Harry Potter 03 - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

and fifty points.
    Oliver Wood was a burly seventeen-year-old, now in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts. There was a quiet sort of desperation in his voice as he addressed his six fellow team members in the chilly changing rooms on the edge of the darkening Quidditch pitch.
    ‘This is our last chance – my last chance – to win the Quidditch Cup,’ he told them, striding up and down in front of them. ‘I’ll be leaving at the end of this year. I’ll never get another shot at it.
    ‘Gryffindor haven’t won for seven years now. OK, so we’ve had the worst luck in the world – injuries – then the tournament getting called off last year …’ Wood swallowed, as though the memory still brought a lump to his throat. ‘But we also know we’ve got the best – ruddy – team – in – the – school ,’ he said, punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic glint back in his eye.
    ‘We’ve got three superb Chasers.’
    Wood pointed at Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell.
    ‘We’ve got two unbeatable Beaters.’
    ‘Stop it, Oliver, you’re embarrassing us,’ said Fred and George Weasley together, pretending to blush.
    ‘And we’ve got a Seeker who has never failed to win us a match !’ Wood rumbled, glaring at Harry with a kind of furious pride. ‘And me,’ he added, as an afterthought.
    ‘We think you’re very good, too, Oliver,’ said George.
    ‘Cracking Keeper,’ said Fred.
    ‘The point is,’ Wood went on, resuming his pacing, ‘the Quidditch Cup should have had our name on it these last two years. Ever since Harry joined the team, I’ve thought the thing was in the bag. But we haven’t got it, and this year’s the last chance we’ll get to finally see our name on the thing …’
    Wood spoke so dejectedly that even Fred and George looked sympathetic.
    ‘Oliver, this year’s our year,’ said Fred.
    ‘We’ll do it, Oliver!’ said Angelina.
    ‘Definitely,’ said Harry.
    Full of determination, the team started training sessions, three evenings a week. The weather was getting colder and wetter, the nights darker, but no amount of mud, wind or rain could tarnish Harry’s wonderful vision of finally winning the huge silver Quidditch Cup.
    Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room one evening after training, cold and stiff but pleased with the way practice had gone, to find the room buzzing excitedly.
    ‘What’s happened?’ he asked Ron and Hermione, who were sitting in two of the best chairs by the fireside and completing some star charts for Astronomy.
    ‘First Hogsmeade weekend,’ said Ron, pointing at a notice that had appeared on the battered old noticeboard. ‘End of October. Hallowe’en.’
    ‘Excellent,’ said Fred, who had followed Harry through the portrait hole. ‘I need to visit Zonko’s, I’m nearly out of Stink Pellets.’
    Harry threw himself into a chair beside Ron, his high spirits ebbing away. Hermione seemed to read his mind.
    ‘Harry, I’m sure you’ll be able to go next time,’ she said. ‘They’re bound to catch Black soon, he’s been sighted once already.’
    ‘Black’s not fool enough to try anything in Hogsmeade,’ said Ron. ‘Ask McGonagall if you can go this time, Harry, the next one might not be for ages –’
    ‘Ron!’ said Hermione. ‘Harry’s supposed to stay in school –’
    ‘He can’t be the only third-year left behind,’ said Ron. ‘Ask McGonagall, go on, Harry –’
    ‘Yeah, I think I will,’ said Harry, making up his mind.
    Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but at that moment Crookshanks leapt lightly onto her lap. A large, dead spider was dangling from his mouth.
    ‘Does he have to eat that in front of us?’ said Ron, scowling.
    ‘Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by yourself?’ said Hermione.
    Crookshanks slowly chewed up the spider, his yellow eyes fixed insolently on Ron.
    ‘Just keep him over there, that’s all,’ said Ron irritably, turning back to his star chart. ‘I’ve got Scabbers asleep in my bag.’
    Harry yawned. He really wanted to go to bed, but he still had his own star chart to complete. He pulled his bag towards him, took out parchment, ink and quill, and started work.
    ‘You can copy mine, if you like,’ said Ron, labelling his last star with a flourish and shoving the chart towards Harry.
    Hermione, who disapproved of copying, pursed her lips, but didn’t say anything. Crookshanks was still staring unblinkingly at Ron, flicking the end of