HP 3 - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

by J. K. Rowling

  “But you were innocent!” said Hermione.

  Hagrid snorted.

  “Think that matters to them? They don’ care. Long as they’ve got a couple o’ hundred humans stuck there with ‘em, so they can leech all the happiness out of ‘em, they don’ give a damn who’s guilty an’ who’s not.”

  Hagrid went quiet for a moment, staring into his tea. Then he said quietly, “Thought o’ jus’ letting Buckbeak go …tryin’ ter make him fly away…but how d’yeh explain ter a Hippogriff it’s gotta go inter hidin’? An’ — an’ I’m scared o’ breakin’ the law…” He looked up at them, tears leaking down his face again. “I don’ ever want ter go back ter Azkaban.”

  *

  The trip to Hagrid’s, though far from fun, had nevertheless had the effect Ron and Hermione had hoped. Though Harry had by no means forgotten about Black, he couldn’t brood constantly on revenge if he wanted to help Hagrid win his case against the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. He, Ron, and Hermione went to the library the next day and returned to the empty common room laden with books that might help prepare a defense for Buckbeak. The three of them sat in front of the roaring fire, slowly turning the pages of dusty volumes about famous cases of marauding beasts, speaking occasionally when they ran across something relevant.

  “Here’s something…there was a case in 1722…but the Hippogriff was convicted — ugh, look what they did to it, that’s disgusting —”

  “This might help, look — a Manticore savaged someone in 1296, and they let the Manticore off — oh — no, that was only because everyone was too scared to go near it…”

  Meanwhile, in the rest of the castle, the usual magnificent Christmas decorations had been put up, despite the fact that hardly any of the students remained to enjoy them. Thick streamers of holly and mistletoe were strung along the corridors, mysterious lights shone from inside every suit of armor, and the Great Hall was filled with its usual twelve Christmas trees, glittering with golden stars. A powerful and delicious smell of cooking pervaded the corridors, and by Christmas Eve, it had grown so strong that even Scabbers poked his nose out of the shelter of Ron’s pocket to sniff hopefully at the air.

  On Christmas morning, Harry was woken by Ron throwing his pillow at him.

  “Oy! Presents!”

  Harry reached for his glasses and put them on, squinting through the semi-darkness to the foot of his bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared. Ron was already ripping the paper off his own presents.

  “Another sweater from Mum…maroon again…see if you’ve got one.”

  Harry had. Mrs. Weasley had sent him a scarlet sweater with the Gryffindor lion knitted on the front, also a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas cake, and a box of nut brittle. As he moved all these things aside, he saw a long, thin package lying underneath.

  “What’s that?” said Ron, looking over, a freshly unwrapped pair of maroon socks in his hand.

  “Dunno…”

  Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his bedspread. Ron dropped his socks and jumped off his bed for a closer look.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said hoarsely.

  It was a Firebolt, identical to the dream broom Harry had gone to see every day in Diagon Alley. Its handle glittered as he picked it up. He could feel it vibrating and let go; it hung in midair, unsupported, at exactly the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved from the golden registration number at the top of the handle, right down to the perfectly smooth, streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.

  “Who sent it to you?” said Ron in a hushed voice.

  “Look and see if there’s a card,” said Harry.

  Ron ripped apart the Firebolt’s wrappings.

  “Nothing! Blimey, who’d spend that much on you?”

  “Well,” said Harry, feeling stunned, “I’m betting it wasn’t the Dursleys.”

  “I bet it was Dumbledore,” said Ron, now walking around and around the Firebolt, taking in every glorious inch. “He sent you the Invisibility Cloak anonymously…”

  “That was my dad’s, though,” said Harry. “Dumbledore was just passing it on to me. He wouldn’t spend hundreds of Galleons on me. He can’t go giving students stuff like this —”

  “That’s why he wouldn’t say it was from him!” said Ron. “In case some git like Malfoy said it was favoritism. Hey, Harry —” Ron gave a great whoop of laughter — “Malfoy! Wait ‘til he sees you on this! He’ll be sick as a pig! This is an international standard broom, this is!”

  “I can’t believe this,” Harry muttered, running a hand along the Firebolt, while Ron sank onto Harry’s bed, laughing his head off at the thought of Malfoy. “Who—?”

  “I know,” said Ron, controlling himself, “I know who it could’ve been — Lupin!”

  “What?” said Harry, now starting to laugh himself “Lupin? Listen, if he had this much gold, he’d be able to buy himself some new robes.”

  “Yeah, but he likes you,” said Ron. “And he was away when your Nimbus got smashed, and he might’ve heard about it and decided to visit Diagon Alley and get this for you —”

  “What d’you mean, he was away?” said Harry. “He was ill when I was playing in that match.”

  “Well, he wasn’t in the hospital wing,” said Ron. “I was there, cleaning out the bedpans on that detention from Snape, remember?”

  Harry frowned at Ron.

  “I can’t see Lupin affording something like this.”

  “What’re you two laughing about?”

  Hermione had just come in, wearing her dressing gown and carrying Crookshanks, who was looking very grumpy, with a string of tinsel tied around his neck.

  “Don’t bring him in here!” said Ron, hurriedly snatching Scabbers from the depths of his bed and stowing him in his pajama pocket.

  But Hermione wasn’t listening. She dropped Crookshanks onto Seamus’s empty bed and stared, open-mouthed, at the Firebolt.

  “Oh, Harry! Who sent you that?”

  “No idea,” said Harry. “There wasn’t a card or anything with it.”

  To his great surprise, Hermione did not appear either excited or intrigued by the news. On the contrary, her face fell, and she bit her lip.

  “What’s the matter with you?” said Ron.

  “I don’t know,” said Hermione slowly, “but it’s a bit odd, isn’t it? I mean, this is supposed to be quite a good broom, isn’t it?”

  Ron sighed exasperatedly.

  “It’s the best broom there is, Hermione,” he said.

  “So it must’ve been really expensive…”

  “Probably cost more than all the Slytherins’ brooms put together,” said Ron happily.

  “Well…who’d send Harry something as expensive as that, and not even tell him they’d sent it?” said Hermione.

  “Who cares?” said Ron impatiently. “Listen, Harry, can I have a go on it? Can I?”

  “I don’t think anyone should ride that broom just yet!” said Hermione shrilly.

  Harry and Ron looked at her.

  “What d’you think Harry’s going to do with it — sweep the floor?” said Ron.

  But before Hermione could answer, Crookshanks sprang from Seamus’s bed, right at Ron’s chest.

  “GET — HIM — OUT — OF — HERE!” Ron bellowed as Crookshanks’s claws ripped his pajamas and Scabbers attempted a wild escape over his shoulder. Ron seized Scabbers by the tail and aimed a misjudged kick at Crookshanks that hit the trunk at the end of Harry’s bed, knocking it over and causing Ron to hop up and down, howling with pain.

  Crookshanks’s fur suddenly stood on end. A shrill, tinny, whistling was filling the room. The Pocket Sneakoscope had become dislodged from Uncle Vernon’s old socks and was whirling and gleaming on the floor.

  “I forgot about that!” Harry said, bending down and picking up the Sneakoscope. “I never wear those socks if I can help it…”

  The Sneakoscop
e whirled and whistled in his palm. Crookshanks was hissing and spitting at it.

  “You’d better take that cat out of here, Hermione,” said Ron furiously, sitting on Harry’s bed nursing his toe. “Can’t you shut that thing up?” he added to Harry as Hermione strode out of the room, Crookshanks’s yellow eyes still fixed maliciously on Ron.

  Harry stuffed the Sneakoscope back inside the socks and threw it back into his trunk. All that could be heard now were Ron’s stifled moans of pain and rage. Scabbers was huddled in Ron’s hands. It had been a while since Harry had seen him out of Ron’s pocket, and he was unpleasantly surprised to see that Scabbers, once so fat, was now very skinny; patches of fur seemed to have fallen out too.

  “He’s not looking too good, is he?” Harry said.

  “It’s stress!” said Ron. “He’d be fine if that big stupid furball left him alone!”

  But Harry, remembering what the woman at the Magical Menagerie had said about rats living only three years, couldn’t help feeling that unless Scabbers had powers he had never revealed, he was reaching the end of his life. And despite Ron’s frequent complaints that Scabbers was both boring and useless, he was sure Ron would be very miserable if Scabbers died.

  Christmas spirit was definitely thin on the ground in the Gryffindor common room that morning. Hermione had shut Crookshanks in her dormitory, but was furious with Ron for trying to kick him; Ron was still fuming about Crookshanks’s fresh attempt to eat Scabbers. Harry gave up trying to make them talk to each other and devoted himself to examining the Firebolt, which he had brought down to the common room with him. For some reason this seemed to annoy Hermione as well; she didn’t say anything, but she kept looking darkly at the broom as though it too had been criticizing her cat.

  At lunchtime they went down to the Great Hall, to find that the House tables had been moved against the walls again, and that a single table, set for twelve, stood in the middle of the room. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick were there, along with Filch, the caretaker, who had taken off his usual brown coat and was wearing a very old and rather moldy-looking tailcoat. There were only three other students, two extremely nervous-looking first years and a sullen-faced Slytherin fifth year.

  “Merry Christmas!” said Dumbledore as Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached the table. “As there are so few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables…Sit down, sit down!”

  Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down side by side at the end of the table.

  “Crackers!” said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witches hat topped with a stuffed vulture.

  Harry, remembering the Boggart, caught Ron’s eye and they both grinned; Snape’s mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard’s hat at once.

  “Dig in!” he advised the table, beaming around.

  As Harry was helping himself to roast potatoes, the doors of the Great Hall opened again. It was Professor Trelawney, gliding toward them as though on wheels. She had put on a green sequined dress in honor of the occasion, making her look more than ever like a glittering, oversized dragonfly.

  “Sibyll, this is a pleasant surprise!” said Dumbledore, standing up.

  “I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster,” said Professor Trelawney in her mistiest, most faraway voice, “and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness…”

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. “Let me draw you up a chair —”

  And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Professors Snape and McGonagall. Professor Trelawney, however, did not sit down; her enormous eyes had been roving around the table, and she suddenly uttered a kind of soft scream.

  “I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!”

  “We’ll risk it, Sibyll,” said Professor McGonagall impatiently. “Do sit down, the turkey’s getting stone cold.”

  Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched tight, as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit the table. Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into the nearest tureen.

  “Tripe, Sibyll?”

  Professor Trelawney ignored her. Eyes open again, she looked around once more and said, “But where is dear Professor Lupin?”

  “I’m afraid the poor fellow is ill again,” said Dumbledore, indicating that everybody should start serving themselves. “Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day.”

  “But surely you already knew that, Sibyll?” said Professor McGonagall, her eyebrows raised.

  Professor Trelawney gave Professor McGonagall a very cold look.

  “Certainly I knew, Minerva,” she said quietly. “But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous.”

  “That explains a great deal,” said Professor McGonagall tartly.

  Professor Trelawney’s voice suddenly became a good deal less misty.

  “If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him —”

  “Imagine that,” said Professor McGonagall dryly.

  “I doubt,” said Dumbledore, in a cheerful but slightly raised voice, which put an end to Professor McGonagall and Professor Trelawney’s conversation, “that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. Severus, you’ve made the potion for him again?”

  “Yes, Headmaster,” said Snape.

  “Good,” said Dumbledore. “Then he should be up and about in no time…Derek, have you had any of the chipolatas? They’re excellent.”

  The first-year boy went furiously red on being addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the platter of sausages with trembling hands.

  Professor Trelawney behaved almost normally until the very end of Christmas dinner, two hours later. Full to bursting with Christmas dinner and still wearing their cracker hats, Harry and Ron got up first from the table and she shrieked loudly.

  “My dears! Which of you left his seat first? Which?”

  “Dunno,” said Ron, looking uneasily at Harry.

  “I doubt it will make much difference,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, “unless a mad axe-man is waiting outside the doors to slaughter the first into the Entrance Hall.”

  Even Ron laughed. Professor Trelawney looked highly affronted.

  “Coming?” Harry said to Hermione.

  “No,” Hermione muttered. “I want a quick word with Professor McGonagall.”

  “Probably trying to see if she can take any more classes,” yawned Ron as they make their way into the Entrance Hall, which was completely devoid of mad axe-men.

  When they reached the portrait hole they found Sir Cadogan enjoying a Christmas part with a couple of monks, several previous headmasters of Hogwarts and his fat pony. He pushed up his visor toasted them with a flagon of mead.

  “Merry — hic — Christmas! Password?”

  “Scurvy cur,” said Ron.

  “And the same to you, sir! roared Sir Cadogan, as the painting swung forward to admit them.

  Harry went straight up to the dormitory, collected his Firebolt and the Broomstick Servicing Kit Hermione had given him for his birthday, brought them downstairs and tried to find something to do with the Firebolt; however, there where no bent twigs to clip, and the handle was so shiny already it seemed pointless to polish it. He and Ron simply sat a
dmiring it from every angle, until the portrait hole opened, and Hermione came in, accompanied by Professor McGonagall.

  Though Professor McGonagall was Head of Gryffindor House, Harry had only seen her in the common room once before, and that had been to make a very grave announcement. He and Ron stared at her, both holding the Firebolt. Hermione walked around them, sat down, picked up the nearest book and hid her face behind it.

  “So that’s it, is it?” said Professor McGonagall beadily, walking over to the fireside and staring at the Firebolt. “Miss Granger has just informed me that you have been sent a broomstick, Potter.”

  Harry and Ron looked around at Hermione. They could see her forehead reddening over the top of her book, which was upside-down.

  “May I?” said Professor McGonagall, but she didn’t wait for an answer before pulling the Firebolt out of their hands. She examined it carefully from handle to twig-ends. “Hmm. And there was no note at all, Potter? No card? No message of any kind?”

  “No,” said Harry blankly.

  “I see…” said Professor McGonagall. “Well, I’m afraid I will have to take this, Potter.”

  “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.”