37. The Marauder's Map
Hope was allowed to leave the hospital wing the next day, seeing as she hadn't fallen fifty feet to the ground. Harry, however, wasn't as lucky. On Madam Pomfrey's insistence, he had to stay for the entire weekend.
He'd had a slew of visitors — Hagrid had brought a bunch of earwiggy flowers that looked like yellow cabbages. Ginny, blushing furiously, had turned up with a handmade "get well" card that sang shrilly unless Harry kept it shut under his bowl of fruit. It had been a thoughtful gesture, though the card's relentless screeching had quickly grown unbearable.
The Gryffindor team had come again on Sunday morning, this time with Wood in tow. His face was hollow, his voice even more so, as he assured Harry that he didn't blame him in the slightest. The words rang empty, though.
Ron, Hermione, and Hope stayed by Harry's side for most of the day, only leaving when Madam Pomfrey kicked them out at night. Even then, Hope kept sneaking back in. She'd slip through the quiet halls and sit beside him in the dim light, speaking in hushed whispers so they wouldn't get caught.
Harry appreciated it. She was the only one who really understood.
Everyone knew how horrible the Dementors were. They felt the chill, the gnawing dread that clung to the air when the creatures swept by. But they didn't collapse. And they didn't relive the worst moments of their lives.
But Harry did. And so did Hope.
She hated it. Not only was it humiliating, but it was isolating for him. No one else knew what it was like. No one else heard the echoes. The way the memories clawed their way back, forcing her to endure them over and over again.
For Harry, it was his mother's last moments. The terror in her voice. The unbearable sound of her pleading, of her saving him.
For Hope, it was different. The Dementors had been pulling something out of her, something she hadn't wanted to remember. At first, it was just flashes—bits and pieces. But as the days passed, the clearer it became.
She wasn't sure she wanted it to become clear.
Because it was the day her mother died.
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Monday had come — and with it, Draco's gleeful taunting. Malfoy was practically beside himself with delight over Gryffindor's defeat. He had finally taken off his bandages and celebrated having the full use of both arms by doing exaggerated imitations of Harry falling off his broom.
He spent most of their next Potions class performing Dementor impressions across the dungeon. After about the fifth one, Ron cracked, grabbing a large, slippery crocodile heart and hurling it at Malfoy. It hit him square in the face.
Snape, naturally, took fifty points from Gryffindor.
"If Snape's taking Defense Against the Dark Arts again, I'm going off sick," Ron grumbled as they trudged toward Lupin's classroom after lunch.
"Don't worry my dad's back," Hope said, her voice carrying a note of reassurance.
Ron sighed in relief. "Thank Merlin."
Professor Lupin was indeed back, but he certainly looked like he'd been unwell. His robes hung loosely on his thin frame, and dark shadows lingered beneath his eyes. Still, he smiled warmly as the class filed in, though it wasn't long before the room erupted in complaints about Snape's behavior.
"It's not fair!" Dean burst out. "He was only filling in! Why should he set us homework?"
"We don't know anything about werewolves," Lavender added, indignant.
"Two rolls of parchment!" Seamus groaned.
Lupin frowned slightly, his gaze flicking to Hope. "Did you explain to Professor Snape that you haven't covered them yet?" he asked.
"Yes, but he said we were really behind!" Hermione said, looking exasperated.
"He wouldn't listen!" Parvati chimed in.
"Two rolls of parchment!" Seamus repeated, his outrage unwavering.
Professor Lupin's lips twitched in amusement as he took in the sea of indignant faces. "Don't worry. I'll speak to Professor Snape. You don't have to do the essay."
"Oh no," Hermione said, her disappointment evident. "I've already finished it!"
The lesson proved far more enjoyable than any involving Snape. Professor Lupin had brought a glass box containing a Hinkypunk — a frail, one-legged creature that looked as though it were made of smoke. It waved a tiny lantern, swaying with an unsettling, ghostly charm.
"Lures travelers into bogs," Lupin explained as they took notes. "You'll notice the lantern. It hops ahead, people follow the light, and then—"
The Hinkypunk made a squelching noise against the glass, as if to demonstrate.
When the bell rang, the students gathered their things and headed toward the door. Harry followed, but Lupin's voice stopped him.
"Wait a moment, Hope, Harry. I'd like a word."
They exchanged a glance before turning back. Lupin, now covering the Hinkypunk's box with a cloth, gave them a small nod.
"Hope told me about the match," he said, carefully stacking his books into his briefcase. "I'm sorry about your broomstick, Harry. Is there any chance of fixing it?"
Harry shook his head. "No. The tree smashed it to bits."
"I'm sorry, Harry," Hope murmured, guilt flickering across her face. She still couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow her fault.
"It's fine." Harry sighed. "At least both of our brooms weren't destroyed."
"Would've been better if it was the Swiftstick instead of the Nimbus, though," Hope added before catching herself. She glanced nervously at her father. "Not that I don't love it, because I do!"
Lupin chuckled softly, waving her off. "I know what you meant, love." He sighed, a faint, distant sadness flickering behind his eyes. "They planted the Whomping Willow the same year I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a foolish game, trying to get close enough to touch the trunk. Eventually, a boy named Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No broomstick would stand a chance."
Harry hesitated, his stomach knotting. "Did you hear about the Dementors too?"
Lupin's expression shifted. His eyes darkened slightly, though he nodded. "Yes, I did. I don't think any of us have ever seen Professor Dumbledore that angry. The Dementors 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, both of you?"
Harry nodded, but Lupin's gaze remained on Hope, the concern lingering.
"Yes," Harry said quietly, the question bubbling up before he could stop himself. "Why? Why are we different?" He gestured between himself and Hope, the weight of it finally breaking through. "Am I just—?"
"It has nothing to do with weakness," Lupin interrupted, his voice firm. He spoke as though he could hear every self-doubt echoing in Harry's mind. "The Dementors affect you two worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don't have."
Hope lowered her gaze, the familiar ache creeping into her chest. Her father's eyes lingered on her, the words clearly dredging up memories he tried to keep buried.
He still blamed himself.
That night — the full moon — he'd gone as far away as possible, as he always did. Far from Hope. Far from Arabella. But when he returned home, the air had been far too still. The front door had been broken, splintered inward. And then — the sound. Hope's cries, raw and piercing, echoing through the silence.
Arabella lay in the upstairs hallway, lifeless. Her once bright eyes stared into nothingness. Lupin had barely felt the floor beneath him as he ran to his daughter's room. She was curled beneath the bed, her small body trembling with sobs.
He had pulled her into his arms, whispering reassurances that neither of them believed. He could still feel the way her tiny hands clutched at his robes, her tears soaking into his chest.
It was his fault. He had always known he would ruin Arabella's life. He had nearly left once — convinced that Hope and her mother would be better off without him. If it hadn't been for James, he might have gone through with it.
But in that moment, cradling his terrified daughter and staring into Arabella's empty eyes, the certainty struck him harder than any curse.
They would have been better off without him.
A ray of wintry sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting pale light across the classroom. It highlighted the streaks of silver in Lupin's hair, the faint lines on his otherwise youthful face.
"Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth," Lupin began, his voice measured but firm. "They infest the darkest, filthiest places. They glory in decay and despair, draining peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles can feel their presence, though they can't see them. Get too close, and every good feeling, every happy memory, will be sucked away. If they feed on you long enough, they'll reduce you to something like themselves—soulless and empty."
Harry swallowed hard, staring down at Lupin's desk, his hands clenched into fists. Hope sat just as still beside him, her own gaze fixed on the floor.
"The worst moments of your life—those are all you'll be left with." Lupin's voice softened. "And the worst that has happened to you both is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. You have nothing to be ashamed of."
Harry exhaled sharply. "When they get near me," he admitted, voice tight, "I hear Voldemort murdering my mum."
Lupin made a sudden movement as if to grip Harry's shoulder but stopped himself. His face was unreadable, though his eyes darkened with something close to regret.
A long silence stretched between them. Then—
"I hear shouts," Hope murmured.
Lupin's head turned sharply toward her.
"Shouts from Mum," she continued, barely above a whisper. "And the man who killed her. She sounded—" Hope swallowed, her throat dry. "She sounded hurt. Like she knew him. Like she trusted him."
Lupin's expression tightened. He hadn't known that. She'd never said it before. Questions swirled behind his eyes, but before he could ask, Harry broke the silence.
Before he could speak, Harry's voice broke the moment.
"Why did they have to come to the match?" His frustration bled into every word.
"They're hungry," Lupin said coolly, snapping his briefcase shut. "Dumbledore won't let them inside the school, so their supply of human prey has dried up. I imagine the sight of a large crowd, all that excitement, all those emotions running high—it was too much to resist. To them, it was a feast."
Harry exhaled through his nose, his jaw tight. "Azkaban must be horrible," he muttered.
Lupin nodded grimly. "The fortress is set on a tiny island, far out at sea, but they don't need walls or water to keep the prisoners in. Not when they're already trapped inside their own minds, incapable of a single cheerful thought. Most go mad within weeks."
Hope shivered. The very idea of it made her stomach twist.
"But Sirius Black escaped," she said slowly, her voice cautious. "He got away."
Lupin's hand slipped, and his briefcase nearly toppled from the desk. He caught it quickly, straightening with a strained expression.
"Yes," he said, carefully avoiding her gaze. "Black must have found a way to fight them. I wouldn't have believed it possible... Dementors are meant to drain a wizard's powers if exposed for too long."
Harry hesitated, then glanced up at him. "But you made the Dementor on the train back off."
Lupin exhaled, rubbing his temple. "There are... certain defenses one can use," he admitted. "But that was only one Dementor. The more there are, the harder it becomes to resist."
Harry didn't hesitate. "What defenses? Can you teach me?"
Hope nodded, looking between them. "If you teach Harry, you have to teach me too."
Lupin hesitated, his gaze sweeping over their determined faces. He let out a slow breath. "I don't claim to be an expert at fighting Dementors—quite the opposite, in fact..."
"But if they come to another match, I need to be able to fight them," Harry insisted.
Lupin studied him, then glanced at Hope, who was just as resolute. He hesitated for only a moment before sighing.
"Well... all right," he said finally. "I'll try to help. But it will have to wait until next term, I'm afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays." A wry smile crossed his face. "I chose a rather inconvenient time to fall ill."
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With the promise of Anti-Dementor lessons from Lupin — which would hopefully make the nightmares stop altogether — and the fact that Ravenclaw had flattened Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the end of November, things were starting to look up. Gryffindor wasn't out of the running after all, though they couldn't afford to lose another match. Wood was back to his manic self, driving the team harder than ever in the chilly December rain. There was no sign of a Dementor within the grounds, and it seemed Dumbledore's anger had been enough to keep them stationed at the entrances.
Two weeks before the end of term, the sky lightened to a dazzling, opaline white. The muddy grounds were now a sparkling sheet of frost, and inside the castle, Christmas cheer buzzed through the air. Professor Flitwick had already decorated his classroom with twinkling lights that turned out to be real, fluttering fairies. Students chattered excitedly about their plans for the holidays.
Hope, of course, would be staying at Hogwarts. With her dad teaching that year, it made the most sense. Ron and Hermione had decided to stay too. Ron claimed he couldn't bear two weeks with Percy, while Hermione insisted she needed to use the library. But they all knew the truth — they were staying for Harry. He was beyond grateful.
To everyone's delight — except Hope and Harry's — there was another Hogsmeade trip scheduled for the very last weekend of term.
"We can do all our Christmas shopping there!" Hermione said eagerly. "Mum and Dad would love those Toothflossing Stringmints from Honeydukes!"
Harry resigned himself to being one of the only third-years left behind again. He borrowed a copy of Which Broomstick? from Wood, planning to spend the day reading up on the different models. He'd been stuck using one of the school's ancient Shooting Stars during practice — slow, jerky, and pathetic. He definitely needed a broom of his own.
Hope, however, had different plans.
"You're just gonna study? On a Saturday?" Ron asked, staring at her like she'd grown a second head, when she mentioned it at breakfast.
Hermione beamed approvingly. "That's brilliant, Hope."
"Everyone keeps telling me how studious mum and dad were." Hope murmured, picking at her toast. "I don't know, I guess... a part of me wants to be like them."
She wasn't terrible at school. Divination and Defense Against the Dark Arts were going well, and Care of Magical Creatures was easy enough. History of Magic, Herbology, and Transfiguration were manageable, though she really wanted to improve in Transfiguration. Charms was her strongest subject, but Astronomy gave her trouble, and Potions was, frankly, a disaster.
"Still," Ron grumbled, "studying. Voluntarily."
Hope just smiled faintly. "It's not so bad."
On the Saturday morning of the trip, Harry and Hope said goodbye to Ron and Hermione, who bundled themselves in thick cloaks and scarves before disappearing into the snowy grounds. The castle grew unnervingly quiet. Snow flurried past the windows, and the air inside was tinged with the smell of burning logs.
"Psst — Harry! Hope!"
They turned, halfway along the third-floor corridor, to see Fred and George peering out from behind a statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch.
"What are you doing?" Hope asked, frowning.
"How come you're not going to Hogsmeade?" Harry added.
"We thought we'd spread a little festive cheer before we go," Fred said with a conspiratorial grin. "Come on."
With a nod toward an empty classroom, Fred and George led them inside. George shut the door softly and then turned to them, his grin widening.
"Early Christmas present," he announced, his eyes lingering on Hope for a moment longer than necessary.
Fred pulled a large, square piece of parchment from his cloak and laid it on a desk. It was worn and blank. Hope raised a brow, skeptical.
"Wow," she deadpanned, "parchment. You shouldn't have."
Fred nudged her playfully. "Not just any parchment."
"This," George said, patting it fondly, "is the secret of our success."
"It's a wrench, giving it to you," Fred said dramatically. "But we decided last night — your need's greater than ours."
"Besides, we know it off by heart," George added. "We don't really need it anymore."
Harry frowned. "And what exactly are we supposed to do with a bit of old parchment?"
Fred gasped, clutching his chest as though wounded. "A bit of old parchment? How dare you!"
"Explain, George," Fred commanded.
"Well, when we were in our first year — young, carefree, and innocent—"
"Innocent?" Hope interrupted with a laugh. Harry snorted, shaking his head. Fred and George, innocent? Not likely.
"Okay, okay," George conceded. "More innocent than we are now. Anyway, we got into a bit of trouble with Filch."
"Set off a Dungbomb in the corridor," Fred said, grinning. "For some reason, he didn't like that."
"So he dragged us to his office and started in with the usual threats —"
"— detention —"
"— disembowelment —"
"And that's when we saw it," George said dramatically. "A drawer labeled Confiscated and Highly Dangerous."
Harry's grin widened. "Don't tell me—"
"Well, what would you have done?" Fred said, shrugging. "George dropped another Dungbomb as a distraction. I grabbed this."
"And Filch never figured out how to work it," George added smugly. "But we did."
"And it taught us more than any teacher ever could," Fred said, grinning.
"You're kidding," Harry said, eyeing the tattered parchment.
"Not at all." George pulled out his wand, tapping the parchment lightly. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Hope's jaw dropped as thin ink lines began to spread like a spider's web, forming intricate pathways and corridors. Words blossomed at the top in curling green letters:
Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers, are proud to present The Marauder's Map.
Hope gawked at it. "You've had this the whole time? And I'm just now finding out about it?"
The twins exchanged a mischievous glance, grinning like Cheshire cats.
Astounded, Harry bent over the map. A small dot labeled "Professor Dumbledore" paced steadily in his study, while Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, prowled along the second floor. Peeves the poltergeist bounced around the trophy room in erratic loops. But as Hope's eyes scanned the familiar corridors, something else caught her attention.
"This shows places I've never even seen," she murmured in awe. "And—look!"
Fred grinned, tapping a thin line on the parchment. "Right into Hogsmeade. There are seven passages in all. Filch knows about these four," he gestured, "but the rest? Pretty sure we're the only ones who know about them. Don't bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor, though. We used it for a while, but it caved in last winter."
George nodded. "And this one's useless. The Whomping Willow's planted right over it. But this one here?" His grin widened. "Straight into Honeydukes' cellar. We've used it loads of times. And guess where the entrance is?"
Hope raised a brow curiously.
"Right outside this room," Fred said, triumphantly. "Through the one-eyed old crone's hump."
"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs," George sighed dramatically, patting the parchment with admiration. "We owe them so much."
Fred nodded in agreement. "Noble men, dedicating their lives to the pursuit of mischief and mayhem for future generations."
"Exactly." George smirked. "Just remember — always wipe it clean when you're done."
"Or anyone could read it," Fred warned, waggling his finger in mock seriousness.
"Just tap it and say, 'Mischief managed.' It'll go blank."
Fred then straightened up, his expression twisting into a perfect impression of Percy. "So, young Harry—"
"Little Lupin," George added, matching Fred's pompous tone.
"Mind you behave yourselves."
Hope rolled her eyes but couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. George caught it and winked, making her flush slightly. Then, with matching grins, the twins disappeared, their laughter echoing faintly down the corridor.
Harry and Hope stood in the now-quiet room, the map still glowing faintly in Harry's hands. Tiny ink footprints shifted and wandered across the parchment. Even Mrs. Norris's little dot paused to sniff at something along the floor. Harry's excitement was undeniable, the possibilities dangled right in front of him — no Dementors, no Filch, just a secret path to Honeydukes.
But then a memory stirred — Mr. Weasley's voice, calm and firm: "Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain."
His smile faltered.
Hope's brows pulled together. "Harry? What's wrong?"
He hesitated. "It's just... something Mr. Weasley said once."
"What?"
Harry shifted uneasily. "Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain."
Hope's grin faded slightly. The weight of those words lingered. She knew Mr. Weasley was often right about these things. But surely this was different — wasn't it?
"We're only using it to get to Hogsmeade," she reasoned. "And the twins have used it for years without anything awful happening."
Harry nodded slowly, tracing the route to Honeydukes once more. The temptation was impossible to ignore.
Without another word, he rolled up the map, tucked it into his robes, and made for the door. Hope followed close behind, her heart pounding with excitement. Harry cracked the door open just an inch. The corridor was empty. Exchanging a quick glance, they slipped out and darted behind the statue of the one-eyed witch.
He pulled the map out once more. To his astonishment, two new figures had appeared — "Harry Potter" and "Hope Lupin" — standing exactly where they were, halfway down the third-floor corridor. Tiny ink Harry lifted his wand, and a small speech bubble popped up: Dissendium.
Harry drew his own wand, took a steadying breath, and whispered, "Dissendium."
With a low, grinding sound, the statue's hump shifted and opened, revealing a dark tunnel just large enough for a person to slide through. Harry and Hope exchanged a brief glance—half anticipation, half apprehension.
Harry clambered in first, the stone slide carrying him swiftly downward. Moments later, Hope followed, landing with a soft thud on damp earth. The passageway was cramped and dark, the air thick with the scent of soil.
"Lumos," she whispered, illuminating the narrow tunnel. The light from her wand caught the packed earth walls, and the air smelled faintly of damp moss.
Harry tapped the map with his wand. "Mischief managed." The ink faded instantly. He tucked it away and glanced over at Hope, who was practically buzzing with excitement.
"Well," Hope grinned, her voice breathless and bright, "that was easy enough."
Harry nodded, though the excitement in his eyes was tempered with a hint of caution.
"Come on," she urged with a playful nudge. "What's the worst that could happen?"
His grin grew, though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know the answer to that. But for now, the promise of Honeydukes — Zonko's — was all that mattered.
Together, they set off down the tunnel.
The passage twisted and turned, more like the burrow of a giant rabbit than anything else. They hurried along, stumbling now and then on the uneven floor, Hope holding her illuminated wand out in front of them.
It felt like ages, but the thought of Honeydukes was enough to keep them going. After what seemed like an hour, the passage began to rise. Panting, the two picked up the pace, their faces hot while their feet remained freezing.
Ten minutes later, they reached the foot of some worn stone steps, disappearing upward into the shadows. Careful not to make any noise, Harry started to climb, Hope right behind him. A hundred steps, then two hundred. They lost count as they ascended until — without warning — Harry's head smacked into something hard.
"Ow!" He winced, rubbing the top of his head as Hope nearly crashed into him.
It was a trapdoor. Harry stood there for a moment, listening. The silence above was reassuring. Slowly, he pushed it open and peered over the edge.
A dimly lit cellar came into view, packed with wooden crates and boxes. He climbed out, then helped Hope up, making sure to pull the door shut behind them. The trapdoor blended seamlessly into the dusty floor, almost impossible to spot.
They crept toward a wooden staircase, voices now audible from above, accompanied by the tinkle of a bell and the opening and closing of a door.
"What now?" Hope whispered, nerves prickling.
Before Harry could respond, a door creaked open — much closer this time. Someone was coming downstairs.
"And grab another box of Jelly Slugs, dear, we're nearly out," called a woman's voice.
Hope's eyes widened. She quickly tugged Harry behind a large crate, pressing a hand against his shoulder. They held their breath as footsteps thudded down the stairs. A balding man in a stained apron appeared, mumbling to himself as he shifted boxes along the wall.
Now or never.
Without a word, they slipped out from behind the crate, their movements swift and silent. They darted up the stairs, Hope glancing back only once to see the man's shiny head still buried in a box.
At the top, Harry eased open the door, and they slipped through it, finding themselves behind the counter of Honeydukes. Quickly, they ducked down, then crept sideways until they were safely hidden among the bustling crowd.
The shop was packed with Hogwarts students, all far too absorbed in their sweet selections to notice Harry or Hope.
Shelves upon shelves overflowed with tempting treats — creamy nougat, shimmering pink coconut ice, honey-colored toffees. Rows of chocolate bars gleamed under the soft light. Barrels overflowed with Fizzing Whizzbees and Every Flavour Beans. Along the far wall, the "Special Effects" sweets beckoned: Toothflossing Stringmints, Pepper Imps, Ice Mice that squeaked when eaten, and sugar-spun quills that dissolved on the tongue.
Hope's gaze danced over the vibrant selection, but she spotted something else — a sign in the corner that read "Unusual Tastes." Ron and Hermione were there, examining a tray of blood-flavored lollipops.
Grinning, Hope gave Harry a slight nudge, and together they crept up behind their friends.
"Urgh, no, they won't want one of those, they're probably for vampires," Hermione said, wrinkling her nose as she looked at the lollipops.
"I don't know, Hope eats steak practically raw," Ron joked, before turning to another jar—this one filled with Cockroach Clusters. "How about these?" he asked, shoving the jar under Hermione's nose.
"Definitely not," Harry replied, shaking his head.
Ron nearly dropped the jar in surprise. "Blimey! Hope? Harry?"
"Also, I take my steaks medium rare," hope added, giving Ron a playful glare.
Hermione spun around, gaping. "What are you doing here? How—how did you—?"
"Wow!" Ron said, looking thoroughly impressed. "You've learnt to Apparate!"
"Course we haven't," Harry said quickly, dropping his voice so the sixth-years wouldn't overhear. He filled them in on the Marauder's Map.
"How come Fred and George never gave it to me?" Ron exclaimed, outraged. "I'm their brother!"
"But Harry isn't going to keep it!" Hermione said, her tone sharp as though the idea were absurd. "He's going to hand it in to Professor McGonagall, aren't you, Harry?"
"No, I'm not!" Harry said firmly.
"First of all, they gave the map to both of us," Hope said, shooting Harry a pointed look. "Second of all, Hermione, there's no reason not to keep it."
"Are you mad?" Ron gawked at Hermione. "Hand in something that good?"
"If I handed it in, I'd have to say where I got it," Harry added. "Filch would know Fred and George nicked it."
"But what about Sirius Black?" Hermione whispered urgently. "He could be using one of the passages on that map to sneak into the castle! The teachers need to know."
"He's not getting in through a passage," Harry countered. "There are seven secret tunnels on the map, right? Fred and George said Filch already knows about four of them. One's caved in, another's blocked by the Whomping Willow. And the one we just used — it's barely noticeable. Unless he already knew about it..."
"If anything, the map—that was given to both of us—" Hope emphasized, "would help keep him safe. If Sirius Black was in the castle, Harry would know because of the map."
Ron cleared his throat and pointed to a notice pasted on the shop door.
BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Customers are reminded that until further notice, Dementors will patrol Hogsmeade every night after sundown. This measure is for the safety of all residents and will remain in place until the recapture of Sirius Black. It is therefore advisable to complete your shopping well before nightfall.
Merry Christmas!
"See?" Ron said. "I'd like to see Black try to sneak into Honeydukes with Dementors all over the village. Anyway, the owners live upstairs. They'd hear a break-in, wouldn't they?"
"Yes, but—" Hermione seemed to be struggling to find another argument. "Look, Harry still shouldn't be here. He hasn't got a signed form. Neither does Hope! If anyone finds out, they'll be in so much trouble! Think about what your dad would say if he found out."
A flicker of guilt crossed Hope's face, but she quickly shook it off. "It's a good thing he won't find out then, isn't it?"
Hermione huffed, "And it's not nightfall yet — what if Sirius Black shows up now?"
"He'd have a hard time spotting anyone in this," Ron pointed out, nodding to the window where snow swirled thickly. "Come on, Hermione, it's Christmas. Give them a break."
Hermione bit her lip, her eyes still anxious.
"Are you going to report me?" Harry teased, grinning.
"Oh — of course not — but honestly, Harry—" Hermione stammered.
"Seen the Fizzing Whizzbees?" Ron asked, pulling Harry and Hope over to the barrel. "And the Jelly Slugs? And the Acid Pops? Fred gave me one of those when I was seven—it burned a hole right through my tongue. I remember Mum walloping him with her broomstick." Ron stared broodingly at the Acid Pop box. "Think Fred would take a bit of Cockroach Cluster if I told him they were peanuts?"
After they'd paid for their sweets, the four friends stepped back out into the snow. Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card — quaint cottages and shops, rooftops blanketed in snow, holly wreaths on every door, and enchanted candles glowing softly in the trees.
Hope shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Unlike Ron and Hermione, she and Harry were cloakless. The wind bit at their skin, but they pushed forward, their cheeks rosy from the cold.
"That's the Post Office," Hermione pointed out, her voice muffled through her scarf.
"Zonko's is up there," Ron added.
"We could visit the Shrieking Shack," Hermione suggested.
"Tell you what," Ron said through chattering teeth, "why don't we go for a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks?"
Harry and Hope nodded eagerly. Warmth and Butterbeer sounded like heaven. In minutes, they were stepping into the cozy, bustling inn.
The air was thick with chatter and the smell of roasting food. A curvy woman with a pretty face moved gracefully between the tables, carrying drinks.
"That's Madam Rosmerta," Ron said, his ears turning pink. "I'll get the drinks."
Hope, Harry, and Hermione found a small table near the fireplace, where a grand Christmas tree twinkled with gold and silver ornaments. When Ron returned with three steaming tankards of Butterbeer, he raised his drink with a grin.
"Happy Christmas!"
Hope took a long sip, warmth blooming through her. It was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.
A sudden breeze swept through her hair, and the door of the Three Broomsticks swung open again. Harry peered over the rim of his tankard and nearly choked.
Professors McGonagall and Flitwick entered the pub, accompanied by a flurry of snowflakes, and were quickly followed by Hagrid. The giant was deep in conversation with a portly man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped cloak—Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic.
In an instant, Ron and Hermione both placed hands on Hope and Harry's heads, pushing them off their stools and under the table. Dripping with Butterbeer and crouched low, Hope nervously observed. Harry, clutching his empty tankard, stared at the teachers' and Fudge's feet as they made their way to the bar, paused, and then—much to their horror—turned and walked right toward them.
Somewhere above them, Hermione whispered, "Mobiliarbus!"
The Christmas tree beside their table floated upward, gliding to the side and landing softly in front of them, blocking their view. Through the dense branches, Hope watched four sets of chair legs scrape back from the table next to theirs. Then she heard the sounds of grunts and sighs as the teachers and Fudge settled into their seats. Hope's gaze shifted downward, and she noticed a pair of glittering turquoise heels. A woman's voice followed.
"A small Gillywater—"
"Mine," came Professor McGonagall's voice.
"Four pints of mulled mead—"
"Ta, Rosmerta," Hagrid said.
"A cherry syrup and soda with ice and an umbrella—"
"Mmm!" Professor Flitwick added, smacking his lips.
"So you'll be having the redcurrant rum, Minister?"
"Thank you, Rosmerta, m'dear," Fudge said, his voice warm. "Lovely to see you again. Have one yourself, won't you? Come and join us..."
"Well, thank you very much, Minister," Madam Rosmerta replied.
Hope watched the heels click away before returning. Her heart was pounding in her throat. She hadn't realized this was the last weekend of term for the teachers too. How long were they going to sit there? Glancing at Harry, she saw the same worried expression reflected back. They needed time to sneak into Honeydukes if they were going to make it back to the school tonight. Hermione's leg twitched nervously beside Harry.
"So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?" Madam Rosmerta asked, her voice light but curious.
Hope saw Fudge twist his thick body in his chair, as though checking for eavesdroppers. In a low voice, he said, "What else, m'dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard what happened up at the school at Halloween?"
"I did hear a rumour," Madam Rosmerta replied, her voice slightly wary.
"Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?" Professor McGonagall asked with an edge of exasperation.
"Do you think Black's still in the area, Minister?" Madam Rosmerta whispered.
"I'm sure of it," Fudge said, his voice tight.
"You know the Dementors have searched my pub twice?" Madam Rosmerta added, a trace of frustration in her voice. "Scared all my customers away... it's bad for business, Minister."
"Rosmerta, m'dear, I don't like them any more than you do," Fudge said, uncomfortable. "But it's a 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," Professor McGonagall said sharply. "How are we supposed to teach with those horrors floating around?"
"Hear, hear!" Professor Flitwick squeaked, dangling a foot from the ground.
"All the same," Fudge murmured, "they are here to protect you all from something much worse... we all know what Black's capable of..."
"You know, I still have trouble believing it," Madam Rosmerta said 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," Fudge said gruffly. "The worst he did isn't widely known."
"The worst?" Madam Rosmerta asked, her voice full of curiosity. "Worse than murdering all those poor people, you mean?"
"I certainly do," Fudge replied.
"I can't believe that," Rosmerta murmured. "What could possibly be worse?"
"You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta," Professor McGonagall said quietly. "Do you remember who his best friend was?"
"Naturally," Madam Rosmerta chuckled. "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!"
Hope turned to Harry, her jaw slack with realization. Harry dropped his tankard with a loud clunk, and Ron kicked him under the table.
"Precisely," Professor McGonagall continued. "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," Hagrid chuckled. "Fred and George Weasley could give 'em a run for their money."
"Hope Lupin is certainly working her way up to being quite the troublemaker," Flitwick added. "Two weeks ago, she hid in the corridors before my lesson with the Slytherins, cast a colour-changing charm on their robes. The whole class was in an uproar with their red and gold robes."
Hagrid let out a hearty laugh.
"Honestly, that girl," Professor McGonagall tsked, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. "I don't know where she gets it from. Arabella and Remus were never ones to cause this much trouble."
"How is Remus?" Fudge asked. "With Black on the loose, I suspect he must be taking everything hard."
"Oh, he was sick with worry on Halloween night," Professor McGonagall said.
"He's been real worried 'bout Hope, he 'as," Hagrid added with a nod.
"You'd have thought Black and Potter were brothers!" Professor Flitwick said with a smile. "Inseparable!"
"Of course they were," Fudge replied. "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."
Hope gulped, glancing at Harry again. His expression was unreadable as he focused ahead.
"Because Black turned out to be in league with You-Know-Who?" Madam Rosmerta whispered.
"Worse even than that, m'dear..." Fudge dropped his voice, speaking in a 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 their best chance was the Fidelius Charm."
"How does that work?" Madam Rosmerta asked, breathless with interest.
Professor Flitwick cleared his throat. "An immensely complex spell," he squeaked. "It involves 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 refuses 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?" Madam Rosmerta whispered.
"Naturally," Professor McGonagall said. "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?" Madam Rosmerta gasped.
"He was sure that someone close to the Potters had been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their movements," Professor McGonagall said 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?" Rosmerta asked.
"He did," Fudge said heavily. "And then, barely a week after the Fidelius Charm had been performed—"
"Black betrayed them?" Madam Rosmerta breathed.
"He did indeed," Fudge confirmed. "Black was tired of his double-agent role. He was ready to declare his support for You-Know-Who openly, and it seems he 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 colours as a traitor. He had no choice but to run for it—"
"Filthy, stinkin' turncoat!" Hagrid's voice roared, so loudly that half the pub fell silent.
"Shh!" Professor McGonagall hissed, her hand held up to quiet them.
"I met him!" Hagrid growled, his voice thick with emotion. "I must've been the last ter see him before he killed all them people! It was me that rescued Harry from Lily an' James's house after they were killed! Got him outta the ruins, poor little thing, with that great slash across his forehead, his parents dead... and Sirius Black turns up, on that flyin' motorbike he used ter ride." He paused, his hands clenched into fists. "Never occurred ter me what he was doin' there. I didn't know he'd been Lily and James's Secret Keeper. Thought he'd just heard the news about You-Know-Who's attack an' came ter see what he could do. White as a sheet, shakin', he was. And yeh know what I did? I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN' TRAITOR!" Hagrid roared, his face red with rage.
"Hagrid, please!" Professor McGonagall said, her voice sharp. "Keep your voice down!"
"How was I ter know he weren't upset 'bout Lily and James? It was You-Know-Who he cared 'bout!" Hagrid continued, his voice growing softer, but still filled with regret. "And then he says, 'Give Harry to me, Hagrid. I'm his godfather, I'll look after him.' Ha! But I had me orders from Dumbledore, an' I told Black no. Dumbledore said Harry was ter go to his aunt an' uncle's. Black argued, but in the end, he gave in. Told me ter take his motorbike to get Harry there. 'I won't need it any more,' he says. I should've known somethin' was off then. He loved that motorbike, what was he givin' it ter me for? Why wouldn't he need it no more? Fact was, it was too easy ter trace. Dumbledore knew he'd been the Potters' Secret Keeper. Black knew he was gonna have ter run fer it that night, knew it was only a matter o' hours before the Ministry was after him," Hagrid said, shaking his head.
"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 best friend's son! But when a wizard goes over ter the dark side, there's nothin' and no one that matters ter 'em anymore..." Hagrid trailed off, his voice thick with emotion.
A long silence followed Hagrid's words. Madam Rosmerta, ever the one for a quick retort, let out a satisfied sigh. "But he didn't manage to disappear, did he? The Ministry of Magic caught up with him the next day!"
"Alas, if only we had," Fudge said bitterly. "It wasn't we who found him. It was little Peter Pettigrew – another of the Potters' friends. Maddened by grief, no doubt, and knowing Black had been the Potters' Secret Keeper, he went after Black himself."
"Pettigrew... that fat little boy who was always tagging along after them at Hogwarts?" Madam Rosmerta asked, her eyebrows furrowing in disbelief.
"Hero-worshipped Black and Potter," Professor McGonagall replied, a shadow of regret passing across her face. "Never quite in their league, talent-wise. I was often sharp with him. You can imagine how I... how I regret that now..." She sounded as though she had a sudden head cold, the words catching in her throat.
"There, now, Minerva," Fudge said kindly, his tone softening. "Pettigrew died a hero's death. Eye-witnesses – 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, her voice thick as she spoke. "Stupid boy... foolish boy... He was always hopeless at duelling... should've left it to the Ministry..."
"I tell yeh, if I'd got to Black before little Pettigrew did, I wouldn't've messed around with wands – I'd've ripped him limb from limb!" Hagrid growled, his fists still clenched.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Hagrid," Fudge said 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 blood-stained robes and a few... a few fragments..."
Fudge's voice stopped abruptly as a collective sigh filled the room. The sound of five noses blowing was heard.
"Well, there you have it, Rosmerta," Fudge said thickly. "Black was taken away by twenty members of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, 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?" Madam Rosmerta asked, her voice tinged with concern. "Good gracious, Minister, he isn't trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?"
"I daresay that is his... er... eventual plan," Fudge said 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," Professor McGonagall said, her voice brisk and matter-of-fact.
One by one, the pairs of feet in front of Harry took the weight of their owners once more. The hems of cloaks swung into view, and Madam Rosmerta's glittering heels disappeared behind the bar. The door of the Three Broomsticks opened again, and a flurry of snow followed as the teachers disappeared.
Hope turned to Harry, who still stood frozen, staring at the spot where the teachers and Minister had been moments before. His face was pale, eyes wide, the shock still hanging in the air like a cloud. His lips were parted, as if he wanted to speak, but nothing came out. The edges of his mouth were curled downward in a sort of horrified frown.
"Harry?" Hope said softly, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder, her voice gentle but full of concern.
Ron and Hermione's faces appeared under the table, both of them staring at Harry, lost for words.