[Part 5] "Harry Potter and Prisoner of Azkaban" by Rowling J.K.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋

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He — he sent me this,” Hermione said, holding out the letter.

Harry took it.

The parchment was damp, and enormous teardrops had smudged the ink so badly in places that it was very difficult to read.

Dear Hermione, We lost.

I’m allowed to bring him back to Hogwarts.

Execution date to be fixed.

Beaky has enjoyed London.

I won’t forget all the help you gave us.

Hagrid “They can’t do this,” said Harry.

“They can’t.

Buckbeak isn’t dangerous.”

“Malfoy’s dad’s frightened the Committee into it,” said Hermione, wiping her eyes.

“You know what he’s like.

They’re a bunch of doddery old fools, and they were scared.

There’ll be an appeal, though, there always is.

Only I can’t see any hope. . . . .Nothing will have changed.”

“Yeah, it will,” said Ron fiercely.

“You won’t have to do all the work alone this time, Hermione.

I’ll help.”

“Oh, Ron!” Hermione flung her arms around Ron’s neck and broke down completely.

Ron, looking quite terrified, patted her very awkwardly on the top of the head.

Finally, Hermione drew away.

“Ron, I’m really, really sorry about Scabbers . . . . ,” she sobbed.

“Oh — well — he was old,” said Ron, looking thoroughly relieved that she had let go of him.

“And he was a bit useless.

You never know, Mum and Dad might get me an owl now.”

The safety measures imposed on the students since Black’s second break-in made it impossible for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to go and visit Hagrid in the evenings.

Their only chance of talking to him was during Care of Magical Creatures lessons.

He seemed numb with shock at the verdict.

“S’all my fault.

Got all tongue-tied.

They was all sittin’ there in black robes an’ I kep’ droppin’ me notes and forgettin’ all them dates yeh looked up fer me, Hermione.

An’ then Lucius Malfoy stood up an’ said his bit, and the Committee jus’ did exac’ly what he told ’em. . . .”

“There’s still the appeal!” said Ron fiercely.

“Don’t give up yet, we’re working on it!”

They were walking back up to the castle with the rest of the class.

Ahead they could see Malfoy, who was walking with Crabbe and Goyle, and kept looking back, laughing derisively.

“S’no good, Ron,” said Hagrid sadly as they reached the castle steps.

“That Committee’s in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket.

I’m jus’ gonna make sure the rest o’ Beaky’s time is the happiest he’s ever had.

I owe him that. . . .”

Hagrid turned around and hurried back toward his cabin, his face buried in his handkerchief.

“Look at him blubber!” Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had been standing just inside the castle doors, listening.

“Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?” said Malfoy.

“And he’s supposed to be our teacher!”

Harry and Ron both made furious moves toward Malfoy, but Hermione got there first — SMACK!

She had slapped Malfoy across the face with all the strength she could muster.

Malfoy staggered.

Harry, Ron, Crabbe, and Goyle stood flabbergasted as Hermione raised her hand again.

“Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul — you evil —” “Hermione!” said Ron weakly, and he tried to grab her hand as she swung it back.

“Get off, Ron!” Hermione pulled out her wand.

Malfoy stepped backward.

Crabbe and Goyle looked at him for instructions, thoroughly bewildered.

“C’mon,” Malfoy muttered, and in a moment, all three of them had disappeared into the passageway to the dungeons.

“Hermione!” Ron said again, sounding both stunned and impressed.

“Harry, you’d better beat him in the Quidditch final!” Hermione said shrilly.

“You just better had, because I can’t stand it if Slytherin wins!”

“We’re due in Charms,” said Ron, still goggling at Hermione.

“We’d better go.”

They hurried up the marble staircase toward Professor Flitwick’s classroom.

“You’re late, boys!” said Professor Flitwick reprovingly as Harry opened the classroom door.

“Come along, quickly, wands out, we’re experimenting with Cheering Charms today, we’ve already divided into pairs —” Harry and Ron hurried to a desk at the back and opened their bags.

Ron looked behind him.

“Where’s Hermione gone?” Harry looked around too.

Hermione hadn’t entered the classroom, yet Harry knew she had been right next to him when he had opened the door.

“That’s weird,” said Harry, staring at Ron.

“Maybe — maybe she went to the bathroom or something?”

But Hermione didn’t turn up all lesson.

“She could’ve done with a Cheering Charm on her too,” said Ron as the class left for lunch, all grinning broadly — the Cheering Charms had left them with a feeling of great contentment.

Hermione wasn’t at lunch either.

By the time they had finished their apple pie, the after-effects of the Cheering Charms were wearing off, and Harry and Ron had started to get slightly worried.

“You don’t think Malfoy did something to her?” Ron said anxiously as they hurried upstairs toward Gryffindor Tower.

They passed the security trolls, gave the Fat Lady the password (“Flibbertigibbet”), and scrambled through the portrait hole into the common room.

Hermione was sitting at a table, fast asleep, her head resting on an open Arithmancy book.

They went to sit down on either side of her.

Harry prodded her awake.

“W-what?” said Hermione, waking with a start and staring wildly around.

“Is it time to go?

W-which lesson have we got now?”

“Divination, but it’s not for another twenty minutes,” said Harry.

“Hermione, why didn’t you come to Charms?”

“What? Oh no!” Hermione squeaked.

“I forgot to go to Charms!”

“But how could you forget?” said Harry.

“You were with us till we were right outside the classroom!”

“I don’t believe it!” Hermione wailed.

“Was Professor Flitwick angry?

Oh, it was Malfoy, I was thinking about him and I lost track of things!”

“You know what, Hermione?” said Ron, looking down at the enormous Arithmancy book Hermione had been using as a pillow.

“I reckon you’re cracking up.

You’re trying to do too much.”

“No, I’m not!” said Hermione, brushing her hair out of her eyes and staring hopelessly around for her bag.

“I just made a mistake, that’s all!

I’d better go and see Professor Flitwick and say sorry. . . .

I’ll see you in Divination!”

Hermione joined them at the foot of the ladder to Professor Trelawney’s classroom twenty minutes later, looking extremely harrassed.

“I can’t believe I missed Cheering Charms!

And I bet they come up in our exams; Professor Flitwick hinted they might!”

Together they climbed the ladder into the dim, stifling tower room.

Glowing on every little table was a crystal ball full of pearly white mist.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down together at the same rickety table.

“I thought we weren’t starting crystal balls until next term,” Ron muttered, casting a wary eye around for Professor Trelawney, in case she was lurking nearby.

“Don’t complain, this means we’ve finished palmistry,” Harry muttered back.

“I was getting sick of her flinching every time she looked at my hands.”

“Good day to you!” said the familiar, misty voice, and Professor Trelawney made her usual dramatic entrance out of the shadows.

Parvati and Lavender quivered with excitement, their faces lit by the milky glow of their crystal ball.

“I have decided to introduce the crystal ball a little earlier than I had planned,” said Professor Trelawney, sitting with her back to the fire and gazing around.

“The fates have informed me that your examination in June will concern the Orb, and I am anxious to give you sufficient practice.”

Hermione snorted.

“Well, honestly . . . ‘the fates have informed her’ . . . who sets the exam?

She does!

What an amazing prediction!” she said, not troubling to keep her voice low.

Harry and Ron choked back laughs.

It was hard to tell whether Professor Trelawney had heard them, as her face was hidden in shadow.

She continued, however, as though she had not.

“Crystal gazing is a particularly refined art,” she said dreamily.

“I do not expect any of you to See when first you peer into the Orb’s infinite depths.

We shall start by practicing relaxing the conscious mind and external eyes” — Ron began to snigger uncontrollably and had to stuff his fist in his mouth to stifle the noise — “so as to clear the Inner Eye and the superconscious.

Perhaps, if we are lucky, some of you will See before the end of the class.”

And so they began.

Harry, at least, felt extremely foolish, staring blankly at the crystal ball, trying to keep his mind empty when thoughts such as “This is stupid” kept drifting across it.

It didn’t help that Ron kept breaking into silent giggles and Hermione kept tutting.

“Seen anything yet?” Harry asked them after a quarter of an hour’s quiet crystal gazing.

“Yeah, there’s a burn on this table,” said Ron, pointing.

“Someone’s spilled their candle.”

“This is such a waste of time,” Hermione hissed.

“I could be practicing something useful.

I could be catching up on Cheering Charms —” Professor Trelawney rustled past.

“Would anyone like me to help them interpret the shadowy portents within their Orb?” she murmured over the clinking of her bangles.

“I don’t need help,” Ron whispered.

“It’s obvious what this means.

There’s going to be loads of fog tonight.”

Both Harry and Hermione burst out laughing.

“Now, really!” said Professor Trelawney as everyone’s heads turned in their direction.

Parvati and Lavender were looking scandalized.

“You are disturbing the clairvoyant vibrations!” She approached their table and peered into their crystal ball.

Harry felt his heart sinking.

He was sure he knew what was coming — “There is something here!” Professor Trelawney whispered, lowering her face to the ball, so that it was reflected twice in her huge glasses.

“Something moving . . . but what is it?”

Harry was prepared to bet everything he owned, including his Firebolt, that it wasn’t good news, whatever it was.

And sure enough — “My dear . . . ,” Professor Trelawney breathed, gazing up at Harry.

“It is here, plainer than ever before . . . my dear, stalking toward you, growing ever closer . . . the Gr —” “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” said Hermione loudly.

“Not that ridiculous Grim again!”

Professor Trelawney raised her enormous eyes to Hermione’s face.

Parvati whispered something to Lavender, and they both glared at Hermione too.

Professor Trelawney stood up, surveying Hermione with unmistakable anger.

“I am sorry to say that from the moment you have arrived in this class, my dear, it has been apparent that you do not have what the noble art of Divination requires.

Indeed, I don’t remember ever meeting a student whose mind was so hopelessly mundane.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Then — “Fine!” said Hermione suddenly, getting up and cramming Unfogging the Future back into her bag.

“Fine!” she repeated, swinging the bag over her shoulder and almost knocking Ron off his chair.

“I give up!

I’m leaving!”

And to the whole class’s amazement, Hermione strode over to the trapdoor, kicked it open, and climbed down the ladder out of sight.

It took a few minutes for the class to settle down again.

Professor Trelawney seemed to have forgotten all about the Grim.

She turned abruptly from Harry and Ron’s table, breathing rather heavily as she tugged her gauzy shawl more closely to her.

“Ooooo!” said Lavender suddenly, making everyone start.

“Oooooo, Professor Trelawney, I’ve just remembered!

You saw her leaving, didn’t you?

Didn’t you, Professor?

‘Around Easter, one of our number will leave us forever!’ You said it ages ago, Professor!”

Professor Trelawney gave her a dewy smile.

“Yes, my dear, I did indeed know that Miss Granger would be leaving us.

One hopes, however, that one might have mistaken the Signs. . . .

The Inner Eye can be a burden, you know. . . .”

Lavender and Parvati looked deeply impressed, and moved over so that Professor Trelawney could join their table instead.

“Some day Hermione’s having, eh?” Ron muttered to Harry, looking awed.

“Yeah . . .” Harry glanced into the crystal ball but saw nothing but swirling white mist.

Had Professor Trelawney really seen the Grim again?

Would he?

The last thing he needed was another near-fatal accident, with the Quidditch final drawing ever nearer.

The Easter holidays were not exactly relaxing.

The third years had never had so much homework.

Neville Longbottom seemed close to a nervous collapse, and he wasn’t the only one.

“Call this a holiday!” Seamus Finnigan roared at the common room one afternoon.

“The exams are ages away, what’re they playing at?”

But nobody had as much to do as Hermione.

Even without Divination, she was taking more subjects than anybody else.

She was usually last to leave the common room at night, first to arrive at the library the next morning; she had shadows like Lupin’s under her eyes, and seemed constantly close to tears.

Ron had taken over responsibility for Buckbeak’s appeal.

When he wasn’t doing his own work, he was poring over enormously thick volumes with names like The Handbook of Hippogriff Psychology and Fowl or Foul?

A Study of Hippogriff Brutality.

He was so absorbed, he even forgot to be horrible to Crookshanks.

Harry, meanwhile, had to fit in his homework around Quidditch practice every day, not to mention endless discussions of tactics with Wood.

The Gryffindor-Slytherin match would take place on the first Saturday after the Easter holidays.

Slytherin was leading the tournament by exactly two hundred points.

This meant (as Wood constantly reminded his team) that they needed to win the match by more than that amount to win the Cup.

It also meant that the burden of winning fell largely on Harry, because capturing the Snitch was worth one hundred and fifty points.

“So you must catch it only if we’re more than fifty points up,” Wood told Harry constantly.

“Only if we’re more than fifty points up, Harry, or we win the match but lose the Cup.

You’ve got that, haven’t you?

You must catch the Snitch only if we’re —” “I KNOW, OLIVER!” Harry yelled.

The whole of Gryffindor House was obsessed with the coming match.

Gryffindor hadn’t won the Quidditch Cup since the legendary Charlie Weasley (Ron’s second oldest brother) had been Seeker.

But Harry doubted whether any of them, even Wood, wanted to win as much as he did.

The enmity between Harry and Malfoy was at its highest point ever.

Malfoy was still smarting about the mud-throwing incident in Hogsmeade and was even more furious that Harry had somehow wormed his way out of punishment.

Harry hadn’t forgotten Malfoy’s attempt to sabotage him in the match against Ravenclaw, but it was the matter of Buckbeak that made him most determined to beat Malfoy in front of the entire school.

Never, in anyone’s memory, had a match approached in such a highly charged atmosphere.

By the time the holidays were over, tension between the two teams and their Houses was at the breaking point.

A number of small scuffles broke out in the corridors, culminating in a nasty incident in which a Gryffindor fourth year and a Slytherin sixth year ended up in the hospital wing with leeks sprouting out of their ears.

Harry was having a particularly bad time of it.

He couldn’t walk to class without Slytherins sticking out their legs and trying to trip him up; Crabbe and Goyle kept popping up wherever he went, and slouching away looking disappointed when they saw him surrounded by people.

Wood had given instructions that Harry should be accompanied everywhere, in case the Slytherins tried to put him out of action.

The whole of Gryffindor House took up the challenge enthusiastically, so that it was impossible for Harry to get to classes on time because he was surrounded by a vast, chattering crowd.

Harry was more concerned for his Firebolt’s safety than his own.

When he wasn’t flying it, he locked it securely in his trunk and frequently dashed back up to Gryffindor Tower at break times to check that it was still there.

All usual pursuits were abandoned in the Gryffindor common room the night before the match.

Even Hermione had put down her books.

“I can’t work, I can’t concentrate,” she said nervously.

There was a great deal of noise.

Fred and George Weasley were dealing with the pressure by being louder and more exuberant than ever.

Oliver Wood was crouched over a model of a Quidditch field in the corner, prodding little figures across it with his wand and muttering to himself.

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie were laughing at Fred’s and George’s jokes.

Harry was sitting with Ron and Hermione, removed from the center of things, trying not to think about the next day, because every time he did, he had the horrible sensation that something very large was fighting to get out of his stomach.

“You’re going to be fine,” Hermione told him, though she looked positively terrified.

“You’ve got a Firebolt!” said Ron.

“Yeah . . . ,” said Harry, his stomach writhing.

It came as a relief when Wood suddenly stood up and yelled, “Team! Bed!”

Harry slept badly.

First he dreamed that he had overslept, and that Wood was yelling, “Where were you?

We had to use Neville instead!” Then he dreamed that Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin team arrived for the match riding dragons.

He was flying at breakneck speed, trying to avoid a spurt of flames from Malfoy’s steed’s mouth, when he realized he had forgotten his Firebolt.

He fell through the air and woke with a start.

It was a few seconds before Harry remembered that the match hadn’t taken place yet, that he was safe in bed, and that the Slytherin team definitely wouldn’t be allowed to play on dragons.

He was feeling very thirsty.

Quietly as he could, he got out of his four-poster and went to pour himself some water from the silver jug beneath the window.

The grounds were still and quiet.

No breath of wind disturbed the treetops in the Forbidden Forest; the Whomping Willow was motionless and innocentlooking.

It looked as though the conditions for the match would be perfect.

Harry set down his goblet and was about to turn back to his bed when something caught his eye.

An animal of some kind was prowling across the silvery lawn.

Harry dashed to his bedside table, snatched up his glasses, and put them on, then hurried back to the window.

It couldn’t be the Grim — not now — not right before the match — He peered out at the grounds again and, after a minute’s frantic searching, spotted it.

It was skirting the edge of the forest now. . . .

It wasn’t the Grim at all . . . it was a cat. . . .

Harry clutched the window ledge in relief as he recognized the bottlebrush tail.

It was only Crookshanks. . . .

Or was it only Crookshanks?

Harry squinted, pressing his nose flat against the glass.

Crookshanks seemed to have come to a halt.

Harry was sure he could see something else moving in the shadow of the trees too.

And just then, it emerged — a gigantic, shaggy black dog, moving stealthily across the lawn, Crookshanks trotting at its side.

Harry stared.

What did this mean?

If Crookshanks could see the dog as well, how could it be an omen of Harry’s death?

“Ron!” Harry hissed.

“Ron! Wake up!”

“Huh?” “I need you to tell me if you can see something!”

“S’all dark, Harry,” Ron muttered thickly.

“What’re you on about?”

“Down here —” Harry looked quickly back out of the window.

Crookshanks and the dog had vanished.

Harry climbed onto the windowsill to look right down into the shadows of the castle, but they weren’t there.

Where had they gone?

A loud snore told him Ron had fallen asleep again.

Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall the next day to enormous applause.

Harry couldn’t help grinning broadly as he saw that both the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were applauding them too.

The Slytherin table hissed loudly as they passed.

Harry noticed that Malfoy looked even paler than usual.

Wood spent the whole of breakfast urging his team to eat, while touching nothing himself.

Then he hurried them off to the field before anyone else had finished, so they could get an idea of the conditions.

As they left the Great Hall, everyone applauded again.

“Good luck, Harry!” called Cho.

Harry felt himself blushing.

“Okay — no wind to speak of — sun’s a bit bright, that could impair your vision, watch out for it — ground’s fairly hard, good, that’ll give us a fast kickoff —” Wood paced the field, staring around with the team behind him.

Finally, they saw the front doors of the castle open in the distance and the rest of the school spilling onto the lawn.

“Locker rooms,” said Wood tersely.

None of them spoke as they changed into their scarlet robes.

Harry wondered if they were feeling like he was: as though he’d eaten something extremely wriggly for breakfast.

In what seemed like no time at all, Wood was saying, “Okay, it’s time, let’s go —” They walked out onto the field to a tidal wave of noise.

Three-quarters of the crowd were wearing scarlet rosettes, waving scarlet flags with the Gryffindor lion upon them, or brandishing banners with slogans like “GO GRYFFINDOR!” and “LIONS FOR THE CUP!” Behind the Slytherin goalposts, however, two hundred people were wearing green; the silver serpent of Slytherin glittered on their flags, and Professor Snape sat in the very front row, wearing green like everyone else, and a very grim smile.

“And here are the Gryffindors!” yelled Lee Jordan, who was acting as commentator as usual.

“Potter, Bell, Johnson, Spinnet, Weasley, Weasley, and Wood.

Widely acknowledged as the best team Hogwarts has seen in a good few years —” Lee’s comments were drowned by a tide of “boos” from the Slytherin end.

“And here come the Slytherin team, led by Captain Flint.

He’s made some changes in the lineup and seems to be going for size rather than skill —” More boos from the Slytherin crowd.

Harry, however, thought Lee had a point.

Malfoy was easily the smallest person on the Slytherin team; the rest of them were enormous.

“Captains, shake hands!” said Madam Hooch.

Flint and Wood approached each other and grasped each other’s hand very tightly; it looked as though each was trying to break the other’s fingers.

“Mount your brooms!” said Madam Hooch.

“Three . . . two . . . one . . .” The sound of her whistle was lost in the roar from the crowd as fourteen brooms rose into the air.

Harry felt his hair fly back off his forehead; his nerves left him in the thrill of the flight; he glanced around, saw Malfoy on his tail, and sped off in search of the Snitch.

“And it’s Gryffindor in possession, Alicia Spinnet of Gryffindor with the Quaffle, heading straight for the Slytherin goalposts, looking good, Alicia!

Argh, no — Quaffle intercepted by Warrington, Warrington of Slytherin tearing up the field — WHAM! — nice Bludger work there by George Weasley, Warrington drops the Quaffle, it’s caught by — Johnson, Gryffindor back in possession, come on, Angelina — nice swerve around Montague — duck, Angelina, that’s a Bludger! — SHE SCORES! TEN–ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!”

Angelina punched the air as she soared around the end of the field; the sea of scarlet below was screaming its delight — “OUCH!” Angelina was nearly thrown from her broom as Marcus Flint went smashing into her.

“Sorry!” said Flint as the crowd below booed.

“Sorry, didn’t see her!”

A moment later, Fred Weasley chucked his Beater’s club at the back of Flint’s head.

Flint’s nose smashed into the handle of his broom and began to bleed.

“That will do!” shrieked Madam Hooch, zooming between them.

“Penalty shot to Gryffindor for an unprovoked attack on their Chaser!

Penalty shot to Slytherin for deliberate damage to their Chaser!”

“Come off it, miss!” howled Fred, but Madam Hooch blew her whistle and Alicia flew forward to take the penalty.

“Come on, Alicia!” yelled Lee into the silence that had descended on the crowd.

“YES! SHE’S BEATEN THE KEEPER! TWENTY–ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry turned the Firebolt sharply to watch Flint, still bleeding freely, fly forward to take the Slytherin penalty.

Wood was hovering in front of the Gryffindor goalposts, his jaw clenched.

“’Course, Wood’s a superb Keeper!” Lee Jordan told the crowd as Flint waited for Madam Hooch’s whistle.

“Superb!

Very difficult to pass — very difficult indeed — YES! I DON’T BELIEVE IT! HE’S SAVED IT!”

Relieved, Harry zoomed away, gazing around for the Snitch, but still making sure he caught every word of Lee’s commentary.

It was essential that he hold Malfoy off the Snitch until Gryffindor was more than fifty points up — “Gryffindor in possession, no, Slytherin in possession — no! — Gryffindor back in possession and it’s Katie Bell, Katie Bell for Gryffindor with the Quaffle, she’s streaking up the field — THAT WAS DELIBERATE!”

Montague, a Slytherin Chaser, had swerved in front of Katie, and instead of seizing the Quaffle had grabbed her head.

Katie cartwheeled in the air, managed to stay on her broom, but dropped the Quaffle.

Madam Hooch’s whistle rang out again as she soared over to Montague and began shouting at him.

A minute later, Katie had put another penalty past the Slytherin Keeper.

“THIRTY–ZERO! TAKE THAT, YOU DIRTY, CHEATING —” “Jordan, if you can’t commentate in an unbiased way — !”

“I’m telling it like it is, Professor!”

Harry felt a huge jolt of excitement.

He had seen the Snitch — it was shimmering at the foot of one of the Gryffindor goalposts — but he mustn’t catch it yet — and if Malfoy saw it — Faking a look of sudden concentration, Harry pulled his Firebolt around and sped off toward the Slytherin end — it worked.

Malfoy went haring after him, clearly thinking Harry had seen the Snitch there. . . .

WHOOSH.

One of the Bludgers came streaking past Harry’s right ear, hit by the gigantic Slytherin Beater, Derrick.

Then again — WHOOSH.

The second Bludger grazed Harry’s elbow.

The other Beater, Bole, was closing in.

Harry had a fleeting glimpse of Bole and Derrick zooming toward him, clubs raised — He turned the Firebolt upward at the last second, and Bole and Derrick collided with a sickening crunch.

“Ha haaa!” yelled Lee Jordan as the Slytherin Beaters lurched away from each other, clutching their heads.

“Too bad, boys!

You’ll need to get up earlier than that to beat a Firebolt!

And it’s Gryffindor in possession again, as Johnson takes the Quaffle — Flint alongside her — poke him in the eye, Angelina! — it was a joke, Professor, it was a joke — oh no — Flint in possession, Flint flying toward the Gryffindor goalposts, come on now, Wood, save — !”

But Flint had scored; there was an eruption of cheers from the Slytherin end, and Lee swore so badly that Professor McGonagall tried to tug the magical megaphone away from him.

“Sorry, Professor, sorry!

Won’t happen again!

So, Gryffindor in the lead, thirty points to ten, and Gryffindor in possession —” It was turning into the dirtiest game Harry had ever played in.

Enraged that Gryffindor had taken such an early lead, the Slytherins were rapidly resorting to any means to take the Quaffle.

Bole hit Alicia with his club and tried to say he’d thought she was a Bludger.

George Weasley elbowed Bole in the face in retaliation.

Madam Hooch awarded both teams penalties, and Wood pulled off another spectacular save, making the score forty–ten to Gryffindor.

The Snitch had disappeared again.

Malfoy was still keeping close to Harry as he soared over the match, looking around for it — once Gryffindor was fifty points ahead — Katie scored.

Fifty–ten.

Fred and George Weasley were swooping around her, clubs raised, in case any of the Slytherins were thinking of revenge.

Bole and Derrick took advantage of Fred’s and George’s absence to aim both Bludgers at Wood; they caught him in the stomach, one after the other, and he rolled over in the air, clutching his broom, completely winded.

Madam Hooch was beside herself.

“YOU DO NOT ATTACK THE KEEPER UNLESS THE QUAFFLE IS WITHIN THE SCORING AREA!” she shrieked at Bole and Derrick.

“Gryffindor penalty!”

And Angelina scored.

Sixty–ten.

Moments later, Fred Weasley pelted a Bludger at Warrington, knocking the Quaffle out of his hands; Alicia seized it and put it through the Slytherin goal — seventy–ten.

The Gryffindor crowd below was screaming itself hoarse — Gryffindor was sixty points in the lead, and if Harry caught the Snitch now, the Cup was theirs.

Harry could almost feel hundreds of eyes following him as he soared around the field, high above the rest of the game, with Malfoy speeding along behind him.

And then he saw it.

The Snitch was sparkling twenty feet above him.

Harry put on a huge burst of speed; the wind was roaring in his ears; he stretched out his hand, but suddenly, the Firebolt was slowing down — Horrified, he looked around.

Malfoy had thrown himself forward, grabbed hold of the Firebolt’s tail, and was pulling it back.

“You —” Harry was angry enough to hit Malfoy, but couldn’t reach — Malfoy was panting with the effort of holding onto the Firebolt, but his eyes were sparkling maliciously.

He had achieved what he’d wanted to do — the Snitch had disappeared again.

“Penalty!

Penalty to Gryffindor!

I’ve never seen such tactics!” Madam Hooch screeched, shooting up to where Malfoy was sliding back onto his Nimbus Two Thousand and One.

“YOU CHEATING SCUM!” Lee Jordan was howling into the megaphone, dancing out of Professor McGonagall’s reach.

“YOU FILTHY, CHEATING B —” Professor McGonagall didn’t even bother to tell him off.

She was actually shaking her finger in Malfoy’s direction, her hat had fallen off, and she too was shouting furiously.

Alicia took Gryffindor’s penalty, but she was so angry she missed by several feet.

The Gryffindor team was losing concentration and the Slytherins, delighted by Malfoy’s foul on Harry, were being spurred on to greater heights.

“Slytherin in possession, Slytherin heading for goal — Montague scores —” Lee groaned.

“Seventy–twenty to Gryffindor. . . .”

Harry was now marking Malfoy so closely their knees kept hitting each other.

Harry wasn’t going to let Malfoy anywhere near the Snitch. . . .

“Get out of it, Potter!” Malfoy yelled in frustration as he tried to turn and found Harry blocking him.

“Angelina Johnson gets the Quaffle for Gryffindor, come on, Angelina, COME ON!”

Harry looked around.

Every single Slytherin player apart from Malfoy was streaking up the pitch toward Angelina, including the Slytherin Keeper — they were all going to block her — Harry wheeled the Firebolt around, bent so low he was lying flat along the handle, and kicked it forward.

Like a bullet, he shot toward the Slytherins.

“AAAAAAARRRGH!”

They scattered as the Firebolt zoomed toward them; Angelina’s way was clear.

“SHE SCORES! SHE SCORES! Gryffindor leads by eighty points to twenty!”

Harry, who had almost pelted headlong into the stands, skidded to a halt in midair, reversed, and zoomed back into the middle of the field.

And then he saw something to make his heart stand still.

Malfoy was diving, a look of triumph on his face — there, a few feet above the grass below, was a tiny, golden glimmer — Harry urged the Firebolt downward, but Malfoy was miles ahead — “Go! Go! Go!” Harry urged his broom.

He was gaining on Malfoy — Harry flattened himself to the broom handle as Bole sent a Bludger at him — he was at Malfoy’s ankles — he was level — Harry threw himself forward, taking both hands off his broom.

He knocked Malfoy’s arm out of the way and — “YES!” He pulled out of his dive, his hand in the air, and the stadium exploded.

Harry soared above the crowd, an odd ringing in his ears.

The tiny golden ball was held tight in his fist, beating its wings hopelessly against his fingers.

Then Wood was speeding toward him, half-blinded by tears; he seized Harry around the neck and sobbed unrestrainedly into his shoulder.

Harry felt two large thumps as Fred and George hit them; then Angelina’s, Alicia’s, and Katie’s voices, “We’ve won the Cup! We’ve won the Cup!” Tangled together in a many-armed hug, the Gryffindor team sank, yelling hoarsely, back to earth.

Wave upon wave of crimson supporters was pouring over the barriers onto the field.

Hands were raining down on their backs.

Harry had a confused impression of noise and bodies pressing in on him.

Then he, and the rest of the team, were hoisted onto the shoulders of the crowd.

Thrust into the light, he saw Hagrid, plastered with crimson rosettes — “Yeh beat ’em, Harry, yeh beat ’em!

Wait till I tell Buckbeak!”

There was Percy, jumping up and down like a maniac, all dignity forgotten.

Professor McGonagall was sobbing harder even than Wood, wiping her eyes with an enormous Gryffindor flag; and there, fighting their way toward Harry, were Ron and Hermione.

Words failed them.

They simply beamed as Harry was borne toward the stands, where Dumbledore stood waiting with the enormous Quidditch Cup.

If only there had been a dementor around. . . .

As a sobbing Wood passed Harry the Cup, as he lifted it into the air, Harry felt he could have produced the world’s best Patronus.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐕𝐈. 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐍𝐄𝐘’𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

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Harry’s euphoria at finally winning the Quidditch Cup lasted at least a week.

Even the weather seemed to be celebrating; as June approached, the days became cloudless and sultry, and all anybody felt like doing was strolling onto the grounds and flopping down on the grass with several pints of iced pumpkin juice, perhaps playing a casual game of Gobstones or watching the giant squid propel itself dreamily across the surface of the lake.

But they couldn’t.

Exams were nearly upon them, and instead of lazing around outside, the students were forced to remain inside the castle, trying to bully their brains into concentrating while enticing wafts of summer air drifted in through the windows.

Even Fred and George Weasley had been spotted working; they were about to take their O.W.L.s (Ordinary Wizarding Levels).

Percy was getting ready to take his N.E.W.T.s (Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests), the highest qualification Hogwarts offered.

As Percy hoped to enter the Ministry of Magic, he needed top grades.

He was becoming increasingly edgy, and gave very severe punishments to anybody who disturbed the quiet of the common room in the evenings.

In fact, the only person who seemed more anxious than Percy was Hermione.

Harry and Ron had given up asking her how she was managing to attend several classes at once, but they couldn’t restrain themselves when they saw the exam schedule she had drawn up for herself.

The first column read: Monday 9 o’clock, Arithmancy 9 o’clock, Transfiguration Lunch 1 o’clock, Charms 1 o’clock, Ancient Runes “Hermione?” Ron said cautiously, because she was liable to explode when interrupted these days.

“Er — are you sure you’ve copied down these times right?”

“What?” snapped Hermione, picking up the exam schedule and examining it.

“Yes, of course I have.”

“Is there any point asking how you’re going to sit for two exams at once?” said Harry.

“No,” said Hermione shortly.

“Have either of you seen my copy of Numerology and Grammatica?”

“Oh, yeah, I borrowed it for a bit of bedtime reading,” said Ron, but very quietly.

Hermione started shifting heaps of parchment around on her table, looking for the book.

Just then, there was a rustle at the window and Hedwig fluttered through it, a note clutched tight in her beak.

“It’s from Hagrid,” said Harry, ripping the note open.

“Buckbeak’s appeal — it’s set for the sixth.”

“That’s the day we finish our exams,” said Hermione, still looking everywhere for her Arithmancy book.

“And they’re coming up here to do it,” said Harry, still reading from the letter.

“Someone from the Ministry of Magic and — and an executioner.”

Hermione looked up, startled.

“They’re bringing the executioner to the appeal! But that sounds as though they’ve already decided!”

“Yeah, it does,” said Harry slowly.

“They can’t!” Ron howled.

“I’ve spent ages reading up on stuff for him; they can’t just ignore it all!”

But Harry had a horrible feeling that the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures had had its mind made up for it by Mr. Malfoy.

Draco, who had been noticeably subdued since Gryffindor’s triumph in the Quidditch final, seemed to regain some of his old swagger over the next few days.

From sneering comments Harry overheard, Malfoy was certain Buckbeak was going to be killed, and seemed thoroughly pleased with himself for bringing it about.

It was all Harry could do to stop himself imitating Hermione and hitting Malfoy in the face on these occasions.

And the worst thing of all was that they had no time or opportunity to go and see Hagrid, because the strict new security measures had not been lifted, and Harry didn’t dare retrieve his Invisibility Cloak from below the one-eyed witch.

Exam week began and an unnatural hush fell over the castle.

The third years emerged from Transfiguration at lunchtime on Monday, limp and ashen-faced, comparing results and bemoaning the difficulty of the tasks they had been set, which had included turning a teapot into a tortoise.

Hermione irritated the rest by fussing about how her tortoise had looked more like a turtle, which was the least of everyone else’s worries.

“Mine still had a spout for a tail, what a nightmare. . . .”

“Were the tortoises supposed to breathe steam?”

“It still had a willow-patterned shell, d’you think that’ll count against me?”

Then, after a hasty lunch, it was straight back upstairs for the Charms exam.

Hermione had been right; Professor Flitwick did indeed test them on Cheering Charms.

Harry slightly overdid his out of nerves and Ron, who was partnering him, ended up in fits of hysterical laughter and had to be led away to a quiet room for an hour before he was ready to perform the charm himself.

After dinner, the students hurried back to their common rooms, not to relax, but to start studying for Care of Magical Creatures, Potions, and Astronomy.

Hagrid presided over the Care of Magical Creatures exam the following morning with a very preoccupied air indeed; his heart didn’t seem to be in it at all.

He had provided a large tub of fresh flobberworms for the class, and told them that to pass the test, their flobberworm had to still be alive at the end of one hour.

As flobberworms flourished best if left to their own devices, it was the easiest exam any of them had ever taken, and also gave Harry, Ron, and Hermione plenty of opportunity to speak to Hagrid.

“Beaky’s gettin’ a bit depressed,” Hagrid told them, bending low on the pretense of checking that Harry’s flobberworm was still alive.

“Bin cooped up too long. But still . . . we’ll know day after tomorrow — one way or the other —”

They had Potions that afternoon, which was an unqualified disaster.

Try as Harry might, he couldn’t get his Confusing Concoction to thicken, and Snape, standing watch with an air of vindictive pleasure, scribbled something that looked suspiciously like a zero onto his notes before moving away.

Then came Astronomy at midnight, up on the tallest tower; History of Magic on Wednesday morning, in which Harry scribbled everything Florean Fortescue had ever told him about medieval witch-hunts, while wishing he could have had one of Fortescue’s choco-nut sundaes with him in the stifling classroom.

Wednesday afternoon meant Herbology, in the greenhouses under a baking-hot sun; then back to the common room once more, with sunburnt necks, thinking longingly of this time next day, when it would all be over.

Their second to last exam, on Thursday morning, was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Professor Lupin had compiled the most unusual exam any of them had ever taken: a sort of obstacle course outside in the sun, where they had to wade across a deep paddling pool containing a grindylow, cross a series of potholes full of Red Caps, squish their way across a patch of marsh while ignoring misleading directions from a hinkypunk, then climb into an old trunk and battle with a new boggart.

“Excellent, Harry,” Lupin muttered as Harry climbed out of the trunk, grinning.

“Full marks.”

Flushed with his success, Harry hung around to watch Ron and Hermione.

Ron did very well until he reached the hinkypunk, which successfully confused him into sinking waist-high into the quagmire.

Hermione did everything perfectly until she reached the trunk with the boggart in it.

After about a minute inside it, she burst out again, screaming.

“Hermione!” said Lupin, startled.

“What’s the matter?”

“P-P-Professor McGonagall!” Hermione gasped, pointing into the trunk.

“Sh-she said I’d failed everything!”

It took a little while to calm Hermione down.

When at last she had regained a grip on herself, she, Harry, and Ron went back to the castle.

Ron was still slightly inclined to laugh at Hermione’s boggart, but an argument was averted by the sight that met them on the top of the steps.

Cornelius Fudge, sweating slightly in his pinstriped cloak, was standing there staring out at the grounds.

He started at the sight of Harry.

“Hello there, Harry!” he said.

“Just had an exam, I expect? Nearly finished?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

Hermione and Ron, not being on speaking terms with the Minister of Magic, hovered awkwardly in the background.

“Lovely day,” said Fudge, casting an eye over the lake.

“Pity . . . pity . . .”

He sighed deeply and looked down at Harry.

“I’m here on an unpleasant mission, Harry. The Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures required a witness to the execution of a mad hippogriff. As I needed to visit Hogwarts to check on the Black situation, I was asked to step in.”

“Does that mean the appeal’s already happened?” Ron interrupted, stepping forward.

“No, no, it’s scheduled for this afternoon,” said Fudge, looking curiously at Ron.

“Then you might not have to witness an execution at all!” said Ron stoutly.

“The hippogriff might get off!”

Before Fudge could answer, two wizards came through the castle doors behind him.

One was so ancient he appeared to be withering before their very eyes; the other was tall and strapping, with a thin black mustache.

Harry gathered that they were representatives of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, because the very old wizard squinted toward Hagrid’s cabin and said in a feeble voice, “Dear, dear, I’m getting too old for this. . . . Two o’clock, isn’t it, Fudge?”

The black-mustached man was fingering something in his belt; Harry looked and saw that he was running one broad thumb along the blade of a shining axe.

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione nudged him hard in the ribs and jerked her head toward the entrance hall.

“Why’d you stop me?” said Ron angrily as they entered the Great Hall for lunch.

“Did you see them? They’ve even got the axe ready! This isn’t justice!”

“Ron, your dad works for the Ministry, you can’t go saying things like that to his boss!” said Hermione, but she too looked very upset.

“As long as Hagrid keeps his head this time, and argues his case properly, they can’t possibly execute Buckbeak. . . .”

But Harry could tell Hermione didn’t really believe what she was saying.

All around them, people were talking excitedly as they ate their lunch, happily anticipating the end of the exams that afternoon, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione, lost in worry about Hagrid and Buckbeak, didn’t join in.

Harry’s and Ron’s last exam was Divination; Hermione’s, Muggle Studies.

They walked up the marble staircase together; Hermione left them on the first floor and Harry and Ron proceeded all the way up to the seventh, where many of their class were sitting on the spiral staircase to Professor Trelawney’s classroom, trying to cram in a bit of last-minute studying.

“She’s seeing us all separately,” Neville informed them as they went to sit down next to him.

He had his copy of Unfogging the Future open on his lap at the pages devoted to crystal gazing.

“Have either of you ever seen anything in a crystal ball?” he asked them unhappily.

“Nope,” said Ron in an offhand voice.

He kept checking his watch; Harry knew that he was counting down the time until Buckbeak’s appeal started.

The line of people outside the classroom shortened very slowly.

As each person climbed back down the silver ladder, the rest of the class hissed, “What did she ask? Was it okay?”

But they all refused to say.

“She says the crystal ball’s told her that if I tell you, I’ll have a horrible accident!” squeaked Neville as he clambered back down the ladder toward Harry and Ron, who had now reached the landing.

“That’s convenient,” snorted Ron.

“You know, I’m starting to think Hermione was right about her” — he jabbed his thumb toward the trapdoor overhead — “she’s a right old fraud.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, looking at his own watch.

It was now two o’clock.

“Wish she’d hurry up . . .”

Parvati came back down the ladder glowing with pride.

“She says I’ve got all the makings of a true Seer,” she informed Harry and Ron.

“I saw loads of stuff. . . . Well, good luck!”

She hurried off down the spiral staircase toward Lavender.

“Ronald Weasley,” said the familiar, misty voice from over their heads.

Ron grimaced at Harry and climbed the silver ladder out of sight.

Harry was now the only person left to be tested.

He settled himself on the floor with his back against the wall, listening to a fly buzzing in the sunny window, his mind across the grounds with Hagrid.

Finally, after about twenty minutes, Ron’s large feet reappeared on the ladder.

“How’d it go?” Harry asked him, standing up.

“Rubbish,” said Ron.

“Couldn’t see a thing, so I made some stuff up. Don’t think she was convinced, though. . . .”

“Meet you in the common room,” Harry muttered as Professor Trelawney’s voice called, “Harry Potter!”

The tower room was hotter than ever before; the curtains were closed, the fire was alight, and the usual sickly scent made Harry cough as he stumbled through the clutter of chairs and tables to where Professor Trelawney sat waiting for him before a large crystal ball.

“Good day, my dear,” she said softly.

“If you would kindly gaze into the Orb. . . . Take your time, now . . . then tell me what you see within it. . . .”

Harry bent over the crystal ball and stared, stared as hard as he could, willing it to show him something other than swirling white fog, but nothing happened.

“Well?” Professor Trelawney prompted delicately.

“What do you see?”

The heat was overpowering and his nostrils were stinging with the perfumed smoke wafting from the fire beside them.

He thought of what Ron had just said, and decided to pretend.

“Er —” said Harry, “a dark shape . . . um . . .”

“What does it resemble?” whispered Professor Trelawney.

“Think, now . . .”

Harry cast his mind around and it landed on Buckbeak.

“A hippogriff,” he said firmly.

“Indeed!” whispered Professor Trelawney, scribbling keenly on the parchment perched upon her knees.

“My boy, you may well be seeing the outcome of poor Hagrid’s trouble with the Ministry of Magic! Look closer. . . . Does the hippogriff appear to . . . have its head?”

“Yes,” said Harry firmly.

“Are you sure?” Professor Trelawney urged him.

“Are you quite sure, dear? You don’t see it writhing on the ground, perhaps, and a shadowy figure raising an axe behind it?”

“No!” said Harry, starting to feel slightly sick.

“No blood? No weeping Hagrid?”

“No!” said Harry again, wanting more than ever to leave the room and the heat.

“It looks fine, it’s — flying away. . . .”

Professor Trelawney sighed.

“Well, dear, I think we’ll leave it there. . . . A little disappointing . . . but I’m sure you did your best.”

Relieved, Harry got up, picked up his bag and turned to go, but then a loud, harsh voice spoke behind him.

“IT WILL HAPPEN TONIGHT.”

Harry wheeled around.

Professor Trelawney had gone rigid in her armchair; her eyes were unfocused and her mouth sagging.

“S-sorry?” said Harry.

But Professor Trelawney didn’t seem to hear him.

Her eyes started to roll.

Harry stood there in a panic.

She looked as though she was about to have some sort of seizure.

He hesitated, thinking of running to the hospital wing — and then Professor Trelawney spoke again, in the same harsh voice, quite unlike her own: “THE DARK LORD LIES ALONE AND FRIENDLESS, ABANDONED BY HIS FOLLOWERS. HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN CHAINED THESE TWELVE YEARS. TONIGHT, BEFORE MIDNIGHT . . . THE SERVANT WILL BREAK FREE AND SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER. THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN WITH HIS SERVANT’S AID, GREATER AND MORE TERRIBLE THAN EVER BEFORE. TONIGHT . . . BEFORE MIDNIGHT . . . THE SERVANT . . . WILL SET OUT . . . TO REJOIN . . . HIS MASTER. . . .”

Professor Trelawney’s head fell forward onto her chest.

She made a grunting sort of noise.

Then, quite suddenly, Professor Trelawney’s head snapped up again.

“I’m so sorry, dear boy,” she said dreamily, “the heat of the day, you know . . . I drifted off for a moment. . . .”

Harry stood there, still staring.

“Is there anything wrong, my dear?”

“You — you just told me that the — the Dark Lord’s going to rise again . . . that his servant’s going to go back to him. . . .”

Professor Trelawney looked thoroughly startled.

“The Dark Lord? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? My dear boy, that’s hardly something to joke about. . . . Rise again, indeed —”

“But you just said it! You said the Dark Lord —”

“I think you must have dozed off too, dear!” said Professor Trelawney.

“I would certainly not presume to predict anything quite as far-fetched as that!”

Harry climbed back down the ladder and the spiral staircase, wondering . . . had he just heard Professor Trelawney make a real prediction?

Or had that been her idea of an impressive end to the test?

Five minutes later he was dashing past the security trolls outside the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, Professor Trelawney’s words still resounding in his head.

People were striding past him in the opposite direction, laughing and joking, heading for the grounds and a bit of long-awaited freedom; by the time he had reached the portrait hole and entered the common room, it was almost deserted.

Over in the corner, however, sat Ron and Hermione.

“Professor Trelawney,” Harry panted, “just told me —”

But he stopped abruptly at the sight of their faces.

“Buckbeak lost,” said Ron weakly.

“Hagrid’s just sent this.”

Hagrid’s note was dry this time, no tears had splattered it, yet his hand seemed to have shaken so much as he wrote that it was hardly legible.

Lost appeal. They’re going to execute at sunset. Nothing you can do. Don’t come down. I don’t want you to see it. Hagrid

“We’ve got to go,” said Harry at once.

“He can’t just sit there on his own, waiting for the executioner!”

“Sunset, though,” said Ron, who was staring out the window in a glazed sort of way.

“We’d never be allowed . . . ’specially you, Harry. . . .”

Harry sank his head into his hands, thinking.

“If we only had the Invisibility Cloak. . . .”

“Where is it?” said Hermione.

Harry told her about leaving it in the passageway under the one-eyed witch.

“. . . if Snape sees me anywhere near there again, I’m in serious trouble,” he finished.

“That’s true,” said Hermione, getting to her feet.

“If he sees you. . . . How do you open the witch’s hump again?”

“You — you tap it and say, ‘Dissendium,’” said Harry.

“But —” Hermione didn’t wait for the rest of his sentence; she strode across the room, pushed open the Fat Lady’s portrait and vanished from sight.

“She hasn’t gone to get it?” Ron said, staring after her.

She had.

Hermione returned a quarter of an hour later with the silvery Cloak folded carefully under her robes.

“Hermione, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately!” said Ron, astounded.

“First you hit Malfoy, then you walk out on Professor Trelawney —”

Hermione looked rather flattered.

They went down to dinner with everybody else, but did not return to Gryffindor Tower afterward.

Harry had the Cloak hidden down the front of his robes; he had to keep his arms folded to hide the lump.

They skulked in an empty chamber off the entrance hall, listening, until they were sure it was deserted.

They heard a last pair of people hurrying across the hall and a door slamming.

Hermione poked her head around the door.

“Okay,” she whispered, “no one there — Cloak on —”

Walking very close together so that nobody would see them, they crossed the hall on tiptoe beneath the Cloak, then walked down the stone front steps into the grounds.

The sun was already sinking behind the Forbidden Forest, gilding the top branches of the trees.

They reached Hagrid’s cabin and knocked.

He was a minute in answering, and when he did, he looked all around for his visitor, pale-faced and trembling.

“It’s us,” Harry hissed.

“We’re wearing the Invisibility Cloak. Let us in and we can take it off.”

“Yeh shouldn’ve come!” Hagrid whispered, but he stood back, and they stepped inside.

Hagrid shut the door quickly and Harry pulled off the Cloak.

Hagrid was not crying, nor did he throw himself upon their necks.

He looked like a man who did not know where he was or what to do.

This helplessness was worse to watch than tears.

“Wan’ some tea?” he said.

His great hands were shaking as he reached for the kettle.

“Where’s Buckbeak, Hagrid?” said Hermione hesitantly.

“I — I took him outside,” said Hagrid, spilling milk all over the table as he filled up the jug.

“He’s tethered in me pumpkin patch. Thought he oughta see the trees an’ — an’ smell fresh air — before —”

Hagrid’s hand trembled so violently that the milk jug slipped from his grasp and shattered all over the floor.

“I’ll do it, Hagrid,” said Hermione quickly, hurrying over and starting to clean up the mess.

“There’s another one in the cupboard,” Hagrid said, sitting down and wiping his forehead on his sleeve.

Harry glanced at Ron, who looked back hopelessly.

“Isn’t there anything anyone can do, Hagrid?” Harry asked fiercely, sitting down next to him.

“Dumbledore —”

“He’s tried,” said Hagrid.

“He’s got no power ter overrule the Committee. He told ’em Buckbeak’s all right, but they’re scared. . . . Yeh know what Lucius Malfoy’s like . . . threatened ’em, I expect . . . an’ the executioner, Macnair, he’s an old pal o’ Malfoy’s . . . but it’ll be quick an’ clean . . . an’ I’ll be beside him. . . . ”

Hagrid swallowed.

His eyes were darting all over the cabin as though looking for some shred of hope or comfort.

“Dumbledore’s gonna come down while it — while it happens. Wrote me this mornin’. Said he wants ter — ter be with me. Great man, Dumbledore. . . .”

Hermione, who had been rummaging in Hagrid’s cupboard for another milk jug, let out a small, quickly stifled sob.

She straightened up with the new jug in her hands, fighting back tears.

“We’ll stay with you too, Hagrid,” she began, but Hagrid shook his shaggy head.

“Yeh’re ter go back up ter the castle. I told yeh, I don’ wan’ yeh watchin’. An’ yeh shouldn’ be down here anyway. . . . If Fudge an’ Dumbledore catch yeh out without permission, Harry, yeh’ll be in big trouble.”

Silent tears were now streaming down Hermione’s face, but she hid them from Hagrid, bustling around making tea.

Then, as she picked up the milk bottle to pour some into the jug, she let out a shriek.

“Ron! I — I don’t believe it — it’s Scabbers!”

Ron gaped at her.

“What are you talking about?”

Hermione carried the milk jug over to the table and turned it upside down.

With a frantic squeak, and much scrambling to get back inside, Scabbers the rat came sliding out onto the table.

“Scabbers!” said Ron blankly.

“Scabbers, what are you doing here?”

He grabbed the struggling rat and held him up to the light.

Scabbers looked dreadful.

He was thinner than ever; large tufts of hair had fallen out, leaving wide bald patches, and he writhed in Ron’s hands as though desperate to free himself.

“It’s okay, Scabbers!” said Ron.

“No cats! There’s nothing here to hurt you!”

Hagrid suddenly stood up, his eyes fixed on the window.

His normally ruddy face had gone the color of parchment.

“They’re comin’. . . .”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione whipped around.

A group of men was walking down the distant castle steps.

In front was Albus Dumbledore, his silver beard gleaming in the dying sun.

Next to him trotted Cornelius Fudge.

Behind them came the feeble old Committee member and the executioner, Macnair.

“Yeh gotta go,” said Hagrid.

Every inch of him was trembling.

“They mustn’ find yeh here. . . . Go now. . . .”

Ron stuffed Scabbers into his pocket and Hermione picked up the Cloak.

“I’ll let yeh out the back way,” said Hagrid.

They followed him to the door into his back garden.

Harry felt strangely unreal, and even more so when he saw Buckbeak a few yards away, tethered to a tree behind Hagrid’s pumpkin patch.

Buckbeak seemed to know something was happening.

He turned his sharp head from side to side and pawed the ground nervously.

“It’s okay, Beaky,” said Hagrid softly.

“It’s okay . . .”

He turned to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“Go on,” he said.

“Get goin’.”

But they didn’t move.

“Hagrid, we can’t —”

“We’ll tell them what really happened —”

“They can’t kill him —”

“Go!” said Hagrid fiercely.

“It’s bad enough without you lot in trouble an’ all!”

They had no choice.

As Hermione threw the Cloak over Harry and Ron, they heard voices at the front of the cabin.

Hagrid looked at the place where they had just vanished from sight.

“Go quick,” he said hoarsely.

“Don’ listen. . . .”

And he strode back into his cabin as someone knocked at the front door.

Slowly, in a kind of horrified trance, Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off silently around Hagrid’s house.

As they reached the other side, the front door closed with a sharp snap.

“Please, let’s hurry,” Hermione whispered.

“I can’t stand it, I can’t bear it. . . .”

They started up the sloping lawn toward the castle.

The sun was sinking fast now; the sky had turned to a clear, purple-tinged gray, but to the west there was a ruby-red glow.

Ron stopped dead.

“Oh, please, Ron,” Hermione began.

“It’s Scabbers — he won’t — stay put —”

Ron was bent over, trying to keep Scabbers in his pocket, but the rat was going berserk; squeaking madly, twisting and flailing, trying to sink his teeth into Ron’s hand.

“Scabbers, it’s me, you idiot, it’s Ron,” Ron hissed.

They heard a door open behind them and men’s voices.

“Oh, Ron, please let’s move, they’re going to do it!” Hermione breathed.

“Okay — Scabbers, stay put —”

They walked forward; Harry, like Hermione, was trying not to listen to the rumble of voices behind them.

Ron stopped again.

“I can’t hold him — Scabbers, shut up, everyone’ll hear us —”

The rat was squealing wildly, but not loudly enough to cover up the sounds drifting from Hagrid’s garden.

There was a jumble of indistinct male voices, a silence, and then, without warning, the unmistakable swish and thud of an axe.

Hermione swayed on the spot.

“They did it!” she whispered to Harry.

“I d-don’t believe it — they did it!”

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

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐂𝐀𝐓, 𝐑𝐀𝐓, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐆

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Harry’s mind had gone blank with shock.

The three of them stood transfixed with horror under the Invisibility Cloak.

The very last rays of the setting sun were casting a bloody light over the long-shadowed grounds.

Then, behind them, they heard a wild howling.

“Hagrid,” Harry muttered.

Without thinking about what he was doing, he made to turn back, but both Ron and Hermione seized his arms.

“We can’t,” said Ron, who was paper-white.

“He’ll be in worse trouble if they know we’ve been to see him. . . .”

Hermione’s breathing was shallow and uneven.

“How — could — they?” she choked.

“How could they?”

“Come on,” said Ron, whose teeth seemed to be chattering.

They set off back toward the castle, walking slowly to keep themselves hidden under the Cloak.

The light was fading fast now.

By the time they reached open ground, darkness was settling like a spell around them.

“Scabbers, keep still,” Ron hissed, clamping his hand over his chest.

The rat was wriggling madly.

Ron came to a sudden halt, trying to force Scabbers deeper into his pocket.

“What’s the matter with you, you stupid rat? Stay still — OUCH! He bit me!”

“Ron, be quiet!” Hermione whispered urgently.

“Fudge’ll be out here in a minute —”

“He won’t — stay — put —”

Scabbers was plainly terrified.

He was writhing with all his might, trying to break free of Ron’s grip.

“What’s the matter with him?”

But Harry had just seen — slinking toward them, his body low to the ground, wide yellow eyes glinting eerily in the darkness — Crookshanks.

Whether he could see them or was following the sound of Scabbers’s squeaks, Harry couldn’t tell.

“Crookshanks!” Hermione moaned.

“No, go away, Crookshanks! Go away!”

But the cat was getting nearer —

“Scabbers — NO!”

Too late — the rat had slipped between Ron’s clutching fingers, hit the ground, and scampered away.

In one bound, Crookshanks sprang after him, and before Harry or Hermione could stop him, Ron had thrown the Invisibility Cloak off himself and pelted away into the darkness.

“Ron!” Hermione moaned.

She and Harry looked at each other, then followed at a sprint; it was impossible to run full out under the Cloak; they pulled it off and it streamed behind them like a banner as they hurtled after Ron; they could hear his feet thundering along ahead and his shouts at Crookshanks.

“Get away from him — get away — Scabbers, come here —”

There was a loud thud.

“Gotcha! Get off, you stinking cat —”

Harry and Hermione almost fell over Ron; they skidded to a stop right in front of him.

He was sprawled on the ground, but Scabbers was back in his pocket; he had both hands held tight over the quivering lump.

“Ron — come on — back under the cloak —” Hermione panted.

“Dumbledore — the Minister — they’ll be coming back out in a minute —”

But before they could cover themselves again, before they could even catch their breath, they heard the soft pounding of gigantic paws. . . .

Something was bounding toward them out of the dark — an enormous, pale-eyed, jet-black dog.

Harry reached for his wand, but too late — the dog had made an enormous leap and the front paws hit him on the chest; he keeled over backward in a whirl of hair; he felt its hot breath, saw inch-long teeth —

But the force of its leap had carried it too far; it rolled off him.

Dazed, feeling as though his ribs were broken, Harry tried to stand up; he could hear it growling as it skidded around for a new attack.

Ron was on his feet.

As the dog sprang back toward them he pushed Harry aside; the dog’s jaws fastened instead around Ron’s outstretched arm.

Harry lunged forward, he seized a handful of the brute’s hair, but it was dragging Ron away as easily as though he were a rag doll —

Then, out of nowhere, something hit Harry so hard across the face he was knocked off his feet again.

He heard Hermione shriek with pain and fall too.

Harry groped for his wand, blinking blood out of his eyes —

“Lumos!” he whispered.

The wandlight showed him the trunk of a thick tree; they had chased Scabbers into the shadow of the Whomping Willow and its branches were creaking as though in a high wind, whipping backward and forward to stop them going nearer.

And there, at the base of the trunk, was the dog, dragging Ron backward into a large gap in the roots — Ron was fighting furiously, but his head and torso were slipping out of sight —

“Ron!” Harry shouted, trying to follow, but a heavy branch whipped lethally through the air and he was forced backward again.

All they could see now was one of Ron’s legs, which he had hooked around a root in an effort to stop the dog from pulling him farther underground — but a horrible crack cut the air like a gunshot; Ron’s leg had broken, and a moment later, his foot vanished from sight.

“Harry — we’ve got to go for help —” Hermione gasped; she was bleeding too; the Willow had cut her across the shoulder.

“No! That thing’s big enough to eat him; we haven’t got time —”

“We’re never going to get through without help —”

Another branch whipped down at them, twigs clenched like knuckles.

“If that dog can get in, we can,” Harry panted, darting here and there, trying to find a way through the vicious, swishing branches, but he couldn’t get an inch nearer to the tree roots without being in range of the tree’s blows.

“Oh, help, help,” Hermione whispered frantically, dancing uncertainly on the spot, “please . . .”

Crookshanks darted forward.

He slithered between the battering branches like a snake and placed his front paws upon a knot on the trunk.

Abruptly, as though the tree had been turned to marble, it stopped moving.

Not a leaf twitched or shook.

“Crookshanks!” Hermione whispered uncertainly.

She now grasped Harry’s arm painfully hard.

“How did he know — ?”

“He’s friends with that dog,” said Harry grimly.

“I’ve seen them together. Come on — and keep your wand out —”

They covered the distance to the trunk in seconds, but before they had reached the gap in the roots, Crookshanks had slid into it with a flick of his bottlebrush tail.

Harry went next; he crawled forward, headfirst, and slid down an earthy slope to the bottom of a very low tunnel.

Crookshanks was a little way along, his eyes flashing in the light from Harry’s wand.

Seconds later, Hermione slithered down beside him.

“Where’s Ron?” she whispered in a terrified voice.

“This way,” said Harry, setting off, bent-backed, after Crookshanks.

“Where does this tunnel come out?” Hermione asked breathlessly from behind him.

“I don’t know. . . . It’s marked on the Marauder’s Map but Fred and George said no one’s ever gotten into it. . . . It goes off the edge of the map, but it looked like it ends up in Hogsmeade. . . .”

They moved as fast as they could, bent almost double; ahead of them, Crookshanks’s tail bobbed in and out of view.

On and on went the passage; it felt at least as long as the one to Honeydukes. . . .

All Harry could think of was Ron and what the enormous dog might be doing to him. . . .

He was drawing breath in sharp, painful gasps, running at a crouch. . . .

And then the tunnel began to rise; moments later it twisted, and Crookshanks had gone.

Instead, Harry could see a patch of dim light through a small opening.

He and Hermione paused, gasping for breath, edging forward.

Both raised their wands to see what lay beyond.

It was a room, a very disordered, dusty room.

Paper was peeling from the walls; there were stains all over the floor; every piece of furniture was broken as though somebody had smashed it.

The windows were all boarded up.

Harry glanced at Hermione, who looked very frightened but nodded.

Harry pulled himself out of the hole, staring around.

The room was deserted, but a door to their right stood open, leading to a shadowy hallway.

Hermione suddenly grabbed Harry’s arm again.

Her wide eyes were traveling around the boarded windows.

“Harry,” she whispered, “I think we’re in the Shrieking Shack.”

Harry looked around.

His eyes fell on a wooden chair near them.

Large chunks had been torn out of it; one of the legs had been ripped off entirely.

“Ghosts didn’t do that,” he said slowly.

At that moment, there was a creak overhead.

Something had moved upstairs.

Both of them looked up at the ceiling.

Hermione’s grip on Harry’s arm was so tight he was losing feeling in his fingers.

He raised his eyebrows at her; she nodded again and let go.

Quietly as they could, they crept out into the hall and up the crumbling staircase.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust except the floor, where a wide shiny stripe had been made by something being dragged upstairs.

They reached the dark landing.

“Nox,” they whispered together, and the lights at the end of their wands went out.

Only one door was open.

As they crept toward it, they heard movement from behind it; a low moan, and then a deep, loud purring.

They exchanged a last look, a last nod.

Wand held tightly before him, Harry kicked the door wide open.

On a magnificent four-poster bed with dusty hangings lay Crookshanks, purring loudly at the sight of them.

On the floor beside him, clutching his leg, which stuck out at a strange angle, was Ron.

Harry and Hermione dashed across to him.

“Ron — are you okay?”

“Where’s the dog?”

“Not a dog,” Ron moaned.

His teeth were gritted with pain.

“Harry, it’s a trap —”

“What —”

“He’s the dog . . . he’s an Animagus. . . .”

Ron was staring over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry wheeled around.

With a snap, the man in the shadows closed the door behind them.

A mass of filthy, matted hair hung to his elbows.

If eyes hadn’t been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse.

The waxy skin was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looked like a skull.

His yellow teeth were bared in a grin.

It was Sirius Black.

“Expelliarmus!” he croaked, pointing Ron’s wand at them.

Harry’s and Hermione’s wands shot out of their hands, high in the air, and Black caught them.

Then he took a step closer.

His eyes were fixed on Harry.

“I thought you’d come and help your friend,” he said hoarsely.

His voice sounded as though he had long since lost the habit of using it.

“Your father would have done the same for me. Brave of you, not to run for a teacher. I’m grateful . . . it will make everything much easier. . . .”

The taunt about his father rang in Harry’s ears as though Black had bellowed it.

A boiling hate erupted in Harry’s chest, leaving no place for fear.

For the first time in his life, he wanted his wand back in his hand, not to defend himself, but to attack . . . to kill.

Without knowing what he was doing, he started forward, but there was a sudden movement on either side of him and two pairs of hands grabbed him and held him back. . . .

“No, Harry!” Hermione gasped in a petrified whisper; Ron, however, spoke to Black.

“If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!” he said fiercely, though the effort of standing upright was draining him of still more color, and he swayed slightly as he spoke.

Something flickered in Black’s shadowed eyes.

“Lie down,” he said quietly to Ron.

“You will damage that leg even more.”

“Did you hear me?” Ron said weakly, though he was clinging painfully to Harry to stay upright.

“You’ll have to kill all three of us!”

“There’ll be only one murder here tonight,” said Black, and his grin widened.

“Why’s that?” Harry spat, trying to wrench himself free of Ron and Hermione.

“Didn’t care last time, did you? Didn’t mind slaughtering all those Muggles to get at Pettigrew. . . . What’s the matter, gone soft in Azkaban?”

“Harry!” Hermione whimpered.

“Be quiet!”

“HE KILLED MY MUM AND DAD!” Harry roared, and with a huge effort he broke free of Hermione’s and Ron’s restraint and lunged forward —

He had forgotten about magic — he had forgotten that he was short and skinny and thirteen, whereas Black was a tall, full-grown man — all Harry knew was that he wanted to hurt Black as badly as he could and that he didn’t care how much he got hurt in return —

Perhaps it was the shock of Harry doing something so stupid, but Black didn’t raise the wands in time — one of Harry’s hands fastened over his wasted wrist, forcing the wand tips away; the knuckles of Harry’s other hand collided with the side of Black’s head and they fell, backward, into the wall —

Hermione was screaming; Ron was yelling; there was a blinding flash as the wands in Black’s hand sent a jet of sparks into the air that missed Harry’s face by inches; Harry felt the shrunken arm under his fingers twisting madly, but he clung on, his other hand punching every part of Black it could find.

But Black’s free hand had found Harry’s throat —

“No,” he hissed, “I’ve waited too long —”

The fingers tightened, Harry choked, his glasses askew.

Then he saw Hermione’s foot swing out of nowhere.

Black let go of Harry with a grunt of pain; Ron had thrown himself on Black’s wand hand and Harry heard a faint clatter —

He fought free of the tangle of bodies and saw his own wand rolling across the floor; he threw himself toward it but —

“Argh!”

Crookshanks had joined the fray; both sets of front claws had sunk themselves deep into Harry’s arm; Harry threw him off, but Crookshanks now darted toward Harry’s wand —

“NO YOU DON’T!” roared Harry, and he aimed a kick at Crookshanks that made the cat leap aside, spitting; Harry snatched up his wand and turned —

“Get out of the way!” he shouted at Ron and Hermione.

They didn’t need telling twice.

Hermione, gasping for breath, her lip bleeding, scrambled aside, snatching up her and Ron’s wands.

Ron crawled to the four-poster and collapsed onto it, panting, his white face now tinged with green, both hands clutching his broken leg.

Black was sprawled at the bottom of the wall.

His thin chest rose and fell rapidly as he watched Harry walking slowly nearer, his wand pointing straight at Black’s heart.

“Going to kill me, Harry?” he whispered.

Harry stopped right above him, his wand still pointing at Black’s chest, looking down at him.

A livid bruise was rising around Black’s left eye and his nose was bleeding.

“You killed my parents,” said Harry, his voice shaking slightly, but his wand hand quite steady.

Black stared up at him out of those sunken eyes.

“I don’t deny it,” he said very quietly.

“But if you knew the whole story —”

“The whole story?” Harry repeated, a furious pounding in his ears.

“You sold them to Voldemort. That’s all I need to know.”

“You’ve got to listen to me,” Black said, and there was a note of urgency in his voice now.

“You’ll regret it if you don’t. . . . You don’t understand. . . .”

“I understand a lot better than you think,” said Harry, and his voice shook more than ever.

“You never heard her, did you? My mum . . . trying to stop Voldemort killing me . . . and you did that . . . you did it. . . .”

Before either of them could say another word, something ginger streaked past Harry; Crookshanks leapt onto Black’s chest and settled himself there, right over Black’s heart.

Black blinked and looked down at the cat.

“Get off,” he murmured, trying to push Crookshanks off him.

But Crookshanks sank his claws into Black’s robes and wouldn’t shift.

He turned his ugly, squashed face to Harry and looked up at him with those great yellow eyes.

To his right, Hermione gave a dry sob.

Harry stared down at Black and Crookshanks, his grip tightening on the wand.

So what if he had to kill the cat too?

It was in league with Black. . . .

If it was prepared to die, trying to protect Black, that wasn’t Harry’s business. . . .

If Black wanted to save it, that only proved he cared more for Crookshanks than for Harry’s parents. . . .

Harry raised the wand.

Now was the moment to do it.

Now was the moment to avenge his mother and father.

He was going to kill Black.

He had to kill Black.

This was his chance. . . .

The seconds lengthened.

And still Harry stood frozen there, wand poised, Black staring up at him, Crookshanks on his chest.

Ron’s ragged breathing came from the bed; Hermione was quite silent.

And then came a new sound —

Muffled footsteps were echoing up through the floor — someone was moving downstairs.

“WE’RE UP HERE!” Hermione screamed suddenly.

“WE’RE UP HERE — SIRIUS BLACK — QUICK!”

Black made a startled movement that almost dislodged Crookshanks; Harry gripped his wand convulsively — Do it now! said a voice in his head — but the footsteps were thundering up the stairs and Harry still hadn’t done it.

The door of the room burst open in a shower of red sparks and Harry wheeled around as Professor Lupin came hurtling into the room, his face bloodless, his wand raised and ready.

His eyes flickered over Ron, lying on the floor, over Hermione, cowering next to the door, to Harry, standing there with his wand covering Black, and then to Black himself, crumpled and bleeding at Harry’s feet.

“Expelliarmus!” Lupin shouted.

Harry’s wand flew once more out of his hand; so did the two Hermione was holding.

Lupin caught them all deftly, then moved into the room, staring at Black, who still had Crookshanks lying protectively across his chest.

Harry stood there, feeling suddenly empty.

He hadn’t done it.

His nerve had failed him.

Black was going to be handed back to the dementors.

Then Lupin spoke in an odd voice, a voice that shook with some suppressed emotion.

“Where is he, Sirius?”

Harry looked quickly at Lupin.

He didn’t understand what Lupin meant.

Who was Lupin talking about?

He turned to look at Black again.

Black’s face was quite expressionless.

For a few seconds, he didn’t move at all.

Then, very slowly, he raised his empty hand and pointed straight at Ron.

Mystified, Harry glanced around at Ron, who looked bewildered.

“But then . . . ,” Lupin muttered, staring at Black so intently it seemed he was trying to read his mind, “. . . why hasn’t he shown himself before now? Unless” — Lupin’s eyes suddenly widened, as though he was seeing something beyond Black, something none of the rest could see — “unless he was the one . . . unless you switched . . . without telling me?”

Very slowly, his sunken gaze never leaving Lupin’s face, Black nodded.

“Professor,” Harry interrupted loudly, “what’s going on — ?”

But he never finished the question, because what he saw made his voice die in his throat.

Lupin was lowering his wand, gazing fixedly at Black.

The professor walked to Black’s side, seized his hand, pulled him to his feet so that Crookshanks fell to the floor, and embraced Black like a brother.

Harry felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.

“I DON’T BELIEVE IT!” Hermione screamed.

Lupin let go of Black and turned to her.

She had raised herself off the floor and was pointing at Lupin, wild-eyed.

“You — you —”

“Hermione —”

“— you and him!”

“Hermione, calm down —”

“I didn’t tell anyone!” Hermione shrieked.

“I’ve been covering up for you —”

“Hermione, listen to me, please!” Lupin shouted.

“I can explain —”

Harry could feel himself shaking, not with fear, but with a fresh wave of fury.

“I trusted you,” he shouted at Lupin, his voice wavering out of control, “and all the time you’ve been his friend!”

“You’re wrong,” said Lupin.

“I haven’t been Sirius’s friend, but I am now — Let me explain. . . .”

“NO!” Hermione screamed.

“Harry, don’t trust him, he’ve been helping Black get into the castle, he wants you dead too — he’s a werewolf!”

There was a ringing silence.

Everyone’s eyes were now on Lupin, who looked remarkably calm, though rather pale.

“Not at all up to your usual standard, Hermione,” he said.

“Only one out of three, I’m afraid. I have not been helping Sirius get into the castle and I certainly don’t want Harry dead. . . .”

An odd shiver passed over his face.

“But I won’t deny that I am a werewolf.”

Ron made a valiant effort to get up again but fell back with a whimper of pain.

Lupin made toward him, looking concerned, but Ron gasped, “Get away from me, werewolf!”

Lupin stopped dead.

Then, with an obvious effort, he turned to Hermione and said, “How long have you known?”

“Ages,” Hermione whispered.

“Since I did Professor Snape’s essay. . . .”

“He’ll be delighted,” said Lupin coolly.

“He assigned that essay hoping someone would realize what my symptoms meant. . . . Did you check the lunar chart and realize that I was always ill at the full moon? Or did you realize that the boggart changed into the moon when it saw me?”

“Both,” Hermione said quietly.

Lupin forced a laugh.

“You’re the cleverest witch of your age I’ve ever met, Hermione.”

“I’m not,” Hermione whispered.

“If I’d been a bit cleverer, I’d have told everyone what you are!”

“But they already know,” said Lupin.

“At least, the staff do.”

“Dumbledore hired you when he knew you were a werewolf?” Ron gasped.

“Is he mad?”

“Some of the staff thought so,” said Lupin.

“He had to work very hard to convince certain teachers that I’m trustworthy —”

“AND HE WAS WRONG!” Harry yelled.

“YOU’VE BEEN HELPING HIM ALL THE TIME!”

He was pointing at Black, who suddenly crossed to the four-poster bed and sank onto it, his face hidden in one shaking hand.

Crookshanks leapt up beside him and stepped onto his lap, purring.

Ron edged away from both of them, dragging his leg.

“I have not been helping Sirius,” said Lupin.

“If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll explain. Look —”

He separated Harry’s, Ron’s, and Hermione’s wands and threw each back to its owner; Harry caught his, stunned.

“There,” said Lupin, sticking his own wand back into his belt.

“You’re armed, we’re not. Now will you listen?”

Harry didn’t know what to think.

Was it a trick?

“If you haven’t been helping him,” he said, with a furious glance at Black, “how did you know he was here?”

“The map,” said Lupin.

“The Marauder’s Map. I was in my office examining it —”

“You know how to work it?” Harry said suspiciously.

“Of course I know how to work it,” said Lupin, waving his hand impatiently.

“I helped write it. I’m Moony — that was my friends’ nickname for me at school.”

“You wrote — ?”

“The important thing is, I was watching it carefully this evening, because I had an idea that you, Ron, and Hermione might try and sneak out of the castle to visit Hagrid before his hippogriff was executed. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

He had started to pace up and down, looking at them.

Little patches of dust rose at his feet.

“You might have been wearing your father’s old Cloak, Harry —”

“How d’you know about the Cloak?”

“The number of times I saw James disappearing under it . . . ,” said Lupin, waving an impatient hand again.

“The point is, even if you’re wearing an Invisibility Cloak, you still show up on the Marauder’s Map. I watched you cross the grounds and enter Hagrid’s hut. Twenty minutes later, you left Hagrid, and set off back toward the castle. But you were now accompanied by somebody else.”

“What?” said Harry.

“No, we weren’t!”

“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” said Lupin, still pacing, and ignoring Harry’s interruption.

“I thought the map must be malfunctioning. How could he be with you?”

“No one was with us!” said Harry.

“And then I saw another dot, moving fast toward you, labeled Sirius Black. . . . I saw him collide with you; I watched as he pulled two of you into the Whomping Willow —”

“One of us!” Ron said angrily.

“No, Ron,” said Lupin.

“Two of you.”

He had stopped his pacing, his eyes moving over Ron.

“Do you think I could have a look at the rat?” he said evenly.

“What?” said Ron.

“What’s Scabbers got to do with it?”

“Everything,” said Lupin.

“Could I see him, please?”

Ron hesitated, then put a hand inside his robes.

Scabbers emerged, thrashing desperately; Ron had to seize his long bald tail to stop him escaping.

Crookshanks stood up on Black’s leg and made a soft hissing noise.

Lupin moved closer to Ron.

He seemed to be holding his breath as he gazed intently at Scabbers.

“What?” Ron said again, holding Scabbers close to him, looking scared.

“What’s my rat got to do with anything?”

“That’s not a rat,” croaked Sirius Black suddenly.

“What d’you mean — of course he’s a rat —”

“No, he’s not,” said Lupin quietly.

“He’s a wizard.”

“An Animagus,” said Black, “by the name of Peter Pettigrew.”

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐘, 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋, 𝐏𝐀𝐃𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐒

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It took a few seconds for the absurdity of this statement to sink in.

Then Ron voiced what Harry was thinking.

“You’re both mental.”

“Ridiculous!” said Hermione faintly.

“Peter Pettigrew’s dead!” said Harry.

“He killed him twelve years ago!”

He pointed at Black, whose face twitched convulsively.

“I meant to,” he growled, his yellow teeth bared, “but little Peter got the better of me … not this time, though!”

And Crookshanks was thrown to the floor as Black lunged at Scabbers; Ron yelled with pain as Black’s weight fell on his broken leg.

“Sirius, NO!” Lupin yelled, launching himself forwards and dragging Black away from Ron again.

“WAIT! You can’t do it just like that — they need to understand — we’ve got to explain —”

“We can explain afterwards!” snarled Black, trying to throw Lupin off.

One hand was still clawing the air as it tried to reach Scabbers, who was squealing like a piglet, scratching Ron’s face and neck as he tried to escape.

“They’ve — got — a — right — to — know — everything!” Lupin panted, still trying to restrain Black.

“Ron’s kept him as a pet! There are parts of it even I don’t understand! And Harry — you owe Harry the truth, Sirius!”

Black stopped struggling, though his hollowed eyes were still fixed on Scabbers, who was clamped tightly under Ron’s bitten, scratched, and bleeding hands.

“All right, then,” Black said, without taking his eyes off the rat.

“Tell them whatever you like. But make it quick, Remus. I want to commit the murder I was imprisoned for. . . .”

“You’re nutters, both of you,” said Ron shakily, looking round at Harry and Hermione for support.

“I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.”

He tried to heave himself up on his good leg, but Lupin raised his wand again, pointing it at Scabbers.

“You’re going to hear me out, Ron,” he said quietly.

“Just keep a tight hold on Peter while you listen.”

“HE’S NOT PETER, HE’S SCABBERS!” Ron yelled, trying to force the rat back into his front pocket, but Scabbers was fighting too hard.

Ron swayed and overbalanced, and Harry caught him and pushed him back down to the bed.

Then, ignoring Black, Harry turned to Lupin.

“There were witnesses who saw Pettigrew die,” he said.

“A whole street full of them . . .”

“They didn’t see what they thought they saw!” said Black savagely, still watching Scabbers struggling in Ron’s hands.

“Everyone thought Sirius killed Peter,” said Lupin, nodding.

“I believed it myself — until I saw the map tonight. Because the Marauder’s Map never lies . . . Peter’s alive. Ron’s holding him, Harry.”

Harry looked down at Ron, and as their eyes met, they agreed, silently: Black and Lupin were both out of their minds.

Their story made no sense whatsoever.

How could Scabbers be Peter Pettigrew?

Azkaban must have unhinged Black after all — but why was Lupin playing along with him?

Then Hermione spoke, in a trembling, would-be calm sort of voice, as though trying to will Professor Lupin to talk sensibly.

“But Professor Lupin . . . Scabbers can’t be Pettigrew . . . it just can’t be true, you know it can’t . . .”

“Why can’t it be true?” Lupin said calmly, as though they were in class, and Hermione had simply spotted a problem in an experiment with grindylows.

“Because . . . because people would know if Peter Pettigrew had been an Animagus. We did Animagi in class with Professor McGonagall. And I looked them up when I did my homework — the Ministry of Magic keeps tabs on witches and wizards who can become animals; there’s a register showing what animal they become, and their markings and things . . . and I went and looked Professor McGonagall up on the register, and there have been only seven Animagi this century, and Pettigrew’s name wasn’t on the list —”

Harry had barely had time to marvel inwardly at the effort Hermione put into her homework, when Lupin started to laugh.

“Right again, Hermione!” he said.

“But the Ministry never knew that there used to be three unregistered Animagi running around Hogwarts.”

“If you’re going to tell them the story, get a move on, Remus,” snarled Black, who was still watching Scabbers’s every desperate move.

“I’ve waited twelve years, I’m not going to wait much longer.”

“All right . . . but you’ll need to help me, Sirius,” said Lupin, “I only know how it began . . .”

Lupin broke off.

There had been a loud creak behind him.

The bedroom door had opened of its own accord.

All five of them stared at it.

Then Lupin strode toward it and looked out into the landing.

“No one there . . .”

“This place is haunted!” said Ron.

“It’s not,” said Lupin, still looking at the door in a puzzled way.

“The Shrieking Shack was never haunted. . . . The screams and howls the villagers used to hear were made by me.”

He pushed his graying hair out of his eyes, thought for a moment, then said, “That’s where all of this starts — with my becoming a werewolf. None of this could have happened if I hadn’t been bitten . . . and if I hadn’t been so foolhardy. . . .”

He looked sober and tired.

Ron started to interrupt, but Hermione said, “Shh!”

She was watching Lupin very intently.

“I was a very small boy when I received the bite. My parents tried everything, but in those days there was no cure. The potion that Professor Snape has been making for me is a very recent discovery. It makes me safe, you see. As long as I take it in the week preceding the full moon, I keep my mind when I transform. . . . I am able to curl up in my office, a harmless wolf, and wait for the moon to wane again.

“Before the Wolfsbane Potion was discovered, however, I became a fully fledged monster once a month. It seemed impossible that I would be able to come to Hogwarts. Other parents weren’t likely to want their children exposed to me.

“But then Dumbledore became headmaster, and he was sympathetic. He said that as long as we took certain precautions, there was no reason I shouldn’t come to school. . . .”

Lupin sighed, and looked directly at Harry.

“I told you, months ago, that the Whomping Willow was planted the year I came to Hogwarts. The truth is that it was planted because I came to Hogwarts. This house” — Lupin looked miserably around the room — “the tunnel that leads to it — they were built for my use. Once a month, I was smuggled out of the castle, into this place, to transform. The tree was placed at the tunnel mouth to stop anyone coming across me while I was dangerous.”

Harry couldn’t see where this story was going, but he was listening raptly all the same.

The only sound apart from Lupin’s voice was Scabbers’s frightened squeaking.

“My transformations in those days were — were terrible. It is very painful to turn into a werewolf. I was separated from humans to bite, so I bit and scratched myself instead. The villagers heard the noise and the screaming and thought they were hearing particularly violent spirits. Dumbledore encouraged the rumor. . . . Even now, when the house has been silent for years, the villagers don’t dare approach it. . . .

“But apart from my transformations, I was happier than I had ever been in my life. For the first time ever, I had friends, three great friends. Sirius Black . . . Peter Pettigrew . . . and, of course, your father, Harry — James Potter.

“Now, my three friends could hardly fail to notice that I disappeared once a month. I made up all sorts of stories. I told them my mother was ill, and that I had to go home to see her. . . . I was terrified they would desert me the moment they found out what I was. But of course, they, like you, Hermione, worked out the truth. . . .

“And they didn’t desert me at all. Instead, they did something for me that would make my transformations not only bearable, but the best times of my life. They became Animagi.”

“My dad too?” said Harry, astounded.

“Yes, indeed,” said Lupin.

“It took them the best part of three years to work out how to do it. Your father and Sirius here were the cleverest students in the school, and lucky they were, because the Animagus transformation can go horribly wrong — one reason the Ministry keeps a close watch on those attempting to do it. Peter needed all the help he could get from James and Sirius. Finally, in our fifth year, they managed it. They could each turn into a different animal at will.”

“But how did that help you?” said Hermione, sounding puzzled.

“They couldn’t keep me company as humans, so they kept me company as animals,” said Lupin.

“A werewolf is only a danger to people. They sneaked out of the castle every month under James’s Invisibility Cloak. They transformed . . . Peter, as the smallest, could slip beneath the Willow’s attacking branches and touch the knot that freezes it. They would then slip down the tunnel and join me. Under their influence, I became less dangerous. My body was still wolfish, but my mind seemed to become less so while I was with them.”

“Hurry up, Remus,” snarled Black, who was still watching Scabbers with a horrible sort of hunger on his face.

“I’m getting there, Sirius, I’m getting there . . . well, highly exciting possibilities were open to us now that we could all transform. Soon we were leaving the Shrieking Shack and roaming the school grounds and the village by night. Sirius and James transformed into such large animals, they were able to keep a werewolf in check. I doubt whether any Hogwarts students ever found out more about the Hogwarts grounds and Hogsmeade than we did. . . . And that’s how we came to write the Marauder’s Map, and sign it with our nicknames. Sirius is Padfoot. Peter is Wormtail. James was Prongs.”

“What sort of animal — ?” Harry began, but Hermione cut him off.

“That was still really dangerous! Running around in the dark with a werewolf! What if you’d given the others the slip, and bitten somebody?”

“A thought that still haunts me,” said Lupin heavily.

“And there were near misses, many of them. We laughed about them afterwards. We were young, thoughtless — carried away with our own cleverness.

“I sometimes felt guilty about betraying Dumbledore’s trust, of course . . . he had admitted me to Hogwarts when no other headmaster would have done so, and he had no idea I was breaking the rules he had set down for my own and others’ safety. He never knew I had led three fellow students into becoming Animagi illegally. But I always managed to forget my guilty feelings every time we sat down to plan our next month’s adventure. And I haven’t changed. . . .”

Lupin’s face had hardened, and there was self-disgust in his voice.

“All this year, I have been battling with myself, wondering whether I should tell Dumbledore that Sirius was an Animagus. But I didn’t do it. Why? Because I was too cowardly. It would have meant admitting that I’d betrayed his trust while I was at school, admitting that I’d led others along with me . . . and Dumbledore’s trust has meant everything to me. He let me into Hogwarts as a boy, and he gave me a job when I have been shunned all my adult life, unable to find paid work because of what I am. And so I convinced myself that Sirius was getting into the school using Dark Arts he learned from Voldemort, that being an Animagus had nothing to do with it . . . so, in a way, Snape’s been right about me all along.”

“Snape?” said Black harshly, taking his eyes off Scabbers for the first time in minutes and looking up at Lupin.

“What’s Snape got to do with it?”

“He’s here, Sirius,” said Lupin heavily.

“He’s teaching here as well.”

He looked up at Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“Professor Snape was at school with us. He fought very hard against my appointment to the Defense Against the Dark Arts job. He has been telling Dumbledore all year that I am not to be trusted. He has his reasons . . . you see, Sirius here played a trick on him which nearly killed him, a trick which involved me —”

Black made a derisive noise.

“It served him right,” he sneered.

“Sneaking around, trying to find out what we were up to . . . hoping he could get us expelled. . . .”

“Severus was very interested in where I went every month,” Lupin told Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“We were in the same year, you know, and we — er — didn’t like each other very much. He especially disliked James. Jealous, I think, of James’s talent on the Quidditch field . . . anyway, Snape had seen me crossing the grounds with Madam Pomfrey one evening as she led me toward the Whomping Willow to transform. Sirius thought it would be — er — amusing, to tell Snape all he had to do was prod the knot on the tree trunk with a long stick, and he’d be able to get in after me. Well, of course, Snape tried it — if he’d got as far as this house, he’d have met a fully grown werewolf — but your father, who’d heard what Sirius had done, went after Snape and pulled him back, at great risk to his life . . . Snape glimpsed me, though, at the end of the tunnel. He was forbidden by Dumbledore to tell anybody, but from that time on he knew what I was. . . .”

“So that’s why Snape doesn’t like you,” said Harry slowly, “because he thought you were in on the joke?”

“That’s right,” sneered a cold voice from the wall behind Lupin.

Severus Snape was pulling off the Invisibility Cloak, his wand pointing directly at Lupin.