[Part 4] "Harry Potter and Prisoner of Azkaban" by Rowling J.K.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐓

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Harry didn’t have a very clear idea of how he had managed to get back into the Honeydukes cellar, through the tunnel, and into the castle once more.

All he knew was that the return trip seemed to take no time at all, and that he hardly noticed what he was doing, because his head was still pounding with the conversation he had just heard.

Why had nobody ever told him?

Dumbledore, Hagrid, Mr. Weasley, Cornelius Fudge . . .

Why hadn’t anyone ever mentioned the fact that Harry’s parents had died because their best friend had betrayed them?

Ron and Hermione watched Harry nervously all through dinner, not daring to talk about what they’d overheard, because Percy was sitting close by them.

When they went upstairs to the crowded common room, it was to find Fred and George had set off half a dozen Dungbombs in a fit of end-of-term high spirits.

Harry, who didn’t want Fred and George asking him whether he’d reached Hogsmeade or not, sneaked quietly up to the empty dormitory and headed straight for his bedside cabinet.

He pushed his books aside and quickly found what he was looking for — the leather-bound photo album Hagrid had given him two years ago, which was full of wizard pictures of his mother and father.

He sat down on his bed, drew the hangings around him, and started turning the pages, searching, until . . .

He stopped on a picture of his parents’ wedding day.

There was his father waving up at him, beaming, the untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in all directions.

There was his mother, alight with happiness, arm in arm with his dad.

And there . . . that must be him.

Their best man . . . Harry had never given him a thought before.

If he hadn’t known it was the same person, he would never have guessed it was Black in this old photograph.

His face wasn’t sunken and waxy, but handsome, full of laughter.

Had he already been working for Voldemort when this picture had been taken?

Was he already planning the deaths of the two people next to him?

Did he realize he was facing twelve years in Azkaban, twelve years that would make him unrecognizable?

But the dementors don’t affect him, Harry thought, staring into the handsome, laughing face.

He doesn’t have to hear my mum screaming if they get too close —

Harry slammed the album shut, reached over and stuffed it back into his cabinet, took off his robe and glasses and got into bed, making sure the hangings were hiding him from view.

The dormitory door opened.

“Harry?” said Ron’s voice uncertainly.

But Harry lay still, pretending to be asleep.

He heard Ron leave again, and rolled over on his back, his eyes wide open.

A hatred such as he had never known before was coursing through Harry like poison.

He could see Black laughing at him through the darkness, as though somebody had pasted the picture from the album over his eyes.

He watched, as though somebody was playing him a piece of film, Sirius Black blasting Peter Pettigrew (who resembled Neville Longbottom) into a thousand pieces.

He could hear (though having no idea what Black’s voice might sound like) a low, excited mutter.

“It has happened, my Lord . . . the Potters have made me their Secret-Keeper. . . .”

And then came another voice, laughing shrilly, the same laugh that Harry heard inside his head whenever the dementors drew near. . . .

“Harry, you — you look terrible.”

Harry hadn’t gotten to sleep until daybreak.

He had awoken to find the dormitory deserted, dressed, and gone down the spiral staircase to a common room that was completely empty except for Ron, who was eating a Peppermint Toad and massaging his stomach, and Hermione, who had spread her homework over three tables.

“Where is everyone?” said Harry.

“Gone! It’s the first day of the holidays, remember?” said Ron, watching Harry closely.

“It’s nearly lunchtime; I was going to come and wake you up in a minute.”

Harry slumped into a chair next to the fire.

Snow was still falling outside the windows.

Crookshanks was spread out in front of the fire like a large, ginger rug.

“You really don’t look well, you know,” Hermione said, peering anxiously into his face.

“I’m fine,” said Harry.

“Harry, listen,” said Hermione, exchanging a look with Ron, “you must be really upset about what we heard yesterday.

But the thing is, you mustn’t go doing anything stupid.”

“Like what?” said Harry.

“Like trying to go after Black,” said Ron sharply.

Harry could tell they had rehearsed this conversation while he had been asleep.

He didn’t say anything.

“You won’t, will you, Harry?” said Hermione.

“Because Black’s not worth dying for,” said Ron.

Harry looked at them.

They didn’t seem to understand at all.

“D’you know what I see and hear every time a dementor gets too near me?”

Ron and Hermione shook their heads, looking apprehensive.

“I can hear my mum screaming and pleading with Voldemort.

And if you’d heard your mum screaming like that, just about to be killed, you wouldn’t forget it in a hurry.

And if you found out someone who was supposed to be a friend of hers betrayed her and sent Voldemort after her —”

“There’s nothing you can do!” said Hermione, looking stricken.

“The dementors will catch Black and he’ll go back to Azkaban and — and serve him right!”

“You heard what Fudge said.

Black isn’t affected by Azkaban like normal people are.

It’s not a punishment for him like it is for the others.”

“So what are you saying?” said Ron, looking very tense.

“You want to — to kill Black or something?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione in a panicky voice.

“Harry doesn’t want to kill anyone, do you, Harry?”

Again, Harry didn’t answer.

He didn’t know what he wanted to do.

All he knew was that the idea of doing nothing, while Black was at liberty, was almost more than he could stand.

“Malfoy knows,” he said abruptly.

“Remember what he said to me in Potions?

‘If it was me, I’d hunt him down myself. . . . I’d want revenge.’”

“You’re going to take Malfoy’s advice instead of ours?” said Ron furiously.

“Listen . . . you know what Pettigrew’s mother got back after Black had finished with him?

Dad told me — the Order of Merlin, First Class, and Pettigrew’s finger in a box.

That was the biggest bit of him they could find.

Black’s a madman, Harry, and he’s dangerous —”

“Malfoy’s dad must have told him,” said Harry, ignoring Ron.

“He was right in Voldemort’s inner circle —”

“Say You-Know-Who, will you?” interjected Ron angrily.

“— so obviously, the Malfoys knew Black was working for Voldemort —”

“— and Malfoy’d love to see you blown into about a million pieces, like Pettigrew!

Get a grip.

Malfoy’s just hoping you’ll get yourself killed before he has to play you at Quidditch.”

“Harry, please,” said Hermione, her eyes now shining with tears, “please be sensible.

Black did a terrible, terrible thing, but d-don’t put yourself in danger, it’s what Black wants. . . .

Oh, Harry, you’d be playing right into Black’s hands if you went looking for him.

Your mum and dad wouldn’t want you to get hurt, would they?

They’d never want you to go looking for Black!”

“I’ll never know what they’d have wanted, because thanks to Black, I’ve never spoken to them,” said Harry shortly.

There was a silence in which Crookshanks stretched luxuriously, flexing his claws.

Ron’s pocket quivered.

“Look,” said Ron, obviously casting around for a change of subject, “it’s the holidays!

It’s nearly Christmas!

Let’s — let’s go down and see Hagrid.

We haven’t visited him for ages!”

“No!” said Hermione quickly.

“Harry isn’t supposed to leave the castle, Ron —”

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Harry, sitting up, “and I can ask him how come he never mentioned Black when he told me all about my parents!”

Further discussion of Sirius Black plainly wasn’t what Ron had had in mind.

“Or we could have a game of chess,” he said hastily, “or Gobstones.

Percy left a set —”

“No, let’s visit Hagrid,” said Harry firmly.

So they got their cloaks from their dormitories and set off through the portrait hole (“Stand and fight, you yellow-bellied mongrels!”), down through the empty castle and out through the oak front doors.

They made their way slowly down the lawn, making a shallow trench in the glittering, powdery snow, their socks and the hems of their cloaks soaked and freezing.

The Forbidden Forest looked as though it had been enchanted, each tree smattered with silver, and Hagrid’s cabin looked like an iced cake.

Ron knocked, but there was no answer.

“He’s not out, is he?” said Hermione, who was shivering under her cloak.

Ron had his ear to the door.

“There’s a weird noise,” he said.

“Listen — is that Fang?”

Harry and Hermione put their ears to the door too.

From inside the cabin came a series of low, throbbing moans.

“Think we’d better go and get someone?” said Ron nervously.

“Hagrid!” called Harry, thumping the door.

“Hagrid, are you in there?”

There was a sound of heavy footsteps, then the door creaked open.

Hagrid stood there with his eyes red and swollen, tears splashing down the front of his leather vest.

“Yeh’ve heard?” he bellowed, and he flung himself onto Harry’s neck.

Hagrid being at least twice the size of a normal man, this was no laughing matter.

Harry, about to collapse under Hagrid’s weight, was rescued by Ron and Hermione, who each seized Hagrid under an arm and heaved him back into the cabin.

Hagrid allowed himself to be steered into a chair and slumped over the table, sobbing uncontrollably, his face glazed with tears that dripped down into his tangled beard.

“Hagrid, what is it?” said Hermione, aghast.

Harry spotted an official-looking letter lying open on the table.

“What’s this, Hagrid?”

Hagrid’s sobs redoubled, but he shoved the letter toward Harry, who picked it up and read aloud:

Dear Mr. Hagrid,

Further to our inquiry into the attack by a hippogriff on a student in your class, we have accepted the assurances of Professor Dumbledore that you bear no responsibility for the regrettable incident.

“Well, that’s okay then, Hagrid!” said Ron, clapping Hagrid on the shoulder.

But Hagrid continued to sob, and waved one of his gigantic hands, inviting Harry to read on.

However, we must register our concern about the hippogriff in question.

We have decided to uphold the official complaint of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and this matter will therefore be taken to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.

The hearing will take place on April 20th, and we ask you to present yourself and your hippogriff at the Committee’s offices in London on that date.

In the meantime, the hippogriff should be kept tethered and isolated.

Yours in fellowship . . .

There followed a list of the school governors.

“Oh,” said Ron.

“But you said Buckbeak isn’t a bad hippogriff, Hagrid.

I bet he’ll get off —”

“Yeh don’ know them gargoyles at the Committee fer the Disposal o’ Dangerous Creatures!” choked Hagrid, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“They’ve got it in fer interestin’ creatures!”

A sudden sound from the corner of Hagrid’s cabin made Harry, Ron, and Hermione whip around.

Buckbeak the hippogriff was lying in the corner, chomping on something that was oozing blood all over the floor.

“I couldn’ leave him tied up out there in the snow!” choked Hagrid.

“All on his own! At Christmas.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another.

They had never seen eye to eye with Hagrid about what he called “interesting creatures” and other people called “terrifying monsters.”

On the other hand, there didn’t seem to be any particular harm in Buckbeak.

In fact, by Hagrid’s usual standards, he was positively cute.

“You’ll have to put up a good strong defense, Hagrid,” said Hermione, sitting down and laying a hand on Hagrid’s massive forearm.

“I’m sure you can prove Buckbeak is safe.”

“Won’t make no diff’rence!” sobbed Hagrid.

“Them Disposal devils, they’re all in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket!

Scared o’ him!

An’ if I lose the case, Buckbeak —”

Hagrid drew his finger swiftly across his throat, then gave a great wail and lurched forward, his face in his arms.

“What about Dumbledore, Hagrid?” said Harry.

“He’s done more’n enough fer me already,” groaned Hagrid.

“Got enough on his plate what with keepin’ them dementors outta the castle, an’ Sirius Black lurkin’ around —”

Ron and Hermione looked quickly at Harry, as though expecting him to start berating Hagrid for not telling him the truth about Black.

But Harry couldn’t bring himself to do it, not now that he saw Hagrid so miserable and scared.

“Listen, Hagrid,” he said, “you can’t give up.

Hermione’s right, you just need a good defense.

You can call us as witnesses —”

“I’m sure I’ve read about a case of hippogriff-baiting,” said Hermione thoughtfully, “where the hippogriff got off.

I’ll look it up for you, Hagrid, and see exactly what happened.”

Hagrid howled still more loudly.

Harry and Hermione looked at Ron to help them.

“Er — shall I make a cup of tea?” said Ron.

Harry stared at him.

“It’s what my mum does whenever someone’s upset,” Ron muttered, shrugging.

At last, after many more assurances of help, with a steaming mug of tea in front of him, Hagrid blew his nose on a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth and said, “Yer right.

I can’ afford to go ter pieces.

Gotta pull meself together. . . .”

Fang the boarhound came timidly out from under the table and laid his head on Hagrid’s knee.

“I’ve not bin meself lately,” said Hagrid, stroking Fang with one hand and mopping his face with the other.

“Worried abou’ Buckbeak, an’ no one likin’ me classes —”

“We do like them!” lied Hermione at once.

“Yeah, they’re great!” said Ron, crossing his fingers under the table.

“Er — how are the flobberworms?”

“Dead,” said Hagrid gloomily.

“Too much lettuce.”

“Oh no!” said Ron, his lip twitching.

“An’ them dementors make me feel ruddy terrible an’ all,” said Hagrid, with a sudden shudder.

“Gotta walk past ’em ev’ry time I want a drink in the Three Broomsticks.

’S like bein’ back in Azkaban —”

He fell silent, gulping his tea.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched him breathlessly.

They had never heard Hagrid talk about his brief spell in Azkaban before.

After a pause, Hermione said timidly, “Is it awful in there, Hagrid?”

“Yeh’ve no idea,” said Hagrid quietly.

“Never bin anywhere like it.

Thought I was goin’ mad.

Kep’ goin’ over horrible stuff in me mind . . . the day I got expelled from Hogwarts . . . day me dad died . . . day I had ter let Norbert go. . . .”

His eyes filled with tears.

Norbert was the baby dragon Hagrid had once won in a game of cards.

“Yeh can’ really remember who yeh are after a while.

An’ yeh can’ see the point o’ livin’ at all.

I used ter hope I’d jus’ die in me sleep. . . .

When they let me out, it was like bein’ born again, ev’rythin’ came floodin’ back, it was the bes’ feelin’ in the world.

Mind, the dementors weren’t keen on lettin’ me go.”

“But you were innocent!” said Hermione.

Hagrid snorted.

“Think that matters to them?

They don’ care.

Long as they’ve got a couple o’ hundred humans stuck there with ’em, so they can leech all the happiness out of ’em, they don’ give a damn who’s guilty an’ who’s not.”

Hagrid went quiet for a moment, staring into his tea.

Then he said quietly, “Thought o’ jus’ letting Buckbeak go . . . tryin’ ter make him fly away . . . but how d’yeh explain ter a hippogriff it’s gotta go inter hidin’?

An’ — an’ I’m scared o’ breakin’ the law. . . .”

He looked up at them, tears leaking down his face again.

“I don’ ever want ter go back ter Azkaban.”

The trip to Hagrid’s, though far from fun, had nevertheless had the effect Ron and Hermione had hoped.

Though Harry had by no means forgotten about Black, he couldn’t brood constantly on revenge if he wanted to help Hagrid win his case against the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.

He, Ron, and Hermione went to the library the next day and returned to the empty common room laden with books that might help prepare a defense for Buckbeak.

The three of them sat in front of the roaring fire, slowly turning the pages of dusty volumes about famous cases of marauding beasts, speaking occasionally when they ran across something relevant.

“Here’s something . . . there was a case in 1722 . . . but the hippogriff was convicted — ugh, look what they did to it, that’s disgusting —”

“This might help, look — a manticore savaged someone in 1296, and they let the manticore off — oh — no, that was only because everyone was too scared to go near it. . . .”

Meanwhile, in the rest of the castle, the usual magnificent Christmas decorations had been put up, despite the fact that hardly any of the students remained to enjoy them.

Thick streamers of holly and mistletoe were strung along the corridors, mysterious lights shone from inside every suit of armor, and the Great Hall was filled with its usual twelve Christmas trees, glittering with golden stars.

A powerful and delicious smell of cooking pervaded the corridors, and by Christmas Eve, it had grown so strong that even Scabbers poked his nose out of the shelter of Ron’s pocket to sniff hopefully at the air.

On Christmas morning, Harry was woken by Ron throwing his pillow at him.

“Oi! Presents!”

Harry reached for his glasses and put them on, squinting through the semidarkness to the foot of his bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared.

Ron was already ripping the paper off his own presents.

“Another sweater from Mum . . . maroon again . . . see if you’ve got one.”

Harry had.

Mrs. Weasley had sent him a scarlet sweater with the Gryffindor lion knitted on the front; also a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas cake, and a box of nut brittle.

As he moved all these things aside, he saw a long, thin package lying underneath.

“What’s that?” said Ron, looking over, a freshly unwrapped pair of maroon socks in his hand.

“Dunno . . .”

Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his bedspread.

Ron dropped his socks and jumped off his bed for a closer look.

“I don’t believe it,” he said hoarsely.

It was a Firebolt, identical to the dream broom Harry had gone to see every day in Diagon Alley.

Its handle glittered as he picked it up.

He could feel it vibrating and let go; it hung in midair, unsupported, at exactly the right height for him to mount it.

His eyes moved from the golden registration number at the top of the handle, right down to the perfectly smooth, streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.

“Who sent it to you?” said Ron in a hushed voice.

“Look and see if there’s a card,” said Harry.

Ron ripped apart the Firebolt’s wrappings.

“Nothing! Blimey, who’d spend that much on you?”

“Well,” said Harry, feeling stunned, “I’m betting it wasn’t the Dursleys.”

“I bet it was Dumbledore,” said Ron, now walking around and around the Firebolt, taking in every glorious inch.

“He sent you the Invisibility Cloak anonymously. . . .”

“That was my dad’s, though,” said Harry.

“Dumbledore was just passing it on to me.

He wouldn’t spend hundreds of Galleons on me.

He can’t go giving students stuff like this —”

“That’s why he wouldn’t say it was from him!” said Ron.

“In case some git like Malfoy said it was favoritism.

Hey, Harry” — Ron gave a great whoop of laughter — “Malfoy! Wait till he sees you on this!

He’ll be sick as a pig!

This is an international standard broom, this is!”

“I can’t believe this,” Harry muttered, running a hand along the Firebolt, while Ron sank onto Harry’s bed, laughing his head off at the thought of Malfoy.

“Who — ?”

“I know,” said Ron, controlling himself, “I know who it could’ve been — Lupin!”

“What?” said Harry, now starting to laugh himself.

“Lupin? Listen, if he had this much gold, he’d be able to buy himself some new robes.”

“Yeah, but he likes you,” said Ron.

“And he was away when your Nimbus got smashed, and he might’ve heard about it and decided to visit Diagon Alley and get this for you —”

“What d’you mean, he was away?” said Harry.

“He was ill when I was playing in that match.”

“Well, he wasn’t in the hospital wing,” said Ron.

“I was there, cleaning out the bedpans on that detention from Snape, remember?”

Harry frowned at Ron.

“I can’t see Lupin affording something like this.”

“What’re you two laughing about?”

Hermione had just come in, wearing her dressing gown and carrying Crookshanks, who was looking very grumpy, with a string of tinsel tied around his neck.

“Don’t bring him in here!” said Ron, hurriedly snatching Scabbers from the depths of his bed and stowing him in his pajama pocket.

But Hermione wasn’t listening.

She dropped Crookshanks onto Seamus’s empty bed and stared, open-mouthed, at the Firebolt.

“Oh, Harry! Who sent you that?”

“No idea,” said Harry.

“There wasn’t a card or anything with it.”

To his great surprise, Hermione did not appear either excited or intrigued by the news.

On the contrary, her face fell, and she bit her lip.

“What’s the matter with you?” said Ron.

“I don’t know,” said Hermione slowly, “but it’s a bit odd, isn’t it?

I mean, this is supposed to be quite a good broom, isn’t it?”

Ron sighed exasperatedly.

“It’s the best broom there is, Hermione,” he said.

“So it must’ve been really expensive. . . .”

“Probably cost more than all the Slytherins’ brooms put together,” said Ron happily.

“Well . . . who’d send Harry something as expensive as that, and not even tell him they’d sent it?” said Hermione.

“Who cares?” said Ron impatiently.

“Listen, Harry, can I have a go on it?

Can I?”

“I don’t think anyone should ride that broom just yet!” said Hermione shrilly.

Harry and Ron looked at her.

“What d’you think Harry’s going to do with it — sweep the floor?” said Ron.

But before Hermione could answer, Crookshanks sprang from Seamus’s bed, right at Ron’s chest.

“GET — HIM — OUT — OF — HERE!” Ron bellowed as Crookshanks’s claws ripped his pajamas and Scabbers attempted a wild escape over his shoulder.

Ron seized Scabbers by the tail and aimed a misjudged kick at Crookshanks that hit the trunk at the end of Harry’s bed, knocking it over and causing Ron to hop up and down, howling with pain.

Crookshanks’s fur suddenly stood on end.

A shrill, tinny whistling was filling the room.

The Pocket Sneakoscope had become dislodged from Uncle Vernon’s old socks and was whirling and gleaming on the floor.

“I forgot about that!” Harry said, bending down and picking up the Sneakoscope.

“I never wear those socks if I can help it. . . .”

The Sneakoscope whirled and whistled in his palm.

Crookshanks was hissing and spitting at it.

“You’d better take that cat out of here, Hermione,” said Ron furiously, sitting on Harry’s bed nursing his toe.

“Can’t you shut that thing up?” he added to Harry as Hermione strode out of the room, Crookshanks’s yellow eyes still fixed maliciously on Ron.

Harry stuffed the Sneakoscope back inside the socks and threw it back into his trunk.

All that could be heard now were Ron’s stifled moans of pain and rage.

Scabbers was huddled in Ron’s hands.

It had been a while since Harry had seen him out of Ron’s pocket, and he was unpleasantly surprised to see that Scabbers, once so fat, was now very skinny; patches of fur seemed to have fallen out too.

“He’s not looking too good, is he?” Harry said.

“It’s stress!” said Ron.

“He’d be fine if that big stupid furball left him alone!”

But Harry, remembering what the woman at the Magical Menagerie had said about rats living only three years, couldn’t help feeling that unless Scabbers had powers he had never revealed, he was reaching the end of his life.

And despite Ron’s frequent complaints that Scabbers was both boring and useless, he was sure Ron would be very miserable if Scabbers died.

Christmas spirit was definitely thin on the ground in the Gryffindor common room that morning.

Hermione had shut Crookshanks in her dormitory, but was furious with Ron for trying to kick him; Ron was still fuming about Crookshanks’s fresh attempt to eat Scabbers.

Harry gave up trying to make them talk to each other and devoted himself to examining the Firebolt, which he had brought down to the common room with him.

For some reason this seemed to annoy Hermione as well; she didn’t say anything, but she kept looking darkly at the broom as though it too had been criticizing her cat.

At lunchtime they went down to the Great Hall, to find that the House tables had been moved against the walls again, and that a single table, set for twelve, stood in the middle of the room.

Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick were there, along with Filch, the caretaker, who had taken off his usual brown coat and was wearing a very old and rather moldy-looking tailcoat.

There were only three other students, two extremely nervous-looking first years and a sullen-faced Slytherin fifth year.

“Merry Christmas!” said Dumbledore as Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached the table.

“As there are so few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables. . . . Sit down, sit down!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down side by side at the end of the table.

“Crackers!” said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged.

With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witch’s hat topped with a stuffed vulture.

Harry, remembering the boggart, caught Ron’s eye and they both grinned; Snape’s mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard’s hat at once.

“Dig in!” he advised the table, beaming around.

As Harry was helping himself to roast potatoes, the doors of the Great Hall opened again.

It was Professor Trelawney, gliding toward them as though on wheels.

She had put on a green sequined dress in honor of the occasion, making her look more than ever like a glittering, oversized dragonfly.

“Sybill, this is a pleasant surprise!” said Dumbledore, standing up.

“I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster,” said Professor Trelawney in her mistiest, most faraway voice, “and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join you.

Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate?

I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness. . . .”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling.

“Let me draw you up a chair —”

And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Professors Snape and McGonagall.

Professor Trelawney, however, did not sit down; her enormous eyes had been roving around the table, and she suddenly uttered a kind of soft scream.

“I dare not, Headmaster!

If I join the table, we shall be thirteen!

Nothing could be more unlucky!

Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!”

“We’ll risk it, Sybill,” said Professor McGonagall impatiently.

“Do sit down, the turkey’s getting stone cold.”

Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched tight, as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit the table.

Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into the nearest tureen.

“Tripe, Sybill?”

Professor Trelawney ignored her.

Eyes open again, she looked around once more and said, “But where is dear Professor Lupin?”

“I’m afraid the poor fellow is ill again,” said Dumbledore, indicating that everybody should start serving themselves.

“Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day.”

“But surely you already knew that, Sybill?” said Professor McGonagall, her eyebrows raised.

Professor Trelawney gave Professor McGonagall a very cold look.

“Certainly I knew, Minerva,” she said quietly.

“But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing.

I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous.”

“That explains a great deal,” said Professor McGonagall tartly.

Professor Trelawney’s voice suddenly became a good deal less misty.

“If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long.

He seems aware, himself, that his time is short.

He positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him —”

“Imagine that,” said Professor McGonagall dryly.

“I doubt,” said Dumbledore, in a cheerful but slightly raised voice, which put an end to Professor McGonagall and Professor Trelawney’s conversation, “that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger.

Severus, you’ve made the potion for him again?”

“Yes, Headmaster,” said Snape.

“Good,” said Dumbledore.

“Then he should be up and about in no time. . . . Derek, have you had any of these chipolatas?

They’re excellent.”

The first-year boy went furiously red on being addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the platter of sausages with trembling hands.

Professor Trelawney behaved almost normally until the very end of Christmas dinner, two hours later.

Full to bursting with Christmas dinner and still wearing their party hats, Harry and Ron got up first from the table and she shrieked loudly.

“My dears! Which of you left his seat first?

Which?”

“Dunno,” said Ron, looking uneasily at Harry.

“I doubt it will make much difference,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, “unless a mad axe-man is waiting outside the doors to slaughter the first into the entrance hall.”

Even Ron laughed.

Professor Trelawney looked highly affronted.

“Coming?” Harry said to Hermione.

“No,” Hermione muttered, “I want a quick word with Professor McGonagall.”

“Probably trying to see if she can take any more classes,” yawned Ron as they made their way into the entrance hall, which was completely devoid of mad axe-men.

When they reached the portrait hole, they found Sir Cadogan enjoying a Christmas party with a couple of monks, several previous headmasters of Hogwarts, and his fat pony.

He pushed up his visor and toasted them with a flagon of mead.

“Merry — hic — Christmas! Password?”

“Scurvy cur,” said Ron.

“And the same to you, sir!” roared Sir Cadogan as the painting swung forward to admit them.

Harry went straight up to the dormitory, collected the Firebolt and the Broomstick Servicing Kit Hermione had given him for his birthday, brought them downstairs, and tried to find something to do to the Firebolt; however, there were no bent twigs to clip, and the handle was so shiny already it seemed pointless to polish it.

He and Ron simply sat admiring it from every angle until the portrait hole opened, and Hermione came in, accompanied by Professor McGonagall.

Though Professor McGonagall was head of Gryffindor House, Harry had seen her in the common room only once before, and that had been to make a very grave announcement.

He and Ron stared at her, both holding the Firebolt.

Hermione walked around them, sat down, picked up the nearest book, and hid her face behind it.

“So that’s it, is it?” said Professor McGonagall beadily, walking over to the fireside and staring at the Firebolt.

“Miss Granger has just informed me that you have been sent a broomstick, Potter.”

Harry and Ron looked around at Hermione.

They could see her forehead reddening over the top of her book, which was upside down.

“May I?” said Professor McGonagall, but she didn’t wait for an answer before pulling the Firebolt out of their hands.

She examined it carefully from handle to twig-ends.

“Hmm.

And there was no note at all, Potter?

No card?

No message of any kind?”

“No,” said Harry blankly.

“I see . . . ,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Well, I’m afraid I will have to take this, Potter.”

“W-what?” said Harry, scrambling to his feet.

“Why?”

“It will need to be checked for jinxes,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Of course, I’m no expert, but I daresay Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick will strip it down —”

“Strip it down?” repeated Ron, as though Professor McGonagall was mad.

“It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks,” said Professor McGonagall.

“You will have it back if we are sure it is jinx-free.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it!” said Harry, his voice shaking slightly.

“Honestly, Professor —”

“You can’t know that, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, quite kindly, “not until you’ve flown it, at any rate, and I’m afraid that is out of the question until we are certain that it has not been tampered with.

I shall keep you informed.”

Professor McGonagall turned on her heel and carried the Firebolt out of the portrait hole, which closed behind her.

Harry stood staring after her, the tin of High-Finish Polish still clutched in his hands.

Ron, however, rounded on Hermione.

“What did you go running to McGonagall for?”

Hermione threw her book aside.

She was still pink in the face, but stood up and faced Ron defiantly.

“Because I thought — and Professor McGonagall agrees with me — that that broom was probably sent to Harry by Sirius Black!”

----------------------------------------------------------

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒

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Harry knew that Hermione had meant well, but that didn’t stop him from being angry with her.

He had been the owner of the best broom in the world for a few short hours, and now, because of her interference, he didn’t know whether he would ever see it again.

He was positive that there was nothing wrong with the Firebolt now, but what sort of state would it be in once it had been subjected to all sorts of anti-jinx tests?

Ron was furious with Hermione too.

As far as he was concerned, the stripping-down of a brand-new Firebolt was nothing less than criminal damage.

Hermione, who remained convinced that she had acted for the best, started avoiding the common room.

Harry and Ron supposed she had taken refuge in the library and didn’t try to persuade her to come back.

All in all, they were glad when the rest of the school returned shortly after New Year, and Gryffindor Tower became crowded and noisy again.

Wood sought Harry out on the night before term started.

“Had a good Christmas?” he said, and then, without waiting for an answer, he sat down, lowered his voice, and said, “I’ve been doing some thinking over Christmas, Harry.

After the last match, you know.

If the dementors come to the next one . . . I mean . . . we can’t afford you to — well —”

Wood broke off, looking awkward.

“I’m working on it,” said Harry quickly.

“Professor Lupin said he’d train me to ward off the dementors.

We should be starting this week.

He said he’d have time after Christmas.”

“Ah,” said Wood, his expression clearing.

“Well, in that case — I really didn’t want to lose you as Seeker, Harry.

And have you ordered a new broom yet?”

“No,” said Harry.

“What! You’d better get a move on, you know — you can’t ride that Shooting Star against Ravenclaw!”

“He got a Firebolt for Christmas,” said Ron.

“A Firebolt? No! Seriously? A — a real Firebolt?”

“Don’t get excited, Oliver,” said Harry gloomily.

“I haven’t got it anymore. It was confiscated.”

And he explained all about how the Firebolt was now being checked for jinxes.

“Jinxed? How could it be jinxed?”

“Sirius Black,” Harry said wearily.

“He’s supposed to be after me.

So McGonagall reckons he might have sent it.”

Waving aside the information that a famous murderer was after his Seeker, Wood said, “But Black couldn’t have bought a Firebolt!

He’s on the run!

The whole country’s on the lookout for him!

How could he just walk into Quality Quidditch Supplies and buy a broomstick?”

“I know,” said Harry, “but McGonagall still wants to strip it down —”

Wood went pale.

“I’ll go and talk to her, Harry,” he promised.

“I’ll make her see reason. . . .

A Firebolt . . . a real Firebolt, on our team . . . She wants Gryffindor to win as much as we do. . . .

I’ll make her see sense.

A Firebolt . . .”

Classes started again the next day.

The last thing anyone felt like doing was spending two hours on the grounds on a raw January morning, but Hagrid had provided a bonfire full of salamanders for their enjoyment, and they spent an unusually good lesson collecting dry wood and leaves to keep the fire blazing while the flame-loving lizards scampered up and down the crumbling, whitehot logs.

The first Divination lesson of the new term was much less fun; Professor Trelawney was now teaching them palmistry, and she lost no time in informing Harry that he had the shortest life line she had ever seen.

It was Defense Against the Dark Arts that Harry was keen to get to; after his conversation with Wood, he wanted to get started on his anti-dementor lessons as soon as possible.

“Ah yes,” said Lupin, when Harry reminded him of his promise at the end of class.

“Let me see . . . how about eight o’clock on Thursday evening?

The History of Magic classroom should be large enough. . . .

I’ll have to think carefully about how we’re going to do this. . . .

We can’t bring a real dementor into the castle to practice on. . . .”

“Still looks ill, doesn’t he?” said Ron as they walked down the corridor, heading to dinner.

“What d’you reckon’s the matter with him?”

There was a loud and impatient “tuh” from behind them.

It was Hermione, who had been sitting at the feet of a suit of armor, repacking her bag, which was so full of books it wouldn’t close.

“And what are you tutting at us for?” said Ron irritably.

“Nothing,” said Hermione in a lofty voice, heaving her bag back over her shoulder.

“Yes, you were,” said Ron.

“I said I wonder what’s wrong with Lupin, and you —”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” said Hermione, with a look of maddening superiority.

“If you don’t want to tell us, don’t,” snapped Ron.

“Fine,” said Hermione haughtily, and she marched off.

“She doesn’t know,” said Ron, staring resentfully after Hermione.

“She’s just trying to get us to talk to her again.”

At eight o’clock on Thursday evening, Harry left Gryffindor Tower for the History of Magic classroom.

It was dark and empty when he arrived, but he lit the lamps with his wand and had waited only five minutes when Professor Lupin turned up, carrying a large packing case, which he heaved onto Professor Binns’s desk.

“What’s that?” said Harry.

“Another boggart,” said Lupin, stripping off his cloak.

“I’ve been combing the castle ever since Tuesday, and very luckily, I found this one lurking inside Mr. Filch’s filing cabinet.

It’s the nearest we’ll get to a real dementor.

The boggart will turn into a dementor when he sees you, so we’ll be able to practice on him.

I can store him in my office when we’re not using him; there’s a cupboard under my desk he’ll like.”

“Okay,” said Harry, trying to sound as though he wasn’t apprehensive at all and merely glad that Lupin had found such a good substitute for a real dementor.

“So . . .” Professor Lupin had taken out his own wand, and indicated that Harry should do the same.

“The spell I am going to try and teach you is highly advanced magic, Harry — well beyond Ordinary Wizarding Level.

It is called the Patronus Charm.”

“How does it work?” said Harry nervously.

“Well, when it works correctly, it conjures up a Patronus,” said Lupin, “which is a kind of anti-dementor — a guardian that acts as a shield between you and the dementor.”

Harry had a sudden vision of himself crouching behind a Hagrid-sized figure holding a large club.

Professor Lupin continued, “The Patronus is a kind of positive force, a projection of the very things that the dementor feeds upon — hope, happiness, the desire to survive — but it cannot feel despair, as real humans can, so the dementors can’t hurt it.

But I must warn you, Harry, that the charm might be too advanced for you.

Many qualified wizards have difficulty with it.”

“What does a Patronus look like?” said Harry curiously.

“Each one is unique to the wizard who conjures it.”

“And how do you conjure it?”

“With an incantation, which will work only if you are concentrating, with all your might, on a single, very happy memory.”

Harry cast his mind about for a happy memory.

Certainly, nothing that had happened to him at the Dursleys’ was going to do.

Finally, he settled on the moment when he had first ridden a broomstick.

“Right,” he said, trying to recall as exactly as possible the wonderful, soaring sensation of his stomach.

“The incantation is this —” Lupin cleared his throat.

“Expecto Patronum!”

“Expecto Patronum,” Harry repeated under his breath, “Expecto Patronum.”

“Concentrating hard on your happy memory?”

“Oh — yeah —” said Harry, quickly forcing his thoughts back to that first broom ride.

“Expecto Patrono — no, Patronum — sorry — Expecto Patronum, Expecto Patronum —”

Something whooshed suddenly out of the end of his wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas.

“Did you see that?” said Harry excitedly.

“Something happened!”

“Very good,” said Lupin, smiling.

“Right, then — ready to try it on a dementor?”

“Yes,” Harry said, gripping his wand very tightly, and moving into the middle of the deserted classroom.

He tried to keep his mind on flying, but something else kept intruding. . . .

Any second now, he might hear his mother again . . . but he shouldn’t think that, or he would hear her again, and he didn’t want to . . . or did he?

Lupin grasped the lid of the packing case and pulled.

A dementor rose slowly from the box, its hooded face turned toward Harry, one glistening, scabbed hand gripping its cloak.

The lamps around the classroom flickered and went out.

The dementor stepped from the box and started to sweep silently toward Harry, drawing a deep, rattling breath.

A wave of piercing cold broke over him —

“Expecto Patronum!” Harry yelled.

“Expecto Patronum! Expecto —”

But the classroom and the dementor were dissolving. . . .

Harry was falling again through thick white fog, and his mother’s voice was louder than ever, echoing inside his head — “Not Harry! Not Harry! Please — I’ll do anything —”

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”

“Harry!”

Harry jerked back to life.

He was lying flat on his back on the floor.

The classroom lamps were alight again.

He didn’t have to ask what had happened.

“Sorry,” he muttered, sitting up and feeling cold sweat trickling down behind his glasses.

“Are you all right?” said Lupin.

“Yes . . .” Harry pulled himself up on one of the desks and leaned against it.

“Here —” Lupin handed him a Chocolate Frog.

“Eat this before we try again.

I didn’t expect you to do it your first time; in fact, I would have been astounded if you had.”

“It’s getting worse,” Harry muttered, biting off the Frog’s head.

“I could hear her louder that time — and him — Voldemort —”

Lupin looked paler than usual.

“Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I will more than understand —”

“I do!” said Harry fiercely, stuffing the rest of the Chocolate Frog into his mouth.

“I’ve got to!

What if the dementors turn up at our match against Ravenclaw?

I can’t afford to fall off again.

If we lose this game we’ve lost the Quidditch Cup!”

“All right then . . . ,” said Lupin.

“You might want to select another memory, a happy memory, I mean, to concentrate on. . . .

That one doesn’t seem to have been strong enough. . . .”

Harry thought hard and decided his feelings when Gryffindor had won the House Championship last year had definitely qualified as very happy.

He gripped his wand tightly again and took up his position in the middle of the classroom.

“Ready?” said Lupin, gripping the box lid.

“Ready,” said Harry, trying hard to fill his head with happy thoughts about Gryffindor winning, and not dark thoughts about what was going to happen when the box opened.

“Go!” said Lupin, pulling off the lid.

The room went icily cold and dark once more.

The dementor glided forward, drawing its breath; one rotting hand was extending toward Harry —

“Expecto Patronum!” Harry yelled.

“Expecto Patronum! Expecto Pat —”

White fog obscured his senses . . . big, blurred shapes were moving around him . . . then came a new voice, a man’s voice, shouting, panicking —

“Lily, take Harry and go!

It’s him!

Go!

Run!

I’ll hold him off —”

The sounds of someone stumbling from a room — a door bursting open — a cackle of high-pitched laughter —

“Harry! Harry . . . wake up. . . .”

Lupin was tapping Harry hard on the face.

This time it was a minute before Harry understood why he was lying on a dusty classroom floor.

“I heard my dad,” Harry mumbled.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him — he tried to take on Voldemort himself, to give my mum time to run for it. . . .”

Harry suddenly realized that there were tears on his face mingling with the sweat.

He bent his face as low as possible, wiping them off on his robes, pretending to do up his shoelace, so that Lupin wouldn’t see.

“You heard James?” said Lupin in a strange voice.

“Yeah . . .” Face dry, Harry looked up.

“Why — you didn’t know my dad, did you?”

“I — I did, as a matter of fact,” said Lupin.

“We were friends at Hogwarts.

Listen, Harry — perhaps we should leave it here for tonight.

This charm is ridiculously advanced. . . .

I shouldn’t have suggested putting you through this. . . .”

“No!” said Harry.

He got up again.

“I’ll have one more go!

I’m not thinking of happy enough things, that’s what it is. . . .

Hang on. . . .”

He racked his brains.

A really, really happy memory . . . one that he could turn into a good, strong Patronus . . .

The moment when he’d first found out he was a wizard, and would be leaving the Dursleys for Hogwarts!

If that wasn’t a happy memory, he didn’t know what was. . . .

Concentrating very hard on how he had felt when he’d realized he’d be leaving Privet Drive, Harry got to his feet and faced the packing case once more.

“Ready?” said Lupin, who looked as though he were doing this against his better judgment.

“Concentrating hard? All right — go!”

He pulled off the lid of the case for the third time, and the dementor rose out of it; the room fell cold and dark —

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Harry bellowed.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM! EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

The screaming inside Harry’s head had started again — except this time, it sounded as though it were coming from a badly tuned radio — softer and louder and softer again — and he could still see the dementor — it had halted — and then a huge, silver shadow came bursting out of the end of Harry’s wand, to hover between him and the dementor, and though Harry’s legs felt like water, he was still on his feet — though for how much longer, he wasn’t sure —

“Riddikulus!” roared Lupin, springing forward.

There was a loud crack, and Harry’s cloudy Patronus vanished along with the dementor; he sank into a chair, feeling as exhausted as if he’d just run a mile, and felt his legs shaking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Professor Lupin forcing the boggart back into the packing case with his wand; it had turned into a silvery orb again.

“Excellent!” Lupin said, striding over to where Harry sat.

“Excellent, Harry!

That was definitely a start!”

“Can we have another go? Just one more go?”

“Not now,” said Lupin firmly.

“You’ve had enough for one night. Here —”

He handed Harry a large bar of Honeydukes’s best chocolate.

“Eat the lot, or Madam Pomfrey will be after my blood. Same time next week?”

“Okay,” said Harry.

He took a bite of the chocolate and watched Lupin extinguishing the lamps that had rekindled with the disappearance of the dementor.

A thought had just occurred to him.

“Professor Lupin?” he said.

“If you knew my dad, you must’ve known Sirius Black as well.”

Lupin turned very quickly.

“What gives you that idea?” he said sharply.

“Nothing — I mean, I just knew they were friends at Hogwarts too. . . .”

Lupin’s face relaxed.

“Yes, I knew him,” he said shortly.

“Or I thought I did.

You’d better be off, Harry, it’s getting late.”

Harry left the classroom, walking along the corridor and around a corner, then took a detour behind a suit of armor and sank down on its plinth to finish his chocolate, wishing he hadn’t mentioned Black, as Lupin was obviously not keen on the subject.

Then Harry’s thoughts wandered back to his mother and father. . . .

He felt drained and strangely empty, even though he was so full of chocolate.

Terrible though it was to hear his parents’ last moments replayed inside his head, these were the only times Harry had heard their voices since he was a very small child.

But he’d never be able to produce a proper Patronus if he half wanted to hear his parents again. . . .

“They’re dead,” he told himself sternly.

“They’re dead and listening to echoes of them won’t bring them back.

You’d better get a grip on yourself if you want that Quidditch Cup.”

He stood up, crammed the last bit of chocolate into his mouth, and headed back to Gryffindor Tower.

Ravenclaw played Slytherin a week after the start of term.

Slytherin won, though narrowly.

According to Wood, this was good news for Gryffindor, who would take second place if they beat Ravenclaw too.

He therefore increased the number of team practices to five a week.

This meant that with Lupin’s anti-dementor classes, which in themselves were more draining than six Quidditch practices, Harry had just one night a week to do all his homework.

Even so, he wasn’t showing the strain nearly as much as Hermione, whose immense workload finally seemed to be getting to her.

Every night, without fail, Hermione was to be seen in a corner of the common room, several tables spread with books, Arithmancy charts, rune dictionaries, diagrams of Muggles lifting heavy objects, and file upon file of extensive notes; she barely spoke to anybody and snapped when she was interrupted.

“How’s she doing it?” Ron muttered to Harry one evening as Harry sat finishing a nasty essay on Undetectable Poisons for Snape.

Harry looked up.

Hermione was barely visible behind a tottering pile of books.

“Doing what?”

“Getting to all her classes!” Ron said.

“I heard her talking to Professor Vector, that Arithmancy witch, this morning.

They were going on about yesterday’s lesson, but Hermione can’t’ve been there, because she was with us in Care of Magical Creatures!

And Ernie Macmillan told me she’s never missed a Muggle Studies class, but half of them are at the same time as Divination, and she’s never missed one of them either!”

Harry didn’t have time to fathom the mystery of Hermione’s impossible schedule at the moment; he really needed to get on with Snape’s essay.

Two seconds later, however, he was interrupted again, this time by Wood.

“Bad news, Harry.

I’ve just been to see Professor McGonagall about the Firebolt.

She — er — got a bit shirty with me.

Told me I’d got my priorities wrong.

Seemed to think I cared more about winning the Cup than I do about you staying alive.

Just because I told her I didn’t care if it threw you off, as long as you caught the Snitch first.”

Wood shook his head in disbelief.

“Honestly, the way she was yelling at me . . . you’d think I’d said something terrible. . . .

Then I asked her how much longer she was going to keep it. . . .”

He screwed up his face and imitated Professor McGonagall’s severe voice.

“‘As long as necessary, Wood’ . . . I reckon it’s time you ordered a new broom, Harry.

There’s an order form at the back of Which Broomstick . . . you could get a Nimbus Two Thousand and One, like Malfoy’s got.”

“I’m not buying anything Malfoy thinks is good,” said Harry flatly.

January faded imperceptibly into February, with no change in the bitterly cold weather.

The match against Ravenclaw was drawing nearer and nearer, but Harry still hadn’t ordered a new broom.

He was now asking Professor McGonagall for news of the Firebolt after every Transfiguration lesson, Ron standing hopefully at his shoulder, Hermione rushing past with her face averted.

“No, Potter, you can’t have it back yet,” Professor McGonagall told him the twelfth time this happened, before he’d even opened his mouth.

“We’ve checked for most of the usual curses, but Professor Flitwick believes the broom might be carrying a Hurling Hex.

I shall tell you once we’ve finished checking it.

Now, please stop badgering me.”

To make matters even worse, Harry’s anti-dementor lessons were not going nearly as well as he had hoped.

Several sessions on, he was able to produce an indistinct, silvery shadow every time the boggart-dementor approached him, but his Patronus was too feeble to drive the dementor away.

All it did was hover, like a semi-transparent cloud, draining Harry of energy as he fought to keep it there.

Harry felt angry with himself, guilty about his secret desire to hear his parents’ voices again.

“You’re expecting too much of yourself,” said Professor Lupin sternly in their fourth week of practice.

“For a thirteen-year-old wizard, even an indistinct Patronus is a huge achievement.

You aren’t passing out anymore, are you?”

“I thought a Patronus would — charge the dementors down or something,” said Harry dispiritedly.

“Make them disappear —”

“The true Patronus does do that,” said Lupin.

“But you’ve achieved a great deal in a very short space of time.

If the dementors put in an appearance at your next Quidditch match, you will be able to keep them at bay long enough to get back to the ground.”

“You said it’s harder if there are loads of them,” said Harry.

“I have complete confidence in you,” said Lupin, smiling.

“Here — you’ve earned a drink — something from the Three Broomsticks.

You won’t have tried it before —”

He pulled two bottles out of his briefcase.

“Butterbeer!” said Harry, without thinking.

“Yeah, I like that stuff!”

Lupin raised an eyebrow.

“Oh — Ron and Hermione brought me some back from Hogsmeade,” Harry lied quickly.

“I see,” said Lupin, though he still looked slightly suspicious.

“Well — let’s drink to a Gryffindor victory against Ravenclaw!

Not that I’m supposed to take sides, as a teacher . . . ,” he added hastily.

They drank the butterbeer in silence, until Harry voiced something he’d been wondering for a while.

“What’s under a dementor’s hood?”

Professor Lupin lowered his bottle thoughtfully.

“Hmmm . . . well, the only people who really know are in no condition to tell us.

You see, the dementor lowers its hood only to use its last and worst weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“They call it the Dementor’s Kiss,” said Lupin, with a slightly twisted smile.

“It’s what dementors do to those they wish to destroy utterly.

I suppose there must be some kind of mouth under there, because they clamp their jaws upon the mouth of the victim and — and suck out his soul.”

Harry accidentally spat out a bit of butterbeer.

“What — they kill — ?”

“Oh no,” said Lupin.

“Much worse than that.

You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working.

But you’ll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no . . . anything.

There’s no chance at all of recovery.

You’ll just — exist.

As an empty shell.

And your soul is gone forever . . . lost.”

Lupin drank a little more butterbeer, then said, “It’s the fate that awaits Sirius Black.

It was in the Daily Prophet this morning.

The Ministry have given the dementors permission to perform it if they find him.”

Harry sat stunned for a moment at the idea of someone having their soul sucked out through their mouth.

But then he thought of Black.

“He deserves it,” he said suddenly.

“You think so?” said Lupin lightly.

“Do you really think anyone deserves that?”

“Yes,” said Harry defiantly.

“For . . . for some things . . .”

He would have liked to have told Lupin about the conversation he’d overheard about Black in the Three Broomsticks, about Black betraying his mother and father, but it would have involved revealing that he’d gone to Hogsmeade without permission, and he knew Lupin wouldn’t be very impressed by that.

So he finished his butterbeer, thanked Lupin, and left the History of Magic classroom.

Harry half wished that he hadn’t asked what was under a dementor’s hood, the answer had been so horrible, and he was so lost in unpleasant thoughts of what it would feel like to have your soul sucked out of you that he walked headlong into Professor McGonagall halfway up the stairs.

“Do watch where you’re going, Potter!”

“Sorry, Professor —”

“I’ve just been looking for you in the Gryffindor common room.

Well, here it is, we’ve done everything we could think of, and there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it at all.

You’ve got a very good friend somewhere, Potter. . . .”

Harry’s jaw dropped.

She was holding out his Firebolt, and it looked as magnificent as ever.

“I can have it back?” Harry said weakly.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” said Professor McGonagall, and she was actually smiling.

“I daresay you’ll need to get the feel of it before Saturday’s match, won’t you?

And Potter — do try and win, won’t you?

Or we’ll be out of the running for the eighth year in a row, as Professor Snape was kind enough to remind me only last night. . . .”

Speechless, Harry carried the Firebolt back upstairs toward Gryffindor Tower.

As he turned a corner, he saw Ron dashing toward him, grinning from ear to ear.

“She gave it to you? Excellent!

Listen, can I still have a go on it? Tomorrow?”

“Yeah . . . anything . . . ,” said Harry, his heart lighter than it had been in a month.

“You know what — we should make up with Hermione. . . .

She was only trying to help. . . .”

“Yeah, all right,” said Ron.

“She’s in the common room now — working, for a change —”

They turned into the corridor to Gryffindor Tower and saw Neville Longbottom, pleading with Sir Cadogan, who seemed to be refusing him entrance.

“I wrote them down!” Neville was saying tearfully.

“But I must’ve dropped them somewhere!”

“A likely tale!” roared Sir Cadogan.

Then, spotting Harry and Ron: “Good even, my fine young yeomen!

Come clap this loon in irons.

He is trying to force entry to the chambers within!”

“Oh, shut up,” said Ron as he and Harry drew level with Neville.

“I’ve lost the passwords!” Neville told them miserably.

“I made him tell me what passwords he was going to use this week, because he keeps changing them, and now I don’t know what I’ve done with them!”

“Oddsbodikins,” said Harry to Sir Cadogan, who looked extremely disappointed and reluctantly swung forward to let them into the common room.

There was a sudden, excited murmur as every head turned and the next moment, Harry was surrounded by people exclaiming over his Firebolt.

“Where’d you get it, Harry?”

“Will you let me have a go?”

“Have you ridden it yet, Harry?”

“Ravenclaw’ll have no chance, they’re all on Cleansweep Sevens!”

“Can I just hold it, Harry?”

After ten minutes or so, during which the Firebolt was passed around and admired from every angle, the crowd dispersed and Harry and Ron had a clear view of Hermione, the only person who hadn’t rushed over to them, bent over her work and carefully avoiding their eyes.

Harry and Ron approached her table and at last, she looked up.

“I got it back,” said Harry, grinning at her and holding up the Firebolt.

“See, Hermione? There wasn’t anything wrong with it!” said Ron.

“Well — there might have been!” said Hermione.

“I mean, at least you know now that it’s safe!”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Harry.

“I’d better put it upstairs —”

“I’ll take it!” said Ron eagerly.

“I’ve got to give Scabbers his rat tonic.”

He took the Firebolt and, holding it as if it were made of glass, carried it away up the boys’staircase.

“Can I sit down, then?” Harry asked Hermione.

“I suppose so,” said Hermione, moving a great stack of parchment off a chair.

Harry looked around at the cluttered table, at the long Arithmancy essay on which the ink was still glistening, at the even longer Muggle Studies essay (“Explain Why Muggles Need Electricity”), and at the rune translation Hermione was now poring over.

“How are you getting through all this stuff?” Harry asked her.

“Oh, well — you know — working hard,” said Hermione.

Close-up, Harry saw that she looked almost as tired as Lupin.

“Why don’t you just drop a couple of subjects?” Harry asked, watching her lifting books as she searched for her rune dictionary.

“I couldn’t do that!” said Hermione, looking scandalized.

“Arithmancy looks terrible,” said Harry, picking up a very complicatedlooking number chart.

“Oh no, it’s wonderful!” said Hermione earnestly.

“It’s my favorite subject! It’s —”

But exactly what was wonderful about Arithmancy, Harry never found out.

At that precise moment, a strangled yell echoed down the boys’staircase.

The whole common room fell silent, staring, petrified, at the entrance.

Then came hurried footsteps, growing louder and louder — and then Ron came leaping into view, dragging with him a bedsheet.

“LOOK!” he bellowed, striding over to Hermione’s table.

“LOOK!” he yelled, shaking the sheets in her face.

“Ron, what — ?”

“SCABBERS! LOOK! SCABBERS!”

Hermione was leaning away from Ron, looking utterly bewildered.

Harry looked down at the sheet Ron was holding.

There was something red on it.

Something that looked horribly like —

“BLOOD!” Ron yelled into the stunned silence.

“HE’S GONE! AND YOU KNOW WHAT WAS ON THE FLOOR?”

“N-no,” said Hermione in a trembling voice.

Ron threw something down onto Hermione’s rune translation.

Hermione and Harry leaned forward.

Lying on top of the weird, spiky shapes were several long, ginger cat hairs.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐆𝐑𝐘𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐑 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐔𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐖

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It looked like the end of Ron and Hermione’s friendship.

Each was so angry with the other that Harry couldn’t see how they’d ever make up.

Ron was enraged that Hermione had never taken Crookshanks’s attempts to eat Scabbers seriously, hadn’t bothered to keep a close enough watch on him, and was still trying to pretend that Crookshanks was innocent by suggesting that Ron look for Scabbers under all the boys’ beds.

Hermione, meanwhile, maintained fiercely that Ron had no proof that Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers, that the ginger hairs might have been there since Christmas, and that Ron had been prejudiced against her cat ever since Crookshanks had landed on Ron’s head in the Magical Menagerie.

Personally, Harry was sure that Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers, and when he tried to point out to Hermione that the evidence all pointed that way, she lost her temper with Harry too.

“Okay, side with Ron, I knew you would!” she said shrilly.

“First the Firebolt, now Scabbers, everything’s my fault, isn’t it!

Just leave me alone, Harry, I’ve got a lot of work to do!”

Ron had taken the loss of his rat very hard indeed.

“Come on, Ron, you were always saying how boring Scabbers was,” said Fred bracingly.

“And he’s been off-color for ages, he was wasting away.

It was probably better for him to snuff it quickly — one swallow — he probably didn’t feel a thing.”

“Fred!” said Ginny indignantly.

“All he did was eat and sleep, Ron, you said it yourself,” said George.

“He bit Goyle for us once!” Ron said miserably.

“Remember, Harry?”

“Yeah, that’s true,” said Harry.

“His finest hour,” said Fred, unable to keep a straight face.

“Let the scar on Goyle’s finger stand as a lasting tribute to his memory.

Oh, come on, Ron, get yourself down to Hogsmeade and buy a new rat, what’s the point of moaning?”

In a last-ditch attempt to cheer Ron up, Harry persuaded him to come along to the Gryffindor team’s final practice before the Ravenclaw match, so that he could have a ride on the Firebolt after they’d finished.

This did seem to take Ron’s mind off Scabbers for a moment (“Great! Can I try and shoot a few goals on it?”) so they set off for the Quidditch field together.

Madam Hooch, who was still overseeing Gryffindor practices to keep an eye on Harry, was just as impressed with the Firebolt as everyone else had been.

She took it in her hands before takeoff and gave them the benefit of her professional opinion.

“Look at the balance on it!

If the Nimbus series has a fault, it’s a slight list to the tail end — you often find they develop a drag after a few years.

They’ve updated the handle too, a bit slimmer than the Cleansweeps, reminds me of the old Silver Arrows — a pity they’ve stopped making them.

I learned to fly on one, and a very fine old broom it was too. . . .”

She continued in this vein for some time, until Wood said, “Er — Madam Hooch? Is it okay if Harry has the Firebolt back? We need to practice. . . .”

“Oh — right — here you are, then, Potter,” said Madam Hooch.

“I’ll sit over here with Weasley. . . .”

She and Ron left the field to sit in the stadium, and the Gryffindor team gathered around Wood for his final instructions for tomorrow’s match.

“Harry, I’ve just found out who Ravenclaw is playing as Seeker.

It’s Cho Chang.

She’s a fourth year, and she’s pretty good. . . .

I really hoped she wouldn’t be fit, she’s had some problems with injuries. . . .”

Wood scowled his displeasure that Cho Chang had made a full recovery, then said, “On the other hand, she rides a Comet Two Sixty, which is going to look like a joke next to the Firebolt.”

He gave Harry’s broom a look of fervent admiration, then said, “Okay, everyone, let’s go —”

And at long last, Harry mounted his Firebolt, and kicked off from the ground.

It was better than he’d ever dreamed.

The Firebolt turned with the lightest touch; it seemed to obey his thoughts rather than his grip; it sped across the field at such speed that the stadium turned into a green-and-gray blur; Harry turned it so sharply that Alicia Spinnet screamed, then he went into a perfectly controlled dive, brushing the grassy field with his toes before rising thirty, forty, fifty feet into the air again —

“Harry, I’m letting the Snitch out!” Wood called.

Harry turned and raced a Bludger toward the goalposts; he outstripped it easily, saw the Snitch dart out from behind Wood, and within ten seconds had caught it tightly in his hand.

The team cheered madly.

Harry let the Snitch go again, gave it a minute’s head start, then tore after it, weaving in and out of the others; he spotted it lurking near Katie Bell’s knee, looped her easily, and caught it again.

It was the best practice ever; the team, inspired by the presence of the Firebolt in their midst, performed their best moves faultlessly, and by the time they hit the ground again, Wood didn’t have a single criticism to make, which, as George Weasley pointed out, was a first.

“I can’t see what’s going to stop us tomorrow!” said Wood.

“Not unless — Harry, you’ve sorted out your dementor problem, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, thinking of his feeble Patronus and wishing it were stronger.

“The dementors won’t turn up again, Oliver. Dumbledore’d go ballistic,” said Fred confidently.

“Well, let’s hope not,” said Wood.

“Anyway — good work, everyone. Let’s get back to the tower . . . turn in early —”

“I’m staying out for a bit; Ron wants a go on the Firebolt,” Harry told Wood, and while the rest of the team headed off to the locker rooms, Harry strode over to Ron, who vaulted the barrier to the stands and came to meet him.

Madam Hooch had fallen asleep in her seat.

“Here you go,” said Harry, handing Ron the Firebolt.

Ron, an expression of ecstasy on his face, mounted the broom and zoomed off into the gathering darkness while Harry walked around the edge of the field, watching him.

Night had fallen before Madam Hooch awoke with a start, told Harry and Ron off for not waking her, and insisted that they go back to the castle.

Harry shouldered the Firebolt and he and Ron walked out of the shadowy stadium, discussing the Firebolt’s superbly smooth action, its phenomenal acceleration, and its pinpoint turning.

They were halfway toward the castle when Harry, glancing to his left, saw something that made his heart turn over — a pair of eyes, gleaming out of the darkness.

Harry stopped dead, his heart banging against his ribs.

“What’s the matter?” said Ron.

Harry pointed.

Ron pulled out his wand and muttered, “Lumos!”

A beam of light fell across the grass, hit the bottom of a tree, and illuminated its branches; there, crouching among the budding leaves, was Crookshanks.

“Get out of here!” Ron roared, and he stooped down and seized a stone lying on the grass, but before he could do anything else, Crookshanks had vanished with one swish of his long ginger tail.

“See?” Ron said furiously, chucking the stone down again.

“She’s still letting him wander about wherever he wants — probably washing down Scabbers with a couple of birds now. . . .”

Harry didn’t say anything.

He took a deep breath as relief seeped through him; he had been sure for a moment that those eyes had belonged to the Grim.

They set off for the castle once more.

Slightly ashamed of his moment of panic, Harry didn’t say anything to Ron — nor did he look left or right until they had reached the well-lit entrance hall.

Harry went down to breakfast the next morning with the rest of the boys in his dormitory, all of whom seemed to think the Firebolt deserved a sort of guard of honor.

As Harry entered the Great Hall, heads turned in the direction of the Firebolt, and there was a good deal of excited muttering.

Harry saw, with enormous satisfaction, that the Slytherin team were all looking thunderstruck.

“Did you see his face?” said Ron gleefully, looking back at Malfoy.

“He can’t believe it!

This is brilliant!”

Wood, too, was basking in the reflected glory of the Firebolt.

“Put it here, Harry,” he said, laying the broom in the middle of the table and carefully turning it so that its name faced upward.

People from the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were soon coming over to look.

Cedric Diggory came over to congratulate Harry on having acquired such a superb replacement for his Nimbus, and Percy’s Ravenclaw girlfriend, Penelope Clearwater, asked if she could actually hold the Firebolt.

“Now, now, Penny, no sabotage!” said Percy heartily as she examined the Firebolt closely.

“Penelope and I have got a bet on,” he told the team.

“Ten Galleons on the outcome of the match!”

Penelope put the Firebolt down again, thanked Harry, and went back to her table.

“Harry — make sure you win,” said Percy, in an urgent whisper.

“I haven’t got ten Galleons. Yes, I’m coming, Penny!”

And he bustled off to join her in a piece of toast.

“Sure you can manage that broom, Potter?” said a cold, drawling voice.

Draco Malfoy had arrived for a closer look, Crabbe and Goyle right behind him.

“Yeah, reckon so,” said Harry casually.

“Got plenty of special features, hasn’t it?” said Malfoy, eyes glittering maliciously.

“Shame it doesn’t come with a parachute — in case you get too near a dementor.”

Crabbe and Goyle sniggered.

“Pity you can’t attach an extra arm to yours, Malfoy,” said Harry.

“Then it could catch the Snitch for you.”

The Gryffindor team laughed loudly.

Malfoy’s pale eyes narrowed, and he stalked away.

They watched him rejoin the rest of the Slytherin team, who put their heads together, no doubt asking Malfoy whether Harry’s broom really was a Firebolt.

At a quarter to eleven, the Gryffindor team set off for the locker rooms.

The weather couldn’t have been more different from their match against Hufflepuff.

It was a clear, cool day with a very light breeze; there would be no visibility problems this time, and Harry, though nervous, was starting to feel the excitement only a Quidditch match could bring.

They could hear the rest of the school moving into the stadium beyond.

Harry took off his black school robes, removed his wand from his pocket, and stuck it inside the T-shirt he was going to wear under his Quidditch robes.

He only hoped he wouldn’t need it.

He wondered suddenly whether Professor Lupin was in the crowd, watching.

“You know what we’ve got to do,” said Wood as they prepared to leave the locker rooms.

“If we lose this match, we’re out of the running.

Just — just fly like you did in practice yesterday, and we’ll be okay!”

They walked out onto the field to tumultuous applause.

The Ravenclaw team, dressed in blue, were already standing in the middle of the field.

Their Seeker, Cho Chang, was the only girl on their team.

She was shorter than Harry by about a head, and Harry couldn’t help noticing, nervous as he was, that she was extremely pretty.

She smiled at Harry as the teams faced each other behind their captains, and he felt a slight lurch in the region of his stomach that he didn’t think had anything to do with nerves.

“Wood, Davies, shake hands,” Madam Hooch said briskly, and Wood shook hands with the Ravenclaw Captain.

“Mount your brooms . . . on my whistle . . . three — two — one —”

Harry kicked off into the air and the Firebolt zoomed higher and faster than any other broom; he soared around the stadium and began squinting around for the Snitch, listening all the while to the commentary, which was being provided by the Weasley twins’ friend Lee Jordan.

“They’re off, and the big excitement this match is the Firebolt that Harry Potter is flying for Gryffindor.

According to Which Broomstick, the Firebolt’s going to be the broom of choice for the national teams at this year’s World Championship —”

“Jordan, would you mind telling us what’s going on in the match?” interrupted Professor McGonagall’s voice.

“Right you are, Professor — just giving a bit of background information — the Firebolt, incidentally, has a built-in auto-brake and —”

“Jordan!”

“Okay, okay, Gryffindor in possession, Katie Bell of Gryffindor heading for goal . . .”

Harry streaked past Katie in the opposite direction, gazing around for a glint of gold and noticing that Cho Chang was tailing him closely.

She was undoubtedly a very good flier — she kept cutting across him, forcing him to change direction.

“Show her your acceleration, Harry!” Fred yelled as he whooshed past in pursuit of a Bludger that was aiming for Alicia.

Harry urged the Firebolt forward as they rounded the Ravenclaw goalposts and Cho fell behind.

Just as Katie succeeded in scoring the first goal of the match, and the Gryffindor end of the field went wild, he saw it — the Snitch was close to the ground, flitting near one of the barriers.

Harry dived; Cho saw what he was doing and tore after him — Harry was speeding up, excitement flooding him; dives were his speciality, he was ten feet away —

Then a Bludger, hit by one of the Ravenclaw Beaters, came pelting out of nowhere; Harry veered off course, avoiding it by an inch, and in those few, crucial seconds, the Snitch had vanished.

There was a great “Ooooooh” of disappointment from the Gryffindor supporters, but much applause for their Beater from the Ravenclaw end.

George Weasley vented his feelings by hitting the second Bludger directly at the offending Beater, who was forced to roll right over in midair to avoid it.

“Gryffindor leads by eighty points to zero, and look at that Firebolt go!

Potter’s really putting it through its paces now, see it turn — Chang’s Comet is just no match for it, the Firebolt’s precision-balance is really noticeable in these long —”

“JORDAN! ARE YOU BEING PAID TO ADVERTISE FIREBOLTS? GET ON WITH THE COMMENTARY!”

Ravenclaw was pulling back; they had now scored three goals, which put Gryffindor only fifty points ahead — if Cho got the Snitch before him, Ravenclaw would win.

Harry dropped lower, narrowly avoiding a Ravenclaw Chaser, scanning the field frantically — a glint of gold, a flutter of tiny wings — the Snitch was circling the Gryffindor goalpost —

Harry accelerated, eyes fixed on the speck of gold ahead — but just then, Cho appeared out of thin air, blocking him —

“HARRY, THIS IS NO TIME TO BE A GENTLEMAN!” Wood roared as Harry swerved to avoid a collision.

“KNOCK HER OFF HER BROOM IF YOU HAVE TO!”

Harry turned and caught sight of Cho; she was grinning.

The Snitch had vanished again.

Harry turned his Firebolt upward and was soon twenty feet above the game.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cho following him. . . .

She’d decided to mark him rather than search for the Snitch herself. . . .

All right, then . . . if she wanted to tail him, she’d have to take the consequences. . . .

He dived again, and Cho, thinking he’d seen the Snitch, tried to follow; Harry pulled out of the dive very sharply; she hurtled downward; he rose fast as a bullet once more, and then saw it, for the third time — the Snitch was glittering way above the field at the Ravenclaw end.

He accelerated; so, many feet below, did Cho.

He was winning, gaining on the Snitch with every second — then —

“Oh!” screamed Cho, pointing.

Distracted, Harry looked down.

Three dementors, three tall, black, hooded dementors, were looking up at him.

He didn’t stop to think.

Plunging a hand down the neck of his robes, he whipped out his wand and roared, “Expecto Patronum!”

Something silver-white, something enormous, erupted from the end of his wand.

He knew it had shot directly at the dementors but didn’t pause to watch; his mind still miraculously clear, he looked ahead — he was nearly there.

He stretched out the hand still grasping his wand and just managed to close his fingers over the small, struggling Snitch.

Madam Hooch’s whistle sounded.

Harry turned around in midair and saw six scarlet blurs bearing down on him; next moment, the whole team was hugging him so hard he was nearly pulled off his broom.

Down below he could hear the roars of the Gryffindors in the crowd.

“That’s my boy!” Wood kept yelling.

Alicia, Angelina, and Katie had all kissed Harry; Fred had him in a grip so tight Harry felt as though his head would come off.

In complete disarray, the team managed to make its way back to the ground.

Harry got off his broom and looked up to see a gaggle of Gryffindor supporters sprinting onto the field, Ron in the lead.

Before he knew it, he had been engulfed by the cheering crowd.

“Yes!” Ron yelled, yanking Harry’s arm into the air.

“Yes! Yes!”

“Well done, Harry!” said Percy, looking delighted.

“Ten Galleons to me! Must find Penelope, excuse me —”

“Good for you, Harry!” roared Seamus Finnigan.

“Ruddy brilliant!” boomed Hagrid over the heads of the milling Gryffindors.

“That was quite some Patronus,” said a voice in Harry’s ear.

Harry turned around to see Professor Lupin, who looked both shaken and pleased.

“The dementors didn’t affect me at all!” Harry said excitedly.

“I didn’t feel a thing!”

“That would be because they — er — weren’t dementors,” said Professor Lupin.

“Come and see —”

He led Harry out of the crowd until they were able to see the edge of the field.

“You gave Mr. Malfoy quite a fright,” said Lupin.

Harry stared.

Lying in a crumpled heap on the ground were Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Marcus Flint, the Slytherin team Captain, all struggling to remove themselves from long, black, hooded robes.

It looked as though Malfoy had been standing on Goyle’s shoulders.

Standing over them, with an expression of the utmost fury on her face, was Professor McGonagall.

“An unworthy trick!” she was shouting.

“A low and cowardly attempt to sabotage the Gryffindor Seeker!

Detention for all of you, and fifty points from Slytherin!

I shall be speaking to Professor Dumbledore about this, make no mistake!

Ah, here he comes now!”

If anything could have set the seal on Gryffindor’s victory, it was this.

Ron, who had fought his way through to Harry’s side, doubled up with laughter as they watched Malfoy fighting to extricate himself from the robe, Goyle’s head still stuck inside it.

“Come on, Harry!” said George, fighting his way over.

“Party! Gryffindor common room, now!”

“Right,” said Harry, and feeling happier than he had in ages, he and the rest of the team led the way, still in their scarlet robes, out of the stadium and back up to the castle.

It felt as though they had already won the Quidditch Cup; the party went on all day and well into the night.

Fred and George Weasley disappeared for a couple of hours and returned with armfuls of bottles of butterbeer, pumpkin fizz, and several bags full of Honeydukes sweets.

“How did you do that?” squealed Angelina Johnson as George started throwing Peppermint Toads into the crowd.

“With a little help from Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” Fred muttered in Harry’s ear.

Only one person wasn’t joining in the festivities.

Hermione, incredibly, was sitting in a corner, attempting to read an enormous book entitled Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles.

Harry broke away from the table where Fred and George had started juggling butterbeer bottles and went over to her.

“Did you even come to the match?” he asked her.

“Of course I did,” said Hermione in a strangely high-pitched voice, not looking up.

“And I’m very glad we won, and I think you did really well, but I need to read this by Monday.”

“Come on, Hermione, come and have some food,” Harry said, looking over at Ron and wondering whether he was in a good enough mood to bury the hatchet.

“I can’t, Harry. I’ve still got four hundred and twenty-two pages to read!” said Hermione, now sounding slightly hysterical.

“Anyway . . .” She glanced over at Ron too.

“He doesn’t want me to join in.”

There was no arguing with this, as Ron chose that moment to say loudly, “If Scabbers hadn’t just been eaten, he could have had some of those Fudge Flies. He used to really like them —”

Hermione burst into tears.

Before Harry could say or do anything, she tucked the enormous book under her arm, and, still sobbing, ran toward the staircase to the girls’ dormitories and out of sight.

“Can’t you give her a break?” Harry asked Ron quietly.

“No,” said Ron flatly.

“If she just acted like she was sorry — but she’ll never admit she’s wrong, Hermione.

She’s still acting like Scabbers has gone on vacation or something.”

The Gryffindor party ended only when Professor McGonagall turned up in her tartan dressing gown and hair net at one in the morning, to insist that they all go to bed.

Harry and Ron climbed the stairs to their dormitory, still discussing the match.

At last, exhausted, Harry climbed into bed, twitched the hangings of his four-poster shut to block out a ray of moonlight, lay back, and felt himself almost instantly drifting off to sleep. . . .

He had a very strange dream.

He was walking through a forest, his Firebolt over his shoulder, following something silvery-white.

It was winding its way through the trees ahead, and he could only catch glimpses of it between the leaves.

Anxious to catch up with it, he sped up, but as he moved faster, so did his quarry.

Harry broke into a run, and ahead he heard hooves gathering speed.

Now he was running flat out, and ahead he could hear galloping.

Then he turned a corner into a clearing and —

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Harry woke as suddenly as though he’d been hit in the face.

Disoriented in the total darkness, he fumbled with his hangings — he could hear movements around him, and Seamus Finnigan’s voice from the other side of the room: “What’s going on?”

Harry thought he heard the dormitory door slam.

At last finding the divide in his curtains, he ripped them back, and at the same moment, Dean Thomas lit his lamp.

Ron was sitting up in bed, the hangings torn from one side, a look of utmost terror on his face.

“Black! Sirius Black! With a knife!”

“What?”

“Here! Just now! Slashed the curtains! Woke me up!”

“You sure you weren’t dreaming, Ron?” said Dean.

“Look at the curtains! I tell you, he was here!”

They all scrambled out of bed; Harry reached the dormitory door first, and they sprinted back down the staircase.

Doors opened behind them, and sleepy voices called after them.

“Who shouted?”

“What’re you doing?”

The common room was lit with the glow of the dying fire, still littered with the debris from the party.

It was deserted.

“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming, Ron?”

“I’m telling you, I saw him!”

“What’s all the noise?”

“Professor McGonagall told us to go to bed!”

A few of the girls had come down their staircase, pulling on dressing gowns and yawning.

Boys, too, were reappearing.

“Excellent, are we carrying on?” said Fred Weasley brightly.

“Everyone back upstairs!” said Percy, hurrying into the common room and pinning his Head Boy badge to his pajamas as he spoke.

“Perce — Sirius Black!” said Ron faintly.

“In our dormitory! With a knife! Woke me up!”

The common room went very still.

“Nonsense!” said Percy, looking startled.

“You had too much to eat, Ron — had a nightmare —”

“I’m telling you —”

“Now, really, enough’s enough!”

Professor McGonagall was back.

She slammed the portrait behind her as she entered the common room and stared furiously around.

“I am delighted that Gryffindor won the match, but this is getting ridiculous! Percy, I expected better of you!”

“I certainly didn’t authorize this, Professor!” said Percy, puffing himself up indignantly.

“I was just telling them all to get back to bed! My brother Ron here had a nightmare —”

“IT WASN’T A NIGHTMARE!” Ron yelled.

“PROFESSOR, I WOKE UP, AND SIRIUS BLACK WAS STANDING OVER ME, HOLDING A KNIFE!”

Professor McGonagall stared at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Weasley, how could he possibly have gotten through the portrait hole?”

“Ask him!” said Ron, pointing a shaking finger at the back of Sir Cadogan’s picture.

“Ask him if he saw —”

Glaring suspiciously at Ron, Professor McGonagall pushed the portrait back open and went outside.

The whole common room listened with bated breath.

“Sir Cadogan, did you just let a man enter Gryffindor Tower?”

“Certainly, good lady!” cried Sir Cadogan.

There was a stunned silence, both inside and outside the common room.

“You — you did?” said Professor McGonagall.

“But — but the password!”

“He had ’em!” said Sir Cadogan proudly.

“Had the whole week’s, my lady! Read ’em off a little piece of paper!”

Professor McGonagall pulled herself back through the portrait hole to face the stunned crowd.

She was white as chalk.

“Which person,” she said, her voice shaking, “which abysmally foolish person wrote down this week’s passwords and left them lying around?”

There was utter silence, broken by the smallest of terrified squeaks.

Neville Longbottom, trembling from head to fluffy-slippered toes, raised his hand slowly into the air.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐈𝐕. 𝐒𝐍𝐀𝐏𝐄’𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐔𝐃𝐆𝐄

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No one in Gryffindor Tower slept that night.

They knew that the castle was being searched again, and the whole House stayed awake in the common room, waiting to hear whether Black had been caught.

Professor McGonagall came back at dawn, to tell them that he had again escaped.

Throughout the day, everywhere they went they saw signs of tighter security; Professor Flitwick could be seen teaching the front doors to recognize a large picture of Sirius Black; Filch was suddenly bustling up and down the corridors, boarding up everything from tiny cracks in the walls to mouse holes.

Sir Cadogan had been fired.

His portrait had been taken back to its lonely landing on the seventh floor, and the Fat Lady was back.

She had been expertly restored, but was still extremely nervous, and had agreed to return to her job only on condition that she was given extra protection.

A bunch of surly security trolls had been hired to guard her.

They paced the corridor in a menacing group, talking in grunts and comparing the size of their clubs.

Harry couldn’t help noticing that the statue of the one-eyed witch on the third floor remained unguarded and unblocked.

It seemed that Fred and George had been right in thinking that they — and now Harry, Ron, and Hermione — were the only ones who knew about the hidden passageway within it.

“D’you reckon we should tell someone?” Harry asked Ron.

“We know he’s not coming in through Honeydukes,” said Ron dismissively.

“We’d’ve heard if the shop had been broken into.”

Harry was glad Ron took this view.

If the one-eyed witch was boarded up too, he would never be able to go into Hogsmeade again.

Ron had become an instant celebrity.

For the first time in his life, people were paying more attention to him than to Harry, and it was clear that Ron was rather enjoying the experience.

Though still severely shaken by the night’s events, he was happy to tell anyone who asked what had happened, with a wealth of detail.

“. . . I was asleep, and I heard this ripping noise, and I thought it was in my dream, you know?

But then there was this draft . . . I woke up and one side of the hangings on my bed had been pulled down. . . .

I rolled over . . . and I saw him standing over me . . . like a skeleton, with loads of filthy hair . . . holding this great long knife, must’ve been twelve inches . . . and he looked at me, and I looked at him, and then I yelled, and he scampered.

“Why, though?” Ron added to Harry as the group of second-year girls who had been listening to his chilling tale departed.

“Why did he run?”

Harry had been wondering the same thing.

Why had Black, having got the wrong bed, not silenced Ron and proceeded to Harry?

Black had proved twelve years ago that he didn’t mind murdering innocent people, and this time he had been facing five unarmed boys, four of whom were asleep.

“He must’ve known he’d have a job getting back out of the castle once you’d yelled and woken people up,” said Harry thoughtfully.

“He’d’ve had to kill the whole House to get back through the portrait hole . . . then he would’ve met the teachers. . . .”

Neville was in total disgrace.

Professor McGonagall was so furious with him she had banned him from all future Hogsmeade visits, given him a detention, and forbidden anyone to give him the password into the tower.

Poor Neville was forced to wait outside the common room every night for somebody to let him in, while the security trolls leered unpleasantly at him.

None of these punishments, however, came close to matching the one his grandmother had in store for him.

Two days after Black’s break-in, she sent Neville the very worst thing a Hogwarts student could receive over breakfast — a Howler.

The school owls swooped into the Great Hall carrying the mail as usual, and Neville choked as a huge barn owl landed in front of him, a scarlet envelope clutched in its beak.

Harry and Ron, who were sitting opposite him, recognized the letter as a Howler at once — Ron had got one from his mother the year before.

“Run for it, Neville,” Ron advised.

Neville didn’t need telling twice.

He seized the envelope, and holding it before him like a bomb, sprinted out of the hall, while the Slytherin table exploded with laughter at the sight of him.

They heard the Howler go off in the entrance hall — Neville’s grandmother’s voice, magically magnified to a hundred times its usual volume, shrieking about how he had brought shame on the whole family.

Harry was too busy feeling sorry for Neville to notice immediately that he had a letter too.

Hedwig got his attention by nipping him sharply on the wrist.

“Ouch! Oh — thanks, Hedwig.”

Harry tore open the envelope while Hedwig helped herself to some of Neville’s cornflakes.

The note inside said:

Dear Harry and Ron,

How about having tea with me this afternoon ’round six?

I’ll come and collect you from the castle.

WAIT FOR ME IN THE ENTRANCE HALL; YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED OUT ON YOUR OWN.

Cheers,

Hagrid

“He probably wants to hear all about Black!” said Ron.

So at six o’clock that afternoon, Harry and Ron left Gryffindor Tower, passed the security trolls at a run, and headed down to the entrance hall.

Hagrid was already waiting for them.

“All right, Hagrid!” said Ron.

“S’pose you want to hear about Saturday night, do you?”

“I’ve already heard all abou’ it,” said Hagrid, opening the front doors and leading them outside.

“Oh,” said Ron, looking slightly put out.

The first thing they saw on entering Hagrid’s cabin was Buckbeak, who was stretched out on top of Hagrid’s patchwork quilt, his enormous wings folded tight to his body, enjoying a large plate of dead ferrets.

Averting his eyes from this unpleasant sight, Harry saw a gigantic, hairy brown suit and a very horrible yellow-and-orange tie hanging from the top of Hagrid’s wardrobe door.

“What are they for, Hagrid?” said Harry.

“Buckbeak’s case against the Committee fer the Disposal o’ Dangerous Creatures,” said Hagrid.

“This Friday.

Him an’ me’ll be goin’ down ter London together.

I’ve booked two beds on the Knight Bus. . . .”

Harry felt a nasty pang of guilt.

He had completely forgotten that Buckbeak’s trial was so near, and judging by the uneasy look on Ron’s face, he had too.

They had also forgotten their promise about helping him prepare Buckbeak’s defense; the arrival of the Firebolt had driven it clean out of their minds.

Hagrid poured them tea and offered them a plate of Bath buns, but they knew better than to accept; they had had too much experience with Hagrid’s cooking.

“I got somethin’ ter discuss with you two,” said Hagrid, sitting himself between them and looking uncharacteristically serious.

“What?” said Harry.

“Hermione,” said Hagrid.

“What about her?” said Ron.

“She’s in a righ’ state, that’s what.

She’s bin comin’ down ter visit me a lot since Chris’mas.

Bin feelin’ lonely.

Firs’ yeh weren’ talking to her because o’ the Firebolt, now yer not talkin’ to her because her cat —”

“— ate Scabbers!” Ron interjected angrily.

“Because her cat acted like all cats do,” Hagrid continued doggedly.

“She’s cried a fair few times, yeh know.

Goin’ through a rough time at the moment.

Bitten off more’n she can chew, if yeh ask me, all the work she’s tryin’ ter do.

Still found time ter help me with Buckbeak’s case, mind. . . .

She’s found some really good stuff fer me . . . reckon he’ll stand a good chance now. . . .”

“Hagrid, we should’ve helped as well — sorry —” Harry began awkwardly.

“I’m not blamin’ yeh!” said Hagrid, waving Harry’s apology aside.

“Gawd knows yeh’ve had enough ter be gettin’ on with.

I’ve seen yeh practicin’ Quidditch ev’ry hour o’ the day an’ night — but I gotta tell yeh, I thought you two’d value yer friend more’n broomsticks or rats.

Tha’s all.”

Harry and Ron exchanged uncomfortable looks.

“Really upset, she was, when Black nearly stabbed yeh, Ron.

She’s got her heart in the right place, Hermione has, an’ you two not talkin’ to her —”

“If she’d just get rid of that cat, I’d speak to her again!” Ron said angrily.

“But she’s still sticking up for it!

It’s a maniac, and she won’t hear a word against it!”

“Ah, well, people can be a bit stupid abou’ their pets,” said Hagrid wisely.

Behind him, Buckbeak spat a few ferret bones onto Hagrid’s pillow.

They spent the rest of their visit discussing Gryffindor’s improved chances for the Quidditch Cup.

At nine o’clock, Hagrid walked them back up to the castle.

A large group of people was bunched around the bulletin board when they returned to the common room.

“Hogsmeade, next weekend!” said Ron, craning over the heads to read the new notice.

“What d’you reckon?” he added quietly to Harry as they went to sit down.

“Well, Filch hasn’t done anything about the passage into Honeydukes. . . .” Harry said, even more quietly.

“Harry!” said a voice in his right ear.

Harry started and looked around at Hermione, who was sitting at the table right behind them and clearing a space in the wall of books that had been hiding her.

“Harry, if you go into Hogsmeade again . . . I’ll tell Professor McGonagall about that map!” said Hermione.

“Can you hear someone talking, Harry?” growled Ron, not looking at Hermione.

“Ron, how can you let him go with you?

After what Sirius Black nearly did to you!

I mean it, I’ll tell —”

“So now you’re trying to get Harry expelled!” said Ron furiously.

“Haven’t you done enough damage this year?”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but with a soft hiss, Crookshanks leapt onto her lap.

Hermione took one frightened look at the expression on Ron’s face, gathered up Crookshanks, and hurried away toward the girls’ dormitories.

“So how about it?” Ron said to Harry as though there had been no interruption.

“Come on, last time we went you didn’t see anything.

You haven’t even been inside Zonko’s yet!”

Harry looked around to check that Hermione was well out of earshot.

“Okay,” he said.

“But I’m taking the Invisibility Cloak this time.”

On Saturday morning, Harry packed his Invisibility Cloak in his bag, slipped the Marauder’s Map into his pocket, and went down to breakfast with everyone else.

Hermione kept shooting suspicious looks down the table at him, but he avoided her eye and was careful to let her see him walking back up the marble staircase in the entrance hall as everybody else proceeded to the front doors.

“’Bye!” Harry called to Ron.

“See you when you get back!”

Ron grinned and winked.

Harry hurried up to the third floor, slipping the Marauder’s Map out of his pocket as he went.

Crouching behind the one-eyed witch, he smoothed it out.

A tiny dot was moving in his direction.

Harry squinted at it.

The minuscule writing next to it read Neville Longbottom.

Harry quickly pulled out his wand, muttered, “Dissendium!” and shoved his bag into the statue, but before he could climb in himself, Neville came around the corner.

“Harry! I forgot you weren’t going to Hogsmeade either!”

“Hi, Neville,” said Harry, moving swiftly away from the statue and pushing the map back into his pocket.

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” shrugged Neville.

“Want a game of Exploding Snap?”

“Er — not now — I was going to go to the library and do that vampire essay for Lupin —”

“I’ll come with you!” said Neville brightly.

“I haven’t done it either!”

“Er — hang on — yeah, I forgot, I finished it last night!”

“Great, you can help me!” said Neville, his round face anxious.

“I don’t understand that thing about the garlic at all — do they have to eat it, or —”

He broke off with a small gasp, looking over Harry’s shoulder.

It was Snape.

Neville took a quick step behind Harry.

“And what are you two doing here?” said Snape, coming to a halt and looking from one to the other.

“An odd place to meet —”

To Harry’s immense disquiet, Snape’s black eyes flicked to the doorways on either side of them, and then to the one-eyed witch.

“We’re not — meeting here,” said Harry.

“We just — met here.”

“Indeed?” said Snape.

“You have a habit of turning up in unexpected places, Potter, and you are very rarely there for no reason. . . .

I suggest the pair of you return to Gryffindor Tower, where you belong.”

Harry and Neville set off without another word.

As they turned the corner, Harry looked back.

Snape was running one of his hands over the one-eyed witch’s head, examining it closely.

Harry managed to shake Neville off at the Fat Lady by telling him the password, then pretending he’d left his vampire essay in the library and doubling back.

Once out of sight of the security trolls, he pulled out the map again and held it close to his nose.

The third-floor corridor seemed to be deserted.

Harry scanned the map carefully and saw, with a leap of relief, that the tiny dot labeled Severus Snape was now back in its office.

He sprinted back to the one-eyed witch, opened her hump, heaved himself inside, and slid down to meet his bag at the bottom of the stone chute.

He wiped the Marauder’s Map blank again, then set off at a run.

Harry, completely hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, emerged into the sunlight outside Honeydukes and prodded Ron in the back.

“It’s me,” he muttered.

“What kept you?” Ron hissed.

“Snape was hanging around. . . .”

They set off up the High Street.

“Where are you?” Ron kept muttering out of the corner of his mouth.

“Are you still there?

This feels weird. . . .”

They went to the post office; Ron pretended to be checking the price of an owl to Bill in Egypt so that Harry could have a good look around.

The owls sat hooting softly down at him, at least three hundred of them; from Great Grays right down to tiny little Scops owls (“Local Deliveries Only”), which were so small they could have sat in the palm of Harry’s hand.

Then they visited Zonko’s, which was so packed with students Harry had to exercise great care not to tread on anyone and cause a panic.

There were jokes and tricks to fulfill even Fred’s and George’s wildest dreams; Harry gave Ron whispered orders and passed him some gold from under the Cloak.

They left Zonko’s with their money bags considerably lighter than they had been on entering, but their pockets bulging with Dungbombs, Hiccup Sweets, Frog Spawn Soap, and a Nose-Biting Teacup apiece.

The day was fine and breezy, and neither of them felt like staying indoors, so they walked past the Three Broomsticks and climbed a slope to visit the Shrieking Shack, the most haunted dwelling in Britain.

It stood a little way above the rest of the village, and even in daylight was slightly creepy, with its boarded windows and dank overgrown garden.

“Even the Hogwarts ghosts avoid it,” said Ron as they leaned on the fence, looking up at it.

“I asked Nearly Headless Nick . . . he says he’s heard a very rough crowd lives here.

No one can get in.

Fred and George tried, obviously, but all the entrances are sealed shut. . . .”

Harry, feeling hot from their climb, was just considering taking off the Cloak for a few minutes when they heard voices nearby.

Someone was climbing toward the house from the other side of the hill; moments later, Malfoy had appeared, followed closely by Crabbe and Goyle.

Malfoy was speaking.

“. . . should have an owl from Father any time now.

He had to go to the hearing to tell them about my arm . . . about how I couldn’t use it for three months. . . .”

Crabbe and Goyle sniggered.

“I really wish I could hear that great hairy moron trying to defend himself . . . ‘There’s no ’arm in ’im, ’onest —’ . . . that hippogriff’s as good as dead —”

Malfoy suddenly caught sight of Ron.

His pale face split in a malevolent grin.

“What are you doing, Weasley?”

Malfoy looked up at the crumbling house behind Ron.

“Suppose you’d love to live here, wouldn’t you, Weasley?

Dreaming about having your own bedroom?

I heard your family all sleep in one room — is that true?”

Harry seized the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from leaping on Malfoy.

“Leave him to me,” he hissed in Ron’s ear.

The opportunity was too perfect to miss.

Harry crept silently around behind Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, bent down, and scooped a large handful of mud out of the path.

“We were just discussing your friend Hagrid,” Malfoy said to Ron.

“Just trying to imagine what he’s saying to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.

D’you think he’ll cry when they cut off his hippogriff’s —”

SPLAT.

Malfoy’s head jerked forward as the mud hit him; his silver-blond hair was suddenly dripping in muck.

“What the — ?”

Ron had to hold onto the fence to keep himself standing, he was laughing so hard.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle spun stupidly on the spot, staring wildly around, Malfoy trying to wipe his hair clean.

“What was that? Who did that?”

“Very haunted up here, isn’t it?” said Ron, with the air of one commenting on the weather.

Crabbe and Goyle were looking scared.

Their bulging muscles were no use against ghosts.

Malfoy was staring madly around at the deserted landscape.

Harry sneaked along the path, where a particularly sloppy puddle yielded some foul-smelling, green sludge.

SPLATTER.

Crabbe and Goyle caught some this time.

Goyle hopped furiously on the spot, trying to rub it out of his small, dull eyes.

“It came from over there!” said Malfoy, wiping his face, and staring at a spot some six feet to the left of Harry.

Crabbe blundered forward, his long arms outstretched like a zombie.

Harry dodged around him, picked up a stick, and lobbed it at Crabbe’s back.

Harry doubled up with silent laughter as Crabbe did a kind of pirouette in midair, trying to see who had thrown it.

As Ron was the only person Crabbe could see, it was Ron he started toward, but Harry stuck out his leg.

Crabbe stumbled — and his huge, flat foot caught the hem of Harry’s Cloak.

Harry felt a great tug, then the Cloak slid off his face.

For a split second, Malfoy stared at him.

“AAARGH!” he yelled, pointing at Harry’s head.

Then he turned tail and ran, at breakneck speed, back down the hill, Crabbe and Goyle behind him.

Harry tugged the Cloak up again, but the damage was done.

“Harry!” Ron said, stumbling forward and staring hopelessly at the point where Harry had disappeared, “you’d better run for it!

If Malfoy tells anyone — you’d better get back to the castle, quick —”

“See you later,” said Harry, and without another word, he tore back down the path toward Hogsmeade.

Would Malfoy believe what he had seen?

Would anyone believe Malfoy?

Nobody knew about the Invisibility Cloak — nobody except Dumbledore.

Harry’s stomach turned over — Dumbledore would know exactly what had happened, if Malfoy said anything —

Back into Honeydukes, back down the cellar steps, across the stone floor, through the trapdoor — Harry pulled off the Cloak, tucked it under his arm, and ran, flat out, along the passage. . . .

Malfoy would get back first . . . how long would it take him to find a teacher?

Panting, a sharp pain in his side, Harry didn’t slow down until he reached the stone slide.

He would have to leave the Cloak where it was, it was too much of a giveaway in case Malfoy had tipped off a teacher — he hid it in a shadowy corner, then started to climb, fast as he could, his sweaty hands slipping on the sides of the chute.

He reached the inside of the witch’s hump, tapped it with his wand, stuck his head through, and hoisted himself out; the hump closed, and just as Harry jumped out from behind the statue, he heard quick footsteps approaching.

It was Snape.

He approached Harry at a swift walk, his black robes swishing, then stopped in front of him.

“So,” he said.

There was a look of suppressed triumph about him.

Harry tried to look innocent, all too aware of his sweaty face and his muddy hands, which he quickly hid in his pockets.

“Come with me, Potter,” said Snape.

Harry followed him downstairs, trying to wipe his hands clean on the inside of his robes without Snape noticing.

They walked down the stairs to the dungeons and then into Snape’s office.

Harry had been in here only once before, and he had been in very serious trouble then too.

Snape had acquired a few more slimy horrible things in jars since last time, all standing on shelves behind his desk, glinting in the firelight and adding to the threatening atmosphere.

“Sit,” said Snape.

Harry sat.

Snape, however, remained standing.

“Mr. Malfoy has just been to see me with a strange story, Potter,” said Snape.

Harry didn’t say anything.

“He tells me that he was up by the Shrieking Shack when he ran into Weasley — apparently alone.”

Still, Harry didn’t speak.

“Mr. Malfoy states that he was standing talking to Weasley, when a large amount of mud hit him in the back of the head.

How do you think that could have happened?”

Harry tried to look mildly surprised.

“I don’t know, Professor.”

Snape’s eyes were boring into Harry’s.

It was exactly like trying to stare down a hippogriff.

Harry tried hard not to blink.

“Mr. Malfoy then saw an extraordinary apparition.

Can you imagine what it might have been, Potter?”

“No,” said Harry, now trying to sound innocently curious.

“It was your head, Potter.

Floating in midair.”

There was a long silence.

“Maybe he’d better go to Madam Pomfrey,” said Harry.

“If he’s seeing things like —”

“What would your head have been doing in Hogsmeade, Potter?” said Snape softly.

“Your head is not allowed in Hogsmeade.

No part of your body has permission to be in Hogsmeade.”

“I know that,” said Harry, striving to keep his face free of guilt or fear.

“It sounds like Malfoy’s having hallucin —”

“Malfoy is not having hallucinations,” snarled Snape, and he bent down, a hand on each arm of Harry’s chair, so that their faces were a foot apart.

“If your head was in Hogsmeade, so was the rest of you.”

“I’ve been up in Gryffindor Tower,” said Harry.

“Like you told —”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

Harry didn’t say anything.

Snape’s thin mouth curled into a horrible smile.

“So,” he said, straightening up again.

“Everyone from the Minister of Magic downward has been trying to keep famous Harry Potter safe from Sirius Black.

But famous Harry Potter is a law unto himself.

Let the ordinary people worry about his safety!

Famous Harry Potter goes where he wants to, with no thought for the consequences.”

Harry stayed silent.

Snape was trying to provoke him into telling the truth.

He wasn’t going to do it.

Snape had no proof — yet.

“How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter,” Snape said suddenly, his eyes glinting.

“He too was exceedingly arrogant.

A small amount of talent on the Quidditch field made him think he was a cut above the rest of us too.

Strutting around the place with his friends and admirers . . . The resemblance between you is uncanny.”

“My dad didn’t strut,” said Harry, before he could stop himself.

“And neither do I.”

“Your father didn’t set much store by rules either,” Snape went on, pressing his advantage, his thin face full of malice.

“Rules were for lesser mortals, not Quidditch Cup-winners.

His head was so swollen —”

“SHUT UP!”

Harry was suddenly on his feet.

Rage such as he had not felt since his last night in Privet Drive was coursing through him.

He didn’t care that Snape’s face had gone rigid, the black eyes flashing dangerously.

“What did you say to me, Potter?”

“I told you to shut up about my dad!” Harry yelled.

“I know the truth, all right?

He saved your life!

Dumbledore told me!

You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for my dad!”

Snape’s sallow skin had gone the color of sour milk.

“And did the headmaster tell you the circumstances in which your father saved my life?” he whispered.

“Or did he consider the details too unpleasant for precious Potter’s delicate ears?”

Harry bit his lip.

He didn't know what had happened and didn't want to admit it — but Snape seemed to have guessed the truth.

“I would hate for you to run away with a false idea of your father, Potter,” he said, a terrible grin twisting his face.

“Have you been imagining some act of glorious heroism?

Then let me correct you — your saintly father and his friends played a highly amusing joke on me that would have resulted in my death if your father hadn’t got cold feet at the last moment.

There was nothing brave about what he did.

He was saving his own skin as much as mine.

Had their joke succeeded, he would have been expelled from Hogwarts.”

Snape’s uneven, yellowish teeth were bared.

“Turn out your pockets, Potter!” he spat suddenly.

Harry didn’t move.

There was a pounding in his ears.

“Turn out your pockets, or we go straight to the headmaster!

Pull them out, Potter!”

Cold with dread, Harry slowly pulled out the bag of Zonko’s tricks and the Marauder’s Map.

Snape picked up the Zonko’s bag.

“Ron gave them to me,” said Harry, praying he’d get a chance to tip Ron off before Snape saw him.

“He — brought them back from Hogsmeade last time —”

“Indeed? And you’ve been carrying them around ever since?

How very touching . . . and what is this?”

Snape had picked up the map.

Harry tried with all his might to keep his face impassive.

“Spare bit of parchment,” he said with a shrug.

Snape turned it over, his eyes on Harry.

“Surely you don’t need such a very old piece of parchment?” he said.

“Why don’t I just — throw this away?”

His hand moved toward the fire.

“No!” Harry said quickly.

“So!” said Snape, his long nostrils quivering.

“Is this another treasured gift from Mr. Weasley?

Or is it — something else?

A letter, perhaps, written in invisible ink?

Or — instructions to get into Hogsmeade without passing the dementors?”

Harry blinked.

Snape’s eyes gleamed.

“Let me see, let me see . . . ,” he muttered, taking out his wand and smoothing the map out on his desk.

“Reveal your secret!” he said, touching the wand to the parchment.

Nothing happened.

Harry clenched his hands to stop them from shaking.

“Show yourself!” Snape said, tapping the map sharply.

It stayed blank.

Harry was taking deep, calming breaths.

“Professor Severus Snape, master of this school, commands you to yield the information you conceal!” Snape said, hitting the map with his wand.

As though an invisible hand were writing upon it, words appeared on the smooth surface of the map.

“Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people’s business.”

Snape froze.

Harry stared, dumbstruck, at the message.

But the map didn’t stop there.

More writing was appearing beneath the first.

“Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git.”

It would have been very funny if the situation hadn’t been so serious.

And there was more. . . .

“Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor.”

Harry closed his eyes in horror.

When he’d opened them, the map had had its last word.

“Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball.”

Harry waited for the blow to fall.

“So . . . ,” said Snape softly.

“We’ll see about this. . . .”

He strode across to his fire, seized a fistful of glittering powder from a jar on the fireplace, and threw it into the flames.

“Lupin!” Snape called into the fire.

“I want a word!”

Utterly bewildered, Harry stared at the fire.

A large shape had appeared in it, revolving very fast.

Seconds later, Professor Lupin was clambering out of the fireplace, brushing ash off his shabby robes.

“You called, Severus?” said Lupin mildly.

“I certainly did,” said Snape, his face contorted with fury as he strode back to his desk.

“I have just asked Potter to empty his pockets.

He was carrying this.”

Snape pointed at the parchment, on which the words of Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs were still shining.

An odd, closed expression appeared on Lupin’s face.

“Well?” said Snape.

Lupin continued to stare at the map.

Harry had the impression that Lupin was doing some very quick thinking.

“Well?” said Snape again.

“This parchment is plainly full of Dark Magic.

This is supposed to be your area of expertise, Lupin.

Where do you imagine Potter got such a thing?”

Lupin looked up and, by the merest half-glance in Harry’s direction, warned him not to interrupt.

“Full of Dark Magic?” he repeated mildly.

“Do you really think so, Severus?

It looks to me as though it is merely a piece of parchment that insults anybody who reads it.

Childish, but surely not dangerous?

I imagine Harry got it from a joke shop —”

“Indeed?” said Snape.

His jaw had gone rigid with anger.

“You think a joke shop could supply him with such a thing?

You don’t think it more likely that he got it directly from the manufacturers?”

Harry didn’t understand what Snape was talking about.

Nor, apparently, did Lupin.

“You mean, by Mr. Wormtail or one of these people?” he said.

“Harry, do you know any of these men?”

“No,” said Harry quickly.

“You see, Severus?” said Lupin, turning back to Snape.

“It looks like a Zonko product to me —”

Right on cue, Ron came bursting into the office.

He was completely out of breath, and stopped just short of Snape’s desk, clutching the stitch in his chest and trying to speak.

“I — gave — Harry — that — stuff,” he choked.

“Bought — it . . . in Zonko’s . . . ages — ago . . .”

“Well!” said Lupin, clapping his hands together and looking around cheerfully.

“That seems to clear that up!

Severus, I’ll take this back, shall I?”

He folded the map and tucked it inside his robes.

“Harry, Ron, come with me, I need a word about my vampire essay — excuse us, Severus —”

Harry didn’t dare look at Snape as they left his office.

He, Ron, and Lupin walked all the way back into the entrance hall before speaking.

Then Harry turned to Lupin.

“Professor, I —”

“I don’t want to hear explanations,” said Lupin shortly.

He glanced around the empty entrance hall and lowered his voice.

“I happen to know that this map was confiscated by Mr. Filch many years ago.

Yes, I know it’s a map,” he said as Harry and Ron looked amazed.

“I don’t want to know how it fell into your possession.

I am, however, astounded that you didn’t hand it in.

Particularly after what happened the last time a student left information about the castle lying around.

And I can’t let you have it back, Harry.”

Harry had expected that, and was too keen for explanations to protest.

“Why did Snape think I’d got it from the manufacturers?”

“Because . . . ,” Lupin hesitated, “because these mapmakers would have wanted to lure you out of school.

They’d think it extremely entertaining.”

“Do you know them?” said Harry, impressed.

“We’ve met,” he said shortly.

He was looking at Harry more seriously than ever before.

“Don’t expect me to cover up for you again, Harry.

I cannot make you take Sirius Black seriously.

But I would have thought that what you have heard when the dementors draw near you would have had more of an effect on you.

Your parents gave their lives to keep you alive, Harry.

A poor way to repay them — gambling their sacrifice for a bag of magic tricks.”

He walked away, leaving Harry feeling worse by far than he had at any point in Snape’s office.

Slowly, he and Ron mounted the marble staircase.

As Harry passed the one-eyed witch, he remembered the Invisibility Cloak — it was still down there, but he didn’t dare go and get it.

“It’s my fault,” said Ron abruptly.

“I persuaded you to go.

Lupin’s right, it was stupid, we shouldn’t’ve done it —”

He broke off; they reached the corridor where the security trolls were pacing, and Hermione was walking toward them.

One look at her face convinced Harry that she had heard what had happened.

His heart plummeted — had she told Professor McGonagall?

“Come to have a good gloat?” said Ron savagely as she stopped in front of them.

“Or have you just been to tell on us?”

“No,” said Hermione.

She was holding a letter in her hands and her lip was trembling.

“I just thought you ought to know . . . Hagrid lost his case.

Buckbeak is going to be executed.”