The Prisoner of Azkaban

by J. K. Rowling

  There’s some interesting local history of witchcraft here, too. I’ve re-written my whole History of Magic essay to include some of the things I’ve found out. I hope it’s not too long, it’s two rolls of parchment more than Professor Binns asked for.

  Ron says he’s going to be in London in the last week of the holidays. Can you make it? Will your aunt and uncle let you come? I really hope you can. If not, I’ll see you on the Hogwarts Express on September the first!

  Love from

  Hermione

  P.S. Ron says Percy’s Head Boy. I’ll bet Percy’s really pleased. Ron doesn’t seem too happy about it.

  Harry laughed again as he put Hermione’s letter aside and picked up her present. It was very heavy. Knowing Hermione, he was sure it would be a large book full of very difficult spells – but it wasn’t. His heart gave a huge bound as he ripped back the paper and saw a sleek black leather case with silver words stamped across it: Broomstick Servicing Kit.

  ‘Wow, Hermione!’ Harry whispered, unzipping the case to look inside.

  There was a large jar of Fleetwood’s High-Finish Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver Tail-Twig Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip onto your broom for long journeys, and a Handbook of Do-it-Yourself Broomcare.

  Apart from his friends, the thing that Harry missed most about Hogwarts was Quidditch, the most popular sport in the magical world – highly dangerous, very exciting and played on broomsticks. Harry happened to be a very good Quidditch player; he had been the youngest person in a century to be picked for one of the Hogwarts house teams. One of Harry’s most prized possessions was his Nimbus Two Thousand racing broom.

  Harry put the leather case aside and picked up his last parcel. He recognised the untidy scrawl on the brown paper at once: this was from Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper. He tore off the top layer of paper and glimpsed something green and leathery, but before he could unwrap it properly, the parcel gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it snapped loudly – as though it had jaws.

  Harry froze. He knew that Hagrid would never send him anything dangerous on purpose, but then, Hagrid didn’t have a normal person’s view of what was dangerous. Hagrid had been known to befriend giant spiders, buy vicious, three-headed dogs from men in pubs and sneak illegal dragon eggs into his cabin.

  Harry poked the parcel nervously. It snapped loudly again. Harry reached for the lamp on his bedside table, gripped it firmly in one hand and raised it over his head, ready to strike. Then he seized the rest of the wrapping paper in his other hand and pulled.

  And out fell – a book. Harry just had time to register its handsome green cover, emblazoned with the golden title, The Monster Book of Monsters, before it flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the bed like some weird crab.

  ‘Uh oh,’ Harry muttered.

  The book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and shuffled rapidly across the room. Harry followed it stealthily. The book was hiding in the dark space under his desk. Praying that the Dursleys were still fast asleep, Harry got down on his hands and knees and reached towards it.

  ‘Ouch!’

  The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped past him, still scuttling on its covers. Harry scrambled around, threw himself forward and managed to flatten it. Uncle Vernon gave a loud, sleepy grunt in the room next door.

  Hedwig and Errol watched interestedly as Harry clamped the struggling book tightly in his arms, hurried to his chest of drawers and pulled out a belt, which he buckled tightly around it. The Monster Book shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap, so Harry threw it down on the bed and reached for Hagrid’s card.

  Dear Harry,

  Happy Birthday!

  Think you might find this useful for next year. Won’t say no more here. Tell you when I see you.

  Hope the Muggles are treating you right.

  All the best,

  Hagrid

  It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a biting book would come in useful, but he put up Hagrid’s card next to Ron and Hermione’s, grinning more broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from Hogwarts left.

  Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Harry slit open the envelope, pulled out the first page of parchment within and read:

  Dear Mr Potter,

  Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King’s Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o’clock.

  Third-years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade at certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign.

  A list of books for next year is enclosed.

  Yours sincerely,

  Professor M. McGonagall

  Deputy Headmistress

  Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and looked at it, no longer grinning. It would be wonderful to visit Hogsmeade at weekends; he knew it was an entirely wizarding village, and he had never set foot there. But how on earth was he going to persuade Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign the form?

  He looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two o’clock in the morning.

  Deciding that he’d worry about the Hogsmeade form when he woke up, Harry got back into bed and reached up to cross off another day on the chart he’d made for himself, counting down the days left until his return to Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses and lay down, eyes open, facing his three birthday cards.

  Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment Harry Potter felt just like everyone else: glad, for the first time in his life, that it was his birthday.

  — CHAPTER TWO —

  Aunt Marge’s Big Mistake

  Harry went down to breakfast next morning to find the three Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room. Dudley had spent most of the summer in the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on the screen and his five chins wobbling as he ate continually.

  Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a large, beefy man with very little neck and a lot of moustache. Far from wishing Harry a happy birthday, none of the Dursleys gave any sign that they had noticed Harry enter the room, but Harry was far too used to this to care. He helped himself to a piece of toast and then looked up at the newsreader on the television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict.

  ‘… the public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately.’

  ‘No need to tell us he’s no good,’ snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. ‘Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!’

  He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy hair had always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed indeed.

  The newsreader had reappeared.

  ‘The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today –’

  ‘Hang on!’ barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the newsreader. ‘You didn’t tell us where that maniac’s escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!’

  Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered intently out of the kitchen window. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would simply love to be the one to call the hotline number. She was the nosiest woman in the world and spent most of her life spying on her boring, law-abiding neighbours.

  ‘When will they learn,’ said Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his large purple fist, ‘that hanging’s the only way to deal with these people?’

  ‘Very true,’ said Aunt Petunia, who was still squinting into next door’s runner-beans.
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  Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch and added, ‘I’d better be off in a minute, Petunia, Marge’s train gets in at ten.’

  Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with the Broomstick Servicing Kit, was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump.

  ‘Aunt Marge?’ he blurted out. ‘Sh-she’s not coming here, is she?’

  Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon’s sister. Even though she was not a blood relative of Harry’s (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia’s sister), he had been forced to call her ‘Aunt’ all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She didn’t often stay in Privet Drive, because she couldn’t bear to leave her precious dogs, but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in Harry’s mind.

  At Dudley’s fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had whacked Harry around the shins with her walking stick to stop him beating Dudley at musical statues. A few years later, she had turned up at Christmas with a computerised robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for Harry. On her last visit, the year before Harry had started at Hogwarts, Harry had accidentally trodden on the paw of her favourite dog. Ripper had chased Harry out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off until past midnight. The memory of this incident still brought tears of laughter to Dudley’s eyes.

  ‘Marge’ll be here for a week,’ Uncle Vernon snarled, ‘and while we’re on the subject,’ he pointed a fat finger threateningly at Harry, ‘we need to get a few things straight before I go and collect her.’

  Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the television. Watching Harry being bullied by Uncle Vernon was Dudley’s favourite form of entertainment.

  ‘Firstly,’ growled Uncle Vernon, ‘you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re talking to Marge.’

  ‘All right,’ said Harry bitterly, ‘if she does when she’s talking to me.’

  ‘Secondly,’ said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he had not heard Harry’s reply, ‘as Marge doesn’t know anything about your abnormality, I don’t want any – any funny stuff while she’s here. You behave yourself, got me?’

  ‘I will if she does,’ said Harry through gritted teeth.

  ‘And thirdly,’ said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes now slits in his great purple face, ‘we’ve told Marge you attend St Brutus’s Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys.’

  ‘What?’ Harry yelled.

  ‘And you’ll be sticking to that story, boy, or there’ll be trouble,’ spat Uncle Vernon.

  Harry sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at Uncle Vernon, hardly able to believe it. Aunt Marge coming for a week-long visit – it was the worst birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him, including that pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks.

  ‘Well, Petunia,’ said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to his feet, ‘I’ll be off to the station, then. Want to come along for the ride, Dudders?’

  ‘No,’ said Dudley, whose attention had returned to the television now that Uncle Vernon had finished threatening Harry.

  ‘Duddy’s got to make himself smart for his auntie,’ said Aunt Petunia, smoothing Dudley’s thick blond hair. ‘Mummy’s bought him a lovely new bow-tie.’

  Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder.

  ‘See you in a bit, then,’ he said, and he left the kitchen.

  Harry, who had been sitting in a kind of horrified trance, had a sudden idea. Abandoning his toast, he got quickly to his feet and followed Uncle Vernon to the front door.

  Uncle Vernon was pulling on his car coat.

  ‘I’m not taking you,’ he snarled, as he turned to see Harry watching him.

  ‘Like I wanted to come,’ said Harry coldly. ‘I want to ask you something.’

  Uncle Vernon eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘Third-years at Hog – at my school are allowed to visit the village sometimes,’ said Harry.

  ‘So?’ snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys from a hook next to the door.

  ‘I need you to sign the permission form,’ said Harry in a rush.

  ‘And why should I do that?’ sneered Uncle Vernon.

  ‘Well,’ said Harry, choosing his words carefully, ‘it’ll be hard work, pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that St Whatsits …’

  ‘St Brutus’s Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys!’ bellowed Uncle Vernon, and Harry was pleased to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle Vernon’s voice.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Harry, looking calmly up into Uncle Vernon’s large, purple face. ‘It’s a lot to remember. I’ll have to make it sound convincing, won’t I? What if I accidentally let something slip?’

  ‘You’ll get the stuffing knocked out of you, won’t you?’ roared Uncle Vernon, advancing on Harry with his fist raised. But Harry stood his ground.

  ‘Knocking the stuffing out of me won’t make Aunt Marge forget what I could tell her,’ he said grimly.

  Uncle Vernon stopped, his fist still raised, his face an ugly puce.

  ‘But if you sign my permission form,’ Harry went on quickly, ‘I swear I’ll remember where I’m supposed to go to school, and I’ll act like a Mug – like I’m normal and everything.’

  Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon was thinking it over, even if his teeth were bared and a vein was throbbing in his temple.

  ‘Right,’ he snapped finally. ‘I shall monitor your behaviour carefully during Marge’s visit. If, at the end of it, you’ve toed the line and kept to the story, I’ll sign your ruddy form.’

  He wheeled around, pulled open the front door and slammed it so hard that one of the little panes of glass at the top fell out.

  Harry didn’t return to the kitchen. He went back upstairs to his bedroom. If he was going to act like a real Muggle, he’d better start now. Slowly and sadly he gathered up all his presents and his birthday cards and hid them under the loose floorboard with his homework. Then he went to Hedwig’s cage. Errol seemed to have recovered; he and Hedwig were both asleep, heads under their wings. Harry sighed, then poked them both awake.

  ‘Hedwig,’ he said gloomily, ‘you’re going to have to clear off for a week. Go with Errol, Ron’ll look after you. I’ll write him a note, explaining. And don’t look at me like that’ – Hedwig’s large amber eyes were reproachful, ‘it’s not my fault. It’s the only way I’ll be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione.’

  Ten minutes later, Errol and Hedwig (who had a note to Ron bound to her leg) soared out of the window and out of sight. Harry, now feeling thoroughly miserable, put the empty cage away inside the wardrobe.

  But Harry didn’t have long to brood. In next to no time, Aunt Petunia was shrieking up the stairs for Harry to come down and get ready to welcome their guest.

  ‘Do something about your hair!’ Aunt Petunia snapped as he reached the hall.

  Harry couldn’t see the point of trying to make his hair lie flat. Aunt Marge loved criticising him, so the untidier he looked, the happier she would be.

  All too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as Uncle Vernon’s car pulled back into the driveway, then the clunk of the car doors, and footsteps on the garden path.

  ‘Get the door!’ Aunt Petunia hissed at Harry.

  A feeling of great gloom in his stomach, Harry pulled the door open.

  On the threshold stood Aunt Marge. She was very like Uncle Vernon; large, beefy and purple-faced, she even had a moustache, though not as bushy as his. In one hand she held an enormous suitcase, and tucked under the other was an old and evil-tempered bulldog.

  ‘Where’s my Dudders?’ roared Aunt Marge. ‘Where’s my neffy poo?’

  Dudley came waddling down the hall, his blond hair plastered flat to his fat head, a bow-tie just visible under his many chins. Aunt Marge thrust the suitcase into Harry’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, seized Dudley in a tight one-armed hug and planted a large kiss on his cheek.

  Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley only put up with Aunt Marge’s hugs because
he was well paid for it, and sure enough, when they broke apart, Dudley had a crisp twenty-pound note clutched in his fat fist.

  ‘Petunia!’ shouted Aunt Marge, striding past Harry as though he was a hat-stand. Aunt Marge and Aunt Petunia kissed, or rather, Aunt Marge bumped her large jaw against Aunt Petunia’s bony cheekbone.

  Uncle Vernon now came in, smiling jovially as he shut the door.

  ‘Tea, Marge?’ he said. ‘And what will Ripper take?’

  ‘Ripper can have some tea out of my saucer,’ said Aunt Marge, as they all trooped into the kitchen, leaving Harry alone in the hall with the suitcase. But Harry wasn’t complaining; any excuse not to be with Aunt Marge was fine by him, so he began to heave the case upstairs into the spare bedroom, taking as long as he could.

  By the time he got back to the kitchen, Aunt Marge had been supplied with tea and fruitcake and Ripper was lapping noisily in the corner. Harry saw Aunt Petunia wince slightly as specks of tea and drool flecked her clean floor. Aunt Petunia hated animals.

  ‘Who’s looking after the other dogs, Marge?’ Uncle Vernon asked.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got Colonel Fubster managing them,’ boomed Aunt Marge. ‘He’s retired now, good for him to have something to do. But I couldn’t leave poor old Ripper. He pines if he’s away from me.’

  Ripper began to growl again as Harry sat down. This directed Aunt Marge’s attention to Harry for the first time.

  ‘So!’ she barked. ‘Still here, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry.

  ‘Don’t you say “yes” in that ungrateful tone,’ Aunt Marge growled. ‘It’s damn good of Vernon and Petunia to keep you. Wouldn’t have done it myself. You’d have gone straight to an orphanage if you’d been dumped on my doorstep.’