CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“That’s right,” said Ron, catching on. “Why don’t you leave us
here, sir, we’ve only got one more corridor to go —”
“You know, Weasley, I think I will,” said Lockhart. “I really
should go and prepare my next class —”
And he hurried off.
“Prepare his class,” Ron sneered after him. “Gone to curl his
hair, more like.”
They let the rest of the Gryffindors draw ahead of them, then
darted down a side passage and hurried off toward Moaning Myr-
tle’s bathroom. But just as they were congratulating each other on
their brilliant scheme —
“Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?”
It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the thinnest of
thin lines.
“We were — we were —” Ron stammered. “We were going
to — to go and see —”
“Hermione,” said Harry. Ron and Professor McGonagall both
looked at him.
“We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went on hur-
riedly, treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought we’d sneak into the
hospital wing, you know, and tell her the Mandrakes are nearly
ready and, er, not to worry —”
Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for a mo-
ment, Harry thought she was going to explode, but when she
spoke, it was in a strangely croaky voice.
“Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear glistening
in her beady eye. “Of course, I realize this has all been hardest on
the friends of those who have been . . . I quite understand. Yes,
288