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"Bring me your schoolbag," said Snape softly, "and all of your schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them to me here. Now!" There was no point arguing. Harry turned at once and splashed out of the bathroom. Once in the corridor, he broke into a run toward Gryffindor Tower.
Most people were walking the other way; they gaped at him, drenched in water and blood, but he answered none of the questions fired at him as he ran past.
He felt stunned; it was as though a beloved pet had turned suddenly savage; what had the Prince been thinking to copy such a spell into his book. And what would happen when Snape saw it. Would he tell Slughorn — Harry's stomach churned — how Harry had been achieving such good results in Potions all year. Would he confiscate or destroy the book that had taught Harry so much . . . the book that had become a kind of guide and friend. Harry could not let it happen. . . . He could not. . .
"Where've you — . Why are you soaking — . Is that blood." Ron was standing at the top of the stairs, looking bewildered at , the sight of Harry.
"I need your book," Harry panted. "Your Potions book. Quick . . . give it to me . . ." "But what about the Half-Blood —" "I'll explain later!" Ron pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and handed it over; Harry sprinted off past him and back to the common room. Here, he seized his schoolbag, ignoring the amazed looks of several people who had already finished their dinner, threw himself back out of the portrait hole, and hurtled off along the seventh-floor corridor.
He skidded to a halt beside the tapestry of dancing trolls, closed his eyes, and began to walk.
I need a place to hide my book. . . . I need a place to hide my book. . . . I need a place to hide my book. ...
Three times he walked up and down in front of the stretch of blank wall. When he opened his eyes, there it was at last: the door to the Room of Requirement. Harry wrenched it open, flung him self inside, and slammed it shut.
He gasped. Despite his haste, his panic, his fear of what awaited him back in the bathroom, he could not help but be overawed by what he was looking at. He was standing in a room the size of a large cathedral, whose high windows were sending shafts of light down upon what looked like a city with towering walls, built of what Harry knew must be objects hidden by generations of Hogwarts inhabitants. There were alleyways and roads bordered by tetering piles of broken and damaged furniture, stowed away, perhaps, to hide the evidence of mishandled magic, or else hidden by castle-proud house-elves. There were thousands and thousands of books, no doubt banned or graffitied or stolen. There were winged catapults and Fanged Frisbees, some still with
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