Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban hp-3

by J. K. Rowling

  SPLAT.

  Malfoy’s head jerked forward as the mud hit him; his silverblond 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 surpressed 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 aquired 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.

  Snap 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 ugle 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 a jar 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.”

  15. THE QUIDDITCH FINAL

  “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 . . .”