Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

           Earlynextmorning,Harrywokewithaplanfullyformedinhismind,asthoughhissleepingbrainhadbeenworkingonitallnight.Hegotup,dressedinthepaledawnlight,leftthedormitorywithoutwakingRon,andwentbackdowntothedesertedcommonroom.HerehetookapieceofparchmentfromthetableuponwhichhisDivinationhomeworkstilllayandwrotethefollowingletter:

           DearSirius,

           IreckonIjustimaginedmyscarhurting,IwashalfasleepwhenIwrotetoyoulasttime.There’snopointcomingback,everything’sfinehere.Don’tworryaboutme,myheadfeelscompletelynormal.

           Harry

           Hethenclimbedoutoftheportraithole,upthroughthesilentcastle(helduponlybrieflybyPeeves,whotriedtooverturnalargevaseonhimhalfwayalongthefourth-floorcorridor),finallyarrivingattheOwlery,whichwassituatedatthetopofWestTower.

           TheOwlerywasacircularstoneroom,rathercoldanddrafty,becausenoneofthewindowshadglassinthem.Thefloorwasentirelycoveredinstraw,owldroppings,andtheregurgitatedskeletonsofmiceandvoles.Hundredsuponhundredsofowlsofeverybreedimaginablewerenestledhereonperchesthatroserightuptothetopofthetower,nearlyallofthemasleep,thoughhereandtherearoundambereyeglaredatHarry.HespottedHedwignestledbetweenabarnowlandatawny,andhurriedovertoher,slidingalittleonthedropping-strewnfloor.

           Ittookhimawhiletopersuadehertowakeupandthentolookathim,asshekeptshufflingaroundonherperch,showinghimhertail.

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