38. The Firebolt
Harry and Hope had made it back to the Honeydukes cellar, through the tunnel, and into the castle in complete silence. Harry moved as if in a daze, his mind pounding with the words he had just overheard. Questions whirled through his thoughts.
Why had nobody ever told him? Dumbledore, Hagrid, Mr. Weasley, Cornelius Fudge — not one of them had mentioned that Harry's parents had died because their best friend had betrayed them.
At dinner, Hope, Ron, and Hermione exchanged nervous glances, stealing worried looks at Harry. They didn't dare bring up what they had overheard — not with Percy sitting so close by, obliviously chattering on about exam schedules. The air between them was thick with unspoken thoughts.
When they finally made their way to the common room, they were greeted by the lingering stench of Dungbombs. Fred and George had apparently let loose half a dozen in a fit of high spirits. Gryffindors lounged on the worn sofas, coughing through the fading stink while Fred loudly proclaimed his latest prank a "Yule gift to the senses."
Harry, however, not wanting to answer questions about Hogsmeade, slipped away without a word, trudging up the stairs to the empty dormitory.
Ron and Hermione tried distracting themselves with a game of wizard's chess. Hope, however, sat near the edge of the common room, watching the mayhem unfold. She barely noticed Fred and George until they approached, identical grins plastered on their faces.
"So, Little Lupin," George said, mischief dancing in his eyes.
"How was Hogsmeade?" Fred chimed in, nudging his brother with a grin.
"It was great!" Hope replied, forcing cheer into her voice, which for the most part was true barring what they learned at the three broomsticks. "Butterbeer is life-changing."
"We meant to ask Harry, but he legged it before we could," George said, frowning slightly.
"He was tired," Hope said quickly. "It was... an eventful trip." She glanced at them both, then added sincerely, "Thanks again for the map. It was brilliant."
Fred waved it off with a dramatic flourish. "Our pleasure." Then, with a sly grin, he threw an arm around George's shoulder. "Y'know, George was thinking about heading down to the kitchens for a snack."
"I was not," George protested, his jaw tightening.
"But I'm about to start a game of Exploding Snap with Lee," Fred continued, ignoring him. "Mind going with him, Hope? You wouldn't want poor Georgie wandering alone. Not with a mass murderer on the loose." He finished with an exaggerated impression of Mrs. Weasley's voice, making Hope stifle a laugh.
George glared. "I can manage on my own just fine."
"Nonsense," Fred shot back, smirking.
"Yeah, of course," Hope agreed, rising from her seat, her cheeks heating. She hoped the dim lighting of the common room would hide the blush creeping across her face.
"Brilliant!" Fred gave them a hearty shove toward the portrait hole. George shot one last glare over his shoulder, but Fred only cackled, already turning to join Lee, Katie, and Angelina.
George huffed but said nothing as they slipped through the portrait hole. Hope glanced at him, feeling an awkward tension settle in.
"Oh, uh — hold on. I'll be right back," George said abruptly, darting back through the portrait hole before she could ask why.
Hope stood there, shifting on her feet. She ran a hand through her hair, then smoothed down her shirt. Her heart fluttered nervously.
"Er— how do I look?" she asked, glancing up at the portrait, immediately regretting it.
Sir Cadogan puffed out his chest, brandishing his tiny sword. "By Merlin's beard, fair maiden! You stand radiant as the dawn upon yonder hills! Fear not, for thou art most worthy!"
Hope winced. "Thanks. I think."
The portrait swung open again, and George reappeared, slightly out of breath.
"Perfect. Let's go," Hope said quickly, grabbing his arm and pulling him away before Sir Cadogan could offer any further declarations.
They walked down the corridor, the castle eerily quiet now that most students were in their dormitories. George cleared his throat, breaking the silence. Hope turned to him, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
"So," he began, scratching the back of his neck, "since I'll be back home for your birthday and Christmas... I wanted to give you your present now."
"Oh." Hope's heart fluttered. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," he interrupted, his gaze softening. "Here."
George reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, well-worn book. Hope gasped. It wasn't just any book — Her Cinderella book.
"George!" She took it with a smile, her fingers tracing the familiar cover. "You found it?"
"Not exactly," George admitted with a sheepish grin. "I had Hermione nick it for me."
"That little sneak," Hope muttered, though she couldn't stop smiling. "I've been complaining about this for over a month!" She paused, brow furrowing. "Wait — why?"
George grinned. "Open it."
Confused, Hope flipped the book open. She stared as the once-static image of Cinderella sweeping the floor began to move. The little figure sighed dramatically, scrubbing at the endless grime. Hope turned to another page — Cinderella and the prince twirled gracefully across the ballroom, her gown sparkling with every step. The illustrations had been charmed.
Her smile grew, eyes shining. "Oh, George. This is amazing!"
In a burst of excitement, she threw her arms around him. George froze, his arms hovering uncertainly before finally wrapping around her. Heat rushed to his face, his heart thumping wildly at the warmth of her embrace. Neither of them moved, both secretly enjoying the comfort of being in each other's arms.
A throat cleared behind them.
They sprang apart, George's face turning an even deeper shade of red. Hope blinked up at the newcomer.
"Professor Lupin," George said nervously, straightening awkwardly.
Lupin walked up to them, his brow raised."Mr. Weasley. Hope." He nodded, "You two know you're not supposed to be roaming the corridors this late, especially with Sirius Black still on the loose."
George nodded, still flustered, while Hope, still giddy from the charmed book, practically shoved it toward her father.
"Look what George did!" she said excitedly, flipping the book open. "He charmed it!"
Remus glanced at the moving illustration, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then his gaze shifted to George. It was painfully obvious — the two were smitten, clear as day. He felt a familiar pang of nostalgia, the way George looked at Hope reminding him of how he used to gaze at Arabella. Happiness swelled in his chest as he saw the light in his daughter's eyes, so bright and full of joy. But beneath it all, there was a gnawing sense of protective dread. Hope wasn't his little girl anymore. The realization was bittersweet
"That's a thoughtful gift," he said, his voice softer. "It must've taken some time."
"Well, not real— I mean— a bit," George stammered, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.
"Well, as sweet as it is, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you both to head back to the common room," Remus said, his sternness returning.
Hope sighed dramatically, but nodded.
"No detours," Remus added, eyeing her pointedly.
"Fine. No detours," she mumbled.
As they turned to leave, Hope threw George a sheepish grin. "I guess no trips to the kitchens then. Sorry."
George shook his head. "It's fine. I'm not that hungry anyway."
Hope smiled, hugging the book to her chest. "Thank you for this. Really."
George shrugged, though his ears were still tinged pink. "It was nothing."
"It's brilliant," Hope said softly, her gaze lingering on him. "I love it."
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"Harry, you — you look terrible."
Harry hadn't gotten to sleep until daybreak. When he woke, the dormitory was empty. He dressed quickly and headed down the spiral staircase to find the common room nearly deserted. Only Ron, who was munching on a Peppermint Toad, and Hermione and Hope, who had spread their homework across three tables, remained.
"Where is everyone?" Harry asked, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Gone! It's the first day of the holidays, remember?" Ron said, watching him closely. "It's nearly lunchtime. I was going to come wake you up in a minute."
Harry dropped into a chair by the fire, the snow falling steadily outside the windows. Crookshanks was sprawled in front of the hearth like an oversized ginger rug.
"You really don't look well," Hermione said, peering anxiously at him.
"I'm fine," Harry replied.
"No, you're not," Hope cut in, giving him a pointed look.
Harry ignored her.
"Harry, listen," Hermione started, exchanging a glance with Hope and Ron. "You must be really upset about what we heard yesterday. But the thing is, you can't go doing anything stupid."
"Like what?" Harry's voice was tight.
"Like trying to go after Black," Ron said sharply.
Harry clenched his jaw. It was clear they'd planned this conversation while he was asleep.
"You won't, will you, Harry?" Hermione asked, her voice edged with worry.
"Black's not worth dying for," Hope said firmly.
Harry's eyes flicked to her. Of course Ron and Hermione didn't understand. How could they? But Hope? She should get it.
"Do you know what I see and hear every time a Dementor gets too near me?" Harry's voice wavered, but he pressed on.
Hope nodded slowly, her chest tightening, while Ron and Hermione shook their heads, looking nervous.
"I hear my mum screaming. Pleading with Voldemort. And if you'd heard your mum like that — about to be killed — you wouldn't forget it. And if you found out someone she trusted betrayed her and sent Voldemort after her —"
"There's nothing you can do!" Hermione interrupted, her face stricken. "The Dementors will catch Black, and he'll go back to Azkaban. And — and serve him right!"
"You heard what Fudge said. Black isn't affected by Azkaban like other people are. It's not a punishment for him."
"So what are you saying?" Ron asked, his voice tense. "You want to — to kill Black or something?"
"Don't be silly," Hermione said in a panic. "Harry doesn't want to kill anyone. Do you, Harry?"
Harry didn't answer. He didn't know what he wanted to do. But the thought of doing nothing while Black roamed free was unbearable.
"Harry, I understand you—" Hope began.
"I thought you understood," Harry snapped. "But clearly not. What would you do if it was the man you hear every time the Dementors come near? The man who killed your mum? You're telling me you wouldn't be angry? You wouldn't want revenge?"
Hope looked down, her stomach twisting. What would she do? Would she be angry? Sad? Terrified? Would she freeze? Panic? She didn't know. But what she did know was that Harry making decisions in this state would only lead to disaster.
"Malfoy knows," Harry said abruptly. "Remember what he said to me in Potions? 'If it was me, I'd hunt him down myself ... I'd want revenge.'"
"You're going to take Malfoy's advice instead of ours?" Ron said furiously. "Listen. You know what Pettigrew's mother got back after Black was done with him? Dad told me — the Order of Merlin, First Class, and Pettigrew's finger in a box. That was the biggest bit of him they could find. Black's a madman, Harry, and he's dangerous —"
"Malfoy's dad must have told him," Harry interrupted. "He was right in Voldemort's inner circle —"
"Say You-Know-Who, will you?" Ron interjected angrily.
"So obviously, the Malfoys knew Black was working for Voldemort —"
"— and Malfoy'd love to see you blown into a million pieces like Pettigrew!" Ron snapped. "Get a grip, Harry. Malfoy's just hoping you'll get yourself killed before he has to face you in Quidditch."
"Harry, please," Hermione's voice cracked, her eyes shimmering with tears. "Please be sensible. Black did a terrible, terrible thing, but don't put yourself in danger. It's what Black wants. Your mum and dad wouldn't want you to get hurt, would they? They'd never want you to go after Black."
"I'll never know what they'd have wanted because, thanks to Black, I've never spoken to them," Harry said bitterly.
"Well, I surely don't think she gave her life just so you could get blown to smithereens at thirteen by Black," Hope shot back. "I don't know what I'd do if I saw my mum's killer, but I sure wouldn't go after him on some kind of death mission."
Harry glared at her, feeling a sharp sting of betrayal. "Please. I've never met anyone more reckless in my life than you. And I can't believe you, of all people, are telling me how to feel right now."
"I'm not telling you how to feel!" Hope snapped, her voice trembling.
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the crackling fire. Crookshanks stretched lazily, flicking his tail. Ron's pocket twitched.
"Look," Ron said quickly, his voice strained. "It's the holidays. It's nearly Christmas. Let's go down and see Hagrid. We haven't visited him in ages."
"No!" Hermione said quickly. "Harry isn't supposed to leave the castle, Ron."
"Yeah, let's go," Harry said, standing up. "And I can ask him how come he never mentioned Black when he told me about my parents."
"Or we could have a game of chess," Ron said hastily. "Or Gobstones. Percy left a set—"
"No, let's visit Hagrid," Harry said firmly.
And without another word, they gathered their cloaks and left the common room.
They grabbed their cloaks from their dormitories and set off through the portrait hole—"Stand and fight, you yellow-bellied mongrels!"—before making their way down the empty castle and out through the oak front doors.
The lawn was blanketed in fresh, powdery snow, their footsteps carving a shallow trench as they walked. Their socks and the hems of their cloaks were quickly soaked and freezing. The Forbidden Forest shimmered under a dusting of silver, and Hagrid's cabin sat in the distance, looking like a giant iced cake.
Ron knocked on the door. No answer.
"He's not out, is he?" Hermione asked, shivering under her cloak.
Ron pressed his ear to the wood. "There's a weird noise," he muttered. "Listen—sounds like Fang."
Harry, Hope, and Hermione leaned in, straining to hear. From inside came a low, throbbing moan.
"Should we get someone?" Ron asked nervously.
Harry didn't hesitate. "Hagrid!" He pounded on the door. "Hagrid, are you in there?"
Heavy footsteps thudded against the floorboards. A moment later, the door creaked open.
Hagrid stood before them, his eyes red and swollen, fresh tears splashing onto the front of his leather waistcoat.
"Yeh've heard!" he bellowed, then threw himself at Harry, clutching him in a crushing embrace.
Since Hagrid was at least twice the size of a normal man, this was no laughing matter. Harry nearly buckled under the weight before Ron, Hermione, and Hope rushed to his aid, each grabbing hold of Hagrid's arms and heaving him back inside.
They guided him into a chair, where he slumped over the table, his body shaking with uncontrollable sobs. Tears dripped down into his tangled beard, glistening under the candlelight.
"Hagrid, what is it?" Hermione asked, her voice laced with concern.
Harry's gaze landed on a piece of parchment lying open on the table—official-looking. His stomach tightened. "What's this, Hagrid?"
Hagrid only sobbed harder, but with a trembling hand, he pushed the letter toward Harry.
Harry picked it up and read aloud:
Dear Mr. Hagrid,
Further to our inquiry into the attack by a Hippogriff on a student in your class, we have accepted the assurances of Professor Dumbledore that you bear no responsibility for the regrettable incident.
"Well, that's good, then!" Ron said, clapping Hagrid on the shoulder.
But Hagrid shook his head, face crumpling. He waved a massive hand at the letter, urging Harry to continue.
However, we must register our concern about the Hippogriff in question. We have decided to uphold the official complaint of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and this matter will therefore be taken to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. The hearing will take place on April 20th, and we ask you to present yourself and your Hippogriff at the Committee's offices in London on that date. In the meantime, the Hippogriff should be kept tethered and isolated.
Yours in fellowship...
A list of school governors followed.
Hope scoffed. "I can't believe Malfoy." Though, really, she could—she expected nothing less from that family.
"Oh," Ron said, shifting awkwardly. "But you said Buckbeak isn't dangerous, Hagrid. I bet he'll get off—"
"Yeh don' know them gargoyles at the Committee fer the Disposal o' Dangerous Creatures!" Hagrid choked out, swiping at his eyes with a sleeve. "They've got it in fer interestin' creatures!"
A sudden sound from the corner made them all whip around.
Buckbeak lay there, feathers ruffled, tearing into something that oozed blood across the floor.
"I couldn' leave him tied up out there in the snow!" Hagrid moaned. "All on his own! At Christmas!"
The four exchanged glances. They had more than enough experience dealing with Hagrid's interesting creatures to know how this usually ended. But Buckbeak, by Hagrid's standards, was downright adorable.
"You'll have to put up a strong defense," Hermione said gently, settling into a chair beside him and resting a hand on his massive forearm. "I'm sure you can prove Buckbeak isn't dangerous."
"Won' make no diff'rence!" Hagrid sniffled. "Them Disposal devils, they're all in Lucius Malfoy's pocket! Scared o' him! An' if I lose the case, Buckbeak—"
His voice broke. He drew a thick finger across his throat, then buried his face in his arms with a gut-wrenching wail.
Harry swallowed hard. "What about Dumbledore?"
"He's done more'n enough fer me already," Hagrid groaned. "Got enough on his plate, what with keepin' them Dementors outta the castle an' Sirius Black lurkin' around—"
Hope, Ron, and Hermione glanced quickly at Harry, clearly expecting him to start berating Hagrid for not telling him the truth about Black. But Harry couldn't bring himself to do it, not when Hagrid looked so miserable and scared.
"Listen, Hagrid," Harry said, his voice softer now. "You can't give up. Hermione's right. You just need a good defense. You can call us as witnesses—"
Hope nodded firmly. "Harry and I rode the Hippogriff with no problem. I'll gladly tell them that Malfoy was messing around."
"I'm sure I've read about a case of Hippogriff-baiting," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Where the Hippogriff got off. I'll look it up for you, Hagrid, and see exactly what happened."
Hagrid howled even louder, his massive shoulders shaking. Harry and Hermione exchanged a helpless look before turning to Ron, hoping for support.
"Er—shall I make a cup of tea?" Ron offered, his voice uncertain. Harry blinked at him.
"It's what my mum does whenever someone's upset," Ron muttered with a shrug.
After several more reassurances of their help and with a steaming mug of tea in front of him, Hagrid finally blew his nose on a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth. He sniffed deeply, his voice rough.
"Yer right. I can't afford ter go ter pieces. Gotta pull meself together..."
Fang, the boarhound, crept timidly out from under the table and laid his massive head on Hagrid's knee. Hagrid scratched behind Fang's ears, his other hand rubbing at his tear-streaked face.
"I've not bin meself lately," he admitted. "Worried abou' Buckbeak, an' no one likin' me classes—"
"We do like them!" Hermione blurted out, a bit too quickly.
"Really! All the Gryffindors do!" Hope added, her voice bright with reassurance. It wasn't entirely a lie. While she wasn't a fan of the flobberworms, Hagrid's enthusiasm made the lessons enjoyable.
"Yeah, they're great!" Ron chimed in, though he crossed his fingers beneath the table. "Er—how are the Flobberworms?"
"Dead," Hagrid replied gloomily. "Too much lettuce."
"Oh no!" Ron gasped, though his lips twitched as if he was fighting the urge to laugh.
"An' them Dementors make me feel ruddy terrible an' all," Hagrid went on, shuddering. "Gotta walk past 'em ev'ry time I want a drink in the Three Broomsticks. 'S like bein' back in Azkaban—"
He fell silent, the words hanging heavy in the air. Harry, Hope, Ron, and Hermione watched him closely, holding their breath. Hagrid rarely spoke of his time in Azkaban.
After a pause, Hermione's voice broke the silence, timid but curious. "Is it awful in there, Hagrid?"
"Yeh've no idea," Hagrid said quietly. "Never bin anywhere like it. Thought I was goin' mad. Kep' goin' over horrible stuff in me mind... the day I got expelled from Hogwarts... day me dad died... day I had ter let Norbert go..."
His eyes shimmered with tears. "Yeh can't really remember who yeh are after a while. An' yeh can't see the point o' livin' at all. I used ter hope I'd just die in me sleep... when they let me out, it was like bein' born again. Ev'rythin' came floodin' back. It was the best feelin' in the world."
He paused, his hands trembling slightly around the mug. "Mind, the Dementors weren't keen on lettin' me go."
"But you were innocent!" Hermione insisted, her voice trembling.
Hagrid snorted bitterly. "Think that matters to them? They don't care. Long as they've got a couple o' hundred humans stuck there with 'em, so they can leech all the happiness out of 'em, they don't give a damn who's guilty an' who's not."
He went quiet again, staring into his tea as though it held answers. The flickering fire cast shadows over his weary face.
"Thought o' just lettin' Buckbeak go," he murmured at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tryin' ter make him fly away... but how d'yeh explain ter a Hippogriff it's gotta go inter hidin'? An'—an' I'm scared o' breakin' the law..."
He looked up at them then, tears slipping down his face once more. His voice broke as he added, "I don't ever want ter go back ter Azkaban."
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The trip to Hagrid's, while hardly enjoyable, had done what Ron and Hermione had hoped. Harry couldn't completely forget about Black — the anger still simmered beneath the surface — but with Hagrid's case hanging over them, it was harder to think about revenge every second of the day.
Back in the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. Hope sat cross-legged beside Harry on the couch, her parchment spread across the table. She was supposed to be working on her homework, but she wasn't exactly making progress. Every few moments, her eyes flicked toward Harry. His jaw was tight, his fingers absently picking at a loose thread on his robe.
She sighed, shifting slightly to face him. "I get it," she said quietly. "Really, if I were you, I'd probably feel the same way."
Harry's eyes didn't leave the fireplace, but his hands stilled. He was listening.
"I just..." Hope hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I don't want you to do something that gets you killed, alright?" She gave him a small smile. "I kinda like having you around."
For a moment, Harry didn't respond. Then, slowly, his expression softened. The tension in his shoulders eased just a little, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice rough but genuine. "I'll try my best."
The next day, the four of them headed to the library and returned to the empty common room, their arms laden with books that might help build a defense for Buckbeak. They settled in front of the crackling fire, the warmth a welcome contrast to the biting cold outside. Dusty volumes on famous cases of marauding beasts lay open on their laps as they flipped through the pages, pausing occasionally to share anything useful.
"Here's something," Ron muttered, tracing his finger along the text. "There was a case in 1722... but the Hippogriff was convicted — urgh, look what they did to it. That's disgusting."
Hope grimaced, leaning over to glance at the page. Hermione, undeterred, kept flipping through her own book.
"This might help," she said, eyes lighting up. "Look — a Manticore savaged someone in 1296, and they let the Manticore off— oh, never mind. That was only because everyone was too scared to go near it." She sighed, rubbing her temples.
While they worked, the castle had transformed for Christmas. Even though most students had gone home, the staff had still put up the usual magnificent decorations. Thick garlands of holly and mistletoe hung from the corridors, and mysterious lights glowed inside the suits of armor. The Great Hall gleamed with twelve enormous Christmas trees, their branches twinkling with golden stars. The delicious smell of holiday cooking drifted through the air, growing stronger by the day. Even Scabbers poked his nose out of Ron's pocket, sniffing eagerly.
By the time Christmas morning arrived, the scent was downright irresistible.
Hope stirred awake, startled by Hermione's excited voice.
"Merry Christmas, Hope!"
Still half-asleep, Hope rubbed her eyes and squinted through the dim light. At the foot of her bed, a small heap of presents had appeared. Hermione was already sitting on her own bed, tearing into her packages with the same enthusiasm she brought to homework.
Hope shuffled forward, reaching for the familiar lumpy package she knew all too well. Sure enough, inside was a hand-knitted maroon jumper. She grinned, slipping it over her head and savoring the cozy warmth. There was also a small box of homemade fudge, which she eagerly opened. She offered a piece to Hermione, who gladly accepted, and caught sight of Hope's Cinderella book resting safely on her bedside table once again.
"I see you got one of your presents early," Hermione teased, her eyes twinkling. "Told you it'd turn up."
Hope shot her a playful glare before reaching for another gift. She unwrapped it to find a dazzling Holyhead Harpies poster from her father, the players zooming across the parchment with their emerald green robes billowing behind them.
Hermione pointed toward a long, thin package tucked beneath Hope's bed. "What's that one?"
"I dunno," Hope replied. She couldn't remember ever receiving something that big before. She tore open the wrapping. Her breath caught.
A magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled onto her bedspread.
Hermione gasped, nearly choking on her fudge as she scrambled closer. "You got a new broom!"
"Not just any broom," Hope whispered, her fingers trembling as she picked it up. "It's a Firebolt."
The polished handle glittered in the soft light. The moment she let go, it hovered effortlessly in mid-air, perfectly balanced at the right height for mounting. Her eyes traced over the golden registration number and down to the flawless birch twigs that fanned out in a smooth, streamlined tail.
"Did your dad get it for you?" Hermione asked.
Hope shook her head. "No, my dad couldn't afford this."
"Was there a card?"
Hope sifted through the torn wrappings but found nothing. "No. Nothing."
Hermione frowned. "Who do you think sent it then?"
Hope hesitated. "Maybe Harry?"
"But didn't Harry get you that pack of Fizzing Whizbees?" Hermione asked, confused.
"Yeah, but..." Hope trailed off, shrugging. "I don't know anyone else who could afford it."
"Well, let's go see," Hermione suggested, scooping up a very disgruntled Crookshanks, who was now sporting a tinsel collar. Hope grabbed the Firebolt, still unable to believe her eyes.
They climbed the stairs to the boys' dormitory and pushed open the door to find Harry and Ron in a fit of laughter.
"What're you two laughing about?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Don't bring him in here!" Ron yelled, hastily stuffing Scabbers into his pajama pocket.
"Hope, you got one too?" Harry's eyes widened as he spotted the broom in her hands.
Hope nodded, equally surprised to see an identical broomstick leaning against Harry's bed.
Hermione gawked at the sight, dropping Crookshanks onto Seamus's empty bed. "Wait — Harry! You got a Firebolt too? We thought you were the one who sent Hope's!"
Harry shook his head. "Wasn't me."
"Did it come with a card?"
"No," Harry replied. "There wasn't a card or anything."
"Same here," Hope said.
Hermione looked troubled by this, as a small frown formed and she bit her lip.
"That's a bit odd, isn't it? I mean, this is supposed to be quite a good broom, isn't it?" Hermione said.
Ron let out an exaggerated sigh. "It's the best broom there is, Hermione."
"Right, so it's really expensive," she pressed.
"Probably cost more than all the Slytherins' brooms put together," Ron said gleefully.
"Exactly," Hermione said, her frown deepening. "Who'd send Harry and Hope something as expensive as that and not even tell them who it's from?"
"Who cares?" Ron cut in impatiently, his eyes gleaming. "One of you, can I have a go on it? Can I?"
Hermione stiffened. "I don't think anyone should ride that broom just yet!"
The other three turned to stare at her.
"What d'you think Harry's going to do with it — sweep the floor?" Ron scoffed.
Before Hermione could answer, Crookshanks sprang from Seamus's bed, launching straight at Ron's chest.
"GET — HIM — OUT — OF — HERE!" Ron bellowed as Crookshanks's claws shredded his pajamas. Scabbers made a wild dash over Ron's shoulder, squealing. With a frantic grab, Ron caught Scabbers by the tail and swung a misjudged kick at Crookshanks. His foot missed and struck the trunk at the end of Harry's bed instead, knocking it over with a loud thud. Ron howled, hopping on one foot and clutching the other in pain.
Crookshanks's fur bristled as a shrill, tinny whistling filled the room. The Pocket Sneakoscope, dislodged from Uncle Vernon's old socks, spun and gleamed furiously on the floor.
"I forgot about that!" Harry said, crouching to scoop it up. "I never wear those socks if I can help it..."
The Sneakoscope continued to whirl in his hands, emitting sharp whistles. Crookshanks hissed and spat at it, tail lashing.
"You'd better get that cat out of here, Hermione," Ron growled, now perched on Harry's bed, nursing his toe. "And can't you shut that thing up?" he added, glaring at the Sneakoscope.
Hermione huffed, scooping Crookshanks into her arms as his yellow eyes stayed locked on Ron. She strode out of the room without another word.
Harry stuffed the Sneakoscope back into the socks and threw it into his trunk. The only sounds now were Ron's muttered curses and the occasional pained groan. In Ron's trembling hands, Scabbers huddled, his thin body shivering. It had been a while since Hope had seen the rat, and the sight of him unsettled her. Scabbers, once plump and glossy, was now frail, with patchy fur and a dull look in his eyes.
"Is the rat tonic not working?" Hope asked, her brows furrowing. "He's not looking too good."
"It's stress!" Ron snapped. "He'd be fine if that stupid furball left him alone!"
Hope bit her lip. Rats didn't usually live more than a few years, and Scabbers had been with the Weasleys for twelve. She couldn't shake the feeling that he was simply nearing the end of his life and as much as Ron complained about him being useless, she knew he'd be devastated if Scabbers died.
Later that morning, the Christmas spirit was noticeably lacking in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione had locked Crookshanks in her dormitory, though she was still seething over Ron's attempt to kick him. Ron, in turn, was seething over Crookshanks's latest attempt on Scabbers's life. Harry and Hope quickly gave up on trying to make peace and instead focused on admiring their new Firebolts.
They'd brought both brooms down to the common room, the gleaming handles catching the light. For some reason, even this annoyed Hermione. She sat across from them, scowling darkly at the brooms as if they were personally responsible for Crookshanks's behavior.
When lunchtime rolled around, they made their way to the Great Hall. The house tables had once again been pushed to the sides, leaving a single table set for twelve in the middle. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick were already seated, along with Filch, who had swapped his usual brown coat for a moth-eaten tailcoat. There were only two other students present: a timid first-year and a sullen Slytherin fifth-year.
"Merry Christmas!" Dumbledore beamed as the four approached. "With so few of us, it seemed rather silly to use the house tables. Sit down, sit down!"
Hope, Harry, Ron, and Hermione took their seats.
"Crackers!" Dumbledore exclaimed, offering a large silver one to Snape.
Snape took it reluctantly, giving it a quick tug. The cracker exploded with a bang like a gunshot, revealing a ridiculous pointed witch's hat with a stuffed vulture on top. Hope swallowed a chuckle, covering her mouth and turning away. Harry caught Ron's eye, and both grinned at the memory of Snape's boggart. Snape's mouth thinned. Without a word, he shoved the hat toward Dumbledore, who gleefully swapped it for his own.
"Tuck in!" Dumbledore encouraged, his eyes twinkling.
Harry glanced around as the food appeared before them. "Where's Professor Lupin?" he asked, turning toward Hope.
Hope's smile faltered. "He's sick," she replied softly.
"Again?" Ron mumbled, his mouth already half-full of roasted potatoes.
Hope nodded, solemnly, she hated when the full moon fell so close to the holidays.
As Hope was serving herself ham, the Great Hall doors swung open. Professor Trelawney glided in, her green sequined dress shimmering like an oversized dragonfly.
"Sybill! What a delightful surprise!" Dumbledore exclaimed, rising to greet her.
"I have been crystal-gazing, Headmaster," she said in her mistiest voice, "and to my astonishment, I foresaw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate?"
"Certainly, certainly," Dumbledore said, waving his wand. A chair appeared with a thud between Professor McGonagall and Snape.
Professor Trelawney's eyes widened. "Oh, but I cannot! There are twelve of us. If I join, we shall be thirteen! Never forget — when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"
"We'll risk it, Sybill," McGonagall said dryly. "Do sit down. The turkey's getting cold."
Still trembling, Trelawney lowered herself into the chair, her expression one of grim resignation. Professor McGonagall barely hid her eye-roll.
"But where is dear Professor Lupin?" Trelawney asked, scanning the table.
"I'm afraid he's ill again," Dumbledore said, motioning for everyone to eat though Ron had clearly already helped himself. "Unfortunate timing, really."
"But surely you knew that, Sybill," McGonagall remarked, arching a brow.
Trelawney stiffened. "Of course, Minerva," she said coolly. "But one does not parade the fact that one possesses the Inner Eye."
"That explains a great deal," McGonagall muttered.
Trelawney's misty voice sharpened. "If you must know, I have foreseen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for long." Her tone held a grim finality. "He fled when I offered to crystal-gaze for him. The poor man seems quite aware of his impending fate."
"He has no impending fate," Hope said sharply, her head whipping up to glare at the professor.
Trelawney blinked, her hands fluttering. "My dear, I understand this is difficult to hear—"
"There's nothing to understand. He's fine," Hope shot back. Her voice was firm, though her jaw tightened. She knew full well why her father wasn't there, and she hated the careless suggestion that something terrible awaited him.
Professor McGonagall, noticing Hope was upset, quickly intervened. "Stuffing?" she offered, holding the platter toward her.
Still scowling, Hope tore her gaze from Trelawney. McGonagall's stern yet gentle expression softened the tension. With a sigh, Hope accepted the stuffing.
Dumbledore spoke up, his cheerful tone cutting through the lingering awkwardness. "I doubt Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. Severus, you've prepared his potion?"
"Yes, Headmaster," Snape replied coolly.
"Excellent! Then he'll be up and about in no time. Derek, do try the chipolatas, they're superb."
The first-year boy went furiously red at being addressed directly by Dumbledore and took the platter of sausages with trembling hands.
Professor Trelawney behaved almost normally until the very end of Christmas dinner, two hours later. Full to bursting with Christmas feast and still wearing their cracker hats, Harry and Ron were the first to rise from the table.
Trelawney shrieked.
"My dears! Which of you left his seat first? Which?"
"Dunno," Ron said, glancing uneasily at Harry.
"I doubt it will make much difference," Professor McGonagall said coldly, "unless a mad axe-man is waiting outside the doors to slaughter the first into the Entrance Hall."
Even Ron laughed. Professor Trelawney looked highly affronted.
"Coming?" Harry asked, glancing at Hope and Hermione.
"Yeah," Hope said, taking one last bite of pudding before standing.
"No," Hermione muttered. "I want a quick word with Professor McGonagall."
"Probably trying to see if she can take any more classes," Ron yawned as they made their way into the Entrance Hall, which, unsurprisingly, was completely devoid of mad axe-men.
When they reached the portrait hole, they found Sir Cadogan enjoying a Christmas party with a couple of monks, several former Hogwarts Headmasters, and his fat pony. He pushed up his visor and toasted them with a flagon of mead.
"Merry—hic—Christmas! Password?"
"Scurvy cur," Ron said.
"And the same to you, sir!" Sir Cadogan roared, swinging the painting open to admit them.
Hope went straight to the dormitory and grabbed her Firebolt, bringing it down to the common room. She wasn't surprised to see Harry had done the same. He'd also brought his Broomstick Servicing Kit—the one Hermione had given him for his birthday—but there wasn't a single bent twig to clip, and the handles were already so polished that any further would be pointless.
So, instead, the three of them simply sat there, admiring the brooms from every possible angle.
The portrait hole swung open. Hermione stepped inside—followed by Professor McGonagall.
Hope stiffened. Though McGonagall was their Head of House, she'd only come into the common room once before, and that had been to make a very serious announcement. Hope, Harry, and Ron turned, watching as she walked toward them. Hermione avoided their eyes, quickly skirting around them, dropping into an armchair, and burying her face behind a book—which was upside-down.
"So that's it, is it?" McGonagall's sharp gaze flickered to the gleaming broomsticks. She stepped closer, peering over her spectacles. "Miss Granger has just informed me that you both have been sent a broomstick," she said, looking pointedly at Hope and Harry.
The three of them turned to Hermione. They could see her forehead reddening over the top of her book.
"May I?" McGonagall asked—but she didn't wait for an answer before plucking the Firebolts from their hands.
Hope clenched her jaw as the professor examined them, flipping each broom carefully from handle to twig-end.
"Hmm. And there was no note? No card? No message of any kind? For either of you?"
"No," Harry said blankly.
Hope hesitated, then, seeing exactly where McGonagall was going with this, muttered, "On second thought, I think there was—"
McGonagall gave her a sharp look over her spectacles.
Hope huffed. "No."
"I see..." McGonagall's expression hardened. "Well, I'm afraid I will have to take them."
"W-what?" Harry shot to his feet. "Why?"
"You can't do that!" Hope exclaimed, only to immediately shrink under McGonagall's pointed glare.
"It will need to be checked for jinxes," McGonagall said briskly. "Of course, I'm no expert, but I daresay Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick will strip it down—"
Hope's mouth dropped open. She stared at McGonagall in horror. Strip it down? As in, take apart her brand-new, incredibly expensive, incredibly perfect broom?
"Strip it down?" Ron repeated, sounding as though McGonagall had lost her mind.
"It shouldn't take more than a few weeks," she continued. "You will have it back if we are sure it is jinx-free."
"There's nothing wrong with it!" Harry protested, his voice shaking slightly. "Honestly, Professor—"
"You can't know that, Potter," McGonagall said, and though her tone was firm, there was a note of kindness in it. "Not until you've flown it, at any rate, and I'm afraid that is out of the question until we are certain they have not been tampered with. I shall keep you both informed."
With that, she turned on her heel and swept toward the portrait hole, the Firebolts in her arms. The painting swung shut behind her.
Hope collapsed onto the sofa, opening and closing her mouth like a fish, utterly dumbfounded. Harry stood frozen, the tin of High-Finish Polish clutched in his hand.
Ron, however, whirled on Hermione.
"What did you go running to McGonagall for?" he bellowed.
Hermione threw her book aside, cheeks still pink, but she stood up to face him defiantly.
"Because I thought—and Professor McGonagall agrees with me—that that broom was probably sent to Harry by Sirius Black!"