Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban hp-3

by J. K. Rowling

  Professor Lupin had come back. He paused as he entered, looked around, and said, with a small smile, “I haven’t poisoned that chocolate, you know . . .”

  Harry took a bite and to his great surprise felt warmth spread suddenly to the tips of his fingers and toes.

  “We’ll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes,” said Professor Lupin. “Are you all right, Harry?”

  Harry didn’t ask how Professor Lupin knew his name.

  “Fine,” he muttered, embarrassed.

  They didn’t talk much during the remainder of the journey. At long last, the train stopped at Hogsmeade station, and there was a great scramble to get outside; owls hooted, cats meowed, and Neville’s pet toad croaked loudly from under his hat. It was freezing on the tiny platform; rain was driving down in icy sheets.

  “Firs’ years this way!” called a familiar voice. Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned and saw the gigantic outline of Hagrid at the other end of the platform, beckoning the terrified looking new students forward for their traditional journey across the lake.

  “All right, you three?” Hagrid yelled over the heads of the crowd. They waved at him, but had no chance to speak to him because the mass of people around them was shunting them away along the platform. Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed the rest of the school along the platform and out onto a rough mud track, where at least a hundred stagecoaches awaited the remaining students, each pulled, Harry could only assume, by an invisible horse, because when they climbed inside and shut the door, the coach set off all by itself, bumping and swaying in procession.

  The coach smelled faintly of mold and straw. Harry felt better since the chocolate, but still weak. Ron and Hermione kept looking at him sideways, as though frightened he might collapse again.

  As the carriage trundled toward a pair of magnificent wrought iron gates, flanked with stone columns topped with winged boars, Harry saw two more towering, hooded Dementors, standing guard on either side. A wave of cold sickness threatened to engulf him again; he leaned back into the lumpy seat and closed his eyes until they had passed the gates. The carriage picked up speed on the long, sloping drive up to the castle; Hermione was leaning out of the tiny window, watching the many turrets and towers draw nearer. At last, the carriage swayed to a halt, and Hermione and Ron got out.

  As Harry stepped down, a drawling, delighted voice sounded in his ear.

  “You fainted, Potter? Is Longbottorn telling the truth? You actualy fainted?”

  Malfoy elbowed past Hermione to block Harry’s way up the stone steps to the castle, his face gleeful and his pale eyes glinting maliciously.

  “Shove off, Malfoy,” said Ron, whose jaw was clenched.

  “Did you faint as well, Weasley?” said Malfoy loudly. “Did the scary old Dementor frighten you too, Weasley?”

  “Is there a problem?” said a mild voice. Professor Lupin had just gotten out of the next carriage.

  Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which took in the patches on his robes and the delapidated suitcase. With a tiny hint of sarcasm in his voice, he said, “Oh, no—er—Professor,” then he smirked at Crabbe and Goyle and led them up the steps into the castle.

  Hermione prodded Ron in the back to make him hurry, and the three of them joined the crowd swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front doors, into the cavernous entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches, and housed a magnificent marble staircase that led to the upper floors.

  The door into the Great Hall stood open at the right; Harry followed the crowd toward it, but had barely glimpsed the enchanted ceiling, which was black and cloudy tonight, when a voice called, “Potter! Granger! I want to see you both!”

  Harry and Hermione turned around, surprised. Professor McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher and head of Gryffindor House, was calling over the heads of the crowd. She was a sternlooking witch who wore her hair in a tight bun; her sharp eyes were framed with square spectacles. Harry fought his way over to her with a feeling of foreboding: Professor McGonagall had a way of making him feel he must have done something wrong.

  “There’s no need to look so worried—I just want a word in my office,” she told them. “Move along there, Weasley.”

  Ron stared as Professor McGonagall ushered Harry and Hermione away from the chattering crowd; they accompanied her across the entrance hall, up the marble staircase, and along a corridor.

  Once they were in her office, a small room with a large, welcoming fire, Professor McGonagall motioned Harry and Hermione to sit down. She settled herself behind her desk and said abruptly, “Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead to say that you were taken ill on the train, Potter.”

  Before Harry could reply, there was a soft knock on the door and Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, came bustling in.

  Harry felt himself going red in the face. It was bad enough that he’d passed out, or whatever he had done, without everyone making all this fuss.

  “I’m fine,” he said, “I don’t need anything—”

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Madam Pomfrey, ignoring this and bending down to stare closely at him. “I suppose you’ve been doing something dangerous again?”

  “It was a Dementor, Poppy,” said Professor McGonagall.

  They exchanged a dark look, and Madam Pomfrey clucked disapprovingly.

  “Setting Dementors around a school,” she muttered, pushing back Harry’s hair and feeling his forehead. “He won’t be the last one who collapses. Yes, he’s all clammy. Terrible things, they are, and the effect they have on people who are already delicate—”

  “I’m not delicate!” said Harry crossly.

  “Of course you’re not,” said Madam Pomfrey absentmindedly, now taking his pulse.

  “What does he need?” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “Bed rest? Should he perhaps spend tonight in the hospital wing?”

  “I’m fine!” said Harry, jumping up. The thought of what Draco Malfoy would say if he had to go to the hospital wing was torture.

  “Well, he should have some chocolate, at the very least,” said Madam Pomfrey, who was now trying to peer into Harry’s eyes.

  “I’ve already had some,” said Harry. “Professor Lupin gave me some. He gave it to all of us.”

  “Did he, now?” said Madam Pomfrey approvingly. “So we’ve finally got a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who knows his remedies?”

  “Are you sure you feel all right, Potter?” Professor McGonagall said sharply.

  “Yes,” said Harry.

  “Very well. Kindly wait outside while I have a quick word with Miss Granger about her course schedule, then we can go down to the feast together.”

  Harry went back into the corridor with Madam Pomfrey, who left for the hospital wing, muttering to herself. He had to wait only a few minutes; then Hermione emerged looking very happy about something, followed by Professor McGonagall, and the three of them made their way back down the marble staircase to the Great Hall.

  It was a sea of pointed black hats; each of the long House tables was lined with students, their faces glimmering by the light of thousands of candles, which were floating over the tables in midair. Professor Flitwick, who was a tiny little wizard with a shock of white hair, was carrying an ancient hat and a three legged stool out of the hall.

  “Oh,” said Hermione softly, “we’ve missed the Sorting!”

  New students at Hogwarts were sorted into Houses by trying on the sorting Hat, which shouted out the House they were best suited to (Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin). Professor McGonagall strode off toward her empty seat at the staff table, and Harry and Hermione set off in the other direction, as quietly as possible, toward the Gryffindor table. People looked around at them as they passed along the back of the hall, and a few of them pointed at Harry. Had the story of his collapsing in front of the Dementor traveled that fast?

  He and Hermione sat down on either side of Ron, who had saved them seats.

  “What was all that about?” he muttered to Harry.
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  Harry started to explain in a whisper, but at that moment the headmaster stood up to speak, and he broke off.

  Professor Dumbledore, though very old, always gave an impression of great energy. He had several feet of long silver hair and beard, half moon spectacles, and an extremely crooked nose. He was often described as the greatest wizard of the age, but that wasn’t why Harry respected him. You couldn’t help trusting Albus Dumbledore, and as Harry watched him beaming around at the students, he felt really calm for the first time since the Dementor had entered the train compartment.

  “Welcome!” said Dumbledore, the candlelight shimmering on his beard. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast . . .”

  Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued, “As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the Dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business.”

  He paused, and Harry remembered what Mr. Weasley had said about Dumbledore not being happy with the Dementors guarding the school.

  “They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds,” Dumbledore continued, “and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises—or even Invisibility Cloaks,” he added blandly, and Harry and Ron glanced at each other. “It is not in the nature of a Dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul of the Dementors,” he said.

  Percy, who was sitting a few seats down from Harry, puffed out his chest again and stared around impressively. Dumbledore paused again; he looked very seriously around the hall, and nobody moved or made a sound.

  “On a happier note,” he continued, “I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year.

  “First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

  There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic applause. Only those who had been in the compartment on the train with Professor Lupin clapped hard, Harry among them. Professor Lupin looked particularly shabby next to all the other teachers in their best robes.

  “Look at Snape!” Ron hissed in Harry’s ear.

  Professor Snape, the Potions master, was staring along the staff table at Professor Lupin. It was common knowledge that Snape wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, but even Harry, who hated Snape, was startled at the expression twisting his thin, sallow face. It was beyond anger: it was loathing. Harry knew that expression only too well; it was the look Snape wore every time he set eyes on Harry.

  “As to our second new appointment,” Dumbledore continued as the lukewarm applause for Professor Lupin died away. “Well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties.”

  Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at one another, stunned. Then they joined in with the applause, which was tumultuous at the Gryffindor table in particular. Harry leaned forward to see Hagrid, who was ruby red in the face and staring down at his enormous hands, his wide grin hidden in the tangle of his black beard.

  “We should’ve known!” Ron roared, pounding the table. “Who else would have assigned us a biting book?”

  Harry, Ron, and Hermione were the last to stop clapping, and as Professor Dumbledore started speaking again, they saw that Hagrid was wiping his eyes on the tablecloth.

  “Well, I think that’s everything of importance,” said Dumbledore. “Let the feast begin!”

  The golden plates and goblets before them filled suddenly with food and drink. Harry, suddenly ravenous, helped himself to everything he could reach and began to eat.

  It was a delicious feast; the hall echoed with talk, laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, were eager for it to finish so that they could talk to Hagrid. They knew how much being made a teacher would mean to him. Hagrid wasn’t a fully qualified wizard; he had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year for a crime he had not committed. It had been Harry, Ron, and Hermione who had cleared Hagrid’s name last year.

  At long last, when the last morsels of pumpkin tart had melted from the golden platters, Dumbledore gave the word that it was time for them all to go to bed, and they got their chance.

  “Congratulations, Hagrid!” Hermione squealed as they reached the teachers’ table.

  “All down ter you three,” said Hagrid, wiping his shining face on his napkin as he looked up at them. “Can’ believe it . . . great man, Dumbledore . . . came straight down to me hut after Professor Kettleburn said he’d had enough . . . It’s what I always wanted—”

  Overcome with emotion, he buried his face in his napkin, and Professor McGonagall shooed them away.

  Harry, Ron, and Hermione joined the Gryffindors streaming up the marble staircase and, very tired now, along more corridors, up more and more stairs, to the hidden entrance to Gryffindor Tower’s large portrait of a fat lady in a pink dress asked them, “Password?”

  “Coming through, coming through!” Percy called from behind the crowd. “The new password’s ‘Fortuna Major’!”

  “Oh no,” said Neville Longbottom sadly. He always had trouble remembering the passwords.

  Through the portrait hole and across the common room, the girls and boys divided toward their separate staircases. Harry climbed the spiral stair with no thought in his head except how glad he was to be back. They reached their familiar, circular dormitory with its five four poster beds, and Harry, looking around, felt he was home at last.

  6. TALONS AND TEA LEAVES

  When Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the Great Hall for breakfast the next day, the first thing they saw was Draco Malfoy, who seemed to be entertaining a large group of Slytherins with a very funny story. As they passed, Malfoy did a ridiculous impression of a swooning fit and there was a roar of laughter.

  “Ignore him,” said Hermione, who was right behind Harry. “Just ignore him, it’s not worth it . . .”

  “Hey, Potter!” shrieked Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl with a face like a pug. “Potter! The Dementors are coming, Potter! Woooooooooo!”

  Harry dropped into a seat at the Gryffindor table, next to George Weasley.

  “New third year course schedules,” said George, passing then, over. “What’s up with you, Harry?”

  “Malfoy,” said Ron, sitting down on George’s other side and glaring over at the Slytherin table.

  George looked up in time to see Malfoy pretending to faint with terror again.

  “That little git,” he said calmly. “He wasn’t so cocky last night when the Dementors were down at our end of the train. Came runing into our compartment, didn’t he, Fred?”

  “Nearly wet himself,” said Fred, with a contemptuous glance at Malfoy.

  “I wasn’t too happy myself,” said George. “They’re horrible things, those Dementors . . .”

  “Sort of freeze your insides, don’t they?” said Fred.

  “You didn’t pass out, though, did you?” said Harry in a low voice.

  “Forget it, Harry,” said George bracingly. “Dad had to go out to Azkaban one time, remember, Fred? And he said it was the worst place he’d ever been, he came back all weak and shaking . . . They suck the happiness out of a place, Dementors. Most of the prisoners go mad in there.”

  “Anyway, we’ll see how happy Malfoy looks after our first Quidditch match,” said Fred. “Gryffindor versus Slytherin, first game of the season, remem
ber?”

  The only time Harry and Malfoy had faced each other in a Quidditch match, Malfoy had definitely come off worse. Feeling slightly more cheerful, Harry helped himself to sausages and fried tomatoes.

  Hermione was examining her new schedule.

  “Ooh, good, we’re starting some new subjects today,” she said happily.

  “Hermione,” said Ron, frowning as he looked over her shoulder, “they’ve messed up your schedule. Look—they’ve got you down for about ten subjects a day. There isn’t enough time.”

  “I’ll manage. I’ve fixed it all with Professor McGonagall.”

  “But look,” said Ron, laughing, “see this morning? Nine o’clock, Divination. And underneath, nine o’clock, Muggle Studies. And”—Ron leaned closer to the schedule, disbelieving—“look—underneath that, Arithmacy, nine o’clock. I mean, I know you’re good, Hermione, but no one’s that good. How’re you supposed to be in three classes at once?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Hermione shortly. “Of course I won’t be in three classes at once.”

  “Well, then—”

  “Pass the marmalade,” said Hermione.

  “But—”

  “Oh, Ron, what’s it to you if my schedule’s a bit full?” Hermione snapped. “I told you, I’ve fixed it all with Professor McGonagall.”

  Just then, Hagrid entered the Great Hall. He was wearing his long moleskin overcoat and was absent-mindedly swinging a dead polecat from one enormous hand.

  “All right’?” he said eagerly, pausing on the way to the staff table. “Yer in my firs’ ever lesson! Right after lunch! Bin up since five getting’ everythin’ ready . . . Hope it’s okay . . . Me, a teacher . . . hones’ly . . .”

  He grinned broadly at them and headed off to the staff table, still swinging the polecat.

  “Wonder what he’s been getting ready?” said Ron, a note of anxiety in his voice.

  The hall was starting to empty as people headed off toward their first lesson. Ron checked his course schedule.