“W-what?” said Harry, scrambling to his feet. “Why?”
“It will need to be checked for jinxes,” said Professor McGonagall. “Of course, I’m no expert, but I daresay Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick will strip it down—”
“Strip it down?” repeated Ron, as though Professor McGonagall was mad.
“It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks,” said Professor McGonagall. “You will have it back if we are sure it is jinx free.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it!” said Harry, his voice shaking slightly. “Honestly, Professor—”
“You can’t know that, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, quite kindly, “not until you’ve flown it, at any rate, and I’m afraid that is out of the question until we are certain that it has not been tampered with. I shall keep you informed.”
Professor McGonagall turned on her heel and carried the Firebolt out of the portrait hole, which closed behind her. Harry stood staring after her, the tin of High Finish Polish still clutched in his hands. Ron, however, rounded on Hermione.
“What did you go running to McGonagall for?”
Hermione threw her book aside. She was still pink in the face, but stood up and faced Ron defiantly.
“Because I thought—and Professor McGonagall agrees with me—that that broom was probably sent to Harry by Sirius Black!”
12. THE PATRONUS
Harry knew that Hermione had meant well, but that didn’t stop him from being angry with her. He had been the owner of the best broom in the world for a few short hours, and now, because of her interference, he didn’t know whether he would ever see it again. He was positive that there was nothing wrong with the Firebolt now, but what sort of state would it be in once it had been subjected to all sorts of anti jinx tests?
Ron was furious with Hermione too. As far as he was concerned, the stripping down of a brandnew Firebolt was nothing less than criminal damage. Hermione, who remained convinced that she had acted for the best, started avoiding the common room. Harry and Ron supposed she had taken refuge in the library and didn’t try to persuade her to come back. All in all, they were glad when the rest of the school returned shortly after New Year, and Gryffindor Tower became crowded and noisy again. Wood sought Harry out on the night before term started.
“Had a good Christmas?” he said, and then, without waiting for an answer, he sat down, lowered his voice, and said, “I’ve been, doing some thinking over Christmas, Harry. After last match, you know. If the Dementors come to the next one . . . I mean . . . we can’t afford you to—well—”
Wood broke off, looking awkward.
“I’m working on it,” said Harry quickly. “Professor Lupin said he’d train me to ward off the Dementors. We should be starting this week. He said he’d have time after Christmas.”
“Ah,” said Wood, his expression clearing. “Well, in that case—I really didn’t want to lose you as Seeker, Harry. And have you ordered a new broom yet?”
“No,” said Harry.
“What! You’d better get a move on, you know—you can’t ride that Shooting Star against Ravenclaw!”
“He got a Firebolt for Christmas,” said Ron.
“A Firebolt? No! Seriously? A—a real Firebolt?”
“Don’t get excited, Oliver,” said Harry gloomily. “I haven’t got it anymore. It was confiscated.”
And he explained all about how the Firebolt was now being checked for jinxes.
“Jinxed? How could it be jinxed?”
“Sirius Black,” Harry said wearily. “He’s supposed to be after me. So McGonagall reckons he might have sent it.”
Waving aside the information that a famous murderer was after his Seeker, Wood said, “But Black couldn’t have bought a Firebolt! He’s on the run! The whole country’s on the lookout for him! How could he just walk into Quality Quidditch Supplies and buy a broomstick?”
“I know,” said Harry, “but McGonagall still wants to strip it down—”
Wood went pale.
“I’ll go and talk to her, Harry,” he promised. “I’ll make her see reason . . . A Firebolt . . . a real Firebolt, on our team . . . She wants Gryffindor to win as much as we do . . . I’ll make her see sense. A Firebolt . . .”
* * *
Classes started again the next day. The last thing anyone felt like doing was spending two hours on the grounds on a raw January morning, but Hagrid had provided a bonfire full of salamanders for their enjoyment, and they spent an unusually good lesson collecting dry wood and leaves to keep the fire blazing while the flame loving lizards scampered up and down the crumbling, white hot logs. The first Divination lesson of the new term was much less fun; Professor Trelawney was now teaching them palmistry, and she lost no time in informing Harry that he had the shortest life line she had ever seen.
It was Defense Against the Dark Arts that Harry was keen to get to; after his conversation with Wood, he wanted to get started on his anti Dementor lessons as soon as possible.
“Ah yes,” said Lupin, when Harry reminded him of his promise at the end of class. “Let me see . . . how about eight o’clock on Thursday evening? The History of Magic classroom should be large enough . . . I’ll have to think carefully about how we’re going to do this . . . We can’t bring a real Dementor into the castle to practice on . . .”
“Still looks ill, doesn’t he?” said Ron as they walked down the corridor, heading to dinner. “What d’you reckon’s the matter with him?”
There was a loud and impatient “tuh” from behind them. It was Hermione, who had been sitting at the feet of a suit of armor, repacking her bag, which was so full of books it wouldn’t close.
“And what are you tutting at us for?” said Ron irritably.
“Nothing,” said Hermione in a lofty voice, heaving her bag back over her shoulder.
“Yes, you were,” said Ron. “I said I wonder what’s wrong with Lupin, and you—”
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” said Hermione, with a look of maddening superiority.
“If you don’t want to tell us, don’t,” snapped Ron.
“Fine,” said Hermione haughtily, and she marched off.
“She doesn’t know,” said Ron, staring resentfully after Hermione. “She’s just trying to get us to talk to her again.”
* * *
At eight o’clock on Thursday evening, Harry left Gryffindor Tower for the History of Magic classroom. It was dark and empty when he arrived, but he lit the lamps with his wand and had waited only five minutes when Professor Lupin turned up, carrying a large packing case, which he heaved onto Professor Binns’ desk.
“What’s that?” said Harry.
“Another Boggart,” said Lupin, stripping off his cloak. “I’ve been combing the castle ever since Tuesday, and very luckily, I found this one lurking inside Mr. Filch’s filing cabinet. It’s the nearest we’ll get to a real Dementor. The Boggart will turn into a Dementor when he sees you, so we’ll be able to practice on him. I can store him in my office when we’re not using him; there’s a cupboard under my desk he’ll like.”
“Okay,” said Harry, trying to sound as though he wasn’t apprehensive at all and merely glad that Lupin had found such a good substitute for a real Dementor.
“So . . .” Professor Lupin had taken out his own wand, and indicated that Harry should do the same. “The spell I am going to try and teach you is highly advanced magic, Harry—well beyond Ordinary Wizarding Level. It is called the Patronus Charm.”
“How does it work?” said Harry nervously.
“Well, when it works correctly, it conjures up a Patronus,” said Lupin, “which is a kind of antiDementor—a guardian that acts as a shield between you and the Dementor.”
Harry had a sudden vision of himself crouching behind a Hagrid-sized figure holding a large club. Professor Lupin continued, “The Patronus is a kind of positive force, a projection of the very things that the Dementor feeds upon—hope, happiness, the desire to survive—but it cannot feel despair, as r
eal humans can, so the Dementors can’t hurt it. But I must warn you, Harry, that the charm might be too advanced for you. Many qualified wizards have difficulty with it.”
“What does a Patronus look like?” said Harry curiously.
“Each one is unique to the wizard who conjures it.”
“And how do you conjure it?”
“With an incantation, which will work only if you are concentrating, with all your might, on a single, very happy memory.”
Harry cast his mind about for a happy memory. Certainly, nothing that had happened to him at the Dursleys’ was going to do. Finally, he settled on the moment when he had first ridden a broomstick.
“Right,” he said, trying to recall as exactly as possible the wonderful, soaring sensation of his stomach.
“The incantation is this—” Lupin cleared his throat. “Expecto patronum!”
“Expecto patronum,” Harry repeated under his breath, “expecto patronum.”
“Concentrating hard on your happy memory?”
“Oh—yeah—” said Harry, quickly forcing his thoughts back to that first broom ride. “Expecto patrono—no, patronum—sorry—expecto patronum, expecto patronum—”
Something whooshed suddenly out of the end of his wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas.
“Did you see that?” said Harry excitedly. “Something happened!”
“Very good,” said Lupin, smiling. “Right, then—ready to try it on a Dementor?”
“Yes,” Harry said, gripping his wand very tightly, and moving into the middle of the deserted classroom. He tried to keep his mind on flying, but something else kept intruding . . . Any second now, he might hear his mother again . . . but he shouldn’t think that, or he would hear her again, and he didn’t want to . . . or did he?
Lupin grasped the lid of the packing case and pulled.
A Dementor rose slowly from the box, its hooded face turned toward Harry, one glistening, scabbed hand gripping its cloak. The lamps around the classroom flickered and went out. The Dementor stepped from the box and started to sweep silently toward Harry, drawing a deep, rattling breath. A wave of piercing cold broke over him—
“Expecto patronum!” Harry yelled. “Expecto patronum! Expecto—”
But the classroom and the Dementor were dissolving . . . Harry was failing again through thick white fog, and his mother’s voice was louder than ever, echoing inside his head—
“Not Harry! Not Harry! please—I’ll do anything!”
“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”
“Harry!”
Harry jerked back to life. He was lying flat on his back on the floor. The classroom lamps were alight again. He didn’t have to ask what had happened.
“Sorry,” he muttered, sitting up and feeling cold sweat trickling down behind his glasses.
“Are you all right?” said Lupin.
“Yes . . .” Harry pulled himself up on one of the desks and leaned against it.
“Here—” Lupin handed him a Chocolate Frog. “Eat this before we try again. I didn’t expect you to do it your first time; in fact, I would have been astounded if you had.”
“It’s getting worse,” Harry muttered, biting off the Frog’s head. “I could hear her louder that time—and him—Voldemort—”
Lupin looked paler than usual.
“Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I will more than understand—”
“I do!” said Harry fiercely, stuffing the rest of the Chocolate Frog into his mouth. “I’ve got to! What if the Dementors turn up at our match against Ravenclaw? I can’t afford to fall off again. If we lose this game we’ve lost the Quidditch Cup!”
“All right then . . .” said Lupin. “You might want to select other memory, a happy memory, I mean, to concentrate on . . . That one doesn’t seem to have been strong enough . . .”
Harry thought hard and decided his feelings when Gryffindor had won the House Championship last year had definitely qualified as very happy. He gripped his wand tightly again and took up his position in the middle of the classroom.
“Ready?” said Lupin, gripping the box lid.
“Ready,” said Harry; trying hard to fill his head with happy thoughts about Gryffindor winning, and not dark thoughts about what was going to happen when the box opened.
“Go!” said Lupin, pulling off the lid. The room went icily cold and dark once more. The Dementor glided forward, drawing its breath; one rotting hand was extending toward Harry—
“Expecto patronum!” Harry yelled. “Expecto patronum! Expecto Pat—”
White fog obscured his senses . . . big, blurred shapes were moving around him . . . then came a new voice, a man’s voice, shouting, panicking—
“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off—”
The sounds of someone stumbling from a room—a door bursting open—a cackle of highpitched laughter—
“Harry! Harry . . . wake up . . .”
Lupin was tapping Harry hard on the face. This time it was a minute before Harry understood why he was lying on a dusty classroom floor.
“I heard my dad,” Harry mumbled. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him—he tried to take on Voldemort himself, to give my mum time to run for it . . .”
Harry suddenly realized that there were tears on his face mingling with the sweat. He bent his face as low as possible, wiping them off on his robes, pretending to do up his shoelace, so that Lupin wouldn’t see.
“You heard James?” said Lupin in a strange voice.
“Yeah . . .” Face dry, Harry looked up. “Why—you didn’t know my dad, did you?”
“I—I did, as a matter of fact,” said Lupin. “We were friends at Hogwarts. Listen, Harry—perhaps we should leave it here for tonight. This charm is ridiculously advanced . . . I shouln’t have suggested putting you through this . . .”
“No!” said Harry. He got up again. “I’ll have one more go! I’m not thinking of happy enough things, that’s what it is . . . Hang on . . .”
He racked his brains. A really, really happy memory . . . one that he could turn into a good, strong Patronus . . .
The moment when he’d first found out he was a wizard, and would be leaving the Dursleys for Hogwarts! If that wasn’t a happy memory, he didn’t know what was . . . Concentrating very hard on how he had felt when he’d realized he’d be leaving Privet Drive, Harry got to his feet and faced the packing case once more.
“Ready?” said Lupin, who looked as though he were doing this against his better judgment. “Concentrating hard? All right—go!”
He pulled off the lid of the case for the third time, and the Dementor rose out of it; the room fell cold and dark.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Harry bellowed. “EXPECTO PATRONUM! EXPECTO PATRONUM!”
The screaming inside Harry’s head had started again—except this time, it sounded as though it were coming from a badly tuned radio—softer and louder and softer again—and he could still see the Dementor—it had halted—and then a huge, silver shadow came bursting out of the end of Harry’s wand, to hover between him and the Dementor, and though Harry’s legs felt like water, he was still on his feet—though for how much longer, he wasn’t sure—
“Riddikulus!” roared Lupin, springing forward.
There was a loud crack, and Harry’s cloudy Patronus vanished along with the Dementor; he sank into a chair, feeling as exhausted as if he’d just run a mile, and felt his legs shaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Professor Lupin forcing the Boggart back into the packing case with his wand; it had turned into a silvery orb again.
“Excellent!” Lupin said, striding over to where Harry sat. “Excellent, Harry! That was definitely a start!”
“Can we have another go? Just one more go?”
“Not now,” said Lupin firmly. “You’ve had enough for one night. Here—”
He handed Harry a large bar of Honeydukes’ best chocolate.
“Eat the lot, or Madam Pomfrey will
be after my blood. Same time next week?”
“Okay,” said Harry. He took a bite of the chocolate and watched Lupin extinguishing the lamps that had rekindled with the disappearance of the Dementor. A thought had just occurred to him.
“Professor Lupin?” he said. “If you knew my dad, you must’ve known Sirius Black as well.”
Lupin turned very quickly.
“What gives you that idea?” he said sharply.
“Nothing—I mean, I just knew they were friends at Hogwarts too . . .”
Lupin’s face relaxed.
“Yes, I knew him,” he said shortly. “Or I thought I did. You’d better be off, Harry, it’s getting late.”
Harry left the classroom, walking along the corridor and around a corner, then took a detour behind a suit of armor and sank down on its plinth to finish his chocolate, wishing he hadn’t mentioned Black, as Lupin was obviously not keen on the subject. Then Harry’s thoughts wandered back to his mother and father . . .
He felt drained and strangely empty, even though he was so full of chocolate. Terrible though it was to hear his parents’ last moments replayed inside his head, these were the only times Harry had heard their voices since he was a very small child. But he’d never be able to produce a proper Patronus if he half wanted to hear his parents again . . .
“They’re dead,” he told himself sternly. “They’re dead and listening to echoes of them won’t bring them back. You’d better get a grip on yourself if you want that Quidditch Cup.”
He stood up, crammed the last bit of chocolate into his mouth, and headed back to Gryffindor Tower.
* * *
Ravenclaw played Slytherin a week after the start of term. Slytherin won, though narrowly. According to Wood, this was good news for Gryffindor, who would take second place if they beat Ravenclaw too. He therefore increased the number of team practices to five a week. This meant that with Lupin’s anti Dementor classes, which in themselves were more draining than six Quidditch practices, Harry had just one night a week to do all his homework. Even so, he was showing the strain nearly as much as Hermione, whose immense workload finally seemed to be getting to her. Every night, without fail, Hermione was to be seen in a corner of the common room, several tables spread with books, Arithmancy charts, rune dictionaries, diagrams of Muggles lifting heavy objects, and file upon file of extensive notes; she barely spoke to anybody and snapped when she was interrupted.
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