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The bell rang. Ron and Hermione led the way to History of Magic, bickering.

"Oh, hello there!" he called, beaming around at the assembled

Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied, "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape.

61

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It wasn't at all the triumphant arrival they had pictured. Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging them up the grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.

Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.

Harry let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear.

Harry looked from their petrified faces to the red envelope.

.130

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"Maybe he's ill!" said Ron hopefully.

"My dear friends," he said mournfully. "Welcome, welcome . . . so pleased you could come. . . ."

49

"What makes you say that?" said Wood testily.

"The right what?" said Harry nervously as the fire roared and whipped George out of sight, too.

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"What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?" Harry asked, scratching Fang's ears.;

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