Unedited
Chapter Fourteen - "I don't think I meet the height requirement to ride your emotional roller-coaster."
Madam Pomfrey insists on keeping Harry and I in the hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. We don't argue or complain, but Harry won't let her throw away the shattered remnants of his Nimbus Two Thousand.
I have a stream of visitors, all intent on cheering me up. Hagrid sends me a bunch of earwiggy flowers that look like yellow cabbages, and I get a gift delivered to me on Saturday evening, consisting of a box of chocolates and a note which says:
I hope you feel better soon. I would of come to visit you but as Potter is in the Hospital Wing with you, I think it would look a bit suspicious. I know I'm not doing well at proving I want to be your friend, but I want to let you know, I am trying, even if it is hard to believe.
Draco Malfoy
The Gryffindor team visit again on Sunday morning, the time accompanied by Wood, who tells Harry, in a hollow, dead sort of voice, that he doesn't blame himself in the slightest.
It's puzzling to me about how Harry and I react to the Dementors. I feel sick and humiliated every time I think of them. Everyone says the Dementors are horrible, but no one else collapses every time they go near one ... no one else, not even Harry, from what I know, hears echoes in their head of they dying parents.
I hear the screams over and over during the night hours in the hospital wing while I lie awake, staring at the strips of moonlight on the ceiling ... I doze fitfully, sinking into dramas full of clammy, rotted hands and petrified screaming, jerking awake only to dwell again on what I've been hearing.
*
It's a relief to return on Monday to the noise and bustle of the main school, where I'm forced to think about other things, including Malfoy's taunting. Malfoy is almost beside himself with glee at Gryffindor's defeat. He's finally taken off his bandages, and celebrated having the full use of both arms by doing spirited imitations of Harry falling off his broom. He made sure to tell me he would never make fun of me, because apparently Harry and I look completely different falling off our brooms.
Malfoy spends much of our next Potions class doing Dementor imitations across the dungeon; Ron finally cracks, flinging w large, slippery crocodile heart at Malfoy, which hits him in the face, causing me to laugh and Snape to take fifty points from Gryffindor.
"If Snape's taking Defence Against the Dark Arts again, I'm going off sick," Ron says, as we head towards Lupin's classroom after lunch. "Check who's in there, Hermione."
Hermione peers around the classroom door.
"It's okay!"
Professor Lupin is back at work. It certainly looks as though he's been ill. His old robes are hanging more loosely on him and there are dark shadows beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiles at the class as we take our seats, and we burst at once into an explosion of complaints about Snape's behaviour while Lupin has been ill.
"It's not fair, he was only filling in, why should he set us homework?"
"He was a dick to Hermione."
"We don't know anything about werewolves -"
"-two rolls of parchment!"
"Did you tell Professor Snape we haven't covered them yet?" Lupin asks, frowning slightly.
The babble breaks out again.
"Of course we did, but does he give a fu -"
"- but he said we were really behind -"
"- he wouldn't listen -"
"- two roll of parchment!"
"Alright, Elinor, we get it," Maya mutters.
Professor Lupin smiles at the look of indignation in every face.
"Don't worry. I'll speak to Professor Snape. You don't have to do the essay."
"Oh no," says Hermione, looking very disappointed. "I've already finished it!"
Actually so have I, but I was only looking into my werewolf theory. Guess who was right? ME! Not that I'm going to tell anyone...
We have a very enjoyable lesson. Professor Lupin has brought along a glass box containing a Hinkypunk, a little one-legged creature who seems as though he's made of wisps of smoke, rather frail and harmless-looking.
"Lures travellers into bogs," says Professor Lupin, as we take notes. "You notice the lantern dangling from his hand? Hops ahead - people follow the light - then -"
The Hinkypunk makes a horrible squelching noise against the glass.
When the bell rings, everyone gathers up their things and head for the door, Harry and I among them, but -
"Wait a moment, Harry, Emily," Lupin calls. "I'd like a word."
We double back and watch Professor Lupin covering the Hinkypunk's box with a cloth.
"I heard about the match," says Lupin, turning back to his desk and starting to pile books into his briefcase, "and I'm sorry about your broomsticks. Is there any chance of fixing them?"
"No," I say. "The tree smashed it to bits."
Lupin sighs.
"They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No broomstick would have a chance."
"Well, that's a stupid game."
"Did you hear about the Dementors, too?" says Harry.
Lupin looks at him quickly.
"Yes, I did. I don't think any of us have seen Professor Dumbledore that angry. They 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?"
"Yes," says Harry. He hesitates, and then blurts out, "Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I just -?"
"It has nothing to with weakness," says Professor Lupin sharply. "The Dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that others don't have."
A ray of wintry sunlight falls across the classroom, illuminating Lupin's grey hairs and the lines on his young face.
"Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest place, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can't see them. Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory, will be sucked out of you. If it can, the Dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself - soulless and evil. You'll be left with noting but the worst experiences of the life. And the worst that has happened to you, Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of."
"What about me?" I ask curiously.
Lupin looks as though he's trying to come up with an answer and says, "You saw your parents die, Emily."
"I guess that can scar someone," I nod.
"When they get near me -" Harry stares at Lupin's desk, his throat tight, "I can hear Voldemort murdering my mother."
"I hear my parents screaming," I say miserably.
Lupin makes a sudden motion with his arms as though he's made to grip our shoulders, but thought better of it. There's a moment of silence; then -
"Why did they have to come to the match?" says Harry bitterly.
"They're getting hungry," says Lupin coolly, shutting his briefcase with a snap. "Dumbledore won't let them into the school, so their supply of human prey has dried up ... I don't think they could resist the large crowd around the Quidditch pitch. All that excitement ... emotions running high ... it was their idea of a feast."
"Azkaban must be terrible," I mutter. Lupin nods grimly.
"The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea, but they don't need walls and water to keep the prisoners in, not when they're all trapped inside their own heads, incapable of a single cheerful thought. Most of them go mad within weeks."
"But Sirius Black escaped from them," Harry says slowly. "He got away ..."
Lupin's briefcase slips from the desk; he has to stoop quickly to catch it.
"Yes," he says, straightening up. "Black must have found a way to fight them. I wouldn't have believed it possible ... Dementors are supposed to drain a wizard of his powers u he is left with them too long ..."
"You made that Dementor on the train back off," I say suddenly.
"There are - certain defences one can use," says Lupin. "But there was only one Dementor on the train. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist."
"What defences?" says Harry at once. "Can you teach us?"
"I don't pretend to be an expert at fighting Dementors - quite the contrary ..."
"But if the Dementors come to another Quidditch match, we need to be able to fight them -"
Lupin looks into our determined faces, hesitates, then says, "Well ... all right. I'll try and help. But it'll have to wait until next term, I'm afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient time to fall ill."
*
What with the promise of Anti-Dementor lessons from Lupin, the thought that I may never have to hear my parents scream in pain again, and the fact that Ravenclaw flattens Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the end of November, my mood takes a definite upturn. Gryffindor are not out of the running after all, although we can't afford to lose another match. Wood becomes repossessed of his manic energy, and work his team as hard as ever in the chilly haze of rain that persists into December. I see no hint of a Dementor within the grounds. Dumbledore's anger seems to be keeping them at their stations at the entrances.
Two weeks before the end of term, the sky lightens suddenly to a dazzling, opaline white and the muddy grounds are revealed one morning covered in glittering frost. Inside the castle, there is a buzz of Christmas in the air. Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, has already decorated his classroom with shimmering lights that turn out to be a real, fluttering fairies. The students are all happily discussing their plans for the holidays. Both Ron and Hermione have decided to remain at Hogwarts whereas Elinor and Maya are going home.
To everyone's delight except Harry and I's, there is to be another Hogsmeade trip on the very last weekend of term.
"We can do all our Christmas shopping there!" says Hermione. "Mum and Dad would really love those Toothflossing Stringmints from Homeydukes!"
Resigned to the fact that we're going to be the only third-years staying behind again, we borrow a copy of Which Broomstick from Wood, and decide to spend the day reading up on the different makes. We've both been riding school brooms at team practise, me with an ancient Shooting Star, which is very slow and jerky; I definitely need a new broom of my own.
On the Saturday morning of the Hogsmeade trip, Harry and I bid goodbye to the four amigos, who are wrapped in cloaks and scarves, then turn up the marble starves alone, and head back towards Gryffindor Tower. Snow has started to fall outside the windows, and the castle is very still and quiet.
"Psst - Emily! Psst - Harry!"
I turn, halfway along the third-floor corridor, to see Fred and George peering out at us from behind a statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch.
"What are you doing?" I say curiously. "How come you're not going to Hogsmeade?"
"We've come to give you a bit of festive cheer before we go," says Fred, with a mysterious wink. "Come in here ..."
He nods towards an empty classroom to the left of the one-eyed statue. Harry and I follow Fred and George inside. George closes the door quietly and then turns, beaming, to look at us.
"Early Christmas present for you, Harry," says George. "Emily, you'll get your present on Christmas."
"Question," I say putting my hand up. "Is this gift going to make Harry less moody?"
"I'm not moody," says Harry grumpily.
"Yes, you are," Fred and George say together.
"See, even they know."
"It'll make him less moody," Fred nods.
"Good, for future reference," I turn to Harry, "I don't think I meet the height requirement to ride your emotional roller-coaster."
"Noted," Harry says grudgingly, but he can't help but grin. "Anyway, the present?"
Fred pulls something from inside his cloak with a flourish and lies it on one of the desks. It's a large, square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it.
"What's that supposed to be?"
"This, Harry, is the secret of our success," says George, patting the parchment fondly.
"It's a wrench, giving it to you," says Fred, "but we decided last night, your need's greater than ours."
"Anyway, we know it off by heart," says George. "We bequeath it to you. We don't really need it any more."
"And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?" says Harry.
"A bit of old parchment!" says Fred, closing his eyes with a grimace as though Harry's mortally offended him. "Explain, George."
"Well ... when we were in our first year, Harry - young, carefree and innocent -"
I snort. I doubt whether Fred and George have ever been innocent.
"- well, more innocent than we are now - we got into a spot of bother with Filch."
"We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset him for some reason -"
"So he hauled us off to his office and started threatening us with the usual -"
"- detention -"
"- disembowelment -"
"- and we couldn't help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly Dangerous."
"Don't tell me -" says Harry, starting to grin.
"Well, what would you've done?" says Fred. "George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I whipped the drawer open and grabbed - this."
"It's not as bad as it sounds, you know," says George. "We don't reckon Filch ever found out how to work it. He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn't have confiscated it."
"And you know how to work it?"
"Oh yes," says Fred, smirking. "This little beauty's taught us more than all the teachers in this school."
"You're winding me up," says Harry, looking at the ragged old bit of parchment.
"Oh, are we?" says George.
"I don't think they are," I laugh.
George takes out his wand, touches the parchment lightly and says "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
And at once, thin ink lines begin to spread like spider's web from the point that George's wand has touched. They join each other, they criss-cross, they ran into every corner of the parchment; then words begin to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaim:
Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers
are proud to present
THE MARAUDER'S MAP
It's a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing is the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labelled with a name in minuscule writing. Astounded, I bend over it. A labelled dot in the top left corner shoes that Professor Dumbledore is pacing his study; the caretaker's cat, Mrs Norrid, is prowling the second floor, and Peeves the poltergeist is currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as my eyes travel up and down the familiar corridors, I notice something else.
The map shows a set of passages I've never entered. And many of them seem to lead -
"Right into Hogsmeade," says Fred, tracing one of them with his finger. "There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four -" he points them out, "- but we're sure we're the only ones who know about these. Don't bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last winter, but it's caved in - completely blocked. And we don't reckon anyone's ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow's planted right over the entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We've used it loads of times. And as you might've noticed, the entrance is right outside the room, through that one-eyed old crone's hump."
"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs," sighs George, patting the heading of the map. "We owe them so much."
"Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers," says Fred solemnly.
"Right," says George briskly, "don't forget to wipe it after you've used it -"
"- or anyone can read it," Fred says warningly.
"Just tap it again and say, "Mischief managed!" And it'll go blank."
"So, young Harry," says Fred, in an uncanny impersonation of Percy, "mind you behave yourself."
"See you in Honeydukes," says George winking.
"Why didn't you tell me about this map?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.
"Never got around to it," George shrugs.
"Well, that's no excuse."
They leave the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of way.
I stand, gazing at the miraculous map. I watch the tiny ink Mrs Norris turn left and pause to sniff at something on the floor. If Filch really doesn't know ... we won't have to pass the Dementors at all ...
But even as I stand there, flooded with excitement, something I once heard Mr Weasley say comes floating out of my memory.
Never trust anything that can think for itself, if you can't see where it keeps its brain.
This map is one of those dangerous magical objects Mr Weasley had been warning against ... Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers ... but then, we only want to use it to get into Hogsmeade, it isn't as though we want to steal anything or attack anyone ... and Fred and George have been using it for years without anything horrible happening ...
Harry traces the secret passage to Honeydukes with his finger.
"You sure we should do this?" Harry asks.
"One, that sounds wrong. Two, it's Christmas, why the hell not?"
Harry rolls up the map, stuffs it inside his robes, and hurries to the door of the classroom, me following behind. Harry opens it a couple inches. There's no one outside. Very carefully, we edge out of the room and slip behind the statue of the one-eyed witch.
"What do we have to do?" Harry asks.
"Fuck knows."
Harry pulls out the map again and I see, to my astonishment, that two new ink figures have appeared upon it, labelled "Harry Potter" and "Emily Swift". These figures are standing exactly where we are standing, about halfway down the third-floor corridor. I watch carefully. Harry's little ink self appears to be tapping the witch with his minute wand. Harry quickly takes out his real wand and taps the statue. Nothing happens. I look back at the map. The tiniest speech bubble has appeared next to his figure. The word inside says, "Dissendium."
"Dissendium!" Harry whispers, tapping the stone witch again.
At once, the statue's hump opens wide enough to admit a fairly thin person. I glance quickly up and down the corridor, hoist myself into the hole headfirst, and push myself forwards, Harry following behind.
I slide a considerable way down what feels like a stone slide, then land on cold, damp earth. I stand up, looking around, as Harry appears beside me. It's pitch dark. I hold up my wand, mutter, "Lumos!" and see that we're in a very narrow, low, earthy passageway. Harry raises the map, taps it with the tip of his wand and mutters, "Mischief managed!" The map goes blank at once. He folds it carefully, tucks it inside his robes, then, we set off.
The passage twists and turns, more like the burrow of a giant rabbit than anything else. We hurry along it, stumbling now and then on the uneven floor, holding my wand out in front of us.
It takes ages, but Harry and I keep up a conversation all the way. After what feels like an hour, the passage begins to rise. Panting, I speed up, my face got, my feet very cold.
Ten minutes later, we come to the foot of some worn stone steps which rise out of sight above us. Careful not to make any noise, we begin to climb. A hundred steps, two hundred steps, I lose count as we climb, watching my feet ... then without warning, my head hits something hard.
Ow.
It seems to be a trapdoor. I stand there, massaging the top of my head, listening. I can't hear any sounds above me. Very slowly, I push the trapdoor open and peer over the edge.