particularly hungry after the excitement of the afternoon. “Wood told me.”
Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and gaped at Harry.
“I start training next week,” said Harry. “Only don’t tell anyone, Wood
wants to keep it a secret.”
Fred and George Weasley now came into the hall, spotted Harry, and
hurried over.
“Well done,” said George in a low voice. “Wood told us. We’re on the
team too — Beaters.”
“I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch cup for sure this year,” said
Fred. “We haven’t won since Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be
brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping when he told us.”
“Anyway, we’ve got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he’s found a new secret
passageway out of the school.”
“Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found
in our first week. See you.”
Fred and George had hardly disappeared when someone far less welcome
turned up: Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.
“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the
Muggles?”
“You’re a lot braver now that you’re back on the ground and you’ve got
your little friends with you,” said Harry coolly. There was of course nothing at
all little about Crabbe and Goyle, but as the High Table was full of teachers,
neither of them could do more than crack their knuckles and scowl.
“I’d take you on anytime on my own,” said Malfoy. “Tonight, if you
want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only — no contact. What’s the matter? Never heard
of a wizard’s duel before, I suppose?”
“Of course he has,” said Ron, wheeling around. “I’m his second, who’s
yours?”
Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.
“Crabbe,” he said. “Midnight all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy
room; that’s always unlocked.”
When Malfoy had gone, Ron and Harry looked at each other.
“What is a wizard’s duel?” said Harry. “And what do you mean, you’re
my second?”
“Well, a second’s there to take over if you die,” said Ron casually, getting
started at last on his cold pie. Catching the look on Harry’s face, he added
quickly, “But people only die in proper duels, you know, with real wizards. The
most you and Malfoy’ll be able to do is send sparks at each other. Neither of you
knows enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he expected you to refuse,
anyway.”
“And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?”
“Throw it away and punch him on the nose,” Ron suggested.
“Excuse me.”
They both looked up. It was Hermione Granger.
“Can’t a person eat in peace in this place?” said Ron.
Hermione ignored him and spoke to Harry.
“I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying —”
“Bet you could,” Ron muttered.
“— and you mustn’t go wandering around the school at night, think of
the points you’ll lose Gryffindor if you’re caught, and you’re bound to be. It’s
really very selfish of you.”
“And it’s really none of your business,” said Harry.
“Good-bye,” said Ron.
All the same, it wasn’t what you’d call the perfect end to the day, Harry
thought, as he lay awake much later listening to Dean and Seamus falling asleep
(Neville wasn’t back from the hospital wing). Ron had spent all evening giving
him advice such as “If he tries to curse you, you’d better dodge it, because I
can’t remember how to block them.” There was a very good chance they were
going to get caught by Filch or Mrs. Norris, and Harry felt he was pushing his
luck, breaking another school rule today. On the other hand, Malfoy’s sneering
face kept looming up out of the darkness — this was his big chance to beat
Malfoy face-to-face. He couldn’t miss it.
“Half-past eleven,” Ron muttered at last, “we’d better go.”
They pulled on their bathrobes, picked up their wands, and crept across
the tower room, down the spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor common
room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, turning all the armchairs
into hunched black shadows. They had almost reached the portrait hole when a
voice spoke from the chair nearest them, “I can’t believe you’re going to do this,
Harry.”
A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger, wearing a pink bathrobe
and a frown.
“You!” said Ron furiously. “Go back to bed!”
“I almost told your brother,” Hermione snapped, “Percy — he’s a prefect,
he’d put a stop to this.”
Harry couldn’t believe anyone could be so interfering.
“Come on,” he said to Ron. He pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady
and climbed through the hole.
Hermione wasn’t going to give up that easily. She followed Ron through
the portrait hole, hissing at them like an angry goose.
“Don’t you care about Gryffindor, do you only care about yourselves, I
don’t want Slytherin to win the house cup, and you’ll lose all the points I got
from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells.”
“Go away.”
“All right, but I warned you, you just remember what I said when you’re
on the train home tomorrow, you’re so —”
But what they were, they didn’t find out. Hermione had turned to the
portrait of the Fat Lady to get back inside and found herself facing an empty
painting. The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit and Hermione was locked
out of Gryffindor tower.
“Now what am I going to do?” she asked shrilly.
“That’s your problem,” said Ron. “We’ve got to go, we’re going to be
late.”
They hadn’t even reached the end of the corridor when Hermione caught
up with them.
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
“You are not.”
“D’you think I’m going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch me?
If he finds all three of us I’ll tell him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and
you can back me up.”
“You’ve got some nerve —” said Ron loudly.
“Shut up, both of you!” said Harry sharply. I heard something.”
It was a sort of snuffling.
“Mrs. Norris?” breathed Ron, squinting through the dark.
It wasn’t Mrs. Norris. It was Neville. He was curled up on the floor, fast
asleep, but jerked suddenly awake as they crept nearer.
“Thank goodness you found me! I’ve been out here for hours, I couldn’t
remember the new password to get in to bed.”
“Keep your voice down, Neville. The password’s ‘Pig snout’ but it won’t
help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone off somewhere.”
“How’s your arm?” said Harry.
“Fine,” said Neville, showing them. “Madam Pomfrey mended it in
about a minute.”
“Good — well, look, Neville, we’ve got to be somewhere, we’ll see you
later —”
“Don’t leave me!” said Neville, scrambling to his feet, “I don’t want to
stay here alone, the Bloody Baron’s been past twice already.”
Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at Hermione and
Neville.
“If either of you get us caught, I’ll never rest until I’ve learned that Curse
of the Bogies Quirrell told us about, and used it on you.”
Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to tell Ron exactly how to use the
Curse of the Bogies, but Harry hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned them all
forward.
They flitted along corridors striped with bars of moonlight from the high
windows. At every turn Harry expected to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, but they
were lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor and tiptoed toward the
trophy room.
Malfoy and Crabbe weren’t there yet. The crystal trophy cases
glimmered where the moonlight caught them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues
winked silver and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls, keeping
their eyes on the doors at either end of the room. Harry took out his wand in case
Malfoy leapt in and started at once. The minutes crept by.
“He’s late, maybe he’s chickened out,” Ron whispered.
Then a noise in the next room made them jump. Harry had only just
raised his wand when they heard someone speak — and it wasn’t Malfoy.
“Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner.”
It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck, Harry waved madly
at the other three to follow him as quickly as possible; they scurried silently
toward the door, away from Filch’s voice. Neville’s robes had barely whipped
round the corner when they heard Filch enter the trophy room.
“They’re in here somewhere,” they heard him mutter, “probably hiding.”
“This way!” Harry mouthed to the others and, petrified, they began to
creep down a long gallery full of suits of armor. They could hear Filch getting
nearer. Neville suddenly let out a frightened squeak and broke into a run he
tripped, grabbed Ron around the waist, and the pair of them toppled right into a
suit of armor.
The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the whole castle.
“RUN!” Harry yelled, and the four of them sprinted down the gallery, not
looking back to see whether Filch was following — they swung around the
doorpost and galloped down one corridor then another, Harry in the lead, without
any idea where they were or where they were going — they ripped through a
tapestry and found themselves in a hidden passageway, hurtled along it and came
out near their Charms classroom, which they knew was miles from the trophy
room.
“I think we’ve lost him,” Harry panted, leaning against the cold wall and
wiping his forehead. Neville was bent double, wheezing and spluttering.
I — told — you,” Hermione gasped, clutching at the stitch in her chest,
“I — told — you.”
“We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor tower,” said Ron, “quickly as
possible.”
“Malfoy tricked you,” Hermione said to Harry. “You realize that, don’t
you? He was never going to meet you — Filch knew someone was going to be in
the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off.”
Harry thought she was probably right, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.
“Let’s go.”
It wasn’t going to be that simple. They hadn’t gone more than a dozen
paces when a doorknob rattled and something came shooting out of a classroom
in front of them.
It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and gave a squeal of delight.
“Shut up, Peeves — please — you’ll get us thrown out.”
Peeves cackled.
“Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty,
naughty, you’ll get caughty.”
“Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please.”
“Should tell Filch, I should,” said Peeves in a saintly voice, but his eyes
glittered wickedly. “It’s for your own good, you know.”
“Get out of the way,” snapped Ron, taking a swipe at Peeves this was a
big mistake.
“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves bellowed, “STUDENTS OUT OF
BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!”
Ducking under Peeves, they ran for their lives, right to the end of the
corridor where they slammed into a door — and it was locked.
“This is it!” Ron moaned, as they pushed helplessly at the door, “We’re
done for! This is the end!”
They could hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he could toward
Peeves’s shouts.
“Oh, move over,” Hermione snarled. She grabbed Harry’s wand, tapped
the lock, and whispered, “Alohomora!”
The lock clicked and the door swung open — they piled through it, shut
it quickly, and pressed their ears against it, listening.
“Which way did they go, Peeves?” Filch was saying. “Quick, tell me.”
“Say ‘please.’”
“Don’t mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?”
“Shan’t say nothing if you don’t say please,” said Peeves in his annoying
singsong voice.
“All right — please.”
“NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn’t say nothing if you didn’t say
please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!” And they heard the sound of Peeves whooshing away
and Filch cursing in rage.
“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispered. “I think we’ll be okay
— get off, Neville!” For Neville had been tugging on the sleeve of Harry’s
bathrobe for the last minute. “What?”
Harry turned around — and saw, quite clearly, what. For a moment, he
was sure he’d walked into a nightmare — this was too much, on top of
everything that had happened so far.
They weren’t in a room, as he had supposed. They were in a corridor.
The forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they knew why it was
forbidden.
They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that
filled the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three pairs
of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and quivering in their direction; three
drooling mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.
It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them, and Harry knew
that the only reason they weren’t already dead was that their sudden appearance
had taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over that, there was no
mistaking what those thunderous growls meant.
Harry groped for the doorknob — between Filch and death, he’d take
Filch.
They fell backward — Harry slammed the door shut, and they ran, they
almost flew, back down the corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look for
them somewhere else, because they didn’t see him anywhere, but they hardly
cared — all they wanted to do was put as much space as possible between them
and that monster. They didn’t stop running until they reached the portrait of the
Fat Lady on the seventh floor.
“Where on earth have you all been?” she asked, looking at their
bathrobes hanging off their shoulders and their flushed, sweaty faces.
“Never mind that — pig snout, pig snout,” panted Harry, and the portrait
swung forward. They scrambled into the common room and collapsed,
trembling, into armchairs.
It was a while before any of them said anything. Neville, indeed, looked
as if he’d never speak again.
“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in
a school?” said Ron finally. “If any dog needs exercise, that one does.”
Hermione had got both her breath and her bad temper back again. “You
don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she snapped. “Didn’t you see what it
was standing on.
“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn’t looking at its feet, I was too
busy with its heads.”
“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It’s obviously guarding
something.”
She stood up, glaring at them.
“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed —
or worse, expelled. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”
Ron stared after her, his mouth open.
“No, we don’t mind,” he said. “You’d think we dragged her along,
wouldn’t you.
But Hermione had given Harry something else to think about as he
climbed back into bed. The dog was guarding something…What had Hagrid
said? Gringotts was the safest place in the world for something you wanted to
hide — except perhaps Hogwarts.
It looked as though Harry had found out where the grubby little package
from vault seven hundred and thirteen was.
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