CHAPTER THIRTEEN Hermione briskly, buttering herself some toast. “Then you’d be do- ing something sensible like Arithmancy.” “You’re eating again, I notice,” said Ron, watching Hermione adding liberal amounts of jam to her toast too. “I’ve decided there are better ways of making a stand about elf rights,” said Hermione haughtily. “Yeah . . . and you were hungry,” said Ron, grinning. There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows carrying the morning mail. Instinctively, Harry looked up, but there was no sign of white among the mass of brown and gray. The owls circled the tables, look- ing for the people to whom their letters and packages were ad- dressed. A large tawny owl soared down to Neville Longbottom and deposited a parcel into his lap — Neville almost always forgot to pack something. On the other side of the Hall Draco Malfoy’s eagle owl had landed on his shoulder, carrying what looked like his usual supply of sweets and cakes from home. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment in his stomach, Harry returned to his por- ridge. Was it possible that something had happened to Hedwig, and that Sirius hadn’t even got his letter? His preoccupation lasted all the way across the sodden vegetable patch until they arrived in greenhouse three, but here he was dis- tracted by Professor Sprout showing the class the ugliest plants Harry had ever seen. Indeed, they looked less like plants than thick, black, giant slugs, protruding vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly and had a number of large, shiny swellings upon it, which appeared to be full of liquid. “Bubotubers,” Professor Sprout told them briskly. “They need squeezing. You will collect the pus —” ‘ 194 ‘