Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban hp-3

by J. K. Rowling

  “IT WASN’T A NIGHTMARE!” Ron yelled. “PROFESSOR, I WOKE UP, AND SIRIUS BLACK WAS STANDING OVER ME, HOLDING A KNIFE!”

  Professor McGonagall stared at him.

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

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

  Glaring suspiciously at Ron, Professor McGonagall pushed the portrait back open and went outside. The whole common room listened with bated breath. “Sir Cadogan, did you just let a man enter Gryffindor Tower?”

  “Certainly, good lady!” cried Sir Cadogan.

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

  “You—you did?” said Professor McGonagall. “But—but the password!”

  “He had ’em!” said Sir Cadogan proudly. “Had the whole week’s, my lady! Read ’em off a little piece of paper!”

  Professor McGonagall pulled herself back through the portrait hole to face the stunned crowd. She was white as chalk.

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

  There was utter silence, broken by the smallest of terrified squeaks. Neville Longbottom, trembling from head to fluffy slippered toes, raised his hand slowly into the air.

  14. 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 Honeyduke’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 secondyear 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 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 l
ooking uncharacteristically serious.

  “What?” said Harry.

  “Hermione,” said Hagrid.

  “What about her?” said Ron.

  “She’s in a righ’ state, that’s what. She’s bin comin’ down ter visit me a lot since Chris’mas. Bin feelin’ lonely. Firs’ yeh weren’ talking to her because o’ the Firebolt, now yer not talkin’ to her because her cat—”

  “—ate Scabbers!” Ron interjected angrily.

  “Because her cat acted like all cats do,” Hagrid continued doggedly. “She’s cried a fair few times, yeh know. Goin’ through a rough time at the moment. Bitten off more’n she can chew, if yeh ask me, all the work she’s tryin’ ter do. Still found time ter help me with Buckbeak’s case, mind . . . She’s found some really good stuff fer me . . . reckon he’ll stand a good chance now . . .”

  “Hagrid, we should’ve helped as well—sorry—” Harry began awkwardly.

  “I’m not blamin’ yeh!” said Hagrid, waving Harry’s apology aside. “Gawd knows yeh’ve had enough ter be gettin’ on with. I’ve seen yeh practicin’ Quidditch ev’ry hour o’ the day an’ night—but I gotta tell yeh, I thought you two’d value yer friend more’n broomsticks or rats. Tha’s all.”

  Harry and Ron exchanged uncomfortable looks.

  “Really upset, she was, when Black nearly stabbed yeh, Ron. She’s got her heart in the right place, Hermione has, an’ you two not talkin’ to her—”

  “If she’d just get rid of that cat, I’d speak to her again!” Ron said angrily. “But she’s still sticking up for it! It’s a maniac, and she won’t hear a word against it!”

  “Ah, well, people can be a bit stupid abou’ their pets,” said Hagrid wisely. Behind him, Buckbeak spat a few ferret bones onto Hagrid’s pillow.

  They spent the rest of their visit discussing Gryffindor’s improved chances for the Quidditch Cup. At nine o’clock, Hagrid walked them back up to the castle.

  A large group of people was bunched around the bulletin board when they returned to the common room.

  “Hogsmeade, next weekend!” said Ron, craning over the heads to read the new notice. “What d’you reckon?” he added quietly to Harry as they went to sit down.

  “Well, Filch hasn’t done anything about the passage into Honeydukes . . .” Harry said, even more quietly.

  “Harry!” said a voice in his right ear. Harry started and looked around at Hermione, who was sitting at the table right behind them and clearing a space in the wall of books that had been hiding her.

  “Harry, if you go into Hogsmeade again . . . I’ll tell Professor McGonagall about that map!” said Hermione.

  “Can you hear someone talking, Harry?” growled Ron, not looking at Hermione.

  “Ron, how can you let him go with you? After what Sirius Black nearly did to you! I mean it, I’ll tell—”

  “So now you’re trying to get Harry expelled!” said Ron furiously. “Haven’t you done enough damage this year?”

  Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but with a soft hiss, Crookshanks leapt onto her lap. Hermione took one frightened look at the expression on Ron’s face, gathered up Crookshanks, and hurried away toward the girls’ dormitories.

  “So how about it?” Ron said to Harry as though there had been no interruption. “Come on, last time we went you didn’t see anything. You haven’t even been inside Zonko’s yet!”

  Harry looked around to check that Hermione was well out of earshot.

  “Okay,” he said. “But I’m taking the Invisibility Cloak this time.”

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, Harry packed his Invisibility Cloak in his bag, slipped the Marauder’s Map into his pocket, and went down to breakfast with everyone else. Hermione kept shooting suspicious looks down the table at him, but he avoided her eye and was careful to let her see him walking back up the marble staircase in the entrance hall as everybody else proceeded to the front doors.

  “’Bye!” Harry called to Ron. “See you when you get back!”

  Ron grinned and winked.

  Harry hurried up to the third floor, slipping the Marauder’s Map out of his pocket as he went. Crouching behind the one-eyed witch, he smoothed it out. A tiny dot was moving in his direction. Harry squinted at it. The minuscule writing next to it read Neville Longbottom.

  Harry quickly pulled out his wand, muttered, “Dissendium!” and shoved his bag into the statue, but before he could climb in himself, Neville came around the corner.

  “Harry! I forgot you weren’t going to Hogsmeade either!”

  “Hi, Neville,” said Harry, moving swiftly away from the statue and pushing the map back into his pocket. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing,” shrugged Neville. “Want a game of Exploding Snap?”

  “Er—not now—I was going to go to the library and do that vampire essay for Lupin—”

  “I’ll come with you!” said Neville brightly. I haven’t done it either!”

  “Er—hang on—yeah, I forgot, I finished it last night!”

  “Great, you can help me!” said Neville, his round face anxious. “I don’t understand that thing about the garlic at all—do they have to eat it, or—” He broke off with a small gasp, looking over Harry’s shoulder.

  It was Snape. Neville took a quick step behind Harry.

  “And what are you two doing here?” said Snape, coming to a halt and looking from one to the other. “An odd place to meet—”

  To Harry’s immense disquiet, Snape’s black eyes flicked to the doorways on either side of them, and then to the one-eyed witch.

  “We’re not—meeting here,” said Harry. “We just—met here.”

  “Indeed?” said Snape. “You have a habit of turning up in unexpected places, Potter, and you are very rarely there for no 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—”