HARRY POTTER

AND THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN

BY J. K ROWLING

CHAPTER ONE

OWL POST

Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he

hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For another,

he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in secret,

in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard.

It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, the

blankets drawn right over his head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand

and a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot)

propped open against the pillow. 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."

The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph. Harry Pushed

his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer

to the book, and read:

Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly

afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it.

On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning

had no effect whatsoever. 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

burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than

fortyseven times in various disguises.

Harry put his quill between his teeth and reached underneath his pillow

for his ink bottle and a roll of parchment. Slowly and very carefully he

unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, and began to write,

pausing every now and then to listen, because if any of the Dursleys

heard the scratching of his quill on their way to the bathroom, he'd

probably find himself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for the

rest of the summer.

The Dursley family of number four, Privet Drive, was the reason that

Harry never enjoyed his summer holidays. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and

their son, Dudley, were Harry's only living relatives. They were

Muggles, and they had a very medieval attitude toward magic. Harry's

dead parents, who had been a witch and wizard themselves, were never

mentioned under the Dursleys' roof For years, Aunt Petunia and Uncle

Vernon had hoped that if they kept Harry as downtrodden as possible,

they would be able to squash the magic out of him. To their fury, they

had been unsuccessful. These days they 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 they could do, however, was to lock

away Harry's spellbooks, wand, cauldron, and broomstick at the start of

the summer break, and forbid him to talk to the neighbors.

This separation from his spellbooks had been a real problem for Harry,

because his teachers at Hogwarts had given him a lot of holiday work.

One of the essays, a particularly nasty one about shrinking potions, was

for Harry's least favorite teacher, Professor Snape, who would be

delighted to have an excuse to give Harry detention for a month. Harry

had therefore seized his chance in the first week of the holidays. While

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. As long as he didn't

leave spots of ink on the sheets, the Dursleys need never know that he

was studying magic by night.

Harry was particularly keen to avoid trouble with his aunt and uncle at

the moment, as they were already in an especially bad mood with him, all

because he'd received a telephone call from a fellow wizard one week

into the school vacation.

Ron Weasley, who was one of Harry's best friends at Hogwarts, came from

a whole family of wizards. This meant that he knew a lot of things Harry

didn't, but had never used a telephone before. Most unluckily, it had

been Uncle Vernon who had answered the call.

"Vernon Dursley speaking."

Harry, who happened to be in the room at the time, froze as he heard

Ron's voice answer.

"HELLO? HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I -- WANT -- TO -- TALK -- TO --

HARRY

-- POTTER!"

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.

"WHO IS THIS?" he roared in the direction of the mouthpiece. "WHO ARE

YOU?"

"RON -- WEASLEY!" Ron bellowed back, as though he and Uncle Vernon were

speaking from opposite ends of a football field. "I'M -- A -- FRIEND --

OF -- HARRY'S -- FROM -- SCHOOL --"

Uncle Vernon's small eyes swiveled around to Harry, who was rooted to

the spot.

"THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!" he roared, now holding the receiver

arm's length, as though frightened it might explode. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT

SCHOOL YOURE TALKING ABOUT! NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN!

DON'T YOU COME NEAR

MY FAMILY!"

And he threw the receiver back onto the telephone as if dropping a

poisonous spider.

The fight that had followed had been one of the worst ever.

"HOW DARE YOU GIVE THIS NUMBER TO PEOPLE LIKE -- PEOPLE LIKE

YOU!" Uncle

Vernon had roared, spraying Harry with spit.

Ron obviously realized that he'd gotten Harry into trouble, because he

hadn't called again. Harry's other best friend from Hogwarts, Hermione

Granger, hadn't been in touch either. 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.

So Harry had had no word from any of his wizarding friends for five long

weeks, and this summer was turning out to be almost as bad as the last

one. There was just one very small improvement -- after swearing that he

wouldn't use her to send letters to any of his friends, Harry had been

allowed to let his owl, Hedwig, out at night. Uncle Vernon had given in

because of the racket Hedwig made if she was locked in her cage all the

time.

Harry finished writing about Wendelin the Weird and paused to listen

again. The silence in the dark house was broken only by the distant,

grunting snores of his enormous cousin, Dudley. It must be very late,

Harry thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness. Perhaps he'd finish

this essay tomorrow night....

He replaced the top of the ink bottle; pulled an old pillowcase from

under his bed; put the flashlight, A History of Magic, his essay, quill,

and ink inside it; got out of bed; and hid the lot under a loose

floorboard under his bed. Then he stood up, stretched, and checked the

time on the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table.

It was one o'clock in the morning. Harry's stomach gave a funny jolt. He

had been thirteen years old, without realizing it, for a whole hour.

Yet another unusual thing about Harry was how little he looked forward

to his birthdays. He had never received a birthday card in his life. The

Dursleys had completely ignored his last two birthdays, and he had no

reason to suppose they would remember this one.

Harry walked across the dark room, past Hedwig's large, empty cage, to

the open window. He leaned on the sill, the cool night air pleasant on

his face after a long time under the blankets. Hedwig had been absent

for two nights now. Harry wasn't worried about her: she'd been gone this

long before. But he hoped she'd be back soon -- she was the only living

creature in this house who didn't flinch at the sight of him.

Harry, though still rather small and skinny for his age, had grown a few

inches over the last year. His jet-black hair, however, was just as it

always had been -- stubbornly untidy, whatever he did to it. The eyes

behind his glasses were bright green, and on his forehead, clearly

visible through his hair, was a thin scar, shaped like a bolt of

lightning.

Of all the unusual things about Harry, this scar was the most

extraordinary of all. 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. They had been

murdered, murdered by the most feared Dark wizard for a hundred years,

Lord Voldemort. Harry had escaped from the same attack with nothing more

than a scar on his forehead, where Voldemort's curse, instead of killing

him, had rebounded upon its originator. Barely alive, Voldemort had

fled....

But Harry had come face-to-face with him at Hogwarts. Remembering their

last meeting as he stood at the dark window, Harry had to admit he was

lucky even to have reached his thirteenth birthday.

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

realized what he was seeing.

Silhouetted against the golden moon, and growing larger every moment,

was a large, strangely lopsided creature, and it was flapping in Harry's

direction. He stood quite still, watching it sink lower and lower. 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 street lamps of Privet Drive, and Harry, realizing what it was,

leapt aside.

Through the window soared three owls, two of them holding up the third,

which appeared to be unconscious. They landed with a soft flump on

Harry's bed, and the middle owl, which was large and gray, keeled right

over and lay motionless. There was a large package tied to its legs.

Harry recognized the unconscious owl at once -- his name was Errol, and

he belonged to the Weasley family. Harry dashed to the bed, untied the

cords around Errol's legs, took off the parcel, and then carried Errol

to Hedwig's cage. Errol opened one bleary eye, gave a feeble hoot of

thanks, and began to gulp some water.

Harry turned back to the remaining owls. One of them, the large snowy

female, was his own Hedwig. She, too, was carrying a parcel and looked

extremely pleased with herself. 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 recognize the third owl, a handsome tawny one, but he knew

at once where it had come from, because in addition to a third package,

it was carrying a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest. When Harry relieved

this owl of its burden, it ruffled its feathers importantly, stretched

its wings, and took off through the window into the night.

Harry sat down on his bed and grabbed Errol's package, ripped off the

brown paper, and discovered a present wrapped in gold, and his first

ever birthday card. Fingers trembling slightly, he opened the envelope.

Two pieces of paper fell out -- a letter and a newspaper clipping.

The clipping had clearly come out of the wizarding newspaper, the Daily

Prophet, because the people in the black-and-white picture were moving.

Harry picked up the clipping, smoothed it out, and read:

MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the

Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon

Draw.

A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet, "We will be spending the

gold on a summer holiday in Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as

a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank."

The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the

start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley

children currently attend.

Harry scanned the moving photograph, and a grin spread across his face

as he saw all nine of the Weasleys waving furiously at him, standing in

front of a large pyramid. Plump little Mrs. Weasley; tail, balding Mr.

Weasley; six sons; and one daughter, all (though the black-and-white

picture didn't show it) with flaming-red hair. Right in the middle of

the picture was Ron, tall and gangling, with his pet rat, Scabbers, on

his shoulder and his arm around his little sister, Ginny.

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. He picked

up Ron's letter and unfolded it.

Dear Harry,

Happy birthday!

Look, I' really sorry about that telephone call. I hope the Muggles

didn't give you a hard time. I asked Dad, and he reckons I shouldn't

have shouted.

It's amazing here in Egypt. Bill's taken us around all the tombs and you

wouldn't believe the curses those old Egyptian wizards put on them. Mum

wouldn't let Ginny come in the last one. There were all these mutant

skeletons in there, of Muggles who'd broken in and grown extra heads and

stuff.

I couldn't believe it when Dad won the Daily Prophet Draw. Seven hundred

galleons! Most of it's gone on this trip, but they're going to buy me a

new wand for next year.

Harry remembered only too well the occasion when Ron's old wand had

snapped. It had happened when the car the two of them had been flying to

Hogwarts had crashed into a tree on the school grounds.

We'll be back about a week before term starts and we'll be going up to

London to get my wand and our new books. Any chance of meeting you

there?

Don't let the Muggles get you down!

Try and come to London,

Ron

P.S. Percy's Head Boy. He got the letter last week.

Harry glanced back at the photograph. 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.

Harry now turned to his present and unwrapped it. Inside was what looked

like a miniature glass spinning top. There was another note from Ron

beneath it.

Harry -- this is a Pocket Sneakoscope. If there's someone untrustworthy

around, it's supposed to light up and spin. Bill says it's rubbish sold

for wizard tourists and isn't reliable, because it kept lighting up at

dinner last night. But he didn't realize Fred and George had put beetles

in his soup.

Bye --

Ron

Harry put the Pocket Sneakoscope on his bedside table, where it stood

quite still, balanced on its point, reflecting the luminous hands of his

clock. He looked at it happily for a few seconds, then picked up the

parcel Hedwig had brought.

Inside this, too, there was a wrapped present, a card, and a letter,

this time from Hermione.

Dear Harry,

Ron wrote to me and told me about his phone call to your Uncle Vernon. I

do hope you're all right.

I'm on holiday in France at the moment and I didn't know how I was going

to send this to you -- what if they'd opened it at customs? -- but then

Hedwig turned up! I think she wanted to make sure you got something for

your birthday for a change. I bought your present by owl-order; there

was an advertisement in the Daily Prophet (I've been getting it

delivered; it's so good to keep up with what's going on in the wizarding

world), Did you see that picture of Ron and his family a week ago? I bet

he's learning loads. I'm really jealous -- the ancient Egyptian wizards

were fascinating.

There's some interesting local history of witchcraft here, too. I've

rewritten my whole History of Magic essay to include some of the things

I've found out, I hope it's not too long -- it's two rolls of parchment

more than Professor Binns asked for.

Ron says he's going to be in London in the last week of the holidays.

Can you make it? Will your aunt and uncle let you come? I really hope

you can. If not, I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express on September

first!

Love from Hermione

P.S. Ron says Percy's Head Boy. I'll bet Percy's really pleased Ron

doesn't seem too happy about it

Harry laughed as he put Herrmone's letter aside and picked up her

present. It was very heavy. Knowing Hermione, he was sure it would be a

large book full of very difficult spells -- but it wasn't. 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, reading Broomstick

Servicing Kit.

"Wow, Hermione!" Harry whispered, unzipping the case to look inside.

There was a large jar of Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish, a pair

of gleaming silver Tall-Twig Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on

your broom for long journeys, and a Handbook of Do-It-Yourself

Broomcare.

Apart from his friends, the thing that Harry missed most about Hogwarts

was Quidditch, the most popular sport in the magical world -- highly

dangerous, very exciting, and played on broomsticks. Harry happened to

be a very good Quidditch player; he had been the youngest person in a

century to be picked for one of the Hogwarts House teams. One of Harry's

most prized possessions was his Nimbus Two Thousand racing broom.

Harry put the leather case aside and picked up his last parcel. He

recognized the untidy scrawl on the brown paper at once: this was from

Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper. 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.

Harry froze. He knew that Hagrid would never send him anything dangerous

on purpose, but then, Hagrid didn't have a normal person's view of what

was dangerous. 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 poked the parcel nervously. It snapped loudly again. Harry reached

for the lamp on his bedside table, gripped it firmly in one hand, and

raised it over his head, ready to strike. Then he seized the rest of the

wrapping paper in his other hand and pulled.

And out fell -- a book. 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.

"Uh-oh," Harry muttered.

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

across the room. Harry followed it stealthily. The book was hiding in

the dark space under his desk. Praying that the Dursleys were still fast

asleep, Harry got down on his hands and knees and reached toward it.

"Ouch!"

The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped past him, still

scuttling on its covers. Harry scrambled around, threw himself forward,

and managed to flatten it. Uncle Vernon gave a loud, sleepy grunt in the

room next door.

Hedwig and Errol watched interestedly as Harry clamped the struggling

book tightly in his arms, hurried to his chest of drawers, and pulled

out a belt, which he buckled tightly around it. 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.

Dear Harry,

Happy Birthday!

Think you might find this useful for next year. Won't say no more here.

Tell you when I see you. Hope the Muggles are treating you right.

All the best,

Hagrid

It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a biting book would come

in useful, but he put Hagrid's card up next to Ron's and Hermione's,

grinning more broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from

Hogwarts left.

Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Harry slit open the

envelope, pulled out the first page of parchment within, and read:

Dear Mr. Potter,

Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first.

The Hogwarts Express will leave ftom King's Cross station, platform nine

and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock.

Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain

weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or

guardian to sign.

A list of books for next year is enclosed. Yours sincerely,

Professor M. McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and looked at it, no

longer grinning. It would be wonderful to visit Hogsmeade on weekends;

he knew it was an entirely wizarding village, and he had never set foot

there. But how on earth was he going to persuade Uncle Vernon or Aunt

Petunia to sign the form?

He looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two o'clock in the

morning.

Deciding that he'd worry about the Hogsmeade form when he woke up, Harry

got back into bed and reached up to cross off another day on the chart

he'd made for himself, counting down the days left until his return to

Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses and lay down, eyes open, facing

his three birthday cards.

Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment Harry Potter felt just

like everyone else -- glad, for the first time in his life, that it was

his birthday.

CHAPTER TWO

AUNT MARGE'S BIG MISTAKE

Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to find the three Dursleys

already sitting around the kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new

television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, who had

been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the

television in the living room. Dudley had spent most of the summer in

the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on the screen and his five

chins wobbling as he ate continually.

Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a large, beefy man with

very little neck and a lot of mustache. Far from wishing Harry a happy

birthday, none of the Dursleys made any sign that they had noticed Harry

enter the room, but Harry was far too used to this to care. He helped

himself to a piece of toast and then looked up at the reporter on the

television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict:

"... The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A

special hot line has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be

reported immediately."

"No need to tell us he's no good," snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over

the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. "Look at the state of him, the

filthy layabout! Look at his hair!"

He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy hair had always

been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. 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.

The reporter had reappeared.

"The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today --"

"Hang on!" barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the reporter. "You

didn't tell us where that maniac's escaped from! \What use is that?

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. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would simply

love to be the one to call the hot line number. She was the nosiest

woman in the world and spent most of her life spying on the boring,

law-abiding neighbors.

"When will they learn," said Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his

large purple fist, "that hanging's the only way to deal with these

people?"

"Very true," said Aunt Petunia, who was still squinting into next door's

runner beans.

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."

Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with the Broomstick Servicing

Kit, was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump.

"Aunt Marge?" he blurted out. "Sh -- she's not coming here, is she?"

Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon's sister. Even though she was not a blood

relative of Harry's (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia's sister), he

had been forced to call her "Aunt" all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the

country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She

didn't often stay at Privet Drive, because she couldn't bear to leave

her precious dogs, but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in

Harry's mind.

At Dudley's fifth birthday party, Aunt Margo had whacked Harry around

the shins with her walking stick to stop him from beating Dudley at

musical statues. A few years later, she had turned up at Christmas with

a computerized robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for Harry. On

her last visit, the year before Harry started at Hogwarts, Harry had

accidentally trodden on the tail of her favorite dog. Ripper had chased

Harry out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to

call him off until past midnight. The memory of this incident still

brought tears of laughter to Dudley's eyes.

"Marge'll be here for a week," Uncle Vernon snarled, 11 and while we're

on the subject" -- he pointed a fat finger threateningly at Harry -- "we

need to get a few things straight before I go and collect her."

Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the television. Watching Harry

being bullied by Uncle Vernon was Dudley's favorite form of

entertainment.

"Firstly," growled Uncle Vernon, "you'll keep a civil tongue in your

head when you're talking to Marge."

"All right," said Harry bitterly, "if she does when she's talking to me.

"Secondly," said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he had not heard Harry's

reply, "as Marge doesn't know anything about your abnormality, I don't

want any -- any funny stuff while she's here.

You behave yourself, got me?"

"I will if she does," said Harry through gritted teeth.

"And thirdly," said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes now slits in his

great purple face, "we've told Marge you attend St. Brutus's Secure

Center for Incurably Criminal Boys."

"What?" Harry yelled.

"And you'll be sticking to that story, boy, or there'll be trouble, spat

Uncle Vernon.

Harry sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at Uncle Vernon,

hardly able to believe it. Aunt Marge coming for a weeklong visit -- it

was the worst birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him,

including that pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks.

"Well, Petunia," said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to his feet, "I'll

be off to the station, then. Want to come along for the ride, Dudders?"

"No," said Dudley, whose attention had returned to the television now

that Uncle Vernon had finished threatening Harry.

"Duddy's got to make himself smart for his auntie," said Aunt Petunia,

smoothing Dudley's thick blond hair. "Mummy's bought him a lovely new

bow tie."

Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder. "See you in a bit,

then," he said, and he left the kitchen.

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

idea. Abandoning his toast, he got quickly to his feet and followed

Uncle Vernon to the front door.

Uncle Vernon was pulling on his car coat.

"I'm not taking you," he snarled as he turned to see Harry watching him.

"Like I wanted to come," said Harry coldly. "I want to ask you

something."

Uncle Vernon eyed him suspiciously.

"Third years at Hog -- at my school are allowed to visit the village

sometimes," said Harry.

"So?" snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys from a hook next to the

door.

"I need you to sign the permission form," said Harry in a rush.

"And why should I do that?" sneered Uncle Vernon.

"Well," said Harry, choosing his words carefully, "it'll be hard work,

pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that St. Whatsits --"

"St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys!" bellowed Uncle

Vernon, and Harry was pleased to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle

Vernon's voice.

"Exactly," said Harry, looking calmly up into Uncle Vernon's large,

purple face. "It's a lot to remember. I'll have to make it sound

convincing, won't I? What if I accidentally let something slip?"

"You'll get the stuffing knocked out of you, won't you?" roared Uncle

Vernon, advancing on Harry with his fist raised. But Harry stood his

ground.

"Knocking the stuffing out of me won't make Aunt Marge forget what I

could tell her," he said grimly.

Uncle Vernon stopped, his fist still raised, his face an ugly puce.

"But if you sign my permission form," Harry went on quickly, "I swear

I'll remember where I'm supposed to go to school, and I'll act like a

Mug -- like I'm normal and everything."

Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon was thinking it over, even if his

teeth were bared and a vein was throbbing in his temple.

"Right," he snapped finally. "I shall monitor your behavior carefully

during Marge's visit. If, at the end of it, you've toed the line and

kept to the story, I'll sign your ruddy form."

He wheeled around, pulled open the front door, and slammed it so hard

that one of the little panes of glass at the top fell out.

Harry didn't return to the kitchen. He went back upstairs to his

bedroom. If he was going to act like a real Muggle, he'd better start

now. Slowly and sadly he gathered up all his presents and his birthday

cards and hid them under the loose floorboard with his homework. Then he

went to Hedwig's cage. Errol seemed to have recovered; he and Hedwig

were both asleep, heads under their wings. Harry sighed, then poked them

both awake.

"Hedwig," he said gloomily, "you're going to have to clear off for a

week. Go with Errol. Ron'll look after you. I'll write him a note,

explaining. And don't look at me like that" -- Hedwig's large amber eyes

were reproachful -- "it's not my fault. It's the only way I'll be

allowed to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione."

Ten minutes later, Errol and Hedwig (who had a note to Ron bound to her

leg) soared out of the window and out of sight. Harry, now feeling

thoroughly miserable, put the empty cage away inside the wardrobe.

But Harry didn't have long to brood. In next to no time, Aunt Petunia

was shrieking up the stairs for Harry to come down and get ready to

welcome their guest.

"Do something about your hair!" Aunt Petunia snapped as he reached the

hall.

Harry couldn't see the point of trying to make his hair lie flat. Aunt

Marge loved criticizing him, so the untidier he looked, the happier she

would be.

All too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as Uncle Vernon's car

pulled back into the driveway, then the clunk of the car doors and

footsteps on the garden path.

"Get the door!" Aunt Petunia hissed at Harry.

A feeling of great gloom in his stomach, Harry pulled the door open.

On the threshold stood Aunt Marge. She was very like Uncle Vernon:

large, beefy, and purple- faced, she even had a mustache, though not as

bushy as his. In one hand she held an enormous suitcase, and tucked

under the other was an old and evil-tempered bulldog.

"Where's my Dudders?" roared Aunt Marge. "Where's my neffy-poo?"

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. Aunt Marge and Aunt Petunia kissed, or rather, Aunt Marge

bumped her large jaw against Aunt Petunia's bony cheekbone.

Uncle Vernon now came in, smiling jovially as he shut the door.

"Tea, Marge?" he said. "And what will Ripper take?"

"Ripper can have some tea out of my saucer," said Aunt Marge as they all

proceeded into the kitchen, leaving Harry alone in the hall with the

suitcase. But Harry wasn't complaining; any excuse not to be with Aunt

Marge was fine by him, so he began to heave the case upstairs into the

spare bedroom, taking as long as he could.

By the time he got back to the kitchen, Aunt Marge had been supplied

with tea and fruitcake, and Ripper was lapping noisily in the corner.

Harry saw Aunt Petunia wince slightly as specks of tea and drool flecked

her clean floor. Aunt Petunia hated animals.

"Who's looking after the other dogs, Marge?" Uncle Vernon asked.

"Oh, I've got Colonel Fubster managing them," boomed Aunt Marge. "He's

retired now, good for him to have something to do. But I couldn't leave

poor old Ripper. He pines if he's away from me."

Ripper began to growl again as Harry sat down. This directed Aunt

Marge's attention to Harry for the first time.

"So!" she barked. "Still here, are you?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"Don't you say yes' in that ungrateful tone," Aunt Marge growled. "It's

damn good of Vernon and Petunia to keep you. Wouldn't have done it

myself. You'd have gone straight to an orphanage if you'd been dumped on

my doorstep."

Harry was bursting to say that he'd rather live in an orphanage than

with the Dursleys, but the thought of the Hogsmeade form stopped him. He

forced his face into a painful smile.

"Don't you smirk at me!" boomed Aunt Marge. "I can see you haven't

improved since I last saw you. I hoped school would knock some manners

into you." She took a large gulp of tea, wiped her mustache, and said,

"Where is it that you send him, again, Vernon?"

"St. Brutus's," said Uncle Vernon promptly. "It's a first-rate

institution for hopeless cases."

"I see," said Aunt Marge. "Do they use the cane at St. Brutus's, boy?"

she barked across the table.

"Er --"

Uncle Vernon nodded curtly behind Aunt Marge's back.

"Yes," said Harry. Then, feeling he might as well do the thing properly,

he added, "all the time."

"Excellent," said Aunt Marge. "I won't have this namby-pamby,

wishy-washy nonsense about not hitting people who deserve it. A good

thrashing is what's needed in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. Have

you been beaten often?"

"Oh, yeah," said Harry, "loads of times."

Aunt Marge narrowed her eyes.

"I still don't like your tone, boy," she said. "If you can speak of your

beatings in that casual way, they clearly aren't hitting you hard

enough. Petunia, I'd write if I were you. Make it clear that you approve

the use of extreme force in this boy's case."

Perhaps Uncle Vernon was worried that Harry might forget their bargain;

in any case, he changed the subject abruptly.

"Heard the news this morning, Marge? What about that escaped prisoner,

eh?"

As Aunt Marge started to make herself at home, Harry caught himself

thinking almost longingly of life at number four without her. Uncle

Vernon and Aunt Petunia usually encouraged Harry to stay out of their

way, which Harry was only too happy to do. Aunt Marge, on the other

hand, wanted Harry under her eye at all times, so that she could boom

out suggestions for his improvement. She delighted in comparing Harry

with Dudley, and took huge pleasure in buying Dudley expensive presents

while glaring at Harry, as though daring him to ask why he hadn't got a

present too. She also kept throwing out dark hints about what made Harry

such an unsatisfactory person.

"You mustn't blame yourself for the way the boy's turned out, Vernon,"

she said over lunch on the third day. "If there's something rotten on

the inside, there's nothing anyone can do about it."

Harry tried to concentrate on his food, but his hands shook and his face

was starting to burn with anger. Remember the form, he told himself

Think about Hogsmeade. Don't say anything. Don't rise

Aunt Marge reached for her glass of wine.

"It's one of the basic rules of breeding," she said. "You see it all the

time with dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be

something wrong with the pup --"

At that moment, the wineglass Aunt Marge was holding exploded in her

hand. Shards of glass flew in every direction and Aunt Marge sputtered

and blinked, her great ruddy face dripping.

"Marge!" squealed Aunt Petunia. "Marge, are you all right?"

"Not to worry," grunted Aunt Marge, mopping her face with her napkin.

"Must have squeezed it too hard. Did the same thing at Colonel Fubster's

the other day. No need to fuss, Petunia, I have a very firm grip..."

But Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were both looking at Harry

suspiciously, so he decided he'd better skip dessert and escape from the

table as soon as he could.

Outside in the hall, he leaned against the wall, breathing deeply It had

been a long time since he'd lost control and made something explode. He

couldn't afford to let it happen again. The Hogsmeade form wasn't the

only thing at stake -- if he carried on like that, he'd be in trouble

with the Ministry of Magic.

Harry was still an underage wizard, and he was forbidden by wizard law

to do magic outside school. His record wasn't exactly clean either. Only

last summer he'd gotten an official warning that had stated quite

clearly that if the Ministry got wind of any more magic in Privet Drive,

Harry would face expulsion from Hogwarts.

He heard the Dursleys leaving the table and hurried upstairs out of the

way.

Harry got through the next three days by forcing himself to think about

his Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare whenever Aunt Marge started on

him. 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.

At last, at long last, the final evening of Marge's stay arrived. Aunt

Petunia cooked a fancy dinner and Uncle Vernon uncorked several bottles

of wine. They got all the way through the soup and the salmon without a

single mention of Harry's faults; during the lemon meringue pie, Uncle

Vernon bored them A with a long talk about Grunnings, his drill-making

company; then Aunt Petunia made coffee and Uncle Vernon brought out a

bottle of brandy.

"Can I tempt you, Marge?"

Aunt Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her huge face was very

red.

"Just a small one, then," she chuckled. "A bit more than that... and a

bit more... that's the ticket."

Dudley was eating his fourth slice of pie. Aunt Petunia was sipping

coffee with her little finger sticking out. Harry really wanted to

disappear into his bedroom, but he met Uncle Vernon's angry little eyes

and knew he would have to sit it out.

"Aah," said Aunt Marge, smacking her lips and putting the empty brandy

glass back down. "Excellent nosh, Petunia. It's normally just a fry-up

for me of an evening, with twelve dogs to look after...." She burped

richly and patted her great tweed stomach. "Pardon me. But I do like to

see a healthy-sized boy," she went on, winking at Dudley. "You'll be a

proper-sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, I'll have a spot more

brandy, Vernon...."

"Now, this one here --"

She jerked her head at Harry, who felt his stomach clench. The Handbook,

he thought quickly.

"This one's got a mean, runty look about him. You get that with dogs. I

had Colonel Fubster drown one last year. Ratty little thing it was-

Weak. Underbred."

Harry was trying to remember page twelve of his book: A Charm to Cure

Reluctant Reversers. "It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the

other day.

Bad blood will out. Now, I'm saying nothing against your family,

Petunia" she patted Aunt Petunia's bony hand with her shovellike one

"but your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best families. Then

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

Harry was staring at his plate, a funny ringing in his ears. Grasp your

broom firmly by the tail, he thought. But he couldn't remember what came

next. Aunt Marge's voice seemed to be boring into him like one of Uncle

Vernon's drills.

"This Potter, 5) said Aunt Marge loudly, seizing the brandy bottle and

splashing more into her glass and over the tablecloth, "you never told

me what he did?"

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were looking extremely tense. Dudley had

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

"He -- didn't work," said Uncle Vernon, with half a glance at Harry.

"Unemployed."

"As I expected!" said Aunt Marge, taking a huge swig of brandy and

wiping her chin on her sleeve. "A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy

scrounger who --"

"He was not," said Harry suddenly. The table went very quiet. Harry was

shaking all over. He had never felt so angry in his life.

"MORE BRANDY!" yelled Uncle Vernon, who had gone very white. He emptied

the bottle into Aunt Marge's glass. "You, boy," he snarled at Harry. "Go

to bed, go on --"

"No, Vernon," hiccuped Aunt Marge, holding up a hand, her tiny bloodshot

eyes fixed on Harry's. "Go on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are

you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash (drunk, I expect)

--"

'They didn't die in a car crash!" said Harry, who found himself on his

feet.

"They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you to be a

burden on their decent, hardworking relatives!" screamed Aunt Marge,

swelling with fury. "You are an insolent, ungrateful little --"

But Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a moment, it looked as

though words had failed her. She seemed to be swelling with

inexpressible anger -- but the swelling didn't stop. Her great red face

started to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth stretched too

tightly for speech -- next second, several buttons had just burst from

her tweed jacket and pinged off the walls -- she was inflating like a

monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her tweed waistband,

each of her fingers blowing up like a salami --

"MARGE!" yelled Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia together as Aunt Marge's

whole body began to rise off her chair toward the ceiling. 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. Ripper came skidding into the room, barking

madly.

"NOOOOOOO!"

Uncle Vernon seized one of Marge's feet and tried to pull her down

again, but was almost lifted from the floor himself. A second later,

Ripper leapt forward and sank his teeth into Uncle Vernon's leg.

Harry tore from the dining room before anyone could stop him, heading

for the cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard door burst magically

open as he reached it. In seconds, he had heaved his trunk to the front

door. He sprinted upstairs and threw himself under the bed, wrenching up

the loose floorboard, and grabbed the pillowcase full of his books and

birthday presents. He wriggled out, seized Hedwig's empty cage, and

dashed back downstairs to his trunk, just as Uncle Vernon burst out of

the dining room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters.

"COME BACK IN HERE!" he bellowed. "COME BACK AND PUT HER

RIGHT!"

But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He kicked his trunk open,

pulled out his wand, and pointed it at Uncle Vernon.

"She deserved it," Harry said, breathing very fast. "She deserved what

she got. You keep away from me."

He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door.

"I'm going," Harry said. "I've had enough."

And in the next moment, he was out in the dark, quiet street, heaving

his heavy trunk behind him, Hedwig's cage under his arm.

CHAPTER THREE

THE KNIGHT BUS

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.

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 two suddenly sparkled; 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 a-round 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 fifteen you get 'or 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.

There were no seats; 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't hit anything; 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 rammed the doors shut; 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:

BLACK STILL AT LARGE

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's pimples went white; 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, I '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' I 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 Anglesea 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, where abouts 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 I"

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 fire.

Harry 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, of course; 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

Department 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 two 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 A 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 I 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 two completely

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.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE LEAKY CAULDRON

It 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'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.

After breakfast Harry would go out into the backyard, take out his wand,

tap the third brick from the left above the trash bit,, 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 ("personalty, 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 by flashlight anymore; 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:

** THE FIREBOLT **

THIS STATE-OF-THE-ART PACING 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 Nim bus 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. He felt relieved; 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 noise rent the air; 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 front cover of the book; 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 had been in to tidy; 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

vvheezy 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 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. 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, Her,,one 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

serious voice.

"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 IF' said Hermione.

"Those are my books for Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures,

Divination, the 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 took.

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 witchs 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 of the shop after him; 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