Ch 117
Since that Christmas lunch, Ron had not seen his pet rat again. He had assumed that Scabbers was only frightened, that after a little while he would return to the dormitory and find the rat curled up on his bed or dozing on the table as usual.
But things did not go as he hoped. No matter how much he searched, Scabbers never appeared. During the rest of the holiday Ron went through half the castle—under beds, behind curtains, inside old cupboards—yet he found nothing. In the end he could only accept the truth. Crookshanks had been kept securely locked up the entire time, so even though Ron still disliked the cat, he had to admit that this time it really had nothing to do with him.
"Maybe he just didn't want you to see him die," Harry tried to comfort him. "How long has he been with your family?"
"More than ten years, I think." Ron answered in a dull voice. He had mostly accepted the loss, yet he still looked miserable.
"I can't believe a rat could live that long," Hermione said in surprise. With the main cause of their quarrels gone, her relationship with Ron had eased a lot. "Harry might be right. Maybe he left on his own so you wouldn't be sad."
"Maybe." Ron stared at the fireplace, watching the flames rise and fall, clearly lost in thought.
"Crookshanks hasn't been well either lately," Hermione added worriedly, stroking the cat's ginger fur. Crookshanks responded with a lazy meow.
"You'd better take him to Madam Pomfrey," Ron said sincerely. Now that Scabbers was gone, he felt no hostility toward the cat—only sympathy. He understood what it meant to lose a pet.
"I will." Hermione nodded. Ever since she returned from Hogsmeade, Crookshanks had been restless, often looking around anxiously as if searching for something. Sometimes there was even a strange, complicated expression in his eyes. Hermione thought it might be loneliness, though she quickly told herself that cats couldn't possibly have such complex feelings.
"We should go," Hermione said, glancing at the clock. It was time for dinner.
That day was the last of the holidays. All the students were returning to begin the new term, and the Great Hall had prepared a magnificent feast—potatoes, roast beef, mutton, onions, cheese, and countless other dishes.
To their surprise, the Slytherin table was much emptier than usual.
The Christmas trees decorated with presents still stood around the hall, keeping a trace of festive spirit. They also noticed several extra chairs placed beside Dumbledore's golden seat, as if an announcement was coming.
Just as everyone was about to sit, the doors swung open and a gust of cold wind swept inside. Many students pulled their collars tighter.
Malfoy entered with Pansy and the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team, all still wearing training uniforms dusted with snow.
"Professor, apologies," Malfoy said, stepping forward. "The snow was heavy and we had a small accident on the way back."
Dumbledore, dressed in a dark purple robe embroidered with stars, only smiled.
"You're not late at all. You've arrived just in time for the banquet." He waved them toward their seats.
"I trust everyone enjoyed the holiday," Dumbledore announced cheerfully. "I'll save any matters for later—first, let's eat."
The hall quickly filled with chatter and clattering cutlery. Students helped themselves eagerly and exchanged stories of their time away.
The Slytherin players, however, were unusually quiet. They ate without speaking, yet their eyes shone with fierce confidence.
"Think special training will save them?" Ron muttered, tearing into a lamb chop.
"Your training's been just as tough, right Harry?"
"Of course." Harry adjusted his glasses.
"And you've got—" Ron stopped himself abruptly. That was still a secret.
Harry's new Firebolt remained known only to a few. They planned to reveal it during the match against Ravenclaw as a surprise weapon.
Hermione had nearly ruined that plan earlier. The day Harry received the broom she had worried it might be cursed and reported it to Professor McGonagall. McGonagall and Professor Flitwick had decided to inspect it thoroughly, even if that meant dismantling parts of the brand-new broom.
To Harry and Ron this felt like a terrible crime against a masterpiece, but they had no choice. Deep down Harry understood—McGonagall cared more about his safety than any trophy.
Just when they were losing hope, Dumbledore happened to appear behind them.
"May I take a look, Minerva?"
He examined the Firebolt with a gentle sweep of his wand. White sparks circled the broom like mist, then faded.
"No problems at all," Dumbledore declared.
Harry and Ron exchanged a triumphant high-five. The broom was safe.
Back in the present, when everyone had finished eating, the plates vanished one by one until the long tables stood empty again.
"I'm sorry to take your time once more this evening," Dumbledore said, stepping to the front and adjusting his half-moon glasses.