Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Harry Potter, #4)

by J.K. Rowling

Harry watched her out of sight, then crawled under his bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard, and pulled out a large chunk of birthday cake. He sat there on the floor eating it, savoring the happiness that was flooding through him. He had cake, and Dudley had nothing but grapefruit; it was a bright summer’s day, he would be leaving Privet Drive tomorrow, his scar felt perfectly normal again, and he was going to watch the Quidditch World Cup. It was hard, just now, to feel worried about anything — even Lord Voldemort.

“I’m not putting them on,” said old Archie in indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ’round my privates, thanks.”

“Can I have a look at Uranus too, Lavender?” said Ron.

When he awoke on Monday morning, he seriously considered for the first time ever just running away from Hogwarts. But as he looked around the Great Hall at breakfast time, and thought about what leaving the castle would mean, he knew he couldn’t do it. It was the only place he had ever been happy . . . well, he supposed he must have been happy with his parents too, but he couldn’t remember that.

“No, I’m fine,” said Harry, wondering why he kept telling people this, and wondering whether he had ever been less fine.

“She can’t keep writing about what a tragic little hero I am, it’ll get boring.”

Harry wanted very much to ask whether Mr. Crouch had stopped calling Percy “Weatherby” yet, but resisted the temptation.