Chapter 10 The Marauder's Map

Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping Harry in the hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. He didn't argue or complain, but he wouldn't let her throw away the shattered remnants of his Nimbus Two Thousand. He knew he was being stupid, knew that the Nimbus was beyond repair, but Harry couldn't help it; he felt as though he'd lost one of his best friends.

He had a stream of visitors, all intent on cheering him up. Hagrid sent him a bunch of earwiggy flowers that looked like yellow cabbages, and Ginny Weasley, blushing furiously, turned up with a get-well card she had made herself, which sang shrilly unless Harry kept it shut under his bowl of fruit. The Gryffindor team visited again on Sunday morning, this time accompanied by Wood, who told Harry (in a hollow, dead sort of voice) that he didn't blame him in the slightest. Ron and Hermione left Harry's bedside only at night. But nothing anyone said or did could make Harry feel any better, because they knew only half of what was troubling him.

He hadn't told anyone about the Grim, not even Ron and Hermione, because he knew Ron would panic and Hermione would scoff. The fact remained, however, that it had now appeared twice, and both appearances had been followed by near-fatal accidents; the first time, he had nearly been run over by the Knight Bus; the second, fallen fifty feet from his broomstick. Was the Grim going to haunt him until he actually died? Was he going to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the beast?

And then there were the Dementors. Harry felt sick and humiliated every time he thought of them. Everyone said the Dementors were horrible, but no one else collapsed every time they went near one. No one else heard echoes in their head of their dying parents.

Because Harry knew who that screaming voice belonged to now. He had heard her words, heard them over and over again during the night hours in the hospital wing while he lay awake, staring at the strips of moonlight on the ceiling. When the Dementors approached him, he heard the last moments of his mother's life, her attempts to protect him, Harry, from Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort's laughter before he murdered her…Harry dozed fitfully, sinking into dreams full of clammy, rotted hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell again on his mother's voice.

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It was a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the main school on Monday, where he was forced to think about other things, even if he had to endure Draco Malfoy's taunting. Malfoy was almost beside himself with glee at Gryffindor's defeat. He had finally taken off his bandages, and celebrated having the full use of both arms again by doing spirited imitations of Harry falling off his broom. Malfoy spent much of their next Potions class doing Dementor imitations across the dungeon; Ron finally cracked and flung a large, slippery crocodile heart at Malfoy, which hit him in the face and caused Snape to take fifty points from Gryffindor.

“If Snape's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts again, I'm skiving off,” said Ron as they headed toward Lupin's classroom after lunch. “Check who's in there, Hermione.”

Hermione peered around the classroom door.

“It's okay!”

Professor Lupin was back at work. It certainly looked as though he had been ill. His old robes were hanging more loosely on him and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiled at the class as they took their seats, and they 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 asked, frowning slightly.

The babble broke out again.

“Yes, but he said we were really behind —”

“— he wouldn't listen —”

“— two rolls of parchment!”

Professor Lupin smiled at the look of indignation on every face.

“Don't worry. I'll speak to Professor Snape. You don't have to do the essay.”

“Oh no,” said Hermione, looking very disappointed. “I've already finished it!”

They had a very enjoyable lesson. Professor Lupin had brought along a glass box containing a Hinkypunk, a little one-legged creature who looked as though he were made of wisps of smoke, rather frail and harmless looking.

“Lures travelers into bogs,” said Professor Lupin as they took notes. “You notice the lantern dangling from his hand? Hops ahead — people follow the light — then —”

The Hinkypunk made a horrible squelching noise against the glass.

When the bell rang, everyone gathered up their things and headed for the door, Harry among them, but —

“Wait a moment, Harry,” Lupin called. “I'd like a word.”

Harry doubled back and watched Professor Lupin covering the Hinkypunk's box with a cloth.

“I heard about the match,” said Lupin, turning back to his desk and starting to pile books into his briefcase, “and I'm sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?”

“No,” said Harry. “The tree smashed it to bits.”

Lupin sighed.

“They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No broomstick would have a chance.”

“Did you hear about the Dementors too?” said Harry with difficulty.

Lupin looked at him quickly.

“Yes, I did. I don't think any of us have seen Professor Dumbledore that angry. They have been growing restless for some time…furious at his refusal to let them inside the grounds…I suppose they were the reason you fell?”

“Yes,” said Harry. He hesitated, and then the question he had to ask burst from him before he could stop himself. “Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I just —?”

“It has nothing to do with weakness,” said Professor Lupin sharply, as though he had read Harry's mind. “The Dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don't have.”

A ray of wintry sunlight fell across the classroom, illuminating Lupin's gray hairs and the lines on his young face.

“Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can't see them. Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the Dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself — soul-less and evil. You'll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life. And the worst that happened to you, Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”

“When they get near me —” Harry stared at Lupin's desk, his throat tight. “I can hear Voldemort murdering my mum.”

Lupin made a sudden motion with his arm as though to grip Harry's shoulder, but thought better of it. There was a moment's silence, then —

“Why did they have to come to the match?” said Harry bitterly.

“They're getting hungry,” said Lupin coolly, shutting his briefcase with a snap. “Dumbledore won't let them into the school, so their supply of human prey has dried up…I don't think they could resist the large crowd around the Quidditch field. All that excitement…emotions running high…it was their idea of a feast.”

“Azkaban must be terrible,” Harry muttered. Lupin nodded grimly.

“The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea, but they don't need walls and water to keep the prisoners in, not when they're all trapped inside their own heads, incapable of a single cheery thought. Most of them go mad within weeks.”

“But Sirius Black escaped from them,” Harry said slowly. “He got away…”

Lupin's briefcase slipped from the desk; he had to stoop quickly to catch it.

“Yes,” he said, straightening up, “Black must have found a way to fight them. I wouldn't have believed it possible…Dementors are supposed to drain a wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long…”

“You made that Dementor on the train back off,” said Harry suddenly.

“There are — certain defenses one can use,” said Lupin. “But there was only one Dementor on the train. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist.”

“What defenses?” said Harry at once. “Can you teach me?”

“I don't pretend to be an expert at fighting Dementors, Harry — quite the contrary…”

“But if the Dementors come to another Quidditch match, I need to be able to fight them —”

Lupin looked into Harry's determined face, hesitated, then said, “Well…all right. I'll try and help. But it'll have to wait until next term, I'm afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient time to fall ill.”

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What with the promise of anti-Dementor lessons from Lupin, the thought that he might never have to hear his mother's death again, and the fact that Ravenclaw flattened Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the end of November, Harry's mood took a definite upturn. Gryffindor were not out of the running after all, although they could not afford to lose another match. Wood became repossessed of his manic energy, and worked his team as hard as ever in the chilly haze of rain that persisted into December. Harry saw no hint of a Dementor within the grounds. Dumbledore's anger seemed to be keeping them at their stations at the entrances.

Two weeks before the end of the term, the sky lightened suddenly to a dazzling, opaline white and the muddy grounds were revealed one morning covered in glittering frost. Inside the castle, there was a buzz of Christmas in the air. Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, had already decorated his classroom with shimmering lights that turned out to be real, fluttering fairies. The students were all happily discussing their plans for the holidays. Both Ron and Hermione had decided to remain at Hogwarts, and though Ron said it was because he couldn't stand two weeks with Percy, and Hermione insisted she needed to use the library, Harry wasn't fooled; they were doing it to keep him company, and he was very grateful.

To everyone's delight except Harry's, there was to be another Hogsmeade trip on the very last weekend of the term.

“We can do all our Christmas shopping there!” said 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 borrowed a copy of Which Broomstick from Wood, and decided to spend the day reading up on the different makes. He had been riding one of the school brooms at team practice, an ancient Shooting Star, which was very slow and jerky; he definitely needed a new broom of his own.

On the Saturday morning of the Hogsmeade trip, Harry bid good-bye to Ron and Hermione, who were wrapped in cloaks and scarves, then turned up the marble staircase alone, and headed back toward Gryffindor Tower. Snow had started to fall outside the windows, and the castle was very still and quiet.

“Psst — Harry!”

He turned, halfway along the third-floor corridor, to see Fred and George peering out at him from behind a statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch.

“What are you doing?” said Harry curiously. “How come you're not going to Hogsmeade?”

“We've come to give you a bit of festive cheer before we go,” said Fred, with a mysterious wink. “Come in here…”

He nodded toward an empty classroom to the left of the one-eyed statue. Harry followed Fred and George inside. George closed the door quietly and then turned, beaming, to look at Harry.

“Early Christmas present for you, Harry,” he said.

Fred pulled something from inside his cloak with a flourish and laid it on one of the desks. It was a large, square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it. Harry, suspecting one of Fred and George's jokes, stared at it.

“What's that supposed to be?”

“This, Harry, is the secret of our success,” said George, patting the parchment fondly.

“It's a wrench, giving it to you,” said Fred, “but we decided last night, your need's greater than ours.”

“Anyway, we know it by heart,” said George. “We bequeath it to you. We don't really need it anymore.”

“And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?” said Harry.

“A bit of old parchment!” said Fred, closing his eyes with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended him. “Explain, George.”

“Well…when we were in our first year, Harry — young, carefree, and innocent —”

Harry snorted. He doubted whether Fred and George had 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.”

“Don't tell me —” said Harry, starting to grin.

“Well, what would you've done?” said 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,” said 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?”

“Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This little beauty's taught us more than all the teachers in this school.”

“You're winding me up,” said Harry, looking at the ragged old bit of parchment.

“Oh, are we?” said George.

He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a spider's web from the point that George's wand had touched. They joined each other, they crisscrossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed:

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers
are proud to present
THE MARAUDER'S MAP
It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled with a name in minuscule writing. Astounded, Harry bent over it. A labeled dot in the top left corner showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his study; the caretaker's cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as Harry's eyes traveled up and down the familiar corridors, he noticed something else.

This map showed a set of passages he had never entered. And many of them seemed to lead —

“Right into Hogsmeade,” said Fred, tracing one of them with his finger. “There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four” — he pointed 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,” sighed George, patting the heading of the map. “We owe them so much.”

“Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers,” said Fred solemnly.

“Right,” said George briskly. “Don't forget to wipe it after you've used it —”

“— or anyone can read it,” Fred said warningly.

“Just tap it again and say, “Mischief managed!” And it'll go blank.”

“So, young Harry,” said Fred, in an uncanny impersonation of Percy, “mind you behave yourself.”

“See you in Honeydukes,” said George, winking.

They left the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of way.

Harry stood there, gazing at the miraculous map. He watched the tiny ink Mrs. Norris turn left and pause to sniff at something on the floor. If Filch really didn't know…he wouldn't have to pass the Dementors at all….

But even as he stood there, flooded with excitement, something Harry had once heard Mr. Weasley say came floating out of his memory.

Never trust anything that can think for itself, if you can't see where it keeps its brain.

This map was one of those dangerous magical objects Mr. Weasley had been warning against…Aids for Magical Mischief Makers…but then, Harry reasoned, he only wanted to use it to get into Hogsmeade, it wasn't as though he wanted to steal anything or attack anyone…and Fred and George had been using it for years without anything horrible happening…

Harry traced the secret passage to Honeydukes with his finger.

Then, quite suddenly, as though following orders, he rolled up the map, stuffed it inside his robes, and hurried to the door of the classroom. He opened it a couple of inches. There was no one outside. Very carefully, he edged out of the room and behind the statue of the one-eyed witch.

What did he have to do? He pulled out the map again and saw to his astonishment, that a new ink figure had appeared upon it, labeled ‘Harry Potter'. This figure was standing exactly where the real Harry was standing, about halfway down the third-floor corridor. Harry watched carefully. His little Ink self appeared to be tapping the witch with his minute wand. Harry quickly took out his real wand and tapped the statue. Nothing happened. He looked back at the map. The tiniest speech bubble had appeared next to his figure. The word inside said, ‘Dissendium.’

“Dissendium!” Harry whispered, tapping the stone witch again.

At once, the statue's hump opened wide enough to admit a fairly thin person. Harry glanced quickly up and down the corridor, then tucked the map away again, hoisted himself into the hole headfirst, and pushed himself forward.

He slid a considerable way down what felt like a stone slide, then landed on cold, damp earth. He stood up, looking around. It was pitch dark. He held up his wand, muttered, “Lumos!” and saw that he was in a very narrow, low, earthy passageway. He raised the map, tapped it with the tip of his wand, and muttered, “Mischief managed!” The map went blank at once. He folded it carefully, tucked it inside his robes, then, heart beating fast, both excited and apprehensive, he set off.

The passage twisted and turned, more like the burrow of a giant rabbit than anything else. Harry hurried along it, stumbling now and then on the uneven floor, holding his wand out in front of him.

It took ages, but Harry had the thought of Honeydukes to sustain him. After what felt like an hour, the passage began to rise. Panting, Harry sped up, his face hot, his feet very cold.

Ten minutes later, he came to the foot of some worn stone steps, which rose out of sight above him. Careful not to make any noise, Harry began to climb. A hundred steps, two hundred steps, he lost count as he climbed, watching his feet…then, without warning, his head hit something hard.

It seemed to be a trapdoor. Harry stood there, massaging the top of his head, listening. He couldn't hear any sounds above him. Very slowly, he pushed the trapdoor open and peered over the edge.

He was in a cellar, which was full of wooden crates and boxes. Harry climbed out of the trapdoor and replaced it — it blended so perfectly with the dusty floor that it was impossible to tell it was there. Harry crept slowly toward the wooden staircase that led upstairs. Now he could definitely hear voices, not to mention the tinkle of a bell and the opening and shutting of a door.

Wondering what he ought to do, he suddenly heard a door open much closer at hand; somebody was about to come downstairs.

“And get another box of Jelly Slugs, dear, they've nearly cleaned us out —” said a woman's voice.

A pair of feet was coming down the staircase. Harry leapt behind an enormous crate and waited for the footsteps to pass. He heard the man shifting boxes against the opposite wall. He might not get another chance —

Quickly and silently, Harry dodged out from his hiding place and climbed the stairs; looking back, he saw an enormous backside and shiny bald head, buried in a box. Harry reached the door at the top of the stairs, slipped through it, and found himself behind the counter of Honeydukes — he ducked, crept sideways, and then straightened up.

Honeydukes was so crowded with Hogwarts students that no one looked twice at Harry. He edged among them, looking around, and suppressed a laugh as he imagined the look that would spread over Dudley's piggy face if he could see where Harry was now.

There were 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 was a large barrel of Every Flavor Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizbees, the levitating sherbet balls that Ron had mentioned; along yet another wall were ‘Special Effects’ — sweets: Droobles Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with bluebell-colored bubbles that refused 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.

Harry squeezed himself through a crowd of sixth years and saw a sign hanging in the farthest corner of the shop (UNUSUAL TASTES). Ron and Hermione were standing underneath it, examining a tray of blood-flavored lollipops. Harry sneaked up behind them.

“Ugh, no, Harry won't want one of those, they're for vampires, I expect,” Hermione was saying.

“How about these?” said Ron, shoving a jar of Cockroach Clusters under Hermione's nose.

“Definitely not,” said Harry.

Ron nearly dropped the jar.

“Harry!” squealed Hermione. “What are you doing here? How — how did you —?”

“Wow!” said Ron, looking very impressed, “you've learned to Apparate!”

“‘Course I haven't,” said Harry. He dropped his voice so that none of the sixth years could hear him and told them all about the Marauder's Map.

“How come Fred and George never gave it to me!” said Ron, outraged. “I'm their brother!”

“But Harry isn't going to keep it!” said Hermione, as though the idea were ludicrous. “He's going to hand it in to Professor McGonagall, aren't you, Harry?”

“No, I'm not!” said Harry.

“Are you mad?” said 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 hissed. “He could be using one of the passages on that map to get into the castle! The teachers have got to know!”

“He can't be getting in through a passage,” said 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 hesitated. What if Black did know the passage was there? Ron, however, cleared his throat significantly, and pointed 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?” said 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, but — but —” Heroine seemed 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,” 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 Whizbees, 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 bite 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.

“Merry 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 with 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 of 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 toward the bar, pause, then turn and walk right toward 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 red currant 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 return to school tonight … Hermione's leg gave a nervous twitch next to him.

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?” came Madam Rosmerta's voice.

Harry saw the lower part of Fudge's thick body twist in his chair as though he were checking for eavesdroppers. Then he said 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,” admitted Madam Rosmerta.

“Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?” said Professor McGonagall exasperatedly.

“Do you think Black's still in the area, Minister?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“I'm sure of it,” said Fudge shortly.

“You know that the Dementors have searched the whole village twice?” said Madam Rosmerta, a slight edge to her voice. “Scared all my customers away…It's very bad for business, Minister.”

“Rosmerta, dear, I don't like them any more than you do,” said 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,” said Professor McGonagall sharply. “How are we supposed to teach with those horrors floating around?”

“Hear, hear!” squeaked tiny Professor Flitwick, whose feet were dangling a foot from the ground.

“All the same,” demurred 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,” said 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,” said Fudge gruffly. “The worst he did isn't widely known.”

“The worst?” said Madam Rosmerta, her voice alive with curiosity. “Worse than murdering all those poor people, you mean?”

“I certainly do,” said Fudge.

“I can't believe that. What could possibly be worse?”

“You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta,” murmured Professor McGonagall. “Do you remember who his best friend was?”

“Naturally,” said 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 dropped his tankard with a loud clunk. Ron kicked him.

“Precisely,” said 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,” chuckled Hagrid. “Fred and George Weasley could give ‘em a run fer their money.”

“You'd have thought Black and Potter were brothers!” chimed in Professor Flitwick. “Inseparable!”

“Of course they were,” said 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?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“Worse even than that, m'dear…” Fudge dropped his voice and proceeded 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?” said Madam Rosmerta, breathless with interest. Professor Flitwick cleared his throat.

“An immensely complex spell,” he said 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?” whispered Madam Rosmerta.

“Naturally,” said 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?” gasped Madam Rosmerta.

“He was sure that somebody close to the Potters had been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their movements,” said 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,” said Fudge heavily. “And then, barely a week after the Fidelius Charm had been performed —”

“Black betrayed them?” breathed Madam Rosmerta.

“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 said, so loudly that half the bar went quiet.

“Shh!” said Professor McGonagall.

“I met him!” growled 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 roared.

“Hagrid, please!” said 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 followed Hagrid's story. Then Madam Rosmerta said 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,” said 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.”

“Pettigrew…that fat little boy who was always tagging around after them at Hogwarts?” said Madam Rosmerta.

“Hero-worshipped Black and Potter,” said 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 sounded as though she had a sudden head cold.

“There, now, Minerva,” said 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 blew her nose and said 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 growled.

“You don't know what you're talking about, Hagrid,” said 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 stopped abruptly. There was the sound of five noses being blown.

“Well, there you have it, Rosmerta,” said 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 let out a long sigh.

“Is it true he's mad, Minister?”

“I wish I could say that he was,” said 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?” said Madam Rosmerta. “Good gracious, Minister, he isn't trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?”

“I daresay that is his — er — eventual plan,” said 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 had set down their glass.

“You know, Cornelius, if you're dining with the headmaster, we'd better head back up to the castle,” said Professor McGonagall.

One by one, the pairs of feet in front of Harry took the weight of their owners once more; hems of cloaks swung into sight, and Madam Rosmerta's glittering heels disappeared behind the bar. The door of the Three Broomsticks opened again, there was another flurry of snow, and the teachers had disappeared.

“Harry?”

Ron's and Hermione's faces appeared under the table. They were both staring at him, lost for words.

　波姆弗雷女士坚持哈利留在医院直到星期一，他没有争辩也没有埋怨，但是他不让她把灵光2000的破碎的残屑扔掉，他知道这样做很蠢，因为他知道灵光2000已经不能修理的，但是哈利还是要留着，他觉得他失去一个最要好的朋友。

　　很多人都来看望他，都想让他高兴起来。哈格力送他一扎像黄色卷心菜一样的花，金妮。威斯则红着脸送他一张她自己做的“康复”卡。那卡唱着悦耳的歌直到哈利合上它并放在那篮水果下面。格林芬顿队员在星期六早上又来探望他。这次伍德也来了，他用低沉的声音告诉哈利，他一点也不责怪哈利。晚上，只有罗恩和荷米恩留在哈利床边。但是他们说什么都不能让哈利振奋起来，因为他们知道哈利想找他的扫帚的另一半。

　　他没有把格拉菲的事告诉任何人，连同罗恩和荷米恩，因为他知道罗恩会受惊而荷米恩则会嘲笑的，这个事实已经出现两次了，两次的出现都导致致命的后果，第一次，他差点被爵士巴士辗过，第二次，他在五十尺的空中从扫帚上掉下来。是否格拉菲会一直缠着他直到他真正地死去？是否他下半生都要上下左右望来看那东西是否在旁？

　　还有那些得蒙特，哈利每次想到他们都觉得作呕和侮辱，每个人都说得蒙特很恐怖，但他们中没有一个在他们靠近时晕倒过去……

　　没有人听到他父母在临死前的尖叫。

　　因为哈利现在知道那些尖叫是属于谁的，他听到她的话了，晚上在医院他醒着躺床上，看着天花板上的月亮时，他一次又一次听到那些话，当得蒙特靠近他的时候，他就听到他妈妈临死前的尖叫，她在保护他——哈利，不让福尔得摩特伤害他，还听到福尔得摩特杀他母亲前的狂笑，哈利间歇地打着瞌睡，梦到各种各样的湿冷的，腐烂的手，恐怖的请求，猛地醒来，又听到他妈妈的尖叫声。

　　星期一可以回到嘈杂的校园里面对哈利来说是释放了。在那里，他被迫要想其它的事，虽然他还是要忍受杰高。马尔夫的嘲笑，马尔夫总是在他身旁取笑着格林芬顿队的失败，他终于把绷带拿下来，他在庆祝他双手的恢复，并不厌其烦地模仿哈利从扫帚上跌下来的姿态。马尔夫在药剂课大部分时间都在模仿得蒙特进来的样子。罗恩最后忍不住了，把一个大大的滑滑的跟鱼心甩过去，恰恰打在他的脸上，这样史纳皮又扣了格林芬顿五十分。

　　“如果史纳皮教授又上我们的黑巫术防御课，我要晕了。”罗恩在吃过午餐后向露平的教室走去时说，“先看看谁在里面，荷米恩。”

　　荷米恩从门缝里偷看进去。

　　“没事了。”

　　露平教授回来了。他看上去的确是病过的样子，他的旧衣服在他身上显得更加宽松了，他眼下面有黑黑的眼圈，但是，同学们坐下时，他还是向同学们笑笑，立即班里的人开始对史纳皮教授在露平病的时候上课的事展开轰炸。

　　“太不公平了，他只是代课，为什么要给我们布置作业呢？”

　　“我们对狼人一点都不知道。”

　　“要写两卷羊皮纸。”

　　“你们有告诉史纳皮教授我们还没学过吗？”露平微微皱着眉头问。

　　埋怨声又炸开了。

　　“——他就是不听——”

　　“——两卷羊皮纸！——”

　　露平教授看着一张张愤怒的脸，微笑着。

　　“不要担心，我会跟史纳皮教授说说的，你们不必写那论文了。”

　　“哦，不。”荷米恩在很失望地说，“我已经写了。”

　　他们的课程很轻松愉快，露平教授带了装了一只亨凯普的玻璃盒来，亨凯普是一只只有一条腿的动物，它好像由一缕缕的烟组成，样子很脆弱而且一点都不吓人的。

　　“它们在沼泽地游行，”露平教授说，他们在做笔记，“你们都看到他们手中吊着的灯笼了吗？向前单腿跃——人们就跟着那灯，然后——”

　　亨凯普在玻璃盒里发出一声尖锐的叫声。

　　下课铃响了，大家都收拾好东西向门外走去，哈利也跟着，但是——“哈利，等一会儿，”露平叫住他，“我想跟你说几句。”

　　哈利转过头来，看着露平教授用一块布盖着装有亨凯普的盒子。

　　“我听到比赛的事了，”露平说，转过身去开始收拾书本放到手提箱里。“听到你的扫帚的事，我也很难过，有可能重新修理它吗？”

　　“不可能，”哈利说，“那树已经把它拆碎了。”

　　露平叹了口气。

　　“我到霍格瓦彻那年他们种了一棵胡宾柳树。那时人们喜欢玩一种游戏，尝试走近去碰一下那树，一个叫戴维。格翰的男孩差点没了一只眼睛，我们之后就禁止靠近它了。没有扫帚能幸免的。”

　　“你也听过得蒙特的事吗？”哈利艰难地说。

　　“是的，我听过。我们都没见过丹伯多那么生气的，他们近来变得很不安静…

　　…对他不让他们进来感到很气愤……我想他们是你掉下来的原因吧？“

　　“是的，”哈利说，他犹豫了，然后他不禁问，“为什么？为什么他们能够那样影响我？是否因为我真的只是太——？”

　　“这跟懦弱一点关系都没有。”露平教授尖锐地说，他好像看懂哈利的心思似的，“得蒙特最能影响你是因为你过去有可怕的事而大家却没有。”

　　一缕寒冷的阳光射进教室，照亮了露平的银发和他年青的脸上的皱纹。

　　“得蒙特是地球上最可怕之一的生物，他们在最黑暗、最肮脏的地方生存，他们在腐朽和绝望中成长，他们把身边空气中的和平，希望和幸福磨灭，连马格的人都能感觉到他们的存在，即使他们看不到，如果太接近一只得蒙特，你的好心情，愉快的记忆就会被吸走。

　　如果他可以的话，得蒙特就附在你身上很长时间直到你变成像他一样——无情和凶残，你就只剩下你一生中最惨痛的经历。发生在你身上最坏的情况只是让你从扫帚上掉下来而已，你没有什么好责备自己的。“”当他们接近我的时候——“哈利望着露平的桌子，他的喉咙缩紧，”我能够听到福尔得摩特杀我妈妈。“

　　他把手慢慢地放在哈利的肩膀上，用力抓着他的肩，他想这样会好一点。他们之间出现了一阵沉默，然后——“为什么他们在我比赛的时候来？”哈利痛苦地说。

　　“他们饿了，”露平冷冷地说，砰的一声合上他的手提箱，“丹伯多不让他们走进学校，因此他们的食物已经没了……我想他们禁不住快迪斯球场上的一大群人的诱惑，还有那种兴奋……同学们的情绪高扬……这都是吃的诱惑。”

　　“阿兹克班一定是很可怕的。”哈利低声说，露平哀愁地点点头。

　　“那碉堡设在一个小小的岛上，在遥远的海上，但是他们不用墙来关住那些罪犯，当他们落在他们手里，根本就不能有兴奋一点的思想，他们中大部分几个星期内就疯了。”

　　“但是西里斯。巴拉克还是从他们手中逃出来了。”哈利慢慢地说，“他逃掉了……”

　　露平的手提箱从桌子上向下滑，他迅速伸手扶着它。

　　“是的，”他站直身说，“巴拉克肯定是找到对付他们的方法，我简直不能相信……得蒙特可以抽取一个巫师的能量的，如果在一起有足够长的时候的话……”

　　“你把火车上那得蒙特赶下去的？”哈利突然问。

　　“有一些措施我们可以采取的。”露平说。“但那时火车上只有一只得蒙特。

　　如果有多一些的话，那就变得很难了。“

　　“什么防御措施？”哈利立即问，“你可以教我吗？”

　　“我不假装我是打得蒙特的能手，哈利，恰恰相反……”

　　“但是如果得蒙特下次又在快迪斯比赛出现我得会对付他们——”

　　露平看着哈利坚决的脸，犹豫了一下，然后说，“嗯，好吧，我试一试来帮你，但是要等到下个学期了。我在放假前有很多事要干，我挑了一个很不方便的时间来养病。”

　　露平答应他教他对付得蒙特的方法。可以不用再听到他妈妈的喊声，还有卫文卡罗队在他们十一月底的快迪斯比赛中大胜海夫巴夫的消息，这些都是哈利心情大大地好转了。格林芬顿队始终都没有被淘汰，虽然他们已经不能再输了。伍德重新抬回信心，更加勤奋地操练他的队员，不顾冰冻的雨一直坚持到十二月，哈利之后也没有在校园内见到过得蒙特，丹怕多的怒气似乎能有效地保持他们只驻扎在人口住。

　　学期结束之前的两个星期，天空突然明亮起来了。灿烂的阳光发出乳白色的光，一个早上泥泞的操场铺上一层霜。城堡里面充满圣诞的气氛。费立维克教授，那咒语课老师，已经用闪闪发亮的灯把课室布置得很漂亮了，像神奇的童话世界一样。

　　学生都在兴高采烈地讨论他们的假期计划了。罗恩和荷米恩都决定留在学校里面。

　　罗恩说他不想两个星期在家对着伯希，而荷米恩说她要用学校的图书馆。哈利没有被骗，他们这样的做都是为了陪着他，他很感激。

　　除了哈利，大家都很高兴知道在学期末的最后一个星期，他们的又可以去霍格马得了。

　　“我们可以在那里买圣诞礼物！”荷米恩说，“爸爸妈妈肯定很喜欢从‘甜鸭’那买的绳曼（一种糖）的。”

　　又要去接受他是三年级中唯一留下的这样的事实了，哈利向伍德借了一本《谁的扫帚》，决定花一天的时候来看里面不同牌子的扫帚。他在队里训练的时候，他一直在骑学校的扫帚，是一把旧的投射星牌子的扫帚，又摇又慢，他很需要买一把新的扫帚。

　　星期六早上的霍格马得之行，哈利又去送罗恩和荷米恩，他们都穿着大衣和围衣。哈利一个人走上大理石阶梯，往格利芬顿塔走。

　　外面开始下起雪来，城堡里很安静。

　　“哈利，喂！”

　　他走在三楼的走廊上，转过身去看到弗来德和乔治从一个驼背的单眼的巫婆雕塑后面偷偷地膘着他。

　　“你们在干什么？”哈利好奇地问，“你们怎么不去霍格马得？”

　　“我们准备在离开之前送你一点惊喜的东西，”弗来德神秘地延着眼睛说，“过来这边……”

　　他向单眼雕塑左边的空教室点点头，哈利跟着弗来德和乔治进去了。弗来德轻轻关上门，转过头去看着哈利，笑眯眯地样子。

　　“预先给你的圣诞礼物，哈利。”他说。

　　弗来德从他大衣里高兴地抽出一些东西，把它放在桌子上，这是一张很大，方方的破！日的羊皮纸，上面什么也没有写。哈利怀疑是弗来德或乔治的玩笑，只是盯着它。

　　“那是什么呀？”

　　“这是，是我们成功的秘密。”乔治喜爱地拍打着羊皮纸。

　　“这是一个帮手，送给你的。”弗来德说，“但是我们昨天才决定，你比我们更加需要。”

　　“无论如何，我们知道它管用，”乔治说，“我们把它留给你，我们真的不再需要了。”

　　“我所需要的是一张旧的羊皮纸？”哈利问。

　　“一张旧羊皮纸！”弗来德说，他闭着眼睛做了个鬼脸，好像哈利精神上冒犯了他一样。“乔治你给他解释。”

　　“哦……，当我们读一年级的时候，年青，无忧无虑，天真——”

　　哈利哼了一声。他在怀疑弗来德和乔治是否曾经天真过。

　　“——噢，比我们现在天真的吧——我们曾经和费驰发生过争执。”

　　“我们放了一个小炸弹在走廊上，这是让他不安的某些原因。”

　　“因此他叫我们去他办公室，开始威胁我们——”

　　“留堂。”

　　“我们看到他的文件柜里的屉柜里有一本显眼的《没收和高危险物品》。”

　　“别告诉我你们——”哈利说，他开始笑。

　　“嗯，如果是你，你会怎样？”弗来德说，“乔治又投了一个炸弹来转移他的注意力，我拉开抽柜然后拿起这个——”

　　“没有听起来那么坏的，你知道，”乔治说，“我想费驰没有想到怎样做的。

　　他很可能怀疑那是什么，如果不是他就不会没收了。“

　　“你们知道怎样做的？”

　　“哦，是的！”弗来德狡猾地说，“这本宝贝教了我们比这学校的老师教的还多。”

　　“你们在蒙我吧？”哈利说，他看着那又破又旧的羊皮纸。

　　“哦，是吗？”乔治。

　　他拿出他的魔杖，轻轻碰碰那羊皮纸，说，“我严肃地宣告我很没用。”

　　立即，细细的墨水以乔治的魔杖碰到的那点为中心像蜘蛛网一样散开，细细的墨水线互相连接起来，伸向羊皮纸的进入角落，字开始在上面出现，很大，弯弯的青色字母，写着：魔法淘气者的助手与协助商自豪地推出掠夺者的地图这是很详细的霍格瓦彻里城堡和地室的地图，但最奇妙的是那些细细的墨水点在移动着，用草写小字在每个地方标上地名和人物，哈利惊讶地弯下腰去看，左上角的小点显示丹伯多教授在他的书房里踱着步，管理员的猫，诺丽丝夫人正向二楼走，还有那喧闹鬼皮维斯现在在纪念物房间里上下地跳跃着，当哈利的眼睛在熟识的走廊上扫来扫去时，他总能看到其它东西。

　　地图显示很多他还未去过的通路，而且很多都好像通向——“通往霍格马得，”

　　弗来德说，他用手指指着路线，“总共有七条路，现在费驰知道这四条——”他指出来，“但是，我们肯定我们是唯一知道这些路的人，不要看这四楼的镜子后面那条，我们去年冬天走过，但是不能通过——完全被堵住了。我想也没有人用这条路的了，因为胡宾柳树就是种在入口处。但是，看这条，这条路直接通向霍格瓦彻的地下室。我们经常用这条路的，你可能已经注意到了，入口就在这课室外面，就在刚才那单眼女人的驼背上。”

　　“对了，”乔治简明地说，“用完后别忘了擦擦它——”

　　“要不每个人都会看见的。”弗来德警告地说。

　　“只要再拍一下说‘淘气完了’，它就会变成空白了。”

　　“所以，年青的哈利，”弗来德用伯希的口气说，“注意自己的行为。”

　　“在霍格马得中见你吧。”乔治眨着眼睛说。

　　他们离开了教室，很得意且满意的样子。

　　哈利站在那里，看着神奇的地图，他看着细细的墨水显示诺丽丝转左，又停下来在地板上找些东西。如果费驰真的不知道……他也不用经过丹伯多……虽然他还站在那里，他脑里充满了兴奋，但是威斯里先生跟他说的话又在脑海里回荡。

　　“千万不要相信会自己想的事物，如果你不知道它的脑袋在那里的话。”

　　这地图正是威斯里先生所警告的危险的物体——魔法淘气者的指南……但之后，哈利说服了自己，他只想用它来到达霍格马得，他又不是想去偷什么或攻击谁……

　　而且弗来德和乔治用了几年都没有什么恐怖的事情发生……

　　哈利用手指寻找去甜鸭的通路。

　　然后，突然间，他好像要去执行命令一样，他把地图卷起来塞进衣服里，然后匆匆走到课堂门前，把门打开几寸，外面没有人，他非常小心地走出课堂，蹑手蹑脚地走到单眼巫婆雕塑后面。

　　他要做什么呢？他又拉出地图来看，让他奇怪