NICHOLAS FLAMEL
Harry left the locker room alone some time later, to take his Nim-
bus Two Thousand back to the broomshed. He couldn’t ever re-
member feeling happier. He’d really done something to be proud of
now — no one could say he was just a famous name any more. The
evening air had never smelled so sweet. He walked over the damp
grass, reliving the last hour in his head, which was a happy blur:
Gryffindors running to lift him onto their shoulders; Ron and
Hermione in the distance, jumping up and down, Ron cheering
through a heavy nosebleed.
Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the wooden door
and looked up at Hogwarts, with its windows glowing red in the
setting sun. Gryffindor in the lead. He’d done it, he’d shown
Snape. . . .
And speaking of Snape . . .
A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the castle.
Clearly not wanting to be seen, it walked as fast as possible toward
the forbidden forest. Harry’s victory faded from his mind as he
watched. He recognized the figure’s prowling walk. Snape, sneak-
ing into the forest while everyone else was at dinner — what was
going on?
Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand and took off.
Gliding silently over the castle he saw Snape enter the forest at a
run. He followed.
The trees were so thick he couldn’t see where Snape had gone.
He flew in circles, lower and lower, brushing the top branches of
trees until he heard voices. He glided toward them and landed
noiselessly in a towering beech tree.
He climbed carefully along one of the branches, holding tight to
his broomstick, trying to see through the leaves.
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