Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.
Chapter 8- The Marauder's Map
Harry had to stay in the Hospital Wing for the rest of the weekend. He got gobs of visitors and get-well presents but to say the least, he was still sulking majorly. Hermione, Ron, and I stayed in the Hospital wing with him all day only to leave once night came but that still didn't seem to make a difference.
I can tell that Harry is keeping something from us, but I'm not going to push him on it. He's being hypocritical but we've only just gotten back to some even ground between the two of us, so I'm not going to ruin that just yet with pushing him to open up. I'm relieved that class is beginning again on Monday and that Harry is being released. I was beginning to go crazy in that room.
It is a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the main school on Monday, where we are forced to think about other things, even if we have to endure Draco Malfoy's taunting. Malfoy is almost beside himself with glee at Gryffindor's defeat. He has finally taken off his bandages, and celebrates having the full use of both arms again by doing spirited imitations of Harry falling off his broom.
Malfoy spends much of our next Potions class doing dementor imitations across the dungeon; Ron finally cracks and flings a large, slippery crocodile heart at Malfoy, which hits him in the face and causes Snape to take fifty points from Gryffindor. Personally I think that he's still mad at me for telling on him to Dumbledore but I'm not the least but upset about it.
"If Snape's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts again, I'm skiving off," says Ron as we head toward Lupin's classroom after lunch. "Check who's in there, Hermione."
Hermione peers around the classroom door. "It's okay!"
Professor Lupin is back at work. It certainly looks as though he had been ill. His old robes are hanging more loosely on him and there are dark shadows beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiles at the class as we take our seats, and we burst at once into an explosion of complaints about Snape's behavior while Lupin had been ill.
"It's not fair, he was only filling in, why should he give us homework?"
"We don't know anything about werewolves —"
"— two rolls of parchment!"
"Did you tell Professor Snape we haven't covered them yet?" Lupin asks, frowning slightly. The babble breaks out again.
"Yes, but he said we were really behind —"
"— he wouldn't listen —"
"— two rolls of parchment!"
Professor Lupin smiles at the looks of indignation on every face. "Don't worry. I'll speak to Professor Snape. You don't have to do the essay."
"Oh no," says Hermione, looking very disappointed. "I've already finished it!"
We have a very enjoyable lesson. Professor Lupin has brought along a glass box containing a hinkypunk, a little one-legged creature who looks as though he is made of wisps of smoke, rather frail and harmless-looking.
"Lures travelers into bogs," says Professor Lupin as we take notes. "You notice the lantern dangling from his hand? Hops ahead — people follow the light — then —"
The hinkypunk makes a horrible squelching noise against the glass. Okay remind me never to go hiking near any bogs ever in my life.
When the bell rings, everyone gathers up our things and heads for the door, Harry among them, but —
"Wait a moment, Harry," Lupin calls. "I'd like a word." Harry gives Hermione, Ron, and I a look that says that it's okay for us to leave him alone, and we step out in the hall to give them privacy.
While waiting out in the hall for Harry to come so that we can make it to our next class I spot a surprisingly welcome sight. A flash of blond, and then a bright smile greets me as Ariana slows down to walk by us. "Loitering in the halls Pendragon, I'd thought you'd last longer back in the halls before getting into mischief." She jokes, a big grin showing the dimple in her cheek.
I scowl playfully at her. "You're just jealous Dumbledore 'cause I got style!" I call after her breaking into a playful smile as she glances back at me. When I turn back around Ron is looking at me oddly, while Hermione has her thinking face and her 'I know something that you don't' look on her face.
"What?" I demand. Ron holds up his hands in confused surrender while Hermione grins at me.
"Since when did you and Ariana Dumbledore become friendly enough to joke around with each other?" Hermione asks me with a grin. I feel heat rush to my cheeks, and I shuffle my weight to my other foot. I open up my mouth to respond, but I'm saved by Harry bursting out of the classroom with a big smile on his face.
"Guess what guys! Lupin's going to give me anti-dementor lessons!" Harry exclaims, and he jumps into an explanation about how they suck the joy, happiness, and life from you.
Ravenclaw flattens Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the end of November, and Harry's mood thankfully took a definite upturn. Gryffindor is not out of the running after all, although we can not afford to lose another match. Wood becomes repossessed of his manic energy, and works his team as hard as ever in the chilly haze of rain that persisted into December. Harry and I see no hint of a dementor within the grounds. Dumbledore's anger seems to be keeping them at their stations at the entrances.
Two weeks before the end of the term, the sky lightens suddenly to a dazzling, opaline white and the muddy grounds are revealed one morning covered in glittering frost. Inside the castle, there is a buzz of Christmas in the air. Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, has already decorated his classroom with shimmering lights that turn out to be real, fluttering fairies. The students are all happily discussing their plans for the holidays. Both Ron and Hermione have decided to remain at Hogwarts, and though Ron says it is because he can't stand two weeks with Percy, and Hermione insists she needs to use the library, Harry isn't fooled; they are doing it to keep him company, and he is very grateful.
I'm staying in the castle for Christmas as well since Kingsley is still on special assignment tracking down Sirius Black. I think that he's done a pretty bad job of it if you ask me, but I'm not going to complain about it too much. Luka and I are used to spending Christmas in the castle and I don't think that it will hurt to have to spend with my friends getting back to normal without the interrupting of classes.
Ariana is staying as usual as well so if I really have issues I can go to her. To everyone's delight except Harry's, there is to be another Hogsmeade trip on the very last weekend of the term.
"We can do all our Christmas shopping there!" says Hermione. "Mum and Dad would really love those Toothflossing Stringmints from Honeydukes!"
Resigned to the fact that he would be the only third year staying behind again, Harry borrows a copy of Which Broomstick from Wood, and decides to spend the day reading up on the different makes. He has been riding one of the school brooms at team practice, an ancient Shooting Star, which is very slow and jerky; he definitely needs a new broom of his own.
I'm torn about what to do. Do I go to Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione or do I stay in the castle and hang out with Harry so he's doesn't feel so bad. I'm surprised when the answer becomes pretty clear.
On the Saturday morning of the Hogsmeade trip, Harry bids good-bye to Ron and Hermione, who are wrapped in cloaks and scarves. He turns to say goodbye to me as well but stops frowning when he sees that I'm not dressed to leave.
"Jamie? Aren't you going with them?" Harry asks me confused about what exactly is happening at the moment.
"I'm not going. I've been swamped with school, Quidditch, and homework, so I decided that I'm just going to hang around the castle today and relax a little." I tell him falling into step beside him as we make out way back to the tower. Snow is starting to hall outside, and the castle is very quiet and still.
"You don't have to do this for me Jamie." Harry tells me. I raise my eyebrow at him questioningly.
"I'm not staying because you've made me feel bad for you. I'm staying because you're my friend, and you shouldn't have to be alone today." I tell him. Harry opens his mouth to respond but he's cut off.
"Psst — Harry, Jamie!" We turn, halfway along the third-floor corridor, to see Fred and George peering out at us from behind a statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch.
"What are you doing?" says Harry curiously. "How come you're not going to Hogsmeade?"
"We've come to give you a bit of festive cheer before we go," says Fred, with a mysterious wink. "Come in here. . . ."
He nods toward an empty classroom to the left of the one-eyed statue. Harry and I follow Fred and George inside. George closes the door quietly and then turns, beaming, to look at Harry.
"Early Christmas present for you, Harry," he says.
Fred pulls something from inside his cloak with a flourish and lays it on one of the desks. It is a large, square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it. Harry and I, suspecting one of Fred and George's jokes, stare at it.
"What's that supposed to be?" I ask curiously.
"This, you two, is the secret of our success," says George, patting the parchment fondly.
"It's a wrench, giving it to you," adds Fred, "but we decided last night, your need's greater than ours."
"Anyway, we know it by heart," says George. "We bequeath it to you. We don't really need it anymore."
"And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?" wonders Harry.
"A bit of old parchment!" cries Fred, closing his eyes with a grimace as though Harry has mortally offended him. "Explain, George."
"Well . . . when we were in our first year, Harry — young, carefree, and innocent —"
I snort. I doubt whether Fred and George have ever been innocent.
"— well, more innocent than we are now — we got into a spot of bother with Filch."
"We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset him for some reason —"
"So he hauled us off to his office and started threatening us with the usual —"
"— detention —"
"— disembowelment —"
"— and we couldn't help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly Dangerous." Of course they couldn't help themselves that's like dangling candy in front of a baby.
"Don't tell me —" says Harry, starting to grin.
"Well, what would you've done?" says Fred. "George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I whipped the drawer open and grabbed — this."
"It's not as bad as it sounds, you know," says George. "We don't reckon Filch ever found out how to work it. He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn't have confiscated it."
"And you know how to work it?" I ask them peering at the paper again trying to figure out what exactly it could be.
"Oh yes," says Fred, smirking. "This little beauty's taught us more than all the teachers in this school."
"You're winding me up," says Harry, looking at the ragged old bit of parchment.
"Oh, are we?" said George. He takes out his wand, touches the parchment lightly, and says, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
And at once, thin ink lines begin to spread like a spider's web from the point that George's wand has touched. They join each other, they crisscross, they fan into every corner of the parchment; then words begin to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed:
Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and ProngsPurveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makersare proud to present
THE MARAUDER'S MAP
It is a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing is the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled with a name in minuscule writing. Astounded, Harry and I bend over it. A labeled dot in the top left corner shows that Professor Dumbledore is pacing his study; the caretaker's cat, Mrs. Norris, is prowling the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist is currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as my eyes travel up and down the familiar corridors, I notice something else.
This map shows a set of passages I have never entered. And many of them seem to lead —"Right into Hogsmeade," says Fred, tracing one of them with his finger. "There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four" — he points them out — "but we're sure we're the only ones who know about these. Don't bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last winter, but it's caved in — completely blocked. And we don't reckon anyone's ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow's planted right over the entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We've used it loads of times. And as you might've noticed, the entrance is right outside this room, through that one-eyed old crone's hump."
"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs," sighs George, patting the heading of the map. "We owe them so much." This is probably one of the coolest things that I've ever seen in my entire life. I'm not sorry to say that I'm incredibly jealous of Harry right now.
"Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers," says Fred solemnly.
"This is bloody wicked." I proclaim reverently. Fred and George beam at me.
"That it is Jamie. Don't worry I'm sure that the four of you will put it to good use. You know where to find us." George tells me shooting me a meaningful look while Harry looks confusedly at the three of us.
"Right," says George briskly. "Don't forget to wipe it after you've used it —"
"— or anyone can read it," Fred says warningly.
"Just tap it again and say, 'Mischief managed!' And it'll go blank."
"So, young Harry, Jamie," says Fred, in an uncanny impersonation of Percy, "mind you behave yourself."
"See you in Honeydukes," calls George, winking. They leave the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of way.
"Okay this has got to be the coolest gift anyone has ever gotten!" I exclaim. Harry grins back at me now that the shock has worn off.
"So?" I say walking over to the door of the classroom.
"So…" Harry asks trailing off.
"We're going right? Hogsmeade! You can go now since no one will see you leave the castle!" I tell him excitedly. I've been wanting to go to the village myself for a while as well.
"Okay, but we have to be smart about this." Harry tells me a grin of his own blossoming on his face.
"Yes! I've always wanted to go to Hogsmeade!" I cry pumping my fist and doing a few excited hops in excitement. Harry laughs at me, and puts his hands on my shoulders as if trying to contain my excitement quite literally.
"Calm down! We have to be quiet about this." Harry says lowering his voice in example. I grin and nod my head quickly. Harry opens up the door slowly, and looks in both directions down the hallway. He waves his hand, and I follow him out and over to the statue of the one eyed witch.
We must have passed this statue millions of times and never realized that there was a passage behind there. "What do we do?" I whisper to Harry, who is looking down at the map with his brow furrowed in thought.
Suddenly Harry's head shoots up and taps the statue of the witch.
"Dissendium!" Harry whispers, tapping the stone witch again. At once, the statue's hump opens wide enough to admit a fairly thin person. Harry glances quickly up and down the corridor, then tucks the map away again, hoists himself into the hole headfirst, and pushed himself forward.
Well I guess that we're playing follow the leader today. I give him a little bit of time in which to get out of the way, then I push myself through as well. I slide a considerable way down what feels like a stone slide, then land on cold, damp earth. Harry helps up, looking around. It is pitch dark. I pull out my wand. "Lumos" I say.
Light floods the area and we see that we are in a very narrow, low, earthy passageway. Harry raises the map, taps it with the tip of his wand, and mutters, "Mischief managed!" The map goes blank at once.
"How'd you know how to get in?" I ask him curiously.
"The map showed me. I'll show you some other time." Harry promises me. I nod my head thankful when Harry lights his wand as well.
The passage twists and turns, more like the burrow of a giant rabbit than anything else. We hurry along it, stumbling now and then on the uneven floor, holding our wands out in front of us.
It took ages, but we have the thought of Honeydukes to sustain us. After what feels like an hour, the passage begins to rise. Panting, we speed up, our faces hot, and feet very cold.
Ten minutes later, we come to the foot of some worn stone steps, which rise out of sight above him. Careful not to make any noise, Harry begins to climb. A hundred steps, two hundred steps, we lose count as we climb, watching our feet. . . . Then, without warning, my head hits something hard.
With a quiet whimper I rub the sore spot on my head. "It seemed to be a trapdoor." Harry whispers, massaging the top of his head, listening. We can't hear any sounds above us. Very slowly, we push the trapdoor open and peer over the edge.
We are in a cellar, which is full of wooden crates and boxes. Harry climbs out of the trapdoor and replaces it once I'm out — it blends so perfectly with the dusty floor that it is impossible to tell it was there. We creep slowly towards the wooden staircase that leads upstairs. Now we can definitely hear voices, not to mention the tinkle of a bell and the opening and shutting of a door.
Wondering what we ought to do, we suddenly hear a door open much closer at hand; somebody is about to come downstairs. This can't be good. "And get another box of Jelly Slugs, dear, they've nearly cleaned us out —" says a woman's voice.
A pair of feet is coming down the staircase. I pull Harry behind an enormous crate and wait for the footsteps to pass. We hear the man shifting boxes against the opposite wall. We might not get another chance —
Quickly and silently, Harry and I dodge out from our hiding place and climb the stairs; looking back, I saw an enormous backside and shiny bald head, buried in a box. We reach the door at the top of the stairs, slip through it, and find ourselves behind the counter of Honeydukes — we duck, crawl sideways, and then straighten up.
Oh my Merlin! Honeydukes is so crowded with Hogwarts students that no one looks twice at Harry. This is quite possibly one of the most glorious sights in my life; I think that I may cry!
There are shelves upon shelves of the most succulent-looking sweets imaginable. Creamy chunks of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, fat, honey-colored toffees; hundreds of different kinds of chocolate in neat rows; there is a large barrel of Every Flavor Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizbees, the levitating sherbet balls that Ron has mentioned; along yet another wall are "Special Effects" sweets: Drooble's Best Blowing Gum (which fills a room with bluebell-colored bubbles that refuse to pop for days), the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Pepper Imps ("Breathe fire for your friends!"), Ice Mice ("Hear your teeth chatter and squeak!"), peppermint creams shaped like toads ("Hop realistically in the stomach!"), fragile sugar-spun quills, and exploding bonbons.
This must be one of the most glorious places on earth! Harry and I squeeze oursleves through a crowd of sixth years and see a sign hanging in the farthest corner of the shop (UNUSUAL TASTES). Ron and Hermione are standing underneath it, examining a tray of blood-flavored lollipops. We sneak up behind them.
"Ugh, no, Harry won't want one of those, they're for vampires, I expect," Hermione is saying.
"How about these?" asks Ron, shoving a jar of Cockroach Clusters under Hermione's nose.
"Definitely not," says Harry.
Ron nearly drops the jar.
"Harry! Jamie!" squeals Hermione. "What are you doing here? How — how did you — ?"
"Wow!" says Ron, looking very impressed, "you both learned to Apparate!"
"'Course we haven't," I say. Harry drops his voice so that none of the sixth years could hear him and tells them all about the Marauder's Map.
"How come Fred and George never gave it to me!" says Ron, outraged. "I'm their brother!"
"But Harry isn't going to keep it!" says Hermione, as though the idea is ludicrous. "He's going to hand it in to Professor McGonagall, aren't you, Harry?"
"No, I'm not!" says Harry.
"Why should he?" I say.
"Are you mad?" says Ron, goggling at Hermione. "Hand in something that good?"
"If I hand it in, I'll have to say where I got it! Filch would know Fred and George had nicked it!"
"But what about Sirius Black?" Hermione hisses. "He could be using one of the passages on that map to get into the castle! The teachers have got to know!" Well she might have a point— a really small one.
"He can't be getting in through a passage," says Harry quickly. "There are seven secret tunnels on the map, right? Fred and George reckon Filch already knows about four of them. And of the other three — one of them's caved in, so no one can get through it. One of them's got the Whomping Willow planted over the entrance, so you can't get out of it. And the one I just came through — well — it's really hard to see the entrance to it down in the cellar, so unless he knew it was there . . ."
Harry hesitates. What if Black did know the passage was there? Ron, however, clears his throat significantly, and points to a notice pasted on the inside of the sweetshop door.
— BY ORDER OF —
THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Customers are reminded that until further notice, dementors will be patrolling the streets of Hogsmeade every night after sundown. This measure has been put in place for the safety of Hogsmeade residents and will be lifted upon the recapture of Sirius Black. It is therefore advisable that you complete your shopping well before nightfall.
Merry Christmas!
"See?" says Ron quietly. "I'd like to see Black try and break into Honeydukes with dementors swarming all over the village. Anyway, Hermione, the Honeydukes owners would hear a break-in, wouldn't they? They live over the shop!"
Yes, she's outmatched on this one. "Yes, but — but —" Hermione seems to be struggling to find another problem. "Look, Harry still shouldn't be coming into Hogsmeade. He hasn't got a signed form! If anyone finds out, he'll be in so much trouble! And it's not nightfall yet — what if Sirius Black turns up today? Now?"
"He'd have a job spotting Harry in this," says Ron, nodding through the mullioned windows at the thick, swirling snow. "Come on, Hermione, it's Christmas. Harry deserves a break."
"Besides he's already out here, we might as well make the most of it!" I cry.
Hermione bites her lip, looking extremely worried.
"Are you going to report me?" Harry asks her, grinning.
"Oh — of course not — but honestly, Harry —"
"Seen the Fizzing Whizbees, Harry?" asks Ron, grabbing him and leading us over to their barrel. "And the Jelly Slugs? And the Acid Pops? Fred gave me one of those when I was seven — it burnt a hole right through my tongue. I remember Mum walloping him with her broomstick." Ron stares broodingly into the Acid Pop box. "Reckon Fred'd take a bit of Cockroach Cluster if I told him they were peanuts?"
"Not very likely." I reply knowing that the twins would know what they really are.
When Ron and Hermione have paid for all their sweets, the four of us leave Honeydukes for the blizzard outside.
Hogsmeade looks like a Christmas card; the little thatched cottages and shops are all covered in a layer of crisp snow; there are holly wreaths on the doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in the trees.
I shiver; unlike the other two, we don't have our cloaks. We head up the street, heads bowed against the wind, Ron and Hermione shouting through their scarves.
"That's the post office —"
"Zonko's is up there —"
"We could go up to the Shrieking Shack —"
"Tell you what," says Ron, his teeth chattering, "shall we go for a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?"
Harry and I are more than willing; the wind is fierce and my hands are freezing, so we cross the road, and in a few minutes are entering the tiny inn.
It is extremely crowded, noisy, warm, and smoky. A curvy sort of woman with a pretty face is serving a bunch of rowdy warlocks up at the bar.
"That's Madam Rosmerta," says Ron. "I'll get the drinks, shall I?" he adds, going slightly red. Oh brother what am I going to do with him?
Harry, Hermione, and I make our way to the back of the room, where there is a small, vacant table between the window and a handsome Christmas tree, which stands next to the fireplace. Ron comes back five minutes later, carrying gour foaming tankards of hot butterbeer.
"Merry Christmas!" he says happily, raising his tankard.
"Happy Holidays!" I respond to the salute. I drink deeply. It is the most delicious thing I've ever tasted and seems to heat every bit of me from the inside. Thank you Merlin!
A sudden breeze ruffles my hair. The door of the Three Broomsticks has opened again. I look over the rim of my tankard and choke.
Professors McGonagall and Flitwick have just entered the pub with a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed by Hagrid, who is deep in conversation with a portly man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped cloak — Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.
Hermione, Ron, and I instantly shove Harry down under the table so that he's not seen. Hermione whispers, "Mobiliarbus!"
The Christmas tree beside our table rises a few inches off the ground, drifts sideways, and lands with a soft thump right in front of our table, hiding us from view.
"A small gillywater —"
"Mine," says Professor McGonagall's voice.
"Four pints of mulled mead —"
"Ta, Rosmerta," says Hagrid.
"A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella —"
"Mmm!" says Professor Flitwick, smacking his lips.
"So you'll be the red currant rum, Minister."
"Thank you, Rosmerta, m'dear," says Fudge's voice. "Lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one yourself, won't you? Come and join us. . . ."
"Well, thank you very much, Minister." What are they all doing here? This is a rather odd bunch to be meeting.
"So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?" comes Madam Rosmerta's voice.
He says in a quiet voice, "What else, m'dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard what happened up at the school at Halloween?"
"I did hear a rumor," admits Madam Rosmerta.
"Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?" asks Professor McGonagall exasperatedly.
"Do you think Black's still in the area, Minister?" whispers Madam Rosmerta.
"I'm sure of it," says Fudge shortly.
"You know that the dementors have searched my pub twice?" says Madam Rosmerta, a slight edge to her voice. "Scared all my customers away. . . . It's very bad for business, Minister."
"Rosmerta, m'dear, I don't like them any more than you do," says Fudge uncomfortably. "Necessary precaution . . . unfortunate, but there you are. . . . I've just met some of them. They're in a fury against Dumbledore — he won't let them inside the castle grounds."
"I should think not," says Professor McGonagall sharply. "How are we supposed to teach with those horrors floating around?" I agree I will not step foot into a classroom if they were lurking around the halls.
"Here, here!" squeaks tiny Professor Flitwick, whose feet are dangling a foot from the ground.
"All the same," demurs Fudge, "they are here to protect you all from something much worse. . . . We all know what Black's capable of. . . ."
"Do you know, I still have trouble believing it," says Madam Rosmerta thoughtfully. "Of all the people to go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I'd have thought . . . I mean, I remember him when he was a boy at Hogwarts. If you'd told me then what he was going to become, I'd have said you'd had too much mead."
"You don't know the half of it, Rosmerta," says Fudge gruffly. "The worst he did isn't widely known."
"The worst?" says Madam Rosmerta, her voice alive with curiosity. "Worse than murdering all those poor people, you mean?"
"I certainly do," replies Fudge.
"I can't believe that. What could possibly be worse?"
"You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta," murmurs Professor McGonagall. "Do you remember who his best friend was?"
"Naturally," says Madam Rosmerta, with a small laugh. "Never saw one without the other, did you? The number of times I had them in here — ooh, they used to make me laugh. Quite the double act, Sirius Black and James Potter!"
Harry drops his tankard with a loud clunk. Ron and I both kick him.
"Precisely," says Professor McGonagall. "Black and Potter. Ringleaders of their little gang. Both very bright, of course — exceptionally bright, in fact — but I don't think we've ever had such a pair of troublemakers —"
"I dunno," chuckles Hagrid. "Fred and George Weasley could give 'em a run fer their money."
"You'd have thought Black and Potter were brothers!" chimes in Professor Flitwick. "Inseparable!"
"Of course they were," says Fudge. "Potter trusted Black beyond all his other friends. Nothing changed when they left school. Black was best man when James married Lily. Then they named him godfather to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can imagine how the idea would torment him."
"Because Black turned out to be in league with You-Know-Who?" whispers Madam Rosmerta.
"Worse even than that, m'dear. . . ." Fudge drops his voice and proceeds in a sort of low rumble. "Not many people are aware that the Potters knew You-Know-Who was after them. Dumbledore, who was of course working tirelessly against You-Know-Who, had a number of useful spies. One of them tipped him off, and he alerted James and Lily at once. He advised them to go into hiding. Well, of course, You-Know-Who wasn't an easy person to hide from. Dumbledore told them that their best chance was the Fidelius Charm."
"How does that work?" asks Madam Rosmerta, breathless with interest. Professor Flitwick clears his throat.
"An immensely complex spell," he says squeakily, "involving the magical concealment of a secret inside a single, living soul. The information is hidden inside the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, and is henceforth impossible to find — unless, of course, the Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it. As long as the Secret-Keeper refused to speak, You-Know-Who could search the village where Lily and James were staying for years and never find them, not even if he had his nose pressed against their sitting-room window!"
"So Black was the Potters' Secret-Keeper?" whispers Madam Rosmerta.
"Naturally," says Professor McGonagall. "James Potter told Dumbledore that Black would die rather than tell where they were, that Black was planning to go into hiding himself . . . and yet, Dumbledore remained worried. I remember him offering to be the Potters' Secret-Keeper himself."
"He suspected Black?" gasps Madam Rosmerta.
"He was sure that somebody close to the Potters had been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their movements," says Professor McGonagall darkly. "Indeed, he had suspected for some time that someone on our side had turned traitor and was passing a lot of information to You-Know-Who."
"But James Potter insisted on using Black?"
"He did," says Fudge heavily. "And then, barely a week after the Fidelius Charm had been performed —"
"Black betrayed them?" breathes Madam Rosmerta. I suck in a sharp breath of air.
"He did indeed. Black was tired of his double-agent role, he was ready to declare his support openly for You-Know-Who, and he seems to have planned this for the moment of the Potters' death. But, as we all know, You-Know-Who met his downfall in little Harry Potter. Powers gone, horribly weakened, he fled. And this left Black in a very nasty position indeed. His master had fallen at the very moment when he, Black, had shown his true colors as a traitor. He had no choice but to run for it —"
"Filthy, stinkin' turncoat!" Hagrid says, so loudly that half the bar went quiet and I jump in my chair.
"Shh!" snaps Professor McGonagall.
"I met him!" growls Hagrid. "I musta bin the last ter see him before he killed all them people! It was me what rescued Harry from Lily an' James's house after they was killed! Jus' got him outta the ruins, poor little thing, with a great slash across his forehead, an' his parents dead . . . an' Sirius Black turns up, on that flyin' motorbike he used ter ride. Never occurred ter me what he was doin' there. I didn' know he'd bin Lily an' James's Secret-Keeper. Thought he'd jus' heard the news o' You-Know-Who's attack an' come ter see what he could do. White an' shakin', he was. An' yeh know what I did? I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN' TRAITOR!" Hagrid roars.
"Hagrid, please!" says Professor McGonagall. "Keep your voice down!"
"How was I ter know he wasn' upset abou' Lily an' James? It was You-Know-Who he cared abou'! An' then he says, 'Give Harry ter me, Hagrid, I'm his godfather, I'll look after him —' Ha! But I'd had me orders from Dumbledore, an' I told Black no, Dumbledore said Harry was ter go ter his aunt an' uncle's. Black argued, but in the end he gave in. Told me ter take his motorbike ter get Harry there. 'I won't need it anymore,' he says."
"I shoulda known there was somethin' fishy goin' on then. He loved that motorbike, what was he givin' it ter me for? Why wouldn' he need it anymore? Fact was, it was too easy ter trace. Dumbledore knew he'd bin the Potters' Secret-Keeper. Black knew he was goin' ter have ter run fer it that night, knew it was a matter o' hours before the Ministry was after him."
"But what if I'd given Harry to him, eh? I bet he'd've pitched him off the bike halfway out ter sea. His bes' friends' son! But when a wizard goes over ter the Dark Side, there's nothin' and no one that matters to 'em anymore. . . ."
A long silence follows Hagrid's story. Then Madam Rosmerta says with some satisfaction, "But he didn't manage to disappear, did he? The Ministry of Magic caught up with him next day!"
"Alas, if only we had," says Fudge bitterly. "It was not we who found him. It was little Peter Pettigrew — another of the Potters' friends. Maddened by grief, no doubt, and knowing that Black had been the Potters' Secret-Keeper, he went after Black himself." Oh this can't end well.
"Pettigrew . . . that fat little boy who was always tagging around after them at Hogwarts?" asks Madam Rosmerta.
"Hero-worshipped Black and Potter," says Professor McGonagall. "Never quite in their league, talent-wise. I was often rather sharp with him. You can imagine how I — how I regret that now. . . ." She sounds as though she has a sudden head cold.
The four of us are listening in with a morbid curiosity. "There, now, Minerva," says Fudge kindly, "Pettigrew died a hero's death. Eyewitnesses — Muggles, of course, we wiped their memories later — told us how Pettigrew cornered Black. They say he was sobbing, 'Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?' And then he went for his wand. Well, of course, Black was quicker. Blew Pettigrew to smithereens. . . ."
Professor McGonagall blows her nose and says thickly, "Stupid boy . . . foolish boy . . . he was always hopeless at dueling . . . should have left it to the Ministry. . . ."
"I tell yeh, if I'd got ter Black before little Pettigrew did, I wouldn't've messed around with wands — I'd've ripped him limb — from — limb," Hagrid growls.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Hagrid," says Fudge sharply. "Nobody but trained Hit Wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad would have stood a chance against Black once he was cornered. I was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Catastrophes at the time, and I was one of the first on the scene after Black murdered all those people. I — I will never forget it. I still dream about it sometimes. A crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had cracked the sewer below. Bodies everywhere. Muggles screaming. And Black standing there laughing, with what was left of Pettigrew in front of him . . . a heap of bloodstained robes and a few — a few fragments —"
Fudge's voice stops abruptly. There is the sound of five noses being blown.
"Well, there you have it, Rosmerta," says Fudge thickly. "Black was taken away by twenty members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and Pettigrew received the Order of Merlin, First Class, which I think was some comfort to his poor mother. Black's been in Azkaban ever since."
Madam Rosmerta lets out a long sigh. "Is it true he's mad, Minister?"
"I wish I could say that he was," says Fudge slowly. "I certainly believe his master's defeat unhinged him for a while. The murder of Pettigrew and all those Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate man — cruel . . . pointless. Yet I met Black on my last inspection of Azkaban. You know, most of the prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the dark; there's no sense in them . . . but I was shocked at how normal Black seemed. He spoke quite rationally to me. It was unnerving. You'd have thought he was merely bored — asked if I'd finished with my newspaper, cool as you please, said he missed doing the crossword. Yes, I was astounded at how little effect the dementors seemed to be having on him — and he was one of the most heavily guarded in the place, you know. Dementors outside his door day and night."
"But what do you think he's broken out to do?" says Madam Rosmerta. "Good gracious, Minister, he isn't trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?"
"I daresay that is his — er — eventual plan," says Fudge evasively. "But we hope to catch Black long before that. I must say, You-Know-Who alone and friendless is one thing . . . but give him back his most devoted servant, and I shudder to think how quickly he'll rise again. . . ."
There was a small chink of glass on wood. Someone has set down their glass.
"You know, Cornelius, if you're dining with the headmaster, we'd better head back up to the castle," says Professor McGonagall.
One by one the teachers disappear from the bar and Madam Rosmerta goes back over to the counter to deal with some more customers. Before any of us can react though Harry shoots out from under the table, and to the door. I scramble out of my chair to follow him.
Once I manage to get outside I run as fast as I can through the blowing snow after my friend. I finally catch Harry at the side of the woods. "Harry!" I cry. He spins around on me, his eyes red and it looks like he's been crying.
"Don't say it!" He cries.
"Harry…" I try again.
"You don't understand Jamie! You haven't lost everything that's mattered to you before, then find out that someone that your family had trust had betrayed them! You just don't understand!" Harry shouts, spinning back around and hurrying back into town and the secret passage.
I stand there watching as Hermione and Ron run after him. He really thinks that I don't understand? I'm probably the only one in the who castle who can understand how he feels. "Jamie?" A voice sounds from behind me. I turn around to see Ariana standing there bundled up in her cloak, hat, and two scarfs her house one and a fuzzy wool one.
"What are you doing out here? You don't even have a cloak on are you insane?" Arian cries, unwinding the fuzzy scarf from her neck, she wraps it around mine. She freezes when she notices the tears on my cheeks.
"Jamie… are you okay?" She asks me softly. I open my mouth to respond but between the shivering, and the emotions I'm only able to sob.
"Oh Jamie, it's okay… let's head back to the castle and get you warmed up. We'll head to the kitchens and the elves will get you some warm soup, then you can tell me what's wrong." Ariana tells me leading me up the path that leads to the castle.
I've stopped listening to her after a while content to just let her lead me on for I know that she'll take care of me.