CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off yesterday ter fix it.
’Course, he shoulda sacked me instead — anyway, got yeh this . . .”
It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. Harry opened
it curiously. It was full of wizard photographs. Smiling and waving
at him from every page were his mother and father.
“Sent owls off ter all yer parents’ old school friends, askin’ fer
photos . . . knew yeh didn’ have any . . . d’yeh like it?”
Harry couldn’t speak, but Hagrid understood.
Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast alone that night.
He had been held up by Madam Pomfrey’s fussing about, insisting
on giving him one last checkup, so the Great Hall was already full.
It was decked out in the Slytherin colors of green and silver to cel-
ebrate Slytherin’s winning the House Cup for the seventh year in a
row. A huge banner showing the Slytherin serpent covered the wall
behind the High Table.
When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and then
everybody started talking loudly at once. He slipped into a seat be-
tween Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table and tried to ig-
nore the fact that people were standing up to look at him.
Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The babble
died away.
“Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “And I must
trouble you with an old man’s wheezing waffle before we sink our
teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully
your heads are all a little fuller than they were . . . you have the
whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year
starts. . . .
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