“Scabbers!” said Ron blankly. “Scabbers, what are you doing here?”
He grabbed the struggling rat and held him up to the light. Scabbers looked dreadful. He was thinner than ever, large tufts of hair had fallen out leaving wide bald patches, and he writhed in Ron’s hands as though desperate to free himself.
“It’s okay, Scabbers!” said Ron. “No cats! There’s nothing here to hurt you!”
Hagrid suddenly stood up, his eyes fixed on the window. His normally ruddy face had gone the color of parchment.
“They’re comin’ . . .”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione whipped around. A group of men was walking down the distant castle steps. In front was Albus Dumbledore, his silver beard gleaming in the dying sun. Next to him trotted Cornelius Fudge. Behind them came the feeble old Committee member and the executioner, Macnair.
“Yeh gotta go,” said Hagrid. Every inch of him was trembling. “They mustn’ find yeh here . . . Go now . . .”
Ron stuffed Scabbers into his pocket and Hermione picked up the cloak. “I’ll let yeh out the back way,” said Hagrid.
They followed him to the door into his back garden. Harry felt strangely unreal, and even more so when he saw Buckbeak a few yards away, tethered to a tree behind Hagrid’s Pumpkin patch. Buckbeak seemed to know something was happening. He turned his sharp head from side to side and pawed the ground nervously.
“It’s okay, Beaky,” said Hagrid softly. “It’s okay . . .” He turned to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Go on,” he said. “Get goin’.”
But they didn’t move.
“Hagrid, we can’t—”
“We’ll tell them what really happened—”
“They can’t kill him—”
“Go!” said Hagrid fiercely. “It’s bad enough without you lot in trouble an’ all!”
They had no choice. As Hermione threw the cloak over Harry and Ron, they heard voices at the front of the cabin. Hagrid looked at the place where they had just vanished from sight.
“Go quick,” he said hoarsely. “Don’ listen . . .” And he strode back into his cabin as someone knocked at the front door.
Slowly, in a kind of horrified trance, Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off silently around Hagrid’s house. As they reached the other side, the front door closed with a sharp snap.
“Please, let’s hurry,” Hermione whispered. “I can’t stand it, I can’t bear it . . .”
They started up the sloping lawn toward the castle. The sun was sinking fast now; the sky had turned to a clear, purple tinged grey, but to the west there was a ruby red glow.
Ron stopped dead.
“Oh, please, Ron,” Hermione began.
“It’s Scabbers—he won’t—stay put—”
Ron was bent over, trying to keep Scabbers in his pocket, but the rat was going berserk; squeaking madly, twisting and flailing, trying to sink his teeth into Ron’s hand.
“Scabbers, it’s me, you idiot, it’s Ron,” Ron hissed.
They heard a door open behind them and men’s voices.
“Oh, Ron, please let’s move, they’re going to do it!” Hermione breathed.
“Okay—Scabbers, stay put—”
They walked forward; Harry, like Hermione, was trying not to listen to the rumble of voices behind them. Ron stopped again.
“I can’t hold him—Scabbers, shut up, everyone’ll hear us—”
The rat was squealing wildly, but not loudly enough to cover up the sounds drifting from Hagrid’s garden. There was a jumble of indistinct male voices, a silence, and then, without warning, the unmistakable swish and thud of an axe.
Hermione swayed on the spot.
“They did it!” she whispered to Harry. “I d-don’t believe it—they did it!”
17. CAT, RAT, AND DOG
Harry’s mind had gone blank with shock. The three of them stood transfixed with horror under the Invisibility Cloak. The very last rays of the setting sun were casting a bloody light over the longshadowed grounds. Then, behind them, they heard a wild howling.
“Hagrid,” Harry muttered. Without thinking about what he was doing, he made to turn back, but both Ron and Hermione seized his arms.
“We can’t,” said Ron, who was paper white. “He’ll be in worse trouble if they know we’ve been to see him . . .”
Hermione’s breathing was shallow and uneven.
“How—could—they?” she choked. “How could they?”
“Come on,” said Ron, whose teeth seemed to be chattering.
They set off back toward the castle, walking slowly to keep themselves hidden under the cloak. The light was fading fast now.
By the time they reached open ground, darkness was settling like a spell around them.
“Scabbers, keep still,” Ron hissed, clamping his hand over his chest. The rat was wriggling madly. Ron came to a sudden halt, trying to force Scabbers deeper into his pocket. “What’s the matter with you, you stupid rat? Stay still—OUCH! He bit me!”
“Ron, be quiet!” Hermione whispered urgently. “Fudge’ll be out here in a minute—”
“He won’t—stay—put—”
Scabbers was plainly terrified. He was writhing with all his might, trying to break free of Ron’s grip.
“What’s the matter with him?”
But Harry had just seen—stinking toward them, his body low to the ground, wide yellow eyes glinting eerily in the darkness—Crookshanks. Whether he could see them or was following the sound of Scabbers’s squeaks, Harry couldn’t tell.
“Crookshanks!” Hermione moaned. “No, go away, Crookshanks! Go away!”
But the cat was getting nearer—
“Scabbers—NO!”
Too late—the rat had slipped between Ron’s clutching fingers, hit the ground, and scampered away. In one bound, Crookshanks sprang after him, and before Harry or Hermione could stop him, Ron had thrown the Invisibility Cloak off himself and pelted away into the darkness.
“Ron!” Hermione moaned.
She and Harry looked at each other, then followed at a sprint; it was impossible to run full out under the cloak; they pulled it off and it streamed behind them like a banner as they hurtled after Ron; they could hear his feet thundering along ahead and his shouts at Crookshanks.
“Get away from him—get away—Scabbers, come here—”
There was a loud thud.
“Gotcha! Get off, you stinking cat—”
Harry and Hermione almost fell over Ron; they skidded to a stop right in front of him. He was sprawled on the ground, but Scabbers was back in his pocket; he had both hands held tight over the quivering lump.
“Ron—come on back under the cloak—” Hermione panted. “Dumbledore and the Minister—they’ll be coming back out in a minute—”
But before they could cover themselves again, before they could even catch their breath, they heard the soft pounding of gigantic paws . . . Something was bounding toward them, quiet as a shadow—an enormous, pale eyed, jet black dog.
Harry reached for his wand, but too late—the dog had made an enormous leap and the front paws hit him on the chest; he keeled over backward in a whirl of hair; he felt its hot breath, saw inchlong teeth—
But the force of its leap had carried it too far; it rolled off him. Dazed, feeling as though his ribs were broken, Harry tried to stand up; he could hear it growling as it skidded around for a new attack.
Ron was on his feet. As the dog sprang back toward them he pushed Harry aside; the dog’s jaws fastened instead around Ron’s outstretched arm. Harry lunged forward, he seized a handful of the brute’s hair, but it was dragging Ron away as easily as though he were a rag doll—
Then, out of nowhere, something hit Harry so hard across the face he was knocked off his feet again. He heard Hermione shriek with pain and fall too.
Harry groped for his wand, blinking blood out of his eyes.
“Lumos!” he whispered.
The wandlight showed him the trunk of a thick tree; they had chased S
cabbers into the shadow of the Whomping Willow and its branches were creaking as though in a high wind, whipping backward and forward to stop them going nearer.
And there, at the base of the trunk, was the dog, dragging Ron backward into a large gap in the roots—Ron was fighting furiously, but his head and torso were slipping out of sight—
“Ron!” Harry shouted, trying to follow, but a heavy branch whipped lethally through the air and he was forced backward again.
All they could see now was one of Ron’s legs, which he had hooked around a root in an effort to stop the dog from pulling him farther underground—but a horrible crack cut the air like a gunshot; Ron’s leg had broken, and a moment later, his foot vanished from sight.
“Harry—we’ve got to go for help—” Hermione gasped; she was bleeding too; the Willow had cut her across the shoulder.
“No! That thing’s big enough to eat him; we haven’t got time—”
“Harry—we’re never going to get through without help—”
Another branch whipped down at them, twigs clenched like knuckles.
“If that dog can get in, we can,” Harry panted, darting here and there, trying to find a way through the vicious, swishing branches, but he couldn’t get an inch nearer to the tree roots without being in range of the tree’s blows.
“Oh, help, help,” Hermione whispered frantically, dancing uncertainly on the spot, “Please . . .”
Crookshanks darted forward. He slithered between the battering branches like a snake and placed his front paws upon a knot on the trunk.
Abruptly, as though the tree had been turned to marble, it stopped moving. Not a leaf twitched or shook.
“Crookshanks!” Hermione whispered uncertainly. She now grasped Harry’s arm painfully hard. “How did he know—?”
“He’s friends with that dog,” said Harry grimly. “I’ve seen them together. Come on—and keep your wand out—”
They covered the distance to the trunk in seconds, but before they had reached the gap in the roots, Crookshanks had slid into it with a flick of his bottlebrush tail. Harry went next; he crawled forward, headfirst, and slid down an earthy slope to the bottom of a very low tunnel. Crookshanks was a little way along, his eyes flashing in the light from Harry’s wand. Seconds later, Hermione slithered down beside him.
“Where’s Ron?” she whispered in a terrified voice.
“This way,” said Harry, setting off, bent backed, after Crookshanks.
“Where does this tunnel come out?” Hermione asked breathlessly from behind him.
“I don’t know . . . It’s marked on the Marauder’s Map but Fred and George said no one’s ever gotten into it . . . It goes off the edge of the map, but it looked like it was heading for Hogsmeade . . .”
They moved as fast as they could, bent almost double; ahead of them, Crookshanks’s tail bobbed in and out of view. On and on went the passage; it felt at least as long as the one to Honeydukes . . . All Harry could think of was Ron and what the enormous dog might be doing to him . . . He was drawing breath in sharp, painful gasps, running at a crouch . . .
And then the tunnel began to rise; moments later it twisted, and Crookshanks had gone. Instead, Harry could see a patch of dim light through a small opening.
He and Hermione paused, gasping for breath, edging forward. Both raised their wands to see what lay beyond.
It was a room, a very disordered, dusty room. Paper was peeling from the walls; there were stains all over the floor; every piece of furniture was broken as though somebody had smashed it. The windows were all boarded up.
Harry glanced at Hermione, who looked very frightened but nodded.
Harry pulled himself out of the hole, staring around. The room was deserted, but a door to their right stood open, leading to a shadowy hallway. Hermione suddenly grabbed Harry’s arm again. Her wide eyes were traveling around the boarded windows.
“Harry,” she whispered, “I think we’re in the Shrieking Shack.”
Harry looked around. His eyes fell on a wooden chair near them. Large chunks had been torn out of it; one of the legs had been ripped off entirely.
“Ghosts didn’t do that,” he said slowly.
At that moment, there was a creak overhead. Something had moved upstairs. Both of them looked up at the ceiling. Hermione’s grip on Harry’s arm was so tight he was losing feeling in his fingers. He raised his eyebrows at her; she nodded again and let go.
Quietly as they could, they crept out into the hall and up the crumbling staircase. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust except the floor, where a wide shiny stripe had been made by something being dragged upstairs.
They reached the dark landing.
“Nox,” they whispered together, and the lights at the end of their wands went out. Only one door was open. As they crept toward it, they heard movement from behind it; a low moan, and then a deep, loud purring. They exchanged a last look, a last nod.
Wand held tightly before him, Harry kicked the door wide open.
On a magnificent four poster bed with dusty hangings lay Crookshanks, purring loudly at the sight of them. On the floor beside him, clutching his leg, which stuck out at a strange angle, was Ron.
Harry and Hermione dashed across to him.
“Ron—are you okay?”
“Where’s the dog?”
“Not a dog,” Ron moaned. His teeth were gritted with pain. “Harry, it’s a trap—”
“What—”
“He’s the dog . . . he’s an Animagus.”
Ron was staring over Harry’s shoulder. Harry wheeled around. With a snap, the man in the shadows closed the door behind them.
A mass of filthy, matted hair hung to his elbows. If eyes hadn’t been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looked like a skull. His yellow teeth were bared in a grin. It was Sirius Black.
“Expelliarmus!” he croaked, pointing Ron’s wand at them.
Harry’s and Hermione’s wands shot out of their hands, high in the air, and Black caught them. Then he took a step closer. His eyes were fixed on Harry.
“I thought you’d come and help your friend,” he said hoarsely.
His voice sounded as though he had long since lost the habit of using it.
“Your father would have done the same for me. Brave of you not to run for a teacher. I’m grateful . . . it will make everything much easier . . .”
The taunt about his father rang in Harry’s ears as though Black had bellowed it. A boiling hate erupted in Harry’s chest, leaving no place for fear. For the first time in his life, he wanted his wand back in his hand, not to defend himself, but to attack . . . to kill. Without knowing what he was doing, he started forward, but there was a sudden movement on either side of him and two pairs of hands grabbed him and held him back . . .
“No, Harry!” Hermione gasped in a petrified whisper; Ron, however, spoke to Black.
“If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!” he said fiercely, though the effort of standing upright was draining him of still more color, and he swayed slightly as he spoke.
Something flickered in Black’s shadowed eyes.
“Lie down,” he said quietly to Ron. “You will damage that leg even more.”
“Did you hear me?” Ron said weakly, though he was clinging painfully to Harry to stay upright. “You’ll have to kill all three of us!”
“There’ll be only one murder here tonight,” said Brack, and his grin widened.
“Why’s that?” Harry spat, trying to wrench himself free of Ron, and Hermione. “Didn’t care last time, did you? Didn’t mind slaughtering all those Muggles to get at Pettigrew . . . What’s the matter, gone soft in Azkaban?”
“Harry!” Hermione whimpered. “Be quiet!”
“HE KILLED MY MUM AND DAD!” Harry roared, and with a huge effort he broke free of Hermione’s and Ron’s restraint and lunged forward—
He had forgotten about magic—he had forgotten that he was short and skinny and thirteen, whereas Black was a tall, full grown man—all Harry knew was that he wanted to hurt Black as badly as he could and that he didn’t care how much he got hurt in return—
Perhaps it was the shock of Harry doing something so stupid, but Black didn’t raise the wands in time—one of Harry’s hands fastened over his wasted wrist, forcing the wand tips away; the knuckles of Harry’s other hand collided with the side of Black’s head and they fell, backward, into the wall—
Hermione was screaming; Ron was yelling; there was a blinding flash as the wands in Black’s hand sent a jet of sparks into the air that missed Harry’s face by inches; Harry felt the shrunken arm under his fingers twisting madly, but he clung on, his other hand punching every part of Black it could find.
But Black’s free hand had found Harry’s throat.
“No,” he hissed, “I’ve waited too long—”
The fingers tightened, Harry choked, his glasses askew.
Then he saw Hermione’s foot swing out of nowhere. Black let go of Harry with a grunt of pain; Ron had thrown himself on Black’s wand hand and Harry heard a faint clatter—
He fought free of the tangle of bodies and saw his own wand rolling across the floor; he threw himself toward it but—
“Argh!”
Crookshanks had joined the fray; both sets of front claws had sunk themselves deep into Harry’s arm; Harry threw him off, but Crookshanks now darted toward Harry’s wand—
“NO YOU DON’T!” roared Harry, and he aimed a kick at Crookshanks that made the cat leap aside, spitting; Harry snatched up his wand and turned—
“Get out of the way!” he shouted at Ron and Hermione.
They didn’t need telling twice. Hermione, gasping for breath, her lip bleeding, scrambled aside, snatching up her and Ron’s wands. Ron crawled to the four poster and collapsed onto it, panting, his white face now tinged with green, both hands clutching his broken leg.
Black was sprawled at the bottom of the wall. His thin chest rose and fell rapidly as he watched Harry walking slowly nearer, his wand pointing straight at Black’s heart.
“Going to kill me, Harry?” he whispered.
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