NORBERT THE
NORWEGIAN RIDGEBACK
“Ten weeks,” Hermione snapped. “That’s not ages, that’s like a
second to Nicolas Flamel.”
“But we’re not six hundred years old,” Ron reminded her. “Any-
way, what are you studying for, you already know it all.”
“What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize we need to
pass these exams to get into the second year? They’re very impor-
tant, I should have started studying a month ago, I don’t know
what’s gotten into me.
Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking along the
same lines as Hermione. They piled so much homework on them
that the Easter holidays weren’t nearly as much fun as the Christ-
mas ones. It was hard to relax with Hermione next to you reciting the
twelve uses of dragon’s blood or practicing wand movements. Moan-
ing and yawning, Harry and Ron spent most of their free time in
the library with her, trying to get through all their extra work.
“I’ll never remember this,” Ron burst out one afternoon, throw-
ing down his quill and looking longingly out of the library win-
dow. It was the first really fine day they’d had in months. The sky
was a clear, forget-me-not blue, and there was a feeling in the air of
summer coming.
Harry, who was looking up “Dittany” in One Thousand Magical
Herbs and Fungi, didn’t look up until he heard Ron say, “Hagrid!
What are you doing in the library?”
Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind his back.
He looked very out of place in his moleskin overcoat.
“Jus’ lookin’,” he said, in a shifty voice that got their interest at
once. “An’ what’re you lot up ter?” He looked suddenly suspicious.
“Yer not still lookin’ fer Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?”
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