CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I think we’ll be able to pull the door open,” said Ron, peering
over the dog’s back. “Want to go first, Hermione?”
“No, I don’t!”
“All right.” Ron gritted his teeth and stepped carefully over the
dog’s legs. He bent and pulled the ring of the trapdoor, which
swung up and open.
“What can you see?” Hermione said anxiously.
“Nothing — just black — there’s no way of climbing down,
we’ll just have to drop.”
Harry, who was still playing the flute, waved at Ron to get his at-
tention and pointed at himself.
“You want to go first? Are you sure?” said Ron. “I don’t know
how deep this thing goes. Give the flute to Hermione so she can
keep him asleep.”
Harry handed the flute over. In the few seconds’ silence, the dog
growled and twitched, but the moment Hermione began to play, it
fell back into its deep sleep.
Harry climbed over it and looked down through the trapdoor.
There was no sign of the bottom.
He lowered himself through the hole until he was hanging on by
his fingertips. Then he looked up at Ron and said, “If anything
happens to me, don’t follow. Go straight to the owlery and send
Hedwig to Dumbledore, right?”
“Right,” said Ron.
“See you in a minute, I hope. . . .”
And Harry let go. Cold, damp air rushed past him as he fell
down, down, down and —
FLUMP. With a funny, muffled sort of thump he landed on
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