn’t have to pass the dementors at all. . . .

But even as he stood there, flooded with excitement, something Harry had once heard Mr. Weasley say came floating out of his memory.

Never trust anything that can think for itself, if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.

This map was one of those dangerous magical objects Mr. Weasley had been warning against. . . . Aids for Magical Mischief-Makers . . . but then, Harry reasoned, he only wanted to use it to get into Hogsmeade, it wasn’t as though he wanted to steal anything or attack anyone . . . and Fred and George had been using it for years without anything horrible happening. . . .

Harry traced the secret passage to Honeydukes with his finger.

Then, quite suddenly, as though following orders, he rolled up the map, stuffed it inside his robes, and hurried to the door of the classroom.

He opened it a couple of inches.

There was no one outside.

Very carefully, he edged out of the room and behind the statue of the one-eyed witch.

What did he have to do?

He pulled out the map again and saw, to his astonishment, that a new ink figure had appeared upon it, labeled Harry Potter.

This figure was standing exactly where the real Harry was standing, about halfway down the third-floor corridor.

Harry watched carefully.

His little ink self appeared to be tapping the witch with his minute wand.

Harry quickly took out his real wand and tapped the statue.

Nothing happened.

He looked back at the map.

The tiniest speech bubble had appeared next to his figure.

The word inside said, “Dissendium.”

“Dissendium!” Harry whispered, tapping the stone witch again.

At once, the statue’s hump opened wide enough to admit a fairly thin person.

Harry glanced quickly up and down the corridor, then tucked the map away again, hoisted himself into the hole headfirst, and pushed himself forward.

He slid a considerable way down what felt like a stone slide, then landed on cold, damp earth.

He stood up, looking around.

It was pitch dark.

He held up his wand, muttered, “Lumos!” and saw that he was in a very narrow, low, earthy passageway.

He raised the map, tapped it with the tip of his wand, and muttered, “Mischief managed!”

The map went blank at once.

He folded it carefully, tucked it inside his robes, then, heart beating fast, both excited and apprehensive, he set off.

The passage twisted and turned, more like the burrow of a giant rabbit than anything else.

Harry hurried along it, stumbling now and then on the uneven floor, holding his wand out in front of him.

It took ages, but Harry had the thought of Honeydukes to sustain him.

After what felt like an hour, the passage began to rise.

Panting, Harry sped up, his face hot, his feet very cold.

Ten minutes later, he came to the foot of some worn stone steps, which rose out of sight above him.

Careful not to make any noise, Harry began to climb.

A hundred steps, two hundred steps, he lost count as he climbed, watching his feet. . . .

Then, without warning, his head hit something hard.

It seemed to be a trapdoor.

Harry stood there, massaging the top of his head, listening.

He couldn’t hear any sounds above him.

Very slowly, he pushed the trapdoor open and peered over the edge.

He was in a cellar, which was full of wooden crates and boxes.

Harry climbed out of the trapdoor and replaced it — it blended so perfectly with the dusty floor that it was impossible to tell it was there.

Harry crept slowly toward the wooden staircase that led upstairs.

Now he could definitely hear voices, not to mention the tinkle of a bell and the opening and shutting of a door.

Wondering what he ought to do, he suddenly heard a door open much closer at hand; somebody was about to come downstairs.

“And get another box of Jelly Slugs, dear, they’ve nearly cleaned us out —” said a woman’s voice.

A pair of feet was coming down the staircase.

Harry leapt behind an enormous crate and waited for the footsteps to pass.

He heard the man shifting boxes against the opposite wall.

He might not get another chance —

Quickly and silently, Harry dodged out from his hiding place and climbed the stairs; looking back, he saw an enormous backside and shiny bald head, buried in a box.

Harry reached the door at the top of the stairs, slipped through it, and found himself behind the counter of Honeydukes — he ducked, crept sideways, and then straightened up.

Honeydukes was so crowded with Hogwarts students that no one looked twice at Harry.

He edged among them, looking around, and suppressed a laugh as he imagined the look that would spread over Dudley’s piggy face if he could see where Harry was now.

There were shelves upon shelves of the most succulent-looking sweets imaginable.

Creamy chunks of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, fat, honey-colored toffees; hundreds of different kinds of chocolate in neat rows; there was a large barrel of Every Flavor Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizbees, the levitating sherbet balls that Ron had mentioned; along yet another wall were “Special Effects” sweets: Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with bluebell-colored bubbles that refused to pop for days), the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Pepper Imps (“Breathe fire for your friends!”), Ice Mice (“Hear your teeth chatter and squeak!”), peppermint creams shaped like toads (“Hop realistically in the stomach!”), fragile sugar-spun quills, and exploding bonbons.

Harry squeezed himself through a crowd of sixth years and saw a sign hanging in the farthest corner of the shop (UNUSUAL TASTES).

Ron and Hermione were standing underneath it, examining a tray of blood-flavored lollipops.

Harry sneaked up behind them.

“Ugh, no, Harry won’t want one of those, they’re for vampires, I expect,” Hermione was saying.

“How about these?” said Ron, shoving a jar of Cockroach Clusters under Hermione’s nose.

“Definitely not,” said Harry.

Ron nearly dropped the jar.

“Harry!” squealed Hermione. “What are you doing here? How — how did you — ?”

“Wow!” said Ron, looking very impressed, “you’ve learned to Apparate!”

“’Course I haven’t,” said Harry.

He dropped his voice so that none of the sixth years could hear him and told them all about the Marauder’s Map.

“How come Fred and George never gave it to me!” said Ron, outraged. “I’m their brother!”

“But Harry isn’t going to keep it!” said Hermione, as though the idea were ludicrous.

“He’s going to hand it in to Professor McGonagall, aren’t you, Harry?”

“No, I’m not!” said Harry.

“Are you mad?” said Ron, goggling at Hermione. “Hand in something that good?”

“If I hand it in, I’ll have to say where I got it! Filch would know Fred and George had nicked it!”

“But what about Sirius Black?” Hermione hissed. “He could be using one of the passages on that map to get into the castle! The teachers have got to know!”

“He can’t be getting in through a passage,” said Harry quickly.

“There are seven secret tunnels on the map, right? Fred and George reckon Filch already knows about four of them. And of the other three — one of them’s caved in, so no one can get through it. One of them’s got the Whomping Willow planted over the entrance, so you can’t get out of it. And the one I just came through — well — it’s really hard to see the entrance to it down in the cellar, so unless he knew it was there . . .”

Harry hesitated.

What if Black did know the passage was there?

Ron, however, cleared his throat significantly, and pointed to a notice pasted on the inside of the sweetshop door.

——— BY ORDER OF ———

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Customers are reminded that until further notice, dementors will be patrolling the streets of Hogsmeade every night after sundown.

This measure has been put in place for the safety of Hogsmeade residents and will be lifted upon the recapture of Sirius Black.

It is therefore advisable that you complete your shopping well before nightfall.

Merry Christmas!

“See?” said Ron quietly. “I’d like to see Black try and break into Honeydukes with dementors swarming all over the village. Anyway, Hermione, the Honeydukes owners would hear a break-in, wouldn’t they? They live over the shop!”

“Yes, but — but —” Hermione seemed to be struggling to find another problem.

“Look, Harry still shouldn’t be coming into Hogsmeade. He hasn’t got a signed form! If anyone finds out, he’ll be in so much trouble! And it’s not nightfall yet — what if Sirius Black turns up today? Now?”

“He’d have a job spotting Harry in this,” said Ron, nodding through the mullioned windows at the thick, swirling snow.

“Come on, Hermione, it’s Christmas. Harry deserves a break.”

Hermione bit her lip, looking extremely worried.

“Are you going to report me?” Harry asked her, grinning.

“Oh — of course not — but honestly, Harry —”

“Seen the Fizzing Whizbees, Harry?” said Ron, grabbing him and leading him over to their barrel.

“And the Jelly Slugs? And the Acid Pops? Fred gave me one of those when I was seven — it burnt a hole right through my tongue. I remember Mum walloping him with her broomstick.”

Ron stared broodingly into the Acid Pop box.

“Reckon Fred’d take a bit of Cockroach Cluster if I told him they were peanuts?”

When Ron and Hermione had paid for all their sweets, the three of them left Honeydukes for the blizzard outside.

Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card; the little thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreaths on the doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in the trees.

Harry shivered; unlike the other two, he didn’t have his cloak.

They headed up the street, heads bowed against the wind, Ron and Hermione shouting through their scarves.

“That’s the post office —”

“Zonko’s is up there —”

“We could go up to the Shrieking Shack —”

“Tell you what,” said Ron, his teeth chattering, “shall we go for a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?”

Harry was more than willing; the wind was fierce and his hands were freezing, so they crossed the road, and in a few minutes were entering the tiny inn.

It was extremely crowded, noisy, warm, and smoky.

A curvy sort of woman with a pretty face was serving a bunch of rowdy warlocks up at the bar.

“That’s Madam Rosmerta,” said Ron. “I’ll get the drinks, shall I?” he added, going slightly red.

Harry and Hermione made their way to the back of the room, where there was a small, vacant table between the window and a handsome Christmas tree, which stood next to the fireplace.

Ron came back five minutes later, carrying three foaming tankards of hot butterbeer.

“Merry Christmas!” he said happily, raising his tankard.

Harry drank deeply.

It was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted and seemed to heat every bit of him from the inside.

A sudden breeze ruffled his hair.

The door of the Three Broomsticks had opened again.

Harry looked over the rim of his tankard and choked.

Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had just entered the pub with a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed by Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with a portly man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped cloak — Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.

In an instant, Ron and Hermione had both placed hands on the top of Harry’s head and forced him off his stool and under the table.

Dripping with butterbeer and crouching out of sight, Harry clutched his empty tankard and watched the teachers’ and Fudge’s feet move toward the bar, pause, then turn and walk right toward him.

Somewhere above him, Hermione whispered, “Mobiliarbus!”

The Christmas tree beside their table rose a few inches off the ground, drifted sideways, and landed with a soft thump right in front of their table, hiding them from view.

Staring through the dense lower branches, Harry saw four sets of chair legs move back from the table right beside theirs, then heard the grunts and sighs of the teachers and minister as they sat down.

Next he saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly turquoise high heels, and heard a woman’s voice.

“A small gillywater —”

“Mine,” said Professor McGonagall’s voice.

“Four pints of mulled mead —”

“Ta, Rosmerta,” said Hagrid.

“A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella —”

“Mmm!” said Professor Flitwick, smacking his lips.

“So you’ll be the red currant rum, Minister.”

“Thank you, Rosmerta, m’dear,” said Fudge’s voice. “Lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one yourself, won’t you? Come and join us. . . .”

“Well, thank you very much, Minister.”

Harry watched the glittering heels march away and back again.

His heart was pounding uncomfortably in his throat.

Why hadn’t it occurred to him that this was the last weekend of term for the teachers too?

And how long were they going to sit there?

He needed time to sneak back into Honeydukes if he wanted to return to school tonight. . . .

Hermione’s leg gave a nervous twitch next to him.

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?” came Madam Rosmerta’s voice.

Harry saw the lower part of Fudge’s thick body twist in his chair as though he were checking for eavesdroppers.

Then he said in a quiet voice, “What else, m’dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard what happened up at the school at Halloween?”

“I did hear a rumor,” admitted Madam Rosmerta.

“Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?” said Professor McGonagall exasperatedly.

“Do you think Black’s still in the area, Minister?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“I’m sure of it,” said Fudge shortly.

“You know that the dementors have searched my pub twice?” said Madam Rosmerta, a slight edge to her voice. “Scared all my customers away. . . . It’s very bad for business, Minister.”

“Rosmerta, m’dear, I don’t like them any more than you do,” said Fudge uncomfortably. “Necessary precaution . . . unfortunate, but there you are. . . . I’ve just met some of them. They’re in a fury against Dumbledore — he won’t let them inside the castle grounds.”

“I should think not,” said Professor McGonagall sharply. “How are we supposed to teach with those horrors floating around?”

“Hear, hear!” squeaked tiny Professor Flitwick, whose feet were dangling a foot from the ground.

“All the same,” demurred Fudge, “they are here to protect you all from something much worse. . . . We all know what Black’s capable of. . . .”

“Do you know, I still have trouble believing it,” said Madam Rosmerta thoughtfully. “Of all the people to go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I’d have thought . . . I mean, I remember him when he was a boy at Hogwarts. If you’d told me then what he was going to become, I’d have said you’d had too much mead.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge gruffly. “The worst he did isn’t widely known.”

“The worst?” said Madam Rosmerta, her voice alive with curiosity. “Worse than murdering all those poor people, you mean?”

“I certainly do,” said Fudge.

“I can’t believe that. What could possibly be worse?”

“You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta,” murmured Professor McGonagall. “Do you remember who his best friend was?”

“Naturally,” said Madam Rosmerta, with a small laugh. “Never saw one without the other, did you? The number of times I had them in here — ooh, they used to make me laugh. Quite the double act, Sirius Black and James Potter!”

Harry dropped his tankard with a loud clunk.

Ron kicked him.

“Precisely,” said Professor McGonagall. “Black and Potter. Ringleaders of their little gang. Both very bright, of course — exceptionally bright, in fact — but I don’t think we’ve ever had such a pair of troublemakers —”

“I dunno,” chuckled Hagrid. “Fred and George Weasley could give ’em a run fer their money.”

“You’d have thought Black and Potter were brothers!” chimed in Professor Flitwick.

“Inseparable!”

“Of course they were,” said Fudge.

“Potter trusted Black beyond all his other friends.

Nothing changed when they left school.

Black was best man when James married Lily.

Then they named him godfather to Harry.

Harry has no idea, of course.

You can imagine how the idea would torment him.”

“Because Black turned out to be in league with You-Know-Who?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“Worse even than that, m’dear. . . .”

Fudge dropped his voice and proceeded in a sort of low rumble.

“Not many people are aware that the Potters knew You-Know-Who was after them.

Dumbledore, who was of course working tirelessly against You-Know-Who, had a number of useful spies.

One of them tipped him off, and he alerted James and Lily at once.

He advised them to go into hiding.

Well, of course, You-Know-Who wasn’t an easy person to hide from.

Dumbledore told them that their best chance was the Fidelius Charm.”

“How does that work?” said Madam Rosmerta, breathless with interest.

Professor Flitwick cleared his throat.

“An immensely complex spell,” he said squeakily, “involving the magical concealment of a secret inside a single, living soul.

The information is hidden inside the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, and is henceforth impossible to find — unless, of course, the Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it.

As long as the Secret-Keeper refused to speak, You-Know-Who could search the village where Lily and James were staying for years and never find them, not even if he had his nose pressed against their sitting-room window!”

“So Black was the Potters’ Secret-Keeper?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“Naturally,” said Professor McGonagall.

“James Potter told Dumbledore that Black would die rather than tell where they were, that Black was planning to go into hiding himself . . . and yet, Dumbledore remained worried.

I remember him offering to be the Potters’ Secret-Keeper himself.”

“He suspected Black?” gasped Madam Rosmerta.

“He was sure that somebody close to the Potters had been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their movements,” said Professor McGonagall darkly.

“Indeed, he had suspected for some time that someone on our side had turned traitor and was passing a lot of information to You-Know-Who.”

“But James Potter insisted on using Black?”

“He did,” said Fudge heavily.

“And then, barely a week after the Fidelius Charm had been performed —”

“Black betrayed them?” breathed Madam Rosmerta.

“He did indeed.

Black was tired of his double-agent role, he was ready to declare his support openly for You-Know-Who, and he seems to have planned this for the moment of the Potters’ death.

But, as we all know, You-Know-Who met his downfall in little Harry Potter.

Powers gone, horribly weakened, he fled.

And this left Black in a very nasty position indeed.

His master had fallen at the very moment when he, Black, had shown his true colors as a traitor.

He had no choice but to run for it —”

“Filthy, stinkin’ turncoat!” Hagrid said, so loudly that half the bar went quiet.

“Shh!” said Professor McGonagall.

“I met him!” growled Hagrid.

“I musta bin the last ter see him before he killed all them people!

It was me what rescued Harry from Lily an’ James’s house after they was killed!

Jus’ got him outta the ruins, poor little thing, with a great slash across his forehead, an’ his parents dead . . . an’ Sirius Black turns up, on that flyin’ motorbike he used ter ride.

Never occurred ter me what he was doin’ there.

I didn’ know he’d bin Lily an’ James’s Secret-Keeper.

Thought he’d jus’ heard the news o’ You-Know-Who’s attack an’ come ter see what he could do.

White an’ shakin’, he was.

An’ yeh know what I did?

I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN’ TRAITOR!” Hagrid roared.

“Hagrid, please!” said Professor McGonagall.

“Keep your voice down!”

“How was I ter know he wasn’ upset abou’ Lily an’ James?

It was You-Know-Who he cared abou’!

An’ then he says, ‘Give Harry ter me, Hagrid, I’m his godfather, I’ll look after him —’ Ha!

But I’d had me orders from Dumbledore, an’ I told Black no, Dumbledore said Harry was ter go ter his aunt an’ uncle’s.

Black argued, but in the end he gave in.

Told me ter take his motorbike ter get Harry there.

‘I won’t need it anymore,’ he says.

“I shoulda known there was somethin’ fishy goin’ on then.

He loved that motorbike, what was he givin’ it ter me for?

Why wouldn’ he need it anymore?

Fact was, it was too easy ter trace.

Dumbledore knew he’d bin the Potters’ Secret-Keeper.

Black knew he was goin’ ter have ter run fer it that night, knew it was a matter o’ hours before the Ministry was after him.

“But what if I’d given Harry to him, eh?

I bet he’d’ve pitched him off the bike halfway out ter sea.

His bes’ friends’ son!

But when a wizard goes over ter the Dark Side, there’s nothin’ and no one that matters to ’em anymore. . . .”

A long silence followed Hagrid’s story.

Then Madam Rosmerta said with some satisfaction, “But he didn’t manage to disappear, did he?

The Ministry of Magic caught up with him next day!”

“Alas, if only we had,” said Fudge bitterly.

“It was not we who found him.

It was little Peter Pettigrew — another of the Potters’ friends.

Maddened by grief, no doubt, and knowing that Black had been the Potters’ Secret-Keeper, he went after Black himself.”

“Pettigrew . . . that fat little boy who was always tagging around after them at Hogwarts?” said Madam Rosmerta.

“Hero-worshipped Black and Potter,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Never quite in their league, talent-wise.

I was often rather sharp with him.

You can imagine how I — how I regret that now. . . .”

She sounded as though she had a sudden head cold.

“There, now, Minerva,” said Fudge kindly, “Pettigrew died a hero’s death.

Eyewitnesses — Muggles, of course, we wiped their memories later — told us how Pettigrew cornered Black.

They say he was sobbing, ‘Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?’

And then he went for his wand.

Well, of course, Black was quicker.

Blew Pettigrew to smithereens. . . .”

Professor McGonagall blew her nose and said thickly, “Stupid boy . . . foolish boy . . . he was always hopeless at dueling . . . should have left it to the Ministry. . . .”

“I tell yeh, if I’d got ter Black before little Pettigrew did, I wouldn’t’ve messed around with wands — I’d’ve ripped him limb — from — limb,” Hagrid growled.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hagrid,” said Fudge sharply.

“Nobody but trained Hit Wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad would have stood a chance against Black once he was cornered.

I was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Catastrophes at the time, and I was one of the first on the scene after Black murdered all those people.

I — I will never forget it.

I still dream about it sometimes.

A crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had cracked the sewer below.

Bodies everywhere.

Muggles screaming.

And Black standing there laughing, with what was left of Pettigrew in front of him . . . a heap of bloodstained robes and a few — a few fragments —”

Fudge’s voice stopped abruptly.

There was the sound of five noses being blown.

“Well, there you have it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge thickly.

“Black was taken away by twenty members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and Pettigrew received the Order of Merlin, First Class, which I think was some comfort to his poor mother.

Black’s been in Azkaban ever since.”

Madam Rosmerta let out a long sigh.

“Is it true he’s mad, Minister?”

“I wish I could say that he was,” said Fudge slowly.

“I certainly believe his master’s defeat unhinged him for a while.

The murder of Pettigrew and all those Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate man — cruel . . . pointless.

Yet I met Black on my last inspection of Azkaban.

You know, most of the prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the dark; there’s no sense in them . . . but I was shocked at how normal Black seemed.

He spoke quite rationally to me.

It was unnerving.

You’d have thought he was merely bored — asked if I’d finished with my newspaper, cool as you please, said he missed doing the crossword.

Yes, I was astounded at how little effect the dementors seemed to be having on him — and he was one of the most heavily guarded in the place, you know.

Dementors outside his door day and night.”

“But what do you think he’s broken out to do?” said Madam Rosmerta.

“Good gracious, Minister, he isn’t trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?”

“I daresay that is his — er — eventual plan,” said Fudge evasively.

“But we hope to catch Black long before that.

I must say, You-Know-Who alone and friendless is one thing . . . but give him back his most devoted servant, and I shudder to think how quickly he’ll rise again. . . .”

There was a small chink of glass on wood.

Someone had set down their glass.

“You know, Cornelius, if you’re dining with the headmaster, we’d better head back up to the castle,” said Professor McGonagall.

One by one, the pairs of feet in front of Harry took the weight of their owners once more; hems of cloaks swung into sight, and Madam Rosemerta’s glittering heels disappeared behind the bar.

The door of the Three Broomsticks opened again, there was another flurry of snow, and the teachers had disappeared.

“Harry?”

Ron’s and Hermione’s faces appeared under the table.

They were both staring at him, lost for words.