A hatred such as he had never known before was coursing through Harry like poison. He could see Black laughing at him through the darkness, as though somebody had pasted the picture from the album over his eyes. He watched, as though somebody was playing him a piece of film, Sirius Black blasting Peter Pettigrew (who resembled Neville Longbottom) into a thousand pieces. He could hear (though having no idea what Black's voice might sound like) a low, excited mutter. “It has happened, My Lord…the Potters have made me their Secret-Keeper” and then came another voice, laughing shrilly, the same laugh that Harry heard inside his head whenever the Dementors drew near….

The wardrobe shook again, though not as much as Neville, who walked forward as though he were heading for the gallows.

“Lily and James only made you Secret-Keeper because I suggested it,” Black hissed, so venomously that Pettigrew took a step backward. “I thought it was the perfect plan…a bluff…Voldemort would be sure to come after me, would never dream they'd use a weak, talentless thing like you…It must have been the finest moment of your miserable life, telling Voldemort you could hand him the Potters.”

“Harry, no!”

Before Harry could turn, he felt a hand on his shoulder. At the same time, Stan shouted, “Blimey! Ern, come ‘ere! Come ‘ere!”

“Get your filthy hands off it,” Harry snarled under his breath.

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