Harry Potter 03 - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

shop, Zonko’s Joke Shop, into the Three Broomsticks for foaming mugs of hot Butterbeer and many places besides.
    ‘The post office, Harry! About two hundred owls, all sitting on shelves, all colour-coded depending on how fast you want your letter to get there!’
    ‘Honeydukes have got a new kind of fudge, they were giving out free samples, there’s a bit, look –’
    ‘We think we saw an ogre, honestly, they get all sorts at the Three Broomsticks –’
    ‘Wish we could have brought you some Butterbeer, really warms you up –’
    ‘What did you do?’ said Hermione, looking anxious. ‘Did you get any work done?’
    ‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Lupin made me a cup of tea in his office. And then Snape came in …’
    He told them all about the goblet. Ron’s mouth fell open.
    ‘Lupin drank it?’ he gasped. ‘Is he mad?’
    Hermione checked her watch.
    ‘We’d better go down, you know, the feast’ll be starting in five minutes …’ They hurried through the portrait hole and into the crowd, still discussing Snape.
    ‘But if he – you know –’ Hermione dropped her voice, glancing nervously around, ‘if he was trying to – to poison Lupin – he wouldn’t have done it in front of Harry.’
    ‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Harry, as they reached the Entrance Hall and crossed into the Great Hall. It had been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of candle-filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats and many flaming orange streamers, which were swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant watersnakes.
    The food was delicious; even Hermione and Ron, who were full to bursting with Honeydukes sweets, managed second helpings of everything. Harry kept glancing at the staff table. Professor Lupin looked cheerful and as well as he ever did; he was talking animatedly to tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher. Harry moved his eyes along the table, to the place where Snape sat. Was he imagining it, or were Snape’s eyes flickering towards Lupin more often than was natural?
    The feast finished with an entertainment provided by the Hogwarts ghosts. They popped out of the walls and tables to do a spot of formation gliding; Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had a great success with a re-enactment of his own botched beheading.
    It had been such a good evening that Harry’s good mood couldn’t even be spoiled by Malfoy, who shouted through the crowd as they all left the Hall, ‘The Dementors send their love, Potter!’
    Harry, Ron and Hermione followed the rest of the Gryffindors along the usual path to Gryffindor Tower, but when they reached the corridor which ended with the portrait of the Fat Lady, they found it jammed with students.
    ‘Why isn’t anyone going in?’ said Ron curiously.
    Harry peered over the heads in front of him. The portrait seemed to be closed.
    ‘Let me through, please,’ came Percy’s voice, and he came bustling importantly through the crowd. ‘What’s the hold-up here? You can’t all have forgotten the password – excuse me, I’m Head Boy –’
    And then a silence fell over the crowd, from the front first, so that a chill seemed to spread down the corridor. They heard Percy say, in a suddenly sharp voice, ‘Somebody get Professor Dumbledore. Quick.’
    People’s heads turned; those at the back were standing on tiptoe.
    ‘What’s going on?’ said Ginny, who had just arrived.
    Next moment, Professor Dumbledore was there, sweeping towards the portrait; the Gryffindors squeezed together to let him through, and Harry, Ron and Hermione moved closer to see what the trouble was.
    ‘Oh, my –’ Hermione exclaimed and grabbed Harry’s arm.
    The Fat Lady had vanished from her portrait, which had been slashed so viciously that strips of canvas littered the floor; great chunks of it had been torn away completely.
    Dumbledore took one quick look at the ruined painting and turned, his eyes sombre, to see Professors McGonagall, Lupin and Snape hurrying towards him.
    ‘We need to find her,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Professor McGonagall, please go to Mr Filch at once and tell him to search every painting in the castle for the Fat Lady.’
    ‘You’ll be lucky!’ said a cackling voice.
    It was Peeves the poltergeist, bobbing over the crowd and looking delighted, as he always did, at the sight of wreckage or worry.
    ‘What do you mean, Peeves?’ said Dumbledore calmly, and Peeves’s grin faded a little. He didn’t dare taunt Dumbledore. Instead he