THE BOY WHO LIVED
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive,
were proud to say that they were perfectly normal,
thank you very much. They were the last people you’d
expect to be involved in anything strange or
mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such
nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called
Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy
man with hardly any neck, although he did have a
very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and
blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of
neck, which came in very useful as she spent so
much of her time craning over garden fences, spying
on the neighbors. The Dursley s had a small son
called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer
boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they
also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that
somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they
could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters.
Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t
 
met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended
she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her
good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it
was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think
what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in
the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a
small son, too, but they had never even seen him.
This boy was another good reason for keeping the
Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a
child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray
Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the
cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and
mysterious things would soon be happening all over
the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out
his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley
gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming
Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past
the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his
briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and
tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his
cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley
as he left the house. He got into his car and backed
out of number four’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the
first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a
map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what he
had seen — then he jerked his head around to look
again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner
of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What
could he have been thinking of? It must have been a
trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at
 
the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around
the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet
Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read
maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake
and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward
town he thought of nothing except a large order of
drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his
mind by something else. As he sat in the usual
morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people
about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear
people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups
you saw on young people! He supposed this was some
stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the
steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these
weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering
excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see
that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that
man had to be older than he was, and wearing an
emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it
struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly
stunt — these people were obviously collecting for
something ... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved
on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the
Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in
his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might
have found it harder to concentrate on drills that
morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in
broad daylight, though people down in the street did;
they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after
owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an
owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a
perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five
different people. He made several important telephone
 
calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good
mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch
his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a
bun from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he
passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed
them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but
they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering
excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting
tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a
large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words
of what they were saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard — ”
“ — yes, their son, Harry — ”
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He
looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say
something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his
office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him,
seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing
his home number when he changed his mind. He put
the receiver back down and stroked his mustache,
thinking ... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t
such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots
of people called Potter who had a son called Harry.
Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew
was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It
might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no
point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so
upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame
her — if he’d had a sister like that ... but all the
same, those people in cloaks ...
 
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that
afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock,
he was still so worried that he walked straight into
someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled
and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr.
Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost
knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split
into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that
made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir,
for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-
Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like
yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy
day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the
middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been
hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he
had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was
rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home,
hoping he was imagining things, which he had never
hoped before, because he didn’t approve of
imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the
first thing he saw — and it didn’t improve his mood —
was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was
now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the
same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look.
Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered.
Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the
 
house. He was still determined not to mention
anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told
him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems
with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new
word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally.
When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the
living room in time to catch the last report on the
evening news:
“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported
that the nation’s owls have been behaving very
unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at
night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have
been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in
every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to
explain why the owls have suddenly changed their
sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a
grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim
McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more
showers of owls tonight, Jim?”
“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about
that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting
oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire,
and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that
instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a
downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have
been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until
next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night
tonight.”
Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars
all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious
people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a
whisper about the Potters . . .
 
Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two
cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say
something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er
— Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister
lately, have you?”
As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and
angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t
have a sister.
“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”
“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled.
“Owls . . . shooting stars . . . and there were a lot of
funny-looking people in town today ...”
“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.
“Well, I just thought ... maybe ... it was something to
do with ... you know ... her crowd.”
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr.
Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he’d
heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare.
Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son —
he’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
“What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?”
“Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking
horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”
He didn’t say another word on the subject as they
went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the
bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window
 
and peered down into the front garden. The cat was
still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though
it were waiting for something.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have
anything to do with the Potters? If it did ... if it got out
that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t
think he could bear it.
The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep
quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over
in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell
asleep was that even if the Potters were involved,
there was no reason for them to come near him and
Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and
Petunia thought about them and their kind. ... He
couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up
in anything that might be going on — he yawned and
turned over — it couldn’t affect them. ...
How very wrong he was.
Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy
sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no
sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue,
its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet
Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door
slammed on the next street, nor when two owls
swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight
before the cat moved at all.
A man appeared on the corner the cat had been
watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d
have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The
cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet
Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the
silver of his hair and beard, which were both long
 
enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long
robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and
high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light,
bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles
and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it
had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was
Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had
just arrived in a street where everything from his
name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy
rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But
he did seem to realize he was being watched, because
he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still
staring at him from the other end of the street. For
some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse
him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have
known.”
He found what he was looking for in his inside
pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He
flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it.
The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He
clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into
darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer,
until the only lights left on the whole street were two
tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of
the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their
window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they
wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening
down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-
Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the
street toward number four, where he sat down on the
wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a
moment he spoke to it.
“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”
 
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone.
Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking
woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the
shape of the markings the cat had had around its
eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one.
Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She
looked distinctly ruffled.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”
“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all
day,” said Professor McGonagall.
“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I
must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my
way here.”
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said
impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful,
but no — even the Muggles have noticed something’s
going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head
back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I
heard it. Flocks of owls ... shooting stars. ... Well,
they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to
notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll
bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much
sense.”
“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently.
“We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven
years.”
“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably.
“But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are
being downright careless, out on the streets in broad
 
daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes,
swapping rumors.”
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore
here, as though hoping he was going to tell her
something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine
thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who
seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found
out about us all. I suppose he really has gone,
Dumbledore?”
“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have
much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon
drop?”
“A what?”
“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m
rather fond of.”
“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as
though she didn’t think this was the moment for
lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has
gone — ”
“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like
yourself can call him by his name? All this You-
Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have been
trying to persuade people to call him by his proper
name: Voldemort.” Professor McGonagall flinched, but
Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops,
seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we
keep saying You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any
reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s name.”
“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall,
sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re
different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-
Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”
 
“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort
had powers I will never have.”
“Only because you’re too — well — noble to use
them.”
“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since
Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.”
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at
Dumbledore and said, “The owls are nothing next to
the rumors that are flying around. You know what
everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared?
About what finally stopped him?”
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the
point she was most anxious to discuss, the real
reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all
day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she
fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she
did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was
saying, she was not going to believe it until
Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore,
however, was choosing another lemon drop and did
not answer.
“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last
night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He
went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and
James Potter are — are — that they’re — dead.”
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall
gasped.
“Lily and James ... I can’t believe it ... I didn’t want to
believe it ... Oh, Albus ...”
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the
shoulder. “I know ... I know ...” he said heavily.
 
Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went
on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the
Potters’ son, Harry. But — he couldn’t. He couldn’t
kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but
they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter,
Voldemort’s power somehow broke — and that’s why
he’s gone.”
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After
all he’s done ... all the people he’s killed ... he couldn’t
kill a little boy? It’s just astounding ... of all the
things to stop him . . . but how in the name of heaven
did Harry survive?”
“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may
never know.”
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief
and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles.
Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden
watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very
odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers;
instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It
must have made sense to Dumbledore, though,
because he put it back in his pocket and said,
“Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be
here, by the way?”
“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t
suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all
places?”
“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle.
They’re the only family he has left now.”
“You don’t mean — you can’t mean the people who
live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her
 
feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore — you
can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t
find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got
this son — I saw him kicking his mother all the way
up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter
come and live here!”
“It’s the best place for him,” said Dumbledore firmly.
“His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything
to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”
“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly,
sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbledore,
you think you can explain all this in a letter? These
people will never understand him! He’ll be famous —
a legend — I wouldn’t be surprised if today was
known as Harry Potter Day in the future — there will
be books written about Harry — every child in our
world will know his name!”
“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously
over the top of his half-moon glasses. “It would be
enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can
walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even
remember! Can’t you see how much better off he’ll be,
growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take
it?”
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her
mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re
right, of course. But how is the boy getting here,
Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though
she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.
“Hagrid’s bringing him.”
“You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with
something as important as this?”
 
“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore.
“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said
Professor McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t
pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to — what
was that?”
A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around
them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and
down the street for some sign of a headlight; it
swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky —
and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed
on the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man
sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a
normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked
simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long
tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his
face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his
feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In
his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of
blankets.
“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At
last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”
“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the
giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he
spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him,
sir.”
“No problems, were there?”
“No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him
out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’
around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.”
 
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward
over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a
baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair
over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped
cut, like a bolt of lightning.
“Is that where — ?” whispered Professor McGonagall.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Hell have that scar forever.”
“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy.
I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect
map of the London Underground. Well — give him
here, Hagrid — we’d better get this over with.”
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned
toward the Dursleys’ house.
“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked
Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry
and gave him what must have been a very scratchy,
whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl
like a wounded dog.
“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the
Muggles!”
“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted
handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-
can’t stand it — Lily an’ James dead — an’ poor little
Harry off ter live with Muggles — ”
“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself,
Hagrid, or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall
whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as
Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and
walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the
 
doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it
inside Harry’s blankets, and then came back to the
other two. For a full minute the three of them stood
and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders
shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and
the twinkling light that usually shone from
Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.
“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no
business staying here. We may as well go and join the
celebrations.”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best
get this bike away. G ’night, Professor McGonagall —
Professor Dumbledore, sir.”
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid
swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the
engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off
into the night.
“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,”
said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor
McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street.
On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-
Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light
sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive
glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a
tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end
of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets
on the step of number four.
“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his
heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which
lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last
 
place you would expect astonishing things to happen.
Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without
waking up. One small hand closed on the letter
beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was
special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he
would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs.
Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put
out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next
few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin
Dudley. ... He couldn’t know that at this very
moment, people meeting in secret all over the country
were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed
voices: “To Harry Potter — the boy who lived!”
 
THE VANASHIG GLASS
Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had
woken up to find their nephew on the front step, but
Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose
on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass
number four on the Dursleys’ front door; it crept into
their living room, which was almost exactly the same
as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had
seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the
photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how
much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been
lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach
ball wearing different-colored bonnets — but Dudley
Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the
photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first
bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer
game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his
mother. The room held no sign at all that another boy
lived in the house, too.
Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment,
but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it
 
was her shrill voice that made the first noise of the
day.
“Up! Get up! Now!”
Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door
again.
“Up!” she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward
the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan
being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back and
tried to remember the dream he had been having. It
had been a good one. There had been a flying
motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he’d had the
same dream before.
His aunt was back outside the door.
“Are you up yet?” she demanded.
“Nearly,” said Harry.
“Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the
bacon. And don’t you dare let it burn, I want
everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.”
Harry groaned.
“What did you say?” his aunt snapped through the
door.
“Nothing, nothing ...”
Dudley’s birthday — how could he have forgotten?
Harry got slowly out of bed and started looking for
socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after
pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry
was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the
stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept.
 
When he was dressed he went down the hall into the
kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all
Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as though
Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not
to mention the second television and the racing bike.
Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a
mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated
exercise — unless of course it involved punching
somebody. Dudley’s favorite punching bag was Harry,
but he couldn’t often catch him. Harry didn’t look it,
but he was very fast.
Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark
cupboard, but Harry had always been small and
skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and
skinnier than he really was because all he had to
wear were old clothes of Dudley’s, and Dudley was
about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin
face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green
eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot
of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had
punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked
about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his
forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He
had had it as long as he could remember, and the
first question he could ever remember asking his
Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.
“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had
said. “And don’t ask questions.”
Don’t ask questions — that was the first rule for a
quiet life with the Dursleys.
Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was
turning over the bacon.
“Comb your hair!” he barked, by way of a morning
greeting.
 
About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top
of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a
haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the
rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made
no difference, his hair simply grew that way — all over
the place.
Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in
the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like
Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not much
neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair
that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia
often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel —
Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a
wig.
Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table,
which was difficult as there wasn’t much room.
Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His
face fell.
“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and
father. “That’s two less than last year.”
“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present,
see, it’s here under this big one from Mommy and
Daddy.”
“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red
in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley
tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as
fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.
Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because
she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another two
presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin?
Two more presents. Is that all right?”
 
Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard
work. Finally he said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty ...
thirty ...”
“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia.
“Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the
nearest parcel. “All right then.”
Uncle Vernon chuckled.
“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his
father. ’Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair.
At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia
went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon
watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video
camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new
computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the
paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came
back from the telephone looking both angry and
worried.
“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs. Figg’s broken her
leg. She can’t take him.” She jerked her head in
Harry’s direction.
Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror, but Harry’s heart
gave a leap. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, his
parents took him and a friend out for the day, to
adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the
movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs.
Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away.
Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of
cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs
of all the cats she’d ever owned.
“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at
Harry as though he’d planned this. Harry knew he
 
ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her leg,
but it wasn’t easy when he reminded himself it would
be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbies,
Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again.
“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested.
“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy.”
The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as
though he wasn’t there — or rather, as though he was
something very nasty that couldn’t understand them,
like a slug.
“What about what’s-her-name, your friend —
Yvonne?”
“On vacation in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia.
“You could just leave me here,” Harry put in hopefully
(he’d be able to watch what he wanted on television
for a change and maybe even have a go on Dudley’s
computer) .
Aunt Petunia looked as though she’d just swallowed a
lemon.
“And come back and find the house in ruins?” she
snarled.
“I won’t blow up the house,” said Harry, but they
weren’t listening.
“I suppose we could take him to the zoo,” said Aunt
Petunia slowly, "... and leave him in the car. ...”
“That cars new, he’s not sitting in it alone. ...”
 
Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn’t really
crying — it had been years since he’d really cried —
but he knew that if he screwed up his face and
wailed, his mother would give him anything he
wanted.
“Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let him
spoil your special day!” she cried, flinging her arms
around him.
“I ... don’t ... want ... him ... t-t-to come!” Dudley
yelled between huge, pretend sobs. “He always sp-
spoils everything!” He shot Harry a nasty grin through
the gap in his mothers arms.
Just then, the doorbell rang — “Oh, good Lord,
they’re here!” said Aunt Petunia frantically — and a
moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss,
walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy
with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who
held people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley
hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.
Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn’t believe his
luck, was sitting in the back of the Dursleys’ car with
Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the first
time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn’t been able
to think of anything else to do with him, but before
they’d left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.
“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large
purple face right up close to Harry’s, “I’m warning you
now, boy — any funny business, anything at all —
and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until
Christmas.”
I’m not going to do anything,” said Harry, “honestly
 
But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe him. No one ever did.
The problem was, strange things often happened
around Harry and it was just no good telling the
Dursleys he didn’t make them happen.
Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from
the barbers looking as though he hadn’t been at all,
had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair
so short he was almost bald except for his bangs,
which she left “to hide that horrible scar.” Dudley had
laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless
night imagining school the next day, where he was
already laughed at for his baggy clothes and taped
glasses. Next morning, however, he had gotten up to
find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt
Petunia had sheared it off. He had been given a week
in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to
explain that he couldn’t explain how it had grown
back so quickly.
Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force
him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley’s (brown
with orange puff balls). The harder she tried to pull it
over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until
finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but
certainly wouldn’t fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided
it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great
relief, Harry wasn’t punished.
On the other hand, he’d gotten into terrible trouble
for being found on the roof of the school kitchens.
Dudley’s gang had been chasing him as usual when,
as much to Harry’s surprise as anyone else’s, there he
was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had
received a very angry letter from Harry’s headmistress
telling them Harry had been climbing school
buildings. But all he’d tried to do (as he shouted at
Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his
 
cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans
outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the
wind must have caught him in mid-jump.
But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even
worth being with Dudley and Piers to be spending the
day somewhere that wasn’t school, his cupboard, or
Mrs. Figg’s cabbage-smelling living room.
While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt
Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at
work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry
were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning,
it was motorcycles.
"... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums,”
he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.
“I had a dream about a motorcycle,” said Harry,
remembering suddenly. “It was flying.”
Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He
turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry,
his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache:
“MOTORCYCLES DONT FLY!”
Dudley and Piers sniggered.
“I know they don’t,” said Harry. “It was only a dream.”
But he wished he hadn’t said anything. If there was
one thing the Dursleys hated even more than his
asking questions, it was his talking about anything
acting in a way it shouldn’t, no matter if it was in a
dream or even a cartoon — they seemed to think he
might get dangerous ideas.
It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was
crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley
 
and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance
and then, because the smiling lady in the van had
asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry
him away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. It
wasn’t bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they
watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked
remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn’t blond.
Harry had the best morning he’d had in a long time.
He was careful to walk a little way apart from the
Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting
to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn’t
fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting him. They
ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a
tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn’t have
enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him
another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first.
Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it
was all too good to last.
After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool
and dark in there, with lit windows all along the
walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes
were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and
stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge,
poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons.
Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It
could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle
Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can — but at
the moment it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was
fast asleep.
Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass,
staring at the glistening brown coils.
“Make it move,” he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon
tapped on the glass, but the snake didn’t budge.
 
“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped
the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake
just snoozed on.
“This is boring,” Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.
Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently
at the snake. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it
had died of boredom itself — no company except
stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass
trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than
having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only
visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to
wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the
house.
The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly,
very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a
level with Harry’s.
It winked.
Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if
anyone was watching. They weren’t. He looked back
at the snake and winked, too.
The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and
Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave
Harry a look that said quite plainly:
“I get that all the time.”
“I know,” Harry murmured through the glass, though
he wasn’t sure the snake could hear him. “It must be
really annoying.”
The snake nodded vigorously.
“Where do you come from, anyway?” Harry asked.
 
The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the
glass. Harry peered at it.
Boa Constrictor, Brazil.
“Was it nice there?”
The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again
and Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the
zoo. “Oh, I see — so you’ve never been to Brazil?”
As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout
behind Harry made both of them jump. “DUDLEY!
MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE!
YOU WONT BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!”
Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he
could.
“Out of the way, you,” he said, punching Harry in the
ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the
concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no
one saw how it happened — one second, Piers and
Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the
next, they had leapt back with howls of horror.
Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa
constrictor’s tank had vanished. The great snake was
uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor.
People throughout the reptile house screamed and
started running for the exits.
As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have
sworn a low, hissing voice said, “Brazil, here I come.
... Thanksss, amigo.”
The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.
 
“But the glass,” he kept saying, “where did the glass
go?” "
The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of
strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over
again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as
Harry had seen, the snake hadn’t done anything
except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but
by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon’s car,
Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off
his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to
squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at
least, was Piers calming down enough to say, “Harry
was talking to it, weren’t you, Harry?”
Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the
house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he
could hardly speak. He managed to say, “Go —
cupboard — stay — no meals,” before he collapsed
into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get
him a large brandy.
Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing
he had a watch. He didn’t know what time it was and
he couldn’t be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet.
Until they were, he couldn’t risk sneaking to the
kitchen for some food.
He’d lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten
miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever
since he’d been a baby and his parents had died in
that car crash. He couldn’t remember being in the car
when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he
strained his memory during long hours in his
cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a
blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on his
forehead. This, he supposed, was the crash, though
he couldn’t imagine where all the green light came
from. He couldn’t remember his parents at all. His
 
aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of
course he was forbidden to ask questions. There were
no photographs of them in the house.
When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and
dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take
him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys
were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or
maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to
know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A
tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once
while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley.
After asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt
Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without
buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed
all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus.
A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually
shaken his hand in the street the other day and then
walked away without a word. The weirdest thing
about all these people was the way they seemed to
vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.
At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that
Dudley’s gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his
baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody
liked to disagree with Dudley’s gang.
 
3
THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE
The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned
Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he
was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer
holidays had started and Dudley had already broken
his new video camera, crashed his remote control
airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike,
knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet
Drive on her crutches.
Harry was glad school was over, but there was no
escaping Dudley’s gang, who visited the house every
single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were
all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and
stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of
them were all quite happy to join in Dudley’s favorite
sport: Harry Hunting.
This was why Harry spent as much time as possible
out of the house, wandering around and thinking
about the end of the holidays, where he could see a
tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be
going off to secondary school and, for the first time in
 
his life, he wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been
accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school,
Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry,
on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the
local public school. Dudley thought this was very
funny.
“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day
at Stonewall,” he told Harry. “Want to come upstairs
and practice?”
“No, thanks,” said Harry. “The poor toilet’s never had
anything as horrible as your head down it — it might
be sick.” Then he ran, before Dudley could work out
what he’d said.
One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London
to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs.
Figg’s. Mrs. Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out
she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and
she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She
let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of
chocolate cake that tasted as though she’d had it for
several years.
That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room
for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings
boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers,
and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried
knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the
teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be
good training for later life.
As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers,
Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest
moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and
said she couldn’t believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins,
he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn’t
 
trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs
might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.
k k k
There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next
morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed
to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He
went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked
like dirty rags swimming in gray water.
“What’s this?” he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips
tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a
question.
“Your new school uniform,” she said.
Harry looked in the bowl again.
“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize it had to be so wet.”
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Aunt Petunia. “I’m dyeing
some of Dudley’s old things gray for you. It’ll look just
like everyone else’s when I’ve finished.”
Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not
to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to
think about how he was going to look on his first day
at Stonewall High — like he was wearing bits of old
elephant skin, probably.
Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with
wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry’s new
uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as
usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which
he carried everywhere, on the table.
They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters
on the doormat.
 
“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from
behind his paper.
“Make Harry get it.”
“Get the mail, Harry.”
“Make Dudley get it.”
“Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”
Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the
mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard
from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was
vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope
that looked like a bill, and — a letter for Harry.
Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging
like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole
life, had written to him. Who would? He had no
friends, no other relatives — he didn’t belong to the
library, so he’d never even got rude notes asking for
books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so
plainly there could be no mistake:
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish
parchment, and the address was written in emerald-
green ink. There was no stamp.
 
Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry
saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion,
an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large
letter H.
“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the
kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter
bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.
Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his
letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the
postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the
yellow envelope.
Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust,
and flipped over the postcard.
“Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny
whelk ...”
“Dad!” said Dudley suddenly. “Dad, Harry’s got
something!”
Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which
was written on the same heavy parchment as the
envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand
by Uncle Vernon.
“That’s mine\” said Harry, trying to snatch it back.
“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon,
shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at
it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of
traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds
it was the grayish white of old porridge.
“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.
 
Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle
Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia
took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment
it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her
throat and made a choking noise.
“Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!”
They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten
that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley
wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his father a
sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.
“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly.
“I want to read it,” said Harry furiously, “as it’s mine.”
“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing
the letter back inside its envelope.
Harry didn’t move.
“I WANT MY LETTER!” he shouted.
“Let me see it!” demanded Dudley.
“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry
and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw
them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind
them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but
silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole;
Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one
ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack
between door and floor.
“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering
voice, “look at the address — how could they possibly
know where he sleeps? You don’t think they’re
watching the house?”
 
“Watching — spying — might be following us,”
muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.
“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write
back? Tell them we don’t want — ”
Harry could see Uncle Vernon’s shiny black shoes
pacing up and down the kitchen.
“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t
get an answer. ... Yes, that’s best ... we won’t do
anything. ...”
“But — ”
“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we
swear when we took him in we’d stamp out that
dangerous nonsense?”
That evening when he got back from work, Uncle
Vernon did something he’d never done before; he
visited Harry in his cupboard.
“Where’s my letter?” said Harry, the moment Uncle
Vernon had squeezed through the door. “Who’s
writing to me?”
“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said
Uncle Vernon shortly. “I have burned it.”
“It was not a mistake,” said Harry angrily, “it had my
cupboard on it.”
“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of
spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep
breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which
looked quite painful.
 
“Er — yes, Harry — about this cupboard. Your aunt
and I have been thinking ... you’re really getting a bit
big for it . . . we think it might be nice if you moved
into Dudley’s second bedroom.”
“Why?” said Harry.
“Don’t ask questions!” snapped his uncle. “Take this
stuff upstairs, now.”
The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors
(usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where
Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys
and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. It
only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything
he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat
down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly
everything in here was broken. The month-old video
camera was lying on top of a small, working tank
Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s
dog; in the corner was Dudley’s first-ever television
set, which he’d put his foot through when his favorite
program had been canceled; there was a large
birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley
had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was
up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley
had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They
were the only things in the room that looked as
though they’d never been touched.
From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling
at his mother, “I don’t want him in there ... I need
that room ... make him get out. ...”
Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday
he’d have given anything to be up here. Today he’d
rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than
up here without it.
 
Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet.
Dudley was in shock. He’d screamed, whacked his
father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose,
kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through
the greenhouse roof, and he still didn’t have his room
back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday
and bitterly wishing he’d opened the letter in the hall.
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each
other darkly.
When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to
be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get
it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting
stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted,
“There’s another one! ‘Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest
Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive — ’ ”
With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his
seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him.
Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to
get the letter from him, which was made difficult by
the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around
the neck from behind. After a minute of confused
fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the
Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up,
gasping for breath, with Harry’s letter clutched in his
hand.
“Go to your cupboard — I mean, your bedroom,” he
wheezed at Harry. “Dudley — go — just go.”
Harry walked round and round his new room.
Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and
they seemed to know he hadn’t received his first
letter. Surely that meant they’d try again? And this
time he’d make sure they didn’t fail. He had a plan.
The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next
morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed
 
silently. He mustn’t wake the Dursleys. He stole
downstairs without turning on any of the lights.
He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of
Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first.
His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall
toward the front door —
“AAAAARRRGH ! ”
Harry leapt into the air; he’d trodden on something
big and squashy on the doormat — something alive\
Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry
realized that the big, squashy something had been his
uncle’s face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot
of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making
sure that Harry didn’t do exactly what he’d been
trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an
hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea.
Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by
the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into
Uncle Vernon’s lap. Harry could see three letters
addressed in green ink.
“I want — ” he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing
the letters into pieces before his eyes.
Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at
home and nailed up the mail slot.
“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a
mouthful of nails, “if they can’t deliver them they’ll
just give up.”
“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.”
“Oh, these peoples minds work in strange ways,
Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” said Uncle
 
Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of
fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.
On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for
Harry. As they couldn’t go through the mail slot they
had been pushed under the door, slotted through the
sides, and a few even forced through the small
window in the downstairs bathroom.
Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all
the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and
boarded up the cracks around the front and back
doors so no one could go out. He hummed “Tiptoe
Through the Tulips” as he worked, and jumped at
small noises.
On Saturday, things began to get out of hand.
Twenty-four letters to Harry found their way into the
house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two
dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had
handed Aunt Petunia through the living room
window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone
calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find
someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the
letters in her food processor.
“Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?”
Dudley asked Harry in amazement.
•k k k
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the
breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.
“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully
as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, “no
damn letters today — ”
 
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney
as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of
the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came
pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys
ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch
one —
“Out! OUT!”
Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and
threw him into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and
Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces,
Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could
hear the letters still streaming into the room,
bouncing off the walls and floor.
“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak
calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at
the same time. “I want you all back here in five
minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack
some clothes. No arguments!”
He looked so dangerous with half his mustache
missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later
they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up
doors and were in the car, speeding toward the
highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his
father had hit him round the head for holding them
up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and
computer in his sports bag.
They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t
dare ask where they were going. Every now and then
Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in
the opposite direction for a while.
“Shake ’em off ... shake ’em off,” he would mutter
whenever he did this.
 
They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall
Dudley was howling. He’d never had such a bad day
in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television
programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so
long without blowing up an alien on his computer.
Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-
looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley
and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp,
musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake,
sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of
passing cars and wondering...
They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on
toast for breakfast the next day. They had just
finished when the owner of the hotel came over to
their table.
“ ’Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I
got about an ’undred of these at the front desk.”
She held up a letter so they could read the green ink
address:
Mr. H. Potter
Room 1 7
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth
Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon
knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared.
“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up
quickly and following her from the dining room.
•k k k
 
“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt
Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle
Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly what he was
looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into
the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook
his head, got back in the car, and off they went again.
The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed
field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the
top of a multilevel parking garage.
“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt
Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had
parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car,
and disappeared.
It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the
car. Dudley sniveled.
“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great
Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with
a television.”
Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was
Monday — and you could usually count on Dudley to
know the days of the week, because of television —
then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry’s eleventh
birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly
fun — last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat
hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks. Still,
you weren’t eleven every day.
Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was
also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer
Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought.
“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on!
Everyone out!”
 
It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was
pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at
sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most
miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing
was certain, there was no television in there.
“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon
gleefully, clapping his hands together. “And this
gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!”
A toothless old man came ambling up to them,
pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat
bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.
“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon,
“so all aboard!”
It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain
crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped
their faces. After what seemed like hours they
reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and
sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.
The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of
seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the
wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty.
There were only two rooms.
Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of chips
each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the
empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.
“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said
cheerfully.
He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought
nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a
storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though
the thought didn’t cheer him up at all.
 
As night fell, the promised storm blew up around
them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls
of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy
windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in
the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on
the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off
to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find
the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under
the thinnest, most ragged blanket.
The storm raged more and more ferociously as the
night went on. Harry couldn’t sleep. He shivered and
turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach
rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned
by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight.
The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which was
dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told
Harry he’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. He lay and
watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the
Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the
letter writer was now.
Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak
outside. He hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall in,
although he might be warmer if it did. Four minutes
to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so
full of letters when they got back that he’d be able to
steal one somehow.
Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard
on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what
was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock
crumbling into the sea?
One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds
... twenty ... ten ... nine — maybe he’d wake Dudley
up, just to annoy him — three ... two ... one ...
BOOM.
 
The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright,
staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking
to come in.
 
THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS
BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake.
“Where’s the cannon?” he said stupidly.
There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon
came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in
his hands — now they knew what had been in the
long, thin package he had brought with them.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. “I warn you — I’m armed!”
There was a pause. Then —
SMASH!
The door was hit with such force that it swung clean
off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat
on the floor.
A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His
face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy
mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could
 
make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under
all the hair.
The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so
that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down,
picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its
frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little.
He turned to look at them all.
“Couldn’t make us a cup o’ tea, could yeh? It’s not
been an easy journey. ...”
He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen
with fear.
“Budge up, yeh great lump,” said the stranger.
Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother,
who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.
“An’ here’s Harry!” said the giant.
Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face
and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.
“Las’ time I saw you, you was only a baby,” said the
giant. “Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer
mom’s eyes.”
Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.
“I demand that you leave at once, sir!” he said. “You
are breaking and entering!”
“Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune,” said the
giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the
gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot
as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw
it into a corner of the room.
 
Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a
mouse being trodden on.
“Anyway — Harry,” said the giant, turning his back
on the Dursleys, “a very happy birthday to yeh. Got
summat fer yeh here — I mighta sat on it at some
point, but it’ll taste all right.”
From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled
a slightly squashed box. Harry opened it with
trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate
cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green
icing.
Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank
you, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth,
and what he said instead was, “Who are you?”
The giant chuckled.
“True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid,
Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”
He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry’s
whole arm.
“What about that tea then, eh?” he said, rubbing his
hands together. “I’d not say no ter summat stronger if
yeh’ve got it, mind.”
His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled
chip bags in it and he snorted. He bent down over the
fireplace; they couldn’t see what he was doing but
when he drew back a second later, there was a
roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with
flickering light and Harry felt the warmth wash over
him as though he’d sunk into a hot bath.
 
The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged
under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things
out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a
squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot,
several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber
liquid that he took a swig from before starting to
make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and
smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while
the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat,
juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley
fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, “Don’t
touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”
The giant chuckled darkly.
“Yer great puddin’ of a son don’ need fattenin’
anymore, Dursley, don’ worry.”
He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry
he had never tasted anything so wonderful, but he
still couldn’t take his eyes off the giant. Finally, as
nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said,
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.”
The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand.
“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. An’ like I
told yeh, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts — yeh’ll
know all about Hogwarts, o’ course.”
“Er — no,” said Harry.
Hagrid looked shocked.
“Sorry,” Harry said quickly.
“Sorry?” barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the
Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. “It’s
 
them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren’t gettin’
yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn’t even
know abou’ Hogwarts, fer cryin’ out loud! Did yeh
never wonder where yer parents learned it all?”
“All what?” asked Harry.
“ALL WHAT?” Hagrid thundered. “Now wait jus’ one
second!”
He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill
the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against
the wall.
“Do you mean ter tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys,
“that this boy — this boy! — knows nothin’ abou’ —
about ANYTHING?”
Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to
school, after all, and his marks weren’t bad.
“I know some things,” he said. “I can, you know, do
math and stuff.”
But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About
our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents’
world.”
“What world?”
Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.
“DURSLEY!” he boomed.
Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered
something that sounded like “Mimblewimble.” Hagrid
stared wildly at Harry.
 
“But yeh must know about yer mom and dad,” he
said. “I mean, they’re famous. You’re famous.”
“What? My — my mom and dad weren’t famous, were
they?”
“Yeh don’ know ... yeh don’ know ...” Hagrid ran his
fingers through his hair, fixing Harry with a
bewildered stare.
“Yeh don’ know what yeh are?” he said finally.
Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.
“Stop!” he commanded. “Stop right there, sir! I forbid
you to tell the boy anything!”
A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have
quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave him;
when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with
rage.
“You never told him? Never told him what was in the
letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw
Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’ you’ve kept it from
him all these years?”
“Kept what from me?” said Harry eagerly.
“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.
Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.
“Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,” said Hagrid.
“Harry — yer a wizard.”
There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and
the whistling wind could be heard.
 
“I’m a what?” gasped Harry.
“A wizard, o’ course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down
on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, “an’
a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve been trained
up a bit. With a mum an’ dad like yours, what else
would yeh be? An’ I reckon it’s abou’ time yeh read
yer letter.”
Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the
yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Mr.
H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He
pulled out the letter and read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
o/WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sore., Chf.
Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of
Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been
accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary
books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no
later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
 
Questions exploded inside Harry’s head like fireworks
and he couldn’t decide which to ask first. After a few
minutes he stammered, “What does it mean, they
await my owl?”
“Gallopin’ Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid,
clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to
knock over a cart horse, and from yet another pocket
inside his overcoat he pulled an owl — a real, live,
rather ruffled-looking owl — a long quill, and a roll of
parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he
scribbled a note that Harry could read upside down:
Dear Professor Dumbledore,
Given Harry his letter.
Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.
Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well.
Hagrid
Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which
clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw
the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and
sat down as though this was as normal as talking on
the telephone.
Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it
quickly.
“Where was I?” said Hagrid, but at that moment,
Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very
angry, moved into the firelight.
“He’s not going,” he said.
Hagrid grunted.
 
“I’d like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him,” he
said.
“A what?” said Harry, interested.
“A Muggle,” said Hagrid, “it’s what we call nonmagic
folk like them. An’ it’s your bad luck you grew up in a
family o’ the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on.”
“We swore when we took him in we’d put a stop to
that rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp
it out of him! Wizard indeed!”
“You knew?” said Harry. “You knew I’m a — a
wizard?”
“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. “Knew\ Of
course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted
sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just
like that and disappeared off to that — that school —
and came home every vacation with her pockets full
of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the
only one who saw her for what she was — a freak!
But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this
and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in
the family!”
She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went
ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all
this for years.
“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and
got married and had you, and of course I knew you’d
be just the same, just as strange, just as — as —
abnormal — and then, if you please, she went and got
herself blown up and we got landed with you!”
 
Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his
voice he said, “Blown up? You told me they died in a
car crash!”
“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily
that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. “How
could a car crash kill Lily an’ James Potter? It’s an
outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin’ his own
story when every kid in our world knows his name!”
“But why? What happened?” Harry asked urgently.
The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked
suddenly anxious.
“I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried
voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there
might be trouble gettin’ hold of yeh, how much yeh
didn’t know. Ah, Harry, I don’ know if I’m the right
person ter tell yeh — but someone’s gotta — yeh can’t
go off ter Hogwarts not knowin’.”
He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.
“Well, it’s best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh —
mind, I can’t tell yeh everythin’, it’s a great myst’ry,
parts of it. ...”
He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds,
and then said, “It begins, I suppose, with — with a
person called — but it’s incredible yeh don’t know his
name, everyone in our world knows — ”
“Who?”
“Well — I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it. No
one does.”
“Why not?”
 
“Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared.
Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard
who went ... bad. As bad as you could go. Worse.
Worse than worse. His name was ...”
Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.
“Could you write it down?” Harry suggested.
“Nah — can’t spell it. All right — Voldemort.” Hagrid
shuddered. “Don’ make me say it again. Anyway, this
— this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started
lookin’ fer followers. Got ’em, too — some were afraid,
some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ’cause he was
gettin’ himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry.
Didn’t know who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly
with strange wizards or witches . . . terrible things
happened. He was takin’ over. ’Course, some stood up
to him — an’ he killed ’em. Horribly. One o’ the only
safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s
the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn’t dare
try takin’ the school, not jus’ then, anyway.
“Now, yer mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’
wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an’ girl at Hogwarts
in their day! Suppose the myst’ry is why You-Know-
Who never tried to get ’em on his side before . . .
probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter
want anythin’ ter do with the Dark Side.
“Maybe he thought he could persuade ’em ... maybe
he just wanted ’em outta the way. All anyone knows
is, he turned up in the village where you was all
living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a
year old. He came ter yer house an’ — an’ — ”
Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted
handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a
foghorn.
 
“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s that sad — knew yer mum
an’ dad, an’ nicer people yeh couldn’t find — anyway
“You-Know-Who killed ’em. An’ then — an’ this is the
real myst’ry of the thing — he tried to kill you, too.
Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or
maybe he just liked killin’ by then. But he couldn’t do
it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer
forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what yeh
get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh — took
care of yer mum an’ dad an’ yer house, even — but it
didn’t work on you, an’ that’s why yer famous, Harry.
No one ever lived after he decided ter kill ’em, no one
except you, an’ he’d killed some o’ the best witches
an’ wizards of the age — the McKinnons, the Bones,
the Prewetts — an’ you was only a baby, an’ you
lived.”
Something very painful was going on in Harry’s mind.
As Hagrid’s story came to a close, he saw again the
blinding flash of green light, more clearly than he had
ever remembered it before — and he remembered
something else, for the first time in his life: a high,
cold, cruel laugh.
Hagrid was watching him sadly.
“Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on
Dumbledore’s orders. Brought yeh ter this lot ...”
“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped;
he had almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there.
Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his
courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were
clenched.
“Now, you listen here, boy,” he snarled, “I accept
there’s something strange about you, probably
 
nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured — and as
for all this about your parents, well, they were
weirdos, no denying it, and the world’s better off
without them in my opinion — asked for all they got,
getting mixed up with these wizarding types — just
what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky
end — ”
But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and
drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat.
Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said,
“I’m warning you, Dursley — I’m warning you — one
more word ...”
In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella
by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon’s courage failed
again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell
silent.
“That’s better,” said Hagrid, breathing heavily and
sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged
right down to the floor.
Harry, meanwhile, still had questions to ask,
hundreds of them.
“But what happened to Vol-, sorry — I mean, You-
Know-Who?”
“Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same
night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more
famous. That’s the biggest myst’ry, see ... he was
gettin’ more an’ more powerful — why’d he go?
“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno
if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say
he’s still out there, bidin’ his time, like, but I don’
believe it. People who was on his side came back ter
 
ours. Some of ’em came outta kinda trances. Don’
reckon they could’ve done if he was cornin’ back.
“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but
lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ’Cause
somethin’ about you finished him, Harry. There was
somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on —
/ dunno what it was, no one does — but somethin’
about you stumped him, all right.”
Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect
blazing in his eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling
pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a
horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could he
possibly be? He’d spent his life being clouted by
Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle
Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn’t they
been turned into warty toads every time they’d tried
to lock him in his cupboard? If he’d once defeated the
greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had
always been able to kick him around like a football?
“Hagrid,” he said quietly, “I think you must have
made a mistake. I don’t think I can be a wizard.”
To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.
“Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when
you was scared or angry?”
Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think
about it . . . every odd thing that had ever made his
aunt and uncle furious with him had happened when
he, Harry, had been upset or angry ... chased by
Dudley’s gang, he had somehow found himself out of
their reach . . . dreading going to school with that
ridiculous haircut, he’d managed to make it grow
back . . . and the very last time Dudley had hit him,
 
hadn’t he got his revenge, without even realizing he
was doing it? Hadn’t he set a boa constrictor on him?
Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that
Hagrid was positively beaming at him.
“See?” said Hagrid. “Harry Potter, not a wizard — you
wait, you’ll be right famous at Hogwarts.”
But Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to give in without a
fight.
“Haven’t I told you he’s not going?” he hissed. “He’s
going to Stonewall High and he’ll be grateful for it. I’ve
read those letters and he needs all sorts of rubbish —
spell books and wands and — ”
“If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop
him,” growled Hagrid. “Stop Lily an’ James Potter’s
son goin’ ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name’s been
down ever since he was born. He’s off ter the finest
school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven
years there and he won’t know himself. He’ll be with
youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an’ he’ll be
under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had,
Albus Dumbled — ”
“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD
FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!” yelled Uncle
Vernon.
But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his
umbrella and whirled it over his head, “NEVER — ” he
thundered, “— INSULT — ALBUS — DUMBLEDORE
— IN — FRONT — OF — ME!”
He brought the umbrella swishing down through the
air to point at Dudley — there was a flash of violet
light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and
 
the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with
his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in
pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry saw a
curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.
Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and
Dudley into the other room, he cast one last terrified
look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.
Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his
beard.
“Shouldn’ta lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it
didn’t work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig,
but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there
wasn’t much left ter do.”
He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy
eyebrows.
“Be grateful if yeh didn’t mention that ter anyone at
Hogwarts,” he said. “I’m — er — not supposed ter do
magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed ter do a bit ter
follow yeh an’ get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff — one o’
the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job — ”
“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” asked Harry.
“Oh, well — I was at Hogwarts meself but I — er —
got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year.
They snapped me wand in half an’ everything. But
Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great
man, Dumbledore.”
“Why were you expelled?”
“It’s gettin’ late and we’ve got lots ter do tomorrow,”
said Hagrid loudly. “Gotta get up ter town, get all yer
books an’ that.”
 
He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Harry.
“You can kip under that,” he said. “Don’ mind if it
wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o’ dormice in
one o’ the pockets.”
 
DIAGON ALLY
Harry woke early the next morning. Although he
could tell it was daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight.
“It was a dream,” he told himself firmly. “I dreamed a
giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a
school for wizards. When I open my eyes I’ll be at
home in my cupboard.”
There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.
And there’s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door, Harry
thought, his heart sinking. But he still didn’t open his
eyes. It had been such a good dream.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“All right,” Harry mumbled, “I’m getting up.”
He sat up and Hagrid ’s heavy coat fell off him. The
hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid
himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there
 
was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a
newspaper held in its beak.
Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as
though a large balloon was swelling inside him. He
went straight to the window and jerked it open. The
owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of
Hagrid, who didn’t wake up. The owl then fluttered
onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid ’s coat.
“Don’t do that.”
Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it
snapped its beak fiercely at him and carried on
savaging the coat.
“Hagrid!” said Harry loudly. “There’s an owl — ”
“Pay him,” Hagrid grunted into the sofa.
“What?”
“He wants payin’ fer deliverin’ the paper. Look in the
pockets.”
Hagrid ’s coat seemed to be made of nothing but
pockets — bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of
string, peppermint humbugs, teabags ... finally, Harry
pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.
“Give him five Knuts,” said Hagrid sleepily.
“Knuts?”
“The little bronze ones.”
Harry counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl
held out his leg so Harry could put the money into a
 
small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off
through the open window.
Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.
“Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter
London an’ buy all yer stuff fer school.”
Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking
at them. He had just thought of something that made
him feel as though the happy balloon inside him had
got a puncture.
“Urn — Hagrid?”
“Mm?” said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge
boots.
“I haven’t got any money — and you heard Uncle
Vernon last night ... he won’t pay for me to go and
learn magic.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Hagrid, standing up
and scratching his head. “D’yeh think yer parents
didn’t leave yeh anything?”
“But if their house was destroyed — ”
“They didn’ keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah,
first stop fer us is Gringotts. Wizards’ bank. Have a
sausage, they’re not bad cold — an’ I wouldn’ say no
teh a bit o’ yer birthday cake, neither.”
“Wizards have banks?”
“Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins.”
Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding.
 
“Goblins?”
“Yeah — so yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it, I’ll tell yeh
that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the
safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter
keep safe — ’cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o’
fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway Fer Dumbledore.
Hogwarts business.” Hagrid drew himself up proudly.
“He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him.
Fetchin’ you — gettin’ things from Gringotts — knows
he can trust me, see.
“Got everythin’? Come on, then.”
Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was
quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight.
The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with
a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.
“How did you get here?” Harry asked, looking around
for another boat.
“Flew,” said Hagrid.
“Flew?”
“Yeah — but we’ll go back in this. Not s’pposed ter
use magic now I’ve got yeh.”
They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at
Hagrid, trying to imagine him flying.
“Seems a shame ter row, though,” said Hagrid, giving
Harry another of his sideways looks. “If I was ter — er
— speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not
mentionin’ it at Hogwarts?”
“Of course not,” said Harry, eager to see more magic.
Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it
 
twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward
land.
“Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?”
Harry asked.
“Spells — enchantments,” said Hagrid, unfolding his
newspaper as he spoke. “They say there’s dragons
guardin’ the high-security vaults. And then yeh gotta
find yer way — Gringotts is hundreds of miles under
London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh’d die
of hunger tryin’ ter get out, even if yeh did manage ter
get yer hands on summat.”
Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read
his newspaper, the Daily Prophet Harry had learned
from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be left alone
while they did this, but it was very difficult, he’d
never had so many questions in his life.
“Ministry o’ Magic messin’ things up as usual,” Hagrid
muttered, turning the page.
“There’s a Ministry of Magic?” Harry asked, before he
could stop himself.
“ ’Course,” said Hagrid. “They wanted Dumbledore fer
Minister, o’ course, but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so
old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler if ever there
was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every
morning, askin’ fer advice.”
“But what does a Ministry of Magic do?”
“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles
that there’s still witches an’ wizards up an’ down the
country.”
“Why?”
 
“Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone ’d be wantin’ magic
solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left
alone.”
At this moment the boat bumped gently into the
harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and
they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.
Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked
through the little town to the station. Harry couldn’t
blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as
anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary
things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See
that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?”
“Hagrid,” said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep
up, “did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?”
“Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a
dragon.”
“You’d like one?”
“Wanted one ever since I was a kid — here we go.”
They had reached the station. There was a train to
London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t
understand “Muggle money,” as he called it, gave the
bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets.
People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid
took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a
canary-yellow circus tent.
“Still got yer letter, Harry?” he asked as he counted
stitches.
Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.
 
“Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list there of everything
yeh need.”
Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t
noticed the night before, and read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
o/WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
1 . Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or
similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name
tags
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the
following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda
Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric
Switch
 
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida
Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt
Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin
Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE
NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS
“Can we buy all this in London?” Harry wondered
aloud.
“If yeh know where to go,” said Hagrid.
Harry had never been to London before. Although
Hagrid seemed to know where he was going, he was
obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary
way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the
Underground, and complained loudly that the seats
were too small and the trains too slow.
 
“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without
magic,” he said as they climbed a broken-down
escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with
shops.
Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily;
all Harry had to do was keep close behind him. They
passed book shops and music stores, hamburger
restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as
if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an
ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there
really be piles of wizard gold buried miles beneath
them? Were there really shops that sold spell books
and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge
joke that the Dursleys had cooked up? If Harry hadn’t
known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, he
might have thought so; yet somehow, even though
everything Hagrid had told him so far was
unbelievable, Harry couldn’t help trusting him.
“This is it,” said Hagrid, coming to a halt, “the Leaky
Cauldron. It’s a famous place.”
It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn’t
pointed it out, Harry wouldn’t have noticed it was
there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their
eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the
record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the
Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most
peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it.
Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered him
inside.
For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A
few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny
glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long
pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old
bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a
toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped
 
when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know
Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the
bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual,
Hagrid?”
“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid,
clapping his great hand on Harry’s shoulder and
making Harry’s knees buckle.
“Good Lord,” said the bartender, peering at Harry, “is
this — can this be — ?”
The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely
still and silent.
“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Harry
Potter ... what an honor.”
He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward
Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.
“Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking
at him. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it
without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was
beaming.
Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the
next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands
with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.
“Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting
you at last.”
“So proud, Mr. Potter, I’m just so proud.”
“Always wanted to shake your hand — I’m all of a
flutter.”
 
“Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can’t tell you, Diggle’s the
name, Dedalus Diggle.”
“I’ve seen you before!” said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle’s
top hat fell off in his excitement. “You bowed to me
once in a shop.”
“He remembers!” cried Dedalus Diggle, looking
around at everyone. “Did you hear that? He
remembers me!”
Harry shook hands again and again — Doris
Crockford kept coming back for more.
A pale young man made his way forward, very
nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.
“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Harry, Professor
Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”
“P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping
Harry’s hand, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to
meet you.”
“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?”
“D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered
Professor Quirrell, as though he’d rather not think
about it. “N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?”
He laughed nervously. “You’ll be g-getting all your
equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-
book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at
the very thought.
But the others wouldn’t let Professor Quirrell keep
Harry to himself. It took almost ten minutes to get
away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to make
himself heard over the babble.
 
“Must get on — lots ter buy. Come on, Harry.”
Doris Crockford shook Harry’s hand one last time,
and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a
small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but
a trash can and a few weeds.
Hagrid grinned at Harry.
“Told yeh, didn’t I? Told yeh you was famous. Even
Professor Quirrell was tremblin’ ter meet yeh — mind
you, he’s usually tremblin’.”
“Is he always that nervous?”
“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine
while he was studyin’ outta books but then he took a
year off ter get some firsthand experience. ... They say
he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a
nasty bit o’ trouble with a hag — never been the same
since. Scared of the students, scared of his own
subject — now, where’s me umbrella?”
Vampires? Hags? Harry’s head was swimming.
Hagrid, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall
above the trash can.
“Three up ... two across ...” he muttered. “Right,
stand back, Harry.”
He tapped the wall three times with the point of his
umbrella.
The brick he had touched quivered — it wriggled — in
the middle, a small hole appeared — it grew wider
and wider — a second later they were facing an
archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway
onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of
sight.
 
“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.”
He grinned at Harry’s amazement. They stepped
through the archway. Harry looked quickly over his
shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back
into solid wall.
The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons
outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons — All Sizes —
Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver — Self-Stirring —
Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.
“Yeah, you’ll be needin’ one,” said Hagrid, “but we
gotta get yer money first.”
Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He
turned his head in every direction as they walked up
the street, trying to look at everything at once: the
shops, the things outside them, the people doing their
shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary
was shaking her head as they passed, saying,
“Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad.”
A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign
saying Eeylops Owl Emporium — Tawny, Screech,
Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of about
Harry’s age had their noses pressed against a window
with broomsticks in it. “Look,” Harry heard one of
them say, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand — fastest
ever — ” There were shops selling robes, shops selling
telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had
never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of
bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell
books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles,
globes of the moon. ...
“Gringotts,” said Hagrid.
 
They had reached a snowy white building that
towered over the other little shops. Standing beside
its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of
scarlet and gold, was —
“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they
walked up the white stone steps toward him. The
goblin was about a head shorter than Harry. He had a
swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry
noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they
walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of
doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon
them:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
“Like I said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” said
Hagrid.
A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors
and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred
more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long
counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in
brass scales, examining precious stones through
eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count
 
leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were
showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry
made for the counter.
“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come
ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter’s safe.”
“You have his key, sir?”
“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started
emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a
handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblins book of
numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry
watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of
rubies as big as glowing coals.
“Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden
key.
The goblin looked at it closely.
“That seems to be in order.”
“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor
Dumbledore,” said Hagrid importantly, throwing out
his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault
seven hundred and thirteen.”
The goblin read the letter carefully.
“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid, “I will
have someone take you down to both vaults.
Griphook!”
Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had
crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets,
he and Harry followed Griphook toward one of the
doors leading off the hall.
 
“What’s the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred
and thirteen?” Harry asked.
“Can’t tell yeh that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very
secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore’s trusted me.
More’n my job’s worth ter tell yeh that.”
Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who
had expected more marble, was surprised. They were
in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming
torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were
little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled
and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward
them. They climbed in — Hagrid with some difficulty
— and were off.
At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting
passages. Harry tried to remember, left, right, right,
left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The
rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because
Griphook wasn’t steering.
Harry’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them,
but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw
a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted
around to see if it was a dragon, but too late — they
plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake
where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the
ceiling and floor.
“I never know,” Harry called to Hagrid over the noise
of the cart, “what’s the difference between a
stalagmite and a stalactite?”
“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Hagrid. “An’ don’
ask me questions just now, I think I’m gonna be
sick.”
 
He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at
last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid
got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his
knees from trembling.
Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke
came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped.
Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver.
Heaps of little bronze Knuts.
“All yours,” smiled Hagrid.
All Harry’s — it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t
have known about this or they’d have had it from him
faster than blinking. How often had they complained
how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time
there had been a small fortune belonging to him,
buried deep under London.
Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag.
“The gold ones are Galleons,” he explained.
“Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine
Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough. Right, that should
be enough fer a couple o’ terms, we’ll keep the rest
safe for yeh.” He turned to Griphook. “Vault seven
hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go
more slowly?”
“One speed only,” said Griphook.
They were going even deeper now and gathering
speed. The air became colder and colder as they
hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over
an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over the
side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom,
but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff
of his neck.
 
Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.
“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked
the door gently with one of his long fingers and it
simply melted away.
“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be
sucked through the door and trapped in there,” said
Griphook.
“How often do you check to see if anyone’s inside?”
Harry asked.
“About once every ten years,” said Griphook with a
rather nasty grin.
Something really extraordinary had to be inside this
top security vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned
forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at
the very least — but at first he thought it was empty.
Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up
in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up
and tucked it deep inside his coat. Harry longed to
know what it was, but knew better than to ask.
“Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don’t talk to
me on the way back, it’s best if I keep me mouth
shut,” said Hagrid.
One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the
sunlight outside Gringotts. Harry didn’t know where
to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He
didn’t have to know how many Galleons there were to
a pound to know that he was holding more money
than he’d had in his whole life — more money than
even Dudley had ever had.
 
“Might as well get yer uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding
toward Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.
“Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a
pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them
Gringotts carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Harry
entered Madam Malkin’s shop alone, feeling nervous.
Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all
in mauve.
“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Harry started to
speak. “Got the lot here — another young man being
fitted up just now, in fact.”
In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed
face was standing on a footstool while a second witch
pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood
Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over
his head, and began to pin it to the right length.
“Hello,” said the boy, “Hogwarts, too?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s
up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. He had
a bored, drawling voice. “Then I’m going to drag them
off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years
can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into
getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”
Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley.
“Have you got your own broom?” the boy went on.
“No,” said Harry.
“Play Quidditch at all?”
 
“No,” Harry said again, wondering what on earth
Quidditch could be.
“ I do — Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to
play for my House, and I must say, I agree. Know
what House you 11 be in yet?”
“No,” said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute.
“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do
they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family
have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d
leave, wouldn’t you?”
“Mmm,” said Harry, wishing he could say something a
bit more interesting.
“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly,
nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was
standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two
large ice creams to show he couldn’t come in.
“That’s Hagrid,” said Harry, pleased to know
something the boy didn’t. “He works at Hogwarts.”
“Oh,” said the boy, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of
servant, isn’t he?”
“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Harry. He was liking the
boy less and less every second.
“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage — lives in a
hut on the school grounds and every now and then he
gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire
to his bed.”
“I think he’s brilliant,” said Harry coldly.
 
“Do you?” said the boy, with a slight sneer. “Why is he
with you? Where are your parents?”
“They’re dead,” said Harry shortly. He didn’t feel
much like going into the matter with this boy.
“Oh, sorry,” said the other, not sounding sorry at all.
“But they were our kind, weren’t they?”
“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you
mean.”
“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in,
do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been
brought up to know our ways. Some of them have
never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter,
imagine. I think they should keep it in the old
wizarding families. What’s your surname, anyway?”
But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said,
“That’s you done, my dear,” and Harry, not sorry for
an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down
from the footstool.
“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said the
drawling boy.
Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid
had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with
chopped nuts).
“What’s up?” said Hagrid.
“Nothing,” Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment
and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a
bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When
they had left the shop, he said, “Hagrid, what’s
Quidditch?”
 
“Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin’ how little yeh know —
not knowin’ about Quidditch!”
“Don’t make me feel worse,” said Harry. He told
Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin’s.
“ — and he said people from Muggle families shouldn’t
even be allowed in — ”
“Yer not from a Muggle family. If he’d known who yeh
were — he’s grown up knowin’ yer name if his
parents are wizardin’ folk. You saw what everyone in
the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh.
Anyway, what does he know about it, some o’ the best
I ever saw were the only ones with magic in ’em in a
long line o’ Muggles — look at yer mum! Look what
she had fer a sister!”
“So what is Quidditch?”
“It’s our sport. Wizard sport. It’s like — like soccer in
the Muggle world — everyone follows Quidditch —
played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four
balls — sorta hard ter explain the rules.”
“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?”
“School Houses. There’s four. Everyone says
Hufflepuff are a lot o’ duffers, but — ”
“I bet I’m in Hufflepuff,” said Harry gloomily.
“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly.
“There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad
who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.”
“Vol-, sorry — You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?”
“Years an’ years ago,” said Hagrid.
 
They bought Harry’s school books in a shop called
Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to
the ceiling with books as large as paving stones
bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in
covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a
few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley,
who never read anything, would have been wild to get
his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to
drag Harry away from Curses and Counter-curses
(Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies
with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs,
Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor
Vindictus Viridian.
“I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley.”
“I’m not sayin’ that’s not a good idea, but yer not ter
use magic in the Muggle world except in very special
circumstances,” said Hagrid. “An’ anyway, yeh
couldn’ work any of them curses yet, yeh’ll need a lot
more study before yeh get ter that level.”
Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron,
either (“It says pewter on yer list”), but they got a nice
set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a
collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the
Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make
up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and
rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the
floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders
lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs,
and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While
Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a
supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry,
Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at
twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-
black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).
 
Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry’s list
again.
“Just yer wand left — oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got
yeh a birthday present.”
Harry felt himself go red.
“You don’t have to — ”
“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer
animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years
ago, yeh’d be laughed at — an’ I don’ like cats, they
make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an owl. All the kids want
owls, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’
everythin’.”
Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl
Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling
and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a
large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep
with her head under her wing. He couldn’t stop
stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor
Quirrell.
“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect
you’ve had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just
Ollivanders left now — only place fer wands,
Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand.”
A magic wand . . . this was what Harry had been really
looking forward to.
The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold
letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine
Wands since 382b. c. A single wand lay on a faded
purple cushion in the dusty window.
 
A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the
shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place,
empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid
sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had
entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new
questions that had just occurred to him and looked
instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly
right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of
his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here
seemed to tingle with some secret magic.
“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Harry jumped.
Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a
loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the
spindly chair.
An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale
eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the
shop.
“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly.
“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be
seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question.
“You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday
she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten
and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow.
Nice wand for charm work.”
Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished
he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.
“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany
wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and
excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father
favored it — it’s really the wand that chooses the
wizard, of course.”
 
Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry
were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself
reflected in those misty eyes.
“And that’s where ...”
Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s
forehead with a long, white finger.
“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said
softly. “Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful
wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands ... well,
if I’d known what that wand was going out into the
world to do. ...”
He shook his head and then, to Harry’s relief, spotted
Hagrid.
“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again.
... Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”
“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid.
“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it
in half when you got expelled?” said Mr. Ollivander,
suddenly stern.
“Er — yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his
feet. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he added
brightly.
“But you don’t use them?” said Mr. Ollivander
sharply.
“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he
gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.
“Hmmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a
piercing look. “Well, now — Mr. Potter. Let me see.”
 
He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings
out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”
“Er — well, I’m right-handed,” said Harry.
“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Harry
from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder
to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he
measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core
of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use
unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the
heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are
the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or
phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will
never get such good results with another wizard’s
wand.”
Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which
was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this
on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the
shelves, taking down boxes.
“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure
crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr.
Potter. Try this one. Beech-wood and dragon
heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take
it and give it a wave.”
Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it
around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his
hand almost at once.
“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite
whippy. Try — ”
Harry tried — but he had hardly raised the wand
when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.
 
“No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a
half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”
Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr.
Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands
was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair,
but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the
shelves, the happier he seemed to become.
“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, well find the
perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now —
yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and
phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”
Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his
fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it
swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of
red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework,
throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid
whooped and clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh,
bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well ...
how curious ... how very curious ...”
He put Harry’s wand back into its box and wrapped it
in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious . . . curious
“Sorry,” said Harry, “but what’s curious?”
Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.
“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter.
Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix
whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another
feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed
that you should be destined for this wand when its
brother — why, its brother gave you that scar.”
Harry swallowed.
 
“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed
how these things happen. The wand chooses the
wizard, remember. ... I think we must expect great
things from you, Mr. Potter. ... After all, He-Who-
Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes,
but great.”
Harry shivered. He wasn’t sure he liked Mr.
Ollivander too much. He paid seven gold Galleons for
his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his
shop.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry
and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley,
back through the wall, back through the Leaky
Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn’t speak at all as
they walked down the road; he didn’t even notice how
much people were gawking at them on the
Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-
shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its
cage on Harry’s lap. Up another escalator, out into
Paddington station; Harry only realized where they
were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder.
“Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves,” he
said.
He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on
plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around.
Everything looked so strange, somehow.
“You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet,” said Hagrid.
Harry wasn’t sure he could explain. He’d just had the
best birthday of his life — and yet — he chewed his
hamburger, trying to find the words.
“Everyone thinks I’m special,” he said at last. “All
those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor
 
Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander ... but I don’t know anything
about magic at all. How can they expect great things?
I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m
famous for. I don’t know what happened when Vol-,
sorry — I mean, the night my parents died.”
Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard
and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile.
“Don’ you worry, Harry. You’ll learn fast enough.
Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll
be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it’s hard. Yeh’ve
been singled out, an’ that’s always hard. But yeh’ll
have a great time at Hogwarts — I did — still do,
’smatter of fact.”
Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take
him back to the Dursleys, then handed him an
envelope.
“Yer ticket fer Hogwarts,” he said. “First o’ September
— King’s Cross — it’s all on yer ticket. Any problems
with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she’ll
know where to find me. ... See yeh soon, Harry.”
The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to
watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; he rose in his
seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he
blinked and Hagrid had gone.
 
THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM
NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS
Harry’s last month with the Dursleys wasn’t fun.
True, Dudley was now so scared of Harry he wouldn’t
stay in the same room, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle
Vernon didn’t shut Harry in his cupboard, force him
to do anything, or shout at him — in fact, they didn’t
speak to him at all. Half terrified, half furious, they
acted as though any chair with Harry in it were
empty. Although this was an improvement in many
ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while.
Harry kept to his room, with his new owl for
company. He had decided to call her Hedwig, a name
he had found in A History of Magic. His school books
were very interesting. He lay on his bed reading late
into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the
open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt
Petunia didn’t come in to vacuum anymore, because
Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night
before he went to sleep, Harry ticked off another day
 
on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall,
counting down to September the first.
On the last day of August he thought he’d better
speak to his aunt and uncle about getting to King’s
Cross station the next day, so he went down to the
living room where they were watching a quiz show on
television. He cleared his throat to let them know he
was there, and Dudley screamed and ran from the
room.
“Er — Uncle Vernon?”
Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening.
“Er — I need to be at King’s Cross tomorrow to — to
go to Hogwarts.”
Uncle Vernon grunted again.
“Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?”
Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes.
“Thank you.”
He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon
actually spoke.
“Funny way to get to a wizards’ school, the train.
Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?”
Harry didn’t say anything.
“Where is this school, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Harry, realizing this for the first
time. He pulled the ticket Hagrid had given him out of
his pocket.
 
“I just take the train from platform nine and three-
quarters at eleven o’clock,” he read.
His aunt and uncle stared.
“Platform what?”
“Nine and three-quarters.”
“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon. “There is no
platform nine and three-quarters.”
“It’s on my ticket.”
“Barking,” said Uncle Vernon, “howling mad, the lot of
them. You 11 see. You just wait. All right, we’ll take
you to King’s Cross. We’re going up to London
tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn’t bother.”
“Why are you going to London?” Harry asked, trying
to keep things friendly.
“Taking Dudley to the hospital,” growled Uncle
Vernon. “Got to have that ruddy tail removed before
he goes to Smeltings.”
Harry woke at five o’clock the next morning and was
too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up
and pulled on his jeans because he didn’t want to
walk into the station in his wizard’s robes — he’d
change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet
again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw
that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then
paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up.
Two hours later, Harry’s huge, heavy trunk had been
loaded into the Dursleys’ car, Aunt Petunia had
talked Dudley into sitting next to Harry, and they had
set off.
 
They reached King’s Cross at half past ten. Uncle
Vernon dumped Harry’s trunk onto a cart and
wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this
was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead,
facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face.
“Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine — platform
ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the
middle, but they don’t seem to have built it yet, do
they?”
He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic
number nine over one platform and a big plastic
number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle,
nothing at all.
“Have a good term,” said Uncle Vernon with an even
nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry
turned and saw the Dursleys drive away. All three of
them were laughing. Harry’s mouth went rather dry.
What on earth was he going to do? He was starting to
attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig. He’d
have to ask someone.
He stopped a passing guard, but didn’t dare mention
platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had
never heard of Hogwarts and when Harry couldn’t
even tell him what part of the country it was in, he
started to get annoyed, as though Harry was being
stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for
the train that left at eleven o’clock, but the guard said
there wasn’t one. In the end the guard strode away,
muttering about time wasters. Harry was now trying
hard not to panic. According to the large clock over
the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on
the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it;
he was stranded in the middle of a station with a
trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard
money, and a large owl.
 
Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you
had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to
get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he should get
out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector’s
stand between platforms nine and ten.
At that moment a group of people passed just behind
him and he caught a few words of what they were
saying.
“ — packed with Muggles, of course — ”
Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump
woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming
red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like
Harry’s in front of him — and they had an owl.
Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them.
They stopped and so did he, just near enough to hear
what they were saying.
“Now, what’s the platform number?” said the boys’
mother.
“Nine and three-quarters!” piped a small girl, also red-
headed, who was holding her hand, “Mom, can’t I go
“You’re not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right,
Percy, you go first.”
What looked like the oldest boy marched toward
platforms nine and ten. Harry watched, careful not to
blink in case he missed it — but just as the boy
reached the dividing barrier between the two
platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in
front of him and by the time the last backpack had
cleared away, the boy had vanished.
 
“Fred, you next,” the plump woman said.
“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly,
woman, you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell
I’m George?”
“Sorry, George, dear.”
“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he
went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he
must have done so, because a second later, he had
gone — but how had he done it?
Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the
barrier — he was almost there — and then, quite
suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere.
There was nothing else for it.
“Excuse me,” Harry said to the plump woman.
“Hello, dear,” she said. “First time at Hogwarts? Ron’s
new, too.”
She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He
was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands
and feet, and a long nose.
“Yes,” said Harry. “The thing is — the thing is, I don’t
know how to — ”
“How to get onto the platform?” she said kindly, and
Harry nodded.
“Not to worry,” she said. “All you have to do is walk
straight at the barrier between platforms nine and
ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into
it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if
you’re nervous. Go on, go now before Ron.”
 
“Er — okay,” said Harry.
He pushed his trolley around and stared at the
barrier. It looked very solid.
He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on
their way to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked
more quickly. He was going to smash right into that
barrier and then he’d be in trouble — leaning forward
on his cart, he broke into a heavy run — the barrier
was coming nearer and nearer — he wouldn’t be able
to stop — the cart was out of control — he was a foot
away — he closed his eyes ready for the crash —
It didn’t come ... he kept on running ... he opened his
eyes.
A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform
packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts
Express, eleven o’clock. Harry looked behind him and
saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had
been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-
Quarters on it. He had done it.
Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the
chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound
here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one
another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble
and the scraping of heavy trunks.
The first few carriages were already packed with
students, some hanging out of the window to talk to
their families, some fighting over seats. Harry pushed
his cart off down the platform in search of an empty
seat. He passed a round-faced boy who was saying,
“Gran, I’ve lost my toad again.”
“Oh, Neville,” he heard the old woman sigh.
 
A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small
crowd.
“Give us a look, Lee, go on.”
The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the
people around him shrieked and yelled as something
inside poked out a long, hairy leg.
Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found
an empty compartment near the end of the train. He
put Hedwig inside first and then started to shove and
heave his trunk toward the train door. He tried to lift
it up the steps but could hardly raise one end and
twice he dropped it painfully on his foot.
“Want a hand?” It was one of the red-haired twins
he’d followed through the barrier.
“Yes, please,” Harry panted.
“Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!”
With the twins’ help, Harry’s trunk was at last tucked
away in a corner of the compartment.
“Thanks,” said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of
his eyes.
“What’s that?” said one of the twins suddenly,
pointing at Harry’s lightning scar.
“Blimey,” said the other twin. “Are you — ?”
“He is,” said the first twin. “Aren’t you?” he added to
Harry.
“What?” said Harry.
 
“ Harry Potter,” chorused the twins.
“Oh, him,” said Harry. “I mean, yes, I am.”
The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself
turning red. Then, to his relief, a voice came floating
in through the train’s open door.
“Fred? George? Are you there?”
“Coming, Mom.”
With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the
train.
Harry sat down next to the window where, half
hidden, he could watch the red-haired family on the
platform and hear what they were saying. Their
mother had just taken out her handkerchief.
“Ron, you’ve got something on your nose.”
The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she
grabbed him and began rubbing the end of his nose.
“Mom — geroff.” He wriggled free.
“Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?”
said one of the twins.
“Shut up,” said Ron.
“Where’s Percy?” said their mother.
“He’s coming now.”
The oldest boy came striding into sight. He had
already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts
 
robes, and Harry noticed a shiny red and gold badge
on his chest with the letter P on it.
“Can’t stay long, Mother,” he said. “I’m up front, the
prefects have got two compartments to themselves — ”
“Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?” said one of the twins,
with an air of great surprise. “You should have said
something, we had no idea.”
“Hang on, I think I remember him saying something
about it,” said the other twin. “Once — ”
“Or twice — ”
“A minute — ”
“All summer — ”
“Oh, shut up,” said Percy the Prefect.
“How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?” said one
of the twins.
“Because he’s a prefect,” said their mother fondly. “All
right, dear, well, have a good term — send me an owl
when you get there.”
She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she
turned to the twins.
“Now, you two — this year, you behave yourselves. If I
get one more owl telling me you’ve — you’ve blown up
a toilet or — ”
“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet.”
“Great idea though, thanks, Mom.”
 
“It’s not funny. And look after Ron.”
“Don’t worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us.”
“Shut up,” said Ron again. He was almost as tall as
the twins already and his nose was still pink where
his mother had rubbed it.
“Hey, Mom, guess what? Guess who we just met on
the train?”
Harry leaned back quickly so they couldn’t see him
looking.
“You know that black-haired boy who was near us in
the station? Know who he is?”
“Who?”
“ Harry Potted”
Harry heard the little girl’s voice.
“Oh, Mom, can I go on the train and see him, Mom,
oh please. ...”
“You’ve already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy
isn’t something you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really,
Fred? How do you know?”
“Asked him. Saw his scar. It’s really there — like
lightning.”
“Poor dear — no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He
was ever so polite when he asked how to get onto the
platform.”
“Never mind that, do you think he remembers what
You-Know-Who looks like?”
 
Their mother suddenly became very stern.
“I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don’t you dare. As
though he needs reminding of that on his first day at
school.”
“All right, keep your hair on.”
A whistle sounded.
“Hurry up!” their mother said, and the three boys
clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the
window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their
younger sister began to cry.
“Don’t, Ginny, we’ll send you loads of owls.”
“Well send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.”
“ Georg e\”
“Only joking, Mom.”
The train began to move. Harry saw the boys’ mother
waving and their sister, half laughing, half crying,
running to keep up with the train until it gathered too
much speed, then she fell back and waved.
Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as
the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the
window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He
didn’t know what he was going to — but it had to be
better than what he was leaving behind.
The door of the compartment slid open and the
youngest redheaded boy came in.
“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat
opposite Harry. “Everywhere else is full.”
 
Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He
glanced at Harry and then looked quickly out of the
window, pretending he hadn’t looked. Harry saw he
still had a black mark on his nose.
“Hey, Ron.”
The twins were back.
“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train —
Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”
“Right,” mumbled Ron.
“Harry,” said the other twin, “did we introduce
ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron,
our brother. See you later, then.”
“Bye,” said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the
compartment door shut behind them.
“Are you really Harry Potter?” Ron blurted out.
Harry nodded.
“Oh — well, I thought it might be one of Fred and
George’s jokes,” said Ron. “And have you really got —
you know ...”
He pointed at Harry’s forehead.
Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning
scar. Ron stared.
“So that’s where You-Know-Who — ?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “but I can’t remember it.”
“Nothing?” said Ron eagerly.
 
“Well — I remember a lot of green light, but nothing
else.”
“Wow,” said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few
moments, then, as though he had suddenly realized
what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the
window again.
“Are all your family wizards?” asked Harry, who found
Ron just as interesting as Ron found him.
“Er — yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mom’s got a
second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk
about him.”
“So you must know loads of magic already.”
The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding
families the pale boy in Diagon Alley had talked
about.
“I heard you went to live with Muggles,” said Ron.
“What are they like?”
“Horrible — well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle
and cousin are, though. Wish I’d had three wizard
brothers.”
“Five,” said Ron. For some reason, he was looking
gloomy. “I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts.
You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and
Charlie have already left — Bill was head boy and
Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a
prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they
still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re
really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the
others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it
first. You never get anything new, either, with five
 
brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand,
and Percy’s old rat.”
Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat
gray rat, which was asleep.
“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever
wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being
made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff — I mean, I got
Scabbers instead.”
Ron’s ears went pink. He seemed to think he’d said
too much, because he went back to staring out of the
window.
Harry didn’t think there was anything wrong with not
being able to afford an owl. After all, he’d never had
any money in his life until a month ago, and he told
Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley’s old clothes
and never getting proper birthday presents. This
seemed to cheer Ron up.
"... and until Hagrid told me, I didn’t know anything
about being a wizard or about my parents or
Voldemort — ”
Ron gasped.
“What?” said Harry.
“ You said You-Know-Who’s name\” said Ron, sounding
both shocked and impressed. “I’d have thought you,
of all people — ”
“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the
name,” said Harry, “I just never knew you shouldn’t.
See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn. ... I bet,” he
added, voicing for the first time something that had
 
been worrying him a lot lately, “I bet I’m the worst in
the class.”
“You won’t be. There’s loads of people who come from
Muggle families and they learn quick enough.”
While they had been talking, the train had carried
them out of London. Now they were speeding past
fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a
time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.
Around half past twelve there was a great clattering
outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman
slid back their door and said, “Anything off the cart,
dears?”
Harry, who hadn’t had any breakfast, leapt to his feet,
but Ron’s ears went pink again and he muttered that
he’d brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the
corridor.
He had never had any money for candy with the
Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with
gold and silver he was ready to buy as many Mars
Bars as he could carry — but the woman didn’t have
Mars Bars. What she did have were Bertie Bott’s
Every Flavor Beans, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum,
Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes,
Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things
Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss
anything, he got some of everything and paid the
woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts.
Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the
compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat.
“Hungry, are you?”
 
“Starving,” said Harry, taking a large bite out of a
pumpkin pasty.
Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped
it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one
of them apart and said, “She always forgets I don’t
like corned beef.”
“Swap you for one of these,” said Harry, holding up a
pasty. “Go on — ”
“You don’t want this, it’s all dry,” said Ron. “She
hasn’t got much time,” he added quickly, “you know,
with five of us.”
“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry, who had never had
anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share
it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron,
eating their way through all Harry’s pasties, cakes,
and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten).
“What are these?” Harry asked Ron, holding up a
pack of Chocolate Frogs. “They’re not really frogs, are
they?” He was starting to feel that nothing would
surprise him.
“No,” said Ron. “But see what the card is. I’m missing
Agrippa.”
“What?”
“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know — Chocolate Frogs
have cards inside them, you know, to collect —
famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five
hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.”
Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up
the card. It showed a man’s face. He wore half-moon
glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver
 
hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture
was the name Albus Dumbledore.
“So this is Dumbledore!” said Harry.
“Don’t tell me you’d never heard of Dumbledore!” said
Ron. “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa — thanks
Harry turned over his card and read:
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS
Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern
times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his
defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the
discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his
work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel.
Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and ten
pin bowling.
Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his
astonishment, that Dumbledore ’s face had
disappeared.
“He’s gone!”
“Well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day,”
said Ron. “He’ll be back. No, I’ve got Morgana again
and I’ve got about six of her ... do you want it? You
can start collecting.”
Ron’s eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs
waiting to be unwrapped.
“Help yourself,” said Harry. “But in, you know, the
Muggle world, people just stay put in photos.”
 
“Do they? What, they don’t move at all?” Ron sounded
amazed. “Weird).”
Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the
picture on his card and gave him a small smile. Ron
was more interested in eating the frogs than looking
at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry
couldn’t keep his eyes off them. Soon he had not only
Dumbledore and Morgana, but Hengist of Woodcraft,
Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin. He
finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna,
who was scratching her nose, to open a bag of Bertie
Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.
“You want to be careful with those,” Ron warned
Harry. “When they say every flavor, they mean every
flavor — you know, you get all the ordinary ones like
chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then
you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George
reckons he had a booger-flavored one once.”
Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully,
and bit into a corner.
“Bleaaargh — see? Sprouts.”
They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans.
Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry,
curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave
enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron
wouldn’t touch, which turned out to be pepper.
The countryside now flying past the window was
becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there
were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills.
There was a knock on the door of their compartment
and the round-faced boy Harry had passed on
 
platform nine and three-quarters came in. He looked
tearful.
“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”
When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost
him! He keeps getting away from me!”
“Hell turn up,” said Harry.
“Yes,” said the boy miserably. “Well, if you see him ...”
He left.
“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” said Ron. “If I’d
brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind
you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.”
The rat was still snoozing on Ron’s lap.
“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the
difference,” said Ron in disgust. “I tried to turn him
yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but
the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look ...”
He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a
very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places
and something white was glinting at the end.
“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway — ”
He had just raised his wand when the compartment
door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but
this time he had a girl with him. She was already
wearing her new Hogwarts robes.
“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said.
She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown
hair, and rather large front teeth.
 
“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” said Ron,
but the girl wasn’t listening, she was looking at the
wand in his hand.
“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”
She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.
“Er — all right.”
He cleared his throat.
“ Sunshine , daisies, butter mellow,
Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.”
He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers
stayed gray and fast asleep.
“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl. “Well,
it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells
just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in
my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise
when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of
course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft
there is, I’ve heard — I’ve learned all our course books
by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough — I’m
Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?”
She said all this very fast.
Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his
stunned face that he hadn’t learned all the course
books by heart either.
“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered.
“Harry Potter,” said Harry.
 
“Are you really?” said Hermione. “I know all about
you, of course — I got a few extra books for
background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical
History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and
Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.”
“Am I?” said Harry, feeling dazed.
“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out
everything I could if it was me,” said Hermione. “Do
either of you know what House you’ll be in? I’ve been
asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds
by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it,
but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad. ...
Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad.
You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll
be there soon.”
And she left, taking the toadless boy with her.
“Whatever House I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” said
Ron. He threw his wand back into his trunk. “Stupid
spell — George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a
dud.”
“What House are your brothers in?” asked Harry.
“Gryffindor,” said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling
on him again. “Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don’t
know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose
Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put
me in Slytherin.”
“That’s the House Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was
in?”
“Yeah,” said Ron. He flopped back into his seat,
looking depressed.
 
“You know, I think the ends of Scabbers’ whiskers are
a bit lighter,” said Harry, trying to take Ron’s mind off
Houses. “So what do your oldest brothers do now that
they’ve left, anyway?”
Harry was wondering what a wizard did once he’d
finished school.
“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons, and Bill’s in
Africa doing something for Gringotts,” said Ron. “Did
you hear about Gringotts? It’s been all over the Daily
Prophet, but I don’t suppose you get that with the
Muggles — someone tried to rob a high security
vault.”
Harry stared.
“Really? What happened to them?”
“Nothing, that’s why it’s such big news. They haven’t
been caught. My dad says it must’ve been a powerful
Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they don’t
think they took anything, that’s what’s odd. ’Course,
everyone gets scared when something like this
happens in case You-Know-Who’s behind it.”
Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was
starting to get a prickle of fear every time You-Know-
Who was mentioned. He supposed this was all part of
entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more
comfortable saying “Voldemort” without worrying.
“What’s your Quidditch team?” Ron asked.
“Er — I don’t know any,” Harry confessed.
“What!” Ron looked dumbfounded. “Oh, you wait, it’s
the best game in the world — ” And he was off,
explaining all about the four balls and the positions of
 
the seven players, describing famous games he’d been
to with his brothers and the broomstick he’d like to
get if he had the money. He was just taking Harry
through the finer points of the game when the
compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn’t
Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this
time.
Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle
one at once: It was the pale boy from Madam Malkin’s
robe shop. He was looking at Harry with a lot more
interest than he’d shown back in Diagon Alley.
“Is it true?” he said. “They’re saying all down the train
that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is
it?”
“Yes,” said Harry. He was looking at the other boys.
Both of them were thickset and looked extremely
mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they
looked like bodyguards.
“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” said the pale
boy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking.
“And my names Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”
Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been
hiding a snigger. Draco Malfoy looked at him.
“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who
you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red
hair, freckles, and more children than they can
afford.”
He turned back to Harry. “You’ll soon find out some
wizarding families are much better than others,
Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the
wrong sort. I can help you there.”
 
He held out his hand to shake Harry’s, but Harry
didn’t take it.
“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself,
thanks,” he said coolly.
Draco Malfoy didn’t go red, but a pink tinge appeared
in his pale cheeks.
“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said slowly.
“Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as
your parents. They didn’t know what was good for
them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the
Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.”
Both Harry and Ron stood up.
“Say that again,” Ron said, his face as red as his hair.
“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy
sneered.
“Unless you get out now,” said Harry, more bravely
than he felt, because Crabbe and Goyle were a lot
bigger than him or Ron.
“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we, boys? We’ve
eaten all our food and you still seem to have some.”
Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to
Ron — Ron leapt forward, but before he’d so much as
touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell.
Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp
little teeth sunk deep into Goyle ’s knuckle — Crabbe
and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung Scabbers
round and round, howling, and when Scabbers finally
flew off and hit the window, all three of them
disappeared at once. Perhaps they thought there were
 
more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps
they’d heard footsteps, because a second later,
Hermione Granger had come in.
“What has been going on?” she said, looking at the
sweets all over the floor and Ron picking up Scabbers
by his tail.
“I think he’s been knocked out,” Ron said to Harry.
He looked closer at Scabbers. “No — I don’t believe it
— he’s gone back to sleep.”
And so he had.
“You’ve met Malfoy before?”
Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.
“I’ve heard of his family,” said Ron darkly. “They were
some of the first to come back to our side after You-
Know-Who disappeared. Said they’d been bewitched.
My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s father
didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” He
turned to Hermione. “Can we help you with
something?”
“You’d better hurry up and put your robes on, I’ve
just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he
says we’re nearly there. You haven’t been fighting,
have you? You’ll be in trouble before we even get
there!”
“Scabbers has been fighting, not us,” said Ron,
scowling at her. “Would you mind leaving while we
change?”
“All right — I only came in here because people
outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and
down the corridors,” said Hermione in a sniffy voice.
 
“And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you
know?”
Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the
window. It was getting dark. He could see mountains
and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did
seem to be slowing down.
He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their
long black robes. Ron’s were a bit short for him, you
could see his sneakers underneath them.
A voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching
Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your
luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school
separately.”
Harry’s stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he
saw, looked pale under his freckles. They crammed
their pockets with the last of the sweets and joined
the crowd thronging the corridor.
The train slowed right down and finally stopped.
People pushed their way toward the door and out on
to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold
night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads
of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice:
“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here! All right there,
Harry?”
Hagrid’s big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.
“C’mon, follow me — any more firs’ years? Mind yer
step, now! Firs’ years follow me!”
Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down
what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so
dark on either side of them that Harry thought there
must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much.
 
Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once
or twice.
“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid
called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”
There was a loud “Oooooh!”
The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge
of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain
on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry
sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.
“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, pointing to
a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore.
Harry and Ron were followed into their boat by Neville
and Hermione.
“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to
himself. “Right then — FORWARD!”
And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once,
gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as
glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great
castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed
nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.
“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached
the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats
carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide
opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a
dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right
underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of
underground harbor, where they clambered out onto
rocks and pebbles.
“Oy, you there! Is this your toad?” said Hagrid, who
was checking the boats as people climbed out of
them.
 
“Trevor!” cried Neville blissfully, holding out his
hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the
rock after Hagrid’s lamp, coming out at last onto
smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.
They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded
around the huge, oak front door.
“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?”
Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times
on the castle door.
 
7
THE SORTING HAT
The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired
witch in emerald-green robes stood there. She had a
very stern face and Harry’s first thought was that this
was not someone to cross.
“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.
“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”
She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so
big you could have fit the whole of the Dursleys’
house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming
torches like the ones at Gringotts, the ceiling was too
high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase
facing them led to the upper floors.
They followed Professor McGonagall across the
flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of
hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right — the
rest of the school must already be here — but
Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a
small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in,
 
standing rather closer together than they would
usually have done, peering about nervously.
“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall.
“The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but
before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will
be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very
important ceremony because, while you are here,
your House will be something like your family within
Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your
House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free
time in your House common room.
“The four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff,
Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House has its own
noble history and each has produced outstanding
witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your
triumphs will earn your House points, while any rule-
breaking will lose House points. At the end of the
year, the House with the most points is awarded the
House cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a
credit to whichever House becomes yours.
“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few
minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest
you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can
while you are waiting.”
Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville’s cloak,
which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron’s
smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his
hair.
“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said
Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.”
She left the chamber. Harry swallowed.
 
“How exactly do they sort us into Houses?” he asked
Ron.
“Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but
I think he was joking.”
Harry’s heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of
the whole school? But he didn’t know any magic yet
— what on earth would he have to do? He hadn’t
expected something like this the moment they
arrived. He looked around anxiously and saw that
everyone else looked terrified, too. No one was talking
much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering
very fast about all the spells she’d learned and
wondering which one she’d need. Harry tried hard not
to listen to her. He’d never been more nervous, never,
not even when he’d had to take a school report home
to the Dursleys saying that he’d somehow turned his
teachers wig blue. He kept his eyes fixed on the door.
Any second now, Professor McGonagall would come
back and lead him to his doom.
Then something happened that made him jump about
a foot in the air — several people behind him
screamed.
“What the — ?”
He gasped. So did the people around him. About
twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back
wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they
glided across the room talking to one another and
hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be
arguing. What looked like a fat little monk was
saying: “Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give
him a second chance — ”
“My dear Friar, haven’t we given Peeves all the
chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and
 
you know, he’s not really even a ghost — I say, what
are you all doing here?”
A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly
noticed the first years.
Nobody answered.
“New students!” said the Fat Friar, smiling around at
them. “About to be Sorted, I suppose?”
A few people nodded mutely.
“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” said the Friar. “My old
House, you know.”
“Move along now,” said a sharp voice. “The Sorting
Ceremony’s about to start.”
Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the
ghosts floated away through the opposite wall.
“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall told the first
years, “and follow me.”
Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead,
Harry got into line behind a boy with sandy hair, with
Ron behind him, and they walked out of the chamber,
back across the hall, and through a pair of double
doors into the Great Hall.
Harry had never even imagined such a strange and
splendid place. It was lit by thousands and thousands
of candles that were floating in midair over four long
tables, where the rest of the students were sitting.
These tables were laid with glittering golden plates
and goblets. At the top of the hall was another long
table where the teachers were sitting. Professor
McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they
 
came to a halt in a line facing the other students,
with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces
staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the
flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among
the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to
avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upward and
saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He heard
Hermione whisper, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky
outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History.”
It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all,
and that the Great Hall didn’t simply open on to the
heavens.
Harry quickly looked down again as Professor
McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front
of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed
wizard’s hat. This hat was patched and frayed and
extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have let it in
the house.
Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it, Harry
thought wildly, that seemed the sort of thing —
noticing that everyone in the hall was now staring at
the hat, he stared at it, too. For a few seconds, there
was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip
near the brim opened wide like a mouth — and the
hat began to sing:
“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,
But don’t judge on what you see,
I’ll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
 
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There’s nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can’t see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you’ve a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
 
You’ll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don’t be afraid l\
And don’t get in a flap\
You’re in safe hands (though I have none)
For I’m a Thinking Cap\”
The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished
its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then
became quite still again.
“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whispered to
Harry. “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling
a troll.”
Harry smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the hat was a lot
better than having to do a spell, but he did wish they
could have tried it on without everyone watching. The
hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Harry didn’t feel
brave or quick-witted or any of it at the moment. If
only the hat had mentioned a House for people who
felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for
him.
Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a
long roll of parchment.
“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and
sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott,
Hannah!”
 
A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of
line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her
eyes, and sat down. A moment’s pause —
“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat.
The table on the right cheered and clapped as
Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table.
Harry saw the ghost of the Fat Friar waving merrily at
her.
“Bones, Susan!”
“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Susan
scuttled off to sit next to Hannah.
“Boot, Terry!”
“RAVENCLAW!”
The table second from the left clapped this time;
several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with
Terry as he joined them.
“Brocklehurst, Mandy” went to Ravenclaw too, but
“Brown, Lavender” became the first new Gryffindor,
and the table on the far left exploded with cheers;
Harry could see Ron’s twin brothers catcalling.
“Bulstrode, Millicent” then became a Slytherin.
Perhaps it was Harry’s imagination, after all he’d
heard about Slytherin, but he thought they looked
like an unpleasant lot.
He was starting to feel definitely sick now. He
remembered being picked for teams during gym at his
old school. He had always been last to be chosen, not
because he was no good, but because no one wanted
Dudley to think they liked him.
 
“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!”
“HUFFLEPUFF!”
Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the
House at once, but at others it took a little while to
decide. “Finnigan, Seamus,” the sandy-haired boy
next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool for almost a
whole minute before the hat declared him a
Gryffindor.
“Granger, Hermione!”
Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat
eagerly on her head.
“GRYFFINDOR!” shouted the hat. Ron groaned.
A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts
always do when you’re very nervous. What if he
wasn’t chosen at all? What if he just sat there with
the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor
McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had
obviously been a mistake and he’d better get back on
the train?
When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his
toad, was called, he fell over on his way to the stool.
The hat took a long time to decide with Neville. When
it finally shouted, “GRYFFINDOR,” Neville ran off still
wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter
to give it to “MacDougal, Morag.”
Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called
and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched
his head when it screamed, “SLYTHERIN!”
Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle,
looking pleased with himself.
 
There weren’t many people left now.
“Moon” , “Nott” ... , “Parkinson” ... , then a pair of
twin girls, “Path” and “Path” ... , then “Perks, Sally-
Anne” . . . , and then, at last —
“Potter, Harry!”
As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke
out like little hissing fires all over the hall.
“ Potter , did she say?”
“ The Harry Potter?”
The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over
his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a
good look at him. Next second he was looking at the
black inside of the hat. He waited.
“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very
difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind
either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a
nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting. ...
So where shall I put you?”
Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not
Slytherin, not Slytherin.
“Not Slytherin, eh?” said the small voice. “Are you
sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in
your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to
greatness, no doubt about that — no? Well, if you’re
sure — better be GRYFFINDOR!”
Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole
hall. He took off the hat and walked shakily toward
the Gryffindor table. He was so relieved to have been
chosen and not put in Slytherin, he hardly noticed
 
that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy the
Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while
the Weasley twins yelled, “We got Potter! We got
Potter!” Harry sat down opposite the ghost in the ruff
he’d seen earlier. The ghost patted his arm, giving
Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he’d just plunged it
into a bucket of ice-cold water.
He could see the High Table properly now. At the end
nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave
him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back. And there,
in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair,
sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at once
from the card he’d gotten out of the Chocolate Frog on
the train. Dumbledore’s silver hair was the only thing
in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts.
Harry spotted Professor Quirrell, too, the nervous
young man from the Leaky Cauldron. He was looking
very peculiar in a large purple turban.
And now there were only four people left to be sorted.
“Thomas, Dean,” a Black boy even taller than Ron,
joined Harry at the Gryffindor table. “Turpin, Lisa,”
became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron’s turn. He
was pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers
under the table and a second later the hat had
shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”
Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed
into the chair next to him.
“Well done, Ron, excellent,” said Percy Weasley
pompously across Harry as “Zabini, Blaise,” was
made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her
scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.
Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had
only just realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin
pasties seemed ages ago.
 
Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was
beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if
nothing could have pleased him more than to see
them all there.
“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at
Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like
to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit!
Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!
“Thank you!”
He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered.
Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or not.
“Is he — a bit mad?” he asked Percy uncertainly.
“Mad?” said Percy airily. “He’s a genius! Best wizard
in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes,
Harry?”
Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him
were now piled with food. He had never seen so many
things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast
chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages,
bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes,
fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy,
ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint
humbugs.
The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but
he’d never been allowed to eat as much as he liked.
Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really
wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate
with a bit of everything except the peppermints and
began to eat. It was all delicious.
“That does look good,” said the ghost in the ruff sadly,
watching Harry cut up his steak.
 
“Can’t you — ?”
“I haven’t eaten for nearly five hundred years,” said
the ghost. “I don’t need to, of course, but one does
miss it. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself? Sir
Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service.
Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower.”
“I know who you are!” said Ron suddenly. “My
brothers told me about you — you’re Nearly Headless
Nick!”
“I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy
— ” the ghost began stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus
Finnigan interrupted.
“Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?”
Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little
chat wasn’t going at all the way he wanted.
“Like this,” he said irritably. He seized his left ear and
pulled. His whole head swung off his neck and fell
onto his shoulder as if it was on a hinge. Someone
had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it
properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on
their faces, Nearly Headless Nick flipped his head
back onto his neck, coughed, and said, “So — new
Gryffindors! I hope you’re going to help us win the
House Championship this year? Gryffindors have
never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have
got the cup six years in a row! The Bloody Baron’s
becoming almost unbearable — he’s the Slytherin
ghost.”
Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a
horrible ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a
gaunt face, and robes stained with silver blood. He
was right next to Malfoy who, Harry was pleased to
 
see, didn’t look too pleased with the seating
arrangements.
“How did he get covered in blood?” asked Seamus
with great interest.
“I’ve never asked,” said Nearly Headless Nick
delicately.
When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the
remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving
them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the
desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor
you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate
eclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-
0, rice pudding ...
As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk
turned to their families.
“I’m half-and-half,” said Seamus. “Me dad’s a Muggle.
Mom didn’t tell him she was a witch ’til after they
were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him.”
The others laughed.
“What about you, Neville?” said Ron.
“Well, my gran brought me up and she’s a witch,”
said Neville, “but the family thought I was all- Muggle
for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me
off my guard and force some magic out of me — he
pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly
drowned — but nothing happened until I was eight.
Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was
hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles
when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue
and he accidentally let go. But I bounced — all the
way down the garden and into the road. They were all
 
really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy.
And you should have seen their faces when I got in
here — they thought I might not be magic enough to
come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he
bought me my toad.”
On Harry’s other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione
were talking about lessons (“I do hope they start right
away, there’s so much to learn, I’m particularly
interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning
something into something else, of course, it’s
supposed to be very difficult — “You’ll be starting
small, just matches into needles and that sort of
thing — ”).
Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy,
looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was
drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall
was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor
Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a
teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and
sallow skin.
It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher
looked past Quirrell’s turban straight into Harry’s
eyes — and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on
Harry’s forehead.
“Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head.
“What is it?” asked Percy.
“N-nothing.”
The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder
to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the
teacher’s look — a feeling that he didn’t like Harry at
all.
 
“Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” he
asked Percy.
“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder
he’s looking so nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He
teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to — everyone
knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot
about the Dark Arts, Snape.”
Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn’t
look at him again.
At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor
Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent.
“Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all
fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to
give you.
“First years should note that the forest on the
grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our
older students would do well to remember that as
well.”
Dumbledore ’s twinkling eyes flashed in the direction
of the Weasley twins.
“I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to
remind you all that no magic should be used between
classes in the corridors.
“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of
the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House
teams should contact Madam Hooch.
“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-
floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds
to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful
death.”
 
Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did.
“He’s not serious?” he muttered to Percy.
“Must be,” said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. “It’s
odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we’re
not allowed to go somewhere — the forest’s full of
dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he
might have told us prefects, at least.”
“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school
song!” cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other
teachers’ smiles had become rather fixed.
Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was
trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden
ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables
and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.
“Everyone pick their favorite tune,” said Dumbledore,
“and off we go!”
And the school bellowed:
“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they’re bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
 
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we’ve forgot,
Just do your best, we’ll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.”
Everybody finished the song at different times. At last,
only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a
very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their
last few lines with his wand and when they had
finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.
“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic
beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you
trot!”
The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the
chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the
marble staircase. Harry’s legs were like lead again,
but only because he was so tired and full of food. He
was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in
the portraits along the corridors whispered and
pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them
through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and
hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases,
yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just
wondering how much farther they had to go when
they came to a sudden halt.
A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair
ahead of them, and as Percy took a step toward them
they started throwing themselves at him.
“Peeves,” Percy whispered to the first years. “A
poltergeist.” He raised his voice, “Peeves — show
yourself.”
 
A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a
balloon, answered.
“Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?”
There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark
eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross-
legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks.
“Oooooooh!” he said, with an evil cackle. “Ickle
Firsties! What fun!”
He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked.
“Go away, Peeves, or the Baron’ll hear about this, I
mean it!” barked Percy.
Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping
the walking sticks on Neville’s head. They heard him
zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he passed.
“You want to watch out for Peeves,” said Percy, as
they set off again. “The Bloody Baron’s the only one
who can control him, he won’t even listen to us
prefects. Here we are.”
At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a
very fat woman in a pink silk dress.
“Password?” she said.
“Caput Draconis,” said Percy, and the portrait swung
forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all
scrambled through it — Neville needed a leg up —
and found themselves in the Gryffindor common
room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs.
Percy directed the girls through one door to their
dormitory and the boys through another. At the top of
 
a spiral staircase — they were obviously in one of the
towers — they found their beds at last: five four-
posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their
trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk
much, they pulled on their pajamas and fell into bed.
“Great food, isn’t it?” Ron muttered to Harry through
the hangings. “Get off Scabbers! He’s chewing my
sheets.”
Harry was going to ask Ron if he’d had any of the
treacle tart, but he fell asleep almost at once.
Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he
had a very strange dream. He was wearing Professor
Quirrell’s turban, which kept talking to him, telling
him he must transfer to Slytherin at once, because it
was his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn’t want
to be in Slytherin; it got heavier and heavier; he tried
to pull it off but it tightened painfully — and there
was Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggled with it —
then Malfoy turned into the hook-nosed teacher,
Snape, whose laugh became high and cold — there
was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating
and shaking.
He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he
woke next day, he didn’t remember the dream at all.
 
THE POTIONS MASTER
“There, look.”
“Where?”
“Next to the tall kid with the red hair.”
“Wearing the glasses?”
“Did you see his face?”
“Did you see his scar?”
Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his
dormitory the next day. People lining up outside
classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or
doubled back to pass him in the corridors again,
staring. Harry wished they wouldn’t, because he was
trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes.
There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at
Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones;
some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some
 
with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to
remember to jump. Then there were doors that
wouldn’t open unless you asked politely, or tickled
them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren’t
really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It
was also very hard to remember where anything was,
because it all seemed to move around a lot. The
people in the portraits kept going to visit each other,
and Harry was sure the coats of armor could walk.
The ghosts didn’t help, either. It was always a nasty
shock when one of them glided suddenly through a
door you were trying to open. Nearly Headless Nick
was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the
right direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth
two locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him
when you were late for class. He would drop
wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from
under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak
up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech,
“GOT YOUR CONK!”
Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the
caretaker, Argus Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get
on the wrong side of him on their very first morning.
Filch found them trying to force their way through a
door that unluckily turned out to be the entrance to
the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor. He
wouldn’t believe they were lost, was sure they were
trying to break into it on purpose, and was
threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they
were rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing.
Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-
colored creature with bulging, lamplike eyes just like
Filch’s. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule
in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she’d
whisk off for Filch, who’d appear, wheezing, two
seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of
 
the school better than anyone (except perhaps the
Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any
of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was
the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a
good kick.
And then, once you had managed to find them, there
were the classes themselves. There was a lot more to
magic, as Harry quickly found out, than waving your
wand and saying a few funny words.
They had to study the night skies through their
telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn
the names of different stars and the movements of the
planets. Three times a week they went out to the
greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology,
with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout,
where they learned how to take care of all the strange
plants and fungi, and found out what they were used
for.
Easily the most boring class was History of Magic,
which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor
Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen
asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up next
morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns
droned on and on while they scribbled down names
and dates, and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the
Oddball mixed up.
Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny
little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to
see over his desk. At the start of their first class he
took the roll call, and when he reached Harry’s name
he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight.
Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had
been quite right to think she wasn’t a teacher to
 
cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking- to
the moment they sat down in her first class.
“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and
dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she
said. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave
and not come back. You have been warned.”
Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again.
They were all very impressed and couldn’t wait to get
started, but soon realized they weren’t going to be
changing the furniture into animals for a long time.
After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each
given a match and started trying to turn it into a
needle. By the end of the lesson, only Hermione
Granger had made any difference to her match;
Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had
gone all silver and pointy and gave Hermione a rare
smile.
The class everyone had really been looking forward to
was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell’s
lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His classroom
smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to
ward off a vampire he’d met in Romania and was
afraid would be coming back to get him one of these
days. His turban, he told them, had been given to him
by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of
a troublesome zombie, but they weren’t sure they
believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus
Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had
fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started
talking about the weather; for another, they had
noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban,
and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full
of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected
wherever he went.
 
Harry was very relieved to find out that he wasn’t
miles behind everyone else. Lots of people had come
from Muggle families and, like him, hadn’t had any
idea that they were witches and wizards. There was so
much to learn that even people like Ron didn’t have
much of a head start.
Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They
finally managed to find their way down to the Great
Hall for breakfast without getting lost once.
“What have we got today?” Harry asked Ron as he
poured sugar on his porridge.
“Double Potions with the Slytherins,” said Ron.
“Snape’s Head of Slytherin House. They say he always
favors them — we’ll be able to see if it’s true.”
“Wish McGonagall favored us,” said Harry. Professor
McGonagall was head of Gryffindor House, but it
hadn’t stopped her from giving them a huge pile of
homework the day before.
Just then, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to
this by now, but it had given him a bit of a shock on
the first morning, when about a hundred owls had
suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during
breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their
owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their
laps.
Hedwig hadn’t brought Harry anything so far. She
sometimes flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of
toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with the
other school owls. This morning, however, she
fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar
bowl and dropped a note onto Harry’s plate. Harry
tore it open at once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl:
 
Dear Harry,
I know you get Friday afternoons off so would you like
to come and have a cup of tea with me around three?
I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an
answer back with Hedwig.
Hagrid
Harry borrowed Ron’s quill, scribbled Yes, please, see
you later on the back of the note, and sent Hedwig off
again.
It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look
forward to, because the Potions lesson turned out to
be the worst thing that had happened to him so far.
At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the
idea that Professor Snape disliked him. By the end of
the first Potions lesson, he knew he’d been wrong.
Snape didn’t dislike Harry — he hated him.
Potions lessons took place down in one of the
dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main
castle, and would have been quite creepy enough
without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all
around the walls.
Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the
roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name.
“Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new —
celebrity.”
Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle
sniggered behind their hands. Snape finished calling
the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were
black like Hagrid ’s, but they had none of Hagrid ’s
 
warmth. They were cold and empty and made you
think of dark tunnels.
“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art
of potion-making,” he began. He spoke in barely more
than a whisper, but they caught every word — like
Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a
class silent without effort. “As there is little foolish
wand- waving here, many of you will hardly believe
this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand
the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its
shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that
creep through human veins, bewitching the mind,
ensnaring the senses. ... I can teach you how to bottle
fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren’t
as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to
teach.”
More silence followed this little speech. Harry and
Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows. Hermione
Granger was on the edge of her seat and looked
desperate to start proving that she wasn’t a
dunderhead.
“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I
added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of
wormwood?”
Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry
glanced at Ron, who looked as stumped as he was;
Hermione ’s hand had shot into the air.
“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry.
Snape ’s lips curled into a sneer.
“Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.”
He ignored Hermione ’s hand.
 
“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told
you to find me a bezoar?”
Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it
would go without her leaving her seat, but Harry
didn’t have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He
tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who
were shaking with laughter.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming,
eh, Potter?”
Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into
those cold eyes. He had looked through his books at
the Dursleys’, but did Snape expect him to remember
everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and
Fungi ?
Snape was still ignoring Hermione’s quivering hand.
“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood
and wolfsbane?”
At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching
toward the dungeon ceiling.
“I don’t know,” said Harry quietly. “I think Hermione
does, though, why don’t you try her?”
A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus’s eye,
and Seamus winked. Snape, however, was not
pleased.
“Sit down,” he snapped at Hermione. “For your
information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a
sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the
Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken
 
from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from
most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they
are the same plant, which also goes by the name of
aconite. Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?”
There was a sudden rummaging for quills and
parchment. Over the noise, Snape said, “And a point
will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek,
Potter.”
Things didn’t improve for the Gryffindors as the
Potions lesson continued. Snape put them all into
pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to
cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak,
watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake
fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy,
whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone
to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his
horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a
loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow
managed to melt Seamus’s cauldron into a twisted
blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone
floor, burning holes in people’s shoes. Within
seconds, the whole class was standing on their stools
while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion
when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as
angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.
“Idiot boy!” snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion
away with one wave of his wand. “I suppose you
added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron
off the fire?”
Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over
his nose.
“Take him up to the hospital wing,” Snape spat at
Seamus. Then he rounded on Harry and Ron, who
had been working next to Neville.
 
“You — Potter — why didn’t you tell him not to add
the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got
it wrong, did you? That’s another point you’ve lost for
Gryffindor.”
This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to
argue, but Ron kicked him behind their cauldron.
“Don’t push it,” he muttered, “I’ve heard Snape can
turn very nasty.”
As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour
later, Harry’s mind was racing and his spirits were
low. He’d lost two points for Gryffindor in his very
first week — why did Snape hate him so much?
“Cheer up,” said Ron, “Snape’s always taking points
off Fred and George. Can I come and meet Hagrid
with you?”
At five to three they left the castle and made their way
across the grounds. Hagrid lived in a small wooden
house on the edge of the forbidden forest. A crossbow
and a pair of galoshes were outside the front door.
When Harry knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling
from inside and several booming barks. Then Hagrid ’s
voice rang out, saying, “Back, Fang — back.”
Hagrid ’s big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he
pulled the door open.
“Hang on,” he said. “Back, Fang.”
He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar
of an enormous black boarhound.
There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants
were hanging from the ceiling, a copper kettle was
 
boiling on the open fire, and in the corner stood a
massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.
“Make yerselves at home,” said Hagrid, letting go of
Fang, who bounded straight at Ron and started
licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly not as
fierce as he looked.
“This is Ron,” Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring
boiling water into a large teapot and putting rock
cakes onto a plate.
“Another Weasley, eh?” said Hagrid, glancing at Ron’s
freckles. “I spent half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers
away from the forest.”
The rock cakes were shapeless lumps with raisins
that almost broke their teeth, but Harry and Ron
pretended to be enjoying them as they told Hagrid all
about their first lessons. Fang rested his head on
Harry’s knee and drooled all over his robes.
Harry and Ron were delighted to hear Hagrid call
Filch “that old git.”
“An’ as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I’d like ter introduce
her to Fang sometime. D’yeh know, every time I go up
ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Can’t get
rid of her — Filch puts her up to it.”
Harry told Hagrid about Snape’s lesson. Hagrid, like
Ron, told Harry not to worry about it, that Snape
liked hardly any of the students.
“But he seemed to really hate me.”
“Rubbish!” said Hagrid. “Why should he?”
 
Yet Harry couldn’t help thinking that Hagrid didn’t
quite meet his eyes when he said that.
“How’s yer brother Charlie?” Hagrid asked Ron. “I
liked him a lot — great with animals.”
Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on
purpose. While Ron told Hagrid all about Charlie’s
work with dragons, Harry picked up a piece of paper
that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. It was
a cutting from the Daily Prophet :
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts
on 3 1 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark
wizards or witches unknown.
Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had
been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact
been emptied the same day.
“But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep
your noses out if you know what’s good for you,” said
a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.
Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that
someone had tried to rob Gringotts, but Ron hadn’t
mentioned the date.
“Hagrid!” said Harry, “that Gringotts break-in
happened on my birthday! It might’ve been happening
while we were there!”
There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn’t
meet Harry’s eyes this time. He grunted and offered
him another rock cake. Harry read the story again.
The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied
earlier that same day. Hagrid had emptied vault seven
 
hundred and thirteen, if you could call it emptying,
taking out that grubby little package. Had that been
what the thieves were looking for?
As Harry and Ron walked back to the castle for
dinner, their pockets weighed down with rock cakes
they’d been too polite to refuse, Harry thought that
none of the lessons he’d had so far had given him as
much to think about as tea with Hagrid. Had Hagrid
collected that package just in time? Where was it
now? And did Hagrid know something about Snape
that he didn’t want to tell Harry?
 
9
THE MIDNIGHT DUEL
Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he
hated more than Dudley, but that was before he met
Draco Malfoy. Still, first-year Gryffindors only had
Potions with the Slytherins, so they didn’t have to put
up with Malfoy much. Or at least, they didn’t until
they spotted a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor
common room that made them all groan. Flying
lessons would be starting on Thursday — and
Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together.
“Typical,” said Harry darkly. “Just what I always
wanted. To make a fool of myself on a broomstick in
front of Malfoy.”
He had been looking forward to learning to fly more
than anything else.
“You don’t know that you’ll make a fool of yourself,”
said Ron reasonably. “Anyway, I know Malfoy’s always
going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet
that’s all talk.”
 
Malfoy certainly did talk about flying a lot. He
complained loudly about first years never getting on
the House Quidditch teams and told long, boastful
stories that always seemed to end with him narrowly
escaping Muggles in helicopters. He wasn’t the only
one, though: the way Seamus Finnigan told it, he’d
spent most of his childhood zooming around the
countryside on his broomstick. Even Ron would tell
anyone who’d listen about the time he’d almost hit a
hang glider on Charlie’s old broom. Everyone from
wizarding families talked about Quidditch constantly.
Ron had already had a big argument with Dean
Thomas, who shared their dormitory, about soccer.
Ron couldn’t see what was exciting about a game with
only one ball where no one was allowed to fly. Harry
had caught Ron prodding Dean’s poster of West Ham
soccer team, trying to make the players move.
Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life,
because his grandmother had never let him near one.
Privately, Harry felt she’d had good reason, because
Neville managed to have an extraordinary number of
accidents even with both feet on the ground.
Hermione Granger was almost as nervous about
flying as Neville was. This was something you couldn’t
learn by heart out of a book — not that she hadn’t
tried. At breakfast on Thursday she bored them all
stupid with flying tips she’d gotten out of a library
book called Quidditch Through the Ages. Neville was
hanging on to her every word, desperate for anything
that might help him hang on to his broomstick later,
but everybody else was very pleased when Hermione ’s
lecture was interrupted by the arrival of the mail.
Harry hadn’t had a single letter since Hagrid’s note,
something that Malfoy had been quick to notice, of
course. Malfoy ’s eagle owl was always bringing him
 
packages of sweets from home, which he opened
gloatingly at the Slytherin table.
A barn owl brought Neville a small package from his
grandmother. He opened it excitedly and showed
them a glass ball the size of a large marble, which
seemed to be full of white smoke.
“It’s a Remembrall!” he explained. “Gran knows I
forget things — this tells you if there’s something
you’ve forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this
and if it turns red — oh ...” His face fell, because the
Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, “... you’ve
forgotten something ...”
Neville was trying to remember what he’d forgotten
when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor
table, snatched the Remembrall out of his hand.
Harry and Ron jumped to their feet. They were half
hoping for a reason to fight Malfoy, but Professor
McGonagall, who could spot trouble quicker than any
teacher in the school, was there in a flash.
“What’s going on?”
“Malfoy’s got my Remembrall, Professor.”
Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall
back on the table.
“Just looking,” he said, and he sloped away with
Crabbe and Goyle behind him.
At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the
other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto
the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear,
breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as
they marched down the sloping lawns toward a
 
smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds
to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying
darkly in the distance.
The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty
broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground. Harry
had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about
the school brooms, saying that some of them started
to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly
to the left.
Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short,
gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk.
“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barked.
“Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry
up.” "
Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and
some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles.
“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” called
Madam Hooch at the front, “and say ‘Up!’ ”
“UP!” everyone shouted.
Harry’s broom jumped into his hand at once, but it
was one of the few that did. Hermione Granger’s had
simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville’s hadn’t
moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell
when you were afraid, thought Harry; there was a
quaver in Neville’s voice that said only too clearly that
he wanted to keep his feet on the ground.
Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their
brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up
and down the rows correcting their grips. Harry and
Ron were delighted when she told Malfoy he’d been
doing it wrong for years.
 
“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the
ground, hard,” said Madam Hooch. “Keep your
brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight
back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle
— three — two — ”
But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of
being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the
whistle had touched Madam Hooch’s lips.
“Come back, boy!” she shouted, but Neville was rising
straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle — twelve
feet — twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face
look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp,
slip sideways off the broom and —
WHAM — a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay
facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was
still rising higher and higher, and started to drift
lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight.
Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as
white as his.
“Broken wrist,” Harry heard her mutter. “Come on,
boy — it’s all right, up you get.”
She turned to the rest of the class.
“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the
hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are
or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say
‘Quidditch.’ Come on, dear.”
Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist,
hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm
around him.
 
No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst
into laughter.
“Did you see his face, the great lump?”
The other Slytherins joined in.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped Parvati Patil.
“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” said Pansy
Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. “Never thought
you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.”
“Look!” said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching
something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing
Longbottom’s gran sent him.”
The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.
“Give that here, Malfoy,” said Harry quietly. Everyone
stopped talking to watch.
Malfoy smiled nastily.
“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find
— how about — up a tree?”
“Give it here!” Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto
his broomstick and taken off. He hadn’t been lying, he
could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost
branches of an oak he called, “Come and get it,
Potter!”
Harry grabbed his broom.
“iVo!” shouted Hermione Granger. “Madam Hooch told
us not to move — you’ll get us all into trouble.”
 
Harry ignored her. Blood was pounding in his ears.
He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the
ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his
hair, and his robes whipped out behind him — and in
a rush of fierce joy he realized he’d found something
he could do without being taught — this was easy,
this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up a
little to take it even higher, and heard screams and
gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring
whoop from Ron.
He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in
midair. Malfoy looked stunned.
“Give it here,” Harry called, “or I’ll knock you off that
broom!”
“Oh, yeah?” said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking
worried.
Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward
and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it
shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got
out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-
face and held the broom steady. A few people below
were clapping.
“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck,
Malfoy,” Harry called.
The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy.
“Catch it if you can, then!” he shouted, and he threw
the glass ball high into the air and streaked back
toward the ground.
Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up
in the air and then start to fall. He leaned forward
and pointed his broom handle down — next second
 
he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball
— wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the
screams of people watching — he stretched out his
hand — a foot from the ground he caught it, just in
time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently
onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in
his fist.
“HARRY POTTER!”
His heart sank faster than he’d just dived. Professor
McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his
feet, trembling.
“Never — in all my time at Hogwarts — ”
Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with
shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, “ — how dare
you — might have broken your neck — ”
“It wasn’t his fault, Professor — ”
“Be quiet, Miss Patil — ”
“But Malfoy — ”
“That’s enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.”
Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s
triumphant faces as he left, walking numbly in
Professor McGonagall’s wake as she strode toward the
castle. He was going to be expelled, he just knew it.
He wanted to say something to defend himself, but
there seemed to be something wrong with his voice.
Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without
even looking at him; he had to jog to keep up. Now
he’d done it. He hadn’t even lasted two weeks. He’d be
packing his bags in ten minutes. What would the
Dursleys say when he turned up on the doorstep?
 
Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside,
and still Professor McGonagall didn’t say a word to
him. She wrenched open doors and marched along
corridors with Harry trotting miserably behind her.
Maybe she was taking him to Dumbledore. He
thought of Hagrid, expelled but allowed to stay on as
gamekeeper. Perhaps he could be Hagrid’s assistant.
His stomach twisted as he imagined it, watching Ron
and the others becoming wizards while he stumped
around the grounds carrying Hagrid’s bag.
Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom.
She opened the door and poked her head inside.
“Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood
for a moment?”
Wood? thought Harry, bewildered; was Wood a cane
she was going to use on him?
But Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth-year
boy who came out of Flitwick’s class looking
confused.
“Follow me, you two,” said Professor McGonagall, and
they marched on up the corridor, Wood looking
curiously at Harry.
“In here.”
Professor McGonagall pointed them into a classroom
that was empty except for Peeves, who was busy
writing rude words on the blackboard.
“Out, Peeves!” she barked. Peeves threw the chalk
into a bin, which clanged loudly, and he swooped out
cursing. Professor McGonagall slammed the door
behind him and turned to face the two boys.
 
“Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood — I’ve found you a
Seeker.”
Wood’s expression changed from puzzlement to
delight.
“Are you serious, Professor?”
“Absolutely,” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “The
boy’s a natural. I’ve never seen anything like it. Was
that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?”
Harry nodded silently. He didn’t have a clue what was
going on, but he didn’t seem to be being expelled, and
some of the feeling started coming back to his legs.
“He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot
dive,” Professor McGonagall told Wood. “Didn’t even
scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done
it.”
Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had
come true at once.
“Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” he asked
excitedly.
“Wood’s captain of the Gryffindor team,” Professor
McGonagall explained.
“He’s just the build for a Seeker, too,” said Wood, now
walking around Harry and staring at him. “Light —
speedy — we’ll have to get him a decent broom,
Professor — a Nimbus Two Thousand or a
Cleansweep Seven, I’d say.”
“I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we
can’t bend the first-year rule. Heaven knows, we need
a better team than last year. Flattened in that last
 
match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus Snape in
the face for weeks. ...”
Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses
at Harry.
“I want to hear you’re training hard, Potter, or I may
change my mind about punishing you.”
Then she suddenly smiled.
“Your father would have been proud,” she said. “He
was an excellent Quidditch player himself.”
“You’re joking.”
It was dinnertime. Harry had just finished telling Ron
what had happened when he’d left the grounds with
Professor McGonagall. Ron had a piece of steak and
kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but he’d forgotten all
about it.
“Seeker?” he said. “But first years never — you must
be the youngest House player in about — ”
“ — a century,” said Harry, shoveling pie into his
mouth. He felt particularly hungry after the
excitement of the afternoon. “Wood told me.”
Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and
gaped at Harry.
“I start training next week,” said Harry. “Only don’t
tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret.”
Fred and George Weasley now came into the hall,
spotted Harry, and hurried over.
 
“Well done,” said George in a low voice. “Wood told us.
We’re on the team too — Beaters.”
“I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch Cup for
sure this year,” said Fred. “We haven’t won since
Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be
brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost
skipping when he told us.”
“Anyway, we’ve got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he’s
found a new secret passageway out of the school.”
“Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the
Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you.”
Fred and George had hardly disappeared when
someone far less welcome turned up: Malfoy, flanked
by Crabbe and Goyle.
“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the
train back to the Muggles?”
“You’re a lot braver now that you’re back on the
ground and you’ve got your little friends with you,”
said Harry coolly. There was of course nothing at all
little about Crabbe and Goyle, but as the High Table
was full of teachers, neither of them could do more
than crack their knuckles and scowl.
“I’d take you on anytime on my own,” said Malfoy.
“Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only —
no contact. What’s the matter? Never heard of a
wizard’s duel before, I suppose?”
“Of course he has,” said Ron, wheeling around. “I’m
his second, who’s yours?”
Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.
 
“Crabbe,” he said. “Midnight all right? Well meet you
in the trophy room; that’s always unlocked.”
When Malfoy had gone, Ron and Harry looked at each
other.
“What is a wizard’s duel?” said Harry. “And what do
you mean, you’re my second?”
“Well, a second’s there to take over if you die,” said
Ron casually, getting started at last on his cold pie.
Catching the look on Harry’s face, he added quickly,
“But people only die in proper duels, you know, with
real wizards. The most you and Malfoy’ll be able to do
is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows
enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he
expected you to refuse, anyway.”
“And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?”
“Throw it away and punch him on the nose,” Ron
suggested.
“Excuse me.”
They both looked up. It was Hermione Granger.
“Can’t a person eat in peace in this place?” said Ron.
Hermione ignored him and spoke to Harry.
“I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Malfoy
were saying — ”
“Bet you could,” Ron muttered.
“ — and you mustn’t go wandering around the school
at night, think of the points you’ll lose Gryffindor if
 
you’re caught, and you’re bound to be. It’s really very
selfish of you.”
“And it’s really none of your business,” said Harry.
“Good-bye,” said Ron.
All the same, it wasn’t what you’d call the perfect end
to the day, Harry thought, as he lay awake much later
listening to Dean and Seamus falling asleep (Neville
wasn’t back from the hospital wing). Ron had spent
all evening giving him advice such as “If he tries to
curse you, you’d better dodge it, because I can’t
remember how to block them.” There was a very good
chance they were going to get caught by Filch or Mrs.
Norris, and Harry felt he was pushing his luck,
breaking another school rule today. On the other
hand, Malfoy’s sneering face kept looming up out of
the darkness — this was his big chance to beat
Malfoy face-to-face. He couldn’t miss it.
“Half-past eleven,” Ron muttered at last, “we’d better
go.”
They pulled on their bathrobes, picked up their
wands, and crept across the tower room, down the
spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor common
room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace,
turning all the armchairs into hunched black
shadows. They had almost reached the portrait hole
when a voice spoke from the chair nearest them, “I
can’t believe you’re going to do this, Harry.”
A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger,
wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown.
“You!” said Ron furiously. “Go back to bed!”
 
“I almost told your brother,” Hermione snapped,
“Percy — he’s a prefect, he’d put a stop to this.”
Harry couldn’t believe anyone could be so interfering.
“Come on,” he said to Ron. He pushed open the
portrait of the Fat Lady and climbed through the hole.
Hermione wasn’t going to give up that easily. She
followed Ron through the portrait hole, hissing at
them like an angry goose.
“Don’t you care about Gryffindor, do you only care
about yourselves, / don’t want Slytherin to win the
House Cup, and you’ll lose all the points I got from
Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching
Spells.”
“Go away.”
“All right, but I warned you, you just remember what
I said when you’re on the train home tomorrow,
you’re so — ”
But what they were, they didn’t find out. Hermione
had turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady to get back
inside and found herself facing an empty painting.
The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit and
Hermione was locked out of Gryffindor Tower.
“Now what am I going to do?” she asked shrilly.
“That’s your problem,” said Ron. “We’ve got to go,
we’re going to be late.”
They hadn’t even reached the end of the corridor
when Hermione caught up with them.
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
 
“You are not.”
“D’you think I’m going to stand out here and wait for
Filch to catch me? If he finds all three of us I’ll tell
him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and you
can back me up.”
“You’ve got some nerve — ” said Ron loudly.
“Shut up, both of you!” said Harry sharply. “I heard
something.”
It was a sort of snuffling.
“Mrs. Norris?” breathed Ron, squinting through the
dark.
It wasn’t Mrs. Norris. It was Neville. He was curled up
on the floor, fast asleep, but jerked suddenly awake
as they crept nearer.
“Thank goodness you found me! I’ve been out here for
hours, I couldn’t remember the new password to get
in to bed.”
“Keep your voice down, Neville. The password’s ‘Pig
snout’ but it won’t help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone
off somewhere.”
“How’s your arm?” said Harry.
“Fine,” said Neville, showing them. “Madam Pomfrey
mended it in about a minute.”
“Good — well, look, Neville, we’ve got to be
somewhere, we’ll see you later — ”
 
“Don’t leave me!” said Neville, scrambling to his feet,
“I don’t want to stay here alone, the Bloody Baron’s
been past twice already.”
Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at
Hermione and Neville.
“If either of you get us caught, I’ll never rest until I’ve
learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us
about, and used it on you.”
Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to tell Ron
exactly how to use the Curse of the Bogies, but Harry
hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned them all
forward.
They flitted along corridors striped with bars of
moonlight from the high windows. At every turn Harry
expected to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, but they
were lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor
and tiptoed toward the trophy room.
Malfoy and Crabbe weren’t there yet. The crystal
trophy cases glimmered where the moonlight caught
them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked silver
and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls,
keeping their eyes on the doors at either end of the
room. Harry took out his wand in case Malfoy leapt in
and started at once. The minutes crept by.
“He’s late, maybe he’s chickened out,” Ron whispered.
Then a noise in the next room made them jump.
Harry had only just raised his wand when they heard
someone speak — and it wasn’t Malfoy.
“Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a
corner.”
 
It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck,
Harry waved madly at the other three to follow him as
quickly as possible; they scurried silently toward the
door, away from Filch’s voice. Neville’s robes had
barely whipped round the corner when they heard
Filch enter the trophy room.
“They’re in here somewhere,” they heard him mutter,
“probably hiding.”
“This way!” Harry mouthed to the others and,
petrified, they began to creep down a long gallery full
of suits of armor. They could hear Filch getting
nearer. Neville suddenly let out a frightened squeak
and broke into a run — he tripped, grabbed Ron
around the waist, and the pair of them toppled right
into a suit of armor.
The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the
whole castle.
“RUN!” Harry yelled, and the four of them sprinted
down the gallery, not looking back to see whether
Filch was following — they swung around the
doorpost and galloped down one corridor then
another, Harry in the lead, without any idea where
they were or where they were going — they ripped
through a tapestry and found themselves in a hidden
passageway, hurtled along it and came out near their
Charms classroom, which they knew was miles from
the trophy room.
“I think we’ve lost him,” Harry panted, leaning against
the cold wall and wiping his forehead. Neville was
bent double, wheezing and spluttering.
“I — told — you,” Hermione gasped, clutching at the
stitch in her chest, “I — told — you.”
 
“We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor Tower,” said Ron,
“quickly as possible.”
“Malfoy tricked you,” Hermione said to Harry. “You
realize that, don’t you? He was never going to meet
you — Filch knew someone was going to be in the
trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off.”
Harry thought she was probably right, but he wasn’t
going to tell her that.
“Let’s go.”
It wasn’t going to be that simple. They hadn’t gone
more than a dozen paces when a doorknob rattled
and something came shooting out of a classroom in
front of them.
It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and gave a
squeal of delight.
“Shut up, Peeves — please — you’ll get us thrown
out.”
Peeves cackled.
“Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut,
tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty.”
“Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please.”
“Should tell Filch, I should,” said Peeves in a sanity
voice, but his eyes glittered wickedly. “It’s for your
own good, you know.”
“Get out of the way,” snapped Ron, taking a swipe at
Peeves — this was a big mistake.
 
“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves bellowed,
“STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS
CORRIDOR!”
Ducking under Peeves, they ran for their lives, right
to the end of the corridor where they slammed into a
door — and it was locked.
“This is it!” Ron moaned, as they pushed helplessly at
the door, “We’re done for! This is the end!”
They could hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he
could toward Peeves ’s shouts.
“Oh, move over,” Hermione snarled. She grabbed
Harry’s wand, tapped the lock, and whispered,
“Alohomora\”
The lock clicked and the door swung open — they
piled through it, shut it quickly, and pressed their
ears against it, listening.
“Which way did they go, Peeves?” Filch was saying.
“Quick, tell me.”
“Say ‘please.’ ”
“Don’t mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?”
“Shan’t say nothing if you don’t say please,” said
Peeves in his annoying singsong voice.
“All right — please.”
“NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn’t say nothing
if you didn’t say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!” And they
heard the sound of Peeves whooshing away and Filch
cursing in rage.
 
“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispered. “I
think well be okay — get off Neville!” For Neville had
been tugging on the sleeve of Harry’s bathrobe for the
last minute. “What?”
Harry turned around — and saw, quite clearly, what.
For a moment, he was sure he’d walked into a
nightmare — this was too much, on top of everything
that had happened so far.
They weren’t in a room, as he had supposed. They
were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third
floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden.
They were looking straight into the eyes of a
monstrous dog, a dog that filled the whole space
between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three
pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and
quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths,
saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.
It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them,
and Harry knew that the only reason they weren’t
already dead was that their sudden appearance had
taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over
that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous
growls meant.
Harry groped for the doorknob — between Filch and
death, he’d take Filch.
They fell backward — Harry slammed the door shut,
and they ran, they almost flew, back down the
corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look for them
somewhere else, because they didn’t see him
anywhere, but they hardly cared — all they wanted to
do was put as much space as possible between them
and that monster. They didn’t stop running until they
 
reached the portrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh
floor.
“Where on earth have you all been?” she asked,
looking at their bathrobes hanging off their shoulders
and their flushed, sweaty faces.
“Never mind that — pig snout, pig snout,” panted
Harry, and the portrait swung forward. They
scrambled into the common room and collapsed,
trembling, into armchairs.
It was a while before any of them said anything.
Neville, indeed, looked as if he’d never speak again.
“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing
like that locked up in a school?” said Ron finally. “If
any dog needs exercise, that one does.”
Hermione had got both her breath and her bad
temper back again.
“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she
snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”
“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn’t looking at its
feet, I was too busy with its heads.”
“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It’s
obviously guarding something.”
She stood up, glaring at them.
“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all
have been killed — or worse, expelled. Now, if you
don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”
Ron stared after her, his mouth open.
 
“No, we don’t mind,” he said. “You’d think we dragged
her along, wouldn’t you?”
But Hermione had given Harry something else to
think about as he climbed back into bed. The dog was
guarding something. . . . What had Hagrid said?
Gringotts was the safest place in the world for
something you wanted to hide — except perhaps
Hogwarts.
It looked as though Harry had found out where the
grubby little package from vault seven hundred and
thirteen was.
 
10
HALLOWEEN
Malfoy couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw that
Harry and Ron were still at Hogwarts the next day,
looking tired but perfectly cheerful. Indeed, by the
next morning Harry and Ron thought that meeting
the three-headed dog had been an excellent
adventure, and they were quite keen to have another
one. In the meantime, Harry filled Ron in about the
package that seemed to have been moved from
Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spent a lot of time
wondering what could possibly need such heavy
protection.
“It’s either really valuable or really dangerous,” said
Ron.
“Or both,” said Harry.
But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious
object was that it was about two inches long, they
didn’t have much chance of guessing what it was
without further clues.
 
Neither Neville nor Hermione showed the slightest
interest in what lay underneath the dog and the
trapdoor. All Neville cared about was never going near
the dog again.
Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and
Ron, but she was such a bossy know-it-all that they
saw this as an added bonus. All they really wanted
now was a way of getting back at Malfoy, and to their
great delight, just such a thing arrived in the mail
about a week later.
As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual,
everyone’s attention was caught at once by a long,
thin package carried by six large screech owls. Harry
was just as interested as everyone else to see what
was in this large parcel, and was amazed when the
owls soared down and dropped it right in front of him,
knocking his bacon to the floor. They had hardly
fluttered out of the way when another owl dropped a
letter on top of the parcel.
Harry ripped open the letter first, which was lucky,
because it said:
DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.
It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I
don’t want everybody knowing you’ve got a
broomstick or they’ll all want one. Oliver Wood will
meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven
o’clock for your first training session.
Professor M. McGonagall
Harry had difficulty hiding his glee as he handed the
note to Ron to read.
 
“A Nimbus Two Thousand!” Ron moaned enviously.
“I’ve never even touched one.”
They left the hall quickly, wanting to unwrap the
broomstick in private before their first class, but
halfway across the entrance hall they found the way
upstairs barred by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy seized
the package from Harry and felt it.
“That’s a broomstick,” he said, throwing it back to
Harry with a mixture of jealousy and spite on his face.
“You’ll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren’t
allowed them.”
Ron couldn’t resist it.
“It’s not any old broomstick,” he said, “it’s a Nimbus
Two Thousand. What did you say you’ve got at home,
Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?” Ron grinned at Harry.
“Comets look flashy, but they’re not in the same
league as the Nimbus.”
“What would you know about it, Weasley, you
couldn’t afford half the handle,” Malfoy snapped back.
“I suppose you and your brothers have to save up
twig by twig.”
Before Ron could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared
at Malfoy’s elbow.
“Not arguing, I hope, boys?” he squeaked.
“Potters been sent a broomstick, Professor,” said
Malfoy quickly.
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Professor Flitwick,
beaming at Harry. “Professor McGonagall told me all
about the special circumstances, Potter. And what
model is it?”
 
“A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” said Harry, fighting
not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy’s face.
“And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it,”
he added.
Harry and Ron headed upstairs, smothering their
laughter at Malfoy’s obvious rage and confusion.
“Well, it’s true,” Harry chortled as they reached the
top of the marble staircase, “If he hadn’t stolen
Neville’s Remembrall I wouldn’t be on the team. ...”
“So I suppose you think that’s a reward for breaking
rules?” came an angry voice from just behind them.
Hermione was stomping up the stairs, looking
disapprovingly at the package in Harry’s hand.
“I thought you weren’t speaking to us?” said Harry.
“Yes, don’t stop now,” said Ron, “it’s doing us so
much good.”
Hermione marched away with her nose in the air.
Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his
lessons that day. It kept wandering up to the
dormitory where his new broomstick was lying under
his bed, or straying off to the Quidditch field where
he’d be learning to play that night. He bolted his
dinner that evening without noticing what he was
eating, and then rushed upstairs with Ron to unwrap
the Nimbus Two Thousand at last.
“Wow,” Ron sighed, as the broomstick rolled onto
Harry’s bedspread.
Even Harry, who knew nothing about the different
brooms, thought it looked wonderful. Sleek and
shiny, with a mahogany handle, it had a long tail of
 
neat, straight twigs and Nimbus Two Thousand
written in gold near the top.
As seven o’clock drew nearer, Harry left the castle and
set off in the dusk toward the Quidditch field. He’d
never been inside the stadium before. Hundreds of
seats were raised in stands around the field so that
the spectators were high enough to see what was
going on. At either end of the field were three golden
poles with hoops on the end. They reminded Harry of
the little plastic sticks Muggle children blew bubbles
through, except that they were fifty feet high.
Too eager to fly again to wait for Wood, Harry
mounted his broomstick and kicked off from the
ground. What a feeling — he swooped in and out of
the goal posts and then sped up and down the field.
The Nimbus Two Thousand turned wherever he
wanted at his lightest touch.
“Hey, Potter, come down!”
Oliver Wood had arrived. He was carrying a large
wooden crate under his arm. Harry landed next to
him.
“Very nice,” said Wood, his eyes glinting. “I see what
McGonagall meant ... you really are a natural. I’m
just going to teach you the rules this evening, then
you’ll be joining team practice three times a week.”
He opened the crate. Inside were four different-sized
balls.
“Right,” said Wood. “Now, Quidditch is easy enough to
understand, even if it’s not too easy to play. There are
seven players on each side. Three of them are called
Chasers.”
 
“Three Chasers,” Harry repeated, as Wood took out a
bright red ball about the size of a soccer ball.
“This ball’s called the Quaffle,” said Wood. “The
Chasers throw the Quaffle to each other and try and
get it through one of the hoops to score a goal. Ten
points every time the Quaffle goes through one of the
hoops. Follow me?”
“The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through
the hoops to score,” Harry recited. “So — that’s sort of
like basketball on broomsticks with six hoops, isn’t
it?”
“What’s basketball?” said Wood curiously.
“Never mind,” said Harry quickly.
“Now, there’s another player on each side who’s called
the Keeper — I’m Keeper for Gryffindor. I have to fly
around our hoops and stop the other team from
scoring.”
“Three Chasers, one Keeper,” said Harry, who was
determined to remember it all. “And they play with
the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are they for?” He
pointed at the three balls left inside the box.
“I’ll show you now,” said Wood. “Take this.”
He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short
baseball bat.
“I’m going to show you what the Bludgers do,” Wood
said. “These two are the Bludgers.”
He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and
slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed
 
that they seemed to be straining to escape the straps
holding them inside the box.
“Stand back,” Wood warned Harry. He bent down and
freed one of the Bludgers.
At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then
pelted straight at Harry’s face. Harry swung at it with
the bat to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it
zigzagging away into the air — it zoomed around their
heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it
and managed to pin it to the ground.
“See?” Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger
back into the crate and strapping it down safely. “The
Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock players off
their brooms. That’s why you have two Beaters on
each team — the Weasley twins are ours — it’s their
job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and
knock them toward the other team. So — think you’ve
got all that?”
“Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the
Keeper guards the goal posts; the Beaters keep the
Bludgers away from their team,” Harry reeled off.
“Very good,” said Wood.
“Er — have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?” Harry
asked, hoping he sounded offhand.
“Never at Hogwarts. We’ve had a couple of broken
jaws but nothing worse than that. Now, the last
member of the team is the Seeker. That’s you. And
you don’t have to worry about the Quaffle or the
Bludgers — ”
“ — unless they crack my head open.”
 
“Don’t worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for
the Bludgers — I mean, they’re like a pair of human
Bludgers themselves.”
Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth
and last ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the
Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large walnut.
It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver
wings.
“This,” said Wood, “is the Golden Snitch, and it’s the
most important ball of the lot. It’s very hard to catch
because it’s so fast and difficult to see. It’s the
Seeker’s job to catch it. You’ve got to weave in and out
of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get
it before the other team’s Seeker, because whichever
Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra
hundred and fifty points, so they nearly always win.
That’s why Seekers get fouled so much. A game of
Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it
can go on for ages — I think the record is three
months, they had to keep bringing on substitutes so
the players could get some sleep.
“Well, that’s it — any questions?”
Harry shook his head. He understood what he had to
do all right, it was doing it that was going to be the
problem.
“We won’t practice with the Snitch yet,” said Wood,
carefully shutting it back inside the crate, “it’s too
dark, we might lose it. Let’s try you out with a few of
these.”
He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket
and a few minutes later, he and Harry were up in the
air, Wood throwing the golf balls as hard as he could
in every direction for Harry to catch.
 
Harry didn’t miss a single one, and Wood was
delighted. After half an hour, night had really fallen
and they couldn’t carry on.
“That Quidditch Cup’ll have our name on it this year,”
said Wood happily as they trudged back up to the
castle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you turn out better
than Charlie Weasley, and he could have played for
England if he hadn’t gone off chasing dragons.”
Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what
with Quidditch practice three evenings a week on top
of all his homework, but Harry could hardly believe it
when he realized that he’d already been at Hogwarts
two months. The castle felt more like home than
Privet Drive ever had. His lessons, too, were becoming
more and more interesting now that they had
mastered the basics.
On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious
smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the
corridors. Even better, Professor Flitwick announced
in Charms that he thought they were ready to start
making objects fly, something they had all been dying
to try since they’d seen him make Neville’s toad zoom
around the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the
class into pairs to practice. Harry’s partner was
Seamus Finnigan (which was a relief, because Neville
had been trying to catch his eye). Ron, however, was
to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to
tell whether Ron or Hermione was angrier about this.
She hadn’t spoken to either of them since the day
Harry’s broomstick had arrived.
“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve
been practicing!” squeaked Professor Flitwick,
perched on top of his pile of books as usual. “Swish
and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the
magic words properly is very important, too — never
 
forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f and
found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his
chest.”
It was very difficult. Harry and Seamus swished and
flicked, but the feather they were supposed to be
sending skyward just lay on the desktop. Seamus got
so impatient that he prodded it with his wand and set
fire to it — Harry had to put it out with his hat.
Ron, at the next table, wasn’t having much more
luck.
“Wingardium Leviosal” he shouted, waving his long
arms like a windmill.
“You’re saying it wrong,” Harry heard Hermione snap.
“It’s Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and
long.”
“You do it, then, if you’re so clever,” Ron snarled.
Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked
her wand, and said, “Wingardium LeviosaV’
Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four
feet above their heads.
“Oh, well done!” cried Professor Flitwick, clapping.
“Everyone see here, Miss Granger’s done it!”
Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class.
“It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” he said to
Harry as they pushed their way into the crowded
corridor, “she’s a nightmare, honestly.”
 
Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past
him. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her
face — and was startled to see that she was in tears.
“I think she heard you.”
“So?” said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable.
“She must’ve noticed she’s got no friends.”
Hermione didn’t turn up for the next class and wasn’t
seen all afternoon. On their way down to the Great
Hall for the Halloween feast, Harry and Ron overheard
Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Hermione
was crying in the girls’ bathroom and wanted to be
left alone. Ron looked still more awkward at this, but
a moment later they had entered the Great Hall,
where the Halloween decorations put Hermione out of
their minds.
A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and
ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the
tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the
pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on
the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term
banquet.
Harry was just helping himself to a baked potato
when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall,
his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone
stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore’s chair,
slumped against the table, and gasped, “Troll — in
the dungeons — thought you ought to know.”
He then sank to the floor in a dead faint.
There was an uproar. It took several purple
firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor
Dumbledore’s wand to bring silence.
 
“Prefects,” he rumbled, “lead your Houses back to the
dormitories immediately!”
Percy was in his element.
“Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear
the troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind
me, now. Make way, first years coming through!
Excuse me, I’m a prefect!”
“How could a troll get in?” Harry asked as they
climbed the stairs.
“Don’t ask me, they’re supposed to be really stupid,”
said Ron. “Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween
joke.”
They passed different groups of people hurrying in
different directions. As they jostled their way through
a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry suddenly
grabbed Ron’s arm.
“I’ve just thought — Hermione.”
“What about her?”
“She doesn’t know about the troll.”
Ron bit his lip.
“Oh, all right,” he snapped. “But Percy’d better not
see us.”
Ducking down, they joined the Hufflepuffs going the
other way, slipped down a deserted side corridor, and
hurried off toward the girls’ bathroom. They had just
turned the corner when they heard quick footsteps
behind them.
 
“Percy!” hissed Ron, pulling Harry behind a large
stone griffin.
Peering around it, however, they saw not Percy but
Snape. He crossed the corridor and disappeared from
view.
“What’s he doing?” Harry whispered. “Why isn’t he
down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?”
“Search me.”
Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor
after Snape ’s fading footsteps.
“He’s heading for the third floor,” Harry said, but Ron
held up his hand.
“Can you smell something?”
Harry sniffed and a foul stench reached his nostrils, a
mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no
one seems to clean.
And then they heard it — a low grunting, and the
shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. Ron pointed — at
the end of a passage to the left, something huge was
moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows
and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight.
It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a
dull, granite gray, its great lumpy body like a boulder
with its small bald head perched on top like a
coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with
flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was
incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which
dragged along the floor because its arms were so long.
 
The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside.
It waggled its long ears, making up its tiny mind, then
slouched slowly into the room.
“The key’s in the lock,” Harry muttered. “We could
lock it in.”
“Good idea,” said Ron nervously.
They edged toward the open door, mouths dry,
praying the troll wasn’t about to come out of it. With
one great leap, Harry managed to grab the key, slam
the door, and lock it.
“Yes!”
Flushed with their victory, they started to run back
up the passage, but as they reached the corner they
heard something that made their hearts stop — a
high, petrified scream — and it was coming from the
chamber they’d just chained up.
“Oh, no,” said Ron, pale as the Bloody Baron.
“It’s the girls’ bathroom!” Harry gasped.
“ Hermionel” they said together.
It was the last thing they wanted to do, but what
choice did they have? Wheeling around, they sprinted
back to the door and turned the key, fumbling in their
panic. Harry pulled the door open and they ran
inside.
Hermione Granger was shrinking against the wall
opposite, looking as if she was about to faint. The troll
was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the
walls as it went.
 
“Confuse it!” Harry said desperately to Ron, and,
seizing a tap, he threw it as hard as he could against
the wall.
The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It
lumbered around, blinking stupidly, to see what had
made the noise. Its mean little eyes saw Harry. It
hesitated, then made for him instead, lifting its club
as it went.
“Oy, pea-brain!” yelled Ron from the other side of the
chamber, and he threw a metal pipe at it. The troll
didn’t even seem to notice the pipe hitting its
shoulder, but it heard the yell and paused again,
turning its ugly snout toward Ron instead, giving
Harry time to run around it.
“Come on, run, run\” Harry yelled at Hermione, trying
to pull her toward the door, but she couldn’t move,
she was still flat against the wall, her mouth open
with terror.
The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the
troll berserk. It roared again and started toward Ron,
who was nearest and had no way to escape.
Harry then did something that was both very brave
and very stupid: He took a great running jump and
managed to fasten his arms around the troll’s neck
from behind. The troll couldn’t feel Harry hanging
there, but even a troll will notice if you stick a long bit
of wood up its nose, and Harry’s wand had still been
in his hand when he’d jumped — it had gone straight
up one of the troll’s nostrils.
Howling with pain, the troll twisted and flailed its
club, with Harry clinging on for dear life; any second,
the troll was going to rip him off or catch him a
terrible blow with the club.
 
Hermione had sunk to the floor in fright; Ron pulled
out his own wand — not knowing what he was going
to do he heard himself cry the first spell that came
into his head: “Wingardium Leviosal”
The club flew suddenly out of the troll’s hand, rose
high, high up into the air, turned slowly over — and
dropped, with a sickening crack, onto its owner’s
head. The troll swayed on the spot and then fell flat
on its face, with a thud that made the whole room
tremble.
Harry got to his feet. He was shaking and out of
breath. Ron was standing there with his wand still
raised, staring at what he had done.
It was Hermione who spoke first.
“Is it — dead?”
“I don’t think so,” said Harry, “I think it’s just been
knocked out.”
He bent down and pulled his wand out of the troll’s
nose. It was covered in what looked like lumpy gray
glue.
“Urgh — troll boogers.”
He wiped it on the troll’s trousers.
A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the
three of them look up. They hadn’t realized what a
racket they had been making, but of course, someone
downstairs must have heard the crashes and the
troll’s roars. A moment later, Professor McGonagall
had come bursting into the room, closely followed by
Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell
 
took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and
sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart.
Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was
looking at Ron and Harry. Harry had never seen her
look so angry. Her lips were white. Hopes of winning
fifty points for Gryffindor faded quickly from Harry’s
mind.
“What on earth were you thinking of?” said Professor
McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. Harry looked
at Ron, who was still standing with his wand in the
air. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you
in your dormitory?”
Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry looked
at the floor. He wished Ron would put his wand down.
Then a small voice came out of the shadows.
“Please, Professor McGonagall — they were looking for
me.”
“Miss Granger!”
Hermione had managed to get to her feet at last.
“I went looking for the troll because I — I thought I
could deal with it on my own — you know, because
I’ve read all about them.”
Ron dropped his wand. Hermione Granger, telling a
downright lie to a teacher?
“If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead now. Harry
stuck his wand up its nose and Ron knocked it out
with its own club. They didn’t have time to come and
fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they
arrived.”
 
Harry and Ron tried to look as though this story
wasn’t new to them.
“Well — in that case ...” said Professor McGonagall,
staring at the three of them, “Miss Granger, you
foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a
mountain troll on your own?”
Hermione hung her head. Harry was speechless.
Hermione was the last person to do anything against
the rules, and here she was, pretending she had, to
get them out of trouble. It was as if Snape had started
handing out sweets.
“Miss Granger, five points will be taken from
Gryffindor for this,” said Professor McGonagall. “I’m
very disappointed in you. If you’re not hurt at all,
you’d better get off to Gryffindor Tower. Students are
finishing the feast in their Houses.”
Hermione left.
Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and Ron.
“Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first
years could have taken on a full-grown mountain
troll. You each win Gryffindor five points. Professor
Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go.”
They hurried out of the chamber and didn’t speak at
all until they had climbed two floors up. It was a relief
to be away from the smell of the troll, quite apart from
anything else.
“We should have gotten more than ten points,” Ron
grumbled.
“Five, you mean, once she’s taken off Hermione ’s.”
 
“Good of her to get us out of trouble like that,” Ron
admitted. “Mind you, we did save her.”
“She might not have needed saving if we hadn’t
locked the thing in with her,” Harry reminded him.
They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.
“Pig snout,” they said and entered.
The common room was packed and noisy. Everyone
was eating the food that had been sent up. Hermione,
however, stood alone by the door, waiting for them.
There was a very embarrassed pause. Then, none of
them looking at each other, they all said “Thanks,”
and hurried off to get plates.
But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became
their friend. There are some things you can’t share
without ending up liking each other, and knocking
out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.
 
QUIDDITCH
As they entered November, the weather turned very
cold. The mountains around the school became icy
gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the
ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen
from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on
the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin
overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin
boots.
The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry
would be playing in his first match after weeks of
training: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If Gryffindor
won, they would move up into second place in the
House Championship.
Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood
had decided that, as their secret weapon, Harry
should be kept, well, secret. But the news that he was
playing Seeker had leaked out somehow, and Harry
didn’t know which was worse — people telling him
he’d be brilliant or people telling him they’d be
running around underneath him holding a mattress.
 
It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a
friend. He didn’t know how he’d have gotten through
all his homework without her, what with all the last-
minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them
do. She had also lent him Quidditch Through the Ages,
which turned out to be a very interesting read.
Harry learned that there were seven hundred ways of
committing a Quidditch foul and that all of them had
happened during a World Cup match in 1473; that
Seekers were usually the smallest and fastest players,
and that most serious Quidditch accidents seemed to
happen to them; that although people rarely died
playing Quidditch, referees had been known to vanish
and turn up months later in the Sahara Desert.
Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about
breaking rules since Harry and Ron had saved her
from the mountain troll, and she was much nicer for
it. The day before Harry’s first Quidditch match the
three of them were out in the freezing courtyard
during break, and she had conjured them up a bright
blue fire that could be carried around in a jam jar.
They were standing with their backs to it, getting
warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry noticed at
once that Snape was limping. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione moved closer together to block the fire from
view; they were sure it wouldn’t be allowed.
Unfortunately, something about their guilty faces
caught Snape’s eye. He limped over. He hadn’t seen
the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to
tell them off anyway.
“What’s that you’ve got there, Potter?”
It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him.
 
“Library books are not to be taken outside the
school,” said Snape. “Give it to me. Five points from
Gryffindor.”
“He’s just made that rule up,” Harry muttered angrily
as Snape limped away. “Wonder what’s wrong with
his leg?”
“Dunno, but I hope it’s really hurting him,” said Ron
bitterly.
The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that
evening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together next
to a window. Hermione was checking Harry and Ron’s
Charms homework for them. She would never let
them copy (“How will you learn?”), but by asking her
to read it through, they got the right answers anyway.
Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the
Ages back, to take his mind off his nerves about
tomorrow. Why should he be afraid of Snape? Getting
up, he told Ron and Hermione he was going to ask
Snape if he could have it.
“Better you than me,” they said together, but Harry
had an idea that Snape wouldn’t refuse if there were
other teachers listening.
He made his way down to the staffroom and knocked.
There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing.
Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was
worth a try. He pushed the door ajar and peered
inside — and a horrible scene met his eyes.
Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was
holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was
bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape
bandages.
 
“Blasted thing,” Snape was saying. “How are you
supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at
once?”
Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but —
“POTTER!”
Snape ’s face was twisted with fury as he dropped his
robes quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped.
“I just wondered if I could have my book back.”
“GET OUT! OUT!”
Harry left, before Snape could take any more points
from Gryffindor. He sprinted back upstairs.
“Did you get it?” Ron asked as Harry joined them.
“What’s the matter?”
In a low whisper, Harry told them what he’d seen.
“You know what this means?” he finished
breathlessly. “He tried to get past that three-headed
dog at Halloween! That’s where he was going when we
saw him — he’s after whatever it’s guarding! And I’d
bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a
diversion!”
Hermione’s eyes were wide.
“No — he wouldn’t,” she said. “I know he’s not very
nice, but he wouldn’t try and steal something
Dumbledore was keeping safe.”
“Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints
or something,” snapped Ron. “I’m with Harry. I
 
wouldn’t put anything past Snape. But what’s he
after? What’s that dog guarding?”
Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with the
same question. Neville was snoring loudly, but Harry
couldn’t sleep. He tried to empty his mind — he
needed to sleep, he had to, he had his first Quidditch
match in a few hours — but the expression on
Snape’s face when Harry had seen his leg wasn’t easy
to forget.
The next morning dawned very bright and cold. The
Great Hall was full of the delicious smell of fried
sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking
forward to a good Quidditch match.
“You’ve got to eat some breakfast.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Just a bit of toast,” wheedled Hermione.
“I’m not hungry.”
Harry felt terrible. In an hour’s time he’d be walking
onto the field.
“Harry, you need your strength,” said Seamus
Finnigan. “Seekers are always the ones who get
clobbered by the other team.”
“Thanks, Seamus,” said Harry, watching Seamus pile
ketchup on his sausages.
By eleven o’clock the whole school seemed to be out
in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many
students had binoculars. The seats might be raised
high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what
was going on sometimes.
 
Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean
the West Ham fan up in the top row. As a surprise for
Harry, they had painted a large banner on one of the
sheets Scabbers had ruined. It said Potter for
President, and Dean, who was good at drawing, had
done a large Gryffindor lion underneath. Then
Hermione had performed a tricky little charm so that
the paint flashed different colors.
Meanwhile, in the locker room, Harry and the rest of
the team were changing into their scarlet Quidditch
robes (Slytherin would be playing in green) .
Wood cleared his throat for silence.
“Okay, men,” he said.
“And women,” said Chaser Angelina Johnson.
“And women,” Wood agreed. “This is it.”
“The big one,” said Fred Weasley.
“The one we’ve all been waiting for,” said George.
“We know Oliver’s speech by heart,” Fred told Harry,
“we were on the team last year.”
“Shut up, you two,” said Wood. “This is the best team
Gryffindor’s had in years. We’re going to win. I know
it.”
He glared at them all as if to say, “Or else.”
“Right. It’s time. Good luck, all of you.”
Harry followed Fred and George out of the locker
room and, hoping his knees weren’t going to give way,
walked onto the field to loud cheers.
 
Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the
middle of the field waiting for the two teams, her
broom in her hand.
“Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you,” she said,
once they were all gathered around her. Harry noticed
that she seemed to be speaking particularly to the
Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint, a fifth year. Harry
thought Flint looked as if he had some troll blood in
him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fluttering
banner high above, flashing Potter for President over
the crowd. His heart skipped. He felt braver.
“Mount your brooms, please.”
Harry clambered onto his Nimbus Two Thousand.
Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle.
Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They
were off.
“And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina
Johnson of Gryffindor — what an excellent Chaser
that girl is, and rather attractive, too — ”
“JORDAN!”
“Sorry, Professor.”
The Weasley twins’ friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the
commentary for the match, closely watched by
Professor McGonagall.
“And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass
to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood’s, last
year only a reserve — back to Johnson and — no, the
Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain
Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes — Flint
 
flying like an eagle up there — he’s going to sc- no,
stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper
Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle — that’s
Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive
around Flint, off up the field and — OUCH — that
must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a
Bludger — Quaffle taken by the Slytherins — that’s
Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but
he’s blocked by a second Bludger — sent his way by
Fred or George Weasley, can’t tell which — nice play
by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back
in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and
off she goes — she’s really flying — dodges a speeding
Bludger — the goal posts are ahead — come on, now,
Angelina — Keeper Bletchley dives — misses —
GRYFFINDORS SCORE!”
Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, with howls and
moans from the Slytherins.
“Budge up there, move along.”
“Hagrid!”
Ron and Hermione squeezed together to give Hagrid
enough space to join them.
“Bin watchin’ from me hut,” said Hagrid, patting a
large pair of binoculars around his neck, “But it isn’t
the same as bein’ in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch
yet, eh?”
“Nope,” said Ron. “Harry hasn’t had much to do yet.”
“Kept outta trouble, though, that’s somethin’,” said
Hagrid, raising his binoculars and peering skyward at
the speck that was Harry.
 
Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game,
squinting about for some sign of the Snitch. This was
part of his and Wood’s game plan.
“Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the
Snitch,” Wood had said. “We don’t want you attacked
before you have to be.”
When Angelina had scored, Harry had done a couple
of loop-the-loops to let off his feelings. Now he was
back to staring around for the Snitch. Once he caught
sight of a flash of gold, but it was just a reflection
from one of the Weasleys’ wristwatches, and once a
Bludger decided to come pelting his way, more like a
cannonball than anything, but Harry dodged it and
Fred Weasley came chasing after it.
“All right there, Harry?” he had time to yell, as he
beat the Bludger furiously toward Marcus Flint.
“Slytherin in possession,” Lee Jordan was saying,
“Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys,
and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the — wait a
moment — was that the Snitch?”
A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey
dropped the Quaffle, too busy looking over his
shoulder at the flash of gold that had passed his left
ear.
Harry saw it. In a great rush of excitement he dived
downward after the streak of gold. Slytherin Seeker
Terence Higgs had seen it, too. Neck and neck they
hurtled toward the Snitch — all the Chasers seemed
to have forgotten what they were supposed to be
doing as they hung in midair to watch.
 
Harry was faster than Higgs — he could see the little
round ball, wings fluttering, darting up ahead — he
put on an extra spurt of speed —
WHAM! A roar of rage echoed from the Gryffindors
below — Marcus Flint had blocked Harry on purpose,
and Harry’s broom spun off course, Harry holding on
for dear life.
“Foul!” screamed the Gryffindors.
Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered
a free shot at the goal posts for Gryffindor. But in all
the confusion, of course, the Golden Snitch had
disappeared from sight again.
Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was yelling, “Send
him off, ref! Red card!”
“What are you talking about, Dean?” said Ron.
“Red card!” said Dean furiously. “In soccer you get
shown the red card and you’re out of the game!”
“But this isn’t soccer, Dean,” Ron reminded him.
Hagrid, however, was on Dean’s side.
“They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked
Harry outta the air.”
Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides.
“So — after that obvious and disgusting bit of
cheating — ”
“Jordan!” growled Professor McGonagall.
“I mean, after that open and revolting foul — ”
 
“Jordan, I’m warning you — ”
“All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor
Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I’m sure, so a
penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it
away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor
still in possession.”
It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, which went
spinning dangerously past his head, that it happened.
His broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a
split second, he thought he was going to fall. He
gripped the broom tightly with both his hands and
knees. He’d never felt anything like that.
It happened again. It was as though the broom was
trying to buck him off. But Nimbus Two Thousands
did not suddenly decide to buck their riders off. Harry
tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor goal posts —
he had half a mind to ask Wood to call time-out —
and then he realized that his broom was completely
out of his control. He couldn’t turn it. He couldn’t
direct it at all. It was zigzagging through the air, and
every now and then making violent swishing
movements that almost unseated him.
Lee was still commentating.
“Slytherin in possession — Flint with the Quaffle —
passes Spinnet — passes Bell — hit hard in the face
by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose — only joking,
Professor — Slytherins score — oh no ...”
The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have
noticed that Harry’s broom was behaving strangely It
was carrying him slowly higher, away from the game,
jerking and twitching as it went.
 
“Dunno what Harry thinks he’s doing,” Hagrid
mumbled. He stared through his binoculars. “If I
didn’ know better, I’d say he’d lost control of his
broom ... but he can’t have. ...”
Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over
the stands. His broom had started to roll over and
over, with him only just managing to hold on. Then
the whole crowd gasped. Harry’s broom had given a
wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling
from it, holding on with only one hand.
“Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?”
Seamus whispered.
“Can’t have,” Hagrid said, his voice shaking. “Can’t
nothing interfere with a broomstick except powerful
Dark magic — no kid could do that to a Nimbus Two
Thousand.”
At these words, Hermione seized Hagrid ’s binoculars,
but instead of looking up at Harry, she started
looking frantically at the crowd.
“What are you doing?” moaned Ron, gray-faced.
“I knew it,” Hermione gasped, “Snape — look.”
Ron grabbed the binoculars. Snape was in the middle
of the stands opposite them. He had his eyes fixed on
Harry and was muttering nonstop under his breath.
“He’s doing something — jinxing the broom,” said
Hermione.
“What should we do?”
“Leave it to me.”
 
Before Ron could say another word, Hermione had
disappeared. Ron turned the binoculars back on
Harry. His broom was vibrating so hard, it was almost
impossible for him to hang on much longer. The
whole crowd was on its feet, watching, terrified, as the
Weasleys flew up to try and pull Harry safely onto one
of their brooms, but it was no good — every time they
got near him, the broom would jump higher still. They
dropped lower and circled beneath him, obviously
hoping to catch him if he fell. Marcus Flint seized the
Quaffle and scored five times without anyone
noticing.
“Come on, Hermione,” Ron muttered desperately.
Hermione had fought her way across to the stand
where Snape stood, and was now racing along the row
behind him; she didn’t even stop to say sorry as she
knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into the row in
front. Reaching Snape, she crouched down, pulled
out her wand, and whispered a few, well-chosen
words. Bright blue flames shot from her wand onto
the hem of Snape ’s robes.
It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize
that he was on fire. A sudden yelp told her she had
done her job. Scooping the fire off him into a little jar
in her pocket, she scrambled back along the row —
Snape would never know what had happened.
It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able
to clamber back on to his broom.
“Neville, you can look!” Ron said. Neville had been
sobbing into Hagrid’s jacket for the last five minutes.
Harry was speeding toward the ground when the
crowd saw him clap his hand to his mouth as though
 
he was about to be sick — he hit the field on all fours
— coughed — and something gold fell into his hand.
“I’ve got the Snitch!” he shouted, waving it above his
head, and the game ended in complete confusion.
“He didn’t catch it, he nearly swallowed it,” Flint was
still howling twenty minutes later, but it made no
difference — Harry hadn’t broken any rules and Lee
Jordan was still happily shouting the results —
Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy
points to sixty. Harry heard none of this, though. He
was being made a cup of strong tea back in Hagrid’s
hut, with Ron and Hermione.
“It was Snape,” Ron was explaining, “Hermione and I
saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering,
he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Rubbish,” said Hagrid, who hadn’t heard a word of
what had gone on next to him in the stands. “Why
would Snape do somethin’ like that?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another,
wondering what to tell him. Harry decided on the
truth.
“I found out something about him,” he told Hagrid.
“He tried to get past that three-headed dog on
Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal
whatever it’s guarding.”
Hagrid dropped the teapot.
“How do you know about Fluffy?” he said.
“ Fluffy ?”
 
“Yeah — he’s mine — bought him off a Greek chappie
I met in the pub las’ year — I lent him to Dumbledore
to guard the — ”
“Yes?” said Harry eagerly.
“Now, don’t ask me anymore,” said Hagrid gruffly.
“That’s top secret, that is.”
“But Snape’s trying to steal it.”
“Rubbish,” said Hagrid again. “Snape’s a Hogwarts
teacher, he’d do nothin’ of the sort.”
“So why did he just try and kill Harry?” cried
Hermione.
The afternoon’s events certainly seemed to have
changed her mind about Snape.
“I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all
about them! You’ve got to keep eye contact, and
Snape wasn’t blinking at all, I saw him!”
“I’m tellin’ yeh, yer wrong!” said Hagrid hotly. “I don’
know why Harry’s broom acted like that, but Snape
wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now, listen to me, all
three of yeh — yer meddlin’ in things that don’
concern yeh. It’s dangerous. You forget that dog, an’
you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor
Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel — ■”
“Aha!” said Harry, “so there’s someone called Nicolas
Flamel involved, is there?”
Hagrid looked furious with himself.
 
THE MIRROR OF ERISED
Christmas was coming. One morning in mid-
December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in
several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and the
Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several
snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around,
bouncing off the back of his turban. The few owls that
managed to battle their way through the stormy sky
to deliver mail had to be nursed back to health by
Hagrid before they could fly off again.
No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the
Gryffindor common room and the Great Hall had
roaring fires, the drafty corridors had become icy and
a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms.
Worst of all were Professor Snape’s classes down in
the dungeons, where their breath rose in a mist
before them and they kept as close as possible to
their hot cauldrons.
“I do feel so sorry,” said Draco Malfoy, one Potions
class, “for all those people who have to stay at
 
Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted
at home.”
He was looking over at Harry as he spoke. Crabbe and
Goyle chuckled. Harry, who was measuring out
powdered spine of lion-fish, ignored them. Malfoy had
been even more unpleasant than usual since the
Quidditch match. Disgusted that the Slytherins had
lost, he had tried to get everyone laughing at how a
wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Harry as
Seeker next. Then he’d realized that nobody found
this funny, because they were all so impressed at the
way Harry had managed to stay on his bucking
broomstick. So Malfoy, jealous and angry, had gone
back to taunting Harry about having no proper
family.
It was true that Harry wasn’t going back to Privet
Drive for Christmas. Professor McGonagall had come
around the week before, making a list of students
who would be staying for the holidays, and Harry had
signed up at once. He didn’t feel sorry for himself at
all; this would probably be the best Christmas he’d
ever had. Ron and his brothers were staying, too,
because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Romania
to visit Charlie.
When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions,
they found a large fir tree blocking the corridor ahead.
Two enormous feet sticking out at the bottom and a
loud puffing sound told them that Hagrid was behind
it.
“Hi, Hagrid, want any help?” Ron asked, sticking his
head through the branches.
“Nah, I’m all right, thanks, Ron.”
 
“Would you mind moving out of the way?” came
Malfoy’s cold drawl from behind them. “Are you trying
to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to be
gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I
suppose — that hut of Hagrid’s must seem like a
palace compared to what your family’s used to.”
Ron dived at Malfoy just as Snape came up the stairs.
“WEASLEY!”
Ron let go of the front of Malfoy’s robes.
“He was provoked, Professor Snape,” said Hagrid,
sticking his huge hairy face out from behind the tree.
“Malfoy was insultin’ his family.”
“Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules,
Hagrid,” said Snape silkily. “Five points from
Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn’t more.
Move along, all of you.”
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle pushed roughly past the
tree, scattering needles everywhere and smirking.
“I’ll get him,” said Ron, grinding his teeth at Malfoy’s
back, “one of these days, I’ll get him — ”
“I hate them both,” said Harry, “Malfoy and Snape.”
“Come on, cheer up, it’s nearly Christmas,” said
Hagrid. “Tell yeh what, come with me an’ see the
Great Hall, looks a treat.”
So the three of them followed Hagrid and his tree off
to the Great Hall, where Professor McGonagall and
Professor Flitwick were busy with the Christmas
decorations.
 
“Ah, Hagrid, the last tree — put it in the far corner,
would you?”
The hall looked spectacular. Festoons of holly and
mistletoe hung all around the walls, and no less than
twelve towering Christmas trees stood around the
room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering
with hundreds of candles.
“How many days you got left until yer holidays?”
Hagrid asked.
“Just one,” said Hermione. “And that reminds me —
Harry, Ron, we’ve got half an hour before lunch, we
should be in the library.”
“Oh yeah, you’re right,” said Ron, tearing his eyes
away from Professor Flitwick, who had golden
bubbles blossoming out of his wand and was trailing
them over the branches of the new tree.
“The library?” said Hagrid, following them out of the
hall. “Just before the holidays? Bit keen, aren’t yeh?”
“Oh, we’re not working,” Harry told him brightly.
“Ever since you mentioned Nicolas Flamel we’ve been
trying to find out who he is.”
“You what?” Hagrid looked shocked. “Listen here —
I’ve told yeh — drop it. It’s nothin’ to you what that
dog’s guardin’.”
“We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that’s
all,” said Hermione.
“Unless you’d like to tell us and save us the trouble?”
Harry added. “We must’ve been through hundreds of
books already and we can’t find him anywhere — just
 
give us a hint — I know I’ve read his name
somewhere.”
“I’m sayin’ nothin’,” said Hagrid flatly.
“Just have to find out for ourselves, then,” said Ron,
and they left Hagrid looking disgruntled and hurried
off to the library.
They had indeed been searching books for Flamel’s
name ever since Hagrid had let it slip, because how
else were they going to find out what Snape was
trying to steal? The trouble was, it was very hard to
know where to begin, not knowing what Flamel might
have done to get himself into a book. He wasn’t in
Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, or Notable
Magical Names of Our Time ; he was missing, too, from
Important Modern Magical Discoveries, and A Study of
Recent Developments in Wizardry. And then, of
course, there was the sheer size of the library; tens of
thousands of books; thousands of shelves; hundreds
of narrow rows.
Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles she had
decided to search while Ron strode off down a row of
books and started pulling them off the shelves at
random. Harry wandered over to the Restricted
Section. He had been wondering for a while if Flamel
wasn’t somewhere in there. Unfortunately, you
needed a specially signed note from one of the
teachers to look in any of the restricted books, and he
knew he’d never get one. These were the books
containing powerful Dark Magic never taught at
Hogwarts, and only read by older students studying
advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts.
“What are you looking for, boy?”
“Nothing,” said Harry.
 
Madam Pince the librarian brandished a feather
duster at him.
“You’d better get out, then. Go on — out!”
Wishing he’d been a bit quicker at thinking up some
story, Harry left the library. He, Ron, and Hermione
had already agreed they’d better not ask Madam
Pince where they could find Flamel. They were sure
she’d be able to tell them, but they couldn’t risk
Snape hearing what they were up to.
Harry waited outside in the corridor to see if the other
two had found anything, but he wasn’t very hopeful.
They had been looking for two weeks, after all, but as
they only had odd moments between lessons it wasn’t
surprising they’d found nothing. What they really
needed was a nice long search without Madam Pince
breathing down their necks.
Five minutes later, Ron and Hermione joined him,
shaking their heads. They went off to lunch.
“You will keep looking while I’m away, won’t you?”
said Hermione. “And send me an owl if you find
anything.”
“And you could ask your parents if they know who
Flamel is,” said Ron. “It’d be safe to ask them.”
“Very safe, as they’re both dentists,” said Hermione.
Once the holidays had started, Ron and Harry were
having too good a time to think much about Flamel.
They had the dormitory to themselves and the
common room was far emptier than usual, so they
were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. They
sat by the hour eating anything they could spear on a
toasting fork — bread, English muffins,
 
marshmallows — and plotting ways of getting Malfoy
expelled, which were fun to talk about even if they
wouldn’t work.
Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This
was exactly like Muggle chess except that the figures
were alive, which made it a lot like directing troops in
battle. Ron’s set was very old and battered. Like
everything else he owned, it had once belonged to
someone else in his family — in this case, his
grandfather. However, old chessmen weren’t a
drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he never had
trouble getting them to do what he wanted.
Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had
lent him, and they didn’t trust him at all. He wasn’t a
very good player yet and they kept shouting different
bits of advice at him, which was confusing. “Don’t
send me there, can’t you see his knight? Send him, we
can afford to lose him.”
On Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed looking forward
to the next day for the food and the fun, but not
expecting any presents at all. When he woke early in
the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a
small pile of packages at the foot of his bed.
“Merry Christmas,” said Ron sleepily as Harry
scrambled out of bed and pulled on his bathrobe.
“You, too,” said Harry. “Will you look at this? I’ve got
some presents!”
“What did you expect, turnips?” said Ron, turning to
his own pile, which was a lot bigger than Harry’s.
Harry picked up the top parcel. It was wrapped in
thick brown paper and scrawled across it was To
Harry, from Hagrid. Inside was a roughly cut wooden
 
flute. Hagrid had obviously whittled it himself. Harry
blew it — it sounded a bit like an owl.
A second, very small parcel contained a note.
We received your message and enclose your Christmas
present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Taped
to the note was a fifty-pence piece.
“That’s friendly,” said Harry.
Ron was fascinated by the fifty pence.
“ Weird\ ” he said, “What a shape! This is money?”
“You can keep it,” said Harry, laughing at how
pleased Ron was. “Hagrid and my aunt and uncle —
so who sent these?”
“I think I know who that one’s from,” said Ron,
turning a bit pink and pointing to a very lumpy
parcel. “My mom. I told her you didn’t expect any
presents and — oh, no,” he groaned, “she’s made you
a Weasley sweater.”
Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand-
knitted sweater in emerald green and a large box of
homemade fudge.
“Every year she makes us a sweater,” said Ron,
unwrapping his own, “and mine’s always maroon.”
“That’s really nice of her,” said Harry, trying the
fudge, which was very tasty.
His next present also contained candy — a large box
of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione.
 
This only left one parcel. Harry picked it up and felt
it. It was very light. He unwrapped it.
Something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the
floor where it lay in gleaming folds. Ron gasped.
“I’ve heard of those,” he said in a hushed voice,
dropping the box of Every Flavor Beans he’d gotten
from Hermione. “If that’s what I think it is — they’re
really rare, and really valuable.”
“What is it?”
Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It
was strange to the touch, like water woven into
material.
“It’s an Invisibility Cloak,” said Ron, a look of awe on
his face. “I’m sure it is — try it on.”
Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Ron
gave a yell.
“It is! Look down!”
Harry looked down at his feet, but they were gone. He
dashed to the mirror. Sure enough, his reflection
looked back at him, just his head suspended in
midair, his body completely invisible. He pulled the
cloak over his head and his reflection vanished
completely.
“There’s a note!” said Ron suddenly. “A note fell out of
it!”
Harry pulled off the cloak and seized the letter.
Written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen
before were the following words:
 
Your father left this in my possession before he died. It
is time it was returned to you.
Use it well.
A Very Merry Christmas to you.
There was no signature. Harry stared at the note. Ron
was admiring the cloak.
“I’d give anuthinq for one of these,” he said. “Anuthinq.
What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Harry. He felt very strange. Who had
sent the cloak? Had it really once belonged to his
father?
Before he could say or think anything else, the
dormitory door was flung open and Fred and George
Weasley bounded in. Harry stuffed the cloak quickly
out of sight. He didn’t feel like sharing it with anyone
else yet.
“Merry Christmas!”
“Hey, look — Harry’s got a Weasley sweater, too!”
Fred and George were wearing blue sweaters, one
with a large yellow F on it, the other a G.
“Harry’s is better than ours, though,” said Fred,
holding up Harry’s sweater. “She obviously makes
more of an effort if you’re not family.”
“Why aren’t you wearing yours, Ron?” George
demanded. “Come on, get it on, they’re lovely and
warm.”
 
“I hate maroon,” Ron moaned halfheartedly as he
pulled it over his head.
“You haven’t got a letter on yours,” George observed.
“I suppose she thinks you don’t forget your name. But
we’re not stupid — we know we’re called Gred and
Forge.”
“What’s all this noise?”
Percy Weasley stuck his head through the door,
looking disapproving. He had clearly gotten halfway
through unwrapping his presents as he, too, carried a
lumpy sweater over his arm, which Fred seized.
“P for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we’re all
wearing ours, even Harry got one.”
“I — don’t — want — ” said Percy thickly, as the twins
forced the sweater over his head, knocking his glasses
askew.
“And you’re not sitting with the prefects today,
either,” said George. “Christmas is a time for family.”
They frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms
pinned to his side by his sweater.
Harry had never in all his life had such a Christmas
dinner. A hundred fat, roast turkeys; mountains of
roast and boiled potatoes; platters of chipolatas;
tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich
gravy and cranberry sauce — and stacks of wizard
crackers every few feet along the table. These
fantastic party favors were nothing like the feeble
Muggle ones the Dursleys usually bought, with their
little plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats inside.
Harry pulled a wizard cracker with Fred and it didn’t
just bang, it went off with a blast like a cannon and
 
engulfed them all in a cloud of blue smoke, while from
the inside exploded a rear admiral’s hat and several
live, white mice. Up at the High Table, Dumbledore
had swapped his pointed wizard’s hat for a flowered
bonnet, and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor
Flitwick had just read him.
Flaming Christmas puddings followed the turkey.
Percy nearly broke his teeth on a silver Sickle
embedded in his slice. Harry watched Hagrid getting
redder and redder in the face as he called for more
wine, finally kissing Professor McGonagall on the
cheek, who, to Harry’s amazement, giggled and
blushed, her top hat lopsided.
When Harry finally left the table, he was laden down
with a stack of things out of the crackers, including a
pack of non-explodable, luminous balloons, a Grow-
Your-Own-Warts kit, and his own new wizard chess
set. The white mice had disappeared and Harry had a
nasty feeling they were going to end up as Mrs.
Norris’s Christmas dinner.
Harry and the Weasleys spent a happy afternoon
having a furious snowball fight on the grounds. Then,
cold, wet, and gasping for breath, they returned to the
fire in the Gryffindor common room, where Harry
broke in his new chess set by losing spectacularly to
Ron. He suspected he wouldn’t have lost so badly if
Percy hadn’t tried to help him so much.
After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle,
and Christmas cake, everyone felt too full and sleepy
to do much before bed except sit and watch Percy
chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor Tower
because they’d stolen his prefect badge.
It had been Harry’s best Christmas day ever. Yet
something had been nagging at the back of his mind
 
all day. Not until he climbed into bed was he free to
think about it: the Invisibility Cloak and whoever had
sent it.
Ron, full of turkey and cake and with nothing
mysterious to bother him, fell asleep almost as soon
as he’d drawn the curtains of his four-poster. Harry
leaned over the side of his own bed and pulled the
cloak out from under it.
His father’s ... this had been his father’s. He let the
material flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light
as air. Use it well, the note had said.
He had to try it, now. He slipped out of bed and
wrapped the cloak around himself. Looking down at
his legs, he saw only moonlight and shadows. It was a
very funny feeling.
Use it well.
Suddenly, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of
Hogwarts was open to him in this cloak. Excitement
flooded through him as he stood there in the dark
and silence. He could go anywhere in this, anywhere,
and Filch would never know.
Ron grunted in his sleep. Should Harry wake him?
Something held him back — his father’s cloak — he
felt that this time — the first time — he wanted to use
it alone.
He crept out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across
the common room, and climbed through the portrait
hole.
“Who’s there?” squawked the Fat Lady. Harry said
nothing. He walked quickly down the corridor.
 
Where should he go? He stopped, his heart racing,
and thought. And then it came to him. The Restricted
Section in the library. He’d be able to read as long as
he liked, as long as it took to find out who Flamel
was. He set off, drawing the Invisibility Cloak tight
around him as he walked.
The library was pitch-black and very eerie. Harry lit a
lamp to see his way along the rows of books. The
lamp looked as if it was floating along in midair, and
even though Harry could feel his arm supporting it,
the sight gave him the creeps.
The Restricted Section was right at the back of the
library. Stepping carefully over the rope that
separated these books from the rest of the library, he
held up his lamp to read the titles.
They didn’t tell him much. Their peeling, faded gold
letters spelled words in languages Harry couldn’t
understand. Some had no title at all. One book had a
dark stain on it that looked horribly like blood. The
hairs on the back of Harry’s neck prickled. Maybe he
was imagining it, maybe not, but he thought a faint
whispering was coming from the books, as though
they knew someone was there who shouldn’t be.
He had to start somewhere. Setting the lamp down
carefully on the floor, he looked along the bottom
shelf for an interesting-looking book. A large black
and silver volume caught his eye. He pulled it out
with difficulty, because it was very heavy, and,
balancing it on his knee, let it fall open.
A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek split the silence —
the book was screaming! Harry snapped it shut, but
the shriek went on and on, one high, unbroken,
earsplitting note. He stumbled backward and knocked
over his lamp, which went out at once. Panicking, he
 
heard footsteps coming down the corridor outside —
stuffing the shrieking book back on the shelf, he ran
for it. He passed Filch in the doorway; Filch’s pale,
wild eyes looked straight through him, and Harry
slipped under Filch’s outstretched arm and streaked
off up the corridor, the book’s shrieks still ringing in
his ears.
He came to a sudden halt in front of a tall suit of
armor. He had been so busy getting away from the
library, he hadn’t paid attention to where he was
going. Perhaps because it was dark, he didn’t
recognize where he was at all. There was a suit of
armor near the kitchens, he knew, but he must be
five floors above there.
“You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if
anyone was wandering around at night, and
somebody’s been in the library — Restricted Section.”
Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. Wherever he
was, Filch must know a shortcut, because his soft,
greasy voice was getting nearer, and to his horror, it
was Snape who replied, “The Restricted Section? Well,
they can’t be far, we’ll catch them.”
Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape
came around the corner ahead. They couldn’t see
him, of course, but it was a narrow corridor and if
they came much nearer they’d knock right into him —
the cloak didn’t stop him from being solid.
He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood
ajar to his left. It was his only hope. He squeezed
through it, holding his breath, trying not to move it,
and to his relief he managed to get inside the room
without their noticing anything. They walked straight
past, and Harry leaned against the wall, breathing
deeply, listening to their footsteps dying away. That
 
had been close, very close. It was a few seconds
before he noticed anything about the room he had
hidden in.
It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes
of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and
there was an upturned wastepaper basket — but
propped against the wall facing him was something
that didn’t look as if it belonged there, something that
looked as if someone had just put it there to keep it
out of the way.
It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling,
with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed
feet. There was an inscription carved around the top:
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
His panic fading now that there was no sound of Filch
and Snape, Harry moved nearer to the mirror,
wanting to look at himself but see no reflection again.
He stepped in front of it.
He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself
from screaming. He whirled around. His heart was
pounding far more furiously than when the book had
screamed — for he had seen not only himself in the
mirror, but a whole crowd of people standing right
behind him.
But the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he
turned slowly back to the mirror.
There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-
looking, and there, reflected behind him, were at least
ten others. Harry looked over his shoulder — but still,
no one was there. Or were they all invisible, too? Was
he in fact in a room full of invisible people and this
mirrors trick was that it reflected them, invisible or
not?
 
He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing
right behind his reflection was smiling at him and
waving. He reached out a hand and felt the air behind
him. If she was really there, he’d touch her, their
reflections were so close together, but he felt only air
— she and the others existed only in the mirror.
She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair
and her eyes — her eyes are just like mine, Harry
thought, edging a little closer to the glass. Bright
green — exactly the same shape, but then he noticed
that she was crying; smiling, but crying at the same
time. The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next
to her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and
his hair was very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just
as Harry’s did.
Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose
was nearly touching that of his reflection.
“Mom?” he whispered. “Dad?”
They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry
looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror,
and saw other pairs of green eyes like his, other noses
like his, even a little old man who looked as though
he had Harry’s knobbly knees — Harry was looking at
his family, for the first time in his life.
The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared
hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against
the glass as though he was hoping to fall right
through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of
ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.
How long he stood there, he didn’t know. The
reflections did not fade and he looked and looked
until a distant noise brought him back to his senses.
He couldn’t stay here, he had to find his way back to
 
bed. He tore his eyes away from his mother’s face,
whispered, “I’ll come back,” and hurried from the
room.
“You could have woken me up,” said Ron, crossly.
“You can come tonight, I’m going back, I want to show
you the mirror.”
“I’d like to see your mom and dad,” Ron said eagerly.
“And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys,
you’ll be able to show me your other brothers and
everyone.”
“You can see them any old time,” said Ron. “Just
come round my house this summer. Anyway, maybe
it only shows dead people. Shame about not finding
Flamel, though. Have some bacon or something, why
aren’t you eating anything?”
Harry couldn’t eat. He had seen his parents and
would be seeing them again tonight. He had almost
forgotten about Flamel. It didn’t seem very important
anymore. Who cared what the three-headed dog was
guarding? What did it matter if Snape stole it, really?
“Are you all right?” said Ron. “You look odd.”
What Harry feared most was that he might not be
able to find the mirror room again. With Ron covered
in the cloak, too, they had to walk much more slowly
the next night. They tried retracing Harry’s route from
the library, wandering around the dark passageways
for nearly an hour.
“I’m freezing,” said Ron. “Let’s forget it and go back.”
“IVo!” Harry hissed. “I know it’s here somewhere.”
 
They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the
opposite direction, but saw no one else. Just as Ron
started moaning that his feet were dead with cold,
Harry spotted the suit of armor.
“It’s here — just here — yes!”
They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the cloak
from around his shoulders and ran to the mirror.
There they were. His mother and father beamed at the
sight of him.
“See?” Harry whispered.
“I can’t see anything.”
“Look! Look at them all ... there are loads of them. ...”
“I can only see you.”
“Look in it properly, go on, stand where I am.”
Harry stepped aside, but with Ron in front of the
mirror, he couldn’t see his family anymore, just Ron
in his paisley pajamas.
Ron, though, was staring transfixed at his image.
“Look at me!” he said.
“Can you see all your family standing around you?”
“No — I’m alone — but I’m different — I look older —
and I’m Head Boy!”
“What?”
 
“I am — I’m wearing the badge like Bill used to — and
I’m holding the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup —
I’m Quidditch captain, too!”
Ron tore his eyes away from this splendid sight to
look excitedly at Harry.
“Do you think this mirror shows the future?”
“How can it? All my family are dead — let me have
another look — ”
“You had it to yourself all last night, give me a bit
more time.”
“You’re only holding the Quidditch Cup, what’s
interesting about that? I want to see my parents.”
“Don’t push me — ”
A sudden noise outside in the corridor put an end to
their discussion. They hadn’t realized how loudly they
had been talking.
“Quick!”
Ron threw the cloak back over them as the luminous
eyes of Mrs. Norris came round the door. Ron and
Harry stood quite still, both thinking the same thing
— did the cloak work on cats? After what seemed an
age, she turned and left.
“This isn’t safe — she might have gone for Filch, I bet
she heard us. Come on.”
And Ron pulled Harry out of the room.
The snow still hadn’t melted the next morning.
 
“Want to play chess, Harry?” said Ron.
“No.”
“Why don’t we go down and visit Hagrid?”
“No ... you go ...”
“I know what you’re thinking about, Harry, that
mirror. Don’t go back tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I dunno, I’ve just got a bad feeling about it — and
anyway, you’ve had too many close shaves already.
Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris are wandering around.
So what if they can’t see you? What if they walk into
you? What if you knock something over?”
“You sound like Hermione.”
“I’m serious, Harry, don’t go.”
But Harry only had one thought in his head, which
was to get back in front of the mirror, and Ron wasn’t
going to stop him.
That third night he found his way more quickly than
before. He was walking so fast he knew he was
making more noise than was wise, but he didn’t meet
anyone.
And there were his mother and father smiling at him
again, and one of his grandfathers nodding happily.
Harry sank down to sit on the floor in front of the
mirror. There was nothing to stop him from staying
here all night with his family. Nothing at all.
Except —
 
“So — back again, Harry?”
Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He
looked behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the
wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Harry
must have walked straight past him, so desperate to
get to the mirror he hadn’t noticed him.
“I — I didn’t see you, sir.”
“Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make
you,” said Dumbledore, and Harry was relieved to see
that he was smiling.
“So,” said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on
the floor with Harry, “you, like hundreds before you,
have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.”
“I didn’t know it was called that, sir.”
“But I expect you’ve realized by now what it does?”
“It — well — it shows me my family — ”
“And it showed your friend Ron himself as Head Boy.”
“How did you know — ?”
“I don’t need a cloak to become invisible,” said
Dumbledore gently. “Now, can you think what the
Mirror of Erised shows us all?”
Harry shook his head.
“Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be
able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror,
that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly
as he is. Does that help?”
 
Harry thought. Then he said slowly, “It shows us
what we want ... whatever we want ...”
“Yes and no,” said Dumbledore quietly. “It shows us
nothing more or less than the deepest, most
desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never
known your family, see them standing around you.
Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed
by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best
of all of them. However, this mirror will give us
neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away
before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been
driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or
even possible.
“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow,
Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If
you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It
does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live,
remember that. Now, why don’t you put that
admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?”
Harry stood up.
“Sir — Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you
something?”
“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiled.
“You may ask me one more thing, however.”
“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”
“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.”
Harry stared.
“One can never have enough socks,” said
Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone
 
and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on
giving me books.”
It was only when he was back in bed that it struck
Harry that Dumbledore might not have been quite
truthful. But then, he thought, as he shoved
Scabbers off his pillow, it had been quite a personal
question.
 
NICHOLAS FLAMBL
Dumbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking
for the Mirror of Erised again, and for the rest of the
Christmas holidays the Invisibility Cloak stayed
folded at the bottom of his trunk. Harry wished he
could forget what he’d seen in the mirror as easily,
but he couldn’t. He started having nightmares. Over
and over again he dreamed about his parents
disappearing in a flash of green light, while a high
voice cackled with laughter.
“You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could
drive you mad,” said Ron, when Harry told him about
these dreams.
Hermione, who came back the day before term
started, took a different view of things. She was torn
between horror at the idea of Harry being out of bed,
roaming the school three nights in a row (“If Filch had
caught you!”), and disappointment that he hadn’t at
least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.
 
They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel
in a library book, even though Harry was still sure
he’d read the name somewhere. Once term had
started, they were back to skimming through books
for ten minutes during their breaks. Harry had even
less time than the other two, because Quidditch
practice had started again.
Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even
the endless rain that had replaced the snow couldn’t
dampen his spirits. The Weasleys complained that
Wood was becoming a fanatic, but Harry was on
Wood’s side. If they won their next match, against
Hufflepuff, they would overtake Slytherin in the
House Championship for the first time in seven years.
Quite apart from wanting to win, Harry found that he
had fewer nightmares when he was tired out after
training.
Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice
session, Wood gave the team a bit of bad news. He’d
just gotten very angry with the Weasleys, who kept
dive-bombing each other and pretending to fall off
their brooms.
“Will you stop messing around!” he yelled. “That’s
exactly the sort of thing that’ll lose us the match!
Snape’s refereeing this time, and he’ll be looking for
any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!”
George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these
words.
“ Snape’s refereeing?” he spluttered through a
mouthful of mud. “When’s he ever refereed a
Quidditch match? He’s not going to be fair if we might
overtake Slytherin.”
 
The rest of the team landed next to George to
complain, too.
“It’s not my fault,” said Wood. “We’ve just got to make
sure we play a clean game, so Snape hasn’t got an
excuse to pick on us.”
Which was all very well, thought Harry, but he had
another reason for not wanting Snape near him while
he was playing Quidditch. ...
The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another
as usual at the end of practice, but Harry headed
straight back to the Gryffindor common room, where
he found Ron and Hermione playing chess. Chess was
the only thing Hermione ever lost at, something Harry
and Ron thought was very good for her.
“Don’t talk to me for a moment,” said Ron when Harry
sat down next to him, “I need to concern” He caught
sight of Harry’s face. “What’s the matter with you?
You look terrible.”
Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear,
Harry told the other two about Snape ’s sudden,
sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee.
“Don’t play,” said Hermione at once.
“Say you’re ill,” said Ron.
“Pretend to break your leg,” Hermione suggested.
“ Really break your leg,” said Ron.
“I can’t,” said Harry. “There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I
back out, Gryffindor can’t play at all.”
 
At that moment Neville toppled into the common
room. How he had managed to climb through the
portrait hole was anyone’s guess, because his legs
had been stuck together with what they recognized at
once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to
bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor Tower.
Everyone fell over laughing except Hermione, who
leapt up and performed the countercurse. Neville’s
legs sprang apart and he got to his feet, trembling.
“What happened?” Hermione asked him, leading him
over to sit with Harry and Ron.
“Malfoy,” said Neville shakily. “I met him outside the
library. He said he’d been looking for someone to
practice that on.”
“Go to Professor McGonagall!” Hermione urged
Neville. “Report him!”
Neville shook his head.
“I don’t want more trouble,” he mumbled.
“You’ve got to stand up to him, Neville!” said Ron.
“He’s used to walking all over people, but that’s no
reason to lie down in front of him and make it easier.”
“There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be
in Gryffindor, Malfoy’s already done that,” Neville
choked out.
Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a
Chocolate Frog, the very last one from the box
Hermione had given him for Christmas. He gave it to
Neville, who looked as though he might cry.
 
“You’re worth twelve of Malfoy,” Harry said. “The
Sorting Hat chose you for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And
where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin.”
Neville’s lips twitched in a weak smile as he
unwrapped the frog.
“Thanks, Harry ... I think I’ll go to bed. ... D’you want
the card, you collect them, don’t you?”
As Neville walked away, Harry looked at the Famous
Wizard card.
“Dumbledore again,” he said, “He was the first one I
ever — ”
He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he
looked up at Ron and Hermione.
“I’ve found him\” he whispered. “I’ve found Flamel! I
told you I’d read the name somewhere before, I read it
on the train coming here — listen to this:
‘Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of
the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the
discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his
work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel’V’
Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn’t looked so
excited since they’d gotten back the marks for their
very first piece of homework.
“Stay there!” she said, and she sprinted up the stairs
to the girls’ dormitories. Harry and Ron barely had
time to exchange mystified looks before she was
dashing back, an enormous old book in her arms.
“I never thought to look in here!” she whispered
excitedly. “I got this out of the library weeks ago for a
bit of light reading.”
 
“Light?” said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet
until she’d looked something up, and started flicking
frantically through the pages, muttering to herself.
At last she found what she was looking for.
“I knew it! I knew it!”
“Are we allowed to speak yet?” said Ron grumpily.
Hermione ignored him.
“Nicolas Flamel,” she whispered dramatically, “is the
only known maker of the Sorcerer’s Stone\”
This didn’t have quite the effect she’d expected.
“The what?” said Harry and Ron.
“Oh, honestly , don’t you two read? Look — read that,
there.”
She pushed the book toward them, and Harry and
Ron read:
The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with
making the Sorcerer’s Stone, a legendary substance
with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform
any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of
Life, which will make the drinker immortal.
There have been many reports of the Sorcerer’s Stone
over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in
existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted
alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated
his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year,
enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle
(six hundred and fifty-eight).
 
“See?” said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had
finished. “The dog must be guarding Flamel’s
Sorcerer’s Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep
it safe for him, because they’re friends and he knew
someone was after it, that’s why he wanted the Stone
moved out of Gringotts!”
“A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever
dying!” said Harry. “No wonder Snape’s after it!
Anyone would want it.”
“And no wonder we couldn’t find Flamel in that Study
of Recent Developments in Wizardry,” said Ron. “He’s
not exactly recent if he’s six hundred and sixty-five, is
he?”
The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts,
while copying down different ways of treating werewolf
bites, Harry and Ron were still discussing what they’d
do with a Sorcerer’s Stone if they had one. It wasn’t
until Ron said he’d buy his own Quidditch team that
Harry remembered about Snape and the coming
match.
“I’m going to play,” he told Ron and Hermione. “If I
don’t, all the Slytherins will think I’m just too scared
to face Snape. I’ll show them ... it’ll really wipe the
smiles off their faces if we win.”
“Just as long as we’re not wiping you off the field,”
said Hermione.
As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became
more and more nervous, whatever he told Ron and
Hermione. The rest of the team wasn’t too calm,
either. The idea of overtaking Slytherin in the House
Championship was wonderful, no one had done it for
seven years, but would they be allowed to, with such
a biased referee?
 
Harry didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not,
but he seemed to keep running into Snape wherever
he went. At times, he even wondered whether Snape
was following him, trying to catch him on his own.
Potions lessons were turning into a sort of weekly
torture, Snape was so horrible to Harry. Could Snape
possibly know they’d found out about the Sorcerer’s
Stone? Harry didn’t see how he could — yet he
sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could
read minds.
Harry knew, when they wished him good luck
outside the locker rooms the next afternoon, that Ron
and Hermione were wondering whether they’d ever
see him alive again. This wasn’t what you’d call
comforting. Harry hardly heard a word of Wood’s pep
talk as he pulled on his Quidditch robes and picked
up his Nimbus Two Thousand.
Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found a place in
the stands next to Neville, who couldn’t understand
why they looked so grim and worried, or why they had
both brought their wands to the match. Little did
Harry know that Ron and Hermione had been secretly
practicing the Leg-Locker Curse. They’d gotten the
idea from Malfoy using it on Neville, and were ready
to use it on Snape if he showed any sign of wanting to
hurt Harry.
“Now, don’t forget, it’s Locomotor Mortis,” Hermione
muttered as Ron slipped his wand up his sleeve.
“I know,” Ron snapped. “Don’t nag.”
Back in the locker room, Wood had taken Harry
aside.
“Don’t want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever
need an early capture of the Snitch it’s now. Finish
 
the game before Snape can favor Hufflepuff too
much.”
“The whole school’s out there!” said Fred Weasley,
peering out of the door. “Even — blimey —
Dumbledore’s come to watch!”
Harry’s heart did a somersault.
“Dumbledore?” he said, dashing to the door to make
sure. Fred was right. There was no mistaking that
silver beard.
Harry could have laughed out loud with relief. He was
safe. There was simply no way that Snape would dare
to try to hurt him if Dumbledore was watching.
Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as
the teams marched onto the field, something that Ron
noticed, too.
“I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,” he told
Hermione. “Look — they’re off. Ouch!”
Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It
was Malfoy.
“Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.”
Malfoy grinned broadly at Crabbe and Goyle.
“Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom
this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you,
Weasley?”
Ron didn’t answer; Snape had just awarded
Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley had hit
a Bludger at him. Hermione, who had all her fingers
crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry,
 
who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the
Snitch.
“You know how I think they choose people for the
Gryffindor team?” said Malfoy loudly a few minutes
later, as Snape awarded Hufflepuff another penalty
for no reason at all. “It’s people they feel sorry for.
See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s
the Weasleys, who’ve got no money — you should be
on the team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.”
Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face
Malfoy.
“I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,” he stammered.
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howled with laughter, but
Ron, still not daring to take his eyes from the game,
said, “You tell him, Neville.”
“Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than
Weasley, and that’s saying something.”
Ron’s nerves were already stretched to the breaking
point with anxiety about Harry.
“I’m warning you, Malfoy — one more word — ”
“Ron!” said Hermione suddenly, “Harry — !”
“What? Where?”
Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive,
which drew gasps and cheers from the crowd.
Hermione stood up, her crossed fingers in her mouth,
as Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet.
“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted
some money on the ground!” said Malfoy.
 
Ron snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was
happening, Ron was on top of him, wrestling him to
the ground. Neville hesitated, then clambered over the
back of his seat to help.
“Come on, Harry!” Hermione screamed, leaping onto
her seat to watch as Harry sped straight at Snape —
she didn’t even notice Malfoy and Ron rolling around
under her seat, or the scuffles and yelps coming from
the whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe, and Goyle.
Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in
time to see something scarlet shoot past him, missing
him by inches — the next second, Harry had pulled
out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the Snitch
clasped in his hand.
The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one
could ever remember the Snitch being caught so
quickly.
“Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s
won! We’ve won! Gryffindor is in the lead!” shrieked
Hermione, dancing up and down on her seat and
hugging Parvati Patil in the row in front.
Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground.
He couldn’t believe it. He’d done it — the game was
over; it had barely lasted five minutes. As Gryffindors
came spilling onto the field, he saw Snape land
nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped — then Harry felt
a hand on his shoulder and looked up into
Dumbledore’s smiling face.
“Well done,” said Dumbledore quietly, so that only
Harry could hear. “Nice to see you haven’t been
brooding about that mirror . . . been keeping busy . . .
excellent ...”
 
Snape spat bitterly on the ground.
Jc Jc Jc
Harry left the locker room alone some time later, to
take his Nimbus Two Thousand back to the
broomshed. He couldn’t ever remember feeling
happier. He’d really done something to be proud of
now — no one could say he was just a famous name
any more. The evening air had never smelled so
sweet. He walked over the damp grass, reliving the
last hour in his head, which was a happy blur:
Gryffindors running to lift him onto their shoulders;
Ron and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and
down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed.
Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the
wooden door and looked up at Hogwarts, with its
windows glowing red in the setting sun. Gryffindor in
the lead. He’d done it, he’d shown Snape. ...
And speaking of Snape . . .
A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of
the castle. Clearly not wanting to be seen, it walked
as fast as possible toward the forbidden forest.
Harry’s victory faded from his mind as he watched.
He recognized the figure’s prowling walk. Snape,
sneaking into the forest while everyone else was at
dinner — what was going on?
Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand
and took off. Gliding silently over the castle he saw
Snape enter the forest at a run. He followed.
The trees were so thick he couldn’t see where Snape
had gone. He flew in circles, lower and lower,
brushing the top branches of trees until he heard
 
voices. He glided toward them and landed noiselessly
in a towering beech tree.
He climbed carefully along one of the branches,
holding tight to his broomstick, trying to see through
the leaves.
Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he
wasn’t alone. Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn’t
make out the look on his face, but he was stuttering
worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they
were saying.
"... d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of
all p-places, Severus ...”
“Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,” said Snape, his
voice icy. “Students aren’t supposed to know about
the Sorcerer’s Stone, after all.”
Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling
something. Snape interrupted him.
“Have you found out how to get past that beast of
Hagrid’s yet?”
“B-b-but Severus, I — ”
“You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,” said
Snape, taking a step toward him.
“I-I don’t know what you — ”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the
tree. He steadied himself in time to hear Snape say,
“ — your little bit of hocus-pocus. I’m waiting.”
 
“B-but I d-d-don’t — ”
“Very well,” Snape cut in. “Well have another little
chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over
and decided where your loyalties lie.”
He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the
clearing. It was almost dark now, but Harry could see
Quirrell, standing quite still as though he was
petrified.
Jc Jc Jc
“Harry, where have you been?” Hermione squeaked.
“We won! You won! We won!” shouted Ron, thumping
Harry on the back. “And I gave Malfoy a black eye,
and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single-
handed! He’s still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says
he’ll be all right — talk about showing Slytherin!
Everyone’s waiting for you in the common room, we’re
having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and
stuff from the kitchens.”
“Never mind that now,” said Harry breathlessly. “Let’s
find an empty room, you wait ’til you hear this. ...”
He made sure Peeves wasn’t inside before shutting
the door behind them, then he told them what he’d
seen and heard.
“So we were right, it is the Sorcerer’s Stone, and
Snape’s trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He
asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy — and he said
something about Quirrell’s ‘hocus-pocus’ — I reckon
there are other things guarding the stone apart from
Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell
 
would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that
Snape needs to break through — ”
“So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell
stands up to Snape?” said Hermione in alarm.
“It’ll be gone by next Tuesday,” said Ron.
 
NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN
RIDGEBACK
Quirrell, however, must have been braver than they’d
thought. In the weeks that followed he did seem to be
getting paler and thinner, but it didn’t look as though
he’d cracked yet.
Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry,
Ron, and Hermione would press their ears to the door
to check that Fluffy was still growling inside. Snape
was sweeping about in his usual bad temper, which
surely meant that the Stone was still safe. Whenever
Harry passed Quirrell these days he gave him an
encouraging sort of smile, and Ron had started telling
people off for laughing at Quirrell’s stutter.
Hermione, however, had more on her mind than the
Sorcerer’s Stone. She had started drawing up study
schedules and color-coding all her notes. Harry and
Ron wouldn’t have minded, but she kept nagging
them to do the same.
 
“Hermione, the exams are ages away.”
“Ten weeks,” Hermione snapped. “That’s not ages,
that’s like a second to Nicolas Flamel.”
“But we’re not six hundred years old,” Ron reminded
her. “Anyway, what are you studying for, you already
know it all.”
“What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize
we need to pass these exams to get into the second
year? They’re very important, I should have started
studying a month ago, I don’t know what’s gotten into
me.”
Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking
along the same lines as Hermione. They piled so
much homework on them that the Easter holidays
weren’t nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It
was hard to relax with Hermione next to you reciting
the twelve uses of dragon’s blood or practicing wand
movements. Moaning and yawning, Harry and Ron
spent most of their free time in the library with her,
trying to get through all their extra work.
“I’ll never remember this,” Ron burst out one
afternoon, throwing down his quill and looking
longingly out of the library window. It was the first
really fine day they’d had in months. The sky was a
clear, forget-me-not blue, and there was a feeling in
the air of summer coming.
Harry, who was looking up “Dittany” in One Thousand
Magical Herbs and Fungi, didn’t look up until he
heard Ron say, “Hagrid! What are you doing in the
library?”
 
Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind
his back. He looked very out of place in his moleskin
overcoat.
“Jus’ lookin’,” he said, in a shifty voice that got their
interest at once. “An’ what’re you lot up ter?” He
looked suddenly suspicious. “Yer not still lookin’ fer
Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?”
“Oh, we found out who he is ages ago,” said Ron
impressively. “And we know what that dog’s guarding,
it’s a Sorcerer’s St — ”
“Shhhh\” Hagrid looked around quickly to see if
anyone was listening. “Don’ go shoutin’ about it,
what’s the matter with yeh?”
“There are a few things we wanted to ask you, as a
matter of fact,” said Harry, “about what’s guarding
the Stone apart from Fluffy — ”
“SHHHH!” said Hagrid again. “Listen — come an’ see
me later, I’m not promisin’ I’ll tell yeh anythin’, mind,
but don’ go rabbitin’ about it in here, students aren’
s’pposed ter know. They’ll think I’ve told yeh — ”
“See you later, then,” said Harry.
Hagrid shuffled off.
“What was he hiding behind his back?” said
Hermione thoughtfully.
“Do you think it had anything to do with the Stone?”
“I’m going to see what section he was in,” said Ron,
who’d had enough of working. He came back a
minute later with a pile of books in his arms and
slammed them down on the table.
 
“Dragons'.” he whispered. “Hagrid was looking up stuff
about dragons! Look at these: Dragon Species of Great
Britain and Ireland; From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon
Keeper’s Guide.”
“Hagrid ’s always wanted a dragon, he told me so the
first time I ever met him,” said Harry.
“But it’s against our laws,” said Ron. “Dragon
breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks’ Convention
of 1709, everyone knows that. It’s hard to stop
Muggles from noticing us if we’re keeping dragons in
the back garden — anyway, you can’t tame dragons,
it’s dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie’s got
off wild ones in Romania.”
“But there aren’t wild dragons in Britain?” said Harry.
“Of course there are,” said Ron. “Common Welsh
Green and Hebridean Blacks. The Ministry of Magic
has a job hushing them up, I can tell you. Our kind
have to keep putting spells on Muggles who’ve spotted
them, to make them forget.”
“So what on earth’s Hagrid up to?” said Hermione.
When they knocked on the door of the gamekeeper’s
hut an hour later, they were surprised to see that all
the curtains were closed. Hagrid called “Who is it?”
before he let them in, and then shut the door quickly
behind them.
It was stifling hot inside. Even though it was such a
warm day, there was a blazing fire in the grate.
Hagrid made them tea and offered them stoat
sandwiches, which they refused.
“So — yeh wanted to ask me somethin’?”
 
“Yes,” said Harry. There was no point beating around
the bush. “We were wondering if you could tell us
what’s guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone apart from
Fluffy.”
Hagrid frowned at him.
“O’ course I can’t,” he said. “Number one, I don’ know
meself. Number two, yeh know too much already, so I
wouldn’ tell yeh if I could. That Stone’s here fer a good
reason. It was almost stolen outta Gringotts — I
s’ppose yeh’ve worked that out an’ all? Beats me how
yeh even know abou’ Fluffy.”
“Oh, come on, Hagrid, you might not want to tell us,
but you do know, you know everything that goes on
round here,” said Hermione in a warm, flattering
voice. Hagrid ’s beard twitched and they could tell he
was smiling. “We only wondered who had done the
guarding, really.” Hermione went on. “We wondered
who Dumbledore had trusted enough to help him,
apart from you.”
Hagrid ’s chest swelled at these last words. Harry and
Ron beamed at Hermione.
“Well, I don’ s’pose it could hurt ter tell yeh that ...
let’s see ... he borrowed Fluffy from me ... then some
o’ the teachers did enchantments ... Professor Sprout
— Professor Flitwick — Professor McGonagall — ” he
ticked them off on his fingers, “Professor Quirrell —
an’ Dumbledore himself did somethin’, o’ course.
Hang on, I’ve forgotten someone. Oh yeah, Professor
Snape.”
“Snape?”
 
“Yeah — yer not still on abou’ that, are yeh? Look,
Snape helped protect the Stone, he’s not about ter
steal it.”
Harry knew Ron and Hermione were thinking the
same as he was. If Snape had been in on protecting
the Stone, it must have been easy to find out how the
other teachers had guarded it. He probably knew
everything — except, it seemed, Quirrell’s spell and
how to get past Fluffy.
“You’re the only one who knows how to get past
Fluffy, aren’t you, Hagrid?” said Harry anxiously.
“And you wouldn’t tell anyone, would you? Not even
one of the teachers?”
“Not a soul knows except me an’ Dumbledore,” said
Hagrid proudly.
“Well, that’s something,” Harry muttered to the
others. “Hagrid, can we have a window open? I’m
boiling.”
“Can’t, Harry, sorry,” said Hagrid. Harry noticed him
glance at the fire. Harry looked at it, too.
“Hagrid — what’s that?”
But he already knew what it was. In the very heart of
the fire, underneath the kettle, was a huge, black egg.
“Ah,” said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard,
“That’s — er ...”
“Where did you get it, Hagrid?” said Ron, crouching
over the fire to get a closer look at the egg. “It must’ve
cost you a fortune.”
 
“Won it,” said Hagrid. “Las’ night. I was down in the
village havin’ a few drinks an’ got into a game o’ cards
with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of
it, ter be honest.”
“But what are you going to do with it when it’s
hatched?” said Hermione.
“Well, I’ve bin doin’ some readin’,” said Hagrid, pulling
a large book from under his pillow. “Got this outta the
library — Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit —
it’s a bit outta date, o’ course, but it’s all in here. Keep
the egg in the fire, ’cause their mothers breathe on
’em, see, an’ when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o’
brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An’
see here — how ter recognize diff’rent eggs — what I
got there’s a Norwegian Ridge-back. They’re rare,
them.”
He looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione
didn’t.
“Hagrid, you live in a wooden house,” she said.
But Hagrid wasn’t listening. He was humming merrily
as he stoked the fire.
So now they had something else to worry about: what
might happen to Hagrid if anyone found out he was
hiding an illegal dragon in his hut.
“Wonder what it’s like to have a peaceful life,” Ron
sighed, as evening after evening they struggled
through all the extra homework they were getting.
Hermione had now started making study schedules
for Harry and Ron, too. It was driving them nuts.
 
Then, one breakfast time, Hedwig brought Harry
another note from Hagrid. He had written only two
words: It’s hatching.
Ron wanted to skip Herbology and go straight down to
the hut. Hermione wouldn’t hear of it.
“Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going
to see a dragon hatching?”
“We’ve got lessons, we’ll get into trouble, and that’s
nothing to what Hagrid ’s going to be in when someone
finds out what he’s doing — ”
“Shut up!” Harry whispered.
Malfoy was only a few feet away and he had stopped
dead to listen. How much had he heard? Harry didn’t
like the look on Malfoy’s face at all.
Ron and Hermione argued all the way to Herbology
and in the end, Hermione agreed to run down to
Hagrid’s with the other two during morning break.
When the bell sounded from the castle at the end of
their lesson, the three of them dropped their trowels
at once and hurried through the grounds to the edge
of the forest. Hagrid greeted them, looking flushed
and excited.
“It’s nearly out.” He ushered them inside.
The egg was lying on the table. There were deep
cracks in it. Something was moving inside; a funny
clicking noise was coming from it.
They all drew their chairs up to the table and watched
with bated breath.
 
All at once there was a scraping noise and the egg
split open. The baby dragon flopped onto the table. It
wasn’t exactly pretty; Harry thought it looked like a
crumpled, black umbrella. Its spiny wings were huge
compared to its skinny jet body, it had a long snout
with wide nostrils, the stubs of horns and bulging,
orange eyes.
It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hagrid murmured. He reached
out a hand to stroke the dragon’s head. It snapped at
his fingers, showing pointed fangs.
“Bless him, look, he knows his mommy!” said Hagrid.
“Hagrid,” said Hermione, “how fast do Norwegian
Ridgebacks grow, exactly?”
Hagrid was about to answer when the color suddenly
drained from his face — he leapt to his feet and ran to
the window.
“What’s the matter?”
“Someone was lookin’ through the gap in the curtains
— it’s a kid — he’s runnin’ back up ter the school.”
Harry bolted to the door and looked out. Even at a
distance there was no mistaking him.
Malfoy had seen the dragon.
Something about the smile lurking on Malfoy’s face
during the next week made Harry, Ron, and Hermione
very nervous. They spent most of their free time in
Hagrid ’s darkened hut, trying to reason with him.
“Just let him go,” Harry urged. “Set him free.”
 
“I can’t,” said Hagrid. “He’s too little. He’d die.”
They looked at the dragon. It had grown three times
in length in just a week. Smoke kept furling out of its
nostrils. Hagrid hadn’t been doing his gamekeeping
duties because the dragon was keeping him so busy.
There were empty brandy bottles and chicken
feathers all over the floor.
“I’ve decided to call him Norbert,” said Hagrid, looking
at the dragon with misty eyes. “He really knows me
now, watch. Norbert! Norbert! Where’s Mommy?”
“He’s lost his marbles,” Ron muttered in Harry’s ear.
“Hagrid,” said Harry loudly, “give it two weeks and
Norbert’s going to be as long as your house. Malfoy
could go to Dumbledore at any moment.”
Hagrid bit his lip.
“I — I know I can’t keep him forever, but I can’t jus’
dump him, can’t.”
Harry suddenly turned to Ron.
“Charlie,” he said.
“You’re losing it, too,” said Ron. “I’m Ron, remember?”
“No — Charlie — your brother, Charlie. In Romania.
Studying dragons. We could send Norbert to him.
Charlie can take care of him and then put him back
in the wild!”
“Brilliant!” said Ron. “How about it, Hagrid?”
And in the end, Hagrid agreed that they could send
an owl to Charlie to ask him.
 
The following week dragged by. Wednesday night
found Hermione and Harry sitting alone in the
common room, long after everyone else had gone to
bed. The clock on the wall had just chimed midnight
when the portrait hole burst open. Ron appeared out
of nowhere as he pulled off Harry’s Invisibility Cloak.
He had been down at Hagrid’s hut, helping him feed
Norbert, who was now eating dead rats by the crate.
“It bit me!” he said, showing them his hand, which
was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. “I’m not going
to be able to hold a quill for a week. I tell you, that
dragon’s the most horrible animal I’ve ever met, but
the way Hagrid goes on about it, you’d think it was a
fluffy little bunny rabbit. When it bit me he told me off
for frightening it. And when I left, he was singing it a
lullaby.”
There was a tap on the dark window.
“It’s Hedwig!” said Harry, hurrying to let her in. “She’ll
have Charlie’s answer!”
The three of them put their heads together to read the
note.
Dear Ron,
How are you? Thanks for the letter — I’d be glad to
take the Norwegian Ridgeback, but it won’t be easy
getting him here. I think the best thing will be to send
him over with some friends of mine who are coming to
visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn’t be seen
carrying an illegal dragon.
Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at
midnight on Saturday? They can meet you there and
take him away while it’s still dark.
 
Send me an answer as soon as possible.
Love,
Charlie
They looked at one another.
“We’ve got the Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “It
shouldn’t be too difficult — I think the cloak’s big
enough to cover two of us and Norbert.”
It was a mark of how bad the last week had been that
the other two agreed with him. Anything to get rid of
Norbert — and Malfoy.
There was a hitch. By the next morning, Ron’s bitten
hand had swollen to twice its usual size. He didn’t
know whether it was safe to go to Madam Pomfrey —
would she recognize a dragon bite? By the afternoon,
though, he had no choice. The cut had turned a nasty
shade of green. It looked as if Norbert’s fangs were
poisonous.
Harry and Hermione rushed up to the hospital wing
at the end of the day to find Ron in a terrible state in
bed.
“It’s not just my hand,” he whispered, “although that
feels like it’s about to fall off. Malfoy told Madam
Pomfrey he wanted to borrow one of my books so he
could come and have a good laugh at me. He kept
threatening to tell her what really bit me — I’ve told
her it was a dog, but I don’t think she believes me — I
shouldn’t have hit him at the Quidditch match, that’s
why he’s doing this.”
Harry and Hermione tried to calm Ron down.
 
“It’ll all be over at midnight on Saturday,” said
Hermione, but this didn’t soothe Ron at all. On the
contrary, he sat bolt upright and broke into a sweat.
“Midnight on Saturday!” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Oh no — oh no — I’ve just remembered — Charlie’s
letter was in that book Malfoy took, he’s going to
know we’re getting rid of Norbert.”
Harry and Hermione didn’t get a chance to answer.
Madam Pomfrey came over at that moment and made
them leave, saying Ron needed sleep.
“It’s too late to change the plan now,” Harry told
Hermione. “We haven’t got time to send Charlie
another owl, and this could be our only chance to get
rid of Norbert. We’ll have to risk it. And we have got
the Invisibility Cloak, Malfoy doesn’t know about
that.”
They found Fang the boarhound sitting outside with a
bandaged tail when they went to tell Hagrid, who
opened a window to talk to them.
“I won’t let you in,” he puffed. “Norbert’s at a tricky
stage — nothin’ I can’t handle.”
When they told him about Charlie’s letter, his eyes
filled with tears, although that might have been
because Norbert had just bitten him on the leg.
“Aargh! It’s all right, he only got my boot — jus’
playin’ — he’s only a baby, after all.”
The baby banged its tail on the wall, making the
windows rattle. Harry and Hermione walked back to
the castle feeling Saturday couldn’t come quickly
enough.
 
They would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time
came for him to say good-bye to Norbert if they hadn’t
been so worried about what they had to do. It was a
very dark, cloudy night, and they were a bit late
arriving at Hagrid ’s hut because they’d had to wait for
Peeves to get out of their way in the entrance hall,
where he’d been playing tennis against the wall.
Hagrid had Norbert packed and ready in a large crate.
“He’s got lots o’ rats an’ some brandy fer the journey,”
said Hagrid in a muffled voice. “An’ I’ve packed his
teddy bear in case he gets lonely.”
From inside the crate came ripping noises that
sounded to Harry as though the teddy was having his
head torn off.
“Bye-bye, Norbert!” Hagrid sobbed, as Harry and
Hermione covered the crate with the Invisibility Cloak
and stepped underneath it themselves. “Mommy will
never forget you!”
How they managed to get the crate back up to the
castle, they never knew. Midnight ticked nearer as
they heaved Norbert up the marble staircase in the
entrance hall and along the dark corridors. Up
another staircase, then another — even one of Harry’s
shortcuts didn’t make the work much easier.
“Nearly there!” Harry panted as they reached the
corridor beneath the tallest tower.
Then a sudden movement ahead of them made them
almost drop the crate. Forgetting that they were
already invisible, they shrank into the shadows,
staring at the dark outlines of two people grappling
with each other ten feet away. A lamp flared.
 
Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair
net, had Malfoy by the ear.
“Detention!” she shouted. “And twenty points from
Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the
night, how dare you — ”
“You don’t understand, Professor. Harry Potter’s
coming — he’s got a dragon!”
“What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies!
Come on — I shall see Professor Snape about you,
Malfoy!”
The steep spiral staircase up to the top of the tower
seemed the easiest thing in the world after that. Not
until they’d stepped out into the cold night air did
they throw off the cloak, glad to be able to breathe
properly again. Hermione did a sort of jig.
“Malfoy’s got detention! I could sing!”
“Don’t,” Harry advised her.
Chuckling about Malfoy, they waited, Norbert
thrashing about in his crate. About ten minutes later,
four broomsticks came swooping down out of the
darkness.
Charlie’s friends were a cheery lot. They showed
Harry and Hermione the harness they’d rigged up, so
they could suspend Norbert between them. They all
helped buckle Norbert safely into it and then Harry
and Hermione shook hands with the others and
thanked them very much.
At last, Norbert was going ... going ... gone.
 
They slipped back down the spiral staircase, their
hearts as light as their hands, now that Norbert was
off them. No more dragon — Malfoy in detention —
what could spoil their happiness?
The answer to that was waiting at the foot of the
stairs. As they stepped into the corridor, Filch’s face
loomed suddenly out of the darkness.
“Well, well, well,” he whispered, “we are in trouble.”
They’d left the Invisibility Cloak on top of the tower.
 
THE FORBIDDEN FOREST
Things couldn’t have been worse.
Filch took them down to Professor McGonagall’s
study on the first floor, where they sat and waited
without saying a word to each other. Hermione was
trembling. Excuses, alibis, and wild cover-up stories
chased each other around Harry’s brain, each more
feeble than the last. He couldn’t see how they were
going to get out of trouble this time. They were
cornered. How could they have been so stupid as to
forget the cloak? There was no reason on earth that
Professor McGonagall would accept for their being out
of bed and creeping around the school in the dead of
night, let alone being up the tallest Astronomy Tower,
which was out-of-bounds except for classes. Add
Norbert and the Invisibility Cloak, and they might as
well be packing their bags already.
Had Harry thought that things couldn’t have been
worse? He was wrong. When Professor McGonagall
appeared, she was leading Neville.
 
“Harry!” Neville burst out, the moment he saw the
other two. “I was trying to find you to warn you, I
heard Malfoy saying he was going to catch you, he
said you had a drag — ”
Harry shook his head violently to shut Neville up, but
Professor McGonagall had seen. She looked more
likely to breathe fire than Norbert as she towered over
the three of them.
“I would never have believed it of any of you. Mr. Filch
says you were up in the Astronomy Tower. It’s one
o’clock in the morning. Explain yourselves.”
It was the first time Hermione had ever failed to
answer a teacher’s question. She was staring at her
slippers, as still as a statue.
“I think I’ve got a good idea of what’s been going on,”
said Professor McGonagall. “It doesn’t take a genius
to work it out. You fed Draco Malfoy some cock-and-
bull story about a dragon, trying to get him out of bed
and into trouble. I’ve already caught him. I suppose
you think it’s funny that Longbottom here heard the
story and believed it, too?”
Harry caught Neville’s eye and tried to tell him
without words that this wasn’t true, because Neville
was looking stunned and hurt. Poor, blundering
Neville — Harry knew what it must have cost him to
try and find them in the dark, to warn them.
“I’m disgusted,” said Professor McGonagall. “Four
students out of bed in one night! I’ve never heard of
such a thing before! You, Miss Granger, I thought you
had more sense. As for you, Mr. Potter, I thought
Gryffindor meant more to you than this. All three of
you will receive detentions — yes, you too, Mr.
Longbottom, nothing gives you the right to walk
 
around school at night, especially these days, it’s very
dangerous — and fifty points will be taken from
Gryffindor.”
“Fifty?” Harry gasped — they would lose the lead, the
lead he’d won in the last Quidditch match.
“Fifty points each,” said Professor McGonagall,
breathing heavily through her long, pointed nose.
“Professor — please — ”
“You can’t—”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Potter. Now get
back to bed, all of you. I’ve never been more ashamed
of Gryffindor students.”
A hundred and fifty points lost. That put Gryffindor in
last place. In one night, they’d ruined any chance
Gryffindor had had for the House Cup. Harry felt as
though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.
How could they ever make up for this?
Harry didn’t sleep all night. He could hear Neville
sobbing into his pillow for what seemed like hours.
Harry couldn’t think of anything to say to comfort
him. He knew Neville, like himself, was dreading the
dawn. What would happen when the rest of
Gryffindor found out what they’d done?
At first, Gryffindors passing the giant hourglasses
that recorded the House points the next day thought
there ’d been a mistake. How could they suddenly
have a hundred and fifty points fewer than yesterday?
And then the story started to spread: Harry Potter,
the famous Harry Potter, their hero of two Quidditch
matches, had lost them all those points, him and a
couple of other stupid first years.
 
From being one of the most popular and admired
people at the school, Harry was suddenly the most
hated. Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs turned on
him, because everyone had been longing to see
Slytherin lose the House Cup. Everywhere Harry
went, people pointed and didn’t trouble to lower their
voices as they insulted him. Slytherins, on the other
hand, clapped as he walked past them, whistling and
cheering, “Thanks Potter, we owe you one!”
Only Ron stood by him.
“They’ll all forget this in a few weeks. Fred and George
have lost loads of points in all the time they’ve been
here, and people still like them.”
“They’ve never lost a hundred and fifty points in one
go, though, have they?” said Harry miserably.
“Well — no,” Ron admitted.
It was a bit late to repair the damage, but Harry
swore to himself not to meddle in things that weren’t
his business from now on. He’d had it with sneaking
around and spying. He felt so ashamed of himself that
he went to Wood and offered to resign from the
Quidditch team.
“Resign?” Wood thundered. “What good’ll that do?
How are we going to get any points back if we can’t
win at Quidditch?”
But even Quidditch had lost its fun. The rest of the
team wouldn’t speak to Harry during practice, and if
they had to speak about him, they called him “the
Seeker.”
Hermione and Neville were suffering, too. They didn’t
have as bad a time as Harry, because they weren’t as
 
well-known, but nobody would speak to them, either.
Hermione had stopped drawing attention to herself in
class, keeping her head down and working in silence.
Harry was almost glad that the exams weren’t far
away. All the studying he had to do kept his mind off
his misery. He, Ron, and Hermione kept to
themselves, working late into the night, trying to
remember the ingredients in complicated potions,
learn charms and spells by heart, memorize the dates
of magical discoveries and goblin rebellions. ...
Then, about a week before the exams were due to
start, Harry’s new resolution not to interfere in
anything that didn’t concern him was put to an
unexpected test. Walking back from the library on his
own one afternoon, he heard somebody whimpering
from a classroom up ahead. As he drew closer, he
heard Quirrell’s voice.
“No — no — not again, please — ”
It sounded as though someone was threatening him.
Harry moved closer.
“All right — all right — ” he heard Quirrell sob.
Next second, Quirrell came hurrying out of the
classroom straightening his turban. He was pale and
looked as though he was about to cry. He strode out
of sight; Harry didn’t think Quirrell had even noticed
him. He waited until Quirrell’s footsteps had
disappeared, then peered into the classroom. It was
empty, but a door stood ajar at the other end. Harry
was halfway toward it before he remembered what
he’d promised himself about not meddling.
All the same, he’d have gambled twelve Sorcerer’s
Stones that Snape had just left the room, and from
 
what Harry had just heard, Snape would be walking
with a new spring in his step — Quirrell seemed to
have given in at last.
Harry went back to the library, where Hermione was
testing Ron on Astronomy. Harry told them what he’d
heard.
“Snape’s done it, then!” said Ron. “If Quirrell’s told
him how to break his Anti-Dark Force spell — ”
“There’s still Fluffy, though,” said Hermione.
“Maybe Snape’s found out how to get past him
without asking Hagrid,” said Ron, looking up at the
thousands of books surrounding them. “I bet there’s a
book somewhere in here telling you how to get past a
giant three-headed dog. So what do we do, Harry?”
The light of adventure was kindling again in Ron’s
eyes, but Hermione answered before Harry could.
“Go to Dumbledore. That’s what we should have done
ages ago. If we try anything ourselves we’ll be thrown
out for sure.”
“But we’ve got no proof.” said Harry. “Quirrell’s too
scared to back us up. Snape’s only got to say he
doesn’t know how the troll got in at Halloween and
that he was nowhere near the third floor — who do
you think they’ll believe, him or us? It’s not exactly a
secret we hate him, Dumbledore ’ll think we made it
up to get him sacked. Filch wouldn’t help us if his life
depended on it, he’s too friendly with Snape, and the
more students get thrown out, the better, he’ll think.
And don’t forget, we’re not supposed to know about
the Stone or Fluffy. That’ll take a lot of explaining.”
Hermione looked convinced, but Ron didn’t.
 
“If we just do a bit of poking around — ”
“No,” said Harry flatly, “we’ve done enough poking
around.”
He pulled a map of Jupiter toward him and started to
learn the names of its moons.
The following morning, notes were delivered to Harry,
Hermione, and Neville at the breakfast table. They
were all the same:
Your detention will take place at eleven o’clock
tonight.
Meet Mr. Filch in the entrance hall.
Professor M. McGonagall
Harry had forgotten they still had detentions to do in
the furor over the points they’d lost. He half expected
Hermione to complain that this was a whole night of
studying lost, but she didn’t say a word. Like Harry,
she felt they deserved what they’d got.
At eleven o’clock that night, they said good-bye to Ron
in the common room and went down to the entrance
hall with Neville. Filch was already there — and so
was Malfoy. Harry had also forgotten that Malfoy had
gotten a detention, too.
“Follow me,” said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading
them outside.
“I bet you’ll think twice about breaking a school rule
again, won’t you, eh?” he said, leering at them. “Oh
yes . . . hard work and pain are the best teachers if you
ask me. ... It’s just a pity they let the old
punishments die out . . . hang you by your wrists from
 
the ceiling for a few days, I’ve got the chains still in
my office, keep ’em well oiled in case they’re ever
needed. ... Right, off we go, and don’t think of running
off, now, it’ll be worse for you if you do.”
They marched off across the dark grounds. Neville
kept sniffing. Harry wondered what their punishment
was going to be. It must be something really horrible,
or Filch wouldn’t be sounding so delighted.
The moon was bright, but clouds scudding across it
kept throwing them into darkness. Ahead, Harry
could see the lighted windows of Hagrid’s hut. Then
they heard a distant shout.
“Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started.”
Harry’s heart rose; if they were going to be working
with Hagrid it wouldn’t be so bad. His relief must
have showed in his face, because Filch said, “I
suppose you think you’ll be enjoying yourself with
that oaf? Well, think again, boy — it’s into the forest
you’re going and I’m much mistaken if you’ll all come
out in one piece.”
At this, Neville let out a little moan, and Malfoy
stopped dead in his tracks.
“The forest?” he repeated, and he didn’t sound quite
as cool as usual. “We can’t go in there at night —
there’s all sorts of things in there — werewolves, I
heard.”
Neville clutched the sleeve of Harry’s robe and made a
choking noise.
“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” said Filch, his voice
cracking with glee. “Should’ve thought of them
werewolves before you got in trouble, shouldn’t you?”
 
Hagrid came striding toward them out of the dark,
Fang at his heel. He was carrying his large crossbow,
and a quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder.
“Abou’ time,” he said. “I bin waitin’ fer half an hour
already. All right, Harry, Hermione?”
“I shouldn’t be too friendly to them, Hagrid,” said
Filch coldly, “they’re here to be punished, after all.”
“That’s why yer late, is it?” said Hagrid, frowning at
Filch. “Bin lecturin’ them, eh? ’Snot your place ter do
that. Yeh’ve done yer bit, I’ll take over from here.”
“I’ll be back at dawn,” said Filch, “for what’s left of
them,” he added nastily, and he turned and started
back toward the castle, his lamp bobbing away in the
darkness.
Malfoy now turned to Hagrid.
“I’m not going in that forest,” he said, and Harry was
pleased to hear the note of panic in his voice.
“Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts,” said
Hagrid fiercely. “Yeh’ve done wrong an’ now yeh’ve got
ter pay fer it.”
“But this is servant stuff, it’s not for students to do. I
thought we’d be copying lines or something, if my
father knew I was doing this, he’d — ”
“ — tell yer that’s how it is at Hogwarts,” Hagrid
growled. “Copyin’ lines! What good’s that ter anyone?
Yeh’ll do summat useful or yeh’ll get out. If yeh think
yer father’d rather you were expelled, then get back
off ter the castle an’ pack. Go on!”
 
Malfoy didn’t move. He looked at Hagrid furiously, but
then dropped his gaze.
“Right then,” said Hagrid, “now, listen carefully,
’cause it’s dangerous what we’re gonna do tonight, an’
I don’ want no one takin’ risks. Follow me over here a
moment.”
He led them to the very edge of the forest. Holding his
lamp up high, he pointed down a narrow, winding
earth track that disappeared into the thick black
trees. A light breeze lifted their hair as they looked
into the forest.
“Look there,” said Hagrid, “see that stuff shinin’ on
the ground? Silvery stuff? That’s unicorn blood.
There’s a unicorn in there bin hurt badly by summat.
This is the second time in a week. I found one dead
last Wednesday. We’re gonna try an’ find the poor
thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery.”
“And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us
first?” said Malfoy, unable to keep the fear out of his
voice.
“There’s nothin’ that lives in the forest that’ll hurt yeh
if yer with me or Fang,” said Hagrid. “An’ keep ter the
path. Right, now, we’re gonna split inter two parties
an’ follow the trail in diff’rent directions. There’s blood
all over the place, it must’ve bin staggerin’ around
since last night at least.”
“I want Fang,” said Malfoy quickly, looking at Fang’s
long teeth.
“All right, but I warn yeh, he’s a coward,” said Hagrid.
“So me, Harry, an’ Hermione’ll go one way an’ Draco,
Neville, an’ Fang’ll go the other. Now, if any of us
finds the unicorn, we’ll send up green sparks, right?
 
Get yer wands out an’ practice now — that’s it — an’
if anyone gets in trouble, send up red sparks, an’ we’ll
all come an’ find yeh — so, be careful — let’s go.”
The forest was black and silent. A little way into it
they reached a fork in the earth path, and Harry,
Hermione, and Hagrid took the left path while Malfoy,
Neville, and Fang took the right.
They walked in silence, their eyes on the ground.
Every now and then a ray of moonlight through the
branches above lit a spot of silver-blue blood on the
fallen leaves.
Harry saw that Hagrid looked very worried.
“ Could a werewolf be killing the unicorns?” Harry
asked.
“Not fast enough,” said Hagrid. “It’s not easy ter catch
a unicorn, they’re powerful magic creatures. I never
knew one ter be hurt before.”
They walked past a mossy tree stump. Harry could
hear running water; there must be a stream
somewhere close by. There were still spots of unicorn
blood here and there along the winding path.
“You all right, Hermione?” Hagrid whispered. “Don’
worry, it can’t’ve gone far if it’s this badly hurt, an’
then well be able ter — GET BEHIND THAT TREE!”
Hagrid seized Harry and Hermione and hoisted them
off the path behind a towering oak. He pulled out an
arrow and fitted it into his crossbow, raising it, ready
to fire. The three of them listened. Something was
slithering over dead leaves nearby: it sounded like a
cloak trailing along the ground. Hagrid was squinting
 
up the dark path, but after a few seconds, the sound
faded away.
“I knew it,” he murmured. “There’s summat in here
that shouldn’ be.”
“A werewolf?” Harry suggested.
“That wasn’ no werewolf an’ it wasn’ no unicorn,
neither,” said Hagrid grimly. “Right, follow me, but
careful, now.”
They walked more slowly, ears straining for the
faintest sound. Suddenly, in a clearing ahead,
something definitely moved.
“Who’s there?” Hagrid called. “Show yerself — I’m
armed!”
And into the clearing came — was it a man, or a
horse? To the waist, a man, with red hair and beard,
but below that was a horse’s gleaming chestnut body
with a long, reddish tail. Harry and Hermione’s jaws
dropped.
“Oh, it’s you, Ronan,” said Hagrid in relief. “How are
yeh?”
He walked forward and shook the centaur’s hand.
“Good evening to you, Hagrid,” said Ronan. He had a
deep, sorrowful voice. “Were you going to shoot me?”
“Can’t be too careful, Ronan,” said Hagrid, patting his
crossbow. “There’s summat bad loose in this forest.
This is Harry Potter an’ Hermione Granger, by the
way. Students up at the school. An’ this is Ronan,
you two. He’s a centaur.”
 
“We’d noticed,” said Hermione faintly.
“Good evening,” said Ronan. “Students, are you? And
do you learn much, up at the school?”
“Erm — ”
“A bit,” said Hermione timidly.
“A bit. Well, that’s something.” Ronan sighed. He
flung back his head and stared at the sky. “Mars is
bright tonight.”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid, glancing up, too. “Listen, I’m glad
we’ve run inter yeh, Ronan, ’cause there’s a unicorn
bin hurt — you seen anythin’?”
Ronan didn’t answer immediately. He stared
unblinkingly upward, then sighed again.
“Always the innocent are the first victims,” he said.
“So it has been for ages past, so it is now.”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid, “but have yeh seen anythin’,
Ronan? Anythin’ unusual?”
“Mars is bright tonight,” Ronan repeated, while
Hagrid watched him impatiently. “Unusually bright.”
“Yeah, but I was meanin’ anythin’ unusual a bit
nearer home,” said Hagrid. “So yeh haven’t noticed
anythin’ strange?”
Yet again, Ronan took a while to answer. At last, he
said, “The forest hides many secrets.”
A movement in the trees behind Ronan made Hagrid
raise his bow again, but it was only a second centaur,
 
black-haired and -bodied and wilder-looking than
Ronan.
“Hullo, Bane,” said Hagrid. “All right?”
“Good evening, Hagrid, I hope you are well?”
“Well enough. Look, I’ve jus’ bin askin’ Ronan, you
seen anythin’ odd in here lately? There’s a unicorn
bin injured — would yeh know anythin’ about it?”
Bane walked over to stand next to Ronan. He looked
skyward.
“Mars is bright tonight,” he said simply.
“We’ve heard,” said Hagrid grumpily. “Well, if either of
you do see anythin’, let me know, won’t yeh? We’ll be
off, then.”
Harry and Hermione followed him out of the clearing,
staring over their shoulders at Ronan and Bane until
the trees blocked their view.
“Never,” said Hagrid irritably, “try an’ get a straight
answer out of a centaur. Ruddy stargazers. Not
interested in anythin’ closer’n the moon.”
“Are there many of them in here?” asked Hermione.
“Oh, a fair few. . . . Keep themselves to themselves
mostly, but they’re good enough about turnin’ up if
ever I want a word. They’re deep, mind, centaurs ...
they know things ... jus’ don’ let on much.”
“D’you think that was a centaur we heard earlier?”
said Harry.
 
“Did that sound like hooves to you? Nah, if yeh ask
me, that was what’s bin killin’ the unicorns — never
heard anythin’ like it before.”
They walked on through the dense, dark trees. Harry
kept looking nervously over his shoulder. He had the
nasty feeling they were being watched. He was very
glad they had Hagrid and his crossbow with them.
They had just passed a bend in the path when
Hermione grabbed Hagrid ’s arm.
“Hagrid! Look! Red sparks, the others are in trouble!”
“You two wait here!” Hagrid shouted. “Stay on the
path, I’ll come back for yeh!”
They heard him crashing away through the
undergrowth and stood looking at each other, very
scared, until they couldn’t hear anything but the
rustling of leaves around them.
“You don’t think they’ve been hurt, do you?”
whispered Hermione.
“I don’t care if Malfoy has, but if something’s got
Neville ... it’s our fault he’s here in the first place.”
The minutes dragged by. Their ears seemed sharper
than usual. Harry’s seemed to be picking up every
sigh of the wind, every cracking twig. What was going
on? Where were the others?
At last, a great crunching noise announced Hagrid’s
return. Malfoy, Neville, and Fang were with him.
Hagrid was fuming. Malfoy, it seemed, had sneaked
up behind Neville and grabbed him as a joke. Neville
had panicked and sent up the sparks.
 
“Well be lucky ter catch anythin’ now, with the racket
you two were makin’. Right, we’re changin’ groups —
Neville, you stay with me an’ Hermione, Harry, you go
with Fang an’ this idiot. I’m sorry,” Hagrid added in a
whisper to Harry, “but he’ll have a harder time
frightenin’ you, an’ we’ve gotta get this done.”
So Harry set off into the heart of the forest with
Malfoy and Fang. They walked for nearly half an
hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the path
became almost impossible to follow because the trees
were so thick. Harry thought the blood seemed to be
getting thicker. There were splashes on the roots of a
tree, as though the poor creature had been thrashing
around in pain close by. Harry could see a clearing
ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient
oak.
“Look — ” he murmured, holding out his arm to stop
Malfoy.
Something bright white was gleaming on the ground.
They inched closer.
It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead. Harry
had never seen anything so beautiful and sad. Its
long, slender legs were stuck out at odd angles where
it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on
the dark leaves.
Harry had taken one step toward it when a slithering
sound made him freeze where he stood. A bush on
the edge of the clearing quivered. ... Then, out of the
shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across the
ground like some stalking beast. Harry, Malfoy, and
Fang stood transfixed. The cloaked figure reached the
unicorn, lowered its head over the wound in the
animals side, and began to drink its blood.
 
“AAAAAAAAAAARGH ! ”
Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted — so did
Fang. The hooded figure raised its head and looked
right at Harry — unicorn blood was dribbling down its
front. It got to its feet and came swiftly toward Harry
— he couldn’t move for fear.
Then a pain like he’d never felt before pierced his
head; it was as though his scar were on fire. Half
blinded, he staggered backward. He heard hooves
behind him, galloping, and something jumped clean
over Harry, charging at the figure.
The pain in Harry’s head was so bad he fell to his
knees. It took a minute or two to pass. When he
looked up, the figure had gone. A centaur was
standing over him, not Ronan or Bane; this one
looked younger; he had white-blond hair and a
palomino body.
“Are you all right?” said the centaur, pulling Harry to
his feet.
“Yes — thank you — what was that?”
The centaur didn’t answer. He had astonishingly blue
eyes, like pale sapphires. He looked carefully at
Harry, his eyes lingering on the scar that stood out,
livid, on Harry’s forehead.
“You are the Potter boy,” he said. “You had better get
back to Hagrid. The forest is not safe at this time —
especially for you. Can you ride? It will be quicker
this way.
“My name is Firenze,” he added, as he lowered
himself on to his front legs so that Harry could
clamber onto his back.
 
There was suddenly a sound of more galloping from
the other side of the clearing. Ronan and Bane came
bursting through the trees, their flanks heaving and
sweaty.
“Firenze!” Bane thundered. “What are you doing? You
have a human on your back! Have you no shame? Are
you a common mule?”
“Do you realize who this is?” said Firenze. “This is the
Potter boy. The quicker he leaves this forest, the
better.”
“What have you been telling him?” growled Bane.
“Remember, Firenze, we are sworn not to set
ourselves against the heavens. Have we not read what
is to come in the movements of the planets?”
Ronan pawed the ground nervously. “I’m sure Firenze
thought he was acting for the best,” he said in his
gloomy voice.
Bane kicked his back legs in anger.
“For the best! What is that to do with us? Centaurs
are concerned with what has been foretold! It is not
our business to run around like donkeys after stray
humans in our forest!”
Firenze suddenly reared on to his hind legs in anger,
so that Harry had to grab his shoulders to stay on.
“Do you not see that unicorn?” Firenze bellowed at
Bane. “Do you not understand why it was killed? Or
have the planets not let you in on that secret? I set
myself against what is lurking in this forest, Bane,
yes, with humans alongside me if I must.”
 
And Firenze whisked around; with Harry clutching on
as best he could, they plunged off into the trees,
leaving Ronan and Bane behind them.
Harry didn’t have a clue what was going on.
“Why’s Bane so angry?” he asked. “What was that
thing you saved me from, anyway?”
Firenze slowed to a walk, warned Harry to keep his
head bowed in case of low-hanging branches, but did
not answer Harry’s question. They made their way
through the trees in silence for so long that Harry
thought Firenze didn’t want to talk to him anymore.
They were passing through a particularly dense patch
of trees, however, when Firenze suddenly stopped.
“Harry Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is
used for?”
“No,” said Harry, startled by the odd question. “We’ve
only used the horn and tail hair in Potions.”
“That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a
unicorn,” said Firenze. “Only one who has nothing to
lose, and everything to gain, would commit such a
crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even
if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price.
You have slain something pure and defenseless to
save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a
cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your
lips.”
Harry stared at the back of Firenze’s head, which was
dappled silver in the moonlight.
“But who’d be that desperate?” he wondered aloud. “If
you’re going to be cursed forever, death’s better, isn’t
it?”
 
“It is,” Firenze agreed, “unless all you need is to stay
alive long enough to drink something else —
something that will bring you back to full strength
and power — something that will mean you can never
die. Mr. Potter, do you know what is hidden in the
school at this very moment?”
“The Sorcerer’s Stone! Of course — the Elixir of Life!
But I don’t understand who — ”
“Can you think of nobody who has waited many years
to return to power, who has clung to life, awaiting
their chance?”
It was as though an iron fist had clenched suddenly
around Harry’s heart. Over the rustling of the trees,
he seemed to hear once more what Hagrid had told
him on the night they had met: “Some say he died.
Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough
human left in him to die.”
“Do you mean,” Harry croaked, “that was VoZ — ”
“Harry! Harry, are you all right?”
Hermione was running toward them down the path,
Hagrid puffing along behind her.
“I’m fine,” said Harry, hardly knowing what he was
saying. “The unicorn’s dead, Hagrid, it’s in that
clearing back there.”
“This is where I leave you,” Firenze murmured as
Hagrid hurried off to examine the unicorn. “You are
safe now.”
Harry slid off his back.
 
“Good luck, Harry Potter,” said Firenze. “The planets
have been read wrongly before now, even by centaurs.
I hope this is one of those times.”
He turned and cantered back into the depths of the
forest, leaving Harry shivering behind him.
Ron had fallen asleep in the dark common room,
waiting for them to return. He shouted something
about Quidditch fouls when Harry roughly shook him
awake. In a matter of seconds, though, he was wide-
eyed as Harry began to tell him and Hermione what
had happened in the forest.
Harry couldn’t sit down. He paced up and down in
front of the fire. He was still shaking.
“Snape wants the Stone for Voldemort ... and
Voldemort’s waiting in the forest ... and all this time
we thought Snape just wanted to get rich. ...”
“Stop saying the name!” said Ron in a terrified
whisper, as if he thought Voldemort could hear them.
Harry wasn’t listening.
“Firenze saved me, but he shouldn’t have done so. ...
Bane was furious ... he was talking about interfering
with what the planets say is going to happen. ... They
must show that Voldemort’s coming back. ... Bane
thinks Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me. ... I
suppose that’s written in the stars as well.”
“Will you stop saying the name\” Ron hissed.
“So all I’ve got to wait for now is Snape to steal the
Stone,” Harry went on feverishly, “then Voldemort will
be able to come and finish me off. ... Well, I suppose
Bane 11 be happy.”
 
Hermione looked very frightened, but she had a word
of comfort.
“Harry, everyone says Dumbledore’s the only one
You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. With Dumbledore
around, You-Know-Who won’t touch you. Anyway,
who says the centaurs are right? It sounds like
fortune-telling to me, and Professor McGonagall says
that’s a very imprecise branch of magic.”
The sky had turned light before they stopped talking.
They went to bed exhausted, their throats sore. But
the night’s surprises weren’t over.
When Harry pulled back his sheets, he found his
Invisibility Cloak folded neatly underneath them.
There was a note pinned to it:
Just in case.
 
THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR
In years to come, Harry would never quite remember
how he had managed to get through his exams when
he half expected Voldemort to come bursting through
the door at any moment. Yet the days crept by, and
there could be no doubt that Fluffy was still alive and
well behind the locked door.
It was sweltering hot, especially in the large
classroom where they did their written papers. They
had been given special, new quills for the exams,
which had been bewitched with an Anti-Cheating
spell.
They had practical exams as well. Professor Flitwick
called them one by one into his class to see if they
could make a pineapple tap-dance across a desk.
Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse
into a snuffbox — points were given for how pretty the
snuffbox was, but taken away if it had whiskers.
Snape made them all nervous, breathing down their
necks while they tried to remember how to make a
Forgetfulness potion.
 
Harry did the best he could, trying to ignore the
stabbing pains in his forehead, which had been
bothering him ever since his trip into the forest.
Neville thought Harry had a bad case of exam nerves
because Harry couldn’t sleep, but the truth was that
Harry kept being woken by his old nightmare, except
that it was now worse than ever because there was a
hooded figure dripping blood in it.
Maybe it was because they hadn’t seen what Harry
had seen in the forest, or because they didn’t have
scars burning on their foreheads, but Ron and
Hermione didn’t seem as worried about the Stone as
Harry. The idea of Voldemort certainly scared them,
but he didn’t keep visiting them in dreams, and they
were so busy with their studying they didn’t have
much time to fret about what Snape or anyone else
might be up to.
Their very last exam was History of Magic. One hour
of answering questions about batty old wizards who’d
invented self-stirring cauldrons and they’d be free,
free for a whole wonderful week until their exam
results came out. When the ghost of Professor Binns
told them to put down their quills and roll up their
parchment, Harry couldn’t help cheering with the
rest.
“That was far easier than I thought it would be,” said
Hermione as they joined the crowds flocking out onto
the sunny grounds. “I needn’t have learned about the
1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of
Elfric the Eager.”
Hermione always liked to go through their exam
papers afterward, but Ron said this made him feel ill,
so they wandered down to the lake and flopped under
a tree. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were
 
tickling the tentacles of a giant squid, which was
basking in the warm shallows.
“No more studying,” Ron sighed happily, stretching
out on the grass. “You could look more cheerful,
Harry, we’ve got a week before we find out how badly
we’ve done, there’s no need to worry yet.”
Harry was rubbing his forehead.
“I wish I knew what this means\” he burst out angrily.
“My scar keeps hurting — it’s happened before, but
never as often as this.”
“Go to Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione suggested.
“I’m not ill,” said Harry. “I think it’s a warning ... it
means danger’s coming. ...”
Ron couldn’t get worked up, it was too hot.
“Harry, relax, Hermione ’s right, the Stone’s safe as
long as Dumbledore’s around. Anyway, we’ve never
had any proof Snape found out how to get past Fluffy.
He nearly had his leg ripped off once, he’s not going to
try it again in a hurry. And Neville will play Quidditch
for England before Hagrid lets Dumbledore down.”
Harry nodded, but he couldn’t shake off a lurking
feeling that there was something he’d forgotten to do,
something important. When he tried to explain this,
Hermione said, “That’s just the exams. I woke up last
night and was halfway through my Transfiguration
notes before I remembered we’d done that one.”
Harry was quite sure the unsettled feeling didn’t have
anything to do with work, though. He watched an owl
flutter toward the school across the bright blue sky, a
note clamped in its mouth. Hagrid was the only one
 
who ever sent him letters. Hagrid would never betray
Dumbledore. Hagrid would never tell anyone how to
get past Fluffy . . . never . . . but —
Harry suddenly jumped to his feet.
“Where ’re you going?” said Ron sleepily.
“I’ve just thought of something,” said Harry. He had
turned white. “We’ve got to go and see Hagrid, now.”
“Why?” panted Hermione, hurrying to keep up.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd,” said Harry,
scrambling up the grassy slope, “that what Hagrid
wants more than anything else is a dragon, and a
stranger turns up who just happens to have an egg in
his pocket? How many people wander around with
dragon eggs if it’s against wizard law? Lucky they
found Hagrid, don’t you think? Why didn’t I see it
before?”
“What are you talking about?” said Ron, but Harry,
sprinting across the grounds toward the forest, didn’t
answer.
Hagrid was sitting in an armchair outside his house;
his trousers and sleeves were rolled up, and he was
shelling peas into a large bowl.
“Hullo,” he said, smiling. “Finished yer exams? Got
time fer a drink?”
“Yes, please,” said Ron, but Harry cut him off.
“No, we’re in a hurry. Hagrid, I’ve got to ask you
something. You know that night you won Norbert?
What did the stranger you were playing cards with
look like?”
 
“Dunno said Hagrid casually, “he wouldn’ take his
cloak off.”
He saw the three of them look stunned and raised his
eyebrows.
“It’s not that unusual, yeh get a lot o’ funny folk in
the Hog’s Head — that’s one o’ the pubs down in the
village. Mighta bin a dragon dealer, mightn’ he? I
never saw his face, he kept his hood up.”
Harry sank down next to the bowl of peas.
“What did you talk to him about, Hagrid? Did you
mention Hogwarts at all?”
“Mighta come up,” said Hagrid, frowning as he tried
to remember. “Yeah ... he asked what I did, an’ I told
him I was gamekeeper here. ... He asked a bit about
the sorta creatures I look after ... so I told him ... an’ I
said what I’d always really wanted was a dragon ...
an’ then ... I can’ remember too well, ’cause he kept
buyin’ me drinks. ... Let’s see ... yeah, then he said he
had the dragon egg an’ we could play cards fer it if I
wanted . . . but he had ter be sure I could handle it, he
didn’ want it ter go ter any old home. ... So I told him,
after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy. ...”
“And did he — did he seem interested in Fluffy?”
Harry asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
“Well — yeah — how many three-headed dogs d’yeh
meet, even around Hogwarts? So I told him, Fluffy’s a
piece o’ cake if yeh know how to calm him down, jus’
play him a bit o’ music an’ he’ll go straight off ter
sleep — ”
Hagrid suddenly looked horrified.
 
“I shouldn’ta told yeh that!” he blurted out. “Forget I
said it! Hey — where’re yeh goin’?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn’t speak to each other
at all until they came to a halt in the entrance hall,
which seemed very cold and gloomy after the
grounds.
“We’ve got to go to Dumbledore,” said Harry. “Hagrid
told that stranger how to get past Fluffy, and it was
either Snape or Voldemort under that cloak — it
must’ve been easy, once he’d got Hagrid drunk. I just
hope Dumbledore believes us. Firenze might back us
up if Bane doesn’t stop him. Where’s Dumbledore’s
office?”
They looked around, as if hoping to see a sign
pointing them in the right direction. They had never
been told where Dumbledore lived, nor did they know
anyone who had been sent to see him.
“Well just have to — ” Harry began, but a voice
suddenly rang across the hall.
“What are you three doing inside?”
It was Professor McGonagall, carrying a large pile of
books.
“We want to see Professor Dumbledore,” said
Hermione, rather bravely, Harry and Ron thought.
“See Professor Dumbledore?” Professor McGonagall
repeated, as though this was a very fishy thing to
want to do. “Why?”
Harry swallowed — now what?
 
“It’s sort of secret,” he said, but he wished at once he
hadn’t, because Professor McGonagall’s nostrils
flared.
“Professor Dumbledore left ten minutes ago,” she said
coldly. “He received an urgent owl from the Ministry
of Magic and flew off for London at once.”
“He’s gone?” said Harry frantically. “Now?”
“Professor Dumbledore is a very great wizard, Potter,
he has many demands on his time — ”
“But this is important.”
“Something you have to say is more important than
the Ministry of Magic, Potter?”
“Look,” said Harry, throwing caution to the winds,
“Professor — it’s about the Sorcerer’s Stone — ”
Whatever Professor McGonagall had expected, it
wasn’t that. The books she was carrying tumbled out
of her arms, but she didn’t pick them up.
“How do you know — ?” she spluttered.
“Professor, I think — I know — that Sn — that
someone’s going to try and steal the Stone. I’ve got to
talk to Professor Dumbledore.”
She eyed him with a mixture of shock and suspicion.
“Professor Dumbledore will be back tomorrow,” she
said finally. “I don’t know how you found out about
the Stone, but rest assured, no one can possibly steal
it, it’s too well protected.”
“But Professor — ”
 
“Potter, I know what I’m talking about,” she said
shortly. She bent down and gathered up the fallen
books. “I suggest you all go back outside and enjoy
the sunshine.”
But they didn’t.
“It’s tonight,” said Harry, once he was sure Professor
McGonagall was out of earshot. “Snape’s going
through the trapdoor tonight. He’s found out
everything he needs, and now he’s got Dumbledore
out of the way. He sent that note, I bet the Ministry of
Magic will get a real shock when Dumbledore turns
up.”
“But what can we — ”
Hermione gasped. Harry and Ron wheeled round.
Snape was standing there.
“Good afternoon,” he said smoothly.
They stared at him.
“You shouldn’t be inside on a day like this,” he said,
with an odd, twisted smile.
“We were — ” Harry began, without any idea what he
was going to say.
“You want to be more careful,” said Snape. “Hanging
around like this, people will think you’re up to
something. And Gryffindor really can’t afford to lose
any more points, can it?”
Harry flushed. They turned to go outside, but Snape
called them back.
 
“Be warned, Potter — any more nighttime wanderings
and I will personally make sure you are expelled.
Good day to you.”
He strode off in the direction of the staffroom.
Out on the stone steps, Harry turned to the others.
“Right, here’s what we’ve got to do,” he whispered
urgently. “One of us has got to keep an eye on Snape
— wait outside the staffroom and follow him if he
leaves it. Hermione, you’d better do that.”
“Why me?”
“It’s obvious,” said Ron. “You can pretend to be
waiting for Professor Flitwick, you know.” He put on a
high voice, “ ‘Oh Professor Flitwick, I’m so worried, I
think I got question fourteen b wrong. . . . ’ ”
“Oh, shut up,” said Hermione, but she agreed to go
and watch out for Snape.
“And we’d better stay outside the third-floor corridor,”
Harry told Ron. “Come on.”
But that part of the plan didn’t work. No sooner had
they reached the door separating Fluffy from the rest
of the school than Professor McGonagall turned up
again and this time, she lost her temper.
“I suppose you think you’re harder to get past than a
pack of enchantments!” she stormed. “Enough of this
nonsense! If I hear you’ve come anywhere near here
again, I’ll take another fifty points from Gryffindor!
Yes, Weasley, from my own House!”
Harry and Ron went back to the common room. Harry
had just said, “At least Hermione’s on Snape’s tail,”
 
when the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open and
Hermione came in.
“I’m sorry, Harry!” she wailed. “Snape came out and
asked me what I was doing, so I said I was waiting for
Flitwick, and Snape went to get him, and I’ve only
just got away, I don’t know where Snape went.”
“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?” Harry said.
The other two stared at him. He was pale and his eyes
were glittering.
“I’m going out of here tonight and I’m going to try and
get to the Stone first.”
“You’re mad!” said Ron.
“You can’t!” said Hermione. “After what McGonagall
and Snape have said? You’ll be expelled!”
“SO WHAT?” Harry shouted. “Don’t you understand?
If Snape gets hold of the Stone, Voldemort’s coming
back! Haven’t you heard what it was like when he was
trying to take over? There won’t be any Hogwarts to
get expelled from! He’ll flatten it, or turn it into a
school for the Dark Arts! Losing points doesn’t matter
anymore, can’t you see? D’you think he’ll leave you
and your families alone if Gryffindor wins the House
Cup? If I get caught before I can get to the Stone, well,
I’ll have to go back to the Dursleys and wait for
Voldemort to find me there, it’s only dying a bit later
than I would have, because I’m never going over to
the Dark Side! I’m going through that trapdoor
tonight and nothing you two say is going to stop me!
Voldemort killed my parents, remember?”
He glared at them.
 
“You’re right, Harry,” said Hermione in a small voice.
“I’ll use the Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “It’s just
lucky I got it back.”
“But will it cover all three of us?” said Ron.
“All — all three of us?”
“Oh, come off it, you don’t think we’d let you go
alone?”
“Of course not,” said Hermione briskly. “How do you
think you’d get to the Stone without us? I’d better go
and look through my books, there might be
something useful. ...”
“But if we get caught, you two will be expelled, too.”
“Not if I can help it,” said Hermione grimly. “Flitwick
told me in secret that I got a hundred and twelve
percent on his exam. They’re not throwing me out
after that.”
After dinner the three of them sat nervously apart in
the common room. Nobody bothered them; none of
the Gryffindors had anything to say to Harry any
more, after all. This was the first night he hadn’t been
upset by it. Hermione was skimming through all her
notes, hoping to come across one of the
enchantments they were about to try to break. Harry
and Ron didn’t talk much. Both of them were
thinking about what they were about to do.
Slowly, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed.
“Better get the cloak,” Ron muttered, as Lee Jordan
finally left, stretching and yawning. Harry ran
upstairs to their dark dormitory. He pulled out the
 
cloak and then his eyes fell on the flute Hagrid had
given him for Christmas. He pocketed it to use on
Fluffy — he didn’t feel much like singing.
He ran back down to the common room.
“We’d better put the cloak on here, and make sure it
covers all three of us — if Filch spots one of our feet
wandering along on its own — ”
“What are you doing?” said a voice from the corner of
the room. Neville appeared from behind an armchair,
clutching Trevor the toad, who looked as though he’d
been making another bid for freedom.
“Nothing, Neville, nothing,” said Harry, hurriedly
putting the cloak behind his back.
Neville stared at their guilty faces.
“You’re going out again,” he said.
“No, no, no,” said Hermione. “No, we’re not. Why don’t
you go to bed, Neville?”
Harry looked at the grandfather clock by the door.
They couldn’t afford to waste any more time, Snape
might even now be playing Fluffy to sleep.
“You can’t go out,” said Neville, “you’ll be caught
again. Gryffindor will be in even more trouble.”
“You don’t understand,” said Harry, “this is
important.”
But Neville was clearly steeling himself to do
something desperate.
 
“I won’t let you do it,” he said, hurrying to stand in
front of the portrait hole. “I’ll — I’ll fight you!”
“Neville,” Ron exploded, “get away from that hole and
don’t be an idiot — ”
“Don’t you call me an idiot!” said Neville. “I don’t
think you should be breaking any more rules! And
you were the one who told me to stand up to people!”
“Yes, but not to us,” said Ron in exasperation.
“Neville, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
He took a step forward and Neville dropped Trevor the
toad, who leapt out of sight.
“Go on then, try and hit me!” said Neville, raising his
fists. “I’m ready!”
Harry turned to Hermione.
“Do something,” he said desperately.
Hermione stepped forward.
“Neville,” she said, “I’m really, really sorry about this.”
She raised her wand.
“Petrificus Totalusl” she cried, pointing it at Neville.
Neville’s arms snapped to his sides. His legs sprang
together. His whole body rigid, he swayed where he
stood and then fell flat on his face, stiff as a board.
Hermione ran to turn him over. Neville’s jaws were
jammed together so he couldn’t speak. Only his eyes
were moving, looking at them in horror.
 
“What’ve you done to him?” Harry whispered.
“It’s the full Body-Bind,” said Hermione miserably.
“Oh, Neville, I’m so sorry.”
“We had to, Neville, no time to explain,” said Harry.
“You’ll understand later, Neville,” said Ron as they
stepped over him and pulled on the Invisibility Cloak.
But leaving Neville lying motionless on the floor didn’t
feel like a very good omen. In their nervous state,
every statue’s shadow looked like Filch, every distant
breath of wind sounded like Peeves swooping down on
them.
At the foot of the first set of stairs, they spotted Mrs.
Norris skulking near the top.
“Oh, let’s kick her, just this once,” Ron whispered in
Harry’s ear, but Harry shook his head. As they
climbed carefully around her, Mrs. Norris turned her
lamplike eyes on them, but didn’t do anything.
They didn’t meet anyone else until they reached the
staircase up to the third floor. Peeves was bobbing
halfway up, loosening the carpet so that people would
trip.
“Who’s there?” he said suddenly as they climbed
toward him. He narrowed his wicked black eyes.
“Know you’re there, even if I can’t see you. Are you
ghoulie or ghostie or wee student beastie?”
He rose up in the air and floated there, squinting at
them.
“Should call Filch, I should, if something’s a-creeping
around unseen.”
 
Harry had a sudden idea.
“Peeves,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “the Bloody
Baron has his own reasons for being invisible.”
Peeves almost fell out of the air in shock. He caught
himself in time and hovered about a foot off the
stairs.
“So sorry, your bloodiness, Mr. Baron, sir,” he said
greasily. “My mistake, my mistake — I didn’t see you
— of course I didn’t, you’re invisible — forgive old
Peevsie his little joke, sir.”
“I have business here, Peeves,” croaked Harry. “Stay
away from this place tonight.”
“I will, sir, I most certainly will,” said Peeves, rising up
in the air again. “Hope your business goes well,
Baron, I’ll not bother you.”
And he scooted off.
“Brilliant, Harry!” whispered Ron.
A few seconds later, they were there, outside the
third-floor corridor — and the door was already ajar.
“Well, there you are,” Harry said quietly, “Snape’s
already got past Fluffy.”
Seeing the open door somehow seemed to impress
upon all three of them what was facing them.
Underneath the cloak, Harry turned to the other two.
“If you want to go back, I won’t blame you,” he said.
“You can take the cloak, I won’t need it now.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Ron.
 
“We’re coming,” said Hermione.
Harry pushed the door open.
As the door creaked, low, rumbling growls met their
ears. All three of the dog’s noses sniffed madly in their
direction, even though it couldn’t see them.
“What’s that at its feet?” Hermione whispered.
“Looks like a harp,” said Ron. “Snape must have left it
there.”
“It must wake up the moment you stop playing,” said
Harry. “Well, here goes ...”
He put Hagrid’s flute to his lips and blew. It wasn’t
really a tune, but from the first note the beast’s eyes
began to droop. Harry hardly drew breath. Slowly, the
dog’s growls ceased — it tottered on its paws and fell
to its knees, then it slumped to the ground, fast
asleep.
“Keep playing,” Ron warned Harry as they slipped out
of the cloak and crept toward the trapdoor. They
could feel the dog’s hot, smelly breath as they
approached the giant heads.
“I think we’ll be able to pull the door open,” said Ron,
peering over the dog’s back. “Want to go first,
Hermione?”
“No, I don’t!”
“All right.” Ron gritted his teeth and stepped carefully
over the dog’s legs. He bent and pulled the ring of the
trapdoor, which swung up and open.
“What can you see?” Hermione said anxiously.
 
“Nothing — just black — there’s no way of climbing
down, we’ll just have to drop.”
Harry, who was still playing the flute, waved at Ron to
get his attention and pointed at himself.
“You want to go first? Are you sure?” said Ron. “I
don’t know how deep this thing goes. Give the flute to
Hermione so she can keep him asleep.”
Harry handed the flute over. In the few seconds’
silence, the dog growled and twitched, but the
moment Hermione began to play, it fell back into its
deep sleep.
Harry climbed over it and looked down through the
trapdoor. There was no sign of the bottom.
He lowered himself through the hole until he was
hanging on by his fingertips. Then he looked up at
Ron and said, “If anything happens to me, don’t
follow. Go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to
Dumbledore, right?”
“Right,” said Ron.
“See you in a minute, I hope. ...”
And Harry let go. Cold, damp air rushed past him as
he fell down, down, down and —
FLUMP. With a funny, muffled sort of thump he
landed on something soft. He sat up and felt around,
his eyes not used to the gloom. It felt as though he
was sitting on some sort of plant.
“It’s okay!” he called up to the light the size of a
postage stamp, which was the open trapdoor, “it’s a
soft landing, you can jump!”
 
Ron followed right away. He landed, sprawled next to
Harry.
“What’s this stuff?” were his first words.
“Dunno, some sort of plant thing. I suppose it’s here
to break the fall. Come on, Hermione!”
The distant music stopped. There was a loud bark
from the dog, but Hermione had already jumped. She
landed on Harry’s other side.
“We must be miles under the school,” she said.
“Lucky this plant thing’s here, really,” said Ron.
“Lucky\” shrieked Hermione. “Look at you both!”
She leapt up and struggled toward a damp wall. She
had to struggle because the moment she had landed,
the plant had started to twist snakelike tendrils
around her ankles. As for Harry and Ron, their legs
had already been bound tightly in long creepers
without their noticing.
Hermione had managed to free herself before the
plant got a firm grip on her. Now she watched in
horror as the two boys fought to pull the plant off
them, but the more they strained against it, the
tighter and faster the plant wound around them.
“Stop moving!” Hermione ordered them. “I know what
this is — it’s Devil’s Snare!”
“Oh, I’m so glad we know what it’s called, that’s a
great help,” snarled Ron, leaning back, trying to stop
the plant from curling around his neck.
 
“Shut up, I’m trying to remember how to kill it!” said
Hermione.
“Well, hurry up, I can’t breathe!” Harry gasped,
wrestling with it as it curled around his chest.
“Devil’s Snare, Devil’s Snare ... what did Professor
Sprout say? — it likes the dark and the damp — ”
“So light a fire!” Harry choked.
“Yes — of course — but there’s no wood!” Hermione
cried, wringing her hands.
“HAVE YOU GONE MAD?” Ron bellowed. “ARE YOU A
WITCH OR NOT?”
“Oh, right!” said Hermione, and she whipped out her
wand, waved it, muttered something, and sent a jet of
the same bluebell flames she had used on Snape at
the plant. In a matter of seconds, the two boys felt it
loosening its grip as it cringed away from the light
and warmth. Wriggling and flailing, it unraveled itself
from their bodies, and they were able to pull free.
“Lucky you pay attention in Herbology, Hermione,”
said Harry as he joined her by the wall, wiping sweat
off his face.
“Yeah,” said Ron, “and lucky Harry doesn’t lose his
head in a crisis — ‘there’s no wood,’ honestly.”
“This way,” said Harry, pointing down a stone
passageway, which was the only way forward.
All they could hear apart from their footsteps was the
gentle drip of water trickling down the walls. The
passageway sloped downward, and Harry was
reminded of Gringotts. With an unpleasant jolt of the
 
heart, he remembered the dragons said to be
guarding vaults in the wizards’ bank. If they met a
dragon, a fully-grown dragon — Norbert had been bad
enough ...
“Can you hear something?” Ron whispered.
Harry listened. A soft rustling and clinking seemed to
be coming from up ahead.
“Do you think it’s a ghost?”
“I don’t know ... sounds like wings to me.”
“There’s light ahead — I can see something moving.”
They reached the end of the passageway and saw
before them a brilliantly lit chamber, its ceiling
arching high above them. It was full of small, jewel-
bright birds, fluttering and tumbling all around the
room. On the opposite side of the chamber was a
heavy wooden door.
“Do you think they’ll attack us if we cross the room?”
said Ron.
“Probably,” said Harry. “They don’t look very vicious,
but I suppose if they all swooped down at once . . .
well, there’s no other choice ... I’ll run.”
He took a deep breath, covered his face with his arms,
and sprinted across the room. He expected to feel
sharp beaks and claws tearing at him any second,
but nothing happened. He reached the door
untouched. He pulled the handle, but it was locked.
The other two followed him. They tugged and heaved
at the door, but it wouldn’t budge, not even when
Hermione tried her Alohomora Charm.
 
“Now what?” said Ron.
“These birds ... they can’t be here just for decoration,”
said Hermione.
They watched the birds soaring overhead, glittering —
glittering?
“They’re not birds!” Harry said suddenly. “They’re
keys\ Winged keys — look carefully. So that must
mean ...” he looked around the chamber while the
other two squinted up at the flock of keys. "... yes —
look! Broomsticks! We’ve got to catch the key to the
door!”
“But there are hundreds of them!”
Ron examined the lock on the door.
“We’re looking for a big, old-fashioned one — probably
silver, like the handle.”
They each seized a broomstick and kicked off into the
air, soaring into the midst of the cloud of keys. They
grabbed and snatched, but the bewitched keys darted
and dived so quickly it was almost impossible to
catch one.
Not for nothing, though, was Harry the youngest
Seeker in a century. He had a knack for spotting
things other people didn’t. After a minute’s weaving
about through the whirl of rainbow feathers, he
noticed a large silver key that had a bent wing, as if it
had already been caught and stuffed roughly into the
keyhole.
“That one!” he called to the others. “That big one —
there — no, there — with bright blue wings — the
feathers are all crumpled on one side.”
 
Ron went speeding in the direction that Harry was
pointing, crashed into the ceiling, and nearly fell off
his broom.
“We’ve got to close in on it!” Harry called, not taking
his eyes off the key with the damaged wing. “Ron, you
come at it from above — Hermione, stay below and
stop it from going down — and I’ll try and catch it.
Right, NOW!”
Ron dived, Hermione rocketed upward, the key
dodged them both, and Harry streaked after it; it sped
toward the wall, Harry leaned forward and with a
nasty, crunching noise, pinned it against the stone
with one hand. Ron and Hermione ’s cheers echoed
around the high chamber.
They landed quickly, and Harry ran to the door, the
key struggling in his hand. He rammed it into the lock
and turned — it worked. The moment the lock had
clicked open, the key took flight again, looking very
battered now that it had been caught twice.
“Ready?” Harry asked the other two, his hand on the
door handle. They nodded. He pulled the door open.
The next chamber was so dark they couldn’t see
anything at all. But as they stepped into it, light
suddenly flooded the room to reveal an astonishing
sight.
They were standing on the edge of a huge chessboard,
behind the black chessmen, which were all taller than
they were and carved from what looked like black
stone. Facing them, way across the chamber, were
the white pieces. Harry, Ron and Hermione shivered
slightly — the towering white chessmen had no faces.
“Now what do we do?” Harry whispered.
 
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Ron. “We’ve got to play our
way across the room.”
Behind the white pieces they could see another door.
“How?” said Hermione nervously.
“I think,” said Ron, “we’re going to have to be
chessmen.”
He walked up to a black knight and put his hand out
to touch the knights horse. At once, the stone sprang
to life. The horse pawed the ground and the knight
turned his helmeted head to look down at Ron.
“Do we — er — have to join you to get across?”
The black knight nodded. Ron turned to the other
two.
“This needs thinking about. ...” he said. “I suppose
we’ve got to take the place of three of the black pieces.
Harry and Hermione stayed quiet, watching Ron
think. Finally he said, “Now, don’t be offended or
anything, but neither of you are that good at chess —
“We’re not offended,” said Harry quickly. “Just tell us
what to do.”
“Well, Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and
Hermione, you go there instead of that castle.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to be a knight,” said Ron.
 
The chessmen seemed to have been listening, because
at these words a knight, a bishop, and a castle turned
their backs on the white pieces and walked off the
board, leaving three empty squares that Harry, Ron,
and Hermione took.
“White always plays first in chess,” said Ron, peering
across the board. “Yes ... look ...”
A white pawn had moved forward two squares.
Ron started to direct the black pieces. They moved
silently wherever he sent them. Harry’s knees were
trembling. What if they lost?
“Harry — move diagonally four squares to the right.”
Their first real shock came when their other knight
was taken. The white queen smashed him to the floor
and dragged him off the board, where he lay quite
still, facedown.
“Had to let that happen,” said Ron, looking shaken.
“Leaves you free to take that bishop, Hermione, go
on.”
Every time one of their men was lost, the white pieces
showed no mercy. Soon there was a huddle of limp
black players slumped along the wall. Twice, Ron only
just noticed in time that Harry and Hermione were in
danger. He himself darted around the board, taking
almost as many white pieces as they had lost black
ones.
“We’re nearly there,” he muttered suddenly. “Let me
think — let me think ...”
The white queen turned her blank face toward him.
 
“Yes ...” said Ron softly, “it’s the only way ... I’ve got
to be taken.”
“NO!” Harry and Hermione shouted.
“That’s chess!” snapped Ron. “You’ve got to make
some sacrifices! I make my move and she’ll take me —
that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!”
“But — ”
“Do you want to stop Snape or not?”
“Ron — ”
“Look, if you don’t hurry up, hell already have the
Stone!”
There was no alternative.
“Ready?” Ron called, his face pale but determined.
“Here I go — now, don’t hang around once you’ve
won.”
He stepped forward, and the white queen pounced.
She struck Ron hard across the head with her stone
arm, and he crashed to the floor — Hermione
screamed but stayed on her square — the white
queen dragged Ron to one side. He looked as if he’d
been knocked out.
Shaking, Harry moved three spaces to the left.
The white king took off his crown and threw it at
Harry’s feet. They had won. The chessmen parted and
bowed, leaving the door ahead clear. With one last
desperate look back at Ron, Harry and Hermione
charged through the door and up the next
passageway.
 
“What if he’s — ?”
“He’ll be all right,” said Harry, trying to convince
himself. “What do you reckon’s next?”
“We’ve had Sprout’s, that was the Devil’s Snare;
Flitwick must’ve put charms on the keys; McGonagall
transfigured the chessmen to make them alive; that
leaves Quirrell’s spell, and Snape’s ...”
They had reached another door.
“All right?” Harry whispered.
“Go on.”
Harry pushed it open.
A disgusting smell filled their nostrils, making both of
them pull their robes up over their noses. Eyes
watering, they saw, flat on the floor in front of them, a
troll even larger than the one they had tackled, out
cold with a bloody lump on its head.
“I’m glad we didn’t have to fight that one,” Harry
whispered as they stepped carefully over one of its
massive legs. “Come on, I can’t breathe.”
He pulled open the next door, both of them hardly
daring to look at what came next — but there was
nothing very frightening in here, just a table with
seven differently shaped bottles standing on it in a
line.
“Snape’s,” said Harry. “What do we have to do?”
They stepped over the threshold, and immediately a
fire sprang up behind them in the doorway. It wasn’t
ordinary fire either; it was purple. At the same
 
instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading
onward. They were trapped.
“Look!” Hermione seized a roll of paper lying next to
the bottles. Harry looked over her shoulder to read it:
Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,
One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will transport the drinker back instead,
Two among our number hold only nettle wine,
Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.
Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues
four:
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide
You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side;
Second, different are those who stand at either end,
But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;
Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first
sight
 
Hermione let out a great sigh and Harry, amazed, saw
that she was smiling, the very last thing he felt like
doing.
“Brilliant,” said Hermione. “This isn’t magic — it’s
logic — a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven’t
got an ounce of logic, they’d be stuck in here forever.”
“But so will we, won’t we?”
“Of course not,” said Hermione. “Everything we need
is here on this paper. Seven bottles: three are poison;
two are wine; one will get us safely through the black
fire, and one will get us back through the purple.”
“But how do we know which to drink?”
“Give me a minute.”
Hermione read the paper several times. Then she
walked up and down the line of bottles, muttering to
herself and pointing at them. At last, she clapped her
hands.
“Got it,” she said. “The smallest bottle will get us
through the black fire — toward the Stone.”
Harry looked at the tiny bottle.
“There’s only enough there for one of us,” he said.
“That’s hardly one swallow.”
They looked at each other.
“Which one will get you back through the purple
flames?”
Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end
of the line.
 
“You drink that,” said Harry. “No, listen, get back and
get Ron. Grab brooms from the flying-key room,
they’ll get you out of the trapdoor and past Fluffy —
go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to
Dumbledore, we need him. I might be able to hold
Snape off for a while, but I’m no match for him,
really.”
“But Harry — what if You-Know- Who’s with him?”
“Well — I was lucky once, wasn’t I?” said Harry,
pointing at his scar. “I might get lucky again.”
Hermione’s lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at
Harry and threw her arms around him.
“Hermionel”
“Harry — you’re a great wizard, you know.”
“I’m not as good as you,” said Harry, very
embarrassed, as she let go of him.
“Me!” said Hermione. “Books! And cleverness! There
are more important things — friendship and bravery
and — oh Harry — be carefull”
“You drink first,” said Harry. “You are sure which is
which, aren’t you?”
“Positive,” said Hermione. She took a long drink from
the round bottle at the end, and shuddered.
“It’s not poison?” said Harry anxiously.
“No — but it’s like ice.”
“Quick, go, before it wears off.”
 
“Good luck — take care — ”
“GO!”
Hermione turned and walked straight through the
purple fire.
Harry took a deep breath and picked up the smallest
bottle. He turned to face the black flames.
“Here I come,” he said, and he drained the little bottle
in one gulp.
It was indeed as though ice was flooding his body. He
put the bottle down and walked forward; he braced
himself, saw the black flames licking his body, but
couldn’t feel them — for a moment he could see
nothing but dark fire — then he was on the other
side, in the last chamber.
There was already someone there — but it wasn’t
Snape. It wasn’t even Voldemort.
 
THE MAN WITH TWO FACES
It was Quirrell.
“You\” gasped Harry.
Quirrell smiled. His face wasn’t twitching at all.
“Me,” he said calmly. “I wondered whether I’d be
meeting you here, Potter.”
“But I thought — Snape — ”
“Severus?” Quirrell laughed, and it wasn’t his usual
quivering treble, either, but cold and sharp. “Yes,
Severus does seem the type, doesn’t he? So useful to
have him swooping around like an overgrown bat.
Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-
stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?”
Harry couldn’t take it in. This couldn’t be true, it
couldn’t.
“But Snape tried to kill me!”
 
“No, no, no. / tried to kill you. Your friend Miss
Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed
to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She
broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds
and I’d have got you off that broom. I’d have managed
it before then if Snape hadn’t been muttering a
countercurse, trying to save you.”
“Snape was trying to save me?”
“Of course,” said Quirrell coolly. “Why do you think
he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying
to make sure I didn’t do it again. Funny, really ... he
needn’t have bothered. I couldn’t do anything with
Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought
Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he
did make himself unpopular . . . and what a waste of
time, when after all that, I’m going to kill you tonight.”
Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin
air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry.
“You’re too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the
school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you’d
seen me coming to look at what was guarding the
Stone.”
“ You let the troll in?”
“Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls — you must
have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back
there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was
running around looking for it, Snape, who already
suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head
me off — and not only did my troll fail to beat you to
death, that three-headed dog didn’t even manage to
bite Snape ’s leg off properly.
 
“Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this
interesting mirror.”
It was only then that Harry realized what was
standing behind Quirrell. It was the Mirror of Erised.
“This mirror is the key to finding the Stone,” Quirrell
murmured, tapping his way around the frame. “Trust
Dumbledore to come up with something like this . . .
but he’s in London ... I’ll be far away by the time he
gets back. ...”
All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell
talking and stop him from concentrating on the
mirror.
“I saw you and Snape in the forest — ” he blurted out.
“Yes,” said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to
look at the back. “He was on to me by that time,
trying to find out how far I’d got. He suspected me all
along. Tried to frighten me — as though he could,
when I had Lord Voldemort on my side. ...”
Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and
stared hungrily into it.
“I see the Stone ... I’m presenting it to my master ...
but where is it?”
Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but
they didn’t give. He had to keep Quirrell from giving
his whole attention to the mirror.
“But Snape always seemed to hate me so much.”
“Oh, he does,” said Quirrell casually, “heavens, yes.
He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn’t you
 
know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted
you dead.”
“But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing — I thought
Snape was threatening you.
For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across
Quirrell’s face.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I find it hard to follow my
master’s instructions — he is a great wizard and I am
weak — ”
“You mean he was there in the classroom with you?”
Harry gasped.
“He is with me wherever I go,” said Quirrell quietly. “I
met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish
young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about
good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong
I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power,
and those too weak to seek it. ... Since then, I have
served him faithfully, although I have let him down
many times. He has had to be very hard on me.”
Quirrell shivered suddenly. “He does not forgive
mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from
Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me
. . . decided he would have to keep a closer watch on
me. ...”
Quirrell’s voice trailed away. Harry was remembering
his trip to Diagon Alley — how could he have been so
stupid? He’d seen Quirrell there that very day, shaken
hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron.
Quirrell cursed under his breath.
“I don’t understand ... is the Stone inside the mirror?
Should I break it?”
 
Harry’s mind was racing.
What I want more than anything else in the world at
the moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before
Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see
my self finding it — which means I’ll see where it’s
hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realizing
what I’m up to?
He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass
without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his
ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell
ignored him. He was still talking to himself.
“What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help
me, Master!”
And to Harry’s horror, a voice answered, and the voice
seemed to come from Quirrell himself.
“Use the boy ... Use the boy ...”
Quirrell rounded on Harry.
“Yes — Potter — come here.”
He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding
Harry fell off. Harry got slowly to his feet.
“Come here,” Quirrell repeated. “Look in the mirror
and tell me what you see.”
Harry walked toward him.
I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie
about what I see, that’s all.
Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in
the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell’s
 
turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the
mirror, and opened them again.
He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first.
But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It
put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-
red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its
pocket — and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy
drop into his real pocket. Somehow — incredibly —
he’d gotten the Stone.
“Well?” said Quirrell impatiently. “What do you see?”
Harry screwed up his courage.
“I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore,” he
invented. “I — I’ve won the House Cup for Gryffindor.”
Quirrell cursed again.
“Get out of the way,” he said. As Harry moved aside,
he felt the Sorcerer’s Stone against his leg. Dare he
make a break for it?
But he hadn’t walked five paces before a high voice
spoke, though Quirrell wasn’t moving his lips.
“He lies ... He lies ...”
“Potter, come back here!” Quirrell shouted. “Tell me
the truth! What did you just see?”
The high voice spoke again.
“Let me speak to him ... face-to-face. ...”
“Master, you are not strong enough!”
“I have strength enough ... for this. ...”
 
Harry felt as if Devil’s Snare was rooting him to the
spot. He couldn’t move a muscle. Petrified, he
watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap
his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away.
Quirrell’s head looked strangely small without it.
Then he turned slowly on the spot.
Harry would have screamed, but he couldn’t make a
sound. Where there should have been a back to
Quirrell’s head, there was a face, the most terrible
face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with
glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.
“Harry Potter ...” it whispered.
Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs
wouldn’t move.
“See what I have become?” the face said. “Mere
shadow and vapor ... I have form only when I can
share another’s body . . . but there have always been
those willing to let me into their hearts and minds. ...
Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks
. . . you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the
forest ... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be
able to create a body of my own. ... Now ... why don’t
you give me that Stone in your pocket?”
So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into
Harry’s legs. He stumbled backward.
“Don’t be a fool,” snarled the face. “Better save your
own life and join me ... or you’ll meet the same end as
your parents. ... They died begging me for mercy. ...”
“LIAR!” Harry shouted suddenly.
 
Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that
Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now
smiling.
“How touching ...” it hissed. “I always value bravery.
... Yes, boy, your parents were brave. ... I killed your
father first, and he put up a courageous fight . . . but
your mother needn’t have died ... she was trying to
protect you. ... Now give me the Stone, unless you
want her to have died in vain.”
“NEVER!”
Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort
screamed “SEIZE HIM!” and the next second, Harry
felt Quirrell’s hand close on his wrist. At once, a
needle-sharp pain seared across Harry’s scar; his
head felt as though it was about to split in two; he
yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his
surprise, Quirrell let go of him. The pain in his head
lessened — he looked around wildly to see where
Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain,
looking at his fingers — they were blistering before his
eyes.
“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort again,
and Quirrell lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet,
landing on top of him, both hands around Harry’s
neck — Harry’s scar was almost blinding him with
pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony.
“Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my
hands!”
And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground
with his knees, let go of his neck and stared,
bewildered, at his own palms — Harry could see they
looked burned, raw, red, and shiny.
 
“Then kill him, fool, and be done!” screeched
Voldemort.
Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse,
but Harry, by instinct, reached up and grabbed
Quirrell’s face —
“AAAARGH!”
Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and
then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare
skin, not without suffering terrible pain — his only
chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in
enough pain to stop him from doing a curse.
Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm,
and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed
and tried to throw Harry off — the pain in Harry’s
head was building — he couldn’t see — he could only
hear Quirrell’s terrible shrieks and Voldemort’s yells
of, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” and other voices, maybe in
Harry’s own head, crying, “Harry! Harry!”
He felt Quirrell’s arm wrenched from his grasp, knew
all was lost, and fell into blackness, down ... down ...
down ...
Something gold was glinting just above him. The
Snitch! He tried to catch it, but his arms were too
heavy.
He blinked. It wasn’t the Snitch at all. It was a pair of
glasses. How strange.
He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus
Dumbledore swam into view above him.
“Good afternoon, Harry,” said Dumbledore.
 
Harry stared at him. Then he remembered: “Sir! The
Stone! It was Quirrell! He’s got the Stone! Sir, quick —
“Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the
times,” said Dumbledore. “Quirrell does not have the
Stone.”
“Then who does? Sir, I — ”
“Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me
thrown out.”
Harry swallowed and looked around him. He realized
he must be in the hospital wing. He was lying in a bed
with white linen sheets, and next to him was a table
piled high with what looked like half the candy shop.
“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” said
Dumbledore, beaming. “What happened down in the
dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a
complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school
knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George
Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a
toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse
you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be
very hygienic, and confiscated it.”
“How long have I been in here?”
“Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger
will be most relieved you have come round, they have
been extremely worried.”
“But sir, the Stone — ”
“I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the
Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it
 
from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although
you were doing very well on your own, I must say.”
“You got there? You got Hermione’s owl?”
“We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I
reached London than it became clear to me that the
place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived
just in time to pull Quirrell off you — ”
“It was you.”
“I feared I might be too late.”
“You nearly were, I couldn’t have kept him off the
Stone much longer — ”
“Not the Stone, boy, you — the effort involved nearly
killed you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid
it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” said Harry blankly. “But your friend —
Nicolas Flamel — ”
“Oh, you know about Nicolas?” said Dumbledore,
sounding quite delighted. “You did do the thing
properly, didn’t you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a
little chat, and agreed it’s all for the best.”
“But that means he and his wife will die, won’t they?”
“They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in
order and then, yes, they will die.”
Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on
Harry’s face.
“To one as young as you, I’m sure it seems incredible,
but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to
 
bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-
organized mind, death is but the next great
adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a
wonderful thing. As much money and life as you
could want! The two things most human beings would
choose above all — the trouble is, humans do have a
knack of choosing precisely those things that are
worst for them.”
Harry lay there, lost for words. Dumbledore hummed
a little and smiled at the ceiling.
“Sir?” said Harry. “I’ve been thinking ... Sir — even if
the Stone’s gone, Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who — ”
“Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper
name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the
thing itself.”
“Yes, sir. Well, Voldemort’s going to try other ways of
coming back, isn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t gone, has
he?”
“No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there
somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to
share ... not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He
left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his
followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while
you may only have delayed his return to power, it will
merely take someone else who is prepared to fight
what seems a losing battle next time — and if he is
delayed again, and again, why, he may never return
to power.”
Harry nodded, but stopped quickly, because it made
his head hurt. Then he said, “Sir, there are some
other things I’d like to know, if you can tell me ...
things I want to know the truth about. ...”
 
“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and
terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with
great caution. However, I shall answer your questions
unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case
I beg you 11 forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.”
“Well ... Voldemort said that he only killed my mother
because she tried to stop him from killing me. But
why would he want to kill me in the first place?”
Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time.
“Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you.
Not today. Not now. You will know, one day ... put it
from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older . . .
I know you hate to hear this . . . when you are ready,
you will know.”
And Harry knew it would be no good to argue.
“But why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?”
“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing
Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t
realize that love as powerful as your mother’s for you
leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign ... to
have been loved so deeply, even though the person
who loved us is gone, will give us some protection
forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred,
greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort,
could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to
touch a person marked by something so good.”
Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out
on the windowsill, which gave Harry time to dry his
eyes on the sheet. When he had found his voice again,
Harry said, “And the Invisibility Cloak — do you know
who sent it to me?”
 
“Ah — your father happened to leave it in my
possession, and I thought you might like it.”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Useful things ... your
father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens
to steal food when he was here.”
“And there’s something else ...”
“Fire away.”
“Quirrell said Snape — ”
“Professor Snape, Harry.”
“Yes, him — Quirrell said he hates me because he
hated my father. Is that true?”
“Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike
yourself and Mr. Malfoy. And then, your father did
something Snape could never forgive.”
“What?”
“He saved his life.”
“What?”
“Yes ...” said Dumbledore dreamily. “Funny, the way
people’s minds work, isn’t it? Professor Snape
couldn’t bear being in your father’s debt. ... I do
believe he worked so hard to protect you this year
because he felt that would make him and your father
even. Then he could go back to hating your father’s
memory in peace. ...”
Harry tried to understand this but it made his head
pound, so he stopped.
“And sir, there’s one more thing ...”
 
“Just the one?”
“How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?”
“Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of
my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me,
that’s saying something. You see, only one who
wanted to find the Stone — find it, but not use it —
would be able to get it, otherwise they’d just see
themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My
brain surprises even me sometimes. ... Now, enough
questions. I suggest you make a start on these
sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans! I was
unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a
vomit-flavored one, and since then I’m afraid I’ve
rather lost my liking for them — but I think I’ll be safe
with a nice toffee, don’t you?”
He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his
mouth. Then he choked and said, “Alas! Ear wax!”
Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but
very strict.
“Just five minutes,” Harry pleaded.
“Absolutely not.”
“You let Professor Dumbledore in. ...”
“Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite
different. You need rest.”
“I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go
on, Madam Pomfrey ...”
“Oh, very well,” she said. “But five minutes only.”
And she let Ron and Hermione in.
 
“Harryl”
Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him
again, but Harry was glad she held herself in as his
head was still very sore.
“Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to —
Dumbledore was so worried — ”
“The whole school’s talking about it,” said Ron. “What
really happened?”
It was one of those rare occasions when the true story
is even more strange and exciting than the wild
rumors. Harry told them everything: Quirrell; the
mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and Hermione
were a very good audience; they gasped in all the
right places, and when Harry told them what was
under Quirrell’s turban, Hermione screamed out loud.
“So the Stone’s gone?” said Ron finally. “Flamel’s just
going to die?”
“That’s what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that —
what was it? — ‘to the well-organized mind, death is
but the next great adventure.’ ”
“I always said he was off his rocker,” said Ron,
looking quite impressed at how crazy his hero was.
“So what happened to you two?” said Harry.
“Well, I got back all right,” said Hermione. “I brought
Ron round — that took a while — and we were
dashing up to the owlery to contact Dumbledore when
we met him in the entrance hall — he already knew —
he just said, ‘Harry’s gone after him, hasn’t he?’ and
hurtled off to the third floor.”
 
“D’you think he meant you to do it?” said Ron.
“Sending you your fathers cloak and everything?”
“Well,” Hermione exploded, “if he did — I mean to say
— that’s terrible — you could have been killed.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Harry thoughtfully. “He’s a funny
man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give
me a chance. I think he knows more or less
everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he
had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and
instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to
help. I don’t think it was an accident he let me find
out how the mirror worked. It’s almost like he thought
I had the right to face Voldemort if I could. ...”
“Yeah, Dumbledore’s off his rocker, all right,” said
Ron proudly. “Listen, you’ve got to be up for the end-
of-year feast tomorrow. The points are all in and
Slytherin won, of course — you missed the last
Quidditch match, we were steamrollered by
Ravenclaw without you — but the food’ll be good.”
At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled over.
“You’ve had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT,” she
said firmly.
•k k k
After a good night’s sleep, Harry felt nearly back to
normal.
“I want to go to the feast,” he told Madam Pomfrey as
she straightened his many candy boxes. “I can, can’t
I?”
 
“Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to
go,” she said sniffily, as though in her opinion
Professor Dumbledore didn’t realize how risky feasts
could be. “And you have another visitor.”
“Oh, good,” said Harry. “Who is it?”
Hagrid sidled through the door as he spoke. As usual
when he was indoors, Hagrid looked too big to be
allowed. He sat down next to Harry, took one look at
him, and burst into tears.
“It’s — all — my — ruddy — fault!” he sobbed, his
face in his hands. “I told the evil git how ter get past
Fluffy! I told him! It was the only thing he didn’t
know, an’ I told him! Yeh could’ve died! All fer a
dragon egg! I’ll never drink again! I should be chucked
out an’ made ter live as a Muggle!”
“Hagrid!” said Harry, shocked to see Hagrid shaking
with grief and remorse, great tears leaking down into
his beard. “Hagrid, he’d have found out somehow,
this is Voldemort we’re talking about, he’d have found
out even if you hadn’t told him.”
“Yeh could’ve died!” sobbed Hagrid. “An’ don’ say the
name!”
“VOLDEMORT!” Harry bellowed, and Hagrid was so
shocked, he stopped crying. “I’ve met him and I’m
calling him by his name. Please cheer up, Hagrid, we
saved the Stone, it’s gone, he can’t use it. Have a
Chocolate Frog, I’ve got loads. ...”
Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and
said, “That reminds me. I’ve got yeh a present.”
“It’s not a stoat sandwich, is it?” said Harry
anxiously, and at last Hagrid gave a weak chuckle.
 
“Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off yesterday ter
fix it. ’Course, he shoulda sacked me instead —
anyway, got y eh this ...”
It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book.
Harry opened it curiously. It was full of wizard
photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every
page were his mother and father.
“Sent owls off ter all yer parents’ old school friends,
askin’ fer photos ... knew yeh didn’ have any ... d’yeh
like it?”
Harry couldn’t speak, but Hagrid understood.
Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast
alone that night. He had been held up by Madam
Pomfrey’s fussing about, insisting on giving him one
last checkup, so the Great Hall was already full. It
was decked out in the Slytherin colors of green and
silver to celebrate Slytherin ’s winning the House Cup
for the seventh year in a row. A huge banner showing
the Slytherin serpent covered the wall behind the
High Table.
When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and
then everybody started talking loudly at once. He
slipped into a seat between Ron and Hermione at the
Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the fact that
people were standing up to look at him.
Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The
babble died away.
“Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully.
“And I must trouble you with an old man’s wheezing
waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious
feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads
are all a little fuller than they were . . . you have the
 
whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty
before next year starts. ...
“Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs
awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place,
Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in
third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two;
Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and
Slytherin, four hundred and seventy- two.”
A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the
Slytherin table. Harry could see Draco Malfoy banging
his goblet on the table. It was a sickening sight.
“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” said Dumbledore.
“However, recent events must be taken into account.”
The room went very still. The Slytherins’ smiles faded
a little.
“Ahem,” said Dumbledore. “I have a few last-minute
points to dish out. Let me see. Yes ...
“First — to Mr. Ronald Weasley ...”
Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish
with a bad sunburn.
"... for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has
seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty
points.”
Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling;
the stars overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be
heard telling the other prefects, “My brother, you
know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall’s
giant chess set!”
At last there was silence again.
 
“Second — to Miss Hermione Granger . . . for the use of
cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House
fifty points.”
Hermione buried her face in her arms; Harry strongly
suspected she had burst into tears. Gryffindors up
and down the table were beside themselves — they
were a hundred points up.
“Third — to Mr. Harry Potter ...” said Dumbledore.
The room went deadly quiet. "... for pure nerve and
outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House sixty
points.”
The din was deafening. Those who could add up while
yelling themselves hoarse knew that Gryffindor now
had four hundred and seventy-two points — exactly
the same as Slytherin. They had tied for the House
Cup — if only Dumbledore had given Harry just one
more point.
Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell
silent.
“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore,
smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up
to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our
friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville
Longbottom.”
Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well
have thought some sort of explosion had taken place,
so loud was the noise that erupted from the
Gryffindor table. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood up
to yell and cheer as Neville, white with shock,
disappeared under a pile of people hugging him. He
had never won so much as a point for Gryffindor
before. Harry, still cheering, nudged Ron in the ribs
and pointed at Malfoy, who couldn’t have looked more
 
stunned and horrified if he’d just had the Body-Bind
Curse put on him.
“Which means,” Dumbledore called over the storm of
applause, for even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were
celebrating the downfall of Slytherin, “we need a little
change of decoration.”
He clapped his hands. In an instant, the green
hangings became scarlet and the silver became gold;
the huge Slytherin serpent vanished and a towering
Gryffindor lion took its place. Snape was shaking
Professor McGonagall’s hand, with a horrible, forced
smile. He caught Harry’s eye and Harry knew at once
that Snape ’s feelings toward him hadn’t changed one
jot. This didn’t worry Harry. It seemed as though life
would be back to normal next year, or as normal as it
ever was at Hogwarts.
It was the best evening of Harry’s life, better than
winning at Quidditch, or Christmas, or knocking out
mountain trolls ... he would never, ever forget tonight.
Harry had almost forgotten that the exam results
were still to come, but come they did. To their great
surprise, both he and Ron passed with good marks;
Hermione, of course, had the best grades of the first
years. Even Neville scraped through, his good
Herbology mark making up for his abysmal Potions
one. They had hoped that Goyle, who was almost as
stupid as he was mean, might be thrown out, but he
had passed, too. It was a shame, but as Ron said, you
couldn’t have everything in life.
And suddenly, their wardrobes were empty, their
trunks were packed, Neville’s toad was found lurking
in a corner of the toilets; notes were handed out to all
students, warning them not to use magic over the
holidays (“I always hope they’ll forget to give us
 
these,” said Fred Weasley sadly); Hagrid was there to
take them down to the fleet of boats that sailed across
the lake; they were boarding the Hogwarts Express;
talking and laughing as the countryside became
greener and tidier; eating Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor
Beans as they sped past Muggle towns; pulling off
their wizard robes and putting on jackets and coats;
pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at
King’s Cross station.
It took quite a while for them all to get off the
platform. A wizened old guard was up by the ticket
barrier, letting them go through the gate in twos and
threes so they didn’t attract attention by all bursting
out of a solid wall at once and alarming the Muggles.
“You must come and stay this summer,” said Ron,
“both of you — I’ll send you an owl.”
“Thanks,” said Harry, “I’ll need something to look
forward to.”
People jostled them as they moved forward toward the
gateway back to the Muggle world. Some of them
called:
“Bye, Harry!”
“See you, Potter!”
“Still famous,” said Ron, grinning at him.
“Not where I’m going, I promise you,” said Harry.
He, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway
together.
“There he is, Mom, there he is, look!”
 
It was Ginny Weasley, Ron’s younger sister, but she
wasn’t pointing at Ron.
“Harry Potter!” she squealed. “Look, Mom! I can see
“Be quiet, Ginny, and it’s rude to point.”
Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them.
“Busy year?” she said.
“Very,” said Harry. “Thanks for the fudge and the
sweater, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Oh, it was nothing, dear.”
“Ready, are you?”
It was Uncle Vernon, still purple-faced, still
mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Harry,
carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary
people. Behind him stood Aunt Petunia and Dudley,
looking terrified at the very sight of Harry.
“You must be Harry’s family!” said Mrs. Weasley.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Uncle Vernon. “Hurry
up, boy, we haven’t got all day.” He walked away.
Harry hung back for a last word with Ron and
Hermione.
“See you over the summer, then.”
“Hope you have — er — a good holiday,” said
Hermione, looking uncertainly after Uncle Vernon,
shocked that anyone could be so unpleasant.
 
“Oh, I will,” said Harry, and they were surprised at
the grin that was spreading over his face. “ They don’t
know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m
going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer...”
 
THE WORST BIRTHDAY
Not for the first time, an argument had broken out
over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr.
Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of
the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew
Harry’s room.
“Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If
you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!”
Harry tried, yet again, to explain.
“She’s bored,” he said. “She’s used to flying around
outside. If I could just let her out at night — ”
“Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of
fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache. “I know
what 11 happen if that owl’s let out.”
He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.
Harry tried to argue back but his words were drowned
by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys’ son, Dudley.
 
“I want more bacon.”
“There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums,” said Aunt
Petunia, turning misty eyes on her massive son. “We
must build you up while we’ve got the chance. ... I
don’t like the sound of that school food. ...”
“Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when / was
at Smeltings,” said Uncle Vernon heartily. “Dudley
gets enough, don’t you, son?”
Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over
either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to
Harry.
“Pass the frying pan.”
“You’ve forgotten the magic word,” said Harry
irritably.
The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the
family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his
chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs.
Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands
to her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins
throbbing in his temples.
“I meant ‘please’!” said Harry quickly. “I didn’t mean
“WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered his uncle,
spraying spit over the table, “ABOUT SAYING THE ‘M’
WORD IN OUR HOUSE?”
“But I — ”
“HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!” roared
Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his fist.
 
“I just — ”
“I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION
OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!”
Harry stared from his purple-faced uncle to his pale
aunt, who was trying to heave Dudley to his feet.
“All right,” said Harry, “all right ...”
Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded
rhinoceros and watching Harry closely out of the
corners of his small, sharp eyes.
Ever since Harry had come home for the summer
holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating him like a
bomb that might go off at any moment, because Harry
Potter wasn’t a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he
was as not normal as it is possible to be.
Harry Potter was a wizard — a wizard fresh from his
first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have
him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how
Harry felt.
He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a
constant stomachache. He missed the castle, with its
secret passageways and ghosts, his classes (though
perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the mail
arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall,
sleeping in his four-poster bed in the tower dormitory,
visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to
the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and, especially,
Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding
world (six tall goal posts, four flying balls, and
fourteen players on broomsticks).
 
All Harry’s spellbooks, his wand, robes, cauldron, and
top-of-the-line Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had
been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle
Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did
the Dursleys care if Harry lost his place on the House
Quidditch team because he hadn’t practiced all
summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went
back to school without any of his homework done?
The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a
drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as
they were concerned, having a wizard in the family
was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had
even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage,
to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the
wizarding world.
Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle
Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous
black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-faced and
bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harry, on
the other hand, was small and skinny, with brilliant
green eyes and jet-black hair that was always untidy.
He wore round glasses, and on his forehead was a
thin, lightning-shaped scar.
It was this scar that made Harry so particularly
unusual, even for a wizard. This scar was the only
hint of Harry’s very mysterious past, of the reason he
had been left on the Dursleys’ doorstep eleven years
before.
At the age of one year old, Harry had somehow
survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all
time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and
wizards still feared to speak. Harry’s parents had died
in Voldemort’s attack, but Harry had escaped with his
lightning scar, and somehow — nobody understood
why — Voldemort’s powers had been destroyed the
instant he had failed to kill Harry.
 
So Harry had been brought up by his dead mother’s
sister and her husband. He had spent ten years with
the Dursleys, never understanding why he kept
making odd things happen without meaning to,
believing the Dursleys’ story that he had got his scar
in the car crash that had killed his parents.
And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to
Harry, and the whole story had come out. Harry had
taken up his place at wizard school, where he and his
scar were famous . . . but now the school year was
over, and he was back with the Dursleys for the
summer, back to being treated like a dog that had
rolled in something smelly.
The Dursleys hadn’t even remembered that today
happened to be Harry’s twelfth birthday. Of course,
his hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never given him a
real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it
completely ...
At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat
importantly and said, “Now, as we all know, today is a
very important day.”
Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it.
“This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of
my career,” said Uncle Vernon.
Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought
bitterly, Uncle Vernon was talking about the stupid
dinner party. He’d been talking of nothing else for two
weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to
dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge
order from him (Uncle Vernon’s company made drills).
 
“I think we should run through the schedule one
more time,” said Uncle Vernon. “We should all be in
position at eight o’clock. Petunia, you will be — ?”
“In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting
to welcome them graciously to our home.”
“Good, good. And Dudley?”
“I’ll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a
foul, simpering smile. “May I take your coats, Mr. and
Mrs. Mason?”
“They’ll love him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.
“Excellent, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon. Then he
rounded on Harry. “And you?”
“I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and
pretending I’m not there,” said Harry tonelessly.
“Exactly,” said Uncle Vernon nastily. “I will lead them
into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour
them drinks. At eight-fifteen — ”
“I’ll announce dinner,” said Aunt Petunia.
“And, Dudley, you 11 say — ”
“May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs.
Mason?” said Dudley, offering his fat arm to an
invisible woman.
“My perfect little gentleman!” sniffed Aunt Petunia.
“And you?” said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.
“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending
I’m not there,” said Harry dully.
 
“Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good
compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?”
“Vernon tells me you’re a wonderful golfer, Mr.
Mason. ... Do tell me where you bought your dress,
Mrs. Mason. ...”
“Perfect ... Dudley?”
“How about — ‘We had to write an essay about our
hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you.’ ”
This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Harry.
Aunt Petunia burst into tears and hugged her son,
while Harry ducked under the table so they wouldn’t
see him laughing.
“And you, boy?”
Harry fought to keep his face straight as he emerged.
“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending
I’m not there,” he said.
“Too right, you will,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully.
“The Masons don’t know anything about you and it’s
going to stay that way. When dinner’s over, you take
Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia,
and I’ll bring the subject around to drills. With any
luck, I’ll have the deal signed and sealed before the
news at ten. We’ll be shopping for a vacation home in
Majorca this time tomorrow.”
Harry couldn’t feel too excited about this. He didn’t
think the Dursleys would like him any better in
Majorca than they did on Privet Drive.
“Right — I’m off into town to pick up the dinner
jackets for Dudley and me. And you,” he snarled at
 
Harry. “You stay out of your aunt’s way while she’s
cleaning.”
Harry left through the back door. It was a brilliant,
sunny day. He crossed the lawn, slumped down on
the garden bench, and sang under his breath:
“Happy birthday to me ... happy birthday to me ...”
No cards, no presents, and he would be spending the
evening pretending not to exist. He gazed miserably
into the hedge. He had never felt so lonely. More than
anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing
Quidditch, Harry missed his best friends, Ron
Weasley and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn’t
seem to be missing him at all. Neither of them had
written to him all summer, even though Ron had said
he was going to ask Harry to come and stay.
Countless times, Harry had been on the point of
unlocking Hedwig’s cage by magic and sending her to
Ron and Hermione with a letter, but it wasn’t worth
the risk. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to use
magic outside of school. Harry hadn’t told the
Dursleys this; he knew it was only their terror that he
might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped
them from locking him in the cupboard under the
stairs with his wand and broomstick. For the first
couple of weeks back, Harry had enjoyed muttering
nonsense words under his breath and watching
Dudley tearing out of the room as fast as his fat legs
would carry him. But the long silence from Ron and
Hermione had made Harry feel so cut off from the
magical world that even taunting Dudley had lost its
appeal — and now Ron and Hermione had forgotten
his birthday.
What wouldn’t he give now for a message from
Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard? He’d almost be
 
glad of a sight of his archenemy, Draco Malfoy, just to
be sure it hadn’t all been a dream. ...
Not that his whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At
the very end of last term, Harry had come face-to-face
with none other than Lord Voldemort himself.
Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he
was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to
regain power. Harry had slipped through Voldemort’s
clutches for a second time, but it had been a narrow
escape, and even now, weeks later, Harry kept waking
in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where
Voldemort was now, remembering his livid face, his
wide, mad eyes —
Harry suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench.
He had been staring absent-mindedly into the hedge
— and the hedge was staring back. Two enormous
green eyes had appeared among the leaves.
Harry jumped to his feet just as a jeering voice floated
across the lawn.
“I know what day it is,” sang Dudley, waddling toward
him.
The huge eyes blinked and vanished.
“What?” said Harry, not taking his eyes off the spot
where they had been.
“I know what day it is,” Dudley repeated, coming right
up to him.
“Well done,” said Harry. “So you’ve finally learned the
days of the week.”
 
“Today’s your birthday,” sneered Dudley. “How come
you haven’t got any cards? Haven’t you even got
friends at that freak place?”
“Better not let your mum hear you talking about my
school,” said Harry coolly.
Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping
down his fat bottom.
“Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said
suspiciously.
“I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to
set it on fire,” said Harry.
Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic
on his fat face.
“You c-can’t — Dad told you you’re not to do m-magic
— he said hell chuck you out of the house — and you
haven’t got anywhere else to go — you haven’t got any
friends to take you — ”
“ Jiggery pokeryV ’ said Harry in a fierce voice. “Hocus
pocus — squiggly wiggly — ”
“MUUUUUUM!” howled Dudley, tripping over his feet
as he dashed back toward the house. “MUUUUM!
He’s doing you know what!”
Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. As neither
Dudley nor the hedge was in any way hurt, Aunt
Petunia knew he hadn’t really done magic, but he still
had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at his head
with the soapy frying pan. Then she gave him work to
do, with the promise he wouldn’t eat again until he’d
finished.
 
While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice
cream, Harry cleaned the windows, washed the car,
mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and
watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench.
The sun blazed overhead, burning the back of his
neck. Harry knew he shouldn’t have risen to Dudley’s
bait, but Dudley had said the very thing Harry had
been thinking himself ... maybe he didn’t have any
friends at Hogwarts. ...
Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now, he
thought savagely as he spread manure on the flower
beds, his back aching, sweat running down his face.
It was half past seven in the evening when at last,
exhausted, he heard Aunt Petunia calling him.
“Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!”
Harry moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming
kitchen. On top of the fridge stood tonight’s pudding:
a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets.
A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven.
“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” snapped
Aunt Petunia, pointing to two slices of bread and a
lump of cheese on the kitchen table. She was already
wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress.
Harry washed his hands and bolted down his pitiful
supper. The moment he had finished, Aunt Petunia
whisked away his plate. “Upstairs! Hurry!”
As he passed the door to the living room, Harry
caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow
ties and dinner jackets. He had only just reached the
upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle
Vernon’s furious face appeared at the foot of the
stairs.
 
“Remember, boy — one sound — ”
Harry crossed to his bedroom on tiptoe, slipped
inside, closed the door, and turned to collapse on his
bed.
The trouble was, there was already someone sitting
on it.
 
DOBBY’S WARNING
Harry managed not to shout out, but it was a close
thing. The little creature on the bed had large, bat-
like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis
balls. Harry knew instantly that this was what had
been watching him out of the garden hedge that
morning.
As they stared at each other, Harry heard Dudley’s
voice from the hall.
“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”
The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low
that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet.
Harry noticed that it was wearing what looked like an
old pillowcase, with rips for arm- and leg-holes.
“Er — hello,” said Harry nervously.
“Harry Potter!” said the creature in a high-pitched
voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs. “So
 
long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir ... Such an
honor it is. ...”
“Th-thank you,” said Harry, edging along the wall and
sinking into his desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was
asleep in her large cage. He wanted to ask, “What are
you?” but thought it would sound too rude, so instead
he said, “Who are you?”
“Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” said
the creature.
“Oh — really?” said Harry. “Er — I don’t want to be
rude or anything, but — this isn’t a great time for me
to have a house-elf in my bedroom.”
Aunt Petunia’s high, false laugh sounded from the
living room. The elf hung his head.
“Not that I’m not pleased to meet you,” said Harry
quickly, “but, er, is there any particular reason you’re
here?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come
to tell you, sir ... it is difficult, sir ... Dobby wonders
where to begin. ...”
“Sit down,” said Harry politely, pointing at the bed.
To his horror, the elf burst into tears — very noisy
tears.
“S-sit down).” he wailed. “Never ... never ever ...”
Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs falter.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to offend you
or anything — ”
 
“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never
been asked to sit down by a wizard — like an equal —
Harry, trying to say “Shh!” and look comforting at the
same time, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where
he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly
doll. At last he managed to control himself, and sat
with his great eyes fixed on Harry in an expression of
watery adoration.
“You can’t have met many decent wizards,” said
Harry, trying to cheer him up.
Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he
leapt up and started banging his head furiously on
the window, shouting, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”
“Don’t — what are you doing?” Harry hissed,
springing up and pulling Dobby back onto the bed —
Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud
screech and was beating her wings wildly against the
bars of her cage.
“Dobby had to punish himself, sir,” said the elf, who
had gone slightly cross-eyed. “Dobby almost spoke ill
of his family, sir. ...”
“Your family?”
“The wizard family Dobby serves, sir. ... Dobby is a
house-elf — bound to serve one house and one family
forever. ...”
“Do they know you’re here?” asked Harry curiously.
Dobby shuddered.
 
“Oh, no, sir, no ... Dobby will have to punish himself
most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will
have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they
ever knew, sir — ”
“But won’t they notice if you shut your ears in the
oven door?”
“Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to
punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get
on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do
extra punishments. ...”
“But why don’t you leave? Escape?”
“A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will
never set Dobby free . . . Dobby will serve the family
until he dies, sir. ...”
Harry stared.
“And I thought I had it bad staying here for another
four weeks,” he said. “This makes the Dursleys sound
almost human. Can’t anyone help you? Can’t I?”
Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn’t spoken.
Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude.
“Please,” Harry whispered frantically, “please be quiet.
If the Dursleys hear anything, if they know you’re
here — ”
“Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby . . . Dobby has
heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness,
Dobby never knew. ...”
Harry, who was feeling distinctly hot in the face, said,
“Whatever you’ve heard about my greatness is a load
 
of rubbish. I’m not even top of my year at Hogwarts;
that’s Hermione, she — ”
But he stopped quickly, because thinking about
Hermione was painful.
“Harry Potter is humble and modest,” said Dobby
reverently, his orb-like eyes aglow. “Harry Potter
speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-
Named — ”
“Voldemort?” said Harry.
Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears and
moaned, “Ah, speak not the name, sir! Speak not the
name!”
“Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “I know lots of people
don’t like it. My friend Ron — ”
He stopped again. Thinking about Ron was painful,
too.
Dobby leaned toward Harry, his eyes wide as
headlights.
“Dobby heard tell,” he said hoarsely, “that Harry
Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just
weeks ago ... that Harry Potter escaped yet again.”
Harry nodded and Dobby’s eyes suddenly shone with
tears.
“Ah, sir,” he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of
the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. “Harry Potter
is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers
already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter,
to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in
 
the oven door later. . . . Harry Potter must not go back
to Hogwarts.”
There was a silence broken only by the chink of
knives and forks from downstairs and the distant
rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice.
“W-what?” Harry stammered. “But I’ve got to go back
— term starts on September first. It’s all that’s
keeping me going. You don’t know what it’s like here.
I don’t belong here. I belong in your world — at
Hogwarts.”
“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so
hard his ears flapped. “Harry Potter must stay where
he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry
Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal
danger.”
“Why?” said Harry in surprise.
“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most
terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby,
suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for
months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in
peril. He is too important, sir!”
“What terrible things?” said Harry at once. “Who’s
plotting them?”
Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged
his head frantically against the wall.
“All right!” cried Harry, grabbing the elf’s arm to stop
him. “You can’t tell me. I understand. But why are
you warning me?” A sudden, unpleasant thought
struck him. “Hang on — this hasn’t got anything to
do with Vol — sorry — with You-Know-Who, has it?
 
You could just shake or nod,” he added hastily as
Dobby’s head tilted worryingly close to the wall again.
Slowly, Dobby shook his head.
“Not — not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir — ”
But Dobby’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be
trying to give Harry a hint. Harry, however, was
completely lost.
“He hasn’t got a brother, has he?”
Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.
“Well then, I can’t think who else would have a
chance of making horrible things happen at
Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I mean, there’s Dumbledore,
for one thing — you know who Dumbledore is, don’t
you?”
Dobby bowed his head.
“Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster
Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby
has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of He-
Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his
strength. But, sir” — Dobby’s voice dropped to an
urgent whisper — “there are powers Dumbledore
doesn’t ... powers no decent wizard ...”
And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off
the bed, seized Harry’s desk lamp, and started
beating himself around the head with earsplitting
yelps.
A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later
Harry, heart thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon
 
coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have left
his television on again, the little tyke!”
“Quick! In the closet!” hissed Harry, stuffing Dobby
in, shutting the door, and flinging himself onto the
bed just as the door handle turned.
“What — the — devil — are — you — doing?” said
Uncle Vernon through gritted teeth, his face horribly
close to Harry’s. “You’ve just ruined the punch line of
my Japanese golfer joke. ... One more sound and
you’ll wish you’d never been born, boy!”
He stomped flat-footed from the room.
Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet.
“See what it’s like here?” he said. “See why I’ve got to
go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place I’ve got —
well, I think I’ve got friends.”
“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” said
Dobby slyly.
“I expect they’ve just been — wait a minute,” said
Harry, frowning. “How do you know my friends
haven’t been writing to me?”
Dobby shuffled his feet.
“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby
did it for the best — ”
“Have you been stopping my letters?”
“Dobby has them here, sir,” said the elf. Stepping
nimbly out of Harry’s reach, he pulled a thick wad of
envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was
wearing. Harry could make out Hermione’s neat
 
writing, Ron’s untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that
looked as though it was from the Hogwarts
gamekeeper, Hagrid.
Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry.
“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry. ... Dobby hoped ... if
Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him . . .
Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir.
Harry wasn’t listening. He made a grab for the letters,
but Dobby jumped out of reach.
“Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his
word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this
is a danger you must not face! Say you won’t go back,
sir!”
“No,” said Harry angrily. “Give me my friends’ letters!”
“Then Harry Potter leaves Dobby no choice,” said the
elf sadly.
Before Harry could move, Dobby had darted to the
bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the
stairs.
Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him,
trying not to make a sound. He jumped the last six
steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking
around for Dobby. From the dining room he heard
Uncle Vernon saying, "... tell Petunia that very funny
story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason.
She’s been dying to hear ...”
Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt his
stomach disappear.
 
Aunt Petunia’s masterpiece of a pudding, the
mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating
up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the
corner crouched Dobby.
“No,” croaked Harry. “Please ... they’ll kill me. ...”
“Harry Potter must say he’s not going back to school
“Dobby ... please ...”
“Say it, sir — ”
“I can’t — ”
Dobby gave him a tragic look.
“Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter’s own
good.”
The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping
crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the
dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby
vanished.
There were screams from the dining room and Uncle
Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Harry, rigid with
shock, covered from head to foot in Aunt Petunia’s
pudding.
At first, it looked as though Uncle Vernon would
manage to gloss the whole thing over. (“Just our
nephew — very disturbed — meeting strangers upsets
him, so we kept him upstairs. ...”) He shooed the
shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised
Harry he would flay him to within an inch of his life
when the Masons had left, and handed him a mop.
Aunt Petunia dug some ice cream out of the freezer
 
and Harry, still shaking, started scrubbing the
kitchen clean.
Uncle Vernon might still have been able to make his
deal — if it hadn’t been for the owl.
Aunt Petunia was just passing around a box of after-
dinner mints when a huge barn owl swooped through
the dining room window, dropped a letter on Mrs.
Mason’s head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason
screamed like a banshee and ran from the house
shouting about lunatics. Mr. Mason stayed just long
enough to tell the Dursleys that his wife was mortally
afraid of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask
whether this was their idea of a joke.
Harry stood in the kitchen, clutching the mop for
support, as Uncle Vernon advanced on him, a
demonic glint in his tiny eyes.
“Read it!” he hissed evilly, brandishing the letter the
owl had delivered. “Go on — read it!”
Harry took it. It did not contain birthday greetings.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was
used at your place of residence this evening at twelve
minutes past nine.
As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to
perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on
your part may lead to expulsion from said school
(Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage
Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).
We would also ask you to remember that any magical
activity that risks notice by members of the non-
P a g e | 24 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling
magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense
under section 13 of the International Confederation of
Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy.
Enjoy your holidays!
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE
Ministry of Magic
Harry looked up from the letter and gulped.
“You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic
outside school,” said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam
dancing in his eyes. “Forgot to mention it. ... Slipped
your mind, I daresay. ...”
He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog,
all his teeth bared. “Well, I’ve got news for you, boy. ...
I’m locking you up. ... You’re never going back to that
school . . . never . . . and if you try and magic yourself
out — they 11 expel you!”
And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Harry back
upstairs.
Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following
morning, he paid a man to fit bars on Harry’s window.
He himself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom door, so
that small amounts of food could be pushed inside
three times a day. They let Harry out to use the
bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, he was
locked in his room around the clock.
 
Three days later, the Dursleys were showing no sign
of relenting, and Harry couldn’t see any way out of his
situation. He lay on his bed watching the sun sinking
behind the bars on the window and wondered
miserably what was going to happen to him.
What was the good of magicking himself out of his
room if Hogwarts would expel him for doing it? Yet life
at Privet Drive had reached an all-time low. Now that
the Dursleys knew they weren’t going to wake up as
fruit bats, he had lost his only weapon. Dobby might
have saved Harry from horrible happenings at
Hogwarts, but the way things were going, he’d
probably starve to death anyway.
The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Petunia’s hand
appeared, pushing a bowl of canned soup into the
room. Harry, whose insides were aching with hunger,
jumped off his bed and seized it. The soup was stone-
cold, but he drank half of it in one gulp. Then he
crossed the room to Hedwig’s cage and tipped the
soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into her
empty food tray. She ruffled her feathers and gave
him a look of deep disgust.
“It’s no good turning your beak up at it — that’s all
we’ve got,” said Harry grimly.
He put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the
cat-flap and lay back down on the bed, somehow even
hungrier than he had been before the soup.
Supposing he was still alive in another four weeks,
what would happen if he didn’t turn up at Hogwarts?
Would someone be sent to see why he hadn’t come
back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let
him go?
 
The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach
rumbling, mind spinning over the same unanswerable
questions, Harry fell into an uneasy sleep.
He dreamed that he was on show in a zoo, with a card
reading UNDERAGE WIZARD attached to his cage.
People goggled through the bars at him as he lay,
starving and weak, on a bed of straw. He saw Dobby’s
face in the crowd and shouted out, asking for help,
but Dobby called, “Harry Potter is safe there, sir!” and
vanished. Then the Dursleys appeared and Dudley
rattled the bars of the cage, laughing at him.
“Stop it,” Harry muttered as the rattling pounded in
his sore head. “Leave me alone ... cut it out ... I’m
trying to sleep. ...”
He opened his eyes. Moonlight was shining through
the bars on the window. And someone was goggling
through the bars at him: a freckle-faced, red-haired,
long-nosed someone.
Ron Weasley was outside Harry’s window.
 
3
THE BURROW
“Ron\” breathed Harry, creeping to the window and
pushing it up so they could talk through the bars.
“Ron, how did you — What the — ?”
Harry’s mouth fell open as the full impact of what he
was seeing hit him. Ron was leaning out of the back
window of an old turquoise car, which was parked in
midair. Grinning at Harry from the front seats were
Fred and George, Ron’s elder twin brothers.
“All right, Harry?” asked George.
“What’s been going on?” said Ron. “Why haven’t you
been answering my letters? I’ve asked you to stay
about twelve times, and then Dad came home and
said you’d got an official warning for using magic in
front of Muggles — ”
“It wasn’t me — and how did he know?”
“He works for the Ministry,” said Ron. “You know
we’re not supposed to do spells outside school — ”
 
“You should talk,” said Harry, staring at the floating
car.
“Oh, this doesn’t count,” said Ron. “We’re only
borrowing this. It’s Dad’s, we didn’t enchant it. But
doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with — ”
“I told you, I didn’t — but it’ll take too long to explain
now — look, can you tell them at Hogwarts that the
Dursleys have locked me up and won’t let me come
back, and obviously I can’t magic myself out, because
the Ministry’ll think that’s the second spell I’ve done
in three days, so — ”
“Stop gibbering,” said Ron. “We’ve come to take you
home with us.”
“But you can’t magic me out either — ”
“We don’t need to,” said Ron, jerking his head toward
the front seat and grinning. “You forget who I’ve got
with me.”
“Tie that around the bars,” said Fred, throwing the
end of a rope to Harry.
“If the Dursleys wake up, I’m dead,” said Harry as he
tied the rope tightly around a bar and Fred revved up
the car.
“Don’t worry,” said Fred, “and stand back.”
Harry moved back into the shadows next to Hedwig,
who seemed to have realized how important this was
and kept still and silent. The car revved louder and
louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the
bars were pulled clean out of the window as Fred
drove straight up in the air. Harry ran back to the
window to see the bars dangling a few feet above the
 
ground. Panting, Ron hoisted them up into the car.
Harry listened anxiously, but there was no sound
from the Dursleys’ bedroom.
When the bars were safely in the back seat with Ron,
Fred reversed as close as possible to Harry’s window.
“Get in,” Ron said.
“But all my Hogwarts stuff — my wand — my
broomstick — ”
“Where is it?”
“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can’t
get out of this room — ”
“No problem,” said George from the front passenger
seat. “Out of the way, Harry.”
Fred and George climbed catlike through the window
into Harry’s room. You had to hand it to them,
thought Harry, as George took an ordinary hairpin
from his pocket and started to pick the lock.
“A lot of wizards think it’s a waste of time, knowing
this sort of Muggle trick,” said Fred, “but we feel
they’re skills worth learning, even if they are a bit
slow.”
There was a small click and the door swung open.
“So — we’ll get your trunk — you grab anything you
need from your room and hand it out to Ron,”
whispered George.
“Watch out for the bottom stair — it creaks,” Harry
whispered back as the twins disappeared onto the
dark landing.
 
Harry dashed around his room, collecting his things
and passing them out of the window to Ron. Then he
went to help Fred and George heave his trunk up the
stairs. Harry heard Uncle Vernon cough.
At last, panting, they reached the landing, then
carried the trunk through Harry’s room to the open
window. Fred climbed back into the car to pull with
Ron, and Harry and George pushed from the bedroom
side. Inch by inch, the trunk slid through the window.
Uncle Vernon coughed again.
“A bit more,” panted Fred, who was pulling from
inside the car. “One good push — ”
Harry and George threw their shoulders against the
trunk and it slid out of the window into the back seat
of the car.
“Okay, let’s go,” George whispered.
But as Harry climbed onto the windowsill there came
a sudden loud screech from behind him, followed
immediately by the thunder of Uncle Vernon’s voice.
“THAT RUDDY OWL!”
“I’ve forgotten Hedwig!”
Harry tore back across the room as the landing light
clicked on — he snatched up Hedwig’s cage, dashed
to the window, and passed it out to Ron. He was
scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when
Uncle Vernon hammered on the unlocked door — and
it crashed open.
 
For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the
doorway; then he let out a bellow like an angry bull
and dived at Harry, grabbing him by the ankle.
Ron, Fred, and George seized Harry’s arms and pulled
as hard as they could.
“Petunia!” roared Uncle Vernon. “He’s getting away!
HE’S GETTING AWAY!”
But the Weasleys gave a gigantic tug and Harry’s leg
slid out of Uncle Vernon’s grasp — Harry was in the
car — he’d slammed the door shut —
“Put your foot down, Fred!” yelled Ron, and the car
shot suddenly toward the moon.
Harry couldn’t believe it — he was free. He rolled
down the window, the night air whipping his hair,
and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet
Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were
all hanging, dumbstruck, out of Harry’s window.
“See you next summer!” Harry yelled.
The Weasleys roared with laughter and Harry settled
back in his seat, grinning from ear to ear.
“Let Hedwig out,” he told Ron. “She can fly behind us.
She hasn’t had a chance to stretch her wings for
ages.”
George handed the hairpin to Ron and, a moment
later, Hedwig soared joyfully out of the window to
glide alongside them like a ghost.
“So — what’s the story, Harry?” said Ron impatiently.
“What’s been happening?”
 
Harry told them all about Dobby, the warning he’d
given Harry and the fiasco of the violet pudding.
There was a long, shocked silence when he had
finished.
“Very fishy,” said Fred finally.
“Definitely dodgy,” agreed George. “So he wouldn’t
even tell you who’s supposed to be plotting all this
stuff?”
“I don’t think he could,” said Harry. “I told you, every
time he got close to letting something slip, he started
banging his head against the wall.”
He saw Fred and George look at each other.
“What, you think he was lying to me?” said Harry.
“Well,” said Fred, “put it this way — house-elves have
got powerful magic of their own, but they can’t
usually use it without their master’s permission. I
reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you coming back
to Hogwarts. Someone’s idea of a joke. Can you think
of anyone at school with a grudge against you?”
“Yes,” said Harry and Ron together, instantly.
“Draco Malfoy,” Harry explained. “He hates me.”
“Draco Malfoy?” said George, turning around. “Not
Lucius Malfoy’s son?”
“Must be, it’s not a very common name, is it?” said
Harry. “Why?”
“I’ve heard Dad talking about him,” said George. “He
was a big supporter of You-Know-Who.”
 
“And when You-Know-Who disappeared,” said Fred,
craning around to look at Harry, “Lucius Malfoy came
back saying he’d never meant any of it. Load of dung
— Dad reckons he was right in You-Know- Who’s
inner circle.”
Harry had heard these rumors about Malfoy’s family
before, and they didn’t surprise him at all. Malfoy
made Dudley Dursley look like a kind, thoughtful,
and sensitive boy.
“I don’t know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf.
...” said Harry.
“Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding
family, and they’ll be rich,” said Fred.
“Yeah, Mum’s always wishing we had a house-elf to
do the ironing,” said George. “But all we’ve got is a
lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the
garden. House-elves come with big old manors and
castles and places like that; you wouldn’t catch one in
our house. ...”
Harry was silent. Judging by the fact that Draco
Malfoy usually had the best of everything, his family
was rolling in wizard gold; he could just see Malfoy
strutting around a large manor house. Sending the
family servant to stop Harry from going back to
Hogwarts also sounded exactly like the sort of thing
Malfoy would do. Had Harry been stupid to take
Dobby seriously?
“I’m glad we came to get you, anyway,” said Ron. “I
was getting really worried when you didn’t answer
any of my letters. I thought it was Errol’s fault at first
“Who’s Errol?”
 
“Our owl. He’s ancient. It wouldn’t be the first time
he’d collapsed on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow
Hermes — ”
“Who?”
“The owl Mum and Dad bought Percy when he was
made prefect,” said Fred from the front.
“But Percy wouldn’t lend him to me,” said Ron. “Said
he needed him.”
“Percy’s been acting very oddly this summer,” said
George, frowning. “And he has been sending a lot of
letters and spending a load of time shut up in his
room. ... I mean, there’s only so many times you can
polish a prefect badge. ... You’re driving too far west,
Fred,” he added, pointing at a compass on the
dashboard. Fred twiddled the steering wheel.
“So, does your dad know you’ve got the car?” said
Harry, guessing the answer.
“Er, no,” said Ron, “he had to work tonight. Hopefully
we’ll be able to get it back in the garage without Mum
noticing we flew it.”
“What does your dad do at the Ministry of Magic,
anyway?”
“He works in the most boring department,” said Ron.
“The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”
“The what?”
“It’s all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle-
made, you know, in case they end up back in a
Muggle shop or house. Like, last year, some old witch
died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop.
 
This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried
to serve her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare —
Dad was working overtime for weeks.”
“What happened?”
“The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all
over the place and one man ended up in the hospital
with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Dad was
going frantic — it’s only him and an old warlock
called Perkins in the office — and they had to do
Memory Charms and all sorts of stuff to cover it up —
“But your dad — this car — ”
Fred laughed. “Yeah, Dad’s crazy about everything to
do with Muggles; our shed’s full of Muggle stuff. He
takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back
together again. If he raided our house he’d have to put
himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad.”
“That’s the main road,” said George, peering down
through the windshield. “We’ll be there in ten
minutes. ... Just as well, it’s getting light. ...”
A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to
the east.
Fred brought the car lower, and Harry saw a dark
patchwork of fields and clumps of trees.
“We’re a little way outside the village,” said George.
“Ottery St. Catchpole.”
Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a
brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees.
 
“Touchdown!” said Fred as, with a slight bump, they
hit the ground. They had landed next to a
tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Harry looked
out for the first time at Ron’s house.
It looked as though it had once been a large stone
pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and
there until it was several stories high and so crooked
it looked as though it were held up by magic (which,
Harry reminded himself, it probably was). Four or five
chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A
lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance
read, THE BURROW. Around the front door lay a
jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron.
Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way
around the yard.
“It’s not much,” said Ron.
“It’s wonderful,” said Harry happily, thinking of Privet
Drive.
They got out of the car.
“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” said Fred, “and
wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you
come bounding downstairs going, ‘Mum, look who
turned up in the night!’ and she’ll be all pleased to
see Harry and no one need ever know we flew the
car.”
“Right,” said Ron. “Come on, Harry, I sleep at the —
at the top — ”
Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on
the house. The other three wheeled around.
Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard,
scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind-
P a g e | 37 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling
faced woman, it was remarkable how much she
looked like a saber-toothed tiger.
“Ah,” said Fred.
“Oh, dear,” said George.
Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her
hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the
next. She was wearing a flowered apron with a wand
sticking out of the pocket.
“So,” she said.
“ ’Morning, Mum,” said George, in what he clearly
thought was a jaunty, winning voice.
“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mrs.
Weasley in a deadly whisper.
“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to — ”
All three of Mrs. Weasley’s sons were taller than she
was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them.
“Beds empty\ No note\ Car gone — could have crashed
— out of my mind with worry — did you care? —
never, as long as I’ve lived — you wait until your father
gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or
Charlie or Percy — ”
“Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred.
“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF
PERCY’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a
finger in Fred’s chest. “You could havedied, you could
have been seen, you could have lost your father his
job
 
It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had
shouted herself hoarse before she turned on Harry,
who backed away.
“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry, dear,” she said.
“Come in and have some breakfast.”
She turned and walked back into the house and
Harry, after a nervous glance at Ron, who nodded
encouragingly, followed her.
The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There
was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the
middle, and Harry sat down on the edge of his seat,
looking around. He had never been in a wizard house
before.
The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand
and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were
things like Time to make tea, Time to feed the
chickens, and You’re late. Books were stacked three
deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like Charm
Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, and One
Minute Feasts — It’s Magid And unless Harry’s ears
were deceiving him, the old radio next to the sink had
just announced that coming up was “Witching Hour,
with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina
Warbeck.”
Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking
breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at
her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan.
Every now and then she muttered things like “don’t
know what you were thinking of,” and “never would
have believed it.”
“I don’t blame you, dear,” she assured Harry, tipping
eight or nine sausages onto his plate. “Arthur and I
have been worried about you, too. Just last night we
 
were saying we’d come and get you ourselves if you
hadn’t written back to Ron by Friday. But really” (she
was now adding three fried eggs to his plate), “flying
an illegal car halfway across the country — anyone
could have seen you — ”
She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the
sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking
gently in the background.
“It was cloudy, Mum!” said Fred.
“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!”
Mrs. Weasley snapped.
“They were starving him, Mum!” said George.
“And you!” said Mrs. Weasley, but it was with a
slightly softened expression that she started cutting
Harry bread and buttering it for him.
At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a
small, redheaded figure in a long nightdress, who
appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran
out again.
“Ginny,” said Ron in an undertone to Harry. “My
sister. She’s been talking about you all summer.”
“Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph, Harry,” Fred
said with a grin, but he caught his mother’s eye and
bent his face over his plate without another word.
Nothing more was said until all four plates were
clean, which took a surprisingly short time.
“Blimey, I’m tired,” yawned Fred, setting down his
knife and fork at last. “I think I’ll go to bed and — ”
 
“You will not,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “It’s your own
fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de-
gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely
out of hand again — ”
“Oh, Mum — ”
“And you two,” she said, glaring at Ron and Fred.
“You can go up to bed, dear,” she added to Harry.
“You didn’t ask them to fly that wretched car — ”
But Harry, who felt wide awake, said quickly, “I’ll help
Ron. I’ve never seen a de-gnoming — ”
“That’s very sweet of you, dear, but it’s dull work,”
said Mrs. Weasley. “Now, let’s see what Lockhart’s got
to say on the subject — ”
And she pulled a heavy book from the stack on the
mantelpiece. George groaned.
“Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden — ”
Harry looked at the cover of Mrs. Weasley’s book.
Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words
Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests. There
was a big photograph on the front of a very good-
looking wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue
eyes. As always in the wizarding world, the
photograph was moving; the wizard, who Harry
supposed was Gilderoy Lockhart, kept winking
cheekily up at them all. Mrs. Weasley beamed down
at him.
“Oh, he is marvelous,” she said. “He knows his
household pests, all right, it’s a wonderful book. ...”
“Mum fancies him,” said Fred, in a very audible
whisper.
 
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Fred,” said Mrs. Weasley, her
cheeks rather pink. “All right, if you think you know
better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it,
and woe betide you if there’s a single gnome in that
garden when I come out to inspect it.”
Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouched
outside with Harry behind them. The garden was
large, and in Harry’s eyes, exactly what a garden
should be. The Dursleys wouldn’t have liked it —
there were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed
cutting — but there were gnarled trees all around the
walls, plants Harry had never seen spilling from every
flower bed, and a big green pond full of frogs.
“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know,” Harry
told Ron as they crossed the lawn.
“Yeah, I’ve seen those things they think are gnomes,”
said Ron, bent double with his head in a peony bush,
“like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods. ...”
There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush
shuddered, and Ron straightened up. “ This is a
gnome,” he said grimly.
“Gerroff me! Gerroff me!” squealed the gnome.
It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small
and leathery looking, with a large, knobby, bald head
exactly like a potato. Ron held it at arm’s length as it
kicked out at him with its horny little feet; he grasped
it around the ankles and turned it upside down.
“This is what you have to do,” he said. He raised the
gnome above his head (“Gerroff me!”) and started to
swing it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the
shocked look on Harry’s face, Ron added, “It doesn’t
 
hurt them — you’ve just got to make them really dizzy
so they can’t find their way back to the gnomeholes.”
He let go of the gnome’s ankles: It flew twenty feet
into the air and landed with a thud in the field over
the hedge.
“Pitiful,” said Fred. “I bet I can get mine beyond that
stump.”
Harry learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the
gnomes. He decided just to drop the first one he
caught over the hedge, but the gnome, sensing
weakness, sank its razor-sharp teeth into Harry’s
finger and he had a hard job shaking it off — until —
“Wow, Harry — that must’ve been fifty feet. ...”
The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.
“See, they’re not too bright,” said George, seizing five
or six gnomes at once. “The moment they know the
de-gnoming’s going on they storm up to have a look.
You’d think they’d have learned by now just to stay
put.”
Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking
away in a straggling line, their little shoulders
hunched.
“They’ll be back,” said Ron as they watched the
gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of
the field. “They love it here. ... Dad’s too soft with
them; he thinks they’re funny. ...”
Just then, the front door slammed.
“He’s back!” said George. “Dad’s home!”
 
They hurried through the garden and back into the
house.
Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his
glasses off and his eyes closed. He was a thin man,
going bald, but the little hair he had was as red as
any of his children’s. He was wearing long green
robes, which were dusty and travel-worn.
“What a night,” he mumbled, groping for the teapot as
they all sat down around him. “Nine raids. Nine! And
old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me
when I had my back turned. ...”
Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.
“Find anything, Dad?” said Fred eagerly.
“All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting
kettle,” yawned Mr. Weasley. “There was some pretty
nasty stuff that wasn’t my department, though.
Mortlake was taken away for questioning about some
extremely odd ferrets, but that’s the Committee on
Experimental Charms, thank goodness. ...”
“Why would anyone bother making door keys
shrink?” said George.
“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighed Mr. Weasley. “Sell them
a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can
never find it when they need it. ... Of course, it’s very
hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would
admit their key keeps shrinking — they’ll insist they
just keep losing it. Bless them, they’ll go to any
lengths to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them in
the face. ... But the things our lot have taken to
enchanting, you wouldn’t believe — ”
“LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?”
 
Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like
a sword. Mr. Weasley’s eyes jerked open. He stared
guiltily at his wife.
“C-cars, Molly, dear?”
“Yes, Arthur, cars,” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes
flashing. “Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and
telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it
apart to see how it worked, while really he was
enchanting it to make it fly.”
Mr. Weasley blinked.
“Well, dear, I think you’ll find that he would be quite
within the law to do that, even if — er — he maybe
would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth.
... There’s a loophole in the law, you’ll find. ... As long
as he wasn’t intending to fly the car, the fact that the
car could fly wouldn’t — ”
“Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole
when you wrote that law!” shouted Mrs. Weasley.
“Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that
Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your
information, Harry arrived this morning in the car
you weren’t intending to fly!”
“Harry?” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Harry who?”
He looked around, saw Harry, and jumped.
“Good lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet
you, Ron’s told us so much about — ”
“ Your sons flew that car to Harry’s house and back
last nighti” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “What have you got
to say about that, eh?”
 
“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Did it go
all right? I — I mean,” he faltered as sparks flew from
Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “that — that was very wrong,
boys — very wrong indeed. ...”
“Let’s leave them to it,” Ron muttered to Harry as
Mrs. Weasley swelled like a bullfrog. “Come on, I’ll
show you my bedroom.”
They slipped out of the kitchen and down a narrow
passageway to an uneven staircase, which wound its
way, zigzagging up through the house. On the third
landing, a door stood ajar. Harry just caught sight of
a pair of bright brown eyes staring at him before it
closed with a snap.
“Ginny,” said Ron. “You don’t know how weird it is for
her to be this shy. She never shuts up normally — ”
They climbed two more flights until they reached a
door with peeling paint and a small plaque on it,
saying RONALD’S ROOM.
Harry stepped in, his head almost touching the
sloping ceiling, and blinked. It was like walking into a
furnace: Nearly everything in Ron’s room seemed to
be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the walls,
even the ceiling. Then Harry realized that Ron had
covered nearly every inch of the shabby wallpaper
with posters of the same seven witches and wizards,
all wearing bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks,
and waving energetically.
“Your Quidditch team?” said Harry.
“The Chudley Cannons,” said Ron, pointing at the
orange bedspread, which was emblazoned with two
giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth in
the league.”
 
Ron’s school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a
corner, next to a pile of comics that all seemed to
feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad
Muggle. Ron’s magic wand was lying on top of a fish
tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill, next to his
fat gray rat, Scabbers, who was snoozing in a patch of
sun.
Harry stepped over a pack of Self- Shuffling playing
cards on the floor and looked out of the tiny window.
In the field far below he could see a gang of gnomes
sneaking one by one back through the Weasleys’
hedge. Then he turned to look at Ron, who was
watching him almost nervously, as though waiting for
his opinion.
“It’s a bit small,” said Ron quickly. “Not like that room
you had with the Muggles. And I’m right underneath
the ghoul in the attic; he’s always banging on the
pipes and groaning. ...”
But Harry, grinning widely, said, “This is the best
house I’ve ever been in.”
Ron’s ears went pink.
 
AT FLOURISH AND BLOTTS
Life at the Burrow was as different as possible from
life on Privet Drive. The Dursleys liked everything
neat and ordered; the Weasleys’ house burst with the
strange and unexpected. Harry got a shock the first
time he looked in the mirror over the kitchen
mantelpiece and it shouted, “ Tuck your shirt in,
scruff yV’ The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped
pipes whenever he felt things were getting too quiet,
and small explosions from Fred and George’s
bedroom were considered perfectly normal. What
Harry found most unusual about life at Ron’s,
however, wasn’t the talking mirror or the clanking
ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to
like him.
Mrs. Weasley fussed over the state of his socks and
tried to force him to eat fourth helpings at every meal.
Mr. Weasley liked Harry to sit next to him at the
dinner table so that he could bombard him with
questions about life with Muggles, asking him to
explain how things like plugs and the postal service
worked.
 
“ Fascinating !” he would say as Harry talked him
through using a telephone. “Ingenious, really, how
many ways Muggles have found of getting along
without magic.”
Harry heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about
a week after he had arrived at the Burrow. He and
Ron went down to breakfast to find Mr. and Mrs.
Weasley and Ginny already sitting at the kitchen
table. The moment she saw Harry, Ginny accidentally
knocked her porridge bowl to the floor with a loud
clatter. Ginny seemed very prone to knocking things
over whenever Harry entered a room. She dived under
the table to retrieve the bowl and emerged with her
face glowing like the setting sun. Pretending he hadn’t
noticed this, Harry sat down and took the toast Mrs.
Weasley offered him.
“Letters from school,” said Mr. Weasley, passing
Harry and Ron identical envelopes of yellowish
parchment, addressed in green ink. “Dumbledore
already knows you’re here, Harry — doesn’t miss a
trick, that man. You two’ve got them, too,” he added,
as Fred and George ambled in, still in their pajamas.
For a few minutes there was silence as they all read
their letters. Harry’s told him to catch the Hogwarts
Express as usual from King’s Cross station on
September first. There was also a list of the new
books he’d need for the coming year.
SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE:
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda
Goshawk
Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart
Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart
 
Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart
Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart
Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart
Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart
Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at
Harry’s.
“You’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books, too!” he
said. “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher
must be a fan — bet it’s a witch.”
At this point, Fred caught his mother’s eye and
quickly busied himself with the marmalade.
“That lot won’t come cheap,” said George, with a
quick look at his parents. “Lockhart’s books are really
expensive. ...”
“Well, we’ll manage,” said Mrs. Weasley, but she
looked worried. “I expect we’ll be able to pick up a lot
of Ginny’s things secondhand.”
“Oh, are you starting at Hogwarts this year?” Harry
asked Ginny.
She nodded, blushing to the roots of her flaming hair,
and put her elbow in the butter dish. Fortunately no
one saw this except Harry, because just then Ron’s
elder brother Percy walked in. He was already
dressed, his Hogwarts prefect badge pinned to his
sweater vest.
“Morning, all,” said Percy briskly. “Lovely day.”
 
He sat down in the only remaining chair but leapt up
again almost immediately, pulling from underneath
him a molting, gray feather duster — at least, that
was what Harry thought it was, until he saw that it
was breathing.
“Errol!” said Ron, taking the limp owl from Percy and
extracting a letter from under its wing. “Finally — he’s
got Hermione’s answer. I wrote to her saying we were
going to try and rescue you from the Dursleys.”
He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door
and tried to stand him on it, but Errol flopped
straight off again so Ron laid him on the draining
board instead, muttering, “Pathetic.” Then he ripped
open Hermione’s letter and read it out loud:
“ ‘Dear Ron, and Harry if you’re there,
“ ‘I hope everything went all right and that Harry is
okay and that you didn’t do anything illegal to get him
out, Ron, because that would get Harry into trouble,
too. I’ve been really worried and if Harry is all right,
will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it
would be better if you used a different owl, because I
think another delivery might finish your one off
“ ‘I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course’ — How can
she be?” said Ron in horror. “We’re on vacation! —
‘and we’re going to London next Wednesday to buy my
new books. Why don’t we meet in Diagon Alley?
“ ‘Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can.
Love from Hermione.’ ”
“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your
things then, too,” said Mrs. Weasley, starting to clear
the table. “What ’re you all up to today?”
 
Harry, Ron, Fred, and George were planning to go up
the hill to a small paddock the Weasleys owned. It
was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of
the village below, meaning that they could practice
Quidditch there, as long as they didn’t fly too high.
They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls, which would
have been hard to explain if they had escaped and
flown away over the village; instead they threw apples
for one another to catch. They took turns riding
Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the
best broom; Ron’s old Shooting Star was often
outstripped by passing butterflies.
Five minutes later they were marching up the hill,
broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked
Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he
was busy. Harry had only seen Percy at mealtimes so
far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time.
“Wish I knew what he was up to,” said Fred, frowning.
“He’s not himself. His exam results came the day
before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly gloated
at all.”
“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” George explained, seeing
Harry’s puzzled look. “Bill got twelve, too. If we’re not
careful, we’ll have another Head Boy in the family. I
don’t think I could stand the shame.”
Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next
brother, Charlie, had already left Hogwarts. Harry
had never met either of them, but knew that Charlie
was in Romania studying dragons and Bill in Egypt
working for the wizard’s bank, Gringotts.
“Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our
school stuff this year,” said George after a while. “Five
sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a
wand and everything. ...”
 
Harry said nothing. He felt a bit awkward. Stored in
an underground vault at Gringotts in London was a
small fortune that his parents had left him. Of course,
it was only in the wizarding world that he had money;
you couldn’t use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in
Muggle shops. He had never mentioned his Gringotts
bank account to the Dursleys; he didn’t think their
horror of anything connected with magic would
stretch to a large pile of gold.
Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following
Wednesday. After a quick half a dozen bacon
sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mrs.
Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece
and peered inside.
“We’re running low, Arthur,” she sighed. “We’ll have
to buy some more today. ... Ah well, guests first! After
you, Harry dear!”
And she offered him the flowerpot.
Harry stared at them all watching him.
“W-what am I supposed to do?” he stammered.
“He’s never traveled by Floo powder,” said Ron
suddenly. “Sorry, Harry, I forgot.”
“Never?” said Mr. Weasley. “But how did you get to
Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?”
“I went on the Underground — ”
“Really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Were there
escapators? How exactly — ”
 
“Not now, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Floo powder’s
a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you’ve never
used it before — ”
“He’ll be all right, Mum,” said Fred. “Harry, watch us
first.”
He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the
flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the
powder into the flames.
With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose
higher than Fred, who stepped right into it, shouted,
“Diagon Alley!” and vanished.
“You must speak clearly, dear,” Mrs. Weasley told
Harry as George dipped his hand into the flowerpot.
“And be sure to get out at the right grate. ...”
“The right what?” said Harry nervously as the fire
roared and whipped George out of sight, too.
“Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose
from, you know, but as long as you’ve spoken clearly
“He’ll be fine, Molly, don’t fuss,” said Mr. Weasley,
helping himself to Floo powder, too.
“But, dear, if he got lost, how would we ever explain
to his aunt and uncle?”
“They wouldn’t mind,” Harry reassured her. “Dudley
would think it was a brilliant joke if I got lost up a
chimney, don’t worry about that — ”
“Well ... all right ... you go after Arthur,” said Mrs.
Weasley. “Now, when you get into the fire, say where
you’re going — ”
 
“And keep your elbows tucked in,” Ron advised.
“And your eyes shut,” said Mrs. Weasley. “The soot —
“Don’t fidget,” said Ron. “Or you might well fall out of
the wrong fireplace — ”
“But don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you
see Fred and George.”
Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Harry took a
pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the
fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder into
the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a
warm breeze; he opened his mouth and immediately
swallowed a lot of hot ash.
“D-Dia-gon Alley,” he coughed.
It felt as though he were being sucked down a giant
drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast — the
roaring in his ears was deafening — he tried to keep
his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him
feel sick — something hard knocked his elbow and he
tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning — now
it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face —
squinting through his glasses he saw a blurred
stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the
rooms beyond — his bacon sandwiches were
churning inside him — he closed his eyes again
wishing it would stop, and then —
He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the
bridge of his glasses snap.
Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to
his feet, holding his broken glasses up to his eyes. He
was quite alone, but where he was, he had no idea.
 
All he could tell was that he was standing in the stone
fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s
shop — but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a
Hogwarts school list.
A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a
cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring
glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the
walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the
counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from
the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry
could see through the dusty shop window was
definitely not Diagon Alley.
The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still
stinging where it had hit the hearth, Harry made his
way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before
he’d got halfway toward it, two people appeared on
the other side of the glass — and one of them was the
very last person Harry wanted to meet when he was
lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses:
Draco Malfoy.
Harry looked quickly around and spotted a large
black cabinet to his left; he shot inside it and pulled
the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer
through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Malfoy
stepped into the shop.
The man who followed could only be Draco’s father.
He had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold,
gray eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily
at the items on display, and rang a bell on the
counter before turning to his son and saying, “Touch
nothing, Draco.”
Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, “I
thought you were going to buy me a present.”
 
“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” said his
father, drumming his fingers on the counter.
“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House
team?” said Malfoy, looking sulky and bad-tempered.
“Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year.
Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play
for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just
because he’s famous ... famous for having a stupid
scar on his forehead. ...”
Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls.
"... everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter
with his scar and his broomstick — ”
“You have told me this at least a dozen times
already,” said Mr. Malfoy, with a quelling look at his
son. “And I would remind you that it is not — prudent
— to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when
most of our kind regard him as the hero who made
the Dark Lord disappear — ah, Mr. Borgin.”
A stooping man had appeared behind the counter,
smoothing his greasy hair back from his face.
“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” said
Mr. Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. “Delighted —
and young Master Malfoy, too — charmed. How may I
be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and
very reasonably priced — ”
“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling,” said
Mr. Malfoy.
“Selling?” The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin ’s
face.
 
“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is
conducting more raids,” said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll
of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it
for Mr. Borgin to read. “I have a few — ah — items at
home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were
to call. ...”
Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and
looked down the list.
“The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir,
surely?”
Mr. Malfoy’s lip curled.
“I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still
commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows
ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a
new Muggle Protection Act — no doubt that flea-
bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it
Harry felt a hot surge of anger.
“ — and as you see, certain of these poisons might
make it appear — ”
“I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let
me see ...”
“Can I have that?” interrupted Draco, pointing at the
withered hand on its cushion.
“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning
Mr. Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to Draco. “Insert a
candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend
of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste,
sir.”
 
“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a
plunderer, Borgin,” said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr.
Borgin said quickly, “No offense, sir, no offense meant
“Though if his grades don’t pick up,” said Mr. Malfoy,
more coldly still, “that may indeed be all he is fit for
“It’s not my fault,” retorted Draco. “The teachers all
have favorites, that Hermione Granger — ”
“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of
no wizard family beat you in every exam,” snapped
Mr. Malfoy.
“Ha!” said Harry under his breath, pleased to see
Draco looking both abashed and angry.
“It’s the same all over,” said Mr. Borgin, in his oily
voice. “Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere —
“Not with me,” said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils
flaring.
“No, sir, nor with me, sir,” said Mr. Borgin, with a
deep bow.
“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” said
Mr. Malfoy shortly. “I am in something of a hurry,
Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today — ”
They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as
Draco drew nearer and nearer to his hiding place,
examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to
examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read,
smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace
 
of opals, Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed — Has
Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.
Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front
of him. He walked forward — he stretched out his
hand for the handle —
“Done,” said Mr. Malfoy at the counter. “Come, Draco
Harry wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Draco
turned away.
“Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. Ill expect you at the
manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.”
The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped
his oily manner.
“Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories
are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in
your manor. ...”
Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back
room. Harry waited for a minute in case he came
back, then, quietly as he could, slipped out of the
cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop
door.
Clutching his broken glasses to his face, Harry stared
around. He had emerged into a dingy alleyway that
seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the
Dark Arts. The one he’d just left, Borgin and Burkes,
looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty
window display of shrunken heads and, two doors
down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black
spiders. Two shab by-looking wizards were watching
him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each
other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his
 
glasses on straight and hoping against hope he’d be
able to find a way out of here.
An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling
poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn
Alley. This didn’t help, as Harry had never heard of
such a place. He supposed he hadn’t spoken clearly
enough through his mouthful of ashes back in the
Weasleys’ fire. Trying to stay calm, he wondered what
to do.
“Not lost are you, my dear?” said a voice in his ear,
making him jump.
An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of
what looked horribly like whole human fingernails.
She leered at him, showing mossy teeth. Harry
backed away.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “I’m just — ”
“HARRY! What d’yeh think yer doin’ down there?”
Harry’s heart leapt. So did the witch; a load of
fingernails cascaded down over her feet and she
cursed as the massive form of Hagrid, the Hogwarts
gamekeeper, came striding toward them, beetle-black
eyes flashing over his great bristling beard.
“Hagrid!” Harry croaked in relief. “I was lost — Floo
powder — ”
Hagrid seized Harry by the scruff of the neck and
pulled him away from the witch, knocking the tray
right out of her hands. Her shrieks followed them all
the way along the twisting alleyway out into bright
sunlight. Harry saw a familiar, snow-white marble
building in the distance — Gringotts Bank. Hagrid
had steered him right into Diagon Alley.
 
“Yer a mess!” said Hagrid gruffly, brushing soot off
Harry so forcefully he nearly knocked him into a
barrel of dragon dung outside an apothecary.
“Skulkin’ around Knockturn Alley, I dunno — dodgy
place, Harry — don’ want no one ter see yeh down
there — ”
“I realized that,” said Harry, ducking as Hagrid made
to brush him off again. “I told you, I was lost — what
were you doing down there, anyway?”
“ I was lookin’ fer a Flesh-Eatin’ Slug Repellent,”
growled Hagrid. “They’re ruinin’ the school cabbages.
Yer not on yer own?”
“I’m staying with the Weasleys but we got separated,”
Harry explained. “I’ve got to go and find them. ...”
They set off together down the street.
“How come yeh never wrote back ter me?” said Hagrid
as Harry jogged alongside him (he had to take three
steps to every stride of Hagrid ’s enormous boots).
Harry explained all about Dobby and the Dursleys.
“Lousy Muggles,” growled Hagrid. “If I’d’ve known — ”
“Harry! Harry! Over here!”
Harry looked up and saw Hermione Granger standing
at the top of the white flight of steps to Gringotts. She
ran down to meet them, her bushy brown hair flying
behind her.
“What happened to your glasses? Hello, Hagrid — Oh,
it’s wonderful to see you two again — Are you coming
into Gringotts, Harry?”
“As soon as I’ve found the Weasleys,” said Harry.
 
“Yeh won’t have long ter wait,” Hagrid said with a
grin.
Harry and Hermione looked around: Sprinting up the
crowded street were Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and
Mr. Weasley.
“Harry,” Mr. Weasley panted. “We hoped you’d only
gone one grate too far. ...” He mopped his glistening
bald patch. “Molly’s frantic — she’s coming now — ”
“Where did you come out?” Ron asked.
“Knockturn Alley,” said Hagrid grimly.
“Excellent.” said Fred and George together.
“We’ve never been allowed in,” said Ron enviously.
“I should ruddy well think not,” growled Hagrid.
Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her
handbag swinging wildly in one hand, Ginny just
clinging onto the other.
“Oh, Harry — oh, my dear — you could have been
anywhere — ”
Gasping for breath she pulled a large clothes brush
out of her bag and began sweeping off the soot Hagrid
hadn’t managed to beat away. Mr. Weasley took
Harry’s glasses, gave them a tap of his wand, and
returned them, good as new.
“Well, gotta be off,” said Hagrid, who was having his
hand wrung by Mrs. Weasley (“Knockturn Alley! If you
hadn’t found him, Hagrid!”). “See yer at Hogwarts!”
And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than
anyone else in the packed street.
 
“Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?” Harry
asked Ron and Hermione as they climbed the
Gringotts steps. “Malfoy and his father.”
“Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” said Mr. Weasley
sharply behind them.
“No, he was selling — ”
“So he’s worried,” said Mr. Weasley with grim
satisfaction. “Oh, I’d love to get Lucius Malfoy for
something. ...”
“You be careful, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply
as they were bowed into the bank by a goblin at the
door. “That family’s trouble. Don’t go biting off more
than you can chew — ”
“So you don’t think I’m a match for Lucius Malfoy?”
said Mr. Weasley indignantly, but he was distracted
almost at once by the sight of Hermione’s parents,
who were standing nervously at the counter that ran
all along the great marble hall, waiting for Hermione
to introduce them.
“But you’re Mugglesl” said Mr. Weasley delightedly.
“We must have a drink! What’s that you’ve got there?
Oh, you’re changing Muggle money. Molly, look!” He
pointed excitedly at the ten-pound notes in Mr.
Granger’s hand.
“Meet you back here,” Ron said to Hermione as the
Weasleys and Harry were led off to their underground
vaults by another Gringotts goblin.
The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-
driven carts that sped along minature train tracks
through the bank’s underground tunnels. Harry
enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys’
 
vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than he had in
Knock- turn Alley, when it was opened. There was a
very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one
gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners
before sweeping the whole lot into her bag. Harry felt
even worse when they reached his vault. He tried to
block the contents from view as he hastily shoved
handfuls of coins into a leather bag.
Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated.
Percy muttered vaguely about needing a new quill.
Fred and George had spotted their friend from
Hogwarts, Lee Jordan. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were
going to a secondhand robe shop. Mr. Weasley was
insisting on taking the Grangers off to the Leaky
Cauldron for a drink.
“Well all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to
buy your schoolbooks,” said Mrs. Weasley, setting off
with Ginny. “And not one step down Knockturn
Alley!” she shouted at the twins’ retreating backs.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione strolled off along the
winding, cobbled street. The bag of gold, silver, and
bronze jangling cheerfully in Harry’s pocket was
clamoring to be spent, so he bought three large
strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice creams, which they
slurped happily as they wandered up the alley,
examining the fascinating shop windows. Ron gazed
longingly at a full set of Chudley Cannon robes in the
windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until
Hermione dragged them off to buy ink and parchment
next door. In Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke
Shop, they met Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, who
were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-
Start, No-Heat Fireworks, and in a tiny junk shop full
of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old
cloaks covered in potion stains they found Percy,
 
deeply immersed in a small and deeply boring book
called Prefects Who Gained Power.
“A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers,”
Ron read aloud off the back cover. “That sounds
fascinating. ...”
“Go away,” Percy snapped.
“ ’Course, he’s very ambitious, Percy, he’s got it all
planned out. ... He wants to be Minister of Magic ...”
Ron told Harry and Hermione in an undertone as they
left Percy to it.
An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts.
They were by no means the only ones making their
way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw
to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the
doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was
proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the
upper windows:
GILDEROY LOCKHART
will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.
“We can actually meet him!” Hermione squealed. “I
mean, he’s written almost the whole booklist!”
The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches
around Mrs. Weasley’s age. A harassed-looking wizard
stood at the door, saying, “Calmly, please, ladies. ...
Don’t push, there ... mind the books, now. ...”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed inside. A long
line wound right to the back of the shop, where
Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each
 
grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade
2 and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the
Weasleys were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger.
“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mrs. Weasley. She
sounded breathless and kept patting her hair. “Well
be able to see him in a minute. ...”
Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a
table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all
winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the
crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-
me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his
pointed wizard’s hat was set at a jaunty angle on his
wavy hair.
A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around
taking photographs with a large black camera that
emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding
flash.
“Out of the way, there,” he snarled at Ron, moving
back to get a better shot. “This is for the Daily Prophet
“Big deal,” said Ron, rubbing his foot where the
photographer had stepped on it.
Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw
Ron — and then he saw Harry. He stared. Then he
leapt to his feet and positively shouted, “It can’t be
Harry Potter?”
The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart
dived forward, seized Harry’s arm, and pulled him to
the front. The crowd burst into applause. Harry’s face
burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the
photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting
thick smoke over the Weasleys.
 
“Nice big smile, Harry,” said Lockhart, through his
own gleaming teeth. “Together, you and I are worth
the front page.”
When he finally let go of Harry’s hand, Harry could
hardly feel his fingers. He tried to sidle back over to
the Weasleys, but Lockhart threw an arm around his
shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving for
quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The
perfect moment for me to make a little announcement
I’ve been sitting on for some time!
“When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and
Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography
— which I shall be happy to present him now, free of
charge — ” The crowd applauded again. “He had no
idea,” Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake
that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose, “that
he would shortly be getting much, much more than
my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in
fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and
gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in
announcing that this September, I will be taking up
the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”
The crowd cheered and clapped and Harry found
himself being presented with the entire works of
Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their
weight, he managed to make his way out of the
limelight to the edge of the room, where Ginny was
standing next to her new cauldron.
“You have these,” Harry mumbled to her, tipping the
books into the cauldron. “I’ll buy my own — ”
 
“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” said a voice
Harry had no trouble recognizing. He straightened up
and found himself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy,
who was wearing his usual sneer.
“Famous Harry Potter,” said Malfoy. “Can’t even go
into a bookshop without making the front page.”
“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!” said Ginny.
It was the first time she had spoken in front of Harry.
She was glaring at Malfoy.
“Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend).” drawled
Malfoy. Ginny went scarlet as Ron and Hermione
fought their way over, both clutching stacks of
Lockhart’s books.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he
were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe.
“Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here, eh?”
“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop,
Weasley,” retorted Malfoy. “I suppose your parents
will go hungry for a month to pay for all those.”
Ron went as red as Ginny. He dropped his books into
the cauldron, too, and started toward Malfoy, but
Harry and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket.
“Ron!” said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred
and George. “What are you doing? It’s too crowded in
here, let’s go outside.”
“Well, well, well — Arthur Weasley.”
It was Mr. Malfoy. He stood with his hand on Draco’s
shoulder, sneering in just the same way.
“Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.
 
“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Malfoy.
“All those raids ... I hope they’re paying you
overtime?”
He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and extracted, from
amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very
battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.
“Obviously not,” Mr. Malfoy said. “Dear me, what’s
the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if
they don’t even pay you well for it?”
Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny.
“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the
name of wizard, Malfoy,” he said.
“Clearly,” said Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes straying to
Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were watching
apprehensively. “The company you keep, Weasley ...
and I thought your family could sink no lower — ”
There was a thud of metal as Ginny’s cauldron went
flying; Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy,
knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of
heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their
heads; there was a yell of, “Get him, Dad!” from Fred
or George; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking, “No, Arthur,
no!”; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more
shelves over; “Gentlemen, please — please!” cried the
assistant, and then, louder than all —
“Break it up, there, gents, break it up — ”
Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of
books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and
Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and Mr.
Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of
Toadstools. He was still holding Ginny’s old
 
Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes
glittering with malice.
“Here, girl — take your book — it’s the best your
father can give you — ” Pulling himself out of Hagrid’s
grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop.
“Yeh should’ve ignored him, Arthur,” said Hagrid,
almost lifting Mr. Weasley off his feet as he
straightened his robes. “Rotten ter the core, the whole
family, everyone knows that — no Malfoy’s worth
listenin’ ter — bad blood, that’s what it is — come on
now — let’s get outta here.”
The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop
them from leaving, but he barely came up to Hagrid’s
waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried
up the street, the Grangers shaking with fright and
Mrs. Weasley beside herself with fury.
“A fine example to set for your children . . . brawling in
public ... what Gilderoy Lockhart must’ve thought — ”
“He was pleased,” said Fred. “Didn’t you hear him as
we were leaving? He was asking that bloke from the
Daily Prophet if he’d be able to work the fight into his
report — said it was all publicity — ”
But it was a subdued group that headed back to the
fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where Harry, the
Weasleys, and all their shopping would be traveling
back to the Burrow using Floo powder. They said
good-bye to the Grangers, who were leaving the pub
for the Muggle street on the other side; Mr. Weasley
started to ask them how bus stops worked, but
stopped quickly at the look on Mrs. Weasley’s face.
 
Harry took off his glasses and put them safely in his
pocket before helping himself to Floo powder. It
definitely wasn’t his favorite way to travel.
 
5
THE WHOMPING WILLOW
The end of the summer vacation came too quickly for
Harry’s liking. He was looking forward to getting back
to Hogwarts, but his month at the Burrow had been
the happiest of his life. It was difficult not to feel
jealous of Ron when he thought of the Dursleys and
the sort of welcome he could expect next time he
turned up on Privet Drive.
On their last evening, Mrs. Weasley conjured up a
sumptuous dinner that included all of Harry’s favorite
things, ending with a mouthwatering treacle pudding.
Fred and George rounded off the evening with a
display of Filibuster fireworks; they filled the kitchen
with red and blue stars that bounced from ceiling to
wall for at least half an hour. Then it was time for a
last mug of hot chocolate and bed.
It took a long while to get started next morning. They
were up at dawn, but somehow they still seemed to
have a great deal to do. Mrs. Weasley dashed about in
a bad mood looking for spare socks and quills; people
kept colliding on the stairs, half-dressed with bits of
 
toast in their hands; and Mr. Weasley nearly broke
his neck, tripping over a stray chicken as he crossed
the yard carrying Ginny’s trunk to the car.
Harry couldn’t see how eight people, six large trunks,
two owls, and a rat were going to fit into one small
Ford Anglia. He had reckoned, of course, without the
special features that Mr. Weasley had added.
“Not a word to Molly,” he whispered to Harry as he
opened the trunk and showed him how it had been
magically expanded so that the luggage fitted easily.
When at last they were all in the car, Mrs. Weasley
glanced into the back seat, where Harry, Ron, Fred,
George, and Percy were all sitting comfortably side by
side, and said, “Muggles do know more than we give
them credit for, don’t they?” She and Ginny got into
the front seat, which had been stretched so that it
resembled a park bench. “I mean, you’d never know it
was this roomy from the outside, would you?”
Mr. Weasley started up the engine and they trundled
out of the yard, Harry turning back for a last look at
the house. He barely had time to wonder when he’d
see it again when they were back — George had
forgotten his box of Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes
after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard so that
Fred could run in for his broomstick. They had
almost reached the highway when Ginny shrieked
that she’d left her diary. By the time she had
clambered back into the car, they were running very
late, and tempers were running high.
Mr. Weasley glanced at his watch and then at his
wife.
“Molly, dear — ”
 
“No, Arthur — ”
“No one would see — this little button here is an
Invisibility Booster I installed — that’d get us up in
the air — then we fly above the clouds. We’d be there
in ten minutes and no one would be any the wiser — ”
“I said no, Arthur, not in broad daylight — ”
They reached King’s Cross at a quarter to eleven. Mr.
Weasley dashed across the road to get trolleys for
their trunks and they all hurried into the station.
Harry had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous
year. The tricky part was getting onto platform nine
and three-quarters, which wasn’t visible to the
Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through
the solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. It
didn’t hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that
none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing.
“Percy first,” said Mrs. Weasley, looking nervously at
the clock overhead, which showed they had only five
minutes to disappear casually through the barrier.
Percy strode briskly forward and vanished. Mr.
Weasley went next; Fred and George followed.
“I’ll take Ginny and you two come right after us,” Mrs.
Weasley told Harry and Ron, grabbing Ginny’s hand
and setting off. In the blink of an eye they were gone.
“Let’s go together, we’ve only got a minute,” Ron said
to Harry.
Harry made sure that Hedwig’s cage was safely
wedged on top of his trunk and wheeled his trolley
around to face the barrier. He felt perfectly confident;
this wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo
 
powder. Both of them bent low over the handles of
their trolleys and walked purposefully toward the
barrier, gathering speed. A few feet away from it, they
broke into a run and —
CRASH.
Both trolleys hit the barrier and bounced backward;
Ron’s trunk fell off with a loud thump, Harry was
knocked off his feet, and Hedwig’s cage bounced onto
the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking
indignantly; people all around them stared and a
guard nearby yelled, “What in blazes d’you think
you’re doing?”
“Lost control of the trolley,” Harry gasped, clutching
his ribs as he got up. Ron ran to pick up Hedwig, who
was causing such a scene that there was a lot of
muttering about cruelty to animals from the
surrounding crowd.
“Why can’t we get through?” Harry hissed to Ron.
“I dunno — ”
Ron looked wildly around. A dozen curious people
were still watching them.
“We’re going to miss the train,” Ron whispered. “I
don’t understand why the gateway’s sealed itself — ”
Harry looked up at the giant clock with a sickening
feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ten seconds ... nine
seconds ...
He wheeled his trolley forward cautiously until it was
right against the barrier and pushed with all his
might. The metal remained solid.
 
Three seconds ... two seconds ... one second ...
“It’s gone,” said Ron, sounding stunned. “The train’s
left. What if Mum and Dad can’t get back through to
us? Have you got any Muggle money?”
Harry gave a hollow laugh. “The Dursleys haven’t
given me pocket money for about six years.”
Ron pressed his ear to the cold barrier.
“Can’t hear a thing,” he said tensely. “What’re we
going to do? I don’t know how long it’ll take Mum and
Dad to get back to us.”
They looked around. People were still watching them,
mainly because of Hedwig’s continuing screeches.
“I think we’d better go and wait by the car,” said
Harry. “We’re attracting too much atten — ”
“Harry!” said Ron, his eyes gleaming. “The car!”
“What about it?”
“We can fly the car to Hogwarts!”
“But I thought — ”
“We’re stuck, right? And we’ve got to get to school,
haven’t we? And even underage wizards are allowed to
use magic if it’s a real emergency, section nineteen or
something of the Restriction of Thingy — ”
“But your mum and dad ...” said Harry, pushing
against the barrier again in the vain hope that it
would give way. “How will they get home?”
 
“They don’t need the car!” said Ron impatiently. “They
know how to Apparate! You know, just vanish and
reappear at home! They only bother with Floo powder
and the car because we’re all underage and we’re not
allowed to Apparate yet. ...”
Harry’s feeling of panic turned suddenly to
excitement.
“Can you fly it?”
“No problem,” said Ron, wheeling his trolley around to
face the exit. “C’mon, let’s go. If we hurry we’ll be able
to follow the Hogwarts Express — ”
And they marched off through the crowd of curious
Muggles, out of the station and back onto the side
road where the old Ford Anglia was parked.
Ron unlocked the cavernous trunk with a series of
taps from his wand. They heaved their luggage back
in, put Hedwig on the back seat, and got into the
front.
“Check that no one’s watching,” said Ron, starting the
ignition with another tap of his wand. Harry stuck his
head out of the window: Traffic was rumbling along
the main road ahead, but their street was empty.
“Okay,” he said.
Ron pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard.
The car around them vanished — and so did they.
Harry could feel the seat vibrating beneath him, hear
the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his
glasses on his nose, but for all he could see, he had
become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the
ground in a dingy street full of parked cars.
 
“Let’s go,” said Ron’s voice from his right.
And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side
fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in
seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and
glittering, below them.
Then there was a popping noise and the car, Harry,
and Ron reappeared.
“Uh-oh,” said Ron, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster.
“It’s faulty — ”
Both of them pummeled it. The car vanished. Then it
flickered back again.
“Hold on!” Ron yelled, and he slammed his foot on the
accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly
clouds and everything turned dull and foggy.
“Now what?” said Harry, blinking at the solid mass of
cloud pressing in on them from all sides.
“We need to see the train to know what direction to go
in,” said Ron.
“Dip back down again — quickly — ”
They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted
around in their seats, squinting at the ground.
“I can see it!” Harry yelled. “Right ahead — there!”
The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below
them like a scarlet snake.
“Due north,” said Ron, checking the compass on the
dashboard. “Okay, we’ll just have to check on it every
half hour or so — hold on — ”
 
And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later,
they burst out into a blaze of sunlight.
It was a different world. The wheels of the car
skimmed the sea of fluffy cloud, the sky a bright,
endless blue under the blinding white sun.
“All we’ve got to worry about now are airplanes,” said
Ron.
They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a
long time, they couldn’t stop.
It was as though they had been plunged into a
fabulous dream. This, thought Harry, was surely the
only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of snowy
cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat
pack of toffees in the glove compartment, and the
prospect of seeing Fred’s and George’s jealous faces
when they landed smoothly and spectacularly on the
sweeping lawn in front of Hogwarts castle.
They made regular checks on the train as they flew
farther and farther north, each dip beneath the
clouds showing them a different view. London was
soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields
that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great
city alive with cars like multicolored ants, villages
with tiny toy churches.
Several uneventful hours later, however, Harry had to
admit that some of the fun was wearing off. The
toffees had made them extremely thirsty and they had
nothing to drink. He and Ron had pulled off their
sweaters, but Harry’s T-shirt was sticking to the back
of his seat and his glasses kept sliding down to the
end of his sweaty nose. He had stopped noticing the
fantastic cloud shapes now and was thinking
longingly of the train miles below, where you could
 
buy ice-cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a
plump witch. Why hadn’t they been able to get onto
platform nine and three-quarters?
“Can’t be much further, can it?” croaked Ron, hours
later still, as the sun started to sink into their floor of
cloud, staining it a deep pink. “Ready for another
check on the train?”
It was still right below them, winding its way past a
snowcapped mountain. It was much darker beneath
the canopy of clouds.
Ron put his foot on the accelerator and drove them
upward again, but as he did so, the engine began to
whine.
Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances.
“It’s probably just tired,” said Ron. “It’s never been
this far before. ...”
And they both pretended not to notice the whining
growing louder and louder as the sky became steadily
darker. Stars were blossoming in the blackness.
Harry pulled his sweater back on, trying to ignore the
way the windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as
though in protest.
“Not far,” said Ron, more to the car than to Harry,
“not far now,” and he patted the dashboard
nervously.
When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while
later, they had to squint through the darkness for a
landmark they knew.
“There!” Harry shouted, making Ron and Hedwig
jump. “Straight ahead!”
 
Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over
the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of
Hogwarts castle.
But the car had begun to shudder and was losing
speed.
“Come on,” Ron said cajolingly, giving the steering
wheel a little shake, “nearly there, come on — ”
The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were
issuing from under the hood. Harry found himself
gripping the edges of his seat very hard as they flew
toward the lake.
The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of his
window, Harry saw the smooth, black, glassy surface
of the water, a mile below. Ron’s knuckles were white
on the steering wheel. The car wobbled again.
“Come on,” Ron muttered.
They were over the lake — the castle was right ahead
— Ron put his foot down.
There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine
died completely.
“Uh-oh,” said Ron, into the silence.
The nose of the car dropped. They were falling,
gathering speed, heading straight for the solid castle
wall.
“IVoooooo!” Ron yelled, swinging the steering wheel
around; they missed the dark stone wall by inches as
the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark
greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out
over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time.
 
Ron let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled
his wand out of his back pocket —
“STOP! STOP!” he yelled, whacking the dashboard
and the windshield, but they were still plummeting,
the ground flying up toward them —
“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!” Harry bellowed,
lunging for the steering wheel, but too late —
CRUNCH.
With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit
the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a
heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under the
crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in terror; a
golf-ball-sized lump was throbbing on Harry’s head
where he had hit the windshield; and to his right, Ron
let out a low, despairing groan.
“Are you okay?” Harry said urgently.
“My wand,” said Ron, in a shaky voice. “Look at my
wand — ”
It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling
limply, held on by a few splinters.
Harry opened his mouth to say he was sure they’d be
able to mend it up at the school, but he never even
got started. At that very moment, something hit his
side of the car with the force of a charging bull,
sending him lurching sideways into Ron, just as an
equally heavy blow hit the roof.
“What’s happen — ?”
Ron gasped, staring through the windshield, and
Harry looked around just in time to see a branch as
 
thick as a python smash into it. The tree they had hit
was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost
double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every
inch of the car it could reach.
“Aaargh!” said Ron as another twisted limb punched a
large dent into his door; the windshield was now
trembling under a hail of blows from knuckle-like
twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was
pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be
caving —
“Run for it!” Ron shouted, throwing his full weight
against his door, but next second he had been
knocked backward into Harry’s lap by a vicious
uppercut from another branch.
“We’re done for!” he moaned as the ceiling sagged, but
suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating — the
engine had restarted.
“Reverse!” Harry yelled, and the car shot backward;
the tree was still trying to hit them; they could hear
its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself up, lashing
out at them as they sped out of reach.
“That,” panted Ron, “was close. Well done, car — ”
The car, however, had reached the end of its tether.
With two sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Harry
felt his seat tip sideways: Next thing he knew he was
sprawled on the damp ground. Loud thuds told him
that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk;
Hedwig’s cage flew through the air and burst open;
she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off
toward the castle without a backward look. Then,
dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off
into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.
 
“Come back!” Ron yelled after it, brandishing his
broken wand. “Dad’ll kill me!”
But the car disappeared from view with one last snort
from its exhaust.
“Can you believe our luck?” said Ron miserably,
bending down to pick up Scabbers. “Of all the trees
we could’ve hit, we had to get one that hits back.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree,
which was still flailing its branches threateningly.
“Come on,” said Harry wearily, “we’d better get up to
the school. ...”
It wasn’t at all the triumphant arrival they had
pictured. Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends
of their trunks and began dragging them up the
grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.
“I think the feast’s already started,” said Ron,
dropping his trunk at the foot of the front steps and
crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window.
“Hey — Harry — come and look — it’s the Sorting!”
Harry hurried over and, together, he and Ron peered
in at the Great Hall.
Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over
four long, crowded tables, making the golden plates
and goblets sparkle. Overhead, the bewitched ceiling,
which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with
stars.
Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats,
Harry saw a long line of scared-looking first years
filing into the Hall. Ginny was among them, easily
visible because of her vivid Weasley hair. Meanwhile,
 
Professor McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with her
hair in a tight bun, was placing the famous Hogwarts
Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers.
Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and
dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts
houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and
Slytherin). Harry well remembered putting it on,
exactly one year ago, and waiting, petrified, for its
decision as it muttered aloud in his ear. For a few
horrible seconds he had feared that the hat was going
to put him in Slytherin, the House that had turned
out more Dark witches and wizards than any other —
but he had ended up in Gryffindor, along with Ron,
Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys. Last term,
Harry and Ron had helped Gryffindor win the House
Championship, beating Slytherin for the first time in
seven years.
A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called
forward to place the hat on his head. Harry’s eyes
wandered past him to where Professor Dumbledore,
the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the
staff table, his long silver beard and half-moon
glasses shining brightly in the candlelight. Several
seats along, Harry saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in
robes of aquamarine. And there at the end was
Hagrid, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his
goblet.
“Hang on ...” Harry muttered to Ron. “There’s an
empty chair at the staff table. ... Where’s Snape?”
Professor Severus Snape was Harry’s least favorite
teacher. Harry also happened to be Snape ’s least
favorite student. Cruel, sarcastic, and disliked by
everybody except the students from his own House
(Slytherin), Snape taught Potions.
 
“Maybe he’s ill!” said Ron hopefully.
“Maybe he’s left,” said Harry, “because he missed out
on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again).”
“Or he might have been sacked).” said Ron
enthusiastically. “I mean, everyone hates him — ”
“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them,
“he’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the
school train.”
Harry spun around. There, his black robes rippling in
a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape. He was a thin
man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and greasy,
shoulder-length black hair, and at this moment, he
was smiling in a way that told Harry he and Ron were
in very deep trouble.
“Follow me,” said Snape.
Not daring even to look at each other, Harry and Ron
followed Snape up the steps into the vast, echoing
entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches. A
delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great
Hall, but Snape led them away from the warmth and
light, down a narrow stone staircase that led into the
dungeons.
“In!” he said, opening a door halfway down the cold
passageway and pointing.
They entered Snape’s office, shivering. The shadowy
walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in
which floated all manner of revolting things Harry
didn’t really want to know the name of at the
moment. The fireplace was dark and empty. Snape
closed the door and turned to look at them.
 
“So,” he said softly, “the train isn’t good enough for
the famous Harry Potter and his faithful sidekick,
Weasley. Wanted to arrive with a bang, did we, boys?”
“No, sir, it was the barrier at King’s Cross, it — ”
“Silence!” said Snape coldly. “What have you done
with the car?”
Ron gulped. This wasn’t the first time Snape had
given Harry the impression of being able to read
minds. But a moment later, he understood, as Snape
unrolled today’s issue of the Evening Prophet
“You were seen,” he hissed, showing them the
headline: FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES
MUGGLES. He began to read aloud: “Two Muggles in
London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the
Post Office tower ... at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty
Bayliss, while hanging out her washing ... Mr. Angus
Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police ... Six or seven
Muggles in all. I believe your father works in the
Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?” he said, looking
up at Ron and smiling still more nastily. “Dear, dear
... his own son ...”
Harry felt as though he’d just been walloped in the
stomach by one of the mad tree’s larger branches. If
anyone found out Mr. Weasley had bewitched the car
...he hadn’t thought of that. ...
“I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable
damage seems to have been done to a very valuable
Whomping Willow,” Snape went on.
“That tree did more damage to us than we — ” Ron
blurted out.
 
“Silence!” snapped Snape again. “Most unfortunately,
you are not in my House and the decision to expel
you does not rest with me. I shall go and fetch the
people who do have that happy power. You will wait
here.”
Harry and Ron stared at each other, white-faced.
Harry didn’t feel hungry anymore. He now felt
extremely sick. He tried not to look at a large, slimy
something suspended in green liquid on a shelf
behind Snape ’s desk. If Snape had gone to fetch
Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House, they
were hardly any better off. She might be fairer than
Snape, but she was still extremely strict.
Ten minutes later, Snape returned, and sure enough
it was Professor McGonagall who accompanied him.
Harry had seen Professor McGonagall angry on
several occasions, but either he had forgotten just
how thin her mouth could go, or he had never seen
her this angry before. She raised her wand the
moment she entered; Harry and Ron both flinched,
but she merely pointed it at the empty fireplace,
where flames suddenly erupted.
“Sit,” she said, and they both backed into chairs by
the fire.
“Explain,” she said, her glasses glinting ominously.
Ron launched into the story, starting with the barrier
at the station refusing to let them through.
“ — so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn’t get on
the train.”
“Why didn’t you send us a letter by owl? I believe you
have an owl?” Professor McGonagall said coldly to
Harry.
 
Harry gaped at her. Now she’d said it, that seemed
the obvious thing to have done.
“I — I didn’t think — ”
“That,” said Professor McGonagall, “is obvious.”
There was a knock on the office door and Snape, now
looking happier than ever, opened it. There stood the
headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.
Harry’s whole body went numb. Dumbledore was
looking unusually grave. He stared down his very
crooked nose at them, and Harry suddenly found
himself wishing he and Ron were still being beaten up
by the Whomping Willow.
There was a long silence. Then Dumbledore said,
“Please explain why you did this.”
It would have been better if he had shouted. Harry
hated the disappointment in his voice. For some
reason, he was unable to look Dumbledore in the
eyes, and spoke instead to his knees. He told
Dumbledore everything except that Mr. Weasley
owned the bewitched car, making it sound as though
he and Ron had happened to find a flying car parked
outside the station. He knew Dumbledore would see
through this at once, but Dumbledore asked no
questions about the car. When Harry had finished, he
merely continued to peer at them through his
spectacles.
“Well go and get our stuff,” said Ron in a hopeless
sort of voice.
“What are you talking about, Weasley?” barked
Professor McGonagall.
 
“Well, you’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said Ron.
Harry looked quickly at Dumbledore.
“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore. “But I
must impress upon both of you the seriousness of
what you have done. I will be writing to both your
families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do
anything like this again, I will have no choice but to
expel you.”
Snape looked as though Christmas had been
canceled. He cleared his throat and said, “Professor
Dumbledore, these boys have flouted the Decree for
the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious
damage to an old and valuable tree — surely acts of
this nature — ”
“It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these
boys’ punishments, Severus,” said Dumbledore
calmly. “They are in her House and are therefore her
responsibility.” He turned to Professor McGonagall. “I
must go back to the feast, Minerva, I’ve got to give out
a few notices. Come, Severus, there’s a delicious-
looking custard tart I want to sample — ”
Snape shot a look of pure venom at Harry and Ron as
he allowed himself to be swept out of his office,
leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall, who
was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle.
“You’d better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley,
you’re bleeding.”
“Not much,” said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his
eye with his sleeve. “Professor, I wanted to watch my
sister being Sorted — ”
 
“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” said Professor
McGonagall. “Your sister is also in Gryffindor.”
“Oh, good,” said Ron.
“And speaking of Gryffindor — ” Professor McGonagall
said sharply, but Harry cut in: “Professor, when we
took the car, term hadn’t started, so — so Gryffindor
shouldn’t really have points taken from it — should
it?” he finished, watching her anxiously.
Professor McGonagall gave him a piercing look, but
he was sure she had almost smiled. Her mouth
looked less thin, anyway.
“I will not take any points from Gryffindor,” she said,
and Harry’s heart lightened considerably. “But you
will both get a detention.”
It was better than Harry had expected. As for
Dumbledore’s writing to the Dursleys, that was
nothing. Harry knew perfectly well they’d just be
disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn’t
squashed him flat.
Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and
pointed it at Snape’s desk. A large plate of
sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a jug of iced
pumpkin juice appeared with a pop.
“You will eat in here and then go straight up to your
dormitory,” she said. “I must also return to the feast.”
When the door had closed behind her, Ron let out a
long, low whistle.
“I thought we’d had it,” he said, grabbing a sandwich.
“So did I,” said Harry, taking one, too.
 
“Can you believe our luck, though?” said Ron thickly
through a mouthful of chicken and ham. “Fred and
George must’ve flown that car five or six times and no
Muggle ever saw them.” He swallowed and took
another huge bite. “Why couldn’t we get through the
barrier?”
Harry shrugged. “We’ll have to watch our step from
now on, though,” he said, taking a grateful swig of
pumpkin juice. “Wish we could’ve gone up to the
feast. ...”
“She didn’t want us showing off,” said Ron sagely.
“Doesn’t want people to think it’s clever, arriving by
flying car.”
When they had eaten as many sandwiches as they
could (the plate kept refilling itself), they rose and left
the office, treading the familiar path to Gryffindor
Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed that the feast
was over. They walked past muttering portraits and
creaking suits of armor, and climbed narrow flights of
stone stairs, until at last they reached the passage
where the secret entrance to Gryffindor Tower was
hidden, behind an oil painting of a very fat woman in
a pink silk dress.
“Password?” she said as they approached.
“Er — ” said Harry.
They didn’t know the new year’s password, not having
met a Gryffindor prefect yet, but help came almost
immediately; they heard hurrying feet behind them
and turned to see Hermione dashing toward them.
“There you are! Where have you been? The most
ridiculous rumors — someone said you’d been
expelled for crashing a flying car — ”
 
“Well, we haven’t been expelled,” Harry assured her.
“You’re not telling me you did fly here?” said
Hermione, sounding almost as severe as Professor
McGonagall.
“Skip the lecture,” said Ron impatiently, “and tell us
the new password.”
“It’s ‘wattlebird,’ ” said Hermione impatiently, “but
that’s not the point — ”
Her words were cut short, however, as the portrait of
the fat lady swung open and there was a sudden
storm of clapping. It looked as though the whole of
Gryffindor House was still awake, packed into the
circular common room, standing on the lopsided
tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for them to
arrive. Arms reached through the portrait hole to pull
Harry and Ron inside, leaving Hermione to scramble
in after them.
“Brilliant!” yelled Lee Jordan. “Inspired! What an
entrance! Flying a car right into the Whomping
Willow, people’ll be talking about that one for years —
“Good for you,” said a fifth year Harry had never
spoken to; someone was patting him on the back as
though he’d just won a marathon; Fred and George
pushed their way to the front of the crowd and said
together, “Why couldn’t we’ve come in the car, eh?”
Ron was scarlet in the face, grinning embarrassedly,
but Harry could see one person who didn’t look happy
at all. Percy was visible over the heads of some
excited first years, and he seemed to be trying to get
near enough to start telling them off. Harry nudged
Ron in the ribs and nodded in Percy’s direction. Ron
got the point at once.
 
“Got to get upstairs — bit tired,” he said, and the two
of them started pushing their way toward the door on
the other side of the room, which led to a spiral
staircase and the dormitories.
“ ’Night,” Harry called back to Hermione, who was
wearing a scowl just like Percy’s.
They managed to get to the other side of the common
room, still having their backs slapped, and gained the
peace of the staircase. They hurried up it, right to the
top, and at last reached the door of their old
dormitory, which now had a sign on it saying
SECOND YEARS. They entered the familiar, circular
room, with its five four-posters hung with red velvet
and its high, narrow windows. Their trunks had been
brought up for them and stood at the ends of their
beds.
Ron grinned guiltily at Harry.
“I know I shouldn’t ’ve enjoyed that or anything, but —
The dormitory door flew open and in came the other
second year Gryffindor boys, Seamus Finnigan, Dean
Thomas, and Neville Longbottom.
“Unbelievablel” beamed Seamus.
“Cool,” said Dean.
“Amazing,” said Neville, awestruck.
Harry couldn’t help it. He grinned, too.
 
6
GILDEROY LOCKHART
The next day, however, Harry barely grinned once.
Things started to go downhill from breakfast in the
Great Hall. The four long House tables were laden
with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains
of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the
enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy gray). Harry
and Ron sat down at the Gryffindor table next to
Hermione, who had her copy of Voyages with
Vampires propped open against a milk jug. There was
a slight stiffness in the way she said “ ’Morning,”
which told Harry that she was still disapproving of the
way they had arrived. Neville Longbottom, on the
other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Neville was a
round-faced and accident-prone boy with the worst
memory of anyone Harry had ever met.
“Mail’s due any minute — I think Gran’s sending a
few things I forgot.”
Harry had only just started his porridge when, sure
enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a
hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and
 
dropping letters and packages into the chattering
crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville’s
head and, a second later, something large and gray
fell into Hermione’s jug, spraying them all with milk
and feathers.
“Errol\” said Ron, pulling the bedraggled owl out by
the feet. Errol slumped, unconscious, onto the table,
his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his
beak.
“Oh, no — ” Ron gasped.
“It’s all right, he’s still alive,” said Hermione, prodding
Errol gently with the tip of her finger.
“It’s not that — it’s that.”
Ron was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite
ordinary to Harry, but Ron and Neville were both
looking at it as though they expected it to explode.
“What’s the matter?” said Harry.
“She’s — she’s sent me a Howler,” said Ron faintly.
“You’d better open it, Ron,” said Neville in a timid
whisper. “It’ll be worse if you don’t. My gran sent me
one once, and I ignored it and” — he gulped — “it was
horrible.”
Harry looked from their petrified faces to the red
envelope.
“What’s a Howler?” he said.
But Ron’s whole attention was fixed on the letter,
which had begun to smoke at the corners.
 
“Open it,” Neville urged. “It’ll all be over in a few
minutes — ”
Ron stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope
from Errol’s beak, and slit it open. Neville stuffed his
fingers in his ears. A split second later, Harry knew
why. He thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar
of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the
ceiling.
“— STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN
SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT
TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU
STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I
WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE — ”
Mrs. Weasley’s yells, a hundred times louder than
usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table,
and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. People
throughout the hall were swiveling around to see who
had received the Howler, and Ron sank so low in his
chair that only his crimson forehead could be seen.
“— LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I
THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME,
WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS,
YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED — ”
Harry had been wondering when his name was going
to crop up. He tried very hard to look as though he
couldn’t hear the voice that was making his eardrums
throb.
“— ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER’S
FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR
FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE
WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME.”
 
A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had
dropped from Ron’s hand, burst into flames and
curled into ashes. Harry and Ron sat stunned, as
though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few
people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke
out again.
Hermione closed Voyages with Vampires and looked
down at the top of Ron’s head.
“Well, I don’t know what you expected, Ron, but you
“Don’t tell me I deserved it,” snapped Ron.
Harry pushed his porridge away. His insides were
burning with guilt. Mr. Weasley was facing an inquiry
at work. After all Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had done for
him over the summer . . .
But he had no time to dwell on this; Professor
McGonagall was moving along the Gryffindor table,
handing out course schedules. Harry took his and
saw that they had double Herbology with the
Hufflepuffs first.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together,
crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the
greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At
least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermione
seemed to think they had now been punished enough
and was being perfectly friendly again.
As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of
the class standing outside, waiting for Professor
Sprout. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had only just
joined them when she came striding into view across
the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart.
Professor Sprout’s arms were full of bandages, and
 
with another twinge of guilt, Harry spotted the
Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its
branches now in slings.
Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a
patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually
a large amount of earth on her clothes and her
fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint.
Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in
sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining
under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold
trimming.
“Oh, hello there!” he called, beaming around at the
assembled students. “Just been showing Professor
Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow!
But I don’t want you running away with the idea that
I’m better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to
have met several of these exotic plants on my travels
??
“Greenhouse three today, chaps!” said Professor
Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at
all her usual cheerful self.
There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever
worked in greenhouse one before — greenhouse three
housed far more interesting and dangerous plants.
Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and
unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp
earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume
of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from
the ceiling. He was about to follow Ron and Hermione
inside when Lockhart’s hand shot out.
“Harry! I’ve been wanting a word — you don’t mind if
he’s a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor
Sprout?”
 
Judging by Professor Sprout’s scowl, she did mind,
but Lockhart said, “That’s the ticket,” and closed the
greenhouse door in her face.
“Harry,” said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming
in the sunlight as he shook his head. “Harry, Harry,
Harry.”
Completely nonplussed, Harry said nothing.
“When I heard — well, of course, it was all my fault.
Could have kicked myself.”
Harry had no idea what he was talking about. He was
about to say so when Lockhart went on, “Don’t know
when I’ve been more shocked. Flying a car to
Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you’d
done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, Harry.”
It was remarkable how he could show every one of
those brilliant teeth even when he wasn’t talking.
“Gave you a taste for publicity, didn’t I?” said
Lockhart. “Gave you the bug. You got onto the front
page of the paper with me and you couldn’t wait to do
it again.”
“Oh, no, Professor, see — ”
“Harry, Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, reaching out
and grasping his shoulder. “I understand. Natural to
want a bit more once you’ve had that first taste —
and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was
bound to go to your head — but see here, young man,
you can’t start flying cars to try and get yourself
noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for
all that when you’re older. Yes, yes, I know what
you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for him, he’s an
internationally famous wizard already! ’ But when I
 
was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are
now. In fact, I’d say I was even more of a nobody! I
mean, a few people have heard of you, haven’t they?
All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!”
He glanced at the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead.
“I know, I know — it’s not quite as good as winning
Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award five
times in a row, as I have — but it’s a start, Harry, it’s
a start”
He gave Harry a hearty wink and strode off. Harry
stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering
he was supposed to be in the greenhouse, he opened
the door and slid inside.
Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench
in the center of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of
different-colored ear-muffs were lying on the bench.
When Harry had taken his place between Ron and
Hermione, she said, “We’ll be repotting Mandrakes
today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the
Mandrake?”
To nobody’s surprise, Hermione’s hand was first into
the air.
“Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative,”
said Hermione, sounding as usual as though she had
swallowed the textbook. “It is used to return people
who have been transfigured or cursed to their original
state.”
“Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor
Sprout. “The Mandrake forms an essential part of
most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who
can tell me why?”
Hermione’s hand narrowly missed Harry’s glasses as
it shot up again.
 
“The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears
it,” she said promptly.
“Precisely. Take another ten points,” said Professor
Sprout. “Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still
very young.”
She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and
everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred
or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were
growing there in rows. They looked quite
unremarkable to Harry, who didn’t have the slightest
idea what Hermione meant by the “cry” of the
Mandrake.
“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor
Sprout.
There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair
that wasn’t pink and fluffy.
“When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears
are completely covered,” said Professor Sprout. “When
it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-
up. Right — earmuffs on.”
Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears. They shut
out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the pink,
fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of
her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and
pulled hard.
Harry let out a gasp of surprise that no one could
hear.
Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly
baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were
growing right out of his head. He had pale green,
 
mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his
lungs.
Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under
the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying
him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted
leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her
hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed
her own earmuffs.
“As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries
won’t kill yet,” she said calmly as though she’d just
done nothing more exciting than water a begonia.
“However, they will knock you out for several hours,
and as I’m sure none of you want to miss your first
day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in
place while you work. I will attract your attention
when it is time to pack up.
“Four to a tray — there is a large supply of pots here
— compost in the sacks over there — and be careful
of the Venomous Tentacula, it’s teething.”
She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as
she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had
been inching sneakily over her shoulder.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were joined at their tray by
a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy Harry knew by sight but
had never spoken to.
“Justin Finch-Fletchley,” he said brightly, shaking
Harry by the hand. “Know who you are, of course, the
famous Harry Potter. ... And you’re Hermione Granger
— always top in everything” (Hermione beamed as she
had her hand shaken too) “ — and Ron Weasley.
Wasn’t that your flying car?”
 
Ron didn’t smile. The Howler was obviously still on
his mind.
“That Lockhart’s something, isn’t he?” said Justin
happily as they began filling their plant pots with
dragon dung compost. “Awfully brave chap. Have you
read his books? I’d have died of fear if I’d been
cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he
stayed cool and — zap — just fantastic.
“My name was down for Eton, you know. I can’t tell
you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course,
Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made
her read Lockhart’s books I think she’s begun to see
how useful it’ll be to have a fully trained wizard in the
family. ...”
After that they didn’t have much chance to talk. Their
earmuffs were back on and they needed to
concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had
made it look extremely easy, but it wasn’t. The
Mandrakes didn’t like coming out of the earth, but
didn’t seem to want to go back into it either. They
squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and
gnashed their teeth; Harry spent ten whole minutes
trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot.
By the end of the class, Harry, like everyone else, was
sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone
traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then
the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.
Professor McGonagall’s classes were always hard
work, but today was especially difficult. Everything
Harry had learned last year seemed to have leaked
out of his head during the summer. He was supposed
to be turning a beetle into a button, but all he
managed to do was give his beetle a lot of exercise as
it scuttled over the desktop avoiding his wand.
 
Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched
up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it
seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept
crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every
time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed
him in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs.
Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally
squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for
a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn’t pleased.
Harry was relieved to hear the lunch bell. His brain
felt like a wrung sponge. Everyone filed out of the
classroom except him and Ron, who was whacking
his wand furiously on the desk.
“Stupid — useless — thing — ”
“Write home for another one,” Harry suggested as the
wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker.
“Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back,” said Ron,
stuffing the now hissing wand into his bag. “ ‘It’s your
own fault your wand got snapped — ’ ”
They went down to lunch, where Ron’s mood was not
improved by Hermione’s showing them the handful of
perfect coat buttons she had produced in
T ransfiguration .
“What’ve we got this afternoon?” said Harry, hastily
changing the subject.
“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione at
once.
“Why,” demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, “have
you outlined all Lockhart’s lessons in little hearts?”
 
Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing
furiously.
They finished lunch and went outside into the
overcast courtyard. Hermione sat down on a stone
step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires
again. Harry and Ron stood talking about Quidditch
for several minutes before Harry became aware that
he was being closely watched. Looking up, he saw the
very small, mousy-haired boy he’d seen trying on the
Sorting Hat last night staring at Harry as though
transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an
ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harry
looked at him, he went bright red.
“All right, Harry? I’m — I’m Colin Creevey,” he said
breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. “I’m in
Gryffindor, too. D’you think — would it be all right if
— can I have a picture?” he said, raising the camera
hopefully.
“A picture?” Harry repeated blankly.
“So I can prove I’ve met you,” said Colin Creevey
eagerly, edging further forward. “I know all about you.
Everyone’s told me. About how you survived when
You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he
disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a
lightning scar on your forehead” (his eyes raked
Harry’s hairline) “and a boy in my dormitory said if I
develop the film in the right potion, the pictures’ll
move.” Colin drew a great shuddering breath of
excitement and said, “It’s amazing here, isn’t it? I
never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I
got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a milkman, he
couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of
pictures to send home to him. And it’d be really good
if I had one of you” — he looked imploringly at Harry
 
— “maybe your friend could take it and I could stand
next to you? And then, could you sign it?”
“ Signed photos? You’re giving out signed photos,
Potter?”
Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy’s voice echoed
around the courtyard. He had stopped right behind
Colin, flanked, as he always was at Hogwarts, by his
large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.
“Everyone line up!” Malfoy roared to the crowd. “Harry
Potter’s giving out signed photos!”
“No, I’m not,” said Harry angrily, his fists clenching.
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
“You’re just jealous,” piped up Colin, whose entire
body was about as thick as Crabbe ’s neck.
“Jealous?” said Malfoy, who didn’t need to shout
anymore: Half the courtyard was listening in. “Of
what? I don’t want a foul scar right across my head,
thanks. I don’t think getting your head cut open
makes you that special, myself.”
Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.
“Eat slugs, Malfoy,” said Ron angrily. Crabbe stopped
laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a
menacing way.
“Be careful, Weasley,” sneered Malfoy. “You don’t
want to start any trouble or your mommy’ll have to
come and take you away from school.” He put on a
shrill, piercing voice. “If you put another toe out of line
 
A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly
at this.
“Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter,” smirked
Malfoy. “It’d be worth more than his family’s whole
house — ”
Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione
shut Voyages with Vampires with a snap and
whispered, “Look out!”
“What’s all this, what’s all this?” Gilderoy Lockhart
was striding toward them, his turquoise robes
swirling behind him. “Who’s giving out signed
photos?”
Harry started to speak but he was cut short as
Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulders and
thundered jovially, “Shouldn’t have asked! We meet
again, Harry!”
Pinned to Lockhart’s side and burning with
humiliation, Harry saw Malfoy slide smirking back
into the crowd.
“Come on then, Mr. Creevey,” said Lockhart, beaming
at Colin. “A double portrait, can’t do better than that,
and well both sign it for you.”
Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as
the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of
afternoon classes.
“Off you go, move along there,” Lockhart called to the
crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Harry,
who was wishing he knew a good Vanishing Spell,
still clasped to his side.
 
“A word to the wise, Harry,” said Lockhart paternally
as they entered the building through a side door. “I
covered up for you back there with young Creevey —
if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates
won’t think you’re setting yourself up so much. ...”
Deaf to Harry’s stammers, Lockhart swept him down
a corridor lined with staring students and up a
staircase.
“Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at
this stage of your career isn’t sensible — looks a tad
bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a
time when, like me, you’ll need to keep a stack handy
wherever you go, but” — he gave a little chortle — “I
don’t think you’re quite there yet.”
They had reached Lockhart’s classroom and he let
Harry go at last. Harry yanked his robes straight and
headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where
he busied himself with piling all seven of Lockhart’s
books in front of him, so that he could avoid looking
at the real thing.
The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and
Hermione sat down on either side of Harry.
“You could’ve fried an egg on your face,” said Ron.
“You’d better hope Creevey doesn’t meet Ginny, or
they’ll be starting a Harry Potter fan club.”
“Shut up,” snapped Harry. The last thing he needed
was for Lockhart to hear the phrase “Harry Potter fan
club.”
When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared
his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward,
picked up Neville Longbottom’s copy of Travels with
 
Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking
portrait on the front.
“Me,” he said, pointing at it and winking as well.
“Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class,
Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League,
and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-
Charming- Smile Award — but I don’t talk about that.
I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at
her!”
He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled
weakly.
“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books —
well done. I thought we’d start today with a little quiz.
Nothing to worry about — just to check how well
you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in — ”
When he had handed out the test papers he returned
to the front of the class and said, “You have thirty
minutes — start — now\”
Harry looked down at his paper and read:
1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?
2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?
3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s
greatest achievement to date?
On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right
down to:
54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what
would his ideal gift be?
 
Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and
rifled through them in front of the class.
“Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my
favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti.
And a few of you need to read Wanderings with
Werewolves more carefully — I clearly state in
chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be
harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples —
though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s
Old Firewhisky!”
He gave them another roguish wink. Ron was now
staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on
his face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who
were sitting in front, were shaking with silent
laughter. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening
to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when
he mentioned her name.
"... but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret
ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my
own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact” —
he flipped her paper over — “full marks! Where is
Miss Hermione Granger?”
Hermione raised a trembling hand.
“Excellent!” beamed Lockhart. “Quite excellent! Take
ten points for Gryffindor! And so — to business — ”
He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large,
covered cage onto it.
“Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against
the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may
find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room.
Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am
here. All I ask is that you remain calm.”
 
In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of
books for a better look at the cage. Lockhart placed a
hand on the cover. Dean and Seamus had stopped
laughing now. Neville was cowering in his front row
seat.
“I must ask you not to scream,” said Lockhart in a
low voice. “It might provoke them.”
As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped
off the cover.
“Yes,” he said dramatically. “ Freshly caught Cornish
pixies.”
Seamus Finnigan couldn’t control himself. He let out
a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn’t
mistake for a scream of terror.
“Yes?” He smiled at Seamus.
“Well, they’re not — they’re not very — dangerous, are
they?” Seamus choked.
“Don’t be so sure!” said Lockhart, waggling a finger
annoyingly at Seamus. “Devilish tricky little blighters
they can be!”
The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches
high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was
like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment
the cover had been removed, they had started
jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and
making bizarre faces at the people nearest them.
“Right, then,” Lockhart said loudly. “Let’s see what
you make of them!” And he opened the cage.
 
It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every
direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville by
the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot
straight through the window, showering the back row
with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the
classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino.
They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with
them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from
the walls, up-ended the waste basket, grabbed bags
and books and threw them out of the smashed
window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering
under desks and Neville was swinging from the iron
chandelier in the ceiling.
“Come on now — round them up, round them up,
they’re only pixies,” Lockhart shouted.
He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and
bellowed, “Peskipiksi Pesternomti”
It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his
wand and threw it out of the window, too. Lockhart
gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly
avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second
later as the chandelier gave way.
The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the
exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart
straightened up, caught sight of Harry, Ron, and
Hermione, who were almost at the door, and said,
“Well, I’ll ask you three to just nip the rest of them
back into their cage.” He swept past them and shut
the door quickly behind him.
“Can you believe him?” roared Ron as one of the
remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear.
“He just wants to give us some hands-on experience,”
said Hermione, immobilizing two pixies at once with a
 
clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into
their cage.
“Hands on?” said Harry, who was trying to grab a
pixie dancing out of reach with its tongue out.
“Hermione, he didn’t have a clue what he was doing
“Rubbish,” said Hermione. “You’ve read his books —
look at all those amazing things he’s done — ”
“He says he’s done,” Ron muttered.
 
7
MUDBLOODS AND MURMURS
Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days
dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy
Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid
was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized
Harry’s schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a
bigger thrill than to say, “All right, Harry?” six or
seven times a day and hear, “Hello, Colin,” back,
however exasperated Harry sounded when he said it.
Hedwig was still angry with Harry about the
disasterous car journey and Ron’s wand was still
malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning
by shooting out of Ron’s hand in Charms and hitting
tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes,
creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had
struck. So with one thing and another, Harry was
quite glad to reach the weekend. He, Ron, and
Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday
morning. Harry, however, was shaken awake several
hours earlier than he would have liked by Oliver
Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
 
“Whassamatter?” said Harry groggily.
“Quidditch practice!” said Wood. “Come on!”
Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist
hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now that he
was awake, he couldn’t understand how he could
have slept through the racket the birds were making.
“Oliver,” Harry croaked. “It’s the crack of dawn.”
“Exactly,” said Wood. He was a tall and burly sixth
year and, at the moment, his eyes were gleaming with
a crazed enthusiasm. “It’s part of our new training
program. Come on, grab your broom, and let’s go,”
said Wood heartily. “None of the other teams have
started training yet; we’re going to be first off the
mark this year — ”
Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of
bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes.
“Good man,” said Wood. “Meet you on the field in
fifteen minutes.”
When he’d found his scarlet team robes and pulled on
his cloak for warmth, Harry scribbled a note to Ron
explaining where he’d gone and went down the spiral
staircase to the common room, his Nimbus Two
Thousand on his shoulder. He had just reached the
portrait hole when there was a clatter behind him and
Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral
staircase, his camera swinging madly around his
neck and something clutched in his hand.
“I heard someone saying your name on the stairs,
Harry! Look what I’ve got here! I’ve had it developed, I
wanted to show you — ”
 
Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was
brandishing under his nose.
A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard
on an arm Harry recognized as his own. He was
pleased to see that his photographic self was putting
up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view.
As Harry watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped,
panting, against the white edge of the picture.
“Will you sign it?” said Colin eagerly.
“No,” said Harry flatly, glancing around to check that
the room was really deserted. “Sorry, Colin, I’m in a
hurry — Quidditch practice — ”
He climbed through the portrait hole.
“Oh, wow! Wait for me! I’ve never watched a Quidditch
game before!”
Colin scrambled through the hole after him.
“It’ll be really boring,” Harry said quickly, but Colin
ignored him, his face shining with excitement.
“You were the youngest House player in a hundred
years, weren’t you, Harry? Weren’t you?” said Colin,
trotting alongside him. “You must be brilliant. I’ve
never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is
that the best one there is?”
Harry didn’t know how to get rid of him. It was like
having an extremely talkative shadow.
“I don’t really understand Quidditch,” said Colin
breathlessly. “Is it true there are four balls? And two
of them fly around trying to knock people off their
brooms?”
 
“Yes,” said Harry heavily, resigned to explaining the
complicated rules of Quidditch. “They’re called
Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who
carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side.
Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters.”
“And what are the other balls for?” Colin asked,
tripping down a couple of steps because he was
gazing open-mouthed at Harry.
“Well, the Quaffle — that’s the biggish red one — is
the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on each
team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get
it through the goal posts at the end of the pitch —
they’re three long poles with hoops on the end.”
“And the fourth ball — ”
“ — is the Golden Snitch,” said Harry, “and it’s very
small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that’s what
the Seeker’s got to do, because a game of Quidditch
doesn’t end until the Snitch has been caught. And
whichever team’s Seeker gets the Snitch earns his
team an extra hundred and fifty points.”
“And you’re the Gryffindor Seeker, aren’t you?” said
Colin in awe.
“Yes,” said Harry as they left the castle and started
across the dew-drenched grass. “And there’s the
Keeper, too. He guards the goal posts. That’s it,
really.”
But Colin didn’t stop questioning Harry all the way
down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and
Harry only shook him off when he reached the
changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping
voice, “I’ll go and get a good seat, Harry!” and hurried
off to the stands.
 
The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the
changing room. Wood was the only person who looked
truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting,
puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to fourth year
Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against
the wall behind her. Her fellow Chasers, Katie Bell
and Angelina Johnson, were yawning side by side
opposite them.
“There you are, Harry, what kept you?” said Wood
briskly. “Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all
before we actually get onto the field, because I spent
the summer devising a whole new training program,
which I really think will make all the difference. ...”
Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch
field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and
crosses in different-colored inks. He took out his
wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to
wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood
launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred
Weasley’s head drooped right onto Alicia Spinnet’s
shoulder and he began to snore.
The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain,
but there was another board under that, and a third
under that one. Harry sank into a stupor as Wood
droned on and on.
“So,” said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a
wistful fantasy about what he could be eating for
breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. “Is
that clear? Any questions?”
“I’ve got a question, Oliver,” said George, who had
woken with a start. “Why couldn’t you have told us all
this yesterday when we were awake?”
Wood wasn’t pleased.
 
“Now, listen here, you lot,” he said, glowering at them
all. “We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year.
We’re easily the best team. But unfortunately —
owing to circumstances beyond our control — ”
Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been
unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match
of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had
been a player short and had suffered their worst
defeat in three hundred years.
Wood took a moment to regain control of himself.
Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him.
“So this year, we train harder than ever before. ...
Okay, let’s go and put our new theories into practice!”
Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the
way out of the locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still
yawning, his team followed.
They had been in the locker room so long that the
sun was up completely now, although remnants of
mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry
walked onto the field, he saw Ron and Hermione
sitting in the stands.
“Aren’t you finished yet?” called Ron incredulously.
“Haven’t even started,” said Harry, looking jealously
at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had
brought out of the Great Hall. “Wood’s been teaching
us new moves.”
He mounted his broomstick and kicked at the
ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air
whipped his face, waking him far more effectively
than Wood’s long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on
the Quidditch field. He soared right around the
stadium at full speed, racing Fred and George.
 
“What’s that funny clicking noise?” called Fred as
they hurtled around the corner.
Harry looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one
of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture
after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the
deserted stadium.
“Look this way, Harry! This way!” he cried shrilly.
“Who’s that?” said Fred.
“No idea,” Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that
took him as far away as possible from Colin.
“What’s going on?” said Wood, frowning, as he
skimmed through the air toward them. “Why’s that
first year taking pictures? I don’t like it. He could be a
Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new
training program.”
“He’s in Gryffindor,” said Harry quickly.
“And the Slytherins don’t need a spy, Oliver,” said
George.
“What makes you say that?” said Wood testily.
“Because they’re here in person,” said George,
pointing.
Several people in green robes were walking onto the
field, broomsticks in their hands.
“I don’t believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage. “I booked
the field for today! We’ll see about this!”
 
Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder
than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as
he dismounted. Harry, Fred, and George followed.
“Flint!” Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain. “This
is our practice time! We got up specially! You can
clear off now!”
Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a
look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied,
“Plenty of room for all of us, Wood.”
Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too. There
were no girls on the Slytherin team, who stood
shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering
to a man.
“But I booked the field!” said Wood, positively spitting
with rage. “I booked it!”
“Ah,” said Flint. “But Tve got a specially signed note
here from Professor Snape. % Professor S. Snape, give
the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the
Quidditch field owinq to the need to train their new
Seeker. ’ ”
“You’ve got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted.
“Where?”
And from behind the six large figures before them
came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his
pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.
“Aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s son?” said Fred, looking
at Malfoy with dislike.
“Funny you should mention Draco’s father,” said Flint
as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly.
 
“Let me show you the generous gift he’s made to the
Slytherin team.”
All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven
highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of
fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two
Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors’
noses in the early morning sun.
“Very latest model. Only came out last month,” said
Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end
of his own. “I believe it outstrips the old Two
Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the
old Cleansweeps” — he smiled nastily at Fred and
George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives —
“sweeps the board with them.”
None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything
to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly
his cold eyes were reduced to slits.
“Oh, look,” said Flint. “A field invasion.”
Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see
what was going on.
“What’s happening?” Ron asked Harry. “Why aren’t
you playing? And what’s he doing here?”
He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin
Quidditch robes.
“I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,” said Malfoy,
smugly. “Everyone’s just been admiring the brooms
my father’s bought our team.”
Ron gaped, openmouthed, at the seven superb
broomsticks in front of him.
 
“Good, aren’t they?” said Malfoy smoothly. “But
perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some
gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off
those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would
bid for them.”
The Slytherin team howled with laughter.
“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy
their way in,” said Hermione sharply. “They got in on
pure talent.”
The smug look on Malfoy’s face flickered.
“No one asked your opinion, you filthy little
Mudblood,” he spat.
Harry knew at once that Malfoy had said something
really bad because there was an instant uproar at his
words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred
and George jumping on him, Alicia shrieked, “How
dare you\”, and Ron plunged his hand into his robes,
pulled out his wand, yelling, “You’ll pay for that one,
Malfoy!” and pointed it furiously under Flint’s arm at
Malfoy’s face.
A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of
green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron’s wand,
hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling
backward onto the grass.
“Ron! Ron! Are you all right?” squealed Hermione.
Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came
out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and several
slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap.
The Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter.
Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new
 
broomstick for support. Malfoy was on all fours,
banging the ground with his fist. The Gryffindors were
gathered around Ron, who kept belching large,
glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch
him.
“We’d better get him to Hagrid’s, it’s nearest,” said
Harry to Hermione, who nodded bravely, and the pair
of them pulled Ron up by the arms.
“What happened, Harry? What happened? Is he ill?
But you can cure him, can’t you?” Colin had run
down from his seat and was now dancing alongside
them as they left the field. Ron gave a huge heave and
more slugs dribbled down his front.
“Oooh,” said Colin, fascinated and raising his camera.
“Can you hold him still, Harry?”
“Get out of the way, Colin!” said Harry angrily. He and
Hermione supported Ron out of the stadium and
across the grounds toward the edge of the forest.
“Nearly there, Ron,” said Hermione as the
gamekeeper’s cabin came into view. “You’ll be all right
in a minute — almost there — ”
They were within twenty feet of Hagrid’s house when
the front door opened, but it wasn’t Hagrid who
emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of palest
mauve today, came striding out.
“Quick, behind here,” Harry hissed, dragging Ron
behind a nearby bush. Hermione followed, somewhat
reluctantly.
“It’s a simple matter if you know what you’re doing!”
Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid. “If you need
help, you know where I am! I’ll let you have a copy of
 
my book. I’m surprised you haven’t already got one —
I’ll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!”
And he strode away toward the castle.
Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then
pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid’s front
door. They knocked urgently.
Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but
his expression brightened when he saw who it was.
“Bin wonderin’ when you’d come ter see me — come
in, come in — thought you mighta bin Professor
Lockhart back again — ”
Harry and Hermione supported Ron over the
threshold into the one-roomed cabin, which had an
enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily
in the other. Hagrid didn’t seem perturbed by Ron’s
slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he
lowered Ron into a chair.
“Better out than in,” he said cheerfully, plunking a
large copper basin in front of him. “Get ’em all up,
Ron.”
“I don’t think there’s anything to do except wait for it
to stop,” said Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend
over the basin. “That’s a difficult curse to work at the
best of times, but with a broken wand — ”
Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His
boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Harry.
“What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?” Harry
asked, scratching Fang’s ears.
“Givin’ me advice on gettin’ kelpies out of a well,”
growled Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his
 
scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. “Like I
don’ know. An’ bangin’ on about some banshee he
banished. If one word of it was true, I’ll eat my kettle.”
It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts
teacher, and Harry looked at him in surprise.
Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat higher
than usual, “I think you’re being a bit unfair.
Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the
best man for the job — ”
“He was the on’y man for the job,” said Hagrid,
offering them a plate of treacle toffee, while Ron
coughed squelchily into his basin. “An’ I mean the
on’y one. Gettin’ very difficult ter find anyone fer the
Dark Arts job. People aren’t too keen ter take it on,
see. They’re startin’ ter think it’s jinxed. No one’s
lasted long fer a while now. So tell me,” said Hagrid,
jerking his head at Ron. “Who was he tryin’ ter
curse?”
“Malfoy called Hermione something — it must’ve been
really bad, because everyone went wild.”
“It was bad,” said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the
tabletop looking pale and sweaty. “Malfoy called her
‘Mudblood,’ Hagrid — ”
Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs
made their appearance. Hagrid looked outraged.
“He didn’!” he growled at Hermione.
“He did,” she said. “But I don’t know what it means. I
could tell it was really rude, of course — ”
“It’s about the most insulting thing he could think of,”
gasped Ron, coming back up. “Mudblood’s a really
foul name for someone who is Muggle-born — you
 
know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards —
like Malfoy’s family — who think they’re better than
everyone else because they’re what people call pure-
blood.” He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell
into his outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin
and continued, “I mean, the rest of us know it doesn’t
make any difference at all. Look at Neville Longbottom
— he’s pure-blood and he can hardly stand a
cauldron the right way up.”
“An’ they haven’t invented a spell our Hermione can’
do,” said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a
brilliant shade of magenta.
“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” said Ron,
wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand. “Dirty
blood, see. Common blood. It’s ridiculous. Most
wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we
hadn’t married Muggles we’d’ve died out.”
He retched and ducked out of sight again.
“Well, I don’ blame yeh fer tryin’ ter curse him, Ron,”
said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs
hitting the basin. “Bu’ maybe it was a good thing yer
wand backfired. ’Spect Lucius Malfoy would’ve come
marchin’ up ter school if yeh’d cursed his son. Least
yer not in trouble.”
Harry would have pointed out that trouble didn’t
come much worse than having slugs pouring out of
your mouth, but he couldn’t; Hagrid’s treacle toffee
had cemented his jaws together.
“Harry,” said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a
sudden thought. “Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I’ve
heard you’ve bin givin’ out signed photos. How come I
haven’t got one?”
 
Furious, Harry wrenched his teeth apart.
“I have not been giving out signed photos,” he said
hotly. “If Lockhart’s still spreading that around — ”
But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing.
“I’m on’y jokin’,” he said, patting Harry genially on the
back and sending him face first into the table. “I knew
yeh hadn’t really. I told Lockhart yeh didn’ need teh.
Yer more famous than him without tryin’.”
“Bet he didn’t like that,” said Harry, sitting up and
rubbing his chin.
“Don’ think he did,” said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling.
“An’ then I told him I’d never read one o’ his books an’
he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?” he added as
Ron reappeared.
“No thanks,” said Ron weakly. “Better not risk it.”
“Come an’ see what I’ve bin growin’,” said Hagrid as
Harry and Hermione finished the last of their tea.
In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid ’s house
were a dozen of the largest pumpkins Harry had ever
seen. Each was the size of a large boulder.
“Gettin’ on well, aren’t they?” said Hagrid happily.
“Fer the Halloween feast ... should be big enough by
then.”
“What’ve you been feeding them?” said Harry.
Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they
were alone.
 
“Well, I’ve bin givin’ them — you know — a bit o’ help
Harry noticed Hagrid’s flowery pink umbrella leaning
against the back wall of the cabin. Harry had had
reason to believe before now that this umbrella was
not all it looked; in fact, he had the strong impression
that Hagrid’s old school wand was concealed inside it.
Hagrid wasn’t supposed to use magic. He had been
expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Harry
had never found out why — any mention of the
matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and
become mysteriously deaf until the subject was
changed.
“An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?” said Hermione,
halfway between disapproval and amusement. “Well,
you’ve done a good job on them.”
“That’s what yer little sister said,” said Hagrid,
nodding at Ron. “Met her jus’ yesterday.” Hagrid
looked sideways at Harry, his beard twitching. “Said
she was jus’ lookin’ round the grounds, but I reckon
she was hopin’ she might run inter someone else at
my house.” He winked at Harry. “If yeh ask me, she
wouldn’ say no ter a signed — ”
“Oh, shut up,” said Harry. Ron snorted with laughter
and the ground was sprayed with slugs.
“Watch it!” Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his
precious pumpkins.
It was nearly lunchtime and as Harry had only had
one bit of treacle toffee since dawn, he was keen to go
back to school to eat. They said good-bye to Hagrid
and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing
occasionally, but only bringing up two very small
slugs.
 
They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall
when a voice rang out, “There you are, Potter —
Weasley.” Professor McGonagall was walking toward
them, looking stern. “You will both do your detentions
this evening.”
“What’re we doing, Professor?” said Ron, nervously
suppressing a burp.
“ You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room
with Mr. Filch,” said Professor McGonagall. “And no
magic, Weasley — elbow grease.”
Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed
by every student in the school.
“And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart
answer his fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall.
“Oh n — Professor, can’t I go and do the trophy room,
too?” said Harry desperately.
“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising
her eyebrows. “Professor Lockhart requested you
particularly. Eight o’clock sharp, both of you.”
Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states
of deepest gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a
well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression.
Harry didn’t enjoy his shepherd’s pie as much as he’d
thought. Both he and Ron felt they’d got the worse
deal.
“Filch ’ll have me there all night,” said Ron heavily.
“No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in
that room. I’m no good at Muggle cleaning.”
 
“I’d swap anytime,” said Harry hollowly. “I’ve had
loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering
Lockhart’s fan mail ... he’ll be a nightmare. ...”
Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what
seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and
Harry was dragging his feet along the second-floor
corridor to Lockhart’s office. He gritted his teeth and
knocked.
The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at
him.
“Ah, here’s the scalawag!” he said. “Come in, Harry,
come in — ”
Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many
candles were countless framed photographs of
Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another
large pile lay on his desk.
“You can address the envelopes!” Lockhart told Harry,
as though this was a huge treat. “This first one’s to
Gladys Gudgeon, bless her — huge fan of mine — ”
The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart’s voice
wash over him, occasionally saying, “Mmm” and
“Right” and “Yeah.” Now and then he caught a phrase
like, “Fame’s a fickle friend, Harry,” or “Celebrity is as
celebrity does, remember that.”
The candles burned lower and lower, making the light
dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart
watching him. Harry moved his aching hand over
what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out
Veronica Smethley’s address. It must be nearly time to
leave, Harry thought miserably, please let it be nearly
time. ...
 
And then he heard something — something quite
apart from the spitting of the dying candles and
Lockhart’s prattle about his fans.
It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a
voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom.
“Come ... come to me. ... Let me rip you. ... Let me tear
you. ... Let me kill you. ...”
Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot
appeared on Veronica Smethley’s street.
“What?” he said loudly.
“I know!” said Lockhart. “Six solid months at the top
of the best-seller list! Broke all records!”
“No,” said Harry frantically. “That voice!”
“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking puzzled. “What voice?”
“That — that voice that said — didn’t you hear it?”
Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.
“What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you’re
getting a little drowsy? Great Scott — look at the time!
“We’ve been here nearly four hours! I’d never have
believed it — the time’s flown, hasn’t it?”
Harry didn’t answer. He was straining his ears to hear
the voice again, but there was no sound now except
for Lockhart telling him he mustn’t expect a treat like
this every time he got detention. Feeling dazed, Harry
left.
It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was
almost empty. Harry went straight up to the
 
dormitory. Ron wasn’t back yet. Harry pulled on his
pajamas, got into bed, and waited. Half an hour later,
Ron arrived, nursing his right arm and bringing a
strong smell of polish into the darkened room.
“My muscles have all seized up,” he groaned, sinking
on his bed. “Fourteen times he made me buff up that
Quidditch Cup before he was satisfied. And then I
had another slug attack all over a Special Award for
Services to the School. Took ages to get the slime off.
. . . How was it with Lockhart?”
Keeping his voice low so as not to wake Neville, Dean,
and Seamus, Harry told Ron exactly what he had
heard.
“And Lockhart said he couldn’t hear it?” said Ron.
Harry could see him frowning in the moonlight.
“D’you think he was lying? But I don’t get it — even
someone invisible would’ve had to open the door.”
“I know,” said Harry, lying back in his four-poster and
staring at the canopy above him. “I don’t get it either.”
 
d
THE DEATHDAY PARTY
October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the
grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the
nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds
among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion
worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking
at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny
Weasley, who had been looking pale, was bullied into
taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under
her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole
head was on fire.
Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle
windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower
beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s
pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Oliver
Wood’s enthusiasm for regular training sessions,
however, was not dampened, which was why Harry
was to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon
a few days before Halloween, returning to Gryffindor
Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud.
Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn’t been a
happy practice session. Fred and George, who had
 
been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for
themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two
Thousand and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin
team was no more than seven greenish blurs,
shooting through the air like missiles.
As Harry squelched along the deserted corridor he
came across somebody who looked just as
preoccupied as he was. Nearly Headless Nick, the
ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of
a window, muttering under his breath, "... don’t fulfill
their requirements ... half an inch, if that ...”
“Hello, Nick,” said Harry.
“Hello, hello,” said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and
looking round. He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his
long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which
concealed the fact that his neck was almost
completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Harry
could see right through him to the dark sky and
torrential rain outside.
“You look troubled, young Potter,” said Nick, folding a
transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside
his doublet.
“So do you,” said Harry.
“Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, “a
matter of no importance. ... It’s not as though I really
wanted to join. ... Thought I’d apply, but apparently I
‘don’t fulfill requirements’ — ”
In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great
bitterness on his face.
“But you would think, wouldn’t you,” he erupted
suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket,
 
“that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a
blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless
Hunt?”
“Oh — yes,” said Harry, who was obviously supposed
to agree.
“I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all
been quick and clean, and my head had come off
properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal
of pain and ridicule. However — ” Nearly Headless
Nick shook his letter open and read furiously:
“ ‘We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have
parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate
that it would be impossible otherwise for members to
participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-
Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret,
therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill
our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick
Delaney -Podmore.’ ”
Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away.
“Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on,
Harry! Most people would think that’s good and
beheaded, but oh, no, it’s not enough for Sir Properly
Decapitated-Podmore . ”
Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and
then said, in a far calmer tone, “So — what’s
bothering you? Anything I can do?”
“No,” said Harry. “Not unless you know where we can
get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for
our match against Sly — ”
The rest of Harry’s sentence was drowned out by a
high-pitched mewling from somewhere near his
 
ankles. He looked down and found himself gazing into
a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the
skeletal gray cat who was used by the caretaker,
Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle
against students.
“You’d better get out of here, Harry,” said Nick
quickly. “Filch isn’t in a good mood — he’s got the flu
and some third years accidentally plastered frog
brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He’s been
cleaning all morning, and if he sees you dripping mud
all over the place — ”
“Right,” said Harry, backing away from the accusing
stare of Mrs. Norris, but not quickly enough. Drawn
to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to
connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst
suddenly through a tapestry to Harry’s right,
wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-
breaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around
his head, and his nose was unusually purple.
“Filth!” he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes
popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy
puddle that had dripped from Harry’s Quidditch
robes. “Mess and muck everywhere! I’ve had enough
of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potter!”
So Harry waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless
Nick and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the
number of muddy footprints on the floor.
Harry had never been inside Filch’s office before; it
was a place most students avoided. The room was
dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp
dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried
fish lingered about the place. Wooden filing cabinets
stood around the walls; from their labels, Harry could
see that they contained details of every pupil Filch
 
had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an
entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished
collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall
behind Filch’s desk. It was common knowledge that
he was always begging Dumbledore to let him
suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.
Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and
began shuffling around looking for parchment.
“Dung,” he muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon
bogies ... frog brains ... rat intestines ... I’ve had
enough of it ... make an example ... where’s the form
... yes ...”
He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk
drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping
his long black quill into the ink pot.
“ Name ... Harry Potter. Crime ...”
“It was only a bit of mud!” said Harry.
“It’s only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it’s an
extra hour scrubbing!” shouted Filch, a drip shivering
unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. “Crime
... befouling the castle ... suggested sentence ...”
Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted
unpleasantly at Harry, who waited with bated breath
for his sentence to fall.
But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great
BANG! on the ceiling of the office, which made the oil
lamp rattle.
“PEEVES!” Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a
transport of rage. “I’ll have you this time, I’ll have
you!”
 
And without a backward glance at Harry, Filch ran
flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking
alongside him.
Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne
menace who lived to cause havoc and distress. Harry
didn’t much like Peeves, but couldn’t help feeling
grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves
had done (and it sounded as though he’d wrecked
something very big this time) would distract Filch
from Harry.
Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to
come back, Harry sank into a moth-eaten chair next
to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart from
his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple
envelope with silver lettering on the front. With a
quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn’t on
his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read:
KWIKSPELL
A Correspondence Course in Beginners’ Magic
Intrigued, Harry flicked the envelope open and pulled
out the sheaf of parchment inside. More curly silver
writing on the front page said:
Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find
yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells?
Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork?
There is an answer!
Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-
learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have
benefited from the Kwikspell method!
Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes:
 
“I had no memory for incantations and my potions
were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am
the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the
recipe of my Scintillation Solution!”
Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says:
“My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one
month into your fabulous Kwikspell course and I
succeeded in turning her into a yak!
Thank you, Kwikspell!”
Fascinated, Harry thumbed through the rest of the
envelope’s contents. Why on earth did Filch want a
Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn’t a proper
wizard? Harry was just reading “Lesson One: Holding
Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)” when shuffling
footsteps outside told him Filch was coming back.
Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry
threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened.
Filch was looking triumphant.
“That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!” he
was saying gleefully to Mrs. Norris. “We’ll have Peeves
out this time, my sweet — ”
His eyes fell on Harry and then darted to the
Kwikspell envelope, which, Harry realized too late,
was lying two feet away from where it had started.
Filch ’s pasty face went brick red. Harry braced
himself for a tidal wave of fury. Filch hobbled across
to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it
into a drawer.
“Have you — did you read — ?” he sputtered.
 
“No,” Harry lied quickly.
Filch ’s knobbly hands were twisting together.
“If I thought you’d read my private — not that it’s
mine — for a friend — be that as it may — however —
Harry was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never
looked madder. His eyes were popping, a tic was
going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan
scarf didn’t help.
“Very well — go — and don’t breathe a word — not
that — however, if you didn’t read — go now, I have to
write up Peeves’ report — go — ”
Amazed at his luck, Harry sped out of the office, up
the corridor, and back upstairs. To escape from
Filch ’s office without punishment was probably some
kind of school record.
“Harry! Harry! Did it work?”
Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom.
Behind him, Harry could see the wreckage of a large
black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to have been
dropped from a great height.
“I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s
office,” said Nick eagerly. “Thought it might distract
him — ”
“Was that you?” said Harry gratefully. “Yeah, it
worked, I didn’t even get detention. Thanks, Nick!”
They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless
Nick, Harry noticed, was still holding Sir Patrick’s
rejection letter.
 
“I wish there was something I could do for you about
the Headless Hunt,” Harry said.
Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry
walked right through him. He wished he hadn’t; it
was like stepping through an icy shower.
“But there is something you could do for me,” said
Nick excitedly. “Harry — would I be asking too much
— but no, you wouldn’t want — ”
“What is it?” said Harry.
“Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth
deathday,” said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing
himself up and looking dignified.
“Oh,” said Harry, not sure whether he should look
sorry or happy about this. “Right.”
“I’m holding a party down in one of the roomier
dungeons. Friends will be coming from all over the
country. It would be such an honor if you would
attend. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most
welcome, too, of course — but I daresay you’d rather
go to the school feast?” He watched Harry on
tenterhooks.
“No,” said Harry quickly, “I’ll come — ”
“My dear boy! Harry Potter, at my deathday party!
And” — he hesitated, looking excited — “do you think
you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very
frightening and impressive you find me?”
“Of — of course,” said Harry.
Nearly Headless Nick beamed at him.
 
“A deathday party?” said Hermione keenly when
Harry had changed at last and joined her and Ron in
the common room. “I bet there aren’t many living
people who can say they’ve been to one of those — it’ll
be fascinating!”
“Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they
died?” said Ron, who was halfway through his Potions
homework and grumpy. “Sounds dead depressing to
me....”
Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now
inky black, but inside all looked bright and cheerful.
The firelight glowed over the countless squashy
armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing
homework or, in the case of Fred and George Weasley,
trying to find out what would happen if you fed a
Filibuster firework to a salamander. Fred had
“rescued” the brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard
from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was
now smoldering gently on a table surrounded by a
knot of curious people.
Harry was at the point of telling Ron and Hermione
about Filch and the Kwikspell course when the
salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting
loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the
room. The sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at
Fred and George, the spectacular display of tangerine
stars showering from the salamander’s mouth, and its
escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions,
drove both Filch and the Kwikspell envelope from
Harry’s mind.
By the time Halloween arrived, Harry was regretting
his rash promise to go to the deathday party. The rest
of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween
feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the
usual live bats, Hagrid’s vast pumpkins had been
 
carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit
in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had
booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the
entertainment.
“A promise is a promise,” Hermione reminded Harry
bossily. “You said you’d go to the deathday party.”
So at seven o’clock, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked
straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall,
which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and
candles, and directed their steps instead toward the
dungeons.
The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s
party had been lined with candles, too, though the
effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin,
jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a
dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The
temperature dropped with every step they took. As
Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around
him, he heard what sounded like a thousand
fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.
“Is that supposed to be music?” Ron whispered. They
turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick
standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.
“My dear friends,” he said mournfully. “Welcome,
welcome ... so pleased you could come. ...”
He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.
It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of
hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly
drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the
dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws,
played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped
platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue
 
with a thousand more black candles. Their breath
rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a
freezer.
“Shall we have a look around?” Harry suggested,
wanting to warm up his feet.
“Careful not to walk through anyone,” said Ron
nervously, and they set off around the edge of the
dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a
ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a
cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight
with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry
wasn’t surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a
gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver
bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the
other ghosts.
“Oh, no,” said Hermione, stopping abruptly. “Turn
back, turn back, I don’t want to talk to Moaning
Myrtle — ”
“Who?” said Harry as they backtracked quickly.
“She haunts one of the toilets in the girls’ bathroom
on the first floor,” said Hermione.
“She haunts a toilet ?”
“Yes. It’s been out-of-order all year because she keeps
having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went
in there anyway if I could avoid it; it’s awful trying to
have a pee with her wailing at you — ”
“Look, food!” said Ron.
On the other side of the dungeon was a long table,
also covered in black velvet. They approached it
eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks,
 
horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large,
rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters;
cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on
salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of
cheese covered in furry green mold and, in pride of
place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a
tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,
SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON
DIED 3 1 ST OCTOBER, 1 492
Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached
the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his
mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the
stinking salmon.
“Can you taste it if you walk through it?” Harry asked
him.
“Almost,” said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.
“I expect they’ve let it rot to give it a stronger flavor,”
said Hermione knowledgeably, pinching her nose and
leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.
“Can we move? I feel sick,” said Ron.
They had barely turned around, however, when a
little man swooped suddenly from under the table and
came to a halt in midair before them.
“Hello, Peeves,” said Harry cautiously.
Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist
was the very reverse of pale and transparent. He was
wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie,
and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.
 
“Nibbles?” he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of
peanuts covered in fungus.
“No thanks,” said Hermione.
“Heard you talking about poor Myrtle,” said Peeves,
his eyes dancing. “Rude you was about poor Myrtle.”
He took a deep breath and bellowed, “OY! MYRTLE!”
“Oh, no, Peeves, don’t tell her what I said, she’ll be
really upset,” Hermione whispered frantically. “I didn’t
mean it, I don’t mind her — er, hello, Myrtle.”
The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the
glummest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden
behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.
“What?” she said sulkily.
“How are you, Myrtle?” said Hermione in a falsely
bright voice. “It’s nice to see you out of the toilet.”
Myrtle sniffed.
“Miss Granger was just talking about you — ” said
Peeves slyly in Myrtle’s ear.
“Just saying — saying — how nice you look tonight,”
said Hermione, glaring at Peeves.
Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously.
“You’re making fun of me,” she said, silver tears
welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes.
“No — honestly — didn’t I just say how nice Myrtle’s
looking?” said Hermione, nudging Harry and Ron
painfully in the ribs.
 
“Oh, yeah — ”
“She did — ”
“Don’t lie to me,” Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding
down her face, while Peeves chuckled happily over her
shoulder. “D’you think I don’t know what people call
me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle!
Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!”
“You’ve forgotten pimply,” Peeves hissed in her ear.
Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled
from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her
with moldy peanuts, yelling, “Pimply\ Pimplyl”
“Oh, dear,” said Hermione sadly.
Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them
through the crowd.
“Enjoying yourselves?”
“Oh, yes,” they lied.
“Not a bad turnout,” said Nearly Headless Nick
proudly. “The Wailing Widow came all the way up
from Kent. ... It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d better
go and warn the orchestra. ...”
The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very
moment. They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell
silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting
horn sounded.
“Oh, here we go,” said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly.
Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost
horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The
 
assembly clapped wildly; Harry started to clap, too,
but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick’s face.
The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor
and halted, rearing and plunging. At the front of the
pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head
under his arm, from which position he was blowing
the horn. The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high
in the air so he could see over the crowd (everyone
laughed), and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick,
squashing his head back onto his neck.
“Nick!” he roared. “How are you? Head still hanging in
there?”
He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless
Nick on the shoulder.
“Welcome, Patrick,” said Nick stiffly.
“Live ’uns!” said Sir Patrick, spotting Harry, Ron, and
Hermione and giving a huge, fake jump of
astonishment, so that his head fell off again (the
crowd howled with laughter).
“Very amusing,” said Nearly Headless Nick darkly.
“Don’t mind Nick!” shouted Sir Patrick’s head from
the floor. “Still upset we won’t let him join the Hunt!
But I mean to say — look at the fellow — ”
“I think,” said Harry hurriedly, at a meaningful look
from Nick, “Nick’s very — frightening and — er — ”
“Ha!” yelled Sir Patrick’s head. “Bet he asked you to
say that!”
“If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my
speech!” said Nearly Headless Nick loudly, striding
 
toward the podium and climbing into an icy blue
spotlight.
“My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is
my great sorrow ...”
But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the
rest of the Headless Hunt had just started a game of
Head Hockey and the crowd were turning to watch.
Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his
audience, but gave up as Sir Patrick’s head went
sailing past him to loud cheers.
Harry was very cold by now, not to mention hungry.
“I can’t stand much more of this,” Ron muttered, his
teeth chattering, as the orchestra ground back into
action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance
floor.
“Let’s go,” Harry agreed.
They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming
at anyone who looked at them, and a minute later
were hurrying back up the passageway full of black
candles.
“Pudding might not be finished yet,” said Ron
hopefully, leading the way toward the steps to the
entrance hall.
And then Harry heard it.
"... rip ... tear ... kill ...”
It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous
voice he had heard in Lockhart’s office.
 
He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall,
listening with all his might, looking around, squinting
up and down the dimly lit passageway.
“Harry, what’re you — ?”
“It’s that voice again — shut up a minute — ”
soo hungry ... for so long ...”
“Listen!” said Harry urgently, and Ron and Hermione
froze, watching him.
“... kill ... time to kill ...”
The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was
moving away — moving upward. A mixture of fear and
excitement gripped him as he stared at the dark
ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a
phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn’t matter?
“This way,” he shouted, and he began to run, up the
stairs, into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to
hear anything here, the babble of talk from the
Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall.
Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first
floor, Ron and Hermione clattering behind him.
“Harry, what’re we — ”
“SHH!”
Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor
above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice:
“...I smell blood. ...I SMELL BLOOD\”
His stomach lurched —
 
“It’s going to kill someone!” he shouted, and ignoring
Ron’s and Hermione’s bewildered faces, he ran up the
next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen
over his own pounding footsteps —
Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor,
Ron and Hermione panting behind him, not stopping
until they turned a corner into the last, deserted
passage.
“Harry, what was that all about?” said Ron, wiping
sweat off his face. “I couldn’t hear anything. ...”
But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the
corridor.
“Loo/c!”
Something was shining on the wall ahead. They
approached slowly, squinting through the darkness.
Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall
between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by
the flaming torches.
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
“What’s that thing — hanging underneath?” said Ron,
a slight quiver in his voice.
As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped — there
was a large puddle of water on the floor; Ron and
Hermione grabbed him, and they inched toward the
message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All
three of them realized what it was at once, and leapt
backward with a splash.
 
Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by her
tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board,
her eyes wide and staring.
For a few seconds, they didn’t move. Then Ron said,
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Shouldn’t we try and help — ” Harry began
awkwardly.
“Trust me,” said Ron. “We don’t want to be found
here.”
But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant
thunder, told them that the feast had just ended.
From either end of the corridor where they stood
came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the
stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people;
next moment, students were crashing into the
passage from both ends.
The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as
the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Harry,
Ron, and Hermione stood alone, in the middle of the
corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students
pressing forward to see the grisly sight.
Then someone shouted through the quiet.
“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next,
Mudbloods!”
It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of
the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless
face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the
hanging, immobile cat.
 
9
THE WRITING ON THE WALL
“What’s going on here? What’s going on?”
Attracted no doubt by Malfoy’s shout, Argus Filch
came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then
he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in
horror.
“My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs. Norris?” he
shrieked.
And his popping eyes fell on Harry.
“You!” he screeched. “You! You’ve murdered my cat!
You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll — ”
“Argus'.”
Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a
number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept
past Harry, Ron, and Hermione and detached Mrs.
Norris from the torch bracket.
 
“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “You, too,
Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.”
Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.
“My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs —
please feel free — ”
“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore.
The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart,
looking excited and important, hurried after
Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and
Snape.
As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was
a flurry of movement across the walls; Harry saw
several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of
sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the
candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid
Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to
examine her. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged
tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of
candlelight, watching.
The tip of Dumbledore ’s long, crooked nose was
barely an inch from Mrs. Norris’s fur. He was looking
at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his
long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor
McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes
narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in
shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was
as though he was trying hard not to smile. And
Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making
suggestions.
“It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably
the Trans-mogrifian Torture — I’ve seen it used many
 
times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very
countercurse that would have saved her. ...”
Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch ’s dry,
racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk,
unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands.
Much as he detested Filch, Harry couldn’t help feeling
a bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry as he
felt for himself. If Dumbledore believed Filch, he
would be expelled for sure.
Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under
his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but
nothing happened: She continued to look as though
she had been recently stuffed.
"... I remember something very similar happening in
Ouagadougou,” said Lockhart, “a series of attacks,
the full story’s in my autobiography, I was able to
provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which
cleared the matter up at once. ...”
The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all
nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had
forgotten to remove his hair net.
At last Dumbledore straightened up.
“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly.
Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting
the number of murders he had prevented.
“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers
at Mrs. Norris. “But why’s she all — all stiff and
frozen?”
 
“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I
thought so!” said Lockhart). “But how, I cannot say.
“Ask him\” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and
tearstained face to Harry.
“No second year could have done this,” said
Dumbledore firmly. “It would take Dark Magic of the
most advanced — ”
“He did it, he did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face
purpling. “You saw what he wrote on the wall! He
found — in my office — he knows I’m a — I’m a — ”
Filch ’s face worked horribly. “He knows I’m a Squib!”
he finished.
“I never touched Mrs. Norris!” Harry said loudly,
uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at him,
including all the Lockharts on the walls. “And I don’t
even know what a Squib is.”
“Rubbish!” snarled Filch. “He saw my Kwikspell
letter!”
“If I might speak, Headmaster,” said Snape from the
shadows, and Harry’s sense of foreboding increased;
he was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to
do him any good.
“Potter and his friends may have simply been in the
wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, a slight sneer
curling his mouth as though he doubted it. “But we
do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why
was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn’t he
at the Halloween feast?”
 
Harry, Ron and Hermione all launched into an
explanation about the deathday party. "... there were
hundreds of ghosts, they’ll tell you we were there — ”
“But why not join the feast afterward?” said Snape,
his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Why go
up to that corridor?”
Ron and Hermione looked at Harry.
“Because — because — ” Harry said, his heart
thumping very fast; something told him it would
sound very far-fetched if he told them he had been led
there by a bodiless voice no one but he could hear,
“because we were tired and wanted to go to bed,” he
said.
“Without any supper?” said Snape, a triumphant
smile flickering across his gaunt face. “I didn’t think
ghosts provided food fit for living people at their
parties.”
“We weren’t hungry,” said Ron loudly as his stomach
gave a huge rumble.
Snape’s nasty smile widened.
“I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being
entirely truthful,” he said. “It might be a good idea if
he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready
to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should
be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is
ready to be honest.”
“Really, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall sharply,
“I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch.
This cat wasn’t hit over the head with a broomstick.
There is no evidence at all that Potter has done
anything wrong.”
 
Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His
twinkling light-blue gaze made Harry feel as though
he were being X-rayed.
“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus,” he said
firmly.
Snape looked furious. So did Filch.
“My cat has been Petrified!” he shrieked, his eyes
popping. “I want to see some punishmenti”
“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore
patiently. “Professer Sprout recently managed to
procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have
reached their full size, I will have a potion made that
will revive Mrs. Norris.”
“I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it
a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake
Restorative Draught in my sleep — ”
“Excuse me,” said Snape icily. “But I believe I am the
Potions master at this school.”
There was a very awkward pause.
“You may go,” Dumbledore said to Harry, Ron, and
Hermione.
They went, as quickly as they could without actually
running. When they were a floor up from Lockhart’s
office, they turned into an empty classroom and
closed the door quietly behind them. Harry squinted
at his friends’ darkened faces.
“D’you think I should have told them about that voice
I heard?”
 
“No,” said Ron, without hesitation. “Hearing voices no
one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the
wizarding world.”
Something in Ron’s voice made Harry ask, “You do
believe me, don’t you?”
“ ’Course I do,” said Ron quickly. “But — you must
admit it’s weird. ...”
“I know it’s weird,” said Harry. “The whole thing’s
weird. What was that writing on the wall about? The
Chamber Has Been Opened’. ... What’s that supposed
to mean?”
“You know, it rings a sort of bell,” said Ron slowly. “I
think someone told me a story about a secret
chamber at Hogwarts once ... might’ve been Bill. ...”
“And what on earth’s a Squib?” said Harry.
To his surprise, Ron stifled a snigger.
“Well — it’s not funny really — but as it’s Filch,” he
said. “A Squib is someone who was born into a
wizarding family but hasn’t got any magic powers.
Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards, but
Squibs are quite unusual. If Filch ’s trying to learn
magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon he must be a
Squib. It would explain a lot. Like why he hates
students so much.” Ron gave a satisfied smile. “He’s
bitter.”
A clock chimed somewhere.
“Midnight,” said Harry. “We’d better get to bed before
Snape comes along and tries to frame us for
something else.”
 
For a few days, the school could talk of little else but
the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in
everyone’s minds by pacing the spot where she had
been attacked, as though he thought the attacker
might come back. Harry had seen him scrubbing the
message on the wall with Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose
Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words
still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When
Filch wasn’t guarding the scene of the crime, he was
skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out
at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in
detention for things like “breathing loudly” and
“looking happy.”
Ginny Weasley seemed very disturbed by Mrs.
Norris’s fate. According to Ron, she was a great cat
lover.
“But you haven’t really got to know Mrs. Norris,” Ron
told her bracingly. “Honestly, we’re much better off
without her.” Ginny ’s lip trembled. “Stuff like this
doesn’t often happen at Hogwarts,” Ron assured her.
“They’ll catch the maniac who did it and have him out
of here in no time. I just hope he’s got time to Petrify
Filch before he’s expelled. I’m only joking — ” Ron
added hastily as Ginny blanched.
The attack had also had an effect on Hermione. It was
quite usual for Hermione to spend a lot of time
reading, but she was now doing almost nothing else.
Nor could Harry and Ron get much response from her
when they asked what she was up to, and not until
the following Wednesday did they find out.
Harry had been held back in Potions, where Snape
had made him stay behind to scrape tubeworms off
 
the desks. After a hurried lunch, he went upstairs to
meet Ron in the library, and saw Justin Finch-
Fletchley, the Hufflepuff boy from Herbology, coming
toward him. Harry had just opened his mouth to say
hello when Justin caught sight of him, turned
abruptly, and sped off in the opposite direction.
Harry found Ron at the back of the library, measuring
his History of Magic homework. Professor Binns had
asked for a three-foot-long composition on “The
Medieval Assembly of European Wizards.”
“I don’t believe it, I’m still eight inches short. ...” said
Ron furiously, letting go of his parchment, which
sprang back into a roll. “And Hermione’s done four
feet seven inches and her writing’s tiny.”
“Where is she?” asked Harry, grabbing the tape
measure and unrolling his own homework.
“Somewhere over there,” said Ron, pointing along the
shelves. “Looking for another book. I think she’s
trying to read the whole library before Christmas.”
Harry told Ron about Justin Finch-Fletchley running
away from him.
“Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of an
idiot,” said Ron, scribbling away, making his writing
as large as possible. “All that junk about Lockhart
being so great — ”
Hermione emerged from between the bookshelves.
She looked irritable and at last seemed ready to talk
to them.
“All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken
out,” she said, sitting down next to Harry and Ron.
“And there’s a two-week waiting list. I wish I hadn’t
 
left my copy at home, but I couldn’t fit it in my trunk
with all the Lockhart books.”
“Why do you want it?” said Harry.
“The same reason everyone else wants it,” said
Hermione, “to read up on the legend of the Chamber
of Secrets.”
“What’s that?” said Harry quickly.
“That’s just it. I can’t remember,” said Hermione,
biting her lip. “And I can’t find the story anywhere
else — ”
“Hermione, let me read your composition,” said Ron
desperately, checking his watch.
“No, I won’t,” said Hermione, suddenly severe. “You’ve
had ten days to finish it — ”
“I only need another two inches, come on — ”
The bell rang. Ron and Hermione led the way to
History of Magic, bickering.
History of Magic was the dullest subject on their
schedule. Professor Binns, who taught it, was their
only ghost teacher, and the most exciting thing that
ever happened in his classes was his entering the
room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled,
many people said he hadn’t noticed he was dead. He
had simply got up to teach one day and left his body
behind him in an armchair in front of the staffroom
fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since.
Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened
his notes and began to read in a flat drone like an old
vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the class was
 
in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to long enough
to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep
again. He had been speaking for half an hour when
something happened that had never happened before.
Hermione put up her hand.
Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly
dull lecture on the International Warlock Convention
of 1289, looked amazed.
“Miss — er — ?”
“Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell
us anything about the Chamber of Secrets,” said
Hermione in a clear voice.
Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth
hanging open, gazing out of the window, jerked out of
his trance; Lavender Brown’s head came up off her
arms and Neville Longbottom’s elbow slipped off his
desk.
Professor Binns blinked.
“My subject is History of Magic,” he said in his dry,
wheezy voice. “I deal with, facts, Miss Granger, not
myths and legends.” He cleared his throat with a
small noise like chalk snapping and continued, “In
September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian
sorcerers — ”
He stuttered to a halt. Hermione’s hand was waving
in the air again.
“Miss Grant?”
“Please, sir, don’t legends always have a basis in
fact?”
 
Professor Binns was looking at her in such
amazement, Harry was sure no student had ever
interrupted him before, alive or dead.
“Well,” said Professor Binns slowly, “yes, one could
argue that, I suppose.” He peered at Hermione as
though he had never seen a student properly before.
“However, the legend of which you speak is such a
very sensational, even ludicrous tale — ”
But the whole class was now hanging on Professor
Binns ’s every word. He looked dimly at them all, every
face turned to his. Harry could tell he was completely
thrown by such an unusual show of interest.
“Oh, very well,” he said slowly. “Let me see ... the
Chamber of Secrets . . .
“You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded
over a thousand years ago — the precise date is
uncertain — by the four greatest witches and wizards
of the age. The four school Houses are named after
them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena
Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built this
castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was
an age when magic was feared by common people,
and witches and wizards suffered much persecution.”
He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and
continued.
“For a few years, the founders worked in harmony
together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of
magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated.
But then disagreements sprang up between them. A
rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others.
Slytherin wished to be more selective about the
students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that
magical learning should be kept within all-magic
 
families. He disliked taking students of Muggle
parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After
a while, there was a serious argument on the subject
between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left
the school.”
Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips,
looking like a wrinkled old tortoise.
“Reliable historical sources tell us this much,” he
said. “But these honest facts have been obscured by
the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The
story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber
in the castle, of which the other founders knew
nothing.
“Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the
Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to
open it until his own true heir arrived at the school.
The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber
of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to
purge the school of all who were unworthy to study
magic.”
There was silence as he finished telling the story, but
it wasn’t the usual, sleepy silence that filled Professor
Binns ’s classes. There was unease in the air as
everyone continued to watch him, hoping for more.
Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed.
“The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course,” he
said. “Naturally, the school has been searched for
evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the most
learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale
told to frighten the gullible.”
Hermione’s hand was back in the air.
 
“Sir — what exactly do you mean by the ‘horror
within’ the Chamber?”
“That is believed to be some sort of monster, which
the Heir of Slytherin alone can control,” said Professor
Binns in his dry, reedy voice.
The class exchanged nervous looks.
“I tell you, the thing does not exist,” said Professor
Binns, shuffling his notes. “There is no Chamber and
no monster.”
“But, sir,” said Seamus Finnigan, “if the Chamber can
only be opened by Slytherin’s true heir, no one else
would be able to find it, would they?”
“Nonsense, O’Flaherty,” said Professor Binns in an
aggravated tone. “If a long succession of Hogwarts
headmasters and headmistresses haven’t found the
thing — ”
“But, Professor,” piped up Parvati Patil, “you’d
probably have to use Dark Magic to open it — ”
“Just because a wizard doesn’t use Dark Magic
doesn’t mean he can’t, Miss Pennyfeather,” snapped
Professor Binns. “I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore
“But maybe you’ve got to be related to Slytherin, so
Dumbledore couldn’t — ” began Dean Thomas, but
Professor Binns had had enough.
“That will do,” he said sharply. “It is a myth! It does
not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that
Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom
cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We
 
will return, if you please, to history, to solid,
believable, verifiable facti”
And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into
its usual torpor.
“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old
loony,” Ron told Harry and Hermione as they fought
their way through the teeming corridors at the end of
the lesson to drop off their bags before dinner. “But I
never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. I
wouldn’t be in his House if you paid me. Honestly, if
the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve
got the train straight back home. ...”
Hermione nodded fervently, but Harry didn’t say
anything. His stomach had just dropped
unpleasantly.
Harry had never told Ron and Hermione that the
Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting him in
Slytherin. He could remember, as though it were
yesterday, the small voice that had spoken in his ear
when he’d placed the hat on his head a year before:
You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your
head, and Slytherin would help you on the way to
greatness, no doubt about that. . . .
But Harry, who had already heard of Slytherin
House’s reputation for turning out Dark wizards, had
thought desperately, Not Slytherin ! and the hat had
said, Oh, well, if you’re sure ... better be Gryffindor. ...
As they were shunted along in the throng, Colin
Creevey went past.
“Hiya, Harry!”
“Hullo, Colin,” said Harry automatically.
 
“Harry — Harry — a boy in my class has been saying
you’re — ”
But Colin was so small he couldn’t fight against the
tide of people bearing him toward the Great Hall; they
heard him squeak, “See you, Harry!” and he was
gone.
“What’s a boy in his class saying about you?”
Hermione wondered.
“That I’m Slytherin’s heir, I expect,” said Harry, his
stomach dropping another inch or so as he suddenly
remembered the way Justin Finch-Fletchley had run
away from him at lunchtime.
“People here’ll believe anything,” said Ron in disgust.
The crowd thinned and they were able to climb the
next staircase without difficulty.
“D’you really think there’s a Chamber of Secrets?”
Ron asked Hermione.
“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “Dumbledore
couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think
that whatever attacked her might not be — well —
human.”
As she spoke, they turned a corner and found
themselves at the end of the very corridor where the
attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The
scene was just as it had been that night, except that
there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket,
and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the
message “The Chamber of Secrets Has Been Opened.”
“That’s where Filch has been keeping guard,” Ron
muttered.
 
They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted.
“Can’t hurt to have a poke around,” said Harry,
dropping his bag and getting to his hands and knees
so that he could crawl along, searching for clues.
“Scorch marks!” he said. “Here — and here — ”
“Come and look at this!” said Hermione. “This is
funny. ...”
Harry got up and crossed to the window next to the
message on the wall. Hermione was pointing at the
topmost pane, where around twenty spiders were
scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small
crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope,
as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get
outside.
“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” said
Hermione wonderingly.
“No,” said Harry, “have you, Ron? Ron?”
He looked over his shoulder. Ron was standing well
back and seemed to be fighting the impulse to run.
“What’s up?” said Harry.
“I — don’t — like — spiders,” said Ron tensely.
“I never knew that,” said Hermione, looking at Ron in
surprise. “You’ve used spiders in Potions loads of
times. ...”
“I don’t mind them dead,” said Ron, who was carefully
looking anywhere but at the window. “I just don’t like
the way they move. ...”
 
Hermione giggled.
“It’s not funny,” said Ron, fiercely. “If you must know,
when I was three, Fred turned my — my teddy bear
into a great big filthy spider because I broke his toy
broomstick. ... You wouldn’t like them either if you’d
been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many
legs and ...”
He broke off, shuddering. Hermione was obviously
still trying not to laugh. Feeling they had better get off
the subject, Harry said, “Remember all that water on
the floor? Where did that come from? Someone’s
mopped it up.”
“It was about here,” said Ron, recovering himself to
walk a few paces past Filch’s chair and pointing.
“Level with this door.”
He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly
withdrew his hand as though he’d been burned.
“What’s the matter?” said Harry.
“Can’t go in there,” said Ron gruffly. “That’s a girls’
toilet.”
“Oh, Ron, there won’t be anyone in there,” said
Hermione, standing up and coming over. “That’s
Moaning Myrtle’s place. Come on, let’s have a look.”
And ignoring the large OUT OF ORDER sign, she
opened the door.
It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry
had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and
spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor
was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the
stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders;
 
the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and
scratched and one of them was dangling off its
hinges.
Hermione put her fingers to her lips and set off
toward the end stall. When she reached it she said,
“Hello, Myrtle, how are you?”
Harry and Ron went to look. Moaning Myrtle was
floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on
her chin.
“This is a girls’ bathroom,” she said, eyeing Ron and
Harry suspiciously. “They’re not girls.”
“No,” Hermione agreed. “I just wanted to show them
how — er — nice it is in here.”
She waved vaguely at the dirty old mirror and the
damp floor.
“Ask her if she saw anything,” Harry mouthed at
Hermione.
“What are you whispering?” said Myrtle, staring at
him.
“Nothing,” said Harry quickly. “We wanted to ask — ”
“I wish people would stop talking behind my back!”
said Myrtle, in a voice choked with tears. “I do have
feelings, you know, even if I am dead — ”
“Myrtle, no one wants to upset you,” said Hermione.
“Harry only — ”
“No one wants to upset me! That’s a good one!”
howled Myrtle. “My life was nothing but misery at this
place and now people come along ruining my death!”
 
“We wanted to ask you if you’ve seen anything funny
lately,” said Hermione quickly. “Because a cat was
attacked right outside your front door on Halloween.”
“Did you see anyone near here that night?” said
Harry.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” said Myrtle dramatically.
“Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to
kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I’m —
that I’m — ”
“Already dead,” said Ron helpfully.
Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned
over, and dived headfirst into the toilet, splashing
water all over them and vanishing from sight,
although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she
had come to rest somewhere in the U-bend.
Harry and Ron stood with their mouths open, but
Hermione shrugged wearily and said, “Honestly, that
was almost cheerful for Myrtle. ... Come on, let’s go.”
Harry had barely closed the door on Myrtle’s gurgling
sobs when a loud voice made all three of them jump.
“RON!”
Percy Weasley had stopped dead at the head of the
stairs, prefect badge agleam, an expression of
complete shock on his face.
“That’s a girls’ bathroom!” he gasped. “What were you
— ?”
“Just having a look around,” Ron shrugged. “Clues,
you know — ”
 
Percy swelled in a manner that reminded Harry
forcefully of Mrs. Weasley.
“Get — away — from — there — ” Percy said, striding
toward them and starting to bustle them along,
flapping his arms. “Don’t you care what this looks
like? Coming back here while everyone’s at dinner — ”
“Why shouldn’t we be here?” said Ron hotly, stopping
short and glaring at Percy. “Listen, we never laid a
finger on that cat!”
“That’s what I told Ginny,” said Percy fiercely, “but
she still seems to think you’re going to be expelled,
I’ve never seen her so upset, crying her eyes out, you
might think of her, all the first years are thoroughly
overexcited by this business — ”
“ You don’t care about Ginny,” said Ron, whose ears
were now reddening. “You’re just worried I’m going to
mess up your chances of being Head Boy — ”
“Five points from Gryffindor!” Percy said tersely,
fingering his prefect badge. “And I hope it teaches you
a lesson! No more detective work, or I’ll write to
Mum!”
And he strode off, the back of his neck as red as
Ron’s ears.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose seats as far as
possible from Percy in the common room that night.
Ron was still in a very bad temper and kept blotting
his Charms homework. When he reached absently for
his wand to remove the smudges, it ignited the
parchment. Fuming almost as much as his
homework, Ron slammed The Standard Book of
 
Spells, Grade 2 shut. To Harry’s surprise, Hermione
followed suit.
“Who can it be, though?” she said in a quiet voice, as
though continuing a conversation they had just been
having. “Who’d want to frighten all the Squibs and
Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?”
“Let’s think,” said Ron in mock puzzlement. “Who do
we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?”
He looked at Hermione. Hermione looked back,
unconvinced.
“If you’re talking about Malfoy — ”
“Of course I am!” said Ron. “You heard him — ‘You’ll
be next, MudbloodsV — come on, you’ve only got to
look at his foul rat face to know it’s him — ”
“Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?” said Hermione
skeptically.
“Look at his family,” said Harry, closing his books,
too. “The whole lot of them have been in Slytherin;
he’s always boasting about it. They could easily be
Slytherin’s descendants. His father’s definitely evil
enough.”
“They could’ve had the key to the Chamber of Secrets
for centuries!” said Ron. “Handing it down, father to
son. ...”
“Well,” said Hermione cautiously, “I suppose it’s
possible. ...”
“But how do we prove it?” said Harry darkly.
 
“There might be a way,” said Hermione slowly,
dropping her voice still further with a quick glance
across the room at Percy. “Of course, it would be
difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We’d be
breaking about fifty school rules, I expect — ”
“If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will
let us know, won’t you?” said Ron irritably.
“All right,” said Hermione coldly. “What we’d need to
do is to get inside the Slytherin common room and
ask Malfoy a few questions without him realizing it’s
us.”
“But that’s impossible,” Harry said as Ron laughed.
“No, it’s not,” said Hermione. “All we’d need would be
some Polyjuice Potion.”
“What’s that?” said Ron and Harry together.
“Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago — ”
“D’you think we’ve got nothing better to do in Potions
than listen to Snape?” muttered Ron.
“It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it!
We could change into three of the Slytherins. No one
would know it was us. Malfoy would probably tell us
anything. He’s probably boasting about it in the
Slytherin common room right now, if only we could
hear him.”
“This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me,” said
Ron, frowning. “What if we were stuck looking like
three of the Slytherins forever?”
“It wears off after a while,” said Hermione, waving her
hand impatiently. “But getting hold of the recipe will
 
be very difficult. Snape said it was in a book called
Moste Potente Potions and it’s bound to be in the
Restricted Section of the library.”
There was only one way to get out a book from the
Restricted Section: You needed a signed note of
permission from a teacher.
“Hard to see why we’d want the book, really,” said
Ron, “if we weren’t going to try and make one of the
potions.”
“I think,” said Hermione, “that if we made it sound as
though we were just interested in the theory, we
might stand a chance. ...”
“Oh, come on, no teacher’s going to fall for that,” said
Ron. “They’d have to be really thick. ...”
 
10
THE ROGUE BLUDGER
Since the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor
Lockhart had not brought live creatures to class.
Instead, he read passages from his books to them,
and sometimes reenacted some of the more dramatic
bits. He usually picked Harry to help him with these
reconstructions; so far, Harry had been forced to play
a simple Transylvanian villager whom Lockhart had
cured of a Babbling Curse, a yeti with a head cold,
and a vampire who had been unable to eat anything
except lettuce since Lockhart had dealt with him.
Harry was hauled to the front of the class during their
very next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, this
time acting a werewolf. If he hadn’t had a very good
reason for keeping Lockhart in a good mood, he would
have refused to do it.
“Nice loud howl, Harry — exactly — and then, if you’ll
believe it, I pounced — like this — slammed him to
the floor — thus — with one hand, I managed to hold
him down — with my other, I put my wand to his
throat — I then screwed up my remaining strength
 
and performed the immensely complex Homorphus
Charm — he let out a piteous moan — go on, Harry —
higher than that — good — the fur vanished — the
fangs shrank — and he turned back into a man.
Simple, yet effective — and another village will
remember me forever as the hero who delivered them
from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks.”
The bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet.
“Homework — compose a poem about my defeat of
the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical
Me to the author of the best one!”
The class began to leave. Harry returned to the back
of the room, where Ron and Hermione were waiting.
“Ready?” Harry muttered.
“Wait till everyone’s gone,” said Hermione nervously.
“All right ...”
She approached Lockhart’s desk, a piece of paper
clutched tightly in her hand, Harry and Ron right
behind her.
“Er — Professor Lockhart?” Hermione stammered. “I
wanted to — to get this book out of the library. Just
for background reading.” She held out the piece of
paper, her hand shaking slightly. “But the thing is,
it’s in the Restricted Section of the library, so I need a
teacher to sign for it — I’m sure it would help me
understand what you say in Gadding with Ghouls
about slow-acting venoms — ”
“Ah, Gadding with GhoulsV’ said Lockhart, taking the
note from Hermione and smiling widely at her.
“Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?”
 
“Oh, yes,” said Hermione eagerly. “So clever, the way
you trapped that last one with the tea-strainer — ”
“Well, I’m sure no one will mind me giving the best
student of the year a little extra help,” said Lockhart
warmly, and he pulled out an enormous peacock
quill. “Yes, nice, isn’t it?” he said, misreading the
revolted look on Ron’s face. “I usually save it for book
signings.”
He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note
and handed it back to Hermione.
“So, Harry,” said Lockhart, while Hermione folded the
note with fumbling fingers and slipped it into her bag.
“Tomorrow’s the first Quidditch match of the season, I
believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is it not? I hear
you’re a useful player. I was a Seeker, too. I was
asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to
dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces.
Still, if ever you feel the need for a little private
training, don’t hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass
on my expertise to less able players. ...”
Harry made an indistinct noise in his throat and then
hurried off after Ron and Hermione.
“I don’t believe it,” he said as the three of them
examined the signature on the note. “He didn’t even
look at the book we wanted.”
“That’s because he’s a brainless git,” said Ron. “But
who cares, we’ve got what we needed — ”
“He is not a brainless git,” said Hermione shrilly as
they half ran toward the library.
“Just because he said you were the best student of
the year — ”
 
They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled
stillness of the library. Madam Pince, the librarian,
was a thin, irritable woman who looked like an
underfed vulture.
“Moste Potente Potions?” she repeated suspiciously,
trying to take the note from Hermione; but Hermione
wouldn’t let go.
“I was wondering if I could keep it,” she said
breathlessly.
“Oh, come on,” said Ron, wrenching it from her grasp
and thrusting it at Madam Pince. “We’ll get you
another autograph. Lockhart ’ll sign anything if it
stands still long enough.”
Madam Pince held the note up to the light, as though
determined to detect a forgery, but it passed the test.
She stalked away between the lofty shelves and
returned several minutes later carrying a large and
moldy-looking book. Hermione put it carefully into
her bag and they left, trying not to walk too quickly or
look too guilty.
Five minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning
Myrtle’s out-of-order bathroom once again. Hermione
had overridden Ron’s objections by pointing out that
it was the last place anyone in their right minds
would go, so they were guaranteed some privacy.
Moaning Myrtle was crying noisily in her stall, but
they were ignoring her, and she them.
Hermione opened Moste Potente Potions carefully, and
the three of them bent over the damp-spotted pages.
It was clear from a glance why it belonged in the
Restricted Section. Some of the potions had effects
almost too gruesome to think about, and there were
some very unpleasant illustrations, which included a
 
man who seemed to have been turned inside out and
a witch sprouting several extra pairs of arms out of
her head.
“Here it is,” said Hermione excitedly as she found the
page headed The Polyjuice Potion. It was decorated
with drawings of people halfway through transforming
into other people. Harry sincerely hoped the artist
had imagined the looks of intense pain on their faces.
“This is the most complicated potion I’ve ever seen,”
said Hermione as they scanned the recipe. “Lacewing
flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass,” she
murmured, running her finger down the list of
ingredients. “Well, they’re easy enough, they’re in the
student store-cupboard, we can help ourselves. ...
Oooh, look, powdered horn of a bicorn — don’t know
where we’re going to get that — shredded skin of a
boomslang — thatll be tricky, too — and of course a
bit of whoever we want to change into.”
“Excuse me?” said Ron sharply. “What d’you mean, a
bit of whoever we’re changing into? I’m drinking
nothing with Crabbe’s toenails in it — ”
Hermione continued as though she hadn’t heard him.
“We don’t have to worry about that yet, though,
because we add those bits last. ...”
Ron turned, speechless, to Harry, who had another
worry.
“D’you realize how much we’re going to have to steal,
Hermione? Shredded skin of a boomslang, that’s
definitely not in the students’ cupboard. What’re we
going to do, break into Snape’s private stores? I don’t
know if this is a good idea. ...”
 
Hermione shut the book with a snap.
“Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine,” she
said. There were bright pink patches on her cheeks
and her eyes were brighter than usual. “ I don’t want
to break rules, you know. / think threatening Muggle-
borns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion.
But if you don’t want to find out if it’s Malfoy, I’ll go
straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back
in — ”
“I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be
persuading us to break rules,” said Ron. “All right,
we’ll do it. But not toenails, okay?”
“How long will it take to make, anyway?” said Harry
as Hermione, looking happier, opened the book again.
“Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the
full moon and the lacewings have got to be stewed for
twenty-one days ... I’d say it’d be ready in about a
month, if we can get all the ingredients.”
“A month?” said Ron. “Malfoy could have attacked
half the Muggle-borns in the school by then!” But
Hermione ’s eyes narrowed dangerously again, and he
added swiftly, “But it’s the best plan we’ve got, so full
steam ahead, I say.”
However, while Hermione was checking that the coast
was clear for them to leave the bathroom, Ron
muttered to Harry, “It’ll be a lot less hassle if you can
just knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow.”
Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a
while thinking about the coming Quidditch match. He
was nervous, mainly at the thought of what Wood
would say if Gryffindor lost, but also at the idea of
facing a team mounted on the fastest racing brooms
 
gold could buy. He had never wanted to beat
Slytherin so badly. After half an hour of lying there
with his insides churning, he got up, dressed, and
went down to breakfast early, where he found the rest
of the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, empty
table, all looking uptight and not speaking much.
As eleven o’clock approached, the whole school
started to make its way down to the Quidditch
stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of
thunder in the air. Ron and Hermione came hurrying
over to wish Harry good luck as he entered the locker
rooms. The team pulled on their scarlet Gryffindor
robes, then sat down to listen to Wood’s usual pre-
match pep talk.
“Slytherin has better brooms than us,” he began. “No
point denying it. But we’ve got better people on our
brooms. We’ve trained harder than they have, we’ve
been flying in all weathers — ” (“Too true,” muttered
George Weasley. “I haven’t been properly dry since
August”) “ — and we’re going to make them rue the
day they let that little bit of slime, Malfoy, buy his
way onto their team.”
Chest heaving with emotion, Wood turned to Harry.
“It’ll be down to you, Harry, to show them that a
Seeker has to have something more than a rich
father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying,
Harry, because we’ve got to win today, we’ve got to.”
“So no pressure, Harry,” said Fred, winking at him.
As they walked out onto the field, a roar of noise
greeted them; mainly cheers, because Ravenclaw and
Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten, but
the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and
hisses heard, too. Madam Hooch, the Quidditch
 
teacher, asked Flint and Wood to shake hands, which
they did, giving each other threatening stares and
gripping rather harder than was necessary.
“On my whistle,” said Madam Hooch. “Three ... two ...
one ...”
With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward,
the fourteen players rose toward the leaden sky.
Harry flew higher than any of them, squinting around
for the Snitch.
“All right there, Scarhead?” yelled Malfoy, shooting
underneath him as though to show off the speed of
his broom.
Harry had no time to reply. At that very moment, a
heavy black Bludger came pelting toward him; he
avoided it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his hair as
it passed.
“Close one, Harry!” said George, streaking past him
with his club in his hand, ready to knock the Bludger
back toward a Slytherin. Harry saw George give the
Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian
Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in midair
and shot straight for Harry again.
Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and George
managed to hit it hard toward Malfoy. Once again, the
Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Harry’s
head.
Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the
other end of the field. He could hear the Bludger
whistling along behind him. What was going on?
Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it
was their job to try and unseat as many people as
possible. ...
 
Fred Weasley was waiting for the Bludger at the other
end. Harry ducked as Fred swung at the Bludger with
all his might; the Bludger was knocked off course.
“Gotcha!” Fred yelled happily, but he was wrong; as
though it was magnetically attracted to Harry, the
Bludger pelted after him once more and Harry was
forced to fly off at full speed.
It had started to rain; Harry felt heavy drops fall onto
his face, splattering onto his glasses. He didn’t have a
clue what was going on in the rest of the game until
he heard Lee Jordan, who was commentating, say,
“Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero — ”
The Slytherins’ superior brooms were clearly doing
their jobs, and meanwhile the mad Bludger was doing
all it could to knock Harry out of the air. Fred and
George were now flying so close to him on either side
that Harry could see nothing at all except their flailing
arms and had no chance to look for the Snitch, let
alone catch it.
“Someone’s — tampered — with — this — Bludger — ”
Fred grunted, swinging his bat with all his might at it
as it launched a new attack on Harry.
“We need time out,” said George, trying to signal to
Wood and stop the Bludger breaking Harry’s nose at
the same time.
Wood had obviously got the message. Madam Hooch’s
whistle rang out and Harry, Fred, and George dived
for the ground, still trying to avoid the mad Bludger.
“What’s going on?” said Wood as the Gryffindor team
huddled together, while Slytherins in the crowd
jeered. “We’re being flattened. Fred, George, where
 
were you when that Bludger stopped Angelina
scoring?”
“We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other
Bludger from murdering Harry, Oliver,” said George
angrily. “Someone’s fixed it — it won’t leave Harry
alone. It hasn’t gone for anyone else all game. The
Slytherins must have done something to it.”
“But the Bludgers have been locked in Madam
Hooch’s office since our last practice, and there was
nothing wrong with them then. ...” said Wood,
anxiously.
Madam Hooch was walking toward them. Over her
shoulder, Harry could see the Slytherin team jeering
and pointing in his direction.
“Listen,” said Harry as she came nearer and nearer,
“with you two flying around me all the time the only
way I’m going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my
sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal
with the rogue one.”
“Don’t be thick,” said Fred. “It’ll take your head off.”
Wood was looking from Harry to the Weasleys.
“Oliver, this is insane,” said Alicia Spinnet angrily.
“You can’t let Harry deal with that thing on his own.
Let’s ask for an inquiry — ”
“If we stop now, we’ll have to forfeit the match!” said
Harry. “And we’re not losing to Slytherin just because
of a crazy Bludger! Come on, Oliver, tell them to leave
me alone!”
 
“This is all your fault,” George said angrily to Wood. “
‘Get the Snitch or die trying,’ what a stupid thing to
tell him—”
Madam Hooch had joined them.
“Ready to resume play?” she asked Wood.
Wood looked at the determined look on Harry’s face.
“All right,” he said. “Fred, George, you heard Harry —
leave him alone and let him deal with the Bludger on
his own.”
The rain was falling more heavily now. On Madam
Hooch’s whistle, Harry kicked hard into the air and
heard the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind him.
Higher and higher Harry climbed; he looped and
swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly
dizzy, he nevertheless kept his eyes wide open, rain
was speckling his glasses and ran up his nostrils as
he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive
from the Bludger. He could hear laughter from the
crowd; he knew he must look very stupid, but the
rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn’t change
direction as quickly as Harry could; he began a kind
of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium,
squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the
Gryffindor goal posts, where Adrian Pucey was trying
to get past Wood —
A whistling in Harry’s ear told him the Bludger had
just missed him again; he turned right over and sped
in the opposite direction.
“Training for the ballet, Potter?” yelled Malfoy as
Harry was forced to do a stupid kind of twirl in midair
to dodge the Bludger, and he fled, the Bludger trailing
a few feet behind him; and then, glaring back at
 
Malfoy in hatred, he saw it — the Golden Snitch. It
was hovering inches above Malfoy’s left ear — and
Malfoy, busy laughing at Harry, hadn’t seen it.
For an agonizing moment, Harry hung in midair, not
daring to speed toward Malfoy in case he looked up
and saw the Snitch.
WHAM.
He had stayed still a second too long. The Bludger
had hit him at last, smashed into his elbow, and
Harry felt his arm break. Dimly, dazed by the searing
pain in his arm, he slid sideways on his rain-
drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, his
right arm dangling useless at his side — the Bludger
came pelting back for a second attack, this time
aiming at his face — Harry swerved out of the way,
one idea firmly lodged in his numb brain: get to
Malfoy.
Through a haze of rain and pain he dived for the
shimmering, sneering face below him and saw its eyes
widen with fear: Malfoy thought Harry was attacking
him.
“What the — ” he gasped, careening out of Harry’s
way.
Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and
made a wild snatch; he felt his fingers close on the
cold Snitch but was now only gripping the broom with
his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below as
he headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to
pass out.
With a splattering thud he hit the mud and rolled off
his broom. His arm was hanging at a very strange
angle; riddled with pain, he heard, as though from a
 
distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. He
focused on the Snitch clutched in his good hand.
“Aha,” he said vaguely. “We’ve won.”
And he fainted.
He came around, rain falling on his face, still lying on
the field, with someone leaning over him. He saw a
glitter of teeth.
“Oh, no, not you,” he moaned.
“Doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Lockhart loudly
to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors pressing around
them. “Not to worry, Harry. I’m about to fix your
arm.”
“iVo!” said Harry. “I’ll keep it like this, thanks. ...”
He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard
a familiar clicking noise nearby.
“I don’t want a photo of this, Colin,” he said loudly.
“Lie back, Harry,” said Lockhart soothingly. “It’s a
simple charm I’ve used countless times — ”
“Why can’t I just go to the hospital wing?” said Harry
through clenched teeth.
“He should really, Professor,” said a muddy Wood,
who couldn’t help grinning even though his Seeker
was injured. “Great capture, Harry, really
spectacular, your best yet, I’d say — ”
Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry
spotted Fred and George Weasley, wrestling the rogue
 
Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific
fight.
“Stand back,” said Lockhart, who was rolling up his
jade-green sleeves.
“No — don’t — ” said Harry weakly, but Lockhart was
twirling his wand and a second later had directed it
straight at Harry’s arm.
A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry’s
shoulder and spread all the way down to his
fingertips. It felt as though his arm was being
deflated. He didn’t dare look at what was happening.
He had shut his eyes, his face turned away from his
arm, but his worst fears were realized as the people
above him gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking
away madly. His arm didn’t hurt anymore — nor did
it feel remotely like an arm.
“Ah,” said Lockhart. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes
happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer
broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry,
just toddle up to the hospital wing — ah, Mr.
Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort him? — and
Madam Pomfrey will be able to — er — tidy you up a
bit.”
As Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided.
Taking a deep breath he looked down at his right
side. What he saw nearly made him pass out again.
Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked
like a thick, flesh-colored rubber glove. He tried to
move his fingers. Nothing happened.
Lockhart hadn’t mended Harry’s bones. He had
removed them.
 
Madam Pomfrey wasn’t at all pleased.
“You should have come straight to me!” she raged,
holding up the sad, limp remainder of what, half an
hour before, had been a working arm. “I can mend
bones in a second — but growing them back — ”
“You will be able to, won’t you?” said Harry
desperately.
“I’ll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful,” said
Madam Pomfrey grimly, throwing Harry a pair of
pajamas. “You’ll have to stay the night. ...”
Hermione waited outside the curtain drawn around
Harry’s bed while Ron helped him into his pajamas. It
took a while to stuff the rubbery, boneless arm into a
sleeve.
“How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione,
eh?” Ron called through the curtain as he pulled
Harry’s limp fingers through the cuff. “If Harry had
wanted deboning he would have asked.”
“Anyone can make a mistake,” said Hermione. “And it
doesn’t hurt anymore, does it, Harry?”
“No,” said Harry, getting into bed. “But it doesn’t do
anything else either.”
As he swung himself onto the bed, his arm flapped
pointlessly.
Hermione and Madam Pomfrey came around the
curtain. Madam Pomfrey was holding a large bottle of
something labeled Skele-Gro.
 
“You’re in for a rough night,” she said, pouring out a
steaming beakerful and handing it to him. “Regrowing
bones is a nasty business.”
So was taking the Skele-Gro. It burned Harry’s mouth
and throat as it went down, making him cough and
splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and
inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Ron
and Hermione to help Harry gulp down some water.
“We won, though,” said Ron, a grin breaking across
his face. “That was some catch you made. Malfoy’s
face ... he looked ready to kill. ...”
“I want to know how he fixed that Bludger,” said
Hermione darkly.
“We can add that to the list of questions we’ll ask him
when we’ve taken the Polyjuice Potion,” said Harry,
sinking back onto his pillows. “I hope it tastes better
than this stuff. ...”
“If it’s got bits of Slytherins in it? You’ve got to be
joking,” said Ron.
The door of the hospital wing burst open at that
moment. Filthy and soaking wet, the rest of the
Gryffindor team had arrived to see Harry.
“Unbelievable flying, Harry,” said George. “I’ve just
seen Marcus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about
having the Snitch on top of his head and not noticing.
Malfoy didn’t seem too happy.”
They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of
pumpkin juice; they gathered around Harry’s bed and
were just getting started on what promised to be a
good party when Madam Pomfrey came storming over,
 
shouting, “This boy needs rest, he’s got thirty- three
bones to regrow! Out! OUT!”
And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him
from the stabbing pains in his limp arm.
Hours and hours later, Harry woke quite suddenly in
the pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: His
arm now felt full of large splinters. For a second, he
thought that was what had woken him. Then, with a
thrill of horror, he realized that someone was
sponging his forehead in the dark.
“Get off!” he said loudly, and then, “Dobby\”
The house-elf’s goggling tennis ball eyes were peering
at Harry through the darkness. A single tear was
running down his long, pointed nose.
“Harry Potter came back to school,” he whispered
miserably. “Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter.
Ah sir, why didn’t you heed Dobby? Why didn’t Harry
Potter go back home when he missed the train?”
Harry heaved himself up on his pillows and pushed
Dobby’s sponge away.
“What’re you doing here?” he said. “And how did you
know I missed the train?”
Dobby’s lip trembled and Harry was seized by a
sudden suspicion.
“It was you!” he said slowly. “You stopped the barrier
from letting us through!”
“Indeed yes, sir,” said Dobby, nodding his head
vigorously, ears flapping. “Dobby hid and watched for
Harry Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had
 
to iron his hands afterward” — he showed Harry ten
long, bandaged fingers — “but Dobby didn’t care, sir,
for he thought Harry Potter was safe, and never did
Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school
another way!”
He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his
ugly head.
“Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter
was back at Hogwarts, he let his master’s dinner
burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir. ...”
Harry slumped back onto his pillows.
“You nearly got Ron and me expelled,” he said
fiercely. “You’d better get lost before my bones come
back, Dobby, or I might strangle you.”
Dobby smiled weakly.
“Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them
five times a day at home.”
He blew his nose on a corner of the filthy pillowcase
he wore, looking so pathetic that Harry felt his anger
ebb away in spite of himself.
“Why d’you wear that thing, Dobby?” he asked
curiously.
“This, sir?” said Dobby, plucking at the pillowcase. “
Tis a mark of the house-elf’s enslavement, sir. Dobby
can only be freed if his masters present him with
clothes, sir. The family is careful not to pass Dobby
even a sock, sir, for then he would be free to leave
their house forever.”
 
Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly,
“Harry Potter must go home! Dobby thought his
Bludger would be enough to make — ”
“Your Bludger?” said Harry, anger rising once more.
“What d’you mean, your Bludger? You made that
Bludger try and kill me?”
“Not kill you, sir, never kill you!” said Dobby,
shocked. “Dobby wants to save Harry Potter’s life!
Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain
here, sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt
enough to be sent home!”
“Oh, is that all?” said Harry angrily. “I don’t suppose
you’re going to tell me why you wanted me sent home
in pieces?”
“Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!” Dobby groaned, more
tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. “If he knew
what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we
dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it
was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the
height of his powers, sir! We house-elves were treated
like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like
that, sir,” he admitted, drying his face on the
pillowcase. “But mostly, sir, life has improved for my
kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-
Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord’s
power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and
Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of
us who thought the Dark days would never end, sir.
... And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to
happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby
cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is
to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is
open once more — ”
 
Dobby froze, horrors truck, then grabbed Harry’s
water jug from his bedside table and cracked it over
his own head, toppling out of sight. A second later, he
crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering,
“Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby ...”
“So there is a Chamber of Secrets?” Harry whispered.
“And — did you say it’s been opened before ? Tell me,
Dobby!”
He seized the elf’s bony wrist as Dobby’s hand inched
toward the water jug. “But I’m not Muggle-born —
how can I be in danger from the Chamber?”
“Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby,”
stammered the elf, his eyes huge in the dark. “Dark
deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter
must not be here when they happen — go home,
Harry Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle
in this, sir, ’tis too dangerous — ”
“Who is it, Dobby?” Harry said, keeping a firm hold on
Dobby’s wrist to stop him from hitting himself with
the water jug again. “Who’s opened it? Who opened it
last time?”
“Dobby can’t, sir, Dobby can’t, Dobby mustn’t tell!”
squealed the elf. “Go home, Harry Potter, go home!”
“I’m not going anywhere!” said Harry fiercely. “One of
my best friends is Muggle-born; she’ll be first in line if
the Chamber really has been opened — ”
“Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends!”
moaned Dobby in a kind of miserable ecstasy. “So
noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he must,
Harry Potter must not — ”
 
Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry
heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the
passageway outside.
“Dobby must go!” breathed the elf, terrified. There
was a loud crack, and Harry’s fist was suddenly
clenched on thin air. He slumped back into bed, his
eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the
footsteps drew nearer.
Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the
dormitory, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a
nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like
a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second
later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a
bed.
“Get Madam Pomfrey,” whispered Dumbledore, and
Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry’s
bed out of sight. Harry lay quite still, pretending to be
asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then Professor
McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by
Madam Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over
her nightdress. He heard a sharp intake of breath.
“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey whispered to
Dumbledore, bending over the statue on the bed.
“Another attack,” said Dumbledore. “Minerva found
him on the stairs.”
“There was a bunch of grapes next to him,” said
Professor McGonagall. “We think he was trying to
sneak up here to visit Potter.”
Harry’s stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and
carefully, he raised himself a few inches so he could
look at the statue on the bed. A ray of moonlight lay
across its staring face.
 
It was Colin Creevey. His eyes were wide and his
hands were stuck up in front of him, holding his
camera.
“Petrified?” whispered Madam Pomfrey.
“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “But I shudder to
think ... If Albus hadn’t been on the way downstairs
for hot chocolate — who knows what might have — ”
The three of them stared down at Colin. Then
Dumbledore leaned forward and wrenched the
camera out of Colin’s rigid grip.
“You don’t think he managed to get a picture of his
attacker?” said Professor McGonagall eagerly.
Dumbledore didn’t answer. He opened the back of the
camera.
“Good gracious!” said Madam Pomfrey.
A jet of steam had hissed out of the camera. Harry,
three beds away, caught the acrid smell of burnt
plastic.
“Melted,” said Madam Pomfrey wonderingly. “All
melted ...”
“What does this mean, Albus?” Professor McGonagall
asked urgently.
“It means,” said Dumbledore, “that the Chamber of
Secrets is indeed open again.”
Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth.
Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore.
“But, Albus ... surely ... who?”
 
“The question is not who,” said Dumbledore, his eyes
on Colin. “The question is, how. ...”
And from what Harry could see of Professor
McGonagall’s shadowy face, she didn’t understand
this any better than he did.
 
THE DUELING CLUB
Harry woke up on Sunday morning to find the
dormitory blazing with winter sunlight and his arm
reboned but very stiff. He sat up quickly and looked
over at Colin’s bed, but it had been blocked from view
by the high curtains Harry had changed behind
yesterday. Seeing that he was awake, Madam Pomfrey
came bustling over with a breakfast tray and then
began bending and stretching his arm and fingers.
“All in order,” she said as he clumsily fed himself
porridge left-handed. “When you’ve finished eating,
you may leave.”
Harry dressed as quickly as he could and hurried off
to Gryffindor Tower, desperate to tell Ron and
Hermione about Colin and Dobby, but they weren’t
there. Harry left to look for them, wondering where
they could have got to and feeling slightly hurt that
they weren’t interested in whether he had his bones
back or not.
 
As Harry passed the library, Percy Weasley strolled
out of it, looking in far better spirits than last time
they’d met.
“Oh, hello, Harry,” he said. “Excellent flying
yesterday, really excellent. Gryffindor has just taken
the lead for the House Cup — you earned fifty points!”
“You haven’t seen Ron or Hermione, have you?” said
Harry.
“No, I haven’t,” said Percy, his smile fading. “I hope
Ron’s not in another girls’ toilet ...”
Harry forced a laugh, watched Percy walk out of sight,
and then headed straight for Moaning Myrtle’s
bathroom. He couldn’t see why Ron and Hermione
would be in there again, but after making sure that
neither Filch nor any prefects were around, he opened
the door and heard their voices coming from a locked
stall.
“It’s me,” he said, closing the door behind him. There
was a clunk, a splash, and a gasp from within the
stall and he saw Hermione ’s eye peering through the
keyhole.
“Harry\” she said. “You gave us such a fright — come
in — how’s your arm?”
“Fine,” said Harry, squeezing into the stall. An old
cauldron was perched on the toilet, and a crackling
from under the rim told Harry they had lit a fire
beneath it. Conjuring up portable, waterproof fires
was a speciality of Hermione ’s.
“We ’d’ve come to meet you, but we decided to get
started on the Polyjuice Potion,” Ron explained as
 
Harry, with difficulty, locked the stall again. “We’ve
decided this is the safest place to hide it.”
Harry started to tell them about Colin, but Hermione
interrupted.
“We already know — we heard Professor McGonagall
telling Professor Flitwick this morning. That’s why we
decided we’d better get going — ”
“The sooner we get a confession out of Malfoy, the
better,” snarled Ron. “D’you know what I think? He
was in such a foul temper after the Quidditch match,
he took it out on Colin.”
“There’s something else,” said Harry, watching
Hermione tearing bundles of knotgrass and throwing
them into the potion. “Dobby came to visit me in the
middle of the night.”
Ron and Hermione looked up, amazed. Harry told
them everything Dobby had told him — or hadn’t told
him. Hermione and Ron listened with their mouths
open.
“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?”
Hermione said.
“This settles it,” said Ron in a triumphant voice.
“Lucius Malfoy must’ve opened the Chamber when he
was at school here and now he’s told dear old Draco
how to do it. It’s obvious. Wish Dobby ’d told you what
kind of monster’s in there, though. I want to know
how come nobody’s noticed it sneaking around the
school.”
“Maybe it can make itself invisible,” said Hermione,
prodding leeches to the bottom of the cauldron. “Or
maybe it can disguise itself — pretend to be a suit of
 
armor or something — I’ve read about Chameleon
Ghouls — ”
“You read too much, Hermione,” said Ron, pouring
dead lacewings on top of the leeches. He crumpled up
the empty lacewing bag and looked at Harry.
“So Dobby stopped us from getting on the train and
broke your arm. ...” He shook his head. “You know
what, Harry? If he doesn’t stop trying to save your life
he’s going to kill you.”
k k k
The news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and
was now lying as though dead in the hospital wing
had spread through the entire school by Monday
morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and
suspicion. The first years were now moving around
the castle in tight-knit groups, as though scared they
would be attacked if they ventured forth alone.
Ginny Weasley, who sat next to Colin Creevey in
Charms, was distraught, but Harry felt that Fred and
George were going the wrong way about cheering her
up. They were taking turns covering themselves with
fur or boils and jumping out at her from behind
statues. They only stopped when Percy, apoplectic
with rage, told them he was going to write to Mrs.
Weasley and tell her Ginny was having nightmares.
Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade
in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices
was sweeping the school. Neville Longbottom bought
a large, evil-smelling green onion, a pointed purple
crystal, and a rotting newt tail before the other
Gryffindor boys pointed out that he was in no danger;
 
he was a pureblood, and therefore unlikely to be
attacked.
“They went for Filch first,” Neville said, his round face
fearful. “And everyone knows I’m almost a Squib.”
In the second week of December Professor
McGonagall came around as usual, collecting names
of those who would be staying at school for
Christmas. Harry, Ron, and Hermione signed her list;
they had heard that Malfoy was staying, which struck
them as very suspicious. The holidays would be the
perfect time to use the Polyjuice Potion and try to
worm a confession out of him.
Unfortunately, the potion was only half finished. They
still needed the bicorn horn and the boomslang skin,
and the only place they were going to get them was
from Snape’s private stores. Harry privately felt he’d
rather face Slytherin’s legendary monster than let
Snape catch him robbing his office.
“What we need,” said Hermione briskly as Thursday
afternoon’s double Potions lesson loomed nearer, “is a
diversion. Then one of us can sneak into Snape’s
office and take what we need.”
Harry and Ron looked at her nervously.
“I think I’d better do the actual stealing,” Hermione
continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “You two will be
expelled if you get into any more trouble, and I’ve got
a clean record. So all you need to do is cause enough
mayhem to keep Snape busy for five minutes or so.”
Harry smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in
Snape’s Potions class was about as safe as poking a
sleeping dragon in the eye.
 
Potions lessons took place in one of the large
dungeons. Thursday afternoon’s lesson proceeded in
the usual way. Twenty cauldrons stood steaming
between the wooden desks, on which stood brass
scales and jars of ingredients. Snape prowled through
the fumes, making waspish remarks about the
Gryffindors’ work while the Slytherins sniggered
appreciatively. Draco Malfoy, who was Snape’s
favorite student, kept flicking puffer-fish eyes at Ron
and Harry, who knew that if they retaliated they
would get detention faster than you could say
“Unfair.”
Harry’s Swelling Solution was far too runny, but he
had his mind on more important things. He was
waiting for Hermione’s signal, and he hardly listened
as Snape paused to sneer at his watery potion. When
Snape turned and walked off to bully Neville,
Hermione caught Harry’s eye and nodded.
Harry ducked swiftly down behind his cauldron,
pulled one of Fred’s Filibuster fireworks out of his
pocket, and gave it a quick prod with his wand. The
firework began to fizz and sputter. Knowing he had
only seconds, Harry straightened up, took aim, and
lobbed it into the air; it landed right on target in
Goyle’s cauldron.
Goyle’s potion exploded, showering the whole class.
People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution
hit them. Malfoy got a faceful and his nose began to
swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his
hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size
of a dinner plate — Snape was trying to restore calm
and find out what had happened. Through the
confusion, Harry saw Hermione slip quietly into
Snape’s office.
 
“Silence! SILENCE!” Snape roared. “Anyone who has
been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draught —
when I find out who did this — ”
Harry tried not to laugh as he watched Malfoy hurry
forward, his head drooping with the weight of a nose
like a small melon. As half the class lumbered up to
Snape ’s desk, some weighted down with arms like
clubs, others unable to talk through gigantic puffed-
up lips, Harry saw Hermione slide back into the
dungeon, the front of her robes bulging.
When everyone had taken a swig of antidote and the
various swellings had subsided, Snape swept over to
Goyle’s cauldron and scooped out the twisted black
remains of the firework. There was a sudden hush.
“If I ever find out who threw this,” Snape whispered, “I
shall make sure that person is expelled.”
Harry arranged his face into what he hoped was a
puzzled expression. Snape was looking right at him,
and the bell that rang ten minutes later could not
have been more welcome.
“He knew it was me,” Harry told Ron and Hermione as
they hurried back to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. “I
could tell.”
Hermione threw the new ingredients into the cauldron
and began to stir feverishly.
“It’ll be ready in two weeks,” she said happily.
“Snape can’t prove it was you,” said Ron reassuringly
to Harry. “What can he do?”
“Knowing Snape, something foul,” said Harry as the
potion frothed and bubbled.
 
A week later, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were walking
across the entrance hall when they saw a small knot
of people gathered around the notice board, reading a
piece of parchment that had just been pinned up.
Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas beckoned them
over, looking excited.
“They’re starting a Dueling Club!” said Seamus. “First
meeting tonight! I wouldn’t mind dueling lessons;
they might come in handy one of these days. ...”
“What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster can duel?”
said Ron, but he, too, read the sign with interest.
“Could be useful,” he said to Harry and Hermione as
they went into dinner. “Shall we go?”
Harry and Hermione were all for it, so at eight o’clock
that evening they hurried back to the Great Hall. The
long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage
had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of
candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety
black once more and most of the school seemed to be
packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and
looking excited.
“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” said Hermione as
they edged into the chattering crowd. “Someone told
me Flitwick was a dueling champion when he was
young — maybe it’ll be him.”
“As long as it’s not — ” Harry began, but he ended on
a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the
stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and
accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his
usual black.
 
Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called,
“Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me?
Can you all hear me? Excellent!
“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me
permission to start this little dueling club, to train
you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I
myself have done on countless occasions — for full
details, see my published works.
“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,”
said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he
knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has
sportingly agreed to help me with a short
demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any
of you youngsters to worry — you’ll still have your
Potions master when I’m through with him, never
fear!”
“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off?”
Ron muttered in Harry’s ear.
Snape ’s upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why
Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking
at him like that he’d have been running as fast as he
could in the opposite direction.
Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and
bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of
his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably.
Then they raised their wands like swords in front of
them.
“As you see, we are holding our wands in the
accepted combative position,” Lockhart told the silent
crowd. “On the count of three, we will cast our first
spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”
 
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Harry murmured, watching
Snape baring his teeth.
“One — two — three — ”
Both of them swung their wands above their heads
and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried:
“ ExpelliarmusV’ There was a dazzling flash of scarlet
light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: He flew
backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and
slid down it to sprawl on the floor.
Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered.
Hermione was dancing on tiptoes. “Do you think he’s
all right?” she squealed through her fingers.
“Who cares?” said Harry and Ron together.
Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat
had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end.
“Well, there you have it!” he said, tottering back onto
the platform. “That was a Disarming Charm — as you
see, I’ve lost my wand — ah, thank you, Miss Brown
— yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor
Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very
obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to
stop you it would have been only too easy — however,
I felt it would be instructive to let them see ...”
Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had
noticed, because he said, “Enough demonstrating! I’m
going to come amongst you now and put you all into
pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me — ”
They moved through the crowd, matching up
partners. Lockhart teamed Neville with Justin Finch-
Fletchley, but Snape reached Harry and Ron first.
 
“Time to split up the dream team, I think,” he
sneered. “Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter
Harry moved automatically toward Hermione.
“I don’t think so,” said Snape, smiling coldly. “Mr.
Malfoy, come over here. Let’s see what you make of
the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger — you can
partner Miss Bulstrode.”
Malfoy strutted over, smirking. Behind him walked a
Slytherin girl who reminded Harry of a picture he’d
seen in Holidays with Hags. She was large and square
and her heavy jaw jutted aggressively. Hermione gave
her a weak smile that she did not return.
“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the
platform. “And bow!”
Harry and Malfoy barely inclined their heads, not
taking their eyes off each other.
“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I
count to three, cast your charms to disarm your
opponents — only to disarm them — we don’t want
any accidents — one . . . two . . . three — ”
Harry swung his wand high, but Malfoy had already
started on “two”: His spell hit Harry so hard he felt as
though he’d been hit over the head with a saucepan.
He stumbled, but everything still seemed to be
working, and wasting no more time, Harry pointed his
wand straight at Malfoy and shouted, “Rictusempral”
A jet of silver light hit Malfoy in the stomach and he
doubled up, wheezing.
 
“I said disarm only\” Lockhart shouted in alarm over
the heads of the battling crowd, as Malfoy sank to his
knees; Harry had hit him with a Tickling Charm, and
he could barely move for laughing. Harry hung back,
with a vague feeling it would be unsporting to bewitch
Malfoy while he was on the floor, but this was a
mistake; gasping for breath, Malfoy pointed his wand
at Harry’s knees, choked, “Tarantallegral” and the
next second Harry’s legs began to jerk around out of
his control in a kind of quickstep.
“Stop! Stop!” screamed Lockhart, but Snape took
charge.
“Finite Incantatem\” he shouted; Harry’s feet stopped
dancing, Malfoy stopped laughing, and they were able
to look up.
A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the
scene. Both Neville and Justin were lying on the floor,
panting; Ron was holding up an ashen-faced Seamus,
apologizing for whatever his broken wand had done;
but Hermione and Millicent Bulstrode were still
moving; Millicent had Hermione in a headlock and
Hermione was whimpering in pain; both their wands
lay forgotten on the floor. Harry leapt forward and
pulled Millicent off. It was difficult: She was a lot
bigger than he was.
“Dear, dear,” said Lockhart, skittering through the
crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. “Up you
go, Macmillan. ... Careful there, Miss Fawcett. ...
Pinch it hard, it’ll stop bleeding in a second, Boot —
“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly
spells,” said Lockhart, standing flustered in the midst
of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes
glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a
 
volunteer pair — Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley,
how about you — ”
“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” said Snape, gliding
over like a large and malevolent bat. “Longbottom
causes devastation with the simplest spells. We’ll be
sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the
hospital wing in a matchbox.” Neville’s round, pink
face went pinker. “How about Malfoy and Potter?”
said Snape with a twisted smile.
“Excellent idea!” said Lockhart, gesturing Harry and
Malfoy into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed
away to give them room.
“Now, Harry,” said Lockhart. “When Draco points his
wand at you, you do this.”
He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated
sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked
as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops —
my wand is a little overexcited — ”
Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and
whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too.
Harry looked up nervously at Lockhart and said,
“Professor, could you show me that blocking thing
again?”
“Scared?” muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn’t
hear him.
“You wish,” said Harry out of the corner of his mouth.
Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just
do what I did, Harry!”
“What, drop my wand?”
 
But Lockhart wasn’t listening.
“Three — two — one — go!” he shouted.
Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed,
“ Serpensortial”
The end of his wand exploded. Harry watched, aghast,
as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto
the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to
strike. There were screams as the crowd backed
swiftly away, clearing the floor.
“Don’t move, Potter,” said Snape lazily, clearly
enjoying the sight of Harry standing motionless, eye
to eye with the angry snake. “I’ll get rid of it. ...”
“Allow me!” shouted Lockhart. He brandished his
wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the
snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air
and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged,
hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin
Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed,
poised to strike.
Harry wasn’t sure what made him do it. He wasn’t
even aware of deciding to do it. All he knew was that
his legs were carrying him forward as though he was
on casters and that he had shouted stupidly at the
snake, “Leave him alone!” And miraculously —
inexplicably — the snake slumped to the floor, docile
as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harry.
Harry felt the fear drain out of him. He knew the
snake wouldn’t attack anyone now, though how he
knew it, he couldn’t have explained.
He looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see
Justin looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful —
but certainly not angry and scared.
 
“What do you think you’re playing at?” he shouted,
and before Harry could say anything, Justin had
turned and stormed out of the hall.
Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the
snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke.
Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected
way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry
didn’t like it. He was also dimly aware of an ominous
muttering all around the walls. Then he felt a tugging
on the back of his robes.
“Come on,” said Ron’s voice in his ear. “Move — come
on—”
Ron steered him out of the hall, Hermione hurrying
alongside them. As they went through the doors, the
people on either side drew away as though they were
frightened of catching something. Harry didn’t have a
clue what was going on, and neither Ron nor
Hermione explained anything until they had dragged
him all the way up to the empty Gryffindor common
room. Then Ron pushed Harry into an armchair and
said, “You’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I’m a what?” said Harry.
“A Parselmouth .!” said Ron. “You can talk to snakes!”
“I know,” said Harry. “I mean, that’s only the second
time I’ve ever done it. I accidentally set a boa
constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo once —
long story — but it was telling me it had never seen
Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to —
that was before I knew I was a wizard — ”
“A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?”
Ron repeated faintly.
 
“So?” said Harry. “I bet loads of people here can do it.”
“Oh, no they can’t,” said Ron. “It’s not a very common
gift. Harry, this is bad.”
“What’s bad?” said Harry, starting to feel quite angry.
“What’s wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn’t told
that snake not to attack Justin — ”
“Oh, that’s what you said to it?”
“What d’you mean? You were there — you heard me
“I heard you speaking Parseltongue,” said Ron.
“Snake language. You could have been saying
anything — no wonder Justin panicked, you sounded
like you were egging the snake on or something — it
was creepy, you know — ”
Harry gaped at him.
“I spoke a different language? But — I didn’t realize —
how can I speak a language without knowing I can
speak it?”
Ron shook his head. Both he and Hermione were
looking as though someone had died. Harry couldn’t
see what was so terrible.
“D’you want to tell me what’s wrong with stopping a
massive snake biting off Justin’s head?” he said.
“What does it matter how I did it as long as Justin
doesn’t have to join the Headless Hunt?”
“It matters,” said Hermione, speaking at last in a
hushed voice, “because being able to talk to snakes
was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s
why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent.”
 
Harry’s mouth fell open.
“Exactly,” said Ron. “And now the whole school’s
going to think you’re his great-great-great-great-
grandson or something — ”
“But I’m not,” said Harry, with a panic he couldn’t
quite explain.
“You’ll find that hard to prove,” said Hermione. “He
lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know,
you could be.”
•k k k
Harry lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap
in the curtains around his four-poster he watched
snow starting to drift past the tower window and
wondered ...
Could he be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin? He
didn’t know anything about his father’s family, after
all. The Dursleys had always forbidden questions
about his wizarding relatives.
Quietly, Harry tried to say something in Parseltongue.
The words wouldn’t come. It seemed he had to be
face-to-face with a snake to do it.
But I’m in Gryffindor, Harry thought. The Sorting Hat
wouldn’t have put me in here if I had Slytherin blood.
Ah, said a nasty little voice in his brain, but the
Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin, don’t you
remember?
Harry turned over. He’d see Justin the next day in
Herbology and he’d explain that he’d been calling the
 
snake off, not egging it on, which (he thought angrily,
pummeling his pillow) any fool should have realized.
By next morning, however, the snow that had begun
in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that
the last Herbology lesson of the term was canceled:
Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on
the Mandrakes, a tricky operation she would entrust
to no one else, now that it was so important for the
Mandrakes to grow quickly and revive Mrs. Norris and
Colin Creevey.
Harry fretted about this next to the fire in the
Gryffindor common room, while Ron and Hermione
used their time off to play a game of wizard chess.
“For heaven’s sake, Harry,” said Hermione,
exasperated, as one of Ron’s bishops wrestled her
knight off his horse and dragged him off the board.
“Go and find Justin if it’s so important to you.”
So Harry got up and left through the portrait hole,
wondering where Justin might be.
The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime
because of the thick, swirling gray snow at every
window. Shivering, Harry walked past classrooms
where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of
what was happening within. Professor McGonagall
was shouting at someone who, by the sound of it, had
turned his friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to
take a look, Harry walked on by, thinking that Justin
might be using his free time to catch up on some
work, and deciding to check the library first.
A group of the Hufflepuffs who should have been in
Herbology were indeed sitting at the back of the
library, but they didn’t seem to be working. Between
the long lines of high bookshelves, Harry could see
 
that their heads were close together and they were
having what looked like an absorbing conversation.
He couldn’t see whether Justin was among them. He
was walking toward them when something of what
they were saying met his ears, and he paused to
listen, hidden in the Invisibility section.
“So anyway,” a stout boy was saying, “I told Justin to
hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter’s
marked him down as his next victim, it’s best if he
keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin’s
been waiting for something like this to happen ever
since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born. Justin
actually told him he’d been down for Eton. That’s not
the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin’s
heir on the loose, is it?”
“You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?” said a
girl with blonde pigtails anxiously.
“Hannah,” said the stout boy solemnly, “he’s a
Parselmouth. Everyone knows that’s the mark of a
Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one
who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin
himself Serpent-tongue.”
There was some heavy murmuring at this, and Ernie
went on, “Remember what was written on the wall?
Enemies of the Heir, Beware. Potter had some sort of
run-in with Filch. Next thing we know, Filch ’s cat’s
attacked. That first year, Creevey, was annoying
Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of him
while he was lying in the mud. Next thing we know —
Creevey ’s been attacked.”
“He always seems so nice, though,” said Hannah
uncertainly, “and, well, he’s the one who made You-
Know-Who disappear. He can’t be all bad, can he?”
 
Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs
bent closer, and Harry edged nearer so that he could
catch Ernie’s words.
“No one knows how he survived that attack by You-
Know-Who. I mean to say, he was only a baby when it
happened. He should have been blasted into
smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard
could have survived a curse like that.” He dropped his
voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and
said, “ That’s probably why You-Know-Who wanted to
kill him in the first place. Didn’t want another Dark
Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers
Potter’s been hiding?”
Harry couldn’t take anymore. Clearing his throat
loudly, he stepped out from behind the bookshelves.
If he hadn’t been feeling so angry, he would have
found the sight that greeted him funny: Every one of
the Hufflepuffs looked as though they had been
Petrified by the sight of him, and the color was
draining out of Ernie’s face.
“Hello,” said Harry. “I’m looking for Justin Finch-
Fletchley.”
The Hufflepuffs’ worst fears had clearly been
confirmed. They all looked fearfully at Ernie.
“What do you want with him?” said Ernie in a
quavering voice.
“I wanted to tell him what really happened with that
snake at the Dueling Club,” said Harry.
Ernie bit his white lips and then, taking a deep
breath, said, “We were all there. We saw what
happened.”
 
“Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake
backed off?” said Harry.
“All I saw,” said Ernie stubbornly, though he was
trembling as he spoke, “was you speaking
Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justin.”
“I didn’t chase it at him!” Harry said, his voice
shaking with anger. “It didn’t even touch him!”
“It was a very near miss,” said Ernie. “And in case
you’re getting ideas,” he added hastily, “I might tell
you that you can trace my family back through nine
generations of witches and warlocks and my blood’s
as pure as anyone’s, so — ”
“I don’t care what sort of blood you’ve got!” said Harry
fiercely. “Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?”
“I’ve heard you hate those Muggles you live with,” said
Ernie swiftly.
“It’s not possible to live with the Dursleys and not
hate them,” said Harry. “I’d like to see you try it.”
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the library,
earning himself a reproving glare from Madam Pince,
who was polishing the gilded cover of a large
spellbook.
Harry blundered up the corridor, barely noticing
where he was going, he was in such a fury. The result
was that he walked into something very large and
solid, which knocked him backward onto the floor.
“Oh, hello, Hagrid,” Harry said, looking up.
Hagrid’s face was entirely hidden by a woolly, snow-
covered balaclava, but it couldn’t possibly be anyone
 
else, as he filled most of the corridor in his moleskin
overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his
massive, gloved hands.
“All righ’, Harry?” he said, pulling up the balaclava so
he could speak. “Why aren’t yeh in class?”
“Canceled,” said Harry, getting up. “What’re you doing
in here?”
Hagrid held up the limp rooster.
“Second one killed this term,” he explained. “It’s
either foxes or a Blood-Suckin’ Bugbear, an’ I need
the headmaster’s permission ter put a charm around
the hen coop.”
He peered more closely at Harry from under his thick,
snow-flecked eyebrows.
“Yeh sure yeh’re all righ’? Yeh look all hot an’
bothered — ”
Harry couldn’t bring himself to repeat what Ernie and
the rest of the Hufflepuffs had been saying about him.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’d better get going, Hagrid, it’s
Transfiguration next and I’ve got to pick up my
books.”
He walked off, his mind still full of what Ernie had
said about him.
“Justin’s been waiting for something like this to
happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-
born. ...”
Harry stamped up the stairs and turned along
another corridor, which was particularly dark; the
 
torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft
that was blowing through a loose windowpane. He
was halfway down the passage when he tripped
headlong over something lying on the floor.
He turned to squint at what he’d fallen over and felt
as though his stomach had dissolved.
Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid
and cold, a look of shock frozen on his face, his eyes
staring blankly at the ceiling. And that wasn’t all.
Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight
Harry had ever seen.
It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white
and transparent, but black and smoky, floating
immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His
head was half off and his face wore an expression of
shock identical to Justin’s.
Harry got to his feet, his breathing fast and shallow,
his heart doing a kind of drumroll against his ribs. He
looked wildly up and down the deserted corridor and
saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they could
away from the bodies. The only sounds were the
muffled voices of teachers from the classes on either
side.
He could run, and no one would ever know he had
been there. But he couldn’t just leave them lying
here. ... He had to get help. ... Would anyone believe
he hadn’t had anything to do with this?
As he stood there, panicking, a door right next to him
opened with a bang. Peeves the Poltergeist came
shooting out.
 
“Why, it’s potty wee Potter!” cackled Peeves, knocking
Harry’s glasses askew as he bounced past him.
“What’s Potter up to? Why’s Potter lurking — ”
Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault.
Upside down, he spotted Justin and Nearly Headless
Nick. He flipped the right way up, filled his lungs and,
before Harry could stop him, screamed, “ATTACK!
ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR
GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!
ATTAAAACK!”
Crash — crash — crash — door after door flew open
along the corridor and people flooded out. For several
long minutes, there was a scene of such confusion
that Justin was in danger of being squashed and
people kept standing in Nearly Headless Nick. Harry
found himself pinned against the wall as the teachers
shouted for quiet. Professor McGonagall came
running, followed by her own class, one of whom still
had black-and-white- striped hair. She used her wand
to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and
ordered everyone back into their classes. No sooner
had the scene cleared somewhat than Ernie the
Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene.
“ Caught in the act!” Ernie yelled, his face stark white,
pointing his finger dramatically at Harry.
“That will do, Macmillan!” said Professor McGonagall
sharply.
Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly,
surveying the scene; Peeves always loved chaos. As
the teachers bent over Justin and Nearly Headless
Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song:
“Oh, Potter, you rotter, oh, what have you done,
 
You’re killing off students, you think it’s good fun — ”
“That’s enough, Peeves!” barked Professor
McGonagall, and Peeves zoomed away backward, with
his tongue out at Harry.
Justin was carried up to the hospital wing by
Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the
Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know
what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end,
Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin
air, which she gave to Ernie with instructions to waft
Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Ernie did,
fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. This
left Harry and Professor McGonagall alone together.
“This way, Potter,” she said.
“Professor,” said Harry at once, “I swear I didn’t — ”
“This is out of my hands, Potter,” said Professor
McGonagall curtly.
They marched in silence around a corner and she
stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone
gargoyle.
“Lemon drop!” she said. This was evidently a
password, because the gargoyle sprang suddenly to
life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split in
two. Even full of dread for what was coming, Harry
couldn’t fail to be amazed. Behind the wall was a
spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward,
like an escalator. As he and Professor McGonagall
stepped onto it, Harry heard the wall thud closed
behind them. They rose upward in circles, higher and
higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Harry saw a
gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the
shape of a griffin.
 
He knew now where he was being taken. This must be
where Dumbledore lived.
 
THE POLY JUICE POTION
They stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and
Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened
silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told
Harry to wait and left him there, alone.
Harry looked around. One thing was certain: of all the
teachers’ offices Harry had visited so far this year,
Dumbledore’s was by far the most interesting. If he
hadn’t been scared out of his wits that he was about
to be thrown out of school, he would have been very
pleased to have a chance to look around it.
It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of
funny little noises. A number of curious silver
instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring
and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were
covered with portraits of old headmasters and
headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in
their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-
footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a
shabby, tattered wizard’s hat — the Sorting Hat
 
Harry hesitated. He cast a wary eye around the
sleeping witches and wizards on the walls. Surely it
couldn’t hurt if he took the hat down and tried it on
again? Just to see ... just to make sure it had put him
in the right House —
He walked quietly around the desk, lifted the hat from
its shelf, and lowered it slowly onto his head. It was
much too large and slipped down over his eyes, just
as it had done the last time he’d put it on. Harry
stared at the black inside of the hat, waiting. Then a
small voice said in his ear, “Bee in your bonnet, Harry
Potter?”
“Er, yes,” Harry muttered. “Er — sorry to bother you
— I wanted to ask — ”
“You’ve been wondering whether I put you in the right
House,” said the hat smartly. “Yes ... you were
particularly difficult to place. But I stand by what I
said before” — Harry’s heart leapt — “you would have
done well in Slytherin — ”
Harry’s stomach plummeted. He grabbed the point of
the hat and pulled it off. It hung limply in his hand,
grubby and faded. Harry pushed it back onto its
shelf, feeling sick.
“You’re wrong,” he said aloud to the still and silent
hat. It didn’t move. Harry backed away, watching it.
Then a strange, gagging noise behind him made him
wheel around.
He wasn’t alone after all. Standing on a golden perch
behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that
resembled a half-plucked turkey. Harry stared at it
and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging
noise again. Harry thought it looked very ill. Its eyes
 
were dull and, even as Harry watched, a couple more
feathers fell out of its tail.
Harry was just thinking that all he needed was for
Dumbledore ’s pet bird to die while he was alone in
the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.
Harry yelled in shock and backed away into the desk.
He looked feverishly around in case there was a glass
of water somewhere but couldn’t see one; the bird,
meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave one loud
shriek and next second there was nothing but a
smoldering pile of ash on the floor.
The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking
very somber.
“Professor,” Harry gasped. “Your bird — I couldn’t do
anything — he just caught fire — ”
To Harry’s astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.
“About time, too,” he said. “He’s been looking dreadful
for days; I’ve been telling him to get a move on.”
He chuckled at the stunned look on Harry’s face.
“Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into
flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn
from the ashes. Watch him ...”
Harry looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled,
newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was
quite as ugly as the old one.
“It’s a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day,”
said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk.
“He’s really very handsome most of the time,
wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating
 
creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely
heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and
they make highly faithful pets.”
In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Harry had
forgotten what he was there for, but it all came back
to him as Dumbledore settled himself in the high
chair behind the desk and fixed Harry with his
penetrating, light-blue stare.
Before Dumbledore could speak another word,
however, the door of the office flew open with an
almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his
eyes, his balaclava perched on top of his shaggy black
head and the dead rooster still swinging from his
hand.
“It wasn’ Harry, Professor Dumbledore!” said Hagrid
urgently. “I was talkin’ ter him seconds before that
kid was found, he never had time, sir — ”
Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went
ranting on, waving the rooster around in his
agitation, sending feathers everywhere.
“ — it can’t’ve bin him, I’ll swear it in front o’ the
Ministry o’ Magic if I have to — ”
“Hagrid, I — ”
“ — yeh’ve got the wrong boy, sir, I know Harry never
“Hagridl” said Dumbledore loudly. “I do not think that
Harry attacked those people.”
“Oh,” said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his
side. “Right. I’ll wait outside then, Headmaster.”
 
And he stomped out looking embarrassed.
“You don’t think it was me, Professor?” Harry
repeated hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster
feathers off his desk.
“No, Harry, I don’t,” said Dumbledore, though his face
was somber again. “But I still want to talk to you.”
Harry waited nervously while Dumbledore considered
him, the tips of his long fingers together.
“I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything
you’d like to tell me,” he said gently. “Anything at all.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He thought of Malfoy
shouting, “You’ll be next, Mudbloods!” and of the
Polyjuice Potion simmering away in Moaning Myrtle’s
bathroom. Then he thought of the disembodied voice
he had heard twice and remembered what Ron had
said: “ Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good
sign, even in the wizarding world.” He thought, too,
about what everyone was saying about him, and his
growing dread that he was somehow connected with
Salazar Slytherin. ...
“No,” said Harry. “There isn’t anything, Professor. ...”
The double attack on Justin and Nearly Headless
Nick turned what had hitherto been nervousness into
real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick’s
fate that seemed to worry people most. What could
possibly do that to a ghost? people asked each other;
what terrible power could harm someone who was
already dead? There was almost a stampede to book
seats on the Hogwarts Express so that students could
go home for Christmas.
 
“At this rate, well be the only ones left,” Ron told
Harry and Hermione. “Us, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle.
What a jolly holiday it’s going to be.”
Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Malfoy
did, had signed up to stay over the holidays, too. But
Harry was glad that most people were leaving. He was
tired of people skirting around him in the corridors,
as though he were about to sprout fangs or spit
poison; tired of all the muttering, pointing, and
hissing as he passed.
Fred and George, however, found all this very funny.
They went out of their way to march ahead of Harry
down the corridors, shouting, “Make way for the Heir
of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through. ...”
Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior.
“It is not a laughing matter,” he said coldly.
“Oh, get out of the way, Percy,” said Fred. “Harry’s in
a hurry.”
“Yeah, he’s off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of
tea with his fanged servant,” said George, chortling.
Ginny didn’t find it amusing either.
“Oh, don’t,” she wailed every time Fred asked Harry
loudly who he was planning to attack next, or when
George pretended to ward Harry off with a large clove
of garlic when they met.
Harry didn’t mind; it made him feel better that Fred
and George, at least, thought the idea of his being
Slytherin ’s heir was quite ludicrous. But their antics
seemed to be aggravating Draco Malfoy, who looked
increasingly sour each time he saw them at it.
 
“It’s because he’s bursting to say it’s really him,” said
Ron knowingly. “You know how he hates anyone
beating him at anything, and you’re getting all the
credit for his dirty work.”
“Not for long,” said Hermione in a satisfied tone. “The
Polyjuice Potion’s nearly ready. We’ll be getting the
truth out of him any day now.”
At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the
snow on the grounds descended on the castle. Harry
found it peaceful, rather than gloomy, and enjoyed
the fact that he, Hermione, and the Weasleys had the
run of Gryffindor Tower, which meant they could play
Exploding Snap loudly without bothering anyone, and
practice dueling in private. Fred, George, and Ginny
had chosen to stay at school rather than visit Bill in
Egypt with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Percy, who
disapproved of what he termed their childish
behavior, didn’t spend much time in the Gryffindor
common room. He had already told them pompously
that he was only staying over Christmas because it
was his duty as a prefect to support the teachers
during this troubled time.
Christmas morning dawned, cold and white. Harry
and Ron, the only ones left in their dormitory, were
woken very early by Hermione, who burst in, fully
dressed and carrying presents for them both.
“Wake up,” she said loudly, pulling back the curtains
at the window.
“Hermione — you’re not supposed to be in here — ”
said Ron, shielding his eyes against the light.
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” said Hermione,
throwing him his present. “I’ve been up for nearly an
 
hour, adding more lace-wings to the potion. It’s
ready.”
Harry sat up, suddenly wide awake.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” said Hermione, shirting Scabbers the rat so
that she could sit down on the end of Ron’s four-
poster. “If we’re going to do it, I say it should be
tonight.”
At that moment, Hedwig swooped into the room,
carrying a very small package in her beak.
“Hello,” said Harry happily as she landed on his bed.
“Are you speaking to me again?”
She nibbled his ear in an affectionate sort of way,
which was a far better present than the one that she
had brought him, which turned out to be from the
Dursleys. They had sent Harry a toothpick and a note
telling him to find out whether he’d be able to stay at
Hogwarts for the summer vacation, too.
The rest of Harry’s Christmas presents were far more
satisfactory. Hagrid had sent him a large tin of treacle
toffee, which Harry decided to soften by the fire before
eating; Ron had given him a book called Flying with
the Cannons, a book of interesting facts about his
favorite Quidditch team, and Hermione had bought
him a luxury eagle-feather quill. Harry opened the
last present to find a new, hand-knitted sweater from
Mrs. Weasley and a large plum cake. He read her card
with a fresh surge of guilt, thinking about Mr.
Weasley’s car (which hadn’t been seen since its crash
with the Whomping Willow), and the bout of rule-
breaking he and Ron were planning next.
 
No one, not even someone dreading taking Polyjuice
Potion later, could fail to enjoy Christmas dinner at
Hogwarts.
The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were
there a dozen frost-covered Christmas trees and thick
streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing the
ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and
dry, from the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of
his favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more
loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed.
Percy, who hadn’t noticed that Fred had bewitched
his prefect badge so that it now read “Pin-head,” kept
asking them all what they were sniggering at. Harry
didn’t even care that Draco Malfoy was making loud,
snide remarks about his new sweater from the
Slytherin table. With a bit of luck, Malfoy would be
getting his comeuppance in a few hours’ time.
Harry and Ron had barely finished their third
helpings of Christmas pudding when Hermione
ushered them out of the hall to finalize their plans for
the evening.
“We still need a bit of the people you’re changing
into,” said Hermione matter-of-factly, as though she
were sending them to the supermarket for laundry
detergent. “And obviously, it’ll be best if you can get
something of Crabbe’s and Goyle’s; they’re Malfoy’s
best friends, he’ll tell them anything. And we also
need to make sure the real Crabbe and Goyle can’t
burst in on us while we’re interrogating him.
“I’ve got it all worked out,” she went on smoothly,
ignoring Harry’s and Ron’s stupefied faces. She held
up two plump chocolate cakes. “I’ve filled these with a
simple Sleeping Draught. All you have to do is make
sure Crabbe and Goyle find them. You know how
greedy they are, they’re bound to eat them. Once
 
they’re asleep, pull out a few of their hairs and hide
them in a broom closet.”
Harry and Ron looked incredulously at each other.
“Hermione, I don’t think — ”
“That could go seriously wrong — ”
But Hermione had a steely glint in her eye not unlike
the one Professor McGonagall sometimes had.
“The potion will be useless without Crabbe’s and
Goyle’s hair,” she said sternly. “You do want to
investigate Malfoy, don’t you?”
“Oh, all right, all right,” said Harry. “But what about
you? Whose hair are you ripping out?”
“I’ve already got mine!” said Hermione brightly,
pulling a tiny bottle out of her pocket and showing
them the single hair inside it. “Remember Millicent
Bulstrode wrestling with me at the Dueling Club? She
left this on my robes when she was trying to strangle
me! And she’s gone home for Christmas — so I’ll just
have to tell the Slytherins I’ve decided to come back.”
When Hermione had bustled off to check on the
Polyjuice Potion again, Ron turned to Harry with a
doom-laden expression.
“Have you ever heard of a plan where so many things
could go wrong?”
But to Harry’s and Ron’s utter amazement, stage one
of the operation went just as smoothly as Hermione
had said. They lurked in the deserted entrance hall
after Christmas tea, waiting for Crabbe and Goyle
who had remained alone at the Slytherin table,
 
shoveling down fourth helpings of trifle. Harry had
perched the chocolate cakes on the end of the
banisters. When they spotted Crabbe and Goyle
coming out of the Great Hall, Harry and Ron hid
quickly behind a suit of armor next to the front door.
“How thick can you get?” Ron whispered ecstatically
as Crabbe gleefully pointed out the cakes to Goyle
and grabbed them. Grinning stupidly, they stuffed the
cakes whole into their large mouths. For a moment,
both of them chewed greedily, looks of triumph on
their faces. Then, without the smallest change of
expression, they both keeled over backward onto the
floor.
By far the hardest part was hiding them in the closet
across the hall. Once they were safely stowed among
the buckets and mops, Harry yanked out a couple of
the bristles that covered Goyle ’s forehead and Ron
pulled out several of Crabbe ’s hairs. They also stole
their shoes, because their own were far too small for
Crabbe- and Goyle-size feet. Then, still stunned at
what they had just done, they sprinted up to Moaning
Myrtle’s bathroom.
They could hardly see for the thick black smoke
issuing from the stall in which Hermione was stirring
the cauldron. Pulling their robes up over their faces,
Harry and Ron knocked softly on the door.
“Hermione?”
They heard the scrape of the lock and Hermione
emerged, shiny-faced and looking anxious. Behind
her they heard the gloop gloop of the bubbling,
glutinous potion. Three glass tumblers stood ready on
the toilet seat.
“Did you get them?” Hermione asked breathlessly.
 
Harry showed her Goyle’s hair.
“Good. And I sneaked these spare robes out of the
laundry,” Hermione said, holding up a small sack.
“You’ll need bigger sizes once you’re Crabbe and
Goyle.”
The three of them stared into the cauldron. Close up,
the potion looked like thick, dark mud, bubbling
sluggishly.
“I’m sure I’ve done everything right,” said Hermione,
nervously rereading the splotched page of Moste
Potente Potions. “It looks like the book says it should
... once we’ve drunk it, we’ll have exactly an hour
before we change back into ourselves.”
“Now what?” Ron whispered.
“We separate it into three glasses and add the hairs.”
Hermione ladled large dollops of the potion into each
of the glasses. Then, her hand trembling, she shook
Millicent Bulstrode’s hair out of its bottle into the first
glass.
The potion hissed loudly like a boiling kettle and
frothed madly. A second later, it had turned a sick
sort of yellow.
“Urgh — essence of Millicent Bulstrode,” said Ron,
eyeing it with loathing. “Bet it tastes disgusting.”
“Add yours, then,” said Hermione.
Harry dropped Goyle’s hair into the middle glass and
Ron put Crabbe’s into the last one. Both glasses
hissed and frothed: Goyle’s turned the khaki color of
a booger, Crabbe’s a dark, murky brown.
 
“Hang on,” said Harry as Ron and Hermione reached
for their glasses. “We’d better not all drink them in
here. ... Once we turn into Crabbe and Goyle we won’t
fit. And Millicent Bulstrode’s no pixie.”
“Good thinking,” said Ron, unlocking the door. “We’ll
take separate stalls.”
Careful not to spill a drop of his Polyjuice Potion,
Harry slipped into the middle stall.
“Ready?” he called.
“Ready,” came Ron’s and Hermione’s voices.
“One — two — three — ”
Pinching his nose, Harry drank the potion down in
two large gulps. It tasted like overcooked cabbage.
Immediately, his insides started writhing as though
he’d just swallowed live snakes — doubled up, he
wondered whether he was going to be sick — then a
burning sensation spread rapidly from his stomach to
the very ends of his fingers and toes — next, bringing
him gasping to all fours, came a horrible melting
feeling, as the skin all over his body bubbled like hot
wax — and before his eyes, his hands began to grow,
the fingers thickened, the nails broadened, the
knuckles were bulging like bolts — his shoulders
stretched painfully and a prickling on his forehead
told him that hair was creeping down toward his
eyebrows — his robes ripped as his chest expanded
like a barrel bursting its hoops — his feet were agony
in shoes four sizes too small —
As suddenly as it had started, everything stopped.
Harry lay facedown on the stone-cold floor, listening
to Myrtle gurgling morosely in the end toilet. With
 
difficulty, he kicked off his shoes and stood up. So
this was what it felt like, being Goyle. His large hand
trembling, he pulled off his old robes, which were
hanging a foot above his ankles, pulled on the spare
ones, and laced up Goyle’s boatlike shoes. He reached
up to brush his hair out of his eyes and met only the
short growth of wiry bristles, low on his forehead.
Then he realized that his glasses were clouding his
eyes because Goyle obviously didn’t need them — he
took them off and called, “Are you two okay?” Goyle’s
low rasp of a voice issued from his mouth.
“Yeah,” came the deep grunt of Crabbe from his right.
Harry unlocked his door and stepped in front of the
cracked mirror. Goyle stared back at him out of dull,
deepset eyes. Harry scratched his ear. So did Goyle.
Ron’s door opened. They stared at each other. Except
that he looked pale and shocked, Ron was
indistinguishable from Crabbe, from the pudding-
bowl haircut to the long, gorilla arms.
“This is unbelievable,” said Ron, approaching the
mirror and prodding Crabbe ’s flat nose.
“Unbelievable.”
“We’d better get going,” said Harry, loosening the
watch that was cutting into Goyle’s thick wrist. “We’ve
still got to find out where the Slytherin common room
is. I only hope we can find someone to follow ...”
Ron, who had been gazing at Harry, said, “You don’t
know how bizarre it is to see Goyle thinking.” He
banged on Hermione’s door. “C’mon, we need to go — ”
A high-pitched voice answered him.
 
“I — I don’t think I’m going to come after all. You go
on without me.”
“Hermione, we know Millicent Bulstrode’s ugly, no
one’s going to know it’s you — ”
“No — really — I don’t think I’ll come. You two hurry
up, you’re wasting time — ”
Harry looked at Ron, bewildered.
“That looks more like Goyle,” said Ron. “That’s how he
looks every time a teacher asks him a question.”
“Hermione, are you okay?” said Harry through the
door.
“Fine — I’m fine — go on — ”
Harry looked at his watch. Five of their precious sixty
minutes had already passed.
“Well meet you back here, all right?” he said.
Harry and Ron opened the door of the bathroom
carefully, checked that the coast was clear, and set
off.
“Don’t swing your arms like that,” Harry muttered to
Ron.
“Eh?”
“Crabbe holds them sort of stiff. ...”
“How’s this?”
“Yeah, that’s better. ...”
 
They went down the marble staircase. All they needed
now was a Slytherin that they could follow to the
Slytherin common room, but there was nobody
around.
“Any ideas?” muttered Harry.
“The Slytherins always come up to breakfast from
over there,” said Ron, nodding at the entrance to the
dungeons. The words had barely left his mouth when
a girl with long, curly hair emerged from the entrance.
“Excuse me,” said Ron, hurrying up to her. “We’ve
forgotten the way to our common room.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the girl stiffly. “Our common
room? I’m a Ravenclaw.”
She walked away, looking suspiciously back at them.
Harry and Ron hurried down the stone steps into the
darkness, their footsteps echoing particularly loudly
as Crabbe’s and Goyle’s huge feet hit the floor, feeling
that this wasn’t going to be as easy as they had
hoped.
The labyrinthine passages were deserted. They walked
deeper and deeper under the school, constantly
checking their watches to see how much time they
had left. After a quarter of an hour, just when they
were getting desperate, they heard a sudden
movement ahead.
“Ha!” said Ron excitedly. “There’s one of them now!”
The figure was emerging from a side room. As they
hurried nearer, however, their hearts sank. It wasn’t a
Slytherin, it was Percy.
 
“What’re you doing down here?” said Ron in surprise.
Percy looked affronted.
“That,” he said stiffly, “is none of your business. It’s
Crabbe, isn’t it?”
“Wh — oh, yeah,” said Ron.
“Well, get off to your dormitories,” said Percy sternly.
“It’s not safe to go wandering around dark corridors
these days.”
“You are,” Ron pointed out.
“I,” said Percy, drawing himself up, “am a prefect.
Nothing’s about to attack me.”
A voice suddenly echoed behind Harry and Ron.
Draco Malfoy was strolling toward them, and for the
first time in his life, Harry was pleased to see him.
“There you are,” he drawled, looking at them. “Have
you two been pigging out in the Great Hall all this
time? I’ve been looking for you; I want to show you
something really funny.”
Malfoy glanced witheringly at Percy.
“And what’re you doing down here, Weasley?” he
sneered.
Percy looked outraged.
“You want to show a bit more respect to a school
prefect!” he said. “I don’t like your attitude!”
Malfoy sneered and motioned for Harry and Ron to
follow him. Harry almost said something apologetic to
 
Percy but caught himself just in time. He and Ron
hurried after Malfoy, who said as they turned into the
next passage, “That Peter Weasley — ”
“Percy,” Ron corrected him automatically.
“Whatever,” said Malfoy. “I’ve noticed him sneaking
around a lot lately. And I bet I know what he’s up to.
He thinks he’s going to catch Slytherin’s heir single-
handed.”
He gave a short, derisive laugh. Harry and Ron
exchanged excited looks.
Malfoy paused by a stretch of bare, damp stone wall.
“What’s the new password again?” he said to Harry.
“Er — ” said Harry.
“Oh, yeah — pure-blood\” said Malfoy, not listening,
and a stone door concealed in the wall slid open.
Malfoy marched through it, and Harry and Ron
followed him.
The Slytherin common room was a long, low
underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling
from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on
chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately
carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several
Slytherins were silhouetted around it in high-backed
chairs.
“Wait here,” said Malfoy to Harry and Ron, motioning
them to a pair of empty chairs set back from the fire.
“I’ll go and get it — my father’s just sent it to me — ”
 
Wondering what Malfoy was going to show them,
Harry and Ron sat down, doing their best to look at
home.
Malfoy came back a minute later, holding what looked
like a newspaper clipping. He thrust it under Ron’s
nose.
“That’ll give you a laugh,” he said.
Harry saw Ron's eyes widen in shock. He read the
clipping quickly, gave a very forced laugh, and
handed it to Harry.
It had been clipped out of the Daily Prophet, and it
said:
INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle
Artifacts Office, was today fined fifty Galleons for
bewitching a Muggle car.
Mr. Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the enchanted car
crashed earlier this year, called today for Mr.
Weasley’s resignation.
“Weasley has brought the Ministry into disrepute,”
Mr. Malfoy told our reporter. “He is clearly unfit to
draw up our laws and his ridiculous Muggle
Protection Act should be scrapped immediately.”
Mr. Weasley was unavailable for comment, although
his wife told reporters to clear off or she’d set the
family ghoul on them.
 
“Well?” said Malfoy impatiently as Harry handed the
clipping back to him. “Don’t you think it’s funny?”
“Ha, ha,” said Harry bleakly.
“Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much he should
snap his wand in half and go and join them,” said
Malfoy scornfully. “You’d never know the Weasleys
were purebloods, the way they behave.”
Ron’s — or rather, Crabbe’s — face was contorted
with fury.
“What’s up with you, Crabbe?” snapped Malfoy.
“Stomachache,” Ron grunted.
“Well, go up to the hospital wing and give all those
Mudbloods a kick from me,” said Malfoy, snickering.
“You know, I’m surprised the Daily Prophet hasn’t
reported all these attacks yet,” he went on
thoughtfully. “I suppose Dumbledore’s trying to hush
it all up. He’ll be sacked if it doesn’t stop soon.
Father’s always said old Dumbledore’s the worst thing
that’s ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle-
borns. A decent headmaster would never ’ve let slime
like that Creevey in.”
Malfoy started taking pictures with an imaginary
camera and did a cruel but accurate impression of
Colin: “ ‘Potter, can I have your picture, Potter? Can I
have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please,
Potter?’ ”
He dropped his hands and looked at Harry and Ron.
“What’s the matter with you two?”
 
Far too late, Harry and Ron forced themselves to
laugh, but Malfoy seemed satisfied; perhaps Crabbe
and Goyle were always slow on the uptake.
“Saint Potter, the Mudbloods’ friend,” said Malfoy
slowly. “He’s another one with no proper wizard
feeling, or he wouldn’t go around with that jumped-up
Granger Mudblood. And people think he’s Slytherin’s
heir!”
Harry and Ron waited with bated breath: Malfoy was
surely seconds away from telling them it was him —
but then —
“I wish I knew who it is,” said Malfoy petulantly. “I
could help them.”
Ron’s jaw dropped so that Crabbe looked even more
clueless than usual. Fortunately, Malfoy didn’t notice,
and Harry, thinking fast, said, “You must have some
idea who’s behind it all. ...”
“You know I haven’t, Goyle, how many times do I have
to tell you?” snapped Malfoy. “And Father won’t tell
me anything about the last time the Chamber was
opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it
was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he
says that it was all kept quiet and it’ll look suspicious
if I know too much about it. But I know one thing —
last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a
Mudblood died. So I bet it’s a matter of time before
one of them’s killed this time. ... I hope it’s Granger,”
he said with relish.
Ron was clenching Crabbe ’s gigantic fists. Feeling
that it would be a bit of a giveaway if Ron punched
Malfoy, Harry shot him a warning look and said,
“D’you know if the person who opened the Chamber
last time was caught?”
 
“Oh, yeah ... whoever it was was expelled,” said
Malfoy. “They’re probably still in Azkaban.”
“Azkaban?” said Harry, puzzled.
“Azkaban — the wizard prison , Goyle,” said Malfoy,
looking at him in disbelief. “Honestly, if you were any
slower, you’d be going backward.”
He shifted restlessly in his chair and said, “Father
says to keep my head down and let the Heir of
Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs
ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed
up in it. Of course, he’s got a lot on his plate at the
moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided our
manor last week?”
Harry tried to force Goyle ’s dull face into a look of
concern.
“Yeah ...” said Malfoy. “Luckily, they didn’t find much.
Father’s got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But
luckily, we’ve got our own secret chamber under the
drawing-room floor — ”
“Ho!” said Ron.
Malfoy looked at him. So did Harry. Ron blushed.
Even his hair was turning red. His nose was also
slowly lengthening — their hour was up, Ron was
turning back into himself, and from the look of horror
he was suddenly giving Harry, he must be, too.
They both jumped to their feet.
“Medicine for my stomach,” Ron grunted, and without
further ado they sprinted the length of the Slytherin
common room, hurled themselves at the stone wall,
and dashed up the passage, hoping against hope that
 
Malfoy hadn’t noticed anything. Harry could feel his
feet slipping around in Goyle’s huge shoes and had to
hoist up his robes as he shrank; they crashed up the
steps into the dark entrance hall, which was full of a
muffled pounding coming from the closet where
they’d locked Crabbe and Goyle. Leaving their shoes
outside the closet door, they sprinted in their socks
up the marble staircase toward Moaning Myrtle’s
bathroom.
“Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Ron
panted, closing the bathroom door behind them. “I
know we still haven’t found out who’s doing the
attacks, but I’m going to write to Dad tomorrow and
tell him to check under the Malfoys’ drawing room.”
Harry checked his face in the cracked mirror. He was
back to normal. He put his glasses on as Ron
hammered on the door of Hermione’s stall.
“Hermione, come out, we’ve got loads to tell you — ”
“Go away!” Hermione squeaked.
Harry and Ron looked at each other.
“What’s the matter?” said Ron. “You must be back to
normal by now, we are — ”
But Moaning Myrtle glided suddenly through the stall
door. Harry had never seen her looking so happy.
“Ooooooh, wait till you see,” she said. “It’s awful — ”
They heard the lock slide back and Hermione
emerged, sobbing, her robes pulled up over her head.
“What’s up?” said Ron uncertainly. “Have you still got
Millicent’s nose or something?”
 
Hermione let her robes fall and Ron backed into the
sink.
Her face was covered in black fur. Her eyes had
turned yellow and there were long, pointed ears
poking through her hair.
“It was a c-cat hair!” she howled. “M-Millicent
Bulstrode m-must have a cat! And the p-potion isn’t
supposed to be used for animal transformations!”
“Uh-oh,” said Ron.
“You’ll be teased something dreadful,” said Myrtle
happily.
“It’s okay, Hermione,” said Harry quickly. “We’ll take
you up to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey never
asks too many questions. ...”
It took a long time to persuade Hermione to leave the
bathroom. Moaning Myrtle sped them on their way
with a hearty guffaw. “Wait till everyone finds out
you’ve got a tail\”
 
* V
THE VERY SECRET DIARY
Hermione remained in the hospital wing for several
weeks. There was a flurry of rumor about her
disappearance when the rest of the school arrived
back from their Christmas holidays, because of
course everyone thought that she had been attacked.
So many students filed past the hospital wing trying
to catch a glimpse of her that Madam Pomfrey took
out her curtains again and placed them around
Hermione’s bed, to spare her the shame of being seen
with a furry face.
Harry and Ron went to visit her every evening. When
the new term started, they brought her each day’s
homework.
“If I’d sprouted whiskers, I’d take a break from work,”
said Ron, tipping a stack of books onto Hermione’s
bedside table one evening.
“Don’t be silly, Ron, I’ve got to keep up,” said
Hermione briskly. Her spirits were greatly improved
by the fact that all the hair had gone from her face
 
and her eyes were turning slowly back to brown. “I
don’t suppose you’ve got any new leads?” she added
in a whisper, so that Madam Pomfrey couldn’t hear
her.
“Nothing,” said Harry gloomily.
“I was so sure it was Malfoy,” said Ron, for about the
hundredth time.
“What’s that?” asked Harry, pointing to something
gold sticking out from under Hermione’s pillow.
“Just a get well card,” said Hermione hastily, trying to
poke it out of sight, but Ron was too quick for her. He
pulled it out, flicked it open, and read aloud:
“To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from
your concerned teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart,
Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the
Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of
Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award.”
Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted.
“You sleep with this under your pillow?”
But Hermione was spared answering by Madam
Pomfrey sweeping over with her evening dose of
medicine.
“Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you’ve ever met, or
what?” Ron said to Harry as they left the infirmary
and started up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower.
Snape had given them so much homework, Harry
thought he was likely to be in the sixth year before he
finished it. Ron was just saying he wished he had
asked Hermione how many rat tails you were
supposed to add to a Hair-Raising Potion when an
 
angry outburst from the floor above reached their
ears.
“That’s Filch,” Harry muttered as they hurried up the
stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.
“You don’t think someone else’s been attacked?” said
Ron tensely.
They stood still, their heads inclined toward Filch’s
voice, which sounded quite hysterical.
“ — even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I
haven’t got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I’m
going to Dumbledore — ”
His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor
and they heard a distant door slam.
They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had
clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They
were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had
been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had
been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched
over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was
still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle’s
bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they
could hear Myrtle’s wails echoing off the bathroom
walls.
“Now what’s up with her?” said Ron.
“Let’s go and see,” said Harry, and holding their robes
over their ankles they stepped through the great wash
of water to the door bearing its OUT OF ORDER sign,
ignored it as always, and entered.
Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible, louder and
harder than ever before. She seemed to be hiding
 
down her usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom
because the candles had been extinguished in the
great rush of water that had left both walls and floor
soaking wet.
“What’s up, Myrtle?” said Harry.
“Who’s that?” glugged Myrtle miserably. “Come to
throw something else at me?”
Harry waded across to her stall and said, “Why would
I throw something at you?”
“Don’t ask me,” Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave
of yet more water, which splashed onto the already
sopping floor. “Here I am, minding my own business,
and someone thinks it’s funny to throw a book at me.
“But it can’t hurt you if someone throws something at
you,” said Harry, reasonably. “I mean, it’d just go
right through you, wouldn’t it?”
He had said the wrong thing. Myrtle puffed herself up
and shrieked, “Let’s all throw books at Myrtle,
because she can’t feel it! Ten points if you can get it
through her stomach! Fifty points if it goes through
her head! Well, ha, ha, ha! What a lovely game, I don’t
think!”
“Who threw it at you, anyway?” asked Harry.
“I don’t know. ... I was just sitting in the U-bend,
thinking about death, and it fell right through the top
of my head,” said Myrtle, glaring at them. “It’s over
there, it got washed out. ...”
Harry and Ron looked under the sink where Myrtle
was pointing. A small, thin book lay there. It had a
 
shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else
in the bathroom. Harry stepped forward to pick it up,
but Ron suddenly flung out an arm to hold him back.
“What?” said Harry.
“Are you cra2y?” said Ron. “It could be dangerous.”
“ Dangerous ?” said Harry, laughing. “Come off it, how
could it be dangerous?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Ron, who was looking
apprehensively at the book. “Some of the books the
Ministry’s confiscated — Dad’s told me — there was
one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who
read Sonnets of a Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the
rest of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a
book that you could never stop reading ! You just had
to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do
everything one-handed. And — ”
“All right, I’ve got the point,” said Harry.
The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and
soggy.
“Well, we won’t find out unless we look at it,” he said,
and he ducked around Ron and picked it up off the
floor.
Harry saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded
year on the cover told him it was fifty years old. He
opened it eagerly. On the first page he could just
make out the name “T. M. Riddle” in smudged ink.
“Hang on,” said Ron, who had approached cautiously
and was looking over Harry’s shoulder. “I know that
name. ... T. M. Riddle got an award for special
services to the school fifty years ago.”
 
“How on earth d’you know that?” said Harry in
amazement.
“Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty
times in detention,” said Ron resentfully. “That was
the one I burped slugs all over. If you’d wiped slime
off a name for an hour, you’d remember it, too.”
Harry peeled the wet pages apart. They were
completely blank. There wasn’t the faintest trace of
writing on any of them, not even Auntie Mabel’s
birthday, or dentist, half-past three.
“He never wrote in it,” said Harry, disappointed.
“I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?” said
Ron curiously.
Harry turned to the back cover of the book and saw
the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road,
London.
“He must’ve been Muggle-born,” said Harry
thoughtfully. “To have bought a diary from Vauxhall
Road. ...”
“Well, it’s not much use to you,” said Ron. He
dropped his voice. “Fifty points if you can get it
through Myrtle’s nose.”
Harry, however, pocketed it.
Hermione left the hospital wing, de-whiskered, tail-
less, and fur-free, at the beginning of February. On
her first evening back in Gryffindor Tower, Harry
showed her T. M. Riddle’s diary and told her the story
of how they had found it.
 
“Oooh, it might have hidden powers,” said Hermione
enthusiastically, taking the diary and looking at it
closely.
“If it has, it’s hiding them very well,” said Ron. “Maybe
it’s shy. I don’t know why you don’t chuck it, Harry.”
“I wish I knew why someone did try to chuck it,” said
Harry. “I wouldn’t mind knowing how Riddle got an
award for special services to Hogwarts either.”
“Could’ve been anything,” said Ron. “Maybe he got
thirty O.W.L.s or saved a teacher from the giant
squid. Maybe he murdered Myrtle; that would’ve done
everyone a favor. ...”
But Harry could tell from the arrested look on
Hermione ’s face that she was thinking what he was
thinking.
“What?” said Ron, looking from one to the other.
“Well, the Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years
ago, wasn’t it?” he said. “That’s what Malfoy said.”
“Yeah ...” said Ron slowly.
“And this diary is fifty years old,” said Hermione,
tapping it excitedly.
“So?”
“Oh, Ron, wake up,” snapped Hermione. “We know
the person who opened the Chamber last time was
expelled fifty years ago. We know T. M. Riddle got an
award for special services to the school fifty years
ago. Well, what if Riddle got his special award for
catching the Heir of Slytherin? His diary would
probably tell us everything — where the Chamber is,
 
and how to open it, and what sort of creature lives in
it — the person who’s behind the attacks this time
wouldn’t want that lying around, would they?”
“That’s a brilliant theory, Hermione,” said Ron, “with
just one tiny little flaw. There’s nothing written in his
diary.”
But Hermione was pulling her wand out of her bag.
“It might be invisible ink!” she whispered.
She tapped the diary three times and said,
“Aparecium\”
Nothing happened. Undaunted, Hermione shoved her
hand back into her bag and pulled out what appeared
to be a bright red eraser.
“It’s a Revealer, I got it in Diagon Alley,” she said.
She rubbed hard on January first. Nothing happened.
“I’m telling you, there’s nothing to find in there,” said
Ron. “Riddle just got a diary for Christmas and
couldn’t be bothered filling it in.”
Harry couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he didn’t
just throw Riddle’s diary away. The fact was that even
though he knew the diary was blank, he kept
absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages,
as though it were a story he wanted to finish. And
while Harry was sure he had never heard the name T.
M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to
him, almost as though Riddle was a friend he’d had
when he was very small, and had half-forgotten. But
this was absurd. He’d never had friends before
Hogwarts, Dudley had made sure of that.
 
Nevertheless, Harry was determined to find out more
about Riddle, so next day at break, he headed for the
trophy room to examine Riddle’s special award,
accompanied by an interested Hermione and a
thoroughly unconvinced Ron, who told them he’d
seen enough of the trophy room to last him a lifetime.
Riddle’s burnished gold shield was tucked away in a
corner cabinet. It didn’t carry details of why it had
been given to him (“Good thing, too, or it’d be even
bigger and I’d still be polishing it,” said Ron).
However, they did find Riddle’s name on an old Medal
for Magical Merit, and on a list of old Head Boys.
“He sounds like Percy,” said Ron, wrinkling his nose
in disgust. “Prefect, Head Boy ... probably top of every
class — ”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Hermione in a
slightly hurt voice.
The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts
again. Inside the castle, the mood had grown more
hopeful. There had been no more attacks since those
on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, and Madam
Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes
were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that
they were fast leaving childhood.
“The moment their acne clears up, they’ll be ready for
repotting again,” Harry heard her telling Filch kindly
one afternoon. “And after that, it won’t be long until
we’re cutting them up and stewing them. You’ll have
Mrs. Norris back in no time.”
Perhaps the Heir of Slytherin had lost his or her
nerve, thought Harry. It must be getting riskier and
riskier to open the Chamber of Secrets, with the
school so alert and suspicious. Perhaps the monster,
 
whatever it was, was even now settling itself down to
hibernate for another fifty years. ...
Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff didn’t take this cheerful
view. He was still convinced that Harry was the guilty
one, that he had “given himself away” at the Dueling
Club. Peeves wasn’t helping matters; he kept popping
up in the crowded corridors singing “Oh, Potter, you
rotter ...” now with a dance routine to match.
Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think he himself had
made the attacks stop. Harry overheard him telling
Professor McGonagall so while the Gryffindors were
lining up for Transfiguration.
“I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble, Minerva,”
he said, tapping his nose knowingly and winking. “I
think the Chamber has been locked for good this
time. The culprit must have known it was only a
matter of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to
stop now, before I came down hard on him.
“You know, what the school needs now is a morale-
booster. Wash away the memories of last term! I won’t
say any more just now, but I think I know just the
thing. ...”
He tapped his nose again and strode off.
Lockhart’s idea of a morale-booster became clear at
breakfast time on February fourteenth. Harry hadn’t
had much sleep because of a late-running Quidditch
practice the night before, and he hurried down to the
Great Hall, slightly late. He thought, for a moment,
that he’d walked through the wrong doors.
The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink
flowers. Worse still, heart-shaped confetti was falling
from the pale blue ceiling. Harry went over to the
 
Gryffindor table, where Ron was sitting looking
sickened, and Hermione seemed to have been
overcome with giggles.
“What’s going on?” Harry asked them, sitting down
and wiping confetti off his bacon.
Ron pointed to the teachers’ table, apparently too
disgusted to speak. Lockhart, wearing lurid pink
robes to match the decorations, was waving for
silence. The teachers on either side of him were
looking stony-faced. From where he sat, Harry could
see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall’s cheek.
Snape looked as though someone had just fed him a
large beaker of Skele-Gro.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart shouted. “And may
I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me
cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this
little surprise for you all — and it doesn’t end here!”
Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to
the entrance hall marched a dozen surly-looking
dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however. Lockhart had
them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps.
“My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart.
“They will be roving around the school today
delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop
here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into
the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor
Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And
while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more
about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve
ever met, the sly old dog!”
Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape
was looking as though the first person to ask him for
a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.
 
“Please, Hermione, tell me you weren’t one of the
forty-six,” said Ron as they left the Great Hall for their
first lesson. Hermione suddenly became very
interested in searching her bag for her schedule and
didn’t answer.
All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their
classes to deliver valentines, to the annoyance of the
teachers, and late that afternoon as the Gryffindors
were walking upstairs for Charms, one of the dwarfs
caught up with Harry.
“Oy, you! ’Arry Potter!” shouted a particularly grim-
looking dwarf, elbowing people out of the way to get to
Harry.
Hot all over at the thought of being given a valentine
in front of a line of first years, which happened to
include Ginny Weasley, Harry tried to escape. The
dwarf, however, cut his way through the crowd by
kicking people’s shins, and reached him before he’d
gone two paces.
“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to ’Arry Potter in
person,” he said, twanging his harp in a threatening
sort of way.
“Not here,” Harry hissed, trying to escape.
“Stay stilll” grunted the dwarf, grabbing hold of
Harry’s bag and pulling him back.
“Let me go!” Harry snarled, tugging.
With a loud ripping noise, his bag split in two. His
books, wand, parchment, and quill spilled onto the
floor and his ink bottle smashed over everything.
 
Harry scrambled around, trying to pick it all up
before the dwarf started singing, causing something of
a holdup in the corridor.
“What’s going on here?” came the cold, drawling voice
of Draco Malfoy. Harry started stuffing everything
feverishly into his ripped bag, desperate to get away
before Malfoy could hear his musical valentine.
“What’s all this commotion?” said another familiar
voice as Percy Weasley arrived.
Losing his head, Harry tried to make a run for it, but
the dwarf seized him around the knees and brought
him crashing to the floor.
“Right,” he said, sitting on Harry’s ankles. “Here is
your singing valentine:
His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”
Harry would have given all the gold in Gringotts to
evaporate on the spot. Trying valiantly to laugh along
with everyone else, he got up, his feet numb from the
weight of the dwarf, as Percy Weasley did his best to
disperse the crowd, some of whom were crying with
mirth.
“Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago,
off to class, now,” he said, shooing some of the
younger students away. “And you, Malfoy — ”
 
Harry, glancing over, saw Malfoy stoop and snatch up
something. Leering, he showed it to Crabbe and
Goyle, and Harry realized that he’d got Riddle’s diary.
“Give that back,” said Harry quietly.
“Wonder what Potter’s written in this?” said Malfoy,
who obviously hadn’t noticed the year on the cover
and thought he had Harry’s own diary. A hush fell
over the onlookers. Ginny was staring from the diary
to Harry, looking terrified.
“Hand it over, Malfoy,” said Percy sternly.
“When I’ve had a look,” said Malfoy, waving the diary
tauntingly at Harry.
Percy said, “As a school prefect — ” but Harry had lost
his temper. He pulled out his wand and shouted,
“ ExpelliarmusV’ and just as Snape had disarmed
Lockhart, so Malfoy found the diary shooting out of
his hand into the air. Ron, grinning broadly, caught
it.
“Harry!” said Percy loudly. “No magic in the corridors.
I’ll have to report this, you know!”
But Harry didn’t care, he was one-up on Malfoy, and
that was worth five points from Gryffindor any day.
Malfoy was looking furious, and as Ginny passed him
to enter her classroom, he yelled spitefully after her,
“I don’t think Potter liked your valentine much!”
Ginny covered her face with her hands and ran into
class. Snarling, Ron pulled out his wand, too, but
Harry pulled him away. Ron didn’t need to spend the
whole of Charms belching slugs.
 
It wasn’t until they had reached Professor Flitwick’s
class that Harry noticed something rather odd about
Riddle’s diary. All his other books were drenched in
scarlet ink. The diary, however, was as clean as it had
been before the ink bottle had smashed all over it. He
tried to point this out to Ron, but Ron was having
trouble with his wand again; large purple bubbles
were blossoming out of the end, and he wasn’t much
interested in anything else.
Jc Jc Jc
Harry went to bed before anyone else in his
dormitory that night. This was partly because he
didn’t think he could stand Fred and George singing,
“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad” one
more time, and partly because he wanted to examine
Riddle’s diary again, and knew that Ron thought he
was wasting his time.
Harry sat on his four-poster and flicked through the
blank pages, not one of which had a trace of scarlet
ink on it. Then he pulled a new bottle out of his
bedside cabinet, dipped his quill into it, and dropped
a blot onto the first page of the diary.
The ink shone brightly on the paper for a second and
then, as though it was being sucked into the page,
vanished. Excited, Harry loaded up his quill a second
time and wrote, “My name is Harry Potter.”
The words shone momentarily on the page and they,
too, sank without trace. Then, at last, something
happened.
Oozing back out of the page, in his very own ink,
came words Harry had never written.
 
“Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did
you come by my diary?”
These words, too, faded away, but not before Harry
had started to scribble back.
“Someone tried to flush it down a toilet.”
He waited eagerly for Riddle’s reply.
“Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more
lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there
would be those who would not want this diary read.”
“What do you mean?” Harry scrawled, blotting the
page in his excitement.
“I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible
things. Things that were covered up. Things that
happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry.”
“That’s where I am now,” Harry wrote quickly. “I’m at
Hogwarts, and horrible stuff’s been happening. Do
you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?”
His heart was hammering. Riddle’s reply came
quickly, his writing becoming untidier, as though he
was hurrying to tell all he knew.
“Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my
day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist.
But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was
opened and the monster attacked several students,
finally killing one. I caught the person who’d opened
the Chamber and he was expelled. But the
headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a
thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell
the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died
 
in a freak accident They gave me a nice, shiny,
engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep
my mouth shut But I knew it could happen again. The
monster lived on, and the one who had the power to
release it was not imprisoned.”
Harry nearly upset his ink bottle in his hurry to write
back.
“It’s happening again now. There have been three
attacks and no one seems to know who’s behind
them. Who was it last time?”
“ I can show you, if you like,” came Riddle’s reply. “You
don’t have to take my word for it. I can take you inside
my memory of the night when I caught him.”
Harry hesitated, his quill suspended over the diary.
What did Riddle mean? How could he be taken inside
somebody else’s memory? He glanced nervously at the
door to the dormitory, which was growing dark. When
he looked back at the diary, he saw fresh words
forming.
“Let me show you.”
Harry paused for a fraction of a second and then
wrote two letters.
“OK.”
The pages of the diary began to blow as though
caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the
month of June. Mouth hanging open, Harry saw that
the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have
turned into a minuscule television screen. His hands
trembling slightly, he raised the book to press his eye
against the little window, and before he knew what
was happening, he was tilting forward; the window
 
was widening, he felt his body leave his bed, and he
was pitched headfirst through the opening in the
page, into a whirl of color and shadow.
He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking,
as the blurred shapes around him came suddenly
into focus.
He knew immediately where he was. This circular
room with the sleeping portraits was Dumbledore’s
office — but it wasn’t Dumbledore who was sitting
behind the desk. A wizened, frail-looking wizard, bald
except for a few wisps of white hair, was reading a
letter by candlelight. Harry had never seen this man
before.
“I’m sorry,” he said shakily. “I didn’t mean to butt in
But the wizard didn’t look up. He continued to read,
frowning slightly. Harry drew nearer to his desk and
stammered, “Er — I’ll just go, shall I?”
Still the wizard ignored him. He didn’t seem even to
have heard him. Thinking that the wizard might be
deaf, Harry raised his voice.
“Sorry I disturbed you. I’ll go now,” he half-shouted.
The wizard folded up the letter with a sigh, stood up,
walked past Harry without glancing at him, and went
to draw the curtains at his window.
The sky outside the window was ruby-red; it seemed
to be sunset. The wizard went back to the desk, sat
down, and twiddled his thumbs, watching the door.
Harry looked around the office. No Fawkes the
phoenix — no whirring silver contraptions. This was
 
Hogwarts as Riddle had known it, meaning that this
unknown wizard was headmaster, not Dumbledore,
and he, Harry, was little more than a phantom,
completely invisible to the people of fifty years ago.
There was a knock on the office door.
“Enter,” said the old wizard in a feeble voice.
A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed
hat. A silver prefect’s badge was glinting on his chest.
He was much taller than Harry, but he, too, had jet-
black hair.
“Ah, Riddle,” said the headmaster.
“You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?” said
Riddle. He looked nervous.
“Sit down,” said Dippet. “I’ve just been reading the
letter you sent me.”
“Oh,” said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands
together very tightly.
“My dear boy,” said Dippet kindly, “I cannot possibly
let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you
want to go home for the holidays?”
“No,” said Riddle at once. “I’d much rather stay at
Hogwarts than go back to that — to that — ”
“You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I
believe?” said Dippet curiously.
“Yes, sir,” said Riddle, reddening slightly.
“You are Muggle-born?”
 
“Half-blood, sir,” said Riddle. “Muggle father, witch
mother.”
“And are both your parents — ?”
“My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told
me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to
name me — Tom after my father, Marvolo after my
grandfather.”
Dippet clucked his tongue sympathetically.
“The thing is, Tom,” he sighed, “special arrangements
might have been made for you, but in the current
circumstances. ...”
“You mean all these attacks, sir?” said Riddle, and
Harry’s heart leapt, and he moved closer, scared of
missing anything.
“Precisely,” said the headmaster. “My dear boy, you
must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to
remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in
light of the recent tragedy . . . the death of that poor
little girl. ... You will be safer by far at your
orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic
is even now talking about closing the school. We are
no nearer locating the — er — source of all this
unpleasantness. ...”
Riddle’s eyes had widened.
“Sir — if the person was caught — if it all stopped — ”
“What do you mean?” said Dippet with a squeak in
his voice, sitting up in his chair. “Riddle, do you mean
you know something about these attacks?”
“No, sir,” said Riddle quickly.
 
But Harry was sure it was the same sort of “no” that
he himself had given Dumbledore.
Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed.
“You may go, Tom. ...”
Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room.
Harry followed him.
Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging
next to the gargoyle in the darkening corridor. Riddle
stopped, and so did Harry, watching him. Harry could
tell that Riddle was doing some serious thinking. He
was biting his lip, his forehead furrowed.
Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision,
he hurried off, Harry gliding noiselessly behind him.
They didn’t see another person until they reached the
entrance hall, when a tall wizard with long, sweeping
auburn hair and a beard called to Riddle from the
marble staircase.
“What are you doing, wandering around this late,
Tom?”
Harry gaped at the wizard. He was none other than a
fifty-year-younger Dumbledore.
“I had to see the headmaster, sir,” said Riddle.
“Well, hurry off to bed,” said Dumbledore, giving
Riddle exactly the kind of penetrating stare Harry
knew so well. “Best not to roam the corridors these
days. Not since ...”
He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode
off. Riddle watched him walk out of sight and then,
 
moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps
to the dungeons, with Harry in hot pursuit.
But to Harry’s disappointment, Riddle led him not
into a hidden passageway or a secret tunnel but to
the very dungeon in which Harry had Potions with
Snape. The torches hadn’t been lit, and when Riddle
pushed the door almost closed, Harry could only just
see him, standing stock-still by the door, watching
the passage outside.
It felt to Harry that they were there for at least an
hour. All he could see was the figure of Riddle at the
door, staring through the crack, waiting like a statue.
And just when Harry had stopped feeling expectant
and tense and started wishing he could return to the
present, he heard something move beyond the door.
Someone was creeping along the passage. He heard
whoever it was pass the dungeon where he and Riddle
were hidden. Riddle, quiet as a shadow, edged
through the door and followed, Harry tiptoeing behind
him, forgetting that he couldn’t be heard.
For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps,
until Riddle stopped suddenly, his head inclined in
the direction of new noises. Harry heard a door creak
open, and then someone speaking in a hoarse
whisper.
“C’mon ... gotta get yeh outta here. ... C’mon now ...
in the box ...”
There was something familiar about that voice. ...
Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Harry
stepped out behind him. He could see the dark
outline of a huge boy who was crouching in front of
an open door, a very large box next to it.
 
“ ’Evening, Rubeus,” said Riddle sharply.
The boy slammed the door shut and stood up.
“What yer doin’ down here, Tom?”
Riddle stepped closer.
“It’s all over,” he said. “I’m going to have to turn you
in, Rubeus. They’re talking about closing Hogwarts if
the attacks don’t stop.”
“What d’yeh — ”
“I don’t think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters
don’t make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for
exercise and — ”
“It never killed no one!” said the large boy, backing
against the closed door. From behind him, Harry
could hear a funny rustling and clicking.
“Come on, Rubeus,” said Riddle, moving yet closer.
“The dead girl’s parents will be here tomorrow. The
least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing
that killed their daughter is slaughtered. ...”
“It wasn’t him!” roared the boy, his voice echoing in
the dark passage. “He wouldn’! He never!”
“Stand aside,” said Riddle, drawing out his wand.
His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light.
The door behind the large boy flew open with such
force it knocked him into the wall opposite. And out of
it came something that made Harry let out a long,
piercing scream unheard by anyone —
 
A vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black
legs; a gleam of many eyes and a pair of razor-sharp
pincers — Riddle raised his wand again, but he was
too late. The thing bowled him over as it scuttled
away, tearing up the corridor and out of sight. Riddle
scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he raised his
wand, but the huge boy leapt on him, seized his
wand, and threw him back down, yelling,
“NOOOOOOO!”
The scene whirled, the darkness became complete;
Harry felt himself falling and, with a crash, he landed
spread-eagled on his four-poster in the Gryffindor
dormitory, Riddle’s diary lying open on his stomach.
Before he had had time to regain his breath, the
dormitory door opened and Ron came in.
“There you are,” he said.
Harry sat up. He was sweating and shaking.
“What’s up?” said Ron, looking at him with concern.
“It was Hagrid, Ron. Hagrid opened the Chamber of
Secrets fifty years ago.”
 
CORNELIUS FUDGE
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had always known that
Hagrid had an unfortunate liking for large and
monstrous creatures. During their first year at
Hogwarts he had tried to raise a dragon in his little
wooden house, and it would be a long time before
they forgot the giant, three-headed dog he’d
christened “Fluffy.” And if, as a boy, Hagrid had heard
that a monster was hidden somewhere in the castle,
Harry was sure he’d have gone to any lengths for a
glimpse of it. He’d probably thought it was a shame
that the monster had been cooped up so long, and
thought it deserved the chance to stretch its many
legs; Harry could just imagine the thirteen-year-old
Hagrid trying to fit a leash and collar on it. But he
was equally certain that Hagrid would never have
meant to kill anybody.
Harry half wished he hadn’t found out how to work
Riddle’s diary. Again and again Ron and Hermione
made him recount what he’d seen, until he was
heartily sick of telling them and sick of the long,
circular conversations that followed.
 
“Riddle might have got the wrong person,” said
Hermione. “Maybe it was some other monster that
was attacking people. ...”
“How many monsters d’you think this place can
hold?” Ron asked dully.
“We always knew Hagrid had been expelled,” said
Harry miserably. “And the attacks must’ve stopped
after Hagrid was kicked out. Otherwise, Riddle
wouldn’t have got his award.”
Ron tried a different tack.
“Riddle does sound like Percy — who asked him to
squeal on Hagrid, anyway?”
“But the monster had killed someone, Ron,” said
Hermione.
“And Riddle was going to go back to some Muggle
orphanage if they closed Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I
don’t blame him for wanting to stay here. ...”
“You met Hagrid down Knockturn Alley, didn’t you,
Harry?”
“He was buying a Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent,” said
Harry quickly.
The three of them fell silent. After a long pause,
Hermione voiced the knottiest question of all in a
hesitant voice.
“Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it
all?”
 
“That’d be a cheerful visit,” said Ron. “ ‘Hello, Hagrid.
Tell us, have you been setting anything mad and
hairy loose in the castle lately?’ ”
In the end, they decided that they would not say
anything to Hagrid unless there was another attack,
and as more and more days went by with no whisper
from the disembodied voice, they became hopeful that
they would never need to talk to him about why he
had been expelled. It was now nearly four months
since Justin and Nearly Headless Nick had been
Petrified, and nearly everybody seemed to think that
the attacker, whoever it was, had retired for good.
Peeves had finally got bored of his “Oh, Potter, you
rotter” song, Ernie Macmillan asked Harry quite
politely to pass a bucket of leaping toadstools in
Herbology one day, and in March several of the
Mandrakes threw a loud and raucous party in
greenhouse three. This made Professor Sprout very
happy.
“The moment they start trying to move into each
other’s pots, we’ll know they’re fully mature,” she told
Harry. “Then we’ll be able to revive those poor people
in the hospital wing.”
The second years were given something new to think
about during their Easter holidays. The time had
come to choose their subjects for the third year, a
matter that Hermione, at least, took very seriously.
“It could affect our whole future,” she told Harry and
Ron as they pored over lists of new subjects, marking
them with checks.
“I just want to give up Potions,” said Harry.
 
“We can’t,” said Ron gloomily. “We keep all our old
subjects, or I’d’ve ditched Defense Against the Dark
Arts.”
“But that’s very important!” said Hermione, shocked.
“Not the way Lockhart teaches it,” said Ron. “I haven’t
learned anything from him except not to set pixies
loose.”
Neville Longbottom had been sent letters from all the
witches and wizards in his family, all giving him
different advice on what to choose. Confused and
worried, he sat reading the subject lists with his
tongue poking out, asking people whether they
thought Arithmancy sounded more difficult than the
study of Ancient Runes. Dean Thomas, who, like
Harry, had grown up with Muggles, ended up closing
his eyes and jabbing his wand at the list, then picking
the subjects it landed on. Hermione took nobody’s
advice but signed up for everything.
Harry smiled grimly to himself at the thought of what
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would say if he tried
to discuss his career in wizardry with them. Not that
he didn’t get any guidance: Percy Weasley was eager
to share his experience.
“Depends where you want to go, Harry,” he said. “It’s
never too early to think about the future, so I’d
recommend Divination. People say Muggle Studies is
a soft option, but I personally think wizards should
have a thorough understanding of the non-magical
community, particularly if they’re thinking of working
in close contact with them — look at my father, he
has to deal with Muggle business all the time. My
brother Charlie was always more of an outdoor type,
so he went for Care of Magical Creatures. Play to your
strengths, Harry.”
 
But the only thing Harry felt he was really good at
was Quidditch. In the end, he chose the same new
subjects as Ron, feeling that if he was lousy at them,
at least he’d have someone friendly to help him.
Gryffindor’s next Quidditch match would be against
Hufflepuff. Wood was insisting on team practices
every night after dinner, so that Harry barely had
time for anything but Quidditch and homework.
However, the training sessions were getting better, or
at least drier, and the evening before Saturday’s
match he went up to his dormitory to drop off his
broomstick feeling Gryffindor’s chances for the
Quidditch Cup had never been better.
But his cheerful mood didn’t last long. At the top of
the stairs to the dormitory, he met Neville
Longbottom, who was looking frantic.
“Harry — I don’t know who did it — I just found — ”
Watching Harry fearfully, Neville pushed open the
door.
The contents of Harry’s trunk had been thrown
everywhere. His cloak lay ripped on the floor. The
bedclothes had been pulled off his four-poster and the
drawer had been pulled out of his bedside cabinet,
the contents strewn over the mattress.
Harry walked over to the bed, openmouthed, treading
on a few loose pages of Travels with Trolls. As he and
Neville pulled the blankets back onto his bed, Ron,
Dean, and Seamus came in. Dean swore loudly.
“What happened, Harry?”
“No idea,” said Harry. But Ron was examining Harry’s
robes. All the pockets were hanging out.
 
“Someone’s been looking for something,” said Ron. “Is
there anything missing?”
Harry started to pick up all his things and throw
them into his trunk. It was only as he threw the last
of the Lockhart books back into it that he realized
what wasn’t there.
“Riddle’s diary’s gone,” he said in an undertone to
Ron.
“What?”
Harry jerked his head toward the dormitory door and
Ron followed him out. They hurried down to the
Gryffindor common room, which was half-empty, and
joined Hermione, who was sitting alone, reading a
book called Ancient Runes Made Easy.
Hermione looked aghast at the news.
“But — only a Gryffindor could have stolen — nobody
else knows our password — ”
“Exactly,” said Harry.
They woke the next day to brilliant sunshine and a
light, refreshing breeze.
“Perfect Quidditch conditions!” said Wood
enthusiastically at the Gryffindor table, loading the
team’s plates with scrambled eggs. “Harry, buck up
there, you need a decent breakfast.”
Harry had been staring down the packed Gryffindor
table, wondering if the new owner of Riddle’s diary
was right in front of his eyes. Hermione had been
urging him to report the robbery, but Harry didn’t like
the idea. He’d have to tell a teacher all about the
 
diary, and how many people knew why Hagrid had
been expelled fifty years ago? He didn’t want to be the
one who brought it all up again.
As he left the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione to go
and collect his Quidditch things, another very serious
worry was added to Harry’s growing list. He had just
set foot on the marble staircase when he heard it yet
again —
“ Kill this time ... let me rip ... tear ...”
He shouted aloud and Ron and Hermione both
jumped away from him in alarm.
“The voice!” said Harry, looking over his shoulder. “I
just heard it again — didn’t you?”
Ron shook his head, wide-eyed. Hermione, however,
clapped a hand to her forehead.
“Harry — I think I’ve just understood something! I’ve
got to go to the library!”
And she sprinted away, up the stairs.
“ What does she understand?” said Harry distractedly,
still looking around, trying to tell where the voice had
come from.
“Loads more than I do,” said Ron, shaking his head.
“But why’s she got to go to the library?”
“Because that’s what Hermione does,” said Ron,
shrugging. “When in doubt, go to the library.”
Harry stood, irresolute, trying to catch the voice
again, but people were now emerging from the Great
 
Hall behind him, talking loudly, exiting through the
front doors on their way to the Quidditch pitch.
“You’d better get moving,” said Ron. “It’s nearly eleven
— the match — ”
Harry raced up to Gryffindor Tower, collected his
Nimbus Two Thousand, and joined the large crowd
swarming across the grounds, but his mind was still
in the castle along with the bodiless voice, and as he
pulled on his scarlet robes in the locker room, his
only comfort was that everyone was now outside to
watch the game.
The teams walked onto the field to tumultuous
applause. Oliver Wood took off for a warm-up flight
around the goal posts; Madam Hooch released the
balls. The Hufflepuffs, who played in canary yellow,
were standing in a huddle, having a last-minute
discussion of tactics.
Harry was just mounting his broom when Professor
McGonagall came half marching, half running across
the pitch, carrying an enormous purple megaphone.
Harry’s heart dropped like a stone.
“This match has been canceled,” Professor
McGonagall called through the megaphone,
addressing the packed stadium. There were boos and
shouts. Oliver Wood, looking devastated, landed and
ran toward Professor McGonagall without getting off
his broomstick.
“But, Professor!” he shouted. “We’ve got to play — the
Cup — Gryffindor — ”
Professor McGonagall ignored him and continued to
shout through her megaphone:
 
“All students are to make their way back to the House
common rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give
them further information. As quickly as you can,
please!”
Then she lowered the megaphone and beckoned
Harry over to her.
“Potter, I think you’d better come with me. ...”
Wondering how she could possibly suspect him this
time, Harry saw Ron detach himself from the
complaining crowd; he came running up to them as
they set off toward the castle. To Harry’s surprise,
Professor McGonagall didn’t object.
“Yes, perhaps you’d better come, too, Weasley. ...”
Some of the students swarming around them were
grumbling about the match being canceled; others
looked worried. Harry and Ron followed Professor
McGonagall back into the school and up the marble
staircase. But they weren’t taken to anybody’s office
this time.
“This will be a bit of a shock,” said Professor
McGonagall in a surprisingly gentle voice as they
approached the infirmary. “There has been another
attack ... another double attack.”
Harry’s insides did a horrible somersault. Professor
McGonagall pushed the door open and he and Ron
entered.
Madam Pomfrey was bending over a sixth-year girl
with long, curly hair. Harry recognized her as the
Ravenclaw they’d accidentally asked for directions to
the Slytherin common room. And on the bed next to
her was —
 
“HermioneY’ Ron groaned.
Hermione lay utterly still, her eyes open and glassy.
“They were found near the library,” said Professor
McGonagall. “I don’t suppose either of you can
explain this? It was on the floor next to them. ...”
She was holding up a small, circular mirror.
Harry and Ron shook their heads, both staring at
Hermione.
“I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower,” said
Professor McGonagall heavily. “I need to address the
students in any case.”
“All students will return to their House common
rooms by six o’clock in the evening. No student is to
leave the dormitories after that time. You will be
escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to
use the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher. All
further Quidditch training and matches are to be
postponed. There will be no more evening activities.”
The Gryffindors packed inside the common room
listened to Professor McGonagall in silence. She rolled
up the parchment from which she had been reading
and said in a somewhat choked voice, “I need hardly
add that I have rarely been so distressed. It is likely
that the school will be closed unless the culprit
behind these attacks is caught. I would urge anyone
who thinks they might know anything about them to
come forward.”
She climbed somewhat awkwardly out of the portrait
hole, and the Gryffindors began talking immediately.
 
“That’s two Gryffindors down, not counting a
Gryffindor ghost, one Ravenclaw, and one Hufflepuff,”
said the Weasley twins’ friend Lee Jordan, counting
on his fingers. “Haven’t any of the teachers noticed
that the Slytherins are all safe? Isn’t it obvious all this
stuff’s coming from Slytherin? The Heir of Slytherin,
the monster of Slytherin — why don’t they just chuck
all the Slytherins out?” he roared, to nods and
scattered applause.
Percy Weasley was sitting in a chair behind Lee, but
for once he didn’t seem keen to make his views heard.
He was looking pale and stunned.
“Percy’s in shock,” George told Harry quietly. “That
Ravenclaw girl — Penelope Clearwater — she’s a
prefect. I don’t think he thought the monster would
dare attack a prefect.”
But Harry was only half-listening. He didn’t seem to
be able to get rid of the picture of Hermione, lying on
the hospital bed as though carved out of stone. And if
the culprit wasn’t caught soon, he was looking at a
lifetime back with the Dursleys. Tom Riddle had
turned Hagrid in because he was faced with the
prospect of a Muggle orphanage if the school closed.
Harry now knew exactly how he had felt.
“What’re we going to do?” said Ron quietly in Harry’s
ear. “D’you think they suspect Hagrid?”
“We’ve got to go and talk to him,” said Harry, making
up his mind. “I can’t believe it’s him this time, but if
he set the monster loose last time he’ll know how to
get inside the Chamber of Secrets, and that’s a start.”
“But McGonagall said we’ve got to stay in our tower
unless we’re in class — ”
 
“I think,” said Harry, more quietly still, “it’s time to
get my dad’s old cloak out again.”
Harry had inherited just one thing from his father: a
long and silvery Invisibility Cloak. It was their only
chance of sneaking out of the school to visit Hagrid
without anyone knowing about it. They went to bed at
the usual time, waited until Neville, Dean, and
Seamus had stopped discussing the Chamber of
Secrets and finally fallen asleep, then got up, dressed
again, and threw the cloak over themselves.
The journey through the dark and deserted castle
corridors wasn’t enjoyable. Harry, who had wandered
the castle at night several times before, had never
seen it so crowded after sunset. Teachers, prefects,
and ghosts were marching the corridors in pairs,
staring around for any unusual activity. Their
Invisibility Cloak didn’t stop them making any noise,
and there was a particularly tense moment when Ron
stubbed his toe only yards from the spot where Snape
stood standing guard. Thankfully, Snape sneezed at
almost exactly the moment Ron swore. It was with
relief that they reached the oak front doors and eased
them open.
It was a clear, starry night. They hurried toward the
lit windows of Hagrid ’s house and pulled off the cloak
only when they were right outside his front door.
Seconds after they had knocked, Hagrid flung it open.
They found themselves face-to-face with him aiming a
crossbow at them. Fang the boarhound barked loudly
behind him.
“Oh,” he said, lowering the weapon and staring at
them. “What ’re you two doin’ here?”
 
“What’s that for?” said Harry, pointing at the
crossbow as they stepped inside.
“Nothin’ — nothin’ — “ Hagrid muttered. “I’ve bin
expectin’ — doesn’ matter — Sit down — I’ll make tea
He hardly seemed to know what he was doing. He
nearly extinguished the fire, spilling water from the
kettle on it, and then smashed the teapot with a
nervous jerk of his massive hand.
“Are you okay, Hagrid?” said Harry. “Did you hear
about Hermione?”
“Oh, I heard, all righ’,” said Hagrid, a slight break in
his voice.
He kept glancing nervously at the windows. He
poured them both large mugs of boiling water (he had
forgotten to add tea bags) and was just putting a slab
of fruitcake on a plate when there was a loud knock
on the door.
Hagrid dropped the fruitcake. Harry and Ron
exchanged panic-stricken looks, then threw the
Invisibility Cloak back over themselves and retreated
into a corner. Hagrid checked that they were hidden,
seized his crossbow, and flung open his door once
more.
“Good evening, Hagrid.”
It was Dumbledore. He entered, looking deadly
serious, and was followed by a second, very odd-
looking man.
The stranger had rumpled gray hair and an anxious
expression, and was wearing a strange mixture of
 
clothes: a pinstriped suit, a scarlet tie, a long black
cloak, and pointed purple boots. Under his arm he
carried a lime-green bowler.
“That’s Dad’s boss!” Ron breathed. “Cornelius Fudge,
the Minister of Magic!”
Harry elbowed Ron hard to make him shut up.
Hagrid had gone pale and sweaty. He dropped into
one of his chairs and looked from Dumbledore to
Cornelius Fudge.
“Bad business, Hagrid,” said Fudge in rather clipped
tones. “Very bad business. Had to come. Four attacks
on Muggle-borns. Things’ve gone far enough.
Ministry’s got to act.”
“I never,” said Hagrid, looking imploringly at
Dumbledore. “You know I never, Professor
Dumbledore, sir — ”
“I want it understood, Cornelius, that Hagrid has my
full confidence,” said Dumbledore, frowning at Fudge.
“Look, Albus,” said Fudge, uncomfortably. “Hagrid’s
record’s against him. Ministry’s got to do something
— the school governors have been in touch — ”
“Yet again, Cornelius, I tell you that taking Hagrid
away will not help in the slightest,” said Dumbledore.
His blue eyes were full of a fire Harry had never seen
before.
“Look at it from my point of view,” said Fudge,
fidgeting with his bowler. “I’m under a lot of pressure.
Got to be seen to be doing something. If it turns out it
wasn’t Hagrid, he’ll be back and no more said. But
 
I’ve got to take him. Got to. Wouldn’t be doing my
duty — ”
“Take me?” said Hagrid, who was trembling. “Take me
where?”
“For a short stretch only,” said Fudge, not meeting
Hagrid ’s eyes. “Not a punishment, Hagrid, more a
precaution. If someone else is caught, you’ll be let out
with a full apology — ”
“Not Azkaban?” croaked Hagrid.
Before Fudge could answer, there was another loud
rap on the door.
Dumbledore answered it. It was Harry’s turn for an
elbow in the ribs; he’d let out an audible gasp.
Mr. Lucius Malfoy strode into Hagrid’s hut, swathed
in a long black traveling cloak, smiling a cold and
satisfied smile. Fang started to growl.
“Already here, Fudge,” he said approvingly. “Good,
good...”
“What’re you doin’ here?” said Hagrid furiously. “Get
outta my house!”
“My dear man, please believe me, I have no pleasure
at all in being inside your — er — d’you call this a
house?” said Lucius Malfoy, sneering as he looked
around the small cabin. “I simply called at the school
and was told that the headmaster was here.”
“And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?”
said Dumbledore. He spoke politely, but the fire was
still blazing in his blue eyes.
 
“ Dreadful thing, Dumbledore,” said Malfoy lazily,
taking out a long roll of parchment, “but the
governors feel it’s time for you to step aside. This is
an Order of Suspension — you’ll find all twelve
signatures on it. I’m afraid we feel you’re losing your
touch. How many attacks have there been now? Two
more this afternoon, wasn’t it? At this rate, there’ll be
no Muggle-borns left at Hogwarts, and we all know
what an awful loss that would be to the school.”
“Oh, now, see here, Lucius,” said Fudge, looking
alarmed, “Dumbledore suspended — no, no — last
thing we want just now — ”
“The appointment — or suspension — of the
headmaster is a matter for the governors, Fudge,”
said Mr. Malfoy smoothly. “And as Dumbledore has
failed to stop these attacks — ”
“See here, Malfoy, if Dumbledore can’t stop them,”
said Fudge, whose upper lip was sweating now, “I
mean to say, who can?”
“That remains to be seen,” said Mr. Malfoy with a
nasty smile. “But as all twelve of us have voted — ”
Hagrid leapt to his feet, his shaggy black head grazing
the ceiling.
“An’ how many did yeh have ter threaten an’
blackmail before they agreed, Malfoy, eh?” he roared.
“Dear, dear, you know, that temper of yours will lead
you into trouble one of these days, Hagrid,” said Mr.
Malfoy. “I would advise you not to shout at the
Azkaban guards like that. They won’t like it at all.”
“Yeh can’ take Dumbledore!” yelled Hagrid, making
Fang the boarhound cower and whimper in his
 
basket. “Take him away, an’ the Muggle-borns won’
stand a chance! There’ll be killin’ next!”
“Calm yourself, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore sharply. He
looked at Lucius Malfoy.
“If the governors want my removal, Lucius, I shall of
course step aside — ”
“But — ” stuttered Fudge.
“iVo!” growled Hagrid.
Dumbledore had not taken his bright blue eyes off
Lucius Malfoy’s cold gray ones.
“However,” said Dumbledore, speaking very slowly
and clearly so that none of them could miss a word,
“you will find that I will only truly have left this school
when none here are loyal to me. You will also find
that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those
who ask for it.”
For a second, Harry was almost sure Dumbledore’s
eyes flickered toward the corner where he and Ron
stood hidden.
“Admirable sentiments,” said Malfoy, bowing. “We
shall all miss your — er — highly individual way of
running things, Albus, and only hope that your
successor will manage to prevent any — ah — killins.”
He strode to the cabin door, opened it, and bowed
Dumbledore out. Fudge, fiddling with his bowler,
waited for Hagrid to go ahead of him, but Hagrid
stood his ground, took a deep breath, and said
carefully, “If anyone wanted ter find out some stuff,
all they’d have ter do would be ter follow the spiders.
That’d lead ’em right! That’s all I’m sayin’.”
 
Fudge stared at him in amazement.
“All right, I’m cornin’,” said Hagrid, pulling on his
moleskin overcoat. But as he was about to follow
Fudge through the door, he stopped again and said
loudly, “An’ someone’ll need ter feed Fang while I’m
away.”
The door banged shut and Ron pulled off the
Invisibility Cloak.
“We’re in trouble now,” he said hoarsely. “No
Dumbledore. They might as well close the school
tonight. There’ll be an attack a day with him gone.”
Fang started howling, scratching at the closed door.
 
ARAGOG
Summer was creeping over the grounds around the
castle; sky and lake alike turned periwinkle blue and
flowers large as cabbages burst into bloom in the
greenhouses. But with no Hagrid visible from the
castle windows, striding the grounds with Fang at his
heels, the scene didn’t look right to Harry; no better,
in fact, than the inside of the castle, where things
were so horribly wrong.
Harry and Ron had tried to visit Hermione, but
visitors were now barred from the hospital wing.
“We’re taking no more chances,” Madam Pomfrey told
them severely through a crack in the infirmary door.
“No, I’m sorry, there’s every chance the attacker might
come back to finish these people off. ...”
With Dumbledore gone, fear had spread as never
before, so that the sun warming the castle walls
outside seemed to stop at the mullioned windows.
There was barely a face to be seen in the school that
didn’t look worried and tense, and any laughter that
 
rang through the corridors sounded shrill and
unnatural and was quickly stifled.
Harry constantly repeated Dumbledore’s final words
to himself. “I will only truly have left this school when
none here are loyal to me. . . . Help will always be given
at Hog warts to those who ask for it.” But what good
were these words? Who exactly were they supposed to
ask for help, when everyone was just as confused and
scared as they were?
Hagrid’s hint about the spiders was far easier to
understand — the trouble was, there didn’t seem to
be a single spider left in the castle to follow. Harry
looked everywhere he went, helped (rather reluctantly)
by Ron. They were hampered, of course, by the fact
that they weren’t allowed to wander off on their own
but had to move around the castle in a pack with the
other Gryffindors. Most of their fellow students
seemed glad that they were being shepherded from
class to class by teachers, but Harry found it very
irksome.
One person, however, seemed to be thoroughly
enjoying the atmosphere of terror and suspicion.
Draco Malfoy was strutting around the school as
though he had just been appointed Head Boy. Harry
didn’t realize what he was so pleased about until the
Potions lesson about two weeks after Dumbledore and
Hagrid had left, when, sitting right behind Malfoy,
Harry overheard him gloating to Crabbe and Goyle.
“I always thought Father might be the one who got rid
of Dumbledore,” he said, not troubling to keep his
voice down. “I told you he thinks Dumbledore’s the
worst headmaster the school’s ever had. Maybe we’ll
get a decent headmaster now. Someone who won’t
want the Chamber of Secrets closed. McGonagall
won’t last long, she’s only filling in. ...”
 
Snape swept past Harry, making no comment about
Hermione’s empty seat and cauldron.
“Sir,” said Malfoy loudly. “Sir, why don’t you apply for
the headmaster’s job?”
“Now, now, Malfoy,” said Snape, though he couldn’t
suppress a thin-lipped smile. “Professor Dumbledore
has only been suspended by the governors. I daresay
he’ll be back with us soon enough.”
“Yeah, right,” said Malfoy, smirking. “I expect you’d
have Father’s vote, sir, if you wanted to apply for the
job — I’ll tell Father you’re the best teacher here, sir
Snape smirked as he swept off around the dungeon,
fortunately not spotting Seamus Finnigan, who was
pretending to vomit into his cauldron.
“I’m quite surprised the Mudbloods haven’t all packed
their bags by now,” Malfoy went on. “Bet you five
Galleons the next one dies. Pity it wasn’t Granger — ”
The bell rang at that moment, which was lucky; at
Malfoy’s last words, Ron had leapt off his stool, and in
the scramble to collect bags and books, his attempts
to reach Malfoy went unnoticed.
“Let me at him,” Ron growled as Harry and Dean
hung onto his arms. “I don’t care, I don’t need my
wand, I’m going to kill him with my bare hands — ”
“Hurry up, I’ve got to take you all to Herbology,”
barked Snape over the class’s heads, and off they
marched, with Harry, Ron, and Dean bringing up the
rear, Ron still trying to get loose. It was only safe to
let go of him when Snape had seen them out of the
 
castle and they were making their way across the
vegetable patch toward the greenhouses.
The Herbology class was very subdued; there were
now two missing from their number, Justin and
Hermione.
Professor Sprout set them all to work pruning the
Abyssinian Shrivelfigs. Harry went to tip an armful of
withered stalks onto the compost heap and found
himself face-to-face with Ernie Macmillan. Ernie took
a deep breath and said, very formally, “I just want to
say, Harry, that I’m sorry I ever suspected you. I
know you’d never attack Hermione Granger, and I
apologize for all the stuff I said. We’re all in the same
boat now, and, well — ”
He held out a pudgy hand, and Harry shook it.
Ernie and his friend Hannah came to work at the
same Shrivelfig as Harry and Ron.
“That Draco Malfoy character,” said Ernie, breaking
off dead twigs, “he seems very pleased about all this,
doesn’t he? D’you know, I think he might be
Slytherin’s heir.”
“That’s clever of you,” said Ron, who didn’t seem to
have forgiven Ernie as readily as Harry.
“Do you think it’s Malfoy, Harry?” Ernie asked.
“No,” said Harry, so firmly that Ernie and Hannah
stared.
A second later, Harry spotted something.
Several large spiders were scuttling over the ground
on the other side of the glass, moving in an
 
unnaturally straight line as though taking the
shortest route to a prearranged meeting. Harry hit
Ron over the hand with his pruning shears.
“Ouch\ What ’re you — ”
Harry pointed out the spiders, following their progress
with his eyes screwed up against the sun.
“Oh, yeah,” said Ron, trying, and failing, to look
pleased. “But we can’t follow them now — ”
Ernie and Hannah were listening curiously.
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the spiders. If
they pursued their fixed course, there could be no
doubt about where they would end up.
“Looks like they’re heading for the Forbidden Forest.
And Ron looked even unhappier about that.
At the end of the lesson Professor Sprout escorted the
class to their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson.
Harry and Ron lagged behind the others so they could
talk out of earshot.
“Well have to use the Invisibility Cloak again,” Harry
told Ron. “We can take Fang with us. He’s used to
going into the forest with Hagrid, he might be some
help.”
“Right,” said Ron, who was twirling his wand
nervously in his fingers. “Er — aren’t there — aren’t
there supposed to be werewolves in the forest?” he
added as they took their usual places at the back of
Lockhart’s classroom.
 
Preferring not to answer that question, Harry said,
“There are good things in there, too. The centaurs are
all right, and the unicorns ...”
Ron had never been into the Forbidden Forest before.
Harry had entered it only once and had hoped never
to do so again.
Lockhart bounded into the room and the class stared
at him. Every other teacher in the place was looking
grimmer than usual, but Lockhart appeared nothing
short of buoyant.
“Come now,” he cried, beaming around him. “Why all
these long faces?”
People swapped exasperated looks, but nobody
answered.
“Don’t you people realize,” said Lockhart, speaking
slowly, as though they were all a bit dim, “the danger
has passed! The culprit has been taken away — ”
“Says who?” said Dean Thomas loudly.
“My dear young man, the Minister of Magic wouldn’t
have taken Hagrid if he hadn’t been one hundred
percent sure that he was guilty,” said Lockhart, in the
tone of someone explaining that one and one made
two.
“Oh, yes he would,” said Ron, even more loudly than
Dean.
“I flatter myself I know a touch more about Hagrid ’s
arrest than you do, Mr. Weasley,” said Lockhart in a
self-satisfied tone.
 
Ron started to say that he didn’t think so, somehow,
but stopped in midsentence when Harry kicked him
hard under the desk.
“We weren’t there, remember?” Harry muttered.
But Lockhart’s disgusting cheeriness, his hints that
he had always thought Hagrid was no good, his
confidence that the whole business was now at an
end, irritated Harry so much that he yearned to throw
Gadding with Ghouls right in Lockhart’s stupid face.
Instead he contented himself with scrawling a note to
Ron: Let’s do it tonight
Ron read the message, swallowed hard, and looked
sideways at the empty seat usually filled by
Hermione. The sight seemed to stiffen his resolve, and
he nodded.
The Gryffindor common room was always very
crowded these days, because from six o’clock onward
the Gryffindors had nowhere else to go. They also had
plenty to talk about, with the result that the common
room often didn’t empty until past midnight.
Harry went to get the Invisibility Cloak out of his
trunk right after dinner, and spent the evening sitting
on it, waiting for the room to clear. Fred and George
challenged Harry and Ron to a few games of
Exploding Snap, and Ginny sat watching them, very
subdued in Hermione ’s usual chair. Harry and Ron
kept losing on purpose, trying to finish the games
quickly, but even so, it was well past midnight when
Fred, George, and Ginny finally went to bed.
Harry and Ron waited for the distant sounds of two
dormitory doors closing before seizing the cloak,
 
throwing it over themselves, and climbing through the
portrait hole.
It was another difficult journey through the castle,
dodging all the teachers. At last they reached the
entrance hall, slid back the lock on the oak front
doors, squeezed between them, trying to stop any
creaking, and stepped out into the moonlit grounds.
“ ’Course,” said Ron abruptly as they strode across
the black grass, “we might get to the forest and find
there’s nothing to follow. Those spiders might not’ve
been going there at all. I know it looked like they were
moving in that sort of general direction, but ...”
His voice trailed away hopefully.
They reached Hagrid’s house, sad and sorry-looking
with its blank windows. When Harry pushed the door
open, Fang went mad with joy at the sight of them.
Worried he might wake everyone at the castle with his
deep, booming barks, they hastily fed him treacle
toffee from a tin on the mantelpiece, which glued his
teeth together.
Harry left the Invisibility Cloak on Hagrid’s table.
There would be no need for it in the pitch-dark forest.
“C’mon, Fang, we’re going for a walk,” said Harry,
patting his leg, and Fang bounded happily out of the
house behind them, dashed to the edge of the forest,
and lifted his leg against a large sycamore tree.
Harry took out his wand, murmured, “Lumos\” and a
tiny light appeared at the end of it, just enough to let
them watch the path for signs of spiders.
“Good thinking,” said Ron. “I’d light mine, too, but
you know — it’d probably blow up or something. ...”
 
Harry tapped Ron on the shoulder, pointing at the
grass. Two solitary spiders were hurrying away from
the wandlight into the shade of the trees.
“Okay,” Ron sighed as though resigned to the worst,
“I’m ready. Let’s go.”
So, with Fang scampering around them, sniffing tree
roots and leaves, they entered the forest. By the glow
of Harry’s wand, they followed the steady trickle of
spiders moving along the path. They walked behind
them for about twenty minutes, not speaking,
listening hard for noises other than breaking twigs
and rustling leaves. Then, when the trees had become
thicker than ever, so that the stars overhead were no
longer visible, and Harry’s wand shone alone in the
sea of dark, they saw their spider guides leaving the
path.
Harry paused, trying to see where the spiders were
going, but everything outside his little sphere of light
was pitch-black. He had never been this deep into the
forest before. He could vividly remember Hagrid
advising him not to leave the forest path last time
he’d been in here. But Hagrid was miles away now,
probably sitting in a cell in Azkaban, and he had also
said to follow the spiders.
Something wet touched Harry’s hand and he jumped
backward, crushing Ron’s foot, but it was only Fang’s
nose.
“What d’you reckon?” Harry said to Ron, whose eyes
he could just make out, reflecting the light from his
wand.
“We’ve come this far,” said Ron.
 
So they followed the darting shadows of the spiders
into the trees. They couldn’t move very quickly now;
there were tree roots and stumps in their way, barely
visible in the near blackness. Harry could feel Fang’s
hot breath on his hand. More than once, they had to
stop, so that Harry could crouch down and find the
spiders in the wandlight.
They walked for what seemed like at least half an
hour, their robes snagging on low-slung branches and
brambles. After a while, they noticed that the ground
seemed to be sloping downward, though the trees
were as thick as ever.
Then Fang suddenly let loose a great, echoing bark,
making both Harry and Ron jump out of their skins.
“What?” said Ron loudly, looking around into the
pitch-dark, and gripping Harry’s elbow very hard.
“There’s something moving over there,” Harry
breathed. “Listen ... sounds like something big. ...”
They listened. Some distance to their right, the
something big was snapping branches as it carved a
path through the trees.
“Oh, no,” said Ron. “Oh, no, oh, no, oh — ”
“Shut up,” said Harry frantically. “It’ll hear you.”
“Hear me?” said Ron in an unnaturally high voice.
“It’s already heard Fang!”
The darkness seemed to be pressing on their eyeballs
as they stood, terrified, waiting. There was a strange
rumbling noise and then silence.
“What d’you think it’s doing?” said Harry.
 
“Probably getting ready to pounce,” said Ron.
They waited, shivering, hardly daring to move.
“D’you think it’s gone?” Harry whispered.
“Dunno — ”
Then, to their right, came a sudden blaze of light, so
bright in the darkness that both of them flung up
their hands to shield their eyes. Fang yelped and tried
to run, but got lodged in a tangle of thorns and yelped
even louder.
“Harry!” Ron shouted, his voice breaking with relief.
“Harry, it’s our car!”
“What?”
“Come on!”
Harry blundered after Ron toward the light, stumbling
and tripping, and a moment later they had emerged
into a clearing.
Mr. Weasley’s car was standing, empty, in the middle
of a circle of thick trees under a roof of dense
branches, its headlights ablaze. As Ron walked,
openmouthed, toward it, it moved slowly toward him,
exactly like a large, turquoise dog greeting its owner.
“It’s been here all the time!” said Ron delightedly,
walking around the car. “Look at it. The forest’s
turned it wild. ...”
The sides of the car were scratched and smeared with
mud. Apparently it had taken to trundling around the
forest on its own. Fang didn’t seem at all keen on it;
he kept close to Harry, who could feel him quivering.
 
His breathing slowing down again, Harry stuffed his
wand back into his robes.
“And we thought it was going to attack us!” said Ron,
leaning against the car and patting it. “I wondered
where it had gone!”
Harry squinted around on the floodlit ground for
signs of more spiders, but they had all scuttled away
from the glare of the headlights.
“We’ve lost the trail,” he said. “C’mon, let’s go and find
them.”
Ron didn’t speak. He didn’t move. His eyes were fixed
on a point some ten feet above the forest floor, right
behind Harry. His face was livid with terror.
Harry didn’t even have time to turn around. There
was a loud clicking noise and suddenly he felt
something long and hairy seize him around the
middle and lift him off the ground, so that he was
hanging facedown. Struggling, terrified, he heard
more clicking, and saw Ron’s legs leave the ground,
too, heard Fang whimpering and howling — next
moment, he was being swept away into the dark
trees.
Head hanging, Harry saw that what had hold of him
was marching on six immensely long, hairy legs, the
front two clutching him tightly below a pair of shining
black pincers. Behind him, he could hear another of
the creatures, no doubt carrying Ron. They were
moving into the very heart of the forest. Harry could
hear Fang fighting to free himself from a third
monster, whining loudly, but Harry couldn’t have
yelled even if he had wanted to; he seemed to have left
his voice back with the car in the clearing.
 
He never knew how long he was in the creature’s
clutches; he only knew that the darkness suddenly
lifted enough for him to see that the leaf-strewn
ground was now swarming with spiders. Craning his
neck sideways, he realized that they had reached the
ridge of a vast hollow, a hollow that had been cleared
of trees, so that the stars shone brightly onto the
worst scene he had ever laid eyes on.
Spiders. Not tiny spiders like those surging over the
leaves below. Spiders the size of carthorses, eight-
eyed, eight-legged, black, hairy, gigantic. The massive
specimen that was carrying Harry made its way down
the steep slope toward a misty, domed web in the very
center of the hollow, while its fellows closed in all
around it, clicking their pincers excitedly at the sight
of its load.
Harry fell to the ground on all fours as the spider
released him. Ron and Fang thudded down next to
him. Fang wasn’t howling anymore, but cowering
silently on the spot. Ron looked exactly like Harry felt.
His mouth was stretched wide in a kind of silent
scream and his eyes were popping.
Harry suddenly realized that the spider that had
dropped him was saying something. It had been hard
to tell, because he clicked his pincers with every word
he spoke.
“Aragog!” it called. “Aragog!”
And from the middle of the misty, domed web, a
spider the size of a small elephant emerged, very
slowly. There was gray in the black of his body and
legs, and each of the eyes on his ugly, pincered head
was milky white. He was blind.
“What is it?” he said, clicking his pincers rapidly.
 
“Men,” clicked the spider who had caught Harry.
“Is it Hagrid?” said Aragog, moving closer, his eight
milky eyes wandering vaguely.
“Strangers,” clicked the spider who had brought Ron.
“Kill them,” clicked Aragog fretfully. “I was sleeping.
“We’re friends of Hagrid ’s,” Harry shouted. His heart
seemed to have left his chest to pound in his throat.
Click, click, click went the pincers of the spiders all
around the hollow.
Aragog paused.
“Hagrid has never sent men into our hollow before,”
he said slowly.
“Hagrid’s in trouble,” said Harry, breathing very fast.
“That’s why we’ve come.”
“In trouble?” said the aged spider, and Harry thought
he heard concern beneath the clicking pincers. “But
why has he sent you?”
Harry thought of getting to his feet but decided
against it; he didn’t think his legs would support him.
So he spoke from the ground, as calmly as he could.
“They think, up at the school, that Hagrid’s been
setting a — a — something on students. They’ve
taken him to Azkaban.”
Aragog clicked his pincers furiously, and all around
the hollow the sound was echoed by the crowd of
 
spiders; it was like applause, except applause didn’t
usually make Harry feel sick with fear.
“But that was years ago,” said Aragog fretfully. “Years
and years ago. I remember it well. That’s why they
made him leave the school. They believed that I was
the monster that dwells in what they call the
Chamber of Secrets. They thought that Hagrid had
opened the Chamber and set me free.”
“And you ... you didn’t come from the Chamber of
Secrets?” said Harry, who could feel cold sweat on his
forehead.
“I!” said Aragog, clicking angrily. “I was not born in
the castle. I come from a distant land. A traveler gave
me to Hagrid when I was an egg. Hagrid was only a
boy, but he cared for me, hidden in a cupboard in the
castle, feeding me on scraps from the table. Hagrid is
my good friend, and a good man. When I was
discovered, and blamed for the death of a girl, he
protected me. I have lived here in the forest ever
since, where Hagrid still visits me. He even found me
a wife, Mosag, and you see how our family has grown,
all through Hagrid ’s goodness. ...”
Harry summoned what remained of his courage.
“So you never — never attacked anyone?”
“Never,” croaked the old spider. “It would have been
my instinct, but out of respect for Hagrid, I never
harmed a human. The body of the girl who was killed
was discovered in a bathroom. I never saw any part of
the castle but the cupboard in which I grew up. Our
kind like the dark and the quiet. ...”
 
“But then . . . Do you know what did kill that girl?”
said Harry. “Because whatever it is, it’s back and
attacking people again — ”
His words were drowned by a loud outbreak of
clicking and the rustling of many long legs shifting
angrily; large black shapes shifted all around him.
“The thing that lives in the castle,” said Aragog, “is an
ancient creature we spiders fear above all others. Well
do I remember how I pleaded with Hagrid to let me go,
when I sensed the beast moving about the school.”
“What is it?” said Harry urgently.
More loud clicking, more rustling; the spiders seemed
to be closing in.
“We do not speak of it!” said Aragog fiercely. “We do
not name it! I never even told Hagrid the name of that
dread creature, though he asked me, many times.”
Harry didn’t want to press the subject, not with the
spiders pressing closer on all sides. Aragog seemed to
be tired of talking. He was backing slowly into his
domed web, but his fellow spiders continued to inch
slowly toward Harry and Ron.
“Well just go, then,” Harry called desperately to
Aragog, hearing leaves rustling behind him.
“Go?” said Aragog slowly. “I think not. ...”
“But — but — ”
“My sons and daughters do not harm Hagrid, on my
command. But I cannot deny them fresh meat, when
it wanders so willingly into our midst. Good-bye,
friend of Hagrid.”
 
Harry spun around. Feet away, towering above him,
was a solid wall of spiders, clicking, their many eyes
gleaming in their ugly black heads.
Even as he reached for his wand, Harry knew it was
no good, there were too many of them, but as he tried
to stand, ready to die fighting, a loud, long note
sounded, and a blaze of light flamed through the
hollow.
Mr. Weasley’s car was thundering down the slope,
headlights glaring, its horn screeching, knocking
spiders aside; several were thrown onto their backs,
their endless legs waving in the air. The car screeched
to a halt in front of Harry and Ron and the doors flew
open.
“Get Fang!” Harry yelled, diving into the front seat;
Ron seized the boarhound around the middle and
threw him, yelping, into the back of the car — the
doors slammed shut — Ron didn’t touch the
accelerator but the car didn’t need him; the engine
roared and they were off, hitting more spiders. They
sped up the slope, out of the hollow, and they were
soon crashing through the forest, branches whipping
the windows as the car wound its way cleverly
through the widest gaps, following a path it obviously
knew.
Harry looked sideways at Ron. His mouth was still
open in the silent scream, but his eyes weren’t
popping anymore.
“Are you okay?”
Ron stared straight ahead, unable to speak.
They smashed their way through the undergrowth,
Fang howling loudly in the back seat, and Harry saw
 
the side mirror snap off as they squeezed past a large
oak. After ten noisy, rocky minutes, the trees thinned,
and Harry could again see patches of sky.
The car stopped so suddenly that they were nearly
thrown into the windshield. They had reached the
edge of the forest. Fang flung himself at the window in
his anxiety to get out, and when Harry opened the
door, he shot off through the trees to Hagrid’s house,
tail between his legs. Harry got out too, and after a
minute or so, Ron seemed to regain the feeling in his
limbs and followed, still stiff-necked and staring.
Harry gave the car a grateful pat as it reversed back
into the forest and disappeared from view.
Harry went back into Hagrid’s cabin to get the
Invisibility Cloak. Fang was trembling under a
blanket in his basket. When Harry got outside again,
he found Ron being violently sick in the pumpkin
patch.
“Follow the spiders,” said Ron weakly, wiping his
mouth on his sleeve. “I’ll never forgive Hagrid. We’re
lucky to be alive.”
“I bet he thought Aragog wouldn’t hurt friends of his,”
said Harry.
“That’s exactly Hagrid’s problem!” said Ron, thumping
the wall of the cabin. “He always thinks monsters
aren’t as bad as they’re made out, and look where it’s
got him! A cell in Azkaban!” He was shivering
uncontrollably now. “What was the point of sending
us in there? What have we found out, I’d like to
know?”
“That Hagrid never opened the Chamber of Secrets,”
said Harry, throwing the cloak over Ron and prodding
him in the arm to make him walk. “He was innocent.”
 
Ron gave a loud snort. Evidently, hatching Aragog in
a cupboard wasn’t his idea of being innocent.
As the castle loomed nearer Harry twitched the cloak
to make sure their feet were hidden, then pushed the
creaking front doors ajar. They walked carefully back
across the entrance hall and up the marble staircase,
holding their breath as they passed corridors where
watchful sentries were walking. At last they reached
the safety of the Gryffindor common room, where the
fire had burned itself into glowing ash. They took off
the cloak and climbed the winding stair to their
dormitory.
Ron fell onto his bed without bothering to get
undressed. Harry, however, didn’t feel very sleepy. He
sat on the edge of his fourposter, thinking hard about
everything Aragog had said.
The creature that was lurking somewhere in the
castle, he thought, sounded like a sort of monster
Voldemort — even other monsters didn’t want to
name it. But he and Ron were no closer to finding out
what it was, or how it Petrified its victims. Even
Hagrid had never known what was in the Chamber of
Secrets.
Harry swung his legs up onto his bed and leaned
back against his pillows, watching the moon glinting
at him through the tower window.
He couldn’t see what else they could do. They had hit
dead ends everywhere. Riddle had caught the wrong
person, the Heir of Slytherin had got off, and no one
could tell whether it was the same person, or a
different one, who had opened the Chamber this time.
There was nobody else to ask. Harry lay down, still
thinking about what Aragog had said.
 
He was becoming drowsy when what seemed like
their very last hope occurred to him, and he suddenly
sat bolt upright.
“Ron,” he hissed through the dark, “Ron — ”
Ron woke with a yelp like Fang’s, stared wildly
around, and saw Harry.
“Ron — that girl who died. Aragog said she was found
in a bathroom,” said Harry, ignoring Neville’s
snuffling snores from the corner. “What if she never
left the bathroom? What if she’s still there?”
Ron rubbed his eyes, frowning through the moonlight.
And then he understood, too.
“You don’t think — not Moaning Myrtle ?”
 
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS
All those times we were in that bathroom, and she
was just three toilets away,” said Ron bitterly at
breakfast next day, “and we could’ve asked her, and
now ...”
It had been hard enough trying to look for spiders.
Escaping their teachers long enough to sneak into a
girls’ bathroom, the girls’ bathroom, moreover, right
next to the scene of the first attack, was going to be
almost impossible.
But something happened in their first lesson,
Transfiguration, that drove the Chamber of Secrets
out of their minds for the first time in weeks. Ten
minutes into the class, Professor McGonagall told
them that their exams would start on the first of
June, one week from today.
“Exams?” howled Seamus Finnigan. “We’re still
getting exams?”
 
There was a loud bang behind Harry as Neville
Longbottom’s wand slipped, vanishing one of the legs
on his desk. Professor McGonagall restored it with a
wave of her own wand, and turned, frowning, to
Seamus.
“The whole point of keeping the school open at this
time is for you to receive your education,” she said
sternly. “The exams will therefore take place as usual,
and I trust you are all studying hard.”
Studying hard! It had never occurred to Harry that
there would be exams with the castle in this state.
There was a great deal of mutinous muttering around
the room, which made Professor McGonagall scowl
even more darkly.
“Professor Dumbledore’s instructions were to keep the
school running as normally as possible,” she said.
“And that, I need hardly point out, means finding out
how much you have learned this year.”
Harry looked down at the pair of white rabbits he was
supposed to be turning into slippers. What had he
learned so far this year? He couldn’t seem to think of
anything that would be useful in an exam.
Ron looked as though he’d just been told he had to go
and live in the Forbidden Forest.
“Can you imagine me taking exams with this?” he
asked Harry, holding up his wand, which had just
started whistling loudly.
Three days before their first exam, Professor
McGonagall made another announcement at
breakfast.
 
“I have good news,” she said, and the Great Hall,
instead of falling silent, erupted.
“Dumbledore’s coming back!” several people yelled
joyfully.
“You’ve caught the Heir of Slytherin!” squealed a girl
at the Ravenclaw table.
“Quidditch matches are back on!” roared Wood
excitedly.
When the hubbub had subsided, Professor
McGonagall said, “Professor Sprout has informed me
that the Mandrakes are ready for cutting at last.
Tonight, we will be able to revive those people who
have been Petrified. I need hardly remind you all that
one of them may well be able to tell us who, or what,
attacked them. I am hopeful that this dreadful year
will end with our catching the culprit.”
There was an explosion of cheering. Harry looked over
at the Slytherin table and wasn’t at all surprised to
see that Draco Malfoy hadn’t joined in. Ron, however,
was looking happier than he’d looked in days.
“It won’t matter that we never asked Myrtle, then!” he
said to Harry. “Hermione’ll probably have all the
answers when they wake her up! Mind you, she’ll go
crazy when she finds out we’ve got exams in three
days’ time. She hasn’t studied. It might be kinder to
leave her where she is till they’re over.”
Just then, Ginny Weasley came over and sat down
next to Ron. She looked tense and nervous, and Harry
noticed that her hands were twisting in her lap.
“What’s up?” said Ron, helping himself to more
porridge.
 
Ginny didn’t say anything, but glanced up and down
the Gryffindor table with a scared look on her face
that reminded Harry of someone, though he couldn’t
think who.
“Spit it out,” said Ron, watching her.
Harry suddenly realized who Ginny looked like. She
was rocking backward and forward slightly in her
chair, exactly like Dobby did when he was teetering
on the edge of revealing forbidden information.
“I’ve got to tell you something,” Ginny mumbled,
carefully not looking at Harry.
“What is it?” said Harry.
Ginny looked as though she couldn’t find the right
words.
“What?” said Ron.
Ginny opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Harry leaned forward and spoke quietly, so that only
Ginny and Ron could hear him.
“Is it something about the Chamber of Secrets? Have
you seen something? Someone acting oddly?”
Ginny drew a deep breath and, at that precise
moment, Percy Weasley appeared, looking tired and
wan.
“If you’ve finished eating, I’ll take that seat, Ginny. I’m
starving, I’ve only just come off patrol duty.”
Ginny jumped up as though her chair had just been
electrified, gave Percy a fleeting, frightened look, and
 
scampered away. Percy sat down and grabbed a mug
from the center of the table.
“Percy!” said Ron angrily. “She was just about to tell
us something important!”
Halfway through a gulp of tea, Percy choked.
“What sort of thing?” he said, coughing.
“I just asked her if she’d seen anything odd, and she
started to say — ”
“Oh — that — that’s nothing to do with the Chamber
of Secrets,” said Percy at once.
“How do you know?” said Ron, his eyebrows raised.
“Well, er, if you must know, Ginny, er, walked in on
me the other day when I was — well, never mind —
the point is, she spotted me doing something and I,
um, I asked her not to mention it to anybody. I must
say, I did think she’d keep her word. It’s nothing,
really, I’d just rather — ”
Harry had never seen Percy look so uncomfortable.
“What were you doing, Percy?” said Ron, grinning.
“Go on, tell us, we won’t laugh.”
Percy didn’t smile back.
“Pass me those rolls, Harry, I’m starving.”
Harry knew the whole mystery might be solved
tomorrow without their help, but he wasn’t about to
pass up a chance to speak to Myrtle if it turned up —
and to his delight it did, midmorning, when they were
being led to History of Magic by Gilderoy Lockhart.
 
Lockhart, who had so often assured them that all
danger had passed, only to be proved wrong right
away, was now wholeheartedly convinced that it was
hardly worth the trouble to see them safely down the
corridors. His hair wasn’t as sleek as usual; it seemed
he had been up most of the night, patrolling the
fourth floor.
“Mark my words,” he said, ushering them around a
corner. “The first words out of those poor Petrified
people’s mouths will be ‘It was Hagrid.’ Frankly, I’m
astounded Professor McGonagall thinks all these
security measures are necessary.”
“I agree, sir,” said Harry, making Ron drop his books
in surprise.
“Thank you, Harry,” said Lockhart graciously while
they waited for a long line of Hufflepuffs to pass. “I
mean, we teachers have quite enough to be getting on
with, without walking students to classes and
standing guard all night. ...”
“That’s right,” said Ron, catching on. “Why don’t you
leave us here, sir, we’ve only got one more corridor to
go-”
“You know, Weasley, I think I will,” said Lockhart. “I
really should go and prepare my next class — ”
And he hurried off.
“Prepare his class,” Ron sneered after him. “Gone to
curl his hair, more like.”
They let the rest of the Gryffindors draw ahead of
them, then darted down a side passage and hurried
off toward Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. But just as
 
they were congratulating each other on their brilliant
scheme —
“Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?”
It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the
thinnest of thin lines.
“We were — we were — ” Ron stammered. “We were
going to — to go and see — ”
“Hermione,” said Harry. Ron and Professor
McGonagall both looked at him.
“We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went
on hurriedly, treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought
we’d sneak into the hospital wing, you know, and tell
her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to
worry — ”
Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for
a moment, Harry thought she was going to explode,
but when she spoke, it was in a strangely croaky
voice.
“Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear
glistening in her beady eye. “Of course, I realize this
has all been hardest on the friends of those who have
been ... I quite understand. Yes, Potter, of course you
may visit Miss Granger. I will inform Professor Binns
where you’ve gone. Tell Madam Pomfrey I have given
my permission.”
Harry and Ron walked away, hardly daring to believe
that they’d avoided detention. As they turned the
corner, they distinctly heard Professor McGonagall
blow her nose.
 
“That,” said Ron fervently, “was the best story you’ve
ever come up with.”
They had no choice now but to go to the hospital wing
and tell Madam Pomfrey that they had Professor
McGonagall’s permission to visit Hermione.
Madam Pomfrey let them in, but reluctantly.
“There’s just no point talking to a Petrified person,”
she said, and they had to admit she had a point when
they’d taken their seats next to Hermione. It was
plain that Hermione didn’t have the faintest inkling
that she had visitors, and that they might just as well
tell her bedside cabinet not to worry for all the good it
would do.
“Wonder if she did see the attacker, though?” said
Ron, looking sadly at Hermione ’s rigid face. “Because
if he sneaked up on them all, no one’ll ever know. ...”
But Harry wasn’t looking at Hermione’s face. He was
more interested in her right hand. It lay clenched on
top of her blankets, and bending closer, he saw that a
piece of paper was scrunched inside her fist.
Making sure that Madam Pomfrey was nowhere near,
he pointed this out to Ron.
“Try and get it out,” Ron whispered, shifting his chair
so that he blocked Harry from Madam Pomfrey’s view.
It was no easy task. Hermione’s hand was clamped so
tightly around the paper that Harry was sure he was
going to tear it. While Ron kept watch he tugged and
twisted, and at last, after several tense minutes, the
paper came free.
 
It was a page torn from a very old library book. Harry
smoothed it out eagerly and Ron leaned close to read
it, too.
Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam
our land, there is none more curious or more deadly
than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents.
This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live
many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken’s egg,
hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are
most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and
venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare,
and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall
suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk,
for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only
from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it.
And beneath this, a single word had been written, in
a hand Harry recognized as Hermione’s. Pipes.
It was as though somebody had just flicked a light on
in his brain.
“Ron,” he breathed. “This is it. This is the answer. The
monster in the Chamber’s a basilisk — a giant
serpent! That’s why I’ve been hearing that voice all
over the place, and nobody else has heard it. It’s
because I understand Parseltongue. ...”
Harry looked up at the beds around him.
“The basilisk kills people by looking at them. But no
one’s died — because no one looked it straight in the
eye. Colin saw it through his camera. The basilisk
burned up all the film inside it, but Colin just got
Petrified. Justin ... Justin must’ve seen the basilisk
through Nearly Headless Nick! Nick got the full blast
 
of it, but he couldn’t die again ... and Hermione and
that Ravenclaw prefect were found with a mirror next
to them. Hermione had just realized the monster was
a basilisk. I bet you anything she warned the first
person she met to look around corners with a mirror
first! And that girl pulled out her mirror — and — ”
Ron’s jaw had dropped.
“And Mrs. Norris?” he whispered eagerly.
Harry thought hard, picturing the scene on the night
of Halloween.
“The water ...” he said slowly. “The flood from
Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. I bet you Mrs. Norris
only saw the reflection. ...”
He scanned the page in his hand eagerly. The more
he looked at it, the more it made sense.
"... The crowing of the rooster ... is fatal to if!” he read
aloud. “Hagrid’s roosters were killed! The Heir of
Slytherin didn’t want one anywhere near the castle
once the Chamber was opened! Spiders flee before it\
It all fits!”
“But how’s the basilisk been getting around the
place?” said Ron. “A giant snake ... Someone would’ve
seen ...”
Harry, however, pointed at the word Hermione had
scribbled at the foot of the page.
“Pipes,” he said. “Pipes ... Ron, it’s been using the
plumbing. I’ve been hearing that voice inside the
walls. ...”
Ron suddenly grabbed Harry’s arm.
 
“The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets!” he said
hoarsely. “What if it’s a bathroom? What if it’s in — ”
“ — Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom,” said Harry.
They sat there, excitement coursing through them,
hardly able to believe it.
“This means,” said Harry, “I can’t be the only
Parselmouth in the school. The Heir of Slytherin’s
one, too. That’s how he’s been controlling the
basilisk.”
“What’re we going to do?” said Ron, whose eyes were
flashing. “Should we go straight to McGonagall?”
“Let’s go to the staffroom,” said Harry, jumping up.
“She’ll be there in ten minutes. It’s nearly break.”
They ran downstairs. Not wanting to be discovered
hanging around in another corridor, they went
straight into the deserted staffroom. It was a large,
paneled room full of dark, wooden chairs. Harry and
Ron paced around it, too excited to sit down.
But the bell to signal break never came.
Instead, echoing through the corridors came Professor
McGonagall’s voice, magically magnified.
“All students to return to their House dormitories at
once. All teachers return to the staffroom. Immediately,
please.”
Harry wheeled around to stare at Ron.
“Not another attack? Not now?”
 
“What’ll we do?” said Ron, aghast. “Go back to the
dormitory?”
“No,” said Harry, glancing around. There was an ugly
sort of wardrobe to his left, full of the teachers’
cloaks. “In here. Let’s hear what it’s all about. Then
we can tell them what we’ve found out.”
They hid themselves inside it, listening to the
rumbling of hundreds of people moving overhead, and
the staffroom door banging open. From between the
musty folds of the cloaks, they watched the teachers
filtering into the room. Some of them were looking
puzzled, others downright scared. Then Professor
McGonagall arrived.
“It has happened,” she told the silent staffroom. “A
student has been taken by the monster. Right into
the Chamber itself.”
Professor Flitwick let out a squeal. Professor Sprout
clapped her hands over her mouth. Snape gripped the
back of a chair very hard and said, “How can you be
sure?”
“The Heir of Slytherin,” said Professor McGonagall,
who was very white, “left another message. Right
underneath the first one. ‘Her skeleton will lie in the
Chamber forever.’ ”
Professor Flitwick burst into tears.
“Who is it?” said Madam Hooch, who had sunk, weak-
kneed, into a chair. “Which student?”
“Ginny Weasley,” said Professor McGonagall.
Harry felt Ron slide silently down onto the wardrobe
floor beside him.
 
“We shall have to send all the students home
tomorrow,” said Professor McGonagall. “This is the
end of Hogwarts. Dumbledore always said ...”
The staffroom door banged open again. For one wild
moment, Harry was sure it would be Dumbledore.
But it was Lockhart, and he was beaming.
“So sorry — dozed off — what have I missed?”
He didn’t seem to notice that the other teachers were
looking at him with something remarkably like
hatred. Snape stepped forward.
“Just the man,” he said. “The very man. A girl has
been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into
the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come
at last.”
Lockhart blanched.
“That’s right, Gilderoy,” chipped in Professor Sprout.
“Weren’t you saying just last night that you’ve known
all along where the entrance to the Chamber of
Secrets is?”
“I — well, I — ” sputtered Lockhart.
“Yes, didn’t you tell me you were sure you knew what
was inside it?” piped up Professor Flitwick.
“D-did I? I don’t recall — ”
“I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you
hadn’t had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was
arrested,” said Snape. “Didn’t you say that the whole
affair had been bungled, and that you should have
been given a free rein from the first?”
 
Lockhart stared around at his stony-faced colleagues.
“I — I really never — you may have misunderstood — ”
“Well leave it to you, then, Gilderoy,” said Professor
McGonagall. “Tonight will be an excellent time to do
it. Well make sure everyone’s out of your way. You’ll
be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. A free
rein at last.”
Lockhart gazed desperately around him, but nobody
came to the rescue. He didn’t look remotely handsome
anymore. His lip was trembling, and in the absence of
his usually toothy grin, he looked weak-chinned and
feeble.
“V-very well,” he said. “I’ll — I’ll be in my office,
getting — getting ready.”
And he left the room.
“Right,” said Professor McGonagall, whose nostrils
were flared, “that’s got him out from under our feet.
The Heads of Houses should go and inform their
students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts
Express will take them home first thing tomorrow.
Will the rest of you please make sure no students
have been left outside their dormitories.”
The teachers rose and left, one by one.
It was probably the worst day of Harry’s entire life.
He, Ron, Fred, and George sat together in a corner of
the Gryffindor common room, unable to say anything
to each other. Percy wasn’t there. He had gone to
send an owl to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, then shut
himself up in his dormitory.
 
No afternoon ever lasted as long as that one, nor had
Gryffindor Tower ever been so crowded, yet so quiet.
Near sunset, Fred and George went up to bed, unable
to sit there any longer.
“She knew something, Harry,” said Ron, speaking for
the first time since they had entered the wardrobe in
the staffroom. “That’s why she was taken. It wasn’t
some stupid thing about Percy at all. She’d found out
something about the Chamber of Secrets. That must
be why she was — ” Ron rubbed his eyes frantically. “I
mean, she was a pureblood. There can’t be any other
reason.”
Harry could see the sun sinking, blood-red, below the
skyline. This was the worst he had ever felt. If only
there was something they could do. Anything.
“Harry,” said Ron. “D’you think there’s any chance at
all she’s not — you know — ”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t see how
Ginny could still be alive.
“D’you know what?” said Ron. “I think we should go
and see Lockhart. Tell him what we know. He’s going
to try and get into the Chamber. We can tell him
where we think it is, and tell him it’s a basilisk in
there.”
Because Harry couldn’t think of anything else to do,
and because he wanted to be doing something, he
agreed. The Gryffindors around them were so
miserable, and felt so sorry for the Weasleys, that
nobody tried to stop them as they got up, crossed the
room, and left through the portrait hole.
Darkness was falling as they walked down to
Lockhart’s office. There seemed to be a lot of activity
 
going on inside it. They could hear scraping, thumps,
and hurried footsteps.
Harry knocked and there was a sudden silence from
inside. Then the door opened the tiniest crack and
they saw one of Lockhart’s eyes peering through it.
“Oh — Mr. Potter — Mr. Weasley — ” he said, opening
the door a bit wider. “I’m rather busy at the moment
— if you would be quick — ”
“Professor, we’ve got some information for you,” said
Harry. “We think it’ll help you.”
“Er — well — it’s not terribly — ” The side of
Lockhart’s face that they could see looked very
uncomfortable. “I mean — well — all right — ”
He opened the door and they entered.
His office had been almost completely stripped. Two
large trunks stood open on the floor. Robes, jade-
green, lilac, midnight-blue, had been hastily folded
into one of them; books were jumbled untidily into
the other. The photographs that had covered the walls
were now crammed into boxes on the desk.
“Are you going somewhere?” said Harry.
“Er, well, yes,” said Lockhart, ripping a life-size poster
of himself from the back of the door as he spoke and
starting to roll it up. “Urgent call — unavoidable —
got to go — ”
“What about my sister?” said Ron jerkily.
“Well, as to that — most unfortunate — ” said
Lockhart, avoiding their eyes as he wrenched open a
 
drawer and started emptying the contents into a bag.
“No one regrets more than I — ”
“You’re the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher!”
said Harry. “You can’t go now! Not with all the Dark
stuff going on here!”
“Well — I must say — when I took the job — ”
Lockhart muttered, now piling socks on top of his
robes, “nothing in the job description — didn’t expect
“You mean you’re running away? said Harry
disbelievingly. “After all that stuff you did in your
books — ”
“Books can be misleading,” said Lockhart delicately.
“You wrote them!” Harry shouted.
“My dear boy,” said Lockhart, straightening up and
frowning at Harry. “Do use your common sense. My
books wouldn’t have sold half as well if people didn’t
think I’d done all those things. No one wants to read
about some ugly old Armenian warlock, even if he did
save a village from werewolves. He’d look dreadful on
the front cover. No dress sense at all. And the witch
who banished the Bandon Banshee had a hairy chin.
I mean, come on — ”
“So you’ve just been taking credit for what a load of
other people have done?” said Harry incredulously.
“Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, shaking his head
impatiently, “it’s not nearly as simple as that. There
was work involved. I had to track these people down.
Ask them exactly how they managed to do what they
did. Then I had to put a Memory Charm on them so
they wouldn’t remember doing it. If there’s one thing I
 
pride myself on, it’s my Memory Charms. No, it’s been
a lot of work, Harry. It’s not all book signings and
publicity photos, you know. You want fame, you have
to be prepared for a long hard slog.”
He banged the lids of his trunks shut and locked
them.
“Let’s see,” he said. “I think that’s everything. Yes.
Only one thing left.”
He pulled out his wand and turned to them.
“Awfully sorry, boys, but I’ll have to put a Memory
Charm on you now. Can’t have you blabbing my
secrets all over the place. I’d never sell another book
Harry reached his wand just in time. Lockhart had
barely raised his, when Harry bellowed,
“ Expelliarmus\ ”
Lockhart was blasted backward, falling over his
trunk; his wand flew high into the air; Ron caught it,
and flung it out of the open window.
“Shouldn’t have let Professor Snape teach us that
one,” said Harry furiously, kicking Lockhart’s trunk
aside. Lockhart was looking up at him, feeble once
more. Harry was still pointing his wand at him.
“What d’you want me to do?” said Lockhart weakly. “I
don’t know where the Chamber of Secrets is. There’s
nothing I can do.”
“You’re in luck,” said Harry, forcing Lockhart to his
feet at wandpoint. “We think we know where it is.
And what’s inside it. Let’s go.”
 
They marched Lockhart out of his office and down the
nearest stairs, along the dark corridor where the
messages shone on the wall, to the door of Moaning
Myrtle’s bathroom.
They sent Lockhart in first. Harry was pleased to see
that he was shaking.
Moaning Myrtle was sitting on the tank of the end
toilet.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said when she saw Harry. “What do
you want this time?”
“To ask you how you died,” said Harry.
Myrtle’s whole aspect changed at once. She looked as
though she had never been asked such a flattering
question.
“Ooooh, it was dreadful,” she said with relish. “It
happened right in here. I died in this very stall. I
remember it so well. I’d hidden because Olive Hornby
was teasing me about my glasses. The door was
locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody
come in. They said something funny. A different
language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what
really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I
unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own
toilet, and then — ” Myrtle swelled importantly, her
face shining. “I died.”
“How?” said Harry.
“No idea,” said Myrtle in hushed tones. “I just
remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My
whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating
away. ...” She looked dreamily at Harry. “And then I
came back again. I was determined to haunt Olive
 
Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry she’d ever
laughed at my glasses.”
“Where exactly did you see the eyes?” said Harry.
“Somewhere there,” said Myrtle, pointing vaguely
toward the sink in front of her toilet.
Harry and Ron hurried over to it. Lockhart was
standing well back, a look of utter terror on his face.
It looked like an ordinary sink. They examined every
inch of it, inside and out, including the pipes below.
And then Harry saw it: Scratched on the side of one of
the copper taps was a tiny snake.
“That tap’s never worked,” said Myrtle brightly as he
tried to turn it.
“Harry,” said Ron. “Say something. Something in
Parseltongue.”
“But — ” Harry thought hard. The only times he’d ever
managed to speak Parseltongue were when he’d been
faced with a real snake. He stared hard at the tiny
engraving, trying to imagine it was real.
“Open up,” he said.
He looked at Ron, who shook his head.
“English,” he said.
Harry looked back at the snake, willing himself to
believe it was alive. If he moved his head, the
candlelight made it look as though it were moving.
“Open up,” he said.
 
Except that the words weren’t what he heard; a
strange hissing had escaped him, and at once the tap
glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin.
Next second, the sink began to move; the sink, in fact,
sank, right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed,
a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.
Harry heard Ron gasp and looked up again. He had
made up his mind what he was going to do.
“I’m going down there,” he said.
He couldn’t not go, not now they had found the
entrance to the Chamber, not if there was even the
faintest, slimmest, wildest chance that Ginny might
be alive.
“Me too,” said Ron.
There was a pause.
“Well, you hardly seem to need me,” said Lockhart,
with a shadow of his old smile. “I’ll just — ”
He put his hand on the door knob, but Ron and Harry
both pointed their wands at him.
“You can go first,” Ron snarled.
White-faced and wandless, Lockhart approached the
opening.
“Boys,” he said, his voice feeble. “Boys, what good will
it do?”
Harry jabbed him in the back with his wand.
Lockhart slid his legs into the pipe.
 
“I really don’t think — ” he started to say, but Ron
gave him a push, and he slid out of sight. Harry
followed quickly. He lowered himself slowly into the
pipe, then let go.
It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark
slide. He could see more pipes branching off in all
directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted
and turned, sloping steeply downward, and he knew
that he was falling deeper below the school than even
the dungeons. Behind him he could hear Ron,
thudding slightly at the curves.
And then, just as he had begun to worry about what
would happen when he hit the ground, the pipe
leveled out, and he shot out of the end with a wet
thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone
tunnel large enough to stand in. Lockhart was getting
to his feet a little ways away, covered in slime and
white as a ghost. Harry stood aside as Ron came
whizzing out of the pipe, too.
“We must be miles under the school,” said Harry, his
voice echoing in the black tunnel.
“Under the lake, probably,” said Ron, squinting
around at the dark, slimy walls.
All three of them turned to stare into the darkness
ahead.
“Lumosl” Harry muttered to his wand and it lit again.
“C’mon,” he said to Ron and Lockhart, and off they
went, their footsteps slapping loudly on the wet floor.
The tunnel was so dark that they could only see a
little distance ahead. Their shadows on the wet walls
looked monstrous in the wandlight.
 
“Remember,” Harry said quietly as they walked
cautiously forward, “any sign of movement, close your
eyes right away. ...”
But the tunnel was quiet as the grave, and the first
unexpected sound they heard was a loud crunch as
Ron stepped on what turned out to be a rat’s skull.
Harry lowered his wand to look at the floor and saw
that it was littered with small animal bones. Trying
very hard not to imagine what Ginny might look like if
they found her, Harry led the way forward, around a
dark bend in the tunnel.
“Harry — there’s something up there — ” said Ron
hoarsely, grabbing Harry’s shoulder.
They froze, watching. Harry could just see the outline
of something huge and curved, lying right across the
tunnel. It wasn’t moving.
“Maybe it’s asleep,” he breathed, glancing back at the
other two. Lockhart’s hands were pressed over his
eyes. Harry turned back to look at the thing, his heart
beating so fast it hurt.
Very slowly, his eyes as narrow as he could make
them and still see, Harry edged forward, his wand
held high.
The light slid over a gigantic snake skin, of a vivid,
poisonous green, lying curled and empty across the
tunnel floor. The creature that had shed it must have
been twenty feet long at least.
“Blimey,” said Ron weakly.
There was a sudden movement behind them. Gilderoy
Lockhart’s knees had given way.
 
“Get up,” said Ron sharply, pointing his wand at
Lockhart.
Lockhart got to his feet — then he dived at Ron,
knocking him to the ground.
Harry jumped forward, but too late — Lockhart was
straightening up, panting, Ron’s wand in his hand
and a gleaming smile back on his face.
“The adventure ends here, boys!” he said. “I shall take
a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I
was too late to save the girl, and that you two
tragically lost your minds at the sight of her mangled
body — say good-bye to your memories!”
He raised Ron’s Spellotaped wand high over his head
and yelled, “Obliviatel”
The wand exploded with the force of a small bomb.
Harry flung his arms over his head and ran, slipping
over the coils of snake skin, out of the way of great
chunks of tunnel ceiling that were thundering to the
floor. Next moment, he was standing alone, gazing at
a solid wall of broken rock.
“Ron!” he shouted. “Are you okay? Ron!”
“I’m here!” came Ron’s muffled voice from behind the
rock-fall. “I’m okay — this git’s not, though — he got
blasted by the wand — ”
There was a dull thud and a loud “ow!” It sounded as
though Ron had just kicked Lockhart in the shins.
“What now?” Ron’s voice said, sounding desperate.
“We can’t get through — it’ll take ages. ...”
 
Harry looked up at the tunnel ceiling. Huge cracks
had appeared in it. He had never tried to break apart
anything as large as these rocks by magic, and now
didn’t seem a good moment to try — what if the whole
tunnel caved in?
There was another thud and another “ow!” from
behind the rocks. They were wasting time. Ginny had
already been in the Chamber of Secrets for hours. ...
Harry knew there was only one thing to do.
“Wait there,” he called to Ron. “Wait with Lockhart. I’ll
go on. ... If I’m not back in an hour ...”
There was a very pregnant pause.
“I’ll try and shift some of this rock,” said Ron, who
seemed to be trying to keep his voice steady. “So you
can — can get back through. And, Harry — ”
“See you in a bit,” said Harry, trying to inject some
confidence into his shaking voice.
And he set off alone past the giant snake skin.
Soon the distant noise of Ron straining to shift the
rocks was gone. The tunnel turned and turned again.
Every nerve in Harry’s body was tingling
unpleasantly. He wanted the tunnel to end, yet
dreaded what he’d find when it did. And then, at last,
as he crept around yet another bend, he saw a solid
wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were
carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds.
Harry approached, his throat very dry. There was no
need to pretend these stone snakes were real; their
eyes looked strangely alive.
 
He could guess what he had to do. He cleared his
throat, and the emerald eyes seemed to flicker.
“Open,” said Harry, in a low, faint hiss.
The serpents parted as the wall cracked open, the
halves slid smoothly out of sight, and Harry, shaking
from head to foot, walked inside.
 
THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN
He was standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit
chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with more
carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in
darkness, casting long, black shadows through the
odd, greenish gloom that filled the place.
His heart beating very fast, Harry stood listening to
the chill silence. Could the basilisk be lurking in a
shadowy corner, behind a pillar? And where was
Ginny?
He pulled out his wand and moved forward between
the serpentine columns. Every careful footstep echoed
loudly off the shadowy walls. He kept his eyes
narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest
sign of movement. The hollow eye sockets of the stone
snakes seemed to be following him. More than once,
with a jolt of the stomach, he thought he saw one stir.
Then, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a
statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view,
standing against the back wall.
 
Harry had to crane his neck to look up into the giant
face above: It was ancient and monkeyish, with a
long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the
wizard’s sweeping stone robes, where two enormous
gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And
between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black-robed
figure with flaming-red hair.
“Ginnyl” Harry muttered, sprinting to her and
dropping to his knees. “Ginny — don’t be dead —
please don’t be dead — ” He flung his wand aside,
grabbed Ginny’s shoulders, and turned her over. Her
face was white as marble, and as cold, yet her eyes
were closed, so she wasn’t Petrified. But then she
must be —
“Ginny, please wake up,” Harry muttered desperately,
shaking her. Ginny’s head lolled hopelessly from side
to side.
“She won’t wake,” said a soft voice.
Harry jumped and spun around on his knees.
A tall, black-haired boy was leaning against the
nearest pillar, watching. He was strangely blurred
around the edges, as though Harry were looking at
him through a misted window. But there was no
mistaking him —
“Tom — Tom Riddle?”
Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face.
“What d’you mean, she won’t wake?” Harry said
desperately. “She’s not — she’s not — ?”
“She’s still alive,” said Riddle. “But only just.”
 
Harry stared at him. Tom Riddle had been at
Hogwarts fifty years ago, yet here he stood, a weird,
misty light shining about him, not a day older than
sixteen.
“Are you a ghost?” Harry said uncertainly.
“A memory,” said Riddle quietly. “Preserved in a diary
for fifty years.”
He pointed toward the floor near the statue’s giant
toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harry
had found in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. For a
second, Harry wondered how it had got there — but
there were more pressing matters to deal with.
“You’ve got to help me, Tom,” Harry said, raising
Ginny’s head again. “We’ve got to get her out of here.
There’s a basilisk ... I don’t know where it is, but it
could be along any moment. ... Please, help me — ”
Riddle didn’t move. Harry, sweating, managed to hoist
Ginny half off the floor, and bent to pick up his wand
again.
But his wand had gone.
“Did you see — ?”
He looked up. Riddle was still watching him —
twirling Harry’s wand between his long fingers.
“Thanks,” said Harry, stretching out his hand for it.
A smile curled the corners of Riddle’s mouth. He
continued to stare at Harry, twirling the wand idly.
 
“Listen,” said Harry urgently, his knees sagging with
Ginny’s dead weight. “We’ve got to go\ If the basilisk
comes — ”
“It won’t come until it is called,” said Riddle calmly.
Harry lowered Ginny back onto the floor, unable to
hold her up any longer.
“What d’you mean?” he said. “Look, give me my wand,
I might need it — ”
Riddle’s smile broadened.
“You won’t be needing it,” he said.
Harry stared at him.
“What d’you mean, I won’t be — ?”
“I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” said
Riddle. “For the chance to see you. To speak to you.”
“Look,” said Harry, losing patience, “I don’t think you
get it. We’re in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk
later — ”
“We’re going to talk now,” said Riddle, still smiling
broadly, and he pocketed Harry’s wand.
Harry stared at him. There was something very funny
going on here. ...
“How did Ginny get like this?” he asked slowly.
“Well, that’s an interesting question,” said Riddle
pleasantly. “And quite a long story. I suppose the real
reason Ginny Weasley’s like this is because she
 
opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an
invisible stranger.”
“What are you talking about?” said Harry.
“The diary,” said Riddle. “My diary. Little Ginny’s been
writing in it for months and months, telling me all her
pitiful worries and woes — how her brothers tease
her, how she had to come to school with secondhand
robes and books, how” — Riddle’s eyes glinted —
“how she didn’t think famous, good, great Harry
Potter would ever like her. ...”
All the time he spoke, Riddle’s eyes never left Harry’s
face. There was an almost hungry look in them.
“It’s very boring, having to listen to the silly little
troubles of an eleven-year-old girl,” he went on. “But I
was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was
kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one’s ever
understood me like you, Tom. ... I’m so glad I’ve got
this diary to confide in. ... It’s like having a friend I can
carry around in my pocket. ...”
Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn’t suit
him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of
Harry’s neck.
“If I say it myself, Harry, I’ve always been able to
charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her
soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what
I wanted. ... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of
her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew
powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley.
Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few
of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back
into her ...”
 
“What d’you mean?” said Harry, whose mouth had
gone very dry.
“Haven’t you guessed yet, Harry Potter?” said Riddle
softly. “Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of
Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and
daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set
the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the
Squib’s cat.”
“No,” Harry whispered.
“Yes,” said Riddle, calmly. “Of course, she didn’t know
what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I
wish you could have seen her new diary entries . . . far
more interesting, they became. ... Dear Tom,” he
recited, watching Harry’s horrified face, “7 think I’m
losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over
my robes and I don’t know how they got there. Dear
Tom, I can’t remember what I did on the night of
Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I’ve got paint
all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me
I’m pale and I’m not myself. I think he suspects me. . . .
There was another attack today and I don’t know
where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I’m
going mad. ... I think I’m the one attacking everyone,
Tom\”
Harry’s fists were clenched, the nails digging deep
into his palms.
“It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop
trusting her diary,” said Riddle. “But she finally
became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And
that’s where you came in, Harry. You found it, and I
couldn’t have been more delighted. Of all the people
who could have picked it up, it was you, the very
person I was most anxious to meet. ...”
 
“And why did you want to meet me?” said Harry.
Anger was coursing through him, and it was an effort
to keep his voice steady.
“Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry,”
said Riddle. “Your whole fascinating history.” His eyes
roved over the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead, and
their expression grew hungrier. “I knew I must find
out more about you, talk to you, meet you if I could.
So I decided to show you my famous capture of that
great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your trust — ”
“Hagrid’s my friend,” said Harry, his voice now
shaking. “And you framed him, didn’t you? I thought
you made a mistake, but — ”
Riddle laughed his high laugh again.
“It was my word against Hagrid’s, Harry. Well, you
can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On
the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant,
parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student
... on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in
trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf
cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden
Forest to wrestle trolls ... but I admit, even / was
surprised how well the plan worked. I thought
someone must realize that Hagrid couldn’t possibly be
the Heir of Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years
to find out everything I could about the Chamber of
Secrets and discover the secret entrance ... as though
Hagrid had the brains, or the power!
“Only the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore,
seemed to think Hagrid was innocent. He persuaded
Dippet to keep Hagrid and train him as gamekeeper.
Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed. ...
Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the
other teachers did. ...”
 
“I bet Dumbledore saw right through you,” said
Harry, his teeth gritted.
“Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on
me after Hagrid was expelled,” said Riddle carelessly.
“I knew it wouldn’t be safe to open the Chamber again
while I was still at school. But I wasn’t going to waste
those long years I’d spent searching for it. I decided to
leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen-year-old
self in its pages, so that one day, with luck, I would
be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish
Salazar Slytherin’s noble work.”
“Well, you haven’t finished it,” said Harry
triumphantly. “No one’s died this time, not even the
cat. In a few hours the Mandrake Draught will be
ready and everyone who was Petrified will be all right
again — ”
“Haven’t I already told you,” said Riddle quietly, “that
killing Mudbloods doesn’t matter to me anymore? For
many months now, my new target has been — you.”
Harry stared at him.
“Imagine how angry I was when the next time my
diary was opened, it was Ginny who was writing to
me, not you. She saw you with the diary, you see, and
panicked. What if you found out how to work it, and I
repeated all her secrets to you? What if, even worse, I
told you who’d been strangling roosters? So the
foolish little brat waited until your dormitory was
deserted and stole it back. But I knew what I must
do. It was clear to me that you were on the trail of
Slytherin’s heir. From everything Ginny had told me
about you, I knew you would go to any lengths to
solve the mystery — particularly if one of your best
friends was attacked. And Ginny had told me the
 
whole school was buzzing because you could speak
Parseltongue. ...
“So I made Ginny write her own farewell on the wall
and come down here to wait. She struggled and cried
and became very boring. But there isn’t much life left
in her. ... She put too much into the diary, into me.
Enough to let me leave its pages at last. ... I have
been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I
knew you’d come. I have many questions for you,
Harry Potter.”
“Like what?” Harry spat, fists still clenched.
“Well,” said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, “how is it that
you — a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical
talent — managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all
time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar,
while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?”
There was an odd red gleam in his hungry eyes now.
“Why do you care how I escaped?” said Harry slowly.
“Voldemort was after your time. ...”
“Voldemort,” said Riddle softly, “is my past, present,
and future, Harry Potter. ...”
He pulled Harry’s wand from his pocket and began to
trace it through the air, writing three shimmering
words:
tom marvolo riddle
Then he waved the wand once, and the letters of his
name rearranged themselves:
i am lord voldemort
 
“You see?” he whispered. “It was a name I was already
using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only,
of course. You think I was going to use my filthy
Muggle father’s name forever? I, in whose veins runs
the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my
mother’s side? I, keep the name of a foul, common
Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born,
just because he found out his wife was a witch? No,
Harry — I fashioned myself a new name, a name I
knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to
speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the
world!”
Harry’s brain seemed to have jammed. He stared
numbly at Riddle, at the orphaned boy who had
grown up to murder Harry’s own parents, and so
many others. ... At last he forced himself to speak.
“You’re not,” he said, his quiet voice full of hatred.
“Not what?” snapped Riddle.
“Not the greatest sorcerer in the world,” said Harry,
breathing fast. “Sorry to disappoint you and all that,
but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus
Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were
strong, you didn’t dare try and take over at Hogwarts.
Dumbledore saw through you when you were at
school and he still frightens you now, wherever you’re
hiding these days — ”
The smile had gone from Riddle’s face, to be replaced
by a very ugly look.
“Dumbledore ’s been driven out of this castle by the
mere memory of me!” he hissed.
 
“He’s not as gone as you might think!” Harry retorted.
He was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle,
wishing rather than believing it to be true —
Riddle opened his mouth, but froze.
Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled
around to stare down the empty Chamber. The music
was growing louder. It was eerie, spine-tingling,
unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harry’s scalp and made
his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its
normal size. Then, as the music reached such a pitch
that Harry felt it vibrating inside his own ribs, flames
erupted at the top of the nearest pillar.
A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared,
piping its weird music to the vaulted ceiling. It had a
glittering golden tail as long as a peacock’s and
gleaming golden talons, which were gripping a ragged
bundle.
A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harry. It
dropped the ragged thing it was carrying at his feet,
then landed heavily on his shoulder. As it folded its
great wings, Harry looked up and saw it had a long,
sharp golden beak and a beady black eye.
The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to
Harry’s cheek, gazing steadily at Riddle.
“That’s a phoenix. ...” said Riddle, staring shrewdly
back at it.
“Fawkes?” Harry breathed, and he felt the bird’s
golden claws squeeze his shoulder gently.
“And that — ” said Riddle, now eyeing the ragged thing
that Fawkes had dropped, “that’s the old school
Sorting Hat — ”
 
So it was. Patched, frayed, and dirty, the hat lay
motionless at Harry’s feet.
Riddle began to laugh again. He laughed so hard that
the dark Chamber rang with it, as though ten Riddles
were laughing at once —
“This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A
songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harry
Potter? Do you feel safe now?”
Harry didn’t answer. He might not see what use
Fawkes or the Sorting Hat were, but he was no longer
alone, and he waited for Riddle to stop laughing with
his courage mounting.
“To business, Harry,” said Riddle, still smiling
broadly. “Twice — in your past, in my future — we
have met. And twice I failed to kill you. How did you
survive ? Tell me everything. The longer you talk,” he
added softly, “the longer you stay alive.”
Harry was thinking fast, weighing his chances. Riddle
had the wand. He, Harry, had Fawkes and the Sorting
Hat, neither of which would be much good in a duel.
It looked bad, all right . . . but the longer Riddle stood
there, the more life was dwindling out of Ginny ... and
in the meantime, Harry noticed suddenly, Riddle’s
outline was becoming clearer, more solid. ... If it had
to be a fight between him and Riddle, better sooner
than later.
“No one knows why you lost your powers when you
attacked me,” said Harry abruptly. “I don’t know
myself. But I know why you couldn’t kill me. Because
my mother died to save me. My common Muggle-born
mother,” he added, shaking with suppressed rage.
“She stopped you killing me. And I’ve seen the real
you, I saw you last year. You’re a wreck. You’re barely
 
alive. That’s where all your power got you. You’re in
hiding. You’re ugly, you’re foul — ”
Riddle’s face contorted. Then he forced it into an
awful smile.
“So. Your mother died to save you. Yes, that’s a
powerful counter-charm. I can see now ... there is
nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you
see. There are strange likenesses between us, after
all. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods,
orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two
Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great
Slytherin himself. We even look something alike ...
but after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved
you from me. That’s all I wanted to know.”
Harry stood, tense, waiting for Riddle to raise his
wand. But Riddle’s twisted smile was widening again.
“Now, Harry, I’m going to teach you a little lesson.
Let’s match the powers of Lord Voldemort, Heir of
Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter, and
the best weapons Dumbledore can give him. ...”
He cast an amused eye over Fawkes and the Sorting
Hat, then walked away. Harry, fear spreading up his
numb legs, watched Riddle stop between the high
pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin,
high above him in the half-darkness. Riddle opened
his mouth wide and hissed — but Harry understood
what he was saying. . . .
“ Speak to me, Slytherin , greatest of the Hogwarts
Four.”
Harry wheeled around to look up at the statue,
Fawkes swaying on his shoulder.
 
Slytherin’s gigantic stone face was moving.
Horrorstruck, Harry saw his mouth opening, wider
and wider, to make a huge black hole.
And something was stirring inside the statue’s mouth.
Something was slithering up from its depths.
Harry backed away until he hit the dark Chamber
wall, and as he shut his eyes tight he felt Fawkes’
wing sweep his cheek as he took flight. Harry wanted
to shout, “Don’t leave me!” but what chance did a
phoenix have against the king of serpents?
Something huge hit the stone floor of the Chamber.
Harry felt it shudder — he knew what was happening,
he could sense it, could almost see the giant serpent
uncoiling itself from Slytherin’s mouth. Then he heard
Riddle’s hissing voice:
“Kill him.”
The basilisk was moving toward Harry; he could hear
its heavy body slithering heavily across the dusty
floor. Eyes still tightly shut, Harry began to run
blindly sideways, his hands outstretched, feeling his
way — Voldemort was laughing —
Harry tripped. He fell hard onto the stone and tasted
blood — the serpent was barely feet from him, he
could hear it coming —
There was a loud, explosive spitting sound right above
him, and then something heavy hit Harry so hard
that he was smashed into the wall. Waiting for fangs
to sink through his body he heard more mad hissing,
something thrashing wildly off the pillars —
He couldn’t help it — he opened his eyes wide enough
to squint at what was going on.
 
The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick
as an oak trunk, had raised itself high in the air and
its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly between
the pillars. As Harry trembled, ready to close his eyes
if it turned, he saw what had distracted the snake.
Fawkes was soaring around its head, and the basilisk
was snapping furiously at him with fangs long and
thin as sabers —
Fawkes dived. His long golden beak sank out of sight
and a sudden shower of dark blood spattered the
floor. The snake’s tail thrashed, narrowly missing
Harry, and before Harry could shut his eyes, it turned
— Harry looked straight into its face and saw that its
eyes, both its great, bulbous yellow eyes, had been
punctured by the phoenix; blood was streaming to the
floor, and the snake was spitting in agony.
“NO!” Harry heard Riddle screaming. “LEAVE THE
BIRD! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU!
YOU CAN STILL SMELL HIM! KILL HIM!”
The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly.
Fawkes was circling its head, piping his eerie song,
jabbing here and there at its scaly nose as the blood
poured from its ruined eyes.
“Help me, help me,” Harry muttered wildly, “someone
— anyone — ”
The snake’s tail whipped across the floor again. Harry
ducked. Something soft hit his face.
The basilisk had swept the Sorting Hat into Harry’s
arms. Harry seized it. It was all he had left, his only
chance — he rammed it onto his head and threw
himself flat onto the floor as the basilisk’s tail swung
over him again.
 
Help me — help me — Harry thought, his eyes
screwed tight under the hat. Please help me —
There was no answering voice. Instead, the hat
contracted, as though an invisible hand was
squeezing it very tightly.
Something very hard and heavy thudded onto the top
of Harry’s head, almost knocking him out. Stars
winking in front of his eyes, he grabbed the top of the
hat to pull it off and felt something long and hard
beneath it.
A gleaming silver sword had appeared inside the hat,
its handle glittering with rubies the size of eggs.
“KILL THE BOY! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS
BEHIND YOU! SNIFF — SMELL HIM!”
Harry was on his feet, ready. The basilisk’s head was
falling, its body coiling around, hitting pillars as it
twisted to face him. He could see the vast, bloody eye
sockets, see the mouth stretching wide, wide enough
to swallow him whole, lined with fangs long as his
sword, thin, glittering, venomous —
It lunged blindly — Harry dodged and it hit the
Chamber wall. It lunged again, and its forked tongue
lashed Harry’s side. He raised the sword in both his
hands —
The basilisk lunged again, and this time its aim was
true — Harry threw his whole weight behind the
sword and drove it to the hilt into the roof of the
serpent’s mouth —
But as warm blood drenched Harry’s arms, he felt a
searing pain just above his elbow. One long,
poisonous fang was sinking deeper and deeper into
 
his arm and it splintered as the basilisk keeled over
sideways and fell, twitching, to the floor.
Harry slid down the wall. He gripped the fang that
was spreading poison through his body and wrenched
it out of his arm. But he knew it was too late. White-
hot pain was spreading slowly and steadily from the
wound. Even as he dropped the fang and watched his
own blood soaking his robes, his vision went foggy.
The Chamber was dissolving in a whirl of dull color.
A patch of scarlet swam past, and Harry heard a soft
clatter of claws beside him.
“Fawkes,” said Harry thickly. “You were fantastic,
Fawkes. ...” He felt the bird lay its beautiful head on
the spot where the serpent’s fang had pierced him.
He could hear echoing footsteps and then a dark
shadow moved in front of him.
“You’re dead, Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s voice above
him. “Dead. Even Dumbledore’s bird knows it. Do you
see what he’s doing, Potter? He’s crying.”
Harry blinked. Fawkes’s head slid in and out of focus.
Thick, pearly tears were trickling down the glossy
feathers.
“I’m going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter.
Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”
Harry felt drowsy. Everything around him seemed to
be spinning.
“So ends the famous Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s
distant voice. “Alone in the Chamber of Secrets,
forsaken by his friends, defeated at last by the Dark
Lord he so unwisely challenged. You’ll be back with
 
your dear Mudblood mother soon, Harry. ... She
bought you twelve years of borrowed time . . . but Lord
Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew he must.
If this is dying, thought Harry, it’s not so bad.
Even the pain was leaving him. ...
But was this dying? Instead of going black, the
Chamber seemed to be coming back into focus. Harry
gave his head a little shake and there was Fawkes,
still resting his head on Harry’s arm. A pearly patch
of tears was shining all around the wound — except
that there was no wound —
“Get away, bird,” said Riddle’s voice suddenly. “Get
away from him — I said, get away — ”
Harry raised his head. Riddle was pointing Harry’s
wand at Fawkes; there was a bang like a gun, and
Fawkes took flight again in a whirl of gold and scarlet.
“Phoenix tears ...” said Riddle quietly, staring at
Harry’s arm. “Of course ... healing powers ... I forgot
He looked into Harry’s face. “But it makes no
difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and
me, Harry Potter ... you and me. ...”
He raised the wand —
Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back
overhead and something fell into Harry’s lap — the
diary.
For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still
raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without
 
considering, as though he had meant to do it all
along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next
to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the
book.
There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink
spurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over
Harry’s hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was writhing
and twisting, screaming and flailing and then —
He had gone. Harry’s wand fell to the floor with a
clatter and there was silence. Silence except for the
steady drip drip of ink still oozing from the diary. The
basilisk venom had burned a sizzling hole right
through it.
Shaking all over, Harry pulled himself up. His head
was spinning as though he’d just traveled miles by
Floo powder. Slowly, he gathered together his wand
and the Sorting Hat, and, with a huge tug, retrieved
the glittering sword from the roof of the basilisk’s
mouth.
Then came a faint moan from the end of the
Chamber. Ginny was stirring. As Harry hurried
toward her, she sat up. Her bemused eyes traveled
from the huge form of the dead basilisk, over Harry,
in his blood-soaked robes, then to the diary in his
hand. She drew a great, shuddering gasp and tears
began to pour down her face.
“Harry — oh, Harry — I tried to tell you at b-
breakfast, but I c -couldn’t say it in front of Percy — it
was me, Harry — but I — I s-swear I d-didn’t mean to
— R-Riddle made me, he t-took me over — and —
how did you kill that — that thing? W-where’s Riddle?
The last thing I r-remember is him coming out of the
diary — ”
 
“It’s all right,” said Harry, holding up the diary, and
showing Ginny the fang hole, “Riddle’s finished. Look!
Him and the basilisk. C’mon, Ginny, let’s get out of
here — ”
“I’m going to be expelled!” Ginny wept as Harry helped
her awkwardly to her feet. “I’ve looked forward to
coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Bill came and n-now
I’ll have to leave and — w-what’ll Mum and Dad say?”
Fawkes was waiting for them, hovering in the
Chamber entrance. Harry urged Ginny forward; they
stepped over the motionless coils of the dead basilisk,
through the echoing gloom, and back into the tunnel.
Harry heard the stone doors close behind them with a
soft hiss.
After a few minutes’ progress up the dark tunnel, a
distant sound of slowly shifting rock reached Harry’s
ears.
“Ron!” Harry yelled, speeding up. “Ginny’s okay! I’ve
got her!”
He heard Ron give a strangled cheer, and they turned
the next bend to see his eager face staring through
the sizable gap he had managed to make in the
rockfall.
“Ginny\” Ron thrust an arm through the gap in the
rock to pull her through first. “You’re alive! I don’t
believe it! What happened? How — what — where did
that bird come from?”
Fawkes had swooped through the gap after Ginny.
“He’s Dumbledore’s,” said Harry, squeezing through
himself.
 
“How come you’ve got a sword?” said Ron, gaping at
the glittering weapon in Harry’s hand.
“I’ll explain when we get out of here,” said Harry with
a sideways glance at Ginny, who was crying harder
than ever.
“But — ”
“Later,” Harry said shortly. He didn’t think it was a
good idea to tell Ron yet who’d been opening the
Chamber, not in front of Ginny, anyway. “Where’s
Lockhart?”
“Back there,” said Ron, still looking puzzled but
jerking his head up the tunnel toward the pipe. “He’s
in a bad way. Come and see.”
Led by Fawkes, whose wide scarlet wings emitted a
soft golden glow in the darkness, they walked all the
way back to the mouth of the pipe. Gilderoy Lockhart
was sitting there, humming placidly to himself.
“His memory’s gone,” said Ron. “The Memory Charm
backfired. Hit him instead of us. Hasn’t got a clue
who he is, or where he is, or who we are. I told him to
come and wait here. He’s a danger to himself.”
Lockhart peered good-naturedly up at them all.
“Hello,” he said. “Odd sort of place, this, isn’t it? Do
you live here?”
“No,” said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry.
Harry bent down and looked up the long, dark pipe.
“Have you thought how we’re going to get back up
this?” he said to Ron.
 
Ron shook his head, but Fawkes the phoenix had
swooped past Harry and was now fluttering in front of
him, his beady eyes bright in the dark. He was waving
his long golden tail feathers. Harry looked uncertainly
at him.
“He looks like he wants you to grab hold ...” said Ron,
looking perplexed. “But you’re much too heavy for a
bird to pull up there — ”
“Fawkes,” said Harry, “isn’t an ordinary bird.” He
turned quickly to the others. “We’ve got to hold on to
each other. Ginny, grab Ron’s hand. Professor
Lockhart — ”
“He means you,” said Ron sharply to Lockhart.
“You hold Ginny’s other hand — ”
Harry tucked the sword and the Sorting Hat into his
belt, Ron took hold of the back of Harry’s robes, and
Harry reached out and took hold of Fawkes’s
strangely hot tail feathers.
An extraordinary lightness seemed to spread through
his whole body and the next second, in a rush of
wings, they were flying upward through the pipe.
Harry could hear Lockhart dangling below him,
saying, “Amazing! Amazing! This is just like magic!”
The chill air was whipping through Harry’s hair, and
before he’d stopped enjoying the ride, it was over —
all four of them were hitting the wet floor of Moaning
Myrtle’s bathroom, and as Lockhart straightened his
hat, the sink that hid the pipe was sliding back into
place.
Myrtle goggled at them.
“You’re alive,” she said blankly to Harry.
 
“There’s no need to sound so disappointed,” he said
grimly, wiping flecks of blood and slime off his
glasses.
“Oh, well ... I’d just been thinking ... if you had died,
you’d have been welcome to share my toilet,” said
Myrtle, blushing silver.
“Urgh!” said Ron as they left the bathroom for the
dark, deserted corridor outside. “Harry! I think
Myrtle’s grown fond of you! You’ve got competition,
Ginny!”
But tears were still flooding silently down Ginny’s
face.
“Where now?” said Ron, with an anxious look at
Ginny. Harry pointed.
Fawkes was leading the way, glowing gold along the
corridor. They strode after him, and moments later,
found themselves outside Professor McGonagall’s
office.
Harry knocked and pushed the door open.
 
DOBBY’S REWARD
For a moment there was silence as Harry, Ron,
Ginny, and Lockhart stood in the doorway, covered in
muck and slime and (in Harry’s case) blood. Then
there was a scream.
“Ginny\”
It was Mrs. Weasley, who had been sitting crying in
front of the fire. She leapt to her feet, closely followed
by Mr. Weasley, and both of them flung themselves on
their daughter.
Harry, however, was looking past them. Professor
Dumbledore was standing by the mantelpiece,
beaming, next to Professor McGonagall, who was
taking great, steadying gasps, clutching her chest.
Fawkes went whooshing past Harry’s ear and settled
on Dumbledore ’s shoulder, just as Harry found
himself and Ron being swept into Mrs. Weasley’s tight
embrace.
“You saved her! You saved her! How did you do it?”
 
“I think we’d all like to know that,” said Professor
McGonagall weakly.
Mrs. Weasley let go of Harry, who hesitated for a
moment, then walked over to the desk and laid upon
it the Sorting Hat, the ruby-encrusted sword, and
what remained of Riddle’s diary.
Then he started telling them everything. For nearly a
quarter of an hour he spoke into the rapt silence: He
told them about hearing the disembodied voice, how
Hermione had finally realized that he was hearing a
basilisk in the pipes; how he and Ron had followed
the spiders into the forest, that Aragog had told them
where the last victim of the basilisk had died; how he
had guessed that Moaning Myrtle had been the
victim, and that the entrance to the Chamber of
Secrets might be in her bathroom. ...
“Very well,” Professor McGonagall prompted him as
he paused, “so you found out where the entrance was
— breaking a hundred school rules into pieces along
the way, I might add — but how on earth did you all
get out of there alive, Potter?”
So Harry, his voice now growing hoarse from all this
talking, told them about Fawkes’s timely arrival and
about the Sorting Hat giving him the sword. But then
he faltered. He had so far avoided mentioning Riddle’s
diary — or Ginny. She was standing with her head
against Mrs. Weasley ’s shoulder, and tears were still
coursing silently down her cheeks. What if they
expelled her? Harry thought in panic. Riddle’s diary
didn’t work anymore. ... How could they prove it had
been he who’d made her do it all?
Instinctively, Harry looked at Dumbledore, who
smiled faintly, the firelight glancing off his half-moon
spectacles.
 
“What interests me most,” said Dumbledore gently, “is
how Lord Voldemort managed to enchant Ginny,
when my sources tell me he is currently in hiding in
the forests of Albania.”
Relief — warm, sweeping, glorious relief — swept over
Harry.
“W-what’s that?” said Mr. Weasley in a stunned voice.
“You-Know-Who? En-enchant Ginny? But Ginny ’s not
... Ginny hasn’t been ... has she?”
“It was this diary,” said Harry quickly, picking it up
and showing it to Dumbledore. “Riddle wrote it when
he was sixteen. ...”
Dumbledore took the diary from Harry and peered
keenly down his long, crooked nose at its burnt and
soggy pages.
“Brilliant,” he said softly. “Of course, he was probably
the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen.”
He turned around to the Weasleys, who were looking
utterly bewildered.
“Very few people know that Lord Voldemort was once
called Tom Riddle. I taught him myself, fifty years
ago, at Hogwarts. He disappeared after leaving the
school . . . traveled far and wide . . . sank so deeply into
the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our
kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical
transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord
Voldemort, he was barely recognizable. Hardly anyone
connected Lord Voldemort with the clever, handsome
boy who was once Head Boy here.”
“But, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley. “What’s our Ginny
got to do with — with — him?”
 
“His d-diary!” Ginny sobbed. “I’ve b-been writing in it,
and he’s been w- writing back all year — ”
“Ginnyl” said Mr. Weasley, flabbergasted. “Haven’t I
taught you anything ? What have I always told you?
Never trust anything that can think for itself if you
can’t see where it keeps its brain. Why didn’t you
show the diary to me, or your mother? A suspicious
object like that, it was clearly full of Dark Magic — ”
“I d-didn’t know,” sobbed Ginny. “I found it inside one
of the books Mum got me. I th-thought someone had
just left it in there and forgotten about it — ”
“Miss Weasley should go up to the hospital wing right
away,” Dumbledore interrupted in a firm voice. “This
has been a terrible ordeal for her. There will be no
punishment. Older and wiser wizards than she have
been hoodwinked by Lord Voldemort.” He strode over
to the door and opened it. “Bed rest and perhaps a
large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find
that cheers me up,” he added, twinkling kindly down
at her. “You will find that Madam Pomfrey is still
awake. She’s just giving out Mandrake juice — I
daresay the basilisk’s victims will be waking up any
moment.”
“So Hermione’s okay!” said Ron brightly.
“There has been no lasting harm done, Ginny,” said
Dumbledore.
Mrs. Weasley led Ginny out, and Mr. Weasley
followed, still looking deeply shaken.
“You know, Minerva,” Professor Dumbledore said
thoughtfully to Professor McGonagall, “I think all this
merits a good feast Might I ask you to go and alert
the kitchens?”
 
“Right,” said Professor McGonagall crisply, also
moving to the door. “Ill leave you to deal with Potter
and Weasley, shall I?”
“Certainly,” said Dumbledore.
She left, and Harry and Ron gazed uncertainly at
Dumbledore. What exactly had Professor McGonagall
meant, deal with them? Surely — surely — they
weren’t about to be punished?
“I seem to remember telling you both that I would
have to expel you if you broke any more school rules,”
said Dumbledore.
Ron opened his mouth in horror.
“Which goes to show that the best of us must
sometimes eat our words,” Dumbledore went on,
smiling. “You will both receive Special Awards for
Services to the School and — let me see — yes, I think
two hundred points apiece for Gryffindor.”
Ron went as brightly pink as Lockhart’s valentine
flowers and closed his mouth again.
“But one of us seems to be keeping mightily quiet
about his part in this dangerous adventure,”
Dumbledore added. “Why so modest, Gilderoy?”
Harry gave a start. He had completely forgotten about
Lockhart. He turned and saw that Lockhart was
standing in a corner of the room, still wearing his
vague smile. When Dumbledore addressed him,
Lockhart looked over his shoulder to see who he was
talking to.
 
“Professor Dumbledore,” Ron said quickly, “there was
an accident down in the Chamber of Secrets.
Professor Lockhart — ”
“Am I a professor?” said Lockhart in mild surprise.
“Goodness. I expect I was hopeless, was I?”
“He tried to do a Memory Charm and the wand
backfired,” Ron explained quietly to Dumbledore.
“Dear me,” said Dumbledore, shaking his head, his
long silver mustache quivering. “Impaled upon your
own sword, Gilderoy!”
“Sword?” said Lockhart dimly. “Haven’t got a sword.
That boy has, though.” He pointed at Harry. “He’ll
lend you one.”
“Would you mind taking Professor Lockhart up to the
infirmary, too?” Dumbledore said to Ron. “I’d like a
few more words with Harry. ...”
Lockhart ambled out. Ron cast a curious look back at
Dumbledore and Harry as he closed the door.
Dumbledore crossed to one of the chairs by the fire.
“Sit down, Harry,” he said, and Harry sat, feeling
unaccountably nervous.
“First of all, Harry, I want to thank you,” said
Dumbledore, eyes twinkling again. “You must have
shown me real loyalty down in the Chamber. Nothing
but that could have called Fawkes to you.”
He stroked the phoenix, which had fluttered down
onto his knee. Harry grinned awkwardly as
Dumbledore watched him.
 
“And so you met Tom Riddle,” said Dumbledore
thoughtfully. “I imagine he was most interested in
you. ...”
Suddenly, something that was nagging at Harry came
tumbling out of his mouth.
“Professor Dumbledore ... Riddle said I’m like him.
Strange likenesses, he said. ...”
“ Did he, now?” said Dumbledore, looking thoughtfully
at Harry from under his thick silver eyebrows. “And
what do you think, Harry?”
“I don’t think I’m like him!” said Harry, more loudly
than he’d intended. “I mean, I’m — I’m in Gryffindor,
I’m ...”
But he fell silent, a lurking doubt resurfacing in his
mind.
“Professor,” he started again after a moment. “The
Sorting Hat told me I’d — I’d have done well in
Slytherin. Everyone thought / was Slytherin’s heir for
a while ... because I can speak Parseltongue. ...”
“You can speak Parseltongue, Harry,” said
Dumbledore calmly, “because Lord Voldemort — who
is the last remaining descendant of Salazar Slytherin
— can speak Parseltongue. Unless I’m much
mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to
you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he
intended to do, I’m sure. ...”
“Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?” Harry said,
thunderstruck.
“It certainly seems so.”
 
“So I should be in Slytherin,” Harry said, looking
desperately into Dumbledore ’s face. “The Sorting Hat
could see Slytherin ’s power in me, and it — ”
“Put you in Gryffindor,” said Dumbledore calmly.
“Listen to me, Harry. You happen to have many
qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-picked
students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue —
resourcefulness — determination — a certain
disregard for rules,” he added, his mustache
quivering again. “Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in
Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think.”
“It only put me in Gryffindor,” said Harry in a
defeated voice, “because I asked not to go in
Slytherin. ...”
“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, beaming once more.
“Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It
is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far
more than our abilities.” Harry sat motionless in his
chair, stunned. “If you want proof, Harry, that you
belong in Gryffindor, I suggest you look more closely
at this.”
Dumbledore reached across to Professor McGonagall’s
desk, picked up the blood-stained silver sword, and
handed it to Harry. Dully, Harry turned it over, the
rubies blazing in the firelight. And then he saw the
name engraved just below the hilt.
Godric Gryffindor.
“Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of
the hat, Harry,” said Dumbledore simply.
For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then
Dumbledore pulled open one of the drawers in
 
Professor McGonagall’s desk and took out a quill and
a bottle of ink.
“What you need, Harry, is some food and sleep. I
suggest you go down to the feast, while I write to
Azkaban — we need our gamekeeper back. And I
must draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet,
too,” he added thoughtfully. “Well be needing a new
Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. ... Dear me,
we do seem to run through them, don’t we?”
Harry got up and crossed to the door. He had just
reached for the handle, however, when the door burst
open so violently that it bounced back off the wall.
Lucius Malfoy stood there, fury in his face. And
cowering behind his legs, heavily wrapped in
bandages, was Dobby.
“Good evening, Lucius,” said Dumbledore pleasantly.
Mr. Malfoy almost knocked Harry over as he swept
into the room. Dobby went scurrying in after him,
crouching at the hem of his cloak, a look of abject
terror on his face.
The elf was carrying a stained rag with which he was
attempting to finish cleaning Mr. Malfoy ’s shoes.
Apparently Mr. Malfoy had set out in a great hurry,
for not only were his shoes half-polished, but his
usually sleek hair was disheveled. Ignoring the elf
bobbing apologetically around his ankles, he fixed his
cold eyes upon Dumbledore.
“So!” he said “You’ve come back. The governors
suspended you, but you still saw fit to return to
Hogwarts.”
 
“Well, you see, Lucius,” said Dumbledore, smiling
serenely, “the other eleven governors contacted me
today. It was something like being caught in a
hailstorm of owls, to tell the truth. They’d heard that
Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been killed and
wanted me back here at once. They seemed to think I
was the best man for the job after all. Very strange
tales they told me, too. ... Several of them seemed to
think that you had threatened to curse their families
if they didn’t agree to suspend me in the first place.”
Mr. Malfoy went even paler than usual, but his eyes
were still slits of fury.
“So — have you stopped the attacks yet?” he sneered.
“Have you caught the culprit?”
“We have,” said Dumbledore, with a smile.
“Well?” said Mr. Malfoy sharply. “Who is it?”
“The same person as last time, Lucius,” said
Dumbledore. “But this time, Lord Voldemort was
acting through somebody else. By means of this
diary.”
He held up the small black book with the large hole
through the center, watching Mr. Malfoy closely.
Harry, however, was watching Dobby.
The elf was doing something very odd. His great eyes
fixed meaningfully on Harry, he kept pointing at the
diary, then at Mr. Malfoy, and then hitting himself
hard on the head with his fist.
“I see ...” said Mr. Malfoy slowly to Dumbledore.
“A clever plan,” said Dumbledore in a level voice, still
staring Mr. Malfoy straight in the eye. “Because if
 
Harry here” — Mr. Malfoy shot Harry a swift, sharp
look — “and his friend Ron hadn’t discovered this
book, why — Ginny Weasley might have taken all the
blame. No one would ever have been able to prove she
hadn’t acted of her own free will. ...”
Mr. Malfoy said nothing. His face was suddenly
masklike.
“And imagine,” Dumbledore went on, “what might
have happened then. ... The Weasleys are one of our
most prominent pure-blood families. Imagine the
effect on Arthur Weasley and his Muggle Protection
Act, if his own daughter was discovered attacking and
killing Muggle-borns. ... Very fortunate the diary was
discovered, and Riddle’s memories wiped from it. Who
knows what the consequences might have been
otherwise. ...”
Mr. Malfoy forced himself to speak.
“Very fortunate,” he said stiffly.
And still, behind his back, Dobby was pointing, first
to the diary, then to Lucius Malfoy, then punching
himself in the head.
And Harry suddenly understood. He nodded at
Dobby, and Dobby backed into a corner, now twisting
his ears in punishment.
“Don’t you want to know how Ginny got hold of that
diary, Mr. Malfoy?” said Harry.
Lucius Malfoy rounded on him.
“How should I know how the stupid little girl got hold
of it?” he said.
 
“Because you gave it to her,” said Harry. “In Flourish
and Blotts. You picked up her old Transfiguration
book and slipped the diary inside it, didn’t you?”
He saw Mr. Malfoy’s white hands clench and
unclench.
“Prove it,” he hissed.
“Oh, no one will be able to do that,” said Dumbledore,
smiling at Harry. “Not now that Riddle has vanished
from the book. On the other hand, I would advise you,
Lucius, not to go giving out any more of Lord
Voldemort’s old school things. If any more of them
find their way into innocent hands, I think Arthur
Weasley, for one, will make sure they are traced back
to you. ...”
Lucius Malfoy stood for a moment, and Harry
distinctly saw his right hand twitch as though he was
longing to reach for his wand. Instead, he turned to
his house-elf.
“We’re going, Dobby!”
He wrenched open the door and as the elf came
hurrying up to him, he kicked him right through it.
They could hear Dobby squealing with pain all the
way along the corridor. Harry stood for a moment,
thinking hard. Then it came to him —
“Professor Dumbledore,” he said hurriedly. “Can I give
that diary back to Mr. Malfoy, please?”
“Certainly, Harry,” said Dumbledore calmly. “But
hurry. The feast, remember. ...”
Harry grabbed the diary and dashed out of the office.
He could hear Dobby’s squeals of pain receding
 
around the corner. Quickly, wondering if this plan
could possibly work, Harry took off one of his shoes,
pulled off his slimy, filthy sock, and stuffed the diary
into it. Then he ran down the dark corridor.
He caught up with them at the top of the stairs.
“Mr. Malfoy,” he gasped, skidding to a halt, “I’ve got
something for you — ”
And he forced the smelly sock into Lucius Malfoy’s
hand.
“What the — ?”
Mr. Malfoy ripped the sock off the diary, threw it
aside, then looked furiously from the ruined book to
Harry.
“You’ll meet the same sticky end as your parents one
of these days, Harry Potter,” he said softly. “They were
meddlesome fools, too.”
He turned to go.
“Come, Dobby. I said, come.”
But Dobby didn’t move. He was holding up Harry’s
disgusting, slimy sock, and looking at it as though it
were a priceless treasure.
“Master has given a sock,” said the elf in wonderment.
“Master gave it to Dobby.”
“What’s that?” spat Mr. Malfoy. “What did you say?”
“Got a sock,” said Dobby in disbelief. “Master threw it,
and Dobby caught it, and Dobby — Dobby is free.”
 
Lucius Malfoy stood frozen, staring at the elf. Then he
lunged at Harry.
“You’ve lost me my servant, boy!”
But Dobby shouted, “You shall not harm Harry
Potter!”
There was a loud bang, and Mr. Malfoy was thrown
backward. He crashed down the stairs, three at a
time, landing in a crumpled heap on the landing
below. He got up, his face livid, and pulled out his
wand, but Dobby raised a long, threatening finger.
“You shall go now,” he said fiercely, pointing down at
Mr. Malfoy. “You shall not touch Harry Potter. You
shall go now.”
Lucius Malfoy had no choice. With a last, incensed
stare at the pair of them, he swung his cloak around
him and hurried out of sight.
“Harry Potter freed Dobby!” said the elf shrilly, gazing
up at Harry, moonlight from the nearest window
reflected in his orb-like eyes. “Harry Potter set Dobby
free!”
“Least I could do, Dobby,” said Harry, grinning. “Just
promise never to try and save my life again.”
The elf’s ugly brown face split suddenly into a wide,
toothy smile.
“I’ve just got one question, Dobby,” said Harry as
Dobby pulled on Harry’s sock with shaking hands.
“You told me all this had nothing to do with He-Who-
Must-Not-Be-Named, remember? Well — ”
 
“It was a clue, sir,” said Dobby, his eyes widening, as
though this was obvious. “Was giving you a clue. The
Dark Lord, before he changed his name, could be
freely named, you see?”
“Right,” said Harry weakly. “Well, I’d better go. There’s
a feast, and my friend Hermione should be awake by
now. ...”
Dobby threw his arms around Harry’s middle and
hugged him.
“Harry Potter is greater by far than Dobby knew!” he
sobbed. “Farewell, Harry Potter!”
And with a final loud crack, Dobby disappeared.
Harry had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never
one quite like this. Everybody was in their pajamas,
and the celebration lasted all night. Harry didn’t know
whether the best bit was Hermione running toward
him, screaming “You solved it! You solved it!” or
Justin hurrying over from the Hufflepuff table to
wring his hand and apologize endlessly for suspecting
him, or Hagrid turning up at half past three, cuffing
Harry and Ron so hard on the shoulders that they
were knocked into their plates of trifle, or his and
Ron’s four hundred points for Gryffindor securing the
House Cup for the second year running, or Professor
McGonagall standing up to tell them all that the
exams had been canceled as a school treat (“Oh, no!”
said Hermione), or Dumbledore announcing that,
unfortunately, Professor Lockhart would be unable to
return next year, owing to the fact that he needed to
go away and get his memory back. Quite a few of the
teachers joined in the cheering that greeted this news.
“Shame,” said Ron, helping himself to a jam
doughnut. “He was starting to grow on me.”
 
The rest of the final term passed in a haze of blazing
sunshine. Hogwarts was back to normal with only a
few, small differences — Defense Against the Dark
Arts classes were canceled (“but we’ve had plenty of
practice at that anyway,” Ron told a disgruntled
Hermione) and Lucius Malfoy had been sacked as a
school governor. Draco was no longer strutting
around the school as though he owned the place. On
the contrary, he looked resentful and sulky. On the
other hand, Ginny Weasley was perfectly happy
again.
Too soon, it was time for the journey home on the
Hogwarts Express. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred,
George, and Ginny got a compartment to themselves.
They made the most of the last few hours in which
they were allowed to do magic before the holidays.
They played Exploding Snap, set off the very last of
Fred and George’s Filibuster fireworks, and practiced
disarming each other by magic. Harry was getting
very good at it.
They were almost at King’s Cross when Harry
remembered something.
“Ginny — what did you see Percy doing, that he didn’t
want you to tell anyone?”
“Oh, that,” said Ginny, giggling. “Well — Percy’s got a
girlfriend.”
Fred dropped a stack of books on George’s head.
“What?”
“It’s that Ravenclaw prefect, Penelope Clearwater,”
said Ginny. “That’s who he was writing to all last
summer. He’s been meeting her all over the school in
secret. I walked in on them kissing in an empty
 
classroom one day. He was so upset when she was —
you know — attacked. You won’t tease him, will you?”
she added anxiously.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Fred, who was looking
like his birthday had come early.
“Definitely not,” said George, sniggering.
The Hogwarts Express slowed and finally stopped.
Harry pulled out his quill and a bit of parchment and
turned to Ron and Hermione.
“This is called a telephone number,” he told Ron,
scribbling it twice, tearing the parchment in two, and
handing it to them. “I told your dad how to use a
telephone last summer — he’ll know. Call me at the
Dursleys’, okay? I can’t stand another two months
with only Dudley to talk to. ...”
“Your aunt and uncle will be proud, though, won’t
they?” said Hermione as they got off the train and
joined the crowd thronging toward the enchanted
barrier. “When they hear what you did this year?
“Proud?” said Harry. “Are you crazy? All those times I
could’ve died, and I didn’t manage it? They’ll be
furious. ...”
And together they walked back through the gateway
to the Muggle world.
 
OWL POST
Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways.
For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more
than any other time of year. For another, he really
wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in
secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to
be a wizard.
It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his
stomach in bed, the blankets drawn right over his
head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and a large
leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda
Bagshot) propped open against the pillow. Harry
moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page,
frowning as he looked for something that would help
him write his essay, “Witch Burning in the Fourteenth
Century Was Completely Pointless — discuss.”
The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking
paragraph. Harry pushed his round glasses up the
bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to the
book, and read:
 
Non-magic people (more commonly known as
Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval
times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare
occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard,
burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard
would perform a basic Flame Freezing Charm and
then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a
gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird
enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed
herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in
various disguises.
Harry put his quill between his teeth and reached
underneath his pillow for his ink bottle and a roll of
parchment. Slowly and very carefully he unscrewed
the ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, and began to
write, pausing every now and then to listen, because
if any of the Dursleys heard the scratching of his quill
on their way to the bathroom, he’d probably find
himself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for
the rest of the summer.
The Dursley family of number four, Privet Drive, was
the reason that Harry never enjoyed his summer
holidays. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and their son,
Dudley, were Harry’s only living relatives. They were
Muggles, and they had a very medieval attitude
toward magic. Harry’s dead parents, who had been a
witch and wizard themselves, were never mentioned
under the Dursleys’ roof. For years, Aunt Petunia and
Uncle Vernon had hoped that if they kept Harry as
downtrodden as possible, they would be able to
squash the magic out of him. To their fury, they had
been unsuccessful. These days they lived in terror of
anyone finding out that Harry had spent most of the
last two years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry. The most they could do, however, was to
lock away Harry’s spellbooks, wand, cauldron, and
 
broomstick at the start of the summer break, and
forbid him to talk to the neighbors.
This separation from his spellbooks had been a real
problem for Harry, because his teachers at Hogwarts
had given him a lot of holiday work. One of the
essays, a particularly nasty one about shrinking
potions, was for Harry’s least favorite teacher,
Professor Snape, who would be delighted to have an
excuse to give Harry detention for a month. Harry had
therefore seized his chance in the first week of the
holidays. While Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and
Dudley had gone out into the front garden to admire
Uncle Vernon’s new company car (in very loud voices,
so that the rest of the street would notice it too),
Harry had crept downstairs, picked the lock on the
cupboard under the stairs, grabbed some of his
books, and hidden them in his bedroom. As long as
he didn’t leave spots of ink on the sheets, the
Dursleys need never know that he was studying
magic by night.
Harry was particularly keen to avoid trouble with his
aunt and uncle at the moment, as they were already
in an especially bad mood with him, all because he’d
received a telephone call from a fellow wizard one
week into the school vacation.
Ron Weasley, who was one of Harry’s best friends at
Hogwarts, came from a whole family of wizards. This
meant that he knew a lot of things Harry didn’t, but
had never used a telephone before. Most unluckily it
had been Uncle Vernon who had answered the call.
“Vernon Dursley speaking.”
Harry, who happened to be in the room at the time,
froze as he heard Ron’s voice answer.
 
“HELLO? HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I — WANT —
TO — TALK — TO — HARRY — POTTER!”
Ron was yelling so loudly that Uncle Vernon jumped
and held the receiver a foot away from his ear, staring
at it with an expression of mingled fury and alarm.
“WHO IS THIS?” he roared in the direction of the
mouthpiece. “WHO ARE YOU?”
“RON — WEASLEY!” Ron bellowed back, as though he
and Uncle Vernon were speaking from opposite ends
of a football field. “I’M — A — FRIEND — OF —
HARRY’S — FROM — SCHOOL — ”
Uncle Vernon’s small eyes swiveled around to Harry,
who was rooted to the spot.
“THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!” he roared,
now holding the receiver at arm’s length, as though
frightened it might explode. “I DONT KNOW WHAT
SCHOOL YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! NEVER
CONTACT ME AGAIN! DONT YOU COME NEAR MY
FAMILY!”
And he threw the receiver back onto the telephone as
if dropping a poisonous spider.
The fight that had followed had been one of the worst
ever.
“HOW DARE YOU GIVE THIS NUMBER TO PEOPLE
LIKE — PEOPLE LIKE YOU!” Uncle Vernon had
roared, spraying Harry with spit.
Ron obviously realized that he’d gotten Harry into
trouble, because he hadn’t called again. Harry’s other
best friend from Hogwarts, Hermione Granger, hadn’t
been in touch either. Harry suspected that Ron had
 
warned Hermione not to call, which was a pity,
because Hermione, the cleverest witch in Harry’s
year, had Muggle parents, knew perfectly well how to
use a telephone, and would probably have had
enough sense not to say that she went to Hogwarts.
So Harry had had no word from any of his wizarding
friends for five long weeks, and this summer was
turning out to be almost as bad as the last one. There
was just one very small improvement — after
swearing that he wouldn’t use her to send letters to
any of his friends, Harry had been allowed to let his
owl, Hedwig, out at night. Uncle Vernon had given in
because of the racket Hedwig made if she was locked
in her cage all the time.
Harry finished writing about Wendelin the Weird and
paused to listen again. The silence in the dark house
was broken only by the distant, grunting snores of his
enormous cousin, Dudley. It must be very late, Harry
thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness.
Perhaps he’d finish this essay tomorrow night. ...
He replaced the top of the ink bottle; pulled an old
pillowcase from under his bed; put the flashlight, A
History of Magic, his essay, quill, and ink inside it; got
out of bed; and hid the lot under a loose floorboard
under his bed. Then he stood up, stretched, and
checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on his
bedside table.
It was one o’clock in the morning. Harry’s stomach
gave a funny jolt. He had been thirteen years old,
without realizing it, for a whole hour.
Yet another unusual thing about Harry was how little
he looked forward to his birthdays. He had never
received a birthday card in his life. The Dursleys had
 
completely ignored his last two birthdays, and he had
no reason to suppose they would remember this one.
Harry walked across the dark room, past Hedwig’s
large, empty cage, to the open window. He leaned on
the sill, the cool night air pleasant on his face after a
long time under the blankets. Hedwig had been
absent for two nights now. Harry wasn’t worried
about her: she’d been gone this long before. But he
hoped she’d be back soon — she was the only living
creature in this house who didn’t flinch at the sight of
him.
Harry, though still rather small and skinny for his
age, had grown a few inches over the last year. His
jet-black hair, however, was just as it always had
been — stubbornly untidy, whatever he did to it. The
eyes behind his glasses were bright green, and on his
forehead, clearly visible through his hair, was a thin
scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning.
Of all the unusual things about Harry, this scar was
the most extraordinary of all. It was not, as the
Dursleys had pretended for ten years, a souvenir of
the car crash that had killed Harry’s parents, because
Lily and James Potter had not died in a car crash.
They had been murdered, murdered by the most
feared Dark wizard for a hundred years, Lord
Voldemort. Harry had escaped from the same attack
with nothing more than a scar on his forehead, where
Voldemort’s curse, instead of killing him, had
rebounded upon its originator. Barely alive,
Voldemort had fled. ...
But Harry had come face-to-face with him at
Hogwarts. Remembering their last meeting as he
stood at the dark window, Harry had to admit he was
lucky even to have reached his thirteenth birthday.
 
He scanned the starry sky for a sign of Hedwig,
perhaps soaring back to him with a dead mouse
dangling from her beak, expecting praise. Gazing
absently over the rooftops, it was a few seconds before
Harry realized what he was seeing.
Silhouetted against the golden moon, and growing
larger every moment, was a large, strangely lopsided
creature, and it was flapping in Harry’s direction. He
stood quite still, watching it sink lower and lower. For
a split second he hesitated, his hand on the window
latch, wondering whether to slam it shut. But then
the bizarre creature soared over one of the street
lamps of Privet Drive, and Harry, realizing what it
was, leapt aside.
Through the window soared three owls, two of them
holding up the third, which appeared to be
unconscious. They landed with a soft flump on
Harry’s bed, and the middle owl, which was large and
gray, keeled right over and lay motionless. There was
a large package tied to its legs.
Harry recognized the unconscious owl at once — his
name was Errol, and he belonged to the Weasley
family. Harry dashed to the bed, untied the cords
around Errol’s legs, took off the parcel, and then
carried Errol to Hedwig’s cage. Errol opened one
bleary eye, gave a feeble hoot of thanks, and began to
gulp some water.
Harry turned back to the remaining owls. One of
them, the large snowy female, was his own Hedwig.
She, too, was carrying a parcel and looked extremely
pleased with herself. She gave Harry an affectionate
nip with her beak as he removed her burden, then
flew across the room to join Errol.
 
Harry didn’t recognize the third owl, a handsome
tawny one, but he knew at once where it had come
from, because in addition to a third package, it was
carrying a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest. When
Harry relieved this owl of its burden, it ruffled its
feathers importantly, stretched its wings, and took off
through the window into the night.
Harry sat down on his bed and grabbed Errol’s
package, ripped off the brown paper, and discovered a
present wrapped in gold, and his first ever birthday
card. Fingers trembling slightly, he opened the
envelope. Two pieces of paper fell out — a letter and a
newspaper clipping.
The clipping had clearly come out of the wizarding
newspaper, the Daily Prophet, because the people in
the black-and-white picture were moving. Harry
picked up the clipping, smoothed it out, and read:
MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE
SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE
Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts
Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual
Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw.
A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet, “We
will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in
Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a curse
breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank. ”
The Weasley family will be spending a month in
Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year
at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children
currently attend.
 
Harry scanned the moving photograph, and a grin
spread across his face as he saw all nine of the
Weasleys waving furiously at him, standing in front of
a large pyramid. Plump little Mrs. Weasley; tall,
balding Mr. Weasley; six sons; and one daughter, all
(though the black-and-white picture didn’t show it)
with flaming-red hair. Right in the middle of the
picture was Ron, tall and gangling, with his pet rat,
Scabbers, on his shoulder and his arm around his
little sister, Ginny.
Harry couldn’t think of anyone who deserved to win a
large pile of gold more than the Weasleys, who were
very nice and extremely poor. He picked up Ron’s
letter and unfolded it.
Dear Harry,
Happy birthday!
Look, I’m really sorry about that telephone call. I hope
the Muggles didn’t give you a hard time. I asked Dad,
and he reckons I shouldn’t have shouted.
It’s amazing here in Egypt. Bill’s taken us around all
the tombs and you wouldn’t believe the curses those
old Egyptian wizards put on them. Mum wouldn’t let
Ginny come in the last one. There were all these
mutant skeletons in there, of Muggles who’d broken in
and grown extra heads and stuff.
I couldn’t believe it when Dad won the Daily Prophet
Draw. Seven hundred galleons! Most of it’s gone on
this trip, but they’re going to buy me a new wand for
next year.
Harry remembered only too well the occasion when
Ron’s old wand had snapped. It had happened when
 
the car the two of them had been flying to Hogwarts
had crashed into a tree on the school grounds.
We’ll be back about a week before term starts and
we’ll be going up to London to get my wand and our
new books. Any chance of meeting you there?
Don’t let the Muggles get you down!
Try and come to London,
Ron
PS. Percy’s Head Boy. He got the letter last week.
Harry glanced back at the photograph. Percy, who
was in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, was
looking particularly smug. He had pinned his Head
Boy badge to the fez perched jauntily on top of his
neat hair, his horn-rimmed glasses flashing in the
Egyptian sun.
Harry now turned to his present and unwrapped it.
Inside was what looked like a miniature glass
spinning top. There was another note from Ron
beneath it.
Harry — this is a Pocket Sneakoscope. If there’s
someone untrustworthy around, it’s supposed to light
up and spin. Bill says it’s rubbish sold for wizard
tourists and isn’t reliable, because it kept lighting up at
dinner last night. But he didn’t realize Fred and George
had put beetles in his soup.
Bye —
Ron
 
Harry put the Pocket Sneakoscope on his bedside
table, where it stood quite still, balanced on its point,
reflecting the luminous hands of his clock. He looked
at it happily for a few seconds, then picked up the
parcel Hedwig had brought.
Inside this, too, there was a wrapped present, a card,
and a letter, this time from Hermione.
Dear Harry,
Ron wrote to me and told me about his phone call to
your Uncle Vernon. I do hope you’re all right.
I’m on holiday in France at the moment and I didn’t
know how I was going to send this to you — what if
they’d opened it at customs? — but then Hedwig
turned up! I think she wanted to make sure you got
something for your birthday for a change. I bought your
present by owl-order; there was an advertisement in
the Daily Prophet (I’ve been getting it delivered; it’s so
good to keep up with what’s going on in the wizarding
world). Did you see that picture of Ron and his family a
week ago? I bet he’s learning loads. I’m really jealous
— the ancient Egyptian wizards were fascinating.
There’s some interesting local history of witchcraft
here, too. I’ve rewritten my whole History of Magic
essay to include some of the things I’ve found out. I
hope it’s not too long — it’s two rolls of parchment more
than Professor Binns asked for.
Ron says he’s going to be in London in the last week of
the holidays. Can you make it? Will your aunt and
uncle let you come? I really hope you can. If not, I’ll see
you on the Hogwarts Express on September first!
Love from
 
Hermione
PS. Ron says Percy’s Head Boy. I’ll bet Percy’s really
pleased.
Ron doesn’t seem too happy about it.
Harry laughed as he put Hermione ’s letter aside and
picked up her present. It was very heavy. Knowing
Hermione, he was sure it would be a large book full of
very difficult spells — but it wasn’t. His heart gave a
huge bound as he ripped back the paper and saw a
sleek black leather case, with silver words stamped
across it, reading Broomstick Servicing Kit.
“Wow, Hermione!” Harry whispered, unzipping the
case to look inside.
There was a large jar of Fleetwood’s High-Finish
Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver Tail-Twig
Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on your broom
for long journeys, and a Handbook of Do-It-Yourself
Broomcare.
Apart from his friends, the thing that Harry missed
most about Hogwarts was Quidditch, the most
popular sport in the magical world — highly
dangerous, very exciting, and played on broomsticks.
Harry happened to be a very good Quidditch player;
he had been the youngest person in a century to be
picked for one of the Hogwarts House teams. One of
Harry’s most prized possessions was his Nimbus Two
Thousand racing broom.
Harry put the leather case aside and picked up his
last parcel. He recognized the untidy scrawl on the
brown paper at once: this was from Hagrid, the
Hogwarts gamekeeper. He tore off the top layer of
paper and glimpsed something green and leathery,
 
but before he could unwrap it properly, the parcel
gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it
snapped loudly — as though it had jaws.
Harry froze. He knew that Hagrid would never send
him anything dangerous on purpose, but then,
Hagrid didn’t have a normal person’s view of what
was dangerous. Hagrid had been known to befriend
giant spiders, buy vicious, three-headed dogs from
men in pubs, and sneak illegal dragon eggs into his
cabin.
Harry poked the parcel nervously. It snapped loudly
again. Harry reached for the lamp on his bedside
table, gripped it firmly in one hand, and raised it over
his head, ready to strike. Then he seized the rest of
the wrapping paper in his other hand and pulled.
And out fell — a book. Harry just had time to register
its handsome green cover, emblazoned with the
golden title The Monster Book of Monsters, before it
flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the
bed like some weird crab.
“Uh-oh,” Harry muttered.
The book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and
shuffled rapidly across the room. Harry followed it
stealthily. The book was hiding in the dark space
under his desk. Praying that the Dursleys were still
fast asleep, Harry got down on his hands and knees
and reached toward it.
“Ouch!”
The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped
past him, still scuttling on its covers. Harry
scrambled around, threw himself forward, and
 
managed to flatten it. Uncle Vernon gave a loud,
sleepy grunt in the room next door.
Hedwig and Errol watched interestedly as Harry
clamped the struggling book tightly in his arms,
hurried to his chest of drawers, and pulled out a belt,
which he buckled tightly around it. The Monster Book
shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap,
so Harry threw it down on the bed and reached for
Hagrid’s card.
Dear Harry,
Happy birthday!
Think you might find this useful for next year.
Won’t say no more here. Tell you when I see you.
Hope the Muggles are treating you right.
All the best,
Hagrid
It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a
biting book would come in useful, but he put Hagrid’s
card up next to Ron’s and Hermione’s, grinning more
broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from
Hogwarts left.
Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Harry
slit open the envelope, pulled out the first page of
parchment within, and read:
Dear Mr. Potter,
Please note that the new school year will begin on
September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave
 
from King’s Cross station, platform nine and three-
quarters, at eleven o’clock.
Third years are permitted to visit the village of
Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the
enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to
sign.
A list of books for next year is enclosed.
Yours sincerely,
Professor M. McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and
looked at it, no longer grinning. It would be wonderful
to visit Hogsmeade on weekends; he knew it was an
entirely wizarding village, and he had never set foot
there. But how on earth was he going to persuade
Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign the form?
He looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two
o’clock in the morning.
Deciding that he’d worry about the Hogsmeade form
when he woke up, Harry got back into bed and
reached up to cross off another day on the chart he’d
made for himself, counting down the days left until
his return to Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses
and lay down, eyes open, facing his three birthday
cards.
Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment
Harry Potter felt just like everyone else — glad, for the
first time in his life, that it was his birthday.
 
AUNT MARGE’S BIG MISTAKE
Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to
find the three Dursleys already sitting around the
kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new
television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present
for Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about
the long walk between the fridge and the television in
the living room. Dudley had spent most of the
summer in the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on
the screen and his five chins wobbling as he ate
continually.
Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a
large, beefy man with very little neck and a lot of
mustache. Far from wishing Harry a happy birthday,
none of the Dursleys made any sign that they had
noticed Harry enter the room, but Harry was far too
used to this to care. He helped himself to a piece of
toast and then looked up at the reporter on the
television, who was halfway through a report on an
escaped convict:
 
"... The public is warned that Black is armed and
extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set
up, and any sighting of Black should be reported
immediately.”
“No need to tell us he’s no good,” snorted Uncle
Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the
prisoner. “Look at the state of him, the filthy
layabout! Look at his hair!”
He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy
hair had always been a source of great annoyance to
Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the
television, however, whose gaunt face was
surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry
felt very well groomed indeed.
The reporter had reappeared.
“The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will
announce today — ”
“Hang on!” barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at
the reporter. “You didn’t tell us where that maniac’s
escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be
coming up the street right now!”
Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced,
whipped around and peered intently out of the
kitchen window. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would
simply love to be the one to call the hot line number.
She was the nosiest woman in the world and spent
most of her life spying on the boring, law-abiding
neighbors.
“When will they learn,” said Uncle Vernon, pounding
the table with his large purple fist, “that hanging’s the
only way to deal with these people?”
 
“Very true,” said Aunt Petunia, who was still
squinting into next door’s runner beans.
Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his
watch, and added, “I’d better be off in a minute,
Petunia. Marge’s train gets in at ten.”
Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with the
Broomstick Servicing Kit, was brought back to earth
with an unpleasant bump.
“Aunt Marge?” he blurted out. “Sh — she’s not
coming here, is she?”
Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon’s sister. Even though
she was not a blood relative of Harry’s (whose mother
had been Aunt Petunia’s sister), he had been forced to
call her “Aunt” all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the
country, in a house with a large garden, where she
bred bulldogs. She didn’t often stay at Privet Drive,
because she couldn’t bear to leave her precious dogs,
but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in
Harry’s mind.
At Dudley’s fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had
whacked Harry around the shins with her walking
stick to stop him from beating Dudley at musical
statues. A few years later, she had turned up at
Christmas with a computerized robot for Dudley and
a box of dog biscuits for Harry. On her last visit, the
year before Harry started at Hogwarts, Harry had
accidentally trodden on the tail of her favorite dog.
Ripper had chased Harry out into the garden and up
a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off
until past midnight. The memory of this incident still
brought tears of laughter to Dudley’s eyes.
“Marge’ll be here for a week,” Uncle Vernon snarled,
“and while we’re on the subject” — he pointed a fat
 
finger threateningly at Harry — “we need to get a few
things straight before I go and collect her.”
Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the
television. Watching Harry being bullied by Uncle
Vernon was Dudley’s favorite form of entertainment.
“Firstly,” growled Uncle Vernon, “you’ll keep a civil
tongue in your head when you’re talking to Marge.”
“All right,” said Harry bitterly, “if she does when she’s
talking to me.”
“Secondly,” said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he
had not heard Harry’s reply, “as Marge doesn’t know
anything about your abnormality, I don’t want any —
any funny stuff while she’s here. You behave yourself,
got me?”
“I will if she does,” said Harry through gritted teeth.
“And thirdly,” said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes
now slits in his great purple face, “we’ve told Marge
you attend St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably
Criminal Boys.”
“What?” Harry yelled.
“And you’ll be sticking to that story, boy, or there’ll be
trouble,” spat Uncle Vernon.
Harry sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at
Uncle Vernon, hardly able to believe it. Aunt Marge
coming for a week-long visit — it was the worst
birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him,
including that pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks.
 
“Well, Petunia,” said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to
his feet, “111 be off to the station, then. Want to come
along for the ride, Dudders?”
“No,” said Dudley, whose attention had returned to
the television now that Uncle Vernon had finished
threatening Harry.
“Duddy’s got to make himself smart for his auntie,”
said Aunt Petunia, smoothing Dudley’s thick blond
hair. “Mummy’s bought him a lovely new bow tie.”
Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder.
“See you in a bit, then,” he said, and he left the
kitchen.
Harry, who had been sitting in a kind of horrified
trance, had a sudden idea. Abandoning his toast, he
got quickly to his feet and followed Uncle Vernon to
the front door.
Uncle Vernon was pulling on his car coat.
“I’m not taking you,” he snarled as he turned to see
Harry watching him.
“Like I wanted to come,” said Harry coldly. “I want to
ask you something.”
Uncle Vernon eyed him suspiciously.
“Third years at Hog — at my school are allowed to
visit the village sometimes,” said Harry.
“So?” snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys from
a hook next to the door.
 
“I need you to sign the permission form,” said Harry
in a rush.
“And why should I do that?” sneered Uncle Vernon.
“Well,” said Harry, choosing his words carefully, “it’ll
be hard work, pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that
St. Whatsits — ”
“St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal
Boys!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, and Harry was pleased
to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle Vernon’s
voice.
“Exactly,” said Harry, looking calmly up into Uncle
Vernon’s large, purple face. “It’s a lot to remember. I’ll
have to make it sound convincing, won’t I? What if I
accidentally let something slip?”
“ You’ll get the stuffing knocked out of you, won’t you?”
roared Uncle Vernon, advancing on Harry with his fist
raised. But Harry stood his ground.
“Knocking the stuffing out of me won’t make Aunt
Marge forget what I could tell her,” he said grimly.
Uncle Vernon stopped, his fist still raised, his face an
ugly puce.
“But if you sign my permission form,” Harry went on
quickly, “I swear I’ll remember where I’m supposed to
go to school, and I’ll act like a Mug — like I’m normal
and everything.”
Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon was thinking it
over, even if his teeth were bared and a vein was
throbbing in his temple.
 
“Right,” he snapped finally. “I shall monitor your
behavior carefully during Marge’s visit. If, at the end
of it, you’ve toed the line and kept to the story, I’ll
sign your ruddy form.”
He wheeled around, pulled open the front door, and
slammed it so hard that one of the little panes of
glass at the top fell out.
Harry didn’t return to the kitchen. He went back
upstairs to his bedroom. If he was going to act like a
real Muggle, he’d better start now. Slowly and sadly
he gathered up all his presents and his birthday
cards and hid them under the loose floorboard with
his homework. Then he went to Hedwig’s cage. Errol
seemed to have recovered; he and Hedwig were both
asleep, heads under their wings. Harry sighed, then
poked them both awake.
“Hedwig,” he said gloomily, “you’re going to have to
clear off for a week. Go with Errol. Ron’ll look after
you. I’ll write him a note, explaining. And don’t look at
me like that” — Hedwig’s large amber eyes were
reproachful — “it’s not my fault. It’s the only way I’ll
be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and
Hermione.”
Ten minutes later, Errol and Hedwig (who had a note
to Ron bound to her leg) soared out of the window
and out of sight. Harry, now feeling thoroughly
miserable, put the empty cage away inside the
wardrobe.
But Harry didn’t have long to brood. In next to no
time, Aunt Petunia was shrieking up the stairs for
Harry to come down and get ready to welcome their
guest.
 
“Do something about your hair!” Aunt Petunia
snapped as he reached the hall.
Harry couldn’t see the point of trying to make his hair
lie flat. Aunt Marge loved criticizing him, so the
untidier he looked, the happier she would be.
All too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as
Uncle Vernon’s car pulled back into the driveway,
then the clunk of the car doors and footsteps on the
garden path.
“Get the door!” Aunt Petunia hissed at Harry.
A feeling of great gloom in his stomach, Harry pulled
the door open.
On the threshold stood Aunt Marge. She was very like
Uncle Vernon: large, beefy, and purple-faced, she
even had a mustache, though not as bushy as his. In
one hand she held an enormous suitcase, and tucked
under the other was an old and evil-tempered
bulldog.
“Where’s my Dudders?” roared Aunt Marge. “Where’s
my neffy-poo?”
Dudley came waddling down the hall, his blond hair
plastered flat to his fat head, a bow tie just visible
under his many chins. Aunt Marge thrust the
suitcase into Harry’s stomach, knocking the wind out
of him, seized Dudley in a tight one-armed hug, and
planted a large kiss on his cheek.
Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley only put up
with Aunt Marge’s hugs because he was well paid for
it, and sure enough, when they broke apart, Dudley
had a crisp twenty-pound note clutched in his fat fist.
 
“Petunia!” shouted Aunt Marge, striding past Harry as
though he was a hat stand. Aunt Marge and Aunt
Petunia kissed, or rather, Aunt Marge bumped her
large jaw against Aunt Petunia’s bony cheekbone.
Uncle Vernon now came in, smiling jovially as he shut
the door.
“Tea, Marge?” he said. “And what will Ripper take?”
“Ripper can have some tea out of my saucer,” said
Aunt Marge as they all proceeded into the kitchen,
leaving Harry alone in the hall with the suitcase. But
Harry wasn’t complaining; any excuse not to be with
Aunt Marge was fine by him, so he began to heave the
case upstairs into the spare bedroom, taking as long
as he could.
By the time he got back to the kitchen, Aunt Marge
had been supplied with tea and fruitcake, and Ripper
was lapping noisily in the corner. Harry saw Aunt
Petunia wince slightly as specks of tea and drool
flecked her clean floor. Aunt Petunia hated animals.
“Who’s looking after the other dogs, Marge?” Uncle
Vernon asked.
“Oh, I’ve got Colonel Fubster managing them,”
boomed Aunt Marge. “He’s retired now, good for him
to have something to do. But I couldn’t leave poor old
Ripper. He pines if he’s away from me.”
Ripper began to growl again as Harry sat down. This
directed Aunt Marge’s attention to Harry for the first
time.
“So!” she barked. “Still here, are you?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
 
“Don’t you say ‘yes’ in that ungrateful tone,” Aunt
Marge growled. “It’s damn good of Vernon and
Petunia to keep you. Wouldn’t have done it myself.
You’d have gone straight to an orphanage if you’d
been dumped on my doorstep.”
Harry was bursting to say that he’d rather live in an
orphanage than with the Dursleys, but the thought of
the Hogsmeade form stopped him. He forced his face
into a painful smile.
“Don’t you smirk at me!” boomed Aunt Marge. “I can
see you haven’t improved since I last saw you. I hoped
school would knock some manners into you.” She
took a large gulp of tea, wiped her mustache, and
said, “Where is it that you send him, again, Vernon?”
“St. Brutus’s,” said Uncle Vernon promptly. “It’s a
first-rate institution for hopeless cases.”
“I see,” said Aunt Marge. “Do they use the cane at St.
Brutus’s, boy?” she barked across the table.
“Er — ”
Uncle Vernon nodded curtly behind Aunt Marge’s
back.
“Yes,” said Harry. Then, feeling he might as well do
the thing properly, he added, “all the time.”
“Excellent,” said Aunt Marge. “I won’t have this
namby-pamby, wishy-washy nonsense about not
hitting people who deserve it. A good thrashing is
what’s needed in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred.
Have you been beaten often?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Harry, “loads of times.”
 
Aunt Marge narrowed her eyes.
“I still don’t like your tone, boy,” she said. “If you can
speak of your beatings in that casual way, they
clearly aren’t hitting you hard enough. Petunia, I’d
write if I were you. Make it clear that you approve the
use of extreme force in this boy’s case.”
Perhaps Uncle Vernon was worried that Harry might
forget their bargain; in any case, he changed the
subject abruptly.
“Heard the news this morning, Marge? What about
that escaped prisoner, eh?”
As Aunt Marge started to make herself at home, Harry
caught himself thinking almost longingly of life at
number four without her. Uncle Vernon and Aunt
Petunia usually encouraged Harry to stay out of their
way, which Harry was only too happy to do. Aunt
Marge, on the other hand, wanted Harry under her
eye at all times, so that she could boom out
suggestions for his improvement. She delighted in
comparing Harry with Dudley, and took huge
pleasure in buying Dudley expensive presents while
glaring at Harry, as though daring him to ask why he
hadn’t got a present too. She also kept throwing out
dark hints about what made Harry such an
unsatisfactory person.
“You mustn’t blame yourself for the way the boy’s
turned out, Vernon,” she said over lunch on the third
day. “If there’s something rotten on the inside, there’s
nothing anyone can do about it.”
Harry tried to concentrate on his food, but his hands
shook and his face was starting to burn with anger.
Remember the form, he told himself. Think about
Hogsmeade. Don’t say anything. Don’t rise —
 
Aunt Marge reached for her glass of wine.
“It’s one of the basic rules of breeding,” she said. “You
see it all the time with dogs. If there’s something
wrong with the bitch, there’ll be something wrong
with the pup — ”
At that moment, the wineglass Aunt Marge was
holding exploded in her hand. Shards of glass flew in
every direction and Aunt Marge sputtered and
blinked, her great ruddy face dripping.
“Marge!” squealed Aunt Petunia. “Marge, are you all
right?”
“Not to worry,” grunted Aunt Marge, mopping her face
with her napkin. “Must have squeezed it too hard. Did
the same thing at Colonel Fubster’s the other day. No
need to fuss, Petunia, I have a very firm grip ...”
But Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were both
looking at Harry suspiciously, so he decided he’d
better skip dessert and escape from the table as soon
as he could.
Outside in the hall, he leaned against the wall,
breathing deeply. It had been a long time since he’d
lost control and made something explode. He couldn’t
afford to let it happen again. The Hogsmeade form
wasn’t the only thing at stake — if he carried on like
that, he’d be in trouble with the Ministry of Magic.
Harry was still an underage wizard, and he was
forbidden by wizard law to do magic outside school.
His record wasn’t exactly clean either. Only last
summer he’d gotten an official warning that had
stated quite clearly that if the Ministry got wind of
any more magic in Privet Drive, Harry would face
expulsion from Hogwarts.
 
He heard the Dursleys leaving the table and hurried
upstairs out of the way.
Harry got through the next three days by forcing
himself to think about his Handbook of Do-It-Yourself
Broomcare whenever Aunt Marge started on him. This
worked quite well, though it seemed to give him a
glazed look, because Aunt Marge started voicing the
opinion that he was mentally subnormal.
At last, at long last, the final evening of Marge’s stay
arrived. Aunt Petunia cooked a fancy dinner and
Uncle Vernon uncorked several bottles of wine. They
got all the way through the soup and the salmon
without a single mention of Harry’s faults; during the
lemon meringue pie, Uncle Vernon bored them all
with a long talk about Grunnings, his drill-making
company; then Aunt Petunia made coffee and Uncle
Vernon brought out a bottle of brandy.
“Can I tempt you, Marge?”
Aunt Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her
huge face was very red.
“Just a small one, then,” she chuckled. “A bit more
than that ... and a bit more ... that’s the ticket.”
Dudley was eating his fourth slice of pie. Aunt
Petunia was sipping coffee with her little finger
sticking out. Harry really wanted to disappear into his
bedroom, but he met Uncle Vernon’s angry little eyes
and knew he would have to sit it out.
“Aah,” said Aunt Marge, smacking her lips and
putting the empty brandy glass back down. “Excellent
nosh, Petunia. It’s normally just a fry-up for me of an
evening, with twelve dogs to look after. ...” She
burped richly and patted her great tweed stomach.
 
“Pardon me. But I do like to see a healthy-sized boy,”
she went on, winking at Dudley. “You’ll be a proper-
sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, I’ll have a
spot more brandy, Vernon. ...”
“Now, this one here — ”
She jerked her head at Harry, who felt his stomach
clench. The Handbook, he thought quickly.
“This one’s got a mean, runty look about him. You get
that with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last
year. Ratty little thing it was. Weak. Underbred.”
Harry was trying to remember page twelve of his
book: A Charm to Cure Reluctant Reversers.
“It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the other
day. Bad blood will out. Now, I’m saying nothing
against your family, Petunia” — she patted Aunt
Petunia’s bony hand with her shovellike one — “but
your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best
families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here’s
the result right in front of us.”
Harry was staring at his plate, a funny ringing in his
ears. Grasp your broom firmly by the tail, he thought.
But he couldn’t remember what came next. Aunt
Marge’s voice seemed to be boring into him like one of
Uncle Vernon’s drills.
“This Potter,” said Aunt Marge loudly, seizing the
brandy bottle and splashing more into her glass and
over the tablecloth, “you never told me what he did?”
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were looking
extremely tense. Dudley had even looked up from his
pie to gape at his parents.
 
“He — didn’t work,” said Uncle Vernon, with half a
glance at Harry. “Unemployed.”
“As I expected!” said Aunt Marge, taking a huge swig
of brandy and wiping her chin on her sleeve. “A no-
account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who — ”
“He was not,” said Harry suddenly. The table went
very quiet. Harry was shaking all over. He had never
felt so angry in his life.
“MORE BRANDY!” yelled Uncle Vernon, who had gone
very white. He emptied the bottle into Aunt Marge’s
glass. “You, boy,” he snarled at Harry. “Go to bed, go
on — ”
“No, Vernon,” hiccuped Aunt Marge, holding up a
hand, her tiny bloodshot eyes fixed on Harry’s. “Go
on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They
go and get themselves killed in a car crash (drunk, I
expect) — ”
“They didn’t die in a car crash!” said Harry, who
found himself on his feet.
“They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left
you to be a burden on their decent, hardworking
relatives!” screamed Aunt Marge, swelling with fury.
“You are an insolent, ungrateful little — ”
But Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a
moment, it looked as though words had failed her.
She seemed to be swelling with inexpressible anger —
but the swelling didn’t stop. Her great red face started
to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth
stretched too tightly for speech — next second,
several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket
and pinged off the walls — she was inflating like a
monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her
 
tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a
salami —
“MARGE!” yelled Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia
together as Aunt Marge’s whole body began to rise off
her chair toward the ceiling. She was entirely round,
now, like a vast life buoy with piggy eyes, and her
hands and feet stuck out weirdly as she drifted up
into the air, making apoplectic popping noises. Ripper
came skidding into the room, barking madly.
“NOOOOOOO!”
Uncle Vernon seized one of Marge’s feet and tried to
pull her down again, but was almost lifted from the
floor himself. A second later, Ripper leapt forward and
sank his teeth into Uncle Vernon’s leg.
Harry tore from the dining room before anyone could
stop him, heading for the cupboard under the stairs.
The cupboard door burst magically open as he
reached it. In seconds, he had heaved his trunk to the
front door. He sprinted upstairs and threw himself
under the bed, wrenching up the loose floorboard,
and grabbed the pillowcase full of his books and
birthday presents. He wriggled out, seized Hedwig’s
empty cage, and dashed back downstairs to his
trunk, just as Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining
room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters.
“COME BACK IN HERE!” he bellowed. “COME BACK
AND PUT HER RIGHT!”
But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He kicked
his trunk open, pulled out his wand, and pointed it at
Uncle Vernon.
“She deserved it,” Harry said, breathing very fast.
“She deserved what she got. You keep away from me.”
 
He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door.
“I’m going,” Harry said. “I’ve had enough.”
And in the next moment, he was out in the dark,
quiet street, heaving his heavy trunk behind him,
Hedwig’s cage under his arm.
 
3
THE KNIGHT BUS
Harry was several streets away before he collapsed
onto a low wall in Magnolia Crescent, panting from
the effort of dragging his trunk. He sat quite still,
anger still surging through him, listening to the
frantic thumping of his heart.
But after ten minutes alone in the dark street, a new
emotion overtook him: panic. Whichever way he
looked at it, he had never been in a worse fix. He was
stranded, quite alone, in the dark Muggle world, with
absolutely nowhere to go. And the worst of it was, he
had just done serious magic, which meant that he
was almost certainly expelled from Hogwarts. He had
broken the Decree for the Restriction of Underage
Wizardry so badly, he was surprised Ministry of Magic
representatives weren’t swooping down on him where
he sat.
Harry shivered and looked up and down Magnolia
Crescent. What was going to happen to him? Would
he be arrested, or would he simply be outlawed from
the wizarding world? He thought of Ron and
 
Hermione, and his heart sank even lower. Harry was
sure that, criminal or not, Ron and Hermione would
want to help him now, but they were both abroad,
and with Hedwig gone, he had no means of contacting
them.
He didn’t have any Muggle money, either. There was a
little wizard gold in the money bag at the bottom of
his trunk, but the rest of the fortune his parents had
left him was stored in a vault at Gringotts Wizarding
Bank in London. He’d never be able to drag his trunk
all the way to London. Unless ...
He looked down at his wand, which he was still
clutching in his hand. If he was already expelled (his
heart was now thumping painfully fast), a bit more
magic couldn’t hurt. He had the Invisibility Cloak he
had inherited from his father — what if he bewitched
the trunk to make it feather-light, tied it to his
broomstick, covered himself in the cloak, and flew to
London? Then he could get the rest of his money out
of his vault and ... begin his life as an outcast. It was
a horrible prospect, but he couldn’t sit on this wall
forever, or he’d find himself trying to explain to
Muggle police why he was out in the dead of night
with a trunkful of spellbooks and a broomstick.
Harry opened his trunk again and pushed the
contents aside, looking for the Invisibility Cloak —
but before he had found it, he straightened up
suddenly, looking around him once more.
A funny prickling on the back of his neck had made
Harry feel he was being watched, but the street
appeared to be deserted, and no lights shone from
any of the large square houses.
He bent over his trunk again, but almost immediately
stood up once more, his hand clenched on his wand.
 
He had sensed rather than heard it: someone or
something was standing in the narrow gap between
the garage and the fence behind him. Harry squinted
at the black alleyway. If only it would move, then he’d
know whether it was just a stray cat or — something
else.
“Lumos,” Harry muttered, and a light appeared at the
end of his wand, almost dazzling him. He held it high
over his head, and the pebble-dashed walls of number
two suddenly sparkled; the garage door gleamed, and
between them Harry saw, quite distinctly, the hulking
outline of something very big, with wide, gleaming
eyes.
Harry stepped backward. His legs hit his trunk and
he tripped. His wand flew out of his hand as he flung
out an arm to break his fall, and he landed, hard, in
the gutter —
There was a deafening BANG, and Harry threw up his
hands to shield his eyes against a sudden blinding
light —
With a yell, he rolled back onto the pavement, just in
time. A second later, a gigantic pair of wheels and
headlights screeched to a halt exactly where Harry
had just been lying. They belonged, as Harry saw
when he raised his head, to a triple-decker, violently
purple bus, which had appeared out of thin air. Gold
lettering over the windshield spelled The Knight Bus.
For a split second, Harry wondered if he had been
knocked silly by his fall. Then a conductor in a purple
uniform leapt out of the bus and began to speak
loudly to the night.
“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for
the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your
 
wand hand, step on board, and we can take you
anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike,
and I will be your conductor this eve — ”
The conductor stopped abruptly. He had just caught
sight of Harry, who was still sitting on the ground.
Harry snatched up his wand again and scrambled to
his feet. Close up, he saw that Stan Shunpike was
only a few years older than he was, eighteen or
nineteen at most, with large, protruding ears and
quite a few pimples.
“What were you doin’ down there?” said Stan,
dropping his professional manner.
“Fell over,” said Harry.
“ ’Choo fall over for?” sniggered Stan.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Harry, annoyed. One
of the knees in his jeans was torn, and the hand he
had thrown out to break his fall was bleeding. He
suddenly remembered why he had fallen over and
turned around quickly to stare at the alleyway
between the garage and fence. The Knight Bus’s
headlamps were flooding it with light, and it was
empty.
“ ’Choo lookin’ at?” said Stan.
“There was a big black thing,” said Harry, pointing
uncertainly into the gap. “Like a dog ... but massive
He looked around at Stan, whose mouth was slightly
open. With a feeling of unease, Harry saw Stan’s eyes
move to the scar on Harry’s forehead.
“Woss that on your ’ead?” said Stan abruptly.
 
“Nothing,” said Harry quickly, flattening his hair over
his scar. If the Ministry of Magic was looking for him,
he didn’t want to make it too easy for them.
“Woss your name?” Stan persisted.
“Neville Longbottom,” said Harry, saying the first
name that came into his head. “So — so this bus,” he
went on quickly, hoping to distract Stan, “did you say
it goes anywhere?”
“Yep,” said Stan proudly, “anywhere you like, long’s
it’s on land. Can’t do nuffink underwater. ’Ere,” he
said, looking suspicious again, “you did flag us down,
dincha? Stuck out your wand ’and, dincha?”
“Yes,” said Harry quickly. “Listen, how much would it
be to get to London?”
“Eleven Sickles,” said Stan, “but for firteen you get ’ot
chocolate, and for fifteen you get an ’ot water bottle
an’ a toofbrush in the color of your choice.”
Harry rummaged once more in his trunk, extracted
his money bag, and shoved some gold into Stan’s
hand. He and Stan then lifted his trunk, with
Hedwig’s cage balanced on top, up the steps of the
bus.
There were no seats; instead, half a dozen brass
bedsteads stood beside the curtained windows.
Candles were burning in brackets beside each bed,
illuminating the wood-paneled walls. A tiny wizard in
a nightcap at the rear of the bus muttered, “Not now,
thanks, I’m pickling some slugs” and rolled over in his
sleep.
“You ’ave this one,” Stan whispered, shoving Harry’s
trunk under the bed right behind the driver, who was
 
sitting in an armchair in front of the steering wheel.
“This is our driver, Ernie Prang. This is Neville
Longbottom, Ern.”
Ernie Prang, an elderly wizard wearing very thick
glasses, nodded to Harry, who nervously flattened his
bangs again and sat down on his bed.
“Take ’er away, Ern,” said Stan, sitting down in the
armchair next to Ernie’s.
There was another tremendous BANG, and the next
moment Harry found himself flat on his bed, thrown
backward by the speed of the Knight Bus. Pulling
himself up, Harry stared out of the dark window and
saw that they were now bowling along a completely
different street. Stan was watching Harry’s stunned
face with great enjoyment.
“This is where we was before you flagged us down,” he
said. “Where are we, Ern? Somewhere in Wales?”
“Ar,” said Ernie.
“How come the Muggles don’t hear the bus?” said
Harry.
“Them!” said Stan contemptuously. “Don’ listen
properly, do they? Don’ look properly either. Never
notice nuffink, they don’.”
“Best go wake up Madam Marsh, Stan,” said Ern.
“Well be in Abergavenny in a minute.”
Stan passed Harry’s bed and disappeared up a
narrow wooden staircase. Harry was still looking out
of the window, feeling increasingly nervous. Ernie
didn’t seem to have mastered the use of a steering
wheel. The Knight Bus kept mounting the pavement,
 
but it didn’t hit anything; lines of lampposts,
mailboxes, and trash cans jumped out of its way as it
approached and back into position once it had
passed.
Stan came back downstairs, followed by a faintly
green witch wrapped in a traveling cloak.
“ ’Ere you go, Madam Marsh,” said Stan happily as
Ern stamped on the brake and the beds slid a foot or
so toward the front of the bus. Madam Marsh
clamped a handkerchief to her mouth and tottered
down the steps. Stan threw her bag out after her and
rammed the doors shut; there was another loud
BANG, and they were thundering down a narrow
country lane, trees leaping out of the way.
Harry wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he had
been traveling on a bus that didn’t keep banging
loudly and jumping a hundred miles at a time. His
stomach churned as he fell back to wondering what
was going to happen to him, and whether the
Dursleys had managed to get Aunt Marge off the
ceiling yet.
Stan had unfurled a copy of the Daily Prophet and
was now reading with his tongue between his teeth. A
large photograph of a sunken-faced man with long,
matted hair blinked slowly at Harry from the front
page. He looked strangely familiar.
“That man!” Harry said, forgetting his troubles for a
moment. “He was on the Muggle news!”
Stanley turned to the front page and chuckled.
“Sirius Black,” he said, nodding. “ ’Course ’e was on
the Muggle news, Neville, where you been?”
 
He gave a superior sort of chuckle at the blank look
on Harry’s face, removed the front page, and handed
it to Harry.
“You oughta read the papers more, Neville.”
Harry held the paper up to the candlelight and read:
BLACK STILL AT LARGE
Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner
ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding
capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today.
“We are doing all we can to recapture Black,” said the
Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning,
“and we beg the magical community to remain calm.”
Fudge has been criticized by some members of the
International Federation of Warlocks for informing the
Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.
“Well, really, I had to, don’t you know,” said an
irritable Fudge. “Black is mad. He’s a danger to
anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the
Prime Minister’s assurance that he will not breathe a
word of Black’s true identity to anyone. And let’s face
it — who’d believe him if he did?”
While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a
gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill
each other), the magical community lives in fear of a
massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black
murdered thirteen people with a single curse.
Harry looked into the shadowed eyes of Sirius Black,
the only part of the sunken face that seemed alive.
 
Harry had never met a vampire, but he had seen
pictures of them in his Defense Against the Dark Arts
classes, and Black, with his waxy white skin, looked
just like one.
“Scary-lookin’ fing, inee?” said Stan, who had been
watching Harry read.
“He murdered thirteen people?” said Harry, handing
the page back to Stan, “with one curse?”
“Yep,” said Stan, “in front of witnesses an’ all. Broad
daylight. Big trouble it caused, dinnit, Ern?”
“Ar,” said Ern darkly.
Stan swiveled in his armchair, his hands on the back,
the better to look at Harry.
“Black woz a big supporter of You-Know-’Oo,” he said.
“What, Voldemort?” said Harry, without thinking.
Even Stan’s pimples went white; Ern jerked the
steering wheel so hard that a whole farmhouse had to
jump aside to avoid the bus.
“You outta your tree?” yelped Stan. “ ’Choo say ’is
name for?”
“Sorry,” said Harry hastily. “Sorry, I — I forgot — ”
“Forgot!” said Stan weakly. “Blimey, my ’eart’s goin’
that fast...”
“So — so Black was a supporter of You-Know-Who?”
Harry prompted apologetically.
 
“Yeah,” said Stan, still rubbing his chest. “Yeah,
that’s right. Very close to You-Know-’Oo, they say.
Anyway, when little ’Arry Potter got the better of You-
Know-’Oo — ”
Harry nervously flattened his bangs down again.
“ — all You-Know-’Oo’s supporters was tracked down,
wasn’t they, Ern? Most of ’em knew it was all over,
wiv You-Know-’Oo gone, and they came quiet. But not
Sirius Black. I ’eard he thought ’e’d be second-in-
command once You-Know-’Oo ’ad taken over.
“Anyway, they cornered Black in the middle of a street
full of Muggles an’ Black took out ’is wand and ’e
blasted ’alf the street apart, an’ a wizard got it, an’ so
did a dozen Muggles what got in the way. ’Orrible, eh?
An’ you know what Black did then?” Stan continued
in a dramatic whisper.
“What?” said Harry.
“Laughed,” said Stan. “Jus’ stood there an’ laughed.
An’ when reinforcements from the Ministry of Magic
got there, ’e went wiv ’em quiet as anyfink, still
laughing ’is ’ead off. ’Cos ’e’s mad, inee, Ern? Inee
mad?”
“If he weren’t when he went to Azkaban, he will be
now,” said Ern in his slow voice. “I’d blow meself up
before I set foot in that place. Serves him right, mind
you ... after what he did. ...”
“They ’ad a job coverin’ it up, din’ they, Ern?” Stan
said. “ ’Ole street blown up an’ all them Muggles
dead. What was it they said ’ad ’appened, Ern?”
“Gas explosion,” grunted Ernie.
 
“An’ now ’e’s out,” said Stan, examining the
newspaper picture of Black’s gaunt face again. “Never
been a breakout from Azkaban before, ’as there, Ern?
Beats me ’ow ’e did it. Frightenin’, eh? Mind, I don’t
fancy ’is chances against them Azkaban guards, eh,
Ern?”
Ernie suddenly shivered.
“Talk about summat else, Stan, there’s a good lad.
Them Azkaban guards give me the collywobbles.”
Stan put the paper away reluctantly, and Harry
leaned against the window of the Knight Bus, feeling
worse than ever. He couldn’t help imagining what
Stan might be telling his passengers in a few nights’
time.
“ ’Ear about that ’Arry Potter? Blew up ’is aunt! We
’ad ’im ’ere on the Knight Bus, di’n’t we, Ern? ’E was
tryin’ to run for it. ...”
He, Harry, had broken wizard law just like Sirius
Black. Was inflating Aunt Marge bad enough to land
him in Azkaban? Harry didn’t know anything about
the wizard prison, though everyone he’d ever heard
speak of it did so in the same fearful tone. Hagrid, the
Hogwarts gamekeeper, had spent two months there
only last year. Harry wouldn’t soon forget the look of
terror on Hagrid ’s face when he had been told where
he was going, and Hagrid was one of the bravest
people Harry knew.
The Knight Bus rolled through the darkness,
scattering bushes and wastebaskets, telephone
booths and trees, and Harry lay, restless and
miserable, on his feather bed. After a while, Stan
remembered that Harry had paid for hot chocolate,
but poured it all over Harry’s pillow when the bus
 
moved abruptly from Anglesey to Aberdeen. One by
one, wizards and witches in dressing gowns and
slippers descended from the upper floors to leave the
bus. They all looked very pleased to go.
Finally, Harry was the only passenger left.
“Right then, Neville,” said Stan, clapping his hands,
“whereabouts in London?”
“Diagon Alley,” said Harry.
“Righto,” said Stan. “ ’Old tight, then ...”
BANG!
They were thundering along Charing Cross Road.
Harry sat up and watched buildings and benches
squeezing themselves out of the Knight Bus’s way.
The sky was getting a little lighter. He would lie low
for a couple of hours, go to Gringotts the moment it
opened, then set off — where, he didn’t know.
Ern slammed on the brakes and the Knight Bus
skidded to a halt in front of a small and shabby-
looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, behind which lay
the magical entrance to Diagon Alley.
“Thanks,” Harry said to Ern.
He jumped down the steps and helped Stan lower his
trunk and Hedwig’s cage onto the pavement.
“Well,” said Harry. “ ’Bye then!”
But Stan wasn’t paying attention. Still standing in the
doorway to the bus, he was goggling at the shadowy
entrance to the Leaky Cauldron.
 
“ There you are, Harry,” said a voice.
Before Harry could turn, he felt a hand on his
shoulder. At the same time, Stan shouted, “Blimey!
Ern, come ’ere! Come ’ere!”
Harry looked up at the owner of the hand on his
shoulder and felt a bucketful of ice cascade into his
stomach — he had walked right into Cornelius Fudge,
the Minister of Magic himself.
Stan leapt onto the pavement beside them.
“What didja call Neville, Minister?” he said excitedly.
Fudge, a portly little man in a long, pinstriped cloak,
looked cold and exhausted.
“Neville?” he repeated, frowning. “This is Harry
Potter.”
“I knew it!” Stan shouted gleefully. “Ern! Ern! Guess
’oo Neville is, Ern! ’E’s ’Arry Potter! I can see ’is scar!”
“Yes,” said Fudge testily, “well, I’m very glad the
Knight Bus picked Harry up, but he and I need to
step inside the Leaky Cauldron now ...”
Fudge increased the pressure on Harry’s shoulder,
and Harry found himself being steered inside the pub.
A stooping figure bearing a lantern appeared through
the door behind the bar. It was Tom, the wizened,
toothless landlord.
“You’ve got him, Minister!” said Tom. “Will you be
wanting anything? Beer? Brandy?”
“Perhaps a pot of tea,” said Fudge, who still hadn’t let
go of Harry.
 
There was a loud scraping and puffing from behind
them, and Stan and Ern appeared, carrying Harry’s
trunk and Hedwig’s cage and looking around
excitedly.
“ ’Ow come you di’n’t tell us ’oo you are, eh, Neville?”
said Stan, beaming at Harry, while Ernie’s owlish face
peered interestedly over Stan’s shoulder.
“And a private parlor, please, Tom,” said Fudge
pointedly.
“ ’Bye,” Harry said miserably to Stan and Ern as Tom
beckoned Fudge toward the passage that led from the
bar.
“ ’Bye, Neville!” called Stan.
Fudge marched Harry along the narrow passage after
Tom’s lantern, and then into a small parlor. Tom
clicked his fingers, a fire burst into life in the grate,
and he bowed himself out of the room.
“Sit down, Harry,” said Fudge, indicating a chair by
the fire.
Harry sat down, feeling goose bumps rising up his
arms despite the glow of the fire. Fudge took off his
pinstriped cloak and tossed it aside, then hitched up
the trousers of his bottle-green suit and sat down
opposite Harry.
“I am Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister of Magic.”
Harry already knew this, of course; he had seen
Fudge once before, but as he had been wearing his
father’s Invisibility Cloak at the time, Fudge wasn’t to
know that.
 
Tom the innkeeper reappeared, wearing an apron over
his nightshirt and bearing a tray of tea and crumpets.
He placed the tray on a table between Fudge and
Harry and left the parlor, closing the door behind
him.
“Well, Harry,” said Fudge, pouring out tea, “you’ve
had us all in a right flap, I don’t mind telling you.
Running away from your aunt and uncle’s house like
that! I’d started to think ... but you’re safe, and that’s
what matters.”
Fudge buttered himself a crumpet and pushed the
plate toward Harry.
“Eat, Harry, you look dead on your feet. Now then ...
You will be pleased to hear that we have dealt with
the unfortunate blowing-up of Miss Marjorie Dursley.
Two members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad
were dispatched to Privet Drive a few hours ago. Miss
Dursley has been punctured and her memory has
been modified. She has no recollection of the incident
at all. So that’s that, and no harm done.”
Fudge smiled at Harry over the rim of his teacup,
rather like an uncle surveying a favorite nephew.
Harry, who couldn’t believe his ears, opened his
mouth to speak, couldn’t think of anything to say,
and closed it again.
“Ah, you’re worrying about the reaction of your aunt
and uncle?” said Fudge. “Well, I won’t deny that they
are extremely angry, Harry, but they are prepared to
take you back next summer as long as you stay at
Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays.”
Harry unstuck his throat.
 
“I always stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and
Easter holidays,” he said, “and I don’t ever want to go
back to Privet Drive.”
“Now, now, I’m sure you’ll feel differently once you’ve
calmed down,” said Fudge in a worried tone. “They
are your family, after all, and I’m sure you are fond of
each other — er — very deep down.”
It didn’t occur to Harry to put Fudge right. He was
still waiting to hear what was going to happen to him
now.
“So all that remains,” said Fudge, now buttering
himself a second crumpet, “is to decide where you’re
going to spend the last three weeks of your vacation. I
suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron
and — ”
“Hang on,” blurted Harry. “What about my
punishment?”
Fudge blinked.
“Punishment?”
“I broke the law!” Harry said. “The Decree for the
Restriction of Underage Wizardry!”
“Oh, my dear boy, we’re not going to punish you for a
little thing like that!” cried Fudge, waving his crumpet
impatiently. “It was an accident! We don’t send people
to Azkaban just for blowing up their aunts!”
But this didn’t tally at all with Harry’s past dealings
with the Ministry of Magic.
“Last year, I got an official warning just because a
house-elf smashed a pudding in my uncle’s house!”
 
he told Fudge, frowning. “The Ministry of Magic said
I’d be expelled from Hogwarts if there was any more
magic there!”
Unless Harry’s eyes were deceiving him, Fudge was
suddenly looking awkward.
“Circumstances change, Harry. ... We have to take
into account ... in the present climate . . . Surely you
don’t want to be expelled?”
“Of course I don’t,” said Harry.
“Well then, what’s all the fuss about?” laughed Fudge.
“Now, have a crumpet, Harry, while I go and see if
Tom’s got a room for you.”
Fudge strode out of the parlor and Harry stared after
him. There was something extremely odd going on.
Why had Fudge been waiting for him at the Leaky
Cauldron, if not to punish him for what he’d done?
And now Harry came to think of it, surely it wasn’t
usual for the Minister of Magic himself to get involved
in matters of underage magic?
Fudge came back, accompanied by Tom the
innkeeper.
“Room eleven’s free, Harry,” said Fudge. “I think you’ll
be very comfortable. Just one thing, and I’m sure
you’ll understand ... I don’t want you wandering off
into Muggle London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley.
And you’re to be back here before dark each night.
Sure you’ll understand. Tom will be keeping an eye on
you for me.”
“Okay,” said Harry slowly, “but why — ?”
 
“Don’t want to lose you again, do we?” said Fudge
with a hearty laugh. “No, no ... best we know where
you are. ... I mean ...”
Fudge cleared his throat loudly and picked up his
pinstriped cloak.
“Well, I’ll be off, plenty to do, you know. ...”
“Have you had any luck with Black yet?” Harry asked.
Fudge’s finger slipped on the silver fastenings of his
cloak.
“What’s that? Oh, you’ve heard — well, no, not yet,
but it’s only a matter of time. The Azkaban guards
have never yet failed ... and they are angrier than I’ve
ever seen them.”
Fudge shuddered slightly.
“So, I’ll say good-bye.”
He held out his hand and Harry, shaking it, had a
sudden idea.
“Er — Minister? Can I ask you something?”
“Certainly,” said Fudge with a smile.
“Well, third years at Hogwarts are allowed to visit
Hogsmeade, but my aunt and uncle didn’t sign the
permission form. D’you think you could — ?”
Fudge was looking uncomfortable.
“Ah,” he said. “No, no, I’m very sorry, Harry, but as
I’m not your parent or guardian — ”
 
“But you’re the Minister of Magic,” said Harry eagerly.
“If you gave me permission — ”
“No, I’m sorry, Harry, but rules are rules,” said Fudge
flatly. “Perhaps you’ll be able to visit Hogsmeade next
year. In fact, I think it’s best if you don’t ... yes ...
well, I’ll be off. Enjoy your stay, Harry.”
And with a last smile and shake of Harry’s hand,
Fudge left the room. Tom now moved forward,
beaming at Harry.
“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Potter,” he said, “I’ve already
taken your things up. ...”
Harry followed Tom up a handsome wooden staircase
to a door with a brass number eleven on it, which
Tom unlocked and opened for him.
Inside was a very comfortable-looking bed, some
highly polished oak furniture, a cheerfully crackling
fire and, perched on top of the wardrobe —
“Hedwig!” Harry gasped.
The snowy owl clicked her beak and fluttered down
onto Harry’s arm.
“Very smart owl you’ve got there,” chuckled Tom.
“Arrived about five minutes after you did. If there’s
anything you need, Mr. Potter, don’t hesitate to ask.”
He gave another bow and left.
Harry sat on his bed for a long time, absentmindedly
stroking Hedwig. The sky outside the window was
changing rapidly from deep, velvety blue to cold,
steely gray and then, slowly, to pink shot with gold.
Harry could hardly believe that he’d left Privet Drive
 
only a few hours ago, that he wasn’t expelled, and
that he was now facing three Dursley-free weeks.
“It’s been a very weird night, Hedwig,” he yawned.
And without even removing his glasses, he slumped
back onto his pillows and fell asleep.
 
THE LEAKY CAULDRON
It took Harry several days to get used to his strange
new freedom. Never before had he been able to get up
whenever he wanted or eat whatever he fancied. He
could even go wherever he pleased, as long as it was
in Diagon Alley, and as this long cobbled street was
packed with the most fascinating wizarding shops in
the world, Harry felt no desire to break his word to
Fudge and stray back into the Muggle world.
Harry ate breakfast each morning in the Leaky
Cauldron, where he liked watching the other guests:
funny little witches from the country, up for a day’s
shopping; venerable-looking wizards arguing over the
latest article in Transfiguration Today; wild-looking
warlocks; raucous dwarfs; and once, what looked
suspiciously like a hag, who ordered a plate of raw
liver from behind a thick woollen balaclava.
After breakfast Harry would go out into the backyard,
take out his wand, tap the third brick from the left
above the trash bin, and stand back as the archway
into Diagon Alley opened in the wall.
 
Harry spent the long sunny days exploring the shops
and eating under the brightly colored umbrellas
outside cafes, where his fellow diners were showing
one another their purchases (“it’s a lunascope, old
boy — no more messing around with moon charts,
see?”) or else discussing the case of Sirius Black
(“personally, I won’t let any of the children out alone
until he’s back in Azkaban”). Harry didn’t have to do
his homework under the blankets by flashlight
anymore; now he could sit in the bright sunshine
outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor,
finishing all his essays with occasional help from
Florean Fortescue himself, who, apart from knowing a
great deal about medieval witch burnings, gave Harry
free sundaes every half an hour.
Once Harry had refilled his money bag with gold
Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts from his
vault at Gringotts, he had to exercise a lot of self-
control not to spend the whole lot at once. He had to
keep reminding himself that he had five years to go at
Hogwarts, and how it would feel to ask the Dursleys
for money for spellbooks, to stop himself from buying
a handsome set of solid gold Gobstones (a wizarding
game rather like marbles, in which the stones squirt a
nasty-smelling liquid into the other player’s face when
they lose a point). He was sorely tempted, too, by the
perfect, moving model of the galaxy in a large glass
ball, which would have meant he never had to take
another Astronomy lesson. But the thing that tested
Harry’s resolution most appeared in his favorite shop,
Quality Quidditch Supplies, a week after he’d arrived
at the Leaky Cauldron.
Curious to know what the crowd in the shop was
staring at, Harry edged his way inside and squeezed
in among the excited witches and wizards until he
glimpsed a newly erected podium, on which was
 
mounted the most magnificent broom he had ever
seen in his life.
“Just come out — prototype — ” a square-jawed
wizard was telling his companion.
“It’s the fastest broom in the world, isn’t it, Dad?”
squeaked a boy younger than Harry, who was
swinging off his father’s arm.
“Irish International Side’s just put in an order for
seven of these beauties!” the proprietor of the shop
told the crowd. “And they’re favorites for the World
Cup!”
A large witch in front of Harry moved, and he was
able to read the sign next to the broom:
THE FIREBOLT
This state-of-the-art racing broom sports a stream-
lined, superfine handle of ash, treated with a
diamond-hard polish and hand-numbered with its
own registration number. Each individually selected
birch twig in the broomtail has been honed to
aerodynamic perfection, giving the Firebolt
unsurpassable balance and pinpoint precision. The
Firebolt has an acceleration of 150 miles an hour in
ten seconds and incorporates an unbreakable
Braking Charm. Price on request.
Price on request ... Harry didn’t like to think how
much gold the Firebolt would cost. He had never
wanted anything as much in his whole life — but he
had never lost a Quidditch match on his Nimbus Two
Thousand, and what was the point in emptying his
Gringotts vault for the Firebolt, when he had a very
good broom already? Harry didn’t ask for the price,
 
but he returned, almost every day after that, just to
look at the Firebolt.
There were, however, things that Harry needed to
buy. He went to the Apothecary to replenish his store
of potions ingredients, and as his school robes were
now several inches too short in the arm and leg, he
visited Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions and
bought new ones. Most important of all, he had to
buy his new schoolbooks, which would include those
for his two new subjects, Care of Magical Creatures
and Divination.
Harry got a surprise as he looked in at the bookshop
window. Instead of the usual display of gold-
embossed spellbooks the size of paving slabs, there
was a large iron cage behind the glass that held about
a hundred copies of The Monster Book of Monsters.
Torn pages were flying everywhere as the books
grappled with each other, locked together in furious
wrestling matches and snapping aggressively.
Harry pulled his booklist out of his pocket and
consulted it for the first time. The Monster Book of
Monsters was listed as the required book for Care of
Magical Creatures. Now Harry understood why Hagrid
had said it would come in useful. He felt relieved; he
had been wondering whether Hagrid wanted help with
some terrifying new pet.
As Harry entered Flourish and Blotts, the manager
came hurrying toward him.
“Hogwarts?” he said abruptly. “Come to get your new
books?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “I need — ”
 
“Get out of the way,” said the manager impatiently,
brushing Harry aside. He drew on a pair of very thick
gloves, picked up a large, knobbly walking stick, and
proceeded toward the door of the Monster Books’ cage.
“Hang on,” said Harry quickly, “I’ve already got one of
those.”
“Have you?” A look of enormous relief spread over the
manager’s face. “Thank heavens for that. I’ve been
bitten five times already this morning — ”
A loud ripping noise rent the air; two of the Monster
Books had seized a third and were pulling it apart.
“Stop it! Stop it!” cried the manager, poking the
walking stick through the bars and knocking the
books apart. “I’m never stocking them again, never!
It’s been bedlam! I thought we’d seen the worst when
we bought two hundred copies of the Invisible Book of
Invisibility — cost a fortune, and we never found
them. ... Well ... is there anything else I can help you
with?”
“Yes,” said Harry, looking down his booklist, “I need
Unfogging the Future by Cassandra Vablatsky.”
“Ah, starting Divination, are you?” said the manager,
stripping off his gloves and leading Harry into the
back of the shop, where there was a corner devoted to
fortune-telling. A small table was stacked with
volumes such as Predicting the Unpredictable: Insulate
Yourself Against Shocks and Broken Balls: When
Fortunes Turn Foul.
“Here you are,” said the manager, who had climbed a
set of steps to take down a thick, black-bound book.
“Unfogging the Future. Very good guide to all your
 
basic fortune-telling methods — palmistry, crystal
balls, bird entrails — ”
But Harry wasn’t listening. His eyes had fallen on
another book, which was among a display on a small
table: Death Omens: What to Do When You Know the
Worst Is Coming.
“Oh, I wouldn’t read that if I were you,” said the
manager lightly, looking to see what Harry was
staring at. “You’ll start seeing death omens
everywhere. It’s enough to frighten anyone to death.”
But Harry continued to stare at the front cover of the
book; it showed a black dog large as a bear, with
gleaming eyes. It looked oddly familiar. ...
The manager pressed Unfogging the Future into
Harry’s hands.
“Anything else?” he said.
“Yes,” said Harry, tearing his eyes away from the
dog’s and dazedly consulting his booklist. “Er — I
need Intermediate Transfiguration and The Standard
Book of Spells, Grade Three.”
Harry emerged from Flourish and Blotts ten minutes
later with his new books under his arms and made
his way back to the Leaky Cauldron, hardly noticing
where he was going and bumping into several people.
He tramped up the stairs to his room, went inside,
and tipped his books onto his bed. Somebody had
been in to tidy; the windows were open and sun was
pouring inside. Harry could hear the buses rolling by
in the unseen Muggle street behind him and the
sound of the invisible crowd below in Diagon Alley. He
caught sight of himself in the mirror over the basin.
 
“It can’t have been a death omen,” he told his
reflection defiantly. “I was panicking when I saw that
thing in Magnolia Crescent. ... It was probably just a
stray dog. ...”
He raised his hand automatically and tried to make
his hair lie flat.
“You’re fighting a losing battle there, dear,” said his
mirror in a wheezy voice.
As the days slipped by, Harry started looking
wherever he went for a sign of Ron or Hermione.
Plenty of Hogwarts students were arriving in Diagon
Alley now, with the start of term so near. Harry met
Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, his fellow
Gryffindors, in Quality Quidditch Supplies, where
they too were ogling the Firebolt; he also ran into the
real Neville Longbottom, a round-faced, forgetful boy,
outside Flourish and Blotts. Harry didn’t stop to chat;
Neville appeared to have mislaid his booklist and was
being told off by his very formidable-looking
grandmother. Harry hoped she never found out that
he’d pretended to be Neville while on the run from the
Ministry of Magic.
Harry woke on the last day of the holidays, thinking
that he would at least meet Ron and Hermione
tomorrow, on the Hogwarts Express. He got up,
dressed, went for a last look at the Firebolt, and was
just wondering where he’d have lunch, when someone
yelled his name and he turned.
“Harry! HARRY!”
They were there, both of them, sitting outside Florean
Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor — Ron looking
incredibly freckly, Hermione very brown, both waving
frantically at him.
 
“Finally!” said Ron, grinning at Harry as he sat down.
“We went to the Leaky Cauldron, but they said you’d
left, and we went to Flourish and Blotts, and Madam
Malkin’s, and — ”
“I got all my school stuff last week,” Harry explained.
“And how come you knew I’m staying at the Leaky
Cauldron?”
“Dad,” said Ron simply.
Mr. Weasley, who worked at the Ministry of Magic,
would of course have heard the whole story of what
had happened to Aunt Marge.
“Did you really blow up your aunt, Harry?” said
Hermione in a very serious voice.
“I didn’t mean to,” said Harry while Ron roared with
laughter. “I just — lost control.”
“It’s not funny, Ron,” said Hermione sharply.
“Honestly, I’m amazed Harry wasn’t expelled.”
“So am I,” admitted Harry. “Forget expelled, I thought
I was going to be arrested.” He looked at Ron. “Your
dad doesn’t know why Fudge let me off, does he?”
“Probably ’cause it’s you, isn’t it?” shrugged Ron, still
chuckling. “Famous Harry Potter and all that. I’d hate
to see what the Ministry’d do to me if I blew up an
aunt. Mind you, they’d have to dig me up first,
because Mum would’ve killed me. Anyway, you can
ask Dad yourself this evening. We’re staying at the
Leaky Cauldron tonight too! So you can come to
King’s Cross with us tomorrow! Hermione’s there as
well!”
 
Hermione nodded, beaming. “Mum and Dad dropped
me off this morning with all my Hogwarts things.”
“Excellent!” said Harry happily. “So, have you got all
your new books and stuff?”
“Look at this,” said Ron, pulling a long thin box out of
a bag and opening it. “Brand-new wand. Fourteen
inches, willow, containing one unicorn tail-hair. And
we’ve got all our books — ” He pointed at a large bag
under his chair. “What about those Monster Books,
eh? The assistant nearly cried when we said we
wanted two.”
“What’s all that, Hermione?” Harry asked, pointing at
not one but three bulging bags in the chair next to
her.
“Well, I’m taking more new subjects than you, aren’t
I?” said Hermione. “Those are my books for
Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination,
Study of Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies — ”
“What are you doing Muggle Studies for?” said Ron,
rolling his eyes at Harry. “You’re Muggle-born! Your
mum and dad are Muggles! You already know all
about Muggles!”
“But it’ll be fascinating to study them from the
wizarding point of view,” said Hermione earnestly.
“Are you planning to eat or sleep at all this year,
Hermione?” asked Harry, while Ron sniggered.
Hermione ignored them.
“I’ve still got ten Galleons,” she said, checking her
purse. “It’s my birthday in September, and Mum and
Dad gave me some money to get myself an early
birthday present.”
 
“How about a nice book?” said Ron innocently.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Hermione composedly. “I
really want an owl. I mean, Harry’s got Hedwig and
you’ve got Errol — ”
“I haven’t,” said Ron. “Errol’s a family owl. All I’ve got
is Scabbers.” He pulled his pet rat out of his pocket.
“And I want to get him checked over,” he added,
placing Scabbers on the table in front of them. “I
don’t think Egypt agreed with him.”
Scabbers was looking thinner than usual, and there
was a definite droop to his whiskers.
“There’s a magical creature shop just over there,” said
Harry, who knew Diagon Alley very well by now. “You
could see if they’ve got anything for Scabbers, and
Hermione can get her owl.”
So they paid for their ice cream and crossed the street
to the Magical Menagerie.
There wasn’t much room inside. Every inch of wall
was hidden by cages. It was smelly and very noisy
because the occupants of these cages were all
squeaking, squawking, jabbering, or hissing. The
witch behind the counter was already advising a
wizard on the care of double-ended newts, so Harry,
Ron, and Hermione waited, examining the cages.
A pair of enormous purple toads sat gulping wetly
and feasting on dead blowflies. A gigantic tortoise
with a jewel-encrusted shell was glittering near the
window. Poisonous orange snails were oozing slowly
up the side of their glass tank, and a fat white rabbit
kept changing into a silk top hat and back again with
a loud popping noise. Then there were cats of every
color, a noisy cage of ravens, a basket of funny
 
custard-colored furballs that were humming loudly,
and on the counter, a vast cage of sleek black rats
that were playing some sort of skipping game using
their long, bald tails.
The double-ended newt wizard left, and Ron
approached the counter.
“It’s my rat,” he told the witch. “He been a bit off-color
ever since I brought him back from Egypt.”
“Bang him on the counter,” said the witch, pulling a
pair of heavy black spectacles out of her pocket.
Ron lifted Scabbers out of his inside pocket and
placed him next to the cage of his fellow rats, who
stopped their skipping tricks and scuffled to the wire
for a better look.
Like nearly everything Ron owned, Scabbers the rat
was secondhand (he had once belonged to Ron’s
brother Percy) and a bit battered. Next to the glossy
rats in the cage, he looked especially woebegone.
“Hm,” said the witch, picking up Scabbers. “How old
is this rat?”
“Dunno,” said Ron. “Quite old. He used to belong to
my brother.”
“What powers does he have?” said the witch,
examining Scabbers closely.
“Er — ” The truth was that Scabbers had never shown
the faintest trace of interesting powers. The witch’s
eyes moved from Scabbers ’s tattered left ear to his
front paw, which had a toe missing, and tutted
loudly.
 
“He’s been through the mill, this one,” she said.
“He was like that when Percy gave him to me,” said
Ron defensively.
“An ordinary common or garden rat like this can’t be
expected to live longer than three years or so,” said
the witch. “Now, if you were looking for something a
bit more hard-wearing, you might like one of these — ”
She indicated the black rats, who promptly started
skipping again. Ron muttered, “Show-offs.”
“Well, if you don’t want a replacement, you can try
this rat tonic,” said the witch, reaching under the
counter and bringing out a small red bottle.
“Okay,” said Ron. “How much — OUCH!”
Ron buckled as something huge and orange came
soaring from the top of the highest cage, landed on
his head, and then propelled itself, spitting madly, at
Scabbers.
“NO, CROOKSHANKS, NO!” cried the witch, but
Scabbers shot from between her hands like a bar of
soap, landed splay-legged on the floor, and then
scampered for the door.
“Scabbers!” Ron shouted, racing out of the shop after
him; Harry followed.
It took them nearly ten minutes to catch Scabbers,
who had taken refuge under a wastepaper bin outside
Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ron stuffed the trembling
rat back into his pocket and straightened up,
massaging his head.
“What was that?”
 
“It was either a very big cat or quite a small tiger,”
said Harry.
“Where’s Hermione?”
“Probably getting her owl — ”
They made their way back up the crowded street to
the Magical Menagerie. As they reached it, Hermione
came out, but she wasn’t carrying an owl. Her arms
were clamped tightly around the enormous ginger cat.
“You bought that monster?” said Ron, his mouth
hanging open.
“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” said Hermione, glowing.
That was a matter of opinion, thought Harry. The
cat’s ginger fur was thick and fluffy, but it was
definitely a bit bowlegged and its face looked grumpy
and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong
into a brick wall. Now that Scabbers was out of sight,
however, the cat was purring contentedly in
Hermione ’s arms.
“Hermione, that thing nearly scalped me!” said Ron.
“He didn’t mean to, did you, Crookshanks?” said
Hermione.
“And what about Scabbers?” said Ron, pointing at the
lump in his chest pocket. “He needs rest and
relaxation! How’s he going to get it with that thing
around?”
“That reminds me, you forgot your rat tonic,” said
Hermione, slapping the small red bottle into Ron’s
hand. “And stop worrying, Crookshanks will be
sleeping in my dormitory and Scabbers in yours,
 
what’s the problem? Poor Crookshanks, that witch
said he’d been in there for ages; no one wanted him.”
“I wonder why,” said Ron sarcastically as they set off
toward the Leaky Cauldron.
They found Mr. Weasley sitting in the bar, reading the
Daily Prophet.
“Harry!” he said, smiling as he looked up. “How are
you?”
“Fine, thanks,” said Harry as he, Ron, and Hermione
joined Mr. Weasley with all their shopping.
Mr. Weasley put down his paper, and Harry saw the
now familiar picture of Sirius Black staring up at him.
“They still haven’t caught him, then?” he asked.
“No,” said Mr. Weasley, looking extremely grave.
“They’ve pulled us all off our regular jobs at the
Ministry to try and find him, but no luck so far.”
“Would we get a reward if we caught him?” asked
Ron. “It’d be good to get some more money — ”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,” said Mr. Weasley, who on
closer inspection looked very strained. “Black’s not
going to be caught by a thirteen-year-old wizard. It’s
the Azkaban guards who’ll get him back, you mark
my words.”
At that moment Mrs. Weasley entered the bar, laden
with shopping bags and followed by the twins, Fred
and George, who were about to start their fifth year at
Hogwarts; the newly elected Head Boy, Percy; and the
Weasleys’ youngest child and only girl, Ginny.
 
Ginny, who had always been very taken with Harry,
seemed even more heartily embarrassed than usual
when she saw him, perhaps because he had saved
her life during their previous year at Hogwarts. She
went very red and muttered “hello” without looking at
him. Percy, however, held out his hand solemnly as
though he and Harry had never met and said, “Harry.
How nice to see you.”
“Hello, Percy,” said Harry, trying not to laugh.
“I hope you’re well?” said Percy pompously, shaking
hands. It was rather like being introduced to the
mayor.
“Very well, thanks — ”
“Harry!” said Fred, elbowing Percy out of the way and
bowing deeply. “Simply splendid to see you, old boy —
“Marvelous,” said George, pushing Fred aside and
seizing Harry’s hand in turn. “Absolutely spiffing.”
Percy scowled.
“That’s enough, now,” said Mrs. Weasley.
“Mum!” said Fred as though he’d only just spotted her
and seizing her hand too. “How really corking to see
you — ”
“I said, that’s enough,” said Mrs. Weasley, depositing
her shopping in an empty chair. “Hello, Harry, dear. I
suppose you’ve heard our exciting news?” She pointed
to the brand-new silver badge on Percy’s chest.
“Second Head Boy in the family!” she said, swelling
with pride.
 
“And last,” Fred muttered under his breath.
“I don’t doubt that,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning
suddenly. “I notice they haven’t made you two
prefects.”
“What do we want to be prefects for?” said George,
looking revolted at the very idea. “It’d take all the fun
out of life.”
Ginny giggled.
“You want to set a better example for your sister!”
snapped Mrs. Weasley.
“Ginny’s got other brothers to set her an example,
Mother,” said Percy loftily. “I’m going up to change for
dinner. ...”
He disappeared and George heaved a sigh.
“We tried to shut him in a pyramid,” he told Harry.
“But Mum spotted us.”
Dinner that night was a very enjoyable affair. Tom the
innkeeper put three tables together in the parlor, and
the seven Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione ate their
way through five delicious courses.
“How’re we getting to King’s Cross tomorrow, Dad?”
asked Fred as they dug into a sumptuous chocolate
pudding.
“The Ministry’s providing a couple of cars,” said Mr.
Weasley.
Everyone looked up at him.
“Why?” said Percy curiously.
 
“It’s because of you, Perce,” said George seriously.
“And there’ll be little flags on the hoods, with HB on
them — ”
“ — for Humongous Bighead,” said Fred.
Everyone except Percy and Mrs. Weasley snorted into
their pudding.
“Why are the Ministry providing cars, Father?” Percy
asked again, in a dignified voice.
“Well, as we haven’t got one anymore,” said Mr.
Weasley, “ — and as I work there, they’re doing me a
favor — ”
His voice was casual, but Harry couldn’t help noticing
that Mr. Weasley’s ears had gone red, just like Ron’s
did when he was under pressure.
“Good thing, too,” said Mrs. Weasley briskly. “Do you
realize how much luggage you’ve all got between you?
A nice sight you’d be on the Muggle Underground. ...
You are all packed, aren’t you?”
“Ron hasn’t put all his new things in his trunk yet,”
said Percy, in a long-suffering voice. “He’s dumped
them on my bed.”
“You’d better go and pack properly, Ron, because we
won’t have much time in the morning,” Mrs. Weasley
called down the table. Ron scowled at Percy.
After dinner everyone felt very full and sleepy. One by
one they made their way upstairs to their rooms to
check their things for the next day. Ron and Percy
were next door to Harry. He had just closed and
locked his own trunk when he heard angry voices
through the wall, and went to see what was going on.
 
The door of number twelve was ajar and Percy was
shouting.
“It was here, on the bedside table, I took it off for
polishing — ”
“I haven’t touched it, all right?” Ron roared back.
“What’s up?” said Harry.
“My Head Boy badge is gone,” said Percy, rounding on
Harry.
“So’s Scabbers’s rat tonic,” said Ron, throwing things
out of his trunk to look. “I think I might’ve left it in
the bar — ”
“You’re not going anywhere till you’ve found my
badge!” yelled Percy.
“I’ll get Scabbers’s stuff, I’m packed,” Harry said to
Ron, and he went downstairs.
Harry was halfway along the passage to the bar,
which was now very dark, when he heard another
pair of angry voices coming from the parlor. A second
later, he recognized them as Mr. and Mrs. Weasleys’.
He hesitated, not wanting them to know he’d heard
them arguing, when the sound of his own name made
him stop, then move closer to the parlor door.
“... makes no sense not to tell him,” Mr. Weasley was
saying heatedly. “Harry’s got a right to know. I’ve tried
to tell Fudge, but he insists on treating Harry like a
child. He’s thirteen years old and — ”
“Arthur, the truth would terrify him!” said Mrs.
Weasley shrilly. “Do you really want to send Harry
 
back to school with that hanging over him? For
heaven’s sake, he’s happy not knowing!”
“I don’t want to make him miserable, I want to put
him on his guard!” retorted Mr. Weasley. “You know
what Harry and Ron are like, wandering off by
themselves — they’ve even ended up in the Forbidden
Forest! But Harry mustn’t do that this year! When I
think what could have happened to him that night he
ran away from home! If the Knight Bus hadn’t picked
him up, I’m prepared to bet he would have been dead
before the Ministry found him.”
“But he’s not dead, he’s fine, so what’s the point — ”
“Molly, they say Sirius Black’s mad, and maybe he is,
but he was clever enough to escape from Azkaban,
and that’s supposed to be impossible. It’s been a
month, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him, and I
don’t care what Fudge keeps telling the Daily Prophet,
we’re no nearer catching Black than inventing self-
spelling wands. The only thing we know for sure is
what Black’s after — ”
“But Harry will be perfectly safe at Hogwarts.”
“We thought Azkaban was perfectly safe. If Black can
break out of Azkaban, he can break into Hogwarts.”
“But no one’s really sure that Black’s after Harry — ”
There was a thud on wood, and Harry was sure Mr.
Weasley had banged his fist on the table.
“Molly, how many times do I have to tell you? They
didn’t report it in the press because Fudge wanted it
kept quiet, but Fudge went out to Azkaban the night
Black escaped. The guards told Fudge that Black’s
been talking in his sleep for a while now. Always the
 
same words: ‘He’s at Hogwarts ... he’s at Hogwarts.’
Black is deranged, Molly, and he wants Harry dead. If
you ask me, he thinks murdering Harry will bring
You-Know-Who back to power. Black lost everything
the night Harry stopped You-Know-Who, and he’s had
twelve years alone in Azkaban to brood on that. ...”
There was a silence. Harry leaned still closer to the
door, desperate to hear more.
“Well, Arthur, you must do what you think is right.
But you’re forgetting Albus Dumbledore. I don’t think
anything could hurt Harry at Hogwarts while
Dumbledore ’s headmaster. I suppose he knows about
all this?”
“Of course he knows. We had to ask him if he minds
the Azkaban guards stationing themselves around the
entrances to the school grounds. He wasn’t happy
about it, but he agreed.”
“Not happy? Why shouldn’t he be happy, if they’re
there to catch Black?”
“Dumbledore isn’t fond of the Azkaban guards,” said
Mr. Weasley heavily. “Nor am I, if it comes to that ...
but when you’re dealing with a wizard like Black, you
sometimes have to join forces with those you’d rather
avoid.”
“If they save Harry — ”
“ — then I will never say another word against them,”
said Mr. Weasley wearily. “It’s late, Molly, we’d better
go up. ...”
Harry heard chairs move. As quietly as he could, he
hurried down the passage to the bar and out of sight.
The parlor door opened, and a few seconds later
 
footsteps told him that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were
climbing the stairs.
The bottle of rat tonic was lying under the table they
had sat at earlier. Harry waited until he heard Mr.
and Mrs. Weasley’s bedroom door close, then headed
back upstairs with the bottle.
Fred and George were crouching in the shadows on
the landing, heaving with laughter as they listened to
Percy dismantling his and Ron’s room in search of his
badge.
“We’ve got it,” Fred whispered to Harry. “We’ve been
improving it.”
The badge now read BigheacL Boy.
Harry forced a laugh, went to give Ron the rat tonic,
then shut himself in his room and lay down on his
bed.
So Sirius Black was after him. This explained
everything. Fudge had been lenient with him because
he was so relieved to find him alive. He’d made Harry
promise to stay in Diagon Alley where there were
plenty of wizards to keep an eye on him. And he was
sending two Ministry cars to take them all to the
station tomorrow, so that the Weasleys could look
after Harry until he was on the train.
Harry lay listening to the muffled shouting next door
and wondered why he didn’t feel more scared. Sirius
Black had murdered thirteen people with one curse;
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley obviously thought Harry would
be panic-stricken if he knew the truth. But Harry
happened to agree wholeheartedly with Mrs. Weasley
that the safest place on earth was wherever Albus
Dumbledore happened to be. Didn’t people always say
 
that Dumbledore was the only person Lord Voldemort
had ever been afraid of? Surely Black, as Voldemort’s
right-hand man, would be just as frightened of him?
And then there were these Azkaban guards everyone
kept talking about. They seemed to scare most people
senseless, and if they were stationed all around the
school, Black’s chances of getting inside seemed very
remote.
No, all in all, the thing that bothered Harry most was
the fact that his chances of visiting Hogsmeade now
looked like zero. Nobody would want Harry to leave
the safety of the castle until Black was caught; in
fact, Harry suspected his every move would be
carefully watched until the danger had passed.
He scowled at the dark ceiling. Did they think he
couldn’t look after himself? He’d escaped Lord
Voldemort three times; he wasn’t completely useless.
Unbidden, the image of the beast in the shadows of
Magnolia Crescent crossed his mind. What to do when
you know the worst is coming. . . .
“I’m not going to be murdered,” Harry said out loud.
“That’s the spirit, dear,” said his mirror sleepily.
 
5
THE DEMENTOR
Tom woke Harry the next morning with his usual
toothless grin and a cup of tea. Harry got dressed and
was just persuading a disgruntled Hedwig to get back
into her cage when Ron banged his way into the
room, pulling a sweatshirt over his head and looking
irritable.
“The sooner we get on the train, the better,” he said.
“At least I can get away from Percy at Hogwarts. Now
he’s accusing me of dripping tea on his photo of
Penelope Clearwater. You know,” Ron grimaced, “his
girlfriend. She’s hidden her face under the frame
because her nose has gone all blotchy. ...”
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Harry began, but they
were interrupted by Fred and George, who had looked
in to congratulate Ron on infuriating Percy again.
They headed down to breakfast, where Mr. Weasley
was reading the front page of the Daily Prophet with a
furrowed brow and Mrs. Weasley was telling
 
Hermione and Ginny about a love potion she’d made
as a young girl. All three of them were rather giggly.
“What were you saying?” Ron asked Harry as they sat
down.
“Later,” Harry muttered as Percy stormed in.
Harry had no chance to speak to Ron or Hermione in
the chaos of leaving; they were too busy heaving all
their trunks down the Leaky Cauldron’s narrow
staircase and piling them up near the door, with
Hedwig and Hermes, Percy’s screech owl, perched on
top in their cages. A small wickerwork basket stood
beside the heap of trunks, spitting loudly.
“It’s all right, Crookshanks,” Hermione cooed through
the wickerwork. “I’ll let you out on the train.”
“You won’t,” snapped Ron. “What about poor
Scabbers, eh?”
He pointed at his chest, where a large lump indicated
that Scabbers was curled up in his pocket.
Mr. Weasley, who had been outside waiting for the
Ministry cars, stuck his head inside.
“They’re here,” he said. “Harry, come on.”
Mr. Weasley marched Harry across the short stretch
of pavement toward the first of two old-fashioned dark
green cars, each of which was driven by a furtive-
looking wizard wearing a suit of emerald velvet.
“In you get, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, glancing up and
down the crowded street.
 
Harry got into the back of the car and was shortly
joined by Hermione, Ron, and, to Ron’s disgust,
Percy.
The journey to King’s Cross was very uneventful
compared with Harry’s trip on the Knight Bus. The
Ministry of Magic cars seemed almost ordinary,
though Harry noticed that they could slide through
gaps that Uncle Vernon’s new company car certainly
couldn’t have managed. They reached King’s Cross
with twenty minutes to spare; the Ministry drivers
found them trolleys, unloaded their trunks, touched
their hats in salute to Mr. Weasley, and drove away,
somehow managing to jump to the head of an
unmoving line at the traffic lights.
Mr. Weasley kept close to Harry’s elbow all the way
into the station.
“Right then,” he said, glancing around them. “Let’s do
this in pairs, as there are so many of us. I’ll go
through first with Harry.”
Mr. Weasley strolled toward the barrier between
platforms nine and ten, pushing Harry’s trolley and
apparently very interested in the Intercity 125 that
had just arrived at platform nine. With a meaningful
look at Harry, he leaned casually against the barrier.
Harry imitated him.
In a moment, they had fallen sideways through the
solid metal onto platform nine and three-quarters and
looked up to see the Hogwarts Express, a scarlet
steam engine, puffing smoke over a platform packed
with witches and wizards seeing their children onto
the train.
 
Percy and Ginny suddenly appeared behind Harry.
They were panting and had apparently taken the
barrier at a run.
“Ah, there’s Penelope!” said Percy, smoothing his hair
and going pink again. Ginny caught Harry’s eye, and
they both turned away to hide their laughter as Percy
strode over to a girl with long, curly hair, walking with
his chest thrown out so that she couldn’t miss his
shiny badge.
Once the remaining Weasleys and Hermione had
joined them, Harry and Ron led the way to the end of
the train, past packed compartments, to a carriage
that looked quite empty. They loaded the trunks onto
it, stowed Hedwig and Crookshanks in the luggage
rack, then went back outside to say good-bye to Mr.
and Mrs. Weasley.
Mrs. Weasley kissed all her children, then Hermione,
and finally, Harry. He was embarrassed, but really
quite pleased, when she gave him an extra hug.
“Do take care, won’t you, Harry?” she said as she
straightened up, her eyes oddly bright. Then she
opened her enormous handbag and said, “I’ve made
you all sandwiches. ... Here you are, Ron ... no,
they’re not corned beef. ... Fred? Where’s Fred? Here
you are, dear. ...”
“Harry,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “come over here a
moment.”
He jerked his head toward a pillar, and Harry followed
him behind it, leaving the others crowded around
Mrs. Weasley.
“There’s something I’ve got to tell you before you leave
— ” said Mr. Weasley, in a tense voice.
 
“It’s all right, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry. “I already
know.”
“You know? How could you know?”
“I — er — I heard you and Mrs. Weasley talking last
night. I couldn’t help hearing,” Harry added quickly.
“Sorry — ”
“That’s not the way I’d have chosen for you to find
out,” said Mr. Weasley, looking anxious.
“No — honestly, it’s okay. This way, you haven’t
broken your word to Fudge and I know what’s going
on.”
“Harry, you must be very scared — ”
“I’m not,” said Harry sincerely. “Really” he added,
because Mr. Weasley was looking disbelieving. “I’m
not trying to be a hero, but seriously, Sirius Black
can’t be worse than Voldemort, can he?”
Mr. Weasley flinched at the sound of the name but
overlooked it.
“Harry, I knew you were, well, made of stronger stuff
than Fudge seems to think, and I’m obviously pleased
that you’re not scared, but — ”
“Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, who was now
shepherding the rest onto the train. “Arthur, what are
you doing? It’s about to go!”
“He’s coming, Molly!” said Mr. Weasley but he turned
back to Harry and kept talking in a lower and more
hurried voice. “Listen, I want you to give me your
word — ”
 
“ — that I’ll be a good boy and stay in the castle?” said
Harry gloomily.
“Not entirely,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked more
serious than Harry had ever seen him. “Harry, swear
to me you won’t go looking for Black.”
Harry stared. “What?”
There was a loud whistle. Guards were walking along
the train, slamming all the doors shut.
“Promise me, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, talking more
quickly still, “that whatever happens — ”
“Why would I go looking for someone I know wants to
kill me?” said Harry blankly.
“Swear to me that whatever you might hear — ”
“Arthur, quickly!” cried Mrs. Weasley.
Steam was billowing from the train; it had started to
move. Harry ran to the compartment door and Ron
threw it open and stood back to let him on. They
leaned out of the window and waved at Mr. and Mrs.
Weasley until the train turned a corner and blocked
them from view.
“I need to talk to you in private,” Harry muttered to
Ron and Hermione as the train picked up speed.
“Go away, Ginny,” said Ron.
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Ginny huffily, and she stalked
off.
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off down the corridor,
looking for an empty compartment, but all were full
except for the one at the very end of the train.
This had only one occupant, a man sitting fast asleep
next to the window. Harry, Ron, and Hermione
checked on the threshold. The Hogwarts Express was
usually reserved for students and they had never seen
an adult there before, except for the witch who
pushed the food cart.
The stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of
wizard’s robes that had been darned in several places.
He looked ill and exhausted. Though quite young, his
light brown hair was flecked with gray.
“Who d’you reckon he is?” Ron hissed as they sat
down and slid the door shut, taking the seats farthest
away from the window.
“Professor R. J. Lupin,” whispered Hermione at once.
“How d’you know that?”
“It’s on his case,” she replied, pointing at the luggage
rack over the man’s head, where there was a small,
battered case held together with a large quantity of
neatly knotted string. The name Professor R. J. Lupin
was stamped across one corner in peeling letters.
“Wonder what he teaches?” said Ron, frowning at
Professor Lupin’s pallid profile.
“That’s obvious,” whispered Hermione. “There’s only
one vacancy, isn’t there? Defense Against the Dark
Arts.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had already had two
Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, both of
 
whom had lasted only one year. There were rumors
that the job was jinxed.
“Well, I hope he’s up to it,” said Ron doubtfully. “He
looks like one good hex would finish him off, doesn’t
he? Anyway ...” He turned to Harry. “What were you
going to tell us?”
Harry explained all about Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s
argument and the warning Mr. Weasley had just
given him. When he’d finished, Ron looked
thunderstruck, and Hermione had her hands over her
mouth. She finally lowered them to say, “Sirius Black
escaped to come after you? Oh, Harry ... you’ll have to
be really, really careful. Don’t go looking for trouble,
Harry — ”
“I don’t go looking for trouble,” said Harry, nettled.
“Trouble usually finds me.”
“How thick would Harry have to be, to go looking for a
nutter who wants to kill him?” said Ron shakily.
They were taking the news worse than Harry had
expected. Both Ron and Hermione seemed to be much
more frightened of Black than he was.
“No one knows how he got out of Azkaban,” said Ron
uncomfortably. “No one’s ever done it before. And he
was a top-security prisoner too.”
“But they’ll catch him, won’t they?” said Hermione
earnestly. “I mean, they’ve got all the Muggles looking
out for him too. ...”
“What’s that noise?” said Ron suddenly.
A faint, tinny sort of whistle was coming from
somewhere. They looked all around the compartment.
 
“It’s coming from your trunk, Harry,” said Ron,
standing up and reaching into the luggage rack. A
moment later he had pulled the Pocket Sneakoscope
out from between Harry’s robes. It was spinning very
fast in the palm of Ron’s hand and glowing brilliantly.
“Is that a Sneakoscope?” said Hermione interestedly,
standing up for a better look.
“Yeah ... mind you, it’s a very cheap one,” Ron said.
“It went haywire just as I was tying it to Errol’s leg to
send it to Harry.”
“Were you doing anything untrustworthy at the time?”
said Hermione shrewdly.
“No! Well ... I wasn’t supposed to be using Errol. You
know he’s not really up to long journeys ... but how
else was I supposed to get Harry’s present to him?”
“Stick it back in the trunk,” Harry advised as the
Sneakoscope whistled piercingly, “or it’ll wake him
up.”
He nodded toward Professor Lupin. Ron stuffed the
Sneakoscope into a particularly horrible pair of Uncle
Vernon’s old socks, which deadened the sound, then
closed the lid of the trunk on it.
“We could get it checked in Hogsmeade,” said Ron,
sitting back down. “They sell that sort of thing in
Dervish and Banges, magical instruments and stuff.
Fred and George told me.”
“Do you know much about Hogsmeade?” asked
Hermione keenly. “I’ve read it’s the only entirely non-
Muggle settlement in Britain — ”
 
“Yeah, I think it is,” said Ron in an offhand sort of
way, “but that’s not why I want to go. I just want to
get inside Honeydukes!”
“What’s that?” said Hermione.
“It’s this sweetshop,” said Ron, a dreamy look coming
over his face, “where they’ve got everything. ... Pepper
Imps — they make you smoke at the mouth — and
great fat Chocoballs full of strawberry mousse and
clotted cream, and really excellent sugar quills, which
you can suck in class and just look like you’re
thinking what to write next — ”
“But Hogsmeade’s a very interesting place, isn’t it?”
Hermione pressed on eagerly. “In Sites of Historical
Sorcery it says the inn was the headquarters for the
1612 goblin rebellion, and the Shrieking Shack’s
supposed to be the most severely haunted building in
Britain — ”
“ — and massive sherbet balls that make you levitate a
few inches off the ground while you’re sucking them,”
said Ron, who was plainly not listening to a word
Hermione was saying.
Hermione looked around at Harry.
“Won’t it be nice to get out of school for a bit and
explore Hogsmeade?”
“ ’Spect it will,” said Harry heavily. “You’ll have to tell
me when you’ve found out.”
“What d’you mean?” said Ron.
“I can’t go. The Dursleys didn’t sign my permission
form, and Fudge wouldn’t either.”
 
Ron looked horrified.
“You’re not allowed to come? But — no way —
McGonagall or someone will give you permission — ”
Harry gave a hollow laugh. Professor McGonagall,
head of Gryffindor House, was very strict.
“ — or we can ask Fred and George, they know every
secret passage out of the castle — ”
“Ron!” said Hermione sharply. “I don’t think Harry
should be sneaking out of school with Black on the
loose — ”
“Yeah, I expect that’s what McGonagall will say when
I ask for permission,” said Harry bitterly.
“But if we’re with him,” said Ron spiritedly to
Hermione, “Black wouldn’t dare — ”
“Oh, Ron, don’t talk rubbish,” snapped Hermione.
“Black’s already murdered a whole bunch of people in
the middle of a crowded street. Do you really think
he’s going to worry about attacking Harry just
because we’re there?”
She was fumbling with the straps of Crookshanks’s
basket as she spoke.
“Don’t let that thing out!” Ron said, but too late;
Crookshanks leapt lightly from the basket, stretched,
yawned, and sprang onto Ron’s knees; the lump in
Ron’s pocket trembled and he shoved Crookshanks
angrily away.
“Get out of here!”
“Ron, don’t!” said Hermione angrily.
 
Ron was about to answer back when Professor Lupin
stirred. They watched him apprehensively, but he
simply turned his head the other way, mouth slightly
open, and slept on.
The Hogwarts Express moved steadily north and the
scenery outside the window became wilder and darker
while the clouds overhead thickened. People were
chasing backward and forward past the door of their
compartment. Crookshanks had now settled in an
empty seat, his squashed face turned toward Ron, his
yellow eyes on Ron’s top pocket.
At one o’clock, the plump witch with the food cart
arrived at the compartment door.
“D’you think we should wake him up?” Ron asked
awkwardly, nodding toward Professor Lupin. “He
looks like he could do with some food.”
Hermione approached Professor Lupin cautiously.
“Er — Professor?” she said. “Excuse me — Professor?”
He didn’t move.
“Don’t worry, dear,” said the witch as she handed
Harry a large stack of Cauldron Cakes. “If he’s hungry
when he wakes, I’ll be up front with the driver.”
“I suppose he is asleep?” said Ron quietly as the witch
slid the compartment door closed. “I mean — he
hasn’t died, has he?”
“No, no, he’s breathing,” whispered Hermione, taking
the Cauldron Cake Harry passed her.
He might not be very good company, but Professor
Lupin’s presence in their compartment had its uses.
 
Midafternoon, just as it had started to rain, blurring
the rolling hills outside the window, they heard
footsteps in the corridor again, and their three least
favorite people appeared at the door: Draco Malfoy,
flanked by his cronies, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory
Goyle.
Draco Malfoy and Harry had been enemies ever since
they had met on their very first train journey to
Hogwarts. Malfoy, who had a pale, pointed, sneering
face, was in Slytherin House; he played Seeker on the
Slytherin Quidditch team, the same position that
Harry played on the Gryffindor team. Crabbe and
Goyle seemed to exist to do Malfoy’s bidding. They
were both wide and musclely; Crabbe was taller, with
a pudding-bowl haircut and a very thick neck; Goyle
had short, bristly hair and long, gorilla-ish arms.
“Well, look who it is,” said Malfoy in his usual lazy
drawl, pulling open the compartment door. “Potty and
the Weasel.”
Crabbe and Goyle chuckled trollishly.
“I heard your father finally got his hands on some
gold this summer, Weasley,” said Malfoy. “Did your
mother die of shock?”
Ron stood up so quickly he knocked Crookshanks’s
basket to the floor. Professor Lupin gave a snort.
“Who’s that?” said Malfoy, taking an automatic step
backward as he spotted Lupin.
“New teacher,” said Harry, who got to his feet, too, in
case he needed to hold Ron back. “What were you
saying, Malfoy?”
 
Malfoy’s pale eyes narrowed; he wasn’t fool enough to
pick a fight right under a teacher’s nose.
“C’mon,” he muttered resentfully to Crabbe and
Goyle, and they disappeared.
Harry and Ron sat down again, Ron massaging his
knuckles.
“I’m not going to take any crap from Malfoy this year,”
he said angrily. “I mean it. If he makes one more
crack about my family, I’m going to get hold of his
head and — ”
Ron made a violent gesture in midair.
“Ron,” hissed Hermione, pointing at Professor Lupin,
“be careful ...”
But Professor Lupin was still fast asleep.
The rain thickened as the train sped yet farther north;
the windows were now a solid, shimmering gray,
which gradually darkened until lanterns flickered into
life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks.
The train rattled, the rain hammered, the wind
roared, but still, Professor Lupin slept.
“We must be nearly there,” said Ron, leaning forward
to look past Professor Lupin at the now completely
black window.
The words had hardly left him when the train started
to slow down.
“Great,” said Ron, getting up and walking carefully
past Professor Lupin to try and see outside. “I’m
starving. I want to get to the feast. ...”
 
“We can’t be there yet,” said Hermione, checking her
watch.
“So why’re we stopping?”
The train was getting slower and slower. As the noise
of the pistons fell away, the wind and rain sounded
louder than ever against the windows.
Harry, who was nearest the door, got up to look into
the corridor. All along the carriage, heads were
sticking curiously out of their compartments.
The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds
and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of
the racks. Then, without warning, all the lamps went
out and they were plunged into total darkness.
“What’s going on?” said Ron’s voice from behind
Harry.
“Ouch!” gasped Hermione. “Ron, that was my foot!”
Harry felt his way back to his seat.
“D’you think we’ve broken down?”
“Dunno ...”
There was a squeaking sound, and Harry saw the dim
black outline of Ron, wiping a patch clean on the
window and peering out.
“There’s something moving out there,” Ron said. “I
think people are coming aboard. ...”
The compartment door suddenly opened and someone
fell painfully over Harry’s legs.
 
“Sorry — d’you know what’s going on? — Ouch —
sorry — ”
“Hullo, Neville,” said Harry, feeling around in the dark
and pulling Neville up by his cloak.
“Harry? Is that you? What’s happening?”
“No idea — sit down — ”
There was a loud hissing and a yelp of pain; Neville
had tried to sit on Crookshanks.
“I’m going to go and ask the driver what’s going on,”
came Hermione’s voice. Harry felt her pass him, heard
the door slide open again, and then a thud and two
loud squeals of pain.
“Who’s that?”
“Who’s that?”
“Ginny?”
“Hermione?”
“What are you doing?”
“I was looking for Ron — ”
“Come in and sit down — ”
“Not here!” said Harry hurriedly. “I’m here!”
“Ouch!” said Neville.
“Quiet!” said a hoarse voice suddenly.
 
Professor Lupin appeared to have woken up at last.
Harry could hear movements in his corner. None of
them spoke.
There was a soft, crackling noise, and a shivering
light filled the compartment. Professor Lupin
appeared to be holding a handful of flames. They
illuminated his tired, gray face, but his eyes looked
alert and wary.
“Stay where you are,” he said in the same hoarse
voice, and he got slowly to his feet with his handful of
fire held out in front of him.
But the door slid slowly open before Lupin could
reach it.
Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the shivering
flames in Lupin’s hand, was a cloaked figure that
towered to the ceiling. Its face was completely hidden
beneath its hood. Harry’s eyes darted downward, and
what he saw made his stomach contract. There was a
hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening,
grayish, slimy-looking, and scabbed, like something
dead that had decayed in water. . . .
But it was visible only for a split second. As though
the creature beneath the cloak sensed Harry’s gaze,
the hand was suddenly withdrawn into the folds of its
black cloak.
And then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it
was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it
were trying to suck something more than air from its
surroundings.
An intense cold swept over them all. Harry felt his
own breath catch in his chest. The cold went deeper
 
than his skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside
his very heart. ...
Harry’s eyes rolled up into his head. He couldn’t see.
He was drowning in cold. There was a rushing in his
ears as though of water. He was being dragged
downward, the roaring growing louder . . .
And then, from far away, he heard screaming,
terrible, terrified, pleading screams. He wanted to
help whoever it was, he tried to move his arms, but
couldn’t ... a thick white fog was swirling around him,
inside him —
“Harry! Harry! Are you all right?”
Someone was slapping his face.
“W — what?”
Harry opened his eyes; there were lanterns above
him, and the floor was shaking — the Hogwarts
Express was moving again and the lights had come
back on. He seemed to have slid out of his seat onto
the floor. Ron and Hermione were kneeling next to
him, and above them he could see Neville and
Professor Lupin watching. Harry felt very sick; when
he put up his hand to push his glasses back on, he
felt cold sweat on his face.
Ron and Hermione heaved him back onto his seat.
“Are you okay?” Ron asked nervously.
“Yeah,” said Harry, looking quickly toward the door.
The hooded creature had vanished. “What happened?
Where’s that — that thing? Who screamed?”
“No one screamed,” said Ron, more nervously still.
 
Harry looked around the bright compartment. Ginny
and Neville looked back at him, both very pale.
“But I heard screaming — ”
A loud snap made them all jump. Professor Lupin was
breaking an enormous slab of chocolate into pieces.
“Here,” he said to Harry, handing him a particularly
large piece. “Eat it. It’ll help.”
Harry took the chocolate but didn’t eat it.
“What was that thing?” he asked Lupin.
“A dementor,” said Lupin, who was now giving
chocolate to everyone else. “One of the dementors of
Azkaban.”
Everyone stared at him. Professor Lupin crumpled up
the empty chocolate wrapper and put it in his pocket.
“Eat,” he repeated. “It’ll help. I need to speak to the
driver, excuse me ...”
He strolled past Harry and disappeared into the
corridor.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Harry?” said Hermione,
watching Harry anxiously.
“I don’t get it. ... What happened?” said Harry, wiping
more sweat off his face.
“Well — that thing — the dementor — stood there and
looked around (I mean, I think it did, I couldn’t see its
face) — and you — you — ”
 
“I thought you were having a fit or something,” said
Ron, who still looked scared. “You went sort of rigid
and fell out of your seat and started twitching — ”
“And Professor Lupin stepped over you, and walked
toward the dementor, and pulled out his wand,” said
Hermione, “and he said, ‘None of us is hiding Sirius
Black under our cloaks. Go.’ But the dementor didn’t
move, so Lupin muttered something, and a silvery
thing shot out of his wand at it, and it turned around
and sort of glided away. ...”
“It was horrible,” said Neville, in a higher voice than
usual. “Did you feel how cold it got when it came in?”
“I felt weird,” said Ron, shifting his shoulders
uncomfortably. “Like I’d never be cheerful again. ...”
Ginny, who was huddled in her corner looking nearly
as bad as Harry felt, gave a small sob; Hermione went
over and put a comforting arm around her.
“But didn’t any of you — fall off your seats?” said
Harry awkwardly.
“No,” said Ron, looking anxiously at Harry again.
“Ginny was shaking like mad, though. ...”
Harry didn’t understand. He felt weak and shivery, as
though he were recovering from a bad bout of flu; he
also felt the beginnings of shame. Why had he gone to
pieces like that, when no one else had?
Professor Lupin had come back. He paused as he
entered, looked around, and said, with a small smile,
“I haven’t poisoned that chocolate, you know. ...”
 
Harry took a bite and to his great surprise felt
warmth spread suddenly to the tips of his fingers and
toes.
“Well be at Hogwarts in ten minutes,” said Professor
Lupin. “Are you all right, Harry?”
Harry didn’t ask how Professor Lupin knew his name.
“Fine,” he muttered, embarrassed.
They didn’t talk much during the remainder of the
journey. At long last, the train stopped at Hogsmeade
station, and there was a great scramble to get
outside; owls hooted, cats meowed, and Neville’s pet
toad croaked loudly from under his hat. It was
freezing on the tiny platform; rain was driving down
in icy sheets.
“Firs’ years this way!” called a familiar voice. Harry,
Ron, and Hermione turned and saw the gigantic
outline of Hagrid at the other end of the platform,
beckoning the terrified-looking new students forward
for their traditional journey across the lake.
“All righ’, you three?” Hagrid yelled over the heads of
the crowd. They waved at him, but had no chance to
speak to him because the mass of people around
them was shunting them away along the platform.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed the rest of the
school along the platform and out onto a rough mud
track, where at least a hundred stagecoaches awaited
the remaining students, each pulled, Harry could only
assume, by an invisible horse, because when they
climbed inside and shut the door, the coach set off all
by itself, bumping and swaying in procession.
The coach smelled faintly of mold and straw. Harry
felt better since the chocolate, but still weak. Ron and
 
Hermione kept looking at him sideways, as though
frightened he might collapse again.
As the carriage trundled toward a pair of magnificent
wrought iron gates, flanked with stone columns
topped with winged boars, Harry saw two more
towering, hooded dementors, standing guard on
either side. A wave of cold sickness threatened to
engulf him again; he leaned back into the lumpy seat
and closed his eyes until they had passed the gates.
The carriage picked up speed on the long, sloping
drive up to the castle; Hermione was leaning out of
the tiny window, watching the many turrets and
towers draw nearer. At last, the carriage swayed to a
halt, and Hermione and Ron got out.
As Harry stepped down, a drawling, delighted voice
sounded in his ear.
“You fainted, Potter? Is Longbottom telling the truth?
You actually fainted?”
Malfoy elbowed past Hermione to block Harry’s way
up the stone steps to the castle, his face gleeful and
his pale eyes glinting maliciously.
“Shove off, Malfoy,” said Ron, whose jaw was
clenched.
“Did you faint as well, Weasley?” said Malfoy loudly.
“Did the scary old dementor frighten you too,
Weasley?”
“Is there a problem?” said a mild voice. Professor
Lupin had just gotten out of the next carriage.
Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which
took in the patches on his robes and the delapidated
suitcase. With a tiny hint of sarcasm in his voice, he
 
said, “Oh, no — er — Professor,” then he smirked at
Crabbe and Goyle and led them up the steps into the
castle.
Hermione prodded Ron in the back to make him
hurry, and the three of them joined the crowd
swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front
doors, into the cavernous entrance hall, which was lit
with flaming torches, and housed a magnificent
marble staircase that led to the upper floors.
The door into the Great Hall stood open at the right;
Harry followed the crowd toward it, but had barely
glimpsed the enchanted ceiling, which was black and
cloudy tonight, when a voice called, “Potter! Granger!
I want to see you both!”
Harry and Hermione turned around, surprised.
Professor McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher and
head of Gryffindor House, was calling over the heads
of the crowd. She was a stern-looking witch who wore
her hair in a tight bun; her sharp eyes were framed
with square spectacles. Harry fought his way over to
her with a feeling of foreboding: Professor McGonagall
had a way of making him feel he must have done
something wrong.
“There’s no need to look so worried — I just want a
word in my office,” she told them. “Move along there,
Weasley.”
Ron stared as Professor McGonagall ushered
Harry and Hermione away from the chattering crowd;
they accompanied her across the entrance hall, up
the marble staircase, and along a corridor.
Once they were in her office, a small room with a
large, welcoming fire, Professor McGonagall motioned
Harry and Hermione to sit down. She settled herself
 
behind her desk and said abruptly, “Professor Lupin
sent an owl ahead to say that you were taken ill on
the train, Potter.”
Before Harry could reply, there was a soft knock on
the door and Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, came
bustling in.
Harry felt himself going red in the face. It was bad
enough that he’d passed out, or whatever he had
done, without everyone making all this fuss.
“I’m fine,” he said, “I don’t need anything — ”
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Madam Pomfrey, ignoring
this and bending down to stare closely at him. “I
suppose you’ve been doing something dangerous
again?”
“It was a dementor, Poppy,” said Professor
McGonagall.
They exchanged a dark look, and Madam Pomfrey
clucked disapprovingly.
“Setting dementors around a school,” she muttered,
pushing back Harry’s hair and feeling his forehead.
“He won’t be the last one who collapses. Yes, he’s all
clammy. Terrible things, they are, and the effect they
have on people who are already delicate — ”
“I’m not delicate!” said Harry crossly.
“Of course you’re not,” said Madam Pomfrey
absentmindedly, now taking his pulse.
“What does he need?” said Professor McGonagall
crisply. “Bed rest? Should he perhaps spend tonight
in the hospital wing?”
 
‘Tm /ine!” said Harry, jumping up. The thought of
what Draco Malfoy would say if he had to go to the
hospital wing was torture.
“Well, he should have some chocolate, at the very
least,” said Madam Pomfrey, who was now trying to
peer into Harry’s eyes.
“I’ve already had some,” said Harry. “Professor Lupin
gave me some. He gave it to all of us.”
“Did he, now?” said Madam Pomfrey approvingly. “So
we’ve finally got a Defense Against the Dark Arts
teacher who knows his remedies?”
“Are you sure you feel all right, Potter?” Professor
McGonagall said sharply.
“Yes,” said Harry.
“Very well. Kindly wait outside while I have a quick
word with Miss Granger about her course schedule,
then we can go down to the feast together.”
Harry went back into the corridor with Madam
Pomfrey, who left for the hospital wing, muttering to
herself. He had to wait only a few minutes; then
Hermione emerged looking very happy about
something, followed by Professor McGonagall, and the
three of them made their way back down the marble
staircase to the Great Hall.
It was a sea of pointed black hats; each of the long
House tables was lined with students, their faces
glimmering by the light of thousands of candles,
which were floating over the tables in midair.
Professor Flitwick, who was a tiny little wizard with a
shock of white hair, was carrying an ancient hat and
a three-legged stool out of the hall.
 
“Oh,” said Hermione softly, “we’ve missed the
Sorting!”
New students at Hogwarts were sorted into Houses by
trying on the Sorting Hat, which shouted out the
House they were best suited to (Gryffindor,
Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin). Professor
McGonagall strode off toward her empty seat at the
staff table, and Harry and Hermione set off in the
other direction, as quietly as possible, toward the
Gryffindor table. People looked around at them as
they passed along the back of the hall, and a few of
them pointed at Harry. Had the story of his collapsing
in front of the dementor traveled that fast?
He and Hermione sat down on either side of Ron, who
had saved them seats.
“What was all that about?” he muttered to Harry.
Harry started to explain in a whisper, but at that
moment the headmaster stood up to speak, and he
broke off.
Professor Dumbledore, though very old, always gave
an impression of great energy. He had several feet of
long silver hair and beard, half-moon spectacles, and
an extremely crooked nose. He was often described as
the greatest wizard of the age, but that wasn’t why
Harry respected him. You couldn’t help trusting Albus
Dumbledore, and as Harry watched him beaming
around at the students, he felt really calm for the first
time since the dementor had entered the train
compartment.
“Welcome!” said Dumbledore, the candlelight
shimmering on his beard. “Welcome to another year
at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and
as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it
 
out of the way before you become befuddled by our
excellent feast. ...”
Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued, “As
you will all be aware after their search of the
Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing
host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are
here on Ministry of Magic business.”
He paused, and Harry remembered what Mr. Weasley
had said about Dumbledore not being happy with the
dementors guarding the school.
“They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds,”
Dumbledore continued, “and while they are with us, I
must make it plain that nobody is to leave school
without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled
by tricks or disguises — or even Invisibility Cloaks,”
he added blandly, and Harry and Ron glanced at each
other. “It is not in the nature of a dementor to
understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn
each and every one of you to give them no reason to
harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head
Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul
of the dementors,” he said.
Percy, who was sitting a few seats down from Harry,
puffed out his chest again and stared around
impressively. Dumbledore paused again; he looked
very seriously around the hall, and nobody moved or
made a sound.
“On a happier note,” he continued, “I am pleased to
welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year.
“First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to
fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”
 
There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic
applause. Only those who had been in the
compartment on the train with Professor Lupin
clapped hard, Harry among them. Professor Lupin
looked particularly shabby next to all the other
teachers in their best robes.
“Look at Snape!” Ron hissed in Harry’s ear.
Professor Snape, the Potions master, was staring
along the staff table at Professor Lupin. It was
common knowledge that Snape wanted the Defense
Against the Dark Arts job, but even Harry, who hated
Snape, was startled at the expression twisting his
thin, sallow face. It was beyond anger: it was loathing.
Harry knew that expression only too well; it was the
look Snape wore every time he set eyes on Harry.
“As to our second new appointment,” Dumbledore
continued as the lukewarm applause for Professor
Lupin died away. “Well, I am sorry to tell you that
Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures
teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to
enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I
am delighted to say that his place will be filled by
none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to
take on this teaching job in addition to his
gamekeeping duties.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at one another,
stunned. Then they joined in with the applause,
which was tumultuous at the Gryffindor table in
particular. Harry leaned forward to see Hagrid, who
was ruby-red in the face and staring down at his
enormous hands, his wide grin hidden in the tangle of
his black beard.
 
“We should’ve known!” Ron roared, pounding the
table. “Who else would have assigned us a biting
book?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were the last to stop
clapping, and as Professor Dumbledore started
speaking again, they saw that Hagrid was wiping his
eyes on the tablecloth.
“Well, I think that’s everything of importance,” said
Dumbledore. “Let the feast begin!”
The golden plates and goblets before them filled
suddenly with food and drink. Harry, suddenly
ravenous, helped himself to everything he could reach
and began to eat.
It was a delicious feast; the hall echoed with talk,
laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks. Harry,
Ron, and Hermione, however, were eager for it to
finish so that they could talk to Hagrid. They knew
how much being made a teacher would mean to him.
Hagrid wasn’t a fully qualified wizard; he had been
expelled from Hogwarts in his third year for a crime
he had not committed. It had been Harry, Ron, and
Hermione who had cleared Hagrid ’s name last year.
At long last, when the last morsels of pumpkin tart
had melted from the golden platters, Dumbledore
gave the word that it was time for them all to go to
bed, and they got their chance.
“Congratulations, Hagrid!” Hermione squealed as they
reached the teachers’ table.
“All down ter you three,” said Hagrid, wiping his
shining face on his napkin as he looked up at them.
“Can’ believe it ... great man, Dumbledore ... came
straight down to me hut after Professor Kettleburn
 
said he’d had enough. ... It’s what I always wanted.
Overcome with emotion, he buried his face in his
napkin, and Professor McGonagall shooed them away.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione joined the Gryffindors
streaming up the marble staircase and, very tired
now, along more corridors, up more and more stairs,
to the hidden entrance to Gryffindor Tower. A large
portrait of a fat lady in a pink dress asked them,
“Password?”
“Coming through, coming through!” Percy called from
behind the crowd. “The new password’s ‘Fortuna
Major’!”
“Oh no,” said Neville Longbottom sadly. He always
had trouble remembering the passwords.
Through the portrait hole and across the common
room, the girls and boys divided toward their separate
staircases. Harry climbed the spiral stair with no
thought in his head except how glad he was to be
back. They reached their familiar, circular dormitory
with its five four-poster beds, and Harry, looking
around, felt he was home at last.
 
TALONS AND TEA LEAVES
When Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the Great
Hall for breakfast the next day, the first thing they
saw was Draco Malfoy, who seemed to be entertaining
a large group of Slytherins with a very funny story. As
they passed, Malfoy did a ridiculous impression of a
swooning fit and there was a roar of laughter.
“Ignore him,” said Hermione, who was right behind
Harry. “Just ignore him, it’s not worth it. ...”
“Hey, Potter!” shrieked Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin
girl with a face like a pug. “Potter! The dementors are
coming, Potter! Woooooooo!”
Harry dropped into a seat at the Gryffindor table, next
to George Weasley.
“New third-year course schedules,” said George,
passing them over. “What’s up with you, Harry?”
“Malfoy,” said Ron, sitting down on George’s other
side and glaring over at the Slytherin table.
 
George looked up in time to see Malfoy pretending to
faint with terror again.
“That little git,” he said calmly. “He wasn’t so cocky
last night when the dementors were down at our end
of the train. Came running into our compartment,
didn’t he, Fred?”
“Nearly wet himself,” said Fred, with a contemptuous
glance at Malfoy.
“I wasn’t too happy myself,” said George. “They’re
horrible things, those dementors. ...”
“Sort of freeze your insides, don’t they?” said Fred.
“You didn’t pass out, though, did you?” said Harry in
a low voice.
“Forget it, Harry,” said George bracingly. “Dad had to
go out to Azkaban one time, remember, Fred? And he
said it was the worst place he’d ever been, he came
back all weak and shaking. . . . They suck the
happiness out of a place, dementors. Most of the
prisoners go mad in there.”
“Anyway, we’ll see how happy Malfoy looks after our
first Quidditch match,” said Fred. “Gryffindor versus
Slytherin, first game of the season, remember?”
The only time Harry and Malfoy had faced each other
in a Quidditch match, Malfoy had definitely come off
worse. Feeling slightly more cheerful, Harry helped
himself to sausages and fried tomatoes.
Hermione was examining her new schedule.
“Ooh, good, we’re starting some new subjects today,”
she said happily.
 
“Hermione,” said Ron, frowning as he looked over her
shoulder, “they’ve messed up your schedule. Look —
they’ve got you down for about ten subjects a day.
There isn’t enough time.”
“I’ll manage. I’ve fixed it all with Professor
McGonagall.”
“But look,” said Ron, laughing, “see this morning?
Nine o’clock, Divination. And underneath, nine
o’clock, Muggle Studies. And” — Ron leaned closer to
the schedule, disbelieving — “ look — underneath
that, Arithmancy, nine o’clock. I mean, I know you’re
good, Hermione, but no one’s that good. How’re you
supposed to be in three classes at once?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione shortly. “Of course I
won’t be in three classes at once.”
“Well, then — ”
“Pass the marmalade,” said Hermione.
“But — ”
“Oh, Ron, what’s it to you if my schedule’s a bit full?”
Hermione snapped. “I told you, I’ve fixed it all with
Professor McGonagall.”
Just then, Hagrid entered the Great Hall. He was
wearing his long moleskin overcoat and was
absentmindedly swinging a dead polecat from one
enormous hand.
“All righ’?” he said eagerly, pausing on the way to the
staff table. “Yer in my firs’ ever lesson! Right after
lunch! Bin up since five gettin’ everythin’ ready. ...
Hope it’s okay. ... Me, a teacher ... hones’ly. ...”
 
He grinned broadly at them and headed off to the
staff table, still swinging the polecat.
“Wonder what he’s been getting ready?” said Ron, a
note of anxiety in his voice.
The hall was starting to empty as people headed off
toward their first lesson. Ron checked his course
schedule.
“We’d better go, look, Divination’s at the top of North
Tower. It’ll take us ten minutes to get there. ...”
They finished their breakfasts hastily, said good-bye
to Fred and George, and walked back through the
hall. As they passed the Slytherin table, Malfoy did
yet another impression of a fainting fit. The shouts of
laughter followed Harry into the entrance hall.
The journey through the castle to North Tower was a
long one. Two years at Hogwarts hadn’t taught them
everything about the castle, and they had never been
inside North Tower before.
“There’s — got — to — be — a — shortcut,” Ron
panted as they climbed their seventh long staircase
and emerged on an unfamiliar landing, where there
was nothing but a large painting of a bare stretch of
grass hanging on the stone wall.
“I think it’s this way,” said Hermione, peering down
the empty passage to the right.
“Can’t be,” said Ron. “That’s south, look, you can see
a bit of the lake out of the window ...”
Harry was watching the painting. A fat, dapple-gray
pony had just ambled onto the grass and was grazing
nonchalantly. Harry was used to the subjects of
 
Hogwarts paintings moving around and leaving their
frames to visit one another, but he always enjoyed
watching it. A moment later, a short, squat knight in
a suit of armor clanked into the picture after his
pony. By the look of the grass stains on his metal
knees, he had just fallen off.
“Aha!” he yelled, seeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
“What villains are these, that trespass upon my
private lands! Come to scorn at my fall, perchance?
Draw, you knaves, you dogs!”
They watched in astonishment as the little knight
tugged his sword out of its scabbard and began
brandishing it violently, hopping up and down in
rage. But the sword was too long for him; a
particularly wild swing made him overbalance, and he
landed facedown in the grass.
“Are you all right?” said Harry, moving closer to the
picture.
“Get back, you scurvy braggart! Back, you rogue!”
The knight seized his sword again and used it to push
himself back up, but the blade sank deeply into the
grass and, though he pulled with all his might, he
couldn’t get it out again. Finally, he had to flop back
down onto the grass and push up his visor to mop his
sweating face.
“Listen,” said Harry, taking advantage of the knight’s
exhaustion, “we’re looking for the North Tower. You
don’t know the way, do you?”
“A quest!” The knight’s rage seemed to vanish
instantly. He clanked to his feet and shouted, “Come
follow me, dear friends, and we shall find our goal, or
else shall perish bravely in the charge!”
 
He gave the sword another fruitless tug, tried and
failed to mount the fat pony, gave up, and cried, “On
foot then, good sirs and gentle lady! On! On!”
And he ran, clanking loudly, into the left side of the
frame and out of sight.
They hurried after him along the corridor, following
the sound of his armor. Every now and then they
spotted him running through a picture ahead.
“Be of stout heart, the worst is yet to come!” yelled the
knight, and they saw him reappear in front of an
alarmed group of women in crinolines, whose picture
hung on the wall of a narrow spiral staircase.
Puffing loudly, Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed the
tightly spiraling steps, getting dizzier and dizzier,
until at last they heard the murmur of voices above
them and knew they had reached the classroom.
“Farewell!” cried the knight, popping his head into a
painting of some sinister-looking monks. “Farewell,
my comrades-in-arms! If ever you have need of noble
heart and steely sinew, call upon Sir Cadogan!”
“Yeah, well call you,” muttered Ron as the knight
disappeared, “if we ever need someone mental.”
They climbed the last few steps and emerged onto a
tiny landing, where most of the class was already
assembled. There were no doors off this landing, but
Ron nudged Harry and pointed at the ceiling, where
there was a circular trapdoor with a brass plaque on
it.
“ ‘Sibyll Trelawney, Divination teacher,’ ” Harry read.
“How’re we supposed to get up there?”
 
As though in answer to his question, the trapdoor
suddenly opened, and a silvery ladder descended
right at Harry’s feet. Everyone got quiet.
“After you,” said Ron, grinning, so Harry climbed the
ladder first.
He emerged into the strangest-looking classroom he
had ever seen. In fact, it didn’t look like a classroom
at all, more like a cross between someone’s attic and
an old-fashioned tea shop. At least twenty small,
circular tables were crammed inside it, all
surrounded by chintz armchairs and fat little poufs.
Everything was lit with a dim, crimson light; the
curtains at the windows were all closed, and the
many lamps were draped with dark red scarves. It
was stiflingly warm, and the fire that was burning
under the crowded mantelpiece was giving off a
heavy, sickly sort of perfume as it heated a large
copper kettle. The shelves running around the
circular walls were crammed with dusty-looking
feathers, stubs of candles, many packs of tattered
playing cards, countless silvery crystal balls, and a
huge array of teacups.
Ron appeared at Harry’s shoulder as the class
assembled around them, all talking in whispers.
“Where is she?” Ron said.
A voice came suddenly out of the shadows, a soft,
misty sort of voice.
“Welcome,” it said. “How nice to see you in the
physical world at last.”
Harry’s immediate impression was of a large,
glittering insect. Professor Trelawney moved into the
firelight, and they saw that she was very thin; her
 
large glasses magnified her eyes to several times their
natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy spangled
shawl. Innumerable chains and beads hung around
her spindly neck, and her arms and hands were
encrusted with bangles and rings.
“Sit, my children, sit,” she said, and they all climbed
awkwardly into armchairs or sank onto poufs. Harry,
Ron, and Hermione sat themselves around the same
round table.
“Welcome to Divination,” said Professor Trelawney,
who had seated herself in a winged armchair in front
of the fire. “My name is Professor Trelawney. You may
not have seen me before. I find that descending too
often into the hustle and bustle of the main school
clouds my Inner Eye.”
Nobody said anything to this extraordinary
pronouncement. Professor Trelawney delicately
rearranged her shawl and continued, “So you have
chosen to study Divination, the most difficult of all
magical arts. I must warn you at the outset that if
you do not have the Sight, there is very little I will be
able to teach you. Books can take you only so far in
this field. ...”
At these words, both Harry and Ron glanced,
grinning, at Hermione, who looked startled at the
news that books wouldn’t be much help in this
subject.
“Many witches and wizards, talented though they are
in the area of loud bangs and smells and sudden
disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled
mysteries of the future,” Professor Trelawney went on,
her enormous, gleaming eyes moving from face to
nervous face. “It is a Gift granted to few. You, boy,”
 
she said suddenly to Neville, who almost toppled off
his pouf. “Is your grandmother well?”
“I think so,” said Neville tremulously.
“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you, dear,” said
Professor Trelawney, the firelight glinting on her long
emerald earrings. Neville gulped. Professor Trelawney
continued placidly. “We will be covering the basic
methods of Divination this year. The first term will be
devoted to reading the tea leaves. Next term we shall
progress to palmistry. By the way, my dear,” she shot
suddenly at Parvati Patil, “beware a red-haired man.”
Parvati gave a startled look at Ron, who was right
behind her, and edged her chair away from him.
“In the second term,” Professor Trelawney went on,
“we shall progress to the crystal ball — if we have
finished with fire omens, that is. Unfortunately,
classes will be disrupted in February by a nasty bout
of flu. I myself will lose my voice. And around Easter,
one of our number will leave us forever.”
A very tense silence followed this pronouncement, but
Professor Trelawney seemed unaware of it.
“I wonder, dear,” she said to Lavender Brown, who
was nearest and shrank back in her chair, “if you
could pass me the largest silver teapot?”
Lavender, looking relieved, stood up, took an
enormous teapot from the shelf, and put it down on
the table in front of Professor Trelawney.
“Thank you, my dear. Incidentally, that thing you are
dreading — it will happen on Friday the sixteenth of
October.”
 
Lavender trembled.
“Now, I want you all to divide into pairs. Collect a
teacup from the shelf, come to me, and I will fill it.
Then sit down and drink, drink until only the dregs
remain. Swill these around the cup three times with
the left hand, then turn the cup upside down on its
saucer, wait for the last of the tea to drain away, then
give your cup to your partner to read. You will
interpret the patterns using pages five and six of
Unfogging the Future. I shall move among you, helping
and instructing. Oh, and dear” — she caught Neville
by the arm as he made to stand up — “after you’ve
broken your first cup, would you be so kind as to
select one of the blue patterned ones? I’m rather
attached to the pink.”
Sure enough, Neville had no sooner reached the shelf
of teacups when there was a tinkle of breaking china.
Professor Trelawney swept over to him holding a
dustpan and brush and said, “One of the blue ones,
then, dear, if you wouldn’t mind ... thank you. ...”
When Harry and Ron had had their teacups filled,
they went back to their table and tried to drink the
scalding tea quickly. They swilled the dregs around as
Professor Trelawney had instructed, then drained the
cups and swapped over.
“Right,” said Ron as they both opened their books at
pages five and six. “What can you see in mine?”
“A load of soggy brown stuff,” said Harry. The heavily
perfumed smoke in the room was making him feel
sleepy and stupid.
“Broaden your minds, my dears, and allow your eyes
to see past the mundane!” Professor Trelawney cried
through the gloom.
 
Harry tried to pull himself together.
“Right, you’ve got a crooked sort of cross ...” He
consulted Unfogging the Future. “That means you’re
going to have ‘trials and suffering’ — sorry about that
— but there’s a thing that could be the sun ... hang
on ... that means ‘great happiness’ ... so you’re going
to suffer but be very happy. ...”
“You need your Inner Eye tested, if you ask me,” said
Ron, and they both had to stifle their laughs as
Professor Trelawney gazed in their direction.
“My turn ...” Ron peered into Harry’s teacup, his
forehead wrinkled with effort. “There’s a blob a bit like
a bowler hat,” he said. “Maybe you’re going to work
for the Ministry of Magic. ...”
He turned the teacup the other way up.
“But this way it looks more like an acorn. ... What’s
that?” He scanned his copy of Unfogging the Future. “
‘A windfall, unexpected gold.’ Excellent, you can lend
me some ... and there’s a thing here,” he turned the
cup again, “that looks like an animal . . . yeah, if that
was its head ... it looks like a hippo ... no, a sheep ...”
Professor Trelawney whirled around as Harry let out a
snort of laughter.
“Let me see that, my dear,” she said reprovingly to
Ron, sweeping over and snatching Harry’s cup from
him. Everyone went quiet to watch.
Professor Trelawney was staring into the teacup,
rotating it counterclockwise.
“The falcon ... my dear, you have a deadly enemy.”
 
“But everyone knows that,” said Hermione in a loud
whisper. Professor Trelawney stared at her.
“Well, they do,” said Hermione. “Everybody knows
about Harry and You-Know-Who.”
Harry and Ron stared at her with a mixture of
amazement and admiration. They had never heard
Hermione speak to a teacher like that before.
Professor Trelawney chose not to reply. She lowered
her huge eyes to Harry’s cup again and continued to
turn it.
“The club ... an attack. Dear, dear, this is not a happy
cup. ...”
“I thought that was a bowler hat,” said Ron
sheepishly.
“The skull ... danger in your path, my dear. ...”
Everyone was staring, transfixed, at Professor
Trelawney, who gave the cup a final turn, gasped, and
then screamed.
There was another tinkle of breaking china; Neville
had smashed his second cup. Professor Trelawney
sank into a vacant armchair, her glittering hand at
her heart and her eyes closed.
“My dear boy . . . my poor, dear boy ... no ... it is
kinder not to say ... no ... don’t ask me. ...”
“What is it, Professor?” said Dean Thomas at once.
Everyone had got to their feet, and slowly they
crowded around Harry and Ron’s table, pressing close
to Professor Trelawney’s chair to get a good look at
Harry’s cup.
 
“My dear,” Professor Trelawney’s huge eyes opened
dramatically, “you have the Grim.”
“The what?” said Harry.
He could tell that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t
understand; Dean Thomas shrugged at him and
Lavender Brown looked puzzled, but nearly everybody
else clapped their hands to their mouths in horror.
“The Grim, my dear, the Grim!” cried Professor
Trelawney, who looked shocked that Harry hadn’t
understood. “The giant, spectral dog that haunts
churchyards! My dear boy, it is an omen — the worst
omen — of death .!”
Harry’s stomach lurched. That dog on the cover of
Death Omens in Flourish and Blotts — the dog in the
shadows of Magnolia Crescent . . . Lavender Brown
clapped her hands to her mouth too. Everyone was
looking at Harry, everyone except Hermione, who had
gotten up and moved around to the back of Professor
Trelawney’s chair.
“I don’t think it looks like a Grim,” she said flatly.
Professor Trelawney surveyed Hermione with
mounting dislike.
“You’ll forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I
perceive very little aura around you. Very little
receptivity to the resonances of the future.”
Seamus Finnigan was tilting his head from side to
side.
“It looks like a Grim if you do this,” he said, with his
eyes almost shut, “but it looks more like a donkey
from here,” he said, leaning to the left.
 
“When you’ve all finished deciding whether I’m going
to die or not!” said Harry, taking even himself by
surprise. Now nobody seemed to want to look at him.
“I think we will leave the lesson here for today,” said
Professor Trelawney in her mistiest voice. “Yes ...
please pack away your things. ...”
Silently the class took their teacups back to Professor
Trelawney, packed away their books, and closed their
bags. Even Ron was avoiding Harry’s eyes.
“Until we meet again,” said Professor Trelawney
faintly, “fair fortune be yours. Oh, and dear” — she
pointed at Neville — “you’ll be late next time, so mind
you work extra-hard to catch up.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione descended Professor
Trelawney’s ladder and the winding stair in silence,
then set off for Professor McGonagall’s
Transfiguration lesson. It took them so long to find
her classroom that, early as they had left Divination,
they were only just in time.
Harry chose a seat right at the back of the room,
feeling as though he were sitting in a very bright
spotlight; the rest of the class kept shooting furtive
glances at him, as though he were about to drop dead
at any moment. He hardly heard what Professor
McGonagall was telling them about Animagi (wizards
who could transform at will into animals), and wasn’t
even watching when she transformed herself in front
of their eyes into a tabby cat with spectacle markings
around her eyes.
“Really, what has got into you all today?” said
Professor McGonagall, turning back into herself with
a faint pop, and staring around at them all. “Not that
 
it matters, but that’s the first time my
transformation’s not got applause from a class.”
Everybody’s heads turned toward Harry again, but
nobody spoke. Then Hermione raised her hand.
“Please, Professor, we’ve just had our first Divination
class, and we were reading the tea leaves, and — ”
“Ah, of course,” said Professor McGonagall, suddenly
frowning. “There is no need to say any more, Miss
Granger. Tell me, which of you will be dying this
year?”
Everyone stared at her.
“Me,” said Harry, finally.
“I see,” said Professor McGonagall, fixing Harry with
her beady eyes. “Then you should know, Potter, that
Sibyll Trelawney has predicted the death of one
student a year since she arrived at this school. None
of them has died yet. Seeing death omens is her
favorite way of greeting a new class. If it were not for
the fact that I never speak ill of my colleagues — ”
Professor McGonagall broke off, and they saw that her
nostrils had gone white. She went on, more calmly,
“Divination is one of the most imprecise branches of
magic. I shall not conceal from you that I have very
little patience with it. True Seers are very rare, and
Professor Trelawney — ”
She stopped again, and then said, in a very matter-of-
fact tone, “You look in excellent health to me, Potter,
so you will excuse me if I don’t let you off homework
today. I assure you that if you die, you need not hand
it in.”
 
Hermione laughed. Harry felt a bit better. It was
harder to feel scared of a lump of tea leaves away
from the dim red light and befuddling perfume of
Professor Trelawney’s classroom. Not everyone was
convinced, however. Ron still looked worried, and
Lavender whispered, “But what about Neville’s cup?”
When the Transfiguration class had finished, they
joined the crowd thundering toward the Great Hall for
lunch.
“Ron, cheer up,” said Hermione, pushing a dish of
stew toward him. “You heard what Professor
McGonagall said.”
Ron spooned stew onto his plate and picked up his
fork but didn’t start.
“Harry,” he said, in a low, serious voice, “you haven’t
seen a great black dog anywhere, have you?”
“Yeah, I have,” said Harry. “I saw one the night I left
the Dursleys’.”
Ron let his fork fall with a clatter.
“Probably a stray,” said Hermione calmly.
Ron looked at Hermione as though she had gone
mad.
“Hermione, if Harry’s seen a Grim, that’s — that’s
bad,” he said. “My — my uncle Bilius saw one and —
and he died twenty-four hours later!”
“Coincidence,” said Hermione airily, pouring herself
some pumpkin juice.
 
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” said Ron,
starting to get angry. “Grims scare the living daylights
out of most wizards!”
“There you are, then,” said Hermione in a superior
tone. “They see the Grim and die of fright. The Grim’s
not an omen, it’s the cause of death! And Harry’s still
with us because he’s not stupid enough to see one
and think, right, well, I’d better kick the bucket then!”
Ron mouthed wordlessly at Hermione, who opened
her bag, took out her new Arithmancy book, and
propped it open against the juice jug.
“I think Divination seems very woolly,” she said,
searching for her page. “A lot of guesswork, if you ask
me.”
“There was nothing woolly about the Grim in that
cup!” said Ron hotly.
“You didn’t seem quite so confident when you were
telling Harry it was a sheep,” said Hermione coolly.
“Professor Trelawney said you didn’t have the right
aura! You just don’t like being bad at something for a
change!”
He had touched a nerve. Hermione slammed her
Arithmancy book down on the table so hard that bits
of meat and carrot flew everywhere.
“If being good at Divination means I have to pretend
to see death omens in a lump of tea leaves, I’m not
sure I’ll be studying it much longer! That lesson was
absolute rubbish compared with my Arithmancy
class!”
She snatched up her bag and stalked away.
 
Ron frowned after her.
“What’s she talking about?” he said to Harry. “She
hasn’t been to an Arithmancy class yet.”
Harry was pleased to get out of the castle after lunch.
Yesterday’s rain had cleared; the sky was a clear, pale
gray, and the grass was springy and damp underfoot
as they set off for their first ever Care of Magical
Creatures class.
Ron and Hermione weren’t speaking to each other.
Harry walked beside them in silence as they went
down the sloping lawns to Hagrid’s hut on the edge of
the Forbidden Forest. It was only when he spotted
three only-too-familiar backs ahead of them that he
realized they must be having these lessons with the
Slytherins. Malfoy was talking animatedly to Crabbe
and Goyle, who were chortling. Harry was quite sure
he knew what they were talking about.
Hagrid was waiting for his class at the door of his hut.
He stood in his moleskin overcoat, with Fang the
boarhound at his heels, looking impatient to start.
“C’mon, now, get a move on!” he called as the class
approached. “Got a real treat for yeh today! Great
lesson cornin’ up! Everyone here? Right, follow me!”
For one nasty moment, Harry thought that Hagrid
was going to lead them into the forest; Harry had had
enough unpleasant experiences in there to last him a
lifetime. However, Hagrid strolled off around the edge
of the trees, and five minutes later, they found
themselves outside a kind of paddock. There was
nothing in there.
 
“Everyone gather ’round the fence here!” he called.
“That’s it — make sure yeh can see — now, firs’ thing
yeh’ll want ter do is open yer books — ”
“How?” said the cold, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy.
“Eh?” said Hagrid.
“How do we open our books?” Malfoy repeated. He
took out his copy of The Monster Book of Monsters,
which he had bound shut with a length of rope. Other
people took theirs out too; some, like Harry, had
belted their book shut; others had crammed them
inside tight bags or clamped them together with
binder clips.
“Hasn’ — hasn’ anyone bin able ter open their
books?” said Hagrid, looking crestfallen.
The class all shook their heads.
“Yeh’ve got ter stroke ’em,” said Hagrid, as though
this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Look —
He took Hermione’s copy and ripped off the Spellotape
that bound it. The book tried to bite, but Hagrid ran a
giant forefinger down its spine, and the book
shivered, and then fell open and lay quiet in his hand.
“Oh, how silly we’ve all been!” Malfoy sneered. “We
should have stroked them! Why didn’t we guess!”
“I — I thought they were funny,” Hagrid said
uncertainly to Hermione.
“Oh, tremendously funny!” said Malfoy. “Really witty,
giving us books that try and rip our hands off!”
 
“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Harry quietly. Hagrid was
looking downcast and Harry wanted Hagrid ’s first
lesson to be a success.
“Righ’ then,” said Hagrid, who seemed to have lost his
thread, “so — so yeh’ve got yer books an’ — an’ —
now yeh need the Magical Creatures. Yeah. So I’ll go
an’ get ’em. Hang on ...”
He strode away from them into the forest and out of
sight.
“God, this place is going to the dogs,” said Malfoy
loudly. “That oaf teaching classes, my father’ll have a
fit when I tell him — ”
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry repeated.
“Careful, Potter, there’s a dementor behind you — ”
“Oooooooh!” squealed Lavender Brown, pointing
toward the opposite side of the paddock.
Trotting toward them were a dozen of the most bizarre
creatures Harry had ever seen. They had the bodies,
hind legs, and tails of horses, but the front legs,
wings, and heads of what seemed to be giant eagles,
with cruel, steel-colored beaks and large, brilliantly
orange eyes. The talons on their front legs were half a
foot long and deadly looking. Each of the beasts had a
thick leather collar around its neck, which was
attached to a long chain, and the ends of all of these
were held in the vast hands of Hagrid, who came
jogging into the paddock behind the creatures.
“Gee up, there!” he roared, shaking the chains and
urging the creatures toward the fence where the class
stood. Everyone drew back slightly as Hagrid reached
them and tethered the creatures to the fence.
 
“Hippogriffs!” Hagrid roared happily, waving a hand at
them. “Beau’iful, aren’ they?”
Harry could sort of see what Hagrid meant. Once you
got over the first shock of seeing something that was
half horse, half bird, you started to appreciate the
hippogriffs’ gleaming coats, changing smoothly from
feather to hair, each of them a different color: stormy
gray, bronze, pinkish roan, gleaming chestnut, and
inky black.
“So,” said Hagrid, rubbing his hands together and
beaming around, “if yeh wan’ ter come a bit nearer — ”
No one seemed to want to. Harry, Ron, and Hermione,
however, approached the fence cautiously.
“Now, firs’ thing yeh gotta know abou’ hippogriffs is,
they’re proud,” said Hagrid. “Easily offended,
hippogriffs are. Don’t never insult one, ’cause it might
be the last thing yeh do.”
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle weren’t listening; they
were talking in an undertone and Harry had a nasty
feeling they were plotting how best to disrupt the
lesson.
“Yeh always wait fer the hippogriff ter make the firs’
move,” Hagrid continued. “It’s polite, see? Yeh walk
toward him, and yeh bow, an’ yeh wait. If he bows
back, yeh’re allowed ter touch him. If he doesn’ bow,
then get away from him sharpish, ’cause those talons
hurt.
“Right — who wants ter go first?”
Most of the class backed farther away in answer.
Even Harry, Ron, and Hermione had misgivings. The
hippogriffs were tossing their fierce heads and flexing
 
their powerful wings; they didn’t seem to like being
tethered like this.
“No one?” said Hagrid, with a pleading look.
“I’ll do it,” said Harry.
There was an intake of breath from behind him, and
both Lavender and Parvati whispered, “Oooh, no,
Harry, remember your tea leaves!”
Harry ignored them. He climbed over the paddock
fence.
“Good man, Harry!” roared Hagrid. “Right then — let’s
see how yeh get on with Buckbeak.”
He untied one of the chains, pulled the gray hippogriff
away from its fellows, and slipped off its leather
collar. The class on the other side of the paddock
seemed to be holding its breath. Malfoy’s eyes were
narrowed maliciously.
“Easy, now, Harry,” said Hagrid quietly. “Yeh’ve got
eye contact, now try not ter blink. ... Hippogriffs don’
trust yeh if yeh blink too much. ...”
Harry’s eyes immediately began to water, but he
didn’t shut them. Buckbeak had turned his great,
sharp head and was staring at Harry with one fierce
orange eye.
“Tha’s it,” said Hagrid. “Tha’s it, Harry ... now, bow
Harry didn’t feel much like exposing the back of his
neck to Buckbeak, but he did as he was told. He gave
a short bow and then looked up.
 
The hippogriff was still staring haughtily at him. It
didn’t move.
“Ah,” said Hagrid, sounding worried. “Right — back
away, now, Harry, easy does it — ”
But then, to Harry’s enormous surprise, the hippogriff
suddenly bent its scaly front knees and sank into
what was an unmistakable bow.
“Well done, Harry!” said Hagrid, ecstatic. “Right —
yeh can touch him! Pat his beak, go on!”
Feeling that a better reward would have been to back
away, Harry moved slowly toward the hippogriff and
reached out toward it. He patted the beak several
times and the hippogriff closed its eyes lazily, as
though enjoying it.
The class broke into applause, all except for Malfoy,
Crabbe, and Goyle, who were looking deeply
disappointed.
“Righ’ then, Harry,” said Hagrid. “I reckon he might’
let yeh ride him!”
This was more than Harry had bargained for. He was
used to a broomstick; but he wasn’t sure a hippogriff
would be quite the same.
“Yeh climb up there, jus’ behind the wing joint,” said
Hagrid, “an’ mind yeh don’ pull any of his feathers
out, he won’ like that. ...”
Harry put his foot on the top of Buckbeak’s wing and
hoisted himself onto its back. Buckbeak stood up.
Harry wasn’t sure where to hold on; everything in
front of him was covered with feathers.
 
“Go on, then!” roared Hagrid, slapping the hippogriff’s
hindquarters.
Without warning, twelve-foot wings flapped open on
either side of Harry; he just had time to seize the
hippogriff around the neck before he was soaring
upward. It was nothing like a broomstick, and Harry
knew which one he preferred; the hippogriff’s wings
beat uncomfortably on either side of him, catching
him under his legs and making him feel he was about
to be thrown off; the glossy feathers slipped under his
fingers and he didn’t dare get a stronger grip; instead
of the smooth action of his Nimbus Two Thousand, he
now felt himself rocking backward and forward as the
hindquarters of the hippogriff rose and fell with its
wings.
Buckbeak flew him once around the paddock and
then headed back to the ground; this was the bit
Harry had been dreading; he leaned back as the
smooth neck lowered, feeling he was going to slip off
over the beak, then felt a heavy thud as the four ill-
assorted feet hit the ground. He just managed to hold
on and push himself straight again.
“Good work, Harry!” roared Hagrid as everyone except
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle cheered. “Okay, who else
wants a go?”
Emboldened by Harry’s success, the rest of the class
climbed cautiously into the paddock. Hagrid untied
the hippogriffs one by one, and soon people were
bowing nervously, all over the paddock. Neville ran
repeatedly backward from his, which didn’t seem to
want to bend its knees. Ron and Hermione practiced
on the chestnut, while Harry watched.
 
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had taken over Buckbeak.
He had bowed to Malfoy, who was now patting his
beak, looking disdainful.
“This is very easy,” Malfoy drawled, loud enough for
Harry to hear him. “I knew it must have been, if
Potter could do it. ... I bet you’re not dangerous at all,
are you?” he said to the hippogriff. “Are you, you great
ugly brute?”
It happened in a flash of steely talons; Malfoy let out a
high-pitched scream and next moment, Hagrid was
wrestling Buckbeak back into his collar as he
strained to get at Malfoy, who lay curled in the grass,
blood blossoming over his robes.
“I’m dying!” Malfoy yelled as the class panicked. “I’m
dying, look at me! It’s killed me!”
“Yer not dyin’!” said Hagrid, who had gone very white.
“Someone help me — gotta get him outta here — ”
Hermione ran to hold open the gate as Hagrid lifted
Malfoy easily. As they passed, Harry saw that there
was a long, deep gash on Malfoy’s arm; blood
splattered the grass and Hagrid ran with him, up the
slope toward the castle.
Very shaken, the Care of Magical Creatures class
followed at a walk. The Slytherins were all shouting
about Hagrid.
“They should fire him straight away!” said Pansy
Parkinson, who was in tears.
“It was Malfoy’s fault!” snapped Dean Thomas.
Crabbe and Goyle flexed their muscles threateningly.
 
They all climbed the stone steps into the deserted
entrance hall.
“I’m going to see if he’s okay!” said Pansy, and they all
watched her run up the marble staircase. The
Slytherins, still muttering about Hagrid, headed away
in the direction of their dungeon common room;
Harry, Ron, and Hermione proceeded upstairs to
Gryffindor Tower.
“D’you think he’ll be all right?” said Hermione
nervously.
“ ’Course he will. Madam Pomfrey can mend cuts in
about a second,” said Harry, who had had far worse
injuries mended magically by the nurse.
“That was a really bad thing to happen in Hagrid ’s
first class, though, wasn’t it?” said Ron, looking
worried. “Trust Malfoy to mess things up for him. ...”
They were among the first to reach the Great Hall at
dinnertime, hoping to see Hagrid, but he wasn’t there.
“They wouldn’t fire him, would they?” said Hermione
anxiously, not touching her steak-and-kidney
pudding.
“They’d better not,” said Ron, who wasn’t eating
either.
Harry was watching the Slytherin table. A large group
including Crabbe and Goyle was huddled together,
deep in conversation. Harry was sure they were
cooking up their own version of how Malfoy had been
injured.
“Well, you can’t say it wasn’t an interesting first day
back,” said Ron gloomily.
 
They went up to the crowded Gryffindor common
room after dinner and tried to do the homework
Professor McGonagall had given them, but all three of
them kept breaking off and glancing out of the tower
window.
“There’s a light on in Hagrid’s window,” Harry said
suddenly.
Ron looked at his watch.
“If we hurried, we could go down and see him. It’s still
quite early. ...”
“I don’t know,” Hermione said slowly, and Harry saw
her glance at him.
“I’m allowed to walk across the grounds,” he said
pointedly. “Sirius Black hasn’t got past the dementors
yet, has he?”
So they put their things away and headed out of the
portrait hole, glad to meet nobody on their way to the
front doors, as they weren’t entirely sure they were
supposed to be out.
The grass was still wet and looked almost black in the
twilight. When they reached Hagrid’s hut, they
knocked, and a voice growled, “C’min.”
Hagrid was sitting in his shirtsleeves at his scrubbed
wooden table; his boarhound, Fang, had his head in
Hagrid’s lap. One look told them that Hagrid had been
drinking a lot; there was a pewter tankard almost as
big as a bucket in front of him, and he seemed to be
having difficulty getting them into focus.
 
“ ’Spect it’s a record,” he said thickly, when he
recognized them. “Don’ reckon they’ve ever had a
teacher who lasted on’y a day before.”
“You haven’t been fired, Hagrid!” gasped Hermione.
“Not yet,” said Hagrid miserably, taking a huge gulp
of whatever was in the tankard. “But ’s only a matter
o’ time, i’n’t it, after Malfoy ...”
“How is he?” said Ron as they all sat down. “It wasn’t
serious, was it?”
“Madam Pomfrey fixed him best she could,” said
Hagrid dully, “but he’s sayin’ it’s still agony ... covered
in bandages ... moanin’ ...”
“He’s faking it,” said Harry at once. “Madam Pomfrey
can mend anything. She regrew half my bones last
year. Trust Malfoy to milk it for all it’s worth.”
“School gov’nors have bin told, o’ course,” said Hagrid
miserably. “They reckon I started too big. Shoulda left
hippogriffs fer later ... done flobberworms or summat.
... Jus’ thought it’d make a good firs’ lesson. ... ’S all
my fault. ...”
“It’s all Malfoy ’s fault, Hagrid!” said Hermione
earnestly.
“We’re witnesses,” said Harry. “You said hippogriffs
attack if you insult them. It’s Malfoy’s problem that
he wasn’t listening. We’ll tell Dumbledore what really
happened.”
“Yeah, don’t worry, Hagrid, we’ll back you up,” said
Ron.
 
Tears leaked out of the crinkled corners of Hagrid ’s
beetle-black eyes. He grabbed both Harry and Ron
and pulled them into a bone-breaking hug.
“I think you’ve had enough to drink, Hagrid,” said
Hermione firmly. She took the tankard from the table
and went outside to empty it.
“Ar, maybe she’s right,” said Hagrid, letting go of
Harry and Ron, who both staggered away, rubbing
their ribs. Hagrid heaved himself out of his chair and
followed Hermione unsteadily outside. They heard a
loud splash.
“What’s he done?” said Harry nervously as Hermione
came back in with the empty tankard.
“Stuck his head in the water barrel,” said Hermione,
putting the tankard away.
Hagrid came back, his long hair and beard sopping
wet, wiping the water out of his eyes.
“Tha’s better,” he said, shaking his head like a dog
and drenching them all. “Listen, it was good of yeh ter
come an’ see me, I really — ”
Hagrid stopped dead, staring at Harry as though he’d
only just realized he was there.
“WHAT DYEH THINK YOU’RE DOIN’, EH?” he roared,
so suddenly that they jumped a foot in the air.
“YEH ’RE NOT TO GO WANDERIN’ AROUND AFTER
DARK, HARRY! AN’ YOU TWO! LETTIN’ HIM!”
Hagrid strode over to Harry, grabbed his arm, and
pulled him to the door.
 
“C’mon!” Hagrid said angrily. “I’m takin’yer all back
up ter school, an’ don’ let me catch yeh walkin’ down
ter see me after dark again. I’m not worth that!”
 
7
THE BOGGART IN THE WARDROBE
Malfoy didn’t reappear in classes until late on
Thursday morning, when the Slytherins and
Gryffindors were halfway through double Potions. He
swaggered into the dungeon, his right arm covered in
bandages and bound up in a sling, acting, in Harry’s
opinion, as though he were the heroic survivor of
some dreadful battle.
“How is it, Draco?” simpered Pansy Parkinson. “Does
it hurt much?”
“Yeah,” said Malfoy, putting on a brave sort of
grimace. But Harry saw him wink at Crabbe and
Goyle when Pansy had looked away.
“Settle down, settle down,” said Professor Snape idly.
Harry and Ron scowled at each other; Snape wouldn’t
have said “settle down” if they’d walked in late, he’d
have given them detention. But Malfoy had always
been able to get away with anything in Snape ’s
 
classes; Snape was head of Slytherin House, and
generally favored his own students above all others.
They were making a new potion today, a Shrinking
Solution. Malfoy set up his cauldron right next to
Harry and Ron, so that they were preparing their
ingredients on the same table.
“Sir,” Malfoy called, “sir, I’ll need help cutting up
these daisy roots, because of my arm — ”
“Weasley, cut up Malfoy’s roots for him,” said Snape
without looking up.
Ron went brick red.
“There’s nothing wrong with your arm,” he hissed at
Malfoy.
Malfoy smirked across the table.
“Weasley, you heard Professor Snape; cut up these
roots.”
Ron seized his knife, pulled Malfoy’s roots toward
him, and began to chop them roughly, so that they
were all different sizes.
“Professor,” drawled Malfoy, “Weasley’s mutilating my
roots, sir.”
Snape approached their table, stared down his
hooked nose at the roots, then gave Ron an
unpleasant smile from beneath his long, greasy black
hair.
“Change roots with Malfoy, Weasley.”
“But, sir — !”
 
Ron had spent the last quarter of an hour carefully
shredding his own roots into exactly equal pieces.
“Now,” said Snape in his most dangerous voice.
Ron shoved his own beautifully cut roots across the
table at Malfoy, then took up the knife again.
“And, sir, 111 need this shrivelfig skinned,” said
Malfoy, his voice full of malicious laughter.
“Potter, you can skin Malfoy’s shrivelfig,” said Snape,
giving Harry the look of loathing he always reserved
just for him.
Harry took Malfoy’s shrivelfig as Ron began trying to
repair the damage to the roots he now had to use.
Harry skinned the shrivelfig as fast as he could and
flung it back across the table at Malfoy without
speaking. Malfoy was smirking more broadly than
ever.
“Seen your pal Hagrid lately?” he asked them quietly.
“None of your business,” said Ron jerkily, without
looking up.
“I’m afraid he won’t be a teacher much longer,” said
Malfoy in a tone of mock sorrow. “Father’s not very
happy about my injury — ”
“Keep talking, Malfoy, and I’ll give you a real injury,”
snarled Ron.
“ — he’s complained to the school governors. And to
the Ministry of Magic. Father’s got a lot of influence,
you know. And a lasting injury like this” — he gave a
huge, fake sigh — “who knows if my arm’ll ever be the
same again?”
 
“So that’s why you’re putting it on,” said Harry,
accidentally beheading a dead caterpillar because his
hand was shaking in anger. “To try to get Hagrid
fired.”
“Well,” said Malfoy, lowering his voice to a whisper,
“ partly , Potter. But there are other benefits too.
Weasley, slice my caterpillars for me.”
A few cauldrons away, Neville was in trouble. Neville
regularly went to pieces in Potions lessons; it was his
worst subject, and his great fear of Professor Snape
made things ten times worse. His potion, which was
supposed to be a bright, acid green, had turned —
“Orange, Longbottom,” said Snape, ladling some up
and allowing it to splash back into the cauldron, so
that everyone could see. “Orange. Tell me, boy, does
anything penetrate that thick skull of yours? Didn’t
you hear me say, quite clearly, that only one rat
spleen was needed? Didn’t I state plainly that a dash
of leech juice would suffice? What do I have to do to
make you understand, Longbottom?”
Neville was pink and trembling. He looked as though
he was on the verge of tears.
“Please, sir,” said Hermione, “please, I could help
Neville put it right — ”
“I don’t remember asking you to show off, Miss
Granger,” said Snape coldly, and Hermione went as
pink as Neville. “Longbottom, at the end of this lesson
we will feed a few drops of this potion to your toad
and see what happens. Perhaps that will encourage
you to do it properly.”
Snape moved away, leaving Neville breathless with
fear.
 
“Help me!” he moaned to Hermione.
“Hey, Harry,” said Seamus Finnigan, leaning over to
borrow Harry’s brass scales, “have you heard? Daily
Prophet this morning — they reckon Sirius Black’s
been sighted.”
“Where?” said Harry and Ron quickly. On the other
side of the table, Malfoy looked up, listening closely.
“Not too far from here,” said Seamus, who looked
excited. “It was a Muggle who saw him. ’Course, she
didn’t really understand. The Muggles think he’s just
an ordinary criminal, don’t they? So she phoned the
telephone hot line. By the time the Ministry of Magic
got there, he was gone.”
“Not too far from here ... ,” Ron repeated, looking
significantly at Harry. He turned around and saw
Malfoy watching closely. “What, Malfoy? Need
something else skinned?”
But Malfoy’s eyes were shining malevolently, and they
were fixed on Harry. He leaned across the table.
“Thinking of trying to catch Black single-handed,
Potter?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry offhandedly.
Malfoy’s thin mouth was curving in a mean smile.
“Of course, if it was me,” he said quietly, “I’d have
done something before now. I wouldn’t be staying in
school like a good boy, I’d be out there looking for
him.”
“What are you talking about, Malfoy?” said Ron
roughly.
 
“Don’t you know, Potter?” breathed Malfoy, his pale
eyes narrowed.
“Know what?”
Malfoy let out a low, sneering laugh.
“Maybe you’d rather not risk your neck,” he said.
“Want to leave it to the dementors, do you? But if it
was me, I’d want revenge. I’d hunt him down myself.”
“ What are you talking about?” said Harry angrily, but
at that moment Snape called, “You should have
finished adding your ingredients by now; this potion
needs to stew before it can be drunk, so clear away
while it simmers and then we’ll test Longbottom’s. ...”
Crabbe and Goyle laughed openly, watching Neville
sweat as he stirred his potion feverishly. Hermione
was muttering instructions to him out of the corner of
her mouth, so that Snape wouldn’t see. Harry and
Ron packed away their unused ingredients and went
to wash their hands and ladles in the stone basin in
the corner.
“What did Malfoy mean?” Harry muttered to Ron as
he stuck his hands under the icy jet that poured from
the gargoyle’s mouth. “Why would I want revenge on
Black? He hasn’t done anything to me — yet.”
“He’s making it up,” said Ron savagely. “He’s trying to
make you do something stupid. ...”
The end of the lesson in sight, Snape strode over to
Neville, who was cowering by his cauldron.
“Everyone gather ’round,” said Snape, his black eyes
glittering, “and watch what happens to Longbottom’s
toad. If he has managed to produce a Shrinking
 
Solution, it will shrink to a tadpole. If, as I don’t
doubt, he has done it wrong, his toad is likely to be
poisoned.”
The Gryffindors watched fearfully. The Slytherins
looked excited. Snape picked up Trevor the toad in
his left hand and dipped a small spoon into Neville’s
potion, which was now green. He trickled a few drops
down Trevor’s throat.
There was a moment of hushed silence, in which
Trevor gulped; then there was a small pop, and Trevor
the tadpole was wriggling in Snape ’s palm.
The Gryffindors burst into applause. Snape, looking
sour, pulled a small bottle from the pocket of his
robe, poured a few drops on top of Trevor, and he
reappeared suddenly, fully grown.
“Five points from Gryffindor,” said Snape, which
wiped the smiles from every face. “I told you not to
help him, Miss Granger. Class dismissed.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed the steps to the
entrance hall. Harry was still thinking about what
Malfoy had said, while Ron was seething about
Snape.
“Five points from Gryffindor because the potion was
all right! Why didn’t you lie, Hermione? You should’ve
said Neville did it all by himself!”
Hermione didn’t answer. Ron looked around.
“Where is she?”
Harry turned too. They were at the top of the steps
now, watching the rest of the class pass them,
heading for the Great Hall and lunch.
 
“She was right behind us,” said Ron, frowning.
Malfoy passed them, walking between Crabbe and
Goyle. He smirked at Harry and disappeared.
“There she is,” said Harry.
Hermione was panting slightly, hurrying up the
stairs; one hand clutched her bag, the other seemed
to be tucking something down the front of her robes.
“How did you do that?” said Ron.
“What?” said Hermione, joining them.
“One minute you were right behind us, the next
moment, you were back at the bottom of the stairs
again.”
“What?” Hermione looked slightly confused. “Oh — I
had to go back for something. Oh no — ”
A seam had split on Hermione’s bag. Harry wasn’t
surprised; he could see that it was crammed with at
least a dozen large and heavy books.
“Why are you carrying all these around with you?”
Ron asked her.
“You know how many subjects I’m taking,” said
Hermione breathlessly. “Couldn’t hold these for me,
could you?”
“But — ” Ron was turning over the books she had
handed him, looking at the covers. “You haven’t got
any of these subjects today. It’s only Defense Against
the Dark Arts this afternoon.”
 
“Oh yes,” said Hermione vaguely, but she packed all
the books back into her bag just the same. “I hope
there’s something good for lunch, I’m starving,” she
added, and she marched off toward the Great Hall.
“D’you get the feeling Hermione ’s not telling us
something?” Ron asked Harry.
Professor Lupin wasn’t there when they arrived at his
first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. They all
sat down, took out their books, quills, and
parchment, and were talking when he finally entered
the room. Lupin smiled vaguely and placed his tatty
old briefcase on the teacher’s desk. He was as shabby
as ever but looked healthier than he had on the train,
as though he had had a few square meals.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Would you please put all
your books back in your bags. Today’s will be a
practical lesson. You will need only your wands.”
A few curious looks were exchanged as the class put
away their books. They had never had a practical
Defense Against the Dark Arts before, unless you
counted the memorable class last year when their old
teacher had brought a cageful of pixies to class and
set them loose.
“Right then,” said Professor Lupin, when everyone
was ready. “If you’d follow me.”
Puzzled but interested, the class got to its feet and
followed Professor Lupin out of the classroom. He led
them along the deserted corridor and around a
corner, where the first thing they saw was Peeves the
Poltergeist, who was floating upside down in midair
and stuffing the nearest keyhole with chewing gum.
 
Peeves didn’t look up until Professor Lupin was two
feet away; then he wiggled his curly-toed feet and
broke into song.
“Loony, loopy Lupin,” Peeves sang. “Loony, loopy
Lupin, loony, loopy Lupin — ”
Rude and unmanageable as he almost always was,
Peeves usually showed some respect toward the
teachers. Everyone looked quickly at Professor Lupin
to see how he would take this; to their surprise, he
was still smiling.
“I’d take that gum out of the keyhole if I were you,
Peeves,” he said pleasantly. “Mr. Filch won’t be able to
get in to his brooms.”
Filch was the Hogwarts caretaker, a bad-tempered,
failed wizard who waged a constant war against the
students and, indeed, Peeves. However, Peeves paid
no attention to Professor Lupin’s words, except to
blow a loud wet raspberry.
Professor Lupin gave a small sigh and took out his
wand.
“This is a useful little spell,” he told the class over his
shoulder. “Please watch closely.”
He raised the wand to shoulder height, said,
“ Waddiwasil ” and pointed it at Peeves.
With the force of a bullet, the wad of chewing gum
shot out of the keyhole and straight down Peeves ’s left
nostril; he whirled upright and zoomed away, cursing.
“Cool, sir!” said Dean Thomas in amazement.
 
“Thank you, Dean,” said Professor Lupin, putting his
wand away again. “Shall we proceed?”
They set off again, the class looking at shabby
Professor Lupin with increased respect. He led them
down a second corridor and stopped, right outside the
staffroom door.
“Inside, please,” said Professor Lupin, opening it and
standing back.
The staffroom, a long, paneled room full of old,
mismatched chairs, was empty except for one teacher.
Professor Snape was sitting in a low armchair, and he
looked around as the class filed in. His eyes were
glittering and there was a nasty sneer playing around
his mouth. As Professor Lupin came in and made to
close the door behind him, Snape said, “Leave it open,
Lupin. Td rather not witness this.”
He got to his feet and strode past the class, his black
robes billowing behind him. At the doorway he turned
on his heel and said, “Possibly no one’s warned you,
Lupin, but this class contains Neville Longbottom. I
would advise you not to entrust him with anything
difficult. Not unless Miss Granger is hissing
instructions in his ear.”
Neville went scarlet. Harry glared at Snape; it was bad
enough that he bullied Neville in his own classes, let
alone doing it in front of other teachers.
Professor Lupin had raised his eyebrows.
“I was hoping that Neville would assist me with the
first stage of the operation,” he said, “and I am sure
he will perform it admirably.”
 
Neville’s face went, if possible, even redder. Snape’s
lip curled, but he left, shutting the door with a snap.
“Now, then,” said Professor Lupin, beckoning the
class toward the end of the room, where there was
nothing but an old wardrobe where the teachers kept
their spare robes. As Professor Lupin went to stand
next to it, the wardrobe gave a sudden wobble,
banging off the wall.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Professor Lupin calmly
because a few people had jumped backward in alarm.
“There’s a boggart in there.”
Most people seemed to feel that this was something to
worry about. Neville gave Professor Lupin a look of
pure terror, and Seamus Finnigan eyed the now
rattling doorknob apprehensively.
“Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces,” said Professor
Lupin. “Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the
cupboards under sinks — I’ve even met one that had
lodged itself in a grandfather clock. This one moved in
yesterday afternoon, and I asked the headmaster if
the staff would leave it to give my third years some
practice.
“So, the first question we must ask ourselves is, what
is a boggart?”
Hermione put up her hand.
“It’s a shape-shifter,” she said. “It can take the shape
of whatever it thinks will frighten us most.”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Professor
Lupin, and Hermione glowed. “So the boggart sitting
in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form.
He does not yet know what will frighten the person on
 
the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a
boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let
him out, he will immediately become whatever each of
us most fears.
“This means,” said Professor Lupin, choosing to
ignore Neville’s small sputter of terror, “that we have a
huge advantage over the boggart before we begin.
Have you spotted it, Harry?”
Trying to answer a question with Hermione next to
him, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet
with her hand in the air, was very off-putting, but
Harry had a go.
“Er — because there are so many of us, it won’t know
what shape it should be?”
“Precisely,” said Professor Lupin, and Hermione put
her hand down, looking a little disappointed. “It’s
always best to have company when you’re dealing
with a boggart. He becomes confused. Which should
he become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I
once saw a boggart make that very mistake — tried to
frighten two people at once and turned himself into
half a slug. Not remotely frightening.
“The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it
requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really
finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is
force it to assume a shape that you find amusing.
“We will practice the charm without wands first. After
me, please ... riddikulusV’
“ RiddikulusV’ said the class together.
“Good,” said Professor Lupin. “Very good. But that
was the easy part, I’m afraid. You see, the word alone
 
is not enough. And this is where you come in,
Neville.”
The wardrobe shook again, though not as much as
Neville, who walked forward as though he were
heading for the gallows.
“Right, Neville,” said Professor Lupin. “First things
first: what would you say is the thing that frightens
you most in the world?”
Neville’s lips moved, but no noise came out.
“Didn’t catch that, Neville, sorry,” said Professor
Lupin cheerfully.
Neville looked around rather wildly, as though
begging someone to help him, then said, in barely
more than a whisper, “Professor Snape.”
Nearly everyone laughed. Even Neville grinned
apologetically. Professor Lupin, however, looked
thoughtful.
“Professor Snape ... hmmm ... Neville, I believe you
live with your grandmother?”
“Er — yes,” said Neville nervously. “But — I don’t
want the boggart to turn into her either.”
“No, no, you misunderstand me,” said Professor
Lupin, now smiling. “I wonder, could you tell us what
sort of clothes your grandmother usually wears?”
Neville looked startled, but said, “Well ... always the
same hat. A tall one with a stuffed vulture on top.
And a long dress ... green, normally ... and sometimes
a fox-fur scarf.”
 
“And a handbag?” prompted Professor Lupin.
“A big red one,” said Neville.
“Right then,” said Professor Lupin. “Can you picture
those clothes very clearly, Neville? Can you see them
in your mind’s eye?”
“Yes,” said Neville uncertainly, plainly wondering
what was coming next.
“When the boggart bursts out of this wardrobe,
Neville, and sees you, it will assume the form of
Professor Snape,” said Lupin. “And you will raise your
wand — thus — and cry ‘Riddikulus’ — and
concentrate hard on your grandmother’s clothes. If all
goes well, Professor Boggart Snape will be forced into
that vulture-topped hat, and that green dress, with
that big red handbag.”
There was a great shout of laughter. The wardrobe
wobbled more violently.
“If Neville is successful, the boggart is likely to shift
his attention to each of us in turn,” said Professor
Lupin. “I would like all of you to take a moment now
to think of the thing that scares you most, and
imagine how you might force it to look comical. ...”
The room went quiet. Harry thought ... What scared
him most in the world?
His first thought was Lord Voldemort — a Voldemort
returned to full strength. But before he had even
started to plan a possible counterattack on a boggart -
Voldemort, a horrible image came floating to the
surface of his mind. ...
 
A rotting, glistening hand, slithering back beneath a
black cloak ... a long, rattling breath from an unseen
mouth . . . then a cold so penetrating it felt like
drowning. ...
Harry shivered, then looked around, hoping no one
had noticed. Many people had their eyes shut tight.
Ron was muttering to himself, “Take its legs off.”
Harry was sure he knew what that was about. Ron’s
greatest fear was spiders.
“Everyone ready?” said Professor Lupin.
Harry felt a lurch of fear. He wasn’t ready. How could
you make a dementor less frightening? But he didn’t
want to ask for more time; everyone else was nodding
and rolling up their sleeves.
“Neville, we’re going to back away,” said Professor
Lupin. “Let you have a clear field, all right? I’ll call the
next person forward. ... Everyone back, now, so
Neville can get a clear shot — ”
They all retreated, backed against the walls, leaving
Neville alone beside the wardrobe. He looked pale and
frightened, but he had pushed up the sleeves of his
robes and was holding his wand ready.
“On the count of three, Neville,” said Professor Lupin,
who was pointing his own wand at the handle of the
wardrobe. “One — two — three — now\”
A jet of sparks shot from the end of Professor Lupin’s
wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst
open. Hook-nosed and menacing, Professor Snape
stepped out, his eyes flashing at Neville.
 
Neville backed away, his wand up, mouthing
wordlessly. Snape was bearing down upon him,
reaching inside his robes.
“R — r — riddikulusV’ squeaked Neville.
There was a noise like a whip crack. Snape stumbled;
he was wearing a long, lace-trimmed dress and a
towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, and
he was swinging a huge crimson handbag.
There was a roar of laughter; the boggart paused,
confused, and Professor Lupin shouted, “Parvati!
Forward!”
Parvati walked forward, her face set. Snape rounded
on her. There was another crack, and where he had
stood was a bloodstained, bandaged mummy; its
sightless face was turned to Parvati and it began to
walk toward her very slowly, dragging its feet, its stiff
arms rising —
“RiddikulusV’ cried Parvati.
A bandage unraveled at the mummy’s feet; it became
entangled, fell face forward, and its head rolled off.
“Seamus!” roared Professor Lupin.
Seamus darted past Parvati.
Crack ! Where the mummy had been was a woman
with floor-length black hair and a skeletal, green-
tinged face — a banshee. She opened her mouth wide
and an unearthly sound filled the room, a long,
wailing shriek that made the hair on Harry’s head
stand on end —
“RiddikulusV’ shouted Seamus.
 
The banshee made a rasping noise and clutched her
throat; her voice was gone.
Crack). The banshee turned into a rat, which chased
its tail in a circle, then — crack). — became a
rattlesnake, which slithered and writhed before —
crack ! — becoming a single, bloody eyeball.
“It’s confused!” shouted Lupin. “We’re getting there!
Dean!”
Dean hurried forward.
Crack) The eyeball became a severed hand, which
flipped over and began to creep along the floor like a
crab.
“RiddikulusV’ yelled Dean.
There was a snap, and the hand was trapped in a
mousetrap.
“Excellent! Ron, you next!”
Ron leapt forward.
Crack)
Quite a few people screamed. A giant spider, six feet
tall and covered in hair, was advancing on Ron,
clicking its pincers menacingly. For a moment, Harry
thought Ron had frozen. Then —
“RiddikulusV’ bellowed Ron, and the spider’s legs
vanished; it rolled over and over; Lavender Brown
squealed and ran out of its way and it came to a halt
at Harry’s feet. He raised his wand, ready, but —
 
“Here!” shouted Professor Lupin suddenly, hurrying
forward.
Crack).
The legless spider had vanished. For a second,
everyone looked wildly around to see where it was.
Then they saw a silvery-white orb hanging in the air
in front of Lupin, who said, “RiddikulusV’ almost
lazily.
Crack !
“Forward, Neville, and finish him off!” said Lupin as
the boggart landed on the floor as a cockroach. Crack).
Snape was back. This time Neville charged forward
looking determined.
“RiddikulusV’ he shouted, and they had a split
second’s view of Snape in his lacy dress before Neville
let out a great “Ha!” of laughter, and the boggart
exploded, burst into a thousand tiny wisps of smoke,
and was gone.
“Excellent!” cried Professor Lupin as the class broke
into applause. “Excellent, Neville. Well done,
everyone. ... Let me see ... five points to Gryffindor for
every person to tackle the boggart — ten for Neville
because he did it twice . . . and five each to Hermione
and Harry.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” said Harry.
“You and Hermione answered my questions correctly
at the start of the class, Harry,” Lupin said lightly.
“Very well, everyone, an excellent lesson. Homework,
kindly read the chapter on boggarts and summarize it
for me ... to be handed in on Monday. That will be
all.”
 
Talking excitedly, the class left the staffroom. Harry,
however, wasn’t feeling cheerful. Professor Lupin had
deliberately stopped him from tackling the boggart.
Why? Was it because he’d seen Harry collapse on the
train, and thought he wasn’t up to much? Had he
thought Harry would pass out again?
But no one else seemed to have noticed anything.
“Did you see me take that banshee?” shouted
Seamus.
“And the hand!” said Dean, waving his own around.
“And Snape in that hat!”
“And my mummy!”
“I wonder why Professor Lupin’s frightened of crystal
balls?” said Lavender thoughtfully.
“That was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts
lesson we’ve ever had, wasn’t it?” said Ron excitedly
as they made their way back to the classroom to get
their bags.
“He seems like a very good teacher,” said Hermione
approvingly. “But I wish I could have had a turn with
the boggart — ”
“What would it have been for you?” said Ron,
sniggering. “A piece of homework that only got nine
out of ten?”
 
d
FLIGHT OF THE FAT LADY
In no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had
become most people’s favorite class. Only Draco
Malfoy and his gang of Slytherins had anything bad to
say about Professor Lupin.
“Look at the state of his robes,” Malfoy would say in a
loud whisper as Professor Lupin passed. “He dresses
like our old house-elf.”
But no one else cared that Professor Lupin’s robes
were patched and frayed. His next few lessons were
just as interesting as the first. After boggarts, they
studied Red Caps, nasty little goblinlike creatures
that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed: in
the dungeons of castles and the potholes of deserted
battlefields, waiting to bludgeon those who had gotten
lost. From Red Caps they moved on to kappas, creepy
water-dwellers that looked like scaly monkeys, with
webbed hands itching to strangle unwitting waders in
their ponds.
Harry only wished he was as happy with some of his
other classes. Worst of all was Potions. Snape was in
 
a particularly vindictive mood these days, and no one
was in any doubt why. The story of the boggart
assuming Snape’s shape, and the way that Neville
had dressed it in his grandmother’s clothes, had
traveled through the school like wildfire. Snape didn’t
seem to find it funny. His eyes flashed menacingly at
the very mention of Professor Lupin’s name, and he
was bullying Neville worse than ever.
Harry was also growing to dread the hours he spent
in Professor Trelawney’s stifling tower room,
deciphering lopsided shapes and symbols, trying to
ignore the way Professor Trelawney’s enormous eyes
filled with tears every time she looked at him. He
couldn’t like Professor Trelawney, even though she
was treated with respect bordering on reverence by
many of the class. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown
had taken to haunting Professor Trelawney’s tower
room at lunchtimes, and always returned with
annoyingly superior looks on their faces, as though
they knew things the others didn’t. They had also
started using hushed voices whenever they spoke to
Harry, as though he were on his deathbed.
Nobody really liked Care of Magical Creatures, which,
after the action-packed first class, had become
extremely dull. Hagrid seemed to have lost his
confidence. They were now spending lesson after
lesson learning how to look after flobberworms, which
had to be some of the most boring creatures in
existence.
“Why would anyone bother looking after them?” said
Ron, after yet another hour of poking shredded
lettuce down the flobberworms’ slimy throats.
At the start of October, however, Harry had
something else to occupy him, something so enjoyable
it more than made up for his unsatisfactory classes.
 
The Quidditch season was approaching, and Oliver
Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor team, called a
meeting one Thursday evening to discuss tactics for
the new season.
There were seven people on a Quidditch team: three
Chasers, whose job it was to score goals by putting
the Quaffle (a red, soccer-sized ball) through one of
the fifty-foot-high hoops at each end of the field; two
Beaters, who were equipped with heavy bats to repel
the Bludgers (two heavy black balls that zoomed
around trying to attack the players); a Keeper, who
defended the goal posts, and the Seeker, who had the
hardest job of all, that of catching the Golden Snitch,
a tiny, winged, walnut-sized ball, whose capture
ended the game and earned the Seeker’s team an
extra one hundred and fifty points.
Oliver Wood was a burly seventeen-year-old, now in
his seventh and final year at Hogwarts. There was a
quiet sort of desperation in his voice as he addressed
his six fellow team members in the chilly locker rooms
on the edge of the darkening Quidditch field.
“This is our last chance — my last chance — to win
the Quidditch Cup,” he told them, striding up and
down in front of them. “I’ll be leaving at the end of
this year. I’ll never get another shot at it.
“Gryffindor hasn’t won for seven years now. Okay, so
we’ve had the worst luck in the world — injuries —
then the tournament getting called off last year. ...”
Wood swallowed, as though the memory still brought
a lump to his throat. “But we also know we’ve got the
best — ruddy — team — in — the — school,” he said,
punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic
glint back in his eye.
“We’ve got three superb Chasers.”
 
Wood pointed at Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson,
and Katie Bell.
“We’ve got two unbeatable Beaters.”
“Stop it, Oliver, you’re embarrassing us,” said Fred
and George Weasley together, pretending to blush.
“And we’ve got a Seeker who has never failed to win
us a match).” Wood rumbled, glaring at Harry with a
kind of furious pride. “And me,” he added as an
afterthought.
“We think you’re very good too, Oliver,” said George.
“Spanking good Keeper,” said Fred.
“The point is,” Wood went on, resuming his pacing,
“the Quidditch Cup should have had our name on it
these last two years. Ever since Harry joined the
team, I’ve thought the thing was in the bag. But we
haven’t got it, and this year’s the last chance we’ll get
to finally see our name on the thing. ...”
Wood spoke so dejectedly that even Fred and George
looked sympathetic.
“Oliver, this year’s our year,” said Fred.
“Well do it, Oliver!” said Angelina.
“Definitely,” said Harry.
Full of determination, the team started training
sessions, three evenings a week. The weather was
getting colder and wetter, the nights darker, but no
amount of mud, wind, or rain could tarnish Harry’s
wonderful vision of finally winning the huge, silver
Quidditch Cup.
 
Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room one
evening after training, cold and stiff but pleased with
the way practice had gone, to find the room buzzing
excitedly.
“What’s happened?” he asked Ron and Hermione,
who were sitting in two of the best chairs by the
fireside and completing some star charts for
Astronomy.
“First Hogsmeade weekend,” said Ron, pointing at a
notice that had appeared on the battered old bulletin
board. “End of October. Halloween.”
“Excellent,” said Fred, who had followed Harry
through the portrait hole. “I need to visit Zonko’s. I’m
nearly out of Stink Pellets.”
Harry threw himself into a chair beside Ron, his high
spirits ebbing away. Hermione seemed to read his
mind.
“Harry, I’m sure you’ll be able to go next time,” she
said. “They’re bound to catch Black soon. He’s been
sighted once already”
“Black’s not fool enough to try anything in
Hogsmeade,” said Ron. “Ask McGonagall if you can go
this time, Harry. The next one might not be for ages
“Ron\” said Hermione. “Harry’s supposed to stay in
school — ”
“He can’t be the only third year left behind,” said Ron.
“Ask McGonagall, go on, Harry — ”
“Yeah, I think I will,” said Harry, making up his mind.
 
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but at that
moment Crookshanks leapt lightly onto her lap. A
large, dead spider was dangling from his mouth.
“Does he have to eat that in front of us?” said Ron,
scowling.
“Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by
yourself?” said Hermione.
Crookshanks slowly chewed up the spider, his yellow
eyes fixed insolently on Ron.
“Just keep him over there, that’s all,” said Ron
irritably, turning back to his star chart. “I’ve got
Scabbers asleep in my bag.”
Harry yawned. He really wanted to go to bed, but he
still had his own star chart to complete. He pulled his
bag toward him, took out parchment, ink, and quill,
and started work.
“You can copy mine, if you like,” said Ron, labeling
his last star with a flourish and shoving the chart
toward Harry.
Hermione, who disapproved of copying, pursed her
lips but didn’t say anything. Crookshanks was still
staring unblinkingly at Ron, flicking the end of his
bushy tail. Then, without warning, he pounced.
“OY!” Ron roared, seizing his bag as Crookshanks
sank four sets of claws deep inside it and began
tearing ferociously. “GET OFF, YOU STUPID ANIMAL!”
Ron tried to pull the bag away from Crookshanks, but
Crookshanks clung on, spitting and slashing.
 
“Ron, don’t hurt him!” squealed Hermione; the whole
common room was watching; Ron whirled the bag
around, Crookshanks still clinging to it, and Scabbers
came flying out of the top —
“CATCH THAT CAT!” Ron yelled as Crookshanks freed
himself from the remnants of the bag, sprang over the
table, and chased after the terrified Scabbers.
George Weasley made a lunge for Crookshanks but
missed; Scabbers streaked through twenty pairs of
legs and shot beneath an old chest of drawers.
Crookshanks skidded to a halt, crouched low on his
bandy legs, and started making furious swipes
beneath it with his front paw.
Ron and Hermione hurried over; Hermione grabbed
Crookshanks around the middle and heaved him
away; Ron threw himself onto his stomach and, with
great difficulty, pulled Scabbers out by the tail.
“Look at him!” he said furiously to Hermione,
dangling Scabbers in front of her. “He’s skin and
bone! You keep that cat away from him!”
“Crookshanks doesn’t understand it’s wrong!” said
Hermione, her voice shaking. “All cats chase rats,
Ron!”
“There’s something funny about that animal!” said
Ron, who was trying to persuade a frantically wiggling
Scabbers back into his pocket. “It heard me say that
Scabbers was in my bag!”
“Oh, what rubbish,” said Hermione impatiently.
“Crookshanks could smell him, Ron, how else d’you
think — ”
 
“That cat’s got it in for Scabbers!” said Ron, ignoring
the people around him, who were starting to giggle.
“And Scabbers was here first, and he’s ill!”
Ron marched through the common room and out of
sight up the stairs to the boys’ dormitories.
Ron was still in a bad mood with Hermione next day.
He barely talked to her all through Herbology, even
though he, Harry, and Hermione were working
together on the same puffapod.
“How’s Scabbers?” Hermione asked timidly as they
stripped fat pink pods from the plants and emptied
the shining beans into a wooden pail.
“He’s hiding at the bottom of my bed, shaking,” said
Ron angrily, missing the pail and scattering beans
over the greenhouse floor.
“Careful, Weasley, careful!” cried Professor Sprout as
the beans burst into bloom before their very eyes.
They had Transfiguration next. Harry, who had
resolved to ask Professor McGonagall after the lesson
whether he could go into Hogsmeade with the rest,
joined the line outside the class trying to decide how
he was going to argue his case. He was distracted,
however, by a disturbance at the front of the line.
Lavender Brown seemed to be crying. Parvati had her
arm around her and was explaining something to
Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were
looking very serious.
“What’s the matter, Lavender?” said Hermione
anxiously as she, Harry, and Ron went to join the
group.
 
“She got a letter from home this morning,” Parvati
whispered. “It’s her rabbit, Binky. He’s been killed by
a fox.”
“Oh,” said Hermione, “I’m sorry, Lavender.”
“I should have known!” said Lavender tragically. “You
know what day it is?”
“Er — ”
“The sixteenth of October! That thing you’re dreading,
it will happen on the sixteenth of October!’
Remember? She was right, she was right!”
The whole class was gathered around Lavender now.
Seamus shook his head seriously. Hermione
hesitated; then she said, “You — you were dreading
Binky being killed by a fox?”
“Well, not necessarily by a fox,” said Lavender,
looking up at Hermione with streaming eyes, “but I
was obviously dreading him dying, wasn’t I?”
“Oh,” said Hermione. She paused again. Then —
“Was Binky an old rabbit?”
“N — no!” sobbed Lavender. “H — he was only a
baby!”
Parvati tightened her arm around Lavender’s
shoulders.
“But then, why would you dread him dying?” said
Hermione.
Parvati glared at her.
 
“Well, look at it logically,” said Hermione, turning to
the rest of the group. “I mean, Binky didn’t even die
today, did he? Lavender just got the news today — ”
Lavender wailed loudly. “ — and she can’t have been
dreading it, because it’s come as a real shock — ”
“Don’t mind Hermione, Lavender,” said Ron loudly,
“she doesn’t think other people’s pets matter very
much.”
Professor McGonagall opened the classroom door at
that moment, which was perhaps lucky; Hermione
and Ron were looking daggers at each other, and
when they got into class, they seated themselves on
either side of Harry and didn’t talk to each other for
the whole class.
Harry still hadn’t decided what he was going to say to
Professor McGonagall when the bell rang at the end of
the lesson, but it was she who brought up the subject
of Hogsmeade first.
“One moment, please!” she called as the class made
to leave. “As you’re all in my House, you should hand
Hogsmeade permission forms to me before Halloween.
No form, no visiting the village, so don’t forget!”
Neville put up his hand.
“Please, Professor, I — I think I’ve lost — ”
“Your grandmother sent yours to me directly,
Longbottom,” said Professor McGonagall. “She
seemed to think it was safer. Well, that’s all, you may
leave.”
“Ask her now,” Ron hissed at Harry.
“Oh, but — ” Hermione began.
 
“Go for it, Harry,” said Ron stubbornly.
Harry waited for the rest of the class to disappear,
then headed nervously for Professor McGonagall’s
desk.
“Yes, Potter?”
Harry took a deep breath.
“Professor, my aunt and uncle — er — forgot to sign
my form,” he said.
Professor McGonagall looked over her square
spectacles at him but didn’t say anything.
“So — er — d’you think it would be all right — I
mean, will it be okay if I — if I go to Hogsmeade?”
Professor McGonagall looked down and began
shuffling papers on her desk.
“I’m afraid not, Potter,” she said. “You heard what I
said. No form, no visiting the village. That’s the rule.”
“But — Professor, my aunt and uncle — you know,
they’re Muggles, they don’t really understand about
— about Hogwarts forms and stuff,” Harry said, while
Ron egged him on with vigorous nods. “If you said I
could go — ”
“But I don’t say so,” said Professor McGonagall,
standing up and piling her papers neatly into a
drawer. “The form clearly states that the parent or
guardian must give permission.” She turned to look at
him, with an odd expression on her face. Was it pity?
“I’m sorry, Potter, but that’s my final word. You had
better hurry, or you’ll be late for your next lesson.”
 
There was nothing to be done. Ron called Professor
McGonagall a lot of names that greatly annoyed
Hermione; Hermione assumed an “all-for-the-best”
expression that made Ron even angrier, and Harry
had to endure everyone in the class talking loudly
and happily about what they were going to do first,
once they got into Hogsmeade.
“There’s always the feast,” said Ron, in an effort to
cheer Harry up. “You know, the Halloween feast, in
the evening.”
“Yeah,” said Harry gloomily, “great.”
The Halloween feast was always good, but it would
taste a lot better if he was coming to it after a day in
Hogsmeade with everyone else. Nothing anyone said
made him feel any better about being left behind.
Dean Thomas, who was good with a quill, had offered
to forge Uncle Vernon’s signature on the form, but as
Harry had already told Professor McGonagall he
hadn’t had it signed, that was no good. Ron
halfheartedly suggested the Invisibility Cloak, but
Hermione stamped on that one, reminding Ron what
Dumbledore had told them about the dementors
being able to see through them. Percy had what were
possibly the least helpful words of comfort.
“They make a fuss about Hogsmeade, but I assure
you, Harry, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he said
seriously. “All right, the sweetshop’s rather good, and
Zonko’s Joke Shop’s frankly dangerous, and yes, the
Shrieking Shack’s always worth a visit, but really,
Harry, apart from that, you’re not missing anything.”
On Halloween morning, Harry awoke with the rest
and went down to breakfast, feeling thoroughly
depressed, though doing his best to act normally.
 
“Well bring you lots of sweets back from
Honeydukes,” said Hermione, looking desperately
sorry for him.
“Yeah, loads,” said Ron. He and Hermione had finally
forgotten their squabble about Crookshanks in the
face of Harry’s difficulties.
“Don’t worry about me,” said Harry, in what he hoped
was an offhand voice, “I’ll see you at the feast. Have a
good time.”
He accompanied them to the entrance hall, where
Filch, the caretaker, was standing inside the front
doors, checking off names against a long list, peering
suspiciously into every face, and making sure that no
one was sneaking out who shouldn’t be going.
“Staying here, Potter?” shouted Malfoy, who was
standing in line with Crabbe and Goyle. “Scared of
passing the dementors?”
Harry ignored him and made his solitary way up the
marble staircase, through the deserted corridors, and
back to Gryffindor Tower.
“Password?” said the Fat Lady, jerking out of a doze.
“Fortuna Major,” said Harry listlessly.
The portrait swung open and he climbed through the
hole into the common room. It was full of chattering
first and second years, and a few older students, who
had obviously visited Hogsmeade so often the novelty
had worn off.
“Harry! Harry! Hi, Harry!”
 
It was Colin Creevey, a second year who was deeply in
awe of Harry and never missed an opportunity to
speak to him.
“Aren’t you going to Hogsmeade, Harry? Why not?
Hey” — Colin looked eagerly around at his friends —
“you can come and sit with us, if you like, Harry!”
“Er — no, thanks, Colin,” said Harry, who wasn’t in
the mood to have a lot of people staring avidly at the
scar on his forehead. “I — I’ve got to go to the library,
got to get some work done.”
After that, he had no choice but to turn right around
and head back out of the portrait hole again.
“What was the point waking me up?” the Fat Lady
called grumpily after him as he walked away.
Harry wandered dispiritedly toward the library, but
halfway there he changed his mind; he didn’t feel like
working. He turned around and came face-to-face
with Filch, who had obviously just seen off the last of
the Hogsmeade visitors.
“What are you doing?” Filch snarled suspiciously.
“Nothing,” said Harry truthfully.
“Nothing!” spat Filch, his jowls quivering
unpleasantly. “A likely story! Sneaking around on
your own — why aren’t you in Hogsmeade buying
Stink Pellets and Belch Powder and Whizzing Worms
like the rest of your nasty little friends?”
Harry shrugged.
 
“Well, get back to your common room where you
belong!” snapped Filch, and he stood glaring until
Harry had passed out of sight.
But Harry didn’t go back to the common room; he
climbed a staircase, thinking vaguely of visiting the
Owlery to see Hedwig, and was walking along another
corridor when a voice from inside one of the rooms
said, “Harry?”
Harry doubled back to see who had spoken and met
Professor Lupin, looking around his office door.
“What are you doing?” said Lupin, though in a very
different voice from Filch. “Where are Ron and
Hermione?”
“Hogsmeade,” said Harry, in a would-be casual voice.
“Ah,” said Lupin. He considered Harry for a moment.
“Why don’t you come in? I’ve just taken delivery of a
grindylow for our next lesson.”
“A what?” said Harry.
He followed Lupin into his office. In the corner stood a
very large tank of water. A sickly green creature with
sharp little horns had its face pressed against the
glass, pulling faces and flexing its long, spindly
fingers.
“Water demon,” said Lupin, surveying the grindylow
thoughtfully. “We shouldn’t have much difficulty with
him, not after the kappas. The trick is to break his
grip. You notice the abnormally long fingers? Strong,
but very brittle.”
The grindylow bared its green teeth and then buried
itself in a tangle of weeds in a corner.
 
“Cup of tea?” Lupin said, looking around for his
kettle. “I was just thinking of making one.”
“All right,” said Harry awkwardly.
Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of
steam issued suddenly from the spout.
“Sit down,” said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin.
“I’ve only got teabags, I’m afraid — but I daresay
you’ve had enough of tea leaves?”
Harry looked at him. Lupin’s eyes were twinkling.
“How did you know about that?” Harry asked.
“Professor McGonagall told me,” said Lupin, passing
Harry a chipped mug of tea. “You’re not worried, are
you?”
“No,” said Harry.
He thought for a moment of telling Lupin about the
dog he’d seen in Magnolia Crescent but decided not
to. He didn’t want Lupin to think he was a coward,
especially since Lupin already seemed to think he
couldn’t cope with a boggart.
Something of Harry’s thoughts seemed to have shown
on his face, because Lupin said, “Anything worrying
you, Harry?”
“No,” Harry lied. He drank a bit of tea and watched
the grindylow brandishing a fist at him. “Yes,” he said
suddenly, putting his tea down on Lupin’s desk. “You
know that day we fought the boggart?
“Yes,” said Lupin slowly.
 
“Why didn’t you let me fight it?” said Harry abruptly.
Lupin raised his eyebrows.
“I would have thought that was obvious, Harry,” he
said, sounding surprised.
Harry, who had expected Lupin to deny that he’d
done any such thing, was taken aback.
“Why?” he said again.
“Well,” said Lupin, frowning slightly, “I assumed that
if the boggart faced you, it would assume the shape of
Lord Voldemort.”
Harry stared. Not only was this the last answer he’d
expected, but Lupin had said Voldemort ’s name. The
only person Harry had ever heard say the name aloud
(apart from himself) was Professor Dumbledore.
“Clearly, I was wrong,” said Lupin, still frowning at
Harry. “But I didn’t think it a good idea for Lord
Voldemort to materialize in the staffroom. I imagined
that people would panic.”
“I didn’t think of Voldemort,” said Harry honestly. “I
— I remembered those dementors.”
“I see,” said Lupin thoughtfully. “Well, well ... I’m
impressed.” He smiled slightly at the look of surprise
on Harry’s face. “That suggests that what you fear
most of all is — fear. Very wise, Harry.”
Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he drank
some more tea.
“So you’ve been thinking that I didn’t believe you
capable of fighting the boggart?” said Lupin shrewdly.
 
“Well ... yeah,” said Harry. He was suddenly feeling a
lot happier. “Professor Lupin, you know the
dementors — ”
He was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in,” called Lupin.
The door opened, and in came Snape. He was
carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly, and
stopped at the sight of Harry, his black eyes
narrowing.
“Ah, Severus,” said Lupin, smiling. “Thanks very
much. Could you leave it here on the desk for me?”
Snape set down the smoking goblet, his eyes
wandering between Harry and Lupin.
“I was just showing Harry my grindylow,” said Lupin
pleasantly, pointing at the tank.
“Fascinating,” said Snape, without looking at it. “You
should drink that directly, Lupin.”
“Yes, yes, I will,” said Lupin.
“I made an entire cauldronful,” Snape continued. “If
you need more.”
“I should probably take some again tomorrow. Thanks
very much, Severus.”
“Not at all,” said Snape, but there was a look in his
eye Harry didn’t like. He backed out of the room,
unsmiling and watchful.
Harry looked curiously at the goblet. Lupin smiled.
 
“Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion
for me,” he said. “I have never been much of a potion-
brewer and this one is particularly complex.” He
picked up the goblet and sniffed it. “Pity sugar makes
it useless,” he added, taking a sip and shuddering.
“Why — ?” Harry began. Lupin looked at him and
answered the unfinished question.
“I’ve been feeling a bit off-color,” he said. “This potion
is the only thing that helps. I am very lucky to be
working alongside Professor Snape; there aren’t many
wizards who are up to making it.”
Professor Lupin took another sip and Harry had a
crazy urge to knock the goblet out of his hands.
“Professor Snape’s very interested in the Dark Arts,”
he blurted out.
“Really?” said Lupin, looking only mildly interested as
he took another gulp of potion.
“Some people reckon — ” Harry hesitated, then
plunged recklessly on, “some people reckon he’d do
anything to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts
job.”
Lupin drained the goblet and pulled a face.
“Disgusting,” he said. “Well, Harry, I’d better get back
to work. I’ll see you at the feast later.”
“Right,” said Harry, putting down his empty teacup.
The empty goblet was still smoking.
“There you go,” said Ron. “We got as much as we
could carry.”
 
A shower of brilliantly colored sweets fell into Harry’s
lap. It was dusk, and Ron and Hermione had just
turned up in the common room, pink-faced from the
cold wind and looking as though they’d had the time
of their lives.
“Thanks,” said Harry, picking up a packet of tiny
black Pepper Imps. “What’s Hogsmeade like? Where
did you go?”
By the sound of it — everywhere. Dervish and
Banges, the wizarding equipment shop, Zonko’s Joke
Shop, into the Three Broomsticks for foaming mugs of
hot butterbeer, and many places besides.
“The post office, Harry! About two hundred owls, all
sitting on shelves, all color-coded depending on how
fast you want your letter to get there!”
“Honeydukes has got a new kind of fudge; they were
giving out free samples, there’s a bit, look — ”
“We think we saw an ogre, honestly, they get all sorts
at the Three Broomsticks — ”
“Wish we could have brought you some butterbeer,
really warms you up — ”
“What did you do?” said Hermione, looking anxious.
“Did you get any work done?”
“No,” said Harry. “Lupin made me a cup of tea in his
office. And then Snape came in. ...”
He told them all about the goblet. Ron’s mouth fell
open.
“ Lupin drank it?” he gasped. “Is he mad?”
 
Hermione checked her watch.
“We’d better go down, you know, the feast’ll be
starting in five minutes. ...” They hurried through the
portrait hole and into the crowd, still discussing
Snape.
“But if he — you know” — Hermione dropped her
voice, glancing nervously around — “if he was trying
to — to poison Lupin — he wouldn’t have done it in
front of Harry.”
“Yeah, maybe,” said Harry as they reached the
entrance hall and crossed into the Great Hall. It had
been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of
candle-filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats,
and many flaming orange streamers, which were
swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant
watersnakes.
The food was delicious; even Hermione and Ron, who
were full to bursting with Honeydukes sweets,
managed second helpings of everything. Harry kept
glancing at the staff table. Professor Lupin looked
cheerful and as well as he ever did; he was talking
animatedly to tiny little Professor Flitwick, the
Charms teacher. Harry moved his eyes along the
table, to the place where Snape sat. Was he imagining
it, or were Snape ’s eyes flickering toward Lupin more
often than was natural?
The feast finished with an entertainment provided by
the Hogwarts ghosts. They popped out of the walls
and tables to do a bit of formation gliding; Nearly
Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had a great
success with a reenactment of his own botched
beheading.
 
It had been such a pleasant evening that Harry’s good
mood couldn’t even be spoiled by Malfoy, who
shouted through the crowd as they all left the hall,
“The dementors send their love, Potter!”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed the rest of the
Gryffindors along the usual path to Gryffindor Tower,
but when they reached the corridor that ended with
the portrait of the Fat Lady, they found it jammed
with students.
“Why isn’t anyone going in?” said Ron curiously.
Harry peered over the heads in front of him. The
portrait seemed to be closed.
“Let me through, please,” came Percy’s voice, and he
came bustling importantly through the crowd.
“What’s the holdup here? You can’t all have forgotten
the password — excuse me, I’m Head Boy — ”
And then a silence fell over the crowd, from the front
first, so that a chill seemed to spread down the
corridor. They heard Percy say, in a suddenly sharp
voice, “Somebody get Professor Dumbledore. Quick.”
People’s heads turned; those at the back were
standing on tiptoe.
“What’s going on?” said Ginny, who had just arrived.
A moment later, Professor Dumbledore was there,
sweeping toward the portrait; the Gryffindors
squeezed together to let him through, and Harry, Ron,
and Hermione moved closer to see what the trouble
was.
“Oh, my — ” Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm.
 
The Fat Lady had vanished from her portrait, which
had been slashed so viciously that strips of canvas
littered the floor; great chunks of it had been torn
away completely.
Dumbledore took one quick look at the ruined
painting and turned, his eyes somber, to see
Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape hurrying
toward him.
“We need to find her,” said Dumbledore. “Professor
McGonagall, please go to Mr. Filch at once and tell
him to search every painting in the castle for the Fat
Lady.”
“You’ll be lucky!” said a cackling voice.
It was Peeves the Poltergeist, bobbing over the crowd
and looking delighted, as he always did, at the sight
of wreckage or worry.
“What do you mean, Peeves?” said Dumbledore
calmly, and Peeves’s grin faded a little. He didn’t dare
taunt Dumbledore. Instead he adopted an oily voice
that was no better than his cackle.
“Ashamed, Your Headship, sir. Doesn’t want to be
seen. She’s a horrible mess. Saw her running through
the landscape up on the fourth floor, sir, dodging
between the trees. Crying something dreadful,” he
said happily. “Poor thing,” he added unconvincingly.
“Did she say who did it?” said Dumbledore quietly.
“Oh yes, Professorhead,” said Peeves, with the air of
one cradling a large bombshell in his arms. “He got
very angry when she wouldn’t let him in, you see.”
Peeves flipped over and grinned at Dumbledore from
 
between his own legs. “Nasty temper he’s got, that
Sirius Black.”
 
9
GRIM DEFEAT
Professor Dumbledore sent all the Gryffindors back to
the Great Hall, where they were joined ten minutes
later by the students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and
Slytherin, who all looked extremely confused.
“The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough
search of the castle,” Professor Dumbledore told them
as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all
doors into the hall. “I’m afraid that, for your own
safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want
the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the
hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in
charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me
immediately,” he added to Percy, who was looking
immensely proud and important. “Send word with one
of the ghosts.”
Professor Dumbledore paused, about to leave the hall,
and said, “Oh, yes, you’ll be needing ...”
One casual wave of his wand and the long tables flew
to the edges of the hall and stood themselves against
 
the walls; another wave, and the floor was covered
with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags.
“Sleep well,” said Professor Dumbledore, closing the
door behind him.
The hall immediately began to buzz excitedly; the
Gryffindors were telling the rest of the school what
had just happened.
“Everyone into their sleeping bags!” shouted Percy.
“Come on, now, no more talking! Lights out in ten
minutes!”
“C’mon,” Ron said to Harry and Hermione; they seized
three sleeping bags and dragged them into a corner.
“Do you think Black’s still in the castle?” Hermione
whispered anxiously.
“Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be,” said Ron.
“It’s very lucky he picked tonight, you know,” said
Hermione as they climbed fully dressed into their
sleeping bags and propped themselves on their elbows
to talk. “The one night we weren’t in the tower. ...”
“I reckon he’s lost track of time, being on the run,”
said Ron. “Didn’t realize it was Halloween. Otherwise
he’d have come bursting in here.”
Hermione shuddered.
All around them, people were asking one another the
same question: “How did he get in?”
“Maybe he knows how to Apparate,” said a Ravenclaw
a few feet away. “Just appear out of thin air, you
know.”
 
“Disguised himself, probably,” said a Hufflepuff fifth
year.
“He could’ve flown in,” suggested Dean Thomas.
“Honestly, am I the only person who’s ever bothered
to read Hogwarts, A History?” said Hermione crossly
to Harry and Ron.
“Probably,” said Ron. “Why?”
“Because the castle’s protected by more than walls,
you know,” said Hermione. “There are all sorts of
enchantments on it, to stop people entering by
stealth. You can’t just Apparate in here. And I’d like
to see the disguise that could fool those dementors.
They’re guarding every single entrance to the
grounds. They’d have seen him fly in too. And Filch
knows all the secret passages, they’ll have them
covered. ...”
“The lights are going out now!” Percy shouted. “I want
everyone in their sleeping bags and no more talking!”
The candles all went out at once. The only light now
came from the silvery ghosts, who were drifting about
talking seriously to the prefects, and the enchanted
ceiling, which, like the sky outside, was scattered
with stars. What with that, and the whispering that
still filled the hall, Harry felt as though he were
sleeping outdoors in a light wind.
Once every hour, a teacher would reappear in the hall
to check that everything was quiet. Around three in
the morning, when many students had finally fallen
asleep, Professor Dumbledore came in. Harry watched
him looking around for Percy, who had been prowling
between the sleeping bags, telling people off for
talking. Percy was only a short way away from Harry,
 
Ron, and Hermione, who quickly pretended to be
asleep as Dumbledore’s footsteps drew nearer.
“Any sign of him, Professor?” asked Percy in a
whisper.
“No. All well here?”
“Everything under control, sir.”
“Good. There’s no point moving them all now. I’ve
found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor
portrait hole. You’ll be able to move them back in
tomorrow.”
“And the Fat Lady, sir?”
“Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor.
Apparently she refused to let Black in without the
password, so he attacked. She’s still very distressed,
but once she’s calmed down, I’ll have Mr. Filch
restore her.”
Harry heard the door of the hall creak open again,
and more footsteps.
“Headmaster?” It was Snape. Harry kept quite still,
listening hard. “The whole of the third floor has been
searched. He’s not there. And Filch has done the
dungeons; nothing there either.”
“What about the Astronomy tower? Professor
Trelawney’s room? The Owlery?”
“All searched ...”
“Very well, Severus. I didn’t really expect Black to
linger.”
 
“Have you any theory as to how he got in, Professor?”
asked Snape.
Harry raised his head very slightly off his arms to free
his other ear.
“Many, Severus, each of them as unlikely as the
next.”
Harry opened his eyes a fraction and squinted up to
where they stood; Dumbledore ’s back was to him, but
he could see Percy’s face, rapt with attention, and
Snape ’s profile, which looked angry.
“You remember the conversation we had,
Headmaster, just before — ah — the start of term?”
said Snape, who was barely opening his lips, as
though trying to block Percy out of the conversation.
“I do, Severus,” said Dumbledore, and there was
something like warning in his voice.
“It seems — almost impossible — that Black could
have entered the school without inside help. I did
express my concerns when you appointed — ”
“I do not believe a single person inside this castle
would have helped Black enter it,” said Dumbledore,
and his tone made it so clear that the subject was
closed that Snape didn’t reply. “I must go down to the
dementors,” said Dumbledore. “I said I would inform
them when our search was complete.”
“Didn’t they want to help, sir?” said Percy.
“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore coldly. “But I’m afraid no
dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I
am headmaster.”
 
Percy looked slightly abashed. Dumbledore left the
hall, walking quickly and quietly. Snape stood for a
moment, watching the headmaster with an expression
of deep resentment on his face; then he too left.
Harry glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione. Both of
them had their eyes open too, reflecting the starry
ceiling.
“What was all that about?” Ron mouthed.
The school talked of nothing but Sirius Black for the
next few days. The theories about how he had entered
the castle became wilder and wilder; Hannah Abbott,
from Hufflepuff, spent much of their next Herbology
class telling anyone who’d listen that Black could
turn into a flowering shrub.
The Fat Lady’s ripped canvas had been taken off the
wall and replaced with the portrait of Sir Cadogan
and his fat gray pony. Nobody was very happy about
this. Sir Cadogan spent half his time challenging
people to duels, and the rest thinking up ridiculously
complicated passwords, which he changed at least
twice a day.
“He’s a complete lunatic,” said Seamus Finnigan
angrily to Percy. “Can’t we get anyone else?”
“None of the other pictures wanted the job,” said
Percy. “Frightened of what happened to the Fat Lady.
Sir Cadogan was the only one brave enough to
volunteer.”
Sir Cadogan, however, was the least of Harry’s
worries. He was now being closely watched. Teachers
found excuses to walk along corridors with him, and
Percy Weasley (acting, Harry suspected, on his
mother’s orders) was tailing him everywhere like an
 
extremely pompous guard dog. To cap it all, Professor
McGonagall summoned Harry into her office, with
such a somber expression on her face Harry thought
someone must have died.
“There’s no point hiding it from you any longer,
Potter,” she said in a very serious voice. “I know this
will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black — ”
“I know he’s after me,” said Harry wearily. “I heard
Ron’s dad telling his mum. Mr. Weasley works for the
Ministry of Magic.”
Professor McGonagall seemed very taken aback. She
stared at Harry for a moment or two, then said, “I see!
Well, in that case, Potter, you’ll understand why I
don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be practicing
Quidditch in the evenings. Out on the field with only
your team members, it’s very exposed, Potter — ”
“We’ve got our first match on Saturday!” said Harry,
outraged. “I’ve got to train, Professor!”
Professor McGonagall considered him intently. Harry
knew she was deeply interested in the Gryffindor
team’s prospects; it had been she, after all, who’d
suggested him as Seeker in the first place. He waited,
holding his breath.
“Hmm ...” Professor McGonagall stood up and stared
out of the window at the Quidditch field, just visible
through the rain. “Well ... goodness knows, I’d like to
see us win the Cup at last ... but all the same, Potter
... I’d be happier if a teacher were present. I’ll ask
Madam Hooch to oversee your training sessions.”
The weather worsened steadily as the first Quidditch
match drew nearer. Undaunted, the Gryffindor team
was training harder than ever under the eye of
 
Madam Hooch. Then, at their final training session
before Saturday’s match, Oliver Wood gave his team
some unwelcome news.
“We’re not playing Slytherin!” he told them, looking
very angry. “Flint’s just been to see me. We’re playing
Hufflepuff instead.”
“Why?” chorused the rest of the team.
“Flint’s excuse is that their Seeker’s arm’s still
injured,” said Wood, grinding his teeth furiously. “But
it’s obvious why they’re doing it. Don’t want to play in
this weather. Think it’ll damage their chances. ...”
There had been strong winds and heavy rain all day,
and as Wood spoke, they heard a distant rumble of
thunder.
“There’s nothing wrong with Malfoy’s arm!” said Harry
furiously. “He’s faking it!”
“I know that, but we can’t prove it,” said Wood
bitterly. “And we’ve been practicing all those moves
assuming we’re playing Slytherin, and instead it’s
Hufflepuff, and their style’s quite different. They’ve got
a new Captain and Seeker, Cedric Diggory — ”
Angelina, Alicia, and Katie suddenly giggled.
“What?” said Wood, frowning at this lighthearted
behavior.
“He’s that tall, good-looking one, isn’t he?” said
Angelina.
“Strong and silent,” said Katie, and they started to
giggle again.
 
“He’s only silent because he’s too thick to string two
words together,” said Fred impatiently. “I don’t know
why you’re worried, Oliver, Hufflepuff is a pushover.
Last time we played them, Harry caught the Snitch in
about five minutes, remember?”
“We were playing in completely different conditions!”
Wood shouted, his eyes bulging slightly. “Diggory’s
put a very strong side together! He’s an excellent
Seeker! I was afraid you’d take it like this! We mustn’t
relax! We must keep our focus! Slytherin is trying to
wrong-foot us! We must win!”
“Oliver, calm down!” said Fred, looking slightly
alarmed. “We’re taking Hufflepuff very seriously.
Seriously.”
The day before the match, the winds reached howling
point and the rain fell harder than ever. It was so
dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra
torches and lanterns were lit. The Slytherin team was
looking very smug indeed, and none more so than
Malfoy.
“Ah, if only my arm was feeling a bit better!” he sighed
as the gale outside pounded the windows.
Harry had no room in his head to worry about
anything except the match tomorrow. Oliver Wood
kept hurrying up to him between classes and giving
him tips. The third time this happened, Wood talked
for so long that Harry suddenly realized he was ten
minutes late for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and
set off at a run with Wood shouting after him,
“Diggory’s got a very fast swerve, Harry, so you might
want to try looping him — ”
 
Harry skidded to a halt outside the Defense Against
the Dark Arts classroom, pulled the door open, and
dashed inside.
“Sorry I’m late, Professor Lupin, I — ”
But it wasn’t Professor Lupin who looked up at him
from the teacher’s desk; it was Snape.
“This lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter, so I think
we’ll make it ten points from Gryffindor. Sit down.”
But Harry didn’t move.
“Where’s Professor Lupin?” he said.
“He says he is feeling too ill to teach today,” said
Snape with a twisted smile. “I believe I told you to sit
down?”
But Harry stayed where he was.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Snape ’s black eyes glittered.
“Nothing life-threatening,” he said, looking as though
he wished it were. “Five more points from Gryffindor,
and if I have to ask you to sit down again, it will be
fifty.”
Harry walked slowly to his seat and sat down. Snape
looked around at the class.
“As I was saying before Potter interrupted, Professor
Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have
covered so far — ”
 
“Please, sir, we’ve done boggarts, Red Caps, kappas,
and grindylows,” said Hermione quickly, “and we’re
just about to start — ”
“Be quiet,” said Snape coldly. “I did not ask for
information. I was merely commenting on Professor
Lupin’s lack of organization.”
“He’s the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher
we’ve ever had,” said Dean Thomas boldly, and there
was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the
class. Snape looked more menacing than ever.
“You are easily satisfied. Lupin is hardly overtaxing
you — I would expect first years to be able to deal
with Red Caps and grindylows. Today we shall
discuss — ”
Harry watched him flick through the textbook, to the
very back chapter, which he must know they hadn’t
covered.
“ — werewolves,” said Snape.
“But, sir,” said Hermione, seemingly unable to
restrain herself, “we’re not supposed to do werewolves
yet, we’re due to start hinkypunks — ”
“Miss Granger,” said Snape in a voice of deadly calm,
“I was under the impression that I am teaching this
lesson, not you. And I am telling you all to turn to
page 394.” He glanced around again. “All of you!
Now\”
With many bitter sidelong looks and some sullen
muttering, the class opened their books.
“Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between
the werewolf and the true wolf?” said Snape.
 
Everyone sat in motionless silence; everyone except
Hermione, whose hand, as it so often did, had shot
straight into the air.
“Anyone?” Snape said, ignoring Hermione. His twisted
smile was back. “Are you telling me that Professor
Lupin hasn’t even taught you the basic distinction
between — ”
“We told you,” said Parvati suddenly, “we haven’t got
as far as werewolves yet, we’re still on — ”
“Silencel” snarled Snape. “Well, well, well, I never
thought I’d meet a third -year class who wouldn’t even
recognize a werewolf when they saw one. I shall make
a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very
behind you all are. ...”
“Please, sir,” said Hermione, whose hand was still in
the air, “the werewolf differs from the true wolf in
several small ways. The snout of the werewolf — ”
“That is the second time you have spoken out of turn,
Miss Granger,” said Snape coolly. “Five more points
from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all.”
Hermione went very red, put down her hand, and
stared at the floor with her eyes full of tears. It was a
mark of how much the class loathed Snape that they
were all glaring at him, because every one of them
had called Hermione a know-it-all at least once, and
Ron, who told Hermione she was a know-it-all at least
twice a week, said loudly, “You asked us a question
and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don’t want
to be told?”
The class knew instantly he’d gone too far. Snape
advanced on Ron slowly, and the room held its
breath.
 
“Detention, Weasley,” Snape said silkily, his face very
close to Ron’s. “And if I ever hear you criticize the way
I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed.”
No one made a sound throughout the rest of the
lesson. They sat and made notes on werewolves from
the textbook, while Snape prowled up and down the
rows of desks, examining the work they had been
doing with Professor Lupin.
“Very poorly explained . . . That is incorrect, the kappa
is more commonly found in Mongolia. . . . Professor
Lupin gave this eight out of ten? I wouldn’t have given
it three. ...”
When the bell rang at last, Snape held them back.
“You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me,
on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves. I want
two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want
them by Monday morning. It is time somebody took
this class in hand. Weasley, stay behind, we need to
arrange your detention.”
Harry and Hermione left the room with the rest of the
class, who waited until they were well out of earshot,
then burst into a furious tirade about Snape.
“Snape ’s never been like this with any of our other
Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, even if he did
want the job,” Harry said to Hermione. “Why’s he got
it in for Lupin? D’you think this is all because of the
boggart?”
“I don’t know,” said Hermione pensively. “But I really
hope Professor Lupin gets better soon. ...”
Ron caught up with them five minutes later, in a
towering rage.
 
“D’you know what that — ” (he called Snape
something that made Hermione say “Ron\”) “ — is
making me do? I’ve got to scrub out the bedpans in
the hospital wing. Without magid” He was breathing
deeply, his fists clenched. “Why couldn’t Black have
hidden in Snape’s office, eh? He could have finished
him off for us!”
Harry woke extremely early the next morning; so early
that it was still dark. For a moment he thought the
roaring of the wind had woken him. Then he felt a
cold breeze on the back of his neck and sat bolt
upright — Peeves the Poltergeist had been floating
next to him, blowing hard in his ear.
“What did you do that for?” said Harry furiously.
Peeves puffed out his cheeks, blew hard, and zoomed
backward out of the room, cackling.
Harry fumbled for his alarm clock and looked at it. It
was half past four. Cursing Peeves, he rolled over and
tried to get back to sleep, but it was very difficult, now
that he was awake, to ignore the sounds of the
thunder rumbling overhead, the pounding of the wind
against the castle walls, and the distant creaking of
the trees in the Forbidden Forest. In a few hours he
would be out on the Quidditch field, battling through
that gale. Finally, he gave up any thought of more
sleep, got up, dressed, picked up his Nimbus Two
Thousand, and walked quietly out of the dormitory.
As Harry opened the door, something brushed against
his leg. He bent down just in time to grab
Crookshanks by the end of his bushy tail and drag
him outside.
“You know, I reckon Ron was right about you,” Harry
told Crookshanks suspiciously. “There are plenty of
 
mice around this place — go and chase them. Go on,”
he added, nudging Crookshanks down the spiral
staircase with his foot. “Leave Scabbers alone.”
The noise of the storm was even louder in the
common room. Harry knew better than to think the
match would be canceled; Quidditch matches weren’t
called off for trifles like thunderstorms. Nevertheless,
he was starting to feel very apprehensive. Wood had
pointed out Cedric Diggory to him in the corridor;
Diggory was a fifth year and a lot bigger than Harry.
Seekers were usually light and speedy, but Diggory’s
weight would be an advantage in this weather
because he was less likely to be blown off course.
Harry whiled away the hours until dawn in front of
the fire, getting up every now and then to stop
Crookshanks from sneaking up the boys’ staircase
again. At long last Harry thought it must be time for
breakfast, so he headed through the portrait hole
alone.
“Stand and fight, you mangy cur!” yelled Sir Cadogan.
“Oh, shut up,” Harry yawned.
He revived a bit over a large bowl of porridge, and by
the time he’d started on toast, the rest of the team
had turned up.
“It’s going to be a tough one,” said Wood, who wasn’t
eating anything.
“Stop worrying, Oliver,” said Alicia soothingly, “we
don’t mind a bit of rain.”
But it was considerably more than a bit of rain. Such
was the popularity of Quidditch that the whole school
turned out to watch the match as usual, but they ran
 
down the lawns toward the Quidditch field, heads
bowed against the ferocious wind, umbrellas being
whipped out of their hands as they went. Just before
he entered the locker room, Harry saw Malfoy,
Crabbe, and Goyle, laughing and pointing at him from
under an enormous umbrella on their way to the
stadium.
The team changed into their scarlet robes and waited
for Wood’s usual pre-match pep talk, but it didn’t
come. He tried to speak several times, made an odd
gulping noise, then shook his head hopelessly and
beckoned them to follow him.
The wind was so strong that they staggered sideways
as they walked out onto the field. If the crowd was
cheering, they couldn’t hear it over the fresh rolls of
thunder. Rain was splattering over Harry’s glasses.
How on earth was he going to see the Snitch in this?
The Hufflepuffs were approaching from the opposite
side of the field, wearing canary -yellow robes. The
Captains walked up to each other and shook hands;
Diggory smiled at Wood but Wood now looked as
though he had lockjaw and merely nodded. Harry saw
Madam Hooch’s mouth form the words, “Mount your
brooms.” He pulled his right foot out of the mud with
a squelch and swung it over his Nimbus Two
Thousand. Madam Hooch put her whistle to her lips
and gave it a blast that sounded shrill and distant —
they were off.
Harry rose fast, but his Nimbus was swerving slightly
with the wind. He held it as steady as he could and
turned, squinting into the rain.
Within five minutes Harry was soaked to his skin and
frozen, hardly able to see his teammates, let alone the
tiny Snitch. He flew backward and forward across the
 
field past blurred red and yellow shapes, with no idea
of what was happening in the rest of the game. He
couldn’t hear the commentary over the wind. The
crowd was hidden beneath a sea of cloaks and
battered umbrellas. Twice Harry came very close to
being unseated by a Bludger; his vision was so
clouded by the rain on his glasses he hadn’t seen
them coming.
He lost track of time. It was getting harder and harder
to hold his broom straight. The sky was getting
darker, as though night had decided to come early.
Twice Harry nearly hit another player, without
knowing whether it was a teammate or opponent;
everyone was now so wet, and the rain so thick, he
could hardly tell them apart. ...
With the first flash of lightning came the sound of
Madam Hooch’s whistle; Harry could just see the
outline of Wood through the thick rain, gesturing him
to the ground. The whole team splashed down into
the mud.
“I called for time-out!” Wood roared at his team.
“Come on, under here — ”
They huddled at the edge of the field under a large
umbrella; Harry took off his glasses and wiped them
hurriedly on his robes.
“What’s the score?”
“We’re fifty points up,” said Wood, “but unless we get
the Snitch soon, we’ll be playing into the night.”
“I’ve got no chance with these on,” Harry said
exasperatedly, waving his glasses.
 
At that very moment, Hermione appeared at his
shoulder; she was holding her cloak over her head
and was, inexplicably, beaming.
“I’ve had an idea, Harry! Give me your glasses, quick!”
He handed them to her, and as the team watched in
amazement, Hermione tapped them with her wand
and said, “Imperviusl”
“There!” she said, handing them back to Harry.
“They’ll repel water!”
Wood looked as though he could have kissed her.
“Brilliant!” he called hoarsely after her as she
disappeared into the crowd. “Okay, team, let’s go for
it!”
Hermione ’s spell had done the trick. Harry was still
numb with cold, still wetter than he’d ever been in his
life, but he could see. Full of fresh determination, he
urged his broom through the turbulent air, staring in
every direction for the Snitch, avoiding a Bludger,
ducking beneath Diggory, who was streaking in the
opposite direction. ...
There was another clap of thunder, followed
immediately by forked lightning. This was getting
more and more dangerous. Harry needed to get the
Snitch quickly —
He turned, intending to head back toward the middle
of the field, but at that moment, another flash of
lightning illuminated the stands, and Harry saw
something that distracted him completely — the
silhouette of an enormous shaggy black dog, clearly
imprinted against the sky, motionless in the topmost,
empty row of seats.
 
Harry’s numb hands slipped on the broom handle
and his Nimbus dropped a few feet. Shaking his
sodden bangs out of his eyes, he squinted back into
the stands. The dog had vanished.
“Harry!” came Wood’s anguished yell from the
Gryffindor goal posts. “Harry, behind you!”
Harry looked wildly around. Cedric Diggory was
pelting up the field, and a tiny speck of gold was
shimmering in the rain-filled air between them —
With a jolt of panic, Harry threw himself flat to the
broom-handle and zoomed toward the Snitch.
“Come on!” he growled at his Nimbus as the rain
whipped his face. “Fasteri”
But something odd was happening. An eerie silence
was falling across the stadium. The wind, though as
strong as ever, was forgetting to roar. It was as
though someone had turned off the sound, as though
Harry had gone suddenly deaf — what was going on?
And then a horribly familiar wave of cold swept over
him, inside him, just as he became aware of
something moving on the field below. . . .
Before he’d had time to think, Harry had taken his
eyes off the Snitch and looked down.
At least a hundred dementors, their hidden faces
pointing up at him, were standing beneath him. It
was as though freezing water were rising in his chest,
cutting at his insides. And then he heard it again. ...
Someone was screaming, screaming inside his head
... a woman . . .
“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry\”
 
“ Stand aside, you silly girl ... stand aside, now. ...”
“ Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead — ”
Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Harry’s
brain. . . . What was he doing? Why was he flying? He
needed to help her. ... She was going to die. ... She
was going to be murdered. ...
He was falling, falling through the icy mist.
“Not Harry\ Please ... have mercy ... have mercy. ...”
A shrill voice was laughing, the woman was
screaming, and Harry knew no more.
“Lucky the ground was so soft.”
“I thought he was dead for sure.”
“But he didn’t even break his glasses.”
Harry could hear the voices whispering, but they
made no sense whatsoever. He didn’t have a clue
where he was, or how he’d got there, or what he’d
been doing before he got there. All he knew was that
every inch of him was aching as though it had been
beaten.
“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Scariest . . . the scariest thing . . . hooded black figures
... cold ... screaming ...
Harry’s eyes snapped open. He was lying in the
hospital wing. The Gryffindor Quidditch team,
spattered with mud from head to foot, was gathered
around his bed. Ron and Hermione were also there,
 
looking as though they’d just climbed out of a
swimming pool.
“Harry!” said Fred, who looked extremely white
underneath the mud. “How’re you feeling?”
It was as though Harry’s memory was on fast forward.
The lightning — the Grim — the Snitch — and the
dementors ...
“What happened?” he said, sitting up so suddenly
they all gasped.
“You fell off,” said Fred. “Must’ve been — what — fifty
feet?”
“We thought you’d died,” said Alicia, who was
shaking.
Hermione made a small, squeaky noise. Her eyes were
extremely bloodshot.
“But the match,” said Harry. “What happened? Are we
doing a replay?”
No one said anything. The horrible truth sank into
Harry like a stone.
“We didn’t — lose?”
“Diggory got the Snitch,” said George. “Just after you
fell. He didn’t realize what had happened. When he
looked back and saw you on the ground, he tried to
call it off. Wanted a rematch. But they won fair and
square ... even Wood admits it.”
“Where is Wood?” said Harry, suddenly realizing he
wasn’t there.
 
“Still in the showers,” said Fred. “We think he’s trying
to drown himself.”
Harry put his face to his knees, his hands gripping
his hair. Fred grabbed his shoulder and shook it
roughly.
“C’mon, Harry, you’ve never missed the Snitch
before.”
“There had to be one time you didn’t get it,” said
George.
“It’s not over yet,” said Fred. “We lost by a hundred
points, right? So if Hufflepuff loses to Ravenclaw and
we beat Ravenclaw and Slytherin ...”
“Hufflepuff’ll have to lose by at least two hundred
points,” said George.
“But if they beat Ravenclaw ...”
“No way, Ravenclaw is too good. But if Slytherin loses
against Hufflepuff ...”
“It all depends on the points — a margin of a hundred
either way — ”
Harry lay there, not saying a word. They had lost ...
for the first time ever, he had lost a Quidditch match.
After ten minutes or so, Madam Pomfrey came over to
tell the team to leave him in peace.
“Well come and see you later,” Fred told him. “Don’t
beat yourself up, Harry, you’re still the best Seeker
we’ve ever had.”
 
The team trooped out, trailing mud behind them.
Madam Pomfrey shut the door behind them, looking
disapproving. Ron and Hermione moved nearer to
Harry’s bed.
“Dumbledore was really angry,” Hermione said in a
quaking voice. “I’ve never seen him like that before.
He ran onto the field as you fell, waved his wand, and
you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground.
Then he whirled his wand at the dementors. Shot
silver stuff at them. They left the stadium right away.
... He was furious they’d come onto the grounds. We
heard him — ”
“Then he magicked you onto a stretcher,” said Ron.
“And walked up to school with you floating on it.
Everyone thought you were ...”
His voice faded, but Harry hardly noticed. He was
thinking about what the dementors had done to him
... about the screaming voice. He looked up and saw
Ron and Hermione looking at him so anxiously that
he quickly cast around for something matter-of-fact to
say.
“Did someone get my Nimbus?”
Ron and Hermione looked quickly at each other.
“Er — ”
“What?” said Harry, looking from one to the other.
“Well ... when you fell off, it got blown away,” said
Hermione hesitantly.
“And?”
 
“And it hit — it hit — oh, Harry — it hit the
Whomping Willow.”
Harry’s insides lurched. The Whomping Willow was a
very violent tree that stood alone in the middle of the
grounds.
“And?” he said, dreading the answer.
“Well, you know the Whomping Willow,” said Ron. “It
— it doesn’t like being hit.”
“Professor Flitwick brought it back just before you
came around,” said Hermione in a very small voice.
Slowly, she reached down for a bag at her feet, turned
it upside down, and tipped a dozen bits of splintered
wood and twig onto the bed, the only remains of
Harry’s faithful, finally beaten broomstick.
 
10
THE MARAUDER’S MAP
Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping Harry in the
hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. He didn’t
argue or complain, but he wouldn’t let her throw
away the shattered remnants of his Nimbus Two
Thousand. He knew he was being stupid, knew that
the Nimbus was beyond repair, but Harry couldn’t
help it; he felt as though he’d lost one of his best
friends.
He had a stream of visitors, all intent on cheering him
up. Hagrid sent him a bunch of earwiggy flowers that
looked like yellow cabbages, and Ginny Weasley,
blushing furiously, turned up with a get-well card she
had made herself, which sang shrilly unless Harry
kept it shut under his bowl of fruit. The Gryffindor
team visited again on Sunday morning, this time
accompanied by Wood, who told Harry (in a hollow,
dead sort of voice) that he didn’t blame him in the
slightest. Ron and Hermione left Harry’s bedside only
at night. But nothing anyone said or did could make
Harry feel any better, because they knew only half of
what was troubling him.
 
He hadn’t told anyone about the Grim, not even Ron
and Hermione, because he knew Ron would panic
and Hermione would scoff. The fact remained,
however, that it had now appeared twice, and both
appearances had been followed by near-fatal
accidents; the first time, he had nearly been run over
by the Knight Bus; the second, fallen fifty feet from
his broomstick. Was the Grim going to haunt him
until he actually died? Was he going to spend the rest
of his life looking over his shoulder for the beast?
And then there were the dementors. Harry felt sick
and humiliated every time he thought of them.
Everyone said the dementors were horrible, but no
one else collapsed every time they went near one. No
one else heard echoes in their head of their dying
parents.
Because Harry knew who that screaming voice
belonged to now. He had heard her words, heard
them over and over again during the night hours in
the hospital wing while he lay awake, staring at the
strips of moonlight on the ceiling. When the
dementors approached him, he heard the last
moments of his mother’s life, her attempts to protect
him, Harry, from Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort’s
laughter before he murdered her. . . . Harry dozed
fitfully, sinking into dreams full of clammy, rotted
hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell
again on his mother’s voice.
It was a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the
main school on Monday, where he was forced to think
about other things, even if he had to endure Draco
Malfoy’s taunting. Malfoy was almost beside himself
with glee at Gryffindor’s defeat. He had finally taken
off his bandages, and celebrated having the full use of
both arms again by doing spirited imitations of Harry
falling off his broom. Malfoy spent much of their next
 
Potions class doing dementor imitations across the
dungeon; Ron finally cracked and flung a large,
slippery crocodile heart at Malfoy, which hit him in
the face and caused Snape to take fifty points from
Gryffindor.
“If Snape’s teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts
again, I’m skiving off,” said Ron as they headed
toward Lupin’s classroom after lunch. “Check who’s
in there, Hermione.”
Hermione peered around the classroom door.
“It’s okay!”
Professor Lupin was back at work. It certainly looked
as though he had been ill. His old robes were hanging
more loosely on him and there were dark shadows
beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiled at the class
as they took their seats, and they burst at once into
an explosion of complaints about Snape’s behavior
while Lupin had been ill.
“It’s not fair, he was only filling in, why should he give
us homework?”
“We don’t know anything about werewolves — ”
“ — two rolls of parchment!”
“Did you tell Professor Snape we haven’t covered them
yet?” Lupin asked, frowning slightly.
The babble broke out again.
“Yes, but he said we were really behind — ”
“ — he wouldn’t listen — ”
 
“ — two rolls of parchmenti”
Professor Lupin smiled at the look of indignation on
every face.
“Don’t worry. I’ll speak to Professor Snape. You don’t
have to do the essay.”
“Oh no,” said Hermione, looking very disappointed.
“I’ve already finished it!”
They had a very enjoyable lesson. Professor Lupin
had brought along a glass box containing a
hinkypunk, a little one-legged creature who looked as
though he were made of wisps of smoke, rather frail
and harmless-looking.
“Lures travelers into bogs,” said Professor Lupin as
they took notes. “You notice the lantern dangling from
his hand? Hops ahead — people follow the light —
then — ’ ”
The hinkypunk made a horrible squelching noise
against the glass.
When the bell rang, everyone gathered up their things
and headed for the door, Harry among them, but —
“Wait a moment, Harry,” Lupin called. “I’d like a
word.”
Harry doubled back and watched Professor Lupin
covering the hinkypunk’s box with a cloth.
“I heard about the match,” said Lupin, turning back
to his desk and starting to pile books into his
briefcase, “and I’m sorry about your broomstick. Is
there any chance of fixing it?”
 
“No,” said Harry. “The tree smashed it to bits.”
Lupin sighed.
“They planted the Whomping Willow the same year
that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a
game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In
the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an
eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No
broomstick would have a chance.
“Did you hear about the dementors too?” said Harry
with difficulty.
Lupin looked at him quickly.
“Yes, I did. I don’t think any of us have seen Professor
Dumbledore that angry. They have been growing
restless for some time ... furious at his refusal to let
them inside the grounds. ... I suppose they were the
reason you fell?”
“Yes,” said Harry. He hesitated, and then the question
he had to ask burst from him before he could stop
himself. “ Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I
just — ?”
“It has nothing to do with weakness,” said Professor
Lupin sharply, as though he had read Harry’s mind.
“The dementors affect you worse than the others
because there are horrors in your past that the others
don’t have.”
A ray of wintery sunlight fell across the classroom,
illuminating Lupin’s gray hairs and the lines on his
young face.
“Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk
this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places,
 
they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace,
hope, and happiness out of the air around them.
Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can’t
see them. Get too near a dementor and every good
feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of
you. If it can, the dementor will feed on you long
enough to reduce you to something like itself . . . soul-
less and evil. You’ll be left with nothing but the worst
experiences of your life. And the worst that happened
to you, Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their
broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”
“When they get near me — ” Harry stared at Lupin’s
desk, his throat tight. “I can hear Voldemort
murdering my mum.”
Lupin made a sudden motion with his arm as though
to grip Harry’s shoulder, but thought better of it.
There was a moment’s silence, then —
“Why did they have to come to the match?” said Harry
bitterly.
“They’re getting hungry,” said Lupin coolly, shutting
his briefcase with a snap. “Dumbledore won’t let them
into the school, so their supply of human prey has
dried up. ... I don’t think they could resist the large
crowd around the Quidditch field. All that excitement
. . . emotions running high ... it was their idea of a
feast.”
“Azkaban must be terrible,” Harry muttered. Lupin
nodded grimly.
“The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea,
but they don’t need walls and water to keep the
prisoners in, not when they’re all trapped inside their
own heads, incapable of a single cheerful thought.
Most of them go mad within weeks.”
 
“But Sirius Black escaped from them,” Harry said
slowly. “He got away. ...”
Lupin’s briefcase slipped from the desk; he had to
stoop quickly to catch it.
“Yes,” he said, straightening up, “Black must have
found a way to fight them. I wouldn’t have believed it
possible. ... Dementors are supposed to drain a
wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long.
“You made that dementor on the train back off,” said
Harry suddenly.
“There are — certain defenses one can use,” said
Lupin. “But there was only one dementor on the train.
The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to
resist.”
“What defenses?” said Harry at once. “Can you teach
me?”
“I don’t pretend to be an expert at fighting dementors,
Harry ... quite the contrary. ...”
“But if the dementors come to another Quidditch
match, I need to be able to fight them — ”
Lupin looked into Harry’s determined face, hesitated,
then said, “Well ... all right. I’ll try and help. But it’ll
have to wait until next term, I’m afraid. I have a lot to
do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient
time to fall ill.”
What with the promise of anti-dementor lessons from
Lupin, the thought that he might never have to hear
his mother’s death again, and the fact that Ravenclaw
flattened Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the
 
end of November, Harry’s mood took a definite
upturn. Gryffindor were not out of the running after
all, although they could not afford to lose another
match. Wood became repossessed of his manic
energy, and worked his team as hard as ever in the
chilly haze of rain that persisted into December.
Harry saw no hint of a dementor within the grounds.
Dumbledore’s anger seemed to be keeping them at
their stations at the entrances.
Two weeks before the end of the term, the sky
lightened suddenly to a dazzling, opaline white and
the muddy grounds were revealed one morning
covered in glittering frost. Inside the castle, there was
a buzz of Christmas in the air. Professor Flitwick, the
Charms teacher, had already decorated his classroom
with shimmering lights that turned out to be real,
fluttering fairies. The students were all happily
discussing their plans for the holidays. Both Ron and
Hermione had decided to remain at Hogwarts, and
though Ron said it was because he couldn’t stand two
weeks with Percy, and Hermione insisted she needed
to use the library, Harry wasn’t fooled; they were
doing it to keep him company, and he was very
grateful.
To everyone’s delight except Harry’s, there was to be
another Hogsmeade trip on the very last weekend of
the term.
“We can do all our Christmas shopping there!” said
Hermione. “Mum and Dad would really love those
Toothflossing Stringmints from Honeydukes!”
Resigned to the fact that he would be the only third
year staying behind again, Harry borrowed a copy of
Which Broomstick from Wood, and decided to spend
the day reading up on the different makes. He had
been riding one of the school brooms at team
 
practice, an ancient Shooting Star, which was very
slow and jerky; he definitely needed a new broom of
his own.
On the Saturday morning of the Hogsmeade trip,
Harry bid good-bye to Ron and Hermione, who were
wrapped in cloaks and scarves, then turned up the
marble staircase alone, and headed back toward
Gryffindor Tower. Snow had started to fall outside the
windows, and the castle was very still and quiet.
“Psst — Harry!”
He turned, halfway along the third-floor corridor, to
see Fred and George peering out at him from behind a
statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch.
“What are you doing?” said Harry curiously. “How
come you’re not going to Hogsmeade?”
“We’ve come to give you a bit of festive cheer before
we go,” said Fred, with a mysterious wink. “Come in
here. ...”
He nodded toward an empty classroom to the left of
the one-eyed statue. Harry followed Fred and George
inside. George closed the door quietly and then
turned, beaming, to look at Harry.
“Early Christmas present for you, Harry,” he said.
Fred pulled something from inside his cloak with a
flourish and laid it on one of the desks. It was a large,
square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing
written on it. Harry, suspecting one of Fred and
George’s jokes, stared at it.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
 
“This, Harry, is the secret of our success,” said
George, patting the parchment fondly.
“It’s a wrench, giving it to you,” said Fred, “but we
decided last night, your need’s greater than ours.”
“Anyway, we know it by heart,” said George. “We
bequeath it to you. We don’t really need it anymore.”
“And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?”
said Harry.
“A bit of old parchment!” said Fred, closing his eyes
with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended
him. “Explain, George.”
“Well ... when we were in our first year, Harry —
young, carefree, and innocent — ”
Harry snorted. He doubted whether Fred and George
had ever been innocent.
“ — well, more innocent than we are now — we got
into a spot of bother with Filch.”
“We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset
him for some reason — ”
“So he hauled us off to his office and started
threatening us with the usual — ”
“ — detention — ”
“ — disembowelment — ”
“ — and we couldn’t help noticing a drawer in one of
his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly
Dangerous.”
 
“Don’t tell me — ” said Harry, starting to grin.
“Well, what would you’ve done?” said Fred. “George
caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I
whipped the drawer open, and grabbed — this.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know,” said George.
“We don’t reckon Filch ever found out how to work it.
He probably suspected what it was, though, or he
wouldn’t have confiscated it.”
“And you know how to work it?”
“Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This little beauty’s
taught us more than all the teachers in this school.”
“You’re winding me up,” said Harry, looking at the
ragged old bit of parchment.
“Oh, are we?” said George.
He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly,
and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a
spider’s web from the point that George’s wand had
touched. They joined each other, they crisscrossed,
they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then
words began to blossom across the top, great, curly
green words, that proclaimed:
Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers
are proud to present
THE MARAUDER’S MAP
 
It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts
castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing
were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled
with a name in minuscule writing. Astounded, Harry
bent over it. A labeled dot in the top left corner
showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his
study; the caretaker’s cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling
the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was
currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as
Harry’s eyes traveled up and down the familiar
corridors, he noticed something else.
This map showed a set of passages he had never
entered. And many of them seemed to lead —
“Right into Hogsmeade,” said Fred, tracing one of
them with his finger. “There are seven in all. Now,
Filch knows about these four” — he pointed them out
— “but we’re sure we’re the only ones who know
about these. Don’t bother with the one behind the
mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last
winter, but it’s caved in — completely blocked. And
we don’t reckon anyone’s ever used this one, because
the Whomping Willow’s planted right over the
entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into
the cellar of Honeydukes. We’ve used it loads of times.
And as you might’ve noticed, the entrance is right
outside this room, through that one-eyed old crone’s
hump.”
“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” sighed
George, patting the heading of the map. “We owe
them so much.”
“Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new
generation of law-breakers,” said Fred solemnly.
“Right,” said George briskly. “Don’t forget to wipe it
after you’ve used it — ”
 
“ — or anyone can read it,” Fred said warningly.
“Just tap it again and say, ‘Mischief managed!’ And
it’ll go blank.”
“So, young Harry,” said Fred, in an uncanny
impersonation of Percy, “mind you behave yourself.”
“See you in Honeydukes,” said George, winking.
They left the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of
way.
Harry stood there, gazing at the miraculous map. He
watched the tiny ink Mrs. Norris turn left and pause
to sniff at something on the floor. If Filch really didn’t
know ... he wouldn’t have to pass the dementors at
all. ...
But even as he stood there, flooded with excitement,
something Harry had once heard Mr. Weasley say
came floating out of his memory.
Never trust anything that can think for itself, if you
can’t see where it keeps its brain.
This map was one of those dangerous magical objects
Mr. Weasley had been warning against. ... Aids for
Magical Mischief-Makers . . . but then, Harry reasoned,
he only wanted to use it to get into Hogsmeade, it
wasn’t as though he wanted to steal anything or
attack anyone ... and Fred and George had been
using it for years without anything horrible
happening. ...
Harry traced the secret passage to Honeydukes with
his finger.
 
Then, quite suddenly, as though following orders, he
rolled up the map, stuffed it inside his robes, and
hurried to the door of the classroom. He opened it a
couple of inches. There was no one outside. Very
carefully, he edged out of the room and behind the
statue of the one-eyed witch.
What did he have to do? He pulled out the map again
and saw, to his astonishment, that a new ink figure
had appeared upon it, labeled Harry Potter. This
figure was standing exactly where the real Harry was
standing, about halfway down the third-floor corridor.
Harry watched carefully. His little ink self appeared to
be tapping the witch with his minute wand. Harry
quickly took out his real wand and tapped the statue.
Nothing happened. He looked back at the map. The
tiniest speech bubble had appeared next to his figure.
The word inside said, “ Dissendium.”
“ Dissendiurrd” Harry whispered, tapping the stone
witch again.
At once, the statue’s hump opened wide enough to
admit a fairly thin person. Harry glanced quickly up
and down the corridor, then tucked the map away
again, hoisted himself into the hole headfirst, and
pushed himself forward.
He slid a considerable way down what felt like a stone
slide, then landed on cold, damp earth. He stood up,
looking around. It was pitch dark. He held up his
wand, muttered, “Lumos\” and saw that he was in a
very narrow, low, earthy passageway. He raised the
map, tapped it with the tip of his wand, and
muttered, “Mischief managed!” The map went blank
at once. He folded it carefully, tucked it inside his
robes, then, heart beating fast, both excited and
apprehensive, he set off.
 
The passage twisted and turned, more like the burrow
of a giant rabbit than anything else. Harry hurried
along it, stumbling now and then on the uneven floor,
holding his wand out in front of him.
It took ages, but Harry had the thought of
Honeydukes to sustain him. After what felt like an
hour, the passage began to rise. Panting, Harry sped
up, his face hot, his feet very cold.
Ten minutes later, he came to the foot of some worn
stone steps, which rose out of sight above him.
Careful not to make any noise, Harry began to climb.
A hundred steps, two hundred steps, he lost count as
he climbed, watching his feet. ... Then, without
warning, his head hit something hard.
It seemed to be a trapdoor. Harry stood there,
massaging the top of his head, listening. He couldn’t
hear any sounds above him. Very slowly, he pushed
the trapdoor open and peered over the edge.
He was in a cellar, which was full of wooden crates
and boxes. Harry climbed out of the trapdoor and
replaced it — it blended so perfectly with the dusty
floor that it was impossible to tell it was there. Harry
crept slowly toward the wooden staircase that led
upstairs. Now he could definitely hear voices, not to
mention the tinkle of a bell and the opening and
shutting of a door.
Wondering what he ought to do, he suddenly heard a
door open much closer at hand; somebody was about
to come downstairs.
“And get another box of Jelly Slugs, dear, they’ve
nearly cleaned us out — ” said a woman’s voice.
 
A pair of feet was coming down the staircase. Harry
leapt behind an enormous crate and waited for the
footsteps to pass. He heard the man shifting boxes
against the opposite wall. He might not get another
chance —
Quickly and silently, Harry dodged out from his
hiding place and climbed the stairs; looking back, he
saw an enormous backside and shiny bald head,
buried in a box. Harry reached the door at the top of
the stairs, slipped through it, and found himself
behind the counter of Honeydukes — he ducked,
crept sideways, and then straightened up.
Honeydukes was so crowded with Hogwarts students
that no one looked twice at Harry. He edged among
them, looking around, and suppressed a laugh as he
imagined the look that would spread over Dudley’s
piggy face if he could see where Harry was now.
There were shelves upon shelves of the most
succulent-looking sweets imaginable. Creamy chunks
of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice,
fat, honey-colored toffees; hundreds of different kinds
of chocolate in neat rows; there was a large barrel of
Every Flavor Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizbees,
the levitating sherbert balls that Ron had mentioned;
along yet another wall were “Special Effects” sweets:
Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with
bluebell-colored bubbles that refused to pop for days),
the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny
black Pepper Imps (“breathe fire for your friends!”),
Ice Mice (“hear your teeth chatter and squeak!”),
peppermint creams shaped like toads (“hop
realistically in the stomach!”), fragile sugar-spun
quills, and exploding bonbons.
Harry squeezed himself through a crowd of sixth
years and saw a sign hanging in the farthest corner of
 
the shop (UNUSUAL TASTES). Ron and Hermione
were standing underneath it, examining a tray of
blood-flavored lollipops. Harry sneaked up behind
them.
“Ugh, no, Harry won’t want one of those, they’re for
vampires, I expect,” Hermione was saying.
“How about these?” said Ron, shoving ajar of
Cockroach Clusters under Hermione ’s nose.
“Definitely not,” said Harry.
Ron nearly dropped the jar.
“Harry\” squealed Hermione. “What are you doing
here? How — how did you — ?”
“Wow!” said Ron, looking very impressed, “you’ve
learned to Apparate!”
“ ’Course I haven’t,” said Harry. He dropped his voice
so that none of the sixth years could hear him and
told them all about the Marauder’s Map.
“How come Fred and George never gave it to me!” said
Ron, outraged. “I’m their brother!”
“But Harry isn’t going to keep it!” said Hermione, as
though the idea were ludicrous. “He’s going to hand it
in to Professor McGonagall, aren’t you, Harry?”
“No, I’m not!” said Harry.
“Are you mad?” said Ron, goggling at Hermione.
“Hand in something that good?”
“If I hand it in, I’ll have to say where I got it! Filch
would know Fred and George had nicked it!”
 
“But what about Sirius Black?” Hermione hissed. “He
could be using one of the passages on that map to get
into the castle! The teachers have got to know!”
“He can’t be getting in through a passage,” said Harry
quickly. “There are seven secret tunnels on the map,
right? Fred and George reckon Filch already knows
about four of them. And of the other three — one of
them’s caved in, so no one can get through it. One of
them’s got the Whomping Willow planted over the
entrance, so you can’t get out of it. And the one I just
came through — well — it’s really hard to see the
entrance to it down in the cellar, so unless he knew it
was there ...”
Harry hesitated. What if Black did know the passage
was there? Ron, however, cleared his throat
significantly, and pointed to a notice pasted on the
inside of the sweetshop door.
— BY ORDER OF —
THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Customers are reminded that until further notice,
dementors will be patrolling the streets of Hogsmeade
every night after sundown. This measure has been put
in place for the safety of Hogsmeade residents and will
be lifted upon the recapture of Sirius Black. It is
therefore advisable that you complete your shopping
well before nightfall.
Merry Christmas!
“See?” said Ron quietly. “I’d like to see Black try and
break into Honeydukes with dementors swarming all
 
over the village. Anyway, Hermione, the Honeydukes
owners would hear a break-in, wouldn’t they? They
live over the shop!”
“Yes, but — but — ” Hermoine seemed to be struggling
to find another problem. “Look, Harry still shouldn’t
be coming into Hogsmeade. He hasn’t got a signed
form! If anyone finds out, he’ll be in so much trouble!
And it’s not nightfall yet — what if Sirius Black turns
up today? Now?”
“He’d have a job spotting Harry in this,” said Ron,
nodding through the mullioned windows at the thick,
swirling snow. “Come on, Hermione, it’s Christmas.
Harry deserves a break.”
Hermione bit her lip, looking extremely worried.
“Are you going to report me?” Harry asked her,
grinning.
“Oh — of course not — but honestly, Harry — ”
“Seen the Fizzing Whizbees, Harry?” said Ron,
grabbing him and leading him over to their barrel.
“And the Jelly Slugs? And the Acid Pops? Fred gave
me one of those when I was seven — it burnt a hole
right through my tongue. I remember Mum walloping
him with her broomstick.” Ron stared broodingly into
the Acid Pop box. “Reckon Fred’d take a bit of
Cockroach Cluster if I told him they were peanuts?”
When Ron and Hermione had paid for all their sweets,
the three of them left Honeydukes for the blizzard
outside.
Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card; the little
thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a
layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreaths on the
 
doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in
the trees.
Harry shivered; unlike the other two, he didn’t have
his cloak. They headed up the street, heads bowed
against the wind, Ron and Hermione shouting
through their scarves.
“That’s the post office — ”
“Zonko’s is up there — ”
“We could go up to the Shrieking Shack — ”
“Tell you what,” said Ron, his teeth chattering, “shall
we go for a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?”
Harry was more than willing; the wind was fierce and
his hands were freezing, so they crossed the road,
and in a few minutes were entering the tiny inn.
It was extremely crowded, noisy, warm, and smoky. A
curvy sort of woman with a pretty face was serving a
bunch of rowdy warlocks up at the bar.
“That’s Madam Rosmerta,” said Ron. “I’ll get the
drinks, shall I?” he added, going slightly red.
Harry and Hermione made their way to the back of
the room, where there was a small, vacant table
between the window and a handsome Christmas tree,
which stood next to the fireplace. Ron came back five
minutes later, carrying three foaming tankards of hot
butterbeer.
“Merry Christmas!” he said happily, raising his
tankard.
 
Harry drank deeply. It was the most delicious thing
he’d ever tasted and seemed to heat every bit of him
from the inside.
A sudden breeze ruffled his hair. The door of the
Three Broomsticks had opened again. Harry looked
over the rim of his tankard and choked.
Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had just entered
the pub with a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed
by Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with a portly
man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped
cloak — Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.
In an instant, Ron and Hermione had both placed
hands on the top of Harry’s head and forced him off
his stool and under the table. Dripping with
butterbeer and crouching out of sight, Harry clutched
his empty tankard and watched the teachers’ and
Fudge’s feet move toward the bar, pause, then turn
and walk right toward him.
Somewhere above him, Hermione whispered,
“Mobiliarbus\”
The Christmas tree beside their table rose a few
inches off the ground, drifted sideways, and landed
with a soft thump right in front of their table, hiding
them from view. Staring through the dense lower
branches, Harry saw four sets of chair legs move back
from the table right beside theirs, then heard the
grunts and sighs of the teachers and minister as they
sat down.
Next he saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly
turquoise high heels, and heard a woman’s voice.
“A small gillywater — ”
 
“Mine,” said Professor McGonagall’s voice.
“Four pints of mulled mead — ”
“Ta, Rosmerta,” said Hagrid.
“A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella — ”
“Mmm!” said Professor Flitwick, smacking his lips.
“So you 11 be the red currant rum, Minister.”
“Thank you, Rosmerta, m’dear,” said Fudge’s voice.
“Lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one
yourself, won’t you? Come and join us. ...”
“Well, thank you very much, Minister.”
Harry watched the glittering heels march away and
back again. His heart was pounding uncomfortably in
his throat. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that this
was the last weekend of term for the teachers too?
And how long were they going to sit there? He needed
time to sneak back into Honeydukes if he wanted to
return to school tonight. ... Hermione’s leg gave a
nervous twitch next to him.
“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods,
Minister?” came Madam Rosmerta’s voice.
Harry saw the lower part of Fudge’s thick body twist
in his chair as though he were checking for
eavesdroppers. Then he said in a quiet voice, “What
else, m’dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard
what happened up at the school at Halloween?”
“I did hear a rumor,” admitted Madam Rosmerta.
 
“Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?” said Professor
McGonagall exasperatedly.
“Do you think Black’s still in the area, Minister?”
whispered Madam Rosmerta.
“I’m sure of it,” said Fudge shortly.
“You know that the dementors have searched the
whole village twice?” said Madam Rosmerta, a slight
edge to her voice. “Scared all my customers away. ...
It’s very bad for business, Minister.”
“Rosmerta, m’dear, I don’t like them any more than
you do,” said Fudge uncomfortably. “Necessary
precaution ... unfortunate, but there you are. ... I’ve
just met some of them. They’re in a fury against
Dumbledore — he won’t let them inside the castle
grounds.”
“I should think not,” said Professor McGonagall
sharply. “How are we supposed to teach with those
horrors floating around?”
“Hear, hear!” squeaked tiny Professor Flitwick, whose
feet were dangling a foot from the ground.
“All the same,” demurred Fudge, “they are here to
protect you all from something much worse. ... We all
know what Black’s capable of. ...”
“Do you know, I still have trouble believing it,” said
Madam Rosmerta thoughtfully. “Of all the people to
go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I’d
have thought ... I mean, I remember him when he was
a boy at Hogwarts. If you’d told me then what he was
going to become, I’d have said you’d had too much
mead.”
 
“You don’t know the half of it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge
gruffly. “The worst he did isn’t widely known.”
“The worst?” said Madam Rosmerta, her voice alive
with curiosity. “Worse than murdering all those poor
people, you mean?”
“I certainly do,” said Fudge.
“I can’t believe that. What could possibly be worse?”
“You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta,”
murmured Professor McGonagall. “Do you remember
who his best friend was?”
“Naturally,” said Madam Rosmerta, with a small
laugh. “Never saw one without the other, did you? The
number of times I had them in here — ooh, they used
to make me laugh. Quite the double act, Sirius Black
and James Potter!”
Harry dropped his tankard with a loud clunk. Ron
kicked him.
“Precisely,” said Professor McGonagall. “Black and
Potter. Ringleaders of their little gang. Both very
bright, of course — exceptionally bright, in fact — but
I don’t think we’ve ever had such a pair of
troublemakers — ”
“I dunno,” chuckled Hagrid. “Fred and George
Weasley could give ’em a run fer their money.”
“You’d have thought Black and Potter were brothers!”
chimed in Professor Flitwick. “Inseparable!”
“Of course they were,” said Fudge. “Potter trusted
Black beyond all his other friends. Nothing changed
when they left school. Black was best man when
 
James married Lily. Then they named him godfather
to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can
imagine how the idea would torment him.”
“Because Black turned out to be in league with You-
Know-Who?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.
“Worse even than that, m’dear. ...” Fudge dropped his
voice and proceeded in a sort of low rumble. “Not
many people are aware that the Potters knew You-
Know-Who was after them. Dumbledore, who was of
course working tirelessly against You-Know-Who, had
a number of useful spies. One of them tipped him off,
and he alerted James and Lily at once. He advised
them to go into hiding. Well, of course, You-Know-
Who wasn’t an easy person to hide from. Dumbledore
told them that their best chance was the Fidelius
Charm.”
“How does that work?” said Madam Rosmerta,
breathless with interest. Professor Flitwick cleared his
throat.
“An immensely complex spell,” he said squeakily,
“involving the magical concealment of a secret inside
a single, living soul. The information is hidden inside
the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, and is
henceforth impossible to find — unless, of course, the
Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it. As long as the
Secret-Keeper refused to speak, You-Know-Who could
search the village where Lily and James were staying
for years and never find them, not even if he had his
nose pressed against their sitting room window!”
“So Black was the Potters’ Secret-Keeper?” whispered
Madam Rosmerta.
“Naturally,” said Professor McGonagall. “James Potter
told Dumbledore that Black would die rather than tell
 
where they were, that Black was planning to go into
hiding himself . . . and yet, Dumbledore remained
worried. I remember him offering to be the Potters’
Secret-Keeper himself.”
“He suspected Black?” gasped Madam Rosmerta.
“He was sure that somebody close to the Potters had
been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their
movements,” said Professor McGonagall darkly.
“Indeed, he had suspected for some time that
someone on our side had turned traitor and was
passing a lot of information to You-Know-Who.”
“But James Potter insisted on using Black?”
“He did,” said Fudge heavily. “And then, barely a week
after the Fidelius Charm had been performed — ”
“Black betrayed them?” breathed Madam Rosmerta.
“He did indeed. Black was tired of his double-agent
role, he was ready to declare his support openly for
You-Know-Who, and he seems to have planned this
for the moment of the Potters’ death. But, as we all
know, You-Know-Who met his downfall in little Harry
Potter. Powers gone, horribly weakened, he fled. And
this left Black in a very nasty position indeed. His
master had fallen at the very moment when he, Black,
had shown his true colors as a traitor. He had no
choice but to run for it — ”
“Filthy, stinkin’ turncoat!” Hagrid said, so loudly that
half the bar went quiet.
“Shh!” said Professor McGonagall.
“I met him!” growled Hagrid. “I musta bin the last ter
see him before he killed all them people! It was me
 
what rescued Harry from Lily an’ James’s house after
they was killed! Jus’ got him outta the ruins, poor
little thing, with a great slash across his forehead, an’
his parents dead ... an’ Sirius Black turns up, on that
flyin’ motorbike he used ter ride. Never occurred ter
me what he was doin’ there. I didn’ know he’d bin Lily
an’ James’s Secret-Keeper. Thought he’d jus’ heard
the news o’ You- Know- Who’s attack an’ come ter see
what he could do. White an’ shakin’, he was. An’ yeh
know what I did? I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN’
TRAITOR!” Hagrid roared.
“Hagrid, please!” said Professor McGonagall. “Keep
your voice down!”
“How was I ter know he wasn’ upset abou’ Lily an’
James? It was You-Know-Who he cared abou’! An’
then he says, ‘Give Harry ter me, Hagrid, I’m his
godfather, I’ll look after him — ’ Ha! But I’d had me
orders from Dumbledore, an’ I told Black no,
Dumbledore said Harry was ter go ter his aunt an’
uncle’s. Black argued, but in the end he gave in. Told
me ter take his motorbike ter get Harry there. ‘I won’t
need it anymore,’ he says.
“I shoulda known there was somethin’ fishy goin’ on
then. He loved that motorbike, what was he givin’ it
ter me for? Why wouldn’ he need it anymore? Fact
was, it was too easy ter trace. Dumbledore knew he’d
bin the Potters’ Secret-Keeper. Black knew he was
goin’ ter have ter run fer it that night, knew it was a
matter o’ hours before the Ministry was after him.
“But what if I’d given Harry to him, eh? I bet he ’d’ve
pitched him off the bike halfway out ter sea. His bes’
friends’ son! But when a wizard goes over ter the Dark
Side, there’s nothin’ and no one that matters to ’em
anymore. ...”
 
A long silence followed Hagrid ’s story. Then Madam
Rosmerta said with some satisfaction, “But he didn’t
manage to disappear, did he? The Ministry of Magic
caught up with him next day!”
“Alas, if only we had,” said Fudge bitterly. “It was not
we who found him. It was little Peter Pettigrew —
another of the Potters’ friends. Maddened by grief, no
doubt, and knowing that Black had been the Potters’
Secret-Keeper, he went after Black himself.”
“Pettigrew . . . that fat little boy who was always
tagging around after them at Hogwarts?” said Madam
Rosmerta.
“Hero-worshipped Black and Potter,” said Professor
McGonagall. “Never quite in their league, talent-wise.
I was often rather sharp with him. You can imagine
how I — how I regret that now. ...” She sounded as
though she had a sudden head cold.
“There, now, Minerva,” said Fudge kindly, “Pettigrew
died a hero’s death. Eyewitnesses — Muggles, of
course, we wiped their memories later — told us how
Pettigrew cornered Black. They say he was sobbing,
“Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?’ And then he
went for his wand. Well, of course, Black was quicker.
Blew Pettigrew to smithereens. ...”
Professor McGonagall blew her nose and said thickly,
“Stupid boy . . . foolish boy ... he was always hopeless
at dueling ... should have left it to the Ministry. ...”
“I tell yeh, if I’d got ter Black before little Pettigrew
did, I wouldn’t’ve messed around with wands — I’d’ve
ripped him limb — from — limb,” Hagrid growled.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hagrid,”
said Fudge sharply. “Nobody but trained Hit Wizards
 
from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad would have
stood a chance against Black once he was cornered. I
was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical
Catastrophes at the time, and I was one of the first on
the scene after Black murdered all those people. I — I
will never forget it. I still dream about it sometimes. A
crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had
cracked the sewer below. Bodies everywhere. Muggles
screaming. And Black standing there laughing, with
what was left of Pettigrew in front of him ... a heap of
bloodstained robes and a few — a few fragments — ”
Fudge’s voice stopped abruptly. There was the sound
of five noses being blown.
“Well, there you have it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge
thickly. “Black was taken away by twenty members of
the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and Pettigrew
received the Order of Merlin, First Class, which I
think was some comfort to his poor mother. Black’s
been in Azkaban ever since.”
Madam Rosmerta let out a long sigh.
“Is it true he’s mad, Minister?”
“I wish I could say that he was,” said Fudge slowly. “I
certainly believe his master’s defeat unhinged him for
a while. The murder of Pettigrew and all those
Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate
man — cruel ... pointless. Yet I met Black on my last
inspection of Azkaban. You know, most of the
prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the
dark; there’s no sense in them ... but I was shocked
at how normal Black seemed. He spoke quite
rationally to me. It was unnerving. You’d have
thought he was merely bored — asked if I’d finished
with my newspaper, cool as you please, said he
missed doing the crossword. Yes, I was astounded at
 
how little effect the dementors seemed to be having on
him — and he was one of the most heavily guarded in
the place, you know. Dementors outside his door day
and night.”
“But what do you think he’s broken out to do?” said
Madam Rosmerta. “Good gracious, Minister, he isn’t
trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?”
“I daresay that is his — er — eventual plan,” said
Fudge evasively. “But we hope to catch Black long
before that. I must say, You-Know-Who alone and
friendless is one thing . . . but give him back his most
devoted servant, and I shudder to think how quickly
he’ll rise again. ...”
There was a small chink of glass on wood. Someone
had set down their glass.
“You know, Cornelius, if you’re dining with the
headmaster, we’d better head back up to the castle,”
said Professor McGonagall.
One by one, the pairs of feet in front of Harry took the
weight of their owners once more; hems of cloaks
swung into sight, and Madam Rosemerta’s glittering
heels disappeared behind the bar. The door of the
Three Broomsticks opened again, there was another
flurry of snow, and the teachers had disappeared.
“Harry?”
Ron’s and Hermione’s faces appeared under the table.
They were both staring at him, lost for words.
 
THE FIREBOLT
Harry didn’t have a very clear idea of how he had
managed to get back into the Honeydukes cellar,
through the tunnel, and into the castle once more. All
he knew was that the return trip seemed to take no
time at all, and that he hardly noticed what he was
doing, because his head was still pounding with the
conversation he had just heard.
Why had nobody ever told him? Dumbledore, Hagrid,
Mr. Weasley, Cornelius Fudge ... why hadn’t anyone
ever mentioned the fact that Harry’s parents had died
because their best friend had betrayed them?
Ron and Hermione watched Harry nervously all
through dinner, not daring to talk about what they’d
overheard, because Percy was sitting close by them.
When they went upstairs to the crowded common
room, it was to find Fred and George had set off half a
dozen Dungbombs in a fit of end-of-term high spirits.
Harry, who didn’t want Fred and George asking him
whether he’d reached Hogsmeade or not, sneaked
quietly up to the empty dormitory and headed
 
straight for his bedside cabinet. He pushed his books
aside and quickly found what he was looking for —
the leather-bound photo album Hagrid had given him
two years ago, which was full of wizard pictures of his
mother and father. He sat down on his bed, drew the
hangings around him, and started turning the pages,
searching, until ...
He stopped on a picture of his parents’ wedding day.
There was his father waving up at him, beaming, the
untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in
all directions. There was his mother, alight with
happiness, arm in arm with his dad. And there ...
that must be him. Their best man ... Harry had never
given him a thought before.
If he hadn’t known it was the same person, he would
never have guessed it was Black in this old
photograph. His face wasn’t sunken and waxy, but
handsome, full of laughter. Had he already been
working for Voldemort when this picture had been
taken? Was he already planning the deaths of the two
people next to him? Did he realize he was facing
twelve years in Azkaban, twelve years that would
make him unrecognizable?
But the dementors don’t affect him, Harry thought,
staring into the handsome, laughing face. He doesn’t
have to hear my mum screaming if they get too close —
Harry slammed the album shut, reached over and
stuffed it back into his cabinet, took off his robe and
glasses and got into bed, making sure the hangings
were hiding him from view.
The dormitory door opened.
“Harry?” said Ron’s voice uncertainly.
 
But Harry lay still, pretending to be asleep. He heard
Ron leave again, and rolled over on his back, his eyes
wide open.
A hatred such as he had never known before was
coursing through Harry like poison. He could see
Black laughing at him through the darkness, as
though somebody had pasted the picture from the
album over his eyes. He watched, as though
somebody was playing him a piece of film, Sirius
Black blasting Peter Pettigrew (who resembled Neville
Longbottom) into a thousand pieces. He could hear
(though having no idea what Black’s voice might
sound like) a low, excited mutter. “It has happened,
My Lord . . . the Potters have made me their Secret-
Keeper. ...” And then came another voice, laughing
shrilly, the same laugh that Harry heard inside his
head whenever the dementors drew near. . . .
“Harry, you — you look terrible.”
Harry hadn’t gotten to sleep until daybreak. He had
awoken to find the dormitory deserted, dressed, and
gone down the spiral staircase to a common room
that was completely empty except for Ron, who was
eating a Peppermint Toad and massaging his
stomach, and Hermione, who had spread her
homework over three tables.
“Where is everyone?” said Harry.
“Gone! It’s the first day of the holidays, remember?”
said Ron, watching Harry closely. “It’s nearly
lunchtime; I was going to come and wake you up in a
minute.”
Harry slumped into a chair next to the fire. Snow was
still falling outside the windows. Crookshanks was
spread out in front of the fire like a large, ginger rug.
 
“You really don’t look well, you know,” Hermione said,
peering anxiously into his face.
“I’m fine,” said Harry.
“Harry, listen,” said Hermione, exchanging a look with
Ron, “you must be really upset about what we heard
yesterday. But the thing is, you mustn’t go doing
anything stupid.”
“Like what?” said Harry.
“Like trying to go after Black,” said Ron sharply.
Harry could tell they had rehearsed this conversation
while he had been asleep. He didn’t say anything.
“You won’t, will you, Harry?” said Hermione.
“Because Black’s not worth dying for,” said Ron.
Harry looked at them. They didn’t seem to
understand at all.
“D’you know what I see and hear every time a
dementor gets too near me?” Ron and Hermione
shook their heads, looking apprehensive. “I can hear
my mum screaming and pleading with Voldemort.
And if you’d heard your mum screaming like that,
just about to be killed, you wouldn’t forget it in a
hurry. And if you found out someone who was
supposed to be a friend of hers betrayed her and sent
Voldemort after her — ”
“There’s nothing you can do!” said Hermione, looking
stricken. “The dementors will catch Black and he’ll go
back to Azkaban and — and serve him right!”
 
“You heard what Fudge said. Black isn’t affected by
Azkaban like normal people are. It’s not a
punishment for him like it is for the others.”
“So what are you saying?” said Ron, looking very
tense. “You want to — to kill Black or something?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione in a panicky voice.
“Harry doesn’t want to kill anyone, do you, Harry?”
Again, Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t know what he
wanted to do. All he knew was that the idea of doing
nothing, while Black was at liberty, was almost more
than he could stand.
“Malfoy knows,” he said abruptly. “Remember what
he said to me in Potions? ‘If it was me, I’d hunt him
down myself. ... I’d want revenge.’ ”
“You’re going to take Malfoy ’s advice instead of ours?”
said Ron furiously. “Listen ... you know what
Pettigrew’s mother got back after Black had finished
with him? Dad told me — the Order of Merlin, First
Class, and Pettigrew’s finger in a box. That was the
biggest bit of him they could find. Black’s a madman,
Harry, and he’s dangerous — ”
“Malfoy’s dad must have told him,” said Harry,
ignoring Ron. “He was right in Voldemort’s inner
circle — ”
“ Say You-Knotu-Who, will you?” interjected Ron
angrily.
“ — so obviously, the Malfoys knew Black was working
for Voldemort — ”
“ — and Malfoy’d love to see you blown into about a
million pieces, like Pettigrew! Get a grip. Malfoy’s just
 
hoping you 11 get yourself killed before he has to play
you at Quidditch.”
“Harry, please,” said Hermione, her eyes now shining
with tears, “please be sensible. Black did a terrible,
terrible thing, but d-don’t put yourself in danger, it’s
what Black wants. ... Oh, Harry, you’d be playing
right into Black’s hands if you went looking for him.
Your mum and dad wouldn’t want you to get hurt,
would they? They’d never want you to go looking for
Black!”
“I’ll never know what they’d have wanted, because
thanks to Black, I’ve never spoken to them,” said
Harry shortly.
There was a silence in which Crookshanks stretched
luxuriously, flexing his claws. Ron’s pocket quivered.
“Look,” said Ron, obviously casting around for a
change of subject, “it’s the holidays! It’s nearly
Christmas! Let’s — let’s go down and see Hagrid. We
haven’t visited him for ages!”
“No!” said Hermione quickly. “Harry isn’t supposed to
leave the castle, Ron — ”
“Yeah, let’s go,” said Harry, sitting up, “and I can ask
him how come he never mentioned Black when he
told me all about my parents!”
Further discussion of Sirius Black plainly wasn’t
what Ron had had in mind.
“Or we could have a game of chess,” he said hastily,
“or Gobstones. Percy left a set — ”
“No, let’s visit Hagrid,” said Harry firmly.
 
So they got their cloaks from their dormitories and set
off through the portrait hole (“Stand and fight, you
yellow-bellied mongrels!”), down through the empty
castle and out through the oak front doors.
They made their way slowly down the lawn, making a
shallow trench in the glittering, powdery snow, their
socks and the hems of their cloaks soaked and
freezing. The Forbidden Forest looked as though it
had been enchanted, each tree smattered with silver,
and Hagrid’s cabin looked like an iced cake.
Ron knocked, but there was no answer.
“He’s not out, is he?” said Hermione, who was
shivering under her cloak.
Ron had his ear to the door.
“There’s a weird noise,” he said. “Listen — is that
Fang?”
Harry and Hermione put their ears to the door too.
From inside the cabin came a series of low, throbbing
moans.
“Think we’d better go and get someone?” said Ron
nervously.
“Hagrid!” called Harry, thumping the door. “Hagrid,
are you in there?”
There was a sound of heavy footsteps, then the door
creaked open. Hagrid stood there with his eyes red
and swollen, tears splashing down the front of his
leather vest.
“Yeh’ve heard?” he bellowed, and he flung himself
onto Harry’s neck.
 
Hagrid being at least twice the size of a normal man,
this was no laughing matter. Harry, about to collapse
under Hagrid’s weight, was rescued by Ron and
Hermione, who each seized Hagrid under an arm and
heaved him back into the cabin. Hagrid allowed
himself to be steered into a chair and slumped over
the table, sobbing uncontrollably, his face glazed with
tears that dripped down into his tangled beard.
“Hagrid, what is it?” said Hermione, aghast.
Harry spotted an official-looking letter lying open on
the table.
“What’s this, Hagrid?”
Hagrid’s sobs redoubled, but he shoved the letter
toward Harry, who picked it up and read aloud:
Dear Mr. Hagrid,
Further to our inquiry into the attack by a hippogriff on
a student in your class, we have accepted the
assurances of Professor Dumbledore that you bear no
responsibility for the regrettable incident.
“Well, that’s okay then, Hagrid!” said Ron, clapping
Hagrid on the shoulder. But Hagrid continued to sob,
and waved one of his gigantic hands, inviting Harry to
read on.
However, we must register our concern about the
hippogriff in question. We have decided to uphold the
official complaint of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and this matter
will therefore be taken to the Committee for the
Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. The hearing will take
place on April 20th, and we ask you to present
yourself and your hippogriff at the Committee’s offices
 
in London on that date. In the meantime, the hippogriff
should be kept tethered and isolated.
Yours in fellowship ...
There followed a list of the school governors.
“Oh,” said Ron. “But you said Buckbeak isn’t a bad
hippogriff, Hagrid. I bet he’ll get off — ”
“Yeh don’ know them gargoyles at the Committee fer
the Disposal o’ Dangerous Creatures!” choked Hagrid,
wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “They’ve got it in fer
interestin’ creatures!”
A sudden sound from the corner of Hagrid ’s cabin
made Harry, Ron, and Hermione whip around.
Buckbeak the hippogriff was lying in the corner,
chomping on something that was oozing blood all over
the floor.
“I couldn’ leave him tied up out there in the snow!”
choked Hagrid. “All on his own! At Christmas.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another.
They had never seen eye to eye with Hagrid about
what he called “interesting creatures” and other
people called “terrifying monsters.” On the other
hand, there didn’t seem to be any particular harm in
Buckbeak. In fact, by Hagrid’s usual standards, he
was positively cute.
“You’ll have to put up a good strong defense, Hagrid,”
said Hermione, sitting down and laying a hand on
Hagrid’s massive forearm. “I’m sure you can prove
Buckbeak is safe.”
 
“Won’t make no difference!” sobbed Hagrid. “Them
Disposal devils, they’re all in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket!
Scared o’ him! An’ if I lose the case, Buckbeak — ”
Hagrid drew his finger swiftly across his throat, then
gave a great wail and lurched forward, his face in his
arms.
“What about Dumbledore, Hagrid?” said Harry.
“He’s done more’n enough fer me already,” groaned
Hagrid. “Got enough on his plate what with keepin’
them dementors outta the castle, an’ Sirius Black
lurkin’ around — ”
Ron and Hermione looked quickly at Harry, as though
expecting him to start berating Hagrid for not telling
him the truth about Black. But Harry couldn’t bring
himself to do it, not now that he saw Hagrid so
miserable and scared.
“Listen, Hagrid,” he said, “you can’t give up.
Hermione’s right, you just need a good defense. You
can call us as witnesses — ”
“I’m sure I’ve read about a case of hippogriff-baiting,”
said Hermione thoughtfully, “where the hippogriff got
off. I’ll look it up for you, Hagrid, and see exactly what
happened.”
Hagrid howled still more loudly. Harry and Hermione
looked at Ron to help them.
“Er — shall I make a cup of tea?” said Ron.
Harry stared at him.
“It’s what my mum does whenever someone’s upset,”
Ron muttered, shrugging.
 
At last, after many more assurances of help, with a
steaming mug of tea in front of him, Hagrid blew his
nose on a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth and
said, “Yer right. I can’ afford to go ter pieces. Gotta
pull meself together. ...”
Fang the boarhound came timidly out from under the
table and laid his head on Hagrid ’s knee.
“I’ve not bin meself lately,” said Hagrid, stroking Fang
with one hand and mopping his face with the other.
“Worried abou’ Buckbeak, an’ no one likin’ me classes
“We do like them!” lied Hermione at once.
“Yeah, they’re great!” said Ron, crossing his fingers
under the table. “Er — how are the flobberworms?”
“Dead,” said Hagrid gloomily. “Too much lettuce.”
“Oh no!” said Ron, his lip twitching.
“An’ them dementors make me feel ruddy terrible an’
all,” said Hagrid, with a sudden shudder. “Gotta walk
past ’em ev’ry time I want a drink in the Three
Broomsticks. ’S like bein’ back in Azkaban — ”
He fell silent, gulping his tea. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione watched him breathlessly. They had never
heard Hagrid talk about his brief spell in Azkaban
before. After a pause, Hermione said timidly, “Is it
awful in there, Hagrid?”
“Yeh’ve no idea,” said Hagrid quietly. “Never bin
anywhere like it. Thought I was goin’ mad. Kep’ goin’
over horrible stuff in me mind . . . the day I got
expelled from Hogwarts . . . day me dad died . . . day I
had ter let Norbert go. ...”
 
His eyes filled with tears. Norbert was the baby
dragon Hagrid had once won in a game of cards.
“Yeh can’ really remember who yeh are after a while.
An’ yeh can’ see the point o’ livin’ at all. I used ter
hope I’d jus’ die in me sleep. ... When they let me out,
it was like bein’ born again, ev’rythin’ came floodin’
back, it was the bes’ feelin’ in the world. Mind, the
dementors weren’t keen on lettin’ me go.”
“But you were innocent!” said Hermione.
Hagrid snorted.
“Think that matters to them? They don’ care. Long as
they’ve got a couple o’ hundred humans stuck there
with ’em, so they can leech all the happiness out of
’em, they don’ give a damn who’s guilty an’ who’s
not.”
Hagrid went quiet for a moment, staring into his tea.
Then he said quietly, “Thought o’ jus’ letting
Buckbeak go ... tryin’ ter make him fly away ... but
how d’yeh explain ter a hippogriff it’s gotta go inter
hidin’? An’ — an’ I’m scared o’ breakin’ the law. ...” He
looked up at them, tears leaking down his face again.
“I don’ ever want ter go back ter Azkaban.”
The trip to Hagrid’s, though far from fun, had
nevertheless had the effect Ron and Hermione had
hoped. Though Harry had by no means forgotten
about Black, he couldn’t brood constantly on revenge
if he wanted to help Hagrid win his case against the
Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.
He, Ron, and Hermione went to the library the next
day and returned to the empty common room laden
with books that might help prepare a defense for
Buckbeak. The three of them sat in front of the
roaring fire, slowly turning the pages of dusty
 
volumes about famous cases of marauding beasts,
speaking occasionally when they ran across
something relevant.
“Here’s something ... there was a case in 1722 ... but
the hippogriff was convicted — ugh, look what they
did to it, that’s disgusting — ”
“This might help, look — a manticore savaged
someone in 1296, and they let the manticore off — oh
— no, that was only because everyone was too scared
to go near it. ...”
Meanwhile, in the rest of the castle, the usual
magnificent Christmas decorations had been put up,
despite the fact that hardly any of the students
remained to enjoy them. Thick streamers of holly and
mistletoe were strung along the corridors, mysterious
lights shone from inside every suit of armor, and the
Great Hall was filled with its usual twelve Christmas
trees, glittering with golden stars. A powerful and
delicious smell of cooking pervaded the corridors, and
by Christmas Eve, it had grown so strong that even
Scabbers poked his nose out of the shelter of Ron’s
pocket to sniff hopefully at the air.
On Christmas morning, Harry was woken by Ron
throwing his pillow at him.
“Oy! Presents!”
Harry reached for his glasses and put them on,
squinting through the semi-darkness to the foot of his
bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared. Ron
was already ripping the paper off his own presents.
“Another sweater from Mum . . . maroon again . . . see if
you’ve got one.”
 
Harry had. Mrs. Weasley had sent him a scarlet
sweater with the Gryffindor lion knitted on the front,
also a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas
cake, and a box of nut brittle. As he moved all these
things aside, he saw a long, thin package lying
underneath.
“What’s that?” said Ron, looking over, a freshly
unwrapped pair of maroon socks in his hand.
“Dunno ...”
Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a
magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his
bedspread. Ron dropped his socks and jumped off his
bed for a closer look.
“I don’t believe it,” he said hoarsely.
It was a Firebolt, identical to the dream broom Harry
had gone to see every day in Diagon Alley. Its handle
glittered as he picked it up. He could feel it vibrating
and let go; it hung in midair, unsupported, at exactly
the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved
from the golden registration number at the top of the
handle, right down to the perfectly smooth,
streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.
“Who sent it to you?” said Ron in a hushed voice.
“Look and see if there’s a card,” said Harry.
Ron ripped apart the Firebolt’s wrappings.
“Nothing! Blimey, who’d spend that much on you?”
“Well,” said Harry, feeling stunned, “I’m betting it
wasn’t the Dursleys.”
 
“I bet it was Dumbledore,” said Ron, now walking
around and around the Firebolt, taking in every
glorious inch. “He sent you the Invisibility Cloak
anonymously. ...”
“That was my dad’s, though,” said Harry.
“Dumbledore was just passing it on to me. He
wouldn’t spend hundreds of Galleons on me. He can’t
go giving students stuff like this — ”
“That’s why he wouldn’t say it was from him!” said
Ron. “In case some git like Malfoy said it was
favoritism. Hey, Harry” — Ron gave a great whoop of
laughter — “Malfoyl Wait till he sees you on this! He’ll
be sick as a pig! This is an international standard
broom, this is!”
“I can’t believe this,” Harry muttered, running a hand
along the Firebolt, while Ron sank onto Harry’s bed,
laughing his head off at the thought of Malfoy. “ Who
— ?”
“I know,” said Ron, controlling himself, “I know who it
could’ve been — Lupin!”
“What?” said Harry, now starting to laugh himself.
“Lupin? Listen, if he had this much gold, he’d be able
to buy himself some new robes.”
“Yeah, but he likes you,” said Ron. “And he was away
when your Nimbus got smashed, and he might’ve
heard about it and decided to visit Diagon Alley and
get this for you — ”
“What d’you mean, he was away?” said Harry. “He
was ill when I was playing in that match.”
 
“Well, he wasn’t in the hospital wing,” said Ron. “I
was there, cleaning out the bedpans on that detention
from Snape, remember?”
Harry frowned at Ron.
“I can’t see Lupin affording something like this.”
“What ’re you two laughing about?”
Hermione had just come in, wearing her dressing
gown and carrying Crookshanks, who was looking
very grumpy, with a string of tinsel tied around his
neck.
“Don’t bring him in here!” said Ron, hurriedly
snatching Scabbers from the depths of his bed and
stowing him in his pajama pocket. But Hermione
wasn’t listening. She dropped Crookshanks onto
Seamus’s empty bed and stared, open-mouthed, at
the Firebolt.
“Oh, Harry\ Who sent you that?”
“No idea,” said Harry. “There wasn’t a card or
anything with it.”
To his great surprise, Hermione did not appear either
excited or intrigued by the news. On the contrary, her
face fell, and she bit her lip.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Ron.
“I don’t know,” said Hermione slowly, “but it’s a bit
odd, isn’t it? I mean, this is supposed to be quite a
good broom, isn’t it?”
Ron sighed exasperatedly.
 
“It’s the best broom there is, Hermione,” he said.
“So it must’ve been really expensive. ...”
“Probably cost more than all the Slytherins’ brooms
put together,” said Ron happily.
“Well ... who’d send Harry something as expensive as
that, and not even tell him they’d sent it?” said
Hermione.
“Who cares?” said Ron impatiently. “Listen, Harry,
can I have a go on it? Can I?”
“I don’t think anyone should ride that broom just yet!”
said Hermione shrilly.
Harry and Ron looked at her.
“What d’you think Harry’s going to do with it — sweep
the floor?” said Ron.
But before Hermione could answer, Crookshanks
sprang from Seamus’s bed, right at Ron’s chest.
“GET — HIM — OUT — OF — HERE!” Ron bellowed
as Crookshanks ’s claws ripped his pajamas and
Scabbers attempted a wild escape over his shoulder.
Ron seized Scabbers by the tail and aimed a
misjudged kick at Crookshanks that hit the trunk at
the end of Harry’s bed, knocking it over and causing
Ron to hop up and down, howling with pain.
Crookshanks ’s fur suddenly stood on end. A shrill,
tinny whistling was filling the room. The Pocket
Sneakoscope had become dislodged from Uncle
Vernon’s old socks and was whirling and gleaming on
the floor.
 
“I forgot about that!” Harry said, bending down and
picking up the Sneakoscope. “I never wear those
socks if I can help it. ...”
The Sneakoscope whirled and whistled in his palm.
Crookshanks was hissing and spitting at it.
“You’d better take that cat out of here, Hermione,”
said Ron furiously, sitting on Harry’s bed nursing his
toe. “Can’t you shut that thing up?” he added to
Harry as Hermione strode out of the room,
Crookshanks ’s yellow eyes still fixed maliciously on
Ron.
Harry stuffed the Sneakoscope back inside the socks
and threw it back into his trunk. All that could be
heard now were Ron’s stifled moans of pain and rage.
Scabbers was huddled in Ron’s hands. It had been a
while since Harry had seen him out of Ron’s pocket,
and he was unpleasantly surprised to see that
Scabbers, once so fat, was now very skinny; patches
of fur seemed to have fallen out too.
“He’s not looking too good, is he?” Harry said.
“It’s stress!” said Ron. “He’d be fine if that big stupid
furball left him alone!”
But Harry, remembering what the woman at the
Magical Menagerie had said about rats living only
three years, couldn’t help feeling that unless Scabbers
had powers he had never revealed, he was reaching
the end of his life. And despite Ron’s frequent
complaints that Scabbers was both boring and
useless, he was sure Ron would be very miserable if
Scabbers died.
Christmas spirit was definitely thin on the ground in
the Gryffindor common room that morning. Hermione
 
had shut Crookshanks in her dormitory, but was
furious with Ron for trying to kick him; Ron was still
fuming about Crookshanks ’s fresh attempt to eat
Scabbers. Harry gave up trying to make them talk to
each other and devoted himself to examining the
Firebolt, which he had brought down to the common
room with him. For some reason this seemed to
annoy Hermione as well; she didn’t say anything, but
she kept looking darkly at the broom as though it too
had been criticizing her cat.
At lunchtime they went down to the Great Hall, to
find that the House tables had been moved against
the walls again, and that a single table, set for twelve,
stood in the middle of the room. Professors
Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and
Flitwick were there, along with Filch, the caretaker,
who had taken off his usual brown coat and was
wearing a very old and rather moldy-looking tailcoat.
There were only three other students, two extremely
nervous-looking first years and a sullen-faced
Slytherin fifth year.
“Merry Christmas!” said Dumbledore as Harry, Ron,
and Hermione approached the table. “As there are so
few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables.
... Sit down, sit down!”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down side by side at
the end of the table.
“Crackers!” said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering
the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who
took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a
gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large,
pointed witch’s hat topped with a stuffed vulture.
Harry, remembering the boggart, caught Ron’s eye
and they both grinned; Snape ’s mouth thinned and
 
he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped
it for his wizard’s hat at once.
“Dig in!” he advised the table, beaming around.
As Harry was helping himself to roast potatoes, the
doors of the Great Hall opened again. It was Professor
Trelawney, gliding toward them as though on wheels.
She had put on a green sequined dress in honor of
the occasion, making her look more than ever like a
glittering, oversized dragonfly.
“Sibyll, this is a pleasant surprise!” said Dumbledore,
standing up.
“I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster,” said
Professor Trelawney in her mistiest, most faraway
voice, “and to my astonishment, I saw myself
abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join
you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at
once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to
forgive my lateness. ...”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Dumbledore, his eyes
twinkling. “Let me draw you up a chair — ”
And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his
wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling
with a thud between Professors Snape and
McGonagall. Professor Trelawney, however, did not sit
down; her enormous eyes had been roving around the
table, and she suddenly uttered a kind of soft scream.
“I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be
thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget
that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will
be the first to die!”
 
“Well risk it, Sibyll,” said Professor McGonagall
impatiently. “Do sit down, the turkey’s getting stone
cold.”
Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself
into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched
tight, as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit the
table. Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into
the nearest tureen.
“Tripe, Sibyll?”
Professor Trelawney ignored her. Eyes open again,
she looked around once more and said, “But where is
dear Professor Lupin?”
“I’m afraid the poor fellow is ill again,” said
Dumbledore, indicating that everybody should start
serving themselves. “Most unfortunate that it should
happen on Christmas Day.”
“But surely you already knew that, Sibyll?” said
Professor McGonagall, her eyebrows raised.
Professor Trelawney gave Professor McGonagall a very
cold look.
“Certainly I knew, Minerva,” she said quietly. “But
one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing.
I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the
Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous.”
“That explains a great deal,” said Professor
McGonagall tartly.
Professor Trelawney’s voice suddenly became a good
deal less misty.
 
“If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor
Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He
seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He
positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him —
“Imagine that,” said Professor McGonagall dryly.
“I doubt,” said Dumbledore, in a cheerful but slightly
raised voice, which put an end to Professor
McGonagall and Professor Trelawney’s conversation,
“that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger.
Severus, you’ve made the potion for him again?”
“Yes, Headmaster,” said Snape.
“Good,” said Dumbledore. “Then he should be up and
about in no time. ... Derek, have you had any of these
chipolatas? They’re excellent.”
The first-year boy went furiously red on being
addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the
platter of sausages with trembling hands.
Professor Trelawney behaved almost normally until
the very end of Christmas dinner, two hours later.
Full to bursting with Christmas dinner and still
wearing their party hats, Harry and Ron got up first
from the table and she shrieked loudly.
“My dears! Which of you left his seat first? Which?”
“Dunno,” said Ron, looking uneasily at Harry.
“I doubt it will make much difference,” said Professor
McGonagall coldly, “unless a mad axe-man is waiting
outside the doors to slaughter the first into the
entrance hall.”
 
Even Ron laughed. Professor Trelawney looked highly
affronted.
“Coming?” Harry said to Hermione.
“No,” Hermione muttered, “I want a quick word with
Professor McGonagall.”
“Probably trying to see if she can take any more
classes,” yawned Ron as they made their way into the
entrance hall, which was completely devoid of mad
axe-men.
When they reached the portrait hole, they found Sir
Cadogan enjoying a Christmas party with a couple of
monks, several previous headmasters of Hogwarts,
and his fat pony. He pushed up his visor and toasted
them with a flagon of mead.
“Merry — hie — Christmas! Password?”
“Scurvy cur,” said Ron.
“And the same to you, sir!” roared Sir Cadogan as the
painting swung forward to admit them.
Harry went straight up to the dormitory, collected the
Firebolt and the Broomstick Servicing Kit Hermione
had given him for his birthday, brought them
downstairs, and tried to find something to do to the
Firebolt; however, there were no bent twigs to clip,
and the handle was so shiny already it seemed
pointless to polish it. He and Ron simply sat admiring
it from every angle until the portrait hole opened, and
Hermione came in, accompanied by Professor
McGonagall.
Though Professor McGonagall was head of Gryffindor
House, Harry had seen her in the common room only
 
once before, and that had been to make a very grave
announcement. He and Ron stared at her, both
holding the Firebolt. Hermione walked around them,
sat down, picked up the nearest book, and hid her
face behind it.
“So that’s it, is it?” said Professor McGonagall beadily,
walking over to the fireside and staring at the
Firebolt. “Miss Granger has just informed me that you
have been sent a broomstick, Potter.”
Harry and Ron looked around at Hermione. They
could see her forehead reddening over the top of her
book, which was upside down.
“May I?” said Professor McGonagall, but she didn’t
wait for an answer before pulling the Firebolt out of
their hands. She examined it carefully from handle to
twig-ends. “Hmm. And there was no note at all,
Potter? No card? No message of any kind?”
“No,” said Harry blankly.
“I see ... ,” said Professor McGonagall. “Well, I’m
afraid I will have to take this, Potter.”
“W — what?” said Harry, scrambling to his feet.
“Why?”
“It will need to be checked for jinxes,” said Professor
McGonagall. “Of course, I’m no expert, but I daresay
Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick will strip it
down — ”
“Strip it down?” repeated Ron, as though Professor
McGonagall was mad.
 
“It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks,” said
Professor McGonagall. “You will have it back if we are
sure it is jinx-free.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it!” said Harry, his voice
shaking slightly. “Honestly, Professor — ”
“You can’t know that, Potter,” said Professor
McGonagall, quite kindly, “not until you’ve flown it, at
any rate, and I’m afraid that is out of the question
until we are certain that it has not been tampered
with. I shall keep you informed.”
Professor McGonagall turned on her heel and carried
the Firebolt out of the portrait hole, which closed
behind her. Harry stood staring after her, the tin of
High-Finish Polish still clutched in his hands. Ron,
however, rounded on Hermione.
“What did you go running to McGonagall for?”
Hermione threw her book aside. She was still pink in
the face, but stood up and faced Ron defiantly.
“Because I thought — and Professor McGonagall
agrees with me — that that broom was probably sent
to Harry by Sirius Black!”
 
THE PATRONUS
Harry knew that Hermione had meant well, but that
didn’t stop him from being angry with her. He had
been the owner of the best broom in the world for a
few short hours, and now, because of her
interference, he didn’t know whether he would ever
see it again. He was positive that there was nothing
wrong with the Firebolt now, but what sort of state
would it be in once it had been subjected to all sorts
of anti-jinx tests?
Ron was furious with Hermione too. As far as he was
concerned, the stripping-down of a brand-new
Firebolt was nothing less than criminal damage.
Hermione, who remained convinced that she had
acted for the best, started avoiding the common room.
Harry and Ron supposed she had taken refuge in the
library and didn’t try to persuade her to come back.
All in all, they were glad when the rest of the school
returned shortly after New Year, and Gryffindor Tower
became crowded and noisy again.
 
Wood sought Harry out on the night before term
started.
“Had a good Christmas?” he said, and then, without
waiting for an answer, he sat down, lowered his voice,
and said, “I’ve been doing some thinking over
Christmas, Harry. After the last match, you know. If
the dementors come to the next one ... I mean . . . we
can’t afford you to — well — ”
Wood broke off, looking awkward.
“I’m working on it,” said Harry quickly. “Professor
Lupin said he’d train me to ward off the dementors.
We should be starting this week. He said he’d have
time after Christmas.”
“Ah,” said Wood, his expression clearing. “Well, in
that case — I really didn’t want to lose you as Seeker,
Harry. And have you ordered a new broom yet?”
“No,” said Harry.
“What! You’d better get a move on, you know — you
can’t ride that Shooting Star against Ravenclaw!”
“He got a Firebolt for Christmas,” said Ron.
“A Firebolt? No! Seriously? A — a real Firebolt?”
“Don’t get excited, Oliver,” said Harry gloomily. “I
haven’t got it anymore. It was confiscated.” And he
explained all about how the Firebolt was now being
checked for jinxes.
“Jinxed? How could it be jinxed?”
 
“Sirius Black,” Harry said wearily. “He’s supposed to
be after me. So McGonagall reckons he might have
sent it.”
Waving aside the information that a famous murderer
was after his Seeker, Wood said, “But Black couldn’t
have bought a Firebolt! He’s on the run! The whole
country’s on the lookout for him! How could he just
walk into Quality Quidditch Supplies and buy a
broomstick?”
“I know,” said Harry, “but McGonagall still wants to
strip it down — ”
Wood went pale.
“I’ll go and talk to her, Harry,” he promised. “I’ll make
her see reason. ... A Firebolt ... a real Firebolt, on our
team . . . She wants Gryffindor to win as much as we
do. ... I’ll make her see sense. A Firebolt ...”
Classes started again the next day. The last thing
anyone felt like doing was spending two hours on the
grounds on a raw January morning, but Hagrid had
provided a bonfire full of salamanders for their
enjoyment, and they spent an unusually good lesson
collecting dry wood and leaves to keep the fire blazing
while the flame-loving lizards scampered up and
down the crumbling, white-hot logs. The first
Divination lesson of the new term was much less fun;
Professor Trelawney was now teaching them
palmistry, and she lost no time in informing Harry
that he had the shortest life line she had ever seen.
It was Defense Against the Dark Arts that Harry was
keen to get to; after his conversation with Wood, he
wanted to get started on his anti-dementor lessons as
soon as possible.
 
“Ah yes,” said Lupin, when Harry reminded him of his
promise at the end of class. “Let me see ... how about
eight o’clock on Thursday evening? The History of
Magic classroom should be large enough. ... I’ll have
to think carefully about how we’re going to do this. ...
We can’t bring a real dementor into the castle to
practice on. ...”
“Still looks ill, doesn’t he?” said Ron as they walked
down the corridor, heading to dinner. “What d’you
reckon ’s the matter with him?”
There was a loud and impatient “tuh” from behind
them. It was Hermione, who had been sitting at the
feet of a suit of armor, repacking her bag, which was
so full of books it wouldn’t close.
“And what are you tutting at us for?” said Ron
irritably.
“Nothing,” said Hermione in a lofty voice, heaving her
bag back over her shoulder.
“Yes, you were,” said Ron. “I said I wonder what’s
wrong with Lupin, and you — ”
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” said Hermione, with a look of
maddening superiority.
“If you don’t want to tell us, don’t,” snapped Ron.
“Fine,” said Hermione haughtily, and she marched off.
“She doesn’t know,” said Ron, staring resentfully after
Hermione. “She’s just trying to get us to talk to her
again.”
At eight o’clock on Thursday evening, Harry left
Gryffindor Tower for the History of Magic classroom.
 
It was dark and empty when he arrived, but he lit the
lamps with his wand and had waited only five
minutes when Professor Lupin turned up, carrying a
large packing case, which he heaved onto Professor
Binns’ desk.
“What’s that?” said Harry.
“Another boggart,” said Lupin, stripping off his cloak.
“I’ve been combing the castle ever since Tuesday, and
very luckily, I found this one lurking inside Mr. Filch’s
filing cabinet. It’s the nearest we’ll get to a real
dementor. The boggart will turn into a dementor when
he sees you, so we’ll be able to practice on him. I can
store him in my office when we’re not using him;
there’s a cupboard under my desk he’ll like.”
“Okay,” said Harry, trying to sound as though he
wasn’t apprehensive at all and merely glad that Lupin
had found such a good substitute for a real dementor.
“So ...” Professor Lupin had taken out his own wand,
and indicated that Harry should do the same. “The
spell I am going to try and teach you is highly
advanced magic, Harry — well beyond Ordinary
Wizarding Level. It is called the Patronus Charm.”
“How does it work?” said Harry nervously.
“Well, when it works correctly, it conjures up a
Patronus,” said Lupin, “which is a kind of anti-
dementor — a guardian that acts as a shield between
you and the dementor.”
Harry had a sudden vision of himself crouching
behind a Hagrid-sized figure holding a large club.
Professor Lupin continued, “The Patronus is a kind of
positive force, a projection of the very things that the
dementor feeds upon — hope, happiness, the desire
 
to survive — but it cannot feel despair, as real
humans can, so the dementors can’t hurt it. But I
must warn you, Harry, that the charm might be too
advanced for you. Many qualified wizards have
difficulty with it.”
“What does a Patronus look like?” said Harry
curiously.
“Each one is unique to the wizard who conjures it.”
“And how do you conjure it?”
“With an incantation, which will work only if you are
concentrating, with all your might, on a single, very
happy memory.”
Harry cast his mind about for a happy memory.
Certainly, nothing that had happened to him at the
Dursleys’ was going to do. Finally, he settled on the
moment when he had first ridden a broomstick.
“Right,” he said, trying to recall as exactly as possible
the wonderful, soaring sensation of his stomach.
“The incantation is this — ” Lupin cleared his throat.
“Expecto patronum).”
“Expecto patronum,” Harry repeated under his breath,
“expecto patronum.”
“Concentrating hard on your happy memory?”
“Oh — yeah — ” said Harry, quickly forcing his
thoughts back to that first broom ride. “Expecto
patrono — no, patronum — sorry — expecto patronum,
expecto patronum — ”
 
Something whooshed suddenly out of the end of his
wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas.
“Did you see that?” said Harry excitedly. “Something
happened!”
“Very good,” said Lupin, smiling. “Right, then — ready
to try it on a dementor?”
“Yes,” Harry said, gripping his wand very tightly, and
moving into the middle of the deserted classroom. He
tried to keep his mind on flying, but something else
kept intruding. . . . Any second now, he might hear his
mother again . . . but he shouldn’t think that, or he
would hear her again, and he didn’t want to ... or did
he?
Lupin grasped the lid of the packing case and pulled.
A dementor rose slowly from the box, its hooded face
turned toward Harry, one glistening, scabbed hand
gripping its cloak. The lamps around the classroom
flickered and went out. The dementor stepped from
the box and started to sweep silently toward Harry,
drawing a deep, rattling breath. A wave of piercing
cold broke over him —
“Expecto patronurrd” Harry yelled. “Expecto patronum).
Expecto — ”
But the classroom and the dementor were dissolving.
. . . Harry was falling again through thick white fog,
and his mother’s voice was louder than ever, echoing
inside his head — “ Not Harry\ Not Harry\ Please — I’ll
do anything — ”
“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl\”
“Harry!”
 
Harry jerked back to life. He was lying flat on his back
on the floor. The classroom lamps were alight again.
He didn’t have to ask what had happened.
“Sorry,” he muttered, sitting up and feeling cold sweat
trickling down behind his glasses.
“Are you all right?” said Lupin.
“Yes ...” Harry pulled himself up on one of the desks
and leaned against it.
“Here — ” Lupin handed him a Chocolate Frog. “Eat
this before we try again. I didn’t expect you to do it
your first time; in fact, I would have been astounded if
you had.”
“It’s getting worse,” Harry muttered, biting off the
Frog’s head. “I could hear her louder that time — and
him — Voldemort — ”
Lupin looked paler than usual.
“Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I will more than
understand — ”
“I do!” said Harry fiercely, stuffing the rest of the
Chocolate Frog into his mouth. “I’ve got to! What if
the dementors turn up at our match against
Ravenclaw? I can’t afford to fall off again. If we lose
this game we’ve lost the Quidditch Cup!”
“All right then ... ,” said Lupin. “You might want to
select another memory, a happy memory, I mean, to
concentrate on. ... That one doesn’t seem to have
been strong enough. ...”
Harry thought hard and decided his feelings when
Gryffindor had won the House Championship last
 
year had definitely qualified as very happy. He
gripped his wand tightly again and took up his
position in the middle of the classroom.
“Ready?” said Lupin, gripping the box lid.
“Ready,” said Harry, trying hard to fill his head with
happy thoughts about Gryffindor winning, and not
dark thoughts about what was going to happen when
the box opened.
“Go!” said Lupin, pulling off the lid. The room went
icily cold and dark once more. The dementor glided
forward, drawing its breath; one rotting hand was
extending toward Harry —
“Expecto patronum).” Harry yelled. “Expecto patronuml
Expecto pat — ”
White fog obscured his senses . . . big, blurred shapes
were moving around him ... then came a new voice, a
man’s voice, shouting, panicking —
“Lily, take Harry and go\ It’s him\ Go! Run\ I’ll hold him
off~
The sounds of someone stumbling from a room — a
door bursting open — a cackle of high-pitched
laughter —
“Harry! Harry ... wake up. ...”
Lupin was tapping Harry hard on the face. This time
it was a minute before Harry understood why he was
lying on a dusty classroom floor.
“I heard my dad,” Harry mumbled. “That’s the first
time I’ve ever heard him — he tried to take on
 
Voldemort himself, to give my mum time to run for it.
Harry suddenly realized that there were tears on his
face mingling with the sweat. He bent his face as low
as possible, wiping them off on his robes, pretending
to do up his shoelace, so that Lupin wouldn’t see.
“You heard James?” said Lupin in a strange voice.
“Yeah ...” Face dry, Harry looked up. “Why — you
didn’t know my dad, did you?”
“I — I did, as a matter of fact,” said Lupin. “We were
friends at Hogwarts. Listen, Harry — perhaps we
should leave it here for tonight. This charm is
ridiculously advanced. ... I shouldn’t have suggested
putting you through this. ...”
“No!” said Harry. He got up again. “I’ll have one more
go! I’m not thinking of happy enough things, that’s
what it is. ... Hang on. ...”
He racked his brains. A really, really happy memory
. . . one that he could turn into a good, strong
Patronus ...
The moment when he’d first found out he was a
wizard, and would be leaving the Dursleys for
Hogwarts! If that wasn’t a happy memory, he didn’t
know what was. ... Concentrating very hard on how
he had felt when he’d realized he’d be leaving Privet
Drive, Harry got to his feet and faced the packing case
once more.
“Ready?” said Lupin, who looked as though he were
doing this against his better judgment.
“Concentrating hard? All right — go!”
 
He pulled off the lid of the case for the third time, and
the dementor rose out of it; the room fell cold and
dark —
“EXPECTO PATRONUM ” Harry bellowed. “ EXPECTO
PATRONUM EXPECTO PATRONUM ”
The screaming inside Harry’s head had started again
— except this time, it sounded as though it were
coming from a badly tuned radio — softer and louder
and softer again — and he could still see the
dementor — it had halted — and then a huge, silver
shadow came bursting out of the end of Harry’s wand,
to hover between him and the dementor, and though
Harry’s legs felt like water, he was still on his feet —
though for how much longer, he wasn’t sure —
“ RiddikulusV’ roared Lupin, springing forward.
There was a loud crack, and Harry’s cloudy Patronus
vanished along with the dementor; he sank into a
chair, feeling as exhausted as if he’d just run a mile,
and felt his legs shaking. Out of the corner of his eye,
he saw Professor Lupin forcing the boggart back into
the packing case with his wand; it had turned into a
silvery orb again.
“Excellent!” Lupin said, striding over to where Harry
sat. “Excellent, Harry! That was definitely a start!”
“Can we have another go? Just one more go?”
“Not now,” said Lupin firmly. “You’ve had enough for
one night. Here — ”
He handed Harry a large bar of Honeydukes’ best
chocolate.
 
“Eat the lot, or Madam Pomfrey will be after my blood.
Same time next week?”
“Okay,” said Harry. He took a bite of the chocolate
and watched Lupin extinguishing the lamps that had
rekindled with the disappearance of the dementor. A
thought had just occurred to him.
“Professor Lupin?” he said. “If you knew my dad, you
must’ve known Sirius Black as well.”
Lupin turned very quickly.
“What gives you that idea?” he said sharply.
“Nothing — I mean, I just knew they were friends at
Hogwarts too. ...”
Lupin’s face relaxed.
“Yes, I knew him,” he said shortly. “Or I thought I did.
You’d better be off, Harry, it’s getting late.”
Harry left the classroom, walking along the corridor
and around a corner, then took a detour behind a
suit of armor and sank down on its plinth to finish
his chocolate, wishing he hadn’t mentioned Black, as
Lupin was obviously not keen on the subject. Then
Harry’s thoughts wandered back to his mother and
father. ...
He felt drained and strangely empty, even though he
was so full of chocolate. Terrible though it was to hear
his parents’ last moments replayed inside his head,
these were the only times Harry had heard their
voices since he was a very small child. But he’d never
be able to produce a proper Patronus if he half
wanted to hear his parents again. ...
 
“They’re dead,” he told himself sternly. “They’re dead
and listening to echoes of them won’t bring them
back. You’d better get a grip on yourself if you want
that Quidditch Cup.”
He stood up, crammed the last bit of chocolate into
his mouth, and headed back to Gryffindor Tower.
Ravenclaw played Slytherin a week after the start of
term. Slytherin won, though narrowly. According to
Wood, this was good news for Gryffindor, who would
take second place if they beat Ravenclaw too. He
therefore increased the number of team practices to
five a week. This meant that with Lupin’s anti-
dementor classes, which in themselves were more
draining than six Quidditch practices, Harry had just
one night a week to do all his homework. Even so, he
wasn’t showing the strain nearly as much as
Hermione, whose immense workload finally seemed to
be getting to her. Every night, without fail, Hermione
was to be seen in a corner of the common room,
several tables spread with books, Arithmancy charts,
rune dictionaries, diagrams of Muggles lifting heavy
objects, and file upon file of extensive notes; she
barely spoke to anybody and snapped when she was
interrupted.
“How’s she doing it?” Ron muttered to Harry one
evening as Harry sat finishing a nasty essay on
Undetectable Poisons for Snape. Harry looked up.
Hermione was barely visible behind a tottering pile of
books.
“Doing what?”
“Getting to all her classes!” Ron said. “I heard her
talking to Professor Vector, that Arithmancy witch,
this morning. They were going on about yesterday’s
lesson, but Hermione can’t’ve been there, because she
 
was with us in Care of Magical Creatures! And Ernie
McMillan told me she’s never missed a Muggle
Studies class, but half of them are at the same time
as Divination, and she’s never missed one of them
either!”
Harry didn’t have time to fathom the mystery of
Hermione’s impossible schedule at the moment; he
really needed to get on with Snape’s essay. Two
seconds later, however, he was interrupted again, this
time by Wood.
“Bad news, Harry. I’ve just been to see Professor
McGonagall about the Firebolt. She — er — got a bit
shirty with me. Told me I’d got my priorities wrong.
Seemed to think I cared more about winning the Cup
than I do about you staying alive. Just because I told
her I didn’t care if it threw you off, as long as you
caught the Snitch first.” Wood shook his head in
disbelief. “Honestly, the way she was yelling at me . . .
you’d think I’d said something terrible. ... Then I
asked her how much longer she was going to keep it.
...” He screwed up his face and imitated Professor
McGonagall’s severe voice. “ ‘As long as necessary,
Wood’ ... I reckon it’s time you ordered a new broom,
Harry. There’s an order form at the back of Which
Broomstick ... you could get a Nimbus Two Thousand
and One, like Malfoy’s got.”
“I’m not buying anything Malfoy thinks is good,” said
Harry flatly.
January faded imperceptibly into February, with no
change in the bitterly cold weather. The match
against Ravenclaw was drawing nearer and nearer,
but Harry still hadn’t ordered a new broom. He was
now asking Professor McGonagall for news of the
Firebolt after every Transfiguration lesson, Ron
 
standing hopefully at his shoulder, Hermione rushing
past with her face averted.
“No, Potter, you can’t have it back yet,” Professor
McGonagall told him the twelfth time this happened,
before he’d even opened his mouth. “We’ve checked
for most of the usual curses, but Professor Flitwick
believes the broom might be carrying a Hurling Hex. I
shall tell you once we’ve finished checking it. Now,
please stop badgering me.”
To make matters even worse, Harry’s anti-dementor
lessons were not going nearly as well as he had
hoped. Several sessions on, he was able to produce
an indistinct, silvery shadow every time the boggart-
dementor approached him, but his Patronus was too
feeble to drive the dementor away. All it did was
hover, like a semi-transparent cloud, draining Harry
of energy as he fought to keep it there. Harry felt
angry with himself, guilty about his secret desire to
hear his parents’ voices again.
“You’re expecting too much of yourself,” said
Professor Lupin sternly in their fourth week of
practice. “For a thirteen-year-old wizard, even an
indistinct Patronus is a huge achievement. You aren’t
passing out anymore, are you?”
“I thought a Patronus would — charge the dementors
down or something,” said Harry dispiritedly. “Make
them disappear — ”
“The true Patronus does do that,” said Lupin. “But
you’ve achieved a great deal in a very short space of
time. If the dementors put in an appearance at your
next Quidditch match, you will be able to keep them
at bay long enough to get back to the ground.”
 
“You said it’s harder if there are loads of them,” said
Harry.
“I have complete confidence in you,” said Lupin,
smiling. “Here — you’ve earned a drink — something
from the Three Broomsticks. You won’t have tried it
before — ”
He pulled two bottles out of his briefcase.
“Butterbeer!” said Harry, without thinking. “Yeah, I
like that stuff!”
Lupin raised an eyebrow.
“Oh — Ron and Hermione brought me some back
from Hogsmeade,” Harry lied quickly.
“I see,” said Lupin, though he still looked slightly
suspicious. “Well — let’s drink to a Gryffindor victory
against Ravenclaw! Not that I’m supposed to take
sides, as a teacher ... ,” he added hastily.
They drank the butterbeer in silence, until Harry
voiced something he’d been wondering for a while.
“What’s under a dementor’s hood?”
Professor Lupin lowered his bottle thoughtfully.
“Hmmm ... well, the only people who really know are
in no condition to tell us. You see, the dementor
lowers its hood only to use its last and worst
weapon.”
“What’s that?”
“They call it the Dementor’s Kiss,” said Lupin, with a
slightly twisted smile. “It’s what dementors do to
 
those they wish to destroy utterly. I suppose there
must be some kind of mouth under there, because
they clamp their jaws upon the mouth of the victim
and — and suck out his soul.”
Harry accidentally spat out a bit of butterbeer.
“What — they kill — ?”
“Oh no,” said Lupin. “Much worse than that. You can
exist without your soul, you know, as long as your
brain and heart are still working. But you 11 have no
sense of self anymore, no memory, no ... anything.
There’s no chance at all of recovery. You’ll just —
exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever
... lost.”
Lupin drank a little more butterbeer, then said, “It’s
the fate that awaits Sirius Black. It was in the Daily
Prophet this morning. The Ministry have given the
dementors permission to perform it if they find him.”
Harry sat stunned for a moment at the idea of
someone having their soul sucked out through their
mouth. But then he thought of Black.
“He deserves it,” he said suddenly.
“You think so?” said Lupin lightly. “Do you really
think anyone deserves that?”
“Yes,” said Harry defiantly. “For ... for some things ...”
He would have liked to have told Lupin about the
conversation he’d overheard about Black in the Three
Broomsticks, about Black betraying his mother and
father, but it would have involved revealing that he’d
gone to Hogsmeade without permission, and he knew
Lupin wouldn’t be very impressed by that. So he
 
finished his butterbeer, thanked Lupin, and left the
History of Magic classroom.
Harry half wished that he hadn’t asked what was
under a dementor’s hood, the answer had been so
horrible, and he was so lost in unpleasant thoughts of
what it would feel like to have your soul sucked out of
you that he walked headlong into Professor
McGonagall halfway up the stairs.
“Do watch where you’re going, Potter!”
“Sorry, Professor — ”
“I’ve just been looking for you in the Gryffindor
common room. Well, here it is, we’ve done everything
we could think of, and there doesn’t seem to be
anything wrong with it at all. You’ve got a very good
friend somewhere, Potter. ...”
Harry’s jaw dropped. She was holding out his
Firebolt, and it looked as magnificent as ever.
“I can have it back?” Harry said weakly. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” said Professor McGonagall, and she was
actually smiling. “I daresay you’ll need to get the feel
of it before Saturday’s match, won’t you? And Potter
— do try and win, won’t you? Or we’ll be out of the
running for the eighth year in a row, as Professor
Snape was kind enough to remind me only last night.
Speechless, Harry carried the Firebolt back upstairs
toward Gryffindor Tower. As he turned a corner, he
saw Ron dashing toward him, grinning from ear to
ear.
 
“She gave it to you? Excellent! Listen, can I still have
a go on it? Tomorrow?”
“Yeah ... anything ... said Harry, his heart lighter
than it had been in a month. “You know what — we
should make up with Hermione. ... She was only
trying to help. ...”
“Yeah, all right,” said Ron. “She’s in the common
room now — working, for a change — ”
They turned into the corridor to Gryffindor Tower and
saw Neville Longbottom, pleading with Sir Cadogan,
who seemed to be refusing him entrance.
“I wrote them down!” Neville was saying tearfully.
“But I must’ve dropped them somewhere!”
“A likely tale!” roared Sir Cadogan. Then, spotting
Harry and Ron: “Good even, my fine young yeomen!
Come clap this loon in irons. He is trying to force
entry to the chambers within!”
“Oh, shut up,” said Ron as he and Harry drew level
with Neville.
“I’ve lost the passwords!” Neville told them miserably.
“I made him tell me what passwords he was going to
use this week, because he keeps changing them, and
now I don’t know what I’ve done with them!”
“Oddsbodikins,” said Harry to Sir Cadogan, who
looked extremely disappointed and reluctantly swung
forward to let them into the common room. There was
a sudden, excited murmur as every head turned and
the next moment, Harry was surrounded by people
exclaiming over his Firebolt.
“Where ’d you get it, Harry?”
 
“Will you let me have a go?”
“Have you ridden it yet, Harry?”
“Ravenclaw’ll have no chance, they’re all on
Cleansweep Sevens!”
“Can I just hold it, Harry?”
After ten minutes or so, during which the Firebolt was
passed around and admired from every angle, the
crowd dispersed and Harry and Ron had a clear view
of Hermione, the only person who hadn’t rushed over
to them, bent over her work and carefully avoiding
their eyes. Harry and Ron approached her table and
at last, she looked up.
“I got it back,” said Harry, grinning at her and holding
up the Firebolt.
“See, Hermione? There wasn’t anything wrong with
it!” said Ron.
“Well — there might have been!” said Hermione. “I
mean, at least you know now that it’s safe!”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Harry. “I’d better put it
upstairs — ”
“I’ll take it!” said Ron eagerly. “I’ve got to give
Scabbers his rat tonic.”
He took the Firebolt and, holding it as if it were made
of glass, carried it away up the boys’ staircase.
“Can I sit down, then?” Harry asked Hermione.
“I suppose so,” said Hermione, moving a great stack
of parchment off a chair.
 
Harry looked around at the cluttered table, at the
long Arithmancy essay on which the ink was still
glistening, at the even longer Muggle Studies essay
(“Explain Why Muggles Need Electricity”) and at the
rune translation Hermione was now poring over.
“How are you getting through all this stuff?” Harry
asked her.
“Oh, well — you know — working hard,” said
Hermione. Close-up, Harry saw that she looked
almost as tired as Lupin.
“Why don’t you just drop a couple of subjects?” Harry
asked, watching her lifting books as she searched for
her rune dictionary.
“I couldn’t do that!” said Hermione, looking
scandalized.
“Arithmancy looks terrible,” said Harry, picking up a
very complicated-looking number chart.
“Oh no, it’s wonderful!” said Hermione earnestly. “It’s
my favorite subject! It’s — ”
But exactly what was wonderful about Arithmancy,
Harry never found out. At that precise moment, a
strangled yell echoed down the boys’ staircase. The
whole common room fell silent, staring, petrified, at
the entrance. Then came hurried footsteps, growing
louder and louder — and then Ron came leaping into
view, dragging with him a bedsheet.
“LOOK!” he bellowed, striding over to Hermione’s
table. “LOOK!” he yelled, shaking the sheets in her
face.
“Ron, what — ?”
 
“SCABBERS! LOOK! SCABBERS!”
Hermione was leaning away from Ron, looking utterly
bewildered. Harry looked down at the sheet Ron was
holding. There was something red on it. Something
that looked horribly like —
“BLOOD!” Ron yelled into the stunned silence. “HE’S
GONE! AND YOU KNOW WHAT WAS ON THE
FLOOR?”
“N — no,” said Hermione in a trembling voice.
Ron threw something down onto Hermione ’s rune
translation. Hermione and Harry leaned forward.
Lying on top of the weird, spiky shapes were several
long, ginger cat hairs.
 
GRYFFINDOR VERSUS RAVENCLAW
It looked like the end of Ron and Hermione’s
friendship. Each was so angry with the other that
Harry couldn’t see how they’d ever make up.
Ron was enraged that Hermione had never taken
Crookshanks’s attempts to eat Scabbers seriously,
hadn’t bothered to keep a close enough watch on him,
and was still trying to pretend that Crookshanks was
innocent by suggesting that Ron look for Scabbers
under all the boys’ beds. Hermione, meanwhile,
maintained fiercely that Ron had no proof that
Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers, that the ginger
hairs might have been there since Christmas, and
that Ron had been prejudiced against her cat ever
since Crookshanks had landed on Ron’s head in the
Magical Menagerie.
Personally, Harry was sure that Crookshanks had
eaten Scabbers, and when he tried to point out to
Hermione that the evidence all pointed that way, she
lost her temper with Harry too.
 
“Okay, side with Ron, I knew you would!” she said
shrilly. “First the Firebolt, now Scabbers, everything’s
my fault, isn’t it! Just leave me alone, Harry, I’ve got a
lot of work to do!”
Ron had taken the loss of his rat very hard indeed.
“Come on, Ron, you were always saying how boring
Scabbers was,” said Fred bracingly “And he’s been
off-color for ages, he was wasting away. It was
probably better for him to snuff it quickly — one
swallow — he probably didn’t feel a thing.”
“Fred\” said Ginny indignantly.
“All he did was eat and sleep, Ron, you said it
yourself,” said George.
“He bit Goyle for us once!” Ron said miserably.
“Remember, Harry?”
“Yeah, that’s true,” said Harry.
“His finest hour,” said Fred, unable to keep a straight
face. “Let the scar on Goyle ’s finger stand as a lasting
tribute to his memory. Oh, come on, Ron, get yourself
down to Hogsmeade and buy a new rat, what’s the
point of moaning?”
In a last-ditch attempt to cheer Ron up, Harry
persuaded him to come along to the Gryffindor team’s
final practice before the Ravenclaw match, so that he
could have a ride on the Firebolt after they’d finished.
This did seem to take Ron’s mind off Scabbers for a
moment (“Great! Can I try and shoot a few goals on
it?”) so they set off for the Quidditch field together.
Madam Hooch, who was still overseeing Gryffindor
practices to keep an eye on Harry, was just as
 
impressed with the Firebolt as everyone else had
been. She took it in her hands before takeoff and gave
them the benefit of her professional opinion.
“Look at the balance on it! If the Nimbus series has a
fault, it’s a slight list to the tail end — you often find
they develop a drag after a few years. They’ve updated
the handle too, a bit slimmer than the Cleansweeps,
reminds me of the old Silver Arrows — a pity they’ve
stopped making them. I learned to fly on one, and a
very fine old broom it was too. ...”
She continued in this vein for some time, until Wood
said, “Er — Madam Hooch? Is it okay if Harry has the
Firebolt back? We need to practice. ...”
“Oh — right — here you are, then, Potter,” said
Madam Hooch. “I’ll sit over here with Weasley ...”
She and Ron left the field to sit in the stadium, and
the Gryffindor team gathered around Wood for his
final instructions for tomorrow’s match.
“Harry, I’ve just found out who Ravenclaw is playing
as Seeker. It’s Cho Chang. She’s a fourth year, and
she’s pretty good. ... I really hoped she wouldn’t be fit,
she’s had some problems with injuries. ...” Wood
scowled his displeasure that Cho Chang had made a
full recovery, then said, “On the other hand, she rides
a Comet Two Sixty, which is going to look like a joke
next to the Firebolt.” He gave Harry’s broom a look of
fervent admiration, then said, “Okay, everyone, let’s
go
And at long last, Harry mounted his Firebolt, and
kicked off from the ground.
It was better than he’d ever dreamed. The Firebolt
turned with the lightest touch; it seemed to obey his
 
thoughts rather than his grip; it sped across the field
at such speed that the stadium turned into a green-
and-gray blur; Harry turned it so sharply that Alicia
Spinnet screamed, then he went into a perfectly
controlled dive, brushing the grassy field with his toes
before rising thirty, forty, fifty feet into the air again —
“Harry, I’m letting the Snitch out!” Wood called.
Harry turned and raced a Bludger toward the goal
posts; he outstripped it easily, saw the Snitch dart
out from behind Wood, and within ten seconds had
caught it tightly in his hand.
The team cheered madly. Harry let the Snitch go
again, gave it a minute’s head start, then tore after it,
weaving in and out of the others; he spotted it lurking
near Katie Bell’s knee, looped her easily, and caught
it again.
It was the best practice ever; the team, inspired by
the presence of the Firebolt in their midst, performed
their best moves faultlessly, and by the time they hit
the ground again, Wood didn’t have a single criticism
to make, which, as George Weasley pointed out, was a
first.
“I can’t see what’s going to stop us tomorrow!” said
Wood. “Not unless — Harry, you’ve sorted out your
dementor problem, haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Harry, thinking of his feeble Patronus
and wishing it were stronger.
“The dementors won’t turn up again, Oliver.
Dumbledore’d go ballistic,” said Fred confidently.
 
“Well, let’s hope not,” said Wood. “Anyway — good
work, everyone. Let’s get back to the tower ... turn in
early — ”
“I’m staying out for a bit; Ron wants a go on the
Firebolt,” Harry told Wood, and while the rest of the
team headed off to the locker rooms, Harry strode
over to Ron, who vaulted the barrier to the stands
and came to meet him. Madam Hooch had fallen
asleep in her seat.
“Here you go,” said Harry, handing Ron the Firebolt.
Ron, an expression of ecstasy on his face, mounted
the broom and zoomed off into the gathering darkness
while Harry walked around the edge of the field,
watching him. Night had fallen before Madam Hooch
awoke with a start, told Harry and Ron off for not
waking her, and insisted that they go back to the
castle.
Harry shouldered the Firebolt and he and Ron walked
out of the shadowy stadium, discussing the Firebolt’s
superbly smooth action, its phenomenal acceleration,
and its pinpoint turning. They were halfway toward
the castle when Harry, glancing to his left, saw
something that made his heart turn over — a pair of
eyes, gleaming out of the darkness.
Harry stopped dead, his heart banging against his
ribs.
“What’s the matter?” said Ron.
Harry pointed. Ron pulled out his wand and
muttered, “Lumos\”
 
A beam of light fell across the grass, hit the bottom of
a tree, and illuminated its branches; there, crouching
among the budding leaves, was Crookshanks.
“Get out of here!” Ron roared, and he stooped down
and seized a stone lying on the grass, but before he
could do anything else, Crookshanks had vanished
with one swish of his long ginger tail.
“See?” Ron said furiously, chucking the stone down
again. “She’s still letting him wander about wherever
he wants — probably washing down Scabbers with a
couple of birds now. ...”
Harry didn’t say anything. He took a deep breath as
relief seeped through him; he had been sure for a
moment that those eyes had belonged to the Grim.
They set off for the castle once more. Slightly
ashamed of his moment of panic, Harry didn’t say
anything to Ron — nor did he look left or right until
they had reached the well-lit entrance hall.
Harry went down to breakfast the next morning with
the rest of the boys in his dormitory, all of whom
seemed to think the Firebolt deserved a sort of guard
of honor. As Harry entered the Great Hall, heads
turned in the direction of the Firebolt, and there was
a good deal of excited muttering. Harry saw, with
enormous satisfaction, that the Slytherin team were
all looking thunderstruck.
“Did you see his face?” said Ron gleefully, looking
back at Malfoy. “He can’t believe it! This is brilliant!”
Wood, too, was basking in the reflected glory of the
Firebolt.
“Put it here, Harry,” he said, laying the broom in the
middle of the table and carefully turning it so that its
 
name faced upward. People from the Ravenclaw and
Hufflepuff tables were soon coming over to look.
Cedric Diggory came over to congratulate Harry on
having acquired such a superb replacement for his
Nimbus, and Percy’s Ravenclaw girlfriend, Penelope
Clearwater, asked if she could actually hold the
Firebolt.
“Now, now, Penny, no sabotage!” said Percy heartily
as she examined the Firebolt closely “Penelope and I
have got a bet on,” he told the team. “Ten Galleons on
the outcome of the match!”
Penelope put the Firebolt down again, thanked Harry,
and went back to her table.
“Harry — make sure you win,” said Percy, in an
urgent whisper. “I haven’t got ten Galleons. Yes, I’m
coming, Penny!” And he bustled off to join her in a
piece of toast.
“Sure you can manage that broom, Potter?” said a
cold, drawling voice.
Draco Malfoy had arrived for a closer look, Crabbe
and Goyle right behind him.
“Yeah, reckon so,” said Harry casually.
“Got plenty of special features, hasn’t it?” said Malfoy,
eyes glittering maliciously. “Shame it doesn’t come
with a parachute — in case you get too near a
dementor.”
Crabbe and Goyle sniggered.
“Pity you can’t attach an extra arm to yours, Malfoy,”
said Harry. “Then it could catch the Snitch for you.”
 
The Gryffindor team laughed loudly. Malfoy’s pale
eyes narrowed, and he stalked away. They watched
him rejoin the rest of the Slytherin team, who put
their heads together, no doubt asking Malfoy whether
Harry’s broom really was a Firebolt.
At a quarter to eleven, the Gryffindor team set off for
the locker rooms. The weather couldn’t have been
more different from their match against Hufflepuff. It
was a clear, cool day with a very light breeze; there
would be no visibility problems this time, and Harry,
though nervous, was starting to feel the excitement
only a Quidditch match could bring. They could hear
the rest of the school moving into the stadium
beyond. Harry took off his black school robes,
removed his wand from his pocket, and stuck it
inside the T-shirt he was going to wear under his
Quidditch robes. He only hoped he wouldn’t need it.
He wondered suddenly whether Professor Lupin was
in the crowd, watching.
“You know what we’ve got to do,” said Wood as they
prepared to leave the locker rooms. “If we lose this
match, we’re out of the running. Just — just fly like
you did in practice yesterday, and we’ll be okay!”
They walked out onto the field to tumultuous
applause. The Ravenclaw team, dressed in blue, were
already standing in the middle of the field. Their
Seeker, Cho Chang, was the only girl on their team.
She was shorter than Harry by about a head, and
Harry couldn’t help noticing, nervous as he was, that
she was extremely pretty. She smiled at Harry as the
teams faced each other behind their captains, and he
felt a slight lurch in the region of his stomach that he
didn’t think had anything to do with nerves.
 
“Wood, Davies, shake hands,” Madam Hooch said
briskly, and Wood shook hands with the Ravenclaw
Captain.
“Mount your brooms ... on my whistle . . . three — two
— one — ”
Harry kicked off into the air and the Firebolt zoomed
higher and faster than any other broom; he soared
around the stadium and began squinting around for
the Snitch, listening all the while to the commentary,
which was being provided by the Weasley twins’
friend Lee Jordan.
“They’re off, and the big excitement this match is the
Firebolt that Harry Potter is flying for Gryffindor.
According to Which Broomstick, the Firebolt’s going to
be the broom of choice for the national teams at this
year’s World Championship — ”
“Jordan, would you mind telling us what’s going on in
the match?” interrupted Professor McGonagall’s voice.
“Right you are, Professor — just giving a bit of
background information — the Firebolt, incidentally,
has a built-in auto-brake and — ”
“Jordan!”
“Okay, okay, Gryffindor in possession, Katie Bell of
Gryffindor heading for goal ...”
Harry streaked past Katie in the opposite direction,
gazing around for a glint of gold and noticing that Cho
Chang was tailing him closely. She was undoubtedly
a very good flier — she kept cutting across him,
forcing him to change direction.
 
“Show her your acceleration, Harry!” Fred yelled as he
whooshed past in pursuit of a Bludger that was
aiming for Alicia.
Harry urged the Firebolt forward as they rounded the
Ravenclaw goal posts and Cho fell behind. Just as
Katie succeeded in scoring the first goal of the match,
and the Gryffindor end of the field went wild, he saw
it — the Snitch was close to the ground, flitting near
one of the barriers.
Harry dived; Cho saw what he was doing and tore
after him — Harry was speeding up, excitement
flooding him; dives were his speciality, he was ten feet
away —
Then a Bludger, hit by one of the Ravenclaw Beaters,
came pelting out of nowhere; Harry veered off course,
avoiding it by an inch, and in those few, crucial
seconds, the Snitch had vanished.
There was a great “Ooooooh” of disappointment from
the Gryffindor supporters, but much applause for
their Beater from the Ravenclaw end. George Weasley
vented his feelings by hitting the second Bludger
directly at the offending Beater, who was forced to roll
right over in midair to avoid it.
“Gryffindor leads by eighty points to zero, and look at
that Firebolt go! Potter’s really putting it through its
paces now, see it turn — Chang’s Comet is just no
match for it, the Firebolt’s precision-balance is really
noticeable in these long — ”
“JORDAN! ARE YOU BEING PAID TO ADVERTISE
FIREBOLTS? GET ON WITH THE COMMENTARY!”
Ravenclaw was pulling back; they had now scored
three goals, which put Gryffindor only fifty points
 
ahead — if Cho got the Snitch before him, Ravenclaw
would win. Harry dropped lower, narrowly avoiding a
Ravenclaw Chaser, scanning the field frantically — a
glint of gold, a flutter of tiny wings — the Snitch was
circling the Gryffindor goal post —
Harry accelerated, eyes fixed on the speck of gold
ahead — but just then, Cho appeared out of thin air,
blocking him —
“HARRY, THIS IS NO TIME TO BE A GENTLEMAN!”
Wood roared as Harry swerved to avoid a collision.
“KNOCK HER OFF HER BROOM IF YOU HAVE TO!”
Harry turned and caught sight of Cho; she was
grinning. The Snitch had vanished again. Harry
turned his Firebolt upward and was soon twenty feet
above the game. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw
Cho following him. ... She’d decided to mark him
rather than search for the Snitch herself. . . . All right,
then ... if she wanted to tail him, she’d have to take
the consequences. ...
He dived again, and Cho, thinking he’d seen the
Snitch, tried to follow; Harry pulled out of the dive
very sharply; she hurtled downward; he rose fast as a
bullet once more, and then saw it, for the third time
— the Snitch was glittering way above the field at the
Ravenclaw end.
He accelerated; so, many feet below, did Cho. He was
winning, gaining on the Snitch with every second —
then —
“Oh!” screamed Cho, pointing.
Distracted, Harry looked down.
 
Three dementors, three tall, black, hooded dementors,
were looking up at him.
He didn’t stop to think. Plunging a hand down the
neck of his robes, he whipped out his wand and
roared, “Expecto patronum).”
Something silver-white, something enormous, erupted
from the end of his wand. He knew it had shot
directly at the dementors but didn’t pause to watch;
his mind still miraculously clear, he looked ahead —
he was nearly there. He stretched out the hand still
grasping his wand and just managed to close his
fingers over the small, struggling Snitch.
Madam Hooch’s whistle sounded. Harry turned
around in midair and saw six scarlet blurs bearing
down on him; next moment, the whole team was
hugging him so hard he was nearly pulled off his
broom. Down below he could hear the roars of the
Gryffindors in the crowd.
“That’s my boy!” Wood kept yelling. Alicia, Angelina,
and Katie had all kissed Harry; Fred had him in a grip
so tight Harry felt as though his head would come off.
In complete disarray, the team managed to make its
way back to the ground. Harry got off his broom and
looked up to see a gaggle of Gryffindor supporters
sprinting onto the field, Ron in the lead. Before he
knew it, he had been engulfed by the cheering crowd.
“Yes!” Ron yelled, yanking Harry’s arm into the air.
“Yes! Yes!”
“Well done, Harry!” said Percy, looking delighted. “Ten
Galleons to me! Must find Penelope, excuse me — ”
“Good for you, Harry!” roared Seamus Finnigan.
 
“Ruddy brilliant!” boomed Hagrid over the heads of
the milling Gryffindors.
“That was quite some Patronus,” said a voice in
Harry’s ear.
Harry turned around to see Professor Lupin, who
looked both shaken and pleased.
“The dementors didn’t affect me at all!” Harry said
excitedly. “I didn’t feel a thing!”
“That would be because they — er — weren’t
dementors,” said Professor Lupin. “Come and see — ”
He led Harry out of the crowd until they were able to
see the edge of the field.
“You gave Mr. Malfoy quite a fright,” said Lupin.
Harry stared. Lying in a crumpled heap on the ground
were Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Marcus Flint, the
Slytherin team Captain, all struggling to remove
themselves from long, black, hooded robes. It looked
as though Malfoy had been standing on Goyle ’s
shoulders. Standing over them, with an expression of
the utmost fury on her face, was Professor
McGonagall.
“An unworthy trick!” she was shouting. “A low and
cowardly attempt to sabotage the Gryffindor Seeker!
Detention for all of you, and fifty points from
Slytherin! I shall be speaking to Professor
Dumbledore about this, make no mistake! Ah, here
he comes now!”
If anything could have set the seal on Gryffindor’s
victory, it was this. Ron, who had fought his way
through to Harry’s side, doubled up with laughter as
 
they watched Malfoy fighting to extricate himself from
the robe, Goyle’s head still stuck inside it.
“Come on, Harry!” said George, fighting his way over.
“Party! Gryffindor common room, now!”
“Right,” said Harry, and feeling happier than he had
in ages, he and the rest of the team led the way, still
in their scarlet robes, out of the stadium and back up
to the castle.
It felt as though they had already won the Quidditch
Cup; the party went on all day and well into the night.
Fred and George Weasley disappeared for a couple of
hours and returned with armfuls of bottles of
butterbeer, pumpkin fizz, and several bags full of
Honeydukes sweets.
“How did you do that?” squealed Angelina Johnson as
George started throwing Peppermint Toads into the
crowd.
“With a little help from Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and
Prongs,” Fred muttered in Harry’s ear.
Only one person wasn’t joining in the festivities.
Hermione, incredibly, was sitting in a corner,
attempting to read an enormous book entitled Home
Life and Social Habits of British Muggles. Harry broke
away from the table where Fred and George had
started juggling butterbeer bottles and went over to
her.
“Did you even come to the match?” he asked her.
“Of course I did,” said Hermione in a strangely high-
pitched voice, not looking up. “And I’m very glad we
 
won, and I think you did really well, but I need to
read this by Monday.”
“Come on, Hermione, come and have some food,”
Harry said, looking over at Ron and wondering
whether he was in a good enough mood to bury the
hatchet.
“I can’t, Harry. I’ve still got four hundred and twenty-
two pages to read!” said Hermione, now sounding
slightly hysterical. “Anyway ...” She glanced over at
Ron too. “He doesn’t want me to join in.”
There was no arguing with this, as Ron chose that
moment to say loudly, “If Scabbers hadn’t just been
eaten, he could have had some of those Fudge Flies.
He used to really like them — ”
Hermione burst into tears. Before Harry could say or
do anything, she tucked the enormous book under
her arm, and, still sobbing, ran toward the staircase
to the girls’ dormitories and out of sight.
“Can’t you give her a break?” Harry asked Ron
quietly.
“No,” said Ron flatly. “If she just acted like she was
sorry — but she’ll never admit she’s wrong, Hermione.
She’s still acting like Scabbers has gone on vacation
or something.”
The Gryffindor party ended only when Professor
McGonagall turned up in her tartan dressing gown
and hair net at one in the morning, to insist that they
all go to bed. Harry and Ron climbed the stairs to
their dormitory, still discussing the match. At last,
exhausted, Harry climbed into bed, twitched the
hangings of his four-poster shut to block out a ray of
 
moonlight, lay back, and felt himself almost instantly
drifting off to sleep. ...
He had a very strange dream. He was walking
through a forest, his Firebolt over his shoulder,
following something silvery- white. It was winding its
way through the trees ahead, and he could only catch
glimpses of it between the leaves. Anxious to catch up
with it, he sped up, but as he moved faster, so did his
quarry. Harry broke into a run, and ahead he heard
hooves gathering speed. Now he was running flat out,
and ahead he could hear galloping. Then he turned a
corner into a clearing and —
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH
! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Harry woke as suddenly as though he’d been hit in
the face. Disoriented in the total darkness, he
fumbled with his hangings — he could hear
movements around him, and Seamus Finnigan’s voice
from the other side of the room: “What’s going on?”
Harry thought he heard the dormitory door slam. At
last finding the divide in his curtains, he ripped them
back, and at the same moment, Dean Thomas lit his
lamp.
Ron was sitting up in bed, the hangings torn from one
side, a look of utmost terror on his face.
“Black! Sirius Black! With a knife!”
“What?”
“Here! Just now! Slashed the curtains! Woke me up!”
“You sure you weren’t dreaming, Ron?” said Dean.
 
“Look at the curtains! I tell you, he was here!”
They all scrambled out of bed; Harry reached the
dormitory door first, and they sprinted back down the
staircase. Doors opened behind them, and sleepy
voices called after them.
“Who shouted?”
“What ’re you doing?”
The common room was lit with the glow of the dying
fire, still littered with the debris from the party. It was
deserted.
“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming, Ron?”
“I’m telling you, I saw him!”
“What’s all the noise?”
“Professor McGonagall told us to go to bed!”
A few of the girls had come down their staircase,
pulling on dressing gowns and yawning. Boys, too,
were reappearing.
“Excellent, are we carrying on?” said Fred Weasley
brightly.
“Everyone back upstairs!” said Percy,
hurrying into the common room and pinning his
Head Boy badge to his pajamas as he spoke.
“Perce — Sirius Black!” said Ron faintly. “In our
dormitory! With a knife! Woke me up!”
The common room went very still.
 
“Nonsense!” said Percy, looking startled. “You had too
much to eat, Ron — had a nightmare — ”
“I’m telling you — ”
“Now, really, enough’s enough!”
Professor McGonagall was back. She slammed the
portrait behind her as she entered the common room
and stared furiously around.
“I am delighted that Gryffindor won the match, but
this is getting ridiculous! Percy, I expected better of
you!”
“I certainly didn’t authorize this, Professor!” said
Percy, puffing himself up indignantly. “I was just
telling them all to get back to bed! My brother Ron
here had a nightmare — ”
“IT WASNT A NIGHTMARE!” Ron yelled.
“PROFESSOR, I WOKE UP, AND SIRIUS BLACK WAS
STANDING OVER ME, HOLDING A KNIFE!”
Professor McGonagall stared at him.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Weasley, how could he possibly
have gotten through the portrait hole?”
“Ask him!” said Ron, pointing a shaking finger at the
back of Sir Cadogan’s picture. “Ask him if he saw — ”
Glaring suspiciously at Ron, Professor McGonagall
pushed the portrait back open and went outside. The
whole common room listened with bated breath.
“Sir Cadogan, did you just let a man enter Gryffindor
Tower?”
 
“Certainly, good lady!” cried Sir Cadogan.
There was a stunned silence, both inside and outside
the common room.
“You — you did?” said Professor McGonagall. “But —
but the password!”
“He had ’em!” said Sir Cadogan proudly. “Had the
whole week’s, my lady! Read ’em off a little piece of
paper!”
Professor McGonagall pulled herself back through the
portrait hole to face the stunned crowd. She was
white as chalk.
“Which person,” she said, her voice shaking, “which
abysmally foolish person wrote down this week’s
passwords and left them lying around?”
There was utter silence, broken by the smallest of
terrified squeaks. Neville Longbottom, trembling from
head to fluffy-slippered toes, raised his hand slowly
into the air.
 
SNAPE’S GRUDGE
No one in Gryffindor Tower slept that night. They
knew that the castle was being searched again, and
the whole House stayed awake in the common room,
waiting to hear whether Black had been caught.
Professor McGonagall came back at dawn, to tell
them that he had again escaped.
Throughout the day, everywhere they went they saw
signs of tighter security; Professor Flitwick could be
seen teaching the front doors to recognize a large
picture of Sirius Black; Filch was suddenly bustling
up and down the corridors, boarding up everything
from tiny cracks in the walls to mouse holes. Sir
Cadogan had been fired. His portrait had been taken
back to its lonely landing on the seventh floor, and
the Fat Lady was back. She had been expertly
restored, but was still extremely nervous, and had
agreed to return to her job only on condition that she
was given extra protection. A bunch of surly security
trolls had been hired to guard her. They paced the
corridor in a menacing group, talking in grunts and
comparing the size of their clubs.
 
Harry couldn’t help noticing that the statue of the
one-eyed witch on the third floor remained unguarded
and unblocked. It seemed that Fred and George had
been right in thinking that they — and now Harry,
Ron, and Hermione — were the only ones who knew
about the hidden passageway within it.
“D’you reckon we should tell someone?” Harry asked
Ron.
“We know he’s not coming in through Honey duke’s,”
said Ron dismissively “We’d’ve heard if the shop had
been broken into.”
Harry was glad Ron took this view. If the one-eyed
witch was boarded up too, he would never be able to
go into Hogsmeade again.
Ron had become an instant celebrity. For the first
time in his life, people were paying more attention to
him than to Harry, and it was clear that Ron was
rather enjoying the experience. Though still severely
shaken by the night’s events, he was happy to tell
anyone who asked what had happened, with a wealth
of detail.
"... I was asleep, and I heard this ripping noise, and I
thought it was in my dream, you know? But then
there was this draft ... I woke up and one side of the
hangings on my bed had been pulled down. ... I rolled
over . . . and I saw him standing over me . . . like a
skeleton, with loads of filthy hair . . . holding this great
long knife, must’ve been twelve inches ... and he
looked at me, and I looked at him, and then I yelled,
and he scampered.
“Why, though?” Ron added to Harry as the group of
second-year girls who had been listening to his
chilling tale departed. “Why did he run?”
 
Harry had been wondering the same thing. Why had
Black, having got the wrong bed, not silenced Ron
and proceeded to Harry? Black had proved twelve
years ago that he didn’t mind murdering innocent
people, and this time he had been facing five
unarmed boys, four of whom were asleep.
“He must’ve known he’d have a job getting back out of
the castle once you’d yelled and woken people up,”
said Harry thoughtfully. “He’d’ve had to kill the whole
House to get back through the portrait hole . . . then
he would’ve met the teachers. ...”
Neville was in total disgrace. Professor McGonagall
was so furious with him she had banned him from all
future Hogsmeade visits, given him a detention, and
forbidden anyone to give him the password into the
tower. Poor Neville was forced to wait outside the
common room every night for somebody to let him in,
while the security trolls leered unpleasantly at him.
None of these punishments, however, came close to
matching the one his grandmother had in store for
him. Two days after Black’s break-in, she sent Neville
the very worst thing a Hogwarts student could receive
over breakfast — a Howler.
The school owls swooped into the Great Hall carrying
the mail as usual, and Neville choked as a huge barn
owl landed in front of him, a scarlet envelope clutched
in its beak. Harry and Ron, who were sitting opposite
him, recognized the letter as a Howler at once — Ron
had got one from his mother the year before.
“Run for it, Neville,” Ron advised.
Neville didn’t need telling twice. He seized the
envelope, and holding it before him like a bomb,
sprinted out of the hall, while the Slytherin table
exploded with laughter at the sight of him. They
 
heard the Howler go off in the entrance hall —
Neville’s grandmother’s voice, magically magnified to
a hundred times its usual volume, shrieking about
how he had brought shame on the whole family.
Harry was too busy feeling sorry for Neville to notice
immediately that he had a letter too. Hedwig got his
attention by nipping him sharply on the wrist.
“Ouch! Oh — thanks, Hedwig.”
Harry tore open the envelope while Hedwig helped
herself to some of Neville’s cornflakes. The note inside
said:
Dear Harry and Ron,
How about having tea with me this afternoon ’round
six?
I’ll come and collect you from the castle.
WAIT FOR ME IN THE ENTRANCE HALL;
YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED OUT ON YOUR OWN
Cheers,
Hagrid
“He probably wants to hear all about Black!” said
Ron.
So at six o’clock that afternoon, Harry and Ron left
Gryffindor Tower, passed the security trolls at a run,
and headed down to the entrance hall.
Hagrid was already waiting for them.
 
“All right, Hagrid!” said Ron. “S’pose you want to hear
about Saturday night, do you?”
“I’ve already heard all abou’ it,” said Hagrid, opening
the front doors and leading them outside.
“Oh,” said Ron, looking slightly put out.
The first thing they saw on entering Hagrid’s cabin
was Buckbeak, who was stretched out on top of
Hagrid’s patchwork quilt, his enormous wings folded
tight to his body, enjoying a large plate of dead
ferrets. Averting his eyes from this unpleasant sight,
Harry saw a gigantic, hairy brown suit and a very
horrible yellow-and-orange tie hanging from the top of
Hagrid’s wardrobe door.
“What are they for, Hagrid?” said Harry.
“Buckbeak’s case against the Committee fer the
Disposal o’ Dangerous Creatures,” said Hagrid. “This
Friday. Him an’ me’ll be goin’ down ter London
together. I’ve booked two beds on the Knight Bus. ...”
Harry felt a nasty pang of guilt. He had completely
forgotten that Buckbeak’s trial was so near, and
judging by the uneasy look on Ron’s face, he had too.
They had also forgotten their promise about helping
him prepare Buckbeak’s defense; the arrival of the
Firebolt had driven it clean out of their minds.
Hagrid poured them tea and offered them a plate of
Bath buns, but they knew better than to accept; they
had had too much experience with Hagrid’s cooking.
“I got somethin’ ter discuss with you two,” said
Hagrid, sitting himself between them and looking
uncharacteristically serious.
 
“What?” said Harry.
“Hermione,” said Hagrid.
“What about her?” said Ron.
“She’s in a righ’ state, that’s what. She’s bin cornin’
down ter visit me a lot since Chris ’mas. Bin feelin’
lonely. Firs’ yeh weren’ talking to her because o’ the
Firebolt, now yer not talkin’ to her because her cat — ”
“ — ate Scabbers!” Ron interjected angrily.
“Because her cat acted like all cats do,” Hagrid
continued doggedly. “She’s cried a fair few times, yeh
know. Goin’ through a rough time at the moment.
Bitten off more’n she can chew, if yeh ask me, all the
work she’s tryin’ ter do. Still found time ter help me
with Buckbeak’s case, mind. ... She’s found some
really good stuff fer me ... reckon he’ll stand a good
chance now. ...”
“Hagrid, we should’ve helped as well — sorry — ”
Harry began awkwardly.
“I’m not blamin’ yeh!” said Hagrid, waving Harry’s
apology aside. “Gawd knows yeh’ve had enough ter be
gettin’ on with. I’ve seen yeh practicin’ Quidditch ev’ry
hour o’ the day an’ night — but I gotta tell yeh, I
thought you two’d value yer friend more’n
broomsticks or rats. Tha’s all.”
Harry and Ron exchanged uncomfortable looks.
“Really upset, she was, when Black nearly stabbed
yeh, Ron. She’s got her heart in the right place,
Hermione has, an’ you two not talkin’ to her — ”
 
“If she’d just get rid of that cat, I’d speak to her
again!” Ron said angrily. “But she’s still sticking up
for it! It’s a maniac, and she won’t hear a word
against it!”
“Ah, well, people can be a bit stupid abou’ their pets,”
said Hagrid wisely. Behind him, Buckbeak spat a few
ferret bones onto Hagrid’s pillow.
They spent the rest of their visit discussing
Gryffindor’s improved chances for the Quidditch Cup.
At nine o’clock, Hagrid walked them back up to the
castle.
A large group of people was bunched around the
bulletin board when they returned to the common
room.
“Hogsmeade, next weekend!” said Ron, craning over
the heads to read the new notice. “What d’you
reckon?” he added quietly to Harry as they went to sit
down.
“Well, Filch hasn’t done anything about the passage
into Honeydukes. ...” Harry said, even more quietly.
“Harry!” said a voice in his right ear. Harry started
and looked around at Hermione, who was sitting at
the table right behind them and clearing a space in
the wall of books that had been hiding her.
“Harry, if you go into Hogsmeade again ... I’ll tell
Professor McGonagall about that map!” said
Hermione.
“Can you hear someone talking, Harry?” growled Ron,
not looking at Hermione.
 
“Ron, how can you let him go with you? After what
Sirius Black nearly did to youl I mean it, I’ll tell — ”
“So now you’re trying to get Harry expelled!” said Ron
furiously. “Haven’t you done enough damage this
year?”
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but with a
soft hiss, Crookshanks leapt onto her lap. Hermione
took one frightened look at the expression on Ron’s
face, gathered up Crookshanks, and hurried away
toward the girls’ dormitories.
“So how about it?” Ron said to Harry as though there
had been no interruption. “Come on, last time we
went you didn’t see anything. You haven’t even been
inside Zonko’s yet!”
Harry looked around to check that Hermione was well
out of earshot.
“Okay,” he said. “But I’m taking the Invisibility Cloak
this time.”
On Saturday morning, Harry packed his Invisibility
Cloak in his bag, slipped the Marauder’s Map into his
pocket, and went down to breakfast with everyone
else. Hermione kept shooting suspicious looks down
the table at him, but he avoided her eye and was
careful to let her see him walking back up the marble
staircase in the entrance hall as everybody else
proceeded to the front doors.
“ ’Bye!” Harry called to Ron. “See you when you get
back!”
Ron grinned and winked.
 
Harry hurried up to the third floor, slipping the
Marauder’s Map out of his pocket as he went.
Crouching behind the one-eyed witch, he smoothed it
out. A tiny dot was moving in his direction. Harry
squinted at it. The minuscule writing next to it read
Neville Longbottom.
Harry quickly pulled out his wand, muttered,
“ Dissendium).” and shoved his bag into the statue, but
before he could climb in himself, Neville came around
the corner.
“Harry! I forgot you weren’t going to Hogsmeade
either!”
“Hi, Neville,” said Harry, moving swiftly away from the
statue and pushing the map back into his pocket.
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” shrugged Neville. “Want a game of
Exploding Snap?”
“Er — not now — I was going to go to the library and
do that vampire essay for Lupin — ”
“I’ll come with you!” said Neville brightly. “I haven’t
done it either!”
“Er — hang on — yeah, I forgot, I finished it last
night!”
“Great, you can help me!” said Neville, his round face
anxious. “I don’t understand that thing about the
garlic at all — do they have to eat it, or — ”
He broke off with a small gasp, looking over Harry’s
shoulder.
It was Snape. Neville took a quick step behind Harry.
 
“And what are you two doing here?” said Snape,
coming to a halt and looking from one to the other.
“An odd place to meet — ”
To Harry’s immense disquiet, Snape’s black eyes
flicked to the doorways on either side of them, and
then to the one-eyed witch.
“We’re not — meeting here,” said Harry. “We just —
met here.”
“Indeed?” said Snape. “You have a habit of turning up
in unexpected places, Potter, and you are very rarely
there for no good reason. ... I suggest the pair of you
return to Gryffindor Tower, where you belong.”
Harry and Neville set off without another word. As
they turned the corner, Harry looked back. Snape was
running one of his hands over the one-eyed witch’s
head, examining it closely.
Harry managed to shake Neville off at the Fat Lady by
telling him the password, then pretending he’d left his
vampire essay in the library and doubling back. Once
out of sight of the security trolls, he pulled out the
map again and held it close to his nose.
The third floor corridor seemed to be deserted. Harry
scanned the map carefully and saw, with a leap of
relief, that the tiny dot labeled Severus Snape was
now back in its office.
He sprinted back to the one-eyed witch, opened her
hump, heaved himself inside, and slid down to meet
his bag at the bottom of the stone chute. He wiped
the Marauder’s Map blank again, then set off at a
run.
 
Harry, completely hidden beneath the Invisibility
Cloak, emerged into the sunlight outside Honeydukes
and prodded Ron in the back.
“It’s me,” he muttered.
“What kept you?” Ron hissed.
“Snape was hanging around. ...”
They set off up the High Street.
“Where are you?” Ron kept muttering out of the
corner of his mouth. “Are you still there? This feels
weird. ...”
They went to the post office; Ron pretended to be
checking the price of an owl to Bill in Egypt so that
Harry could have a good look around. The owls sat
hooting softly down at him, at least three hundred of
them; from Great Grays right down to tiny little Scops
owls (“Local Deliveries Only”), which were so small
they could have sat in the palm of Harry’s hand.
Then they visited Zonko’s, which was so packed with
students Harry had to exercise great care not to tread
on anyone and cause a panic. There were jokes and
tricks to fulfill even Fred’s and George’s wildest
dreams; Harry gave Ron whispered orders and passed
him some gold from under the cloak. They left
Zonko’s with their money bags considerably lighter
than they had been on entering, but their pockets
bulging with Dungbombs, Hiccup Sweets, Frog Spawn
Soap, and a Nose-Biting Teacup apiece.
The day was fine and breezy, and neither of them felt
like staying indoors, so they walked past the Three
Broomsticks and climbed a slope to visit the
Shrieking Shack, the most haunted dwelling in
 
Britain. It stood a little way above the rest of the
village, and even in daylight was slightly creepy, with
its boarded windows and dank overgrown garden.
“Even the Hogwarts ghosts avoid it,” said Ron as they
leaned on the fence, looking up at it. “I asked Nearly
Headless Nick ... he says he’s heard a very rough
crowd lives here. No one can get in. Fred and George
tried, obviously, but all the entrances are sealed shut.
Harry, feeling hot from their climb, was just
considering taking off the cloak for a few minutes
when they heard voices nearby. Someone was
climbing toward the house from the other side of the
hill; moments later, Malfoy had appeared, followed
closely by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy was speaking.
"... should have an owl from Father any time now. He
had to go to the hearing to tell them about my arm . . .
about how I couldn’t use it for three months. ...”
Crabbe and Goyle sniggered.
“I really wish I could hear that great hairy moron
trying to defend himself ... There’s no ’arm in ’im,
’onest — ’ . . . that hippogriff’s as good as dead — ”
Malfoy suddenly caught sight of Ron. His pale face
split in a malevolent grin.
“What are you doing, Weasley?”
Malfoy looked up at the crumbling house behind Ron.
“Suppose you’d love to live here, wouldn’t you,
Weasley? Dreaming about having your own bedroom?
I heard your family all sleep in one room — is that
true?”
 
Harry seized the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from
leaping on Malfoy.
“Leave him to me,” he hissed in Ron’s ear.
The opportunity was too perfect to miss. Harry crept
silently around behind Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle,
bent down, and scooped a large handful of mud out of
the path.
“We were just discussing your friend Hagrid,” Malfoy
said to Ron. “Just trying to imagine what he’s saying
to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous
Creatures. D’you think he’ll cry when they cut off his
hippogriff’s — ”
SPLAT.
Malfoy’s head jerked forward as the mud hit him; his
silver-blond hair was suddenly dripping in muck.
“What the — ?”
Ron had to hold onto the fence to keep himself
standing, he was laughing so hard. Malfoy, Crabbe,
and Goyle spun stupidly on the spot, staring wildly
around, Malfoy trying to wipe his hair clean.
“What was that? Who did that?”
“Very haunted up here, isn’t it?” said Ron, with the
air of one commenting on the weather.
Crabbe and Goyle were looking scared. Their bulging
muscles were no use against ghosts. Malfoy was
staring madly around at the deserted landscape.
 
Harry sneaked along the path, where a particularly
sloppy puddle yielded some foul-smelling, green
sludge.
SPLATTER.
Crabbe and Goyle caught some this time. Goyle
hopped furiously on the spot, trying to rub it out of
his small, dull eyes.
“It came from over there!” said Malfoy, wiping his
face, and staring at a spot some six feet to the left of
Harry.
Crabbe blundered forward, his long arms
outstretched like a zombie. Harry dodged around him,
picked up a stick, and lobbed it at Crabbe ’s back.
Harry doubled up with silent laughter as Crabbe did a
kind of pirouette in midair, trying to see who had
thrown it. As Ron was the only person Crabbe could
see, it was Ron he started toward, but Harry stuck
out his leg. Crabbe stumbled — and his huge, flat foot
caught the hem of Harry’s cloak. Harry felt a great
tug, then the cloak slid off his face.
For a split second, Malfoy stared at him.
“AAARGH!” he yelled, pointing at Harry’s head. Then
he turned tail and ran, at breakneck speed, back
down the hill, Crabbe and Goyle behind him.
Harry tugged the cloak up again, but the damage was
done.
“Harry!” Ron said, stumbling forward and staring
hopelessly at the point where Harry had disappeared,
“you’d better run for it! If Malfoy tells anyone — you’d
better get back to the castle, quick — ”
 
“See you later,” said Harry, and without another
word, he tore back down the path toward Hogsmeade.
Would Malfoy believe what he had seen? Would
anyone believe Malfoy? Nobody knew about the
Invisibility Cloak — nobody except Dumbledore.
Harry’s stomach turned over — Dumbledore would
know exactly what had happened, if Malfoy said
anything —
Back into Honeydukes, back down the cellar steps,
across the stone floor, through the trapdoor — Harry
pulled off the cloak, tucked it under his arm, and ran,
flat out, along the passage. ... Malfoy would get back
first . . . how long would it take him to find a teacher?
Panting, a sharp pain in his side, Harry didn’t slow
down until he reached the stone slide. He would have
to leave the cloak where it was, it was too much of a
giveaway in case Malfoy had tipped off a teacher — he
hid it in a shadowy corner, then started to climb, fast
as he could, his sweaty hands slipping on the sides of
the chute. He reached the inside of the witch’s hump,
tapped it with his wand, stuck his head through, and
hoisted himself out; the hump closed, and just as
Harry jumped out from behind the statue, he heard
quick footsteps approaching.
It was Snape. He approached Harry at a swift walk,
his black robes swishing, then stopped in front of
him.
“So,” he said.
There was a look of suppressed triumph about him.
Harry tried to look innocent, all too aware of his
sweaty face and his muddy hands, which he quickly
hid in his pockets.
“Come with me, Potter,” said Snape.
 
Harry followed him downstairs, trying to wipe his
hands clean on the inside of his robes without Snape
noticing. They walked down the stairs to the
dungeons and then into Snape’s office.
Harry had been in here only once before, and he had
been in very serious trouble then too. Snape had
acquired a few more slimy horrible things in jars
since last time, all standing on shelves behind his
desk, glinting in the firelight and adding to the
threatening atmosphere.
“Sit,” said Snape.
Harry sat. Snape, however, remained standing.
“Mr. Malfoy has just been to see me with a strange
story, Potter,” said Snape.
Harry didn’t say anything.
“He tells me that he was up by the Shrieking Shack
when he ran into Weasley — apparently alone.”
Still, Harry didn’t speak.
“Mr. Malfoy states that he was standing talking to
Weasley, when a large amount of mud hit him in the
back of the head. How do you think that could have
happened?”
Harry tried to look mildly surprised.
“I don’t know, Professor.”
Snape’s eyes were boring into Harry’s. It was exactly
like trying to stare down a hippogriff. Harry tried hard
not to blink.
 
“Mr. Malfoy then saw an extraordinary apparition.
Can you imagine what it might have been, Potter?”
“No,” said Harry, now trying to sound innocently
curious.
“It was your head, Potter. Floating in midair.”
There was a long silence.
“Maybe he’d better go to Madam Pomfrey,” said Harry.
“If he’s seeing things like — ”
“What would your head have been doing in
Hogsmeade, Potter?” said Snape softly. “Your head is
not allowed in Hogsmeade. No part of your body has
permission to be in Hogsmeade.”
“I know that,” said Harry, striving to keep his face free
of guilt or fear. “It sounds like Malfoy’s having
hallucin — ”
“Malfoy is not having hallucinations,” snarled Snape,
and he bent down, a hand on each arm of Harry’s
chair, so that their faces were a foot apart. “If your
head was in Hogsmeade, so was the rest of you.”
“I’ve been up in Gryffindor Tower,” said Harry. “Like
you told — ”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
Harry didn’t say anything. Snape’s thin mouth curled
into a horrible smile.
“So,” he said, straightening up again. “Everyone from
the Minister of Magic downward has been trying to
keep famous Harry Potter safe from Sirius Black. But
famous Harry Potter is a law unto himself. Let the
 
ordinary people worry about his safety! Famous Harry
Potter goes where he wants to, with no thought for
the consequences.”
Harry stayed silent. Snape was trying to provoke him
into telling the truth. He wasn’t going to do it. Snape
had no proof — yet.
“How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter,”
Snape said suddenly, his eyes glinting. “He too was
exceedingly arrogant. A small amount of talent on the
Quidditch field made him think he was a cut above
the rest of us too. Strutting around the place with his
friends and admirers . . . The resemblance between you
is uncanny.”
“My dad didn’t strut,” said Harry, before he could stop
himself. “And neither do I.”
“Your father didn’t set much store by rules either,”
Snape went on, pressing his advantage, his thin face
full of malice. “Rules were for lesser mortals, not
Quidditch Cup-winners. His head was so swollen — ”
“SHUT UP!”
Harry was suddenly on his feet. Rage such as he had
not felt since his last night in Privet Drive was
coursing through him. He didn’t care that Snape’s
face had gone rigid, the black eyes flashing
dangerously.
“ What did you say to me, Potter?”
“I told you to shut up about my dad!” Harry yelled. “I
know the truth, all right? He saved your life!
Dumbledore told me! You wouldn’t even be here if it
wasn’t for my dad!”
 
Snape’s sallow skin had gone the color of sour milk.
“And did the headmaster tell you the circumstances
in which your father saved my life?” he whispered.
“Or did he consider the details too unpleasant for
precious Potter’s delicate ears?”
Harry bit his lip. He didn’t know what had happened
and didn’t want to admit it — but Snape seemed to
have guessed the truth.
“I would hate for you to run away with a false idea of
your father, Potter,” he said, a terrible grin twisting
his face. “Have you been imagining some act of
glorious heroism? Then let me correct you — your
saintly father and his friends played a highly amusing
joke on me that would have resulted in my death if
your father hadn’t got cold feet at the last moment.
There was nothing brave about what he did. He was
saving his own skin as much as mine. Had their joke
succeeded, he would have been expelled from
Hogwarts.”
Snape’s uneven, yellowish teeth were bared.
“Turn out your pockets, Potter!” he spat suddenly.
Harry didn’t move. There was a pounding in his ears.
“Turn out your pockets, or we go straight to the
headmaster! Pull them out, Potter!”
Cold with dread, Harry slowly pulled out the bag of
Zonko’s tricks and the Marauder’s Map.
Snape picked up the Zonko’s bag.
 
“Ron gave them to me,” said Harry, praying he’d get a
chance to tip Ron off before Snape saw him. “He —
brought them back from Hogsmeade last time — ”
“Indeed? And you’ve been carrying them around ever
since? How very touching . . . and what is this?”
Snape had picked up the map. Harry tried with all his
might to keep his face impassive.
“Spare bit of parchment,” he said with a shrug.
Snape turned it over, his eyes on Harry.
“Surely you don’t need such a very old piece of
parchment?” he said. “Why don’t I just — throw this
away?”
His hand moved toward the fire.
“No!” Harry said quickly.
“So!” said Snape, his long nostrils quivering. “Is this
another treasured gift from Mr. Weasley? Or is it —
something else? A letter, perhaps, written in invisible
ink? Or — instructions to get into Hogsmeade without
passing the dementors?”
Harry blinked. Snape ’s eyes gleamed.
“Let me see, let me see ... ,” he muttered, taking out
his wand and smoothing the map out on his desk.
“Reveal your secret!” he said, touching the wand to
the parchment.
Nothing happened. Harry clenched his hands to stop
them from shaking.
 
“Show yourself!” Snape said, tapping the map
sharply.
It stayed blank. Harry was taking deep, calming
breaths.
“Professor Severus Snape, master of this school,
commands you to yield the information you conceal!”
Snape said, hitting the map with his wand.
As though an invisible hand were writing upon it,
words appeared on the smooth surface of the map.
“Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor
Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large
nose out of other people’s business.”
Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at the
message. But the map didn’t stop there. More writing
was appearing beneath the first.
“Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to
add that Professor Snape is an ugly git.”
It would have been very funny if the situation hadn’t
been so serious. And there was more. ...
“Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment
that an idiot like that ever became a professor.”
Harry closed his eyes in horror. When he’d opened
them, the map had had its last word.
“Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and
advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball.”
Harry waited for the blow to fall.
“So ... ,” said Snape softly. “We’ll see about this. ...”
 
He strode across to his fire, seized a fistful of
glittering powder from ajar on the fireplace, and
threw it into the flames.
“Lupin!” Snape called into the fire. “I want a word!”
Utterly bewildered, Harry stared at the fire. A large
shape had appeared in it, revolving very fast. Seconds
later, Professor Lupin was clambering out of the
fireplace, brushing ash off his shabby robes.
“You called, Severus?” said Lupin mildly.
“I certainly did,” said Snape, his face contorted with
fury as he strode back to his desk. “I have just asked
Potter to empty his pockets. He was carrying this.”
Snape pointed at the parchment, on which the words
of Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs
were still shining. An odd, closed expression appeared
on Lupin’s face.
“Well?” said Snape.
Lupin continued to stare at the map. Harry had the
impression that Lupin was doing some very quick
thinking.
“Well?” said Snape again. “This parchment is plainly
full of Dark Magic. This is supposed to be your area of
expertise, Lupin. Where do you imagine Potter got
such a thing?”
Lupin looked up and, by the merest half-glance in
Harry’s direction, warned him not to interrupt.
“Full of Dark Magic?” he repeated mildly. “Do you
really think so, Severus? It looks to me as though it is
merely a piece of parchment that insults anybody who
 
reads it. Childish, but surely not dangerous? I
imagine Harry got it from a joke shop — ”
“Indeed?” said Snape. His jaw had gone rigid with
anger. “You think a joke shop could supply him with
such a thing? You don’t think it more likely that he
got it directly from the manufacturers?”
Harry didn’t understand what Snape was talking
about. Nor, apparently, did Lupin.
“You mean, by Mr. Wormtail or one of these people?”
he said. “Harry, do you know any of these men?”
“No,” said Harry quickly.
“You see, Severus?” said Lupin, turning back to
Snape. “It looks like a Zonko product to me — ”
Right on cue, Ron came bursting into the office. He
was completely out of breath, and stopped just short
of Snape ’s desk, clutching the stitch in his chest and
trying to speak.
“I — gave — Harry — that — stuff,” he choked.
“Bought — it ... in Zonko ’s ... ages — ago ...”
“Well!” said Lupin, clapping his hands together and
looking around cheerfully. “That seems to clear that
up! Severus, I’ll take this back, shall I?” He folded the
map and tucked it inside his robes. “Harry, Ron,
come with me, I need a word about my vampire essay
— excuse us, Severus — ”
Harry didn’t dare look at Snape as they left his office.
He, Ron, and Lupin walked all the way back into the
entrance hall before speaking. Then Harry turned to
Lupin.
 
“Professor, I — ”
“I don’t want to hear explanations,” said Lupin
shortly. He glanced around the empty entrance hall
and lowered his voice. “I happen to know that this
map was confiscated by Mr. Filch many years ago.
Yes, I know it’s a map,” he said as Harry and Ron
looked amazed. “I don’t want to know how it fell into
your possession. I am, however, astounded that you
didn’t hand it in. Particularly after what happened the
last time a student left information about the castle
lying around. And I can’t let you have it back, Harry.”
Harry had expected that, and was too keen for
explanations to protest.
“Why did Snape think I’d got it from the
manufacturers?”
“Because ... ,” Lupin hesitated, “because these
mapmakers would have wanted to lure you out of
school. They’d think it extremely entertaining.”
“Do you know them?” said Harry, impressed.
“We’ve met,” he said shortly. He was looking at Harry
more seriously than ever before.
“Don’t expect me to cover up for you again, Harry. I
cannot make you take Sirius Black seriously. But I
would have thought that what you have heard when
the dementors draw near you would have had more of
an effect on you. Your parents gave their lives to keep
you alive, Harry. A poor way to repay them —
gambling their sacrifice for a bag of magic tricks.”
He walked away, leaving Harry feeling worse by far
than he had at any point in Snape ’s office. Slowly, he
and Ron mounted the marble staircase. As Harry
 
passed the one-eyed witch, he remembered the
Invisibility Cloak — it was still down there, but he
didn’t dare go and get it.
“It’s my fault,” said Ron abruptly. “I persuaded you to
go. Lupin’s right, it was stupid, we shouldn’t’ve done
it — ”
He broke off; they reached the corridor where the
security trolls were pacing, and Hermione was
walking toward them. One look at her face convinced
Harry that she had heard what had happened. His
heart plummeted — had she told Professor
McGonagall?
“Come to have a good gloat?” said Ron savagely as
she stopped in front of them. “Or have you just been
to tell on us?”
“No,” said Hermione. She was holding a letter in her
hands and her lip was trembling. “I just thought you
ought to know ... Hagrid lost his case. Buckbeak is
going to be executed.”
 
THE QUIDDITCH FINAL
“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.
“Hermionel” 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.
“Wh — 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 harassed.
“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 he
went, 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 Firebolti” 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 innocent-
looking. 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 was 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 goal posts, 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 goal posts, 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
goal posts, 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 DONT 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 Seeker.
“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 goal posts — 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 goal
posts, 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, took 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.
 
PROFESSOR TRELAWNEY’S
PREDICTION
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 Gramatica?”
 
“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.
k k k
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 11 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 sat 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 he was. 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. Harry sat
there, staring at her. 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 sat there, staring at her.
“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.
“Well 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, yehll 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 Scabbersl”
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 cornin’. ...”
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 — ”
“Well 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 grey, 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!”
 
CAT, RAT, AND DOG
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.
“Gotchal 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, quiet as a shadow — 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 — ”
“Harry — 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
was heading for 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.
 
“ ExpelliarmusV’ 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 DONT!” 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 near 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 nouA 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.
“ ExpelliarmusV’ 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 a very tense voice.
“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 DONT 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’s 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.”
 
MOONY, WORMTAIL, PADFOOT, AND
PRONGS
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.
 
THE SERVANT OF LORD
VOLDERMORT
Hermione screamed. Black leapt to his feet. Harry felt
as though he’d received a huge electric shock.
“I found this at the base of the Whomping Willow,”
said Snape, throwing the cloak aside, careful to keep
this wand pointing directly at Lupin’s chest. “Very
useful, Potter, I thank you. ...”
Snape was slightly breathless, but his face was full of
suppressed triumph. “You’re wondering, perhaps,
how I knew you were here?” he said, his eyes
glittering. “I’ve just been to your office, Lupin. You
forgot to take your potion tonight, so I took a gobletful
along. And very lucky I did ... lucky for me, I mean.
Lying on your desk was a certain map. One glance at
it told me all I needed to know. I saw you running
along this passageway and out of sight.”
“Severus — ” Lupin began, but Snape overrode him.
 
“I’ve told the headmaster again and again that you’re
helping your old friend Black into the castle, Lupin,
and here’s the proof. Not even I dreamed you would
have the nerve to use this old place as your hideout
“Severus, you’re making a mistake,” said Lupin
urgently. “You haven’t heard everything — I can
explain — Sirius is not here to kill Harry — ”
“Two more for Azkaban tonight,” said Snape, his eyes
now gleaming fanatically. “I shall be interested to see
how Dumbledore takes this. ... He was quite
convinced you were harmless, you know, Lupin ... a
tame werewolf — ”
“You fool,” said Lupin softly. “Is a schoolboy grudge
worth putting an innocent man back inside
Azkaban?”
BANG! Thin, snakelike cords burst from the end of
Snape’s wand and twisted themselves around Lupin’s
mouth, wrists, and ankles; he overbalanced and fell
to the floor, unable to move. With a roar of rage,
Black started toward Snape, but Snape pointed his
wand straight between Black’s eyes.
“Give me a reason,” he whispered. “Give me a reason
to do it, and I swear I will.”
Black stopped dead. It would have been impossible to
say which face showed more hatred.
Harry stood there, paralyzed, not knowing what to do
or whom to believe. He glanced around at Ron and
Hermione. Ron looked just as confused as he did, still
fighting to keep hold on the struggling Scabbers.
Hermione, however, took an uncertain step toward
Snape and said, in a very breathless voice, “Professor
 
Snape — it — it wouldn’t hurt to hear what they’ve
got to say, w — would it?”
“Miss Granger, you are already facing suspension
from this school,” Snape spat. “You, Potter, and
Weasley are out-of-bounds, in the company of a
convicted murderer and a werewolf. For once in your
life, hold your tongue.”
“But if — if there was a mistake — ”
“KEEP QUIET, YOU STUPID GIRL!” Snape shouted,
looking suddenly quite deranged. “DONT TALK
ABOUT WHAT YOU DONT UNDERSTAND!” A few
sparks shot out of the end of his wand, which was
still pointed at Black’s face. Hermione fell silent.
“Vengeance is very sweet,” Snape breathed at Black.
“How I hoped I would be the one to catch you. ...”
“The joke’s on you again, Severus,” Black snarled. “As
long as this boy brings his rat up to the castle” — he
jerked his head at Ron — “I’ll come quietly. ...”
“Up to the castle?” said Snape silkily. “I don’t think
we need to go that far. All I have to do is call the
dementors once we get out of the Willow. They’ll be
very pleased to see you, Black ... pleased enough to
give you a little kiss, I daresay. ...”
What little color there was in Black’s face left it.
“You — you’ve got to hear me out,” he croaked. “The
rat — look at the rat — ”
But there was a mad glint in Snape ’s eyes that Harry
had never seen before. He seemed beyond reason.
 
“Come on, all of you,” he said. He clicked his fingers,
and the ends of the cords that bound Lupin flew to
his hands. “Ill drag the werewolf. Perhaps the
dementors will have a kiss for him too — ”
Before he knew what he was doing, Harry had crossed
the room in three strides and blocked the door.
“Get out of the way, Potter, you’re in enough trouble
already,” snarled Snape. “If I hadn’t been here to save
your skin — ”
“Professor Lupin could have killed me about a
hundred times this year,” Harry said. “I’ve been alone
with him loads of times, having defense lessons
against the dementors. If he was helping Black, why
didn’t he just finish me off then?”
“Don’t ask me to fathom the way a werewolf’s mind
works,” hissed Snape. “Get out of the way, Potter.”
“YOU’RE PATHETIC!” Harry yelled. “JUST BECAUSE
THEY MADE A FOOL OF YOU AT SCHOOL YOU
WONT EVEN LISTEN — ”
“SILENCE! I WILL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT!”
Snape shrieked, looking madder than ever. “Like
father, like son, Potter! I have just saved your neck;
you should be thanking me on bended knee! You
would have been well served if he’d killed you! You’d
have died like your father, too arrogant to believe you
might be mistaken in Black — now get out of the way,
or I will make you. GET OUT OF THE WAY, POTTER!”
Harry made up his mind in a split second. Before
Snape could take even one step toward him, he had
raised his wand.
 
“ Expelliarmus\” he yelled — except that his wasn’t the
only voice that shouted. There was a blast that made
the door rattle on its hinges; Snape was lifted off his
feet and slammed into the wall, then slid down it to
the floor, a trickle of blood oozing from under his hair.
He had been knocked out.
Harry looked around. Both Ron and Hermione had
tried to disarm Snape at exactly the same moment.
Snape ’s wand soared in a high arc and landed on the
bed next to Crookshanks.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Black, looking at
Harry. “You should have left him to me. ...”
Harry avoided Black’s eyes. He wasn’t sure, even now,
that he’d done the right thing.
“We attacked a teacher. ... We attacked a teacher ... ,”
Hermione whimpered, staring at the lifeless Snape
with frightened eyes. “Oh, we’re going to be in so
much trouble — ”
Lupin was struggling against his bonds. Black bent
down quickly and untied him. Lupin straightened up,
rubbing his arms where the ropes had cut into them.
“Thank you, Harry,” he said.
“I’m still not saying I believe you,” he told Lupin.
“Then it’s time we offered you some proof,” said
Lupin. “You, boy — give me Peter, please. Now.”
Ron clutched Scabbers closer to his chest.
“Come off it,” he said weakly. “Are you trying to say
he broke out of Azkaban just to get his hands on
Scabbers ? I mean ...” He looked up at Harry and
 
Hermione for support, “Okay, say Pettigrew could
turn into a rat — there are millions of rats — how’s he
supposed to know which one he’s after if he was
locked up in Azkaban?”
“You know, Sirius, that’s a fair question,” said Lupin,
turning to Black and frowning slightly. “How did you
find out where he was?”
Black put one of his clawlike hands inside his robes
and took out a crumpled piece of paper, which he
smoothed flat and held out to show the others.
It was the photograph of Ron and his family that had
appeared in the Daily Prophet the previous summer,
and there, on Ron’s shoulder, was Scabbers.
“How did you get this?” Lupin asked Black,
thunderstruck.
“Fudge,” said Black. “When he came to inspect
Azkaban last year, he gave me his paper. And there
was Peter, on the front page ... on this boy’s shoulder.
... I knew him at once . . . how many times had I seen
him transform? And the caption said the boy would
be going back to Hogwarts ... to where Harry was. ...”
“My God,” said Lupin softly, staring from Scabbers to
the picture in the paper and back again. “His front
paw ...”
“What about it?” said Ron defiantly.
“He’s got a toe missing,” said Black.
“Of course,” Lupin breathed. “So simple ... so brilliant
... he cut it off himself?”
 
“Just before he transformed,” said Black. “When I
cornered him, he yelled for the whole street to hear
that I’d betrayed Lily and James. Then, before I could
curse him, he blew apart the street with the wand
behind his back, killed everyone within twenty feet of
himself — and sped down into the sewer with the
other rats. ...”
“Didn’t you ever hear, Ron?” said Lupin. “The biggest
bit of Peter they found was his finger.”
“Look, Scabbers probably had a fight with another rat
or something! He’s been in my family for ages, right —
“Twelve years, in fact,” said Lupin. “Didn’t you ever
wonder why he was living so long?”
“We — we’ve been taking good care of him!” said Ron.
“Not looking too good at the moment, though, is he?”
said Lupin. “I’d guess he’s been losing weight ever
since he heard Sirius was on the loose again. ...”
“He’s been scared of that mad cat!” said Ron, nodding
toward Crookshanks, who was still purring on the
bed.
But that wasn’t right, Harry thought suddenly. ...
Scabbers had been looking ill before he met
Crookshanks . . . ever since Ron’s return from Egypt . . .
since the time when Black had escaped. ...
“This cat isn’t mad,” said Black hoarsely. He reached
out a bony hand and stroked Crookshanks ’s fluffy
head. “He’s the most intelligent of his kind I’ve ever
met. He recognized Peter for what he was right away.
And when he met me, he knew I was no dog. It was a
while before he trusted me. ... Finally, I managed to
 
communicate to him what I was after, and he’s been
helping me. ...”
“What do you mean?” breathed Hermione.
“He tried to bring Peter to me, but couldn’t ... so he
stole the passwords into Gryffindor Tower for me. ...
As I understand it, he took them from a boy’s bedside
table. ...”
Harry’s brain seemed to be sagging under the weight
of what he was hearing. It was absurd . . . and yet . . .
“But Peter got wind of what was going on and ran for
it. ...” croaked Black. “This cat — Crookshanks, did
you call him? — told me Peter had left blood on the
sheets. ... I supposed he bit himself. ... Well, faking
his own death had worked once. ...”
These words jolted Harry to his senses.
“And why did he fake his death?” he said furiously.
“Because he knew you were about to kill him like you
killed my parents!”
“No,” said Lupin, “Harry — ”
“And now you’ve come to finish him off!”
“Yes, I have,” said Black, with an evil look at
Scabbers.
“Then I should’ve let Snape take you!” Harry shouted.
“Harry,” said Lupin hurriedly, “don’t you see? All this
time we’ve thought Sirius betrayed your parents, and
Peter tracked him down — but it was the other way
around, don’t you see? Peter betrayed your mother
and father — Sirius tracked Peter down — ”
 
“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Harry yelled. “HE WAS THEIR
SECRET-KEEPER! HE SAID SO BEFORE YOU
TURNED UP. HE SAID HE KILLED THEM!”
He was pointing at Black, who shook his head slowly;
the sunken eyes were suddenly overbright.
“Harry ... I as good as killed them,” he croaked. “I
persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the
last moment, persuaded them to use him as Secret-
Keeper instead of me. ... I’m to blame, I know it. ...
The night they died, I’d arranged to check on Peter,
make sure he was still safe, but when I arrived at his
hiding place, he’d gone. Yet there was no sign of a
struggle. It didn’t feel right. I was scared. I set out for
your parents’ house straight away. And when I saw
their house, destroyed, and their bodies ... I realized
what Peter must’ve done ... what I’d done. ...”
His voice broke. He turned away.
“Enough of this,” said Lupin, and there was a steely
note in his voice Harry had never heard before.
“There’s one certain way to prove what really
happened. Ron, give me that rat”
“What are you going to do with him if I give him to
you?” Ron asked Lupin tensely.
“Force him to show himself,” said Lupin. “If he really
is a rat, it won’t hurt him.”
Ron hesitated. Then at long last, he held out
Scabbers and Lupin took him. Scabbers began to
squeak without stopping, twisting and turning, his
tiny black eyes bulging in his head.
“Ready, Sirius?” said Lupin.
 
Black had already retrieved Snape’s wand from the
bed. He approached Lupin and the struggling rat, and
his wet eyes suddenly seemed to be burning in his
face.
“Together?” he said quietly.
“I think so,” said Lupin, holding Scabbers tightly in
one hand and his wand in the other. “On the count of
three. One — two — THREE!”
A flash of blue-white light erupted from both wands;
for a moment, Scabbers was frozen in midair, his
small gray form twisting madly — Ron yelled — the
rat fell and hit the floor. There was another blinding
flash of light and then —
It was like watching a speeded-up film of a growing
tree. A head was shooting upward from the ground;
limbs were sprouting; a moment later, a man was
standing where Scabbers had been, cringing and
wringing his hands. Crookshanks was spitting and
snarling on the bed; the hair on his back was
standing up.
He was a very short man, hardly taller than Harry
and Hermione. His thin, colorless hair was unkempt
and there was a large bald patch on top. He had the
shrunken appearance of a plump man who has lost a
lot of weight in a short time. His skin looked grubby,
almost like Scabbers ’s fur, and something of the rat
lingered around his pointed nose and his very small,
watery eyes. He looked around at them all, his
breathing fast and shallow. Harry saw his eyes dart to
the door and back again.
“Well, hello, Peter,” said Lupin pleasantly, as though
rats frequently erupted into old school friends around
him. “Long time, no see.”
 
“S — Sirius ... R — Remus ...” Even Pettigrew’s voice
was squeaky. Again, his eyes darted toward the door.
“My friends ... my old friends ...”
Black’s wand arm rose, but Lupin seized him around
the wrist, gave him a warning look, then turned again
to Pettigrew, his voice light and casual.
“We’ve been having a little chat, Peter, about what
happened the night Lily and James died. You might
have missed the finer points while you were
squeaking around down there on the bed — ”
“Remus,” gasped Pettigrew, and Harry could see
beads of sweat breaking out over his pasty face, “you
don’t believe him, do you... ? He tried to kill me,
Remus. ...”
“So we’ve heard,” said Lupin, more coldly. “I’d like to
clear up one or two little matters with you, Peter, if
you’d be so — ”
“He’s come to try and kill me again!” Pettigrew
squeaked suddenly, pointing at Black, and Harry saw
that he used his middle finger, because his index was
missing. “He killed Lily and James and now he’s going
to kill me too. ... You’ve got to help me, Remus. ...”
Black’s face looked more skull-like than ever as he
stared at Pettigrew with his fathomless eyes.
“No one’s going to try and kill you until we’ve sorted a
few things out,” said Lupin.
“Sorted things out?” squealed Pettigrew, looking
wildly about him once more, eyes taking in the
boarded windows and, again, the only door. “I knew
he’d come after me! I knew he’d be back for me! I’ve
been waiting for this for twelve years!”
 
“You knew Sirius was going to break out of Azkaban?”
said Lupin, his brow furrowed. “When nobody has
ever done it before?”
“He’s got dark powers the rest of us can only dream
of!” Pettigrew shouted shrilly. “How else did he get out
of there? I suppose He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named
taught him a few tricks!”
Black started to laugh, a horrible, mirthless laugh
that filled the whole room.
“Voldemort, teach me tricks?” he said.
Pettigrew flinched as though Black had brandished a
whip at him.
“What, scared to hear your old master’s name?” said
Black. “I don’t blame you, Peter. His lot aren’t very
happy with you, are they?”
“Don’t know what you mean, Sirius — ” muttered
Pettigrew, his breathing faster than ever. His whole
face was shining with sweat now.
“You haven’t been hiding from me for twelve years,”
said Black. “You’ve been hiding from Voldemort’s old
supporters. I heard things in Azkaban, Peter. ... They
all think you’re dead, or you’d have to answer to
them. ... I’ve heard them screaming all sorts of things
in their sleep. Sounds like they think the double-
crosser double-crossed them. Voldemort went to the
Potters’ on your information ... and Voldemort met his
downfall there. And not all Voldemort’s supporters
ended up in Azkaban, did they? There are still plenty
out here, biding their time, pretending they’ve seen
the error of their ways. ... If they ever got wind that
you were still alive, Peter — ”
 
“Don’t know ... what you’re talking about... said
Pettigrew again, more shrilly than ever. He wiped his
face on his sleeve and looked up at Lupin. “You don’t
believe this — this madness, Remus — ”
“I must admit, Peter, I have difficulty in
understanding why an innocent man would want to
spend twelve years as a rat,” said Lupin evenly.
“Innocent, but scared!” squealed Pettigrew. “If
Voldemort’s supporters were after me, it was because
I put one of their best men in Azkaban — the spy,
Sirius Black!”
Black’s face contorted.
“How dare you,” he growled, sounding suddenly like
the bear-sized dog he had been. “I, a spy for
Voldemort? When did I ever sneak around people who
were stronger and more powerful than myself? But
you, Peter — I’ll never understand why I didn’t see
you were the spy from the start. You always liked big
friends who’d look after you, didn’t you? It used to be
us ... me and Remus ... and James. ...”
Pettigrew wiped his face again; he was almost panting
for breath.
“Me, a spy ... must be out of your mind ... never ...
don’t know how you can say such a — ”
“Lily and James only made you Secret-Keeper
because I suggested it,” Black hissed, so venomously
that Pettigrew took a step backward. “I thought it was
the perfect plan ... a bluff. ... Voldemort would be
sure to come after me, would never dream they’d use
a weak, talentless thing like you. ... It must have been
the finest moment of your miserable life, telling
Voldemort you could hand him the Potters.”
 
Pettigrew was muttering distractedly; Harry caught
words like “far-fetched” and “lunacy,” but he couldn’t
help paying more attention to the ashen color of
Pettigrew’s face and the way his eyes continued to
dart toward the windows and door.
“Professor Lupin?” said Hermione timidly. “Can — can
I say something?”
“Certainly, Hermione,” said Lupin courteously.
“Well — Scabbers — I mean, this — this man — he’s
been sleeping in Harry’s dormitory for three years. If
he’s working for You-Know-Who, how come he never
tried to hurt Harry before now?”
“There!” said Pettigrew shrilly, pointing at Ron with
his maimed hand. “Thank you! You see, Remus? I
have never hurt a hair of Harry’s head! Why should
I?”
“I’ll tell you why,” said Black. “Because you never did
anything for anyone unless you could see what was in
it for you. Voldemort’s been in hiding for fifteen years,
they say he’s half dead. You weren’t about to commit
murder right under Albus Dumbledore’s nose, for a
wreck of a wizard who’d lost all of his power, were
you? You’d want to be quite sure he was the biggest
bully in the playground before you went back to him,
wouldn’t you? Why else did you find a wizard family
to take you in? Keeping an ear out for news, weren’t
you, Peter? Just in case your old protector regained
strength, and it was safe to rejoin him. ...”
Pettigrew opened his mouth and closed it several
times. He seemed to have lost the ability to talk.
“Er — Mr. Black — Sirius?” said Hermione.
 
Black jumped at being addressed like this and stared
at Hermione as though he had never seen anything
quite like her.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how — how did you get
out of Azkaban, if you didn’t use Dark Magic?”
“Thank you!” gasped Pettigrew, nodding frantically at
her. “Exactly! Precisely what I — ”
But Lupin silenced him with a look. Black was
frowning slightly at Hermione, but not as though he
were annoyed with her. He seemed to be pondering
his answer.
“I don’t know how I did it,” he said slowly. “I think the
only reason I never lost my mind is that I knew I was
innocent. That wasn’t a happy thought, so the
dementors couldn’t suck it out of me ... but it kept me
sane and knowing who I am . . . helped me keep my
powers ... so when it all became . . . too much ... I
could transform in my cell . . . become a dog.
Dementors can’t see, you know. ...” He swallowed.
“They feel their way toward people by feeding off their
emotions. ... They could tell that my feelings were less
— less human, less complex when I was a dog ... but
they thought, of course, that I was losing my mind
like everyone else in there, so it didn’t trouble them.
But I was weak, very weak, and I had no hope of
driving them away from me without a wand. ...
“But then I saw Peter in that picture ... I realized he
was at Hogwarts with Harry . . . perfectly positioned to
act, if one hint reached his ears that the Dark Side
was gathering strength again. ...”
Pettigrew was shaking his head, mouthing
noiselessly, but staring all the while at Black as
though hypnotized.
 
"... ready to strike at the moment he could be sure of
allies ... and to deliver the last Potter to them. If he
gave them Harry, who’d dare say he’d betrayed Lord
Voldemort? He’d be welcomed back with honors. ...
“So you see, I had to do something. I was the only one
who knew Peter was still alive. ...”
Harry remembered what Mr. Weasley had told Mrs.
Weasley. “The guards say he’s been talking in his
sleep ... always the same words ... ‘He’s at Hog warts.’
“It was as if someone had lit a fire in my head, and
the dementors couldn’t destroy it. ... It wasn’t a
happy feeling ... it was an obsession . . . but it gave me
strength, it cleared my mind. So, one night when they
opened my door to bring food, I slipped past them as
a dog. ... It’s so much harder for them to sense
animal emotions that they were confused. ... I was
thin, very thin . . . thin enough to slip through the
bars. ... I swam as a dog back to the mainland. ... I
journeyed north and slipped into the Hogwarts
grounds as a dog. I’ve been living in the forest ever
since, except when I came to watch the Quidditch, of
course. You fly as well as your father did, Harry. ...”
He looked at Harry, who did not look away.
“Believe me,” croaked Black. “Believe me, Harry. I
never betrayed James and Lily. I would have died
before I betrayed them.”
And at long last, Harry believed him. Throat too tight
to speak, he nodded.
“No!”
 
Pettigrew had fallen to his knees as though Harry’s
nod had been his own death sentence. He shuffled
forward on his knees, groveling, his hands clasped in
front of him as though praying.
“Sirius — it’s me ... it’s Peter ... your friend ... you
wouldn’t ...”
Black kicked out and Pettigrew recoiled.
“There’s enough filth on my robes without you
touching them,” said Black.
“Remus!” Pettigrew squeaked, turning to Lupin
instead, writhing imploringly in front of him. “You
don’t believe this ... wouldn’t Sirius have told you
they’d changed the plan?”
“Not if he thought I was the spy, Peter,” said Lupin. “I
assume that’s why you didn’t tell me, Sirius?” he said
casually over Pettigrew’s head.
“Forgive me, Remus,” said Black.
“Not at all, Padfoot, old friend,” said Lupin, who was
now rolling up his sleeves. “And will you, in turn,
forgive me for believing you were the spy?”
“Of course,” said Black, and the ghost of a grin flitted
across his gaunt face. He, too, began rolling up his
sleeves. “Shall we kill him together?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Lupin grimly.
“You wouldn’t ... you won’t... ,” gasped Pettigrew. And
he scrambled around to Ron.
 
“Ron ... haven’t I been a good friend ... a good pet?
You won’t let them kill me, Ron, will you ... you’re on
my side, aren’t you?”
But Ron was staring at Pettigrew with the utmost
revulsion.
“I let you sleep in my bed\” he said.
“Kind boy ... kind master ...” Pettigrew crawled toward
Ron, “you won’t let them do it. ... I was your rat. ... I
was a good pet. ...”
“If you made a better rat than a human, it’s not much
to boast about, Peter,” said Black harshly. Ron, going
still paler with pain, wrenched his broken leg out of
Pettigrew’s reach. Pettigrew turned on his knees,
staggered forward, and seized the hem of Hermione’s
robes.
“Sweet girl ... clever girl ... you — you won’t let them.
... Help me. ...”
Hermione pulled her robes out of Pettigrew’s
clutching hands and backed away against the wall,
looking horrified.
Pettigrew knelt, trembling uncontrollably, and turned
his head slowly toward Harry.
“Harry ... Harry ... you look just like your father ...
just like him. ...”
“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO HARRY?” roared Black.
“HOW DARE YOU FACE HIM? HOW DARE YOU TALK
ABOUT JAMES IN FRONT OF HIM?”
“Harry,” whispered Pettigrew, shuffling toward him,
hands outstretched. “Harry, James wouldn’t have
 
wanted me killed. ... James would have understood,
Harry ... he would have shown me mercy. ...”
Both Black and Lupin strode forward, seized
Pettigrew’s shoulders, and threw him backward onto
the floor. He sat there, twitching with terror, staring
up at them.
“You sold Lily and James to Voldemort,” said Black,
who was shaking too. “Do you deny it?”
Pettigrew burst into tears. It was horrible to watch,
like an oversized, balding baby, cowering on the floor.
“Sirius, Sirius, what could I have done? The Dark
Lord . . . you have no idea ... he has weapons you can’t
imagine. ... I was scared, Sirius, I was never brave
like you and Remus and James. I never meant it to
happen. ... He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me —
“DONT LIE!” bellowed Black. “YOU’D BEEN PASSING
INFORMATION TO HIM FOR A YEAR BEFORE LILY
AND JAMES DIED! YOU WERE HIS SPY!”
“He — he was taking over everywhere!” gasped
Pettigrew. “Wh — what was there to be gained by
refusing him?”
“What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil
wizard who has ever existed?” said Black, with a
terribly fury in his face. “Only innocent lives, Peter!”
“You don’t understand!” whined Pettigrew. “He would
have killed me, Sirius!”
“THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!” roared Black.
“DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS
WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!”
 
Black and Lupin stood shoulder to shoulder, wands
raised.
“You should have realized,” said Lupin quietly, “if
Voldemort didn’t kill you, we would. Good-bye, Peter.”
Hermione covered her face with her hands and turned
to the wall.
“NO!” Harry yelled. He ran forward, placing himself in
front of Pettigrew, facing the wands. “You can’t kill
him,” he said breathlessly. “You can’t.”
Black and Lupin both looked staggered.
“Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no
parents,” Black snarled. “This cringing bit of filth
would have seen you die too, without turning a hair.
You heard him. His own stinking skin meant more to
him than your whole family.”
“I know,” Harry panted. “We’ll take him up to the
castle. We’ll hand him over to the dementors. ... He
can go to Azkaban ... but don’t kill him.”
“Harry!” gasped Pettigrew, and he flung his arms
around Harry’s knees. “You — thank you — it’s more
than I deserve — thank you — ”
“Get off me,” Harry spat, throwing Pettigrew’s hands
off him in disgust. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m
doing it because — I don’t reckon my dad would’ve
wanted them to become killers — just for you.”
No one moved or made a sound except Pettigrew,
whose breath was coming in wheezes as he clutched
his chest. Black and Lupin were looking at each
other. Then, with one movement, they lowered their
wands.
 
“You’re the only person who has the right to decide,
Harry,” said Black. “But think ... think what he did.
“He can go to Azkaban,” Harry repeated. “If anyone
deserves that place, he does. ...”
Pettigrew was still wheezing behind him.
“Very well,” said Lupin. “Stand aside, Harry.”
Harry hesitated.
“I’m going to tie him up,” said Lupin. “That’s all, I
swear.”
Harry stepped out of the way. Thin cords shot from
Lupin’s wand this time, and next moment, Pettigrew
was wriggling on the floor, bound and gagged.
“But if you transform, Peter,” growled Black, his own
wand pointing at Pettigrew too, “we will kill you. You
agree, Harry?”
Harry looked down at the pitiful figure on the floor
and nodded so that Pettigrew could see him.
“Right,” said Lupin, suddenly businesslike. “Ron, I
can’t mend bones nearly as well as Madam Pomfrey,
so I think it’s best if we just strap your leg up until we
can get you to the hospital wing.”
He hurried over to Ron, bent down, tapped Ron’s leg
with his wand, and muttered, “Ferula.” Bandages
spun up Ron’s leg, strapping it tightly to a splint.
Lupin helped him to his feet; Ron put his weight
gingerly on the leg and didn’t wince.
“That’s better,” he said. “Thanks.”
 
“What about Professor Snape?” said Hermione in a
small voice, looking down at Snape’s prone figure.
“There’s nothing seriously wrong with him,” said
Lupin, bending over Snape and checking his pulse.
“You were just a little — overenthusiastic. Still out
cold. Er — perhaps it will be best if we don’t revive
him until we’re safely back in the castle. We can take
him like this. ...”
He muttered, “Mobilicorpus.” As though invisible
strings were tied to Snape’s wrists, neck, and knees,
he was pulled into a standing position, head still
lolling unpleasantly, like a grotesque puppet. He hung
a few inches above the ground, his limp feet dangling.
Lupin picked up the Invisibility Cloak and tucked it
safely into his pocket.
“And two of us should be chained to this,” said Black,
nudging Pettigrew with his toe. “Just to make sure.”
“I’ll do it,” said Lupin.
“And me,” said Ron savagely, limping forward.
Black conjured heavy manacles from thin air; soon
Pettigrew was upright again, left arm chained to
Lupin’s right, right arm to Ron’s left. Ron’s face was
set. He seemed to have taken Scabbers’s true identity
as a personal insult. Crookshanks leapt lightly off the
bed and led the way out of the room, his bottlebrush
tail held jauntily high.
 
THE DEMENTOR’S KISS
Harry had never been part of a stranger group.
Crookshanks led the way down the stairs; Lupin,
Pettigrew, and Ron went next, looking like entrants in
a six-legged race. Next came Professor Snape, drifting
creepily along, his toes hitting each stair as they
descended, held up by his own wand, which was
being pointed at him by Sirius. Harry and Hermione
brought up the rear.
Getting back into the tunnel was difficult. Lupin,
Pettigrew, and Ron had to turn sideways to manage
it; Lupin still had Pettigrew covered with his wand.
Harry could see them edging awkwardly along the
tunnel in single file. Crookshanks was still in the
lead. Harry went right after Black, who was still
making Snape drift along ahead of them; he kept
bumping his lolling head on the low ceiling. Harry
had the impression Black was making no effort to
prevent this.
 
“You know what this means?” Black said abruptly to
Harry as they made their slow progress along the
tunnel. “Turning Pettigrew in?”
“You’re free,” said Harry.
“Yes ... ,” said Black. “But I’m also — I don’t know if
anyone ever told you — I’m your godfather.”
“Yeah, I knew that,” said Harry.
“Well ... your parents appointed me your guardian,”
said Black stiffly. “If anything happened to them ...”
Harry waited. Did Black mean what he thought he
meant?
“I’ll understand, of course, if you want to stay with
your aunt and uncle,” said Black. “But ... well ...
think about it. Once my name’s cleared ... if you
wanted a ... a different home ...”
Some sort of explosion took place in the pit of Harry’s
stomach.
“What — live with you?” he said, accidentally cracking
his head on a bit of rock protruding from the ceiling.
“Leave the Dursleys?”
“Of course, I thought you wouldn’t want to,” said
Black quickly. “I understand, I just thought I’d — ”
“Are you insane?” said Harry, his voice easily as
croaky as Black’s. “Of course I want to leave the
Dursleys! Have you got a house? When can I move
in?”
 
Black turned right around to look at him; Snape’s
head was scraping the ceiling but Black didn’t seem
to care.
“You want to?” he said. “You mean it?”
“Yeah, I mean it!” said Harry.
Black’s gaunt face broke into the first true smile
Harry had seen upon it. The difference it made was
startling, as though a person ten years younger were
shining through the starved mask; for a moment, he
was recognizable as the man who had laughed at
Harry’s parents’ wedding.
They did not speak again until they had reached the
end of the tunnel. Crookshanks darted up first; he
had evidently pressed his paw to the knot on the
trunk, because Lupin, Pettigrew, and Ron clambered
upward without any sound of savaging branches.
Black saw Snape up through the hole, then stood
back for Harry and Hermione to pass. At last, all of
them were out.
The grounds were very dark now; the only light came
from the distant windows of the castle. Without a
word, they set off. Pettigrew was still wheezing and
occasionally whimpering. Harry’s mind was buzzing.
He was going to leave the Dursleys. He was going to
live with Sirius Black, his parents’ best friend. ... He
felt dazed. ... What would happen when he told the
Dursleys he was going to live with the convict they’d
seen on television... !
“One wrong move, Peter,” said Lupin threateningly
ahead. His wand was still pointed sideways at
Pettigrew’s chest.
 
Silently they tramped through the grounds, the castle
lights growing slowly larger. Snape was still drifting
weirdly ahead of Black, his chin bumping on his
chest. And then —
A cloud shifted. There were suddenly dim shadows on
the ground. Their party was bathed in moonlight.
Snape collided with Lupin, Pettigrew, and Ron, who
had stopped abruptly. Black froze. He flung out one
arm to make Harry and Hermione stop.
Harry could see Lupin’s silhouette. He had gone rigid.
Then his limbs began to shake.
“Oh, my — ” Hermione gasped. “He didn’t take his
potion tonight! He’s not safe!”
“Run,” Black whispered. “Run. Now.”
But Harry couldn’t run. Ron was chained to Pettigrew
and Lupin. He leapt forward but Black caught him
around the chest and threw him back.
“Leave it to me — RUN!”
There was a terrible snarling noise. Lupin’s head was
lengthening. So was his body. His shoulders were
hunching. Hair was sprouting visibly on his face and
hands, which were curling into clawed paws.
Crookshanks’s hair was on end again; he was backing
away —
As the werewolf reared, snapping its long jaws, Sirius
disappeared from Harry’s side. He had transformed.
The enormous, bearlike dog bounded forward. As the
werewolf wrenched itself free of the manacle binding
it, the dog seized it about the neck and pulled it
 
backward, away from Ron and Pettigrew. They were
locked, jaw to jaw, claws ripping at each other —
Harry stood, transfixed by the sight, too intent upon
the battle to notice anything else. It was Hermione’s
scream that alerted him —
Pettigrew had dived for Lupin’s dropped wand. Ron,
unsteady on his bandaged leg, fell. There was a bang,
a burst of light — and Ron lay motionless on the
ground. Another bang — Crookshanks flew into the
air and back to the earth in a heap.
“ ExpelliarmusV’ Harry yelled, pointing his own wand
at Pettigrew; Lupin’s wand flew high into the air and
out of sight. “Stay where you are!” Harry shouted,
running forward.
Too late. Pettigrew had transformed. Harry saw his
bald tail whip through the manacle on Ron’s
outstretched arm and heard a scurrying through the
grass.
There was a howl and a rumbling growl; Harry turned
to see the werewolf taking flight; it was galloping into
the forest —
“Sirius, he’s gone, Pettigrew transformed!” Harry
yelled.
Black was bleeding; there were gashes across his
muzzle and back, but at Harry’s words he scrambled
up again, and in an instant, the sound of his paws
faded to silence as he pounded away across the
grounds.
Harry and Hermione dashed over to Ron.
 
“What did he do to him?” Hermione whispered. Ron’s
eyes were only half-closed, his mouth hung open; he
was definitely alive, they could hear him breathing,
but he didn’t seem to recognize them.
“I don’t know. ...”
Harry looked desperately around. Black and Lupin
both gone . . . they had no one but Snape for company,
still hanging, unconscious, in midair.
“We’d better get them up to the castle and tell
someone,” said Harry, pushing his hair out of his
eyes, trying to think straight. Come — ”
But then, from beyond the range of their vision, they
heard a yelping, a whining: a dog in pain. ...
“Sirius,” Harry muttered, staring into the darkness.
He had a moment’s indecision, but there was nothing
they could do for Ron at the moment, and by the
sound of it, Black was in trouble —
Harry set off at a run, Hermione right behind him.
The yelping seemed to be coming from the ground
near the edge of the lake. They pelted toward it, and
Harry, running flat out, felt the cold without realizing
what it must mean —
The yelping stopped abruptly. As they reached the
lakeshore, they saw why — Sirius had turned back
into a man. He was crouched on all fours, his hands
over his head.
“iVooo,” he moaned. “Noooo ... please. ...”
And then Harry saw them. Dementors, at least a
hundred of them, gliding in a black mass around the
 
lake toward them. He spun around, the familiar, icy
cold penetrating his insides, fog starting to obscure
his vision; more were appearing out of the darkness
on every side; they were encircling them. ...
“Hermione, think of something happy!” Harry yelled,
raising his wand, blinking furiously to try and clear
his vision, shaking his head to rid it of the faint
screaming that had started inside it —
I’m going to live with my godfather. I’m leaving the
Dursleys.
He forced himself to think of Black, and only Black,
and began to chant: “Expecto patronum). Expecto
patronum).”
Black gave a shudder, rolled over, and lay motionless
on the ground, pale as death.
Hell be all right. I’m going to go and live with him.
“Expecto patronum). Hermione, help me! Expecto
patronum).”
“Expecto — ” Hermione whispered, “expecto — expecto
But she couldn’t do it. The dementors were closing in,
barely ten feet from them. They formed a solid wall
around Harry and Hermione, and were getting closer.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM” Harry yelled, trying to blot
the screaming from his ears. “EXPECTO PATRONUM.”
A thin wisp of silver escaped his wand and hovered
like mist before him. At the same moment, Harry felt
 
Hermione collapse next to him. He was alone ...
completely alone. ...
“Expecto — expecto patronum — ”
Harry felt his knees hit the cold grass. Fog was
clouding his eyes. With a huge effort, he fought to
remember — Sirius was innocent — innocent — We’ll
be okay — I’m going to live with him —
“ Expecto patronum J” he gasped.
By the feeble light of his formless Patronus, he saw a
dementor halt, very close to him. It couldn’t walk
through the cloud of silver mist Harry had conjured.
A dead, slimy hand slid out from under the cloak. It
made a gesture as though to sweep the Patronus
aside.
“No — no — ” Harry gasped. “He’s innocent ... expecto
— expecto patronum — ”
He could feel them watching him, hear their rattling
breath like an evil wind around him. The nearest
dementor seemed to be considering him. Then it
raised both its rotting hands — and lowered its hood.
Where there should have been eyes, there was only
thin, gray scabbed skin, stretched blankly over empty
sockets. But there was a mouth ... a gaping,
shapeless hole, sucking the air with the sound of a
death rattle.
A paralyzing terror filled Harry so that he couldn’t
move or speak. His Patronus flickered and died.
White fog was blinding him. He had to fight ... expecto
patronum ... he couldn’t see ... and in the distance, he
heard the familiar screaming . . . expecto patronum . . .
 
he groped in the mist for Sirius, and found his arm ...
they weren’t going to take him. ...
But a pair of strong, clammy hands suddenly
attached themselves around Harry’s neck. They were
forcing his face upward. ... He could feel its breath. ...
It was going to get rid of him first. ... He could feel its
putrid breath. . . . His mother was screaming in his
ears. ... She was going to be the last thing he ever
heard —
And then, through the fog that was drowning him, he
thought he saw a silvery light growing brighter and
brighter. ... He felt himself fall forward onto the grass.
... Facedown, too weak to move, sick and shaking,
Harry opened his eyes. The dementor must have
released him. The blinding light was illuminating the
grass around him. ... The screaming had stopped, the
cold was ebbing away. . . .
Something was driving the dementors back. ... It was
circling around him and Black and Hermione. ... They
were leaving. ... The air was warm again. ...
With every ounce of strength he could muster, Harry
raised his head a few inches and saw an animal amid
the light, galloping away across the lake. ... Eyes
blurred with sweat, Harry tried to make out what it
was. ... It was as bright as a unicorn. ... Fighting to
stay conscious, Harry watched it canter to a halt as it
reached the opposite shore. For a moment, Harry
saw, by its brightness, somebody welcoming it back
. . . raising his hand to pat it . . . someone who looked
strangely familiar ... but it couldn’t be ...
Harry didn’t understand. He couldn’t think anymore.
He felt the last of his strength leave him, and his head
hit the ground as he fainted.
 
HERMIONE’S SECRET
“Shocking business ... shocking ... miracle none of
them died . . . never heard the like ... by thunder, it
was lucky you were there, Snape. ...”
“Thank you, Minister.”
“Order of Merlin, Second Class, I’d say. First Class, if
I can wangle it!”
“Thank you very much indeed, Minister.”
“Nasty cut you’ve got there. ... Black’s work, I
suppose?”
“As a matter of fact, it was Potter, Weasley, and
Granger, Minister. ...”
“iVo!”
“Black had bewitched them, I saw it immediately. A
Confundus Charm, to judge by their behavior. They
seemed to think there was a possibility he was
 
innocent. They weren’t responsible for their actions.
On the other hand, their interference might have
permitted Black to escape. ... They obviously thought
they were going to catch Black single-handed. They’ve
got away with a great deal before now. ... I’m afraid
it’s given them a rather high opinion of themselves ...
and of course Potter has always been allowed an
extraordinary amount of license by the headmaster —
“Ah, well, Snape ... Harry Potter, you know ... we’ve
all got a bit of a blind spot where he’s concerned.”
“And yet — is it good for him to be given so much
special treatment? Personally, I try and treat him like
any other student. And any other student would be
suspended — at the very least — for leading his
friends into such danger. Consider, Minister —
against all school rules — after all the precautions
put in place for his protection — out-of-bounds, at
night, consorting with a werewolf and a murderer —
and I have reason to believe he has been visiting
Hogsmeade illegally too — ”
“Well, well ... we shall see, Snape, we shall see. ... The
boy has undoubtedly been foolish. ...”
Harry lay listening with his eyes tight shut. He felt
very groggy. The words he was hearing seemed to be
traveling very slowly from his ears to his brain, so
that it was difficult to understand. ... His limbs felt
like lead; his eyelids too heavy to lift. ... He wanted to
lie here, on this comfortable bed, forever. ...
“What amazes me most is the behavior of the
dementors ... you’ve really no idea what made them
retreat, Snape?”
 
“No, Minister ... by the time I had come ’round they
were heading back to their positions at the entrances.
“Extraordinary. And yet Black, and Harry, and the girl
“All unconscious by the time I reached them. I bound
and gagged Black, naturally, conjured stretchers, and
brought them all straight back to the castle.”
There was a pause. Harry’s brain seemed to be
moving a little faster, and as it did, a gnawing
sensation grew in the pit of his stomach. ...
He opened his eyes.
Everything was slightly blurred. Somebody had
removed his glasses. He was lying in the dark hospital
wing. At the very end of the ward, he could make out
Madam Pomfrey with her back to him, bending over a
bed. Harry squinted. Ron’s red hair was visible
beneath Madam Pomfrey’s arm.
Harry moved his head over on the pillow. In the bed
to his right lay Hermione. Moonlight was falling
across her bed. Her eyes were open too. She looked
petrified, and when she saw that Harry was awake,
pressed a finger to her lips, then pointed to the
hospital wing door. It was ajar, and the voices of
Cornelius Fudge and Snape were coming through it
from the corridor outside.
Madam Pomfrey now came walking briskly up the
dark ward to Harry’s bed. He turned to look at her.
She was carrying the largest block of chocolate he
had ever seen in his life. It looked like a small
boulder.
 
“Ah, you’re awake!” she said briskly. She placed the
chocolate on Harry’s bedside table and began
breaking it apart with a small hammer.
“How’s Ron?” said Harry and Hermione together.
“He’ll live,” said Madam Pomfrey grimly. “As for you
two ... you’ll be staying here until I’m satisfied you’re
— Potter, what do you think you’re doing?”
Harry was sitting up, putting his glasses back on, and
picking up his wand.
“I need to see the headmaster,” he said.
“Potter,” said Madam Pomfrey soothingly, “it’s all
right. They’ve got Black. He’s locked away upstairs.
The dementors will be performing the kiss any
moment now — ”
“WHAT?”
Harry jumped up out of bed; Hermione had done the
same. But his shout had been heard in the corridor
outside; next second, Cornelius Fudge and Snape had
entered the ward.
“Harry, Harry, what’s this?” said Fudge, looking
agitated. “You should be in bed — has he had any
chocolate?” he asked Madam Pomfrey anxiously.
“Minister, listen!” Harry said. “Sirius Black’s innocent!
Peter Pettigrew faked his own death! We saw him
tonight! You can’t let the dementors do that thing to
Sirius, he’s — ”
But Fudge was shaking his head with a small smile
on his face.
 
“Harry, Harry, you’re very confused, you’ve been
through a dreadful ordeal, lie back down, now, we’ve
got everything under control. ...”
“YOU HAVEN’T!” Harry yelled. “YOU VE GOT THE
WRONG MAN!”
“Minister, listen, please,” Hermione said; she had
hurried to Harry’s side and was gazing imploringly
into Fudge’s face. “I saw him too. It was Ron’s rat,
he’s an Animagus, Pettigrew, I mean, and — ”
“You see, Minister?” said Snape. “Confunded, both of
them. ... Black’s done a very good job on them. ...”
“WE’RE NOT CONFUNDED!” Harry roared.
“Minister! Professor!” said Madam Pomfrey angrily. “I
must insist that you leave. Potter is my patient, and
he should not be distressed!”
“I’m not distressed, I’m trying to tell them what
happened!” Harry said furiously. “If they’d just listen
But Madam Pomfrey suddenly stuffed a large chunk
of chocolate into Harry’s mouth; he choked, and she
seized the opportunity to force him back onto the bed.
“Now, please, Minister, these children need care.
Please leave — ”
The door opened again. It was Dumbledore. Harry
swallowed his mouthful of chocolate with great
difficulty and got up again.
“Professor Dumbledore, Sirius Black — ”
 
“For heaven’s sake!” said Madam Pomfrey
hysterically. “Is this a hospital wing or not?
Headmaster, I must insist — ”
“My apologies, Poppy, but I need a word with Mr.
Potter and Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore calmly. “I
have just been talking to Sirius Black — ”
“I suppose he’s told you the same fairy tale he’s
planted in Potter’s mind?” spat Snape. “Something
about a rat, and Pettigrew being alive — ”
“That, indeed, is Black’s story,” said Dumbledore,
surveying Snape closely through his half-moon
spectacles.
“And does my evidence count for nothing?” snarled
Snape. “Peter Pettigrew was not in the Shrieking
Shack, nor did I see any sign of him on the grounds.”
“That was because you were knocked out, Professor!”
said Hermione earnestly. “You didn’t arrive in time to
hear — ”
“Miss Granger, HOLD YOUR TONGUE!”
“Now, Snape,” said Fudge, startled, “the young lady is
disturbed in her mind, we must make allowances — ”
“I would like to speak to Harry and Hermione alone,”
said Dumbledore abruptly. “Cornelius, Severus,
Poppy — please leave us.”
“Headmaster!” sputtered Madam Pomfrey “They need
treatment, they need rest — ”
“This cannot wait,” said Dumbledore. “I must insist.”
 
Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips and strode away into
her office at the end of the ward, slamming the door
behind her. Fudge consulted the large gold pocket
watch dangling from his waistcoat.
“The dementors should have arrived by now,” he said.
“Ill go and meet them. Dumbledore, 111 see you
upstairs.”
He crossed to the door and held it open for Snape,
but Snape hadn’t moved.
“You surely don’t believe a word of Black’s story?”
Snape whispered, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore ’s
face.
“I wish to speak to Harry and Hermione alone,”
Dumbledore repeated.
Snape took a step toward Dumbledore.
“Sirius Black showed he was capable of murder at the
age of sixteen,” he breathed. “You haven’t forgotten
that, Headmaster? You haven’t forgotten that he once
tried to kill me?”
“My memory is as good as it ever was, Severus,” said
Dumbledore quietly.
Snape turned on his heel and marched through the
door Fudge was still holding. It closed behind them,
and Dumbledore turned to Harry and Hermione. They
both burst into speech at the same time.
“Professor, Black’s telling the truth — we saw
Pettigrew — ”
“ — he escaped when Professor Lupin turned into a
werewolf — ”
 
“ — he’s a rat — ”
“ — Pettigrew’s front paw, I mean, finger, he cut it off
“ — Pettigrew attacked Ron, it wasn’t Sirius — ”
But Dumbledore held up his hand to stem the flood of
explanations.
“It is your turn to listen, and I beg you will not
interrupt me, because there is very little time,” he
said quietly. “There is not a shred of proof to support
Black’s story, except your word — and the word of
two thirteen-year-old wizards will not convince
anybody. A street full of eyewitnesses swore they saw
Sirius murder Pettigrew. I myself gave evidence to the
Ministry that Sirius had been the Potters’ Secret-
Keeper.”
“Professor Lupin can tell you — ” Harry said, unable to
stop himself.
“Professor Lupin is currently deep in the forest,
unable to tell anyone anything. By the time he is
human again, it will be too late, Sirius will be worse
than dead. I might add that werewolves are so
mistrusted by most of our kind that his support will
count for very little — and the fact that he and Sirius
are old friends — ”
“But — ”
“ Listen to me, Harry. It is too late, you understand
me? You must see that Professor Snape’s version of
events is far more convincing than yours.”
“He hates Sirius,” Hermione said desperately. “All
because of some stupid trick Sirius played on him — ”
 
“Sirius has not acted like an innocent man. The
attack on the Fat Lady — entering Gryffindor Tower
with a knife — without Pettigrew, alive or dead, we
have no chance of overturning Sirius’s sentence.”
“But you believe us.”
“Yes, I do,” said Dumbledore quietly. “But I have no
power to make other men see the truth, or to overrule
the Minister of Magic. ...”
Harry stared up into the grave face and felt as though
the ground beneath him were falling sharply away. He
had grown used to the idea that Dumbledore could
solve anything. He had expected Dumbledore to pull
some amazing solution out of the air. But no . . . their
last hope was gone.
“What we need,” said Dumbledore slowly, and his
light blue eyes moved from Harry to Hermione, “is
more time.”
“But — ” Hermione began. And then her eyes became
very round. “OH!”
“Now, pay attention,” said Dumbledore, speaking very
low, and very clearly. “Sirius is locked in Professor
Flitwick’s office on the seventh floor. Thirteenth
window from the right of the West Tower. If all goes
well, you will be able to save more than one innocent
life tonight. But remember this, both of you: you must
not be seen. Miss Granger, you know the law — you
know what is at stake. ... You — must — not — be —
seen.”
Harry didn’t have a clue what was going on.
Dumbledore had turned on his heel and looked back
as he reached the door.
 
“I am going to lock you in. It is — ” he consulted his
watch, “five minutes to midnight. Miss Granger, three
turns should do it. Good luck.”
“Good luck?” Harry repeated as the door closed
behind Dumbledore. “Three turns? What’s he talking
about? What are we supposed to do?”
But Hermione was fumbling with the neck of her
robes, pulling from beneath them a very long, very
fine gold chain.
“Harry, come here,” she said urgently. “Quick).”
Harry moved toward her, completely bewildered. She
was holding the chain out. He saw a tiny, sparkling
hourglass hanging from it.
“Here — ”
She had thrown the chain around his neck too.
“Ready?” she said breathlessly.
“What are we doing?” Harry said, completely lost.
Hermione turned the hourglass over three times.
The dark ward dissolved. Harry had the sensation
that he was flying very fast, backward. A blur of
colors and shapes rushed past him, his ears were
pounding, he tried to yell but couldn’t hear his own
voice —
And then he felt solid ground beneath his feet, and
everything came into focus again —
He was standing next to Hermione in the deserted
entrance hall and a stream of golden sunlight was
 
falling across the paved floor from the open front
doors. He looked wildly around at Hermione, the
chain of the hourglass cutting into his neck.
“Hermione, what — ?”
“In here!” Hermione seized Harry’s arm and dragged
him across the hall to the door of a broom closet; she
opened it, pushed him inside among the buckets and
mops, then slammed the door behind them.
“What — how — Hermione, what happened?”
“We’ve gone back in time,” Hermione whispered,
lifting the chain off Harry’s neck in the darkness.
“Three hours back ...”
Harry found his own leg and gave it a very hard
pinch. It hurt a lot, which seemed to rule out the
possibility that he was having a very bizarre dream.
“But — ”
“Shh! Listen! Someone’s coming! I think — I think it
might be us!”
Hermione had her ear pressed against the cupboard
door.
“Footsteps across the hall ... yes, I think it’s us going
down to Hagrid’s!”
“Are you telling me,” Harry whispered, “that we’re
here in this cupboard and we’re out there too?”
“Yes,” said Hermione, her ear still glued to the
cupboard door. “I’m sure it’s us. It doesn’t sound like
more than three people ... and we’re walking slowly
because we’re under the Invisibility Cloak — ”
 
She broke off, still listening intently.
“We’ve gone down the front steps. ...”
Hermione sat down on an upturned bucket, looking
desperately anxious, but Harry wanted a few
questions answered.
“Where did you get that hourglass thing?”
“It’s called a Time-Turner,” Hermione whispered, “and
I got it from Professor McGonagall on our first day
back. I’ve been using it all year to get to all my
lessons. Professor McGonagall made me swear I
wouldn’t tell anyone. She had to write all sorts of
letters to the Ministry of Magic so I could have one.
She had to tell them that I was a model student, and
that I’d never, ever use it for anything except my
studies. ... I’ve been turning it back so I could do
hours over again, that’s how I’ve been doing several
lessons at once, see? But ...
“Harry, I don’t understand what Dumbledore wants us
to do. Why did he tell us to go back three hours?
How’s that going to help Sirius?”
Harry stared at her shadowy face.
“There must be something that happened around now
he wants us to change,” he said slowly. “What
happened? We were walking down to Hagrid’s three
hours ago. ...”
“This is three hours ago, and we are walking down to
Hagrid’s,” said Hermione. “We just heard ourselves
leaving. ...”
Harry frowned; he felt as though he were screwing up
his whole brain in concentration.
 
“Dumbledore just said — just said we could save
more than one innocent life. ...” And then it hit him.
“Hermione, we’re going to save Buckbeak!”
“But — how will that help Sirius?”
“Dumbledore said — he just told us where the
window is — the window of Flitwick’s office! Where
they’ve got Sirius locked up! We’ve got to fly
Buckbeak up to the window and rescue Sirius! Sirius
can escape on Buckbeak — they can escape together!”
From what Harry could see of Hermione’s face, she
looked terrified.
“If we manage that without being seen, it’ll be a
miracle!”
“Well, we’ve got to try, haven’t we?” said Harry. He
stood up and pressed his ear against the door.
“Doesn’t sound like anyone’s there. ... Come on, let’s
go. ...”
Harry pushed open the closet door. The entrance hall
was deserted. As quietly and quickly as they could,
they darted out of the closet and down the stone
steps. The shadows were already lengthening, the
tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest gilded once
more with gold.
“If anyone’s looking out of the window — ” Hermione
squeaked, looking up at the castle behind them.
“Well run for it,” said Harry determinedly. “Straight
into the forest, all right? We’ll have to hide behind a
tree or something and keep a lookout — ”
 
“Okay, but well go around by the greenhouses!” said
Hermione breathlessly. “We need to keep out of sight
of Hagrid’s front door, or well see us! We must be
nearly at Hagrid’s by now!”
Still working out what she meant, Harry set off at a
sprint, Hermione behind him. They tore across the
vegetable gardens to the greenhouses, paused for a
moment behind them, then set off again, fast as they
could, skirting around the Whomping Willow, tearing
toward the shelter of the forest. ...
Safe in the shadows of the trees, Harry turned
around; seconds later, Hermione arrived beside him,
panting.
“Right,” she gasped. “We need to sneak over to
Hagrid’s. ... Keep out of sight, Harry. ...”
They made their way silently through the trees,
keeping to the very edge of the forest. Then, as they
glimpsed the front of Hagrid’s house, they heard a
knock upon his door. They moved quickly behind a
wide oak trunk and peered out from either side.
Hagrid had appeared in his doorway, shaking and
white, looking around to see who had knocked. And
Harry heard his own voice.
“It’s us. We’re wearing the Invisibility Cloak. Let us in
and we can take it off.”
“Yeh shouldn’ve come!” Hagrid whispered. He stood
back, then shut the door quickly.
“This is the weirdest thing we’ve ever done,” Harry
said fervently.
“Let’s move along a bit,” Hermione whispered. “We
need to get nearer to Buckbeak!”
 
They crept through the trees until they saw the
nervous hippogriff, tethered to the fence around
Hagrid’s pumpkin patch.
“Now?” Harry whispered.
“No!” said Hermione. “If we steal him now, those
Committee people will think Hagrid set him free!
We’ve got to wait until they’ve seen he’s tied outside!”
“That’s going to give us about sixty seconds,” said
Harry. This was starting to seem impossible.
At that moment, there was a crash of breaking china
from inside Hagrid’s cabin.
“That’s Hagrid breaking the milk jug,” Hermione
whispered. “I’m going to find Scabbers in a moment —
Sure enough, a few minutes later, they heard
Hermione ’s shriek of surprise.
“Hermione,” said Harry suddenly, “what if we — we
just run in there and grab Pettigrew — ”
“No!” said Hermione in a terrified whisper. “Don’t you
understand? We’re breaking one of the most
important wizarding laws! Nobody’s supposed to
change time, nobody! You heard Dumbledore, if we’re
seen — ”
“We’d only be seen by ourselves and Hagrid!”
“Harry, what do you think you’d do if you saw
yourself bursting into Hagrid’s house?” said
Hermione.
 
“I’d — I’d think I’d gone mad,” said Harry, “or I’d think
there was some Dark Magic going on — ”
“ Exactly ! You wouldn’t understand, you might even
attack yourself! Don’t you see? Professor McGonagall
told me what awful things have happened when
wizards have meddled with time. ... Loads of them
ended up killing their past or future selves by
mistake!”
“Okay!” said Harry. “It was just an idea, I just thought
But Hermione nudged him and pointed toward the
castle. Harry moved his head a few inches to get a
clear view of the distant front doors. Dumbledore,
Fudge, the old Committee member, and Macnair the
executioner were coming down the steps.
“We’re about to come out!” Hermione breathed.
And sure enough, moments later, Hagrid’s back door
opened, and Harry saw himself, Ron, and Hermione
walking out of it with Hagrid. It was, without a doubt,
the strangest sensation of his life, standing behind
the tree, and watching himself in the pumpkin patch.
“It’s okay, Beaky, it’s okay ... ,” Hagrid said to
Buckbeak. Then he turned to Harry, Ron, and
Hermione. “Go on. Get goin’.”
“Hagrid, we can’t — ”
“Well tell them what really happened — ”
“They can’t kill him — ”
“Go! It’s bad enough without you lot in trouble an’
all!”
 
Harry watched the Hermione in the pumpkin patch
throw the Invisibility Cloak over him and Ron.
“Go quick. Don’ listen. ...”
There was a knock on Hagrid’s front door. The
execution party had arrived. Hagrid turned around
and headed back into his cabin, leaving the back door
ajar. Harry watched the grass flatten in patches all
around the cabin and heard three pairs of feet
retreating. He, Ron, and Hermione had gone ... but
the Harry and Hermione hidden in the trees could
now hear what was happening inside the cabin
through the back door.
“Where is the beast?” came the cold voice of Macnair.
“Out — outside,” Hagrid croaked.
Harry pulled his head out of sight as Macnair’s face
appeared at Hagrid’s window, staring out at
Buckbeak. Then they heard Fudge.
“We — er — have to read you the official notice of
execution, Hagrid. I’ll make it quick. And then you
and Macnair need to sign it. Macnair, you’re
supposed to listen too, that’s procedure — ”
Macnair’s face vanished from the window. It was now
or never.
“Wait here,” Harry whispered to Hermione. “I’ll do it.”
As Fudge’s voice started again, Harry darted out from
behind his tree, vaulted the fence into the pumpkin
patch, and approached Buckbeak.
“It is the decision of the Committee for the Disposal of
Dangerous Creatures that the hippogriff Buckbeak,
 
hereafter called the condemned, shall be executed on
the sixth of June at sundown — ”
Careful not to blink, Harry stared up into Buckbeak’s
fierce orange eyes once more and bowed. Buckbeak
sank to his scaly knees and then stood up again.
Harry began to fumble with the knot of rope tying
Buckbeak to the fence.
"... sentenced to execution by beheading, to be carried
out by the Committee’s appointed executioner, Walden
Macnair ...”
“Come on, Buckbeak,” Harry murmured, “come on,
we’re going to help you. Quietly ... quietly ...”
"... as witnessed below. Hagrid, you sign here. ...”
Harry threw all his weight onto the rope, but
Buckbeak had dug in his front feet.
“Well, let’s get this over with,” said the reedy voice of
the Committee member from inside Hagrid’s cabin.
“Hagrid, perhaps it will be better if you stay inside — ”
“No, I — I wan’ ter be with him. ... I don’ wan’ him ter
be alone — ”
Footsteps echoed from within the cabin.
“Buckbeak, move\” Harry hissed.
Harry tugged harder on the rope around Buckbeak’s
neck. The hippogriff began to walk, rustling its wings
irritably. They were still ten feet away from the forest,
in plain view of Hagrid’s back door.
“One moment, please, Macnair,” came Dumbledore’s
voice. “You need to sign too.” The footsteps stopped.
 
Harry heaved on the rope. Buckbeak snapped his
beak and walked a little faster.
Hermione ’s white face was sticking out from behind a
tree.
“Harry, hurry!” she mouthed.
Harry could still hear Dumbledore’s voice talking from
within the cabin. He gave the rope another wrench.
Buckbeak broke into a grudging trot. They had
reached the trees. ...
“Quick! Quick!” Hermione moaned, darting out from
behind her tree, seizing the rope too and adding her
weight to make Buckbeak move faster. Harry looked
over his shoulder; they were now blocked from sight;
they couldn’t see Hagrid’s garden at all.
“Stop!” he whispered to Hermione. “They might hear
us — ”
Hagrid’s back door had opened with a bang. Harry,
Hermione, and Buckbeak stood quite still; even the
hippogriff seemed to be listening intently.
Silence . . . then —
“Where is it?” said the reedy voice of the Committee
member. “Where is the beast?”
“It was tied here!” said the executioner furiously. “I
saw it! Just here!”
“How extraordinary,” said Dumbledore. There was a
note of amusement in his voice.
“Beaky!” said Hagrid huskily.
 
There was a swishing noise, and the thud of an axe.
The executioner seemed to have swung it into the
fence in anger. And then came the howling, and this
time they could hear Hagrid ’s words through his sobs.
“Gone! Gone! Bless his little beak, he’s gone\ Musta
pulled himself free! Beaky, yeh clever boy!”
Buckbeak started to strain against the rope, trying to
get back to Hagrid. Harry and Hermione tightened
their grip and dug their heels into the forest floor to
stop him.
“Someone untied him!” the executioner was snarling.
“We should search the grounds, the forest — ”
“Macnair, if Buckbeak has indeed been stolen, do you
really think the thief will have led him away on foot?”
said Dumbledore, still sounding amused. “Search the
skies, if you will. ... Hagrid, I could do with a cup of
tea. Or a large brandy.”
“O’ — o’ course, Professor,” said Hagrid, who sounded
weak with happiness. “Come in, come in. ...”
Harry and Hermione listened closely. They heard
footsteps, the soft cursing of the executioner, the
snap of the door, and then silence once more.
“Now what?” whispered Harry, looking around.
“Well have to hide in here,” said Hermione, who
looked very shaken. “We need to wait until they’ve
gone back to the castle. Then we wait until it’s safe to
fly Buckbeak up to Sirius’s window. He won’t be there
for another couple of hours. ... Oh, this is going to be
difficult. ...”
 
She looked nervously over her shoulder into the
depths of the forest. The sun was setting now.
“We’re going to have to move,” said Harry, thinking
hard. “We’ve got to be able to see the Whomping
Willow, or we won’t know what’s going on.”
“Okay,” said Hermione, getting a firmer grip on
Buckbeak’s rope. “But we’ve got to keep out of sight,
Harry, remember. ...”
They moved around the edge of the forest, darkness
falling thickly around them, until they were hidden
behind a clump of trees through which they could
make out the Willow.
“There’s Ron!” said Harry suddenly.
A dark figure was sprinting across the lawn and its
shout echoed through the still night air.
“Get away from him — get away — Scabbers, come
here — ”
And then they saw two more figures materialize out of
nowhere. Harry watched himself and Hermione
chasing after Ron. Then he saw Ron dive.
“Gotchcd Get off, you stinking cat — ”
“There’s Sirius!” said Harry. The great shape of the
dog had bounded out from the roots of the Willow.
They saw him bowl Harry over, then seize Ron. ...
“Looks even worse from here, doesn’t it?” said Harry,
watching the dog pulling Ron into the roots. “Ouch —
look, I just got walloped by the tree — and so did you
— this is weird — ”
 
The Whomping Willow was creaking and lashing out
with its lower branches; they could see themselves
darting here and there, trying to reach the trunk. And
then the tree froze.
“That was Crookshanks pressing the knot,” said
Hermione.
“And there we go ... ,” Harry muttered. “We’re in.”
The moment they disappeared, the tree began to move
again. Seconds later, they heard footsteps quite close
by. Dumbledore, Macnair, Fudge, and the old
Committee member were making their way up to the
castle.
“Right after we’d gone down into the passage!” said
Hermione. “If only Dumbledore had come with us ...”
“Macnair and Fudge would’ve come too,” said Harry
bitterly. “I bet you anything Fudge would’ve told
Macnair to murder Sirius on the spot. ...”
They watched the four men climb the castle steps and
disappear from view. For a few minutes the scene was
deserted. Then —
“Here comes Lupin!” said Harry as they saw another
figure sprinting down the stone steps and haring
toward the Willow. Harry looked up at the sky. Clouds
were obscuring the moon completely.
They watched Lupin seize a broken branch from the
ground and prod the knot on the trunk. The tree
stopped fighting, and Lupin, too, disappeared into the
gap in its roots.
“If he’d only grabbed the cloak,” said Harry. “It’s just
lying there. ...”
 
He turned to Hermione.
“If I just dashed out now and grabbed it, Snape’d
never be able to get it and — ”
“Harry, we mustn’t be seen!”
“How can you stand this?” he asked Hermione
fiercely. “Just standing here and watching it happen?”
He hesitated. “I’m going to grab the cloak!”
“Harry, no!”
Hermione seized the back of Harry’s robes not a
moment too soon. Just then, they heard a burst of
song. It was Hagrid, making his way up to the castle,
singing at the top of his voice, and weaving slightly as
he walked. A large bottle was swinging from his
hands.
“See?” Hermione whispered. “See what would have
happened? We’ve got to keep out of sight! No,
Buckbeak).”
The hippogriff was making frantic attempts to get to
Hagrid again; Harry seized his rope too, straining to
hold Buckbeak back. They watched Hagrid meander
tipsily up to the castle. He was gone. Buckbeak
stopped fighting to get away. His head drooped sadly.
Barely two minutes later, the castle doors flew open
yet again, and Snape came charging out of them,
running toward the Willow.
Harry’s fists clenched as they watched Snape skid to
a halt next to the tree, looking around. He grabbed
the cloak and held it up.
 
“Get your filthy hands off it,” Harry snarled under his
breath.
“Shh!”
Snape seized the branch Lupin had used to freeze the
tree, prodded the knot, and vanished from view as he
put on the cloak.
“So that’s it,” said Hermione quietly. “We’re all down
there ... and now we’ve just got to wait until we come
back up again. ...”
She took the end of Buckbeak’s rope and tied it
securely around the nearest tree, then sat down on
the dry ground, arms around her knees.
“Harry, there’s something I don’t understand. ... Why
didn’t the dementors get Sirius? I remember them
coming, and then I think I passed out . . . there were
so many of them. ...”
Harry sat down too. He explained what he’d seen;
how, as the nearest dementor had lowered its mouth
to Harry’s, a large silver something had come
galloping across the lake and forced the dementors to
retreat.
Hermione ’s mouth was slightly open by the time
Harry had finished.
“But what was it?”
“There’s only one thing it could have been, to make
the dementors go,” said Harry. “A real Patronus. A
powerful one.”
“But who conjured it?”
 
Harry didn’t say anything. He was thinking back to
the person he’d seen on the other bank of the lake. He
knew who he thought it had been . . . but how could it
have been?
“Didn’t you see what they looked like?” said Hermione
eagerly. “Was it one of the teachers?”
“No,” said Harry. “He wasn’t a teacher.”
“But it must have been a really powerful wizard, to
drive all those dementors away. ... If the Patronus
was shining so brightly, didn’t it light him up?
Couldn’t you see — ?”
“Yeah, I saw him,” said Harry slowly. “But ... maybe I
imagined it. ... I wasn’t thinking straight. ... I passed
out right afterward. ...”
“ Who did you think it was?”
“I think — ” Harry swallowed, knowing how strange
this was going to sound. “I think it was my dad.”
Harry glanced up at Hermione and saw that her
mouth was fully open now. She was gazing at him
with a mixture of alarm and pity.
“Harry, your dad’s — well — dead,” she said quietly.
“I know that,” said Harry quickly.
“You think you saw his ghost?”
“I don’t know ... no ... he looked solid. ...”
“But then — ”
 
“Maybe I was seeing things,” said Harry. “But ... from
what I could see ... it looked like him. ... I’ve got
photos of him. ...”
Hermione was still looking at him as though worried
about his sanity.
“I know it sounds crazy,” said Harry flatly. He turned
to look at Buckbeak, who was digging his beak into
the ground, apparently searching for worms. But he
wasn’t really watching Buckbeak.
He was thinking about his father and about his
father’s three oldest friends ... Moony, Wormtail,
Padfoot, and Prongs. ... Had all four of them been out
on the grounds tonight? Wormtail had reappeared
this evening when everyone had thought he was dead.
... Was it so impossible his father had done the same?
Had he been seeing things across the lake? The figure
had been too far away to see distinctly . . . yet he had
felt sure, for a moment, before he’d lost
consciousness. ...
The leaves overhead rustled faintly in the breeze. The
moon drifted in and out of sight behind the shifting
clouds. Hermione sat with her face turned toward the
Willow, waiting.
And then, at last, after over an hour . . .
“Here we come!” Hermione whispered.
She and Harry got to their feet. Buckbeak raised his
head. They saw Lupin, Pettigrew, and Ron clambering
awkwardly out of the hole in the roots . . . followed by
the unconscious Snape, drifting weirdly upward. Next
came Harry, Hermione, and Black. They all began to
walk toward the castle.
 
Harry’s heart was starting to beat very fast. He
glanced up at the sky. Any moment now, that cloud
was going to move aside and show the moon. ...
“Harry,” Hermione muttered as though she knew
exactly what he was thinking, “we’ve got to stay put.
We mustn’t be seen. There’s nothing we can do. ...”
“So we’re just going to let Pettigrew escape all over
again. ...” said Harry quietly.
“How do you expect to find a rat in the dark?”
snapped Hermione. “There’s nothing we can do! We
came back to help Sirius; we’re not supposed to be
doing anything else!”
“ All right'.”
The moon slid out from behind its cloud. They saw
the tiny figures across the grounds stop. Then they
saw movement —
“There goes Lupin,” Hermione whispered. “He’s
transforming — ”
“Hermione!” said Harry suddenly. “We’ve got to move!”
“We mustn’t, I keep telling you — ”
“Not to interfere! Lupin’s going to run into the forest,
right at us!”
Hermione gasped.
“Quick!” she moaned, dashing to untie Buckbeak.
“Quick! Where are we going to go? Where are we going
to hide? The dementors will be coming any moment —
 
“Back to Hagrid’s!” Harry said. “It’s empty now —
come on!”
They ran as fast as they could, Buckbeak cantering
along behind them. They could hear the werewolf
howling behind them. ...
The cabin was in sight; Harry skidded to the door,
wrenched it open, and Hermione and Buckbeak
flashed past him; Harry threw himself in after them
and bolted the door. Fang the boarhound barked
loudly.
“Shh, Fang, it’s us!” said Hermione, hurrying over and
scratching his ears to quieten him. “That was really
close!” she said to Harry.
“Yeah ...”
Harry was looking out of the window. It was much
harder to see what was going on from here. Buckbeak
seemed very happy to find himself back inside
Hagrid’s house. He lay down in front of the fire, folded
his wings contentedly, and seemed ready for a good
nap.
“I think I’d better go outside again, you know,” said
Harry slowly. “I can’t see what’s going on — we won’t
know when it’s time — ”
Hermione looked up. Her expression was suspicious.
“I’m not going to try and interfere,” said Harry
quickly. “But if we don’t see what’s going on, how’re
we going to know when it’s time to rescue Sirius?”
“Well ... okay, then ... I’ll wait here with Buckbeak ...
but Harry, be careful — there’s a werewolf out there
— and the dementors — ”
 
Harry stepped outside again and edged around the
cabin. He could hear yelping in the distance. That
meant the dementors were closing in on Sirius. ... He
and Hermione would be running to him any moment.
Harry stared out toward the lake, his heart doing a
kind of drumroll in his chest. ... Whoever had sent
that Patronus would be appearing at any moment. ...
For a fraction of a second he stood, irresolute, in front
of Hagrid’s door. You must not be seen. But he didn’t
want to be seen. He wanted to do the seeing. ... He
had to know. . . .
And there were the dementors. They were emerging
out of the darkness from every direction, gliding
around the edges of the lake. ... They were moving
away from where Harry stood, to the opposite bank.
... He wouldn’t have to get near them. ...
Harry began to run. He had no thought in his head
except his father. ... If it was him ... if it really was
him ... he had to know, had to find out. ...
The lake was coming nearer and nearer, but there
was no sign of anybody. On the opposite bank, he
could see tiny glimmers of silver — his own attempts
at a Patronus —
There was a bush at the very edge of the water. Harry
threw himself behind it, peering desperately through
the leaves. On the opposite bank, the glimmers of
silver were suddenly extinguished. A terrified
excitement shot through him — any moment now —
“Come on!” he muttered, staring about. “Where are
you? Dad, come on — ”
 
But no one came. Harry raised his head to look at the
circle of dementors across the lake. One of them was
lowering its hood. It was time for the rescuer to
appear — but no one was coming to help this time —
And then it hit him — he understood. He hadn’t seen
his father — he had seen himself —
Harry flung himself out from behind the bush and
pulled out his wand.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM ” he yelled.
And out of the end of his wand burst, not a shapeless
cloud of mist, but a blinding, dazzling, silver animal.
He screwed up his eyes, trying to see what it was. It
looked like a horse. It was galloping silently away
from him, across the black surface of the lake. He
saw it lower its head and charge at the swarming
dementors. ... Now it was galloping around and
around the black shapes on the ground, and the
dementors were falling back, scattering, retreating
into the darkness. ... They were gone.
The Patronus turned. It was cantering back toward
Harry across the still surface of the water. It wasn’t a
horse. It wasn’t a unicorn, either. It was a stag. It was
shining brightly as the moon above ... it was coming
back to him. ...
It stopped on the bank. Its hooves made no mark on
the soft ground as it stared at Harry with its large,
silver eyes. Slowly, it bowed its antlered head. And
Harry realized . . .
“Prongs,” he whispered.
But as his trembling fingertips stretched toward the
creature, it vanished.
 
Harry stood there, hand still outstretched. Then, with
a great leap of his heart, he heard hooves behind him
— he whirled around and saw Hermione dashing
toward him, dragging Buckbeak behind her.
“What did you do?” she said fiercely. “You said you
were only going to keep a lookout!”
“I just saved all our lives ... ,” said Harry. “Get behind
here — behind this bush — I’ll explain.”
Hermione listened to what had just happened with
her mouth open yet again.
“Did anyone see you?”
“Yes, haven’t you been listening? I saw me but I
thought I was my dad! It’s okay!”
“Harry, I can’t believe it. ... You conjured up a
Patronus that drove away all those dementors! That’s
very, very advanced magic. ...”
“I knew I could do it this time,” said Harry, “because
I’d already done it. ... Does that make sense?”
“I don’t know — Harry, look at Snape!”
Together they peered around the bush at the other
bank. Snape had regained consciousness. He was
conjuring stretchers and lifting the limp forms of
Harry, Hermione, and Black onto them. A fourth
stretcher, no doubt bearing Ron, was already floating
at his side. Then, wand held out in front of him, he
moved them away toward the castle.
“Right, it’s nearly time,” said Hermione tensely,
looking at her watch. “We’ve got about forty-five
minutes until Dumbledore locks the door to the
 
hospital wing. We’ve got to rescue Sirius and get back
into the ward before anybody realizes we’re missing.
They waited, watching the moving clouds reflected in
the lake, while the bush next to them whispered in
the breeze. Buckbeak, bored, was ferreting for worms
again.
“D’you reckon he’s up there yet?” said Harry,
checking his watch. He looked up at the castle and
began counting the windows to the right of the West
Tower.
“Look!” Hermione whispered. “Who’s that? Someone’s
coming back out of the castle!”
Harry stared through the darkness. The man was
hurrying across the grounds, toward one of the
entrances. Something shiny glinted in his belt.
“Macnair!” said Harry. “The executioner! He’s gone to
get the dementors! This is it, Hermione — ”
Hermione put her hands on Buckbeak’s back and
Harry gave her a leg up. Then he placed his foot on
one of the lower branches of the bush and climbed up
in front of her. He pulled Buckbeak’s rope back over
his neck and tied it to the other side of his collar like
reins.
“Ready?” he whispered to Hermione. “You’d better
hold on to me — ”
He nudged Buckbeak’s sides with his heels.
Buckbeak soared straight into the dark air. Harry
gripped his flanks with his knees, feeling the great
wings rising powerfully beneath them. Hermione was
 
holding Harry very tight around the waist; he could
hear her muttering, “Oh, no — I don’t like this — oh, I
really don’t like this — ”
Harry urged Buckbeak forward. They were gliding
quietly toward the upper floors of the castle. ... Harry
pulled hard on the left-hand side of the rope, and
Buckbeak turned. Harry was trying to count the
windows flashing past —
“Whoa!” he said, pulling backward as hard as he
could.
Buckbeak slowed down and they found themselves at
a stop, unless you counted the fact that they kept
rising up and down several feet as the hippogriff beat
his wings to remain airborne.
“He’s there!” Harry said, spotting Sirius as they rose
up beside the window. He reached out, and as
Buckbeak’s wings fell, was able to tap sharply on the
glass.
Black looked up. Harry saw his jaw drop. He leapt
from his chair, hurried to the window and tried to
open it, but it was locked.
“Stand back!” Hermione called to him, and she took
out her wand, still gripping the back of Harry’s robes
with her left hand.
“Alohomoral”
The window sprang open.
“How — how — ?” said Black weakly, staring at the
hippogriff.
 
“Get on — there’s not much time,” said Harry,
gripping Buckbeak firmly on either side of his sleek
neck to hold him steady. “You’ve got to get out of here
— the dementors are coming — Macnair’s gone to get
them.”
Black placed a hand on either side of the window
frame and heaved his head and shoulders out of it. It
was very lucky he was so thin. In seconds, he had
managed to fling one leg over Buckbeak’s back and
pull himself onto the hippogriff behind Hermione.
“Okay, Buckbeak, up!” said Harry, shaking the rope.
“Up to the tower — come on!”
The hippogriff gave one sweep of its mighty wings and
they were soaring upward again, high as the top of
the West Tower. Buckbeak landed with a clatter on
the battlements, and Harry and Hermione slid off him
at once.
“Sirius, you’d better go, quick,” Harry panted. “They’ll
reach Flitwick’s office any moment, they’ll find out
you’re gone.”
Buckbeak pawed the ground, tossing his sharp head.
“What happened to the other boy? Ron?” croaked
Sirius.
“He’s going to be okay. He’s still out of it, but Madam
Pomfrey says shell be able to make him better. Quick
- go
But Black was still staring down at Harry.
“How can I ever thank — ”
“GO!” Harry and Hermione shouted together.
 
Black wheeled Buckbeak around, facing the open sky.
“Well see each other again,” he said. “You are — truly
your father’s son, Harry. ...”
He squeezed Buckbeak’s sides with his heels. Harry
and Hermione jumped back as the enormous wings
rose once more. ... The hippogriff took off into the air.
. . . He and his rider became smaller and smaller as
Harry gazed after them ... then a cloud drifted across
the moon. ... They were gone.
 
OWL POST AGAIN
“Harry!”
Hermione was tugging at his sleeve, staring at her
watch. “We’ve got exactly ten minutes to get back
down to the hospital wing without anybody seeing us
— before Dumbledore locks the door — ”
“Okay,” said Harry, wrenching his gaze from the sky,
“let’s go. ...”
They slipped through the doorway behind them and
down a tightly spiraling stone staircase. As they
reached the bottom of it, they heard voices. They
flattened themselves against the wall and listened. It
sounded like Fudge and Snape. They were walking
quickly along the corridor at the foot of the staircase.
"... only hope Dumbledore ’s not going to make
difficulties,” Snape was saying. “The Kiss will be
performed immediately?”
 
“As soon as Macnair returns with the dementors. This
whole Black affair has been highly embarrassing. I
can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to
informing the Daily Prophet that we’ve got him at last.
...I daresay they’ll want to interview you, Snape ...
and once young Harry’s back in his right mind, I
expect he’ll want to tell the Prophet exactly how you
saved him. ...”
Harry clenched his teeth. He caught a glimpse of
Snape’s smirk as he and Fudge passed Harry and
Hermione’s hiding place. Their footsteps died away.
Harry and Hermione waited a few moments to make
sure they’d really gone, then started to run in the
opposite direction. Down one staircase, then another,
along a new corridor — then they heard a cackling
ahead.
“Peeves\” Harry muttered, grabbing Hermione’s wrist.
“In here!”
They tore into a deserted classroom to their left just
in time. Peeves seemed to be bouncing along the
corridor in boisterous good spirits, laughing his head
off.
“Oh, he’s horrible,” whispered Hermione, her ear to
the door. “I bet he’s all excited because the dementors
are going to finish off Sirius. ...” She checked her
watch. “Three minutes, Harry!”
They waited until Peeves ’s gloating voice had faded
into the distance, then slid back out of the room and
broke into a run again.
“Hermione — what’ll happen — if we don’t get back
inside — before Dumbledore locks the door?” Harry
panted.
 
“I don’t want to think about it!” Hermione moaned,
checking her watch again. “One minute!”
They had reached the end of the corridor with the
hospital wing entrance. “Okay — I can hear
Dumbledore,” said Hermione tensely. “Come on,
Harry!”
They crept along the corridor. The door opened.
Dumbledore ’s back appeared.
“I am going to lock you in,” they heard him saying. “It
is five minutes to midnight. Miss Granger, three turns
should do it. Good luck.”
Dumbledore backed out of the room, closed the door,
and took out his wand to magically lock it. Panicking,
Harry and Hermione ran forward. Dumbledore looked
up, and a wide smile appeared under the long silver
mustache. “Well?” he said quietly.
“We did it!” said Harry breathlessly. “Sirius has gone,
on Buckbeak. ...”
Dumbledore beamed at them.
“Well done. I think — ” He listened intently for any
sound within the hospital wing. “Yes, I think you’ve
gone too — get inside — I’ll lock you in — ”
Harry and Hermione slipped back inside the
dormitory. It was empty except for Ron, who was still
lying motionless in the end bed. As the lock clicked
behind them, Harry and Hermione crept back to their
own beds, Hermione tucking the Time-Turner back
under her robes. A moment later, Madam Pomfrey
came striding back out of her office.
 
“Did I hear the headmaster leaving? Am I allowed to
look after my patients now?”
She was in a very bad mood. Harry and Hermione
thought it best to accept their chocolate quietly.
Madam Pomfrey stood over them, making sure they
ate it. But Harry could hardly swallow. He and
Hermione were waiting, listening, their nerves
jangling. ... And then, as they both took a fourth piece
of chocolate from Madam Pomfrey, they heard a
distant roar of fury echoing from somewhere above
them. ...
“What was that?” said Madam Pomfrey in alarm.
Now they could hear angry voices, growing louder and
louder. Madam Pomfrey was staring at the door.
“Really — they’ll wake everybody up! What do they
think they’re doing?”
Harry was trying to hear what the voices were saying.
They were drawing nearer —
“He must have Disapparated, Severus. We should
have left somebody in the room with him. When this
gets out — ”
“HE DIDNT DISAPPARATE!” Snape roared, now very
close at hand. “YOU CANT APPARATE OR
DISAPPARATE INSIDE THIS CASTLE! THIS — HAS —
SOMETHING — TO — DO — WITH — POTTER!”
“Severus — be reasonable — Harry has been locked
up-”
BAM.
The door of the hospital wing burst open.
 
Fudge, Snape, and Dumbledore came striding into the
ward. Dumbledore alone looked calm. Indeed, he
looked as though he was quite enjoying himself.
Fudge appeared angry. But Snape was beside himself.
“OUT WITH IT, POTTER!” he bellowed. “WHAT DID
YOU DO?”
“Professor Snape!” shrieked Madam Pomfrey. “Control
yourself!”
“See here, Snape, be reasonable,” said Fudge. “This
door’s been locked, we just saw — ”
“THEY HELPED HIM ESCAPE, I KNOW IT!” Snape
howled, pointing at Harry and Hermione. His face was
twisted; spit was flying from his mouth.
“Calm down, man!” Fudge barked. “You’re talking
nonsense!”
“YOU DONT KNOW POTTER!” shrieked Snape. “HE
DID IT, I KNOW HE DID IT — ”
“That will do, Severus,” said Dumbledore quietly.
“Think about what you are saying. This door has been
locked since I left the ward ten minutes ago. Madam
Pomfrey, have these students left their beds?”
“Of course not!” said Madam Pomfrey, bristling. “I
would have heard them!”
“Well, there you have it, Severus,” said Dumbledore
calmly. “Unless you are suggesting that Harry and
Hermione are able to be in two places at once, I’m
afraid I don’t see any point in troubling them further.”
Snape stood there, seething, staring from Fudge, who
looked thoroughly shocked at his behavior, to
 
Dumbledore, whose eyes were twinkling behind his
glasses. Snape whirled about, robes swishing behind
him, and stormed out of the ward.
“Fellow seems quite unbalanced,” said Fudge, staring
after him. “I’d watch out for him if I were you,
Dumbledore.”
“Oh, he’s not unbalanced,” said Dumbledore quietly.
“He’s just suffered a severe disappointment.”
“He’s not the only one!” puffed Fudge. “The Daily
Prophet’s going to have a field day! We had Black
cornered and he slipped through our fingers yet
again! All it needs now is for the story of that
hippogriff’s escape to get out, and I’ll be a
laughingstock! Well ... I’d better go and notify the
Ministry. ...”
“And the dementors?” said Dumbledore. “They’ll be
removed from the school, I trust?”
“Oh yes, they’ll have to go,” said Fudge, running his
fingers distractedly through his hair. “Never dreamed
they’d attempt to administer the Kiss on an innocent
boy. ... Completely out of control ... no, I’ll have them
packed off back to Azkaban tonight. ... Perhaps we
should think about dragons at the school entrance.
“Hagrid would like that,” said Dumbledore, smiling at
Harry and Hermione. As he and Fudge left the
dormitory, Madam Pomfrey hurried to the door and
locked it again. Muttering angrily to herself, she
headed back to her office.
There was a low moan from the other end of the ward.
Ron had woken up. They could see him sitting up,
rubbing his head, looking around.
 
“What — what happened?” he groaned. “Harry? Why
are we in here? Where’s Sirius? Where’s Lupin?
What’s going on?”
Harry and Hermione looked at each other.
“You explain,” said Harry, helping himself to some
more chocolate.
When Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the hospital
wing at noon the next day, it was to find an almost
deserted castle. The sweltering heat and the end of
the exams meant that everyone was taking full
advantage of another Hogsmeade visit. Neither Ron
nor Hermione felt like going, however, so they and
Harry wandered onto the grounds, still talking about
the extraordinary events of the previous night and
wondering where Sirius and Buckbeak were now.
Sitting near the lake, watching the giant squid waving
its tentacles lazily above the water, Harry lost the
thread of the conversation as he looked across to the
opposite bank. The stag had galloped toward him
from there just last night. ...
A shadow fell across them and they looked up to see a
very bleary-eyed Hagrid, mopping his sweaty face with
one of his tablecloth-sized handkerchiefs and
beaming down at them.
“Know I shouldn’ feel happy, after wha’ happened las’
night,” he said. “I mean, Black escapin’ again, an’
everythin’ — but guess what?”
“What?” they said, pretending to look curious.
“Beaky! He escaped! He’s free! Bin celebratin’ all
night!”
 
“That’s wonderful!” said Hermione, giving Ron a
reproving look because he looked as though he was
close to laughing.
“Yeah ... can’t’ve tied him up properly,” said Hagrid,
gazing happily out over the grounds. “I was worried
this mornin’, mind ... thought he mighta met
Professor Lupin on the grounds, but Lupin says he
never ate anythin’ las’ night. ...”
“What?” said Harry quickly.
“Blimey, haven’ yeh heard?” said Hagrid, his smile
fading a little. He lowered his voice, even though there
was nobody in sight. “Er — Snape told all the
Slytherins this mornin’. ... Thought everyone ’d know
by now ... Professor Lupin’s a werewolf, see. An’ he
was loose on the grounds las’ night. ... He’s packin’
now, o’ course.”
“He’s packing?” said Harry, alarmed. “Why?”
“Leavin’, isn’ he?” said Hagrid, looking surprised that
Harry had to ask. “Resigned firs’ thing this mornin’.
Says he can’t risk it happenin’ again.”
Harry scrambled to his feet.
“I’m going to see him,” he said to Ron and Hermione.
“But if he’s resigned — ”
“ — doesn’t sound like there’s anything we can do — ”
“I don’t care. I still want to see him. I’ll meet you back
here.”
Lupin’s office door was open. He had already packed
most of his things. The grindylow’s empty tank stood
 
next to his battered old suitcase, which was open and
nearly full. Lupin was bending over something on his
desk and looked up only when Harry knocked on the
door.
“I saw you coming,” said Lupin, smiling. He pointed to
the parchment he had been poring over. It was the
Marauder’s Map.
“I just saw Hagrid,” said Harry. “And he said you’d
resigned. It’s not true, is it?”
“I’m afraid it is,” said Lupin. He started opening his
desk drawers and taking out the contents.
“Why?” said Harry. “The Ministry of Magic don’t think
you were helping Sirius, do they?”
Lupin crossed to the door and closed it behind Harry.
“No. Professor Dumbledore managed to convince
Fudge that I was trying to save your lives.” He sighed.
“That was the final straw for Severus. I think the loss
of the Order of Merlin hit him hard. So he — er —
accidentally let slip that I am a werewolf this morning
at breakfast.”
“You’re not leaving just because of that!” said Harry.
Lupin smiled wryly.
“This time tomorrow, the owls will start arriving from
parents. ... They will not want a werewolf teaching
their children, Harry. And after last night, I see their
point. I could have bitten any of you. ... That must
never happen again.”
“You’re the best Defense Against the Dark Arts
teacher we’ve ever had!” said Harry. “Don’t go!”
 
Lupin shook his head and didn’t speak. He carried on
emptying his drawers. Then, while Harry was trying
to think of a good argument to make him stay, Lupin
said, “From what the headmaster told me this
morning, you saved a lot of lives last night, Harry. If
I’m proud of anything I’ve done this year, it’s how
much you’ve learned. ... Tell me about your
Patronus.”
“How d’you know about that?” said Harry, distracted.
“What else could have driven the dementors back?”
Harry told Lupin what had happened. When he’d
finished, Lupin was smiling again.
“Yes, your father was always a stag when he
transformed,” he said. “You guessed right ... that’s
why we called him Prongs.”
Lupin threw his last few books into his case, closed
the desk drawers, and turned to look at Harry.
“Here — I brought this from the Shrieking Shack last
night,” he said, handing Harry back the Invisibility
Cloak. “And ...” He hesitated, then held out the
Marauder’s Map too. “I am no longer your teacher, so
I don’t feel guilty about giving you back this as well.
It’s no use to me, and I daresay you, Ron, and
Hermione will find uses for it.”
Harry took the map and grinned.
“You told me Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs
would’ve wanted to lure me out of school ... you said
they’d have thought it was funny.”
“And so we would have,” said Lupin, now reaching
down to close his case. “I have no hesitation in saying
 
that James would have been highly disappointed if
his son had never found any of the secret passages
out of the castle.”
There was a knock on the door. Harry hastily stuffed
the Marauder’s Map and the Invisibility Cloak into his
pocket.
It was Professor Dumbledore. He didn’t look surprised
to see Harry there.
“Your carriage is at the gates, Remus,” he said.
“Thank you, Headmaster.”
Lupin picked up his old suitcase and the empty
grindylow tank.
“Well — good-bye, Harry,” he said, smiling. “It has
been a real pleasure teaching you. I feel sure we’ll
meet again sometime. Headmaster, there is no need
to see me to the gates, I can manage. ...”
Harry had the impression that Lupin wanted to leave
as quickly as possible.
“Good-bye, then, Remus,” said Dumbledore soberly.
Lupin shifted the grindylow tank slightly so that he
and Dumbledore could shake hands. Then, with a
final nod to Harry and a swift smile, Lupin left the
office.
Harry sat down in his vacated chair, staring glumly at
the floor. He heard the door close and looked up.
Dumbledore was still there.
“Why so miserable, Harry?” he said quietly. “You
should be very proud of yourself after last night.”
 
“It didn’t make any difference,” said Harry bitterly.
“Pettigrew got away.”
“Didn’t make any difference?” said Dumbledore
quietly. “It made all the difference in the world, Harry.
You helped uncover the truth. You saved an innocent
man from a terrible fate.”
Terrible. Something stirred in Harry’s memory.
Greater and more terrible than ever before ... Professor
Trelawney’s prediction!
“Professor Dumbledore — yesterday, when I was
having my Divination exam, Professor Trelawney went
very — very strange.”
“Indeed?” said Dumbledore. “Er — stranger than
usual, you mean?”
“Yes . . . her voice went all deep and her eyes rolled
and she said ... she said Voldemort’s servant was
going to set out to return to him before midnight. ...
She said the servant would help him come back to
power.” Harry stared up at Dumbledore. “And then
she sort of became normal again, and she couldn’t
remember anything she’d said. Was it — was she
making a real prediction?”
Dumbledore looked mildly impressed.
“Do you know, Harry, I think she might have been,”
he said thoughtfully. “Who’d have thought it? That
brings her total of real predictions up to two. I should
offer her a pay raise. ...”
“But — ” Harry looked at him, aghast. How could
Dumbledore take this so calmly?
 
“But — I stopped Sirius and Professor Lupin from
killing Pettigrew! That makes it my fault if Voldemort
comes back!”
“It does not,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Hasn’t your
experience with the Time-Turner taught you anything,
Harry? The consequences of our actions are always so
complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a
very difficult business indeed. ... Professor Trelawney,
bless her, is living proof of that. ... You did a very
noble thing, in saving Pettigrew’s life.”
“But if he helps Voldemort back to power — !”
“Pettigrew owes his life to you. You have sent
Voldemort a deputy who is in your debt. ... When one
wizard saves another wizard’s life, it creates a certain
bond between them ... and I’m much mistaken if
Voldemort wants his servant in the debt of Harry
Potter.”
“I don’t want a connection with Pettigrew!” said Harry.
“He betrayed my parents!”
“This is magic at its deepest, its most impenetrable,
Harry. But trust me ... the time may come when you
will be very glad you saved Pettigrew’s life.”
Harry couldn’t imagine when that would be.
Dumbledore looked as though he knew what Harry
was thinking.
“I knew your father very well, both at Hogwarts and
later, Harry,” he said gently. “He would have saved
Pettigrew too, I am sure of it.”
Harry looked up at him. Dumbledore wouldn’t laugh
— he could tell Dumbledore . . .
 
“I thought it was my dad who’d conjured my
Patronus. I mean, when I saw myself across the lake
...I thought I was seeing him.”
“An easy mistake to make,” said Dumbledore softly. “I
expect you 11 tire of hearing it, but you do look
extraordinarily like James. Except for the eyes ... you
have your mother’s eyes.”
Harry shook his head.
“It was stupid, thinking it was him,” he muttered. “I
mean, I knew he was dead.”
“You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You
think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever
in times of great trouble? Your father is alive in you,
Harry, and shows himself most plainly when you have
need of him. How else could you produce that
particular Patronus? Prongs rode again last night.”
It took a moment for Harry to realize what
Dumbledore had said.
“Last night Sirius told me all about how they became
Animagi,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “An
extraordinary achievement — not least, keeping it
quiet from me. And then I remembered the most
unusual form your Patronus took, when it charged
Mr. Malfoy down at your Quidditch match against
Ravenclaw. You know, Harry, in a way, you did see
your father last night. ... You found him inside
yourself.”
And Dumbledore left the office, leaving Harry to his
very confused thoughts.
 
Nobody at Hogwarts now knew the truth of what had
happened the night that Sirius, Buckbeak, and
Pettigrew had vanished except Harry, Ron, Hermione,
and Professor Dumbledore. As the end of term
approached, Harry heard many different theories
about what had really happened, but none of them
came close to the truth.
Malfoy was furious about Buckbeak. He was
convinced that Hagrid had found a way of smuggling
the hippogriff to safety, and seemed outraged that he
and his father had been outwitted by a gamekeeper.
Percy Weasley, meanwhile, had much to say on the
subject of Sirius’s escape.
“If I manage to get into the Ministry, I’ll have a lot of
proposals to make about Magical Law Enforcement!”
he told the only person who would listen — his
girlfriend, Penelope.
Though the weather was perfect, though the
atmosphere was so cheerful, though he knew they
had achieved the near impossible in helping Sirius to
freedom, Harry had never approached the end of a
school year in worse spirits.
He certainly wasn’t the only one who was sorry to see
Professor Lupin go. The whole of Harry’s Defense
Against the Dark Arts class was miserable about his
resignation.
“Wonder what they’ll give us next year?” said Seamus
Finnigan gloomily.
“Maybe a vampire,” suggested Dean Thomas
hopefully.
It wasn’t only Professor Lupin’s departure that was
weighing on Harry’s mind. He couldn’t help thinking a
 
lot about Professor Trelawney’s prediction. He kept
wondering where Pettigrew was now, whether he had
sought sanctuary with Voldemort yet. But the thing
that was lowering Harry’s spirits most of all was the
prospect of returning to the Dursleys. For maybe half
an hour, a glorious half hour, he had believed he
would be living with Sirius from now on . . . his
parents’ best friend. ... It would have been the next
best thing to having his own father back. And while
no news of Sirius was definitely good news, because it
meant he had successfully gone into hiding, Harry
couldn’t help feeling miserable when he thought of
the home he might have had, and the fact that it was
now impossible.
The exam results came out on the last day of term.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had passed every subject.
Harry was amazed that he had got through Potions.
He had a shrewd suspicion that Dumbledore might
have stepped in to stop Snape failing him on purpose.
Snape’s behavior toward Harry over the past week
had been quite alarming. Harry wouldn’t have
thought it possible that Snape’s dislike for him could
increase, but it certainly had. A muscle twitched
unpleasantly at the corner of Snape’s thin mouth
every time he looked at Harry, and he was constantly
flexing his fingers, as though itching to place them
around Harry’s throat.
Percy had got his top-grade N.E.W.T.s; Fred and
George had scraped a handful of O.W.L.s each.
Gryffindor House, meanwhile, largely thanks to their
spectacular performance in the Quidditch Cup, had
won the House championship for the third year
running. This meant that the end of term feast took
place amid decorations of scarlet and gold, and that
the Gryffindor table was the noisiest of the lot, as
everybody celebrated. Even Harry managed to forget
 
about the journey back to the Dursleys the next day
as he ate, drank, talked, and laughed with the rest.
As the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station the
next morning, Hermione gave Harry and Ron some
surprising news.
“I went to see Professor McGonagall this morning, just
before breakfast. I’ve decided to drop Muggle Studies.”
“But you passed your exam with three hundred and
twenty percent!” said Ron.
“I know,” sighed Hermione, “but I can’t stand another
year like this one. That Time-Turner, it was driving
me mad. I’ve handed it in. Without Muggle Studies
and Divination, I’ll be able to have a normal schedule
again.”
“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us about it,” said
Ron grumpily. “We’re supposed to be your friends.”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone,” said Hermione
severely. She looked around at Harry, who was
watching Hogwarts disappear from view behind a
mountain. Two whole months before he’d see it again.
“Oh, cheer up, Harry!” said Hermione sadly.
“I’m okay,” said Harry quickly. “Just thinking about
the holidays.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about them too,” said Ron.
“Harry, you’ve got to come and stay with us. I’ll fix it
up with Mum and Dad, then I’ll call you. I know how
to use a fellytone now — ”
 
“A telephone, Ron,” said Hermione. “Honestly, you
should take Muggle Studies next year. ...”
Ron ignored her.
“It’s the Quidditch World Cup this summer! How
about it, Harry? Come and stay, and we’ll go and see
it! Dad can usually get tickets from work.”
This proposal had the effect of cheering Harry up a
great deal.
“Yeah ... I bet the Dursleys’d be pleased to let me
come ... especially after what I did to Aunt Marge. ...”
Feeling considerably more cheerful, Harry joined Ron
and Hermione in several games of Exploding Snap,
and when the witch with the tea cart arrived, he
bought himself a very large lunch, though nothing
with chocolate in it.
But it was late in the afternoon before the thing that
made him truly happy turned up. ...
“Harry,” said Hermione suddenly, peering over his
shoulder. “What’s that thing outside your window?”
Harry turned to look outside. Something very small
and gray was bobbing in and out of sight beyond the
glass. He stood up for a better look and saw that it
was a tiny owl, carrying a letter that was much too
big for it. The owl was so small, in fact, that it kept
tumbling over in the air, buffeted this way and that in
the train’s slipstream. Harry quickly pulled down the
window, stretched out his arm, and caught it. It felt
like a very fluffy Snitch. He brought it carefully inside.
The owl dropped its letter onto Harry’s seat and began
zooming around their compartment, apparently very
pleased with itself for accomplishing its task. Hedwig
 
clicked her beak with a sort of dignified disapproval.
Crookshanks sat up in his seat, following the owl with
his great yellow eyes. Ron, noticing this, snatched the
owl safely out of harm’s way.
Harry picked up the letter. It was addressed to him.
He ripped open the letter, and shouted, “It’s from
Sirius!”
“What?” said Ron and Hermione excitedly. “Read it
aloud!”
Dear Harry,
I hope this finds you before you reach your aunt and
uncle. I don’t know whether they’re used to owl post
Buckbeak and I are in hiding. I won’t tell you where, in
case this owl falls into the wrong hands. I have some
doubt about his reliability, but he is the best I could
find, and he did seem eager for the job.
I believe the dementors are still searching for me, but
they haven’t a hope of finding me here. I am planning
to allow some Muggles to glimpse me soon, a long way
from Hogwarts, so that the security on the castle will
be lifted.
There is something I never got around to telling you
during our brief meeting. It was I who sent you the
Firebolt —
“Ha!” said Hermione triumphantly. “See! I told you it
was from him!”
“Yes, but he hadn’t jinxed it, had he?” said Ron.
“Ouch!” The tiny owl, now hooting happily in his
hand, had nibbled one of his fingers in what it
seemed to think was an affectionate way.
 
Crookshanks took the order to the Owl Office for me. I
used your name but told them to take the gold from my
own Gringotts vault. Please consider it as thirteen
birthdays’ worth of presents from your godfather.
I would also like to apologize for the fright I think I
gave you that night last year when you left your
uncle’s house. I had only hoped to get a glimpse of you
before starting my journey north, but I think the sight
of me alarmed you.
I am enclosing something else for you, which I think
will make your next year at Hogwarts more enjoyable.
If ever you need me, send word. Your owl will find me.
I’ll write again soon.
Sirius
Harry looked eagerly inside the envelope. There was
another piece of parchment in there. He read it
through quickly and felt suddenly as warm and
contented as though he’d swallowed a bottle of hot
butterbeer in one gulp.
I, Sirius Black, Harry Potter’s godfather, hereby give
him permission to visit Hogsmeade on weekends.
“That’ll be good enough for Dumbledore!” said Harry
happily. He looked back at Sirius’s letter.
“Hang on, there’s a P.S. ...”
I thought your friend Ron might like to keep this owl,
as it’s my fault he no longer has a rat.
Ron’s eyes widened. The minute owl was still hooting
excitedly.
 
“Keep him?” he said uncertainly. He looked closely at
the owl for a moment; then, to Harry’s and
Hermione’s great surprise, he held him out for
Crookshanks to sniff.
“What do’you reckon?” Ron asked the cat. “Definitely
an owl?”
Crookshanks purred.
“That’s good enough for me,” said Ron happily. “He’s
mine.”
Harry read and reread the letter from Sirius all the
way back into King’s Cross station. It was still
clutched tightly in his hand as he, Ron, and
Hermione stepped back through the barrier of
platform nine and three-quarters. Harry spotted
Uncle Vernon at once. He was standing a good
distance from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, eyeing them
suspiciously, and when Mrs. Weasley hugged Harry in
greeting, his worst suspicions about them seemed
confirmed.
“I’ll call about the World Cup!” Ron yelled after Harry
as Harry bid him and Hermione good-bye, then
wheeled the trolley bearing his trunk and Hedwig’s
cage toward Uncle Vernon, who greeted him in his
usual fashion.
“What’s that?” he snarled, staring at the envelope
Harry was still clutching in his hand. “If it’s another
form for me to sign, you’ve got another — ”
“It’s not,” said Harry cheerfully. “It’s a letter from my
godfather.”
“Godfather?” sputtered Uncle Vernon. “You haven’t
got a godfather!”
 
“Yes, I have,” said Harry brightly. “He was my mum
and dad’s best friend. He’s a convicted murderer, but
he’s broken out of wizard prison and he’s on the run.
He likes to keep in touch with me, though ... keep up
with my news ... check if I’m happy. ...”
And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle
Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit,
Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked
like a much better summer than the last.