Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Woooooooo!” 

Harry dropped into a seat at the Gryffindor table, next to 

George Weasley. 

“New third-year course schedules,” said George, passing them 

over. “What’s up with you, Harry?” 

 

W 

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“Malfoy,” said Ron, sitting down on George’s other side and 

glaring over at the Slytherin table. 

George looked up in time to see Malfoy pretending to faint with 

terror again. 

“That little git,” he said calmly. “He wasn’t so cocky last night 

when the dementors were down at our end of the train. Came run-

ning into our compartment, didn’t he, Fred?” 

“Nearly wet himself,” said Fred, with a contemptuous glance at 

Malfoy. 

“I wasn’t too happy myself,” said George. “They’re horrible 

things, those dementors. . . .” 

“Sort of freeze your insides, don’t they?” said Fred. 

“You didn’t pass out, though, did you?” said Harry in a low voice. 

“Forget it, Harry,” said George bracingly. “Dad had to go out to 

Azkaban one time, remember, Fred? And he said it was the worst 

place he’d ever been, he came back all weak and shaking. . . . They 

suck the happiness out of a place, dementors. Most of the prison-

ers go mad in there.” 

“Anyway, we’ll see how happy Malfoy looks after our first Quid-

ditch match,” said Fred. “Gryffindor versus Slytherin, first game of 

the season, remember?” 

The only time Harry and Malfoy had faced each other in a 

Quidditch match, Malfoy had definitely come off worse. Feeling 

slightly more cheerful, Harry helped himself to sausages and fried 

tomatoes. 

Hermione was examining her new schedule. 

“Ooh, good, we’re starting some new subjects today,” she said 

happily. 

 

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“Hermione,” said Ron, frowning as he looked over her shoulder, 

“they’ve messed up your schedule. Look — they’ve got you down 

for about ten subjects a day. There isn’t enough time.” 

“I’ll manage. I’ve fixed it all with Professor McGonagall.” 

“But look,” said Ron, laughing, “see this morning? Nine o’clock, 

Divination. And underneath, nine o’clock, Muggle Studies. 

And” — Ron leaned closer to the schedule, disbelieving — “look — 

underneath that, Arithmancy, nine o’clock. I mean, I know you’re 

good, Hermione, but no one’s that good. How’re you supposed to 

be in three classes at once?” 

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione shortly. “Of course I won’t be in 

three classes at once.” 

“Well, then —” 

“Pass the marmalade,” said Hermione. 

“But —” 

“Oh, Ron, what’s it to you if my schedule’s a bit full?” Hermione 

snapped. “I told you, I’ve fixed it all with Professor McGonagall.” 

Just then, Hagrid entered the Great Hall. He was wearing his 

long moleskin overcoat and was absentmindedly swinging a dead 

polecat from one enormous hand. 

“All righ’?” he said eagerly, pausing on the way to the staff 

table. “Yer in my firs’ ever lesson! Right after lunch! Bin up 

since five gettin’ everythin’ ready. . . . Hope it’s okay. . . . Me, a 

teacher . . . hones’ly. . . .” 

He grinned broadly at them and headed off to the staff table, 

still swinging the polecat. 

“Wonder what he’s been getting ready?” said Ron, a note of anx-

iety in his voice. 

 

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The hall was starting to empty as people headed off toward their 

first lesson. Ron checked his course schedule. 

“We’d better go, look, Divination’s at the top of North Tower. 

It’ll take us ten minutes to get there. . . .” 

They finished their breakfasts hastily, said good-bye to Fred 

and George, and walked back through the hall. As they passed 

the Slytherin table, Malfoy did yet another impression of a faint-

ing fit. The shouts of laughter followed Harry into the entrance 

hall. 

The journey through the castle to North Tower was a long one. 

Two years at Hogwarts hadn’t taught them everything about the 

castle, and they had never been inside North Tower before. 

“There’s — got — to — be — a — shortcut,” Ron panted as 

they climbed their seventh long staircase and emerged on an unfa-

miliar landing, where there was nothing but a large painting of a 

bare stretch of grass hanging on the stone wall. 

“I think it’s this way,” said Hermione, peering down the empty 

passage to the right. 

“Can’t be,” said Ron. “That’s south, look, you can see a bit of the 

lake out of the window . . .” 

Harry was watching the painting. A fat, dapple-gray pony had 

just ambled onto the grass and was grazing nonchalantly. Harry 

was used to the subjects of Hogwarts paintings moving around and 

leaving their frames to visit one another, but he always enjoyed 

watching it. A moment later, a short, squat knight in a suit of ar-

mor clanked into the picture after his pony. By the look of the grass 

stains on his metal knees, he had just fallen off. 

“Aha!” he yelled, seeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “What  

 

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villains are these, that trespass upon my private lands! Come to 

scorn at my fall, perchance? Draw, you knaves, you dogs!” 

They watched in astonishment as the little knight tugged his 

sword out of its scabbard and began brandishing it violently, hop-

ping up and down in rage. But the sword was too long for him; a 

particularly wild swing made him overbalance, and he landed face-

down in the grass. 

“Are you all right?” said Harry, moving closer to the picture. 

“Get back, you scurvy braggart! Back, you rogue!” 

The knight seized his sword again and used it to push himself 

back up, but the blade sank deeply into the grass and, though he 

pulled with all his might, he couldn’t get it out again. Finally, he 

had to flop back down onto the grass and push up his visor to mop 

his sweating face. 

“Listen,” said Harry, taking advantage of the knight’s exhaus-

tion, “we’re looking for the North Tower. You don’t know the way, 

do you?” 

“A quest!” The knight’s rage seemed to vanish instantly. He 

clanked to his feet and shouted, “Come follow me, dear friends, and 

we shall find our goal, or else shall perish bravely in the charge!” 

He gave the sword another fruitless tug, tried and failed to 

mount the fat pony, gave up, and cried, “On foot then, good sirs 

and gentle lady! On! On!” 

And he ran, clanking loudly, into the left side of the frame and 

out of sight. 

They hurried after him along the corridor, following the sound 

of his armor. Every now and then they spotted him running 

through a picture ahead. 

 

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“Be of stout heart, the worst is yet to come!” yelled the knight, 

and they saw him reappear in front of an alarmed group of women 

in crinolines, whose picture hung on the wall of a narrow spiral 

staircase. 

Puffing loudly, Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed the tightly 

spiraling steps, getting dizzier and dizzier, until at last they heard 

the murmur of voices above them and knew they had reached the 

classroom. 

“Farewell!” cried the knight, popping his head into a painting of 

some sinister-looking monks. “Farewell, my comrades-in-arms! If 

ever you have need of noble heart and steely sinew, call upon Sir 

Cadogan!” 

“Yeah, we’ll call you,” muttered Ron as the knight disappeared, 

“if we ever need someone mental.” 

They climbed the last few steps and emerged onto a tiny land-

ing, where most of the class was already assembled. There were no 

doors off this landing, but Ron nudged Harry and pointed at the 

ceiling, where there was a circular trapdoor with a brass plaque 

on it. 

“ ‘Sibyll Trelawney, Divination teacher,’ ” Harry read. “How’re 

we supposed to get up there?” 

As though in answer to his question, the trapdoor suddenly 

opened, and a silvery ladder descended right at Harry’s feet. Every-

one got quiet. 

“After you,” said Ron, grinning, so Harry climbed the ladder 

first. 

He emerged into the strangest-looking classroom he had ever 

seen. In fact, it didn’t look like a classroom at all, more like a cross  

 

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between someone’s attic and an old-fashioned tea shop. At least 

twenty small, circular tables were crammed inside it, all sur-

rounded by chintz armchairs and fat little poufs. Everything was lit 

with a dim, crimson light; the curtains at the windows were all 

closed, and the many lamps were draped with dark red scarves. It 

was stiflingly warm, and the fire that was burning under the 

crowded mantelpiece was giving off a heavy, sickly sort of perfume 

as it heated a large copper kettle. The shelves running around the 

circular walls were crammed with dusty-looking feathers, stubs of 

candles, many packs of tattered playing cards, countless silvery 

crystal balls, and a huge array of teacups. 

Ron appeared at Harry’s shoulder as the class assembled around 

them, all talking in whispers. 

“Where is she?” Ron said. 

A voice came suddenly out of the shadows, a soft, misty sort of 

voice. 

“Welcome,” it said. “How nice to see you in the physical world 

at last.” 

Harry’s immediate impression was of a large, glittering insect. 

Professor Trelawney moved into the firelight, and they saw that she 

was very thin; her large glasses magnified her eyes to several times 

their natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy spangled shawl. 

Innumerable chains and beads hung around her spindly neck, and 

her arms and hands were encrusted with bangles and rings. 

“Sit, my children, sit,” she said, and they all climbed awkwardly 

into armchairs or sank onto poufs. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat 

themselves around the same round table. 

“Welcome to Divination,” said Professor Trelawney, who had  

 

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seated herself in a winged armchair in front of the fire. “My name 

is Professor Trelawney. You may not have seen me before. I find 

that descending too often into the hustle and bustle of the main 

school clouds my Inner Eye.” 

Nobody said anything to this extraordinary pronouncement. 

Professor Trelawney delicately rearranged her shawl and continued, 

“So you have chosen to study Divination, the most difficult of all 

magical arts. I must warn you at the outset that if you do not have 

the Sight, there is very little I will be able to teach you. Books can 

take you only so far in this field. . . .” 

At these words, both Harry and Ron glanced, grinning, at 

Hermione, who looked startled at the news that books wouldn’t be 

much help in this subject. 

“Many witches and wizards, talented though they are in the area 

of loud bangs and smells and sudden disappearings, are yet unable 

to penetrate the veiled mysteries of the future,” Professor 

Trelawney went on, her enormous, gleaming eyes moving from 

face to nervous face. “It is a Gift granted to few. You, boy,” she said 

suddenly to Neville, who almost toppled off his pouf. “Is your 

grandmother well?” 

“I think so,” said Neville tremulously. 

“I  wouldn’t  be  so  sure  if  I  were  you,  dear,”  said  Professor 

Trelawney, the firelight glinting on her long emerald earrings. 

Neville gulped. Professor Trelawney continued placidly. “We will 

be covering the basic methods of Divination this year. The first 

term will be devoted to reading the tea leaves. Next term we shall 

progress to palmistry. By the way, my dear,” she shot suddenly at 

Parvati Patil, “beware a red-haired man.” 

 

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Parvati gave a startled look at Ron, who was right behind her, 

and edged her chair away from him. 

“In the second term,” Professor Trelawney went on, “we shall 

progress to the crystal ball — if we have finished with fire omens, 

that is. Unfortunately, classes will be disrupted in February by a 

nasty  bout  of  flu.  I  myself  will  lose  my  voice.  And  around  Easter, 

one of our number will leave us forever.” 

A very tense silence followed this pronouncement, but Professor 

Trelawney seemed unaware of it. 

“I wonder, dear,” she said to Lavender Brown, who was nearest 

and shrank back in her chair, “if you could pass me the largest sil-

ver teapot?” 

Lavender, looking relieved, stood up, took an enormous teapot 

from the shelf, and put it down on the table in front of Professor 

Trelawney. 

“Thank you, my dear. Incidentally, that thing you are 

dreading — it will happen on Friday the sixteenth of October.” 

Lavender trembled. 

“Now, I want you all to divide into pairs. Collect a teacup from 

the shelf, come to me, and I will fill it. Then sit down and drink, 

drink until only the dregs remain. Swill these around the cup three 

times with the left hand, then turn the cup upside down on its 

saucer, wait for the last of the tea to drain away, then give your cup 

to your partner to read. You will interpret the patterns using pages 

five and six of Unfogging the Future. I shall move among you, help-

ing and instructing. Oh, and dear” — she caught Neville by the 

arm as he made to stand up — “after you’ve broken your first cup, 

would you be so kind as to select one of the blue patterned ones? 

I’m rather attached to the pink.” 

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Sure enough, Neville had no sooner reached the shelf of tea-

cups when there was a tinkle of breaking china. Professor 

Trelawney swept over to him holding a dustpan and brush and 

said, “One of the blue ones, then, dear, if you wouldn’t 

mind . . . thank you. . . .” 

When Harry and Ron had had their teacups filled, they went 

back to their table and tried to drink the scalding tea quickly. They 

swilled the dregs around as Professor Trelawney had instructed, 

then drained the cups and swapped over. 

“Right,” said Ron as they both opened their books at pages five 

and six. “What can you see in mine?” 

“A load of soggy brown stuff,” said Harry. The heavily perfumed 

smoke in the room was making him feel sleepy and stupid. 

“Broaden your minds, my dears, and allow your eyes to see past 

the mundane!” Professor Trelawney cried through the gloom. 

Harry tried to pull himself together. 

“Right, you’ve got a crooked sort of cross . . .” He consulted