Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban hp-3

by J. K. Rowling

  * * *

  It was a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the main school on Monday, where he was forced to think about other things, even if he had to endure Draco Malfoy’s taunting. Malfoy was almost beside himself with glee at Gryffindor’s defeat. He had finally taken off his bandages, and celebrated having the full use of both arms again by doing spirited imitations of Harry falling off his broom. Malfoy spent much of their next Potions class doing Dementor imitations across the dungeon; Ron finally cracked and flung a large, slippery crocodile heart at Malfoy, which hit him in the face and caused Snape to take fifty points from Gryffindor.

  “If Snape’s teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts again, I’m skiving off,” said Ron as they headed toward Lupin’s classroom after lunch. “Check who’s in there, Hermione.”

  Hermione peered around the classroom door.

  “It’s okay!”

  Professor Lupin was back at work. It certainly looked as though he had been ill. His old robes were hanging more loosely on him and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiled at the class as they took their seats, and they burst at once into an explosion of complaints about Snape’s behavior while Lupin had been ill.

  “It’s not fair, he was only filling in, why should he give us homework?”

  “We don’t know anything about werewolves—”

  “—two rolls of parchment!”

  “Did you tell Professor Snape we haven’t covered them yet?” Lupin asked, frowning slightly.

  The babble broke out again.

  “Yes, but he said we were really behind—

  “—he wouldn’t listen—”

  “—two rolls of parchment!”

  Professor Lupin smiled at the look of indignation on every face.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll speak to Professor Snape. You don’t have to do the essay.”

  “Oh no,” said Hermione, looking very disappointed. “I’ve already finished it!”

  They had a very enjoyable lesson. Professor Lupin had brought along a glass box containing a Hinkypunk, a little one legged creature who looked as though he were made of wisps of smoke, rather frail and harmless looking.

  “Lures travelers into bogs,” said Professor Lupin as they took notes. “You notice the lantern dangling from his hand? Hops ahead—people follow the light—then—”

  The Hinkypunk made a horrible squelching noise against the glass.

  When the bell rang, everyone gathered up their things and headed for the door, Harry among them, but—

  “Wait a moment, Harry,” Lupin called. “I’d like a word.”

  Harry doubled back and watched Professor Lupin covering the Hinkypunk’s box with a cloth.

  “I heard about the match,” said Lupin, turning back to his desk and starting to pile books into his briefcase, “and I’m sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?”

  “No,” said Harry. “The tree smashed it to bits.”

  Lupin sighed.

  “They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No broomstick would have a chance.”

  “Did you hear about the Dementors too?” said Harry with difficulty.

  Lupin looked at him quickly.

  “Yes, I did. I don’t think any of us have seen Professor Dumbledore that angry. They have been growing restless for some time—furious at his refusal to let them inside the grounds . . . I suppose they were the reason you fell?”

  “Yes,” said Harry. He hesitated, and then the question he had to ask burst from him before he could stop himself. “Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I just—?”

  “It has nothing to do with weakness,” said Professor Lupin sharply, as though he had read Harry’s mind. “The Dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don’t have.”

  A ray of wintery sunlight fell across the classroom, illuminating Lupin’s gray hairs and the lines on his young face.

  “Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can’t see them. Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the Dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself . . . soulless and evil. You’ll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life. And the worst that happened to you, Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”

  “When they get near me—” Harry stared at Lupin’s desk, his throat tight. “I can hear Voldemort murdering my mum.”

  Lupin made a sudden motion with his arm as though to grip Harry’s shoulder, but thought better of it. There was a moment’s silence, then—

  “Why did they have to come to the match?” said Harry bitterly.

  “They’re getting hungry,” said Lupin coolly, shutting his briefcase with a snap. “Dumbledore won’t let them into the school, so their supply of human prey has dried up . . . I don’t think they could resist the large crowd around the Quidditch field. All that excitement . . . emotions running high . . . it was their idea of a feast.”

  “Azkaban must be terrible,” Harry muttered.

  Lupin nodded grimly.

  “The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea, but they don’t need walls and water to keep the prisoners in, not when they’re all trapped inside their own heads, incapable of a single cheery thought. Most of them go mad within weeks.”

  “But Sirius Black escaped from them,” Harry said slowly. “He got away . . .”

  Lupin’s briefcase slipped from the desk; he had to stoop quickly to catch it.

  “Yes,” he said, straightening up, “Black must have found a way to fight them. I wouldn’t have believed it possible . . . Dementors are supposed to drain a wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long . . .”

  “You made that Dementor on the train back off,” said Harry suddenly.

  “There are—certain defenses one can use,” said Lupin. “But there was only one Dementor on the train. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist.”

  “What defenses?” said Harry at once. “Can you teach me?”

  “I don’t pretend to be an expert at fighting Dementors, Harry, quite the contrary . . .”

  “But if the Dementors come to another Quidditch match, I need to be able to fight them—”

  Lupin looked into Harry’s determined face, hesitated, then said, “Well . . . all right. I’ll try and help. But it’ll have to wait until next term, I’m afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient time to fall ill.”

  * * *

  What with the promise of anti Dementor lessons from Lupin, the thought that he might never have to hear his mother’s death again, and the fact that Ravenclaw flattened Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the end of November, Harry’s mood took a definite upturn. Gryffindor were not out of the running after all, although they could not afford to lose another match. Wood became repossessed of his manic energy, and worked his team as hard as ever in the chilly haze of rain that persisted into December. Harry saw no hint of a Dementor within the grounds. Dumbledore’s anger seemed to be keeping them at their stations at the entrances.

  Two weeks before the end of the term, the sky lightened suddenly to a dazzling, opaline white and the muddy grounds were revealed one morning covered in glittering frost. Inside the castle, there was a buzz of Christmas in the air. Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, had already decorated his classroom with shimmering lights that turned out to be real, fluttering fairies. The students were all happily discussing their plans for the holidays. Both Ron and Herm
ione had decided to remain at Hogwarts, and though Ron said it was because he couldn’t stand two weeks with Percy, and Hermione insisted she needed to use the library, Harry wasn’t fooled; they were doing it to keep him company, and he was very grateful.

  To everyone’s delight except Harry’s, there was to be another Hogsmeade trip on the very last weekend of the term.

  “We can do all our Christmas shopping there!” said Hermione. “Mum and Dad would really love those Toothflossing Stringmints from Honeydukes!”

  Resigned to the fact that he would be the only third year staying behind again, Harry borrowed a copy of Which Broomstick from Wood, and decided to spend the day reading up on the different makes. He had been riding one of the school brooms at team practice, an ancient Shooting Star, which was very slow and jerky; he definitely needed a new broom of his own.

  On the Saturday morning of the Hogsmeade trip, Harry bid good bye to Ron and Hermione, who were wrapped in cloaks and scarves, then turned up the marble staircase alone, and headed back toward Gryffindor Tower. Snow had started to fall outside the windows, and the castle was very still and quiet.

  “Psst—Harry!”

  He turned, halfway along the third floor corridor, to see Fred and George peering out at him from behind a statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch.

  “What are you doing?” said Harry curiously. “How come you’re not going to Hogsmeade?”

  “We’ve come to give you a bit of festive cheer before we go,” said Fred, with a mysterious wink. “Come in here . . .”

  He nodded toward an empty classroom to the left of the one-eyed statue. Harry followed Fred and George inside. George closed the door quietly and then turned, beaming, to look at Harry.

  “Early Christmas present for you, Harry,” he said.

  Fred pulled something from inside his cloak with a flourish and laid it on one of the desks. It was a large, square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it. Harry, suspecting one of Fred and George’s jokes, stared at it.

  “What’s that supposed to be?”

  “This, Harry, is the secret of our success,” said George, patting the parchment fondly.

  “It’s a wrench, giving it to you,” said Fred, “but we decided last night, your need’s greater than ours.”

  “Anyway, we know it by heart,” said George. “We bequeath it to you. We don’t really need it anymore.”

  “And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?” said Harry.

  “A bit of old parchment!” said Fred, closing his eyes with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended him. “Explain, George.”

  “Well . . . when we were in our first year, Harry—young, carefree, and innocent—”

  Harry snorted. He doubted whether Fred and George had ever been innocent.

  “Well, more innocent than we are now—we got into a spot of bother with Filch.”

  “We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset him for some reason—”

  “So he hauled us off to his office and started threatening us with the usual—”

  “—detention—”

  “—disembowelment—”

  “—and we couldn’t help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly Dangerous.”

  “Don’t tell me—” said Harry, starting to grin.

  “Well, what would you’ve done?” said Fred. “George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I whipped the drawer open, and grabbed—this.”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know,” said George. “We don’t reckon Filch ever found out how to work it. He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn’t have confiscated it.”

  “And you know how to work it?”

  “Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This little beauty’s taught us more than all the teachers in this school.”

  “You’re winding me up,” said Harry, looking at the ragged old bit of parchment.

  “Oh, are we?” said George.

  He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

  And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a spider’s web from the point that George’s wand had touched. They joined each other, they crisscrossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed:

  Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

  Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers

  are proud to present

  THE MARAUDER’S MAP

  It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled with a name in minuscule writing. Astounded, Harry bent over it. A labeled dot in the top left corner showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his study; the caretaker’s cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as Harry’s eyes traveled up and down the familiar corridors, he noticed something else.

  This map showed a set of passages he had never entered. And many of them seemed to lead—

  “Right into Hogsmeade,” said Fred, tracing one of them with his finger. “There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four”—he pointed them out—“but we’re sure we’re the only ones who know about these. Don’t bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last winter, but it’s caved in—completely blocked. And we don’t reckon anyone’s ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow’s planted right over the entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We’ve used it loads of times. And as you might’ve noticed, the entrance is right outside this room, through that one-eyed old crone’s hump.”

  “Moony, Wormtaill, Padfoot, and Prongs,” sighed George, patting the heading of the map. “We owe them so much.”

  “Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers,” said Fred solemnly.

  “Right,” said George briskly. “Don’t forget to wipe it after you’ve used it or anyone can read it,” Fred said warningly.

  “Just tap it again and say, ‘Mischief managed!’ And it’ll go blank.”

  “So, young Harry,” said Fred, in an uncanny impersonation of Percy, “mind you behave yourself.”

  “See you in Honeydukes,” said George, winking.

  They left the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of way.

  Harry stood there, gazing at the miraculous map. He watched the tiny ink Mrs. Norris turn left and pause to sniff at something on the floor. If Filch really didn’t know . . . he wouldn’t have to pass the Dementors at all . . .

  But even as he stood there, flooded with excitement, something Harry had once heard Mr. Weasley say came floating out of his memory.

  Never trust anything that can think for itself, if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.

  This map was one of those dangerous magical objects Mr. Weasley had been warning against . . . Aids for Magical Mischief-Makers… but then, Harry reasoned, he only wanted to use it to get into Hogsmeade, it wasn’t as though he wanted to steal anything or attack anyone . . . and Fred and George had been using it for years without anything horrible happening . . .

  Harry traced the secret passage to Honeydukes with his finger.

  Then, quite suddenly, as though following orders, he rolled up the map, stuffed it inside his robes, and hurried to the door of the classroom. He opened it a couple of inches. There was no one outside. Very carefully, he edged out of the room and behind the statue of the one-eyed witch.

  What did he have to do? He pulled out the map again and saw to his astonishment, that a new ink figure had appeared upon it, labeled Harry Potter. This figure was standing exactly where the real Harry was standing, about halfway down the third floor corridor.

  Harry watched carefully. His little ink self appeared to be tapping the witch with hi
s minute wand. Harry quickly took out his real wand and tapped the statue. Nothing happened. He looked back at the map. The tiniest speech bubble had appeared next to his figure. The word inside said, “Dissendium.”

  “Dissendium!” Harry whispered, tapping the stone witch again.

  At once, the statue’s hump opened wide enough to admit a fairly thin person. Harry glanced quickly up and down the corridor, then tucked the map away again, hoisted himself into the hole headfirst, and pushed himself forward.

  He slid a considerable way down what felt like a stone slide, then landed on cold, damp earth. He stood up, looking around. It was pitch dark. He held up his wand, muttered, “Lumos!” and saw that he was in a very narrow, low, earthy passageway. He raised the map, tapped it with the tip of his wand, and muttered, “Mischief managed!” The map went blank at once. He folded it carefully, tucked it inside his robes, then, heart beating fast, both excited and apprehensive, he set off.

  The passage twisted and turned, more like the burrow of a giant rabbit than anything else. Harry hurried along it, stumbling now and then on the uneven floor, holding his wand out in front of him.

  It took ages, but Harry had the thought of Honeydukes to sustain him. After what felt like an hour, the passage began to rise. Panting, Harry sped up, his face hot, his feet very cold.

  Ten minutes later, he came to the foot of some worn stone steps, which rose out of sight above him. Careful not to make any noise, Harry began to climb. A hundred steps, two hundred steps, he lost count as he climbed, watching his feet . . . Then, without warning, his head hit something hard.

  It seemed to be a trapdoor. Harry stood there, massaging the top of his head, listening. He couldn’t hear any sounds above him. Very slowly, he pushed the trapdoor open and peered over the edge.

  He was in a cellar, which was full of wooden crates and boxes. Harry climbed out of the trapdoor and replaced it—it blended so perfectly with the dusty floor that it was impossible to tell it was there. Harry crept slowly toward the wooden staircase that led upstairs. Now he could definitely hear voices, not to mention the tinkle of a bell and the opening and shutting of a door.