THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR
“Brilliant, Harry!” whispered Ron.
A few seconds later, they were there, outside the third-floor cor-
ridor — and the door was already ajar.
“Well, there you are,” Harry said quietly, “Snape’s already got
past Fluffy.”
Seeing the open door somehow seemed to impress upon all three
of them what was facing them. Underneath the cloak, Harry
turned to the other two.
“If you want to go back, I won’t blame you,” he said. “You can
take the cloak, I won’t need it now.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Ron.
“We’re coming,” said Hermione.
Harry pushed the door open.
As the door creaked, low, rumbling growls met their ears. All
three of the dog’s noses sniffed madly in their direction, even
though it couldn’t see them.
“What’s that at its feet?” Hermione whispered.
“Looks like a harp,” said Ron. “Snape must have left it there.”
“It must wake up the moment you stop playing,” said Harry.
“Well, here goes . . .”
He put Hagrid’s flute to his lips and blew. It wasn’t really a tune,
but from the first note the beast’s eyes began to droop. Harry
hardly drew breath. Slowly, the dog’s growls ceased — it tottered
on its paws and fell to its knees, then it slumped to the ground, fast
asleep.
“Keep playing,” Ron warned Harry as they slipped out of the
cloak and crept toward the trapdoor. They could feel the dog’s hot,
smelly breath as they approached the giant heads.
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