CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“No more studying,” Ron sighed happily, stretching out on the
grass. “You could look more cheerful, Harry, we’ve got a week be-
fore we find out how badly we’ve done, there’s no need to worry
yet.”
Harry was rubbing his forehead.
“I wish I knew what this means!” he burst out angrily. “My scar
keeps hurting — it’s happened before, but never as often as this.”
“Go to Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione suggested.
“I’m not ill,” said Harry. “I think it’s a warning . . . it means
danger’s coming. . . .”
Ron couldn’t get worked up, it was too hot.
“Harry, relax, Hermione’s right, the Stone’s safe as long as Dum-
bledore’s around. Anyway, we’ve never had any proof Snape found
out how to get past Fluffy. He nearly had his leg ripped off once,
he’s not going to try it again in a hurry. And Neville will play Quid-
ditch for England before Hagrid lets Dumbledore down.”
Harry nodded, but he couldn’t shake off a lurking feeling that
there was something he’d forgotten to do, something important.
When he tried to explain this, Hermione said, “That’s just the ex-
ams. I woke up last night and was halfway through my Transfigu-
ration notes before I remembered we’d done that one.”
Harry was quite sure the unsettled feeling didn’t have anything
to do with work, though. He watched an owl flutter toward the
school across the bright blue sky, a note clamped in its mouth. Ha-
grid was the only one who ever sent him letters. Hagrid would
never betray Dumbledore. Hagrid would never tell anyone how to
get past Fluffy . . . never . . . but —
Harry suddenly jumped to his feet.
264