It was Snape. He approached Harry at a swift walk, his black robes swishing, then stopped in front of him.
¡°So that's why you're putting it on,¡± said Harry, accidentally beheading a dead caterpillar because his hand was shaking in anger, ¡°To try to get Hagrid fired.¡±
Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at the message. But the map didn't stop there. More writing was appearing beneath the first.
Then came Astronomy at midnight, up on the tallest tower; History of Magic on Wednesday morning, in which Harry scribbled everything Florean Fortescue had ever told him about medieval witch-hunts, while wishing he could have had one of Fortescue's choco-nut sundaes with him in the stifling classroom. Wednesday afternoon meant Herbology, in the greenhouses under a baking-hot sun; then back to the common room once more, with sunburnt necks, thinking longingly of this time next day, when it would all be over.