‘The third and final task will take place at dusk on the twenty-fourth of June,’ continued Bagman. ‘The champions will be notified of what is coming, precisely one month beforehand. Thank you all for your support of the champions.’
It was over, Harry thought dazedly, as Madam Pomfrey began herding the champions and hostages back to the castle to get into dry clothes … it was over, he had got through … he didn’t have to worry about anything now until June the twenty-fourth …
Next time he was in Hogsmeade, he decided, as he walked back up the stone steps into the castle, he was going to buy Dobby a pair of socks for every day of the year.
— CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN —
Padfoot Returns
One of the best things about the aftermath of the second task was that everybody was very keen to hear details of what had happened down in the lake, which meant that for once Ron was getting to share Harry’s limelight. Harry noticed that Ron’s version of events changed subtly with every retelling. At first, he gave what seemed to be the truth; it tallied with Hermione’s story, anyway – Dumbledore had put all the hostages into a bewitched sleep in Professor McGonagall’s office, first assuring them that they would be quite safe, and would awake when they were back above the water. One week later, however, Ron was telling a thrilling tale of kidnap in which he struggled single-handedly against fifty heavily armed merpeople who had to beat him into submission before tying him up.
‘But I had my wand hidden up my sleeve,’ he assured Padma Patil, who seemed to be a lot keener on Ron now that he was getting so much attention, and was making a point of talking to him every time they passed in the corridors. ‘I could’ve taken those mer-idiots any time I wanted.’
‘What were you going to do, snore at them?’ said Hermione waspishly. People had been teasing her so much about being the thing that Viktor Krum would most miss that she was in a rather tetchy mood.
Ron’s ears went red, and he reverted thereafter to the bewitched-sleep version of events.
As they entered March the weather became drier, but cruel winds skinned their hands and faces every time they went out into the grounds. There were delays in the post because the owls kept being blown off course. The brown owl that Harry had sent to Sirius with the dates of the Hogsmeade weekend turned up at breakfast on Friday morning with half its feathers sticking up the wrong way; Harry had no sooner torn off Sirius’ reply than it took flight, clearly afraid it was going to be sent outside again.
Sirius’ letter was almost as short as the previous one.
Be at stile at end of road out of Hogsmeade (past Dervish & Banges) at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon. Bring as much food as you can.
‘He hasn’t come back to Hogsmeade?’ said Ron incredulously.
‘It looks like it, doesn’t it?’ said Hermione.
‘I can’t believe him,’ said Harry tensely. ‘If he’s caught …’
‘Made it so far, though, hasn’t he?’ said Ron. ‘And it’s not like the place is swarming with Dementors any more.’
Harry folded up the letter, thinking. If he was honest with himself, he really wanted to see Sirius again. He therefore approached the final lesson of the afternoon – double Potions – feeling considerably more cheerful than he usually did when descending the steps to the dungeons.
Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were standing in a huddle outside the classroom door with Pansy Parkinson’s gang of Slytherin girls. All of them were looking at something Harry couldn’t see and sniggering heartily. Pansy’s pug-like face peered excitedly around Goyle’s broad back as Harry, Ron and Hermione approached.
‘There they are, there they are!’ she giggled, and the knot of Slytherins broke apart. Harry saw that Pansy had a magazine in her hands – Witch Weekly. The moving picture on the front showed a curly-haired witch who was smiling toothily and pointing at a large sponge cake with her wand.
‘You might find something to interest you in there, Granger!’ Pansy said loudly, and she threw the magazine at Hermione, who caught it, looking startled. At that moment, the dungeon door opened, and Snape beckoned them all inside.
Hermione, Harry and Ron headed for a table at the back of the dungeon as usual. Once Snape had turned his back on them to write up the ingredients of today’s potion on the blackboard, Hermione hastily riffled through the magazine under the desk. At last, in the centre pages, Hermione found what they were looking for. Harry and Ron leant in closer. A colour photograph of Harry headed a short piece entitled HARRY POTTER’S SECRET HEARTACHE:
A boy like no other, perhaps – yet a boy suffering all the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter. Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he had found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-born Hermione Granger. Little did he know that he would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow in a life already littered with personal loss.
Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor Krum, Bulgaria Seeker and hero of the last World Quidditch Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with both boys’ affections. Krum, who is openly smitten with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited her to visit him in Bulgaria over the summer holidays, and insists that he has ‘never felt this way about any other girl’.
However, it might not be Miss Granger’s doubtful natural charms which have captured these unfortunate boys’ interest.
‘She’s really ugly,’ says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty and vivacious fourth-year student, ‘but she’d be well up to making a Love Potion, she’s quite brainy. I think that’s how she’s doing it.’
Love Potions are of course banned at Hogwarts, and no doubt Albus Dumbledore will want to investigate these claims. In the meantime, Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate.
‘I told you!’ Ron hissed at Hermione, as she stared down at the article. ‘I told you not to annoy Rita Skeeter! She’s made you out to be some sort of – of scarlet woman!’
Hermione stopped looking astonished and snorted with laughter.
‘Scarlet woman?’ she repeated, shaking with suppressed giggles as she looked round at Ron.
‘It’s what my mum calls them,’ Ron muttered, his ears going red again.
‘If that’s the best Rita can do, she’s losing her touch,’ said Hermione, still giggling, as she threw Witch Weekly onto the empty chair beside her. ‘What a pile of old rubbish.’
She looked over at the Slytherins, who were all watching her and Harry closely across the room to see if they had been upset by the article. Hermione gave them a sarcastic smile and a wave, and she, Harry and Ron started unpacking the ingredients they would need for their Wit-Sharpening Potion.
‘There’s something funny, though,’ said Hermione ten minutes later, holding her pestle suspended over a bowl of scarab beetles. ‘How could Rita Skeeter have known …?’
‘Known what?’ said Ron quickly. ‘You haven’t been mixing up Love Potions, have you?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Hermione snapped, starting to pound up her beetles again. ‘No, it’s just … how did she know Viktor asked me to visit him over the summer?’
Hermione blushed scarlet as she said this, and determinedly avoided Ron’s eyes.
‘What?’ said Ron, dropping his pestle with a loud clunk.
‘He asked me right after he’d pulled me out of the lake,’ Hermione muttered. ‘After he’d got rid of his shark’s head. Madam Pomfrey gave us both blankets and then he sort of pulled me away from the judges so they wouldn’t hear, and he said, if I wasn’t doing anything over the summer, would I like to –’
‘And what did you say?’ said Ron, who had picked up his pestle and was grinding it on the desk, a good six inches from his bowl, because he was looking at Hermione.
‘And he did say he’d never felt the same way about anyone else,’ Hermione w
ent on, going so red now that Harry could almost feel the heat coming from her, ‘but how could Rita Skeeter have heard him? She wasn’t there … or was she? Maybe she has got an Invisibility Cloak, maybe she sneaked into the grounds to watch the second task …’
‘And what did you say?’ Ron repeated, pounding his pestle down so hard that it dented the desk.
‘Well, I was too busy seeing whether you and Harry were OK to –’
‘Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is, Miss Granger,’ said an icy voice right behind them, ‘I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.’
Snape had glided over to their desk while they had been talking. The whole class was now looking around at them; Malfoy took the opportunity to flash POTTER STINKS across the dungeon at Harry.
‘Ah … reading magazines under the table as well?’ Snape added, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly. ‘A further ten points from Gryffindor … oh, but of course …’ Snape’s black eyes glittered as they fell on Rita Skeeter’s article. ‘Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings …’
The dungeon rang with the Slytherins’ laughter, and an unpleasant smile curled Snape’s thin mouth. To Harry’s fury, he began to read the article aloud.
‘ Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache … dear, dear, Potter, what’s ailing you now? A boy like no other, perhaps …’
Harry could feel his face burning now. Snape was pausing at the end of every sentence to allow the Slytherins a hearty laugh. The article sounded ten times worse when read by Snape.
‘ … Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate. How very touching,’ sneered Snape, rolling up the magazine to continued gales of laughter from the Slytherins. ‘Well, I think I had better separate the three of you, so you can keep your minds on your potions rather than your tangled love lives. Weasley, you stay here. Miss Granger, over there, beside Miss Parkinson. Potter – that table in front of my desk. Move. Now.’
Furious, Harry threw his ingredients and his bag into his cauldron, and dragged it up to the front of the dungeon to the empty table. Snape followed, sat down at his desk and watched Harry unload his cauldron. Determined not to look at Snape, Harry resumed the mashing of his scarab beetles, imagining each one to have Snape’s face.
‘All this press attention seems to have inflated your already overlarge head, Potter,’ said Snape quietly, once the rest of the class had settled down again.
Harry didn’t answer. He knew Snape was trying to provoke him; he had done this before. No doubt he was hoping for an excuse to take a round fifty points from Gryffindor before the end of the class.
‘You might be labouring under the delusion that the entire wizarding world is impressed with you,’ Snape went on, so quietly that no one else could hear him (Harry continued to pound his scarab beetles, even though he had already reduced them to a very fine powder), ‘but I don’t care how many times your picture appears in the papers. To me, Potter, you are nothing but a nasty little boy who considers rules to be beneath him.’
Harry tipped the powdered beetles into his cauldron and started cutting up his ginger roots. His hands were shaking slightly out of anger, but he kept his eyes down, as though he couldn’t hear what Snape was saying to him.
‘So I give you fair warning, Potter,’ Snape continued, in a softer and more dangerous voice, ‘pint-sized celebrity or not – if I catch you breaking into my office one more time –’
‘I haven’t been anywhere near your office!’ said Harry angrily, forgetting his feigned deafness.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ Snape hissed, his fathomless black eyes boring into Harry’s. ‘Boomslang skin. Gillyweed. Both come from my private stores, and I know who stole them.’
Harry stared back at Snape, determined not to blink, or to look guilty. In truth, he hadn’t stolen either of these things from Snape. Hermione had taken the Boomslang skin back in their second year – they had needed it for the Polyjuice Potion – and while Snape had suspected Harry at the time, he had never been able to prove it. Dobby, of course, had stolen the Gillyweed.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harry lied coldly.
‘You were out of bed on the night my office was broken into!’ Snape hissed. ‘I know it, Potter! Now, Mad-Eye Moody might have joined your fan club, but I will not tolerate your behaviour! One more night-time stroll into my office, Potter, and you will pay!’
‘Right,’ said Harry coolly, turning back to his ginger roots, ‘I’ll bear that in mind if I ever get the urge to go in there.’
Snape’s eyes flashed. He plunged a hand into the inside of his black robes. For one wild moment, Harry thought Snape was about to pull out his wand and curse him – then he saw that Snape had drawn out a small crystal bottle of a completely clear potion. Harry stared at it.
‘Do you know what this is, Potter?’ Snape said, his eyes glittering dangerously again.
‘No,’ said Harry, completely honestly this time.
‘It is Veritaserum – a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear,’ said Snape viciously. ‘Now, the use of this Potion is controlled by very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand slips –’ he shook the crystal bottle slightly ‘– right over your evening pumpkin juice. And then, Potter … then we’ll find out whether you’ve been in my office or not.’
Harry said nothing. He turned back to his ginger roots once more, picked up his knife and started slicing them again. He didn’t like the sound of that Truth Potion at all, and nor would he put it past Snape to slip him some. He repressed a shudder at the thought of what might come spilling out of his mouth if Snape did … quite apart from landing a whole lot of people in trouble – Hermione and Dobby, for a start – there were all the other things he was concealing … like the fact that he was in contact with Sirius … and – his insides squirmed at the thought – how he felt about Cho … He tipped his ginger roots into the cauldron too, and wondered whether he ought to take a leaf out of Moody’s book and start drinking only from a private hip-flask.
There was a knock on the dungeon door.
‘Enter,’ said Snape, in his usual voice.
The class looked around as the door opened. Professor Karkaroff came in. Everyone watched him as he walked up towards Snape’s desk. He was twisting his finger around his goatee again, and looking agitated.
‘We need to talk,’ said Karkaroff abruptly, when he had reached Snape. He seemed so determined that nobody should hear what he was saying that he was barely opening his lips; it was as though he was a rather poor ventriloquist. Harry kept his eyes on his ginger roots, listening hard.
‘I’ll talk to you after my lesson, Karkaroff –’ Snape muttered, but Karkaroff interrupted him.
‘I want to talk now, while you can’t slip off, Severus. You’ve been avoiding me.’
‘After the lesson,’ Snape snapped.
Under the pretext of holding up a measuring cup to see if he’d poured out enough armadillo bile, Harry sneaked a sidelong glance at the pair of them. Karkaroff looked extremely worried, and Snape looked angry.
Karkaroff hovered behind Snape’s desk for the rest of the double period. He seemed intent on preventing Snape slipping away at the end of class. Keen to hear what Karkaroff wanted to say, Harry deliberately knocked over his bottle of armadillo bile with two minutes to go to the bell, which gave him an excuse to duck down behind his cauldron and mop up while the rest of the class moved noisily towards the door.
‘What’s so urgent?’ he heard Snape hiss at Karkaroff.
‘This,’ said Karkaroff, and Harry, peering around the edge of his cauldron, saw Karkaroff pull up the left-hand sleeve of his robe, and show Snape something on his inner forearm.
‘Well?’ said Karkaroff, still making every effort not to move his lips. ‘Do you see? It’s never been this clear,
never since –’
‘Put it away!’ snarled Snape, his black eyes sweeping the classroom.
‘But you must have noticed –’ Karkaroff began in an agitated voice.
‘We can talk later, Karkaroff!’ spat Snape. ‘Potter! What are you doing?’
‘Clearing up my armadillo bile, Professor,’ said Harry innocently, straightening up and showing Snape the sodden rag he was holding.
Karkaroff turned on his heel and strode out of the dungeon. He looked both worried and angry. Not wanting to remain alone with an exceptionally angry Snape, Harry threw his books and ingredients back into his bag, and left at top speed to tell Ron and Hermione what he had just witnessed.
*
They left the castle at noon the next day to find a weak silver sun shining down upon the grounds. The weather was milder than it had been all year, and by the time they arrived in Hogsmeade, all three of them had taken off their cloaks and thrown them over their shoulders. The food Sirius had told them to bring was in Harry’s bag; they had sneaked a dozen chicken legs, a loaf of bread and a flask of pumpkin juice from the lunch table.
They went into Gladrags Wizardwear to buy a present for Dobby, where they had fun selecting all the most lurid socks they could find, including a pair patterned with flashing gold and silver stars, and another that screamed loudly when they became too smelly. Then, at half past one, they made their way up the High Street, past Dervish and Banges, and out towards the edge of the village.
Harry had never been in this direction before. The winding lane was leading them out into the wild countryside around Hogsmeade. The cottages were fewer here, and their gardens larger; they were walking towards the foot of the mountain in whose shadow Hogsmeade lay. Then they turned a corner, and saw a stile at the end of the lane. Waiting for them, its front paws on the topmost bar, was a very large, shaggy black dog, which was carrying some newspapers in its mouth, and looked very familiar …
The Goblet of Fire Page 44
