Joanne Murray - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Fudge came back, accompanied by Tom the innkeeper.

‘Room eleven’s free, Harry,’ said Fudge. ‘I think you’ll be very comfortable. Just one thing, and I’m sure you’ll understand: I don’t want you wandering off into Muggle London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley. And you’re to be back here before dark each night. Sure you’ll understand. Tom will be keeping an eye on you for me.’

‘OK,’ said Harry slowly, ‘but why -?’

‘Don’t want to lose you again, do we?’ said Fudge with a hearty laugh. ‘No, no ... best we know where you are ... I mean ...’

Fudge cleared his throat loudly and picked up his pinstriped cloak.

‘Well, I’ll be off, plenty to do, you know.’

‘Have you had any luck with Black yet?’ Harry asked.

Fudge’s fingers slipped on the silver fastenings of his cloak.

‘What’s that? Oh, you’ve heard - well, no, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The Azkaban guards have never yet failed ... and

they are angrier than I’ve ever seen them.’

Fudge shuddered slightly.

‘So, I’ll say goodbye.’

He held out his hand and Harry, shaking it, had a sudden idea. ‘Er - Minister? Can I ask you something?’

‘Certainly,’ smiled Fudge.

‘Well, third-years at Hogwarts are allowed to visit Hogsmeade, but my aunt and uncle didn’t sign the permission form. D’you think you could?’

Fudge was looking uncomfortable.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘No. No, I’m very sorry, Harry, but as I’m not your parent or guardian -’

‘But you’re the Minister for Magic,’ said Harry eagerly. ‘If you gave me permission -’

‘No, I’m sorry, Harry, but rules are rules,’ said Fudge flatly. ‘Perhaps you’ll be able to visit Hogsmeade next year. In fact, I think it best if you don’t ... yes ... well, I’ll be off. Enjoy your stay, Harry.’

And with a last smile and shake of Harry’s hand, Fudge left the room. Tom now moved forward, beaming at Harry.

‘If you’ll follow me, Mr Potter,’ he said. ‘I’ve already taken your things up ... ’

Harry followed Tom up a handsome wooden staircase to a door with a brass number eleven on it, which Tom unlocked and opened for him.

Inside was a very comfortable-looking bed, some highly polished oak furniture, a cheerfully crackling fire and, perched on top of the wardrobe -

‘Hedwig!’ Harry gasped.

The snowy owl clicked her beak and fluttered down onto Harry’s arm.

‘Very smart owl you’ve got there,’ chuckled Tom. ‘Arrived about five minutes after you did. If there’s anything you need, Mr Potter, don’t hesitate to ask.’

He gave another bow and left.

Harry sat on his bed for a long time, absent-mindedly stroking Hedwig. The sky outside the window was changing rapidly from deep, velvety blue to cold, steely grey and then, slowly, to pink shot with gold. Harry could hardly believe that he’d only left Privet Drive a few hours ago, that he wasn’t expelled, and that he

was now facing three completely Dursley-free weeks.

‘It’s been a very weird night, Hedwig,’ he yawned.

And without even removing his glasses, he slumped back onto his pillows and fell asleep.

— CHAPTER FOUR —

It took Harry several days to get used to his strange new freedom. Never before had he been able to get up whenever he wanted or eat whatever he fancied. He could even go wherever he liked, as long as it was in Diagon Alley, and as this long cobbled street was packed with the most fascinating wizarding shops in the world, Harry felt no desire to break his word to Fudge and stray back into the Muggle world.

Harry ate breakfast each morning in the Leaky Cauldron, where he liked watching the other guests: funny little witches from the country, up for a day’s shopping; venerable-looking wizards arguing over the latest article in Transfiguration Today; wild-looking warlocks, raucous dwarfs and, once, what looked suspiciously like a hag, who ordered a plate of raw liver from behind a thick woollen balaclava.

After breakfast Harry would go out into the back yard, take out his wand, tap the third brick from the left above the dustbin, and stand back as the archway into Diagon Alley opened in the wall.

Harry spent the long sunny days exploring the shops and eating under the brightly coloured umbrellas outside cafes, where his fellow diners were showing each other their purchases (‘it’s a lunascope, old boy - no more messing around with moon charts, see?’) or else discussing the case of Sirius Black (‘personally, I won’t let any of the children out alone until he’s back in Azkaban’). Harry didn’t have to do his homework under the blankets by torchlight any more; now he could sit in the bright sunshine outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour, finishing all his essays with occasional help from Florean Fortescue himself, who, apart from knowing a great deal about medieval witch-burnings, gave Harry free sundaes every half hour.

Once Harry had refilled his money bag with gold Galleons, silver Sickles and bronze Knuts from his vault at Gringotts, he needed to exercise a lot of self-control not to spend the whole lot at once. He had to keep reminding himself that he had five years to go at Hogwarts, and how it would feel to ask the Dursleys for money for spellbooks, to stop himself buying a handsome set of solid gold Gobstones (a wizarding game rather like marbles, in which the stones squirted a nasty-smelling liquid into the other player’s face when they lost a point). He was sorely tempted, too, by the perfect, moving model of the galaxy in a large glass ball, which would have meant he never had to take another Astronomy lesson. But the thing that tested Harry’s resolution most appeared in his favourite shop, Quality Quidditch Supplies, a week after he’d arrived at the Leaky Cauldron.

Curious to know what the crowd in the shop was staring at, Harry edged his way inside and squeezed in amongst the excited witches and wizards until he glimpsed a newly erected podium on which was mounted the most magnificent broom he had ever seen in his life.

‘Just come out ... prototype ...’ a square-jawed wizard was telling his companion.

‘It’s the fastest broom in the world, isn’t it, Dad?’ squeaked a boy younger than Harry, who was swinging off his father’s arm.

‘Irish International Side’s just put in an order for seven of these beauties!’ the proprietor of the shop told the crowd. ‘And they’re favourites for the World Cup!’

A large witch in front of Harry moved, and he was able to read the sign next to the broom:

THE FIREBOLT

This state-of-the-art racing broom sports a streamlined, superfine handle of ash, treated with a diamond-hard polish and hand-numbered with its own registration number. Each individually selected birch twig in the broomtail has been honed to aerodynamic perfection, giving the Firebolt unsurpassable balance and pinpoint precision. The Firebolt has an acceleration of 0—150 miles an hour in ten seconds and incorporates an unbreakable braking charm. Price on request.

Price on request ... Harry didn’t like to think how much gold the

Firebolt would cost. He had never wanted anything so much in his whole life - but he had never lost a Quidditch match on his Nimbus Two Thousand, and what was the point in emptying his Gringotts vault for the Firebolt, when he had a very good broom already? Harry didn’t ask for the price, but he returned, almost every day after that, just to look at the Firebolt.

There were, however, things that Harry needed to buy. He went to the apothecary to replenish his store of Potions’ ingredients, and as his school robes were now several inches too short in the arm and leg, he visited Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions and bought new ones. Most important of all, he had to buy his new school books, which would include those for his two new subjects, Care of Magical Creatures and Divination.