The Gryffindor party ended only when Professor McGonagall turned up in her tartan dressing gown and hair net at one in the morning, to insist that they all go to bed. Harry and Ron climbed the stairs to their dormitory, still discussing the match. At last, exhausted, Harry climbed into bed, twitched the hangings of his four-poster shut to block out a ray of moonlight, lay back, and felt himself almost instantly drifting off to sleep…

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Peter Pettigrew's dead!” said Harry. “He killed him twelve years ago!” He pointed at Black, whose face twitched convulsively.

Ern slammed on the brakes and the Knight Bus skidded to a halt in front of a small and shabby-looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, behind which lay the magical entrance to Diagon Alley.

“Together?” he said quietly.

“Vernon Dursley speaking.”

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