Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban hp-3

by J. K. Rowling

  “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 uncertainty, 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-riddikulus!” 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—

  “Riddikulus!” 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 floorlength 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—

  “Riddikulus!” 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.

  “Riddikulus!” 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—

  “Riddikulus!” 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, “Riddikulus!” 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.

  “Riddikulus!” 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?”

  8. FLIGHT OF THE FAT LADY

  In no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had bec
ome 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 goblin like 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 lunch times, 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’ 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 on 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.

  “We’ll do it, Oliver!” said Angelina.

  “Definitely,” said Harry.

  Full of determination, the team started training sessions, three evenings a week. The weather was getting colder and wetter, the nights darker, but no amount of mud, wind, or rain could tarnish Harry’s wonderful vision of finally winning the huge, silver Quidditch Cup.

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

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

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

  “Excellent,” said Fred, who had followed Harry through the portrait hole. “I need to visit Zonko’s. I’m nearly out of Stink Pellets.”

  Harry threw himself into a chair beside Ron, his high spirits ebbing away. Hermione seemed to read his mind.

  “Harry, I’m sure you’ll be able to go next time,” she said. “They’re bound to catch Black soon. He’s been sighted once already.”

  “Black’s not fool enough to try anything in Hogsmeade,” said Ron. “Ask McGonagall if you can go this time, Harry. The next one might not be for ages—”

  “Ron!” said Hermione. “Harry’s supposed to stay in school—”

  “He can’t be the only third year left behind,” said Ron. “Ask McGonagall, go on, Harry—”

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

  Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but at that moment Crookshanks leapt lightly onto her lap. A large, dead spider was dangling from his mouth.

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

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

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

  “Just keep him over there, that’s all,” said Ron irritably, turning back to his star chart. “I’ve got Scabbers asleep in my bag.”

  Harry yawned. He really wanted to go to bed, but he still had his own star chart to complete. He pulled his bag toward him, took out parchment, ink, and quill, and started work.

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

  Hermione, who disapproved of copying, pursed her lips but didn’t say anything. Crookshanks was still staring unblinkingly at Ron, flicking the end of his bushy tail. Then, without warning, he pounced.

  “OY!” Ron roared, seizing his bag as Crookshanks sank four sets of claws 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 wh
ole 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.