Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban [76]
Hagrid went quiet for a moment, staring into his tea. Then he said quietly, "Thought o' jus' letting Buckbeak go... tryin' ter make him fly away... but how d'yeh explain ter a hippogriff it's gotta go inter hidin'? An' -an' I'm scared o' breakin' the law...." He looked up at them, tears leaking down his face again. "I don' ever want ter go back ter Azkaban."
The trip to Hagrid's, though far from fun, had nevertheless had the effect Ron and Hermione had hoped. Though Harry had by no means forgotten about Black, he couldn't brood constantly on revenge if he wanted to help Hagrid win his case against the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. He, Ron, and Hermione went to the library the next day and returned to the empty common room laden with books that might help prepare a defense for Buckbeak. The three of them sat in front of the roaring fire, slowly turning the pages of dusty volumes about famous cases If marauding beasts, speaking occasionally when they ran across something relevant.
"Here's something... there was a case in 1722... but the hippogriff was convicted -- ugh, look what they did to it, that's disgusting --"
"This might help, look -- a manticore savaged someone in 1296, and they let the manticore off -- oh -- no, that was only because everyone was too scared to go near it."
Meanwhile, in the rest of the castle, the usual magnificent Christmas decorations had been put up, despite the fact that hardly any of the students remained to enjoy them. Thick streamers of holly and mistletoe were strung along the corridors, mysterious lights shone from inside every suit of armor, and the Great Hall was filled with its usual twelve Christmas trees, glittering with golden stars. A powerful and delicious smell of cooking pervaded the corridors, and by Christmas Eve, it had grown so strong that even Scabbers poked his nose out of the shelter of Ron's pocket to sniff hopefully at the air.
On Christmas morning, Harry was woken by Ron throwing his pillow at him.
"Oy! Presents!"
Harry reached for his glasses and put them on, squinting through the semi-darkness to the foot of his bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared. Ron was already ripping the paper off his own presents.
'Another sweater from Mum... maroon again... see if you've got one.
Harry had. Mrs. Weasley had sent him a scarlet sweater with the Gryffindor lion knitted on the front, also a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas cake, and a box of nut brittle. As he moved all these things aside, he saw a long, thin package lying underneath.
"What's that?" said Ron, looking over, a freshly unwrapped pair of maroon socks in his hand.
"Dunno..."
Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his bedspread. Ron dropped his socks and jumped off his bed for a closer look.
"I don't believe it," he said hoarsely.
It was a Firebolt, identical to the dream broom Harry had gone to see every day in Diagon Alley. Its handle glittered as he picked it up. He could feel it vibrating and let go; it hung in midair, unsupported, at exactly the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved from the golden registration number at the top of the handle, right down to the perfectly smooth, streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.
"Who sent it to you?" said Ron in a hushed voice.
"Look and see if there's a card," said Harry.
Ron ripped apart the Firebolt's wrappings.
"Nothing! Blimey, who'd spend that much on you?"
"Well," said Harry, feeling stunned, "I'm betting it wasn't the Dursleys."
I bet it was Dumbledore," said Ron, now walking around and around the Firebolt, taking in every glorious inch. "He sent you the Invisibility Cloak anonymously...."
"That was my dad's, though," said Harry. "Dumbledore was just Passing it on to me. He wouldn't spend hundreds of Galleons on me. He can't go giving students stuff like this --"
"That's why he wouldn't say it was from him!" said Ron. "In case some git like Malfoy said it was favoritism. Hey, Harry" -- Ron gave a great