CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The white king took off his crown and threw it at Harry’s feet.
They had won. The chessmen parted and bowed, leaving the door
ahead clear. With one last desperate look back at Ron, Harry and
Hermione charged through the door and up the next passageway.
“What if he’s — ?”
“He’ll be all right,” said Harry, trying to convince himself.
“What do you reckon’s next?”
“We’ve had Sprout’s, that was the Devils Snare; Flitwick must’ve
put charms on the keys; McGonagall transfigured the chessmen to
make them alive; that leaves Quirrell’s spell , and Snape’s . . .”
They had reached another door.
“All right?” Harry whispered.
“Go on.”
Harry pushed it open.
A disgusting smell filled their nostrils, making both of them pull
their robes up over their noses. Eyes watering, they saw, flat on the
floor in front of them, a troll even larger than the one they had
tackled, out cold with a bloody lump on its head.
“I’m glad we didn’t have to fight that one,” Harry whispered as
they stepped carefully over one of its massive legs. “Come on, I
can’t breathe.”
He pulled open the next door, both of them hardly daring to
look at what came next — but there was nothing very frightening
in here, just a table with seven differently shaped bottles standing
on it in a line.
“Snape’s,” said Harry. “What do we have to do?”
They stepped over the threshold, and immediately a fire sprang
up behind them in the doorway. It wasn’t ordinary fire either; it was
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