Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban hp-3

by J. K. Rowling

  The class knew instantly he’d gone too far. Snape advanced on Ron slowly, and the room held its breath.

  “Detention, Weasley,” Snape said silkily, his face very close to Ron’s. “And if I ever hear you criticize the way I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed.”

  No one made a sound throughout the rest of the lesson. They sat and made notes on werewolves from the textbook, while Snape prowled up and down the rows of desks, examining the work they had been doing with Professor Lupin.

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

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

  “You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me, on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves. I want two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want them by Monday morning. It is time somebody took this class in hand. Weasley, stay behind, we need to arrange your detention.”

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

  “Snape’s never been like this with any of our other Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, even if he did want the job,” Harry said to Hermione. “Why’s he got it in for Lupin? D’you think this is all because of the Boggart?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hermione pensively. “But I really hope Professor Lupin gets better soon . . .”

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

  “D’you know what that—” (he called Snape something that made Hermione say “Ron!”)”—is making me do? I’ve got to scrub out the bedpans in the hospital wing. Without magic!” He was breathing deeply, his fists clenched. “Why couldn’t Black have hidden in Snape’s office, eh? He could have finished him off for us!”

  Harry woke extremely early the next morning; so early that it was till 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 roorn. 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, “Impervius!”

  “There!” she said, handing them back to Harry. “They’ll repel water!”

  Wood looked as though he could have kissed her.

  “Brilliant!” he called hoarsely after her as she disappeared into th
e 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 broomhandle and zoomed toward the Snitch.

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

  But something odd was happening. An eerie silence was falling across the stadium. The wind, though as strong as ever, was forgetting to roar. It was as though someone had turned off the sound, as though Harry had gone suddenly deaf—what was going on?

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

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

  At least a hundred Dementors, their hidden faces pointing up at him, were standing beneath him. It was as though freezing water were rising in his chest, cutting at his insides. And then he heard it again . . . Someone was screaming, screaming inside his head . . . a woman . . .

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

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

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

  Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Harry’s brain . . . What was he doing? Why was he flying? He needed to help her . . . She was going to die . . . She was going to be murdered . . .

  He was falling, falling through the icy mist.

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

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

  “Lucky the ground was so soft.”

  “I thought he was dead for sure.”

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

  Harry could hear the voices whispering, but they made no sense whatsoever. He didn’t have a clue where he was, or how he’d got there, or what he’d been doing before he got there. All he knew was that every inch of him was aching as though it had been beaten.

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

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

  Harry’s eyes snapped open. He was lying in the hospital wing. The Gryffindor Quidditch team, spattered with mud from head to foot, was gathered around his bed. Ron and Hermione were also there, looking as though they’d just climbed out of a swimming pool.

  “Harry!” said Fred, who looked extremely white underneath, the mud. “How’re you feeling?”

  It was as though Harry’s memory was on fast forward. The lightning—the Grim—the Snitch—and the Dementors . . .

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

  “You fell off,” said Fred. “Must’ve been—what—fifty feet?”

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

  Hermione made a small, squeaky noise. Her eyes were extremely bloodshot.

  “But the match,” said Harry. “What happened? Are we doing a replay?”

  No one said anything. The horrible truth sank into Harry like a stone.

  “We didn’t—lose?”

  “Diggory got the Snitch,” said George. “Just after you fell. He didn’t realize what had happened. When he looked back and saw you on the ground, he tried to call it off. Wanted a rematch. But they won fair and square . . . even Wood admits it.”

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

  “Still in the showers,” said Fred. “We think he’s trying to drown himself.”

  Harry put his face to his knees, his hands gripping his hair. Fred grabbed his shoulder and shook it roughly.

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

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

  “It’s not over yet,” said Fred. “We lost by a hundred points—”

  “Right? So if Hufflepuff loses to Ravenclaw and we beat Ravenclaw and Slytherin—”

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

  “But if they beat Ravenclaw . . .”

  “No way, Ravenclaw is too good. But if Slytherin loses against Hufflepuff . . .”

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

  Harry lay there, not saying a word. They had lost . . . for the first time ever, he had lost a Quidditch match.

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

  “We’ll come and see you later,” Fred told him. “Don’t beat yourself up, Harry, you’re still the best Seeker we’ve ever had.”

  The team trooped out, trailing mud behind them. Madam Pomfrey shut the door behind them, looking disapproving. Ron and Hermione moved nearer to Harry’s bed.

  “Dumbledore was really angry,” Hermione said in a quaking voice. “I’ve never seen him like that before. He ran onto the field as you fell, waved his wand, and you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground. Then he whirled his wand at the Dementors. Shot silver stuff at them. They left the stadium right away . . . He was furious they’d come onto the grounds. We heard him—”

  “Then he magicked you onto a stretcher,” said Ron. “And walked up to school with you floating on it. Everyone thought you were—”

  His voice faded, but Harry hardly noticed. He was thinking about what the Dementors had done to him . . . about the screaming voice. He looked up and saw Ron and Hermione looking at him so anxiously that he quickly cast around for something matter of fact to say.

  “Did someone get my Nimbus?”

  Ron and Hermione looked quickly at each other.

  “Er—”

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

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

  “And?”

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

  Harry’s insides lurched. The Whomping Willow was a very violent tree that stood alone in the middle of the grounds.

  “And?” he said, dreading the answer.

  “Well, you know the Whomping Willow,” said Ron. “It—it doesn’t like being hit.”

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

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

  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.