Harry Potter 03 - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

sitting close by them. When they went upstairs to the crowded common room, it was to find Fred and George had set off half-a-dozen Dungbombs in a fit of end-of-term high spirits. Harry, who didn’t want Fred and George asking him whether he’d reached Hogsmeade or not, sneaked quietly up to the empty dormitory, and headed straight for his bedside cabinet. He pushed his books aside and quickly found what he was looking for – the leather-bound photo album Hagrid had given him two years ago, which was full of wizard pictures of his mother and father. He sat down on his bed, drew the hangings around him, and started turning the pages, searching, until …
    He stopped on a picture of his parents’ wedding day. There was his father waving up at him, beaming, the untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in all directions. There was his mother, alight with happiness, arm in arm with his Dad. And there … that must be him. Their best man … Harry had never given him a thought before.
    If he hadn’t known it was the same person, he would never have guessed it was Black in this old photograph. His face wasn’t sunken and waxy, but handsome, full of laughter. Had he already been working for Voldemort when this picture had been taken? Was he already planning the deaths of the two people next to him? Did he realise he was facing twelve years in Azkaban, twelve years which would make him unrecognisable?
    But the Dementors don’t affect him, Harry thought, staring into the handsome, laughing face. He doesn’t have to hear my Mum screaming if they get too close –
    Harry slammed the album shut, reached over and stuffed it back into his cabinet, took off his robes and glasses and got into bed, making sure the hangings were hiding him from view.
    The dormitory door opened.
    ‘Harry?’ said Ron’s voice uncertainly.
    But Harry lay still, pretending to be asleep. He heard Ron leave again, and rolled over on his back, his eyes wide open.
    A hatred such as he had never known before was coursing through Harry like poison. He could see Black laughing at him through the darkness, as though somebody had pasted the picture from the album over his eyes. He watched, as though somebody was playing him a piece of film, Sirius Black blasting Peter Pettigrew (who resembled Neville Longbottom) into a thousand pieces. He could hear (though he had no idea what Black’s voice might sound like) a low, excited mutter. ‘It has happened, my Lord … the Potters have made me their Secret Keeper …’ And then came another voice, laughing shrilly, the same laugh that Harry heard inside his head whenever the Dementors drew near …
    *
    ‘Harry, you – you look terrible.’
    Harry hadn’t got to sleep until daybreak. He had awoken to find the dormitory deserted, dressed and gone down the spiral staircase to a common room that was completely empty except for Ron, who was eating a Peppermint Toad and massaging his stomach, and Hermione, who had spread her homework over three tables.
    ‘Where is everyone?’ said Harry.
    ‘Gone! It’s the first day of the holidays, remember?’ said Ron, watching Harry closely. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime, I was going to come and wake you up in a minute.’
    Harry slumped into a chair next to the fire. Snow was still falling outside the windows. Crookshanks was spread out in front of the fire like a large, ginger rug.
    ‘You really don’t look well, you know,’ Hermione said, peering anxiously into his face.
    ‘I’m fine,’ said Harry.
    ‘Harry, listen,’ said Hermione, exchanging a look with Ron, ‘you must be really upset about what we heard yesterday. But the thing is, you mustn’t go doing anything stupid.’
    ‘Like what?’ said Harry.
    ‘Like trying to go after Black,’ said Ron sharply.
    Harry could tell they had rehearsed this conversation while he had been asleep. He didn’t say anything.
    ‘You won’t, will you, Harry?’ said Hermione.
    ‘Because Black’s not worth dying for,’ said Ron.
    Harry looked at them. They didn’t seem to understand at all.
    ‘D’you know what I see and hear every time a Dementor gets too near me?’ Ron and Hermione shook their heads, looking apprehensive. ‘I can hear my mum screaming and pleading with Voldemort. And if you’d heard your mum screaming like that, just about to be killed, you wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. And if you found out someone who was supposed to be a friend of hers betrayed her and sent Voldemort after her