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stick squad 3 如何隐藏目标
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游戏名：生死狙击3
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生死狙击3游戏介绍
生死狙击3（Stick Squad 3）狙击手系列第三季——生死狙击。纵横战场，成就射 击暗杀英雄！游戏中有20个新的主要任务和60的目标，在一个全新的位置。新的坏屁股枪（手枪，突击步枪，当然还有狙击步枪），射击场和升级一如既往。一些新的任务将考验你的狙击技能，你需要校准你的枪，以弥补风和距离。准备好一个动感十足的棒射手的续集！
生死狙击3游戏图册
．安软市场[引用日期]听读懂:哈利波特与阿兹卡班囚徒3-4
知音英语学馆请您用大屏电脑读，用大音箱听，轻松英语名作欣赏，
也可用平板或手机WIFI上网听读，随时随地学，移动学习方便快乐。
&听仿懂:&&
Book3. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of
哈利波特与阿兹卡班的囚徒 英文版有声书 (by Stephen
朗读的英版书，速稍慢，发音清晰，很适合小朋友们听。很多哈迷在哈利波特整个系列中都最喜欢第三部，那个传说中臭名昭著的囚徒“小天狼星布莱克”成为很多人最爱的角色。每次看到这一本的将近结尾：“我，小天狼星布莱克，哈利波特的教父，特此同意他周末去霍格默德村。”我总会忍不住地掉眼泪，感动于布莱克的爱，感动于哈利彼时的幸福。
作者：J.K.
Rowling (平装)
现在有货。&由
上海外文书店
作者：J.K. Rowling, Olly Moss (Kindle电子书)
现在可以下载。&由
亚马逊(Kindle电子书) 提供。
作者：J.K. Rowling, Olly Moss
(Kindle电子书)
现在可以下载。&由
亚马逊(Kindle电子书) 提供。
作者：J.K. Rowling, Jim Dale (CD)
&由 亚马逊
听读懂:哈利波特与阿兹卡班的囚徒03-04
Knight Bus
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. But after ten minutes alone in
the dark street, a new emotion overtook him: panic. Whichever way
he looked at it, he had never been in a worse fix. He was stranded,
quite alone, in the dark Muggle world, with absolutely nowhere to
go. And the worst of it was, he had just done serious magic, which
meant that he was almost certainly expelled from Hogwarts. 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. Harry shivered and looked up and
down Magnolia Crescent. What was going to happen to him? Would he
be arrested, or would he simply be outlawed from the wizarding
world? He thought of Ron and Hermione, and his heart sank even
lower. Harry was sure that, criminal or not, Ron and Hermione would
want to help him now, but they were both abroad, and with Hedwig
gone, he had no means of contacting them. He didn’t have any Muggle
money, either. There was a little wizard gold in the money bag at
the bottom of his trunk, but the rest of the fortune his parents
had left him was stored in a vault at Gringotts Wizarding Bank in
London. He’d never be able to drag his trunk all the way to London.
Unless … He looked down at his wand, which he was still clutching
in his hand. If he was already expelled (his heart was now thumping
painfully fast), a bit more magic couldn’t hurt. 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? Then
he could get the rest of his money out of his vault and … begin his
life as an outcast. It was a horrible prospect, but he couldn’t sit
on this wall forever, or he’d find himself trying to explain to
Muggle police why he was out in the dead of night with a trunkful
of spellbooks and a broomstick. 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. A funny prickling on the back of his neck had made
Harry feel he was being watched, but the street appeared to be
deserted, and no lights shone from any of the large square houses.
He bent over his trunk again, but almost immediately stood up once
more, his hand clenched on his wand. He had sensed rather than
heard it: someone or something was standing in the narrow gap
between the garage and the fence behind him. Harry squinted at the
black alleyway. If only it would move, then he’d know whether it
was just a stray cat or — something else. “Lumos,” Harry muttered,
and a light appeared at the end of his wand, almost dazzling him.
He held it high over his head, and the pebble-dashed walls of
number t the garage door gleamed, and between
them Harry saw, quite distinctly, the hulking outline of something
very big, with wide, gleaming eyes. Harry stepped backward. His
legs hit his trunk and he tripped. His wand flew out of his hand as
he flung out an arm to break his fall, and he landed, hard, in the
gutter — There was a deafening BANG, and Harry threw up his hands
to shield his eyes against a sudden blinding light — With a yell,
he rolled back onto the pavement, just in time. A second later, a
gigantic pair of wheels and headlights screeched to a halt exactly
where Harry had just been lying. They belonged, as Harry saw when
he raised his head, to a triple-decker, violently purple bus, which
had appeared out of thin air. Gold lettering over the windshield
spelled The Knight Bus. For a split second, Harry wondered if he
had been knocked silly by his fall. Then a conductor in a purple
uniform leapt out of the bus and began to speak loudly to the
night. “Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the
stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on
board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan
Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve —” The conductor
stopped abruptly. He had just caught sight of Harry, who was still
sitting on the ground. Harry snatched up his wand again and
scrambled to his feet. Close up, he saw that Stan Shunpike was only
a few years older than he was, eighteen or nineteen at most, with
large, protruding ears and quite a few pimples. “What were you
doin’ down there?” said Stan, dropping his professional manner.
“Fell over,” said Harry. “ ’Choo fall over for?” sniggered Stan. “I
didn’t do it on purpose,” said Harry, annoyed. One of the knees in
his jeans was torn, and the hand he had thrown out to break his
fall was bleeding. He suddenly remembered why he had fallen over
and turned around quickly to stare at the alleyway between the
garage and fence. The Knight Bus’s headlamps were flooding it with
light, and it was empty. “ ’Choo lookin’ at?” said Stan. “There was
a big black thing,” said Harry, pointing uncertainly into the gap.
“Like a dog … but massive …” He looked around at Stan, whose mouth
was slightly open. With a feeling of unease, Harry saw Stan’s eyes
move to the scar on Harry’s forehead. “Woss that on your ’ead?”
said Stan abruptly. “Nothing,” said Harry quickly, flattening his
hair over his scar. If the Ministry of Magic was looking for him,
he didn’t want to make it too easy for them. “Woss your name?” Stan
persisted. “Neville Longbottom,” said Harry, saying the first name
that came into his head. “So — so this bus,” he went on quickly,
hoping to distract Stan, “did you say it goes anywhere?” “Yep,”
said Stan proudly, “anywhere you like, long’s it’s on land. Can’t
do nuffink underwater. ’Ere,” he said, looking suspicious again,
“you did flag us down, dincha? Stuck out your wand ’and, dincha?”
“Yes,” said Harry quickly. “Listen, how much would it be to get to
London?” “Eleven Sickles,” said Stan, “but for firteen you get ’ot
chocolate, and for fifteen you get an ’ot water bottle an’ a
toofbrush in the color of your choice.” Harry rummaged once more in
his trunk, extracted his money bag, and shoved some gold into
Stan’s hand. He and Stan then lifted his trunk, with Hedwig’s cage
balanced on top, up the steps of the bus. T
instead, half a dozen brass bedsteads stood beside the curtained
windows. Candles were burning in brackets beside each bed,
illuminating the wood-paneled walls. A tiny wizard in a nightcap at
the rear of the bus muttered, “Not now, thanks, I’m pickling some
slugs” and rolled over in his sleep. “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. “This is our driver, Ernie Prang. This is Neville
Longbottom, Ern.” Ernie Prang, an elderly wizard wearing very thick
glasses, nodded to Harry, who nervously flattened his bangs again
and sat down on his bed. “Take ’er away, Ern,” said Stan, sitting
down in the armchair next to Ernie’s. There was another tremendous
BANG, and the next moment Harry found himself flat on his bed,
thrown backward by the speed of the Knight Bus. Pulling himself up,
Harry stared out of the dark window and saw that they were now
bowling along a completely different street. Stan was watching
Harry’s stunned face with great enjoyment. “This is where we was
before you flagged us down,” he said. “Where are we, Ern? Somewhere
in Wales?” “Ar,” said Ernie. “How come the Muggles don’t hear the
bus?” said Harry. “Them!” said Stan contemptuously. “Don’ listen
properly, do they? Don’ look properly either. Never notice nuffink,
they don’.” “Best go wake up Madam Marsh, Stan,” said Ern. “We’ll
be in Abergavenny in a minute.” Stan passed Harry’s bed and
disappeared up a narrow wooden staircase. Harry was still looking
out of the window, feeling increasingly nervous. Ernie didn’t seem
to have mastered the use of a steering wheel. The Knight Bus kept
mounting the pavement, but it didn’ lines of
lampposts, mailboxes, and trash cans jumped out of its way as it
approached and back into position once it had passed. Stan came
back downstairs, followed by a faintly green witch wrapped in a
traveling cloak. “ ’Ere you go, Madam Marsh,” said Stan happily as
Ern stamped on the brake and the beds slid a foot or so toward the
front of the bus. Madam Marsh clamped a handkerchief to her mouth
and tottered down the steps. Stan threw her bag out after her and
r there was another loud BANG, and they were
thundering down a narrow country lane, trees leaping out of the
way. Harry wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he had been
traveling on a bus that didn’t keep banging loudly and jumping a
hundred miles at a time. His stomach churned as he fell back to
wondering what was going to happen to him, and whether the Dursleys
had managed to get Aunt Marge off the ceiling yet. Stan had
unfurled a copy of the Daily Prophet and was now reading with his
tongue between his teeth. A large photograph of a sunken-faced man
with long, matted hair blinked slowly at Harry from the front page.
He looked strangely familiar. “That man!” Harry said, forgetting
his troubles for a moment. “He was on the Muggle news!” Stanley
turned to the front page and chuckled. “Sirius Black,” he said,
nodding. “ ’Course ’e was on the Muggle news, Neville, where you
been?” He gave a superior sort of chuckle at the blank look on
Harry’s face, removed the front page, and handed it to Harry. “You
oughta read the papers more, Neville.” Harry held the paper up to
the candlelight and read: Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous
prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding
capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today. “We are doing all
we can to recapture Black,” said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius
Fudge, this morning, “and we beg the magical community to remain
calm.” Fudge has been criticized by some members of the
International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime
Minister of the crisis. “Well, really, I had to, don’t you know,”
said an irritable Fudge. “Black is mad. He’s a danger to anyone who
crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister’s assurance
that he will not breathe a word of Black’s true identity to anyone.
And let’s face it — who’d believe him if he did?” While Muggles
have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand
that Muggles use to kill each other), the magical community lives
in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black
murdered thirteen people with a single curse. Harry looked into the
shadowed eyes of Sirius Black, the only part of the sunken face
that seemed alive. Harry had never met a vampire, but he had seen
pictures of them in his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, and
Black, with his waxy white skin, looked just like one.
“Scary-lookin’ fing, inee?” said Stan, who had been watching Harry
read. “He murdered thirteen people?” said Harry, handing the page
back to Stan, “with one curse?” “Yep,” said Stan, “in front of
witnesses an’ all. Broad daylight. Big trouble it caused, dinnit,
Ern?” “Ar,” said Ern darkly. Stan swiveled in his armchair, his
hands on the back, the better to look at Harry. “Black woz a big
supporter of You-Know-’Oo,” he said. “What, Voldemort?” said Harry,
without thinking. Even Stan’ Ern jerked the
steering wheel so hard that a whole farmhouse had to jump aside to
avoid the bus. “You outta your tree?” yelped Stan. “ ’Choo say ’is
name for?” “Sorry,” said Harry hastily. “Sorry, I — I forgot —”
“Forgot!” said Stan weakly. “Blimey, my ’eart’s goin’ that fast …”
“So — so Black was a supporter of You-Know-Who?” Harry prompted
apologetically. “Yeah,” said Stan, still rubbing his chest. “Yeah,
that’s right. Very close to You-Know-’Oo, they say. Anyway, when
little ’Arry Potter got the better of You-Know-’Oo —” Harry
nervously flattened his bangs down again. “— all You-Know-’Oo’s
supporters was tracked down, wasn’t they, Ern? Most of ’em knew it
was all over, wiv You-Know-’Oo gone, and they came quiet. But not
Sirius Black. I ’eard he thought ’e’d be second-in-command once
You-Know-’Oo ’ad taken over. “Anyway, they cornered Black in the
middle of a street full of Muggles an’ Black took out ’is wand and
’e blasted ’alf the street apart, an’ a wizard got it, an’ so did a
dozen Muggles what got in the way. ’Orrible, eh? An’ you know what
Black did then?” Stan continued in a dramatic whisper. “What?” said
Harry. “Laughed,” said Stan. “Jus’ stood there an’ laughed. An’
when reinforcements from the Ministry of Magic got there, ’e went
wiv ’em quiet as anyfink, still laughing ’is ’ead off. ’Cos ’e’s
mad, inee, Ern? Inee mad?” “If he weren’t when he went to Azkaban,
he will be now,” said Ern in his slow voice. “I’d blow meself up
before I set foot in that place. Serves him right, mind you … after
what he did. …” “They ’ad a job coverin’ it up, din’ they, Ern?”
Stan said. “ ’Ole street blown up an’ all them Muggles dead. What
was it they said ’ad ’appened, Ern?” “Gas explosion,” grunted
Ernie. “An’ now ’e’s out,”
said Stan, examining the newspaper picture of Black’s gaunt face
again. “Never been a breakout from Azkaban before, ’as there, Ern?
Beats me ’ow ’e did it. Frightenin’, eh? Mind, I don’t fancy ’is
chances against them Azkaban guards, eh, Ern?” Ernie suddenly
shivered. “Talk about summat else, Stan, there’s a good lad. Them
Azkaban guards give me the collywobbles.” Stan put the paper away
reluctantly, and Harry leaned against the window of the Knight Bus,
feeling worse than ever. He couldn’t help imagining what Stan might
be telling his passengers in a few nights’ time. “ ’Ear about that
’Arry Potter? Blew up ’is aunt! We ’ad ’im ’ere on the Knight Bus,
di’n’t we, Ern? ’E was tryin’ to run for it. …” He, Harry, had
broken wizard law just like Sirius Black. Was inflating Aunt Marge
bad enough to land him in Azkaban? Harry didn’t know anything about
the wizard prison, though everyone he’d ever heard speak of it did
so in the same fearful tone. Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had
spent two months there only last year. Harry wouldn’t soon forget
the look of terror on Hagrid’s face when he had been told where he
was going, and Hagrid was one of the bravest people Harry knew. The
Knight Bus rolled through the darkness, scattering bushes and
wastebaskets, telephone booths and trees, and Harry lay, restless
and miserable, on his feather bed. After a while, Stan remembered
that Harry had paid for hot chocolate, but poured it all over
Harry’s pillow when the bus moved abruptly from Anglesey to
Aberdeen. One by one, wizards and witches in dressing gowns and
slippers descended from the upper floors to leave the bus. They all
looked very pleased to go. Finally, Harry was the only passenger
left. “Right then, Neville,” said Stan, clapping his hands,
“whereabouts in London?” “Diagon Alley,” said Harry. “Righto,” said
Stan. “ ’Old tight, then …” BANG! They were thundering along
Charing Cross Road. Harry sat up and watched buildings and benches
squeezing themselves out of the Knight Bus’s way. The sky was
getting a little lighter. He would lie low for a couple of hours,
go to Gringotts the moment it opened, then set off — where, he
didn’t know. 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.
“Thanks,” Harry said to Ern. He jumped down the steps and helped
Stan lower his trunk and Hedwig’s cage onto the pavement. “Well,”
said Harry. “ ’Bye then!” But Stan wasn’t paying attention. Still
standing in the doorway to the bus, he was goggling at the shadowy
entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. “There you are, Harry,” said a
voice. Before Harry could turn, he felt a hand on his shoulder. At
the same time, Stan shouted, “Blimey! Ern, come ’ere! Come ’ere!”
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 of Magic himself. Stan leapt
onto the pavement beside them. “What didja call Neville, Minister?”
he said excitedly. Fudge, a portly little man in a long, pinstriped
cloak, looked cold and exhausted. “Neville?” he repeated, frowning.
“This is Harry Potter.” “I knew it!” Stan shouted gleefully. “Ern!
Ern! Guess ’oo Neville is, Ern! ’E’s ’Arry Potter! I can see ’is
scar!” “Yes,” said Fudge testily, “well, I’m very glad the Knight
Bus picked Harry up, but he and I need to step inside the Leaky
Cauldron now …” Fudge increased the pressure on Harry’s shoulder,
and Harry found himself being steered inside the pub. A stooping
figure bearing a lantern appeared through the door behind the bar.
It was Tom, the wizened, toothless landlord. “You’ve got him,
Minister!” said Tom. “Will you be wanting anything? Beer? Brandy?”
“Perhaps a pot of tea,” said Fudge, who still hadn’t let go of
Harry. There was a loud scraping and puffing from behind them, and
Stan and Ern appeared, carrying Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage and
looking around excitedly. “ ’Ow come you di’n’t tell us ’oo you
are, eh, Neville?” said Stan, beaming at Harry, while Ernie’s
owlish face peered interestedly over Stan’s shoulder. “And a
private parlor, please, Tom,” said Fudge pointedly. “ ’Bye,” Harry
said miserably to Stan and Ern as Tom beckoned Fudge toward the
passage that led from the bar. “ ’Bye, Neville!” called Stan. Fudge
marched Harry along the narrow passage after Tom’s lantern, and
then into a small parlor. Tom clicked his fingers, a fire burst
into life in the grate, and he bowed himself out of the room. “Sit
down, Harry,” said Fudge, indicating a chair by the
sat down, feeling goose bumps rising up his arms despite the glow
of the fire. Fudge took off his pinstriped cloak and tossed it
aside, then hitched up the trousers of his bottle-green suit and
sat down opposite Harry. “I am Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister
of Magic.” Harry already knew this, he had seen Fudge
once before, but as he had been wearing his father’s Invisibility
Cloak at the time, Fudge wasn’t to know that. Tom the innkeeper
reappeared, wearing an apron over his nightshirt and bearing a tray
of tea and crumpets. He placed the tray on a table between Fudge
and Harry and left the parlor, closing the door behind him. “Well,
Harry,” said Fudge, pouring out tea, “you’ve had us all in a right
flap, I don’t mind telling you. Running away from your aunt and
uncle’s house like that! I’d started to think … but you’re safe,
and that’s what matters.” Fudge buttered himself a crumpet and
pushed the plate toward Harry. “Eat, Harry, you look dead on your
feet. Now then … You will be pleased to hear that we have dealt
with the unfortunate blowing-up of Miss Marjorie Dursley. Two
members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad were dispatched to
Privet Drive a few hours ago. Miss Dursley has been punctured and
her memory has been modified. She has no recollection of the
incident at all. So that’s that, and no harm done.” Fudge smiled at
Harry over the rim of his teacup, rather like an uncle surveying a
favorite nephew. Harry, who couldn’t believe his ears, opened his
mouth to speak, couldn’t think of anything to say, and closed it
again. “Ah, you’re worrying about the reaction of your aunt and
uncle?” said Fudge. “Well, I won’t deny that they are extremely
angry, Harry, but they are prepared to take you back next summer as
long as you stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter
holidays.” Harry unstuck his throat. “I always stay at Hogwarts for
the Christmas and Easter holidays,” he said, “and I don’t ever want
to go back to Privet Drive.” “Now, now, I’m sure you’ll feel
differently once you’ve calmed down,” said Fudge in a worried tone.
“They are your family, after all, and I’m sure you are fond of each
other — er — very deep down.” It didn’t occur to Harry to put Fudge
right. He was still waiting to hear what was going to happen to him
now. “So all that remains,” said Fudge, now buttering himself a
second crumpet, “is to decide where you’re going to spend the last
three weeks of your vacation. I suggest you take a room here at the
Leaky Cauldron and —” “Hang on,” blurted Harry. “What about my
punishment?” Fudge blinked. “Punishment?” “I broke the law!” Harry
said. “The Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry!” “Oh,
my dear boy, we’re not going to punish you for a little thing like
that!” cried Fudge, waving his crumpet impatiently. “It was an
accident! We don’t send people to Azkaban just for blowing up their
aunts!” But this didn’t tally at all with Harry’s past dealings
with the Ministry of Magic. “Last year, I got an official warning
just because a house-elf smashed a pudding in my uncle’s house!” he
told Fudge, frowning. “The Ministry of Magic said I’d be expelled
from Hogwarts if there was any more magic there!” Unless Harry’s
eyes were deceiving him, Fudge was suddenly looking awkward.
“Circumstances change, Harry. … We have to take into account … in
the present climate … Surely you don’t want to be expelled?” “Of
course I don’t,” said Harry. “Well then, what’s all the fuss
about?” laughed Fudge. “Now, have a crumpet, Harry, while I go and
see if Tom’s got a room for you.” Fudge strode out of the parlor
and Harry stared after him. There was something extremely odd going
on. Why had Fudge been waiting for him at the Leaky Cauldron, if
not to punish him for what he’d done? And now Harry came to think
of it, surely it wasn’t usual for the Minister of Magic himself to
get involved in matters of underage magic? Fudge came back,
accompanied by Tom the innkeeper. “Room eleven’s free, Harry,” said
Fudge. “I think you’ll be very comfortable. Just one thing, and I’m
sure you’ll understand … I don’t want you wandering off into Muggle
London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley. And you’re to be back here
before dark each night. Sure you’ll understand. Tom will be keeping
an eye on you for me.” “Okay,” said Harry slowly, “but why — ?”
“Don’t want to lose you again, do we?” said Fudge with a hearty
laugh. “No, no … best we know where you are. … I mean …” Fudge
cleared his throat loudly and picked up his pinstriped cloak.
“Well, I’ll be off, plenty to do, you know. …” “Have you had any
luck with Black yet?” Harry asked. Fudge’s finger slipped on the
silver fastenings of his cloak. “What’s that? Oh, you’ve heard —
well, no, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The Azkaban
guards have never yet failed … and they are angrier than I’ve ever
seen them.” Fudge shuddered slightly. “So, I’ll say good-bye.” He
held out his hand and Harry, shaking it, had a sudden idea. “Er —
Minister? Can I ask you something?” “Certainly,” said Fudge with a
smile. “Well, third years at Hogwarts are allowed to visit
Hogsmeade, but my aunt and uncle didn’t sign the permission form.
D’you think you could — ?” Fudge was looking uncomfortable. “Ah,”
he said. “No, no, I’m very sorry, Harry, but as I’m not your parent
or guardian —” “But you’re the Minister of Magic,” said Harry
eagerly. “If you gave me
permission —” “No, I’m sorry, Harry, but rules are rules,” said
Fudge flatly. “Perhaps you’ll be able to visit Hogsmeade next year.
In fact, I think it’s best if you don’t … yes … well, I’ll be off.
Enjoy your stay, Harry.” And with a last smile and shake of Harry’s
hand, Fudge left the room. Tom now moved forward, beaming at Harry.
“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Potter,” he said, “I’ve already taken
your things up. …” Harry followed Tom up a handsome wooden
staircase to a door with a brass number eleven on it, which Tom
unlocked and opened for him. Inside was a very comfortable-looking
bed, some highly polished oak furniture, a cheerfully crackling
fire and, perched on top of the wardrobe — “Hedwig!” Harry gasped.
The snowy owl clicked her beak and fluttered down onto Harry’s arm.
“Very smart owl you’ve got there,” chuckled Tom. “Arrived about
five minutes after you did. If there’s anything you need, Mr.
Potter, don’t hesitate to ask.” He gave another bow and left. Harry
sat on his bed for a long time, absentmindedly stroking Hedwig. The
sky outside the window was changing rapidly from deep, velvety blue
to cold, steely gray and then, slowly, to pink shot with gold.
Harry could hardly believe that he’d left Privet Drive only a few
hours ago, that he wasn’t expelled, and that he was now facing
three Dursley-free weeks. “It’s been a very weird night, Hedwig,”
he yawned. And without even removing his glasses, he slumped back
onto his pillows and fell asleep.
Leaky Cauldron
took Harry several days to get used to his strange new freedom.
Never before had he been able to get up whenever he wanted or eat
whatever he fancied. He could even go wherever he pleased, as long
as it was in Diagon Alley, and as this long cobbled street was
packed with the most fascinating wizarding shops in the world,
Harry felt no desire to break his word to Fudge and stray back into
the Muggle world. 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’
venerable-looking wizards arguing over the latest article in
Transfiguration T wild- and
once, what looked suspiciously like a hag, who ordered a plate of
raw liver from behind a thick woollen balaclava. After breakfast
Harry would go out into the backyard, take out his wand, tap the
third brick from the left above the trash bin, and stand back as
the archway into Diagon Alley opened in the wall. Harry spent the
long sunny days exploring the shops and eating under the brightly
colored umbrellas outside cafes, where his fellow diners were
showing one another their purchases (“it’s a lunascope, old boy —
no more messing around with moon charts, see?”) or else discussing
the case of Sirius Black (“personally, I won’t let any of the
children out alone until he’s back in Azkaban”). Harry didn’t have
to do his homework under the blankets b now he
could sit in the bright sunshine outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice
Cream Parlor, finishing all his essays with occasional help from
Florean Fortescue himself, who, apart from knowing a great deal
about medieval witch burnings, gave Harry free sundaes every half
an hour. Once Harry had refilled his money bag with gold Galleons,
silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts from his vault at Gringotts, he
had to exercise a lot of self-control not to spend the whole lot at
once. He had to keep reminding himself that he had five years to go
at Hogwarts, and how it would feel to ask the Dursleys for money
for spellbooks, to stop himself from buying a handsome set of solid
gold Gobstones (a wizarding game rather like marbles, in which the
stones squirt a nasty-smelling liquid into the other player’s face
when they lose a point). He was sorely tempted, too, by the
perfect, moving model of the galaxy in a large glass ball, which
would have meant he never had to take another Astronomy lesson. But
the thing that tested Harry’s resolution most appeared in his
favorite shop, Quality Quidditch Supplies, a week after he’d
arrived at the Leaky Cauldron. Curious to know what the crowd in
the shop was staring at, Harry edged his way inside and squeezed in
among 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. “It’s the fastest
broom in the world, isn’t it, Dad?” squeaked a boy younger than
Harry, who was swinging off his father’s arm. “Irish International
Side’s just put in an order for seven of these beauties!” the
proprietor of the shop told the crowd. “And they’re favorites for
the World Cup!” A large witch in front of Harry moved, and he was
able to read the sign next to the broom: This state-of-the-art
racing broom sports a stream-lined, 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. The Firebolt
has an acceleration of 150 miles an hour in ten seconds and
incorporates an unbreakable Braking Charm. Price on request. Price
on request … Harry didn’t like to think how much gold the Firebolt
would cost. He had never wanted anything as much in his whole life
— but he had never lost a Quidditch match on his Nimbus Two
Thousand, and what was the point in emptying his Gringotts vault
for the Firebolt, when he had a very good broom already? Harry
didn’t ask for the price, but he returned, almost every day after
that, just to look at the Firebolt. There were, however, things
that Harry needed to buy. 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 schoolbooks, which would
include those for his two new subjects, Care of Magical Creatures
and Divination. Harry got a surprise as he looked in at the
bookshop window. Instead of the usual display of gold-embossed
spellbooks the size of paving slabs, there was a large iron cage
behind the glass that 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. Harry pulled his booklist out of
his pocket and consulted it for the first time. The Monster Book of
Monsters was listed as the required book for Care of Magical
Creatures. Now Harry understood why Hagrid had said it would come
in useful. H he had been wondering whether Hagrid
wanted help with some terrifying new pet. As Harry entered Flourish
and Blotts, the manager came hurrying toward him. “Hogwarts?” he
said abruptly. “Come to get your new books?” “Yes,” said Harry, “I
need —” “Get out of the way,” said the manager impatiently,
brushing Harry aside. He drew on a pair of very thick gloves,
picked up a large, knobbly walking stick, and proceeded toward the
door of the Monster Books’ cage. “Hang on,” said Harry quickly,
“I’ve already got one of those.” “Have you?” A look of enormous
relief spread over the manager’s face. “Thank heavens for that.
I’ve been bitten five times already this morning —” A loud ripping
two of the Monster Books had seized a third and
were pulling it apart. “Stop it! Stop it!” cried the manager,
poking the walking stick through the bars and knocking the books
apart. “I’m never stocking them again, never! It’s been bedlam! I
thought we’d seen the worst when we bought two hundred copies of
the Invisible Book of Invisibility — cost a fortune, and we never
found them. … Well … is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes,” said Harry, looking down his booklist, “I need Unfogging the
Future by Cassandra Vablatsky.” “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. “Here you are,” said the
manager, who had climbed a set of steps to take down a thick,
black-bound book. “Unfogging the Future. Very good guide to all
your basic fortune-telling methods — palmistry, crystal balls, bird
entrails —” But Harry wasn’t listening. His eyes had fallen on
another book, which was among a display on a small table: Death
Omens: What to Do When You Know the Worst Is Coming. “Oh, I
wouldn’t read that if I were you,” said the manager lightly,
looking to see what Harry was staring at. “You’ll start seeing
death omens everywhere. It’s enough to frighten anyone to death.”
But Harry continued to stare at the fro it
showed a black dog large as a bear, with gleaming eyes. It looked
oddly familiar. … The manager pressed Unfogging the Future into
Harry’s hands. “Anything else?” he said. “Yes,” said Harry, tearing
his eyes away from the dog’s and dazedly consulting his booklist.
“Er — I need Intermediate Transfiguration and The Standard Book of
Spells, Grade Three.” Harry
emerged from Flourish and Blotts ten minutes later with his new
books under his arms and made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron,
hardly noticing where he was going and bumping into several people.
He tramped up the stairs to his room, went inside, and tipped his
books onto his bed. Somebody the windows were
open and sun was pouring inside. Harry could hear the buses rolling
by in the unseen Muggle street behind him and the sound of the
invisible crowd below in Diagon Alley. He caught sight of himself
in the mirror over the basin. “It can’t have been a death omen,” he
told his reflection defiantly. “I was panicking when I saw that
thing in Magnolia Crescent. … It was probably just a stray dog. …”
He raised his hand automatically and tried to make his hair lie
flat. “You’re fighting a losing battle there, dear,” said his
mirror in a wheezy voice. As the days slipped by, Harry started
looking wherever he went for a sign of Ron or Hermione. Plenty of
Hogwarts students were arriving in Diagon Alley now, with the start
of term so near. Harry met Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, his
fellow Gryffindors, in Quality Quidditch Supplies, where they too
were ogling the F he also ran into the real Neville
Longbottom, a round-faced, forgetful boy, outside Flourish and
Blotts. Harry didn’ Neville appeared to have mislaid
his booklist and was being told off by his very formidable-looking
grandmother. Harry hoped she never found out that he’d pretended to
be Neville while on the run from the Ministry of Magic. Harry woke
on the last day of the holidays, thinking that he would at least
meet Ron and Hermione tomorrow, on the Hogwarts Express. He got up,
dressed, went for a last look at the Firebolt, and was just
wondering where he’d have lunch, when someone yelled his name and
he turned. “Harry! HARRY!” They were there, both of them, sitting
outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor — Ron looking
incredibly freckly Hermione very brown, both waving frantically at
him. “Finally!” said Ron, grinning at Harry as he sat down. “We
went to the Leaky Cauldron, but they said you’d left, and we went
to Flourish and Blotts, and Madam Malkin’s, and —” “I got all my
school stuff last week,” Harry explained. “And how come you knew
I’m staying at the Leaky Cauldron?” “Dad,” said Ron simply. Mr.
Weasley, who worked at the Ministry of Magic, would of course have
heard the whole story of what had happened to Aunt Marge. “Did you
really blow up your aunt, Harry?” said Hermione in a very
“I didn’t mean to,” said Harry while Ron roared with laughter. “I
just — lost control.” “It’s not funny, Ron,” said Hermione sharply.
“Honestly, I’m amazed Harry wasn’t expelled.” “So am I,” admitted
Harry. “Forget expelled, I thought I was going to be arrested.” He
looked at Ron. “Your dad doesn’t know why Fudge let me off, does
he?” “Probably ’cause it’s you, isn’t it?” shrugged Ron, still
chuckling. “Famous Harry Potter and all that. I’d hate to see what
the Ministry’d do to me if I blew up an aunt. Mind you, they’d have
to dig me up first, because Mum would’ve killed me. Anyway, you can
ask Dad yourself this evening. We’re staying at the Leaky Cauldron
tonight too! So you can come to King’s Cross with us tomorrow!
Hermione’s there as well!” Hermione nodded, beaming. “Mum and Dad
dropped me off this morning with all my Hogwarts things.”
“Excellent!” said Harry happily. “So, have you got all your new
books and stuff?” “Look at this,” said Ron, pulling a long thin box
out of a bag and opening it. “Brand-new wand. Fourteen inches,
willow, containing one unicorn tail-hair. And we’ve got all our
books —” He pointed at a large bag under his chair. “What about
those Monster Books, eh? The assistant nearly cried when we said we
wanted two.” “What’s all that, Hermione?” Harry asked, pointing at
not one but three bulging bags in the chair next to her. “Well, I’m
taking more new subjects than you, aren’t I?” said Hermione. “Those
are my books for Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination,
Study of Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies —” “What are you doing
Muggle Studies for?” said Ron, rolling his eyes at Harry. “You’re
Muggle-born! Your mum and dad are Muggles! You already know all
about Muggles!” “But it’ll be fascinating to study them from the
wizarding point of view,” said Hermione earnestly. “Are you
planning to eat or sleep at all this year, Hermione?” asked Harry,
while Ron sniggered. Hermione ignored them. “I’ve still got ten
Galleons,” she said, checking her purse. “It’s my birthday in
September, and Mum and Dad gave me some money to get myself an
early birthday present.” “How about a nice book?” said Ron
innocently. “No, I don’t think so,” said Hermione composedly. “I
really want an owl. I mean, Harry’s got Hedwig and you’ve got Errol
—” “I haven’t,” said Ron. “Errol’s a family owl. All I’ve got is
Scabbers.” He pulled his pet rat out of his pocket. “And I want to
get him checked over,” he added, placing Scabbers on the table in
front of them. “I don’t think Egypt agreed with him.” Scabbers was
looking thinner than usual, and there was a definite droop to his
whiskers. “There’s a magical creature shop just over there,” said
Harry, who knew Diagon Alley very well by now. “You could see if
they’ve got anything for Scabbers, and Hermione can get her owl.”
So they paid for their ice cream and crossed the street to the
Magical Menagerie. There wasn’t much room inside. Every inch of
wall was hidden by cages. It was smelly and very noisy because the
occupants of these cages were all squeaking, squawking, jabbering,
or hissing. The witch behind the counter was already advising a
wizard on the care of double-ended newts, so Harry, Ron, and
Hermione waited, examining the cages. A pair of enormous purple
toads sat gulping wetly and feasting on dead blowflies. A gigantic
tortoise with a jewel-encrusted shell was glittering near the
window. 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. Then there were
cats of every color, a noisy cage of ravens, a basket of funny
custard-colored furballs that were humming loudly, and on the
counter, a vast cage of sleek black rats that were playing some
sort of skipping game using their long, bald tails. The
double-ended newt wizard left, and Ron approached the counter.
“It’s my rat,” he told the witch. “He been a bit off-color ever
since I brought him back from Egypt.” “Bang him on the counter,”
said the witch, pulling a pair of heavy black spectacles out of her
pocket. 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. Like nearly
everything Ron owned, Scabbers the rat was secondhand (he had once
belonged to Ron’s brother Percy) and a bit battered. Next to the
glossy rats in the cage, he looked especially woebegone. “Hm,” said
the witch, picking up Scabbers. “How old is this rat?” “Dunno,”
said Ron. “Quite old. He used to belong to my brother.” “What
powers does he have?” said the witch, examining Scabbers closely.
“Er —” The truth was that Scabbers had never shown the faintest
trace of interesting powers. The witch’s eyes moved from Scabbers’s
tattered left ear to his front paw, which had a toe missing, and
tutted loudly. “He’s been through the mill, this one,” she said.
“He was like that when Percy gave him to me,” said Ron defensively.
“An ordinary common or garden rat like this can’t be expected to
live longer than three years or so,” said the witch. “Now, if you
were looking for something a bit more hard-wearing, you might like
one of these —” She indicated the black rats, who promptly started
skipping again. Ron muttered, “Show-offs.” “Well, if you don’t want
a replacement, you can try this rat tonic,” said the witch,
reaching under the counter and bringing out a small red bottle.
“Okay,” said Ron. “How much — OUCH!” 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.
“NO, CROOKSHANKS, NO!” cried the witch, but Scabbers shot from
between her hands like a bar of soap, landed splay-legged on the
floor, and then scampered for the door. “Scabbers!” Ron shouted,
racing out o Harry followed. It took them
nearly ten minutes to catch Scabbers, who had taken refuge under a
wastepaper bin outside Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ron stuffed the
trembling rat back into his pocket and straightened up, massaging
his head. “What was that?” “It was either a very big cat or quite a
small tiger,” said Harry. “Where’s Hermione?” “Probably getting her
owl —” They made their way back up the crowded street to the
Magical Menagerie. As they reached it, Hermione came out, but she
wasn’t carrying an owl. Her arms were clamped tightly around the
enormous ginger cat. “You bought that monster?” said Ron, his mouth
hanging open. “He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” said Hermione, glowing.
That was a matter of opinion, thought Harry. The cat’s ginger fur
was thick and fluffy, but it was definitely a bit bowlegged and its
face looked grumpy and oddly squashed, as though it had run
headlong into a brick wall. Now that Scabbers was out of sight,
however, the cat was purring contentedly in Hermione’s arms.
“Hermione, that thing nearly scalped me!” said Ron. “He didn’t mean
to, did you, Crookshanks?” said Hermione. “And what about
Scabbers?” said Ron, pointing at the lump in his chest pocket. “He
needs rest and relaxation! How’s he going to get it with that thing
around?” “That reminds me, you forgot your rat tonic,” said
Hermione, slapping the small red bottle into Ron’s hand. “And stop
worrying, Crookshanks will be sleeping in my dormitory and Scabbers
in yours, what’s the problem? Poor Crookshanks, that witch said
he’d be no one wanted him.” “I wonder why,”
said Ron sarcastically as they set off toward the Leaky Cauldron.
They found Mr. Weasley sitting in the bar, reading the Daily
Prophet. “Harry!” he said, smiling as he looked up. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” said Harry as he, Ron, and Hermione joined Mr.
Weasley with all their shopping. Mr. Weasley put down his paper,
and Harry saw the now familiar picture of Sirius Black staring up
at him. “They still haven’t caught him, then?” he asked. “No,” said
Mr. Weasley, looking extremely grave. “They’ve pulled us all off
our regular jobs at the Ministry to try and find him, but no luck
so far.” “Would we get a reward if we caught him?” asked Ron. “It’d
be good to get some more money —” “Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,” said
Mr. Weasley, who on closer inspection looked very strained.
“Black’s not going to be caught by a thirteen-year-old wizard. It’s
the Azkaban guards who’ll get him back, you mark my words.” At that
moment Mrs. Weasley entered the bar, laden with shopping bags and
followed by the twins, Fred and George, who were about to start
their fifth year at H the newly elected Head Boy, P
and the Weasleys’ youngest child and only girl, Ginny. Ginny, who
had always been very taken with Harry, seemed even more heartily
embarrassed than usual when she saw him, perhaps because he had
saved her life during their previous year at Hogwarts. She went
very red and muttered “hello” without looking at him. Percy,
however, held out his hand solemnly as though he and Harry had
never met and said, “Harry. How nice to see you.” “Hello, Percy,”
said Harry, trying not to laugh. “I hope you’re well?” said Percy
pompously, shaking hands. It was rather like being introduced to
the mayor. “Very well, thanks —”
“Harry!” said Fred, elbowing Percy out of the way and bowing
deeply. “Simply splendid to see you, old boy —” “Marvelous,” said
George, pushing Fred aside and seizing Harry’s hand in turn.
“Absolutely spiffing.” Percy scowled. “That’s enough, now,” said
Mrs. Weasley. “Mum!” said Fred as though he’d only just spotted her
and seizing her hand too. “How really corking to see you —” “I
said, that’s enough,” said Mrs. Weasley, depositing her shopping in
an empty chair. “Hello, Harry, dear. I suppose you’ve heard our
exciting news?” She pointed to the brand-new silver badge on
Percy’s chest. “Second Head Boy in the family!” she said, swelling
with pride. “And last,” Fred muttered under his breath. “I don’t
doubt that,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning suddenly. “I notice they
haven’t made you two prefects.” “What do we want to be prefects
for?” said George, looking revolted at the very idea. “It’d take
all the fun out of life.” Ginny giggled. “You want to set a better
example for your sister!” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “Ginny’s got other
brothers to set her an example, Mother,” said Percy loftily. “I’m
going up to change for dinner. …” He disappeared and George heaved
a sigh. “We tried to shut him in a pyramid,” he told Harry. “But
Mum spotted us.” Dinner that night was a very enjoyable affair. Tom
the innkeeper put three tables together in the parlor, and the
seven Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione ate their way through five
delicious courses. “How’re we getting to King’s Cross tomorrow,
Dad?” asked Fred as they dug into a sumptuous chocolate pudding.
“The Ministry’s providing a couple of cars,” said Mr. Weasley.
Everyone looked up at him. “Why?” said Percy curiously. “It’s
because of you, Perce,” said George seriously. “And there’ll be
little flags on the hoods, with HB on them —” “— for Humongous
Bighead,” said Fred. Everyone except Percy and Mrs. Weasley snorted
into their pudding. “Why are the Ministry providing cars, Father?”
Percy asked again, in a dignified voice. “Well, as we haven’t got
one anymore,” said Mr. Weasley, “— and as I work
there, they’re doing me a favor —” His voice was casual, but Harry
couldn’t help noticing that Mr. Weasley’s ears had gone red, just
like Ron’s did when he was under pressure. “Good thing, too,” said
Mrs. Weasley briskly. “Do you realize how much luggage you’ve all
got between you? A nice sight you’d be on the Muggle Underground. …
You are all packed, aren’t you?” “Ron hasn’t put all his new things
in his trunk yet,” said Percy, in a long-suffering voice. “He’s
dumped them on my bed.” “You’d better go and pack properly, Ron,
because we won’t have much time in the morning,” Mrs. Weasley
called down the table. Ron scowled at Percy. After dinner everyone
felt very full and sleepy. One by one they made their way upstairs
to their rooms to check their things for the next day. Ron and
Percy were next door to Harry. He had just closed and locked his
own trunk when he heard angry voices through the wall, and went to
see what was going on. The door of number twelve was ajar and Percy
was shouting. “It was here, on the bedside table, I took it off for
polishing —” “I haven’t touched it, all right?” Ron roared back.
“What’s up?” said Harry. “My Head Boy badge is gone,” said Percy,
rounding on Harry. “So’s Scabbers’s rat tonic,” said Ron, throwing
things out of his trunk to look. “I think I might’ve left it in the
bar —” “You’re not going anywhere till you’ve found my badge!”
yelled Percy. “I’ll get Scabbers’s stuff, I’m packed,” Harry said
to Ron, and he went downstairs. Harry was halfway along the passage
to the bar, which was now very dark, when he heard another pair of
angry voices coming from the parlor. A second later, he recognized
them as Mr. and Mrs. Weasleys’. He hesitated, not wanting them to
know he’d heard them arguing, when the sound of his own name made
him stop, then move closer to the parlor door. “… makes no sense
not to tell him,” Mr. Weasley was saying heatedly. “Harry’s got a
right to know. I’ve tried to tell Fudge, but he insists on treating
Harry like a child. He’s thirteen years old and —” “Arthur, the
truth would terrify him!” said Mrs. Weasley shrilly. “Do you really
want to send Harry back to school with that hanging over him? For
heaven’s sake, he’s happy not knowing!” “I don’t want to make him
miserable, I want to put him on his guard!” retorted Mr. Weasley.
“You know what Harry and Ron are like, wandering off by themselves
— they’ve even ended up in the Forbidden Forest! But Harry mustn’t
do that this year! When I think what could have happened to him
that night he ran away from home! If the Knight Bus hadn’t picked
him up, I’m prepared to bet he would have been dead before the
Ministry found him.” “But he’s not dead, he’s fine, so what’s the
point —” “Molly, they say Sirius Black’s mad, and maybe he is, but
he was clever enough to escape from Azkaban, and that’s supposed to
be impossible. It’s been a month, and no one’s seen hide nor hair
of him, and I don’t care what Fudge keeps telling the Daily
Prophet, we’re no nearer catching Black than inventing
self-spelling wands. The only thing we know for sure is what
Black’s after —” “But Harry will be perfectly safe at Hogwarts.”
“We thought Azkaban was perfectly safe. If Black can break out of
Azkaban, he can break into Hogwarts.” “But no one’s really sure
that Black’s after Harry —” There was a thud on wood, and Harry was
sure Mr. Weasley had banged his fist on the table. “Molly, how many
times do I have to tell you? They didn’t report it in the press
because Fudge wanted it kept quiet, but Fudge went out to Azkaban
the night Black escaped. The guards told Fudge that Black’s been
talking in his sleep for a while now. Always the same words: ‘He’s
at Hogwarts … he’s at Hogwarts.’ Black is deranged, Molly, and he
wants Harry dead. If you ask me, he thinks murdering Harry will
bring You-Know-Who back to power. Black lost everything the night
Harry stopped You-Know-Who, and he’s had twelve years alone in
Azkaban to brood on that. …” There was a silence. Harry leaned
still closer to the door, desperate to hear more. “Well, Arthur,
you must do what you think is right. But you’re forgetting Albus
Dumbledore. I don’t think anything could hurt Harry at Hogwarts
while Dumbledore’s headmaster. I suppose he knows about all this?”
“Of course he knows. We had to ask him if he minds the Azkaban
guards stationing themselves around the entrances to the school
grounds. He wasn’t happy about it, but he agreed.” “Not happy? Why
shouldn’t he be happy, if they’re there to catch Black?”
“Dumbledore isn’t fond of the Azkaban guards,” said Mr. Weasley
heavily. “Nor am I, if it comes to that … but when you’re dealing
with a wizard like Black, you sometimes have to join forces with
those you’d rather avoid.” “If they save Harry —” “— then I will
never say another word against them,” said Mr. Weasley wearily.
“It’s late, Molly, we’d better go up. …” Harry heard chairs move.
As quietly as he could, he hurried down the passage to the bar and
out of sight. The parlor door opened, and a few seconds later
footsteps told him that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were climbing the
stairs. The bottle of rat tonic was lying under the table they had
sat at earlier. Harry waited until he heard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s
bedroom door close, then headed back upstairs with the bottle. Fred
and George were crouching in the shadows on the landing, heaving
with laughter as they listened to Percy dismantling his and Ron’s
room in search of his badge. “We’ve got it,” Fred whispered to
Harry. “We’ve been improving it.” The badge now read Bighead Boy.
Harry forced a laugh, went to give Ron the rat tonic, then shut
himself in his room and lay down on his bed. So Sirius Black was
after him. This explained everything. Fudge had been lenient with
him because he was so relieved to find him alive. He’d made Harry
promise to stay in Diagon Alley where there were plenty of wizards
to keep an eye on him. And he was sending two Ministry cars to take
them all to the station tomorrow, so that the Weasleys could look
after Harry until he was on the train. Harry lay listening to the
muffled shouting next door and wondered why he didn’t feel more
scared. Sirius Black had murdered thirteen p
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley obviously thought Harry would be
panic-stricken if he knew the truth. But Harry happened to agree
wholeheartedly with Mrs. Weasley that the safest place on earth was
wherever Albus Dumbledore happened to be. Didn’t people always say
that Dumbledore was the only person Lord Voldemort had ever been
afraid of? Surely Black, as Voldemort’s right-hand man, would be
just as frightened of him? And then there were these Azkaban guards
everyone kept talking about. They seemed to scare most people
senseless, and if they were stationed all around the school,
Black’s chances of getting inside seemed very remote. No, all in
all, the thing that bothered Harry most was the fact that his
chances of visiting Hogsmeade now looked like zero. Nobody would
want Harry to leave the safety of the castle until Black was
in fact, Harry suspected his every move would be carefully
watched until the danger had passed. He scowled at the dark
ceiling. Did they think he couldn’t look after himself? He’d
escaped Lord V he wasn’t completely useless. …
Unbidden, the image of the beast in the shadows of Magnolia
Crescent crossed his mind. What to do when you know the worst is
coming. … “I’m not going to be murdered,” Harry said out loud.
“That’s the spirit, dear,” said his mirror
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