Free Read Online Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix PART-4

A memo had just zoomed in through the open door and fluttered to rest on top of the hiccoughing

toaster. Mr. Weasley unfolded it and read it aloud.

“‘Third regurgitating public toilet reported in Bethnal Green, kindly investigate immediately.’

This is getting ridiculous…”

“A regurgitating toilet?”

“Anti-Muggle pranksters,” said Mr. Weasley, frowning. “We had two last week, one in

Wimbledon, one in Elephant and Castle. Muggles are pulling the flush and instead of everything

disappearing - well, you can imagine. The poor things keep calling in those - pumbles, I think

they’re called - you know, the ones who mend pipes and things.”

“Plumbers?

“Exactly, yes, but of course they’re flummoxed. I only hope we can catch whoever’s doing it.”

“Will it be Aurors who catch them?”

“Oh no, this is too trivial for Aurors, it’ll be the ordinary Magical Law Enforcement Patrol - ah,

Harry, this is Perkins.”

A stooped, timid-looking old wizard with fluffy white hair had just entered the room, panting.

“Oh, Arthur!” he said desperately, without looking at Harry. “Thank goodness, I didn’t know

what to do for the best, whether to wait here for you or not. I’ve just sent an owl to your home

but you’ve obviously missed it - an urgent message came ten minutes ago -”

“I know about the regurgitating toilet,” said Mr. Weasley.

“No, no, it’s not the toilet, it’s the Potter boy’s hearing - they’ve changed the time and venue - it

starts at eight o’clock now and it’s down in old Courtroom Ten -”

“Down in old - but they told me - Merlin’s beard!”

Mr. Weasley looked at his watch, let out a yelp and leapt from his chair.

“Quick, Harry, we should have been there five minutes ago!”

Perkins flattened himself against the filing cabinets as Mr. Weasley left the office at a run, Harry

close on his heels.

“Why have they changed the time?” Harry said breathlessly, as they hurtled past the Auror

cubicles; people poked out their heads and stared as they streaked past. Harry felt as though he’d

left all his insides back at Perkins’s desk.

“I’ve no idea, but thank goodness we got here so early, if you’d missed it, it would have been

catastrophic!”

Mr. Weasley skidded to a halt beside the lifts and jabbed impatiently at the ‘down’ button.

“Come ON!”

The lift clattered into view and they hurried inside. Every time it stopped Mr. Weasley cursed

furiously and pummeled the number nine button.

“Those courtrooms haven’t been used in years,” said Mr. Weasley angrily. “I can’t think why

they’re doing it down there - unless - but no -”

A plump witch carrying a smoking goblet entered the lift at that moment, and Mr. Weasley did

not elaborate.

“The Atrium,” said the cool female voice and the golden grilles slid open, showing Harry a

distant glimpse of the golden statues in the fountain. The plump witch got out and a sallow skinned wizard with a very mournful face got in.

“Morning, Arthur,” he said in a sepulchral voice as the lift began to descend. “Don’t often see you down here.”

“Urgent business, Bode,” said Mr. Weasley, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet and

throwing anxious looks over at Harry.

“Ah, yes,” said Bode, surveying Harry unblinkingly. “Of course.”

Harry barely had emotion to spare for Bode, but his unfaltering gaze did not make him feel any

more comfortable.

“Department of Mysteries,” said the cool female voice, and left it at that.

“Quick, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley as the lift doors rattled open, and they sped up a corridor that

was quite different from those above. The walls were bare; there were no windows and no doors

apart from a plain black one set at the very end of the corridor. Harry expected them to go

through it, but instead Mr. Weasley seized him by the arm and dragged him to the left, where

there was an opening leading to a flight of steps.

“Down here, down here,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking two steps at a time. “The lift doesn’t even

come down this far… why they’re doing it down there I…”

They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along yet another corridor, which bore a great

resemblance to the one that led to Snape’s dungeon at Hogwarts, with rough stone walls and

torches in brackets. The doors they passed here were heavy wooden ones with iron bolts and

keyholes.

“Courtroom… Ten… I think… we’re nearly… yes.”

Mr. Weasley stumbled to a halt outside a grimy dark door with an immense iron lock and

slumped against the wall, clutching at a stitch in his chest.

“Go on,” he panted, pointing his thumb at the door. “Get in there.”

“Aren’t - aren’t you coming with -”

“No, no, I’m not allowed. Good luck!”

Harry’s heart was beating a violent tattoo against his Adam’s apple. He swallowed hard, turned

the heavy iron door handle and stepped inside the courtroom.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Hearing

Harry gasped; he could not help himself. The large dungeon he had entered was horribly

familiar. He had not only seen it before, he had been here before. This was the place he had

visited inside Dumbledore’s Pensieve, the place where he had watched the Lestranges sentenced

to life imprisonment in Azkaban.

The walls were made of dark stone, dimly lit by torches. Empty benches rose on either side of

him, but ahead, in the highest benches of all, were many shadowy figures. They had been talking

in low voices, but as the heavy door swung closed behind Harry an ominous silence fell.

A cold male voice rang across the courtroom.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry,” said Harry nervously “I — I didn’t know the time had been changed.”

“That is not the Wizengamot’s fault,” said the voice. “An owl was sent to you this morning. Take your seat.”

Harry dropped his gaze to the chair in the center of the room, the arms of which were covered in

chains. He had seen those chains spring to life and bind whoever sat between them. His footsteps

echoed loudly as he walked across the stone floor. When he sat gingerly on the edge of the chair

the chains clinked threateningly, but did not bind him. Feeling rather sick, he looked up at the

people seated at the bench above.

There were about fifty of them, all, as far as he could see, wearing plum-colored robes with an

elaborately worked silver W on the left-hand side of the chest and all staring down their noses at

him, some with very austere expressions, others looks of frank curiosity.

In the very middle of the front row sat Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic. Fudge was a

portly man who often sported a lime-green bowler hat, though today he had dispensed with it; he

had dispensed, too, with the indulgent smile he had once worn when he spoke to Harry. A broad,

square-jawed witch with very short grey hair sat on Fudge’s left; she wore a monocle and looked

forbidding. On Fudge’s right was another witch, but she was sitting so far back on the bench that

her face was in shadow.

“Very well,” said Fudge. “The accused being present - finally - let us begin. Are you ready?” he

called down the row.

“Yes, sir,” said an eager voice Harry knew. Ron’s brother Percy was sitting at the very end of the

front bench. Harry looked at Percy, expecting some sign of recognition from him, but none

came. Percy’s eyes, behind his horn-rimmed glasses, were fixed on his parchment, a quill poised

in his hand.

“Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” said Fudge in a ringing voice, and Percy began

taking notes at once, “into offences committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at

number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

“Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the

Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the

Minister. Court Scribe, Percy Ignatius Weasley -”

“Witness for the defense, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” said a quiet voice from

behind Harry, who turned his head so fast he cricked his neck.

Dumbledore was striding serenely across the room wearing long midnight-blue robes and a

perfectly calm expression. His long silver beard and hair gleamed in the torchlight as he drew

level with Harry and looked up at Fudge through the half-moon spectacles that rested halfway

down his very crooked nose.

The members of the Wizengamot were muttering. All eyes were now on Dumbledore. Some

looked annoyed, others slightly frightened; two elderly witches in the back row, however, raised

their hands and waved in welcome.

A powerful emotion had risen in Harry’s chest at the sight of Dumbledore, a fortified, hopeful

feeling rather like that which phoenix song gave him. He wanted to catch Dumbledore’s eye, but

Dumbledore was not looking his way; he was continuing to look up at the obviously flustered

Fudge.

“Ah,” said Fudge, who looked thoroughly disconcerted. “Dumbledore. Yes. You - er - got our – er - message that the time and -er - place of the hearing had been changed, then?”

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully…”However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.”

“Yes - well - I suppose we’ll need another chair - I - Weasley, could you -?”

“Not to worry, not to worry,” said Dumbledore pleasantly; he took out his wand, gave it a little

flick, and a squashy chintz armchair appeared out of nowhere next to Harry. Dumbledore sat

down, put the tips of his long fingers together and surveyed Fudge over them with an expression

of polite interest. The Wizengamot was still muttering and fidgeting restlessly; only when Fudge

spoke again did they settle down.

“Yes,” said Fudge again, shuffling his notes. “Well, then. So. The charges. Yes.”

He extricated a piece of parchment from the pile before him, took a deep breath, and read out,

“the charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately and in full

awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previous written warning from the

Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in

the presence of a Muggle, on the second of August at twenty-three minutes past nine, which

constitutes an offence under Paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of

Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under Section 13 of the International Confederation of

Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy.

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at Harry over the top of his parchment.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did

you not?”

“Yes, but -”

“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the second of August?” said Fudge.

“Yes,” said Harry, “but -”

“Knowing that you are not permitted to use magic outside school while you are under the age of

seventeen?”

“Yes, but -”

“Knowing that you were in an area full of Muggles?”

“Yes, but -”

“Fully aware that you were in close proximity to a Muggle at the time?”

“Yes,” said Harry angrily, “but I only used it because we were -”

The witch with the monocle cut across him in a booming voice.

“You produced a fully-fledged Patronus?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “because -”

“A corporeal Patronus?”

“A - what?” said Harry.

“Your Patronus had a clearly defined form? I mean t o say, it was more than vapour or smoke?”

“Yes,” said Harry, feeling both impatient and slightly desperate, “it’s a stag, it’s always a stag.”

“Always?” boomed Madam Bones. “You have produced a Patronus before now?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “I’ve been doing it for over a year.”

“And you are fifteen years old?”

“Yes, and -”

“You learned this at school?”

“Yes, Professor Lupin taught me in my third year, because of the -”

“Impressive,” said Madam Bones, staring down at him, “a true Patronus at his age… very

impressive indeed.”

Some of the wizards and witches around her were muttering again; a few nodded, but others

were frowning and shaking their heads.

“It’s not a question of how impressive the magic was,” said Fudge in a testy voice, “in fact, the

more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a

Muggle!”

Those who had been frowning now murmured in agreement, but it was the sight of Percy’s

sanctimonious little nod that goaded Harry into speech.

“I did it because of the Dementors!” he said loudly, before anyone could interrupt him again.

He had expected more muttering, but the silence that fell seemed to be somehow denser than

before.

“Dementors?” said Madam Bones after a moment, her thick eyebrows rising until her monocle

looked in danger of falling out. “What do you mean, boy?”

“I mean there were two Dementors down that alleyway and they went for me and my cousin!”

“Ah,” said Fudge again, smirking unpleasantly as he looked around at the Wizengamot, as though inviting them to share the joke. “Yes. Yes, I thought we’d be hearing something like this.”

“Dementors in Little Whinging?” Madam Bones said, in a tone of great surprise. “I don’t

understand -”

“Don’t you, Amelia?” said Fudge, still smirking. “Let me explain. He’s been thinking it through

and decided Dementors would make a very nice little cover story, very nice indeed. Muggles

can’t see Dementors, can they, boy? Highly convenient, highly convenient… so it’s just your

word and no witnesses…”

“I’m not lying!” said Harry loudly, over another outbreak of muttering from the court. “There were two of them, coming from opposite ends of the alley, everything went dark and cold and my cousin felt them and ran for it -”

“Enough, enough!” said Fudge, with a very supercilious look on his face. “I’m sorry to interrupt

what I’m sure would have been a very well-rehearsed story -”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. The Wizengamot fell silent again.

“We do, in fact, have a witness to the presence of Dementors in that alleyway,” he said, “other than Dudley Dursley, I mean.”

Fudge’s plump face seemed to slacken, as though somebody had let air out of it. He stared down

at Dumbledore for a moment or two, then, with the appearance of a man pulling himself back

together, said, “We haven’t got time to listen to more tarradiddles, I’m afraid, Dumbledore. I want this dealt with quickly -”

“I may be wrong,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but I am sure that under the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, the accused has the right to present witnesses for his or her case? Isn’t that the policy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam Bones?” he continued, addressing the witch in the monocle.

“True,” said Madam Bones. “Perfectly true.”

“Oh, very well, very well,” snapped Fudge. “Where is this person?”

“I brought her with me,” said Dumbledore. “She’s just outside the door. Should I -?”

“No — Weasley, you go,” Fudge barked at Percy, who got up at once, ran down the stone steps

from the judge’s balcony and hurried past Dumbledore and Harry without glancing at them.

A moment later, Percy returned, followed by Mrs. Figg. She looked scared and more batty than

ever. Harry wished she had thought to change out of her carpet slippers.

Dumbledore stood up and gave Mrs. Figg his chair, conjuring a second one for himself.

“Full name?” said Fudge loudly, when Mrs. Figg had perched herself nervously on the very edge

of her seal.

“Arabella Doreen Figg,” said Mrs. Figg in her quavery voice.

“And who exactly are you?” said Fudge, in a bored and lofty voice.

“I’m a resident of Little Whinging, close to where Harry Potter lives,” said Mrs. Figg.

“We have no record of any witch or wizard living in Little Whinging, other than Harry Potter,”

said Madam Bones at once. “That situation has always been closely monitored, given… given

past events.”

“I’m a Squib,” said Mrs. Figg. “So you wouldn’t have me registered, would you?”

“A Squib, eh?” said Fudge, eyeing her closely. “We’ll be checking that. You’ll leave details of your parentage with my assistant Weasley. Incidentally, can Squibs see Dementors?” he added,

looking left and right along the bench.

“Yes, we can!” said Mrs. Figg indignantly.

Fudge looked back down at her, his eyebrows raised. “Very well,” he said aloofly. “What is your

story?”

“I had gone out to buy cat food from the corner shop at the end of Wisteria Walk, around about

nine o’clock, on the evening of the second of August,” gabbled Mrs. Figg at once, as though she

had learned what she was saying by heart, “when I heard a disturbance down the alleyway

between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. On approaching the mouth of the alleyway I saw

Dementors running -”

“Running?” said Madam Bones sharply. “Dementors don’t run, they glide.”

“That’s what I meant to say,” said Mrs. Figg quickly, patches of pink appearing in her withered

cheeks. “Gliding along the alley towards what looked like two boys.”

“What did they look like?” said Madam Bones, narrowing her eyes so that the edge of the

monocle disappeared into her flesh.

“Well, one was very large and the other one rather skinny -”

“No, no,” said Madam Bones impatiently. “The Dementors… describe them.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Figg, the pink flush creeping up her neck now. “They were big. Big and wearing

cloaks.”

Harry felt a horrible sinking in the pit of his stomach. Whatever Mrs. Figg might say, it sounded

to him as though the most she had ever seen was a picture of a Dementor, and a picture could

never convey the truth of what these beings were like: the eerie way they moved, hovering

inches over the ground; or the rotting smell of them; or that terrible rattling noise they made as

they sucked on the surrounding air…

In the second row, a dumpy wizard with a large black moustache leaned close to whisper in the

ear of his neighbor, a frizzy-haired witch. She smirked and nodded.

“Big and wearing cloaks,” repeated Madam Bones coolly, while Fudge snorted derisively. “I see. Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Figg. “I felt them. Everything went cold, and this was a very warm summer’s

night, mark you. And I felt… as though all happiness had gone from the world… and I

remembered… dreadful things…”

Her voice shook and died.

Madam Bones’s eyes widened slightly. Harry could see red marks under her eyebrow where the

monocle had dug into it.

“What did the Dementors do?” she asked, and Harry felt a rush of hope.

“They went for the boys,” said Mrs. Figg, her voice stronger and more confident now, the pink

flush ebbing away from her face. “One of them had fallen. The other was backing away, trying to

repel the Dementor. That was Harry. He tried twice and produced only silver vapour. On the

third attempt, he produced a Patronus, which charged down the first Dementor and then, with his

encouragement, chased the second one away from his cousin. And that that is what happened,”

Mrs. Figg finished, somewhat lamely.

Madam Bones looked down at Mrs. Figg in silence. Fudge was not looking at her at all, but

fidgeting with his papers. Finally, he raised his eyes and said, rather aggressively, “that’s what

you saw, is it?”

“That is what happened,” Mrs. Figg repeated.

“Very well,” said Fudge. “You may go.”

Mrs. Figg cast a frightened look from Fudge to Dumbledore, then got up and shuffled off

towards the door. Harry heard it thud shut behind her.

“Not a very convincing witness,” said Fudge loftily.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Madam Bones, in her booming voice. “She certainly described the effects of a Dementor attack very accurately. And I can’t imagine why she would say they were there if they weren’t.”

“But Dementors wandering into a Muggle suburb and just happening to come across a wizard?”

snorted Fudge. “The odds on that must be very, very long. Even Bagman wouldn’t have bet -”

“Oh, I don’t think any of us believe the Dementors were there by coincidence,” said Dumbledore

lightly.

The witch sitting to the right of Fudge, with her face in shadow, moved slightly but everyone

else was quite still and silent.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Fudge asked icily.

“It means that I think they were ordered there,” said Dumbledore.

“I think we might have a record of it if someone had ordered a pair of Dementors to go strolling

through Little Whanging!” barked Fudge.

“Not if the Dementors are taking orders from someone other than the Ministry of Magic these

days,” said Dumbledore calmly. “I have already given you my views on this matter, Cornelius.”

“Yes, you have”‘ said Fudge forcefully, “and I have no reason to believe that your views are

anything other than bilge, Dumbledore. The Dementors remain in place in Azkaban and are

doing everything we ask them to.”

“Then,” said Dumbledore, quietly but clearly, “we must ask ourselves why somebody within the

Ministry ordered a pair of Dementors into that alleyway on the second of August.”

In the complete silence that greeted these words, the witch to the right of Fudge leaned forwards

so that Harry saw her for the first time.

He thought she looked just like a large, pale toad. She was rather squat with a broad, flabby face,

as little neck as Uncle Vernon and a very wide, slack mouth. Her eyes were large, round and

slightly bulging. Even the little black velvet bow perched on top of her short curly hair put him

in mind of a large fly she was about to catch on a long sticky tongue.

“The Chair recognizes Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,” said

Fudge.

The witch spoke in a fluttery, girlish, high-pitched voice that took Harry aback; he had been

expecting a croak.

“I’m sure I must have misunderstood you, Professor Dumbledore,” she said, with a simper that left her big, round eyes as cold as ever. “So silly of me. But it sounded for a teensy moment as though you were suggesting that the Ministry of Magic had ordered an attack on this boy!”

She gave a silvery laugh that made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand up. A few other

members of the Wizengamot laughed with her. It could not have been plainer that not one of

them was really amused.

“If it is true that the Dementors are taking orders only from the Ministry of Magic, and it is also

true that two Dementors attacked Harry and his cousin a week ago, then it follows logically that

somebody at the Ministry might have ordered the attacks,” said Dumbledore politely. “Of course,

these particular Dementors may have been outside Ministry control -”

“There are no Dementors outside Ministry control!” snapped Fudge, who had turned brick red.

Dumbledore inclined his head in a little bow.

“Then undoubtedly the Ministry will be making a full inquiry into why two Dementors were so

very far from Azkaban and why they attacked without authorization.”

“It is not for you to decide what the Ministry of Magic does or does not do, Dumbledore!”

snapped Fudge, now a shade of magenta of which Uncle Vernon would have been proud.

“Of course it isn’t,” said Dumbledore mildly. “I was merely expressing my confidence that this

matter will not go uninvestigated.”

He glanced at Madam Bones, who readjusted her monocle and stared back at him, frowning

slightly.

“I would remind everybody that the behavior of these Dementors, if indeed they are not

figments of this boy’s imagination, is not the subject of this hearing!” said Fudge. “We are here to examine Harry Potter’s offences under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage

Sorcery!”

“Of course we are,” said Dumbledore, “but the presence of Dementors in that alleyway is highly

relevant. Clause Seven of the Decree states that magic may be used before Muggles in

exceptional circumstances, and as those exceptional circumstances include situations which

threaten the life of the wizard or witch him - or herself, or any witches, wizards or Muggles

present at the time of the -”

“We are familiar with Clause Seven, thank you very much!” snarled Fudge.

“Of course you are,” said Dumbledore courteously. “Then we are in agreement that Harry’s use of the Patronus Charm in these circumstances falls precisely into the category of exceptional

circumstances the clause describes?”

“If there were Dementors, which I doubt.”

“You have heard it from an eyewitness,” Dumbledore interrupted. “If you still doubt her truthfulness, call her back, question her again. I am sure she would not object.”

“I - that - not -” blustered Fudge, fiddling with the papers before him. “It’s - I want this over with

today, Dumbledore!”

“But naturally, you would not care how many times you heard from a witness, if the alternative

was a serious miscarriage of justice,” said Dumbledore.

“Serious miscarriage, my hat!” said Fudge at the top of his voice. “Have you ever bothered to tot

up the number of cock-and-bull stories this boy has come out with, Dumbledore, while trying to

cover up his flagrant misuse of magic out of school? I suppose you’ve forgotten the Hover

Charm he used three years ago -”

“That wasn’t me, it was a house-elf!” said Harry.

“YOU SEE” roared Fudge, gesturing flamboyantly in Harry’s direction. “A house-elf! In a

Muggle house! I ask you.”

“The house-elf in question is currently in the employ of Hogwarts School,” said Dumbledore. “I

can summon him here in an instant to give evidence if you wish.”

“I - not - I haven’t got time to listen to house-elves! Anyway, that’s not the only - he blew up his

aunt, for God’s sake!” Fudge shouted, banging his fist on the judge’s bench and upsetting a bottle of ink.

“And you very kindly did not press charges on that occasion, accepting, I presume, that even the

best wizards cannot always control their emotions,” said Dumbledore calmly, as Fudge attempted to scrub the ink off his notes.

“And I haven’t even started on what he gets up to at school.”

“But, as the Ministry has no authority to punish Hogwarts students for misdemeanors at school,

Harry’s behavior there is not relevant to this hearing,” said Dumbledore, as politely as ever, but

now with a suggestion of coolness behind his words.

“Oho!” said Fudge. “Not our business what he does at school, eh? You think so?”

“The Ministry does not have the power to expel Hogwarts students, Cornelius, as I reminded you

on the night of the second of August,” said Dumbledore. “Nor does it have the right to confiscate wands until charges have been successfully proven; again, as I reminded you on the night of the second of August. In your admirable haste to ensure that the law is upheld, you appear, inadvertently I am sure, to have overlooked a few laws yourself.”

“Laws can be changed,” said Fudge savagely.

“Of course they can,” said Dumbledore, inclining his head. “And you certainly seem to be making many changes, Cornelius. Why, in the few short weeks since I was asked to leave the

Wizengamot, it has already become the practice to hold a full criminal trial to deal with a simple

matter of underage magic!”

A few of the wizards above them shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Fudge turned a slightly

deeper shade of puce. The toadlike witch on his right, however, merely gazed at Dumbledore,

her face quite expressionless.

“As far as I am aware,” Dumbledore continued, “there is no law yet in place that says this court’s

job is to punish Harry for every bit of magic he has ever performed. He has been charged with a

specific offence and he has presented his defense. All he and I can do now is to await your

verdict.”

Dumbledore put his fingertips together again and said no more. Fudge glared at him, evidently

incensed. Harry glanced sideways at Dumbledore, seeking reassurance; he was not at all sure that

Dumbledore was right in telling the Wizengamot, in effect, that it was about time they made a

decision. Again, however, Dumbledore seemed oblivious to Harry’s attempt to catch his eye. He

continued to look up at the benches where the entire Wizengamot had fallen into urgent,

whispered conversations.

Harry looked at his feet. His heart, which seemed to have swollen to an unnatural size, was

thumping loudly under his ribs. He had expected the hearing to last longer than this. He was not

at all sure that he had made a good impression. He had not really said very much. He ought to

have explained more fully about the Dementors, about how he had fallen over, about how both

he and Dudley had nearly been kissed…

Twice he looked up at Fudge and opened his mouth to speak, but his swollen heart was now

constricting his air passages and both times he merely took a deep breath and looked back down

at his shoes.

Then the whispering stopped. Harry wanted to look up at the judges, but found that it was really

much, much easier to keep examining his laces.

“Those in favor of clearing the witness of all charges?” said Madam Boness booming voice.

Harry’s head jerked upwards. There were hands in the air, many of them… more than half!

Breathing very fast, he tried to count, but before he could finish, Madam Bones had said, “And

those in favor of conviction?”

Fudge raised his hand; so did half a dozen others, including the witch on his right and the

heavily-moustached wizard and the frizzy-haired witch in the second row.

Fudge glanced around at them all, looking as though there was something large stuck in his

throat, then lowered his own hand. He took two deep breaths and said, in a voice distorted by

suppressed rage, “Very well, very well… cleared of all charges.”

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore briskly, springing to his feet, pulling out his wand and causing the

two chintz armchairs to vanish. “Well, I must be getting along. Good-day to you all.” And without looking once at Harry, he swept from the dungeon.

CHAPTER NINE

The Woes of Mrs. Weasley

Dumbledore’s abrupt departure took Harry completely by surprise. He remained sitting where he

was in the chained chair, struggling with his feelings of shock and relief. The Wizengamot were

all getting to their feet, talking, gathering up their papers and packing them away. Harry stood

up. Nobody seemed to be paying him the slightest bit of attention, except the toadlike witch on

Fudge’s right, who was now gazing down at him instead of at Dumbledore. Ignoring her, he tried

to catch Fudge’s eye, or Madam Bones’s, wanting to ask whether he was free to go, but Fudge

seemed quite determined not to notice Harry, and Madam Bones was busy with her briefcase, so

he took a few tentative steps towards the exit and, when nobody called him back, broke into a

very fast walk.

He took the last few steps at a run, wrenched open the door and almost collided with Mr.

Weasley, who was standing right outside, looking pale and apprehensive.

“Dumbledore didn’t say -”

“Cleared,” Harry said, pulling the door closed behind him, “of all charges!”

Beaming, Mr. Weasley seized Harry by the shoulders.

“Harry, that’s wonderful! Well, of course, they couldn’t have found you guilty, not on the

evidence, but even so, I can’t pretend I wasn’t -”

But Mr. Weasley broke off, because the courtroom door had just opened again. The Wizengamot

were filing out.

“Merlin’s beard!” exclaimed Mr. Weasley wonderingly, pulling Harry aside to let them all pass.

“You were tried by the full court?”

“I think so,” said Harry quietly.

One or two of the wizards nodded to Harry as they passed and a few, including Madam Bones,

said, “Morning, Arthur,” to Mr. Weasley, but most averted their eyes. Cornelius Fudge and the

toadlike witch were almost the last to leave the dungeon. Fudge acted as though Mr. Weasley

and Harry were part of the wall, but again, the witch looked almost appraisingly at Harry as she

passed. Last of all to pass was Percy. Like Fudge, he completely ignored his father and Harry; he

marched past clutching a large roll of parchment and a handful of spare quills, his back rigid and

his nose in the air. The lines around Mr. Weasleys mouth tightened slightly, but other than this

he gave no sign that he had seen his third son.

“I’m going to take you straight back so you can tell the others the good news,” he said, beckoning Harry forwards as Percy’s heels disappeared up the steps to Level Nine. “I’ll drop you off on the way to that toilet in Bethnal Green. Come on…”

“So, what will you have to do about the toilet?” Harry asked, grinning. Everything suddenly

seemed five times funnier than usual. It was starting to sink in: he was cleared, he was going back to Hogwarts.

“Oh, it’s a simple enough anti-jinx,” said Mr. Weasley as they mounted the stairs, “but it’s not so

much having to repair the damage, it’s more the attitude behind the vandalism, Harry. Mugglebaiting might strike some wizards as funny, but it’s an expression of something much deeper and nastier, and I for one -”

Mr. Weasley broke off in mid-sentence. They had just reached the ninth-level corridor and

Cornelius Fudge was standing a few feet away from them, talking quietly to a tall man with sleek

blond hair and a pointed, pale face.

The second man turned at the sound of their footsteps. He, too, broke off in mid-conversation,

his cold grey eyes narrowed and fixed upon Harry’s face.

“Well, well, well… Patronus Potter,” said Lucius Malfoy coolly.

Harry felt winded, as though he had just walked into something solid. He had last seen those cold

grey eyes through slits in a Death Eaters hood, and last heard that man’s voice jeering in a dark

graveyard while Lord Voldemort tortured him. Harry could not believe that Lucius Malfoy dared

look him in the face; he could not believe that he was here, in the Ministry of Magic, or that

Cornelius Fudge was talking to him, when Harry had told Fudge mere weeks ago that Malfoy

was a Death Eater.

“The Minister was just telling me about your lucky escape, Potter,” drawled Mr. Malfoy. “Quite

astonishing, the way you continue to wriggle out of very tight holes… snakelike, in fact.”

Mr. Weasley gripped Harry’s shoulder in warning.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “yeah, I’m good at escaping.”

Lucius Malfoy raised his eyes to Mr. Weasley’s face.

“And Arthur Weasley too! What are you doing here, Arthur?”

“I work here,” said Mr. Weasley curtly.

“Not here, surely?” said Mr. Malfoy, raising his eye brows and glancing towards the door over

Mr. Weasley’s shoulder. “I thought you were up on the second floor… don’t you do something

that involves sneaking Muggle artifacts home and bewitching them?”

“No,” Mr. Weasley snapped, his fingers now biting into Harry’s shoulder.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Harry asked Lucius Malfoy.

“I don’t think private matters between myself and the Minister are any concern of yours, Potter,”

said Malfoy, smoothing the front of his robes. Harry distinctly heard the gentle clinking of what

sounded like a full pocket of gold. “Really, just because you are Dumbledore’s favorite boy, you must not expect the same indulgence from the rest of us… shall we go up to your office, then, Minister?”

“Certainly” said Fudge, turning his back on Harry and Mr. Weasley. “This way, Lucius.”

They strode off together, talking in low voices. Mr. Weasley did not let go of Harry’s shoulder

until they had disappeared into the lift.

“Why wasn’t he waiting outside Fudge’s office if they’ve got business to do together?” Harry

burst out furiously. “What was he doing down here?”

“Trying to sneak down to the courtroom, if you ask me,” said Mr. Weasley, looking extremely

agitated and glancing over his shoulder as though making sure they could not be overheard.

“Trying to find out whether you’d been expelled or not. I’ll leave a note for Dumbledore when I

drop you off, he ought to know Malfoys been talking to Fudge again.”

“What private business have they got together, anyway?”

“Gold, I expect,” said Mr. Weasley angrily. “Malfoy’s been giving generously to all sorts of

things for years… gets him in with the right people… then he can ask favors… delay laws he

doesn’t want passed… oh, he’s very well-connected, Lucius Malfoy.”

The lift arrived; it was empty except for a flock of memos that flapped around Mr. Weasley’s

head as he pressed the button for the Atrium and the doors clanged shut. He waved them away

irritably.

“Mr. Weasley” said Harry slowly, “if Fudge is meeting Death Eaters like Malfoy, if he’s seeing

them alone, how do we know they haven’t put the Imperius Curse on him?”

“Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to us, Harry” said Mr. Weasley quietly. “But Dumbledore thinks

Fudge is acting of his own accord at the moment - which, as Dumbledore says, is not a lot of

comfort. Best not talk about it any more just now, Harry.”

The doors slid open and they stepped out into the now almost-deserted Atrium. Eric the

watchwizard was hidden behind his Daily Prophet again. They had walked straight past the

golden fountain before Harry remembered.

“Wait…” he told Mr. Weasley, and, pulling his moneybag from his pocket, he turned back to the

fountain.

He looked up into the handsome wizard’s face, but up close Harry thought he looked rather weak

and foolish. The witch was wearing a vapid smile like a beauty contestant, and from what Harry

knew of goblins and centaurs, they were most unlikely to be caught staring so soppily at humans

of any description. Only the house-elf’s attitude of creeping servility looked convincing. With a

grin at the thought of what Hermione would say if she could see the statue of the elf, Harry

turned his moneybag upside-down and emptied not just ten Galleons, but the whole contents into

the pool.

“I knew it!” yelled Ron, punching the air. “You always get away with stuff!”

“They were bound to clear you,” said Hermione, who had looked positively faint with anxiety

when Harry had entered the kitchen and was now holding a shaking hand over her eyes, “there

was no case against you, none at all.”

“Everyone seems quite relieved, though, considering you all knew I’d get off,” said Harry,

smiling.

Mrs. Weasley was wiping her face on her apron, and Fred, George and Ginny were doing a kind

of war dance to a chant that went: “He got off, he got off, he got off…”

“That’s enough! Settle down!” shouted Mr. Weasley, though he too was smiling. “Listen, Sirius,

Lucius Malfoy was at the Ministry -”

“What?” said Sirius sharply.

“He got off, he got off, he got off…”

“Be quiet, you three! Yes, we saw him talking to Fudge on Level Nine, then they went up to

Fudge’s office together. Dumbledore ought to know.”

“Absolutely,” said Sirius. “We’ll tell him, don’t worry.”

“Well, I’d better get going, there’s a vomiting toilet waiting for me in Bethnal Green. Molly, I’ll

be late, I’m covering for Tonks, but Kingsley might be dropping in for dinner -”

“He got off, he got off, he got off…”

“That’s enough - Fred - George - Ginny!” said Mrs. Weasley, as Mr. Weasley left the kitchen.

“Harry, dear, come and sit down, have some lunch, you hardly ate breakfast.”

Ron and Hermione sat themselves down opposite him, looking happier than they had done since

he had first arrived at Grimmauld Place, and Harry’s feeling of giddy relief, which had been

somewhat dented by his encounter with Lucius Malfoy, swelled again. The gloomy house

seemed warmer and more welcoming all of a sudden; even Kreacher looked less ugly as he

poked his snoutlike nose into the kitchen to investigate the source of all the noise.

“Course, once Dumbledore turned up on your side, there was no way they were going to convict

you,” said Ron happily, now dishing great mounds of mashed potatoes on to everyone’s plates.

“Yeah, he swung it for me,” said Harry. He felt it would sound highly ungrateful, not to mention

childish, to say, “I wish he’d talked to me, though. Or even looked at me.”

And as he thought this, the scar on his forehead burned so badly that he clapped his hand to it.

“What’s up?” said Hermione, looking alarmed.

“Scar,” Harry mumbled. “But it’s nothing… it happens all the time now…”

None of the others had noticed a thing; all of them were now helping themselves to food while

gloating over Harry’s narrow escape; Fred, George and Ginny were still singing. Hermione

looked rather anxious, but before she could say anything, Ron had said happily, “I bet

Dumbledore turns up this evening, to celebrate with us, you know.”

“I don’t think he’ll be able to, Ron,” said Mrs. Weasley, setting a huge plate of roast chicken

down in front of Harry. “He’s really very busy at the moment.”

“HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF”

“SHUT UP!” roared Mrs. Weasley.

Over the next few days Harry could not help noticing that there was one person within number

twelve, Grimmauld Place, who did not seem wholly overjoyed that he would be returning to

Hogwarts. Sirius had put up a very good show of happiness on first hearing the news, wringing

Harry’s hand and beaming just like the rest of them. Soon, however, he was moodier and surlier

than before, talking less to everybody, even Harry, and spending increasing amounts of time shut

up in his mother’s room with Buckbeak.

“Don’t you go feeling guilty!” said Hermione sternly, after Harry had confided some of his

feelings to her and Ron while they scrubbed out a mouldy cupboard on the third floor a few days

later. “You belong at Hogwarts and Sirius knows it. Personally, I think he’s being selfish.”

“That’s a bit harsh, Hermione,” said Ron, frowning as he attempted to prize off a bit of mould

that had attached itself firmly to his finger, “you wouldn’t want to be stuck inside this house

without any company.”

“He’ll have company!” said Hermione. “It’s Headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, isn’t it?

He just got his hopes up that Harry would be coming to live here with him.”

“I don’t think that’s true” said Harry, wringing out his cloth. “He wouldn’t give me a straight

answer when I asked him if I could.”

“He just didn’t want to get his own hopes up even more,” said Hermione wisely. “And he

probably felt a bit guilty himself, because I think a part of him was really hoping you’d be

expelled. Then you’d both be outcasts together.”

“Come off it!” said Harry and Ron together, but Hermione merely shrugged.

“Suit yourselves. But I sometimes think Ron’s mums right and Sirius gets confused about whether you’re you or your father, Harry.”

“So you think he’s touched in the head?” said Harry heatedly.

“No, I just think he’s been very lonely for a long time,” said Hermione simply.

At this point, Mrs. Weasley entered the bedroom behind them.

“Still not finished?” she said, poking her head into the cupboard.

“I thought you might be here to tell us to have a break” said Ron bitterly. “D’you know how

much mould we’ve got rid of since we arrived here?”

“You were so keen to help the Order,” said Mrs. Weasley, “you can do your bit by making

Headquarters fit to live in.”

“I feel like a house-elf,” grumbled Ron.

“Well, now you understand what dreadful lives they lead, perhaps you’ll be a bit more active in

SPEW!” said Hermione hopefully, as Mrs. Weasley left them to it. “You know, maybe it

wouldn’t be a bad idea to show people exactly how horrible it is to clean all the time - we could

do a sponsored scrub of Gryffindor common room, all proceeds to SPEW, it would raise

awareness as well as funds.”

“I’ll sponsor you to shut up about SPEW,” Ron muttered irritably, but only so Harry could hear

him.

Harry found himself daydreaming about Hogwarts more and more as the end of the holidays

approached; he could not wait to see Hagrid again, to play Quidditch, even to stroll across the

vegetable patches to the Herbology greenhouses; it would be a treat just to leave this dusty,

musty house, where half of the cupboards were still bolted shut and Kreacher wheezed insults

out of the shadows as you passed, though Harry was careful not to say any of this within earshot

of Sirius.

The fact was that living at the Headquarters of the anti-Voldemort movement was not nearly as

interesting or exciting as Harry would have expected before he’d experienced it. Though

members of the Order of the Phoenix came and went regularly, sometimes staying for meals,

sometimes only for a few minutes of whispered conversation, Mrs. Weasley made sure that

Harry and the others were kept well out of earshot (whether Extendable or normal) and nobody,

not even Sirius, seemed to feel that Harry needed to know anything more than he had heard on

the night of his arrival.

On the very last day of the holidays Harry was sweeping up Hedwigs owl droppings from the top

of the wardrobe when Ron entered their bedroom carrying a couple of envelopes.

“Booklists have arrived,” he said, throwing one of the envelopes up to Harry, who was standing

on a chair. “About time, I thought they’d forgotten, they usually come much earlier than this…”

Harry swept the last of the droppings into a rubbish bag and threw the bag over Ron’s head into

the wastepaper basket in the corner, which swallowed it and belched loudly. He then opened his

letter. It contained two pieces of parchment: one the usual reminder that term started on the first

of September; the other telling him which books he would need for the coming year.

“Only two new ones,” he said, reading the list, “The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5, by

Miranda Goshawk, and Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert Slinkhard.”

Crack.

Fred and George Apparated right beside Harry. He was so used to them doing this by now that

he didn’t even fall off his chair.

“We were just wondering who assigned the Slinkhard book,” said Fred conversationally.

“Because it means Dumbledore’s found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” said

George.

“And about time too,” said Fred.

“What d’you mean?” Harry asked, jumping down beside them.

“Well, we overheard Mum and Dad talking on the Extendable Ears a few weeks back,” Fred told

Harry, “and from what they were saying, Dumbledore was having real trouble finding anyone to

do the job this year.”

“Not surprising, is it, when you look at what’s happened to the last four?” said George.

“One sacked, one dead, one’s memory removed and one locked in a trunk for nine months,” said

Harry, counting them off on his fingers. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“What’s up with you, Ron?” asked Fred.

Ron did not answer. Harry looked round. Ron was standing very still with his mouth slightly

open, gaping at his letter from Hogwarts.

“What’s the matter?” said Fred impatiently, moving around Ron to look over his shoulder at the

parchment.

Fred’s mouth fell open, too.

“Prefect?” he said, staring incredulously at the letter. “Prefect?”

George leapt forwards, seized the envelope in Ron’s other hand and turned it upside-down. Harry

saw something scarlet and gold fall into George’s palm.

“No way,” said George in a hushed voice.

“There’s been a mistake,” said Fred, snatching the letter out of Ron’s grasp and holding it up to

the light as though checking for a watermark. “No one in their right mind would make Ron a

prefect.”

The twins’ heads turned in unison and both of them stared at Harry.

“We thought you were a cert!” said Fred, in a tone that suggested Harry had tricked them in some way.

“We thought Dumbledore was bound to pick you!” said George indignantly.

“Winning the Triwizard and everything!” said Fred.

“I suppose all the mad stuff must’ve counted against him,” said George to Fred.

“Yeah,” said Fred slowly. “Yeah, you’ve caused too much trouble, mate. Well, at least one of

you’s got their priorities right.”

He strode over to Harry and clapped him on the back while giving Ron a scathing look.

“Prefect… ickle Ronnie the Prefect.”

“Oh, Mum’s going to be revolting,” groaned George, thrusting the prefect badge back at Ron as

though it might contaminate him.

Ron, who still had not said a word, took the badge, stared at it for a moment, then held it out to

Harry as though asking mutely for confirmation that it was genuine. Harry took it. A large P was

superimposed on the Gryffindor lion. He had seen a badge just like this on Percy’s chest on his

very first day at Hogwarts.

The door banged open. Hermione came tearing into the room, her cheeks flushed and her hair

flying. There was an envelope in her hand.

“Did you - did you get -?”

She spotted the badge in Harry’s hand and let out a shriek.

“I knew it!’ she said excitedly, brandishing her letter. “Me too, Harry, me too!”

“No,” said Harry quickly, pushing the badge back into Ron’s hand. “It’s Ron, not me.”

“It - what?”

“Ron’s prefect, not me,” Harry said.

“Ron?” said Hermione, her jaw dropping. “But… are you sure? I mean -”

She turned red as Ron looked round at her with a defiant expression on his face.

“It’s my name on the letter,” he said.

“I…” said Hermione, looking thoroughly bewildered. “I… well… wow! Well done, Ron! That’s

really -”

“Unexpected,” said George, nodding.

“No,” said Hermione, blushing harder than ever, “no it’s not… Ron’s done loads of… he’s

really…”

The door behind her opened a little wider and Mrs. Weasley backed into the room carrying a pile

of freshly laundered robes.

“Ginny said the booklists had come at last,” she said, glancing around at all the envelopes as she

made her way over to the bed and started sorting the robes into two piles. “If you give them to

me I’ll take them over to Diagon Alley this afternoon and get your books while you’re packing.

Ron, I’ll have to get you more pajamas, these are at least six inches too short, I can’t believe how

fast you’re growing… what color would you like?”

“Get him red and gold to match his badge,” said George, smirking.

“Match his what?” said Mrs. Weasley absently, rolling up a pair of maroon socks and placing

them on Ron’s pile.

“His badge,” said Fred, with the air of getting the worst over quickly. “His lovely shiny

new prefect’s badge.”

Fred’s words took a moment to penetrate Mrs. Weasley’s preoccupation with pajamas.

“His… but… Ron, you’re not…?”

Ron held up his badge.

Mrs. Weasley let out a shriek just like Hermione’s.

“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! Oh, Ron, how wonderful! A prefect! That’s everyone in the

family!”

“What are Fred and I, next-door neighbors?” said George indignantly, as his mother pushed him

aside and flung her arms around her youngest son.

“Wait until your father hears! Ron, I’m so proud of you, what wonderful news, you could end up

Head Boy just like Bill and Percy, it’s the first step! Oh, what a thing to happen in the middle of

all this worry, I’m just thrilled, oh, Ronnie —”

Fred and George were both making loud retching noises behind her back but Mrs. Weasley did

not notice; arms tight around Ron’s neck, she was kissing him all over his face, which had turned

a brighter scarlet than his badge.

“Mum… don’t… Mum, get a grip…” he muttered, trying to push her away.

She let go of him and said breathlessly, “Well, what will it be? We gave Percy an owl, but you’ve already got one, of course.”

“W-what do you mean?” said Ron, looking as though he did not dare believe his ears.

“You’ve got to have a reward for this!” said Mrs. Weasley fondly. “How about a nice new set of

dress robes?”

“We’ve already bought him some,” said Fred sourly, who looked as though he sincerely regretted this generosity.

“Or a new cauldron, Charlie’s old one’s rusting through, or a new rat, you always liked Scabbers”

“Mum,” said Ron hopefully, “can I have a new broom?”

Mrs. Weasley’s face fell slightly; broomsticks were expensive.

“Not a really good one!” Ron hastened to add. “Just - just a new one for a change…”

Mrs. Weasley hesitated, then smiled.

“Of course you can… well, I’d better get going if I’ve got a broom to buy too. I’ll see you all

later… little Ronnie, a prefect! And don’t forget to pack your trunks… a prefect… oh, I’m all of

a dither!”

She gave Ron yet another kiss on the cheek, sniffed loudly, and bustled from the room.

Fred and George exchanged looks.

“You don’t mind if we don’t kiss you, do you, Ron?” said Fred in a falsely anxious voice.

“We could curtsey, if you like,” said George.

“Oh, shut up,” said Ron, scowling at them.

“Or what?” said Fred, an evil grin spreading across his face. “Going to put us in detention?”

“I’d love to see him try,” sniggered George.

“He could if you don’t watch out!” said Hermione angrily.

Fred and George burst out laughing, and Ron muttered, “Drop it, Hermione.”

“We’re going to have to watch our step, George,” said Fred, pretending to tremble, “with these

two on our case…”

“Yeah, it looks like our law-breaking days are finally over,” said George, shaking his head.

And with another loud crack, the twins Disapparated.

“Those two!” said Hermione furiously, staring up at the ceiling, through which they could now

hear Fred and George roaring with laughter in the room upstairs. “Don’t pay any attention to

them, Ron, they’re only jealous!”

“I don’t think they are,” said Ron doubtfully, also looking up at the ceiling. “They’ve always said only prats become prefects… still,” he added on a happier note, “they’ve never had new brooms! I wish I could go with Mum and choose… she’ll never be able to afford a Nimbus, but there’s the new Cleansweep out, that’d be great… yeah, I think I’ll go and tell her I like the Cleansweep, just so she knows.”

He dashed from the room, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

For some reason, Harry found he did not want to look at Hermione. He turned to his bed, picked

up the pile of clean robes Mrs. Weasley had laid on it and crossed the room to his trunk.

“Harry?” said Hermione tentatively.

“Well done, Hermione,” said Harry, so heartily it did not sound like his voice at all, and, still not

looking at her, “brilliant. Prefect. Great.”

“Thanks,” said Hermione. “Erm - Harry - could I borrow Hedwig so I can tell Mum and Dad?

They’ll be really pleased - I mean prefect is something they can understand.”

“Yeah, no problem,” said Harry, still in the horrible hearty voice that did not belong to him.

“Take her!”

He leaned over his trunk, laid the robes on the bottom of it and pretended to be rummaging for

something while Hermione crossed to the wardrobe and called Hedwig down. A few moments

passed; Harry heard the door close but remained bent double, listening; the only sounds he could

hear were the blank picture on the wall sniggering again and the wastepaper basket in the corner

coughing up the owl droppings.

He straightened up and looked behind him. Hermione had left and Hedwig had gone. Harry

hurried across the room, closed the door, then returned slowly to his bed and sank on to it, gazing

unseeingly at the foot of the wardrobe.

He had forgotten completely about prefects being chosen in the fifth year. He had been too

anxious about the possibility of being expelled to spare a thought for the fact that badges must be

winging their way towards certain people. But if he had remembered… if he had thought about

it… what would he have expected?

Not this, said a small and truthful voice inside his head.

Harry screwed up his face and buried it in his hands. He could not lie to himself; if he had known

the prefect badge was on its way, he would have expected it to come to him, not Ron. Did this

make him as arrogant as Draco Malfoy? Did he think himself superior to everyone else? Did he

really believe he was better than Ron?

No, said the small voice defiantly.

Was that true? Harry wondered, anxiously probing his own feelings.

I’m better at Quidditch, said the voice. But I’m not better at anything else.

That was definitely true, Harry thought; he was no better than Ron in lessons. But what about

outside lessons? What about those adventures he, Ron and Hermione had had together since

starting at Hogwarts, often risking much worse than expulsion?

Well, Ron and Hermione were with me most of the time, said the voice in Harry’s head.

Not all the time, though, Harry argued with himself. They didn’t fight Quirrell with me. They

didn’t take on Riddle and the Basilisk. They didn’t get rid of all those Dementors the night Sirius

escaped. They weren’t in that graveyard with me, the night Voldemort returned…

And the same feeling of ill-usage that had overwhelmed him on the night he had arrived rose

again. I’ve definitely done more, Harry thought indignantly. I’ve done more than either of them!

But maybe, said the small voice fairly, maybe Dumbledore doesn’t choose prefects because

they’ve got themselves into a load of dangerous situations… maybe he chooses them for other

reasons… Ron must have something you don’t…

Harry opened his eyes and stared through his fingers at the wardrobe’s clawed feet, remembering

what Fred had said: “No one in their right mind would make Ron a prefect…”

Harry gave a small snort of laughter. A second later he felt sickened with himself.

Ron had not asked Dumbledore to give him the prefect badge. This was not Ron’s fault. Was he,

Harry, Ron’s best friend in the world, going to sulk because he didn’t have a badge, laugh with

the twins behind Ron’s back, ruin this for Ron when, for the first time, he had beaten Harry at

something?

At this point Harry heard Ron’s footsteps on the stairs again. He stood up, straightened his

glasses, and hitched a grin on to his face as Ron bounded back through the door.

“Just caught her!” he said happily. “She says she’ll get the Cleansweep if she can.”

“Cool,” Harry said, and he was relieved to hear that his voice had stopped sounding hearty.

“Listen - Ron - well done, mate.”

The smile faded off Ron’s face.

“I never thought it would be me!” he said, shaking his head. “I thought it would be you!”

“Nah, I’ve caused too much trouble,” Harry said, echoing Fred.

“Yeah,” said Ron, “yeah, I suppose… well, we’d better get our trunks packed, hadn’t we?”

It was odd how widely their possessions seemed to have scattered themselves since they had

arrived. It took them most of the afternoon to retrieve their books and belongings from all over

the house and stow them back inside their school trunks. Harry noticed that Ron kept moving his

prefects badge around, first placing it on his bedside table, then putting it into his jeans pocket,

then taking it out and lying it on his folded robes, as though to see the effect of the red on the

black. Only when Fred and George dropped in and offered to attach it to his forehead with a

Permanent Sticking Charm did he wrap it tenderly in his maroon socks and lock it in his trunk.

Mrs. Weasley returned from Diagon Alley around six o’clock, laden with books and carrying a

long package wrapped in thick brown paper that Ron took from her with a moan of longing.

“Never mind unwrapping it now, people are arriving for dinner, I want you all downstairs,” she

said, but the moment she was out of sight Ron ripped off the paper in a frenzy and examined

every inch of his new broom, an ecstatic expression on his face.

Down in the basement Mrs. Weasley had hung a scarlet banner over the heavily laden dinner

table, which read:

CONGRATULATIONS

RON AND HERMIONE

NEW PREFECTS

She looked in a better mood than Harry had seen her all holiday.

“I thought we’d have a little party, not a sit-down dinner,” she told Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred,

George and Ginny as they entered the room. “Your father and Bill are on their way, Ron. I’ve

sent them both owls and they’re thrilled,” she added, beaming.

Fred rolled his eyes.

Sirius, Lupin, Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt were already there and Mad-Eye Moody stumped

in shortly after Harry had got himself a Butterbeer.

“Oh, Alastor, I am glad you’re here,” said Mrs. Weasley brightly, as Mad-Eye shrugged off his

traveling cloak. “We’ve been wanting to ask you for ages - could you have a look in the writing

desk in the drawing room and tell us what’s inside it? We haven’t wanted to open it just in case

it’s something really nasty.”

“No problem, Molly…”

Moody’s electric-blue eye swiveled upwards and stared fixedly through the ceiling of the

kitchen.

“Drawing room…” he growled, as the pupil contracted. “Desk in the corner? Yeah, I see it…

yeah, it’s a Boggart… want me to go up and get rid of it, Molly?”

“No, no, I’ll do it myself later,” beamed Mrs. Weasley, “you have your drink. We’re having a

little bit of a celebration, actually…” She gesture d at the scarlet banner. “Fourth prefect in the

family!” she said fondly, ruffling Ron’s hair.

“Prefect, eh?” growled Moody, his normal eye on Ron and his magical eye swiveling around to

gaze into the side of his head. Harry had the very uncomfortable feeling it was looking at him

and moved away towards Sirius and Lupin.

“Well, congratulations,” said Moody, still glaring at Ron with his normal eye, “authority figures

always attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you can withstand most major jinxes or

he wouldn’t have appointed you…”

Ron looked rather startled at this view of the matter but was saved the trouble of responding by

the arrival of his father and eldest brother. Mrs. Weasley was in such a good mood she did not

even complain that they had brought Mundungus with them; he was wearing a long overcoat that

seemed oddly lumpy in unlikely places and declined the offer to remove it and put it with

Moody’s traveling cloak.

“Well, I think a toast is in order,” said Mr. Weasley, when everyone had a drink. He raised his

goblet. “To Ron and Hermione, the new Gryffindor prefects!”

Ron and Hermione beamed as everyone drank to them, and then applauded.

“I was never a prefect myself,” said Tonks brightly from behind Harry as everybody moved

towards the table to help themselves to food. Her hair was tomato red and waist-length today;

she looked like Ginny’s older sister. “My Head of House said I lacked certain necessary

qualities.”

“Like what?” said Ginny, who was choosing a baked potato.

“Like the ability to behave myself,” said Tonks.

Ginny laughed; Hermione looked as though she did not know whether to smile or not and

compromised by taking an extra large gulp of Butterbeer and choking on it.

“What about you, Sirius?” Ginny asked, thumping Hermione on the back.

Sirius, who was right beside Harry, let out his usual bark-like laugh.

“No one would have made me a prefect, I spent too much time in detention with James. Lupin

was the good boy, he got the badge.”

“I think Dumbledore might have hoped I would be able to exercise some control over my best

friends,” said Lupin. “I need scarcely say that I failed dismally.”

Harry’s mood suddenly lifted. His father had not been a prefect either. All at once the party

seemed much more enjoyable; he loaded up his plate, feeling doubly fond of everyone in the

room.

Ron was rhapsodizing about his new broom to anybody who would listen.

“… nought to seventy in ten seconds, not bad, is it? When you think the Comet Two Ninety’s

only nought to sixty and that’s with a decent tailwind according to Which Broomstick?”

Hermione was talking very earnestly to Lupin about her view of elf rights.

“I mean, it’s the same kind of nonsense as werewolf segregation, isn’t it? It all stems from this

horrible thing wizards have of thinking they’re superior to other creatures…”

Mrs. Weasley and Bill were having their usual argument about Bill’s hair.

“… getting really out of hand, and you’re so good-looking, it would look much better shorter,

wouldn’t it, Harry?”

“Oh - I dunno -” said Harry, slightly alarmed at being asked his opinion; he slid away from them

in the direction of Fred and George, who were huddled in a corner with Mundungus.

Mundungus stopped talking when he saw Harry, but Fred winked and beckoned Harry closer.

“It’s okay,” he told Mundungus, “we can trust Harry, he’s our financial backer.”

“Look what Dung’s got us,” said George, holding out his hand to Harry. It was full of what

looked like shriveled black pods. A faint rattling noise was coming from them, even though they

were completely stationary.

“Venomous Tentacula seeds,” said George. “We need them for the Skiving Snackboxes but

they’re a Class C Non-Tradable Substance so we’ve been having a bit of trouble getting hold of

them.”

“Ten Galleons the lot, then Dung?” said Fred.

“Wiv all the trouble I went to to get ‘em?” said Mundungus, his saggy, bloodshot eyes stretching

even wider. “I’m sorry, lads, but I’m not taking a Knut under twenty.”

“Dung likes his little joke,” Fred said to Harry.

“Yeah, his best one so far has been six Sickles for a bag of Knarl quills,” said George.

“Be careful,” Harry warned them quietly.

“What?” said Fred. “Mum’s busy cooing over Prefect Ron, we’re okay.”

“But Moody could have his eye on you,” Harry pointed out.

Mundungus looked nervously over his shoulder.

“Good point, that,” he grunted. “All right, lads, ten it is, if you’ll take ‘em quick.”

“Cheers, Harry!” said Fred delightedly, when Mundungus had emptied his pockets into the twins’ outstretched hands and scuttled off towards the food. “We’d better get these upstairs…”

Harry watched them go, feeling slightly uneasy. It had just occurred to him that Mr. and Mrs.

Weasley would want to know how Fred and George were financing their joke shop business

when, as was inevitable, they finally found out about it. Giving the twins his Triwizard winnings

had seemed a simple thing to do at the time, but what if it led to another family row and a Percylike estrangement? Would Mrs. Weasley still feel that Harry was as good as her son if she found out he had made it possible for Fred and George to start a career she thought quite unsuitable?

Standing where the twins had left him, with nothing but a guilty weight in the pit of his stomach

for company, Harry caught the sound of his own name. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep voice was

audible even over the surrounding chatter.

“… why Dumbledore didn’t make Potter a prefect?” said Kingsley.

“He’ll have had his reasons,” replied Lupin.

“But it would’ve shown confidence in him. It’s what I’d’ve done,” persisted Kingsley, “specially

with the Daily Prophet having a go at him every few days…”

Harry did not look round; he did not want Lupin or Kingsley to know he had heard. Though not

remotely hungry, he followed Mundungus back towards the table. His pleasure in the party had

evaporated as quickly as it had come; he wished he were upstairs in bed.

Mad-Eye Moody was sniffing at a chicken-leg with what remained of his nose; evidently he

could not detect any trace of poison, because he then tore a strip off it with his teeth.

“… the handles made of Spanish oak with anti-jinx varnish and in-built vibration control -” Ron

was saying to Tonks.

Mrs. Weasley yawned widely.

“Well, I think I’ll sort out that Boggart before I turn in… Arthur, I don’t want this lot up too late,

all right? Night, Harry, dear.”

She left the kitchen. Harry set down his plate and wondered whether he could follow her without

attracting attention.

“You all right, Potter?” grunted Moody.

“Yeah, fine,” lied Harry.

Moody took a swig from his hipflask, his electric-blue eye staring sideways at Harry.

“Come here, I’ve got something that might interest you,” he said.

From an inner pocket of his robes Moody pulled a very tattered old wizarding photograph.

“Original Order of the Phoenix,” growled Moody. “Found it last night when I was looking for my spare Invisibility Cloak, seeing as Podmore hasn’t had the manners to return my best one…

thought people might like to see it.”

Harry took the photograph. A small crowd of people, some waving at him, others lifting their

glasses, looked back up at him.

“There’s me,” said Moody, unnecessarily pointing at himself. The Moody in the picture was

unmistakable, though his hair was slightly less grey and his nose was intact. “And there’s

Dumbledore beside me, Dedalus Diggle on the other side… that’s Marlene McKinnon, she was

killed two weeks after this was taken, they got her whole family. That’s Frank and Alice

Longbottom -”

Harry’s stomach, already uncomfortable, clenched as he looked at Alice Longbottom; he knew

her round, friendly face very well, even though he had never met her, because she was the image

of her son, Neville.

“— poor devils,” growled Moody. “Better dead than what happened to them… and that’s

Emmeline Vance, you’ve met her, and that there’s Lupin, obviously… Benjy Fenwick, he

copped it too, we only ever found bits of him… shift aside there,” he added, poking the picture,

and the little photographic people edged sideways, so that those who were partially obscured

could move to the front.

“That’s Edgar Bones… brother of Amelia Bones, they got him and his family, too, he was a great wizard… Sturgis Podmore, blimey, he looks young… Caradoc Dearborn, vanished six months after this, we never found his body… Hagrid, of course, looks exactly the same as ever…

Elphias Doge, you’ve met him, I’d forgotten he used to wear that stupid hat… Gideon Prewett, it

took five Death Eaters to kill him and his brother Fabian, they fought like heroes… budge along,

budge along…”

The little people in the photograph jostled among themselves and those hidden right at the back

appeared at the forefront of the picture.

“That’s Dumbledore’s brother Aberforth, only time I ever met him, strange bloke… that’s

Dorcas Meadowes, Voldemort killed her personally… Sirius, when he still had short hair…

and… there you go, thought that would interest you!”

Harry’s heart turned over. His mother and father were beaming up at him, sitting on either side

of a small, watery-eyed man whom Harry recognized at once as Wormtail, the one who had

betrayed his parents’ whereabouts to Voldemort and so helped to bring about their deaths.

“Eh?” said Moody.

Harry looked up into Moody’s heavily scarred and pitted face. Evidently Moody was under the

impression he had just given Harry a bit of a treat.

“Yeah,” said Harry, once again attempting to grin. “Er… listen, I’ve just remembered, I haven’t

packed my…”

He was spared the trouble of inventing an object he had not packed. Sirius had just said, “What’s

that you’ve got there, Mad-Eye?” and Moody had turned towards him. Harry crossed the kitchen, slipped through the door and up the stairs before anyone could call him back.

He did not know why it had been such a shock; he had seen pictures of his parents before, after

all, and he had met Wormtail but to have them sprung on him like that, when he was least

expecting it… no one would like that, he thought angrily…

And then, to see them surrounded by all those other happy faces… Benjy Fenwick, who had

been found in bits, and Gideon Prewett, who had died like a hero, and the Longbottoms, who had

been tortured into madness… all waving happily out of the photograph forever more, not

knowing that they were doomed… well, Moody might find that interesting… he, Harry, found it

disturbing…

Harry tiptoed up the stairs in the hall past the stuffed elf-heads, glad to be on his own again, but

as he approached the first landing he heard noises. Someone was sobbing in the drawing room.

“Hello?” Harry said.

There was no answer but the sobbing continued. He climbed the remaining stairs two at a time,

walked across the landing and opened the drawing-room door.

Someone was cowering against the dark wall, her wand in her hand, her whole body shaking

with sobs. Sprawled on the dusty old carpet in a patch of moonlight, clearly dead, was Ron.

All the air seemed to vanish from Harry’s lungs; he felt as though he were falling through the

floor; his brain turned icy cold - Ron dead, no, it couldn’t be -

But wait a moment, it couldn’t be - Ron was downstairs -

“Mrs. Weasley?” Harry croaked.

“R - r - riddikulus!” Mrs. Weasley sobbed, pointing her shaking wand at Ron’s body.

Crack.

Ron’s body turned into Bill’s, spread-eagled on his back, his eyes wide open and empty. Mrs.

Weasley sobbed harder than ever.

“R -riddikulus!” she sobbed again.

Crack.

Mr. Weasley’s body replaced Bill’s, his glasses askew, a trickle of blood running down his face.

“No!” Mrs. Weasley moaned. “No… riddikulus! Riddikulus! RIDDlKULUS”

Crack. Dead twins. Crack. Dead Percy. Crack. Dead Harry…

“Mrs. Weasley, just get out of here!” shouted Harry, staring down at his own dead body on the

floor. “Let someone else -”

“What’s going on?”

Lupin had come running into the room, closely followed by Sirius, with Moody stumping along

behind them. Lupin looked from Mrs. Weasley to the dead Harry on the floor and seemed to

understand in an instant. Pulling out his own wand, he said, very firmly and clearly:

“Riddikulus!”

Harry’s body vanished. A silvery orb hung in the air over the spot where it had lain. Lupin

waved his wand once more and the orb vanished in a puff of smoke.

“Oh - oh - oh!” gulped Mrs. Weasley, and she broke into a storm of crying, her face in her hands.

“Molly,” said Lupin bleakly, walking over to her. “Molly don’t…”

Next second, she was sobbing her heart out on Lupin’s shoulder.

“Molly, it was just a Boggart,” he said soothingly, patting her on the head, “just a stupid

Boggart…”

“I see them d-d - dead all the time!” Mrs. Weasley moaned into his shoulder. “All the’t -’t - time!

I d - d - dream about it…”

Sirius was staring at the patch of carpet where the Boggart, pretending to be Harry’s body, had

lain. Moody was looking at Harry, who avoided his gaze. He had a funny feeling Moody’s

magical eye had followed him all the way out of the kitchen.

“D-d - don’t tell Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley was gulping now, mopping her eyes frantically with her

cuffs. “I d - d - don’t want him to know… being silly…”

Lupin handed her a handkerchief and she blew her nose.

“Harry, I’m so sorry. What must you think of me?” she said shakily. “Not even able to get rid of a Boggart…”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Harry, trying to smile.

“I’m just’s -’s - so worried,” she said, tears spilling out of her eyes again. “Half the f - f - family’s in the Order, it’ll b - b - be a miracle if we all come through this… and P - P - Percy’s not talking to us… what if something d-d - dreadful happens and we’ve never m - m - made it up with him? And what’s going to happen if Arthur and I get killed, who’s g - g - going to look after Ron and Ginny?”

“Molly that’s enough” said Lupin firmly. “This isn’t like last time. The Order are better prepared, we’ve got a head start, we know what Voldemorts up to -”

Mrs. Weasley gave a little squeak of fright at the sound of the name.

“Oh, Molly, come on, it’s about time you got used to hearing his name - look, I can’t promise no

one’s going to get hurt, nobody can promise that, but we’re much better off than we were last

time. You weren’t in the Order then, you don’t understand. Last time we were outnumbered

twenty to one by the Death Eaters and they were picking us off one by one…”

Harry thought of the photograph again, of his parents’ beaming faces. He knew Moody was still

watching him.

“Don’t worry about Percy” said Sirius abruptly. “He’ll come round. It’s only a matter of time

before Voldemort moves into the open; once he does, the whole Ministry’s going to be begging

us to forgive them. And I’m not sure I’ll be accepting their apology,” he added bitterly.

“And as for who’s going to look after Ron and Ginny if you and Arthur died,” said Lupin,

smiling slightly, “what do you think we’d do, let them starve?”

Mrs. Weasley smiled tremulously.

“Being silly,” she muttered again, mopping her eyes.

But Harry, closing his bedroom door behind him some ten minutes later, could not think Mrs.

Weasley silly. He could still see his parents beaming up at him from the tattered old photograph,

unaware that their lives, like so many of those around them, were drawing to a close. The image

of the Boggart posing as the corpse of each member of Mrs. Weasley’s family in turn kept

flashing before his eyes.

Without warning, the scar on his forehead seared with pain again and his stomach churned

horribly.

“Cut it out,” he said firmly, rubbing the scar as the pain receded.

“First sign of madness, talking to your own head,” said a sly voice from the empty picture on the

wall.

Harry ignored it. He felt older than he had ever felt in his life and it seemed extraordinary to him

that barely an hour ago he had been worried about a joke shop and who had got a prefects badge.

CHAPTER TEN

Luna Lovegood

Harry had a troubled nights sleep. His parents wove in and out of his dreams, never speaking;

Mrs. Weasley sobbed over Kreachers dead body, watched by Ron and Hermione who were

wearing crowns, and yet again Harry found himself walking down a corridor ending in a locked

door. He awoke abruptly with his scar prickling to find Ron already dressed and talking to him.

“… better hurry up, Mum’s going ballistic, she says we’re going to miss the train.”

There was a lot of commotion in the house. From what he heard as he dressed at top speed,

Harry gathered that Fred and George had bewitched their trunks to fly downstairs to save the

bother of carrying them, with the result that they had hurtled straight into Ginny and knocked her

down two flights of stairs into the hall; Mrs. Black and Mrs. Weasley were both screaming at the

top of their voices.

“- COULD HAVE DONE HER A SERIOUS INJURY, YOU IDIOTS -”

“- FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, BESMIRCHING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS -”

Hermione came hurrying into the room looking flustered, just as Harry was putting on his

trainers. Hedwig was swaying on her shoulder, and she was carrying a squirming Crookshanks in

her arms.

“Mum and Dad just sent Hedwig back.” The owl fluttered obligingly over and perched on top of

her cage. “Are you ready yet?”

“Nearly. Is Ginny all right?” Harry asked, shoving on his glasses.

“Mrs. Weasley’s patched her up,” said Hermione. “But now Mad-Eye’s complaining that we

can’t leave unless Sturgis Podmore’s here, otherwise the guard will be one short.’

“Guard?” said Harry. “We have to go to King’s Cross with a guard?”

“You have to go to King’s Cross with a guard,” Hermione corrected him.

“Why?” said Harry irritably. “I thought Voldemort was supposed to be lying low, or are you

telling me he’s going to jump out from behind a dustbin to try and do me in?”

“I don’t know, it’s just what Mad-Eye says,” said Hermione distractedly, looking at her watch,

“but if we don’t leave soon we’re definitely going to miss the train…”

“WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!” Mrs. Weasley bellowed and Hermione jumped as though scalded and hurried out of the room. Harry seized Hedwig, stuffed her unceremoniously into her cage, and set off downstairs after Hermione, dragging his trunk.

Mrs. Black’s portrait was howling with rage but nobody was bothering to close the curtains over

her; all the noise in the hall was bound to rouse her again, anyway.

“Harry, you’re to come with me and Tonks,” shouted Mrs. Weasley - over the repeated screeches

of “MUDBLOODS! SCUM! CREATURES OF DIRT!” - “Leave your trunk and your owl,

Alastor’s going to deal with the luggage… oh, for heaven’s sake, Sirius, Dumbledore said no!”

A bear-like black dog had appeared at Harry’s side as he was clambering over the various trunks

cluttering the hall to get to Mrs. Weasley.

“Oh honestly…” said Mrs. Weasley despairingly. “Well, on your own head be it!’

She wrenched open the front door and stepped out into the weak September sunlight. Harry and

the dog followed her. The door slammed behind them and Mrs. Blacks screeches were cut off

instantly.

“Where’s Tonks?” Harry said, looking round as they went down the stone steps of number twelve, which vanished the moment they reached the pavement.

“She’s waiting for us just up here,” said Mrs. Weasley stiffly, averting her eyes from the

lolloping black dog beside Harry.

An old woman greeted them on the corner. She had tightly curled grey hair and wore a purple hat

shaped like a pork pie.

“Wotcher, Harry,” she said, winking. “Better hurry up, hadn’t we, Molly?” she added, checking

her watch.

“I know, I know,” moaned Mrs. Weasley, lengthening her stride, “but Mad-Eye wanted to wait

for Sturgis… if only Arthur could have got us cars from the Ministry again… but Fudge won’t

let him borrow so much as an empty ink bottle these days… how Muggles can stand traveling

without magic.”

But the great black dog gave a joyful bark and gamboled around them, snapping at pigeons and

chasing its own tail. Harry couldn’t help laughing. Sirius had been trapped inside for a very long

time. Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips in an almost Aunt Petunia-ish way.

It took them twenty minutes to reach King’s Cross on foot and nothing more eventful happened

during that time than Sirius scaring a couple of cats for Harry’s entertainment. Once inside the

station they lingered casually beside the barrier between platforms nine and ten until the coast

was clear, then each of them leaned against it in turn and fell easily through on to platform nine

and three-quarters, where the Hogwarts Express stood belching sooty steam over a platform

packed with departing students and their families. Harry inhaled the familiar smell and felt his

spirits soar… he was really going back…

“I hope the others make it in time,” said Mrs. Weasley anxiously, staring behind her at the

wrought-iron arch spanning the platform, through which new arrivals would come.

“Nice dog, Harry!” called a tall boy with dreadlocks.

“Thanks, Lee,” said Harry, grinning, as Sirius wagged his tail frantically.

“Oh good,” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding relieved, “here’s Alastor with the luggage, look…”

A porter’s cap pulled low over his mismatched eyes, Moody came limping through the archway

pushing a trolley loaded with their trunks.

“All okay,” he muttered to Mrs. Weasley and Tonks, “don’t think we were followed…”

Seconds later, Mr. Weasley emerged on to the platform with Ron and Hermione. They had

almost unloaded Moody’s luggage trolley when Fred, George and Ginny turned up with Lupin.

“No trouble?” growled Moody.

“Nothing,” said Lupin.

“I’ll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,” said Moody, “that’s the second time he’s not

turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus.”

“Well, look after yourselves,” said Lupin, shaking hands all round. He reached Harry last and

gave him a clap on the shoulder. “You too Harry. Be careful.”

“Yeah, keep your head down and your eyes peeled,” said Moody, shaking Harry’s hand too.

“And don’t forget, all of you - careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don’t put it in a letter at all.”

“It’s been great meeting all of you,” said Tonks, hugging Hermione and Ginny “We’ll see you

soon, I expect.”

A warning whistle sounded; the students still on the platform started hurrying on to the train.

“Quick, quick,” said Mrs. Weasley distractedly, hugging them at random and catching Harry

twice. “Write… be good… if you’ve forgotten anything we’ll send it on… on to the train, now,

hurry…”

For one brief moment, the great black dog reared on to its hind legs and placed its front paws on

Harry’s shoulders, but Mrs. Weasley shoved Harry away towards the train door, hissing, “For

heaven’s sake, act more like a dog, Sirius!”

“See you!” Harry called out of the open window as the train began to move, while Ron,

Hermione and Ginny waved beside him. The figures of Tonks, Lupin, Moody and Mr. and Mrs.

Weasley shrank rapidly but the black dog was bounding alongside the window, wagging its tail;

blurred people on the platform were laughing to see it chasing the train, then they rounded a

bend, and Sirius was gone.

“He shouldn’t have come with us,” said Hermione in a worried voice.

“Oh, lighten up,” said Ron, “he hasn’t seen daylight for months, poor bloke.”

“Well,” said Fred, clapping his hands together, “can’t stand around chatting all day, we’ve got

business to discuss with Lee. See you later,” and he and George disappeared down the corridor to

the right.

The train was gathering still more speed, so that the houses outside the window flashed past, and

they swayed where they stood.

“Shall we go and find a compartment, then?” Harry asked.

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.

“Er,” said Ron.

“We’re - well - Ron and I are supposed to go into the prefect carriage,” Hermione said

awkwardly.

Ron wasn’t looking at Harry; he seemed to have become intensely interested in the fingernails on

his left hand.

“Oh,” said Harry. “Right. Fine.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to stay there all journey,” said Hermione quickly. “Our letters said we

just get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then patrol the corridors from time to time.”

“Fine,” said Harry again. “Well, I - I might see you later, then.”

“Yeah, definitely,” said Ron, casting a shifty, anxious look at Harry. “It’s a pain having to go

down there, I’d rather - but we have to -I mean, I’m not enjoying it, I’m not Percy,” he finished

defiantly.

“I know you’re not,” said Harry and he grinned. But as Hermione and Ron dragged their trunks,

Crookshanks and a caged Pigwidgeon off towards the engine end of the train, Harry felt an odd

sense of loss. He had never traveled on the Hogwarts Express without Ron.

“Come on,” Ginny told him, “if we get a move on we’ll be able to save them places.”

“Right,” said Harry, picking up Hedwig’s cage in one hand and the handle of his trunk in the

other. They struggled off down the corridor, peering through the glass-paneled doors into the

compartments they passed, which were already full. Harry could not help noticing that a lot of

people stared back at him with great interest and that several of them nudged their neighbors

and pointed him out. After he had met this behavior in five consecutive carriages he

remembered that the Daily Prophet had been telling its readers all summer what a lying show-off he was. He wondered dully whether the people now staring and whispering believed the stories.

In the very last carriage they met Neville Longbottom, Harry’s fellow fifth-year Gryffindor, his

round face shining with the effort of pulling his trunk along and maintaining a one-handed grip

on his struggling toad, Trevor.

“Hi, Harry” he panted. “Hi, Ginny… everywhere’s full… I can’t find a seat…”

“What are you talking about?” said Ginny, who had squeezed past Neville to peer into the

compartment behind him. “There’s room in this one, there’s only Loony Lovegood in here —”

Neville mumbled something about not wanting to disturb anyone.

“Don’t be silly,” said Ginny, laughing, “she’s all right.”

She slid the door open and pulled her trunk inside. Harry and Neville followed.

“Hi, Luna,” said Ginny, “is it okay if we take these seats?”

The girl beside the window looked up. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty blonde hair, very

pale eyebrows and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. Harry knew at

once why Neville had chosen to pass this compartment by. The girl gave off an aura of distinct

dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping,

or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of Butterbeer corks, or that she was reading a

magazine upside-down. Her eyes ranged over Neville and came to rest on Harry. She nodded.

“Thanks,” said Ginny, smiling at her.

Harry and Neville stowed the three trunks and Hedwig’s cage in the luggage rack and sat down.

Luna watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not

seem to need to blink as much as normal humans. She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken

the seat opposite her and now wished he hadn’t.

“Had a good summer, Luna?” Ginny asked.

“Yes,” said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. “Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you

know. You’re Harry Potter,” she added.

“I know I am,” said Harry.

Neville chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes on him instead.

“And I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m nobody,” said Neville hurriedly.

“No you’re not,” said Ginny sharply. “Neville Longbottom - Luna Lovegood. Luna’s in my year, but in Ravenclaw.”

“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,” said Luna in a singsong voice.

She raised her upside-down magazine high enough to hide her face and fell silent. Harry and

Neville looked at each other with their eyebrows raised. Ginny suppressed a giggle.

The train rattled onwards, speeding them out into open country. It was an odd, unsettled sort of

day; one moment the carriage was full of sunlight and the next they were passing beneath

ominously grey clouds.

“Guess what I got for my birthday?” said Neville.

“Another Remembrall?” said Harry, remembering the marble-like device Neville’s grandmother

had sent him in an effort to improve his abysmal memory.

“No,” said Neville. “I could do with one, though, I lost the old one ages ago… no, look at this…”

He dug the hand that was not keeping a firm grip on Trevor into his schoolbag and after a little

bit of rummaging pulled out what appeared to be a small grey cactus in a pot, except that it was

covered with what looked like boils rather than spines.

“Mimbulus mimbletonia,” he said proudly.

Harry stared at the thing. It was pulsating slightly, giving it the rather sinister look of some

diseased internal organ.

“It’s really, really rare,” said Neville, beaming. “I don’t know if there’s one in the greenhouse at

Hogwarts, even. I can’t wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My Great Uncle Algie got it for me

in Assyria. I’m going to see if I can breed from it.”

Harry knew that Neville’s favorite subject was Herbology but for the life of him he could not

see what he would want with this stunted little plant.

“Does it - er - do anything?” he asked.

“Loads of stuff!” said Neville proudly. “It’s got an amazing defensive mechanism. Here, hold

Trevor for me…”

He dumped the toad into Harry’s lap and took a quill from his schoolbag. Luna Lovegood’s

popping eyes appeared over the top of her upside-down magazine again, to watch what Neville

was doing. Neville held the Mimbulus mimbletonia up t o his eyes, his tongue between his teeth,

chose his spot, and gave the plant a sharp prod with the tip of his quill.

Liquid squirted from every boil on the plant; thick, stinking, dark green jets of it. They hit the

ceiling, the windows, and spattered Luna Lovegood’s magazine; Ginny, who had flung her arms

up in front of her face just in time, merely looked as though she was wearing a slimy green hat,

but Harry, whose hands had been busy preventing Trevor’s escape, received a faceful. It smelled

like rancid manure.

Neville, whose face and torso were also drenched, shook his head to get the worst out of his

eyes.

“S - sorry,” he gasped. “I haven’t tried that before… didn’t realize it would be quite so… don’t

worry, though, Stinksap’s not poisonous,” he added nervously, as Harry spat a mouthful on to the floor.

At that precise moment the door of their compartment slid open.

“Oh… hello, Harry,” said a nervous voice. “Um… bad time?”

Harry wiped the lenses of his glasses with his Trevor-free hand. A very pretty girl with long,

shiny black hair was standing in the doorway smiling at him: Cho Chang, the Seeker on the

Ravenclaw Quidditch team.

“Oh… hi,” said Harry blankly.

“Um…” said Cho. “Well… just thought I’d say hello… bye then.”

Rather pink in the face, she closed the door and departed. Harry slumped back in his seat and

groaned. He would have liked Cho to discover him sitting with a group of very cool people

laughing their heads off at a joke he had just told; he would not have chosen to be sitting with

Neville and Loony Lovegood, clutching a toad and dripping in Stinksap.

“Never mind,” said Ginny bracingly. “Look, we can easily get rid of all this.” She pulled out her

wand. “Scourgify!”

The Stinksap vanished.

“Sorry,” said Neville again, in a small voice.

Ron and Hermione did not turn up for nearly an hour, by which time the food trolley had already

gone by. Harry, Ginny and Neville had finished their pumpkin pasties and were busy swapping

Chocolate Frog Cards when the compartment door slid open and they walked in, accompanied

by Crookshanks and a shrilly hooting Pigwidgeon in his cage.

“I’m starving,” said Ron, stowing Pigwidgeon next to Hedwig, grabbing a Chocolate Frog from

Harry and throwing himself into the seat next to him. He ripped open the wrapper, bit off the

frog’s head and leaned back with his eyes closed as though he had had a very exhausting

morning.

“Well, there are two fifth-year prefects from each house,” said Hermione, looking thoroughly

disgruntled as she took her seat. “Boy and girl from each.”

“And guess who’s a Slytherin prefect?” said Ron, still with his eyes closed.

“Malfoy,” replied Harry at once, certain his worst fear would be confirmed.

“Course,” said Ron bitterly, stuffing the rest of the Frog into his mouth and taking another.

“And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson,” said Hermione viciously. “How she got to be a prefect when she’s thicker than a concussed troll…”

“Who’s Hufflepuff?” Harry asked.

“Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott,” said Ron thickly.

“And Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw,” said Hermione.

“You went to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil,” said a vague voice.

Everyone turned to look at Luna Lovegood, who was gazing unblinkingly at Ron over the top of

The Quibbler. He swallowed his mouthful of Frog.

“Yeah, I know I did,” he said, looking mildly surprised.

“She didn’t enjoy it very much,” Luna informed him. “She doesn’t think you treated her very

well, because you wouldn’t dance with her. I don’t think I’d have minded,” she added

thoughtfully, “I don’t like dancing very much.”

She retreated behind The Quibbler again. Ron stared at the cover with his mouth hanging open

for a few seconds, then looked around at Ginny for some kind of explanation, but Ginny had

stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to stop herself giggling. Ron shook his head, bemused, then

checked his watch.

“We’re supposed to patrol the corridors every so often,” he told Harry and Neville, “and we can

give out punishments if people are misbehaving. I can’t wait to get Crabbe and Goyle for

something.”

“You’re not supposed to abuse your position, Ron!” said Hermione sharply.

“Yeah, right, because Malfoy won’t abuse it at all,” said Ron sarcastically.

“So you’re going to descend to his level?”

“No, I’m just going to make sure I get his mates before he gets mine.”

“For heaven’s sake, Ron -”

“I’ll make Goyle do lines, it’ll kill him, he hates writing,” said Ron happily. He lowered his voice to Goyle’s low grunt and, screwing up his face in a look of pained concentration, mimed writing in midair. “I… must… not… look… like… a… baboon’s… backside.”

Everyone laughed, but nobody laughed harder than Luna Lovegood. She let out a scream of

mirth that caused Hedwig to wake up and flap her wings indignantly and Crookshanks to leap up

into the luggage rack, hissing. Luna laughed so hard her magazine slipped out of her grasp, slid

down her legs and on to the floor.

“That was funny!”

Her prominent eyes swam with tears as she gasped for breath, staring at Ron. Utterly nonplussed,

he looked around at the others, who were now laughing at the expression on Ron’s face and at

the ludicrously prolonged laughter of Luna Lovegood, who was rocking backwards and

forwards, clutching her sides.

“Are you taking the mickey?” said Ron, frowning at her.

“Baboon’s… backside!” she choked, holding her ribs.

Everyone else was watching Luna laughing, but Harry glancing at the magazine on the floor,

noticed something that made him dive for it. Upside-down it had been hard to tell what the

picture on the front was, but Harry now realized it was a fairly bad cartoon of Cornelius Fudge;

Harry only recognized him because of the lime-green bowler hat. One of Fudge’s hands was

clenched around a bag of gold; the other hand was throttling a goblin. The cartoon was

captioned: How Far Will Fudge Go to Gain Gringotts?

Beneath this were listed the titles of other articles inside the magazine.

Corruption in the Quidditch League:

How the Tornados are Taking Control

Secrets of the Ancient Runes Revealed

Sirius Black: Villain or Victim?

“Can I have a look at this?” Harry asked Luna eagerly.

She nodded, still gazing at Ron, breathless with laughter.

Harry opened the magazine and scanned the index. Until this moment he had completely

forgotten the magazine Kingsley had handed Mr. Weasley to give to Sirius, but it must have been

this edition of The Quibbler.

He found the page, and turned excitedly to the article.

This, too, was illustrated by a rather bad cartoon; in fact, Harry would not have known it was

supposed to be Sirius if it hadn’t been captioned. Sirius was standing on a pile of human bones

with his wand out. The headline on the article said:

SIRIUS - BLACK AS HE’S PAINTED?

Notorious mass murderer or innocent singing sensation?

Harry had to read this first sentence several times before he was convinced that he had not

misunderstood it. Since when had Sirius been a singing sensation?

For fourteen years Sirius Black has been believed guilty of the mass murder of twelve innocent

Muggles and one wizard. Black’s audacious escape from Azkaban two years ago has led to the

widest manhunt ever conducted by the Ministry of Magic. None of us has ever questioned that he

deserves to be recaptured and handed back to the Dementors.

BUT DOES HE?

Startling new evidence has recently come to light that Sirius Black may not have committed the

crimes for which he was sent to Azkaban. In fact, says Doris Purkiss, of 18 Acanthia Way, Little

Norton, Black may not even have been present at the killings.

“What people don’t realize is that Sirius Black is a false name,” says Mrs. Purkiss. “The man

people believe to be Sirius Black is actually Stubby Boardman, lead singer of popular singing group The Hobgoblins, who retired fro m public life after being struck on the ear by a turnip at a concert in Little Norton Church Hall nearly fifteen years ago. I recognized him the moment I saw his picture in the paper. Now, Stubby couldn’t possibly have committed those crimes, because on the day in question he happened to be enjoying a romantic candlelit dinner with me. I have written to the Minister for Magic and am expecting him to give Stubby, alias - Sirius, a full pardon any day now.”

Harry finished reading and stared at the page in disbelief. Perhaps it was a joke, he thought,

perhaps the magazine often printed spoof Hems. He flicked back a few pages and found the

piece on Fudge.

Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, denied that he had any plans to take over the running of the Wizarding Bank, Gringotts, when he was elected Minister for Magic five years ago. Fudge

has always insisted that he wants nothing more than to ‘co-operate peacefully’ with the guardians of our gold.

BUT DOES HE?

Sources close to the Minister have recently disclosed that Fudge’s dearest ambition is to seize

control of the goblin gold supplies and that he will not hesitate to use force if need be.

“It wouldn’t be the first time, either,” said a Ministry insider. “Cornelius ‘Goblin-Crusher’ Fudge, that’s what his friends call him. If you could hear him when he thinks no one’s listening, oh, he’s always talking about the goblins he’s had done in; he’s had them drowned, he’s had them dropped off buildings, he’s had them poisoned, he’s had them cooked in pies…”

Harry did not read any further. Fudge might have many faults but Harry found it extremely hard

to imagine him ordering goblins to be cooked in pies. He flicked through the rest of the

magazine. Pausing every few pages, he read: an accusation that the Tutshill Tornados were

winning the Quidditch League by a combination of blackmail, illegal broom-tampering and

torture; an interview with a wizard who claimed to have flown to the moon on a Cleansweep Six

and brought back a bag of moon frogs to prove it; and an article on ancient runes which at least

explained why Luna had been reading The Quibbler upside-down. According to the magazine, if

you turned the runes on their heads they revealed a spell to make your enemy’s ears turn into

kumquats. In fact, compared to the rest of the articles in The Quibbler, the suggestion that Sirius

might really be the lead singer of The Hobgoblins was quite sensible.

“Anything good in there?” asked Ron as Harry closed the magazine.

“Of course not,” said Hermione scathingly, before Harry could answer. “The Quibbler’s rubbish,

everyone knows that.”

“Excuse me,” said Luna; her voice had suddenly lost its dreamy quality. “My father’s the editor.”

“I - oh,” said Hermione, looking embarrassed. “Well, it’s got some interesting… I mean, it’s

quite…”

“I’ll have it back, thank you,” said Luna coldly, and leaning forwards she snatched it out of

Harry’s hands. Riffling through it to page fifty-seven, she turned it resolutely upside-down again

and disappeared behind it, just as the compartment door opened for the third time.

Harry looked around; he had expected this, but that did not make the sight of Draco Malfoy

smirking at him from between his cronies Crabbe and Goyle any more enjoyable.

“What?” he said aggressively, before Malfoy could open his mouth.

“Manners, Potter, or I’ll have to give you a detention,” drawled Malfoy, whose sleek blond hair

and pointed chin were just like his fathers. “You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect,

which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.”

Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville laughed. Malfoy’s lip curled.

“Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?” he asked.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Hermione sharply.

“I seem to have touched a nerve,” said Malfoy, smirking. “Well, just watch yourself, Potter,

because I’ll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line.”

“Get out!” said Hermione, standing up.

Sniggering, Malfoy gave Harry a last malicious look and departed, with Crabbe and Goyle

lumbering along in his wake. Hermione slammed the compartment door behind them and turned

to look at Harry, who knew at once that she, like him, had registered what Malfoy had said and

been just as unnerved by it.

“Chuck us another Frog,” said Ron, who had clearly noticed nothing.

Harry could not talk freely in front of Neville and Luna. He exchanged another nervous look

with Hermione, then stared out of the window.

He had thought Sirius coming with him to the station was a bit of a laugh, but suddenly it seemed

reckless, if not downright dangerous… Hermione had been right… Sirius should not have come.

What if Mr. Malfoy had noticed the black dog and told Draco? What if he had deduced that the

Weasleys, Lupin, Tonks and Moody knew where Sirius was hiding? Or had Malfoy’s use of the

word dogging been a coincidence?

The weather remained undecided as they traveled further and further north. Rain spattered the

windows in a half-hearted way, then the sun put in a feeble appearance before clouds drifted over

it once more. When darkness fell and lamps came on inside the carriages, Luna rolled up The

Quibbler, put it carefully away in her bag and took to staring at everyone in the compartment

instead.

Harry was sitting with his forehead pressed against the train window, trying to get a first distant

glimpse of Hogwarts, but it was a moonless night and the rain-streaked window was grimy.

“We’d better change,” said Hermione at last, and all of them opened their trunks with difficulty

and pulled on their school robes. She and Ron pinned their prefect badges carefully to their

chests. Harry saw Ron checking his reflection in the black window.

At last, the train began to slow down and they heard the usual racket up and down it as

everybody scrambled to get their luggage and pets assembled, ready to get off. As Ron and

Hermione were supposed to supervise all this, they disappeared from the carriage again, leaving

Harry and the others to look after Crookshanks and Pigwidgeon.

“I’ll carry that owl, if you like, “ said Luna to Harry, reaching out for Pigwidgeon as Neville

stowed Trevor carefully in an inside pocket.

“Oh - er - thanks, “ said Harry, handing her the cage and hoisting Hedwig’s more securely into his arms.

They shuffled out of the compartment feeling the first sting of the night air on their faces as they

joined the crowd in the corridor. Slowly, they moved towards the doors. Harry could smell the

pine trees that lined the path down to the lake. He stepped down on to the platform and looked

around, listening for the familiar call of “firs’-years over ‘ere… firs’-years…”

But it did not come. Instead, a quite different voice, a brisk female one, was calling out, “First years line up over here, please! All first-years to me!”

A lantern came swinging towards Harry and by its light he saw the prominent chin and severe

haircut of Professor Grubbly-Plank, the witch who had taken over Hagrid’s Care of Magical

Creatures lessons for a while the previous year.

“Where’s Hagrid?” he said out loud.

“I don’t know,” said Ginny, “but we’d better get out of the way, we’re blocking the door.”

“Oh, yeah…”

Harry and Ginny became separated as they moved off along the platform and out through the

station. Jostled by the crowd, Harry squinted through the darkness for a glimpse of Hagrid; he

had to be here, Harry had been relying on it - seeing Hagrid again was one of the things he’d

been looking forward to most. But there was no sign of him.

He can’t have left, Harry told himself as he shuffled slowly through a narrow doorway on to the

road outside with the rest of the crowd. He’s just got a cold or something…

He looked around for Ron or Hermione, wanting to know what they thought about the

reappearance of Professor Grubbly-Plank, but neither of them was anywhere near him, so he

allowed himself to be shunted forwards on to the dark rain-washed road outside Hogsmeade

Station.

Here stood the hundred or so horseless stagecoaches that always took the students above first

year up to the castle. Harry glanced quickly at them, turned away to keep a lookout for Ron and

Hermione, then did a double-take.

The coaches were no longer horseless. There were creatures standing between the carriage

shafts. If he had had to give them a name, he supposed he would have called them horses, though

there was something reptilian about them, too. They were completely fleshless, their black coats

clinging to their skeletons, of which every bone was visible. Their heads were dragonish, and

their pupil-less eyes white and staring. Wings sprouted from each wither - vast, black leathery

wings that looked as though they ought to belong to giant bats. Standing still and quiet in the

gathering gloom, the creatures looked eerie and sinister. Harry could not understand why the

coaches were being pulled by these horrible horses when they were quite capable of moving

along by themselves.

“Where’s Pig?” said Ron’s voice, right behind Harry.

“That Luna girl was carrying him,” said Harry, turning quickly, eager to consult Ron about

Hagrid. “Where d’you reckon -”

“- Hagrid is? I dunno,” said Ron, sounding worried. “He’d better be okay…”

A short distance away, Draco Malfoy, followed by a small gang of cronies including Crabbe,

Goyle and Pansy Parkinson, was pushing some timid-looking second-years out of the way so that

he and his friends could get a coach to themselves. Seconds later, Hermione emerged panting

from the crowd.

“Malfoy was being absolutely foul to a first-year back there. I swear I’m going to report him,

he’s only had his badge three minutes and he’s using it to bully people worse than ever…

where’s Crookshanks?”

“Ginny’s got him,” said Harry. “There she is…”

Ginny had just emerged from the crowd, clutching a squirming Crookshanks.

“Thanks,” said Hermione, relieving Ginny of the cat. “Come on, let’s get a carriage together

before they all fill up…”

“I haven’t got Pig yet!” Ron said, but Hermione was already heading off towards the nearest

unoccupied coach. Harry remained behind with Ron.

“What are those things, d’you reckon?” he asked Ron, nodding at the horrible horses as the other

students surged past them.

“What things?”

“Those horse -”

Luna appeared holding Pigwidgeon’s cage in her arms; the tiny owl was twittering excitedly as

usual.

“Here you are,” she said. “He’s a sweet little owl, isn’t he?”

“Er… yeah… he’s all right,” said Ron gruffly. “Well, come on then, let’s get in… what were you

saying, Harry?”

“I was saying, what are those horse things?” Harry said, as he, Ron and Luna made for the

carriage in which Hermione and Ginny were already sitting.

“What horse things?”

“The horse things pulling the carriages!” said Harry impatiently. They were, after all, about three

feet from the nearest one; it was watching them with empty white eyes. Ron, however, gave

Harry a perplexed look.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about - look!”

Harry grabbed Ron’s arm and wheeled him about so that he was face to face with the winged

horse. Ron stared straight at it for a second, then looked back at Harry.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“At the - there, between the shafts! Harnessed to the coach! It’s right there in front -”

But as Ron continued to look bemused, a strange thought occurred to Harry.

“Can’t… can’t you see them?”

“See what?”

“Can’t you see what’s pulling the carriages?”

Ron looked seriously alarmed now.

“Are you feeling all right, Harry?”

“I… yeah…”

Harry felt utterly bewildered. The horse was there in front of him, gleaming solidly in the dim

light issuing from the station windows behind them, vapour rising from its nostrils in the chilly

night air. Yet, unless Ron was faking - and it was a very feeble joke if he was - Ron could not see

it at all.

“Shall we get in, then?” said Ron uncertainly, looking at Harry as though worried about him.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah, go on…”

“It’s all right,” said a dreamy voice from beside Harry as Ron vanished into the coach’s dark

interior. “You’re not going mad or anything. I can see them, too.”

“Can you?” said Harry desperately, turning to Luna. He could see the bat-winged horses reflected in her wide silvery eyes.

“Oh, yes,” said Luna, “I’ve been able to see them ever since my first day here. They’ve always

pulled the carriages. Don’t worry. You’re just as sane as I am”

Smiling faintly, she climbed into the musty interior of the carriage after Ron. Not altogether

reassured, Harry followed her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Sorting Hat’s New Song

Harry did not want to tell the others that he and Luna were having the same hallucination, if that

was what it was, so he said nothing more about the horses as he sat down inside the carriage and

slammed the door behind him. Nevertheless, he could not help watching the silhouettes of the

horses moving beyond the window.

“Did everyone see that Grubbly-Plank woman?” asked Ginny. “What’s she doing back here?

Hagrid can’t have left, can he?”

“I’ll be quite glad if he has,” said Luna, “he isn’t a very good teacher, is he?”

“Yes, he is!” said Harry, Ron and Ginny angrily.

Harry glared at Hermione. She cleared her throat and quickly said, “Erm… yes… he’s very

good.”

“Well, we in Ravenclaw think he’s a bit of a joke,” said Luna, unfazed.

“You’ve got a rubbish sense of humor then,” Ron snapped, as the wheels below them creaked

into motion.

Luna did not seem perturbed by Ron’s rudeness; on the contrary, she simply watched him for a

while as though he were a mildly interesting television program.

Rattling and swaying, the carriages moved in convoy up the road. When they passed between the

tall stone pillars topped with winged boars on either side of the gates to the school grounds,

Harry leaned forwards to try and see whether there were any lights on in Hagrid’s cabin by the

Forbidden Forest, but the grounds were in complete darkness. Hogwarts Castle, however,

loomed ever closer: a towering mass of turrets, jet black against the dark sky, here and there a

window blazing fiery bright above them.

The carriages jingled to a halt near the stone steps leading up to the oak front doors and Harry

got out of the carriage first. He turned again to look for lit windows down by the Forest, but there

was definitely no sign of life within Hagrids cabin. Unwillingly, because he had half-hoped they

would have vanished, he turned his eyes instead upon the strange, skeletal creatures standing

quietly in the chill night air, their blank white eyes gleaming.

Harry had once before had the experience of seeing something that Ron could not, but that had

been a reflection in a mirror, something much more insubstantial than a hundred very solid looking beasts strong enough to pull a fleet of carriages. If Luna was to be believed, the beasts

had always been there but invisible. Why, then, could Harry suddenly see them, and why could

Ron not?

“Are you coming or what” said Ron beside him.

“Oh… yeah,” said Harry quickly and they joined the crowd hurrying up the stone steps into the

castle.

The Entrance Hall was ablaze with torches and echoing with footsteps as the students crossed the

flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right, leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast.

The four long house tables in the Great Hall were filling up under the starless black ceiling,

which was just like the sky they could glimpse through the high windows. Candles floated in

midair all along the tables, illuminating the silvery ghosts who were dotted about the Hall and

the faces of the students talking eagerly, exchanging summer news, shouting greetings at friends

from other houses, eyeing one another’s new haircuts and robes. Again, Harry noticed people

putting their heads together to whisper as he passed; he gritted his teeth and tried to act as though

he neither noticed nor cared.

Luna drifted away from them at the Ravenclaw table. The moment they reached Gryffindors,

Ginny was hailed by some fellow fourth-years and left to sit with them; Harry, Ron, Hermione

and Neville found seats together about halfway down the table between Nearly Headless Nick,

the Gryffindor house ghost, and Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, the last two of whom gave

Harry airy, overly-friendly greetings that made him quite sure they had stopped talking about

him a split second before. He had more important things to worry about, however: he was

looking over the students’ heads to the staff table that ran along the top wall of the Hall.

“He’s not there.”

Ron and Hermione scanned the staff table too, though there was no real need; Hagrid’s size

made him instantly obvious in any lineup.

“He can’t have left,” said Ron, sounding slightly anxious.

“Of course he hasn’t,” said Harry firmly.

“You don’t think he’s… hurt, or anything, do you?” said Hermione uneasily.

“No,” said Harry at once.

“But where is he, then?”

There was a pause, then Harry said very quietly, so that Neville, Parvati and Lavender could not

hear, “Maybe he’s not back yet. You know - from his mission - the thing he was doing over the

summer for Dumbledore.’

“Yeah… yeah, that’ll be it,” said Ron, sounding reassured, but Hermione bit her lip, looking up

and down the staff table as though hoping for some conclusive explanation of Hagrid’s absence.