“You can’t know that, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, quite kindly, “not until you’ve flown it, at any rate, and I’m afraid that is out of the question until we are certain that it has not been tampered with. I shall keep you informed.”
Professor McGonagall turned on her heel and carried the Firebolt out of the portrait hole, which closed behind her. Harry stood staring after her, the tin of High-Finish Polish still clutched in his hands. Ron, however, rounded on Hermione.
“What did you go running to McGonagall for?”
Hermione threw her book aside. She was still pink in the face, but stood up and faced Ron defiantly.
“Because I thought — and Professor McGonagall agrees with me — that that broom was probably sent to Harry by Sirius Black!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE PATRONUS
Harry knew that Hermione had meant well, but that didn’t stop him from being angry with her. He had been the owner of the best broom in the world for a few short hours, and now, because of her interference, he didn’t know whether he would ever see it again. He was positive that there was nothing wrong with the Firebolt now, but what sort of state would it be in once it had been subjected to all sorts of anti-jinx tests?
Ron was furious with Hermione too. As far as he was concerned, the stripping-down of a brand-new Firebolt was nothing less than criminal damage. Hermione, who remained convinced that she had acted for the best, started avoiding the common room. Harry and Ron supposed she had taken refuge in the library and didn’t try to persuade her to come back. All in all, they were glad when the rest of the school returned shortly after New Year, and Gryffindor Tower became crowded and noisy again.
Wood sought Harry out on the night before term started.
“Had a good Christmas?” he said, and then, without waiting for an answer, he sat down, lowered his voice, and said, “I’ve been doing some thinking over Christmas, Harry. After the last match, you know. If the dementors come to the next one . . . I mean . . . we can’t afford you to — well —”
Wood broke off, looking awkward.
“I’m working on it,” said Harry quickly. “Professor Lupin said he’d train me to ward off the dementors. We should be starting this week. He said he’d have time after Christmas.”
“Ah,” said Wood, his expression clearing. “Well, in that case — I really didn’t want to lose you as Seeker, Harry. And have you ordered a new broom yet?”
“No,” said Harry.
“What! You’d better get a move on, you know — you can’t ride that Shooting Star against Ravenclaw!”
“He got a Firebolt for Christmas,” said Ron.
“A Firebolt? No! Seriously? A — a real Firebolt?”
“Don’t get excited, Oliver,” said Harry gloomily. “I haven’t got it anymore. It was confiscated.” And he explained all about how the Firebolt was now being checked for jinxes.
“Jinxed? How could it be jinxed?”
“Sirius Black,” Harry said wearily. “He’s supposed to be after me. So McGonagall reckons he might have sent it.”
Waving aside the information that a famous murderer was after his Seeker, Wood said, “But Black couldn’t have bought a Firebolt! He’s on the run! The whole country’s on the lookout for him! How could he just walk into Quality Quidditch Supplies and buy a broomstick?”
“I know,” said Harry, “but McGonagall still wants to strip it down —”
Wood went pale.
“I’ll go and talk to her, Harry,” he promised. “I’ll make her see reason. . . . A Firebolt . . . a real Firebolt, on our team . . . She wants Gryffindor to win as much as we do. . . . I’ll make her see sense. A Firebolt . . .”
Classes started again the next day. The last thing anyone felt like doing was spending two hours on the grounds on a raw January morning, but Hagrid had provided a bonfire full of salamanders for their enjoyment, and they spent an unusually good lesson collecting dry wood and leaves to keep the fire blazing while the flame-loving lizards scampered up and down the crumbling, white-hot logs. The first Divination lesson of the new term was much less fun; Professor Trelawney was now teaching them palmistry, and she lost no time in informing Harry that he had the shortest life line she had ever seen.
It was Defense Against the Dark Arts that Harry was keen to get to; after his conversation with Wood, he wanted to get started on his anti-dementor lessons as soon as possible.
“Ah yes,” said Lupin, when Harry reminded him of his promise at the end of class. “Let me see . . . how about eight o’clock on Thursday evening? The History of Magic classroom should be large enough. . . . I’ll have to think carefully about how we’re going to do this. . . . We can’t bring a real dementor into the castle to practice on. . . .”
“Still looks ill, doesn’t he?” said Ron as they walked down the corridor, heading to dinner. “What d’you reckon’s the matter with him?”
There was a loud and impatient “tuh” from behind them. It was Hermione, who had been sitting at the feet of a suit of armor, repacking her bag, which was so full of books it wouldn’t close.
“And what are you tutting at us for?” said Ron irritably.
“Nothing,” said Hermione in a lofty voice, heaving her bag back over her shoulder.
“Yes, you were,” said Ron. “I said I wonder what’s wrong with Lupin, and you —”
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” said Hermione, with a look of maddening superiority.
“If you don’t want to tell us, don’t,” snapped Ron.
“Fine,” said Hermione haughtily, and she marched off.
“She doesn’t know,” said Ron, staring resentfully after Hermione. “She’s just trying to get us to talk to her again.”
At eight o’clock on Thursday evening, Harry left Gryffindor Tower for the History of Magic classroom. It was dark and empty when he arrived, but he lit the lamps with his wand and had waited only five minutes when Professor Lupin turned up, carrying a large packing case, which he heaved onto Professor Binns’s desk.