e Quidditch 
final drawing ever nearer. 

The Easter holidays were not exactly relaxing. The third years had never 
had so much homework. Neville Longbottom seemed close to a nervous 
collapse, and he wasn't the only one. 

"Call this a holiday!" Seamus Finnigan roared at the common room one 
afternoon. "The exams are ages away, what're they playing at?" 

But nobody had as much to do as Hermione. Even without Divination, she 
was taking more subjects than anybody else. She was usually last to 
leave the common room at night, first to arrive at the library the next 
morning; she had shadows like Lupin's under her eyes, and seemed 
constantly close to tears. 

Ron had taken over responsibility for Buckbeak's appeal. When he wasn't 
doing his own work, he was poring over enormously thick volumes with 
names like The Handbook of Hippogriff Psychology and Fowl or Foul? A 
Study of Hippogriff Brutality. He was so absorbed, he even forgot to be 
horrible to Crookshanks. 

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Harry, meanwhile, had to fit in his homework around Quidditch practice 
every day, not to mention endless discussions of tactics with Wood. The 
Gryffindor-Slytherin match would take place on the first Saturday after 
the Easter holidays. Slytherin was leading the tournament by exactly two 
hundred points. This meant (as Wood constantly reminded his team) that 
they needed to win the match by more than that amount to win the Cup. It 
also meant that the burden of winning fell largely on Harry, because 
capturing the Snitch was worth one hundred and fifty points. 

"So you must catch it only if we're more than fifty points up," Wood 
told Harry constantly. "Only if we're more than fifty points up, Harry, 
or we win the match but lose the Cup. You've got that, Haven't you? You 
must catch the Snitch only if we're --" 

"I KNOW, OLIVER!" Harry yelled. 

The whole of Gryffindor House was obsessed with the coming match. 
Gryffindor hadn't won the Quidditch Cup since the legendary Charlie 
Weasley (Ron's second oldest brother) had been seeker. But Harry doubted 
whether any of them, even Wood, wanted to win as much as he did. The 
enmity between Harry and Malfoy was at its highest point ever. Malfoy 
was still smarting ,bout the mud-throwing incident in Hogsmeade and was 
even more furious that Harry had somehow wormed his way out of 
punishment. Harry hadn't forgotten Malfoy's attempt to sabotage him in 
the match against Ravenclaw, but it was the matter of Buckbeak that made 
him most determined to beat Malfoy in front of the entire school. 

Never, in anyone's memory, had a match approached in such a highly 
charged atmosphere. By the time the holidays were over, tension between 
the two teams and their Houses was at the breaking point. A number of 
small scuffles broke out in the corridors, culminating in a nasty 
incident in which a Gryffindor fourth year and a Slytherin sixth year 
ended up in the hospital wing with leeks sprouting out of their ears. 

Harry was having a particularly bad time of it. He couldn't walk to 
class without Slytherins sticking out their legs and trying to trip him 
up; Crabbe and Goyle kept popping up wherever he went, and slouching 
away looking disappointed when they saw him surrounded by people. Wood 
had given instructions that Harry should be accompanied everywhere he 
went, in case the Slytherins tried to put him out of action. The whole 

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of Gryffindor House took up the challenge enthusiastically, so that it 
was impossible for Harry to get to classes on time because he was 
surrounded by a vast, chattering crowd. Harry was more concerned for his 
Firebolt's safety than his own. When he wasn't flying it, he locked it 
securely in his trunk and frequently dashed back up to Gryffindor Tower 
at break times to check that it was still there. 

All usual pursuits were abandoned in the Gryffindor common room the 
night before the match. Even Hermione had Put down her books. 

"I can't work, I can't concentrate," she said nervously. 

There was a great deal of noise. Fred and George Weasley were dealing 
with the pressure by being louder and more exuberant than ever. Oliver 
Wood was crouched over a model of a Quidditch field in the corner, 
prodding little figures across it with his wand and muttering to himself 
Angelina, Alicia, and Katie were laughing at Fred's and George's jokes. 
Harry was sitting with Ron and Hermione, removed from the center of 
things, trying not to think about the next day, because every time he 
did, he had the horrible sensation that something very large was 
fighting to get out of his stomach. 

"You're going to be fine," Hermione told him, though she looked 
positively terrified. 

"You've got a Firebolt!" said Ron. 

"Yeah..." said Harry, his stomach writhing. 

It came as a relief when Wood suddenly stood up and yelled, "Team! Bed!" 

Harry slept badly. First he dreamed that he had overslept, and that Wood 
was yelling, "Where were you? We had to use Neville instead!" Then he 
dreamed that Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin team arrived for the 
match riding dragons. He was flying at breakneck speed, trying to avoid 
a spurt of flames from Malfoy's steed's mouth, when he realized he had 
forgotten his Firebolt. He fell through the air and woke with a start. 

It was a few seconds before Harry remembered that the match hadn't taken 
place yet, that he was safe in bed, and that the Slytherin team 

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definitely wouldn't be allowed to play on dragons. He was feeling very 
thirsty. Quietly as he could, he got out of his four-poster and went to 
pour himself some water from the silver jug beneath the window. 

The grounds were still and quiet. No breath of wind disturbed the 
treetops in the Forbidden Forest; the Whomping Willow was motionless and 
innocent-looking. It looked as though the conditions for the match would 
be perfect. 

Harry set down his goblet and was about to turn back to his bed when 
something caught his eye. An animal of some kind was prowling across the 
silvery lawn. 

Harry dashed to his bedside table, snatched up his glasses, and put them 
on, then hurried back to the window. It couldn't be the Grim -- not now 
-- not right before the match 


He peered out at the grounds again and, after a minute's frantic 
searching, spotted it. It was skirting the edge of the forest now... It 
wasn't the Grim at all ... it was a cat.... Harry clutched the window 
ledge in relief as he recognized the bottlebrush tail. It was only 
Crookshanks.... 

Or was it only Crookshanks? Harry squinted, pressing his nose flat 
against the glass. Crookshanks seemed to have come to a halt. Harry was 
sure he could see something else moving in the shadow of the trees too. 

And just then, it emerged -- a gigantic, shaggy black dog, moving 
stealthily across the lawn, Crookshanks trotting at its side. Harry 
stared. What did this mean? If Crookshanks could see the dog as well, 
how could it be an omen of Harry's death? 

"Ron!" Harry hissed. "Ron! Wake up!" 

"Huh?" 

I need you to tell me if you can see something!" 

"S'all dark, Harry," Ron muttered thickly. "What're you or, about?" 

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"Down here --" 

Harry looked quickly back out of the window. 

Crookshanks and the dog had vanished. Harry climbed onto the windowsill 
to look right down into the shadows of the castle, but they weren't 
there. Where had they gone? 

A loud snore told him Ron had fallen asleep again. 

Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall the 
next day to enormous applause. Harry couldn't help grinning broadly as 
he saw that both the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were applauding 
them too. The Slytherin table hissed loudly as they passed. Harry 
noticed that Malfoy looked even paler than usual. 

Wood spent the whole of breakfast urging his team to eat, while touching 
nothing himself Then he hurried them off to the field before anyone else 
had finished, so they could get an idea of the conditions. As they left 
the Great Hall, everyone applauded again. 

"Good luck, Harry!" called Cho. Harry felt himself blushing. 

"Okay -- no wind to speak of -- sun's a bit bright, that could impair 
your vision, watch out for it -- ground's fairly hard, good, that'll 
give us a fast kickoff --" 

Wood paced the field, staring around with the team behind him. Finally, 
they saw the front doors of the castle open in the distance and the rest 
of the school spilling onto the lawn. 

"Locker rooms," said Wood tersely. 

None of them spoke as they changed into their scarlet robes. Harry 
wondered if they were feeling like he was: as though he'd eaten 
something extremely wriggly for breakfast. In what seemed like no time 
at all, Wood was saying, "Okay, it's time, let's go --" 

They walked out onto the field to a tidal wave of noise. Threequarters 
of the crowd was wearing scarlet rosettes, waving scarlet flags with the 

255 



Gryffindor lion upon them, or brandishing banners with slogans like "GO 
GRYFFINDOR!" and "LIONS FOR THE CUK' Behind the Slytherin goal posts, 
however, two hundred people were wearing green; the silver serpent of 
Slytherin glittered on their flags, and Professor Snape sat in the very 
front row, wearing green like everyone else, and a very grim smile. 

"And here are the Gryffindors!" yelled Lee Jordan, who was acting as 
commentator as usual. "Potter, Bell, Johnson, Spinnet, Weasley, Weasley, 
and Wood. Widely acknowledged as the best team Hogwarts has seen in a 
good few years --" 

Lee's comments were drowned by a tide of "boos" from the Slytherin end. 

"And here come the Slytherin team, led by Captain Flint. He's Made some 
changes in the lineup and seems to be going for size rather than skill 
--" 

More boos from the Slytherin 