Harry Potter 03 - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Black turns up today? Now?’
    ‘He’d have a job spotting Harry in this,’ said Ron, nodding through the mullioned windows at the thick, swirling snow. ‘Come on, Hermione, it’s Christmas, Harry deserves a break.’
    Hermione bit her lip, looking extremely worried.
    ‘Are you going to report me?’ Harry asked her, grinning.
    ‘Oh – of course not – but honestly, Harry –’
    ‘Seen the Fizzing Whizzbees, Harry?’ said Ron, grabbing him and leading him 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 stared broodingly into the Acid Pop box. ‘Reckon Fred’d take a bit of Cockroach Cluster if I told him they were peanuts?’
    When Ron and Hermione had paid for all their sweets, the three of them left Honeydukes for the blizzard outside.
    Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card; the little thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreaths on the doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in the trees.
    Harry shivered; unlike the other two, he didn’t have his cloak. They headed 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,’ said Ron, his teeth chattering, ‘shall we go for a Butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?’
    Harry was more than willing; the wind was fierce and his hands were freezing, so they crossed the road, and in a few minutes were entering the tiny inn.
    It was extremely crowded, noisy, warm and smoky. A curvy sort of woman with a pretty face was serving a bunch of rowdy warlocks up at the bar.
    ‘That’s Madam Rosmerta,’ said Ron. ‘I’ll get the drinks, shall I?’ he added, going slightly red.
    Harry and Hermione made their way to the back of the room, where there was a small, vacant table between the window and a handsome Christmas tree which stood next to the fireplace. Ron came back five minutes later, carrying three foaming tankards of hot Butterbeer.
    ‘Happy Christmas!’ he said happily, raising his tankard.
    Harry drank deeply. It was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted and seemed to heat every bit of him from the inside.
    A sudden breeze ruffled his hair. The door of the Three Broomsticks had opened again. Harry looked over the rim of his tankard and choked.
    Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had just entered the pub in a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed by Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with a portly man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped cloak: Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic.
    In an instant, Ron and Hermione had both placed hands on the top of Harry’s head and forced him off his stool and under the table. Dripping with Butterbeer and crouching out of sight, Harry clutched his empty tankard and watched the teachers’ and Fudge’s feet move towards the bar, pause, then turn and walk right towards him.
    Somewhere above him, Hermione whispered, ‘Mobiliarbus!’
    The Christmas tree beside their table rose a few inches off the ground, drifted sideways and landed with a soft thump right in front of their table, hiding them from view. Staring through the dense lower branches, Harry saw four sets of chair legs move back from the table right beside theirs, then heard the grunts and sighs of the teachers and Minister as they sat down.
    Next he saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly turquoise high heels, and heard a woman’s voice.
    ‘A small Gillywater –’
    ‘Mine,’ said Professor McGonagall’s voice.
    ‘Four pints of mulled mead –’
    ‘Ta, Rosmerta,’ said Hagrid.
    ‘A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella –’
    ‘Mmm!’ said Professor Flitwick, smacking his lips.
    ‘So you’ll be the redcurrant rum, Minister.’
    ‘Thank you, Rosmerta, m’dear,’ said 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.’
    Harry watched the glittering heels march away and back again. His heart was pounding uncomfortably in his throat. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that this was the last weekend of term for the teachers, too? And how long were they going to sit there? He needed time to sneak back into Honeydukes if he wanted to