ack to the 
classroom to get their bags. 

"He seems like a very good teacher," said Hermione approvingly. "But I 
wish I could have had a turn with the boggart --" 

"What would it have been for you?" said Ron, sniggering. "A piece of 
homework that only got nine out of ten?" 

CHAPTER EIGHT 

FLIGHT OF THE FAT FADY 

In no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had become most 
people's favorite class. Only Draco Malfoy and his gang of Slytherins 
had anything bad to say about Professor Lupin. 

"Look at the state of his robes," Malfoy would say in a loud whisper as 
Professor Lupin passed. "He dresses like our old houseelf " 

But no one else cared that Professor Lupin's robes were patched and 
frayed. His next few lessons were just as interesting as the first. 

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After boggarts, they studied Red Caps, nasty little goblin like 
creatures that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed: in the dungeons 
of castles and the potholes of deserted battlefields, waiting to 
bludgeon those who had gotten lost. From Red Caps they moved on to 
kappas, creepy. water-dwellers that looked like scaly monkeys, with 
webbed hands itching to strangle unwitting waders in their ponds. 

Harry only wished he was as happy with some of his other classes. Worst 
of all was Potions. Snape was in a particularly vindictive mood these 
days, and no one was in any doubt why. The story of the boggart assuming 
Snape's shape, and the way that Neville had dressed it in his 
grandmother's clothes, had traveled through the school like wildfire. 
Snape didn't seem to find it funny. His eyes flashed menacingly at the 
very mention of Professor Lupin's name, and he was bullying Neville 
worse than ever. 

Harry was also growing to dread the hours he spent in Professor 
Trelawney's stifling tower room, deciphering lopsided shapes and 
symbols, trying to ignore the way Professor Trelawney's enormous eyes 
filled with tears every time she looked at him. He couldn't like 
Professer Trelawney, even though she was treated with respect bordering 
on reverence by many of the class. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown had 
taken to haunting Professor Trelawney's tower room at lunch times, and 
always returned with annoyingly superior looks on their faces, as though 
they knew things the others didn't. They had also started using hushed 
voices whenever they spoke to Harry, as though he were on his deathbed. 

Nobody really liked Care of Magical Creatures, which, after the 
action-packed first class, had become extremely dull. Hagrid seemed to 
have lost his confidence. They were now spending lesson after lesson 
learning how to look after flobberworms, which had to be some of the 
most boring creatures in existence. 

"Why would anyone bother looking after them?" said Ron, after yet 
another hour of poking shredded lettuce down the flobberworms' throats. 

At the start of October, however, Harry had something else to occupy 
him, something so enjoyable it more than made up for his unsatisfactory 
classes. The Quidditch season was approaching, and O1iver Wood, Captain 
of the Gryffindor team, called a meeting on Thursday evening to discuss 

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tactics for the new season. 

There were seven people on a Quidditch team: three Chasers, whose job it 
was to score goals by putting the Quaffle (a red, soccer-sized ball) 
through one of the fifty-foot-high hoops at each 

end of the field; two Beaters, who were equipped with heavy bats to 
repel the Bludgers (two heavy black balls that zoomed around trying to 
attack the players); a Keeper, who defended the goal 

posts, and the Seeker, who had the hardest job of all, that of catching 
the Golden Snitch, a tiny, winged, walnut-sized ball, whose capture 
ended the game and earned the Seeker's team an extra one hundred and 
fifty points. 

Oliver Wood was a burly seventeen-year-old, now in his seventh and final 
year at Hogwarts. There was a quiet sort of desperation in his voice a's 
he addressed his six fellow team members in the chilly locker rooms on 
the edge of the darkening Quidditch field. 

"This is our last chance -- my last chance -- to win the Quidditch Cup," 
he told them, striding up and down in front of them. "I'll be leaving at 
the end of this year. I'll never get another shot at it." 

"Gryffindor hasn't won for seven years now. Okay, so we've had the worst 
luck in the world -- injuries -- then the tournamentgetting called off 
last year Wood swallowed, as though the memory still brought a lump to 
his throat. "But we also know we've got the 
best-ruddy-team-in-the-school," he said, punching a fist into his other 
hand, the old manic glint back in his eye. "We've got three superb 
Chasers." 

Wood pointed at Alicia Spinner, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell. 

"We've got two unbeatable Beaters." 

"Stop it, Oliver, you're embarrassing us," said Fred and George Weasley 
together, pretending to blush. 

"And we've got a Seeker who has never failed to win us a match!" Wood 

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rumbled, glaring at Harry with a kind of furious pride. "And me," he 
added as an afterthought. 

"We think you're very good too, Oliver," said George. 

"Spanking good Keeper," said Fred. 

"The point is," Wood went on, resuming his pacing, "the Quidditch Cup 
should have had our name on it these last two years. Ever since Harry 
joined the team, I've thought the thing was in the bag. But we haven't 
got it, and this year's the last chance we'll get to finally see our 
name on the thing...." 

Wood spoke so dejectedly that even Fred and George looked sympathetic. 

"Oliver, this year's our year," said Fred. 

"We'll do it, Oliver!" said Angelina. 

"Definitely," said Harry. 

Full of determination, the team started training sessions, three 
evenings a week. The weather was getting colder and wetter, the nights 
darker, but no amount of mud, wind, or rain could tarnish Harry's 
wonderful vision of finally winning the huge, silver Quidditch Cup. 

Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room one evening after training, 
cold and stiff but pleased with the way practice had gone, to find the 
room buzzing excitedly. 

"What's happened?", he asked Ron and Hermione, who were sitting in two 
of the best chairs by the fireside and completing some star charts for 
Astronomy. 

"First Hogsmeade weekend," said Ron, pointing at a notice that had 
appeared on the battered old bulletin board. "End of October. 
Halloween." 

"Excellent," said Fred, who had followed Harry through the portrait 
hole. "I need to visit Zonko's. I'm nearly out of Stink Pellets." 

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Harry threw himself into a chair beside Ron, his high spirits ebbing 


away. Hermione seemed to read his mind. 
"Harry, I'm sure you'll be able to go next time," she said. "They're 
bound to catch Black soon. He's been sighted once already." 


"Black's not fool enough to try anything in Hogsmeade," said Ron. "Ask 
McGonagall if you can go this time, Harry. The next one might not be for 
ages --" 

"Ron!" said Hermione. "Harry's supposed to stay in school-" 

"He can't be the only third year left behind," said Ron. "Ask 
McGonagall, go on, Harry --" 
"Yeah, I think I will," said Harry, making up his mind. 
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but at that moment Crookshanks leapt 


lightly onto her lap. A large, dead spider was dangling from his mouth. 
"Does he have to eat that in front of us?" said Ron, scowling. 
"Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by yourself?" said Hermione. 
Crookshanks; slowly chewed up the spider, his yellow eyes fixed 


insolently on Ron. 


"Just keep him over there, that's all," said Ron irritably, turning back 
to his star chart. "1've got Scabbers asleep in my bag." 
Harry yawned. He really wanted to go to bed, but he still had his own 


star chart to complete. He pulled his bag toward him, took out 


parchment, ink, and quill, and started work. 
"You can copy mine, if you like," said Ron, labeling his last star with 
a flourish and shoving the chart toward Harry. 


Hermione, who disapproved of copying, pursed her lips but didn't say 
anything. Crookshanks was still staring unblinkingly at Ron, flicking 

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the end of his bushy tail. Then, without warning, he pounced. 

"OY!" Ron roared, seizing his bag as Crookshanks sank four sets of claws 
deep inside it and began tearing ferociously. "GET OFF, YOU STUPID 
ANIMAL!" 

Ron tried to pull the bag away from Crookshanks, but Crookshanks clung 
on, spitting and slashing. 

"Ron, don't hurt him!" squealed Hermione; the whole common room was 
watching; Ron whirled the bag around, Crookshanks still clinging to it, 
and Scabbers came flying out of the top 


"CATCH THAT CAR' Ron yelled as Crookshanks freed himself from the 
remnants of the bag, sprang over the table, and chased after the 
terrified Scabbers. 

George Weasley made a lunge for Crookshanks but missed; Scabbers 
streaked through twenty pairs of legs and shot beneath an old chest of 
drawers. Crookshanks skidded to a halt, crouched low on his bandy legs, 
and started making furious swipes beneath it with his front paw. 

Ron and Hermione hurried over; Hermione grabbed Crookshanks around the 
middle and heaved him away; Ron threw himself onto his stomach and, with 
great difficulty, pulled Scabbers out by the tail. 

"Look at him!" he said furiously to Hermione, dangling Scabbers in front 
of her. "He's skin and bone! You keep that cat away from him!" 

"Crookshanks doesn't understand it's wrong!" said Hermione, her voice 
shaking. "All cats chase rats, Ron!" 

"There's something funny about that animal!" said Ron, who was trying to 
persuade a frantically wiggling Scabbers back into his pocket. "It heard 
me say that Scabbers was in my bag!" 

"Oh, what rubb