The Goblet of Fire Page 20

  There was a pause in which Hermione beamed at the pair of them, and Harry sat, torn between exasperation at Hermione, and amusement at the look on Ron’s face. The silence was broken, not by Ron, who in any case looked as though he was temporarily dumbstruck, but by a soft tap, tap on the window. Harry looked across the now empty common room, and saw, illuminated by the moonlight, a snowy owl perched on the window-sill.

  ‘Hedwig!’ he shouted, and he launched himself out of his chair and across the room to pull open the window.

  Hedwig flew inside, soared across the room and landed on the table on top of Harry’s predictions.

  ‘About time!’ said Harry, hurrying after her.

  ‘She’s got an answer!’ said Ron excitedly, pointing at the grubby piece of parchment tied to Hedwig’s leg.

  Harry hastily untied it and sat down to read it, whereupon Hedwig fluttered onto his knee, hooting softly.

  ‘What does it say?’ Hermione asked breathlessly.

  The letter was very short, and looked as though it had been scrawled in a great hurry. Harry read it aloud:

  Harry –

  I’m flying north immediately. This news about your scar is the latest in a series of strange rumours that have reached me here. If it hurts again, go straight to Dumbledore – they’re saying he’s got Mad-Eye out of retirement, which means he’s reading the signs, even if no one else is.

  I’ll be in touch soon. My best to Ron and Hermione. Keep your eyes open, Harry.

  Sirius

  Harry looked up at Ron and Hermione, who stared back at him.

  ‘He’s flying north?’ Hermione whispered. ‘He’s coming back?’

  ‘Dumbledore’s reading what signs?’ said Ron, looking perplexed. ‘Harry – what’s up?’

  For Harry had just hit himself in the forehead with his fist, jolting Hedwig out of his lap.

  ‘I shouldn’t’ve told him!’ Harry said furiously.

  ‘What are you on about?’ said Ron, in surprise.

  ‘It’s made him think he’s got to come back!’ said Harry, now slamming his fist on the table so that Hedwig landed on the back of Ron’s chair, hooting indignantly. ‘Coming back, because he thinks I’m in trouble! And there’s nothing wrong with me! And I haven’t got anything for you,’ Harry snapped at Hedwig, who was clicking her beak expectantly, ‘you’ll have to go up to the Owlery if you want food.’

  Hedwig gave him an extremely offended look and took off for the open window, cuffing him around the head with her outstretched wing as she went.

  ‘Harry,’ Hermione began, in a pacifying sort of voice.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ said Harry shortly. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Upstairs in the dormitory he pulled on his pyjamas and got into his four-poster, but he didn’t feel remotely tired.

  If Sirius came back and got caught, it would be his, Harry’s, fault. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? A few seconds’ pain and he’d had to blab … if he’d just had the sense to keep it to himself …

  He heard Ron come up into the dormitory a short while later, but did not speak to him. For a long time, Harry lay staring up at the dark canopy of his bed. The dormitory was completely silent, and, had he been less preoccupied, Harry would have realised that the absence of Neville’s usual snores meant that he was not the only one lying awake.

  — CHAPTER FIFTEEN —

  Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

  Early next morning, Harry woke with a plan fully formed in his mind, as though his sleeping brain had been working on it all night. He got up, dressed in the pale dawn light, left the dormitory without waking Ron and went back down to the deserted common room. Here he took a piece of parchment from the table upon which his Divination homework still lay, and wrote the following letter:

  Dear Sirius,

  I reckon I just imagined my scar hurting, I was half-asleep when I wrote to you last time. There’s no point coming back, everything’s fine here. Don’t worry about me, my head feels completely normal.

  Harry

  He then climbed out of the portrait hole, up through the silent castle (held up only briefly by Peeves, who tried to overturn a large vase on him halfway along the fourth-floor corridor), finally arriving at the Owlery, which was situated at the top of West Tower.

  The Owlery was a circular stone room; rather cold and draughty, because none of the windows had glass in them. The floor was entirely covered in straw, owl droppings and the regurgitated skeletons of mice and voles. Hundreds upon hundreds of owls of every breed imaginable were nestled here on perches that rose right up to the top of the tower, nearly all of them asleep, though here and there a round amber eye glared at Harry. He spotted Hedwig nestled between a barn owl and a tawny, and hurried over to her, sliding a little on the dropping-strewn floor.

  It took him a little while to persuade her to wake up and then to look at him as she kept shuffling around on her perch, showing him her tail. She was evidently still furious about his lack of gratitude the previous night. In the end, it was Harry suggesting she might be too tired, and that perhaps he would ask Ron to borrow Pigwidgeon, that made her stick out her leg and allow him to tie the letter to it.

  ‘Just find him, all right?’ Harry said, stroking her back as he carried her on his arm to one of the holes in the wall. ‘Before the Dementors do.’

  She nipped his finger, perhaps rather harder than she would ordinarily have done, but hooted softly in a reassuring sort of way all the same. Then she spread her wings and took off into the sunrise. Harry watched her out of sight with the familiar feeling of unease back in his stomach. He had been so sure that Sirius’ reply would alleviate his worries rather than increasing them.

  *

  ‘That was a lie, Harry,’ said Hermione sharply over breakfast, when he told her and Ron what he had done. ‘You didn’t imagine your scar hurting and you know it.’

  ‘So what?’ said Harry. ‘He’s not going back to Azkaban because of me.’

  ‘Drop it,’ said Ron sharply to Hermione, as she opened her mouth to argue some more, and for once, Hermione heeded him, and fell silent.

  Harry did his best not to worry about Sirius over the next couple of weeks. True, he could not stop himself looking anxiously around every morning when the post owls arrived, nor, late at night before he went to sleep, prevent himself seeing horrible visions of Sirius, cornered by Dementors down some dark London street, but between times he tried to keep his mind off his godfather. He wished he still had Quidditch to distract him; nothing worked so well on a troubled mind as a good, hard training session. On the other hand, their lessons were becoming more difficult and demanding than ever before, particularly Defence Against the Dark Arts.

  To their surprise, Professor Moody had announced that he would be putting the Imperius Curse on each of them in turn, to demonstrate its power and to see whether they could resist its effects.

  ‘But – but you said it’s illegal, Professor,’ said Hermione uncertainly, as Moody cleared away the desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving a large clear space in the middle of the room. ‘You said – to use it against another human was –’

  ‘Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like,’ said Moody, his magical eye swivelling onto Hermione and fixing her with an eerie, unblinking stare. ‘If you’d rather learn the hard way – when someone’s putting it on you so they can control you completely – fine by me. You’re excused. Off you go.’

  He pointed one gnarled finger towards the door. Hermione went very pink, and muttered something about not meaning that she wanted to leave. Harry and Ron grinned at each other. They knew Hermione would rather eat Bubotuber pus than miss such an important lesson.

  Moody began to beckon students forwards in turn and put the Imperius Curse upon them. Harry watched as, one by one, his classmates did the most extraordinary things under its influence. Dean Thomas hopped three times around the room, singing the national anthem. Lavender Brown imitated a squirrel. Neville performed a series of
quite astonishing gymnastics he would certainly not have been capable of in his normal state. Not one of them seemed to be able to fight the curse off, and each of them recovered only when Moody had removed it.

  ‘Potter,’ Moody growled, ‘you next.’

  Harry moved forward into the middle of the classroom, into the space that Moody had cleared of desks. Moody raised his wand, pointed it at Harry, and said, ‘Imperio.’

  It was the most wonderful feeling. Harry felt a floating sensation as every thought and worry in his head was wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague, untraceable happiness. He stood there feeling immensely relaxed, only dimly aware of everyone watching him.

  And then he heard Mad-Eye Moody’s voice, echoing in some distant chamber of his empty brain: Jump onto the desk … jump onto the desk …

  Harry bent his knees obediently, preparing to spring.

  Jump onto the desk …

  Why, though?

  Another voice had awoken in the back of his brain. Stupid thing to do, really, said the voice.

  Jump onto the desk …

  No, I don’t think I will, thanks, said the other voice, a little more firmly … no, I don’t really want to …

  Jump! NOW!

  The next thing Harry felt was considerable pain. He had both jumped and tried to prevent himself from jumping – the result was that he’d smashed headlong into the desk, knocking it over, and, by the feeling in his legs, fractured both his kneecaps.

  ‘Now, that’s more like it!’ growled Moody’s voice, and suddenly Harry felt the empty, echoing feeling in his head disappear. He remembered exactly what was happening, and the pain in his knees seemed to double.

  ‘Look at that, you lot … Potter fought! He fought it, and he damn near beat it! We’ll try that again, Potter, and the rest of you, pay attention – watch his eyes, that’s where you see it – very good, Potter, very good indeed! They’ll have trouble controlling you!’

  ‘The way he talks,’ Harry muttered, as he hobbled out of the Defence Against the Dark Arts class an hour later (Moody had insisted on putting Harry through his paces four times in a row, until Harry could throw the curse off entirely), ‘you’d think we were all going to be attacked any second.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Ron, who was skipping on every alternate step. He had had much more difficulty with the curse than Harry, though Moody assured him the effects would have worn off by lunchtime. ‘Talk about paranoid …’ Ron glanced nervously over his shoulder to check that Moody was definitely out of earshot, and went on, ‘No wonder they were glad to get shot of him at the Ministry, did you hear him telling Seamus what he did to that witch who shouted “boo” behind him on April Fools’ Day? And when are we supposed to read up on resisting the Imperius Curse with everything else we’ve got to do?’

  All the fourth-years had noticed a definite increase in the amount of work they were required to do this term. Professor McGonagall explained why, when the class gave a particularly loud groan at the amount of Transfiguration homework she had set.

  ‘You are now entering a most important phase of your magical education!’ she told them, her eyes glinting dangerously behind her square spectacles. ‘Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels are drawing closer –’

  ‘We don’t take O.W.Ls ’til fifth year!’ said Dean Thomas indignantly.

  ‘Maybe not, Thomas, but believe me, you need all the preparation you can get! Miss Granger remains the only person in this class who has managed to turn a hedgehog into a satisfactory pincushion. I might remind you that your pincushion, Thomas, still curls up in fright if anyone approaches it with a pin!’

  Hermione, who had turned rather pink again, seemed to be trying not to look too pleased with herself.

  Harry and Ron were deeply amused when Professor Trelawney told them that they had received top marks for their homework in their next Divination class. She read out large portions of their predictions, commending them for their unflinching acceptance of the horrors in store for them – but they were less amused when she asked them to do the same thing for the month after next; both of them were running out of ideas for catastrophes.

  Meanwhile Professor Binns, the ghost who taught History of Magic, had them writing weekly essays on the Goblin Rebellions of the eighteenth century. Professor Snape was forcing them to research antidotes. They took this seriously, as he had hinted that he might be poisoning one of them before Christmas to see if their antidote worked. Professor Flitwick had asked them to read three extra books in preparation for their lesson on Summoning Charms.

  Even Hagrid was adding to their workload. The Blast-Ended Skrewts were growing at a remarkable pace, given that nobody had yet discovered what they ate. Hagrid was delighted and, as part of their ‘project’, suggested that they come down to his hut on alternate evenings to observe the Skrewts and make notes on their extraordinary behaviour.

  ‘I will not,’ said Draco Malfoy flatly, when Hagrid had proposed this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an extra large toy out of his sack. ‘I see enough of these foul things during lessons, thanks.’

  Hagrid’s smile faded from his face.

  ‘Yeh’ll do wha’ yer told,’ he growled, ‘or I’ll be takin’ a leaf outta Professor Moody’s book … I hear yeh made a good ferret, Malfoy.’

  The Gryffindors roared with laughter. Malfoy flushed with anger, but apparently the memory of Moody’s punishment was still sufficiently painful to stop him retorting. Harry, Ron and Hermione returned to the castle at the end of the lesson in high spirits; seeing Hagrid put down Malfoy was particularly satisfying, especially because Malfoy had done his very best to get Hagrid sacked the previous year.

  When they arrived in the Entrance Hall, they found themselves unable to proceed owing to the large crowd of students congregated there, all milling around a large sign which had been erected at the foot of the marble staircase. Ron, the tallest of the three, stood on tiptoe to see over the heads in front of them and read the sign aloud to the other two.

  TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

  The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at 6 o’clock on Friday 30th of October. Lessons will end half an hour early –

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Harry. ‘It’s Potions last thing on Friday! Snape won’t have time to poison us all!’

  Students will return their bags and books to their dormitories and assemble in front of the castle to greet our guests before the Welcoming Feast.

  ‘Only a week away!’ said Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff, emerging from the crowd, his eyes gleaming. ‘I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I’ll go and tell him …’

  ‘Cedric?’ said Ron blankly, as Ernie hurried off.

  ‘Diggory,’ said Harry. ‘He must be entering the Tournament.’

  ‘That idiot, Hogwarts champion?’ said Ron, as they pushed their way through the chattering crowd towards the staircase.

  ‘He’s not an idiot, you just don’t like him because he beat Gryffindor at Quidditch,’ said Hermione. ‘I’ve heard he’s a really good student – and he’s a Prefect.’

  She spoke as though this settled the matter.

  ‘You only like him because he’s handsome,’ said Ron scathingly.

  ‘Excuse me, I don’t like people just because they’re handsome!’ said Hermione indignantly.

  Ron gave a loud false cough, which sounded oddly like ‘Lockhart!’.

  The appearance of the sign in the Entrance Hall had a marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle. During the following week, there seemed to be only one topic of conversation, no matter where Harry went: the Triwizard Tournament. Rumours were flying from student to student like highly contagious germs: who was going to try for Hogwarts champion, what the Tournament would involve, how the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differed from themselves.

  Harry noticed, too, that the castle seemed to be undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning. Several grimy portraits had been scrubbed, much to the displeasure of their subjects, who s
at huddled in their frames muttering darkly and wincing as they felt their raw pink faces. The suits of armour were suddenly gleaming and moving without squeaking, and Argus Filch, the caretaker, was behaving so ferociously to any student who forgot to wipe their shoes that he terrified a pair of first-year girls into hysterics.

  Other members of staff seemed oddly tense, too.

  ‘Longbottom, kindly do not reveal that you can’t even perform a simple Switching Spell in front of anyone from Durmstrang!’ Professor McGonagall barked at the end of one particularly difficult lesson, during which Neville had accidentally transplanted his own ears onto a cactus.

  When they went down to breakfast on the morning of the thirtieth of October, they found that the Great Hall had been decorated overnight. Enormous silk banners hung from the walls, each of them representing a Hogwarts house – red with a gold lion for Gryffindor, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind the teachers’ table, the largest banner of all bore the Hogwarts coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger and snake united around a large letter ‘H’.

  Harry, Ron and Hermione spotted Fred and George at the Gryffindor table. Once again, and most unusually, they were sitting apart from everyone else and conversing in low voices. Ron led the way over to them.

  ‘It’s a bummer all right,’ George was saying gloomily to Fred. ‘But if he won’t talk to us in person, we’ll have to send him the letter after all. Or we’ll stuff it into his hand, he can’t avoid us for ever.’

  ‘Who’s avoiding you?’ said Ron, sitting down next to them.

  ‘Wish you would,’ said Fred, looking irritated at the interruption.