Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Harry Potter, #3)

by J.K. Rowling

You fly as well as your father did, Harry. . . .”

“Are you insane?” said Harry, his voice easily as croaky as Sirius’s. “Of course I want to leave the Dursleys! Have you got a house? When can I move in?” Sirius turned right around to look at him; Snape’s head was scraping the ceiling but Sirius didn’t seem to care. “You want to?” he said. “You mean it?” “Yeah, I mean it!” said Harry. Sirius’s gaunt face broke into the first true smile Harry had seen upon it.

“Macnair, if Buckbeak has indeed been stolen, do you really think the thief will have led him away on foot?” said Dumbledore, still sounding amused. “Search the skies, if you will. . . . Hagrid, I could do with a cup of tea. Or a large brandy.”

“You are — truly your father’s son, Harry. . . .”

“You think the dead we have loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble? Your father is alive in you, Harry, and shows himself most plainly when you have need of him. How else could you produce that particular Patronus? Prongs rode again last night.”

I, Sirius Black, Harry Potter’s godfather, hereby give him permission to visit Hogsmeade on weekends.

“Godfather?” spluttered Uncle Vernon. “You haven’t got a godfather!” “Yes, I have,” said Harry brightly. “He was my mum and dad’s best friend. He’s a convicted murderer, but he’s broken out of Wizard prison and he’s on the run. He likes to keep in touch with me, though . . . keep up with my news . . . check if I’m happy. . . .” And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit, Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked like a much better summer than the last.