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

by J.K. Rowling

Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises.

While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other),

Nothing changed when they left school. Black was best man when James married Lily. Then they named him godfather to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can imagine how the idea would torment him.”

Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!”

He was flying at breakneck speed, trying to avoid a spurt of flames from Malfoy’s steed’s mouth, when he realized he had forgotten his Firebolt. He fell through the air and woke with a start.

Harry threw himself forward, taking both hands off his broom. He knocked Malfoy’s arm out of the way and — “YES!” He pulled out of his dive, his hand in the air, and the stadium exploded. Harry soared above the crowd, an odd ringing in his ears. The tiny golden ball was held tight in his fist, beating its wings hopelessly against his fingers. Then Wood was speeding toward him, half-blinded by tears; he seized Harry around the neck and sobbed unrestrainedly into his shoulder. Harry felt two large thumps as Fred and George hit them; then Angelina’s, Alicia’s, and Katie’s voices, “We’ve won the Cup! We’ve won the Cup!” Tangled together in a many-armed hug, the Gryffindor team sank, yelling hoarsely, back to earth. Wave upon wave of crimson supporters was pouring over the barriers onto the field. Hands were raining down on their backs. Harry had a confused impression of noise and bodies pressing in on him. Then he, and the rest of the team, were hoisted onto the shoulders of the crowd. Thrust into the light, he saw Hagrid, plastered with crimson rosettes — “Yeh beat ’em, Harry, yeh beat ’em! Wait till I tell Buckbeak!” There was Percy, jumping up and down like a maniac, all dignity forgotten. Professor McGonagall was sobbing harder even than Wood, wiping her eyes with an enormous Gryffindor flag; and there, fighting their way toward Harry, were Ron and Hermione. Words failed them. They simply beamed as Harry was borne toward the stands, where Dumbledore stood waiting with the ...

vindictive pleasure, scribbled something that looked suspiciously like

I’m Moony

“An Animagus,” said Black, “by the name of Peter Pettigrew.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” said Harry. “Well . . . your parents appointed me your guardian,” said Sirius stiffly. “If anything happened to them . . .” Harry waited. Did Sirius mean what he thought he meant? “I’ll understand, of course, if you want to stay with your aunt and uncle,” said Sirius. “But . . . well . . . think about it. Once my name’s cleared . . . if you wanted a . . . a different home . . .” Some sort of explosion took place in the pit of Harry’s stomach. “What — live with you?” he said, accidentally cracking his head on a bit of rock protruding from the ceiling. “Leave the Dursleys?” “Of course, I thought you wouldn’t want to,” said Sirius quickly. “I understand, I just thought I’d —” “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. The difference it made was startling, as though a person ten years younger were shining through the starved mask; for a moment, he was recognizable as the man who had laughed at Harry’s parents’ wedding.

It was a stag.

“Prongs,” he whispered.

“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.”

So you did see your father last night, Harry. . . . You found him inside yourself.”