CHAPTER SEVEN
“Caput Draconis,” said Percy, and the portrait swung forward to
reveal a round hole in the wall. They all scrambled through it —
Neville needed a leg up — and found themselves in the Gryffindor
common room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs.
Percy directed the girls through one door to their dormitory and
the boys through another. At the top of a spiral staircase — they
were obviously in one of the towers — they found their beds at
last: five four-posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their
trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk much, they
pulled on their pajamas and fell into bed.
“Great food, isn’t it?” Ron muttered to Harry through the hang-
ings. “Get off, Scabbers! He’s chewing my sheets.”
Harry was going to ask Ron if he’d had any of the treacle tart,
but he fell asleep almost at once.
Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very
strange dream. He was wearing Professor Quirrell’s turban, which
kept talking to him, telling him he must transfer to Slytherin at
once, because it was his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn’t
want to be in Slytherin; it got heavier and heavier; he tried to pull
it off but it tightened painfully — and there was Malfoy, laughing
at him as he struggled with it — then Malfoy turned into the
hook-nosed teacher, Snape, whose laugh became high and cold —
there was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating and
shaking.
He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he woke next day,
he didn’t remember the dream at all.
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