THE WHOMPING WILLOW
Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and pointed it at
Snape’s desk. A large plate of sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a
jug of iced pumpkin juice appeared with a pop.
“You will eat in here and then go straight up to your dormitory,”
she said. “I must also return to the feast.”
When the door had closed behind her, Ron let out a long, low
whistle.
“I thought we’d had it,” he said, grabbing a sandwich.
“So did I,” said Harry, taking one, too.
“Can you believe our luck, though?” said Ron thickly through a
mouthful of chicken and ham. “Fred and George must’ve flown
that car five or six times and no Muggle ever saw them.” He swal-
lowed and took another huge bite. “Why couldn’t we get through
the barrier?”
Harry shrugged. “We’ll have to watch our step from now on,
though,” he said, taking a grateful swig of pumpkin juice. “Wish
we could’ve gone up to the feast. . . .”
“She didn’t want us showing off,” said Ron sagely. “Doesn’t want
people to think it’s clever, arriving by flying car.”
When they had eaten as many sandwiches as they could (the
plate kept refilling itself), they rose and left the office, treading the
familiar path to Gryffindor Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed
that the feast was over. They walked past muttering portraits and
creaking suits of armor, and climbed narrow flights of stone stairs,
until at last they reached the passage where the secret entrance to
Gryffindor Tower was hidden, behind an oil painting of a very fat
woman in a pink silk dress.
“Password?” she said as they approached.
“Er —” said Harry.
83