Harry Potter And The Prisoner of Azkaban (Chapter 1 to 12)

Harry moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help him write his essay, ‘Witch-Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was Completely Pointless – discuss’.

Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognising it.

The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation.

Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burnt so much that she allowed herself to be caught no fewer than forty-seven times in various disguises.

Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burnt so much that she allowed herself to be caught no fewer than forty-seven times in various disguises.

To their fury, they had been unsuccessful, and now lived in terror of anyone finding out that Harry had spent most of the last two years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The most the Dursleys could do these days was to lock away Harry’s spellbooks, wand, cauldron and broomstick at the start of the summer holidays, and forbid him to talk to the neighbours.

One of the essays, a particularly nasty one about Shrinking Potions, was for Harry’s least favourite teacher, Professor Snape, who would be delighted to have an excuse to give Harry detention for a month.

One of the essays, a particularly nasty one about Shrinking Potions, was for Harry’s least favourite teacher, Professor Snape, who would be delighted to have an excuse to give Harry detention for a month.

Whilst Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley had gone out into the front garden to admire Uncle Vernon’s new company car (in very loud voices, so that the rest of the street would notice it too), Harry had crept downstairs, picked the lock on the cupboard under the stairs, grabbed some of his books and hidden them in his bedroom.

Harry was keen to avoid trouble with his aunt and uncle at the moment, as they were already in a bad mood with him, all because he’d received a telephone call from a fellow wizard one week into the school holidays.

Ron was yelling so loudly that Uncle Vernon jumped and held the receiver a foot away from his ear, staring at it with an expression of mingled fury and alarm.

Ron bellowed back, as though he and Uncle Vernon were speaking from opposite ends of a football pitch.

Uncle Vernon’s small eyes swivelled around to Harry, who was rooted to the spot.

Harry suspected that Ron had warned Hermione not to call, which was a pity, because Hermione, the cleverest witch in Harry’s year, had Muggle parents, knew perfectly well how to use a telephone, and would probably have had enough sense not to say that she went to Hogwarts.

The silence in the dark house was broken only by the distant, grunting snores of his enormous cousin, Dudley.

Then he stood up, stretched, and checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table.

She was the only living creature in this house who didn’t flinch at the sight of him.

It was not, as the Dursleys had pretended for ten years, a souvenir of the car crash that had killed Harry’s parents, because Lily and James Potter had not died in a car crash.

Barely alive, Voldemort had fled …

He scanned the starry sky for a sign of Hedwig, perhaps soaring back to him with a dead mouse dangling from her beak, expecting praise.

Gazing absently over the rooftops, it was a few seconds before Harry realised what he was seeing.

Silhouetted against the golden moon, and growing larger every moment, was a large, strangely lop-sided creature, and it was flapping in Harry’s direction.

For a split second, he hesitated, his hand on the window-latch, wondering whether to slam it shut, but then the bizarre creature soared over one of the streetlamps of Privet Drive, and Harry, realising what it was, leapt aside.

Errol opened one bleary eye, gave a feeble hoot of thanks, and began to gulp some water.

She gave Harry an affectionate nip with her beak as he removed her burden, then flew across the room to join Errol.

Harry didn’t recognise the third owl, a handsome tawny one, but he knew at once where it had come from, because in addition to a third parcel, it was carrying a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest.

Harry didn’t recognise the third owl, a handsome tawny one, but he knew at once where it had come from, because in addition to a third parcel, it was carrying a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest.

The cutting had clearly come out of the wizarding newspaper, the Daily Prophet, because the people in the black and white picture were moving.

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw.

Harry couldn’t think of anyone who deserved to win a large pile of gold more than the Weasleys, who were very nice and extremely poor.

I asked Dad, and he reckons I shouldn’t have shouted.

Percy, who was in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, was looking particularly smug.

He had pinned his Head Boy badge to the fez perched jauntily on top of his neat hair, his horn-rimmed glasses flashing in the Egyptian sun.

He had pinned his Head Boy badge to the fez perched jauntily on top of his neat hair, his horn-rimmed glasses flashing in the Egyptian sun.

Inside was what looked like a miniature glass spinning top.

His heart gave a huge bound as he ripped back the paper and saw a sleek black leather case with silver words stamped across it: Broomstick Servicing Kit.

There was a large jar of Fleetwood’s High-Finish Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver Tail-Twig Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip onto your broom for long journeys, and a Handbook of Do-it-Yourself Broomcare.

He tore off the top layer of paper and glimpsed something green and leathery, but before he could unwrap it properly, the parcel gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it snapped loudly – as though it had jaws.

Hagrid had been known to befriend giant spiders, buy vicious, three-headed dogs from men in pubs and sneak illegal dragon eggs into his cabin.

Harry just had time to register its handsome green cover, emblazoned with the golden title, The Monster Book of Monsters, before it flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the bed like some weird crab.

The book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and shuffled rapidly across the room.

Harry followed it stealthily.

The Monster Book shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap, so Harry threw it down on the bed and reached for Hagrid’s card.

It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a biting book would come in useful, but he put up Hagrid’s card next to Ron and Hermione’s, grinning more broadly than ever.

But how on earth was he going to persuade Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign the form?

Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed indeed.

Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed indeed.

‘You didn’t tell us where that maniac’s escaped from!

Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!’

Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered intently out of the kitchen window.

Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered intently out of the kitchen window.

She was the nosiest woman in the world and spent most of her life spying on her boring, law-abiding neighbours.

She was the nosiest woman in the world and spent most of her life spying on her boring, law-abiding neighbours.

Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch and added, ‘I’d better be off in a minute, Petunia, Marge’s train gets in at ten.’

‘Aunt Marge?’ he blurted out.

On her last visit, the year before Harry had started at Hogwarts, Harry had accidentally trodden on the paw of her favourite dog.

Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the television.

Watching Harry being bullied by Uncle Vernon was Dudley’s favourite form of entertainment.

Harry, who had been sitting in a kind of horrified trance, had a sudden idea.

‘And why should I do that?’ sneered Uncle Vernon.

Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon was thinking it over, even if his teeth were bared and a vein was throbbing in his temple.

If, at the end of it, you’ve toed the line and kept to the story, I’ll sign your ruddy form.’

And don’t look at me like that’ – Hedwig’s large amber eyes were reproachful, ‘it’s not my fault.

Dudley came waddling down the hall, his blond hair plastered flat to his fat head, a bow-tie just visible under his many chins.

Aunt Marge thrust the suitcase into Harry’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, seized Dudley in a tight one-armed hug and planted a large kiss on his cheek.

Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley only put up with Aunt Marge’s hugs because he was well paid for it, and sure enough, when they broke apart, Dudley had a crisp twenty-pound note clutched in his fat fist.

‘Petunia!’ shouted Aunt Marge, striding past Harry as though he was a hat-stand.

Harry saw Aunt Petunia wince slightly as specks of tea and drool flecked her clean floor.

Harry saw Aunt Petunia wince slightly as specks of tea and drool flecked her clean floor.

Perhaps Uncle Vernon was worried that Harry might forget their bargain; in any case, he changed the subject abruptly.

‘Must have squeezed it too hard.

This worked quite well, though it seemed to give him a glazed look, because Aunt Marge started voicing the opinion that he was mentally subnormal.

‘Just a small one, then,’ she chuckled.

Then she ran off with a wastrel and here’s the result right in front of us.’

Dudley had even looked up from his pie to gape at his parents.

She was entirely round, now, like a vast life buoy with piggy eyes, and her hands and feet stuck out weirdly as she drifted up into the air, making apoplectic popping noises.

She was entirely round, now, like a vast life buoy with piggy eyes, and her hands and feet stuck out weirdly as she drifted up into the air, making apoplectic popping noises.

He sprinted upstairs and threw himself under the bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard and grabbed the pillowcase full of his books and birthday presents.

But a reckless rage had come over Harry.

But a reckless rage had come over Harry.

He fumbled behind him for the catch on the door.

Harry was several streets away before he collapsed onto a low wall in Magnolia Crescent, panting from the effort of dragging his trunk.

He sat quite still, anger still surging through him, listening to the frantic thumping of his heart.

He was stranded, quite alone, in the dark Muggle world, with absolutely nowhere to go.

He had broken the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry so badly, he was surprised Ministry of Magic representatives weren’t swooping down on him where he sat.

He had the Invisibility Cloak he had inherited from his father – what if he bewitched the trunk to make it feather-light, tied it to his broomstick, covered himself in the Cloak and flew to London?

Harry opened his trunk again and pushed the contents aside, looking for the Invisibility Cloak – but before he had found it, he straightened up suddenly, looking around him once more.

His wand flew out of his hand as he flung out an arm to break his fall, and he landed, hard, in the gutter.

Gold lettering over the windscreen spelled The Knight Bus.

Close to, he saw that Stan Shunpike was only a few years older than he was; eighteen or nineteen at most, with large, protruding ears and a fair few pimples.

Harry rummaged once more in his trunk, extracted his money bag and shoved some silver into Stan’s hand.

‘You ’ave this one,’ Stan whispered, shoving Harry’s trunk under the bed right behind the driver, who was sitting in an armchair in front of the steering wheel.

Ernie Prang, an elderly wizard wearing very thick glasses, nodded to Harry, who nervously flattened his fringe again and sat down on his bed.

‘Best go wake up Madam Marsh, Stan,’ said Ern.

Madam Marsh clamped a handkerchief to her mouth and tottered down the steps.

Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today.

‘Well, really, I had to, don’t you know,’ said an irritable Fudge.

‘You outta your tree?’ yelped Stan.

‘They ’ad a job coverin’ it up, din’ they, Ern?’

The Knight Bus rolled through the darkness, scattering bushes and bollards, telephone boxes and trees, and Harry lay, restless and miserable, on his feather bed.

One by one, wizards and witches in dressing gowns and slippers descended from the upper floors to leave the bus.

‘Diagon Alley’ said Harry.

Ern slammed on the brakes and the Knight Bus skidded to a halt in front of a small and shabby-looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, behind which lay the magical entrance to Diagon Alley.

Harry looked up at the owner of the hand on his shoulder and felt a bucketful of ice cascade into his stomach – he had walked right into Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic himself.

Fudge, a portly little man in a long, pinstriped cloak, looked cold and exhausted.

A stooping figure bearing a lantern appeared through the door behind the bar.

It was Tom, the wizened, toothless landlord.

‘Bye,’ Harry said miserably to Stan and Ern, as Tom beckoned Fudge towards the passage that led from the bar.

The snowy owl clicked her break and fluttered down onto Harry’s arm.

Harry ate breakfast each morning in the Leaky Cauldron, where he liked watching the other guests: funny little witches from the country, up for a day’s shopping; venerable-looking wizards arguing over the latest article in Transfiguration Today; wild-looking warlocks, raucous dwarfs and, once, what looked suspiciously like a hag, who ordered a plate of raw liver from behind a thick woollen balaclava.

Harry ate breakfast each morning in the Leaky Cauldron, where he liked watching the other guests: funny little witches from the country, up for a day’s shopping; venerable-looking wizards arguing over the latest article in Transfiguration Today; wild-looking warlocks, raucous dwarfs and, once, what looked suspiciously like a hag, who ordered a plate of raw liver from behind a thick woollen balaclava.

Curious to know what the crowd in the shop was staring at, Harry edged his way inside and squeezed in amongst the excited witches and wizards until he glimpsed a newly erected podium on which was mounted the most magnificent broom he had ever seen in his life.

‘Just come out … prototype …’ a square-jawed wizard was telling his companion.

This state-of-the-art racing broom sports a streamlined, superfine handle of ash, treated with a diamond-hard polish and hand-numbered with its own registration number.

Each individually selected birch twig in the broomtail has been honed to aerodynamic perfection, giving the Firebolt unsurpassable balance and pinpoint precision.

He went to the Apothecary to replenish his store of potions’ ingredients, and as his school robes were now several inches too short in the arm and leg, he visited Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions and bought new ones.

He went to the Apothecary to replenish his store of potions’ ingredients, and as his school robes were now several inches too short in the arm and leg, he visited Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions and bought new ones.

Most important of all, he had to buy his new school books, which would include those for his two new subjects, Care of Magical Creatures and Divination.

Instead of the usual display of gold-embossed spellbooks the size of paving slabs, there was a large iron cage behind the glass which held about a hundred copies of The Monster Book of Monsters.

Torn pages were flying everywhere as the books grappled with each other, locked together in furious wrestling matches and snapping aggressively.

It’s been bedlam!

‘Ah, starting Divination, are you?’ said the manager stripping off his gloves and leading Harry into the back of the shop, where there was a corner devoted to fortune-telling.

A small table was stacked with volumes such as Predicting the Unpredictable: Insulate Yourself against Shocks and Broken Balls: When Fortunes Turn Foul.

He tramped up the stairs to his room, went inside and tipped his books onto his bed.

Somebody had been in to tidy; the windows were open and sun was pouring inside.

Harry met Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, his fellow Gryffindors, in Quality Quidditch Supplies, where they, too, were ogling the Firebolt; he also ran into the real Neville Longbottom, a round-faced, forgetful boy, outside Flourish and Blotts.

Harry didn’t stop to chat; Neville appeared to have mislaid his booklist, and was being told off by his very formidable-looking grandmother.

They were there, both of them, sitting outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour; Ron looking incredibly freckly Hermione very brown, both waving frantically at him.

So they paid for their ice-creams and crossed the street to the Magical Menagerie.

It was smelly and very noisy because the occupants of these cages were all squeaking, squawking, jabbering or hissing.

Poisonous orange snails were oozing slowly up the side of their glass tank, and a fat white rabbit kept changing into a silk top hat and back again with a loud popping noise.

Ron lifted Scabbers out of his inside pocket and placed him next to the cage of his fellow rats, who stopped their skipping tricks and scuffled to the wire for a better look.

Next to the glossy rats in the cage, he looked especially woebegone.

The witch’s eyes moved from Scabbers’s tattered left ear to his front paw, which had a toe missing, and tutted loudly.

Ron buckled as something huge and orange came soaring from the top of the highest cage, landed on his head and then propelled itself, spitting madly, at Scabbers.

The cat’s ginger fur was thick and fluffy, but it was definitely a bit bow-legged and its face looked grumpy and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong into a brick wall.

The cat’s ginger fur was thick and fluffy, but it was definitely a bit bow-legged and its face looked grumpy and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong into a brick wall.

The cat’s ginger fur was thick and fluffy, but it was definitely a bit bow-legged and its face looked grumpy and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong into a brick wall.

‘And what about Scabbers?’ said Ron, pointing at the lump in his chest pocket.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,’ said Mr Weasley, who on closer inspection looked very strained.

At that moment Mrs Weasley entered the bar, laden with shopping and followed by the twins, Fred and George, who were about to start their fifth year at Hogwarts, the newly elected Head Boy, Percy, and the Weasleys’ youngest child and only girl, Ginny.

Percy, however, held out his hand solemnly as though he and Harry had never met and said, ‘Harry.

‘Simply splendid to see you, old boy –’

Percy scowled.

‘What do we want to be prefects for?’ said George, looking revolted at the very idea.

Ginny giggled.

‘How’re we getting to King’s Cross tomorrow, Dad?’ asked Fred, as they tucked into a sumptuous chocolate pudding.

The door of number twelve was ajar and Percy was shouting.

‘I don’t want to make him miserable, I want to put him on his guard!’ retorted Mr Weasley.

Black is deranged, Molly, and he wants Harry dead.

Sirius Black had murdered thirteen people with one curse; Mr and Mrs Weasley obviously thought Harry would be panic-stricken if he knew the truth.

Harry got dressed and was just persuading a disgruntled Hedwig to get back into her cage when Ron banged his way into the room, pulling a sweatshirt over his head and looking irritable.

You know,’ Ron grimaced, ‘his girlfriend.

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ Harry began, but they were interrupted by Fred and George, who had looked in to congratulate Ron on infuriating Percy again.

Mr Weasley marched Harry across the short stretch of pavement towards the first of two old-fashioned dark green cars, each of which was driven by a furtive-looking wizard, wearing a suit of emerald velvet.

Mr Weasley strolled towards the barrier between platforms nine and ten, pushing Harry’s trolley and apparently very interested in the InterCity 125 that had just arrived at platform nine.

Steam was billowing from the train; it had started to move.

‘Wonder what he teaches?’ said Ron, frowning at Professor Lupin’s pallid profile.

There were rumours that the job was jinxed.

‘Yeah, I think it is,’ said Ron in an offhand sort of way, ‘but that’s not why I want to go.

‘It’s this sweetshop,’ said Ron, a dreamy look coming over his face, ‘where they’ve got everything … Pepper Imps – they make you smoke at the mouth – and great fat Chocoballs full of strawberry mousse and clotted cream, and really excellent sugar quills which you can suck in class and just look like you’re thinking what to write next –’

‘In Sites of Historical Sorcery it says the inn was the headquarters for the 1612 goblin rebellion, and the Shrieking Shack’s supposed to be the most severely haunted building in Britain –’ ‘– and massive sherbert balls that make you levitate a few inches off the ground while you’re sucking them,’ said Ron, who was plainly not listening to a word Hermione was saying.

Harry gave a hollow laugh.

Mid-afternoon, just as it had started to rain, blurring the rolling hills outside the window, they heard footsteps in the corridor again, and their three least favourite people appeared at the door: Draco Malfoy, flanked by his cronies, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.

‘Potty and the Weasel.’

The rain thickened as the train sped yet further north; the windows were now a solid, shimmering grey, which gradually darkened until lanterns flickered into life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks.

Then, without warning, all the lamps went out and they were plunged into total darkness.

‘Quiet!’ said a hoarse voice suddenly.

There was a hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening, greyish, slimy-looking and scabbed, like something dead that had decayed in water …

Professor Lupin crumpled up the empty chocolate wrapper and put it in his pocket.

Ginny, who was huddled in her corner looking nearly as bad as Harry felt, gave a small sob; Hermione went over and put a comforting arm around her.

He felt weak and shivery, as though he was recovering from a bad bout of flu; he also felt the beginnings of shame.

Harry, Ron and Hermione followed the rest of the school out onto a rough mud track, where at least a hundred stagecoaches awaited the remaining students, each pulled, Harry could only assume, by an invisible horse, because when they climbed inside one and shut the door, the coach set off all by itself, bumping and swaying in procession.

As the carriage trundled towards a pair of magnificent wrought-iron gates, flanked with stone columns topped with winged boars, Harry saw two more towering, hooded Dementors, standing guard on either side.

A wave of cold sickness threatened to engulf him again; he leaned back into the lumpy seat and closed his eyes until they had passed through the gates.

The carriage picked up speed on the long, sloping drive up to the castle; Hermione was leaning out of the tiny window, watching the many turrets and towers draw nearer.

Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which took in the patches on his robes and the dilapidated suitcase.

Hermione prodded Ron in the back to make him hurry, and the three of them joined the crowd swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front doors, and into the cavernous Entrance Hall, which was lit with flaming torches and housed a magnificent marble staircase which led to the upper floors.

Hermione prodded Ron in the back to make him hurry, and the three of them joined the crowd swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front doors, and into the cavernous Entrance Hall, which was lit with flaming torches and housed a magnificent marble staircase which led to the upper floors.

Hermione prodded Ron in the back to make him hurry, and the three of them joined the crowd swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front doors, and into the cavernous Entrance Hall, which was lit with flaming torches and housed a magnificent marble staircase which led to the upper floors.

The door into the Great Hall stood open at the right; Harry followed the crowd towards it, but had barely glimpsed the enchanted ceiling, which was black and cloudy tonight, when a voice called, ‘Potter!

She was a stern-looking witch who wore her hair in a tight bun; her sharp eyes were framed with square spectacles.

Ron stared as Professor McGonagall ushered Harry and Hermione away from the chattering crowd; they accompanied her across the Entrance Hall, up the marble staircase and along a corridor.

Before Harry could reply, there was a soft knock on the door and Madam Pomfrey the matron, came bustling in.

Before Harry could reply, there was a soft knock on the door and Madam Pomfrey the matron, came bustling in.

Yes, he’s all clammy.

It was a sea of pointed black hats; each of the long house tables was lined with students, their faces glimmering by the light of thousands of candles, which were floating over the tables in midair.

He had several feet of long silver hair and beard, half-moon spectacles and an extremely crooked nose.

I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast …’

It was common knowledge that Snape wanted the Defence Against the Dark Arts job, but even Harry, who hated Snape, was startled at the expression twisting his thin, sallow face.

It was beyond anger: it was loathing.

‘As to our second new appointment,’ Dumbledore continued, as the lukewarm applause for Professor Lupin died away, ‘well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs.

Then they joined in with the applause, which was tumultuous at the Gryffindor table in particular.

Harry, suddenly ravenous, helped himself to everything he could reach and began to eat.

At long last, when the last morsels of pumpkin tart had melted from the golden platters, Dumbledore gave the word that it was time for them all to go to bed, and they got their chance.

As they passed, Malfoy did a ridiculous impression of a swooning fit and there was a roar of laughter.

‘Nearly wet himself,’ said Fred, with a contemptuous glance at Malfoy.

A fat, dapple-grey pony had just ambled onto the grass and was grazing nonchalantly.

A fat, dapple-grey pony had just ambled onto the grass and was grazing nonchalantly.

A moment later, a short, squat knight in a suit of armour had clanked into the picture after his pony.

Come to scorn at my fall, perchance?

Draw, you knaves, you dogs!’

They watched in astonishment as the little knight tugged his sword out of its scabbard and began brandishing it violently, hopping up and down in rage.

They watched in astonishment as the little knight tugged his sword out of its scabbard and began brandishing it violently, hopping up and down in rage.

‘Get back, you scurvy braggart!

‘Get back, you scurvy braggart!

Back, you rogue!’

‘A quest!’

He clanked to his feet and shouted, ‘Come follow me, dear friends, and we shall find our goal, or else shall perish bravely in the charge!’

‘Be of stout heart, the worst is yet to come!’ yelled the knight, and they saw him reappear in front of an alarmed group of women in crinolines, whose picture hung on the wall of a narrow, spiral staircase.

‘Farewell!’ cried the knight, popping his head into a painting of some sinister-looking monks.

‘Farewell, my comrades-in-arms!

If ever you have need of noble heart and steely sinew, call upon Sir Cadogan!’

There were no doors off this landing; Ron nudged Harry and pointed at the ceiling where there was a circular trap door with a brass plaque on it.

There were no doors off this landing; Ron nudged Harry and pointed at the ceiling where there was a circular trap door with a brass plaque on it.

Everything was lit with a dim, crimson light; the curtains at the windows were all closed, and the many lamps were draped with dark red scarves.

It was stiflingly warm, and the fire which was burning under the crowded mantelpiece was giving off a heavy, sickly sort of perfume as it heated a large, copper kettle.

The shelves running around the circular walls were crammed with dusty-looking feathers, stubs of candles, many packs of tattered playing cards, countless silvery crystal balls and a huge array of teacups.

Professor Trelawney moved into the firelight, and they saw that she was very thin; her large glasses magnified her eyes to several times their natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy spangled shawl.

I find that descending too often into the hustle and bustle of the main school clouds my Inner Eye.’

‘Many witches and wizards, talented though they are in the area of loud bangs and smells and sudden disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled mysteries of the future,’ Professor Trelawney went on, her enormous, gleaming eyes moving from face to nervous face.

Professor Trelawney continued placidly, ‘We will be covering the basic methods of Divination this year.

Unfortunately, classes will be disrupted in February by a nasty bout of flu.

Incidentally, that thing you are dreading – it will happen on Friday the sixteenth of October.’

Then sit down and drink; drink until only the dregs remain.

When Harry and Ron had had their teacups filled, they went back to their table and tried to drink the scalding tea quickly.

‘Broaden your minds, my dears, and allow your eyes to see past the mundane!’

‘You need your Inner Eye testing, if you ask me,’ said Ron, and they both had to stifle their laughs as Professor Trelawney gazed in their direction.

Professor Trelawney whirled around as Harry let out a snort of laughter.

Everyone was staring, transfixed, at Professor Trelawney, who gave the cup a final turn, gasped, and then screamed.

‘My dear,’ Professor Trelawney’s huge eyes opened dramatically, ‘you have the Grim.’

Harry’s stomach lurched.

‘You’ll forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I perceive very little aura around you.

‘You’ll forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I perceive very little aura around you.

Seamus Finnigan was tilting his head from side to side.

Malfoy was talking animatedly to Crabbe and Goyle, who were chortling.

He stood in his moleskin overcoat, with Fang the boarhound at his heels, looking impatient to start.

‘Hasn’ – hasn’ anyone bin able ter open their books?’ said Hagrid, looking crestfallen.

‘Really witty, giving us books that try and rip our hands off!’

Hagrid was looking downcast and Harry wanted Hagrid’s first lesson to be a success.

‘That oaf teaching classes, my father’ll have a fit when I tell him –’

The talons on their front legs were half a foot long and deadly-looking.

Everyone drew back slightly as Hagrid reached them and tethered the creatures to the fence.

‘Beau’iful, aren’ they?’

‘Well done, Harry!’ said Hagrid, ecstatic.

Harry put his foot on the top of Buckbeak’s wing and hoisted himself onto his back.

He had bowed to Malfoy, who was now patting his beak, looking disdainful.

It happened in a flash of steely talons; Malfoy let out a high-pitched scream and next moment, Hagrid was wrestling Buckbeak back into his collar as he strained to get at Malfoy, who lay curled in the grass, blood blossoming over his robes.

As they passed, Harry saw that there was a long, deep gash in Malfoy’s arm; blood splattered the grass and Hagrid ran with him, up the slope towards the castle.

As they passed, Harry saw that there was a long, deep gash in Malfoy’s arm; blood splattered the grass and Hagrid ran with him, up the slope towards the castle.

The grass was still wet and looked almost black in the twilight.

‘Madam Pomfrey fixed him best she could,’ said Hagrid dully, ‘but he’s sayin’ it’s still agony … covered in bandages … moanin’ …’

He swaggered into the dungeon, his right arm covered in bandages and bound up in a sling, acting, in Harry’s opinion, as though he was the heroic survivor of some dreadful battle.

He swaggered into the dungeon, his right arm covered in bandages and bound up in a sling, acting, in Harry’s opinion, as though he was the heroic survivor of some dreadful battle.

‘How is it, Draco?’ simpered Pansy Parkinson.

‘Professor,’ drawled Malfoy, ‘Weasley’s mutilating my roots, sir.’

‘And, sir, I’ll need this Shrivelfig skinned,’ said Malfoy, his voice full of malicious laughter.

‘I’m afraid he won’t be a teacher much longer,’ said Malfoy, in a tone of mock sorrow.

Didn’t you hear me say, quite clearly, that only one rat spleen was needed?

This potion needs to stew before it can be drunk; clear away while it simmers and then we’ll test Longbottom’s …’

Harry muttered to Ron, as he stuck his hands under the icy jet that poured from a gargoyle’s mouth.

The end of the lesson in sight, Snape strode over to Neville, who was cowering by his cauldron.

Harry was still thinking about what Malfoy had said, while Ron was seething about Snape.

A seam had split on Hermione’s bag.

Peeves didn’t look up until Professor Lupin was two feet away, then he wiggled his curly-toed feet and broke into song.

‘Mr Filch won’t be able to get in to his brooms.’

‘Precisely,’ said Professor Lupin, and Hermione put her hand down looking a little disappointed.

Which should he become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug?

‘The charm that repels a Boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind.

The wardrobe shook again, though not as much as Neville, who walked forward as though he was heading for the gallows.

A rotting, glistening hand, slithering back beneath a black cloak … a long, rattling breath from an unseen mouth … then a cold so penetrating it felt like drowning …

Snape stumbled; he was wearing a long, lace-trimmed dress and a towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, and swinging a huge crimson handbag from his hand.

A bandage unravelled at the mummy’s feet; it became entangled, fell face forwards and its head rolled off.

Where the mummy had been was a woman with floor-length black hair and a skeletal, green-tinged face – a banshee.

The banshee turned into a rat, which chased its tail in a circle, then – crack! – became a rattlesnake, which slithered and writhed before – crack! – becoming a single, bloody eyeball.

But no one else cared that Professor Lupin’s robes were patched and frayed.

After Boggarts, they studied Red Caps, nasty little goblin-like creatures that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed, in the dungeons of castles and the potholes of deserted battlefields, waiting to bludgeon those who had got lost.

After Boggarts, they studied Red Caps, nasty little goblin-like creatures that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed, in the dungeons of castles and the potholes of deserted battlefields, waiting to bludgeon those who had got lost.

Snape was in a particularly vindictive mood these days, and no one was in any doubt why.

His eyes flashed menacingly at the very mention of Professor Lupin’s name, and he was bullying Neville worse than ever.

Harry was also growing to dread the hours he spent in Professor Trelawney’s stifling tower room, deciphering lop-sided shapes and symbols, trying to ignore the way Professor Trelawney’s enormous eyes filled with tears every time she looked at him.

Oliver Wood was a burly seventeen-year-old, now in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts.

‘But we also know we’ve got the best – ruddy – team – in – the – school,’ he said, punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic glint back in his eye.

The weather was getting colder and wetter, the nights darker, but no amount of mud, wind or rain could tarnish Harry’s wonderful vision of finally winning the huge, silver Quidditch cup.

Harry threw himself into a chair beside Ron, his high spirits ebbing away.

Crookshanks was still staring unblinkingly at Ron, flicking the end of his bushy tail.

Then, without warning, he pounced.

Ron yelled, as Crookshanks freed himself from the remnants of the bag, sprang over the table and chased after the terrified Scabbers.

George Weasley made a lunge for Crookshanks but missed; Scabbers streaked through twenty pairs of legs and shot beneath an old chest of drawers.

Crookshanks skidded to a halt, crouched low on his bandy legs and started making furious swipes beneath the chest of drawers with his front paw.

‘Careful, Weasley, careful!’ cried Professor Sprout, as the beans burst into bloom before their very eyes.

‘I mean, Binky didn’t even die today, did he, Lavender just got the news today –’ Lavender wailed loudly ‘– and she can’t have been dreading it, because it’s come as a real shock –’

He and Hermione had finally forgotten their squabble about Crookshanks in the face of Harry’s disappointment.

Strong, but very brittle.’

He didn’t want Lupin to think he was a coward, especially since Lupin already seemed to think he couldn’t cope with a Boggart.

‘Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me,’ he said.

He picked up the goblet and sniffed it.